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Chapter Text

1981

Lily Evans was dead. 

Or, she was assumed dead. It was more of a paralysis, really. She could feel the way her blood still pumped, sluggish, through her veins; feel the slight thump of her heart as it tried its best to beat. To give her life. 

It had been too quick. All of it had been too quick. 

Regulus had risen from the dead. Sent urgent message of something that needed immediate discussion. 

James and Sirius had run off to see him. 

Walking into a trap, probably. But they'd been sure. They had been so very sure. And Lily trusted them; she trusted them more than she trusted herself sometimes, if she was being well and truly honest. Especially this past year, when the paranoia buzzed like a constant itch beneath her flesh. Out of reach but unforgettable; something that could not be ignored —could not be forgotten.

She was left alone at home behind a plethora of spells, the wards nearly buzzing with how much power she, James and Sirius had poured into them. 

And she'd forgotten her wand downstairs. On the kitchen counter. Next to the spilt formula and the dent from where Sirius had chipped a tooth trying to catch her favourite mug. 

The mug had not survived, but Sirius had. 

One year, and already their home had so much warmth; had so much life. Their house was a home. It was one of the only things James had ever —not fought her on, really; but had been hesitant of. A smaller home. Lily had always wanted somewhere on the smaller side; somewhere to inject with warmth in every possible nook. She'd never wanted there to be any cold corners. She wanted her house to feel like a home, lived in and loved and warm. She'd never seen James' home; times had been too dark for that. But she knew —she knew he had grown up in a large mansion of a place, as was typical of pureblood children. Perhaps it was selfish, but she didn't want that for Harry.

Harry, who had started crying, and she'd been trying to get back to him, frazzled and on edge. Something had seemed wrong. All evening, all week, all year. It was like her brain couldn't turn off. And well, now she knew why, didn't she? 

All those days, hours, weeks even —spent worrying and worrying and worrying; James holding her, soothing her, trying to gentle her through it all when she felt as though she was losing her mind a little. A lot, actually. The paranoia had not been for naught. 

In fact, it seemed, the paranoia was fucking spot on. 

She still didn't know what she'd done to earn the personal ire of Voldemort himself, but she must've been an absolute bitch in her last life. She promised to be a bigger one in her next. Piss off a few more dark lords. Avenge her young, twenty-one year old self for this. No twenty-one year old deserved this.  

But her next life didn't seem to be coming. And she was frozen on the floor and she was in James' arms and he should've been warm, but he wasn't. She couldn't feel anything. She couldn't feel that warmth that would wrap around her and soothe her like balm on her aches. That warmth she knew so very well; that warmth —so very grounding when the world was slipping away from her. It was like a torture worse even than the death that wouldn't come; not being able to feel it. Not being able to relish in the comfort it would've brought. She couldn't move her eyes. Couldn't so much as twitch when she heard Regulus' voice crack and quiver.

Cool, unshakeable Regulus Black, whimpering and broken apart on her nursery floors. The only person she'd have ever had to —to battle? Battle didn't seem the correct word. But she hadn't wanted James' affections. Not in the beginning. And she had been happy for Regulus, cheering him on, even when he seemed in a predicament similar to hers. But it wasn't; hadn't been. His hesitance to return James Potter's affections were much more grounded in fear than hers had been. His want had been much more potent than hers had been, despite his mask. 

Fake, fake mask. Like porcelain. Beautiful; so easily shattered. So easily shattered, and he'd pick it back up and piece it back together with tape and glue and spit and wear it like a mark of pride. Wear it like he wouldn't find her in the darkest corners of the greenhouses after the most terrible rows with his big brother and beg for some kind of warmth; and beg to be held —just a little. Just until the mask could piece itself back together. Just until he could breathe again. Like a child. He was only a child.

They'd all only been children. They were still children. 

And Lily had an older sister, didn't she? Lily had an older sister who scorned her very existence for things out of her control and what more could she do than hold him in the corners of the greenhouses and rock him and give him that warmth he needed when things had gotten so very cold? When they held each other like the children they were and mourned the loss; and despaired over the rage of those who were supposed to protect them; love them; support them. A little brother and a little sister, crying for their older siblings. 

He could never go to James; that was a slippery slope. Could never get to James anyway, because Sirius needed just as much soothing after those very same rows. And James could love anyone as much as he wanted; it was different with Sirius. No one would ever claim the spot that Sirius had. Not even the love —loves?— of his life. 

And now Regulus was falling apart on the floors of her nursery, in front of the man he loved but could never get and the man who loved her but she'd never wanted. And he was trembling like the cold —the cold that he'd run from so desperately— was creeping in and numbing his limbs and she could see and she could hear; she could perceive. But she could not sit up and open her arms and welcome Regulus into her space and soothe the chills with silly little muggle stories; by teaching him about the flowers she loved so very dearly. 

They'd always wanted to plant a garden together. Something they'd joke about because they knew it was something they could never have. What fun it had been to dream. 

It seemed the brink of death reminded her of unactualised dreams. If she could speak, she'd use her dying breath to ask him to plant her a garden. 

If she could speak, she'd ask James to hold her tighter until the warmth penetrated the ice that seemed wrapped around her. 

If she could speak, she'd call for Mary —who she knew was here somewhere— and right the wrongs she'd brought upon herself. With her cowardice. Everyone had always prided her on her straightforward nature. The way she spat fire and took what she wanted. The way she stood tall and never backed down. 

In the end, she was too much of a coward to take what she really wanted, and let herself be pulled into what society considered right. Correct. She'd chosen correctly, in the end, hadn't she? Because correct was a tall strong man, and not the softness of curves and curls that smelt like heaven and delicate fingers trailing skin. Right was in that white picket fence life with two children and a perfect husband. Was not, could never be in a woman. Not for a woman, at least. 

She knew she was set gently back on the floor, let out of that embrace she could recognise even without the sense of touch —but she couldn't feel it. She could hear the flutter of wings —of Mary hiding in the wardrobe in the corner. She'd been on the phone with Mary when the wards had been breached. She didn't know how Mary had gotten here so quickly. She was really rather grateful. She wanted to see her face again, should it be her last time. 

She didn't know what Death was doing; whether this was boon or bane. Whether he thought this mercy of malignance. She didn't know why she was still alive. It was the killing curse that had been directed at her. She shouldn't be alive —even in the barest sense of the word. 

She didn't know what had happened to Voldemort; just remembered the surge in her veins and the distant sound of song and the rock of the room in too much light. 

Her blood was like ice and fire both, running through her veins. She could feel the edges where her sanity was beginning to fray, even just a little. Where her lifeblood was stilling. But it wasn't. 

Yet all her eyes could see was James crawling over to Regulus, and the ache in his eyes when Regulus scrambled away from his touch, when he'd always caved so easily; a moth to flame. Chasing the light even in destruction. All she could see was the grooves Regulus was carving into his skin as he cried and berated himself for all of it being his fault. All she could see was the scars running up his arm, peaking out of the collar of his robes and up on the side of his neck. 

Like he'd been ripped apart and stitched back together. 

She wanted so very badly to hold him; soothe him; run a hand through his hair and work the delicate little braids into them. So many secrets hidden in those dark, dark corners of the greenhouses. So many tears. So many wishes, buried in the dirt of the plants and the dark of their hearts. So many dreams and wants and hopes. So many unsaid words —words meant for specific people —an older brother; an older sister— that would never be said. 

She could only watch James' patience snap, despite his promise to hold Regulus through it all eventually, and she wanted to smile. Because, that was it, wasn't it? 

Regulus got to see James; the good and the bad —the ugly sides of him. Even when all he chose to see was the good. At least he was given choice. 

Lily wasn't ever allowed James' ugly sides. Sirius was, Remus was, Peter was. Regulus was. She had never been given that choice

Lily wasn't allowed choice. Like a visitor in a home that wasn't hers. Lily didn't get to see the meat and flesh and blood of what made up her husband —her husband. The man she chose to marry and spend the rest of her life with. The one right choice she had made. All she saw was the skin and bone and that charming smile he'd flash. All she saw was that carefully curated side of him meant to please. Please her. 

Years of cat and mouse; of chase and evade; of wanting and running. And still she'd chosen him. Because he was a good man. 

Such a good man. Cooked for her taste rather than his own because her tongue —her stomach could not handle the spices he was so very fond of. Did anything —everything that was asked of him. Let her choose the sheets, the drapes, the dishes; the house. He cooked, cleaned, provided, loved. He even changed Harry's nappies. Any and everything. He did and did and did. Anything she could want. Anything she could ask. Doted on her, adored her, pleased her. 

Loved her. 

He loved her and she loved him and yet. And yet. 

He loved her and she loved him and still she wondered —they loved each other. Were they ever in love? She was beginning to like Death less and less. She'd made peace with her choices; why must he dredge them from the deepest parts of her soul now?

Because that was what was right, wasn't it? They were right. Correct. They were what was expected. James was charming, he was good looking. He was from a light aligned family and was a good person. She'd seen his ugly, but only from afar and only when he couldn't yet shield over it. 

She'd seen his ugly in Severus upside down and stripped nearly bare. But then, she'd seen Severus' ugly, as well. At least she'd been privy to that. And that still hurt. A sore spot she promised herself she'd never touch again. Look at her poking at it. Would she cry in death? Would her malfunctioning body allow that? Didn't matter, the ugly existed. In James, in Severus, in Regulus. In her. The ugly persisted in its existence despite being unwanted. 

And then she'd seen the ugly disappear. Run away. Leave this world behind. She'd seen the ugly replaced so completely with this beautiful, wonderful, kind man. And she'd given in. And she'd yearned for the ugly to come back after. Just a little. Just enough for her to see it; feel it; remember it. Remember that James was just as human as she was. He felt inhuman sometimes; untouchable. So very far away. Like a doll; like some idea of perfection she felt could fix all the wrong choices she'd made. Like some idea of strength that would be strong enough to hold her up in the crumbling of her conformity. 

Because that was what she had done. She had conformed. She had chosen the path of ease; the path that would be applauded; the path that would be accepted. Because she had been scared. She had been terrified. She'd grown up in the Muggle world; spent much of her time there, even during her Hogwarts years. She knew of the wrongs of her wants, so she'd locked them away tightly in a little box and chosen the conventionally correct path. 

And she'd ended up married to a perfect porcelain doll of a man who waited on her hand and foot and loved her in every possible way except the way she wanted to be loved. And she loved him in every way —except the way he needed to be loved. 

She'd not even seen him cry at his parents' funeral, too busy flittering about and consoling anyone else who was crying over his dead parents, like he wasn't their son and he hadn't just been orphaned. He'd disappeared for nearly a week after that, sequestered off somewhere with Sirius, she had assumed then. Letting the ugly out; shedding the skin and giving the human room to breathe before that mask locked itself back in place. And then he was back, and in a couple months they were getting married, smiles and declarations of love and they did love each other. They loved each other so much. Lily just —she could never tell whether or not they were in love. A doubt, a question; a need for truth she had never once voiced —had never allowed to leave the confines of her mind. 

Because he'd wanted her for years and he was reformed and he was really quite handsome. And he was right. That was what was expected right? 

Marry a good man, settle down, have a child. 

Lily shouldn't have expectations. Wants. She shouldn't want to go out there and put herself first and explore the world before settling down. And she definitely could not do all of that with her best friend, could she? Because it wasn't like she'd been thrown into a world of magic she didn't know existed when she was only eleven. And then tugged into a war she wanted no part of when she was sixteen. From school to marriage to child-bearing. Never a moment for herself. Never a moment to see what this beautiful, magical world had to offer her. Perhaps if she'd taken a little time to figure out who the fuck she was, she'd get to see the human hiding behind the smile; she'd have been brave enough to reach out and take what she wanted; what she wanted hovered out of reach yet, even in death—fluttery and nervous and probably heartbroken and she was hiding in a closet. Beautiful omen wasn't it? Sometimes Lily wanted to spit in the faces of these Ancients she'd been taught about. 

Times had been —were still; she was dying on the floor— dire, anyway. There was no point in travelling with the world in darkness; covered in the shadow of war. The world she would never get to see, but James was born into. Was it wrong to be jealous? Because she was jealous. But there was no point in envy now, just as there had been no point in envy then.

So she'd taken the path of expectation. Because James was a changed man and he would flash her that smile and they had everything they needed for a successful marriage after a couple years of friendship; of communication. There was attraction, and there was trust and there was love.

So much love. 

James Potter always had so much love. He loved in entirety. He loved so wholly, that when his love belonged to someone, it could not be split; could not be broken; would not fade. When James Potter loved, he loved for life. 

And Lily had not been the love of his life. Lily was the idea of perfection that he wanted, needed, yearned for. They were a gorgeous couple, a perfect couple. They had a beautiful child. They might've had another one. And if she could have, she'd have stretched her hand out and placed it on her stomach.

Another secret that would die with her. It hadn't been long, she wasn't even completely certain; until she was. She had been waiting for the right time; a bit difficult to find in the middle of a war. James would've been so excited. They would have both been so excited. 

As much as she'd wanted to explore the world, when she'd found out she was pregnant; when she'd seen Harry's squished little face, and her own eyes blinking back at her; when she felt his weight, his warmth —small enough to be cradled completely against the length of her forearm, she'd realised she would gladly accept prison over freedom if it meant she got to love her child —her children. And her eyes burnt now, with the need to shed tears. To mourn her unborn child; to express gratitude for Harry's life. 

If James had known, would he have been consolable at all? Was it the loss of a child that would have let her seen his ugly? Would she have been given that, even on the brink of death? She wanted to be reminded her husband was human; that she'd married a man —not an idea of a man. 

Sirius was the one who held James together after the news of Regulus' death. Because that was not Lily's role in James' life. Lily's role was the role of happy wife who was waited on and attended to and was suffocated under the love of a husband so pure it burnt sometimes. 

And it was never because James thought her incapable. It was just because James was so good, he saw the trivialities of this world beneath her. He would probably carry her everywhere if he could because she was too good to walk upon the earth. Treat her like a queen; a goddess upon this tainted earth. The one pure thing left in existence. 

Because when James Potter loved, he did it right, didn't he?

And he forgot. He forgot that she didn't need that. And he forgot what he needed. That he needed to take a step back sometimes. That he needed to breathe. That he needed to break. That he couldn't be perfect. He forgot that she needed a partner, not a servant. That he could be loved without having to serve. That he could be loved without having to prove it; fight for it; earn it. James Potter forgot that he was so easy to love. 

He forgot that he needed to be loved sometimes rather than give love all the time. He would never run out of love to give, but he would have run out of life without enough love.

And Lily loved him. God, she loved him, and she wanted to strangle him in the same breath.

Because he loved her, and he'd never once in his life snapped at her. Never shown her —personally— the human hiding behind all those ploys at perfection. She'd had to fight to glimpse it in the slightest. 

She was almost grateful when her vision began dimming. When sound became muffled. When the life had well and truly begun ebbing from her in full. These contemplations were really too much right now. It was painful. She didn't want to think of her mistakes —she wanted salvation, not damnation. 

Perhaps Regulus would get to see the human hiding behind everything else. The Blacks were always a special case; James' exceptions. 

Perhaps in this next life of hers, she'd be who she chose rather than the Lily Evans the world had chosen. Perhaps she'd get to see the world this time. Perhaps she could do that, find her place that didn't involve settling down. Not until she was ready.

Perhaps Mary would accompany her. 

She'd like that very much. 

With her dying vision, she saw the black of beauty hovering over her. With her dying breath, she heard an angel singing in panic, pure as the love she had been given by James Potter, and she yearned for this so much more.

Mary held her and hugged her and cried. 

Cried tears, cried out. Cried for Lily, for herself. For the little boy who would grow up without a mother. For the light on this earth that had been extinguished. 

She cried and cried and cried; screaming, pleading. Begging the Ancients for a miracle and cursing them in the same breath, because the dead stayed fucking dead and then gasping in the middle of a hiccup when she felt the barest beat of a heart beneath her ear. 

Because the dead might've stayed dead, but Lily Evans wasn't dead; not yet. 

There was hope. She didn't know how. Didn't want to guess how; didn't spare a single moment even trying to craft theories. She'd heard the call of the killing curse over the din of the phone being dropped. Heard Lily's screams; the pleading. She'd apparated without even being fully conscious of what she'd done. The wards were already down. She was here first. 

And she'd hidden. She didn't know why her first instinct was to hide when the boys came barging in, but she'd hidden. Panicked and frenzied and trying to reconcile the thought of Lily laughing at the way James had lit up at the thought of Regulus being alive, with the thought of Lily growing cold, body still and lifeless on the floor. Her fingers —hell, her entire being, straight down the the marrow of her bones had been trembling with a terror so true she couldn't think through it. 

Because there were no thoughts left to be had. Thoughts were undeserved when Lily was not breathing; when she was not alive. When she was not blessing the earth with her presence. Warmer than the sun; more precious than light. More precious than life. Mary had stayed. She had stayed and continued to endure this torture because she'd rather the torture than have forgotten Lily. She stayed when she could've run. Trapped herself when escape was within reach. Leashed herself to a fiery fox of a woman she would give her soul simply to hold. Breathe in her presence. Smell the wildflowers in her hair, and hear the ring of her laughter and taste the fragrance of her perfume that seemed to linger in the ear. Just to see her smile; genuine happy smiles. Smiles that were love and they were light and they were something so damn precious. The way her eyes glowed; less like the wizard magicks they'd been taught and more like the fairytale magic they'd grown up idealising. 

There was something so beautiful about that. About there still being that sweet, childish magic after learning how cold magick could truly be. The magic of sticks replacing swords and the clouds carrying upon them sailing ships and the bushes hiding colourful little pixies who wanted to steal your gold. 

Where love could solve anything and hope was the purest power and laughter was remedy. Mary liked children's magical books. She thought maybe she'd author them some day. 

She could've. Maybe. But she'd stayed behind. 

And now, she couldn't be more pleased about that decision. Because if she wasn't trapped in delusion, there was hope. There was hope and if there was hope against something like the killing curse, it was going to be something so dark she might as well declare herself a dark witch. 

Trying to hear past the pounding of her own pulse that beat violently wild in her throat, Mary pressed trembling fingers to her best friend's throat, watching the depth of her skin against Lily's pale, too pale, deathly pale skin. 

A pulse. Slow, too slow. Barely there. Not there at all really, but enough. She was still alive. 

Without a thought in her head, Mary dragged her wand to her wrist, not even grimacing when she pressed the blood to Lily's lips. Terrible for her human health; the magicks in Mary's blood was the only thing that would keep the magicks in Lily's veins alive. She just needed a spark. Just a flicker of hope. It was even better, because they were both Muggleborn. Their bloods wouldn't interact negatively. Wouldn't overpower or hurt the way a pureblood's might've. 

Mary needed her just stable enough for transportation. In her pretence of hiding —doing research for Dumbledore, she'd come across magicks so dark they'd made her skin crawl. 

Everything Dumbledore had sent her scouring through was enough to make her want to Obliviate herself and live a peaceful life. 

She should've. 

But then, Lily would be dead. And she'd have chosen to forget Lily. And Lily was never hers, would never be hers. But she would rather choose every life of torture than choose a life without so much as knowing Lily. She would shed blood and die a thousand times over of it meant the blood in Lily's veins still pumped and she was allowed the grace of seeing her —even from distance. Even just knowing she took breath, Mary would've rejoiced in her sacrifice. And she would've done it again. Always. Forever. However many times it might take. 

She didn't have forever right now, and there would be —she felt in the very centre of her heart— no more chances after this. Not for them. 

Mary sent a prayer up to her mother for birthing her with near perfect memory. She had a plan; a spell —a ritual she'd come across and read. Kept reading; researched further out of macabre sort of curiosity. It was disgusting. It was the only thing that might work. People cursed the dark magicks, but reality was a dark thing. After her years of researching, Mary had lost sight of why people feared the dark arts in the first place. She honestly wanted to blame the muggles and their heavy censoring. Even just a little bit of blood was bad to them. Didn't matter. This spell would need a lot of blood. 

She'd need Remus for this. Remus who was the most brilliant mind she knew. Remus who was probably the only person who loved Lily as much as she did. Not even James could love Lily the way Remus did. But then, Remus loved Lily the way Sirius loved James and that type of love could not be mimicked nor shared. That was the type of love that could only be given to one person; held by one person.

And Lily was Remus' person. So he would help her. Willingly. There was no one who loved Lily Evans the way Remus did. Mary would never, could never understand what exactly made their connection so special, but for once she could put aside the burning jealousy and feel nothing but sheer relief. 

So, gathering the dredges of her strength, pressing fingers —trembling now from waning blood— to Lily's pulse, giggling with a manic sort of glee when it had evened out just the slightest bit, she held Lily so very close to her chest, and prayed to fucking Jesus that she made it to Remus' cottage. 

Remus was bloody and tired and bloody tired when the two women fell into his living room, his wards so warm to them he didn't even sense them coming. 

But Mary was sallow and Lily was too pale and there were bloodstains on the edges of her mouth and, "What happened?" He was already in fix-it mode —but then he was never out of fix-it mode these days, was he— kneeling near them and steadying Mary when she nearly collapsed. 

His heart was beating a stampede, because Lily looked dead and he couldn't think about that. Because Lily couldn't be dead. But Mary was breathing and blinking and conscious; and Lily's eyes were closed and her chest did not rise with breath and she was very much unconscious. So if he wanted an answer, he had to get it from her. 

And he could weave a story, he loved weaving stories, but now was not the time for fables. "Mary," he said, a little more aggressively; a little closer to a plea —a little more like the desperation he'd let himself feel the night Sirius was to go out on his first solo mission for the Order. He'd sworn not to feel that sort of desperation again; sworn it with blood and word of tongue and with the way his insides were burning and he was shaking apart —because Lily looked dead dead dead— the Ancients might be cursing him for breaking his oath. But they could honestly go fuck themselves with fucking jagged rocks straight up their royal arseholes if they wanted, because Lily looked dead and Remus had to pat against his chest to count the seconds and remind himself to breathe because he couldn't bloody fix anything if he wasn't breathing.

Lily was too pale and too still and —"Regulus is alive. Jame and Sirius went to see him. Voldemort attacked when they were gone. Came back too late," she coughed a little and it took Remus too long to remember he had chocolate in his pocket; on his person —at all times. He couldn't process any of that right now. Couldn't deal with the enormity of that confession because there was blood stains around Lily's mouth and her ivory skin was bone dust white like her flesh had been eaten away and she was just a beautiful skeleton and Sirius was probably falling apart somewhere with James if Regulus was alive and —how the actual fuck was Regulus alive?!

Break it down. Break it down. Break it down. 

Voldemort attacked. Voldemort attacked and Lily looked dead and Mary was too pale and Lily looked dead —

"Eat," he said, gentling his tone —shoving the desperation down to the soles of his feet with ease that shouldn't have come so easily at only twenty-one; but then, that ease had been there since he was seventeen right? And thirteen and fourteen and since he was bloody fucking four when a werewolf decided he looked like a decent snack— fuck no. Breathe. He had to breathe. Had to draw breath like a normal human and function because Mary had to be here for a reason and she was on the verge of collapse and he couldn't look at Lily because if he did he felt like he would die as well.  So he calmed the fuck down, leaned Mary against the base of his armchair and crawled over —after closing his eyes and breathing so very deeply he could smell the rain outside— over to press his fingers to Lily's neck, to check her pulse.

Calm, like he wasn't freaking the fuck out, because there were bloodstains around Lily's mouth and a too large scar on Mary's wrist and things were clicking in to place and his hand was on Lily's too cold neck. Feeling; pressing; checking. Seeing if there was any hope. He couldn't say anything else; do anything else. Compartmentalise. He'd always been good at compartmentalising, hadn't he? 

Secrets and secrets and secrets. Hiding parts of himself, letting other parts shine. So he could take a moment and fucking think like a logical person for a minute and not lose his mind over the fact that Lily looked lifeless on his floors. 

He couldn't take any time at all to think about James —about Sirius. About how he would be faring about the news of Regulus and fuck— was Regulus actually alive? No. Not right now. Not right now because Lily's pulse was too slow for there to be hope and judging by the blood stains, Mary had been sustaining her with emergency and very frowned upon blood magicks. 

A lot of blood. 

He could be logical about a lot of things. Came with the territory of having a fucking beast roaming around in your subconscious and having to deal with it every moon cycle. Chaos was to be had and it had taken him years to come to terms with that. Taken him years to understand that his Order must be wrecked by Chaos for Balance to reign. Because Balance must. Such was the rule of the Ancients, wasn't it?

He didn't have years right now; he didn't even have minutes because his fingers were still pressed to Lily's neck and her pulse was stuttering, waning; but holding on. By some miracle, she was holding on.

"Mary," he tried again, nearly jumping when he felt her warmth at his back. "What is your plan supposed to be? Because I can't do much other than keep her warm." He didn't even know if he could keep her warm because she was so cold and what the fuck were they doing? What were they supposed to be doing? He was usually the cool head; the one who kept his friends out of trouble. Apparently, those rules did not apply to Lily Evans because his head was not cool and he seemed to be heading right off a cliff into a world of trouble he didn't really know how to deal with. 

Because he didn't know what he'd do if Lily died. He really, truly did not know what he'd do if Lily died. Probably kill something. Probably let the beast take over and wreck the sort of havoc Remus was itching to if it meant the world would be set to rights. 

Saying nothing, Remus felt Mary steady herself with a palm on his back, and lean over his shoulder to trace a finger from the jut of Lily's clavicle down, finger pausing at the hem of her shirt. 

In the low light of his cottage, he could see the sink of a jagged scar, glowing faintly gold, cut like lighting across her chest. 

When Mary drew his hand and pressed it to the scar, he felt the burn of the ugliest magicks he'd ever been privy to in his life. 

Uglier even, than Fenrir Greyback's. 

He didn't know what it was, but it was terrifying. 

"I have a plan," Mary whispered, and it was soft and it was bitter and it was promise. It was war on lips painted rosy by the blood that had seeped from skin bitten raw "And someone's going to die for it."

Chapter Text

His steps were short and brisk, hands locked tightly behind his back, right wrist wrapped around his left, squeezing in a way that threatened to cut blood flow. Every step forward was deliberate so that his heel fell first —steady, silent steps. His chin was titled up —confident, though it was fake— his gaze swept the floor —submissive, as was his duty.

As it should be. He should only ever appear confident. Any who saw him should be able to sense it. Only the learned eye would see the way he held his hands so firmly they were white. Only the one who knew would be able to see the quiver in his lip, and the way each breath was measured so that his lungs couldn’t win the battle and give up. 

Every breath was deep and steady, pulled gently through his nose. Every inhale brought with it the stinging stench of home. Of oak, of ale and bread and berries; ripe, sickeningly sweet berries, the taste cloying sticky and sour on his tongue as he swallowed. Even the click of his throat was silent. 

Standing in front of the door, he let his right hand free from the grip he'd been keeping on his left, using a singular knuckle to rap at the door — knock knock knock— short and precise, counting his breaths as he counted the seconds. The hum came in five seconds —as it always did— and the door swung open, hushed as everything else in this ghost house, and he stepped inside, counting his steps as he did. 

Seven steps and stop. Feet spread shoulder width. Chin high. Gaze down. Arms folded neatly behind his back. His body didn't even flinch at the creak of the chair, the soft silk of a spider's web threading the man's voice when he said, "Theodore."

A tip of his chin, Theo acknowledged his father's acknowledgement, mouth sealed shut. You do not speak unless spoken to, son. His eyes traced the floorboards, dark and polished. No one knew of the specks of dried blood smattered about. No one knew to look for them. No one knew the history of this room. Not outside of Theo and Theodore Nott Senior. Not of the tears that stained the floors, of the singes hidden behind the tapestry, not of the dent on the dark oak table where Theo’s face had been slammed into it that once. His father had been in a particularly nasty mood that day. They knew not how many times those windows had been shattered and spelled back together or about the clock that would never tick correctly again after it was broken across his back. No one knew the poison in the berries and how many of them Theo was forced to eat through his youth. Be prepared for anything. Build up your tolerance. Theo knew not how being immune to certain poisons would make him a better son. 

Son. Like the man sitting in front of him saw Theo as anything more than a meat sack to craft into a legacy. He had the name after all. 

"You know of our agenda for tomorrow?" The lilt of his voice told Theo this was a question to answer with words. 

Theo obliged easily. "Yes Father,” quiet, earnest. It made him sick, this act of still pretending to please. Maybe once upon a time he’d been his father’s pet. He’d searched out blindly for affection wherever he could get it— no matter how awful a person he’d have to be. 

But now —now there were the fleeting memories of nearly too bright eyes and wild wild hair and a touch that burned as much as it soothed. Of soft laughter, and mocking a brat and hugs that could rock his world. Now playing to his father’s wishes made his stomach sour in a way poisoned berries never had. 

"Your sister will be coming with us." If Theo's spine could've straightened any further, it would have. Though that would've snapped it clean, such was the tension racing through him. What was he planning? If Theo’s father could muster any love in his heart, Theo had always assumed it would be for his sister. So why this? Why now? What was he doing?

"Father?" He cursed the catch in his voice; cursed that the word came out at all. He should know better. He did flinch at the creak of the chair this time, sole of his foot itching with the need to take a step back. The Ancients were only so merciful, though, and seven was one of their numbers. He couldn’t move his body if he tried. 

Theo was tall; he was taller than many of his peers. He was fine boned and sharp. His eyes reflected night with their depth; blue that one saw only in the twilight. Theo's father made him feel like the child he was, towering over Theo in a way that felt like ridicule. There had always been tall men in his family. Some even insinuated their blood was not pure —their blood was tainted with the scum of other. Of Giant. The Nott men had been marrying the shortest women they could find for centuries. The Nott men continued to tower over their peers. 

Theo had not reached that level just quite yet. 

The itch in his feet burned and he gave into the urge to take a step back —then another. Two in quick succession. He was five steps from the door. He prayed the Ancients would be merciful. His wand was on his bedroom dresser —as were the rules— and his bedroom was down the corridor, up the flight of stairs, and through another corridor. 

He was defenceless. 

He let his chin drop to brush near his chest, and waited. Waited for punishment; waited for retribution. This too, stung more than it once did. He’d accepted quietly a year ago— thought it the only way to muster affection. The thought now made his blood boil and threatened to stand his hairs. He breathed even slower, actively working to temper his reaction.

His father's voice still carried that quiet it always did, meticulous and articulate in a way befitting the spider on their family crest. "Were you asked to speak, Theodore?" There was no winning this particular war. Because if he answered, he was audacious and if he remained silent he was disrespectful.

"Apologies, Father," humility was always the quickest way to appease his father. Make himself look stupid; simple. Let his father feel the superiority he was always seeking. "I was out of line," admit your mistakes before they could be pointed out. Be the perfect heir. Always willing to bow your head and accept wrong. Be the peacemaker. People kept peacemakers around because they thought them stupid; spilled all their secrets around them. And then they’d lie gurgling, choking as that same guileless peacemaker stood over them with a bloody knife as they clawed helplessly at their throat. 

Another quiet hum; another creak of the blasted chair —the only thing that spoiled the silence in the house. Theodore Nott Senior was the only one allowed the power to ruin the silence of the house. 

"Mirielle will be accompanying us to the Black Gala." There was a pulse of jealousy at the way his father’s voice softened on that name, yet Theo held his tongue —if only just— for Harry's birthday party was neither a gala nor exclusively Black, but it was not his place to expound upon that. Not unless he didn’t want to expound on anything for the next week. "See that she is introduced to the boy." 

The boy. As though Harry hadn't become one of Theo's dearest friends. As though Theo wasn't ready to draw blood for him. As though he was someone insubstantial and inconsequential. "You know she will be starting school with you soon. Ensure the connections are made early. Is that understood?" 

"Yes, Sir," because this was a business transaction now. This was no longer conversation between son and father. Theo's blood crawled under the insinuation; under the weight of eyes he could feel but not see —never see. The last time he had seen his father's eyes was when he was three. Sometimes he couldn't remember what colour they actually were. The last time he’d been touched gently by his father was before that. He’d never been touched gently by his mother —she died before he could even remember her; or maybe he saw images of her sometimes, haunting his dreams they way her screams haunted his nightmares.

"Mm," dismissive. Uninterested. 

The chair creaked again, and Theo's eyes flicked up just the barest amount to see the bowl of berries on the desk, half eaten and dark stained. Like dried blood. There were probably dried stains beneath it —a different type of poison he’d been exposed to; he’d reacted to it worse than usual, ended up pouring out a couple mouthfuls of blood. He couldn’t remember what was more painful. He didn’t want to think about it. There was no changing it now. There was no changing any of it now. Notts were brought up like that —independent of any magick that wasn’t the weaving of memories. They were beauties at the loom, the Notts. The stories they could paint. Magick could be traced, but the magical world refused to admit its weaknesses. Refused to admit that anyone slain by knife might as well have been slain by ghost. Such was the mystery it posed.

Paralysis was probably the best word to describe the stillness of his body when he felt the heat of his father behind his back; when he felt the barest skim of nails against his nape, the hair there being lifted, skin being exposed to cool air and forced to prickle with gooseflesh. 

"Get this cut before the Gala," birthday party, Theo did not correct, swallowing down his yelp when the strands were forcibly plucked from his scalp, probably left to flutter to the ground. Just another part of him that marred this room —scarred her untouchable. The only place where the silence was razed. "Dismissed." 

Theo hated nothing, more than he hated spiders and their so very meticulous webs. He let his eyes flicker to the crest for a moment, large and proud behind his father's desk. The Arrow split down the middle; the Spider's Web tugging it back together in its delicate little swirls. 

"Father," he tilted his chin, bent his knee in some semblance of a bow. Turning on his heel, he counted the five footsteps to the door, stock-still as it shut behind him without even the barest sliver of sound. 

He counted every footstep to his room after that. 

His steps were quiet, lazy even, as he dragged himself behind his mother, sighing out a heavy sound and settling into the settee in the corner of the boutique. He was tired. His body ached. His eyes throbbed dully whenever he closed them, letters dancing there in the darkness making his stomach twist. 

He slumped there, neck resting over the back uncomfortably and eyes trained on the ceiling —he was having a staring match; he didn’t want to close his eyes and be reminded of his incompetence— tracing the lines of the panelling and wondering if he could chart constellations in them. His mother was warm next to him; he didn't let himself think about how much warmer she would be if their shoulders brushed. If he was given the luxury of resting his head on her shoulder. He wanted to be three again and cocooned in her lap, face pressed up against her neck where it was warm and safe, safe, safe. 

It had been so cold recently. 

The bell jingled behind them again, and he started, blinking away from the dark panelling of the ceiling, spine shooting straight up, hands folding primly in his lap. He watched the man approach, pale moonlight wrapped up in black. His father dipped down to press a whisper of a kiss to his mother's cheek, fingers pressed to the skin there —which he eyed with a perturbing amount jealousy—  and then his eyes fell to him —gleaming with that rare shine of amusement Draco hadn't seen in a while. With a glow of contentment and the love Draco always knew was there. He just didn't get to see it all that much. He knew it was because he had to work harder for it. Nothing in life was free. 

And yet— his traitorous mind echoed, tried to remind him of dark skin and dark hair and eyes that glowed. He inhaled shortly, trying to chase the memories away. Were he not in front his father, he’d have shaken his head to dislodge the images that insisted on pushing themselves to the forefront of his mind. 

"Son," he nearly flinched when the hand settled warm and strong on his shoulder; nearly shuddered and folded completely in half in search of more. His father had never— he’d never been hurt by his father. Not in the way he knew Theo had been. Yet still. Yet still he feared his father; feared that he might cross a line someday and even these fleeting little touches would be taken from him. He feared he’d cross that line without even knowing and then next time his father’s palm came to press that fleeting, gentle touch to his shoulder, it would be replaced with a caricature of what it once was —it would be harsh and cruel and painful. 

Being Harry Potter's friend was both a blessing and a curse. He'd been safe for the past month and a half, sure. No slobbering, three headed dogs or illegal dragons or wandering trolls or Dark Lords. Draco had barely been touched for the past month and a half. And then with the absolute failure that had been his exam results, he’d been so sure he’d been riding that train home only to be disowned. It would have been one thing to place second to the likes of Theo or even Potter. But a mud— muggleborn girl? He should be thanking the Ancients he’d even been allowed back into the house at all. 

He reminded himself it would not only be mortifyingly embarrassing to cry in a boutique, but it would be stupid as well and he might lose this little bit of warmth he'd been scrambling for. This barest brushing of warmth he’d laboured away the past month to earn, never without a book in front of his or his hand on a wand. Never without some type of knowledge being crammed into his brain. 

After nearly ten full months of a kind of warmth Draco couldn't actually give name to; not fully, not entirely. Not enough to encompass the way it was so all consuming and safe and constant and real and given. Not something he'd ever had to work for or ask for or earn. It was difficult, letting his mother's warm words and warm eyes be enough. Letting tea and chatter in front of the fire and reading quietly together be enough. Letting his father's most fleeting presses of hands to his shoulders, fingers folding in and squeezing just hard enough for him to feel, be enough. And even most of that had been taken away. He had time not to spend with his mother —always behind his studies. Always trying to make up for his failures. 

But it’s okay, he kept reminding himself. It’ll be worth it in the end. And again, those passing visages of a crooked grin and eyes alight with mischief would pass through his mind. Tell him he didn’t need to earn it. He’d lean against him or let him play with his hands. Nights spent in the kitchens with the elves fine tuning recipes and hours spent behind books figuring out new, more interesting ways to tie ties. 

He could curse Potter for it. 

It had always been enough before. Always. Now he was just so very itchy. It hummed beneath his skin and buzzed something he felt within the very flow of his blood, and when the seamstress stepped out, and his overclothes were stripped and there was just the barest, most professional brushing of fingers against his skin as she measured and made note, he nearly trembled beneath it. 

He thought back to the stack of letters inside his dresser's top draw, to the date, and to the reason he was being measured. 

Soon , he allowed himself to think, looking at the raised hairs on his arms he could wave off and pretend was the cold as he slid back into his clothes. The cold, in the middle of summer. 

His family left the boutique together. No part of them brushed him in the slightest. Draco stood in front of his parents, like a prize. Like pride. And he didn't dare look back, fearing that seeing the brush of their shoulders would send him straight to madness. 

His parents were never touchy, never — open the way Draco had seen Potter's own parents be. Lively and carefree and so casual in the way they all folded so easily together. He would never doubt his parents' love, though. For as much as it hurt sometimes, and as much as Draco wished there could be just a little more, he had so much. He may not have the touch of Potter's perfect family, but he loved his own. Adored his own. It was a struggle to remind himself he already got more than the average pureblood. It was rare in this community to have parents who loved each other, far less the vermin they were forced to birth. 

His eyes flicked back anyway, zeroing for the barest of moments on where their shoulders did indeed brush, and he snapped his head forward harshly, swallowing and feeling the click against the lump in his throat. 

It was summer and still Draco shivered, wishing he had brought a coat to tug around himself. 

He laughed as his eyes scanned the page, steps echoing as he raced across the hall, giddy with head-rush and the weight of parchment in his hand. 

"Dorcas is coming to pick me up," he called out to no one in particular, sure that someone would hear and know. "I'll be back by lunch!" 

He did not yelp when the wayward arm caught him around his waist, pulling him back into a hard, warm chest. "Not so fast, pup," Sirius had him trapped, arms wrapped firmly around his middle, chin digging into his hair that he would only grudgingly admit perhaps needed the very slightest trim. Just a bit off the ends. 

"Release me, Pads," he groaned, wiggling around, attempting to fight his way out of the trap despite knowing it would be useless. "I have business to attend to." 

Harry didn't have to look at his godfather's face to know Sirius had arched a brow at him. "Mmm. And what business has you running like your feet are on fire at —six in the morning?" He asked, pausing for a moment to cast a silent Tempus, perhaps. "You've not even had breakfast yet." 

"Caz'll feed me, Pads,” he insisted. “Dad and Papa're still asleep and you can't cook any better than Papa," that was a lie. Sure, Sirius couldn't cook like James. But his food was always edible. Which was better than Regulus, at the very least. 

"You have anything you want to tell me, pup?" Harry should've been quicker. That right there was suspicion in Sirius' voice, and the moment he became suspicious, all bets were off. 

"Remove your hands from the boy, dog," Harry nearly cheered, slumping in silent relief when Dorcas popped in, in front of them. He was good at lies —hell, he’d even managed to tangle McGonagall in a lie. But somehow he couldn’t ever get a lie past Sirius. But he wouldn’t have to if Dorcas was here. 

She would never not be the coolest looking person Harry had ever seen. Her hair was long today, braids that reached all the way down to her hips, half of it tangled in a sort of knot near the crown of her head. She wore multiple earrings, but Harry's favourite had to be the one that looked like a drawn bow, arrow notched. Sometimes the arrow even launched! Impaling itself on the tree dangling from her other ear.  

"What are you plotting with my godson? What schemes are you planning? I will catch you," one of Sirius' hands released their hold on Harry's chest to fist and shake in vague semblance of an old man warning children off his lawn. 

"Why do I always have to be plotting something? I'm just spending time with my favourite birthday boy before his birthday," Dorcas soothed, voice soft and coaxing. Mischief was alight in her dark eyes and Sirius' arm had loosened just the slightest bit around Harry's torso. He used the opportunity to slip out from beneath him, turning quickly to plant a quick kiss to his cheek before sprinting for Dorcas. They were apparating before Sirius could even blink. 

"Wonderful. He'll sniff us out, you know. Can't hide anything from the mutt," Dorcas sniffed, adjusting one of the many bracelets jangling on her wrist. There was a quirk to her lips though —excited about the challenge of it all. 

"How many dog jokes is that now?" Harry asked, genuinely curious. Apparently it'd been going on since Dorcas found out about Sirius' Animagi form. Apparently, it was in the thousands. 

All he got in response was a smirk that spelt evil and spelt trouble and Harry could never forget why Dorcas was as terrifying as she was beloved. He leaned into her when she slung her arm over his shoulder, leaned into her warmth and the vague scent of broom polish that made him wish Marlene had tagged along. "Now then, what's our agenda for today, Birthday Boy?" 

"I want an earring," his voice near vibrated with it, still looking at Dorcas' earrings. They were just so cool! 

"Just one?" She asked, shifting a little to look at Harry better. She took his chin between her fingers, tilting his head this way and that. "Mmm, yeah, we can do that." She seemed satisfied with her appraisal. 

"Awesome!" Harry felt like screaming; or maybe squealing. He couldn’t always control the sounds that came out of his mouth. Barry delighted in telling him when he sounded like a dead bird. He kept a tally. It was in the hundreds. "Will you make me an earring?" 

"Anything your little heart can dream up, kit,” Dorcas answered easily, hand reaching up to pinch gently against his cheek. “Now let's go get that ear pierced. Have you decided which one?" 

"The left," Harry said easily. He didn't know why, but he wanted it on the left side. Maybe because his scar was on the right side of his head. Maybe he wanted to draw attention away from it. Perhaps it was just because Barty had told him that his left side was his better side once.

"Wonderful," her smile was so very soft. Harry had seen Dorcas arrive at Cynefin covered in blood and grime with something hard and distant in her eyes too many times in the last month. Always when he was supposed to be asleep; always in the oddest corners he wasn't necessarily supposed to be around. It was relieving to see with her soft eyes and flashing a kind smile. 

Harry didn't know exactly what was happening yet, not because they'd been hiding anything from him —he knew everything they did; they told him everything as they always did— but because no one knew what was happening. There'd been a string of murders recently, a different animal guarding each corpse; a different creature. Creatures of old were stirring; creatures that hadn't come out of hiding in so long. 

Other than the Ancient creatures stirring, the Ancients themselves had been chillingly silent since Quirrell's. . . defeat.  

Other than the creatures, there seemed to be a strange abundance of trolls coming out of their trenches. The thought of more trolls made Harry suppress a shiver. He’d turned a troll corpse into something unrecognisable in his first term at Hogwarts; it wasn’t a pleasant memory, nor one he revisited often. "We're stopping at the Weasleys' on the way back, right? You have the packages?" 

"Did you really doubt me?” 

“Not for a second,” Harry’s grin mirrored hers perfectly; all teeth and bite and something ever so slightly crazed. 

Two days. 

She stepped cautiously into the robes, not quite sure of the picture she made in the mirror as her mother did up the back of them.  

She’d agreed on a whim —a lonely girl in the wolf’s den. Easily ignored. Trying to prove herself. They’d never been cruel to her —not in the traditional sense; never on purpose. They were always just so— wrapped up in each other. 

Muggle world, magical world, she’d never had that. Never had someone to forget the world with. She’d wanted it so very terribly. But now she stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself, let her fingers tread across the luscious material of the robes she’d been sent and she —she swallowed, wondering what she’d gotten herself into. This was stepping into a world she couldn’t imagine. Couldn’t even begin to dream. From humble backgrounds to an actual ball. Even if she fancied fairytales, she didn’t think she’d have been able to think this up in her wildest dreams. 

Her parents weren’t poor by any means, but this was an entirely different level. This was something beyond the realms of magic. The way the pale fabric wrapped against her dark skin and made her glow. The way the skirt fell in uneven, asymmetrical layers, trimmed in ruffles of green so pure it could’ve been stolen straight from the forest; as though the colours were peeled off the very trees. Even the boots were lined with the softest material she’d ever been privy to, cushioning her feet and perfectly sized. The brown of the shoes matched the brown of the vines that seemed wrapped around her torso. She looked like forest fae. 

Her mother had pulled her hair up into a style to match; purposely messy in a way —messy to match the rustic feeling of the dress. Her grown out fringe sat at the edges of her face, shadowing it; the longer pieces curled in the wayward way it tended towards and stray curls peaked out from where half her hair had been twisted into a small knot. 

The sleeves hung nearly to her knees, same pearly cream; trimmed in that same green that looked stolen direct from forest floors. 

She looked at herself and swallowed again, too scared to even take a step. She looked at herself and wondered again —what desperation had made of her. Why fine robes could transform her so completely. 

She looked at her mother’s face in the mirror near hers; saw the slight crinkling of age and eyes just as brown as her own and a smile soft and proud. Her cheek was pressed against Hermione’s and her words were a mix between giddy and awed when she said, “You’re beautiful aren’t you?” Of course Hermione had been complimented by her mother before, but something tightened in her chest this time. Because this confession of beauty sounded nearly drunken; dazed and amazed in a way Hermione had yet to hear her mother speak of her. 

Hermione faced her reflection once more and watched her own eyes harden. Beauty was never something she’d been blessed with —the girls she grew up around were always too eager to remind her of that. So a little bit of money wasn’t going to change that perception of herself. She didn’t need to be beautiful. 

This wasn’t some situation she’d been roped into. This was the first step. The first move in a long, long game. 

And she would emerge victorious. 

Five hours.

Their outfits had been planned carefully, had been tailored and adjusted to perfection. 

Still, Theo shifted in front of the mirror, pulling on his collar and adjusting the sleeves near his elbows. Fiddling with the cape that fell across half his chest, covering his left shoulder and leaving his right mostly exposed, pulling the gloves higher into place so they sat flawlessly. 

Really, what had Harry been thinking? He looked ridiculous. 

Soft fingers batted his hands away from where he’d been fiddling, and he forced himself to stare in the mirror and not wonder about everything that could possibly go wrong that night. 

“I can hear you thinking.” Sometimes Theo thought time dragged. Thought time had a mind of its own and chose him victim to torture; a victim that brought time explicit joy.

Sometimes, Theo wondered where time went at all. He wondered how his little sister could be eleven and a single month from being in Hogwarts walls. How already her head could be in line with his shoulders and her hair could fall nearly to her waist and she could look up at him and he’d see less and less of the little girl he was allowed to see once a year for a single month. 

She was growing up. In fact, eleven was already the age where pureblood parents would begin looking for suitors. Where introductions were begun. He swallowed the bitter taste of bile at the back of his throat at just the thought of it. 

The robes her mother had chosen was only making it worse; Theo’s vision was whiting out at this point, pain lancing through the back of his calves at even the thought of his sister being outside there. Pain lancing at the thought of disobeying. At the reminder of what defiance would bring. 

Her mother had put Mirielle in robes that fell into the classic, traditional style pure bloods preferred. Layered and ruffled and sweeping the floor and the same midnight blue as Theo’s eyes. As her own eyes. It made them look electric. 

Theo swallowed again, tasted the bitter bile and remembered wandering hands at his own eleventh birthday party. Appraising the merchandise. 

He looked past her, into the mirror; at the dark green of his robes, the yellow gold trim, the cream trousers, the high boots and gloves that covered most of his forearms; both soft black leather. He looked at his wand hidden near his waist; at the blades that sat there concealed —no good Nott would leave the house without at least one back-up blade— and resolved then that his sister would not feel the fear he had; that his sister would never have to live with the disgust of roaming hands that thought a body not their own property. Something to be touched without permission. Even having known her so fleetingly, she was his blood to protect. And protect her he would. 

He watched his own shoulders straighten in the mirror and ignored his sister’s questioning hum where her hands still fluttered about his robes.

He thought of berry stains and dried blood and the meticulous crawl of a Spider as it wove at its loom. Watched the family crest etched in gold where it sat as a brooch in the centre of his throat. Thought of the precious charm that sat beneath his collar; felt the press of a charm in the flesh of his wrist beneath his gloves. 

Meticulous as a spider’s web, he reminded himself. 

Three hours. 

He absolutely preened under the attention, under the bare brushing of fingers as his mother ensured him perfect. Brushing at his hair and blotting at his face and fiddling with the jewels at his neck. 

Harry’s choice in robes were strange, not quite the true Wizard style Draco’s father would have liked, but they were impeccably tailored; an odd type of beautiful. 

Green, similar to the one Draco adorned himself with nearly everyday —one would think to be sick of it by now— the last ten months wrapped against his skin and climbed high up his throat, stark beneath the cream of his coats, falling just past his knees, embossed with yellow gold swirls that looked suspiciously like dragons. 

His boots came all the way up to his knees, laced tight and the same cream as his coats, causing the green of his trousers to pool there nearly but not quite hiding the gold detailing etched into the edges of his boots. His fingers were covered in small, almost delicate gloves —similar to the ones his mother usually wore— hems pulled and hidden under his shirt sleeves. His hair had grown out ever so slightly during the last month and a half, and his mother had combed it just so —not quite as perfectly groomed as he liked his hair for school, but still with some semblance of structure. 

The family crest sat at his throat, intricate gold work —a dragon curled lovingly around a harp. His mother’s wedding gift —changing of the Malloy crest so that it included the dragon of the Black Family’s. 

He didn’t see the vision, even as his mother’s eyes shined with quiet pride. These robes were even stuffier than the ones he usually wore for dinner parties, and Draco quite liked his stuffy robes.

“Perhaps we should get Mr Potter to send you more robes darling, aren’t you a precious prince?” Despite feeling like some sort of doll, Draco warmed at his mother’s words, titling his head up to meet here eyes, brow crinkling in confusion when he saw a tear there. 

“What is it, mother?” He asked quietly, palm reaching up to bracket her face, thumb brushing at the pooling tears. It felt odd through the fabric of his glove. 

“You’ve just been growing so quickly darling,” she said softly, ducking to press a kiss to his cheek. Draco froze a little swaying instinctively into her warmth, trying to remember the last time his mother had given this sort of affection so freely.

By the time his brain had caught up enough for his body to fold into some sort of reciprocation, his mother was halfway across the room, dabbing delicately at the corners of her eyes with a kerchief. 

Draco closed his eyes and pulled in a breath; held it steady in his chest for a few moments and exhaled. Watched —back ramrod straight— as his father stalled into the room to take up position next to his mother. 

“Smile, son,” Draco felt his lips twitch with some semblance of annoyance he wasn’t allowed to express. But, ever the obedient lamb, he let his lips tug into the smile his father would approve of. Soft and vicious. The opposite of what a smile should be. 

Large and wild and crooked and free. Wild black hair. Head thrown back, eyes aglow. Draco shook his head this time —forcefully. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. 

Hypnotising as the harp’s hymn, he let the mates play in his head. Reminded himself of who he was. 

One hour. 

James let himself exhale as he looked at his boys, talking quietly between themselves in front of the mirror. 

Sometimes he didn’t know what to do with the feeling he’d get in his chest. The ache that sat there. The ache that tasted like guilt on the back of his tongue —looking at his family and wondering at the family he’d lost. He wouldn’t change it. He sometimes locked himself in the bathroom and let the tears burn as the thoughts lurched out of him forcefully. That thought of his not wanting to change it. The thought that he’d let it play out just as it had if he got to have this again. 

And yet, he knew he’d sacrifice himself if she’d gotten to live; even entertaining the thought was too much. Lily was worth a hundred of him. Regulus was worth more than he could quantify. Of course he’d have sacrificed himself to let them live. To give Harry a better life. 

He often felt he didn’t do right by his son. Wished he could have done better. Lily would’ve done better. Regulus already did better. So much better. 

And he looked at them, standing together. Both in deep green robes, Harry’s swirling in so much gold he glowed with it. Looked at their hair, curling and falling in those pretty ringlets —Harry’s to his shoulders and Regulus’s just past his shoulder blades, pulled back in matching half-updos, braids almost invisible in the depth of their beautiful tresses; crowns of finely woven gold sitting on the crowns of their heads. He looked at their eyes —Regulus’ slate-grey, nearly silver in some lights and Harry’s that glowed green. And then he looked past them —to himself in that same mirror. Dark all over —his hair, his skin, his eyes. Hair shorn short, glasses perched on his nose. Sure, his robes matched theirs perfectly and his crown was a complement to Regulus’, but sometimes he felt like he didn’t fit.

Moreso recently with the revelation of Lily being alive. 

His hands trembled at even the thought; at the reminder. He was the one who had laid her to rest in the earth, who had brushed the dirt so gently over her face and covered her. He was the one who had burnt the Lily atop her grave and cried for her and begged the Ancients’ of their mercy. 

How could she be alive? Where was she? Where had she been the last eleven years? With Mary? Had Mary taken care of her to whole time? Of course she would persevere where James had failed; in the all the places he’d failed. He was a failure. Always a failure. Couldn’t protect his parents, couldn’t protect his wife, couldn’t protect his home. Now he was going to find a way to screw up his child. 

But Harry grinned at him, and took him by the hands, skin warm against his own, and pulled him close to kiss his cheek and James could believe for a moment that maybe he deserved to live.

And Regulus slipped easily into the space between his arms, face pressed up against the column of his neck, nose cold where it pushed into the hollow of his throat, forcing James to tilt his head ever so slightly and hold on. Hold on to the scent of their garden, freshly tilled dirt and the scent that was Regulus and Regulus alone. 

“Breathe, mon coeur,” his voice was a whisper against the side of James’ face; soft and coaxing and almost song like. “Where has that beautiful brain of yours gone?” And James could cry; he might’ve if they weren’t minutes away from Harry’s twelfth birthday party. Regulus knew him; felt him; read him in a way that terrified him and made him adore him all the more. “Won’t you come back to me right now? We can wander whatever path it wants later. Come back here for now, okay?” 

“Okay,” James breathed out, hands clutching onto Regulus’ where they’d climbed to splay both cold and warm against his face. “I’m right here,” he promised, tilting his face to press the words, to press a kiss to the centre of Regulus’ palm. 

Regulus let one of his hands climb higher, brush his hair away, tug his face down to press a kiss to his temple, let his nose linger there. “I’m right here with you,” and James felt it burn like promise into the side of his skin. 

“Ready, Haz?” If James hadn’t been so far away; had he not been teetering on an edge he sometimes felt he couldn’t crawl back from, he’d have seen the mischief glittering in his son’s eyes.

Chapter Text

Mary McDonald sat perched in a tree. 
Mary McDonald was still as could be. 
Sharp eyes traced a scurrying little form. 
Sharp eyes focussed on a home just too warm. 
Red and blue and freckles and smiles. 
Oh, but a family pet was about to die.

Remorseless. 

Perhaps if there was one word to describe Mary McDonald, it would be remorseless. But then, if you had watched your best friend comatose and fed through tubes for five years; and if you had watched your best friend’s stomach swell with child during that first year; and if you had carved a living, breathing baby from your comatose best friend and stitched her back up; and if you had spent eleven years off the grid plotting a cure that probably didn’t exist, with a werewolf that grew more impatient each year —lovesick, homesick and aching for a comfort you couldn’t give him; and perhaps if you had succeeded in a brief, half-arsed cure about five years in that allowed you to see the barest flutter of gem-green eyes and allowed you to sit your best friend up and feed her mush to keep her alive —if you had seen even half the things Mary McDonald had seen, well, she was willing to wager you’d be a little remorseless yourself. 

So maybe she could’ve saved slitting the throat of the half-man, half whatever darkness had corrupted what was once a soul, and then stomping on his face for somewhere that wasn’t in front of a child. But she’d not had the time. 

Five years. The Ancients had promised her. They’d promised her when they’d all but pried her chest open to water that shallow bed of dirt housing the only flower she would ever love. And her deadline was due. Maybe if she’d looked at his face she’d have felt a little bit of that remorse that was sure to be brewing beneath the surface; ready to explode and take whatever pitiful creature happened to be in her vicinity with her. Maybe if she’d seen his eyes. Seen the eyes of her beloved, for she knew the boy had her eyes. But the clock was ticking and she’d have time for remorse later. When her best friend was alive as she could be again; when she was as whole as she could be. When she was more than just a phantom of the living, breathing, lovely Lily she knew. 

Plus, that thing —Quirrell, she remembered vaguely— got what it deserved. 

She couldn’t afford to break stride now. Couldn’t wait a moment longer. no more stalling; no more hesitation. Not now when she was so close. Not if she wanted to see those eyes spark vital and present. Not if she wanted to see them shine—

Green met green —across a hall; across a staircase; across the entire universe. Green met green and the electricity burnt through the air, the faint scent of ozone inciting a panic amongst the people. Slight, but present. Building, budding, blooming until he could smell it. The confusion; the anticipation. 

This had been carefully planned. The place, the time, the event. Every stitch of the tapestry, of the loom, weaves together with painstaking caution. 

He wanted to scan the ballroom, there were eyes he was looking for; itching to see. Faces he knew every detail of, yet wanted to memorise again. But green met green, and something tangible rippled between them, lifting their robes in gentle waves where the power curled around their ankles, white tendrils that snaked around them and clung. Cold as ice, yet it burned like brand. 

Confusion seemed common emotion where his mother was involved. Wanting and fearing in the same breath. He wanted everything as it was; he wanted his mother. 

The scream sat somewhere in his throat, and the tears burned somewhere behind his eyes, and his calves tensed with coiled tension wanting to spring forward; but he dared not move; he barely deigned draw breath and the white was streaked with black now —tainted; they were both tainted. Familiar taint, it flowed between them in a song meant to seduce; a song that seemed exact opposite to the Ancients’. The Ancients’ song was harsh, weighty and honest —crass almost. The harsh truth whether or not that truth was desired. 

This song was meant to incite interest —draw the mind. This song was game and enchantment and charm; warm and gentle. But it was oppressive. Harry didn’t know how to describe it; could barely keep himself from answer its call, from following its lure. It was only his own magicks that pulled him from going over the ledge; he still sat and stared though, forever bewitched by the waves beating against the rocks. It switched from monstrous waves to gentle lulling so quickly his eyes hurt. 

Foggily, it dawned in the back of his mind there must have been better way to do this. Truthfully, truth had not been true until it had struck him; he’d thought to deceive himself into believing it was all a lie. Ways for an eleven year old boy to cope with the death of a mother he never knew. A mother, whose memory his fathers clung so desperately to. He had the Ancients singing in his head and magicks swirling in his gut. Was it such a far jump to make? Imaginary letters? He had expected to stand at the top of the staircase and there would be no one waiting for him except moon and midnight. 

But green met green, strong and sturdy, and the tendrils he was sure only they saw clung tighter; burned colder; pressed marks into their skin to be felt not seen.

There was one step, and another and a next; he only barely regained control of his body when he stood but a step from where she stood at the foot of the stairs. Her entourage was a person short, but green locked on green and suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. The breaths stopped somewhere in his chest, hands trembling a little as they reached out —to touch, to feel, to sense. He could feel his magick reach out in the same breath, and her hands were on his skin and his were on hers — promise and oath and reunion . A song so heavy his knees very nearly gave out beneath the weight of it. 

But this song was familiar; ruthless as they always were, but sincere. This song hummed in tune with the magicks in his chest.   

The Ancients that had been so very still in his mind were screaming; roaring a song of passion, a song of peace —a long forgotten song of love as she pulled him towards her— 

Pressing their foreheads together, Mary used the lack of remorse she’d built to ignore Remus howling somewhere in the woods —a haunting melody as the memories haunted him. Fresh memories. Fresh as the blood that painted her flesh, wine dark even in moonlight. 

Pettigrew’s body lay lifeless —or at least bloody close to it— somewhere on the dirt floor. The cottage was locked down tight with charms, doors and windows blacked out so prying eyes couldn’t glean the goings-on in the yard. Prying eyes that should’ve been asleep, hopefully in a beautiful dream far, far away from here.

Lily, herself, lay in unnatural sleep, buried to her bared chest in the dirt, hair splayed messily above her head, blood pooling lazily on her bosom where Mary had traced the delicate lines of the scar —jagged like lightning— cutting towards her heart. The traitor’s blood mingled with hers, and the Stone sat cold where the bloods met. 

A life for a life. 

The world was born from quartet —chaos and order and life and death; balance. Chaos must be tempered by Order and Life bowed to Death, and yet Death dared defy. 

That was why the Ancients preferred the odd; for there was no such thing as true balance. There need always be a leader; a centre point; a tie-breaker. Magick. 

The origins of Magick was still a mystery —to the magical and non-magical folk alike. Some romanticists liked to say Magick was a child of Hecate. Some reached so far as to say Magick was some bastard god no one would claim. Those assertions had long since been cast away, when the world became westernised. 

There was, however, a single theory that stuck; that some purebloods still taught their children, though Mary knew not just what sort of magicks she’d uncovered when she found the texts; the parchment, old and musty and crumbling.

The Ancients were regular people, chosen by the essence of the world and blessed —they were an answered prayer in a time of war. Heroes. Saviours. Restorers of Balance. 

Gratefulness turned into praise; into worship— into sacrifice and bounty, and the Ancients’ powers grew with every prayer that sent strength their way, with every drop of blood spilt in their names; conjured by the earth and returned to the earth, they festered in that power until they themselves could affect the very thing that brought them into being.

They curried favour with the Moon, where she sang high above and watched her children form bonds that would stand the test of time, but where she would forever rest alone. They drew from her strength. Preyed on the desperation of a mother who watched her children leaving; forming bonds, forming families that would endure for millennia while she stood alone. Only the sun ever shine upon her, but even he could brighten her from but a distance. So she fell easily into the claws of the Ancients. The Ancients who sung for her and honoured her and entertained her. 

Yet still, Magick remained a step ahead, remained their leader. Forever a game, training soldiers to do their bidding. To defeat Magick, or befriend Magick the way they had befriended the Moon. A superior who asserted superiority. The Ancients adored and envied Magick equally. 

But Magick had its own soldiers. 

Magick was still the tie-breaker —even when Chaos was tempered by Order and Life bowed to Death, Magick had the final say.

A life for a life they said. Magick decided otherwise. Magick liked this game in particular, and was willing to play; was willing to make a lot more effort than it had in so long. A life for a life. Magick played by no one’s rules. Magick was creation. Magick was a monster. Magick did as Magick pleased. 

The incantation had barely passed Mary’s lips when Lily had sprung up, gasping as her chest stitched itself back together and the blood sizzled into nothingness. Green eyes flickered open, wide and frenzied, hands reaching out blindly to grasp and hold on and drag into a—

Hug. Harry was hugging his mother.

Or, he was being crushed by her. Embraced by the scent of lilies and the tingle of ozone that crackled between them when they’re skin brushed, and the softness of arms he remembered only as memories. Only in dreams that seemed so rare; so few and far between. Only in dreams. 

But the tears wetting at his neck weren’t imaginary, and the quiet intake of breath he was sure came from James wasn’t imaginary and the way Regulus had stiffened, his tension palpable from where Harry was locked into arms he sometimes doubted even existed wasn’t imaginary. 

Yet still, his stomach churned with unease; with doubt. He’d wanted this for so long. He’d yearned for this. And still, was this what he’d wanted? What was he sacrificing for this? The Ancients desired balance above all else. Was this a tipping point in the scale? 

“You’re alive,” it seemed sin to break the silence, but Harry needed to affirm it through words. Needed to hear the ring of it in the air. Perhaps then it would feel real; perhaps then the war that wrecked havoc in his gut would settle and his magicks would sing a song of ease. 

His gut still roiled, chaos in the peace of the arms around him. There seemed no right choice; no way for balance to emerge victorious as it always did. 

“I’m alive,” she affirmed and — oh. Her voice was like birdsong; her voice was a welcome home. Her voice was the puzzle piece that had been missing —that was what it was supposed to be, right? The books he’d read; this was what reunion was supposed to be. But— no. Because nothing had ever been missing from Harry’s life. Her voice didn’t slot into a place that made him whole, because Harry had always been whole. Rather, her voice was like the glaze that locked the puzzle pieces in place and made them shine. Not a necessity —not after the years and years of false hope and wonder and grief— but an improvement. Something he’d not realised he’d wanted until he had it. (Yet some part of him still believed he didn’t need it.)

It echoed through the room, Sirius’ voice amplified by Sonorous . “Lily Evans Potter lives!”

This was how it had to be. They needed to know. So many dark aligned families still tried to curry favour with the Blacks, for the Blacks had never lost power. Not when Regulus and Sirius stood together. Not when Narcissa did nothing to oppose them. But rather supported them in whatever quiet way she could. Not when even Andromeda would come out of hiding to grace this single Gala.

No, this new generation of Blacks were more powerful than before, and people still bowed to that power. So let them look, let them see how the allies of the Blacks defied their Lord. Defied death. The darkness was coming and they needed to influence as many lives as possible. 

When chaos erupted, it was after the silence had screamed for its life. Arms —too many arms; not enough arms— wrapping around and holding. It wasn’t long before they were just a huddle of tears and snot and aching limbs on the floor, none quite wanting to let go of the other.

Nothing in life was perfect, but perhaps they could forget the truth and exist in this bubble for a moment. Perhaps Harry could forget the confusion, the warring emotions that still turned his stomach, and exist in this embrace for a moment.

Pandemonium filtered through their little bubble, forcing them to detach and bear witness to what Harry had planned so very meticulously, and forgotten almost immediately at the sight of his mother. 

His mother. He didn’t think he’d ever sooth the complicated emotions the thought brought him. 

Feathers rained upon them like snow, pure white and downy soft, exploding with colourful powder each time it landed on a target. The plates had grown arms and legs, and armed themselves now with cutlery, charging at people’s feet and destroying overpriced shoes. Everyone who had taken even a sip from the provided drinks were hued any non-conventional shade under the rainbow. Robes made of the finest material sprouted all manner of limbs from all manner of beasts —Harry was half sure he’d seen someone with Hippogriff wings— which promptly caught on fire —inextinguishable by commonly known means— harmless and bright as whatever shade their skin had been coloured.

It was chaos. It was gorgeous. 

A low whistle pierced through the havoc, and Harry winced when he felt just how hard he’d been smiling. He’d been distracted, sure. Oh, but he could kiss both Fred and George. They’d outdone the plans he’d come up with. Brought them to life with a brilliance he couldn’t have even imagined.

The hands that settled on his shoulders were warm and familiar, and he leaned back on instinct. Sirius grabbed his chin and tilted his head back further, so Harry’s forehead was perpendicular to his chin. “Is this what you’ve been planning, pup? Sneaking around all suspicious like and hiding letters presumed to be from a friend you’d made on that trip to North Ireland?” 

Well, Harry had nothing to hide now; his plans had already been executed to perfection.

“Happy birthday to me,” Harry chirped, sweet as could be. There was the quietest muffle of something that sounded suspiciously like giggling, and Harry righted himself so abruptly he had to blink through the haze of the blood rushing down from his brain, falling back a little against Sirius’ chest, vision spinning before clearing itself.

It was only now that he could truly take in his mother, pale and smaller than the pictures he’d seen, hair like flames and eyes like jewels, positively radiant where the deep greens of her robes enhanced them —Harry had indeed planned her outfit as well and owled it to her. Mary, too, was a breathtaking image in the yellow gold robes he’d perfected with Dorcas, a perfect complement to Lily’s.

That was his mother. His godmother. His family. 

She was beautiful, truly. They both were. Harry couldn’t actually believe this was real. But it was —she was; they were. Standing right here in front of him. Alive and smiling and —

“Where’s Remus?” Oh , Harry hadn’t ever heard Sirius’ voice like that outside of sleep —soft and almost crystal-like in its fragility; vulnerable in a way he didn’t know Sirius could be. The spell of timelessness that had befallen them shattered in a blink, and Harry felt the hands that had been placed loosely on his shoulders —steadying him after his near stumble— tighten in a way that threatened pain. 

He said nothing, letting Sirius hold on —he’d let him hold on forever; he knew Sirius would as well. 

Not even the screaming guests could have broken the silence that settled stiff over them. Despite hundreds of candles, it still felt like —

Darkness was closing in, and Remus could only run so far; hold on for so long. 

Lily was alive; she was okay. Brittle, definitely on the mend, but okay. 

There had been a letter. Not from Sirius. No, from Harry Potter. Everyone was alive and well. Almost everyone. Peter’s broken, bloodied body flashed in his mind’s eye. What he’d done to him didn’t flash —for it to have been there and gone would have been a mercy. But rather, it was always there, tinting his vision crimson and souring his stomach until all he could feel was the burning bile at the base of his throat. 

Traitor, the more animal part of his brain reminded him. Betrayed the pack. Undeserving of love. And yet —was it Remus’ hands that needed to be sullied with blood? Was he not allowed reprieve from just that? If nothing else. Of course not. He’d done the unthinkable, he’d severed the life from someone. There was no going back. And still—

He was going home. He was going to see Sirius. He would get to hold him in his arms and inhale the scent he’d missed for eleven years now. It had been eleven years. 

Ten and a half years they’d ensconced themselves in the dark, working on a cure Remus lost hope in, day by day. But Mary was adamant and quite literally on the verge of psychotic and refused to let anyone else know, lest morality become a problem. 

Had Remus left them, he had no doubt he’d have lost two of his precious friends rather than one. Nights of prying Mary from scrolls and force-feeding her were more common than her eating for herself. Times when he’d physically thrown her in the tub and soaked her, taking whatever punches she threw, allowing her to fight the entire way there. The times he had to slip dreamless sleep into her coffee, and catch her as she passed out. The nights she would sit with him and cry, read that one garden storybook that Lily had adored, to him over and over and over until her voice had gone sore and Remus could barely hear it anymore. He’d just hold her those nights —gather her up in his softest cardigan and give her a piece of chocolate and hold her in his arm chair, rocking her until she’d fallen into a sleep she wouldn’t emerge from for the next day. The first time it had happened he’d been terrified. The next time, it was relief that flooded his body.

Had Remus left them, he’d not have been blessed by the angel that came into their lives. He hadn’t known. He hadn’t know until Lily’s stomach had begun to swell, and even then he’d thought it a side effect of sickness.

Mary had known from the very beginning. 

The child was on his heels too —or she had been. Remus didn’t know where she’d gone, and that was an entirely different level of panic he wasn’t quite ready to begin grappling with yet. Well, he was already dealing with it; he just couldn’t think it real yet. They were playing hide and seek again —she’d always been such a brilliant hider. 

They’d been taking a stroll through the woods; she’d wanted to show him a little flower patch she’d found —Mary was with Lily. Who knew nearly eleven years of near lifelessness would leave a person so weak? Part of Remus couldn’t bear to look at her; part of Remus couldn’t bear to leave her side. 

He’d compromised and given Mary her time —sometimes he was half sure she would maul even him if he got too close— to go for a walk with the girl. He hadn’t thought to check his spells, check the wards, search the area around the property. It was usually safe; no creature was brave enough to lurk around a werewolf’s property. No creature other than werewolves themselves; come to challenge, come to claim. 

He’d grabbed her and ran, but then they were too far and his territory was not his own anymore and familiar became unfamiliar, became threat, and he’d lost her. Gone, taken. 

The scream that cut through silence, cut through night, was sharp enough to draw blood, his feet readjusted his path without his mind having caught up. Dusk was breaking; the cusp of a full moon. They’d chosen the wrong night; he wasn’t even sure how he’d held on for this long. It wasn’t often he was grateful to the Ancients, but he muttered a silent prayer now. By the time he’d cut through the brush, he was no longer man. No longer human. 

He couldn’t retain much in this form —nearly nothing; and he could control even less. But his senses were amplified in a way that made the image of the little girl with teeth at her throat so vivid he was four again, canines sinking into him, pain whiting out his vision as he called out for help that wasn’t coming. 

The surge in his veins was something he’d never experienced before, vision clearing in a way that made him feel like the world was moving slower than it ever had before. The sudden moment of clarity made the wine stained grass that much more deliberate when he launched, teeth going straight for the jugular, but it was too late anyway. 

The beast had been retracting its teeth, not preparing to bite. Warm, wet, metallic as it hit his tongue; the animal in him too far gone to register the fear, the horror dawning in soft brown eyes. 

His only instinct was to protect. Even if it meant embracing his monster.

This was supposed to be sacred ground, and the infidels would pay for ever daring to violate it the way they had. Nothing was supposed to touch them. Not now when everything was finally going okay —

“Not here,” Regulus hissed, quiet but potent, and before Harry could blink, all of them were huddled in Sirius’ old bedroom. He wasn’t quite sure why this was the venue chosen, but he’d accept it.

He wondered what was going on at the party, and prayed silently that Dorcas and Evan were keeping some sort of order. Marlene and Barty would encourage the chaos. Pandora was probably in the middle of all of it.

Part of him felt awful for the thought, but did he really have to be here at this moment? He wanted to run, honestly. He didn’t like any of this. He didn’t want to be near right now. He wanted it to be real more than anything and he wanted it to a dream even more.

He didn’t know what he wanted. He never knew what he wanted. 

“What happened?” There was still a softness there in Sirius’ voice Harry was unaccustomed to, but he didn’t sound like he would fracture anymore. Instead, it was determination that threaded his voice and steadied it.

Harry was vaguely aware of the tears gleaming in Lily’s eyes, but his attention had been stolen by something else —or rather someone.  Someone he‘d not yet noticed, and the thought jarred him. He could usually sense people by their magicks. 

A girl. Small, sort of mousy; her hair was a muted auburn sort of colour —not quite brown, but not quite red. And her eyes —her eyes were wide and brown and soft and—

Harry reached for her without thinking, fingers settling gentle as the beat of a butterfly’s wing on the skin beneath her eyes. She didn’t move, didn’t even flinch; she just kept looking up at him with wide, almost awed eyes. Her own hand came up to brush feather light against his wrist.

He could’ve sworn he felt a ripple of magick between them; something that felt as familiar as his own magicks, which were suddenly sitting up with interest; maybe that was why he hadn’t sensed her. But also, it was similar to the magick that had made itself apparent between him and his mother; if a little less potent.

Harry didn’t know where the girl had come from, or even why she was here —this was supposed to be a private meeting— but there was something so soothingly warm about her. And she looked so — he knew her . He didn’t know how, but he knew her eyes, he knew the curve of her nose and the swell of her lips and he knew the brown in those eyes. “Who—“ 

“Briar,” Mary said quietly —appearing out of nowhere— hands resting aflutter on the girl’s shoulders, as though she didn’t know whether to leave them there or not. Her eyes were trained —as were Lily’s— steadily on James’, and Harry turned, letting his hand fall from the girl, from Briar’s face —her had was still caught on his wrist— just in time to see his dad crumble to his knees, hand coming up to cover his mouth, eyes glazing over with tears. 

Harry had seen James cry; he’d seen him cry out of joy, he’d seen him cry on those days where the grief and sadness would just bubble up and overflow. He’d never seen an expression quite so broken on his dad’s face. If he hadn’t been looking, he wouldn’t have seen Regulus beginning to back away. Breaking the stillness of the room, and breaking away from where Briar’s hand was Harry reached for his hand and pulled him close, feeling the minute trembles in his father’s body despite his face never changing in the slightest. 

Sirius was the one who conjured the teapot, and everyone took a moment to find a seat, silence never leaving them; settling over them like a cloak —their only protection. The only thing warding off frostbite in bitter winter.

Harry pulled James closer to him as well, settling himself between his fathers, watching as Briar —Briar. That was his sister. It couldn’t not be his sister. He had a sister— did quite the same as he did, hands clutched tight in Lily and Mary’s robes. Sirius stood beside James, and a for a moment, the room felt terribly unbalanced. The missing piece was as palpable as the trembles that rocked Harry gently between his fathers.

Remus Lupin. Harry had heard stories about him. He’d seen tensions rise high over that name. He’d seen all his guardians gentle at the mentioning of him. There was a certain smile that stole across James, Sirius and Regulus’ faces whenever he was mentioned. Something that seemed special to that man only. Uncle Moony they called him. Harry wanted so desperately to meet him. 

“I think we need to start from the top,” it was Regulus who was brave enough to shed that cloak, hand tightening in Harry’s. Harry pressed more into his side, letting their shoulders rest together and bearing some of his weight. It was Regulus who thrusted them bare into winter. For it was Regulus this had begun with. 

“Then I believe,” Mary’s voice was stone and it was ice and Harry felt Regulus’ hand tremble in his before clutching even tighter. As much as Harry already adored Mary, there was something almost terrifying in her voice that made him want to recoil. Harry held onto Regulus like a lifeline, leaned into his side and tried to offer quiet comfort, pulling his dad with him, until they were nearly half on top each other. Something was about to happen, the anxious song of his magicks assured that; and whatever it was, he would hold onto his parents through all of it. “We begin with you, Baby Black.” 

James Potter was speechless. 

Which was a spectacle in itself. It was quite difficult to render James speechless, but this had done the job quite nicely. His wife —whom he had buried and grieved— was very much alive, sitting across from him. There was a girl sitting next to her that could only be his —for how much she looked like his mother; that was unless he had a brother he hadn’t known about and his wife had cheated on him. But he was at least half sure that wasn’t the case. If he waited long enough, perhaps his parents would pop in, along with everyone else he’d lost. Fuck, maybe the Dark Lord himself might drop in for a spot of tea. Who the hell knew anymore? It was all he could do to hold on the Harry and try to keep his breathing steady.

Harry was real. Regulus was real. Sirius was real. Blind panic had him reaching for Sirius, finding his robes and dragging him closer until he could lean against his side, content only when one of Sirius’ hand settled on his head. Warm, steady and grounding. maybe he’d actually survive this. 

Listening to Mary speak was like what it had been listening to Harry at the end of the term; blood magicks—sure. Spooky incantations—absolutely. Being carved apart by the Ancients and stitched back together—nothing strange about that; even when his heart clenched and his stomach turned and all he wanted to do was hold on to his friends again, he dared not move.

He had no right to touch them, to hold them, to be near them. No right. He’d given that up when he’d given up on Lily; when he’d let himself live a life of bliss whilst Mary gave up her life so Lily could feel bliss once more.

It wasn’t that uncommon —the guilt that twisted his gut and hastened his breaths. That drew him to pulling away and hiding until he could draw it under control. No, it wasn’t uncommon. But the guilt that existed there now; that guilt had no name. No way to express just how sick it made him. He couldn’t reach out and touch. Reach out and hold. Reach out and soothe. Not after all of this. Not after he’d given up. He didn’t deserve this. Or maybe, this punishment was exactly what he deserved.

To have his family whole again and to be impermitted to touch. To even gaze upon that façade.

Mary continued speaking, and the guilt continued mounting, and his glasses were on his face, yet his vision blurred so the world was unrecognisable. 

“But, it seemed the Philosopher’s Stone and whatever dark magicks had been keeping Lily alive were at odds with each other. They repelled one another somehow, and that overflow of magicks was what had begun calling the dark creatures. Remus brought Briar home that day and disappeared right after —said there was something important he had to do.” There was a thought niggling at the back of James’ mind after those words; something he knew Dorcas would need to hear, but he could barely hear over the roaring thunder of his own thoughts, lightning flashing through his mind, showing him glimpses of his old life. Igniting his new life. 

“And you didn’t think to check in with him?” Oh, he should probably do something about that. But James’ body was frozen in a paralysed sort of stupor. It was like he was watching through a fog; body trembling with the need to get up and soothe, but he couldn’t move. Sirius was going to say something he didn’t mean; Mary was going to pounce. They’d be sixteen again. Snapping for anything, everything. Always on the attack.

James still didn’t understand the fiasco of sixth year —or he didn’t know how to reconcile with the fact that things could become so disastrous so quickly. He didn’t think he’d ever understand; didn’t think he’d ever accept how quickly they could fall apart.

Remus had been on the outs with Sirius after the… prank seemed so little a word after all these years; after understanding the reality of what might’ve been. Remus had been spending all his time with Lily; sometimes he wouldn’t even come back to the dorms at night. And where Lily knew the best way to wound Sirius was to ignore him, Mary was always too pleased to bite back.

Sirius was an angry crier, and oh how Mary had loved dragging him to tears. Because then it would upset James. And Mary had hated James at that point. And James knew why. Of course he did. 

Selfish. He’d always been selfish. He thought if he gave the world, it could make up for it. But at his core, he was selfish. He always wanted, wanted, wanted. His desires had to be fulfilled. His whims.

Every prank he’d ever played —just to show he could get away with it. He was rich and he knew it. Powerful and he’d known it. He could get whatever he wanted, and he’d preyed on that. Always. Because he knew he’d get what he wanted. Even if he had to wait a little.

The sick that crawled up his throat was hot and abrupt. 

“You think I didn’t try to track him down?!” Yes, this was getting dangerous. James really should do something. But his vision was dizzy and his throat was wet with sick and he couldn’t swallow; couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t watch. Couldn’t feel the little palm he knew was nestled in his own; he was probably clutching so hard he was threatening to cut blood flow, but then, he’d always been selfish, hadn’t he? It was his comfort that mattered. 

“Well obviously you didn’t try hard enough! You spend eleven years searching for a cure that probably doesn’t exist and you can’t spend a single week searching for the reason you survived at all?” Sirius was going to regret everything he was saying. James should step in; it was the only thing he was good at. Soothing tensions. Easing the anxiety, the anger and fury that accompanied these sorts of situations. Even that was born from his selfishness; he didn’t like seeing people fight. Didn’t like seeing his friends fight especially. 

“You watch your mouth, Sirius Black,” it was the fire in Mary’s eyes that finally forced James to move at all; forced him to realise that Sirius was not leaning against him anymore —there was something almost feral there. Like one wrong move and she might actually draw blood. James’ feet twitched with the need to stand, even as his knees trembled. Even as his hand tightened in Harry’s and his instinct to hide reared its ugly head. He’d never enjoyed confrontation. “Lily was just barely back. I couldn’t leave her by herself; I couldn’t leave Briar by herself. Forgive me for not chasing after someone who said he’d be back. Remus is a big boy, Sirius. He can take care of himself. I don’t know why you didn’t try looking for him yourse—“  

“Okay,” James was up. He was up and his arms were wrapped tight around Sirius, pulling him back, reeling him in. “ Okay,” soft; a coax more than an assurance. A command more than anything. Relax for me. Breathe for a minute . “Alright?” James could hear the way Sirius’ teeth ground as he rocked back on his heels; feel the way his chest expanded with deep, deep breaths. He didn’t loosen his hold, just let Sirius rest against his chest; held him there until he slumped back, tensions draining and leaving his shoulders a tired curve. 

“Don’t ever, McDonald — ever assume I didn’t look for him. Don’t think I didn’t find him,” Sirius’ fault had always been his pride; and even now he was too prideful to let his voice break. James felt his skin break where Sirius’ nails were pressing into his wrists. Holding himself there; grounding himself. “But I trust him enough to leave him when he says I need to,” and James could see now —maybe not regret, but a sort of hurt in Mary’s eyes. Because she knew. She had to. She knew the same way James did that Sirius wrote Remus a letter every single Friday. Sent it along with his favourite chocolate and whatever little knickknack had caught his eye —sometimes it was a rose, sometimes an oddly shaped rock; every Christmas he sent him new books or a cardigan. Or both. Mary knew. She couldn’t not. The letters arrived. The owls came back. 

No reply ever came. 

Lily had also risen in the chaos, pale hand resting ever so gingerly on Mary’s shoulder. She was so much smaller than when James had last seen her. She’d always been healthy; strong; full. Now she was paler, smaller —like the life had been leeched from her— her hair shorn short, barely brushing her shoulders. She looked nearly an entirely new person, and she still looked exactly the same as he had last seen her. Just as beautiful as the day he’d lost her and every day before that. 

A part of his heart clenched. He wanted to hold her, support her weight in his arms, and breathe under the warm comfort. But that was all it was. He just wanted her comfort. To breathe in the fact that one of his best friends was alive. And she had been —one of his best friends, that is. It was them that managed to help mend that rift between Sirius and Remus. It was in sixth year that he truly grew to appreciate her brilliant mind. The cunning she’d kept so carefully hidden behind smiles that edged ever so slightly into the territory of mischievous.

Lily Evans had always been a troublemaker, and James had spent so long chasing her heart he’d forgotten to appreciate her mind. 

He was wrong-footed. He didn’t know what to do. What was the right move? Was this even Lily Potter? She’d died, hadn’t she? Lily Potter was the one he’d loved; the mother of his child — children. His eyes flickered to where Briar —she’d named her Briar. James wondered at what Harry’s name might’ve had she not let him name their son— was sat, hands folded politely in her lap, eyes wide and brown and even a little fearful. 

He didn’t know where to start. What to do. That was his daughter, but would he ever be her father? That was his wife. But would he ever be her husband? The silence had settled again; loud and suffocating and James couldn’t breathe. It settled over him like sludge; chains wrapping around his ribs and locking his heart down, preventing it from beating at all. Maybe he was actually just as dead as Lily had been. 

Maybe this had all been some strange, wild, beautiful dream. But then, maybe he’d not been the best, and the Ancients had to punish him in this life. Where they gave him everything he could ever want; and then stole from him everything he thought he’d wanted. And they would make him choose. 

The life he’d had or the life he’d made. 

The life he’d chosen or the life that had chosen him.

Somehow, he felt he could only have one. Knew it in his heart and felt the ache of it. He felt he’d be erasing one if he chose the other. And he knew the one he wanted. But could he have it? Did he deserve it. He wanted both of them. He wanted all of them. He’d always wanted a large family. Couldn’t he have it all? He’d always gotten what he wanted; until it became unbearable. He’d always been selfish. He was still selfish. 

In front of him— Briar, settled small and quaint behind his wife, blinking up at him with doe eyes that were his mother’s; Lily, standing tall and proud and beautiful as the day he’d buried her. Lily, whose hand was pale and perched on Mary’s shoulder. Mary, whose position was protective and possessive and James would never forget that night —one of his late nights of mischief, hidden beneath his cloak. He’d been just a little too drunk and had stumbled into a private conversation between Mary and Marlene, the contents of which were never to be revealed.

He’d known full well why Mary despised him. Why she couldn’t quite look at him sometimes. Why she couldn’t so much as force a smile around him sometimes. 

And yet he’d pursued Lily anyway. Selfish. Married her —selfish— while Mary stood at the side of the altar and watched with a smile pasted in her face —selfish—  teeth white and striking against the beauty of her skin. And then he’d buried her alive and Mary had dug her up and nursed her and saved her and sacrificed for her. Had let her chest be carved open by the Ancients, and had used her own blood to water Lily. To sustain her. While he’d raised their son, while he’d allowed himself to move on as much as he could and fall more and more in love, while he’d been happier than he could ever remember being. 

One of his feet moved back instinctively, without permission, hands falling from where he’d still been holding onto Sirius. Without thought. Bile burned at the back of his throat, and his stomach churned in a way that made him nauseous; tightened like a rope had strung itself around his stomach and tugged.

He’d buried her alive.

He’d moved on.

He’d made himself a family and a life.

He’d been happy while Mary had all but sacrificed herself to bring her back. 

He’d let her stand beside the altar and watch him marry the love of her life. He’d married Lily when all he could think about was moonlight eyes and charcoal ringlets and a sarcastic little smirk that usually accompanied some sort of scathing retort meant to break his heart. 

Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. He thought he was kind; liked to pretend he was generous. Liked to think he would do the right thing. But no; he was just selfish. Self-centred. Crude. Crass. Brash. Uncaring. Inconsiderate. He was everything he’d never wanted to be. 

He’d done all of that because he’d thought it was the only way. The right way. Like everyone’s goals should line up with his. Like his idea of right was the only idea of right. Selfish. 

He couldn’t help the next step back that he took; and then the next. His chest was tight and his stomach was playing tug-of-war and when that delicate, fragile little hand tried to reach out for him —so small now; looking like it would shatter rather than hold the strength they’d once had— the crack of Apparition was heard before he could even comprehend what he’d done. 

Looking at the tapestry hung behind Regulus’ desk in his study was even worse. This study where he’d plot with Harry and Regulus, where he’d just sit and watch Regulus work. Where he’d soothed Regulus so many times; held him while he shook apart. This study that his family had grown up in. Again he was off, barely a thought in his head to keep him from being splinched.

Their bedroom; their garden; their kitchen —their their their. All he’d let himself have while Lily nearly rotted away.

Apparating to Godric’s Hollow, it was all he could do to keel over and vomit. Curled in on himself there in the dirt, on the grave he’d dug and honoured, he felt numb. He didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know what to do. 

He was so very selfish. 

By the time he felt the careful prodding of cold, bony fingers on his nape, he’d cried himself dry. The taste of sick was rancid in his mouth, his face was stiff with dried, crusted tears, and his robes were smudged with mud. Harry had spent weeks with Dorcas designing everyone’s robes. He’d ruined them. Just another way he was selfish. 

He wanted to flinch away; to run away; to dig the hole and bury himself —feel himself suffocate the way Lily had. He wanted to curl up even more; bury his head in his knees and just never come out. Stay right here on this grave until it became his own. Maybe then the Ancients would grant him respite.

But he couldn’t —he couldn’t , because the day he flinched away from Regulus’ touch was the day he’d lose him; for good. Forever. Regulus had always been so delicate; he’d shatter. 

At least that’s what he told himself. Because he was too selfish to admit the truth. He didn’t let himself believe it was him who would shatter if he didn’t let Regulus hold him down right now. Anchor him back to this world; the light in the life he didn’t deserve, strong and warm, resting against his back, fingers tracing mesmerising little lines up and down his arms, head leaning against his. Soothing him. Rocking him. Settling him back into his skin when all he’d wanted to do was claw it from his body —no matter how painful it might’ve been.

He’d wanted the pain. It had been an unhealthy habit; one Regulus and Sirius had cut out of him quite early. They’d never managed to sever the urges though. The need for pain that sometimes felt like a tangible tremble racing through his body. The need to be punished.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there, blinking away at nothing, while Regulus continued to draw those mind-numbing little patterns into his skin. How long it had been until Regulus’ words actually started filtering in. The lullaby. The precious, precious lullaby he’d sing to Harry. The same one James had immortalised in that music box he’d honestly wanted to keep for himself. Regulus had a beautiful voice. He didn’t use it often, and it didn’t raise anything above a whisper at the best of times, but he’d sing for Harry, and James was always nearby enough to hear the beauty and let it shake him right to his core. Warm him in a way nothing else could.

Oh, how he adored Regulus’ voice. 

He didn’t know what had shifted in him, what had alerted Regulus, but Regulus seemed to know when he was present again. His hands shifting from where they’d been tracing across his arms —gentle and spellbinding— to tug him back, until his back was flush against Regulus’ chest. He used one of his hands to hold James’ face gently, thumb running across his skin in those very same patterns that left him bewitched. James watched him summon a kerchief, and wet it, using it to wipe away the tear stains. Soft, like he would break if he pushed too hard. James was already broken. He wanted Regulus to shatter him. He didn’t want his pieces put back together; he wanted to be scattered into the wind until he no longer existed. 

“Where are you, my love? Where is it you’ve gone?” Maybe Regulus’ voice could anchor him here a little longer. Maybe Harry would appear and complete this little circle that he knew and loved. He wanted his family. And he —for the first time in his life— feared his family.

Because his mind was firmly made up. As long as Regulus would have him —in whatever capacity Regulus would have him, James was his. James would always be his.

He could just never understand why Regulus would ever want to be James’.

“Why did you come back?” he didn’t quite have the energy to regret the words. Couldn’t regret them. He needed to know. Regulus had been free.

Regulus’ expression didn’t change —not even the minutest of flinches; the pressure of his hands neither increased nor decreased, remained calm and steady and real on James’ face. But his eyes wouldn’t meet James’; they stayed focussed on his face, re-wetting the kerchief and swiping beneath his eyes. 

“To protect you,” it was so soft. Regulus had been nothing but honest and vulnerable with him the last ten years —nearly eleven, now— and still James saw new parts of him every day. Saw the sweeter, gentler more sentimental parts of him. He didn’t think the Regulus he’d known in school would be caught dead with an expression even similar to the one he wore now. But then, he’d never thought he could love anyone more than he’d loved the Regulus he’d known in school.

He’d never in his life been so happy to be proven wrong. 

“But you were safe,” he pushed anyway. Because he knew Regulus would indulge him. Selfish, selfish, selfish. Would he ever be anything but? “Erased from the world, Reg. You risked yourself. Why would you do that?” Weak as he was, James still managed to lift his hand, brush the barest tips of his fingers across Regulus’ cheek; watched him tremble. Let him take his hand, press the back of it against his cheek. James drew him closer with his other hand, rested their temples together and just breathed while Regulus gathered his thoughts.

“Because I rather be in danger than have let you get hurt, James,” when he spoke, it was because his voice was stronger than James had heard it in so long; and still it shook —which only spoke to Regulus’ unspeakable strength. “I would still rather be in danger than ever see you hurt. If I could take away your pain, I would,” his breath was so warm where it brushed against the side of James’ face. “If I could ease your heartache, I would. If I could quiet your mind, I would,” he’d let his fingers lace with James’, still settled against his cheek, tilted so his lips brushed James skin with every word he uttered. “And yet all I can do for you is hold you and let you grieve. Do my very best to be of comfort. Do my very best to be enough. Even when I know you’ll leave me again,” the words were so quiet, James was almost sure they weren’t meant for his ears.

It was ice washing over him, and he was springing up so quickly he had to grab Regulus, lest he fall right over. 

“Do you really believe that?” Even James could hear the slightly manic tinge that rung in his words, but he didn’t really care. Did Regulus really think —

Seeing Regulus fold his hands in his lap —fold them in a way they wouldn’t touch James— was a torture he didn’t know how to endure. Seeing him smile —something mild and knowing and resigned was a knife through his gut. He wasn’t just selfish; he was a failure if Regulus could still think like this. If Regulus could still believe James would ever leave him. 

“I would never leave you, Regulus,” never. James didn’t know how to make him believe it; knew he didn’t believe it when he saw the hint of amusement in his eyes —bitter. “Won’t you ever believe me?” He had to ask; he needed to know. Would Regulus ever think himself enough? Because he was. Would Regulus ever believe that James wouldn’t leave him? Because he wouldn’t. He didn’t need anyone else. Not like this. Even if all Regulus ever let him do for the rest of his life was hold him; was sleep near him —it would always be enough. But Regulus didn’t know. Regulus didn’t —

“I’ve never been your first—“ 

“Lies,” the force of the word startled Regulus, who blinked up at him, probably confused at the context. “It was always a lie, Regulus. Lily was my first —she was the first person I wanted to fall in love with. The first person I ever said I loved with words, Regulus. You were the first person my heart had ever chosen,” even now, Regulus looked doubtful, but —now the words and started— James had no way of capping them. Not now when he knew, when he realised. He’d never told Regulus. He’d somehow just expected him to know. 

Selfish. 

“You’re the first person I’ve ever loved, Reg,” the relief that washed through him was like a wave crashing against the shore it called home —when Regulus didn’t shrink away from his touch; when he let him take his face into his hands and hold him there. Lock their eyes while he made a confession he should’ve made so long ago.

“Before I even knew how to express that sort of love. You were the first person who ever made me so jealous I couldn’t breathe. You were the first person I ever wanted to spirit away and keep for myself. You were the first person who ever made me realise how selfish I was Regulus. Because I wanted you so badly I hated it when anyone even so much as stood beside you. In my mind, you’d somehow just —been mine. During Quidditch games all I ever wanted to do was fly with you. When you passed by in the corridors, I just wanted to stay; I just wanted to look at you. Be near you. That one, single time you visited with Sirius —I thought I was going to die, Regulus.” James didn’t care how childish it sounded. He really thought he was having an heart attack with the way his chest had hurt. He still didn’t know how Regulus had shown up for that week. Just knew that things with him and Sirius had been the closest to whole as he could’ve remembered. And then it had shattered just as abruptly as it had mended.

”And I didn’t even know why. I just knew you were in my house, and in my space, and in my room and in my clothes. When I told Sirius I’d forgotten how to breathe he laughed so much I had to wonder if I’d said something strange. I don’t think you understand Regulus. My mouth would say Lily’s name and my eyes would follow you. Every insult that should have hurt —you never really tried to soften you words— just made me want to spend more time with you. Figure out every single way you could think of to insult me. That year I graduated? When I realised I wouldn’t see you everyday? I couldn’t follow you around and try to make you laugh or play you in Quidditch or just see you around —Regulus I almost just screwed myself over in all my exams so they’d fail me and I’d have to spend that last year you with you.”

”But —“

”I’ve always been selfish, Regulus,” he couldn’t let him cut his words. Not now; not yet. “I’ve always needed to be loved, Regulus. Needed to be praised. Needed people to approve my actions,” the words scraped like sandpaper as they escaped; but it was sweet, sweet alleviation. To let it out; the express that truth. For someone to know. “The way towards approval was Lily; and that was the path I chose. Because I wasn’t brave enough yet. Because I was still a coward. I’m still a coward, Regulus—“ when Regulus’ hand wrapped around his wrist, brushing like breeze, James felt it burn in a way he’d not felt a touch burn before. Regulus, who was always cold, his touch set James ablaze.

”You’re the bravest person I know,” but James was already shaking his head, trying to blink away the tears. He didn’t even know why anymore. Regulus had seen him cry. Regulus had seen him fall apart in ways not even Sirius had; dark nights in their bedroom when the overwhelm of it all would surge up and grab him, try to drag him under where he’d never again get to see the stars.

”I’m not brave, Regulus. I’m just selfish enough to put it all on the table. Tell you every single ugly truth and hope you won’t leave me. I’ve never wanted anyone more than I’ve wanted you, Regulus. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.” 

Regulus moved his hands from where they’d still be resting on his face. Laced their fingers and pressed their hands to his lips. Held him there, and pressed the sweetest little kiss to James’ skin, all too unaware of the way it burnt. He whispered there, in the darkness, under the moonlight, “Will you ever believe me when I tell you you’re enough?”

James hadn’t expected his own words to be thrown back at him; worse yet, there was nothing jeering or challenging or mocking about it. Regulus was genuinely asking. He was asking if James believed he was enough. And they both knew James didn’t. After all of that, all Regulus wanted to do was assure him. 

Slowly, he shook his head, lip quivering, eyes burning, tears pooling afresh. “That’s not fair,” he didn’t like the way his voice cracked, and yet, he also loved the way Regulus’ hand cupped gently near his chin, shushing him and drawing across his cheek in gentle swipes. The way Regulus allowed him to fall apart; the way he broke him gently. 

The way he was always so careful about putting him back together.

”I’ve always been content with whatever you would give me, James. And you give me so much. You’ve given me everything I could ever want. You’ve given me love, you’ve given me my brother back, you’ve given me solace. You’ve given me a family. I didn’t think I would ever have a family, James. Not one like this. Not one that loves the way you’ve taught us to love. Even were I not the be the only holder of your love, I cherish every scrap you give me.”

”But it’s all yours. All of it. No one —I can’t love anyone the way I love you.” James needed Regulus to know. To understand. To truly comprehend what he was telling him. 

“Tell me where you are, James. Let me take some of your burden,” it was such a gentle request. It was all James had ever wanted. It was all James had ever feared — he was the one who was supposed to shoulder the burdens; he was the one who was supposed to be strong; he was the one who was supposed to comfort. 

If Regulus was surprised when James crumbled against him; collapsed like a paper doll disintegrating in seawater, he didn’t show it. James often forgot how strong Regulus was, but it was easy to remember when he held him like this, when his arms tightened around him in a way James always thought — always hoped— might brand him. 

“You’re so strong, mon coeur; you’ve always been so strong. Have you forgotten than you don’t need to be strong forever?” 

“But then what am I, Reg? What am if I can’t be strong for you; if I can’t be strong for Harry? Who am I supposed to be, Reg?” Who was he supposed to be when he ran at the slightest chance of confrontation. When he ran from the family he couldn’t mend?

“Well,” and his hand was in James’ hair now; tugging —not at all gently— in that way that made James’ stomach flutter and soothed every nerve in his body simultaneously. “I believe you’re the man I came out of hiding for. And you’re the man who let me raise his son with him. And you’re the man I live with and sleep next to. The man who my brother adores. The man who’s his son’s biggest inspiration,” and now his voice was lilting up —veering into something wicked and perhaps cruel. But when it was from Regulus, James was only ever endeared.  “The man whose dead wife came back from the grave just to see him,” James knew something was coming, but he hadn’t exactly been expecting that. Shocked, and maybe even reluctantly amused, he bit Regulus’ shoulder —none too gently— and settled his face more firmly in the crook of his neck making his home there and feeling the race of heart finally relax. It was peace, the soft laugh he was blessed with. “She came back with child, as well. Perhaps a fuck you from the Ancients. Took her lovely son and sequestered him away to be raised by Blacks. Ancients alone know why he isn’t crazy yet.” Could James ever love a person more than he loved this man? Who let him shake apart in hurt and would now make him shake apart with laughter.

“I assure you,” James was the one laughing now, hands clenching and unclenching gently in the back of Regulus’ robes. He could just exist here for a moment. Not worry about everything waiting on him when he finally got back. “He’s plenty mad. I swear, he’s more you than me sometimes.” 

“He was suspended in the first week of school, darling. He’s your son.” James could cry again. What would he ever have done without Regulus around. He readjusted his arms, pulled Regulus even tighter to him. 

“Maybe we’re both wrong and he’s just Sirius’ spawn somehow.” Regulus laughed again; louder, freer. Beautiful. 

He was the most beautiful person James had ever met in his life. His face, his eyes, his hair, his voice. His features, sure. He was the most beautiful person James had met —his aspirations, his habits, his thoughts. His mind. Oh, James loved him so much. James loved him so —“I love you,” he said it so abruptly it sort of fell from his mouth, a rushed, jumbled mess of words as he pulled away from Regulus, held him by his shoulders and looked directly in his eyes. They shone in the moonlight and he was so very beautiful and James —“I love you so much, Regulus.” He needed him to know. Needed him to know more than he needed to breathe. If he had to go back and face Lily, face Mary and face the other half of his family he’d pretty much abandoned, he would do it with Regulus knowing that he loved him. 

He watched Regulus' eyes soften, still glowing with amusement, silver as moonlight, clearer, more beautiful. Regulus was more beautiful than any star that shone in the sky; more precious than any metal that was set in jewel. His hands —cold, always so cold— cupped James face, brought him so close their noses brushed, thumbs tracing like spring breeze beneath his eyes. 

“I love you,” it was a breath and it was oath and James’ eyes crossed at the confession, giddy huff leaving his lips as he pulled Regulus into him completely, laughing as Regulus yelped, both of them falling over with how hard James had pulled him in. He didn’t care. He didn’t really care about anything right now, holding Regulus tight and rolling him over, arms pinned above his head, crown knocked astray, hair undone and a mess of black waves against the dirt, lips parted in the most breathtaking little grin, eyes shining brighter than the moon. This was the man James loved. This was the man James would spend the rest of his life with. This was the man James would marry some day. 

He leaned down, so close their noses were brushing again, face aching from how much he’d been grinning. “Say it again,” it was a demand and a plea all at once, and James had forgotten momentarily how wicked Regulus was, surging forward to knock their foreheads — painfully—  together and rolling until James was the one pinned. And honestly? James wasn’t complaining. He was even prettier like this, making himself comfortable, perched low on James’ stomach, leaning forward with the barest of smirks on his faces.

James wanted to kiss him. Well, James always wanted to kiss him, but right now, James felt like he would die if Regulus wasn’t closer; on him, with him, part of him. 

“Re—“ 

“My eyes!” James jumped, sitting up so quickly, he barely managed to steady Regulus in his lap, hand fisted in the back of his robes and keeping him close. Sirius was right there, hands splayed over his face in some sort of half attempt  at shielding his eyes. 

“My grave!” Regulus blinked too, and James watched —fascinated— as he went bright red, barely noticing Lily in his periphery. Really, his mixed feelings weren’t even mixed anymore. He loved her, and he always would. He loved her the way he loved Sirius and Remus and all the rest of his friends. The grief would catch up with him, but he could outrace it for the moment and pretend it didn’t exist. Just for the moment. Regulus glowed under the moonlight, and James had never quite been successful at making him this particular shade of pink. He sort of wanted to lick it, audience be damned.

But Regulus, adept as he always was at reading James mind, steadied his lowering head with a hand on his chest, pushing him back ever so slightly. James went, but he pouted all the way, eyes still trained, arrow sharp on Regulus.

They’d just crossed some sort of boundary. James could feel it. And he never wanted to go back. He just wanted Regulus back in his arms. Wanted to hold him there again. James wanted to kiss him. 

“Oh, thank you fucking Jesus,” there was Mary, finally managing to pry his eyes away, lest he burn a hole right through Regulus’ collarbone. She seemed much too pleased —viciously so, but James couldn’t really blame her. 

“I did not need to see that,” it was only when Harry spoke that Jame and Regulus realised the position they’d been caught in, separating quickly, but remaining close enough for their shoulder to press together. James wasn’t letting him go —not yet; not right now. But really, there were some things that were very much inappropriate in front of one’s son. 

“You throw a tantrum, disappear, thrown everyone into a frenzy searching for you and then you come to violate my baby brother on your dead wife’s grave?” Well, Sirius always did have a way of wording things. 

In all honesty, James should have a rebuttal for this. He had not thrown a tantrum. He had apparated away very maturely. He was a mature adult. He was a mature adult with feelings. And those feelings were reminding him that it was perfectly normal to flee when faced with an ultimatum that felt like it would destroy you. But there was not ultimatum.

It had been almost eleven years. James had a family. A family he was always happy to extend, but a family none the less. He hadn’t done anything wrong. 

“I say hallelujah, honestly. I swear, if they haven’t actually jumped each other yet—“

“They haven’t—“ Sirius assured, cutting across Mary’s words, arms folded over his chest, tutting disappointedly; as though James had committed some sort of cardinal sin.

James would never understand him. One moment he was being swatted for even standing too close to Regulus, the next Sirius looked like he would skin him if he didn’t hug him or something. 

“You’re not serious,” Lily’s hand was on her heart, more dramatic than James could remember her being in their last life. He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Lily seemed most appalled by this news. “James! Tell me he’s not serious.”

“I’m still very much Sirius, excuse you.” 

“Oh be quiet, mutt. James you’ve not actually— you’ve been what? Waiting on my consent this whole time?” 

She’d hit the nail dead on the head and she knew it. Regulus was deadly silent beside him, still furiously red. “And you’ve just let him, Reggie? Even under the knowledge that I was dead?” She sounded so disappointed James couldn’t actually comprehend what was happening anymore. “Oh you poor, sweet thing. Come here,” James could only sit and watch, feel the heat leave his side as Regulus scrambled up to obey immediately, letting Lily take him into her arms, and pat at his head like he was a little child.  

“Well, let it not be said that James Potter was unfaithful,” Mary sighed out, like it was the most exhausting statement she’d ever made in her life. Even Harry looked satisfied, maybe even a little smug while James just sat there. He had no idea what was even happening anymore. But no one was fighting, and Mary and Sirius were poking at each other, and Regulus looked content to be in Lily’s embrace for just then and the world didn’t quite seem like it was falling apart anymore. 

This was his family. All of them. Through the good and the bad. 

“Are you really my dad?” James hadn’t even seen her; didn’t even know she was here. But Briar was in front of him, and his whole neck heated fire-hot at the thought of her having seen that entire display. 

“I— yeah?” He didn’t actually know how to answer that question, looking up and past her. Looking at Lily and Mary and Regulus. Looking at Harry —at his son— who nodded his head with the smallest, most self-satisfied looking smile.

He would’ve been more embarrassed by the crack in his voice if he didn’t see her face light up in the sweetest little grin. Her arms opened and James was hopeless to do anything more welcome her embrace, looking up to where Lily was still holding onto Regulus like some sort of wounded puppy. He embraced his daughter he’d only known for an hour on her mother’s grave, and held her all the tighter. 

They were alive. Lily was alive and Mary was alive and Sirius and Regulus and even he was alive. And if Sirius could joke and bicker right now, that meant that Remus had to be okay. Not here; not yet. But he was okay.

They were alive and they were together. And that’s all that mattered right now. 

“We have things to discuss,” Mary said, still with that mischievous smirk pulling at her lips, even as she deftly dodged another stab of Regulus’ fingers. “And there are stories to trade and things to set right. But nothing’s ever been perfect, James. And what has been done cannot be undone. The least we can do right now is go enjoy Harry’s party, get stupendously drunk —not you, kid,” she said quickly when Harry’s eyes widened. “And take everything one step at a time. We’re alive, James. That’s all that matters right now.” 

James blinked at her, at the girl he’d grown up with; at the woman she had become. He looked at his best friend and his (ex?) wife and the love of his life. He looked at his child —children and he took a deep, deep breath, letting Briar free and taking Regulus’ hand when it was offered to him, allowing him to charm the dirt from his robes. 

“We’re alive,” he echoed, still in wonder, extending his hand to Harry, feeling his grip, warm and small and full of a power be could feel in the echoes of his own magick.

“And that’s all that matters right now,” Lily finished, accepting Regulus’ other hand and reaching over to take Briar’s. Briar took Mary’s and Sirius finished the circle.

His family. All of them.

Slightly hysterical, they apparated back to Grimmauld Place, forgetting —in that moment of clarity— the absolute chaos that awaited them.

Chapter Text

The fae princess sings
The noble fall to their knees
The doves spread their wings 
Eyes sparkle with the mischief of three

Odilia Walsh hailed from a small town in North Ireland, and was rumoured to be of the fae. 

Her blood was said to be purer than the moon, and she never left home without guards at her back —Mason and Oliver— for so fine was her beauty and so precious her gifts with nurturing magicks that she could not be left on her own, for fears she might be stolen away. 

Charming, young Harry Potter had caught her fancy during a summer trip, and she’d deigned to show her face at this puny little gala, if only to see the face of her beloved. 

As much as Theo had been anticipating chaos, one Draco Malfoy knocking his cup from his hand and looking at him like he’d grown a second head was not on his list of hiccups to smooth out. It had been all of five minutes, and already the evening was off to an interesting start. It would become more interesting soon, were Harry to make good on a promise he’d made during the term. 

“Well,” he said softly, letting the barest hint of irritation lace his voice. In actuality he was really rather intrigued. Prince Malfoy was elegant to a fault. He wouldn’t stumble, far less make a mess; nor a scene. It had been on purpose. “You must have missed me, Malfoy. Seeing as you’re so eager to get in my arms.” It took all of Theo’s willpower not to quirk even the barest of smiles when the boy’s nose wrinkled —yet another deviation from his perfect nature. Oh, he was off his game tonight. It was almost endearing. 

Funny, actually. One year of exposure to a certain boy who often looked like he’d never seen a hairbrush and Draco Malfoy was an entirely different person. Theo remembered Harry’s last birthday party; remembered Malfoy surrounded by his goons, nose high and smirk smug, like it was his birthday. He enjoyed attention; enjoyed seeing people flock towards him. 

Draco Malfoy was alone right now, had been for a while if Theo had to guess. More reserved that he’d expect, regal looking in his robes. At least he didn’t look as much of an idiot as Theo felt. He didn’t have a cape. Why had Harry chosen a cape? Did it have to be a cape? Seriously, Theo would be having words with him.

“Have you gone absolutely mad?” Theo gave in to the urge to raise a brow, ever more intrigued. What could possibly have a Malfoy so skittish? He looked at the crest sitting at the knot of Draco’s tie, etched in the same delicate gold of Theo’s own and wondered what Harry was up to. He hadn’t known Harry even knew their House crests. It spoke to mischief that he was putting them on display. 

“I do believe you’re the one who knocked the glass from my hand, dear,” Theo hadn’t had any form of communication with Draco in nearly a month and a half. He had expected berating. Not this almost manic sort of light in his eyes. Though, he did quite enjoy it. Seeing someone so put together —outside the presence of Harry of course; Theo had never seen someone make such a mess of a person without even trying— appearing to be on the verge of falling apart. Even if only to those well versed in his facial expressions. Like a lake frozen over; one could never quite tell where the ice was but a shell, waiting for the barest feather press to shatter it. Only the experienced truly knew. 

“Oh,” Theo didn’t like the look of realisation that was dawning in Draco’s eyes. Didn’t like the way they softened nearly immediately. 

“What?” The irritation wasn’t fake this time. It scraped against his throat and he scolded himself for losing the aloofness that was second nature. But Draco was treading dangerous ground here. Whatever he thought he knew— 

“See, if you’d done your due diligence and read your letters,” the way his voice lilted up told Theo Draco knew full well he had not been given the luxury of receiving letters; the affected, uncaring drawl told him Draco was ever the Malfoy his name made him. Wading through mines like a child playing hopscotch. “You’d know that whatever havoc our dear associate plans to wreck tonight, has much to do with those drinks.” He’d started picking imaginary lint from Theo’s shoulder, speaking like he was discussing the bogus weather in Essex, forcing pause to the Quidditch matches scheduled this summer. 

Theo was suddenly very grateful he’d not bothered with decorum. Still, he kept the act —as was needed— they were still in public. “Oh, and what plans have our associate decided on, that such drastic measures were necessary?” He’d grown, the past month, standing nearly in line with Theo’s nose now. Harry was going to be pissed. 

“He did not disclose his plans. Only to stay away from the drinks and the Granger girl were we to stumble upon her.” 

“Hermione’s actually here?” And Theo would’ve kicked himself if Draco hadn’t pinched him hard enough to hurt , even through the many layers of fabric. 

“I do wonder for your health.” And yes, Theo deserved that tone. If his father had been close enough to hear him address a muggleborn that familiarly —Theo pushed thoughts away, ignoring them for now. His father hadn’t been around. Small mercies. 

“Heir Malfoy,” Theo should just go home. What sort of Nott was he if even his sister could startle him? He didn’t know if it was Malfoy knowing too much, or him knowing too little about whatever mischief Harry was plotting or just him missing the sodding bastard, but he was terribly unbalanced tonight. 

“Mirielle,” Draco did not extend permission for his first name, and Theo would not request it for his sister. That was always the first step. Draco knew the game as well as he did. Draco probably knew the game even better. “I didn’t know you’d be gracing us with your presence tonight,” Theo didn’t flinch when her hand slipped onto his elbow, rather he extended it and made room for her. He ignored Draco’s pointed look; knew Draco wouldn’t have so much as approached him where they could be seen if he’d known Mirielle was here. Theo didn’t know how to apologise. How to tell him he’d had no idea until the night before. 

There was only the barest pleasure in seeing Draco jump when the arm slid around his shoulder, but it was short lived, because the other half of the pair was around his own, and a familiarly unfamiliar face was grinning at them. 

“Oh ho ho ho,” there was a wickedness in that grin Theo knew despite not actually knowing. And Draco obviously recognised as well, for it seemed something in him settled at the sight of it. “Looky hear what I found. A Malfoy and a Nott,” Mirelle stiffened where she was still holding onto Theo’s arm, but said nothing; accustomed to being ignored. “Slytherins, the both of ya,” he seemed amused by the fact, this strangely familiar man. “Oh the secrets you two could tell me,” Theo was suddenly very unsure of this man’s position; no matter how familiar he seemed. He was also quite ready to smack him —very few people were allowed to be this casual with him. “You’re going to tell me everything you  know about a certain Potions Professor, see. And —“ 

“Please don’t make me make a scene in public,” Theo’s knees, embarrassingly enough, nearly buckled at just the sound of that voice. Of all the people he’d missed, he didn’t know how much he’d missed him until he’d heard his voice. “Let them go, Barty.” 

“But—“ he didn’t get to finish his statement, yelping at whatever hex was sent his way and jumping about to pat at his jacket —which was very much on fire. 

“Boys,” Mirielle’s nails digging into his arm was a dead giveaway that he was losing composure. That he was feeling things not meant to be felt in public. But he really didn’t care all that much at the moment, letting himself go lax the moment the man’s hand even brushed his shoulder. 

“Evan,” it was Draco who greeted him. Theo was quite sure if he tried to use his voice at this moment it would break. Or he might break. Something would break. Something was already breaking, because the arm was sliding around his shoulders and Evan was very much speaking to Draco, not even glancing at Theo and he could sense Mirielle’s incredulity of this openly weak display. But no one could touch him. Not here. Not right now. 

He let himself fall; let his head slump against Evan’s shoulder, and just stayed there for a moment, or a minute, or a millennia. He didn’t really care. 

Evan was safe, which meant he was safe. If only for right now; for right here. He’d face whatever punishment he’d have to, when he got home. He’d be strong enough to. 

“You must be the second Nott gracing our halls later this year,” Theo only blinked back into the conversation when he felt Mirielle’s nails retracting from his arm.

“Merry meet, Heir—“

“Rosier,” he answered easily at her prompting, taking her hand gently and pressing the customary kiss there. His arm hadn’t moved from its perch around Theo’s shoulders. Theo was sure that if he was left to support his own weight right now —he’d crumble like a building of sand under the tide’s love. “Merry meet, Mirielle Nott; blessed may our interactions be,” when Theo felt the gentle squeezing at his nape, he was reminded that Evan had had to play these exact same games when he was their age. That Evan still had a role to play, even now.

Taking a deep breath, Theo wriggled his toes and let the breath out gently, levering his head off of Evan’s shoulder and allowing himself to stand on his own two feet. If only for right now. When one was a Nott, they learnt to live for right now. For futures were fickle things, always changing. Pasts, however. Well, try as one might, a past could never be rewritten. (Only one’s perception of them.)

Evan’s hand remained where it was —warm on the back of his neck— but there was a much more appropriate space between them now. Theo had always been tall, but not nearly as tall as his father. And standing next to Evan, that deficiency in height —even if only slight; Theo would outgrow him by third year— was a safety rather than a weakness. 

“How are you, Theo?” It wasn’t a genuine question; not now —not here. It was rehearsed, a play at niceties. Something to give Theo his footing back. Yes, Evan was just as well versed in these games. 

And yet, before he could take control of himself again, the unsteadiness seemed to flow through the entire room —low murmurs rising and guests all but stampeding over themselves to gather in a single direction. Theo looked to Evan for answers, but found only uncertainty there, maybe even annoyance. But also —something profoundly sad. 

Looking to Draco didn’t bear him any better answers —he seemed just as confused— so he did as everyone else did, and craned his neck to get a glimpse at the commotion. 

Evan’s hand on him was probably the only thing that kept him standing, and when his hand reached out blindly, Draco was right there to act as anchor (and scratching pole) nails digging into flesh and holding on. Because he was right there — right at the top of those stairs.

His legs moved without permission, stepping forward, wanting to go , but Evan yanked him back —not at all gently, mind— holding him now like a scruffed kitten. “Not yet,” was all he said, eyes still trained on the stairs.

The creepy, familiar man from before was right beside them now, or more, behind them, and he too seemed to be holding on to Evan. When Theo blinked, there was a whole huddle of people around them, three ladies and a girl. He didn’t know where they’d all come from, but most of them also carried the same sadness in their expression as Evan. 

Theo didn’t understand — couldn’t understand. Harry was right there. Regulus and James and Sirius were right there, seemingly frozen at the top of the staircase, eyes fixed on the landing. None of them seemed to even be breathing, just standing and staring. Theo didn’t even know who was holding onto who anymore, hands tangled in robes and clinging, breaths small and quiet, as though too terrified to inhale. Even Mirielle seemed caught in the moment, eyes nearly glazed over as she stared at Harry. And he was a sight to behold, robes rich and green climbing high on his neck and falling to just below his knee. Even from here Theo could see the detailing on the buttons and the way the golden embroidery seemed alive. Every colour he wore matched every colour Theo wore, and —he realised— every colour Draco wore. 

Well, he did always have a thing for matching with people. But the colours were the colours that adorned his family. Evan was in those same colours; everyone huddled around them donned those same colours in different variations and Theo was startled to understand —he’d put his family in those colours. This was his way of declaring both Theo and Draco untouchable . It was oddly touching. 

Before Theo could do something that would probably take away his standing privileges, Harry was on the move. He seemed to float more than walk, as though in a trance, every step he took light as air. The unseen band had taken up, and the song built. Something beautiful; haunting —perhaps even nostalgic, showing Theo pictures of memories he’d never seen before. A rocky shore that was soft sandy dunes and then jagged rocks again. 

He was pulled back to reality by Draco’s tug on his hand, where Theo had tightened his hold unintentionally. But he was relieved he had, because Draco seemed ready to plunder his way through the crowds, drawing blood if he had to. Theo pulled him back. The song . 

There was no band. Every single person in attendance had that same sort of glazed over look in their eyes; like they were hypnotised. Like they were poisoned. Theo had been trained to resist many poisons, but even now his resolve wavered. The song seemed to have that effect, it caused emotions to stir; hidden ones; unseen ones; emotions that —they weren’t exactly snuffed out, just buried. 

Theo would gamble (though he would never admit it) if Evan’s hand wasn’t still on his shoulder; wasn’t still pressing high on his nape —exerting a pressure now that was almost bruising— he too would have fallen victim to the song’s call. Intriguing. He had been victim. Barely snatched out of it. But he had been. He had been snatched out of it. 

Quickly as the song had risen, it was cut, a man —Sirius’— voice ringing through the air. Teary, thick and a little choked, but his words were clear. “ Lily Evans Potter lives!” 

Chaos. Bedlam . And absolute pandemonium. 

Draco’s eyes couldn’t focus on any of it. Not the dove feathers, nor the shrieks, nor the people changing colours. Not when the slightest little gap had been made and all he could see was a huddle of limbs, fire on coal and green hidden away. 

When they separated, there were tears glistening on his cheeks, and Draco’s neck flashed red hot at the images the song had conjured. The flush abated quickly, for reality had always been a torturous mistress, and Harry Potter would never simply be his to whisk away as he pleased. 

Everywhere the white feathers brushed was tainted with colour, and yet no one in this little huddle was affected. Well, no one except Mirielle. She’d turned as blue as her gown, but was relatively spared —for she had not grown any animal limbs otherwise. What was it they said? Small mercies. 

There were —it was almost too much, the people around him, nearly on him. When the man’s hand had slipped over his shoulder, he wasn’t exactly sure what he would’ve done. There was nothing oppressive about him, he just wasn’t someone Draco was familiar with. The strangeness made the itch crescendo rather than abate, and Draco well and truly had been on the verge of simply hexing the man. Barty , he remembered Evan calling him. Draco only knew of one Barty. Or, he supposed, two. Both Bartemius Crouch, but then, only one would have been old enough to be even approximately Evan’s age. In fact, he would have been in Regulus’ class. The pieces slid into place once the connection was made. 

But Draco had no care for connections and puzzle pieces at the moment. He wanted his friend. And he seemed so far away right now. Hidden under a curtain of red; and that was —Draco didn’t actually know what to feel, remembering Potter slipping away what felt like so long ago; him returning in tears. He’d always been… recalcitrant when it came to discussing his mother. Nothing really, past the fact that she was dead. He’d go stony when she was brought up, like when they’d first met —cold and distant; cool gazed like he was above the whole world. Every bit the Black he was raised. Yet there Lily Evans Potter stood —very much alive and embracing her son. 

A darker part of Draco twinged with jealousy. But mainly, it was confusion. He understood, of course, publicising the announcement in the way they’d done —Draco would have to try and sneak into some of his father’s meetings now; get an idea of how they were taking it. Keep track of who stood where.

There was no winning this; whether she’d simply evaded the Dark Lord, or they’d actually been able to bring her back —which Draco highly doubted— it would still be a snub. It would still be them getting one over on the Dark Lord. Draco really hoped they knew what they were doing. This was a way of instilling fear, sure. It was also a way of inciting hatred. Strong, strong hatred. 

Draco had stumbled upon muggle plays and attempts at poetry in his continued studies. William Congreve in particular had a rather intriguing line — heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. Draco had not expected something so intellectual from the muggle mind, but Theo was one of the most brilliant minds he knew, and he found joy in muggle creations. And Granger —as much as it pained him to admit— was terrifyingly brilliant, and she hailed from a muggle background. Perhaps there were jewels in the dirt after all. 

But this seemed exactly that situation; an attempt to turn love into hatred. There would be no hatred in the devout followers; only a rage unnameable. Draco really, really hoped they knew what they were doing. 

By the time he’d tried to take another step forward, Theo yanking him back once again, they were gone. Everyone who had been on that final step of the staircase was gone. Potter was gone. And they were left in utter anarchy. 

“Right,” Evan sighed, and he looked like he was in school again, steadying himself and getting ready to ignore another stunt. Fix it and pretend it didn’t happen in the first place. Truly, his forbearance was a thing of beauty to be studied. Draco, of course, knew then why Theo found it so easy to imprint on the man. He’d only met Nott Senior a handful of times, but the man could not be described as anything less than hasty. A million places to be, a million things to do, running a mile a minute, as though time was actively working against him. Evan’s movements were always slow and easy. Never calculated, never cynical. He quite often looked like he’d just gotten out of bed —reluctantly— and was very much eager to return there.

He treated almost everything as though it was some sort of mild inconvenience, even eleven year olds smuggling dragons out of the castle. Draco didn’t think he’d ever seen the man more than turn his nose up at something he’d found unpleasant. And Evan had worked with Neville in potions for majority of the term. Yes, his forbearance ought to be studied. Perhaps Potter should take notes . 

“I don’t suppose we can just hide out until they come back?” Though he phrased it as a suggestion, it sounded distinctly like a plea on Evan’s lips. 

“No one’s gonna get hurt,” one of the women assured. She was very lovely to look at, dark all over which made the gold on her appear that much brighter; but not in a way that overpowered, rather, in a way that seemed to make her glow. Her jewels however, were at a level Draco had never in his life witnessed. He had the fleeting image of his mother perhaps salivating, and wiped it quickly from his head. He’d have to see about getting in communication with her, however. If only to surprise his mother. 

“You seem awfully sure about that,” Evan sounded sceptical, suspicious, and yearning all at once. One of the other women, short, blonde and almost scarily toned smiled at Evan, something smug and knowing. “What did you do?” His voice had gone so flat, Draco was left wondering who was better at that particular tone —Theo or Evan. 

They were being steadily ignored, it seemed, while the adults spoke softly amongst themselves. Draco clenched his fingers, so very tired of being ignored , only to remember that Theo was still holding onto him. His hand was cold —the leather of his glove was cold; the leather of Draco’s gloves were cold; he wanted to feel skin— face impassive as his eyes flickered, tracking the conversation between the adults —the only peace in the chaos that reigned around them. He seemed peaceful, tension in his body slowly leaking until his stance spoke of his usual casual confidence rather than the stiff straightness of someone too constantly on alert. It was relieving, honestly, seeing him begin to relax. Even his hold on Draco had gone lax, forcing Draco to realise it was him still holding on. 

Forcing Draco to face the reality of his not wanting to let go yet. Theo was familiar and Theo was safe and Theo was stunningly gentle when he wanted. A gentle giant . Even now, whilst he was a fair height for his age, Draco reached only his nose, and that was including the slight elevation on his shoes. Sighing, knowing what his father would think if he saw Draco holding a boy’s hand, he let his fingers slip from the boy’s —more difficult; more painful than it should have been. But it seemed Theo wasn’t ignoring him completely yet. 

It was a subtle movement; quiet and nearly invisible in that way Theo could be when he wanted. Before he realised the glove was truly gone, bare skin pressed against his and Draco could’ve shivered when long fingers rose to wrap gently around his wrist, dipping high beneath the sleeve of his shirt. Imperceptible to the outside eye. The anchor grounding Draco to the here and now, letting him slip back into the adult’s conversation.

He was not quite so discreet in yanking his glove off. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he was relieved not to have any attention on him. 

If he curled his fingers slightly —as much as possible— so they still brushed against Theo’s, well, no one need ever know. 

“I don’t understand why we must do something,” Barty seemed to be complaining, hanging off of Evan’s shoulder until he was almost upside down. The way his fingers tapped against Evan’s chest, and the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot again and again reminded Draco of Potter when he was especially restless. It was interesting to see —to glean where Potter had gained his different mannerisms from. Draco took note of the way Evan slipped something into Barty’s hand; a bracelet it seemed, with enough moving parts to make Draco’s brain hurt, but Barty seemed quietly delighted, leaving his chin resting on Evan’s shoulder and toying with the too many charms. The jangling could be heard even from where Draco was stood, and his forehead throbbed slightly with it, like an itch he couldn’t quite reach. 

“Are we sure no one’s going to be hurt?” Evan was still pressing; he seemed unsure whether he wanted to fix the situation or ignore it. 

Draco hated being ignored, but there was also something special about existing in the shadows; about the permission to perceive people without feeling like a puppeteer. Not necessarily in control, but company influenced actions, whereas shadows did no such thing. So Draco continued watching, intrigued by the way Evan shifted his weight just slightly, when Barty seemed more interested in the headache-inducing, jangling, demonic bracelet made specially in the fields of damnation, than actually supporting his own weight. Evan didn’t say a word, carefully readjusting so he would be comfortable.

It wasn’t just them. All the adults seemed almost annoyingly comfortable around each other. The short blonde woman seemed all too comfortable leaning against the dark woman and the taller blonde woman was almost mirroring Barty on Evan’s other side, hand sidling over the little girl’s shoulders and really, Draco needed to learn some names. And quickly. 

He was half sure he knew the taller blonde woman and the child who was obviously hers. If memory served right, they’d have to be the Lovegoods. But Draco had very little knowledge of the other two. The shorter blonde woman seemed vaguely Asian, and there were very few British families in the know who carried Asian blood. Fewer yet after the McKinnon Massacre. But if Draco had to associate her to anyone, it would be the McKinnons. He’d never met any of them personally, of course —they’d died long before he was born— but he’d seen pictures in old year books. The McKinnon’s were brilliant athletes, and the woman seemed to bear an uncanny resemblance to the late McKinnon heir. There were rumours of a single McKinnon surviving, but no one much spoke about that. It was dour knowledge on either side. On the good side it was the knowledge of a powerful family brought to the brink of extinction. On the bad side it was a failure of their Lord that the family wasn’t completely wiped out; unacceptable. To even speak of it would be as high as treason. Draco assumed if anyone were to be part of the Potter Clan, it would be the sole Heiress to one of the most physically powerful families. It was Potter after all. 

Which left the final woman. If Asian blood was rare —or, East Asian, at least; South Asian blood was becoming more common. Draco was rather certain there were a pair of twins in the first year somewhere. But black families of status were even rarer. This woman did not hail from a pureblood family. Her stance spoke more of a warrior than a politician. There was no polish, none of the signs that held onto to one raised pure— the way those signs were ever present in Evan, in Regulus, in Sirius —even in James to an extent. Some things people didn’t grow out of. Couldn’t.

So no, she wasn’t a pureblood, but that didn’t exactly narrow things down. Draco could of course try to fall back on his… unethically acquired knowledge of Regulus’ school days, but even then, he was stumped. 

“You know, you could always just ask , right?” Theo seemed much too amused for someone whose sister was still very incredibly blue , when he nudged Draco’s shoulder and whispered the question. “I doubt she bites.”

“She helped raise Potter. It’s almost a given that she bites.” 

“She wouldn’t bite you,” Draco couldn’t even flinch, because he’d heard the awful jangling before he’d even seen the man, nearly upside down again and hovering between them. “She has standards.” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be helping them figure out how to solve this?” Draco asked, letting his voice carry posh and snarky. He wanted to annoy Barty, and he had no clue why. He’s smarter than you, some ugly, traitorous part of his brain sung. Smarter than you’ll ever be. 

Theo seemed to catch on to his aggression, fingers pressing into his flesh in clear question. Draco inhaled deeply to calm down. Barty wasn’t even looking at him, still intrigued by the charms on the bracelet. 

“I know how to reverse the colouring at least,” and Draco watched, horrified, as he swung an idle wand at Mirielle, who had at least enough dignity not to scream, even if her eyes went wide as saucers, when the magic flowed over her uncaringly. True enough, her skin had returned to her pale, pink flush —pinker by the second, hued somewhere between embarrassment and mortification.

“And you know this because? ” Perhaps Evan’s patience was not as strong as Draco had assumed. He seemed more exasperated by the second. 

“Well the kid had to learn it from someone, ” even now, his eyes dared not leave the charm. His elbow was digging into Draco’s shoulder, and he didn’t even know when Barty had gotten there. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to get around silently; despite his obvious love of pain-inducing noise. 

“You’re saying you just taught him the spells for this mess?” Yes, Draco was certain he was about to see Evan snap.

Barty seemed to sense it too, leaning up from where he’d still been pressing on Theo and Draco, hand with the charm bracelet falling to hang limply between them. “Well it’s not like I knew why he was asking for them. He’s James’ kid. I thought he was just preparing for school or something. Snivelly’s coming back this year, no?” his tone was strange to Draco. Somehow it sat between aggression and regret. 

The mention of James seemed to lift the stress from Evan’s shoulders, and his expression was once again pinched into something like vague irritation. It was fascinating, truly. “What’s your excuse?” This was directed at the dark woman. She was beautiful, truly. And yet some part of Draco knew instinctively to fear when he saw the smile sliding up the corner of her mouth. 

“Well, he asked, of course.” And again, Evan looked on the verge of truly angry. And then he was quickly back to exhaustion. To resignation. 

“Does no one think anymore?” But it was muttered and not necessarily meant to be heard. Draco had trained himself to hear what wasn’t meant to be heard. 

“Relax,” it was the Lovegood. She seemed upset, brows pinched together, hand reaching out to soothe. “It’ll be fine.” There was something about her words. Something that had everyone in the group staring at her, eyes alert and almost intense, focussed on her pale, pale eyes. 

“Are you certain?” Theo seemed to sense the heaviness there, pressing in closer to Draco, hand tightening around his wrist. His pulse jumped where Draco’s fingers barely skimmed against it. He seemed almost… afraid. Theo was scared of this woman who looked so gentle, so sweet. 

“Absolute,” when she spoke the word, Theo’s grip was tight enough to cut blood flow, his inhale sharp and audible. Something in her eyes seemed to glow , far away and rapt all at once. The group breathed out a simultaneous sigh of relief. 

“Alright,” it was the lightest Draco had heard Evan’s voice all evening. 

Somehow, it didn’t surprise Harry in the slightest when the first person he ran into was Neville. 

It surprised him even less to see Neville cherry red and sprouting vines, claws extending from where his shoes had burst to make room for them. It was familiar, charming almost —the weight of Neville crashing into his chest and holding on. The lack of tears was almost discomfiting, but Harry held on anyway, letting his hand pet gently against the back of Neville’s neck. 

“You’re responsible for this, aren’t you?” He sounded pouty and quite frankly on the verge of tears, but he wasn’t letting them fall. Once again, Harry was reminded of true pureblood behaviour. 

“Is your Gran alright?” Harry asked, instead of giving a proper answer, tapping his wand to the exposed flesh along Neville’s neckline, watching as the red and the vines seeped from him. It didn’t much matter, seeing as Neville was quite red naturally, but he assumed it was a relief. “Have you been enjoying your evening otherwise?” He waved his wand to fix Neville’s shoes. He seemed oddly subdued tonight; like he was holding on more for comfort than out of the fear that had been present before. 

He sighed, something both frustrated and despondent, pulling back from Harry and neatening along his robes. Really, Neville would strike such an imposing figure if he ever learnt to love his strength rather than fear it. Harry could feel it, sense it. Oceans of power flowed in his veins, and yet Neville seemed content to ignore it all. “It’s been lovely I suppose,” his gaze brushed the ground, hands folded primly in front of him like he was trying to hide. Harry followed him instinctively as he started moving, casually sidestepping angry cutlery that had yet to be wrangled. “That was…” his voice trailed off for a moment, and Harry leaned in closer, trying to hear what he was saying. “Was this really the best decision, Harry?” He’d stopped, abrupt, and Harry smothered a curse, rubbing at where his nose had just bumped quite harshly into his shoulder. “ Stupid ,” he whispered it like he was scared of the word. As though something would crawl from the very earth and swallow him whole. Harry wondered idly if other people felt like that when they said something about him that could be considered slander. “I understand that you enjoy your pranks and your games. They’re very amusing at times. In school. Where it’s safe. Where the only people of consequence are rich children with bold parents. But this isn’t school Harry and the consequences here are a lot more real and you just announced to the world that your mother is alive —not just alive. Alive and well ,” his voice cracked on the word and Harry had the oddest surge in his veins to simply —flee. 

Neville was rambling, yes. His words were soft, yes. He sounded near verged on manic, that was also true. But something in his tone spoke of a disappointment that reached out like hooks and yanked into Harry’s skin, pouring a poison beneath his flesh that burnt. “Harry, reformed as anyone will ever claim to be, this is still a Black party. Do you know the type of people who crawl out of the shadows to be here?” See, this was what Harry meant. Intimidating. If he wanted to be. It sent an awful sort of nausea turning Harry’s stomach, and perhaps regret had begun curling, a gentle strand of ivy wrapped around his ankle that threatened to overcome him and suffocate him. 

“Nev—“

“Obviously I’ve no right and will never have a right to tell you what to do, but this is —Harry this is asking for the many people who want to kill you to well, come out of hiding and end you. People come to these things to mingle, to make connections, to see what’s going on. People also come here for you ,” Harry didn’t know if he was backing up or if Neville was just coming closer. He’d not actually had a chance to discuss this with anyone, his parents and general guardians —well, his family really, was going through quite the ordeal. Of course, Harry wasn’t spared, per se, but he’d also been sent to toddle along and greet his friends. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been dismissed like that, but he could bear it for an evening. And he did want to see his friends. Quite desperately, truly. But that vine of fear seemed wrapped around his throat now, constricting his breath. “They come to see you and see how you’ve grown and gage the actual strength of your power and how easy —or difficult— it would be to— sorry,” Neville’s eyes, soft, cornflower blue widened, hands coming up to physically cover his mouth. “Sorry,” he said again, muffled and horrified and those tears Harry had almost… missed , well they were there now, but Harry might be sporting some of his own, quite frankly. 

Because the fear had been quite thoroughly injected into his system and he didn’t really know what to do now and he was quite definitely regretting his actions, the ivy covering his head and dragging him down into the dirt as if sentient and —“Neville.” 

“Gran,” well, it was a squeak, and so high a frequency that Harry was quite literally shoved out of the panic that seemed to be building in him. “Gran,” Neville tried again, only slightly less ear-piercing. Augusta Longbottom was a striking figure, her robes were long and dark and elegant, gently accessorised. Her hair seemed almost silver, pulled neatly back in a simple updo. Everything about her, the way she was dressed, the way she stood, the way she eyed the room, it was simple. And it was powerful. Augusta Longbottom was a woman who did not need to flaunt her wealth to remind people of her title. The look in her eye was enough to garner respect. 

Harry folded promptly into a prim bow, hand tightening where it was braced across his waist. “Merry meet, Dowager Longbottom,” Harry did not rise from his position until she hummed, and he eased up slowly, accepting her offered palm, and placing a very gentle kiss there. Her hands were warm, firm —almost reminiscent of Regulus’ after the hours and hours he’d dedicated to the garden. Augusta Longbottom was not someone who let people do things for her.

“Harry Potter,” her voice was as firm as her hands; as strong. She let no one do anything for her and she let no one talk over her. “Merry meet. Blessed may our interactions be,” Perhaps, if Harry were to pretend just a little, there was an edge of amusement there. But then again, perhaps not. Her eyes were the same shade as Neville’s, and where Neville’s eyes seemed soft her eyes were steel. Not angry, just alert, hard, searching. Harry had a feeling Augusta Longbottom could pry all his secrets from him without so much as a word. He ducked his head to avoid her gaze. 

“It’s lovely to meet you, Lady Longbottom,” there it was, the twinkle Harry was sure he hadn’t been imagining. “Neville’s told me about you. All lovely things—“

“I’m sure,” she cut him off, voice wry, eyes amused. “Take after your father, have you?” Perhaps she was talking about Harry’s wooing techniques. He was an excellent wooer. In reality, she was —very pointedly— eyeing the chaos that still surrounded them. It had felt like forever, but Harry’d not even been gone half an hour. Though, there were much fewer coloured people than he would like. There was, however, still the yelp, every so often, of someone when the cutlery managed to stab a foot. 

“Well, he is very dear to me, my Lady. He’s my father. And I grew up with him. I would expect that I have perhaps adopted some of his traits, but then I’d have to ask you which one, though I do believe I can wager a guess as to whom you’re speaking of. It’s Regulus, isn’t it?” Harry nodded solemnly, appearing very pleased with himself. He had to bite the inside of his cheek when he saw Neville’s eyes go saucer wide. “Yes, I have been told that my cool distance is much like him. Always in control they say. It’s a shame, really. I’d love to be more like my dad, but unfortunately the Ancients dictated otherwise. Don’t even look alike, they say,” and he tutted sadly, shaking his head with a sigh. “Truly I—“ 

Harry grinned, a veritable cat who got the cream, when he was rewarded with visible amusement from the woman. It was slight, and it was more exasperation than anything, really. But a win was a win and Harry would count that as a victory.

“Haven’t you friends to find, boy?” Yes, this was indeed a victory. 

“Well of course, but I was having a lovely conversation with Neville —who is one of my friends, mind. Have I told you how brilliant he is at Herbology?” Neville looked like he wanted to crawl into the dirt. Of his own volition, of course. 

“Yes, I’m sure. Alright, go along,” she pressed gently against Neville’s back, and Harry grabbed him even as he squeaked, obviously plotting some sort of escape. “And Harry?” Ooh, the steel was definitely back, glinting in the candlelit chandelier light. Harry swallowed, tightening his grip on Neville’s arm. 

“Yes, Madam?” 

“Do take care, won’t you?” 

“Of course, my Lady,” Harry folded into another prim bow, head dipping low as a sign of respect. “I wish you well. And I do dearly wish for you to enjoy your time here this evening,” Harry tipped his head again, probably overdoing it at this point, but he’d rather he suck up to her than ever cross her. 

Strangely enough, she replied with the gentlest decline of her own chin. Harry would’ve spent the rest of the night stood there blinking, but Neville, recognising the dismissal, was the one who’d begun hauling Harry away. 

“Perhaps Malfoy was right—“ appalled, Harry cut him off before another word could escape his lips.

“Malfoy’s never right,” he huffed, letting his arm slip idly through Neville’s hooking their elbows. He wasn't ready to let go of him. But he was searching for someone else. Two someones —three; four actually. No, it was five. Definitely five. He was searching for five someones. But two also. Definitely two. “About anything. I can’t even recall anything sensible ever slipping from his lips. He’s usually just prattling on about something or other. Absolute nonsense: rubbish, truly. You’d think he’d tire of it. But it would seem he never tires of that in particular. It’s a gift, truly. Or a punishment; however you wish to look at it. Probably a punishment. Honestly, it’s been absolutely lovely, getting a break from his mouth. But even in his letters he likes to wax poetic. It’s even more absurd. I’m fluent in three languages and still have to pull a dictionary out sometimes. Which I will admit is impressive—“

“Harry—“

“Only begrudgingly, though. Don’t ever let him know that,” Harry stopped abruptly, yanking Neville so close they were nearly nose to nose. “I’m serious Nev,” and he was, he really really was. “If he ever finds out that I issued anything resembling a compliment on his behalf, he won’t let me hear the end of it—“

“Erm, Harry—“

“Which would really just add to the—“ only belatedly did Harry realise quite how wide Neville’s eyes were; the way his shoulders seemed to tremble beneath his palms. Sighing, cursing the Ancients, his magick and Malfoy altogether, Harry put on his prettiest smile and turned on his heel. 

“Aunt Cissa,” he greeted, as politely as he could manage with the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. He could only be relieved she was her usual skin tone. Perfect of course —not a blemish to be found, nor a single hair out of place. She really was such a beautiful woman. Such a shame that beauty had to be wasted on the likes of Malfoy. “How are you? I hope you’re well.” 

Even the way her eyebrow raised was perfect; delicate. A porcelain doll, all precious china and something to be gazed upon —reverently. Narcissa Malfoy. My, the Blacks were blessed with devastating beauty, weren’t they?

“Harry, happy birthday, darling. I see you’ve had fun with the… preparations?” Her hands were folded in front of her, and not a muscle twitched in her face, yet Harry was absolute in his certainty that she was making fun of him. Or, the closest she could get to her version of mocking. She was also being suspiciously nice. 

“I’ve no part to play in any of it,” he lied easily, though it wasn’t much of a lie. He’d played no part in any of it. He’d orchestrated it. “But it is wonderfully entertaining, is it not?” 

“Yes, I’m sure my cousin would agree. Where is he, might I ask?” Oh, there was something dangerous swimming there. 

“I’m afraid I know no better than you, Aunt. But,” and his lips quirked up now, Narcissa’s shoulders straightening at whatever mischief she saw playing in his expression. He couldn’t help it, really. How he wished he’d had his camera. “Should you find my dearest Papa, do offer him congratulations .” 

For a moment, Harry saw Narcissa’s face more expressive than he ever had in his life. Eyebrows jumping slightly and mouth dropping in the most delicate little oh. Her hands seemed to have been set aflutter, frazzled by the news, her cheeks dusted with the most precious sprinkling of pink, eyes alight. Harry didn’t expect the hands pressing softly into his own, the way she squeezed them in muted —but so very alive— glee. And just as quickly as composure had been lost, it had been regained, though the way she smoothed at her robes was all too telling. 

“And your parents?” She asked, pointedly not asking about his mother, but inquiring in that roundabout way purebloods tended towards. 

“Alive and well, Aunt Cissa. Alive and well.” She nodded, solemn, small. Understood. 

“Do keep away from Lucius, darling. I’m afraid he’s rather blue in the face tonight.” 

“As you wish my lady,” and he bowed again, grasping her hand in a gentle kiss before moving along, hooking Neville’s elbow and taking him with, ever so grateful that she’d brought up none of what she’d heard. He trusted her enough to know that she wouldn’t. He knew the Blacks well enough to know it was in her arsenal of weaponry should he ever slip up. 

With the chaos ever present, and Harry’s robes not nearly the most opulent in the room —he’d opted for functionality over fashion tonight— he’d yet to have been spotted. Which was a relief. He strolled leisurely, sure that any dashing about would attract attention, eyes steadily scanning every corner. “How has the evening been, Neville? What has been learnt?” 

Neville was smarter than anyone gave him credit for. Neville was raised by his grandmother —for the most part at least. Neville was bloody brilliant. He just needed a gentler guiding to let that brilliance bloom. Or fear so nervewracking he lost most of his bodily functions and all of his autonomy. Harry preferred the gentle route. 

“As would be expected really,” Harry watched his brows pinch together, perhaps confused at the topic, but offering anyway. “Houses Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson and Nott are with House Malfoy. Perturbed but not discouraged if I had to guess. Though House Nott seems to be trying for a more neutral stand. Houses Greengrass and Zabini have nothing to say on any of it. I believe the Bones House is veering towards the neutral side as well, but then, Lady Amelia has always tried to observe the game before participating. I’ve not seen the Weasleys yet, though I assume you invited them. But I’d presume their alignment easily enough. There’s already been steady separation, even in this madness. Really, what influenced this?” 

Oh, how Harry adored when Neville forgot his nervousness. Even if only for a moment. He was quite amusing when he wasn’t worrying over every little detail. “Have I ever told you how brilliant you are, Nev?” He’d not expected to communicate with Neville as much as he had. Regulus had had a grumpy plant, and on a whim Harry had sent a letter to Neville. Some magical variation of a dogwood plant Evan had convinced him would be useful and Regulus had convinced himself should be easy to tackle. Let it be known that it had in fact not been easy. Neville had saved them all. See it was a very grumpy tree, even more so than a Whomping Willow, whereas those tended to abuse indiscriminately, these dogwood trees lulled one into a false sense of security and then, like any mangy mutt, chomped down with intent to sever not a finger, but the whole hand, entirely. 

Neville went nearly as red as he’d been before Harry used the colour leeching spell on him. It was better than any strange shade of green, at the very least. Harry hadn’t seen Neville green all night. He was so proud of him. 

“There you are, Harry,” Harry’s eyes were still on Neville when the little palm slid into his own, magicks so warm and familiar he hadn’t even flinched. He’d sensed her coming. Neville had startled however, looked over Harry’s shoulder, and gone even redder . Truly fascinating, that was. 

“Missed me?” He teased, yanking her a little so he could wrap his arm around her. Maybe he was teasing Neville too. Who knew? 

“Not really,” she hummed, voice soft as it always was, fingers fiddling idly with one of his buttons. “But your friends have. Not even the wrackspurts are enough to distract them.” 

“Mmm,” Harry hummed; even after years he had no clue what she was speaking about half the time. “And you know where they are?” 

“I know where your trouble is. Though I believe you should go to her soon. As for your friends, well, I suppose we’ll stumble onto them soon. Sooner ,” she added, seemingly as an afterthought, head tilting a little. Even with the robes he’d sent her, she looked otherworldly. Which was to be expected, but Harry retained the right to be a little upset about his robes being shredded. 

“That’s crystal clear, Lu. Thank you.” 

“Of course,” and there was the giggle. Luna could never go very long without some sort of smile. She slipped out from beneath his arm, and took his hand again. He let her lead without complaint, once again looking at Neville.

“Oh, Luna, this is my friend—“

“Neville Longbottom,” she hummed, turning on her heel, nearly forcing all three of them to the floor. “A pleasure, Heir Longbottom. I’m Luna.”

“I —“ oh yes, this was lovely. Absolutely beautiful. Slipping from Luna’s grasp, Harry left her behind with a blubbering Neville, stomach turning like a bludger with a target. He could sense them. And he could, of course, hear Barty’s jangling bracelet.

Quiet as he could, doing his best to suppress his magicks like he’d been training since the holidays had begun, he snuck up behind them, using the cover of Barty’s back as his shield, choosing, for a moment, to listen. 

“Haven’t we been arguing about this long enough? Barty knows how to change them back, we could at least do that.” 

“I’ve told you enough times, Evan. No one’s going to be hurt. Can’t we let him have his fun? Pandora assured you.” 

“Yes, but we’re not talking about physical hurt right now, Caz. We’re talking about the damage this will wreck. Do you know who the people here are ?” 

“Are we forgetting this is a little boy’s birthday party?” Harry raised a brow, stifling a laugh. He was hardly a little boy anymore. A child, surely. But not a little boy. “Half of the lower classes are here anyway. What’s a little entertainment?” 

“We keep saying entertainment like this is any type of entertaining —“

“You have to admit it’s very entertaining —“ 

“Shut up or I will set you to fire again.”

“Someone’s grumpy,” Barty sing-songed and Harry could almost feel the vibration with how close he was now. 

“I still say we get to the root of the problem—“

“Why not just ask the root of the problem? Harry dear, before he really does set Barty on fire again, assure your dearest Professor that the situation is handled.” 

“You know you can’t get anything past the Panda, kid. Why’d you even try?” Barty seemed awfully tickled for someone who’d been acting as human shield not a moment ago, falling back to pull Harry under his arm, but avoiding his hair. Avoiding Regulus’ wrath. 

“Awful smug for someone who aided in my hiding,” Harry huffed, leaning into his side and letting his elbow dig into flesh. 

“You think I didn’t know you were there, kiddo?”

“Didn’t seem like it.”

“When Evan set me on fire again, it was going to be the end of my coat, brat. Which means you would’ve been on fire as well,” he cooed, all while pinching Harry’s side so hard it would leave a mark. Harry pressed up on his toes to bite him. Hard. His collar wasn’t very well done up. 

“Dorcas he’s endangering me again,” Harry said sweetly, not bothering to move, for the moment he did he’d feel the shock running up from his toes. It was one of Barty’s favourite tricks. 

It was Barty’s trousers that were set to fire this time, and Harry had ample time to dance away slipping beneath Marlene’s waiting arm. “If it isn’t my favourite little urchin. Stealing my girl from me, are you?” 

“Never,” Harry swore, leaning back a little to press a kiss to her cheek. He hadn’t seen her in so long. “Though I can’t be blamed if she’d admitted in confidence that she loves me more.” 

“Can’t be confidential if you go about spilling secrets, little lamb. Not afraid you’ll end up in the broiler, are you?” Harry was quick to duck away from Dorcas, twirling behind Pandora, his new shield of choice.

“Protect me,” he wailed, holding onto her dress and throwing his head back, as though grievously injured. He should be given a reward for this performance, truly. 

“Not tonight, dear. I’m afraid you’ve truly gone too far,” she tutted, dancing her way away until her chin was perched on Marlene’s head. “Spilling secrets. And Dorcas,” she wrapped her arms around Marlene’s shoulders and pulled her even closer, pressing her cheek to her hair. Marlene looked all too pleased, letting it happen. “How could you? The utter betrayal! Oh, Marlene you poor, precious thing.” 

The glint in Dorcas’ eyes was trouble and trouble quickly, so Harry went for his last willing shield of the night. Who’d only just gotten their disaster back to being regular levels of attractive rather than scorching hot. Oh, he did amuse himself. 

“Evan, my favouritest, most wonderful professor who I love so very dearly,” even exasperated, Evan’s touch on the back of his head was gentle. He’d become so much gentler this past month. Much more welcoming of Harry in his space. He’d never been opposed to it, mind. But seemed always content to let it play out as was natural. It was only recently he’d started seeking Harry out more. Spending more time at Cynefin. Idle touches that weren’t as common before; a hand on Harry’s shoulders, the back of his neck, skimming across his wrist. Even his vampiric tendencies he’d gotten rid of —willingly choosing to sit in the sun and spectate their Quidditch matches. 

Harry indulged him of course, the same way he did Regulus. Regulus rarely let go of him these days. It was one more month before Harry was off to school again, and he really didn’t know how he would leave Regulus this time. But then, there had been new developments lately. “Angered the girls have you—“ 

Oh but Harry had more important news to share than the worry of losing his head. If anyone needed to know, Evan did. And Harry had to tell him! “Ev!” He nearly squealed, turning so he was holding onto Evan now, bouncing in place a little. “Evan!” 

“What is it, dove?” Yes, Harry would never get used to, nor would he ever tire of just how soft Evan’s voice could actually get. Or of the way Barty looked as though he’d just seen a new person. But that could wait. 

“Evan!” And he was jumping now. In place. Just a little.

“Yes?” 

“We can congratulate them!” He didn’t know when that had become the code word. Or even why. But it had. And it wasn’t just Evan’s ears listening in. For the whistle was from Barty and the severe swearing must have been Marlene. Harry was sure he heard the jingle of galleons, but his gaze was focussed on Evan. “We can congratulate them,” he said again. Softer. More emphatic. 

He barely had breath to groan when Evan pulled him in, and Harry held on —tighter than he had in a while— taking a moment to breathe him in; the ever present scent of Cynefin and dusty parchment and ink from where he’d probably penned another potion. And well, just Evan. He’d been in a sort of daze since he left his parents. Wandering like a listless ghost, accepting conversation where it was offered and moving on. Oh but this was his family and there were arms all around him, holding on. A larger huddle than on the staircase. A much more jolly one. 

“No—“

“How—“

“Where—“

“I’m sure Sirius’ll spill everything later. And he’ll be much more dramatic about it. But please do note that they desecrated my mother’s grave and please give them no leeway.” 

“What did they do ?” When Pandora was at a loss for words, Harry could truly delight. Or despair. But he chose delight. 

“Lots of things. Oh,” he added, only just having gotten room to breathe. Of course, there would be a reunion later. Lengthy discussions. Things of that sort. But before that —“I have a sister.” 

“You—“ Evan’s eyes had gone really very wide. It was lovely. It was slightly disarming. 

“Can we go find them? I have too many questions,” yes, Barty would have the most questions. He’d been the most interested in the mechanics of the Philosopher’s Stone from the very beginning. He was probably the most brilliant person Harry knew, but even he didn’t have all the answers. 

“If they’re not up in that drawing room Sirius made entirely Hufflepuff themed,” because he’d not figured out the unsticking charms by then, so he’d made his mother witness. It was that or bubblegum pink. But Kreacher had been so very appalled by the thought of bubblegum pink. “Then they’re either in Sirius’ rooms or they’ve gone home,” Harry supplied easily, leaning back against where Dorcas’ hands were smoothing over his shoulders. “Just,” and they were all watching him. Rapt, intense. Harry wasn’t one to be unsure; he wasn’t one to mince his words. “Be gentle, I guess. Remus wasn’t with them.” It should be annoying, that they had to discuss this at all. Sirius wasn’t —he didn’t need to be handled or danced around. If Barty was one of the most brilliant, then Sirius was one of the strongest. And Remus was family. Harry knew that, of course he did. He just, well he couldn’t bring himself to the level of hating himself even a little for disliking Remus just a little, then. Just in the sense that —it scared him. Knowing there was someone out there who could disarm Sirius so completely. Sirius was —Sirius was one of the most important people in Harry’s life. One of his cornerstones. One of the people he depended on. To protect him. To stand with him. 

If Remus Lupin did not find his way home soon, Harry would have to track him down himself . 

There were no words to say to that. Nothing gentle or sappy. Just strong shoulders and silent nods. They were on a mission now. 

Maybe it had been their magicks, warm, familiar, overpowering. Maybe his mind had still been on Luna and Neville’s blubbering. Maybe he’d been too preoccupied with Narcissa, too scared of Augusta. Maybe he’d still been thinking about his sister —and wasn’t that a strange thought. Sister. Maybe it was a culmination of a lot of things, but Harry had no excuse. If he’d thought about it really hard —which he hadn’t then, but probably should’ve— it was like his magicks was actively blocking him. 

So when Harry turned around, still smiling after his patchwork quilt of a family, whom he adored, he’d truly not expected to see silver eyes staring at him, wide and almost glossy. 

“Malfoy,” it sort of fell out of him. Hushed, disbelieving. But that very much was indeed Draco Malfoy staring at him. Staring and staring and staring —eyes darting just about everywhere, as though appraising Harry; ensuring he was real. “You’re staring, Malfoy,” Harry couldn’t help but point out, lips quirking just the slightest. Their first official day at Hogwarts. Those had been Malfoy’s first words. 

It had been too many times tonight Harry had nearly been thrown off balance; too many times where it felt like the panic was piercing his skin and injecting his veins; too many times the ivy crawled over him intent on suffocating. 

But this was a new type of suffocation. A lovelier type, if he was truly honest. Where the imbalance was perfectly balanced, and the added weight was a safety blanket of comfort, and the warmth was searing, threatening to leave him burnt. Yes, this was beautiful suffocation. 

“Missed me then, have you?” And even with his face tucked securely against Harry’s neck, and his hands pressing wrinkles into Harry’s robes, and maybe even marks into his skin, Draco Malfoy had the audacity to shake his head in an explicit no. The nerve of him, truly. Harry laughed quietly, nothing but breath, and exhaled, pulling him closer. Holding on just a little bit tighter, letting his hands squeeze gently against Malfoy’s neck when it felt as though he would shake apart. “Are you alright?” Because he really was shaking, holding on tighter than he ever had before, and the fear was beginning to grow its ugly thorns and latch on to Harry’s skin, so very eager to tear his humanity from him and leave him a vague, hollow shell of what he should be. Malfoy was trembling. 

“Malfoy, what —“ but then Malfoy was tugging at him, at his hands, urgent like the Ancients themselves were on his tail, but Harry didn’t understand. Harry didn’t know what Malfoy was trying to do until his gloves were being torn off so hurriedly, Harry could do no more than silently mourn as the seams ripped, watching almost as though through a looking glass, as Malfoy put Harry’s palms on his neck, and held them there, fingers quivering in a way that was unsettling; in a way that was truly terrifying. 

Harry had never been raised to be embarrassed of tears, yet he was ever so grateful that they were in fact in a more secluded corner of the ballroom. It was why it had taken so long to find them in the first place, hidden in the shadows where the shape of the room shifted and the candlelight did not breach. Harry had never been raised to scorn tears, but he pulled Malfoy closer anyway, and hid them in the folds of his robes, not daring to take his hands from Malfoy’s skin. 

He let his back rest against the wall, not bothering to decipher whether it had been there or it had appeared; tilting his head back, he watched the wayward doves still scattered beneath the domed ceiling. The inside of Grimmauld Place did not match its exterior in the slightest, yet Harry was sure it was constantly shifting; changing, growing and expanding.

Every inhale, he felt the way his chest expanded; every exhale, he felt the way Malfoy all but fell into him, limp as a puppet, yet his grip was iron. 

Harry knew better than to question him; at least not right now. Knew that all Malfoy needed from him right now was to hold on and not let go. So Harry let go. 

Just one of his hands; he held Malfoy tighter with the other when it felt like he might actually rip Harry apart for his nerve, and swiftly undid his collar, actually feeling the way any strength Malfoy might’ve had left in him was leached out.

It wasn’t the most difficult to decipher what had brought this on, Harry’s mind flashing back to that week after Halloween when Malfoy had been ridiculously snappish; the way he’d pressed into the barest touch from his father; his dread at going home. No, it wasn’t particularly difficult to understand Malfoy’s current need for human contact, but it was disconcerting. It had been just barely over a month and Malfoy had all but jumped him, desperate in a way he never was. In fact, Harry wasn’t even sure he’d seen Malfoy cry. Not in a way that showed actual weakness at least. He’d seen him shed tears, but his face had never twisted past disdain. Harry had never seen his expression crumble quite so completely. 

So he didn’t say anything, didn’t try to move again. He just stayed still, and let Malfoy hold on, knowing once he let go this was never to be spoken of again. Sure, Harry had been raised to love his emotions. Harry had also been raised to respect others’ emotions. Malfoy would perceive this little display as weakness. Malfoy hated being perceived as weak. 

“If I sing for you, how terribly will you react?” Harry broached eventually, really only half joking. 

“I will bite you, Potter. I’m in optimal position for it.” 

“One, my snake would get you first. Two—“

“Oh please,” Malfoy’s scoff was nothing but warm air against Harry’s neck. “She loves me.” 

“She loves Theo,” Harry corrected, rolling his eyes. “She likes me and she barely tolerates you. Anyway,” Harry continued, “What? You don’t want me to serenade you? I’m Harry Potter, you know. It would be a once in a lifetime opportunity. Bragging rights for life. I hear the fae princess is amongst us today. Not even she will ever be presented with an opportunity like this.” 

“I think time at home has sent your ego much too high. It needs balancing again.”

“Oh, and you’ll knock me down a peg or two? I think you’re the last one to talk about egos, Malfoy. At least my large head is earned. I bested a troll—“

“You bested a troll using my idea, you idiot. If I’d not been there you’d have been troll food. You didn’t even have a wand.”

“I had a wand!”

“Stolen. You should still sleep with an eye open. He’s not had his revenge for that stunt yet.”

“Theo wouldn’t hurt me,” Harry was sure of it. Theo wouldn’t hurt a fly. 

“Believe me, Potter. Theo has a much different definition of hurt than you or I,” Harry decided very carefully not to comment on that. Though he would be filing the information away for later. “Speaking of such, I see your mother is alive. Are you going to chew my head off for asking?” 

It was Harry’s turn to sigh, letting his gaze fall once more on the mingling crowds. All the initial chaos had already died down, adults grouping in their little cliques to begin their political discussion. The children —for there were many— were chasing the cutlery around or trying to capture the doves. It wouldn’t be long now until the final entertainment of the night. Not much longer until the praying ceremony either. But then, Harry was not in the mood to be speaking with the Ancients. They’d left him alone for the holidays, and when they decide to show their ugly faces —Harry assumed they were ugly; he had no clue what the Ancients actually looked like— his magicks had the oddest little buzz in them, looking for something; anything to pounce on. 

As it always seemed, Harry’s mind could not be made on what he actually felt for his mother. He loved her, of course. And there was also a part of him that feared her. Feared the consequences of her very existence. The Ancients were spiteful, but they were true. So her being alive would have been written by the fates long ago. Fickle as the Ancients were, Harry had learnt they were merely guides. They influenced the mind, or they tried to. But the Ancients could do nothing on their own. So his mother was alive for a reason. And she would be coming home. And still Harry feared; something unsettled and jittery in the base of his spine. 

“I know some of it. There are things not being said. My parents tell me everything, but I think my Godmother has yet to understand that concept. I think she fears —my having knowledge of what actually transpired. I think she believes there are things I’m better off not knowing. I’ve never not known, Malfoy. I knew about my destiny before I could walk. She also. She won’t let me talk to Briar. Not on my own. Won’t let her stray further than she can see, even. There’s some adjusting that needs to be had, definitely.” 

“Briar?” Something in Malfoy’s hum was nearly accusatory somehow, and Harry was so confused. 

“My sister,” Harry said simply, feeling the words on his tongue, mouthing them over and over. He still couldn’t believe it. “I have one of those apparently.” 

“So does Theo,” and he could have said a million things, yet he chose not to dwell on it. For someone so intent on knowing everyone’s business, Draco Malfoy would simply be forever a mystery. Now, all Harry could think about was a girl towering above him with the same midnight eyes and nearly harsh features. 

Harry wasn’t even short. He was a perfectly normal height for his age, and one of the only products that didn’t come from inbreeding. How the bloody hell was he the shortest and —“Why have you grown ?” Harry only just noticed the bend in Malfoy’s spine; the way he was crouched down more than usual. Abruptly, uncaring of the truly (blackmailable) noise Malfoy was making, Harry yanked him back and straightened him up, observing in absolute horror, the fact that Malfoy had indeed grown. “That’s just not fair,” and yes, it was the tone a child took on the verge of tantrum, but Harry didn’t care. They’d finally been the same height at the end of the term, and now he was back to being just level with Malfoy’s bloody pointy nose. 

“Do you want me to apologise for being better? ” Malfoy snarked, already trying to wiggle back into the space he’d been thrown out of, and Harry would let him; but not without threat.

“I can just push you away, you know?” 

“You wouldn’t,” for once, it wasn’t even malicious. It was quiet, content even —Malfoy sighing out like a smug cat and pressing even closer. 

The truth was that Harry wouldn’t; of course he wouldn’t. He’d gotten himself nearly expelled after a single week and almost couldn’t regret it because it got him his parents’ arms around him again. So no, Harry wouldn’t begrudge him this. 

He’d find Theo in just a minute. Quell the chaos a minute after that. Plans were still in action; plots still underway. He was waiting for a signal and the chime of a clock. He could hold Malfoy until then. Until his parents were ready to come out of hiding and take over this role on his stead. But until then, he was content to act as anchor. 

That was, until the screams started. 

Chapter Text

War is coming, children
And it’s so very sad 
War is coming, children 
Will your precious adults go mad? 

Hermione was… decidedly not amused by any of this. 

But then, it was difficult to be any sort of amused when one was in her particular conundrum. 

Not by the chaos, nor the opulent display of robes, nor even the opportunity to observe purebloods in their natural environment. Which she would have jumped at, at any other occasion. 

Not when she felt so — ostracised. It felt like playing imposter. It felt like that time she’d asked her mother to straighten her hair because an anxious little part of her had scratched piteously when Peter Hanbal had pulled on her hair and told her she should straighten it; that she’d look better. Or that time she’d tried on her mother’s heels and pearls and realised she truly did not care about how she looked.

And yet, the littlest part of her still mewled —ridiculously pleased— when her haphazard appearance could garner a compliment. It wasn’t terrible being called pretty. But she didn’t need to be called pretty. She was comfortable with her hair being more often out of her control than tamed. She was comfortable wearing clothes that were comfortable, that allowed her to contort her body every which way so her limbs didn’t fall asleep when she was studying. 

That being said, she could appreciate a pretty dress. And a pretty dress this was. Gorgeous, really. 

It was just —she felt wrong. In a dress too fine, too pretty, too much. Glamoured. But not so much that she couldn’t see the barest bit of her actual features drifting through. So she looked more… elevated than she did a completely different human. And that felt worse somehow. A costume was a costume; but a costume this was not. It was almost as though this glamour was supposed to take away her imperfections. Of which she had many, she knew. But this felt almost cruel somehow, bringing such awareness to her imperfect skin or slightly crooked teeth or her puffy hair. She’d always been aware, yes. But this was… heightening that awareness to a level she wasn’t sure she was comfortable with. 

That was without mentioning the eyes. The eyes of the crowds were tangible things, sending shivers down her spine, where she could feel their gazes. Flicking to and away. Every time there was a snicker, or a muffled laugh after the eyes had been crawling across her skin, she couldn’t help but feel it was directed at her. It was maddening, the way she felt almost detached from her body. Like it wasn’t even hers.  

It had still been almost tolerable when the twins were with her, but they’d scarpered off moments before the chaos. Harry’s doing she was sure. She’d no problem with it, of course. It was entertainment to the otherwise drab atmosphere. 

But it had left her defenceless. 

Instinct told her wands were not to be drawn in a place like this. Instinct and all  the letters she’d read and reread, ensuring Harry detailed every possible thing that could go possibly go wrong. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t defend herself, she wasn’t helpless. 

But the shivers of eyes tracing her form was not an enemy she could fight. At least the presence of the twins had diverted them somewhat. She’d been able to hide behind their frames, tall as they were. And she’d hated that feeling too; the feeling of actively wanting to hide. Hermione had never hidden from anything in her life. Not the teachers or the difficult questions or the plain truth. 

She’d always been a believer in facing her problems head-on. How else were they to be solved?

Now, she felt herded. As though she was slowly being backed into a corner. Maybe she was, flushing fiercely at the nearly breathless sound, knocked out of her when she bumped into a wall. 

The party-goers that had been grouped off and at least fairly interspersed seemed —thicker. Like a coagulant goo shrinking little by little until everyone seemed nearly on top of each other. 

With the adults grouping themselves together, probably to set themselves back to rights, the children seemed to have a bit more freedom. A little more spring in their step. The air seemed a little —lighter, actually. The air seemed lighter without the oppressive air of nervousness that seemed to have had them enveloped earlier. 

“Sorry,” it was instinct, reaching out to steady the person she’d bumped into, fingers folding around the girl’s arm to steady her. They both watched, silent and amazed, blinking wordlessly as the ivy green that had tainted the girl’s skin vanished, the ivy plants that had been wrapped around her disintegrating into dust which blew away in the non-existent air. 

“Brilliant,” the girl’s voice was dainty as her necklace, powdery blue eyes settling on Hermione wide and almost adoring. She was so pretty it was almost painful. “How’d you do that?”

“I’ve no idea,” Hermione replied honestly, darting her gaze away swiftly, lifting her hands and watching her own fingers —fake and long and dainty like they weren’t. Nothing like her fingers, shorter, fuller, nails bitten down and smudged with ink and lead. Soft, where her hands had hardened patches of skin where her pens and quills sat. 

It should’ve been impossible to get lost in the thoughts of one’s own hands, but she had. Her payment was new hands, touching her. Pressing in on every scrap of exposed skin and pulling at her. Like she was some sort of thing to be manipulated as these rich brats saw fit. 

She would’ve felt worse about the way she’d flipped the first boy who’d dared touch her, but he didn’t seem to mind, too busy watching the claws on his fingers disintegrating the way the ivy had just before. It was her only moment of peace —his breathing out in amazed dazed relief— before pandemonium befitting Harry settled upon her. Loud and violent and savage. 

It wasn’t ten seconds and Hermione was already drowning in a sea of bodies, and shrill, piercing screams, everyone fighting over each other to grab at her. There was the ever so clear sound of expensive fabric tearing as they clamoured for her. She could only do so much without drawing her wand, a final resort she wouldn’t breach unless absolutely necessary. It wasn’t as though they were trying to hurt her. She was even more intrigued than they were that her mere touch could drain whatever charms they’d been afflicted by.

Harry’s fault, she was sure; and damn if she ever did anything for that boy again on an impulse. She’d been so eager to please; to fit in, to slot herself in and be part of that impenetrable puzzle those boys had made of themselves. So sure she could belong to it, as well. There was something haunting about it almost; how easily the three of them fit together. It made her yearn in a way she never had before, until all she’d wanted was to be closer and closer and closer. She couldn’t ever be close enough, though. The closest she could get was the gate; tall and menacing. It’d swing open sometimes; let her in. But she was no more than a guest who’d be evicted sooner than she’d gotten her fill. She didn’t think she’d ever be satiated. 

Starving, starving, starving until the floodgates opened and she was drowning, drowning, drowning. So desperate for that perfect concordance; the way their every step served no purpose other than to help the other. She wanted that in a way that made her head spin. That perfect belonging. She knew she’d never have it. 

It was the subtlest sound she’d ever heard, barely audible enough to even be considered a clearing of the throat. And yet.

The swarm retreated so quickly, there was a sense of whiplash so strong it left her dizzy, head spinning, and body distinctly cold where before it had been over warm and overwhelmed all at once. Under-stimulated in the sudden ceasing of overstimulation. 

“Heir Nott,” their whispers were almost reverent. Worshipful in the way a young boy’s name should never be called. Theodore Nott was venerated amongst his youthful peers. Hermione hadn’t —she’d known, the way someone is vaguely aware of the goings-on in their school house despite not being actually part of it. But this was. She hadn’t know this; the true extent of Theo’s influence over their peers.

The waters came crashing in again harsh and suffocating, until there wasn’t a single hope of her surfacing. Heir Nott.

Theodore Nott. He was —they all were, the purebloods, that is— so difficult to decide on a single feeling for. There was a grudging respect for him, he was terribly brilliant. There was maybe a slight bit of adoration there too, for the way he could twist Hermione’s mind so completely with nothing but a few words; she loved that, actually. Chased his conversation the way she chased so few things. They way he actually respected her intellect, picked at it. Spoke to her like she was equal. Spoke to her in those blithering, aggravating riddles that were never actually aggravating, because he had trust she’d understand him. He never had to mince his words; never dared dumb something down for her.

There was also something darker, that sat in the pit of her stomach. Something that told her, if Theodore Nott ever decided to achieve something, there was nothing Hermione could do about it. And she hated that. She hated how much farther ahead the pureblood children could be; she hated the sort of respect they commanded with nothing more than a name and a glance. A kind of respect she wouldn’t be able to wield for years, if ever. That was a sort of respect that should be earned, and none of the pureblood children had ever earned it. Would never have to strive the way she’d have to if she intended to command even a fraction of it. 

Because Theo was —in a single word— lazy. He was unmotivated. He picked at Hermione’s mind because it amused him. She knew all of this. But it was addicting. She could almost understand why their peers could hold him to such a high standard. No, if Theo ever decided that he actually wanted something; if he ever actually worked towards something. There was nothing that would stop him from achieving it. 

She hated most of all that she couldn’t even hate him. For, despite his brilliance, he could appear almost obtuse at times. Though, that was only ever in the presence of Harry and Draco. And the sting resurfaced with razor intent to cut. He was always flippant; uncaring in a way that set her on edge. He was adorably wrong-footed in the presence of his friends sometimes, allowing himself to make the mistakes he wouldn’t have made otherwise. 

Looking up was a mistake. It was disarming, seeing him dressed in robes just as opulent, if not more than hers. Seeing the cut of his jaw and the cold of his eyes and the maturity on a face just as young as hers. A maturity that should not have been there. Not for years to come. He looked so much older than he should. So much older than she herself, despite her being the elder of the two. 

He didn’t even say a word, but his eyes spoke anger, drew the lines of contempt over the other children like they were vermin. And they hung their heads, every single one of them, chastised by a single glance. He didn’t so much as glance at them a second time, just grabbed her elbow and started dragging her away.

Hermione couldn’t do much other than follow —like a vulnerable little child being dragged along against her will— still a little gobsmacked and a little dazed from the amount of people that had just tried to tear her apart. And from that revelation of the power Theo wielded. It was a sort of blind trust she didn’t afford many people —anyone, really— but she’d let Theo have it. If only for right now. 

When her tongue finally unstuck from the roof of her throat, it was almost as though she was naught but a puppet, pulling from Harry’s stack of tricks, and going with snark she was sure was much more endearing on him. “Not a single letter in an entire month and you come barging in to sweep me off my feet, Nott?” Her insides tightened with the words, upset with herself really, because what was that?

Just because she was glamoured didn’t mean she was an entirely different person. What was she even trying to prove? Why was she even here? She didn’t know what to do with herself right now, still so incredibly unsettled from that display. Who was Theodore Nott, really? 

“Do not make me doubt myself, Granger,” there was a hard edge to his words that shouldn’t have troubled her the way it had, but unsettled she was, apprehensive and ill at ease stomach flipping something strange and ugly. 

“I’ve no clue what you mean,” but she’d already spelt her own folly. She was supposed to be in disguise. She realised undercover work would never be her calling. Still, she’d treat it as a social experiment of sorts— witnessing Theodore Nott upset. He’d seem to have this uncanny ability of impassivity. An untouchability of sorts. He looked oddly human right now with his clenched jaw and tense grip and the look of absolute murder dancing in dark dark eyes. 

There was something almost charming about it— the way he was muttering under his breath. Something along the lines of murdering Potter. “Careful now,” she said, maybe still a little untethered from the sea of bodies that had tried to suffocate her. This wasn’t her usual mode of speech. Her tongue just didn’t seem to be hers. “You’re sounding an awful lot like Malfoy.” 

“Maybe Malfoy has the right idea,” he snapped, but his grip didn’t tighten in the slightest. In fact, it was rather loose. She could slip out at any time if she wanted; she wasn’t being restrained in the slightest. “What was that halfwit moronic idiot thinking? What was even the plan here?” Hermione hadn’t quite reached the level of thanking the Ancients yet, though she’d done quite a bit of reading up on them during her holidays, but she did send a quiet prayer up to God when she didn’t squeak at the abrupt halt. Really, she wasn’t sure if she’d prefer the hoard of bodies to being manhandled like this, and looked at like she’d done something wrong. 

“You think I know?” She didn’t like that look. Didn’t like the incredulity. Didn’t like the undertones of assumption. He was looking at her like she was stupid. “You’re the one who’s always attached to his hip. I still don’t even know why I was invited to this — gala. ” She tugged her arm from where he’d kept his grasp on it, cradling it close to her body; there was a deep, buried part of her that felt almost as though she’d been burnt. The rotten scent of it climbed up her throat, so oddly reminiscent of betrayal. 

It was fascinating, watching the way he nearly —rebooted, in a sense. Like that little toy robot her little cousin had gotten for Christmas and insisted on bringing over every time he visited. It was as though any emotion that might have been painted on his face was wiped clean, until he was nothing more than the blank canvas she was accustomed to. “Apologies Granger,” and there it was, the blankness she’d grown so accustomed to; that almost bored sort of drawl she heard from Malfoy so often. She almost felt bad, as though she was responsible for wiping the emotion from him. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. I am well aware of your defensive capabilities, you’d have been fine, I’m sure.” Any softening of his accent —she hadn’t even realised it’d gone soft— was gone, back to those harsh, clipped tones and words that made him seem straight out of a story book, overly formal.

Hermione huffed, reaching automatically for the puff of hair that should have been dislodged, lowering her hand awkwardly when she couldn’t find it, damn this stupid glamour. She refused to feel bad. Still, it ate away, churning in her gut like an excess of acid.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, swallowing her pride; some part of her felt like she was losing. She didn’t know what game it was she found herself playing, but she felt like she was losing and that made her feel more unbalanced than the hoards of unwelcomed hands. “For pulling me out of there. It was a little overwhelming.” That was an understatement, but she was only so strong. Her pride was her weapon; her armour. Charmed as she could be by Theo sometimes, she wasn’t ready to make herself defenceless.

She grit her teeth and continued, even when she saw Theo’s eyes softening. That also felt like she’d lost somehow; like a low blow to her gut. Left her almost breathless. “I don’t know what Harry has planned. I’m sure I’m charmed, somehow. To remove the ailments from the drinks. The twins weren’t supposed to be gone for more than five minutes. It’s not Harry’s fault,” because she couldn’t see Theo upset with him. She couldn’t bear to be the reason Theo was irritated with his friend when there were precious few people he’d even look at with something more than blankness or slight annoyance. “Don’t be upset with him.” It was a plea on her tongue. She wanted inside of their walls, but she wanted in of her own merit. She would never try to vex them; nor try to have them vexed with each other. That would be extraordinarily cruel of her. 

She’d never been a cruel person. 

“Don’t defend him,” but Hermione sagged when he said it, relief a poignant thing, cloying nearly sickly sweet at the back of her tongue. His irritation had ebbed. “I should’ve known,” he whispered it, a bitter thing Hermione couldn’t quite get a grasp on; but Theo shrugged, and shook his head, and pasted on this strange, strange smile. Something that unsettled Hermione down to her very bones.

She hadn’t noticed the person approaching.

Theo felt the way his spine straightened, the way his lips quirked up into that people perfect smile his father had had him perfecting since he could speak.

The footsteps may have been light, but self-proclaimed nobility —all of them— had this shared urge, this need of being perceived. Lucius Malfoy thrived under observation; under attention. So no, he had not been trying to be unostentatious. But then one had to be raised the right way to know that. To hear the careful tapping of specially crafted heels and the soft press of Italian leather on the hard floors. Separate the other from the better.

“Lord Malfoy,” he did his best to be subtle, an elegant step to the right, body flowing as though in dance to hide Hermione behind his back; his bow was shallow and verged disrespectful, but he didn’t really care. Not now when neither Harry nor Draco were around to play intercessor. Explain away Hermione’s presence anywhere near him. He cared too much that this news could reach his father, back stinging something fierce at the thought, even as he stretched his shoulders further. He wasn’t very broad, but he was tall. And Harry’s obnoxious robes were bulky enough to cover Hermione entirely. 

He didn’t think her helpless, of course. Hadn’t since that day they’d been practising an especially slippery offensive spell in the library; not since he’d seen the smile Hermione’s face had stretched into when she’d finally gotten it. It still haunted him to this day. No, Hermione wasn’t helpless. 

But it was instinct no less, to keep her away from Lucius Malfoy’s eyes. He’d been there for Draco’s eleventh birthday. He feared with every atom of his being for Mirielle’s birthday next year. Feared now, that he’d all but abandoned her. But Mirielle had been trained differently to him —trained for charm rather than power. It still stung, the part of him he’d had to bare when fishing Hermione from that swarm of pests. But what was done was done. And the past could never be rewritten; only one’s perception of it. But then, he’d rather face his father head on than ever manipulate his friends’ minds.

So protection it was, no matter how much it would bruise her ego. Theo was endeared to her, no doubt. But there still remained subtle intricacies to pureblood interaction no amount of studying could teach Hermione. Meticulous as a spider’s web. He wanted so desperately to clutch at the pendant sat proud and stark in the hollow of his throat. He still didn’t know how Harry had done it.

He couldn’t though; couldn’t make any slight movement to give away the fact that he was essentially shaking in his boots. Especially not now, when Lucius was a garish bruise-toned sort of blue black, dark, broken wings sprouted from his back, swan-like, but tattered; bent at odd angles. Something that was once elegant ruined beyond repair in the snapping of delicate bone and exposed flesh —a mockery of the Malfoy family crest. 

“Nott,” his tucked chin was a barely there acknowledgement and Theo felt his teeth grind when he clicked his jaw, but kept his expression in place. It was disrespect, of course. But disrespect from a higher to a minor was nothing. Theo would not let his pride be his downfall. Not ever. 

“How may I help you, sir?” Like hickory and honey on his tongue, inflected just so to be almost oblivious. Naïveté would get you nowhere. The Ancients alone knew how Harry had managed to survive as long as he had.  

“I seem to have misplaced my son in this chaos,” his voice caught on the word chaos, obviously not what he would call the absolute disaster of an attempt at entertainment Harry had put together. Honestly, he’d left him alone for one month with no one but Draco to correspond with. He could’ve probably expected worse. He’d hoped —naive, and it came to bite him anyway— that Draco would use his brain. Then, Theo should have factored Draco’s unforgiving idiocy when in the presence of Harry into his hopes. Stupid, stupid mistake. 

He’d been looking forward to chaos. That was before Christmas and the blasted mirror. He hadn’t quite cared for the outcome of the party, anything to put colour in his grey world. That had been before that colour came charging in, almost too bright. Another stupid mistake.

His jaw hurt with the way he was clenching it, and he leaned into that pain, letting it ground him; using it as aide to get his thoughts together. He worked best when pained. 

“I assure you I haven’t seen him,” Theo ground his teeth harder at the arched eyebrow, knowing he’d been caught in a lie. He nearly slipped up again, fingers twitching just barely, wanting to take Hermione and run. Find Harry and knock some sense into him. He knew Lucius had seen it; could tell in the curve of his lip, the triumph in his eyes. “Not since after the chaos, sir.” Too late; over corrective, defensive. He was slipping. 

“Mmm,” he still looked upset, but then, his emotions were a little more difficult to read behind his bruise coloured —everything. His eyes, however, were a dead giveaway. Skating over Theo’s form, exposing every flaw he’d ever tried to hide. Lucius Malfoy was more than likely upset at Theo’s acquaintance with his son at all. Especially when they were both close to Harry. He would want to keep Harry for himself, pull him into the Malfoy clutches and manipulate him. Theo had no doubt his own father wanted the same. It was a point of wrathful contrite, both playing the board to have the saviour at their beck and call. Not for the first time Theo was almost regretful of having made Harry’s association at all. “And who‘s this you have with you?” 

Theo could probably spark flame with the way his teeth were grinding together. He’d read about muggle teeth-doctors; dentists they were called. He could probably make one of them cry, the way he’d dulled his teeth over the years from constant clenching. “Just one of Mirielle’s acquaintances, sir,” and he was distinctly less polite than he could be. Knew he was walking the thin line of spider’s silk. Oh, but he had a natural gift for weaving the tapestry how he wanted. 

“Really,” he was leaning now, trying to glance at Hermione over his shoulder. “I could’ve sworn her name was—“

“Odilia!” There his troublemaker was. His timing was always uncannily good. And how could Theo ever be rueful of having made his acquaintance, when he came barging in at the very moment Theo could feel all his finely woven control slipping? 

Theo could feel Hermione’s sigh on his back, blatant relief; he wanted so badly to mimic it. Putting the puzzle pieces together wasn’t difficult. It was, however, hard to figure out the why. 

“Father,” trouble times two, but then, he should have been expecting that. Theo was getting too old for this. Still, this was Draco’s battle, not his. Taking the opportunity —ever an opportunistic bastard; Nott courtesy— he stepped aside to shove Malfoy in front of his father, and all but yanked Harry along by his ear. Draco would survive. And if he didn’t, Harry would soothe him later. 

“What in the ever loving name of damnation are you doing, Potter?” It would be comical, how wide Harry’s eyes had gone, not one to actually account for his often idiotic tendencies. They were usually funny; charming —a buzz of brightness in Theo’s otherwise dreary existence. Harry sometimes forgot the nature of his foes. How cruelly they took to humiliation. He was —Theo had been trained to control his emotions to such an intensity, he could forget for periods of time they existed at all. 

But then, he’d not been trained for this. For wide gemstone eyes on a face he’d missed more dearly than he thought even possible for his stony heart. So it was incredibly unusual to feel emotions actually —warring within him. Ugly emotions —a fear he hadn’t known was buzzing inside his bones. Fear that Harry would be upset with him for his absence. New emotions —a yearning that rivalled the rattling, that scratched beneath his veins. Terrifying emotions —an absurd amount of hope bubbling up inside him.

Theo knew better than anyone, hope was fake and fickle and a beastly, uncontrollable thing. Theo knew, also, what it was like to have someone around that could actually kindle hope in his heart. It was a feeble flame yet, but even the feeblest of flames could burn. 

“Protecting Odilia?” His voice cracked on the question that was probably supposed to be a statement and all of Theo’s anger melted out of him at once. Because he was so bloody earnest. Stupid and moronic and imbecilic sometimes. Weirdly in control and absurdly powerful other times. And there were times when he looked like the little kid he was, the preposterous extent of his sweet tooth, and not wanting to actually get out of bed and amusingly stubborn hair. 

Theo heaved a heavy sigh, knowing and realising and just giving into reality all at once. The reality that he’d never be able to actually stay angry at Harry. “Granger is the worst person to put in an undercover position,” he grumbled, fight draining out of him as he crossed his arms, suddenly awkward. This was still Harry Potter he was speaking to. Bastard’s bloody luck would pull through as it usually did. Theo didn’t even know why he was getting this riled up. 

But he did; couldn’t forget the sting on his back. The weight that had settled on his shoulders and remained there for a month and a half. Weight he wanted so terribly to slough off, and fall into a warmth he knew would welcome him. He just didn’t know how to ask; never knew how to ask. He didn’t have the excuse of that mirror here now to grant him solace. 

“I feel like I should be offended by that,” Hermione mumbled, crossing her own arms, looking a little as though she was hugging herself. Theo hadn’t taken the time to properly look at her before now, but it really was a well done glamour. Shed her of everything that made Hermione herself; at least outwardly. 

“You’re too smart to be offended by truth, Granger. You know your strengths. This isn’t one of them.” She didn’t look as she should; too neat and polished and put together and fake behind that glamour. He hated it.

His hand still felt like flame from where he’d grabbed her, guilt mounting in his throat until it threatened to choke him. He hadn’t thought; he’d just touched her and manhandled her with neither permission nor consent.

He wouldn’t forgive himself for that slip up for a long time. 

Odilia Walsh. Fae princess extraordinaire. What was Harry thinking? Theo was still stuck somewhere between wanting to clobber him, and saw open his brain to examine every ridge and lump. See if even science could explain Harry Potter’s ignorant stupidity. Or maybe it was the way he just didn’t care. What had Hermione called him once? Untouchable. Yes, Harry carried himself about as though he was untouchable. He was powerful and he knew it. But Theo knew it wasn’t pride dictating his actions. 

Harry had too much on his plate to care much about the actions and thoughts of mortals. It was as terrifying as it was humbling. 

Hermione’s lips had pulled together in an angry sort of pout that was so undeniably Hermione, that Theo couldn’t help the softening of his expression. Even as he was planning his escape. He’d already let himself get too soft —touching someone without permission. He needed to distance himself from Granger. “Don’t pout, it’s unbecoming of you.” 

“I’m not even—“ 

But he could do that later; eventually. Pull away through a means so subtle she wouldn’t even notice.

“Not you, Granger.” 

Yes, the pout wasn’t nearly as endearing on Harry. But he was pouting, probably a look he pulled on his parents often to get whatever it was his heart wanted. It would’ve easily wooed Malfoy. Theo wasn’t nearly so easy. “I feel like you should be happier to see me,” he crossed his arms across his chest to accentuate the statement, accusation both blatant and playful. Petty about it in that childish way he could be sometimes. Normal about it in a way that shook Theo right to his core. Normal in a way that was a forgiveness Theo hadn’t even realised he’d been seeking. 

“I probably would be if you weren’t so absolutely infuriating.” Theo was never good at accepting easy forgiveness. Didn’t know how to fall into a person and hold on in a way that was normal. 

Harry’s pout morphed into astonishment, jaw hanging open. His eyes shone and Theo could believe for a moment that he’d maybe, probably missed him. “Has Malfoy poisoned you, somehow? Who are you and what have you done with Theo?” His finger came forward to poke at Theo’s forehead, slowly, nearly tentative like he’d already caught on to Theo’s jumpiness tonight, but projected and calculated —and there it was. 

Harry didn’t so much as budge when Theo slumped against him, exhausted in a way he’d not realised; his body all but gave out. Hands climbed to hold onto Harry weakly, trembling slightly as they fisted in fabric. 

Harry didn’t hold him, exactly. Not tightly, not in a way that could aggravate any slight inkling of hurt. But he did shoulder his weight; brace himself for it. He let Theo cling, fingers ghosting across his back when Theo’s breathing hitched embarrassingly; one hand rested warm and safe on Theo’s neck. Flawless, exposed skin. 

Scary observant that boy was sometimes. Enough to make Theo want to tremble; want to flee and remain rooted where he was all at once. Curious as to whether or not Harry could extract down to the very last of his secrets and soothe them all, cool like balm and rushing river water over his feet.  

“Did you see Evan yet?” His voice was cotton soft, but not pitying. He’d never pitied Theo. Never treated him like something fragile or delicate. Theo nodded numbly, trying to worm his face more comfortably into Harry’s neck —cursing his height— letting the warmth wash away the anger and the anxiety and the agony. One of Harry’s hands, the one that had stayed on his neck, brushed into the hairs at his nape, easing Theo’s frayed nerves back into place. Like he could just take it all away. 

“Did you want to go see Papa?” Still so feather like; no urging there. A simple, genuine question and offer. Theo could accept or decline as he saw fit. 

“Yes, please,” because he really, really did. It was pathetic; or, it should’ve been. But then, Harry had never made him feel like that. Not even after that stupid mirror. He may be ignorant and ridiculous and an absolute fool at times, but Harry was brilliant in a way Theo didn’t know how to put into words. Not like him or Hermione or even Draco. It was a special kind of brilliance. Perceptive. Scary. He could read a person’s wants in just the way they held themselves; intuit the secrets they were trying to hide. And he never preyed on them. He just tried to make them better. Tried to assuage the pain he’d find there. Light up the grey with colours —soft pastels and vibrant neons all at once.

“Yeah?” Theo nodded again, breathing deep and getting ready to hold his own weight; lever himself from Harry. “We can do that. I brought a friend,” he added almost belatedly, and the tears Theo had been so desperately holding in, welled at the comfortable weight sliding under his sleeve, and slithering up to nip beneath his chin. Bethesda was so cold against his skin it should’ve been uncomfortable. It did nothing but quell the anxiety that had been hovering just beneath the surface all evening. 

“You want to come with, Hermione?” Harry asked, as though his thumb wasn’t still smoothing over Theo’s arm, offering quiet comfort, even as he tilted away from him and politely ignored Theo’s futile attempts at putting himself back together. Like he knew Theo could only handle so much for the night. Like he knew Theo wanted to hold on to even a speck of his dignity; of his pride. 

“Invited, am I?” There was a bite to her tone Theo couldn’t place. An angry little tug between her brow and a frown that pulled the corners of her lips. 

“You’re always invited,” and Harry’s voice carried the same confusion Theo’s brain did. He glanced over just in time to see Hermione slump with what seemed an awful lot like defeat, heading hanging back to stare at the ceilings.

“Can we get rid of the stupid glamour now, at least?” Her voice was tight, and Theo didn’t understand. She sounded almost pained; definitely conflicted. Maybe even a little sad. “And where have the twins disappeared off to?” 

“We’ll take the glamour off soon, ‘Mione. There’s just one more thing to do,” Theo had to resist the urge to scowl at him again. That statement did not bode well for Theo’s already dwindling sanity. “And the twins, Sirius had them tied up, but last I saw them, they were trying to make a break for it. I don’t know where they’ve —Nev!” Theo blinked over to where Harry was shouting at, watching with a horrid sort of fascination as Neville got redder and redder, trying to follow along with the conversation of the little blonde girl that was in their group earlier. It was a perplexing picture, because Neville did strike an image in his robes, deep red and well tailored, but he was so hunched over, trying to be eye level with the girl it was almost funny. Had as much of a saviour complex as Harry that one; brave in his own ways, Theo assumed.

What was funny, however, was how quickly his crouch became a slouch of relief. Theo thought no one should ever be relieved when summoned by Harry —for it more than likely meant mischief in the making— but that thought was hypocritical, so he just remained silent and scratched at Bethesda’s chin beneath the shoulder of his top. He’d done enough talking for tonight at this point. He was tired. 

“Harry. Nott,” he tipped his chin respectfully towards Theo, and Theo couldn’t help his scoff. 

“You can call me Theo. I was sure you’d been given permission to call me Theo by now,” because Theo gave everyone permission to call him by his name; preferred to be called by that diminutive, always running from the responsibility of his name. But thinking about it, no, Theo hadn’t ever gotten around to telling him, had he? Neville was the type that needed verbal affirmation for everything. 

“Oh,” it was —almost sweet, how easy it was to make Neville red. “Well you can call me Neville.” 

“Lovely,” Harry clapped his hands, a snap of movement that had Neville focusing on him quickly. Theo hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this either —Harry taking up his de facto position as chief in whatever scheme they were to find themselves in eventually. Theo falling back and lending support. It was comforting. “We’re about to charge my parents, they’ve sent me away for long enough. Have you seen the twins?” 

“Erm —I think so?” Theo did not pity Neville per se, but he did feel for him a hair more than he’d ever actually admit out loud.

“Wonderful!” Neville did not seem to think this was wonderful in the slightest. “Do you mind finding them for me?” 

“No?” Theo wished he could take pity on him, but Harry was in delegating mode. He was basically mad with power when he got like this. The evil part of Theo wanted to see whether Harry’s authority would dwindle when faced with people who weren’t actively willing to do his bidding. The gentler part of him knew it would never come to that. Not as long as Theo was around.  

“You’re a lifesaver, Nev,” Neville looked more nervous by the second, gulping audibly when Harry’s hand settled on his shoulder. “See if you can’t find them, and regroup with the Weasleys.” 

“And Mirielle,” Theo added quickly, without much thought. He hadn’t seen her since he’d run off when Hermione was ambushed. And he knew she’d be fine on her own, of course she would. But he also knew he’d feel safer if she was with Neville. The Longbottoms commanded their own respect that Theo would feel safe trusting his sister to for a little while.

Three pairs of eyes looked at him with utter confusion. “My little sister,” he said, eyes flicking to the ground as he cleared his throat. The attention was unusually uncomfortable. “She‘s blonde, in a blue gown and about this high,” he brought a hand up to around his shoulder. “She has the Nott cheekbones,” and heat crawled up his own neck now. The things he said for his sister’s sake. “She’s kind of hard to miss.” 

“Malfoy did mention a sister. Bloody well near scarred me,” should Theo be offended by that? But then, knowing at least some of the inner workings of Harry’s mind, he figured it was misconstrued upon a meaning he wasn’t yet understanding. “Can you do that for us, Nev?” Harry asked easily, cutting through any tension that might have existed for an awkward moment. 

“Y-yeah.” Neville truly was a brave soul, shoulders straightening even as he looked ready to fold in on himself. There wasn’t so much resoluteness in his eyes as there was resignation. 

“Great. We’ll be back down by the time the band starts for first dance before the praying ceremony.” He turned to the girl now, who’d been standing so quietly and attentively it was easy to forget she was there. “You coming with, Lu? Or are you going with Neville?” The way he spoke to her itched something foreign at Theo’s brain. There was so much blatant love in his voice and Theo could for the first time distinguish where Harry stood between friend and family. It stung a little actually, knowing he’d never be there. Draco might, someday. If he played his cards right and got over himself. But not Theo.

“Oh, I think I’ll go with Neville, if we’re meeting the Weasleys. He was telling me there’s a girl who’s supposed to be in my class this year.” She spoke to him much the same way; her voice was soft and lilting and pretty in a way Theo hadn’t expected.

“Alright then. I’ll save you a dance,” he quipped. Leaning over to press a kiss into her hair, simple as breathing.

”I do like to dance,” she said on a laugh. Her words themselves weren’t strange. But something about her scared Theo the same way Pandora had. He didn’t want to focus on that, so he strayed his thoughts.

Theo couldn’t help but wonder how Draco had felt seeing that. Or if he had yet. 

“Don’t look so smug, it’s ridiculous on your face,” Theo didn’t even wince at the pinch to his side, more surprised by Draco’s timing. 

“What did you father want that he had to corner me? And what would I have to be smug about?” Oh, Theo was very smug. 

“He seems to have lost mother. You know she’s the one who really handles the negotiations. But I’ve no clue where she’s scrammed off to either. She’s essentially his little sister,” he murmured, voice low as he jutted his chin towards where Harry was still laughing about something with Luna. “Pandora Lovegood’s daughter.” Pandora Lovegood. One of the last true seers. Yes, Theo could understand now his aversion to her. The Nott family magick was very rooted in manipulation of the past. It was unsettling to him, someone who could be ruled so completely by the ever changing tides of an unforeseeable future. 

“And this was necessary information for me to have because?” Because really, Malfoy dug his own holes.

“I figured you’d want to be acquainted with Potter’s family.” 

“Ah,” Theo nodded solemnly, biting down on the inside of his cheek to smother a grin. “And no other reason, I’m sure.” 

“I have no clue what you’re implying.” 

“I’m sure you don’t,” Theo said, ever serious, keeping his voice low, just like Draco’s. “And you’re not red in the slightest right now, I’m sure.” 

“I’ve a naturally rosy complexion, you bastard.” Yes, Theo had missed him so. Such an essential form of entertainment for him. And Malfoy did it to himself, too. All Theo needed was a carefully placed word or two. 

“Yes, I’m certain you do,” Theo actually laughed —completely relaxed for the first time tonight— an amused huff of breath when Bethesda launched herself, biting Draco before he could bite Theo.

“Blasted evil snake,” he grumbled, rubbing at his jaw where two dots of blood beaded just so. 

“Don’t insult her because she’s better. That’s poor sportsmanship. Try harder next time. She’s incredible instincts.” 

He wasn’t lucky enough to dodge Malfoy’s next attack, an especially vicious pinch to his side. “Guess it’s not a gift all snakes are blessed with.” 

“You know we’re both snakes, right?” 

“He’s not.” 

“I said both, Malfoy.” 

“There you are. I was wondering if I’d have to go hunt down your father,” Harry sighed, exasperated and over dramatic and Theo had missed him so.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, squinty behind his glasses as his gaze flicked between them. “What are you two blabbering about that you’ve already upset Bethesda?” He mumbled, thumb pressing into the welled droplets of blood on Malfoy’s chin, eyes glowing for a moment —and that was definitely new—only to swipe his thumb away, revealing untouched skin like Bethesda hadn’t nipped Malfoy at all.

”What the hell, Potter?” Theo breathed out, filling in Draco’s role for him because he was too busy flushing so hot he could burn someone. “Why do you have glowy eyed definitely something out of muggle fairytale magic now?”

”I don’t actually know,” Harry shrugged, and Theo should honestly be more shocked by the fact he wasn’t accustomed to this by now. “So, what’d he do to piss Bethesda off?” Because Malfoy was still slightly out of him. 

“Nothing much,” he shrugged, hand sliding beneath the hem of his shoulder to rub a knuckle at Bethesda’s head. “Something about his rosy complexion,” Theo said easily, falling into his place at Harry’s left. It felt like forever since he’d taken up this position. It felt like home when Draco stepped into his spot at Harry’s right —finally back from whatever vacation his brain had decided to take. It felt like safety when Harry linked their arms, still suspicious of their conversation. Because Draco, was in fact, still bright red. It felt like Theo was allowed to hope. It felt like coming home. 

Harry kicked the door in, because of course he did.

”I’m back!”

He liked kicking doors in, sue him. 

He had been getting antsy, and annoyed, and he wanted to see his parents. And his sister. He had a sister. And he wanted to know what was happening. He always knew what was happening. He despised the fact that they would choose to keep secrets from him, even as he knew they didn’t have much of a choice. Mary had a —feral sort of look in her eye sometimes. A crazed sort of fear that glinted in the light. She wasn’t keeping things from Harry out of spite. She was just scared. They all were. Harry couldn’t blame her for that.

But still. 

James and Regulus had sat him down for an especially heavy conversation when he was bloody five. Told him about his destiny. And sure, he hadn’t much understood it when he was five and still being weaned off sucking his thumb, but the point still stood. He’d always been privy to everything. No matter how gruelling or uncomfortable or heavy or dark. No matter how scared his parents were. It never mattered, because Harry knowing the truth had always mattered more.

And he would learn to love Mary, already had so much fondness and awe in his heart for his godmother. But he couldn’t —she couldn’t. Secrets were a no. There were very few rules Harry had grown up with. But this was one of them. They never hid anything from each other. Ever. Not big stuff like this. Sure, Harry hid it when he snuck extra sweets too late at night; or when he and Sirius snuck out for adventures his parents wouldn’t approve of entirely. But not things like this; not matters that held such significance. And they weren’t about to start hiding things from Harry now.

If fear was the enemy, they would face it together. There had never been any weakness in fear. 

“Boys,” James greeted, breaking out into that grin of his that had Harry’s nerves resettling in his body; all the ugly anxiety that had been wrapping around him like vines —they let go all at once and he felt like he could breathe again. “And Miss Granger, if I’m not mistaken, though, you don’t look much like yourself.” His smile was mischief, and Harry felt out of the loop. 

What was going on? 

“How does everyone know it’s me?” Hermione groaned, throwing her arms in the air. Harry waved his wand to undo the glamour, only just remembering that he’d glamoured her at all. It would make no sense up here. He’d have to write to Odilia and tell her plans hadn’t gone exactly as they’d hoped. But there was the first dance before the praying ceremony still. He’d work something out.

Harry’s eyes wandered the room for a moment, sensing something wrong. It only registered in his brain then just how many people were in the room. There were a lot of them. There were already ten people in here, not counting them, and he was sure Briar had to be somewhere. It was almost as though his family had doubled over night. 

Theo was snickering quietly —he was the first to call Hermione out on her frankly awful undercover work— but James just softened his smile and his words. “You strike a memorable presence, Miss Granger.”

”We’ll talk about Hermione’s memorable presence in the moment. What in damnation did you all do in here?” Sirius’ room —because they were in Sirius’ room for some reason— was a mess. There was a singe in his canopy drapes, and the brick over the fireplace was crumbling, and there were bits of a broken table in a corner. “Kreacher’s going to have your heads.”

”Nonsense, darling,” and oh, Narcissa sounded well near giddy, lips tainted a telling shade of plum. “My cousins will be sure to clean up.”

”Mother!” Malfoy sounded somewhere between appalled and relieved. “You’ve driven father near mad looking for you.”

”Oh, don’t worry about Lucius, sweetheart. He’ll be fine. Do come over here, let me see you. I’ve not seen you all afternoon.”

Malfoy stepped through the room as though navigating glass, but Harry had turned his eyes back to where Regulus was looking much too suspicious.

”What did you do?” Harry asked point blank; Regulus was smoothing at an imaginary wrinkle in his robe and could he be more obvious?

”Mary was the slightest bit startled by Cissa’s presence,” and that sounded reflective somehow.

”That’s not mentioning she came storming in like a bloody bull when McDonald was spilling what could probably be considered government secrets,” Sirius snorted, nearly upside down in the couch he was perched in. They’d definitely dragged furniture in from the outside. He was also definitely halfway to drunk.

”I doubt Aunt Cissa barges anywhere,” because really, Harry couldn’t reconcile the image of elegant light footed Narcissa even stepping too heavily.

”She seemed particularly excited about something,” Mary supplied, dry and amused, lips quirked up into a smirk that looked almost new on a face Harry had only seen serious.

”I’m sure I’ve no clue what you’re talking about,” Harry tried to deflect, suddenly the one who’d been put on the spot.

”Of course,” Regulus agreed quietly, and oh his eyes were glinting something especially dangerous. “You’re not at all responsible for why Evan of all people all but kicked the door in to hug me? I don’t think Evan’s hugged me my entire life.”

”There was that one time in sixth year,” Evan hiccuped, and oh boy. Nearly all of Harry’s adults were somewhere close to drunk.

”And I kissed him in fifth year!” Barty announced, and Harry had to blink at him. He —hadn’t been aware of that actually.

”We all kissed him in fifth year,” Dorcas corrected with a grimace, like she couldn’t believe she’d done that, or that Barty would announce that.

”Okay, but shhh,” Pandora was giggling. Ancients help Harry tonight. He was going to have to parent his parents. “It’s supposed to be a secret!”

”You know I knew right?” And even James was tipsy, bubbly with it as he leaned into Regulus’ side.

”How?” Regulus eyes were so wide. Harry hadn’t ever seen him make that expression.

”Pandora told Lily,” James said easily, just as Sirius said —

“Dorcas told Marlene.”

”You’re all traitors. Every single one of you,” and Regulus was red and pouting and —

“How much have you all had to drink tonight?”

”Probably too much dove, but cheers anyway!” And be downed another glass of whatever had been circulating all night.

”Alright, I think that’s enough for tonight,” Harry wasn’t even upset anymore; he was more amused than anything. A little exasperated honestly. “Barty get away from there, you’ll light yourself on fire,” Harry sighed. Using his wand to pull him away from where he’d been on the verge of falling into the fire. His tailcoat was already singed from earlier. 

“Yes, you would know about setting people on fire, wouldn’t you?” Regulus prompted, mischief dancing in his eyes. And this was the game they were playing? Oh, Harry was ready to fight.

He also, decidedly, did not miss the way he and James were even closer than usual, which really should not have been possible. But they managed somehow, as they always did. Honestly, one of Harry and Sirius’ earliest plans —lock them in a closet together— might actually work this time. 

“It was his robes!” Theo and Hermione said together, before he could begin his defence, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh, Malfoy hanging his head in shame where he was flaming red and being smothered by his mother in the corner of the room. 

Evan was muttering in the corner, “I didn’t hear that,” had Harry ever told him? He might’ve. He’d told his parents at least; but then that too had been an entire fiasco.

Mary’s eyes had gone obscenely wide. James meanwhile was still grinning, thought it was a softer kind of smile, getting up to stretch and pretend like he was super old. Only to pounce barely a moment later, scooping Harry and Malfoy —Malfoy who’d slithered back over at the revelation of that particular truth; probably to hide from the dawning horror in his mother’s eyes— into a crushing hug. Regulus was a lot gentler when he put his arms around Theo, like he knew.

Sirius was always much more open about their childhood than Regulus, but even then, it wasn’t a common topic. Just bits and bobs here and there when he was especially nostalgic. Harry had pieced together enough to know it was much more than not ideal. But then, that had already been public knowledge to pretty much the entirety of the wizarding world. 

Harry knew how stiffly Theo had been walking; he’d seen the lines of pain drawn taut in the pull of Theo’s brow. Yes, Harry was certain Theo’s month and half long silence had been spent in… less than ideal situations. 

He’d broach the subject later, maybe. But then, Theo had always been a very private person. All Harry could do was lend his quiet support until Theo himself was ready. Be there for him and offer up that comfort Theo didn’t know to seek on his own. 

“It was still fire, darlings,” Regulus said, quiet and amused, gentle handed as he let Theo lean on him, soak in all the quiet comfort that he needed. Harry had wiggled out of his dad’s arms, content to settle with Sirius while his boys got some of the love they’d been missing.

“Well, Mary killed him, so I don’t think setting fire to him or his robes is really as much of a big deal as we’re making it,” he grumbled, dropping himself to the floor, back pressed against the couch. 

“And we still won the game,” Malfoy added, because he was useful when he wanted to be, muffled as his words were in James’ shoulder. 

“You set Quirrell on fire?” Mary’s eyes were narrowed and dangerous and Harry swallowed, suddenly nervous. He shouldn’t be. She’d bloody killed him. Harry hadn’t even been involved in the fire setting. He was busy trying not to die.

“One— I feel like we’ve rewound an entire year somehow. Two— as we’ve established before dearest parents, I had no part to play in that.” Harry grumbled, trying to hide behind Sirius’ couch, only to realise Briar was already back there. Huh, they really were siblings. She was looking at him with the widest, biggest brown eyes ever. 

“One would argue your being there was central to the fire being started in the first place,” Theo ground out lowly, not impressed.

”One would argue that Granger’s bloody crazy and shouldn’t be trusted to act on her own,” Malfoy snapped, snapping his teeth also, like he wanted to get back at Bethesda for her little gift earlier.

”Draco!” Narcissa sounded downright scandalised.

”One would argue that teacher’s shouldn’t be hexing students’ brooms in the first place,” Hermione argued, standing her ground and defending herself.

It really was like they’d gone an entire year back. 

“He’s gotten absolutely no sense from me, has he?” Lily’s voice was quiet and disbelieving, and oh, that hurt. Hush settled over the room as her voice rang through it, the first she’d spoken for the evening. She was the only one who seemed completely sober. She was the only one who seemed completely and utterly horrified. 

And she looked worried —scared. And sure, Harry had faced James and Regulus’ worry and fear lots of times. He even went through a short stint where his touch burnt his Papa. But this was new. 

This was —heavy, and uncomfortable. A weight on his chest that tasted something bitter; something alarmingly close to regret. See the thing was, Harry knew his parents; he knew how to ease their worries; ensure them it was all going to be fine. He didn’t know how to do that with his mother. Not yet. 

“He has your eyes,” James said easily, approaching her slowly, warily. Like he could see they’d maybe just crossed a line they probably shouldn’t have. But Harry made light of his issues by laughing about them. 

“You’re telling me the only thing of me in my son suits aesthetic purposes?” She sounded distinctly displeased, but there was a wry sort of humour in her eyes that had Harry slumping into Briars’ side in relief. But he’d sort of over-calculated her strength, and he had to smother a laugh while his scrambled to pull her back up before she fell over.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, still laughing a little with it. He didn’t want to distract from his father’s efforts. They’d been married. Harry had to have faith James could calm her down.

”It’s okay,” Briar said, just as quiet, like they were sharing secret between them.

Harry smiled at her. He’d only just gotten met her, only just his mother back; he couldn’t yet burden the brunt of her disappointment. Either of them. He’d disappoint them eventually, he was sure; that was one of the guarantees of life. But not yet. He didn’t want to disappoint them just yet.

“He can’t be trusted in a kitchen?” Even Harry winced at that. Sure, it’d been eleven years, but was that really the best he could come up with? 

With a quiet sigh, a deep, exaggerated breath out, Harry pressed one hand gently on Briar’s head, and picked himself up to go join his boys; and girl. He’d have to apologise to Hermione later. Malfoy and Theo were accustomed to it by now, and Harry really didn’t have to get her caught up in his family drama. 

“I’m sure we can attribute that to the baby Black.” Well, at least she didn’t sound upset. Regulus grumbled a discontented sound where he seemed mighty content to watch this play out, hands still smoothing over Theo’s hair. 

“He’s ridiculously smart,” James tried, and even Harry’s face soured at that, taking up his position between the boys. 

“I saw his History of Magic exam,” Mary slid in, raising a single eyebrow, unimpressed.

“He has your heart,” James finally said, eyes bright and shiny like she couldn’t possibly deny that; she probably couldn’t, they told him that often. Harry watched the entirety of her soften, before she turned his way, watching him with eyes that mirrored his own. And he didn’t know if he’d ever become accustomed to that. If he’d ever get used to having those eyes anywhere but picture albums and his own dreams. Or reflecting back at him through a cursed mirror.

It was the one part of his mother he’d ever been able to carry with him, the rest of him carved in the image of his father. It was ethereal almost, actually seeing them. 

“Your courage too,” Sirius added, because he could never just let a good thing be. Not when there was an opportunity for mischief. 

“What did he do?” And Lily’s voice had gone that special sort of flat Harry had always assumed reserved for Theo and Evan only. Oddly enough, she’d fixed that green gaze on Theo and Malfoy, who’d both frozen stiff under it —servants of Medusa. Harry just took a deep breath from where he was stood beneath them, feeling Hermione crawl away from where she’d taken a stand behind his back. Her warmth had been comforting; grounding. Still, Harry couldn’t blame her when she fled. The very fields of damnation were about to come crashing down. 

“Threatened to hex a teacher—“

“Lied to McGonagall that one time—“

“Blew up the Potions Lab—“

“And got himself suspended—“

“He has a general tendency towards making things explode actually—“

“And lying; he snuck a snake into school—“

“He talks to the snake statues in school; he needs to stop doing that—“

“Threatened to beat me with a broom once—“

”I saved him from that like a good adult,” Evan pitched in, smug as he watched all Harry’s secrets being exposed. See, when Evan was living it with them, he had to shoulder at least some of the blame. He could just enjoy the show now. 

“After he’d stuck a wand up a troll’s nose—“ yikes, Malfoy was still touchy about that, it seemed. 

“Smuggled a dragon out of school—“

“Which was entirely Granger’s fault—“

“Don’t drag me into this,” Hermione hissed; she’d somehow found herself between Pandora and Dorcas; but then, that was the safest position she could have chosen. “I didn’t make you do anything.” 

“It was Theo’s fault actually,” Harry added, because how couldn’t he? If it was all coming out, it was all coming out. He’d start his second year with a clean slate. That’d be fresh worries on his mother head, rather than remnants of the past having to be brought up as well. 

“How?” Theo has the audacity to look appalled. Like he couldn’t understand how it could have been his fault in the slightest. 

“Because you folded, you fool,” Malfoy snapped, like he still had unresolved issues about that, too. “She blinked at you with her big brown eyes and you were all but tripping over yourself to make it happen.” 

“That’s not how it happened, I’m sure.” 

“If you say so,” Malfoy rolled his eyes, and Theo flushed an alarmingly endearing red. Hermione blinked at them confused. Shame. She was so bloody brilliant; she was so obtuse sometimes. She was probably the only person who could make Theo do something he didn’t want to. Harry could as well, but he actually had to work for it. 

“You’re leaving out the fact that we were stalked by a Weasley, assaulted by a mirror, and then went to war with a teacher who was half dark lord—“ Theo listed them all off quickly, as though he didn’t like the implications of their previous statements.

“And Harry rearranged the sky and locked Hagrid’s mouth, and spent a lot of his primitive days being a general menace—“

“I was never menacing!”

“Lying is not your strong point, Potter, do try to do better.” 

“Why am I getting the blame for everything?” Harry moped, flinging his hands up. Half of these situations had been circumstantial. 

“We’ve not put any blame on you yet, Harry. We could still tell her what happened to the troll.”

“But instead we’ll talk about you being an absolute terror with the bloody camera—“

Which Harry remembered he had in his charm at that moment, swiping his thumb over it to get a picture of his mother’s face that had gone worryingly pale the longer they’d gone on. They’d laugh about it someday. Maybe. Hopefully.

“And the way you nearly made the Weasley mess his pants when he challenged you to that duel—“

“Don’t forget about the dog!” Oh Evan was enjoying this way too much. Harry was going to make him suffer this school year.

“That one was Weasley‘s fault,” because it was.

”Neville’s too, if we’re being honest,” Theo added thoughtfully.

”But really, we should blame it on Malfoy. Really, taking the bait to go Weasley?”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy! You were duelling on school grounds?”

”Of course not, Aunt Cissa. We stopped him from doing anything stupid.” She didn’t look like she believed them. 

“I’m sure there are more interesting things to talk about than me. Like the walls!” There was accusation there. Like Harry wanted the walls to just yank them all over the castle. 

“Your son has the school walls do his bidding.”

“Trust that I would take so much more advantage of that if I could actually control it. I’m pretty sure the Ancients think Hogwarts is at least partially sentient, but I’d really appreciate it if they’d actually tell me something,” Harry grumbled, stabbing at his head with a finger as though it might jump start negotiations with the Ancients. Malfoy pulled his hand away, gently, tutting at him not to hurt himself. 

“Don’t get us started on the Ancients,” he sighed, sounding so, so tired.

“Or the moon for that matter. We’re still trying to figure out what in damnation he did to piss off the moon.” 

“Wait,” Hermione almost shouted, holding her hand in an odd sort of gesture, one palm straight up, and the other one flat on top of it. “You mean Neville wasn’t lying when he said the walls were —eating you?” 

“And spitting us back out, yes,” Malfoy responded calmly, almost as though telling her to keep up; or give up on trying to make sense. 

“Believe me, Granger. The walls are the least of our problems.” 

“I’m starting to see that.” She sounded slightly faint, actually. Harry hoped Pandora or Dorcas would catch her if she fell. 

There was a hush, tense and deathly, Harry realised belatedly. He hiccuped a nervous sort of laugh, because oh, that was fear in his mother’s eyes. Fire bright and manic. Maybe they should have eased her into this? 

“Should’ve quit while you were ahead, dove,” Evan sighed, flopping sideways into the armchair he’d claimed for himself. His shoes were missing and his collar was undone, and the fire burned purple for a second before he exhaled, summoning a glass of what had to be firewhiskey.

”I really don’t think you have grounds to talk, Ev. You’ve been the chief of provocation all night.” 

“You knew about all of this?” Lily’s voice was dangerously quiet, and Harry watched the fire burn green. This was a level of power he hadn’t seen before. 

The fire flashed purple again with the quirk of Evan’s eyebrow, heat nearly sweltering. “I lived on the school compound with them nine out of ten months. Yes, I was privy to most of their antics.” And that wasn’t calm Evan. Not in the slightest. Harry recognised that as an anger in Evan he had never in his life been witness too. Except the thing was, he couldn’t figure out why he would be so mad. But Lily wasn’t paying attention to that; probably didn’t even realise the tightrope she’d had herself on before her attention was on Harry’s parents. 

“You knew?” She turned on James and Regulus now, and there was almost a twitch in her eye, like she was trying to reign in her emotions. Like she didn’t know what to feel in the wake of all these revelations. It didn’t help that everyone else was at least somewhat drunk and more or less knew all of this already. Except Mary, but then, she’d been following Harry around his last couple weeks of school. So she had at least some idea of the antics he got up to.

Harry had written to his mother, yes. But it was light stuff. Nothing to this extent. Nothing —compromising like this. 

“Well, Harry’s never been the best at keeping secrets,” James had that smile on his face. The one that meant he saw the tensions and wanted to soothe. His defence mechanisms were much the same as Harry’s. Make light of the situation. Laugh about it. 

Harry didn’t know if it would work this time.

“Harry,” Harry didn’t know when their hands had linked, but the boys were trembling right along with him, even as they put up a united front. Lily’s voice was nothing but harsh, horrified breath, and her eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Harry,” it was whisper, and the incarnate of fear. It was love, that had her on her knees, almost over warm hands cradling his face. “What have you been through in the past year?” It was a distinct sort of horror; as though Harry had been exposed to things he shouldn’t have, which did carry a bit of truth. She sounded harrowed, grieved by the reality. Her hands slipped up, smoothing into his hair, before climbing back down to caress his cheek, thumb sweeping featherlight over the tender skin beneath his eye. “What happened?” 

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” and he was trying, so hard, to get her to understand that it really wasn’t that bad; he was trying so hard to hide the lump in his throat under such tender affection. This was his mum. 

He hadn’t even told her the worst of it; hadn’t told her about Evan breaking down and storms in the forest and the crimson moon and burning flesh and Death’s promise. “I’m alright. We all are.” He did his best to be reassuring, hands shaking from the boys’ own to settle on his mother’s face. She was warm; too warm, cheeks flushed high with fear. Try as he might Harry knew he was failing; he wasn’t easing the pains the way he wanted to. Couldn’t be the lulling lullaby to take away the fear, the terror that sparked in poison green eyes. 

“Oh, son,” and when she pulled him in, it was absolutely nothing like on the staircase. Now, it just felt like she was seeking her own comfort. Holding onto him as though to feel the lifeblood still pumping beneath his veins and ensure him alive. Harry huffed a surprised breath when she pulled back abruptly, only to gather all three of them into her arms, and hold them so, so tight. She leaned over, stretching behind the boys, and Harry didn’t see what she was doing, but knew was dragging Hermione in too, when he sensed the familiar magicks, warm as they mingled with his. 

When she pulled back, there were tears shining in her gemstone eyes, but a determination there also. Something stubborn in the set of her jaw Harry realised he recognised from his own self when he looked in the mirror. They’d always told him he had her stubbornness. But he was looking at it now. Watching his own expressions stare him in the eye. 

Each of them she took by their faces gently, pressing a kiss to the centre of their foreheads, that was so gentle it felt like tragedy. Fragile like spiderweb silk, a breath and it’d be broken. 

Her forehead lingered on his for a moment, like she was trying to find her strength and pull from his own. And when she stood, it was with straightened shoulders and a spine of iron. Rage still burned in haunting irises, the fire glowing verdant to match. Her gaze was fixed on Mary. 

“We hide nothing.” There was —Harry didn’t know how to describe the emotion in her voice. But it was solid; firm. Brokered absolutely no argument. 

Mary nodded back, that same rage burning in her eyes, simmering low like a pot getting ready to boil over. There was war on the horizon, Harry knew this. But when he looked at Mary, he saw for the first time, a soldier of war. 

Bruised and burned and hurt. But she’d come out of the other side. She’d seen the horrors. Everyone in this room had, except the four of them gathered there in the centre. The four children. And Briar, who was still hiding behind Sirius’ couch-frame. 

His parents; his family. War veterans, every single one of them. They’d survived. They’d survived only to be forced into another war. Forced to fight even when they had chosen peace. When they had chosen to move on with their lives. Find a home to settle into and work past the past that haunted them always. 

Harry realised what they were angry at now; where that rage was directed. 

It was directed at the helplessness and at the Ancients. It was directed at their lack of choice. It was directed at the fact that they were still nothing but puppets, forced to fight a war. Numb and controlled. Say no, and the world collapsed. Say yes, and their world would collapse. Powerless. They were powerless all over again. 

Because they had come out of the war, scarred and marred as they were now, inside and outside. But now they had to watch their children be sent to war. A war they had failed. A war they had never finished fighting. A war that lived forever in the vaults of their minds.

But that safe had been unlocked; Pandora’s box had been opened and now hope was nothing but a pale, wispy light, floating away while their reality collapsed into despair. 

Chapter Text

Harry hadn’t ever thought he’d be leading Hermione in a dance —just for the fact that he never though Hermione would allow herself to be lead in a dance.

But here they were anyway. 

“Never again, Potter,” it was all but spat, hissed through clenched teeth, even as her fingers tightened around his. They were moving in slow circles, and Hermione’s eyes had yet to leave his, scowl firmly in place, scrunched between her eyebrows.

It was quiet as they danced, or well, as quiet as it ever got. The first dance was an auspicious sort of event, and Odilia was a rarely viewed gem. If not out of honour to the Ancients, then out of honour to Odilia. 

Honestly, it was somewhere between adorable and worrying, her frown. Because really, Hermione was quite upset with him. Rightly so, but even then, it was not exactly a pleasant feeling. Self inflicted pain. Was Harry going to need to have another uncomfortable conversation with his parents?

Her nose wiggled, jumping as though she wanted to sneeze. Harry smiled brighter, shadow covering half his face because of the angle of the candlelight. 

Everything seemed to glow a shade of gold that seemed more than magic. Kreacher had outdone himself tonight.

“You’re not having any fun at all, ‘Mione? None? ” It was like a treat, leaning closer to watch the way her expression softened, even as the music swelled. 

And yet, even as the music swelled, it seemed the heat did with it, until there were pinpricks of sweat beading across his back. If the hush hadn’t been established before, it was now, as Harry inched Hermione closer. He was playing a dangerous game here, and the guilt was crawling back up —like that ever returning ivy he’d been trying to strangle all night. 

“I don’t want to hear it,” she seemed to be fighting so hard to keep the scowl on her face, and his guilt was building building building. But also —it wasn’t. He was doing what needed to be done.

Harry tilted his head, watching her through the fallen parts of his hair —a makeshift fringe.

He pulled her closer, hiding his grin when she stumbled ever so slightly; it made the lines of her frown deeper. It made the grooves the ivy had been pressing into the flesh beneath his flesh deeper. 

He’d only just promised not to use her as as pawn.

But he had the eyes on him right now, crawling like fire ants over his flesh. He had the attention he needed right now, so potent, he could taste the anticipation of it all on his tongue —bitter and metallic like the blood he knew would never be avoided.

He hated it. 

“I’m sorry,” it was a feather light whisper, thumb moving up to press against her furrowed brows; it felt like lie on his tongue. “Hey,” he said again, maybe a little more urgently —maybe trying to fight his own guilt— tugging her even tighter so they were nearly nose to nose.

Danger danger danger. Eyes like living creatures; burrowing into him to draw out his deepest secrets.

She didn’t seem to want to meet his eyes —she shouldn’t. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I should’ve told you the rest of the plan. I shouldn’t have kept you in the dark. I won’t do it again.” Lies lies lies. And then, another part of his brain —necessary. 

Hermione was almost too smart sometimes, even as she glowed beneath the candlelight, matching his dance step for step. The music rose again, gentled into a lovelier melody. And still, the first dance continued.

It was potent, the perfumes swirling through the air; everything clumped in one place. No one moving; not twitching, nary even daring move muscle.

Harry felt his upset spike; saw the flickering of candle light, saw the way the shadows crowded his ankles, seeking out —yearning to protect.

It was new development, Black Magicks that had seemingly awoken in him. He wanted to hide in those shadows. 

“I won’t be a pawn in your plans again,” yet, there could’ve been so much more rage behind it. She seemed more quietly resigned than anything. Sad, in that tragic, hidden way she had been since Harry’d stumbled across her with Theo. 

Harry didn’t understand. Wanted to. Wanted to crawl into her brain and find out. He was hypocritical is what he was.

He treasured Hermione, obviously. But there were some things she couldn’t know. Not yet. Curiosity killed the cat. Harry desperately wanted Hermione to not be the cat. 

“You won’t,” his words lifted her hair, the magick in his oath twirling the hems of her gown. “I won’t do anything to make you uncomfortable again, Hermione. Not ever. Not intentionally. And I won’t force you into my plans. I never meant to get you hurt.” Harry prayed to the Ancients his oath remained intact. Not intentionally, and he hoped that was loophole enough. 

Maybe he’d stop trying to protect her some day. He didn’t think he would. 

“I wasn’t hurt ,” she argued, eyes skating down, seemingly planted on the toe of Harry’s boot now. “Just a bit overwhelmed. Theo fished me out.” 

And hurt himself in the process, Harry did not say. Just twirled her near abrupt, hoping his grin was gentle and not bitter. He tilted his head back to look at the gleaming candles, to see the stars dance in his vision —anything to wipe away the look that had been on Theo’s face when he’d dropped Hermione’s arm. 

His fault. He felt like he wasn’t doing anything right tonight. Felt so —unbalanced. Like the floor was tilting beneath him. 

“And I’m very grateful to him for that,” because he was. “But you shouldn’t have been put in that situation in the first place,” was Harry’s counter argument, grinning something soft —he hoped it was soft; he was exhausted— as he fanned the fingers on their raised hands, linking them quick as a blink. “Are you ready?” He could hear the mischief in his own voice, the giddiness, the glee. He hoped it overwhelmed the overwhelm fighting valiantly to claw out of his throat. 

He was so tired. He wanted his fathers. He wanted his mother. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to speak to Briar without being supervised.

He wanted to stop being treated as a child, even as his body was tired like one. 

He was playing the game right this very moment, wasn’t he? Again, the weight of eyes itched. Harry had never been overly keen of eyes on him, but he had quickly become accustomed to the feeling at Hogwarts. He still remembered that first time in the Leaky Cauldron. He thought he’d gotten over it. The sinking in his belly told him not.

Bile mixed with the expensive perfumes scenting the air, and he grinned harder, wider. Gentler, when he felt his face start to pull. 

And finally, finally, Hermione’s smiled returned, genuine for what seemed to be the first time that evening. He was sure the rise of the music this time was his own doing. “Ready.” 

“Do you remember the words?” And Harry really was teasing her this time, easing back into his skin, but Hermione was brilliant enough to figure that out, if her raised eyebrow was any indication.

”Reverto Forma et Anima Composita,” she’d have to channel her magicks through his without a wand. And really, she was brilliant enough to do it, the deep, deep green of her magicks mixing with his as they flowed out —through the fingertips of their raised hands and straight out through the soles of their shoes.

The gasps ringing through the crowds were audible, heavy and bright. But Harry’s eyes were glued to Hermione; the way her eyes were shining and her shoulders ha straightened seemingly unconsciously. The way that quiet pride seemed engraved in her features. The way she was smiling so bright, eyes darting all the way around the ballroom as the magicks engulfed; as they embraced. 

Letting out the lighest huff of a breath, Harry yanked her just that slightest bit closer, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of her nose —praise and apology all at once. He couldn’t help it. 

Not when her expression softened so entirely, and Harry finally felt something like forgiveness loosening the knot of ivy that had been pressing their thorns into his stomach. 

Around them, the golden-green sparks danced, lifting Hermione’s skirts and brushing Harry’s fringe from in his eyes. Around and around they twirled, quicker and quicker with every new sound of surprise.

That lovely feeling Harry got when he knew he’d succeeded in another one of his pranks building warm and welcomed in his tummy. And as they turned, the magicks danced in spirals, clinging to and climbing every person it found. 

Harry listened, enjoyed the new chaos, happier this time; surprised rather than frustrated as the sparks danced up their limbs, leeching colour and disappearing animal parts and mending clothes all at once.

More than mending, the magicks, warmer than a fireplace in the dead of winter, it redid everyone’s robes. Built on the original blueprint and made them better. Clothed everyone in the colours Harry had adorned his family —though slightly dulled, of course.

Only Harry’s family would truly shine. Only his family deserved to. 

Hermione’s eyes were wide, gold sparkling in the usual brown of her irises, and Harry couldn’t help but feel monumentally pleased about it; like maybe he’d finally done something right tonight.

Couldn’t help the settling of his soul when she’d finally relaxed where he was still holding onto her. As though she was giving back the trust he’d thought he’d lost. 

So preoccupied she was with the golden dance, she didn’t seem to notice the way everyone’s eyes had gravitated towards her; the way her own feet were lifting from the floor ever so slightly with every step she took, looking this way and that, ever so fascinated. Harry adored the way she found intrigue in even the smallest of things. Harry adored her. He forgot sometimes, to remember to remind his friends they were cherished. Malfoy and Theo both existed in that grey —in that constant yearning that they picked up on the most subtle clues when Harry forgot to be obvious. But the way Hermione had seemed so wrong-footed tonight —Harry was sure he’d done something —beyond everything he’d already done— to upset her.

That, he wasn’t exactly sure of. He was not a mind reader. He prayed to the Ancients that he’d never be a mind reader. 

But to see her glow was a reward, the red of his Hermione peeking out, even through the glamour. He loved Odilia as well, he wouldn’t deny that. But Hermione was so precious to him. And to have seen her so smothered, so bothered the entire evening.

Harry was so happy to see Hermione smiling rather than some mirror version of another one of this friends. 

And even as he watched her —dazed, sort of hypnotised, and endlessly pleased with himself, Harry’s plans were falling in place. 

He couldn’t wait to write to Odilia. Her parchment always smelled like forest. He wanted to go play in Regulus’ garden. 

Everyone’s eyes were on Hermione; or rather, they were fixed on Odilia. And for the first time that night, Harry’s skin didn’t itch under the constant stares. Even the sickly sweet perfume that had been amalgamating in his throat seemed to be disintegrating. 

Odilia Walsh. Reclusive princess of the Irish nature covens. Rumoured to have been birthed with powers beyond comprehension. One with nature; a constituent between the wizard world and the true magicks of nature —long since forgotten and abandoned. The original school of Nature Magicks revived. 

The earth had sung a song so sweet upon her birth; the skies had cried, poured out their love for her. Rare blossoms, long since thought extinct had opened up their blooms to welcome her.

The fairies had sacrificed their gold for her. Built her a home hidden deep on within their realms; within the Sylvan Courts. An homage to their reverence. Pixies were greedy; the lot of them.

A powerful ally. 

A powerful ally on display at Harry’s birthday party, playing personal entertainment for the Boy Who Lived. Harry couldn’t wait until Theo figured it out. He wasn’t as dumb as they thought him to be. Neville though. Some of what Neville has said was still settled under his skin, thick like coagulated blood. Pressing rope burns from the insistent ivy; hidden, but weighty none the less. 

“The Keeper of the Fey blesses us with her presence,” Harry couldn’t quite keep the glee from his voice —the victory— hand tightening in Hermione’s as she snapped back to reality. He was sad to see the shine in her eyes go. 

Someday, Harry was sure, Hermione would wield more power than even Odilia —politically speaking. But today, she had to settle for playing pawn just a little longer. Harry wouldn’t do it to her again; not ever. (Or, he hoped he wouldn’t have to.) But there were things that needed to be done and connections that had to be established. 

Harry wasn’t too young to start playing this game. Wasn’t too stupid to pick up on the rules. 

He pulled Hermione back to solid ground, grinning with the press of soft leather boots to cold, marble floors, and nudged her foot, letting his chest relax when she fell into an easy bow. Fell into the role he’d made for her. It seemed easier for her now, playing a role. It seemed easier now with the lightness of forgiveness between them. She seemed to be having fun.  

“I hope you all didn’t mind being my entertainment for the night,” oh and Harry could kiss her again. He’d bet half the galleons he had stored in his room that Hermione hadn’t appreciated being called out for her detective work. He’d bet the other half she was seeking Theo’s approval. But he wasn’t going to touch that with a Quidditch broom. He’d just document the entire fiasco with his trusty camera. 

He’d have so many stories to tell some day.

The hush that had accumulated at Odilia’s address gave way to grumbling, to quiet utterances of annoyance, but none grew beyond muted aggression. Odilia’s coven was the only true neutral party. No one would dare anger her. No one would dare use her either, but then, this had been Harry’s way of obliging her wishes. He wondered who was using whom.

No one would bat an eye at her antics. And furthermore, no one would dare upset his associates.

Both of them. They wielded power. All the more why Harry should be keeping his distance. He wasn’t oblivious. Just naïve enough to hope that people would see it the way he saw it.

He was digging a hole; but he’d rather claw his way back out than not dig it. He’d rather burden the suffering than forsake his friends.  

Yes, Harry had sought forgiveness for his wrongs, but he wouldn’t regret them. He wouldn’t regret getting the ball moving. Especially not now. Few snatches he’d caught from what  Mary had said aligned too closely with whatever Dorcas had been investigating.

The magicks were stirring, and if Harry had already drawn the anger of the Moon, the next step was to befriend to Earth. It would be a lie to say he preferred his feet on the floor, but in this particular instance, he figured it couldn’t hurt. 

“And now,” Harry blinked, an agressive sort of flutter that cleared the sparks from his vision. Trying to remain as natural as possible, he followed Hermione’s prompting. 

“We pray for good grace in the coming year,” for Harry’s birthday was so very fortunately placed on that tilt. On the end of the halfway. The Ancients hated the even. Found comfort in the odd. Seven was one of their favourite numbers. He honoured the death of the seven with his birth. 

It was easy to find Neville —mousy and red-faced as he was— pull him forth with him towards the altar —a celebration for both of them; the Longbottom House was honoured yet, and Harry was free of criticism right now. He would be for a while.

This was one of the first steps in righting so many wrongs. In reestablishing Longbottom honour. Neville’s parents had sacrificed too much for his House to become a joke. Neville cared too much, for his parents; for their legacy. His insides didn’t match his outsides; didn’t know how. Harry would help him.

Harry would never let a friend suffer alone.

Together they led the prayer into their twelfth year. Not major, nor a milestone by any means, and yet Harry’s magicks sung at the spilling of blood. Of an honour he didn’t feel as potently in his bones anymore. 

In fact, he felt more and more used. But he would let the Ancients use. Would let Death use him. Would play entertainer for Magick.

Harry had a plan. In the end, neither would truly know who had used whom. 

Draco was fuming. 

Or well, he was red again. Some could blame it on the heat. He was in rather stuffy robes. But then, Theo was right beside him, and blaming it on something that was, by all means, unbothersome… well that would have Theo more smug. And Theo was already smug enough, thank you very much. 

He was just —bothered; annoyed. All those lovely adjectives he didn’t want listed out even in the safety of his head. But then again, knowing his company —not even his head was safe.

He heaved another dramatic sigh, barely resisting the urge to simply —drop. Like a dead fish. He couldn’t even remember the last time he was quite so exhausted. 

“He’s enjoying his birthday party Malfoy, must you scowl like a scolded child?” Theo could pretend all he wanted, he was ridiculously amused. 

It made the vein in Draco’s forehead pulse harder. 

“I’m not scowling,” but he could feel the tug of his brows even tighter. It seemed some rarely received affection from his scarily inebriated mother wasn’t quite enough to settle him in his skin when Potter was over there mooning over a soon to be fifth year Quidditch player. The audacity. Draco had had to work so incredibly hard to get so much as a smile from the boy, and this —Draco cut his thought immediately, berating himself even in the comforts of his mind. Not safe; never safe.

There were still people everywhere, and Draco felt his collar tightening the more he looked. Potter was laughing, the sound of it reverberating through an incredibly polished ballroom. Charming; rich. A show of power. Politics. All of it blasted politics. 

Draco had grown up in this luxury. Should be accustomed to it. But reconciling such a perfectly groomed Potter; someone who looked like he belonged in the high society he was born into —laughing like he did when it was too late for them to be up —or too early depending on whom you asked— with his disaster hair and untucked robes and it was. It was a collision of worlds that twisted something in his stomach.

Draco didn’t like being reminded that he and Potter existed in the same world. He didn’t like being reminded that in some other life— in some other life Harry Potter might’ve been disgustingly like Draco. 

“He invited them, Draco. He has to be a good host,” one would assume Theo placating. One would assume wrong. Really, if Draco wasn’t quite so fond of him, he’d have gotten rid of him long ago. He still doesn’t even know how he grew to be so fond. Potter’s influence he was sure. Damn Potter. 

Draco didn’t want to grow any sort of fondness for anyone. Knew what a lost cause it was. Knew he was being cynical.

If the people he grew to love didn’t die; then he very well might. And then, what good would that do anyone?

“Yes well, he can be a good host without quite so much smiling,” and Draco realised his slip, of course he did. He was trained for this. But stupid Potter and stupid vulnerability and stupid Theo for being someone he could actually let his tongue slip around. Draco had not bitten anyone yet; had not been influenced by Potter so entirely. But he would bite Theo if it wouldn’t scandalise his mother. 

It was as though he was on constant alert; couldn’t stop the perpetual itch beneath his veins —the need to be vigilant. There was no freedom in this world. No such thing as easy smiles. No such thing as true friends.

And still. And still, Potter could just hand them out. Was probably the only person in their forsaken world whose easy smiles and unrestrained affection could not be misinterpreted towards more than what it was.

He could hold a girl so close and kiss her nose, and it would seem no more or less out of the ordinary for him.

Draco bit down on his tongue so hard he was sure he tasted metal. Adjusted his stance to cover any discomfort from his own pain. Breathed through the ugly looping of his stomach when Potter grabbed at the Diggory boy’s arm, folding nearly clean in half from his laughter.

He looked so —happy. Draco liked when he looked happy. 

As it stood, he could only be silently grateful that this scowl was a rather permanent fixture on his face; no one would be the wiser of his inner turmoil. 

Not that they should be. Draco would’ve have been more than a failure if his expressions ever spoke to the storm of his mind. He may not have had Theo’s gift for passivity, but he had mastered the cruel sneer.

It was easier —making himself seem cruel. Perhaps cruelty could protect his heart. Hide his heart from everyone. 

That is, anyone who wasn’t just shy of too tall and too blue eyed and too bloody nosy —“Why the bloody hell aren’t you bothered in the slightest?” And really, Draco had expected Theo to have been upset. It seemed an upsetting thing. Draco wasn’t even fond of the Granger girl and found it upsetting. 

But then, Draco found the fact that the other seeker —Cho? Was that her name— was smiling at Potter the way Draco had seen Potter smiling at Hermione. Something gentle; something charmed. 

“What’s there to be bothered by?” Theo was insufferable is what he was. Draco just huffed and crossed his arms, not even caring that his scowl seemed only more severe by the moment. 

He wasn’t bothered. Why would he be?

“Nothing,” Draco conceded, even as Theo sighed beside him, feeling just slightly more than a little put out now, glaring extra hard at anyone who even looked like they wanted to approach him. He was supposed to be playing his game of connections. He really couldn’t be arsed. 

He was barely feet away from Potter, and still. Of course everyone would converge on him, excited to get a look at this Harry Potter —reckless in a different way. Not like he was in school; not cold and almost calculating like he could get sometimes—not that calculations were really his strength; Draco had seen his arithmetic homework. He was perceived here, yes. But it was of his own volition, Draco realised. He was free here. The marionette; the one in control. 

Harry Potter was a magnificent actor. 

Theo, too, was being extra reckless tonight it seemed, simply being around Draco as much as he was; amicable as he was. Theodore Nott Senior was not very fond of Draco. But then, not many people were.

Theo was always reckless when Potter was around. 

It was a game; it sickened Draco to his stomach, the way they made it look like they were following the rules. The way their fathers thought they were puppets; couldn’t be anything more. The way they both made it seem as though Potter was the pawn in their schemes. Draco could laugh just thinking about it. 

It was a terrifying thought, actually. The way they both allowed Potter to just — change them. Who they were. Who they were raised to be. Let him tear apart the carefully set plans that had dictated their entire lives. A trust that seemed to dig under both their skins. A trust that had carved itself a shrine in Draco’s ribcage. Unerring confidence that Potter wouldn’t let him get hurt. Not truly; not intentionally. 

He couldn’t tell if the heat in the room rose; couldn’t tell if it was cold. His body seemed to be fighting between shivering and sweating. 

“Are you jealous, Draco?” Draco could feel the vein on his temple pulsing. He was going to strangle Theo. 

“Of what?” He snapped, unprofessional, but he never seemed able to find his bearing around Theo anyway. Intelligent behind that uncaring façade. He shared secrets with Draco. They knew the blackest truths about each other. Recognised the evils in each other in ways Potter wouldn’t be able to. In ways Draco hoped he’d never be able to. Prayed for it at night when his skin was too tight and he was fighting against truths he’d long since deemed pointless. 

Draco didn’t know if that scared him or made him relieved. Didn’t know which option he’d prefer. 

“Well, I wouldn’t possible know what goes on in that head of yours,” of course he did, his shoulder’s been pressed to Draco this entire time. “But one can always assume.” Then again, Theo loved his lies. If Draco’s safety was his cruelty, then Theo’s was his lies. 

“Assumptions have caused death, Theo. Or did you not know that?” The Diggory boy had a hand on Potter’s skin; pinky barely brushing where Harry had yet to redo his collar. It was not the first time Draco had contemplated murder; it was perhaps the first time that thought was quite so vivid. 

He should be feel ashamed. He liked to blame his bloodline for many of his feelings. Can’t help what I feel, he’d defend. It’s in my blood. And it was in his blood —this possessiveness. This need to be the only one deserving of attention in Potter’s life. It would be a growing moment for him —learning he can’t just take and keep and hide.

Then again, Draco wasn’t particularly fond of those growing pains. Of pain in general.

“I wonder if Odilia knows what Harry’s done,” strange way to change to subject, but Draco’s never been able to follow Theo’s train of thought anyway. Never particularly wanted to, either. For then, where would the fun be? 

Theo’s allure was in his predictable unpredictability. His uncanny ability to both ease and unsettle anyone with just a couple words. Draco loved the jarring nature of it; was intensely pleased with the way it pulled him from his thoughts —again and again and again. 

“Of course she does,” Draco jerked slightly, blinking in confusion when he found Theo on the opposite side of him. As far away from Granger as he can be. It wasn’t such an odd thought. Not tonight. Selfishly, Draco was hoping Mirielle didn’t wander upon them. 

“And how would you know?” Draco knew she had her ways, obviously. Draco was still unfairly bitter. Granger, Theo. If Crouch Junior showed his face anywhere near him, Draco was going to be  pulling from Evan’s book. He was lighting someone on fire. All reminders of his inadequacy. Draco wouldn’t actually watch them burn. Again— the pictures in his head were vivid. He did feel shame this time; felt it craw into his throat —thick and slimy and disgusting. He swallowed against it, let his eyes roam the ballroom. Fall upon little groups and their gossip —dainty laughs and the tapping of tailored heels. Yes, this luxury, it was Draco’s life.

His life was not sweat on broom and mud on his face and the strong, strong hands of someone who’s laugh was just a little too rough for high society. 

“He told me, of course,” because of course. She was still glamoured, voice lowered so the people couldn’t add speaking in third person to Odilia’s list of oddities. “Apparently she’s helped design my robes.” 

Draco would never cease to be amazed. His eyes flittered back over to Potter. Writhing touching range, but just out of reach. Draco couldn’t help but ponder his connection with Odilia. 

“She seems quite keen on whatever plan this is Potter’s plotting,” Draco murmured, seeing as Theo was still unbearably quiet, tense even where he was still pressed to Draco —shoulder to ankle. Seeking comfort in a way he never does. Now, Draco was no Harry Potter, but he’d seen Theo dragging Hermione from the crowd when him and Potter were trying to find the source of the screams. He’d seen the expression on his face when he’d realised he’d held Hermione, touched her in the slightest —abrupt and without consent. 

Seen the flash in Theo’s eyes. Children like them —their biggest fears were much the same. Becoming their parents. 

Yes, Draco was as privy to Theo’s secrets as Theo was to his. As all the elite purebloods were on some level or another. And again, Draco did not know whether to find Potter’s obliviousness relieving or saddening. Did not know whether he wanted to be seen or not. He feared it. He craved it. He should really be focussing on this conversation. 

“I just can’t seem to figure out what he’s plotting. None of this seems to make any sense to me.” She seemed frustrated. Draco couldn’t blame her. He also wasn’t going to try to figure it out. Everyone had their strengths. Understanding Potter’s brain was no one’s but his parents’, perhaps. All Draco needed to do was retain the information. For emergencies. 

He didn’t flinch when Theo started adjusting him, more curious than anythin. He didn’t flinch —he was already uncomfortably comfortable with Theo’s weight on him; near him. Too starved for it to not want it.

“Use your brain, Granger,” and really, this was quite insulting. Theo was using him as a human shield, treating him like he was Potter’s height, throwing his uncanny strength around to use Draco as some sort of chin rest. “There are few reasons Harry would pull someone like that out of hiding. Few reasons he would cause this much chaos—“

“I beg to differ. Potter never needs a reason to cause chaos,” Theo was pinching him even before he was finished speaking. 

And yet. Draco didn’t complain nearly as much as he could have. Crossed his arms and huffed, and glanced back to where a crowd had formed around where Potter was; relaxed into Theo’s hold; widened his stance to steady his weight and act as the shield Theo was making him. It wasn’t a problem. He wouldn’t make it a problem.

It was mostly classmates, young ones gathered around Potter. Everyone who was anyone who was allowed to associate with anyone. How Draco envied them sometimes. Careless, joyous laughter, and limbs that touched easily without assumption. Smiles that were nothing more than simple happiness and words that were senseless, without purpose. 

The kind of crowd that would wrinkle Draco’s father’s nose.

”Yes, but this is strategic chaos, Draco. Harry doesn’t strategise.”

”He does when he wants to,” because Draco had to defend him. Of course he did. He would never not.

”Yes, but when does Harry ever have to strategise?” Again, Granger seemed uncharacteristically flustered; redder by the moment. Her eyes— her eyes seemed to press into Draco’s skin. Not angry, but probing, curious. Head tilting and letting loose curls of ginger cover forest eyes. Deeper than Harry’s. Yes, Draco could almost see the Sylvan Courts hidden in her irises. It was a bloody strong glamour. 

Draco knew that gaze. Her mind was a million miles away from this conversation. Hidden somewhere up in the clutter of her conscience. Whatever she was thinking of however, it seemed to have Draco in the centre of it somewhere. 

How ironic that this conversation he was quite literally in the middle of —his father would have done more than wrinkle his nose. How ironic he was being scrutinised by someone his father would probably— best to cut those thoughts.

And yet. 

He shifted in Theo’s hold, wary under a gaze that did not belong to the owner. Theo’s hand was a comforting drag of up and down on his arm. When Hermione’s eyes followed the motion, narrowing when Draco’s body slumped unconsciously, he understood.

“Politics darling,” and he was quite a bit more snarky that he could have been; knew he saw something of himself in those eyes. Knew he feared them, because he feared his own wants.

But then, Granger was almost endearing —and that was a dangerous word wasn’t it— when she was trying to understand something. Oblivious to many of the barbs being thrown at her. If Draco was a better person, he would have felt more guilt. As it stood, he was distinctly uncomfortable. But then, that could have just been Theo’s chin digging into his skull, so much at odds with the fingertips still skating up and down his arm. Gentle, gentle. Not at all erratic. In fact, Theo seemed to be following a pattern. If Draco thought about it hard enough, he could feel Theo’s breaths aligning with the rise and fall of his fingers. 

If he cared enough to be conscious of it, he’d realise his own breath was doing the same. 

“Is everything about politics in the wizarding world?” She had the gall to seem genuinely confused. But then, she’d only just really blinked out of whatever world she’d been in.

“Unfortunately.” 

“But what’s the intention this time?” Now she was asking the right questions. She was so earnest, she didn’t seem to notice with every step she took forward, Theo took one back, inadvertently dragging Draco with him. 

“Take a guess,” because Draco wanted to see anger in her eyes. He did not want to see himself reflected in that which he was supposed to hate. 

“Establishing connections. Strength. Making himself untouchable,” even keeping his physical distance, Theo did so love to pick her brain. 

Draco’s mind had already wandered, uncomfortably content to let Theo shoulder his weight and uncharacteristically bumble his way through conversation. Except it was never really conversation between Theo and Hermione. Hermione’s upbringing couldn’t be helped, in that same way Theo’s couldn’t be. And while Theo had all the access he needed to Muggle knowledge —all the Notts did, but no one batted an eye at that— Granger didn’t have access to wizarding knowledge. She had to play keep-up while Theo sat smug on his throne. Draco couldn’t wait for the day he tumbled. Hermione would trump him. As she would trump everyone, bitter and reluctant as he was to admit. 

“I thought him and Odilia were friends?”

”Well yes, we know that. And his family. But not all of wizarding Britain, Gr—“ Draco cut his words, letting his eyes roll up into the ceiling again.

”What do you know about the Fey?” And Theo’s voice was hushed now, low as to not spark intrigue. Draco could nearly feel Hermione’s breath in his hair, the way she was leaning over and talking in those hushed, excited tones. He was made to bend his spine in ways he didn’t quite want for Theo and Hermione to converse over him easily. Theo smelled like overripe berries, and Draco’s stomach turned something scary.

”Theo—“ abrupt, harsh with the fear clogging up his throat. Overripe berries.

But Theo only pinched him, eyes locked with Hermione’s like Draco hadn’t said a single word, carrying on their conversation like that scent wasn’t as overpowering as it was subtle. No one would bat an eye at it.

”There’s an entire fairy world?” Draco wouldn’t burst her bubble; wouldn’t tell her the Fey were most certainly not friends.

He had other problems to worry about. 

He knew better than to try again; knew to swallow the pulse beating in the opening of his throat and follow Theo’s breathing that had only gotten deeper.

”Deep in the forests, yes. Where mortal eye can’t see,” it seemed Theo wasn’t quite intent on bursting her bubble either. Then again, Theo never could look at sadness in those big brown eyes. 

Theo’s weight on him; his overwarm skin; the soft tenor of his voice— scratchier than it should be; the ways he’d been slipping up the entire evening. Pressing into them and staying close and purposely avoiding his sister as subtly as possible. Letting others take his weight because he couldn’t do it himself.

”What do you call it? The place they live?” Draco wondered if the words could even come off their tongues. Fey Magick was strange like that.

His blood crawled at the very thought of the Sylvan Courts. His blood curdled at the minute shivers racing across Theo’s body. 

If Potter did not skin Nott Senior sometime in the future, Draco feared he might break pureblood honour.

But then Theo’s fingers were lacing tight with his behind his back —still overwarm and shaking —not even subtle anymore, Draco’s body the only thing shielding him— and Draco realised what this was.

It was a plea. Don’t draw attention. Don’t let her know.

”I’m afraid you’ll have to find out on your own,” he was trying so hard to be normal. 

It was a plea —don’t let him know.

So Draco wouldn’t. Not right now; not when he knew Theo would be okay, if in pain. Because there was a code and he would follow the bloody code— it was only when Theo’s hands returned the pressure Draco realised he was pressing quite too hard. He could smell the metal between them.

”Won’t you tell me?”

Flinched at the realisation and held tighter still, trying to refocus on Granger and her wide wide eyes and her innocent intrigue for a world so tainted.

”I don’t think I very well can. But then, you should know that, shouldn’t you Miss Walsh?” And it really was endearing, her crossed arms and puffed up cheeks, and overly childish pout. But really, Hermione seemed content enough with Theo’s attention, for the moment. 

Draco didn’t think he’d ever envied someone more. Someone so set for success, unlike he’d ever be. 

And the difference was ridiculous honestly. Hermione would succeed, because she wanted to. Draco only worked in his academics to please his parents. He had no love for it. And Theo hated learning theory, tolerated their practical classes and only ever truly enjoyed creature lessons and the muggle theory they did about how muggles viewed magic. Theo despised the factual information they were forced to learn.

”And my reward when I figure it out?” Challenge. That was challenge flashing in her eyes, green even as Draco could see them brown and huge. Warm as the dying wood kindling a flame.  

Theo’s blood ran warm against his, and Draco prayed prayer after prayer it wouldn’t stain their robes. Prayed he could keep his face impassive; knew he couldn’t. Settled on a scowl that could curdle blood —even as Theo’s chin dug harsher into his skull; quiet reprimand.

”I didn’t know you sought reward. I thought knowledge was the reward. But mighty confident aren’t we?” 

It was just that, Theo’s choices were much more limited than Draco’s own. Even as no one would ever guess so by looking at him. Would never guess the balance he existed in day after day.

The Sylvan courts were easy to research, as long as there was Magick in your blood. Hermione would find them easy. It was discussing them that would be difficult.

And still, Theo played into her games easy. Maybe that was the magnetism of it all. The unthinkable appeal of a normal life, and normal conversation. A conversation that did not carry weight and could mean one’s life at the smallest slip of tongue. 

Theo’s entire being was subject to change should he push even a little too far. And Draco had never considered his parents lenient, but with the suffusing heat and the cloying scent of too-sweet berries in the air. Draco would thank the Ancients his parents believed in different methods of discipline. 

Draco’s dream was survival —his role, undecided— and if not that, well. Draco dreamed to die loved, at the very least. He was bred for war. Knew that from the very beginning. He was erring even now; erring with every breath he took. Tightening bonds he knew would be broken. 

Trying to dislodge himself from what should have been jarringly dark thoughts —they weren’t, but he could pretend— his eyes sought out Potter, only to find him missing. 

He’d have straightened up already, body panicking in time with his mind, but Theo’s grip on him was iron strong, body long and tense where he was still pressed close to Draco. And also, Draco didn’t want to deprive him his crutch. Theo seemed shakier by the second, even as his face remained delicately balanced between carefully, arrogantly amused and passive.

Before they could both panic though —as though they weren’t already panicking— Potter was barrelling at them, weaving through the crowd with an easy grace he only ever seemed to display on a broom; and when he wasn’t paying attention. “Guys!” He was flushed dark and ecstatic; breathless, eyes glowing brighter than the moon. 

Draco might’ve lost his breath for a moment. Draco was laser focussed on a single strand of hair that had come undone, curling almost delicately where his scar lay. 

“Look!” He yanked the hand that had been hiding suspiciously behind his back forward, presenting a stumbling flushed girl to them. Theo’s relinquished hold was an abrupt thing, both of them straightening immediately, even with the blood still running down their palms. Being introduced to a girl was a terrifying thing for them both. 

Odilia had already —well, the less Draco thought about that the better. But to be actively introduced to a pretty girl in a pureblood setting? As he usually did, when Potter did something excruciatingly stupid, Draco wondered after where he might’ve misplaced his brain. 

Potter was grinning, though, with those blasted stars in his eyes, and looked so bloody pleased with himself, that Draco couldn’t help the softening of his heart. Allowed his gaze to drift. Fall where he had been carefully skirting his gaze, eyes fixed as respectfully as possible on Potter. The one strand of hair was anything but respectful. Draco wanted to yank it, uncouth as that sort of behaviour might’ve been.

Hermione had grown quiet, and Theo’s breaths had grown so alarmingly ragged, Draco could feel it pulsing with the pain in his palm. His still bleeding palm. And Potter’s eyes were definitely fixed on the pooling beadings of blood, even as his smile remained. 

Draco avoided his gaze. Wouldn’t betray Theo. But Potter would figure it out anyway. Theo knew that. Draco still pressed against his shoulder in apology. Theo returned the pressure, accepting his apology, and straightening up.

It was obvious in an instant who the girl was. Scarily, shockingly so. Draco had seen Lily Potter (Evans?) once —gleaned her a million times in old picture books— the image of her was carved into the ridges of his mind. This girl was a reincarnation of Lily. Same roundness to her cheeks, and the curve of her nose, and the straight of her brow and the fire of her hair —if a bit muted. And then, if nothing else, her eyes. 

Her eyes were round and brown and sincere in a way Draco had only ever been able to attribute to the Potters. Her eyes were James Potter’s eyes. 

It was frightening, the way his heart jumped even thinking of more Potters. The way the only thought in his head had shifted to protect protect protect. As though he could even mean as much to them as they mean —and would mean, in the girl’s case— to him. 

Potter had mentioned having a sister. Somehow, seeing that reality in the flesh was something terrifying. Because all Draco could see was her big brown eyes and all he could think was another one. Another Potter. Another innocent. Another person he could come to cherish. Another person he would risk losing . 

He already had too many people; too many he wanted to keep and hold onto. And again, it was becoming harder and harder to fight away that part of him. That scared, secret, cowardly part of him that wanted to take them, everyone who had ever made a positive impression on him and hide. Draco wanted to hide them; hide with them. Away from all the evils, all the cruelties. 

He couldn’t hold her gaze for very long, let his eyes wander back over to Potter, whose grin had softened ever so slightly, warmer now, where before it was overexcited. His posture was stiff though, toes angled towards him and Theo. Subtlety was never a strength of his. He seemed to exude marvellous strength now.

Theo must have also made the connection, but he was still stiff as a board beside Draco. Draco could understand. Regulus and Sirius would understand. It was a wonder they let her out here at all. But then, Draco didn’t think there was a wizard alive who would challenge Harry Potter when his anger took over; when his Magicks thought for themselves.

“This is Briar,” he’d said it after a moment. Seemed to wait until whatever scare he’d realised he‘d caused had dissipated. His voice was so gentle on her name. Curving around it so lovingly that Draco wanted —well, he wanted to rip his hair out, actually. “She’s my sister,” he said it as though it wasn’t obvious. And then his eyes turned from them, locked on Briar in way that made Draco want to avert his gaze. He was so —he was so open in the way he loved. For a split second, Draco wondered if he ever looked at him like that. He immediately wiped that thought clean. “And these are my friends,” and then Draco thought that maybe he wasn’t entirely delusional. Because maybe Potter’s voice was just as soft on their titles. 

“Hi,” her voice was so soft, and where Potter had never been gentle, never truly been soft spoken. This girl seemed the type unable to ever raise her voice. 

It was jarring —they were mirror reflections of each other. Draco didn’t know how to feel. Felt unbalanced all of a sudden. He couldn’t feel, couldn’t sense Magick the way Potter could. But even he could feel it in the air. The strengths of their magick. They way they felt… whole.

Almost like a switch had flicked, something like instinct where he saw Theo’s spine straightening further in his peripheral vision, Draco snapped into a bow, not seeking out her hand. They were very much still in public, and Draco didn’t know how many people knew who Briar actually was. 

She was pretty, dressed well. But she was not raised pure. If Potter weren’t here to act as peacekeeper —and Draco hated the thought, he truly did— Briar wouldn’t have even been allowed to be introduced to them. 

It was easy as breath, the, “Merry meet,” falling off his tongue. And still, something like brick seemed lodged in his throat. 

Something like sin; something like bile. Something like regret where he was allowed reprieve of greeting this Potter cordially and his own he had insulted at first glance. 

Introductions were a quick thing after that, Briar seeming somewhat embarrassed. Draco knew nothing of her history, but it was glaringly obvious the way she was raised. Magical, maybe. But not pure. Sometimes, Draco yearned for a life like that. 

Yearned to live simply. Away from the heaviness of the responsibility he carried upon his shoulders. He was no Atlas; he felt like Atlas sometimes. Wondered if that physical weight would be more ease than this storm in him. 

Still, as much as he knew he would become endeared to the girl, this was neither place nor time. Potter seemed to understand, that mind of his working in intriguing ways, because before Draco realised, they were surrounded, Harry sticking close to both them and his sister, but acting as subtle shield. 

His eyes remained fixed on Briar, but the way his attention was planted on Draco and Theo was a heavy thing; tangible like the shadows that seemed to frown heavy around them. Weighed on them like blankets, and Draco was immediately comforted. Nearly brought right to tears, because these were Black Magicks of old; Magicks he hadn’t felt since he was a toddler and his mother would still wrap him in her shadows to play Hide and Seek. 

Hermione was the one who seemed most intrigued by Briar’s very existence —or maybe it was the appeal of having another girl around; Draco hadn’t noticed it before, but Granger rarely spent time around other girls— grabbing up Briar’s hands in a way that had Theo flinching where he was still a warm, long line pressed against Draco’s back, back to hiding. Back to having his weight supported. Vulnerable in company and something like warmth was pooling in Draco’s stomach.

He didn’t even flinch, letting his eyes find Potter’s, seeing the glow in his irises not unlike Greek fire —power warming through his skin even as coolness followed quickly. To inspect his palm —healed he knew— would be to take his eyes from Potter. Draco found he didn’t quite have the conviction to do such a thing. Knew it would feel alarmingly like sin.

His eyes closed on their own however, relief aching through his bones as Potter took Theo’s weight. It was an odd thing, the exhaustion weighing him now, the softness in Potter’s expression fighting so valiantly against what could almost be apprehension on Theo’s face. 

It was lovely, the allay of seeing Theo’s limbs steady, watching the shakiness finally leave. It was something like envy, but also not, how easily Theo let Potter take his weight, curled his imposing height up, contorting like some kind of cat.

When he let Draco do it, it felt conditional; as though the likelihood of betrayal still existed between them.

But then, how could it even be envy, when Potter would open his arms to Draco with that same warmth, and leech all the cold away?

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Harry forgot he was a child, and most of his peers were children, and children had bedtimes. It made Harry wonder what his birthday parties would be like when he was older, and in turn, so were his peers. 

Some part of him thought they might be crazy. The darker part of him thought they’d be non-existent. Sometimes, Harry loathed the darker part of him. It had a tendency towards ugly.

But when Lucius had finally located a still slightly inebriated Narcissa —and cream was not his colour, Harry had to admit— and was all but dragging Malfoy from his grasp to get home, Harry couldn’t help feeling slightly miffed. 

Couldn’t help but want to hold on just a little longer. He’d only just gotten Malfoy back —not that he would ever admit to missing the prat— why must he give him back?

Maybe he was tired, but there was a tantrum lingering beneath the surface, caught just there at the back of his throat. 

Still, he couldn’t fight Lucius, not here and now where everyone was at a tentative peace —courtesy of Odilia, and Harry desperately needed to write her— so the most rebellious thing he could do was pull Malfoy into an unnecessarily tight hug and glare at Lucius the entire time, pretending like he couldn’t feel Malfoy shaking in his arms. Pretending like this didn’t feel like sacrifice. Feel like surrender. Like he’d lost the first round of whatever game Lucius had pulled him into. 

Harry didn’t like playing blind.

And yet. He’d do it for his friends.

Deaf, dumb and blind. Never let it be said that Harry Potter did not have weaknesses. 

“Just one month,” he breathed out —quiet, soft; pressed it into Malfoy’s hair, pretended as though he couldn’t feel the trembles. And really, Harry was very happy he’d taken pictures. Because Malfoy’s hair was truly a thing of mystery. Today especially when it was neither ridiculously gelled nor ridiculously after-shower fluffy. It was genuinely upsetting, if the twisting in Harry’s stomach had anything to say about it. The way his stomach would swoop when he taste tested one of Regulus’ meals and had to smile while he pretended not to gag. Really, Harry was an excellent actor. 

Most everyone had cleared out by now, save the adults who did not have children to take home and get to bed. They were still holed up in dark corners making darker deals —Harry was going to need ears in the walls. And minus one Theodore Nott. 

Theo was a troubling conundrum he did not know how to address right now. Fever warm with blood stained hands. Harry never wanted to let him go. Harry needed him to see Evan.

Theo seemed a ball of nerves right now, quite clearly split between the impatience of wanting to leave and an almost feral look in his eye of not wanting to be anywhere further than Harry’s side. 

Truly, Harry had no inclination to part from him either. 

As Harry had realised was Theo’s habit, after initial allowance, Theo was wont to simply clinging. And he was still clinging, even now as Harry was trying to pull embarrassing stories from his sister. 

Not that there seemed many embarrassing stories to procure. A tragedy, really. 

She was not nearly as scary as Harry had assumed her to be. In fact, she looked almost as though she could be related to Evan. But then, most purebloods seemed to look like Evan for some reason. Occasionally, Harry wondered if Evan was the blueprint. 

Occasionally, Harry remembered Evan was once royal blood. But then, his dad also had royal blood in his veins —diluted though it may be. Maybe not as impressive, but fascinating all the same. 

“I really don’t have any embarrassing stories to share,” her vowels were crisper even than Malfoy’s. Harry hadn’t thought that possible. And while her posture was excellent, she couldn’t quite seem to hide the confusion she seemed to be feeling as Theo tried to burrow his way into Harry’s neck. Harry couldn’t really blame her. This wasn’t exactly orthodox behaviour for a pureblood. It charmed him as much as it unsettled him.

Malfoy was allowed to play the role of brat. Theo had no such leniencies. Especially not here in public. But Harry would protect him. He’d swear it on his magicks if he had to. 

“We didn’t grow up together,” she was continuing, trying despite the endless confusion etched into her brows. Harry blamed his tiredness for blatantly ignoring where her expression pulled troubled at the ends.

That, however, sobered Harry quickly, because it reminded him of his own sister. And whilst Theo had stiffened slightly, probably not enjoying the turn of the conversation, he wasn’t actively objecting. Mirielle seemed to interpret it as Harry had. Permission to continue.  

Harry would never press if Theo was against it. Thought this was probably easier for Theo than using his own words. 

“Why?” Because he had to know. He was nosy like that. And also, now that he’d met his sister, he’d never intentionally let go of her again. 

“We have different mothers,” and as though seeing his confusion, Mirielle continued unprompted. “All houses have their different magicks,” Harry nodded, because he knew that. And also because Mirielle seemed quite excited to explain something she perceived someone else as not knowing. Harry didn’t mind people thinking him stupid; it served its purpose often. But, Harry did pinch Theo gently —not to hurt; never to hurt again— a silent reprimand for laughing at his sister. Theo shoved his cold nose further into that nook behind Harry’s ear and smothered a snicker. He’d gone non-verbal at some point. And he was concerningly warm, but Harry hadn’t seen Evan since he’d last seen him. Which was sometime right after he’d seen his parents. 

“So we have to remain in our Houses to train in our magicks, especially before Hogwarts, because then we have little time to learn our ancient magicks.” Harry’s ancient magicks always came instinctively to him, but he  nodded along anyway. 

“What House was your mother from, then?” He was more curious why Theo would practise the Nott magicks and she would not. But perhaps that wasn’t appropriate to ask. 

“The Selwyns,” and the way she said it, the way her eyes sparked with that silent pride all purebloods seemed to carry, well. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if she was sorted into their house. 

“What magicks are the Selwyns versed in?” It was hard to keep up with all the Houses. But the Selwyns were in the sacred twenty-eight somewhere. Harry was half sure that line had died out. Seems he was wrong.

Oops, now he might’ve crossed a line. Theo’s nails were claws in his arms. And still, even seeing this, Mirielle answered, still with that quiet pride. Maybe she could be a Gryffindor. Hermione would love her. Probably. 

“Chaos magicks.” It was Harry’s turn to go stiff, eyes widening as his own magick wreaked a type of havoc. Order and Chaos. The Order in him seemed to be fighting against Harry’s own self to temper the Chaos. Chaos was rarely loved, and Mirielle’s eyes spoke of a love for Chaos. 

An adoration.

This could only spell bad things. Harry let his hand curl gently around Theo’s wrist, pressing in with barely any pressure. A wordless request for Theo to retract his nails. A wordless comfort. Theo relaxed against him. 

He was confused, yes. But he’d figure it out. His magicks, however, were not very pleased and Harry did not particularly want the pain pouring in from all sides. It had become more common recently, since he’d started writing to his mother. His magicks had been oddly quiet, but occasionally, they’d spike cold pain through him. Tie his stomach into knots and threaten his previous meal be regurgitated.

They weren’t playing fair right now, and Harry needed Theo’s comfort more than he needed his fear. 

It was also uncommon that a House practice such a vague school of magick. It was interesting, is what it was. 

It had something in Harry’s Magick tearing at his core until he wanted nothing more than to fold in half, cradle his core and groan in pain. It made him stand a little straighter and pay attention. All information was important information in this game of war he was playing. 

“What magicks do the Notts play in, then?” Harry kept his tone playful, nudging Theo gently with his chin. It was more to soothe him than anything else. Harry knew Theo wasn’t going to speak another word for the evening. Could feel it in the way he was nearly limp against Harry. Again, slightly concerning, but Harry wouldn’t address it in front of an audience. The night was nearly over, and, if things went according to Harry’s plan, he’d be able to keep Theo just a little longer. 

“The Notts are very secretive about their magicks,” Mirielle told him, and Harry observed her closely, even as she continued speaking —rambling, even. A clear change from the calm confidence that had surrounded her since she’d been introduced to him. “No one really knows their House magick, not even me. It’s taught solely to the boys and that’s how it’s passed through the bloodline. It’s not tainted; ever. That’s why he won’t learn the Selwyn magicks.” Very interesting. Mirielle was on the defensive, looked as though she wanted to pry Theo from where he was nearly unconscious —and really, it was more than slightly concerning now— and run for the Hallowed Mountains. 

It was instantaneous, the way Harry’s body relaxed, nearly unbalancing Theo when purple-blue eyes flashed in his periphery. 

He was the one doing the clinging now, nails pressing into the layers of fabric near Theo’s core where he’d had an arm around him. Keeping him steady. Keeping him upright. 

It didn’t take more than a second of eye contact for Evan to be at his side, hands pressing gently against Theo’s forehead. And Harry’s foresight had been right, if the furrow of Evan’s eyebrows were any indication. Theo was more than fever-warm and it was definitely more than the stuffy robes. 

It had been jarringly obvious, if Harry were to be honest. But he hadn’t wanted to be. Too unsettled by the idea that Theo would be allowed out of the house like this. That his failures would be monitored; made a spectacle of. Because Theo had been set up to fail, of that, Harry had no doubts. 

It was a second more before Nott Senior was near them, towering over them in a way that should be scary. In a way that had an nearly unconscious Theo stiffening; in a way that had Mirielle’s hands folding primly together in front of her skirt, head bowed. 

Harry could see the tremble of her fingers. It made him stand up straighter. Tighten his hold around Theo.

He had not forgotten his rage for Theodore Nott Senior. Had not forgotten an evening of tears curled in front of the fireplace and rattling windows.

This man was vermin, and woe to the world if he so much as looked at Theo in front of Harry. 

The magicks in his gut were curling hot and tight, the loudest they’d been since he’d seen his mother on the stairs. He had to breathe through the urge to let it escape him and strangle the man.

Harry was just grateful the pain was directed outwards this time. 

“Lord Nott,” it took everything in Harry not to grit his teeth. To actually bow his head to the man. Even in this tentative truce, Harry couldn’t be sure how to play this game. He’d not met the man before. Hadn’t gotten a read on him yet. 

Did not know the rules to his game. He wouldn’t fumble his play. He may not have had much of it, but Harry scraped together what little patience he could gather, and settled his feet more evenly against the floors. 

Still, it stung some to see his greeting waved off impatiently, barely a tip of the man’s chin. Someone who should’ve been so rooted in the customs and rulings of their world. Flagrantly stepping over the line. 

The disrespect made his magicks rear back, steam curling out of his ears with the need to smite the man. 

“What are you doing with my son?” Short, clipped. Even the toe of his shoe was tapping like Harry was stealing from him irreplaceable moments. 

“I’m afraid he’s come down with a terrible fever,” Evan had never been one for mitigating —always one to encourage a bit of trouble— but he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. Harry would follow. Harry would always follow. “I’d like to take him to the infirmary, he’s barely conscious.” 

“I can do that at home, get your hands off him,” Mirielle seemed to shrink in on herself with every word that came out of the man’s mouth, clipped and harsh. Harry was trying really very hard not to let his magicks explode. Memories of dark days in front of a fire place and rattling windows. Harry forced himself to breathe through the surging of his magicks; taking small comfort in the shadows that wrapped around him —near sentient— purring with a need to comfort. 

“Whilst ideally I would rather the patient be sent home with their guardian, I’m afraid I really must insist,” Evan’s voice was nearly warm. More than passably polite, even. “I don’t think he’s in a steady state for any sort of magical transport right now,” His voice remained steady and slow crawl; that same drawl about him that seemed to upset Mr Nott more and more. But Harry could feel his anger; feel the way his own magicks seemed to be spiking like boiling water in his veins, calling out to Harry’s even as they warred against each other. Harry’s magick hated Evan’s. Hated all magick touched by the Dark Mark, he’d realised. 

Harry’s magick was supporting Evan’s right now. All in protection of Theo. 

“You can’t do anything without my permission,” Mr Nott’s eyes sparked as though he’d won, voice smug and haughty. Harry felt the tug of Evan’s magick against his own more insistently. 

It was an incandescently warm sort of feeling. 

And then, like his magicks weren’t warring, and his grip wasn’t going white tight on Theo —who was fully unconscious now— Evan spoke, bored and disinterested and even Harry’s hackles rose for a second —that was his friend— but the inherent trust won out in the end. His trust for Evan would always win. “You do remember I’m a certified doctor approved by the Elder Healing Council, and one of your son’s teachers, Nott? Or have you forgotten?” He had slowly straightened, shouldering Theo’s weight as if it was nothing. His tilting as though he was speaking with genuine curiosity. Voice lilting up song sweet, syrupy with underlying threat. 

Evan had been so — gentle, since the end of Harry’s first year. It was so easy to forget how apathetic he could be.

But right now, Evan looked like some kind of reanimated corpse —tired and unbothered. Except —except the curl of his magick flickered around the edges of his robes; a violet dance that was entrancing; bewitching. The heat in the ballroom seemed to be building with every blink —hot and heavy and smothering. Suffocating. Harry could almost feel it crawling up his throat, as though he was inhaling smoke from the very inside of his body. 

Even Mr Nott seemed affected by Evan’s perceived  unaffectedness. The way he tugged at his collar, shifted on his feet. The way there was sweat beading on Mirielle’s pale brow. “Or will you have me invoke the Healer’s Oath?” It was more sugar sweet sickening than the overwhelming scent of ripe berries Harry could still smell on Theo. “People may turn a blind eye, but are you willing to play with magicks right now? When Chaos seems to have found some leeway?” Even as he said it there were sparks skating across the tip of Mr Nott’s boot. Violet, like a vivid bruise. 

“Is that a threat?” Mr Nott actually sounded offended. Harry didn’t know how he kept that tone, honestly. He’d have been shaking. But then, Harry was only just digging his toe into the pureblood politics. Perhaps he’d learn. He didn’t think he really wanted to, though. 

Evan shrugged something nonchalant, let his wand twirl easily between his fingers. When his eyes met Mr Nott’s again, Harry could have sworn all the blue had been swallowed up by purple. Harry could have sworn there was something almost crazed there. “Of course not, Lord Nott,” the sweetest Harry had ever heard words roll across Evan’s tongue. It sent uncomfortable shivers racing across his entire body. “Unless, you think the magicks would have a reason to harm you? I want only to ensure your son, my student, in peak health. Or does that concern you?  I assure you, as you well know, the Black Facilities are top of the line.” 

The only thing that could paint Evan anywhere near smug was the slightest quirk of his eyebrow. His posture was still lax, his words easy, his arm wrapped around Theo and supporting him easier than breathing. Anger danced in the purple of his irises that had yet to settle into their charming blue; his magicks still skirted around their boots like a skittish horse, hems of their robes fluttering with it ever so gently. 

Like a pebble in a still pond, quiet transcended in a way that was nearly overwhelming, but Harry welcomed it; opened his arms to it and let the comfort soothe.

Darkness flickered in the warm candle light; shadows seeming to come to life for a split second before retreating. Every breath was audible, and Harry’s magicks buzzed happily —ever ready to play, even with magicks his blood recognised as cruel. 

His heart had always recognised them as safe. 

“Problem, Lord Nott?” Regulus did not have Sirius’ charm; did not have his easy-going nature. Regulus wasn’t even able to raise his voice. And yet, if all lingering eyes in the ballroom had not been on them, they were now, as he took a spot beside Evan, sweeping robes still fanning out around his feet. 

Regulus avoided confrontation the way a cat avoided water, and yet. No one dared anger him; not since one incident no one spoke of easily. Not since it was learnt that Regulus’ magicks had become unstable; a side effect of being ripped apart and stitched back together in demonic waters. Even now the shadows seemed to dance, jovially awaiting answering his call. 

They had become that much fonder of him after that incident. Or so Harry had been told. 

Harry stepped to the side easily, lettinf the shadows envelop him —he knew Regulus liked him there. Felt safest when Harry was ensconced in his darkness; hidden where he could not be found. 

The shadow magicks were still new to Harry; he didn’t have a complete tether on how they worked yet. But there was some sort of telepathy at play he knew. It was why James had been taking his Occlumency classes so seriously. 

Even as the heat was doused with biting cold, James and the others were keeping conversations flowing gently around the perimeter of the ballroom. Keeping prying eyes and ears away. Probably trying to chase them out. But then, for as cultured as some of these purebloods claimed to be— it seemed rather difficult for any of them to take a hint. 

Regulus’ hand —ice-cold, Harry was sure— brushed gently across Theo’s forehead; he wasn’t able to hide a flinch. 

“To the infirmary, Rosier. Now,” short, clipped —not nearly as unbothered as Evan. It was an easy thing; it was an unsettling thing, seeing Evan tip into a bow and take Theo away. Harry knew well of the hierarchy at play, Harry had never seen it at play. 

Mr Nott was spluttering, cheeks gone an alarming shade of red. “How dare you—“ 

“Surely you’re not asking why I would see after my son’s friend?” And Harry still got a pleasant little zing down his spine when Regulus called him his son. Like he was making up for the eleven years he’d been scared to overstep boundaries. “The boy is obviously unwell, and we have lovely facilities here to treat him.” Regulus had very little charm to speak of, yes. And still Harry wondered after how persuasive a politician he would make.  

“I can treat him at home,” Harry wondered if the grinding of his teeth could cause spark. 

“What’s he doing?” A quiet voice queried, hand sneaking into his, as though expecting him not to be the slightest bit startled. Harry wasn’t, of course. Let their fingers settle together, and their shoulders press. 

It was warm. She was warm. Familiar. Harry wanted to know her more than the interweaving of their magicks. Of their blood. 

“Protecting my friend,” he responded easily, eyes still fixed steadily on Regulus. It wasn’t often he got to see this side of his Papa. It was intriguing. 

“I’m well aware of that, Lord Nott, but why would I make you when we can take care of him perfectly fine, right here? As much as we love our children,” oh and there was something bitter there, “Sometimes the best thing we can do is leave it in the hands of the professionals. I assure there’s no better doctor than Evan.” And that wasn’t even Regulus’ bias speaking. Perhaps Evan did not have the most ethical ways in the beginning, but he had been keeping Regulus and the rest of Harry’s family away from major injuries since Regulus was thirteen. 

“Listen to me, Black—“ but he cut himself off immediately, looking down at the tug on his robes, eyebrows knitting themselves together in something like concern. It wasn’t gentle enough. It was probably the best his face could do. 

Mirielle’s eyes were big and wide and glossy. Though there was—

“Who’s she?” Briar’s voice was nothing but breath on his shoulder. Quiet quiet, as though anyone could hear them outside their shadow shield. 

“Mirielle; she’s Theo’s sister,” Harry answered, just as quiet, breath nearly stopping when he realised what she was doing. When he realised what seemed off about her.

“She’s pretty,” Briar seemed takes with her beauty. Harry was too busy watching the way her shoulders were tense rather than rounded. Impatient rather than fearful.

“Yeah,” he responded on a breath —easy acquiescence— as he let his magicks out, searching hers. Learning them. Letting them know they were to protect. He would take ulterior motives if it meant Theo safe. If it meant Theo near him for as long as possible. 

“We should leave him, father,” her voice was gentle, even as her fingers shook visibly in Mr Nott’s robes. “Theo’s safe here.” A good act; but at subtle war with the way her pride wouldn’t let her duck her head; wouldn’t let her shoulders hike up closer to her ears. It was intriguing. 

Mirielle was protecting Theo. Even as she trembled with fear.

Or at least, that was the picture she was painting. 

Yes, Harry would let his magicks learn; Harry would protect. For as long as she served a purpose, Harry would protect.  

And when his eyes met hers; cold and blue and flashing momentarily electric —like lightning flashing across her skirts. He knew his magicks were not playing tricks. But he’d allow it. Embrace it. Play her game. 

Briar’s hand tightening in his told him all he needed to know —there was threat in those eyes. Except Harry wasn’t sure what the threat was, exactly. He did know one thing though, Mirielle was not doing him a favour. Mirielle was bargaining. He’d accept it. 

Harry nodded, stiff and resolute; he let his magicks crawl out, curl against hers in silent oath.

As though it had never happened in the first place, the lightning was snuffed out, her eyes back to midnight. “It’s time we get home anyway,” it was so sugar sweet Harry’s teeth could rot. It was enough to get Mr Nott to acquiesce. With one more glare in Regulus’ direction, he disapparated with a swish of his cloak. 

“That seemed almost too easy,” Regulus mused quietly, just loud enough for Harry to hear where the shadows had pulled him and Briar closer. 

“I think he’s scared of the Selwyns,” Harry offered, swiping his thumb against the inside of Briar’s wrist where her pulse had jumped. She was as of yet, unaccustomed to Regulus letting the shadows do his bidding. Harry couldn’t wait until she had fun with Sirius.  

“Scared you say, darling?” Regulus’ hand was cradled against his chin, dark eyes far away. 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed easily, tipping his head up even easier into the press of Regulus’ other hand where it came down to brush against his hair; he watched with a slight giddiness in him as Regulus’ hand extended to smooth softly at Briar’s head as well. “The Selwyns wield Chaos.” 

Regulus’ brows furrowed. “That’s odd. The Selwyns were known for their—“ 

“Void Magicks, yeah,” and Briar actually yelped this time. She’d probably become accustomed to Barty all but appearing from thin air and flopping on people. But until then, Harry could pinch him for her. “That hurt, brat.” 

“Don’t scare my sister.” 

“Don’t hurt people.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t if you wouldn’t —“ 

“Void Magick, dear,” Regulus steered him back to task with the skim of fingers across his cheek. Harry leaned into the touch thoughtlessly. “Are you sure the Selwyns are playing with Chaos?” He flicked Barty off them easily —barely more than a press to his forehead—shoving him on Dorcas who’d also seemed to appear from nowhere. 

But then, she was always eerily good at that. In fact, Harry had been learning stealth spells from her recently. And tracking spells. He swiped his thumb against Briar’s pulse point again, leaning more heavily into her to soothe the startle. 

“That’s what Mirielle said,” Harry shrugged, swinging his and Briar’s hands between them. He was itching to go check up on Theo. He needed to write Odilia. He needed to update Malfoy on Theo’s condition. His eyes were burning, limbs achy and mind foggy. His feet hurt —he’d been standing and walking for hours— causing him to rock onto his heels and back down to ease the tightness that seemed to be there. 

He was tired.  

“And she’s not lying?” It wasn’t accusation, it was Regulus’ genuine curiosity. Harry answered him easily, genuinely. 

“I doubt it; she seemed proud of the fact. Also, she basically threatened me and her magicks spilled out for a second —definitely chaos.” 

“Ooh!” This specific quality of his intrigued Barty the most. They’d run countless experiments at this point. Harry was always happy to share in his findings. He knew what was coming —“What did you see?”

“Lightning,” Harry breathed, eyes flashing just as Barty’s did. “Chaos.” It had been beautiful; uncontrollable as storm. His hairs still stood as though the scent of ozone still singed his nostrils.

“Still though,” Dorcas had her chin propped in her hand, brows furrowed in frustration. “Why would such an Ancient House just —change their Magick? As if Void Magicks weren’t unsettling enough,” she added on as though it was an afterthought. Harry didn’t necessarily appreciate the thought that any sort of magick was unsettling. But Harry had also not fought in a war. Had not seen the things his family saw. 

“Do you think they’re mixing them?” Regulus asked quietly, and Harry could see the slightest tremble to his fingers. James, like he had some kind of sensor on him was at their sides in seconds, fingers folding easily into Regulus’.

“What’re we mixing? Because if it’s alcohol, please don’t. I think we’ve had enough for tonight,” and he said it with the sweetest little grin that Harry couldn’t help but be fond. Couldn’t help but follow the way he pulled Regulus’ hand up to place an idle kiss there, rub his thumb gently across his skin. 

“Magicks, dad,” Harry clarified, grinning when James’ eyes went wide; the thumb on Regulus’ wrist stuttered. “The Ancient Houses are mixing their Magicks.” 

Harry was sure he saw a minute flinch in his father’s‘ chest. Maybe the only thing the Potter House was ever truly criticised for was how easily they mixed magick. How volatile they were making their bloodline. And now— to see people doing it willingly?

It was —plenty of Potter blood was from the Asian continent. Except it was easy to overlook how truly huge Asia was; how easily their bloods mixed together. Britain was an ant of an island compared to an entire continent. Their ideas of pure were much different.

Harry had always hated the little chuckle his father would give; the way he’d scratch at the back of his neck. As though he was embarrassed. Piecing his words together intentionally, carefully; so as to not hurt anyone.

Potter blood was as strong as it was because of the billions of people behind it. Because of the way love flowed differently in different places. Two of the most populated countries in the world residing in a single continent. Their blood —their magicks could never be anything less than complex.

And yet the world had had the gall to lambast his father. 

“How would you even do that?” It was Briar who asked —her soft, inquisitive voice pulling Harry from his thoughts. It took more effort than it should, unclenching his fists. Her eyes were glazed over with something like the craze Harry saw in Barty’s eyes often. Something like a mania that sent electricity running through him. Barty usually used him as a lab rat when he got those eyes. It was Harry’s favourite thing. 

It was new, to see Briar anything more than passive. 

“You’d have to mix bloodlines to get a proficiency that actually matters,” Barty explained, eyebrows knitting as he figured it out in real time. “But Chaos isn’t a school of magick actually practised —not anymore at least. And the closest anyone would get to mixing with Chaos would be through—“

Barty’s eyes widened, gaze finding Regulus, even as someone cut him off.

“The Blacks,” Sirius grunted, something heavy in his voice. Harry looked away from Barty so see him carrying— 

“Pads, please tell me that’s not a body. Not in the middle of the ballroom,” it spoke probably too much about their family that James was more exasperated than panicked. He was all but whining, honestly. But Harry couldn’t blame him. Whatever Sirius was carrying really was suspiciously body shaped.

Even Briar didn’t so much as flinch, as look at them all with wide, wide eyes. Harry would have to ask her about that. Mary was probably more likely to trust her with Harry now. Now that she’d seen how much Harry could be trusted with truths. He cherished them. He did not lie; he did not hide. He would protect her. His sister.

His magicks burnt a little, swirling in his gut. They seemed to do that a lot around the thoughts of Briar. 

“Relax,” Sirius’ voice was very much not relaxed. “I kicked everyone else out,” and indeed he had. It was only then Harry noticed the hush of the ballroom; the loss of warmth from the crowding of bodies. Even the candlelight seemed dimmer now. Harry wondered what that said about his spatial awareness. His only reprieve what this his other adults seemed just as confused. 

“Okay, but Pads. Please. Please. Why do you have a body?” James seemed way too comfortable with this for Harry’s liking. And it really did make him wonder what he didn’t know yet about their school days. 

“How many Uncles do we have living, Reggie?” Sirius ignored him, eyes pinned on his cousin.

That alone was enough to make Harry straighten his spine. Sirius never skipped a chance to poke fun at James. 

“None. I didn’t even know we had uncles,” Harry didn’t know if Regulus’ voice was disbelieving or panicked. It was nothing for Harry to knock his shoulder into Regulus’, trying to ease whatever wild thing was trapped behind his father’s eyes. 

“Yes, I guess you might’ve been too young—“

“I’m only one year younger than you!” It was a mandatory retort; Automatic on Regulus’ tongue more than their normal bickering. 

“Then I’m simply better than you. Anyway —rise and shine, Riles.” 

And with only barely muted horror, Harry watched as Sirius kicked at the lump on the floor, bag pulled over its head.

Harry… wasn’t sure how to feel. Because those magicks, though distinctly different, were still Black cold. Even the shadows seemed agitated, too many options to wrap around. The ones that had been curled close between Harry’s and Regulus’ ankles sputtering like a faulty faucet. 

Slowly, the silence seemed to swell, hanging heavy like musk in the dimming ballroom.

The bagged figure sat up. 

He was speaking before the bag was even off his head, words clear despite being muffled. “As much as even I enjoy the Black dramatics, this seems a little much, no?“ His accent titled hard, words stretching around the vowels, like he’d forcibly learnt to soften his accent, but anger sharpened it like stone. 

Harry’s breath actually hitched, and his hand held firmly to Regulus’ even as it stung; nails pressing in and seeking comfort.

The man —Black; so obviously a Black. Same untamed dark hair and eyes like moonlight and cheekbones that could cut.

That wasn’t what had Regulus holding tight. Wasn’t what had James’ arms wrapped steadily around Regulus’ torso, locking him in place and working to keep his breath steady.

This man was the exact image of Orion Black. 

Quick as he’d spoken, the bag was over his head. “I didn’t give you permission to take the bag off,” and Sirius’ voice wa angry, more Padfoot than himself, at this point. Harry hadn’t ever heard his Godfather’s voice saturated in such pure rage. 

“Oh come on, I can’t help how I look. The Baby Black over there has to get over his trauma.” It irritated Harry endlessly, the forced drag that couldn’t quite hide his clipped consonants. Like he was trying to erase part of his own identity and failing miserably. 

“Do you want me to remind you that you were the traumatised Baby Black?” Sirius’ voice could cut through stone.

“And I got over it,” even through the bag he sounded smug. Even through the bag Harry sort of wanted Sirius to kick him again. Hard.  

Harry had an inclination that this man had never been ripped apart and stitched back together. But who was he to judge?

“I still have a portrait of Grandmother Selene somewhere in the dungeons. I don’t know what kind of Ancient forsaken magick she imbued it with, but I can’t seem to get rid of it. Do you want me to get it?” 

The ceased struggle was like a cracked whip; fear spiking so potently the shadows quivered, light being snuffed out momentarily before returning. “I can’t help my face, Sirius.” It didn’t garner sympathy from Harry. 

Any lightness in his voice that had been there previously was gone. Resigned and disheartened, like he held heavy, heavy weights upon his shoulders. Atlas struggling beneath his burden. Submitting to the inevitability of it all. 

“You can help your words,” Sirius spat right back. “You so much as look at him, it’s straight to the dungeons.”

”Your Black is showing,” what had Sirius called him? Riles? His voice sing-songed like he hadn’t been scared silent just moments ago. 

“I don’t need protecting,” Regulus snapped, his shadows wrangling Sirius from the mystery Black. His fingers pulling the bag from the man’s head, mussing his unruly hair further. 

If the silence could have gotten louder, it did. Everyone gathered behind and around Regulus —wanting to protect him. Not wanting to risk his anger. Not for the first time Harry was amazed at the way his family worked so seamlessly. 

Storm on moonlight and silence.

Even Sirius was silent where he was still crouched on the floor behind the man. 

“Uncle.” 

“Nephew.” The irony of it was not lost on Harry. He looked almost as young as Regulus.

There was power crackling between them. Harry could see the tendrils of black and grey, all different shades of darkness curling together. It was terrifying —how complementary Black Magicks were; how they seemed to flow into each other as one. 

Coveted, for its purity. So pure it was as though it was a single entity. 

“You’re supposed to be dead.” 

“I can name at least four people in this room alone who’re supposed to be dead, nephew. Why must I defend myself?” 

“I was there when the command was issued,” and something in Regulus’ voice cracked as he said it. Balanced between confusion and something Harry couldn’t name. 

“And I was there when you murdered my brother,” Harry… had not known that, eyes flashing wide and neck snapping something painful as he turned his gaze to Regulus. 

“Then you should know better than to call it murder,” Regulus voice was hard in a way Harry had never heard it, the anger in his magicks sparking something angry; seeming to suffocate the other Blacks’ in the room. 

“Death is death.” 

“You speak as though there was choice.” 

“You speak as though you didn’t want to.” 

“And you speak as though you know anything about me.” Regulus dismissed the conversation easily, the bag covering his Uncle’s head again with the barest twitch of his fingers. “Why is he alive, Sirius? Why is he here? ” It was the closest to Parseltongue Regulus’ voice could get, maybe. “I think we’ve seen enough of the living dead for tonight, haven’t we?” 

“You were just talking about the mixing of Magicks,” Sirius grumbled, finally peeling himself off the floor. It was only then Harry realised this newfound Uncle (Grand Uncle?) of his was still struggling; fighting against his restraints. Regulus must’ve silenced him. 

“He’d defected. He wouldn’t be stirring the Dark magicks,” Regulus seemed sure of that. Harry didn’t like the clenching in his gut when Sirius laughed. Something mean and angry he hadn’t heard from him before. 

“Rigel didn’t defect, Reggie. The Dark simply served him no better than the Light, and he refused to have himself tied so completely to a sadist.” 

“Why do you sound like you know so much?” There was something like hurt lingering in the back of Regulus’ tone. 

“Because I do, Reggie. They kept you on a much tighter leash than I; until they realised that they should’ve leashed me not you. You have no idea how much family we have.” 

“Then why did you never tell me?!” And yes, Regulus was getting worked up now, the closest he ever got to yelling. Harry’s thumb moved unhurriedly against the back of his palm, trying to calm him. Regulus’ fingers twitched in his hold and still, an unmoving warmth.  

“Why would I?” Sirius’ voice was caught between incredulity and genuine confusion. “They’re all some different form of evil, and by the time you and I were even talking again, they were all dead!” 

“Well, clearly we’re not all dead,” that was a drawl closer to something Harry would hear from Evan. 

Harry blinked away from where Regulus and Sirius were glaring at each other to see Rigel —which was apparently his name— standing off to the side and rubbing at his wrists. The shadows that curled around him —as they seemed to do all Blacks— seemed oddly docile. “You shut the fuck up. Who even gave you permission to get up?” 

“Your brother’s magicks are unstable. They’re insultingly easy to escape from.” 

Harry saw the flash of something ugly and hidden in Regulus’ eyes, watched as Rigel yelped, tripping over his own ankles that had been wrapped in rope. 

“That’s a child’s hex.”

“And one you fell victim to,” Regulus responded uncaringly, petty in a way he really only was with Sirius. It was as intriguing as it was unsettling. “Explain,” his eyes were on Sirius again, as though nothing about this was odd. As though he hadn’t just tripped Rigel over his own feet with a hex students learn in their first year, and then had all but gloated about it. 

“You explain before he says anything. There’s a Potter in this room,” his eyes flickered almost leeringly to where James’ hands were still resting on Regulus’ waist. “There’s a Potter with his hands on you!” Oh and there was an uncomfortable amount of venom there.

Rigel was choking before Harry had even realised what he’d done, snapping back to the present when Briar tugged on his hand. 

James had stepped back, hands raised slightly in surrender, like he didn’t exactly want to be part of the conflict. But then, James knew Black conflicts better than most. But Regulus was already grabbing him, pulling him near, even as Harry released the invisible hand he’d been clenching around Rigel’s throat. 

It was not a conscious action, and yet. Harry couldn’t find it in himself to be upset. Not really. Not when he had so blatantly insulted his father. 

“I leave you for five minutes,” the hand pressing into his nape, was comfort; was the grounding Harry didn’t realise he’d needed. He didn’t even realise he was sinking into it until the grip tightened, Evan’s weight bracing him where Harry had begun to slip. 

Rigel’s eyes flashed moon bright at Evan’s arrival, something sparking—quick and ugly— through his irises that Harry couldn’t name. All he knew was that it made him uncomfortable. 

“Rosy!” Harry did not miss the way everyone’s eyes locked onto Evan, his own included. Did not miss the way Evan’s grip was nearly painfully tight on his nape. The way his fingers shook even as his face remained impressively impassive. 

“Theo’s alright, dove,” Evan ignored Rigel completely, turning to focus his entire attention on Harry; hands curled loose around Harry’s neck, thumbs tracing idle half circles. He could feel the way Rigel’s temper rose with every second Evan’s attention was away from him. 

Felt the way his magicks were quietly amused. Pulling and tugging at his gut. They did not like Rigel. 

Call him petty, but Harry let that invisible hand lock around the man’s throat again, corner of his lip curling with something evil when Rigel started spluttering. 

He still couldn’t find it in himself to feel any guilt. 

Evan placed his hand on his gently, loosened his locked fist. “Go speak with Theo, dove,” there was something pleading in Evan’s eyes. Something that looked close to broken. 

His voice was too soft, his grip was too soft, his eyes were too soft. Something brittle and close to snapping. 

It was instinct, Harry leaning up on his toes to pull Evan to him ever so close, lock him in his embrace, try to ground Evan the way Evan had always grounded him. “I don’t want to leave you right now. You’re scared, Ev,” his voice was whisper soft, shaking where it brushed against Evan’s hair. It was not easy, having to rock up far on his toes. But Evan was compliant, bending easy to fold himself into Harry’s hold. 

“I know, Haz. But I’m safe. You have to know I couldn’t possibly be anywhere safer,” his voice was shaking with something harsher than truth and Harry held on all the tighter. 

“But I’m strong,” Harry couldn’t even remember the last time he’d sounded so much like a child. Couldn’t remember the last time his voice cracked like that on a word. 

“I know, dove,” and Evan’s voice was gentle, even as he pulled back, thumb sweeping ever so gently near Harry’s hairline, brushing back his fringe. “You’re so strong. But we both know how volatile your magicks are right now. You’re still keyed up from Theo and you’re tired. It’s not you I don’t trust, it’s your magicks. You know well as I they’re something near sentient. I don’t want you to live with the guilt of lost control.” 

“But—“ Harry wasn’t feeling any guilt.

“Go speak with Theo, dove. Take Briar with you.” Harry didn’t think Evan had kissed him since he was still toddling, but he did, something feather soft and searing against his brow bone. 

And then the shadows took him. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Theo didn’t bother mincing words; never had, and he probably never would. And Harry—needed that right now. Needed it like breath.

The fear that had just been in Evan’s eyes had been more manic than when the dark mark had materialised at the beginning of the year. Had it really only been a few months?

“I very well might have,” Harry replied —more a stuttered exhale than anything—flopping onto the bed next to Theo, watching Briar sink into the chair beside it. Her eyes were wide, wide, wide. “Another dead family member, apparently. I really don’t like this one.” An understatement, but Harry was so, so exhausted. 

“I didn’t think that was possible,” Harry noted the croak in Theo’s voice; kept his eyes locked on the ceiling. He was terrified to actually look at his friend —scared he might still be deathly pale rather than his regular paper pale. 

Harry couldn’t handle much more tonight. He was hitting his limit. 

“Yes well, he had some unsavoury things to say.” Another expression so much less than he wanted to say. But Harry couldn’t — he couldn’t elaborate. Not now when his throat was tight and his forehead burned from the press of Evan’s lips. 

“His magicks are ugly,” Briar murmured, so Harry took his eyes from the ceiling to look at her. He’d never been avoidant, not really. But some part of him didn’t want to see Theo yet. Wanted to just pretend everything was okay, even as it wasn’t. 

“What do you mean? It feels just like Black magick; no ties to the Dark Mark either, like Regulus.” Harry was genuinely confused. The Black magicks —they’d all felt the same. Even Regulus’ darker magick wasn’t enough to overpower. It was as though family loyalty was engraved in the Blacks all the way down to their magicks. 

“Mm-mm,” Briar shook her head, sitting forward a little from where she’d had her legs curled under her. “They were colder,” and Harry could understand that, maybe. Understand how he could’ve missed it. He was accustomed to colder magick. Briar wasn’t. 

“Anything else?” Theo’s voice had an unsettling wheeze accompanying his words; Harry screwed his eyes shut. One month —more than. He should’ve realised. Should’ve seen the signs. Should’ve done something—  

“Corrupted; his magicks were corrupted.” That, Harry had definitely glossed over. All the magicks in his life were corrupted in some way. He’d definitely been off balance since his mum had shown up, her magicks mixing with his; dark and light and warm and cold and good and evil all at once. If anyone’s magick was corrupted, it was his. 

“In what way?” He had to ask; to see if Briar saw his magicks like that. 

“Tainted by Chaos. Like Mirielle’s.”

”Chaos doesn’t taint,” Harry muttered; the words weren’t his though. Not really. He hated that empty feeling of being used like a puppet. He was steadfastly ignored.

“What does that mean?” Theo’s breath was a stutter on his neck, leaning closer and nearly over Harry to lock eyes with Briar. “What do you mean tainted?” 

“Chaos isn’t a school of magick that’s supposed to be practised, Theo,” it was caving, Harry knew, letting his hand finally rest on Theo, heaving out heavy relief when he found his skin cool to the touch.

This Harry was sure he knew. Harry himself didn’t understand the Ancients’ words; did not know how Chaos could not taint. But then, one of the governing bodies could not, at its root, be evil.

“I know —it supports, it doesn’t govern. How does that taint someone’s magick?” 

“Because Chaos isn’t supposed to be given a place of leadership.” That couldn’t mean Chaos was tainting though.

Harry’s head titled, mind racing in seventeen different directions. Pieces of a puzzle slotting together.

“And the Selwyns are letting Chaos lead,” Harry finished, finally daring to look at Theo’s face. He was pale still, but his usual pale. And his head seemed to be back on, rather than sluggish and almost drugged. “What happened, Theo?” Harry couldn’t help but ask —quiet; urgent. “I was so scared.” 

Theo seemed to startle at that confession —despite how easy it was for Harry to say—leaning back to meet Harry’s eyes head-on. “I’m fine; it was just a fev— what did Evan tell you?” Whatever lie he was about to weave seemed to be forgotten when he remembered he could hide, but he couldn’t force everyone else to hide for him. 

Harry wasn’t even mad.

But —“Nothing. He was slightly preoccupied. But he wouldn’t have told me anyway,” Harry told him, steady, quiet. Kept their eyes locked to ensure Theo understood. “Not without your consent. Never without your consent. I won’t ever make you tell me what’s wrong Theo. But I will ask until you’re ready.” 

“I—“ the last time Theo’s eyes had looked this scared —Harry didn’t like to think about that week. Didn’t like to think about Theo weak.

“I can’t, Harry. I want to, I think. But I can’t.” And that was the truth. Harry would know, even without his magicks confirming it for him. 

“Alright,” Harry agreed easily, helped Theo settle back into bed. “That’s okay. I just need you to be alright.” 

“I’m alright,” and it was soft, simple; like a child’s words. Harry sometimes wondered if Theo’s words were ever allowed to be soft. 

“Then that’s all I need for now. Evan already got you into some more comfortable clothes?” He asked, more to give Theo something to answer, than anything else. To give him back some control.

“Yeah,” he nodded sleepily, head lolling against Harry’s shoulder as the fight seeped out of him. The medical wing cots were smaller than his Hogwarts bed, firmer, not nearly enough pillows or blankets. And despite all of that, Harry felt as though he was in Hogwarts again, curled up with his boys under the blankets. 

It was an easy thing, instinctual, to let his hands comb gently through Theo’s hair, let him press close close close.

Briar was watching them from her chair, quiet and wide eyed. Harry smiled at her, something soft, something secret. Holding a finger to his lips, he used his other hand to tug at the charm he knew sat cold against Theo’s throat, swiped his thumb over it to pull out the book he was sure he’d find there. 

Something in his heart swelled, seeing the bookmark holding Theo’s page, nostalgic. A troll being bonked on the head. Seeing the drawing, creased and folded and pencil marks faded from where Theo’s thumbs had already swiped over the parchment, again and again. Harry would find a spell to protect the graphite. 

Harry fought through the tightness in his throat as he opened the book —fondness curling around his voice like something sentient— a muggle story book he’d read before. It was easy to start in the middle. Briar curled tighter in her chair, so Harry spelled her blankets and pillows, watched those round round eyes blink slow and heavy.

And Harry read.

Read until the tightness in his throat was gone, and Theo was lax and warm at his side. And then he read some more, hoping to soothe the nightmares that seemed trapped between the tug of Theo’s brows. 

Before he’d passed out, he was sure he saw two huge green eyes staring at him from the shadows.