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disorganizedkitten · 8 months ago

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We'll Take Our World By Storm Chapter 2

Harry Potter | 2021 | 9,191 | Ao3 | Previous | Masterlist | Next

You may remember, reader, that last chapter I said I would often ignore the rules of time-space for the sake of the story. This is another of those situations, so please follow me backwards and sideways, to Kings Cross Station, early in the morning of September First, Nineteen-Eighty-Nine.

This is another beginning, and again, you'll have to guess of what.

There's a family of three, all female, all redheads, who are some of the first through the barrier.

Amelia Bones, whom you met last chapter, and her girls, Susan and Delphi. Right now, Susan is all of nine years old, and Delphi is eleven.

Amelia, since I didn't tell you earlier, has russet curls and a stress-aged face. She’s only fifty-six, which in wizard years is extremely young, but, as I said.

Personally, I think she looks more refined.

Susan is her niece, and Delphi her… cousin-ever-so-many-times-removed? Daughter? I mentioned that maps were wonky here? Try family trees. It wouldn’t be a problem, except everything is adoption.

On topic though! Susan has the orange shade of red hair, but not very bright. She also has an adorable half-up ponytail with bangs, which Delphi helped her put in that morning.

Susan’s eyes are blue, like Amelia’s, but Delphi’s are not.

Have you figured out who is who yet?

No?

Let’s go.

Delphini doesn’t plan to tell anyone her name until she has to, so neither will I. It’s this thought that keeps her from panicking as Amelia takes her to the train station. She knows no one will look at her and think Evil, but she's worried about what they'll do when they hear her name.

She clings to Amelia when they arrive. Since they’re so early, Delphi is one of the first to reach the Hogwarts Express. She takes her trunk with her, and in a deliberate move against her parents, keeps her artificial octopus in the crook of her elbow.

She had lain awake with her younger family, most of them coming to Hogwarts in two years, for many nights, wondering how she would survive going into this alone. None of her cousins, even the adopted magicals, were going to be at Hogwarts when she would be. Well, that’s not true, strictly, but Delphi hasn’t had contact with Alicia in a year and she worries that with age comes hate.

It’s not an unfounded worry. But in this case, it just means Delphi has to use her own plan, the one made with the help of stubborn nine-year-olds and a single creative fourteen year old. The only hole in this plan of hers is that it won’t work after the sorting, so Delphi has to hope the old belief that you’ll meet your best friends (and sometimes your worst enemies) on the Hogwarts Express will turn out to be true.

It has so far; I’m rooting for her.

The family reach the carriage door in time for Amelia’s watch, a portkey with a protean charm and a few other surprises, to begin chiming. Amelia jumps and fumbles to look at the screen, while Delphi and Susan share a look. Delphi feels her heart sink.

See, Delphi remembers Amelia more than her blood parents, and she knows her caretaker, aunt, mother- she knows Amelia, and so she knows that Amelia will ensure the girls’ safety and then return to her duties. It hurts, even though she knows instinctively that Amelia loves her anyway.

Amelia, meanwhile, was scanning the crowds for someone she could entrust with Delphi. Sadly, the number’s really, really small. See, I haven’t said her name yet, and I won’t confirm any guesses until her friends know too, but suffice to say that Delhpi’s name carries weight, just of the kind no child wants to bear.

“Andromeda, thank goodness!”

Delphi’s aunt and cousin hurry over at the call. Dora is going into her sixth year, and is the only other metamorphmagus Delphini knows. “What happened, Amelia?” Andromeda Tonks asks as they converge.

Andromeda is tall, with long, dark brown curls, white skin tanned by days chasing her daughter in the sun, and the hereditary grey eyes.

“They’re trying to call me in, can you make sure Delphi is okay for departure?” Amelia asks.

“Of course.” Andromeda assures. Delphi tries to smile, but it falls flat.

Amelia crouches down to look at her eldest child, blue eyes soft. Delphi’s eyes change from inherited grey to the same navy blue, the only thing belaying her nerves. “It’ll be okay. The teachers shouldn’t allow any attacks, and if they do, write me. I’ll take care of it, I promise.” Amelia leans forwards to kiss Delphi’s forehead. “Listen to the sorting hat, I don’t care what house you’re in, as long as you’re happy.” Delphi nods, eyes stinging and vision blurring. “I love you,” Amelia says seriously.

Delphi surges forward to hug her, before pulling away to wipe her eyes. “I’ll make you proud.”

“Only by doing your best, I hope.” Amelia’s watch buzzes more urgently, and she relinquishes Delphi to Andromeda. “I’ll look for letters tomorrow.”

Delphi nods, curling into her aunt’s side. As soon as Amelia and Susan have left, and Delphi is done mournfully watching their backs, Dora nudges her with a grin. “You know, I’ve always thought it would be great fun to have two metamorphs in the Sett.”

Delphi grins back, a little brittle, but trying to reciprocate her cousin’s optimism. “Not afraid of me stealing your schtick?”

“As if you could,” Dora challenges, hair popping to a brighter pink and streaking yellow and black through it. Dora has always been more free with her metamorph abilities. Today, the sixteen-year-old has blue eyes like her father, fair skin like her mom, and once-pink-blonde-hair gone bright. In contrast, Delphi keeps hers close to her chest unless she’s challenging Dora.

Dora’s grin is wider, so Delphi streaks her own ponytail with all four house colors - a dark green, a bright yellow, a solid blue, and a lighter red. Gryffindor’s is hardest to see against her usual chosen color of cherry.

The girls continue like this for a few minutes, until one of Dora’s friends arrives. When Charlie Weasley pops up, Delphi yanks her features back into herself and leaves her cousin to it.

She finds a compartment quickly. She knows nothing about it, and as she runs her fingers across the leather seats, she breathes deeply because it was her choice . She doesn't know which compartment her parents used, and even if this one is it, it does not and will not feel like it.

Growing up, her cousin Regulus offered to tell her stories of her parents, or even of her cousins, but Delphi refused. She didn't want to hear about the bright children who grew up to be monsters, and she still doesn't. She listens when Uncle Regulus tells stories to the rest of the children, because she knows those are for entertainment and not an attempt to connect her to parents she doesn't want to know.

(Regulus, naturally, stopped trying when she told him that outright, merely saying that if she changed her mind to tell him. He has rarely brought up stories centering on her mother since).

Delphi sits down in the seat by the window instead of the door, with her trunk in the overhang, and feels at peace because she is going to learn the castle mostly on her own. She's not going to look at a window and think 'this is where my parents were caught torturing a cat' or 'this is where my parents' first kiss was recorded'. She'll never think 'So many carriages away from the engine, this is where my mom rode her first year'. No. She'll think 'this is the hallway Uncle Regulus and his friends once saw turned into a swamp', and know that it was funny once but doesn't concern her.

This makes Delphi smile, and she looks out the window with Leonis on her arm and hope in her eyes.

Dora and Charlie are still talking on the platform, and there are a bunch of redheads around them who Delphi assumes are Charlie's family. She is right. The Weasleys, remember them? They, as they are wont to do, are seeing off their children with as much of the family as can come, even little eight year old Ginevra. Their red is more of a shaggy orange, like carrots or cheese chips. Or Arnold, if you remember the original Magic School Bus cartoon. I suppose references like that depend on the reader.

Delphi's is, as mentioned, cherry. She looks rather more like Lily Potter, if you also remember.

I’m beginning to hope you have a decent memory.

The platform fills and empties in turns for the next three hours, and Delphi spends most of that time watching out the window and changing the colors of her nails. Contrary to what Dora would suggest, Metamorphi aren't all the human equivalent to mood rings. Some, like Dora, were morphing as infants and have strong magic tied into their looks, strong enough that they have to change often to use it up. A biological form is debatable, and usually built from what they see in family. Some, who you probably won't meet here, have to always focus on their current look, and can revert back to a biological form when either their focus fails or they spend their magic. And others, like Delphi, don't have a biological form. Any shifts they do will require matching effort to undo, for they are permanent.

Delphi has spent most of her life practicing for precise morphs. She doesn’t have streaks in her hair anymore, because she willed the strands back to red. So as she turns her nails blue and then spirals white through them, it’s not a spell, but focus that she uses.

At two hours to departure, Delphi is joined by twin girls. They’re identical twins, as happens so often in pureblood families. The genes are already strong, and twins rarely have more visible individuality than other siblings would. These two are brunette, with smooth, collarbone-length hair that Delphi finds unfairly cute. She thinks her own ponytail makes her look a little too drawn up for her age, but it’s her favorite hairstyle and she can pull it off much better than she can pull off Hannah’s pigtails. Or put it in quicker, at least.

Delphi stops thinking about how cute their hair is, and instead smiles at the twin closest to her. “Hello.”

“Hello,” the closer twin replies, sounding wary but open. “I’m Hestia Carrow, and this is Flora. May we join you?”

The wariness makes sense, very suddenly. Delphi nearly stumbles over her words as she replies. “Of course! There’s plenty of room, as I’m sure you noticed.” She doesn’t even consider turning them away, because Carrow was a name ruined in the war, much like Delphini’s own. Hestia smiles tightly, and Flora smiles awkwardly, but they do come inside.

They place their trunks in the overhead compartments, and then sit down, Flora across from Delphi, by the window, and Hestia beside her, too close to be in the middle of the bench. It’s quiet for a few minutes, and Delphi nervously changes the color of her nails again. This time, they turn seashell pink. She finishes smoothing the color, and darkens it by her cuticles, and then decides to fill the silence.

She’s pretty sure being allergic to awkward silences is a Bones trait.

“This is Leonis,” she announces, holding up the artificial octopus she’s had since before she lost her parents. His original name had been something like Luslus, but Delphi was able to rename him last summer with Uncle Regulus’ help. “I think he’s the only good thing my parents gave me, other than my name and life.” Delphi sets him back on her lap. He’s a faded orange, looking like a transfigured fox more than anything, but she loves him. She plays with his articulated tentacles as she continues speaking. “I turned him purple once, because my sister spilt grape juice on him and I hated the way the colors mixed. Another time, my cousin turned him blue because she was trying to remember the word for water and all she could remember was the color and that octupi live in it.” She moves to pet his crown, increasingly happy she brought him with. He had been there for a long time, and she hopes he will be for longer still.

There’s another moment of quiet between the trio, as the twins digest Delphi’s word vomit. “How old is your sister?” Flora asks.

Delphi smiles, feeling elated and accomplished because her olive branch is being returned. “She’s nine! Her name is Susan and she says if she’s not a Hufflepuff she’ll transfer to Beauxbatons.

“What about you? Any siblings aside from Hestia?”

“No,” and this time, it’s Hestia who speaks. Delphi feels giddy. “But we have a cousin who’s eight.”

Delphi beams. “We could be their guides to the school!” She loved showing Susan any secrets she found in Bones Keep, and this could be that but on a much larger scale. She winces though, because Flora and Hestia look a little stunned and a little afraid. “That is, assuming we’ll still be friends when they arrive?”

“Well,” Hestia begins, looking at Flora.

Flora nods, and continues. “I’d love to be friends, but we don’t even know your name yet.”

Delphi holds out her hand, wondering with a dropping heart if it’s worth breaking her rule for them. She decides to only do so if pressed. “Delphini, but most people shorten it somehow.” The twins look at each other suspiciously, so Delphi continues. “I’m trying to make friends before anyone can judge me for my last name.”

That, at least, is something Delphi knows the Carrows can relate to, so when they smile and it’s still a little wary, Delphi takes her win.

“Favorite chocolate frog card, go!”

Hestia startles into a laugh, and Delphi thinks that she’d like it very much if the rumors are true.

Let’s slide over for a moment, to another incoming student. Chester Norman doesn’t consider hiding anything about himself, except perhaps that he’s never as happy as he wants people to believe. He pulls his trunk behind him as he boards the train, and wonders if it’s a size issue that causes trunks to be allowed instead of suitcases. He thinks it’s a little sad, because his uncle has a really cool suitcase, but Chester’s has wheels and means he’s going to magic school, so he is okay with it.

I find it a little sad how many muggleborns will give anything to be given their basic magical rights.

Chester knocks on the first compartment that doesn’t look crowded or super rowdy, as he thinks the girls inside seem intent on their conversation, but not overly loud. And they left the door open. All three look up at the sound.

You’ve already met them, of course.

The Carrows’ mouths snap shut quickly, both looking a little hostile but mostly nervous. Delphi though, smiles. “Hello! Can we help you?”

“I was wondering if I could join you?” Chester asks.

The three girls look at each other, each making sure to meet the eyes of both of their fellows, before Delphi nods resolutely. “Absolutely. I’m Delphini.”

The twin closest to the window waves loosely. “Flora.”

“Hestia,” the twin closer to the door says.

“I’m Chester,” he introduces himself, lugging his trunk inside. He gets it into the overhang with the girls’ before sitting down in the corner by the door. He doesn’t consider the lack of last names. He’s eleven, as are the rest of them, and he’s a muggleborn. He doesn’t know the Wizarding emphasis placed on last names, and again. He’s eleven. Chester couldn’t care less. Sometimes I wish more people thought like him.

Other times, he lights the school banners on fire and I’m thankful they don’t.

Anyway. The silence as they settle together is shorter this time than it was the last. Delphi introduces Chester to Leonis, and Hestia opens the conversation again by outright stating that all copies of Grindlewald’s Chocolate Frog Card should be banned. “There are too many people who think breaking the law and harming others is a worthy ticket to fame, and all the lists of the most violent, or gruesome, or downright sadistic people encourage that idea!”

Chester doesn’t know who Hestia is talking about, hasn’t learnt of Grindelwald yet, but one of his cousins was killed by a serial killer (a terrible, sadistic man, who would rip out the hearts of children) and even though the serial killer died two years ago, it’s his name that’s known, not Chester’s cousin’s. “They should have more memorials for the people killed by those types of monsters, instead,” he pipes in. Despite the conversation having been about chocolate frog cards for the past half hour, the girls follow the topic change well, throwing out ideas as to how that could be achieved.

Chester doesn’t know this, but I as the Narrator do, and see fit to tell you here. Hestia has a point. Her point is a wonderful one, one that others will realize in the next half century and work to remedy. But underneath her logic is a child’s wish. A wish to be known for something other than the sins of her bloodkin. To not have people insult her for something she had nothing to do with.

“I bet we could find old newspapers,” Delphi says, trying not to let her voice twist. I’m sure I don’t have to say so, but she has the same wish. “If we go by the killer or attackers’ names, in the archives. We could make a list of the names, if nothing else.” She reaches up to her trunk and digs out eight different quills - four real, and four sugar. She holds most of them out to her carriagemates, her own sugar quill already in her mouth. “I’m going to actually do this. Do you want to help?”

Flora and Hestia take a candy and a quill each, and Chester slowly follows their example. “What’s with the white ones?”

“Sugar quills,” Hestia says. “I think the trolley lady has some in other colors if you’d like to try, later. These ones aren’t flavored.”

Delphi sniffs, some of the seriousness of the previous topic wearing out. “Of course they aren’t. Who wants flavored sugar?”

Sadly, this is exactly when Dora pokes her head into the compartment. “What do you think Cotton Candy is, Elfy?”

Delphi sticks her tongue out. “I stand by what I said.”

Dora rolls her eyes, the roots of her hair turning yellow in amusement. “Good for you, then. I’m glad you made friends, if something explodes, Charlie and I are a few carriages down.”

“Yes, Dora,” Delphi says, a little exasperated, even though she knows it’s just because Dora cares. Dora fake salutes, closes the door, and promptly lands on her face when she turns around. Delphi flinches at the noise. “Are you okay?”

“Always!” comes Dora’s muffled reply.

Flora is looking at Delphi, but it’s Chester who speaks first. “Someone you know?”

“My cousin, Nymphadora,” Delphi admits. She’s still not using last names. “She always threatens to curse people who call her that though, so we all call her Dora.”

Hestia hums. “Might be better for us to call her Tonks though, right?”

Delphi doesn’t flinch. Flora and Hestia understand, she reminds herself. “At least until she gives you permission, probably.”

“What do you mean?” Chester asks. “What’s a Tonks?”

The girls look at each other in momentary panic, before Delphi takes the lead. “Muggleborn?” Chester nods. “Okay, so,” Delphi begins, unsure of how much he knows. The only muggleborns she personally knows live with wizards now, and the adults were always in charge of explaining the important bits. “Has anyone told you about addresses in the Wizarding World?”

“I read the section on Floo addresses.”

Delphi blinks once. Twice. Hestia takes over. “Definitely not what we mean. Unless someone has given you permission, it’s polite to call them by their last name. Sometimes titles, but not while at school. Delphi and Tonks are cousins, so by default they can call each other by their given names.”

“Untrue, actually,” Delphi interrupts, finding her tongue again. “I have to call my other cousin by his last name, because his branch of the family nearly never interacts with ours.”

Hestia stares. “That is so sad!” She bursts out. “We’re not super close, but our parents ensure us kids get together every few months!”

Chester is a little lost, but he is obviously doing his best to follow along anyway as the conversation devolves into a discussion of Delphi’s odd family dynamics. “My mom wasn’t disowned but she is in Azkaban, and most of the rest of the family forsook… well. You know. My aunt and her husband… didn’t.”

Hestia still seems disbelieving in the wrong ways, or perhaps of the wrong thing. “That’s still terrible.” She doesn’t say anything about how her dad and aunt escaped Azkaban and fall into the same category. “Have you even met him?”

“Only once, since...” Delphi makes a face, a sort of half shrug grimace because Hestia and Flora know what she meant. Growing up, Amelia didn’t talk about the war in earshot often, and with plain words even less. Uncle Regulus, Aunt Vivian, and Uncle Adrian were very candid about it, but Aunt Andromeda wasn’t. Delphi wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be or not. She still isn’t. Sometimes she isn’t sure she even knows what happened. “Well. I went to his fifth birthday party with my Uncle, and it was…” She makes another face, this one just distressed. “A disaster.”

Hestia winces. "We're talking about Malfoy, right?"

Delphi doesn't respond. Flora purses her lips instead of wincing, knowing the misstep Hestia just stumbled into.

"Sorry," Hestia cringes.

"It's fine," Delphi says. And it is, because it’s not like Delphi expected them to not figure it out. "But yes, they are my cousins."

"So," Chester cuts in, wanting to understand what’s going on again. "Unless you're close to someone, you call them by their last name? Kind of like Vous vs Tu in french?"

Delphi turns, smiling brightly. "Yes, exactly! It's mostly done by wizarding families who have assimilated or are traditional, and it's because surnames carry the weight of your ancestors. A given name implies you know the person for themselves, and a surname is for someone you know by their family."

"I think…" Hestia pauses, and Delphi waits so she can gather her thoughts. "I think that's part of why so many people look down on muggleborns. Because we don't know the history of their names, so to us it doesn't mean anything. Do�� Chester, do muggles care about surnames?"

Chester shrugs. "Some do, some don't. The Americans are so anti-last name it’s almost funny." Hestia hums.

The conversation continues. Chester asks questions, his fellows try to figure out if they know the answers. Once, Delphi asks Dora for the answer, and the four of them get a twenty minute tangent from Charlie Weasley on how magical gifts don’t have actual affiliations, only societal ones.

He’d know.

Delphi licks her sugar quill, waiting for – she’s not sure. Something. Probably the guts to start her list.

Obviously, it’s slow coming. It is not easy, readers, to admit connections to someone so terrible. She closes her eyes, and focuses on thinking of names. Who does she know who were horrible people?

Her parents, obviously, count. A few cousins had been in the same terrorist gang. Who was that one Amelia always complained about? Something Macnair? Warden? Waldo? Walden? Delphi isn’t sure, so she just writes a W. and then the last name.

It’s Walden, but again. Delphi isn’t someone I can pass my omniscence onto. So instead W. Macnair starts off her lists on one side. Then she writes down, only shaking a little, Regulus Black, followed by The Lestranges (B., Ro., and Ra.), Avery Rosier, Helinora Fawley, Antonin Dolohov, Igor Karkaroff, and Amycus Carrow. She thinks it’s probably sad that she can fill in Regulus’ list the fastest, but at the same time… Regulus learned. His list of victims was small, and Delphi knew it because Regulus regretted them and was candid about his sins.

She doesn't know the others. But she knows they exist. She will know, one day.

"Is that your list?" Chester asks, leaning across the compartment to look. Delphi nods. "Huh," he hums. "All wizards?"

"I grew up in a wizarding family," Delphi admits with a shrug. "I'm not versed on Muggle criminals. Or french, for that matter." She adds, because that was how Vivian and Regulus always explained it. Magic and mundane have their own cultures.

"But we can do muggle criminals?"

"Of course!"

Delphi doesn't notice, but the other three are all turning to her for permission. For guidelines. They won’t always, but right now it’s a group project in a group she started, and Chester is recently aware of his newfound opportunities to grievously offend someone.

Chester takes her permission and starts scrawling names across his paper, the script messy and blotted, but readable. If you concentrate. Ian Bradely, Gregory Hallows, John Christie, Thomas Cream/Lambeth Poisoner.

"I swear dad talks about Dolohov when he gets drunk but I can't remember anyone he actually killed," Hestia huffed.

Delphi looks up, moving her quill over. "Um. He went to Azkaban for his involvement with the McKinnons' murders, we can narrow that down later… Smith? There was a Smith. And Prewetts, I think."

"Were there really?" Hestia asks. "I thought the Prewetts were killed by McNair."

"No," Flora says softly. "McNair is an aim and fire. 'Bloodtraitors' usually had actual fighters sent after them, because as much as they'd hate to admit that there are powerful wixen who aren't bigots, he knew they wouldn't be easy to kill." There’s a wry twist to her lips.

Pop back barely a minute, to the hallway between compartments, and I can finally introduce you directly to a Weasley. Two, actually. See, Hestia and Flora Carrow aren’t the only twins coming to Hogwarts this year. George and Fred Weasley are also here, and while they’re not twins, Hana Griffiths and Clementia Doe might as well be. Teddie and Cairo Murray are also actual twins.

Fred leads the way through the train, watching as the few other students not yet sitting down scurry around. He's followed by his twin brother, George. They haven't found anywhere to sit yet, and are coming down for the second time. They worked their way up earlier, but none of the compartments had energy Fred is looking for.

Well, to be fair, Fred isn't sure what energy he's looking for, but he knows he hasn't found it.

The train left a few minutes ago, and Fred and George were almost late because of their mum fussing.

She loves them, and it always makes her nervous to see them leave.

They're in between two carriages when he hears it.

"I swear dad talks about Dolohov when he gets drunk but I can't remember anyone he actually killed."

Fred looks back at George, but George is pushing him forward. They both want to hear the end of this. They've been warned that Death Eater kids would be at Hogwarts, and if they find whoever is bragging about Dolohov they can avoid or hex them. The twins aren't sure which to do yet. Fred takes the next steps quickly. The hallways have nearly cleared out, after the rush of the train pulling away. They reach the door the sounds are coming from and stop, quietly.

"-e can narrow that down later… Smith? There was a Smith. And Prewetts, I think."

"Were there really?" The first voice comes again. It’s Hestia, if you forgot. "I thought the Prewetts were killed by McNair."

The twins almost miss the next response, it's that soft.

"No. McNair is an aim and fire. 'Bloodtraitors' usually had actual fighters sent after them, because as much as they'd hate to admit that there are powerful wixen who aren't bigots, he knew they wouldn't be easy to kill."

"What's a bloodtraitor?" A fourth voice asks.

"A slur," says the second, harshly. "It was the- ugh. Um. Muggle Grindlewald, what was his name?" It’s quiet. Fred moves just enough to peek through the door’s window. "Right, no one knows both. Um, Chester, who was the dude who tried to kill all the jews this century?" The speaker is a redhead. Delphi.

"Hitler?" Says the only boy in the room, Chester. He's the fourth voice.

"Yes, him. Bloodtraitor is what the last dark lord called people he didn't like, trying to justify killing them."

"Like the slavetraders did," says Chester, nodding knowingly. "After all, they're lesser, who cares if they're hurt?" The derision from his voice is strong.

"Exactly. Warped reasoning."

"It's still used as an insult," says one of the twins across from the redhead. (This is also Hestia, if you can't tell). "But now it's frowned upon."

"Okay," Chester says.

"Yeah," agrees the other twin. This is the first she’s spoken yet, at least during eavesdropping hours. She's sitting beside the window, has a quill behind her ear and another in her hand, parchment on her lap, and is, of course, Flora Carrow. "Delphi, do you remember the Prewetts' given names?" Not that either Weasley recognizes her.

Delphi makes a face and pulls a quill out of her mouth. "I should, but I don't. Sorry."

"Well," and window twin's tone is distinctly wry, "by the time we're done, you'll know their names."

George knocks on the door. Fred jumps when he does, which means he misses the four inside jumping too.

"Yes?" Asks Delphi, sugar quill still in her hand.

George slides the door open. "We heard you talking about the Prewett murders."

The reactions are instantaneous. The Carrows stiffen and jolt, Hestia shifting like she's ready to bolt. Chester nods, and Delphi narrows her eyes. "We were," she agrees. "What's it to you?"

"Their names were Gideon and Fabian," George says.

Flora relaxes, realizing this isn’t someone tracking them down to bully them, and Delphi’s eyes blow wide as Flora bends down and starts writing. "How do you spell those?"

Delphi is surprised so many people want to help.

The Weasleys don’t know any of this, but George knows how to spell Gideon and Fabian, which… technically Fred can do, since he and George are named after them, but Fred knows the names as his name, not his Uncles’. Beyond that, Mrs. Weasly talks about her brothers sometimes, but not often, and Fred was never very interested in family history anyway.

"Thank you," Flora says when George finishes.

"What are you writing?" Fred asks. Usually he knows exactly what George is thinking, or close enough to fool people, but right now he can't tell what's going on in his brother's head.

It's Chester who answers. "Victim lists. We know the names of famous killers, but not who they killed, and that's wrong," his voice breaks on wrong, and suddenly Fred feels terrible for assuming this carriage was full of Wannabe-Death-Eaters.

"Can we help?" Fred asks. He hopes George agrees.

"Sure," says the redhead. She stands up and digs through her trunk for a moment before offering four quills to Fred. He takes one bundle of two, and realizes one is candy. "I'm Delphi and this is Leonis." She holds up a plastic octopus.

"Flora," says window twin, but she's almost absent as she writes something down.

"Hestia," says the other twin.

"I'm Chester," says the boy. "Do you think it's possible to make a list of every victim of Hitler?"

"Considering how many he wiped out, probably not," Delphi says. "There are probably people no one remembers." She doesn't say why people would be forgotten. It makes her sick to think about it. "But you can list a lot of them, I'm sure."

"Delphi, do you know who killed Edgar Bones?"

"Helinora Fawley is who confessed, but Amelia thinks that it was actually a Rowle."

Hestia writes something down. "Thank you."

Fred puts his and George's trunks up while George stands and talks to Flora. After a minute, Delphi scoots away from the window. "Here, George, sit down."

"Thanks."

Fred sits on her other side, unsure of what to do with this. "So, what's the idea behind this?"

Delphi looks at him and launches into an explanation of what they were talking about earlier that morning. Fred listens, and feels… grateful? And apprehensive. He doesn't like the dead, but he knows honoring them is important. And he would like people to know how much the Death Eaters' claims to fame hurt.

The train ride is long, readers. So is the story itself; so I’m going to mostly drop my habit of smooth scene changes, and constant commentary. Sometimes you have to jump, and taking the time to explain loses the storyline. Such as today.

I’ll still be here though, don’t worry. Someone has to tell the story.

"What do you mean you don't collect Chocolate Frog cards?"

Chester looks over and gives the purebloods his driest look. He's eleven, so it's iffy. "Why should I?"

"B-because! They're chocolate frog cards!" Says George, as though Chester is speaking in code.

"Susan builds card decks out of them," Delphi says casually. She’s on her third sugar quill, still plain. "For everything," she emphasizes.

"Huh," Chester hums. He’s on his second, but it’s blue because there is a witch with a lunch and snack trolley on the Hogwarts Express, and he bought a flavored pack from her. "I'm not sure how many more I can come up with without help," he says, changing the subject back to their project as he taps his parchment.

Delphi stands up to get into her trunk, as she does almost every half hour, and then drops her history book on Chester's lap.

"Thanks."

"I know we agreed no last names-"

"We what?" Fred asks flatly, looking at Hestia instead of George. He looks at her because she spoke, is in his line of sight, and he doesn’t want to glare at his brother.

Chester shrugs. "I hadn't noticed."

"Some of us are purebloods," Delphi says sharply. "And I, for one, want to stave off the prejudice for as long as possible."

George squints, trying to dissect his new friends. It could matter. It usually mattered. But he is enjoying his day, and Delphi is right. Their dad had told George and Fred to avoid the Rowles, Carrows, Goyles, and a lot of other names, because of the war and how people didn’t like each other because of the divides - some from the war, and some from tradition. “That idea has merit.”

The girls’ smiles are a little too relieved for them to be from Light families. George puts it out of his mind, and Fred puts it in a box to review later.

Hestia takes the conversation back. “Yes. But, Delph. If you are who I think you are, you-” her eyes cut to Fred, who had not quite relaxed like George did. George watches as she changes what she’s going to say, and he can guess the original. “-weren’t raised by your parents. So who raised you?”

“Amelia Bones is who has guardianship, but my cousin and his co-parents helped. Uncle Regulus got to do most of my family education.”

George blinks. Once. Twice. And then he catches sight of Fred’s face, a little less accepting and a little more confused. Which is when he realizes, oh yeah; their mom might have a hard time keeping track of them, and therefore assumed they both liked everything either of them did, but Fred didn’t like family history. Which meant it was probably only George who knew the second name. But Fred knew the first. Their dad and Amelia weren’t friends, but they did have a friendly relationship. Which meant he knew who Delphi was.

So will Fred, actually, once he takes a minute to think.George definitely understands her reluctance now.

“You mean you’re-” Fred starts.

George jumps in, taking over before it could go in a direction that would sour this. “-our cousin too!” He injects more of a smile into his voice than usual.

“I am?” Delphi asks. She looks genuinely surprised.

George nods. “Yeah. Pretty sure our great aunt Lucretia is your grandpa Cygnus’ cousin.”

Delphi tilts her head, going over her own family tree. “Grandfather Cygnus does have a cousin Lucretia. I haven’t visited her in a few years, though.”

George nods. Fred is staring at him, confusion and hurt on his face. When Delphi looks away, George mouths ‘does she act like her parents?’ Fred shakes his head, and that is that.

“Cool,” Hestia says. “I bet that means you know a lot of laws.”

“Yeah,” Delphi agrees cautiously. “A lot.”

“So what hoops will we need to jump through to publish these things?”

Delphi grins, and the atmosphere returns to the slightly mournful but laid back air of before.

"Frederick Gideon-!" George starts, in his best imitation of their mom.

"Remember, no last name!" Chester calls before George can finish.

George snaps his mouth shut, the light atmosphere dampered by the reminder that they're likely to split up once their family names and alignments become obvious. Flora obviously remembers it too, as her gleeful smile drains away.

“Should we use middle names, then?” Delphi asks. Leonis has been relocated to her shoulder, then her neck, and is now affixed to her hair like a crown after a sticking charm was requested from the sixth years.

George shrugs, and looks to Fred. Fred shrugs back. “Sounds good to me. George just told you all my middle name, and his is Fabian.”

Delphi, Hestia, and Flora all seem to make the connection. Flora sneers for a second, but then checks her reaction. “Flora Eden,” she admits.

“Hestia Paige.”

“Delphini Cygnus. Although I’m liable to hex you if you call me that,” she warns.

“We consider ourselves-”

“Forewarned, cousin dearest.”

Delphi laughs. Her friends join in.

“You guys should change into your uniforms.”

Chester jumps, spilling the Bertie’s Bots beans in his hands across the carriage floor.

“Here,” Hestia says as the door closes behind the prefect. “Accio.”

“Summoning spell?” Fred asks, impressed. Hestia looks over and grins.

“It’s not, you know, easy, but I could teach you later?”

“I’d like that.”

“Hey Delphi,” Flora says softly. They’ve deboarded the train and the gameskeeper is calling them forward, but they still huddle together.

“Yeah?”

“Why’s your middle name Cygnus, instead of Bellatrix?”

Delphi is quiet for a few steps, thinking. “I’m not… sure. There are theories, and I do qualify for my family heirship so I’m not the second child, but,” she shrugs, the motion hard to see in the dark. “A lot of people say…” Delphi takes a heavy breath, unsure if she’s willing to gossip about her own parents. She doesn’t like them, but it makes her feel gross inside to trashtalk them. “It’s because despite being heiress… you know; my mother had a child for another family.”

“So they would’ve gotten the name?” Chester asks. “Is it a big tradition?”

“Yeah,” Hestia confirms. “The oldest child’s middle name is meant to follow the parent of their gender. Sometimes the first of the other gender will also get the other parent for a middle name, but the firstborn is really important. It's a way of being named after the last matriarch or patriarch without the confusion of two Lord Charlus Potters happening in congruence, and when families are large it's a way to show which line you're from."

“Yeah,” agrees George. “Our oldest uncle is Dominic Septimus, but our dad is Arthur Edward, so our big brother’s William Arthur. Our little sister is Ginevra Molly."

“Huh.”

“Exactly,” Delphi agrees. “Which is why being named after my grandfather is odd. Uncle Regulus is named after his, but he’s also the second child. His big brother was named after their dad.”

“Have you ever met the probable-at-least-half-sibling?” Chester asks next.

Delphi shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” She kind of wishes yes, but she also worries about what they’d be like, hypothetically.

“The other option, depending on how happy the marriage was, is that Delphi’s big sister died young, or was stillborn,” Flora says, just to offer an alternative.

The conversation ends as the crowd of first years come upon a large, dark lake. “Ooh,” Fred murmurs. The six of them link hands.

Not much later, Hestia is becoming increasingly nervous. That’s not surprising, even she knows, but… well. The first professor they met, a Professor McGonagall, had finished her introductory speech by telling them to all be a credit to their houses. Hestia knows what house she is going to be in, but she’s starting to doubt her will to be there.

She knows exactly what will happen when she sits down under her banner of green. (Sadly, the same thing can happen if she wears blue, or yellow, or even red. Perhaps especially red.)

She sticks with her friends as they move towards the Staff table in the Great Hall (and how pretty it is! She absolutely needs to look around more later) glad that McGonagall hadn’t seen the need to make them get in a line.

She takes a breath at Flora’s nudge, straightens her back, and smiles.

Fred raises an eyebrow beside her. “You look like someone’s being murdered in front of you,” he mutters. Hestia closes her eyes.

“Dangit.”

“Crinkle your eyes a bit more,” Delphi mutters from right behind Hestia. “Wide eyed smiles freak people out for some reason.”

“You can’t even see my face,” Hestia hisses.

“General rule,” Delphi mutters back. “George, how’s Flora’s smile?”

“Shy, but not creepy.” George responds. Their little huddle is in pairs and rows, going Hestia and Fred, Chester and Delphi, and George and Flora.

Hestia smirks as she realizes what she should do next. “Chester, what about Delphi’s smile?”

“She has too many teeth. Literally.”

“I do not!” Delphi hisses, but the panic in her tone belies her protest. She had shifted.

Hestia hides a laugh, both in response to Chester’s deadpan delivery and to Delphi’s response. They reach the front of the Great Hall, and since none of the other students spread out, neither do they. Hestia’s worry hits her full force again. She knows Delphi’s family ties, but despite Delphi being friendly on the train, if given the chance Hestia wouldn’t be surprised (or offended, she fruitlessly tells herself) if Delphi cut ties from them to try and protect herself.

After all, if she isn’t friends with any other Death Eater kids, maybe she could convince people she isn’t her parents easier.

It’s what Hestia and Flora should do, but there was no possible way they’d survive that in Slytherin. She doesn’t want to lose the other four either.

The Sorting Hat (Hat! Hestia wants the history on that Hat and she wants it before Yule) starts to sing, something long and winding about the houses and the founders and how “Alas, by the time lost Slytherin returned, all his friends but one were gone. Beware, young ones, of letting wounds fester for too long.”

Hestia loses her composure for a moment to grab Flora’s hand as the first name is called.

“Adolf, Caroline.”

Flora looks over at her. Hestia knows her smile has vanished. George reaches up and nudges Hestia, before the sorting Hat shouts out “Hufflepuff!”

“It’ll be okay,” he says softly.

Hestia really doesn’t think so, but she was raised a Slytherin and is willing to wait for him to abandon her himself. Flora squeezes her hand, and Chester grins lazily. Hestia glances over at Delphi, who is evidently nervous enough to try and break Fred’s hand, anxiety clear on her face.

The boys are the only ones who didn’t seem super worried. Hestia wouldn’t be surprised if they were just good at smiling through things, though.

Hestia is right, actually, but they get even better at it later.

Ah, I realized you have no idea what the colors or houses are, or mean. Especially considering I skipped the Hat’s song. They will come up many times, but for now I have to give you the basics. The houses are split by values. Loyalty, Daring, Curiosity, and Ambition.

The rest you’ll see later. A lot of it has been twisted by society over the years, and I still have a sorting to walk you through.

“Hey. Let’s meet in the haunted bathroom after classes tomorrow- anyone who wants to stay friends.” Hestia finds the words impulsively as the third name was called, this one beginning with a B. She doesn’t want to lose her friends, and so she’ll make opportunities to keep them.

“Deal,” Delphi nods.

The next name is Flora’s. Hestia’s heart seizes as she lets go of her sister’s hand to the tune of booing. Flora smiles at them, tight and too emotional, but Hestia can’t say anything about it. Hers is just as bad. As far as she is concerned they are in front of way too many enemies to be open like this but she physically can’t do anything else. And she doesn’t know it yet, but that’s okay. Children don’t have to grow up too fast.

“Isn’t Carrow bird meat?” Chester asks quietly, squinting up at the hat as Flora sits down primly under it.

“No?” Delphi says, turning to look at him instead. “You might be thinking of Carrion, but Carrow is a name that means something like hill-dweller.”

The booing quiets down enough for McGonagall to set the hat on Flora’s head. Hestia doesn’t want to look away but right now is a crucial time. She waits until Flora’s eyes are covered.

“How do you remember that?” Chester asks. Hestia watches Fred and George. “Do you just know a million of those?”

“No,” Delphi says, tone going softer as she too watches Flora. “But one of my cousins is a Dunbar, which means fort on top of a hill, so I remember Carrow too.”

The other twins are making faces at each other, but-

“Slytherin!”

-when the verdict comes, they both break into uproarious applause. Hestia relaxes just a little. A few more people boo, and then George starts yelling.

“Go Flora! Attagirl!”

Hestia thinks her chest will explode.

A moment later, George looks over at her and grins, still clapping. It looks as awkward as Hestia had felt a few moments before. Delphi obviously catches sight of the exchange, because she reaches over and nudges Hestia’s shoulder.

“Friends, right?”

“Carrow, Hestia!”

Hestia waves, but before she moves she purposefully meets both Fred and George’s eyes. “Thank you.” And then she’s up, walking as prim and poised as her sister had been, ignoring the jeers.

Hestia is sorted quicker than Flora had been. Relatively. People are still booing, although Fred is happy to see Charlie reach over and shut one of the other older years up. The wait for them to quiet down means the Carrows are up around the same amount of time, but Hestia spends less time with the hat actually on her head.

“Slytherin!”

Again, Fred and George are uproarious. Hestia waves lowly as she passes them on her way to the Slytherin table. George grins at her and Delphi shoots her a thumbs up. Chester mimes smiling wider, and Hestia breaks character long enough to stick out her tongue. Fred just smirks.

As the rest of the sorting commences, Fred starts answering Chester’s questions of why some people booed in a low voice, while George and Delphi stare and make faces at each other, trying to make points without getting another reprimand to be quiet.

When Fred catches sight of them, he’s a little miffed that it only took one day of knowing them for these four to have the same silent conversations he and George often have, but then he thinks of all the pranking opportunities and is elated instead.

He’ll enjoy staying friends with them. As long as the bathroom isn’t a trap, he’ll cause as much chaos as needed to ensure older students and teachers don't get in the way of their friendship; not for house divides, not for last names, and not for grudges that should stay in the generation ahead of them.

“You’ll be at the bathroom too, right?” George asks Delphi, as "Jordan, Lee!" goes into Gryffindor. Fred looks over, ready to open his mouth because she already said so, but snaps it shut when she actually answers.

“Unless I’m in the hospital wing.” She says it with a smile, as though it’s just a given. Or a joke.

Fred decides then and there that he��s going to learn curses this year. Jinxes were all well and good for squabbles and playfights, but as he had apparently befriended dangerous people now, or people in danger, he needs to catch up.

George stops smiling at her comment. “You won’t be. None of you will be.”

“We could be,” she looks away, staring firmly at the hat. “Wouldn’t be surprised if we were cursed before we went to sleep tonight.”

George reaches for her, but Chester gets there first. “Then we can drag beds together in the hospital wing, can’t we?”

Delphi laughs, a little wet and a lot genuine, leaning into him a bit. “You better know some curses you can teach us,” George says, looking over Delphi’s shoulder to Fred. Fred nods. “Freddie and I were planning on being pranksters, but we can do revenge too.”

“Nah, best to get revenge with pranking spells. Annoy them to death.” She smiles, one that was more brittle than the last. If she were anyone else, she’d agree, but Delphi hasn’t been at Hogwarts for a day and is already desperate to be seen as better than her parents. Fred doesn't protest, for now, because he can’t see her face but it sounds like she’s trying not to cry. His little sister, Ginny, does that too.

“Sure,” Fred says, even as he catches George’s eye to tell him absolutely not. Maybe for the first offense, George offers, but Fred can tell he’s hesitant too.

Chester huffs and hip-checks Delphi. “Turn all their hair their least favorite color, and then make all their food taste like boiled eggs.”

She snorts. He grins.

“Lestrange, Delphini!”

The booing starts up immediately. George reaches over to high-five Chester, but Fred only notices that peripherally, instead focused on how he needs to change what’s acceptable in this school. He looks for the angriest faces, but he won’t be able to remember them as more than houses yet.

He gets better at it, later.

The booing doesn’t stop, so only a few people hear the Sorting Hat’s verdict. Fred, Chester, George, Dora, Charlie, Hestia, Flora, and Alicia all find this disgusting.

Four of them had only spent six hours with Delphi, but they know she deserves better. They all do. Charlie especially only realizes the hat said something when Delphi stands up.

In the middle of the Gryffindor table, clad in red, black, and gold, a host of redheads are trying to quiet people down. At the Slytherin table, anyone jeering shuts up quickly from glares. In Ravenclaw, no one is able to do much. At the Hufflepuff table, Dora is throwing low-level hexes that shouldn’t get her detention, but if they do she doesn’t care much. That’s her baby cousin!

A few people among the unsorted jeer too, and a black girl with a determined twist to her lips kicks the legs out from under three and punches a fourth.

Delphi stands up, carefully places the hat back on the stool, and starts walking.

The House Tables are set so that Gryffindor is on the left from the doorway, with Hufflepuff beside them, and Ravenclaw on the other side of the center aisle. Slythern gets the far right.

Instead of going towards the Ravenclaw table and past it to Slytherin, though, Delphi stops on the edge of the Hufflepuff table, and waves to Dora. Dora grins back at her, pretending she isn’t hexing tentacles onto a seventh year.

Up among the unsorted, George cackles. “Go Delphi!” he starts cheering and hollering, and Fred and Chester join in after a minute. So does the girl from earlier.

Delphi turns to look at them, and then turns her hair bright yellow. Fred grins, thinking her spellwork is impressive. He’ll figure it out later.

Chester turns to the girl with blood on her knuckles, and holds out his hand. “Chester.”

“Alicia,” says Alicia Spinnet, a muggleborn who spent six months with the Dunbar-Blacks and loved it. She shakes his hand.

Alicia hadn’t realized Delphi would be here this year, and she hadn’t recognized the girl either. Of course, it makes sense.

See, Bellatrix Lestrange Née Black at her prime, also known as how everyone expects her daughter to look, looked very different from Delphini Lestrange.

The differences, dear reader, that Fred, Alicia, and anyone else with eyes see, are ones I can now openly point out. Bellatrix Lestrange has hair black as her birth name, which crackles with magic like lightning and frizzes like a storm. Her eyes are large and unnerving, the same color as her daughter’s, but that’s not why Delphi kept the resemblance.

No, Delphi’s hair is red and smooth, darker than that of the family that raised her, but a reference all the same. Her eyes are silver, but that’s a family trait that goes beyond her mom. Regulus has silver eyes, and so do Andromeda and Fay. That’s who she keeps them for. Her eyes aren’t as wide of a shape, and her nose is blatantly stolen from Vivian. (Her cheekbones are from Caspian though.)

Fred watches as Norman, Chester, goes to Ravenclaw, and he and George cheer just as loudly for him as they did the girls.

Spinnet, Alicia, their new friend, goes to Gryffindor, but only after George invites her to the bathroom meet up too. When Fred sends him a look, George sends one back that essentially says ‘if she fights like that, I want her on my team’.

Two names after Alicia, George turns to his brother seriously. “If we can’t get into Gryffindor-” he starts, voice low.

“-we’ll be fine.” Fred assures him. Earlier, Fred wouldn’t have been so sure, but George made them friends and Fred knows their brothers will be there for them no matter their house. “We’ve got a friend in every house now, remember?”

George grins at him. “We’ll be fine,” he echoes.

“Weasley, Frederick!”

Fred looks back at his brother. “If we’re in different houses, I’m going to steal your tie.”

George grins even wider and clasps Fred's hand. “Deal.”

#Harry Potter #WBWL #Cathy The Narrator #Not (our parents') children #NOPC #WTOWBS #Jaymeow writes #Crossposting Spam #George Weasley #Delphi #Delphi Lestrange #Delphi Cy #Delphini Lestrange #Fred Weasley #alicia spinnet #Hestia Carrow #Flora Carrow

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disorganizedkitten · 8 months ago

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We'll Take Our World By Storm Chapter 3

Harry Potter | 2021 | 9,191 | Ao3 | Previous | Masterlist | Next

I hope that was fun. I certainly found it so. But for all these are children that are and will be important, I need to take you back to where we were before: Number Ten, Magnolia Crescent, Nineteen-Ninety-One. It’s around three in the afternoon by now, which sadly means that summer school is out.

“I’ll go without you!” Harry threatens from the bottom of the stairs.

“You’ll wait two minutes for me to finish this braid,” Fay snaps back. She’s in the upstairs bathroom, doing exactly that. She has one half of her hair braided from her neck down and then tied up into a loop, and is braiding the other half down her front.

Harry sighs at the ceiling, and then jogs up the stairs. “Are you sure-“

“I don’t need help,” Fay says tightly. Her next two folds are jerky, and then she takes a breath and the pattern evens out. She reaches the end, and glances over at Harry. “Can you hand me the pins?”

Harry grabs a few bobby-pins and hands them to her one by one. Fay pins up the second braid, giving the effect of having a droopy bow made of hair tied at her neck. Harry sets the rest of the pins on the counter, and then hands Fay her bag. It’s an old messenger bag Vivian made when Fay started Primary School, based off Vivian’s own bag from Before. It has a lot of pockets for organization, and Regulus enchanted it not long after. Fay slings it over her shoulder, and gives him a look.

“You have your card?”

“Of course,” Harry pulls it out of his pocket and shows it off. Fay grins. She doesn’t check for hers, although she’s sure it’s in her bag. If it isn’t, Harry will let her check out books on his.

Fay pounds down the stairs, darting past Harry to get to the bottom first. He gives a shout and follows, stumbling to a stop when he finds Vivian at the door. “Hi, Aunt Vivian.”

“Leaving for real this time?” She teases. Vivian looks a lot like Fay, but her eyes are darker- brown, not silver. And Vivian doesn’t put in the work to keep her hair up beyond ponytails.

Fay sticks out her tongue, bow-braids flopping around with her wide movements. “Yep! When do you want us back?”

“Dinner time,” Vivian says. “Latest.”

Harry gives a lazy two-finger salute, and Fay nods once. She’s been careful about that for years, and even when home time isn’t dinner time, they all refuse to be late without letting someone know - it’s why, despite being eleven, Fay has a flip phone in the pocket of her bag. Together, they aren’t in as much danger.

“I’ve been called in for something, but Ian and Caspian are still here.” Vivian kisses their foreheads.

“Got it,” Fay says. All three leave the house at the same time, after the siblings call up goodbyes to Caspian and he discorporates to come swirl around them in a misty approximation of a hug.

The two of them start walking east, waving to Vivian as she drives away. “I’m so glad we got your supplies when we got mine.”

Harry snorts. “You’re just afraid of the celebrity rush.”

“And for good reason,” Fay says with a scoff. “Ugh. Can you imagine the uproar?”

Harry can, actually. It makes him giggle, a little wistful but mostly anxious and amused. “We’d play hide ‘n seek the entire trip.”

“Ooh we should do that the next time we go!”

Harry grins, apprehension forgotten. “We should! Make it a family day out, you know?”

“Yes!”

“Although Delphi isn’t allowed to shift.”

“No, she should be,” Fay counters quickly, voice rising in her excitement. “And glamours should be allowed too. Remember how excited she’s been about finally getting into Ancient Runes for that project her and her friends are doing? And if we were actually avoiding someone, we’d use everything in our arsenal. Then we could try to pick people out using mannerisms and magic sense instead of our eyes!”

“Fay, you’re a genius!”

Fay grins and flicks her head back, causing her bow to bounce. “Well, I did grow up with you.”

“Guess you had to catch up sometime.” Harry smirks. Fay splutters and then sticks her tongue out. “Race you to the library!” Harry takes off after sticking his tongue out in return.

“Hey!” Fay yells, rushing after him.

They stop running after a few minutes, and walk the rest of the mile and a half. Despite that, when they reach the building, Harry holds the door open for Fay and sticks his tongue out when he says he won. Fay makes a face, but ends up laughing.

They spend an hour in the library, with Harry hunting down books and reading the first chapters of one while Fay works on the 200 piece puzzle in the entryway. Afterwards, the siblings decide to go to the park. Now, in their neighborhood, there are two parks, because it’s actually two neighborhoods with an access road between them. Magnolia Crescent is on the western side, and Privet Drive on the eastern. Sadly, the Library is also located to the east, about a mile and a half from the house.

I suppose you wouldn’t know why them having to walk around Privet Drive is so terrible. We’ll get there. The point is, to go to park, Harry and Fay could either go to the eastern one, which is directly accessible from Wisteria Way, the access road that leads into a third neighborhood to the south. The highway is northwards. Or, they could walk back into Magnolia Crescent all the way, past their house, and down a set of houses towards the western park.

They go to the eastern one, today.

Harry finds a tree to read under, and Fay goes to swing. There’s another group of kids at the park, who drag Fay into a game of Groundies within minutes.

"Is the paper-legend good?"

Harry looks down at his visitor, and smiles. The little, still unnamed constrictor reaches her neck to lay her head across Harry's thigh. "Yes." He picks a blade of grass and puts it in his page, before flicking back to the start of the story.

"What's it about?"

"I'm not sure yet," Harry says. "It's called To Kill A Mockingbird."

"Will you read it to me?"

"Of course. Get comfy." Harry gives her a moment as he puts on his reading voice, something he learned in a household of storytellers. Even with the voice, he doesn’t read in english. He’s talking to a snake, so he translates to snake as he reads. It’s a skill not many have. "When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and his fears of never being able to play football were assuaged-" here, the snake tapped Harry's arm twice with her tail, their signal for her having a question. "he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, his thumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn't have cared less, so long as he could pass and punt." Harry tapped where he stopped once, and then looked at the snake. "Question?"

"What's football?"

"It's a game where we use our feet-" he gestures at his own "-to kick around a ball and score. Although I think this book is from America, where they call rugby football."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Harry says drily. "Americans don't think like proper snakes enough to clearly name things. They call football soccer. But you play the game by using your feet and a ball! Football!"

"Like family-den," the little snake says sagely. Snakes don't bother with complex names- things are what they are. Harry is Speaker-Who-Reads and sometimes Speaker-Who-Reads-Human-Script if a snake wants to take the time. He was Wrong-Death-Cheater before, and some new snakes still call him that or Greater-Death-Cheater. Fay is Little-Death-Cheater, but before that she was Misspeaking-Hatchling. Adrian is Sun-Human-Nestfather, and Regulus Snake-Charmer or Large-Nestfather. (Sometimes he's Beastspeaking Human Hatchling Of Protector Predator Without Fur, but that's a proper society title among snakes). Caspian is Broken-Magic-Hatchling-Of-Snake-Charmer, or Night-Mist. Sometimes the names change, because the people do too.

"Yes," Harry agrees.

"Hey look, it's the Freak!"

"Blubber-venom," the little snake hisses. Harry looks up, jaw clenched.

A pudgy, white eleven year old with two chins and blonde hair is standing above him, grinning maliciously. Considering he's an eleven year old — and they can only hold so much maliciousness in their bodies — this is impressive.

Of course, this is also Dudley Vernon Dursley, Harry’s maternal cousin, who was raised by 'perfectly normal' people with an abnormal hate for anything not in their worldview, so… Maybe it isn't that surprising.

"When I got my name changed," Harry says drily, carefully closing the book as his snake friend retreats, "I'm very sure there wasn't an F anywhere in it."

Dudley makes a face. His parents don't particularly care if he's intelligent, and puzzles were discontinued after his second tantrum over them.

It's his friend Piers Polkiss who understands Harry's comeback instead, and snarls. "Freaks don't get to pick their nicknames, Freak."

"Does the same rule apply to rats, Polkiss?" By this time, Harry has stood up, leaving his book on the ground with his snake and Fay's shoulder bag.

"You sound crazy when you hiss like that," Dursley says like an insult.

"And you sound like an idiot anytime you open your mouth."

Across the park, Fay finds her way down the stairs to open her eyes and make a face at Jess, who is climbing back onto the main playground floor from her position hanging outside the railing. Fay isn't tall enough to reach up and grab Jess' ankle. Michael, over at the swings, freezes, and then starts creeping back towards the main equipment. Fay sees him and starts towards him and the edge of the playground. "Groundies!"

Michael groans, and Fay is about to run back to the playground when she spots Harry surrounded by her three least favorite neighbors. "On T!" Fay calls, abandoning the game in favor of supporting her brother.

“Two Ten Groundies!” Michael calls, turning to the kids still playing.

"Shut your mouth!" Dursley snarls as Fay comes up beside them.

"What, scared he'll show everyone how much smarter he is?"

Dudley skitters back from her, moments after Piers and Malcolm. Fay rolls her eyes, and shifts her shoulders so she’s ready to punch him.

“No one asked for your opinion!” Malcolm snaps. Dudley is the leader, but he’s scared of magic while Piers is the Bugs Meany to Fay’s Sally Kimball.

She’s still proud of that one, despite all three parental units giving matching lectures of “I get why you did it but it was still wrong, and next time don’t break your thumb.” ...Then again, maybe that’s why she’s still proud of it. “I doubt Harry asked for yours either, but here we are.”

“If I wanted advice on good life decisions I’d just do the opposite of whatever you’d say,” Harry says, matching her tone. “But then again, to do that I’d have to listen to you in the first place.” Dudley growls. Harry clenches his fists but rolls his eyes. Fay taps her hand to his right before he folds his arms up to give off a decent unimpressed vibe. “Go read a book, Dursley. Or plant a tree, if you think you can do that without killing it. Make up for all the air you’re using.” Harry wants to say ‘the air you’re wasting,’ but he was raised properly and there are boundaries.

“I’ll tell mum you were being freakish in the park!” Dudley threatens.

This, after seven years outside of Petunia Dursley nee Evans’ custody, is a useless threat. “So? She can’t do anything about it.”

Later, this gang will be the type to throw punches, but for now Dudley tries to shove Harry into the tree, and when Harry catches himself and Fay throws herself at Dudley, he screams and runs off. Piers follows, although Malcolm stays to sneer. “Careful Dunbar, next year we can arrest you for assault.”

“I’d love to see that,” Fay threatens in return, swaying back to her feet. “Especially when you always start it. Maybe we’ll share a cellblock.”

He sneers again but flounces off. Harry breathes out sharply, and Fay lets him grab her hand. He sits down and groans, pulling Fay with him. She lands beside him, but flops sideways onto his stomach quickly.

“I dislike that human,” the little constrictor says, poking her nose out from under Fay’s bag.

“Me too,” Fay hisses. The constrictor starts climbing Fay’s face, and the girl lets her.

“Hello Little-Death-Cheater.”

“Hello,” Fay says, much of the hate leaving her tone. “Have you chosen a name yet?”

“No,” she admits, pulling her tail up so she can curl on top of Fay’s chest. The constrictor doesn’t care which chest she’s on, the heartbeat is the same. “I want my speaker name to mean smart-wise-knowing-advice-old-has-seen-much.”

“Athena? She’s the Greek goddess of wisdom, war strategy, and I think something else,” Harry offers. “Or Thoth, the Egyptian god of knowledge.”

“I’ll consider them,” the constrictor says.

Harry picks his book back up and opens it. “I’m gonna start again.”

“Okay,” Fay says. She listens to a few paragraphs before the jitters start, and she gets up to go join back in on the game.

“Are you trying to be a wrecking ball?” Caspian asks, watching Ian push his lego creation with all of his insignificant upper body strength.

“No,” Ian says, eager to explain the story he is creating with blocks and dolls. “Bad guys knock down! Fire-fight fix!”

“Ah,” Caspian says in his best sagely voice. He’s been dealing with little kids since he was nine, and is luckily still good at it. “Which ones are the bad guys?” Ian waves the two dolls in his hands. “And the good guys?” Ian sets down one of his dolls to point at three other dolls sitting on the ground. “I see. A good team.”

Ian grins and turns back to his game. Caspian looks down at his sketchpad and turns away from the page of eye practice. The dolls’ designs are rather basic, but he can work with them. Caspian starts by sketching a collapsing building. Later, he’ll adapt designs for the heroes and villains and add them to the scene, but for now he works on his perspectives.

Fay and Harry head home around five thirty. Most of their conversation over the short walk is light and random, led by Fay’s wandering focus and Harry egging her on.

There’s one part though, that isn’t.

“I hate him,” Fay says, glaring holes in Dudley’s back as he and his gang wait to cross the highway. Fay and Harry aren’t going to take the intersection, because Wisteria Way is a barely used road and really, they’d just waste time if they went north to the intersection and then back south towards Magnolia Crescent. “Sometimes I wish I could-” Fay’s mouth shuts with an angry clack.

“If you say stab him, I’ll have to inform you that assault is still illegal,” Harry snarks. He loves his sister, and he doesn’t like his ‘cousin’, but Harry ignores them as much as he can, which is a lot more than Fay does. It’s not until Fay’s wide, extraneous movements stop in the middle of the road that Harry remembers. “Too soon?” he asks softly, taking a step back so he’s not leaving Fay behind.

“No,” Fay says. Her voice is high, but her tone and expression are flat. Her fists are clenched. “It’s been four years. That’s plenty of time.” She sounds dead. Robotic, maybe, but mostly drained of emotion. As the Narrator, I can tell you that Fay is actually very upset. She’s already got ADHD, but the rushing in her ears isn’t that. Neither are her clenched fists, or the sudden ghost aches in her chest. No, that would be called PTSD.

“You don’t have to rush through trauma recovery, Fay,” Harry says gently. “Or ignore it altogether. You certainly shouldn’t.” He’s treating her like a spooked animal, which is an accurate description. She’s a spooked fox right now.

“You’re not my therapist.”

“You don’t have a therapist.”

“I’m fine,” Fay snaps, voice rising with the force she’s trying to put into the phrase. She starts walking again, faster now than before.

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

“You are,” Fay says bitterly.

Harry scowls, keeping up easily. “That’s not the same thing and you know it.” He clenches his jaw before he can keep getting upset, and takes a breath instead. “And anyway, you’re wrong. I don’t think any of us are okay with what happened to you. You don’t have to pretend to be.”

“I want to be!” Fay snaps, desperation coming through her tone at last. It gives her an air of life that she’d cut off minutes ago, especially when she turns to speak instead of staring straight ahead. “Papa doesn’t talk about as many cases anymore, I still can’t go to the basement, and I just want to be normal again!”

Harry scoffs. He sounds derisive, but he’s hiding empathy. “Normal? Like the Perfectly Normal Dursleys? Like how it would be normal for a Black to be in Azkaban? Boring and casual?” Harry swallows his next scathing remark, because he’s trying to help Fay, not hurt her, and a guilt trip would hurt.

“No! Yes!” She takes a deep breath and exhales harshly. “I just don’t want to worry,” she says softly. “I don’t want to freeze up and I don’t want any of you to have to watch your words around me.”

Harry shrugs, and steps sideways to bump shoulders. “Like that’s any different from the rest of us,” he drawls. Fay laughs once, despite herself.

“Fine, I’m normal for our household. Happy?”

“Only if you are.”

Fay closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Yeah. I will be. I have to be.” She opens her eyes and makes a face, her next thought slipping in and grabbing hold. “Ew. I’m never going to get a quiet moment at Hogwarts.”

“You could go to Slytherin. People expect them to be creepy.”

This time, Fay scoffs. “No thanks. Ambition? Eh, maybe. But cunning and the ability to live by word games? I’ll trip over my tongue way too much.”

Harry shrugs. “If you say so.”

“Besides, I thought you were going to Hufflepuff?”

“Well yeah,” Harry says as if it’s obvious. “But the Sett is in the basement and the Den in the dungeons, so we’d be close. Certainly closer than if you go to your tower house.”

Fay shrugs. “We’ll see.” This time she shoulder-checks him.

I remember talking about the cores of the houses, but here is something you must remember: Few things stay the way they were intended. A civil rights group can become a terrorist gang. A refuge can become a prison or an exclusive area. Protests can turn into mass violence. Houses made for the sake of sitting like-minded children under certain teachers can become cliques. A treaty for peace can lead to inability to properly prosecute criminals. A shelter for lost animals can become their final home.

Ambition became bigotry and cunning became manipulation. Daring became recklessness and Boldness became stubbornness. Kindness became weak-wills and acceptance became naivety. Curiosity became showing off and interest became strictness.

Red became Heroes, Green became Villains, Yellow became Afterthoughts and Blue became Tools.

These are not what the houses should be.

Thankfully, these are not quite what the graveyard siblings mean.

“Would it help to try looser hairstyles?”

Fay shakes her head. “No. I think- the hair thing is mine. Sure, the start was… that. But I like doing it. Even if no one else understands.”

“Alright,” Harry acquiesces easily. He knows his sister, but at their hearts, technically, they’re different people. Hearts really isn’t the right word here. Cores, perhaps? Yes, I think so. Fay and Harry are different people at their cores, and so Harry trusts Fay to choose what she thinks is best. Usually.

They are children. They can, have, and will make mistakes.

Thankfully, this isn’t one of them. Harry was correct earlier when he said recovery can’t be rushed, and this is him refusing to rush Fay’s.

After a few steps, Fay starts talking quietly again. “Do you think Dad would get me a knife?”

“Probably,” Harry says softly. He doesn’t waste much time before finishing what he’s thinking - like I said, he only trusts her most of the time. “He’d also probably enchant it so you can’t use it on yourself.”

“I wouldn’t!” Fay snaps, turning to glare. Her bow-braids flop with the movement. Harry raises an eyebrow at her, and neither trip on Number Seven’s driveway rock collection. Fay’s indignation drops, and she averts her eyes. “I know you can’t carve scars away.”

“Good,” Harry replies, tone as quiet as hers had been. They reach number nine not long after, and Harry waits until they’re crossing the road to continue. “I bet if you asked, Delphi would build you a glamour for while we’re at school.”

“I’m not planning on wearing anything low cut,” Fay says, blunt and honest. She doesn’t rub her chest, but she does link each of her hands around the opposite wrist.

Earlier, I told you about Harry’s physical scars. What they looked like, where they were, even if they weren’t visible. What I didn’t tell you is that his are far from the only scars among the residents of Ten Magnolia Drive. Vivian has a line across her right forearm and a bullet wound in her left leg. Regulus is missing his left arm from mid-upper-arm down, and you can find small scratches on most places of his body if you bother to look close enough. Reg is pale as all get-out, so his blend in the most. Caspian can discorporate on command or whenever he’s overwhelmed. Adrian’s scars are definitely the most benign, a mass of scar tissue on his leg from a sharp rock in highschool, and a deep line across his thumb from a scalpel slipping in college. And Fay’s is a twisting, ragged mess of scars across her ribcage, with a slash sideways on her stomach and the only straight line running from her bellybutton to the dip between her clavicles. The top of that one is the only one visible in most clothes.

“Okay,” Harry says. “If you change your mind, I’m sure she could use the incentive.”

“Okay.” Fay opens the front door with a flourish. “Cas! We’re home!”

While life as a whole is interesting, nothing else relevant happens until much later. Noctua the Greater Sooty Owl reaches the Dunbar-Black residence around one in the morning of July twenty-fifth. This may seem an odd time to you, but please think back to the owl lore I imparted upon you after the beginnings. Owls, especially properly bonded owls such as Noctua, will appear when convenient. In this case, that means she returns home at one A.M., entering through an upstairs window, to a child whose night took a nosedive.

Not that you can tell from the window there’s a child in the room. It’s the lone room on its side of the hallway, and instead of a teenager splayed despondently on the bed, there’s a roiling black miasma that covers the comforter and drips down to cover most of the floor.

This is, as I said, Caspian’s scar. He lives with a parasite chewing on his magic, unable to use it to the extent of an average wix, let alone his siblings. Sometimes he can’t pull together into a solid human being, though usually, he can shift on command. But this type of magic, the magic that runs through Regulus, Harry, Fay and Caspian’s viens? The type that fuels Delphi and Dora and Alicia? This is an emotional magic. Some wix gain renown for being able to control magic without a wand. Some people call this wandless, which is a Snake Name if I’ve ever heard one. In children, it’s called accidental.

In reality, it’s just wild. Structured magic is made with wands and rituals. It’s reliable, recreatable... the most scientific type of magic there is. Wild magic is made with movements, feelings and wishes. Both are good with the opportunity to be bad. Both can be learned through hard work. Wix can have affinities for either, and if they don’t like it they can learn the other.

Caspian will never learn structured magic, but he’s learnt enough wild magic to stop the parasite from killing him, as it would most others.

...I seem to have gone on a tangent. You should get used to it.

The point of explaining magic to you readers, whom I doubt have any of your own, is to explain that Caspian is simultaneously tied more and less to his magic than others you meet will be. A bad day for most can mean a few windows or cups shattering, maybe a small explosion. For Caspian, it means physicality takes more work than he has energy.

When Noctua enters the house, slipping through the open window with grace and a whirring, whistling noise that sounds like a bomb being dropped, Caspian shudders. It takes a few minutes, during which Noctua makes herself comfortable on the bedpost, for Caspian to pull himself together.

“Hey Nocts,” he says softly.

Noctua cheeps and moves to his shoulder. She does this for two reasons- the second is to make the letters more accessible. The first is so she can preen him. Caspian may be her owlet’s nestling, but he is her owlet too. Human connections can influence owl claims, but only if the owl allows it. If you believe Noctua is the type to allow it, you are severely mistaken and may be reading too fast. This is an owl who bonded herself to a wizard, instead of the other way around.

Noctua preens his dark hair as Caspian takes the letters off her foot and sorts through them.

There's one to Vivian from Amelia, and then three half-pages. One for Caspian, one for Vivian and Adrian, and one for Harry and Fay. These are from Regulus.

Caspian takes his, because he doesn't need to read his family's, and because Regulus has always been the best for calming him down. Vivian has always been the worst at it, just for the record.

Caspian,

Hey kiddo. Amy says you guys have been worrying. Don't let Viv and Rian psyche you out, I know what I’m doing.

Besides- nothing here is going to take off my other arm.

I might have just found a lead; yes, I know, I say that often, but I am usually right. Stay safe, don’t let the kids cause too many problems. I will be home in time for the dinner with Bones’, so I’ll see you soon.

I love you, Caspian.

Regulus Artcurus Black, Heir of The Most No-

-Regulus. <3

Caspian grins, a little wry and a lot sad, as he reads. It’s all good news, but what he really wants is for his dad to sit against the wall and tell him a story while he falls apart and pieces himself back together.

Anyone else in the household would do it, Harry had even offered before he went to bed, but they never have the same energy Regulus does.

Noctua keeps preening, telling him about her day in short cheeps and chirps, telling him about how well Regulus looks and how nice the old lady was. It doesn’t do much, mostly because Caspian doesn’t speak owl.

If Noctua absolutely needs to tell a story using words, it’s best for her to go find a snake to translate, since the wix in her home all speak parseltongue, which is the official wizarding name for snake language. Well, to be fair, Regulus speaks a couple magical beast-based languages, but he is a terrible translator. He’s too formal.

Caspian appreciates the effort anyway, and reaches up to try and pet Noctua’s back. His control slips halfway through, so instead he merely blows mist through her feathers, but she understands.

Caspian lays back and lets himself melt. Noctua cheeps again and picks at the mist where his shoulder used to be, before taking off with another high-pitched whistle. She narrowly pivots at the ceiling, and then dives towards the windowsill. She lands on it primly and turns her head the required three-hundred-and-sixty degrees to stare at Caspian. She cheeps again.

Caspian’s miasma tightens, not enough to form a human, but to form something humanoid, whose head-cloud tilts. Noctua chirps — quietly, because it’s dark and she’s smart — and then takes off out the window.

Caspian loses shape again and follows her.

It’s interesting, readers, how intelligent animals are. There’s a story I know, not related to this one, where a Guinea Pig reacted to her human-child’s distress. There are stories of dogs checking for breathing, and cats giving headbutts instead of hugs. There are military animals and there are therapy animals. Animals are not humans, but they can be intelligent despite that. Sometimes more than humans, sometimes less. This is one such scenario.

Noctua has spent seven years living in this household, and nine years taking care of Regulus. She knows how to help her owlets and nestlings.

Since she does not have the vocal range to tell Caspian stories, she’ll take him flying until it takes more effort to remain mist on the wind than it does to be solid.

Regulus Black does return around nine the same morning, but before that I have to take you back to another country. Remember Scotland and the castle? Yes, I need you back there.

This is Hogwarts Castle. You'll know well of its existence by now. And you have heard of, if not seen, Minerva McGonagall's existence.

She is a teacher, the head of Gryffindor house, and deputy headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Old and Scottish, her face is lined but her hair is still black. Wixen age much slower; Minerva is sixty-five, and only her wrinkles give it away.

Inside the castle, Minerva has woken up, dressed herself in smart green robes, eaten breakfast, and set up to check letters and build attendance lists.

...I mentioned that yesterday was The Calm Before The Storm.

Today, The Storm Is Brewing.

Minerva lays out the letters and adds the seven names in alphabetical order to the longer parchment she already has. She cross references this with two other lists, one from the Book of Names and one with annotations for MCPS. Unlike many other stories, when she comes upon Harry and Connor’s acceptance letters, she isn’t surprised at all. This isn’t because she’s part of a conspiracy to dispose of Harry, or because she’s a seer, but rather because she is Minerva McGonagall, one of the few reasonable and functional adults these kids will have access to. Which, I’ll admit, is a convoluted way of saying she works with Magical Child Protective Services and has already met Harry in the years since the Godric’s Hollow disaster.

Minerva finishes, and then because Lily Evans and James Potter were some of her favorite students, she writes a letter of her own.

Dear Lily and James;

I am looking forward to teaching your boys. Please make sure they both know I expect excellence; a few years among muggles cannot dampen magical prowess and I will be disappointed if he pretends it does.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts

It's not a long letter. Not one sent with the intent to cause panic. Not one sent to show off that Minerva knows more than the Potters. It's just a short, friendly missive to former students and teammates. She doesn’t remember that the Potters don’t know, or even know that herself. She’s not the MCPS Department Head. Her letter is meant to be teasing and friendly, not ominous enough to shatter family bonds.

Minerva takes it out of her office, down a few floors, and then to the outer tower that houses the owlery. She sends it with an unbonded school owl, and doesn't think any more on it.

On her way back to the castle she runs into Rubeus Hagrid, the Groundskeeper. He has bowtruckles - twig creatures - in his hair, which is bushy and long and grows into his brown beard.

"Good mornin' ‘Nerva!"

"Good morning, Rubeus," Minerva says, slowing her walk. "How are the Acromantula hatchlings?"

Rubeus Hagrid, whom I will be calling Rubeus despite most calling him Hagrid, grins, wide and bright. He towers nearly three feet over Minerva, who is herself five feet and nine inches tall. "They're coming along great! Largest set of survivors so far. Aragog is so proud." It's a project from when they were in school together, nearly fifty years ago. Minerva and Rubeus were Gryffindors, although she was a few years ahead of him. Aragog is the first of their Acromantulas, and the leader of this group.

"Oh do pass on my congratulations," Minerva says lightly. "And Mosag is doing well?"

"Laying eggs doesn't do much to 'er," Rubeus says. "Biggest issue is that she's getting old. I think they'll just have to dote on grandkids next year." Mosag is, of course, Aragog’s mate. Luckily they don’t breed like black widows.

Minerva, who has a few grandchildren of her own, understands the sentiment. "They’ll get more freedom that way, not having to deal with as many tantrums.”

Rubeus hums. “They’ll all be living together, though.”

"I suppose that's true." Minerva changes direction, so instead of going to the castle she was going towards the hut on the grounds. This is where Rubeus lives, and has since he stopped being a student. "Do you think you'll have time for another visit this month?"

"Ah course!" Rubeus says cheerily. "Any idea what time works best for 'em?"

Minerva purses her lips. "I think he'll be another of the bad ones," she admits. "Probably a Slytherin or Hufflepuff."

"Pink and blue for the cake, then?"

Minerva smiles, glancing over at her friend. "Yes. Perhaps some orange or silver too."

"I'll make sure they're good and ready," he promises.

“Thank you. Do you want Regulus’ notes before you go, or compare after?” “I think only triggers first,” Rubeus says, as usual. He has long since grown out of letting others do his thinking for him, especially when it comes to children.

Connor Potter is eating a late breakfast when the Hogwarts owl knocks on the window. Obviously, this confuses him. He already has his Hogwarts letter.

This isn’t an official letter, as I hope you guessed.

Lily picks the letter up and opens it, leaning on the kitchen counter as she reads.

Now. You don't know everything that's happened. I do, but I'm a Narrator and therefore get special privileges. What I'm trying to say here, is that while Lily has some information you don't, you also have some information she doesn't.

Such as knowing Harry's general health status and residence.

Right about now is when Lily realizes that Harry has magic.

You're welcome.

[Cathy-]

[Sally, I’m working.]

Lily does not do too well with this information. Not because she doesn't want him to be, but rather because it means she has missed many events she didn't need to, and that her sister has been lying for years.

"Mum?" Connor asks, watching as Lily's face goes pale, the hand holding the letter beginning to shake. "What happened?"

Connor feels usease growing, although for a different reason than Lily's. His dad is an auror, and there's always the chance of something going wrong. This is where his thoughts go, instead.

Lily shakes her head loosely, only peripherally noticing her older son. "It's- there's- McGonagall said-" she takes a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. "I need to go."

Connor lunges away from the table and wraps a hand around his mom's wrist before she can apparate.

Apparition in the Wizarding world is not a term used to refer to spectres, but rather a method of transportation. Among whom I believe you readers are, the concept is easier explained as personal teleportation.

Lily twists on her heel, dragging Connor with her as she pops out of their home in Somerset and over to Surrey, which is just southwest of London.

"Mum, what happened?!"

“It’s your brother,” Lily says breathlessly.

Connor freezes for a moment as Lily keeps walking down the street. “Hadrian?”

“Yeah,” Lily agrees.

Lily knows this neighborhood. She has been here four times before, once ten years ago, twice seven years ago, once three years ago, and doesn’t stumble as she walks through the area towards Number Four, Privet Drive. Connor doesn’t know the area, but he follows Lily as she storms through the place.

“What’s- you don’t usually get letters.” Connor’s voice is small and unusually anxious. “It’s normally feelings, right?”

“Yes,” Lily agrees. “It’s-” she sighs. “I don’t think he’s in danger, Connor.”

“What was the letter?”

“He’s been accepted at Hogwarts.”

It takes a couple of minutes for Connor to parse through to what that sentence means and why it's causing panic, in which they reach the house in question. Privet Drive doesn’t contrast Magnolia Crescent much, but it does have its differences. One of which is that instead of being full of people who personalize their cookie-cutter houses, Privet Drive Residents would rather match. The street is full of brown townhouses that share walls with each other’s garages, instead of the white and black singular houses found across Wisteria Way.

“Oh,” Connor says numbly. Hogwarts accepts magicals only, and as I said, often the prestigious ones. He looks at his mum as she knocks. “Does that mean I can meet him?” Connor's voice is as faint as Lily’s when he asks.

“Yes, you should,” Lily agrees. She knocks again, less sharp and more forceful, pounding.

Connor feels some mix of elation and lingering nervousness, although now it doesn’t carry as apocalyptic of a feel. He’s heard of Hadrian, seen baby pictures from before Lily and James sent him away. Connor can’t remember ever hearing Hadrian’s voice, though, because he hasn’t. Hadrian hadn’t learned to speak fully before they were separated. Connor is glad his mum cleared it up though- it’s much less taxing to be anxious about a new person than it is to be anxious about one you already know dying.

The door opens and then slams in their faces.

Lily frowns and raps again, harder.

Inside, Vernon Dursley fumes. He, like his son, is extremely obese, and more bad tempered than he is heavy. “Pet! Your freak of a sister is here!”

Petunia Dursley skitters out of the kitchen, eyes wide. Her thoughts all carry to the tune of ‘What did the freak boy do now?’ Petunia is blonde, like her son and husband, although hers is dirty enough to almost be brown. Her neck is long, and her face narrow: it’s a sharp contrast indeed, for Petunia is underweight and tightly controlled where her family is obese and impulsively emotional. “I’ve got it. Take Dudders out the back.” This order comes for a few reasons, one is that she doesn’t want her precious son to be exposed to magic, and the second is because her son would be the first to expose their lies.

When Petunia opens the door, she smiles tightly. “Honestly Lily, you’re such a worrywart.”

“You didn’t tell me!” Lily snaps, in no mood for niceties.

“Excuse me?” Petunia asks, panic shooting through her. There are rather a lot of things she hasn’t told her sister.

“Where is my son?” Lily says instead, pushing her way inside the quaint home. Connor follows, and he cases the place first, looking for signs of his little brother. The issue is he doesn’t see any. All the picture frames, of which there are a lot, only include the Dursleys and family on Vernon’s side. Connor doesn’t know these people, but he knows his brother will have dark skin, even if he dyed his hair as he grew up.

There are no pictures that fit that description.

Lily notices the same thing faster, when she looks around a minute later.

“He’s- out at friends,” Petunia says shakily. “Why?”

Lily turns a glare on her. “Hogwarts just owled me,” she says venomously. “Hadrian is magical. So where is my son?”

“You gave him away!” Petunia snaps back. “He’s not yours anymore.”

“I thought he would live better without being teased by magic!” Lily snaps. “You were always jealous, Tuney, don’t try to deny it.”

“So you’d rather give us a blight on our household?”

As the sisters keep fighting, Connor looks around more. There are video games, but they’re all either in poor shape or very new. There’s trash on the floor and the couch looks overused. He slips away and into the kitchen, which is pristine apart from the half-eaten snacks on the table. The cupboard under the stairs has locks, which Connor finds weird, because they’re old, but they obviously lock on the outside and are opened with a key from inside. They look like a terrible child-proofing technique. He’s pretty sure muggles know better.

“I visited! Why didn’t you just tell me then?”

“It was more worth it to keep the kid and get the money,” Petunia sneers behind him.

Connor makes a face at her greed, as it reminds him of some of his least favorite society adults. He sneaks up the stairs next, which isn’t any more helpful than the downstairs. There are four bedrooms, one which is full of, forgive my language, trash and crap. Unbeknownst to Connor, this is Dudley’s second bedroom, where he keeps all of his unnecessary possessions that cannot fit in his main bedroom. Connor moves on. The next is Dudley’s main bedroom, which is a mess but includes clothes and a bed. Then he finds the master bedroom, and the guest room.

Connor very quickly realizes either his brother is a terrible slob, or isn’t living here. The prospect causes fresh terror to rise in his gut. If Hadrian isn’t here, where is he?

Connor takes the stairs back down two at a time, and pauses to look at his mum and aunt.

“You make no sense!” Lily spits. “Vernon is always bragging about how much he makes; you should have just sent Hadrian back!”

“I couldn’t!” Petunia snarls.

“Whyever not?” Lily rolls her eyes as she scoffs.

“I killed him!” Petunia shrieks.

I killed him.

The words echo around the house.

Connor trips on the last step.

Lily takes a breath, eyes wide, breathing shallow, ears ringing.

It doesn’t change what she heard.

Despite appearances, or assumptions I may have given you earlier, Lily Potter loves her children. She can, has, and will die for them. It’s obvious, then, that hearing this is wounding.

Another breath, wherein Petunia covers her mouth in horror and Lily nearly shuts down. She would have, grief overpowering anger, if Connor hadn’t gasped. The sound yanks Lily out of her spiral, and she turns away from her sister and to her son. Her bright eyes are wet as she reaches out and drags him to her. Her mind is reeling. Every time she visited, pulled by panic, pain, and a bond she still doesn’t understand, Petunia insisted that Hadrian had no magic. Petunia refused to let Lily ever see Hadrian.

She very sharply regrets ever listening to Petunia’s demands, even on their logical days.

It makes some sense that Hadrian is dead, and yet makes none at all. Lily has felt him. She needs more information, to find out how and why her rituals failed, she needs- Lily needs to mourn and think and- something doesn’t add up here.

It will, reader, but not yet.

She drops a kiss on Connor’s crown, trying to comfort him while reassuring herself that at least one of her children is definitely alive. After a moment, her thoughts return to Petunia. She is not discussing infanticide with the victim’s brother in the room. “I think there’s a park down the road,” she whispers into his hair. “Go over there, I’ll-” she pauses when her voice cracks, and presses her wand into his hand. “-pick you up later. After I figure this out.” And she will, eventually. Lily prays that this will be like the time before, even as she knows the chances are terribly low.

Petunia should hope she gave Lily's son a proper funeral.

Connor gives her back her wand, flashing his own, which he snuck into his pocket before breakfast.

Lily nods and then stands up, turning to look at her sister. It’s not quite a glare, but it is heavy with betrayal and intent to receive answers. The unnaturally bright color only thickens the atmosphere. That storm I mentioned?

It’s here.

Connor takes a step towards the door when she lets go. He’s not crying yet, just breathing heavily, but that will happen later, once it sinks in. See, Connor has heard of his brother. When his parents are feeling nostalgic, or when the Weasley twins do something ridiculous, Hadrian is mentioned occasionally. But most often? Most often, which luckily wasn’t all that often, Connor heard about his brother during late nights or dark days in the basement, when his mom wrote runes and chanted and probably broke the law - sometimes she would talk about him. But Connor has never considered him actually dying. Getting hurt, sure. Glowing eyes and flowing blood had given that impression plenty when he was young. But he has never considered death as a possibility.

Connor closes the front door behind him, and stays there for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. The tears have started now, and then his aunt is talking again, and he can't make out the words but he doesn't like the tone. He clenches his fists and starts walking down the unfamiliar road, completely lost within minutes.

Now, earlier that day, around nine o’clock I’d say, Adrian Dunbar floos into Amelia Bones’ office within the Ministry of Magic. Floo travel is… well it’s not hard to explain the action but I consider the name disingenuous: it’s derived from the Flue Chamber in a fireplace, which is the inside of a chimney. Nominally it makes sense, however floo travel works by sucking the traveler down into the flames, not up like a Santa Claus ripoff. The Floo Network is a series of magical fireplaces across the world, and since they are imbued with magic when they’re built, one does not need a magical core to travel among them.

“Good morning,” Amelia says warmly as he stumbles out of her person-sized fireplace. Adrian has not mastered magical travel, even this many years later. It could be due to his lack of magical core, or he could simply not have the best equilibrium. Personally, I advocate the latter, because even wixen aren’t perfect- indeed, many stumble whilst they travel.

“Good morning, Amelia,” Adrian says, grinning. He has a bag of medical basics thrown over his shoulder, and his hair is tied behind his head per the usual.

“You remember how to get there?”

“Yep.” By which he means ‘Probably, so long as the hallways don’t move.’ It’s a valid concern in magical buildings - his own house does it.

“Good luck, then,” Amelia bids, opening her office door. “Lift’s on the east side today.”

“Of course it is.” Adrian rolls his eyes. He’s not sure why magic is allergic to being coherent. “Can I use the floo again for lunch?”

“Certainly.” Amelia doesn’t add a clause about not messing with her stuff, because Adrian isn’t the type. “I might not be here though.”

“Alright.” Adrian bids her farewell and heads into the hallway and bullpen, crossing to the lift. He waves to James Potter on the way, who grins back since his hands are busy trying to wrangle on the red overobe that is his department’s uniform. They're not friends, but they're both friend ly enough to smile at strangers in the mornings. James doesn’t know Adrian, he barely sees Adrian and has no reason to note his existence beyond the Sunshine Person he sees every now and then. Adrian does know James, most people do for some reason or other, but Adrian knows him because Regulus had a dart board with his face for six months. It was taken down after Reg got custody of Harry. Adrian doesn’t really care about James’ existence - people change, gossip is rampant, and he’s never had to interact with the man personally. He is also unaware of Noctua’s vendetta, but to be fair not even Regulus knows about Noctua’s vendetta. That is simply a Noctua thing.

Otherwise, nothing important happens as he delves into the bowels of the Ministry, down the lift and through ill-lit hallways towards a spinning entryway. The Department of Mysteries, where he's working today, is a giant circle, magically enhanced to connect everyone inside to everything inside.

Adrian has to stop and stare when he leaves the circular entryway and enters the Death Chamber.

The next room is… heavy. That's the first word to come to mind. As Heavy as the hospital when his kid was dying or his morgue when it’s full. Heavy like an unsolved murder, or a fresh crime scene. Like Vivian’s tone when talking about her family. Like the little notebook no one wants to open. Heavy like a funeral, like a memorial, like the sudden, crushing reminder of how terrible humankind can be.

Heavy like its namesake.

“What room are you looking for?” The comment rips him out of his thoughts. Adrian jumps, turning quickly to the speaker. She’s got Black Family silver eyes, but it takes Adrian a minute to recognize them between the different shape and the darker skin tone. Her black hair is dry and messy, bundled on top of her head. Her green earrings are the only color visible around the grey shroud that qualifies as an Unspeakable Uniform.

“Entropy, inside the Death Room.”

She nods, a sort of bobbling movement that reminds Adrian of the teenagers he’s raised. She’s young. “That’s this way, Itzcalli’s in there today.” She starts walking around the large, odd room, and Adrian follows. He’s never been inside this area of the Ministry of Magic, which I forgot to explain, but is a government building hidden under London proper and sprawls beyond physical capabilities. They only got clearance to let him look at bodies from magical cases two years ago, and those few are usually delivered to the muggle building. This is a special case, including a decomposition spell that could only be slowed by bringing the bodies here.

Adrian noticed as soon as he walked through the door to this department why the spell was halted. The entire room feels like a graveyard, something mournful and heavy that presses upon him. Morgues have a similar feeling, but this is stronger, somehow. It looks like a stone stadium, bigger than his house that slants down to a podium and an archway with a black veil, the thin fabric being blown by wind Adrian can’t properly feel.

He stays very far away from that one, for more reasons than the overwhelming anxiety that rears in his chest when he looks at it for too long.

"How do they design the departments?"

She turns around, walking backwards around the high bench. "It's a circle," she says, gesturing. "So Entropy is the room between Time and Death, and Grief connects me to Love. I have rooms for Thought and Space too, but they don't connect physically. Limerence connects Love and Thought, and Dimension bridges Thought and Space. On the other side is Travel, which connects Space back to Time."

"There were twelve doors, though?"

She grins. "And only five of those connect. If Entropy could be accessed straight from the entry, you wouldn't be here." She sounds exceedingly smug.

Adrian nodded, admitting her point. They reach another pathway up and down the stadium, and the Unspeakable turns upwards. “I’m guessing the other rooms are classified?”

“Yep. Some of them do loop in here though, and if you take that door-” she points at the next pathway over, directly opposite the door he entered through. “You’ll find yourself in Thought, and the one beside it loops into Space.”

Adrian huffs exasperatedly. “Magical blueprints must be murder to read.”

His guide laughs, even as she turns away to enter the right doorway. “Unspeakable Medina,” she calls, still smothering laughter. “Doctor Dunbar is here, from the DMLE.”

“I’m not actually from the DMLE,” Adrian cuts in a little awkwardly, but the humor from before keeps him going. He has worked with wixen enough to not be exceedingly anxious, but had he not already made a friend he would be much more nervous. Not all wixen are open to working with muggles - it’s a concept that’s caused Regulus much stress, especially as he can’t shadow Adrian everywhere as he can with Vivian.

...Not sure if I’ve mentioned it yet, but that’s what non-magical people are called, muggles; they’re generally never told about magic, and less likely to work with it. Of course, being told does not necessarily equate to knowing that magic is real, but that’s a rather large debate for another time.

Adrian spares a moment to wonder how she knew his name, before remembering that the Ministry gives out name tags to visitors. His today says Dr. Dunbar, DMLE investigation, which is probably why his guide assumed that was where he was from. Sadly, proper Ministry workers don't do the same, so he can't use that to learn her name.

"Hello." He says, catching up to his friend and waving towards the next witch.

The Unspeakable looks up from the papers on the dissection table to smile at him. She too is shrouded in grey, but she has bright yellow ribbons tied through her hair and dark brown eyes. Itzcalli Medina is Hispanic, compassionate, and tired. The Death room isn't her usual area of expertise - out of the five 'workshops' in the Department of Mysteries Itzcalli usually works in Love. She, like many Unspeakables, is willing to work with many types of magic, and has worked before with Adrian's guide to find connections between life, love, and those who escape death.

"Morning," she greets. "You're the muggle contact?"

"Yes," Adrian says, not missing how his guide's eyes widen as she does a double take. "Adrian Dunbar." She doesn’t seem upset, just curious.

“Be careful who you give your name to,” she says, tone a little sharp but- she’s not adverse to Adrian being here, she’s worried about him.

Adrian glances back at her, working through the possible insult to find the advice buried in it, and he smiles wryly. “Telling and giving are different things.”

Both Unspeakables relax at this. His friend smiles wryly in return, and then turns to Itzcalli. “You don’t need me here, right?”

“Nah,” Itzcalli shakes her head. “They assigned us Devon for this one.”

Adrian’s guide makes a face. “Good luck with that.” She steps back and waves lightly. “It was nice meeting you, Doctor Dunbar. See you at lunch, Calli.”

“You as well.” Adrian waves.

“You better!” Itzcalli calls after her as she descends the stadium steps again. Itzcalli turns back to Adrian. Merely looking at her exhausted smile makes his body ache, but he’s inordinately excited. Guessing by Itzcalli’s lack of movement, though, he’ll have to wait to start.

“Which room is hers?” Adrian asks to fill the time.

Itzcalli hums, following Adrian’s pointing. “She works in the Death Chamber. Her desk is by the veil.” Itzcalli shivers. “I went to pick her up in person once, and it was terrible. Now I just send her a Patronus when I need her.”

“It is… heavy, around here,” Adrian agrees, looking around the Entropy room.

Itzcalli smiles without humor. “Death is heavy, Doctor Dunbar.”

Adrian pretends he believes her without exception. “Of course it is.”

Itzcalli blows nonexistent hair out of her eyes. “C’mon, we have an extra pair of robes somewhere here that you can use.”

“I brought scrubs.”

Itzcalli gives him a look. “I know what those are because I’m muggleborn,” she says steadfastly, “So trust me when I say that Unspeakable robes are way better. For one thing, they absorb curses.”

“Do you get cursed often around here?”

Itzcalli laughs, back to him as she walks the length of the combined office-morgue-and-mini-department. “Way more than you think. Most of it comes off objects we’re studying, but there have been inter-department murder attempts.”

Adrian does a double take. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” Itzcalli says fervently, looking back over her shoulder to make a face. “The aurors can’t even do much about it because the point of Unspeakables is we can only discuss work in the Department.”

“Is that going to affect me too?”

Itzcalli pauses, and looks back at him from her position- climbing a wall? He’s not sure what she’s up to. Neither am I, honestly. “Good question. The Unspeakable oaths bind to a magical core, but you don’t have one - unless you do, and it’s just too small to use?” she hums. “I’m going to look into that sometime.” She drops from the ceiling, a silver robe thrown over her arm. “Ta-da! Enchanted against Time Sand, Light and Dark Curses, Compulsions, Portkeys, Blood, and more!”

Adrian shrugs it on with a smile. “I appreciate it.”

Itzcalli gives him a searching look. “You’ve dealt with nonhumans before, haven’t you?” Adrian shrugs a vague yes, and Itzcalli drops the subject. “Anyway. Devon’s late, which is a little surprising because he’s a pedantic jerk but then again he’s working with me, so.” She rolls her eyes, but the annoyance is quickly buried under a smile that promises chaos. “Wanna get a headstart on the case?”

“Sure. Where are the bodies?” Adrian’s grin doesn’t quite match, but he is excited.

“Right-” Itzcalli spins, the yellow in her hair contrasting the dark decor. She stops for a second to orient in an unusual room, and then points. “this way!” Adrian laughs a little and follows her towards the opposite wall, which now that he looks is made of cold lockers.

The labels on the lockers are parchment, and the cabinets are some pale stone that steals light. Everything here seems old, and as Adrian reads the tags he sees it’s not just a feeling. “How old is this Department?” Adrian asks, not looking away from the tag. M. E. Warren, 1943. That was before he was born.

“As old as the Ministry itself.”

Itzcalli and Adrian jump at the new voice. There’s a man with dark skin, light eyes, and dreadlocks leaning against the doorframe from Time’s side of the room. He has a necklace featuring the rune Dagaz over his robes, the silver only visible because it shines. Lighting in the department comes from enchanted sconces set along the ceiling - considering how large the main Death Chamber is, it's no wonder the lighting matches the atmosphere.

“Morning, Devon.”

“Medina,” he returns, his smile obviously fake. Adrian takes a moment to brood about being in the middle of two fighting wixen, and then he shrugs. Adrian’s here for science, and he’ll deal with the people in the middle. He knows Itzcalli isn’t bad, and Devon might not be either.

"You're the muggle?" Isaac Devon asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Adrian Dunbar," he offers the name without a hand.

Devon's smile is slight and hard, but he moves on anyway, pushing off the wall to point out the right locker. "The body's over here."

Itzcalli is already standing at the locker in question, and she re-

Okay, seriously? This is important information, but I'm sensing rather a lot of disinterest. Why?

Oh.

...is that the problem? I suppose I did leave you in an emotionally charged moment earlier, but I am trying to get through all the important bits.

You don’t care. Alright, my apologies. I’ll take you back. We were with Connor, right? Yes, we were. He’s walking through the neighborhood cluster that contains Magnolia Crescent, Privet Drive, and Wisteria Way. And he’s crying, because- well if you forgot why he’s crying I do have to wonder how many of these words you’re actually reading.

Now, it takes Connor a little while to find a park, turning corners and crossing roads as he tangles himself deeper into the suburban jungle. Despite getting terribly lost, he does find the park, so it’s probably okay.

Oh, who is he kidding?

Nothing about this is ‘okay.’

Connor has heard of his brother, but it’s always been assumed that Hadrian was alive, just somewhere else. He had assumed there was a chance, you know? If he spent enough time in the muggle world, if he asked the right questions, he could see his brother. They could go out for lunch someday. He had never been prepared for this. How could he have?

Hadrian was sent away for safety reasons - although really they should have kept him longer to ensure he didn’t end up like Caspian - and Connor grew up watching Lily work to ensure he stayed safe, far away from their painfully-in-the-spotlight family. Connor thought Hadrian was safe. He had been told Hadrian was safe.

How could this have come from that? How could he- do you understand how terrible it is, to hear of the death of someone you could have been close to, without any idea of when you lost that chance? How he died? Why he was killed?

Although, Connor supposes as he crumples under a large willow, that there is no ‘why’ good enough to justify killing anyone, especially a child. Connor hides his face in his knees, but he can’t disguise his shaking breath. How could his Aunt do that? And then lie, maybe for years?

How could she live with the guilt?

“Hey,” someone says, and the words are accompanied by the sounds of someone sitting down beside him.

Connor is… really, really not in the mood for strangers today.

“Are you okay?”

It’s… not the question Connor expects to be asked, but he accepts it anyway. He doesn’t look up, but he shakes his head.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

To a stranger? No, he doesn’t. Connor shakes his head again.

“Okay.”

Beside him is the subject of his thoughts. Harry leans back on his hands, ankles crossed as he gives his companion some quiet company. Ian is happily in a sandbox, and Harry lets his eyes wander to him instead.

The Magnolia Crescent park is nearly deserted today, so Harry noticed the moment the other kid arrived. Harry hasn't figured out who he’s sitting beside yet, but to be fair neither has Connor.

What Harry has figured out is that the newcomer is crying, and even if he won't talk about it, Harry has found that most of his resident family enjoys commiseration or someone else telling a story while they cry.

In his family, it’s usually a story; after a few minutes of commiseration, Harry begins to speak. “Ian’s new too,” he starts, still mostly watching the toddler even as he glances at Connor. He's never seen Connor before, but he knows most of the neighborhood kids by face if not name. “We’re not sure how long he’ll be staying; my aunt was going to look into it today, actually.”

Connor does look up then, because until now he hadn’t noticed the park’s third occupant. He finds Ian quickly, and then buries his head again.

“We don’t usually get our hopes up for permanent placements,” Harry explains. “I think we’ve had four, outside of Fay, Cas, and I, since I joined. Although I guess Fay isn’t really a permanent placement, since she’s a bio kid.” He shrugs. “The foster system is a mess of semantics.”

Connor snorts. He didn’t see any other kids, so he has no idea who his companion is talking about, but most of his attention is drawn by ‘foster system’. This isn’t something Connor knows, considering he’s ten and has never needed that type of knowledge.

“Foster system?” Connor asks, unknowingly the first words he ever says to his little brother.

“Yep!” Harry says. “I’ve lived here nearly all my life, but I was in Privet Drive for the first few years, up ‘till I was four. Then someone actually noticed that the aunt and uncle weren’t fit for custody and my other uncle took me in instead. Uncle Reg’s a certified foster parent, which is how he got custody in the first place. Now I live here with him, Cas, and the Dunbars.”

“Huh,” Connor says, parsing through the information. He still doesn’t know what most of it means. Harry stops talking, sensing Connor’s focus waning. “What do foster parents do?”

“Foster parents take in other people’s kids, sometimes as part of a family arrangement, and sometimes so that kids with bad families can be somewhere safe. It’s not a perfect system,” Harry looks up at the trees. “But it’s got a good heart.”

Connor snorts. An imperfect system with a good heart sounds like society, he thinks.

“Sounds useful,” he says instead. “How do they find out who has bad families?” The question is pointed, but not because he’s really mad at his companion. He’s wishing someone had used it to save his brother. He hasn’t yet realized they did.

“Reports of suspicious behaviours,” Harry says. “That’s where it tends to go wrong. The clever ones can fool investigators.”

Connor hums, and Harry lets silence reign as Connor’s thoughts chase each other around his head. Connor wipes his tears and sets his head on his knees, instead of in them. “Why did you come over here?”

Harry doesn’t look down, watching leaves move instead. “I don’t like letting people cry alone.”

It’s a nicer answer than Connor had been expecting. He dreads the day he’ll have to personally deal with good liars; up till now, other children have often admitted eventually that they were sent by parents. “Oh.”

Harry doesn’t respond.

Connor looks over and his heart skips a beat. Harry’s marked cheek is on the right side, which is away from Connor, but the resemblance is there anyway, especially because Connor has been thinking about it recently. “What’s your name?” he asks, not noticing how his voice has gone light and teary suddenly.

Harry’s head snaps over at the tone change, and Connor gets to watch as Harry recognizes him in return. Harry’s eyes, a dark green that doesn’t match their mother’s but could have once, widen, and he blinks once.

“Harry Potter,” Harry says, composure slipping. “Er- Hadrian; both are true. You’re-?”

“Connor,” Connor says.

They take a moment, both of them, to examine the other and compare to themselves. Harry’s hair is longer, but it’s tied into a bun that reminds Connor of someone from his dad’s school photos. Connor’s is short and wild, not an afro but something of the same effect. They each got one parent’s eyes. Connor finds his eyes drawn again to the lightning scar, the one he’s only seen once, in a final family photo before they split. He thought it was black from infection then. It’s still black though, so he assumes his hypothesis was wrong.

“Your scar never healed,” Connor finds himself saying absently, reaching up until his fingers nearly brush it. He doesn't, though, too scared he'll vanish the apparition.

“Neither did yours,” Harry responds, staring at the oddly pink mark. He doesn't reach out. This isn’t quite as weird for him as it is for Connor, because Harry occasionally reads the newspapers, and Connor has occasionally been in them.

“Curse marks don’t,” Connor shrugs. “I-” he gestures helplessly, chest tight even as the rest of him feels oddly floaty. “I thought yours would have.”

Harry shrugs in return, a little awkwardly but his voice is falsely casual when he speaks. “Some things just have to leave a mark, I guess.”

The twins are quiet, eyes intent.

"How are you here?" Connor asks, in the same breath Harry begins.

"What are you doing here?"

"You first," Connor says.

Harry acquiesces. "Like I said, I live here. Why are you here?"

Connor is quiet, feeling his heart climb up into his throat at the reminder.

"Connor?" Harry asks, picking up on the sudden dropping mood.

Connor searches Harry's face again, a little desperately, and then he closes his eyes, because he can't say this to Harry's face. "We came to visit my aunt," Connor says, trying to line up the facts in front of him. It doesn’t work. "Mum and I were supposed to pick up my little brother."

Harry watches the pain on Connor's face and hides a wince. "Did they say he didn't want to come with you?"

"No. They said he's dead."

"Petunia said what?" He spits, and Connor jolts, eyes snapping open, because the vitriol is so removed from the tranquil atmosphere that it sets his heart racing again.

He watches his enraged brother, and thinks of the row from earlier. He swallows. "I don't think she meant to tell mum. She sort of yelled it as they were fighting."

Harry buries his face in his hands. "Oh, I despise her."

Connor watches. Things are, again, not adding up. Or… not again. They have yet to make sense to Connor. "How are you not dead?"

Harry peeks around his fingers, unwilling to spit out the entire story; "It's… a long story."

"Sounds like our lives," Connor says with a snort.

Harry has to agree to that. It really does. "Do you know what resuscitation is?"

"No," Connor admits. He feels a bit like an idiot, having to ask so many questions, even though he shouldn't. Growing up is about learning the world, and he and Harry grew up differently.

"When a heart stops, or a person dies, it's possible to restart the heart if someone does it right. And if you keep blood flowing, then there's not as much damage when the healers actually wake them up. At least, that's how it was explained to me. Not sure what gets damaged, because you still have to heal, but-" Harry shrugs, dropping his hands from their earlier gesticulating.

"They can just- bring you back to life?"

"Yes but no? It only works if you do it right away."

Connor hums. "Someone brought you back."

"I came back," Harry confirms. "Any other questions?"

Connor stares hungrily instead of answering. He can't think of any right now, but he feels a question bubbling under his ribs, more than one maybe, unformed but yearning.

Harry lets him, but his own focus is on how improbable this is. He had… planned, in a sense, how he was going to go about dealing with the issue of having a twin brother when they met at Hogwarts, with differing plans based on their house layouts.

This meeting nicely crashes through those plans, chews up the rubble, and makes soup.

And that is assuming this isn't a particularly creative and clever plot to kidnap him or get information, but Harry is ten and doesn't think that highly of himself.

"Not yet," Connor finally admits.

"Ri!" Ian shrieks, making his presence known again in the sandbox. "House!"

Harry glances away from Connor to see what Ian means. He shifts, and smiles when he notices the mounds. "It's a very nice house, Ian."

Ian grins and goes back to building.

“Who’s that?” Connor asks.

“Ian,” Harry answers. “He’s been here two days.”

Connor hums.

The silence stretches, and Connor hates it. Harry can’t see his discomfort, but he can tell anyway. He prepares to stand and kill it, but Connor speaks first.

“How did you-“ He sighs, looking at the sky. “Are you sure you’re okay? She can’t hurt you again?” She can’t kill you again, Connor doesn’t say.

“Yes,” Harry promises, settling down and threading his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Never again.”

Connor watches, and then nods. “Good.”

Harry smiles weakly, but this conversation makes him uncomfortable and now that he has his brother he wants to think of something else.

Connor eyes him as he falls silent, and kind of wants to pry, but this is the first time he remembers meeting his brother, ever, and he knows most people don’t spill their guts right away. He’s not going to mention his random childhood coma or other drama, and he’s not even sure he wants to hear the story behind Harry’s short death. It’s terrifying enough as a concept.

The silence reigns until Harry comes up with a question, random as it is. “This is weird. How do I know you’re even the real Connor Potter?”

Connor snorts, because while many people have asked in awe if he was ‘really Connor Potter?!’ they’ve never needed confirmation. The scar on his forehead has always been enough. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Harry doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have a set caper that would require this, and he doesn’t feel like it’s needed, either. Harry shrugs instead, because he already said it. “I’ll figure it out,” he says languidly.

Connor raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And how do I know you’re the real Hadrian Potter?” He… hasn’t considered this possibility yet, but since Harry suggested it, Connor feels paranoia clinging to his skull.

Harry shrugs. “I’m alive?” Connor snorts, but he quiets down quickly. Harry looks at him, concern and worry climbing his chest. He meant it as a joke, something instinctual that brought livelihood back to their dead conversation. Not to actually worry Connor. “Here,” he pulls his library card out of his pocket. “I haven’t kept my school IDs with me,” he admits, “But it counts, I think.”

Connor looks at the card like he doesn’t know what to do with it. He doesn’t, for a moment, and then Connor recognizes enough pieces of the design to realize what it is. “Oh! I don’t have mine,” Connor admits. “We don’t go often.”

“I go all the time.”

“Cool.” Connor shrugs. “Is there a good one around here?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “There’s not a true magical section, but it’s got a lot of good fantasy-fiction.”

“Cool.”

"What's your favorite book?" Harry asks before the awkwardness can take over.

Connor stops to think. "I'd go with the Big Friendly Giant, probably. Yours?"

"Alice In Wonderland by Lewis Caroll."

Connor squints. "Isn't that an adult book?"

Harry snorts, but he acquiesces too. "I needed help reading it the first few times," he admits. "But I know what most of the words mean now, and it's a fantastic universe. Lots of wordplay."

“Yeah? Like what?”

And then Harry is smiling, excitement unhindered, as he explains his favorite parts and the metaphors that took him the longest to get. Connor watches, and he thinks honestly that this is what Ron means when he talks about Ginny's love for espionage. It's something Ron and Connor are terrible at (they've tried), but it makes her happy. Connor's been in such situations a few times, watching as the Weasleys or Neville start talking about things he doesn't understand or follow but they're passionate about.

This is four times better.

"I think it would be fun to make an amusement park themed after it," Harry says, winding down. "Or just enchant a teakettle or something for smoke signals."

"The shrinking and growth potions sound fun," Connor says. "We could sneak around mouseholes." Ginny would love it, he thinks. And Fred and George should never be allowed to touch it. The Yellow and Blue duo are menaces.

"Or snake dens," Harry grins. Somewhere to their left doors slam and someone starts yelling about not being late. Harry looks over.

Connor knows this won't last, but he wants it to. He watches Harry's awareness shift and mourns it, just a little. "You like snakes?" He asks, just to draw Harry back.

"Yes!"

Connor grins. "Me too. Dad took me to meet an Occamy once, she was the rudest snake I'd ever met, but her feathers were so pretty! Not quite the color of the sky, more of a green-blue gemstone, or pool water."

"Whoah."

Connor grins, both at the reaction and the memory. "What's your favorite snake?"

"Mostly I know garters, but there was a random cobra who'd come to hang out a few years ago. I'm not sure what happened to her."

Connor flops backwards, turning to look at Ian. The toddler looks nothing like him or Harry. What had Harry said earlier? Foster care?

"Who do you live with now?"

Harry looks over, but stays sitting up. "Uncle Regulus, Aunt Vivian, and Uncle Adrian."

Connor… has no idea who any of those are. He tries to place the tree he's under instead. "You mentioned kids too, earlier?" It’s not an aspen, but it could be oak or willow.

"Yeah, there's also Fay and Caspian. And Ian, now."

Connor blinks, and then snorts. “Okay so,” he holds up his hand to count them out. “Your name is Hadrian, his name is Ian, and you live with people named Caspian, Vivian, and Adrian?”

“Yes,” Harry says around a laugh at Connor’s tone.

Connor actually laughs then. He loves this. The apprehension from earlier has long since vanished, he's comfy, and he's learning about his brother. “Was the matching on purpose?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry grins. “They didn’t name Fay Favian.”

Connor snorts. “Is Fay a nickname?”

“Short for Faith."

He nods. “I wonder if there are any nicknames for Connor?”

“Lily and James only call you Connor?”

“Not even close,” Connor shakes his head. “But none of their nicknames are short for my name.”

“What nicknames do they use?”

“Sweetheart, Bucktooth,” Connor pauses before adding the last one. "Sometimes Their Little Immortal." There are others, but even out of the ones in the vein, perhaps especially from their number, few stick.

Contrary to his worries, Harry laughs. "Cute."

"What about you? Any embarrassing nicknames?"

"None of your nicknames are embarrassing."

"Bucktooth is terribly embarrassing," Connor corrects him, opening his mouth to show off his teeth. It's embarrassing in a good way, though. "What do they call you?"

"Harry, mostly. Aunt Vivian is Viv, Adrian is Rian, we call Caspian Cas, you know Fay’s, and then there’s Uncle Reg.” Harry shrugs. “Otherwise they’re all jokes like Casper or Changeling.” He’s leaving out the ones he doesn’t like. Squirtle is the first to come to mind. Later there will be Hades.

“Changeling?”

“Legend says the fae used to steal human babies and leave other fae in their place.”

“Creepy,” Connor says bluntly. Harry shrugs.

“It’s not too bad if they steal from the right house.”

Connor frowns up at him, but doesn't contest it. The way Harry said it… There was something there Connor doesn’t get yet, and he isn’t going to start an argument he’ll lose.

“Think Con would work as a nickname?”

Connor shrugs. “Why not? It does the job.”

“You’re discussing names without me?”

Connor jumps as the snake appears in the grass beside his head. Harry doesn’t. Connor smiles slightly and greets her at the same time Harry does.

She raises her head to greet them in return. “Hello, Greater-Death-Cheater-” Harry makes a face at the title. Connor wonders why- it’s fitting, which makes it a good one. “Who is your companion?”

“This is my clutchmate, Connor.”

“No proper name yet?”

“Actually yes,” Connor says, looking at the little boa. He shifts so he can sit up. “I’m Night-Dandelion.”

Harry giggles. Connor shoves him blindly, which doesn't stop the laughter.

The brown snake seems to judge the name, before doing an approximation of a shrug. “There’s been worse.”

Harry buries his head in his hands. “Please don’t insult him."

“What’s your name?” Connor asks before he can explode from the emotional flux his little brother defending him causes.

The snake puffs up. “It is under deliberation and has yet to be picked,” she says, as sagely as a baby boa constrictor can be. She turns to Harry. “If your clutchmate and nestmates are half speakers, why do Sun-Human-Nestfather, Unhatched-Mother, and Night-Mist not speak as well?”

“I have no idea.”

“Mum and dad are speakers too,” Connor says. “It's fun when we’re out, dad will make fun of people, and mum and I see who can go the longest without laughing.”

Harry grins sideways at him. “Have you been caught?”

Parseltongue is weird in Harry’s family. He hadn't considered whether or not his blood relations would share the skill. Fay and Regulus do, although he can't remember if Caspian can too. Caspian’s skills are unreliable.

“A couple times,” Connor admits sheepishly. “Still fun though.”

"Did you bring your book?" The snake asks, cavalierly changing the subject. The twins let it happen.

Harry shakes his head. "I did, but I'm not reading right now."

"Your book?" Connor asks.

"Speaker-who-reads."

"I read to them," Harry explains, because as nice as the boa is, titles don’t explain everything.

"Why?"

"It's a good way to practice, and it's fun. Plus, snakes are a bit like kids. They're funner to talk to when you know what they're talking about or have a topic in common."

Connor 'huh's. He's never thought about that. "I thought snakes were inherently smart."

"We are," the boa says, flicking her tail imperiously. Harry squints, wondering if she's the cobra reincarnated. It's an eerily reminiscent gesture. "But even smart creatures can learn better, night-flower."

"...not… my name," Connor says, but he doesn't expect it to make a difference. Snakes can be stubborn.

"Coin?"

Connor blinks at Harry. Did he miss something? "What?"

"Still trying to think of nicknames," Harry explains. "Not a good one?"

"No idea," Connor says. Harry looks at Ian again. Ian's still in the sandbox, though now he's laying down.

"Is he making sand angels?"

"What's a sand angel?"

"Snow angel but sand."

Connor doesn’t recognize that phrase either, so he assumes it’s a muggle thing. Godric’s Hollow is a mixed community in name only; this muggle neighborhood is more inclusively mixed than Godric’s Hollow. There have been enough incidents without obliviators visiting that everyone here knows about magic to some degree - and technically, Regulus hasn’t broken the Statute of Secrecy. Loopholes are a clever man’s best friend.

Godric’s Hollow just hides magicals among the muggles, giving the impression that there’s a bunch of Elitists trying (and failing, depending on who you ask) to rough it. The separation is noticeable, and honestly a little pitiful. There’s keeping a secret, and then there’s segregation.

I find one more tolerable than the other.

Connor pushes himself up, deciding to go see. He’s learning loads on this expedition to the muggle world, wizarding home nearby or not. “Can we go see?”

"Sure," Harry agrees, moving to stand up too. They head over, and yeah, Ian’s waving his arms and legs in the sand. Harry smiles, and it is still the best thing Connor’s seen. He thought he’d seen it all when Harry was talking about Alice in Wonderland, and he was wrong. “You having fun?” He asks, leaning over Ian’s head. He looks so proud, so fond, that Connor finds himself mirroring the expression.

“Yeah!” Ian calls happily. “Join!”

Harry looks at the sandbox, which is… really just the entire playground box. “Alright.” He sits down and looks up, pausing for a moment to just look at his brother, who’s looking at him like he hung the sun. “You coming?” It makes something in his chest tighten because he hasn’t done anything to deserve that look, but at the same time- Harry’s not happy that he had no chance to plan, but he is very happy he got to meet Connor.

Connor looks down at his brother, who has yellow sand peppering his dark hair already, and shrugs. “Sure.” He doesn’t flop bonelessly like Harry did, instead sitting down gingerly. The smile falls from his face as he does. He’s not a fan of sand. It’s itchy.

It’s even later when Harry poses his next question- well, not his next one. Children are fickle and their minds wander, but this is perhaps the next one whose answer I deem important. “…Newspapers say you still live in Godric’s Hollow?”

“Yeah.” Connor hums. There are clouds moving quickly across the sky, but Connor can’t feel a breeze. “Do you… remember?” The question is hesitant, low.

“Not that one,” Harry says without missing a beat. Despite his speed, he matches the mood. “You?”

“Not much.” Connor shakes his head and then regrets it. Sand is gross, and now it’s all over his neck and in his hair. He remembers a lot, considering he was younger than two. “Lots of lights.”

Harry closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t remember that day. He doesn’t remember the attack on Potter Cottage. He remembers other injuries, he remembers Number 4, Number 10, and Number 8. He remembers an aching neck, a pinched back, and a searing shoulder. He doesn’t remember the bright lights Connor does.

Connor doesn’t respond for a few minutes. “This is so weird.”

“Which part?”

“I’m meeting you!” Connor throws his hands up, eyes bright. They flop back into his sand angel’s sleeves a moment later. “I always thought… it wouldn’t happen until I was an adult.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “I forgot… you thought I was a squib, right?”

“Yeah,” Connor agrees. “Were you planning on meeting me?”

“Yeah,” Harry looks over at his big brother, a tendril of apprehension building but he stamps it down. They’ve done great so far. “I wasn’t sure if you knew I existed. We’d talked about a couple different ways you could react.”

Connor hums. He hates it when he does that, imagines all the ways something could go right and then all the ways they could go wrong. It’s annoying and usually only manages to upset him. It’s why he tries to listen to his impulses first. “I’m glad we met.” Connor doesn’t think the words say enough.

“Me too.”

Harry’s words don’t seem to either, but Connor can hope. He keeps his face seeking the sun, but glances sidelong at Harry. Harry’s looking at him, expression almost as fond as when he talks to Ian, even if there’s more hope than assurance. This is okay, he decides. This is better than okay, really, it’s good. Connor looks back at the clouds and breathes, feeling the knot of emotions in his chest slide over each other and loosen.

This is good. He’s okay. Harry’s okay, too, which is so much better than Connor expected a few hours ago. Lily will come find him, and he can explain, and they can meet the foster parents, and Connor will have a brother again.

He doesn’t remember the first time, no, but this was just like making a friend, and he knows he’s okay with that, wants it even.

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disorganizedkitten · 8 months ago

Text

We'll Take Our World By Storm Chapter 4

Harry Potter | 2021 | 8,106 | Ao3 | Previous | Masterlist | Next

I sincerely hope you’re happy now, because I’m going to take you North and back to the Department of Mysteries. I quite like it there, see, and the adults do matter in this story, so they have to get some screen time else I leave you terribly confused.

So. Adrian Dunbar, Itzcalli Medina, and Isaac Devon spend three hours performing autopsies using both muggle and magical means, cross referencing with historic records and old case files, before Adrian and Itzcalli’s friend from the Veil pops her head in the room and glares at Isaac.

He glares back. You’d never guess she terrifies him.

“Calli.”

“Hey Lyn,” Itzcalli says, looking up. She has ash smeared over one eyebrow and a spot of blood on her hair ribbon, but has otherwise managed to make it through without making a mess of herself. Her robes are a different story, but that can’t really be seen around their enchantments and color. Who knew grey hid stains so well? “Time to go?”

“Yeah,” Lyn replies. “I figured we’d be late if I didn’t give you time to clean up.”

Itzcalli snorts, but doesn’t deny it. Her response is the opposite. “Yeah, thanks.” Adrian looks at her sharply. Itzcalli catches the look and shrugs. She and Lyn have been friends since they were eleven, and they broke into two of the most secret rooms in Hogwarts together. If Itzcalli trusts anyone, it’s Lyn. There’s also the fact that Lyn has done many things throughout her life, and visit the faerie realm isn’t one of them, so though she has that mindset, she has nothing to back it up.

“Shift isn’t over yet,” Isaac growls.

The girls send him matching unimpressed looks. Adrian’s impressed by their sudden synchronization.

Isaac rolls his eyes, but grudgingly allows it. “You’re dismissed too, Dunbar. I want you both back here at one-thirty.”

Adrian doesn’t protest because it’s nearly an hour break, even taking out half an hour for travel, but he wants to just based on Isaac’s tone. Isaac may be good at his job - a whiz at chemical residues and potions, with steady hands and no squeamishness to be found - but Adrian grudgingly understands why Itzcalli and Lyn don’t like him.

“Wanna walk with us?” Itzcalli offers before Adrian can shoot off a response.

Adrian sends her a smile. “I’d love to.”

They go back through the Death Chamber as Isaac vanishes into the Time Room. This time through, Adrian notices that the stone stadium isn’t as bare as he thought. “Is it safe to leave your research out like this?” he asks, stepping onto a bench to avoid a runic circle drawn in a mixture of dark red blood and glowing blue ink. Inside the circle is… something. It’s either a family tree or a map. Probably.

Lyn shrugs, the motion hidden by her pulling the grey robe over her head. “I've been here for five years, and I'm the only one willing to spend extended amounts of time near the veil anymore." Her head comes back up, and her hair is even more of a mess. It writhes for a moment, before settling into staticy curls."Plus I've cursed most of the area. The last person who tried to steal my work is still a slug."

“How long ago was that?” Adrian asks.

Lyn hums, some high-pitched noise that manages to convey confusion without looking at him, as she’s dropping her robe on another bench. “I’m not sure? Before Pandora died, but not by much. Most of the curses were after Pan, cause no one was brave enough to try to kill me before that, but they did try to steal our work. So… a year and a half, give or take?” Lyn grimaces in Adrian’s general direction as she opens the door to the entryway. “Pan was my mentor, by the way.”

Adrian follows her out of the Death Chamber, breathing deeply as the air is light again. “And it’s legal to leave them a slug that long?”

Calli snorts. “Who’s gonna stop her? As far as most people are concerned, he probably did an experiment wrong and died in the middle. After all-” she opens another door, and steps out of the DoM for the first time in seven hours. She should sleep more. “-what happens in the Department of Mysteries stays in the Department of Mysteries.”

“That doesn’t tell me if it’s legal,” Adrian says drily, following her out.

Lyn stops just inside the door. “Yes, because we’re working on a counterspell and can’t turn him back until we make it. If we already had one we would need to turn him back within a month.”

“Interesting.”

Lyn steps over the threshold. “Yep. What about you? Any crazy things happening in the Muggle Departments?”

“Generally, yeah.” Adrian admits. “But what was with the bodies older than all of us in there? Do they just- not get studied?”

Itzcalli gasps, eyes glittering with excitement. “Oh my gosh! Say something specific!”

“The spell we found dates back to the days of the Dark Lady Embla, who would steal biological components from her victims to commit identity, line, and general theft, along with trying to clone them after being inspired by the work of her cousin, Mary Shelley Nee Peverell?”

Itzcalli’s eyes blew wide, and she cackled gleefully. “Whoa! You can talk about it!”

“That is such a security breach,” Lyn says, wryly amused. She hits the button to call the lift.

Adrian grins teasingly at her, leaning against the lift doors. “Imagine, having to keep classified information secret through self control.”

“Such a challenge,” Lyn agrees delightedly, stepping back. “However do you do it?”

He flicks his ponytail. “You know what they say- some people are just… magic.” They all break out laughing as the door opens, Adrian’s wonderful delivery overshadowed as he tips over and falls into the lift.

Lyn offers a hand to help him up, still stifling laughter. “You okay?”

Adrian grins, taking it. “I’ve taken worse tumbles down the stairs at home.” The group steps into the elevator. “So, you mentioned a mentor,” he points at Lyn, and then points to Calli instead. “Did you have a mentor?”

“Yeah,” Itzcalli agrees. “Haven Rosier. He was head of my department for five years, two of which I was there for. He retired before my third year.”

“Cool.”

“Do muggles get cool mentors in their careers too?” Lyn asks.

Adrian raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never been?” Black Family Eyes aside, she doesn't have the vibe of a pureblood, especially not the kind who treats everything nonmagical like the plague.

“Not really. The muggle side of my family was dead before I was born, and Calli and I started here pretty much right out of school. There was no time." Lyn shrugs.

"We don't even have a nonmagical liaison," Calli complains. "I sneak out and get supplies anyways, but keeping track of scientific developments is a chore.” She’s considering going to university, but seven years of magical-only schooling plus six just in the Department of Mysteries means she’s rather behind on most everything that would be on the college board test. Of course, once she starts studying again it won’t be so scary, but that’ll take a bit.

“We do move rather fast.”

Calli snorts. “Yeah, well, someone has to. You never answered, who was your mentor?”

“I got to work with Kayla Mallard, during the last year of college, but I haven’t seen her since. She’s one of the best morticians in the world, it was wonderful.”

“Mine was a blessing,” Lyn says with feeling. The lift door opens again and a redhead walks in. “Pandora Lovegood. She practically adopted me, probably saved my life. I started right out of Hogwarts, threw myself into work and forgot to go home a lot.”

“Forgot. You just didn’t want to listen to Isiah talk.” Calli snorts, finger-quotes visible from her place leaning against the lift wall. There’s so much there to unpack, but we should have time later. “Hello, Weasley.”

“Hello, Medina,” The newcomer says. "And who is this?"

"Dunbar, Weasley, Weasley, Dunbar."

“Yeah yeah,” Lyn rolls her eyes. “Morning, Weasley. Anyway, Pan guilted me into going home by staying until I left, taught me how to cook, and generally showed me what was what in the Department.”

Adrian waved at Weasley, but kept talking to Lyn. “She sounds like my wife,” he said, amused. “A bit manipulative, but generally uses it to help our kids.”

Lyn grins. “Yeah, they’d’ve gotten along.” Her eyes cut to something behind Adrian and she relaxes a bit more. “A lot, I’d say.”

“Maybe in the next life,” Adrian offers.

Lyn turns, her smile soft and knowing. “Yeah, probably.” She glances behind him again, to where Pandora is hanging out. Lyn is one of the few blessed to see… not the other side, per se, but the dead. Eventually she’ll learn how to show others, but that’s a little ways out.

“Make sure he catches my full name,” Pandora says. She’s perched on the inner railing of the lift, and unlike ghosts (who also exist; has it been mentioned Death is really not all that much of an issue here? Well, I suppose it is, but not to anyone who matters) Pandora is not washed out into monochrome blue or white. No, her skin is the pale white over pink that comes from a caucasian without enough sunlight, her eyes are wide, blue, and uncommonly sharp, and her hair is a dirty blonde in some places and sun bleached in others. She stopped going outside as her end drew near.

Lyn acknowledges her with a flicker of her eyes. “I still check in on her daughter sometimes.”

“Is she Hogwarts age, yet?”

“Not until next year,” Lyn says. “She’s a lot like her mum though, so I’m sure she’ll take them by storm.”

“Little Luna Lovegood?” Weasley asks.

“Yeah,” Lyn says, seeing her chance. “We’re talking about her mum, Pandora Peverell.”

Adrian glances at her sharply, eyes wide. “Peverell?” He blinks, segwaying into another topic quickly. “Like the writer?”

Pandora grins and winks. “And the Dark Lady. And- honestly, there’s been a lot of them,” Lyn agrees. “Generally end up doing something cool.”

“Why did she keep her maiden name?”

“It’s an inheritance thing,” Lyn shrugs. “Some families have magical gifts and only give their names to those who carry them. It’s a leftover from us nearly going extinct a couple centuries back; if two heirs marry and have seven kids, the children get the name of whichever parent’s gifts they carry.”

“And if they don’t carry any?”

Lyn shrugs. “I think back then they could pick, but nowadays so few families even have gifts, that they just keep whatever name they’d have without considering it.”

“Interesting.” Adrian hums.

“That’s all pureblood propaganda,” Weasley says huffily. “They use it as an excuse to marry off their kids to other purebloods. Look at the Gaunts! That family was so obsessed with keeping their talents of Parselspeak and seeing the dead that they inter-married cousins, and then siblings. The line died out a bit before I was born.”

Lyn rolls her eyes. Behind them, Pandora does too.

“If someone resurfaced from a squib line and had either of those talents, they could claim the name,” Itzcalli says, drawing the topic sideways a bit.

“Oh? How do they prove it?”

“Rituals,” Weasley says, looking sharply at the girls. “Which are illegal, may I remind you.”

“Illegal outside of a controlled setting,” Lyn replies, not quite as sharp but close. “Which is generally either Gringotts or us.”

“Lyn could claim the Black name, if she went through initiations and petitioned the Lord of the House.”

“And that’s different ‘cause the house is alive?” The lift hits the Atrium.

“Yes,” Calli answers Adrian. “Although it might be more complicated because the Lord of the House is in Azkaban. Uh, wizard prison.”

“It’s a bad tradition,” Weasley says, shaking his head as the doors begin to open. “Be glad you don’t carry that name, Unspeakable.”

Lyn rolls her eyes. Adrian feels offended as well. “I find the Black family to be rather good company,” he says cooly.

“And your mum’s a Black, same as mine,” Lyn mutters as he walks away, glaring.

“Sorry,” Calli says awkwardly. “Didn’t mean to get political.”

Adrian shrugs, “It happens sometimes. We can talk more later?”

“Sure.”

Lyn hums amusedly. “I’m not claiming any magical bloodlines, but I do know a lot on the topic if you want to stop by after hours.”

“I’d love that,” Adrian says honestly. “See you guys later.”

“Bye,” Calli waves, pulling Lyn towards the floos. “I swear on your brother’s grave, if you stay any later than dinnertime I am going to riot.”

“I’m not that bad,” Lyn whines, letting herself be dragged around.

“Delphi Tamlyn,” Itzcalli drawls. “We both know you are.”

Lyn sticks out her tongue.

“How long are you here for?” Harry asks when he realizes the time. He needs to be getting home soon, but the idea of leaving Connor alone rankles.

Connor turns, sand in his black hair and sticking to his clothes. He gets the feeling that this isn’t a question he wants to answer. “I- don’t know.” He can’t leave without Lily, and he doesn’t know how much longer she’s going to spend fighting Petunia.

Harry makes a face. “I need to get Ian home,” he says softly.

“Oh,” Connor says, getting what he means with a sharp ache.

“Will you be okay?” Harry is concerned and he sounds it, reluctant to leave even as he murmurs to Ian to go find his shoes.

“Yes,” Connor lies. This is more than he expected, and it hurts, this idea that it’ll end and tomorrow he could wake up to it having been a dream. “Mum has locator spells on everything.” Surprisingly, that’s something that makes Harry light up.

“Lily came with you?” he asks with a lopsided little grin.

“Yeah,” Connor agrees, brain happily catching on part of that sentence instead of the possibility of this not being real. Of course Harry knows their mother’s name, but it makes Connor’s stomach do something funny when he hears Harry call her by it. As a kid, that’s one of the oddest things a fellow child can do.

“Oh.” Harry bends down when Ian returns, helping the kid put his shoes on. “..tell her hi, for me?” he asks, looking up at Connor unsurely.

Connor nods quickly. “Absolutely. And-” he blinks, the thought returning again, despite hating it. He’s touched Harry a few times, and his skin wasn’t very warm. “You’re not dead, right?”

“I’m not a ghost,” Harry says, as reassuring as he can be. Ian’s shoes are properly on, so he stands up again, holding Ian’s hand.

Connor smiles. “Okay. Thank you.” For hanging out, for being alive, for being healthy. For talking with Connor. For coming over when he was crying.

“Can I write you?” Harry asks, quick and impulsive. He needs to go home, Ian needs food and a nap but Harry doesn’t want to leave Connor, especially not when it’ll be a month until they see each other again. If it were just him, he’d text the adults and stay later, but Ian’s already worn himself out and Harry feels bad.

Connor blinks at him. “Sure- yes! I’d love that,” He grins, a little sheepish but Harry thinks it mostly looks pleased.

Harry smiles back. “And… I’ll see you at Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” Connor agrees. “Absolutely. And maybe earlier? I could see about setting up a playdate?”

“That would be great,” Harry says fervently.

Harry still hasn’t left. “You need to go,” Connor reminds him.

“I know,” Harry says. Ian whines, and Harry looks from one brother to the other. “Right.” He bends down and scoops Ian up, settling the toddler on his hip. “Er- happy early birthday?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Connor nods. It hits him a second later- “You too! Happy eleventh!”

Harry laughs, waving as he walks backwards. “Thank you.” He turns around, still laughing into Ian’s neck.

The boys return home to domestic chaos. The living room is peaceful, Adrian and Caspian debating something to do with clothes around a game of inanimate chess; Adrian hugs Harry and transfers Ian into his own arms at the same time. After knocking into Cas affectionately, Harry moves down the short hallway into the kitchen and living room - that’s where the chaos is.

Fay has tomato goop in her hair near her ear, today’s no-longer-curled bangs pinned up, and an orange-stained cutting board on the nearest counter, herbs piled overtop the tomato remains.

Vivian and Regulus are at the bar counter, flour smattered up their three forearms and Vivian leading the process of kneading bread dough.

“What’re you making?” Harry asks, ducking through to get to the pantry. Technically the cupboard under the stairs is also a pantry, but there are snacks in the one on the wall furthest inside the kitchen, and Harry avoids the cupboard whenever he can. He grabs a packet of fruit snacks and another of crackers.

“Tomato soup and cheese rolls,” Vivian says. “How was the park?”

“It was good,” Harry says, not wrong but purposefully not clear either. Vivian catches him on his way out of the kitchen, dragging him into a hug that rubs flour on his clothes. She’d been sad, if understanding, when he ducked out earlier. He leans in.

“Bug him to pieces, Burbujita,” she hums into his hair.

“I know,” Harry murmurs back. Vivian lets him go. “Do you want any help?” He asks, ducking out to give Ian a packet of crackers.

Since you’ve obviously missed a little bit, let me give you a brief catchup. This morning Regulus returned, and Harry took Ian to the park because this poor child has too large a heart and a bit more imposter syndrome than he should; he left Cas and Fay with time and most of their parents to work through some stuff. That was… hours ago?

I’m not paid to count seconds, moving on.

“Wanna run the blender with me?” Fay asks brightly. “Mama and Dad are on roll duty.”

“Sure,” He agrees.

“So, anything interesting happen at the park?”

Harry studiously did not look up, instead focusing on pushing the right buttons on the blender. “There were a few things. Met someone new. Who was the villain?”

“They reaired Night Of The Boogey Biker,” Fay said. She leaned into his shoulder, watching the veggies splatter. “So it was Red Herring. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just stuff for later.”

Fay hums. “Mkay.”

At the counter behind them, Regulus and Vivian have moved on to shaping the rolls. “This is violence against breadkind,” Regulus says, voice raising with mock-offense.

“The yeast shall die,” is Vivian’s succinct response, ripping the raw rolls open with vigor.

Regulus laughs at her, murmuring something about ‘should we have not put it in, then?’ as he balls up grated cheese against the counter. He’s not wearing his prosthetic, since he’s home and it’s been a week of wearing it near-nonstop.

Fay waits until they’re eating, Vivian on Ian duty, to question Harry again. If it’s something for the whole family, he’ll answer now, and if not, it alerts her parents and ensures that someone will talk to Harry. “Anything fun happen at the park?”

Harry looks up and scans the table. “Something interesting did.”

Caspian and Regulus narrow in on him in moments. He hides his jump in nervousness by changing his focus to his bowl.

“Interesting how?”

“Connor and Lily Potter are in the area.”

Fay’s spoon hits the side of her bowl.

“Huh,” Regulus says, as if he didn’t notice half of his family jumping. “Do you know why?”

Harry rolls the words around his mouth for a moment. “Apparently to pick me up.”

That gets more reactions. Harry half-expects Cas to discorporate, but the older boy is having a better day than that. Regulus goes blank in a way that still terrifies Harry for reasons he knows don’t apply. Fay goes still in a way she likes to pretend isn’t natural. Adrian raises his eyebrows, looking over the rest of the family.

Vivian groans. “That’s illegal,” she says petulantly.

Adrian snorts. “Did you run into them?” he asks, trying to make it clear he’s laughing at his wife and not his kid.

“Yeah,” Harry says, peeking up through his glasses.

Regulus finishes processing and comes back into action with a blink. “Thanks for letting us know, Harry. Did they try to remove you forcefully?”

“No. I didn’t see Lily this time either.” He looks back at his plate. “Connor was nice though.”

“Okay. What are you thinking?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t think you need to do anything, it was just weird. Nice, but weird. Petunia told them I was dead.”

Everyone but Ian flinches. Ian is playing with his soup and the ruins of a roll.

“We might have to deal with that,” Regulus says. “I’ll keep an eye out. Did I miss anything else?”

“Harry’s reading ninth-grade books again,” Cas reports like a tattletale.

Harry rolls his eyes, and the entire group takes the subject change with ease. “They’re not hard. Just grab a dictionary and a blanket.”

Regulus grins. “So I need a copy and we can start bookclub up again?”

“Yes!”

“What book did you find?”

“To Kill A Mockingbird,” Harry says proudly. “I’m at chapter seven.”

I’m sure you can guess most of what else happens. Adrian goes back to the Department Of Mysteries, Vivian chews on paperwork, Regulus spends the day with his kids.

On the other side, however?

Well, Lily Potter is having a spectacularly bad day. By now she’s finished with Petunia and is instead in the park where Connor was supposed to be, which is conspicuously free of children. She pulls her wand out, trying not to let herself catastrophize. It’s harder than she would like. “Guide me hatchling,” she snarls in parseltongue. You’ll notice later, once you’re seeing more magic in action, that spells are often cast in Latin or derivatives thereof. This isn’t a requirement, so you’ll find clever and desperate wixen often use their own; we’ll leave it at that so we don’t get knee-deep in magical theory again. There’ll be time later.

A light glows at the top of her wand, not quite as big as her fingertip, and breaks off to float west. Lily sheaths her wand and follows it. The artificial will-o-wisp keeps pace with her instead of the other way around.

She’s shaking. It’s been too long. She should’ve taken Connor home and come back to Privet Drive, not sent him outside. Muggle area or not, she had no proof this neighborhood was safe. And after that horrifying conversation, Lily needs her son to be safe. One of them, please.

She already made the mistake of thinking this town was safe for her child once, she can’t believe she did so again. Who’s to say this isn’t another conspiracy?

The wisp leads her to Wisteria Way, and much like Harry and Fay yesterday, Lily crosses down the middle. Unlike those two, she doesn’t walk straight to Number Ten. Her chest twinges as she passes it, but she doesn’t stop to think about what that means.

Two turns further into Magnolia Crescent, Lily finally finds a park. Connor’s there, racing another kid up and down the stairs and slides. Another is swinging, and two more are throwing sand at each other. Something in Lily’s chest unblocks, and she sits down on the edge of the sandpit and watches quietly.

She has to think. Petunia said- well, Petunia said a lot of things, most of which were about as useful as a fly’s thigh. Gosh, Lily is such an idiot. She and James talked about it, discussed it for weeks, but the facts were that Harry’s magical core was damaged, and if a Fideleus Charm - and a Secret Keeper who wasn’t even in the country - wasn’t enough to keep them safe, how could she ensure Harry wouldn’t get injured again? Worse? What if the next time he doesn’t wake up?

She puts her head on her knees and breathes.

He woke up.

Petunia said some wizard came and took him years ago. Years ago. Lily has been at Petunia’s house to check on a boy who wasn’t there. Lily has stood in that house, believing Harry was upstairs asleep, and he wasn’t even in the house.

Checking Hadrian’s core had been a rare occurrence on its own, since the spell was new and classified. It still is, taught only to Unspeakables and select wixen in the medical field. Charlus had suggested it, and confirmed that both boys’ cores were damaged. They said Connor looked to be recovering, but Harry’s was… Lily hadn’t used the spell herself, but Charlus looked horrified.

Honestly, if that spell weren’t restricted it would either end with a lot of children being safely rehomed, or a jump in infantcide statistics. Humankind, you know?

There’s a reason for the section of magical laws concerning manslaughter in search of accidental magic. It turns out babies enjoy being in the air. And often don’t realize they won’t be caught until too late, magic or not.

Maybe they should’ve kept Harry anyway. So many things during and after the attack were unprecedented, she must’ve missed something.

A lot of things, considering the many times she’d visited her sister.

“Mum?”

Lily looks up. “Hey, Connor. How are you?”

“I’m okay,” Connor says, leaning over the playground railing. “How was the talk?”

“Terrible.”

“Um,” Connor says, tapping his fingers against each other. “Harry’s not dead, by the way.”

Lily laughs desperately. Of course, he knew too. “Yeah, I know. What tipped you off?”

“Well he lives here,” says a new, caustic voice. A blonde girl leans over the rail beside Connor. “That’s generally an indication of not being dead.”

“Freya,” Connor hisses, eyes wide. “Be nice.”

“He lives here?” Lily’s voice is faint, but her mind is too far away to care. Petunia had said- but Lily hadn’t- how did- Huh.

“He also says hello.”

Oh. Oh. Lily would like to get off this emotional rollercoaster right now. “He knows me?”

“I didn’t ask how.”

Freya sucks on her lips, suddenly feeling much more awkward. This is absolutely the sort of thing that happens with the Dunbar-Black house, and the reason she learned to excuse herself from uncomfortable situations. Mr. Black sat down and taught her when she was eight. Nineteen-Eighty-Seven was a bad year.

She stands up, stepping back to let the others talk. Well, it’s time to think very, very loudly.

“You met him?”

“Yeah. He looked… pretty good.”

“What was he like?”

“A kid,” Connor says softly. “He’s nice. Smart.”

Lily covers her mouth, starting to cry. She doesn’t know what Harry knows about her, (if he’s basing it off Petunia’s information, it can’t be anything good) but he’s okay. She has an eyewitness account at last. Two, apparently.

He knows about her.

Lily hopes he doesn’t hate her, but if he does she can’t blame him.

She’s been in that house. And she missed him.

How did she miss him?

“When are we going home?” Connor asks, the exhaustion appearing again. The best thing about kids is how easily distractable they are. Freya showed up not long after Harry left, trailing three siblings, and pulled Connor away from dark thoughts. Now that Lily’s back and Freya has let them talk, all the dark thoughts are returning and Connor really, really wants a nap.

Lily wipes her eyes. “As soon as you’re done here, sweetheart.”

Connor turns to Freya. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Freya says with a smile. She offers her hand to shake, and Connor accepts it. “She is actually your guardian, right?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t she be?”

“We’ve had… incidents. Never hurts to check.”

“If she were untrustworthy, what would you do?”

“I’d get one of my siblings to get my dad and then we’d take you home and call the police.”

Connor pauses. That sounds practiced; a lot like the abduction and raid drills he’d grown up using. “Smart. She’s my mum though, so I’m fine.”

“Alright,” Freya shrugs. “Be safe. If you ever visit again, we have a kiddie pool.”

Connor snorts. “Thanks. See you later.” He takes a slide to the ground, and walks over to his mum. It’s been long enough he’s gotten most of the sand out of his clothes, but not all. It’s still itchy. “I’m ready.”

Lily takes his hand and stands up. “Alright. C’mon, the apparition point is this way.”

“Mum,” Connor begins, brow furrowing. “We’re in a muggle neighborhood. Why is there an apparition point?”

Lily opens her mouth as they leave the park grounds. She closes it. “I… don’t know. I guess I’ve always just gone to the spot I know best. I guess I’ll apparate us once we’re in the clear.” She laughs again, but this time it’s genuine. Of course there wouldn’t be an actual apparition point in a muggle town.

Well, as far as she knows, anyway.

They turn onto a road with no one visible, and Lily apparates before checking any closer.

It’s been a long day, Readers, and we still have hours to go.

They reappear in the middle of the kitchen, breakfast still half-eaten on the table. “What time is it?” Lily asks, looking around the empty room. She waves her hand, casting a wandless and wordless time charm. One o’clock in the afternoon.

Lily rubs a hand over her face and sighs. “What do you want for lunch, sweetheart?”

“Caprese?”

“And chicken, sure,” Lily hums. Thankfully, it’s easy to make. Lily ties her hair up while she cooks, letting Connor run up to his room.

The first thing he does is, adorably enough, find his library card. Then he anxiously packs a bag full of mostly sealed ink bottles, an old roll of parchment, and partially crumpled quills. Quills, because Connor lives in a magical household and pens are rarely used. Then he lays on his bed and stares at the ceiling.

Archimedes, another owl whom you have not met yet, (I sincerely hope you’re good with names, because otherwise this may turn into a headache), lands on his chest. There’s no law specifically against the harming of owls, but there should be. Emotional Support Animals are incredibly important.

Archimedes coos.

“Hi Archimedes,” Connor says, staring at his ceiling. He reaches up to pet him, enjoying the feel of feathers. Archimedes is new, they brought him home yesterday alongside Connor’s school supplies. Archimedes hops a little bit, before sitting down on Connor’s chest like a roosting mother. Connor keeps petting him, gnawing on chaotic thoughts.

He’s really happy his parents agreed to get him an owl. Walnut is his father’s owl, and spends a lot of time roosting around James Potter. Archimedes is still getting used to his new owlet, but he’s noticed Connor’s unusually high heartbeat.

In humans, that either means something very good, or very bad.

Archimedes stays there until Lily calls Connor down for food, when he hops onto Connor’s shoulder. Con swings his bag onto his shoulder and hops down the stairs, getting a wing in the eye for his troubles. Archimedes is not ready for an owlet. He’s going to take care of this one anyway.

Lily ignores the owl on Connor’s shoulder as she hands him a plate. “I need to check with Mrs. Weasley about you coming over, will you be okay?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Connor is a much better liar than an eleven-year-old should be. Ugh, he needs a hug. The good news is, he’s on his way to get one.

“Okay. Weasleys?”

“Yeah.”

Another time, Connor may push to be left home alone. He’s eleven, not a baby! But right now he wants comfort, and it’s not like Lily would agree anyway. Connor can’t fight, and he’s a person of interest to a lot of unsavory characters.

Have I mentioned that yet? …oh, I don’t think I have. Whoops. Connor’s famous, by the way; he survived an assassination attempt when he was one, and now a decent amount of people want to finish the job.

Are you beginning to see why James and Lily thought leaving Harry with Petunia was a good idea?

Once they’re done eating, Lily sits down and sticks her head in the kitchen fireplace. Her fireplace is also a floo fireplace, so this isn’t something unsafe. She activates it with floo powder, a secondary compound that activates the enchantments on domestic floos. It would be rather annoying if every wizarding household had to invest in two fireplaces - one for proper fires, and one for transportation.

The connection lets her poke her head out of the other side, into a warmly colored kitchen. Welcome to the Burrow, readers. You’ll become familiar with the place quickly.

The downside of Floo calls (aside from how uncomfortable it is to kneel with your head in a magic fire) is that they rarely come with ringtones. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for a redheaded child to run through the kitchen. He stops a little past the door, and comes back. “Hi Mrs. Potter!” He calls brightly.

Lily forces a smile. “Hello George.”

“I’m Fred,” he says, sending her a very serious pout. In the two years since you saw him last, he’s gotten a buzzcut and a load of new bracelets, courtesy of his friends.

That’s enough to make her laugh; it is such a relief to be doing something other than panic. “No you’re not,” she says, shaking her head as she looks up at the thirteen-year old. “Fred never wears the green bracelet.”

George grins, crouching in front of the floo. “Sharp as ever, Mrs. Potter. How can I help you?”

“I need to go into the Ministry for a while, would your mother mind watching Connor?”

“Mum! Can Connor come over?”

Lily can’t hear the response, but George keeps grinning so she knows it’s good. “She says yes.” He looks a little closer, brow furrowing. “Is everything okay?”

“It will be,” Lily says. “I’ll send him through.”

Normally, George would go back to what he was doing, maybe shout at Ron that Connor would be here soon, but there’s a prickling in his gut that says this isn’t something he can brush off. George taps his bracelet, wishing his brother was down here. They work better as a team, and this seems like the sort of thing they’ll need all hands on deck for.

The floo flares, a green fire shooting up from nothing. George prepares himself to ignore his instincts and just chivvy the younger boy to Ron.

Connor comes through looking like he’s had a meltdown and a half.

Yeah, no.

“What happened?” George asks, moving closer.

“Is it really that obvious?” Connor asks mulishly, holding his bag close to his chest. “You’re the fourth person to ask me that.”

George raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, apparently. Hot cocoa?”

Connor takes a breath, ready to say no, but that sounds wonderful, actually. “Can you make enough for Ron too?”

“Yeah.” George heads to the stove, letting Connor sit at the kitchen table. He’s not allowed to use magic over the summers, (unsupervised, but neither of his parents want to supervise) so it takes the usual amount of time. Which is to say, a while. “Can I run something up to Fred?”

“I don’t need babysitting.”

George rolls his eyes with the patience that grows from having two younger siblings. “I know.” He vanishes upstairs, worried.

Connor sits there, tapping on the table. He likes the Weasleys' house - it’s bright, mostly gold and red, with fifty percent of the place warmly patchworked. There’s always something to look at, something to think about. Connor takes the distraction, watching the enchanted Kitchen Clock. Instead of telling time, it has a hand for each member of this family branch, and a circle of statuses. Fredric, George, Ronald, Ginevra, and Molly are all at Home, William, Charles, and Aurthur are at Work. Other places include School, Mortal Peril, Prison, Lost, Hospital, Travelling, and Friend’s. Connor likes the clock. Growing up, he and Ron would spend hours making up adventures for the other members of his family.

Charlie’s hand flicks to Mortal Peril. Connor’s mood drops again.

Would having a clock like this helped Harry? Mortal Peril came before death.

Ugh.

Connor needs to stop thinking about this. He lays his head on the table, wishing he could regulate his thoughts.

Something in the room flutters. Connor assumes it’s George back to mess with the Hot Cocoa, so he doesn’t move. His chest feels watery, like pneumonia and sadness.

“Hey Connor.”

He shrieks, sitting up so sharply he nearly falls off the chair.

Ah, it’s finally time to introduce you to another of my beloved cast. Meet Ginevra Weasley, Readers, a nine-year-old menace who brings me great joy.

[She’s the type I’d proudly adopt.]

I can’t believe I’m agreeing with you, Timothy.

[Aw, I guess great minds really do think alike.]

Moving on. Ginny has armpit-length red hair, not quite as many freckles as Susan Bones, and brown eyes that match the broomsticks she loves to ride. She enjoys sneaking up on people and trying to steal… whatever she can get her hands on, really. Sometimes she manages to get Connor’s glasses, occasionally she manages a bracelet from her brothers, or a book, sometimes Percy’s pens, and, naturally, wands.

She holds Connor’s wand out to him. “It looks awesome,” she says with a touch of envy. “What’s the specs?”

“Do you even know what that word means?”

“Nope but it’s said when they wanna know what something is made of, so I figure I’m using it right,” she collapses into the chair beside Connor. “Why do you look like Achilles got hit by a flying carpet?”

Connor snorts. “I love your metaphors.”

“I get bored a lot,” Ginny says. “I cannot wait to go to Hogwarts next year. Think you and Ron can smuggle me spells?”

“Haven’t you had every one of your brothers smuggle you spells?”

“DADA teacher changes every year. That means new spells.”

“You are so lucky that you’re the youngest.”

Ginny grins, ducking her head a little as Connor finally takes the wand.

Connor sticks it in his hair for lack of having a better place to put it. “Your brothers are good brothers, right?”

Ginny squints at him. “Now you’re acting suspicious. Is your mom pregnant?” That startles a laugh out of Connor. Ginny grins back proudly. “But seriously, having a sorting crisis?”

“I wasn’t until you said something!” Connor shrieks. He takes a breath, and shakes his head. “Anyway. Um. How have things been on your end?”

“Fred and George have been blowing things up and trying to convince mum to adopt their friends, Percy’s plotting to be Prefect this year, and Mum’s still on withdrawl without Charlie. Really though, what’s going on?”

“I think Mum’s trying to overthrow the government. Or kill her sister. Or possibly kidnap someone? Can you kidnap your own kid?”

Ginny blinks once. Twice. “We’re going upstairs.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him up. Connor lets her drag him out of the kitchen and up the Burrow’s rickety staircase, where they pass George.

“What’re you doing?”

“Emotional support!” Ginny calls back. She stops at the seventh landing. “Ron!”

A head with red hair appears at the top of the staircase. “Ginny?” Ronald Weasley’s room is at the top of the Weasley’s tower-like house, just under the haunted attic. “What’s up?”

“Your friend’s having a crisis.” Ginny says. It’s her room too, actually.

Ron crawls down his ladder, twisting. “Connor?” Connor groans and moves to flop on his friend. Ron holds him up easily. “Are your parents okay?”

Connor hums a yes.

George hits the landing next, followed by Fred. “Can we help?”

Connor groans. “Do you want to spend two hours watching me have a heart attack?”

Ron pats his head. “C’mon. I got him.”

“I’ll bring up your cocoa,” George says, chivving the other kids back downstairs.

“Thanks,” Ron says. Connor straightens up to climb the ladder, and Ron follows him. “So, what’s the deal?”

Connor faceplants on Ron’s bed and doesn’t move. Ron goes back to the maze he’s building for Percy’s pet rat, Scabbers. The rat is old and missing a toe, but he’s sprightly and keeps getting lost at Hogwarts. So far he’s always come back, but Percy wants a better solution than switching between a pocket charmed to not let Scabbers out and a rat cage the size of a cat carrier. Ron heard him bemoan it at the start of the summer and has been trying to find a solution. This maze is going to be two levels, and about the length of Percy’s school trunk. Ron’s a little less than a quarter way done with building it.

The boys don’t talk for a little while, sitting and listening to the rhythmic tapping of Connor’s legs as he kicks the bright orange bedspread. Ron’s side of the room is covered in as much Quidditch memorabilia as he could get his hands on, specifically for a team known as the Chudley Cannons, whose colors are red and an orange more violent than the Weasley’s carrot top heads. Ginny’s is more varied, but still has a majority of green and gold, for the Holyhead Harpies. It’s an… interesting dichotomy.

Eventually, Connor rolls over and stares at the enchanted posters on the ceiling. The poster shows the team playing an actual game, so Connor watches it until he settles.

That’s when Ron finally puts the glue (muggle glue, brought home by his father who adores muggle technology) and wood scraps down. "Alright," he announces, flopping down beside Connor on his bed. "You're being way too quiet.” He crosses his legs and leans over Connor’s head. “Spill."

Connor looks at him, and ridiculously feels like crying. He's already cried so much today.

"Wait, don't cry!" Ron says, sounding panicked, which is how Connor knows he still has tears left. "Breathe?" Ron is not the best at this. He's eleven, since his birthday was in March. Adults can be terrible at comforting people, so of course children will have their moments too. "What happened?" Ron leans back and watches one of his own posters.

"Did you know I have a little brother?"

Ron sort of... stops. "Since when?" He’s trying to remember, because that seems like something he’d be told, but he doesn’t remember anything recently, and he’d have met them by now if they aren’t a newborn. Right?

The comment spurs Connor into laughter, which is enough, Ron thinks. Laughter's supposed to be healing. He's heard that from his big brothers, of which he has five. "Forever, I guess."

Ron sighs and lays down too. "You are terrible at explaining."

Connor snorts. That's their running joke- they're not sure what it is, whether curse side effects or just bad blood, but Connor has trouble with focusing and letters move for Ron. It's really mental disorders, but despite the changes in the wizarding world, they're still very behind on Mental Health, and as such no one has recognized it yet. "He's my twin," Connor says. "He's my twin and I met him for the first time today and he's great, but he's so different. I don't know anything about him! And I want to!" Connor throws his hands out. "I want to, so badly. I want to know him as well as Fred knows George."

Ron watches as Connor's words go soft and wistful. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So, when am I meeting him?"

Connor laughs again, short and loud, and rolls over to hug Ron. "As soon as possible, obviously."

"Good," Ron says lightly, patting Connor’s head. "Because someone has to warn him about Ginny. Does he know much about the Chudley Cannons?"

Connor slowly pulls away to give Ron a look that's not quite guilty. "I forgot to talk about Quidditch."

"Connor!" Ron shrieks with a laugh. "The betrayal- what if he doesn't? Oh the tragedy!"

"How much time have you spent with the twins?" Connor asks then, laughing. Ron's amped up the drama to three.

"Plenty," Ron says. "We finally went to Diagon last week, actually, and met up with those friends of theirs." He leans in, as if sharing a secret. "Lestrange is nice!"

Connor hums. "Haven't they been saying that?"

"Well yeah." Ron rolls his eyes. "But it's different to see her in person. No wonder Mum makes her a sweater."

Connor grins. "Of course she does. Your mum would add in a thousand bedrooms and raise every kid out there if given the chance."

Ron laughs. "She'd try," it's a little bitter, but not too bad. His brothers were there too, whenever she wasn’t. And then he looks at Connor and puts on his game face. "Brother. Details. C'mon Connor I'm dying here!"

"Okay, okay," Connor waves away Ron's focus. "Brother. His name is Hadrian. They call him Harry. He wants to write, and he looks like me."

"That's it?" Ron asks.

"He's a parselmouth too?" Connor offers nervously. His shoulders slump. "We really didn't have that much time to talk. I mean we did, but we weren't exchanging life stories." He looks over at Ron, brown on blue, and feels the joy slip away like rainwater. "I don't know anything, Ron. And what I do know is bad. He was nice enough to talk to today, but what if I mess up and he hates me?"

"He's your brother," Ron says mock sagely. "Even after Charlie and Percy had that big fight, they still worked together to make sure us younger kids were safe and warm."

"But you guys were raised together! We weren't. What if it's too different? What if he thinks magic is dumb? Or maybe he'll be a muggle-baiter! Or if he's- I don't know! What if he's hurt? What if he's missing limbs?"

"Did he look like he was missing limbs?" Ron asks bemusedly.

"No," Connor admits. "And he didn't limp or anything while we were playing tag, so I guess there's a point there." He's still not reassured though. "What if he doesn't know enough about the magical world and he falls into a trap set by a Death Eater? What if someone tries to attack him to get to me?"

"That won't happen." Ron waves his hand dismissively. "Probably. Besides, actual muggleborns do it all the time, and they catch up easily enough. He'll be fine."

"What if-"

Ron sighs and shuts Connor up by laying on top of him. It's a tried and true technique. "Am I this bad about Ginny?"

"You're worse," Connor says lightly. Ron laughs.

Someone knocks on the trapdoor. Connor and Ron both look over. “You know,” Connor says suddenly, not even moving. “Harry and I had a talk about nicknames, and he offered Con as one.”

“Yeah?”

“It rhymes with Ron.”

Ron laughed. “Hope he doesn’t mind being triplets then. Come in!”

Fred pops his head through the trapdoor, wearing a blue sweater with only one sleeve properly on. The rest is bunched around his neck. “We have hot cocoa and optional emotional support.”

Connor waves, but doesn’t push Ron off. He likes the weight.

Ron waves in the familiar configuration. Bill - William Weasley - taught it to them the first time the younger kids were caught in a Death Eater attack. He learned it from Dorcas Meadows during the height of the First Blood War, and the Weasleys never gave it up. “Welcome to my office, I’d offer you chocolate frogs but I think the gnomes stole them,” he says magnanimously.

George bows. “Ah, yes, why thank you for your time, Mr. Weasley. Do remind me, are you a famous teacher, auror, or Quidditch player?”

“Obviously he tames Hippogriffs,” Ginny snarks, taking over Ron’s desk chair. “Look at those muscles.”

“I don’t know,” Fred says. “He kinda looks like a human wrangler to me.”

“Excuse you, I am obviously a statue brought to life,” Connor says, pointing at Fred. “You’re in the presence of the greatest museum curator in seven centuries.”

“Ah.”

Ron laughs, rolling off Connor and sitting up. Connor follows suit, missing the weight. “Oh, no autographs today I’m afraid, the mummies stole all my pens.”

#Harry Potter #WBWL #Cathy The Narrator #Not (our parents') children #NOPC #WTOWBS #Jaymeow writes #Crossposting Spam #Connor Potter #harry potter au #Timothy The Narrator #Ron Weasley #Fred Weasley #George Weasley #Ginny Weasley #parseltongue

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disorganizedkitten · 9 months ago

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We'll Take Our World By Storm Chapter 1

Harry Potter | 2021 | 6,085 | Ao3 | Masterlist | Next

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has educated more than seventy percent of the last three centuries’ historical figures. Foster siblings Harry Potter and Fay Dunbar-Black are beginning their first year there this fall, and they have plans. They’re not the only ones, though, and it seems like all plans have one kink in common - Harry’s twin brother, Connor; known for not dying when he should’ve. [or at least, known for being caught not dying.] Connor would like to go on record saying he’d love to stay out of this too. Between suspicious teachers, learning magic, the castle trying to murder their Ravenclaws, and Harry’s biological family trying to reconnect after ten years, everyone is busy. At least one thing hasn’t changed: the Wizarding World won’t know what hit them.

I think the beginning is always the hardest point to find. In this story especially, finding the beginning, the start of it all, is a rather arduous task.

Why would I say that? Because everyone who’s even marginally important has their own motive. Their own beginning. And their beginning was caused by the actions of someone else who had a beginning of their own, and so on and so forth until keeping them all straight is a titan’s job.

Which is probably why Narrators are in such high demand.

I know which beginnings I will use for this story, but before we get there, I’d like to tell you about some of the other beginnings I could have used.

Many pieces fall into place years before our beginning.

Some will say this started with an injured elf, and his Master’s dedication. A surprising thing, for commonly it goes the other way.

This beginning is one of my favorites, as it led to a wonderful finish.

Others of my kind will snarl that it started with a burning wardrobe and then-misplaced distrust. It’s true that Tom proved him right in the end, but I dislike that answer because they never tell us why the distrust came.

Hate for things not yet done is a terrible thing.

Some who have lived through our story can claim it started with witchcraft that shouldn’t be, the backlash of a spell that doesn’t follow any rules we know. Of course, they only say this after the finish line has been reached, because when the girl arrives out of time she doesn’t know of magic. She knows of more important things, though -- She knows of chaos, ruthlessness, and family.

A few say it started with three brothers; brothers who were too powerful, too curious, too dangerous. Sadly, most of these few overlook the most important bit. These brothers were too loving; they loved the world and each other so, so much.

Enough to look death in the face and say Not Yet.

Some will tell you it started with four great friends who wanted safety for themselves and their futures. Friends whose names went down in history alongside their home. Four friends who, like the brothers, fought and bled for and against each other, determined and caring till their end.

(Four friends who were ripped down to three).

Others still will claim it started with four boys sharing a dorm. And here again, the cycle repeats. When their story stagnates and slides into another, there are three holding each other up. I don’t like this cycle, which may be one reason I like my story and its beginning best.

You see, some, - many, - bonds aren’t meant to be broken, but wounds can be sutured.

Another can claim it started in a dreary playground, where a boy told a girl about magic. Their friendship, built on secrets and similarities, seemed like it would last forever.

It didn’t. I can’t say I rooted for it.

Some claim it started years later, in a train compartment and with a friendship forged on stubbornness and an odd conversation about treason. As if anyone uses the word treason anymore.

A rare few, so few I hear their voices like whispers on the wind, claim it started in a hospital. I ignore them. Nothing starts at birth, just as few things end in death.

Many, those I like, will tell you it started with an experiment gone wrong in a basement, and a mother who was lost too early. I don’t know if this started anything, but it did affect a lot of things. You must understand, some abilities don’t have a baseline because they don’t have a point of reference.

An achingly large group will tell you it started with a prophecy, which is just�� ugh. Prophecies aren’t there to start stories, they guide them.

And many of the aforementioned will also waffle and say it started with a failed massacre. (Whether there’s one survivor or four, it’s a failure.)

I could tell you how macabre I find that, but there are rather a lot of failed murders where we’re going, so I suppose I shouldn’t.

As I said, there are many beginnings out there. Others claim it started with a letter, or with blood on the sidewalk, or a soft question under a tree. A threat to a young celebrity, maybe, or sharing a compartment on the train. A professor-murderer turning to dust under a child’s hands. Screaming from warnings ignored. Whispers against walls while children with quiet eyes observed.

I find if we were to follow those theories, it wouldn't have started with any of the mentioned events. No, it would have started with the following acceptance.

The last claims I’ll mention are those from the people who claim it started when magic was first born. This is conceited, and yet it’s true. What is magic, if not intent and imagination? What are stories, if not the same?

I’ve walked you through many of the other beginnings that will grow to be important, however vaguely. I’m afraid if I took you through all of them, we’d never reach our story. But if you pay attention, and perhaps review these passages here and there, they should clear up nicely.

My favorite beginning is a bit more of a middle.

On Wednesday, July twenty-fourth, nineteen-ninety-one, the day begins rather normally for a number of people. Assuming you aren’t utterly annoyed by my last set of openings, I’ll give you a few more quick ones before expanding upon my favorite.

In a castle on the Scottish highlands, an owl wings away one day after its brother and moments after its friend, delivering a letter to a small muggle town. Eight months ago this same owl took nearly the same route, delivering a near-identical letter to the same house.

In Potter Cottage, the man of the house heads to work while the woman reads. Their son sleeps in, having been up late last night practicing spells in secret. His letter will come today, delivered by the friend of our first owl. But he doesn’t need a booklist to get a wand.

In number ten, Magnolia Crescent, an adult cracks open a door to check on their children, only to find both asleep, one over a book and the other on their back, sharing a pair of blue earbuds. The adult smiles and moves on.

Within a wizarding mansion known as Chamois Hills, the heir is ensconced high in the library, despite the hour. Has he slept at all? Probably not.

In Casa Di Cianuro, a child wakes up with a heaving chest and a black tongue. He doesn't remember going to sleep.

In number eight, Magnolia Crescent, most of the tenants are sleeping, like many others. Magic was washed from this house six years ago, but sometimes those living there can still see something off. The hallway’s just barely too long, and the four year old is trying to figure out how they know that.

(There’s an extra bedroom, sometimes).

Back across the country, in a once-Selwyn Townhouse known as Tannis Villa, a child wakes up to tapping from one of the owls mentioned earlier. His school letter came yesterday, but the important letters, the one from his friends and brother, are coming today.

In number four, Privet Drive, a woman cooks a large breakfast for her larger husband and son, cooing all the while. Their manners are atrocious, but she loves them anyway. They’re her only chance for a normal life.

Now let’s hop over again, because in a territory off to the west of London, (or so I assume. Maps are a little… wrinkled here), there are two children laying on a bedroom floor. They’re in the middle bedroom, on the second story, of number ten, Magnolia Crescent.

Harry Peverell and Fay Dunbar-Black are both asleep. Very typical, I know. Probably in the top fifty ways to start a story. I like this moment of peace, because it gives me a slow moment to let you meet our characters. And believe me, you’ll want your slow moments. Chaos dogs many a waking step.

Hadrian Peverell, or Harry Potter, where most of the world are concerned, is ten only for another week. His skin is brown, excluding the marks of unnatural black. He has four as of today. A simplistic lightning bolt across his right cheek, a static edged circle on his left shoulder, a ragged near-triangle on his back, and a small line near his brain stem. The last mark is hidden under his hair at the moment, since he’s asleep on his stomach, using his arms as a pillow while the book he was reading six hours ago lays just to the side of his head.

Harry’s hair is black, and the pieces still in the braid are nearly collarbone length. His sister braided it two days ago, and the flowers have been removed, but the braid hasn’t. The flyaways give a bit of a halo effect.

He’s dressed in blue pyjamas that fit, contrary to many stories where someone with his name and some of his traits appear.

Fay shifts, just barely, at this point. She looks a lot like her brother. Her skin is a pale brown that would match his if only a few shades deeper, and her hair is just as deep of a black. Her pyjamas are purple and black, and unlike Harry, she meant to fall asleep. It’s obvious in the way she’s on her back, shifted so she can share Harry’s earbuds and still be comfortable enough for sleep, and by the blanket that’s under her arm. Her hair is loose, and snarling something fierce. This is where the most obvious difference between the siblings will be seen; Fay’s hair is calmer than Harry’s when loose. She takes after her mother as much as he takes after his father.

They both sleep like the dead, unmoving aside from their breathing. Sometimes that stutters too.

Fay’s papa leans his head into the door, a soft smile on his face. Adrian Dunbar is a stark contrast to most of this family. Pale and blond, scottish to their indian, iranian, and latina, the biggest commonality he has with them is long hair. That’s never stopped him from loving his children, though by the standards of some, only one of them is really his. Adrian has never pretended to care. They’re his on paper and in heart, and that’s what matters.

Adrian moves on, now that he’s assured himself that neither of his middle kids are missing, despite one bedroom being empty. There’s a three year old in the room beside Fay’s, who he checks on next. Ian’s parents had been killed in a car wreck two days ago, and the Dunbar-Black residences were looking after him until a safe permanent placement could be found

Ian is also asleep, so again Adrian moves on. The lone room across the hall holds sixteen year old Caspian Ellington, who’s been with them almost as long as Harry. He’s awake, and drawing. Adrian knocks on the doorframe once, and Caspian looks up enough to wave and wish him a good morning.

From there we follow Adrian to the end of the currently short hall, past the bedroom at the top of the stairs, and down into the main house. He walks past the living room, which is empty, past the cupboard under the staircase, which he can see into since they removed the door years ago. Into the kitchen, where his wife is glaring down at the pancake griddle.

Vivian Dunbar looks over and smiles. “Morning, love. You get enough sleep?”

Adrian shrugs, coming up to stand beside her. “I hope so. Carl said the tox screen and the metal residue were enough to match a suspect, so it should be over until I have to go to court again.”

“So not enough sleep, but you’re fine with that because you got justice instead?”

Adrian laughs and bumps noses with his wife. “Got it started, at least. The kids are all still asleep. Any word from Reg?”

“Not yet,” and although Vivian’s tone is wry, it’s my job to tell you she’s hiding worry. Vivian’s best friend, Regulus Black, returned to a terrible place two days ago, on an investigative kick. The last time the three of them got together in that place, Regulus was nearly killed.

“He’ll call Kreature if something happens,” Adrian says. His tone is solid, but he’s just as worried. Last time, Regulus didn’t. “He wouldn’t leave the kids.”

“Of course not,” Vivian agrees, as if it’s obvious. And it is; if anything can be said for Regulus Black it’s that he cares for his kids, as many as those are. She’s reassured by the statement anyway.

They continue on for a little while, spending a lazy summer morning together before having to go their separate ways for work that doesn’t end by the season. Adrian still has to complete the autopsies for Ian’s parents, and Vivian works with Regulus in CPS.

But before they split, they’re joined by the kids. Fay leads the way, her hair loose but brushed straight and dressed in a denim dress over leggings. “Morning Mama! Morning Papa.” She greets her parents with hugs.

She’s followed by Harry, who’s carrying Ian. He’s dressed in a graphic-t under a flannel and jeans, and his hair still hasn’t been redone. Ian’s in plain blue and white, wide blue eyes smiling under red hair.

The last in is Caspian, brown eyes smiling, with a pencil tucked behind his ear and poking out of dark hair.

“Well if it isn’t Thing Three,” Adrian grins, greeting him with a forehead kiss.

“Dadri. Did you find the cause of death?”

“Not as such, but I found something. Tell you when it hits the court. My bet is on poison, though.”

Harry grins, moving to cut a pancake into smaller pieces for Ian. “We certainly do love poisons.”

“Poison and acid are not the same thing!” Fay and Caspian chorus.

Vivian laughs. I won’t explain the inside joke yet, but I will tell you it is one, and it concerns melting enchanted metal.

By the time Harry has his own breakfast plated and begins eating, the last to do so since he’s on toddler duty this meal, Cadmus has returned and descended softly onto his tier of the dining room perch. Harry clicks his tongue, and the dark owl moves to settle on his bare forearm. “Hey buddy, what did Nev say?” Cadmus screeches an owl affirmative. “All good things? Good.” Harry bumps his nose to Cadmus’ beak. “Can I read it?”

Cadmus sticks out his leg in response.

“Thanks, Little One.”

Cadmus alights, and returns to the perch. Noctua looks down at him and chirps. Cadmus returns the sound, and Vivian tuts her own response. “Not during breakfast, please.”

Noctua screeches again, high and short, but both owls listen.

Of course, magical post owls are very smart, so it isn’t at all surprising that they can follow commands. Due to being both magical and extremely intelligent, Cadmus and his fellows only appear when convenient, unless a letter is exceedingly urgent. Often post owls greet their charges or recipients at breakfast, as correspondence will always be a good way to open a day.

“Did he like the Calendar?” Fay asks around a strawberry. Even I do not know where the strawberry came from, as she is the only one with any. Some things are not worth the narrative stress.

“Let a guy read, Faerie-circle.” Fay stuck her tongue out, bouncing in her seat. Harry unfolded the letter and started reading around eating. “He says thank you, but it hasn’t been long enough for the calendar to really start working so he hasn’t mentioned the fun features.”

“Heck yeah!” Fay shrieked, pumping a fist into the air.

“Yeah!” Ian agreed.

Caspian reached over and ruffled the kid’s hair. “Would you like more food, Ian?”

“No.”

Conversations slowed down for a little while, but picked back up when another owl, this one tawny, slammed into the kitchen window.

“I wonder how many hits it takes to kill an owl?” Harry said.

“Or a concussion?” Fay countered. “Can owls even get concussions?”

“If an animagus gets a concussion as an owl, will it carry over when they transform back?” Caspian asks, flicking his fingers. A fissure of black smoke reaches out and shatters the window, allowing the owl inside. “Think it’s from Dad?”

Noctua screeches in displeasure at the mere idea of her human using another owl.

“Hush, baby,” Vivian says, leaning backwards to pet her soothingly. “Why don’t you open it, Caspian?”

“Looks like a ministry owl,” Adrian says as Caspian follows Vivian’s instructions. “More likely Amelia.”

Caspian hums confirmingly as he reads through the blue-inked letter. “She’s confirming the count for dinner tomorrow. Think Dad’ll be back?”

The table was quiet. Harry watched black smoke curl around the letter. No one was willing to say what they were all thinking.

Vivian broke the silence after a minute, moving out of her seat. “I’ll write her back, let her know we haven’t heard from him. Do you three have any plans today?”

“Harry’s supposed to get his Hogwarts letter,” Fay said, taking the subject change and running with it. “And the new Scooby-Doo is supposed to be on this afternoon.” Meanwhile, Harry and Caspian were having a silent conversation made up mostly of grabby hands and making faces.

“I need to go to the library,” Harry says, looking away from his cousin-slash-brother to glance at his aunt. “I’ll probably walk.”

Caspian grins sharply and hands the unopened second letter to Adrian. “I don’t have anything planned.”

“Purple ink, Uncle Adrian?” Harry asks, tilting towards the table.

“Mhm,” Adrian hums, reading the letter. “It’s an offer for the research project I wanted to try, in conjunction with one of their cases.”

“A good offer?” Vivian asks, returning to the table with a pen.

“Seems to be.” He stands up, kisses his three kids’ foreheads, ruffles Ian’s hair, and kisses his wife full on. “I’ll floo her now, see what’s what. Come get me if you need anything?” He takes the required minute to take care of his dishes before leaving for his lab. I would hope I don’t have to tell you he enjoys his job, and is nearly always willing to take a case.

The case in question isn’t important right now, but it does give me a nice segway. The tawny owl that brought the letter came from Amelia Bones’ office in the Ministry of Magic. Ministry owls are trained differently than casual post owls. These owls care nothing for convenience, only time management. While they’re wonderful for proving owls are magical, it does make sending messages after arriving to work a little awkward. Amelia had been at this for years, so she knew when to send them off so they could at least pretend to be considerate.

Vivian sends Noctua with their response, and the dark speckled owl takes a little more time to return to the Ministry. She is not a Ministry owl, but she is both smart and fast.

Noctua slips across air currents like the professional she is, and once she finds the owl window, she glides inside and past the ministry owls.

Noctua is both professional and a metaphoric queen, and she considers only two owls worth her time. Cadmus, because his owlet is her owlet's nestling, and Albert, because he was smart and cared more for his nestlings than he did about retirement. Any other owls, especially the Ministry's unbonded and inconsiderate owls, aren't worth the dust off her wings.

She screeched in warning when one of the unbonded owlets dive bombed her, and then she swooped to the side and into the building itself.

Honestly.

This trip of hers took about three hours, so when Noctua landed in the auror's office, Amelia was on her way back from the field. She ruffled her feathers importantly, and glared at Walnut. Walnut's owlet was a big, fusty human who looked like the egg-father of Cadmus’ owlet, and Noctua did not like that. Human parents were supposed to keep their chicks in the nest for much longer than owls, and the fact that the fusty human had never come to see his chick was wrong. Noctua knew her owlet made his nest out of human chicks who had been harmed by their parents, whose owls and other protectors failed.

That meant Walnut’s owlet deserved his eyes pecked out. Noctua hadn’t done it yet because she was a Black owl, and knew better than to attack with so many witnesses.

Amelia and the fusty owlet entered the room together, and Noctua rustled to get Amelia’s attention. Amelia’s nest of chicks includes Albert’s owlet, and Amelia helps Noctua’s owlet find safe nests for other chicks. Amelia is okay.

Amelia notices Noctua as she walks past, and holds up her arm for Noctua to alight to. Noctua glares at the fusty human, but stays in her place on Amelia’s arm. He breaks off when their conversation ends, and Amelia is finally able to turn to Noctua.

“Thank you, Noctua,” Amelia says seriously. “Will they need a reply?”

Noctua screeches a negative as Amelia pulls the letter away from her foot. Amelia reads the letter as she moves into her office, and when she finishes she looks over at Noctua and hums pityingly. Amelia pets her head, and decides to reply anyway.

Vivian,

Thank you for letting me know. See you tomorrow evening, the girls have missed you guys.

(And remind Adrian to sleep. The cadavers aren’t going anywhere.)

-Amelia

And for the second letter, well, it’s as much for Noctua as it is for Amelia. She has no doubts Regulus told Noctua to stay with the others unless they needed to contact him.

Regulus,

You’re worrying people again. If you need an investigative team, I have benched agents who would love something new. Please don’t miss dinner - Delphi might cry. She’s been trying to read that book on the mind arts since you left, and I haven’t been able to answer any of her questions.

Susan’s joined Delphi in trying to learn, but I don’t know if it’s actually helpful. Hannah got her hair colored, too, and between that and Delphi’s tendencies, I think they’re plotting to make Susan’s match.

That said, nothing is truly going haywire on our end. If the choice is between you home safe or you home soon, I can guarantee that despite our worry, we’d all agree safe is better.

Call for backup if you need it.

-Amelia Bones, DMLE

When Noctua takes the letters out, she ends up in the lift with the fusty human. Noctua considers it, and then takes the deplorable step to land on his head. His hair is puffy and messy, and unfairly soft. Rat bones like him shouldn’t have downy hair. Walnut looks and her and hisses, smart enough to know this isn’t a cease-fire. Noctua chirps back lightly, and gets Fusty to softly tell off Walnut for being rude.

Noctua considers this a win. When the lift reaches her floor, she pees on his head and takes off. Fusty swears behind her, and Walnut hisses again.

As Noctua leaves, I’m going to stay with Fusty.

Firstly, you should know his name is actually James. James Potter, and he’s an auror, but before that he is a friend, a husband, and a father.

The second thing you should know, is that Noctua is both biased and misinformed. Not completely wrong where the facts are concerned, but the conclusions she drew were incorrect.

James is headed home early today, because today is the twenty-fourth and his son is supposed to receive his Hogwarts letter today. That gives them a little over a month to schedule a supply run, but most parents take their child to Diagon on their birthday, not the day they get their letter. James and his wife, Lily, are planning to go today in the hopes that it will help mitigate the crowds.

Augusta Longbottom, a friend of Lily’s, offered to take the Potters with her when she took her grandson yesterday, (I believe I mentioned him earlier? Neville’s his name.) but the Potters refused. They wanted this milestone to be done properly, despite their son’s fame.

Ah. Do you have questions yet? I hope so. By now, James has arrived outside his own door, so it’s time to answer some of them.

Not that I’ll actually tell you anything this time.

No, that wouldn’t be nearly enough fun.

James opens his door and enters the entryway. After the explosion that destroyed their cottage the first time, they moved in with his cousins for a short time while repairs were being made, but returned when they could. Lily refused to leave the site as a memorial, and after a few years people stopped coming to gawk at the once-battle ground.

The two-story, four-bedroom cottage is all they need for their small family, and despite their ability to live lavishly, none of them want to.

James is greeted first by his son, Connor Potter. Connor has light brown skin, hazel eyes, and dark, bird’s nest hair. His glasses are basic, round wire frames, and beside his father, he nearly looks like him in miniature. The easiest difference to see, beyond age, is how James’ skin is darker. Another one is the rune carved into Connor's forehead; sowilo, or a lighting strike. While James has scars - you can’t work in a firing zone and avoid them - none of them are this stark or shapely. Connor barrels into James for a hug, which is easily and enthusiastically returned. “Did you get it?” James’ voice is loud, bright with love and enthusiasm.

“I got it!” Connor agrees with a bright smile. None of them really doubted that he would get his Hogwarts letter, but it’s still very rewarding to hit the milestone that almost every important wixen in Britain reaches. Hogwarts, once a refuge for any wix in need, is now prestigious, and the Potters have attended for centuries.

While they’d never admit it to Connor, after their scare with Harry (and see, now is one of those moments where I as a narrator wish the characters had my brand of omniscience, it would solve so many problems) Lily and James both looked into other options. They’re glad to not use them.

“That’s great! Congratulations, Bucktooth.”

“Dad,” Connor whines. It’s an old nickname, and like most of the Marauder nicknames, it’s obvious if you’ve known the subject.

“You’ll be gone for months,” James whines exaggeratedly. “I have to get in my dose of teasing before you leave.”

“Ulch.” Connor makes a face.

This is when Lily Potter catches up to them. She’s white, with a dark red bob and bright green eyes. As a teenager, they were interesting, but now they’re eye-catching. They’ve glowed so many times that the excess light seems to stay just behind her irises.

“Don’t tease him too much, Jamie,” she nudged her husband with a grin. “He’s outgrowing it, remember?”

James huffs in mock offense. “All the more reason to get in as much as I can!”

Connor rolls his eyes and pulls away from the hug. “So can we go yet? Please?”

“After lunch, Bucktooth,” James reminds him. Connor huffs, but lets them leave the entryway/living room and migrate to the kitchen. Conversation stays trained on Hogwarts; the supply lists, stories of Lily and James’ glory days, the best secret passages and the perfect place to place pranks against the Slytherins. And, of course, “Don’t forget to write us either! I want so many details I feel like I’m the one going to school.”

Connor starts laughing at that. When he calms down, his next question is slightly pointed. “Is Uncle Moony joining us?”

“Last I knew,” Lily says. “We’ll meet up in the Leaky Cauldron.”

“Awesome.”

The three Potters eat quickly, and the only thing that holds them back from leaving right away is a letter to the Weasleys, since Connor forgot to send one out earlier. They send Walnut; Connor will buy an owl of his own today, but they haven’t needed two before now.

I’m tempted to follow Walnut, but while the Weasleys are incredibly important for a multitude of reasons, I know you won’t need to meet them today. You’ll meet them plenty soon, I promise.

Instead, I’m going to break the rules of time-space for what is going to be the first of many times. It’s a narrator’s right, you see, to tell a story as we see fit. Now, if you’ll follow me back a few hours to when the Potter household received their letter from Hogwarts, I can tell you three very important things.

It arrived with an owl. One of the many magical owls I mentioned earlier, trained specifically as post owls, but also trained to be unbonded. This was a Hogwarts owl. They were a common barn owl, much like Walnut. They stayed only long enough for an acceptance note to be written, and to take a drink of water. After that, they took to the skies again, and returned to the castle.

This is important because once this barn owl reached the castle and delivered the letter, the letter was put in a pile with many others; including the acceptance letter from Harry Potter.

Not that the Potter letters are the only ones in this pile. They could be, if one Minerva McGonagall opened letters every-day, but she also had a life to live, so it’s understandable she couldn’t.

The other letters in this pile include notable names like Theodore Nott, Neville Longbottom, Sue Li, Tracey Davis, Susan Bones, and Stephen Cornfoot.

I could take you to see any or all of them, if I were so inclined. Instead, I’m going to find Noctua again.

This darling speck of darkness in the sky has long-since alighted upon the shoulder of her owlet, as being convenient in this instance is more to the owl’s liking than the human’s.

Regulus Black, however, takes the arrival of his owl with minimal panic and a smile for his darling. “Good afternoon, Noctua. How are things at home?”

She chirps an affirmative, not wanting Regulus to worry. He runs his fingers over her crown, the speckled feathers soft.

“I’m glad. What’ve you brought me?”

She sticks her leg out to give him the letter from Amelia, and he takes them both off. He sorts them quickly and reattaches Vivian’s.

He smiles at Amelia’s letter, the unsubtle updates on some of his kids and the clear offers. They’re colleagues, professionally, and friends otherwise.

The area he’s in is near Mappleton (I think. Again, I must apologize - magic makes everything a little slippery, including landmasses and landmarks.) and hasn’t been much help in his research project. The only thing he was able to find was an old fire site. Once there was an orphanage and a church, with some apartments flanking them. Now there is a large hotel.

“A gas fire,” the few locals who remember the change say.

A mission, a raid, Barty’s journals say.

‘Revenge,’ Regulus thinks. ‘Covering his tracks.’ Finding records of the children who were raised here was slow going, since he had yet to find any surviving members of the administration. Or any surviving family of even one administrator.

And the library. Goodness. The library. Regulus was a Slytherin and proud, but his Ravenclaw side (the little voice that's all that remains of his once best friend) wants to dive headfirst into the challenge of finding anything useful in that mess.

Instead he's trying to figure out what coded method of organization is used before he tries to find the information he needs. It's not working.

Since, when we found him, Regulus was walking through the town on his own, leaving the library to find one of the quaint muggle restaurants that was specific to the area and might truly benefit from him eating there, it was easy for Noctua to find him.

And, more important to both the story I've been tasked to tell and Regulus' investigation, being in the open instead of his hotel when Noctua appeared will be what finally gets Regulus a clue.

Not yet though.

First, Regulus reaches the small ice cream and burger shop. It's not until he's almost at the door that he remembers it's a muggle establishment, and therefore would probably not take too well to owls inside the building. Noctua has been perched on his shoulder since she found him, so he just has to turn his head to look at her. "Would you mind waiting outside, countess?"

Noctua looks at him, yellow eyes hard, before taking just a second to preen his hair and take off. He smiles at her, and continues on his way.

The building is small, and offers both booths and bar seating. Regulus takes the bar, and chats with the old man behind it.

It's an odd thought that this man would be barely older than his father, had Orion Black lived, when he looks decades older than Orion had.

Once Regulus has eaten, save for the meat he will give Noctua, he clears his small area, thanks the man, and deserts the place. His conversation won him nothing but goodwill and an appreciation for combs, but in the twelve years since he last investigated something like this he has learned to be grateful for that too.

Regulus offers the food to Noctua as soon as he is accessible, holding it in his metal hand because he knows his owl to be violent sometimes and he does like his remaining fingers. Noctua takes it like she's winning a contest, nearly hitting the concrete behind Regulus before looping around and swooping up to land on his shoulder. The metal doesn't climb all the way up to his shoulder, but she does land on the same arm.

A few steps back towards the library, Noctua nips his ear and huffs.

"And what do you think I should tell them?" Regulus asks, picking up on her meaning well enough. "I'm safe just like I promised, but there's been no progress beyond confirming what I already knew?"

She coos an affirmative, and starts preening his hair.

"We're all codependent, aren't we?" Regulus' last question is less of a question and more of a resigned statement. Noctua keeps preening, like he’s a baby owlet.

There's an old lady at the door to the library when they get there. Regulus smiles at her, and turns to ask Noctua if she can wait outside until he has a response letter, but before he can get beyond Noctua's name, the lady is talking.

"You are one of them, then?"

"I beg your pardon?" Regulus turns back to give her his full attention.

"There was a boy like you here once. Years and years ago. Sadistic. A devil child. They say he returned to burn the orphanage and kill those who tried to tame him."

Regulus swallows. It wasn't untrue.

"Oh yes," the lady continues on, wispy hair fettered by sudden wind. "I tried, I tell you. But it wasn't enough. He came back from that school every year darker, quicker to lash out."

"They taught him bigotry," Regulus says softly, a confirmation. “Taught him that the only way to earn respect was through fear.”

“Did they teach you that too?” The woman asks.

Regulus’ answering smile is wry. “They tried. And it worked, for a little while.”

“You don’t have the look of vileness,” she remarks shrewdly. “They failed?”

“I saw how far I was going, and when I defected I met people who taught me better.”

She nods, sharp and serious. “Then you are looking for something.”

“Yes.”

“I will help. What do you need?”

Regulus looks at her, really looks at her, considering. “They say Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. I want to find and destroy them. I need the names of those he grew up with.”

“You have

questions.”

“Yes.”

The woman smiles. “I’m Loretta,” she says suddenly. “Follow me.”

Regulus grins, but Noctua nips his ear. He sends her an unamused look. “May I send a letter, first?”

“Do as you must.”

#Regulus Black #Harry Potter #WBWL #Vivian Dunbar #Adrian Dunbar #Fay Dunbar #Faith Dunbar-Black #Caspian Black #Cathy The Narrator #Not (our parents') children #NOPC #WTOWBS #Connor Potter #Lily Potter #James Potter #Jaymeow writes #Crossposting Spam

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