WEIRD SISTER

Now that he’s already in it, he has to wonder if maybe the right choice would’ve been to leave rather, to run away as a rat and risk being found because of the Mark. No one, but James, Sirius, and Remus knew about that, after all, he might’ve been able to get far, might’ve been able to deal with living the rest of his likely short life as a fucking rodent if it meant he wouldn’t cause anyone else he had cared about more pain. Because they were right, of course, there was nothing that he could say or do to make it better. Even if he’s capable now, somehow, of being someone better, of doing better, nothing would change what had already happened, what he’d already done.

Maybe, in a way, it’s a perverse need to keep suffering that drove him to reveal himself to Mert. He knows that’s not really it, though, even if he won’t admit it to himself that he hoped maybe Mert would still be able to see the good in him, like they had years ago, seeing him more clearly than anyone else, even his best friends, in the end. Because, the thing is, this is the reaction he’s going to get from everyone. Hell, this is mild compared to what he’s expecting when the news spreads.

If he can’t leave, though, maybe at least he can give them all the chance to tell him what they all think to his face. Catharsis is a thing for people, after all, and if he’s never going to get anything like that for himself, he doesn’t deserve it, after all, then maybe at least showing his face and giving them the chance to do whatever it is they’d like might be something. Maybe that’s the best he can do, since there’s nothing else he can do to change any of it.

“I know. I know,” he agrees, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice. He wants them to realize that he thinks exactly the same of himself as they likely think of him now. He hates himself just as much as the rest of them hate him. “I don’t expect anyone to forgive me; hell, I’ll never forgive myself for being so fuckin’ weak and spineless, for all the damage I did, and pain I caused. But I’m here now, and I have to try, right? Or else what’s the point? If I have to keep living, what’s the point of it unless it’s to give everyone I hurt the chance to, I don’t know, say what they want, do what they want with me. Then maybe it won’t be quite as bad for everyone, if I try, since I can’t go anywhere else without putting you all in danger all over again.”

He knows. It doesn’t seem like it should be enough. Mert should stay a icy thing, practice at being something un-meltable. It’s only fair. Everyone else does it. But everyone knows that Mert is an easy thing to sway in the end –– they can’t hold their anger, they can’t hold on to hate. Donaghan hurt them once, back at school. Made them feel small and worthless, once. Mert forgave him too quickly, everybody said so. It’s just that when people come to them with sorrow and desperation in their eye, Mert finds it so hard to turn them away. 

What do they want Peter to do, other than what he is? Other than apologising and working to be better, what can Mert or anyone else expect of him? Death? Mert shudders at the thought, at the idea of Peter living only to suffer. 

“You’re right.” They say, softer again than before. “No one’s just going to forgive you.” And there’s a hesitation again, before Mert moves, turns and rubs at their face, sinks down into an over-stuffed armchair, letting the smell of incense calm them down again. They don’t want Peter to die, or disappear again. They’re finding it as impossible as always to hold on to their hate. 

They look up, look Peter in the eye and examine what they find there. Someone sorry, as much as they can be. Mert isn’t sure if it’s for the right reasons, but they want to give Peter... something. The benefit of the doubt, maybe. A second chance. The boy they’d known at school could have been a good man, if he’d followed the right path. Mert always thought that this alternate version of Peter was one they would have liked to know. 

“I can help you, if you need it.” Whisper soft, shamed at what they’re saying, shamed that they’re helping someone who did so much wrong. “To make up for it, to fix things. But it’s the only second chance you’re getting from me.”

Seeing Mert’s reaction, he realizes that this was likely not the best way to go about asserting his presence back in Scotland, but then he’d never been the best at formulating plans, and at this point, it seemed better to just get it over with than to wait for Remus to spread it around. He very ungracefully extracts himself from under the table, the poor furniture wobbling precariously as he uses it to pull his weight up. It feels strange to be himself anywhere but his makeshift home in the collapsed tunnel, like even a few weeks spent the majority of the time as a rat had been enough to change something in his body, make it feel wrong to be himself.

Now that he’s here, and he’s got to says something, he’s lost as to where to go next. He doesn’t know where to start, now that he’s already made the choice to show himself. Maybe there was a part of him hoping that Mert would be someone more open to listening, and that could still be true, once the shock lessened, and anger settled, but also he realized how stupid of an idea that was too. He had betrayed all of them, even if the hurt hit the ones he had been close to the worst, it didn’t discriminate. Mert has every right to hate him just as much as Remus, and James, and Sirius do.

In a way, he feels a little like crying, looking at Mert now, which is strange, after feeling so numb for so long. It’s like now that he’s here, now that he’s back where all of his best memories live, he’s beginning to feel the world again, and he’s not sure he likes it. It’s going to make everything even harder, when each new introduction is just another chance someone might take his life into their own hands, and be done with it. He silently curses himself for being stupid enough to think this was a good idea, any of it, that he shouldn’t have just run when Dumbledore died, and taken that risk.

“I’m sorry, Mert. Shit, this was a stupid idea. I just, well, I saw you and everyone’s going to know I’m here soon enough, so I thought I’d tell you myself,” Peter says, shaking his head, holding his hands up in defense, although it doesn’t seem like they’re going to do anything like that.  “I’m so fuckin’ sorry for everything I did. And, believe me, I know that doesn’t change any of it, doesn’t make it better, but I am, and I’m here now. And Dumbledore fuckin’ kicked it before he could tell me what to do, so I don’t know what to do except, you know, try.”

There was a warring of emotions here. Anger at all of it, first and foremost. Confusion following after. Peter was here, talking to them of all people. Peter saw them and decided to try something, looking vulnerable and desperate behind the eyes. 

Mert wasn’t delusional enough to think they were one of the really important people in Peter’s life –– a few weeks of dating, once upon a time, relaxed and teenaged and surprisingly fun, despite the way people looked over Peter back then. Merton had had a lot more fun with him than a lot of other boys, had continued to think of him with fondness and kindness when they moved on. (Mert moved on so quickly, back then, person to person, the easiest kid to date if you were around their age at Hogwarts. Sometimes, they wish they’d found something that might have stuck around for longer than a couple of months.) Pete and been sweet, a little hapless, a surprisingly nice time. 

It made it harder to believe the story, that Peter could be a traitor. It came up back when Mert still used to go to Order meetings, when they imagined they could be something useful to them. Peter, betraying his friends, betraying the cause. It didn’t seem in character, to Mert. It didn’t seem like a thing that should be true. But it was true. Dumbledore wouldn’t have let them all believe it if it was a lie. 

“You’re sorry?” They ask, and its warm with anger but not as hot as it could be. “You’re right. That doesn’t make it better.” It doesn’t make sense that it would be Mert, that he’d come to them, still. No matter how much Mert liked him. But then again, Mert does remember fifth year, when Remus had held some kind of grudge against Sirius for months and months and months. And they can’t imagine wanting to come face to face with James, at a moment like this. Peter was just as lost as the rest of them, and Mert wants to feel sorry. But Peter is a fucking death eater, and Mert has been spending all of his free time discussing tearing down fascist regimes, not co-operating with them. 

Still, there’s the look in his eye. Mert has always been weak for that, for people needing something, for lost causes and desperate cases. They don’t think Peter is the next Tom Riddle, doesn’t think he’s pure evil, a lost cause. They don’t think Peter is good, either. A fucking dick, an asshole, a little spineless. Mert wishes they had the strength to just turn around and walk away from this. They hate it, hate him, hate all of this. They keep circling around it in their own head, the way they did when they first heard, the fact that they don’t think its who Peter is, deep down. “Try to fix it? You know its not like twelve steps, right. Can’t just go around to everyone and admit you fucked up, ‘sorry for being a traitor, or whatever,’ and expect them to forgive you.” 

Kingsley typically enjoys drinking from the comfort of his own home, where an itemized list of the number of glasses of firewhiskey he’s drunk isn’t presented to him before he leaves, but when he returned home from the Ministry earlier that day he realized he’d rather not be alone with his thoughts. Not tonight, at least. At The Three Broomsticks, he can sit at the bar and listen to the conversations of others and ignore all the thoughts swarming through his head for a few hours. Sometimes, it’s better to be alone amongst others.

He’d have been content to spend his evening staring at the bottom of his firewhiskey and letting the noise of Rosmerta working behind the bar dull around his ears, but Merton Graves’ voice pulls him from his trance. He doesn’t mind; in fact, he appreciates the company.

“Hello, Merton,” Kingsley looks up at him and smiles, tired but genuine. “Kind of you,” he says as they join him at the bar. 

“I heard last week’s broadcast,” he adds after a moment’s pause. It’s one of the few bright spots left, Merton’s radio show the kind of public protest a young Kingsley would’ve jumped at the chance to be a part of. “It was excellent.”

Kingsley seems so tired. Everyone does, these days. Of course Kingsley would seem more tired than the rest. But it’s nice, that he seems genuinely glad to see Mert. They know they aren’t the most important, most compelling person out there. Kingsley probably has better things to do and better people to talk to. Mert is pretty great though. 

They flag down Rosmerta, give her their most charming little grin, a bit of a flirt. They’ve got this thing going on, an easy rapport that Merton was cultivating even when he was a teenager. She let the band play a gig here once, when they were all still together. They order the drinks, and settle more comfortably at the bar. 

“Aye, cheers for that.” A warm smile, beamingly happy. “Do my best, don’t it?” Dimpled and pleased, Mert pays for the drinks, and slides one over to Kingsley. Scotland Rewired is their baby, and it makes them oh so genuinely pleased when someone mentions it. “Don’t worry, won’t be asking you for an interview or a quote or anything. Not today, at least.”

A hint of a smile creases the corner of their lips at their greeting Luna. There have been many things whispered about them, they know, but they don’t think anyone could argue they do not love their daughter more than anything else in the world, even if, perhaps, their methods are less than conventional. It’s what Pandora would have wanted them to continue with; she would have been thrilled for Luna to be here, in a working radio station, a place to learn so much, to see new things. It pleases them even more to see someone so wholly accepting of Luna and her interests, it’s another reason they’ve come to respect Mert.

They let out a small laugh as they insist they’re, indeed, a genius. It isn’t a point they’d argue. Perhaps unpolished in some ways, but then, so were they, in the ways that society liked best to swallow what they believed genius should be. Appropriate, then, that the two had come together in their genius, to build something that could do real good, make real change, if done correctly.

“Ah, I’m impressed; it seems you understand her nearly as well as I do. It hurts to admit it, I thought Luna believed I was the prettiest wix in Hogsmeade, but I’ll secede the crown to you, oh worthy opponent,” they nod, teasing finally creeping into the tone, as they give a rather grand bow to them. 

“But do you think I came all this way just to gift you my notes, my dear Mert? No. Enthusiasm turns to propaganda so easily, we must remain unbiased. Radicalism should never be easy to swallow, but we are trying to reach a wider audience, and I’ve been told I’m…unapproachable,” Xeno scoffs, waving off the word. Perhaps it is true, but they’ve never much cared about the comfort of others when there’s knowledge to be had, questions to ask, and perhaps even to answer. Still, though, they know it’s easier to spread a message if you’re palatable.

“You’re very approachable. How?”

Their grin is a warm and easy one, directed up at Xeno. They relax back in their chair, moving it absently from side to side, a languid hand coming up to lay over their heart. “It’s a heavy crown, love, but I’ll wear it well.” Because the teasing, really, its a little lovely. It’s exactly what Mert needs, most of the time. Something light and playful and delivered by someone odd and pretty, all wrapped up in a nice package. 

They drop a pout into place easily, puppy dog eyes leaving the ‘awh, shucks, you’re not just here to see me?’ unsaid. It is interesting, though, what Xeno is saying. A little wild, a little hilarious, a little true. They want to snort out a laugh about the idea of it, someone telling Xeno to their face that they aren’t the easiest person to engage with. Xeno can be baffling, unapproachable is just another word for it. 

And its true, as well, that Mert has always had an easy time of it with people. They’re not delusional enough to think they don’t have their own off-putting behaviours but... people seem to like them, regardless. Fun Mert, funny Mert, Mert who makes up for being so self-centred by managing to obviously give a shit about other people too, most of the time. They’ve always needed to be surrounded by people, friendship and companionship and just the right dose of adoration. They can’t afford to be unapproachable. It helps, maybe, that most people rightfully underestimate them. It’s a generally accepted fact that Mert couldn’t actually hurt a fly –– not a kind assertion, not because of their gentle attitude. They’ve just never been talented or smart enough at anything but music and talking into a microphone, so who would see them as a threat? Not like they’ll be thinking up their own dastardly plans anytime soon.

“S’my natural charm, I suppose.” They muse. “Always been a people person.” They look at Xeno, eyes heavy, a little curious. “You want to borrow my general approachability, then?” Mert asks, because yeah, obviously. They’re great, and most people generally want something from them in one way or another, even Xeno. “Don’t usually loan it out, it’s such a hot commodity, but for you, I could make an exception.” 

october 14th, mid afternoon, the divination classroom, hogwarts          ( @mertgraves )

After the terrifying run-in the night before, it feels like there’s only so much to do before having to face the consequences of his actions, before having to beg, over and over again, for another chance. Oddly enough, the knowledge that maybe, just maybe, his existence could be over at any given moment, depending on who Remus decides to tell, is freeing. And he hates himself for thinking that way, for considering the choice being made for him, just as it always has, as being good, when it’s just more proof he’s a fucking coward who doesn’t deserve the chance he’s prepared to beg for to anyone who will listen.

With no word, no whispers, he does what he’s been doing, he goes to class. Figures it’s better than sitting in the passageway, thinking about how much he hates himself, how much he regrets every action he’s taken, after all, he didn’t get much out of it the first time around. And today, it’s Divination that presents itself as a distraction.

Before the rat can make it into the class room, though, a familiar face appears, a surprise, really, considering the funeral’s long over, and life seems to have continued on for most other people. Even more surprising to see that familiar face there heading up into the Divination classroom as if they owned the damn place. And it seems they do, at least for the day, anyway, as they teach the class, as he watches. It makes him yearn for easier times, when the other had been so kind, when even his own friends thought of him as an afterthought. 

It makes him bold. And once he’s certain the students are all gone, he transforms back to himself, under the stupid, red table cloth, suddenly too big for the table, nearly knocking it over as he peeks out.

“Hey. Mert,” he hisses in a whisper, as if that might make it less jarring. “Don’t freak out, but it’s Pete. I fucked up. I fucked up real bad, but I’m here to try to fix it.”

Teaching divination comes once in a blue moon. Has happened only a handful of time over the last few years. Sick days, most Hogwarts Professors don’t even take them. They’re all so committed, they all care so much. Merton loves when the divination professor takes days off. So, maybe it’s a little weird to be so glad that they’re sick, but Mert loves the tower and loves the subject and loves wowing the students. They cherish every step they take through the castle, up the winding stairs. It’s their kingdom, was back at school and still feels that way now.

They class goes well. Their classes always do. Fun, easygoing, full of just enough practical information to count. When the students all file out at the end, and they feel happy, at ease with the world, surrounded by the heavy smell of incense. 

What doesn’t go well is their reaction to a sudden voice and the sudden appearance of a man jostling one of the tables. The sound that escapes them could be counted as a shriek, a fleeting second where they think they’re about to be axe murdered or kidnapped or accosted by ghosts. “Holy fucking shit.” They say, decidedly freaking out, despite any pleas not to exactly that. Their hands are covering their mouth, their eyes don’t quite believe the sight in front of them. 

It’s a ghost. It’s an elaborate joke. They lower their hands, eyes wide. “Peter?” And then, softly, considering there was a known traitor standing in this classroom. “What the fuck.” And maybe they would have been even angrier if he didn’t seem so...desperate? If the words didn’t sink in as quickly as they were. Here to fix things? He sounded like a schoolboy, like they were sixteen and he’d said something stupid, like he’d laughed when someone called Mert an idiot, not joined the bloody biggest group of evil assholes there were. So they stay cautious, but they don’t pull out their wand. “Pete.” They say it again, the name, his name. They aren’t sure what else should be coming out, something as angry as he feels at the idea that Peter has come back, maybe. Something as confused. Words have never been their strong suit, in situations like this. And Peter looks so different now, than he did before, when he was the type of boy that Mert knew the right things to say to. 

They wait a moment, until they’re sure Merton is thoroughly enjoying the candy, entirely distracted, and then they prop their foot back up, crossing one of the other. Habit, routine. Mert will push it off, playfully, a few more times before letting them leave it there altogether, no hard feelings. They’ll make sure to wipe the armrest clean of any dirt that might’ve been on their boots on their way out the door. 

     ‘What, you really want a downer right after I went through all that trouble to cheer you up with candy?’ they say with a groan, reaching over to steal one of the exploding bon bons from the bag and popping it into their mouth. They brought enough that stealing one won’t be the end of the world, a little taxation for all their hard work. 

How is it, on the other side? Bad. Depressing. A stark line between pure and sparkling parties and the slums that everyone else is stuck in: Britain’s gone to shit, and every day in the past ten years has made the place worse. Werewolves lurking around every corner, people doing whatever they can to stay out of sight. It feels abandoned, except that there are still so many damn people in it. 

     ‘Trust me, you don’t wanna hear about it. It’s grim, it’s always grim. It never gets any better.’

They could make even more of a show of this than they are, swatting playfully at Fletcher’s hand when they reach for the sweets. Maybe asking for the downer was a stupid thing to do. Ignorance is bliss, isn’t that what they say? And Mert should know –– they’re ignorant of so many things. They should be happy that they’re safe, at home, in Scotland, with exploding bon bons and some good friends. 

They just wonder, sometimes, what things are like for the others. Their little band was broken up by fate before they could be anything as wonderful as they might have been. Mert aches thinking about Heathcote on the other side, struggling. Wonders if Donaghan is even alive, if he thinks about Mert sometimes, and the blooming love and friendship between all of them. Maybe its self centred to worry so much about it.

They worry about their ‘da, too. They know he’ll be fine on the other side, all that nice blood that Riddle likes. He’ll have been able to just carry on. But Mert worries. 

    “Fair point,” They sigh, instead of asking again. They don’t like to make people fixate on something they don’t want to talk about –– at least, not in person, not with friends. They can always ask later, they can always beg for what they’re hungry for some other day, when they know more what to ask for. “Must be why you always come see me after. Cause i’m brilliant, and not grim at all.” 

october 7, late afternoon, scotland rewired hq        ( @mertgraves )

It’s always easiest when there’s work to be done, and lately, mercifully, there never seems to be a moment without something needing finishing. In the months since suddenly finding themself alone, they had found that they were also a better father when there was plenty to be getting along with. It kept both of them busy, gave them the chance to teach Luna, and learn from her, instead of dwelling on the absence in their lives. 

And one of their preferred tasks, as of late, was working on a certain collaboration to further both their platform, and another’s, all while helping spread the message of radical change. Luna enjoyed listening to the broadcasts just as much as her father, too, it seemed. They took dozens of notes, some perhaps more sensical than others, and felt it their duty to offer them to the wix themself. So after running a few errands, Luna perpetually on one hip, they find their way to the program’s headquarters, letting themself in without pretense. 

The door safely shut behind them, they let Luna down at last, to run around as she pleased, so that they could open their bag and pull out a handful of papers. “Your broadcast last night was very good, powerful, even,” Xeno offers, a statement of a fact, not a compliment. “Here are some notes.”

They throw down a messy stack of papers on the desk in front of Merton, full of illegible scribbles, with the odd bursts of color indicative of a four year old having taken the papers captive at some point for her own doodling.

“If you can’t read Luna’s notes, I’m more than happy to read them out loud for you,” they said, tone unclear if the words were a joke or not.

Mert takes in Xeno’s arrival with a resigned kind of affection. They’re always interesting, always compelling, always end up being the most fun that Mert has had in weeks –– and Mert is excited at the idea of working with them, have swallowed every drop of work that Xeno has put out. They’re kind of a genius, and Mert is glad they’re sticking together in that category. 

They greet Luna before they greet Xeno. “S’up, lil’ monster.” Well trained and well used to Mert, Luna gives him a small fist bump before running on her way. Mert is satisfied that she probably won’t kill herself getting in to any of her shit, and focuses on Xeno. 

“Ay, I’m a genius.” They agree, with a small smile. They take it as a compliment, even if it wasn’t meant that way. No one can stop them. And Xeno sounds so sure about it, it makes Mert feel warm and happy inside at the idea that they could be considered powerful, even just when it came to their words. Might be shit in a duel, but they could talk with the best of them. 

Their nose wrinkles up when they’re handed the notes, but its more amusement than anything else. Thus is the burden of creative collaboration, they suppose, Xeno coming here with notes and ideas and maybe even a criticism or two. It’s hard to read them, sometimes, but Mert usually just takes the situation and runs. They’ll take the notes seriously, the one’s they can read. But they do think its a little hilarious that Luna has joined in, with the bright colours and the words Mert is never going to be able to figure out. It’s adorable, he’s feeling a little gleeful about it. 

     “Naw, naw. I’ve got it.” He points at a particularly illegible scribble, no way he can make that out. “See, here? Luna agrees with me, Riddle is the sociopath leader of a fascist state and to stand idly by while he leads is to be complicit in the murder and persecution of thousands, if not millions of people. Also, says that I’m the prettiest wix in all of Hogsmeade.” A grin, wide and happy. “That daughter of yours, Xeno. She knows whats what.” 

      “Evening, Minister.” 

Merton isn’t sure what drives them to make this decision. Just walk to and talk to the Minister For Magic. But he’s no Riddle, and he isn’t scary, and Mert feels kinda bad for him these days. World’s a shit-show, job must be hard. 

So they lean up against the bar. Its quiet tonight, easy going, exactly the kind of night the Minster might come in for a quiet drink, a quiet chat with Rosmerta. They don’t necessarily want to get anything out of this, don’t have a plan or a request or a motive. Things would be easier if they did –– they’re always more sure of themself when they’re working to get what they want. 

      “Buy you a drink?” 

     time: 6 October, evening      place: Scotland Rewired HQ           ( @mertgraves )

They have the decency to wait until the broadcast is over, until Merton signs off with their familiar call sign, before barging into the studio, bag in hand. Anyone else, and they probably wouldn’t have, wouldn’t have been so considerate. But instead, they stand and listen for a moment, catching the end of the broadcast itself.

But they do barge their way in, shouldering the door open, as soon as it’s appropriate, sauntering in with a smile as they make their way over, give Merton a quick hug in greeting, and then take a seat on top of their desk, one leg propped up on the arm of Mert’s chair.

     ‘You’d think these’d be easier to find, seein’ as we got Honeydukes in the divorce, and yet…’ they trail off deliberately, tossing the bag of exploding bonbons in Merton’s direction. It’s a staple of their trips across the border, one of the easiest things they’re ever tasked to get, a bag of the radio host’s favorite candies, somehow entirely unavailable in Scotland these days. 

The broadcast is always a rush –– heart pounding, blood rushing, like they ran a marathon somewhere between starting and finishing. Makes them feel like they’re doing something, like they’re reaching across a void and taking hold of someone else, a whole entire world away. 

It isn’t as unusual as they’d like it to be, to have someone barge in without being granted access right at the end of one of their shows. Its never a fan, but sometimes its Fletcher, and thats pretty okay too. Annoying, wonderful, bearer of hugs and gifts, pretty okay. They accept the embrace with a grin, a slap on the back, a playful shove. Wrinkle their nose up at the leg on the arm of their chair, make a show of shoving it off again, even though Fletcher will probably have it back in place in a second. 

The beam that comes across  their face when they see the bag, and they upgrade the encounter from ‘pretty okay’ to ‘fucking brilliant.’  

     “Yer a god among mortals, Dung.” They sigh, dreamy and certain, snatching the bag up to pull one out, savouring it. “Come on then, tell me, how’s it going on the other side?” 

☼ - appearance headcanon

❣: Describe a way that will earn affection (whether platonic or romantic) from them.