#and that is all Before gregory gets captured and suddenly the conflict of what the fireflies try to do is WAAAY more personal <33< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[bravevolunteer]

it was particularly evil of me ( and lune they are not innocent they established this with me🔪 ) to decide the best way to translate michael’s character to a t.lou au ( where michael and gregory stand in for j.oel and e.llie, this is solely for our brainrot ) was to bring in william, obsessed with finding a cure, and have him realize his estranged son is taking care of an immune child. but that sure was a decision that was made-

[c-is-for-circinate]

The Untitled Prequel To A Harry Potter Fic I Am (Probably) Never Writing

By popular demand, this thing that starts a story I know more of but probably don’t have the words for!

In which Minerva McGonagall tries to figure out the present, and, relatedly, the future; including a great many names readers will not recognize, because there are many, many students at Hogwarts, and several more that readers will.

.

It takes nearly three weeks after the final battle to empty the tent city struck up on the Hogwarts grounds of the last of its inhabitants.  They leave in straggling, drawn-out waves, one by one or six or seven at a time, one day after the other.  Nobody takes the train.

First to go, of course, are the Aurors, the members of the Order, with the dead carried out on pallets and Death Eaters in chains--adults.  Very well and good riddance.  Minerva isn’t concerned with them.  She barely spared them a thought in the first place.  The few that stay are useful for wards and charms to light the campfires, and that’s all the mind she has time to pay to them right now.

The first children to go, then, are those injured too badly to be cared for with the Hogwarts facilities in the state they are now.  There aren’t many.  More left with the dead.

After that and within the first day or so, there’s a small handful of sixth- and seventh-years old enough to Apparate themselves away and tired or worried about family enough to leave without a second glance.  Minerva wishes them well and turns her attention to the next wave: students with parents or guardians who are still alive, and findable, and sane and well enough to Floo or Apparate in to Hogsmeade to collect them in person.  Parents who aren’t in some sort of custody or wanted by this or the last, not-quite-dismantled Ministry for capture the moment they arrive for their children.

“I am not,” Minerva says on the second day, knuckles very white around her wand and Kingsley Shacklebolt very much in her way, “going to hold children hostage to secure their parents’ arrest.”

“Minerva,” Kingsley says, voice calm and quiet and sad enough that she doesn’t hit him for it, “does it do them any better service to send them home with parents who will be hunted as traitors and murderers the moment they leave?”

Minerva takes a sharp breath to retort and thinks, very abruptly, how much of the last year she has spent spoiling on the very edge of a fight.  Kingsley Shacklebolt is her ally.  He is her friend.  He is not even incorrect.

Minerva’s been a Gryffindor for fifty years.  She has learned in that time that a great many problems cannot be solved via force, combat, or conflict, and found a great many alternate ways to solve them besides.  A year of occupation, a pitched battle, and the bodies of too many students won’t take that from her.

“Very well,” she says, and allows the Order’s Aurors to stand present at the Hogsmeade floos, the designated Apparition points for parental pick-up, and hover generally in the background of every parent-child reunion.

Four days after the battle when the rush quiets, a little fewer than half the students who attended Hogwarts this year are left.  It’s no more than a third of the number that should have been there, but never mind that.  Never mind the groaning, crumbling wreck of Hogwarts Castle, the broken walls and fallen staircases, the gaping holes and cursed booby-traps left in every hall that they ought to be living in now.  Minerva turns away deliberately, keeps the castle to her back, and faces the problem in front of her.

The next set of students, then.  Those whose adults are, for one reason or another, difficult to locate or otherwise...unavailable.

There are ways to find witches and wizards who don’t want to be found, but no adult witch or wizard had survived any amount of time on the run from Voldemort and his Ministry by being easy to track.  Half the parents who appear at Hogwarts over the next few days, Minerva hasn’t actually managed to contact at all--they show up on their own, eager or hopeful or desperate, and she turns their children over gladly.

It took three days after the battle, with all the wizarding world in a shambles as expected, for someone from their side to finally make it out to Azkaban.  It takes days more even to process the prisoners, to treat them for disease and injury, for madness.  Days just to get a list of names, the living and the Kissed and the dead.

Some of them come for their children after that.  Some of them, Minerva scratches off her list of parents with a steady, even stroke of her quill, and adds their children’s names to her list of students whose aunts and uncles and further relatives need to be located and investigated instead.

A week after the last battle, Demelza Robins shows up at the flap of Minerva’s office tent, fists clenched and tear streaks dry on her cheeks, four younger students behind her.  “We’re going to St. Mungo’s,” she says.  “My dad’s the only family I’ve got left.  It’s the same for all of us.  You can’t keep us here.  We’re going.”

“My dear,” Minerva says, rising from her chair, one hand raised to placate.  She freezes quite suddenly when Malcom Baddock raises his wand in a shaky hand.

“You can’t stop us,” he says.  “You can’t.”

Malcom had shared a dormitory room for four years with Matthias Burke and Dominic Rosier, a bathroom with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle and Draco Malfoy, a house with Flora and Hestia Carrow.  Decades ago, his father wore green and silver and sang in the school choir and was so fluid and graceful with his Transfigurations it was a joy to have his class of Slytherins every single year.  Nobody’s seen Sylvester Baddock in three months, for all the word Minerva’s been able to find of him, but if Betty was in Azkaban...Minerva doesn’t hold out much hope.

Malcom has one uncle to Minerva’s knowledge, besides Betty’s Muggle family, but he won’t be coming by to pick his nephew up.  He was already here last week.  He’ll be on the other Azkaban list, as far as she’s aware.  The incoming one.

“Mr. Baddock,” Minerva says gently.  “You cannot possibly stay at St. Mungo’s.  The entire hospital is packed.  I’d be surprised if there’s a spare chair that hasn’t been Transfigured into a cot in the whole place.  Where would you go?”

“Home,” says Demelza.  “Not some hospital without anything familiar or anyone who loves them to help them get better.”

“Children, your parents are in no fit state to take care of you,” Minerva says.  She’s seen the reports on Travis Robins, Betty Baddock, Paul and Angela Hurst.  Edric Fowley, whose family tree hadn’t seen a Muggle in ten generations until he married one.  Poor Emilia Dawlish.

“That’s fine,” Demelza says.  “That’s what we’re for.  We’ll take care of them.”

“We’ll take care of each other,” says Winifred Fowley, very very quietly.  “We don’t need magic for that.”

Minerva should put her foot down and stop this.  Lucas Hurst is only twelve.  What if something goes wrong?  What if their parents are even more broken in mind and spirit than in body?  What if that thrice-damned excuse for an Auror John Dawlish gets out of his own hospital bed before Emilia’s well enough to defend herself?  What if somebody gets hurt?

“We can all stay at Fowley’s place if we have to,” Demelza says.  “Even Baddock.  But we’re leaving now.”

Five fewer children to worry about here, feeling trapped and frightened and plotting ways to escape without doing her the courtesy of a farewell first.  Five more to worry about out in the great wide world without her, but what’s five more on top of that impossible pile?

“Professor Sprout will escort you to St. Mungo’s,” Minerva says, though, Merlin, she needs Pomona here so badly.  But Pomona will have the good sense to bring the children back if need be.  For one afternoon, she’ll make do.

The trickle of incoming parents has turned into a trickle of aunts and uncles and grandparents by the second week, as Minerva pours over lists and writes letters and sends owls and looks for any suitable relative capable of taking care of one or two or four or five children still shaken by the year they’ve survived.  Grace Hawthorne, just barely eighteen, shows up with her great-great-grandmother Jocosa, a hundred and eight, and together they collect Grace’s two younger sisters and every one of the Partridge and Hawthorne cousins.  Minerva lets them do it, even Edna and Toby Partridge who are cousins on the other side and not a drop of Hawthorne blood to them at all.  There are too many students left and too few parents to take them all, and Edna is responsible, and Grace is clever.  They’ll make do as well as anyone else these days.

Not a single child at Hogwarts this year is Muggleborn, but there are two dozen or more who haven’t any family left besides their Muggle relatives, and that’s another horror and a heartache all in itself.  Each child must be hand-delivered by Side-Along Apparition or Floo’ed to some nearby wizarding location and then taken by broomstick or Knight Bus or some Muggle transportation or walked.

James Tuckett’s aunt hadn’t even known her brother was dead until Xiomara Hooch showed up at her front door.  Minerva sits down at her desk and listens to Xiomara relate the story and closes her eyes, and tries not to think about a brick house with a perfectly tailored lawn in Surrey on a night in 1981, when everything had somehow felt so much clearer than this.

Somewhere around the second week, the Aurors--the new Aurors, whatever may be becoming of them under Kingsley’s leadership, after the days of arguing and politicking that Albus surely would have stuck his nose into and Minerva simply doesn’t have time to care about--release a whole flurry of suspects they’ve cleared of the Imperious curse or found reasonably innocent of most probable wrongdoing.  There are dozens of others still awaiting trials that might not be managed for weeks or even months, but in the meantime the new wave of parents is here and furious or desperate or relieved, every one of them overflowing with emotions and very few of those happy.

Minerva finds herself very nearly cursed by Isra Harper nee Shafiq, upon revealing that she’d sent Adam home with his Harper relatives several days prior.  At this point, she is tired enough to barely bat an eye.

That wave clears out a handful of students and two thirds of the Slytherins that are left.  Minerva walks past the color-coded row of House tents, shorter once again than it’s been in days as the remaining students cluster and condense some more, and doesn’t let herself think about school unity or what might even become of Slytherin in the fall.  Doesn’t let herself think about autumn at all, or the falling-down castle behind her, or Septima Vector’s still, cooling body or the tremor in Filius Flitwick’s hand these days.  There’s Fiendfyre in the school somewhere, Potter told her quietly before he left, eating its way through a pocket dimension of magical objects and who knows what other enchantments, and if it’s grown powerful enough feasting it might not stop burning for months.  There are still students here in front of her, and Minerva will see that they’re taken care of before she lets herself fall apart in terror of the future.

By the third week they’re down to just shy of forty students, and Minerva has racked her brain as thoroughly as possible to try and remember what they did at the end of the last war.  Had there been so many orphans, that time?  Hogwarts had been safe, had stayed safe, that entire war.  Surely there must have been students whose parents were murdered as they sat snug in their dormitories.  What had they done then?

It had all been case by case back then, was the trouble, never so many all at once.  But this is no place for children.  It’s no place for adults--Irma Pince is already gone, horror and nightmares behind her eyes, and she’d had to beg Poppy to stay on just until the last child was seen to and sent off.  Aurora Sinistra’s in St. Mungo’s still.  Horace Disapparated within the first day of the battle being over without a second look back.  There’s just Minerva herself, Pomona and Filius and Xiomara and Poppy, Rubeus in his hut and Sibyl holed up inside her tent too shaken to leave, a handful of house elves keeping them all fed over campfires and a handful of Aurors and Order members patrolling the perimeter every day.  It’s not enough.  She misses Severus more than she ever would have thought possible.

She thinks Albus would have done better.  She thinks Albus wouldn’t have done a thing at all, popping down to the new Ministry every single morning and only putting in an appearance here to keep his face in people’s minds, and she’d still be doing everything she is now and then some.  She thinks it would still be better, because then at least they’d have Albus to look to, to believe in, to reassure them that it would all turn out alright though of course he was much too cryptic to say how.  Albus wouldn’t ever explain his full reasoning and he might even be wrong, but at least he’d have an answer.

Well.  If the possession of any answer at all, abstruse or wrong as it might be, is the standard to which Minerva is aspiring, she can certainly provide that herself.  She can do several steps better than that.

She makes a new list from memory, and has to stop herself at the bottom, go back and cross out several names once again.  The Westinburghs are dead.  The Kaleys ran to France the moment George and Miranda left school.  Honorius Hanley was arrested last week, shocking everyone who had the time to care about it.

The Abbotts are in mourning.  The Smiths are in mourning.  The Weasleys are in mourning.  Everybody in the world is in mourning.

There’s a small fireplace in Minerva’s office tent, large enough to firecall from.  She starts at the top of her much-too-short list, and hopes.

Percy Weasley answers the fire at the Burrow, looking gaunt and tired, wrapped in a hand-knit sweater that ought to be much too warm for very nearly June.  “Professor McGonagall,” he says, polite in his surprise.  “What brings you by today?”

“I’m afraid I have a favor to ask of your parents,” Minerva says, and doesn’t miss the flash of stubbornness and rage that calms so quickly on Percy’s face.  She can’t blame him for an instant.

“Don’t you think my parents have done enough?” he asks, clipped and chilly.

“Be that as it may,” Minerva begins.

“Oh, shove over, Percy!”  A moment later he’s elbowed out of the way of the fire, his younger sister taking his place.  “Professor McGonagall.  MUM!  FIRE FOR YOU!”

Minerva controls a wince at the volume and spots Percy failing to quite do the same, though that may be related to the elbow-inflicted bruise he now appears to be rubbing on his side.  Ginny Weasley peers down into the fire with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her sharp, probing eyes.

“What’s going on, Professor?” Ginny asks.

“I’m afraid--” Minerva begins, to put her off, before Percy cuts in.

“That’s Mum and Dad’s business, Ginny,” he says, and Ginny scowls darkly.

“That’s enough from you, Percy,” she says.  “Go see if George needs help in the garden.”

Minerva doesn’t know quite what to expect from that, but it’s not for Percy Weasley to pause and then sink in on himself, becoming a small, quiet thing in the face of his sister’s ire.  He nods at her once, “Professor.”  Then he’s gone.

“Ginny, what on Earth--”  Molly Weasley bustles over with as little cheer and energy as Minerva’s ever seen, but she does smile when she sees whose head is in the fireplace, and Minerva takes it for the kindness it is.  “Minerva, how nice to see you.”

“You as well, Molly.  How is your family?”

Both Weasley women’s expressions darken a bit, though Molly’s brightens back into half-forced cheer after a moment.  “We’re getting by,” she says.  “Charlie’s been staying with Bill and Fleur, not that we don’t have the space, but they didn’t want Shell Cottage standing empty and anyway at least it’s closer than Romania.  They’ll be by for supper in a few hours.”

“I’m glad,” Minerva says with complete honesty, for reasons entirely separate from the impetus for her call.  She leaves it there--Molly wouldn’t thank her for useless platitudes, no matter how true, and she’s a whole list of firecalls to make after this one, too.

“How about Hogwarts, then?” Molly asks briskly.  “Rebuilding efforts beginning and all that?”

Minerva can’t quite contain her flinch this time.  “I’m afraid they haven’t begun.  We’re still...attempting to find appropriate homes for several of the students from last term.”

Molly’s face goes wide with understanding and grief.  Ginny’s sharpens.

“The orphans,” Ginny says, cutting straight to the point.  “How many?”

“Miss Weasley…” Minerva begins, and then finds she doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Hector and Ariadne’s parents died last November, but they’ve an aunt,” Ginny continues.  “I heard about Demelza and her father.  Kitty and Mara Westinburgh?  Who else?”

“There are approximately three dozen students with no relatives on record available to take them in,” Minerva concedes.  “We were hoping...I know this is a terrible time for your family, but Molly…”

Molly wrings her hands in her apron and blinks away a bit of wetness in her eyes.  “Is there anywhere else?” she asks, and then recoils a bit, biting into her bottom lip in shame.

“With three dozen children, and things the way they are, the options for placement…”  Minerva doesn’t think there are three dozen untouched wizarding families today in all of Britain.  And oh, there are plenty of families still standing, still pulling through, but how many can she trust to do right by a child not their own?  Who could she turn to, if not…

“Do you have a list, Professor?” Ginny asks.  “Of the students who are left.  I know most of them, maybe I can help.”

Minerva should protest, but Ginevra Weasley’s eyes are bright and very piercing.  She hasn’t yet turned seventeen.

Minerva hadn’t been able to make an ally out of her, last year.  She hadn’t been willing.  Better that Ginny, that Neville Longbottom, that their whole organization slip by unrecognized and unknown by as many adults as possible.  Minerva couldn’t reveal and didn’t have to be seen to punish what she didn’t know.  She’d set herself as a bulwark facing Severus and the Carrows and done her best never to look over her shoulder at the students behind her, placing all her hope and faith in those children’s ability to protect themselves where she couldn’t.

Perhaps she’d hoped for this, when she firecalled here first.  “Very well,” Minerva says, and reaches through the fire with the list.

Molly goes to take it, far too slow, but only makes the smallest noise of protest when Ginny snatches it away.  “Hmm,” she says.  “You should send Euan Abercrombie off with David Wu, if you can find where their family’s hidden,” she says.  “They’re all Muggles but Euan spent half the past two summers with them, they’ll take him in.  Leslie Bittern…”  She stops quite abruptly.  “Flora and Hestia are still there?”

Out of thirty-eight students on the list in Ginny’s hand, thirteen of them are Slytherins.  The only other House with nearly as many orphans left is Gryffindor.  Flora and Hestia Carrow have barely set foot outside the tent they share with five other girls of their House in weeks.

“Their family members are largely unavailable,” Minerva says, which is the word she’s been using for three weeks to mean arrested, or tortured to insanity, or dead.  In this case it means that she sent Alecto and Amycus to prison with her own wand and not a second thought, that she heard about Agamemnon's defiant last stand with grim satisfaction, that she didn’t think at all about the pair of fifteen-year-old girls in her own keeping until days after word of Calanthe Carrow nee Sauvageon’s suicide began to trickle down the grapevine in her direction.  The Sauvageons, secure in their own chateau somewhere in the wilds of France, have declined to answer her owls.

“I don’t think…” Molly begins hesitantly.

“They’re not evil,” Ginny says, surprising both of them.  “They barely spoke to anyone all year.  They only ever did Cruciatus on command.  Three quarters of the school’s done that.”  She says it bluntly, almost carelessly, like it’s nothing at all to her--like she knows exactly how dizzy, how ill that fact makes Minerva feel, and wants to punish her for it.  “Find them some Mudblood without any other children who won’t take nonsense and quite likes housekeeping and decorating charms.  They like pretty.  Maybe if they learn to bake they won’t turn out like the rest of their family.”

“Ginevra Weasley!” Molly exclaims while Minerva is still a bit boggled by the excellent suggestion.  “To think I’d see the day where I’d hear that word come out of your mouth--”

“What?  Mudblood?” Ginny asks scornfully, and Minerva realizes she hadn’t even noticed.  It hadn’t even made her flinch.  “Do you think I haven’t heard someone say Mudblood a hundred thousand times by now?  Do you think Hestia and Flora Carrow haven’t heard and said worse?  Do you think that’s the worst thing I’ve done?”

“I think your attitude has just about reached the limit of my patience, Ginevra Elaine Iseulte Anna Viviane--”

“We’ll take Samuella Grey and Mortimer Colt,” Ginny interrupts her mother.  “We have to, Mum.  They’ve nowhere else to stay.  They need someplace safe.”

Minerva hadn’t known that either child was particularly close with Ginny.  She’d chosen not to know a lot of things, last year.

“Well,” Molly says.  Then, very briskly after a pause that goes on just slightly too long, “Yes, of course we’ll take them in, and you’ll come right back if there’s more left that need homing after you’ve worked through your other options.  You, meanwhile, young lady--”

“Go to the Longbottoms next,” Ginny says to Minerva, interrupting yet again.  She hands the list back, careful through the fire.  “I know Neville’s got space for at least five or six, and they’ll all trust him, mostly, besides some of the older Slytherins.  Let him pick who to take.  He’ll have a good idea on the others, even the Slytherins, too.”

“Thank you, Miss Weasley,” Minerva says gravely, and means it.  “Molly, thank you.  Please give my regards to Arthur.  Miss Grey and Mr. Colt will be on their way within the next day or so, and I’ll be sure to send word first.”

She pulls back from the fire before the argument she can see brewing in the Weasley living room explodes.  It isn’t kind, to put this extra pressure on their family when they’re already awash with grief and all their own conflicting nightmares.  It isn’t kind to Samuella Grey or Mortimer Colt, to send them among it.  But it’s among the less wretched or cruel options Minerva has available to her.

The Ministry is every bit the shambling wreck that Hogwarts Castle is behind her.  Nobody will find homes for these children if she does not.

So.  The Longbottoms it is, then.  Minerva doesn’t bother to waste any more time, and tosses another pinch of powder into the fire.

Augusta’s in her sitting room with a cup of tea when Minerva pokes her head through the fire, perched with perfect posture on a brocade sofa and arching both eyebrows in question.  “Good afternoon, Minerva.  What brings you calling here?”

“I’ve a matter of some importance to discuss with you and your grandson,” Minerva says, dismissing with any illusion that the children who protected Hogwarts last year might be left out of this conversation at any level.  Out of any conversation, if some of the distant rumors she’s been hearing about Miss Granger and the rebuilding of the Ministry prove true.

Besides, she’ll need Neville Longbottom’s help for this one.

Neville and Augusta both listen seriously, consideringly, to Minerva’s request.  The left side of Neville’s face is nearly entirely healed, aside from the last brown smudge of remaining bruise along his jaw.  The simplest healing charm could have dealt with it weeks ago, but Augusta never could work a decent charm, and Neville knows better than to try to work healing magic on himself.  Of course they wouldn’t have bothered anyone else.

“We’ve the room,” Neville says the moment Minerva’s finished.  “We can probably take six or seven, if we double up, right Gran?  And I can pop back to Hogwarts until everybody has a place to stay and help, I shouldn’t have just left right after the battle like that--”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Longbottom,” Minerva cuts in smoothly, before she ends up with Neville and Augusta both moving into the dormitory tent city this very afternoon.  “We’re far more interested in moving people out than back in.  In fact, Miss Weasley suggested that you might be very valuable in coming up with suggestions for which students we might be able to house where.”

“Let’s see the list, then,” Augusta beckons for it.  “Hmph.  You’ve a Smith on here--”

“Half-blood on her mother’s side, I’m afraid,” Minerva sighs.  “No relation.”

“Nonsense, as though that clan’s ever met a Muggleborn Smith they haven’t adopted or married instantly to keep their monopoly on the name,” Augusta says.  “You’ll owl Aspasia tonight.”

“It’s true, Zacharias did keep a bit of an eye out for her, as much as he did for anyone,” Neville says, more derision in his tone than she would have thought, a year ago, that Neville Longbottom could possess.  “We should take Vigi Thorston.  And Valdis, too, I suppose, I think if her brother’s here she won’t likely go after the other kids.” 

It isn’t a surprise that Vigi Thorston, tiny Gryffindor that he is, caught Longbottom’s eye last year, but his older sister is rather more of unexpected.  Valdis is Slytherin through and through, and quite a bit crueler with it than the Carrow twins ever managed.  “Are you sure?”

“She loves him,” Neville says confidently.  “They should stay together, and you can’t put Vigi in a house without other Gryffindors around, or people who can’t handle her, they’ll both go mad.”

“Alice’s second cousin Joshua married a Thorston,” Augusta agrees briskly.  “That’s enough to make us family, I should think.  Who else?”

There’s a curse and a blessing to teaching at Hogwarts for so many years, and it’s the ability to see an ever-lengthening string of parents and cousins and ancestors stretching out behind every new student to cross Minerva’s eye.  She’s known for years that Neville has Frank’s gentleness and patience, Alice’s sheer grit under pressure.  She’s never looked for Augusta in him except as a somewhat sharp-edged element of his upbringing, and that, Minerva reflects, was a mistake.  Neville and his grandmother dissect her list like so much mincemeat, easily comparing and confirming Augusta’s encyclopedic knowledge of wizarding lineages and current alliances with Neville’s apparently equally encyclopedic understanding of every first through seventh year student at Hogwarts last year.

“What’s this about Boot, anyway?” Neville asks, turning back to Minerva as though she’s been at all useful to the past fifteen minutes of conversation doing anything other than jotting very quick notes.  “He was a seventh-year.  He’s of age.”

“Of age, but still entirely without a place to go,” Minerva explains.  “There was a fire no more than a month before the final battle.  The Boot ancestral home was destroyed, and all living relatives perished.”  Little wonder the Longbottoms hadn’t heard.  Terence hadn’t known it himself until two days after the battle, when his fifth attempt to Floo home failed and he risked his wobbly Apparation skills to get there.  “He is still a Hogwarts student, adult or not.”

As though any seventh-year, any eighteen-year-old, ought to be considered an adult.  Boot is hardly the only would-be graduate to find himself floundering without a place in this post-war world.  No fresh new Ministry positions awaiting this year’s crop of students.  Nobody was prepared for this.

“Merlin,” Neville curses quietly.  “Why didn’t he owl?  He can stay here too, no question, or with Michael, maybe, if they don’t ask Mrs. Corner about it first.  Michael says his nightmares’ve come back as bad as they were last winter, and his mother’s been fretting, but he reckons half of it’s just not being able to hear the others snoring to know they’re alright.  He and Terry’re close, he should go there.  I’ll let Michael know about it soon as we’re done here.”

“I don’t believe Mr. Boot would wish to be a burden,” Minerva tempers cautiously, before poor Mr. and Mrs. Corner find themselves promised into taking on an additional traumatized teenager to accompany the one they’ve already got at home without a single word of warning.  It may well be the best place for Terence Boot, but not without a welcome from those that would host him.

“It’ll be better for both of them.  As soon as Michael knows about Terry’s family, I’m sure he’ll Apparate back up to Hogwarts and drag him back himself.”  Neville nods, as though he considers the matter closed, and Minerva suspects it very likely is.  “Who’s left on the list?”

“Alexander Okafor,” Augusta reports.  “As well as Delphine and Roland St. Croix, Surendra Tamboli, and Nikias Selwyn.”

“Send Alex to Hannah,” Neville suggests.  “It’s just her and her dad, but Alex is quiet, and he thinks Hannah’s brilliant.  Delphine and Roland should be fine anywhere, just keep them apart whatever you do or they’ll rip each other to pieces.  I’d say bring Surendra here, I don’t think he’d had the chance to make more than one or two friends in the whole country before he started Hogwarts last year, but can’t have him and the Thorstons in the same house--have you tried owling his great-uncle in Maharashtra?”

“The Tambolis have been a cornerstone of the magical plant trade in Great Britain for four centuries,” Augusta scoffs.  “If the Ketteridges don’t admit they owe that family far more than a few months of childcare, I should think Douglas Ketteridge will be hearing a few of my opinions about it.”

“So long as they speak Marathi,” Neville says, relieved, and Minerva makes a note.  “If you could just drop Selwyn over a cliff somewhere we’d all be better off, but barring that, better find him somewhere without small children or pets.”

“Travers,” says Augusta.  “Not the good-for-nothing side of the family, the ones with a sense of honor.  They’ll be sharp enough with him.”

Minerva shudders to think of the sort of parenting Augusta Longbottom might consider ‘sharp enough’ for the son of two Death Eaters.  She shudders to think what Nikias Selwyn might have gotten up to this past year that she’d never known about, considering the things she had.

“Thank you,” she says instead.  “This has been more valuable than you know.”

“Of course, Minnie,” Augusta says, as easily, dismissively generous as she’d been when she was sixteen and Minerva the twelve-year-old needing guidance.  “You’re free to come to us at your leisure.”

“I really shouldn’t have left,” Neville says, expression darkening once again.  “I’m sorry, Professor, I didn’t think.  Tell Terry I’m sorry, will you?  I’ll tell him myself when I see him.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Longbottom,” Minerva assures him.  “You have gone far above and beyond in your attempts to protect the students of Hogwarts this year.  That so many are safe and sound enough to go to any homes this year at all is very much thanks to you.  I’m so grateful that you’re willing to assist yet again.”

He blushes, which Minerva is somewhat comforted to see that Neville is still capable of, even after everything.  “It’s nothing anyone wouldn’t do,” he says to her chin and a bit of the hearthstones near the fireplace.

“Nonsense,” says Augusta, clapping one hand over her grandson’s shoulder rather harder than probably necessary.  “There’ll be another Order of Merlin on the mantle before long once they get the Ministry sorted out, I should think.  Is there anything else, Minerva?”

It only makes Neville blush harder, for all Minerva suspects it’s quite true--she’ll certainly put her voice behind it, should the question come to her--and Minerva reconsiders even asking the question tickling at her curiosity.  It’s not as though she needs to know, but...they’re her students.

“Mr. Longbottom,” she says, not quite as casually as she’d hoped, though she doesn’t think the embarrassed boy on the sofa notices.  “It did catch my attention that, while you suggested several of your fellow sixth and seventh-years from Dumbledore’s Army to host younger students of their acquaintance, Miss Lovegood’s name was not among them.  Is she quite alright?”

“Oh, no--I mean yes, Professor, as far as I know she’s fine.”  Neville trips over his own words like he’s thirteen again, finally looking up from his knees with wide eyes and the look of having been caught out at something.  “She’s had a hard year, that’s all--I mean…”  He catches himself short, lost in the obviousness of the difficult year every single member of the wizarding world has had together.  “I just don’t know that it would be a good idea,” he says.  “There’s enough space elsewhere.  Luna’s fine, though.  She’s planning on heading back to Hogwarts in fall.”

It’s Minerva’s turn to try to control her facial expression, her flinch.  The more people she speaks to, the more questions there are about the coming autumn.  She’ll need to be able to answer them sooner rather than later.

“It’s good to hear that she’s well,” Minerva says.  “Good day, Augusta, Mr. Longbottom.  Thank you once again.”

She pulls back from the fireplace, sheet of notes in hand.  It’s a plan.  It’s a good one.  She ought to be able to arrange this lot in less than a week.

Less than a week left of having students on Hogwarts grounds.  She’d best get to work.

[futurewriter2000]

Because I hate you the most ~ pt. 5

A/N: So I am done and ready to take the shower already. I didn’t really read it through so idk how it ended up but tell me in my askbox. Thank you @rosegoldquintis for distracting me from it..smh...no jk loved your live vid and @sly-vixen-up2nogood hope you like the angs. I didn’t edit any so it could be better but I hope you like this too.

WARNING: Yeah...I didn’t read it through so sorry. 

TAGS: @all1496,  @siriusly-loves-snuffles, @slither-in-a-half, @nadinissavage, @shadyladyperfection, @geeksareunique, @ashkuuuu, @xinyourdreamsx, @maralisa124, @loserslytherpuff, @chloe-geoghegan1, @musekala, @moonysmilkshake, @crispyfrenchfrieschrusis, @unicorn-sparkles123, @queenofravenclaw05, @redhead-weasley, @fashionlive15, @quokkatrash, @bennie-badeend, @sly-vixen-up2nogood, @rosegoldquintis

Other parts —> MASTERLIST

(requests are closed)

xx

‘ He was the most profound wizard of his century, creating potions that can today be found in each and every corner of the Wizarding world. George, his son-’ you stopped reading and retraced the sentence once again. “ Gregory, his son...” you sighed and started reading silently again ‘ ... followed his footsteps in his early age but fell on dark parts after finishing his school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. George- Gregory joined the dark force in London, where he was heavily wanted and hunted by the Ministry of Magic and after traveling to Russia, he became wanted there as well. George-’ you got irritated by now. “ Gregory!” you shouted and started to read out loud. “ ...became one of the most talented and powerful Potion masters in the dark side, an idol to the very know Dark Lord himself of the 20th century.” you finished and pushed the book away.

‘Gregory. His name was Gregory, not George. Get it through your thick head (y/n).’ you scolded yourself as your head was buried deep in your pillow.

----

The boys laughed with their little sister, loudly and gripping their stomach. “ Come now, Ronikins. It was only a joke.” Fred ruffled Ron’s hair as he shoved him back aggressively.

“ It was a horrible joke!” Ron grew red and Ginny tried to sympathize.

“ If it makes you feel any better, they’ve done worse to other students here.” she smiled and George winked at her.

“ Yeah. Easy for you to say, you’re their favorite. You don’t even have a nickname from them.” Ron grumbled.

“ Now, that is not true.” George chuckled. “ (y/n) has a nickname. She’s our Lil Ginnykins, I guess.” he laughed but quickly stopped as the others didn’t laugh along. Both Ginny and Ron quirked an eyebrow at them as Fred just spread his eyes wide.

“ (y/n)?” Ron asked and glanced at Ginny, who shared the same expression. “ As in (y/n) Malfoy?”

“ What?” George became confused and tried to laugh it off, looking for some saving from his brother, who only sat quietly.

“ You said: (y/n) has a nickname.” spoke Ginny, glancing between him and Fred.

“ You said (y/n) instead of Ginny.” added Ron.

“ I did no such thing. Right, Fred?” he looked at Fred who was kind of in a conflict right now. “ Fred?” George grew serious now, glancing between all three of them.

Ginny’s expression suddenly grew soft due to her brother’s confusion. It was like she was somehow looking at a new, completely different person. She sighed and got up from the ground, sitting up next to George and taking his hand. “ I’m sorry.” she spoke softly and George simpered, wanting to laugh but cry at the same time.

“ It’s not like we had anything special, Gin.” he pulled away from his hand from her and stood up. “ She’s a Malfoy-”

“ Is she really though?” Fred interrupted, getting on his feet as well. “ She’s Sirius biological daughter. For all, we know she can leave the Malfoys and-”

“ (y/n) would never leave Draco!” George raised his voice a bit, tuning it down at how loud he spoke. “ I know her, Fred. She and Draco maybe don’t get along much but she would never leave him. It wouldn’t feel right.”

----

‘ GREGORY was soon found by the best worldwide Aurors. Captured and sent to Azkaban he spent his last days there, finally defeated by the Dementors on April 7th, 1990.’  you continued to read finally closing the book with a loud thud and entering the classroom.

But...

“ Miss. Malfoy, please take a seat next to Mister Weasley. He needs to be far away from his brother, especially in my class.” Professor McGonagall ordered and you continued to stand there, glancing between your seat and the professor. “ Is there a problem?” she asked, looking at you with her enormous round eyes and thin lips.

“ N-no, professor.” you shook your head and shot your gaze at the ground, walking up to your seat.

You sat down, placing your books on the desk carefully and trying not to look at him. It was impossible however because he kept looking at you as if he turns away now, he won’t see you anymore.

You still looked the same. The same cheeks he once placed his hands on, the same nose which crinkled whenever he made you laugh and the same hair he loved playing with. The same smell as well, which charmed its way to his lungs, wanting him to breathe it every second of the day. Yet one thing he couldn’t be sure of were your eyes. Your eyes that try so hard to not look at his.

And you fought to try and stay focused on the board and the words professor McGonagall spoke but as soon as his hand touched your thigh, you turned away. Firstly at his hand on your thigh, secondly, shotting up to his eyes.

He was close, simpering when he finally saw your eyes. “ I’m sorry. “ he spoke quietly and in a whisper.

Your cheeks grew red and your thigh grew hot where his hand was placed, causing your heart to fall out of its normal heart rate. Your hand was all of a sudden on top of his, holding it. “ I’m sorry too. I should have never said what I did about your family.”

“ I should have never said I hated you... because I don’t. I really don’t.” he continued to whisper and you smiled, looking up at him. “ And if we weren’t in Minnie’s class right now, I’d show you how much I don’t hate you.” he spoke seductively by now, causing you to snort.

“ Just...shut up.” you pushed his hand away from your thigh and looked up at the board, pretending to listen but really just watching him from the corners of your eyes.

---

“ So you and Sirius?” he asked as both of you were lying on the cold and wet grass, his head on your stomach as you kept yours on your bag.

“ I still haven’t forgiven him. “ you replied as your fingers kept wandering through his messy hair. “ I don’t know what he thinks...I just know I need time.” you paused. “ And you.”

“ Good. “ he smiled softly, taking your hand and kissing the back of it. “ Cuz I need you too.”

---

But as everything seemed to be calm and perfect for a day...it soon proved to be wrong.

“ HIM!!” his voice roared in the room as you flinched. “ THAT BOY IS NOTHING BUT A BLOOD TRAITOR!”

“ Dad, please!” you tried to reason but he didn’t listen.

“ YOU COME FROM A PURE LINE! PURE FAMILY! PURITY! WEALTH! I WILL NOT TO SEE YOU MARRY A WIZARD LIKE HIM!���

“ A wizard like him! We are all the same!”

“ No, we are not! We are more powerful! We are- we are wittier and wiser, smarter and braver, we are the FUTURE!”

“ How can you say that!?” you stared at him in disbelief.

“ You’ll marry someone ours. Rowles’ nephew.”

“ WHAT!!!” you screamed at him. “ He’s 24 years old! And he lives Scotland!” you continued to shout but your father didn’t listen.

“ YOU WILL MARRY WHOEVER I WANT YOU TO MARRY DO YOU UNDERSTAND!! I TOOK YOU IN! AN ORPHAN! WITHOUT ME YOU WOULDN’T BE ALIVE! WITHOUT ME YOU WOULDN’T HAVE THE CLOTHES YOU WEAR NOR THE WEALTH YOU HAVE! I TOOK YOU IN (Y/N) ALENNA MALFOY!!! YOU ARE NOT HIS! YOU’RE MY DAUGHTER! MINE! YOU STOPPED BEING LAYLA BLACK THE MOMENT HE TURNED HIS BACK ON YOU!!”

You were now staring up at his storm-flooded grey eyes and standing against the desk, clawing it.

“ Rosier. He’s only two years older than you and has been great in the wizarding business. He’s noble and honest. No Rowles.” he spoke quietly now, avoiding your gaze. “ Leave the Blood traitor. Understood? “

“ Understood.”

----

All of it was too much all of a sudden. How could you tell the boy you told not long ago you needed him....to....to tell him you’re marrying somebody else.

You did know Rosier. Eadric was...well, he was Eadric. Tall, lanky boy with light brown hair and green eyes. He had a nice smile but since you have known him, he was always quiet. That was of course before he went to Durmstrang to study the dark arts. He always fancied you, no doubt, so guess he kind of profits from this while you... well you have to tell someone to stop loving you.

“ Love?” his soft chuckle awoke you from your thoughts and you looked over at him. “ You haven’t heard a word I said, have you?” he chuckled once again and you removed yourself from his embrace. His warm, safe embrace that you knew was the last.

“ We need to talk.”

“ Uff...sounds serious.” he smiled and took a hold of your hands to which you only pulled away. “ Love?”

“ We need to end this.” you started but he only stared, waiting for you to crack a smile and say you’re joking because you must be joking. You must. You must not be serious right now.

“ No.”

“ George.”

“ No!” he shouted and stood up. “ You are not doing this to me! Not again!! I mean how could you!”

“ You don’t understand!”

“ Bullshit, (y/n)! “ he retorded back. “ He found out, didn’t he?” he asked and you stayed quiet. He scoffed. “ I bloody knew it! What did he say, huh? Say I’m a blood traitor?! Say I’m poor and not wealthy!? Did he offer you some deal, dome offer, WHAT!!?”

“ NO! HE JUST STATED THE FACTS, GEORGE!” you screamed back. “ He’s family and you out of all people should understand how important family is!!”

“ Not that family! Not the Malfoys! They are nothing but dirtbags!”

“ Is that what you think of us? Is that what you think of me?” you spoke amazed.

“ You know you’re not them. You’re Siri-”

“ Don’t! Don’t even try to say it, George, because I’m not! I’m not his daughter not for at least 14 years now.”

“ And what?! Lucius Malfoy is!?!”

“ YES! For your information he is! He is the one who raised me! He is the one to teach me to be brave and be bold but also be careful and be smart! Be witty and be ambitious! Be kind yet be ready!” you shouted at him and he scoffed once again. “ Family is not just blood, Weasley! It’s loyalty!” you spat out harshly and he stared amazed.

“ Weasley? So now I’m not worth even my name?”

“ IT’S NEVER ABOUT THE NAMES!! Don’t you understand!?”

“ No, I don’t so please enlighten me!”

“ I cannot turn my back on the family who sacrificed their reputation and their time to raise me in the best possible way. Who gave me food on the table and a warm bed to sleep in. I cannot trade them for a man who turned his back on me and left. And I will definitely not trade it for a boy who can tear me from them.” you spoke calmly now, watching as tears started to gather in both of your eyes.

“ So now?” his voice started to shake, his eyes shedding tears one by one.

“ Now I leave.” you replied and grabbed the bag from his bed, walking over to the door and reaching for the doorknob.

“ You know what, (y/n)?” he sobbed, standing at his bed. “ I’m glad we ended this because now I realized just how stupid I was to be with you in the first place. Because I hate your family. I hate your father and your brother and -and- and ..” he paused for a moment and a tear rolled down your cheek. “ And because I hate you the most.”