For the Minor Characters

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[placeholder: If tumblr walks back their 2024 Midjourney/OpenAI deal, this story will be shared in full on tumblr. Until then, please enjoy this story on the sites shared via links above and reblog this post to share your support. Additionally, if you are interested in pillowfort/in a free invite key to pfio, pls DM me!

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[placeholder: If tumblr walks back their 2024 Midjourney/OpenAI deal, this story will be shared in full on tumblr. Until then, please enjoy this story on the sites shared via links above and reblog this post to share your support. Additionally, if you are interested in pillowfort/in a free invite key to pfio, pls DM me!

      It irks her, how those around her go with the flow and aren't bothered in the same way. Alicia debates reconsidering the Quidditch life, since she's still a reserve, and even Katie puts aside these same ambitions, but that's easy enough to guess why, since Fred narrowly escaped death with the castle crumbling around him and George in the war. Katie used to be one of Angelina's and Alicia's primary fans, but she's a rare sight these days, trading off with Lee, assisting Verity in the shop with looking after the twins.

      The reminder of the twins, with a renewed bond no one can come between, makes Angelina tug harder than necessary on her gloves, and she winces as the motion yanks on her wrists uncomfortably.

      "Watch out there," Alicia warns from the locker beside hers. The shorter woman pauses changing out of her Ballycastle uniform. "You're wearing quite the dour look after flying one of the best games in your life, you know."

      Angelina cocks her head to one side, because Alicia's exaggeration hardly warrants comment. Staying steady on one's broom during a downpour is a basic skill, as far as Angelina's concerned.

      A knock at the locker-room door alerts them to the presence of one of their team's Beaters, Kolchak. She grins from ear to ear while carrying a gigantic box under her arm. "You've got another one, Johnson."

      Angelina holds out her hand, ignoring Alicia's gape and Kolchak's feline curiosity. The box weighs the same as a Quaffle, and she undoes the bow and tears at the paper while Alicia stares.

      "I can't believe this is still going on! A secret admirer—and you don't care? The coaches don't care?"

      Kolchak shushes her. "Of course the coaches care. Why do you think I wasn't here sooner? They were busy checking it over, using all sorts of Scanning Spells and some such. They take anonymous gifts seriously, even seven years after the war."

      Angelina opens her mouth—but stops short of correcting them. Instead, she runs her fingers over the bonbons and picks one up to try. They're filled with treacle tart and dusted with a red powder. "Fizzlesticks," Angelina mumbles around a bite.

      "What'd you say?" Alicia furrows her brow.

      "These are special-made," Angelina says, "from a place in Belgium. They dust these with crushed, homegrown Fizzlesticks." With every word she speaks, the tingle on her lips intensifies but pleasantly. By the time the chocolate-and-treacle mixture melts away on her tongue, the tingling sensation fades.

      She doesn't have to look up to witness the expression the other two witches exchange above her head. "Fancy chocolates and flowers," Alicia comments. "And you don't want to meet your secret admirer?"

      Angelina eats a second bonbon and shrugs. Then she changes out of her uniform and hits the showers, leaving those two behind her to gossip. She breezes through the task and dresses in denims and a worn but loved rouge blouse before pulling her cloak on. "See you next practice, guys," Angelina says by way of parting, and she slips the box of bonbons into her Expanded rucksack before exiting.

      The rain's let up, so Angelina doesn't bother with a charm to send the drizzle away. She passes the coaches on her way through the pitch and to the main exit—they check with her that she received her mystery gift and Kolchak didn't open it for her—and Angelina nearly makes it past the ticket booth, home free.

      Then she notices the disruption in the rain up ahead, to the right, and catches sight of his shoulder. She almost smirks, because of course he can't be caught in today's weather.

      "You knew what today's conditions would be," Angelina pipes up, sidling up to him on his left. The drizzle is a drizzle, yes, but a few minutes of it do begin to weigh her locs, and she pushes away a stray one clinging to her cheek. She takes a step closer, falling under his Repelling Charm. "Lucius."

      Lucius peers down at her—not by much, since Angelina nearly matches him in height. But his lips are a straight line until he raises one amused eyebrow. "Indeed I did. However, as a dedicated Ballycastle enthusiast…"

      She grins. For a man who committed crimes but did his time and testimonies, Lucius Malfoy is a man of simple pleasures. And, amidst all the change in life (her future with Fred shot down, her friends mostly wandering far and not sticking close, his ex-wife and son cutting all ties, the Ministry thankful for his obedience but done with him all the same), Lucius' attendance at Ballycastle Bats matches has been the one constant these last few years.

      Well, that and—as of a year and a half ago—the gifts.

      "The bonbons are delicious, by the way," she remarks.

      "As I insisted they were when I brought Maierwells up at our last meal. They put Honeydukes to shame," Lucius huffs. He begins walking, knowing Angelina will fall into step.

      She does with a shrug. "Yeah, well, us common folk don't hop around from country to country, usually, even with magic in our pocket." Angelina sighs. "…the thought's nice, though."

      They walk for two minutes, far enough from the pitch to Disapparate. But, when they come to a stop, Lucius turns to face her. "I take it my proposal's no longer under consideration, then?" And perhaps it's a trick of the overcast light, but his eyes are heavy with disappointment when he asks what they both know is all but a rhetorical question.

      Angelina adjusts the straps of her bag over her shoulder, the bonbons weighing her down—much like all the gifts before. Because Alicia's right and wrong, really. It's flowers and chocolates. And sometimes it's been a rare Quidditch collectible or nice gear. Once it was jewelry, but Angelina opened the box and shut it just as quickly and shoved it back into Lucius' hands months ago. So today it's bonbons.

      But last week was a bouquet of deeply pink peony buds, plump and saturated and colorful like mulberries, and they came with a note: By the time these bloom, you'll be ready to accept me.

      Angelina frowns and stares into his eyes for a heartbeat before lowering her gaze. Her eyes land on the fluffy collar of his cloak (always something exotic with these Malfoys—is that mink? No, too red, maybe something else, like fox or marten), and then Angelina glances at her own ensemble…something she could never picture a Malfoy in, something she can't ever picture being allowed into Malfoy Manor.

      Dinner is one thing. Dinner can be had, with a fan.

      So she shakes her head. "Things are better like this. I prefer them this way," she says. Unchanged, she doesn't add.

      Lucius rolls his jaw, souring on the thought but accepting it surprisingly well. He turns away and gives her a curt nod. "I see." He nods a second time and takes a step away from her, taking his magic with him. "Good luck on your next match, Miss Johnson," he bids her, and with a POP he vanishes in the blink of an eye.

      The drizzle kisses her skin once more, and Angelina frowns where Lucius had been a moment ago. "So, back to 'Miss Johnson' after all these years…," she murmurs. And yet it's no surprise, because she knows she couldn't give him the answer he wants.

      After all, the flowers were never going to bloom, not when they were shriveling up and rotting away just days after she received them.

      Still, Angelina wonders when she Disapparates from the pitch and heads home. She wonders what things might've been like if she hadn't left Lucius merely a fan, just another rebuffed name on her list…

      At home, she sinks into her lumpy sofa and pulls the bonbons from her bag. She lifts another to her lips but doesn't take a bite, instead choosing to observe the red dust on top. Angelina presses the bonbon to her lips, and the Fizzlesticks' sensation returns, but the tingling sensation skitters down to her arms, and she thinks of Lucius.

      Kissing him—kissing him might be just like tasting Fizzlesticks powder.

      (But, in time, the desire to know what he tastes like fades, much as the flavors melt away into nothing. And Angelina moves on to more important things, like disposing of the dead flowers sitting on her kitchen sill.)

Done for the If You Dare Challenge (for prompt #215: mink) in the HPFC forum on FFN. OH, MAN. I've not written Angecius in…more than a decade, oops. But I had a hankering, and I got inspiration from peonies we had in our house recently; bought as blooms that legit just never opened up, that simply died on us. I've a long-running hc Ange becomes a Ballycastle Bat and have written about it here and there, but funnily enough writing this reminded me a little of the vibe Louis and Draco give me in all my Loucos from yesteryear (a whole series, but starts with "Tomorrow Still Comes"). Here, tho, Ange sticking to her desire to maintain the status quo, while still upset at all the change around her and how certain of it affected her… I feel a bit for Lucius, bc I like this pining side of him. But idk, I like the tone of this piece and the thread with the bonbons. Btw, the peonies aren't a random inclusion, either; in the language of flowers, the peony can mean a very deep or passionate love (esp when a deep pink/red; respect or adoration/admiration when more purple), so Lucius was being quite earnest here, a broken man hiding a little behind some aspects of his old personality (the extravagant gifts, the haughtiness) but still trying to make a grab for smthg/someone he desires. GAH. Will I ever write a happy Angecius? WILL I? Who knows. *says the girl who adores Daphcius, so ummm*

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

      She glanced over his head (still easy for now, but already her eight-year-old was at her shoulder and catching up with his brother). Four more pairs of eyes watched their interaction from the other side of the kitchen counter. It might've been five, she mused, if Ginny were a tot and not almost two months old. But Molly shook her head and wiped her dishwater-stained hands on her apron, grabbing her wand and waving over the sink, hoping magic would pick up her slack. "No, no, we've all got to eat. Let's see," she said, turning around to rummage through the fridge…and finding it surprisingly emptier than usual. "Ah, we're a bit short on eggs."

      "I can go 'round back and collect them. I'm more than old enough."

      "No, no, the chickens have been out of sorts lately… We'll just have some sandwiches," Molly decided, turning around to the counter instead. But she lifted the door to the bread box and found nothing but heels.

      Ah. Right. She…normally would've set a fresh loaf to bake yesterday morning, wouldn't she?

      "Then soup—"

      Before she could open the fridge a second time, Charlie gently slid into her path. His freckled smile was soft and kind, and he gave her a one-armed hug. "Mum, have a sit, yeah? You seem a bit peaky. I'll make you tea. Right quick, promise."

      A second lump formed in her throat, but she leaned into his hug and kissed the top of Charlie's head (anything not to look at that soft expression—no, it was too familiar right now). Molly nodded and wandered into the living room afterwards, staring blankly across the room at Ginny's rocker. It didn't register until Percy turned around from the counter between bites of his sandwich to gently nudge the rocker that Ginny was, in fact, present inside and sound asleep under her brother's watchful eye.

      The scene was enough to make the lump wedged in Molly's throat burst, and her vision turned misty, blurry. But she disappeared upstairs so her children wouldn't witness her second meltdown in as many weeks.

      For the second time that day, she felt a warm hand on her back. It was enough to rouse Molly from her crying-induced nap, exhausted though she was, but sitting up took effort.

      "Ah, there we are." At least it really was Arthur this time, sitting beside her, on their bed—wait, Arthur?

      Molly paused mid-unfurl and glanced at the small clock on her nightstand. "Oh, no. Arthur, what are you doing home so early?"

      He brushed her curls back from her face and cupped her cheek in his hand. His thumb traced over dried tear tracks as though they marred her, glaringly obvious in how she'd spent her afternoon. Arthur's smile was small. "The boys worried about disrupting me at work and since Bill was spending the day at Ignatius and Lucretia's with, ah, with the new…owl…," Arthur explained, his eyes falling briefly to the mattress. He cleared his throat. "The children Floo'd your parents, who Floo'd me."

      Molly furrowed her brow. "But—they don't know how to use the Floo powder."

      "Apparently they do." Arthur shrugged. "I suppose when we taught Bill last summer, in case of emergencies, it vaguely stuck with Charlie. But Percy's been reading about it on his own. Very bossy and exacting when it comes to magic, that one," he added with a light chuckle. Then Arthur sighed and locked eyes with Molly. "Your parents described the boys as extremely concerned, Mollywobbles. You didn't eat? You're too quiet today… And you came to our room to cry again."

      She bristled and pushed Arthur's hand away. Molly stood and smoothed the front of her dress, as well as her skirt and apron, which she'd forgotten to leave behind in the kitchen earlier today. "The children don't need to see me like this."

      "They've seen plenty, Molly. They're mourning, too, in their own way."

      At that, she gritted her teeth and placed her hands on her hips. She faced their closet, looking for something to do while she stewed. "…it's different, Arthur."

      He was quiet for one, two, three beats. "I know." Another pause. "For you, and for Edwin and Milly, I know."

      She frowned at the mention of her parents, but at least Arthur seemed to understand her point. Molly exhaled, a large breath, and decided a stack of Arthur's favorite jumpers needed tidying right then, so she squatted beside them and got to it. "This is hardly something to come home early for, Arthur."

      The mattress creaked under his weight; he must've shifted (she had to guess without looking). But she heard the weariness in his voice when he said, "You most certainly come before work, Molly. Especially right now, when your days are on repeat."

      Molly paused folding a cardigan (ah, the golden one with bronze and mahogany threads—her first anniversary gift to him), long enough to digest his words. But then she resumed her task, and Arthur exited the room to leave her be.

      "I just needed a different task and to have everyone home," Molly insisted later that evening when she and Arthur prepared for bed after seeing the boys to their rooms. Ginny's crib magically, silently swayed in a corner of her parents' room while the couple moved about.

      Arthur glanced askance at his wife and finished buttoning his pajama top. "That so…?"

      "Yes! That's what I need, Arthur. To know where my family is, at all times."

      "That seems a bit much, Mollywobbles."

      She freed her hair of her nightgown's collar in time to offer him a particularly hard stare. "Nothing is 'a bit much' in these times, Arthur. Look at the close calls the Longbottoms have had. The Potters are in hiding! As for the rest of the Order—" Molly stopped short of listing disappearances and other deaths. Instead, she closed her eyes and summoned to mind Fabian's and Gideon's faces…only to have them overridden by the memory of Mad-Eye's apology yet again.

      Something softly thunked outside their bedroom door, interrupting their conversation and Molly's morose train of thought. Closest to the door, Arthur got up and checked. He chuckled as he bent to receive the surprise. "Well, perhaps you're right about having everyone home—Bill's doing, I reckon," he said as he passed Molly a steaming mug.

      She accepted it, and the new warmth in her hands helped calm her, as did the chamomile scent. "Mm, perhaps, once he heard about today. Or Charlie, since I didn't let him make me a cup earlier."

      "They're good boys, looking out for their mother."

      "But that's not their job, Arthur. It's a parent's job, to look out for her children."

      "It's all right for things to be a little backwards when the world's a bit upside–down, luv." He let his words sink in with a long look at his wife, and Arthur raised his eyebrows. But then he offered her another small smile and rubbed her upper arms. He pressed a kiss to her forehead before moving to turn the covers down.

      Molly, meanwhile, remained standing. Arthur's words did a better job penetrating compared to this afternoon, now that she was calmer…and, she supposed with a desire to chuckle herself, tea helped, too. But tea worked best while hot, so she brought the mug to her lips and tilted it back—

      —and nearly dropped it.

      She tightened her grip on the mug before Arthur took notice and scooted close to the lamp on her nightstand. There, with her back to her husband, she peered at the mug's pale contents…and couldn't quite believe what she saw.

      Someone pale, ghost white stared back. Her curls lacked their normal bounce, but their red color only made the reflection's sickly pallor stick out more. And worst of all were the eyes…her eyes, raw to the point where she almost lost sight of her Prewett brown eyes. The bags underneath were a tired, angry purple, like bruises.

      The sight terrified Molly. To think Arthur and the children had seen nothing but this for the past week…!

      …and yet…

      A new lump formed in her throat as she thought about her interaction with Charlie today, about avoiding his eyes.

      Because it was one thing to be terrified by her own sordid reflection right now. But it was a far scarier thing to her these days, looking at Charlie or Bill and seeing Gideon and Fabian in them.

      Molly forced herself to sip the chamomile tea. It was just on the cooler side of hot, enough to force the lump in her throat to dissolve into a calming heat that nestled in her chest. Several sips later, Molly could set the mug down on her nightstand and get into bed, leaving Arthur to flick off the lights.

      But, an hour later, the chamomile hadn't taken full effect. Molly's calm remained, but sleep was far off. She shimmied into an upright position and glanced around the room.

      Arthur snored softly beside her, his back a warm comfort barely an inch away. Ginny's crib kept going even now, but Molly's baby girl must've shifted, for Molly heard the lightest rustle from inside, followed by a sleep-babbling coo. No shadows moved outside their door, meaning the boys remained asleep in their rooms, as well.

      Molly glanced at the duvet and then to the empty mug. After catching sight of herself tonight, suddenly she felt as though three ghosts haunted her…

      And she wondered why into the wee hours of the morning.

      When Arthur woke the next morning, he saw Molly with Ginny in her arms and in higher spirits. "G'morning, you two. Sleep well, Mollywobbles?"

      "A little," Molly answered, swaying absentmindedly to an old Celestina song she couldn't recall the whole of at the moment. She made a funny face for Ginny, who stared up at her with wide, rapt eyes. Molly laughed but kept her volume low, since the boys weren't likely to be up yet on the weekend. "My mind kept me awake longer than I hoped."

      At that, Arthur frowned. He donned his slippers and shuffled over to her, interrupting Molly's odd half dance with his hand on her shoulder. "Oh, Molly… You really meant it when you said you only slept a little, didn't you?" he asked after peering at her.

      But Molly shook her head. "It's not all bad, Arthur, honest. In fact, I think I figured out how I want best to handle my brothers'—absence." She winced. She knew they were dead, but forcing the word "passing" out of her mouth was too daunting a task.

      "I'm all ears, luv."

      Molly's eyes flicked to his. She held his gaze for two heartbeats and held Ginny close. She pricked up her ears for signs of their little eavesdroppers…but, no, the house remained quiet. So she returned Ginny to the crib and wrung her hands in the fabric of her nightgown. Concentrating on the mix of freckles and plaid made it so much easier to deliver her words: "Arthur…would you hate it…if I went by my maiden name instead?"

      The stillness of the house settled in their room now, too. When Molly lifted her head, she saw Arthur had gone terribly still—but he couldn't help his fallen expression.

      Molly frowned. Of course it'd be too much to ask. It sounded terrible, too, didn't it? Asking now, after all their years together already.

      Almost as if in answer, Arthur reached for her hands with his left, and his ring glinted in the morning sun fighting its way into the room through the curtains. "Molly—"

      She shook her head. "No, no. Sorry I asked. That was wr—"

      "Molly." Arthur caught her hands and held them, brought them close to his heart, secure and safe and sound. He nodded and rested his forehead against hers. "You do what you need to do, Molly. If this is right for you, if it brings you peace, then how could I possibly hate it?"

      This time, when her eyes filled with tears, she didn't feel so heavy the way she had the last several days. Instead, something light filled her, hearing Arthur's words, and she broke into a small smile amidst her tears. She tilted her head up and kissed his nose and then his lips. "Arthur…! Oh, Arthur. Thank you. Thank you so much."

      He shook his head. "Nothing to thank me for, Molly."

      "You know I love being your 'Mrs. Weasley.'"

      "That I do."

      Her eyes widened. "The children. It'll be confusing for them."

      Arthur drew her into an embrace. "Children have their own way of understanding things. Bill and Charlie are getting older; they'll be off to Hogwarts before you know it. And Percy's far sharper than my knife in my old Potions kit."

      The mention of the class brought to mind a few old memories…but Molly sighed in his arms as more recent ones caught up with her.

      "Something else, Mollywobbles?"

      Molly leaned against his chest. "No, just thinking that I've been stuck on repeat—but I think this is a chance to move forward." She truly believed so.

      Whether Arthur concurred, he kept his musings to himself and simply offered her another hug.

      She'd been "Molly Weasley" for more than ten years now, so a simple declaration wasn't the same as flicking her wand and waving her present with Arthur away, nor did she want that.

      But Molly dressed that day and ran the house with a little more help than usual from Arthur, feeling Bill's and Charlie's eyes follow her throughout breakfast. It helped, though, when Arthur encouraged the boys to get outside while the weather still had a hint of warmth as autumn dragged on.

      Yes. Good. That left Molly to watch over a sleeping Ginny in the living room and sit down and sort through the post, which had piled up considerably over the past week. The Prophets had been tidied and managed, she noted, and Molly resisted the urge to search the latest issue's obituaries for familiar names.

      Instead, she pulled into her lap assorted letters and bills…oh, dear. There were heaps of letters, sometimes two or more from the same addresses, sometimes a letter from a name she'd long forgotten since her and Arthur's school days…

      Even before opening the letters, Molly knew: Word had gotten around about Fabian's and Gideon's deaths.

      Molly reached for Ginny, adjusting the baby's blanket around her. Ginny's tiny fist curled around her mother's pinky finger, and she held on tight with all her baby might. The motion distracted Molly with a smile. So she borrowed that strength and flicked her wand, opening the first letter.

      Professor McGonagall's was the first. Molly read it, twice, without committing the words to memory. But it struck her, the oddness of the situation, that such a prim, proper, respectable professor…would pour her heart out, her sympathies on the page to a former student in this time of unimaginable loss.

      The Longbottoms' was next. It was from Frank and Alice both, but Molly recognized Alice's penmanship. Alice offered support and an ear, which Molly thought kind, if only the war didn't make that impossible.

      Lily wrote on the Potters' behalf, twice: expressing heartbreak for Molly's loss and her fellow classmates and friends, and again checking in with Molly since she'd heard Mad-Eye had bungled delivering the news. James risked penning a quick missive himself, even, bringing the Potters' total to three, saying he'd miss Fabian's and Gideon's echoed laughs.

      Professor Flitwick reached out with the offer of his ear and some tea, as did Professor Sprout, and yet more Hogwarts staff offered condolences. Emmeline Vance, sweet woman, spoke of the twins' character as fellow Aurors and as decent men, and other few remaining of the Order said much the same.

      The two letters that surprised Molly the most, though, came from very different people. The first was from Augusta Longbottom, Frank's mother. She mentioned that she'd written Molly's parents already and planned to see her former classmates soon, but she extended an invitation of company to Molly, as well, as she was "uniquely aware" of the dangers her son and daughter-in-law put themselves in and understood Molly might want an empathetic ear and shoulder.

      The second came from Professor Dumbledore. His elegant script filled a page full of admiration for Fabian and Gideon, two likeable and talented wizards with "so much ahead of them." Dumbledore wrote that it never was and never has been in his plans for the Order or anyone to meet such fates, and that he was so sorry to her and to the Prewett family, "beyond words that I currently possess."

      Dumbledore's letter gave Molly pause. Her head genuinely believed his words—he said, in various ways, that he was sorry countless times throughout his letter—but her heart…his letter didn't sit well with her heart. That gave rise to an odd sensation of sourness in her stomach, that perhaps this could be the one time she didn't trust in the old headmaster's words. Molly winced and set his letter aside.

      As for the rest… Molly Summoned a dinner tray, a quill, and a bottle of ink, as well as parchment. She arranged things on the tray and picked up McGonagall's letter and chose to answer that one first.

      Mostly bland "thank yous" came to mind, and Molly reread McGonagall's letter to tailor her response better. But, after a few lines, she was satisfied that that warranted an owl. And then she signed it:

—Ms. M. Prewett

      Her quill hovered over the bar in the second t. Then she blinked before a bead of ink could drop onto the parchment, and Molly admired the signature anew.

      How odd. How absurd! How…quaint. She'd grown up "Molly Prewett," so signing her name as such again shouldn't feel so alien…and, in a way, it didn't.

      Molly grabbed a scrap of parchment and scribbled out her name a dozen more times.

Molly Prewett Molly Prewett Molly Prewett M. Prewett M. Prewett M. Prewett

      She stared at her old name with fresh eyes. Yes…yes! This—this was it. She was Molly Prewett. She was Edwin and Milly Prewett's daughter. She was Fabian and Gideon Prewett's big sister.

      She was Molly Prewett, and she would be all right and carry on.

      Reclaiming her maiden name had given her a surge, a burst of…not quite confidence, per se, but Molly felt more positive that day, that weekend, than she had in a long while. Perhaps, she mused, more than she had since her brothers had joined the Order of the Phoenix…

      She didn't answer every last sympathy letter that day, but Arthur did come fetch her when it was lunchtime.

      He laughed at the spread of parchment all around her. "Why am I having flashbacks to cramming for exams?"

      Molly scrunched her nose up at him. "Oh, hush up, Arthur. I've made good headway getting through the post."

      "I can see that." Arthur reached for her scrap paper nearest him. But, reading her lines of "Molly Prewett" and "M. Prewett" didn't cause another crestfallen expression on his face. Actually, two spots of red blossomed on his cheeks. "Now I'm really having flashbacks to our school days and of me doodling your name in my notes…"

      She laughed. "You turned bright scarlet when I asked to borrow your Transfiguration notes! I soon learned why, of course."

      "Well, excuse you, but nursing a crush on a very pretty, very bright witch takes patience, like brewing a difficult potion…"

      "We were average in Potions, Arthur."

      "I was average; you were great. But I digress." He set her parchment down and glimpsed at the post. "Anything ready to send? I imagine, ah, Errol wouldn't mind a flight. Getting a bit of training from Ignatius is different from stretching its wings for real, and Bill seems quite fond of the bird."

      Molly sighed. She passed him two letters—a reply each to McGonagall and to Alice and Frank—but hesitated to release her hold when Arthur took them. "Are we even certain Errol's meant for post?"

      Arthur gave her a dubious look. "Molly, he's an owl. And he came to us via Fabian's estate. I can't imagine Fabian would keep an owl not meant for post. Unless—well, I don't recall Fabian being like Hagrid, having a general fondness for all animals?"

      "No… Fabian liked them all right, but Gideon was the one—" She stopped short with a tight smile. As if on cue, a meow from elsewhere in the house echoed.

      Now Arthur sighed. "Right on time, that one. I'll make certain Basil's fed, but your presence is demanded at the lunch table, Ms. Prewett." He pulled her letters free and planted a kiss atop her head. "And I'll send Errol on his way," Arthur promised, his voice quieter, gentler.

      Molly watched him go, her unease over the new family owl dissipating after her exchange with her husband. Besides, even if she wanted to sulk longer, Ginny stirred then, and Molly couldn't feed an infant while covered in ink.

      It helped. Truly, she believed, it helped, signing things "Ms. Prewett" where she could, and Arthur every now and then using "Ms. Prewett" as though he were calling on her like back in their courting days.

      The few times the boys overheard, it left the children rather befuddled. "I'm just trying on an old name," Molly explained as she doled out dinner one evening.

      Bill narrowed his eyes while he dwelled on the notion, but eventually he nodded. Charlie nodded with reluctance and Percy pursed his lips, but Fred, George, and Ron gaped at her with open confusion. Then Ron broke the tension with a happy laugh, convinced they were playing a game of make-believe.

      In some ways, Molly wondered if she got off lightly. Arthur was right. Their children were taking this in stride; they had their own ways of understanding difficult things. As for adults…

      Molly sent out replies to the rest of the letters, slowly, and noticed she didn't hear back. She liked to think it was others being busy (in general, with the school year, with Order business), but a part of her wondered if others thought her odd to revert to her maiden name so suddenly.

      Being left to wonder was slightly better, though, Molly decided, than going out on the rare shopping trip in Muggle stores further inland and being greeted with a polite "Hullo, Mrs. Weasley!" She flinched with every smile and wave and wrong name, until she couldn't take it anymore and wrapped up her shopping on the early side.

      But returning home with lighter bags reminded Molly of the emptier-than-normal fridge from last week. "Bill, watch your siblings, please," she instructed her eldest before grabbing a basket and popping around back to the coop. She filled the basket with half a dozen fresh, large eggs and then—with another, different POP—Disapparated across the way to the Lovegoods' home.

      Molly knocked on their front door and strained her ears to identify which set of footsteps would greet her on the other side.

      She lucked out: Level-headed Pandora opened the door with a look of surprise (or so Molly guessed—her pale eyes had this sort of permanently surprised air to them). "Molly! Hello, good to see you."

      "Hello, Pandora." Molly held up her basket. "Eggs?"

      Pandora smiled. "Thank you, dear. Your chickens really do lay the best." She gestured to the bushes beside the door with a small wave of her hand. "Please, fill your pockets with as many as you can. I and Xeno don't mind, honest."

      "No, no, just enough for a pie," Molly insisted, but she let her fingers comb through the bright orange Dirigible Plums their friends grew. "How's Luna, by the way?"

      "Still tiny. Eats like a creature with a bottomless stomach, but she's a slip of a thing at only…goodness, it's nearly eight months now, isn't it?" Pandora leaned against the door jamb. "Time flies and she's not even a year old."

      Molly smiled, a chuckle in the back of her throat. "Wait until you've got seven with the first one nearly at Hogwarts' doors."

      Pandora "hmm'd" at that and let a pleasant quiet settle between them. Once Molly wound down her selections and began plucking, however, Pandora piped up, "…Xeno may write his own paper, but I read the others, Molly. I'm—I'm so sorry."

      Molly's hand stilled on a particularly large plum, one perhaps a wee bit too ripe. "I've heard that a lot these days," she admitted in a monotone.

      "I can imagine. If there's anything you need—"

      Her words were interrupted by her husband's heavy footfall on their staircase, however. Xenophilius came stomping downstairs, paused at the landing to search for Pandora, and lit up with curiosity when he saw her standing at the open door. "Pandora, you've got to hear this: Luna started to wake from her nap, but she went right back to sleep when I began to detail the Rotfang Conspiracy to her…!" He paused and poked his head over her shoulder. When he saw their guest, he gave Molly one of his sleepy, too-wide grins. "Ah! If it isn't Mrs. Molly Weasley!"

      She couldn't help it. Hearing the wrong name yet again, Molly clenched her hand into a fist, smashing the too-ripe fruit in the process.

      "Oh, my," Pandora murmured.

      But Molly already had a handkerchief out to wipe up the mess. "I've got enough for today, thank you," she said by way of parting. She didn't wait for Pandora's goodbye before Disapparating back home.

      And home…at home, Molly was left with her own thoughts and the knowledge that answering a silent letter however she wanted was a simple thing, really (just as easy as a swish of her quill!). But being constantly confronted with greetings and "Mrs. Weasley" while she was trying to adjust…it made all this feel like a futile task.

      And that didn't help at all.

      By the end of the week, Molly had another plan. Nothing outrageous, of course—just to surprise Arthur at work with lunch.

      Much as it had been a long time when she'd last been "Miss Prewett" to his "Mr. Weasley," it'd been a long time since they'd last had a spontaneous date like this…and it would do Molly some good to get out of the Burrow, to get out of Ottery St. Catchpole. Thank Merlin she'd been blessed to have Cedrella as her mother-in-law and nearby, too; Molly dropped the children off to her and Septimus late Friday morning, and her in-laws sent her off with hugs and kisses and "Don't rush to pick them up!"

      Arriving in London was a stark reminder of why they'd chosen Ottery St. Catchpole to live, Molly mused when she landed close by outside the Ministry's visitor entrance. The air was thick here and metallic and made her cough, nothing at all like the fresh and earthy scent of the Burrow.

      Inside the Ministry wasn't much better. The Burrow gave them sunshine and greenery. The Ministry of Magic was…old and stone and darkness. Molly shivered on her way to the lifts.

      It'd truly been too long since she'd last been here. She'd forgotten how the interdepartmental memos overhead hovered like bees and that bodies squished into the lifts much as she crammed vegetables into pickling jars for the season. Thankfully, her ride was short and spat her out onto Level Two, where she followed a few signs and some familiar faces (again, she heard friendly calls of "Hullo, Mrs. Weasley!") on her way to the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.

      She ignored the greetings for now by recalling the Dirigible Plum incident and by focusing on Arthur's office straight ahead. And that was the right thing to do: Everything else seemed to fade into background noise when Arthur picked his head up from his work and saw her coming through his cracked-open door, his face lighting up with delight.

      "Mollyw—!" He stopped short, turning bright red at almost calling her by her pet name here, of all places. He sheepishly offered her a hug despite her tiny glare. "Hello, luv. This is a pleasant shock."

      "Well, we haven't done this in forever, and it felt like a good time for it," Molly declared, sinking into his arms after setting the basket of food on his desk. "Your parents have the kids, so I'm yours for lunch and dinner, if you like."

      "Mm," Arthur hummed. He sighed happily into her hair and broke away only to conjure up a second chair for his wife. "I rather like the sound of that."

      Molly smiled.

      They opened the basket, revealing ham sandwiches and leftover slices of the spiced Dirigible Plum pie from the night before, as well as the last bottle of butterbeer Molly had found in the back of the fridge. Arthur split the bottle evenly between two cups and toasted to their rare afternoon together, just the two of them.

      Molly seconded that, although the toast caught the attention of others in the office or passing through. Some git whistled at them and another snickered, but an older one—was that the one Arthur mentioned was Perkins?—said hello and wished "the Weasleys a pleasant day."

      "Molly?" Arthur asked when his wife set her drink down and frowned at her plate.

      She twisted her lips around.

      "Is something the matter, luv?"

      Molly exhaled, low and slow. She picked at the crust on the remaining half of her sandwich and left the last few sips of her part of the butterbeer alone. Not even the pie smelled appetizing anymore.

      Arthur finished his sandwich but took his bites slowly, all the while keeping an eye on Molly. He took a polite bite of the pie and smiled at the familiar flavor. Yet when even that didn't turn her frown upside–down, Arthur wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed out of his chair. "All right, Molly. Come with me."

      She furrowed her brow while he tried to tug her up. "What? Arthur, your lunch break can't last much longer. There's no place to go—"

      "Come, come. Just come along, luv."

      Molly raised one eyebrow.

      "Just—take a walk with me. You'll see."

      That lone, skeptical eyebrow stayed put as Arthur donned his outer cloak and rearranged Molly's shawl on her shoulders. So, it wasn't going to be a walk around the Ministry… Molly followed him to the employees' exits, and they vanished in a puff of green smoke the second they stepped into a free fireplace. They arrived in a designated spot shooting off from Diagon Alley; Molly recognized the backside of what could only be Obscurus Books.

      "Ah, this way," Arthur insisted, taking Molly by the hand and leading her away from the publisher.

      Now she was confused. "Just how far are we going?"

      Arthur squeezed her hand in reply: Trust me.

      Well, that was just silly. Of course she trusted Arthur.

      They walked up a narrow, winding, but clean-swept alleyway. When Arthur emerged and brought Molly along with him, she understood in an instant why he'd wanted to get out here.

      It was Muggle London. Yes, it still stank and made her cough…but this was outside the Ministry, outside the Wizarding world, outside their bubble of those who knew (or, rather, didn't know) they called her the wrong name.

      And, for that reason alone, Molly could breathe.

      Arthur waited a moment for her to reorient herself before they eased into a leisurely pace on the pavement. He glanced at the Muggle wares through the assorted stores' glass, but Molly caught him one time too many watching her in the reflection.

      She leaned against his left arm. "…thank you, for bringing me out here."

      He nodded.

      She slipped her hand into his as they continued to walk, against the tide of some Muggles and with the flow of others. Molly squeezed in close to Arthur. "I've been so silly, Arthur."

      "How?"

      "This whole 'M. Prewett' thing." She shook her head, her voice cracking as she continued after a minute, "I can't believe it's taken me a whole week to figure it out, but it won't work."

      He inhaled and exhaled but didn't comment. He squeezed her hand, urging her to continue voicing her thoughts.

      "I feel so ridiculous for getting upset at every other person, friend or not, for calling me the wrong name. It's—It's not that others will never stop seeing me as 'Mrs. Molly Weasley.' What hurts more— No, what hurts the most is that there are no Prewetts left."

      Arthur stopped them by a postbox and drew her near it, so they were out of the path of foot traffic. Then he faced her with pinched eyebrows. "Molly…what? How can you say that? What about your parents and your aunt and uncle?"

      She shook her head. "No, Arthur, no. Uncle Ig and Aunt Lucy never had children. My parents had just us. And Fabian and Gideon are gone now. The Prewett line…it ends with me."

      There.

      There it was.

      She'd said it aloud. The notion had been on the periphery of her thoughts since she'd first decided to take up her maiden name again…but it felt safer, somehow, to keep this idea unvoiced, to keep it buried, as if saying it aloud would make it too real.

      But…it was real, as real as Mad-Eye Moody's horrible apology and the two bodies he'd brought home to her parents two weeks ago.

      Letting reality finally sink in caused things to bubble up inside her, and Molly balled her hands up into fists, pressed her fists against her eyes, angry and trying not to cry in the middle of the street. Arthur held her, tight, against him, and it was a help and a comfort, but her emotions wouldn't settle, and she hiccupped into his shoulder.

      "It ends with me," she mumbled into his cloak, "and no changing my name or mindset or anything can fix that."

      "Molly, I…"

      It wasn't Mad-Eye's apology that came to mind anymore. No, Arthur came to mind now, and that afternoon, and her trying not to cry, and Arthur crying in her stead, sharing in her pain and wishing he could fix it or take it away or anything.

      And all of it—all of it—seemed like such small worries when, just weeks later, Voldemort finally fell, all at the magic of toddler Harry Potter.

      That news made the rounds faster than lightning, but it was a hollow victory, Molly mused, for the losses of Lily and James, for the betrayal of Sirius, for all the heartache that led up to the end of this war.

      "But," Molly said as she folded The Daily Prophet and set it and its speculation of Death Eaters' futures aside on the sofa, "if this war is over and it means you will grow up in peace, then I will come to terms with my past and present."

      Baby Ginny smacked her lips at her mother and then stuck her tongue out.

      Molly laughed and tickled her baby in her rocker, bringing a smile to Ginny's face. "Yes, yes, my spunky little one. You'll grow up to be a kind witch able to bring a smile to anyone's face… I won't have to worry about you trying to stop Dark Lords or his followers now, will I?"

      "Reckon she's got to pursue another line of work," Arthur agreed, joining them in the living room that evening.

      Molly smiled at him. "The boys tired yet? It's nearly dinnertime."

      "Ah, there's still a bit of light left. Bill and Charlie are using Mum's and Fabian's old brooms for a bit, but they promised to keep their brothers on the ground."

      "Oh, Arthur. Really? I'm not sure I like them flying without supervision."

      "Bill will be eleven shortly, Molly, and you know he's got a good head on his shoulders." Arthur came and joined her on the sofa. He raised his eyebrows. "It's looking a lot as though both he and Charlie have Mum's thirst for Quidditch."

      "But—Cedrella never got to play."

      "Nope. So that thirst will be even worse this generation," Arthur said with a laugh.

      Molly rolled her eyes, but then she noticed Arthur hadn't come empty-handed, which also might explain him sneaking back inside for a quiet moment with her. "What do you have there?"

      He blinked, and those twin spots of red bloomed on his cheeks as usual. Arthur passed her a large gift wrapped in butcher's paper bespelled with a colorful blue tartan pattern and topped with a green bow. "Happy belated birthday, Mollywobbles."

      She opened her mouth but held her tongue. That was right. Her birthday had been days ago—but then the massacre in Godric's Hollow had happened and… Everyone, not just Molly, had had better things to dwell on. Everyone except Arthur, of course. "Oh, Arthur…"

      "Go on. Open it."

      She gave him a tiny but grateful smile and arranged the surprisingly hefty item across her lap. Molly tore the packaging open in thick strips, confused to find a clock. Then she took a second look at it and saw the clock didn't tell time.

      The clock had destinations ("school," "work," "mortal peril," to name a few) instead of hours. Where there ought to be hour and minute and second hands, there were nine hands total and each one had a name: seven for each of their children and one each for her and for Arthur.

      Molly gaped at her husband.

      "You once said you wanted to know where your family is, at all times. Now…you can." He scratched his right cheek in a bashful manner. "You, um, can hang it on the wall or stand it up or take it with you—it's got an Enlargement Charm on it, so size is no issue." Arthur dropped his eyes to the clock and he motioned to it with his chin.

      As if the gift weren't enough, Arthur had had it engraved, as well. In swirling cursive, she read:

      To my one and only M. Prewett–Weasley

      "Thank you," she whispered, emotion dampening her volume. She turned and kissed his cheek and happily accepted his arms around her.

      She…She'd meant what she'd told Ginny, about coming to terms with her past and her present, and Arthur's gift felt like a sign that she'd made the right choice.

      She was Molly Prewett and she was Molly Weasley.

      She was Molly Prewett–Weasley, and she would be all right and carry on.

Also done for the If You Dare Challenge (for prompt #9: blankly) in the HPFC forum on FFN. Oh…my. This turned out to be one of those fics that spiraled out of control. XD SO MANY HEADCANONS…! I knew that, when I saw the prompt of "hard," I wanted to portray Molly's struggle in the aftermath of her brothers' deaths. Originally, this was only going to be her trying out her maiden name again…but several other things cropped up (a bit of my hc for Errol's origins, which I promise I have more of *eyes* and also the debut of the Weasley family clock, amongst other, minor details). I also thought this would be more gen than shippy, but Arthur was just…so, so supportive here that I can't not tag this as Morthur on AO3 and on tumblr. ;w; Writing loss is hard and painful, but having all her kids around her to act sorta like foils helped a lot, as well as including the letter-sorting scene. To think: Molly only turns 32 by the end of this story. That's barely older than me as I currently write this, and it gives me pause. What else… Regarding the family cat: I direct you to my story, "The Lingering Scent of Basil," a fan favorite. Additionally, working on this story in particular has me itching to work on a piece I drafted last summer, but I'm not yet sure if I will stick it in Fortune Favors the Brave or post it separately, but it does elaborate on smthg in the bkgd here. We'll see! And remember: If you're reading this on FFN, just follow this collection; if you're reading on AO3 or tumblr, then follow along with the series. -w-

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

      Immediately, Fabian pursed his lips, but he felt his reddening cheeks giving him away. He didn't know what he'd done, but he wasn't copping to anything until Dad dragged it out of him. Ten-year-old Fabian might've still fallen for that on occasion, but he was eleven now. He knew better.

      Likely thinking the same, Dad cracked a smile and softly snorted. "You're not in trouble, Fabian."

      "I'm not?" Fabian heaved a giant sigh of relief.

      Dad quirked one eyebrow. "Or should you be?"

      Fabian tensed back up but slapped on a smile. "No. No, I'm good. I swear."

      Dad snorted a second time. But then he knelt down in front of his son, his eyes lingering on him for a moment before moving to the kitchen. He gestured with a jerk of his head to the scene of Mum and Gideon washing and putting dishes away. "You won't have to worry about chores at Hogwarts, you know."

      "I'm kind of looking forward to that," Fabian admitted.

      "I bet. The tradeoff being schoolwork, of course."

      "…not looking forward to that."

      Dad patted his left shoulder. "There's something else I want you to do while at school, though, Fabian."

      He frowned. Molly had warned them about first years having mandatory flying lessons, and their brother-in-law, Arthur, hadn't had any stellar memories of those to share…

      "It's not more schoolwork." Dad tipped his head again towards the kitchen, darting his eyes at his other son. "It's Gideon."

      "What about Gid?"

      "School can be…a fun place as well as hard work. But you're also going to meet a lot more people and a lot more children your age and older, of all backgrounds."

      "We've met some of Arthur's extended family, and they're a fairly rowdy bunch. Rowdy but nice."

      Dad smiled, but it was tight; more wrinkles than usual appeared at the corners of his eyes. "Not everyone can be the Weasleys, sadly. Especially amongst the…old families."

      "Oh." Dad phrased it like that a lot, "old families," especially when Uncle Ig and Aunt Lucretia came 'round. Only Mum ever said it outright, more so the past two years, trying to help Fabian and Gideon understand the Wizarding world and that not everyone played along nicely.

      Purebloods.

      Fabian thought it, and Dad's sharp brown eyes cut back to him, as though he knew to where Fabian's mind had flown. Dad cleared his throat. "I just want you to look out for your brother," he finished, getting back on track.

      That had Fabian furrowing his brow. "'Course. Why wouldn't I? I've got his back, and he's got mine."

      But now Dad's tight smile faded into a proper frown. "…Fabian, Gideon isn't—" He stopped and winced.

      "Isn't what?" He didn't like any implication that he and Gideon weren't the same. They had the same blue eyes (Mum's), the same freckles (Prewett genes), the same red hair with the tiniest cowlick in the back that combing never quite tamed (Prewett genes again…and perhaps just a little something the twins shared just between themselves). They had the same favorite foods and the same hated foods, the same penchant for pranks, and the same hay fever every spring (Molly said she used to have it, too, but she grew out of it—so Fabian considered it just his and Gideon's now).

      They were twins, duplicates, one and the same.

      And they came in a pair, so, the longer they stood here, in the dining room, outside of Mum's and (more importantly) Gideon's hearing, the worse Fabian felt, having Dad address only him.

      Dad's tight smile returned. "It's because you're the older twin," he tried instead. "You're his big brother, you know. You've got to look out for him, protect him, if need be."

      Fabian blinked.

      …ah. Right. A two-minute difference, introducing Fabian to the world ahead of Gideon—technically, Dad was right. Fabian was the older twin.

      It was the only way he and Gideon weren't the same.

      But it didn't mean they weren't a pair…right?

      By fifth year, Fabian wasn't as hung up on being a pair with his brother.

      He understood what their father meant better now. Not necessarily during first year, more so by second year when Slytherins whispered behind their backs and Gideon tried facing them on his own, sticking up for their sister and her family. Gideon could have a sharp tongue if he chose to use it, but the right words didn't always find him in time or perhaps they came out sounding too soft.

      That would be Fabian's cue to step in and bolster him. Riffing off his brother or perhaps dropping in some tidbit overheard from Sirius' lot in the dorms—it was always enough to rile nearly any Slytherin and trip them up, letting the Prewett twins escape, Fabian laughing as they ran, even Gideon not hiding his amusement.

      But second year, third year, fourth… "Aren't you getting a little tired of bristling every time someone spits out the Weasley surname in the corridors?" Fabian asked his twin as he placed a book back on a nearby shelf in the library.

      Gideon frowned at his back (Fabian didn't have to look to recognize the feeling of those blue eyes boring holes in him). "I don't every time—"

      Fabian nodded with a silent sigh. "You do, Gid. We were barely second years when you stood up to seventh years and told them it's 'not nice' to talk about Molly behind her back. As if Narcissa Black and Rabastan Lestrange cared what we had to say."

      Parchment crinkled behind him. Well, there went Gideon's Charms revision. "…it's different when we have to hear it almost constantly, like an echo."

      Fabian shared in his twin's frown. He knew. He didn't disagree. But they were stuck with Mulciber, Rosier, and Avery for another two years; Snape, too, but he usually only goaded them about Molly's marriage to "someone below" as an afterthought, less as someone who cared. Besides— "What have I said before, Gideon?"

      His twin went quiet.

      Fabian turned and walked back to the small table he shared with his brother that evening. He didn't sit in his seat across from Gideon but crossed his arms atop the chair's back and locked eyes with his twin.

      Gideon twisted his lips around. "…the same as Mum says."

      "And what does Mum say?"

      "There are more important things than blood politics. We just have to know about them to avoid them."

      Fabian nodded. Then he grinned. "And to think you have so much free time to worry about something else during an exam year? Reckon I'll take all the top marks instead of us coming within a few points of each other, at this rate."

      Gideon reddened. "I'm not so distracted that I'll blow my O.W.L.s…!"

      "Convince me of that after the exam period, Gid."

      Gideon glared at him, but finally he noticed his wrinkled Charms work. He blanched and rushed to smooth his parchment, and at last his focus was back where it should be.

      Fabian exhaled, a small smile toying with his lips, and he ran a hand through his hair. A giggle behind him pricked up his ears, however, and he glanced around the bookshelf.

      Dorcas sat at another nearby study table with Marlene, the latter hidden behind her mass of blond curls and their fifth-year Charms text. But dark-haired Dorcas was stifling a fresh round of giggles when she caught Fabian's eye. She gave him a tiny, apologetic shrug and a polite little wave before turning back to her own studies.

      R-Right. Mum was absolutely right. There were more important things. They had O.W.L.s to earn…and perhaps witches to get to know better…hmm.

      He'd spent so much time focused on the Fabian-and-Gideon pair that he'd rather forgotten about other pairs, hadn't he?

      …but, really, it wasn't about being a pair with his twin or not.

      Dad's words all those years ago felt like a heavy weight throughout seventh year, knowing what their chosen classes meant. Fabian was rather surprised Mum and Dad signed off on them, truth be told, and he waited a long time for Gideon to confront him about taking the same classes, in all honesty.

      (Actually, he thought he and Gideon would still do a lot of things together, would talk as usual throughout seventh year, but Gideon finally figured out, too, that he and Fabian didn't have to be a pair, and he found someone he wanted to get to know better, no matter how much Fabian disliked him.)

      The thing was, Hogwarts was only a stepping stone, Fabian knew now. It was a microcosm of what awaited them beyond the relative safety of the castle walls…which wasn't saying much.

      (After all, they read the papers. And deeds were whispered about despite teachers' best efforts to keep Dark topics hushed. And it was Sirius' private business when he ran away to James' last year—so, naturally, the whole castle knew this year, but it didn't mean Gideon needed to befriend Sirius' younger, tradition-embracing brother "to check in with him.")

      Classes would get them the N.E.W.T.s. And N.E.W.T.s would warrant them any of a number of respectable paths as grown wizards after graduation.

      In the end, though, Fabian looked Gideon in the eye and gave him a reassuring nod before leading the way into the Ministry of Magic, to the Auror Office.

      (And he'd lead the way, too, when Dumbledore approached them barely a month into training and the Prewett twins agreed to join this Order of the Phoenix thing the headmaster had going.

      After all, he was the older brother. They were a pair, perhaps, but Fabian understood what his role meant now…to look out for Gideon, to protect him—

      —to fall, if need be, so Gideon wouldn't have to.)

Also done for the If You Dare Challenge (for prompt #2: vague misery) in the HPFC forum on FFN. Rather grim, but this collection of Prewett-centric stories has been sitting, stewing in my brain for a long while now… I have many a headcanon for Fab, Gid, Molly, etc, and Fortune Favors the Brave feels like a nice way to explore them; here in "me first, then you," we see a bit of Fabian's pigheadedness explained more as overprotectiveness. It's not pretty in other scenes, for sure, but it hurts to see it thru Fab's eyes. :') I also like this idea that we don't know who's idea it was to become Aurors first—Fabian's or Gideon's—but Fab is there every step of the way, taking the first step. A glimpse of my OTPs for the boys and more to come on the rest of the family, so please look forward to more! If you're reading this on FFN, just follow this collection; if you're reading on AO3 or tumblr, then follow along with the series. -w-Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

      "What've you got?" came somewhere off to his left.

      "Shh," Scabior rushed, half in annoyance, half to concentrate.

      The voice's owner went still behind him. Others with him didn't pipe up after that, some perhaps waiting for Scabior's opinion.

      But, when he settled on one, he found he wasn't keen to share it. At least, not with everyone present. No…

      Not when something felt odd tonight, and that something reeked in the air.

      Scabior didn't have Greyback's senses, of course, so he doubted the other Snatchers would put much faith in his caution now, despite Scabior's good nose on previous hunts. Not to mention several of these Snatchers, including the one who'd just spoken up (Rumford, an all right bloke), were low-level Death Eaters on loan well past their previous assignment ages ago.

      At that thought, Scabior put his concern on hold and glanced behind him, picking out Faraday's men in an instant. Rumford was close by, near one of Scabior's trusted, the exceptionally tall and reedy Barkin. Rumford had taken to learning the ropes from Barkin in Moyer's place the last several months, since Moyer had grown indignant and wanted out after barely more than a few weeks. Speaking of the git—Scabior spied the burly bastard dressed once more in all black, more comfortable with the newly recruited Death Eaters back along the tree line than up front by the covered bridge with sympathizers and Snatchers. Well, Moyer could stay there, for all Scabior cared. Moyer was a pain in the arse anyhow. Unlike—

      Unfocused eyes stopped staring out over the gorge and drifted Scabior's way, and blue eyes met blue.

      Scabior pursed his lips, tamping down his frown about the odd air the longer Shunpike held his gaze. Faraday thought Shunpike trouble, keeping the young wizard Imperiused all the time. But the witch simply didn't understand that didn't have to be the case with Shunpike.

      Scabior… Scabior knew Shunpike's story, because it wasn't far from his own. It was how the two men had come to an agreement of sorts, how they'd become confidants little by little over the past few months, without the need to take away Shunpike's freedom, only for him to feign it in front of others.

      A broken twig snapped to his right, alerting him that Shunpike had inched forward and then frozen.

      Scabior froze, too, and clenched his jaw. It was a dangerous game they played, keeping Shunpike's head down and the ruse up. It didn't help that, with the barrier around the castle and the odd air, things had Scabior on edge right now.

      To the point where, if he had a choice, he wouldn't lead this charge tonight.

      But he had to be alone in his opinion, because others paced around him and Shunpike, some hooted and hollered, more taunted the students waiting across the bridge behind the suits of armor come to life, and even more behind him and Shunpike didn't bother keeping their voices down much at all, acting as though this were merely a small stop before the Dark Lord took care of things, made history, and the Wizarding world changed forever.

      And that would be the case. Everyone who sided with the Dark Lord or against the Ministry's abusive powers or just because was here tonight, to change the world.

      So Scabior set aside his fear of the something odd and focused on that, because he was done being one of those victims of those with power and a name. He glanced at Shunpike then.

      With everyone else's attention diverted, Shunpike didn't try as hard this second to pretend. His lips parted in a tiny, puckered, concerned "o" and his brow was furrowed. He was waiting for Scabior to share what had made the older wizard go quiet.

      But Scabior closed his eyes and shook his head, assuring Shunpike not to worry. And, when he opened his eyes, something invisible fluttered into being in front of him, burning to a crisp, crumbling to ashes, fading just as quickly as it arrived. …the barrier.

      The barrier was down.

      The chaos of the assembled behind him converged into a concentrated attack when victorious whoops rang out, and a reinvigorated Scabior held his wand high, leading the way across the bridge.

      A lanky but worn student had come partway onto the bridge to taunt them but turned heel and ran the moment Scabior and the others gave chase, and the thunder of footsteps—dozens of them, no, hundreds—clamored after him. The pounding footfall echoed in the covered bridge, so loud Scabior almost couldn't hear himself laugh, and he couldn't hear Shunpike, either, when the younger wizard yelped something behind him—

      Ah.

      No, wait.

      It wasn't the footfall that was deafening.

      During their charge forward, there had been charges set off under the bridge.

      The chaos of the assembled behind Scabior returned but morphed into panic, into screams and hollers and cries for help and desperate attempts at magic to save themselves. Bodies and splinters and bridge and fire rained down as Scabior and Shunpike and few more poured on what little speed they had left, to try and reach the safety of the other side.

      But it was no use.

      The ground beneath Scabior's feet crumbled. He knew he should've trusted his instincts (they were what made him an excellent Snatcher, after all). Instead, here he was, his heart plummeting into his stomach as he drop, drop, dropped, flailing out of instinct like any other hapless animal.

      …but…he wasn't an animal.

      None of them—not his Snatchers—they weren't animals or the lowest of lows or beyond saving.

      That struck Scabior when a hand shot out from thin air and jerked him to a stop.

      Pain snapped him out of his dismal thoughts, and Scabior followed the arm up to the face of his savior…and he gaped at Shunpike.

      Shunpike couldn't pretend to be Imperiused right now, but they had bigger worries, certainly. For one, Shunpike had managed to cling to one of the broken but still standing structural beams, up towards the top. But the knuckles of his right hand which clung to the beam were pure white, and sweat dripped from his brow. He was holding on—quite literally—for life.

      For his and Scabior's, both.

      "C'mon, then," Shunpike said, though his voice was strained.

      Scabior blinked away his stupor and pursed his lips once more. "Come where?"

      "I don' 'ave me wand, Scabior. Lost it instead of me life." He grinned (always toothy and a bit goofy, but genuine nevertheless) and tried pulling Scabior up. But Shunpike's grin dimmed as he struggled to heave the other man up. His willowy arm had a good grip but terrible lifting power. And his other arm wouldn't hold on to what remained of the structural beam forever.

      They locked eyes as the weight of reality clicked into place. Scabior opened his mouth—

      But Shunpike beat him to the punch with a glare. "If you say sumfink stupid like 'Save youself,' then I'll just 'ex you meself when I find a new wand, you wanker."

      Getting chewed out right now, of all times, and by Shunpike no less… It was so absurd that Scabior couldn't help it: He laughed. It was a hearty sound and feeling, and he did agree with Shunpike for a beat, that perhaps he was a wanker, when they hadn't even exhausted all their options yet. So Scabior, who'd been clutching Shunpike's outstretched arm with both hands, pried one hand free to pat his own person for his wand. They ought to have time enough to try a spell or two—

      Scabior blanched, his good humor evaporating.

      Shunpike, having gotten so much better at reading him during his stay with the Snatchers, stared at Scabior, wide-eyed.

      But no. Scabior had been fearful before, about tonight. He wouldn't let panic set in, even when he switched hands and—and felt that no, he truly was wandless…

      Shunpike's arm strained as the younger wizard scrambled to haul Scabior up. But as he focused on his left and its precious cargo, the grip of his right arm on the beam began to slip. It wasn't noticeable at first, but then they slid by a centimeter and another and then by two inches.

      "Shunpike—"

      "No! Don' distract me right now—"

      "Shunpike—"

      "I won' 'ear you—"

      "Stan." Scabior's smile was small and tight when Shunpike whipped his head around, unaccustomed to the use of his given name by the Snatcher. Scabior rested his head against Shunpike's sleeve and pressed a grateful kiss to the back of the hand holding on to him.

      But the gesture only worried Shunpike even more, despite their confidants-and-something-oddly-more status. Fear renewed his strength. He tugged Scabior impossibly closer, and Shunpike's face was nearly within reach.

      Blue eyes locked with blue eyes.

      Scabior could almost feel Shunpike's breath on his face.

      Then Shunpike's left hand cramped and his arm spasmed, his fingers flying open, and Scabior finally stopped holding on and—

Done for the If You Dare Challenge (for prompt #812: how to save a life) in the HPFC forum on FFN. You read right; I ended it there. B3 I rarely do cliffhangers or ambiguous endings, but I knew I wanted this one to stop here, bc I can't stop thinking about them, *lol*. As for what Scabior refers to as his and Stan's "shared story," that's a ref to smthg in "Less Than Dirt," so that's my plug for you to read that. Is there another Stanior coming after this? Yep! "The Trial of Stan Shunpike," to be written once I figure out which of two possible endings I wanna do. :3c I rly do enjoy Scabior ships, tho…I just… *has written this man a LOT* And it's hard but fun to write Stan's thick accent?? Idk. Board the Stanior ship with me, folks.

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

      "Easier I reckon than what you fared, luv," Septimus says, leaning across the threshold to peck that bemused smile.

      And good thing he leans, too. He's not about to go anywhere with the two weights that anchor themselves to either of his legs in that moment, ignorant of their parents' stern looks.

      "Ah, boys? Might I come in?"

      The eldest, Cyril, has the Black family smirk down at the precocious age of six…plus he's getting to be a wee bit large for this show of affection, reedy though he might be. "Maybe," he says.

      Bilius, four years old, mimics his brother, right down to the way he says, "Maybe," but the chubby-cheeked lad is too happy to keep the bit going. He bursts into a fit of giggles right after, which Cyril catches when their father walks into the house with them attached this way.

      Cedrella rolls her eyes and shuts the door behind them. "Oh, good grief! It's been a ruckus in here all day long, Sep. You'd think Christmas was tomorrow, not weeks behind us."

      Septimus just manages to shrug off his outer cloak with Cedrella's help. Then he gives each of his sons a long look. "Boys, is this true? You didn't let Mum have her peace and quiet?"

      Cyril switches from rambunctious to guilty in a flash, his cheeks faintly colored red just like his hair (their firstborn is so equal parts them, Septimus thinks, from looks down to personality). He detaches himself from Septimus' left leg, clasps his hands behind his back, and bows his head to Cedrella. "…sorry, Mum."

      Cedrella purses her lips again, but it's to stifle a chuckle, Septimus knows, especially when she locks eyes with her husband. She draws their oddly meek child to her middle and hugs him tight. "Oh, Cy… Thank you, dear. I appreciate it."

      Partly to mimic Cyril, partly to behave, partly for the reward of Cedrella's warm hug, Bilius follows suit, springing up with an "I'm sorry, too!"

      Now the parents do laugh, and Septimus tousles his boys' hair. "All right, all right… Why don't you two head upstairs and tidy up then? Give Mum some of that quiet time for a bit now."

      "But supper—"

      "Supper will be done shortly," Cedrella assures their growing boys. Her eyes follow them upstairs, but then she turns to Septimus with a haggard sigh, half collapsing in his arms. "…it will, but. Sep, I dunno how I can make it another month or so."

      At that, Septimus steadies her with one arm and drops his free hand to her round belly. His touch doesn't linger long before he feels the kick. Internally, he heaves a sigh of relief as he leads Cedrella to the nearby armchair.

      He doesn't doubt that they'll greet a new baby next month, when February brings new chills and the promises of spring around the corner. But he also wonders…

      As if sensing his hesitation, Cedrella lifts her lolling head from the back of the chair and reaches for his hand, their fingertips brushing in her tiredness. "Septimus?"

      He musters a smile for her. "Cedrella?"

      She shoots him a look. All this time, and it'll never change, him replying with her name when she simply beckons with his. "Something on your mind?" She tugs on his ring finger and taps his wedding band for emphasis.

      "Oh, not that worry again," he insists as he pulls up the ottoman to sit in front of her.

      Cedrella lowers her voice. "I know it's not ideal, but. So my parents don't see me as their own anymore. And…Callidora and Charis stopped answering my owls years ago." She tries so desperately to feign strength, but her dark eyes drop to her lap (…well, to her belly) at talk of her immediate family. "But not everyone in the house of Black has the same opinion. There have been others before me who've gone against the family's unappealing 'ideals,' and I certainly won't be the last. So, if we're stumbling a bit right now, Sep, I know I can find some sort of support. True family helps true family."

      He winces. He doesn't disagree, and it's a value she shares with his own father, funnily enough. But Septimus has done…all right to support them, on his own ability. A fifth mouth to feed will make things extra tight, yes, but they will manage, and without the charity of the family who excised his wife from their family tree. Still… "Cedrella…," Septimus starts with a sigh in his voice, "I…never told you the origin of my name, did I?"

      The non sequitur takes Cedrella by surprise. "Sorry?"

      Septimus smiles and pauses to let his eyes rove over her, tracing the subtle wave of her dark blond locks before the knot in her hair and sinking into the depth of her stone brown eyes ("Gray eyes run in the Black blood," she told him back in fifth year after their first kiss, "but mine don't quite want to be gray"). He muses on how she used to be sallow, too, like her sisters, their first few years in Hogwarts before she started rebelling and flying during her breaks and eventually befriending "that Weasley boy." But now? Now she spends time with her family outside and radiates warmth around the clock, as evidenced by her rosy cheeks, upon which his gaze rests now.

      "…Sep…?"

      "Ah, right. Sorry." Plucked from his appraisal, he cups her cheek in his hand and runs his thumb along her cheekbone, and the feel of her calms him. So, starting again, Septimus clears his throat. "My name normally would've gone to a seventh son."

      Cedrella furrows her brow. Of course she's confused; they both know he's an only child.

      "My parents never had or lost any before me… And I'm not the seventh Weasley generation."

      "No, your family's older than mine, even."

      "Yeah, color me surprised by that one." Septimus takes another breath and slides both of his hands into Cedrella's. "You…met my parents and all the assorted uncles and aunts and cousins at our wedding. My grandparents, too."

      Cedrella chuckles here. "The Weasleys are a big but warm and welcoming bunch," she remarks.

      "Cedrella, we weren't always that way. Actually—we aren't always that way. The big bit, not the warm and welcoming."

      Once more, she furrows her brow, over his correction of tense, but it sinks so low over her dark eyes that it borders on glare (in this, she's almost the spitting image of her elder sister, who never lost a chance to scoff whenever Septimus passed them in the school's corridors). "Septimus," she warns.

      He squeezes her fingers lightly but doesn't let go. "Look, it's. Sort of superstition, one might say?"

      "'Superstition'? Was there magic involved?"

      "Well, I know how you feel about Divination…"

      Cedrella sighs. "If ever they nix a subject from the curriculum—" She squeezes her husband's hands in response. "Nevertheless, continue."

      Septimus bites his bottom lip and offers her a consoling smile. "…it began generations ago, y'know. And they thought it was a fluke, at first. It wasn't until Great-Great-Granddad Trick that they believed in it for real."

      "Believed in what, Sep?"

      "Well…that, through a combination of Arithmancy, Divination, and moderately sound business advice…the Weasley family could, would be fruitful. Just. Never all at once."

      "How?"

      He sighs. "We've reserved numerical names for ages, and they've been the ones with large families."

      Cedrella blinks in the quiet of the house. Off in the distance upstairs, they hear the boys shuffling about in their room.

      Septimus knows his wife, though, because they've been together since their school days, so he knows when she needs just a little more information before she reacts. He swallows a lump in his throat and cautiously proceeds: "So Old Trick…er, Triconius, that is…had a handful of sons. They didn't all have families, but one of his sons had a single son of his own, Grandpa Quincy. Grandpa Quincy was an only child like Trick but had many sons, the second of which was my dad, who had…only me." He stops there and raises his eyebrows.

      Some days she feigns ignorance on account of the hormones, and Septimus happily takes care of this and that around the house, because a first or third pregnancy can't be easy on Cedrella. But her eyes are sharp and clear right now as she pieces things together. "You mentioned Arithmancy."

      He nods.

      "So—these names aren't just a quirk of your family, like star names in mine?"

      "Quirk? Somewhat. Done entirely on purpose with full intent? Yes."

      Finally, her mouth pops open in a small "o." "Then…Cyril and Bilius and our new baby…"

      "I want whatever size family you want, Ced. But the magic's in the family's favor, just so you know." His shoulders sag, unsure of what to expect next.

      Cedrella frowns. But, after a beat, she ventures, "Well, you've told me before that it's been ages since a Weasley witch was born into the family, right?"

      He perks up at that. "Yes. Loads of wizards for generations."

      "Perhaps it's time to wish for a witch, then," Cedrella states with a small pat of her belly. "Although, I have a feeling it's a boy," she admits a second later.

      Septimus quirks an eyebrow at her. "Then what now?"

      Cedrella pecks his cheek and leans back in the armchair with a content sigh. "Then we do what we do best: We raise another healthy, happy boy. But, this time, Septimus, we'll warn him and his brothers about the family tradition…and perhaps we'll let them decide their own fates and families and names when the times come." She tugs his left hand and his ring finger once more, cracking one eye open and sharing some of her confidence with him with a secret smile.

      …and, honestly? It works. Her expression and gesture convey what she won't say, that perhaps family tradition is something not quite keeping the Weasley family alive but bogging them down. And, if there's an expert on flying free of their family's musts, it's Cedrella (formerly Black) Weasley.

      So Septimus shares in her smile. Because he's never been very good at flying, but he's always been prepared for something brand-new or terrifying so long as Cedrella's at his side.

Done for the If You Dare Challenge (for prompt #806: deep roots) in the HPFC forum on FFN. THESE. THESE ARE THE HCS I thought I could squeeze into "The Future of the Bloodline" and was so woefully wrong, *lol*. I long ago decided that Bilius was one of Arthur's two brothers, and I only recently gave a name to his other one; here, too, I wrote for the second time (first was ynusly ch79) that Arthur's their youngest, so that was fun. But just…egads. The idea of the Weasleys being a long, established, big family but how marinated in my brain for a long time and didn't properly form until my recent Septdrella (and some Prewett) hcs took shape. Now, me being a maths major, I enjoyed naming some Weasley forebears, since "Septimus" has the root for "seven," so does "Quincy" have the one for "five" and "Triconius" for "three" (all prime numbers, btw, altho "Triconius" is of my own making and mixes Greek and Latin, but we're gonna breeze over that XP). Whether the fam members in btwn are named for "four" and for "six," respectively…eh, couldn't decide. XD Anywho! Cedrella has been warned: They rly could've had a larger fam…but I like how her rebel streak gave Septimus some confidence that things don't have to be that way. The Black family has traditions that ought to be retired, so perhaps the Weasley family did, too! Final thoughts: The hc of the Weasleys being older than the Blacks is derived from the etymology of the surnames, and it's implied that the Weasley disdain for Divination is inherent (Ron got it from Grandma Cedrella XD).

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

      Septimus tenses. Mum and Dad almost never keep things from him, especially now that he's older and nearly done with school. He knows that Dad's often struggled to buy gifts for his many siblings (although, truthfully, Septimus figured that out on his own ages ago) and that sometimes helping the previous, fruitful generation has led to a strain on their own family's finances. He knows Mum's accessory-making hobby has turned into a side business that's eased that strain sometimes (and he's seen her work in Malkin's window displays—Septimus would offer his compliments if only Mum weren't so proud so as not to be embarrassed by the circumstances).

      So…if it's one of the few things they feel they can't tell him yet…or if they're prepping how to tell him…

      His stomach stops its rumbling and his parched throat is no longer a priority as new concerns replace his priorities. Septimus can't help but fear as he pushes the dining room door open and blurts, "What are you two doing up? Is someone hurt? Is someone—gone?"

      Mum and Dad jump in their seats nearest the door. Mum pales, white as a ghost, while Dad slaps a hand over his heart and settles his son with a wide-eyed stare. "Merlin's beard—! Don't scare us like that, Septimus!"

      "I'm sorry, but—is someone." He stops there. He can't ask again. He doesn't want to think of his cousins, his aunts and uncles, his grandparents—

      But Mum shakes her head vigorously and turns in her chair, reaching for Septimus' hand. "No! No, dear, no one's dead. No funeral planning. Everyone's in good health, I assure you."

      He lets himself be tugged forward, though he swipes at his eyes with his free hand as relief surges through him. "O-Oh. That. That's good then… But why are you awake?"

      With their hands connected, Septimus isn't fooled by Mum's excellent poker face (that's how she wins at Exploding Snap and all other card games), because her fingers go rigid around his hand. In response, she looks to her husband to explain.

      And that's when Septimus notices the ocean of parchment on the dining table. Scattered around and some cheaper than others, there's letter after letter, more than a dozen opened envelopes. He doesn't read the words, but he recognizes the handwriting right away, because he receives birthday cards every year from these people…from his loved ones. "Are these new?"

      "Relatively recent, yes," Dad answers.

      "Why's everyone writing us all at once?" Sure, no one's dead or dying, but perhaps the family of one of his uncles is in far worse shape than they thought.

      "Because…Septimus, it's past time, actually." Dad sighs and pinches the freckled bridge of his nose. "And…they didn't write to all three of us. Just to your mum and me. About you."

      His nerves wind up again, taut, at the revelation. "Huh?"

      Dad sighs again and Mum's shoulders sag, but they give him twin smiles of sympathy as she pulls their son between them and rubs soothing circles in the small of his back. "You've got two years of school left, yes, but it's also a good time to think about your future."

      "You mean—work?" Septimus ignores the uncomfortable way his pajama shirt keeps bunching where Mum rubs; the motion is more comforting to her than to him, anyway. "Reckon I'd follow in your footsteps…"

      Dad's smile is tight, but he shakes his head. His hair, once as red as his son's, is considerably lighter this past year, flecked with threads of gray and even sparse white; it's more noticeable by candlelight tonight. "No, Septimus. Not work, son."

      If not work, then—? Septimus freezes and snatches up the topmost letter, from Uncle Fen, Dad's eldest brother, and the words "arranged marriage" jump off the parchment at him. He doesn't even have to grab the other correspondences for the phrase to highlight itself, drawing Septimus' eye with a quick skim.

      "Nothing's set in stone," Mum rushes. "It's just talk. Ultimately we want you to be happy, Septimus."

      "Then why is anyone discussing an arranged marriage for me? I'm freshly sixteen!"

      Dad and Mum share a soft chuckle as well as a glance, and something passes between them in that fond moment.

      …oh. Septimus knows his parents love each other, a lot, and he's walked past their photos in the hall countless times. But he's never truly asked them how they met or when or why they got married, has he?

      So…perhaps he's the odd one out, being unsure of this arranged marriage business.

      Either way, Septimus knows how he feels about the topic and clears his throat. He backs away from Mum's ministrations, too, because he's not a child anymore. "What else?" he asks.

      His parents return from La-La Land, and Dad's usually happy-go-lucky countenance is nowhere to be seen. In fact, his blue eyes (the same ones Septimus has) drop to the spread of letters. "…there's discussion about making you a pureblood match."

      Keeping the Weasley family pureblood in the process.

      Septimus mulls over the thought, but it bothers him, the notion that anyone in his family thinks that's a worthy priority. The fact sinks into the pit of his stomach, where it sours and makes the back of his throat burn.

      …realistically speaking, though, he muses if the adults have thought this through. His father's generation was an abundant one and still all made pureblood matches, five brothers in total. Uncle Fen and his wife never had children, so Septimus is the eldest cousin, but…

      Unless their family stops only appreciating Muggles and Muggle-borns and starts marrying them, too, then won't they be right quick out of options? Especially when particular families have hated them for generations…

      As if sensing his train of thought, his parents sigh, and Dad shuffles the letters before tidying them into a neat pile to set aside. "Look, it's just a thought. There's—There's a Blishwick daughter, I think… Your Aunt Pea mentioned her cousin has a daughter, too, so that's the Max line. Or, with the right gift, I'm sure we could talk to the Bulstrodes or to the Macmillans—"

      "No, don't."

      His parents stop and focus their attention on him. If they were half awake while wading through this mess, they're fully awake now.

      But now… Now Septimus has his chance. He can voice every last thought he has on this bloody idea and put it to bed and then they can all return to bed, which sounds quite lovely at two in the morning.

      He licks his lips and swallows a nervous lump. They wait.

      "I…don't know any of those witches."

      They're his parents. They know to wait for the rest.

      "…and…I have someone I like."

      Their eyes widen. Dad's "Why didn't you say so sooner?" overlaps with Mum's "Oh, Septimus, that's lovely, darling!"

      He lets them coo and pepper him with basic questions, and he answers as many as he can while being as vague as possible. It's partly a stroll down Memory Lane for him ("When did you two start talking?" "Politely? First time…third year…properly, fourth." "Same House?" "No, different." "Does she like Wizard's Chess?" "Afraid not much, Dad, but I suspect that's because I keep winning every time I try to teach her." "That's no good, son, let a lady win once in a while." "We're allowed to have our own talents, Mum; she's an ace flyer, and I imagine she'd be great at Quidditch if her family would let her play." "Oh, a Quidditch enthusiast? She sounds like fun, Septimus! Why haven't we heard about her before?"). It's partly an exercise in keeping his privacy as well as hers…not just because she's asked him before, but especially now, with all this arranged marriage nonsense and wondering what the status of the Weasley line will look like in a generation or two…

      That's when it hits him.

      Septimus…doesn't want to stick a pin in his parents' and uncles' and aunts' meddling merely out of principle. He—He's thinking about his future, himself.

      And with her—Cedrella—in it.

      He blinks and shakes himself free of his stupor, amazed by this newfound clarity. He has half a mind to owl Cedrella right now…but, no, that would be unwise at this late hour.

      "…imus? Septimus?"

      "Mm?"

      Mum chuckles and reaches up, combing her fingers through his bedhead. "Do we even get to know her name, dear?"

      He reddens, which makes them laugh since red cheeks forever spotlight a Weasley's freckles, but Septimus sighs. "I…will tell you her name and more about her come Christmas break. Deal?"

      "We don't even get a hint?"

      Septimus turns on his heel, exhausted by the turn of events, but he pauses before returning to his room and muses on the irony of things. If how fondly, how deeply he's come to care for the kindhearted Cedrella, of the Weasley-despising Black family, is any portend of what sixth year, seventh year, and after Hogwarts will be like, then things look promising. So he replies with wry smile, "She's someone who ticks my—and the family's—boxes. Goodnight, you two."

      And there he leaves his parents pondering who their prospective future daughter-in-law could be.

Done for the If You Dare Challenge (for prompt #985: irony) in the HPFC forum on FFN. I've got a few old Weasley fam hcs and more are cropping up, thx to inspo from my pal, controlled climb (and srsly go read her Septdrellas bc they're SO GOOD TT-TT), and thx to working on developing some hcs for the Prewett fam at the same time. I realize, in hindsight, this one was more Septimus-centric with just mentions of Cedrella at the end, but that means some ideas not crammed in here turned into another fic, *LOL*. But for reals: If the Weasleys have been large, poor, but pureblood for generations…that's like…gonna be rly hard to manage? *dubiously eyes canon* Anywho. I still have more thoughts on this, hence a separate fic, which will show Septdrella front and center. :3c Also, truly ironic that some in the family would want to continue being pureblood, and Septimus thinks it's a non-issue…but marries a pureblood witch anyway. XD So! Here's to more hcs~ (And hence my marking this a Maydayverse fic, since it's part of my overall hc. :3)

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

      The owl's large, amber eyes are unblinking. It doesn't even hoot while it waits, preferring instead to shiver in a ruffle of feathers.

      "Owling—such a filthy task," Narcissa grumbles to herself when she cracks open the glass. She holds a hand out to bar entry to the bird and snatches the scroll tied to its right foot.

      The owl nips at her fingers but, realizing Narcissa isn't one for treats, hops around and flies elsewhere for attention.

      But Narcissa reads the parchment, twice, and her irritation over the bird is gone the next instant. Narcissa leaves her tea behind, pens a note to Lucius which she zips to the Ministry via spell, and plucks her cloak from a hook by the front door. Then she exits the manor and Disapparates on the spot.

      Apparating long distances is taxing, and Narcissa isn't fond of flying, but she splits her travel time between the modes and arrives at Hogwarts in a few hours. There's a dank, dreary cloak of dark mist draped over the castle grounds…ah, no, that's not quite right. It's just Dementors, she has to remind herself, presently on loan from the Ministry while her cousin roams free, freshly escaped from Azkaban.

      Filch spies her outside the gates and hustles to meet her, but McGonagall's right behind him, and the old woman looks at sharp as ever. "Mrs. Malfoy, I assure you, there is no need—"

      "My son," Narcissa interrupts, striding past both of them into the castle, because she remembers her way just fine, "is in the Hospital Wing after being attacked by a creature. You don't get to decide what is necessary right now." No use of title or mention of McGonagall's name. No, no acknowledgment whatsoever beyond "you."

      McGonagall bristles but shrinks back half a step behind the livid mother.

      Yes, sometimes "you" does more than enough to carry her ire and vehemence.

      She climbs the steps of the staircases two at a time where the moving parts allow, and Narcissa clenches her jaw and taps her finger on the bannister whenever she must wait for the staircases to settle into place. Nevertheless, she is the first one off the steps and the first one on the fourth floor, and her imagination runs wild, because when you receive a missive stating your only son's been attacked by a hippogriff, of all things, then—

      Narcissa bursts through the Hospital Wing doors, carrying her anger and Lucius', too, because she knows her husband won't arrive yet, will be greasing the gears back at the Ministry, that this is yet another example of Albus Dumbledore's inability to lead this school, and—

      But where an owl's unblinking amber eyes couldn't have bothered her less earlier, a pair of sharp, blue ones pierce the air as they land on her, and Narcissa stops in her tracks.

      Behind her, McGonagall and Filch catch up, and the deputy headmistress clears her throat. "Poppy, I'm terribly sorry about this interruption, but…" Narcissa senses rather than sees the disdainful glance McGonagall casts her way. "Mrs. Malfoy is here to check on her son."

      Poppy Pomfrey nods once. She draws the curtain behind her and tips her head to her audience. "Thank you, Professor McGonagall, Mr. Filch. I can take it from here."

      Narcissa squares her shoulders and glimpses McGonagall's frown before the other two leave. But, even with them gone, it's still hard for her to move from her spot by the doors. Only when she hears the faintest whimper from further in the room does Narcissa recall her original intent in coming here. She clears her throat. "A-And? How is Draco?"

      Poppy notes something on her clipboard before setting it aside. She steps forward but still keeps Narcissa at a distance, out of arm's reach. "He's sleeping. He's got some scratches and possibly a sprain. I'm waiting for the swelling in his arm to go down, but my experience tells me nothing's broken. Based on what Hagrid told me of the hippogriff and a few eyewitness accounts, Mr. Malfoy didn't know what he was getting into."

      Her words draw a frown from Narcissa. She knows what Draco's like—he's so cocksure of himself sometimes, just like his father. But…there's something else in Poppy's tone.

      There's something else there, meant for Narcissa.

      Finally, Narcissa licks her lips and lowers her volume. "I—I didn't realize you'd stayed on, after all this time."

      "This is the kind of position with job security," Poppy remarks. She glances behind her, but it's so quiet in here, so they must be alone save for the sleeping Malfoy heir. Slowly, Poppy draws her gaze back to her unwelcome guest. "…did you even read that letter?"

      "Wha—? Yes, of course."

      "It was on official stationery." She pauses, as though she meant to add "Mrs. Malfoy" at the end of her sentence but couldn't quite force the name out. Poppy tucks a nonexistent stray hair into her nurse's cap. "I ask, because if you had, then you would've understood this required giving the parents notice and nothing more. You didn't need to come here."

      Narcissa has heard those words before, decades ago (a lifetime ago). But…she's here, in the end. Her eyes trace the stone floor, following the lines between blocks up the aisle, counting cots. In the quiet, she hears Draco's even breaths, which put her at ease. Perhaps Poppy is right, and Narcissa overreacted in coming here. But still. "I didn't realize you'd stayed on," she repeats dumbly.

      Poppy sighs and walks to her nursing station up front. She leaves the door open behind her, but Narcissa doesn't read it as the invitation she used to, so the younger woman follows at a distance, leaning against the doorjamb when the matron sits down behind her desk. Poppy quirks an eyebrow at her. "You never once read through the faculty list, when Draco's letter came?"

      Narcissa's hackles rise. Of course she'd read all the documentation…! Nothing had been so momentous in so long as Draco's first year. After years of dark spots in the family history—Bellatrix going to Azkaban, Andromeda shacking up with that Muggle-born and having his child—Draco's school years were going to be highlights, were going to put everything else out of mind.

      Everything else out of mind.

      (Even her own mistakes.)

      Poppy watches her with open curiosity. Those blue eyes—sometimes glinting sharp like her silver instruments, sometimes soft like soothing lavender sachets—stare, but it's not so uncomfortable, and Narcissa doesn't call her out for it.

      Instead, Narcissa stares back. She studies the other witch and notes that, though Poppy's only got a handful of years on Bellatrix, this job has aged her in some ways. Her dark hair is colored steel now and lighter still in a few bits that peek out from under her cap. Lines curve around her small mouth, still firm in its disapproval of Narcissa turning up when she least expects her. There are lines by her eyes, too, but it's the hardness of her stare that catches something in Narcissa's throat.

      Poppy checks the time on her watch. "You may stay for a short while. Am I to expect his father here, as well?"

      Reality is a cold splash of water in Narcissa's face, but she doesn't fully shake off her reveries. "I'm…I'm not sure." She wrings her hands in the hem of her travel cloak. She's never liked talking Lucius with Poppy. "He might be along later or come by tomorrow, at the earliest."

      The matron nods and makes a note of this. Then she busies herself sorting through parchment, almost as though Narcissa isn't there.

      But Narcissa is there, just as she was here more than twenty years ago—

      —and she comes stumbling into the Hospital Wing, a bumbling thing of a witch, looking for respite, because, for all she likes to partake in making fun of Andromeda, she can't always keep up with her fellow snakes and the things they do for entertainment. There's only so much time she can spend in the library or even waltzing around the castle with Lucius, who likes to chirp about how they'll be betrothed before they're even out of school. But the castle is big, so surely there are places for her to hide and catch her breath, and faking ill once in a blue moon isn't the most awful thing Narcissa Black can do.

      But it's fifth year, already. An exam year. The school nurse ought to understand when a student needs to relax, yes?

      Narcissa enters the Hospital Wing, an excuse half formed on her tongue when she notes the usual nurse isn't there.

      No, it's a young witch barely older than herself, with rosy cheeks and startling violet–blue eyes that pierce her.

      Oh. Hadn't—hadn't they said something at the start-of-term feast? About a new nurse…

      And the new nurse breaks into a brilliant smile. "Hello, there, miss. Madam Pomfrey, at your service," she says.

      Suddenly, the youngest Black daughter forgets her excuse or what even brought her here in the first place and knows only that she's glad she came here today.

      …but today, Narcissa Malfoy isn't so sure. Today, Narcissa feels awkwardly caught between two worlds again, although this time she doesn't have options. Still, she wants to know: "Do you hate me, Poppy?"

      Poppy doesn't look her way, but her fingers still their sorting.

      Narcissa wonders at her answer. She wonders a lot. After all—

      —it's not as though she comes every other day or even every week. No, because Narcissa doesn't want others to think of her as sickly or to discover her fascination with Poppy.

      But Poppy doesn't seem to mind. She makes small chat when Narcissa pops by and then encourages her to go study. After exams, Poppy pours her tea and, after sixth year starts, they have tea and biscuits semi-regularly at the nursing station.

      Poppy chuckles a lot more in Narcissa's sixth year. "You don't find me decrepit and old?"

      Narcissa raises one finely plucked eyebrow at her. Where on Earth would she have gotten that idea? "You're barely twenty-three, Poppy," Narcissa remarks.

      "Mm," she mumbles, as though it's an answer. But there's something soft and sad in her heavy-lidded gaze, as though she's used to people calling her such terrible things because of her aspirations.

      Narcissa thinks it could be far worse. Having aspirations is a fine thing. Having your life chosen for you…planned out for you…being unsure if you even want that life…those are scary things. For all Bellatrix's Dark thoughts catch her off-guard and Andromeda's "progressive" mindset puts her off, they don't terrify Narcissa as much as the idea that her destiny will be tied to the Malfoys. Sure, Lucius is fun, but… But.

      She looks at Poppy.

      Poppy holds her gaze. She smiles again, but it's small until Narcissa reaches across the nurse's desk and covers her hand with her own. Then—yes, then her smile reaches her eyes.

      Unlike now. There's no smile and, even if Poppy managed to, Narcissa can't imagine it reaching her eyes the way it used to. So Narcissa concedes with a silent sigh and walks away, moving to check on her son. And she does, she pauses at Draco's cot, sees him laid up with his right arm in a sling (her heart stutters with concern and relief), and continues her walk to the end of the wing, until she comes to the far windows, until she can lean against the worn, smooth stone of the sill there and—

      —it's something that started almost harmlessly before sixth year ended, but now she comes by too often in seventh year and Poppy knows her intentions. How can she not, after the third, fourth, fifth time Narcissa's undone the ribbon by her collar and unfastened those few buttons to free the tender flesh of her neck for nipping?

      "We'll get caught," Poppy mutters, breathless, catching one of Narcissa's hands from roaming up her skirts.

      It's never "We shouldn't" or "Stop it" or "I don't want to/this/you." It's always concern over getting caught. And Narcissa pauses long enough to show Poppy she hears her.

      Then Poppy bites her bottom lip and her tiny smile peeks through, and they're back to snogging and—really, who's snogging who anymore?

      Still, Poppy's worried about getting caught, especially as the months go on. Narcissa notices her seventh year is both a bright point (Lucius graduated last year, Narcissa is Head Girl) and a low one (this year is her last, her future awaits her outside these stone walls…and Poppy, Poppy will remain here indefinitely).

      Sometimes, Narcissa kisses Poppy's fingertips and reassures her. "We won't get caught." She says it with all the backbone of those with the long history of the house of Black.

      And maybe, just maybe, Poppy believes her for a moment, because she rests her head on the younger witch's chest and lies still, just long enough that Narcissa thinks they won't need to dress and carry on with their day, that time stands still. Just for them.

      A familiar clamor behind her snaps Narcissa out of her reverie, and she turns. Even at this distance, she makes out so clearly Poppy's frown.

      The nurse holds up a separate clipboard. "I'm sorry, but I've changed my mind. You can visit him again another time, but I've too much to finish for the day." Translation: It's too much, seeing you again.

      So Narcissa has her answer. She nods but once and pauses at Draco's cot again, pressing a kiss to his crown of hair. After, she adjusts her travel cloak and smooths imagined wrinkles down its front, noting that Poppy once more stands out of arm's reach as she shows Narcissa out. Luckily for the nurse, Filch makes his rounds their way about then, so Poppy doesn't need to escort Narcissa from the castle, as well.

      And so, Narcissa leaves almost as quickly as she arrived. Yet it weighs on her just as heavily, knowing what she knows now.

      At home, she instructs the house-elves to begin prepping dinner early, but she doesn't supervise today. Even when Lucius comes home, blowing through the manor in a fit of rage over what transpired with Draco, Narcissa nods where appropriate and mumbles agreement as needed.

      She picks at her food while Lucius elaborates a scheme that might one day see Dumbledore gone from the school, and a small part of her half agrees with him. After all, the current administration has done little to protect their son and fellow students in the past two, going on three years. No, taking care of students is a duty that resides with…

      …well, her mind is full of Poppy these days, in seventh year, even with N.E.W.T.s ahead of her. Lucius writes her and complains that Narcissa doesn't write him much, but he forgives her because he empathizes over exam years. "Still," he writes in one of his many letters, "even though we'll be married sometime after your graduation, I wouldn't mind the occasional letter…"

      He's oddly a romantic at heart. Narcissa likes that about him, understands that's why they've always been good friends, since they have this in common.

      But she buries his letters where Poppy won't see them on one of only two occasions she spirits the older witch to her dorm. Poppy's never liked hearing his name, which Narcissa has always found endearing (getting jealous of him? how cute).

      Yet it's not Lucius' name that ruins their night. No, it's Narcissa, after she's thoroughly exhausted her favorite flower and kisses the usual protest ("We'll get caught") off her lips. Because, yes, Narcissa kisses her, and they taste deliciously of sweat and salt and something else and—

      "Then let's be caught," Narcissa dares to say.

      It's as though the heat is sucked from the room. Even Poppy, skin scorching Narcissa's, turns Ice Mice-cold. She shrinks away and stares at Narcissa, those blue eyes piercing her and all too serious. "Cissa…what?"

      Narcissa wraps a dark lock of Poppy's hair around her finger. "What if I just…" Suddenly, her boldness fades. It hits her that she sounds as nutters as Andromeda.

      Poppy is up like a light, scrambling to dress and tidy her hair. "That's not— You can't— We— I—" Her voice cracks, and she surreptitiously swipes at her eyes, but she's not crying when she straightens up and faces Narcissa. She ties her apron around her waist. "No," she says, adamant.

      Narcissa loosely knots the sheet around her, cold without Poppy. "Poppy, it's—"

      But the matron shakes her head. Even when Narcissa takes a step towards her, she holds up a hand to stop the blonde. "I never should've indulged you."

      The word is a slap in the face. "'Indulged'?"

      And there, there is the hardening of Poppy Pomfrey's stare. Her cheeks are dark (red) in the dim lighting of a Slytherin dorm, but her flat expression is resolute. Before she lowers her hand, she gestures between her and Narcissa. "This…doesn't mean anything." No "Narcissa" or "Miss Black" or even a "you."

      Narcissa doesn't warrant any such mention in Poppy's view.

      Without so much as a goodbye, Poppy locates her wand and slips out of the dorm. Undiscovered, of course, because word never gets around about the things Narcissa Black did with the nurse. And then the school year ends and Narcissa puts Poppy and Hogwarts out of her mind. Until…

      "…issa. Narcissa."

      She blinks and stops swirling her wine in her glass. She sets the glass down and glances at her husband. "Sorry?"

      Lucius frowns. "You're about to stain the lace, darling."

      "Ah, right."

      "Yes, quite. As I was saying… I'm glad Draco's all right, although I'd rather see for myself in person."

      Narcissa tenses. "Ah. Perhaps let him have his rest, Lucius."

      He purses his lips while he gives her opinion consideration. Then he shrugs it offs. "Very well. Either way, the school board has received notice, but I still plan to fill their ears about the matter." Lucius swipes at the crumbs on his plate. "So? Aside from the eventful, how was your day, darling?"

      Her shoulders sink and, minus elegance, Narcissa tosses back the rest of her drink in the hopes of chasing away old memories. "I was supposed to have the day to myself," she murmurs.

Done for the If You Dare Challenge (for prompt #983: it doesn't mean anything) in the HPFC forum on FFN and for minifemslashfeb 2023 (scenario 7: so we meet again) on tumblr. It's been about ten yrs since I last wrote Narcoppy (they showed up in a drabble in Counting Backwards after their debut in "Black Flowers & Red Drugs"), but they're one of my favorite buried-in-Cissa's-past ships, *lol*, so I do think about them and just…rarely write them. X'D This got out of hand (as do so many of my fics XP), but I'm glad with this one, as there were some literary touches/finesses here and there that I enjoyed. Also, since we don't have a canon birthdate for Poppy, I've written her close to McGonagall's age before but am fond of keeping her around the age depicted here (so not much older than Marauder era), and I rly enjoy this?? Idk. Also just. The idea that Narcissa might've totally blitzed thru Draco's incoming documents when starting Hogwarts and so missed Poppy was still nurse amuses me to no end. XDDD Ahhhh, I love bittersweet Narcissa ships…! *looking at Narcrid, too*

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!