made of stone

Draco starts at the mention, keenly aware that the woman before him can likely deduce precisely how on edge he is. To some degree, she was always possessed the capability — a fact that has never failed to unsettle him, even as they have been colleagues for the past few years. “Fine, shockingly. Nobody has made too much trouble. Yet, that is. Never can underestimate these slippery little buggers. Is it me, or do first years get smaller every year?”

It’s something she has gotten used to, over the years: that her students end up her colleagues. It’s strange, of course, but it’s not something new. Draco Malfoy, however, is another story; the way she used to look at him an the way she does now are quite different, the contrast between them staggering. “I’m sure some trouble will start up sooner or later,” she comments. “It’s inevitable, in these kinds of situations. We’d best be prepared when it does.” A small smile. “They stop getting smaller once you’ve taught for a few decades, I’ve found. Good thing; otherwise they’d have been smaller than bowtruckles for me by now.”

“Perhaps all my experimentation has taken its toll on my appearance, hm?” George offered in way of explanation. “But I would not spend too much time wondering. Some of us just simply do not have the same kind of genetics that you do and we do not age like fine wine. I’ve even counted a grey hair or two on my head.”

“Oh, do not worry; I have grey hairs aplenty. They’re just harder to spot, with lighter hair,” they say, oddly reassuring. They’re comfortable around the Weasleys,  more so than around most others, and it makes Luna feel more connected to them, warmer. “And do not put yourself down like that; you and your family have one of the best kind of genetics.”

As much as he’d like to pretend that the tail-end of his teenage years didn’t exist, there are some people who can’t help but bring the memories rolling back and Luna Lovegood may be the worst offender. Around his age, pleasant as they come even if she is a bit odd, and yet she’d been the one locked in his household dungeon for weeks on end. It was easy to feel wrong-footed with her because of that – even now, more than twenty years later – the guilt no foreign sensation to him, especially as circumstances whirled downwards once again. “I’m a man of many talents,” he replied dryly, the ghost of a smile quirking his mouth the slightest bit. “But thank you. You look good yourself.”

Luna does not often think things strange or peculiar --- most things that other consider that way are more than normal for her, you see. This interaction, however, is nothing but strange to her. It feels surreal, like something that perhaps should not be, and to talk of things as meaningless as appearance and Quidditch positions just feels wrong. “Thank you,” she replies eventually, after having remained quiet for too long. Luna is quiet again, before saying, “It’s not the beard. You have changed, since then.” in her blunt way, without specifying when then was. Luna supposes he knows. “And it’s not because of the beard. It’s something else.” Pause. “It’s good.”

“I am wounded,” Neville feigned offense, covering a hand over his chest dramatically. “Or are you being complimentary and saying that I am devilishly handsome enough to bring the mullet back into the twenty-first century?” Neville knew that, with Luna, they never meant him any harm or grievance. From them, he could expect total honesty and an abundance of kindness that had helped steer him in the right direction in his younger years. “Solid advice. I would look like a poodle, I reckon, whereas you have more of that naturally, uh, crimped look? Is that what it’s called?”

They don’t have to worry about their words with him; Luna knows they are blunt, that their words are often spoken too honestly, and that some don’t appreciate it. With Neville, however, it’s easy to talk. “A mullet would be too short,I think. I was more thinking the length professor Dumbledore’s hair used to be,” they say, still utterly serious but smiling nonetheless. “I’m not sure; I’m not quite an expert on hairdos and styles. It would make for an easy costume, though, should your hair resemble a poodle.”

“Well, I am not sure what it is then. Things with me don’t tend to change that often.” Katie replied, shrugging at the younger girl. Ever since she had become a mother her entire life had to do with her kids, and she didn’t tend to focus too much on herself. “I am sorry to hear that, but I understand. Everything is kind of complicated at the moment. I’ll feel better when everything is less hectic.”

“Oh, change isn’t often that clear, you know. It happens without you noticing and changes the tiniest details. Have you been oddly stressed, or have you fallen in love, lately? Those things tend to completely revolutionise ones appearance,” rambles Luna, head still cocked to the side. “Complicated, that is one way of putting it.” She hums for a moment, suddenly remembering she had not returned the original question. “And how are you?”

“Could’ve been worse. Camping is a way superior celebration than the Welcoming Feast. S’mores is way better than broiled pheasant, at any rate.”  I always told McGoogles that we ought to go on a school trip. She never took too warmly to that suggestion. Or the suggestion that we should have fireworks to commemorate the end of the year. I’ve even offered to supply the fireworks myself with that offer.”

Sometimes she wishes she could be a little more unbothered, that she could see the good sides in bad situations. She is cursed with a pessimistic mindset, though. It’s a good thing most of her children do not share it, she figures. “Always the optimist,” says Molly, soft smile on her lips but the worry still on her face --- will she ever not worry? “I hope they have s’mores, and plenty to eat. D’you reckon I should send them some food? I still have plenty left from our last dinner and I could cook something up if it’s not enough.”

HERIZEN GUARDIOLA? No, that’s actually LEIGHTON SELWYN. About to begin SIXTH YEAR, this SLYTHERIN student is sided with THE DEATH EATERS. SHE identifies as CIS-FEMALE and is a PUREBLOOD who is known to be CUTTHROAT, ATTENTION-SEEKING, and SHALLOW but also DRIVEN, CULTURED, and TALENTED.

FABIAN AND GIDEON die when she is thirty one. They are murdered and their bodies are beaten and bloody and not at all resembling the boys she grew up with. She had grown up protecting them, helping them, looking after them, and she never really stopped.        She failed them. She knows this.        She also gets to know grief for the first time. When her grandparents died, she brushed the hand of grief for a moment, but she barely got to meet him properly. When her brothers were ripped from her, though, it was thrust into her life, and she didn’t know what to do with it. If you asked her now, what she did during those first weeks after their deaths, she’d tell you that she mostly wept.       This is true. Molly continues to live her life – she has six kids to look after and no time to stand still – but she does it weeping. She changes diapers with salt trickling down her nose and hitting Ron’s young face, gets rid of the garden gnomes sobbing and screaming, does the dishes with shaking shoulders. She scolds the twins – already so mischievous at a young age – with tears burning in her eyes because why do they remind her so much of them, how can she raise two kids who are so much like her dead brothers?       There is no time to grief, then, with kids to raise and another on the way. She doesn’t do it properly, and it is only when she has time to stand still, years and years later, that she realises the damage that it did.

GINNY is said to be dead when she is forty one. She is told the news in an office that is too full for her liking – and she likes clutter – and she cannot fully grasp it. Her youngest, her only daughter, only twelve years old, dead?       She weeps again. God, Molly feels so stupid that that’s all she can do as a response; shake and cry and whimper. A wounded animal, hurt by the losses of those she ought to look after, powerless and frozen in headlight.       She failed Ginny, too. She should have known that something was amiss, even all those miles away.       She’s alive, though; saved by a boy who is as much her son as he can be. Molly does not get to meet grief again, and she is glad of it; this time she does have the time, and Merlin knows what would happen, then.       It’s a parent’s worst fear to lose a child and Molly Weasley almost does. It is that day that her Boggart changes and it will forever remain the same. She has nightmares of Dumbledore’s office for years after.

FRED dies when she is forty seven. Her Boggart has become true. One of her children is dead.       Molly falls into a state of despair. This time there is no time for grief, with a world to rebuild and people to help and so much to do, but she cannot do anything but that. Grief becomes her, takes over everything she is. She doesn’t even notice it.       Her warmth is replaced by coldness. Her smothering nature changes into a distant one. Her lively eyes become old and tired and marked by darkness caused by lack of sleep. It takes weeks for her to begin to return to her former self and Molly can only feel guilt and shame and more of the same. Not only has she failed Fred, she has failed her other children, she has failed her husband — she knows that her warm, smothering nature can be much at times, but that it’s also a source of comfort among the Weasleys, and she has deprived them of it by being swallowed by her own pain.       Her grief does not become any less after this, but she is returning to herself again. Slowly but surely, she learns that pain demands to be felt and that there’s nothing wrong with leaning on others every now and then.       She starts writing. Molly writes all her fears in a little notebook at first and then fills others with memories and more with other thoughts. She does what she does best: she helps, she listens — and this time she helps and listens to herself.       The idea to create a tribute to the fallen starts small but ends up big. It’s a project, a way to help herself and the rest of the grieving wizarding world. She publishes a book filled with stories of dead people two years after the battle of Hogwarts, and Fred is the first one named.       She talks to George about Fred mostly, knows that he hurts even more than she does – she wonders how he’s not drowning and then realises that, perhaps, he is, but that he’s learning to breathe under water – and asks him about pranks. She wants to know about them, wants to understand the things that angered her when her twins were younger. It’s too late, she knows, but many things are. It won’t keep her from doing them.       Her grief never becomes any less. Molly just learns how to handle it better than she did before.

“With a crime of this magnitude, blindness might be the only valid answer. Talk about faux pas. This is worse than the complete leather ensembles trend and that, was just tragic.”

“Please don’t remind me of all these trends that were pure crimes,” says Mallory, shuddering slightly. Then, perhaps more tentative: “This might .. be a weird question, but you’re Millicent Bulstrode --- right?”