#Michael Leigh | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

akasketch · 3 months ago

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A Time for All Things

Known Content Warnings:

Transphobia (directed and internalized)

Parental/guardian resentment

Descriptions of Gender Dysphoria

Emotional Abuse

Manipulation

Bravery as a character flaw

Bullying

Depictions of a gender transition: this is not every trans person’s story; this is not quite mine, but it is heavily inspired by my own. A lot of language play is used to depict Ray’s own exploration of their gender identity; not all of it is healthy. Full explanation can be given on request.

Depictions of Fundamentalist Christian Theology, presented by characters as a positive but intended to be read as negative

Religious/Spiritual Abuse

Part 1, in which the Crew Finds Each Other.

It was a beautiful... cloudy day in London. Rain, as it does, seemed to have chased the city down once more and threatened to bear down on it with the might and force of a toddler granting its loving embrace to an unwilling puppy. A pub front bears a well-worn sign hanging in the street: The Leaky Cauldron. Nonmagical eyes skip past the out-of-place architecture, but the old bar still bustles with attention; most patrons gather under its roof, several rushing in from the soon-to-be-not-dry outdoors. A middle-aged two-witch couple rush their five children in, tap the back wall, and are released into the outside once more, allowed through the gateway to the now-famous Diagon Alley.

Families of all types, shapes, colors, and sizes enter the district, some through the path taken by the aforementioned couple, others popping out of the Cauldron’s fireplace with a flash of green light iconic of the great Floo network, and others through the uncomfortable process of slide-along apparition. Regardless of the method, each Witch, Wizard, and Warlock, both experienced and aspiring, find themselves in the familiar—or unfamiliar—one-stop market street for the student-to-be.

Outside the pub, a darker-skinned witch with explosively curly hair bound back tightly across her scalp searches through the frantic crowd, tapping her feet impatiently. She does something decidedly un-witchy, pulling back the left sleeve of her robe—black, with red accents—to check a mundane silver clockwork wristwatch. She shakes her head, then reaches into her right sleeve, extracting a small green notebook with brown leather-bound corners and spine that had previously shown no sign whatsoever of being contained within the drooping fabric. She disconnects the black pen hanging from its cover, clicks the button at its top to extend the tip, and writes something within its tiny pages before her eyes flick upward, finding their targets, and she snaps her book shut.

“Slow down, Harley! Remember I can’t see it,” A heavy-set mother with bleached-blonde hair and light skin chuckles as she holds the hand of her quite eager young brown-haired daughter. The accent is American, and indeed, the woman’s brown eyes (nearly hidden by round cheeks pushed up by her wide smile) slip over the magical pub in a way that her child’s don’t. The pair, rather than being dressed in robes like the other families passing through the pub, wear jeans and hoodies.

The witch from before notes their presence and, deftly re-stowing her notebook up her sleeve, approaches the pair. “Welcome! The Janes, I presume?” Her voice is smooth and soft, and surprisingly deep for her smaller frame.

“Yes,” replies the mother, still beaming. She extends a hand. “Mrs. Granger-Weasley, right?”

“Precisely. How has your visit to London been?” The witch notes the awe with which the child—Harley, by her paperwork—beams up at her. Ohhhh dear. Mundane family; she has to have read Lockhart’s terrible novels. Going to have to correct some of that. A lot of it, really.

“Hermione??! You’re…” The child struggles to put words to thoughts. Or perhaps she has some, and is struggling to find appropriate ones.

“—Nothing like Miss Lockhart describes. I do apologize; we’ve a lot to do and while we do have time, I must be precise about my application of it, as I intend to do it several times today. Shall we begin?”

Slight confusion drifts over Mrs. Jane’s face, but Harley’s gaze shifts to the hourglass-like charm hanging from Hermione’s neck. To her credit, the child’s eyes widen with understanding and her face falls from the ecstasy of total awe to the directed energy of sheer determination. She begins tugging on her mother’s arm once more.

“Got it. Books first.” Harley leads her mother toward the Leaky Cauldron.

Hermione puts a hand out, stopping the child. She kneels down, bringing them eye-to-eye. “Ms. Jane,” she utters with a quiet smirk. “Not speed; precision.”

Harley, stone-faced, thinks for a moment, then gives a sharp, exaggerated nod.

Mrs. Granger-Weasley stands to her full height once more, grin plain upon her face, and throws her arm stark-straight before the trio, toward their many destinations. “Onward!”

\~ * * * \~

Michael Eli Leigh stands alone and abandoned in the street, black slacks lying lightly on his cold legs and orange T-shirt not quite covering him enough, but the soft and smooth texture feeling good upon his pale freckled skin. Well, not really abandoned; Mrs. Granger was around here somewhere, keeping an eye on him like she said she would, but she also said she had to ‘keep moving to give herself room,’ whatever that meant. Of course, that makes it sound worse than it was. He asked for this, the time and space. The unfamiliar shopping district’s hustle and bustle, even with the dark clouds hanging overhead, was a tad overwhelming. He needed time to… soak it all in, at the very least. To find himself in the noise, at the best. And it did seem to be turning out for the best.

The young boy sees a quiet corner off to the side that the crowd seems to be avoiding out of efficiency, and strides over there, bobbing his head side-to-side to an unheard tune. He turns around, resting his back on the wall with feet flat on the ground, and grips himself tightly. The pressure helps him think, sharpen his thoughts, bring them into focus. This was a new place, new society. Everything he’d learned about his… Useless here. He’d worked hard to figure out all the patterns and lack thereof, and now… now they were all gone. Or, most of them. Mrs. Granger seemed to follow some of the old ones. The facial expressions are similar too, now that he’s thinking about it. But that never was his issue, was it? It was less the emotions of the moment that gave him trouble; it was the rules they expected you to just know. And he’d figured them out. And now they’re useless. Or at least, he expects them to be. The few times he’d interacted with magic folk this far, they’d all rolled their eyes and said, “muggle-borns” under their breath. With a smile, but that smile didn’t make it hurt any less.

He watches Mrs. Granger take a mom and daughter into the bookstore off to his right. So that’s where she went off to: helping another kid, another family; not that his was together much right now. Wonder if he’d broken some unspoken rule of—

She comes walking toward him from the crowd off to his left; the wrong direction. What? Michael cocks his head toward her, then toward where she’d just gone, then back at her.

The witch stops in front of him and looks to where his gaze had just landed, then back to him. “Something catch your eye?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice as concise as could be mustered. Just a factual response of what he saw. “I saw you, going that way, before you came this way. How did you do that?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you sure it wasn’t a trick of the light?”

“No, it was definitely you. How did you do that?”

“We apparated here, remember?” She was lying to him, but it was plausible enough.

And he did remember. Very uncomfortable squeezing.

“Wrong question then. Why did you do it? You knew I was right here, why apparate, then approach from there? Or are you lying to me?”

She purses her lips. Discomfort with the truth. He was supposed to have missed that or ignored it. “I’m… sorry. I shouldn’t give you the answer you’re looking for.”

What? That’s a new response. Can he accept that? Michael considers this; never had an adult actually admitted their bindings by societal expectation to him. He thinks he can. He nods.

Mrs. Granger gets a funny look in her eye, one Michael doesn’t know yet. “Who was I with?”

“A big lady, but not too big, and a girl. Brown hair, no robes, just regular clothes.”

Her eyes light up. “The Janes! Yes! That’s right; they’re here now! Okay. Have you decided what you’re doing first yet? If not, I have an idea that might help give both of us some structure.”

Structure? “I’m listening.”

The witch kneels down to meet his eyes. “That woman and her daughter are both—her daughter is muggle-born, like you. They’re American, so they’re having a doubly hard time fitting in, but Mrs. Jane is—as far as I can tell in her report—willing to take just about anyone under her wing, even looking for the opportunity to do so to the point that she’d feel more comfortable meeting someone like you to focus on ‘helping’, even if you don’t need quite as much help as she thinks. And Harley, the child, she’s got a plan in her head already of what they need to do when. I need that level of precision from you, and I think it would help your anxieties about this whole mess. Do you think joining them would help?”

Michael doesn’t have to think very long to nod back in ascent. They might be yet more new people to meet, but he feels he’s already met them in some respects, already learned a bit how they tick, what to expect. And on top of that, Mrs. Granger’s reasoning was sound.

“Fantastic. Come along, then.”

Mrs. Granger rises again, and the pair makes their way to the bookstore, where she opens the door for Michael, waving him in without looking. “After you,” she says with a smirk.

Michael nods, walking into the crowded room. Books whiz about, one almost hitting him in the head. The boy barely hears the “Sorry!” yelled over the din by a young Warlock on a ladder off to his left. The crowd of people is dense and ever-shifting, ever-moving. So many conversations, so many faces, so much movement. His breathing becomes more shallow. Where is Mrs. Granger? She—

She’s in front of him.

Michael does a double-take. He sees her there, too. She gives him a thumbs-up as she shuts the door, still not looking. He looks back at her, and she winks. The crowd between them has emptied, opening a pocket of peace. She holds out a hand, and his breathing slows to normal. He has an anchor here. He grips her hand tightly (when had his feet carried him over to her?) and she leads him through the crowd.

“Mrs. Jane? Harley? Can I ask you a favor?” Mrs. Granger says.

The woman and daughter Michael had seen earlier turn around at the address; their eyes fall on him. He notes immediate sad understanding in the woman by the angle of her eyebrows, and slight confusion in the girl by the tilt of her head. “Of course, Mrs. Granger. What d’you need?” Mrs. Jane asks. Michael wonders why adults do this song-and-dance. She seems to already know what’s going on; why ask? Is it to ensure accuracy?

“This one’s name is Michael; his family was…” Mrs. Granger purses her lips. “…Not quite accepting of the situation. I was wondering if we could continue his shopping and preparation with you, as a group.”

Mrs. Jane’s face falls into one of deep sympathy, but her loving smile remains. “Oh, you poor thing. Of course.”

Harley’s face turns to determination for a split second then falls, seeming to stop herself from making a sudden move towards Michael. She turns pleading eyes to her mother, who nods. Harley slowly lets go of her hand and reaches out to Michael.

The boy purses his lips, looks at the stranger’s offered hand, and clenches his fists before relaxing and slowly accepting the tender grip. Far too many new people he’s had to touch today, and the crowded store was making his brain itchy. Yet, when the girl clutches his hand, pulling him along, the itch… slowed. Calmed. Harley’s growing confidence had replaced Hermione’s hand as his fetter to focus on in the din.

“So. You need The Standard Book of Spells, A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration…” Harley rattles off their book list. Her extreme focus is contagious, and Michael feels himself getting sucked into the rhythm and plan she naturally falls into.

Yeah. She’s a friend.

\~ * * * \~

Pazienza Brigid Equiano holds her father’s robed black hand as her Auntie Hermes leads them through the throng. She didn’t understand why her dad insisted on wearing that old thing; the backpack Mom enchanted for him would’ve worked just fine at holding all their stuff, and by the looks of it, other muggle parents were here with their kids, and even some wizards were wearing casual clothes, so there wasn’t gonna be any assumptions.

Oh well. It’s like her Mum said: dads can be silly.

Pazi herself was wearing a light blue jean jacket over a colorful top tucked into black trousers, the rainbow-beaded cornrows her Dad had set her hair into last week spilling off her head and onto the jacket’s fuzzy white collar. It wasn’t necessarily her most waterproof outfit, but it at least had a hood, and it was only supposed to sprinkle today anyway. But then, that was according to the telley weatherman, not any diviner, so there was a degree of error there. And she’d planned this outfit weeks ago; she wasn’t gonna let a little rain mess up her plans.

The small group had just come from Madam Malkin’s to get her fitted with new robes (the old lady’s poking and prodding had made her just a tad sore and slightly self-conscious, but she was getting over that now), and had decided that it was time to head to Eeylops now. As they approach, Pazi notes that the storefront is covered in owl cages, but the windows reveal far more variety. They also reveal a mostly empty shop: only two students, a boy and a girl, a mother (Seemingly just the girl’s by the looks of things, but she could be wrong), and… her Auntie Hermes, chatting with the mum just before the counter. Pazi could have sworn Hermes had been barely in front of them, but her eyes might’ve been playing tricks on her.

“Gods I hate it when she does that. It can’t be healthy,” her dad mutters.

Pazi looks up to see the concern on his face, but her curiosity melts away as they walk through the door—a soft “ding” echoing through the room—and her nose is assaulted by the familiar and heartwarming stench of untrained animals.

“Hermes!” Pazi’s dad exclaims, his voice and smile dripping with the practiced honey of a man that spends all day every day talking to customers. He lets go of Pazi’s hand, gently nudging her toward the kids while he saunters over to the adults. “I was wondering what you meant by ‘I’m already there.’”

Hermione seems mildly annoyed at the interruption to her conversation, but replies to him anyway. “Bound by the floes of time, I am. You know how it is; this one’s my first go-round today, so I take it a bit more casually.”

“And which one’s the one that led us over here? Your sixth? Come on, Hermes, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Her father’s words, though argumentative, had become soft and comforting.

“I’m fine, Trev. Really. I’m getting enough rest this time.”

“But you’re stealing days, weeks, from your life. How long—“

“Hi, I’m Rose, Rose Jane; that’s my daughter Harley over there,” the mom interjects, saving Auntie Hermes from more of a lecture with a strategically placed handshake and a confused smile.

“Trevor Equiano, sorry about that…” her dad shakes his head, coming back to reality and remembering the other human here.

With the conversation shifting into less interesting adult stuff, Pazienza lets it fade into the background, turning her attention to the kids. The short red-haired boy is enraptured by a striped black and brown spider in a glass case, but the brown-haired girl keeps shifting her gaze to the adults, face made of unreadable stone. The girl makes eye contact as Pazi comes near, expression becoming a smile that lights up the room.

She sticks out a hand attached to a very straight arm. “Hi! Harley Jane. What’s your name?”

Pazi looks at the hand for a moment, considering. Harley’s grin falters a bit just before the shake is accepted. “Pazienza Equiano. You can call me Pazi.”

“Patsy?”

Pazienza cringes. “No, Pazi. Like PAHT-see. That’s not just the accent.” Americans.

“Oh. Sorry. Pazi. Got it.” Harley winces; she seems to really care. Huh.

“I’m Michael Leigh. Call me what you’d like.” The boy doesn’t look up from the spider. Knows his interests; she can respect that.

“Alright Mikey. Good to meet you both.” Pazi looks over the store, unable to see much from her low vantage over the tall shelves. “What have you guys looked at so far? Anything good here?”

“Not much,” Harley says. “We got here and Michael kinda beelined over to this spider.”

“It’s an Orb Weaver, and his name is Snuggles.” Michael doesn’t look up from the case.

Pazi chuckles. “Well, it looks like you’ve got yours picked out. You wanna help me and Harley find our familiars?”

“Nah. I won’t be much help. Familiars kinda come from the heart. I’ll tag along with Snuggles though.”

Very literal, this one. Pazi makes a mental note of how to communicate better.

Harley giggles. “Well, in that case, Pazi; what were you thinking? Owl? Cat? Frog? I wanted an owl coming in here, but…”

The girl keeps talking as she leads them off and Mikey hefts his case of spider off the shelf. Pazi lets herself follow; she hadn’t really thought about what she wanted. Waiting for the right one, the perfect pet to come to her, that sounds more like her speed. Let Harley find what she wants, keep her options open until the right one falls into her lap, the right moment coming into fruition. And besides, by watching Har, she could find out more about her new acquaintances, see if they were worth truly treating as friends.

\~ * * * \~

Raymond Daniel Thiessen’s heart thrums a beat of excitement as he opens the door to the Owl Emporium. He’d been looking forward to this moment since… forever, but had never thought it’d be in Britain. A familiar of his own… Something to look after, care for, to have as his companion. It’ll be helpful while he’s looking for friends here for sure.

His mom and stepdad trail behind him, watching him with hope in their eyes. The boy has his mother’s light brown hair (nearly auburn) and bright blue eyes, but while hers is pulled back into a sporty ponytail sitting under a baby blue baseball cap, his is cropped short in the same style as the nearly black-haired man behind him. All of them wear jeans and hoodies, slight protection against the damp day.

The boy meanders around the shop for a while, looking at each of the animals in turn. His eyes linger on a lizard—no, that’s a gecko. Leopard gecko, the sign says. It’s so cu—cool! He brings his nose closer to the glass, looking in detail at the slotted pads of its feet, analyzing them, trying to figure out how it sticks to the sheer surface. Eventually, he gives up; it might be magic, but it’s rare that such aspects of familiars are magical; typically it’s a biological reason. He’ll have to Google that when he gets home.

Ray passes through aisle after aisle, looking at cats, then dogs—who would have a dog at Hogwarts?—then rats… His heart wanted to go straight for the owls, but the other animals deserved their time in his attention, and an owl might not actually be what he was looking for, what he needed.

His bed. His dad beside him, strong jaw and set brow, face like a mirror through time. “Hearts lie, Raymond.”

Ray shakes his head and continues, almost running into the adults beside the front counter.

“Woah, boy! You alright?” The robed black man exclaims.

“Yeah. Sor—“ Crap. Accent mimicry. What was that? Scottish? Irish? He’ll have to figure out how to get back to that voice later. Cough, then back on track in his own Californian voice. “Sorry, sir. I’ll be more situationally aware.”

The man chuckles, kindness on his face. “That’s alright lad. Big words for one your age. What’s your name?”

“Raymond. You can call me just about anything that starts with an R though and I’ll answer.”

The trio laughs at that, honest brightness flowing from them.

“Good to meet you, Ray,” the bigger woman says; another American accent. Neat. Hard to tell where from precisely; it had a bit of a southern touch to it, but it was subtle, like the icing between layers of cake. “I’m Rose, this is Missus Granger-Weasley, and this is Mister Equiano. Where are your parents?”

Raymond blinks at Hermione. What? She said she’d meet them here, but had gone off on her own somewhere else. He’d known she was a skilled witch, but cloning? That’s another level. “They’re behind me…” He turns around to… nothing. “Oh. I thought so. But they’re here somewhere.” He wasn’t too worried. Small store. Heart didn’t have to tighten in his chest like that.

“I saw them come in. The DeLanoys, right?” Hermione asks.

Raymond cocks his head at her. But she..? Wait. Clone. Wouldn’t have the same knowledge. He nods. “Right.”

She extracts a green notebook from her sleeve—must have a pocket of holding in there!—and notes something down, checking the time on her watch. “They’re chatting outside. Why don’t you stay with us for a bit? The students there would probably love to chat, maybe help you find your familiar.”

Hermione nods up, over by the owls, gesturing to a group of three students. Two of them obviously belonged to each of the other parents here, but the third…

It seems Raymond wasn’t the only stray picked up today. He makes his way over to them, but can’t help but overhear the tail end of their conversation.

“Be ready,” Hermione says, hushed. “I don’t like making loops; something was big enough to warn myself about; I saw my sign…”

Okay, maybe he could have walked a bit faster. But something was up. With her talking about loops, Ray was starting to rethink his clone theory. Was that an hourglass around her neck? Dangerous equipment, Time-Turners. If anyone can handle them, though, he’s pretty sure the great Hermione Granger can.

The other kids look cool enough. The red-haired one is carrying a spider case—so cool. Ray wonders what kind it is. And the two girls giggle up at some of the birds. One of the girls has really pretty brown hair, very long. Looks like his shade too. The other one has colorful beads tied into her many tight braids. God he wished he could—

His bed. His dad beside him, strong jaw and set brow, face like a mirror through time. “Hearts lie, Raymond.”

Ray tears his eyes over to the boy, itching the back of his neck absentmindedly, and taps him on the shoulder. He turns; the girls notice and turn with him. They have nice eyes too. All of them actually. Two brown sets and one green.

“Hi, I’m Raymond. Hermione sent me over here. That’s a cool spider.” The boy swallows, shoving… something down, back into his heart.

“Michael. Thanks. It’s an Orb Weaver. His name is Snuggles.”

“Harley. Good to meet you! We were just—“

“Pazienza. You can call me Pazi though.”

Raymond chuckles. “Good to meet you Mike, Har, and Pazi. You guys can call me pretty much anything that starts with an R. What were you guys doing?”

Pazi cocks her head at his pronunciation of her name, but says nothing. Something about the way he said it? Had he mimicked improperly?

“Oh,” Harley continues. “We were just looking at the birds. I’m looking for an owl, but Pazi is thinking some other bird.”

“Cool! I don’t really know what I want to go with yet,” Raymond replies, eyes resting on a barn owl.

The little buddy was looking right at him. Majestic and sweet and—

His bed. His dad beside him, strong jaw and set brow, face like a mirror through time. “Hearts—“

A thought screams through his head: It’s just an owl you idiot!

He stares entranced at the white-faced bird of nightly prey. A friend to watch him in sleep. A symbol of wisdom and wonder. A messenger. His heart can get what it wants this one time.

A gentle hand on his shoulder. Ray snaps out of his reverie, hair whipping around. Harley. Hi.

“Um… Ray? Your hair is growing. Are you meaning to do that? Because if so, that’s super cool, but aren’t we not supposed to do magic outside of school?.”

Hair growing. Crap. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap

Raymond dashes toward the door of the shop, tears streaming from their eyes, now-long hair flowing behind them. Hearts lie. Hearts lie. Hearts—

They throw open the door to see their parents, frustration on their faces, in heated argument with one another. Not again, not now. They need—no. They need to shut their heart up. They run around to the other side of the shop, around a corner, in a thin alley between its building and another, put their back to its wall, and slide down, bringing face to knees. They feel just a bit shorter now. Might’ve been a trick of the mind, but regardless, they needed to let it pass.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Their breaths come out in shakes, sobs. Why can’t they be… something else? The wall around the wanted word held tight, keeping them from thinking it. Their head is buried in their knees now, boyish frame getting ever-so-slightly smaller, losing some of the height from their last tiny growth spurt.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“…Ray?” A small voice calls out, soft and gentle. Pazi?

The child looks up at her crouching over them, and her eyes widen. “Woah. Big change. Metamorph?”

Ray nods, tears in their eyes, cheeks flushing. Today was supposed to be perfect. They were supposed to keep this in today.

“Hey, it’s okay. Runs in my family; missed my mum and me, but my nibling’s got it. Just breathe, okay? Spontaneous?” Her voice is calm and soothing, like the doctor back home.

They nod.

Pazienza sits down beside them, hugging her own knees. “So… what set it off?”

They open their mouth to speak, then bite their tongue. Tears pour out again, and they feel the other changes, normally too slow to notice, beginning anew.

Screw it. No point in hiding now. “I—“

Their voice is too small, too high in pitch. They hadn’t made that change. They break down again, shoving their head back into their arms and legs.

“Hey! Hey! You’re okay. You don’t have to say anything.” Pazienza’s arm makes its way around their back, her head resting on their shoulder. “I’m here for you, mmkay?”

The two of them stay like that for a little while, Pazienza’s presence giving them the comfort they need to get a hold of themself. Ray eventually comes back, putting his body back where he wants—no, not where he wants. But, it’s back where it needs to be. Where it… should be.

“Hearts lie, Raymond,” he remembers.

\~ * * * \~

Harley Grace-Stephanie Jane watches Ray and Pazi walk hand-in-hand; he continues to seem very nervous, but the boy had also been holding hers for dear life since she’d led him back into Eeylops. Every time they’d have to let go, his hair had started to grow again until he was holding her hand again. The parents and Hermione walked behind them, talking in hushed voices. Ray’s parents didn’t look at all like they’d just been arguing, and actually looked quite concerned. Something else was in his mom’s face that she couldn’t place, something kind of… dark. Hateful. Harley couldn’t tell what it was towards. The DeLanoys and Mr. Equiano had been particularly talkative, but Harley’s mom and Hermione had been chiming in quite a bit, seeming to console the pair. They hold the cages for Ray’s barn owl (named Presto, after a brief giggle-filled discussion) and Pazienza’s raven (named Huginn, after Hermione had mentioned mythology. Apparently it was one of Odins’s birds? Kinda cool), but Harley carries her own birdcage: Furaito, a tawny owl.

Harley and Michael walk in silent tandem toward their last destination of the day: Ollivander’s. The boy had really latched onto her earlier, but as they met more people, he’d clammed up. As he is now, he just… continues staring at that spider, barely seeming to care where he steps. She wants to say something, but she’s afraid of being too pushy, of making him not like her. She can be too much sometimes. Gotta keep it under wraps.

Drip.

Drop.

The emissaries of the clouds land cold upon Harley’s face. Folks in the street and on the sides begin to perform the universal gesture for “Did I just feel rain?” Palms and eyes raised toward the sky, each decides that, yes indeed they did, and they should hurry themselves along to their destination.

“Rain’s coming! Come on, children!” Hermione rushes ahead, leading the crew and their parents faster, ushering them into the abode of the great wandsmiths. Ray is practically vibrating with excitement, the blonde streaks in his hair turning red as his toothy smile takes up his face.

The shop itself is tiny, barely a corridor, but on every wall sits shelves up to the ceiling, and on every shelf sits hundreds of wands, strewn about with little care seeming to be given for organization. The aroma of wood shavings, sap, dust, and sickly-sweet polish fills her nostrils, reminding her of her Papa’s shop.

As they crowd into the entryway, she realizes they are not alone in the confined quarters. A wizened old man with stark white hair hands a brown-haired, pale-skinned girl about their age wand after wand after wand, while what seem to be her parents (a broad-shouldered, muscular man with a round, cleanly shaven face and a small, thin woman, both with skin like the girls) cling to each other, looking frighteningly uncomfortable. The parents look up immediately at the chaos of eight new bodies entering the cramped area and shuffle themselves into the corner formed by the wall and the front desk; the man’s eyes flick between the group and the young girl, whose grin remains ceaseless as she tries each wand in turn.

Ollivander—for this ancient man must be him—doesn’t look up nor halt his progress as he gives his businesslike warning: “You all that just came inside, do please be silent. Holly and Unicorn, 12 inches? No.”

The petite woman stares at the group for a moment, then looks back at her child. She leans toward the group and whispers with a voice that would be naturally softer than the petals of a rose, “Is this normal? He’s been going at it for twenty minutes!”

Mrs. DeLanoy stifles a snort. “Absolutely. My family went to his cousin’s place for ours; my brother took close to an hour. The poor man thought it was gonna last at least a day.”

“Dragon Heartstring and Rowan, 11 inches? No,” Ollivander continues.

“Oh dear. Thank you.” The woman extends a hand, manicured nails painted a bright red to match her lips. “Anita Dursley; this is my husband Dudley,” she continues as the woman accepts the offered shake. Her panicked demeanor seems to fade with the conversation, but her husband seems even worse for it. “What might we call you?”

Wait. The Dursleys??!! Had a witch daughter?????!! Harley had to befriend her.

“Rochelle DeLanoy. This is my husband, Peter. That kid with the streaked hair there is our so—“ She stops, eyes flicking to Hermione. “Child. Raymond.” Weird correction. What had they been talking about?

“That one tickled,” the little girl giggles after another wand.

“Yes. It particularly disliked you.” Harley gets a hunch that he was referring to a bit more than the wand’s opinion of the wielder, what with Mrs. Dursley’s and Mrs. DeLanoy’s conversation. “Unicorn and Walnut, 9.5 inches, mildly flexible—“

Yellow and orange sparks fly out of the wand’s tip and shoot straight in the girl’s dark hair, making it fly up, before swirling around her head and falling to the ground. The girl’s eyes light up with wonder, and silence once again falls over the shop.

“Ah, yes,” sighs the old wandmaker. “There you are Daisy. Be sure to treat it well; that one has been sitting in the storehouse for quite some time. I will require payment from the parents, and then you can be off.”

Daisy holds her wand close to her chest while her father counts out coinage, Anita assisting him with the denominations. “No dear, remember? 29 to a sickle, 17 to a Galleon. You need two more sickles in that.”

Daisy, meanwhile, gives a small wave to the crew. “Hi. Good to meet you all! You, um, enjoy the show?”

Harley responds immediately, interjecting before anyone else can talk over her. “Yes! Your magic looked so beautiful! I’m so excited for mine! What did it feel like??”

Daisy giggles. “Well, it was different with each one. It was like they were… interviewing me? The first couple were a lot more dramatic; the first one flicked down an entire wall! Ollie called it ‘throwing a fit’.”

“I would thank you to never call me that again, Daisy,” the old man breaks concentration of the moment to say.

“Understood! And, yes. That’s my name, Daisy, apologies for my lack of manners. What can I call you all?”

“Harley.”

“Michael.”

“Ray.”

“Pazi.”

“Good to meet you all! I—“

“Miss Harley Grace-Stephanie Jane?” Ollivander calls. Dang. Harley wonders for a moment how he knew her name, but the question is quickly answered by seeing Hermione beside him, holding out a piece of paper.

The young witch-to-be nods solemnly, the only thing stopping her from trudging over to the center rather than simply walking being the fact that she is getting her wand. Ollivander immediately steps up, taking Harley’s arm and stretching a measuring tape across it one way, then another.

“So,” the old man says. “How did you come to be across the pond for schooling, Miss Jane?”

“The exchange program. Mom thought it would be a good way for me to experience more of the world, and I got a biiiiit excited about Hogwarts.”

“I see. You read Lockhart’s awful novels. And what branch of magic excites you the most, Jane?”

She hadn’t really thought of that yet. Oh, gosh. There’s a lot, isn’t there? Charms, transmutation, divination, even hexes and potions. All of them just seem so important and wondrous!

“I… don’t really know. I just want to learn everything I can, I guess.”

“Ah, a generalist,” he says as he finishes with the measurer and makes his way to a wall of wands, extracting one. “Acacia, eleven inches, dragon heartstring, supple.”

Harley takes the offered wand and feels her stomach turn. Ollivander takes the wand away as soon as it starts.

“Ooh. That could have been bad. Walnut and Phoenix feather, thirteen inches.”

Harley takes this one, and a sheaf of papers on the desk erupts into flames.

“No.” The flames immediately die down as the wand is taken from her grip. “Rowan and Unicorn—no.” Harley feels no different and sees no effect, but Ollivander takes it away as soon as it touches her fingertips.

Wand after wand, minute after minute, Harley’s face starts to fall.

“Sorry,” she mutters quietly.

Ollivander pauses his quest, kneels down, and looks her in the eyes. “My dear, whatever for?”

“I… I don’t think any of your wands will want me.” It was hard to put the feeling into words.

It didn’t seem to matter to the old man. His piercing eyes bore straight through her mind into her heart. “My young witch. You are more than you think and less than you feel.” He points to the crew crowding the tiny shop. “They all love you. Each of them. I see it. And they are seven in the billions that exist in the world. There are less than a thousand wands in my shop, and you are looking for one. Those are far better odds, my dear.”

A tear falls down Harley’s cheek, her face a mess of emotions.

“Now. English Oak and Dragon Heartstring…”

That wand was not it. Nor the next twelve. Nor the next twelve. Nor the next thirteen.

But finally, Ollivander utters the fateful words: “Spruce and Unicorn hair, ten and three-quarters inches, surprisingly swishy.”

As soon as the wand was firmly in her grip, the world made sense. A yellow glow seeps out of her and a wind whirls about her feet, then ankles, then knees, then torso, then head, playing with her hair, before dying down.

Harley smiles down at the wand, cradling it in two hands. The elegant curves had been inlaid with mother-of-pearl, filling in some of the natural cracks in the wood as well as some intentionally placed carvings, swirling around in lovely spirals along the handle and spinning lazily around the wand’s straight tip. It… was her.

\~ * * * \~

“Raymond Daniel Thiessen?” Garrick called. It was his turn.

The boy stepped up to the center of the room, apprehension clinging to every limb.

“Don’t be nervous, child,” the wizened man says as he measures Ray’s wand arm—his right. “What are you most looking forward to in your magical education?”

“Transmutation studies; I want to be an Animagus.”

“Oh do you now?! Transmutation is a difficult branch of magic; it requires either tremendous talent, study, or understanding of the art to even begin. Perhaps two, or all. Which do you think you will have?”

That question gives Ray pause. Talent? He has talent for art, and maybe his metamorph abilities count…

No. They didn’t help with that magic itself, but maybe they could give him some insight into how it works below the surface. “Understanding.”

Ollivander, who had moved over to the shelves while Ray thought, nods in contemplation. “I see. Took you some time to arrive there, but you believe it wholeheartedly. What makes you say that?”

Ray purses his lips before responding. “I’m a metamorphmagus. Spontaneous.”

Garrick then does something Ray hadn’t seen him do since they arrived: Stop. “Oh?”

Ray looks at the floor. “Yeah. Had an… episode before coming here.”

“What kind?” Ollivander begins rooting around the wands. Why haven’t they tried any yet?

“I… It’s a recurring one.”

“I see. English Oak and Phoenix feather, twelve and a quarter inches, slightly yielding.”

The man holds out a beautiful wand in a tender grip, cradling it like a child. The handle was beautifully carved and polished a deep brown, almost back, smooth and soft with its precision, capped on either end with gold leafing; on the bottom, a small ball, and on the top of the handle, a small ring, forming a sort of rainguard. The business end though, although stripped and polished, had been left completely uncarved. It spun and waved in that beautiful natural way driftwood tends to, left unaltered but strong. Altogether, it was a lovely balance between natural beauty and creative wonder.

Ray, eyes full of stars, picks up the wand. She knew what would happen before she touched it, but still gasped in amazement. She felt… right with herself in a way she never had, for a moment. Like a limb, long lost and forgotten, had been returned. Relief floods her mind, and fire ignites from the tip, climbing up her arm, surrounding her with warmth and no pain, at once cyan, violet, and deep rose. The fire bursts off of her, becoming nebulas full of sparkling lights before settling to the ground.

After the moment of revelation, though, things gradually returned to normal. Ray looked down at her—his body (unchanged, thank heaven), and the sensation of disconnection, like a tiny thorn ever-stuck in his side, returned, as he knew it always would. He looks at his new friends, though, sees their smiles at the color and shape of his soul being laid bare, and feels it fade just enough to recognize them as what they are: family.

“Seven galleons, please, sir and madam,” Ollivander says to Ray’s parents, who hurry over with the money.

Ray taps on Ollivander’s hand. The man meets his eyes. Through them, Ray can see ages of wisdom, much self-gained, some taught, but all contemplated and granted freely.

“How did you know?” The child asks.

“That wand,” Ollivander answers, eyes searching for the proper words. “Has many siblings. Each of its siblings has been given to another that—like you—has had… a particular trouble with their sense of self, often centered on their form. I had a hunch that yours was the same struggle, brought into the physical due to your unique abilities.”

More… like him? He didn’t fully understand Ollivander’s explanation, but he recognized that others might struggle as he did, and that this Phoenix seemed to… feel for those of his ilk. And that whatever it was Ollivander was talking about, his Metamorph nature revealed it—

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

They all know. They all—

Breathe.

Breathe in…

Breathe out.

Breathe in…

Breathe out.

In and out. Calm thyself.

The words seem to come from within, not truly heard, but felt all the same, as they often did. Others don’t know. At least they think they don’t. Ollivander knows. Their DeLanoy parents might suspect. Hermione might know. Maybe Pazi. And…

Did it matter if they did? They’re not treating them any differently. No less love. No less care. No less kindness. Perhaps more.

If Dad knew… that’d be a different story.

“Michael Eli Leigh?” Ollivander calls.

That’s right. He needs to move. Snapping back into reality, Raymond leaves his spot, letting Michael take his place.

\~ * * * \~

The boy steps up and lets his arm be measured—his left rather than his right, as the first two had been.

The two of them—maker and student—stand in silence for a moment.

“So, I suppose you don’t need to be a diviner to know what I’m going to ask,” the wrinkled face before him says, wispy white hair tumbling scattered around it.

“Magizoology.”

“Oh? Quite quick on the proverbial draw, there. What do you know of that branch of magic? Birch and Dragon heartstring, twelve inches even.”

“Plenty.” Not the right wand. It was taken from him faster than he could blink. “I need a place to start, though. Not so general.”

“Understandable. Holly and unicorn hair, fourteen and three-quarters inches. Tell me of your favorite creature you’ve discovered. No.”

Yet again, the wand is taken. This one had vibrated in his grip. Probably not a good sign. “Acromantula. They have such amazing properties and their biology—“

“Acromantula?” Mr. Ollivander interrupts. “And you have a spider familiar?”

Why did people feel the need to do that? They ask a question and don’t want to hear the answer. Very frustrating. “Yes. As I was saying, their biology is very fascinating due to their size; it’s not too much different from a non-magical spider, but the cephalothorax is disproportionately enlarged, suggesting—“

Ollivander flicks his wand, and a box flies over to him from under the front desk. He deftly catches it in his other hand, extracting its contents.

Garrick Ollivander stands before the boy, presenting a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. The dark brown-green wood had been carved with sharp, shallow angles, reminiscent of the creatures Michael called friends. Black varnish is set in deep at the bottom of the handle, but gradually fades as it runs up the flaws in the wood.

“Dogwood and acromantula tendon, nine inches even, springy.”

Acromantula?? Their tendons could make a wand core?! “I didn’t know you used those.”

“I don’t. My son made it while experimenting one day. If this one doesn’t choose you… I wonder if it will choose anyone.” Some measure of bitterness in his voice. Thoughts of wasted potential? Frustration at bucking of tradition?

Michael stops worrying about all of that as soon as he takes up the wand. A feeling of wholeness and connection to others washes over him, a sense of safety and comfort. A tear rolls down his cheek. The smell of treated pine and sap erupts into the air, and oak leaves burst forth from the aether about him, floating gently to the floor of the shop. Wordlessly, gazing down at his new possession, Michael fishes seven galleons out of his pocket, dropping them into Ollivander’s hand.

\~ * * * \~

Mikey steps away from the center of the room, looking lovingly at his creepy-ass wand. Pazi had always loved wand lore; watching each of her acquaintances—no: new friends, siblings—gather their wands, seeing their spirits laid bare before all of them… It had been intoxicating. Harley, with her outward elegance and inward playfulness, Raymond, with their outward balance between the constructed and natural, and inward beauty, fire, and wonder, and Mikey… She’d already misjudged him. His outward presentation might be off-putting to many, including himself, but within, he holds the welcoming feelings of the forest and the little corners of civilization in which nature still, omnipresent, stakes its claim.

“Pazienza Brigid Equiano. Your turn, my dear.” Ollivander’s voice was raspy. He was getting older. As much as he didn’t want to, it was time to let his son into the shop more. Waiting should only happen for so long; it was time.

Pazi steps away from the small crowd, taking her place in the center with the old wandmaker. Her determined exterior—facing front, patiently still in all ways, right hand out to her side—masks a practically vibrating interior. It was time. It was finally time.

“How is your brother, young Pazi? Treating his Dragon Heartstring well?” Ollivander asks as he begins his measurements.

“Think so. Mom took him shopping yesterday; I’ve not seen him cast anything yet, but he keeps it with him everywhere.”

“Good. Good. You still want to be a Mediwizard?”

“Yep.”

Ollivander shakes his head, smile betraying the mirth in his mind. “You and your plans. You’ll go far, I’m sure of it. It is a noble calling too, to be sure. Holly and Unicorn hair, nine and a half inches, brittle.”

Brittle? He—

He’s joking. Gods below. That wand is immediately taken; she didn’t even touch it. He has to know she had looked into this. She was not that stubborn.

And yet, after five attempts, she is presented with another brittle wand.

“Maple and Dragon Heartstring, ten and a half inches, Brittle.”

Pazienza crosses her arms; she is not having it.

“Dear, please take this one. Just to try it.”

Fine. She takes up the wand. Hope you like shattered product, Ollie.

And then her mind opens up. Black feathers explode off of her, wings bursting from her back, then fading into mist. Warmth blossoms in her hand, a golden corona blooming around the hand that holds her wand. A halo for the angel of death, it would seem. It’s like someone had held up a mirror to her soul, making her more of herself, more of what she already was. There is a euphoria that comes with that, a sense of oneness, wholeness. Yet, in it, she feels her flaws more clearly, like the cracks in a boulder clarified by a chisel wedged deep within. A tear rolls down her cheek.

She looks down at her burden, her heart. She has to admit that it’s beautiful. The bright wood had been lovingly carved, obviously by a master craftsperson: From tip to the beginning of the handle is perfectly smooth, but the handle… The handle is formed by two spiraling snakes, twirling around one another. The Caduceus. Hermes’ staff. The very symbol of medicine, so renowned that even Muggles emblazoned it on everything having to do with the practice.

Pazi notes its unpainted, unvarnished feel. Unfinished. She looks up at Ollie. “You knew.”

“I had a feeling. I also have a set of brushes, finisher, and paints ready for you. All properly enchanted and brewed. However you want to decorate it, I trust your artistic vision, and I’m sure it does too.”

Pazienza throws her arms around Ollivander. The old man is stunned into immobility for a moment, but eventually pats her back slowly, deliberately. She thought he’d be better at dealing with kids, what with having grandkids and all.

Eventually, she lets go, and her dad approaches, holding a sack of coins.

“How much for it all, Garrick?”

“Seven galleons, same as everyone else.”

“Ridiculous. You’re giving her extra product. How much?”

“I’m also giving her less effort. Seven galleons, no more, no less.”

Eventually, after a moment of silent contemplation, her father relents, handing the wandmaker the currency. “Thank you.”

“My deepest pleasure. Truly.”

Pazienza looks down at her wand, already planning out its form. She didn’t yet know what the future held for it, but she knows it’s going to be beautiful.

\~ * * * \~

Hermione watches the small crew part ways in the pouring rain, careful to block her peripheral with trees, an aether umbrella protecting her hair. She had scoffed at Trevor’s guess when he’d made it that first go-around, but he’d been right. Six times it took to get to him and her adopted niece. Six times going through the same day. Five days away from her husband and family. Normally taken without notice, as a blink, but the man had shown some true insight. How long can she keep doing this?

The woman watches from her hidden perch, as she had every evening the past five days. Dangerous, she knows, but there was something about this crew. They were certainly going to make trouble at that old school.

The best kind of trouble: Mischief.

Author’s Note

Thanks for reading! This is a post I made on AO3 a while ago, but the image links broke, so I’m bringing it around here to have a more dedicated place for them so that doesn’t happen again. I plan on posting the rest here as well (If I ever get around to finishing parts 3-5 lol). My goal is to sort of take the world that the-author-that-must-not-be-named gave us and expand on it in ways that make more literary sense, as well as make it inherently queer, as it should have been from the beginning, and would be sure to irk her Royal Highness if she ever caught wind of this. I have a whole 7-year arc planned, but this first year is the most important to me as it lays the foundation for the worldbuilding I intend to do.

Speaking of which, I think folks might enjoy what I’ve cooked up; If there’s some interest, I can share non-plot spoilers to show off said worldbuilding shenanigans. No plot spoilers tho (eg: there is indeed a reason that Moldy Voldy targeted a school, and that won’t be shared until after part 5, even if I never finish it).

Also: Yes, the Daisy concept is heavily inspired by that one post, as will be a lot of specifics on here. Tags have some non-plot spoilers, some out of context.

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