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The Occult Potters

CHAPTER ONE:

HARRY
 
Harry Potter of number four, Privet Drive, was not within the bounds of what greater society considered

normal

, a fact to which his aunt and uncle would readily attest— and perhaps his cousin, too, if Dudley were able to string more than two intelligent sentences together to convey such a complicated concept as magic, which was what made Harry so abnormally abnormal.
 
In addition to his occasional, uncontrolled magical ability, Harry had a secret.
 
Something he would never share with anyone as long as he lived, if he could help it; he had it on good authority that his secret made him insane, and being locked away in some loony bin was far from a goal of his.
 
Harry’s secret was this: he saw dead people.  
 
More specifically, three dead girls. 
 
He had been with the Dursleys for as long as he could remember, and one of the first of few questions he ever remembered asking his aunt had to do with what had happened to his immediate family.  His aunt had replied shortly:
 
“They died in a car crash.  Don’t ask questions.”
 
Harry obeyed and didn’t ask his aunt any more questions about his deceased relations.  
 
But he

did

ask his deceased relations about a lot of things— their parents (of whom they knew about as much as he did), magic (again, without much success), where they got their clothes from, what it was like to walk through walls and not have to consume food to survive, and so on and so forth.  They all took to responding and expressing their own unique thoughts in different ways, as they were different people.
 
The tallest of the three girls— a whole head higher than him— appeared to him only in the mornings.  Once,  while he prepared breakfast, he had turned to see her leaning against the counter by the icebox staring bemusedly at Dudley, who sat at the table throwing a tantrum about having to go to the dentist.
 
The tall girl’s name was Alice, and she was endlessly kind to him, though pragmatic and disapproving when he acted recklessly.
 
The shortest of the three girls appeared to him only in the afternoons and evenings, and only when he was alone.  She spoke very little, but when she did, it was in riddles.  If he looked directly at her, she became flustered and hid behind her auburn hair.  She was called Mary.
 
A girl that fell somewhere in between the others’ heights— standing about as tall as Harry himself— was Euphemia, who appeared only at night and the wee hours of morning.  She spoke frankly, with little adherence to tact or propriety, and was often rude to him without meaning to be.  Out of the three girls—

his sisters

, as he had come to recognize them— Euphemia tended to be the most loquacious.  It was terribly inconvenient when he was trying to sleep, but he didn’t dare tell her to go away.
 
When he was alone in his cupboard, and whomever happened to appear to him sat and kept him company until the loneliness faded away, he felt a sense of gratitude that went beyond any inconvenience it caused him.  They were his family— his

real

family— and they treated him like real family should.  He would take his sisters over the Dursleys any day.
 
After Dudley’s eventful eleventh birthday, Harry endured quite a spell in his cupboard.
 
Mary was waiting for him when Uncle Vernon shoved him in and locked the door.  She looked terribly sad for him, but— as was her usual modus operandi— said nothing.  Instead, she clasped hands with him (hers was cool and smooth to the touch) and laid her head on his shoulder.
 
Harry often wondered if his sisters actually

were

real because of how they were able to touch him.  When they were all younger, he used to think they moved things around the house, but second glances revealed that nothing moved at all.  And another thing— they aged, too, right alongside him.  He’d been under the impression that ghosts stayed how old they were at the time of their death, which would have put all of his sisters at approximately one year old.  Obviously, none of them were babies, so the mystery persisted.
 
During the days of summer holiday that he spent in his cupboard, though, he mused very little about the nature of their existence and simply basked in it, too grateful to have (sort of) human companionship to care if it was genuine or not.
 
When he was finally released one morning by his aunt to make breakfast for the first time in weeks, he stumbled out, weak-kneed and pale, and was also greeted with the sight of a rather unimpressed Alice.  Harry found a bit of comfort in imagining Aunt Petunia’s reaction if she saw the downright thunderous sable-haired girl glaring at her with enough malice to put any sane person off food for days.
 
“She’s got some nerve,” Alice muttered to him as they walked together to the kitchen. “Ordering you about after you’ve been locked up for who knows how long.”
 
Harry shrugged.  Not for the first time, he concluded that his sisters were not projections of his own consciousness, because he didn’t really think about how unfair the Dursleys were anymore.  He couldn’t; it would drive him mad. 
 
He figured that, wherever his sisters went when they weren’t with him, there had to be some form of rhyme or reason or else they wouldn’t feel so strongly about his situation.
 
Nonetheless, Alice’s anger petered out as she stood by and watched him cook.  During breakfast— during which the Dursleys seemed not to notice that he ate a bit more than was his usual at Alice’s prompting— the sound of the mail hitting the doormat prompted Uncle Vernon to get Harry to fetch it after Dudley passed the duty on with his usual pig-like grace.
 
Harry dodged Dudley’s Smelting stick— an accessory necessary for a successful career at Smelting’s, Uncle Vernon’s old boarding school— and tread out to the hall, placing a hand on the wall briefly to steady himself from a sudden dizzy spell, wishing fervently that he hadn’t eaten his sausages and toast so fast after ingesting so little for so long.
 
Alice regarded him carefully when he straightened up, but he waved her away when she began to step closer.
 
The stack of mail by the door looked abnormally large; there were standard, plain white envelopes that undoubtedly contained boring, adult things like bills and postcards from distant relatives, but there was also a small, bound stack of old, yellow-stained envelopes unlike anything he had ever seen outside of television.
 
He undid the twine, and four letters spilled across the mat.
 
“

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging, Surrey

,” read the first.
 
The other three were similar, except for the names:

Miss A. Potter… Miss E. Potter… Miss M. Potter…

And none of their letters pinned them at the cupboard under the stairs. 
 
Alice reached out to run a hand over the parchment, but withdrew it with a guarded expression. “Magic,” she said, though she seemed uncertain.
 
“Hurry it up, boy!” Uncle Vernon shouted from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?”
 
Alice cast a disgusted look over her shoulder, but turned to him with an expression that hinted at urgency. “Hide these.”
 
Harry was taken aback. “But… shouldn’t we…”
 
Alice shook her head just as Uncle Vernon’s heavy, lumbering footsteps sounded around the corner.  Harry hastily shoved the parchment down the back of his pants and snatched up the rest of the mail.  He met the large man right before the doorway to the hall and handed him the stack; Uncle Vernon plucked it impatiently, thankfully unconcerned with why he’d taken so long, before returning to his seat at the table.
 
After breakfast, Harry hurriedly scrubbed the dishes clean and booked it back to the cupboard with Alice hot on his heels to open their unexpected correspondence.

“What do you think this means?”
 
Alice stared down at her letter, which was open and spread out in the cradle of her crossed legs. “What else could it mean? We’re magic, we’re going to magic school, and clearly Mum and Dad didn’t die in a car crash like we thought.”
 
“What?”
 
“Well, if we’re magic, they probably were, too,” Alice explained reasonably. “Which is why Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn’t like them.”
 
“I guess that makes sense, but the crash— ”
 
Alice cut him off, “If they were a witch and wizard, how could a car crash kill them?”
 
Harry pondered this, but his intrigue was swallowed in the wake of all they had learned that morning and the thought of their parents dying by slightly less…

mundane…

means.  What if they’d been in some sort of magical accident?
 
His recurring dream sprung to mind, but he shied away from it and instead considered the other implications of the appearance of the letters.
 
“Alice, you’re real,” he remarked abruptly. “You all are! You’ve got to be— they sent you a letter— they know you exist!”
 
Alice breathed deeply. “I know.”
 
“This is good! It means I’m not crazy!”
 
“I never thought you were crazy,” said Alice. “But this… Harry, how can we be real? We don’t eat, I don’t sleep, and you’re the only one that sees us.  We know what you know, what you think and feel… but you don’t say any of that out loud.  We only exist through you.”
 
“That’s not true,” Harry denied fiercely. “Remember that man that bowed to me in that shop? He looked at Mary— no, he did!” he insisted when Alice cut her eyes away. “He was going to shake her hand, too, but she moved away and Aunt Petunia dragged me off.”
 
Alice chewed doubtfully on the skin around her thumbnail.
 
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I don’t know about any of this.”
 
“We have to send a reply to let them know we’re coming,” Harry murmured, somewhat to himself. “Maybe if we ask them some questions, this… Dumbledore bloke, or McGonagall… maybe they’ll answer.”
 
Alice put her letter off to the side and suddenly took on the complexion of cold milk before winking out of existence.  Harry stared until Mary’s dark copper head popped up from the foot of his mattress.
 
“We were talking,” he said to her sharply, almost accusatory.
 
She reared back as if struck, and her eyes filled with tears.  Harry bit his lip, glancing at his watch; it was one o’clock, on the dot.  He knew that his sisters’ coming and going was not of their own volition, and that it happened whether or not they wanted to come or stay; Mary was not at fault for appearing exactly when she was supposed to.
 
“I’m sorry,” he tried, but she had burrowed into his blankets. “Mary, I’m sorry, really.  Look— you’ve got a letter.”
 
She raised her wet, splotchy face and regarded the unopened letter with cautious curiosity.  He held hers out, and her pale hand almost closed around it, but then it gave a funny jerk and she went rigid.
 
Harry, recognizing the signs of an impending convulsion fit, quickly gathered his blankets into a pile and had her lie down with her head propped up.  Given the small square footage of the cupboard, this had him squished against the wall to keep out of the way as he held her hand and waited for the shaking and twitching to stop.
 
By the end of it, her limbs were loose and pliant like noodles and her mouth fallen slightly open, still rasping for breath.  She opened her eyes— green, like his— and peered up at him dazedly.
 
“A simple protection, the blood in the walls runs thin,” she practically whispered. “A simple protection.  Soon, the blood runs thin, and all at once the wound opens.”
 
He smoothed her hair back from her face and she closed her eyes again.
 
Harry carefully climbed over her to reach his school bag for a spare bit of paper and a pencil.  He scrawled out the words exactly as he’d heard them.  Then, he reached between the thin mattress and the box spring and pulled out a small notebook slightly larger than his palm.  Filed between the pages were other notes, taped in and varying in length.  He flipped to the next available page, snapped a piece of tape from a small roll on one of his narrow shelves, and secured it firmly.
 
Mary watched him do this, a thing he’d done dozens of times, and said not another word.  He didn’t expect her to; she so rarely spoke during their time together, and she never did after an episode.
 
There were other notebooks, filled and stashed away in a shoebox under the bed.  All from her.  The collection of almost all of the words she’d ever said in his company.
 
“Are you okay?” he asked.
 
Mary sat up and nodded gingerly, like even moving her head hurt.  He moved the bedclothes around and found the letter addressed to her.
 
“Here,” he said. “For you.”
 
She merely stared, slumped against the wall.  He opened it up, cleared his throat and began to read to her:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
 
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Miss M. Potter,
 
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
 
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
 
Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Mary seemed to grow more and more alert with every word he uttered.  Her normally dreamy expression was replaced with something focused and intrigued.  When he was finished speaking, her mouth opened slightly and then closed, like she didn’t know quite how to react.
 
“It’s odd, right?” he asked, handing her the parchment.  This time, she accepted it, hands trembling. “They know you exist.”
 
Her eyes darted back and forth over the paper, reading it again with eyes that grew wider and wider.  Harry cleared his throat and tentatively brought up her episode.
 
“Do you think…?” he began, then stopped.  She looked up, practically shaking with nerves. “Do you think what you said has anything to do with this?”
 
Mary shrugged helplessly.  She dropped the letter on the bed and lay down again, looking far too weary for her years.  Even though he and his sisters were all the same age, he’d always thought of Mary as younger than him.  Maybe she was by a few seconds, or possibly even minutes.  They would probably never know.
 
“Blood… in the walls,” he murmured haltingly. “What does that mean?”
 
He said this out into the space of the closet to keep it from clanging around his head, but he didn’t expect her to answer; she didn’t, of course, because she couldn’t.  He didn’t know what it was exactly that kept Mary from speaking in anything less than a riddle, but it was strong and present and kept her stifled.  Sometimes, like in that moment, it almost seemed like she wanted to speak— wanted to give him an answer— but was actively being kept silent by a force beyond her control.
 
“What?” he asked blankly, staring imploringly at her. “What is it?”
 
She pawed anxiously at her throat, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes again.  He grabbed her hands and kept them from digging in and scratching her own skin.
 
“Do you want to try and write it down?”
 
She sighed in frustration and nodded.  He grabbed another scrap piece of paper and his pencil and handed it to her.  She grabbed the pencil and hovered it over the paper, which was draped over her thigh as a writing surface.  The tip of the pencil was shaking.  She would touch it to the paper, shake her head, look away— and try to start again, to no avail.
 
After a few moments of this— what appeared to be her failing to find the words to describe what she wanted to say— she threw the pencil at the door of the cupboard and crumpled up the paper viciously.
 
“Hey,” Harry scowled. “I’m not made of trees, you know.”
 
She threw the crushed up ball at him and buried herself in his blankets once more.  He exhaled forcefully and grabbed a book from his bag to read until night fell.  A few moments later, he looked up to see his little sister dozing, face smooth and unconcerned in a way that it never was in her waking hours.  Relief flooded him.

When Mary slipped quietly away, the summer sun was setting on the horizon.  He wasn’t in his room to see her go; he was out on the playground off of Wisteria Walk.  She probably didn’t even notice him leave, asleep as she had been.  
 
He knew she’d gone when he heard footsteps crunching up the wood chips on the ground behind him, and then the other seat of the swings squeaking on its chains as someone sat in it. 
 
“I heard the day’s been rather eventful,” Euphemia drawled.  
 
He looked at her.  She had neither raven hair like him and Alice nor red hair like Mary; her hair was deep, mahogany brown, and her eyes were a similar shade.  If one removed those differences, she and Harry looked exactly alike— the same thin face and pointed chin, the same scrawniness, the same knobby knees and elbows.  Looking at Mia was like looking in a slightly distorted mirror in the dark.
 
“Where’d you hear that?” he challenged. 
 
She pinned him with a look that passed screeching judgment on his intelligence. “You, dummy.  I could hear your thoughts from a mile away.”
 
“Excuse me for asking,” he quipped. “Most people can’t read my thoughts.”
 
“You should know by now that I’m not most people,” she replied loftily. 
 
“So humble.”
 
“Who needs that?” she scoffed. “I’m going to Hogwash, I don’t need to be humble.”
 
“Hogwarts,” he corrected amusedly, because he knew that if he knew that, she undoubtedly did, too.
 
She waved him off, facetiously dismissive. “Potato, po-tah-toe.  How are we getting there, anyway? And how will we go to class if no one else can see us?”
 
“That’s the thing,” he rushed to say. “I think people like us can see you.  I think people like the Dursleys— people without magic— can’t.  Remember that man in the shop— ”
 
Mia groaned loudly. “For the last time, he was not looking at Mary!”
 
“Yes, he was!” Harry pressed. “I remember! I saw with my own eyes!”
 
She reached over and flicked his glasses. “Like those are so reliable.”
 
“Shut up,” he grumbled, shoving her cold hand away. “I know what I saw.”
 
She hummed, “If you say so, brother dear.”
 
He scowled at the pinkening sky. “We’ve got to get home.  If I’m out when the sun is gone, Aunt Petunia— ” 
 
“Don’t say that woman’s name to me,” Mia snapped.  She slid out of her seat and offered him a hand, which he took.
 
Mia was all snips and retorts, quips and rebuttals— but there were moments like their walk back to Privet Drive when she simply held his hand and asked him about his day even though she already knew what transpired.  He told her everything, from waking up to make breakfast to the letters to Mary’s fit.
 
“I don’t have even the foggiest idea of what it could mean,” he admitted ruefully. “Sometimes she speaks and I can sometimes piece it together.  With this, I have no clue.” 
 
“The blood in the walls runs thin,” Mia murmured with a curious lilt. “All at once, the wound opens.  Blood, wound.  Kind of interesting, how the blood runs thin even though the wound is opening.  If it’s opening, shouldn’t the blood come rushing out?”
 
“That’s gory,” he pointed out warily. “And I don't know.  It’s probably not literal.”
 
He wished he knew what she was thinking.  He thought it was rather unfair, that his sisters could read his thoughts but that their minds were a complete mystery to him.
 
“A simple protection,” she mused. “All at once, the wound opens.  The blood in the walls runs thin.  The walls could mean the house, right? Blood in the walls of the house?”
 
“Mia, you know just as much as I do.  I don’t know.”
 
“Okay, okay,” she smirked. “So touchy.”
 
They returned to 4 Privet Drive and snuck around back to go in through the kitchen door.  Mercifully, his relatives were too busy watching the news to pay attention.  He crept into the hall with the practiced ease of someone used to walking on eggshells and slipped into the cupboard under the stairs with little fanfare.  He’d let go of Mia’s hand at some point outside, but as he pulled the tassel to turn the light on, he realized she was no longer beside him.
 
“Mia?” he hissed quietly. “Mia!”
 
“What?”
 
He jumped and practically snapped his neck to look up and see half of her torso hanging through the top of the cramped space.  Her dark hair brushed his forehead.
 
“You’re mad,” he accused.
 
She stuck out her tongue at him and fell the rest of the way through— although “fell” was a bit too harsh to describe the gentle descent she made from the low ceiling to the area at the foot of his bed.  She barely made a sound.
 
“You know,” she chattered, “what if the wound is opening

because

the blood is running thin? Like, the blood was what kept it closed?”
 
“What does that mean?”
 
“A simple protection, the blood in the walls runs thin,” she said again for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. “Blood is the subject of the sentence.  If it runs thin, the wound— which was protected before, and now is not— reopens.  So, it’s not the blood

within

the wound that we’re talking about— it’s the protection that was keeping it closed.”
 
Harry tried to wrap his head around what she was saying, and simply couldn’t.  He had no idea what she was talking about.
 
“I don’t get it,” he shrugged, flopping down on his bed.
 
Mia snapped both fingers and rifled violently through his school bag.
 
“Hey, easy with that,” he warned. “It has to last me through secondary and it’s already got… a couple… tears…” 
 
He trailed off, realizing he probably wouldn’t even be going to secondary school anymore.  It was a moot point.
 
She ignored him and pulled out yet another paper and yet another pencil.  He watched as she scribbled away on it and then hopped on the bed in socked feet— when she wished away her trainers was a mystery— to show her work.
 
It was a square— a box with a triangle on top, a house.  There were arrows chasing each other around the perimeter of the box, labeled “blood.” Inside the box was a line with several shorter lines dashed through it; a seam, a wound.  
 
“Right now, the wound is closed,” she explained. “I don’t know what that means, or what’s inside, but it’s closed.  Because the blood,” she ran her finger along the path of the arrows, “is keeping it shut, like a surgeon.  It won’t let it open because it’s protecting it. But— ”
 
She sloppily erased the arrows and scribbled over the wound.
 
“With the blood gone, there’s nothing stopping the wound from opening up.  And who knows what’s going to happen when it does?”
 
He stared at the abused slip of paper and felt a chill run the length of his spine.
 
“I don’t know if I like that, Mia.”
 
She tossed the paper to the side. “Well, it’s not about liking it, is it? It’s about knowing what’s going on.”
 
“I guess,” he muttered.  His stomach rumbled. “Oh, shoot.  I didn’t eat dinner.”
 
“I’ll sneak you something when your wardens retire,” she said.
 
He snorted and lay down with one hand behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
 
“I bet there’s tons of food at Hogwarts,” he whispered. “As much as you can eat.  I bet we’ll get so sick the first day we’re there.”
 
Mia smiled tightly. “

You

might get sick.”
 
“You lot got letters, too,” he argued.
 
“That doesn’t mean we’ll suddenly gain the ability to eat once we’re there.  We’ll probably still be like this.”
 
“How do you know that?”
 
She shrugged.
 
“You always pretend to know everything.  Just once, imagine what it could be like if you were exactly like me.”
 
She glowered at him. “No.  Move over.”
 
He rolled his eyes and scooted toward the wall so that she could lay down in the opposite direction of him, with her feet by his head.

About a week later, Harry was wrenched from sleep with the worst stomach cramp he’d ever had in his life.  He tried to sit up, but gave up when his entire body recoiled at the idea.  His hair was sticking to his forehead and temples with sweat, and his pajamas were drenched.
 
He managed to drag himself out of the bed and stumble out of the closet to the small foyer to make his way to the downstairs bathroom.  He had to crawl halfway there when his legs gave up.  
 
As soon as he closed the door behind him, his face became prickly and hot and he upheaved with sick.  Tears streamed down his face uncontrollably.
 
“Mia,” he whimpered, but no one answered.
 
He sat back on his haunches in front of the toilet bowl and looked around.  It was quiet but for the faint sounds of Uncle Vernon’s snores a floor above.
 
He whispered Mia’s name again, tearfully, to no reply. 
 
“Alice?” he sniffled, even though it wasn’t her time. “Mary?”
 
Nothing.
 
He rinsed his mouth out in the sink, his stomach feeling a little less sour but his whole body still feeling like it had been hit by a truck.  When he cut the faucet off and looked at himself in the mirror, the image was blurry because of the tears still distorting everything.  He could tell that his usually pale face was blotchy and pink, though.
 
He thought he’d been crying because of the pain, but as he sniffed and hiccoughed, he realized it also felt like there was a gaping hole in his chest— like something was missing.
 
And with startling, awful clarity, he came to the conclusion that he was, indeed, missing something incredibly vital.  
 
Three somethings, in fact.

CHAPTER TWO:

ALICE
 
Alice didn’t really sleep, per se.  She knew Mary and Euphemia sometimes slept, but she didn’t seem to have that ability.  She didn’t even get tired, really.
 
Between her visits to her brother, there was nothing.  For her, time didn’t drag on.  It was more like blinking and realizing it was the next day— she imagined sleep was like that for other people.
 
When she opened her eyes on her birthday, she felt a bone deep weariness that she had never known before.  Her extremities were sore and her arms and legs felt like dumbbells.  Her hair was caught under something heavy, so she couldn’t move right away.  Instead, she was forced to stare at the open sky above her.
 
She didn’t know how long she lay there when a familiar voice some ways off to her left exclaimed in shock and fear.
 
“Hey!” the voice shouted. “What’s goin’ on? Where am I? Help! Someone help!”
 
She felt around above her head to move the heavy thing sitting on her hair.  It felt wooden.  Once it was shoved enough for her to sit up, her heart sunk in horror.
 
She was sitting in the debris of a wooden house.  Her arms and legs were covered in ash and wood chips.  
 
And most disconcertingly of all, she was entirely naked.
 
She shrieked and frantically looked around for something to cover up.  She spotted a dingy crème curtain not too far away and dove for it.  Her hands and knees got scraped up among the rubble, but once the fabric was secured around her body she couldn’t find it in herself to care about those minor injuries.  Instead, she looked around for the source of the so-far continuous stream of awkward, childish swearing coming from her left.
 
There was a scrawny arm waving from a pile of what looked like broken furniture.
 
She stumbled over, picking her way through the ruins and trying not to step on anything too sharp.  On her way, she noticed that the destroyed house wasn’t the only structure around.  There were other houses— more like stone cottages— collected in what seemed to be an otherwise rather lovely neighborhood.  She couldn’t appreciate them very much at all, however, because her body hurt and she felt an overwhelming urgency to help the person stuck under that broken sofa.
 
“I’m here,” she shouted over their expletives. “Calm down, I’m going to get you out.”
 
The voice fell silent.  And then, “Alice?”
 
Alice blinked.  She wracked her brain trying to remember where she’d heard the voice before and came up short.
 
“Yes, it’s me,” she managed after a moment. “Just hold still, alright?”
 
She tied her modesty curtain up under her chin and tried to hunch to keep it from revealing her form as she pulled at the back of the sofa to get it to scoot out far enough for a gap to appear between it and the table behind it.  It took a couple of minutes, but eventually there was a space large enough for another naked body to crawl through.
 
“Euphemia,” she gasped. “Goodness gracious— here, get under this.”
 
She tried to keep one end of the curtain around her as she wrapped the other around her sister— her sister that she’d never before seen with her own two eyes.  The only glimpses she got of her were through Harry’s thoughts and memories, but still, she knew instinctively that this was Mia.
 
They were curled up in the thick curtain like an elephant ear pastry— one side curled around her body and the other around Mia.  She was glad she’d found it, but there was no more room for a third body.  And it seemed that she and Mia had the same thought at the same time.
 
“Mary!” they said together, exchanging fearful looks.
 
Mia wrestled her way free of the curtain, bare as a jaybird, and went careening off across the debris to find their littlest sibling.  Alice nearly tripped several times trying to keep up.
 
“Euphemia, slow down!” she hollered. “You haven’t got any clothes!”
 
“Who cares?” Mia practically growled. “We need to find Mary!”
 
Alice looked around nervously, hoping that no one would exit one of the surrounding houses to catch them in broad daylight, naked as the day they were born.
 
“Mary!” Alice called, brow furrowed anxiously.  Mia echoed her.  “Mary, wave your arm around if you can hear us!”
 
There was nothing; no waving, no shouting, no movement at all.  Alice felt tears begin to gather, but shoved them back.
 
Mia didn’t seem to be near tears, but she was clearly getting increasingly frustrated; stomping around, kicking broken wooden planks and rusted pipes with more force than was strictly necessary.  Her bare feet were red and raw from her violent activities.
 
Alice found a knit blanket during their search and tossed it to Mia, who didn’t see it in time and caught it with her face.  Startled, she nearly fell over.
 
“What the hell?” she screeched.
 
Alice winced. “Sorry, thought you’d see it coming.”
 
Mia grumbled as she rearranged it like a toga. “This is hopeless.”
 
“It’s not,” Alice disagreed sternly. “We just need to find someone who can help.”
 
“Find someone?” Mia scoffed. “How? We can’t talk to people.”
 
“I have a feeling,” Alice said, staring at a small cut on her palm that had begun to bead with blood, “that something’s changed.”
 
Mia looked around, then down at her nakedness, and then finally at her battered feet. “Okay, maybe.”
 
“We can’t find Mary while we’re naked and out for anyone to see,” Alice reasoned, shivering. “The longer we’re out here, the higher chance there is of someone seeing us.”
 
“What do you propose we do?”
 
Alice frowned. “I guess try to find some clothes, then come back to see if we can find her.”
 
“Clothes?” Mia groaned. “Alice, we have no money!”
 
Alice scowled. “Well, what’s your plan, then?”
 
“Find Mary,” Mia answered stubbornly. “Then go to Privet Drive and get Harry.”
 
Alice’s hand came to her forehead of its own volition.  She felt a terrible ache coming on.  
 
“Harry,” she murmured sadly. “He must be so scared.”
 
Mia’s chin trembled, but her nostrils flared and her chin lifted. “We can’t worry about that right now.  We need to find— ”
 
A loud cracking noise interrupted her and she stopped talking abruptly, brown eyes widening.  Alice whirled around.
 
It was Mary.  She was donned in a simple, sleeveless white dress and holding the hand of an old woman with her hair pulled back into a strict bun.  Euphemia nearly lost her grip on her blanket as she made a beeline for their sister, brown hair mussed into riotous tangles and hands and feet torn up from all of their searching.  She looked a fright.
 
“Mary!” Mia exclaimed, nearly tackling the shorter girl.  
 
Mary lost her grip on the old woman’s hand and instinctively reached up to pat Mia on the back with surprised hands.  Her shocked face over Mia’s shoulder nearly induced a giggle out of Alice.
 
Her mood sobered as she walked up to the old woman.
 
“Pardon me,” she uttered politely. “But who are you? And how is it, exactly, that you’re able to see us?”
 
The woman slid a thin stick of wood out of her pocket and swished it once, then twice.  Alice felt the curtain around her shrink and shift and looked down to find that it was now a simple slip like Mary’s.  Mia’s knit blanket had transformed into an oversized knit sweater that came down to her knees.
 
“My name is Minerva McGonagall,” said the woman. “I will explain more later, but I’m afraid that the longer we stay here, the more dangerous the area becomes.  We must leave at once.”
 
Alice felt a small hand slip into hers.  She looked down at Mary, who gave her a small, but encouraging smile.  Mia was practically hanging off of Mary’s shoulder, clinging to her and refusing to let go.
 
“Yes, alright,” Alice acquiesced.  She looked to the street. “Where’s your car?”
 
McGonagall seemed confused for a moment, but then shook her head. “I’ll have to apparate individually with each of you.”
 
“Apparate?” Mia repeated suspiciously, gripping Mary’s shoulder tighter.
 
McGonagall’s expression softened. “It’s perfectly safe.  It’s how I arrived here with your sister.”
 
Mary shrugged off Mia’s hand and stepped forward to take McGonagall’s.
 
“Where are you going?” Alice asked nervously. “Where will you be taking us?”
 
“Hogwarts,” Mia answered suddenly. “We're going to Hogwarts.  I remember now— deputy headmistress Minerva McGonagall.  From the letter.”
 
Recognition dawned on Alice very suddenly.  She didn’t feel quite as adrift and confused as she had been mere moments before, but her wariness must have shown on her face because McGonagall felt the need to reassure her.
 
“We are indeed going to Hogwarts— and I will explain everything when we’re all safe and sound there,” she promised. “But for right now, Miss Potter, I must ask for a small leap of faith from you.”
 
Alice huddled close to Mia and sought some sign— any sign— of discomfort or distress from Mary as she stood beside this woman.  She found none.
 
“Alright,” Alice murmured. “We’ll be here, then.”
 
McGonagall nodded. “I will return in a matter of moments.”
 
And with that, they cracked out of existence.  Mia shivered.  
 
“This doesn’t feel real,” she said. “I was in the cupboard, going over Mary’s notebooks.  Harry was sleeping.  And then I blinked and woke up here, under that couch.”
 
“I was talking to him yesterday morning about today,” Alice replied.
 
Mia frowned. “Today?”
 
Alice copied her expression. “Our birthday.”
 
Before Mary could react, McGonagall returned with a pop.
 
“I believe I shall take both of you at once,” she said, offering her hands and glancing around sharply. “I don’t want to leave either of you alone.”
 
Alice took one papery hand, and jerked her head at Mia to do the same.  Mia followed her lead.
 
When they left the place at which they’d woken, Alice felt like she was being squeezed through the tiniest tube known to man.  She tried to remain calm, but it was difficult when it felt like she couldn’t breathe or move.
 
When her feet finally touched the ground again, she couldn’t tell if she’d been suspended for an hour or a second.  She felt like she might be sick, so she kept her eyes closed for a bit and breathed deeply.  The air smelled peaty and fresh, like damp grass.
 
“Whoa,” she heard Mia mutter.
 
The sight that greeted her upon opening her eyes was something she likely wouldn’t forget for as long as she lived.
 
Hogwarts— or what she assumed was Hogwarts— in all of its medieval glory stood starkly against the dreary landscape, an enormous structure made of ancient-looking stone.  From where they were situated just outside of its grand, wrought iron gates, she could see courtyards, covered bridges between massive towers, the trembling line of a dark forest bracketing the entire grounds.  Spires.  Smoke.  Steam.  
 
Her feet were beginning to sink in the mud from how long she’d been standing, spellbound, in one spot.
 
“Right this way, girls,” McGonagall directed primly, gesturing to an open carriage.
 
The door was open, and Alice could see Mary already sitting inside.  The short girl grabbed her hand again as soon as she entered the carriage.  Alice grabbed Mia’s hand when she climbed in, too.  It was more than just comfort; something thrummed warmly between them as long as they were in physical contact with one another.  It made her feel less anxious, less fearful.
 
McGonagall got in on the opposite side of them and shut the door before rapping her stick of wood against it.  The carriage lurched into motion, and out of the window, Alice watched the gates part graciously for them.
 
“I’m sure you must be terribly confused,” the deputy headmistress commiserated. “You must understand, I’ve never— in all of my years— seen anything quite like what I’ve witnessed today.  And even Albus— Headmaster Dumbledore— seems particularly intrigued by your… mysterious circumstances.”
 
“Mysterious circumstances?” Alice echoed faintly.
 
“Mary, Alice and Euphemia Potter disappeared ten years ago,” McGonagall informed her bluntly. “Many presumed them dead, but the babies were never found, you see.  I was there the night Headmaster Dumbledore delivered your brother to his only living relatives.  He assured me there was no one else to recover.”
 
“Pardon me, madam, but up until this morning I think we all thought we were dead,” Mia said. “We were ghosts.  No one could see us, except for— ”
 
“Well,” Alice cut her off, not quite believing that she was even bringing it up, “there was that one time, in that shop— ”
 
“That man couldn’t see Mary, Harry was seeing things,” Mia rolled her eyes.
 
“Clearly not,” Alice snapped. “We’re not dead, we’re not ghosts— we’ve been aging! Aging and learning all the time.  Ghosts don’t do that.”
 
McGonagall watched them go back and forth, faintly amazed.
 
“Whatever the case of your existence may be,” she began at length, taking the conversation back over once more, “your reappearance is going to cause quite the stir.  And as for your brother— well, he’s no longer safe at your relatives’ home.  He will have to come here, as well.”
 
Alice felt something burning hot well up inside her throat. 
 
“He was never safe there,” she said, fighting to keep her tone level. “They treat him terribly.  He might as well have been one of us, the way they ignore him.”
 
Mia mutinously added, “And neglect him and starve him and knock him around.”
 
A strangled noise escaped Mary’s throat.  Alice turned to look at her.  She was staring out of the window; her hands were clenched into fists in her lap.
 
“Your relatives are neglectful of Harry,” McGonagall said rather than asked.
 
“Yes, madam, they are,” Alice nodded solemnly. “The kind of thing you’d see on television.”
 
McGonagall’s lips pursed so thin they disappeared. “I see.  He will need to see a Healer, as will the three of you.  Who knows what kind of condition you’re in after ten years of purgatory.”

Severus Snape broke left out of the professors’ break room.  His face was starting to ache from the scowl that had situated itself semi-permanently on his face.  The other professors had been discussing a few of their most exciting ideas for lesson plans for the upcoming term. 
 
As it drew nearer, he found himself more and more irritable at the thought of having to be in the presence of children for nearly nine months straight.  He wasn’t cut out to be a teacher— he hardly asked for the position— but it was where he was meant to be, for now.
 
He’d hardly been walking long when he spotted Lily Evans in the entry hall.  Her eyes found his almost immediately, even though he was on the balcony above.  Almond-shaped and emerald green.
 
But upon further perusal, he slowly realized that it wasn’t Lily.  That it couldn't be.  He forced his heart to slow and his vision to clear.  There were small differences; a pointier chin, a smaller build than Lily at that age— and of course, her vitality.
 
She broke her staring contest with him when two other girls entered the hall, tailed by Minerva.  The taller of the two young newcomers grabbed the little redhead’s hand.  The other turned so that her face was visible from the balcony and Severus had to restrain himself from flinching; she looked too much like James Potter.
 
He then came to the confusing conclusion that these three young girls were likely three-fourths of the Potter quadruplets.  The ones everyone presumed dead.  One that looked like Lily, one that looked like James, and yet another that looked like some discombobulating combination of both.  He knew the boy still remained at his relatives’ house, but for how long? They would be about Hogwarts age now, wouldn’t they? Would he have to see them every day? Be reminded of…?
 
He shook his head and turned to flee the scene.  He wouldn’t think about any of that, not right just then.  He needed to retire to his quarters, pour himself a stiff drink, and reflect on the cardiac arrest he’d narrowly avoided that afternoon.

“Everything looks to be in working order,” Madam Pomfrey declared. “But they are malnourished— something that can be remedied.”
 
“Malnourished?” Mia barked. “How can I be malnourished if I’ve never had to eat?”
 
Pomfrey replied, dryly, “How can you be properly nourished if you’ve never eaten?”
 
Mia blinked.  Then scowled. “That’s not… even…”
 
Alice was staring hard at the door.  She could barely hear her sister and the matron going back and forth because McGonagall had just told them— after taking them to this War of 1812 era-looking hospital wing— that Dumbledore was on his way back to the castle with their brother in tow.
 
She already knew that hugging her sisters felt… like nothing she’d never felt before.  If that made sense.  
 
She had hugged Harry.  Had kissed his hair, drawn up his blankets in the morning so the chill didn’t wake him too early.  She had held his hand, her shoulder had been a receptacle for his tears— she had even ridden on his back when they were younger and played silly games like knights and dragons.  
 
But she had never… touched him? Not really.  
 
She knew that he felt it when they touched him, but touch was a complicated thing to explain in the state in which they’d been.  With intention, she could lean against a surface.  If Harry was sad, she could pat his arm or put hers around him.  But she could also simply choose to pass through a wall or a desk, or walk through Harry if that was the most direct path from Point A to Point B and it would feel the same as if she hadn’t.  
 
So making contact with everything so far had been a bit of a revelation.  The weak Scottish sun stabbed at her eyes if she stared at it too long.  The stone walls were cold.  The floors were hard beneath her slippered feet.  Mia had this habit of hitting her lightly in the arm whenever she was making a dark joke about their situation— and that hurt a little, but she didn’t care about that as much as the new concept of feeling pain at all.  It was… dizzying, how much there was to experience in just a day of being alive.
 
“Here you go, dear,” Madam Pomfrey said, much closer than she’d been before.  
 
Alice turned and received a vial full of thick, scarlet liquid from her.  The glass was smooth and cool. “What is this?”
 
“Dietary supplement.  You will take them once a day with breakfast and every week I will conduct a checkup to see how you’re doing.”
 
Alice blinked. “I didn’t, um… have breakfast this morning.”
 
Madam Pomfrey patted her arm.  A little thump-thump that felt like a much gentler version of Mia’s playful punches.
 
“The elves brought toast, it’s on your bedside table.  Something easy for your first meal.”
 
Deciding not to overwhelm herself with the implications of the existence of elves, Alice looked at the bedside table, and indeed, there it was.  Her first meal.  
 
“Alice, you’ve got to try it,” Mia exclaimed from the next bed over through a mouthful of toast. “It’s amazing!”
 
Alice exchanged an amused glance with Mary, who smiled and took another little nibble of her own toast.  
 
She grabbed one of the triangular slices.  It crumbled slightly where her fingers held it and was much lighter than she anticipated.  Something very odd that she noticed was that her mouth seemed to know this food would be crunchy just by her hand feeling it.  When she took off a careful bite, it was indeed crunchy.  This was bread? It tasted good, but it wasn’t too crazy.  She didn’t know why Mia was yelling about it.
 
“Try it with butter and a little jam,” Mia urged.  Crumbs were sticking to her face from said jam.
 
Alice grabbed the butter knife on the serving tray— cool, cooler than the vial and heavier too— and spread a bit of both accoutrements on the other side from where she’d bitten.  That bite was very different from the first.
 
“My God,” she squeaked, blinking.
 
A very distant memory came to her in sharp focus.  She and Harry were sitting on a kerb on Wisteria Walk when an ice cream van visited the neighborhood.  Harry managed to score a cheap ice lolly from the vendor when he’d admitted he had no money but had never tasted ice cream before.  He told her it was sweet, like fruit or cake.  She’d watched him eat the thing, a little envious of his taste buds and stomach.
 
The jam was sweet.  Sweetness felt sharp on the tongue, but in a good way.  She tasted it immediately.  Before, the bread was so mild that it took a second to piece together its flavor profile.  She didn’t have to put any pieces together for sweetness.
 
The butter was a bit salty, and very creamy.  Mixed with the jam, it made the entire snack taste like… more? Rich! It was rich!
 
She was in the middle of happily chewing her second slice of buttered and jammed toast when the hospital wing doors swung open.
 
Her head whipped around, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw her sisters’ do the same.
 
It was Harry.  He looked

terrible

.  His eyes were bruised underneath, his shoulders were slumped, and he seemed to be sweating a bit.  He appeared small and weak— and like he didn’t know where he was or what was going on.
 
Alice shot to her feet and went to him; she heard two more sets of footsteps behind her.  Albus Dumbledore stood behind and slightly to the right of their brother; his face was drawn with concern.
 
Harry perked up a little when he noticed all three of them were right in front of him, but he still seemed mostly out of it.
 
“Madam Pomfrey, please examine this boy at once,” Dumbledore ordered.
 
Alice cupped his cheeks and forced him to look directly at her. “Harry?”
 
“…Allie?” he muttered.
 
Her brow furrowed.  He hadn’t called her Allie since he was… seven? Eight? Something was very wrong.
 
“Step aside, girls.”
 
Pomfrey’s brisk tone made her relinquish her hold on him.  Alice watched, solemn, as she ushered their brother over to an empty bed and settle him in with firm, but gentle hands.  
 
“What’s wrong with him?” Mia demanded. “Is he sick? Why is he sick?”
 
Mary laid a hand on Mia’s shoulder.  Mia turned to her, instinctually softening when confronted with their smallest sister’s pleading gaze.  
 
Pomfrey was waving her wand this way and that over Harry’s limp body.  Alice watched with bated breath as she conducted her examination.  After a couple of minutes, the woman’s expression wasn’t very promising.  
 
“Girls, won’t you step outside for a moment? I need to have a word with the headmaster.”
 
“Step outside?” Mia scoffed, losing her momentary cool. “He’s our brother, not his.”
 
Alice grabbed her other shoulder. “Mia, come on.  It’ll be a moment.”
 
“No,” Mia snapped. “We deserve to know what’s wrong with him.”
 
Dumbledore cleared his throat.  They all turned to him.
 
“These young witches may stay,” he said. “Their concern is warranted.  Madam Pomfrey, if you please.”
 
The matron did not look happy, but complied. “His core has received quite the beating.  It’s reminiscent of some of the after effects I’ve seen of…” she glanced at where Alice and her sisters were standing, “well… the Cruciatus curse.”
 
Alice didn’t know what the Cruising Adams curse was, but it sounded bad.  
 
“It’s nothing that won’t heal on its own, but I’m going to restrict him to bed until further notice.  He needs all the rest he can get.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

PROLOGUE
 
“

Our family reunion

I'd rather be anywhere but here

It's like a pain you shouldn't ignore

But my uncle's here to open the door, and I don't like him…

”
 
Waiting Room
by Rex Orange County
 
…
 
“

Hundreds of thousands of mourners have gathered outside of the venue hosting the funeral of Lily and Jimmy Potter, the iconic couple that shook the world with their music, philosophy and philanthropy… streets have shut down and businesses have closed to accommodate the sheer amount of people that showed up to pay their respects to two people that changed the entertainment industry… we’re going live with our chief correspondent, Rita Skeeter, to give you a closer look at the proceedings…

”
 
“...

thanks, Cuffe.  Many of the young couple’s friends and acquaintances from various sects have come to salute their memory.  Their surviving son, Harry, is seated in front with his parents’ bandmates and closest friends, Remus Lupin and Sirius Black.  He’ll be ten years old in just a few—

”
 
Albus Dumbledore turned off the flat-screen in his office with an agitated press of the remote power button and turned to stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that spanned the entire back wall of the top floor of Phoenix Industries.
 
The skies of London were fittingly grey and dreary.  The world had lost legends, and seemed to know it.
 
Albus had been in the business for a long time.  Longer, in fact, than most probably knew; careers were only really dictated by the lapses of time during which people knew of your existence, after all.  In the time that he had been signing, managing and producing, Albus had grown a tough outer-shell, and an even steelier heart to deal with the daily and long-term rigors of running such an extensive operation; but the deaths of Lily and James…

nothing

, he thought, had affected him in such a way for a long time.
 
Not since Gellert, possibly.
 
The worst part of it all was that Albus couldn’t help but hold himself accountable; there had been signs, things to which he’d purposefully turned a blind eye at the behest of his employees and benefactors.  He ran a wizened hand down his face, taking special care to tug almost-painfully at the snowy strands of his neatly groomed beard.  And their son… a boy he’d held in his own arms, carried on his own hip.
 
Albus Dumbledore swore, wrought by grief, that Harry Potter would not slip through his fingertips like his parents had.

“Harry, we have to get out of the car to attend the dinner.”
 
“No.”
 
“Come on, now, prongsie…”
 
Harry cast a scathing glance toward Sirius, who visibly recoiled. “Don’t call me that.”
 
Remus, slick, pale and sandy-haired, had one polished shoe on the pavement and the other still in the left footwell.  His face was drawn in fresh lines of misery and impatience, but Harry honestly didn’t care.  He hadn’t seen either man

—

neatly composed Remus or wild-haired, twitchy-limbed Sirius, who always wore sunglasses even when the sun didn’t shine

—

in months, and although the memories were fond, their sudden reappearance meant nothing but bad things.
 
He didn’t want to go to some stupid dinner where dozens of familiar strangers would stand and spin stories about two people he felt like he barely knew.  He didn’t want to pretend to taste the rich food or put on a brave face for the cameras or pose for pictures or shake hands whilst peering up into insincere eyes

—

or worse, sincere ones

—

when in all honesty, he’d rather be at home playing video games and trying to purge from his memory the glint of diamonds on the clasps of his mother’s casket.
 
There was precious little either man could have said to get him to step foot out of the limousine, and neither of them hit the mark after what felt like hours of attempts but was really more like ten minutes.  
 
The world was watching, so Sirius exited the vehicle and entered the venue alone.  
 
Remus clasped Harry’s shoulder loosely and climbed back into the stretch Bentley to personally escort him home.
 
Harry Potter was a small kid; hereditarily slim, with his father’s sable hair and his mother’s laser green eyes.  He wasn’t famous for anything except being his parents’ son, though he did have a few developing musical talents and many of his parents’ acquaintances liked to tell him that he was rather funny, and that he should be a comedian.  Harry didn’t think really think of himself as a funny person, but when he admitted that to people, they laughed at him even more.
 
Harry most certainly did not want to be a comedian.  If Harry had it his way, he would never be famous like Them.
 
He wasn’t normal.  He would never,

could never

be an ordinary kid even if he tried, thanks to them.  In a brilliant flash of hot white revelation, he mused bitterly that maybe he could still settle for only moderately well-known now that they were dead.  It was a horrible thing to think.  He felt himself fall further into a pit of guilt, anger and sorrow.
 
He hadn’t known them well.  Their deaths shouldn’t have mattered, really.

It doesn’t matter

, he told himself as the city flew past.  He shrugged off Remus’ hot hand.

None of this matters.  I’m fine.  I’m hungry.  I want to go home.

CHAPTER ONE: Loving Is Easy
 
“

Loving is easy

You had me fucked up

It used to be so hard to see

Loving is easy

When everything’s perfect

Please don’t change a single little thing for me

…”
 
Loving Is Easy
by Rex Orange County ft. Benny Sings
 
Chapter Synopsis:

A look at how Britain’s nightlife unfolds for our main cast of characters.
 
…
 
“I think it’s smudged--

please

tell me it’s not smudged.”
 
Daphne bit her lip and chucked the chin of her panda-eyed companion. “Sorry, love.  I’ve got cotton swabs in my bag?”
 
Pansy let loose a low, long-suffering groan and buried her face into her quaking hands.  It was a pitiful sight; Daphne felt yet another surge of anger toward Draco Malfoy, the cause of it all.
 
Just as powerfully, however, the anger abated and a mild distaste for her current position took hold.
 
“I’ll get my remover and my kit and we can have you sorted in less than a half hour,” Daphne reassured her quickly, rubbing smooth circles on the broad area of pale back exposed by Pansy’s pleather halter top. “And we’ve still got a good one and a half ‘til the show… everything’ll be fine, honest.”
 
Pansy didn’t lift her head.  The sparkly stalks of the stars shooting out of her glittery black headband bent toward the floor, bouncing slightly with every twitch, and the steely toes of her boots glinted like spoons, reflecting the fairy lights strung up in bright arches on the rustic brick wall of the backstage area.  Girls in black-- donned in everything from corsets to shredded, sheet-like mumus-- strutted powerfully in either practical footwear or the more flashy, eye-wateringly bright stiletto.  People with too much eyeliner and not enough sense to know when too much was just that-- also, shocker, clothed mostly in black-- dashed madly around, some with guitars stuck to their hands like third arms and some hauling heavy amps or parts of drum sets.  Daphne couldn’t see the tell-tale platinum gleam of Malfoy’s head anywhere in the fray.

You’re supposed to be here,

she thought resentfully,

not me

.
 As much as Pansy seemed to need a friend more than anything at that moment, Daphne didn’t really think she qualified, not knowing the other girl much at all.  They’d gone to school together and seen each other around, but Daphne hadn’t even known Pansy’s name until she joined The Snakes to replace their guitarist, Adrian.  The shaky state of things between Pansy and her boyfriend-- the lead vocalist and other guitarist, Malfoy-- had been evident from the start, but Daphne had observed enough of both of them to note that butting into their affairs would be synonymous with writing her own death wish and having it notarized. 
Having everything go nuclear right before their set, though? Daphne only wished the two idiots had better timing.
 
“I knew,” Daphne heard the girl hiss at the floor, “I knew and I thought if I ignored it, it would all go away… but that- that

fucking

dickwich thinks he can get away with just about anything if I let him.  I don’t even get the decency of discretion, anymore.  He practically waved that ugly bint right in my face!”
 
“Yeah, that…

dickwich

.”
 
“And- and to think,” Pansy sniffed loudly, finally leaning up enough to rest her elbows on her knees.  Her eyeliner had gone beyond smudged and had full out run down her cheeks, chin and neck. “Tomorrow’s our

anniversary

.”
 
“How… er, how long have you been together?” Daphne regretted asking almost immediately.
 
Pansy’s face screwed up anew. “Three years!”
 
Daphne tried to imagine three years of the hell she’d witnessed over the last four months of being intimately acquainted with the tumultuousness of the union.  Surely, it couldn’t have started out that way; there was no doubt in her mind that three years of the current state of things would have led to a murder-suicide by now.
 
At least.
 
“Well,” Daphne cleared her throat.  She’d never been good at comforting people. “I think… I think Draco wanted to get a reaction out of you tonight-- ”
 
“He certainly did that,” Pansy muttered darkly.
 
“ --but he doesn’t know that he did,” Daphne continued. “It’s not like he saw your face or anything.  If we just pretend that nothing’s wrong… at least ‘til the show’s over… you know, show him that he didn’t affect you at all…”
 
“He’ll see that I don’t care about his passing fancies and he’ll lose interest in getting a rise out of me,” Pansy hiccoughed, wiping at her eye.  Daphne winced at the smear that disappeared into her hairline. “God, I’m starting to sound like my mum.

Passing fancies

.”
 
“A thing of the past.”
 
“Yeah, or he keeps thinking he can get away with it.”
 
That, Daphne supposed, was the far more likely scenario.  From what she knew of Malfoy, he didn’t seem the type to lose at mind games like the one she’d just proposed.  
 
But they had a show to do, for fuck’s sake, and their mess would have nothing to do with her success.
 
“The power of positive thinking, dear flower, cannot be understated.” She stood and waggled her fingers at the other girl. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“You’re onto something,” Ron declared, slipping the headphones off his ears and leaning back in his extremely entertaining bendy chair. “That

slaps

, mate.”
 
His friend— a seal-haired, pale-eyed stick of a bloke—  grinned.  It was such a rare sight that Ron rubbed his eye to make sure it wasn’t a trick of the light; sure enough, Harry was smiling.

Smiling

.
 
“I’ll need to clean it up a bit, of course,” said Harry.  His beam didn’t dim a wink. “But it’s nothing like anything I’ve done before.  I think it’s a new direction, honestly.”
 
Ron nodded fervently. “Keep going in that direction.  Actually, buy an aeroplane ticket in that direction and get on as many connecting flights as you can before you’re so jetlagged you can’t walk straight.”
 
Harry barked a laugh. “One might think my old stuff was complete shite, the way everyone’s been all about these new joints.”
 
“It’s not that! It’s just,” Ron hesitated.  He wasn’t sure if it would go over well, what he said next. “You seem… happier? Your old stuff was always really sad… or, like, angry.”
 
Harry’s smile kept up.  Ron relaxed.
 
“Yeah,” Harry replied at length.
 
“You’d think you were actually in love, the way you went on and on,” Ron snorted, turning back to the mixer that stretched along the wall.  At the pregnant pause behind him, he whirled around and gaped at the goofy expression still pasted onto Harry’s face. “You’re joking!”
 
“I didn’t say anything.”
 
“But you did,” said Ron. “In your weird, silence-y way.  It’s practically Morse code.”
 
Harry straightened up from his lean against the platform upon which the mixer lay and threw himself onto the red sofa against the far wall.  Ron regarded him in unabashed curiosity.
 
“What’s it like?”
 
Harry exhaled a deep, slow gust of air. “Like I’m so high I’ll never come back down again.  Or… like I’m part of something a lot bigger than just me… something gestalt.”
 
“Gestalt?”
 
“‘A whole that is perceived as more than the sum of its parts,’” said Harry. “I looked it up.  There had to be word for it.  It’s like how meat sauce and pasta isn’t just meat sauce and pasta; it’s bolognese, mate.  I’m bolognese, now.”
 
Ron tried to understand, but he’d gotten lost at ‘meat sauce.’
 
“That’s wild,” he settled with, rubbing thoughtfully at his stomach. “Want to grab curry on the way home?”
 
“Yeah, sure.”
 
Ron stood and shook out his hair.  It was getting to the kind of length that made his mother wave scissors at him, but he didn’t care much.
 
“What’s her name?” he asked Harry on their way out of the studio.
 
Harry locked the back door and jiggled the handle a bit. “What makes you think they’re a girl?”
 
“History.  Are they?”
 
“Yeah.  Her name’s Hermione.”
 
“What’s she do?”
 
“Pianist.”
 
“Does she go to school?”
 
“Hogwarts.”
 
”You're kidding,” Ron spluttered incredulously. “

Crème de la crème

.”
 
“Uh-huh,” said Harry.
 
His friend was starting to sound more like himself; mostly one-word answers, grunts and shrugs.  Just… a smile on his face while he did it all.  It was surreal.  
 
Ron tried to remember the last time he’d seen Harry’s face so open and smooth and came up empty.  There had, perhaps, been a brief period in their acquaintance when he was slightly less brooding, but on the whole, Ron was almost certain he’d always been rather grim.
 
Thoughts of curry distracted him for a bit, but in the back of his head, he wondered about the girl that had literally turned Harry’s frown upside-down.

FOUR MONTHS EARLIER

“Aw, ‘Mione, you’re no fun!” Lavender Brown whined, pouting petulantly at her roommate through the vanity mirror that she was using to style her hair. “The tickets were only twenty quid a pop, and we’ve got an extra since Padma can’t come.”
 
Parvati Patil smoothed a fold out of her leggings and admired the curve of her behind in the full length mirror by the door to the four-person dormitory. “Lav’s right,” she said absently. “It’ll be pretty small; all the performers are indie artists.”
 
Lavender tossed her friend a look that Hermione didn’t miss, but couldn’t decipher.
 
Hermione rose from her bed in a large t-shirt with a faded decal denoting the name of an old summer camp that she usually wore to sleep.  Her hair was a wild tangle of tawny curls that stopped just below her shoulder blades.
 
“My theory exam is on Wednesday,” she explained tiredly for what felt like the millionth time that evening. “I need to study.”
 
“It’s Friday! Live a little, for Christ’s sake,” Lavender exclaimed in disgust. “I doubt even Snape would insist that you study on a Friday night.”
 
Hermione wanted to laugh it off and concede to her roommates’ pressure, but she had surmised long ago that they didn't fully realize the extent to which she felt bound to her own strict regimen regarding academia.  She didn't exactly want to spend Friday night poring over Music Theory notes— by far her least interesting class, and she usually found some redeeming quality in most classes, so that was saying something— but her principles demanded to be heard.  In particular, her father’s screaming wallet echoed in the back of her head whenever she even vaguely considered leaving the school for anything less than grocery or supply shopping.
 
She also didn’t have anything to wear.  So.
 
Parvati seemed to latch onto her hesitation and bounded over to her own closet to whip out a cropped white hoodie with red and black racing stripes along the arms.
 
“You’ve got an adorable tummy,” she wheedled. “And… we’re about the same height, right? Take a pair of my high-waisted jeans and call it a day.”
 
Lavender squealed. “Oh! And the red Vans!”
 
“Yeah,” Parvati agreed readily. “The Vans would be perfect.”
 
“And pull your hair into buns!”
 
Hermione felt overwhelmed. “I’m… not going?”
 
“No, you are,” Parvati countered firmly. “You’re not sitting in this dark room all night doing homework.  We go to an arts school, Hermione.  Half the fun is getting out and

seeing

the arts.”
 
Hermione chewed on her lip.  Her stomach was tied up in knots and the thought of a crowd— even an allegedly small one— made her want to puke.
 
“Look, I appreciate you thinking of me,” she said, finally. “But I just don’t think it would be my scene?”
 
She hated feeling unsure of anything.
 
Lavender gave her an odd look. “Have you ever even been to a concert before?”
 
Hermione crossed her arms. “Of course I have, don’t be ridiculous.”
 
“One without an orchestra.”
 
“...sure.”
 
“Without a violin or piano.”
 
“Now you’re just being picky!”
 
“You’re coming,” said Parvati. “Hurry up; put your face on and get dressed, we’re leaving at eight.”

Meanwhile, backstage at a venue in Edinburgh, a hushed conversation was taking place by the private loo.
 
“I know how to conduct myself, you know.  I’m a big girl.”
 
“Just don’t act like a fan, alright? You’re just a friend of mine that tagged along.”
 
Ginny Weasley crossed her arms. “I’ve got to pretend to be your friend? What, we aren’t actually friends?”
 
Ludgate regarded her with an unamused frown.  Ginny could probably count on one hand the amount of times she’d seen a genuine smile from him, but right just then he looked especially unfriendly, compounded by the dehumanizing shades that hid his intense eyes.
 
“I’m serious,” said Ludgate. “Don’t be a pest or I’m not bringing you anywhere else.”
 
“Okay, okay,” Ginny acquiesced, unnerved by his insistence. “Where is he, anyway? You said he’d be around.”
 
Ludgate led her away from the loo, seemingly content with her promises, and toward the common area and snack bar. “Probably gone out to look at the city.  He doesn’t come out to Scotland much.”
 
“Oh, I know,” Ginny muttered. “If he’d come before now, I would’ve known about it.”
 
Ludgate tossed her a pitying glance that made her want to give him a bruise to wear out on stage that night.  She restrained herself and instead gave him her nastiest pointed look until he turned away, mouth twitching.
 
Their relationship began by association; after her brother scored his second big stage role at a small black box theatre in the city, Ludgate showed up on opening night and the two teenagers got on like a house on fire.  Ginny remembered her brother’s new friend coming up in every other conversation until the lanky musician came ‘round for dinner and slowly became part of their slightly fucked up family.  Mum doted on him like a seventh son and, true to form, Ludgate eventually began to treat Ginny like the sister he didn’t have.
 
That was months after their initial meeting, though.  Sometimes she thought he must be an entirely different person when he was alone; not that she would ever know.
 
Ginny perched herself on the arm of the comfiest looking sofa and played Toon Blast whilst Ludgate stayed by the snack table, nibbling on pretzels and shifting his weight quickly from foot to foot; it could have passed for light exercise, but seemed more like a mild nervous fit.
 
The door to the room clicked open loudly and suddenly and Ginny hopped to her feet, shaking her arse a bit to straighten out the flannel tied around her waist.  She realized she looked rather silly, standing without preamble, and hurriedly sat back down.  Ludgate had stopped fidgeting and she knew if she could see his eyes that he would be laughing with them.
 
Dean Thomas rounded the corner of the small entryway whilst looking down at his phone with a guy in black trailing along coolly behind him.  Ginny conspicuously clenched her buttocks together.
 
“The locals here are really nice, mate,” said Dean. “The lady that runs the souvenir shop across the street reminds me of my mum.”
 
He wandered in the general direction of the snack bar, but walked wide by a couple meters and finally dropped his phone from in front of his face.
 
His dark eyes snapped to her, a stranger.  Ginny wanted to die.
 
Fortunately, Ludgate sensed her chomping at the bit and gestured casually in her direction.  She attempted to emulate his nonchalance.
 
“This is Ginny, she’s a good friend of mine.  She came to see the show tonight.”
 
Oh, a

good friend

, was she? And here she thought they’d been pretending.
 
Dean adopted an easy smile and stuck out a hand. “Hullo.”
 
“Hi,” she replied, taking it.  His hand was warm and he smelled pleasantly of nutmeg and something faintly piney.
 
“You look familiar,” he told her, eyeing her up and down. “Have we met before?”
 
Ginny wanted to shoot herself in the kneecap. “...have you ever seen

The Weasleys

?”
 
Dean squinted at her for a moment and then took a step back and grinned incredulously. “No way.”
 
“Yes way.”
 
“Ginny like

Ginny

-Ginny? I used to watch you lot on the telly all the time when I was, oh, ye tall,” he gestured at his hip with a flat palm. “That’s crazy.  Swear you’re not pulling my leg?”
 
Ginny had to smile.  As much as the memories of her childhood stardom made her want to drive hot pokers up her own arse,

Dean Thomas

was a fan of

hers

.  It was surreal to think about.
 
“Cross my heart.”
 
“Brilliant.” He shifted his weight to his other foot. “So, you came to see your boyfriend perform?”
 
Ginny heard Ludgate choke on a pretzel and tried to keep a straight face. “We’re just friends, but yeah. Him, Lovey, and you, of course.  That’s, like, the ultimate trifecta of who I listen to on Spotify these days, so why not?”
 
Dean beamed.

“

Oh, we started… two hearts and one home,”

Dean crooned softly into the mic

, “It’s hard when we argue… we’re both stubborn, I know…

”
 
Hermione didn’t know all that much about Dean Thomas despite his relative mainstream success in select circles; she knew that he’d been part of a larger boyband that dissolved the year before, and that anyone with functioning sex organs seemed to worship the ground he walked on.  His voice was rather generic, but his stage presence was incredibly alluring.  Hermione knew that he was the thing she’d felt like her roommates were hiding from her on the way to the venue; he was far too well-known to be considered an underground indie artist, and the size of the crowd was definitely more than she’d been told to expect.
 
Against all odds, she still found herself having a pretty good time.
 
She’d never heard of Lovey, but the dainty blonde had been a hit with the flower crown’d, golden-bespectacled, ukulele-wielding scene that swayed with dazed rhythm and glazed eyes.  Hermione thought it was all a bit too airy for her tastes, but she could appreciate good music when she heard it.
 
The real show, in her opinion, came from the middle act.
 Ludgate Van Iverson.  Even his terrible name made her smile in fond memory of his set. 
The matrimony of the old-fashioned sounds of violins and accordions meshed with the modern-retro feel of the electric guitar, poignant drums and synthesizer ticked boxes Hermione didn’t even know she had.  And that one, simple, springy tune…

Corduroy Dreams

… call her a sap, but Hermione felt his light, serrated tenor seep into her bones like he’d been singing directly to her, and only her…
 
“Isn’t he just brilliant?” Lavender had sighed from beside her.
 
Hermione nodded softly. “Er, yeah.  Yeah, he is.”
 
Now, though, she needed to find a bathroom that

wasn’t

a port-a-potty, and fast— or Parvati would skin her alive for ruining her incredibly expensive jeans.
 
Hermione didn’t consider herself an unintelligent young woman by any stretch of the imagination, but in hindsight she should have realized before she even went looking for it that the only housed bathroom in the entire venue would probably be in the small pop-up in which the talent readied themselves for the show.  When she found said pop-up, it wasn’t as if she didn’t see the cords and spare equipment everywhere or take note of the people in black t-shirts and jeans roaming the small perimeter.  She simply hiked up her big girl trousers and told herself and her bladder that it didn’t matter.
 
“Excuse me,” she said, getting the attention of a rather bulky roadie in aviators. “I’m looking for the toilet— it’s rather urgent.  Is there one nearby I can use?”
 
She shifted her weight from foot to foot, only part of it an act as she attempted to look pitiful enough for the man to reconsider redirecting her to the despicable portable monstrosities that she would honestly soil herself before using.
 
It worked.
 
“Aye, lass,” said the roadie in a thick brogue.  She leaned forward to hear him more clearly over the dull roar of the crowd in the background. “The jacks’ll be just beyont.  Through that door, turn left and there they are in frunna ye.”
 
Hermione smiled as charmingly as she could with her lower body about to burst open and thanked him before hurrying away toward the indicated door with her thighs pressed tightly together.  The small building to which the pop-up was attached contained a small lounge; there was a snack table, a television, a sofa and two armchairs, and— her destination— a decent restroom.
 
There were boiled sweets in a glass bowl by the sinks.  After washing her hands, Hermione bid a silent apology to her father, a dentist, and popped one into her mouth with a pleased hum.

Lingonberry

.
 
She goofed around a bit in the fancy loo, making faces at herself in the mirror and pretending to be a famous musician.

She would go on after Dean Thomas and the crowd would go wild

.  She took a couple of selfies with her tongue hanging out, a few with goofy expressions, and just one with the intention of actually looking good.  She saved one with the dumb Snapchat filter that distorted her face and made her voice wobbly.  None would see the light of day, of course, but it was all good fun nonetheless.
 
Parvati texted her when she was preparing to leave her private paradise, asking if she was alright.  She shot off a quick text back as she opened the door and nearly ran smack into a redhead in a white crop top.  Hermione took a step back, still holding the door open, and thought that the girl seemed rather familiar.
 
“Sorry,” she muttered quickly after realizing she’d been standing in the doorway too long. “I was just leaving.”
 
“Who are you?” the redhead inquired briskly. “Are you supposed to be back here?”
 
“I- I just had to use it and I… have a portable toilet allergy.”
 
They stared at each other for a moment.  Then, Hermione awkwardly scooted past her and started toward the exit.  The girl called her back.  They chatted for a while, and Hermione wondered the entire time if the girl even had to pee anymore, or if she was ever really going to pee in the first place.
 
Then:
 
“Do you want to hang out for a bit?”
 
“I- okay.”
 
“Alright, I’ll be right back.” And then, the other girl finally disappeared into the restroom.
 
Hermione debated making a break for it as she did her business, but ultimately decided to see where the evening led.  Her roommates dragged her out for a good time, and though at first she’d been reluctant, she was in a glorious, mellow sweet spot in which responsibilities didn’t exist and anything was possible.  Also, she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to milk her first night off in months for all it was worth.
 
The redhead returned.  She introduced herself as Ginny, and though pairing that name with her face tickled a distant memory in the back of Hermione’s brain, she didn’t dwell too much on it.  Hermione began to suspect she was harboring a serious contact high; there were at least four things going on at that moment that would have bothered her much more sober.
 
Ginny led her through the lounge to a door that led to a staircase.  The distant clamor of the crowd grew stronger underneath her feet and through the walls.  The elevated tunnel smelled like cotton candy and beer.  Hermione held her breath until they reached another door at the top of the stairs, painted black with metal bracings and locks.  It opened up into darkness, but the sudden rush of cool, fresh air told Hermione that they were outside.  The crowd was no longer muffled, but clear and loud and incredibly close.
 
“Ginny,” she prodded, nervous. “Where are we?”
 
“Backstage,” said Ginny.
 
“Oh.”
 
Neither Lavender nor Parvati would ever believe her.
 
Ginny grabbed her by the hand (

it was warm and soft; Ginny was rather pretty, and she smelled quite nice, like sugar and spice and whatever the hell else people said girls ought to smell like

) and led her around, introducing her to a few roadies— all in aviators, all sporting intimidatingly large biceps.  Two or three openly flirted with Hermione, and though she was flattered, she mostly pretended to be completely oblivious until Ginny dragged her to the next cluster of behind-the-scenes players.  It wasn’t until they had finally made a full circuit and were watching the rest of the show from the wings— which was insane to think about, Hermione figured— that she met… well, him.
 
Behind them stood yet another man in shades— neither tall nor short, handsome nor plain— though this one wasn’t donned in all black; rather, a clean, white t-shirt and black jeans.  His mouth was sloped in a vague expression that blurred the lines between a smile and a completely blank face.  Hermione’s gaze snapped up to his raven mop of hair, and very suddenly, she suspected that the bottom of her stomach lay trembling on the floor somewhere.
 
It was Ludgate Van Iverson.
 
“This is my friend, Mione,” said Ginny, waving a casual hand toward her in a Vanna White-esque fashion. “‘Mione, this is Luds.”
 
“Nice to meet you, ‘Mione,” Ludgate drawled.  He extended one scrawny arm toward her, a long-fingered hand adorned with about six or seven rings on it blooming from a loose fist into an open palm. 
 
Hermione took it, heart threatening to hammer a hole through her chest.  The rings were skin-warm against her fingers.  The ambiguity of his shaded gaze sent shivers down her spine.
 
“Likewise,” she managed to say without stuttering. “I, erm— ” Damn. “I liked your set. A lot.”
 
His left cheek bunched just a bit.  He seemed— pleased? But almost too shy to express such? Or was shyness even the right word…?
 
“Thanks,” he said quietly, genuinely— or at least seemingly so.

Hermione squeezed the other girl's hand and offered up her phone with the contact screen already pulled up.  Ginny put in her number, sent herself a text, and returned the device with a quirk of the lips.
 
“Try not to share that with anyone,” she said, winking despite her obvious displeasure. “You’re nice to hang with.  We’ll have to get lunch and shop sometime.”
 
“I— of course,” Hermione replied, blown away. “Where’s the… where do I go from here?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Summary
: Corrupted by a foray into the comedy section of a record store in Philly, Midge weathers a glorious descent into the dirty world of comedy whilst still at Bryn Mawr.

Miriam Weissman was up late.
 
There was a record spinning on the player and a cold can of Coke in her left hand as she went over her elegantly-penned notes for a quiz the next day on the first six chapters of

Anna Karenina

.  “Went over” was a bit of an overstatement, though, because her eyes couldn’t take a thing in for the mirthful tears welling up in them every time the laughter on the album swelled and receded.
 
“

What was that?

”

“

I said, ‘I DON’T GIVE A DARN’!

”

“

Oh, that’s our shortstop.

”
 
She’d listened to the sketch at least a hundred times since finding a recording of it two months prior, and each time she still found herself wracked with laugh cramps.  She owned a couple more recordings from Abbott and Costello’s radio show, but that evening, she needed a sure thing to pick up her mood caused by her disastrous date the night before.
 
She liked Joel a lot and he was a good boyfriend, really… he always paid, he was a consummate gentleman until she demanded otherwise, and he could make her laugh.  But he could be so

prideful

— it started out as a relatively innocuous flaw, but the more she spent time with him, the more she realized how much she disliked that part of him.  
 
He’d forgotten his wallet in his room when they’d gone out to dinner and gotten so flustered and embarrassed when she footed the bill that he’d been in a rotten mood for the rest of the night.  She’d been meaning to call him to make sure they were alright, but honestly, she was still a bit peeved about the whole thing.
 
After a good hour of half-heartedly perusing her notebook and jotting down the occasional irrelevant thought in the margins, she set her pop can on her desk and went over to the table in the corner to switch out the albums to something a little more profane, making sure to turn the volume down to avoid getting reprimanded by the RHA.  She retrieved her Coke and the previous month’s issue of Vogue and sat on the floor, gleefully accompanied by the snappy tones of Redd Foxx’s stand-up.
 
Just before midnight, the jangling of keys by the door had her scrambling to switch the player off and shove her box of records back underneath her desk.  Disturbed by her abrupt movements, her empty Coke can went loudly clattering across the floor and she threw herself on hands and knees to go get it.
 
“Midge?” 
 
Her roommate, Barbara, sounded puzzled as she stepped in with a man’s varsity jacket around her shoulders.
 
“What on earth are you doing? Why are you still up?”
 
“Studying,” Midge explained breathlessly, standing and gesturing over to her desk. “Test tomorrow.”
 
Barb eyed her suspiciously and went about setting her things down.
 
Midge plucked the album off the plate while her roommate's back was turned and hurried over to her desk to set it down. “How was your evening? Do we still like Parker?”
 
Instantly melting at the opportunity to talk about her boyfriend, Barb’s pink lips flew a mile a minute and Midge could barely get a word in— which was unusual for her, but given that she couldn’t really talk about her evening listening to party albums (Barb wasn’t the coolest or most relaxed about those sorts of things), she decided to zip it and respond mostly in appropriate

ooh’s

,

ahh’s

and

mm’s

.
 
When they were both settled in bed and the lights were out, Midge stared at the ceiling with jaunty voices and tinny laughter gone crackly from poor sound quality swirling between her ears.  She knew enough about the first six chapters of

Anna Karenina

that she wasn’t worried about the quiz, but she

was

worried about the whole Joel thing.
 
She’d give him a call in the morning.

“

Okay. I’m going to leave the jokes to this next young man. Just out of the merchant marines or some patriotic shit like that, please welcome - Lenny Bruce!

”
 
“This is the guy I wanted you to see,” Joel murmured.  Midge could practically smell the anticipation radiating off of him.
 
“No way he’s funnier than Misty,” she said.
 
But he was.  Lenny Bruce was much, much funnier than Misty Dreams.  Almost as handsome, too.
 
She made an immediate note to look for some of his material at that record store just up the street from the Philly club they were in — it was there that she got most of her stuff.  Joel was real excited about this Bruce guy, and finally, she understood why; she was holding her stomach from laughing.
 
After his set, she kissed Joel on the cheek and told him she was going to the bathroom.  Her mascara had run a bit and she needed to freshen up.
 
Makeup refreshed and hands washed, she exited the bathroom and noted that the matte black door to the backstage area was just down the dimly lit hall, unmanned.  The security had probably gone for a leak or a smoke.  
 
She knew she shouldn’t— knew she’d probably get escorted out by someone or other as soon as she got one foot in the door, but her curiosity had never been an easily sated thing.  Plus, this Lenny Bruce— he seemed like the real deal.  How many people would be able to say they got to see him up close and personal when he was still playing dives like the one they currently occupied?
 
Setting her shoulders, she strode up to the backstage door and turned the knob, half expecting it to be locked.  It wasn’t; it turned with a loud click and she found herself in another, stubbier and slightly cleaner hallway, greeted by the bubbling noises of various conversations in tones ranging from loud and raucous to hushed and hissed.  She tucked a stray lock of her peroxide-blonde hair back behind her ear and wandered down the hallway, noting that the doors didn’t have name placards on them but taped pieces of paper.  At the very end, near a doorway that sounded like it led to the stage, was a door that had a paper sign with Lenny Bruce’s name scrawled across it in terrible penmanship.
 
She knocked tentatively.
 
“I’m getting zooted in here,” called the voice she’d just heard out onstage.  
 
She blinked, but— and she would wonder later that night in her room what on earth drove her to do it— she twisted the handle and let herself into the comic’s dressing room, greeted immediately by the thick scent of marijuana.
 
Lenny was sitting by the mirror, initially leaning back in his chair so that only two legs were on the floor but slamming back down on all four when he realized that the intruder wasn’t anyone he recognized.  As he’d warned, there was a joint held delicately between his forefinger and thumb.  His jacket was unbuttoned, his tie undone and hanging around his flipped collar; his hair was immaculate.
 
“Hello,” Midge greeted, shoving her nervousness aside and embracing her natural abrasiveness in unfamiliar situations.
 
His sleepy eyes slid over her frame, settling warily on her face. “Hi.  Out past curfew?”
 
She felt her cheeks prickle a little at being clocked so easily, but blazed ahead. “You caught me.  The orderlies from the home will be here any second.”
 
He smiled a little. “Fan?”
 
“Yes,” she admitted. ”I mean— kinda.  I loved your set, but my boyfriend’s the real fan.  He loves you.”
 
“And he made you come all the way back here by yourself to get him an autograph?” Lenny asked, raising an eyebrow.
 
She shook her head once, firmly. “No, I— I just sort of stumbled my way back here.  There really should be better security in this place.”
 
“Well, sweetheart,” Lenny drawled, lips twitching, as he flicked around some paper on the counter of the vanity beside him. “If you promise not to murder me in cold blood, I can make this little trip worth your while.”
 
For a moment, her mind strayed to somewhere completely and wholly inappropriate.  She snapped out of it quickly at the sound of a pen scribbling fast and loose across one of the flyers that she’d seen everywhere within a three-block radius of the club.
 
“What’s your name, honey?”
 
“Miriam Weismann,” she breathed. “Or… Midge.  My friends call me Midge.  Oh— but you should make it out to Joel Maisel.”
 
“Well, Miss Weismann,” Lenny said, standing and slinking over to where she stood by the door and holding the flyer aloft for her to take. “Joel Maisel isn’t the one who came back to my dressing room and accosted me.  Therefore…”
 
She took the bright blue scrap of paper and saw her name penned messily underneath his signature in an empty spot near the name of the nightclub at the top.

For Midge

.  With a sloppy little heart next to it.
 
“I hope my handwriting isn’t total chicken scratch.”
 
“Oh, it totally is.”
 
He chuckled.  She noticed how close he was to her, and he must have, too, because he took a measured step back and rubbed his hand across his chin in a manner that she thought seemed incongruously nervous to the words she’d just heard him say not half an hour before.
 
“How old are you?” she asked, and immediately wished she hadn’t.
 
He didn’t seem all that phased, though. “Twenty-six.  You?”
 
“I don’t think you’re supposed to ask a lady that,” she replied coyly.
 
“You are if they’re unaccompanied in your dressing room with no witnesses to say that you kept your hands to yourself,” he countered with that distracting eyebrow high in the air.
 
He made a good point. “Nineteen.  I’m at Bryn Mawr up the road.”
 
“You seem the type,” he admitted with a teasing edge to his voice that she wasn’t sure she entirely liked.
 
“Well,” she cleared her throat. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Bruce.  Maybe I’ll see you again one day.”
 
He bowed his head in that half-sideways way of his. “Likewise, Miss Weismann.”
 
They stood staring at each other for a moment too long, and then she giggled a little and turned to leave.  As she touched the handle, though, something made her spin around again.  She amanaged to see the contrast of Lenny’s profile falling in sharp relief from the mirror lights as he turned his head quickly to avoid being caught staring.
 
“Why, Mr. Bruce,” she uttered slyly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were checking me out.”
 
“Beat it, Weismann,” said Lenny, covering up his smile with the entire palm of his hand and steadfastly not looking at her.
 
She laughed and left the room, intent on getting back to the table quickly.  She’d been gone for far too long.
 
When she saw Joel at the table— looking around, probably wondering how much longer she’d be— she paused and felt like the flyer in her hand was burning a hole through it.  After a split second, she folded it up quickly and stuffed it in the lining of her bra before hurrying over to soothe her boyfriend’s frayed nerves.

Joel may have introduced her to hidden gem performances at seedy dive bars and clubs her mama would rather die than enter, but he hadn’t introduced Midge to comedy.  She and comedy went way back— an acquaintance that started when she was just ten years old and listening to the

Baby Snooks Show

over dinner with her babysitter.  She wasn’t supposed to do anything but eat dinner during dinner, but looking back, Mrs. Fulber had probably been too far in her cups to keep track of what was allowed and what wasn’t.  
 
But yes— as far back as Fanny Brice pretending to be a toddler.  That was how long Midge had been enraptured by the world of comedy.
 
When she started at Bryn Mawr, the first thing she’d done to cement her newfound freedom was go into town to find more party albums to add to her rather barebones collection.  She fell into the quips of Mort Sahl, Redd Foxx, Phyllis Diller, hell— she even remembered briefly flicking past a single copy of Lenny Bruce’s first recorded session from 1949… not that she’d paid it much mind at the time.
 
All of that meant one thing: Midge Maisel loved comedy, and she loved to laugh.  She liked a solidly delivered joke and a punchline that knocked the air out of her lungs— she liked the way comedy connected her to sex debates and race relations and gender politics and things she never would have been exposed to, otherwise.  It was a big part of her life.  Joel being a funny guy was one of the reasons she’d been drawn to him in the first place.
 
The first time she did it, it came as easily as breathing.

She’d always been rather popular; good looks, impeccable fashion sense and a smart mouth made her an instant hit at most parties.  Her mother had instilled in her the importance of properly entertaining company— even when she wasn’t the host.  It felt like the most natural thing in the world to flit between partygoers, striking up brief conversations, introducing like-minded people to one another— and perhaps the most natural thing of all, at least to her, was making people laugh.
 
The birthday party of one of Joel’s off-campus friends, Lloyd, was no different.  She found herself on a living room sofa doing an impression of one of her professors and the chorus of mirth that greeted her prudish mockery made her chest swell with something akin to pride.
 
“I mean, honestly,” she continued in a jaunty tone with a furrowed brow and a quirked lip, “how can you call yourself a Philosophy professor at a women’s college and refuse to talk about the bra controversy? We talked about Walt Whitman’s dick for an hour last week but talking about tits is where he draws the fucking line?”
 
More laughs, mostly incredulous.  Joel, who had been hovering by the door to the kitchen, squirmed a bit and shifted his weight from foot to foot.  There was an uncertain smile on his face, like he wasn’t sure whether to join in with everybody or warn her that she was getting a bit more profane than a “nice girl” had any business being.
 
But she couldn’t stop.  The room was just getting warmed up, and the more she spoke— bouncing from point to point so fast she didn’t know if she felt like a performer or like she was defending her major at her parents’ place over dinner— the more it felt like she had everyone in hand.  By the time she was done going down the rabbit hole, the whole place was in stitches and tears and regarding her with so much awe that she didn’t think she ever wanted to come down.
 
“

Je

-sus, Midge,” Lloyd wheezed, scrubbing a tear from his left eye. “You should have your own show.”
 
Midge laughed and kissed him playfully on the cheek.  The rest of the party was a hoot and a half; there were drinks and decent food and the company was varied and interesting— as much as it could be in southeast Pennsylvania.  She had a good time.
 
When Joel took her back to her dormitory for the evening— well past both of their curfews— he didn't say much.  She only got one-word answers out of him whenever she asked him a question, and whenever she looked in his direction, his eyes were distant and his jaw clenched.  She was miffed by his attitude, but didn’t let it show until they arrived back at the college.
 
“Goodnight,” she muttered stiffly, quickly opening the passenger door before he could get the chance and slamming it shut behind her.
 
“Midge!” he called when she was halfway to the side entrance of her building.
 
She whirled around, arms crossed. “What?”
 
He strode toward her with his hands in his pockets, looking properly shamefaced.
 
“I’m sorry I’m being such an ass,” he admitted, eyes downcast. “I just… I dunno, Lloyd is

my

friend.  I’m happy you had a good time, I am, but… I guess I’m just not used to being the popular girl’s boyfriend, you know? It’s usually the other way around for me.”
 
“You’re used to being the popular boy’s girlfriend?”
 
“

Midge

.”
 
She uncrossed her arms and sighed. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
 
“Nothing,” he replied quickly. “It’s fine.  It’s my problem, I’ll get over it.”
 
His hands were still stuffed in his pockets; he seemed embarrassed by his admission, and honestly, Midge understood why.  If it seemed like an incredibly petty thing to her, she could only imagine what it sounded like inside of his own head.
 
“Okay,” she said, and walked over to peck him chastely. “See you… when I see you.”
 
Before she could turn around again, he grabbed her wrist gently and pulled her back to him.
 
“I’m sorry,” he said again, circling an arm around her waist. “I am.”
 
His closeness clouded her better judgment— he smelled good even after a whole night out— and she found herself against a tree

It was painful to do it.  
 
She didn’t want to do it— especially in front of so many people— but really, she just thought it was… too soon.

Was

two and a half years of dating enough? She’d known plenty of people— family, friends, acquaintances— who’d tied the knot mere months after meeting.  Was she being too picky?
 
“It’s getting cold out here, Midge,” Joel laughed nervously out in the middle of the road.
 
The smile that was frozen on her face— having appeared first out of shock, and slowly fixing as the moment became real— slipped off in increments of honking horns and the yells of irate drivers.  Everyone on her side of the street seemed to be watching her, waiting on bated breath for a cinema-worthy romantic moment that they would all forget in a week.
 
The humid chilliness chafed at her nose and cheeks.  She folded her arms around herself and turned her gaze from the hopeful man that felt so far away from her.
 
“Joel, get out of the street,” she called, finally, the briskness of the air creeping into her tone.
 
His face fell. “Midge— ”
 
“

Now

.” She looked around. “And don’t you people have anything better to do on a Thursday night?”
 
The crowd grudgingly dispersed, mutters of disappointment and wincing sympathy reaching her burning ears.  Joel slunk back toward the sidewalk, and traffic resumed with a few residuals angry honks and hollers.
 
”I’m sorry,” Midge sighed once he was close. “I can’t marry you.”
 
Joel’s sloe-eyed gaze roved her face searchingly. “I don’t understand, Midge.  We’ve been together forever, we know everything about each other… besides Archie, you’re my best friend.  You mean

everything

to me.  I thought you’d want this?”
 
She cupped her left elbow with her right hand, completely thrown off her game.
 
“I’ve had so much fun being with you,” she murmured. “You make me laugh and you’ve shown me so much… and you’re Jewish, so that’s another box checked…”
 
He snorted, but he didn’t seem all that amused about where her speech was going.
 
“Joel, honey, I… I love you.  But I’m not

in

love with you.  I think I could be, with enough time, but— ”
 
“No,” Joel interrupted her. “It’s been two years— ”
 
“Two and a half,” she gently corrected.
 
“ —Midge,

please

.  It’s been two years— two and a half, whatever— and you’re still holding yourself back from me.  You’re everything a guy could ever want… you’re smart, funny, fucking beautiful… but I don’t think I’ve ever been enough for you.”
 
“It’s not about you,” she insisted. “It’s not about being enough, or— or not being enough.  I just don’t think I’m meant to spend the rest of my life with you.  And that’s okay, I think.”
 
He shook his head, his face drawn in fresh lines of heartbreak and sadness.  She cupped his cheek and felt a pang when he turned away from the tender touch.
 
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”
 
“I don’t want to go home,” she said defiantly. “The night is still young and I’ve got on my dancing shoes.”
 
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’m not in very much of a dancing mood.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Have you got the team’s order?”
 
“Ah, yes— hot chocolate for Kensington, white chocolate mocha for Klein, americano for Forbes, cranberry juice for Park— ”
 
Owen threw up his hand, open-palmed.  The other held his phone, the notes app open. “Park? Who’s Park?”
 
“Parker,” Jodi replied nervously. “Parker Robinson?”
 
“Since when are you on first name—

nickname

basis with Robinson?”
 
“She told me to call her Parker this morning.” Jodi deftly tucked a pesky lock of raven hair behind her ear as a ruse to scratch the back of it. “Is that okay?”
 
Owen frowned. “No, I guess that’s fine.  I just— oh, whatever.  The other orders?”
 
“Just Hotchkins’ regular oat milk with strawberry syrup.  Nobody else wanted anything.”
 
“Okay,” he nodded curtly, stuffing his phone in his back trouser pocket. “I’ll be back in a bit.  Be attentive, but don’t hover.  Don’t say no to anything— unless, y’know, it’s something weird or unreasonable that you aren’t comfortable with.  In that case, I’d say go to HR.”
 
“They seem like an alright bunch,” Jodi remarked in concession.
 
“They are, but— well, you never know.” He checked his watch and started down the carpeted hallway that led to the exit. “Text me if you need anything, call me if I don’t reply!”
 
And then he was gone.  Jodi stuck her thumbs into her pockets and rocked back on her loafer-clad feet for a moment before darting back into the lab.
 
A fresh, temporary hire to the studio, she was still learning the ropes.  Owen had been a great help in the first few days, but she suspected that he had a hard time relinquishing control over even the smallest of menial tasks.  Despite being an executive assistant and miles above in terms of position, he still insisted on doing grunge work like going for coffee, delivering trivial messages, and even occasionally reminding the artists to eat when they got lost in the zone.  Jodi knew she could do such things just as well as he, but instead, she mostly sat in the lab and kept the artists company while they sketched and drew and digitized and whatever else.
 
Oh, well.  It was only a summer job, and it seemed foolish to complain about being paid to observe some of the leading people in the industry and do naught but keep them company.
 
The highlight of her days so far had been a series of interactions between herself and one of the head animators.  Parker was a short, firmly-built woman of indeterminable age; her warm, brown face was youthful and smooth, but her words and mannerisms were sometimes those of a much older individual.  Her sense of fashion was also something Jodi enjoyed observing.  That day, she wore a navy jumpsuit cinched at the waist not unlike something an astronaut trainee would wear.  Her dusky pink curls were done up in two small, high buns on top of her head.
 
She sat cross-legged at her desk, gently rotating back and forth in her chair as she tapped away at her Surface Pro with a blithe expression that belied her obvious passion for the thing she crafted.  Jodi was captivated by her; she’d only ever dated men, but Parker’s easy nature and likability— evident in her interactions with the other artists and even the staff that came in and out as they day flew by— was truly something to behold, and caused her to question her previous beliefs about her own sexuality.
 
As if sensing Jodi’s eyes on her, the artist turned and caught her eye.  The right corner of her mouth flicked up, making the stud in her nose glint from the new angle of lighting. 
 
“Wanna see what I’m working on?” she asked.
 
Jodi nodded and readily hurried over to stand behind her chair.  Parker tapped a few buttons and swiped a few things away to show the art inked on the screen.  It was a beautiful thing done in lush shades of cool green and gloomy shadow, frozen in a position that led Jodi to believe it was part of some sort of promo.  She appropriately

ooh

’ed and

aah

’ed whenever Parker panned around to show more and more of her work.
 
“Very nice,” Jodi admitted in awe. “I’ve never been able to do anything like this.  The best I can do is stick figures, you know?”
 
Parker hummed thoughtfully, already going back to work. “Nothing wrong with a good stick figure.”
 
The rest of the shift passed like that; Jodi at Parker’s elbow until Owen came in like a tornado and personally delivered everyone’s drinks with flourish before bustling off to do something else.  Parker drank most of her juice and gave the rest to Jodi.  Jodi cradled it in both hands like a toddler and crossed her legs in a chair that she’d pulled up at some point.  Someone ordered postmates around two o’clock.
 
At five, prime shift ended and it was time to go home.  The artists worked in three eight-hour shift teams so that work was being done around the clock.  Even with that constant workflow and productivity, this particular project— among many others in various stages of production— had been in the works for about a year and would take about another three years to finish.
 
Jodi packed up her things and walked with Parker out of the building.  She felt Owen’s eyes on them as they went, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.
 
“D’you drive?”
 
“I take the bus from Alameda,” said Jodi.
 
Parker smiled. “I can give you a ride.”
 
“Oh, I— wouldn’t want to impose.”
 
“It’s nothing.  I stay in Oakland.”
 
Jodi toed the pavement with a timid foot. “Alright.  Only if you're sure.”
 
“‘Course I am.” She patted the intern's shoulder. “The way home is lonely.”
 
It was said casually, in the way that everything she’d said all day had been.  But behind her eyes, a flicker of something indescribably sad stirred something in Jodi, who gave her widest smile in answer and gesticulated widely toward the parking lot, as if to say

lead the way

.

The more time she spent with Parker, the more Jodi learned about her.  She was a morning person (

eugh

), she loved cats (hers was named Hollis), her taste in music was varied and interesting, and she was twenty-nine years old.  Jodi also spilled her guts more readily to Parker than she had to anyone in years.  She was just so

cool

, and every now and then, a delicate vulnerability would open up in her mystifying expressions and make Jodi want to wrap her up and take her somewhere far, far away.
 
She wondered if she was falling in love with her— and maybe she was, a little bit— but not in some big, romantic drama sort of way.  It was all a bit confusing, really.  Jodi liked things the way they were, so instead of focusing on the confusing parts, she allowed herself to drown in the new connection and everything that she was learning as a result.
 
It would have to be enough.

“Remember to be a consummate professional when he gets here,” Owen told the interning staff. “He’s just a person.  Famous and attractive, yes, but a person nonetheless.  Treat him like you would any of our other artists.”
 
He swiped through his phone a couple of times before rattling off a few more things to keep in mind for the day.  Jodi zoned out, too keyed up at the thought of Harry Styles’ inaugural visit.  He would visit several times over the next two months to record.  Jodi knew she’d run into some big names working at the studio— which was large and rather well-known— but never in a million years would she have figured Harry Styles to be one of those names.
 
Jodi gibbered excitedly at Parker when she got into the lab that morning.  Parker nodded indulgently when appropriate, adding a sly comment here and there, but mostly focused on her work.
 
At some point, the excitement level out in the hall kicked up and Jodi darted to the door to peek out.
 
Walking in from the main lobby in a cream duster was the former boy band member, gorgeous hair windswept and cheeks rosy.  Flanked by a couple of what looked to be his own personal security, he strode at a moderate pace toward the other end of the hall, led by Owen, who—  despite his earlier spiel— seemed to vibrate with poorly concealed awe.
 
Jodi darted back into the lab and did a little dance that didn’t go unnoticed by Parker, who stared at her with a stylus in hand.
 
“He’s the finest person to ever tread the earth,” Jodi groaned, sinking into her usual spot. “I just witnessed perfection in a human being and I can’t even tweet about it.”
 
“A shame,” Parker remarked airily.
 
“I mean, they couldn’t have given him a tour of the facilities? Given us all a chance to peep?”
 
“Right, haha.”
 
“I’ve only been a fan since I was like— oh, I don’t know— eleven?!”
 
Parker shot her a look. “How old are you again?”
 
“Twenty,” Jodi replied, a bit defensively.
 
“Wild.” She checked her watch. “I have to go meet with the director in a bit.  You wanna tag along?”
 
“Uh, yes,” said Jodi.  Then she froze. “Isn’t the director in the sound lab?”
 
Parker only smiled.

Jodi couldn’t quite believe what was unfolding before her very eyes.
 
Though initially eager to meet with the director alongside Parker and hopefully get a closer look at the lovely man hanging out on one of the bright red couches toward the far wall, Jodi chickened out at the last minute and hung by the door like a weirdo.  Park approached the director, Rebecca Tchotchke, with breezy confidence, tablet in hand.
 
Jodi stared hard at her phone and only allowed herself brief, sparing glances at the singer across the room.  On what felt like her hundredth peek, she noticed that he was no longer engaged in lighthearted conversation with one of his security people.  He was staring at Director Tchotchke— no, he was staring at Parker.
 
Except not in an intense, weird way.  In that on-and-off way that Jodi herself was guilty of at that very moment.
 
Jodi looked between them.  Parker didn’t seem to be aware of anything but the words she was exchanging with the director.  And then, it seemed like the universe decided to have mercy on Jodi’s whirring mind and gave the situation a small push.
 
“And oh,” Jodi heard Tchotchke say, “I have to introduce you.  Harry, this is Parker Robinson, one of our visual co-directors.”
 
Harry stood and made his way over, extending a hand with a disarming half-grin. “Hi, I’m Harry.”
 
“Parker. Nice to meet you.” Parker smiled, cool as a cucumber.  Jodi wanted to scream. “Jodi Pak— she’s one of our summer associates— is a fan of yours.  She’s acting shy by the door, there.”
 
Jodi felt her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth when all three people turned to look at her.  She managed a timid wave.  Harry charmingly waved back.  Jodi nearly fainted.
 
“I like your hair,” Harry said, turning back to Parker. “It’s quite lovely.”
 
Parker reached up to tuck a stray lock behind her ear.  The defined rosy curls hung at neck length, mostly pinned away from her face by a few gilded pins.
 
“Thank you,” Parker replied, dark eyes flicking over his face searchingly.  “Your coat is sick.  Where’d you get it?”
 
Harry glanced down at his light-colored duster, which was unbelted to reveal a pastel pink pullover and pale denim jeans. “It was a gift.  Burberry.”
 
Parker hummed appreciatively. “Nice.”
 
They regarded each other appraisingly for a moment, and then Director Tchotchke cleared her throat.
 
“Well,” she declared bracingly, “we better get started.  Owen, be a dear and go get Reynolds…”

“You were flirting with Harry Styles,” Jodi hissed at Parker when they were out to lunch that day. “I saw it with my own two eyes.”
 
Parker shrugged, though Jodi could see that she wasn’t unaffected by the development.  Her eyes seemed brighter than usual, her posture not so insular.
 
“He’s very good-looking,” she admitted with a small smile.
 
“You should, like,” Jodi looked around to make sure no one was listening, “ask him out.  To lunch or for coffee or something.”
 
Parker recoiled. “That’s… unprofessional.  He came to do a job.”
 
“But

Park

,” Jodi groaned. “If you date him, I’ll be one degree of separation from Harry Styles!”
 
“You’re already less than one degree of separation from Harry Styles.  You met him today.”
 
Jodi straightened abruptly in her chair, nearly knocking over her cup of cold hibiscus tea onto her sandwich. “My god, you’re right.  Oh, why,

why

do they have that stupid no-tweeting rule?”
 
“So people don’t swarm the studio and make everyone’s jobs harder,” Parker replied dryly. “Look, I get it, okay? He’s a big deal to you and to a lot of people— but just remember that he

is

still made of flesh and blood like the rest of us mere mortals.”
 
Jodi forced herself to calm down, emulating the natural serenity of her newest friend.  Parker patted her hand and went back to chowing down on her beyond meat mushroom-swiss burger.  Jodi picked up her own sandwich and lifted it to her lips, but thought of something and let it hover there.
 
“Just one more inappropriate thing,” she blurted. “Your babies would be

so

cute.”
 
“Jodi.”
 
“I’m done! I’m done, I swear.”
 
Parker shook her head.

The lyrics were very cute and surprisingly profound, given that they were for a kid’s film.  Upon request, he’d been given a small sample of the script and Harry found himself reading it with growing interest, wondering who’d come up with such an idea.
 
“We’re still going through a few rounds of casting,” Director Tchotchke had told him sometime before lunch. “I know you’ve probably got a lot going on, but if you’re interested, I can reach out to your agent about reading for Rossy? Your voice is… well, it’s kind of exactly what I’d envisioned for that role in particular.”
 
Harry tried not to let himself get too excited.
 
They recorded a few more takes of the same song, doing some tweaks here and there.  The studio was beautifully designed, and the staff were very accommodating.  Harry allowed his thoughts to drift toward the artist he’d met earlier that day.
 
Her glossy pink curls were a lovely contrast to her warm, brown, angular face, and he couldn’t help but take note of the stunning figure she cut in her form-fitting, tangerine turtleneck.  Her voice, a pleasing contralto passed through full, dewy-looking lips, had sent shivers down his spine.  He’d mentally written a rousing verse to a nonexistent rock ballad espousing her beauty while they were being introduced.  
 
He liked this place.  He loved the songs.  He was already quite fond of the film, what little he knew of it.  If he were to be involved more than he initially planned, he wouldn’t mind at all; getting to know that pink-haired woman a little better would only be a bonus.
 
He scrolled through twitter in the booth while a few important-looking people conversed intensely on the other side of the plexiglass.  The person in charge of sound— Reynolds, tall and Irish with blonde hair shorn to their scalp— pushed a button and said, “Well done, Harry.  That’s a wrap for today.”
 
Harry gave them a cheery thumbs up and exited the booth, a spring in his step.

“Saw a pho joint on the way here,” said Paulie, one of his security people but also a friend.  They were preparing to leave the building. “Was thinking we could postmates that for dinner.”
 
Harry hummed, already fixing for it. “Fine by me.”
 
They chatted a bit more, waiting for Angel, the other member of his detail, to be done in the restroom.  The double doors to another part of the studio opened and two women stepped out, seemingly making their own dinner plans as they walked; it was Parker, and the younger woman who served as her intern.

Jodi

, his mind conjured after a moment’s consideration.
 
They noticed he and Paulie standing by the door as they approached.  Jodi blushed a bit, but waved just as shyly as she had earlier that day.  She was adorable.
 
“Night,” said Parker, steering her friend out of the building.
 
“Night, Parker,” he replied warmly.  
 
She glanced over her shoulder at him, surprise coloring her features.  Had she not thought he’d remember her name? How could he not?
 
Through the glass of the doors that led to the parking lot, he couldn’t help but admire the round impression that her backside made against the seat of her high-waisted plaid slacks.
 
Paulie cleared his throat.  Harry ran a hand through his hair and waved off his knowing expression with a short bark of a laugh.

“

Sleepover

,” Jodi sang. “

We’re having a… sleepover, baby!

”
 
Parker’s apartment in Oakland had a lot of yuppie-like elements common for young professionals in California: exposed brick and beams running into stainless steel and dark hardwood floors; reclaimed wood end tables, fancy appliances and a television that was much bigger than it had any reason to be.  But there were no monochrome color schemes or minimalist furniture; there were plants everywhere— a lot of them succulents— and the sofa and natural-toned chairs were soft and comfortable.  Art claimed a lot of real estate on the walls.  A warm orange rug ran the span of the living room.  A diffuser breathed lavender-scented vapor in the corner.
 
It was very nice, all and all.  Much nicer than Jodi’s place.
 
The owner of the space stepped out of the kitchen in her pajamas— a big t-shirt and tiny soft shorts— with a paper sack of homemade popcorn and a bottle of wine. “Sleepover makes it sound like we’re seven.”
 
“I’m not seven?” Jodi asked in puzzlement.
 
Parker pinched her cheek as she plopped down on the sectional.  “You’re cute is what you are.”
 
“Aw.” Jodi held out her glass. “Can I have some? Even though I’m seven?”
 
“I’ve never been able to say no to underage drinking,” Parker replied evenly, pouring a healthy amount of chardonnay into the glass.
 
Jodi smacked her lips and happily dug a handful of popcorn out of the brown paper bag when it was offered.  Parker held up the remote and made the frozen opening scene of

Coraline

creep horrifyingly into motion.  Jodi used to hate the movie as a child— it terrified the living daylights out of her— but some switch had been flipped some time ago and she’d begun to appreciate it from an artistic standpoint.
 
“This is one of my favorite movies,” the artist whispered. “I read the book when I was younger and I used to wish I had an Other Mother without all the nasty Beldam parts.”
 
“So you’re one of those people? Would never have guessed.”
 
“Would never have guessed what?”
 
“That you talk during movies.”
 
Parker flicked a piece of popcorn at her.  Jodi snickered.
 
They talked and laughed and joked throughout the entire thing, and Jodi felt like she’d known the other woman for years instead of weeks.  She didn’t think she’d had a friend as close as Parker since early elementary school.  Something pure and uncomplicated bloomed satisfyingly between them, and Jodi didn’t ever want to let it go.
 
They’d moved on to

The Little Prince

and it was getting late, but it was Friday and technically, neither of them

had

to be at the studio the next day.  As one of the senior members of her department, Parker was “on-call” for major decisions and when things went awry, but other than that, they were free as birds.
 
“I know he was flirting with me,” Parker said, digging hungrily into their third bag of popcorn.  The wine seemed to have loosened her lips. “I’m not… y'know, like, oblivious.  I guess I was just caught off guard.”
 
Jodi lounged upside down with her feet thrown over the back of the sofa cushions. “You didn’t seem it.  You were so composed.”
 
“I wasn’t,” Parker admitted. “He’s very attractive.  And the existence of his voice should be a sin.”
 
“Truly,” Jodi agreed dreamily.
 
“I just… yeah.  I don’t know, whatever.”
 
“No, not whatever.  You flirted with

Harry Styles

.  And I bet on Monday you’ll do it again.”
 
“He would absolutely ruin me, Jo.  It’s dangerous getting involved with a person like that.”

“Jodi, he followed me.”
 
“Huh?” Jodi snorted out of her half-sleep on the couch.  
 
Her head was in Parker’s lap.  Her friend was scrolling through Instagram above her.
 
“Harry followed me a second ago,” the woman reported dutifully. “And— he’s just liked about three of my recents.  Oh, god.”
 
“This is good!” Jodi squealed, suddenly wide awake.  Something occurred to her; she checked the steel clock on the wall. “Parker, it’s like two a.m.!”
 
“I know,” Parker hissed. “Prime crush stalking hours.”
 
“He

likes

you,” Jodi pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, my god.”
 
“I’ll DM him,” Parker began, eyes widening. “Or— no.  Wait, he already knows I’m up.  I followed him back.”
 
“Do you want to? Do it!”
 
“No,” she shook her head, closing her phone and practically throwing it to the other side of the couch. “This is unprofessional.  Although,” she mused, eyeing the phone, “if we’re both consenting, there’s no rule against it.  He’s not technically an employee of the studio— just temporarily contracted for the project.”
 
“I’m interpreting all of this to mean that you want to slide,” Jodi prodded her. “Do it.  Doitdoitdoitdoit— ”
 
“I’ll wait,” Parker established firmly. “Wait for more signs.”
 
“More signs— ? Parker it’s past two and he’s on Instagram liking your photos.  There’s no greater sign, and I bet he knows that.  He

wants

you to talk to him— LOOK YOU GOT A NOTIFICATION— ”
 
“

Hush

, I have neighbors.”  Nevertheless, she leaned over as far as she could without displacing Jodi to reach the phone and look at it. “He commented on the most recent photo.  It was when I went hiking a month ago.”
 
“What did he say?”
 
“‘Like your hat,’” she read aloud, and then smiled.  She showed Jodi the selfie of her smiling at golden hour with a

BLM

dad cap on.
 
Jodi beamed.
 
Parker smiled widely back.

“Look, it’s your crush,” Angel rumbled, pointing discreetly at Parker Robinson as she traversed the parking lot. “Say hello.”
 
Harry flipped him off.
 
“Rude.” Angel checked his watch. “We should probably go in soon.  We’re still early, but I’d rather not stand out here longer than we have to.”
 
Harry stuffed his hands in his leather jacket pockets.  Although he was cognizant of the fact that Angel was his employee, it was still startling at times to be confronted with it.
 
They were closer to the entrance than Parker, so they got there right before her.  Angel, ever the professional, went into the building first to discreetly assess the environment within before allowing Harry across the threshold.  Harry, ever the polite individual, held the door open for Parker as she reached the door.
 
“Thanks,” she said breezily, sliding her large sunglasses off of her face. “Morning.”
 
Her eyes were large, dark and round.  Harry couldn’t help but smile warmly at the way they sparkled.
 
“Morning,” he replied.
 
She turned to Angel curiously. “Have we met?”
 
“No, ma’am, we haven’t,” said Angel.
 
She seemed to take the address in stride, sticking out a hand. “I’m Parker.”
 
“Angelo.  Friends call me Angel.”
 
“And may I?”
 
“Of course,” Angel chuckled. “May I call you Parker?”
 
“Wouldn’t have told you if you couldn’t,” Parker shot back.  She checked her phone. “Oh, I hate to be rude, but I have to run to the lab.”
 
“No worries,” Harry managed to say. “Happy drawing.”
 
She flicked an eyebrow at him and walked away.
 
“‘Happy drawing?’” Angel whispered, the corners of his mustachioed lip quivering.
 
“I’ve never said that before in my life,” said Harry. “I feel like this is going to be an off day for me.”
 
“I’ll standby with a camera.”
 
“Fuck off.”

As they hurtled toward deadlines for project goals, the sound, music and art teams began to see each other more and more.  Harry didn’t have to be at a lot of the meetings— in fact, he didn’t have to be at the studio for anything unless they called him in to record. 
 
He’d decided to stay on the team after consulting with his agent, and as a result, he was subletting an apartment in San Francisco until the frequency at which they needed him died down a bit.  He was enjoying the culture of the city, doing some exploring with Angel and Paulie whenever he had a bit of free time and reveling in all of the different food options there were to delve into.  There was an endless amount of things to do, and never a dull moment.  He did spend a lot of time stopping to sign autographs and take selfies, but he was used to that.  Fans were loads more respectful of his space and time than they had been in previous years; a sign of the times, perhaps.
 
One afternoon about three weeks into his stay on the west coast, Reynolds called him in for a four-hour recording session.  He cleared his schedule and showed up at the studio at ten.  They recorded off and on for about an hour and a half with a few of the other cast members (a few, less widely recognized indie actors but a couple of more well-known entertainers that Harry knew by reputation) before they stopped for lunch.
 
The studio housed a cafeteria to accommodate its massive workforce, but Harry didn’t really want to eat among so many people; he wanted a burger from a place he’d spotted on the way there.  As he and Angel waited around for Paulie to search for his misplaced phone in the break room off of the sound lab, who else but Parker Robinson and her trusty intern would stride straight past them, the former shooting him a wink as she went?
 
He managed a small smile and wave in return.  God, his heart raced; he didn’t even know here that well.  Was it a crush if he didn’t even know her?
 
“Crushes on strangers,” he muttered, taking out his phone and opening the notes app.
 
Paulie stepped out of the sound lab, his own phone in hand.

However small, it was the signal he needed.
 
“Hey, Park,” he called, trotting to catch up with them.
 
She paused in talking to Jodi and turned, one dark eyebrow raised.  He inwardly shivered down to his toes, not having felt so nervous about asking out a girl since secondary.
 
Jodi whispered something to her friend, patted her arm and gave him a smile— considerably less skittish since they’d begun working together— before turning and continuing on her way.  Parker laid a hand on the strap of her shoulder bag.
 
“Training for the Olympics?” she poked dryly, referring to his little jog.
 
He grinned. “Something like that.”
 
He ran a hand through his hair, keenly wishing he’d gone over what he’d say before dashing up to her like a crazy person.
 
“”Look, I’ll be straight with you,” he began, letting out a short laugh. “I think you’re cool.  And I find you incredibly attractive— unfairly so, really— ”
 
She placed three fingers delicately over her lips to poorly conceal the amused grin starting to spread over them.  He read it to be the lights along the tarmac and prepared to stick the landing.
 
“ —and I was wondering if maybe we could get coffee sometime when you’re not working? No pressure or anything, if not, I’ll go right back to casually enjoying your presence and company just like everybody else— ”
 
She touched his chest with the three fingers she’d been holding up to her mouth.  He shut up immediately, gazing at her as she smiled encouragingly at him.  He wondered if she could feel his heart hammering in his chest.
 
“Relax,” she murmured. “Sure, we can get coffee.  I know a place.”
 
“Brilliant,” he replied, grinning. “Ah, should we—?”
 
He wiggled his phone by his head.  She nodded and he unlocked it and handed it to her.  
 
“A lot of faith you have in me, a virtual stranger,” she mused as she typed in her name and number. “Harry Styles’ unlocked phone.  I could run away right now and make about a trillion bajillion dollars.”
 
“You won’t,” Harry said confidently.
 
“Oh?”
 
He shook his head. “You work here.  Not a very smart crime.”
 
“Touché,” she admitted, and handed the phone back.  
 
He sent her a text.  She slid her phone out of her pocket and checked it.
 
“‘Hi,’” she read aloud.
 
“Hello,” said Harry.
 
She looked down, smiling, and saved the number. “See you later.”
 
“See you,” he returned dreamily, and watched her leave.  
 
As soon as she was out of sight, he punched the air and spun around in an exuberant circle.  Angel, back from the restroom, whistled at him from down the hallway.  Harry flipped him off.

“Slow day,” Harry remarked, staring into his polystyrene cup of tea. “Feel like I’ve done a thousand different takes of the same sentence.”
 
Parker hummed in understanding. “It’s an important scene.  They want to make sure the voices match the tone they’re going for.”
 
Harry nodded, and looked up.  They didn’t have enough time to walk to and from the cafeteria for a quick cup of coffee— tea in his case, to keep his voice smooth— so they were chilling out in the small break room off of the sound lab.  
 
They were the only ones occupying the space.  Parker sat on the stainless steel counter by the microwave, scrolling through her phone.  She wore a dark blue zip-up hoodie that hung off of her shoulders, revealing a striped mock neck shirt beneath.  Her gray leggings looked painted on.  He adjusted his posture in his chair and observed her quietly, imagining some scenario in which she got up to lock the door and had her way with him.
 
He shook his head at his thoughts, frowning.  They were at work; it wasn’t the time.
 
He looked at her again.  She was eyeing him from across the room.  Was she smiling? Had her legs been crossed before? The way her thighs and calves pulled the fabric taut around them unconsciously drew his admiring gaze.  He imagined them wrapped around him, then imagined them pressed against him from behind as she took him in the way he fantasized of consuming her—
 
She shifted and slid off of the counter, thighs slipping against one another as her Allbirds individually hit the floor.  
 
“Break’s over,” she murmured, sliding a hand over his shoulders as she passed him.  It was the closest she’d come to showing him affection while they were working.
 
He grabbed her hand before she reached the door.
 
“Want to do something tonight?” he asked softly. “Skating? Try a new restaurant?” He entwined their fingers and kissed her knuckles.
 
She gazed fondly down at him. “I like skating.”
 
“Yeah?”
 
A little smile tugged at her perfect lips. “Yes.”
 
“We can do that,” he said, affecting an expression that he hoped conveyed his desire for such a thing to occur. “Get something to eat, hang out…”
 
She pushed a lock of hair away from his face. “Do you want me to stay over?”
 
She sounded so calm, and looked so warm and comfortable with her baby pink hair and soft clothes.  The way she was stroking behind his ear where she’d tucked that stray lock of hair was lulling him into a state he hadn’t experienced in probably two decades.  The sense of

choice

and yet complete security and grace no matter what he chose made him fall just a little bit in love with her.
 
“That’d be nice,” he whispered.
 
She kissed his forehead, and then both of his cheeks.  He melted.
 
“Come on,” she said, stepping back and away. “Back to work.”
 
He would follow her anywhere.

The spices from the tacos they’d gotten from a food truck on their way back to her apartment lingered on his tongue.  In a light mood,

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Dr. Phlox peered down at the young, wriggling infant hybrid in her reinforced bassinet.

She was beautiful, truly; a near-perfect representation of interspecies harmony and compatibility.  Commander Tucker’s blue eyes, large and dewy in the small, soft set of his daughter’s face, looked back up at the doctor with an almost deliberate curiosity before something else caught her attention and she turned her head, revealing the undeniable point of T’Pol’s ears through the part in her light brown hair, soft as Terran duck downy.

It was just as well that Paxton rotted in prison for his crimes — not the least of which was knowingly condemning an innocent child to death.

“Don’t you fret, Elizabeth,” murmured Phlox, even though the little girl showed no visible signs of distress. “I’ll get you through this.  I swear it.”

Elizabeth waved a tiny, fat fist at him.  He imagined the accompanying gurgle was one of agreement.

“ — efficiency is down 23% as of last month’s check, which is unacceptable given the fourteen interplanetary functions that are due to commence in the next four months — ”
 
“Ko-mekh, I made something.”
 
“ — long range sensors are to be functioning in optimal condition, and there is very little margin for error; the arrival of the dignitaries is almost guaranteed to be accompanied by political protest from more than just Earth’s opposing parties, Commander — ”
 
“Ko-mekh.”
 
“ — going to need an increase in productivity, which is

not

my area of expertise, but perhaps a mild incentive to keep progress on schedule — ”
 
“Mama!”
 
“Excuse me, Commander,” T’Pol tapped her headset and bent slightly at the waist to address her child, who was holding something behind her back with both hands. “Elizabeth, I am working.  Please preoccupy yourself with a quieter pursuit.”
 
“But I made you something.”
 
T’Pol pursed her lips. “What is it?”
 
Presented to her in short order was a single sheet of 210 by 297-millimeter white paper depicting four crude, humanoid figures with different shapes atop what T’Pol assumed were their heads; one with two elongated trapezoids on either side, one with several short, yellow lines, one with semi-long brown lines, and one — the smallest figure, with the shortest body — with a single black curl.
 
T’Pol had been mother to her half-human child long enough to know that anatomical accuracy and scale integrity were not primary concerns when it came to her artwork; it was not a reflection of Elizabeth’s lack of attention to detail — some of her pieces were actually quite insightful — but merely the only way in which she knew to draw beings that were similar enough to have the same basic structure with enough difference to warrant slightly varying characteristics.
 
“Who are they?” T’Pol inquired dutifully.
 
Elizabeth frowned. “It’s us.  This one’s me — those are my pigtails, see — this one’s Daddy, and this one’s you.”
 
“Who is this?” She pointed to the smallest figure.
 
“

Wanimo sa-kai

.”
 
“You do not have a brother, Elizabeth.”
 
“No,” the girl agreed, lips turning downward in what T’Pol could only interpret as mild, cool disapproval.
 
Well.
 
She couldn’t —

wouldn’t

— address that until Trip was present, and he wouldn’t be home for several more hours.  Commander Billingsley was also standing by for the rest of the report she’d received from Starfleet Command regarding staff changes within the sector that many colloquially dubbed

Homeland Security

— mainly, cutbacks as more and more personnel opted for active duty due to the newly-minted NX fleet series — and the effects those changes had wrought upon work ethic and productivity.  Administration and ground operations were working with minimal manpower, and it showed.
 
So, after briefly praising her work, T’Pol sent Elizabeth to sit in the corner of her office to peruse a padd equipped with various activities and skill-builders conducive to child development.  It would occupy her until lunchtime, at least.
 
She tapped her headset once more. “Commander.  Yes.  If you direct your attention to section 3b, you will notice the emphasis placed upon — ”

“I tell you, to hear Huang tell it, half the kids running around spacedock don’t know their ass from their elbow — let alone a plasma torch.” Trip pulled a hand from the confines of his crossed arms and ran it over his face, tired.  The kitchen counter supported him well enough, but he would soon need to lie down after the double shift he’d pulled putting out both literal and figurative fires. “I got spoiled out in the great unknown with people who didn’t need constant counsel.  Anyway, how was your day, darlin’?”
 
T’Pol did not immediately reply; unusual, but not so much to be cause for concern.  
 
Trip allowed himself to be briefly amused by the reversal of their roles — as she prepared dinner and he watched on, Bethie playing within sight, it was a reflective reenactment of the early days of their marriage and tenure on Earth.  
 
T’Pol secured work immediately as an advisor for Starfleet Command, a consultant for the Vulcan Embassy, and a director of a fledgling scientific research exchange program comparable to the medical one of which Phlox was a member; a true measure of the improvement of relations and trust between Earth, Vulcan, and a handful of other allies.
 
As for himself… it had taken a while to find something satisfactory, despite numerous offers; nothing quite measured up to the grandeur and excellence of

Enterprise

.  And then there was Bethie to consider.  Sacrificing their careers had never been in the cards when they’d decided to raise her on Earth, but with the lack of fulfilling job opportunities, Trip found no issue with being a stay-at-home daddy for a spell.  He completed the look by having the baby on his hip and dinner on the table for T’Pol when she came home, disgruntled from having to deal with high and mighty attitudes all day and only partly able to disguise it.  They ate a lot of replicated and pan-fried foods in those days.
 
Now, she did most of her work from home and it was he — a primary contributor to the design of the last batch of the new fleet — who spent most of the day out, either at Headquarters or on spacedock, overseeing the overseers and ensuring that all who returned met a competent and timely soup-up and fine-tune.
 
“Commander Billingsley seems to be under the impression that I am not doing all that is within my capability to allocate sufficient resources to the sector dedicated to ground sensors,” T’Pol informed him at length without looking up.  She sharply tapped the large spoon with which she’d been stirring the stew against the rim of the pot three times before placing it in its cradle on the stovetop. “I suggested to him the prudence of making wiser decisions in regards to utilizing the resources the sector’s been given.”
 
“You told him not to max all of daddy’s credit cards if he wants to keep shopping?”
 
Her right eyebrow rose. “Apart from the distinct lack of currency in the matter —

yes

.”
 
Trip guffawed.  Bethie perked up at the sound and came trotting into the kitchen on stockinged feet to investigate.
 
“What’s the joke?” the little girl demanded.
 
T’Pol turned to give her a look, and Bethie immediately schooled her features.  Trip glanced between them, amused.
 
“Nothin’ you’d find funny,” he said.  Bethie crossed her arms and leaned back against the kitchen island with a slight frown on her face.  It took Trip a moment to realize that she was mimicking his stance. “What did you do today, baby girl?”
 
“I drew,” Bethie answered readily, frown evaporating. “And I learned about triangles.”
 
Trip leveled her with an appraising stare. “Yeah? What’d you learn?”
 
“That there are some triangles that follow the same rules and patterns no matter how big or small they get, as long as they have the same sets of degrees; special rights can have thirty, sixty, and ninety degree angles or two forty-five degree angles and a ninety degree one.” Trip watched, amazed, as her eyes grew unfocused as she recalled the information. “You can figure out the length of the sides of any special right by using the sine, cosine and tangent functions.”
 
“And say I wanted to know the side lengths of a non-special right?” He challenged. “Or a triangle that’s not right at all?”
 
Bethie frowned again. “I don’t know.”
 
Trip hummed thoughtfully. “Go grab your padd — that is, if Mama doesn’t mind us going over the Law of Sines and Cosines over dinner?”
 
His wife side-eyed him. “You know perfectly well that I do not, in fact, mind.”
 
It was true.  He sensed her subtle, thrumming pride to hear their five-year-old daughter spouting off trig like a middle-schooler — not that T’Pol would ever explicitly admit to indulging in such a blatantly illogical thing as

pride

.  Admittedly, it pleased him, too; a regular little genius, their Bethie, and practically a sponge for the way she soaked up new knowledge like one.
 
Over stew, he patiently explained not only the Law of Sines and Cosines, but also the duality of the ambiguous case, and a basic and fundamental summary of converting degrees into pi-radians and vice versa.  She seemed to grasp the former three concepts fairly easily — the ambiguous case less so than the rest, but still — and he guided her through drawing a unit circle in order to sufficiently explain the lattermost.  T’Pol chipped in intermittently, but mostly preoccupied herself with her own padd — the one she used for work.
 
When everything had been eaten or otherwise cleared away, T’Pol shooed the girl upstairs to brush her teeth and wash her face before bed.  It said something about their family, he supposed, that she begged to stay up just a bit longer not for dessert, but for more trigonometry.  He ended up solemnly swearing to talk more about it the next morning over breakfast.
 
“She sure is something,” Trip enthused happily, digging into a slice of pecan pie. “I was

eleven

when I started learning trig, T’Pol.  She’s half that.”
 
T’Pol looked up from her padd. “On Vulcan, she would be considered a step behind her peers.  On Earth, she is a step ahead, perhaps more.  But one thing is certain — no matter her location, she truly has no equals.  I…” She paused, and he watched conflict pass over her face. “I often wonder if she will have the life that you hoped she would — the life that I had hoped would be possible, as well.  She already does not attend school with other children of her age group.”
 
Trip felt anger rise in him, remembering the day he’d had to come down to the school and take Bethie home as she tearfully recounted her horrible and humiliating experience. 
 
“They didn’t know how to act around her.  They were cruel.”
 
“I know,” T’Pol replied stiffly. “We must consider the possibility that the world may never know entirely what to make of her.”
 
He

did

consider it; considered it all of the damn time, actually.  
 
But Bethie was a smart girl and, despite her sensitivity regarding her heritage, quite mature for her age.  He had to believe that she would rise above the ignorance, the disgust, the hatred — because what else was there for her to do? Hide away, let the world continue believing that Paxton had been justified in his attempts to incite outrage at her very existence?
 
Unacceptable.
 
T’Pol spoke again, startling him out of his grim ruminations, “She drew a picture today that I wished to discuss with you.”
 
Trip smirked. “She still want a dog?”
 
”I don’t believe she has abandoned her efforts on that front,” she remarked dryly. “And I remain resolute in denying a perpetual olfactory assault in my own home.  But this is another matter entirely — she drew all of us, but with a nonexistent addition; a younger brother.”
 
He nearly dropped his pie.
 
“A what?” he croaked.
 
She merely looked at him, unwilling to repeat herself.
 
He lowered his eyes to stare intently at his plate. “Well, it’s certainly

possible.

Phlox said so, remember?”
 
“I do.”
 
“Well?”
 
“Well, what?”
 
“C’mon, T’Pol,” he cajoled. “What do you think?”
 
She frowned infinitesimally. “I am at a critical juncture in my career, and you have finally found a satisfactory balance in your own; should we attempt to conceive, it will complicate matters.”
 
Trip shoved a forkful of pie in his mouth to avoid immediately responding to such an obvious evasion of the question.
 
Another kid.
 
If they wanted one, they could certainly make that happen.  He imagined playing catch with a little one with brown hair and pointy ears like their sister’s; walking around with a baby on his shoulders in the park, tiny shoes bouncing on either side of his head; watching baseball together, or perhaps even water polo; teaching them how to use a plasma torch.
 
He could do — and often had done — all of those things with the child they already had.
 
But

another

... 
 
He felt…

guilt? shame?

at the eagerness that bubbled in him at the idea.  It wasn’t even the first time he’d thought of it, imagined… but never in serious consideration,

never

, not unless T’Pol was one-hundred percent sure that it was something she wanted to put her body through.  And she was a busy woman as of late — he hadn’t thought a baby was in the cards for them.  His family was already enough for him; they filled his whole heart.
 
But

another

… 
 
“You are not opposed to the idea,” T’Pol spoke into the silence.
 
It wouldn’t do him a lick of good to lie. “No, I — I guess I’m not.  I… well, what do you think?”
 
“You already asked me that.”
 
“But you didn’t give me a real answer,” he quipped. “Are you… opposed?”
 
Her expression softened into tentative vulnerability; he waited for her verbal reply, not breathing.
 
“I… am not.” She inhaled deeply. “However… Trip, if we attempt it, it will be…

difficult

.  Are you prepared to deal with the possibility that the first child we conceive may not survive? Or even the second, or the third? The very notion…

unsettles

me.  Elizabeth survived infancy in spite of odds that were well and truly

not

in her favor — and we had Dr. Phlox at the time.  We would not have that luxury this time.”
 
Trip moved forward and pulled the padd clutched in her grip away to sit it on the counter next to his abandoned pie plate.  He gathered her in his arms, and she pressed her cheek against his chest.
 
“Who’s to say we couldn’t?” he murmured.  He felt her silent inquiry, so he elaborated, “Have that luxury, I mean.  Where’s

Enterprise

now?”
 
“I am not certain.”
 
“Well,” he exhaled. “I know that it’s scheduled to be put out of commission within the year.  If we can talk to Phlox before he makes other arrangements, maybe we can convince him to stay on Earth for a little while — a few months, at least, to get the ball rollin’.”
 
T’Pol leaned away enough to look him in the face. “A logical course of action, if we choose to follow through.  Do we?”
 
Trip kissed her forehead, and both of her cheeks. 
 
“Let’s sleep on it.”

In the morning, they decided to locate and consult with geneticists on Earth before relying on the possibility of Phlox’s assistance.  T’Pol did not allow herself to expect much out of their search; none but Phlox had ever dealt with a situation such as theirs firsthand.
 
However, it would be a disservice to the doctor to not exhaust all other options before requesting such sacrifice from him; they were not privy to his plans after the retirement of

Enterprise

.
 
The first of fourteen diplomatic conferences regarding further detailing of the function and regulation of the United Federation of Planets would take place on the last day of the month; that left two weeks and four days to meet with the three geneticists that had weathered and passed her rigorous vetting process — two of the doctors were human, but one of them was Vulcan; an acquaintance of Ambassador Soval.  Hakausu T’Vrek was aboard a relatively proximal research vessel, the

Tel-alep

, and would be making a brief detour for a consultation as a favor to their mutual acquaintance.  She would arrive within the week.
 
They would be busy for the duration of the consultations, and though the weeks before the conferences were not an ideal time to request leave, during the events it would be impossible and they were on a time constraint — a decision needed to be made prior to the decommissioning of the

Enterprise

; before Phlox made any plans.
 
Due to their preoccupation, it was necessary that Elizabeth return to school despite her qualms on the matter.

“

Mother, they will ridicule me for my ears

,” her daughter had protested in Vulcan, voice trembling. “

I cannot change my ears

.”

“

Even if you could, you should not

,” she’d replied. “

Come.  I will teach you to remain calm despite their illogical taunts — as I should have done long ago

.

”

And so Elizabeth attended school the following Monday, freeing herself and Trip to pay a visit to the office of the first geneticist.
 
Dr. Lester Higgins was highly-acclaimed, with many accolades and distinctions.  He was known for being rather traditional, however, and it was not a surprise when he turned away their case with visible and audible distaste.  T’Pol had to calm her husband before he behaved rashly in reaction to the doctor’s thorough rejection; doing so would not change Higgins’ mind, and she would rather not be assisted by such an individual, anyway, despite his right to have the illogical opinion that he did.
 
Dr. Greta Michalski was Polish; considered eccentric among those in her field, but exceedingly competent and innovative.  She specialized in reproductive inefficiencies and diseases, and was therefore a logical candidate.
 
T’Pol had aligned herself to the idea of conceiving with Trip in the conventional manner, and because of this — or perhaps even before they had come to the conclusion that they were willing to attempt to do so — she found herself desirous of its successful culmination with almost illogical fervency.
 
Michalski greeted them warmly, but briskly upon their arrival and subsequent check-in with the secretary at the desk.  Her office was eclectically designed and furnished, but spacious and otherwise inoffensive.  The doctor was a short woman with blonde hair pulled back into a strict collection at the base of her skull.  Her coat was a fascinatingly unusual shade of light green.
 
“I’ve not been presented with a case such as yours before,” Michalski informed them through a thick, but unobtrusive accent. “It is…

most

interesting.  I am familiar with the work of the Denobulan doctor that you mentioned — you say Phlox believes it is possible for human and Vulcan DNA to be compatible in such a way?”
 
“That’s right,” Trip answered.  His hands were clasped tightly together in his lap and he was leaning forward slightly — anxious, she knew, and apprehensive, and not willing to show either emotion.  To her

or

the doctor.
 
T’Pol placed a hand over his clasped ones.  He glanced at her, and relaxed, but only slightly.
 
“We have a daughter,” T’Pol continued. “But she was created without our knowledge, and intended to fail genetically.  Her survival is almost solely due to Phlox’s diligence and persistence in the matter of stabilizing the defect in her genetic sequencing, but even with his efforts, Elizabeth was frequently ill for the duration of her infancy and toddlerhood.  Occasionally, if she becomes ill now, it takes longer than is preferable for her condition to improve.”
 
A muscle convulsed in her husband’s jaw. “We would like it if any new baby didn’t suffer the same way, doc.”
 
Michalski regarded them carefully for a moment, and then nodded once. “If you would consent to some tests, it would be possible for me to confirm — or deny — Phlox’s theory, and should it be confirmed, I’d be honored to assist in any way that I am able.”
 
Trip exhaled in relief.  T’Pol felt it reflected back and forth between their bond twofold.

“Well, Charles, T’Pol,” Michalski declared after a series of noninvasive tests, “may I call you T’Pol?”
 
“That would be acceptable, doctor.”
 
“Excellent.  It seems as though your Phlox was correct in his analysis; it

is

possible for you to conceive and, if

I

am correct in

my

analysis, I can help.”
 
“That’s fantastic,” Trip breathed, and then turned to her. “Darlin’...”
 
T’Pol took his hands when he offered them, palms up, but said nothing.  She did not trust her voice not to waver if she did, and that would be uncomfortable for her in front of the doctor of whom they had only just met.
 
Trip seemed to sense this, and he took over for them both.
 
“What’s the solution, doc?”
 
“There are two options that I’ve thought of so far, but I’ve only been at it for an hour,” said Michalski. “We can subject T’Pol to a series of treatments to compensate for any needs the fetus may have over the duration of gestation that her physiology will not naturally provide, but this will have adverse effects on her body — it would be… an exhaustive and very involved process, and it may not account for the nature of the fetus itself.”
 
Trip frowned. “What’s the other option?”
 
“We can do it the old-fashioned way — artificially inseminate an altered egg and insert it back into the womb.  This would be a little less involved on your end until implantation, but there is no guarantee that it would take, and re-altering another egg and potentially more will take time.”
 
“Why not implant several altered eggs at once?”
 
“There is no guarantee that they would take,” Michalski repeated, “but there is also no guarantee that they would not.  There are many possible combinations that we could try, and this would increase the odds, but — and forgive me for not asking first — I was not under the impression that you desired more than one child.”
 
Trip paled.
 
“Twins?” T’Pol clarified, though she was similarly taken aback.
 
“Or triplets, or quadruplets, or quints,” said Michalski, seemingly amused by their reactions. “Or however many, depending on the number of eggs that we implant at once, of course.  Any number greater than three taking is statistically unlikely, though, no matter how many we alter.”
 
“Is that,” Trip cleared his throat. “Is that the safest option?”
 
“Well,” Michalski hummed. “I believe so, yes.  No option is without its risks — but even with a more conventional pairing, this would be so.  It’s truly fascinating, the reproductive process… even after centuries of research and trial and error, pregnancy is simply one of those things for which we cannot account for every single possibility.”
 
“Indubitable, doctor,” T’Pol agreed quietly.
 
Trip released one of her hands to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Could we talk alone for a minute, doc?”
 
Michalski smiled and stood from her rolling stool. “Of course.”
 
After the doctor left the room, Trip turned to her with hopeful eyes and mind.
 
“So?” he prompted. “What do we think?”
 
T’Pol breathed deeply, and assessed her state — mental, physical and emotional.
 
Scientifically, their situation was fascinating in its own right.  As a scientist, the subtle intricacies of the differences between the Human and Vulcan genome were endlessly curious.

Curiouser and curiouser

, her memory provided.  A phrase from a fictional work that Elizabeth favored; and quite accurate.
 
It seemed that — despite the overwhelming variance between their two species in as little as the sequence of their nucleotides and the length of that troublesome chromosome that persistently tried Elizabeth’s health — there was a possible harmonic balance to be reached between them.  Symbolic.  Poetic?

Poetry in science

, she mused.  She truly had been among humans for too long.
 
Physically, her pulse had been elevated as Dr. Michalski had shared her analysis and presented them with options; neither her hearing nor sight had diminished in function, but she had found it difficult to focus on the words that the doctor spoke.  Perhaps excitement, anticipation? Dare she think — hope?
 
Obviously, they sought the practice of a geneticist and not the conjecture of one, but having another professional confirm what they had already learned from one reliable source — though arguably unnecessary — was reassuring.
 
“Sweetheart?”
 
“The second option seems most logical,” she answered his initial query. “I intend to perform my duties as liaison and director for as long as possible, and being rendered physically weak and ill would not be conducive to those plans.”
 
Trip’s lips twitched to form a small smile.  As a rare indulgence, she allowed herself to reach up and gently run her thumb along the curved bow of his lower lip.
 
“I concur,” he remarked, and she knew he was attempting to be humorous by imitating her speech patterns; the effect was ruined by the huskiness of his tone.
 
She narrowed her eyes at him.
 
“It would behoove you to behave properly,

Commander

.  I am in a position of great importance.”
 
“That so, Director?”
 
“Indeed.” Their current setting did not escape her notice. “But that is a matter to be settled later.  We must discuss the implications of going any further with the assistance of Dr. Michalski; we have not yet met with Hakausu T’Vrek, and to cancel our meeting with her would be…

disrespectful

, given how far she has traveled to consult.”
 
Trip hummed in agreement. “I s’pose you’re right.”

Captain Jonathan Archer materialized on the transporter pad of spacedock with a small bag in one hand and Porthos cradled in the other.  He had long since learned to trust the technology — it had saved his skin and that of his crew enough times to earn such trust.
 
Leaving

Enterprise

was a bittersweet affair.
 
It was the home he’d known for a decade; a history-maker in its own right, a queen among subjects, a pioneer of vessels.  But there were more like his old girl coming that were better-equipped to deal with the rigors of space, and it was time to put her to rest.
 
He looked forward to the brief respite from said rigors before he returned to duty on the

Robinson

, a brand spanking new Constitution-class from the latest of the NX-series; possibly the last of said series.  To his knowledge, Commander Tucker had overseen the construction of nearly all of the ships from it; Jon eagerly anticipated seeing Trip again, and T’Pol, as well, of course.  He’d agreed to join them for dinner along with Phlox and Commander Reed in three days’ time, after he’d settled in and gotten some much-needed rest.

“Captain!”
 
Apart from a few more lines around his eyes, Trip looked much the same as he had five years before; the same friendly eyes, a sly, jaunty grin, and T’Pol just a step behind him — if he ignored the obvious setting and their lack of uniform, Jon could almost imagine nothing had changed.
 
Except for the little girl tagging along beside T’Pol, practically clinging to the leg of the Vulcan woman’s slim-fitting trousers.
 
“Trip,” Jon greeted jovially, clasping his friend’s hand tightly, “long time, no see.”
 
“Man, that’s an understatement.”
 
Jon grinned. “And T’Pol, you’re looking well.”
 
“And you, as well, Captain.”
 
He finally turned his attention to the little girl.  Her eyes were her father’s, but her ears and hair and slight frown were all T’Pol.
 
“And you must be Elizabeth,” he mused aloud, kneeling so that they were eye to eye. “But you don’t look a thing like the Elizabeth I last saw.”
 
She tilted her head slightly to one side —

God, but if that wasn’t T’Pol all over

— and, to his amusement, appeared to be sizing him up.
 
“I’m Jonathan Archer,” he introduced himself, extending a hand.
 
She took it after a moment’s hesitation. “You’re a starship captain.”
 
“That’s right.  Did your parents tell you?”
 
“Stories,” she admitted.  Her eyes flicked over his face in rampant fascination now, seemingly past her previous timidity. “You’re taller than I thought.  Where’s your dog?”
 
“Ah, he couldn’t make it.  A prior engagement.”
 
The girl burst out into a brief bout of giggles and, as if surprised at herself for doing so, pressed both sets of fingers to her twitching lips with widened eyes.
 
“Come, Captain,” T’Pol remarked with what, for her, passed for friendly warmth. “You are the first to arrive.”
 
That amused him for reasons of which he couldn’t imagine they were aware. 
 
“That’s a rarity for me lately,” he told them as they walked up the path to their home.  Their gardens were truly lovely; he watched Elizabeth hop up on the low stone wall and walk along it with arms outstretched.
 
Trip glanced at him. “What d’you mean?”
 
“I’ll save it for when Malcolm and Phlox get here,” he replied. “I’m sure they’ll get a kick out of reliving our closest shaves from the last six months.”

Elizabeth Tucker knew that her parents were important people with important jobs who knew other important people with important jobs, but actually being faced with living proof of their importance seated down from her at the dinner table was another thing entirely from simply knowing it to be true — and living proof Captain Archer certainly was.  He was a renowned hero; the school she had attended for all of three days had even taken his name.
 
She wondered what the other kids would say to her now if they knew he was so closely linked to her family.
 
Mama spoke mainly to the strange Denobulan doctor, Phlox.  He had asked Elizabeth many questions upon his arrival, and was most interested in things that seemed rather simple to her:

how many hours did she sleep every night? Did she know what time it was? Did she have any telepathic sensitivities?

She slept about seven hours a night; at the time, it had been 18:23:56; and she didn’t know what he meant by “telepathic sensitivities.” Mama had steered the conversation away from her before long, however, and after that she mostly listened to the grownups talk about space stuff.
 
If they had a dog, she would have alleviated her boredom by feeding it small helpings of her fried catfish, cut up into manageable pieces by Daddy.  The puppy would lick her fingers and she would pat it on its fluffy head.  Alas, they didn’t have a dog and she was stuck eating her own food.  She couldn’t pat her own head or lick her own fingers, either; that would be weird.
 
Determined not to be forgotten, she waited for a break in the conversation before declaring, proudly, “I’m going to be a big sister.”
 
Daddy dropped his fork on the floor, Mama’s hand paused in bringing her cup to her lips, and the guests at the table all adopted odd looks on their faces.  She smiled, satisfied that she’d been heard, and took another bite of her dinner.
 
“Well,” Captain Archer cleared his throat, lips twitching. “From the mouths of babes.”
 
The dark-haired man sitting next to the doctor—

Malcolm

, she thought— brought his napkin to his mouth to hide a grin.
 
“We’re not expecting, Cap,” Daddy rushed to say. “Not yet, anyway.  It’s just an idea— Bethie’s jumped the gun a bit.”
 
“Indeed,” said Mama, and from the look she received, Elizabeth knew she would be lectured later for causing such a stir.
 
Oh, well.
 
“

Mama,

Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you; it’s been one bad thing after another lately, and it’s only recently that things have started to turn around.

Phlox says Bethie will pull through.  He hasn’t worked out all that she’ll have to deal with as she grows, but she’s cleared serious risk and she’s doing just fine, now.  T’Pol and I keep her at night and visit her every day in sickbay, which is practically a daycare for all that Phlox fusses over her and all of his other “wards” like a mother hen.

Being a dad isn’t at all like I’d thought it’d be, especially since Bethie’s so small.  Phlox thinks she’ll be small for a little while longer than most human babies because of her Vulcan DNA, but no longer than a couple of months at the most.  I’m mostly changing diapers, rocking her to sleep, and wiping down her face.  When I have the time, I sit and feed her at the Mess and introduce her to different members of the crew — she’s real popular.  I’ve yet to meet anyone who hasn’t immediately fallen head over heels.

You’d love her, too — she’s got your eyes and the cutest pair of ears you’ve ever seen.  And T’Pol says it’s illogical, but I think she’s already got a wicked sense of humor.  She grins like a loon whenever I pull faces, and Malcolm — Lieutenant Reed, you know him — might as well be a stand up comedian for the way she lights up when he’s around.

I’ve attached a few pictures of her with this message so that you can show off your newest grandbaby to anyone who happens to visit.  Standby for more over the next few months until we get back home; I don’t think I’ve ever taken so many in my life.

Much love,

Trip

“Phlox to T’Pol

.”
 
T’Pol slipped her communicator from her duty belt and flipped it open. “Go ahead.”
 
“I need you down in sickbay as soon as possible.  It’s Elizabeth.”
 
“Understood,” she acknowledged, getting to her feet.
 
“Something wrong?” the captain inquired from the perch behind his chair.
 
“Elizabeth,” she parroted gravely by way of reply, and entered the lift. 
 
There were no particularly pressing duties to attend to that her temporary relief couldn’t handle, so Phlox’s timing was fortunate — T’Pol knew, however, that she would have come when summoned even if the bridge was in utter chaos.  After the initial excitement regarding her daughter’s health, T’Pol found that even the smallest incidents regarding the baby elevated her pulse and respiration rates a significant amount; on average,17%, but varying situationally.  Phlox didn’t normally call for her during her shift unless the circumstances explicitly called for it.
 
She struggled to remain calm, but assumed a quick gait down the corridor as soon as the turbolift opened up.  Upon reaching sickbay, T’Pol recognized her daughter’s cries even before the doors slid open to reveal a scene that abruptly took the wind from her.
 
“What’s wrong?” she demanded tremulously, hurrying over to the side of Elizabeth’s reinforced bassinet.  She hadn’t seen it for weeks.
 
The baby’s face was red with exertion as she squirmed and wailed with all that she had.  T’Pol reached into one of the holes and gently nudged the palm of one of Elizabeth’s hands with her forefinger until she grabbed hold.
 
“She’s in pain.” Phlox’s expression belayed his concern. “Though I’ve managed to stabilize the small fault in her genetic sequencing, it still exists; the disorder and some of its effects remain present — perhaps indefinitely.  Her immune system isn’t nearly as strong as it should be.  She’s running a dangerously high fever, but her white blood cell count is still too low to combat the infection ailing her.”
 
T’Pol swallowed. “Can I be of any assistance?”
 
“I believe so,” Phlox intoned lowly. “I presumed — correctly, given that she seems markedly more calm — that you might want to be here as a source of comfort whilst I begin giving her thyroid gland a bit of a boost.”
 
“Can I hold her?”
 
Phlox bobbed his head. “After you’ve washed up to your elbows, certainly.”
 
Four minutes later, she sat on one of the biobeds and cradled Elizabeth while Phlox administered a hypospray to her chubby, almost-indiscernible neck.  The momentary discomfort of the sensation agitated her once more, and T’Pol bounced and shushed her soothingly until she calmed down again.  Phlox scanned her a moment later.
 
“Good, good,” he murmured. “We might need to do the same thing tomorrow just to be safe, and I’d like to keep her overnight for observation, but the fever should start coming down before long.”
 
T’Pol nodded minutely, but remained fixated upon the little girl as she pawed at her mother’s neck aimlessly.
 
“Buh-buh,” Elizabeth sighed miserably.
 
“I know,” T’Pol softly replied. “You will not be staying with your father and I, tonight,

ko-fu

.  It is for your own safety.”
 
Elizabeth nuzzled against her, eyelids lowering briefly before popping wide open again.  T'Pol recognized signs of a fatigued infant just as easily as the next person.
 
“I believe she requires rest,” she informed Phlox. “I will return to the bridge once she falls asleep.”
 
“Very well,” Phlox jovially agreed.  He seemed in much better spirits.
 
“I… am grateful that you summoned me.”
 
“It was no trouble at all; in fact, Elizabeth insisted.”

Trip pushed green beans around his plate listlessly in the Mess as he deliberated over decisions that needed to be made in regards to his daughter, his partner, and his family.
 
As much as they relied upon Phlox for Bethie’s medical care, a starship was no place for a kid to grow up — especially one that got into as many scrapes as they did.  Travis grew up on a freighter and he seemed alright, but that was worlds away from how

Enterprise

operated.
 
Being Chief Engineer of

Enterprise

was — and he suspected always would be — the highlight of his career.  Even if he did end up with his own command one day, he doubted it would ever be the same as the experiences he’d weathered whilst serving under Jonathan Archer.  Leaving behind all that he’d accomplished, all that he’d worked toward, all the trust and camaraderie he’d cultivated with the crew would damn near break him, but he’d done it before and he would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant Bethie could grow up normal.
 
He had yet to feel out just how T’Pol would feel about leaving active duty behind to raise their daughter, but it wasn’t like they’d have to abandon their careers entirely.  
 
The Academy would probably consider her

over

-qualified for an instructor position… or, if that wasn’t something she was interested in, Vulcan High Command would undoubtedly give her reinstatement at the consulate serious consideration, especially since Soval held her in such high esteem these days.
 
As for himself, Trip knew that he’d have no trouble finding work, either.  Again, there was the Academy, but Starfleet would also need overseers for the construction of other NX-series ships.  He had a lot to offer when it came to increasing the efficiency and precision of their future fleet’s engines, judging by all that he’d needed to correct whilst serving aboard the

Columbia.

They could find a place in San Francisco and settle down.  They would need to find a new physician, but Bethie could crawl around and learn to walk without worrying about stray bolts or sharp edges.  She could go to school, make friends, have a dog just like any other kid.  He imagined his own baby sister years and years ago, hair in pigtails and donned in pink overalls as she drew with crayons at the kitchen table.  The vision brought a wistful smile to his face.

Maybe

… maybe T’Pol would even agree to marry him.
 
Caring for their daughter

had

brought them closer together.
 
Trip would have been blind not to notice how suited she was to motherhood; truthfully, he wouldn’t have pegged her for the type, but she took to it like a duck to water.  When Bethie stayed with them and woke in the middle of the night — though she slept through it most of the time — he watched and admired T’Pol in her silky pajamas as she effortlessly settled her back down.  The fierceness with which she loved Bethie could not be denied; Trip saw it in her eyes, which were at their most expressive when she was around the baby.
 
He would be lying if he said that didn’t turn him on.
 
Trip had never considered himself the domestic type — he’d joined Starfleet for a reason, after all — but marrying T’Pol didn’t strike him as a hardship or a compromise to be made.  They were definitely

sexually

compatible; they respected, admired, and cared for one another; hell, they already had a kid.
 
What was one more step?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Working Title:
Don’t Make Me Say It
 
Once upon a somber time, there was a small, well-kept, but incredibly dull orphanage just south of Wood Green and just west of Harringay that went largely ignored by the populace of greater London.  The caretakers were austere and unfriendly, the food tasted like half-masticated cardboard and socks, and— at least in Tom Riddle’s opinion— the children were a gaggle of mongrels and idiots.
 
Granted, Tom was one of said children, but he was neither a mongrel nor an idiot.  
 
No, Tom was a genius— a quick-witted, magical genius with a gorgeous head of thick, wavy, dark hair.  It was no small wonder that the Old Man took one look at him and knew that he didn’t belong among the rest of his drooling non-peers.
 
In early December of 1934, the old man showed up in a flurry of ostentatiously patterned fabric and swept Tom away from the orphanage in the aftermath of an incident of which, if asked, the boy would deny fault.  There was a lot of fire, screaming, crying, wizards in green robes, and then nothing at all but a clean, richly decorated parlor unlike anything Tom had ever seen.
 
The auburn-haired geezer (“You may call me ‘professor,’ Tom.” “No.”) gave him clothes that weren’t covered in soot and fed him food that didn’t taste like cardboard or socks; in fact, it was so rich that Tom threw it all up into a very nice toilet with a gleaming silver flusher.  
 
The geezer was generally rather accommodating and even-tempered, a far cry from the treatment Tom had endured over the course of the first five years of his life. 
 
As thanks to the kindly old man, Tom made life Hell.

Albus, as Tom quickly discovered the old man was called, was a politician of some sort in addition to his main occupation of

professor

.  He often hosted small get-togethers in a sitting room off of the parlor and shut the mahogany double doors whilst they were in session; he also organized dinners catered by small, ugly creatures with bat-like ears and bulbous noses that Tom learned were called

house elves

.  
 
Tom was given a standing invitation to sit the dinners, but Albus made it very clear that his presence was not welcome at the smaller get-togethers held in the downstairs sitting room.
 
Tom did not take well to being told

no

, a fact that would set the tone for a lot of the interactions between himself and his new guardian.
 
The boy took to booby-trapping the room when secret meetings weren’t being held there, laughing when tell-tale cries of shock and disgust issued from the the walls at just the right time.  If he thought hard enough, Albus would emerge from the room before the meeting was over wearing the dullest robes imaginable, a far cry from whatever eyesore he’d entered in.  Albus did so love his pretty colors, and anything that messed with that put him in quite a mood.
 
Tom loved getting a reaction out of him.  Albus was difficult to rile.
 
Once, Tom pressed his ear close to the door and, predictably, he didn’t hear anything.  So, he looked up methods in books on how to listen in on a conversation that had been muffled by magic.  The results were a little over his head, but he knew that he needed a wand to execute the more complex magicks required to break Albus’ muffling and silencing spells.
 
Unfortunately, Tom did not have a wand, nor did he think Albus would be amenable to purchasing him one based upon his past behaviors.
 
Tom did, however, know someone who could break the complex magicks that Albus cast in their sleep— or, rather, some

thing

.

“Lorny is not certain she should be doing this for young Master.”
 
“I’ll make it worth your while,” said Tom to the house elf whose head came up to his elbow.  
 
They were in the library, with Tom leaning against the arm of his favorite armchair and Lorny wringing her hands just a meter or two in front of him.
 
“I’ll let you make nighttime snacks for me for three whole weeks.”
 
That evening and for a number of evenings afterward, Tom would munch on some freshly baked good and sit in front of the sitting room under the guise of an invisibility spell that Lorny cast for good measure.  He picked up quite a bit of information from his eavesdropping gig (as well as a couple of extra kilos), including the following:
 
There was a rising apostate that went by the name of Grindelwald, and his increasing numbers of followers seemed to be kicking up a fuss across Europe, though the wizard himself had gone AWOL.  The Ministry was in quite a state with all of the damage control and economy plunges, not to mention the worsening relations in the latter matter because of the States’ stock market crash and subsequent Depression.  The current Minister of Magic, Hector Fawley, seemed perfectly content with ignoring the security threat to the nation, and whispers of his impeachment were beginning to circulate.
 
To make matters even

more

interesting, there seemed to be talk about Albus being the only one strong enough to defeat this

Grindelwald

character.  For some reason Tom couldn't discern, however, the geezer was dragging his geriatric feet.
 
(Tom also learned that fifty-four wasn’t old at all for magical folk, who typically lived to be upwards of a hundred and fifty years old.
 
He still thought of Albus as a saggy old bag of dust, and that was his final opinion on the matter.)
 
One night, settled into bed after a satisfying hour of juicy political dialogue, Albus entered Tom’s rooms with a dark expression shrouding his angular face.
 
“Tom,” said Albus, and Tom knew immediately that he had been caught out but resolved just as quickly to deny, deny, deny until the accusations went away. “I informed you of the rules when I took you under my care, and you have broken nearly every single one of them during your stay here.”
 
Tom sat up in bed and rubbed his eye as innocently as he could manage. “Sir?”
 
“Do not play games with me, young man.  I spoke with Lorny this evening.”
 
Tom inwardly cursed the little snitch. “Sorry.”
 
“No, you’re not,” Albus shook his head, and sat down in a chair by the door.  If Tom didn’t know any better, he’d have thought the man seemed a tad impressed. “You’re a clever boy, Tom.  You have an abundance of magical potential… perhaps even too much.  But I’ve seen boys like you waste it all on pursuits that aren’t worthy of their time or talents.”
 
“There is no one like me,” Tom immediately espoused.
 
Albus rolled his eyes. “Perhaps not.”
 
Tom felt suddenly very silly, and then very angry at Albus for making him feel silly at all.
 
“Get out of my room,” he demanded.
 
“This is my room,” Albus countered coolly. “And my house.  You would do well to remember that next time you think about disobeying the rules.”
 
Tom fumed.
 
“If you run amok like a child, you will be treated as such.  You will be confined to this room for the next week, starting tomorrow.  Lorny will bring you meals and any books you request will first be approved by myself before they land in your hands.  I expect to see a remorseful young man emerge from this room on Tuesday.  Do I make myself clear?”
 
Tom sensed this was not the time for cheek. “Yes.”
 
“Yes, what?”
 
“Yes…

sir

.”
 
Albus nodded curtly and swept from the room.  A clock on the wall flew off of its perch and smashed against the door with a mighty crash, sending glass and splinters of wood flying.  Albus did not return.  Tom tossed and turned, unable to find a spot cool enough on his pillow to soothe the fury that burned at his cheeks and neck.

“I picked something up on the Alley for you, yesterday,” said Albus over their first breakfast together after the Confinement.
 
Tom did not reply.  He cut into his sausages viciously, and cast a resentful glance toward Lorny when she magically scooted the butter dish closer to his place setting.  Lorny squeaked and ducked out of his line of sight.
 
“Tom.”
 
Tom grudgingly met his guardian’s eyes.
 
“She’s waiting in the greenhouse.”

She?

“Finish your breakfast and I’ll show you.”
 
Tom didn’t want to say that he shoveled the rest of his food down his gullet like an animal, but he shuddered to think of what he must have looked like as they headed down to the greenhouse, Albus’ hand cusped around the nape of his neck.  
 
Tom said nothing still, but he secretly enjoyed the security of the power radiating through the older man’s hand, for once basking in it instead of feeling challenged in the face of it.  It didn’t feel like submission, really; more like finding a small shelter after being out in the cold and rain for too long.
 
Uneasy, he shrugged the hand away when they reached the greenhouse out on the grounds of the home.  Albus opened the door for him and he stepped through, immediately greeted by the sight and aroma of all sorts of breeds of flowering plants everywhere— hanging from the ceiling and the walls, and cluttering the perimeter and the middle of the concrete floor.  A path for walking had been cleared around the space and through the middle of the centered plants.  There were several tables inserted along the wall between plots, and upon one of the bigger tables some ways into the large building sat a glass terrarium.
 
Tom chanced a quick look at Albus, who merely gestured toward the cage and smiled in a frustratingly vague way.
 
Upon closer inspection, the terrarium contained a rather long snake about as thick around as Tom’s own forearm.  She was chocolatey brown, with a smattering of yellow flecks scattered down her back so dense in some areas it looked as if she’d been dusted with pollen.  With a flick of her forked tongue, she tasted the air, and then turned to stare at him with beady black eyes.  Though the container was solid, he understood her loud and clear.

Who are you?

she asked.

Where am I?

He hissed back,

I am Tom.

You are in a home for plants.

There didn’t seem to be a word for “greenhouse” in Parseltongue, which was the language of spitting and hissing that Tom had used to talk to snakes for as long as he could remember.  He told Albus of his gift when the man visited him earlier on the day the orphanage burned down; after Albus left, he remembered regretting revealing so much about his capabilities, but staring into the intelligent eyes of the beautiful snake, he couldn’t help but feel just a tiny bit relieved.

Why would plants need a home?

she demanded to know.

Everywhere is their home.

Some plants need special conditions to survive.

If they cannot survive on their own, they have no place in the world,

said the snake.
 
Tom thought that was quite clever.

What is your name?

The snake spat a long string of sibilant syllables that Tom repeated back with effort.
 
“What do you make of her?” 
 
Tom turned to Albus.  The man had rolled up his sleeves and was watering a bush of what looked to be drooling hydrangeas.  Tom had almost forgotten he existed.
 
“Is she to your liking?”
 
“...yes.” Tom shifted on his feet. “I thought you said only bad wizards talk to snakes.  Is that why you got her? Because you think I’m bad?”
 
For all that his antics might have suggested it, Tom didn’t think he was

bad

.  Knowing what Albus thought suddenly seemed very important.
 
“You are quite intuitive, Mr. Riddle,” said Albus.  Tom reared back, feeling as if he’d been doused with ice water. “But on this matter, I’m afraid I have been unclear.  There are no such thing as bad wizards and good wizards… merely magical folk who do good things and bad things.  Speaking Parseltongue is neither bad nor good; it is a skill that you have inherited from your ancestors.  You are no more at fault for being a Parseltongue than you are for having brown hair.”
 
Tom wanted to reach his finger into the terrarium to gently stroke the top of his snake’s head, but managed to refrain from doing so. “Would other people see it that way?”
 
Albus eased up on the watering can. “There are many who would fear you, Tom.  Especially in these dark times.  It is why I put the rules in place; to protect you.  There are those who would wish great harm upon you for your talents… I thought it best to keep them as far away from you as possible.  I hadn’t considered that you might misunderstand my intentions and seek out trouble where it might find you unawares, instead.”
 
Tom felt both assured and scolded.
 
“I’m sorry,” he said.
 
Albus regarded him carefully for a moment, and then knelt so that their gazes were level. “You are bright… and

extraordinary

.  I can teach you to wield your power in ways you’ve never imagined.” He extended a hand. “If, and

only

if, you follow the rules.  Deal?”
 
Tom clasped hands with the geezer after a brief moment’s hesitation. “Deal.”

Ten-year-old Anesidora Burke sat up abruptly.  The grey light of late morning shone virginally upon her ivory bedclothes, disrupted only by the occasional swoop of pale gold where her thin blonde hair kissed the fabric.
 
Her eyes rolled back into her skull, and a deep, unnatural rasp issued from her slight frame, which was postured oddly— as if she’d been propped up by an invisible force rather than her own volition.
 
“

Under guise of hero, the snake approaches

,” she moaned. “

Incongruity abounds… incongruity… summum bonum… unum novum hominem… appropinquare malum… appropinquare malum… under guise of hero, the snake approaches

…”
 
Anesidora then sucked in a great deal of air in a very short period of time, almost choking on the overflow of oxygen flooding her lungs, which were tired and had for a moment been squeezed of all their breath from speaking so deeply for so long without pause.
 
After a violent coughing fit, the girl collapsed bonelessly back onto her sheets and slipped swiftly into unconsciousness once more.

August of 1935
 
Because of Albus’ busy schedule, there were times when it became difficult to arrange for someone to adequately watch Tom, who had long since learned how to wheedle Lorny into letting him do anything he wanted.
 
Tom kept his promise and mostly stuck to obeying the rules, but— and Albus suspected the boy would land in Slytherin on this fact alone— he almost always found a loophole.
 
It became worrisome to leave Tom alone at home, so Albus began to bring him along on Hogwarts and Ministry business, so long as the boy promised to

behave

.  The rules were always less likely to be bent when Albus himself served as a visual reminder of the consequences.
 
One afternoon, while Albus busied himself with organizing his lesson plans for his upcoming Transfiguration classes, Tom had taken to messing about with the various instruments and doodads set up around the office.  None of them were particularly life-threatening, but Albus kept an eye on him, just in case.
 
“What’s this?”
 
“A lunascope,” Albus replied without looking up. “It marks the lunar phases.”
 
“And that?”
 
“Ward breach detector.  It detects ward breaches.”
 
“What about those?”
 
“Replacement beads for my abacus,” said Albus, foot jumping up and down repeatedly.
 
He saw, out of his peripheral, the odd look that Tom threw at him.
 
“You have an abacus? What for?”
 
“Arithmancy, among other things.” Albus leaned back in his chair and stretched. “My stomach is eating away at itself.  Are you ready for lunch?”
 
It was an exaggeration, of course, but if he had to answer another question whilst attempting to finish filling out time cards, he would rip out his hair.
 
Tom bounced a bit on the chair he’d been using as a step stool to reach the higher shelves. “I could eat.”
 
At that moment, however, a knock sounded at the door to the office.  Albus gave Tom a look and the boy rolled his eyes before hopping down.
 
“Come in,” he called.
 
A red, dragonhide boot followed by the sweeping hem of taupe robes swished in with effortless grace.  Albus stood, redoing the button on his blue vest. 
 
“Good afternoon, Galatea,” he remarked cheerfully.
 
Galatea Merrythought smiled thinly in greeting. “Same to you, Albus.” All at once, she seemed to take note of Tom’s presence. “And who is this?”
 
“Galatea, this is my young charge— ”
 
“Tom Riddle,” Tom cut in, extending one of his small, pale hands.
 
Albus watched as Merrythought, after an astonished pause, took the hand and shook it once, firmly.
 
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Riddle,” she said. “Will you be attending our institution of learning this year?”
 
Albus knew Tom didn’t look anywhere near old enough to go to Hogwarts, and suspected that Galatea knew that, also.  Still, Tom preened under the subtle compliment and put on his best charming grin.
 
“No, madam,” Tom admitted. “But you’ll see me Sorted in just two years’ time.”
 
“I look forward to it!” she beamed. “Quite the wizard you’re raising, Albus.  I didn’t even know you wanted children.”
 
Albus suppressed his first reaction to such a statement, and sensed Tom do the same.
 
“Neither did I,” he managed with a smile that he hoped was as convincing as Tom’s. “What can I do for you, professor?”
 
Galatea cleared her throat and cast an uncertain look at Tom.  Albus inclined his head.
 
“Run along to the kitchens without me, Tom,” he ordered. “Ask for Milly.”
 
Tom stiffened at the deceptively casual tone, but dipped his head in acquiescence and left through the open door.  Albus spared a moment to worry about what he might get up to, but pushed it aside to address the matter at hand.
 
Galatea was suddenly very subdued, with her hands clasped so tightly that the brown skin around her knuckles appeared almost tan.
 
“My brother got in contact with me this morning,” she said quietly. “His wife is a muggle.  My nieces… they’re twins… nobody knows about them, yet.  Too soon to tell.”
 
Albus felt his muscles tighten up in anticipation of her next words.
 
“They were out doing the shopping when an explosion went off and killed half of the patrons.  Leah and the girls are in muggle hospital, and the muggle authorities are running around like chickens with their heads lobbed off because our incompetent Minister doesn’t see fit to inform his counterpart of the radical megalomaniac that

you

used to call

friend!

”
 
“Gal— ”
 
“No,” snapped Galatea. “This has gone on for long enough! I used to believe…” she ground her teeth together. “I used to think of you as some sort of— of

god

.  I used to try to logic away the fact that you spend hours in your office and at the Ministry, delegating and stymying wounds and ignoring the root cause of the problem.  But no

more

, Albus.  I know you.  You’re the

only one

— not Newt Scamander or the Aurors and certainly not our bloody idiot Minister—

you

.  Everybody knows it,

including

you.  What on earth are you waiting for? How many more good people have to suffer?”
 
Albus retreated inwardly, summoning the strength and discipline he usually employed during Wizengamot meetings.
 
“Madam Merrythought,” he began, and watched dispassionately as she straightened in her chair, “I believe you may have made assumptions about my person and my magic for which you have no basis.  I have demonstrated on multiple occasions my dedication in ridding our world of its most imminent threat, and suffice to say, the solution is far more nuanced than going up to Grindelwald and challenging him to a duel.”

Not that much more nuanced

, his guilt whispered.  He ignored it.
 
“I am sincerely regretful that your relations have experienced such heartbreak, but with all due respect, you have no right to march in here and demand things of me over which I have such little control.” 
 
Galatea didn’t say anything for a long moment.  She merely stared at him, lips pursed and eyes empty but for the undeniable disappointment and disgust evident there.  Albus stiffened his upper lip and was determined not to let her changing opinion bother him— never mind the fact that they had been colleagues for years and that one of his worst traits was his sensitivity to censure from those who held him in high regard.  
 
He suspected that same trait contributed to why he and Tom hadn’t killed each other already; Tom genuinely seemed not to care about his accolades or his status in society— possibly because the boy was only eight and had, up until recently, been muggle-raised, but almost certainly because he was an incredibly irreverent child at his core.  It was easier to conduct himself naturally when there were no expectations of greatness like there were with most of his peers.
 
And that wasn’t to say that he wouldn’t still attempt to teach Tom manners— but dealing with his rather boorish charge in that moment would have been heaps and bounds more palatable than witnessing his image in the eyes of his fellow professor crash and burn like a defective muggle aeroplane.
 
“I’ve said my piece,” said Galatea, a faint sneer of disdain on her face.  She stood and smoothed out a fold in the fabric of her robes. “I’ll take my leave of you, now, Dumbledore.”

...research conducted in 1876 by Japanese magicologist Haruto Sama revealed what is now regarded as one of the most prominent and important discoveries of the field: that non-magical beings are a product of genetic mutation, and that the presence of magic on Earth predates the evolution of humankind.

“Interesting.”
 
Tom jotted a note to himself to look up the study before stretching and rocking back on the hind legs of his desk chair.
 
Albus had assigned him enough material to go over to keep him busy for years, it seemed; it was, Tom immediately realized, simultaneously a ploy to keep him out of things he wasn’t intended to get into and a follow-up on the geezer’s promise to teach him things.  Fortunately, Tom had always been a quick reader and learner, so he was able to keep up with the workload and juggle picking apart the house for clues about the proprietor in his free time.
 
So far, Albus had quizzed him on etiquette when it came to existing in traditional magical spaces like the Ministry or upper crust social events.  If Tom weren’t so good at remembering things, he would have been intimidated by the sheer amount of rules one had to follow when sharing a room with high ranking officials or scions of Noble Houses (whose names he also had to learn).
 
There was also spell and potion theory, history, and not a small amount of arithmancy and ancient rune study.  Tom felt like a sponge; there wasn’t a single thing that he’d found boring enough to cast aside.  The only tangible thing he yearned for was a wand, but Albus remained firm in his refusal of him acquiring one.
 
The old man was probably scared he would go out terrorizing the populace if he got ahold of one.
 
Tom picked his book back up (

originally a French text whose title translated loosely to “The Beginning,” by Jacques Renault)

and skimmed the next few lines without processing them before deciding that it was time for a much-deserved break.
 
On his way down the staircase, however, he heard voices coming from the parlor— one belonged to Albus, but the other he had never heard before.
 
“ —and of course this Moody thug chose now of all times to come down from Edinburgh and muck things up with his business ventures in Diagon Alley! Like the Aurors don’t have enough on their plate already!”
 
“People are looking for an escape in all this chaos, Leonard, and Tate Moody is quite the salesman,” Albus pointed out.  “I’ve only met him twice— and both times under rather peculiar circumstances.”
 
Tom peeked through the bars of the banister and saw that Leonard was a greying, light brown-haired wizard with broad shoulders, but Tom couldn't get a good look at his face.  
 
The stranger made a throaty, derisive noise. “If you’re acquainted with him, perhaps you could convince him to take his business elsewhere— preferably abroad.  Stimulating spending is difficult during wartime

without

drug dealers diverting gold flow.”
 
Tom’s eyes widened.  Wizards did drugs?
 
“I assure you, Leonard, if I thought Moody would respond well to my interference I would attempt to reason with him,” Albus replied in a tone that led Tom to suspect that his guardian really didn’t care one way or another.  “As it stands, however, I doubt he would have more than two words to say to me should we meet again— and you can imagine what they might be.”
 
Tom briefly wondered why Albus seemed so blasé about a drug dealer on the loose, but ultimately decided that he didn’t care.  He was much more interested in the identity of

Leonard

, who had turned slightly toward the staircase so that his side profile was visible from Tom’s vantage point; his nose was beaky and he had watery blue eyes.  Tom tried to place where he’d seen him before.
 
Then, very suddenly, Albus turned and looked directly at his spot on the stairs.  
 
Tom quickly reared back, but he knew almost certainly that he had been seen.
 
“It’s been a pleasure, Leonard,” he heard Albus say, “but I am quite busy this afternoon.  Perhaps I could stop by the Ministry sometime later this week? Thursday?”
 
“Of course, of course.  I’ll be in touch.”
 
Tom took the steps two at a time to return to his room.  He had just turned the knob when a throat cleared behind him.

Rats

, thought Tom.
 
“Eavesdropping, Tom.”
 
“I was on my way to the kitchen to get a snack,” said Tom, whirling around on his heel.  He felt Albus was being very unfair. “You happened to be having a very loud conversation.  Sound carries in this house, you know.”
 
Still Albus frowned.  Tom decided not to afford him the opportunity to come up with a suitable reprimand.
 
“Who was that man?”
 
Albus clasped both hands and tucked them behind his back. “That was the Minister of Magic, Leonard Spencer-Moon.”
 
Tom blinked.  He’d read about the magical Ministry’s governing body.  Albus being on good terms with the head of it all should have been less surprising, given how many important-looking people cycled through the estate every week; still, Tom’s surprise must have shown.
 
“The minister knew my father,” Albus remarked blandly. “We met at a convention before he was elected.”
 
“A convention?”
 
“For research.”
 
“Research?”
 
“Have you read the books I gave you?” Albus asked suddenly. “Meditated, like I showed you?”
 
“I fell asleep when I tried,” Tom grumbled.  Cautiously hoping he wouldn’t be penalized, he started toward the stairs in another attempt to retrieve a snack.  Over his shoulder, he asked, “Did you know that Grindelwald fellow, as well?”
 
He got halfway down the staircase before looking back to see Albus still standing coolly on the landing.  His eyes— though normally rather soft and unassuming— glinted in the dim lighting.  For the pregnant seconds that passed, Tom felt his heart rate elevate to a level he’d only known a few times before in his short life.  It was as if, for the first time, he felt unsafe in the presence of his caretaker.
 
“No,” said Albus. “I didn’t know him well at all.”
 
Tom only nodded, mouth glued shut, and descended the stairs three at a time until he reached the bottom on shaking legs.

Tom didn’t often dream, but that night, his subconscious took it upon itself to make up for those other, rather bland nights and mornings of falling asleep and waking up in seemingly the same breath.
 
When he gasped awake and sat straight up in bed, disturbed and jittery, he could remember nothing except feeling very keenly that his life had come to an end.  Everything in the room— the books on his desk, his shoes, the wardrobe, everything— hovered off of the ground.  After patting himself down and taking in several mouthfuls of air, his room righted itself and everything slammed down noisily on the hardwood floors.
 
Moments later, Lorny appeared.  In addition to her typical tartan tea towel, she wore a pointed sleeping cap between her large, batlike ears.
 
“Lorny felt a big magick and came to check on young Master,” she squeaked, wringing her bony hands together.
 
“I…” Tom looked around, lost. “I don’t…”
 
“Is young Master harmed?”
 
“No, I… I don’t think so.”
 
He must have looked pretty unconvincing because the elf apparated closer to stand on the edge of the bed and lifted one of her hands to his forehead.  He flinched away, but the hand chased him; it was cool, but not unbearably so.
 
“You is not ill,” she mused. “Perhaps just frightened.  It is not unheard of for young’uns to be wielding magic in their sleep.  Come; Lorny will make hot chocolate for young Master.”
 
Tom, limp-limbed and stuck inside of his own head, could do nothing as the tiny creature led him by his ring and pinky fingers down to the kitchen, where he sipped on the promised mug of hot chocolate and wondered what in the dream— the

nightmare

— could have possibly affected him in such a way.
 
“Master Albus is like you,” said Lorny, taking a rare seat at the table with her chin propped up on her hands in a very human way. “He was wielding magic in his sleep as a young’un, also.”
 
Tom stared.
 
“Yes… Master Albus liked to set wardrobes on fire.” She flicked a black speck off of the table and it disappeared into thin air. “Mr. Percival and Missus Kendra was very alarmed.”
 
“Were those his parents?”
 
Lorny’s ears folded down on either side of her head. “Lorny did not know them.  Only what Master Albus tells her.”
 
“Does he speak to you often?” Tom asked, curious.
 
Lorny fidgeted nervously. “Master Albus is very lonely.  It is not unheard of for one who is very powerful to be very lonely.”
 
Tom pursed his lips, recognizing the dodge for what it was.  It was no matter; it was obvious that Albus used Lorny as some sort of confidant.  Sooner or later, Tom would have to begin needling her for details— maybe she’d slip up and tell him something interesting.
 
In the meantime, he needed sleep.  He blinked slowly when his hot chocolate had sunk halfway down the sides of the mug and opened his eyes again in bed.  When he closed them again, he didn’t dream for the rest of the night.

“She has to come out sometime,” Caractacus Burke assured his son, Herbert, whilst perusing the

Daily Prophet

over breakfast. “She missed dinner, she’ll be famished.”
 
“And now we at least know she’s normal,” said Belvina, Bert’s wife. “We don’t have to look into…

alternative

education.”
 
Caractacus snorted.  Bert regarded them both with a foul twist to his lips.
 
“We were never looking into

alternative

education,” Bert bit out nastily. “And I refuse to allow talk of it in this house.  Is that clear?”
 
Caractacus’ expression smoothed out, though Bert knew that his father despised when his backbone made an appearance.  Belvina looked as if she’d swallowed a lemon, but wisely said nothing more on the topic.
 
“I’m going to try to get through to her again,” Bert declared, and stood from the table.
 
Anesidora wasn’t like other witches her age.  
 
Most of Bert’s coworkers and friends had children of their own, but none were as focused or as effortlessly intelligent as his little Annie.  She was also beautiful, with lovely golden hair from his own mother and aristocratic features inherited from Belvina’s Black blood.  
 
He knew it wasn’t proper to openly express such affection for one’s offspring— and as the Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Burke, propriety held a place of priority in most cases— but he couldn’t help himself. 
 
His life had, up until her birth, been nothing but him doing everything he could to please his parents; marrying the right woman, getting a good job and upholding the name of their House in everything that he did in the public eye.  Then, just a few months after he became a father, Caractacus was brought up on charges of harboring Dark artifacts and spent three years in Azkaban, making Bert the family Head and plunging the Ancient and Noble House of Burke into the deepest depths of shame.
 
The one bright spot in those bleak times was Annie, a precocious child who, whilst not overly demonstrative in her magical ability, made up for it (he thought) with her charm and wit.
 
Belvina cared little for the redemption of personality, though, and it showed in her interactions with their daughter as well as her own often heartless countenance.  When Annie’s tenth birthday rolled around and no grand feat had been performed, Bert gave up on hoping that she was a full-functioning witch, but he never considered excommunicating or even disowning her; Belvina had always firmly persisted on the other side of that divide.
 
But that morning, a house elf appeared to him and informed him of Annie’s refusal to leave her bed and he had gone up to check on her, only to discover that the door had been locked impenetrably from the inside.  Concern for his daughter’s well-being warred with pride and relief that she wasn’t a squib after all, and he had wasted no time relaying the good news to his wife and father— both of whom seemed skeptical, but willing to believe after witnessing the proof themselves.
 
It was a miracle.
 
But they couldn’t celebrate properly until Annie emerged from hiding.
 
Bert returned to her door and knocked gently. “It’s daddy, sweeting.  May I come in?”
 
“No,” her voice rang out, muffled but audibly distressed.
 
“Please? For me? I only want to talk.”
 
There was no reply.
 
“Anesidora, please.”
 
There was a long pause, and then, “I can’t.”
 
Bert shook his head. “What do you mean?”
 
“I mean I can’t unlock the door, daddy,” Annie snapped. “The lock won’t budge.”
 
Bert called for a house elf and had them apparate his daughter from her room out onto the landing.  She looked sickly; her blonde waves were tangled up in a violent rat’s nest, and her pale, ever-changing eyes were ringed from underneath with purplish bruises, setting a terrible contrast to her ghostly pallor.
 
“Merlin’s beard, Anesidora,” Bert murmured, kneeling to get a better look at her face.  He grasped her chin between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and gently turned her head from side to side. “You look like you haven’t slept for weeks!”
 
Annie’s lower lip wobbled. “It hurts, daddy.”
 
“What? What hurts?”
 
“Everything,” she whined faintly. “Everywhere.  I can feel it… everything hurts.  Everything is

wrong

.”
 
Bert slipped his wand from his deep robe pocket  cast a diagnostic spell from her head to her toes.  The scan revealed nothing; if it was to be believed, there was nothing physically wrong with his daughter or her apparent magic.  Nonetheless, he felt a sharp sting of worry pierce him like an arrow.
 
“I’ll get Heddy to fetch you some clothes and we’ll pop by St. Mungo’s for a visit.  Does that sound alright?”
 
Annie nodded miserably.

August of 1937
 
“Tensions are building for the mundies, aren’t they?” Lord Magnus Selwyn blustered. “I’ve heard rumblings of a disturbance in the east.  Wouldn’t be the first time their wars coincided with ours— if you ask me, they should find their own hobby!”
 
A few people chuckled, but the majority who’d heard exhibited some visible sign of anxious disapproval.  Tom watched in morbid fascination as the tipsy Wizengamot member fumbled his way through one politically provocative joke after another, digging a deeper hole for himself without even realizing… and all while somehow using the most offensive words possible.  Tom counted his use of the term “mundie” no less than eleven times; it was better received than

mudblood

, at least, but not significantly so.
 
“I think you’ve had enough to drink, Magnus,” Lord Greengrass cut in when the other wizard began to rant about the increasing number of “radical” muggleborns seeking protection wards for their non-magical families in the event of war.
 
“Oh, give me my drink, Don,” Lord Selwyn guffawed, a sound edged with warning.  Lord Greengrass continued to artfully dodge him with the aforementioned drink being levitated just out of reach, much to the entertainment of the gathering crowd.
 
“He wouldn’t have even been invited if it hadn’t been for the neutrals kicking up a fuss about feeling ‘left out,’” Tom heard Lord Abbott mutter crossly.
 
Lady Abbott rolled her eyes.  On her left, the matriarch of the Clan Shafiq looked on in subdued amusement.
 
“There are children about,” said Lady Abbott, eyes flitting to where Tom stood sipping a goblet of pumpkin juice some meters away. “He should choose his words more carefully.”
 
“This would have been an excellent opportunity for Burke to break into a new circle,” said Abbott. “But I imagine his family’s quite busy these days.”
 
“Ah, yes,” said the Shafiq matriarch. “Their daughter, the first Seer borne of Black blood in centuries.”
 
“Quite the shock,” said Lady Abbott. “The Blacks, on the whole, seem burdened with a curious lack of foresight.”
 
Her husband attempted to hide his grin behind the rim of his goblet.
 
Tom had heard of the Burke girl.  She’d been splashed across the papers, and for a moment, her existence had overtaken the more common reports of attacks carried out by Grindelwald and his followers.  It wasn’t often that an actual Seer was confirmed as such in any official capacity; they typically secluded themselves on the basis of privacy and peace of mind.  Now that the world knew one existed, she’d be heavily sought after for readings and predictions, especially in the uncertain time in which they lived.
 
There were also the big bads that would undoubtedly see the benefit in having the advantage of clairvoyance in their hands.  Tom often questioned the wisdom of whomever let loose the girl’s secret.
 
“Tom.”
 
He turned, sociable expression already plastered on like a mask.  Albus stood beside a tall, bespectacled man with a neatly clipped beard and a small ponch hidden poorly by his swishy robes.
 
“This is Headmaster Dippet,” said Albus, gesturing to the man. “Headmaster, this is my ward, Tom Riddle.”
 
Dippet bobbed his head in greeting.  Tom learned years ago that wizards didn’t typically shake hands.
 
“Pleasure to meet you, young man.”
 
“Likewise, sir,” said Tom, he hoped pleasantly enough.
 
“I hear you’ll be attending my school this year,” Dippet remarked, regarding Tom with curious eyes. “Albus never misses an opportunity to boast about you.  I look forward to great things, Mr. Riddle.”
 
“Of course, sir,” Tom replied, shooting Albus a questioning glance.  Albus merely smiled in that frustratingly vague way that he often did. “I’ll certainly do my best.” 
 
“So modest,” chuckled Dippet.
 
They exchanged a few other mindless pleasantries, and eventually Albus swept the headmaster away to meet some other unsuspecting folks.  Tom found that he didn’t feel one way or another about Dippet as he watched them go.
 
“Boring, isn’t he? Daddy invites him ‘round for tea whenever my brother gets into trouble at school.”
 
Tom looked to the left of him.
 
He recognized her as Lord Greengrass’ youngest child, but failed to recall her name.  The girl had a head full of thick raven hair pulled into two fluffy pigtails tied off with pale blue ribbon, and huge, light-colored eyes set into a ghostly pale face.  She sort of resembled a striking fish, or perhaps a short-nosed sloth.  
 
She was younger than him— likely seven or eight.  Still, she was above his station by birth alone.  He set his goblet down on a table within arms reach.
 
“Tom Riddle,” he said, bowing and taking her hand to brush his lips perfunctorily against her knuckles.
 
“Madeleine Greengrass,” she returned.  When he straightened from his bow, he saw that she looked amused. “I’ve heard about you.

Dumbledore’s ward

.”
 
Tom exhaled through his nose. “That would be me.”
 
“And do you know your true lineage?” the girl asked, eyes sharp like razor blades.
 
He did.  He almost wished he didn’t.
 
A few months previously, Dumbledore had come to him with a collection of assorted memories detailing the circumstances of his conception and birth.  It was difficult to watch, to say the least.
 
There was one good thing that came out of it, though.
 
“I’m a half-blood,” Tom admitted. “Descended from Slytherin on my mother’s side.”
 
The pint-sized heiress’ mouth popped open, and her eyebrows came together like two thickly-thatched cumulonimbus clouds.
 
“Liar,” she accused.
 
He raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose I should prove myself to you, a little girl?”
 
She scowled up at him. “Indeed, you should.”
 
Tom glanced around to make sure no one was really paying attention before slipping his newest and most prized possession out from the collar of his robes and splaying it against the back of his hand for her to see.
 
It was a thick and heavy gold locket, with several emeralds arranged to form a serpent curved to resemble the letter

S

.  The locket was featured in one of the memories Albus had shown him, and he’d demanded to find it as soon as he’d learned of its existence.
 
His one and only family heirloom.
 
“It’s got to be a fake,” Madeleine remarked unconvincingly.
 
Tom tucked it back into his collar and retrieved his goblet. “It’s not.  But, whether or not you believe me is of little consequence.  I am not nameless, and that is all I wished to convey.”
 
She scanned him up and down, and Tom thought she seemed to be re-evaluating him.
 
“Dance with me, Heir Slytherin.”
 
Tom nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.  He recovered and smoothly wiped his lip with the side of his thumb.
 
“I don’t dance,” said Tom.  
 
He would normally have put up some kind of facade if it had been someone older, or even his age.  Somehow, pretending to be charming for the sake of a child who probably wouldn’t even remember that evening seemed a waste to him.
 
Madeleine Greengrass grabbed his goblet and set it down again before grabbing one of his hands and tugging him toward the floor. “I wasn’t asking.”
 
He felt ire rise in him like magma, but managed to keep it down.
 
His annoyance slipped a little when he saw just how comically far she had to reach to place her hand upon his shoulder.  She seemed unaware of how ridiculous she looked, and tugged at his hand to get them going.
 
Across the room, he saw Dumbledore smirk into a closed fist.  He wanted to thrash the man.
 
“You know, I’ll be at Hogwarts in two years,” said Madeleine.
 
Tom fought a grimace. “You’re nine?”
 
“Yes,” she replied, somewhat defensively. “And a quarter.”
 
“Only little kids do that,” Tom drawled. 
 
“Do what?”
 
“Count the quarters.”
 
She assaulted him with an indecipherably negative expression. “I never said I was fully grown.”
 
“No, but you seem the type to argue semantics.”
 
He twirled her suddenly, and she almost stumbled coming back into their shared space.
 
“Could’ve warned me.”
 
“Where’s the fun in that?”
 
She pursed her lips and remained mute for the rest of the song, which drew to a close a minute and a half later.  After, Tom gratefully led her off of the floor.
 
“I’ll see you around, Tom Riddle,” she said, and purposefully stepped on his shoe as she walked away.  He winced imperceptibly and had to actively stop himself from glaring at her retreating back.

“I hope you’re not too disappointed,” said Tom, making no effort to sound as if it were true. “Your old House didn’t even come up in the brief discussion between the Hat and I.”
 
Albus rolled his eyes. “I expected as much.”
 
For all of his initial swagger, Tom felt a small flicker of something despicably and unacceptably vulnerable from the depths of his person.  He almost opened his mouth to ask— well, he didn’t know, exactly, but

something

that he probably would have regretted vocalizing immediately after.  He and the old man’s relationship was built more on nonverbal communication than any other kind, and he had no intention of tipping that delicate balance for a silly little insecurity.
 
Fortunately, Albus seemed to pick up on some invisible tell and leaned forward behind his desk, chin resting casually on his laced fingers.  It was a fluid, feminine pose.
 
“Slytherin is a fine House, Tom.  It will serve you well, but only inasmuch as you will serve it.”
 
“I expected as much,” Tom parroted.
 
Albus hummed indulgently, but his eyes were serious. “Be vigilant.  Enjoy yourself, but remember who you are and how others may use it against you.”
 
Tom understood his meaning immediately.
 
“I have confidence in your ability to navigate these waters with only the occasional push from me, however,” said Albus.  He slipped his watch from his pocket and gave it a cursory once-over. “You better hurry along to bed, now.  I can write you a note just this once in case you don’t make it back in time, but I will not make doing so a habit.”
 
“Of course,” said Tom. “Can’t have anyone thinking you favor me.”
 
“Naturally not.”

Tom slipped into life at Hogwarts like a well-worn shoe.  He thought that maybe he’d missed integral information in his formative years that would put him behind in ways he would never comprehend, but the opposite seemed to hold true: many of his year mates were arrogant and complacent, content in their ignorance and limping through by the skin of their teeth.  They seemed to relish the experience of simply being in the castle rather than learning from it, and it was blatantly obvious.  The exceptions to that attitude hailed primarily from Slytherin and Ravenclaw, and he was relieved he’d at least managed to land himself in a place with a limited acceptance rate for idiots.
 
Despite his early disadvantages, Tom found himself so far ahead of his peers that he asked Albus about skipping a year just to feel challenged in some way.  Albus predictably refused, citing his need to develop “meaningful social relationships,” which Tom found utterly ridiculous.
 
He was adept at charming people into doing things for him; he always had been.  It was simply a matter of finding out what they wanted and liked and using that information to get what Tom really needed from them.
 
Somehow, though, Tom figured that his talents in that department weren’t exactly what Dumbledore meant.
 
He realized this whilst sitting at the Slytherin table at dinner, surrounded by his housemates— all of whom he had at least cursorily met by that point— and yet not drawn into a single conversation with any of them.  He quietly cut into his roasted potatoes and listened as a gaggle of fourth year witches giggled about Dick Greengrass, who was a fifth year on the Gryffindor quidditch team.  He looked nothing like his younger sister, and had about half of her intelligence.
 
Abraxas Malfoy was seated directly across from him, speaking to Avery, who flanked him to the right; they were in the same year, and civil to one another.  Avery was an alright sort, but Tom frequently got the sense that Abraxas bit his tongue around him (Tom).  It might have been because Abraxas’ family was veritably conservative, and Dumbledore— who happened to be the closest thing Tom would ever have to family— was outstandingly liberal.  Tom tended not to bring up politics if he could help it, but people just had a way of knowing things.
 
“You all saw,” Abraxas boasted, goblet of juice held loftily in one hand. “I was the first one in the air— I have my own pitch at home, father had it installed once he realized my potential.”
 
“Your father bought you a quidditch pitch?” Avery, gawked. “Mine hardly speaks to me.”
 
Abraxas flicked his head in what Tom supposed was the affluent approximation of a shrug. “He has a lot of faith in my abilities.”
 
“To fly?” Mulciber, another boy in their year questioned.
 
“Anything I put my mind to,” Abraxas replied slowly, as if speaking to a small child. “I’m good at pretty much everything on the first try.  Really, it’s harder to list the things I’m

not

good at.”
 
“How about modesty?” a redheaded witch quipped from a few seats down. 
 
Abraxas sneered at her. “True talent knows no modesty, Darocher.”
 
“Oh, give me a break,” said the redhead. “Your head is emptier than your vapid mother’s, Malfoy.”
 
Abraxas stood, white as his hair with anger. “My mother is vastly superior to the muddy egg and seed that produced

you

.”
 
Darocher remained seated, cool as anything. “How crude.”
 
“Let’s not cast aspersions onto each other’s mothers,” Tom interjected finally, amused. “I’m sure they all have their strengths and weaknesses.”
 
“Not that you’d know,” Abraxas sneered at him.
 
Smiling enigmatically despite the genuine urge to maim the boy in front of him, Tom said, “Perhaps I’m fortunate in that way.”
 
Something in his expression must have disturbed Abraxas, because the other boy didn’t say a word to him for the rest of dinner.  Darocher, in contrast, stole inscrutable glances at him whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.

This

, he thought.

This is why I don’t have friends.

That evening, Tom sat in his favorite chair by the fireplace— the only area in the entire dungeon that could come close to being described as warm—  and read his Transfiguration textbook.  He was almost finished with the thing and the semester wasn’t even half over.  He suspected the textbook assignments for second years would prove similarly unchallenging for him and thought about asking his caretaker again for a grade advancement.
 
“Chess, Riddle?”
 
He looked up from his book.  Darocher stood in front of him, holding a wizard chess set in both hands.
 
His knee-jerk reaction was to decline, but he was bored and his reading material wasn’t remedying that in any way, shape or form.  Swallowing his natural aversion to spending time in the presence of his peers, he closed the book and set it aside before slowly sliding forward on his seat cushion to signal his grudging interest.
 
Darocher placed the set on the table, took two pawns from both sides and juggled them behind her back before holding out both fists.  He tapped the left one.  Her palm opened up to reveal the white pawn, which she replaced on the board and spun to match their respective sides.
 
He ordered a pawn two spaces forward.  She did the same.  He sent a bishop out in front of his queen.  She moved another pawn.  So on, so forth.
 
After about a minute of playing— during which he was forced to inwardly admit her competence at the game— she opened her mouth to speak to him instead of her pieces.  It was too bad; he was enjoying the silence.
 
“Do you have a partner for the Charms project, yet?”
 
The Charms project.  Of course.
 
“No,” Tom replied shortly. “I planned on speaking with Professor Winthrop about doing it on my own.”
 
Darocher raised an eyebrow, but didn’t lift her gaze from the board. “Why?”
 
“I don’t need a partner.”
 
“You think I do?” she scoffed. “Part of the grade is collaboration.”
 
He pursed his lips when she made a particularly clever move that forced him to sacrifice a piece in order to save his bishop, which was integral to his end strategy.
 
“Collaboration,” he repeated tonelessly. “Right.”
 
Darocher smirked. “It might benefit you to learn how to play with others.”
 
“It hasn’t served me in any capacity so far,” he replied, lips thinning as she captured yet another piece.
 
“You haven’t given it a fair shake.” 
 
He pretended not to hear her and studied the board, bringing up a hand to rest thoughtfully over his top lip.  
 
“Study with us tomorrow after lunch,” Darocher spoke plainly. “Shafiq and I.”
 
Tom moved his knight.  Darocher looked down at the board.  The knight was attacking two pieces; her queen and now-checked king.  The corners of her mouth fell a bit.
 
“I can win without a queen,” she said, moving her king out of harm’s way. 
 
Tom watched with muted satisfaction as his knight gleefully smashed the monarch to pieces.
 
“I’ll consider it,” he replied at length to her earlier demand.  Dumbledore’s insistent, mawkish sentiments about making social connections battered the back of his skull like an irate ram. “No promises.”
 
Darocher smirked and reached up to pull her fiery hair up into a high bun before settling in to continue the game.  They didn’t speak for the rest of it outside of issuing commands.  It was… not horribly unpleasant.
 
He won the game, but lost to her in a rematch.  The third cut into curfew and they agreed to adjourn until the following evening; the pieces would remember where they were.  
 
Before they split ways at the staircase, Darocher bid him goodnight.  He inclined his head stiffly and retreated up to the dormitory.

Tom remembered the Shafiq matriarch from the party at Dumbledore’s house being a graceful, broad-boned woman with warm brown skin, razor sharp wit and eyes the color of pearly clouds.  At first he’d wondered if she was blind, but upon further investigation, he realized that her irises weren’t white but rather a very pale silver.  He still didn’t really know if the woman was blind or not, though.
 
Lady Maryam Shafiq was the great aunt of the girl who sat in front of him presently.  This Shafiq did not have silver eyes— hers were a more ordinary dark brown— but they shared the same cheekbones and complexion, and when she spoke, Tom recognized her knowing, accented cadence.  Nadira Shafiq clearly spent a lot of time in her great aunt’s company.
 
“Dira, Tom Riddle.  Riddle, Nadira Shafiq.”
 
Tom extended his hand over the table and Shafiq took it, shaking firmly.
 
“Nice to meet you, Tom,” she said, offering a small smile. 
 
Minding his manners, he bowed his head politely and waited until both girls sat back down before seating himself.
 
“It’s exactly noon,” Darocher commented, smiling in what Tom thought might be amusement. “You’re so… punctual.”
 
“Actually, I’m late,” he said. “Two idiots were brawling in the corridor on the way here.  I had to take a detour, or I would’ve been three minutes early.”
 
“I don’t know if I agree that you’re late,” Shafiq wondered aloud. “You’re… very nearly late.”
 
Tom bit his tongue to avoid replying with something incongruously condescending.  Why were they talking about this?
 
“Shall we get started, then?” he prodded brusquely.

They had to move house.
 
Bert Burke went to great, painful lengths to hide the truth from Annie, but he suspected she knew why they had to leave their ancestral home mere months after her being confirmed by Cassandra Vablatsky herself.  Somehow, someway, they’d been doxed; strange packages began showing up on their doorstep, shady characters followed them in the streets, mysterious Floo calls where no one’s head would appear became frequent… it was simply no longer safe to reside where they did.
 
He had his own suspicions about who’d leaked Annie’s status in the first place.  The twitchy healer’s assistant at the hospital, perhaps— or possibly even his own father.  No matter who the culprit was, though, the fallout made life so much more difficult for his daughter.  She likely wouldn’t be able to attend school the following year unless strict exceptions were made in regard to her unique position.  And there was also the matter of which everyone liked to remind him at any given opportunity: seers were notoriously instrumental in shifts of power in war history.  Whatever conflict was brewing with that Grindelwald fellow could prove to be incredibly dangerous for Annie should his followers manage to get ahold of her.
 
“Father?”
 
Burke raised his head from the cradle of his hands and forced a smile onto his face for the little girl standing awkwardly in the doorway of his new study. “What are you doing up so late, sweeting?”
 
She floated into the room on light feet, headed for his shelves— which were still empty, as his books hadn’t been placed in them yet.  
 
“My dreams are so strange,” she murmured. “Every night it gets harder and harder to fall asleep.”

FUTURE EXCERPTS

Tom could count each individual lash on Black’s heavy lids with how close they were to one another.  He stood, frozen in place, as the younger wizard tentatively lifted a hand and brushed back an espresso strand of hair that had escaped from his carefully coiffed style.  
 
Tom hadn’t anticipated this. 
 
He didn’t often allow himself to behave in the same way others of his peer group seemed to give into so easily.  Stumbling into broom cupboards, risking punishment to be out and about after curfew, sneaking off to the Shrieking Shack on Hogsmeade weekends, touching… kissing… he just figured that sort of thing didn’t appeal to him.  On some level, it still didn’t; the notion of letting his brain melt out of his ears in exchange for getting off didn’t seem like a worthy trade-off.
 
And then Black leaned closer and pressed a soft, tremulous kiss to the corner of Tom’s slightly frowning lips.  Tom felt his entire body go rigid, which didn’t escape Black’s notice.
 
“Sorry,” his companion muttered, pulling back with wide and uncertain eyes.  The iridescent silver reflected the pearly light of the moon drifting through the window beside them. “I— I just thought… I didn’t mean— you know, you treat me differently than your other— ”
 
Tom cupped the back of Black’s head and brought him close, evaporating the distance between them so quickly that their teeth clacked together.  Black huffed a little in amusement, but all traces of humor disintegrated in the flurry of Tom’s sudden and voracious thirst for frenzied kisses, sipped from him like repeated sips of the sweetest mulled wine.
 
During a small gap in their make out session, Black let out a small, breathy little “oh,” which prompted Tom to take stock of the fact that the younger wizard was no longer in the chair beside him, but in his lap with his body shoved between the library table and Tom’s heaving torso.  Tom shifted uneasily, uncomfortably aware of the effect the last few minutes had taken on his body.
 
Black’s fingers were threaded through his thoroughly mussed tresses.  Tom’s hands were splayed on his bottom.  He curiously squeezed a handful with his left palm and Black’s eyes closed seemingly of their own accord as he inhaled shakily.
 
“Interesting,” Tom commented lowly.
 
Black opened his eyes and squinted at him. “Shut it.”
 
Tom stared at his wet, swollen lips and couldn’t find it in himself to take offense to the little barb.  He squeezed again and Black leant forward, burying his face into the space between Tom’s neck and shoulder.
 
“Like I said,” the other wizard murmured. “You treat me differently than your other friends.  You don’t feel them up, do you?”
 
Tom’s lip curled. “No.”
 
“Then what am I, if not a friend?” 
 
Tom leaned back and caught the boy’s eye.  He was projecting a false confidence, propped lazily in Tom’s lap as if they did this every day.  But his pale gaze was nervous, unsure.
 
“I…” Tom cleared his throat and looked away. “I do not know.”
 
Black didn’t move for a moment.  And then he shifted; Tom flinched on extinct when his knee brushed a little too close to the evidence of their dalliance.
 
“That’s fine,” he said, though the cool tone of his voice made it clear that he did not think it was fine at all. “This was a lovely studying session.  I’m sure I’ll ace my test tomorrow.”
 
He picked up his green and silver scarf and hastily tied it around his neck before gathering his books and parchment in a hurry.  Tom didn’t like how fast time seemed to be moving as each textbook slotted into Black’s bag and his things began to clear from the table like an animated flipbook going way too fast.  His mind was sluggish and slow to react, almost as if all the blood that had rushed south was taking its sweet time making its way back up.
 
“Wait,” he managed to force out as the other boy started to walk away. “Black, just wait a moment, for Christ’s sake.”
 
Black turned, eyebrows raised. “What’s Christ?”
 
“Not important,” Tom answered.  He stood on slightly unsteady legs. “You’re not my friend.”
 
Black reared back as if he’d been punched solidly in the cheek.  His eyes widened with alarm and hurt.
 
Tom harshly bit out, “Oh, don’t.  You know what I mean.”
 
“Do I?”
 
He got to his feet.  Black looked up, trying to puff himself up a bit to minimize the distinct difference in their heights.  It didn’t work.
 
“I do not make a habit of sharing my personal belongings with friends,” Tom said. “I can’t say I’ve ever found myself in a compromising position with one, either.  I do not know what you are, Black.  But I’m afraid ‘friend’ doesn’t quite fit the bill.”
 
Black thawed a bit, the grip he had on the strap of his bag loosening along with the tension that had bloomed so startlingly between them.  Something in Tom unwound in relief.
 
“You like me,” Black drawled coyly.
 
Tom straightened up and eyed him coolly, but said nothing.  Black stepped into his personal space once more, something that Tom realized he did a lot even prior to their… liaison.  Leaning across him at their table in the Great Hall, brushing hands whenever he took something from Tom without asking, drawing far closer to Tom’s face than he needed to just to emphasize a point.  Tom had allowed it all.  
 
Why? Why this boy?
 
“It’s okay, we don’t need to talk about it,” he continued in that same sly tone. “I know it’s hard for you to talk about these sorts of things.  You can just show me.”
 
“Show you.” It was barely a question.
 
“Show me,” Black affirmed, a little smirk pulling at the corner of his still-swollen lips. “How… not-friendly you feel towards me.”
 
“Eloquent,” said Tom with an amused twitch of his nose.
 
“I am merely reiterating what was so eloquently expressed to me.” 
 
Tom fought a frustrated flush.
 
Black reached out and grabbed one of his hands, which until then had hung uselessly at his sides.  His grasp shifted into a soft caress up Tom’s wrist and climbed up his forearm and bicep to rest lightly on his shoulder.  Tom’s breath quickened as his gaze flicked across the handsome planes and contours of Black’s classic face and down to his slender neck where it disappeared into his collared shirt, which had two more buttons undone than was strictly necessary.  He felt as if his entire body was being held too close to a flame.  If this was how attraction felt, perhaps he understood how others of his age were compelled to go to such lengths to experience it in all of its glory.
 
He couldn’t imagine feeling any sort of satisfaction, however, from the touch of someone who wasn’t Black Black.  His mind simply failed to conjure the image of anyone else on his lap, in his space, kissing him… feeling him…
 
Black ran a hand down Tom’s chest and stopped to hook a finger on the cool alloy of his belt buckle.  Tom shuddered.
 
“You’re very handsome, you know,” said the younger boy. “That was the first thing I ever remember thinking about you.”
 
Tom recalled first noticing the color of Black’s eyes— how icy they appeared, despite their inherent familiarity and warmth.  Tom was a stranger to warmth, but he recognized it so easily in this boy, who by all accounts should know nothing of it, himself.  Strange.
 
Instead of replying, Tom caught the hand on his belt buckle and moved it away, holding them together off to the side.  He wanted him close again, but he didn’t want to seem too eager for the other boy’s attention. 
 
Black read him easily, letting his satchel slip off his shoulder and fall to the floor.  He slid a hand back into Tom’s hair and leaned up to kiss him again.  Tom tentatively rested his hands on his waist and tilted his head to gain more control over their movements. 
 
He lost track of how long they stood that way.  Time slipped through the usually-deft fingers of his mind like fine sand as their lips moved in tandem, wetly and noisily in ways that sounded loud and obscene in the echo chamber between his ears.  It all served to rile him up further, breath quickening and hips twitching of their own volition.  Black’s little breathy sighs did not help in the slightest.  Tom felt like he might explode— or implode, with a bright heat in his core threatening to swallow him whole like the first stages of a star gone supernova.
 
“Tom,” Black panted, “please.”
 
Please? Please what?
 
He barely managed to contain a tight groan when Black reached for his belt buckle again, this time deliberately brushing his knuckles along the firm ridge leading up to it.  Tom moved his hand away once more.
 
“Not here,” he warned him.  His wits were strewn about the floor, but he had enough sense to not want to literally be caught with his pants down in the school library, of all places.
 
Black poked out a pouting lip. “Not even a peek?”
 
Tom was taken aback by his brazenness. “You’re shameless.”
 
“And you’re criminally repressed.”
 
Tom looked around, straining his ears for any sign of activity near them.  When he was satisfied with the relative silence, he turned back to stare into Black’s eyes with an intensity that seemed to startle the other boy.  Tom moved one of his hands from his waist to firmly cup him through his pleated trousers.  Black squeaked a bit.
 
“Not here,” he repeated lowly, rubbing slightly. “Not right now.”
 
Black let out a shuddering breath. “Tom…”
 
The sound of his name on those thoroughly kissed lips sent a lick of new heat down his spine.  He massaged more firmly, and Black’s hand flew up to clutch his arm.
 
“Unh— Tom— ”
 
Tom stared hard at his striking eyes as they became more and more unfocused before squeezing tightly shut.
 
“

Please

.”
 
“Do you want me to stop?”
 
“N-no.”
 
Tom did not want his own trousers undone in the library.  But Black seemed to have any qualms with his own belt being unclasped and a tender hand slipping inside to feel the velvety length of him.  It was just the slightest bit sticky at the head.  Tom used that to his advantage, spreading the stickiness around and stroking like he would his own when he was alone in the dorms late at night and his mind raced too much for him to sleep.
 
Black’s grip on his arm was so tight it was almost hindering Tom’s movement.  His breath was labored and came in little rasps.  Tom pressed his mouth to the exposed column of his throat and felt him jump beneath his rocking palm.
 
“Tom, I’m…” Black gasped, knees buckling a bit.  
 
Tom maneuvered them so that Black’s back was to the table they’d vacated.  He felt his hips twitching and spasming against the pumps of his determined hand, and watched in rapt fascination as the boy’s mouth rounded out into an “o” and a throaty keen clawed its way from the depths of his diaphragm.  Tom felt a renewed wetness gradually slicken his loose fist.
 
“Merlin,” Black sighed as Tom slipped his hand out of his trousers.
 
“Very generous,” Tom said, “but no.”
 
Black hit his shoulder lightly with an open palm.  Then, as he shifted to stand at his full height, he grimaced and shifted his weight uncomfortably.
 
“You’ve ruined me.”
 
“I’ve done nothing of the sort.”
 
“I’m a mess.”
 
“They’re your pants, Black, not mine,” Tom shrugged, failing to hide his smirk.
 
The boy sniffed at him. “Why do you do that?”
 
Tom frowned, wary of what he’d said this time. “Do what?”
 
“Call me by my surname,” Black clarified. “I bet you do it in your head, too.”
 
Tom stared blankly at him.  
 
“I mean… I call you Tom.  You’ve only just had your hand down my pants— surely my given name isn’t such a leap.”
 
“I don’t know,” Tom eventually replied, uneasy. “I call everyone by their surname.  Even Dumbledore.”
 
“You call the man who raised you by his last name?”
 
“Yes?”
 
“Tom,” Black clicked his tongue in exasperation. “You can call me Al, like everyone else.  Or whatever you want.  Black just feels so… impersonal.” He clasped Tom’s hands with his and swung forward so that they were chest to chest. “I’d like to be personal with you, Tom.”
 
“I…” Tom began dazedly, distracted by how close Black was now that he’d seen and felt more of him than he had anyone else in his life.  He cleared his throat and attempted to refocus. “You want to be… personal… with…?”
 
Black smirked.  Tom scowled.
 
“I won’t call you anything other than your surname if we’re around others,” he stated stiffly, pulling his hands away and taking a step back. “…Algernon.”
 
Algernon shrugged. “Alright.”
 
He straightened the collar of his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, collecting himself and attempting to still and quiet his churning thoughts.  Black— Algernon— began putting himself to rights, tucking his shirt back in and refastening his trousers.
 
When they were both finished with their respective tasks, Tom felt wary, noting that it was almost as if nothing had happened at all.  But, probably because he seemed to always know what Tom was thinking, Algernon leant up and pressed his lips briefly, but affectionately to the apple of his cheek and patted his waist as if they’d been intimate not once but a thousand times.
 
“Escort me home, will you?”
 
Tom gave a curt nod of his head.

“You are unbelievable,” Algernon hissed, before turning and striding away with his robes snapping behind him.
 
Tom looked around to make sure they were truly alone before walking quickly after him, heat rising to the back of his neck.
 
“Oh, I’m unbelievable?” he snapped. “When I told you I’d only call you by your surname in front of others, what made you think I’d be perfectly amenable to— to tawdry displays?”
 
Tom sussed out that he was probably headed to the kitchens and continued walking even as the other boy whirled around indignantly to spout off something undoubtedly poisonous.
 
“Oh, now you’re the one walking away?” Algernon drawled. “You can’t walk away from someone walking away from you, Riddle!”
 
“Riddle, is it?”
 
“Well, I’m just Black, aren’t I?” Algernon caught up to him and snagged the back of his robes.
 
It wasn’t enough force to stop him, but Tom halted his gait anyway.
 
“You said I could call you whatever I wanted,” Tom replied, speaking slowly and quietly. “Whichever name I decide to use at any given time, then, should be inconsequential.  You know who you are, I know who you are— ”
 
“It’s not about knowing who I am!” Algernon exploded angrily, his tenor ricocheting off of the stone walls of the corridor. “It’s about knowing who I am to you! I wish we’d never met, because at least then I’d know that we were nothing more than strangers.  But this… this in-between… I’m not your friend, but it turns out that just means I’m nothing more than another warm body to— to get off with!”
 
Tom’s lips finally opened from how clamped they’d begun to get during the boy’s rant. “Algernon— ”
 
“‘Algernon’ nothing! Leave me alone!”
 
Tom’s hands tightened into fists as he felt something horrible and dark well up inside the recesses of his soul.  He wanted to shove Algernon into a broom closet, lock the door and secret away the key so that no one would be able to speak or look at him except for Tom.  He wanted to be near him all of the time, wanted to crawl inside of him and never leave.  
 
If he allowed any of those feelings to escape in public, it would be impossible to stuff them back in their cage.  He did not wish to hold hands or call each other by the mawkish words they used when they were alone and entwined with one another.  He did not want to kiss in full view of other people.  He certainly did not want any of his peers to know that he bowed to the same urges that they did— to the demanding heat that bowled him over whenever Algernon so much as looked at him in a certain way.
 
It felt… not embarrassing, but exposing.  Tom did not like being exposed.  Observed, sure; but not bare for all to see.
 
How to articulate this, he wondered?
 
“What do you want from me?” he eventually managed.
 
Algernon leveled him with a hostile stare. “I want you to stop pretending I don’t exist whenever we’re among friends.  It hurts my feelings.”
 
“I do not— ” Tom stopped when Algernon’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Fine, I will make an effort to acknowledge you.”
 
Algernon reared back. “Oh, fantastic, just what I’ve been waiting for.  The Great Tom Riddle will finally acknowledge me.”
 
“It’s what you just asked me to do,” Tom bit out, taking a menacing step forward.
 
On instinct, Algernon took a step back.  Tom advanced without hesitation, not stopping until the younger boy was up against the wall.
 
“Is this the part where you ravish me and I forget all about how much I can’t stand you?”
 
Even though his tone was sarcastic and biting, he made no move to escape the cage of Tom’s body looming before him.  He merely looked up into his eyes with such ferocity that it sent a lick of that familiar heat up Tom’s spine.
 
“Can’t stand me?” Tom muttered.  His gaze flicked down to Algernon’s mouth. “I find that difficult to believe.”
 
“Well, believe it.”
 
Tom leaned down to press their lips together, but Algernon turned and he caught only his cheek.
 
“I still do not understand your ire,” Tom sighed in exasperation. “I did nothing to warrant it.”
 
Algernon huffed, not even looking at him.  Tom circled his arms around him and gave the ample flesh of his behind a generous and lustful squeeze, smirking when Algernon’s hands flew up to his biceps and the other boy barely contained a squeak.
 
“Perhaps I can lessen your agitation, hm?” Tom murmured.  Algernon’s hips jerked forward involuntarily as the circles Tom massaged with his hands became wider, spreading the mass apart with each pass. “Take you apart like I did over Hogsmeade weekend… make you come so hard you forget what your name is, hm? Would you still be angry after that?”
 
Algernon’s head fell back against the wall when Tom inserted one thigh between both of his.
 
“You’re so awful,” Algernon whined, eyes closing of their own accord. “Intimacy doesn’t fix everything.”
 
“No?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

CHAPTER ONE
 
“So… Eric…”
 
“Leah, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times,” Bitty rolled his eyes fondly, crossing his legs and getting comfortable in his grey armchair. “Call me Bitty.  You may be a fancy pants director now, but you’ll always be family.”
 
The young woman across from him ducked her head sheepishly, tugging at the sleeves of her navy sweater and pushing her glasses up. “S-sorry.  I’m just a bit nervous, you know? I want to do the story justice.”
 
“He’ll think it’s perfect even if you have the camera pointed at everyone’s feet the entire time.”
 
She sighed. “Well, yes, but

I’ll

know.”
 
Bitty leaned forward to pat her hand consolingly, and she offered him a weak grin before nodding to the small crew behind her.  The cameraman, a tall, lanky fellow with dark hair and a disconcertingly straight face, gave a thumbs up, and the boom operator brushed pie crust crumbs off of his cheeks and straightened up to get into position.
 
“Bitty,” Leah cleared her throat, a determined look coming over her face.  The lean blonde man nodded encouragingly. “When did you first notice Nick’s interest in figure skating?”
 
“Oh, goodness,” said Bitty. “I was prepared for this.  We were up in Montreal for the holidays, and we had been for a while because Jack wasn’t training for the regular season anymore on account of his hip…”
 
… … …. …. …. …
 
“Daddy, I can’t move my arms.”
 
Bitty sat back and took in his handiwork with satisfied eyes, acknowledging that his daughter did look fairly reminiscent of Randy from

A Christmas Story

. “I bet you’re nice and warm, though.”
 
“I can’t play shinny with no arms.”
 
“Oh, phooey,” he fussed, tugging Amy’s fuzzy green hat down further over her hair. “I’m

this

close to calling a ban on all outside activities today.  The weatherman said something about a blizzard tomorrow? Lord, help me.”
 
Amy sighed and pouted, and Bitty reasoned that it was all of the Canadians she’d grown up around that made her so dismissive of the effects of the cold.  After a few solemn moments of nonverbal pleading on her part, he finally began helping the girl get rid of the outermost marshmallow coat so that she less resembled a scarecrow.
 
Preoccupied as he was in such a task, he almost missed the small blonde waltzing behind him in a beeline for the door in nothing but a t-shirt and underoos.
 
And to be perfectly fair, it wasn’t as if the little one was

trying

to be openly defiant.  By the befuddled look on his face when Bitty called out for him to pause, it was easy to see that he genuinely didn’t understand what he was doing wrong.
 
“Where is your jacket, mister? And your jeans? Boots, gloves,

hat?

”
 
“Not wearin’ ‘em.”
 
“If I have to go out like this, Nicky does, too,” Amy complained.
 
“Okay!” Nicky agreed readily with a bright grin, throwing his arms wide to be donned with whatever garments Bitty so chose.  Amy rolled her eyes.
 
Bitty sighed, exasperated, but secretly loved that his son still allowed himself to be dressed by his daddy.  By the time Amy had been Nicky’s age, she’d wanted to do everything by herself and any help offered had been met with stubborn resistance and not a small amount of extremely verbal disapproval.  Nicky squealed with joy to be held and fed and dressed and was generally the happiest child Bitty had ever seen.
 
His son was usually the easiest to Christmas shop for, given his competition; Amy had a list every year that, while not long, was always incredibly specific.  Setting out to find some rare addition to her Pokémon figurine collection or a t-shirt that she’d seen on one of her favorite cartoon characters - “No, not with them

on it

, the one they’re

wearing

!” - was more of a hassle than simply plying Nicky with sweets and handing him a large, fluffy bear that he’d hug life into.
 
But this year, while he and Jack had long since ordered, received, and wrapped Amy’s present, they were taking just a bit longer to consider Nicky’s.
 
Another stuffed animal and more sweet treats wouldn’t do it for the boy forever - he would be turning five in March, and starting school the following August.  He would begin to want things that other kids his age wanted, and Bitty simply did not know where to start.  Nicky loved

everything

and

everyone

, which made it especially difficult to pick out what he cherished above all the rest.
 
“Daddy, come

on

.”
 
He blinked out of his daze and looked down at Amy, who was tugging enthusiastically at his hand.  Nicky, now clothed in appropriate winter attire -

when had that happened?

- had grabbed the other, but he wasn’t tugging.  He contentedly allowed Bitty’s hand to cradle his own and sucked absently on his other thumb.  Bitty gently disengaged the appendage from his mouth, and Nicky frowned, but it smoothed over quickly and he merely swung the hand by his side instead.
 
“Alright, let’s head out,” Bitty smiled, and Amy cheered.  He looked around. “Wait, I thought Papa was coming?”
 
“He said he’d meet us at the lake later - come

on

, Daddy! Marc and Davey and Penny are probably wondering where I am!”
 
“Bellamy Suzanne,” Bitty chastised when she tugged particularly hard, “I’ve told you time and time again that patience is a virtue.”
 
“So is shinny.”
 
“Funny, I don’t remember that being the case.”
 
“Da-

ddy

.”
 
“Young lady, I can find my way to the front door just fine without you, thank you very much.”
 
“

Can

you?”
 
He could, and he did.  
 
Eventually; after double and triple checking that no skin except that of their faces was showing, that their boots were tied with the laces tucked into the sides to prevent trippage, and that Nicky had gone to the bathroom.  When they finally left, Amy was practically red in the face.
 
He’d whipped out his old figure skates for the trip; they were swung over his shoulder - one dangling in front of his chest and the other by his shoulder blade - and he felt Nicky’s eyes following their movements for the entire walk to the lake by Jack’s parents’ home.  More than once, when he looked down and caught him staring, the boy looked up and away at the grey sky with rosy cheeks that could have easily been explained away by the cold.
 
Nicky didn’t know how to skate.
 
Or, at least, not

really

.
 
It was the only thing he wasn’t automatically enthusiastic about.  He had, of course, stepped foot on the ice before with skates on - little skates that were in Bitty’s bag just in case - but the only times he’d done so were when hockey was occurring on the ice at the same time, and the sight of several big men - his uncles, mostly - darting back and forth, sometimes “playfully” ramming into each other, had scared the bejeebies out of the poor baby.  He’d cried and cried until Bitty steered him off of the ice and onto a safe patch of snow.
 
Amy had chirped her brother to heaven and back, and Nicky was pink with embarrassment for about two point five seconds before he found joy in making snowmen and angels with Lardo and forgot all about it.
 
The lake was preoccupied by some of the neighborhood youth and their parents, including Amy’s sometimes-friends that she was always pleased to meet up with while they were in Montreal.  She looked up at Bitty for permission when she saw them by one of the benches beckoning her and, when he nodded with an amused smile, took off running - wrapped stick in glove - to join them.
 
He led Nicky over to one of the benches that weren’t covered in ice and they watched Amy scramble onto the ice to play with her friends.  Davey - the tallest nine-year-old Bitty had honestly ever seen - became hopelessly flustered and lost his grip on his stick whenever Amy came within a few feet of him, and the girl couldn’t have been more oblivious to that fact.  It had Bitty simultaneously snickering and keeping a sharp eye on the boy.
 
“Daddy?”
 
He glanced down at Nicky, whose fidgeting hands were clasped in his lap. “Yes?”
 
“You’re not gonna skate?”
 
“Not yet,” Bitty shook his head, circling an arm around him and pulling him warmly into his side. “Maybe we can play in the snow until Papa gets here?”
 
Nicky was quiet for a moment or two, and Bitty figured he mightn’t have heard, but just as he began to repeat himself, his son shook his head and stared - first at the figure skates on the other side of Bitty, and then at the relatively calm ice sprawled out in front of them.
 
“I wanna watch you skate, Daddy.”
 
Bitty blinked, and then smiled softly. “Well, alright, then.  But I don’t want you sittin’ here all by yourself.” He pulled out Nicky’s skates and the boy’s eyes immediately grew wary. “Don’t worry, sweetheart.  I won’t let you fall.”
 
They laced up and slid onto the ice to join the sparse congregation of casual skaters that circled the main part of the lake, a little ways away from the bulge on the other side that stuck out - where Amy and her friends played.  
 
Nicky clutched Bitty’s hand in a death grip, though his stride was even and rhythmic enough to keep going all on his own.  Bitty hummed in thought and squeezed his hand to get his attention.
 
“You wanna see something cool?”
 
Nicky’s head snapped up to look at him instead of the ice, and his signature bright, curious grin quirked at his lips as he nodded fervently.
 
Bitty gently pried apart their clasped hands and, after glancing back to make sure the boy was still okay by himself, pulled into a spin, center ice.
 
… … … … … …
 
“And you used to skate competitively, right?”
 
“Yup.  When I was younger, I placed at Southern Junior Regionals two years in a row.  I would have gone further, but that was commitment I wasn’t prepared to make at that age.  We moved to Madison when I was a freshman, lost touch with my old coach, and I took up with hockey instead.  Figure skating will always be my first love, but… well, I suppose it just wasn’t in the cards for me to continue.”
 
… … … … … … 
 
He was a bit rusty and his exit was a bit shaky as a result, but he thought he did fairly well, all things considered.
 
When he turned, Nicky was staring at him as if he’d just made it rain sugar pie; jaw dropped, brown eyes wide and round, arms outstretched to either side as if to keep himself from falling.  After a moment or two of basking in this obvious admiration, Bitty began to worry that he’d frozen himself that way.
 
And then:
 
“I wanna do tricks!”
 
Bitty laughed and skated back toward him. “Oh, yeah?”
 
“Yeah!”
 
“Well, alright, then.  Though, I don’t think you have the right skates for - Nicolas!”
 
Nicky took off, and Bitty was momentarily taken aback by the speed with which he did so, but hurriedly recollected his wits and followed to make sure he didn’t hurt himself.
 
“Slow down!”
 
And Nicky did; slightly.  Only to get enough control to lift one leg and twine it in front of the other to push off into a shaky, Jackson-esque twist in imitation of Bitty’s spin.  He didn’t fall - and in fact, skated tremulously right on out of it - and as a result, a blinding beam emanated from his entire person.  Bitty caught him when he rushed over.
 
“Just like you!”
 
“Y-yeah,” Bitty managed to inject a sufficient amount of enthusiasm into his voice to mask his astonishment. “Just like me.  Wanna practice some more?”
 
“Yes, please!”
 
By the time Jack arrived with his father in tow, Nicky was doing short, proper spins, and the people around them began to take notice of the boy who looked far too young to be able to do anything except scoot along with his eyes on his skates to make sure he didn’t knock them into each other.
 
Seeing Jack, Nicky rushed over and demonstrated for him, getting fancy with his hands up in the air, and Jack looked just about as gobsmacked as Bitty had been the first time around.  Bob laughed joyously and turned to Bitty.
 
“I didn’t know he did figure skating now,” he said, eyes twinkling happily. “We don’t Skype enough.”
 
Bitty shook his head fondly, recognizing a chirp when he heard one; they Skyped Jack’s parents and his own at least once every couple of weeks to catch up, and phone calls weren’t exactly rare, either. “He just learned that today.  He’s only been on the ice

maybe

three times in his life, and any time before this for about ten minutes each.”
 
Bob’s expression quickly morphed into one of pleasant surprise. “Oh, really?”
 
“Ain’t it somethin’?”
 
“Daddy!”
 
They looked both turned to Nicky, who peered up at him with determined eyes set incongruously into his round, babyish face.  Clearly, he’d been lavished with enough shocked praise from his papa and wanted new material to stun the masses.
 
When they finally left the lake - practically dragging Amy away despite the fact that she was clearly tired and in need of a warm blanket and a nap - Nicky could do little spins, skate with one leg lifted slightly behind him, and do very brief lunges.  
 
They were walking back - both children hanging off of their

grand-pére

and swinging the chortling man’s hands back and forth - and Jack intertwined his and Bitty’s gloved hands and leaned down to murmur, “I’m beginning to think Nick’s problem with

skating

is really just a problem with

hockey

.”
 
And thinking back on it, that sure made a whole lot of sense.
 
Whenever they’d gone to Jack’s games, Nicky would slap his hands over his eyes and burrow further into Bitty’s side as the players clashed while Amy would laugh her pants off at him, and really, the only time he could truly enjoy himself when hockey was even remotely involved was when they watched on the TV or met up with the Bruins

outside

of the rink.
 
Bitty smiled ruefully up at him. “I think you’re right.”
 
Jack shrugged, and didn’t seem all that bothered. “I’m happy he’s found

something

on the ice he can enjoy.”
 
“Me too.” Bitty gasped and stopped walking, and Jack turned to him in surprise. “I know what we should get him for Christmas.”
 
Jack’s heavily-lidded blue eyes darted between his own, and a slow, small grin spread across his face.
 
… … … … … …
 
“Proper figure skates,” Bitty elaborated. “And a promise to sign him up for a junior league back in Boston.”
 
“On a scale from one to ten, how much screaming accompanied that present?”
 
Bitty laughed. “Well, the skates sent him well and truly out of his mind.  But he said he’d only do the junior league if I coached him on the side.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him no, but I hadn’t properly skated in years and I’d

never

been a coach.” He shook his head, smiling. “Despite that, though... I did some research, brushed up on my techniques, and we made it work.  Kept me in shape, too, which wasn’t a bad plus.”
 
Leah laughed. “And that was the beginning,” she mused.
 
“Yes, that was the beginning,” Bitty nodded. “And honestly, I knew right off the bat that if he practiced, he had the potential to be one of the greatest the world’s ever seen - and that’s not just the proud dad in me talkin’.  It was the look in his eyes whenever he set out to learn something different… how he kept wanting to surprise people with something new… and it was the first thing that he’d ever done with such a degree of concentration and seriousness whilst still having so much fun.”
 
“Wow.”
 
“Yeah.”

CHAPTER TWO
 
“There’s been plenty of criticism,” Robert “Bad Bob” Zimmermann declared, “regarding Nick.  And I say - always, I say - my grandson has done more for the world of figure skating than Jack and I have for that of hockey combined, and Jack agrees.  And even if Nick’s wasn’t more of a household name than mine at this point, I imagine that he’s more than cemented himself a title in the Zimmermann legacy with his passion and dedication to his craft.  Given it - and continues to give it - his absolute all.

That’s

what makes a legend, I should think.”
 
“Do you ever wish that he’d dabbled in hockey?”
 
Bob shook his head. “He’s never cared for it, and the drive wouldn’t have been there.” He chortled. “Trying to picture Nick in pads is like trying to picture Jack out of them.  Or Eric without his apron, eh?  It does not compute.”
 
… … … … … … … …
 
“Nicolas!”

Click, click.

“Nick!”

Flash

.
 
“Bittle-Zimmermann, over here!”
 
Nick, slim in his formfitting all-black jumpsuit with damp-darkened blonde hair sticking up in places from the sweat and speed of his performance, spun to greet the cameras with a sunny grin and stuffed animal gifts clutched under each arm.  
 
Bitty rolled his eyes at Maria, Nick’s trainer, fondly; his son was a sucker for the cameras, always wanting to give shoutouts to his friends and family and make his mark on everywhere he went.  Media training had been an absolute must around the time he’d first began to accumulate a fanbase and international attention, and it paid off.
 
“We’ve gotta be back at the hotel by seven, Nicky,” Bitty patted the boy’s arm to get his attention.  
 
Nick turned and stared beseechingly at Bitty while Bitty stared pointedly right back at him, and Maria must have thought them a sight; both of the same coloring and roughly the same stature, having a nonverbal conversation with matching pairs of eyes emoting vastly different messages.
 
“We’ve got some time,” she interjected, and Nick looked positively gleeful when she offered to hold some of his stuffed kittens and piggies before rushing off to speak with those calling for him.
 
Bitty kept a fretful eye out.  Media-trained though Nick was, there were still some hateful vultures out there, and while Bitty couldn’t control how anyone else acted, he most certainly could steer his son away from a stressful situation.  
 
In Bitty’s eyes, Nick was still his little boy because he very much acted like it - and the thought of anyone putting a frown on his face made Bitty’s heart hurt.
 
“Nicolas, you broke a personal record today in your short program,” a tall woman with red hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail proclaimed. “How do you feel?”
 
“Happy as a clam!”
 
Bitty face-palmed and muttered, “What a

cornball

,” while Maria snickered.
 
“Nick! Nick! Some skaters find themselves struggling to gain back their stride after a growth spurt early on in their career, but you claim this helped you today?”
 
Nick shrugged, grinning. “My body still hadn’t changed when I debuted in Seniors last year, and though I’ve always been pretty limber, over the summer my capabilities just sort of… expanded along with the rest of me.” He wiggled his arms for effect, and the paps and several onlookers laughed. “Not without some hard work, of course.  But then every change is an opportunity, and, well, can’t stay tiny forever, eh?”

Click, click.  Flash

.
 
“What do you say to your critics who claim that you’ve abandoned the Zimmermann legacy?”
 
Bitty stiffened and took a step forward, but Nick kept right on smiling.

“

Grand-pére

tells me that he’s proud of me,” said the boy, beaming, seemingly unaffected. “And so do my dads, every day.  Their opinions - as well as those of the people who care about me and have helped me get to this point - are the ones that truly get through, and they have always been positive and supportive of what I’ve chosen to do with my career on the ice.  For that, I’ll always feel grateful and included.”
 
Blinking back tears at his son’s words, Bitty unconsciously brought a hand up to press against his trembling lips.
 
“We love you, Nick!” screamed a gaggle of fans on the other side of one of the barriers bracketing the walkway.  Nick winked and waggled his fingers at them in an almost flirtatious wave, and - without hesitation - the cameras caught it all.  
 
Lord, there would be gifs all over social media in a matter of hours.
 
Bitty wasn’t ready for this.
 
“Nicolas Laurent Bittle-Zimmermann, it is time to

go

.”
 
… … … … … … …
 
“There’s a running gag trending on social media about you attempting figure skating and Nick attempting hockey,” Leah prodded, a smirk twitching at her lips. “How did that get started?”
 
“

Crisse

, that was my granddaughter’s doing,” Bob shook his head, scratching his silver hair. “I’m an old man now - it’s almost a miracle I’ve lasted this long - and these kids have me twirling around the kitchen like I’m their age.”
 
… … … … … … …
 
“Aw, come on,

grand-pére

,” Amy wheedled, phone out. “Do it for the Vine.” 
 
She leaned against the flour-dusted counter while Bitty busied himself with latticing pie crusts for after dinner.  Nick was sitting across from Bob at the table, doodling an admittedly poor caricature of the amused man on a napkin with a permanent marker, but looked up when his sister spoke.
 
“You still use Vine?” he chirped, quirking an eyebrow.
 
“It’s coming back, mark my words,” she shot back, sticking her tongue out at him. “And this’ll be the one that does it.” She turned back to Bob. “I see you and

grand-mére

dancing sometimes, so I know you’ve still got it.”
 
Bob shook his head ruefully at her and stood with a barely audible groan, crossing his arms. “What’s in this for me? How do I know I’m not selling out for nothing?”
 
“Well,” Amy drew out thoughtfully, and then perked up and pointed at Nick. “Nicky will play a pickup game with Papa this afternoon, I’ll get it all recorded, and we’ll call your suffering even.”
 
“I’m doing

what

now?”
 
Amy grinned. “It’ll be fun.”
 
“Are you a lawyer, yet?” Nick demanded. “I thought a lawyer’s idea of fun was getting high after a long day at the firm.”
 
“One, I’m only twenty-three, doofus. And two, that’s Uncle Shitty’s - ” Bitty cleared his throat and Amy amended, “Uncle

Crappy’s

idea of fun.  I like humiliating my famous family on social media and watching people lose their minds over it.  Does that make me a bad person slash almost-lawyer? I like to think it doesn’t.”
 
“For you,

mon chou

, I will do it,” Bob nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Nicky, show me how to do this, eh… ‘Ina Bauer’.”
 
“I think you’re too old for that one,

grand-pére

.”
 
It was said innocently, as most things uttered by Nick were, but Bob couldn’t deny that it was true.  He’d seen some of things his grandson could do on the ice, and none of them were in his very sparse repertoire of abilities when it came to moving about - hadn’t been even when he was still young and spritely.
 
“Alright, then.  Show me an easy one.”
 
Nick hopped up, ink-stained napkin fluttering to the floor, and began to explain with bright eyes. 
 
… … … … … ...

CHAPTER THREE
 
“Sweetheart, Nicky’s class is at eleven!”
 
“I remember!” Jack called back, forcing his voice to carry over the running water of the shower.
 
It was an odd morning - he’d gotten up a little later than he would have liked, but he blamed that solely on how hard he’d hit the pillow the night before after he and Bitty had gotten some much-needed alone time for the first time in many evenings.  The corners of his lips quirked, and he turned his face up toward the warm spray; the fresh memories of flushed skin pressed against his inspired a twitch from his nether regions, and he glanced down reproachfully.  No time.
 
He finished up and, upon preparing to go back into their bedroom to get dressed, caught a glimpse of his shadowy face in the mirror and raised an eyebrow before shaking his head.  No time to shave.
 
As much as Bitty chirped him about how his fashion choices had only changed in the time between college and the present from lumberjack to lumberjack

dad

, flannel was comfortable and familiar and he knew his husband liked it despite all of the evidence to the contrary.  He didn’t bother doing up any buttons, though.  No time.
 
He snatched a coat from the closet, left the room, and swiftly descended the stairs - feeling out of sorts, but not too terribly - calling out, “Nicky, you ready?”
 
Nick was sitting cross-legged in the armchair in the living room in his workout clothes, as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever.  Bitty often commented that they’d picked up the wrong kid at the hospital, because Nick certainly didn’t get his love of the morning from

him

.
 
“

I’m

ready,” Nick replied cheekily, nibbling on a muffin.  Jack sniffed the air; in his haste, he hadn’t registered the delicious scent of blueberries wafting out from the kitchen. “Are

you

ready, Papa?”
 
“Hush,

gamin

,” Jack muttered, mussing the boy’s hair as he beelined for the source of the heavenly aroma.  Nick merely took another bite, ironically unruffled.
 
Bitty leant against the island, poring over a cheerful yellow notebook with calculating eyes.  An inviting plate of muffins, neatly composed with the exception of a gap where one was missing, sat beside the book.  Jack kissed his husband’s cheek and grabbed one of the delectable-looking treats at the same time.  He felt Bitty’s cheek bunch in a smile under his lips, and placed another kiss just below his jaw, then another behind his ear.
 
“Y’all best get goin’, or you’re gonna be late,” Bitty chastised, tapping him semi-sharply on the ass.  Jack kissed him once more - chastely, but lovingly on the lips - and went back to collect Nick.
 
On top of competing in regular competitions when he was young, they had also enrolled Nick in ballet classes at several other parents’ suggestions.  It improved flexibility and range of movement whilst incorporating many of the elements of dance that were all but essential to any good figure skater, and Nick had loved it so it was ballet

and

skating up until he was thirteen.  Then, he’d wanted something different.
 
“I was doing some research,” the boy had said over dinner, “and they do specialty classes at the rec center for high schoolers - ”
 
“You’re barely a high schooler,” Amy had pointed out teasingly, reaching over the table to grab the green beans. “

Freshman

.”
 
“ - and I saw a pole fitness class,” Nick finished, heeding her none. “I could do with more strength in my legs and core.”
 
Jack had blinked owlishly for about three solid seconds, but Bitty launched into an enthusiastic spiel about a group of professional pole dancers he followed on social media and YouTube whose routines gained millions of subscribers’ worth of recognition.  Nick was familiar with them as well, and the two of them chattered back and forth in the fast, gesture-heavy way that they so effortlessly fell into.
 
Jack turned to Amy, bewildered, and she only shrugged, waving a fork loftily in their direction.
 
“Pole fitness is

in

now,” she’d explained, and Jack only raised his eyebrows. “Oh, don’t look like that, Papa.  It’s been a thing for a while, but it’s gotten huge these past couple of years.  There are some kids at school that are petitioning to get a club started.”
 
“A pole dancing club?”
 
“Pole

fitness

club.  Dancing is optional.”
 
Jack cleared his throat, and Bitty and Nick turned to him with matching sets of wide, dark eyes.
 
“Maybe you should hold off for just a couple more years,” he remarked awkwardly. “I thought you liked ballet, Nicky?”
 
Nick pouted. “I do.  But… I want to try something new, too.  Maybe I could do both?”
 
“On top of school?” Jack challenged, brow furrowing. 
 
“The class is on the weekends in the morning,” Nick replied, eyes beginning to take on a pleading quality that made Jack falter for a moment. “So it won’t interfere with anything else - and I’ll keep up my grades, I promise!”
 
“Jack,” Bitty frowned, and Jack looked at him, but didn’t know quite what to say.
 
He personally thought that fourteen was a bit young to be doing

anything

athletic on a pole, and although he knew intrinsically that it was mostly just rigorous exercise, there was a mental block attached to a life-long stigma of what pole dancing was.  He knew Bitty was reading the struggle on his face, because though the younger man didn’t look all too happy with him, he’d patted Nick’s hand and told their son that they’d think about it.
 
They’d discussed it that night and for a couple of nights after - Nick chomping at the bit all the while - and Jack had finally conceded after reading up on it and checking up on the troupe that Bitty followed to get a better feel for what it was.
 
Presently, it was just another thing that one of their kids participated in.  Amy did heaps upon heaps of extracurriculars and clubs, and had done ever since middle school.  Nick had skating - which took up most of his time - and ballet - and then pole fitness, the most recent development.  And a very, very extensive social circle that Jack couldn’t keep track of for the life of him.
 
He and Bitty took turns driving Nick to his various engagements and activities - Amy could get to most on her own - and even though he drove Nick to pole fitness that morning, he went to pick him up as well, because Bitty was hard at work perfecting a couple of recipes that just couldn’t wait to be perfected and Jack wasn’t doing anything that afternoon, anyway.
 
He pulled up to the queue outside of the rec center and waited with a book for the one o’clock flock of teens to exit.  When they did, Jack spotted Nick and immediately knew something was off.
 
Nick loved pole fitness; he loved everything that he did that helped him become a better skater.  He was ordinarily bright with sweat and the afterglow of a good workout when Jack came to get him.
 
Nick’s entire face was flushed pink, his shoulders were slightly hunched, and his gait was hurried all the way to the car.  He threw his bag into the back and clambered in after it, slamming the door behind him.  Jack glanced at the passenger seat, and then back at Nick, who stared determinedly out of the window, looking by far the most upset Jack had seen him in… well,

years

.
 
“Nicky?”
 
His son’s face crumpled slightly, but he still didn’t say anything, choosing instead to tuck his face into his shoulder.
 
Jack’s heart gave an unpleasant lurch.
 
He pulled out of the lot and drove them home.
 
Nick looked ready to bolt as soon as they pulled into the garage, but Jack stopped him, saying, “Nicolas, wait.”
 
Nick sighed and Jack twisted around to get a better look at him.
 
“What’s wrong,

mon fils

?”
 
Nick looked like he was struggling to speak, avoiding his eyes and wringing his hands together.
 
Jack had confidence that he would collect his thoughts and say what was on his mind, though; his son was a supremely verbal being, much like Bitty.
 
But Nick didn’t say anything, much to his surprise.
 
He snatched up his bag and threw the car door open before practically leaping out and bolting into the house.  Jack only had time to blink twice before he was out and following after him, keys cutting into the flesh of his palm from how hard he gripped them.
 
Bitty was in the living room, and even if Jack didn’t already know that Nick would have had to cut through there to get to the stairs, he would have guessed by the stricken look on his husband’s face.
 
“What on earth?” Bitty inhaled sharply, getting up from the couch.  Jack shot him a helpless look.
 
“He’s been like that since I came to get him,” he explained, feeling unpleasantly on edge. “I don’t - I have no idea - I mean, he didn’t say

anything

, Bits.  Like, at all.”
 
Nick didn’t have

moods

.
 
Their surrogate, Lora, had had a relatively easy pregnancy - as easy a time as any woman could have, carrying another life within them.  He started sleeping through the night far earlier than Amy had, and grew from a content baby to a happy, amicable toddler who’d thrown precious few tantrums, to a surprisingly emotionally mature preteen to what they considered him now - Nick, the perpetually unruffle-able.
 
“Maybe it’s me?”
 
As soon as he said it, Jack wished he could swallow it right back down.  It was just a passing thought, and he hadn’t even been aware of his lips moving to form the words until the damage was done.
 
Now that it was in the air, he’d never be able to get rid of it.  He sank into the armchair and ran a hand through his hair.
 
Bitty read the look on his face and immediately said, “Now, Jack, we don’t know that.” His voice was firm and soothing all at once. “And I doubt it’s true, anyway.  I’ll go see if I can get him to open up.  If not, well...  we’re gonna have to wait for him to come to us.”
 
It felt like Bitty was upstairs for years, and at first Jack just sat where he was, metaphorically writhing in dread and worry, but he quickly realized he was only torturing himself waiting and went down to the workout sanctuary in their basement to blow off some steam.
 
By the time he’d done all his body was capable of and taken a shower, it was time for lunch and he went down to fix himself something.  Bitty was standing by the sink, looking relatively fine except for the small wrinkle between his brows.  He looked up when Jack came closer and his expression cleared completely.
 
“Hey,” said Jack.
 
“Hey,” Bitty smiled a smile so soft it was impossible

not

to be reassured in that moment.  It faltered a bit, though, after a beat, and Jack felt his heart plummet.
 
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
 
Bitty came over and ran his hands down Jack’s chest, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in his cotton t-shirt.  Jack caught his hands and looked into his eyes searchingly.
 
“I think…” Bitty bit his lip. “You two should talk.  There are some boys at the rec center that are usually pretty gross to the girls in his class, but today they really came for him.  I should let him tell you, though.”
 
Jack frowned and opened his mouth to speak again, but Amy came skidding in, making a beeline for the refrigerator with mutters of

starving

and

stomach eating itself

on her breath.  Bitty pulled away from him to make his way over and shoo her off to the living room while he made something edible for her; Amy could barely pour cereal without something going horribly wrong.
 
Jack made his way up the stairs and down the hall to the last doorway on the left.  The door was open halfway, but he knocked anyway, and waited for Nick’s soft call of, “Come in!” before entering.
 
Jack looked around at the posters of famous - and not so famous, underrated - figure skaters and a couple of soccer players, the cluttered desk, the clothes tossed over every available surface; the curtained windows, the crooked rug, the Spider-Man bedcovers; the pair of legs attached to long-socked feet sticking out from underneath the bed.
 
“Nicky?”
 
From underneath the bed, his son responded with a muffled shout of acknowledgment.  Jack felt worry spasm through him once more; he had almost forgotten that, in times of great distress - which, again, happened

almost never

- Nick liked to retreat under the bed.  Jack remembered him saying something about it being nice, warm and dark under there when he was little and deathly afraid of thunderstorms.
 
Instead of making him come out, Jack lowered himself to sit cross-legged beside the pair of legs and leant against the side of the bed.  He poked the sole of Nick’s foot and watched it twitch and drag upward a ways, ready to retreat into the relative comfort of the bed’s underside with its owner, who spoke without further prompt.
 
“

J’suis désolé

, Papa,” mumbled Nick. “I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings.”
 
Jack shook his head, and then remembered that his son couldn’t see him. “I was only worried for you, Nicky.  You scared the bajeezus out of me.”
 
“Bajeezus?” Nick giggled. “Dad

vous influence

, eh?”
 
“

Sois tranquille, enfante

,” Jack snorted, lightly smacking the boy’s ankles.  Nick drew them up again slightly, bending his legs at the knee and catching Jack in the hip in the process.
 
Jack tensed and attempted to stifle a pained grunt, but Nick must have heard him anyway and scrambled to wriggle out from underneath the bed to kneel next to Jack, face screwed up in apology and concern.
 
“

Sorry

,” he blurted frantically. “Sorry, sorry - ”
 
“It’s okay,” Jack waved him off, finally managing to smooth over his grimace.  He lifted one arm - the arm opposite his shitty hip - and Nick crawled over his legs to settle underneath it. “I’m fine.  What about you?”
 
Nick stared resolutely at his fingers, which twisted anxiously among themselves. “Usually, crossfit runs late.  But on the days that it doesn’t, there are these guys that are all up on Hannah and Mariah, right?”
 
Jack frowned, but nodded for him to go on.
 
“We tell the instructors, and sometimes they’re good at keeping an eye out, but sometimes they have other stuff to do to prepare for their other classes.  Today was one of those days perfect for them to do something - and at first - at first, they were calling Mariah… stuff… and snapping the back of Hannah’s bra and stuff like that while I was still getting my bag together.  Joanna came back in the class to tell me what was going on - because they clear out when I get there for some reason - ”
 
Jack didn’t bother interrupting the flow of the story by mentioning that Nicky, while short, was a small force of lean muscle, and it was evident when he was without sleeves, as he often was when working out.
 
“ - and when I came out, Mariah had already punched one of them, and I didn’t want to fight, but it was looking like that was what was about to happen.” He took in a shuddering breath and drew his knees into his chest.  Jack felt his own back stiffen in anger.
 
“Did they hurt you?” he heard himself ask dangerously through gritted teeth.
 
“No,” Nick assuaged quickly. “Not… physically.  The boy that Mariah punched got really red in the face and he looked at me and started saying all this stuff about - about you, Papa.  And some about

Grand-pére

, but mostly you.”
 
“What about me?”
 
“Well.” His fingers twisted faster and a half-hysterical giggle burst out of him, choked prematurely by the onset of unshed tears. “It’s funny - I know it was all pure crap, you know? He was just mad he got punched by a girl and he didn’t want to hit her back so he turned on me - I

know

that.  But I couldn’t stop thinking even after the instructors came and broke it all up.”
 
Jack stroked his blonde hair reassuringly. “Thinking about what,

mon fils

?”
 
Nick turned to look at him for the first time in several minutes and Jack struggled to maintain his composure at the raw vulnerability there, amplified by the gleam of moisture.
 
“Do - do you wish sometimes that I - that I didn’t figure skate?” Nick stammered out, pulling at his fingers even harder. “Or - do ballet and stuff like that? I know that

you

don’t really care, but - I know that people ask you all the time about me and - is that weird for you? That I do what I do?”
 
Jack reared back slightly, not quite expecting something like that.  His beat of silence must have scared Nick a bit, because his son began to wriggle underneath his arm and his breathing came a bit quicker.  Jack shook himself out of his momentary surprise and took Nick’s shoulders in both hands to turn him bodily toward Jack.
 
“Nicolas,” he began, and made sure to keep steady eye contact with him as he spoke steadily and with all of the conviction he felt when it came to this particular subject, “All I’ve ever wanted - all I’ve ever asked of you - is for you to pursue the things that you love.  And you’ve done that - several times over and with

feeling

and

passion

that I couldn’t even

begin

to fathom at your age.” 
 
He shook his head in mild disbelief. 
 
“I’m so proud of you, Nicky.  And believe it or not, I have too much experience already answering questions that aren't anyone’s business.  But I’ve never once felt anything other than admiration of everything that you do - and

will

do - when I do answer.” He wiped away a tear that ran down Nick’s cheek with his left thumb. “So, no.  No, I’ve never wished that you didn’t skate.  Or did ballet.  Or

pole fitness

,” he added with a small smile.
 
Nick threw himself forward and wrapped his arms around Jack, who hugged him tightly right back.  They stayed that way for nearly three whole minutes; Jack pressed his nose to the top of Nick’s head and mourned the absence of that babyish smell that had left him so long ago.
 
“What were those kids’ names?” he remembered to ask, darkness pooling in his gut.  He tried to visualize the faces of Mariah and Hannah, and his brain helpfully came up with a chatty, coily-haired girl with braces and a brunette girl, slightly taller than Nick, with dimples and a quirky sense of humor.  Anger came next. “The center should be doing a better job of monitoring what goes on.”
 
“Dad…”
 
Nick’s unease with confrontation and conflict showed plainly on his face.
 
“No, Nicolas.  Some things can't be allowed to scrape by unchecked, and sexual harassment is one of them.”
 
Nick flinched at the term, but nodded once, sharply, in agreement.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Late 1986

Winter
 
“I’m a romantic, you know,” Cassius Black informed his future wife - though he didn’t know it then - on the night that they met.
 
She was beautiful like no other woman at the gala that night; radiant, rich brown skin, keen, sharp eyes, and a seasonally appropriate silver gown that hugged just the right places and shimmered when the light hit it just so.
 
She would have gotten around to him eventually, but he stepped away from where he stood with the other correspondents and representatives from and of all of the major media outlets before she could.  He was of the latter; a representative, as he owned his paper almost-exclusively.  He wouldn’t be doing any reporting tonight.
 
No, instead he approached when she was taking a breather by the table where refreshments were being poured by autonomous steel pitchers.  There was a separate open bar; this table was purely for non-alcoholic drinks.  A good sign - he had a track record, and he subconsciously hoped she wasn’t as fond of the hard stuff as he’d proved to be.  That would be too much temptation wrapped up into one delicious-looking package.

Alright,

he internally chastised himself.

Be confident, not disrespectful.

He cleared his throat.  She looked up from her crystal goblet of punch, and he found himself momentarily winded.  There was a tiny, diamond stud piercing on the right side of her nose.  It caught the light.  He focused on not making a fool out of himself.
 
“Casey Black,” he introduced easily enough, and stuck out a practiced hand.  She smiled charmingly, the same smile he’d practically craned his neck to see several times that night already.
 
“Giovanna Zabini,” she replied in an accented alto, and placed her hand in his.  
 
He bowed low and brushed his lips against the back of it, and felt her eyes rake over his face, hair, and attire.  This did not make him nervous; he was reasonably good-looking (at least he was told), his hair was something he took pride in, and he’d dressed impressively for this event in the interest of professionalism

and

the possibility of someone maybe finding him attractive enough to take home.
 
No, it was the talking part that often gave him trouble.
 
“May I just say,” he began after relinquishing her hand, “that you look absolutely stunning this evening, Ms. Zabini?”
 
“You may,” she smirked. “You are not too shabby yourself, Mr. Black.”
 
He willed himself not to flush at the way she looked him over once more, wholly and fully for longer than was likely appropriate.  He struggled to find his tongue.
 
“I… ” He cleared his throat. “What is it that you do, Ms. Zabini?”
 
“Oh, many things,” said the beauty. “I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies, but primarily, I am an associate of the DMLE.”
 
“Oh?”
 
“A consultant on legal matters, for those that request one before trial, hearing or appeal,” she elaborated, tucking a long, raven twist of hair behind her ear. “And what is it that

you

do, Mr. Black?”
 
He shifted on his feet, simultaneously unnerved and enthralled by the intensity of her gaze. “I own the

Chariot

.”
 
Her eyes widened, and he felt a small shiver of pride trickle down his spine.
 
“I used to work for the

Prophet

,” he continued, and looked away in embarrassment when she cocked her head wryly. “I know, I know… but I wanted to go places, be someone on my own merit.  It was my first foothold.”
 
“I understand more than you would think.”
 
He chanced a sidelong glance in her direction.  Her expression was warm; compassionate.  He was unfamiliar with such familiarity in the eyes of a stranger when regarding him.
 
Usually, they saw only his family.
 
He wasn’t naïve; undoubtedly, she already at least vaguely knew of him and the fate that had befallen all of his family but him.  Eldest brother imprisoned, second eldest killed for a cause that gained him no favor in the eyes of the public, and parents that - whilst dead now - had spent most of their lives making enemies.
 
He was a loner in many respects.
 
It made it hard to swallow kindness from others when he wasn’t certain of its authenticity.
 
He maintained eye contact with Giovanna Zabini - steady, arousing eye contact - and suspected that she was being genuine.  He allowed himself to relax marginally.
 
“The night is coming to a close, Mr. Black.  Might I see you again soon?” 
 
She held his gaze, meaning filling her own expressive orbs to the brim.
 
He got the hint.
 
“Just Casey is fine, Ms. Zabini.”
 
“Very well - then I suppose you may call me Giovanna.”
 
He smiled. “Would you like to head back to mine for a nightcap, Giovanna?”
 
A bit of cleverness ticked at her left eyebrow. “Rather…

forward

.”
 
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he denied airily. “I’m a romantic, you know.”
 
“Hopeful, then.”
 
“Decidedly more accurate.”

As it turned out, they didn’t do much that first night.
 
Well, that wasn’t quite right - they talked.  A lot.
 
About things he was pretty sure hadn’t told anyone in a long time; not even his only true friend, Xenus, who he cared for a great deal, but couldn’t speak frankly to a lot of the time for… reasons.
 
He talked about growing up in the Black household, semi-resented for being in Ravenclaw instead of Slytherin, but not outright hated like his eldest brother, Sirius; an uncomfortable middle ground that left him uncertain as to his place in the family dynamic for a long time.  She spoke of her childhood in Tuscany with her father and her subsequent education and graduation

summa cum laude

from

l’Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons

.  He broke out his finest mulled wine, and whilst buzzed, admitted to his acute alcoholism.  She confided in him her problem with buying things she didn’t need.
 
On the surface, they were a conventional pair.
 
But underneath, there was a sizzling crackle that had him enthralled and wanting more of her, no matter the cost.  He sensed she harbored a similar interest, even if it wasn’t as all-consuming as it might have been for him - someone who had almost no one.
 
She bid him goodbye at his grand fireplace with a lingering kiss that sent his heart into a mad frenzy, and then she was gone.
 
They’d made arrangements to see each other later in the week.
 
He hadn’t been lying when he declared his semi-secret romanticism; he was already picturing her by his side for the rest of his days.

Early-1987

Spring
 
“Relax, Casey,” she murmured, amused, as he ran his fingers through his hair for what had to be the fourth time that morning.  She strode over to him and adjusted the lay of his shirt collar.  The domesticity of the action threw him for a happy loop. “Papá is not a judgmental man.”
 
“I feel like you’re just saying that to ease my nerves,” he accused without bite, and she shrugged.
 
“Maybe.”
 
“

Giovanna

.”
 
“I am not lying,” she laughed, and he felt his lips twitch as they always did when she laughed. “He is a jovial Italian man with a fondness for sweets and precious little interest in politics.  You have nothing to worry about.”
 
She was right, of course.
 
Somewhat.
 
Gregori Zabini was indeed an easy wizard to get along with; his sense of humor was cheeky and refreshing.  However, while the shovel talk communicated itself as a joke, Casey wondered if he should have considered it a bit more for what it was.
 
“Gigi is an excellent judge of character,” he told Casey in heavily accented, but fluent English. “Better than me, for sure.  If she says you are worthy, then I trust that she is telling the truth.”
 
“I appreciate that, sir.”
 
Gregori smiled, robust mustache twitching. “That being said, if I find out you have broken that trust? I have

connections

back in Italy, Black.”
 
“The mafia?” Casey quipped lightly, watching his girlfriend tread carefully in the shallow shore of the lake, overalls rolled up to her knees.  She appeared to be searching for something.
 
Gregori eyed him levelly for a moment, and then exploded into boisterous laughter.  Casey chuckled, too, both internally curious and wary.
 
“She is my life, sir,” he told the older man, sobering. “I would never intentionally hurt her.”
 
Gregori patted him on the back. “

Buon uomo

.”
 
“Casey!” Giovanna called.  
 
He looked up, and a sudden breeze blew hair into his face; he pushed it away and stood, excusing himself from her father’s company.
 
He slipped off his socks and loafers and relished the squish of warm, wet sand between his toes as he made his way over to where she stood, calf-deep in the dark blue water that shone in multiple colors of highlights from the early evening sun.
 
“It is a turtle,” she said, showing him the small, dark green shell cupped in her palms.  He stroked its back.
 
“Does he have a name?”
 
She furrowed her brow. “What makes you think that it is male?”
 
“The pattern of the tiles,” he lied blatantly, and she rolled her eyes.
 
“Incidentally, it

is

male,” she informed him wryly. “Because of the dip in his belly, see?”
 
She gently turned the turtle over; his head and claws peeked out from their safe harbor warily.  Casey noted the concave running along the turtle’s underside and stroked a finger down the length of it.
 
“What’s it for?”
 
“Makes mounting female turtles easier.”
 
He cleared his throat. “Ah.”
 
Giovanna was absolutely fascinated with the small creature.  She observed it carefully, with gentle hands and an eye flitting rapidly over its features and details.  He watched her, just as captivated.  The dying light of the sun set her brown eyes aflame, painting them russet.  Her wavy hair was out of its twists, and up in a messy, fraying bun.
 
He tucked a stray lock of it behind her ear.  She finally looked up from her find.
 
“What?” she murmured, smiling.
 
“You never told me his name.”
 
“...Paul.”
 
He snorted. “So ordinary.”
 
“Paul like Paul McCartney,” she elaborated defensively. “Not ordinary.”
 
“Oh, I stand corrected.  Forgive me.”
 
“You are forgiven.”

Mid-1987

Early Summer

Years later and we’re still dealing with the political ramifications of the Death Eater trials

, Casey thought angrily, hand buried in his hair at the base of his skull.  
 
He stared coldly at the bits and pieces of parchment attached to the corkboard in his office.  Some were notes, others transcriptions of trials dating from 1979 to the present under Crouch’s crusade, and still others were simply words that were all supposed to mean something strewn together.
 
He needed a break, a breather.
 
There were diplomatic talks going on between the British and Russian Wizarding governments, the latter of which historically had never been the fondest of the former, and they weren’t going well.  Quotes from infamous Death Eater trials (of all things to bring up again) were getting slung across the media in every shape, form and fashion, painting the UK in a very negative light in response to some arbitrary critical comment made mistakenly by one of the UK magical ambassador’s aids.  And the kicker? Most of the allegations were sadly true.

Sirius

.
 
He clenched his jaw and shook his head.  
 
Ever since the trials were coming back to the forefront of the news, his brother had been mentioned more than once.  It was imperative that the papers be on top of everything coming at them, and the

Chariot

was no exception - in fact, it was an

example

, being a publication focused mainly on politics and business.  As per Casey’s request, Xenus - his friend

and

editor - came to him with anything even remotely relating to the subject of the trials.
 
Every word he read from the rough drafts of his writers opened up old wounds that kept him up at night.

Why didn’t you do more?

He’d been only eighteen at the time.

You sold your soul to a publication that loudly declared its condemnation of your own blood.

He’d needed the experience.

You don’t deserve to be safe, loved, and happy while Sirius rots in prison.

Did anyone?

You know him; you know he didn’t commit murder.

Sirius isn’t capable of murder.

But he didn’t know that.  He didn’t know anything about what had gone on in his brother’s head when he’d been found at the scene of the crime, ranting and raving and every bit the visual epitome of a madman. 
Sirius pushed him away at every given opportunity; he pushed all of his family away,

and for good reason

, Casey thought tiredly.  In the end, when it mattered, what had he done for his brother?

Nothing

.

“

What ails you, my love?”

The words were murmured in Italian against his bare chest, so soft in the dark that he almost missed them in his pre-slumber daze.
 
Sometimes, when she was sleepy, Giovanna slipped into her first language; he’d known some Italian before he met her, could arguably hold his own in the way a tourist could, but after spending so much time with her, he’d become almost fluent through exposure and reading.
 
“

My brother

.”
 
Giovanna was silent, waiting for him to explain.  He blinked drowsily, shifted so that his head was pressed against the soft, sweet-smelling silk of her evening bonnet.
 
“

The trials are coming back up,

” he said. “

Outside of Britain, under a- a… harsh lens,”

he fumbled slightly, seeking “microscope” but settling for a close enough approximation, “

the Ministry’s actions look especially bad.  And I… agree with a lot of the things people are saying.

”
 
“

Me too

,” she replied, pulling away from the bracket of his arms to tilt her head back and peer up at him in the dark. “

I was only an assistant when all of it happened - an intern - but the witch I worked for was agitated for months because they wouldn’t allow her to provide counsel to the accused.

”
 
“

She wanted to help

Death Eaters

?

” he asked doubtfully.
 
“

She wanted to perpetuate the precedent of a fair justice system,

” countered Giovanna. “

And so do I.  It is why I do what I do, no?”

He considered this.
 
And suddenly, like a dam bursting, a flood washed over him.
 
He abruptly sat up.  Giovanna made a startled noise, and he apologized quickly, kissed the first expanse of her exposed skin his lips could reach, and then sprung from bed.
 
“

Where are you going?

” she demanded. “

This autumn weather is unforgiving - I cannot fall asleep without my personal furnace.

”
 
“Sorry, love,” he replied in English, hurriedly pulling on the shirt and pajama bottoms he’d left discarded by the bed earlier. “But I have to do some research.  I can cast a warming charm, if you’d like.”
 
“

Not the same

,” he heard her mutter. “

Go.  Do your research.  Let me know if I can help.”

Pause. “

But not until morning.

”
 
“Alright,” he chuckled, and threw over his shoulder as he left the room, “I will almost certainly take you up on that.”

Azkaban was cold, to say the very least.
 
He could cast a Patronus; a large, preening ostrich conjured with his fiancée in mind.  It was bright and effective, and he was sure the guards would have been impressed if they actually expressed any emotion.  Instead, their tired and deadened eyes and wands scanned him critically before granting him entry despite the fact that he’d been cleared to do so well in advance.
 
One accompanied him to Sirius’ cell, munching morosely on a bar of chocolate the whole way.  Casey had been offered some, but he’d refused.
 
A part of him didn’t think he deserved any.
 
Another part of him wanted to watch his figure; he gained weight very easily, and he didn’t want to eat chocolate now - despite it being a recommended aid - because if he did, he’d stop by the greasiest chip truck in London on the way home and finish the day off with ice cream.  
 
It was a slippery slope.
 
But he had his loyal bird to keep him warm and safe, so he’d be alright.
 
“Here he is.”
 
A silencing charm was lifted on Sirius’ cell and his only; the other prisoners continued to scream, wail and moan without sound.
 
His brother’s hair, long and mangy, hung low and obscured his face.  He sat against the back wall of the small space, knees drawn up to his chest and held there with arms thin from atrophy.  The smell was horrible.  Casey felt sick.
 
“Sirius?”
 
The body in the cell - it wasn’t his brother, it

couldn’t

be - stiffened.
 
“Sirius, it’s me,” he tried, ignoring the trembling of his own hands. “Cassius.  Casey.”
 
Slowly, Sirius raised his head.
 
Casey swallowed a startled yelp, and determinedly met his sunken, hate-filled grey gaze with a turning stomach and years of shame there on his face, plain - he was almost sure - for anyone to see.
 
“Cah - ” Sirius rasped, struggling to his feet. “Cay - ”
 
He wheezed, and it sounded a bit like the whimper of a wounded animal.  Casey got closer, ignoring the putrid scent bombarding his senses like a battering ram, and got a better look at the man he’d let down.
 
Well.
 
He didn’t look good.
 
Casey remembered a time when his brother never went anywhere without a comb and peered at least briefly into any reflective surface he passed to make sure his hair was always at its absolute best.  It was visibly greasy, grimy and knotty, now.  His enviable jaw line had diminished significantly, leaving him gaunt and malnourished-looking.  Nothing about him was the same.
 
Casey’s graduation was the last time he’d seen the man, and then he’d been at a distance.  In the back, quietly clapping along with everyone else, and leaving before it was over so that Casey hadn’t gotten a chance to speak to him.
 
His mere presence had spoken volumes.
 
“Sirius,” he whispered. “I’m going to help you, brother.  I swear I will.”
 
Sirius’ eyes widened. 
 
“‘M innocent,” he said suddenly, voice breaking in a dry crack on the second word.
 
“I know.”
 
Sirius grabbed the bars so suddenly that Casey jumped, and the guard behind him shouted in warning.  Sirius glared at the short, bearded man, but let go of the bars.
 
“It’s alright,” Casey assured the guard, but the man didn’t budge.  Casey sighed, and turned back to Sirius. “I’m going to get you a trial.  There’s going to be an upheaval of new information and evidence covered up from trials that never happened - and you’re number one on the priority list.”
 
Sirius’ chest began to heave, eyes wide and almost manic in their frantic energy as they searched Casey’s for any trace of ill intent.  He looked away quickly, though, and began pacing agitatedly in his cell, pallid face slowly reddening in something that wasn’t all positive.
 
“Why

now

?” Sirius hissed.  Casey took a moment to gather his wits, wanting to give an answer worthy of giving.  Impatient, Sirius screamed, “Why?”
 
Casey flinched.
 
“Because it’s all wrong,” he managed, finally. “You shouldn’t be here.  And for too long -

too long

- I ignored that.  But I want to make it right again, make it so that things are the way they’re supposed to be.  Not just for you,” he added, gathering steam, feeling righteous anger build in him as he spoke, “but for those that have been failed by the system.  The conditions are favorable; the public is out for Crouch’s blood, and this is the perfect time to establish a campaign.”
 
Sirius stared, and then began to chuckle quietly.
 
“Little Casey,” he drawled coldly.  He mocked, “

The conditions are favorable

.  You’ve much to gain if this goes the way you want it to.  So

Slytherin

of you.”
 
Casey bit back frustration, because his brother did have a point. 
 
“But also much to lose if it doesn’t,” he responded carefully.  He shifted on his feet, no longer as confident as he had been upon initial arrival. “I… I’m engaged to be wed.  If the backlash to this is too great, she’ll be heavily involved in it all.  If you don’t trust that I have your best interests at heart,” he sighed, “trust that I would not throw myself into anything for the sole purpose of bettering my own political standing at the potential expense of the one who is to be my wife.  She is…

everything

.”
 
He refused to look Sirius directly in the eyes as he said the words; the burning of his neck and face would say enough.
 
They didn’t talk about

feelings

in their household as children.  Such talk was looked down upon, seen as weak, and even though he had long since learned otherwise, there were some things a person simply never forgot.
 
Sirius had gotten a lot of flack for many of his childhood antics, but any time Casey found himself on the wrong end of his father’s cane, it was usually because he’d succumbed to fear or sadness and had been caught crying.  It embarrassed him to think about, even as a full-grown wizard, so he rarely cried even if he needed to.
 
The same also translated into divulging anything deeply personal, leaving him exposed and vulnerable to a metaphorical cane he couldn’t help but see swinging toward him.
 
The eerie almost-silence of the prison - a delusion shattered by the whipping of harsh, salty winds and crashing of the disturbed sea against its warded stone walls - stretched between them painfully like a gaping canyon until Sirius spoke in his distressed rasp once more.
 
“You truly think you can help me?” his brother asked, and Casey didn’t know whether to feel slighted by his tone or hopeful that he’d managed to instill some semblance of optimism in the man.
 
“I do,” he answered firmly, feeling it was safe to look him in the eyes again.
 
Sirius’ face was carefully clear of a decipherable expression. “I need you to do something for me, then.”
 
Casey inhaled sharply. “Of course, anything.”
 
“Find Remus Lupin,” he said, “and

make him

visit me.”

“No,” said Remus Lupin after weeks of searching in between laying the groundwork for the trial campaign.
 
Casey hoped he hid his irritation well enough.
 
“Why not?” he demanded through gritted teeth.  Giovanna shot him a warning glance.  Maybe he wasn’t doing a very good job, then.
 
“I…” Remus looked warily around the muggle bookstore they were in. “This isn’t the place for this conversation.”
 
He felt himself shaking in anger, and opened his mouth to give the greying man (

he can’t be older than twenty-eight

) a piece of his mind, but Giovanna placed a hand on his arm and shook her head firmly.
 
“He is right,” she told him, imploring him to remain calm with her eyes.  Dryly, she added, “I think the campaign will take a hit if its figurehead is arrested for violating the Statute, yes?”
 
He exhaled heavily through his nose, but conceded to her point.
 
Remus looked incredibly relieved, as opposed to how alarmed and discomfited - not to mention angry - he’d been upon their arrival.  With what he knew to be true about the man, he wasn’t unreasonable, but he’d also suffered a great deal of pain (the third most, after Sirius and Harry Potter, who Sirius had brought up to Casey after Remus during his visit to Azkaban) after Halloween of 1981.  Perhaps Casey was judging him a bit harshly; he had, after all, only just gathered the courage himself to do something the month before.
 
“When are you done working?” Giovanna inquired of Lupin politely.
 
“Six,” Remus answered shortly, at length.
 
She put on her best convincing smile - a small, impish thing to which Casey didn’t think anyone could say no.  And surely enough, Remus didn’t, and agreed to meet them for dinner - their treat, of course.
 
“Your good cop is truly awe-inspiring,” he told her when they left the shop and took to the streets of Manchester like any other ordinary couple out for a stroll.
 
She adjusted her knit cap over her hair - which was in a bun at the base of her neck that afternoon - and took his hand. 
 
“Good cop?” she parroted back to him, affecting a confused expression that fooled him absolutely none.
 
“Your grasp of the English language and its colloquialisms is far too good for me to believe that you don’t know what

good cop

is.”
 
“No, really - explain it to me.”
 
He looked at her, curious to see if she was joking or not.  Her expression was unreadable.  He cracked a grin.
 
“Faker,” he quipped without bite.
 
Her lips twitched. “So

rude

.  I am not sure if I want to marry someone who is as rude as you.”
 
He sobered immediately, stopped walking, and turned to take both of her hands in his.
 
“My dearest Giovanna Shafiq,” he began, and she raised an eyebrow at the use of her second name, which was also her mother’s maiden name. “I deeply regret any undue distress I may have caused you with my behavior.  Forgive me?”
 
She skewed her mouth to one side, clearly carefully deliberating her options.
 
“You are forgiven,” she eventually replied, and he let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.  She added, “On one condition.”
 
“Anything, my love.”
 
“We get

patatine fritte

for lunch.”
 
His teasing grin slipped a bit.
 
“Gigi…”
 
“You never treat yourself, Casey,” she scolded him gently, tugging one of her hands out of his to pull them back into motion on the pavement toward a chip shop a little ways up the street.  He dragged his feet a little. “Everyone deserves a treat every once in awhile.”
 
He bit his lip. “Maybe we can pick up some yoghurt on the way back to the hotel?” 
 
Despite the fact that they could easily Apparate home and back to Manchester again, they had decided to make a bit of a weekend out of their visit and were staying at a muggle hotel for the full experience. 
 
“Not a treat.”
 
“It

is

a treat, I do it all of the time.”
 
She made a face at him.
 
Plain yoghurt with honey mixed in really was something he indulged in often to satiate his never-ending cravings.  It might not have been ice cream or actual candy, but sometimes he ventured on the wild side and sprinkled in graham crackers for texture.  Not too often, though.
 
It always caused him a great deal of anxiety to stray from his diet - so much that it almost made it not worth it.  He didn’t think Giovanna fully understood just how afraid he was of slipping back into his old habits.  Stress eating, alcohol, the works - he was a mess without routine.
 
She seemed to pick up on his discomfort then, though, because she smiled ruefully and abandoned the plan altogether.  They got a proper lunch at a café instead.
 
“

You

could have gotten chips if you wanted to,” he told her when they got back to the hotel.
 
She shook her head. “I would not

make

you watch me eat them, Casey.  That is unfairly cruel.”
 
He didn’t say anything in response, but merely sat on the bed, wallowing in self-consciousness in the back of his mind.
 
And then suddenly, he found himself flat on his back with his fiancée looming over him, smiling radiantly.
 
He sat up and kissed her - more softly than he’d intended, but that turned out to be exactly what he needed, anyway.
 
They made love.

“Most of the Death Eaters

didn’t

deserve a trial,” Remus remarked flatly when Casey divulged his plans during dinner. “They were murderers, some of them rapists.  The public might be singing a different tune now, but there are reasons why no one said anything then.

Solid

reasons.”
 
“And if they do deserve to rot in Hell, they’ll be on the first ride back,” Casey countered heatedly. “But we have to

prove

that, first.  Sirius isn’t a Death Eater.  He doesn’t bear the Mark, he’s

never

sympathized with their cause - got himself

thrown out of our house

because he refused to bow to our parents and their beliefs, in fact, but I’m sure you remember that.  You were one of his best friends, Remus - surely, you’d know better than even I to think that he betrayed J- ”
 
“

Don’t

,” Remus cut him off, paling.  He visibly trembled in anger. “Don’t you

dare

say their names.  You didn’t even know them.  Barely anyone who mentioned them after Halloween knew them.”
 
Casey shifted in his seat and looked out of the window.  Giovanna had spotted her father’s Patronus in the alley opposite the restaurant - shy of the muggles they were surrounded by on all sides, probably - and had gone to receive the message it clearly carried for her.
 
It was just him and Remus.
 
There was something about the way Remus had been so defensive all throughout dinner so far that triggered a suspicion in his gut that said there was something that the other man wasn’t telling him.  Something important.
 
“My apologies.  It wasn’t my intention to upset you, or to be disrespectful,” he offered honestly, turning back to him.  Remus stiffly shrugged off the apology. “But I want justice for my brother.  Can you understand that?”
 
Remus laughed, and the harsh sound had no humor in it. “You aren't considering the possibility that he

did

betray them.”
 
Casey held his tongue, took a deep breath.
 
“I’m not ignoring it,” he began carefully, “I’m choosing to believe that he isn’t capable of doing something like that.  He’s done a lot of things, some of them harsh without him meaning to be, even to me - but he’s not a murderer, Remus.  He’s

not

.”
 
“He almost was, once,” Remus declared lowly. “And almost made me one.”
 
Casey blinked, furrowed his brow, and opened his mouth to ask just what the hell he was talking about when Giovanna returned to the table in a rush, flustered and eyes wide and shining.
 
“Papá,” she whispered unevenly.
 
He stood, all thoughts of his brother’s actions fleeing from his mind as his heart sunk into his stomach.  He quietly excused himself from the table - Remus waved him off, eyes concerned as he took in Giovanna’s state.
 
“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, lightly clasping her forearms and gently guiding her to the door so that their words would remain private.
 
“He collapsed,” she told him tremulously. “H-he was drinking coffee on the terrace and he just… collapsed, out of nowhere.  Pizi summoned a Healer, he’s at

Centro Siena

now.  They moved him there from the smaller setup we have in Tuscany, and I - ” She inhaled sharply. “I have to go to him, Cassius, and see what is happening for myself.”
 
“Of course, we can Apparate back to the hotel to get our - ”
 
“No,” she cut him off, chin quivering. “You stay.”
 
He stared at her like she had three heads.
 
“Absolutely

not

.”
 
She shook her head. “Convince Remus.”
 
“That’s not- ”
 
“For the

campaign

, Casey.”
 
“This has nothing to do with the campaign,” he denied. “Sirius just wants to see him.  That’s not nearly as important as your father’s health.”
 
“I most likely will not know anything concrete until tomorrow morning, anyway.  Stay.  At least until then.  And come to Siena in the morning.”
 
He didn’t know why - or how - but he did.  Stay, that is.
 
Remus looked painfully awkward sitting across the table after Giovanna’s departure.
 
“Everything alright?”
 
“No.”
 
“Oh.”
 
Casey sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I’m sorry, it’s just - I’ll ask you one more time.  Will you

please

just go and see him?” Remus opened his mouth, clearly to refuse again, but Casey cut him off. “Just… hear me out.  I believe there’s something you’re not telling me that’s making you not want to go, and I also sense that you’ve been hurt by…

whatever

it is.  Just know that whatever hurt, whatever

grievances

you may have with Sirius Black, will not go away unless you air them with him present.  And you can’t do that unless you visit him.”
 
Remus rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. “They didn’t trust me.”
 
“What?”
 
“James and Lily,” Remus managed. “They didn’t… they were nice about it, but they pushed me away.  I didn’t see them once in the weeks leading up to Halloween.  At least two months, even, if not more.”
 
“...and Sirius?”
 
“Regular, weekly visits.  He was their Secret Keeper.”
 
Casey shook his head. “No,” he corrected him gravely, “Pettigrew was.”
 
Remus’ eyes bugged out of his head. 
 
“Peter?” he scoffed, tensing again. “Peter was killed.”
 
“They only found his toe.”
 
Remus looked away. “That doesn’t mean anything.  That may have been the only part of him left.”
 
Casey stared him down. “And you believe that? Truly, with every fibre of your being?”
 
Remus deflated. 
 
“I… I don’t know.” 
 
He withdrew into his person, arms drawn tight across his chest.  
 
“What would it mean, if I didn’t? What would it be like, if Sirius and I were to speak again? If all of this

is

a conspiracy - if Sirius is innocent - that’s six years of me believing the worst of a man I used to call… friend,” he stumbled over the word, clearing his throat. “That’s six of the most painful years of my life - re-evaluating, trying to find my place in a world that holds very little meaning to me now - all for nothing.  That’s… not easy to let go of, Cassius.”
 
With sudden blinding clarity, Casey knew what Remus seemed to be hedging around.
 
He thought back to the first real relationship he’d ever been in - which didn’t exactly compare to Remus’ situation, but he tried to imagine the feelings he had then multiplied on a greater scale - and how broken he’d been after it was all over.
 
He’d had flings, of course, but nothing quite compared - at the time - to what he’d had with his editor.
 
He started the

Chariot

as a small, weekly zine with Xenus in mind.  Xenus’ skill with a quill was undeniable, and Casey had the finances - they were enormously successful from even the very beginning.  Far more so than Xenus’ older brother, Xenophilius, who struggled to capture more than a couple hundred readers a month.
 
Xenus, though… was a flighty soul.  He did love Casey - probably - once, but he had long since gotten over what they had by the time Casey was on the same page.  Months and months after the relationship had ended, of course.
 
But in the aftermath, a large part of him had been broken off and hung out to dry, and by the time it came back to him, he’d evolved into a different person.
 
Remus grieved his best friends - and whatever Sirius had been to him, because Casey suspected best friend didn’t quite cover it - so he wasn’t going to be the same Remus he was six years previous to that moment.  If he chose to believe Casey - allowed himself to be dragged to Azkaban in the middle of a salty sea to confront a piece of his painful past - what had he to gain, but to reopen a wound that had just begun to heal?
 
Casey thought about his relationship with Xenus, now.  Different, but amicable.  Less intimate, but professionally sound.  Not

something

- but definitely not

nothing

.
 
That was enough.
 
He opened his mouth to voice this thought, but Remus shook his head with a small, wan smile.
 
“I hate you more than I can say for finding me,” said the greying young man. “I hate that you made me think about all of this again.  But…” He sighed. “I also can’t truthfully say I haven’t hated every day I wake up, still alive.”
 
Casey frowned.
 
“If it turns out that Sirius is innocent - and I’m not saying that he is, more so for my own fragile mental state right now than anything else - then that means I’ve turned my back on the only last real member of my family.  My parents are dead.  I have no one else.
 
“It’s just me out here.  Just… me.  And my thoughts.  And that… stupid,

fucking

bookstore.”
 
“It doesn’t have to be.”
 
“Doesn’t it?”
 
“No.  Help me fight, Remus.  If Sirius is innocent, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.  If not…” He swallowed down a hard lump in his throat. “If not, know that you’ll have been part of a crusade that will be looked back on in history as a reclaiming of justice for the harshly-judged and oppressed… for those of whom society has failed, and continues to fail for as long as they’re wrongfully imprisoned.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The day of the festival dawned bright and warm; the skies were robin’s egg blue, and the several-acre-wide patch of freshly cut grass that would soon feature a brilliant cornucopia of tents, stands and temporary pavilions smelled sweet from the light dew gathered in the night.  Trucks and carts drove in from miles around, laden with various, painstakingly-made crafts and wares to be sold to enthusiastic attendees and fellow artists.  Professionals were busy setting up the stage toward the back of the massive space for the bands set to play that day, the next day and the day after. 
 
A weekend of merriment, good food, great music and local support and appreciation.  There would be no un-full stomachs, no unsparkling eyes, no unsticky, youthful faces clean of popsicle juice.  It was the perfect spring event, one Diana had attended most years since before she could walk.
 
She didn’t live in town anymore— she lived in the city, often traveled, and her parents no longer came, buried as they were— but she still showed.  People knew her, and there was a collective sense of pride that suffused the community about their semi-renowned artist, homegrown and never too above taking the time to return to her roots.  She made new work specifically for the festival every year, and every year, auctioned them off for the women’s shelter uptown.
 
A little off from the middle of the festival ground, she casually oversaw the assembly of a temporary auctioneer’s booth and the careful handling of her paintings to the table upon which they would be displayed.  She sipped on a local brand of sparkling juice and pushed her too-big sunglasses down her nose to peer curiously at a group of who she assumed were musicians sitting on the edge of the stage, having their picture taken.
 
They weren’t local, she knew that much— but then, the musical talent that played the festival usually weren’t.  If there were any up-and-coming singers or the like in town, no one knew about them; it was one of the only areas of the event that the organizers “out-sourced”, so to speak.
 
Theresa, her assistant, sashayed over from where she’d been giving firm orders to the assemblers and stole the sparkling juice out of Diana’s hand.
 
“Get your own,” she berated unheatedly, not even moving to retrieve it.
 
Theresa took a generous gulp before handing it back, unrepentant. “I just might— that’s tasty.”
 
“Mm-hmm,” Diana replied, still staring hard at the group.
 
Theresa followed her eye. “Oh, wow.  I heard they were pulling some big names this year, but I didn’t realize they were talking

that

big.”
 
Diana looked at her. “What d’you mean? Who is that?”
 
Her friend snapped her fingers rapidly, “Um, you know— that’s the, uhh… damn, what’s his name? The ‘Take Me to Church’ guy!”
 
She did a double-take. “Hozier? That’s him? You a bold ass lie.”
 
“I’m pretty sure that’s him,” Theresa defended.
 
“Which one?”
 
“Tall, long hair.”
 
“

No

,” Diana murmured. “He’s…

fine

.”
 
Theresa shrugged. “I don’t usually go for rustic bohemian guys, but he’s definitely pretty to look at.”
 
Diana couldn’t help but agree.  
 
“You should go introduce yourself,” Theresa whispered conspiratorially. “Clap some famous white boy cheeks.”
 
A laugh bubbled up and burst from Diana’s lips before she could stop it; her bottled drink almost slipped out of her hand.  Theresa giggled alongside her, almost like the sound was being pulled from her.  Diana had been told before that she just had one of those laughs— the kind that, even if the joke wasn’t that funny, people joined in with her anyway. 
 
When her eyes opened up wide enough for her to see again, her cheeks hurting from how long she’d grinned, she thought she saw the long-haired man that’d started it all looking right in their direction.  She blinked and turned fully, but it must have been a trick of the light; his attention was fully on his band once more.

The festival went well into the evening; a lot of the activities were staggered, so that people didn’t get too tired from having been

on

all day.    Things like fresh fruit and pastry vendors had been sold clean out, but bottled drinks and food made to order were still going strong.  The auction happened in the afternoon, so by the time the lights went on to illuminate the paths between booths, things had long since wrapped up.  Paintings were in the process of being packed up to be delivered properly to their new owners; the proceeds would be hand-delivered at the end of the weekend, once everything was added up.
 
The music had been going all day, from act to act.  There

were

some pretty big names performing; Diana was frankly stunned to see FKA Twigs, Gus Dapperton and The Internet among many smaller artists and bands— some that were gaining traction in the city, and some she’d seen on promotions and things for radio shows and other festivals that popped up in the tri-state area.
 
Among the most prominent and well-known was Hozier, who had already done two sets over the course of the day.  He was no Twigs, but he was definitely a sight to behold while performing.  He sang with his whole body, it seemed like, and his voice was full and soulful.  Diana swayed back and forth and let the power of his words wash over her in waves.
 
She was almost ready to go— her stand had been packed up and Theresa had long gone— but she wanted to see his last set.  She wasn’t disappointed; it was just as invigorating as the first two.
 
She ended up dancing with a few old friends of hers who’d dropped in late to the festival.  Diana gripped the fabric of her long, flowing skirt in her hand and waved it all around as she jumped and stomped and canted around to the espoused

canopy dapple

and

fire bright

.  She was close to the stage, and for a moment, she noticed— not for the first time that night— that the Irishman pouring poetry into the mic was staring at her and only her in a crowd of many. If she made eyes right back at him and shimmied her shoulders and hips a little more than was strictly necessary, well, that was her business.
 
She felt dewy from having danced so hard for so long by the time it was over.  One of her friends, Nevaeh, said something about getting drinks and hitting another spot in town as Hozier thanked them all for a beautiful night to a raucous round of applause and cheers.  Diana looked around, about to agree to head out with them, when she saw the tall man sweeping the audience with a curious gaze before leaving the stage.  
 
She didn’t know what made her do it— or at least she pretended not to— but she told her friends to go on ahead without her, and texted Theresa about where she was before stealing backstage.  
 
It didn’t take much for security to let her through; she was a pretty high profile attendee, badge and everything, and when she expressed her genuine desire to simply congratulate the musicians on a good show, they granted her entry without much fuss.
 
Twigs and the members of the Internet had departed hours ago, but she greeted a few of the other bands and artists that had stuck around all evening.  A few even knew

her

, which was incredibly flattering.  It was always baffling to her that her work was somewhat visible in the public sphere.
 
“Me and Freddie were wondering if you still do commission work,” Taye, the lead singer of the indie jazz-pop band

improva

asked. “I mean, obviously, you’re probably pretty busy— I heard about the spread you’re doing with

Time

— ”
 
Diana shook her head. “I still do commissions, just not as often.  They’re not what’s keeping my lights on anymore, but if the idea’s good and I vibe with the client…” She shrugged and smiled warmly. “Why?”
 
Taye exchanged a look with Freddie, who pushed their thick locs out of their face and leaned forward with an earnest expression.
 
“We wanted to ask if you’d maybe consider doing the cover for our next EP?” they asked, hands fidgeting. “We’re really trying to increase our exposure, and we’re both long-time admirers of your work.  We kind of grew up on it.”
 
“I’m blown away by that, but also, that makes me feel so old,” Diana groaned.
 
Taye’s eyes widened and she threw up her hands. “You don’t look a day over twenty-five!”
 
Diana laughed. “I’m

kidding

.  And you know, it’s okay to be old,” she whispered to them both. “Not that thirty-three is even

close

to old.  But about that cover— I like you guys.  And your set was

awesome

.  Let me give you my agent’s info, and we can set up a meeting to talk about your album and some of the ideas you have.  I’m positive we can work something out.”
 
They all chatted excitedly for a few more minutes before someone who seemed to be in charge of reeling them in for the night made a motion for them to start making goodbyes.  Diana waved as they disappeared from the tent in a flurry of brightly-patterned fabric and sweet-smelling hair.  They truly were wonderful— she couldn’t wait to work with them.
 
“Diana Rathbone,” a deep, lilting voice uttered behind her.
 
She whirled around, the hem of her skirt kissing her ankles as she did.  There he was— the singing Irishman.
 
“You,” she grinned, and then shook her head. “Sorry, that’s a little familiar.  Hozier, right?”
 
“Andy,” he corrected gently, holding out a comically large hand.
 
“Andy,” she repeated, letting it roll off of her tongue.  It suited him fine. “Diana, but you already know that.”
 
He smiled, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners and twinkling in the low light of the tent.  A tiny part of her melted.
 
“Your dancin’ made my night,” he said. “Star of the crowd, you were.”
 
“I’m sure I looked a little wild.”
 
“Veritably breathtakin’.”
 
She laughed and looked away, feeling a little too warm. “Stop it or I’ll combust into flames.”
 
He grinned, a heartwarmingly authentic thing that lit up his entire face. “Well, we don’t want that, do we?”
 
They fell into an easy rapport after a handful of seconds, ping-ponging words between them like bolts of lightning.  It was electric; Diana had never felt such energy with a man before— women, for sure, but a man? Never.  He was obviously quite kind and thoughtful, but had an incredibly quick wit that almost had her in stitches more than once.  It was only when her phone buzzed in her pocket that she even thought to check the time— half past ten.
 
“It’s about time for me to get going,” she told her new companion ruefully.  
 
She actually,

really

didn’t want to leave.  She felt like she could talk to him forever and never be tired.  She wondered if he felt the same.  She half-pivoted on her sandaled feet and prodded him with her eyes to say something to keep her there for just a few more moments.
 
He hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Ehm, I hope that I’m not bein’ too forward, darlin’, but I can’t let the moment get away from me.”
 
Her breath caught in her throat as he stepped a little closer, making the smaller space between them seem just that more intimate.
 
“Would you… like to come back to the hotel?” he asked, a touch nervously. “There’s a bar in the lobby— we can talk s’more, have a couple drinks, and if things get a little too crazy, I can get you your own room.”
 
Diana thought about it.  It seemed perfect to her.  As long as at least two people knew where she was, she figured her bases were covered.  And really— even though she probably shouldn’t, she felt safe with him.  Didn’t serial killers often seem trustworthy at first impression? She abandoned that train of thought.  It seemed unlikely that a successful musician would be able to slip under the radar as a cold-blooded murderer without any suspicion whatsoever.
 
And maybe she felt like getting her guts stirred up tonight.  She saw the look in his eyes, took careful note of his attention and his attraction, but also considered the way he’d offered her a way out well into the evening if she decided to cool things off later.  She decided to take a leap.
 
“I hope

I’m

not being too forward,” she finally replied, stepping even closer so that she had to tilt her head back a bit to look up at him.  The intense look in his eyes sharpened. “But I don’t think I’d want a room all to myself.”
 
“No?” he murmured.
 
“No, I don’t think so,” she whispered back.
 
She leaned up in invitation, offering herself to him.  She wasn’t exactly short, but he still had to bend a bit to bridge the gap between their eager mouths.
 
It was instant; the warmth that had suffused their interaction thus far sparked into a flame.  She felt that familiar fluttering in her belly, a curl that prompted her arms to come up and rest on his slim, olive-clad chest.  She felt his long-fingered hands find purchase on her hips, gripping gently, but firmly.  His lips were soft and purposeful, placing several, prolonged kisses on her own pliable ones until she felt like a puddle of something gooey.
 
She wished she could say that she wasn’t the type to just kiss someone out in the open where everyone could see— and there were quite a few residual people, roadies and security milling about the tent— but she’d done it before and she honestly didn’t care.  She embraced the moment for everything that it was— sweet and hot and toe-curlingly lovely.
 
They broke apart for air, and she looked up at him.
 
“Wow,” he breathed.
 
She nodded dazedly. “My thoughts exactly.  Let’s skip drinks.”

She’d driven her own car to get to the festival— her work came in a separate truck that morning— so she would either have to drive to get to the hotel or go with Andrew and ride on his tour bus the entire way, knowing that the band would know exactly what she was doing among them and

who

she wanted to do among them; then, of course, ask Theresa to go retrieve her car in the morning— all of which seemed extremely extra for no reason.
 
Fortunately, Andrew seemed to come to the same conclusion as she that it was simply easier to take her car to the hotel.  That way, they could take their time getting there— if they happened to get distracted along the way.   He exchanged a few words with his band and someone named Beth who was probably the tour manager, and then they were free as birds.  
 
She let herself be dragged by the hand to a more secluded spot by one of the pavilions, watched ravenously as he dropped to his knees, and— with her enthusiastic permission— ate her out within an inch of her short life.
 
His tongue was hot and slick against her damp folds and aching clit, and his beard scratched at the sensitive skin of her inner thighs as she struggled to remain standing against the pole digging into her back.  She forgot the discomfort, and made only the barest of efforts to quiet her whimpers and moans and praises.  The wet, sloppy sounds from his ministrations were nothing short of sinful— that paired with the sensations and the deviousness of practically being out in the open had her coming onto his eager tongue in minutes.
 
Legs shaking, inner thighs sticky, she brushed a stray lock of his long, reddish-brown hair behind his ear.
 
“I want you to fuck me so bad,” she informed him darkly. “I don’t know what it is— I’ve never wanted dick this bad and this quickly before.”
 
His answering grin was downright salacious. “Full disclosure, I’ve never… ehm, slept with someone the day that I met them.”
 
Diana laughed softly. “Now that I think about it… me neither.  I guess it just feels like I’ve known you longer.”
 
Andrew stood, allowing her skirt to fall back down from around her hips. “Exactly.  Feels a bit dangerous.”
 
“I like a little danger from time to time,” she replied coyly. “Now, come on— I may want to get fucked, but not bad enough to do it outside and without protection.”
 
He barked a laugh and allowed her to tug him in the direction of the parking lot.  They fooled around a bit on the way, sometimes falling back into making out and feeling each other up like teenagers.  She felt giddy and young and full of antsy energy that she just

knew

wouldn’t be released until she’d consumed every part of him.
 
The drive to the hotel almost seemed too daunting by the time they’d gotten into her car; she was so keyed up she might have just burst if he stuck his hand under her skirt again.  The sight of him folding into her little car made her laugh and settle a bit.  They cooled things off a bit more by talking, exchanging their favorite artists and songs and types of music.  He was definitely a jazz and blues and old rock kind of guy— that much was obvious, but also confirmed by his preferences— so she put on one of her favorite playlists and they sang along to Aretha and Bob Seger and even some Gary Clark, Jr. that she snuck in just to see what he’d do.  He happened to be a fan, a fact that she was inordinately pleased about.
 
They reached the hotel and she killed the engine, but let the radio keep playing from the aux cord to let the song finish.  Andrew’s hand came to rest on her knee— not even in a weird, grabby way, just kind of like he wanted to touch her and it was simply the closest part.  She rested her hand on top of his and sunk her fingers into its gaps.
 
“I like you,” she told him.  
 
She refused to say anything more; she’d bitten off her own hand before by saying too much too fast.  She was just that kind of person— she flew headfirst into everything, and even if she never saw him again after the weekend, she would regret not pouring her passion into this little something— this brief liaison that felt a bit like standing on the edge of a really tall building, or seeing the earth from the ISS.
 
“I like you, too, darlin’,” he said softly, cheeks pink in the low light of the cabin. “I… sort of feel like my body’s been set alight.”
 
She giggled and leaned across the console to kiss away his embarrassment.  His tongue slipped into her mouth and she lathed it with her own.  She blindly took one of his hands and guided it to her small chest, wanting to feel him everywhere, and slipped her own hand into his lap to feel up the stiff bulge there.  He grunted, hips rocking a bit to meet her rhythmic caresses.  It was suddenly the festival ground all over again— she couldn’t wait, she felt like she might explode.
 
She pulled away, panting, and pressed her forehead to his.  Both of their hair got in their faces— his long tresses and her lovely twists— but that was an afterthought.
 
“I know I said I’ve never slept with anyone the day I met them,” she began, reaching over his knees for the glove compartment. “And I was telling the truth.  But.” She pulled out a packet of three condoms. “I’m always prepared.”
 
He placed a hand over his face sheepishly and laughed.  She grinned, giggling, loving the way his shoulders shook with mirth.  When they calmed down, he plucked the packet from her hand and tore one off, tossing the other two onto the dash.
 
“C’mere,” he murmured, reaching over to guide her over the console.
 
She went willingly, hitching up her skirt to sit comfortably on his lap and pushing a button on the door to make the seat recline as far as it would go.  The door handle dug into her hip, but as soon as his lips were back on her skin and she began to grind against his hard, denim-clad length, she couldn’t bring herself to care about it.  His fingers fondled and squeezed her ample thighs and ass, and she began to unbutton his olive shirt.
 
The windows began to fog up.  She swore she’d only seen that in movies.
 
She pulled off her crop cami— revealing small, uncovered swells that she still sometimes felt insecure about— and waited to flinch at the inevitable comment in that

voice

about how

cute

they were, but it didn’t come.  He removed a hand from her ass and cupped one lovingly.
 
“You’re stunnin’,” he said, peering up at her with adoring eyes. “Truly the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
 
She gave him a small smile, and then gasped when he adjusted her quickly to suck at her right nipple with ease.  She keened and pressed a hand to the roof of the cabin, rocking harder than ever on the steel bar threatening to split the seam of his jeans.
 
“

Andrew

,” she mewled, wanting to squirm away and get closer all at the same time. “

Andy

, baby, please fuck me.

Please

.  Take it,

fuck

, it’s yours— it’s all yours, baby.”
 
He groaned something about it being unfair— exactly what ‘it’ was, she did not know— before sliding her back to undo his jeans.  The sound of a belt unbuckling and a zipper sliding down were among her favorite sexy sounds— it drove her a little crazy, if she was completely honest.  She hiked up her skirt even further and watched darkly as he pulled his stiff, leaking dick out of his dark grey briefs.  It wasn’t small, but it wasn’t disconcertingly big, either; it had a slight curve to it, and a smattering of coarse, reddish hair at its base.  It was just right.  Perfect.  Her mouth watered.
 
He rolled on the condom before she could get a taste, but that was hardly a loss, because it meant she could finally scoot up and guide him into the place she’d wanted him since first laying eyes on him that afternoon.  The fit was glorious; he let out a long, low moan and she hissed until he was all the way in.
 
“Heavenly,” he managed, eyes stormy.  
 
He dove right back into feasting on her breasts, sending tingles up and all around and straight down to where they were joined.  She was in complete control of their rhythm, so she slid her hips forward and then up, back and then down, a grind that hit all the right spots.
 
Against her chest, he uttered the filthiest things she’d ever heard in the midst of sex.  He truly was a poet— and a creative one, at that.  The words spilling from his sinful mouth were like lyrics— she ate them up, letting them fuel her arousal and her confidence as she moved sensually above him.
 
The windows were nearly opaque.  She threw her head back, hair hitting the middle of her back from how much it was arched, trying to feel as much of his skin on her skin as possible.  She let out a soft grunt each time he became fully seated within her, relishing the spots he reached, the friction against her slick, greedy walls and the complete look of wanton rapture that had overtaken his handsome features.  He looked wrecked— lips wet as they moved, cheeks and nose and forehead pink, chest heaving, pupils blown so wide she could barely see the slim ring of green-grey-blue around them.
 
The car rocked.  She fell forward at some point and wrapped her arms around the back of his headrest.  All the while, both of his gigantic hands had long since migrated back down to her lower half— of which he seemed hopelessly fond.  One traveled around her hip to find that magical place between them— the place that sent her into the stratosphere.  
 
Her legs flexed and her toes curled against the sweaty surface of her sandals.
 
“Say my name,” he groaned, treating her ass to a firm tap and squeeze.
 
“An-drew!” she cried, hips stuttering.  
 
She felt her walls pulsing and saw white for a long moment— almost too long.  Was she blind now? An orgasm in exchange for her sight? How would she make her living now?
 
She felt his arms slide up around her as he stiffened underneath her quaking body, and knew he was coming, too.  They gasped and twitched together, lost in the sensations that seemed to hit like waves after the main event.  She didn’t know how long it lasted; she didn’t care.  She surfed for as long as she could, letting herself feel everything that her body was beginning to shy away from.
 
Andy’s low groan began to peter out into stunted, strained grunts.  He’d drifted up to mouth unconsciously at her collarbone and she lifted a hand to weave through his hair, resting against the back of his head.
 
After a few moments of sitting like that,

“Where’re you headed next?” she asked, plucking a strawberry from the top of her pancakes. “Last night you mentioned something about Chicago.”
 
He finished chewing a bite of his croissant before replying. “I’ve got another festival tomorrow in Buffalo, and then we jet out to Illinois for two nights at Thalia Hall.  Today’s actually the first day in awhile I don’t have anywhere to be.”
 
She smiled and lifted her foot out of her sandal to rest playfully on the cushioned seat of his chair, right between his long, denim-clad legs.  He jumped and stared at her with wide eyes and twitching lips.
 
“Lucky you,” she said.
 
“Lucky me, indeed,” he murmured.  He looked away for a moment before setting down his croissant and leaning forward on folded arms. “Diana, last night was… some of the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”
 
“Oh, no,” she interrupted, only half-jokingly. “Is this the part where we split paths and never see each other again?”
 
He furrowed his brow. “What? No.  I was gonna ask if… well, I wanted to know… if you might be keen to…”
 
She raised her eyebrows expectantly.
 
“Would you… I mean, do you want to come to Buffalo with me? With us? I— know it’s kind of short notice, but it’s just a couple hours up the road and I really, really don’t want to say goodbye just yet.”
 
Wow.
 
“Pretty fast,” she said softly.
 
He flushed, eyes darting down to his croissant. “You’re right, o’ course— ”
 
“Okay,” she cut him off, smiling. 
 
“Okay?”
 
“I’ll come with you to Buffalo.”

And after Buffalo… hell, after Chicago… who knew?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

CHAPTER ONE: Sorcerer’s Stone

“You can’t just wear it on your ear like that!”
 
“Why not?”
 
“It’s a violation of the Statute, Rosalind!”
 
“

Rosalind

,” a girl imitated her twin in a squeaky voice. “Onto full names, now, are we?”
 
“Take that off of your ear this instant! It’s not some toy!”
 
Finally growing slightly irritated, the witch huffed and pulled her attention from the commoners rushing about King’s Cross to give Hermione her best approximation of their father’s

do I look like I care?

stare.
 
“Someone sees a girl at a train station in London wearing a stick on her ear and their first thought is that there’s a secret society of magical folk running around making tables fly?” scoffed Roz. “Get real, Hermione.”
 
Hermione stomped her foot.  Roz copied her mockingly.  Before her twin had the opportunity to forcefully pull her wand down from her ear, their mother came bustling back, looking harried and weary.
 
“Your father’s on his way back to the practice,” Helen Granger sighed upon reaching them, gripping the strap of her purse with a white-knuckled hand. “Hopefully everything sorts itself out.  We might just knock staff down to the two of us and the assistants at this rate; we’ll certainly have the time, with you two at school.”
 
“Dr. Klein does seem to be more trouble than he’s worth,” Roz mused, dutifully ignoring Hermione’s persistent glare.
 
“You’re telling me.  But enough business talk! Let’s see you two off!”

Contrary to the evident belief of the girl in question, Hermione Granger did not hate her barely-by-a-minute younger sister, Rosalind.
 
Despite the many,

many

things that Roz did on a daily basis to aggravate her, Hermione knew that she wouldn’t have a friend in the world if it weren’t for her twin.  Roz was brash and impulsive, but loyal to a fault and host to her own personal moral code; she was also conniving and sneaky, and used her ample wit to argue and get out of doing work more than anything else.
 
When faced with the Sorting, Hermione was truly at a loss when it came to a prediction of any sort.  She hoped and prayed that the Hat didn’t shout Slytherin, considering the fact that most of the other students on the train to which she’d spoken seemed to be of the general consensus that it would be Hell on earth for a Muggleborn there.
 
It was typical of her luck to fly directly in the face of her heart’s most desperate request.
 
“SLYTHERIN!”
 
Hermione watched, horrified, as her sister—

tiny

compared to all of the other children at the Slytherin table— sashayed over to her new House with the air of someone who’d accomplished something grand.

“So you, what? Use a little brush? How do you clean it?”
 
Roz frowned. “The paste cleans the brush, too, probably— look, I don’t know, I’ve just been doing it my whole life this way.”
 
Tracey side-eyed her warily.  Roz scowled.
 
“Well, what d’you do, then?”
 
The other witch pointed her wand at her bared teeth at an angle and muttered, “

Dent

.”
 
Roz didn’t see any visible change, but Tracey worked her jaw around as if feeling the inside of her mouth with her tongue.  Satisfied with her probing, she turned back to Roz and smiled brilliantly.
 
“See? Easy.”
 
“How’d you do that before you had a wand?”
 
“The mirror did it for me.”
 
Roz scowled and raised her wand with trepidation.  She’d had the thing for less than a month, she hadn’t gotten to use it much at all, and the first time it touched her palm it erupted with sparks.  Could anyone blame her if she was hesitant to point it directly at her face?
 
“The incantation is

dent

.”
 
“I heard you.”
 
“Well?”
 
Roz swallowed, prayed to her parents’ dental practice, held it at the angle she’d seen Tracey use, and said, “

Dent

.”
 
A cool wave of minty freshness encapsulated everything from the tip of her tongue to her uvula.  She spluttered a bit, taken aback.  Tracey giggled.  She glared at the other girl.
 
“Think that’s funny, do you?” she snapped, grabbing her tube of toothpaste before her brain could catch up.
 
Tracey barely had a moment to look wide-eyed before the front of her dressing gown was covered in blue goo; she shrieked.
 
“Oh, now you’ve done it, Granger!”
 
“What are

you

going to do about it, Davis?”
 
Tracey snatched the tube and aimed it like a weapon.  Roz dodged around her and ran, laughing hysterically, out of the bathroom and down the corridor in the direction of the dormitory they shared with three other girls.
 
Before she could make it far, a vaguely human-sized shape materialized out of the shadows and put an abrupt halt to the sprint.  She heard Tracey come to a slow stop several paces behind her.
 
“What do you two think you’re doing?”
 
It took a second for her eyes to adjust, but Roz recognized her as Ella Fawley, the fifth year prefect that had been tasked with escorting the first years to the Common Room.
 
“Nothing,” Roz said immediately. “Just headed to bed, weren’t we, Davis?”
 
Tracey finally caught up to them, nodding fervently in agreement, and Roz winced at the blue toothpaste still smeared across the front of her robe.  She watched Fawley give them both a disdainful onceover.
 
“Control yourselves,” the older witch ordered coolly. “No one will be pleased to get up for classes tomorrow morning without a good night’s rest.”
 
Tracey clasped her hands behind her back and shifted her weight to one hip. “Of course not.  We’re sorry for the disturbance.”
 
Roz copied her body language, realizing it was an effort to appear contrite.
 
Fawley narrowed her eyes at both of them before turning and going back into her dorm.
 
They both let out a collective sigh of relief.
 
“What’s crawled into her pants?” Roz muttered.
 
Tracey smirked. “Dare you to ask her.”
 
“Do I look stupid to you?”
 
“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything…”
 
Roz thumped her new friend in the arm, trying and failing to suppress her amusement.

The Davis family, though not thoroughly pureblood through and through (unlike the Malfoys, whose heir loudly proclaimed his status every chance he got), was affluent in the way that only an old, established family in their world could be; Tracey’s father was the son of the founder of one of the largest pumpkin juice dispensaries in Wizarding England, and her mother was a Greengrass by birth.
 
All of that meant a few things: 
 
One, Tracey was considerably more well-off than Roz, and it was sometimes painfully obvious— like when her mother sent her priceless jewelry by post whenever Tracey felt like dolling up on any given day.  Or when Tracey related tales about her childhood, and words like

house elves

and

manor

popped up casually, like they would for someone comfortable in their status.  At first it was slightly bothersome, but Roz slowly learned to ignore it; after all, in the Muggle world, she wasn’t exactly left

wanting

with two dentists for parents.
 
Two, it meant that Tracey had a first cousin in their year: Daphne Greengrass.
 
And that witch took

bothersome

to new heights.
 
“Honestly, it’s like she doesn’t even try,” Daphne drawled to Millicent Bulstrode as they all made their way to the Dungeons behind a small pride of Gryffindors. “You’d think for all she studies, she’d know a simple grooming spell or two.”
 
Roz lowered her brow darkly, having a good idea who Daphne was talking about.
 
“Maybe if

you

spent less time in front of a mirror and more time hitting the books, Greengrass, you might actually earn us points,” Roz snarked, shouldering past the snooty blonde.  
 
Tracey hurried after her, muttering something to her speechless cousin before falling into step with Roz once more.
 
“Bless you,” said Tracey, “She never shuts up.”
 
Roz scoffed. “Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”
 
Tracey smiled a little, then sighed. “I get that you’ve got to defend your sister, but I would be careful about how often you go about mouthing off.”
 
Roz scowled, but knew what her friend was getting at.
 
She was a Muggleborn, and she never forgot it; wasn’t allowed to forget, in fact.  There was a constant barrier between herself and children born into magic— it seemed there would never be an end to all of the things she didn’t know about etiquette, stigma, propriety, traditions and whatever else.  If she offended the wrong individual, there were a number of sacred, ancient rites that could be invoked to wipe her off the face of the earth and no one would even bat an eye.
 
Because she wasn’t one of them, not really.  And neither was Hermione.
 
The mere thought of her conceptual insignificance dampened her mood for the rest of the day, made even worse by her painful awareness of the fact that she had no real friends outside of Tracey.
 
“Why even come?” she muttered to herself in the library later that day as she looked for a book to help her with their newly-assigned Potions essay. “Might as well have gone to secondary.”
 
In all honesty, she probably would have fared worse in Muggle school.  Hermione had always been the brains of their outfit; Roz never had a hope of being anything more than mediocre.
 
Frustrated, she kicked a shelf and yelped as books rained onto her head.
 
“Oh, damn it all!” she hissed, arms coming up to shield herself from the worst of it. “I hate this stupid school!”
 
“You don’t mean that, do you?”
 
Roz whirled around.  Hermione was standing at the mouth of the aisle, eyebrow raised and book in hand.
 
“I mean it from the very bottom of my black heart,” Roz swore, scowling. “I hate this school and every witch, wizard and owl inside of it.”
 
Hermione smiled. “What about the cats?”
 
“Them, too.”
 
“Toads?”
 
“Yeah, and their nitwit owners,” Roz rolled her eyes.  It wiped the smile clean off of Hermione’s face.
 
“Watch it,” her sister warned. “Neville is a good person, and no one around here gives him a chance.”
 
“He’s already got all he needs, Hermione! What’s he need a chance for? He’s a

pureblood

.  It doesn’t matter that he isn’t popular or smart, he’ll be set for life just because of who he is.  You and I, on the other hand,” she scoffed, “we never stood a chance in the first place.  We’ll never be like him.  We’ll never be like any of them.”
 
Hermione stared her down. “That’s it, then?”
 
Roz ignored her and began to angrily pluck fallen books from the dusty floor.
 
“You’ve been down in the dungeons too long, Rosalind.”
 
“If you’re not going to wallow in our inevitable failure as witches with me, I’d suggest getting lost.”
 “No, I knew this would happen… look, Slytherin is all wrong for you.  You’re surrounded all day by people who tell you that you’re nothing.  You are so much more than anyone gives you credit for.” 
“I’m not,” Roz whispered to the cover of a nameless blue tome. “I have no place here, and I’ll die being a nobody.”
 
Hermione sighed. “Come on.”
 
She looked up. “What?”
 
“Do you want to help my friends and I look for something?”
 
“And have Weasley spit on my face for being alive? No, thank you.”
 
“I’ll strangle him if he tries,” Hermione swore.
 
Roz sighed and allowed herself to be dragged to a table a few aisles away, where Weasley and Harry Potter sat poring over a open book.
 
“Did you find anything, Her— ”
 
Weasley promptly shut his mouth upon seeing Roz.  Potter turned to his friend, visibly confused.
 
“Ron, Harry, you know my sister, Rosalind.”
 
“Roz,” she corrected immediately out of habit.
 
Potter stuck out a hand. “Harry.”
 
“Yeah,” Roz said, shaking it curtly. “I know who you are.”
 
Potter exhaled, exasperated. “Everyone seems to.”
 
Roz shrugged. “Can you blame them?” 
 
Potter gazed at her unreadably.  She turned to his friend. 
 
“Weasley.”
 
Weasley glared. “Granger.”
 
“Be civil, Ron, she’s not the devil,” Hermione snapped.
 
“As far as you know,” Ron bit back venomously.
 
“We shared a womb, I think I’d know!”
 
The two continued bickering back and forth.  Roz turned to Potter.
 
“Are they always like this?”
 
“It’s been a pattern so far, yeah,” said Potter. “Just for the record, you’re not evil, are you?”
 
Roz gave him a flat look. “Are

you

, oh Mighty Killer of Dark Lords?”
 
“I was a baby,” Potter protested, awkwardly stiff.  He seemed to pick up on her dry delivery a beat later and sighed. “Touché.”
 
“We’re wasting time,” Hermione declared, annoyed. “Have you two read anything about Flamel?”
 
“No,” the boys admitted at length, shamefaced.
 
“Well, keep dredging,” Hermione ordered. “There has to be something somewhere.”
 
“Sorry, who are you looking for?” Roz drawled, curious.
 
“Nicholas Flamel,” said Potter. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?”
 
Roz stared at all three Gryffindors, stupefied. “Nicholas Flamel, the greatest alchemist of pretty much all time?”
 
They all gaped at her.
 
“And how do you know that?” her sister demanded, hands on her hips.
 
“Besides the fact he’s extremely well-known?” Roz sniffed. “My head of House is Potions Master.  You really think us barbarians down in the dungeons don’t do our research in order to suck up to him? He’s not easily impressed, we really have to delve for interesting facts.”
 
“What else do you know about him?” Potter asked.
 
“Flamel?” Roz furrowed her brow, thinking. “He’s over four hundred years old because he created the Philosopher’s Stone, which makes an elixir that grants immortality.  That’s what he’s most famous for, among other things.  He’s also an old colleague of the Headmaster’s.”
 
The three lions exchanged excited looks, and Roz felt hopelessly lost in the significance of what they were doing.
 
“Why were you looking for Flamel?” she inquired carefully. “What do you know?”
 
“None of your business,” hissed Weasley.
 
Potter gave him an uncomfortable look before looking beseechingly to Hermione, who nodded her head without hesitation.  He turned to Roz next, all electric green eyes and tight brow.
 
“Can we trust you?”
 
“I… that’s a loaded question, Potter.”
 
“We can’t,” Weasley protested. “Seriously, Harry.”
 
Roz flicked her middle finger in his direction without looking away from Potter. “What do you want from me?”
 
“Snape’s your head of House,” said Potter. “Can you keep tabs on him? Let us know if he does anything… I don’t know… suspicious?”
 
“Head of

Slytherin

, Potter.  He’s always doing something suspicious.” She took in his expectant expression, Hermione’s hopeful one, and Weasley’s distrustful glare. “I’ll keep an eye out.  But, in return…”
 
“I knew it,” Weasley groan, “there’s always a catch.”
 
“...I want to know what it is you’re looking for.  What’s your endgame?”
 
Potter winced. “I don’t know if we should tell you that.”
 
Hermione made a small, indignant noise in the back of her throat, but Roz considered him at length.
 
It would be monumentally idiotic to divulge the most precious of secrets to an unknown variable; especially when said variable was in constant contact with several untrustworthy parties.
 
If he’d laid it all bare right there, it would have confirmed her belief that Gryffindors were outrageously naïve, in which case, she would’ve held him in low regard and took advantage as she saw fit.  However, Harry Potter proved her wrong — on this occasion — and therefore, she held him in reasonable esteem.

For now

, she thought.
 
“I’ll do it.  But Hermione writes my Potions essay.”
 
“What? No way!”
 
“Academic integrity,” Roz held up one hand, palm facing the ceiling. “Potentially life-changing information?” She lifted her other a little higher.
 
Hermione huffed. “I will

help

you with your essay, but I won’t forge your chicken scratch.”
 
“Deal. Shake on it.”
 
She shook hands with her sister and Potter, but ignored Weasley and turned to leave the library.
 
“Wait!” Potter blurted. “How will you tell us what you find out?”
 
Roz hummed and tapped her chin. “I’ll sit with Hermione during Potions and tell her what I know.  You’d be too suspicious, and I don’t want Weasley’s pitiful potionmaking skills rubbing off on me.”
 
“Hey!”

“We shouldn’t have told her,” Ron bemoaned. “She’s going to run back to Snape and then he’ll know we’re onto him!”
 
“She won’t,” Hermione snapped. “Her word is good.”
 
Harry looked between them both, conflicted. “Hermione would know, Ron.  I think we can trust her a little bit, even if she is a Slytherin.”
 
“Trust and Slytherin shouldn’t even be in the same

sentence

.”
 
“Things are different in the dungeons for Muggleborns,” Hermione informed them quietly. “Her loyalty to the House only goes as far as its own to her.”
 
Harry frowned at the thought.  Ron said nothing, but looked away, ears red.

During Potions the following Wednesday, Roz took a seat beside Hermione and, though they got a few strange looks at first, eventually their fellow year mates lost interest and minded their own business.  After Snape gave a brief overview of what they were to be brewing that day and put the ingredient list and directions up on the board, the twin girls started their respective batches and only started whispering when about twenty minutes of the period had passed and they were thoroughly immersed in the process.
 
When Snape was on his rounds on the other side of the classroom, Hermione murmured, “Alright, what have you got?”
 
“He seems to be abnormally attuned to Professor Quirrell’s movements,” said Roz, carefully tipping in crushed lionfish spines. “Remember when Quirrell held Pansy after class on Monday?”
 
“Because she smarted off to him,” Hermione replied affirmatively. “I just assumed he didn’t have the fortitude to punish her in front of everyone else.”
 
Roz shrugged. “Could have been.  Anyway, that evening Snape pulled her from the common room and when she came back she seemed a little unnerved.”
 
“Unnerved how?”
 
Roz shrugged again. “We’re not exactly friends, so it would have been strange to interrogate her about it.  I don’t think he punished her for causing trouble, either— word is that she got off scot-free other than that one point Quirrell took.”
 
She glanced at her sister.  The other girl’s brow was furrowed.
 
“Do you think

he

was interrogating

her

?” Hermione muttered.
 
Roz turned down the heat of the burner and leaned against the table. “Could’ve done.”
 
“Curious.  Anything else?”
 
“He prefers rye over pumpernickel.”
 
Hermione choked.  Snape materialized in front of them.
 
“Something amusing you would like to share with the class, Granger?”
 
“No, sir,” Roz denied immediately with Hermione in tandem.
 
Snape stared for a moment.  Roz had the fleeting thought that he perhaps hadn’t considered that both of them would answer.  That thought— and every other bouncing around in her head— evaporated in the heat of his developing glare.  Roz tried not to sweat.
 
“Get back to work,” he demanded, and then skulked away with a sweep of his black cape.
 
Roz tracked his path across the room for a moment and accidentally locked eyes with Potter, who sat closer to the back with Weasley.  The raven-haired boy bobbed his head politely in her direction and she inclined hers back.

“Happy Christmas.”
 
Roz turned from fiddling with her trunk, surprised and a bit wary.  Potter stood next to Hermione, who he’d evidently come to see off with Weasley tagging along.  He was shuffling his feet nervously, but his gaze was true and his words sincere.  The redhead didn’t say a word to her, but he certainly didn’t look as spiteful as usual.
 
Maybe it was a Christmas miracle.
 
“Happy Christmas,” Roz returned, allowing a small smile to grace her face.  Hermione beamed at them all.
 
“We’ve got to head down to the carriages,” her sister said suddenly. “Goodbye, Harry.

Goodbye

, Ron.”
 
Weasley finally waved, lips sucked in tight.
 
“Come on, Rosie.”
 
Hermione hadn’t called her ‘Rosie’ in years.  Roz felt her cheeks warm and pulled her trunk along to follow her sister out of the entrance hall and out to the carriages, grateful to be going home for a reminder of all that was good about the muggle world instead of all that was wrong, unnatural,

heretical

.  
 
She managed to find the carriage Tracey was riding in with Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, and though Hermione was uncomfortable at first amongst all of the snakes, things eventually calmed down enough that they even moved onto sharing a compartment on the train.

“A three-headed

what

?”
 
“Keep your voice down,” Hermione shushed her, shining eyes wide and insistent in the almost-light.
 
Roz gawped at her, rubbing her weary eyes with disbelieving fists.  
 
It was early enough that the sun had yet to rise and Hermione had come into her room to wake her up and vomit all of her and her friends’ suspicions and plans onto her lap like a guilty witness.  It seemed her twin simply did not have the fortitude to withhold such information from her anymore, especially given how unexpectedly drama-free and fun their break had been.  They hadn’t gotten along so well in years.
 
Roz almost wished they’d fought like cats and dogs all of break.  She felt like she’d been knocked sideways and shaken like a martini.
 
“You almost died,” hissed Roz.
 
Hermione shook her head. “I’m fine, and we didn’t come anywhere close to dying that time.”
 
“

That

time? Hermione, what— ”
 
“Listen!  I need your help,” Hermione pressed. “Harry is great and Ron is… Ron… but I need someone who takes this as seriously as it should be taken.  I feel like they don’t realize just how terribly this could end for everyone involved.”
 
“And now you want me involved? That’s just great, Hermione,

really

.”
 
“Please, Rosie? Those boys are going to get themselves killed, or worse— ”
 
“Expelled, yeah, I know,” Roz pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’ve expressed such concerns before.  Answer a question for me.”
 
Hermione made an impatient noise.
 
“Why are you still friends with them if they stress you out so much? I don’t know the first thing about Potter, but Weasley definitely doesn’t seem worth the effort.”
 
Her sister was quiet for a moment, and though Roz couldn’t see her well in the dim lighting, she could feel antsy fingers twisting at her blue bedclothes.
 
“No one else is lining up to be friends with me,” said Hermione. “Already, we’ve been through a lot together.  And— and I’m a lot of things, but dumb isn’t one of them.  Those two were just like everyone else in the beginning, but when it came down to the wire, they were there because they’re good people with a call to do the right thing.  And even if our friendship ends up in complete and utter shambles, I would rather spend however much time that takes with two good people who occasionally make me feel bad than two bad people pulling the wool over my eyes.  Harry and Ron are almost completely transparent, and for boys, that’s saying something, I think.”
 
Roz felt terrible. “I’m sorry.”
 
“Whatever for?”
 
“I didn’t know you felt like you didn’t have any friends,” Roz admitted, forcing her chin not to quiver. “Or if I did, I guess I just always assumed that sort of thing didn’t matter to you.  I’m sorry I haven’t been nice to you.”
 
“Oh, Rosie,” Hermione’s voice was softer, and Roz knew she’d slipped into elder sister mode. “It’s okay, really.  Before Hogwarts you

were

my only friend, you know?”
 
“Really?”
 
“Really.  And this holiday has been amazing, like it felt when we were little.”
 
“That’s true.” Roz smiled, briefly recalling their ski trip and the good time they’d had. “I can’t promise I’ll always be your best friend, but I’ll definitely always be on your side, okay? Always.  Even if, Merlin forbid, your friends are being stupid and leave you.”
 
“

Merlin

forbid,” Hermione teased.
 
“Shut up, I’m trying to be a good witch and speak the language.”
 
“Well, don’t go getting too witch-washed.  We come from muggles.  Just because we have magic doesn’t mean we have to completely forget who we are to fit in.”
 
“Easy for you to say, Gryffindor.”
 
“Fair point.  But if your friends are really your friends, they won’t care that you’re muggleborn.  I’ve met Tracey and Theo and Blaise.  I genuinely think they just don’t know a lot about us.”
 
“Yeah, whatever,” Roz muttered, a little irked but not knowing exactly why. “Let’s go back to being soft and squishy.”
 
Hermione snorted. “Gross.”
 
“You’re gross.”
 
“No,

you’re

gross.”
 
“No, you!”

Roz did not anticipate she and Hermione’s heart-to-heart leading to her having to initiate a conversation with Draco Malfoy.
 
She tried to talk her way out of it, but those damned Gryffindors were deadset on her inserting herself into their mess to save the groundskeeper, Hagrid, who admittedly was a very friendly “man” with very poor decision-making skills.
 
She tried to remember that when she cornered the blond tool after Transfiguration.
 
“Malfoy.”
 
He whirled around, and then seemed to realize that his lackies, Crabbe and Goyle, had disappeared in search of the incredibly rare early afternoon brunchtime that Dumbledore had implemented that day and that day only.  Sometimes, Roz liked to think of herself as something of a genius.
 
“What do you want, mudblood?” Malfoy sneered, though his body language was stiff and he very obviously was not comfortable being confronted by her on his own.
 
Roz fought the urge to grin like a mad woman. “Just to talk.  I get the feeling you’ve got a lot on your plate, is that right?”
 
He squared his shoulders, grey eyes frosting over. “Get out of my way, Granger.  I have better things to do than waste time chatting with dirty-blooded trash like you.”
 
Roz smiled fixedly, inwardly suppressing her boiling temper.
 
“Gladly,” she simpered, and stepped out of the way.
 
He made to march past her.  She stuck out her left leg.
 
When people turned to stare at the huge commotion that followed, they saw only Rosalind Granger futilely attempting to help the pompous Malfoy heir from the ground after a particularly nasty fumble he seemed to have made and being repeatedly and rudely rebuffed.  It did not look good, to say the least.
 
For him.
 
“That’s hilarious,” Theo told her later.  Tracey and Blaise were playing wizard’s chess and had been providing creative commentary for the entire story.
 
Roz sighed and made another calculated twist of her Rubik’s cube. “Yeah, it was.  Doesn’t help me any, though.”
 
“Why ever not?” Tracey demanded. “You humiliated Malfoy, he’s probably going to get chewed out by his image-obsessed mother, and now anyone who didn’t already know he was a tool can steer clear.  And

all

without damaging our united front as a House.”
 
Blaise hummed in agreement. “Sounds productive to me.”
 
“Yeah, but now he definitely won’t see things my way,” Roz mused aloud. “Now, I have to do things the hard way.”
 
They all turned to look at her in wary bewilderment.
 
“What in Morgana’s name are you talking about?” Theo murmured, though there was an intrigued glint in his eyes.
 
Roz calmly placed her toy on the arm of the chair and then leaned forward with her fingertips pressed together like some sort of Bond villain.
 
“Have any of you got plans Saturday night?”

Sometime after midnight on Saturday— or rather, Sunday— two Gryffindors and five Slytherins sat in Professor McGonagall’s office in various states of minor injury.  Bruises, cuts, a black eye and a few crushed egos were among the worst of the damage, and Roz couldn’t help but feel like it could have been contained if not for the stubbornness of one Draco Malfoy.
 
Regardless of that irrevocable fact, no one said a word when presented with the extremely irate visage of the deputy headmistress and inappropriately gleeful caretaker.
 
“Seven first year students out of bed,” McGonagall glowered frostily, arms crossed. “I’ve half a mind to send you all packing.”
 
Hermione burst into tears.
 
“I was only reporting two students out of bed, Professor,” Draco remarked pointedly. “I shouldn’t even be here, really.”
 
“You were also out of bed, Mr. Malfoy, which makes you just as guilty.  That logic is inherently flawed.”
 
Draco pinked.
 
Theo cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, professor— ”
 
“Tread lightly, Mr. Nott.”
 
“ —but I can’t help but feel like this is all one big misunderstanding,” Theo continued, albeit a bit more carefully.  There was an angry scrape the length of a pinky finger on his left temple. “You see, Tracey, Blaise, Roz and I were merely attempting to stop our Housemate from making a mistake that would cost our entire House, and things simply spiraled out of control.  We weren’t breaking the rules for fun, but out of necessity.”
 
McGonagall sniffed. “If you suspected Mr. Malfoy would demonstrate such poor behavior, you should have notified your head of House straight away.

Not

gone bumbling around the castle like a herd of erumpents!”
 
Tracey bristled, and Roz knew it has more to do with being compared to such a graceless creature than anything else.
 
“It won’t happen again,” Blaise was quick to add onto Theo’s tactic of talking their way out. “Now that we’ve all been through this rather taxing ordeal, we know what not to do next time.  Isn’t that right, everyone?”
 
A shared, mumbled chorus of some variation of “yes” or “got that right” rolled through the small group of disgruntled and mildly achy first years.  Roz would probably have thought it funny if she hadn’t already done the math and figured Slytherin would probably fare a lot worse from a loss of points than Gryffindor.
 
“That’s a clever sentiment, Mr. Zabini, but punishment must be issued or I would be remiss in my duties as deputy headmistress.  You all could have been more seriously hurt than you got away with, and I believe ten points taken from each of you will drive that point home.”
 
Roz nearly bit off her tongue.  Fifty points was less than she thought they’d lose, but it was still a sizeable chunk of their winnings.
 
“And you’ll all be serving detention, to be specified at a later date.  Mr. Filch, will you please escort the Slytherins to the hospital wing and then back down to the dungeons? I’ll deal with my own.”
 
Roz avoided meeting any of her friends’ gazes on their way back to dungeons after getting their minimal abrasions and contusions healed.  She didn’t want to see their irritation and outright annoyance at her written so plainly on all of their faces; she already knew she’d failed spectacularly at the task she’d been given, she didn’t need any more evidence of her shortcomings.
 
Before they all dispersed to go to their respective dorms, Roz felt a hand on her shoulder and looked around.  Theo gave her a small half-smile.
 
“At the very least, it’s been an interesting night,” he reassured her. “If not a particularly good one.”
 
Blaise nodded thoughtfully. “You’re not wrong.”
 
“The lot of you are insane,” Draco hissed, storming past all of the them to the boys’ staircase. “And

barely

Slytherin.”
 
“Shove it, Malfoy,” they all bit back at him, and the brat huffed and continued on his way.
 
They all looked at each other.  Tracey mocked the way the heir’s nose had gone up into the air and stuck her hands out daintily on either side of her body in an exaggerated imitation of the way he walked.  Roz giggled, and even the ever-cool Blaise barked a short laugh.
 
Theo patted her shoulder again. “We’ll deal with the point loss in the morning.  Who knows, maybe we can get away with blaming it all on

him

.”
 
Roz returned his smile tremulously, and that night, slept better than she had in all of her time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

After a rather harrowing detention— sometime during which Potter and Draco lost a bit of their innocence and left the forest irrevocably changed, Potter more so than Draco— things kind of went back to normal.
 
Until Hermione and her friends got it into their heads that Snape was trying to steal the sorcerer’s stone and mounted a full-out rescue mission for the artifact whilst Dumbledore was away on official Ministry business.  
 
Roz told her sister up front that she wouldn’t participate in that circus, but would be rooting them on in their perilous endeavor with popcorn and an alibi if they needed one.  It turned out that no alibi would have even begun to cover all that transpired that evening.
 
A day in the aftermath, Roz found herself sitting in the hospital wing visiting Potter with her sister and Weasley.  Potter looked incredibly small, pallid and pitiful in bed, and Roz almost felt uncomfortable sitting at his bedside as if she were one of his closest friends when, in reality, she knew next to nothing about the boy at all.  Hermione had insisted, however.
 
During their visit, her sister was predictably reading a book and Weasley was snacking on Potter’s get-well gifts, which Roz thought was in rather poor taste but said nothing of it to avoid an unnecessary scuffle.  Instead, she focused intently on her favorite pastime and waited for Hermione’s okay to leave.
 
“What

is

that thing?”
 
Roz looked up.  Weasley regarded her toy with reluctant curiosity.
 
“It’s a Rubik’s cube,” she explained shortly. “A puzzle.  I have to get all of the sides to be the same color.”
 
Weasley furrowed his brow. “Why not just charm them?”
 
“Because then it’s not a

game

, troll for brains.”
 
He reddened and made as if to stand, but Hermione snapped, “Will the two of you cut it out? We’re here for Harry.”
 
“We?” snorted Weasley. “She doesn’t even like Harry!”
 
Roz scowled. “That’s not true! I don’t know him enough to dislike him!”
 
“How’s that any better? You shouldn’t even be here!”
 
“Who said I wanted to be?” Roz complained angrily.
 
“Forced, were you?”
 
“As a matter of fact— ”
 
Hermione hissed, “Cut it out, you two!”
 
“All I did was ask a question and she bit my head off for no reason,” Ron pointed out, petulantly crossing his arms. “She’s a bloody menace, she is.”
 
Roz ground her teeth together. “It was a dumb question.  Obviously, if I wanted to charm all of the sides the same color, I would.  But on top of it being a muggle contraption with a muggle creator who clearly did

not

intend for it to be solved with magic, charming it defeats the whole purpose of it being a

puzzle

.  Honestly, it’s like you don’t even think about what you say before it leaves your mouth.”
 
Weasley was red enough to clash horribly with his own hair. “You are just so— so— ”
 
“So what? Out with it, weasel.”
 
He shot to his feet and drew his wand.  Roz was just as quick, cube clattering to the floor and ebony wand in hand like an extension of her arm after a year of practice.
 
“Rosie, Ron, please!”
 
“He drew first!”
 
“You’re unbearable!”
 
“So now you’re going to do what? Hex me? I’d like to see you try!”
 
“I wouldn’t,” a small, croaky voice input softly.
 
They all turned in unison to see Potter watching them with something akin to amused concern.  Weasley lowered his wand sheepishly, and Roz followed his lead, though she was hyper-aware of his movements out of the corner of her eye.
 
“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, and hugged the raven-haired boy as best she could while he was still lying in bed the way he was.  
 
Potter looked slightly horrified, like he didn’t know what to do in such a situation.  It was a little funny.
 
“It’s good to see you awake, mate,” said Weasley, sounding genuinely relieved. “I thought you’d never wake up.”
 
“Madam Pomfrey said he would be fine,” Roz drawled.  Two sets of eyes turned to her in warning.  She sighed. “Feeling better, Potter?”
 
“Much,” Potter murmured. “Is- is the stone okay?” He suddenly paled even whiter than he had been before. “I think… I think I… Quirrell?”
 
“I believe I can answer some of your queries, Harry.”
 
Roz jumped a meter in the air, whirling around to see the headmaster sweeping toward them with oddly majestic strides that made him look like he was floating.  Just like every other time she’d been in his immediate presence— which, admittedly, had not been often at all— Roz immediately felt uncomfortable and antsy.  She supposed it had something to do with Headmaster Dumbledore showing a frequent knack for omnipotence that seemed both useful and unnerving.
 
When he politely requested that they give him and Harry the room, Roz scrambled out of her seat without a second thought.

On the platform, Harry tried not to dawdle, knowing just how little patience Uncle Vernon would likely have after an entire school year of not having him around at all.  Despite his rushing, he made time to say a proper goodbye to Ron, Hermione, and even Roz, who gave him a smile that wasn’t quite as tight as her usual ones.  Mrs. Weasley insisted that he come and stay for a little while during the summer, and his heart lightened a bit at the thought of escaping his relatives, even if just for a bit.
 
That summer, though, ended up being one of the worst of his young life thus far.

CHAPTER TWO: Chamber of Secrets

“Rosalind, be a dear and take Keira a sandwich.”
 
Roz stood from the table, upon which she had just finished her own lunch and had moved onto doing her summer Charms work, and padded out with a plate in hand into the sitting room where her elder cousin was staring numbly at the telly, rubbing her prominently rounded middle.
 
“Roast beef sandwich for you, Keke,” said Roz, handing it to her.  
 
Keira took the plate and sat it on her stomach.  Roz thought it looked rather funny, but stifled her laugh.  Her cousin was rather sensitive these days, and didn’t like it when they laughed around her unless she was there for the joke.
 
For all of summer holiday, Keira had been living with them because her mother, their father’s sister, Moira, had drawn a line in the sand about the fate of the unexpected baby.  Aunt Moira thought it was only practical to either deal with it as soon as possible or give it up for adoption, as neither her nor Keira had the time to take care of a baby and Keira, of course, had her future to consider; the girl was only sixteen, after all.
 
Keira wanted to keep it.
 
Helen and Richard Granger, having always been fond of their niece, vowed to take her in for as long as it took for her to become independent and did everything they could to make sure she and the baby were healthy and looked after.  Roz thought the idea of a baby in their house was rather fortuitous— Roz

loved

babies

—

even if she didn’t know quite how to act around Keira most days.  She was no longer the flippant girl they grew up with, but rather a very serious, very solemn stranger with a perpetually defeated slump to her shoulders.
 
“How are your magic friends, Roz?” asked Keira, taking a bite of her lunch. “Got any letters?”
 
Keira knew about Magic because it would have been impossible to hide with her living in the same house.  Full disclosure was the best bet, and she didn’t have many friends to blab to, anyway.
 
“Tracey owled me about going to Diagon Alley and meeting up with Theo,” Roz told her casually, plopping herself down onto the other end of the couch. “Theo’s dad is really strict with him, though, so it isn’t a guarantee he’ll be able to get away.”
 
“He doesn’t even let him see his friends?”
 
Roz quirked her lips to one side. “It’s complicated.”
 
Complicated meaning that Patroclus Nott was a notoriously conservative pureblood that would undoubtedly roast his son alive for hanging out with “dirty-blooded trash” like Roz.  Theo wasn’t on the same page with his father’s purist views, but as long as he lived under the wizard’s roof, he really had no say in who he was allowed to hang out with.
 
Keira tossed her a sympathetic look, but said nothing because her mouth was full of bread and meat.  Roz tuned into the telly for a moment, briefly captivated by the amusing antics of Hyacinth Bucket.  Occasionally, she glanced at Keira in the way one does when trying to gauge another’s reaction to shared stimuli.  A rush of unexpected envy settled over her.
 
Keira was conventionally attractive in the way teenage boys tended to like; she had long, luscious, dark-brown hair and big brown eyes with nearly flawless skin.  Though her belly was bloated with child, her natural form was slim and, before she’d fallen pregnant, she’d cut a distinct figure with ample breasts and flared hips.  Where Keira was tall and statuesque and classically beautiful, Roz felt, in comparison, short and boyish with fuzzy brown curls and too-thick eyebrows.  Logically she knew that the last person to be jealous of was her pregnant sixteen-year-old cousin, but even in her present situation Keira glowed with health and good looks.
 
At the very least, Roz felt secure in the fact that she did not have Hermione’s huge front teeth.  That thought made her feel a bit guilty, as there was nothing inherently wrong with having abnormally huge front teeth.  What was normal, anyway?
 
“I think something’s wrong with Harry!”

Speak of the devil

, thought Roz.  Her twin sister stood in the doorway of the living room with wide eyes.
 
Keira regarded Hermione with raised eyebrows. “Your boyfriend?”
 
“No, Harry’s not— ” Hermione spluttered, turning red. “I've told you about him, he’s my

friend

.  But he hasn’t written me back all of break so far and I wrote to Ron and he said Harry hasn’t been writing him either even though he promised he would.  I think something’s wrong.”
 
Keira looked a bit wary. “Maybe he doesn’t feel as close to you as you do to him.”
 
Hermione waved that off immediately. “We’re his only friends.  And he’s also not really the type to break promises if he can help it.”
 
Roz knew this to be true.  Potter didn’t hang out with anyone except Hermione and Ronald Weasley, and from the things her sister had shared with her, Roz thought the three had to be closer than most other kids their age.
 
“Ron said he and his brothers were going to pay him a visit and make sure he’s alright,” Hermione continued, twisting her hands together.
 
Roz felt a spark of recognition soar across her consciousness. “His brothers are twins, aren’t they?”
 
A split second of annoyance flickered on Hermione’s face. “Yes.  Fred and George.”
 
“They’re a riot,” Roz laughed.  Many of her House would probably have disagreed, having been targeted by the infamous duo at least once in their academic career. “Comedy geniuses, in my humble opinion.”
 
“Well, some of what they do is downright irresponsible and reckless,” snapped Hermione. 
 
“But you can’t deny that they’re clever!”
 
Hermione sniffed haughtily and said nothing.  Keira snorted.
 
“You two are something else,” she told them, struggling to get to her feet.  The grimace on the older girl’s face propelled Roz forward to help her up, to which she mumbled, “thanks.”
 
Keira was nearly seven months pregnant.  Her belly looked like an over-inflated basketball straining against the material of her shirt as she stretched.
 
“I’m sending my best vibes to your friend,” said Keira, bending slightly to pick her plate up from the coffee table. “I hope everything turns out alright.”
 
Hermione’s expression softened in worry. “Me too.”

Dear Roz,

I’m visiting Tracey as I write this letter.  She convinced her mother to let me stay with them for the weekend.  I think Lady Davis is considering me for formal betrothal now; the amount of winks I’ve had to avert my eyes from at this point is starting to give me a headache.

Anyway, I write to say that since I’m here, I’ll be able to go school shopping with you guys with my father being none the wiser.  He was just relieved I’d started bugging him about hanging out with “decent stock like the Davises” and what have you.  I swear, sometimes he doesn’t even listen to half of the things that come out of his mouth.

When we get to the Alley, I really want to show you Gambol and Japes

.

I have a feeling you’ll like it a lot.

Best,

Theo

Roz,

He totally likes you.

Tracey

Tracey,

Shut up.

Roz

Hermione,

I think Harry’s relatives are way worse than he says.  Me and Fred and George took my dad’s car to go pick him up— and Hermione, there were bars on his window, if you can believe it.  We had to chain and tug them loose to get him out.

He was so skinny.  Whenever mum caught me alone, she kept bugging me about how he ate while we were at school last year, and the whole thing freaked me out.  They’re literally starving him.  How can somebody do that to a kid? And how hasn’t anyone figured it out until now? I mean, I always knew that they weren’t exactly nice, but this is like— evil.

He’s safe now, at least.  Mum’s always giving him seconds and thirds every time we eat, and we’re having a good time, I think.  If you write him now, he’ll definitely write back.

Ron

(p.s. when are you going school shopping? maybe we can go on the same day)

“Why do you have to leave your cell phones again?” Keira asked, holding her belly and looking dreadfully pale.
 
Helen kissed her forehead. “They won’t work in the magical world, dear.” She leaned close. “The Connellys are very nice and if you need

anything

, go over and knock on their door.”
 
“We won’t be gone more than a couple of hours,” Richard assured her.
 
“What if we get caught in lines?” Roz pointed out. “What if Flourish and Blotts is closed and Hermione has a meltdown?”
 
Hermione pinched her. “They would never close on a crucial weekend like this one.”
 
Roz kicked her achilles tendon in retaliation.  Hermione pulled the pin securing one of her space buns so that the ends came loose.  Roz grabbed her hand and bit the sensitive area between her thumb and forefinger.
 
“Girls,” Helen chided sharply.
 
Roz re-did her hair, scowling.  Hermione rubbed her hand.
 
“Really, Keira, you’ll be just fine,” said Helen, rubbing the teen’s arms as if to warm her up.
 
Keira sighed and kissed their mother on the cheek in parting.  They said their goodbyes, filed out the door and piled into the car to head into London.

“I just want to show her everything,” Theo admitted. “She likes to pretend that she isn’t surprised by magic anymore, but you can tell it’s like… learning something new makes her light up like a game of Snap.”
 
“She’s like her sister that way,” Tracey agreed. “Less of a nerd, though.”
 
Theo took another generous lick of his pistachio ice cream. “Nothing wrong with a nerd.”
 
“Said the nerd.”
 
“Watch it.”
 
“What a pair of losers,” a familiar voice mused behind them. “Sitting inside on a day like this.”
 
Tracey squeaked and whirled around.  There was Rosalind, in all of her cock-hipped, wry-grinning glory.  A sight for sore eyes.  A glance at Theo revealed that he was thinking something similar.
 
Forgetting every etiquette lesson she’d ever had, Tracey threw herself at her friend and locked her arms around her neck in an enthusiastic hug.
 
“Hi,” she mumbled against her striped shirt.
 
“Hi, you loon,” Roz replied, one hand coming up to delicately touch her shoulder. “Hello, Theo.”
 
He rose from his chair with far more restraint than Tracey— which she resented— and came to stand next to the two of them, smiling.
 
“Hello, Roz.”
 
“Blaise couldn’t make it?” asked Roz.
 
Tracey pulled away, keeping her hands on the other girl’s shoulders. “What are we, chopped dragon liver?”
 
“You said it, not me.”
 
Theo turned to Tracey. “You walked into that.” He looked back at Roz. “Blaise mother had their elf do his shopping as soon as the letters were sent out.”
 
“Unfortunate,” said Roz. “He’ll miss out on all of the debauchery.”
 
“What kind of debauchery could we possibly get up to in broad daylight with parents buzzing about like flies?” 
 
“Dear Tracey,” Roz simpered. “The best kind.”
 
They were forcibly reminded that they were in a rather small ice cream parlor when another patron bumped into them, sending Theo’s cone tumbling out of his hand.
 
“Aw,” he muttered, staring down at it.
 
“Apologies,” said the patron, not sounding very apologetic at all.  
 
Tracey watched Roz’s easy expression melt into something far more long-suffering. “Malfoy.”
 
“Granger,” Malfoy sneered. “Funny, I just saw your incubator and seed donor at Flourish and Blotts.  I didn’t know that sort of thing was allowed— should be illegal, if you ask me.”
 
“Good thing no one did,” said Theo.
 
Draco glanced at him in mild surprise. “Nott.  Does your father know you’re here with this mudblood?”
 
“Of course he does,” Theo lied easily.
 
“Of course,” Draco echoed suspiciously.
 
“Come on,” Tracey prompted her friends. “Let’s just go.”
 
“But my ice cream— ”
 
“Forget it,” Tracey insisted.
 
She sniffed pointedly in Draco’s direction and led them out of the parlor.  She knew that if they stayed and insulted him any longer, Draco would likely do something stupid like tell his father about Roz being with them; odds were, he already planned to.  That didn’t sit well with Tracey.
 
If it got down to the wire, they could all just lie.  They’d be poor excuses for Slytherins if they didn’t know how to do so with some degree of success.
 
“First stop, Gambol and Japes,” Theo declared after they’d been walking for a while, blowing off steam.
 
Tracey whacked his arm. “Uh, no— first stop, the apothecary to refill our kits.”
 
“I wanted to visit the menagerie as well,” said Roz. “Mum finally caved on an owl.”

Roz stepped into Gambol and Japes on Theo’s heels, her new owl dangling at her side in its gleaming cage.  
 
She was a lovely, eight-month-old tawny owl that had apparently been a right terror to her fellow hatchlings and loved to caw at deafening velocities, an abrupt departure from her siblings’ soft crooning.   Roz wanted her right away, and dubbed the wild thing

Stevie

.  Neither Theo nor Tracey quite understood why Roz liked Stevie so much, because Stevie didn’t seem to like anybody.  Or any

thing

, for that matter.
 
Theo and

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

On Jesueh, the only place to find certain herbs and spices were in the mountains.  They towered above the thick forests, rolling plains and broad lakes that composed the rest of the varying landscape.  The rock of the mountains boasted a dull ochre with streaks of mustard where loose mineral has been moistened by rain on the windward side.  Two travelers, the tread of their boots clogged with yellow mud, tromped up a sloping trail to a bluff that overlooked several small compounds and sprawling acres of farmland.  
 
One of the travelers, a young boy of no more than six, went to work splashing in the puddles and dirtying his boots and pant legs.  His wavy dark tresses flopped in the damp breeze, rising and lowering over his brow as he jumped and landed, hopped and stomped.
 
The other boy was older.  Nearly seventeen.  He considered telling his younger brother to stop messing up his clothes; it was very annoying.  Any time the little boy got into trouble under his supervision, Din always bore the brunt of the blame.  He knew he would likely be washing clothes that evening.
 
He also knew that tensions were running high at home, and supposed that jumping in puddles was Tyri’s kidlike expression of stress relief.  Din decided not to make a big deal, and tried to give him a wide berth whenever he found a particularly large pit of mud so as not to get his armor too dirty.
 
He tilted his helmet toward the sun and marked its position in the sky.  It was still early, but they needed to stop halting every five minutes for fun if they wanted to make it to the bluff by noon.
 
“Din, I’m hungry!”
 
Din reached into his bag and handed the boy a stick of jerky. “Didn’t you eat breakfast?”
 
“Yes,” the boy lied, and began tugging away at the cured meat with his teeth.
 
Tyri hadn’t eaten breakfast because their mother was crying in the kitchen that morning.  He had never seen her cry before.  He hadn’t wanted to disturb her by going in and asking for porridge.
 
“Din?”
 
“What?”
 
“How come Grogu couldn’t come?”
 
Their uncle, Grogu, was training with their father that morning.  Tyri, Force-sensitive like Grogu and their father, would eventually join them on mornings like this.  Din knew that Tyri knew all of this, and that he was making conversation for the sake of hearing himself talk and hearing Din’s modulated voice talk back.  Tyri did not know how to be quiet.  It was very annoying.
 
“You know why.”
 
Tyri didn’t say anything else until they got to the bluff.  The view from the edge was beautiful.  The settlement was bustling with activity; people trading in the square, working on the hulls of different-sized crafts, moving in and out of the forge with wheelbarrows of raw materials, and tending the plants and soil of the fields.  He picked out their home among many; the unpolished alloy that made up the domed roof gleamed dully in the direct afternoon light.  Smoke rose from two of its chimneys, signaling that lunch was being prepared.  Of the figures in the fields, he knew their sister, Ora and her baby son, Caro, to be among them.  He looked to the training grounds out in the plains— just as robustly active— and saw two moving specks among many that he imagined were Grogu and their father.
 
Din allowed a few moments to soak it all in before getting to work.  He told Tyri which herbs and plants they were looking for, and gave him a small sack to put them in.  They broke and went to opposite sides of the bluff to start collecting.
 
While they worked, Din’s mind wandered.
 
Grandfather was dying.
 
He knew their parents weren’t letting on just how bad it was, but the old man for whom he had been named hadn’t risen from bed for more than a couple of hours at a time in almost a week.  Some evenings, their fellow clanspeople would come and offer food and other useful items to express their sympathy.  It reminded Din unpleasantly of when Grandmother died, right before Tyri was born.  Their house was somber and dim, and any day, Din expected to hear the news he was dreading.
 
He heard Tyri cry out behind him and whirled around.  The boy was sitting, legs kicked out in front of him with his forefinger in his mouth and, upon drawing closer, tears in his eyes.  Din crouched low and inspected the plants around him; as he suspected, there were pricker bushes at about Tyri’s waist level.
 
“Are you alright?”
 
Tyri shook his head pitifully.  Din inwardly sighed.  His brother needed to grow out of being such a sensitive thing, but he had never been the best at denying him anything.
 
“Let me see.”
 
He inspected the digit presented to him and saw a tiny hole where the spine of a pricker must have gotten him.
 
“You’ll live,” Din remarked dryly.
 
Tyri’s lip wobbled.  Din stood and helped him to his feet, then handed him the sack that he had dropped.
 
“Keep working,” he said. “We’ll leave in a bit.”
 
Tyri took the sack in his unpricked hand and shuffled off to do as he was told.  Din rolled his hidden eyes to the sky and went to do the same.
 
They finished up, Din tied both sacks to his utility belt and they began their trek back down the mountain.  By the time they reached the dirt path that led to and threaded through the settlement, Tyri’s head was lolling on his shoulders.  Din picked him up and balanced him on his hip to carry the rest of the way.
 
When they reached their home, Din entered through the door in the kitchen.  If anybody was home, they were in the back.  A pot bubbled at the stove, unattended.  The air smelled like stewing meat and roasting vegetables.  
 
He removed his muddy boots at the mat and went to put Tyri down in stockinged feet.  He removed the boy’s similarly dirty boots and damp trousers and left him napping in his cot.
 
Venturing back into the kitchen, he glanced furtively around before lifting his helmet and stealing a taste of the stew boiling away.  It was delicious.  He stole another sip, and a firm smack to the back of his helmet forced it back over his face and sent the stirring spoon clattering onto the counter.
 
“Sneaky little womp rat,” Ora chided.
 
He glowered at her.  She wasn’t wearing her armor, so she must have been home for a while.  Her brown eyes were tired and sad, but there was a quirk of mischief pulling at her lips nonetheless.
 
“Don’t you have a kid to boss around?” Din complained. “I’m minding my own business, and here you come— ”
 
“Here I come making sure there’s still enough to go around,” Ora finished.  Din flicked her shoulder with his gloved hand and she mushed his covered face.
 
He was smiling under his helmet.  He stopped when he noticed that she was no longer smiling.
 
“Grandfather wants to speak with you,” she told him softly. “He was asking about you earlier.”
 
“Oh,” said Din, swallowing. “Why?”
 
Ora gave him a look.  Din clenched his fists at his sides.
 
“Right. Okay.”
 
He made to leave the room, but she put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
 
“I know it’s hard, but… this is how it’s supposed to be.  He’s old, he’s surrounded by people who love him.  It’s sad, but it’s the best possible scenario.  Do you know what I mean?”
 
Din nodded.  He understood.
 
She let go of him and he made his way down the short corridor to Grandfather’s room.  He removed his helmet as he went, and tucked it under his arm.  The door to the room slid open when he arrived in front of it.  He entered.
 
Having only a little time left, Grandfather didn’t wear his armor anymore.  He spent most of the day in bed, which he hated, and spent some of it outside soaking up the sun.  Din knew he liked those times because he got to wear his helmet out and about.
 
His wavy hair was mostly grey, with a few straggling streaks of dark brown.  His brown face was deeply lined, his gaze dark and almost always inscrutable.  He wasn’t the most loquacious of folks— especially not since Grandmother passed— but Din knew his voice to be deep and round around the edges.
 
“Din,” the man rumbled. “Sit.”
 
Din set his helmet on the bedside table next to Grandfather’s and sat near the foot of the bed.  He settled in to watch the man stare out of the window; if it was a contemplative stare, one for gathering thoughts and thinking of the right words, Din wouldn’t know it from the considering gaze that signaled his wonderings of what would be for dinner.
 
Eventually, Grandfather cleared his throat— a rattling noise that made Din wince— and declared without preamble, “I want you to have my ship.”
 
“Your…” Din’s brow creased. “The Razor Crest?”
 
“No, the other one.”
 
Din was too stunned to react properly to his namesake’s dry humor.  If anyone were to be given the Razor Crest, it should have been Ignat.  But Din supposed it would have been rather difficult to bequeath a ship to someone whose whereabouts were pretty much unknown.
 
In lieu of Ignat, Grogu seemed like the logical second choice.
 
“I don’t know how to pilot a ship,” Din admitted bluntly. 
 
Grandfather shrugged. “You can learn. It needs fixing up, so you won’t be able to fly it immediately, anyway.”
 
Din bit his lip. “I… shouldn’t Grogu have it?”
 
A deep, withering sigh. “He’s still too young.”
 
Din frowned.
 
Grogu was nearly a hundred years old, but he acted about twelve and only reached the hip of an average adult human male.  
 
Still, he had more right to the Razor Crest than Din, who probably shouldn’t be allowed within a lightyear of the damned thing.  He was someone who liked his feet firmly on the ground.  He had resigned himself to the fact that he would need to leave the planet eventually in search of more beskar for his armor and for the good of the clan, but he’d thought he had at least a couple more years before that ship left the dock.
 
“I’m grateful,” he rushed to say, realizing that he’d been silent for longer than was probably appropriate. “I am.  I just… don’t understand— well,

why

.”
 
Grandfather settled into his pillows and leveled him with a piercing stare that made Din squirm.
 
“Did I ever tell you about how Grogu became my foundling?”
 
“Yes,” Din resisted the urge to let his exasperation show. “Grandmother used to tell it all the time.”
 
“Tell it to me.”
 
“Uh.” Din cleared his throat. “Well.  Grogu was a bounty that you kept.  You had to give him up to the Jedi for a while, but after you got him back, you and Grandmother raised him on the Crest.  Then you settled here.  The rest is history.”
 
There was more to it, of course, but Grandmother usually only used it as a precursor to other little anecdotes about raising Grogu and the various hijinks they got up to whilst trying to keep him safe.
 
Grandfather grunted. “Grogu was coveted by a residual faction of the Empire.  He was no ordinary bounty.  Even though he was my foundling, my initial intention was to find his people.  Then, I met your grandmother.  Things changed.”
 
“What happened?” Din asked, bewildered.
 
Grandfather gave him a look. “Your father happened.”
 
Din blinked. Then blushed. “Right.”
 
“Right,” Grandfather repeated. “After we settled here, I still occasionally left in search of his birth people.  I was unsuccessful.  Your father and Grogu needed me around, so I eventually stopped leaving so often and for so long.”
 
All at once, it dawned on Din.
 
“You want

me

to find them,” he said.  It wasn’t a question.
 
Grandfather nodded.
 
“Why? He’s a Jedi, and part of Clan Mudhorn now.”
 
“He is

Mand’alor

because he is my foundling, but I know he wants answers.  Answers that no one here can give him.”
 
“He took the Oath,” Din argued. “He follows the

Resol’nare

.  What other answers could he need?”
 
“You don’t have to understand.  But I

am

dying,” Grandfather said. “And this is a parting wish.  Make of that what you will.”
 
Din bit his lip. “Can I think about it?”
 
“For as long as you need.”
 
Din felt like he’d failed some sort of test by not automatically agreeing, taking on the challenge with gusto and on good faith.  But Grandfather didn’t seem upset by his hesitance; his expression remained nearly the same as when he’d walked in the door.  Perhaps he’d expected some sort of pushback, and thus was unsurprised.
 
When he was eleven, Din woke in the middle of the night to find his half-brother, Ignat, furiously packing a bag.  Grandmother, to whom the eldest boy had been exceptionally close, had just passed earlier that evening.  Din asked him what he was doing, and Ignat told him that he was leaving and never coming back.
 
They never heard from him again.
 
Except every year, on the anniversary of his departure, a small donation of beskar arrived in a shipment to their settlement.  Din liked to make his own assumptions about where it came from.
 
Ever since his brother’s leaving, however, Din had been wary about doing the same.  He remembered Ora crying— which she never did— and how angry and heartbroken his parents were when they woke to find their eldest missing so soon after losing Grandmother; he remembered them being disappointed in him for not telling anyone until morning, remembered them making him promise not to ever do what Ignat did.  Except, in all of the passionate confusion, Din eventually came to associate leaving

at all

with an exceptional amount of melodrama.
 
He trained as hard as any other youngling to be a warrior worthy of his armor and status as one of the fighting

Mand’alor

, but leaving to fulfil the other parts of his duties was endlessly daunting to him.  He wasn’t like Ignat.  He couldn’t just face life-altering circumstances with a nod and a wink.
 
Din also cared a lot about what Grandfather thought of him.
 
Thus, his two greatest weaknesses were at odds.
 
Face his fears and leave, or stay and prolong his departure for as long as he possibly could— forsaking his Grandfather’s dying wish with each passing year.
 
Grandfather turned to look out of the window again, finished with the conversation and reverting back into his most natural state— pensive silence.  As soon as he moved, though, his body jerked forward as he spiraled into a convulsive coughing fit.  Din scrambled to refill his water cup with a pitcher on the table by the bed.  
 
The man tried to drink, but ended up coughing halfway through a sip and dropping the cup onto the blankets.  He pulled out a handkerchief and to cover his mouth; it came away bloody.
 
“I’m getting the healer,” Din managed to utter, terrified.
 
Grandfather waved him off. “I’m fine. Tell Grogu to come.”
 
“But— ”
 
“Din,” he rasped. “Go.”
 
Din grabbed his helmet and darted out of the room.  He broke out into a run when he got out through the kitchen door, making a break for the training grounds.

Din Djarin I touched the afterlife early the next day.  His surviving household was heavy with the burden of mourning.  Clansmen came and went to help with the preparations for a proper sendoff.  His armor was stored in a special room in their home, to be worn by Tyri when the time came.
 
After the ceremony, Din retreated into himself.  
 
He trained.  He worked.  Sometimes, he went out to that spot on the bluff and looked out over his home, thinking.
 
Then one day, a few weeks after Grandfather’s death, he packed a few water sacs, some food, and a box of tools and left home on one of their speeders.  He left an explanatory note, conscious of the tenuous environment he was leaving behind.
 
The journey was long, even with the speeder, and lonely.  Din didn’t mind.  Sometimes he thought that other people made too much noise, even when they weren’t speaking.  He wondered how he could possibly stand existing in an enclosed metal box with Grogu, who was a chatterbox of the highest degree, for months and possibly years.  He tried not to think about it.  Maybe he wouldn’t have to for a long time.  Maybe Grogu didn’t even want to leave.  Din wouldn’t know; they hadn’t spoken since the ceremony.
 
He traveled as far he could during the day and slept under the stars when his hands cramped and his butt grew numb from the uncomfortable seat of the vehicle.  Jerky for breakfast, lunch, dinner.  Water whenever he became thirsty.  Displacing rocks with his blaster when ennui got the best of him.
 
At noon on the third day, he reached the gorge, where he knew the ship resided somewhere in disrepair.  He peered down into it.  The steep walls of it glimmered a dull, striated gold.  A thin stream threaded through it at a trickle’s pace.  He wondered if he’d passed the stupid ship.  Bitterness rose in him like bile.
 
Just when he began to consider swallowing his pride and turning back to ask his father where it was, he spotted a peculiar, unnatural shape across the chasm.
 
The Razor Crest.
 
How could he have missed it?
 
He looked at his speeder.  It wouldn’t take him across, that much was certain.
 
He looked down.  It was a very steep plummet to the bottom, though there were quite a few outcroppings for him to grip if he climbed down.  If he missed one or slipped too high up, he would likely fall and break his neck.
 
Din sighed.

He slipped, but not too high up.  The worst of his injuries were a few bruises and a sprained wrist, the latter making it difficult— but not impossible— to climb back up once he’d crossed the stream, which was a lot wider and faster than it seemed from the top.
 
He grabbed a few loose rocks the first couple of tries up the other side and aggravated both his wrist and a particularly nasty bruise decorating his right flank.  By the time he successfully completed the summit, the sun was setting and he was sopping wet, tired, and in a decent amount of aching pain.  Fortunately, the ship wasn’t very far from the lip of the chasm and it took only a few moments’ stumbling to reach it.
 
It was, indeed, in need of a lot of care.  Rusted and dented up, it looked more like a neglected sculpture than any sort of operable machinery.
 
Ignoring his body’s cries to lie down, Din removed a glove and slowly reached out to touch the hull.  Its rough, oxidized surface was still warm from sitting out in the sun all day.  He leaned forward and pressed his helm to it, imagining Grandfather leaning against it in the same way, far back in a cycle long past.
 
Setting his teeth against his exhaustion, he slipped his glove back on and tread backward to get a better view of the bulky, pre-Empire gunship.  The fastest way in would be to blast the door down, but he didn’t want to create more work for himself than he needed to.  The alternative was opening up the right panel and tripping the right wire to lower the ramp, but if his knowledge of military grade spacecrafts was limited, his knowledge of pre-Empire military craft technology was nonexistent.
 
He sighed and went about placing a few charges at strategic points along the perimeter of the ramp door.
 
The explosion, even from his position behind a large rock some ways away, rang his ears unpleasantly.  He peered over the top of the rock.  Any relief he felt due the success of the plan was tempered by his frustration at the fact that the door was completely blown off its hydraulic hinges.  He’d expected as much, but it was still disheartening to look at.
 
“Maker,” he muttered, picking up his toolkit and jogging back to inspect the gaping hole still smoking in the aftermath of the blast.
 
He secured the kit to his belt, grabbed ahold of the lip of the hole and hauled himself up and in, landing with a labored huff on the corrugated floor of the cargo hold.  The kit banged loudly, rattling with its contents.  Rolling over and getting to his feet, Din looked around.
 
There wasn’t much light, but there was enough to get the general shape of things.  He took out his blaster just in case some wild animal had found its way in and set up camp somewhere tucked away.  However, the more he explored, the more certain he felt that he was alone.
 
After setting his toolkit down, he ascended into the cockpit.  The view of the sunset was uninhibited by any sort of natural obstruction from this elevated position.  Din sat in the pilot seat, settling his arms onto its rests, and watched the sun sink below the horizon, painting the sky before washing it clean and plunging it into illuminated darkness.  The stars beamed down at him.
 
Perhaps Din Djarin I looked down at him, as well.  Waiting for him to come to a decision.
 
He ripped off his helmet and placed it with an angry

thunk

on top of the console.  He pounded his fist on an arbitrary spot somewhere beside it.
 
A metal ball popped off of a lever and fell to the floor with a dense

clink

and began to roll.  Din whirled around and threw himself down to catch it, snatching it up just as it threatened to bounce off into the cargo hold.
 
He stood and held it up in the moonlight.  It was slightly bigger than, say, an eyeball.  And heavy-ish for its size.  He wondered if it came loose over years of neglect, or if it had been that way when Grandfather still used the ship.  He supposed it didn’t matter.  He slid against the wall in the back of the cockpit until he was sitting on the floor.  None of it mattered.  It was a giant hunk of rusted alloy and he would never get it off the ground.
 
“Oh, no,” he said to no one. “Now I

can’t

go.  Oh, well.  I tried.”
 
The stars glared reproachfully.
 
He didn’t know what he was doing.  Not even a little.
 
He screwed the little ball back onto it’s lever and retreated back into the ship to find a corner to curl up and sleep in.

“You’re going to spoil him,” the Mandalorian informed her as she climbed into the cockpit, the child nestled in the crook of her arm. “He has to sleep in the cot some nights.”
 
She settled into the co-pilot seat and quickly got comfortable, pretending not to have heard him.  She imagined him rolling his eyes underneath his helmet before going back to staring out into the bright bands of the stars they passed in hyperdrive.  
 
He was tired, she knew.  She was, too.  The scraps of information they’d managed to dig up about the child didn’t tell them anything useful about where they might find his people, or if his people were even a registered race in the Republic.  They’d caught what seemed like a lead a month ago, but it turned out to be outdated information about some powerful Jedi Master, long dead but for his legacy.
 
She’d suggested, once, the possibility that his species was a nomadic one— or perhaps the kind that functioned in smaller groups than large settlements.  Din didn’t rule out the idea, but she knew he didn’t want to think too much about what would happen if the child’s people proved too elusive to locate.

Din woke with a start.  He’d fallen asleep in the pilot seat with his head cradled in his crossed arms.  
 
He turned his head, sure he’d see his young grandmother struggling to keep her eyes open in the seat closer to the door, Grogu already curled up and snoring gently in her arms.  There was no one.
 
He stood and stretched before starting to put the heavier pieces of his armor back on.  It was something he’d been doing every morning since the age of fourteen; it was something he’d seen his grandfather and father do perhaps a thousand times.  
 
Grandfather told him, once, about the way things used to be right after the war— Mandalorians struggled to stay alive, to recuperate long enough to put down roots, and so the armor almost never came off.  Things were still like that in pockets of their refugee population across the galaxy, but at their Covert on Jesueh and for many other tribes, it was accepted, common and even encouraged to allow one’s loved ones (not just their spouse and children) to see their face in safe places.  Safe being the operative term. 
 
Din picked up his helmet to be donned last.  He took one last unfiltered look and sight and smell around.  For all that it seemed unfamiliar, the Razor Crest

felt

safe.  Its hull and guts were in bad shape, but the feel of it was untouched by greedy hands and time.
 
Sleep, however uncomfortable and dreamily nostalgic it may have been, had brought him some much-needed clarity.  It had been foolish to come all the way out to fix up a ship whose make and model he knew so little about, but he didn’t regret the journey.  He’d needed time— time away— and unlike everyone else in his immediate family, he wasn’t a child nor did he have one to care for, so taking off was a luxury he could technically afford. 
 
He didn’t need to fix the ship completely.  If he could just get it to fly closer to the settlement, it would be much easier to work on from the comfort of home.  And he’d have help more readily available.  His father had been a pilot for the resistance; his hands could come in handy— and having been raised by him, Din knew a few basic things that probably applied to lots of ships.  Even pre-Empire ones.
 
He counted his rations.  He could spend maybe five more days out in the middle of nowhere.  If he couldn’t get the hunk of glorious junk off the ground in that time, he’d have to return on foot to ask for help.

By the end of the day, he’d managed to boot up the central console with one of the three replacement power cells he’d brought in his toolkit.  The various switches and buttons on the dash were on and blinking, but the systems to which they corresponded— the engine, navigation controls, transponder array, landing matrices, everything— were still in need of serious servicing.  The only thing that seemed to be semi-operational was life support, and even that didn’t include the ambient temperature regulators.  When night fell again, it got so cold that Din didn’t bother removing his armor to get some rest.
 
On the second day, he narrowly avoided being stung by a native species of desert arachnid the size of his forearm— consequently, he made it a priority to fix the main hatch and seal off any big hull breaches.  After that, it was only a matter of running a diagnostic on the most basic systems and fixing them one by one.  He would start with the engine.
 
The third day saw him prying open panels and crawling around underneath the corrugated floorboards to plasma-solder conduits, reconnect critical wiring and repair insulation.  It busied him from sunrise until sunset; his entire body ached so bad he barely had time to wolf down some jerky before passing out right in the middle of the lower deck.
 
It took him four entire days to find the panel that swung down to reveal a small sleeping chamber with an old cot, stripped of sheets and padding to reveal a metal slab that probably wasn’t at all comfortable.  How his grandparents traveled with  Grogu on such an unaccommodating hunk of junk was beyond him.  
 
Sometimes thoughts that disparaged the Razor Crest filled him with guilt— but more often than not, he felt that he was entitled to some criticism given that he was the one going through painful lengths to get it off the ground.  There was an odd sort of bond he’d begun to form with the craft, and it was a bond that allowed him to occasionally berate it with vehemence and a good kick to the hull.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

PROLOGUE
 
“Story?”
 
“...alright.  You settle in, there, now; this is a long one.  Are you warm enough? Yes? Good, good.  You won’t fall asleep now, will you, dear?”
 
“No, I won’t… I

won’t

, promise.”
 
She knew he would.  
 
But that was okay; rather the whole point, really.
 
“Well, then, here it is.  Our story starts in New York, way back in the early winter of ‘26…”
 
….
 
A baby girl, smaller than most, was born to an amateur bondsman, Orville Connelly, and his wife, a weak, secret witch named Ann.  Bella, they named their daughter.  They already had a boy of three, who they called Arnold Joseph.  Neither child exhibited any particular magical prowess as they grew.
 
Originally, Connelly worked for a failing bank in London, but after hearing of the Big Boom in the States after the first Great War, he moved his family out there in search of greener pastures, which they found rather quickly, in summation.  They were no longer poor, and had achieved a satisfactory quality of life that many were able to in those days- if, of course, you were the “right” color.
 
…
 
“But that’s a different story for another night,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
 
“Promise?”
 
“Oh, yes, I’ll tell it.  But this is the story I’m telling for now.” She settled more comfortably at the foot of the bed. “Anyway, the girl, Bella, was only three- four? No, three, that’s about right- when things went sour…”
 
…
 
The banks in the States had been doing well, but it turned out a sham, see.  People only

thought

they were doing well, but they really, really weren’t.  The stock market - which, one could say, was like a great big pile of money and promises - crashed, and no one was unaffected.
 
Connelly threw himself off of the bank he worked for.
 
His wife became a maid for one of the few cleaning companies that hadn’t gone under, but the meager work as a maid didn’t sufficiently feed her children.  Faced with no other options, Ann scraped together what she could and moved her family back to England to live with Connelly’s elder brother, Trevor.
 
Trevor Connelly, while at first a seeming reprieve from their financial troubles- as he did well enough himself as a machine parts salesman- proved to be the exact opposite of a breath of fresh air.
 
He was a heavy drinker, and they hadn’t been living with him long before he demanded that Ann marry him or else find some place else to be.  Ann was miserable, but did what she thought best for her children at the time.
 
…
 
“That’s awful,” declared the boy.
 
“I know, but life is often terrible to those who don’t exactly deserve it,” she informed him matter-of-factly. “But we are not the ultimate deciders of who is deserving of what and when, d’you hear? Remember that, my boy.”
 
“Yes, ma’am.”
 
…
 
Ann had three miscarriages whilst married to Trevor, and after each, the man’s treatment of her grew worse.  
 
When Arnold was old enough, he would often challenge the head of house and, on more than one occasion, protect Bella from the abusive man’s heavy hands.  There was little Arnold could do for their mother, however, who- against all odds- had grown to have some affection for Trevor in the time that they lived with him.
 
Relations between the woman and her children- the ones she had entered her horrible, awful marriage to protect in the first place- stiffened and soured nearly to the point of complete rot.
 
It was why, when Arnold was conscripted in 1941 on his nineteenth birthday, Bella begged him to desert and run away with her, instead.  
 
But Arnold had other plans.
 
“I’ll do good in the Army,” he told her, “just you wait.  And when the War is over, I’ll buy us some land somewhere and we can live in peace; just the two of us, Bells, I promise.”
 
…
 
“Did he do it?”
 
She smiled. “He rose in the ranks, just like he said he would, if that’s what you’re asking.  One of the youngest to get so far in such short a time, you know.  Arnold Connelly always

was

the follow-through type… and he never broke a promise if he could help it.”
 
…
 
In August of 1944, Major Arnold Joseph Connelly was killed in action.
 
The dashed hope of fleeing her present situation (which had worsened, with Trevor’s wandering eye landing on her at times and making her feel increasingly unsafe) with Arnold left Bella, who took his death the hardest among his three surviving relatives, in a bad place.  Her mother was distraught, of course, having lost her son- but Bella was

inconsolable

.
 
Trevor began to run his trap not even a week after the soldiers had come, badmouthing Arnold at every inappropriate opportunity, and in a fit of both spite and desperation, Bella went into his and her mother’s bedroom in the thick of night and stole nearly £150 from the small chest he kept under their bed.  She left that same night, slept at a shelter, and was on the next available train to Rome the following day.
 
She didn’t speak a lick of Italian, but then she hadn’t planned on leaving so soon- or without Arnold.
 
Lonely, cold, and afraid, Bella arrived in Italy and found a cheap place to live with the amount of lire for which she had exchanged the stolen pounds.  She sought and acquired work as a tailor’s assistant at a small shop that paid decently enough for her to provide for herself for a short time.
 
…
 
“A short time?”
 
“Well, yes.”
 
“Why? What happened?”
 
“Well… the tailor the girl worked for? His name was Stefano Del’Roso, and he didn’t care much for the living situation of his favorite and only assistant.”
 
...
 
Stefano was a handsome man in his late twenties.  He had inherited his tailoring practice from his father, who was a tailor like his father before him and so far and so forth.  He was good and kind, but impatient.
 
Bella loved him, and not long after her employment, discovered that her feelings were indeed returned by her boss, who told her time and time again that she was as beautiful as her name suggested, and that he had not met a girl quite as mature as she in all of his years.  
 
Bella was flattered by the attention.
 
And, impatient man that he was, Stefano begged her to marry him.  
 
Six months after meeting, she did just that.
 
…
 
“Really? Just like that?”
 
“People moved fast back then, dear, it was just the way things were.  War makes you rethink your priorities, see, and Stefano was a veteran himself.  Lost a foot, he did, which was why he was tailoring and not on the front lines.”
 
“Oh.”
 
“Um-hm.  Now, where was I?”
 
…
 
After the proposal, Bella moved in with Stefano above the shop, but when they married, he bought a house for them a little ways out.  It was cozy, but better in more than one way than anything Bella had experienced since New York, which she could hardly remember.
 
They were happy.
 
Bella had never been so happy as in the first year of their marriage.
 
In March the following year, Bella gave birth to a dark-haired, dimple-cheeked baby boy, who she named Arnold Harry.  Stefano, knowing how much her brother had mattered to her, agreed wholeheartedly that this was a fine name for their boy.
 
…
 
“That’s my name,” the boy cut in, eyes heavy but smile wide. “Harry.”
 
“Yes, yes; and a lovely name it is.”
 
...
 
Something funny happened, however, the night of little Arnie’s birth.
 
Bella knew that her mother had been very faintly magical; something even her brother and father hadn’t known.  She, herself, had found out only by accident after coming upon her mother tearfully healing a bruise on her arm one night in their sitting room.
 
When Bella held Arnie on the night of his birth, she didn’t know exactly how, but she just

knew

that he was like Ann; filled with magic, a phenomenon that she had honestly forgotten in all of the years of hardship she had endured.
 
Scared of what Stefano would think, she kept Arnie’s lineage from his father and, against every moral fiber of her being, hoped and prayed that she was only imagining that her son was special; that it was only in her head that he was remarkable, and that in reality, he was boring and normal just like the rest of humankind.
 
Alas, no dice.
 
…
 
“He was magic?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Like me?”
 
“Much like you, yes, love.” She shifted uncomfortably. “Remember, though, that’s just between us?”
 
“Yes, ma’am, I remember.”
 
…
 
Bella was unable to give Stefano any more children, and even though the man said it didn't bother him a smidge, she knew he secretly wanted for a daughter.  Unfortunately, Arnie had been hard on her body, and she was a slight girl to begin with; there were no more children in the cards for her.
 
Even when he was a baby, Bella could see the beginning signs of Arnie’s abilities peeking through the cracks.  He liked to throw pots on the stovetop to the floor from across the room and play with spoons above his head without touching them.  Stefano was out of the house a lot when Arnie was young, but Bella feared that he would come home early one day and see what his son really was.
 
But this never came to be.
 
Stefano’s distance from his family grew and persisted well into their son’s childhood.  He stayed out all hours of the night, and was occasionally gone for weekends only to return as if he hadn’t left at all.
 
Bella was suspicious of this, but let it be, knowing that this distance was the only thing keeping her husband from finding out the truth.
 
Ann- with whom Bella had begun to correspond tentatively soon after Arnie’s birth- warned her in missive that Stefano’s distance was not a good thing, even if it seemed like a blessing in disguise.
 
Come to find out, Stefano had found love in another, younger woman whilst visiting Gorizia on “business” years prior, and had two more children with her.
 
A month after her discovery of this fact and their subsequent row, he packed up the shop and left.
 
…
 
“But you said he was good!” the boy cried in astonishment. “You said he was kind!”
 
“Even good, kind men stray, dear.” She patted his cheek, surprised he was still awake. “Promise me, even if you don’t grow to be a good man or a kind man, that you’ll be an honest one?”
 
“I promise.”
 
“Good boy.”
 
…
 
Distraught and once again struggling to support herself and her eight-year-old, Bella wrote to her mother for guidance.
 
Trevor Connelly had died recently of liver failure, and the decent amount of money he’d left behind had allowed her mother to move house and live comfortably on her own.  Ann invited Bella to come stay with her in light of her situation- and, of course, because she wanted to meet her grandson.
 
Knowing that she had left her mother in a horrible situation ten years previous, the guilt of leaving Ann with Connelly on top of her pressing financial troubles put Bella and Arnie on the first train back to England.
 
…
 
“The house itself was in Surrey,” she remarked aloud. “Wisteria Walk.  Little Whinging.”
 
Arabella looked down at the sleeping boy, tucked warmly into the blankets of her guest bed.  She smiled wistfully, and stood.

The house was small, but new,

she thought, creeping quietly across the creaky wooden floorboards to leave the room.  The door squeaked faintly on its hinges when she closed it.

Ann fell ill only two years after the move; cancer.

Arnie had grown close to his grandmum.

Her fingers caressed the side of a picture frame on the wall.  A black-and-white photograph of a young, dark-haired woman, a jaxon-capped boy, and an old bitty with white hair pulled back in a neat bun; all sitting in formal pose.  All smiling, if tiredly.

Arnie ran, and disappeared.  The year before he was due at school.

“Oh,” Arabella gasped quietly, a warm tear sliding down her cheek.

Despite the aid of a kindly, older gentle-wizard by the name of Dumbledore offering to find the boy- who was powerful, and apparently one of those the school had had their eye on- Arnie was never returned to her.

Bella assumed her mother’s maiden name and lived alone for years.

In return for his kindness, she hosted meetings and provided safe harbor for other kind people in Dumbledore’s Order when they needed it some fourteen, fifteen years or so later during the First Wizarding War.

During that time, she met a charming young couple that died at the climax and subsequent end of the war, and vowed to look after their son on Dumbledore’s prompting.

Arabella looked back at the guest bedroom door.

And swore never to tell him of his origins.

But Arabella wasn’t like Arnold Connelly; she broke promises that she saw fit to break.
 
Especially nonsensical ones.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Petunia Dursley was at the local Tesco, getting the shopping for a week’s worth of dinners.
 
Her son, Dudley — who she called by his middle name, Andrew, in the safety of her own head — was situated in the child’s seat of the cart, grabbing futilely at the colorful boxes and packaging that they passed.  When he began to whine, she tiredly took his dummy out of her purse, sucked it once in her mouth and popped it into his.
 
As a teenager, Petunia hadn’t thought much of her future beyond passing her A-levels, marrying a respectable man and maybe having a kid or two before calling it quits and settling in for a life of dinner parties, housewiving and maybe even knitting, further down the line.
 
Some women were perfectly alright with being housewives, and Petunia respected that, but she didn’t think it was the life cut out for her.  She’d only been at it for three years, but she had already racked up a frightening amount of hours thinking about an exit plan.
 
She loved her son— even if he was like his father: a bit of a brat.  Once upon a time, she thought she had loved her husband, too, but that time was long past and maintaining her marriage was practically a chore.  A

neglected

chore.
 
As she absentmindedly reached for a bag of sliced bread, another hand did the same and the bag got knocked off the shelf in the confusion.  Andrew stared down at it from his perch in the cart, dummy bobbing lazily.
 
“Oh, dear,” said the owner of the hand, a lanky man with a thick head of curly hair that toed the line between rich brown and auburn. “My apologies, Miss.”
 
Petunia blinked, before remembering where she was and what she was doing.  Then, her face contorted into a scowl.
 
“Apology accepted,” she bit out.  She glanced up, annoyed, at the only other bag of the same brand on a higher shelf. “Be useful and grab that one, would you?”
 
The lanky man cleared his throat nervously and obliged her demand.  She snatched the bag and tossed it into her cart before pushing it onward, only pausing when he stammered what sounded like a call for her to come back.
 
Petunia turned, ready to give him a piece of her exhausted mind.  
 
“Thought you might want this,” said the man, holding up Andrew’s dummy. “Or, you know, the little one might.”
 
She glanced down at Andrew, who gazed back up at her with a shiny, gaping hole for a mouth, still suckling half-heartedly at an object that was no longer there.
 
“Oh, bother,” she muttered angrily, backtracking a few steps to pluck the blasted thing from the stranger’s hand. “Thank you.”
 
“No worries, Miss.”
 
She plastered on the fakest smile she could muster with her fatigued cheek muscles before finally escaping.  Andrew would have to survive the rest of their excursion without a distraction, because she would

not

be putting the floor of Tesco into her mouth to semi-sterilize the thing.

Sometime later that month, Petunia Dursley met with her late parents’ barrister for a consultation on the potential ramifications of a divorce.
 
It was an out-of-body experience, and she was grateful to the man for putting a packet together because she didn’t retain a thing from the meeting except for his parting words:
 
“...I recommend that you find an accountant and possibly a broker - I have a few contacts - and it would be in your best interest to begin to look for employment.”
 
If she wanted to keep Andrew, she needed to be able to provide for him; hence, a job.
 
The recommendation for financial consultation stemmed from the barrister’s suggestion that she find ways to boost her income outside of just getting hired somewhere; investing and learning how to manage her finances was a good avenue to lasting success and self-sufficiency.  To address that recommendation, she referred to the barrister’s notes for contacts.  The first file was bolded and italicized with a business card attached, so Petunia assumed they were the best and most reliable person listed.

Ewan Prewett

Advisor

Surrey Finance

+44 778 267 7842

She called the printed number when Vernon was at work and arranged a meeting with Mr. Prewett’s secretary, a man with a young, nervous voice but unbending professionalism.  Mr. Prewett would see her the following day at three in the afternoon.  Petunia agreed reluctantly; she would have to make it quick to get home before Vernon.
 
The next day, she arranged for Mrs. Figg over on Wisteria Walk to watch Andrew for the afternoon while she ventured into town.

Surrey Finance

was a small, pale-brick building that was as quaint as it was unremarkable.  The windows and double doors were of an old-fashioned, rich dark wood.  A bell rang out when Petunia opened the door.  On the inside, there wasn’t much to boast other than a few chairs, a couple of low coffee tables and a desk at the very back and center, behind which a brunette man with large, buggy glasses sat.  He blinked at Petunia in what seemed like surprise when he noticed her presence.
 
“Can I help you, madam?”
 
Petunia cleared her throat and strode confidently up to the desk, adjusting her purse on the crook of her arm. “I have an appointment with Mr. Prewett at three.”
 
The man perked up and stood to walk around the large desk. “You must be Mrs. Dursley, then.  I’m Bertram, we spoke over the telephone.”
 
“I remember,” Petunia replied.
 
Bertram’s cheeks pinked. “Yes, well, I’ll show you to Mr. Prewett’s office.”
 
As the young man — who appeared to be her age, maybe a little older — led them down a hallway to the left of the desk, Petunia let her mind wander, something that she wasn’t quite comfortable allowing it to do but something that

it

seemed comfortable enough doing lately.  She thought about the dispassionate eyes Vernon cast toward her when he was home; the piggish way that he ate; the blustery manner with which he spoke.  She thought of Andrew —

Dudley

, dubbed thus by Vernon with the promise that she would name the next one, only to find out that she would never have any more children — and of her precious boy growing up to be just like his father.
 
Or just like her.
 
A pompous, self-centered brat that hated himself just as much as he hated the world.  
 
Petunia doubted that Vernon thought any less of the world of himself, but she had never looked in the mirror and been dazzled.  She was less than exceptional in the beauty department, far from the brightest bulb in the chandelier and she had never worked a day in her life.  She contributed very little to society other than to liven it up with her oh-so-significant flower garden.

That’s going to change

, she assured herself.

I won’t let him be like us.

Bertram knocked twice on a door labeled

Prewett

at the end of the hallway and opened it to let her in.
 
Petunia stopped dead.  
 
Sitting behind a large, walnut desk was the auburn-haired man from the grocery store.
 
She felt her neck and nose prickle in hot discomfort.  The man seemed to harbor no such embarrassment and stood to shake her hand.
 
“Ewan Prewett, madam,” he introduced himself.  She shook his hand dazedly, wondering if he actually didn’t remember her or if he was just outstandingly professional.
 
“Petunia Dursley,” she returned, thin-lipped. ”Garrison recommended you.”
 
A brief smile flickered across his face. “We went to school together.  Good man, Garrison.”
 
John Garrison’s gaunt face during the reading of her parents’ will flashed across her mind’s eye.
 
“He is.”
 
Prewett appeared to stew on that for a moment before shaking his head and gesturing wordlessly to the chair across from his desk.  When Petunia took her seat, he retook his own.
 
“So,” said Prewett. “What can I do for you this afternoon?”

Ewan did, indeed, recognize the woman as soon as she’d entered.  Remembering the bumbling fool he’d made of himself that day in the shops drove a hard spike in any notions he may have had of acknowledging their previous not-quite-acquaintance.
 
She was rather comely, in his opinion.  Her blonde hair was layered in a pixie cut that flattered her angular features, and her eyes gleamed a sharp azure.  Ewan hadn’t been on a proper date in months; if she hadn’t come in to consult with him about her divorce, he might have asked Petunia Dursley out.  As it were, such a thing seemed… well, inappropriate.  
 
After the meeting— which was a complimentary thing as a favor to Garrison— he stood to open the door for her to leave.  She hesitated at the threshold.
 
“I saw you at the shops the other day,” she cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I was quite rude to you.”
 
Ewan blinked. “Oh, um… think nothing of it.  I’m surprised you remembered that.”
 
“Why wouldn’t I?”
 
“Not very memorable, me,” he chuckled.
 
She shrugged stiffly.
 
“I just wanted to… apologize.” She looked like she might get sick all over the office carpet. “And I think I’ll be going now.”
 
“Oh, a-alright.”
 
Her gait toward the exit was swift.  He watched her go, and then turned to Bertram, who seemed to find the crossword in front of him incredibly interesting.
 
Ewan shoved down the awkward, anxious feeling the woman had left in her wake and asked his secretary, gruffly, “D’you want to go out for lunch?”
 
Bertram threw down the paper. “Yes, sir.”

The cafe was quaint, with a pink awning and bright flowers and banners to liven up the plain white walls, floor and furniture.  Petunia perused the reasonably priced menu with an intensity that betrayed her reticence to speak to the woman across the table.
 
Her sister, Lily.
 
Like Andrew sat in his carrier beside Petunia, her nephew, Harry, sat beside Lily.  Unlike Andrew, who fussed and squirmed whenever Petunia’s attention wasn’t solely on him, Harry was fast asleep with a dummy bobbing lazily in his mouth.  He was much smaller than Andrew, with messy tufts of raven hair and a healthy rosiness to his cheeks and the tips of his little ears.
 
Lily brushed her long fringe away from her face and set her own menu down with a decisiveness that meant she’d reached her limit of terse silence.
 
“Petunia,” she remarked stiffly, “what are we doing here?”
 
“I… thought we could catch up,” said Petunia. “That’s all.  How have you been?”
 
“The last time we saw each other, your husband called mine a degenerate and you vowed never to speak to me again.  And now you want to catch up?” 
 
Petunia pursed her lips. “Yes.”
 
Lily stared hard at her, and then turned to grab the strap of her purse from the back of her chair.
 
“Wait,” Petunia blurted. “I… God, you know I’ve never been any good at this sort of thing, Lily.”
 
“At apologizing?” Lily prompted with a raised brow. “No, you never were.  Still aren’t, apparently.  Even when you’re so

obviously

in the wrong.”
 
“I’m sorry.” Petunia looked down at her hands, which were clutching the menu so hard that her knuckles were white. “I know that’s too little, too late, but… I

am

sorry.  For everything, not just that summer.  I don’t really understand you, and I guess I let that affect how I treated you as my sister.  You were never anything but kind to me even when I didn’t deserve it and… well, I threw it all back in your face.”
 
She tried not to feel intimidated by the pregnant pause that stretched between them.  Then, it gave birth to Lily heaving a weary sigh.
 
“You hurt me,” she replied.  There was a barely perceptible tremble to her words. “You said such horrible things.  I wanted more than anything for us to stay close, but it seemed like the more I tried, the more you tried to push me away.”
 
“I wanted to be normal,” Petunia explained carefully. “I still do, but I’m wondering more and more these days what that even means.”
 
“I’m normal,” Lily said, tone edged with something sharp. “In terms of my world, I’m normal.  I’m making my mark, but I

am

normal.  Just because that doesn’t look like what you think it might doesn’t make it untrue.”
 
Petunia frowned. “You’re right.”
 
Lily reared back, eyes wide. “That and an apology?” She peered out of the window. “And not an airborne pig in sight.”
 
Petunia snorted, and then fell into a pensive reverie about what a day in the life of her sister might look like.  Did she wave a magic wand and breakfast appeared? Did she go to work on a broom instead of driving or taking the train? Did her son wake with cries that shook the house at its foundations?
 
“Other than to apologize,” Lily began delicately, “is there some other reason you called?”
 
Petunia finally set down her menu and looked her directly in the eye.
 
“I’m divorcing Vernon.”
 
Lily’s jaw dropped. “What?”
 
“I… I’ve gone to see a lawyer and everything,” Petunia let out in a rush, feeling as if a weight that she’d been burdened to carry alone suddenly had two other hands to support it. “There’s just so much— I thought I had everything I’d ever wanted, but it’s awful and I don’t love him.  I don’t know if I ever really did.  I feel like I’m suffocating all the time and I can’t— oh, Lils— ”
 
Her breakdown had been building steadily since she’d begun her speal, and by the peak of it, tears were streaming down her cheeks in hot trails as she noisily sobbed and buried her face in her hands.  Quick as lightning, her sister’s warm embrace was there to cushion the blow of what felt like years of mistakes hitting her like a bus.
 
“Shush, now,” Lily murmured. “I’ve got you.”
 
“I’m s-so sorry,” she cried.
 
“It’s alright.  Just breathe, love.”
 
Her sister stood over her, wrapped around her as best as she could, and they stayed that way until Petunia could no longer stand the looks they were getting from the other patrons.  Sensing her tension, Lily eased up and offered her a tissue seemingly from nowhere, which she grasped desperately.
 
After checking to make sure Harry was still contently snoozing— prompting Petunia to give Andrew a consolatory tummy pat to proactively prevent a meltdown— Lily pulled her chair over to sit closer.
 
“I know it’s all pretty fresh right now,” Lily murmured sympathetically, taking one of Petunia’s hands between her own, “but for what it’s worth, I never did think he was a good match for you.”
 
“Really?” Petunia scoffed. “You didn’t think we deserved each other?”
 
Lily smiles wryly. “Not seriously, no.  No matter how angry I might have been with you, I don’t think I had it in me to be happy that you were stuck with such a boring, miserable sod.”
 
“He

is

boring,” Petunia conceded sadly. “And

quite

miserable.  And so ornery, Lily— you know he convinced me to name my poor baby Dudley? Said it was a family thing!”
 
“I know, you wrote it in a letter,” Lily replied. “Even then, it seemed like you were trying to convince yourself not to hate it.”
 
Petunia bit her lip. “I call him Andrew in my head.”
 
Lily reached over and stroked the blonde baby’s cheek with an adoring finger. “Andy.”
 
“He throws fits just like you,” Petunia sniffed. “A right terror when he wants to be.”
 
Lily barked a laugh. “Oh, of course.  Blame it all on Auntie Lily who hasn’t spent more than a few minutes with the kid in his entire life.”
 
Petunia regarded her sadly. “That’ll all change, I swear.  I just need to wash my hands of everything and start over.”
 
Lily seemed to be deep in thought for a moment.  Then, she nodded curtly to herself as if she’d come to some sort of firm resolution.
 
“You’ll stay with James and I,” she declared. “Whenever you’re ready, pack your things and tell Vernon where he can stuff his drills.”
 
Petunia felt a spasm of panic arch through her. “But James hates me.”
 
“Honestly, I doubt he thinks about you enough to hate you,” Lily admitted with a shrug. “But don’t you worry about all that.  I’ll take care of everything.”
 
“Oh, I— I don’t know…”
 
She was afraid to say what held her back from leaping at the chance to be away from her husband: that wherever the Potters resided would undoubtedly be crawling with traces of the very thing that Petunia had spent most of her life despising.  She loved her sister despite everything, but some things were hard to shake.
 
Lily seemed to sense her hesitance and set her jaw defiantly.
 
“Stay with us,” she repeated, firm as a rock. “I want to start making amends, too, but that means taking a few leaps of faith— and not all on my end.”
 
Petunia bit her lip. “I’m just not used to things not being… well, like I’m used to them being.”
 
“Maybe it’s time to start adjusting.”

“I must insist that you reconsider your position on this, my boy,” Albus Dumbledore rumbled, expression indecipherable. “Safety is paramount in these trying times, and you and your family are more at risk than most.  Remember what we discussed…”
 
“I remember,” James interrupted.  
 
He stood over the hearth in his study, a private line that only went to Hogwarts.  Frustration built in him like magma; it was something that hung in a thick fog over the manor ever since the damned prophecy had been relayed to them the previous year.
 
Despite Dumbledore’s suggestions, they decided to remain on the main Potter property until they were forced, under dire circumstances, to leave. It had more protections than any other location belonging to his family, and to go into hiding wouldn’t have made any sense.  Nowhere was as secure a place as his childhood home.
 
And yet, the old wizard pushed.
 
James tossed back the last dregs of firewhiskey dancing around the bottom of his glass before slamming the crystal down on his desk and running a hand through his chaotic tresses.
 
“We’re being careful,” he declared finally, trying not to think about his wife and son traipsing about the muggle world as they spoke. “We’ve taken indefinite leave from our jobs, as you know.  We don’t go out much, and when we do, we wear as many protections as we possibly can.  I fail to see how packing up and moving to Godric’s Hollow and all that that entails— new protections, new Keeper, less warding— would make us any safer than we are right now.  It just doesn’t make any sense, Albus.  We’re better off here.”
 
“Potter Manor is a well-known property, and with enough time and observation— ”
 
“Hogwash,” James scoffed. “There’s an approximate fifty kilometer margin of error when it comes to scrying this property, and it's under the Fidelius, kept by a distant relative in the States.  There’s just no way.”
 
Dumbledore stared pensively for a moment.
 
“Fine,” he sighed wearily, rubbing his wrinkled forehead as if to massage the deep creases from it. “Some days, you remind me far too much of Dorea.”
 
James bristled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
 
“I don’t mean any offense,” Dumbledore backtracked. “She was an honorable and powerful witch for whom I held a great deal of respect.  And she, like you on this matter, never backed down when she knew that I… well, when I was wrong.  It’s difficult for me to accept.”
 
James tried not to let his shock show on his face. 
 
“Indeed,” he managed, unsure of what else to say.
 
“Just one more thing, and then I’ll be out of your hair.  We haven’t heard from Mr. Lupin since his last message three months ago.  I don’t want to draw any premature conclusions, but— ”
 
“He’s not dead,” James denied immediately, angry at the insinuation. “I’d know if he was.”
 
“No, I didn’t think so,” Dumbledore agreed. “But what he’s up to, at this point, is a complete mystery.  I’d exercise caution if he contacts you in the near future.”
 
James furrowed his brow. “Remus would never put us in harm’s way.”
 
“Not willingly, perhaps,” said Dumbledore. “Just be careful.  Keep your ear to the ground, and young Harry out of the public sphere.”
 
“Of course.”
 
“I bid thee well.”
 
The headmaster’s face sunk back into the hearth with a crackle and a pop, and upon his exit, James sunk heavily into one of the two straight-backed chairs on the visiting side of his desk.
 
He hated when Dumbledore called.  There was always one more thing to keep in mind, one more factor to consider, one more secret to burden their already heavily-laden shoulders.  And now Remus, on a suicide mission with the werewolf packs that James had fervently fought since the meeting of its conception, was unaccounted for.  He just wanted everyone to be in one place so they didn’t have to worry about who could potentially be used to get to Harry.
 
At least Padfoot already lived with them.  That was one less cat— or dog, rather— that required herding.
 
A knock at his study door prompted him to call out, “Come in.”
 
Lily stepped in and closed the door behind her, still dressed from meeting her sister.  He leapt to his feet, already feeling ten times better from the sight of her.
 
“I’ve missed you all afternoon,” he lamented, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek. “How’d it go?”
 
She sighed and reached up to play with a loosening thread on the shoulder of his knitted jumper. “Far better than I expected.  She’s divorcing Dursley.”
 
“That’s… interesting,” James said carefully. “How do we feel about that?”
 
“She deserves much better than him, I don’t care how horrid she’s been.” Lily shuddered. “And since it’s likely going to be a messy thing, especially with custody and all, I told her she’d be welcome to stay here until things blow over and she has her footing again.”
 
James felt his face go slack with alarm. “What? Lily!”
 
“Don’t shout,” Lily admonished. “You’ll wake Harry.”
 
James pressed his lips in a firm line and raised his eyebrows at her to communicate just how bad of an idea he thought that was.  She narrowed her eyes back at him challengingly, the ends of her fiery hair sparking and fraying up.
 
“She needs me,” she declared. “And I won’t turn her away, not when it finally feels like we could make things like they used to be.”
 
“It’ll never be like it used to be,” James argued. “She practically spat on you.”
 
Lily shook her head. “You didn’t see her, James.  She’s on the cusp of something that could really turn things around, and I don’t want to be the one to muck that up.”
 
James reached out to rub his hands along the length of her arms comfortingly.  
 
Unbidden, the dark memory of their fifth year sprang to the forefront of his mind; the months of not speaking to Sirius, of letting his betrayal fester like a sore among their group until it all became too painful to ignore any further.  He knew how painful it could be, to be hurt badly by someone you loved; he also knew that unresolved conflicts with said loved ones were sometimes worse than the initial stabbing.
 
In a way, he understood.  But he also didn’t.
 
Sirius may have put Remus’ life and welfare in danger, but there was never a question of whether or not he loved his best friends, his brothers.  He’d been reckless, thoughtless and had a bit of a respect issue— but he would never tell them that they meant nothing to him.  James had grown plenty frustrated trying to keep him reeled in when it came to their last couple of years of school, and later when it came to their work as Aurors— but he’d never had to worry about Sirius not having his back; Sirius not caring; Sirius casting him aside like a pesky bug.  
 
His best friend was flawed, but he was unshakably loyal and a good man at the core.  Whether or not Petunia Dursley (ostensibly, soon to be Evans again) was actually a good person, James did not know.
 
Obviously, his wife knew her sister better than him, but he was wary.  He figured his apprehension was understandable, given what he’d been told about her and what he’d observed of her.  He supposed, however, that if this was what Lily wanted— really,

really

wanted— he’d never been able to refuse her much.
 
“If you think it’s for the best,” he remarked eventually, trying to muster up some optimism, “then we’ll make it work.”
 
Her eyes lit up in gratefulness. “Thank you.”
 
“I mean, this is your house, too.  Even if I’d said no, you probably could have brought her, anyway.”
 
Lily kissed his cheek. “And deal with your pouting? What fun would that have been?”
 
“I don’t pout,” James pouted. “You know who will, though?”
 
She rubbed her forehead. “I'm trying not to think about that.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Chapter One: Simon 
 
Between a small, family-owned Pakistani restaurant and a dull boutique somewhere in the heart of busy London resided an old and decaying building with a moldy, unmarked sign and a thick air of unapproachability.  In spite of its lackluster aura, one or two curious folks found their way past its derelict doors every other week, much to the owner’s discontent.
 
“I swear, those ward renewal specialists are taking their sweet time coming out here,” Meryem Awan complained to her son, who was restocking the shelves with bored sweeps of his hands. “If I have to redirect another ghost hunter, I will summon Uncle Amir and give them one to run into!”
 
“Not Uncle Amir,” her son sighed. “He was the worst.”
 
Meryem shot him a look. “Do not speak ill of the dead, Simon.”
 
Simon privately thought that threatening to sic her dead uncle’s soul on unsuspecting muggles stepped past the point of speaking ill of the dead, but he wisely kept that to himself and continued wandlessly putting up fresh jars of bundimun secretion and fermented spider eyes.
 
Rather than the cozy, warm establishment that it actually was, muggles who came through saw a rotting corpse of a building that, once Meryem set off the deterrent, spooked them enough to clear out after five or so steps.  In the process, they might knock over a display without realizing and send tens of galleons’ worth of merchandise to the floor, shattering upon impact and scattering ingredients into the nooks and crannies to be cleaned up for days afterward.  It wasn’t debilitating in terms of sales, but it was certainly annoying and the damages added up eventually—- and Simon never heard the end of it.
 
“I’m going to go to the Ministry to see if I can get somebody to expedite my request,” said Meryem, shrugging on her preferred plum cloak.
 
“Right now?”
 
Meryem’s frustration was palpable. “If I don’t do something, they will keep coming and destroying merchandise.”
 
“Mum, I don’t think I can run things without you here,” Simon said, widening his eyes to emphasize his point. “I… I don’t even know how the till works.”
 
“It’s automated, just needs your magical signature,” Meryem assured.  She walked briskly over to where he stood and cupped his face in both hands. “You will do fine for a couple of hours.”
 
Simon nodded mutely, cheeks squished.  Meryem smiled and ruffled his hair before taking her leave.
 
After the restocking was finished and every surface that needed dusting— and some that didn’t— had been thoroughly wiped, Simon lay in anxious wait for his mother to return.  He dreaded someone walking in and asking about some ingredient or potion or oddity that he knew next to nothing about… or worse, try to

steal

and he’d be useless doing anything but cowering in a corner.  His wandwork was good, but he wasn’t very versed in the way of defensive spells.  He’d never needed to be, after all; that was his mother’s territory.
 
He tried to make himself busy by taking inventory, but that passed quickly and he settled for wandlessly bouncing a small, tightly knitted sack of seeds as far in the air as he could and catching them before they hit the ground.  It wasn’t very entertaining, but it kept him preoccupied at the very least.
 
Some two hundred tosses later, the bell above the door chimed and the seed sack fell to the floor with a startled

whump

.  Simon whirled around.
 
A girl, perhaps a few years younger than himself, stepped timidly past the initial displays with a leaf of parchment clutched tightly in her hands.  Her hair was a bushy mane, and her mouth sat propped open slightly by the largeness of her two front teeth.  He inwardly cringed in sympathy, for his own chompers affected a similar posture.
 
“Excuse me,” said the girl. “I’m looking for Simon Awan?”
 
“I don’t know the Awans personally,” Simon replied quickly, unwilling to disclose his identity to a complete stranger.  Her shoulders slumped. “But… we’re having a back-to-school sale on bubotuber pus, three knuts an ounce.”
 
The girl looked somewhat interested. “That’s a lot less than what they ask for at the apothecary in Diagon Alley.”
 
“Yes, well, we grow, collect and store most of our own ingredients,” said Simon. “Cuts out the middleman, you know? No handling or labor costs.”
 
“That’s amazing.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “But I planned on doing my back-to-school shopping with my friend and his parents once they get back from vacation.  My parents… well, I’m afraid they understand magical retail even less than I do.”
 
She clammed up after that, face tensing and eyes widening a bit.  It wasn’t very wise to go around blabbing about one’s blood status in unfamiliar territory, especially if you weren’t at least a half-blood.  But she was young and probably nervous to be out and about all by herself; Simon decided to throw her a bone.
 
“It’s alright,” he said, smiling. “My dad’s a muggle. Nothing to worry about, here.”
 
She seemed to relax a bit at that. “Sorry, it’s just— you never know, do you? It was stupid of me to blurt that out like that.”
 
Simon shrugged. “Just a little.”
 
“You didn’t have to agree with me,” she grumbled, then relinquished her grip on the parchment with one hand to stick it out. “I’m Hermione.”
 
Simon took it. “Simon.”
 
They both froze.  
 
Simon cursed himself.
 
“So, you

are

Simon?” Hermione demanded.
 
“Did I say Simon? I meant… er, Djimon.”
 
“That doesn’t even…” Hermione began, brow furrowed. “Never mind.  Look, I didn’t come here to bother you, I just… I needed to find you.”
 
“Why?” Simon asked, suspicious.  He slowly began to reach for his wand, which was tucked into his back pocket.
 
Hermione took a deep breath. “We’re family.”
 
His hand stopped moving.  He looked the white girl up and down. “What?”
 
“Your father is Dan Granger, is that right?”
 
“Uh, yeah.  I… I think so.”
 
“You

think

so?” she squeaked. “What do you mean,

think

so?”
 
Simon scowled, indignant. “Well, I don’t see him very much, do I? And by

not very much

I mean not at all.”
 
She reared back, stricken.  He sighed, grabbing one arm with the other and probably failing to look less vulnerable than he felt; she was obviously as shaken up by their exchange of admissions as he was.
 
“Would… would you like to come up to our flat? We can talk up there.”
 
She shuffled her feet. “I barely know you, f-family or not.”
 
“Fair enough,” he said.  
 
He looked around.  By their small supply of crystal balls, there was a table for readings; it was old, his mother hadn’t indulged in that gimmick in ages, and boxes had been stacked on top of it to put it to some sort of use.  Nevertheless, there were two upholstered stools scooted underneath it and he went to pull them out to sit in front of the counter upon which the till sat.
 
“Sit,” he directed, and she did after some hesitation.  He followed her lead.
 
They sat in uncomfortable silence for several moments.  Then, she put the wrinkled leaf of parchment she’d been holding on the countertop.  It was a flyer for the shop;

Awan’s Amazements

was emblazoned across the top.
 
“How I found you,” she remarked matter-of-factly. “I figured there weren’t a lot of Awans around.”
 
“You’d be surprised.”
 
She looked intrigued for a moment, poised to ask Merlin knew what, but she seemed to refocus and reel herself in at the last second. “I’ve thoroughly browsed the rosters for all years and Houses at Hogwarts.  You didn’t attend— you never did, even though you got a letter.”
 
“No,” he said. “Everything I know, my family taught me.  It’s been like that for generations; we typically don’t put much stock in institutionalized education.”
 
Hermione pursed her lips. “Oh.”
 
He smiled at her obvious disapproval. “You prefer a more conventional academic setting.  It’s in the way you sit.”
 
“You’re not wrong,” she sniffed. “But I don’t think I sit any particular way that would indicate that.”
 
“Okay,” he said.
 
She pursed her lips again, dissatisfied with such a response.  Simon decided that he knew exactly what kind of girl Hermione was.
 
“So, family,” he prompted. “How close?”
 
“Siblings,” she replied.  He blinked. “Half-siblings, anyway.  Dan Granger is my father, as well.”
 
Simon stared hard at her face, suddenly interested in the familiar set of her nose and teeth.  Familiar because he’d seen them in the mirror probably hundreds of times.  Her eyes were brown, but much lighter than his.  Her hair affected the same fuzzy curl that his did, if a bit looser, but his was jet black whereas hers leaned a tawnier brown.  He realized that they shared quite a few traits; it was their coloring that separated them so drastically.  He favored his mother in that department.  He supposed she probably looked a fair bit like her own.
 
It didn’t surprise him that his biological father had gone off and started a new family after separating from Meryem.  After the blatant shock of realizing he was involved with an alleged witch, he probably fled as fast as he could.  A fat lot of good that did him— he obviously had it in his blood somewhere, because Hermione was clearly a witch, as well.  From what Simon understood, Dan Granger had also been under a lot of pressure from his parents to settle down with a nice English woman and make white babies with her.  Evidently, he’d given in.
 
It hurt that Simon had never known the man at all apart from one card he’d received on a birthday he didn’t really remember.  It hurt because Hermione was visibly well cared for, well-loved.  She didn’t look skittish or cagey, she’d gone traipsing about London unsupervised without a care for her own personal safety— not out of intentional recklessness, most likely, but out of a sense of security brought on by experiencing years of protection at the hands of people who loved her.  Dan was very well capable of caring for a child; he just hadn’t seen fit to acknowledge Simon as one of his own.
 
But Simon wasn’t jealous; he knew love and warmth and protection from his mother and her family.  It was just that there was an entire recipient of Dan Granger’s likely-unconditional love sitting right in front of him, and Simon had gotten nothing at all from the man.
 
“So, is that all?” he asked her, worn out all of a sudden. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what exactly did you hope to gain from coming here?”
 
She frowned and cast her gaze to the hardwood floor.
 
“My dad is sick.  Very sick.”
 
His heart ceased to beat for just a second. “I… oh.”
 
“Over winter holiday last term, I found some of his journals in some old boxes that my mum was going through.  They start before I was born, and they’re full of all kinds of things I wish I didn’t know about him,” she admitted bitterly. “His regrets, his mistakes… how he felt about my mother when they met… and in two entries, he mentions you.”
 
“Me?”
 
“Yes, he said…” she swallowed. “The first were his impressions of a letter your mother wrote to tell him that you were a wizard.  He worried that I would be a witch, and that somehow my mum would find out the gene came from him.  He worried that I wouldn’t have a ‘normal’ life… but mostly he was worried about what his parents would say if I turned out like you.”
 
“But you did,” Simon pointed out, confused. “And he loves you, doesn’t he?”
 
Hermione shifted in her seat, refusing to look him in the eye. “Well, yes, but it took years for him to utter a kind word about magic in those journals.  My grandparents

still

don’t actually know about me.  The things he said about us… to think that at some point I would have been worth less than human to him was unbelievable.  Then, I was born, and a couple of weeks later he realized it was me shattering the windows whenever I cried.”
 
“He loves you more than he hates magic.”
 
“But he

lied

,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. “When I got my letter in person from one of my professors, he acted just as shocked as my mum and I.  He pretended to be brand new to this world, he told me he was proud to be the father of a witch but he’d had nearly twelve years to get used to the idea at that point. The second entry was dated from that night.  He thought maybe he’d been mistaken in keeping you out of his life… but he dismissed a reunion out of pocket because he didn’t see how it could work, now, after all these years.”
 
She finally turned to him.  There were tears in her eyes.
 
“Simon, I am so,

so

sorry,” she whispered. “You deserve more than he gave you.  And I want you to know that

I

want to know you and I want more than anything to be your sister.”
 
Simon watched her for a long time.  He felt her anger and embarrassment, her anguish, her secondhand shame… but most of all, he felt her genuine intent, her obvious desperation for a connection that he remembered his mother telling him a lot of muggleborn felt around her age.  That longing for answers, for others that had had the same experiences somewhere in their family history; after all, magic didn’t spawn from nothing.  It spawned from a gene, and therefore had to originate somewhere down the line. 
 
Dan Granger, an ordinary man from somewhere unimportant, tied them together in more ways than one.
 
“How sick is he?”
 
“They won’t tell me.  I only know that he gets tired really easily, and he can’t move around like he used to.  He doesn’t work anymore.”
 
“What did he do?” he asked, curious.  She shot him a questioning glance. “For a living, I mean.”
 
“He was a dentist.  So’s my mum.  That’s how they met: dentistry school.”
 
“Interesting,” said Simon. “I think my mum met him at a concert.”
 
Hermione leaned on the counter with her elbows. “How long were they together?”
 
Simon frowned. “I don’t know.  Long enough to make me, I suppose.”
 
Hermione wrinkled her nose.  Then burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.  Her laugh was a gasping squeak, and it was hopelessly infectious.  Simon found himself snickering along, unable to help himself.  The idea of the faceless identity of his father having sex with Meryem— actually,

anyone

having sex with Meryem— was horrifying in a way that could only be tempered with humor.
 
“What’s your mum like?” Hermione asked when she’d finally calmed down enough to speak.
 
Simon glanced at the door. “If you wait around long enough, you’ll find out.  I don’t know exactly how quickly affairs at the Ministry are handled, but she’s already been gone an hour.”
 
Hermione grew solemn. “I’m not sure if she’d want me here.”
 
Simon shook his head. “She’s not very fond of Dan, but I doubt she’d hold him against you.  She’s not like that.”
 
“It’d be okay if she was,” said Hermione. “I don’t know if I would want me around, either, given the circumstances.”
 
“I don’t think she cares very much one way or another, but if it makes you feel better, I can just say you were a customer that stayed and chatted too long.”
 
Hermione looked relieved.
 
“So… when’s your birthday?” he asked.
 
“The nineteenth of September.  When’s yours?”
 
“The eighth of March,” Simon replied, imitating her crisp and clear delivery.  
 
She wrinkled her nose at him again.  He made a face right back at her.  She rolled her eyes, but smiled, and they slotted into a sort of rhythm for what had to be more than an hour.
 
He told her about how he grew up surrounded by family, how he was never really alone like she’d been— at least not in the same sense.  Meryem’s kin were mostly magical, with a few squibs on her mother’s side that kept in touch when they could.  He told her that some evenings when he was younger, his mother had to work late, so he would get tucked in by all three of his aunts and the next morning be woken by the smell of breakfast cooked by his grandfather.  He told her about his cat, Abu, and how he lived with Simon’s grandparents because he caused too much trouble at the shop.
 
She sat, enraptured by his words, and he allowed himself to bask in the odd and new feeling of having a little sibling.  She hung onto everything he said, eyes wide and round, and he felt bound to deliver so as not to disappoint her.  His mother always told him he was a good storyteller.
 
In turn, she told him all about her friends at school and what they got up to.  Unlike her rapt attention, his wavered constantly and he asked questions a lot.  He figured that was less because she was younger and more because her stories were far more bizarre: meeting Harry bloody Potter of all people, remembrall races and mountain trolls (followed by the befriendment of Harry bloody Potter and his red-headed demon of a sidekick) and a Cerberus and the Philosopher’s Stone, sentient cars and hurtful slurs and a diary and petrifaction and a rogue elf named Dobby… it was a lot to take in.  Simon felt the strange urge to bundle her up and take her somewhere far away where she wasn’t in so much danger.
 
“Isn’t Hogwarts supposed to be one of the safest places in Britain?” he demanded. “Why are you in so much trouble all of the time?”
 
Hermione shrugged. “It’s probably Harry.  Trouble follows him like a baby duck.”
 
Simon crossed his arms. “Then maybe you shouldn’t hang out with him so much.”
 
She shook her head. “Let me rephrase: trouble follows

us

.  Harry and Ron are my best friends.  No matter what, we have to stick together.”
 
“Why?” Simon asked exasperatedly. “People phase friends in and out all the time.  It’s part of growing up.”
 
“Not me,” Hermione shook her head. “I’m notoriously hard to get along with, it seems.”
 
Simon frowned. “Who told you that?”
 
Hermione’s gaze skittered off into one corner of the room. “No one.  I can just tell.”
 
“You’re not hard to get along with at all,” Simon said firmly. “People are just lazy and they hate it when other people make them seem even lazier.  You tracked me down with just a

name

, Hermione.  You’re wicked smart and I can tell you’re pretty fearless; I don’t know who in their right mind wouldn’t like you.”
 
She pinked. “I’m also bossy, apparently, and I sometimes don’t know when people are joking.  The other students don’t like that.”
 
“Well, no one likes being told what to do.  I’m sure you don’t,” he prompted, to which she shrugged. “But sometimes not getting the joke isn’t something to be ashamed of.  That happens to everybody.  You’ll grow out of it when you start to realize you’ve heard them all.”
 
“Maybe,” she muttered.
 
Simon sighed.
 
They chatted a bit longer, but Hermione kept glancing at the door periodically when around two and a half hours had lapsed since her arrival.  Simon knew she was nervous about Meryem’s return, so he gave her an out.
 
“Do your parents know where you are?” he asked doubtfully.
 
She smiled, abashed. “No, not really.  I told them I was going for a long walk.”
 
“

Ammon

,” he muttered. “You better head home, then.”
 
She nodded and they rose from their stools.  After a brief and awkward goodbye, she hurried to the door.  Before she opened it, though, he thought about her prancing about London again and felt a spasm of worry wrack his ribs.
 
“Wait,” he called, hurrying over to one of the shelves.
 
She paused, clearly confused.
 
“Here.”
 
A small amulet, strung through by a thin, brown leather bracelet, dropped from his hand to hers.
 
“It protects against most simple to moderate level curses and jinxes as well as physical attacks— left wrist, not the right.” 
 
He watched nervously as she attached it.  Then, she wordlessly threw her arms around his middle.  He returned the embrace just as fiercely.  
 
“Please be careful,” he murmured. “Watch for our falcon.  And come back anytime you like, alright?”
 
“Okay,” she mumbled against his burgundy tunic.
 
And then she was gone, and apart from the empty spot on the shelf from which he’d taken the amulet and the crumpled flyer on the counter, there was no sign at all that she’d ever stepped foot inside

Awan’s Amazements

.

Chapter Two:
 
 
“Harry!”
 
Simon looked up from his sea salt caramel cone and spotted the bespectacled raven-haired boy that Hermione and her friend, Ron, were waving over with enthusiastic gestures.  
 
Simon didn't know exactly what he’d expected, but the Potter boy was a lot paler and scrawnier than was implied by his historical reputation.  The only thing remarkable about him— apart from the scar, of course, at which Simon consciously attempted not to stare— were his brilliant green eyes.  They were incredibly expressive compared to the rest of him, which seemed purposefully designed to repel unwanted attention.  At that moment, even from a distance, Simon could see how relieved the boy was to see his friends.
 
His sister stood and practically tackled him.
 
“Hi, Hermione,” said Potter, affecting a tentative grin.  He inclined his head to the redhead. “Ron.”
 
“Good to see you, mate,” Ron smiled back. “Mum will be glad to see you alive.”
 
Harry laughed.  It died when he laid eyes on Simon, uncertainty coloring his thin features.  Hermione seemed to pick up on it and let go of the boy to gesture to Simon.
 
“Harry, this is my brother, Simon,” she introduced proudly.  Harry’s jaw dropped.
 
Simon stood and offered a hand. “Simon Awan.  We’re half siblings, if that makes things any less confusing.”
 
Harry took his hand and shook it. “Harry.”
 
“I know who you are,” said Simon, wryly. “These two won’t shut up about you.”
 
Harry smiled a little when he finished speaking.  Simon prided himself on being able to read people pretty well; he sensed the infamous Boy-Who-Lived didn’t exactly embrace his notoriety in the way many would. 
 
“To be fair, we don’t get to see him most of the summer,” Hermione defended, crossing her arms.
 
Ron snorted. “If we had it our way, we’d break you out

every

summer.”
 
“I hate to condone the breaking of laws, but I agree,” Hermione sniffed.
 
Simon raised his eyebrows.  He’d heard about Harry’s relatives, of course, but seeing firsthand just how much both of his friends seemed to despise the people drove home how horrible they had to be.
 
“They

are

… difficult,” Harry explained with the air of someone who had to apologize a lot on another’s behalf. “But it is what it is, I guess.”
 
Hermione tittered disapprovingly, and linked an arm through Harry’s to practically drag him into the shop, presumably to get him his own treat.
 
Simon watched them go, and then went back to his cone.  Ron did the same.  Their silence— filled with the occasional crunch as the younger boy took sizable bites of his half-eaten cone— was amicable enough.  Knowing Ronald Weasley from stories was entirely different from knowing him in reality; he had a dry, blunt sense of humor and a reliable sort of sturdiness about him, and for the most part, he was mild-mannered— until, of course, something stoked the short temper hidden in that ginger head of his.  All in all, not nearly as annoying as Simon expected him to be.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

CHAPTER ONE
 
“I know you were so set on Hyperion, darling, but look at him… he doesn’t look quite like a Hyperion, does he?”
 
“No… no, ‘Cissa, I suppose he doesn’t.”
 
“Well?”
 
“Something traditional, but not too common.”
 
“How about Orion?”
 
“Orion Black certainly was an

uncommonly

unpleasant man.”
 
Narcissa pursed her lips, but didn’t deny it.  
 
Her expression relaxed when she took in the small, innocent face of her second— and, according to her team of healers, most likely last— child.  He was a veritable cherub, with the white-blonde hair of his father and the delicate nose of his mother.  Worth every ounce of the pain and suffering that accompanied her difficult pregnancy.
 
But she wouldn’t do it again.  Even if it were possible, she wouldn’t.
 
“Aquarius?” she suggested, lightly running a finger across the brief landscape of the newborn’s smooth cheek.
 
Lucius set his cane against the wall behind the headboard and leaned in close to watch her delicate ministrations. “A tad pedestrian.”
 
“Scorpius?”
 
Lucius‘ lip curled. “None of Father’s names… lest we curse the boy…”
 
“What about…” she trailed off for a moment, cutting her eyes sideways, “Angelo? I’ve always liked that name.  A tad exotic, but I believe there was an Angelo on my mother’s side, the Rosiers…”
 
“You think?” Lucius repeated, unimpressed. “What if he was a degenerate, Narcissa? Or worse, a squib?”
 
“The Rosiers birthed no squibs,” Narcissa denied immediately. “I like it.  Angelo.  Angelo Malfoy.”
 
“Very well.  What of a second name?”
 
“Draco has yours,“ she reasoned. “Mine is traditionally masculine.”
 
“Angelo Narcissus Malfoy,” Lucius enunciated carefully.  He sat back, appearing to mull it over. “It does sound quite sophisticated.  Draco and Angelo.  Yes, I think it fits.”
 
Narcissa smiled in satisfaction and settled against the pillows propping her up.  Angelo opened his mouth and a small whimper spilled from it.
 
“There, there,

mon ange

,” she cooed. “Mummy’s here, yes…”

Lugh be merciful

, thought Draco Malfoy, watching his brother attempt to mount the broom he’d gotten for his sixth birthday.

This is the most pitiful thing I’ve ever seen.

The thing was rearing up at the tail, something Draco had never even seen a riding broom do.  Angie was clutching the handle and trying to shove it back down in order to get one bowtruckle-thin leg over.  Their mother watched fretfully from the veranda.  Draco didn’t think she need worry; at the rate things were going, the boy would never get high enough off the ground to hurt himself.
 
“Draco,” she snapped. “Draco,

help

him.”
 
“I think he has it,” Draco said, unwilling to put an end to the show just yet.
 
“Draco!”
 
“Okay!” 
 
“Don’t take that tone with me, young man! Assist your brother or I’m taking away

your

broom!”
 
Draco sulkily stomped over to the broom and its incompetent handler and snatched the thing up with impatient hands.
 
“Wait, Drake,” Angie cried, his high voice so annoying that Draco considered whacking him with his own present. “Wait, I can do it!”
 
“No, you can’t,” Draco replied bluntly. “You’re not even holding it right.”
 
“I can do it!” Angie repeated shrilly.  
 
He grabbed onto the handle and started pulling.  Draco tried to keep a firm grip, but he was only a little bigger than Angie and they ended up engaged in an energetic game of tug of war that went crashing onto the grass of the gardens.
 
Draco didn’t even want to help him anymore; now he wanted to beat him so bad with the broom that he would never even want to look at one again.

The Malfoys’ get-together for Saturnalia was a rather subdued affair in comparison to their much more grandiose showing for Yule.  It was mostly family and close friends as opposed to foreign dignitaries and the entirety of the British upper class.  Saturnalia was drinks and food and a cherished tradition or two— careful planning and no less elegant, but nonetheless low key.
 
The Malfoy heirs were typically the stars of the evening, because every year since they’d begun lessons, the two young wizards played a duet at the grand piano in the manor’s playroom for all of the guests at the peak of the evening.  
 
The adults ate it up.  
 
The other children in attendance teased them mercilessly.
 
Theodore Nott seemed to have a particular propensity for poking fun at them at functions like the one during the Winter of ‘90.
 
“What are you

wearing

, Angelo?” the dark-haired boy laughed in disbelief.
 
Angelo blinked. “I’ll have you know that these are my new performing robes, and that they are made from the finest dragon silk in all of Milan.”
 
“They’re pink,” Theo pointed out, and Pansy Parkinson stifled a giggle behind her hand.
 
Draco sighed. “Give it a rest.”
 
“They’re

salmon

,” said Angelo. “Why aren’t you all making fun of Draco’s threads?”
 
“Because I don’t look like I’ve strut straight off the pages of Witch Weekly,” Draco quipped.  His robes were, indeed, a more conservative forest green.
 
“You should be so lucky to have enough fashion sense to be featured by a nationally respected publication.”
 
Daphne Greengrass smiled. “The color suits you, Angelo.”
 
“Why, thank you.” 
 
“Boys!” their mother called from the raised dais attached to the far wall of the playroom.  The pearly piano waited patiently behind her. “Won’t you show our guests what you’ve been working on?”
 
“Coming, Mother!” Angelo replied excitedly, and made as if to bolt to the other end of the room.
 
Draco flung an arm out to stop him. “Walk, brother.  The last thing we need is to lose any more dignity than we already have.”
 
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,

brother

,” Angelo bit back.  They began traversing the space at a much more reasonable pace. “I love playing for guests.”
 
“That’s because you haven’t yet realized we’re a couple of monkeys at the mercy of our ringmaster’s command,” Draco muttered.
 
Angelo ignored him.
 
He knew Draco liked to play, too, and took a healthy interest in the classics just as much as him; it was the show that always got his brother tied up in miserable knots.  Secretly, Angelo theorized that Draco had a touch of stage fright and dreaded being forced to actually

try

in front of an audience, even one as small as their yearly Saturnalia crowd.
 
Angelo had no such fears, but he supposed he understood Draco’s.  It was a common enough thing, after all.  He could forgive the quips at his expense in the meantime.
 
“Garrison Guilford the Great’s thirteenth symphony in C minor,” Draco announced when they arrived at the dais.  Angelo bounced lightly on the balls of his feet.
 
Subsequently, they took their seats at the bench (minding the hems of their robes, of course) and began.
 
Draco was a bit stiff at first, but he loosened up quickly.  Angelo followed his lead with gleeful abandon, and had to stop himself several times from overtaking his brother’s pace.
 
“Slow down,” Draco hissed lowly to him about halfway through.
 
Angelo hummed, “Keep up.”
 
“I’m leading!”
 
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
 
“Stop talking and focus.”
 
“I can’t, I’m too busy trying not to get ahead of you.”
 
Draco slipped up and missed a note trying to match Angelo’s slightly faster tempo.  
 
If there was one thing that threw Draco off of his rhythm, it was screwing up.  It happened again, and again, a train wreck of a domino effect, and eventually the older boy yanked his fingers off the creme keys and shoved Angelo so hard he fell off of the bench.
 
Angelo hit the floor like a log, but sprung up with a high-pitched roar and tackled his brother off of the dais in retaliation.
 
“So much— for— dignity!”
 
“I’ll— strangle you with your pink— robes!”
 
“They’re salmon!”
 
Very suddenly, they found themselves thrown apart by the force of their father’s nonverbal interference.  Angelo landed flat on his back with his limbs up in the air, and Draco fell a bit more painfully on his side some meters away.
 
“Upstairs, boys,” Lucius rumbled. “

Now

.” 
 
The air of the room had gone from shocked and reluctantly entertained to icy and awkward in less than a second.  While their mother managed to swing things around by taking the guests into some other room to entertain them in far less barbaric ways, Lucius dragged them up the staircase by their collars.
 
He set them down roughly at the fainting chaise on the second floor landing and stood before them with his hands on his waist.
 
“Father, before you say anything, I’d just like to say that my third rib hurts a lot right now,” Draco remarked, rubbing his side tenderly.
 
“Run and tell your mother after I’m done,” Lucius replied coldly. “The way the two of you behaved is unbefitting of the Malfoy name.  I ought to ban you from leaving your rooms for the rest of the evening with only Dobby for company.”
 
“Oh, but Mother hasn’t broken out the glacé petit fours,” Angelo mumbled.
 
Draco sighed wistfully. “Poached pears on white cake with sizzling ginger drizzle.”
 
Angelo made a noise of high-pitched regret and covered his face with his hands. “We’re sorry!”
 
Lucius stared at them for a moment before pinching the bridge of his nose with a furrowed brow.
 
“Don’t let it happen again,” he uttered darkly, still not looking at them. “Or you’ll be spending the night out on the lawn with the peacocks.”
 
Angelo shuddered. “Please, no.  The big one stares at me with carnivorous eyes.”
 
“It’ll do more than stare if you don’t straighten up.”
 
One thing that had always terrified Angelo about their father was the fact that it was impossible to tell when the man was joking.  His face was almost permanently twisted in some kind of negative expression— anything from boredom to pure malice— and at that moment, all Angelo could determine was that it would have been unwise to assume he was bluffing.
 
“Yes, Father,” he said at the same time Draco said, “Yes, sir.”
 
“You’ll apologize to our guests and be the perfect heirs for the remainder of the evening.

Or else.

Is that clear?’
 
“Yes, Father.”
 
“Yes, sir.”
 
“Off with you, then.”
 
They popped up off of the chaise and practically tripped over each other bolting down the stairs.

Astoria Greengrass was a frail thing with the most delicate wrists and ankles Angelo had ever seen.  Her light-colored eyes blinked slowly and infrequently, and her head turned carefully as if she were concerned about it toppling off of her shoulders.  Her dark hair threw her complexion into an almost sickly pallor.  He feared that if he spoke too loudly in her presence she would fall over.
 
Nervously, he fussed with the roasted beet and goat cheese salad in front of him and mentally recited a few key phrases he’d gone over with mother before the Greengrasses had arrived.
 
“So, Angelo, are you looking forward to attending school this autumn?” Lord Greengrass asked, tucking into his own salad.
 
Angelo jumped at being addressed. “Yes, sir.”
 
“Yes, Slytherin will be glad to see another Malfoy,” Lucius remarked, and Angelo thought he heard pride in his voice. “Draco’s already made quite the mark.”
 
“Yes, I’ve heard from Daphne that he’s at the top of his class,” said Lady Greengrass.  Her lips were pursed. “Or near it, anyway.  You’ve heard of the Granger girl, I suppose?”
 
“Ah, yes,” Narcissa smiled sharply. “The…

muggleborn

.”
 
Angelo felt the tension rise at the table and his fingers began to tremble, shaking crumbles of goat cheese off of his fork.  He had never been good at handling such situations.  He felt his mouth start going before his brain could catch up.
 
“You know, speaking of school, I read the funniest thing the other evening,” he said, twitching. “Did you know that Salazar Slytherin originally suggested a host of different serpents to be the mascot for his House? One of which was the occamy, for the fact that its eggs are pure silver, half of the House colors— there’s some debate going on recently, you know, that occamies are distant relatives of the bogart because of their unique choranaptyxicality— ”
 
“Angelo,” Narcissa cut in pleasantly, patting his hand. “Finish your salad, dear.”
 
Lord Greengrass chuckled. “Slytherin, eh, Lucius? He rambles like one of those ravens— and I would know, married to one as I am.”
 
“Eagles,” his wife corrected, batting him gently on the chest. “Tread lightly.”
 
Astoria caught his eye across the table, and he could have sworn he saw the corners of her mouth flick up in some echo of a pleased expression.  His eyes widened and he quickly returned to his food, heart beating madly.
 
He was no fool.  This lunch was merely a precursor to a more important meeting— the one that would determine whether or not Astoria would become his betrothed, and vice versa.  Draco’s marriage had almost been arranged before he left for Hogwarts, but their parents had pulled out of the agreement at the last moment because of some legal trouble the Parkinsons had run into before the semester started.  It was quite the scandal, and their mother had been adamant about finding the perfect match for Angelo so as not to suffer such embarrassment the second time around.
 
The Greengrasses were politically neutral and thus almost always just left of the limelight, their daughters weren’t unattractive and the dowry for both girls was generous.  The Malfoys wanted for nothing, but the size of the offer spoke volumes about the Greengrass’ wealth and the esteem in which they held their heiresses.  It would be a classy exchange.
 
Angelo knew he should be grateful that he had parents that had the connections and means to arrange such a meeting, but he couldn’t help but feel just the tiniest bit resentful of tradition.  Astoria seemed like a perfectly nice girl, but he felt as if his life were being written out ahead of him.  He missed the pretense of openness about his future from when he was a little kid.

Everyone has to grow up sometime

, thought the eleven-year-old.
 
“This salad is very refreshing,” said Lady Greengrass. “The flavors complement each other well.  Oh, and the lamb looks positively succulent.  Where

did

you find your elf, Narcissa? He seemed too young to be inherited.”
 
“Dobby was a gift from Lucius’ parents.  They purchased him from that— that agency on Gulliver’s Alley… what was it called, Lucius, dear?

The Magical Assistance Habitation

, I believe.  Are you in search of a new elf, Deirdre?”
 
“Oh, well, Hokey’s getting up there in age and I thought I’d better have our ducks in a row…”

“Ravenclaw!”
 
Angelo clutched at his chest in shock and practically toppled sideways off of the stool.  The Hall clapped politely, but it was scattered and there were a few murmurs.

Malfoys are Slytherins.

It was… a rule, or something.
 
What did he do wrong?
 
The deputy headmistress cleared her throat pointedly and he realized he was still sitting stock-still with the Sorting hat perched on his head.  He plucked the awful thing off (

honestly, would it kill them to visit a decent haberdashery and pick up a new one to enchant?

) and slowly made his way to the Ravenclaw table, which was a sea of black robes and blue-and-bronze striped ties.
 
He chanced a glance at the Slytherin table.  Draco stared back at him.  If Angelo didn’t know any better, he would say his brother looked

nervous

for him.  As if that helped.
 
“Oh, dear,” he muttered to himself. “Oh,

dear

.”
 
Was everyone staring? Merlin, they were, weren’t they? 
 
Then, McGonagall called the next name and all at once he was forgotten.  
 
He took an empty seat between two students in Draco’s year who subsequently introduced themselves as Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil.  Angelo greeted them and introduced himself as politely as possible, minding his manners and not wanting to make any enemies.
 
The rest of the Sorting passed in a blur, although the Creevey boy made quite the soggy impression.
 
As the Sorting gave way to Dumbledore’s speech and then a grand feast, Angelo was mostly thinking of what he would write in his first missive home.  Oh, what would father say? He’d always been vocal about his expectations if absolutely nothing else, and Angelo hated to disappoint him… although that wouldn’t be such a change of pace from the status quo, this somehow seemed a lot worse… 
 
“So, little Malfoy,” the girl across from him interrupted his dreary train of thought.  He blinked at her. “On a scale of one to ten, how alike would you say you and your brother are? Just out of curiosity’s sake.”
 
She stabbed viciously into a slice of glazed ham as she said this, and Angelo jumped at the sound of her knife hitting the golden plate.  He glanced nervously at the faces around him and noticed that they all seemed to be paying attention to what he had to say.
 
Draco wasn’t the easiest to get along with, sure, but just how much of an arse had he made of himself to put Angelo in such a spot?
 
“Well,” he began carefully, and served himself small helpings of a few items in front of his plate to keep his hands too busy to fidget, “if you mean in terms of looks, we have similar coloring, though I favor Mother.  Maybe a seven, there.  In terms of personality… well, Draco’s a fan of Mahler.

That

should tell you enough.”
 
A few people chuckled, though Lisa still eyed him warily.  Anthony clapped him on the shoulder, which startled him so bad he almost dropped the ladle for the gravy.
 
“As long as you share what you know and aren’t a complete and utter prick, you’ll fit right in,” said Anthony.
 
Padma snorted. “I don’t know about that.  Breaking out the classical references a bit early, aren’t we? It’s no wonder the other Houses think we’re a bunch of stuffy stiffs.”
 
Angelo twisted his hands together anxiously. “I can keep them locked away.  But, um… how do we feel about the opera?”
 
“I love the opera,” Lisa declared, and just like that, her icy demeanor thawed and she began chatting his ear off about her favorite arias.
 
Angelo didn’t mind at all.  In fact, he was taken aback by just how enthusiastically his fellow eagles seemed to tack onto his references and run with them, going from topic to topic in a manner that made his mind wonderfully dizzy with new perspectives.  
 
It was

never

like that at home.  Usually, father would tell him in no uncertain terms to shut up and go talk Dobby to death about whatever he found so interesting as to wax verbal essay about it; mother just nodded and smiled and let him go until he got tired.  He could have a somewhat decent back-and-forth with Draco about food and literature for at least a couple of minutes before his brother grew bored and went off to fly his broom on their private pitch.
 
He almost forgot about his pending missive home.
 
Almost.
 
Halfway through the meal (which was almost

too

English in the way that it sat at the bottom of his stomach), there was a gap in the bodies that shifted back and forth at the other tables and he caught a glimpse of a face that would haunt him for the rest of his days.
 
“Who is that?” he attempted to casually ask Anthony.
 
Anthony turned away from his conversation with the black-haired Michael Corner. “Who?”
 
Angelo subtly pointed.  Anthony pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted.
 
“Oh, that’s Granger.”
 
Angelo cleared his throat so hard he began to splutter, and took a sip of water only for it to go down the wrong pipe, which sent him into a raucous coughing fit.  He slipped his embroidered handkerchief from the internal pocket specially sewn into his robes and covered his mouth, utterly mortified.
 
Anthony patted him on the back, and after he settled down, turned back to Michael Corner— seemingly oblivious to the cause of the momentary trouble.
 
Granger.  A

muggleborn—

a… mudblood.  
 
Angelo looked at her again, but only for a second.  And then again.  One more time.  But then he focused his gaze on his food and forced himself not to look up again.
 
How could a girl with tainted blood bare such resemblance to a goddess carved from burnished mahogany? That voluptuous mane of hair… her big, brown eyes… so limpid and full of intelligence and… concern?
 
He wondered what negative thought plagued her.  He wished he could wipe it from her mind.
 
Was love at first sight possible? Why couldn’t it be? Wasn’t there endless precedent in the various accounts written in hundreds of great novels and plays and operas over the years? 
 
His heart thumped, his ears rushed, his cheeks and neck prickled suspiciously.  The world had ceased to move around him except for her and the way she kept glancing toward the doors, seemingly in slow motion.
 
Was this love? It had to be! 
 
He couldn’t believe it.  Sorted into Ravenclaw and madly in love with a mudblood all in one night.

You’re on a roll

, he thought to himself.

The letter won’t be dull, that’s for certain

.
 
Not that he would tell anyone about his newest discovery, least of all his extremely conservative parents.  He knew his Sorting would already be a surprise to them; there was no need to send them (or himself) to an early grave.

“Is that Malfoy’s little brother?” Ron muttered, disgruntled. “Again? Why do I see him every time I turn around? Aren’t the firsties on a different schedule than us?”
 
Harry seemed lost in his own world, staring off into space and just barely managing not to trip on anything as they walked to Charms.
 
“He’s probably just lost,” Hermione reasoned, rolling her eyes.  She was positioned between the two of them. “And would you

listen

to yourself? You say ‘firsties’ like we weren’t in their shoes last year.”
 
“I don’t see any of them rushing off to save the school,” Ron bit back. “If you ask me, that’s at least three years’ worth of effort.”
 
“Anything is three years’ worth of effort to someone who nearly turned in his brothers’ old essays for Transfiguration.”
 
“Fourteen inches, Hermione!

With a letter size maximum

.  They’re practically asking us to cheat.”
 
“Excuse me,” interrupted a somewhat familiar, posh voice.
 
They halted; Hermione stuck out an arm to keep Harry from running right into Malfoy.  The narrow-faced boy stood before them with a brown leather attaché case clutched tightly in his pale, bony fingers by the reinforced handle.
 
“I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of Professor Binns’ room?”
 
“Ask your ferret of a brother,” Ron replied rudely, and made as if to keep walking.
 
Hermione stepped on his foot and he yelped loudly, turning to glare at her.
 
“What was that for?” he hissed.
 
She ignored him. “It’s on the second floor.  Take a left at the portrait of the man with the feather in his hat.”
 
The boy stared at her.
 
She felt a bit awkward at first, and then annoyed soon after. “Do I have something on my face?”
 
“Oh! Um,” he cleared his throat, and then promptly dropped his attaché.  He scrambled to pick it up, and when his face became visible again it was pinker than the sky at sunset. “No, I— um, thank you.  Miss Granger.  I mean— Granger.  Thank you, Granger.  I— okay, I’ll be on my way.”
 
And with that, he scurried off in the wrong direction.  Hermione stared after him, bewildered.
 
“Bloody Malfoys,” Ron muttered, and they were on their way once more.

Even though they had their differences, Angelo had always respected his older brother.  Before he came to Hogwarts, Draco always made it seem in all of his letters to Angelo that he was the cock of the walk at school; it may have been true in Slytherin, but to the rest of the student body, he was no more than a mean-spirited bully.
 
It was almost embarrassing to be seen with him outside of academic settings, but they had a standing arrangement to chat and have a light breakfast at the top of the astronomy tower on Saturday mornings.  Draco wasted no opportunity to ham up the fact that they got no chances to talk, separated into different Houses as they were.  
 
“I’m sure you’ve heard,” Draco said during their second get-together.  He sat with one polished shoe atop the opposite knee, a perfect copy of their father. “I’ve made the quidditch team.”
 
Angelo dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “I did hear.  I also heard that father bought your team all new

Nimbus 2001s

, but that’s probably unrelated.”
 
Draco scowled. “Oh, not you, too.  You know I didn’t ask him to do that.”
 
“No, you never do, do you?” Angelo muttered.
 
“What is

that

supposed to mean?”
 
“Nothing,” he replied quickly. “Anyway, I also heard about that fiasco on the pitch.  I would’ve paid to see Weasley barf up slugs.”
 
Draco snickered. “It was a real treat, alright.”
 
“What hex did you use?” 
 
“He did it to himself, can you believe it?”
 
Angelo frowned. “No, I can’t.  He turned his wand on himself?”
 
“No, the busted thing backfired on him.  Mummy and daddy probably can’t afford to buy a functioning one, dirt poor as they are.”
 
Angelo shuddered and took a delicate sip of his breakfast tea.  He couldn’t imagine not having the money to buy even a wand.  It was a simple necessity for any wizard; to go without wasn’t only dangerous, it was

humiliating

.
 
“...playing the hero, acting all big and bad just because I slipped up and called Granger a mudblood to her face…” 
 
“You did what?” Angelo coughed, sending tea all down his front.  He pouted and began dabbing at the spots with his kerchief. “You said it to her face?”
 
Draco shrugged. “I may have lost my temper.”
 
“We have a reputation to uphold,” Angelo remarked stiffly. “Malfoy heirs and all that.  Spewing slurs where anyone can hear like some common brute isn't exactly the classiest behavior, brother.”
 
“I won’t lose sleep over it.  It’s not like her parents will be having a word with ours,” Draco said wryly. “I’ll just be more careful in the future.  Next time, Weasley’s wand will backfire and kill us all.”
 
“We should be so lucky.”
 
Draco smirked. “Have you spoken to your betrothed since the train?”
 
“...no.  We… haven’t had the chance.”
 
“Ah.  No wonder.”
 
“No wonder what?”
 
“Nothing,” Draco replied quickly. “Read anything good lately?”
 
Angelo regarded him sourly for a moment before giving up on having his question answered.
 
“As a matter of fact, I’ve recently become invested in a series of articles about the effectiveness of potions ingredients in correlation to their preparation method…”

“It’s a myth,” Angelo sighed, reaching into the pocket of his silk dressing gown to retrieve his favorite gilded comb.  He began combing back the sides of his hair as he said, “Frankly, I find these rumors ridiculous.  It was obviously a prank by a member of the student body.”
 
“I don’t know,” Scott Ancrum mused aloud.  He was tossing a quaffle up and down from a lying position in his four-poster bed. “That stuff on the wall? Chicken’s blood! Imagine going through the trouble of slaughtering a couple of chickens and

not

being a bloody sociopath.”
 
Dennis Aldermaston, who had been traversing the room in just his boxers, stopped dead in his tracks. “You’re sure?”
 
“Positive! I heard it from Padma,” Scott insisted. “She heard from her sister, who got it from Lavender Brown, who overheard McGonagall talking to Flitwick about it.”
 
“So practically a firsthand account,” said Angelo.  Dennis snorted.
 
“Listen, if you ask me, I think whoever petrified Filch’s cat did us a huge favor,” Ethan Bexley declared. “That thing’s a menace, and I actually like cats.”
 
Scott slammed his quaffle— which was signed by Lynch from the Irish national team, a fact he never let them forget— into his left palm and scowled at them all.  Angelo wanted to make a very ugly face at him, but his superior breeding wouldn’t allow it.
 
“Who cares about stupid Mrs. Norris? If this means what everyone thinks it means, the muggleborn students are in danger.” He slammed the quaffle again, and locked eyes with Angelo from across the room. “Your brother made a big deal about that, didn’t he, Malfoy?”
 
Angelo turned away from the room and continued combing his hair in the mirror closest to his bed. “Yes, I… did hear that he cracked a couple of jokes.”
 
“Jokes? Is that what those were?”
 
“His tact needs work,” Angelo defended weakly, letting the arm holding the comb fall to his side.  His hair didn’t need to be combed any further.  If he kept it up, the static would likely adhere him to the carpet. “I didn’t say they were funny jokes.”
 
“They were the furthest thing from funny,” Dennis muttered, crawling into bed and pulling the curtains.  Dennis was muggleborn.
 
Angelo shoved him comb back into his pocket. “Well, he could have gone about it differently, but what he said was true in the loosest sense of the word.  Historically, muggleborn students

were

the ones targeted by Slytherin’s so-called Chamber.  The chamber that is mythical and houses an equally mythical creature.”
 
“Just say your brother’s an idiot and go to bed,” Scott said.
 
“I won’t,” Angelo said stiffly. “He isn’t.”
 
Scott palmed his quaffle dangerously. “Oh? What else, then? I suppose he’s just some misunderstood softie with his heart in the right place?”
 
“I didn’t say that.”
 
“Then what

are

you saying?”
 
“Give it a rest, Scott,” Ethan said quietly. “Draco may be a wad, but that’s his brother, for Merlin’s sake.”
 
Scott didn’t say anything else, but he stared hard at Angelo, who avoided his gaze and gracefully shed his robe at the rack beside his bed before getting in and pulling his curtains shut.
 
He wished Draco knew how to be quiet.  Certainly that was a valued trait in Slytherins, who were supposedly known for their cunning wit and keen sense of self-preservation? Didn’t sneaky people know how to keep their traps shut?

Angelo didn’t mind his dorm mates, but they didn’t have very much in common.  During meals and in his free time, he usually hung around Lisa, Sue Li, Padma, Anthony and sometimes Anthony’s friend, Michael.  They were funny, and they understood his references.  They also kept him up to speed on all of the happenings within their class, which was by far more interesting than his.
 
The first Gryffindor-Slytherin match of the season was upon them before they knew it, and Anthony insisted Angelo accompany them to watch it unfold.  
 
Angelo had already been on the fence about it; he wanted to support Draco, but his brother’s popularity had taken a plunge and he didn’t want to seem too eager to be seen at his side.  Getting dragged along by his friends meant that Angelo had his excuses for coming.
 
Day saved.
 
“The Gryffindor-Slytherin matches are always a bloodbath,” Michael explained on their way down to the pitch. “Good for a laugh.”
 
Angelo’s mind conjured the image of Draco’s face covered in blood.  He shuddered.
 
“The real fun is counting their fouls and seeing if the numbers go higher than the number of players on the pitch,” Anthony remarked with a humored grin.
 
Angelo noticed that his friends were headed for the Gryffindor stands.  He hesitated for a moment at the splitoff and Anthony looked back at him.
 
“You coming, Ange?”
 
Angelo bit his lip and glanced up at the green and silver hangings so far away from where he stood.
 
“Yes,” he sighed, and followed them into the wash of gold and blazing crimson.
 
He immediately felt secure in his decision when he spotted the beautiful, boisterous tresses of Hermione Granger next to her boorish, freckled redhead friend.  Lisa was the closest to the Gryffindor girl out of their friend group and took the lead in asking whether or not they could sit.
 
“Of course,” Granger smiled, and elbowed Weasley in the side to get him to budge over and make room.
 
Angelo had never given any thought to what he might like in a witch, but he decided that he respected such a display of strength and generosity.
 
He brushed the bench off with his kerchief and sat primly on the edge of it.
 
“Malfoy?” Weasley said distastefully, squinting at him sandwiched between Sue and Anthony. “Come on, Hermione, really?”
 
“Hush up and watch the game, Ron.”
 
“I don’t want to sit with Malfoy!”
 
“Maybe he doesn’t want to sit with you,” Lisa bit back, shooting the boy a nasty look.
 
“As well he shouldn’t,” Ron parried.
 
Angelo shifted uncomfortably.  He wanted to sit with his friends, but Weasley was a lot bigger than him and if the older boy decided to make a fuss, he had a feeling it would be him being tossed over the wall and down fifty feet to land on the pitch.
 
“I’ll make no trouble if you won’t, Weasley.”
 
“There, see?” Granger said, and nodded curtly at him.  All of the breath in his lungs disappeared. “Already leaps and bounds ahead of his brother in that department.”
 
“I don’t believe it for a second,” said Ron. “I’m watching you, Malfoy.”
 
“And I’ll be watching the match,” Angelo replied blithely.
 
Sue barked a short laugh and they all settled in and attempted to ignore the awkwardness of it all.

In the aftermath of the game in which Slytherin lost and Harry Potter was attacked by a vindictive bludger (and subsequently de-boned), Angelo was drenched in a nervous sweat all down his back.
 
He knew exactly who’d bewitched the stupid ball.  
 
He’d seen it happen before to Draco, when Angelo told their house elf, Dobby, to make his brother pay for ruining his ship in a bottle by shaking it like a maraca.  Draco’s dragon figurine collectibles came to life and chased him around the manor and the grounds, only stopping when father ended the curse and chalked it up to a spot of accidental magic on Angelo’s part.
 
It was the same phenomenon, right down to the heat-seeking aspect.  It could have easily been someone else’s handiwork, but Angelo had a feeling that it wasn’t.  The real question was

why

Dobby would come all the way to Hogwarts and wreak havoc upon Potter, of all people.
 
Unless.
 
“He wouldn’t,” Angelo muttered to himself as Potter was carried off the pitch.  
 
He watched with the rest of his friends as Granger and her accompanying Neanderthal went trotting after him.
 
Lisa looked at him. “Who wouldn’t? Wouldn’t what?
 
Angelo swallowed thickly. “Nothing.  No one.  I— I’ve got to go, I have an assignment due Monday and I haven’t started.”
 
Without elaborating, he made haste to catch his brother before he disappeared off to the Slytherin common room.

After the confrontation, Angelo fled to the dorms, angrily flung off his outer clothes without folding or even hanging them up, and curtained himself into his bed in a furious flurry of flailing limbs.
 
He sat cross-legged in the middle of the neatly made bed and pressed his face into his hands.  The stained tissues sticking out of his nostrils popped out and fluttered down into his lap.
 
Not only did Draco deny tampering with the quidditch equipment, he provided ample evidence to prove that he hadn’t.  Angelo felt foolish standing there with no leg to stand on, and to add insult to injury, Draco demanded to know why he even cared and Angelo had been forced to lie and spout more nonsense about the family name.  His nose began bleeding almost immediately as a result of the dumb lie, and of course his brother saw right through him.
 
He managed to storm off without prompting Draco to follow him and demand more answers, which was the only part of the interaction that went his way.  Merlin, he hated being wrong.
 
More than being wrong, however, he hated unexplained phenomena.  It was entirely possible that someone else bewitched the bludger, but who? And why?
 
The answer suddenly seemed very close.
 
“Dobby,” he called out firmly.  His voice sounded stuffy inside his own head from his earlier nosebleed.
 
With a loud

pop-crack

, the batty little thing appeared and stood at the foot of the bed.  His eyes, already large and bulbous, were wide and nervous-looking, and his hands wrung together like a couple of mating snakes.
 
“Young master called?”
 
“Yes, I did,” Angelo thundered. “What do you think you’re doing?”
 
Those grayish, bony fingers wrung each other harder. “D-Dobby is not knowing what the young master means.”
 
“The bludger! You almost killed Harry Potter!”
 
Dobby’s little face scrunched up and all at once he burst into noisy tears.  Angelo reared back, shocked at seeing his lifelong caretaker behave in such a way.
 
“Wait, stop,” he stuttered. “Dobby, I— stop! I order you to stop crying at once!”
 
The elf straightened up, arms coming down hard to be pinned to his sides by some invisible force, and the tears dried up.  The expression on his face was still one of despair, however, Angelo supposed there wasn’t much to be done about it.
 
“Dobby isn’t meaning to hurt Harry Potter,” sniveled the elf.
 
“Then what on earth

are

you trying to do?”
 
Dobby struggled not to open his mouth.  Angelo stared in disbelief; he had never seen him actively fight so hard not to tell the truth.
 
“I won’t tell father,” he assured the elf. “Or mother.”
 
Dobby fell sideways onto the bed and began twitching from the effort of keeping his mouth shut.  It looked painful.
 
“Dobby, you have my word.”
 
Dobby looked like he wanted to cry again, but instead of tears, words burst from him like water from a broken dam.
 
“The school is not safe for Harry Potter! Dobby is only wanting Harry Potter to go home where he will be safe!”
 
Angelo furrowed his brow. “Not safe? What do you mean?”
 
“It’s happened before,” Dobby choked, popping back up to his feet and bouncing a bit as he did so. “History repeats itself, young master! Harry Potter is not safe!”
 
“If the school isn’t safe, why aren’t you worried about me?” Angelo asked, horrified.
 
For a second, Angelo swore Dobby might roll his eyes.
 
“You is not in danger, young master.  You is being protected by blood.”
 
Angelo suddenly realized all at once what Dobby meant and felt irritation build in him like magma.
 
“This is about that Chamber, isn’t it?” he scoffed. “It’s a myth, Dobby.  It’s not real.  The last time it was ‘opened,’” he formed air quotes around the word, “a student was killed, but that could have easily been the work of another student.  Unless there’s a killer on the loose among the student body— in which case I would implore you to tell the proper authorities— I suggest you leave this matter alone.”
 
Dobby trembled. “But— ”
 
“Leave it alone! Before someone gets hurt more than they already have,” Angelo muttered.
 
Dobby wrung his hands some more, but eventually bowed his head so low that his nose brushed the comforter; then, he promptly and loudly disappeared.  
 
Angelo ran a hand through his hair and grimaced at the pomade that greased up his fingers as he did.  He opened his curtains and plucked his robes from the floor to retrieve his kerchief from its hidden pocket.  The eggshell-colored fabric became stained with his hair products after a few passes over his palms. He heaved a long-suffering sigh and went about tossing the kerchief in his woven hamper for dirty clothes (the only one in the dorm; the other boys, to Angelo’s horror, simply tossed their things onto the floor as if they’d been raised by wolves) and hanging up the outerwear he’d discarded so carelessly before.
 
With no adrenaline or fear to preoccupy his mind, he fell upon his usual idle muse.
 
She’d looked so afraid out on the pitch.  
 
Though the face most people saw— him being included in most people— was that of an academic, a rigid, book-bearing gal with an answer for everything, it was easy to see that she was also an incredibly empathetic individual.  He sometimes gazed upon her caressing the petals of flowers as she passed them on the grounds, overheard her nagging her friends to eat something other than meat and potatoes at meals, helping first years like himself with directions to class… he admired her sensitivity, the brief bouts of gentleness that peaked through her cool, intellectual exterior.
 
It seemed that she cared very deeply for Potter; he wondered if she harbored feelings for the boy, and if Potter felt the same.  Hell, in a couple of years they could be Hogwarts’ golden couple: the Boy-Who-Lived and the girl at the top of the class of ‘98.  The very thought filled him with a sort of bleak emptiness that he couldn’t quite identify.
 
He looked at himself in the full length mirror by his bed.  He was bird-chested, and his slight features made it so that if he had longer hair, he might as well have taken up residence in the adjacent dorms.
 
He’d gotten his fair share of teasing about his size from just about everyone who cared enough to say two words to him.  In times like these, when he’d spent the harder part of the day being wrong (a state in which he hated to be), those words came back and made him feel small.  Smaller than he actually was.
 
He straightened his lapels and smoothed his hair back on either side of his head, drew himself up and puffed out his chest.  He looked ridiculous.
 
“Oh,

whatever

,” he muttered.

The next morning, Angelo picked miserably at his scrambled eggs while the rest of the Hall seemed abuzz with the latest news.  Lisa kept nudging him to prompt his participation in their speculation of who might have petrified Colin Creevey.
 
“I bet it’s a snake that did it,” Michael declared. “They always did like to pick on the poor kid.”
 
Anthony hummed thoughtfully. “It’s also logical to assume that the Heir of Slytherin was Sorted into his ancestor’s House.”
 
“But it could be anyone, really,” Lisa posited. “From any house,

of any gender

.”
 
“

Heir

of Slytherin, not

Heiress

of Slytherin,” Anthony pointed out, smirking. “Plus, are you really so eager for your gender to claim the perpetrator?”
 
“It’s not about claiming them, it’s about the fact men aren’t the only ones capable of murder and violence.”
 
“There are no descendants of Slytherin in this castle,” Angelo finally announced. “His bloodline ended with the Gaunts.  There’s also no Chamber of Secrets, because— ”
 
“ —‘it’s a myth,’” Lisa finished, rolling her eyes. “Come

on

, Ange! There are historical accounts, redacted maps, the professors won’t give us any straight answers— at this point, it’s more likely than not that it exists.”
 
“It’s a story that someone’s using to scare people,” Angelo insisted, slamming down his fork. “And the more fuel we give it, the more hysteria we induce.  It’s a tactic to distract people from the real danger.  How can none of you see that?”
 
They all stared at him.
 
“Angelo,” Anthony began carefully. “Where were you last night?”
 
Angelo gaped at him, and then clenched his fists so tight on the tabletop that his manicured nails cut into his palms.
 
“In my room,” he answered stiffly. “Sleeping, just like every other person in this castle except for some wannabe murderer who

is not me

.”
 
He stood, snatched up his attaché case, and stormed out of the Hall, shaking.  His ears pounded from the blood rushing through them, but faintly, he could hear Lisa viciously pummeling Anthony with her copy of the newspaper.

Angie,

I was very disappointed to hear from Lady Greengrass this morning about your behavior— or rather, lack thereof— toward Astoria.  I understand that you are in different Houses, but you should make the effort to get to know her better.  As her betrothed, it is your duty to make her feel comfortable and secure in her parents’ decision to align our families; that includes speaking to her on occasion.

You and your brother are representatives of our House, and you must act in a manner befitting that responsibility.  I will speak no more on the matter.

I read this morning about the petrifaction of that muggleborn.  Make sure you’re walking to classes in a group, and that you heed the curfew.  Your father will be meeting with the Board to discuss what is being done about the threat, but in the meantime, I want you and your brother to exercise the utmost caution in your movements.  I would pull you from school and continue your education here at home with tutors for the rest of term, but your father resisted the idea.  You know how he is— always so sure that no one would dare risk a feud from our House by harming one of our heirs.  One day, I’ll get through to him that not everyone considers the potential ramifications of their actions in such a way.

Please stay safe,

Mummy

Despite the fact that nobody in Ravenclaw actually respected or deferred to Lockhart as an adult capable of teaching them anything, it seemed nearly everyone had a crush on him; he was a very pretty man.  It was for that reason and that reason alone that many marched down to the Great Hall to attend the first meeting of the dueling club.
 
“It’ll be a laugh,” Anthony clapped Angelo on the shoulder as they traveled in their usual group. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
 
“I lose studying time to watch an imbecile shake his wand around like a dowsing rod?”
 
“Even us eagles need a day off,” Anthony replied solemnly. “Keeps the brain sharp.”
 
Angelo gave him a wry look, and Anthony’s lips curled inward in an attempt to keep from laughing out loud.
 
To Angelo’s dismay, the dueling club ceased to be funny when Draco stepped up to duel Potter and completely disregarded the rules in an attempt to humiliate him.  It didn’t

humiliate

the Boy-Who-Lived so much as force him to reveal himself as a parseltongue— which frankly didn’t make any sense to Angelo, but there you have it— thrusting the gossip chain of the school into a state of suspicion against the one person who should have, logically, been the least suspicious.
 
It did wonders to keep him out of the limelight, though.  Nobody even passingly joked about Angelo being the murderer after the dueling club incident.

Hermione was on the way to the library.  She knew she’d have to cross a courtyard to get there expeditiously, but as luck would have it, the Scottish skies decided to open up and cry holy hell upon its countryside.  The other way around would be drier, but also

longer

, and her business at the library was of considerable import and time-sensitivity.  The longer she dawdled, wary of the cold rain, the more her sense of urgency increased and made her dance from foot to foot.
 
Just as she began to steel herself to make a break across the sopping grass, she heard someone approach behind her over the roar of the downpour.  She turned.  It was the younger Malfoy brother.
 
“Granger,” he greeted, grey eyes wide.  Whenever Hermione encountered him, Angelo Malfoy always seemed just a little caught off guard.
 
Under his black cloak, he was dressed for the weekend, in a grey turtleneck and a pair of smart, olive trousers secured with a slim brown belt.  Hermione wondered what the conventional social rules were about wearing ordinary clothes; it seemed like older magical folk wore cloaks like a final layer of clothing in the place of bottoms, but younger people - purebloods and muggleborns alike - wore them more like long duster jackets.  She wondered how children who grew up in pureblood families knew to dress appropriately.  When had muggle fashion become popular among the masses? Did they know what they were doing? Was it introduced slyly by some half-blood and picked up like a trend that would never truly die out?
 
She shook her head a little to dissuade it from distracting her further. 
 
“Malfoy,” she remarked politely.  He’d never been anything but polite to her despite everything; she figured she should extend the same courtesy, even if it was likely that his political opinions were more purist than not.
 
He cleared his throat and looked out into the courtyard, and then back at her, expression skeptical. “You weren’t planning on going out in that, were you?”
 
“I-- well,” she began, and then stopped abruptly.  She hated seeming unprepared, and admitting that she lost her umbrella would alter his perception of her; this person who she didn’t even care about that much. “I don’t have an umbrella.”
 
He stared at her bemusedly for a moment, and then - haltingly, as if he wasn’t quite sure he was doing whatever he was doing - he shrugged his cloak off of his shoulders and slipped his wand out of one of the pockets.  She tensed, reaching for her own, but he wasn’t looking at her; he waved his wand over the back of the cloak and incanted, clearly, “

Impervius

.”
 
Then, he held it above his head and stepped up to where the stone floor spilled out into the grass.  He looked over his shoulder at her in invitation.  She stood still for a moment, and then without a word, ducked under the cloak.  They stepped out into the rain.  She watched in fascination as droplets of water dripped in continuous streams off of the edges of the jacket like so many miniature fountains.  The gray of the area seemed to throw the dry space in which they walked into startling clarity.  She couldn’t help but glance at him a few times, but he stared determinedly ahead.
 
When they reached the other end of the courtyard, he swung the cloak from over them and examined it briefly.  It was dry.  He slipped it back on and stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets.
 
“Thank you,” Hermione managed, too stunned about the past minute to say much else.
 
He nodded curtly, not looking her in the eye, and strode off down the corridor, shoulders rigid.
 
She couldn’t dwell on the strange occurrence for too long.  She patted the mirror through her cloak pocket and went off in the direction of the library, determined to find some answers.

One of Angelo’s favorite pastimes was looking up charms of convenience.  It was a pleasant coincidence that he had one tucked away that came in handy right when Hermione Granger, of all people, seemed to need it.
 
He spent the rest of the day in a pleasant haze, lounging in the Ravenclaw common room while it was still somewhat quiet.  Most of the House was attending the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match, so he had his pick of the armchairs by the fire.  He bit into an apple and read the same sentence in his copy of the Charms textbook over and over, unable to concentrate on anything but the memory of Hermione Granger huddled next to him, the warmth of her arm practically burning a hole in his.
 
He wished he’d said something charming in answer to her thanks.  Something cool that she’d remember him saying for years.  Instead, he’d run away like a coward.
 
He groaned and let the textbook cover his face, burying his nose in the crease of the binding.
 
The portrait hole swung open and other students came pouring in.  The mingling voices weren’t occupied with cheerful, post-game chatter, however; there were worried murmurs and sidelong glances.  Professor Flitwick stepped into the common room and approached Angelo, who sat up straight in his chair and clutched his apple tightly in his left hand.
 
“Mr. Malfoy, I’m going to have to escort you to the Headmaster’s office,” the half-goblin wizard informed him gravely.
 
Angelo stood abruptly. “May I ask why, Professor?”
 
“I’m afraid not,” Flitwick replied. “Come along, then.”
 
Angelo looked around, confused.  His friends weren’t looking him in the eye, and most of his other Housemates seemed torn between avoiding his gaze and glaring poisonously at him.
 
“Now, please, Mr. Malfoy.”
 
He tugged at the collar of his jumper and followed after the little man, bewildered.  Before they reached the portrait hole, Lisa stepped in his path and gently slipped his book and apple from his loose grasp.
 
“Won’t be needing these, I reckon,” she remarked quietly, and managed to give him a comforting half-smile.
 
He nodded confusedly before answering to Flitwick’s urgent beckoning and leaving the common room.

“My son wouldn’t say boo to a bowtruckle,” Narcissa insisted, eyes narrowed into slits. 
 
Lucius sighed heavily and tightened his two-handed grip on the ornament of his cane. “It’s true.”
 
Between his two standing parents, Angelo was shaking in his chair, which was across from Headmaster Dumbledore’s desk.  Professor Flitwick stood off to the side, observing the proceedings nervously.  The head of the school was flanked by two aurors and an official from the DMLE, all of whom seemed to be under the impression that Angelo had played some role in the petrifaction of Hermione Granger.
 
“Frankly, I’m convinced of your son’s innocence in this matter,” said Dumbledore. “But because of recent events, law enforcement is taking a few extra precautions.”
 
“Starting with replacing you?” Lucius drawled.
 
Dumbledore merely smiled tightly.
 
Angelo wrung his hands together. “Um, Headmaster? I’d just like to say that while I did escort Miss Granger across the courtyard

apparently

minutes before her petrifaction at the library,” he let out a nervous laugh that sounded a bit like someone wiping a window, “I did not, in fact, take any part in the petrifaction itself, don’t even know

how

to petrify someone, even— and is she alright, by the way? Like, this is reversible, right?”
 
“You escorted her across the courtyard?” Lucius demanded sharply. “Whatever for?”
 
Angelo pulled at his collar. “It- it was raining earlier, father.”
 
“And?”
 
“W-well, I was just— you know, what mother is always s-saying a-about treating witches p-properly— ”
 
“You found the time to escort that

girl

across the courtyard but you can’t spare even a fraction of an afternoon for poor Astoria,” Narcissa sniffed.
 
Angelo spluttered, “I- I’ve just b-been busy w-with— you know, my studies a-and—”
 
“Your nose is bleeding,” Lucius pointed out dryly.
 
Narcissa leaned forward to dab at his face with a lace kerchief.  Angelo allowed it, staring blankly ahead of him and feeling keenly as if the world had been tilted on its axis.
 
“I’ve observed quite enough,” the DMLE official declared, a woman with dark hair pulled back into a slick bun. “Aurors, this boy couldn’t be further from an accessory to what occurred this afternoon.  I believe our business here is finished for now.”
 
After the Ministry’s representatives departed the room, Angelo looked around and felt that the nightmare hadn’t quite ended yet.
 
“Before we dissolve this insightful little meeting,” Lucius began, holding up a hand.  Professor Flitwick gazed at his father with what Angelo recognized as severe dislike. “I’m not convinced that the current leadership is doing everything in its power to ensure the safety of the students, Headmaster.  The Board will, of course, hear about the incident that took place this afternoon, and I can only hope that we come to a solution to this issue that satisfies all parties.”
 
“Of course,” Dumbledore replied evenly. “Know that I only ever have in mind the well-being of every pupil studying within these walls.”
 
“Of course,” Lucius parroted, smiling his serpentine smile. 
 
Narcissa cupped the back of Angelo’s neck as she continued to hold her stained kerchief to his nose, fretting over him.  He took the look his father shot him as they marched out of the office like a punch to the chest.  Once again, he felt like he’d failed some sort of test with the man without ever having known the questions.

“Dumbledore’s been dismissed,” Lisa informed him as soon as he came down the stairs of the dorms the next morning. “And Hagrid’s been arrested.  Apparently, he was held responsible for the last time the Chamber was opened.”
 
“That’s… ridiculous,” Angelo managed, furrowing his brow.
 
Lisa shrugged. “No one believes it but, well, you know.  Anyway, everyone is panicking a bit.”
 
Angelo could see that, even as she evenly relayed the scuttlebutt to him, her fingers were tapping nervously away at the sides of her thighs, and that her dark reddish-brown hair was done up a bit faster than usual.  Lisa was scared.
 
He grabbed her hand, doing his best to channel his mother when he’d had a nightmare. “It’s going to be alright.”
 
She sniffed. “I know.”
 
“I don’t know if he’ll be back, but this thing will get resolved,” Angelo assured her. “I know it will.”
 
Her lip wobbled, and then Angelo found himself wrapped in a tight hug.  He was, at first, startled; he didn’t think he’d ever been hugged so tightly by anyone, save for his own mother.  After a moment, he placed his hands upon her back and patted it, warmth suffusing him in great waves.  He resisted the stinging that threatened his eyes.
 
“You’re right,” Lisa admitted tremulously, pulling away. “It’s just like last year, you know? Everything goes back to normal in the end.”
 
“...what happened last year?”

He knew he shouldn’t have been out and about after hours, but it was the only way he would have been able to see her without evoking the suspicion of the nurse or anyone who happened to stop by the hospital wing.  Why would a Malfoy have any reason to visit one of the petrified students? Hermione Granger, most baffling of all?
 
He supposed not seeing her around made the school just a bit less bright.
 
He sat in a chair adjacent to her bed and took in her stiff form.  Her arm was outstretched, her eyes frozen in fear and shock.  He lightly touched the tip of the index finger on her extended hand.
 
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I truly am.”
 
He didn’t know what he was sorry for.  Perhaps not talking to her just a second more when they’d gotten out of the rain? Maybe if he hadn’t been such a coward, she’d still be healthily mobile.  Perhaps he was sorry for everything— sorry that being a muggleborn meant certain death in their world; if not by petrifaction, then by social disgrace and stigma.  He wasn’t oblivious to his family’s role in the perpetuation of such discrimination.  He wondered if she thought he held the same beliefs, if she was under the impression that he

cared one jot about the makeup of her stupid blood

.
 
“I don’t,” he sniffed. “I don’t care.  Not even a little.”
 
And he didn’t.  So overcome with a feeling of helplessness and guilt, Angelo began to cry, and wiped his face on the back of his sleeve.  Horrified and spooked that he’d been moved to do such a thing, he got up and fled the wing, aching for everything to go back to the way it was before he’d ever come to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

“It was Ginny Weasley the whole time,” Padma mused at the breakfast table. “Who would’ve guessed?”
 
“She was possessed,” Lisa shrugged. “Who

could’ve

guessed?” 
 
“Meanwhile,” Anthony grinned, “we weren’t too off base about the Chamber.  Seems it really did exist, didn’t it, Ange?”
 
Angelo, too relieved to feel beat up about being wrong, merely shrugged and smiled ruefully.  
 
His relief came to an abrupt halt when Draco marched up to the Ravenclaw table and quietly, furiously informed him that Potter had cost them Dobby, and that their father, who had apparently been in possession of the diary— the one responsible for Ginny Weasley’s endangerment— for quite some time before the school year began, was being subjected to a small inquiry at work.  Angelo felt his entire body go cold.
 
“Just thought you should know,” Draco finished peevishly. “Select who you hang around a bit more carefully, brother.  There are a lot of people who would love to witness the fall of the House of Malfoy.”
 
Angelo felt the concerned gazes of his friends boring into him as his sibling stomped away.  He felt overwhelmed by the information he’d been given.
 
His father… a man he’d always known to be capable of cruel things… had done this? Had been indirectly responsible for Hermione Granger’s petrifaction? Had he known about the properties of the diary? Why, why,

why?

For the first time in many years, Angelo wished he didn’t have so many questions.
 
And Dobby was gone.  His caretaker for many years, out of the picture at the toss of a sock.  He couldn’t quite believe it.  
 
“Are you alright, Ange?” Lisa asked.  
 
He blinked.  She, and everyone else within a two foot radius, seemed to be torn between staring at him and staring at his place setting.  He looked down.  The plate, charger and utensils were trembling on the table.  How embarrassing.
 
“Um,” he cleared his throat squeakily. “Yes, I— yes.  Everything’s fine.

Fine

,” he stressed to his place setting, which seemed to settle at his forceful tone.
 
“You should go lie down if you’re not feeling well,” Lisa suggested. “You look a bit peaky.”
 
He stood abruptly. “I think I will go rest a bit, actually.  They’ve cancelled classes, it’s as good a time as any.”
 
Lisa patted his arm comfortingly.  His other mates nodded to him, concerned, as he exited the Hall, lost in his thoughts.

“You’ve ignored me all year,” Astoria Greengrass whispered. “I thought you might be okay, you know.  You seemed so nice at our dinner.”
 
“I’m sorry, Astoria, I am,” Angelo muttered, eyes on his shoes. “It’s just that… the year’s been so hectic and I… I guess I didn’t prioritize the way that I ought to have.  That’s entirely my fault.”
 
She daintily brushed a lock of hair behind her slightly pointed ear. “I… suppose I forgive you.  You’re much easier to forgive than your brother.”
 
He slid his hands into his pockets and stared at the corrugated floor of the train, wishing he wasn’t where he was and hoping that the summer wouldn’t be one endless lecture about everything he’d done wrong that year.
 
“For what it’s worth, you’re not the first person to make me feel invisible.  Honestly, it’s as if— ”
 
Hermione Granger exited a compartment about five or six doors away, looking around to orient herself before striding toward them.  Angelo stared with wide eyes as she approached, heart thumping loudly away in his chest.
 
She gazed upon him thoughtfully as she passed behind Astoria, who was still talking, and right before her face turned out of his line of sight, a pretty smile turned up the corners of her full lips.  He offered a shaky one back, even managing to throw up a twitchy hand in an awkward, quasi-wave before she disappeared completely.
 
“ —and, of course, you’re back to ignoring me again,” said Astoria.  Angelo blinked, startled out of the moment. “It’s been less than a minute and you’ve already reneged on your apology.”
 
“I’m… sorry,” Angelo said again, flustered. “I have no idea what came over me.”
 
Astoria glowered at him icily.  He chuckled nervously and stuffed his hand back into his pocket.
 
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and began trying to salvage the conversation from the depths of what felt like agony.

CHAPTER TWO

Lisa,

Thank you for the anthology.  I’ve been enjoying reading it at night before bed— muggles really do know how to spin a tale.  I find myself fascinated with their varying depictions of magic, and am often shocked by how close they get to the mark.  It’s almost enough to make me wonder if there are some squibs out there who profit off of that sort of thing.

On a rather bitter note, I regret to say that Mother refused to entertain the notion of my tagging along with you, Sue, Padma and Anthony to go shopping.  Ever since Sirius Black escaped prison, she’s been on edge about everything.  They were cousins, you know.  If you ask me, I don’t think Sirius Black’s first big move after Azkaban would be to go traipsing about Diagon Alley in broad daylight on a Saturday to attack his second cousin, but in the end, that logic didn’t get me where I wanted.

Have fun in my stead.  Let me know if you spot anything particularly interesting at Flourish and Blotts; I always end up enjoying your recommendations.

Sincerely,

Angelo

(P.S. if you see Granger around that weekend, could you tell her I said hello? And don’t tell anyone I asked.)

In addition to sending him books and recommendations, Lisa, a half-blood, sometimes sent him less…

approved

items.
 
The first one came on the second week of break.  The brown paper package was flat and square-shaped, a little bigger than his head.  He’d picked it apart carefully, but eagerly, and once it was exposed, it took him a moment to piece together what he was seeing.
 
It was a vinyl record.  The manor had a sizable collection of vinyl records and a player, a vestige of his parents’ youth in the 60s and 70s.  They were all the rage back then, despite being a muggle invention; the vinyls the Malfoys owned, of course, were not.  There were a few classical albums by wizarding composers, and quite a lot of his mother’s more contemporary tastes— namely, Celestina Warbeck.  When one considered wireless radios as well, it was all proof that, if they wanted to, wizards could find ways to make electronically-powered devices function in areas of high magical density if they so chose.  
 
It was also yet another instance of pureblood hypocrisy evident in their ancestral family home, something Angelo hadn’t been able to stop noticing ever since he’d returned from school.
 
His confusion didn’t stem from not knowing what the record sleeve was, it was more that he didn’t recognize the artist printed on the cover in flamboyant cursive.  The design in the middle of all the white was exploding in color and shape; the creatures posed within it all

seemed

magical.  It was obviously a well-loved and cared for album, but still a little old; the edges showed some signs of wear.  He held it up to the light of his bedroom.
 
“‘

A Night at the Opera

,’” he read quietly.  He looked down at the packaging and saw a note that must have been hidden under the record itself.

Ange,

This is one of my dad’s favorite albums of all time.  He doesn’t know it’s missing from his study, so go ahead and give it a listen and send it back.  I think you’ll like some songs more than others, but it's a cracker album altogether.

Love,

Lisa

His blood drained from his face and pooled somewhere around his ankles; the note fluttered delicately to the floor.  Lisa’s father was a muggle.
 
In truth, Sirius Black was only part of the reason that Angelo wasn’t allowed to go shopping with his friends.  His parents hadn’t recognized half of the names he’d given them, and had dismissed his request pretty much out of hand.  They didn’t understand or condone his consorting with so many other children below his station.
 
If they knew that he had a muggle album in his hands— which had begun to tremble— they would explode their snaps.  His heart thumped dangerously against his ribs.  The only real comparison he could make to how he felt at that moment was the split second after one tripped and saw the floor coming up to greet them.  Except the floor never came.  He was suspended in a state of fear and adrenaline and he hadn’t even

listened

to the damned thing.

Should

he listen to it? Or should he send it back and pretend he had? Lisa would surely see through him right away.
 
He looked at the cover again.  He did so enjoy the opera.  And if it was indeed an album of opera music, perhaps his parents would simply assume that he’d ordered another to supplement their collection.  How different could muggle opera be from magical opera? Surely the two were indistinguishable from a distance?
 
Mind made up, he tucked the thing under his arm and made his way down to the playroom.  He passed Draco on the way down the main staircase and tried not to look like he was up to anything.  Draco, seemingly lost in thought, paid him no mind.
 
In the playroom, the piano sat upon the raised dais on the far wall.  The record player was set up on a small end table by the bay window, and a wireless sat on one of the shelves built into the opposite wall.  More hypocrisy.  Angelo set his jaw and made for the player, carefully sliding the record from its sleeve.  
 
Once it was down and spinning, Angelo stood with the needle between his fingers, tense.  He put the needle back in its cradle and stepped away from the contraption.  He rubbed his face roughly, groaning.  He stepped back up to the table and hovered his hand over the needle again only to chicken out and tuck both hands under his arms to keep them from moving.
 
What was he so afraid of?
 
“Foley,” he called.
 
With a pop, their new house elf appeared.
 
“Yes, young master?”
 
“Could you soundproof this room for me? I don’t want to disturb Mother.”
 
Foley snapped his fingers. “Anything else, young master?”
 
“No, that should be all,” Angelo smiled. “Thank you.”
 
Foley bowed and disappeared.

There

, Angelo thought.

Now I have no excuses

.
 
He dropped the needle.  After a few moments of static, the music began.

Lisa,

Enclosed is the record.  Could you send me more?

Ange

“This is so

unfair

,” Angelo complained angrily.  He stabbed at his caprese salad with more force than was necessary. “Draco gets to go shopping with

his

friends, but I can’t spend even an hour with mine? It’s just not

fair

— ”
 
Lucius set his goblet down hard on the table, making everyone but his wife jump. 
 
“Save it, Angelo,” he commanded imperiously. “No one—

especially

not me— cares about anything you have to say on this subject.  We’ve made our decision.”
 
Angelo squeezed his fork hard in a clenched fist.  Lucius seemed to rile further when confronted with the hostile gaze of his youngest son.  Narcissa looked between them, frowning.
 
“You are more than welcome to accompany Draco and his friends on

their

trip, my love,” she assured Angelo.
 
The boy groaned and Draco, who had been silent up until that point, began to loudly protest.
 
“I want to see

my

friends, Mummy,” Angelo pouted.
 
Draco snapped, “And not a single one of mine would appreciate him tagging along!”
 
“Too bad,” Narcissa replied crisply. “Angelo, you can go with them this weekend or you’ll go shopping with your father and I.  The choice is yours.”
 
Draco and their father glowered at him.  
 
Angelo didn’t think that either option really suited him, but he definitely didn’t want to be caught out with his parents if he ran into his own friends on the trip.  He didn’t think his parents were shameful or anything, but they were so

embarrassingly

upper-class and snobby that he feared the day anyone who knew him at school met them.  
 
“I’ll think on it,” he said quietly.
 
Narcissa smiled tightly and reached out to pat his hand across the table. “You know we only want what’s best for you, Angie.  If we didn’t care at all, we would merely stand aside as you ran amok, uncaring of your future.”
 
“I care about my future,” Angelo retorted tersely, removing his hand.  He pushed his plate away. “May I be excused?”
 
The sparing lines around their mother’s eyes deepened as her expression grew long. “Yes… yes, you may.”
 
He stood and left the room, sticking his hands in his pockets to avoid curling them into painfully tight fists.

“It’s gorgeous,” Theo Nott sighed, gazing longingly at the broom gleaming in the window. “I hope you haven’t picked out my birthday present, yet, Harvey.”
 
Theo’s cousin, Harvey, was several years older than them.  Harvey was tall, with dark brown hair and an oddly-shaped goatee.  He had agreed— or rather, had been forced— to be their chaperone for the afternoon.  
 
Angelo didn’t care much for the man, but then, he didn’t care much for anyone within a two foot radius of his person at that moment.  Including his own brother.
 
“I actually already have,” Harvey told the younger Nott. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
 
Theo grinned.  Draco crossed his arms.
 
“It’s too bad your birthday’s in October,” his brother drawled. “Whenever you practice, everyone will be forced to watch you use such beautiful machinery for such pitiful moves.”
 
Blaise scoffed. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get one for yours.”
 
“It wasn't officially on the market by my birthday,” Draco snapped.
 
“No, but you still don’t have one, do you?” Theo smirked.
 
Draco rolled his eyes, but Angelo could see a muscle jumping in his jaw.  
 
Frankly, he didn’t understand why his brother was so pressed about dumb brooms; a

Nimbus 2001

was the next to latest model, right behind the

Firebolt

.  How different could they possibly be?
 
Draco and his friends chattered on and on about the broom without ever actually stepping foot inside the establishment.  That was something that Angelo had noticed years ago; no one ever entered a broom shop if they didn’t intend to buy anything.  Window shopping was done by the window, even for those with the means to drop a couple hundred galleons on a whim.
 
Angelo huffed and shifted his weight seven times before Draco seemed to pick up on his increasing impatience and loudly declared that they needed to go ahead and get their books.  Angelo was grateful, but he knew his brother was just doing it because he didn’t want Angelo to complain to their mother about how he didn’t have a good time.
 
“Do you play quidditch, Angelo?” Blaise asked as Harvey led the way to Flourish and Blotts through the weekend shopping crowd.
 
Before Angelo could reply, Draco and Theo both made loud noises of tandem incredulity.
 
“I once saw him run screaming from a snitch,” Theo laughed.
 
Draco snickered. “He barely knows which end of the broom is which.”
 
Angelo rolled his eyes and opted out of saying anything in rebuttal.  Blaise shrugged and the conversation eventually steered around to other things.  
 
Angelo thought that Draco’s friends were all rather boring.  They seemed to hold the same key values and ideas, and although they all seemed to fulfill different roles in their group dynamic, it was as if they operated on the same dull wavelength.  It was a small blessing that Crabbe and Goyle weren’t there; undoubtedly, that would have slowed the flow of conversation.  
 
Still.  Despite, or perhaps because of him not really gelling with any of them, the entire outing made him miss his own crowd.
 
They were just about to enter the bookshop when a confused voice called, “Angelo?”
 
He felt his brother’s eyes burning into his back as he spun around.  Lisa was crossing the cobblestone path with Anthony, Padma and Sue trailing behind her.  She didn’t look happy.
 
“Lisa,” he greeted warmly all the same. “I thought you lot were coming next Saturday.”
 
“Change of plans,” Padma answered for Lisa, who seemed to struggle to find the right words to throw at him. “Mrs. Turpin couldn’t get next weekend off.”
 
“Right,” Angelo replied, scratching the back of his neck. “Um.  Well, you all know Draco.”
 
“Unfortunately,” muttered Anthony.  Sue elbowed him.
 
“And, um, this is Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott and his elder cousin, Harvey.”
 
Draco and his friends had stopped a meter or so behind Angelo, icily silent.  A pack of snakes ready to strike.
 
“Draco, these are my friends,” Angelo cleared his throat. “Lisa Turpin, Anthony Goldstein and Sue Li.  Corner couldn’t make it?”
 
Lisa was still frowning deeply at him, so Padma spoke up again. “No, Michael’s staying with his grandparents for the summer, remember?”
 
“Right, yeah,” Angelo replied, vaguely remembering something about that. “I’d forgotten.”
 
“We won’t keep you,” Lisa finally said, turning her head. “Good to see you’re still alive and all.”
 
Angelo didn’t know what else to say.  He nodded wordlessly, giving them all a weak wave as they seemed to turn in unison and march away from him.  He felt unbearably alone, watching their backs disappear into the afternoon shopping crowd.
 
“Well, I’m going to pretend that didn’t happen,” Harvey announced snootily. “Shall we proceed?”

His posture and overall manner of being had become considerably less anal that summer.  A symptom of this untightening was the fact that he took no issue with sitting upside down in the straight-backed olive chair in his room; his legs were thrown over the top, and his too-long silver-blond hair brushed the floor whenever he turned a page of the book he was reading.  It was about muggle forays into space exploration, a book Lisa leant him.  Fascinating stuff.
 
All day, he’d had a line from that one song she’d sent him on an unending loop in his head.  Something about protein pills (

whatever that meant

) and a man named Tom.
 
He’d also begun to dress differently.  He’d traded in his collared shirts and pressed slacks under robes for undershirts and trousers of less restrictive material, no robe at all.  He’d also stopped wearing shoes around the house; sliding around in socks filled him with a childish sort of glee that few other actions could rival.
 
It felt good to let loose.  Even in little ways.
 
So he read muggle books and listened to muggle music and tried not to run into his family very much.  He’d sent apology letters to all of his friends (an especially long one for Lisa) and managed to keep his head down.
 
Maybe one day he’d feel brave enough to be more than passively rebellious.  But until that day, he was nervous enough from all of the sideways glances his mother seemed to give him these days.
 
A knock on his bedroom door startled him into falling out of the chair with a yelp.  He shot up like a rocket and kicked his book under the bed with frantic force. 
 
“Come in,” he called, pulling down another book from his shelf and trying not to look too suspiciously out-of-breath.
 
The door opened and his mother entered the room, graceful and floating as always.  Her expression was solemn.
 
“Good afternoon, dear,” she said. “Are you alright? I heard a thump.”
 
“I was just startled,” he replied, leaning casually against the bookcase. “I thought you were over at the Greengrasses?”
 
“I was.” Her tone wasn’t happy. “I thought you made amends with Astoria?”
 
“I… apologized,” Angelo scratched the back of his neck. “We exchange the occasional letter.”
 
Narcissa perched herself delicately on the edge of his bed.  She seemed… sad.  He set the book he’d randomly selected onto the side table by the olive chair and went to sit beside her.
 
“Mother, what is it?”
 
“Are you happy, Angelo?”
 
He felt nervous.  Why was she asking him that? She’d never asked him that before.  Was she onto him? Had she found out about the records?
 
“I’m fine,” he answered quickly. “Why?”
 
She reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, a brief, disapproving frown appearing on her face.  He knew she didn’t like it long, but he’d been skillfully avoiding conversations about a haircut for weeks.
 
“You’ve just been so distant lately,” she eventually remarked. “I don’t remember the last time you came to have one of our chats.”
 
It was Angelo’s turn to frown.  Whenever he sought out any of his family members to talk their ear off about something he’d just learned and wanted to share, they’d always acted dismissive and uninterested— like he was some sort of trinket saleswizard or something.  Did she really miss him boring her to tears? It seemed unlikely.
 
“I’ve just had a lot of homework,” he said. “And… I don’t know.  I’ve been reading a lot.” Not totally a lie. “I’m sorry if I’ve seemed absent.”
 
“It’s alright.” Her eyes scanned his face. “You know that I love you, don’t you?”
 
He felt his neck heat up.  What in the name of Merlin was going on?
 
“Are you dying?” he whispered, terrified.
 
Narcissa’s expression pinched in distress. “

No

.”
 
“Oh.” He clasped his hands tightly together. “Um.

I love you, too

,” he mumbled in a rush.
 
She nodded her head pensively, as if considering his words.
 
“I just want you to know that your differences make our family stronger,” she told him. “I don’t want you to feel… othered.  I have this feeling that you’re pulling away because you think that I don’t understand, but I

do

, darling.  More than you know.”
 
Even though he had his suspicions in the deepest corners of his mind, he allowed himself a glimmer of hope that maybe things didn’t have to be so dire after all.
 
“It’s okay to be a little different.  Some variation can be the difference between ordinary and extraordinary.  But…” she paused, pursing her lips. “We still have responsibilities.  Obligations, you see.  There are some dreams that we have that will only ever be just that.  And the sooner we are able to differentiate between who we want to be and who we

actually

are, the better off we’ll be in the long run.  Does that make sense?”
 
His heart sunk.
 
“I… yes.  Yes, I suppose it does.”
 
She smiled and leaned forward to place a perfunctory kiss near his hairline. 
 
“Good boy,” she praised, rising smoothly to her feet. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Paranoid that they would catch onto the fact that he wanted nothing to do with them, Angelo forced himself to spend more time in the company of his brother and parents.  As a result, his feelings towards them began to twist into complex tangles that didn’t seem to have beginnings or ends.
 
He would stretch out on an outdoor lounger by their quidditch pitch and read while Draco zoomed around above him.  He would politely inquire after his father’s work over morning and evening meals.  He made it a point to seek out his mother at least once during the day to talk about absolutely nothing.  All activities led to them treating him like they did before school began; dismissively instead of suspiciously, and (in his father’s case) as an annoyance instead of a complete disappointment.  The change was slight, but also incredibly noticeable; had he really been so obvious before?
 
Things were going (debatably) well, until one morning about a week before they were due to return to school.
 
“You’ll need your hair trimmed before term begins, of course,” his mother remarked breezily.
 
They were sitting out on one of the second floor balconies, sipping cool beverages; sparkling juice for him and elf-made white wine for her.  Draco was out practicing, as usual.
 
At first, Angelo didn’t answer, postponing having to do so by taking a long pull from his glass.
 
“It just looks so…” Narcissa continued, seemingly oblivious to how tense he became across the table. “

Common

.  You’ll thank me when you can see your ears again.”
 
“I haven’t agreed to anything,” said Angelo.
 
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t remember asking you to.”
 
He set his jaw. “It’s

my

hair.  I quite like the way it looks.”
 
“You look like a vagrant,” she snapped.
 
“Draco’s is long, too,” he argued.
 
“And he’s getting his cut, as well.”
 
“‘As well,’” he repeated glibly. “I won’t sit for a cut.  You’ll have to spell me down.”
 
“Don’t be so

dramatic

.” 
 
He crossed his arms. “Try me.”
 
She seemed completely and utterly flabbergasted by his stubbornness.  He didn’t blame her for being confused; he couldn’t remember the last time he actively refused to do something she asked him to do.
 
“Fine,” she nodded curtly. “I guess I’ll just shoulder every sly comment thrown my way by every other mother I know because you've decided to walk around looking like no one loves or cares about you.”
 
He wavered, but ultimately looked away. “I guess you will.  Or maybe you should get better friends.”
 
She gaped at him.

“I know, I know,” Lisa sighed. “I get it— your family’s a bunch of pureblood supremacists.  I don’t understand why you didn’t just

say

that was the reason.  It wasn’t like we all didn’t already know.”
 
“Because it’s hard to put into words,” Angelo tried to explain, sticking his head momentarily out of their compartment to check for the trolley attendant.
 
Lisa muttered, “Can’t be that hard if I just did it.”
 
Anthony was dealing out another round of exploding snap between himself, Padma and Michael.  Sue was closest to the window, reading with a quill tucked behind her left ear.
 
“It’s just…” Angelo shut the door and leaned his head back against the back of the seat. “They’re my family and I feel this…

obligation

toward them.  Like, if I’m part of it, then I have to defend it, right? But it’s also, like…”
 
“Like, your brother’s a pompous arse that’s incredibly difficult to like,” Lisa finished.
 
Angelo laughed. “Exactly.”
 
Lisa smiled ruefully. “I thought you hated us or something.”
 
Angelo could read between the lines.  He knew that none of his other friends had been as affected by the brief misunderstanding at the Alley as Lisa had been; they were closer to each other than the rest, having forged a different sort of bond.  Seeing him dressed up in his formal robes around his brother and his friends had probably made her stomach turn— moreso than anyone else.  In truth, it’d made him a bit ill, as well.
 
“I could never,” Angelo replied quietly.
 
Anthony sighed loudly. “Enough with all this

talking

—  I’m ready to get my eyebrows blown off.  Are you two playing or not?”
 
And just like that, everything was back to normal.  Anthony— with his devil of an advocate, Michael, encouraging him— annoyed Lisa to her wit’s end.  Padma provided the voice of occasional reason, and Sue remained silently amused through it all, of course, content to watch them all run ridiculous circles around one another.  Angelo, though usually in the thick of things right along with his best friend, felt a comforting sort of satisfaction from absorbing the

normalcy

of being around people his age that fought and joked and laughed raucously like living, breathing humans.  It was lively and warm and he soaked it up like fresh sun.
 
“You look like you’re going to burst,” Sue informed him softly.  Her dark, almond-shaped eyes twinkled merrily.
 
He grinned back. “I just might.”

“It’s getting colder,” Lisa suddenly observed.
 
Angelo’s gaze slid over from the page of the book he was reading to the skin of his forearm.  Gooseflesh had risen.  He looked around the compartment.  Nobody was talking anymore, having long since found individual ways to occupy their time until the train reached school; but just then, everyone seemed unnerved by how drastically the atmosphere had changed in a matter of minutes.
 
Angelo abruptly began to wonder what life would be like if he was disowned, a complete non-sequitur from his thoughts on the evolution of muggle pop music, which was what he’d been reading about.  He felt… empty and discarded.  Alone.  Afraid.
 
“What’s happening?” Sue Li whispered.
 
Anthony stood to open the compartment door and lean out.  His body stiffened; he quickly pulled his head back in and slammed the door shut.
 
“There are dementors on the train,” he hissed, eyes wide behind his square glasses.
 
Padma shot to her feet. “

What?

”
 
“You better be taking the piss, Tony,” Lisa snapped.
 
“I’m not!” When she moved to see for herself, he put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you mad? Don’t go drawing attention to us, or they might come closer!”
 
“Oh,” Michael groaned. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
 
Sue scooted away from him a bit.
 
Angelo’s chest felt tight, and he was finding it more and more difficult to register the presence of the other people around him as he spiraled.  Alone.  Cold.  Afraid.  His breathing became ragged and uneven.
 
“Hey,” he heard Lisa say, “Ange, it’s okay.”
 
He stared ahead at a spot on the wall, trembling.  A warm hand tucked into his own.
 
“Ange.

Angelo

.”
 
He turned.  Lisa had moved to the other side of the compartment to sit beside him, and was staring at him with deep concern.
 
“It’s alright,” she pressed. “Whatever you’re thinking right now, it’s not real.  What are the symptoms of dementor exposure?”
 
“Feelings of overwhelming fear and hopelessness,” he replied after some thought. “Possibly some temporary loss of taste, feeling, sight and consciousness.  Aural and visual hallucinations.”
 
Almost as if on cue, he heard a voice that sounded eerily like his father whisper in his ear, “

I wish you’d never been born

.”
 
“Oh,” he mumbled, curling in on himself a bit.
 
Lisa, though shaking from whatever seemed to be playing inside her own head, wrapped him firmly in her arms.
 
“What are dementors doing on the train?” she barked at Anthony.
 
Anthony’s teeth were chattering. “Why would I know that?”
 
“They’re here for Black,” Sue reasoned, dark eyes wide. “Got to be, right?
 
They all fell silent.
 
What felt like hours but was perhaps only minutes later, the cold dissipated and light seemed to flood back into every corner.  Angelo felt immediately a thousand times better, but that hopeless feeling… it didn’t fade right away.  He knew that it hadn’t all been fake, that there was already that fearful seed planted in the back of his mind… 
 
The compartment door slid open and they all jumped.  It was the woman that pushed the trolley, looking absolutely harassed. 
 
“Chocolate for everybody,” she told them. “It’s mandatory, I’m afraid, unless you’ve got some sort of allergy.”
 
“I don’t like chocolate,” Michael muttered.
 
“That’s not an allergy, though, is it?” the woman rolled her eyes. “Here.”
 
Sue elbowed Michael and stood to grab the bars that the lady was holding out with a shaking hand.  The woman bobbed her head at Sue’s thanks and hurried away, trolley charmed to rattle along behind her.
 
Once Sue passed around all the chocolate, silence but for the sounds of crackling candy paper and close-mouthed chewing filled the space.  
 
“I don’t know why or how,” Anthony remarked plainly between bites, “but I feel like… we’re probably going to hear about Potter before we get to school.”
 
The door, which was still open, was suddenly occupied by Zacharias Smith, a gossipy Hufflepuff.  He was insufferable— almost on par with Draco in the aggravation department— and seemed to be bursting at the seams with something juicy to tell everyone.
 
“Potter fainted,” he declared gleefully before moving on.
 
Anthony looked up. “I would also like a thousand galleons.”

At the feast, Angelo found himself on the business end of one of Luna Lovegood’s renowned, unnerving stares.  The girl was… odd.  The only time he’d spent more than a few minutes in her presence was during class, seeing as they were in the same year and House.  Other than that, he’d steered clear; something about her made the sparse hair on his arms raise.
 
“Can I help you?” he eventually summoned the nerve to ask, tired of being stared at.
 
“Your hair looks lovely at that length,” she informed him, smiling dazedly.
 
He blinked. “Um. Thank you.” He felt bad, now. “I like your… earrings.”
 
The earrings dangling in the gaps of her blonde hair looked to be miniature replicas of the castle done in admittedly impressive detail.  He’d only meant to be polite at first, but looking closer, he actually did quite like them.
 
Luna smiled a bit wider, her eyes clearing a bit to gaze at him in sharper focus.
 
“Hermione Granger is looking at you,” she said.
 
Angelo nearly toppled out of his seat turning around.  Granger was, indeed, staring at him from Gryffindor table.  When he caught her eye, she offered him a brief, friendly smile and wave that he faintly returned, feeling not a little bit lightheaded. 
 
“Your nargle infestation is… alarming,” Luna continued. “I suggest you work on clearing them right away.”
 
“Right, of course,” Angelo replied absently. “Well-spotted.”
 
Granger had already turned back to Potter and Weasley, but he somewhat unconsciously continued to stare at her.
 
Lisa elbowed him without missing a beat in her debate with Padma and Sue.  He burned bright red and scrambled to go back to his half-eaten dinner under the amusedly knowing gaze of his friend.
 
“Anyway, Orsino Thruston runs circles around Myron Wagtail,” Lisa was saying. “His hair is disgusting.”
 
“It’s a luxurious mane, Lisa,” Padma argued. “Get into it.”
 
“It looks like he never washes it! He could give Professor Snape a run for his money.”
 
Angelo clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.  Padma, though similarly affected, tried to maintain a stubborn face.
 
“How dare you,” Padma replied tremulously, “compare

Myron Wagtail

to Professor Snape.”
 
Lisa ploughed on. “I’ll do as I please.  Everyone knows that the drummer is always the hottest one; I don’t make the rules.  Ange knows— right, Ange? Roger Taylor?”
 
“I don’t know if I have an opinion about Queen that isn’t heavily influenced by yours,” Angelo remarked fairly.
 
“Queen?” Michael Corner suddenly leaned in from the opposite side of Anthony. “What do you know about Queen, Malfoy?”
 
Everyone in the immediate vicinity turned to Angelo, even those who had no idea what “Queen” was.  They were Ravenclaws; they all seemed to pick up on the fact that “Queen” was something Angelo Malfoy probably shouldn’t know anything about.
 
“I…” Angelo cleared his throat. “They’re a muggle band.  They’re quite good.”
 
“‘Quite good,’” Michael repeated faintly, almost like he couldn’t believe it. “A Malfoy thinks Queen is ‘quite good.’”
 
“Yeah, yeah,” Lisa rolled her eyes, affectionately slugging Angelo on the arm. “He’s an odd duck and all that.  I’d just like to say that I take full credit for putting him onto it— I did the corrupting, yes, I did.”
 
Michael demanded, “What’s your favorite song? And don’t say

Bohemian Rhapsody

, or I’ll hex you.”
 
Angelo blinked, and then frowned in thought.
 
“I don’t think I have a favorite,” he answered at length. “Different songs serve different moods… er,

Bicycle Race

introduced me to a lot of things I didn’t know about.  I’ll also listen to

Love of My Life

whenever.”
 
“Of course you like

Love of My Life

,” Michael shook his head, regarding him evenly. “It’s very… dramatic.”
 
Angelo sniffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
 
Michael just shrugged and went back to his food.  Lisa patted Angelo’s hand.
 
“I like

Love of My Life

, too,” Lisa reassured him. “It’s so romantic.”
 
“I want to hear it,” Padma interrupted, eyes narrowed. “What’s this secret listening club about? I like good music.” 
 
Angelo smiled shyly and scratched the back of his neck.  Lisa leaned forward excitedly to tell her about the summer of discovery, but before she could utter more than a couple of words, a loud voice disrupted everything within a five meter radius.
 
“While some people seemed to be worried about trivial things,” Marietta Edgecombe said loudly to her raven-haired friend, Cho Chang, “I’m a bit more concerned with the fact that we all nearly got our souls sucked out as collateral for a mangy criminal! My mother will

not

be happy about this…”
 
She went on for a bit, holding the girls around her— a pack that usually hung together, somewhat inseparable— spellbound with her commiserating fear-speech.
 
“Imagine hating fun,” Anthony said. 
 
“Yeah, bummer,“ Michael agreed, affecting a temporary American accent through a mouthful of potato.  It was an impressive feat.
 
“Anyway,” Lisa began pointedly, shooting a waspish glance in Edgecombe’s direction that the other girl caught and returned, “I think a listening club wouldn’t be such a bad idea.  There’s still so much more for our little baby Angel to learn— there simply are not enough hours in a summer.”
 
Padma rubbed her hands together. 
 
“Brilliant,” she said. “We get to listen to muggle music and participate in the further corruption of dear Angie.”
 
“I would just like to state for the record that I am fully complicit in this corruption,” said Angelo. “Therefore, I am not entirely certain that it can be called corruption.”
 
“Who asked you, purie?” Lisa snarked. “Anyway, I think we do this chronologically.  Start in the 40s and work our way up.”

Fairly early into term, Angelo discovered a rather alarming secret about Hermione Granger.
 
He would never admit to studying her as much as he did; it was almost creepy, but he reasoned that as long as he didn’t

do

anything with the information he unearthed, it couldn’t be termed stalking.  Observation seemed a more appropriate word, or perhaps even perusal.
 
At any rate, what he found out that year was far more serious than her favorite food, or how fast she was getting through a book, or how she took her tea; no, he’d stumbled upon the fact that the muggleborn witch was making use of a time turner to attend all of the electives available to third year students.  It was more than just odd or strange; it was downright

dangerous

.  He wondered who in their right mind would bequeath such a sensitive instrument to someone that was barely fourteen years old.
 
Although, he supposed if any teenager were to have use of a time turner, it was no small relief that that individual was Hermione Granger.  A more responsible student simply didn’t exist.
 
But

still

.  Still.
 
At first he fretted that someone else would take notice, but for whatever reason, it seemed no one felt particularly inclined to hash out why people from different classes on the same time block all recalled her presence.  Either they didn’t care, or some sort of charm had been put in place to minimize her impact.  If the latter were true, his ability to see through such a charm defied reason.
 
As the second full week of classes came to a close, Angelo found himself propped against a stretch of wall beside the door to the Arithmancy classroom.  He’d had to calm his breathing all the way down from how quickly he’d booked it from Charms to make the ten-thirty dismissal of Professor Sinistra’s class.  The stone keeping him upright did wonders to cool him down from overheating.  Perhaps he should consider taking a jog around the castle once in a while; his current state of physical fitness was almost pitiful.
 
Through the door, he could hear that the bright and clear dictations of Sinistra had dulled to a brisk, post-lecture gallop.  The shuffling of books and bags being gathered swallowed her voice altogether.  He imagined Hermione, sitting patiently while her peers stuffed materials in their bags like a herd of antsy raccoons; forever and always the dutiful student.
 
Not long after, the back of the door practically pounded the wall and pupils spilled out into the corridor.  Spilled might have been too generous a term, however; something like trickle would’ve been more appropriate, seeing as there hadn’t been more than eleven or so students in attendance.  At complete odds with how he’d envisioned, Hermione was the first out— her curly hair pulled into a failing bun atop her head and expression twisted in urgent anxiety.  She strode past him seemingly quicker than he’d managed to make it down to this corner of the castle, probably not noticing him at all.  He scrambled to pull himself together and dart after her.
 
“Granger,” he whisper-yelled as she turned a corner. “Granger!”
 
He turned the same corner to find her staring right at him, one hand tightly gripping the strap of her satchel and the other perched on her hip.
 
“Why are you following me?” she snapped.
 
He swallowed. “Er— well, I was— I actually wasn’t… well, I mean…”
 
She tolerated his fumbling for one second more before turning on her heel, prepared to walk away.  He smacked his brow and forced his head to clear.  
 
“I know what you’re doing,” he blurted.
 
She froze in her tracks, shoulders tensing.  Her feet spun her back around in a much slower circle.  Her expression was unreadable.
 
“And just what is it that I’m doing?”
 
He took a deep breath. “I know how you’re getting to all of your classes.”
 
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” she replied coolly.
 
“Look,” he managed, “I’m not trying to blow your cover or anything.  I just think… well… there’s historical precedent to this.  Nothing good happens to wizards who meddle with t— ”
 
Before he could finish the word, she surged forward and grabbed the sleeve of his robe to drag him off into a nearby closet.  As soon as the door closed behind him, he flinched back from the lit wand that was shoved into his face.
 
“You don’t know about this,” Granger stated stonily. “You don’t know about any of this.  Forget what you think you saw, forget what you think you know.”
 
“Granger, I don’t have any interest in telling anyone,” he swore, wincing again when she waved her wand again way too close to his face.  He gently reached up and moved the tip of it so that it was pointed past his shoulder, thankfully meeting no resistance. “If I tell, I’ll only get in trouble, probably.  There would be no point.”
 
Her eyebrows twitched in confusion, but he still recognized her stubborn efforts to maintain her ice cold demeanor.
 
Tentatively, he continued, “You’re wearing yourself way too thin.  I’m not going to tell anyone, but if you’re not careful, people will find out anyway.”
 
She let her wand drop to her side, but the light still lit them from below.  The angle made the dark circles under her usually-bright eyes even more prominent.
 
“Why are you telling me this? Why do you even care?”
 
Angelo stalled a bit, trying to think of an answer that didn’t reveal the depth of his affection for this girl. “You’re the brightest witch in the castle— imagine the fall in morale if you went off the deep end.”
 
She just stared at him.
 
He stared back at her. 
 
“I don’t understand you,” she said finally, squeezing her eyes shut. “And I don’t have time to try.”
 
“Wait, wait— ” he stammered, and then choked down a swallow.  Here went nothing. “I just want to help.  I… you’ve always been kind to me, even though you know what my family is like.  I’ve seen you make these spaces for people… Potter, Longbottom— for Merlin’s sake I’ve even seen you stick up for Lovegood a couple times and I can tell you don’t even like her.  When does anyone look after you? When do you get a— ”
 
Without warning, the girl in front of him burst out into tears.  Angelo didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that.  
 
He froze, but as she cried and dropped her satchel to the dusty stone floor, he found himself filled with the overwhelming urge to hug her.  He very rarely felt the urge to hug anybody, but seeing the great Hermione Granger crumble into a sobbing mess made him feel hollow on the inside.
 
He didn’t know if she’d even want a hug from him.  He restrained himself, but plucked his kerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.  She accepted it blindly, holding it up to her nose and blowing noisily.
 
“Thanks,” she said in a hyponasal murmur. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… fall apart like that.”
 
“Don’t apologize,” Angelo reassured her quickly. “Please.  I just want to help.”
 
Her lip wobbled as she regarded him with watery hope.
 
“Let me help.  Please.”
 
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
 
“Okay,” he echoed. “What can I do? I can keep your alibis? Bring you food to eat when you haven’t got time?”
 
“No, I… I think just knowing somebody else knows is good,” she sniffled. “There’s no one I can talk to about this except for Professor McGonagall and she’s busy quite often.”
 
“You can talk to me,” Angelo offered readily. “I can’t tell you much that’s interesting in return, but I’m a great ear.”
 
“I think Divination is a load of poppycock,” Hermione blurted. “It’s not been long but I don’t know what I’m even taking the class for.”
 
“Drop it,” Angelo suggested. “Early on, so it doesn’t look bad on your transcript.”
 
“But what if she finally gets around to something that’s actually useful?” she groaned, falling back to the wall of the closet and letting her head thunk against it. “I have this paralyzing fear of missing anything because I didn’t grow up in all of this.  I just want to know… everything.”
 
Angelo hummed sympathetically, stuffing his hands in his robe pockets. “Draco wanted to take Divination because it’s an easy O, but my parents forbade him.  It’s a useless class unless you’ve got the Gift— and no one in that class does, including the professor.  You’ll be missing nothing of importance.”
 
“Why do they offer it if they know she’s a fraud?!”
 
He shrugged. “Beats me.”
 
“And why don’t they have any interest meetings at the end of second year?“ she cried. “Pamphlets aren’t enough!“
 
“I agree,” he hissed fervently. “I was just talking to Professor Flitwick about something similar and he told me they hadn’t done anything like that since the sixties.  The sixties!”
 
“Egregious,” she whispered.
 
“Truly!”
 
Granger ran a frustrated hand into her bountiful curls and shook it around a bit when she reached her crown.  It created a mesmerizing bouncing effect that made Angelo’s heart beat faster in his chest.
 
“It’s too late now,” she said sadly, looking down at her shoes. “I practically begged for this opportunity.  If I give it all up now, all of McGonagall’s efforts on my behalf will have been for nothing.  I have to stick it out.”
 
“Even Divination?” Angelo drawled skeptically. “I don’t think she’d be too upset if you dropped that one.”
 
“I’ll talk to her.” Granger glanced at the watch on her left wrist. “Oh— Christ, I should be on my way to my next reset point.”
 
“Why not… start the week over instead of every day?” 
 
She flicked a nervous look at him. “More room for error.  Plus, there’s only one place for me to sleep at the end of the day.”
 
“Oh, fair point.”
 
Granger looked down at the satchel that had fallen by her feet with sad, tired eyes.  Angelo stopped to grab the strap and hand it to her.  As she accepted it and slid it over her head, he realized that they’d gotten closer when he stood up— way too close.  Her nose almost bumped his before he sheepishly backed away.
 
“Sorry about your, um,” she began, faltering as she brandished the soiled kerchief.
 
He waved her off. “Don’t worry about it, I have loads.”
 
“Really? You have loads of silk kerchiefs just laying about?”
 
“Yes?” he replied, confused.
 
She sniffed and tucked it into her robe pocket. “Alright, well, thanks.”
 
“My pleasure.”
 
Her hand rested on the handle of the door, her back turned to him.  
 
And then she said, “Do you remember the night I was petrified?”
 
His throat closed up.  He had to fight to swallow hard enough to respond with a croaky, “Yes.”
 
“I heard you.  I could hear everything.”
 
His face burned. “Oh.”
 
“You are… so very odd, Angelo Malfoy,” she managed to say eventually.
 
“Oh.”
 
“Please… never stop being odd.”
 
Her wryly encouraging words soothed the embarrassment that threatened to open up into a gaping maw and swallow him whole.  
 
Hermione Granger liked his oddness.  Nobody had ever said anything like that to him before.  
 
“Granger,” he said, heart racing, “I— ”
 
“Oh, I’m running so behind,” she muttered, glancing at her watch.  She looked up at him. “Wait, were you going to say something?” 
 
He swallowed thickly. “Er… good luck.”
 
She smiled.  He felt like he’d been bathed in a thick swathe of warm sun.  
 
“Thank you, Malfoy.”
 
“Call me Angelo.”
 
“Then call me Hermione.”

He was sure his friends were a little baffled about his endlessly good mood that following week, but he offered no explanation.  Hermione Granger had confided in him.  He was on a first name basis with Hermione Granger.  Hermione Granger trusted him.
 
Hermione Granger, to some extent, trusted Angelo Malfoy.
 
The first time they interacted after the broom closet wasn’t even three days later.  
 
“Say someone’s out to get you and one morning you receive a suspicious package.  What do you do?”
 
Angelo looked up from his Charms textbook.  He was sitting in his favorite nook in the library - one that had a cushioned window bench and a lovely view of the lake.  He tried to register what she’d just asked of him but he was distracted by the way she’d done up her hair: half up and half down with two deliberate curls sprung free near her temples.  The effect was very… princess-like.
 
“I, um…” he cleared his throat. “I suppose I’d cast some sort of diagnostic charm on the package, if I knew one.  Or turn it over to someone who could screen it for me.”
 
“Exactly,” she snapped. “So I’m entirely in the dark about why I’m suddenly the enemy for wanting to be smart and take precautions!”
 
“I feel like I’ve missed a few points.”
 
She huffed and threw herself down next to him on the cushy bench. “Harry got a Firebolt owl’d to him and I told Professor McGonagall because Harry doesn’t really have any family that would send him something like that - and she confiscated it, sure, but he’s dealt with a jinxed broom before, you’d think he would’ve appreciated someone looking out!”
 
“Boys and their brooms,” Angelo shrugged. “And a Firebolt, too? It’s a wonder the professor was able to pry it from him.”
 
“Don’t tell me you think he was right to be angry.”
 
“I don’t think he was right to be angry,” said Angelo.
 
She eyed him warily. “But?”
 
“But nothing.  He was wrong to be angry at you.”
 
“Then why are you saying it like that?”
 
“Because I understand how Quidditch people can get about Quidditch.  They’re maniacs and I can imagine having a state of the art broom taken away would drive any avid player into a foaming rage,” he said. “But I also think you’re right.  Two things can be true at the same time.”
 
She crossed her arms. “Well.”
 
He set down his book and turned to face her fully. “Just ride it out.  They’ll get tired of being angry eventually.”
 
“They’re my only friends,” she sniffed. “When they’re ignoring me, I don’t really have anybody.”
 
“What am I, chopped liver?”
 
A snort ripped from her and she clapped her hand over her mouth.
 
“Well,” she grinned. “I guess I have two friends and some chopped liver, then.”
 
“Indeed, you do,” he giggled.

The newest professor, Remus Lupin, seemed so

normal

compared to that bumbling bimbo, Lockhart.  Considering the security situation surrounding a certain criminal bearing the Black name, it was somewhat reassuring to have a competent Defense professor just in case things went sideways - as Angelo was learning they were wont to do.
 
His scars were a touch off-putting, but Angelo thought in the privacy of his own mind that it might be because they didn’t match his personality.  The imperfections were large and rugged, like one might see on a dragon tamer or a grizzled Auror, not a demure teacher who wore shabby cardigans and ate lunch quietly on the grounds during his lunch break.  He wondered how the man had come to be inflicted with such wounds; a traumatic experience, no doubt.
 
The second year curriculum focused primarily on defending against small, potentially dangerous creatures and mild jinxes and hexes.  It was interesting - and more than that, Lupin made it

fun

.
 
“Mr. Malfoy,” the professor called to him after class. “Can you stay behind for just a moment?”
 
Anthony and Michael made low ooo-ing noises until Sue punched them both in the arm at the same time.  Lisa gave Angelo an encouraging nod before they all left in a pack, Anthony complaining loudly to Sue about her “man hands.”
 
Angelo finished packing up his things and set his attache case on the desk to pick up on his way out before venturing to the front of the lecture hall turned practice arena.  He was nervous, but only because he wasn’t sure what he’d done.
 
“Yes, professor?”
 
Lupin leaned back so that his weight was partially supported by his desk.  His body language was relaxed and friendly, and as a result, Angelo felt his shoulders drop just a smidge.
 
“You’re not in trouble, Mr. Malfoy.  Indulge a professor’s curiosity - you’re Lucius Malfoy’s son, is that right?”
 
Angelo felt nervousness creep back up his throat. “Yes, sir.”
 
“Huh,” Lupin murmured, brow furrowed and mouth quirked in a manner that belied his interest and curiosity. “And you’re a Ravenclaw.”
 
“Well… yes, sir.”
 
“I’d halfway convinced myself that you might be a distant cousin,” Lupin informed him, breaking into a humored grin.  Angelo huffed in amusement. “But that hair… yes, you’re Narcissa’s child all over.  Pardon my nosiness, son.  Have a good weekend.”
 
Angelo thought the exchange was rather odd, but decided not to think about it. “You as well, sir.”
 
He scurried back to his desk, grabbed his briefcase, and made to leave.  Lupin called to him right as he reached the door.
 
“Oh, Mr. Malfoy?”
 
“Yes, sir?”
 
“Do be careful, out and about,” he warned lightly.
 
He didn’t elaborate, but Angelo took it as an allusion to his second cousin.  He nodded once, solemnly, and took his leave of the new professor.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

After blowing up his aunt, Harry Potter spent the last three weeks of his pre-third year summer exploring Diagon Alley and getting to know the marketplace a little better.
 
He was surprised to find quite a few things to do, other than shopping.  There was the food, of course, and Florean Fortescue gave him free sundaes every day when he came by to do his summer essays under the colorful umbrellas of the parlour.  People watching— and creature watching, he supposed— had its own entertaining benefits, as well.  And then there was Eeylops; they released their owls for midnight hunts at— well, midnight— and if he sat on top of any roof within a block’s radius, he saw the shifting and shimmering silhouette of dozens of owls in varying shades of brown, silver, white and black against the moonlit summer sky.
 
Almost a week and a half into his stay on the Alley, he wandered into a small apothecary a little out of the way of the Main Street, closer to Knockturn than he was comfortable with, but with an intriguing display in the storefront that his curiosity couldn’t ignore.
 
There were only two other visible occupants of the tiny shop, which smelled about as terrible as the apothecary he usually frequented; the offensive scent could easily be explained by the plethora of animal cages— cooing, cawing, groaning and croaking— lining the walls and cluttering the floor in stark contrast to the shop on the main street, which mostly sold dried and already-dead ingredients in barrels and on shelves.  The shopkeep, an elderly woman, was conversing intently with a black girl with locs interspersed with colorful beads and gold circlets.  
 
Harry squinted at the girl’s side profile for a moment, sure that he had seen her somewhere before, but moved on to peruse the shelf near the window display, not wanting to seem like a creep.  He caught a few words of their conversation between the raucous noises of the animals as he leaned over crates of severed dragon parts.  They looked shiny and damp, as if the natural fluids that came with removing such things had not yet cooled and dried over the dead flesh—
 
“ —

today

, because the sturgeon moon is tomorrow and you have the freshest around, Madam… I’ll do anything, I’ll even pay extra.”
 
The shopkeep replied firmly, “I cannot help you, child.  A wizard came in here earlier and bought me out.” When the girl made a noise of disbelief, the shopkeep added softly, “I am sorry, Ophelia.”
 
Ophelia said nothing.  Harry glanced over his shoulder and found that they were both staring at him.  He froze like a deer caught in headlights, before clearing his throat and returning to examining sharp black claws in a crate against the wall.
 
“Harry?”
 
He looked up and around again, startled.  The girl, Ophelia, was peering at him through narrowed eyes.
 
“Harry Potter?”
 
Harry glanced nervously toward the counter, but the shopkeep had disappeared, presumably into the back room.
 
“Er,” he muttered. “I… who’s asking?”
 
Ophelia pulled a face. “If that’s you trying to convince me that you’re not who I think you are, you’re doing a terrible job.”
 
Harry deflated. 
 
“Alright, you got me.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I… do I know you?”
 
Ophelia sat two fists snugly on either side of her slim hips. “You mean you don’t remember? Primary, Miss Ingleby’s class?”
 
Harry was suddenly transported back six years previously, placed into a shorter and skinnier body in too-big clothes and a poorly-brushed head of hair that kept falling into his eyes.  He vaguely recalled an equally skinny girl with shoulder-length braids and a playful, cuspidless grin.  Her eyes were angled and catlike, and her eyebrows grew wildly like tiny, curly mustaches.
 
He blinked, and there she was, only… taller, and with tamer eyebrows.
 
“Lia,” he blurted.
 
Ophelia

um-hummed

. “Ophelia.  No one’s called me

Lia

for ages.”

Sorry

, he wanted to say.  Instead, his mouth went, “You’re a witch?”
 
“Er, something like that.”
 
Harry thought that that was an odd answer, because the way it had been explained to him, you were either magical or you weren’t.  His confusion must have shown on his face, because Ophelia laughed and flicked her head toward the door.
 
“I’ll explain over ice cream,” she offered good-naturedly, and he readily followed.
 
At Fortescue’s, Ophelia ordered two scoops; one of brown butter and salted pecan and the other of just plain chocolate.  Harry got a mint chip shake, and they sat outside to soak in the occasional sunshine that peeled through the almost ever-present cloud cover. 
 
“My parents are squibs,” Ophelia told him succinctly, once settled.
 
He waited impatiently for more, but she seemed content to let that information soak in.
 
“Is that… it?”
 
She looked up. “Hm? Oh, yeah.”
 
He couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit disappointed, having hoped for some scrap of excitement in an otherwise fairly standard day. “Oh.”
 
Ophelia sat back in her chair. “The thing is,

I’m

not… you know, a squib.  Not a witch either, though, I’m afraid.  Not enough of one to get into Hogwarts, anyway.”
 
Harry furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand.”
 
“My parents are practically muggles, but I brew potions and I can sense the tension in wards and objects imbued with magic— amulets, talismans and such.  But as for casting anything… well, I don’t even have a wand.  Legally, I’m not a witch.”
 
Harry took a moment to absorb that. “Huh.  How long have you known? That you’re a… non-witch?”
 
She looked away. “Non-witch… no need for explanations over ice cream if I phrase it like that.”
 
“I feel like some explanation would still be required,” said Harry. “How long?”
 
Ophelia took a thoughtful lick of the butter pecan scoop. “I’ve known my parents were squibs for as long as I can remember.  I’ve still got magical family, see — my grandparents, aunts, uncles… for the most part, they’re all pretty progressive.  My parents were never cast out, the muggle world just has better opportunities for non-magical folk.”
 
Harry pondered that.  He hadn’t really considered that there might be non-magical people or creatures that could access magical locations on their own— he supposed there had to be at least some magic in them to be able to see the buildings themselves, and from what Ophelia had said, she seemed to fall somewhere in between muggle and magical; not mundane, but not truly supernatural, either.  Dr. and Dr. Granger sprang to mind, and he briefly wondered what it took to get them into the Alley without having to hold their hands for the entire visit; was it an acknowledgement sort of deal?

Once you’re in, you’re in?

Could they return, now knowing where to look?
 
“But what about you?” she asked suddenly.  Harry blinked. “You know, Boy-Who-Lived and all.  Had a hard time believing it was you when we were in school together— thought it might be some sort of coincidence— but then you never came to Stonewall and I knew you’d been picked up.”
 
“Er, well… it’s been interesting,” said Harry. “No Dudley to chase me around, and I actually have friends, which is nice.”
 
Ophelia rested her chin on her fist.  There was a smudge of chocolate on it. “Fame gotten to your head, yet?”
 
He recalled the various, but fleeting and uncomfortable instances in which his fame had been acknowledged in admiration interspersed with the far too frequent instances in which said fame had nearly cost him his life or the lives of his friends.
 
“Well, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, see.  Most days I wish I were nobody.”
 
“That’s reassuring,” she replied commiseratingly. “From what I remember, you were the epitome of arrogance and egoism back in school.”
 
Harry, sure that he had never spoke more than three words to anyone— including teachers— in school at the age of seven, grinned, but dimmed a little when he saw her glance at her watch. “Late to somewhere?”
 
“No,” she answered quickly. “Just remembering what all I’ve got to do before the day’s over.”
 
“Don’t let me keep you.”
 
“You’re not, honest.” Her upbeat mood seemed to have taken a downturn.  Harry felt awkward. “Um, I should go, though.”
 
“Alright.” He felt compelled to say something in parting that wasn’t strictly goodbye. “Will I see you again?”
 
Ophelia smiled at him in a way that he wasn’t sure how to take. “Not soon, but I reckon so.  If I'm not back before you go back to school, send an owl to,” she said a word he didn’t understand, and then, “Shafiq, and I’ll get it and reply within a couple days’ time.”
 
“Er,” Harry cleared his throat. “Could you write that down?”
 
She smirked and dug in her teeny shoulder bag for a moment before removing a small scrap of receipt paper— the almost-transparent muggle kind, which Harry squinted at for a brief moment in surprise— and a fancy pen with a black body and gold detailing, which turned out to be of the fountain variety.
 
He watched her gracefully trace a few squiggles, dots and curves in gentle swoops and turns of her hand before blowing on it lightly and handing it over to him.
 
“Touch it,” she ordered.
 
He hesitantly pressed his forefinger on the lovely calligraphy and watched it light up, almost appearing invisible on the pale paper, before fading back to its original black.  He looked up to see Ophelia smiling slightly.
 
“Charmed pen,” she explained, capping the shimmering utensil. “When you rewrite the address, you’ll be able to do so perfectly.”
 
She patted his shoulder, then, and disappeared into the bustle of the afternoon crowd of shoppers.