Harry Potter genfic exchange

Masterlist and Reveals: 2012

springmod — Sun, 10 Jun 2012 20:33:35 GMT

And finally we come to the end of the 2012 round of springtime_gen. Thank-you to all who participated by writing, reviewing and reccing. You are now free to post your work elsewhere.

A special mention goes to pitry, who not only was the first to submit, several weeks before the deadline, but also turned in a brilliant pinch-hit in record time, and has been one of our more prolific reviewers.

Master Reviewer this round was ofankoma, who responded to every entry (except hers). mollywheezy managed almost as many.

Thank-you also to fpb for pinch-hitting. The third pinch-hit was done by chthonya.

During the fest we had the very sad news that leni_jess has moved on to the next great adventure. Many of you will know Leni, who has participated in several rounds of springtime_gen, and has been a fun and respected presence in many other areas of the fandom. RIP Leni - we'll miss you.

And now, without further ado...

ART
ani_bester drew Spring Time for The Community

fpb drew Draco's Excellent Manners for teshara

FIC

aggiebell90 wrote Dear Mr Diggory for downjune

aliciadances wrote Primrose Path for alley_skywalker

alley_skywalker wrote Picture of a Friendship for aliciadances

bitchet wrote The Bow That Is Stable for phantompopcorn

chthonya wrote Seeds of Hate for bitchet

downjune wrote My Own Secret Ceremonials for flipflop_diva

flipflop_diva wrote In My Mind, This Isn’t It for The Community

fpb wrote Prelude to a Hearing for turkeyish

igrockspock wrote The Bucket List of One Hermione Granger for leni_jess

kelleypen wrote Journaling to Those Lost: A Parallel Epistolary for penknife

lazy_neutrino wrote The Gift for ani_bester

leni_jess wrote Beyond the Burning Bridge for pretty_panther

lyras wrote What it takes for xylodemon

ofankoma wrote Switzerland for snorkackcatcher

ojuzu wrote In Which Scorpius Malfoy Shames The Family Name, And Nobody Really Cares (Least Of All Him) for aggiebell90

penknife wrote Homecoming for fpb

phantompopcorn wrote The Completely True Report Cards for the boys of Gryffindor House as told by Professor M. McGonagall (1976 Edition) for kelleypen

pitry wrote The Knock-On Effect for st_dl

pitry wrote Saturdays Are For Football (The Rest of the Week is for Everything Else) for ojuzu

pretty_panther wrote Carrying On for pitry

snorkackcatcher wrote Harry’s Man, Through and Through for ofankoma

st_dl wrote Should I Stay or Should I Go? for igrockspock

teshara wrote An Important Shopping Trip for lazy_neutrino

xylodemon wrote Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect for lyras

Catch-up week!

springmod — Thu, 31 May 2012 05:50:38 GMT

Yesterday's post was the last in this year's fest. We'll be back the weekend after next with a master list. In the meantime, enjoy the fics and art that have been posted!

Fic: Seeds of Hate for bitchet

springmod — Wed, 30 May 2012 05:30:29 GMT

Title: Seeds of Hate
Author: chthonya
Recipient: bitchet
Character(s): Lucius, Arthur, Molly, Bellatrix and a few contemporaries
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~6500
Summary: Lucius learns some unexpected lessons during his first few weeks at Hogwarts.
Author's Notes: Dear bitchet - you had several really interesting prompts, and I'd have loved to delve into more of them, but this is the plot bunny that bit. Although you didn't ask for this era, no-one ever does, so I hope it's not unwelcome! Herein are a Malfoy, Weasleys, the Sorting Hat, some exploration of thoughts and assumptions and plenty of magic. I hope you enjoy it.
Author's Apology: Please, please, please forgive the mistake with Andromeda. I will endeavour to fix this, but meanwhile please don't let it put you off the rest of the fic, which is focused elsewhere.
Betas: Thank-you to N!

Lucius wished the Sorting would begin.

Father had made it sound so easy to find the right sort of people. The train ride had been easy enough – Father had arranged for him to share a carriage with Edward Nott and the Pucey cousins – but in the crowded and dimly lit chamber outside the doors to the Great Hall it was difficult to tell the difference between children he could talk to (anyone whose house he had visited), those he couldn’t talk to (Mudbloods, of course – though he had to remember to call them ‘Muggleborns’ here – but also the poorer sort of wizarding families) and those who had to be politely tolerated (certain half-bloods whose parents were friends with important people). He thought he was managing it without seeming rude (that was very important to Mother), but he’d be glad to be safe in Slytherin where it would be much easier.

The doors to the Great Hall opened.

He tried not to stare as they were led to the front of the hall – Mother always said that staring at people showed poor manners and staring at things showed poor breeding – but he hadn't expected it to be so big. The whole manor would fit in here!

Well, maybe not the whole manor.

He peered round the girl beside him as the famous hat was brought out to its stool. He knew the song was really for the Mudbloods – anyone who really belonged here already knew all about the four Houses – but he'd never seen a singing hat before.

He recognised the first person called forward. He'd been to some of the same parties as Andromeda Black and her sisters, though they'd never been invited to the Manor; Father said the Blacks could be unstable. Andromeda looked anxious, but very determined, as the Hat was placed on her head. After a long pause, the hat's strange mouth opened and shouted, “RAVENCLAW!”

There was a lot of murmuring in the hall, but it was quickly shushed as the next girl was called forward.

Lucius was confused. Everyone knew the Blacks were an old Slytherin family, so why had Andromeda been put in Ravenclaw? Could the hat make a mistake?

A horrible thought struck him: what if it didn't let him into Slytherin either? But that couldn't happen. He was a Malfoy; he belonged there!

He did his best not to look nervous as the Sorting went on, remembering Father's lessons on how important it was to appear in control. Finally, it was his turn to have the hat lowered onto his head. He gripped the edge of the stool; he was not unused to magical objects, but this one was more important to him than any he had come across before.

“Interesting.” The small voice in his ear made him jump. “You have talent, certainly, and intelligence too, though I sense you are less interested in knowledge than in what you can gain from it. But what it is it that you want to gain?”

Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin. Lucius chanted the word in his mind.

“Yes, yes,” said the voice. “You are loyal to your family traditions, and Slytherin would help you to succeed, certainly. But succeed in what? If you want to serve your family, you'll need-”

SLYTHERIN, Lucius thought desperately.

“So be it. But do not blind yourself to what you might learn outside SLYTHERIN!”

Lucius jumped down from the stool and went to join his house. A minute later Edward squeezed onto the bench beside him. A tall boy with dark hair and a shiny Prefect badge leaned over and offered his hand.

“Henry Baddock,” he said.

Lucius shook. “Lucius Malfoy,” he replied. “I came to your parents' Christmas party last year.” He was proud to remember, though he hadn't really spoken to Henry then; the older boy had been more interested in dancing with the Crabbes' daughter.

“Oh, of course,” said Henry. He introduced them to the others sitting nearby. Lucius was pleased to find he knew most of them: Rod Lestrange, a second year who Lucius had met at a wedding the year before, though he had been busy then looking after his younger brother; Emmeline Urquart, another second year who had attended all Lucius' birthday parties; Dolores Umbridge, the other Slytherin prefect, whose family Mother had described as 'rather vulgar'. Andromeda's sister Bellatrix was sitting further up the table. Rod nudged him and pointed.

“Watch out for Bella tonight,” he said. “She looked like she was about to murder someone when her sister went to Ravenclaw.”

Rod was right. Lucius didn't blame her; it would not be easy to live down that stain on the family. He glanced at the Ravenclaw table and was surprised to see Andromeda laughing as if she didn't care at all. Not for the first time, he was glad not to have any brothers or sisters to embarrass him. Clearly, Father was right about the Blacks.

As their plates filled with food, Lucius found himself smiling properly for the first time that day. The hat had been a little strange, but the important thing was that he'd got what he wanted: unlike poor Andromeda, he was where he was supposed to be.

**

Lucius watched the staircase creak towards him and tried to make out what was at the top. Henry had said that he had to go up the first staircase and turn right, but there wasn't anywhere to turn right, and he wasn't sure whether he was on the wrong level or whether the previous staircase had turned him around somehow. He still had five minutes to get to his first class, but he really, really didn't want to be late.

“Oh, hello... Lucius, isn't it?” He turned. A red-headed girl had appeared in a corridor behind him. Molly Prewett, he remembered: she'd come to Mother's teas once or twice since her fourteenth birthday last year.

“Hello, Molly”, he said politely.

She smiled at him. “It's a bit daunting on your first day, isn't it? Do you know where you're going?”

“Yes, thank-you.” Molly may have been from a good family, but he wasn't about to ask a Gryffindor for help.

“Oh, that's good.” She pulled a watch out of her pocket. “What's your first class?”

Lucius checked his timetable, just to be sure. “Charms.”

“Charms? I'm going near there. Can I walk with you?”

“If you like.” He smiled at her to cover his uncertainty. He didn't know why she was being so friendly, but he was sure there was nothing wrong with being seen with a Prewett, especially since Mother had invited her to the manor.

And it was a relief to arrive at his class on time.

**

Lucius gradually got used to the sheer size of the school over the first week. He still found it strange to share a room, but at least he'd learned which portraits gave accurate directions (and were usually awake), and which statues he should pass on the way to his classes.

The classes themselves were disappointing. Father had ensured he was well prepared, but sharing lessons with children who knew nothing about magic meant going over material that he'd covered a year or more before. He and Edward – who'd had the same tutor – often ended up sitting at the back of the class, watching the other students and rolling their eyes at each other. Their spellcasting may not have progressed much, but they were getting very good at hangman.

The first flying lesson was by far the worst. They weren't even allowed to get onto their brooms until everyone had one in their hand, and that took almost half the lesson. Then when they'd finally been given the order to hover, one of the Gryffindors had panicked and it had taken the rest of the lesson to talk her down.

“That was stupid!” Edward fumed as they stomped back to the castle. “Why should we have to take lessons with people who've never even seen a broom?”

“Yeah.” Lucius agreed. “Complete waste of time. That Frobisher girl...”

Edward laughed. “What was her name – Angela? Some angel she'd make if she can't even fly!”

“Why don't you shut up!” someone called from behind them. “Can't you she she's upset?”

Lucius and Edward turned. A red-headed Gryffindor boy faced them, fists clenched. Behind him, the non-flying Angela was snuffling into the sleeve of her robe. Lucius didn't recognise the boy and he knew the girl was a Mudblood: neither of them worth bothering about.

Lucius stood as straight as he could, like Father at his most imposing. “Why should I care if she's upset?” he said. “If she can't fly she should go home. Her kind shouldn't even be here.”

The Mudblood gulped, more tears running down her red cheeks. The Gryffindors glared at Lucius. The red-haired boy stepped forward. Another boy pulled him back. “Leave it,” he muttered.

The red-head scowled. “Just you wait, you stuck-up git! I'll show you why you should bloody well care!”

Lucius stared – had the boy really just sworn at them?

Edward folded his arms. “Oooh, I'm shaking in my shoes.”

With a final glare, the Gryffindors stalked off.

**

Lucius and Edward arrived early for their second potions class. First into the classroom, they slung their bags beside their usual bench at the back and watched the other students file in. The angry Gryffindor from the flying lesson scowled at them as he passed. His robes were almost worn through in places –obviously hand-me-downs. Lucius wasn’t surprised; he was still shocked that the boy had actually used that language in public. Clearly he came from the very worst kind of family.

Lucius hadn’t paid much attention to the register before, other than to note which faces went with the surnames he recognised. This time he watched carefully as Professor Slughorn called out each name. He was almost afraid he had missed it when the Professor reached the end of the list and ‘Bilius Weasley’.

“They certainly picked the right name for that one,” muttered Edward.

“Yes. Do you know anything about the family?”

“Other than the obvious?”

Lucius sniggered – and abruptly stopped when he noticed Professor Slughorn watching them. He sat up straight and listened carefully as Professor Slughorn explained how to make a potion to cure boils.

This was one class Lucius actually had to work at. Though he’d practised with the toy potions kit he’d been given for his tenth birthday, Mother had been wary of letting him near the dangerous ingredients in the manor’s Still Room.

He carefully crushed snake fangs and crumbled nettle leaves into the cauldron.

“Is yours turning yellow yet?” asked Edward.

“I… think so.” Lucius peered at his potion. It was still definitely green, but he thought it was paler than it had been a minute earlier. But not quite yellow enough to take the cauldron off the fire and add the porcupine quills, he decided.

A shadow fell across the bench. Lucius looked up. The Weasley boy was standing over him.

“What’s the matter? Is there actually something the know-it-alls don’t know?” he sneered.

“Shouldn’t you be doing your own potion?” said Lucius. His was definitely getting yellower.

Weasley shrugged. “Mine’s finished. I learned how to make this years ago.”

Edward looked up. “Only because your mother was too poor to buy it.”

“Shut up, Nott. Don’t you insult my mother!”

“You were the one who came over here,” said Lucius. “Just go away, will you?”

Weasley clenched his fists. “Why don’t you make me?”

“Here? Come off it.” Lucius glanced at Professor Slughorn, who was helping a girl at the front of the room.

“Where, then? Or are you chicken?”

Lucius stared at him. “What? Why would I bother-”

“Sunday, after lunch, behind Greenhouse Two,” snapped Edward. “Now get lost.”

“Fine,” said Weasley. As he turned, he bumped into Lucius – just as Lucius snatched his furiously-bubbling cauldron off the flame. Bright yellow potion sloshed onto the bench, splashing over Lucius’ robes and dripping onto his shoes.

Lucius yelled in pain and fury. “You stupid idiot! What do you think you’re DOING?”

The spilled potion disappeared; Lucius’ robes were suddenly dry, but his hand still stung. “Now, now, boys,” said Professor Slughorn, tucking his wand into his pocket. “What’s going on here? Had a little accident, have we, Mr Malfoy?”

“He pushed me,” Lucius protested.

“No I didn’t,” said Weasley. “I can’t help it if you’re clumsy.”

“You did,” said Lucius. Professor Slughorn was a practically a friend of the family; he had to know he wasn’t lying.

“But isn’t your bench over there, Mr Weasley?” asked Professor Slughorn. “What are you doing back here?”

Weasley edged backwards towards his place. “Well, Sir, I finished and…”

“You did? That’s excellent! But next time, just stay by your cauldron. I’m afraid I’ll have to take ten points from Gryffindor for disturbing the other students. Mr Nott, kindly take Mr Malfoy up to the hospital wing; Nurse can give him something for his hand.”

Lucius was seething as they left the classroom. Ten points for causing a dangerous accident? And praise for finishing quickly? It wasn’t fair.

But then Father said that sometimes you had to make things fair. Perhaps this was the sort of thing he meant.

Just wait until Sunday, Weasley, he thought. Just you wait…

**

The following Saturday was warm and sunny, and Lucius and Edward took advantage of it by heading out to the Quidditch shed just after breakfast. They weren’t the only ones, but they managed to find two of the least-bad school broomsticks, and were soon high in the air, soaring over the grounds and chasing each other round the castle towers.

After dinner, they sat in the common room, munching sweets that Edward’s mother had sent and writing letters to their parents. Lucius had promised to write each week, and had soon covered two feet of parchment. But when he read it over, he wasn’t sure he should send it. At home, he’d have told Mother and Father all about how bored he was in class and how mean Weasley was, and Father would have told him how to deal with it, but written down it looked like a two-foot moan. He threw the letter in the fire and wrote a shorter one, telling his parents how well he was doing in lessons, how he was making friends with the right people, and how Professor Slughorn sent his regards.

On their way back from the Owlery, they heard some strange music echoing down one of the corridors near the kitchen.

Help, I need somebody,
Help, not just anybody,
Help, you know I need someone, help.

They looked at each other, and set off to investigate.

As the music got louder they heard giggling, and when they peered round the door Lucius was surprised to see a group of Gryffindors lounging on cushions in the otherwise empty cellar. He was even more surprised to see that one of them was Molly Prewett.

She caught sight of the two Slytherins in the doorway, and blushed. “Oh… Hello. What are you doing down here?”

“We heard you,” said Edward. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, well, it’s a project. For-”

“Hang on, Molly,” said one of the Gryffindors, who Lucius recognised as Molly’s older brother Fabian, “what happened to that Imperturbable Charm you said you’d learned?”

“But I… Oh. I supposed I should have recast it after Arthur came in. Come on in, Edward, Lucius, and I’ll do it again.”

“But they’re first-years,” said Fabian.

“First year Slytherins,” said a girl Lucius didn’t know.

“Oh, Lucius and Edward are alright,” said Molly, beckoning them in. “I’ve known them for years.”

Lucius wasn’t at all sure he should – or wanted to – go in. But it would be awfully rude to refuse the invitation, and the Prewetts at least were respectable.

Molly’s younger brother Gideon waved them over to a cushion as Molly closed the door firmly and cast her charm. He handed them each a bottle of Butterbeer. Lucius took a sip.

“What did you say you were doing?” he asked. He couldn’t imagine what sort of project involved drinking Butterbeer in the cellars.

“Muggle Studies project.” Gideon grinned. “Susie brought some Muggle beer from home and we’re comparing it with Butterbeer.”

“Is this Muggle music, then?” asked Edward.

The Gryffindor girl, who, Lucius decided, must be Susie, stared at them. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the Beatles?”

“They’re purebloods, Suze,” said Fabian.

“So are you,” said Lucius. The bottle Fabian was holding, he realised, was definitely not Butterbeer. “And you’re a prefect.”

Molly winked at him. “We won’t tell if you don’t.” She picked up a bottle like Fabian’s.

Lucius was uncomfortable. If Mother knew about this, he doubted Molly would be invited to tea again. And the music – though actually the music would have been quite good, if it hadn’t been Muggle music. The tune was quite jaunty, in spite of the miserable words.

But as he listened, the music sank to a wail and stopped.

“It’s no good, Molls.” A ginger-headed boy stood up at the back of the room. “I thought I could keep the record player going with magic, but the resonances are too strong, even down here.”

“Never mind, Arthur,” said Fabian. “That was a damn fine effort. Come and try some beer.”

Lucius glanced at Edward, who was pursing his lips. He’d seen what was obvious, then: that this Arthur, though taller and thinner, was clearly Weasley’s older brother.

Arthur flopped beside Molly, smiling. He nodded at the two Slytherins. “Who’s this?”

“Edward Nott and Lucius Malfoy,” said Molly. “They heard us and came to see, and I thought they might find it interesting to hear the music.”

And getting them to join the Gryffindors meant that they were unlikely to tell on them, Lucius realised, though Molly’s friendliness seemed real enough.

“Malfoy?” said Arthur. “Are you the Malfoy Bill’s been telling me about?”

Lucius didn’t know how to answer him. Really, it was terribly rude of Arthur to bring up something so awkward at a social gathering, though having met Bilius that didn’t surprise him. “Probably,” he said at last. “There aren’t any other Malfoys here.”

“Well, you just leave him alone, you hear?”

“Arthur!” Molly hissed.

Lucius just shrugged, as if he wasn’t about to wipe the floor with Arthur’s little brother the next day. As soon as was polite, they made their excuses and left.

**

Lucius didn’t eat much for Sunday lunch. He wasn’t nervous, exactly, but Father had always told him not to do difficult magic on an empty stomach. Not that this would be difficult – he’d started learning to defend himself with a wand when he was six – but he’d only duelled for practice before. This would be the first time he’d be defending the honour of his family name.

The small yard behind Greenhouse Two was deserted when he and Edward arrived. They positioned themselves well away from a pile of owl droppings and feathers, heaped ready for use as fertiliser, which was starting to pong a little.

Ten minutes later, they were still the only people in sight.

“Think he couldn’t find a second?” said Lucius.

“More likely chickened out, the little coward.”

But Edward was wrong, for just at that moment Weasley appeared under the arch that formed the entrance to the yard.

“Finally,” Lucius muttered, as he strode towards him. “You on your own, Weasley?”

“Oh, my second’ll be here in a minute,” said Weasley.

“In a minute?” said Edward as he caught up with Lucius. “You’re already late as-”

The Mudblood girl ran through the gate, pushing Edward aside. She was carrying a bucket. Lucius stepped back, grabbing for his wand. But he was too late he couldn’t dodge the contents of the bucket. The sticky smelly stuff hit him; he wiped his eyes and lunged at the girl, but the gloop was covering his wand and he couldn’t get the right movement. The girl dashed back under the arch.

Edward was covered in the stuff as well. Weasley was sneering at them, wand raised.

“You cheating little-” Lucius began.

“Better that than a stuck-up, prejudiced little squirt like you, Malfoy. Wingardium Leviosa.”

Instantly the yard was filled with swirling owl feathers. Lucius tried to wave them away, but the more he moved the more they stuck to him.

“Since you think you need to fly to belong here, we thought you could do with some feathers,” said Weasley. And he walked away.

By the time the feather storm died down, both Lucius and Edward were covered. Retching from the smell, they tried to Scourgify each other but their wands where still covered with the sticky stuff, and they could barely choke out the words. Luckily, there was a tap in the corner of the yard which they could use to wash their heads, hands and feet, but they couldn’t get all the feathers off their robes and the smell was still overpowering.

“We’ll get them.” Edward said. “They’re going to pay for this.”

Lucius nodded. “We’ll make then sorry they even thought about it.”

Hands still sticky, they shook on it.

**

They managed to get back to their room without being seen, but somehow by the next morning the story was all over the school. Lucius determinedly ignored the whispers and pointing in the corridors.

“Is it true?” Rod asked at lunchtime.

Neither Lucius nor Edward replied.

Rod lowered his voice. “You’re not going to let them get away with it, are you?”

“’Course not,” said Edward.

“Yeah, well, if you need a hand, count me in,” said Rod. “Slytherin house looks after its own. They need to learn we won’t stand for this.”

“Thanks,” said Lucius, a little surprised.

That night the three of them huddled beside one of the thick windows that looked out into the lake.

“We need to deal with this ourselves,” said Rod. “They’ll never respect us if we just get them into trouble with a teacher.”

“Definitely not, if all the teachers do is take away a few points,” Lucius agreed.

“Same with the prefects,” said Edward. “Umbridge is such a goody two-shoes she’d probably report us first.”

“And it has to be good,” said Rod. “We need to show them, once and for all.”

“What can we do, though?” asked Edward.

Lucius had been wondering the same thing. Other than basic defensive spells and personal grooming charms that Mother had drummed into him, all he knew was a few basic charms, and… he thought furiously.

“Do you know how to set a Trap Jinx?” he asked Rod.

Rod raised his eyebrows. “A Trap Jinx? No. But I bet Bella does. She knows all sorts of good stuff.”

“Bellatrix?” Edward glanced over to where she was holding court by the fire. “I can’t see her wanting to get involved in a first-year argument.”

“As I said, this goes beyond you two.” Rod grinned. “Don’t worry. I know how to handle Bella.”

This turned out to be more than an idle boast, for the next night Bellatrix joined them by their window.

“So,” she said, looking down her nose at Lucius and Edward. “Rodolphus says you need my help.”

Lucius bristled at her tone, but Mother always said that the way to deal with people who looked down at you – not that many people did – was to treat them the same way.

He leaned back in his chair. “Can you teach us a Trap Jinx?” he drawled.

Bellatrix looked surprised. “Maybe I can, if you can tell me why you need it.”

Lucius shrugged. “Simple. We lure the weasel somewhere he can’t scream for help, trap him and don’t let him go until he takes an Unbreakable Vow never to bother anyone in Slytherin ever again.”

“You what?” He hadn’t told Edward that part of it.

“That’s crazy!” said Rod.

“Well, it would work, wouldn’t it?”

Bellatrix laughed. “I like it: you’ve got potential, Malfoy. So where do we lure him to?”

Lucius pointed at the window. “A boat. He won’t think there’s anything suspicious about it, it has clear boundaries for the jinx-”

“And there are plenty of places to hide a boat along the shore, if we need to,” finished Bellatrix. “Yes, that could work.”

Lucius hoped that last part wouldn’t be necessary.

“And how are you planning to get him into the boat in the first place?” asked Edward. “Tell him there’s treasure in the lake?”

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” said Rod. “Gryffindors love that sort of thing. And if anyone needs treasure, it’s the Weasleys.”

“I wasn’t being serious,” Edward protested. “Weasley isn’t stupid enough to believe anything we say.”

“Oh, but we wouldn’t be saying it,” said Bellatrix. She struck a dramatic pose and lowered her voice. “There’s a legend, which may never be written down, that the one brave enough to dive into the middle of the lake during the October full moon will win everlasting respect and riches from the Mer-chieftainess below…”

Lucius laughed. “Come on. No one would fall for that.”

“Gryffindors would,” said Rod. “Think about it: we spread the rumour. We Slytherins, and anyone who’s been in the school for more than a couple of years, know it’s nonsense. The Ravenclaw first-years are clever enough not to be taken in. Hufflepuffs might believe it but wouldn’t have the nerve to do anything, but Gryffindors…”

“Fine,” said Edward. “If you really think it would work, it’s worth a try. And while we’re at it, better say that a Mudblood needs to be there too. Then we might get her as well.”

“So how do we go about spreading the rumour?” asked Lucius.

Bellatrix smiled. “We don’t.” She pointed to a blonde girl near the fire. “Rita does.”

“Rita?”

“Rita Skeeter, gossip queen. Common as muck, but she knows her place, and she owes me a few favours. If you want a rumour spreading, she’s the one to do it.”

**

The full moon was almost a month away, which gave the rumour plenty of time to take hold. One side benefit Lucius was grateful for was that speculation about the Merpeople’s treasure soon held more interest for the student population than did the story of his and Edward’s fight with Weasley. Still, there were enough sidelong glances and giggles aimed their way to make it a very long month, endured only by imagining the look on Weasley’s face when they had him cornered. The one bright spot was the afternoon when Weasley taunted him for not knowing any Muggleborns he could search for the treasure with. Lucius had to fiercely remember the day behind the greenhouse to stop himself smiling. Luckily, Weasley seemed to take his pained expression as annoyance.

Finally, the evening of the full moon arrived. Lucius, Edward, Rod and Bellatrix snuck down to the underground harbour straight after dinner, so they could jinx all the boats and get well hidden before Weasley showed up. It was a long wait before they heard the approach of quiet footsteps and hushed voices.

It was a bigger group than he’d thought. Weasley and the Mudblood they’d expected, but, listening carefully and hardly daring to breathe, he could make out Molly and the elder Weasley, and Gideon’s nervous laugh. Evidently Fabian was either too old for such an adventure, or as a prefect he had to pretend to be.

Gideon and Molly stopped right beside the table Lucius was hiding under, while the others went to choose a boat.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Molly?” Gideon whispered. “We both know this treasure story is a load of nonsense.”

“I don’t think there’s any harm in it,” Molly whispered back. “Bil’s really keen, and it’s probably better for him to find out for himself rather than think we don’t believe in him. I’ve been practicing warming charms if he decides to swim, and you’re strong enough to pull him out.”

“And Arthur asked you,” said Gideon.

“Shush!” There was a scuffling noise; Molly must have backed up her command with a sisterly shove. “Anyhow,” she said primly, “it’s a lovely night for a picnic.”

They moved out of earshot. A few minutes later the hidden Slytherins heard the sound of oars in water as the boat pulled away. They crawled out of their hiding places.

“Now what?” asked Edward.

“Now we remove the jinx from the other boats, and we wait for them to come back,” said Bellatrix.

“Did you hear Prewett?” asked Rod. “‘It’s a lovely night for a picnic’, indeed!”

“Wouldn’t mind a bit of a picnic myself,” said Edward. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?”

“As long as it takes,” said Lucius. He only half agreed with Edward’s wish for food. He was getting hungry, but now that their revenge was near he didn’t think he could eat anything. And he wasn’t sure what to think about Molly being there. Molly had been quite nice to him, in her way, and Mother wouldn’t be happy if she heard he’d got her into trouble. Unless, that was, he told her how Molly was getting herself into trouble with her Muggle beer and Muggle music. But he didn’t want to do that unless he had to.

While the others passed around some chocolate that Rod had brought, he sat watching the water entrance to the cave, alert for any sound of the Gryffindors’ return. At last they heard the faint sound of splashing oars, and crept into the shadows to wait.

“…maybe we can try next year?” The younger Weasley’s voice echoed round the cave.

“Yes, Bil, I’m sure we can do that.” Molly sounded as if she was smiling.

“Bit odd how we couldn’t get out of the boat, though,” said Gideon.

“Must be a safety thing,” said Molly.

“That’d be a first,” said Arthur. “Usually they just wait for you to fall in and expect you to learn not to do it again.”

“But it is mainly first-years who use the boats,” said Molly. “Newly arrived first-years. That must be it.”

The boat bumped against the dock. Lucius watched from the shadows as Gideon grabbed the rope and stepped up on the prow – and didn’t step off.

“I still can’t get off,” he said quietly.

“What?” Arthur stood up, making the boat rock dangerously. He reached his hands out above the side of the boat; it looked as if he was pressing on nothing, but nothing wouldn’t budge.

“See?” said Gideon. Despite himself, Lucius was impressed by how calm Gideon was being.

“That can’t be right,” Arthur muttered, investigating the other side of the boat.

“Oh, yes it can!”

Lucius stared as Bellatrix sauntered up to the boat. This wasn’t what they’d planned!

“Bellatrix Black?” Arthur raised his fists. “What the hell have you done?”

“Don’t get stroppy with me, sweetie,” she replied in a sickly sing-song voice. “It won’t do you any good at all. You can’t touch me – and you won’t be able to get off that boat until you’ve promised very nicely never to bother me or my friends again.”

“Not likely,” said Bilius. “In the morning you will be in so much trouble.” Lucius smiled to hear the tremble in his voice.

Bellatrix crouched down. “In the morning, dearie, if you don’t do as I say, this boat and all who sail in her will be hidden well away from here. And there you’ll all say until we have your Unbreakable Vows.”

“Don’t be stupid, Bellatrix,” said Molly. “You’ve had your fun, now let’s call it a night and get back to bed.”

“You stay out of it, bitch!” spat Bellatrix. “You’ve had it coming!”

Lucius and Edward looked at each other.

“What’s that about?” Lucius whispered to Rod. But Rod was watching Bellatrix intently and waved him to silence.

Lucius was getting worried. Perhaps it had been too much to expect the Gryffindors to make Unbreakable Vows, but if Bellatrix hadn’t been so confrontational they might have got them to make a promise that – along with the threat of what could have happened – would have kept the Gryffindors in their place.

“…can’t expect us to do that,” Gideon was saying. “So you might as well let us go before you get into even more trouble.”

“And you might as well save your breath, Prewett. I’m happy to wait as long as it takes.”

“And what do you think that proves?” said Arthur. “You think it shows you’re better than us? You think it makes you powerful?”

“I am powerful,” Bellatrix declared, drawing herself up to her full height. “And anyone’s better than you, you sorry Muggleloving excuse for a wizard.”

“He’s a million times better than you’ll ever be,” said Molly.

“Oooh, you’re sweet on him, are you? I’m sure your family will be thrilled to hear that. I wouldn’t be surprised if they disown you!”

“At least I’m not crazy! You think you can slice up people’s pets and do anything else you like just because of your moth bitten family tree! You’re sick, Bellatrix, and you make me sick.”

“How dare you!” Bellatrix slashed her wand down. A stream of flame arced towards the boat.

The Mudblood screamed. Molly and Bilius beat at the flames as Arthur threw himself against the invisible barrier and fell back into the boat. Gideon stared at the flames, muttering incantations.

Lucius turned to Edward – but Edward was gone.

He looked around frantically for a bucket and saw one in the corner. He ran to fill it but before he could get back to the burning boat he tripped. The water splashed uselessly across the dock.

“No you don’t, Malfoy,” said Bellatrix.

He grabbed his wand and scrambled to his feet. “Stop it! Stop it now!”

“Or what?”

“Or five people will die!”

“Mudbloods and Mugglelovers. Who cares?”

“What’s Molly Prewett ever done to you?”

“Molly Prewett almost got me expelled!”

“Well you won’t be expelled now – you’ll be sent to Azkaban!” Lucius looked around for Rod, who was still gazing at Bellatrix in horrified awe. “Rod!” Lucius shouted. “If you can get through to her, do it now, for Merlin’s sake!”

Rod stared at him for a moment. Then he ran to Bellatrix and grabbed her arms, talking to her rapidly and quietly.

Her shoulders slumped. The flames died.

The Mudblood’s sobbing echoed through the cave.

The three Slytherins ran.

**

Lucius noticed a difference in the other students over the following days. They still nudged each other and whispered when he passed, but now their glances were quickly averted, and he was never jostled even in the most crowded corridor. According to Rita Skeeter, the rumours about what happened that night had spread swiftly but not particularly accurately.

Bellatrix had been the only one the Gryffindors had been able to identify for certain. Her mother’s position on the Board of Governors went some way to smoothing over the incident; after a fortnight in St Mungo’s for appearances’ sake she returned to the common room and a considerably enlarged group of followers, although from what Lucius could see, her sister went out of her way to avoid her.

The Gryffindors had only been able to identify Bellatrix for certain, so all the Slytherins had been interviewed by the Headmaster. Rod had actually admitted to being with Bellatrix, his loyalty to her seemingly outweighing any desire for self-preservation, but as he had been the one to stop her he got away with a warning and a term of washing bottles for Professor Slughorn. Lucius and Edward denied all involvement, and no Slytherin would suggest otherwise.

Lucius had not enjoyed the interview. Professor Dumbledore had piercing blue eyes that seemed to see straight into Lucius’ soul, but in the absence of proof Lucius was able to maintain a stony silence. The Headmaster rambled on for a few minutes about how much getting in with the wrong people could harm one’s family, and then Lucius was free to go, a decision that relieved but did not impress him.

He was relieved to hear that the Gryffindors had got away with minor burns, thanks largely to Gideon Prewett’s Flame-Freezing Charm. After a night in the hospital wing they were all up and about, though Rita reported that the Mudblood was issued with a nightly vial of sleeping potion. Lucius had only seen Molly once since. They had not spoken.

About a week after the incident, Lucius was taking a short-cut down a quiet corridor when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Oi! Malfoy!”

Lucius turned. It was Arthur Weasley.

“What do you want?”

“You were there.”

Lucius put his hand in his pocket and curled his fingers around his wand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t give me that, you evil little runt!” Arthur grabbed Lucius by the collar and backed him against the wall. “You were there, and I’m telling you now that if you ever lift a finger against Molly or my brother again I’ll make sure you regret it. I’ve got my eye on you.”

Casting a Revulsion Jinx was simple; Arthur flew backwards in a flash of purple light. Lucius aimed his wand and muttered, “Petrificus Totalus.”

He wasn’t sure what to do now; some threatening gesture was clearly required, but he didn’t know that many jinxes and anyhow he didn’t want to get into trouble when he’d just managed to avoid it.

But as he stood there, watching Arthur watching him from his rigid position on the floor, he could see that he was afraid. The realisation gave him a strange thrill. Arthur didn’t know that he didn’t know what to do. For all Arthur knew, he was pausing to think up some horrible plan; his silence had made Arthur scare himself more than any threat that Lucius could have made.

He crouched down beside Arthur and pressed his wand against his cheek. If he only knew more spells, he could do anything to Arthur now. To know Arthur knew this, and hated him, and couldn’t do a thing about it made him feel almost dizzy with excitement. He didn’t want to hurt Arthur, he realised. He just wanted him to know that he could.

“You’re nothing but Muggleloving scum, Weasley,” he said, “and if you or your cheating coward of a brother ever touch me again, you will pay for it.”

Lucius stood up. Arthur’s wand was lying nearby. He kicked it along the corridor and walked away.

***

Fic: In My Mind, This Isn’t It for The springtime_gen Community

springmod — Tue, 29 May 2012 05:47:18 GMT

Title: In My Mind, This Isn’t It
Author: flipflop_diva
Recipient: The springtime_gen Community
Character(s): Harry, Hermione, Ron, Hagrid + cameos by Ginny, other canon characters
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1,495
Warnings (if any): None
Summary: Harry always dreamed of the perfect life for his children. Sometimes, life doesn’t give you what you want.
Author's Notes: I had a lot of trouble writing this, for some reason, and it’s not quite what the recipient asked for, but I hope you enjoy it! Based on the prompts of Hargid and/or Trio fic and a slightly tweaked version of this: One of Harry and Ginny's (technically pure-blood) children grows up to be a blood status bigot/fanatic
Betas: Huge thanks to my beta, Summer, who did this on amazingly short notice! All mistakes that remain (and definitely all American-isms that slip in) are completely my fault.

“It’s not fair.” Harry looked at his two best friends and sighed dejectedly. He dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders slumping. He felt helpless, defeated.

Hermione patted him on the arm. “I know,” she said. “It’s not. But it’s not the end of the world.”

“And you don’t even know for sure yet,” Ron added.

Harry looked up at them, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You have no idea what it’s like,” he said, his voice rising a little. “How hard it will be for her. How different her life is going to be.”

“Different, yes,” Hermione said. “But it doesn’t have to be bad! Not if you don’t let it.”

Harry scoffed.

“It’s not my choice,” he muttered. He pounded a fist into his other hand. “It’s just not fair. Why does my little girl have to be a squib?”

•••

They knew she was different from the day she was born.

“Maybe it’s because she’s a girl?” Ginny had said hopefully, a couple of months after their third child had made her screaming entrance into the world. She was a happy baby that was for sure. She babbled and swatted her little hands at everything she saw. Her big eyes were bright and inquisitive. Her brothers loved her, spent hours playing with her. And she smiled her happy giggly baby smile back at them.

She was like any other baby — sweet, happy, adorable — except she wasn’t like any other wizard baby.

When she played, nothing moved or danced. Toys didn’t rock toward her. When she reached for things, nothing tilted in her direction. She didn’t accidentally knock things off tables just by looking at them, or make diapers whoosh through the air when she didn’t want them on.

It was so different from her brothers, who had made the lights twirl around their heads and stuffed animals come to life.

With her, nothing happened.

But they kept waiting and waiting and hoping. It was going to be hard enough to be the children of Harry Potter. He didn’t want to add this burden to his daughter as well.

The judgments, the whispering, the gossip. He didn’t want that for her, for any of them.

But by the time her third birthday rolled around and there was no evidence to prove otherwise, Harry and Ginny were pretty sure the lack of magic had nothing to do with her being a girl.

•••

“You don’t know for sure.” Two hours later and Ron was still insisting on this fact. Hermione nudged him in the side as she turned to Harry.

“It doesn’t change anything,” she said, for about the one hundredth time. “She’s still your daughter. You still love her.”

“Yes,” Harry almost snapped. “But she’s different. Try telling her why she won’t get to go to Hogwarts! Or ride a broom! Or ever learn to Apparate. Or why the other kids treat her differently and laugh at her! Tell her why wizard-kind will look down on her, just because of who she is!”

“They won’t if you don’t let them!” Hermione insisted.

Harry almost glared at her. “Do you really think it’s that easy?” he practically shouted. “It’s not as simple as that, and you bloody well know it!”

He got to his feet, fighting back an urge to kick something or hit something or blow something up with his wand.

He knew he shouldn’t be angry with his friends. It’s not like they could do anything to fix it or change it, it’s not like it was remotely their fault, but he felt like being angry with the world.

It just was not fair.

His whole life had not been fair, and he could accept that. It made him who he was. But he had hoped things would be better for his children.

When he calmed down enough to sit back down at the table, Hermione was looking at him curiously.

“I think there is someone you should talk to,” was all she said.

•••

A few days later, Harry, Hermione and Ron found themselves Apparating to a familiar sight. It looked a little different than they used to know it — some new paint, new buildings, all to hide the damage of a war. But the shops, they were the same — Zonko’s, Honeydukes, Gladrags, Madam Puddifoot’s.

They entered The Three Broomsticks, and the first hint of Butterbeer made Harry smile. The same warm and cozy atmosphere. The same mirror hanging above the bar. It was like they were 13 years old and seeing it all for the first time.

They slid into an open booth and took a sip of the Butterbeer Madam Rosmerta brought over, her eyes lighting up when she saw them. Hugging her, catching up with her — it was almost enough to make Harry forget why they were here.

Almost, but not quite.

And soon enough, heavy footsteps sounded on the floor behind them. Before Harry could even turn, a booming voice filled the air.

“’Ello, Harry!”

Harry practically leapt out of his seat and into Hagrid’s open arms. Hagrid’s hug was so strong, he practically lifted Harry off the ground.

Hagrid was beaming. He had gotten older. They all had. Streaks of gray lined his beard, and his face had a few more wrinkles than it used to. But his eyes were full of light and he was all smiles today.

He slid into the booth beside Harry, almost squishing Harry into the corner.

“I’ve missed yeh kids so much!” Hagrid exclaimed, pulling out a tissue to dab at his eyes.

“We’re not kids anymore, Hagrid,” Hermione said, but she was smiling too.

“Yeh will al’ays be kids to me,” he said, still dabbing at his eyes.

Ron laughed, and then asked for the latest Hogwarts gossip.

“Ya know I’m not supposed to tell yeh that!” Hagrid admonished, but he told them anyway.

Hermione and Ron laughed at Hagrid’s stories, filled Hagrid in on some gossip of their own, but Harry could barely pay attention. He was just waiting for the conversation to turn to what he knew was coming.

And come it did.

“Ya know, I ‘an’t do magic real well, either, ‘Arry,” Hagrid said gruffly, patting him a bit too hard on the shoulder.

Harry forced a grin. “I know,” he said, “but …”

“But eh’s different?” Hagrid finished. “Yeh think I haven’t faced a lot o’ people who don’t like me? Yeh think it’s been easy not being able t’ do magic so well? Yeh think I don’t know what it’s like to ‘ave people not like me ‘cause o’ who I am? Do yeh?”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “No. Not at all. I’m not saying that.”

“Yeh still love me, righ’?” Hagrid interrupted.

“What? Of course.”

“And yeh still love yer baby?”

“Of course! I never said …”

“Then you teach yer baby that she’s nothing to be ashamed o’. If she’s not ashamed, then no one can make ‘er feel bad.”

Harry sighed. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

Hagrid nodded. “It’s ne’er that simple,” he said. “But yeh baby, she don’ know that, right? So yeh tell her how special she is. Yeh believe it.”

Hagrid shrugged, like it was the easiest solution in the world. “Yeh and Ginny, yeh just gotta make ‘er believe it too. People ‘ill do what they want. But yeh don’t got to let them dictate yer life.”

With that, Hagrid drained his Butterbeer in one gigantic swallow and cheerfully signaled Madam Rosmerta over for another.

Harry took a sip of his own Butterbeer, once again barely paying attention to the chatter that was starting back up between Hermione, Ron and Hagrid. All he could think about was his daughter, the life he had wanted her to have and the life she was going to have.

•••

They Apparated back to Harry’s place. Ginny invited Ron and Hermione to stay for supper. Harry watched his friends talk to his wife, play with his little girl. He barely said a word, and no one really asked him to say more.

That night, both Hermione and Ron hugged him goodbye and studied him carefully.

“I know this is hard,” Hermione started, but this time Harry interrupted her.

“But you were right,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be bad. It’s not going to be easy. But I’m not going to let it be bad. I survived Voldemort. This is nothing, right?”

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione almost squealed. She threw her arms around his neck again. “I’m so proud of you!”

He watched them vanish into the night sky. His children and wife were inside, but Harry took a moment to study the spot where his two best friends had disappeared.

He wasn’t sure he entirely believed what he had said, but he would get there. One day. He would get there.

He had to. His daughter was depending on him. And he was not going to let her down.

Fic: My Own Secret Ceremonials for flipflop_diva

springmod — Mon, 28 May 2012 05:22:00 GMT

Title: My Own Secret Ceremonials
Author: downjune
Recipient: flipflop_diva
Character(s): Luna Lovegood, George Weasley, Hermione Granger, Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~3,000
Warnings (if any): recreational drug and alcohol consumption
Summary: Luna and George decide to throw their own party before Bill and Fleur's wedding. It's the end of summer and the beginning of a war. It's a hit.
Author's Notes: Story set the summer before the Trio's Seventh Year. Title borrowed from Florence and the Machine because she's cool like that. Also, see if you can spot the T-Rex lyric! I hope you like this, flipflop_diva!

Harry Potter arrived at the Weasley's with five other Harry Potters and was supposed to have come with six, but one was too frightened and had run off. Mad Eye was dead, and so was poor Hedwig, and George, who was telling her all this, had a hole instead of a left ear. Luna didn't want to be rude, but she couldn't stop staring at the bandages. Would she be able to see through to his skull? His brain?

Luna thought he looked quite rakish and charming, especially with his hair poking out at odd angles around the bandage. Bill and Fleur's wedding was only a few days away; George would be very devil-may-care with his bandages and dress robes.

The wedding was only a few days away, and Harry, Hermione, and Ron looked more nervous than anyone. She had seen them walking together across the hill in a line with Harry out front, Hermione right behind him, and Ron trailing along. She'd wanted very much to ask them what they spoke about that was such a secret they needed to walk alone to discuss it, but she was quite certain they wouldn't tell her.

So she went to her greatest source of information, George Weasley—or rather she invited him over for tea.

"Do you think they're planning something—Harry, Ron, and Hermione?" she asked, gently poking one of the dirigible plums with her teaspoon. It bobbed on its stem, sinking and then rising.

George sat one step below her and, before he answered, set aside the tea he was very obviously not drinking. "I reckon," he said. "Though it's probably Hermione doing most of the planning."

Luna nodded, resting her chin in her palm. "I expect you're right. We should all be planning, George."

"You're really going back to school this term?" George looked up at her. "Snape will be headmaster. You won't be safe there; no one will."

"I'll be safe enough. It's the muggleborns that I'm scared for. Hermione and Dean..."

"Dean won't go anywhere near Hogwarts, believe me."

"And I don't think Hermione will come, either. Or Harry and Ron. I think they're going to leave and find a way to fight You-Know-Who so he doesn't come to Hogwarts."

George snorted. "Mum'll murder Ron for that."

"Oh, you mustn't tell your mum, George."

George smirked up at her. "Have a little faith, Lovey—been keepin' secrets from Mum my whole life. No, if Harry Potter is running off to play hero with Granger, you won't find my little brother anywhere else. Story of his life."

She thought George looked a bit sad about that, but Luna considered loyalty to be just as important as other virtues, like wisdom and courage, only quieter. "I think we should have a party—a going-away party. What do you think?"

"Well, there's a bloody huge wedding in a week, so..." George's eyebrow lifted as he trailed off.

"Yes, and it will be beautiful and happy, but what if we did something smaller? What kind of party would you want to have if only our closest friends were invited and you didn't tell your mum about it, and I didn't tell my dad?"

George's grin lit up his whole face. "That's easy—bonfire, booze, fireworks, and weed."

Luna felt her smile mirror George's. "That sounds lovely."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, though you'll have to procure most of that. I can supply the firewood."

George lifted his hand and held it palm out. He waited until Luna figured out what he wanted and slapped it. "Wicked," he said, grinning.

*

For as long as she could remember, George had been her lookout. Fred, she could never really tell what he meant when he said things, if he was taking the piss or not. George would look at her when his twin was talking and it was like interpreting, even when he didn't say a word.

When Ginny and Luna played together as girls, she could usually spot George nearby, inventing magic jokes with Fred, tempering his brother with nothing more than his body language. George and Luna were never close in school – too far apart in age – but she could usually find him in her periphery.

It'd been a lonely year without him, last year, and this one would likely be worse. She wanted to fill up on good memories from the summer, enough to carry her though what she knew would be the most difficult and dangerous year she'd face.

Those memories, judging from her limited experience of teenage acts of celebratory rebellion, should involve fire, alcohol, and marijuana.

*

The bonfire was enormous, reaching for the sky and spitting sparks. The night was warm enough that the flames felt almost uncomfortably hot on their faces, so they all stood back from it, half-in half-out of shadow. They passed a bottle of firewhiskey and when Hermione handed it to Luna, she said, voice only a little slurred, "I've had enough standing; let's sit, Luna."

With a flick of her wand, Hermione transfigured a fallen branch into a small bench, just big enough for the two of them. Sinking down next to Hermione, Luna took a large swallow of whiskey. She put her hand to her chest and followed the burn all the way down to her stomach.

"This is delicious," she said, passing the bottle back. "Though it's making me a bit foggy."

"That would be the point," Hermione said with a crooked smile. Then she leaned her shoulder against Luna's, which was a bit surprising as Hermione didn't usually touch anyone besides Harry and Ron. "How was your summer?" she asked. "Mine's been completely mad. I didn't read nearly as much as I wanted to; it's been too hot to even think straight; and I've been afraid to let my parents leave the house."

It all came out of Hermione in a rush, and Luna could feel her gaze, heavy and a little drunk, but she kept her eyes on the bonfire. "I've been practicing defensive spells and developing herbal protection charms from some of my mother's notes that I found." She took a breath and decided to plunge ahead, perhaps aided by the warmth in her belly. "And I've been thinking about how one defeats a wizard who can have himself resurrected."

Looking sidelong at Hermione, Luna saw that she'd gone perfectly still, her eyes wide and dark and shining in the firelight. "Did you think of anything?"

"Not really," Luna sighed. She reached for the bottle and drank from it before passing it along to Ginny who stood nearby with Lee Jordan and the twins. Harry and Ron were busy eating the snacks Mrs. Weasley had made, Ron having let slip that there was a party. Fortunately he hadn't mentioned the firewhiskey.

"I think that he must have a way of keeping himself safe," Luna said, "so that even when he dies, like he did when he tried to kill Harry the first time, he doesn't really."

Hermione made a vague noise that didn't tell Luna much of anything.

"But if that's true, then the question becomes whether to kill his body first and look for the thing that's keeping him safe after he's been weakened..."

"Or to find the thing first because it's what's keeping him alive," Hermione finished quietly. "I've been circling around that question all summer, and haven't come any closer to an answer." Then she said, "I sent my parents away before I came here. I haven't told anyone. But I sent them somewhere they'll be safe, where they don't know me and wouldn't recognize me. I don't even know if I'll be able to reverse the spell."

Luna imagined what it would be like to be an orphan, to have the people around her now as her only family. She'd always thought of herself as someone content with the inside of her own head for company, and that Hermione was similar in that way. But thinking about a father-shaped hole in her house made her feel lonely and see-through, like nothing, not even Charms or Ancient Runes or Crumple-horned Snorkacks could keep her feet on the ground.

"That was brave of you," she said, though she wasn't actually sure what it was.

"You have to be careful, too," Hermione whispered, leaning close so no one else would hear. "Your father is making enemies supporting Harry. The Quibbler's political journalism has always been far more reputable than the rest of that nonsense he prints." Hermione's eyebrows rose as if she only just heard what she'd said. "No offense."

Luna thought it might be the firewhiskey, but she didn't take any. Hermione had been like that for as long as Luna had known her.

"You sent your parents away because you're going away, too, aren't you," she said, just as quietly. Hermione's expression froze. "You've never been very good at hiding things. But I won't tell, and anyway, I don't know where you're going. I'll make you some protection charms to keep you safe."

Hermione hesitated and then nodded, just the barest lift of her chin and eyebrows. She looked like she might be relieved that someone knew what they were doing, that someone would know what had happened to them if they never came back. Luna knew she'd want that, if she were in Hermione's position.

Wanting to feel like this was an important moment between them, Luna slipped her arm through Hermione's, hooking their elbows.

"Oi!" Fred shouted. "Who's ready for fireworks?" He, George, and Lee had migrated up the hill while Hermione and Luna talked, and as the first fireworks shot up into the sky the rest of them all made their way up to stand a safe distance from the pile George and Fred had between them.

Luna found herself standing off to the side as Hermione and Ron, and Ginny and Harry gravitated to each other. The fireworks sparked, swirled, and boomed over their heads, lighting their faces in flashes of pale green and pink. Fiery lions and hippogriffs chased each other across the sky, and disappeared in enormous showers of sparks.

Luna watched with half her attention, and with the rest watched Harry. She wished that she could share the difficult tasks he had ahead of him, wished with a fierce kind of anger that her future, her father's future, and her friends' didn't rest only with this small, moody, frightening boy.

As if he could tell she was thinking about him, Harry looked over at her. His mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, but in the strange flashbang of the fireworks looked more like a flinch. Saying something quiet to Ginny, Harry left her to come stand with Luna. He shifted from foot to foot in that way of his, so Luna tilted her head toward him and asked between fireworks if he was having a nice time.

"Yeah," he said, smiling and looking somewhere over her shoulder. "Yeah, it's brilliant. And Gin said it was your idea, so...thanks."

"It wasn't just for you, Harry."

Now he did look at her, pale and embarrassed. "No, I didn't mean—"

"I told George we should have a going-away party for you, but actually I wanted a chance to drink firewhiskey and maybe kiss a boy before it all turns to shit this year."

Harry's mouth had fallen open and he sputtered a bit, starting at least three separate sentences before Luna interrupted him.

"But it is for you, too, Harry, since your year will probably go to shit quicker than ours." Miraculously, Harry had the bottle of firewhiskey with him and Luna reached for it, taking another large swallow.

"Are you okay?" he asked finally.

"For the moment," she said.

"Well—thanks for this...It's really great." He offered her a smile.

"This is nothing. You're the one who has to do everything."

Harry's smile sagged and fell away, and Luna frowned at herself. Perhaps the whiskey had a bit more of a kick than she originally estimated.

Grabbing Harry's hand, she pointed with the whiskey bottle as a firework exploded over their heads and left a silver cloud of trailing sparks. "It's beautiful," she said. A pair of dragons broke through the cloud, twining together and shrieking with a piercing whistle. "I didn't mean that," she said, when they'd quieted. "You're not going to do it all on your own because we're going to help you."

Harry nodded and stepped closer so that their joined hands pressed tight between their bodies. He breathed deeply. "I don't want to forget a single thing about tonight."

"Then let's do something especially memorable," Luna said.

Harry's grin flashed brightly, and when the twins set off the rest of the fireworks in a raucous finale, Harry and Luna shouted along with the explosions, their voices clashing and discordant until everyone else joined in.

*

As it happened, Luna was not very good at smoking the 'half-and-half' cigarette that George rolled. The tobacco burned her throat and the weed didn't seem to have any effect. But she passed it around and said nothing because no one else seemed to be having any trouble.

They sat in a circle around the burned-down bonfire. Across from her, Harry and Ginny leaned together, nearly asleep. Ron sat by Hermione, their knees touching. Luna wondered if the weed was working better for Hermione. She looked nervous enough that Luna thought it probably wasn't. George sat on Luna's other side and next to him, Fred and Lee had fallen into a fit of giggles which, even after ten minutes, they had yet to come out of.

When the joint came back around to Luna, George said, "I can make it easy for you, Lovey. You trust me?" He held the joint to his lips, eyebrows raised.

"I trust you, George," she said, curiosity piqued.

"Right," he grinned. "So when I blow the smoke into your mouth, you suck it into your lungs, okay?"

"After you blow it into my mouth."

"Yeah. Inhale like—" He demonstrated, inflating his chest with a deep breath. "Then hold it as long as you can."

"All right." She sat up straighter. "I'm ready."

George did exactly as he said he would, and Luna did exactly as she said she would, and that was how she ended up kissing a boy exactly as she hoped she would.

When he'd held the smoke in his lungs, he tipped himself over to her, held her chin with his thumb and put his lips to hers. His exhale filled her mouth with the taste of whiskey and the mild bite of smoke. When she inhaled, pulling all of it into her lungs, George leaned into her, keeping their mouths sealed together. Then he drew back, watching with heavy-lidded eyes.

The feeling of the smoke in her lungs was much better than the harsh burn from the joint itself. Exhaling a long stream of pale smoke, she grinned. "Success."

George laughed. "Excellent work."

"I want to try it again," she said, turning to Hermione. "Do you want to try it with me?"

Hands clasped tightly on her knees, Hermione looked around at the rest of them. Harry and Ginny looked much more awake and Fred and Lee had finally stopped laughing. "Okay," she said.

Next to her, Ron's mouth had fallen open and he looked like the most pleasantly surprised person in all of Britain.

Carefully taking the joint from George, Luna put it to her lips and inhaled the way he'd showed her. She held the smoke in her lungs even though she felt a cough itching up her windpipe. Then, before she could lose it, she leaned over and pressed her open mouth to Hermione's. Exhaling, Luna felt the smoke rush from her lungs as if Hermione were dragging the air right out of her. Her lips were cool and wet and Luna decided to count it as her second kiss.

She had to pull away when the cough finally exploded out of her. Smacking her on the back a few times, George handed her the whiskey. "You're a marvel, Lovegood. A fucking marvel."

Everyone had begun to applaud and Luna sought Hermione's gaze. She looked just as pleased with herself as Luna felt.

"Thank you, George," Luna said.

*

At about two in the morning, Harry doused the remains of the fire with a quiet aguamenti, Ron banished the empty bottles, and Fred gathered up what was left of the fireworks, bits of paper and casing, in a box. Then everyone retreated to the Burrow, stumbling sleepily, eyes on the uneven ground so they didn't trip.

Hesitating by the small bench Hermione had made, Luna stood very still and breathed in the smells of summer, of her home. With the ruckus of their small party fading, the sounds of insects and frogs reemerged.

She very nearly jumped when she heard large feet shuffling in the grass and, looking away from the stars, she found George beside her.

"Wicked party, Lovey."

Smiling, she nodded. "It was, wasn't it."

George touched the end of her braid where it hung over her shoulder. "Want me to walk you home?"

Looking up at the stars again, she shook her head. "No, that's all right. You're far too noisy, and I like the quiet."

"Right." She could hear the smirk in his voice. "So, I'll see you at the wedding, then."

"Yes, you will. I hope you like to dance."

George leered. "Lovey, I danced myself out of the womb."

Luna laughed at that image and headed off toward home.

End.

/The grass was so green against my new clothes
I did cartwheels in your honor
Dancing on tiptoe, my own secret ceremonials/

Catch-up Day

springmod — Sun, 27 May 2012 18:28:06 GMT

Today is a rest day for springtime_gen. The last few days of posting begin tomorrow!

Fic: Prelude to a Hearing for turkeyish

springmod — Sat, 26 May 2012 06:21:28 GMT

Title: Prelude to a Hearing
Author: fpb
Recipient: turkeyish
Character(s): Ron, Ginny, Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Theodore
Wordcount: 1313

PRELUDE TO A HEARING

I

“I wonder,” said Auror Ronald Weasley to his sister, “whether these guys even realize the war is over.”

“And that they can’t always expect us to fight it for them either,” answered Ginny Porter, with an angry frown on her beautiful face. “Neither Harry nor you nor I are supposed to be spending the rest of our lives looking for supposed Voldemort supporters.”

“Well, me, perhaps. I’m an Auror after all. But I wish he hadn’t involved you and Harry.”

“Same here… Well, next time I’ll be sure to have a championship match abroad, too. Or I’ll develop spattergroit.” For a moment or two, both of them snickered. “You can only smile and demur politely so many times before you lose your temper.”

”Maybe this time they’ll get the message, who knows?”

“Yeah.”

Then she looked at her brother. There was a troubled air about him, as if he were facing an unpleasant choice.

II

Draco entered the room to be met by gales of laughter. His features immediately fell into a mask of chilly disapproval.

“Look out, kids, here comes Daddy!” answered Pansy Parkinson’s voice from where she sprawled across a large settee, her head in Blaise Zabini’s lap. “Everyone get serious!” Blaise turned to look at Draco, and his teeth flashed in a cheeky grin.

“Hmpf,” muttered Draco as he sat down on his usual armchair. “Glad to see you think there’s so much to laugh about.”

“You think there isn’t?” said a quiet voice from behind him. ”So far as I can see, things are going our way.”

“Barely,” said Draco. “I’ll admit you did a good job, Theo. You tied them up in knots till they didn’t know whether they were coming or going.” For a second, Draco’s chilly countenance turned to a mocking grin. “You certainly showed them what it takes to be a Law-Wizard.” Theo Nott grinned and bowed elaborately. “But that doesn’t get us anywhere nearer.”

“It gives us a lawyer we can trust,” said Blaise Zabini, “and that was one major problem. As long as we could only have court-appointed counsel, we were at the mercy of whatever stitch-up they wanted to devise.”

“But that doesn’t change matters. Tomorrow we are marching in to meet a jury of Mudbloods, Gryffindors and other interesting life-forms, most of which will have taken hits from the Dark Lord and will be all too happy to make us pay for it. I don’t reckon we’ll be getting our rights back - not in our lifetimes, at least.”

“I think the jury itself is the weak point,” said Nott thoughtfully, “and that is why I worked so hard to be accepted as a Law-Wizard. The court is inevitably stuffed by Ministry men, and that means we have no hope from them. But a bunch of people from the streets… whatever their prejudice, I think we can work on them.” Draco snorted.

“And there was another thing we wanted to talk about, Draco dear,” broke in Pansy. “Your gear. Your gear, and your attitude.”

Draco looked at her as if she had grown a second head. “My gear? What is wrong with my gear? My attitude, I can understand, but my gear?”

He looked down at himself. From the translucent, embroidered raw silk of his shirt, to the combed wool with fine edges of his cloak, the top-quality cotton and linen in his trousers, to his cordwain boots, everything was the height of quality and grace. He would not have gone out of the house wearing anything less.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand. Problem is, Draco, you aren’t a girl.” This was Blaise.

“Well, neither are you!”

“True, but my mother is. And you know what she often tells me?”

“No, what?”

“Don’t ever forget, Blaise, clothes are a tool. Clothes are an instrument.”

“That’s it in one, Draco. What do you think the jury will think if you come out there dressed as you are?” This was Pansy.

“Dressed as I am? What’s wrong with it? This is the best I’ve got.”

“Exactly,” came in Nott. “Better than about ninety-nine wizards and witches in every hundred will ever be able to afford. Now think, Draco, think! We aren’t going there to impress them. We’re begging. Begging for our rights, but begging. The last thing we want is to make them think we’re trying to overawe them.”

There was a silence, as Draco fought down a childish but inevitable feeling of resentment. As he looked at it, his friends had a point. There was no advantage in increasing the Mudbloods’ resentment, nor in underlining that recovering their civil rights would give them access to considerable fortunes. Better hang back and be inconspicuous.

“So what should I do? Dress like a beggar?”

“No, don’t be silly. You wouldn’t be credible anyway.”

“Wear whatever you want, but be inconspicuous. I don’t care if you have it specially cut at the Sartoria Arcani, but it must not draw attention to itself.”

“Oh really? And how do I do that? I don’t think I even understand what you want.”

“All right, then,” said Nott, “do what I tell you. Ask your house-elves. They’ll know exactly what to wear.”

“ASK… MY… HOUSE-ELVES…?” stuttered Draco as though incapable of understanding the simple words. Pansy rolled her eyes, and Blaise and Nott looked at each other with a well-what-did-you-expect expression.

III

The next day found Ronald Weasley waiting in a certain street, two blocks away from the Ministry of Magic. He was in mufti, out of his Auror uniform, and wearing deliberately inconspicuous clothes that might have been Muggle or Wizarding according to how one looked at them. Soon the people he was waiting for came into view.

“Hey, Nott! Malfoy!” The call was soft, but reached the right ears. The four people who had been walking on the other side of the road crossed over. They all were wearing modest, unnoticeable dress; Draco’s was in shades of dry, matt brown.

“What do you want, Weasley?” Nott’s voice was neutral, but Ron could easily see that each of the four had one of their hands in a pocket, gripping something long and thin. He kept both his hands clearly in sight.

“Just thought I’d tell you a couple of things. First, Harry and I will not be testifying. They refused to summon us when they realized how we were going to present matters.” Ron saw nothing, but felt the four Slytherins relaxing.

“Second, the prosecutor wants your guts for garters, and she is more than willing to bend every rule there is to get them, but I don’t think the judges are in with her. At least, she seemed to deliberately keep them out of her attempt to suborn us.”

The Slytherins looked at each other, and Ron felt a further, subtle shift in mood. Nott turned to him.

“Thank you, Auror Weasley. That might be very useful.” He waited a second. “May I ask how come you’re telling us this?”

“I’ve been fighting with myself over it, to be frank. I knew the prosecutor was laying traps for you. I don’t trust any of you, but I came to the conclusion that I’d rather let everyone have their rights under law, and take my chances, than let the prosecutors take short cuts that might one day be used against others. It’s not out of love for you, I assure you.”

“All the same,” said Theo Nott, the lawyer, “we are grateful.” His hand shot out, and, before Ron could do anything, took his hand and shook it, short and hard.

“Thank you, Weasley.”

Ron watched them go. He had not wanted to shake any of their hands, and the swift, strong grip had been an unwelcome surprise. He wished he could have avoided it.

END OF THE STORY.

Fic: Switzerland for snorkackcatcher

springmod — Fri, 25 May 2012 05:40:01 GMT

Title: Switzerland
Author: ofankoma
Recipient: snorkackcatcher
Character(s): Blaise Zabini, Justin Finch-Fletchley, others
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 9,300
Warnings (if any): A bit of profanity
Summary: Because they couldn’t be friends on British soil.
Author's/Artist’s Notes (if any): Dear snorkackcatcher, I hope you enjoy this series of missing moments from canon, and I certainly hope it meets your request of 'unexpected but plausible.' I'm afraid there's no Hagrid here. Perhaps next time!

* * *

‘...and so welcome you to this, the third sitting of the working committee on the status of house, a representative body of the Board of Governors of Hogwarts School of...’

Having decided early in life that a lexicon of parliamentary procedure would do him no good, Blaise Zabini now relies upon his intuition to tell him when to nod, when to frown, and when to offer expressions of doubt, all in order to survive this farce of a meeting. Meetings, plural, since this was the third (and hopefully the last) of what he had been told could stretch out into several gatherings of Britain’s ‘best and brightest’ as they made ‘life-changing, culture-making decisions that would forever impact the future of the wizarding world.’

Please, he thinks. ‘Best and brightest’? Try ‘selectively chosen according to blood status, gender, and house affiliation’. The Board of Governors is covering its collective arse by picking this particular panel, and everybody knows it. As for ‘culture-making decisions’ that would ripple down to his great-great-great-great grandchildren? Blaise doubts it. At a place like Hogwarts, nothing ever changed, and nothing ever would.

The Board needs to make a good show of it for the masses, though, proving once and for all that they can acknowledge the weakness of the status quo and... And what exactly? Reevaluate the old traditions? Producing an alternative for the students of Hogwarts? Placate the crowds calling for a complete overhaul of the system?

The likely answer is simply peacekeeping. Pacifying the world at large. That’s the subtext for all Ministry work now, for each bill passed and every rally thrown. The message underlying all the work at Hogwarts as well, with rebuilding efforts and student counselling sessions. The war is over, so it is now the unofficial job of every man, woman, and institution to be strong again.

Be healed.

Be excellent.

Be excellent now.

And if that isn’t to be had (as if anyone achieved it in the best of times, much less after the shit show they’d all just survived)—if that isn’t to be had, well, best be prepared to fake it.

At least that is something Blaise Zabini is very, very good at.

He drifts back into the public discourse somewhere midstream of the roll call.

‘...Quick, Francine Peasegood, Scrope Colquitt, Dorothy Gumboil, and Cox Edgecombe. Present as guests of the committee are recent graduates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Hermione Granger, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Padma Patil, and Blaise Zabini. Also present as guests of the committee are current professors and heads of house: Minerva McGonagall, Pomona Sprout, Filius Flitwick, and Horace Slughorn. If the chairwoman would read the minutes from the previous...’

The ubiquitous Granger on the committee? No surprise there. She’s everywhere these days – showed up to testify for Malfoy and his mum, protested that damned Ministry fountain project, and generally threw around her name as Poster Child Muggle-born for every cause.

Patil. Token Indian, token half-blood, token Ravenclaw.

Finchley isn’t much of a shock, either. The committee would never have asked Zacharias Smith (mouth-breathing dolt and waste of a wand if ever there was one), but they could have easily gone for someone like MacMillan, putting another halfblood on the committee. His loss – they seem to really want Muggle-borns around. So Finch-Fletchley it is.

Blaise himself is there to represent Slytherin, of course, and he knows this. He also knows that he adds to the diversity quota like Patil does. More than that, he knows that he is invited as a representative of his house sans Death-eater connections. The conscientious objector, one of the many who fled Hogwarts before any blood had been shed on its grounds.

He is neutral.

Looking around, he realises that they couldn’t have found an uglier room for these meetings. Odd parquet flooring, yellow walls filled with paintings of birds sitting atop various trees, not enough windows to let in anything resembling natural light. He expected better.

The clerk drones on in a monotonous voice, and Blaise struggles to stay focussed on her words. ‘...since, and will open the floor for discussion and debate. Does the current house system allow for meaningful interaction with those outside your house? The committee will record the reactions of all its invited guests.’

Sprout speaks up, first among the professorial types invited to talk to the committee. Her speech is all about double lessons being a place where students learn to grow together and yield fruit and blah, blah, blah. ‘Grow together’? he inwardly scoffs. How hackneyed. It’s a steaming pile of... fertiliser if he’s ever heard one.

McGonagall talks about a trajectory from the protection of the house in the early years to increased interaction in the N.E.W.T. level classes in the final years before leaving Hogwarts. The committee eats that up as well, but come on. The real advantage of higher-level classes is the absence of idiots like Goyle and Longbottom. Even Granger would admit to that, he figures, although it would probably take Veritaserum to make her do it.

Flitwick’s speech is the shortest yet. Appropriate, that, Blaise thinks, smirking to himself. Pity no-one here has the capacity to appreciate his rapier wit. The Charms professor says something about prefects and unity in leadership, and his turn is over.

Slughorn rattles off what he considers success stories from his personal exercise in narcissism, the friendships and marriages of the students who first met up in the Slug Club. Yep... because that gathering was dreamt up for the sake of the students, Sluggy. Right.

Apparently the students’ time to speak up, Patil pledges herself to Flitwick’s words, telling rambling stories of camaraderie and late-night patrols.

Finch-Fletchley goes decidedly Hufflepuff, talking on and on about how there needed to be more opportunities to work with people from other houses. How friendship outside your house is only possible if you could find something of value you hold in common with the other person.

Then Granger pulls several pages from the satchel beneath her chair. Bloody hell, he thinks. Kill me now. He grows distracted as she yammers on, but zones out completely somewhere around her fourth or fifth talking point. Sniffing the swill they serve to everyone as ‘tea’, he thanks his lucky stars he remembered to have the house-elf pack him something worth—

‘...your thoughts, Mister Zabini?’

The committee clerk startles him. He plasters a beatific smile on his features and wonders if he is still answering the first question posed. Maybe Granger said something they wanted him to respond to. Bugger. Should’ve paid attention after all.

‘And which question, Madame Clerk,’ he replies deferentially, ‘would you like me to answer for the esteemed committee?’

‘Such a respectful young man,’ she pronounces under her breath, smiling and smoothing out the front of her shabby robes. Frumpy, oldish witches were easy for Blaise. Frumpy, oldish wizards, too. Flash the teeth, drop a compliment and all is forgiven. ‘Mister Zabini, the question is that of interactions between the houses.’

‘Interactions between the houses?’ he repeats, deciding upon his response.

She seems to interpret his hesitation as some kind of uncertainty or misunderstanding, and asks again with slightly different words. ‘Yes, dear. Just tell us about your friends from Hogwarts. Friends from other houses.’

‘Impossible,’ he scoffs under his breath, replying without thinking.

‘That’s… “impossible”, did you say? Why is that?’

Bugger me dead. What was I thinking? He had planned on saying as little as possible at these meetings. Planned to feed them the answers they’d already decided they were going to hear and to accept his silver star from polite society for this act of community service. If only that cow would have repeated herself verbatim, he wouldn’t have given such a knee-jerk response.

‘It’s impossible,’ Finch-Fletchley states clearly, speaking up to fill the silence, ‘because Zabinis don’t have friends.’

The woman coughs, clearly uncomfortable.

And Blaise slowly turns his head to stare down the tosser at the end of his table.

‘Isn’t that right, Zabini?’

* * *

All right, yes, he was impressed when he first met the other boy in the first year.

Not that he would have told anyone – in the proper ordering of the world, no-one was ever impressed by a Hufflepuff. Blaise had long absolved himself of this particular failing, of course. He’d been just eleven years old. He hadn’t known any better.

It wasn’t that Justin Finch-Fletchley was particularly intelligent or charismatic or skilled in any way. Oh, he was smart enough from the beginning – did well in lessons and all that. Popular enough as well, always encircled by the other Badgers as they burrowed their way through the school.

But plenty of people were sharper than Finchley – take a look at Granger, jumped-up nightmare that she was, or every single Ravenclaw in their year, or even Malfoy when he wanted to be. Most were probably more well-liked, too, Sir Scars-a-Lot notwithstanding, but you could never quite tell with Hufflepuffs. They were always one campfire away from singing stupid songs together under the stars.

No, Justin Finch-Fletchley had something else altogether.

And Blaise discovered just what that something else was on one late night run for supplies.

He had emerged victorious from behind the still life, heavy laden with a small teapot for one and an assortment of biscuits to bring back to the Slytherin dungeons. As he rounded the corner, a scrawny Hufflepuff marched towards him in an expensive quilted dressing gown and matching slippers. It all vaguely resembled what he was wearing himself, in quality if not in colour.

‘Is that the entrance to the kitchen?’

Blaise looked pointedly at the stash in his arms in order to convey the message that the question was, indeed, a stupid one. ‘Of course it is.’

‘Sorry... er... It’s just that I’ve never used it before. One of the fourth years told me where to go, but—‘

‘Through the painting,’ Blaise interrupted. ‘Just tickle the pear.’

‘Is the kitchen staff still here this late? Or do you just help yourself from the refrigerators and freezers?’

Refrigerators and freezers? he wondered. What were they?

He must have been giving Justin a blank look, because the Hufflepuff rephrased his question, pointing to the food and drink Blaise was carrying. ‘Er... how did you get that?’

‘I just asked the house-elves. They run the place.’

‘Elves are servants here?’ Justin repeated quietly under his breath. ‘I would never believe it.’

‘Who else would do all the cooking and cleaning?’

‘People, of course. We have a housekeeper and two cooks at home. Dad has a driver, but he doesn’t come with us when we go to one of the other houses. And Mr Jenkins tends the horses at home, but he doesn’t travel with us either.’

Blaise was astonished. Five people worked for a Hufflepuff family? Five house-elves would have been surprising on their own right, but five people? You didn’t have to pay your house-elves, but you obviously had to pay people if they were working for you.

Hufflepuffs. They were supposed to be a notoriously scruffy bunch, all homey goodness and pie and farmlands. Or whatever. They weren’t supposed to dress as well as he did himself, and they weren’t supposed to have people working for them. Not that Blaise actually knew any Hufflepuffs before arriving at Hogwarts a few weeks earlier, but he’d heard things.

He also didn’t know how anyone acquired a house-elf, but he did know that only the oldest families possessed one. The Malfoys were the wealthiest family he knew in England, and he thought they had three of four.

Blaise and his mum had five, but everybody knew the special circumstances surrounding their situation. Bitsy and Tuttle had been with them as long as he could remember, since before he was born. As his mum married and remarried, their family began acquiring more of everything, houses and house-elves included. Husband Number Two’s untimely train accident had left them another when Blaise was learning to read, and Husband Number Three’s disappearance in Patagonia brought the number of house-elves to four. Number Four willed all his house-elves to his sister, and Number Five was opposed to house-elves for ‘moral reasons’, so the Zabini house-elves held at four until Number Six ate some improperly prepared blowfish while travelling in Japan. So five it was. For now, anyway.

He considered the Hufflepuff shrewdly. ‘What’s your name again?’

‘Justin. Justin Finch-Fletchley,’ he replied pompously, as though everyone was supposed to know that already.

Finch-Fletchley. Not a name Blaise recognised, like Greengrass or Parkinson or Nott. It wasn’t on the list his mum had given him on the Platform 9 ¾ either, like Pucey or Bole or Goyle.

‘I’m Blaise Zabini,’ he offered, nodding in lieu of a handshake.

‘It’s nice to meet you, Blaise.’ Justin stood there, smiling blandly, probably waiting an appropriate amount of time to give him the space to say something back, probably something along the lines of ‘You, too, Justin,’ but Blaise stood his ground silently.

Instead of throwing out inane niceties, he was busy deciding whether or not the boy before him was someone he was supposed to know. Justin had clearly never spent time around house-elves, so was he a half-blood who favoured the Muggle side? A Mudblood? Maybe there were pure-blood families who refused to own house-elves, and Blaise just didn’t know it. It’s not like he had spent all that much time in England growing up.

‘Right, then,’ the boy muttered, shaking Blaise out of his reverie. ‘I’m getting some tea and biscuits, myself.’

And then Blaise did the unthinkable.

He invited a Hufflepuff to join him for his midnight – well, nine o’clockish – snack.

Just in case.

After all, the kid said ‘houses’ when he was talking about his family. Plural. And ‘horses,’ another good sign. Even if he wasn’t on Madame Zabini’s Offical List of People to Know, he would probably be up to snuff. As long as Justin had a drop of magical blood, Blaise reasoned, this getting-to-know-you business was a good idea.

They plowed through a pile of Ginger Newts and custard creams, discovering that they both hated the Astronomy lessons and the French tutoring their mums had forced on them in their younger years. Both thought the broom restrictions against first years were stupid, and both wished they could explore the Forbidden Forest without their professors just to see if the unicorn rumours were true. Sometime in the evening, Blaise started calling the boy ‘Finchley’ for short (‘Finch-Fletchley’ was a mouthful for anyone). He learned that Justin’s family hopped homes almost as frequently as his own. While the Zabinis split their time between London (Mum’s regular place, also known as the original home of Number One, also known as “Father”), a small Greek island (willed to them by Number Three), and Geneva (Number Five’s estate), the Finch-Fletchleys moved between a country home in Somerset, a townhouse in Paris, and summer home in Zurich.

He seemed like a decent bloke.

Nope, Justin Finch-Fletchley might not have been the smartest or the bravest or the best.

But he might very well have been the richest.

This was confirmed for Blaise over and over again. Finch-Fletchley was always impeccably dressed, much like Malfoy, but the real kicker was the solid gold cauldron he carried around with him for Potions, an expensive upgrade from the standard pewter fare.

They didn’t share any lessons in that first year, no Double Herbology or anything like that, but they saw each other on occasion in the dungeons like all Slytherins and Hufflepuffs did. A byproduct of common room placement. They talked a bit when they ran into each other, but neither really sought the other’s company. Everyone knew that you were supposed to hang around with the people in your own house. It would have looked odd.

It was easy for Blaise to sit back and take it all in, since he mostly kept to himself. He’d tried to get to know his other housemates at first, but they were all fairly intolerable. Malfoy’s head was the size of Greenland. Nott wasn’t necessarily bad, but he lived in the library. He smelled like old books and was just a bit… off. Goyle and Crabbe were idiots, plain and simple. Morons. Dumber than a pile of Flobberworms. And there was nothing in him that wanted anything to do with the Slytherin girls, each terrifying in their own way: Pansy could and would hex him within an inch of his life, Millicent had the upper body strength of a sixth year, and Daphne was just really, really pretty.

So he watched and learned. Over the course of that first year, he learned that Susan Bones’ whole family was high up in the Ministry, that Anthony Goldstein didn’t have to go to lessons during something call the High Holidays, and that Pansy Parkinson’s mum’s cook made the best toffee ever.

He finally learned the truth about Finch-Fletchley’s status at the end of the year when everyone was busy packing up trunks and chattering about their summer plans. And he learned it from Finchley himself.

All the students had been lined up along the platform in Hogsmeade, waiting for the train to arrive. Somehow, he’d ended up near Susan, one of the chattiest girls he’d ever met. She didn’t quite pick up on the fact that he didn’t want to talk to her and was only answering her questions begrudgingly. She did, however, pick on his answer that he was going to spend the summer in Geneva.

‘Oh, how lovely!’ she squealed, clapping her hands together. ‘Do you know Justin? Of course you do! He’ll be there, too.’

She then called Finchley over and loudly announced their holiday plans to one another, as though spending the summer in the same country made two people the best of friends. They weren’t even going to be in the same city, and it’s not like either one of them could Apparate.

‘Switzerland, then, Blaise?’

‘Yep,’ he answered, acutely aware of Susan’s presence as she watched the awkward conversation unfold.

‘Me, too,’ Justin replied quickly.

A moment passed, and Blaise knew it was his responsibility to fill it.

‘It’ll be odd to pack away the wand for a few months,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘At least you’ll still be in a magical house,’ the Hufflepuff said, smiling. ‘I’ll be going Muggle again.’ He let out a strained laugh. ‘I need to get used to photographs that stand still again.’

So…confirmed Mudblood.

Oh, well.

Blaise nodded and took his place on the train with Nott.

When he’d gone home that first summer, his mum had reminded him again about meeting up with the right sort of people. People with good breeding. Groomed tastes. And absolutely no sympathisers with You-Know-Who. She seemed to be under the impression that these types – the Right Sort – were just running around Hogwarts, ready to pop out from behind suits of armour or dance down the halls.

Little did she know.

*

His second year at Hogwarts was relatively uneventful, if one didn’t count student paralysis, a celebrity professor, and a giant bloody serpent let loose on the school as ‘events’. Truthfully, it was annoying to see how quickly the other three houses turned on Slytherin, but it warmed his heart to watch them all turn their pointing fingers on Potter when he started hissing his way through lessons.

Finch-Fletchley should have done more to keep his own status quiet all along. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was like he was asking pure-bloods to shun him. And that was before the shit hit the fan and Mrs Norris showed up Petrified. By then, it was too late. The Hufflepuff had already been quite vocal about his status in the Muggle world.

If anyone had any remaining doubts about Finchley’s blood status, they were taken care of the train ride north. Somewhere after the second or third hour of rolling countryside and small towns, Blaise had slipped out of his compartment with Malfoy and Nott to find the trolley for a bite. He’d just made it into the aisle when the Hufflepuff approached him with a smile.

‘Zabini!’ he cried enthusiastically, walking over to join Blaise. ‘How are you?’

‘Finchley,’ he responded coolly. He was tense, well aware of Malfoy’s eyes on him as he conducted this conversation. Blaise knew the blond well enough now to know what he expected and who he might tell about what he saw. Mother Zabini would never approve. He knew what he was supposed to say.

‘How was Switzerland?’ Justin asked warmly.

Malfoy coughed, just loud enough for Blaise to hear it outside the door. As if he needed the reminder.

‘Same as always, I suppose.’

That would have been the time for Finchley to walk away, to turn around and avoid a messy scene.

He didn’t.

‘I had a great time with my family, but I’m glad to be back here. My name was down for Eton, you know,’ Justin said proudly. ‘It was all Mother talked about this summer, about how I should be packing my trunks for my first year at Eton instead of Hogwarts.’

‘What’s Eton?’ Blaise asked, trying to keep an edge to his voice in order to hide his curiosity.

‘What’s Eton?’ Justin repeated incredulously. ‘ What’s Eton? It’s only the most prestigious school in the UK, Zabini. Everyone knows that. Every prime minister worth anything went there, and it’s said that both William and Harry will attend as well.’

‘And I should care about some blokes named William and Harry because...?’

‘They’re the princes.’

Blaise shrugged in apathy.

‘Of the country. Well, sort of. One’s the prince of... Wales, I think, and the other—’

‘Whatever,’ Blaise replied dismissively. ‘So you’re saying you turned down the most selective school in the Muggle world to join up with the least selective house at Hogwarts?’

Justin opened his mouth to reply, a confused look on his face, but Blaise cut him off before he could say a word.

‘Lame, Finchley.’

‘It’s not—’

‘No, you’re right,’ Blaise interrupted. ‘It’s probably not lame. The worst of the wizarding world’s still better than the best of the Muggle world. I get it.’

Justin looked as though he’d been punched in the gut.

For a moment – just a flash, really – Blaise regretted his words.

Then Malfoy came to the door, poking his head out aggressively. ‘What are you still doing here? Turn around and go back to your little Badgers.”

Finchley did.

And then he proceeded to avoid Blaise in the halls of Hogwarts.

Which was how it was supposed to be.

Wasn’t it?

That’s what Blaise told himself when he slipped into the infirmary late at night after every new round of attacks, staring at the still bodies that never asked to be there.

*

In the summer before Blaise’s third year, his mum married Number Seven, a Hungarian count. Private tutors it was, then, as she’d wanted them to live together at Seven’s residence just outside Budapest. This one wasn’t too terrible, although he was much more sporty and adventurous than any of the others had been, and he kept asking Blaise to join him cliff diving and whatnot. Peculiar.

But Blaise had liked it there, and had been planning on staying with the private tutors indefinitely. He didn’t really have anything tying him to Hogwarts anyway. He basically got along with all his housemates, but he doubted any of them missed him.

That was the plan until Seven went to Pamplona in July to run with the bulls.

He didn’t come back.

So the Zabinis returned to England.

*

And Blaise returned to Hogwarts for his fourth year, quietly slipping back into his old life in the Scottish castle. Nobody even seemed to notice that he was gone. He overheard some of the younger Slytherins talking in the common room as he caught up on some of his homework and learned just how invisible he was around the place.

‘Did you hear Blaise Zabini is back?’

‘No… Is she in our house?’

She. She? He was livid. Plebians all around him. Yes, his name was French, but really, they would never assume he was a girl if it were ‘Pierre’ or ‘Henri.’

They’d learn well enough when the battalion from Beauxbatons arrived for the tournament Dumbledore had promised.

In the end, they saw more of the Eastern European contingency than the French, what with how the Durmstrang students joined their table in the Dining Hall. There didn’t seem to be much rhyme or reason to why Karkaroff’s students sat with them or why the students from Beauxbatons joined the Ravenclaws, but it worked out conveniently when the champion-naming debacle reared its ugly head. Slytherin had Krum the Quidditch God, Hufflepuff had Diggory, Ravenclaw had The Most Beautiful Girl to Ever Breathe Air, and Gryffindor had The Boy Who Cheated His Way Into the Tournament.

Okay, so they all had Diggory, supposedly, as their Hogwarts champion, since everyone outside of Gryffindor knew that Potter was a fraud. And they were supposed to all be united, supporting both the Hogwarts champions.

That didn’t stop the surprise from blindsiding Blaise when he found Malfoy and Parkinson chatting with MacMillan and Finchley and Susan Bones and Hannah… Hannah… Hannah Whatever-It-Was before breakfast one morning. Malfoy must have grown soft during third year.

All was explained when the ~~Down with Potter!~~ Up with Diggory! campaign spread through school.

The party after the task at the Lake marked an all-time high in Dungeon Relations. Students spent the evening running back and forth between the Hufflepuff and Slytherin common rooms, eating, drinking, and wildly cheering Pretty Boy Diggory’s success. He was winning – finally – and Potter kept on making stupid mistakes, like waiting around to save all the hostages. Thinking there was some kind of real danger lurking out there.

Blaise allowed Daphne to pull him into the Hufflepuff common room later that evening. (Since she let him take her to the Yule Ball, Blaise allowed Daphne to pull him anywhere she felt like going.) It was nice enough, all cosy pillows and whatnot. Plenty of nooks and crannies. Diggory sat there like a king on his throne, Chang perched atop his knee and a myriad of Hufflepufflets scurrying around him with drinks and food.

Chang wasn’t the only Ravenclaw around, either – he saw the entire Ravenclaw Quidditch team at the party, and Goldstein, and Boot, and Patil. And Patil. Both Patils, so at least some of Gryffindor was celebrating with them. It was almost as if… as if House didn’t matter at all. The WWN blared some loud music through the rooms, people started dancing, and the younger Pufflets kept them all knee high in pumpkin pasties and other sweets.

He literally bumped into Susan Bones at some point in the evening, a girl as nosy as she ever was.

‘Oh, Blaise!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re back now, right? Of course you are! You’re here, aren’t you?’ she said, answering her own question. He didn’t even really need to be there, he decided, and she would still feel like she had a full conversation with him. ‘You were gone last year, though. Er… Were you on the Hogwarts Express with us at the start of term?’

He opened his mouth to speak, but—

‘Yes, you were! I remember seeing you there. But last year, where did you— Oh, I bet I know where you went!’

She grabbed his arm and dragged him over to Finchley before he realised what had happened.

‘Since you both live in Switzerland when you’re not at Hogwarts, do you see each other everywhere you go?’

Justin looked like he wanted to be anywhere but next to Zabini. Evidently, he remembered the brush-off he’d received in their second year. ‘No, we don’t,’ he protested. ‘My family’s place isn’t even the same town as—’

‘Listen, Finchley,’ Blaise interrupted. ‘This is all right, you know? Diggory’s kicking arse for Hogwarts.’

‘Surprised, are you?’ Finchley challenged. ‘Surprised that a lowly Hufflepuff is winning?’

‘Yeah, well…’ Blaise offered as apologetically as possible without needing to apologise outright, ‘clearly, he’s the best one out there.’

‘You think so?’

‘If anyone asks, I’ll totally deny it, but there’s nobody from Slytherin that could do it.’

‘I know!’ Susan whispered conspiratorially. ‘Ced’s going to win. I can just feel it.’ She dropped her voice a little lower. ‘If only we didn’t have all that weird food in the Dining Hall these days.’

Justin snorted. ‘No-one’s forcing you to eat cabbage, Susan.’

She sighed dramatically. ‘Smelling it’s bad enough, don’t you think?’

‘It’s worth it to put up with beet stews and whatever else it is Krum likes,’ Justin said, grinning. ‘For French cuisine? I’d put up with almost anything sitting on the table.’

‘Oh, Merlin, yes,’ Blaise affirmed. ‘Those croissants at breakfast? The brioche?’

‘And that duck cassoulet we had last week,’ Finchley replied with a faraway look in his eye as Blaise nodded in agreement. ‘Divine.’

‘Was that the brown stew you were raving about?’ Susan questioned.

‘Brown stew? Brown stew?’ Justin asked in disbelief.

‘It was pretty good,’ she stated. ‘It’s no Sunday roast, but it wasn’t bad.’

Justin simply shook his head. ‘Plebian.’

‘What did you call me?’

‘Ah, it’s nothing, Susan,’ he said with a smile. ‘To each their own, yeah? I’ll keep the cassoulet, and you keep your Sunday roast.’

‘Whatever, Justin. Sometimes you’re a bit of a snob, though.’ She rolled her eyes and wandered off, leaving the boys there together.

‘It’s not snobbery if you’re right,’ Blaise stated plainly.

‘You think I’m right?’

‘I know you’re right.’ Blaise shrugged. ‘What I don’t know is why we had to wait three years to get better menus in this place.’

‘Where were you last year?’

‘Why do you care?’

‘Call it curiosity.’

‘Budapest.’

‘Why?’

‘Mother wanted…’ Blaise scanned the other boy’s face for any sign of judgement. It was open, clear. ‘Mother wanted us to live with the latest step-father.’

‘And you’re already back?’

‘Yes, well…’ He coughed awkwardly, avoiding Justin’s steady gaze, ready to move on from this line of questioning. ‘Mum never manages to stay married for long.’

Finchley clearly picked up on the cue to change topics. ‘The cassoulet, other than just being delicious, reminds me of this restaurant in Zurich near our house – Brasserie Orangerie. It might as well be the same chef, for all I know.’

‘Somehow, I doubt it,’ Blaise replied, thinking of just who was managing the kitchens at Hogwarts.

‘Yeah, I doubt it, too.’ Justin grinned. ‘But maybe there’s more to Zurich than meets the eye.’

A moment of silence passed between them.

‘I’ve never been there.’

‘It’s very orderly,’ Justin replied. ‘Probably the most organised city in all of Europe.’

‘Sounds like a lot of… fun.’

Justin laughed. ‘It’s brilliant, surrounded by mountains to hike. Great food. I’m rubbish with German, but nobody minds if you use English or French instead. We’re there because both my parents work in finance, and it’s a banking city.’

‘Banks.... run by people, sure.’ Blaise shook his head, trying to wrap his brain around such a foreign concept. He glanced around the room. None of his housemates were watching him.

‘Actually… Everyone in town calls the bankers the Gnomes of Zurich.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Nope. My dad died laughing when we walked into Gringotts for the first time and saw who was working behind the counters.’

Blaise smirked. ‘I’ll bet.’

‘The laughter may have stopped when he called one of the goblins a “gnome” and had his fingers threatened.’

‘They didn’t!’

‘Didn’t they?’ Justin plopped into one of the chairs a few seats away. ‘Now they have an uneasy sort of truce. Mum tells them bits and pieces of how banking works in the Muggle world, and she doesn’t ask any questions about how they run their operation. The goblins put up with my dad as long as he’s quiet, but I think a few of them are sweet on my mum.’

Blaise sat himself down across from Finchley. ‘Maybe I should convince Mother to visit Zurich next summer. We usually stay in Geneva.’

‘What’s it like there?’ Justin asked.

‘French, not German, for starters. But I don’t even know what Geneva’s like. We stay on the estate. Up on the lake.’

They stayed there chatting about everything and nothing until Daphne came back to pull Blaise back to their common room. He leaped out of his chair when he saw her heading towards him, and Finchley winked at him as the pretty girl dragged him off by the hand.

The rest of the year ran as expected, everyone madly finishing lessons and missing interhouse Quidditch play. Gearing up for the final task of the Triwizard Tournament during which time total Hogwarts supremacy would be handed down from on high.

That last afternoon, everyone lined up in the stadium around the Quidditch pitch. There honestly wasn’t much to see above all the mazes and whatnot – a puff of smoke here, a warning sign there – but half the fun was in guessing which of the four champions was ahead. It was a kind of boring afternoon, all things considered.

Which was why it was so strange when everything came crashing down.

It all happened so fast – Potter, on the field with Diggory’s body.

A chase through the castle while the student body was held on the field, then told to wait in their common rooms.

Rumours that Diggory hadn’t made it out.

Rumours that Diggory had… had died.

But that was impossible, wasn’t it? It was a game. Just a stupid game. A game presided over by a wizards as powerful as Dumbledore and Karkaroff and Madame Maxime and they wouldn’t just let a fellow student – wouldn’t let Cedric die.

Students didn’t die.

Then Diggory’s parents showed up.

And everyone said Potter was hidden away in the Infirmary while they were all supposed to act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened and sit their exams.

Be normal.

Be fine.

And then they come to find out that a lunatic had taken over their DADA professor’s body for the entire school year and nobody had noticed. There were rumblings that You-Know-Who was back, and there was the way that Crabbe and Goyle and Malfoy and all the children of Death Eaters were pointedly ignoring him.

Blaise vaguely knew he had taken his exams, but there was no recalling a single essay he had written or a single potion he had brewed. He ate in the Dining Hall and slept in his dormitory and walked through the halls, but everything in that last week was hazy.

When the time came, everyone sat there in silence as the headmaster spoke final words over Cedric, who really wasn’t coming back. Words about the right choices not being easy.

Well.

Well.

And suddenly, everyone was standing on the Hogsmeade platform, waiting for the train to return them home. Standing as quietly as they ever had, since nobody was much for idle talking.

‘So…’ Justin said, looking over at him somberly. ‘Budapest?’

‘No. Switzerland.’

‘Same. All summer long?’

Blaise nodded. ‘I’ll be glad to leave. This isn’t… Isn’t…’

Real? Isn’t right?

Justin looked him square in the eyes. ‘No. No, it’s not.’

*

And then it was summer.

And he was back with his mum in their perfect house with their perfect life.

He could almost forget everything that had happened at the end of the year, but everything slowly dredged itself to surface as he brought his mum up to speed on his life. She wasn’t good with owls, but was wonderful to talk to, face to face. So the first thing she did after he settled back in at every holiday was to talk him through everything that had happened since she had seen him last.

If not everything, well, then, at least the important things. How was Daphne? Had anything happened since the Yule Ball? Had he tried to befriend Krum? Madame Lefèvre had a daughter, she thought, a student at Beauxbatons. Had he met her? Was he getting along with his housemates? His head of house? The headmaster?

She never asked if anyone he knew had died, so he didn’t mention Cedric.

She never asked if he was happy.

But he was, most of the time, and he was happiest when he was with her. Always had been. He’d been raised on the best of everything, and that went a long way in keeping anyone happy. They had travelled the world together between all the Husbands she’d kept. Dined at the finest restaurants, stayed in the most luxurious hotels.

There were questions he never asked.

What was his father like? He’d wondered since he was a little boy. But he was curious about more mundane things, too.

Why was a pure-blood Slytherin like Crabbe, gormless fool that he was, preferable to… hypothetically, a sensible half-blood Ravenclaw? Or a Muggle-born Hufflepuff with money and taste?

For that matter, why Hogwarts at all, when he could have been at Beauxbatons?

But he never asked.

And then he was back there again.

Back to wondering what really had happened last year. Everyone seemed to think Potter was off his nut, that Dumbledore was inciting fear in the public over nothing.

The Ministry had things under control.

Not made prefect. Then again, neither was Potter. Or Finchley. Dumbledore clearly was off his rocker, leaving the school in the hands of Weasley and Malfoy.

Umbridge. Ugh. This should have been the year in Budapest. Or anywhere else. If only he could have convinced Mother Zabini to go find Number Eight and take him with her.

And at one point, Finchley (and MacMillan, grumbling all the way) cornered him after lessons, asking him rather obliquely if he was worried about missing out on basic defence information, what with Umbridge’s restrictions and all. He had no clue what they were really asking him about, because after a few rounds of questions and his strongly voiced desire to stay out of it, the Hufflepuffs dropped it and left him alone.

Article in the Quibbler. Hmm.

Revision for O.W.L.s. He’d had plenty of time to study, since all his housemates kept busy, running around as flunkies for the Cardigan Nightmare.

And he headed home again to wait for exam results when Mother Zabini introduced him to her latest suitor. It’s almost as if they don’t know her track record, he thought, the way they keep flocking to her side. This one lasted forty minutes into dinner before mentioning his younger sister’s marriage to a Muggle-born, and was summarily dismissed in two sentences: ‘You’ll be leaving now, Charles. As if I would ever touch a filthy blood traitor.’

Right.

A helpful reminder of what was acceptable, and what wasn’t.

Four Outstandings, Two Exceeds Expectations, One Acceptable.

*

Sixth year. Slug Club. Malfoy, an evil little git.

It was obvious that trouble was coming, but Blaise wanted nothing to do with it. Head down, mouth shut.

It was also an open secret in Slytherin that You-Know-Who was back (and Potter was right, damnit), and the fathers of everyone he knew were back at His beck and call.

And then Dumbledore was dead.

*

There was no point in going back. This was his argument, at least, when he spoke to his mum about it. The world was going spare and he wanted no part of it. But no, she wouldn’t hear it, and back on the train he went.

Back to a school run by a Death Eater, with an inbred pair of new “Professors” to teach them nothing.

Back to a school with roughly three-quarters of its students, all Muggle-borns conspicuously absent. And Potty and Granger and the Weasel along with them. At the end of September, Blaise noticed that the Great Hall was even emptier than usual. By the time the winter holidays rolled around, only half of the students remained.

When he joined Mother Zabini in Greece for Christmas, he returned to the same argument.

And necessity led him to start asking some of the questions he’d avoided for such a long time.

‘Why are you pretending You-Know-Who isn’t back?’

‘Why do N.E.W.T.s even matter now?’

‘What do I do if something… if something… when something explodes?’

She countered with a few of her own.

‘Are you in any immediate danger?’

‘Are you drawing any attention to yourself?’

‘Do you have a reason to believe things go pear-shaped before the end of the year?’

And with the hope that he would finish his school years out unnoticed, Blaise returned in January. With the promise that he would flee the country if he had reason to, and the reassurance of a Portkey to each of their homes tucked away in his trunk.

Back to even fewer students. Dozens failed to return after the holiday break, like Lovegood and Corner. The delectable Weaslette and Malfoy were gone at the Easter holidays. Longbottom, who seemed to possess hitherto unsuspected bollocks in spades, was gone soon afterwards.

Each time they disappeared, Blaise wondered. Where were they now? Thomas and Finchley and the other Muggle-borns probably just stayed at home, wherever that was. But Longbottom seemed determined to stay and fight, so he couldn’t have run away, could he? MacMillan and Brown and Finnegan and the Patils and Boot and nearly everyong else in his year went missing then, too. Since Malfoy had made it quite clear that he was called by You-Know-Who for a special assignment, so he was probably with him now.

Just a few more months, and Blaise would be free of it all.

A few more months.

But one late spring night, it was evident that wasn’t going to happen.

He first heard a commotion in the halls, but he stayed in his common room and waited. A few minutes later, a student ran in, telling stories of the professors gathering to fight and… and… Harry Potter, back as well.

Blaise bolted down the hallway to his dormitory, flinging open the trunk to grab one of his Portkeys. By the time he made it back to the common room, the other Slytherin students were being led out the door by Slughorn. Blaise joined the tail of the queue as they all headed up to the Great Hall.

As he took his usual place at the Slytherin table, he saw a number of people he only vaguely knew, like the Weasley twins and some Aurors he’d seen before. All the people who’d been missing for so long: MacMillan. Brown. Longbottom.

And Potter.

A high, clear voice rang out over the crowds, and all listened as Voldemort demanded Potter’s blood.

Well.

The House of Slytherin made a fairly terrible showing, with Parkinson offering to send him up as a sacrifice, and all the students volunteering to evacuate first.

And he would join them. No doubt in his mind. He was leaving, and he had to make it to this evacuation point the masses were being herded towards.

But before he left, he needed to know what was happening. Needed to see it himself.

He Disillusioned himself while he was walking out with his fellow housemates, stepped out of the queue, and watched. Watched as battle plans were drawn out, fighters sent to their places atop the highest towers of Hogwarts in defence.

The odd thing was Potter.

Potter, who wasn’t fighting at all, but looking for something.

Potter, who followed the crowds up the stairs, but sought out conversation with a ghost.

Blaise stayed to listen to as much of their talk as he could, but as the last of the students marched away, he rejoined the students leaving. No amount of curiosity could make him stay.

Not than anyone would let him… Even if he wanted to.

To the evacuation.

Free on the other side, he grabbed the Portkey, unsure of which house he was rapidly hurtling towards. A few moments later, he landed with a soft thump in a grand hall.

In Geneva, then.

He called around for his mum, but she wasn’t there. He sent an owl to her, wherever she was, and began the process of Flooing from house to house in order to find her. London? That’s where he’d usually find her this time of year, but no. Greece? No again. He returned to the Geneva home.

Alone.

She would receive his owl and come sooner or later, but until then, he was alone.

Every nerve in his body was singing with anticipation and anxiety, contemplating what he’d left behind.

And on a whim, he sent one more owl. This one, with explicit instructions not to deliver his letter unless the recipient was in Zurich.

It was just before midnight, and he tried to go to bed. Sleep proved impossible. He lay in bed for seven hours before the tapping of an owl on glass alerted him to his first response.

I mentioned a restaurant to you once during our fourth year. Do you remember? Meet me there for breakfast.

So he left a note on the hall table for his mum in case she returned in his absence. He didn’t want her to worry. Not now.

And he left. Apparated once to Bern, then once again. With a bit of help from someone on the street, he found the tall oak doors below a swinging metal sign: Brasserie Orangerie. And saw, at a small table in the corner, seated next to a well-dressed older woman and the face of someone he hadn’t seen in almost a year.

‘Er… Hello, Finchley.’

‘Zabini.’ He gestured to the open chair across from him.

Blaise dropped into it wordlessly. He looked at the boy across from him, stern and collected and quiet, and a waiter came by to take his order. He rifled through the menu, ordered a light pastry and some tea, and finally looked at the unknown entity at the table with him.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Blaise said, turning the woman beside Finchley. ‘I’m Blaise Zabini. A classmate of your…’

‘Son’s,’ she finished. ‘I’m Anne Finch-Fletchley. My son has told me quite a bit about you, Mr Zabini.’

‘Blaise, please.’

‘All right.’ A taut smile came to her lips, all politeness and reserve. ‘Blaise.’

Justin’s curiosity finally snapped. ‘What the hell is happening, Zabini? You left Hogwarts?’

Blaise proceeded to fill him on all he’d heard, all he’d seen, and all he didn’t know. And Finchley pressed him for more, asking for names of who had stayed, who had left, who had disappeared.

After twenty minutes, Mrs Finch-Fletchley growing paler by the minute, Blaise finally asked. ‘How have you been? Where have you been all this time?’

Justin laughed bitterly. ‘I didn’t have much of a choice, you know. When word went out that no Muggle-borns were allowed back, I convinced my family to move here. Just until things… sorted themselves out.’

‘Any word on how we get news here?’ Blaise asked.

‘It’s been spotty.’ Justin’s voice dropped low, his fingers running idly along the rim of his cup. ‘Truthfully, it’s been maddening, not knowing what’s going on or if everyone’s all right.’

‘Longbottom would shock the hell out of you, that’s for sure,’ Zabini countered. ‘I don’t think anyone can touch him now.’

‘Well,’ Justin drawled slowly, ‘as someone who’s seem him training, I’ll simply say that I don’t find that particularly surprising.’

Blaise didn’t respond, knowing a chastisement when he heard one.

‘And you say Harry was talking to the ghosts?’

He nodded.

‘Strange, that.’

The waiter came by to replenish their hot water, and the table’s awkward silence threatened to overtake them again.

‘Did you consider staying?’

No. Yes. No, he thought in rapid succession. He looked at Justin for a moment, considering his response. ‘Do you think anyone would have trusted me if I did?’

He merely nodded. ‘No.’

‘I didn’t think so, either.’

The three odd companions ate and drank, and Mrs Finch-Fletchley gradually warmed to Blaise as she asked about his family and his interests.

Suddenly, his own mother burst into the restaurant and ran to their table.

‘Darling!’ she exclaimed, drawing him into a hug before holding him out at arm’s length, checking him for injuries. ‘You made it out unharmed?’

‘Yes,’ he muttered quietly. ‘I’m fine, Mother.’

‘Do join us,’ Mrs Finch-Fletchley replied, signaling the waiter to pull up another chair.

Blaise made the round of introductions at the table quickly, and found that his mother clearly approved of the Finchley and his mum. She eyed their custom-fitted clothing, the diamond necklace sitting above her clavicle, and she responded with all friendliness. He saw that his mother was still confused as to his connection with Finchley. Not shocking, really, since he’d never mentioned him before.

‘Justin and I are in the same year at Hogwarts, Mum.’

‘Are you in Slytherin House?’

‘Hufflepuff.’ Justin stared Mrs Zabini down and pointedly replied, ‘My blood’s a bit muddy for Slytherin, you see.’

Her gaze snapped to her son, visibly upset.

And Mrs Finch-Fletchley, clearly missing out on the subtext of the conversation, tried to explain what she knew to the woman across from her.

‘Our sons are friends at Hogwarts, Mrs Zabini,’ she stated. ‘Although it’s been a year since my son was allowed in.’

‘Zabinis don’t have friends,’ she snapped, standing abruptly and hauling Blaise up beside her. ‘Not with your kind.’

Mrs Finch-Fletchley looked to her son, confused. He merely leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes in defeat.

Mother Zabini turned on her heel and walked to the door. ‘Blaise!’ she called sharply. ‘We’re leaving.’

With a nod and a sad smile to the older woman, and one last glance at the boy who was firmly ignoring him, Blaise followed her out to the street.

That was the last he had seen of him. Of anyone from Hogwarts, really, until he was called back.

* * *

‘Mister Zabini?’ the clerk asks politely. ‘Are you quite all right?’

Blaise looks over at the woman speaking to him. Cheap dress robes, tacky necklace. But he needs to play nice. He opens his mouth to respond.

Then Sprout pipes up. ‘What is this about your opposition to... to friendship, is it, Mister Zabini?’

He grimaces at the absurd direction this conversation has taken. Rolls his eyes.

‘I have no opposition to friendship,’ he states calmly.

‘Then what did Mr Finch-Fletchley mean?’ the clerk asks.

Blaise turns to him and glowers. ‘He’s never heard me use those words. Have you, Justin?’

Finchley shakes his head. ‘Does that make them less true?’

Blaise starts to grow angry. ‘It’s so easy for you to sit there and judge me. You have no idea what it’s like to have certain expectations placed on your shoulders before you even know what they mean.’

‘Don’t I?’ Justin snorts sarcastic laughter. ‘No, I wouldn’t know a thing about that. You wouldn’t believe the work McGonagall had to do to convince my family to drop all expectations of their son’s proper place at a proper institution to let me attend Hogwarts. Or the thinly veiled disappointment voiced each time they told me what my younger brother was up to at Eton that term.’

‘Pure-blood expectations are different,’ he replies. ‘Even if you don’t buy all the rubbish about purity of blood and magical lines, you of all people can acknowledge that old, established families seek out their same kind. Isn’t that what your family was doing for you?’

Justin fidgets in his seat.

‘And it’s easier when you don’t have to deal with the Muggle-born problem. No need for the Headmistress to plead your case when you already have magic in your family.’

‘But you have no control over who you are and who your family is,’ Hermione argues. ‘This is something I’ve never understood about you, Blaise—’

‘I’d say you understand next to nothing about me, Granger, since we’ve exchanged words, what, twice in six years of school?’

‘What I’ve never understood,’ she plows ahead, arms in the air, ‘was your firm stance on bloodlines. From you, I mean. I would think that you would understand, what with your race, that people—‘

‘I’ll stop you right there, Granger,’ he says, furious at her presumption. ‘It has nothing to do with race. If anything, it has more to do with class. With taste. Being established. You wouldn’t get it.’

The rest of the panel is silent as Blaise speaks up to the floor as a whole. ‘This is a joke. You say you want to build bridges, mend fences. But you can’t. Not while every other house looks at the students of Slytherin as Death Eaters in training.’ He stares determinedly at the table as he trudges on. ‘Everyone says how shocked they were that no one from Slytherin stayed to fight in the Battle.’

Slughorn coughs loudly from his seat.

‘Except for you, sir. I know – we know – you stayed.’ He looks up at Granger. ‘Can you honestly say that anyone would have let me join you?’

‘Would you have really wanted to?’ she asks plaintively.

He doesn’t answer.

She looks around the room nervously. ‘I wasn’t there, Blaise. Not when they were figuring all of that out. I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘How could we trust you? You were never a member of Dumbledore’s Army, you—‘

‘How big was this group everyone talks about?’ Blaise asks. ‘Was every student fighting for Hogwarts in this DA?’

She gulps slowly. ‘No.’

‘It’s not like you could be defiant in Slytherin, you know. It wasn’t safe. Not after the start of our fifth year, at least. What were you supposed to do in a house whose students openly talked about their families’ connections to You-Know-Who? It’s not Snape could have—’

‘Don’t you dare say anything against Professor Snape.’ Granger’s voice was grim. ‘He was a great man.’

‘I won’t deny it. But there was enough talk that he was a Death Eater at the time, so it’s not like he was a confidante. There were a lot of us, you know. People who wanted nothing to do with You-Know-Who. But you couldn’t fight back without putting your family in danger. The most you could hope for was neutral.’

The room is silent.

And Justin speaks up. ‘Switzerland.’

Blaise catches himself almost grinning. ‘So to speak.’

Professor McGonagall then addresses him thoughtfully. ‘Thank you for your thoughts, Mister Zabini. They are most enlightening.’

Blaise looks down at his hands. ‘I don’t think I was supposed to say any of that, was I?’

No-one replies.

‘I know what the panel says they’re discussing is house politics and the future of the house system,’ he continues, ‘but what we’re really talking about is what to do with Slytherin, aren’t we? Whether or not to disband houses altogether while people forget what Slytherin stood for in this war?’

Silence.

‘I don’t know what the answer is. Not while house politics are so entrenched in family lines, and family lines continue whether or not the house system is in place.’

After a few moments, the clerk redirects the panel to the next docket on the discussion list, almost as though Blaise had never said a word. And although they continue to talk for another two and a half hours, he is not called upon for his opinion again. He doesn’t even listen to what they say. Doesn’t know what they’ve decided, or if the Board has decided anything at all. After all, nothing will come of this, will it?

Be healed?

Be excellent?

Maybe someday.

He packs up his things quietly after they are dismissed. Walks out of the ugliest room in all of England and down the stairs to the street below. As he rounds the corner, he hears a voice calling his name.

‘Zabini? Zabini!’

He stops. Turns.

‘Where are you now?’

‘Mostly Geneva. Sometimes Greece.’ He shrugs. ‘Never London. Not anymore.’

‘Well… I’m back in Zurich full time now. Finally picked up enough German during that last year to become a passably functional person there.’

‘Took you long enough. I thought you were supposed to be passably clever. Eton, right?’

‘Right.’ He laughs. ‘I take lunch every Monday at a little restaurant there.’

Blaise nods.

‘Do you remember?’

‘I do.’

Justin claps him on the shoulder and walks away, waving over his shoulder.

‘Next week, then?’

* * *

finis

* * *

Fic: Harry’s Man, Through and Through for ofankoma

springmod — Thu, 24 May 2012 05:35:59 GMT

Title: Harry’s Man, Through and Through
Author: snorkackcatcher
Recipient: ofankoma
Characters: Neville, Dumbledore, Harry (indirectly)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Neville is not the Chosen One. He’s okay with that.
Words: 2,700

One of Neville’s earliest memories is of hiding behind the sofa, forgotten, while his grandmother talks to an important visitor, an old man with long silver hair and beard.

“I will, of course, tell him that his parents are heroes.” Grandma’s voice breaks for a moment. “And what horrors You-Know-Who’s creatures are capable of.”

The old man pauses before answering. “Please be careful what you say, Augusta. It is tragedy enough that he will never know Frank and Alice as rational adults. At this stage, he does not need to know of the dreadful things that magic can do when used by such as the Lestranges.”

Neville does not understand, even after Grandma tells him the stories of things that happened before he can remember – of the terrifying wizard defeated by a little boy like himself, of the bad wizards and witch who served him and who hurt his mum and dad so badly they have to spend all their time in hospital. When he is finally old enough to be taken to see his parents, the shock scares him so much that he doesn’t know if he ever wants to do magic himself.

If it can only hurt them and it can’t make them better, what’s it for?

Grandma is cautious with the details of what happened to his parents and Neville struggles to understand anyway, but he eventually learns that they were in hiding, and then they weren't, and then they were tortured with something called the ‘Cruciatus Curse’. He often lies awake in bed trying to imagine how the curse would feel – like a sting, a scald, a broken bone maybe, only even worse, and over and over and over and over...

He tries to picture what he would do if he met the people who did it, and the revenge he would take on them, how he would beat and smash and tear at them until they cried.

As time passes he tries to forget instead; indeed, forgetting things becomes a habit.

= * = * = * = * = * =

Over the years, Neville has heard so much about the Boy Who Lived that he is unable to imagine him as merely another boy like himself. He pictures a figure of commanding height and power, with his famous scar shining like a lighthouse beacon to mark him out as a leader, his followers rushing to carry out his orders.

When he finally gets to Hogwarts and actually meets Harry Potter personally, it takes a bit of getting used to.

But as Neville learns more about the real Harry, he comes to realise that he’s just as impressive as the legendary one, in his own way. He’s still someone you look up to, someone who takes the lead when he needs to. And as year follows year, as Harry gets himself into and then gets himself out of a series of amazing scrapes – stopping You-Know-Who from getting the Stone, killing giant snakes with swords, flying past dragons – Neville wonders if maybe there’s something to the legend after all.

And yet he doesn’t put on airs the way Draco Malfoy does, but leaps to the defence of the underdog, and encourages hopeless cases like … well, like himself. Neville can only dream of being that sort of Gryffindor, and often wishes he had not let the Sorting Hat talk him into being put there (even if it did please his gran), but Harry is clearly a proper Gryffindor, the real thing.

It doesn’t matter that he’s short and that his scar doesn’t glow in the dark.

= * = * = * = * = * =

Everyone assumes that something has gone terribly wrong with the Third Task, and Neville knows they must be right when neither Harry nor Ron return to the dormitory that night, but he doesn’t expect it to be connected to him in any way. Nor does he expect Professor Dumbledore himself to call him into his office the following morning.

He listens with an increasing sense of disbelief as the headmaster gently explains that the man he has known as Professor Moody, the man he has looked up to, has trusted, was in truth one of his parents’ torturers. “How – how could you let him work here?” he asks before he can stop himself. “Sir,” he adds quickly, as he struggles to quell a double sense of betrayal.

A look of bitter regret momentarily crosses Dumbledore’s face. “I was taken in, as were we all. I can only apologise to you, Mr Longbottom. While there are many of us willing to take the fight to Lord Voldemort –” Neville flinches, for more than one reason “– it remains the case that any mistake we make may have terrible consequences.” Dumbledore fixes him with a piercing look, and continues softly, “But you are no doubt tired of being pitied for the heroism of your parents. I can say only that while they willingly joined me in the fight, their unfortunate fate remains one of my most bitter regrets. If they are of any value to you, Mr Longbottom, you have my heartfelt apologies for that also.”

Neville does not know what to say to this. “What have they done with him, sir?” he asks eventually. He can hear the bitter edge in his voice, and is amazed at his own boldness. “Have they sent him back to Azkaban? He should be punished for what he did!”

Professor Dumbledore removes his spectacles and rubs his eyes, and he looks so tired that Neville is shocked into silence. “I am afraid that no further punishment can touch him now. No doubt you are aware of the effect of what is known as a Dementor’s Kiss?”

Neville gapes at him. This is so horrible, even compared to what happened to his parents, that for the first time he is not sure whether he wants revenge.

= * = * = * = * = * =

The headline of Hermione’s discarded newspaper is the first thing that catches his eye. The familiar names in the caption are the second.

‘Bellatrix Lestrange, convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom.’

Neville’s gaze follows the page up to the picture that sits above it, to the other pictures beside it. Now he knows what his enemies look like.

An image of ‘Mad-Eye Moody’ flashes across his mind, and unwillingly he inspects his conscience; does he wish for the Lestranges to suffer the same fate? He can’t tell, and puts the matter aside until he can decide. Forgetting is still half a habit.

But now there are things he mustn’t forget, new things he has to master, somehow, for this has given him clarity in one thing above all others; the time has come for him to join Harry in the fight, just as his parents joined Dumbledore.

It terrifies him, but for the first time he knows what he wants magic for.

= * = * = * = * = * =

Fury and hatred win out over terror, despite the dangers, despite his injuries.

They carry him forward into the chamber where the Death Eaters have cornered Harry, but instead of revenge there is only the humiliation of not being able to cast a proper spell, of being captured and held helpless, of finally coming face to face with Bellatrix Lestrange and being unable to strike her down.

But this gives him bravery, if defiance is brave. “DON’D GIB ID DO DEM, HARRY!” Just like his parents, he would rather face the Cruciatus Curse than let them get away with it.

And then he discovers what the Cruciatus Curse really feels like.

Neville cannot tell, in that moment or afterwards, whether he wants Harry to save him by offering the prophecy or not; but he does not have to, as first his old teachers and then Dumbledore himself come to save them. But one thing he does learn is that there is fact behind the legend; his friend is somehow connected to You-Know-Who. Neville is one of the first (but by no means the last) who speculates that this means Harry is prophesied to bring him down.

It is not a task he envies him, but he intends to give him every bit of support he can. He knows now that there are priorities more important than his own revenge to worry about.

And he knows now that he can fight.

= * = * = * = * = * =

Neville is in a chair by the fire, trying to master the theory he needs for his Charms N.E.W.T. essay, when Ron and Hermione return from their final prefect rounds of the night and confirm that the ‘Chosen One’ rumours are true.

“… always did wonder why he tried to kill Harry in the first place.”

“So did I, actually. But if he knew it had to be someone born at the end of July, it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Even though they talk in low voices as they pass through the deserted common room, Neville is sure they have not realised he is there, hidden from view by the high back of the chair. A second later, the full import of Hermione’s words hits him.

The end of July. It could have been him that You-Know-Who tried to kill. That must have been why his parents had been in hiding.

A second after that, a question arises: was that why the Death Eaters came for them afterwards? Neville slams his fist down on the table as he remembers that he could have known, if it had not been for the disaster in the Department of Mysteries. What had that prophecy said?

Hermione has often given him hints about his homework. This time, she’s given him a hint of something much more important.

= * = * = * = * = * =

Weeks pass, and it becomes clear that Harry, Ron and Hermione are not going to talk about the prophecy to anyone else. Neville can think of only one other person who might be able to tell him what he wants to know, and he is absent more often than not.

Then one evening when he is potting some Botswanan Burrowing Bulbs for Professor Sprout, Dumbledore strolls past the greenhouse.

“Sir!” Neville calls. In his haste he drops his bulb to the ground, where it promptly begins tunnelling. Dumbledore turns to him in surprise, and Neville blurts out his question without thinking. “It could have been me, sir, couldn’t it? The prophecy, I mean?”

Dumbledore meets his eyes, and to Neville’s immense relief he does not take offence or waste time pretending ignorance. “Yes, Mr Longbottom, since you ask, in principle it could have been you. I would say however – and I am sure Harry would fervently agree – that being the ‘Chosen One’ is far from a blessing.”

“I know, sir,” replies Neville, abashed. “But – what does it say?”

“Harry has not chosen to tell you?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I think I should not do so either.”

“But I want to help!”

Dumbledore hesitates. “Mr Longbottom, I have found it advisable in matters such as this not to tell people more than they need to know at any given time,” he says eventually. “I am aware that it places great and perhaps unreasonable demands on their trust. It may be that I have encouraged Harry to act in the same manner. If so, I can only say that I consider him an entirely worthy recipient of your trust.”

“So do I, sir,” Neville says quietly.

“I see.” Dumbledore considers him. “You have already fought one battle at Harry’s side. It may well be the case that you will have to fight many more, ones in which I will not be able to save you. Are you prepared for that?”

“I’ll fight with him all the way, whatever happens. Whether he confides in me or not.” There is no doubt in Neville’s mind, nor in his voice, which surprises him for a moment until he realises that he has come to that conclusion a long time before.

There is the hint of a tear in Dumbledore’s eye. “You are Harry’s man through and through.”

Neville stands up tall. “Yes, sir.”

= * = * = * = * = * =

He fights battles for most of the following year.

None of them are at Harry’s side, but they are on Harry’s side, and Neville knows that is much more important. He finds that it doesn’t matter to him that Harry hasn’t told him exactly what he’s doing, because he doesn’t need to know. All he needs to know is that they are both doing what they need to do, both of them taking the fight to Voldemort and his creatures in their own way.

Of course, without Harry there someone has to take the lead, and to Neville’s surprise people seem to look up to him, seem to think that he’s that someone. He tries to follow Harry’s example; don’t put on airs, defend the underdog, and encourage students who need a bit of help, however hopeless things look. It doesn’t seem to matter that the only scars Neville has have come from the Carrows. Resistance to their regime is difficult and dangerous, but it’s the only thing to do for a proper Gryffindor, the kind Neville is determined to be.

And then finally, when he does not know how much longer he can keep up the act, the portrait of the teenage girl beckons him down the corridor to meet the three people he has most longed to see; and he calls everyone who can come to meet them.

He knows that they will all finally get the chance to fight at Harry’s side again, and this time they will win.

= * = * = * = * = * =

Fury and hatred are again stronger than his terror, as is his desire for revenge.

They carry him forward towards Voldemort and his snake. Neville does not care whether he gets a chance to cast a spell or not, so long as he makes an attempt. If Harry has sacrificed himself for them, the only thing he can do is try to fulfil his last request, as one last act of homage to his friend; and that gives him all the courage he needs.

It doesn’t work, but his courage gives him defiance. “Dumbledore’s Army!” he cries, and the answering shouts give him hope that some at least will still fight. He even has the wild idea that if Harry is not the one born to bring Voldemort down, maybe he’s supposed to do it?

And then as paralysis grips him and the Sorting Hat is forced onto his head, he discovers what terror really feels like.

As the Hat catches fire he can sense its presence in his head. It says in agonised tones, “You are a proper Gryffindor,” and then something slams very hard onto his crown. The pain makes him flinch, and with a sudden rush of joy he realises that the spell is not holding him immobile, that he can move. With one swift, fluid motion he throws off the Hat and reaches into it, and is not at all surprised when his hand grips the pommel of a sword.

The giant snake is first. One slash of the sword is enough.

Voldemort is next, but to his surprise the battle has restarted before he can reach him, and this time they’re winning. Then he hears Hagrid roar “WHERE’S HARRY?” and looks down to see that Harry’s body has vanished. It gives him welcome clarity; if Voldemort’s spell on him could fail, then surely Harry too can still be alive?

He still has no clue what the prophecy could have said, but one thing he is sure of is that the legend can become fact.

= * = * = * = * = * =

One of Neville’s fondest memories is of standing in the Great Hall, forgotten, while a wand flies through the air towards a young man with untidy black hair and a scar.

Fic: Saturdays Are For Football.. for ojuzu

springmod — Wed, 23 May 2012 05:44:02 GMT

Title: Saturdays Are For Football (The Rest of the Week is for Everything Else)
Author: pitry
Recipient: ojuzu
Character(s): Blaise Zabini, Dean Thomas
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~4200 words.
Warnings (if any): language, vague discussion of war crimes and racism.
Summary: Once a week, every week, Dean Thomas allowed himself to pretend nothing had ever happened.
Author's Notes (if any): I played a bit with a few of your prompts, hope you like how it all came together!
Betas: With huge, unending thanks to my beta k for her wonderful and fast work. All mistakes still in the text are mine.

Blaise’s grandfather had a brother, and that brother had a Squib son, and that son ended up marrying some Muggle. It wasn’t something they ever thought or talked about; it was just one of those embarrassing things about his family that he kept to himself. But these days things were different.

They weren’t in any danger, of course. He didn’t have any Death Eaters in his family, so it wasn’t like his family did anything wrong. They didn’t have to pay reparations like the Malfoys and no one was sent to Azkaban like the Goyles. But like his mother had said, this was about practicality. Blaise was a Pure-blood Slytherin, his mother was a Pure-blood Slytherin, his father was a Pure-blood Slytherin, and their parents, too. Things would definitely be more comfortable if it were known they had Muggle relatives.

But in order to boast about it - or, at least, drop the information that he had Muggle relatives into the conversation, they needed to know them. And so, one Saturday afternoon, Blaise and his mother found themselves paying a visit to his uncle-once-removed’s wife’s sister. And her son.

They lived in a small house in East London. Blaise’s mother looked disdainfully at the neighbourhood, with its not-very-clean streets and shards of broken glass on the pavement and a few too many stray cats, and sighed. “Are you sure this is the place?” she asked as they faced number 26, as if hoping Blaise would say no and spare her the need to knock.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Number 26, that’s what the note says.”

“Well, let’s get it over with,” she said and knocked on the door.

A few moments later, the door was opened by a small woman. She looked at them in confusion, at their fancy clothes that looked so out of place in this street and at their unhappy expressions, and wrinkled her brow. “May I help you?” she asked.

“Are you Tanya Thomas?” Blaise’s mother asked, trying to sound as friendly as possible.

“Yes - oh, you’re the Zabinis, aren’t you! Come in, come in!”

She showed them to a small living room, that was cluttered and shabby and looked just as grey as the street outside. On a sofa, in front of what Blaise was pretty sure was a television, Tanya Thomas’s son sat and watched some sports match. “Come on come on come on!” he told the television. Blaise looked at him in confusion - from the little he remembered about that thing, it wasn’t interactive at all. Perhaps he was wrong, and it wasn’t a television?

The son didn’t even lift his head from the screen. He looked about Blaise’s age, and a bit familiar, too. Was it possible he knew him? But he didn’t know any Muggles. He was probably just confusing him for someone else. All Muggles looked the same to him, anyway.

“Dean!” Mrs Thomas said, sounding slightly annoyed. “We’ve got company.”

“Just a second, just a second, he’s going to, come on come on - Argh!” he called in disappointment, then turned his eyes from the television and looked at Blaise’s mother. Then his gaze fell on Blaise, and he froze in his place.

“These are the Zabinis, Dean, they’re - ”

“I know who they are,” Dean said quietly. “Blaise Zabini, right?”

“I’m sorry,” Blaise said, slightly wrong-footed - which was absurd, he was a Zabini, after all! - “Have we met?”

Dean Thomas bit his lip. “I’m in - I was in your year. At Hogwarts. Gryffindor.”

Oh. But he was a Muggle - oh. “Erm. Hi.” Dean gave him one more look, then sat back on the sofa to watch his television.

“Well, you two sit here and watch the game, we should go and make some tea,” Mrs Thomas said, and took Blaise’s mother with her somewhere. With nothing better to do, Blaise sat on the sofa next to Dean.

“What’s that?”

“Football. West Ham versus Manchester United.”

Blaise watched what looked like a bunch of people chasing one small ball. No one was on broomsticks. It looked completely pointless. “Who’s your team?” he asked, because he didn’t have anything better to ask.

“West Ham.”

“And they’re winning?”

“Against Man U?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Blaise shrugged.

“Beckham’s playing for Manchester.”

Blaise didn’t even bother asking who ‘Beckham’ was or how that affected matters. After a while and a few more questions - and when even Blaise could see the game was not going well for Dean’s team - Dean became less absorbed in the game and started explaining the rules to Blaise. It was nothing compared to Quidditch, of course, but as the minutes went by and the men on the screen ran and ran, he could actually see the appeal of the game. By the end of it, he even had an opinion about Beckham, but he didn’t tell Dean that. He had a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Listen, that was kind of fun,” he told Dean before he left with his mother. “When is there another game?”

“There’s a game every Saturday,” Dean shrugged in a non-committed way.

“You’re watching them?”

“Usually, yeah.”

“Mind if I come here next week? To watch the game? I mean, we don’t have a television.”

Dean hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, alright.”

“See you next Saturday.”

He came the next week, and the one after that, and the one after that. He was surprised how much he enjoyed it - eating crisps, drinking beer, and discussing the games with Dean. In no time at all, he fashioned himself quite the authority on football. It wasn’t a difficult game to learn, much simpler than Quidditch, but in a way, it was a part of its charm. It also helped that Dean was more than forthcoming when it came to explaining the game. Actually, talking to Dean also turned out much less awkward than he expected, as long as they didn’t branch out too much with conversation topics.

He made the mistake of talking about the war once, about a month after he started showing up at Dean’s house on Saturdays. “You know,” he said, “sorry I didn’t recognise you that first time.”

“S’okay,” Dean mumbled.

“I wasn’t - I mean - we don’t have any Death Eaters in the family, you know.”

Dean didn’t answer.

“So it wasn’t us.”

“Yes, it was you,” Dean said, still staring at the television, his voice completely calm.

Blaise looked at him in confusion. “Pardon?”

“Weren’t you friends with Malfoy? And Goyle? And the rest of that lot?” Then Dean stopped looking at the television, and looked at Blaise, instead. His voice was still completely calm. “And how many times did you pass by a Muggle-born in the corridors and called them Mudblood?”

Blaise tried very hard to remember whether he had ever called Dean a Mudblood. The problem was that, since he didn’t really remember Dean at all, he couldn’t quite trust his memory on that. He wanted to say that ‘Mudblood’ was just a word and nothing like what the Death Eaters did, but something in Dean’s expression told him it was better to let it go.

“Look, Malfoy’s an adult, I’m not responsible for what he did,” he said, annoyed.

“Let’s just watch the game,” Dean said quietly. Blaise didn’t mention it again.

Another time they had an argument about the Ministry. Blaise didn’t even remember how they ended up on that topic, but they missed the end of the Chelsea-Aston Villa game when they argued with each other, because Dean, for some reason, insisted that everyone who was working for the Ministry the year before should be fired.

“What d’you want from them?” Blaise retorted in the end. “They were just doing their jobs. The Death Eaters are all in Azkaban, that should be enough, no?”

Dean paused, then shrugged and offered Blaise some more beer. That was what Blaise liked most about Dean - he never got angry. Not really angry, anyway, just slightly annoyed, and then he would sit back on the sofa and say that maybe they should stick to football from now on and even the annoyance was gone.

But after that Ministry argument, Blaise wasn’t sure he was still welcome in Dean’s house, even for football. He asked as casually as possible before he left, “Same time next week?”

“Sure - oh, wait. A couple of guys from the neighbourhood asked me to play with them. Hold on, you’ve never actually played the game before, have you? Wanna come?”

Blaise, amazed that he was invited, said yes without giving it a second thought. Later, he thought it might be awkward - after all, ‘the guys from the neighbourhood’ were probably all Muggles. But he came anyway. It was fun, even if Blaise turned out to be completely rubbish at the actual game. Dean was actually rather good, he thought, but their team was still crushed by the opposition. After the game, they went for a beer in some Muggle pub near by, and Dean lamented how it was almost like going to a real game, “Except that we’re all rubbish and tickets to the real games cost a fortune.”

So the next week, when Blaise passed by Leicester Square and accidentally noticed tickets for the West Ham versus Manchester game in Boleyn Ground, he fished out his Galleons, changed them to Muggle money in Gringotts, and returned to the Muggle street to get tickets for the both of them.

He went by Dean’s house, but it was Dean’s mother who opened the door. “Blaise!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, hi, Mrs Thomas. I was just wondering whether Dean’s home.”

“No, he’s not home at the moment.”

“Oh,” Blaise said, disappointed. He couldn’t wait to see Dean’s face when he told him about the tickets. “It’s just that I bought us some tickets for the game on Saturday.”

Mrs Thomas’s expression changed. She was no longer confused, but seemed pensive instead. “Come on in; I’ve got a nice cake,” she said.

Blaise, slightly confused, walked into the small house and into the smaller kitchen. The old washing machine was working, filling the house with noise. There were some dishes in the sink - it seemed Mrs Thomas was just in the middle of washing them when he knocked. Blaise wondered - not for the first time - how did she ever manage to hear him knocking. She shooed the cat from the chair, then put a big slice of chocolate cake in front of Blaise, and sat at the table as well.

“You were in Dean’s class, right?” she asked.

“Well - not quite in his class...” Blaise started. How much did Mrs Thomas know about Hogwarts, he had no idea. “Sort of.”

“Have you thought what you’re going to do now that you’ve finished school?”

“Not really,” he admitted. He didn’t have to work at all - his family were Pure-bloods and like most of the old wizarding families, they had a not-so-small fortune. And his mother had got quite hefty sums of money in some of the divorce settlements. But sitting there, in the small old house, he didn’t want to say all that, so he just took a bite of the cake.

Mrs Thomas didn’t seem to mind, though. “Well, that’s quite alright for a boy your age,” she said kindly. “I had no idea what I wanted to do when I finished school. And then I met Dean’s father... well, after his father left, I had to take every job I could get, of course, but we’ve been getting by.”

Blaise stared at his cake. Why was she telling him that?

“It’s funny about Dean, he never really knew what he wanted to do either. Except last year, when he came back, and all of a sudden he said he wanted to be a Healer, which I think is a bit like a Doctor for your kind, no? Anyway, I said, maybe try to go to uni, maybe there’s something more, but he said he wanted to be a Healer. He just doesn’t know if his marks are high enough,” she laughed softly. “He’s volunteering now, at that hospital of yours. Most of the time he’s working at Mr Dewanji’s shop, to help me a bit with the bills. And studying in the evening for his - how d’you call it? N.E.W.T.s? - but then he said, ‘No, Mum, I’m gonna volunteer at the hospital twice a week’.” There was no mistaking the pride in Mrs Thomas’s voice. “I hope wizard doctors make a bit more than our doctors, though,” she added.

Blaise finished his cake.

“Anyway,” she said, “I know he doesn’t tell his friends about it, but that’s probably because they wouldn’t know what he’s talking about. I reckon he wouldn’t mind I told you. Right?” she asked, and Blaise had the vague impression that, perhaps, Mrs Thomas thought Dean would mind. Still, he said thanks, and Apparated to St Mungo’s.

He found Dean at the fourth floor, at the Spell Damage ward. There was a huge room there, the floor covered with a thick green carpet, some children’s toys, and comfortable sofas. Dean was sitting on the carpet, in the middle of the room, completing a jigsaw puzzle with some boy.

There was something wrong with the kid, Blaise could see that already from where he was standing. He looked about twelve, maybe thirteen, but he didn’t say a word to Dean, just gestured at pieces with his right hand. His left hand was hanging limp from his shoulder, as if dead. When he looked at the other kids, he could see they were all like that. Some of them were dragging their legs, others opened and closed their mouths but no sound came out. Some just drooled all over themselves.

Most of the people there were children, but on a second glance, Blaise could see a few adults too. They all must have been patients there, he thought. One of the adults, who looked slightly older than Blaise, was sitting in an armchair, staring ahead. At first, Blaise thought he was staring at him, only to realise he was just staring at the empty space.

“Dean!” he called. Dean raised his head. He didn’t look happy to see Blaise.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in trepidation. “How did you know I was here?”

“Your mother told me. Look, I got tickets to the game this Saturday! West Ham versus Manchester!”

Dean got up from the carpet with a puzzled expression on his face. “Show me the tickets,” he said, and Blaise handed him the tickets.

“Great seats, too! Right next to the field. I’m telling you, it’s something, and I don’t care who you’re rooting for, Beckham’s gonna - why are you laughing?”

Dean did a pretty good job of biting down his smile until that point, but as Blaise mentioned Beckham’s name, he started laughing in earnest.

“Look, I know you hate Beckham with a passion, but you gotta admit he’s a great player - why are you laughing?!”

“Blaise, you prat, that’s the game against Manchester City!”

“And who does Beckham play for?”

“Manchester United!”

“Oh,” Blaise felt ridiculous now. “How many teams does one city need?”

Dean laughed some more.

“Well, you know, Manchester City, Manchester United, what difference does that make...”

Dean’s laughter could probably be heard through half the hospital.

“Anyway, if you don’t want to go...”

“Nah,” Dean said. “It’d be fun. I’ll be happy to go. And hey, at least we’ll get to see a West Ham victory. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Blaise answered. “Listen, what are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m just volunteering a bit,” Dean said.

“Yeah, your mother said you wanted to be a Healer?”

“Nah, I doubt I’ll get enough N.E.W.T.s for that.”

“So why waste your time here?”

He must have said something wrong, because all of a sudden, Dean’s face darkened. “I’m not wasting my time here,” he said quietly. “These kids need someone to help them.”

“Yeah, but, I mean... don’t take it the wrong way, but your mother’s not very rich. I wouldn’t think you had the time to waste on volunteering when you could be earning money. And you work in a Muggle shop, too, I mean, why not try to get a better paying job working in Diagon Alley or something?”

“These kids need someone to help them,” Dean repeated.

“Yeah, but they’re not all kids, like that bloke - ” he pointed at the guy in the armchair - “he looks older than us.”

Dean paused, then turned to look at Blaise. “That’s Justin,” he said quietly, and when it was obvious Blaise had no idea what he was talking about, he continued, “Justin Finch-Fletchley?”

“Er...” Blaise said. It was clear Dean expected him to understand.

“From Hufflepuff? He was in our year.”

“Oh.” Blaise looked again at the bloke. Maybe he looked familiar? But the empty expression on his face didn’t look like anyone he knew. “What’s wrong with him?”

“The same as everyone here,” Dean said shortly.

“What happened to them?”

“The Muggle-Born Registration Commission. That’s what happened to them.”

Blaise looked at Dean in horror, then at Justin, then at the children, who were all Hogwarts age, and most of them didn’t look older than third year. “The Ministry did that?” he whispered. “But there weren’t - I mean - it’s the Ministry!”

“Yeah,” Dean said quietly.

“But I - ” Blaise didn’t finish that sentence. It was the Ministry, that was what he always thought, it wasn’t like they were Death Eaters or something.

The kid on the carpet had the right piece in his hand, but was having a hard time moving it to the right position. Dean returned to the carpet to help him. “I’ll see you Saturday,” he said, and Blaise wasn’t sure if his voice was colder than usual, or maybe Blaise was just imagining it.

Whether real or imagined, there was no sign of coldness on Saturday. Blaise Apparated to Dean’s house, and they walked together to the stadium, chatting excitedly about the game to come. Dean was nothing short of impressed once they had entered the stadium - the seats were the best in the whole field. They could almost touch the twenty-two men who were running after that small ball.

The excitement continued all through the game, and reached its peak with West Ham’s easy victory. They left the stadium just as they entered it, slightly more tired but still excited and happy. At some point, at the car park, they ran into a City fan in red-and-black. Blaise wasn’t even sure how it happened, but all of a sudden he was arguing with the City fan. Dean, apparently, didn’t feel like joining in - he was leaning on a nearby wall, rolling his eyes and looking exasperated with the two of them. Blaise was shouting and shouting.

It might have ended up in a real fight, if it weren’t for the mass of West Ham fans in blue and red. The City fan looked at the group in trepidation, and then retreated, muttering under his breath.

It took a few seconds before the Knut dropped and Blaise understood what the fucking Muggle called Dean and him. He grabbed his wand in anger and searched for the Muggle to curse him into oblivion, but the bastard was already gone, lost in a sea of red and black, and all the Muggles there looked exactly the same. Fuming, he turned now to Dean, to ask him, ‘Did you hear what that fucker said?’, and froze when he saw his friend.

Dean was still leaning on the wall, but he was no longer wearing the exasperated, amused expression. His face was completely unreadable, his expression almost passive.

“Let’s go,” Blaise muttered, and they left.

He thought about that for the rest of the weekend, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he became, angry with the Muggles and angry with Dean. How could Dean be so apathetic with being called those names? How could he act like he didn’t hear or didn’t care?

He meant to tell him this the next Saturday, but by Wednesday he was so riled up that he showed up at St Mungo’s again. He went all the way up to the fourth floor and past the door that said Spell Damage, but before he had the chance to speak to Dean, Dean started talking.

“What is it?” he asked, sounding slightly short-tempered. “It’s not a good day.”

Blaise looked at the kids around him, and all of a sudden, he said, “I thought maybe I’d come volunteering with you.” He was confused at his own words. The thought of volunteering had not, in fact, even crossed his mind until that point. At least, he didn’t think it had.

Dean, however, seemed too busy to think too much about this. “Oh, you’re a lifesaver. Could you help Matt with the jigsaw puzzle?” he gestured at a boy, about fourteen years old, on the carpet. “Justin’s having a pretty bad day and I wanted to get back to him.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said and sat down next to the kid.

By the end of three hours, when he went back home, his mind was full of things, but being called names by racist football fans was no longer one of them.

He dropped by Dean’s on Saturday, to share his ideas with him. Dean, however, told him off for being late. “The game’s about to start!” he said and led him quickly to the living room. The beer and crisps were already on the table.

Blaise stared at the old television in confusion. “But the league games ended! You said so!”

“La Liga, man! Barcelona’s playing Madrid.”

“Oh,” Blaise wrinkled his forehead in confusion. International football. A whole new world of possibilities opened itself in Blaise’s mind. “Who’s our team?”

“Barça,” Dean said in a voice that left no room for argument. Barça it was. Dean, however, was already nattering on about the team. “Ronaldo left last year, that’s a shame, but they’re still the best damn team in the world and Rivaldo’s doing a really good job so far and...” He talked so much that Blaise had to point out to him that the game had started and would he kindly shut up.

By the end of the game, Blaise had to admit one thing. Barcelona were the best team in the world. “So,” he asked Dean, “Barça playing West Ham. Who are you rooting for?”

“No, mate, don’t do that to me,” Dean shook his head, and they both laughed.

“Listen, I was thinking,” Blaise said when the laughter had calmed down. “All the kids in the ward at St Mungo’s are Muggle-borns, right? They all know football. Why don’t we set up a team or something? They could probably play other teams in the area. I’ll talk to my mother, she can donate some money to have proper kits and everything.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Dean nodded, deep in thought. “Or, you know, we could set up more than one team of wizards. Muggle-born versus Pure-bloods,” he smirked.

“Aw, come on, man, that’s not fair! Wizards don’t - ” Blaise caught himself, just a moment too late. “Shit, sorry. Non Muggle-born wizards, I mean, we don’t know football, they’ll be crushed by the Muggle-borns!”

Dean’s smirk widened. “Sounds good to me,” he said.

Blaise took another sip from the beer. Time to say the other thing on his mind. Now he felt a lot less reassured. He was a Zabini, he reminded himself. Zabinis never lost confidence. “And, uh, there was this other thing I wanted to say.”

“Sure, what is it?” Dean asked, not giving any indication he had noticed the change in Blaise’s voice.

“It’s about, I mean, last year... and the years before, I guess. I know - I mean, I didn’t realise... and I wanted, er, I wanted to say that - ”

“Don’t.”

Blaise, who until now had been looking intently at his beer, raised his gaze to Dean in surprise. For the first time since he met him, Dean’s voice was full of anger. No, not anger - rage.

“Don’t. Don’t say it,” he said. His voice shook. “Don’t say I’m sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t forgive you.”

They looked at each other, without blinking, for ten whole seconds. Then Blaise nodded silently and averted his gaze. They sat there, on Mrs Thomas’s sofa, for a while longer, in complete silence. It was the longest silence in Blaise’s life.

Finally, he found his voice again, and when he did, he asked quietly, “What now, then?”

“It’s Saturday,” Dean said. His voice was back to normal. “Let’s go play some football.”

Fic: Should I Stay or Should I Go? for igrockspock

springmod — Tue, 22 May 2012 06:10:37 GMT

Title: Should I Stay or Should I Go?
Author st_dl
Recipient: igrockspock
Characters: Charlie, Ginny, Ron, Molly, George.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1600
Warnings (if any): None
Summary: Charlie has a big decision to make, can his family help him?

In every family, each family member has a role. The more family members you have, the more roles you get. The Weasley family is as big as you can get and luckily for Charlie, he got second choice. Second choice is a lot better than seventh choice; Ginny rants about it forever. Bill got first choice and so he's the wise and cool big brother. Charlie got to be the peace maker.

With so many siblings, fights and arguments were frequent. For an unknown reason a tiny percentage involved Charlie. No one seemed to want to fight him and if someone actually tried, it was to find him completely uncooperative. But it was more than that; Charlie also liked to create a friendly atmosphere. Molly Weasley knew everything would be fine when Charlie babysat the kids. He even knew how to calm the twins, that was one hell of a feat.

For years, Charlie's number one rule was: family first. Somewhere along the way, dragons stole his peace-making efforts, time and heart. Now, in the aftermath of the war, Charlie wasn't quite sure what was first. In his hand he held a letter from the reserve's manager. He should answer already, is he going back? For once in his life, Charlie was at loss.

Fact was, Charlie didn't realize how much he missed his family until he was back. On the other hand, he was definitely missing the dragons. He remembered the time he spent yesterday with his little sister, would he give it up again?

Ginny was having tea in the kitchen, the only occupant of the usually busiest room in The Burrow. She was poring over a long sheet of parchment, books scattered on the table and a biscuit plate next to her cup of tea.

"Morning, midget."

She only scowled and crammed another biscuit in her mouth. Charlie grabbed one from her plate and sat down opposite his sister.

"So, where's everybody?"

"Doing something important." She huffed. "Well, if you really need to know, Dad and Percy went to the ministry. The others are helping with the renovations at Hogwarts. Since I'm not of age, I can't even do a bloody levitation charm and am completely useless." She sounded bitter and angry and Charlie sensed a new project for him.

"Why so bitter?" Charlie smiled and got up, "let's have a little one-on-one. Ron tells me you're a good chaser."

"Really?" she blushed, "Ron said that?" then she composed herself, masking the childlike reaction, "Well, I bet I'm better than you."

It turned out his sister was right, she was better than him. True, he was out of practice but still. Charlie looked at the letter again. If he stays at The Burrow he could fly as much as he wants, he could get to know his little sister again. His brothers too have all grown up; Ron was a man now, Fred and George… He'll never get the chance to reconnect with Fred. With a heavy sigh he got up from his bed and went downstairs to the kitchen, he'll answer his manager later.

His mother was making something delicious for dinner, Roast of some kind. They never got this kind of luxury food at the reserve. She was alone in the kitchen and he offered to help set the table.

"Thank you, dear" she smiled gratefully "I need to get George up from his nap."

Five minutes later George walked in groggily and Charlie suppressed the urge to cringe. He looked nothing like the George he knew. There was nothing wrong on the outside, George was shaved and clean, it was his empty eyes that bothered Charlie. It's not that he didn't expect it; it wasn't easy to lose a twin brother. They all ached from the absence of Fred in their lives. It was more the fact that George managed to hide it quite well usually, always taking on more chores and tasks, always surrounded by friends and family. Seeing George without his mask on unsettled Charlie.

"Hey, George, want to have a dip in the pond?"

George obviously did not notice Charlie, because his head turned so quickly and then he froze. He looked like a deer caught in wandlight. For a moment it looked like he was trying to say something, then he gave up and walked out of the kitchen.

"You can't fix everything, dear." Molly patted his shoulder, her eyes wet.

*

"Having fun at the renovation?" Charlie asked casually. Both he and his brothers were back from another busy days at the ruins of Hogwarts. He was happy to see Ron of all people alone in the kitchen, it was a great opportunity to try and fix something.

"Yeah, it's hard work but it's great." Ron smiled. He was sweaty and the pumpkin juice jug in his hand was nearly empty. He looked tired.

"Where is the rest of the gang?"

"Hermione is packing; she's going to Australia in a few days. Harry's meeting the Minister."

Charlie raised an eyebrow, Ron was walking right into his net. "And Ginny?"

"What about Ginny?"

"Have you seen her lately?"

Ron looked slightly ashamed of himself, "I guess I should include her more, s'not her fault Mum won't let her come and help."

"Yeah." Charlie smiled.

*

In every house there's a room where everything's happening. In the Burrow, it was the kitchen. If you were looking for something or someone, it was usually found in the kitchen. So it really shouldn't have surprised Charlie that the kitchen wasn't empty at three o'clock in the morning.

Ginny, of all people, was sitting at the table and enjoying a cup of tea. 'Of all people' is because Ginny usually cherished her sleeping hours and 'enjoying' was a great fat lie, it was obvious she was crying, though she dried her eyes rather well when she saw him.

"What do you have there?" she pointed at the letter in his hand. She was trying to focus the attention on Charlie and for the time being he played the game.

"It's a letter from my manager at the reserve."

"Oh," she didn't expect his answer, probably hoped it was from a girl so she could tease him. "So, when are you going back to Romania?"

"I'm not going back," Charlie shrugged and sat next to her, he summoned a cup and poured himself some tea from the pot Ginny prepared. "I'm going to resign."

"No you're not!" her fist hit the table and some tea sloshed from her cup. "is this some kind of strange need to protect us or something? Do you have any idea how fortunate you are to have a job you love? It's easy to forget when half your family enjoys their work. Sure, Bill and Percy found the job of their dreams. Fred…" she choked his name, "Fred and George created the job of their dream. I mean, look at Dad, he sacrificed his Ministry career because he loves his work. But if you look at other people outside our family circle, do you think they all enjoy their work? Fat chance! I bet you Stan Shunpike didn't want to be the knight bus conductor. Merlin, I don't even have a clue what I'm going to do after my seventh year."

"You can play Quidditch, you're damn good."

"Yeah, sure. Let's be realistic though," she was stern, but a little smile crept in at his compliment. "I have no idea what I want with my life. And Ron,"

"What are you talking about? Ron's going to be an Auror, he told me yesterday."

"Who told you Ron wants to be an Auror? He's doing it because it's the right thing to do and because his best friend is going to be an Auror as well. But if you ask me, the last thing Ron wants is to chase dark wizards, he had enough of that for a lifetime."

"You see, that's why I need to resign. You know Ron like I'll never get to know him because I missed so many years of his life being away. I may never get the chance to reconnect with you all again, I've missed that chance with Fred."

"But Charlie, they need you! There's a dragon out there, alone and blind and he needs your help."

Charlie released the letter onto the table, "how did you know?"

"Oh, don’t be silly," she swatted his arm, "Everybody knows Harry, Ron and Hermione set a dragon free from the depth of Gringotts."

For a few minutes they sat quietly and sipped their tea, enjoying the silence around them.

"So," Charlie finally broke the silence, "Harry Potter."

"What about Harry?"

"That's exactly what I asked," he smirked, "what about Harry?"

"I'll let you know when he gets his head out of his arse."

So he was right, she was crying about Harry. "Give him time, the guy just defeated an evil dark lord. He has the press all over him and everybody wants a piece. I'm sure when the dust sets he'll come straight to you."

"Thanks." She smiled gratefully, "When the time comes, you'll be with your dragons. Just remember to visit us on Sundays sometimes. You're a bloody wizard, apparate, for Merlin's sake!"

"Since when did you become so smart, midget?"

"I was always smart," she smiled wryly.

And Charlie knew she was right. At the end, he'll be with his dragons. He just had to promise himself not to forget his family again.

Fic: Homecoming for fpb

springmod — Mon, 21 May 2012 05:35:31 GMT

Title: Homecoming
Author: penknife
Recipient: fpb
Character(s): Minerva McGonagall, Neville Longbottom
Rating: G
Wordcount: ~1400 words
Warnings: Spoilers for McGonagall's Pottermore backstory.
Summary: Minerva has a few questions before hiring Hogwarts' new Herbology professor.
Author's Notes (if any): I hope you enjoy this!
Betas: Thanks to N. for beta reading!

Minerva smoothed the parchment contract sitting between them on her desk and picked up a quill. "Are you entirely certain this is what you want?"

"I think that's my line," Neville said. "I thought that Hogwarts teachers were generally required to have a few more NEWTs."

"The time to be self-deprecating is after you've signed the contract, not before, Mr. Longbottom," Minerva said. She considered him through her spectacles; he had finally learned to wear robes he didn't trip over, and to cut his hair so that it didn't curl down over his eyes. "I will not be offering you the position of Potions master," she added. "That said, you have amply demonstrated your knowledge of Herbology, under the most trying of conditions."

"You could call them that," Neville said. He looked older after three years as an Auror, or possibly it was only that he looked tired.

"I suspect Kingsley Shacklebolt will be sorry to lose you."

"I expect he will," Neville said, with a refreshing lack of false modesty. "But I don't want to go on being an Auror now that things have settled down." He reached for the quill, and Minerva withdrew it from easy reach.

"I feel it would be remiss of me not to point out that you have an enviable range of opportunities. Given your endeavors in the war and your performance as an Auror, there are few people who would balk at hiring you in any capacity you preferred."

"I prefer Herbology," Neville said.

"I think you will make a fine Herbology teacher," she said, but she still found herself reluctant to hand over the quill.

"Why are you trying to talk me out of this?"

"As a teacher, Mr. Longbottom, I have always had mixed feelings upon seeing one of my students return to join the Hogwarts staff. I am, of course, pleased. But there is an entire wider world outside these walls, and I do consider it my responsibility to ensure that my students are prepared to enter it."

"I've been," Neville said. "And it's not as if I'm entering a monastery."

"Certainly not in some respects," Minerva said, her lips curling in reluctant amusement. "Although I must remind you that only Hogwarts staff themselves are permitted to live on the grounds. However, should you intend to start a family, I expect you'll find the commute from Hogsmeade easy enough."

There had been climbing roses on her cottage in Hogsmeade, she remembered, and she had amused herself transfiguring them into the thinnest china teacups imaginable, easy enough to replace every time her nieces and nephews crushed them in over-eager hands. She suspected Neville would have far more patience for gardening. Her students had always required all her patience, leaving her little left over to make her garden anything but a rambling untidy tangle of roses and wildflowers.

It was possible after so long to think about that cottage without pain, with only a sort of bittersweet amusement at all her plans for her marriage. It had been a lovely three years' dream, something to fold away in memory and bring out on rare occasions when she was feeling unusually sentimental. Hogwarts had been her real life, before and after, and she felt no regrets about returning to her rooms in the castle after Elphinstone died.

"I'll keep that in mind," Neville said.

"I just want you to be certain ..." She frowned, considering her words. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she had always regretted Severus returning as a teacher, even if it had in the end been part of some scheme of Albus's. It had seemed to her at the time to represent more a flinching unwillingness to face the world outside the walls than a true love of teaching, and that was no service either to Severus or to his students.

It would be, she decided reluctantly, inexcusably disloyal to whatever uneasy friendship had existed between her and Severus to say so now. Instead she set the quill down. "Will you take a cup of tea?"

"Before or after I sign this?" Neville said, a touch of amusement in his voice.

"Before, if you please, Mr. Longbottom."

"You know you'll have to call me Neville if I come to teach here."

"I'm sure I shall manage it sooner than you'll manage 'Minerva,'" she said dryly. She tapped the teapot briskly with her wand, and then poured steaming tea into two cups. She sipped from hers, and regarded Neville over the rim.

"When I first came to teach here, I was as young as you are now, as hard as that may be for you to believe," she said. "I had been forced to make a difficult personal choice, and found myself disillusioned with the Ministry that I felt had forced me to make it. I came to Hogwarts in a spirit of ... I wouldn't say spite, precisely, but certainly out of a desire to put everyone involved very firmly behind me."

It had been easier then to resent the Ministry for their distrust of Muggles than to resent dear Dougal for being the man he was, a farmer devoted to a life that she could never truly share any more than he could share in hers. Even decades later, she had always felt there should have been some better solution, some choice other than for her to be who she truly was and for him to do the same.

She had said as much once to Dumbledore, frustrated that useless sentiment still lingered. He had only smiled at her sadly. "You should know as well as anyone, Minerva, the limits of Transfiguration." She did, far too well. It was easy to change the nature of anything except her own heart.

"I wouldn't say I'm disillusioned," Neville said. "Tired, maybe. It was important, finding all the Death Eaters who ran away after Voldemort died."

Minerva's heart still skipped a beat when anyone spoke the name, but she was more used to it than she once had been. The youngest students thought "You-Know-Who" was merely parental euphemism, invented to spare young ears from stories that would trouble their sleep.

There would be a time, sooner than most people probably believed, when the stories wouldn't trouble their sleep at all. Voldemort and the war would fade into dry history, one more thing for Professor Binns to ramble about while his students took desultory notes. Time turned everything into history, which at this point in her life she had come to consider a great mercy.

"But I think I've done enough fighting," Neville went on. "I don't want to run around arresting people for smuggling cauldrons or violating the Statute of Secrecy. Not for the rest of my life. I'd rather spend my time planting something."

"You'll have ample opportunity here to tend gardens," Minerva said. "I expect you can imagine that the results aren't always predictable."

"I do hope not to produce the next would-be evil overlord," Neville said.

"Don't we all, Mr. Longbottom."

"But I realize that's not entirely under our control."

"Most of the results are satisfactory," Minerva said. "Sometimes very satisfactory. But it is a difficult job, and one for which you will never be rewarded as you probably deserve. You won't attain riches teaching at Hogwarts, nor will you become famous. The most you can hope for is to be remembered relatively fondly by students who think of you as an institution rather than a person."

"I should think the best I can hope for is that they learn Herbology," Neville said. "That's the important part, isn't it?"

"Herbology isn't the only thing you'll be teaching them," Minerva said. "But I think you'll do very well." She picked up the quill and held it out to him across the parchment. He hesitated for a moment before he reached for it, and this time she let him take it from her fingers.

He signed in a quick, broad scrawl. "Professor Neville Longbottom," he said. "Now, that's going to take some getting used to."

"It comes more easily than you think," Minerva said. "Professor."

"I expect when I'm moving in my things it's going to feel like I'm back in first year," Neville said.

"There are worse things," Minerva said, but she had to admit that for her it had always felt like coming home.

Catch-up Day

springmod — Sun, 20 May 2012 08:52:29 GMT

Today is a rest day for springtime_gen. We hope you're enjoying the fic and art posted so far!

Art: Spring Time - for Everyone!

springmod — Sat, 19 May 2012 06:22:51 GMT

Title: Spring Time
Author/Artist: ani_bester
Recipient: springtime_gen
Character(s): Luna and Hermione
Rating: G
Warnings: N/A
Media: Watercolor and ink
Summary: Luna and Hermione enjoying a spring afternoon

Fic: The Knock-On Effect for st_dl

springmod — Fri, 18 May 2012 15:56:13 GMT

Title: The Knock-On Effect
Author: pitry
Recipient: st_dl
Character(s): Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Neville
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~4,800 words
Warnings (if any): none.
Summary: I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears.
Author's Notes (if any): Hope you enjoy this, st_dl! This ended up as a bit of a mash-up of a couple of your prompts and at the same time not quite following either...
HP and its characters belong to JKR (and Voldemort’s quotes, too). I’m just happy to be playing with them for a bit.
Betas: k, without whom this fic would have been much less readable - thank you! All mistakes are mine.

I have seen your heart, and it is mine.

Hermione was slowly waking up. Ron looked at her as she opened her eyes, and smiled. “Good morning,” he said.

“Morning,” she wrinkled her nose. “What time is it?”

“Half eight.”

“Mmm,” she said and tried to roll back to the other side.

“C’mon, you need to wake up. You’ll never forgive me if you spend all day doing nothing.”

She sighed. “Right.” Then she sat up in alarm. “Hold on - weren’t you supposed to go with Harry today?”

“Ah,” he gave a noncommittal response - one thing that, unfortunately, never really worked with Hermione. “Ron... don’t tell me you overslept.”

“I didn’t oversleep,” he said.

She pursed her lip. “What happened?”

“Well, I woke up, and I just thought... why?”

“Why wake up, or why become an Auror?”

“I don’t want to be an Auror. That’s Harry’s thing. Personally, I’ve had enough chasing after dark wizards for a lifetime.”

“More like chased by dark wizards,” she corrected him.

“That, too,” he agreed.

“But last night you said...”

“I know. Maybe I decided in my sleep. I don’t know. Does it matter?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Not if that’s what you really want,” she said.

“That’s what I really want.”

“Okay - then what are you going to do? You need a job.”

He also thought about that in his sleep, apparently. “I’ve been thinking... George is looking for someone to help him with the shop, right? And it should be family. I mean... he hasn’t been the same since Fred died, and I can’t replace Fred, I know that, but - it’s family. Gotta be worth something.” He shuffled a bit now, unsure how Hermione would react. After all, working in a joke shop wasn’t being an Auror, was it?

He breathed in relief when Hermione smiled. “I think that’s a brilliant idea,” she said.

“Really?” he asked.

“Really. Now get up, before he hires someone else because you were too busy oversleeping.”

-X-

Someone gave a muffled shout. Ron woke up with a start.

He dared hope, for a second, that it was a part of his own dream. He lay in bed, his eyes closed, willing himself to go back to sleep. But there it was, he could hear it through his closed door - footsteps in the hallway, retching sounds from the toilet, more footsteps, the sound of the kitchen tap opening and closing.

He opened one eye and banged his arm around the bed-stand, looking for his watch, until he finally found it and tried to focus on the small hands. 4:30. Great.

He sat up in the bed, rubbed his eyes, got up completely and walked out of his room.

Harry was sitting curled on the sofa, clutching a glass of water, staring out the window of the living room and into the darkness of the street. He didn’t have his glasses on. The light in the living room was off, but that didn’t surprise Ron. Harry didn’t even turn his head when Ron came into the room, which, while not surprising, was a bit worrisome.

Ron sat down on the sofa, next to Harry. “Feel like Exploding Snap?” he asked.

Harry shook his head.

“Chess? It’d probably be an even shorter game than usual.”

Harry shook his head again, but this time something that looked like the ghost of a smile came to his face.

“Y’know,” Ron started again, willing his voice and words to sound as natural as possible, “I’ve been thinking. We could use some sort of plant here. It’s all boring and grey. Mum’s got this odd flower - I’m sure you’ve seen it, it’s in the garden at home? - this big red flower. Could work here. Next to the door.”

Harry opened his mouth and tried to say something, but his throat was too sore and the sounds he made didn’t sound like words at all. He coughed a little, drank from his glass, then tried again. “That’s the worst place for that huge flower. There’s no sunlight and we’d keep on tripping on it when we come back in the dark. It’d die in three days.”

“Let’s be honest here, Harry. If we ever got plants, they’d die in three days no matter where we’d put them.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’d forget to water them.”

“I seem to remember the last failed attempt at raising something was yours?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Hey!” Harry protested. “Peppermint just dies. It’s a seasonal plant! I’ve asked Neville! Even magical peppermint isn’t any better.”

“Mmhm.”

“It wasn’t my fault the stupid thing didn't like the winter.”

“Mmhm.”

They looked at each other and burst into laughter.

“So,” Harry said, “a game of Exploding Snap?”

“Sure.”

Ron brought the cards from his room.

The neighbours below started hitting their ceiling - Ron and Harry’s floor - with their broomstick after the third explosion. “Remind me again why we’re living next to Muggles?” Ron asked, as he packed the cards with a sigh. They’d be facing Mrs Jones again tomorrow, and as always, she’d complain about the noise they were making in the middle of the night.

“Remind me again why we’re not just putting silencing charms all over the place,” Harry retorted.

The answer, of course, was that the Ministry said they couldn’t. Dad had all kinds of complicated explanations concerning rules for wizards who lived in Muggle establishments, but Ron’s brain had stopped taking the words in long before Dad had stopped talking. He just shrugged and said okay, and every once in a while, the two of them wound up waking the neighbours at ungodly hours.

Harry finished the rest of his water. “What time is it?” he asked.

Ron took a glance at his watch. “Five.”

Harry swore.

“You’re going back to sleep?” Ron asked.

“I’ll try,” Harry said, resigned. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t mention it. Hey - you pay most of the rent, I can live with waking up in the middle of the night every once in a while.” Ron smiled with the words - and meant his smile, too - but Harry didn’t seem reassured.

“Every once in a while,” he repeated. “Huh.” He got up from the sofa. “Well, anyway, I’m pretty sure we’ve got some of Gawain’s, er, creative nighttime Auror training tomorrow, so at least you’ll get to sleep properly.”

“Hmm. Maybe I’ll bring Hermione over.”

“Who needs sleep, huh?” Harry laughed. Mrs Jones from Downstairs started hitting the floor with her broomstick again. Ron got up on his feet too, and walked to his room. “Good night,” he said to Harry.

“Good morning,” Harry answered back, and then, his hand on his own door knob, “Ron?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Ron entered his own room, closed the door, and threw himself on the bed, hoping for another couple of hours of sleep before he had to wake up for work.

Ron never had any nightmares at all.

-X-

Wine - not that wine, damn it - salad - he forgot to cut the onions! - what was that smell? - no, no, no - the chicken!

“You need a hand?”

He didn’t even hear Hermione walking in. Everything was supposed to be perfect - he promised her everything would be perfect - and she got in just as - “The chicken’s burning,” she commented, amused.

He waved his wand at the oven. The chicken flew out, much faster than he intended to, and crashed on the opposite wall.

Hermione laughed, then flicked her wand lazily, and the chicken rose from the floor, good as new, and was placed on the table.

“Sorry about that,” Ron mumbled.

“Don’t be,” she said. “This looks lovely.”

“I hope you haven’t had dinner yet!” he said. Strictly speaking, Hermione wasn’t supposed to be there at all - she was still a student at Hogwarts, having decided to return for the last year after all, and students were not allowed out of the castle during term.

But their various adventures made sure Hermione knew many, many ways of sneaking out of the castle if she wished it. And while she would normally be scandalised by such a blatant breaking of the rules, she seemed to think it was worth it for a Valentine’s Day dinner with Ron.

“Haven’t touched a thing,” she said. “Even though it looked so great - yours is lovely too!” she hastened to add, and then laughed. “Jimmy Peakes thought I was ill, I was sitting there staring and not eating anything, and he kept on asking why don’t I eat anything and if I was feeling alright.”

“Jimmy Peakes has a crush on you,” he said, amused. He had always found the Gryffindor Beater somewhat ridiculous, and his frown the last time Ron came to visit Hermione at Hogwarts made Ron laugh with Harry for hours on end - Hermione, of course, thought they were being uncharitable.

She rolled her eyes in response. “I’ve noticed.”

It took Ron a moment to realise she was rolling her eyes at him, not at Jimmy Peakes. “Oh, come on!” he said. “I’m not worried!”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not?” she asked.

“‘Course not - it’s Jimmy Peakes, for heaven’s sake. You have better taste than that.”

She laughed now. “Why, thank you, Mister Weasley.” She sat down at the table. “You know, I kind of like it that you’re not so insecure anymore. It makes you so much easier to be with.”

“You might want to hold on to that thought until you actually get to taste the chicken,” he said, now worried again. He took the recipe from his mum, and followed it to the letter, but he still suspected he had messed it up. It was a bit like Potions, and he was never any good at Potions.

“Well, why wait then?” she said and took a bit of chicken. Her expression changed, the smile was slowly erased from her face and replaced with something else - curiosity? disgust? Oh no, Ron thought, she hates it.

“How bad is it?” he asked in a resigned voice.

“It’s... hard to say,” she said, and swallowed with obvious difficulty.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it.”

“I think you should try it yourself,” she said, taking a sip of the wine in what was, Ron was certain, an attempt to erase the taste of the chicken.

“I know I can’t cook. I’m sorry, now you’ll be hungry and you missed such a great dinner at Hogwarts.”

“It’s okay, Ron,” she said in a sympathetic voice.

“I’ll just throw it away, then.”

“Hey, before you do that - you need to taste it.”

“But it’s horrible!”

“I ate from it, only makes sense you have to, too!” she insisted.

“Fine, fine,” he muttered. He took a bit on his fork - just a little bit - and, hesitantly, put it into his mouth.

It had the distinct taste of honey, and a bit of the pepper, and the prunes he’d cooked it with. It was sweet and juicy and exactly like his mum made it and it was delicious. He stared at Hermione with his mouth open, and she couldn’t help but giggle.

“You still have an insecurity or two to work on, I think,” she said and burst into full on laughter. He threw a piece of the chicken at her, but that just made her laugh more.

-X-

Ron put the keys in the keyhole, but the door opened on its own. Could Harry already be home? he wondered. Most of the time, Harry came back after him.

“Hey,” he called as he walked in.

“Hey, Ron,” answered a voice - not Harry, but Neville.

“Oi, what are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too,” Neville said, but he didn’t sound annoyed.

“You prat, of course it’s nice to see you, but what are you doing here?”

Neville shrugged. “Just wanted to say hi, I guess. Was in the neighbourhood.”

“Cool. Fancy a Butterbeer?” Ron walked to the fridge to fetch a couple of bottles. “But how come you left work so early? Harry’s never back this early.” He threw the Butterbeer at Neville, who caught it but didn’t open the bottle. Ron wasn’t quite sure whether he was waiting for the bubbles to subside or if he never much cared for it in the first place.

“Yeah, I left early. Told Robards I had a headache. I kinda wanted to, erm, have a talk with you.”

“You could have come with Harry - or is this about Harry?” Ron paused. “Did anything - ”

“He’s fine,” Neville hurried to say. “It’s not about - well, I guess it is about Harry, in a way, I mean...” Neville looked uncomfortable for a moment. “How did he react when he found out you’re not going to be an Auror?”

Ron looked at him in confusion. How did Harry react? He didn’t react at all, did he? “He just asked if this was what I really wanted to do, you know, work at the shop, and I said yes, that it’s fun and it’s with George and I don’t feel like chasing after dark wizards anymore. So he said cool, and then we just talked about how weird it would be not to spend all day together, and that was it, really. What’s going on?”

Neville looked at his Butterbeer. “It’s just... I mean - I don’t want to disappoint him, and it’s so important to him, and I thought it was important to me, too, you know, ‘cause of my mum and dad, but...”

Ron sat down next to Neville. “You don’t want to be an Auror?” he asked.

“Not really,” Neville said, the relief clear in his voice. “I thought I did, but it’s just...” Neville scratched at the small scar under his ear. That was the only mark left on his face from Voldemort’s curse - mostly, it didn’t catch, but having a burning Sorting Hat forced on your head would leave some sort of mark, Ron knew.

“It’s like the war never ended,” Ron said, and Neville nodded vehemently.

“That’s it!” he said. “Exactly. Same names, all those escaped Death Eaters, you know, and the danger... it’s important, I know it’s important, I feel bad even thinking about quitting, I mean, someone has to do it, so they won’t do what they did to my mum and dad to anyone else...”

Neville opened the bottle of Butterbeer and drank a little. “It feels bad. Like I’m running away from responsibility. Someone has to do it. And it can’t all fall on Harry again.”

“Harry’s got a choice, just like you do,” Ron pointed out, but Neville shook his head.

“You know Harry doesn’t see it that way - ”

“Harry sees it exactly that way,” Ron cut across him.

“Maybe I just got used to following Harry’s lead,” Neville said quietly, staring at his bottle.

“Hey,” Ron said, “I know the feeling. I’d probably follow Harry to hell and back if he needed me to.”

“But you didn’t become an Auror.”

“Yeah,” Ron nodded and smiled.

Neville opened his mouth to say something more, but at that moment the door opened and Harry walked in. “What are you doing here?” he looked at Neville in confusion.

“He missed me,” Ron said before Neville had the chance to open his mouth.

Harry looked from Ron to Neville, still confused, then shrugged. “Anyway,” he declared, “I’m starving.”

Ron stared at the kitchen. He, too, was starving. “We might have some pasta left from yesterday,” he said dubiously. If they had any pasta leftovers, he was pretty sure there was no sauce to go with it, and that it was cold and not very tasty.

“To hell with it,” Harry said, “let’s go out for pizza.”

“Just don’t tell my mum, she thinks we’re eating out too much.”

“Pizza,” Harry declared in an insulted voice, “is not eating out. It’s pizza.”

“Whatever,” Ron said and grabbed his jacket. “Come on, Neville, we found this incredible Italian place last week, you have to try their pizzas.”

“Sure,” Neville said, and if he was a bit quiet that night, Ron didn’t find a reason to point it out.

-X-

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Ginny greeted him as he walked down to the kitchen. She had a small envelope laid before her, and was reading with great interest the letter on the parchment. There was a plate with half eaten toast on the table, but a second look confirmed that there was nothing there but leftovers.

“When did you get here?” he asked, rummaging around the kitchen and trying to see if there was some toast left on a different plate somewhere.

“Mum left some breakfast for you in the frying pan. And yesterday evening, which you would have known had you got home before 2 a.m.,” she pointed out.

“Tell me I didn’t make that much noise,” he looked at her horrified, his hand holding a fried mushroom, frozen in the middle of the way to his mouth.

“Well, that would depend. Would you define a medium-sized elephant herd as ‘too much’?” she asked.

Ron groaned. Mum was going to kill him.

“Did Harry come with you?”

“Nah - he said he was going to spend some of the Easter holidays with Teddy and Andromeda. I, er, don’t think he knew you’re coming yesterday. Anyway, it’s Teddy’s birthday next week, and you know how Harry keeps on going on and on about how he never gets to see him.”

“Why doesn’t Andromeda just come here with Teddy?” Ginny wondered.

“Yeah, that’s what I told him, he said he’ll try to convince her.” Finally, Ron finished loading his plate with his mum’s great food, and sat down to the table next to Ginny. “What’s that?”

“Oh,” Ginny turned red all of a sudden. “It’s - well - it’s a letter from the Holyhead Harpies.”

Ron tried to ask what they wanted, but his mouth was too full. All that came out was indistinct noises, and Ginny twisted her face and told him he was disgusting.

“Sorry - meant to ask what they want.”

“Well - we had the game against Hufflepuff last week - and Gwenog Jones came, Professor Slughorn invited her, see - and she saw the game - and, she, er... they want me to join next year.”

“What?!” Ron yelled. “That’s brilliant!”

“I’m not sure I’ll accept,” she shrugged.

“You’re not sure - are you mental? It’s professional Quidditch!”

“It’s just the reserves.”

“Yeah - but that’s how you get into professional Quidditch!”

“I don’t know, maybe there’s other stuff I want to do.”

“More than professional Quidditch?!”

“Will you stop going on about professional Quidditch?”

“I can’t - it’s professional Quidditch!”

“Well, George will be pleased,” she said.

“What does George have to do with anything?” Ron asked her, confused. “He’s got a shop, he’s not playing professional Quidditch!”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “He had a bet, you see, with Bill,” she explained. “Bill said you’d be jealous as hell and sulk all day long, George bet him five galleons you’d be excited.”

“Of course I’m excited, my sister is going to play - ”

“ - Professional Quidditch, yes, yes,” she rolled her eyes yet again. “Honestly, you’re more excited than I am.”

“Well, if you’re on the team, I could get free tickets,” he said. She looked annoyed for a moment, then must have noticed his wink, because she calmed down.

“You’re really not jealous?” she asked as she stole a fried tomato from his plate.

“Really,” he reassured her. “It’s too cool to be jealous about. ‘Sides, I don’t think the Holyhead Harpies are likely to hurry to sign me up.”

“You really think I should take it?” she wrinkled her brow at the letter again.

“Absolutely,” he said. “It’s - ”

“Professional Quidditch,” they said together. “Right,” she snorted.

-X-

To Ron’s left, Harry was sitting up, looking straight ahead, but not seeing a thing. Ron could tell. To his right, Hermione was leaning on his shoulder, tears in her eyes.

Kingsley was standing on the makeshift stage, talking about the war. It had been a whole year. Ron couldn’t quite understand that.

A whole year without Fred.

He blinked the tears away, and passed his hand through Hermione’s hair, comforting her, and looked three chairs to his left, at George. George and Mum were both crying, hugging each other. Ron shook his head and blinked the tears away, trying to focus on Kingsley’s words.

They were at Hogwarts. Everyone agreed that was the most natural place to hold a memorial ceremony for the war. Everyone agreed it was the only possible place. It wasn’t the Ministry’s day, because the Ministry, by then, had been Voldemort’s. No one wanted it in the Ministry, not even Kingsley. It couldn’t be in Diagon Alley, it couldn’t be in Hogsmeade. It couldn’t be anywhere but here - the same place they lost their loved ones, the same place where they fought - and won.

Not everyone was happy when Kingsley brought up the idea of conducting the memorial service. Harry was dead set against it; the only person more outspoken than him against the idea was Andromeda Tonks. George, too, was reluctant, and if he were completely honest with himself, Ron wasn’t too thrilled with the idea either. But the decision was made, they were invited, and he sat now, not taking in a single word of what Kingsley was saying. Instead, he was thinking of Fred, and of Lupin and Tonks, and everyone else they had lost that day.

That was all the memorial he needed, really, and he didn’t need a special day to remember them.

When the ceremony ended, Harry got up quickly, and started walking towards the castle. Ron and Hermione followed him without a word. They understood what he was running away from - any moment now, everyone would probably look for him, want to talk to him, share things with him... maybe that was one of the reasons he was so against the idea, Ron thought.

He remembered all the times at school when he had been jealous of Harry, of the attention he got and how everything had always seemed to revolve around him. Now, all he could think was that he used to be such a stupid kid.

They finally caught up with Harry in the third floor corridor. Harry seemed to think it was safe to stop running then. They stood there and looked at each other without saying a word. After all that time, they didn’t really need to.

“This is so weird,” Hermione spoke first. “Having you two here. Like it was before. Like we’re supposed to be somewhere else and we’re sneaking under Harry’s cloak.”

“Like nothing’s changed,” Ron agreed. “Yeah, it’s weird.”

“Not really,” Harry shrugged, and looked at the school around him in affection. “Hey - you know where we are?”

“Third floor corridor?” Ron said, confused.

“Exactly,” Harry said.

“Oh!” Hermione had caught up, apparently, but Ron was still in the dark.

“What’s so special about the third floor corridor?!” he asked, but Harry was already walking fast towards his unknown destination. “Where are we going?!”

The penny dropped when Harry opened another door, and Ron noticed the trapdoor on the floor. “No...”

“Yes,” Harry said with a strange smile.

They jumped down.

Ron couldn’t believe it. Not all of it was still there - the Devil’s Snare was gone, of course, as was the troll, thankfully. The charm on the keys had long since stopped working, but strangely, that only made finding the heavy key on the floor harder. The big chess board, too, didn’t come to life again, and they just walked through the pieces, Ron stopping for just a second in front of the white king. The fire in the entrance of the last room had died a long time ago, much before its caster, but the bottles were still there, arranged in a series, completely empty. Hermione stopped and looked at the small note, in Snape’s tidy handwriting, explaining the riddle, and smiled. Ron put his hand on her shoulder, and she reached with her other hand and squeezed it, without looking at his face.

Harry didn’t look at the bottles. He was standing in front of the last doorway in hesitation.

“Harry?” Hermione must have noticed, because she asked in an unsure voice, then looked at Ron.

“Come on,” Ron said, with no hesitation at all. He knew what was waiting beyond that door. He knew why Harry would hesitate. Still, he thought, they got this far.

He pushed Harry slightly. Harry nodded, and took another step forward, and another.

They walked through the door.

It was still there. Ron stopped, for just a moment, he thought, when he saw it - it stood there, covered with dust, right at the centre of the room - the Mirror of Erised. Dumbledore had never bothered removing it from its hiding place. But even though he thought it was just a momentary pause, he still didn’t continue walking. None of them did. All of a sudden, the mirror looked much more threatening.

The three of them stood there, at the doorway, in complete silence, none of them moving, none of them saying a word. None of them knew what to say.

Harry was the first who moved. He put his hands in the pockets of his trousers, bit his lip and went on, looking more determined than Ron had seen him in a long while. It took him only three steps to reach the mirror, and then he stood in front of it, tense and slightly frozen.

Ron looked from Harry, to Hermione, to the mirror, and it took him a while to realise that Harry’s breathing was becoming faster and faster, more laborious, that he was blinking furiously as he looked at the mirror, but still unable to look away. He rushed to Harry’s side and pulled him away. “Come on,” he said quietly. “It was a bad idea.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his voice strange and hoarse, his eyes still fixed on the mirror. “Stupid kids’ dreams.”

“Come on, let’s go home.”

“Yeah,” Harry said again, and if the snort he gave with the word sounded more like a sob, Ron wasn’t going to say a word. “Sounds good to me.” Finally, he looked away.

As they were walking away, Ron threw a quick glance at the mirror. He must have been standing at the wrong place, he thought. When he was a kid, he stood in front of the mirror, and saw himself older and cooler, Head Boy and Captain of the Quidditch team, surrounded by fans and admirers. Now, all he saw was himself.

-X-

I have seen your heart, and it is mine.

It was the same old dream, over and over again. When Ron thought about it, he suspected he should have considered it a nightmare - after all, what else could dreaming about Voldemort be considered? But for some reason, he didn’t think about the dream as a nightmare at all.

It wasn’t just because it was more of a memory than a dream; not just because it really happened. He might have been young still, but he had seen enough in his short years that could be considered ‘nightmare’.

He just wasn’t afraid of this dream - this memory. That was it. It didn’t bother him. It was terrible, at the time - oh yes, Voldemort seeing into his heart, seeing all his fears, all his insecurities, all his jealousy, everything he had ever felt and was afraid of and ashamed of, everything he had done and said that he wished he could take back.

But it didn’t bother him anymore. Now, in the middle of the night, he had this ridiculous idea, that perhaps, when Voldemort had looked into his heart, he, Ron, had got a glimpse too. He thought of waking Hermione up, of telling her that, but her breaths were slow and deep and it felt completely wrong to wake her up just to talk to her about that silly idea he had. So he just rolled over and went back to sleep, and by morning, he knew, he would probably not remember a thing.

Fic: The Bow That Is Stable for phantompopcorn

springmod — Thu, 17 May 2012 05:30:41 GMT

Title: The Bow That Is Stable
Author: bitchet
Recipient: phantompopcorn
Summary: Your children are not your children.
Characters: Teddy, Andromeda, Ron, Rose, Luna, Rolf, Angelina, Fred II, Draco, Scorpius, Percy, Molly II, Lucy, Fleur, Dominique, Harry, James Sirius, Albus Severus, and Lily Luna.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, character death (mentioned, off-screen), terminal illness, canon pairings except for one blink-and-you'll-miss-it hint at a next-gen pairing.
Word Count: 6,000+
Author's Notes: phantompopcorn you asked for next-gen, coming of age, and character studies. I hope you like this. Title and text from Kahlil Gibran’s “On Children”.

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

His mother was twenty-one when she was admitted to the Aurors, twenty-two when she vowed to fight in a war that had started before she was even born, twenty-four when she married, and twenty-five when she had her son and died not long after.

She was two years older than he was now when she was killed. If he made it to fifty he would be twice as old as she had ever been.

He looked off into the distance, trying to ignore the heaviness in his chest. Beside him, his Gran arranged the sunflowers - his mother’s favourite - and whispered to the dirt and grass that blanketed her daughter and son-in-law.

For the first time he allowed himself to think about what it meant for his parents to die so suddenly. Their deaths had always been about him - his loss, his pain, how it had shaped his life. Selfish as it was, it had been easier to think of it from his perspective because any other way reminded him that they had been just as real as he. They had cried and laughed and dreamed and argued and fucked and lived and hoped that they’d have the chance to wake up the next day and do it all again.

In her short moments spent as a widow, did his mother hope for a quick end or did she still fight, clinging to life until it was ripped from her? He wasn’t even sure it mattered beyond wondering what it said about her and who she had been.

“Is something wrong?” It wasn’t until he heard those words from his from his Gran that he realized he had been shaking his head, a deep frown on his face as he looked at the flowers.

“No,” he said quietly, his eyes on the headstone. “No, I just - I don’t understand. Why have a kid in the middle of war? It’s stupid.”

He spat out the last word with a force that surprised even him. Perhaps this was some long-denied moment of adolescent rebellion that had finally broken forth.

Teddy glanced at his grandmother from the corner of his eye, his face hot and an apology on his lips until he saw her expression.

“Do really you think you’re the first one to make that argument?” she drawled, reminding him strangely of McGonagall as she stared him down, the corner of her mouth inching ever-so-slightly upwards.

Of course he hadn’t been the first. From what he had overheard between Harry and Ginny, his own father hadn’t been too keen on the idea of having a child while Voldemort was trying to kill them.

“Then why?”

She brushed the dirt from her silk gloves. “It wasn’t a choice she made lightly, I assure you.”

Nothing more followed and Teddy was certain that was all the response he would receive until she spoke again, her voice softer than before and her eyes staring ahead to where his grandfather was buried.

“It is foolish and mad and I hope you never have cause to understand it but when you think each day might be your last, that desire to live can drive you to do things you never thought you would.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she turned to look at him. “And you cling to life however you can.”

They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

Perhaps it spoke poorly of her but when faced with what had to be one of the most normal and ordinary parts of childhood, Luna was struck by how very strange and unnatural it was. Why should her children be taken from her? Why should they spend the next several years away from home only to return as adults? They wouldn’t be strangers to her - not even in her wildest imaginings could she conceive of such a gulf between her and the two little boys she loved and nourished and raised - but there would be so many important moments she would never be there to see.

A cup of hot tea was pressed into her hands and comforting arms closed around her. Rolf pressed a small kiss to her temple as he settled in beside her.

“You are worried,” he said.

“I am.”

She looked at the tent where the two boys slept under a covering charmed to reveal the starry night sky overhead. They had wanted to take one more trip before leaving for Hogwarts but her father had wanted to see them again This was her compromise.

“About them leaving?” This, most tellingly, was a question and not a statement.

Luna looked down at his hands, her forefinger tracing over the knuckles of his right hand. These were hands that tended to the wounded, that could wield a wand as easily as a quill. These hands knew her body as well as her own and had been the first to hold her sons. She loved these hands, every callus and scar.

“Yes. And no. Truthfully, I was thinking about Daddy.”

The night before she had boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time, she asked her father if she really had to leave. He had told her only if she wanted to. The question still bothered her.

She had been nervous about Hogwarts but even more so about leaving her father. Who would help with The Quibbler? Who would remind him to water the water the Dirigible Plums at noon and dusk? Who would keep him company as he searched for Heliopaths? After her mother’s death, he had been her entire world and she his. What would become of him when she left?

But her taste for adventure and learning, her need for friends and laughter had outweighed her worries. She had left home the next morning with a heavy heart.

“This is natural. Which doesn’t mean it won’t hurt but that it has to happen,” she said softly. Rolf raised a brow at this and she kissed him quickly.

“It’s life.”

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.

He hated to admit it, but sometimes he could see why the hat put his darling Rosie in Slytherin.

No, scratch that. He would never understand why on earth his sweet little girl was put in the same house that spawned You-Know-Who.

But, if he were truly honest with himself - and it would only be with himself as he still couldn’t even admit this much out loud - some days it was less surprising than others.

Hermione had come around to the idea much quicker than he had, pointing out how Slytherin had been diluted and it was no longer filled with pure-blood fanatics just a bunch of little jumped-up twats that would one day be sitting on the Wizengamot.

She hadn’t quite said the last part but it was true.

His wife had also pointed out that he had Slytherin ancestors, like Cedrella Weasley and Lucretia Prewett. In what had to be one of the top ten biggest mistakes he had ever made with Hermione - ranking somewhere below leaving her and above not asking her to the Yule Ball first - he had unthinkingly responded that they didn’t count because they married into the family.

His ears were still ringing from that one.

He wasn’t a complete tosser, no matter what Hermione might have thought at the time. He had written Rosie to tell her how proud he was and that he hoped she tried out for Quidditch because God knows Slytherin could use all the help it could get. He had even bought her a green cloak that Christmas with a curly little silver clasp that kind of looked like a snake but really wasn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to actually buy the one with the snake clasp or the one with the Slytherin crest but it was the thought that mattered, right?

“I don’t know how you did it,” she began, looking at the picture of him during his second year with his too-short robes and broken wand. “I mean, I understand that money isn’t everything.”

But, he mentally prompted, wondering how much this was going to cost him.

“But as a kid it must have been hard to be around people with their new robes and trainers and not have the same.” Her shoulders slumped and she looked away, her face the very picture of concern and thoughtfulness. The WADA had a summer course for Hogwarts students interested in acting; he was nearly tempted to suggest it.

“Did you really wear hand-me-down robes to the Yule Ball?”

He should have seen this one coming once it was announced the TriWizard Tournament would once again be held at Hogwarts.

“You know I did,” he answered dryly.

Ducking her head as she smiled, she took the hint. “It’s only a few months away and I haven’t even been asked yet...”

That she would even offer that information told him that she had in fact been asked and was just waiting for the right moment to tell him. He had suspected as much when he has spotted the ring on a chain that she wore around her neck. She had eventually charmed it to look like a simple pendant but it had been too late. Monday morning, he would start looking into the background of every boy in Slytherin.

“But I was at the shops, and I saw this dress...”

“How much?” he asked.

“A hundred Galleons?”

“For a dress? One dress?”

She winced and he bit his tongue.

“It’s a really nice dress. Dominque says it’s by these really famous French designers and I’m sure I could wear it more than once. Or if not I could give it to Lily!”

Ron snorted at that. Last week Lily had declared glamour charms to be a tool of the patriarchy. She was more likely to protest the Yule Ball than to attend it.

“Dad...”

“Rosie, no.”

She hunched down in defeat and despite every logical instinct, for a second he found himself doing the maths. But it wasn’t about the money, it was the principle of the thing. He and Hermione wanted to set clear limits for their children.

“If you had told me sooner, we could have worked something out. You could have helped your Uncle George out at the shop during summer hols to help pay off some of the costs.”

“I know,” she admitted, her voice low and her eyes downcast. She shrugged. “It was a stupid, spur-of-the moment thing. There are other dresses. Gladrags is having a sale on some for thirty.”

He pulled out his chequebook and quill, fully intending to write her a check for thirty-five Galleons but somehow writing one for fifty instead.

His daughter hugged him tightly once he handed it over, giving him a kiss on the cheek and telling him he was the best before practically skipping out the door.

It wasn't until the door closed and Ron thought about how easily his normally-bullheaded daughter had given in that it hit him.

She’d been angling for the fifty Galleons from the start.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

Roxanne laughed, a bright, sharp sound that carried in the wind. From her place in the kitchen, she could see her daughter and husband out the window as he taught her to throw a Quaffle. Everything about her screamed that she was her father’s daughter, her mischievous nature, her freckles, her quicksilver grin, and her love of pranks were all his. Her curly hair even looked red as she basked in the sunlight.

She had been daddy’s girl since the moment she’d been born and they were thick as thieves. Roxanne had spent much of the past summer with her dad at the shop, helping him to test products and asking him how they worked. It was clear even now that Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes would be hers one day.

Freddy looked up from his textbook, frowning as the pair whooped and shouted. He hadn’t even begun his lessons and he appeared to be on his third chapter for Ancient Runes.

“I could cast a charm if you need to revise,” she suggested but he shook his head, pulling off his glasses to wipe them on his shirt.

He had his father’s clear blue eyes. In every other way he looked exactly like her maternal grandfather and Angelina had to smile, remembering the picture of a handsome man with wide grin and perfect dimples wearing a crisp Muggle uniform. Her granny had carried it with her until her dying day. But by all accounts her grandfather had been an easy-going man known for his wit. Nothing like her serious boy.

Angelina could tell he took after her in some respects. Like her, he was what some might call a “poor loser” and like her, he could sometimes become a tad obsessive about things. It was perhaps a good thing he didn’t care much for Quidditch as some parents these days would be very annoyed if their kids had to practice in the rain for hours. Some parents would also mollycoddle their kids to death but she wasn’t one to judge.

From the time he was seven years old and had quite earnestly laid out his academic and career plans, it was clear that he was a bit different from both his parents. George had actually taken her aside after their son described his intentions to earn twelve O.W.L’s before becoming Minister for Magic, and could barely contain his laughter as he asked her exactly how many Weasleys she had slept with.

He was lucky she had an excellent sense of humour.

She sat down across from him, placing a cool butterbeer in front of him while she popped the top from her own bottle. He looked up at her in surprise - they were supposed to have been out, but she had found some while cleaning the cupboard.

Angelina winked and he rewarded her with one of his rare smiles.

He didn’t offer information freely. It pained her to admit it but he always gave short answers as if he was afraid of boring them if he said much more.

She turned the book over, looking at the cover as she said, “This is a good book but I think Worthington’s companion to it is better.”

“You studied Runes?” And she wondered if he had forgotten she had been a Hogwarts student once.

“It was my favourite subject.” But only because Quidditch didn’t count.

A broad grin split his face, complete with two perfect dimples.

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

They hadn’t told the girls.

For the first several weeks only he, Audrey, and the healers had known. Percy had convinced himself that he was only doing the sensible thing. They did not have all the facts first, treatments hadn’t even been started, and they didn’t know enough to worry anyone.

That had been a lie.

Once the diagnosis had been made, there was nothing more to know. Derwent-Gamp Disease was as predictable as it was vicious. It ran in families, most notoriously the Blacks. Age of onset was usually between the ages of fifty-to-fifty-five but patients as young as thirty had been documented. The most common symptoms were shaky hands, slurred or unintelligible speech, and displays of uncontrollable magic. The disease would turn the body against itself, growing worse until finally, the patient lapsed into a coma and died.

Three years was the average life expectancy after diagnosis.

Percy had known all this but still he had kept quiet as if it was a spell that would only gain potency if someone said the words. But fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself.

Still, he denied it, throwing himself into treatments that took away the symptoms but also took his magic as well, leaving him so drained he couldn’t get out of bed some days. He tried different other treatments as well, traditional Chinese practices that Audrey’s zēng zǔ mǔ had sworn by. Those had helped him feel better, helped him sleep better, but were helpless against the disease. In a moment of desperation, he had even bought some home-brewed potion from a hag standing near the entrance to Knockturn Alley that had energized him but left his hands too shaky to even hold a quill. He had destroyed that bottle before Audrey could see it.

They hadn’t known it, but he’d had the girls tested for the disease. He had smiled for the first time in months when the results had come back.

His brothers and sister were also free of the disease. Percy had waited for their results before telling his parents. He’s not sure what difference it made in the scheme of things but, at the time, it seemed important to do things in that order.

Sitting back in his chair, he listened to them talk over each other. It had taken him years to realize that, at least to each other, they weren’t being rude, that they could understand perfectly while they held two different conversations. Molly went on about the TriWizard Tournament, intent on putting her name in the cup even though the thought left him a bit queasy. Meanwhile, Lucy made her case against no one that The Withered Snales was the best band ever or at least was until her band got off the ground.

They had named the twins for their grandmothers though they couldn’t be more dislike them if they tried.

Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true.

Lucy liked to knit like her Grandma. She was rather skilled at it too, able to do patterns like the little skulls with pink hair bows that adorned the black socks she wore. The colour of the bow even matched the charmed pink of her asymmetrical bob so she clearly shared her Grandma’s eye for decorations and colours, he thought with a small smile.

And Molly loved all sport as evidenced by the “Quidditch Is Life” t-shirt and pyjama bottoms adorned with tiny exploding Quods. She even loved the Muggle sport hockey, joining her Nana to root for the Canucks whenever they visited Audrey’s parents. She was like his brother Charlie in a way, a natural at any sport she tried her hand at. He could easily imagine her standing on the TwiWizard Tournament platform or playing for a club like his sister had and representing England in the next Quidditch World Cup.

As for Lucy, he knew she was a good singer and could play any string instrumen set in front of her. She had kept at her violin lessons long after her sister had grown tired of them. And even if he didn’t understand it, other kids seemed to like the music she and her band made. It wouldn’t be long before she was on the Wireless.

They would set the world on fire, the two of them.

Or maybe they wouldn’t.

Maybe Molly would meet some nice wizard, a sensible lad who would look at her adoringly when she enters the chapel dressed in white. They would move into a charming country cottage and raise their own little Quidditch team. Maybe Lucy would open her own little shop of knitted goods in Diagon Alley, content to spend her days there and her nights with her friends at the local pub as they talked about anything and nothing.

Maybe they would do all that and more, living lives he couldn’t have imagined even if he’d been given a million years. They would have heartaches and triumphs that he would never share. They would grow into women that he would never meet. They would live and, if there was any mercy in the universe, be happy and grow old.

And if he could just be certain of that, it would be so much easier to let go.

You may strive to be like them,

He was a good man.

Strange to think of him as a man but at sixteen on the cusp of adulthood, that’s what he was. He was tall and broad-shouldered, peach fuzz on his chin that he was trying to turn into something a little less ridiculous-looking. There was something more than the physical changes, there was this air of surety that he already had that had taken Draco decades to achieve. He had always kept his own counsel, even as a boy, but it hadn't always been apparent.

The other day, a colleague had seen the photo he’d had on his desk of Scorpius and had mistaken it for him. Draco had scoffed, asking exactly how narcissistic she thought he was to have a photo of himself on his own desk.

The comments had stayed with him, buzzing around his head like an annoying gnat.

Not for the first time, he wished his son had the dark colouring of the Greengrasses. Having the Malfoy name was bad enough, but his fair hair and pale skin were as obvious as having a bull’s eye painted on his back.

His Sorting had only made it worse. Once he’d heard the news, it had been Scorpius’ safety he had worried about, not the Malfoy tradition. That addled hat that surely still remembered the Dark Lord trying to dispose of it had sent his son, his only child, straight into the lion’s den as a form of revenge and nothing would convince him otherwise.

Several times over the years he’d been tempted to pull his son out of school, to send him to Durmstrang or Beauxbatons or America if that had been necessary to keep him in one piece. There’d been many trips to Pomfrey over the first two years, many visits to the Headmistress where his son refused to say who exactly had been duelling with him, and many “concerned” letters from that daft sod Longbottom who couldn’t - or wouldn’t - control his own house.

Then it had stopped.

At first he had assumed that all the time practising hexes at home as well as his son becoming President of the Duelling club were the reasons. While they likely explained part of it, it didn’t explain all the new friends he had. He had barely seen Scorpius at all this summer, he'd been constantly visiting this friend or that. Those rare moments at home were spent firecalling them or waiting for their owls. Judging from what he had seen at King's Cross a few weeks ago, some of Scorpius' entourage were children of those he had gone to school with, children who had surely heard about every misdeed connected with the Malfoys – Boots and Macmillians, Potters and Weasleys.

He even had a girlfriend. Scorpius hadn't mentioned it but Draco had noticed that some letters his son received were quickly hidden away and remembered the odd look on his face when he offered up the news that he had “lost” his signet ring.

It would seem Scorpius hadn't merely beaten his tormentors – he had won them over. The very idea of it made Draco bristle but it was quite obvious that some of those little shits who had once made his son's life miserable were the ones now hanging on his every word.

Scorpius could do that. He made friends and admirers easily and not just among his peers. His teachers and tutors adored him, the Daily Prophet article he wrote about Muggles had earned him praising letters from all over the country, and after spending some of his free time this summer ladling soup and rolling bandages, half the staff at St. Mungo's were enthralled with him.

All this proved something he had always known – Scorpius was his mother's son in every way. With his intelligent olive green eyes and easy smile, Draco saw Astoria every time he looked at him. His compassion, his open nature, his stubborn independence and his quiet courage – they were all hers. It was so apparent to Draco that he didn’t know how so many people could miss it.

“I was thinking about taking some classes at a Muggle school next year,” Scorpius said suddenly, squinting into the sun as he glanced over at him.

Draco wasn't surprised. His son had asked for tutors so he could learn more about science and maths. He had just hoped it was for a particularly ambitious Muggle Studies project.

“Muggles have made some amazing advances in medicine, and Healer Chang thinks it's a great idea and that it would really give me an edge before I start my training.”

What Muggles could offer him, he couldn't imagine but he knew his son and he knew that he wasn't really being asked his permission. Though Scorpius was kind enough to make it seem so.

If he stood still long enough, he could almost feel the tremors from generations of Malfoys turning in their graves at the very idea of a Malfoy going to live among Muggles. Blood-traitor. While he'd never said those words, Lucius had made it clear while he was alive that by being so lax with Scorpius, that would be end result. Draco knew that if his father were here now, he'd point out that even Arthur Weasley hadn't gone so far in his fondness for Muggles to temporarily become one of them. If he were here, he'd insist Draco do some damage control and fast before his son ran off with his mixed-blooded girlfriend to wallow in the mud and bring down the Malfoy name with him.

If he were here.

“If your mother has no objection to it,” he began, giving his son a pointed look as he knew this was something the two had already discussed, “then I don't see a problem.”

but seek not to make them like you.

If Victoire had been half as much trouble as her sister, they would have stopped at one.

Fleur marched into the cottage, the small beaded bag tightly in her grasp as she stood at the base of the stairs. Taking a deep breath, willing herself not to yell, she called up to her daughter in French, “We need to talk, Dominique!”

From his seat on the couch, Bill looked over at her in surprise. He knew just as their children did, that when she started speaking in French, it was never a good sign.

She shook her head, doing her daughter that small favour, and began up the stairs. Entering the bedroom without knocking on the door, she snorted at the scene.

Still pretending that she was going to revise with her friends, her daughter was placing her books and parchment in a knapsack. She even had the audacity to look up at her, face a picture of innocence, and announce, “I have to get going, I don't want to be late.”

“And I'm sure you don't want to forget this either,” Fleur snapped, throwing the beaded bag on the bed.

Rather than looking ashamed, Dominique sighed as if the whole thing was very tedious. “Fine, I wasn't going to revise with Lucy.”

“And where were you going dressed like that?” she asked, pointing to the bag that held a very short dress, heels, perfume, make-up, and a what looked to be a white gold bracelet studded with gems. “And 'o is the jewellery from?”

This prompts a smile. “Sebastian Zabini gave it to me. Pink sapphires. Isn't it stunning?”

“Sebastian? What 'appened to the Smith boy you were dating?” And why did her daughter have such horrible taste in men?

Dominique gave a shrug. “Nothing. He's with his family in Switzerland which seems rather dull if you ask me. I'll probably see him when the term starts. He promised he'll get me a watch.”

“You're dating both of them?”

“It's not serious,” Dominique scoffed, twiddling the ends of her silvery-blonde hair between her fingers. “Boys just like to give me things.”

Molly Weasley's voice came to mind, muttering about “scarlet women” and Fleur felt as if she could spit fire. “In exchange for what?”

“Mother!” At this, Dominique had the good grace to look offended. “I'm not some slag, I don't sleep with them so they'll buy me things.”

Fleur's sense of relief was short-lived.

“I don't have to,” Dominique continued, looking quite pleased with herself. “They buy me things just to be seen with me.”

She was no Molly Weasley. She knew her children would date, would have their romances, and she had no expectations that they keep themselves chaste before marriage. What she had expected, however, was that they'd be a bit less cynical about it. She had raised her children to be romantics, to appreciate love as a gift in and of itself, one of the few truly beautiful things life had to offer.

Instead, her two youngest seemed to think of it as a game to be won and her eldest approached it with all the solemness of a funeral, choosing a partner as sombre and moody as she.

Fleur blamed English culture. As she had told Gabrielle, they were all quite prudish and it gave them warped attitudes about sex and romance.

“I don't promise them anything either if that's what you're thinking,” Dominique added churlishly.

She raised a brow at this. “I don't like your tone.”

“Why are you angry with me? It's not like I asked to be part-Veela. Why shouldn't I have fun with it?”

“This is your idea of fun?”she asked, unthinkingly switching back to her native tongue. “Gilding the rose--”

“Lily.”

“So you can toy with the emotions of boys and get trinkets from them?” She was as bad as some of her cousins – they had joined the Bulgarian dancing squad for the expressed purpose of meeting some rich Quidditch player who would buy them anything they wanted.

Dominique folded her arms with a huff. “It's not as if I'm lying to them. They want someone pretty and fun, and I like going places. Besides, I'm an adult now.”

It was Fleur's turn to scoff.

“And I can do as I please,” she finished, her arms crossed in front of her and her nose in the air.

“Not under my 'ouse. You're not going anywhere tonight.” Tomorrow she would leave to return to Hogwarts and Fleur would have to hope for the best, but for tonight she was still in control.

“Mother!”

“And I will be taking this,” she added, grabbing the beaded bag. “You can focus on your revising.”

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

Seventeen years later, he could finally say that Hermione had been wrong.

He had told her so then, but even at the time, he had known it was more out of his own stubborn belief than anything else. It had felt so right to name his children after his parents and Ginny had so readily agreed that when Hermione had voiced her objection, it had felt like a rebuke. Harry knew now that he shouldn't have taken it as personally as he did, that, as always, Hermione meant the best.

At the time, however, hearing that he was possibly hurting his children, forcing them to live up to people made larger than life by two wars, hurt. He didn't care what they had meant to the wizarding world, they had been his parents and he wanted his children to be named for them and the only person who could tell him otherwise was Ginny. After everything that he'd given and everything that had been taken from him, why couldn't he have that?

In a move that was equal parts love and defiance, Harry had named his first child James Sirius. He had reasoned at the time that even with that name, it wasn't as if he had to be like his namesakes. Maybe he would take after his Grandfather Arthur and be someone more mild-mannered.

“Hufflepuff doesn't stand a chance.” James said, releasing the Snitch he carried with him and watching it buzz around his head. “Better luck next year, Lils.”

Sometime around his third birthday it became evident that James most definitely was not “mild-mannered” or anything else that could be confused for it. His son didn't have that same raw anger that Sirius had, and both he and Ginny had worked hard to make him less arrogant than the first James Potter had been. Yet, like both men, James was cocky and reckless and loved to laugh and be the centre of a crowd.

Plucking the Snitch out of the air, Lily flashed her brother a grin. “Don't count us out just yet.”

His youngest had all the fire of her mother and both her grandmothers. And like both her namesakes, she had an intrinsic sense of fairness.

Despite knowing that he wanted his daughter to be named for his mum, he had told Ginny a few weeks before she was born that perhaps they should think about other names. The comments surrounding the choice of name for their middle child were still too fresh, and he became convinced that Hermione was right and he had made the sort of mistake that would result in years of therapy for his two boys.

Ginny had been equal parts confused and annoyed as she had believed they had long settled on the first name and it was only the middle name they had to decide. When he told her the reason behind his change of mind, she had only sighed and said, “Oh, Harry. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.”

She had then spent the following thirty minutes pointing out that half the wizarding world had no problem naming their sons after Harry, that Albus was going to be one of several boys in his year with that name, and that – if anything – it would be their last name that people noticed.

“We could be utter prats and name her Orange Quaffle Potter, it doesn't matter. She's still going to be our kid, Harry.”

That last sentence was more of a warning than a reassurance. No matter what their names, they'd still be measured against their mum, their famous aunts and uncles, and yes, their father. Unless they were willing to join the Grangers in Australia or go Muggle, there weren't any other options for them. The realisation was both freeing and crushing.

But, thankfully, more so for him than his children.

“What do you say, Al?” Lily dropped down beside her brother, pulling his book from his lap.

“He thinks you're mental but is too nice to say so,” James offered while Al rolled his eyes at once again being caught in the middle of one of their spats.

His children had never known neglect nor want. The war for them was something they'd learn in class along with Arithmancy or Potions. They weren't shackled to the past like he was. There would be no prophecies laying out their lives for them.

They would make their own paths in the world.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Fic: Picture of a Friendship for aliciadances

springmod — Wed, 16 May 2012 09:37:16 GMT

Title: Picture of a Friendship
Author: alley_skywalker
Recipient: aliciadances
Character(s): Rabastan, Regulus, cameos by others
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,119
Warnings: off-screen canon character death
Summary: Rabastan is Regulus’ best friend.

Rabastan is Regulus’ best friend.

There’s a two year difference between them but they grew up together, the Lestranges
and the Blacks constantly calling on each other. They called on the Malfoys too, but there
was only Lucius and he was so much older than Regulus that he would never play games
with the little Black.

Not that either Regulus or Rabastan are loud troublemakers. Unlike Rodolphus, Rabastan
is far more reserved and quiet. He is introverted in the same sort of way that Regulus is.
Part of Regulus’ quiet manner is his raising, of course, and having Sirius for an older
brother. Regulus was born the younger son and he had always held a place in the shadow
of the heir. Then there are the reserved manners of polite company that Regulus found
far less burdensome than his brother and almost as though to not be like Sirius, to be
better, to please his parents more, Regulus acts in a way as radically opposing Sirius as he
possibly can.

Rabastan never needed quite so much encouragement from circumstances. He is serious
by nature and he was drawn in by both Regulus’ similar quiet as well as his more uplifted
inner core. Regulus is far more idealistic that Rabastan, far more passionate. But they
compliment each other nicely, finding balance between themselves.

Regulus found his outlet in quidditch before he entered Antonin Dolohov’s training.
Rabastan, however, kept mostly to himself and the library, even when Regulus came to
Hogwarts, until he was admitted to the Academy. There he blossomed in a mature sort
of way. Rabastan is good at fighting and he is decent at teaching. There is a precision in
everything he does while Regulus is more smooth and lithe, a silken handkerchief and a
fine wine as compared to Rabastan’s silver dagger and rich brandy.

Together they complete a set, a decorative piece in the old, elegant style. Antonin likes to
put them together as a fighting pair. Most would consider this an odd choice but it makes
perfect sense to everyone who knows them. They can interpret each other well. Regulus
works well with many people but Rabastan is harder to place and together they provide
an effective, solid pair, especially on broom.

This intimacy comes from many things. From growing up together to the hours Rabastan
spent tutoring Regulus to do things like ride his broom or pass his first month of
transfiguration. They still take walks together and end up sitting on the edge of a pond or

a stream, Rabastan drawing in the dirt with a stick and Regulus lying back on the grass,
both hands under his head, staring up at the sky. Sometimes they do not speak, preferring
to soak in the day, the world around them. They each interpret it in different ways –
Rabastan in details and Regulus in splotches of color and feeling. Sometimes they will
share their observations and laugh at each other’s peculiarities but this only gives them
better insight into each other.

Regulus enjoys flying a lot more than Rabastan but the young Lestrange will give in from
time to time and go soaring with Regulus into the large blue expanse of the sky, brushing
the bottoms of clouds and laughing into the wind. “It feels free doesn’t it?” Regulus asks,
flipping his broom. “You can be anything you want up here! Even a bird if you wish.”

Rabastan nods, allowing himself to relax. Regulus allows him to calm his nerves, get rid
of that snappiness that threatens to break loose sometimes. He knows he can’t let it win
or he will end up hysterical like his brother and Rabastan does not want that.

They share dreams of the future with each other. Rabastan’s are more vague. He wishes
to win respect in this war for his talents as a fighter. Regulus wants the same thing but in
more boyish, glorified terms. He lives for the Cause and his family. Rabastan does the
same but in a more withheld sort of way.

Their friends tease them sometimes, calling them the “love birds.” Neither of them minds
particularly. “Love comes in many shapes, does it not, gentlemen?” Regulus says softly
one night while their battle squad is sitting around a spontaneously decided on bonfire
and eats smores.

Avery, who had started this round of playful joking, shrugs. “You two just look very snug
over there.”

Rabastan smirks and puts one arm around Regulus as if to goad them on purpose.

“I think he’s right. Love is…it’s in everything that’s beautiful and right. In everything
that is worth fighting for,” Anatole Bonfante says so seriously that Barty snickers and
Severus rolls his eyes. Severus receives an elbow in the side for that from Evan and Barty
– an exasperated glare.

“Love is magic,” Evan says softly and he meets Regulus’ eyes.

“Magic is love,” Regulus echoes and feels Rabastan’s hand tighten on his shoulder.

“I’ll drink to that!” Wilkes interjects happily and holds up a bottle of firewhisky. They
laugh and drink and the war seems like a million miles and years away in that moment.

When Regulus dies, Rabastan feels like something more than a person has gone out
of his life. He feels like the smoothness to everything is gone, like he can suddenly
feel all the sharp edges he had only seen before. It makes it easier to keep fighting and

living. It makes it easier to follow Rodolphus and Bellatrix into the hideout of Frank and
Alice Longbottom, to cast the necessary curses and to watch his brother and sister-in-
law do most of the dirty work as he stands guard. Regulus had never liked revenge but
Rabastan saw its utility. Now that Regulus is gone, he feels that utility as well. Barty,
who is with them, seems indifferent at first, but the pressure of the scene takes hold of
even him finally and he begins to wince and squirm. His wand hand droops and he looks
questioningly at Rabastan, as though to ask if this really has to be done.

“They don’t know anything,” Barty mouths.

“For Regulus?” Rabastan asks. He knows, deep inside, that Regulus might not have
wanted this. But he isn’t the only casualty in this war.

Barty confirms this a moment later as his hand stills and his shaking subsides and calms
into resolve. “For everyone.”

Rabastan had always thought that if he could bring one person back from the dead it
would be Regulus. But as he stands before the Wizengamot he thinks that perhaps it is
better that Regulus did not live to suffer this humiliation. That does not make missing
him any easier.

Regulus was Rabastan’s best friend.

Fic: The Gift for ani_bester

springmod — Tue, 15 May 2012 04:51:15 GMT

Title: The Gift
Author: lazy_neutrino
Recipient: ani_bester
Character(s): Neville, Luna, others
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2100
Summary: A cancelled lesson has unexpected consequences for Neville.
Author's Notes: I do hope you like this!

The life-size glossy photograph of Professor Lockhart had been pinned to the centre of the blackboard. He smiled at the pupils as they entered and brandished a scribbled note: 'Called away. Pages 141-6; make notes on Kelpies.' Underneath, in Professor McGonagall's neat writing, had been added 'Test tomorrow.' Neville picked up his books. It was too nice a day to spend inside; he could get the notes done under the oak trees next to Greenhouse Three. He wandered along the corridor, whistling between his teeth, and rounded the corner to the staircases.

Another lost first year. This one was sitting on the landing, swinging her feet into the void. Dirty blonde hair obscured her face. Neville signed inwardly and padded over.

'Are you lost?' he said kindly, although he thought he already knew the answer.

The girl turned her head and stared at him. 'Lost,' she repeated thoughtfully. 'No. I know exactly where I am, thank you.'

Ravenclaw. Neville tried again. 'Do you know where you're supposed to be now?'

A dazzling smile. 'I think I'm supposed to be here.'

Ravenclaw, definitely. 'What I mean is –' Neville tried again –'do you have a timetable on you? What lesson are you going to?'

'Oh, that,' the first-year said dismissively. 'I've got Potions with Professor Snape. But that's not where I'm supposed to be.'

'You're supposed to be here.' He had no idea what the rules of this conversation were, but that much he understood.

She beamed at him. 'Exactly. There was a staircase, but it went away. I expect another one will be along shortly.'

Since he had nothing better to do, Neville sat down beside her.

--

They had been chatting for about five minutes, and had covered most of the important topics such as names and Houses (Luna, Ravenclaw), pets, (no pet), Quidditch (no opinion either way) , favourite subjects (all of them) and Professors (not quite all), when a creak from above alerted them to the imminent arrival of a staircase.

'I think this is us.' Neville picked up Luna's bag and held it out to her.

'You're very kind.'

He blinked. 'Gran would kill me if I wasn't.' He shoved his free hand into his robes to check Trevor was safe. Floorboards shook as the staircase settled into place.

'All aboard!' Luna made a noise like a steam train as they began to move upwards. 'Oh this is exciting. I wonder where we're going?'

--

The staircase dumped them unceremoniously at the entrance to a narrow winding passage, flanked by endless doors. The attic levels, Neville suspected. He frowned. Strictly out of bounds. Still, the staircase seemed to know what it was doing and anything had to be more interesting than Kelpies.

The floorboards here were of a different wood to the rest of the castle; these looked as if they had been cut from holly rather than the oak which had been laid elsewhere. They looked as if they had been here a lot longer, too. But that can't be right. The top of the castle can't be the oldest bit. That would only be true if it was growing upwards– He shook his head. The boards had been replaced, perhaps. Maybe they didn't get as much wear and tear up here. That was the most likely explanation.

Luna had moved ahead of him and was trying the handles of the doors. Neville wasn't surprised to find that they all appeared to be locked. She paused at the final door, chewing her lower lip. A Ravenclaw solving a problem. Neville waited.

Luna nodded to herself, and knocked on the door. As her knuckles touched the panelled wood, the door swung silently inwards. Luna smiled. 'I thought so. All I had to do was ask.' She walked through the door. Neville followed.

They found themselves in a small tower room, with a single narrow window looking out over the lake. In the distance, Neville could see the dark robes of pupils, dotted around the castle grounds like so many ants. Two of the ants became elongated and rose towards him. Broomsticks, he realised. That's a Quidditch lesson. He stepped back from the window and turned round.

Luna was squatting on her haunches, tracing patterns in the dust with her fingers. She was humming to herself, head cocked – almost, Neville thought, as if she were listening to the floorboards as she touched them. As he watched, her hands stilled. She reached behind her ear and produced a crooked wand.

'Alohomora.' The floorboards made a grating sound as they moved aside. Luna reached down. Her hands came up holding a flat shape wrapped in oiled cloth.

'Um,' Neville said. This was all going too far and too fast. 'Shouldn't we tell someone?'

'No, silly. This is what we're supposed to be doing.'

'We?'

'You're here, aren't you?' Luna threw back the cloth and lifted up a picture. 'Oh, goodness. What a pretty girl.'

Neville looked down over Luna's shoulder. The portrait was about nine inches by eleven, in a carved walnut frame which had been stained a darker brown. A girl smiled up at him, rosy-cheeked and fair-haired. She was planting a row of wildflowers in a small glade. Beside her lay a small wooden cup, fallen on its side, and a trowel. Realising she had an audience, the girl rose to her feet, curtseyed and gave them a friendly wave.

Neville felt a coldness in his chest. 'I think I know who that is,' he said slowly. 'How far have you got with Binns?'

'Professor Binns?' Luna frowned. 'We've done the Founders. And a bit about goblins. Quite a lot about goblins, actually. I think he jumps about, just to get more goblins in. Why?'

'I need to talk to someone.' Neville's hand closed around Trevor. 'Tell you what, it's nearly time for the next lesson. Meet me outside Greenhouse Two after dinner.'

--

Hannah's pigtails swung from side to side as she nodded. 'It's definitely Inga,' she said. 'Wow. I can't believe you found this. It must be hundreds of years old.' She stroked the frame. 'This carving is lovely, too. Someone took real care over this.'

'Inga.' Luna's face cleared. 'Inga Hufflepuff.'

'Helga Hufflepuff's daughter. I thought it might be. She was a gardener like her mum.' Neville looked at the picture again. 'It's painted where that bank of holly trees is today. I wonder what happened to the flowers.'

Inga smiled at the three of them. Her smile was almost as nice as Hannah's. She brushed mud from her skirt and beckoned. Neville bent forward. Inga shook her head.

'Not me.' He stepped back. 'One of you two?'

'Maybe she wants to talk to a Hufflepuff,' Luna suggested.

Hannah stepped forward, her cheeks pink.

Inga beamed at her and bent down to lift the wooden cup.

'Oh!'

'What is it?' Luna and Neville demanded together.

'Didn't you see? The sun caught the cup and it sparkled – it's not wooden at all.' Hannah's eyes glowed. 'Just for a second it shone like gold. I've never seen anything so precious.' Her face became thoughtful. 'It must be the missing chalice.'

Luna and Neville looked at each other. 'You'd better explain,' Neville said. 'Binns never said anything about a chalice.'

'He wouldn’t.' Hannah shook her head. 'It's a Hufflepuff thing. The chalice belonged to Helga Hufflepuff, but it went missing. No one's seen it for hundreds of years. This is really weird.'

'You're telling me'.

'It's supposed to turn up in the hour of Hogwarts' greatest need. Zacharias Smith knows all about it.' Hannah's smile lit up her face. 'His whole family are experts on Hufflepuff history. He says they're direct descendants of Helga Hufflepuff.'

'Is that true?' Neville looked at the picture for confirmation. Inga was on her hands and knees, firming in her flowers. She seemed to have lost interest in her audience.

Hannah shrugged. 'I don't think so. Why would you change your name if you were related to one of the Founders? I mean, the House is called Hufflepuff, isn’t it? Not Smith. '

'We should talk to Zacharias.' Luna wrapped the picture up in its cloth. 'Maybe –'

'What are you doing?'

Neville almost jumped out of his skin. A weedy boy with a thin face stepped around the corner of the greenhouse. Slytherin, Neville remembered. He tried desperately to remember the boy's name and failed.

'You're breaking bounds,' the boy said. 'What's that you've got wrapped up?'

Luna's hands tightened around the picture. She said nothing.

'Theo –' Hannah said. 'We were just coming back inside.'

'You're Hannah Abbott.' Theo Nott said. He frowned. 'You're never in trouble. What are you doing with Neville Longbottom? He's a friend of Harry Potter.'

'He's a friend of mine, too,' Hannah said. Trevor gave a protesting croak as Neville's grip tightened.

Theo scowled. 'I should report you. To Professor Snape.'

Beside him, Neville felt Hannah quail. He stepped forward. 'No need for that,' he said, astonished at how steady his voice sounded. 'We were just going to find Professor Dumbledore. You can come with us if you like.'

--

The Headmaster took one look at the four children and Summoned armchairs, a plate of biscuits and hot drinks. And, to Neville's chagrin, Professor McGonagall, who stared at him gimlet-eyed while Luna told their story.

'And then Neville said we'd better come to you.' She pushed the picture across the table towards the two teachers.

'Did he indeed? That showed commendable foresight, Mr Longbottom.'

'Commendable,' the Deputy Headmistress repeated, her eyes boring a hole in Neville.

Dumbledore unwrapped the painting, and he and McGonagall regarded it in silence for a moment. Then Dumbledore stood up. 'You have done a remarkable thing this evening,' he said, in a voice more serious than Neville had ever heard before. 'Quite how remarkable, I am not yet able to tell. But it seems to me that you were meant to find this item and you were meant to bring it here.'

Luna beamed. 'That's what I said.'

Dumbledore smiled at her. 'Your powers of analysis are quite as formidable as your teachers tell me, Miss Lovegood.'

'Professor Dumbledore.' Neville's voice cracked. 'When you say meant – who meant us to find it?'

Dumbledore sat down again. 'Ah,' he said sadly. 'If I knew that, I should know a great deal more than I do. But there – it is always pleasant to have something to aspire to, is it not? Fifteen points to each of you.'

'Not me.' Theo Nott shook his head. 'I didn't do anything.'

Hannah reached out and laid her hand on his. Theo flinched, but did not pull away. 'You came with us,' she told him quietly. 'Instead of – you know.' She hesitated. 'And I think maybe you're meant to be here, too.' She looked around. 'I'm right, aren't I? Fifteen points each doesn't change anything. It's not about that.'

To Neville's amazement, Dumbledore stood up and bowed. 'You know, Minerva,' he observed, 'I think that sometimes our actions are more transparent than we would care to believe. You are quite right, Miss Abbott. It gladdens my heart to see the four of you sitting here this evening – although', he added quickly as McGonagall raised an eyebrow, 'it is, of course high time you went back to your common rooms to think about homework and bed. I must ask you to keep the day's events to yourselves. You have certainly given me plenty to consider.'

As they hurried down the staircase from Dumbledore's office, feet clattering on the stone, Neville remembered the Kelpies and tomorrow's test. He wondered if McGonagall would speak to Lockhart, to point out that Neville hadn't prepared for it because he had been caught up in something important and mysterious. Inwardly, he grinned. Probably not. That sort of thing only happened to Harry.

Even so, he had no regrets. Something big had happened tonight, even if nobody knew quite what it was. His mind raced. Hogwarts' greatest need. The Hufflepuff chalice. Maybe he'd be able to call on Hannah again. And Theo wasn't so bad, for a Slytherin.

They had reached the bottom of the staircase. 'Well, this is it.' Neville shrugged. 'Remember what Dumbledore said. This is our secret.'

Luna said thoughtfully, 'They'll go mad wondering where the fifteen points came from. No one would ever think it was me.'

'Then they're not clever enough to be in Ravenclaw,' Neville said firmly. Luna's face lit up with surprise and pleasure. He turned down the corridor and walked away, suddenly ten feet tall.

It had been, he decided, as he climbed into bed, the best day of his life. His own adventure. His own friends. His own secret. And just for once, he thought guiltily as his eyes closed, it had had nothing at all to do with Harry Potter.

--

Fic: Carrying On for pitry

springmod — Mon, 14 May 2012 05:32:55 GMT

Title: Carrying On
Author: pretty_panther
Recipient: pitry
Character(s): George Weasley, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Harry Potter, Molly Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Teddy Lupin
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1717
Warnings (if any): Grieving, recent character death
Summary: Hermione and Ron return from Australia to find that George is still locked away in his room, failing to come to terms with Fred's death. When they try and talk to him, they find he doesn't even realise that they have gone and Hermione decides it is time to get him out of his room.
Author's Notes (if any): I found your prompts really interesting pitry and tried to deal with both George coping without Fred, while also including the trio and a bit of cameo muggle world! I hope that you like it. Writing gen fic was challenging but a lot of fun!
Betas: Non-LJ beta. My friend S. ♥

The Burrow hasn’t changed much, Hermione muses to herself while making her way up the path from the Apparation point with a silent Ron beside her. The war may be over but she is sure it would be a long time before Arthur ever considered lowering the wards again. The cemetery over the hill seems painfully close as Hermione looks around the side of the house for any signs of life.

“Hermione? Ron! You’re back!”

“Harry!” Hermione squeals, delighted, while rushing past Ron to throw herself at her best friend who laughs and spins her around before lowering her back to the ground, still laughing, and moving towards Ron to exchange hugs and manly pats on the back.

“Alright, mate?” Ron demands, while following Harry into the kitchen.

“Can’t complain,” Harry responds, “Let me just go get your mum and Ginny and George. They are dying to see you.”

“Alright. I will stick the kettle on,” Ron responds.

“Honestly, Ronald,” Hermione huffs, while sliding into a seat, “Mum made you a cup of tea and gave you a biscuit before we left.”

“So?” Ron answers, seeming to be genuinely bewildered as to what Hermione’s point is. His girlfriend is about to respond when Molly bursts into the kitchen shouting about her ‘Ronniekins’ and demanding hugs as Harry and Ginny follow in behind, the latter perching herself on the counter.

“Alright mum, alright, we only went to Australia for a few weeks. It wasn’t like before or anything!” Ron moans, as he sits down with his tea and gets presented with a homemade carrot cake a second later.

“I know, I know,” Molly sighs, while slumping into a seat next to Hermione, “But I still missed you. Things are...different these days.”

She tries to smile but even Ron can see right through it and grimaces while looking up at the ceiling, “He hasn’t improved then?”

The smiles slip from Harry and Ginny’s faces too and Hermione frowns, suddenly looking very tired, as Molly rubs her face with her hand and then sighs, “No. No, I’m afraid he hasn’t. I...can’t really remember the last time he left his room other than to use the bathroom for something, in all honesty. Of course, I don’t expect him to just...get better but...well.”

“Life goes on?” Ron offers quietly, “We all miss him. Fred...I know they were twins, but he can’t go on like this.”

“Percy has been taking care of the shop. Sometimes I help but most of the time I think he feels I’m in his way,” Harry supplies from the doorway, “George isn’t showing any interest. Every time we ask we just get told to do whatever.”

“Percy,” Ron blurts out, face scrunching into a confused frown, “You and Percy? That would be....bloody weird.”

“Language,” Molly snaps, automatically, and Ron’s cheeks fill with colour as he mutters an apology.

“I’ll go up and speak to him. Maybe having something different to talk about will help? Australia was amazing,” Ron declares, while getting to his feet, face setting into a determined expression. Molly says nothing and Ginny’s eyes are almost lifeless as she shrugs while he passes her, as if merely talking about George’s situation has drained the willpower out of her.

“You can certainly try.”

*

“Have you not buggered off to Australia yet?” George queries dryly without even looking at Hermione or the cup she has placed on the desk next to him. Hermione bites her lower lip and touches his shoulder lightly,

“I’m back, George. I have already been. I got back last week. Ron came up to speak to you. Don’t you remember?,” she asks worriedly, glancing at a frustrated looking Harry over George’s shoulder as he loiters in the doorway.

“Oh, well, that is nice then isn’t it. Now leave me alone,” George states numbly, his voice lacking any emotion at all. Hermione hears Harry sigh in the doorway and even though she keeps her eyes fixed on George, he doesn’t even look at her.

Startled at the dismissal, Hermione withdraws her hand, frown creasing her forehead, and follows Harry out into the corridor where he leans in to talk to her quietly, “You see? No one can get through to him. After the funeral...it is like he can’t even keep track of time. I know there is a process to grieving but it has been months, Hermione. I’m worried. We all are. Ginny can hardly stand to come and see him anymore.”

“I know you said things were bad but....that really is bad. Do you think we should talk to Healers?”

Harry shakes his head and scowls, “They say there is nothing they can do. Time. It will just take time. Besides, so many are overrun with patients from the war. So many were injured in the final battle and even before then that had to go into hiding and never got proper help. I saw Susan Bones last week. You don’t want to know what she is seeing in her training at St Mungos.”

“I’m going to speak to him again then,” Hermione says, trying not to think of the devastation Harry is talking about.“After lunch, I will go back up.”

“I’m not sure that is a good idea,” Harry mutters, following her into the living room where Ron is sitting with his tea and leaflets about Auror training programmes.

“I’m someone different and I’m going back to Hogwarts soon. I should at least give it a go. Then at least.....”

“Then at least you know you tried?” Harry supplies sadly, “It is funny, people thought the end of war would fix things; that things would be ok. I can’t stand this though. In some ways, well it is worse really isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ron comments from the side, “At least before we were doing something. We had something to aim for. Now...now I don’t even know where to begin.”

*

“George? Can I come in?”

“You’re going to anyway,” is the sullen reply from the other side of the door and Hermione bites her lip. It had been Molly that had brought him his lunch and there had been tears in her eyes when she had returned to the kitchen afterwards.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” Hermione says quietly, shifting from one foot to the other and back again.

“Go on then. You might as well.”

Sighing, Hermione enters the room and finds George lying on his bed fully clothed and staring at the ceiling.

“Why don’t you come and sit with us in the garden?” She asks brightly, forcing a smile onto her face as she crosses the room and opens his window a little, “It is getting a bit stuffy up here, isn’t it? Harry is thinking that we could have a muggle barbeque. He has never had one before, you see, and we know where we could get one from a muggle supermarket.”

“I’d rather not,” George responds fully.

Frowning, Hermione crosses her hands over her chest and moves to stand right next to George’s bed and peers down at him, “And why not? It is a beautiful day, and you need to get out of this room.”

“I don’t want to,” George states, a little harder this time, as if giving Hermione a warning that she ignores completely and carries on talking.

“Your mum would like to see you,” she argues, “Everyone would. You can’t just stay up here all of the time.”

“Why not? What is the point of coming down? Someone can bring me something to eat,” George says, beginning to push himself up on his elbows and, finally turning to look at a frustrated Hermione.

“So, everyone should just run after you then? That is not right! You....you have to try and carry on, George,” Hermione says quietly, taking a half-step back from the bed as George’s eyes harden and he clambers to his feet.

“Carry on? How in Merlin’s name am I mean to carry on, when my twin is dead!” he hisses, his cheeks turning an angry red, as he towers over Hermione who holds her ground and stares defiantly back up at him.

“Maybe you can start by leaving this room. We all miss Fred, but he wouldn’t want this for you. You have to start somewhere. Now, I’m going to go with Harry to get a barbeque. We would love to see you for it later.” With that, Hermione turns on her heel and leaves the room. She doesn’t realise just how much her legs are shaking until she is in the backyard with Harry and Ron again.

“Well?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione sighs, “I just don’t know.”

*

“We should just use magic,” Ron moans for what feels like the millionth time to Harry’s pounding head.

“No!” Ginny scowls, “We’re not using magic! That is the whole point, and besides, we’ve got Teddy for the evening and we want to make this different!”

“Teddy isn’t going to remember this and I’m hungry,” Ron states, from the picnic table he had conjured, as if that was all that should matter to anyone. Hearing his name, Teddy looks between Ginny, whose arms he is in, and Ron and giggles suddenly while changing his hair to match theirs.

“Hang on! Hang on, it is working! I can see smoke!” Harry calls out excitedly, “Right! Hermione, pass me the burgers!”

“Pass me Teddy,” Ron mutters dryly, “I will entertain him while I wait.”

“Entertainment? Pretty sure that is my job.”

“George!” Ginny exclaims, jumping to her feel, with Teddy still in her arms.

“Pass me the baby. Blimey, he is getting big isn’t he!” George states, not quite his usual level of cheer but it is a start. Delighted, Ginny hands over the now green haired baby and moves to sit next to Ron without another word. A shared looks mean they all know to keep quiet and Hermione quietly slips from the group to get Molly and Arthur, who had just returned from work ten minutes before.

Ron catches George’s eye when Teddy rattles him over the head with a toy car and the older Weasley laughs, “I guess I had to start somewhere, and it looks like we can rely on this little bugger to knock some sense into me.”

Rest Day

springmod — Sun, 13 May 2012 14:21:51 GMT

Our second rest day today. Enjoy this week's posts!

Thanks to those who have responded to the pinch-hit request. We will be in touch very early next week!

Fic: What it takes for xylodemon

springmod — Sat, 12 May 2012 16:43:03 GMT

Title: What it takes
Author: lyras
Recipient: xylodemon
Character(s): Hermione, Harry, Neville, Ron, Ginny and Luna
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~8,000
Warnings: Cruelty to a mouse in one section ("September").
Summary: In the year that Voldemort launches his attack on wizarding Britain, six people find hidden reserves and learn what is worth fighting for.
Author's notes: xylodemon, it was a pleasure to write this for you, and I really hope you enjoy it! Two lines of dialogue toward the end are quoted directly from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows; no copyright infringement is intended.

July

"Hermione, have you put that laundry away?" Mrs Granger popped her head around the bedroom door, her distracted expression dissolving into a smile. "Ah, I can see you did. Thanks, love."

Forcing a smile, Hermione clutched her wand under the cover of her textbook. The clothes were in her bag; she'd used them for shrinking practice. Everything was practice these days.

Her mother slid into the room and sat on the bed. "Doing your homework?"

"Yeah." Hermione held up the book. "Charms."

Sitting on the bed, her mother leaned across to look. "All incantations relating to Obliviation are extremely hazardous and should only be applied by qualified professionals," she read, and shook her tousled hair. "Well, I'm afraid I can't help you with that one." She sighed. "If you'd studied anatomy, or even literature, it would have been a different matter."

"I know, Mum." Hermione closed the book, surreptitiously scanning the room for anything else that shouldn't be seen. "I've got so much work to do," she said, trying for a light tone. "NEWTs are so much harder than I imagined, and of course, I'm taking more subjects than anyone ever has since Professor Dumbledore was at school, and he's -- I mean, he was..." The memory of the funeral assailed her: the beautiful tomb, all those important people, the phoenix's haunting song. Ron's fingers intertwined with hers. Harry's face, pale and determined. "He was very old when he died," she finished.

Her mother nodded soberly. "Yes." She squeezed Hermione's arm. "I'm sorry, love. However old he was, I know it's been a shock."

You don't know the half of it. But it wasn't fair to rebuke her parents for that; not when Hermione had chosen to keep them in the dark. If they knew, they would try to help, or even keep her away. This way was best. It wasn't a good option, but it was the least bad option.

Her mother's hand tensed. "Darling..." She waited for Hermione to meet her gaze. "If there was anything else worrying you -- anything at all -- you would tell us, wouldn't you?"

Smiling made her feel sick, but she forced herself to do it. "Of course."

Her mother looked at her for a long moment, one finger lightly stroking her shoulder. "Sometimes I wonder if we were right to send you to that school. I know you're happy there, and your friends seem very nice, but...it's a different world, almost." The tears in her eyes belied her smile. "I wonder how we can be good parents, when there's so much of your life we don't understand."

Hermione lunged for her mother, burying her face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the rose scent she always wore. "You've been the best parents," she murmured. "The best anyone could ask for."

Her mother hugged her tightly. "That's good to hear." She straightened and plucked a stray hair from Hermione's sun-top. "Just remember, you can talk to me. About anything."

Hermione held her smile in place until her mother had closed the door. Then she buried her head in her arms.

A moment later she was rereading the charm, checking for any missed details. If doing this meant that she still had parents at the end of it all, she would do it.

August

James listens in the dark hall, fingers clutching at a wand that isn't there. Lily's footsteps thud overhead: first one way, then the other as she seeks a way out. In front of him, the door is barred. How long since he saw Voldemort slipping through the night air? Thirty seconds? A minute? Ten seconds? It could be any of these.

There's a step outside, sharp over the wind.

It might not be his step. It could be a stranger passing by; it could even be a brick, chiselled from the wall by the wind.

It isn't. In that instant when he glimpsed the tall form on the footpath, everything became clear: Peter's evasions; Sirius's clever idea, so clever and so misjudged. Remus's face, blank with suppressed pain. Voldemort has played them all for fools and Harry will pay the price.

Again, his fist clenches on a non-existent wand. Stupid, stupid to leave it upstairs. He got complacent. Well, if he can't defend Harry in life, he will have to do so with his death.

The door rattles. Stay closed, James breathes, as if he could magic it so without his wand. Instead, he summons the magic of his friends: Sirius, smiling his wicked smile, Remus, quiet and loyal (loyal, how could they have doubted it)? He pictures Lily, facing down Voldemort with the scorn she once turned on him, and Harry: baby Harry who hasn't lived long enough to wrong anyone. He holds them all tight in his thoughts as the door explodes and--

Harry gasped for breath in Sirius's room, eyes straining in the darkness.

He wasn't a Seer; dreaming it didn't mean that it had happened that way. He could think of a hundred different ways that events might have played out that night. But something awful had happened to James Potter, and he had faced it bravely. The Potters' deaths had been quick, Harry supposed, but they shouldn't have happened.

Nor should others. Dumbledore had plunged from the Astronomy Tower and his murderer was named headmaster of Hogwarts. Regulus had sacrificed himself in an effort to destroy Voldemort as surely as, later, Harry's parents and Dumbledore had done. All of them were dead on Voldemort's account.

And now, Harry was preparing to finish the job -- or die in the process.

He still wasn't sure about this. When he thought of all the others, of all they had sacrificed, it terrified him. How on earth was he to succeed where everyone else had failed? How would he live with himself if Ron or Hermione died? He had no other option but to risk his own life, but he wished he wasn't risking theirs. The list of Voldemort's victims lengthened day by day in the Prophet, with no end in sight.

He would do it because it had to be him; only him. After that, there would be no more sacrifices. His would be the last.

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place was quiet. Harry slept once more.

September

This was evil, Neville thought, watching Goyle cast the Imperius curse on a mouse. It teetered forward and back under Goyle's frown of concentration and Carrow's commentary. At the back of the classroom, someone tittered nervously.

Beside Neville, Seamus scowled into space. Nothing had been heard from Dean for weeks and his mother swore she didn't know where he was. There were others at large, of course; hundreds, maybe thousands of people were on the run from the new regime. Dean might be one of those. Or he might be dead, but Neville wasn't contemplating that. Dean was alive somewhere, just as Harry was -- and while they were alive, it was important to keep fighting.

When they had first returned to school, hardly anyone seemed to realise this -- only Ginny and Luna that Neville knew of for sure. But the whispers were scattering among the students; word had got out about the sword, and Neville thought now that maybe it didn't even matter that they had failed to obtain it. Yes, it would have helped Harry -- but still, their audacity (really, they thought they could break into the headmaster's office and steal a priceless artefact?) seemed to have awoken people's hopes.

The mouse somersaulted onto its back with a crack and lay twitching. Goyle grinned obliviously at the class.

Neville whispered the only painkilling charm he could think of, but had no way of knowing if it helped. In the front row, Padma Patil was wiping away tears; everyone else seemed frozen, staring at the dying animal or at Goyle.

When Carrow sent Goyle back to his seat and pulled out another mouse, Neville jumped to his feet.

"Keen, aren't we, Longbottom?" Carrow jeered. "All right, there's a couple of minutes left for you to have a go."

"Actually..." Neville couldn't believe he sounded so calm, because he was hot and churning inside. "I'm keen to practise what we should be learning this term." Stepping forward, he waved last year's textbook, which should have seen them right through to NEWTs. "According to this, in September we should be learning advanced impediment jinxes..." He flipped to the table of contents. "And the history of magical ethics. The only mention of Unforgivable Curses is that they're, well, unforgivable."

Carrow's square face creased as the room erupted in murmurs and shuffling. "What the--" he spluttered.

"You think anyone respects you when you teach us cruelty like this? Against defenceless animals?" The mouse had stopped moving. Aiming for his grandmother's most scathing tone, Neville Summoned it and cradled it to his chest. "You think that's the right sort of way to behave? All living creatures deserve our respect."

Carrow spat a curse and pain whipped across Neville's cheek. "You think you're so noble, Neville Longbottom," he snarled, "but you're stupid. Too stupid to realise that your day's passed. Now, it's only September." He showed his teeth in a sneer. "So I'm going to give you another chance. But keep on like this and you'll end up like your parents, gibbering and needing your bum wiped for you."

Neville felt the entire class turn to stare at him, and took a deep breath, trying to steady his heartbeat. His parents were like that for a reason, and that reason was standing right in front of him. He would not be ashamed of them. "If that's what it takes," he said and stroked the mouse in his hand. The other one had squirmed out of Carrow's grasp and was currently escaping through the open window.

"If that's what it takes," Neville repeated, "to defeat Voldemort and all he stands for, then so be it. I'll do it. I'll do it ten times over. You think you'll win? You think he'll win?" He shook his head. "Never. You might kill one person, or torture them so they keep quiet, but while you use brute force like that, there'll always be others to stand up and fight. Put me in St Mungo's with my parents and someone else'll take my place. Again and again. And again."

"Yeah!" Seamus sprang to his feet, followed by Parvati, Lavender and Padma. Around the room, Neville was aware of others following suit.

"Enough!" roared Carrow, almost drowning out the peal of the bell. His finger stabbed the air in front of Neville's nose. "You can report to the headmaster for insubordination. The rest of you..." He glared around the room, but everyone was gathering their things together for the break, most of them acting as if he wasn't even there. "Any more of this sort of thing and you'll learn what detention means with me. And I'll give you a hint, it won't involve bloody tea and cakes with someone who isn't even a wizard." He stalked out of the room, turning in the doorway to fix Neville with one last look of loathing.

Neville gazed blindly at his bag, vaguely aware of people muttering and patting him on the back. He was shaking. Was it was going to be like this all the time? But he'd had to say something; he couldn't let Carrow get away with that. Torturing innocent animals. His mum's anxious face flashed into his mind, and he shuddered.

Seamus whacked him on the back, knocking him breathless. "Nice one, mate," he said, and with an effort Neville focused on the present. Seamus was grinning; it was the happiest he'd looked all term. "I said, 'nice one'," he repeated, and Neville nodded.

"Um, thanks."

Seamus waited a few seconds and rolled his eyes. "Come on." He punched more gently this time. "Charms next. Come on, mate." He swept Neville's quill and books into his bag; as an afterthought, Neville added the dead mouse. He would find somewhere to bury it before lunch.

If this is what it takes, Neville thought as he followed Seamus into the corridor. If this is what it takes, I'll do it.

October

Ginny was going mad.

Some nights, after everyone else was in bed, she stared into the common room fireplace and thought she saw Harry's head. His untidy mop would appear, outlined in the flames, and her heart would seize until she realised that it wasn't Harry at all.

A good thing, too, she told herself. Harry needed to be as far away as possible from Hogwarts.

But she longed for him. She lay awake every night, feeling stupid and useless, because she couldn't forget the way her body had reacted the last time she'd kissed him, like a flower coming into bud. She should be thinking about helping him -- and she was trying; she was! -- but instead she remembered the softness of his skin against hers, and all the things they'd never done. She lay in bed, her body throbbing with need for him, and each morning she awoke angrier, guiltier and more determined than ever to defy the bastards who were in charge of the school.

She wrote him letters and threw them into the fire like prayers. It was safer than sending them by owl, even if an owl had been able to find him.

In lessons, she defied the Carrows and was outstanding in other subjects. She kept an eye out for the younger students, and did her best to cause mayhem along with the rest of the DA.

And still, she felt powerless. Harry was out there, and Dean, and Tonks's dad. Her brother and Hermione were out there. They all ran through her dreams like deer, but werewolves and Death Eaters snapped at their heels.

A door clicked; Ginny turned her head, but it was only Lavender. "I don't suppose you've heard anything?" she asked quietly.

Ginny shook her head. "No news." For verisimilitude, she added: "Well, Dad says Ron's spattergroit's still really bad."

Lavender's expression was half-loathing, half-pitying. "I'm not stupid, you know."

Ginny shrugged. She had not liked Ron-and-Lavender, but she had nothing against Lavender as an individual. "Sorry. That's really all I know."

Lavender sat down on the other side of the fireplace. "Well, if there's no news," she said, "we've got to keep doing what we're doing, haven't we?"

"Sorry?"

"I've been practising crystal-gazing." Lavender smiled thinly. "I'm not a Seer, but Professor Trelawney says I've got talent."

"If you tell me it's all going to be all right because you've seen it in a bloody crystal," Ginny said, "I'm going up to bed right now."

"No." Lavender shook her head. ""I'm sorry. I can't tell you that."

Ginny slumped, feeling a little ashamed. "What, then?"

Lavender frowned, somehow managing to make it look attractive. "It's...muddy. As if there's too much going on. Too many variables, you know?" Leaning forward, she poked at the glowing embers of the fire. "Sometimes when I look, it is like that. We're all going on with our lives, and the sun's shining, and there's no...him." She glanced sidelong at Ginny. "Other times, it's the opposite. I see the castle in ruins. I see some of us lying dead in the Great Hall. Harry's there, too. I see my family hunted down." She squeezed her eyes shut. "I see them killing babies--"

"Stop," said Ginny. "Sorry. I just don't see the point in dwelling on that sort of thing. Not when it might come..." She broke off.

"No, you're right," Lavender said. She mustered a tight smile. "We'll just have to make sure the worst bits don't happen."

"Yeah," Ginny answered. "Let's do that."

On the landing, she checked the fire one last time, but there was no sign of Harry. She nodded at Lavender and turned into her bedroom. Harry had his battles -- but so did she. They were the ones she needed to worry about now.

November

Ron was a coward and a failure, and he reminded himself of these facts every day.

After their first, uncomfortable interview, Bill treated him as if he were merely spending a school holiday there. Fleur was unfailingly kind, but Ron couldn't shake the feeling that they were both disappointed in him.

Not that it mattered; nobody could be more disappointed than he was in himself. Striding along the dunes, he berated himself constantly for his failures. He had let Harry down; he had let Hermione down; he had let himself down. (His mother's voice seemed to echo his thoughts here, but he knew she was right.)

Shell Cottage was beautiful, perched on the edge of England and gazing out over the Atlantic -- but to Ron it was a prison. Every day he paced the clifftop, racking his brains for a way back to the others. He knew he was clutching at straws. If Voldemort, the Death Eaters and the Ministry of Magic couldn't find them, what chance did he have?

The thing that gave him an edge over everyone else, he decided, was...well, it was love.

Away from the oppressive atmosphere of the tent, and the enraging presence of the locket, he found it hard to believe that he had been so stupid. He replayed conversations repeatedly, cringing at the awful things he had said. Really, he was surprised that they had put up with him for so long.

Ginny was fine. That was the thing he'd been really worried about -- but Phineas Nigellus had spoken truly. She had been assigned to Hagrid for detention, and they had probably done nothing more onerous than flobberworm feeding.

She had also, he was rather proud to hear, been banned from Hogsmeade, apparently for plastering U-No-Poo posters on every available wall.

Ron joked about her exploits with Bill and Fleur over dinner, but there was a tense undercurrent to their laughter. Nasty stories were circulating about Hogwarts, and Ginny's letters arrived with paragraphs erased by some mysterious censor. Who knew what was really happening up there?

It was a horrible time; he was trapped, afraid for his friends, and unable to do them the smallest service. But there was something cleansing about it, too, as if with each traverse of the clifftop, the filth of the past months was scoured away. Each night, he listened to the wireless for hints as to Harry's whereabouts. There were countless sightings, but Bill refused to let him go.

"You know as well as I do it would be a wild goose chase," he said when Ron broached the subject. "Mum would never forgive me if I let you wander off without a firm lead."

If he'd been sure, he'd have gone anyway. But although he scoured the Prophet and searched Bill's maps for every sighting, nothing felt right. So he waited, his determination augmented by each night that he spent in Bill's spare room, and planned his move.

He loved them. He would do whatever it took to find them again.

December

When the door creaked open, Luna believed for a beautiful second that she was in her bedroom at home: that her father was filling her stocking and eating the biscuits she had baked, so that in the morning they could both pretend Santa Claus had visited. Then she registered the ache in her hip, which dug into the bed she had assembled from sacks and blankets, and shivered.

The door stayed open, grey against the black staircase, until a slim figure slipped through and pulled it closed.

Luna held her breath. Against the other wall, Mr Ollivander snuffled and turned over. The figure crept down the stairs and loomed above her -- like a revenant, her imagination suggested, although she feared it was something worse than that.

I am a fighter, she reminded herself. I'm fighting for what's good and right. Nobody can take that away from me.

But she had watched Malfoy throughout the school term; had seen his fear and self-disgust transmuted into bullying and torture. More than once, he had jostled her in passing, and when she'd turned, he had held up a copy of The Quibbler and drawn a hand across his throat.

Now it was the holidays, and she was his prisoner.

She felt him lean across, and held herself still, picturing her mother's smiling face in her mind. Then light flared against her closed eyelids.

"I know you're awake." The words were quiet and clear, the voice too close for comfort.

She scrambled into a sitting position, pulling a sack around her shoulders. "What time is it?"

"One in the morning." He made a choking sound that might have been a laugh. "Merry Christmas."

"That's not a very nice thing to say." She was relieved at how calm she sounded. "You know it won't be merry at all for me and Mr Ollivander."

"You think it's any better upstairs?" He made that choking sound again.

"Well." She settled herself more comfortably. At least he didn't sound immediately hostile. "I should think you're warm, at least. And well-fed, with a comfortable place to sleep."

"Do you have any idea what it's like," he demanded, "to be afraid all the time? To know anything you do or say, at any moment, might mean death for you or your parents?"

"I saw my mother die," she said quietly. "I haven't been afraid of death since then. But yes, I'm afraid here." His wand, she told herself. Get his wand.

"He's gone out," Malfoy said, as if he hadn't heard her. How close was his wand? It was hard to judge; she was used to darkness now, and the light it cast was dazzling. She clenched her fists. "But even now," he continued, "we're not safe. If he doesn't find Potter he'll be furious. When he's angry he'll do anything."

She understood; that was the terrible thing. She knew how he must feel, even if he showed no interest in empathising with her.

"Mr Ollivander knows what happens when You-Know-Who gets angry," she said.

"Oh, yes." Malfoy's voice was blank. "I suppose he does." In the silence, he turned toward the shape huddled against the opposite wall, still snoring gently. "Pathetic old man. My parents never rated him."

"He's taught me more than anyone in the world except my parents," Luna said, more sharply than she had intended to. "You've kept him locked up, tortured him, and yet he's still here. He still knows his own mind; he still helped me when I arrived." She did not mention how pathetically grateful he had seemed for her company. "He's proof that we're greater than whatever happens in this house, to any of us."

Malfoy's wand swung toward her and she squeezed her eyes tight against the brightness. "You really are stupid, aren't you?" he hissed. "Do you really think your side's got a chance in all this? He's got the Ministry, he's got Hogwarts. He's got Potter on the run, like the coward he is. Your father crumpled like a used quill as soon as he knew we had you."

"Of course he did." She swallowed back tears. Could she get to the wand in time? "Wouldn't your parents do the same? I'm not stupid -- but I think you are. You've always been so proud of your family, swaggering around Hogwarts as if you owned it because your father was a governor. You thought all that mattered was power, and look where it's got you. What sort of world do you think you're helping to create?" She took a deep breath. "I would do anything to stop him. I don't want to die, but I will if my death will help defeat him. If that's what it takes."

Malfoy pointed the wand directly at her again, and she put a hand to her eyes. "They say Potter's in Godric's Hollow," he said. "That's where he's gone now, to get him. It'll all be over soon, and he'll remember his friends. Including my parents."

Luna lunged; her fingertips touched wood, but he shoved her back and she fell onto the sacks, winded.

"And you'll stay down here," he said softly, "with the rats, where you belong."

She crouched where she had fallen, taking breath after breath, until the door closed behind him. It wasn't until she woke later that it occurred to her: perhaps he had simply wanted someone to talk to.

January

Hermione was going to kill Ron.

It was all right for him. He'd been away, he'd had a break -- had a lovely Christmas while she had wept over Harry's unconscious form, terrified and alone. He'd probably been sleeping while she had tried to calm herself, tell herself Harry would be all right, rid herself of the nightmare vision of Nagini coiling around Harry and the sense that something even worse was coming.

She pushed the memories away. Harry was all right, and even happy, now that Ron was back. They had got rid of another Horcrux.

It hurt bitterly that they had dealt with the locket without her, although she knew she should be glad. It hurt that Harry was so pleased to have Ron back; that it had changed his mood so completely, when she had tried so hard, and so unsuccessfully, to make him happy.

Worst of all, it hurt because she and Ron had been partners: they had given up their families for Harry, had broken their hearts together, and had waited together for him to come up with a plan.

They had been partners, co-conspirators in the plot of helping Harry do the impossible, and then he'd left and it had all been wrong.

The night he left, she had known for certain that she loved him. This frustrated her all the more, because he was an idiot who was never going to grow up; he still probably thought of her as a bossy twelve-year-old with buck teeth. And he'd left her to bear the burden of Harry alone.

From his clumsy attempts at reconciliation she knew that he realised his own feelings now -- so at least his time away had done that much.

It was just...of course he could be cheerful now, and resourceful. He'd just spent Christmas with Bill and Fleur; he knew his family was safe.

Hermione didn't even have a family any more.

She tried to forget it. She tried to focus on Harry, and on Horcruxes and the Beedle book. But every night, as the boys breathed and muttered and snored, she wondered what her parents were doing. With the time difference, they would just be waking up and going about their day. Had they found a nice place to live? Were they making friends out there, and finding patients?

Did they ever have memories of another life, with a daughter who loved them? What would they think of her when they understood what she had done? Hermione grieved in the nights, and dreamed of a life in which Hogwarts and Harry Potter did not exist.

February

It was all so different now. Ron still regretted leaving, but it had given him the space to realise a lot of things. About what was important (Harry, Hermione and the Horcruxes). About his feelings for Hermione.

He couldn't believe how good it was to be close to her again, even prickly and distant as she still was. He loved the way she held his hair off her face when she read, and the way she had kept them organised. He was obsessed by how she might look out of the jeans and jumpers that they all wore. He couldn't stop looking at her lips, imagining kissing them, imagining her arms slipping around him, pulling him close...

Of course, most of the time they were too busy for thoughts like these, although they did have a habit of surfacing at inopportune moments. Mostly, he was just glad to be with her again. With both of them.

It was the Horcrux that had changed everything. Well, and saving Harry from it -- he was pretty proud of that. Since those first moments after he'd killed the thing, they hadn't spoken about the way it had tested him. About the hideous Harry and Hermione, tall and cold and beautiful, mocking him -- and snogging! He tried not to think about it now, but he knew in his bones that destroying the Horcrux was the bravest thing he'd ever done.

Whenever a dark mood threatened, he remembered summoning all his energy to bring the sword down; remembered Harry's delight and the touch of Hermione's hand. He could do anything, he thought, as long as he was with them.

He would do anything. He'd do whatever it took to get them through this.

March

Hi Neville,

V. boring here, although at least there are no bloody Carrows. Making the most of my time by planning for next term. Let's meet in the

Footsteps thumped along the landing and her mother wrenched open the door. "Ginny!" She stood panting, a hand on her stomach.

Ginny sprang from the bed, ice sliding down her back. "Mum? Is it -- is it them?" Then, because 'them' could be interpreted in two ways, she forced herself to add: "Ron, I mean, and Harry? Hermione?"

Her mother choked out a sob, but she was smiling and shaking her head. "Not like that. Oh, darling." She opened her arms and Ginny allowed herself to be drawn into a tight hug. "They're safe, for the moment," she said into Ginny's hair. "But we have to get out. They know Ron's with them now, so we're not safe any more. Do you have your trunk? Of course, there it is."

Ginny gave up on disentangling this speech. "They're safe," she repeated. "They're really safe?"

"Yes, love, but we have to go," her mother began, and then her father poked his head around the door.

"Ginny, downstairs in two minutes with your trunk and anything else you want to take, please." He touched her mother's arm. "You too." They shared a glance, and then he was gone again, hurrying up the stairs. To see to the ghoul, she supposed.

Her mother took a shaky breath. "I'll see you downstairs." She released Ginny and managed a tight smile. "We'll talk more when we get there, all right?"

Left alone, Ginny stared around the room. Her trunk had been packed for this eventuality since the day after she'd arrived home for the holidays; she supposed she should be thankful for that. At least she wouldn't be like Luna, dragged away with only the clothes on her back.

She wasn't like Luna anyway. It had been tough last term, stalking the corridors of Hogwarts, glaring at Malfoy and his cohorts and wondering which of them knew where Luna was, or even if she was still alive. Someone must know; she was sure of it. She'd even broached the idea of capturing one of them, and keeping them prisoner until they spilled some information.

When the DA had vetoed the idea, she'd been a little relieved. It might have been too tempting, having one of Voldemort's supporters at her mercy, and it would have been easy to justify anything she'd done as an attempt to rescue Luna.

She shook herself. Her trunk, okay, that meant she had most things. Feeling under her pillow, she brought out her galleon and slipped it into her inside pocket. Her hairbrush, skin potion and toothbrush went into the top of her trunk. That just left her wand and the unfinished letter. As an afterthought, she cast a burning hex on the parchment; there was no need to leave behind anything that might incriminate others. Then she used the shrinking charm that Hermione had taught her on the trunk, shoved her wand into her jeans pocket, and hurried down to meet her parents.

*

"What do you mean, we can't see them?" she raged at her parents later, heedless of what Aunt Muriel would think. "The first sniff of them for nearly eight months, and now you say we can't go to them?"

Oh, Harry. She had become used to living without news of him, but she hadn't realised how much she had been pretending not to care, even to herself. All those nights she had tried not to imagine him dying alone and in pain -- and now he was almost within reach. "We've got to see them!"

"We can't," her father said, and the chill in his tone stopped her dead. "It's no use being childish about this, Ginny. We have to do what's best for everyone."

He stalked out to the back garden to join Great-Aunt Muriel, who had been observing the scene avidly while pretending to ignore it. Ginny couldn't believe they were stuck here for the foreseeable future. At least at school she could be useful.

Her mother was watching her, eyes warm with sympathy. "Come here, love," she said, and for the second time that day, Ginny found herself enveloped in a hug. "I was young once, you know." Her mother's voice was muffled. "I know what it's like to be missing someone."

Ginny's throat was thick; it would be so easy to crumple into her mother's arms and cry. She relaxed in the embrace for just a moment before drawing back. What good would that do -- to her, to Harry, to her mother?

She met her mother's gaze, swallowed hard, and attempted a smile. "All right. I'll be sensible now." Her father's words came back to her. "I won't be childish."

"Your father's hurting too," her mother said, and Ginny nodded, because she understood; she did.

Even so, she did not offer to help when he began piling armfuls of mown grass into a corner for mulching. Apparently Great-Aunt Muriel had decided that if they were staying with her they were at her beck and call. Well, Ginny was having none of that. Ignoring the disapproving mutters, she made her way up to the little attic room to which she had been assigned, crumpled onto the bed and cried.

When she had wept it all out, all the daydreams her treacherous mind had offered, daydreams of finding Harry and helping him save the world, she scrubbed her face and pulled out her galleon.

This, at least, she could do. Thinking back to the note she had abandoned that morning, she set to work transcribing a new one in a way that would work with the coins. She might be cut off from Harry, from her brothers, from her friends, but she could still help. She could still do something.

April

Another strange house -- this one much sweeter than the last in Luna's opinion, with its dark, cobwebby corners and garden that went on until it hit the cliff. It was like a children's book come to life: The Famous Five, or perhaps Tom's Midnight Garden. If she looked out through the little bedroom window, it was easy to imagine Tom creeping through the darkness in search of the ghostly friend who was his only companion.

Luna had plenty of company now. Dean was nice once he got over his initial reserve -- and then, the day Harry left, Ginny turned up, walking down the path with Bill.

"Just for the night," Bill said, and, "We thought you two might like some company your own age." Luna did like, and by the fierceness of Ginny's hug she seemed to feel the same.

"How did Harry look?" Ginny demanded as they lay in bed on opposite sides of the spare room. You're the only one who understands, she had said earlier. The only one who knows what things are like at Hogwarts. Who understands that we're fighting the war, as well.

Yes, Luna did understand. She also understood how it was to feel nobody understood what you were going through, because how could Ginny truly empathise with her experiences over the past few months? How could Ginny know the fear that had stripped her to her bones whenever there had been shouting overhead, and every time Draco had come to her in the night?

He had never touched her, and she hated that she felt grateful for this. Hated that she had been afraid to go for his wand in case he got angry and hurt her. But she could talk to no one about this -- except perhaps Mr Ollivander, and he was gone.

So she swallowed her frustration and focused on Ginny's question. How had Harry looked? "Well..." She might as well start with the obvious. "He was very sad, of course, because poor Dobby was dead, after he was so brave in rescuing us." She waited, then added: "He looked older, but he looked just the same, as well. They all did."

"Was he -- hurt?" Ginny asked.

He'd had a few scratches, but Luna knew that wasn't what she meant. "We're all hurt," she answered.

"Not as much as him." Ginny's voice.

"You're probably right," Luna said. "But it doesn't mean we can't be sad about what's hurting us."

In the silence, she counted the cracks in the ceiling. It was amazing what being kept in the dark could do for your night vision. And she was safe; she was out of that cellar. Malfoy was still trapped, and maybe at some point her heart would grow large enough to encompass pity for him.

"Luna," Ginny asked quietly, "are you okay?"

She thought of the fear that accompanied the footsteps on the stairs. Of hearing Bellatrix Lestrange or Voldemort shouting on the floor above. Of her terror that she would never see her father again.

"No," she said, "not really."

There was a scuffle and someone was padding across to her bed. Luna tensed, but Malfoy wasn't here; he couldn't get at her here. The mattress sagged under Ginny's weight, and then Ginny's thin arms pulled her into a hug, and they were crying, quietly and bitterly.

Yes, Luna thought, it was worth fighting for this. It was worth keeping on.

May

"Harry Potter is dead." Voldemort's voice reverberated through the castle, eliciting screams and shouts from every corner.

Crouching beside Seamus, Neville looked up as Voldemort continued speaking, his voice grating against Neville's ear drums.

"He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone."

Seamus's bloody fist gripped Neville's. "It's not true. Is it? It can't be true!"

"'Course not." Neville disengaged himself gently. It couldn't be true. He'd seen Harry, what, half an hour ago? An hour? "I'll go and find out. It's probably a bluff. It must be."

"The battle is won," Voldemort intoned, and people pushed past Neville with their hands over their ears. "You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you and the Boy Who Lived is finished."

Neville tuned out as best he could. He'd asked Harry point blank if he was going to hand himself over, and Harry had said no. He'd looked under a lot of strain, but then, he always did. He was Harry Potter.

He wouldn't have gone out there anyway, would he?

Neville quickened his pace. That, he realised belatedly, was exactly the sort of thing Harry would do.

In the entrance hall, he collided with Ginny, her face white and set, her ponytail askew. They stared at one another and he read his own fears in her eyes. Then they turned together to open the castle doors.

Light spilled onto the courtyard as they dashed down the steps. Voldemort was not yet visible, but something was moving down near the forest; shadowy figures were creeping inexorably toward the light.

Neville strained his eyes, but could not make out any details. Beside him, Ginny was muttering curses and prayers under her breath. Professor McGonagall joined them, one hand going to her throat even as the other held her wand out in front of her. Neville pulled out his own wand and waited.

The shape in the centre coalesced into Voldemort. Now that Neville saw him, he was unmistakable, striding forth with an aura of complete confidence. Around him were his supporters and, directly behind him, a taller figure carrying something large.

Voldemort stepped into the light and so did the person behind him; with a shock Neville recognised Hagrid, and then the boy in his arms. The silence was scythed by a scream, and Neville knew he'd been right. Harry had given himself up, in the hope that the others might be saved.

A woman laughed; Neville recognised the voice from his nightmares. He was tired of fighting. He was tired of inflicting pain and watching his friends suffer -- but while Bellatrix Lestrange was at large, he would never give up.

Voldemort was holding forth again, his thin, mocking voice talking of sacrifices and cowardice, and Neville was suddenly hot with rage. Of all the things he could have focused on, this proved how little Voldemort understood his opponents. Especially Harry.

Was it all over, then? He glanced behind him at the remnants of those who had defended Hogwarts. They were fewer than they had been -- certainly fewer than the Death Eaters massing behind Voldemort.

But Harry had faced ridiculous odds and won before. He'd defeated Voldemort as an eleven-year-old; he'd won the Triwizard Tournament. And yes, maybe he'd had help, but wasn't that what it was all about -- working together, fighting for justice?

Neville's heart was beating fast. How long could this talk go on for? Surely someone would make a move soon. He checked behind him again; people looked angry, some of them distraught, but nobody appeared ready to launch an attack.

He touched the pocket of his robes, where his grandmother's letter resided. There was no time to find her in the throng, but she would understand. He thought of his parents, prayed briefly that he would do them proud, and clutched his wand.

Shutting out everything except Voldemort, Neville stepped forward to confront him.

June

Harry is in the white place again, the place that is like King's Cross and yet not, because at the far end of the platform is Hogwarts, full of the ghosts of his past.

"Mum?" he asks, and instantly she is beside him, her expression tender and a little sad. Behind her, the grounds of Hogwarts stretch down to the lake, where James and Regulus seem to be playing Seeker versus Seeker. Sirius waves at Harry and nudges Remus to follow suit.

Harry longs to walk down the platform and join them. To know them all; to have their companionship, the way he's always wanted. What would that be like?

"Harry," Lily says softly, but when he turns, she's looking past him, in the other direction. At this end of the platform, Ron and Hermione are putting up a banner that says, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY! The garden looks very much like the Weasleys'; in fact it is, because there is George, directing plates onto tables and calling something to Lee Jordan over his shoulder. Professor McGonagall takes a seat beside Andromeda and bends to coo over Teddy. Neville and Luna step into the garden, followed by Mr and Mrs Weasley, bearing carafes of wine and trays of glasses. Behind them is Ginny, her hair gleaming in the evening sunlight and her smile aimed straight at Harry.

He smiles back. It's the first time he's had them all together: his past and his present in one place and time.

When he turns back to Lily she is fading, receding in time and space, although her gaze never leaves his face. Harry watches her slip away, back to the lake and James, and he remembers. They are with him, always.

*

When Harry woke, Ron was snoring in the other bed, but the early morning sun was already warming the room. As quietly as he could, he pulled on a t-shirt and jeans and padded along the hall.

Ginny's hair was tousled when she opened the door, and she was wearing a faded Harpies t-shirt over pyjama bottoms. He thought of all those nights spent watching her on the Marauders' Map, and of how beautiful she had looked in his dream, smiling as if he were the only person in the world. She was not smiling now, only watching him with a neutral expression.

It was weeks since the battle; how could he have left it this long? They'd lost so much time already, and now he wanted to waste more? He swallowed.

"I -- I never gave you a birthday present last year. Um, for your birthday."

She raised her eyebrows, her elegance offset only slightly by the flush that suffused her cheeks.

"I was wondering if you'd...maybe...like it now."

Grinning, she pulled him into her room "You," she murmured, "are a complete idiot. Just so you know."

"I know," he muttered, "I do know."

July

Hermione shivered. She'd known it was winter in Australia, but hadn't really understood what that meant until she had stepped out of the international Apparition point into a chilly Sydney gale.

She could have transfigured her clothes -- should have, really. She wasn't sure why she didn't, except that she wanted to do this last leg of her journey without resorting to magic.

For the same reason, she took the ferry rather than Apparating to her destination. The air was almost as grey as the sea; even the Opera House was paler than she'd imagined it from the pictures. Hermione didn't mind; she wasn't here to see the sights.

It had taken her five weeks and a certain amount of legal wrangling to track down her parents, and a further week to get the various permits that would allow her to Apparate all the way to Australia. Every day, she had asked herself whether she should be doing this. Perhaps they were happier in their new lives. Would they really want her back, after what she had done to them? Even if they forgave her, they might want to stay in Australia, in which case perhaps it would just be painful for all of them.

She had relived the moment when she had cast the incantation so many times. She had relived the pain that had assailed her when her mother's loving face had smoothed into blankness. She had watched them, again and again, going about their business once she had erased herself from their lives. She had been through it all; she knew how terrible it was; but still, she could not think of a better way to have kept them safe.

The ferry lurched, and Hermione looked around anxiously, but nobody else seemed worried. They were rolling past the harbour entrance, heading for a broad cove lined with colourful houses and flats.

This was where her parents had made a new life; even with the overcast sky and gusting wind, it was beautiful. Hermione bit her lip. What right did she have to take it away? To take their lives away for a second time?

The surgery was only a moment's walk from the ferry wharf: a grey sandstone building, several storeys high. Her parents' names jumped out from the list of businesses: W & M Wilkins, BDS, DDM. Hermione let out her breath; until now, she hadn't let herself believe it. But they were really here. She could have them back.

If they wanted it.

Their flat was up on the hill in an old-fashioned building with a crumbling roof, but the entrance hall was clean and pleasant. Hermione trudged up three flights of stairs until she reached the right door.

Her mother opened it, dark hair flying, and Hermione almost burst into tears.

"Um, hello." She swallowed hard and reached for a smile. "I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger."

"Hello," her mother said cautiously. She frowned. "I'm sorry, you look a little familiar, but--"

"We met in the UK," Hermione said, and forced herself to add, "once." Just after I'd erased most of your life.

"Oh!" Her mother's face cleared. "Yes, I think I...well, you're a long way from home, dear."

Hermione nodded. So are you. She took a deep breath. "I was wondering if you and your husband might come out for a cup of tea -- I saw lots of cafés down in the village. I -- I've got a story to tell you."

The whole story; she would leave nothing out. Then, and only then, if they wanted it, she would give them their lives back.

Her mother watched her for a long moment, then stepped back. "Why don't you come in for a cuppa, instead?"

Holding her breath, Hermione stepped across the threshold. It was time for the truth.

Fic: The Completely True Report Cards... for kelleypen

springmod — Fri, 11 May 2012 06:03:48 GMT

Title: The Completely True Report Cards for the boys of Gryffindor House as told by Professor M. McGonagall (1976 Edition)
Author/Artist: phantompopcorn
Recipient: kelleypen
Character(s): Professor McGonagall, Sirus Black, James Potter, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew with a small cameo by Albus Dumbledore
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1454
Warnings (if any): none
Betas: To my lovely fandom persona non grata boyfriend, who stepped in at the last minute to beta this before submitting, thank you :)
Summary: The end of semester is always difficult for a busy Professor, especially when said Professor is asked to provide feedback on the four biggest slackers in Gryffindor House. Merlin help us all.

The Completely True Report Cards for the boys of Gryffindor House
as told by Professor M. McGonagall
(1976 edition)

BLACK, Sirius

~~To the Most Idiotic, Pretentious and Bigoted House of Black~~
Mr and Mrs Black,

This semester, your son Sirius has shown himself to be ~~barely~~ competent in the following subjects. If he continues to display such keen disregard to his subjects, he can look forward to achieving few O.W.Ls and enjoying a life spent scrubbing the stairs along with our caretaker, Mr Filch.

     CARE OF MAGICAL CREATURES
     DIVINATION
     HISTORY OF MAGIC
     CHARMS
     HERBOLOGY
     ASTRONOMY

Sirius has also displayed ~~typical~~ alarming negative behaviour in these subjects, often teasing and taunting other students, particularly of Slytherin House. An incident occurred last week where Sirius hexed another student’s trousers, stole his copy of Playwitch and planted it in the bag of another student. He claimed he was innocent and pointed out that he was surprised Mr Snape had the copy of the banned magazine in the first place, considering the general student population maintained that Mr Snape was a practising homosexual.

Sirius has also been caught and subsequently received ~~beatings~~ detention after convincing first year students to collect unicorn excrement from the Forbidden Forrest as it made an excellent moisturiser and was good for repelling trolls.

He has ~~surprisingly~~ however, achieved excellent results in the following subjects:

     TRANSFIGURATION
     POTIONS
     DEFENCE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS

Sirius maintains that years spent hexing his brother and ~~completely insane~~ cousin Bellatrix has equipped him with the skills necessary to defeat trolls, giants, vampires, centaurs and possibly Death Eaters; convicted or otherwise. Fortunately, his skills support his ~~narcissistic~~ optimistic attitude. His behaviour in Transfiguration is unpredictable; however the standard of his work is commendable, apart from the time he turned Mr Snape’s quill into a copy of Playwizard. Professor Slughorn assures me that this behaviour is similar in Potions—although it has been noted that his potions often explode inexplicably when in the company of his friends Potter, Lupin and Pettigrew.

The number of detentions delivered to Sirius by both staff and prefects is the most delivered to any student since I have been teaching. Despite this, he is a personable young man whose energy is to be ~~feared~~ admired.

     DETENTIONS RECEIVED: 125
     DETENTIONS COMPLETED: 55
     POINTS EARNED: 10
     POINTS DEDUCTED: 50

I wish I could say that it has been a pleasure teaching Sirius, but that would be a lie. I wish you the best of luck over the holiday season ~~I hope you all get struck by lightning~~.

Yours faithfully,
Professor M. McGonagall

LUPIN, Remus John

Dear Mr Lupin and Mrs Lupin,

This semester, as always, Remus has consistently ignored my suggestions to find new friends. Remus is a courageous and determined young man although it completely escapes me as to why he associates himself with Potter, Pettigrew and Black. For instance, last week in Potions, he and his ~~idiot~~ friends told Professor Slughorn that Remus had left Hogwarts and he was in fact, his identical and much less intelligent twin brother, Romulus. Unfortunately Professor Slughorn believed the lie and put out a rather interesting memo to the rest of our staff.

Despite his unsavoury friendships, Remus has been performing adequately in the following subjects:

     DIVINATION
     HISTORY OF MAGIC
     HERBOLOGY
     ASTRONOMY
     POTIONS

Remus is a very bright student, who despite his unfortunate condition, strives to be a first rate wizard. This is reflected in the following subjects:

     TRANSFIGURATION
     CHARMS
     CARE OF MAGICAL CREATURES

Remus is also rather gifted in Defence Against the Dark Arts, having successfully disarmed the Professor and defeating the training Boggart when the Professor accidentally set fire to his cloak and had to leave the classroom.

Remus should consider adopting a less obvious nickname than Moony and try to avoid enlisting the help of his ~~ridiculous~~ friends in keeping his secret from the general school populous, as ~~the three of them are probably trustworthy but really, who would want their deepest secrets held in Potter and Black’s confidence?~~ they are still children after all.

Once again, please convince Remus to seek less boisterous company. They are not bad children, of course, but seriously irritating, especially when they all get together to terrorize Professor Trelawny and her ~~stupid~~ glasses.

     DETENTIONS RECEIVED: 6
     DETENTIONS COMPLETED: 5 (with good reason)
     POINTS EARNED: 30
     POINTS DEDUCTED: 15

Have a splendid holiday season and I sincerely hope the full moon doesn’t fall on Christmas Day.

Yours faithfully,
Professor M. McGonagall

PETTIGREW, Peter

Dear Mr and Mrs Pettigrew,

This semester, Peter has proved himself to be an ~~incapable, illiterate and easily distracted~~ interesting addition to Gryffindor House. I have written to you earlier in regards to Peter’s ~~obvious~~ learning difficulties and there has been some progress. Professor Flitwick and Professor Dumbledore have been working with Peter. It is my recommendation that Peter re-assesses his subject choices and not attempt any difficult subjects after his O.W.Ls.

Peter’s friends are a terrible influence on him. They often convince him to engage in dangerous and idiotic pranks and he is the one left in trouble. For instance, just last week he was left holding the wand when the Ravenclaw fifth years complained that someone was lifting their skirts and charming a camera to take photographs. He also was caught in the Prefects bathroom stealing the Head Girl’s knickers, although I’m positive he was put up to this by Sirius Black.

With assistance and tutoring, thanks to Miss Lily Evans, Peter has ~~barely~~ passed all of his subjects, including:

     DIVINATION
     HISTORY OF MAGIC
     HERBOLOGY
     ASTRONOMY
     POTIONS
     TRANSFIGURATION
     CHARMS
     CARE OF MAGICAL CREATURES
     DEFENCE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS

~~I’m sure I will regret saying this, but~~ It is actually a good idea for Peter to take classes with his friends to assist him to build his resilience and social skills. During his break, could you please speak to Peter about the facts of life, as he is still confused and his friends keep confusing him with stories about talking female reproductive organs.

     DETENTIONS RECEIVED: 15
     DETENTIONS COMPLETED: 15
     POINTS EARNED: 5
     POINTS DEDUCTED: 50

If you could remind Peter that he has a two feet parchment on the ethics of animal transfiguration due at the return of school. ~~Do this for him if you have to.~~

Yours faithfully,
Professor M. McGonagall

POTTER, James

Dear Mr and Mrs Potter,

Your son, James, is both the reason I enjoy and completely detest the teaching profession. James is a bold, intelligent, ~~arrogant~~ and personable student who is a perfect example of an only child. He demands and receives attention everywhere he goes and is probably worse than his counterpart, Mr Black.

James does lack vision when it comes to separating himself from his friends. He is often the ringleader of the group and I have scolded him on several occasions for convincing his friends and other students to do his bidding.

He has taken a fascination to quoting Muggle literature, particularly Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet at inappropriate times and in inappropriate places, directing his unwelcome attention to Miss Evans. Two weeks ago he received detention with Professor Dumbledore for calling Mr Snape ‘a dirty Capulet’ and wrestling him to the ground, screaming ‘Die Tybalt, Die!’. While I was impressed with James’ unexpected knowledge of the works of Shakespeare, I did not appreciate his candour.

James has also won several games as Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team but can sometimes be known to be a sore loser, wrestling the snitch from the opposing Seeker’s hands and sending in Mr Pettigrew and Mr Black to let off crackers in the change rooms.
James has performed adequately in the following subjects:

     DIVINATION
     HISTORY OF MAGIC (despite engaging in debates about ghosts and their sex drives with Professor Binns)
     HERBOLOGY
     ASTRONOMY
     POTIONS
     CHARMS
     CARE OF MAGICAL CREATURES

James has also performed surprisingly well in the following subjects, although I suspect it has something to do with the fact that he is unwilling to be beaten by either Mr Snape or Miss Evans:

     DEFENCE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS
     TRANSFIGURATION

If James would stop tormenting his friends, the first years, the Slytherins, the Slytherin House Captain, the Head Boy, the Seventh Year Ravenclaws, Lily Evans, Severus Snape, Mr Filch, Mrs Norris, Regulus Black, Professor Slughorn, Professor Binns and the Hufflepuff Quidditch Team, he is sure to succeed next semester.

     DETENTIONS RECEIVED: 48
     DETENTIONS COMPLETED: 17
     POINTS EARNED: 50
     POINTS DEDUCTED: 40

If you possibly could, please remind James that Miss Evans would probably not appreciate a barrage of Romeo and Juliet style love letters sent via owl to her over the Christmas break. ~~He doesn’t stand a chance.~~

Yours faithfully,
Professor M. McGonagall

Minerva,

I admire your restraint.

Albus Dumbledore

Art: Draco's Excellent Manners for teshara

springmod — Thu, 10 May 2012 05:50:45 GMT

Title: Draco's Excellent Manners
Artist: fpb
Recipient: teshara
Character(s): Ginny, Draco, Sirius, Pansy, Flitwick
Rating: G
Warnings (if any): none
Medium: Pencil

Fic: Journaling to Those Lost: A Parallel Epistolary for penknife

springmod — Wed, 09 May 2012 05:43:01 GMT

Title: Journaling to Those Lost: A Parallel Epistolary
Author: kelleypen
Recipient: penknife
Character(s): Neville Longbottom, Minerva McGonagall, others
Rating: G
Wordcount: 2500
Warnings: none
Summary: Neville and Minerva have something in common that no one might guess: as their way of journaling, both write letters to people who cannot possibly read them.
Author's Notes: I was frustrated with trying to figure out about how this fic would play out, but I had a ghost walk in and help me.
Brainstorm buddies: A and M
Betas: K and C

10 July 1998

Dear Mum and Da,

I was at the memorial for the fallen heroes of Hogwarts today. I talked to Kingsley Shacklebolt. I'm so torn. My sense of duty had me sign up to be an Auror, like you both. I want to make you proud, and yet my heart rests in the rubble of Hogwarts. Seeing the damage to the greenhouses especially makes me ache for all that was lost. I never noticed how frail Professors Sprout and McGonagall looked until today. I had a chat with Professor McGonagall about my future. She still acts like my Head of House, even though I've left school. Professor McGonagall wants me to replace Sprout eventually. I was flattered she would think of me that way. Again I am torn.

I told the professors that I would help on the weekends, so I’ll work with Pomona Sprout the next two days on the greenhouses. I was flattered and awestruck. Maybe after I have helped clean up the Death Eater mess, I can return to Hogwarts--I hope you two understand.

Neville

12 July,1998

Dear Albus,

You’ve really done it. I am in charge and my first job is cleaning up the mess and rebuilding Hogwarts. How am I to do that without you, Albus? I have asked some of the students to help with the rebuilding. Almost all of the Gryffindors have agreed. No surprise coming from our house, old friend. Harry was magnificent in the end. So were all of the Weasleys. You should have seen Molly go after Bellatrix. You would have been so proud. Neville made our house proud as well. He has grown into as fine a young man as Harry has. He, like Harry, was recruited to the aurors. But I doubt Neville will make a career of it. He had better not. I think he might make a very fine Herbology professor and the future Gryffindor Head of House someday.

Minni

15 July 1998

Dear Mum and Da,

The first week of Auror training is almost done. We are in an accelerated course. Harry is excelling of course. I wonder what I am doing it for, but they say they need me. I only cut off a snake’s head. That’s hardly a speck next to defeating Voldemort. They say they need Ron Weasley too. Ron is working at the joke shop, helping George. George feels like half a person without his twin. Ron will likely sign up once George is in a better place.

I’ll be on my way to Hogwarts soon The greenhouses are a mess. So many plants lost--broken windows--split hose pipe . . . it will take a great deal of hard work to bring them back to order. It’s a good thing I have an expert like Professor Sprout working with me.

Love,

Neville

16 July 1998

Albus,

Today, poor Pomona had quite the scare. It appears one of our departed students has not departed fully. The ghost of Colin Creevy was seen floating through the greenhouses, snapping pictures much like he had always done. I've made special note to speak with Mr Longbottom when he returns this Saturday to assist with clean-up. The young man grew up before my eyes, quite proudly too. He should be able to make something of Colin's sudden return.

I have told Pomona to help me restock the library and repair books until further notice. She was quite fond of our little photographer.

Minni

19 July 1998

Dear Mum and Da-

Professor Sprout had done nothing on the greenhouses since I last saw them. I was a little disappointed, but I worked by myself, repotting what plants could still be saved, nourishing and fertilizing, fixing glass panels, and replacing hose pipe all weekend.

I noticed a frequent clicking sound like a camera shutter. I asked the professors about it at lunch, and that’s when I found out what the clicking was. Colin Creevy is still here, taking pictures. They don’t think he knows he is dead, and they want me to talk to him.

Love,
Neville

23 July 1998

Dear Albus,

All of the student and community volunteers are doing a splendid job, but there is so much to do. I don’t know how I will have the school ready to open by the first of September. Maybe we can open it partially in the mornings and have students work on rebuilding it in the afternoons. The problem is the dorms. Hufflepuff and Slytherin’s dormitories are almost untouched, but the giants took their toll on the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor towers. The piles of rubble and stone that remain will need to be completely rebuilt before they will be habitable again.

We could double up in the existing dorms, or perhaps I can put a tent out at the quidditch pitch and have those two houses sleep there for now. Unless you have a better idea . . . do you? I thought so.

Minni

26 July 1998

Dear Mum and Da,

Auror training is hard, and while I will do my best and serve the Ministry while I am needed, I can tell you it isn’t for me. I spend the whole week waiting for the weekend so I can go to Hogwarts and work on restoring it. We have done so much already, but there is so much more to do.

I’ll be eighteen this week. Do you remember when I was born? I wonder sometimes how you felt, being parents for the first time.

I worked hard at Hogwarts this weekend. But then again, I like hard work. I was often teased that I should have been a Hufflepuff with my penchant for hard work. Maybe. I think I showed them all that I was worthy to be a Gryffindor last year.

I heard the camera click sound again in the greenhouses yesterday. When I turned around, I finally saw my ghost. Colin Creevy was right there. He was taking pictures of me doing the rebuilding. “Fantastic job, Neville. Brilliant. I’m getting all the photos documented for the new revision of Hogwarts, A History. I’m going to surprise Hermione with them.”

He will surprise Hermione all right. “Colin,’’ I asked. “ What do you remember about the final battle?”

He looked at me, surprised. “Well, Voldemort was winning. We were fighting to keep Harry from giving himself up. I was hurt, but when I came to, I hurried up and got my camera and started taking photos of it all.”

I nodded. How could I just say, ‘“Sorry, you’re dead?” I hope he keeps coming to visit so that we can talk more. Maybe I can help him eventually.

I miss you, Mum and Da.
Neville

31July 1998

Albus,

Harry made it to his 18th birthday. I suppose that is largely in thanks to you and Severus. I wish you had told me what you were up to and what your plans were for the boy. I could have helped you in so many ways. Maybe you and Severus would still be alive.

We are having some problems with the new ghost. It would be so much easier if he had not been a member of my house. But at least people are getting used to him being around.

Neville is doing a tremendous job setting the greenhouses to rights, replacing broken and destroyed fixtures, repotting plants, and bringing in new plants. He does not seem the Auror type to me, but then again, I never thought his parents would be either. Look where that got them. I will offer Neville a job in a few years.

I need him.

Minni

2 August 1998

Dear Mum and Da,

I had my birthday. Now I’m a man even by Muggle standards. Not that I feel any different.

I’ll have the greenhouses done by the end of summer. Auror training is going pretty well. Of course, Harry is the best of the recruits.

I talked to Colin’s ghost again. I asked him why he was at Hogwarts and not at his home with his family. He said his parents wouldn’t understand, and he was needed at Hogwarts to record the reconstruction. Maybe that remark about his parents not understanding shows he has some sense of being dead. I wonder what will happen when his brother returns to school in a month.

Maybe Dennis will like having his brother here. Maybe it will terrify him. Maybe he’ll convince Colin to pass through the veil. We’ll see.

Gran gave me a pocket watch for my birthday. I was told it used to be yours, Da. I like to think it was a present from both of you as well.

Love,

Neville

10 August 1998

Dear Albus,

The greenhouses are nearly done, The Gryffindor tower rebuild is nearly half completed and the Ravenclaw tower is completely restored. We just need to refurnish it. It has happened much faster than I anticipated. What would I do without so many good people. I was thinking of hiring some artists. So many of the original paintings were destroyed. I was thinking we could add some paintings of the Battle of Hogwarts, along with paintings of the heroes of Hogwarts, both those who survived and those who did not.

Maybe that will help Colin’s ghost, once he sees he’s been memorialized as one of the fallen heroes of Hogwarts and sees his painting on the wall; he will accept that he is dead. Of course, that does not mean he will decide to pass through the veil.

Minni

23 August 1998

Dear Mum and Da,

It’s been a very busy few weeks. Shacklebolt has been taking us out in the field and had us cleaning up ‘nests’ of recalcitrant death eaters. We have gained some actual experience, but I have hardly had a moment to open this journal. The Malfoys got off, thanks to Harry’s testimony. I guess Mrs Malfoy helped save Harry. I don’t see why that should get all three of them a reprieve, although their manor is nearly as trashed as Hogwarts was and much of their fortune has been taken in reparations.

Colin is still haunting Hogwarts, and often comes to speak to me while I work. I wonder if that ghostly camera of his works . . . he is always taking photos.

The two towers are rebuilt, but not yet ready for habitation. The greenhouses are done as of this weekend, but I’m going to keep coming to help. There is still much more to be done.

There have been magical artists here. You should see the paintings of the Heroes of Hogwarts. Mum and Da, they even painted pictures of you, from photos of when you were younger. I’m so proud. I wish you could come see them. There are pictures of Fred Weasley, Remus and Tonks Lupin, Mad Eye Moody, Sirius Black, Severus Snape, and several of the fallen students already completed. They want me and Ginny and Luna to pose in a portrait with Harry and Ron and Hermione. I am most honored. But I would not agree until they promised there would be individual portraits of Harry, Ron, and Hermione as well.

I talked to the artist today who is doing Colin Creevy’s portrait. Maybe it will help Colin see he is truly dead.

Lots of work to do. Gran came and helped the last two weekends as well. You should see what she did for the library. But you know Gran.

I love you both.

Neville

31 August 1998

Dear Albus,

The students will be arriving tomorrow. We have done so much work. I can hardly believe it. So many volunteers. All were a godsend. Merlin knows, we never could have been ready for school to open otherwise. We still have paintings to finish replacing and lots of small work--books, magical objects of research, furnishings, kitchenware, et cetera--to replace, but the structure is rebuilt and sound. Many of our students are simply repeating a year, since last year was not one for studying. Hermione will be here for seventh year. Many others have returned as well.

The paintings that survived have been invaluable, including yours, in telling the restorers what we need to include. We have a handful of new teachers as well. After the way she handled Bellatrix, I tried to convince Molly Weasley to come teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, but she wouldn’t hear of leaving the Burrow, especially with her family so recently devastated by Fred’s death.

I ended up hiring Alestria Moody, Alastar’s niece, to teach it. She has been an auror in Australia, but I managed to convince her to come to Hogwarts. She is much prettier than her uncle, but the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Instead of ‘constant vigilance’ her mantra is ‘forewarned is forearmed’.

Our little ghost is all excited to see his brother return to school. Maybe he will then figure out he is dead. I miss you, old friend.

Minni

7 September 1998

Dear Mum and Da,

I went back to the school this weekend. They didn’t need me, but I wanted to see how the Creevys were doing. I was right to worry. I found Colin in front of his portrait, with Dennis by his side. Colin couldn’t hug Dennis, and Dennis was crying.

“Neville,” Colin said when he saw me. “I really am dead! I can still take pictures, but just ghostly ones. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried, Colin, but you weren’t ready to face it. Are you ready now, I mean, to move on?”

“Move on? No, of course not. I’m going to stay a ghost. Maybe in a hundred years or so, when Dennis dies, I’ll go with him, but this is much too interesting to leave. I want to stay. I want to tell the new generations of students about Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom and the Battle of Hogwarts. I can show them all the heroes in the new portrait gallery. This is where I belong, Neville.”

Dennis nodded through his tears. I told Colin I would see him around the school. I spoke with Minerva and promised her I would let her know as soon as I was done working as an Auror so that I could go teach Herbology for her.

I ate in the Great Hall with Hermione and Ginny before I left. They are braver than I am to walk these halls as students again. It is Hogwarts; it seems much the same, but it will never feel the same. Too much blood has been spilt, too many lives destroyed for it to be my true home anymore. That old Hogwarts is gone.

I love you, Mum and Da.

Neville

Call for Pinch-Hitters

springmod — Tue, 08 May 2012 06:42:13 GMT

We hope you're enjoying the fics posted so far Our first piece of art will appear this week.

In the meantime, we'd like to ask for pinch-hitters. If you're able to help, please send an email to springtime.gen@gmail.com with the words PINCH HIT in the subject. Thank you!