ˡᵒᵛᵉ ʳᵉʷᵃʳᵈˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇʳᵃᵛᵉ

He raises an eyebrow at her frown. “I’m sorry, was it not entirely your fault for supporting the wrong countries? I don’t understand how England keeps losing and you keep being surprised by it. And I have no doubts you would have made me actually wear somebody’s flag on my forehead if you’d won, I think I was very generous.” And as much as he dislikes the press as a whole, that particular situation was funny. Completely ridiculous, of course, but also funny, because in his opinion, it perfectly captured how silly everything the press claims is. The lengths to which they would go to create stories… it’s crazy. “If England ever wins, you’re more than free to ask for whatever you want. I promise I won’t even complain.” It’s not an empty promise, but the possibility of England winning is so low that he doesn’t feel it will ever come into play.

Her concern is touching, truly, but he doesn’t want to direct any more negative attention towards the Ministry. They face enough of that as it is. “It’s fine, it was just a misunderstanding. Mr Boot helped settle things.” Are things settled, though? He’s not too sure. But he wants to believe it and, well, he doesn’t want to worry Angelina any further so he decides to change the subject. “In any case, the Ministry’s done a good job of setting all of this up. I was thinking of watching some of the films later too. Have you seen any of them? I’m open to taking recommendations.”

It is true that there’s nothing quite like Muggle technology in the Wix World. Is their technological advancement a result of not having the help of magic? It would make sense – Wix can visit friends and family with a quick dash of Floo powder, but Muggles, who have to take trains and cars, have all these smart objects as a means to connect to their friends. “I’m sure they know what they’re doing. Not only with technology but also the statutes. Surely there have to be Muggle-borns and Half-bloods in the Ministry too, right? They can’t be enjoying the laws either. They’re probably just as eager to work out a solution.”

.

Angelina snorts, but she lets Viktor’s misplaced adoration for Italy go. Then again, when it came to Eurovision, she certainly isn’t one to talk. It’s not like England was going to win soon, even if she put all of her weight behind them. She is but a mere individual, after all. At Terry’s name, her frown twists into something of concern. She’s known Terry since their shared Hogwarts days. Although the two aren’t close to being best friends, they still kept in touch. If this was an open matter, surely the diplomat would have mentioned something to her. In fact, her friendship with Viktor is much more public than the one she shares with him. Perhaps it was a secret between the two of them. But the Ministry isn’t supposed to have any secrets... yet she says nothing, her frown only growing deeper. “You’d like to think they’ve got it down pat, wouldn’t you? I heard that they set up a new department for it and everything. But, you know how it goes. I try to stay out of that. It’s none of my business, at least out here,” she says, and wholeheartedly believes it too. Quidditch players could be doing so many other things on top of their soap boxes (some would call it a platform-- Angelina couldn’t agree) and yet they decided to stick their noses into a field that stood on the other side of the career color wheel. Still, it’s not like that’s an overwhelming opinion. In fact, athletes having a say in political matters is one of the biggest controversies among the quidditch community and with fair reason. 

“There are half-bloods and muggle-borns in the Ministry but I’m not sure how attached they are to their roots, you know?” She explains. She thinks about Harry and Hermione: how much do her in-laws care about others like them? “Anyway, it’ll all be solved soon,” she says, trying not to be too quick. “I heard Bend It Like Beckham is playing.” She gestures to the theater entrance. “Shall we?” 

   "Courtesy of our dear friends in the Auror Office. A few managed to weasel their way into the exhibits earlier creating a bit of commotion.” Terry remarks taking another sip of his Pumpkin Fizz - this time the saccharine flavour comes through in full force and the fizz bubbles in his mouth making him scowl, grimace, then cough lightly, “– Ugh.” Terry makes a face of disappointment, “I don’t know what I expected after abandoning this particular beverage years ago. Anyways, shall we?” He eyes a nearby dustbin to rid himself of it, but instead starts walking in the direction of the Museum of Muggle Curiosities with the beverage in hand.  

“That is the goal.” Terry nods with a small smile, “Imagine all we can accomplish once we figure out how it truly works. The work being done by this department has the potential to shape the wizarding world as we know it. Wix tend to overlook the accomplishments of the muggle world, but in truth we have much to learn from them.” When Angelina asks about future plans, Terry gives her a wry smile, “The planned trajectory is integration, but it looks like it’ll be a while until we get there judging from the displeasure exhibited outside the gates.” Realising the question may have been pointed at him rather than the initiative, Terry circles back, “But I’ll be here, making sure the show goes on That progress prevails..” Terry sighs, and looks over at Angelina, “How about you, Mrs. Weasley? What’s next?” The wheels in his mind are turning, no matter the answer, he’d figure out a way to angle her towards the cause.

.

There’s a snicker as Angelina watches Terrence frown down at his pumpkin fizz. If she wanted to make easy money, should would bet several galleons that almost nobody over the age of 10 drank the divisive soda. In a way, Angelina has never really grown up. It’s what helps her lead among her younger teammates, spend hours on end keeping up with her kids, and is, if you ask some people, the hallmark of her personality. But it’s the same juvenile side that provides the perfect excuse to not look into the secretive political workings of the world. She doesn’t need to know that what greases the gears and cogs and sprockets that keep everyone safe and under control. All she needs to know is that they exist. Her job is to distract while others go about the important tasks. That’s what entertainers have always done, and that isn’t going to change now. 

She nonchalantly tosses her cup into the nearest trash can as she enters the Museum of Muggle Curiosities with Terrence. It’s uncomfortable the way each item is lined up like she’s looking at valuable pieces of art. Before the no-contract statures, many of the items behind the fortified glass panels could be found in her parents’ home. Angelina’s childhood home was located in the muggle suburbs of London. She spent much of her early years surrounded by muggles: attending school with them, jostling on the playground with them, and running around the neighborhood until the sun set with them. In the same way, Freddie had also attended muggle primary school like his mother. Meanwhile, Roxanne had to be pulled out before the next year and put into private tutoring. The situation is opposite of ideal and the Ministry has to be working behind the scenes to make sure life returns back to normal soon. Angelina couldn’t bear another life change as large as the lack of muggle technology in her daily life. “Ha. That’s a flattering question but really, Terry, I’m sure you know that I’m not doing much these days. I’m prepared for retirement, which is a handful in itself. So, preparing to be a lot more hands on with the kids and finally having to confront the fact that I can’t take care of houseplants for my life.” She jokes. “Everyone goes through it, but if I’m being honest, I’m dreading the extra time. Like, what am I supposed to do with it? Learn how to knit? Seriously, if you have any fun hobbies that you think I can pick up on, let me know.”

“Ah, but then I can’t sell your autograph and that was my plan all along. It’s a shame.” But the mention of writings on their skin reminded him of another odd tradition of theirs and he couldn’t help the grin that grew on his face at the memory. It had been a strange thing to bond over in general, but ever since his former wife had introduced him to the Muggle song contest Eurovision, Viktor had found himself enjoying it very much and the discovery that Angelina was not only was aware of it as well but was also a fan of the contest led to some… interesting moments in their friendship. “I have to remind you once again that you’re lucky Italy didn’t win, by the way. Or I would have made you paint their flag on your forehead.“

“Right, women’s pockets,” he nodded along, understanding. He was no expert in fashion, much less Muggle fashion, but it was beyond him why there was such a difference in pocket sizes. He did know, however, that it was one of the reasons some women liked to shop in the men’s sections in clothing stores. Still, he let out a short laugh at Angelina’s suggestion that maybe it was a sign he should get his own phone. “As interesting as that theory is, I don’t think I’ll have much use for it. I’ll text you, sure, but I can also always send an owl. And,” he paused for a moment, considering if he should be sharing this. “I don’t want to risk it. The Ministry is already… uneasy about me. No need to give them a reason.”

He did sympathise with her wanting the no-contact statutes to be lifted, though. He was aware they didn’t affect him nearly as much as they did those with Muggle relatives and the least he could do was offer his support. “I hope so too. I like to think this,” he gestured around at the fair around them, “means we’re one step closer to that happening? As you say, there’s no reason to introduce us to these objects if they don’t want to integrate them soon.” He looked around for something else to talk about, something to perhaps take Angelina’s mind off the statues. “And speaking of, what is that?” He went to move closer to another of the displayed objects, this one reading Smartwatch. “Why is everything smart? Smartphone, smartwatch. Do they have their own intelligence?”

.

With the mention of Italy, Angelina can’t help but frown a bit. The country had won the famed muggle contest just a few years ago and it spited her to this day. “It might as well have been on my forehead. Everybody noticed and I was properly mortified.” Indeed, everyone who was anyone in Angelina’s life had taken to the temporary drawing of the beloved flag like a bug was drawn to patio lights. Angelina didn’t answer any press questions for a week afterwards, leading the media to hypothesize about its not-so-elusive meaning. The most outlandish was a theory that due to the flag’s three stripes, Angelina was expecting another child. This was highly unlikely. It had taken her husband an abundant amount of convincing for her to pop out two children. Besides, there were enough Weasley descendants running around in their world. “Next year, England will finally win. I’ll make sure that it hurts.” Her smirk is prominent in its confident glory, even though England’s notorious for never securing the victory. 

“You could send an owl, sure.” She doesn’t think much of his statement until he mentions the Ministry. That makes her straighten a bit more, her expression twisting into a worried thin line of her lips. “Is there something up, Viktor? If something’s wrong, I can always talk to Harry about it. In fact, I’m sure Hermione would be fine with it as well.” As much as she can’t stop herself from throwing the normally impressive names around, she knows that she wouldn’t be nearly as pro-government as she is without being related to some of the top officials in the country. She wonders where Viktor aligns. Her friends’ political views rarely cross her mind but there has to be a slim chance that he’s simply pro-government if the Ministry is so skeptical. How could they be so skeptical of someone so close to Dumbledore’s Army? She travelled in the same circle as him but never managed to get caught. Nobody even seemed to suspect her. 

Still, it’s a gentle reminder for her to slip her phone back into her pocket before turning to the watch. There’s a wistful gaze as she looks down, trying to pretend as if the glass isn’t there. It’s amazing that she once got to use these devices freely and without worry. “Muggles do have their own intelligence. I mean, look at this. We haven’t even come close.” Angelina says, sorely missing the fitness tracker she once kept on her left wrist. “They’ll have to integrate some sort of technology soon. If we don’t start now, they’ll discover us sooner or later. I’m not going to risk keeping the no contact laws around if we can help it.”

 “You’re always on my social calendar. I lied,” Terry says will a small smile, “– I’m not here just for the food.” Her sociable and extroverted nature is something he always admired about her, and something he found lacking in himself. Angelina was like a flower in full bloom; radiance and warmth exuded from every word and every smile. Terry was more akin to a quietly growing vine, but even with the quietest of people she was able to forge a connection. And she had many connections. Terry knows the value of the influence Angelina has over people, especially with her career in Quidditch. He silently wonders to himself, if he could coax her into using it to do some good for the Wizarding Reformist Party, “I’m glad you’re here actually,” Terry says, putting down a few sickles for his very own Pumpkin Fizz. Her very presence was an indicator they could perhaps turn the tide for the Technomagical Initiative in the court of public opinion for the better, “I hope you’re enjoying the fair. There’s a whole exhibit dedicated to familiarising wix with Muggle Technology. Would you like to join me for a stroll in that direction.”

Just as he finishes his sentence, he hears the growing commotion. Terry had heard the loud and booming voice demanding rights for Muggleborns about an hour ago, and asked aurors to cast the Quieting Charm to avoid further disruptions. But it seemed no amount of magical soundproofing would keep them from being heard. Every time the door swung for a wix to enter into the market, their protests carried in too. The nature of the protest had angered him at first –all this planning and preparation had been hardwork, and he’d be damned if he let a couple muggleborns with a victim-complex spoil the party’s efforts. The show will go on. Terry waves a hand dismissively, “Oh, I’d say ignore the fools.” Terry says sipping on his drink looking on at the gathered protestors outside, “– but this is exactly what happens when misinformation spreads and galvanises people.” he shrugs turning to Angelina, “We’re trying to help find a solution so they can reunited with the Muggle World sooner, but I suppose someone always has something to complain about.”

.

“That’s what I thought,” Angelina’s quick to respond, failing to hide her teasing, self-assured smirk. Though, as much as she wants to spend more time with him, Terrence Boot is an undoubtedly busy man. While Angelina spent hours on a broom to keep others entertained, Terry was the one pushing society forward through his work in Wizengamot. Although she’s aware of Terry’s official title in the same way she’s sure he is hers (well, maybe that’s not completely true. Angelina could probably scrounge up the correct answer if someone held a wand to her head but on a normal day she knows him to be a member of Wizengamot and a delegate of some important sort), she knows that he does much more than what his job description entails. By the pride he wears on his expression, there’s a good chance he had a hand in creating the fair sprawled out in front of them. 

It’s hard to focus on all of its features when people are staring at her with even more curiosity than usual. This happens almost every time she takes a step outside of the quidditch pitch-- seeing many athletes at once oversaturates the eyes in a way that only seeing one focuses all of their attention of them. Still, there’s not much so can do as she walks at Terry’s side, trying to avoid making eye contact with any overeager fans. It probably doesn’t help much that she’s amicably conversing with a politician. Puddlemere’s publicist warned her that being seen with Ministry officials wouldn’t necessarily be the best sort of press, but seeing that her sister-in-law is the Minister of Magic, it’s fairly unavoidable as it already is. People will always look at her and Terry with this surface-level approach: a professional athlete and a politician. Angelina starts to talk, but when Terry seems to draw a blank, she realizes that she has to raise her voice in order to be heard over the protesters. 

“The protesters are an inconvenience, but at least they’re staying outside. Raising the bar too high is only going to disappoint you.” She advises, draining the last of the pumpkin fizz. “But, you know, that being said I’m glad the Ministry did something like this. With enough research, we can bring muggle technology back into our lives again.” She decides now is not the right time to mention the cell phone she carries with her, even if its for familial purposes. “Do you have any future plans on your plate?”

Angelina’s words held her eyes widening, gaze turning towards Roxanne. She even had enough flair to manage a small gasp. Then, as she leaned down so her head was close to the younger girl’s, she whispered, “Two hours?” Mouth falling open, her face was the epitome of shock. When she righted, her balled hands came to rest on her hips. “Using me? Me? Of all people?” Her eyes rolled to the ceiling, animated arms raising above her head. “And here I was thinking I was getting all of this special attention because I was your favorite.” Finally, she covered her face, even managed a sniffle from behind. Peeking through her fingers, she shot a wink at Roxanne. 

Katie then turned back to Angelina, laughing as she propped her elbows on the counter. “Just kidding, she told me earlier. I told her time was more of a made up concept than anything else, especially when pancakes are involved.” Her grin had morphed into something more devious than amused. It was something that had little chance to be helped. When Katie had been in school, she longed for the companionship she had always enjoyed with her brothers. Though Angelina had been but a year older than her in school, she and Alicia had fit those holes and filled her up on her worst days. Glancing back to Roxanne, she shrugged again. “That’s okay. Aunt Katie has tons of stories from when she used to clean out tombs full of creepy, crawly spiders.” her hand crept out to tickle up the child’s side. 

At Angelina’s question, she stilled a bit, her smile falling only shortly before she wrinkled her nose. “Well, if I’m honest, it was completely your child’s fault.” She patted Roxanne on the head. “Not this one, but Freddie.” Before the words were out of her mouth, she held up her hand to give her the time to clarify. “And no, he hasn’t done anything wrong.” She gave a knowing smile. “He just was lingering around in my classroom the other day talking about you guys, and I-” she paused, mulling over her words before she finished. “Well, I’m just not sleeping very much lately.” her eyes landed on her friend, a friend who felt more like family than her own, and she knew the unsaid words would get through. “So,” she held up her hands. “I wanted to make my favorite girls some pancakes.”

.

“She gets her mischief from her dad,” Angelina says, even though they both know it’s not the truth. The storied friend group she shares with Katie constantly caused trouble at their school. It isn’t difficult to imagine her daughter taking flight during her OWL exams and throwing out a handful of Weasleys’ Wildfire Whizbangs in her wake. Still, the scenario a bit more applicable to Freddie. So when she hears his name spill from Katie’s lips, she’s convinced her son is in trouble. Although Angelina rarely got detention as much as the others, esepcially the year she was captain, Freddie is her father’s son stuck with Angelina’s restless spirit. To be honest, she’s a bit excited. School isn’t school without causing a bit of a ruckus. Luckily, she knows Hogwarts can handle it, especially DA members and friends like Katie. However, seeing how much Freddie looks up to the famous ‘Aunt Katie,’ he turns out to be the object of praise instead. 

The sense of slight surprise wears obvious on Angelina’s face. “He talks about us, hm? I want to hear all of the nasty things he’s said about his lovely family. He’s only sent us four letters and it’s already November.” Angelina teases her as she takes the plate from Roxanne, stacks on a pancake as promised, and sets it down on the kitchen table. Roxanne is quick to grab the necessary utensils. As Angelina summons two more plates for herself and Katie, she can’t help but feel a bit concerned. While she’s always a welcome visitor, he friend seemed to be appearing more frequently and for longer than usual. Is there something going on in her life that Angelina doesn’t know about? Or just as terrible, is there danger at Hogwarts that she isn’t aware of? After all, it would be the first time. As much as she tries to keep a watchful eye on her alma mater, it’s hard to do when she refuses to walk on the school’s grounds. She considers it a failure on her part as a parent, brought on by a stubborn refusal to put down her broom and walk off of the pitch as late as she did.

Musical Boobytrap

Draco doubts that Angelina Weasley née Johnson is sorry at all, but he’s not going to call her on it; while the closest the two of them ever came to direct conflict was on the Quidditch pitch (perhaps most memorably during her captaincy her final year of school, when Draco quite rashly – but effectively – baited some of her teammates into physically attacking him after a Slytherin defeat, resulting in three of her players being banned for the rest of the season) there has still never been any doubt that the two of them were always on different sides – and he doesn’t just mean in Quidditch.

Angelina is a Weasley by marriage, a Gryffindor by sorting, a member of Dumbledore’s Army by choice, and a half-blood by birth. Draco Malfoy is very much none of those things, and he knows that if either of them have anything to be “sorry” for, it’s not her. So he just smiled thinly, brushes his robes off in an attempt to restore his dignity, and starts to say “Ah,” as though both grateful and enthralled by her words rather than simultaneously disinterested and confused – but then her words continue.

Similar, she says? Their lives are similar? In what possible way? Nothing that she’s describing sounds like it has similarities to anything that Draco considers ordinary life. The concept of static, motionless paintings in particular takes him several seconds to come to terms with; once he manages to conjure a simulacrum of what that would look like in his brain, he shudders. “What, like they’ve all been Petrified?” he asks – not wanting to say aloud, or killed? The mental image of hundreds of immobile figures frozen in unmoving paint for all eternity, unable to speak or move or react to the illusory winds or rains or anything with which they’re sharing their frames makes him feel nauseated.

Draco saw a painter’s studio – a wixen painter’s studio, of course – once when he was younger, when he accompanied his paternal grandfather to a sitting for his own portrait. The unfinished paintings had all been creepy in their motionless, but they’d been unfinished – it would have been strange to see a half-painted form moving, not to mention making the whole process unfathomably difficult for the artist if their subjects kept twitching every time they touched brush to canvass. But to be stuck like that after being completed, for all time…

Draco shudders again. “That’s horrific,” he says to Angelina, and means it. “Not to mention cruel.” He knows Muggles are savages, of course, violent and uncivilized, but this seems like such petty and unnecessary cruelty that it crosses a different sort of line, somehow. “Yes, portraits are only echoes of their subjects, but there’s still a rudimentary personality in there, still thoughts of a sort. Leaving them trapped forever in a prison of paint, unable to speak or move…how could even Muggles be that callous, that cruel?”

.

If Angelina is looking through the world with glasses, then Draco Malfoy’s must be cracked and shattered. Draco’s pureblood privilege is something Angelina and her children would never have. The Wizarding World could argue that everyone has moved passed blood discrimination and condescension, but Draco’s choice to marry a pureblood witch and then have a pureblooded son and continue to live with his criminal parents (why Harry had testified in the Malfoys favor she would never understand. Azkaban for life was overly harsh for Draco and his mother but when it came to Lucius, Angelina would have accepted that verdict) was a shining example that the prejudice still existed. Still, from what Harry and Ginny tell her, their son, Scorpius, isn’t it, is a good child. That he doesn’t resemble his father or his grandfather. The world may be a touch darker now but Angelina recognizes hope when she sees it. And so, for that reason, she gives Draco the grace that she never would have as a student. Besides, jinxing someone for any other purpose besides self defense is undoubtedly illegal. 

Still, ready to turn his legs to turn his legs into jelly or not, there is a certain type of annoyance that arises in Angelina. She has to remind herself that people like Draco Malfoy are ignorant, not rude. However, as she listens to him ask if the subjects depicted in muggle paintings are petrified, she wonders if it’s possible to be both. “Huh,” she manages to say. Seeing her history of growing up in the muggle world, Angelina slept halfway through muggle studies without any regrets, but was somewhat confident the class must’ve covered paintings. 

Granted, Angelina hadn’t been to a muggle museum in years. The last time she went was on a field trip with her suburban London elementary school when she was 10. Back then, she wasn’t aware that there was an alternative to paintings that weren’t charmed to speak or move. Besides, to try to see one of those odd cubist paintings speak would have been scarring for both young and middle-aged Angelina. 

“It’s not horrific, it just is. Muggles don’t have the magic to make their work ‘come to life’ the way we can, but then again, we’re studying their technology because it’s loads more advanced that ours. Muggle portraits only use the likeness of a person. Sometimes artists paint people and they don’t even know they’re being painted,” she turns to him, perplexed. “Really, Professor, is that so hard to believe?”

“Should I get in line for an autograph too?” He was joking, of course, though the only indication of that was the slight quirk of his lips. That had been one of his least favourite parts of professional Quidditch, the autographs. Not only was he unfortunately stuck with the signature he’d come up with at the age of fourteen (by the time he’d realised it was by no means elegant and beautiful like some of his fellow players’ were, it’d been too late to change it) but those interactions also opened up a world of possibility for small talk – also not something he enjoyed too much.

“I think I have seen it, yes,” he said as Angelina explained about the gesture mimicking a ‘flip’ phone. He would’ve never thought of it on his own, but now that she mentioned it, it did indeed spark a vague memory from a lifetime ago. “So Muggles don’t use these flip phones anymore? What a shame, they seemed so compact.”

He watched silently as she took out her own version of this newer model; he didn’t agree with breaking the statutes, but he also wasn’t about to sabotage one of the few people he considered friends. And so he was careful to keep this phone out of sight of the rest of the visitors as Angelina handed it to him. “It looks very… modern. And I believe you, of course,” he was quick to add as she swore she only used it to contact others in the Wix World. It did look like an impressive device, he would admit that much. From all the little shapes and forms noting its different functions, it seemed like a very handy tool and Angelina’s excitement was tangible enough that he felt his smile growing. “This might come as a surprise to you, but I don’t really send texts. Who would I even send one to?”

.

“Look, I’m more than happy to put my autograph on your forehead,” she says, pointedly holding up the black permanent marker left behind by a forgetful fan. Angelina is experienced enough to be aware that there are different sorts of fame. Most of her family did not experience the same kind of fame as herself. When a political figure came under fire, the lash that came from the public’s whip was not the same as when an athlete like her committed a similar wrongdoing. As she walked the frequently-trekked but lonely journey to retirement, she took comfort in knowing that Viktor understood her experiences. 

“It’s the biggest shame, really,” she told him. The switch to a bulkier yet far more advanced phone was one of the muggle world’s largest technological disappointments. “I’ll let you in on a secret: the worst part is that my phone never fits into my pockets. But yours? It could be a fit. Maybe it’s the world telling you we can get one. I can totally find one for you.” While Angelina’s parents had fully moved into the Wizarding World since her childhood outside in muggle suburban London, they still had some connections. Granted, the walk between her mother and father’s home to the nearest phone store was only five minutes away. She would miss the ability to seamlessly walk the line between the two worlds. No matter how many times she told herself that it was temporary and wholeheartedly trusted her sister-in-law, she couldn’t ignore the gap worming its way into her heart. For Angelina, the muggle world was more than a mere playground to blend into-- it was a part of her identity. 

“What do you mean you don’t know who you’d send a text to? You could text me anytime you felt like it. Or call, if you’re really so intent on acting our age.” Angelina says. “But in the end, I dunno...” her voice drifts off, stuck in contemplation. Aware that there was the highly likely possibility of people who could listen into their conversation, her voice dips a notch as she admits, “If I’m being completely transparent, I hope the no-contact laws end soon. I don’t see a point in having this fair if we can’t use any of the technology we’re trying to accept. What is this all for?”

Fascinating technology, good company, just freshly popped popcorn and moving pictures—could there a better way to while away the day? No, he thinks not; no, he thinks smiling. This has been a long time coming. The last few months have been trying not only for Terry, but the rest of the Ministry of Magic too. Breaches are now not solved by simply bandaging the problem, there was something more to the process now - something magic was missing. Terry looks on to the displays with scrutinising eyes, thinking how both the problem and solution both lived in each device. It’s just there - so close by so far. A solution had to be found, there was no option for failure. The Technomagical Initiative was the product of his efforts, alongside many others in Talos, but that’s what made this whole ordeal exhilarating yet frustrating.

He in-deep thought when Angelina approaches, her touch returns brings him back to reality.  Terry doesn’t use nicknames for people. No, there is a certain level of decorum excepted at his level that he does not dare breach. He should have said Angelina, or Mrs Weasley, or even Ms. Johnson. But the first word that comes out of his mouth when he sees her face is, “Angie.” 

She looked radiant as ever, her familiar brown eyes meet with Terry’s, he chuckles at her words, “I”m as shocked as you are that it made it onto my social calendar. They should start paying me to come to these things.” he jests, continuing their bit, “I’d say I came out of curiosity, but it’s really just the free food I’m here for.” 

“That’s my nickname. Lucky for you, you’re only one of a handful of people who use it so it’s nowhere close to being worn out.” Angelina says, rolling her eyes with a lax smile at her classmate. While Angelina’s social nature made her collect several friends while at Hogwarts, their shared past was the major fact that bound the two together. While Angelina had dragged her entire family to the techo-fair to enjoy muggle technology at its finest (much of it already incorporated into their own own flat), she would be lying if she said that the near-guarantee of seeing those whose normal schedules too often conflicted with each other was alluring as well. Still, at her nickname, Angie notices that she doesn’t question the way a member of Wizengamot calls her by a name that was mostly buried in her Hogwarts days. She supposes that even government workers are people, as distant and cold-calculating as they may seem. But Terry is one of the select few she views as a person first and Ministry employee second, someone who is just as human as the body he is supposed to serve. 

“Why am I not on your social calendar, hm?” Angelina smiles, turning away to take a glass of pumpkin fizz and putting down five sickles. Maybe this fair would make Wizarding World consider using credit cards. That would be a blessing. Every time she walked into her favorite (and notably muggle) athletic clothing store to buy new clothes, her mind spun trying to convert pounds to galleons, sickles and knuts. The Ministry needs to have mercy on people who are absolutely shite at math. Though, with the new no-contact rule in place, it seems like she won’t be able to visit the mall for awhile. Still, she could give up leggings for the sake of the world around her. But, at the sound of yelling in the distance, Angelina isn’t so sure if others could as well. She can’t make out what they’re saying but it’s definitely nothing positive. Her muscles tighten as she cautiously starts to reach for her wand, tucked into her robes. Watching her family out of the corner of her eye, she says, “I can’t believe I didn’t hear it from the other side of the venue-- maybe I’m losing my hearing quicker than I thought.” With a wary sigh, Angelina asks, “How long has this been going on for? Am I really going to have to jinx someone today?”

DATE: November 10, 2020 

WITH: @magicterrence​

The Techno-fair’s Ministry-distributed description does not state that it is intended to be a social gathering of any kind. It is supposed to be exploratory, to unleash each individual’s curiosity and educate themselves on the muggle world. But it is quite apparent that whoever wrote that description has not encountered Angelina Weasley. Anyone who has conversed with her in person is well aware that she possesses the odd ability to turn anything into a sociable meeting, even something as important as this. Perhaps, in a parallel universe where her priorities were switched with one of a traditional pureblood’s, she would make an exceptional socialite. 

Angelina lets her mind ponder this grimace-inducing yet undeniably intriguing thought as she shakes everyone’s hand within three meters of the busy venue. A permanent marker practically taped to her right hand, she chatters away with a small group of people holding out any and all Puddlemere merchandise: multiple hats, scarves, and even a blue and gold leg cast. As she bends down to sign it, she notices a slight ache in her knee. It’s nothing serious, but it does serve as another reminder of why this season will be her last. Her lips twist ever-so-slightly as gives one last smile and departs from the crowd, listening for any footsteps of rude fans who dared to follow. Looking around, she finally settles on rewarding herself with a pumpkin fizz from one of the quieter stalls. As she draws closer to the storefront, a familiar silhouette greets her. In two large strides, Angelina quickly sidles up to him. Putting a hand on his shoulder, her voice rings with teasing tones as she says, “Why, if it isn’t the famous Terry Boot. What a surprise seeing you here at a Ministry event, of all places. I’m absolutely floored.”

George didn’t bother arguing with Angelina pretending she wasn’t having a miserable time. It was obvious enough that he didn’t think either of them needed to say it. Even he could tell, and the only person he would ever have a won a sensitivity contest against was now dead and never coming back. He didn’t even bother arguing with her insistence upon doing the dishes either, beyond a cursory glance at the plates spinning in the air. He saw them for what they were, an excuse to get away. “Right. You’re just being polite,” George said, with a hint of aggravated sarcasm that he instantly regretted. He recognised the tactic only too well - George spent far more time than he cared to think scheming up ways to get away from people these days. 

It just hurt to think Angelina needed to get away from him. 

His eyes didn’t waver from her, even if he was only staring at the back of her head. If he looked anywhere else - the faded plaid-covers on the chairs, spotty with potion stains that hadn’t quite come out over the years; the empty wall where the clock had been, which they’d all agreed to take down rather than look at with eight hands instead of nine; the stack of laundry in the corner, that Mum hadn’t quite gotten to yet, overburdened as ever with work - he would start imagining Fred there, in the places where he’d stood all their life. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t ever going to be there. Everywhere George looked was a dull reminder of the fact.

He started imagining what Angelina’s expression must look like instead.  She didn’t even sound like herself, half-heartedly agreeing to his plan without any real excitement. 

“I know it’s not the same, being here, without -” George’s mouth closed before forming the name of his dead twin, not wanting to say ‘Fred’ out loud when he knew it would only pain them both. Angelina couldn’t even look at him. He’d badly misjudged this - just because he wanted to be around her, didn’t mean the same was true in reverse. Listening to the clear sound of barely-covered grief in her voice reminded him: he was not the only one who lost Fred, and even if he sometimes felt coldly angry with people for imagining they had the right to grieve Fred anywhere near as much as George himself, at least he did not have to look at himself as others did and always, always be reminded that the person they really wanted to see was gone. 

George was a standing monument to Fred, and a walking knife. So he understood. He really did. His voice came out clipped and unforgiving anyway, his hurt spilling out. “Harry’s here, so we have Anti-Apparition Wards up. Just in case. If you want to go, you’ll have to leave from the meadow. I’ll walk you,” he finished bluntly, not waiting for an answer, just starting to leave the kitchen. 

Yeah, well, Angelina is being polite, isn’t she? She’s frustrated, really-- at the feelings she’s forcing herself to hold in, at Fred’s sudden passing, at the fact that she doesn’t know where her life is heading now that the war has happened. Now that, she newly understands, there are parts of the human existence that are bigger than quidditch. For her to once be so simpleminded makes her cringe. Instead of saving that, however, her mouth twists and she simply chastises, “C’mon, George.” Gone are the Hogwarts days where they called each other by their last names. They were beyond that stage in their lives-- or, rather, their emotions had evolved since then. The fact that the Anti-Apparition Wards are up because of Harry’s presence (and even if Harry wasn’t here, the Weasley’s had reached quite a bit of acclaim and picked up a good deal of attention themselves, enough that they needed the wards up regardless), shows just how much their lies have changed since the last battle. 

As George turns his back on her and makes his way out of the kitchen, she has to will her feet to move. She said she wanted to leave, after all. Leaving would save them a whole lot of potential pain. But here she is, unable to go. She spends so much time in the air these days (as for why is another story-- it’s a distraction from all of her problems on the ground, this being the largest one) that she doesn’t know how to move on land anymore. There’s something so heartbreaking about his swift actions and sharp tones. What is it like to be alive when your other half is dead? No matter how much Angelina could’ve tried, Fred’s relationship with his brother was the most important one in his life. Perhaps it’s selfish of her to feel so much grief. It’s not like she and him had shared the same blood or been born mere moments apart. She’s still standing in the same spot as before, staring at him. At this point, it must be weird for him. But who is she to deny that things between them are off right now? Her mind is to the brim with sentences gone unsaid. Everything she had stuffed down in her head had suddenly come back to the surface, this time threatening to boil over. And then, she makes the realization: she has to talk. It’s easier when he’s not looking at her. It’s almost possible.

“Fred,” she says, her voice so clear she gives him no chance to question the name she had just uttered, “you were going to mention Fred, right?” Her hands, held behind her back as if tied, fidget with an sense of uncharacteristic anxiety. “Of course it’s not the same. Things wouldn’t be like this--and I have a feeling you understand what I mean by ‘this’--if he was still alive. Do you... I dunno, do you feel guilty too?” She dares to ask, then becomes overwhelmed by the want to tie up her tongue. When she walks across the room, her feet feel like stones. With hesitation, a callused but gentle hand creates a mold of his shoulder. She looks at his back as she says, quieter this time, “I’m sorry. Forget about the last question. I,” she sighs, “I’d like to think that he wouldn’t want us to be miserable. I wish I could stop myself from being so melancholy around you all of the time. After the Battle, you would think the suffering would stop, but there are days where it’s all I think about.”

He wasn’t supposed to be rooting for anyone, really, especially not with it being an exhibition game, but Viktor found himself supporting Puddlemore United anyway. He was well aware of how much this match would mean for Angelina and he genuinely wanted her to win it. “I have no doubt you’ll do great,” he said and he meant it. “Puddlemore is lucky to have you.”

He chuckled as she mentioned that his players were indeed still kids. “You make a good point, they just love to remind me otherwise.“ Particularly when it came to Viktor discouraging them from trying out the new moves they wanted to use. While it was true he was a quidditch fan first and foremost, if he thought the chance of injury was too high, he didn’t hesitate to put his foot down and refuse to implement their ideas. They were mostly understanding, though it didn’t stop them from whining every now and then.

He was pleasantly surprised Angelina would ask for his thoughts on coaching and was more than happy to share what he’d come to learn. “I don’t have much experience with children, unfortunately, but I think the basics might not be too different. One of the most important things I had to accept was that you’d be coaching people who might have different ways of learning from you and you have to adapt to that – in the beginning, I think I was explaining in a way I would’ve wanted quidditch explained to me, but that doesn’t work for everyone. It can be tricky, but most times the players themselves can help you a lot in figuring out what part, in particular, they’re struggling with.”

“But I have to admit, I’m curious about this association. I think someone might have mentioned it to me, but I’m not too familiar.“

“Puddlemere’s lucky to have me? I dunno, I think I’m lucky to still be employed by them, c’mon.” This was, quite sadly, a fact of quidditch. Careers were all destined to end once most players reached their late 30s. For Angelina to even make it to her 40s was an oddity in itself, and she was well aware of it. The athletics journals and quidditch sections of newspapers on all levels of publicity had been discussing if Angelina was still fit to play. Which, of course she was, right? If she didn’t think she could handle one last season, she would have quit. It was better to leave the time with dignity than be kicked off, the latter being perfectly inevitable if she chose to stay past her time. For a brief moment, Angelina vividly remembers the joyful and melancholy of being a professional player in her 20s. She had moved into the major league after the war, for starters. The recent events had cast a dark cloud over her performance. Focusing on quidditch was hard when there were much bigger problems. Back then, before she had formally join the ranks of the Weasley family and her career took off, she was just a pawn in the post-war game. But being able to provide entertainment for a world in mourning made her feel more fulfilled than she had felt in a long time. She wondered if Viktor, despite not being a Hogwarts student, understood that experience too. 

She listens to him as he shares his tips. She wouldn’t have even considered that she had to figure out how every student learned best. This way of thinking definitely applied to school, but quidditch? Well, she supposed it was definitely possible, and if Viktor was telling her, then it was a fact. She must look incredibly silly just sitting across from him, nodding along like a bobblehead. But hey, at least she was trying.