scintilla

“Listen, maybe that’s why you’re such a crusty baguette now. It’s like your interest in school peaked when you were still the size of a human instead of a flagpole, because that’s like your average Korean kid has been at school for longer than we dumb shits are at Hogwarts before we’re even old enough for Hogwarts. That’s some wild shit. Although, to be fair, muggle kids here get much better school too, I think. I have a squib cousin who we never see, obviously, because his parents weren’t shitheads and actually liked him and all that craziness and he went to school eons before we did. However—” 

She paused, digging through the leather satchel abandoned at her feet, its insides a bedlam of disordered possessions, until she withdrew a bright pink water bottle. “—since we cannot yet dismantle the ministry, I think it’s a good time to let you know that I may or may not have managed to nick an entire lifetime’s worth of shampoo bottles’ worth of classy old Odgen’s over Christmas and you get fellow bunkee booze privileges. D’you think maybe it’s all one grand conspiracy to brainwash generation after generation and turn them into mindless government drones? Because you right, rock paper scissors is the least of our problems when half our society still thinks it’s acceptable to wear jelly mules and Bermuda shorts with granny sweaters and think mobile phones are magical metal bricks or whatever.”

"You are assuming that I was ever interested in school. Doesn’t matter that I started young. It just means that I have had to endure both types of schooling. And I don’t like either, but I can at least see the value in Muggle education. Between Mahoutokoro and here, I feel like I’ve learned shit about what the point of having magic is.” Even if he did bother to pay attention to his lessons, he doubted that he would gain an appreciation for his magic. To him, his magic was a hindrance, if anything. It only served to further alienate him and cloud his identity. “That’s still common then? For squibs to be rejected?” Muggles were no different with wixen in that respect. Neither of them could embrace those who were different. Esme’s family rejecting her cousin was similar to how his maternal family had rejected him. He had always assumed that it was the reason his father was absent as well, though he had never bothered to ask his mother about it. It didn’t matter, ultimately. 

With an upturn of his lip, he welcomed the introduction of alcohol into their gathering. “How lucky for me. I have to give you all that. Your alcohol isn’t half-bad. It’s a helleva lot easier to smuggle here too.” He wasn’t sure about a conspiracy, but he wouldn’t be surprised. “Mm, cell phones are far more Muggle culture than the simple games. Why use owls when you can just send a text?” 

After a few practiced breaths, Astoria no longer had to fight to keep her emotion at bay. Grateful for the distraction from her frayed nerves that Malfoy’s presence brought. It was curious, the way he floated at the periphery of her life. Three times now, circumstance brought them within a few feet of each other - and she found she did not mind it much. Sure, he wasn’t pleasant. Downright rude, per their first interaction in her office. Still, misery loved company.  Something in the back of her mind whispered that he was as ill-content with life as her. 

Though, maybe not entirely. She liked her work, that much she knew; had a passion for solving problems, working through the muddy intricacies and contradictions that made up Wizarding Law. Aside from yesterday’s blunder, her confidence that this line of work was for her remained unshaken. The tumultuous level of emotion that threatened to pull her under, like the Wanderer in its painted waves…was merely a side effect of the stress. 

Astoria twirled her wand a few times before returning it to the pocket in her skirts. The loss of the fairies cast new shadows across their faces. The space felt small then, intimate even, even as the bustle and glitter of the wedding reception wore on in front of them. She liked these small rebellions. They kept life interesting, and even with the Gryffindorian nature of it all Astoria found herself breaking a rule or two almost every day. The rules that made no sense, at least. There was no sense being needlessly cruel.

She caught Blaise’s profile in a sea of faces; he was calm, collected, playing the role of a dutiful son. “Still,” she mused, taking another sip of the horrid drink, this time managing not to grimace, “I do not envy him. The routine of these weddings must become tiresome.”

Younger girls than you are married now. Without thinking, Astoria’s thumb traced around her ring finger, circling a metal band that was not there. She didn’t think often about marriage - her own work consumed most waking thoughts. It was not something she ever envisioned herself doing, if she were being honest. The girlhood trend of planning one’s wedding day never appealed to her - and it certainly did not now, given the incident that occurred her fifth year. Despite her father’s level of contrite he showed after the whole affair, she still considered it a miracle that her parents, the product of an arranged union, were not planning nuptials for her and her sister with the level of strategy required by Wizard’s Chess. It was a constant threat uttered under her father’s breath, yes, but an empty one.

She’d have to be content with that; people were difficult to change, her father included.

The young witch sighed at hearing of Theo’s new life as a recluse. It lessened her guilt to learn she wasn’t the only one who did not seem to know how to keep personal relationships alive in this new era. His self-isolation was nothing she hadn’t imitated before. Still, she had Daphne, and to some extent, her school friends Emory and Gretchen, though they were perpetually joined at the hip. She made a mental note to owl her friends, invite them to tea…

“You’ll be surprised to learn that my pursuits of justice have earned me a larger office,” she announced, choosing not to mention her most recent blunder in court. She continued to joke: “Some might call it spacious, even. I can fit four chairs.”

“I enjoy dressing up,” she allowed, her glass held close to her face. “The people watching.” She gestured above them, referring to the empty lanterns. “Minor episodes of teenage rebellion I missed during my Hogwarts days. Not much else keeps me at these events aside from…familial obligation.”

In a way, Draco did envy Blaise. He used to revel in the spectacle of it all, in the ego-stroking, over-the-top display of wealth that affairs such as these brought. It seemed easier, from the perspective of a man sitting in a darkened corner, to play the part of the biddable son, no matter how boring the repeated performance could become. It was a role that Draco had played for so long, but he now had been dealt a new script that was much harder to rehearse, let alone perform with an ease that would make it all seem effortless. Everything was an effort, now.

He knew what part he used to play, but in this period of his life that he marked as the third act, he no longer knew. It was as if he had been recast mid-performance, as if the story had hit its climax and he was tumbling down the falling action segment towards a resolution that was unclear.

The suit he adorned fit his frame perfectly, tailored to his form, yet the skin he wore stretched, his bones threatening to burst forth. He pivoted from one foot to the other to stop himself from squirming.

It was almost interesting that Astoria continued to spectate beside him, first at the museum and now at the wedding, when their initial encounter (outside of school) was based on her scrutinizing him. In that cramped office of hers. “Is that so?” His lip quipped upwards, equal parts amused and congratulatory. “Have you filled up the extra space with more plants? Does the new office come with a name plaque without errors?”

He was not mocking in tone. If anything, it was respectable, the way that Astoria was making a name for herself outside of her family. Draco could not say the same. Not yet.

His eyes caught his parents engaging in conversation with the Parkinson family, Pansy standing beside her parents with her arms crossed and petulant expression marking her visage. Hands tightening around his drink, knuckles white, he remembered how it was not too long ago that his parents had anticipated that he would be married to Pansy by now. He remembered how his ex-girlfriend, too, had the entire affair planned out from the color scheme to the venue.

He turned instead to Astoria. “Your rebellious streak must be easily satisfied, if you settle for committing acts that your parents are not even aware of. But perhaps that is part of the point? Steering away from our parents’ vision is no simple feat.” Draco didn’t think he had quite reached that point. He was still in his parents’ peripheral, their vision for him skewed and blurry. They did not watch him nearly as closely as they once had. Perhaps they could not bear to look at him, in some ways, at who he had become.

“I am certain that this wedding has only served to remind my family that I have not yet fulfilled my own obligations.” He did not understand why they were so adamant when he still had a great amount of life left in front of him. He had no interest in settling down presently, and some days he was notcertain that he ever would. When he thought of the future, he only considered himself and he didn’t care if that was seen as selfish.

In an attempt to ensure that they kept the topic away from him, he mused, “Since you are the younger daughter, is your family more focused on first marrying off your sister before they turn to you? By then, you ought to be quite the career woman. With an even bigger office.”

The edges of her mouth quirked up in amusement at how fast Seungri shed his own robes, revealing a pair of jeans just as dilapidated as her fashionably ripped ones. But that was chill, because the shredded denim was definitely breaking a few school uniform rules, but at least he wasn’t alone in the dress code violation. She huffed a laugh at the grumbling, however, wondering for the hundredth time if her lovable (asshole) cat had maybe rubbed off too much on her (lovable) asshole housemate. “Excuse me, but do you mean to say that Arithmancy and Divination aren’t, like, totally dope?” she quipped, sarcasm and mirth dragging out the words. “It’s almost like the school has some evil scheme against fun and wants to bore us enough with menial bullshit until one of us cracks and decides to go on a murder spree and split our souls a few times out of boredom. You know, just as a casual example.”

"Casual example. Right. That must be the ultimate plan of the Founders, hm? If the goal was for students to actually learn shit you wouldn’t only have seven years of boring coursework. You know when I started school? At eight. Or around six Western age. And most kids start even earlier, at around three.” He didn’t because most kindergartens were private, and his mother couldn’t afford their monthly cost. It had set him behind from the getgo, and he had never bothered to try and catch up. When magic reared its ugly head, it had taken all of his energy to not reveal the skill while he attended his lessons. Before Hogwarts. Before Mahoutokoro. “Here, what do we even get from all of this? I hate to burst your bubble, but Muggle Studies teaching you how to play rock, paper, scissors isn’t gonna cut it if you wanna blend in. So you’re stuck with, what, working for the Ministry and that’s it? Rather nice that Hogwarts is run by the Ministry too.” 

Esmerelda didn’t hate Astronomy – it was, in fact, one of the classes she didn’t really mind – but she hated charting with a fiery burning passion, and the fact that tonight’s class had been focussed entirely on the dreaded activity had her bailing faster than one could say dungbombs. Plotting planet movements and their astrological significance just wasn’t her idea of a good time. Mischief was, however, which was why she might have possibly been lying in wait all along, uniform robes stuffed behind her in lieu of a cushion as she reclined in an alcove just past the astronomy class space, booted foot crossed at the ankle. “Retrograde? Duh, of course not. Who cares about that? I was just waiting to see how long you would survive pretending to.”

Seungri couldn’t pinpoint what he hated most about the wizarding school, but the uniforms would undoubtedly make the top 10 if he were to sit down and draw out a list. The robes were nearly worse than Hanbok, drabby and shapeless with the one saving grace being their dark color. Shedding the robes revealed that Seungri was wearing more black underneath, black undershirt highlighted with a forestry green emblem and his jeans a faded hue.  He plopped down next to Esme with a scoff. “I don’t get what any of that,” He waved his hand upwards toward the night’s sky, “has to do with magic. All of the classes here are so outdated.” Astronomy was one of the only science classes and the other elective, Alchemy, was just as ancient. Picking idly at the grass, he noted, “Even the maths class is all about trying to guess the future. It’s pointless.”

Hannah didn’t know why she kept coming back to the Three Broomsticks. Maybe it was nostalgia that pulled her in, a reminder that before the war, there had been good times. Times spent with the DA, or with Susan as the pair of them traipsed through the village as if they owned the place. Their laughter reverberating through the buildings. If Hannah had thought about it more, she might reflect on the fact that not much had changed in that regard. Susan was there with her tonight, the pair of them always eager for the weekend to roll around. Naturally they decided to live together, either one willing to part with the other, no matter the circumstances. 

During everything, Susan had been the one to keep Hannah grounded. Even after he mother was killed, Susan was there to support her, to give her the words of encouragement that she knew she needed.

That was why Hannah usually tried to pay her friend back in kindness, and in that moment it meant grabbing her the strongest drink she could find. Sometimes friends were especially important in the act of getting absolutely plastered. 

She knew, as she stood at the bar waiting for the drinks, that she was bound to run into people she knew there, people that understood the scars that had been impossible to heal. That was why, as she felt a tap on her shoulder, Hannah almost felt relieved when she saw it was Neville. A familiar face. A kind face. One that had, like Susan, propelled her through the trauma that a war caused people. Neville had surprised many people in the leadership he had possessed, but Hannah always knew he had it in him.

“I would say the same, but I hear you’re a Professor now. Can’t say I’m surprised. You always were the best at Herbology. I couldn’t think of anyone better for the job.” She smiled brightly, always one to try to light up a room, no matter how difficult it was at times. Life had its way of weighing her down, but it was the support of those around her that kept her afloat. “I saw that you lot were here, but Susan and I agreed that we wouldn’t bother you until we were properly drunk. And I have to admit, I’m only halfway there.”

“Ah, thank you. Your praise is more than I deserve.” She was too kind, Hannah Abbott. She was someone that Neville didn’t feel near as nervous around. Maybe it was because of her smile, warm and inviting, wide as the horizon and twice as bright. “Wouldn’t have made it this far without you, I reckon. Pretty sure those Screechsnaps would’ve left my ears bleeding if you weren’t there to jump in and assist.” There had been more than one time where Neville had embarrassed himself even in his strongest subject, after all, passing out on more than one occasion. Typically, it was when he was his most forgetful, on the days where his mind was hazed over with a heavy fog. 

It had been a wonder he’d been able to keep a level head all of seventh year, enough so that he not only kept himself alive, but the rest of the students as well. He never would have fathomed he was capable of such a thing. 

And not many others would have believed it, either, yet Hannah had never seemed to hesitate in following his direction. 

She was one of the genuinely good ones. “You don’t have to wait until you’re too inebriated to join us. If you want, that is. You’re both more than welcome, though I do not blame you if you need a little something to help you get through listening to Ron and Seamus argue about which quidditch team is better, the Canons or the Irish Nationals. I’d be happy to steer the conversation away from that though.” Neville wasn’t well versed in the sport anyway. He watched it, of course, but he wasn’t near the level of investment that the rest of the Gryffindor lads were, rightfully so since all of them had either tried out for the Gryffindor team or played on it during their time at Hogwarts. He wasn’t too fussed about what was discussed either way, really, but both Ron and Seamus could get heated. 

“Oh. Uh, I’ll also cover whatever she’s having on my tab,” Neville indicated to the bartender once he made his way back over to them, sliding Neville his drinks and looking to Hannah for her order. 

If Lavender Brown was a candle – and she very much would like to be, a scented shimmery one – then chatter would be the match that lit her fire. She wasn’t necessarily invested in gossip always or liable to spread it, but she was talkative, with a flair for dramatics that lent itself easily to her chatter. Like this, she was in her element — brightly, cheerfully, effervescently so.

And that was the image she reverted to now, clutching on to perky bubbly happy with single-minded determination. This did not have to be a thing if she did not want it to be. He could be just like the kindly old lady who came in every Thursday morning and always mentioned how her grandkids were doing, because Lavender talked to her every week before taking her order and that didn’t make her feel sick and hollow in the slightest. It was rather like living outside her life, actually, or stepping into somebody else’s for a moment, but she was okay with that for the moment.

It had been years now since normal had been redefined for them, just as long as it had been since she had seen this serious young man, ironically enough, and Lavender did not want to think of what had come to pass since. She still remembered the fourteen year old who had stood in a crowd of assembled students and craned her neck to catch a glimpse of him, her best friend searching her pockets frantically for something to get his autograph with.

If she stopped to think about it, she knew she’d miss that girl with a hot rush of sudden desperate yearning, so she didn’t. Instead, she turned up her smile at her customer as she looked down at him. “Oh, I knew that. He definitely wouldn’t either. Ron and I were, like, kind of a thing before they decided they wanted to be more than friends and got all dramatic, and he’s definitely stupid about Hermione.” A beat of weighty silence, and then: “Um, not that I wish them any ill or whatever either. Obviously. That’s just…school gossip, you know. Hermione and I were dormmates for six years, so even though I would say that we’re maybe not precisely friends and too different for that, I don’t know, we’re…we’re good. They’re good people— and I’m rambling. Sorry. I’m going to stop now.”

Idly scratching at her cheek, glad that she had improved at transfiguration enough for the glamour to hold, she moved her attention back to the notepad in her hand, purple pen tapping against it. “Oh right, I forgot about that pro athlete bit. Sorry.” Much to her Puddlemere fanatic father’s chagrin, Lavender didn’t care much for quidditch. It was easy to forget that the man she was looking down at – not that she had to look down much – was an international celebrity and not just any vague distant acquaintance as a customer. “You probably don’t want spurgos then, honestly. They’re deep-fried and dusted with sugar and not that great for anyone’s body. We do have smoothies though. Not the fancy and green ones, but your basic fruity drinks. And smoothie bowls and oatmeal-fruit bowls. Oh, and the fruit and granola parfaits are delicious, if you want a little fun with your healthiness. It’s not indulgent, but it’s not as boring as porridge either, if that’s your sort of thing.”

Viktor blinked at the onslaught of background information, digesting the pieces quietly. Viktor didn’t do well with drama. He had learned this about himself early on. He may grow accustomed to the barrage of lights and cameras in his face, but he did not have a penchant for overly complicated situations. Keeping his emotions in check was another form of exercise for the quidditch player. 

If he did not, they would spill over and leak out without any semblance of control. He was prone to outbursts that he could not otherwise contain if he didn’t make a conscious effort to. It was better to just avoid entanglements entirely, he’d learned. There were too many instances of him losing his cool, the otherwise reserved and collected man revealing a streak of cold anger when provoked. He’d barely been able to keep himself in check during Fleur’s wedding when he wanted to draw out his wand and duel Xenophilius Lovegood for wearing the sign of the Deathly Hallows that had always been associated with Gellert Grindelwald. 

When Viktor poured himself into something, he did so until he was drained and left empty. He poured himself mercilessly into becoming a great Seeker, he did all he could to be a good Triwizard Champion and represent his school, and he’d even fought alongside the Order of the Phoenix during the war, contributing where he was able. But he had never mastered the art of companionship. It was why that it was best that his closest friends be ones that he mostly corresponded with from a distance. 

“I see. I would not presume that you don’t think they’re good people. Everyone gets caught up in school drama every now and again, yes? It was better for all parties involved that the matter was settled sooner rather than later.” He did not begrudge Hermione in the slightest. He wished her the best, sincerely, and often told her as much in their letters. She seemed to be happy, and that was what mattered. He was still trying to work on walking his own path to happiness. That was why he continued to fervently pursue his goal of winning a World Cup. At the present time, it was the one ambition he had to hold onto and chase after. The rest, he figured, would come with time and patience. 

She had meant to say something about how using a Silencing Charm felt a bit like cheating, but his final comment about his mum distracted her mind away from it. “She didn’t tell him?” it was impossible to keep the surprise out of her voice. “Even when they were getting married?” Sure, Daphne wasn’t exactly the poster child for openly sharing information about herself, but even she couldn’t imagine keeping something like that from a person she was pledged to spend the rest of her life with. Daphne pulled her wand from her bag before setting the purse down and gave a flick towards the kettle, which immediately started filling itself with water and levitating towards the hob. Magic was such a deep and instinctual reflex for her that she couldn’t imagine keeping it hidden from someone who spent that much time with her; she hadn’t even noticed the irony of using her wand to set the tea going. “I couldn’t imagine keeping it a secret, not all the time like that.” What she really meant, even if she didn’t know it, was that she couldn’t imagine being with someone who she had to keep it a secret from. She’d never once thought about dating — even being friends with — a muggle.

A sick sort of guilty feeling ran through her gut, thinking about the attack that had happened here and what these people — her neighbors, now — must have thought… must have felt. All because of a war they didn’t know was happening over an issue they didn’t know was real, even though at its heart it came down to a hatred of them, the ignorant, magic-less Muggles. “What a mess,” she said softly, the sound nearly drowned out by the high-pitched whistle of the kettle. With another flick of her wand it was pouring itself into two cups, finely matched china she’d taken from home, and setting itself on the counter to steep.

Maybe it was his genuine smile, or maybe that she hadn’t talked to another person in well over three days now, but she found that admissions kept tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them. “It sounds like the makings of a fine career. If only I were half as good at carrying boxes I could secure a job, too. As it stands,” she looked away, and towards the copies of The Daily Prophet that were laid out near the tea, employment ads circled in red and crossed out in blue. “I don’t know what I want to do.” Daphne laughed nervously, turning slightly pink in the cheeks. “I should probably figure that out soon. Savings only last so long…” This was not an entirely true statement, and once she’d said it she realized, yet again too late, how spoiled it sounded. After all, they weren’t her savings she was spending. At least, they weren’t savings she’d earned for herself.

She reached for her tea and took a long, deep drink. “Uhm,” she stammered at his question, looking around the room at all the miscellaneous boxes. She was suddenly quite anxious about them: what was in each, what was fragile and what wasn’t, what could she have him move, did he really mean he wanted to help or was it just a nice thing to say and she would look like an arse for putting him to work, or would she look like even more of an arse for refusing his help? “I’m not sure yet,” she admitted, a slightly pained smile on her face. “I really don’t know what I have, the whole moving process is kind of a blur…”

“Yah, he didn’t know until after they were married. When he found out, he thought me mam  was just codding him, then he thought she was mad as a box of frogs so she had to show him some spells for him to believe it.” It was a wonder, in retrospect, that the reveal hadn’t resulted in their divorce. Magic was a source of contention in his family, causing more stress than anything. He’d been ignorant to it when he was young, far too happy flying about on a broom throughout his youth to notice the way his mother’s face would sink or his father’s would darken when heavier subjects like Voldemort arose. Now that he was older, he attributed that tension to why his mother was so adamant in her initial denial that the dark wizard had returned and why she hadn’t wanted Seamus to get involved. “I reckon that she was used to having to keep it secret. Maybe she was forbidden from telling him ‘forehand. ‘M not even sure how it all works, when you’re allowed to tell people without consequences. But there has to be a process, right? Like when muggleborn children pop up.  It is weird, though, ‘cause I could never tell my da’s side of the family what I was or where I went to school.” He threw up a shrug. “You get used to it and make it work.” Having to keep it a secret meant that he wasn’t as dependent on his magic to do basic tasks, though he did still utilize his wand for some household chores that he found tedious.

It was a different sort of existence, one that he didn’t expect a pureblood such as Daphne to adjust easily to. Not even Ron, who came from a Muggle-friendly family, understood a lot about muggle culture and could struggle fitting amongst them. The separation between the communities ran steep, and Seamus had to wonder how much that divide contributed to the animosity. “Well, I don’t know if you could even consider it a real skill, but I’ve managed to make it one by some fluke. Luck of the Irish maybe,” Seamus jested lightly, hand extending for the cup of tea, grip on the porcelain ginger as he was slightly apprehensive about his ability to not break the fragile cup. While he boasted about fortune, more often than not, Seamus was accompanied by some disaster or another.

He took a swig of the tea, hiding his grimace from the bitter taste. He needed four cubes of sugar, at least, with a slather of milk before he was happy with tea but he was a guest in the empty apartment of a classmate that he was not familiar with and who he could only make assumptions about. He didn’t feel comfortable asking, but he didn’t stop himself from commenting brazenly, “Did your family make you move out? Seems kinda odd that you’d be here without a plan.” At the risk of sounding too brusque, he added, “Wizarding jobs can be kind of limiting. Probably ‘cause we all live so long and very few retire.” And it’s not like new jobs were added to the market very often. The wizarding community was rather stagnant. “Maybe you could be an apprentice somewhere or something.”

Seamus set down his cup, glancing over the array of boxes in an attempt to busy his hands and make himself useful. “I’d start with curtains, honestly. That way your neighbors can’t peep in,” he waved at the window in indication where the sunlight poured in, “And you don’t risk them seeing you waving your wand about, yeah?”

Once upon a time, Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf were friends. Once upon a time, she wasn’t Little Red and he wasn’t the Big Bad Wolf. Once upon a time, they were just children.

That time was long gone. 

Bow raised, aimed, fingers ready to fire – Daria was poised to do exactly as requested. Kill him. 

But she didn’t do it. At least, she wouldn’t do it yet. It was Daria’s duty to eliminate werewolves, menaces to society that they were, and Daria would not fail in it. But she wouldn’t be dictated to by one, either. Werewolves did not tell Daria Flint what to do. 

Even if they were asking to be killed. Even if they were old childhood friends who should’ve next to Daria not at the end of her crossbow. Even if they were Noah Renshaw. 

Except he wasn’t Noah, not anymore – it had been drilled into her head since childhood that werewolves were not human. The Noah she knew was dead. When he first disappeared, she’d been told he’d been murdered by werewolves. Looking at him now, chained up, battered and bruised and haunted by shadows, he might as well as have been. 

It was a pitiful sight, but Daria bit down on the rising sympathy. He wasn’t Noah. She could imagine her parents, her trainers and tutors judging her for the weakness. Once someone was a werewolf, no matter what they had meant to you before, they were dead to you now. 

“Why are you here?” she asked, voice hard as flint. Daria still didn’t lower her weapons, but nor did she make any moves to help the clearly dehydrated Noah. Her curiosity had nothing to do with the fact this was Noah, the friend who would’ve been her partner whose loss she had mourned, she told herself, and everything to do with the unusual nature of Noah’s confinement. If he’d been chained up by hunters, Daria would’ve known about it, but she’d never heard of werewolves doing this to one of their own. This was information her crew would surely be interested in. Noah was a werewolf now, she had no interest in his life after his disappearance. None whatsoever. Any memories that were resurfacing, any sympathy that tried to fill her chest, were quickly stamped out. This was purely clinical. 

They weren’t children any longer. Noah didn’t even feel human anymore. He was a weapon, a tool to be used for the whims of the pack. As a werewolf, he had little control, purposely never taught how to anchor himself so that he could be feral. Feral werewolves were more chaotic, could cause far more damage. 

They planned to use him against his own people, Noah knew. The people that he was once meant to fight alongside, such as Daria, he was now being set to destroy. Noah wasn’t privy to the pack’s innermost thoughts, kept tucked away from their plans, but he knew the gist. There were some -- women, mostly, who would come to use him in other ways -- that would mock him with their knowledge, ominous in what they would relay but he would be given enough to put the pieces together. 

He had been brought to the shack bound and blindfolded, yet he could feel the tug of this place. This was once home. Daria was once his greatest companion. 

He eyed the bow in her hand, longing for the arrow to puncture what was left of his minced heart. The pack had ripped it from the cavity in his chest with their teeth, chewed it up, and spat it back out.

He hadn’t been given water in nearly a full day, his voice hoarse as he croaked out an explanation, “They -- they came back.” Thoughts swimming, he leaned his head back, chains rattling beside him as he jostled. “They want...to seek revenge, I’m sure. On -- on the clan.” The clan of werewolf hunters that Daria was undoubtedly within the ranks of. “I don’t know where they went, I swear. They are gone mostly during the day.” 

They were probably holed up in a house somewhere, attempting to be discreet and disguising themselves amongst the rest of the population. Blending in a way that Noah never could. His wrists ached, pulsating with a sharp pain as he lifted up his hands, deliriously begging once more, “You’ve gotta do it before they get back. Please.” He didn’t know what kind of adult Daria had become, but Noah didn’t have to guess that she was a skilled hunter. She always held the code close to her heart, as he once had, and in a way, he was glad to see her one more time. He was entrusting her with this task. She couldn’t see him as a human anymore. They all would have assumed he was dead. Let her see a dead man walking rather than the monster that he was. Let her kill the corpse that had long ago been buried. 

Mortal children of Zeus didn’t live very long, that was a fact. All children of the so-called ‘Big Three’ were generally doomed to short, tragic lives, but Zeus’ most of all. Personally, Atropos thought it was a shame they got to live at all. If she had it her way, they wouldn’t, alas Atropos was bound to uphold the balance, and so her hand was stayed. 

Zeus, apparently, didn’t share her views. 

Nor did he appreciate Atropos sentencing his favourite demigod child to an early demise. Particularly when Atropos had done so to stop Pestilence getting there first. 

                    ( if anyone had been going to end the world, it was this child.                                                                    really, she’d done zeus a favour. )

                                                                            ( also, it served zeus right. )

The result was the present. Stuck pretending to be a first year in university despite being more than a millennia old, forced to endure the infuriating ignorance of mortals along with the equally infuriating Pestilence. His presence was both a comfort and a torment. As much as Atropos wished to blink Pestilence out of existence when he wouldn’t cease bugging her, the glee she felt knowing how much he despised this ‘University Boot Camp’ was stronger. 

Was that petty? Yes.  Did Atropos care? No. 

Whatever she could latch onto to make this experience easier, she would. A shadow fell across her desk, but Atropos didn’t need to hear him speak to know who it was. 

“Ah, Pestilence, predictable as ever.” Atropos leaned back in her chair, unperturbed by Pestilence’s destruction of her work. She imagined her history professor would have wanted to do the same thing, anyway. Apparently saying she’d been present at the Trojan War was amount to blasphemy and seen as mocking. She plucked the ball of paper out of his hand, tossing it back at his head. “Throwing around accusations as solid as this piece of paper. All that whipped cream is eroding what little’s left of your brain, it seems. If it won’t strain your poor eyes too much, why don’t you read it and then see if you think I’m walking to the beat of Zeus’ horn?”

In the immortal family tree, Pestilence did not find his place on any given branch. He was more or less a rotten root that had planted itself at the bottom of the tree, causing upheaval and decay over time. In a way, he was a leaf off the stem of the Fates, but he was more of an extension of them rather than a descendant.

He certainly wasn’t going to call Atropos ‘Mother’ any time soon. 

And he was a thorn on Zeus’ side, the Old God constantly subjected to stress headaches. Pestilence took partial credit for the time it had rained forty days and forty nights when Zeus was throwing one of his infamous temper tantrums. One would think that he was the petulant child that the rest of them had to try and placate him. 

They all had their own fair share of mishaps, of course, some of them catastrophic in magnitude. The last of which had landed them here, faking an existence among humans. 

Pestilence was between experiments and needed to find entertainment somewhere. Considering he placed the blame on Atropos for his being trapped there, he needed to remind her every now and then that she was not rid of him. She had to take responsibility, after all, and she did so by serving as his source of entertainment. 

He bent down to pick up the wadded paper once it had been chucked at his head. He casually read portions of the essay, skimming through it with a feigned interest as he strolled to the counter to grab his drink once the barista had finished it. Scooping up a dollop of whip cream with his straw, he popped his lips. “What’s this supposed to prove exactly? Sure, you jab at him every now and then, zig zag your course along the way, but you still drum along the path that you were given, yeah? Or have you permanently put down your scissors?” Atropos could be fun, but Pestilence wouldn’t admit such a thing even under torture. Actually, Pestilence preferred it when Atropos’ rebellious streak was running high because it meant that he could monopolize on it. 

The two of them pitted against each other could lead to disaster. 

The two of them working together could lead to the apocalypse. 

A number of years might have passed since they walked the same halls at Hogwarts, but not much about James had changed. Or at least, that was Medea’s suspicion. James Potter had always been jovial, like he could find the funny side to any wretched situation and a silver lining to any miserable outcome, and seemed he still could. It had infuriated Medea to no end because she knew he wasn’t naive, she knew he had witness and suffered tragedy and trauma, she had dealt such things to him herself, but yet he still found reason to smile. The smile she returned at his almost childlike mannerism was one she’d long since perfected, completely fake yet totally convincing. If one were to know what to look for, and were to look close enough, they might have noticed that the notoriously cheery action didn’t quite reach her eyes - it was an echo of a gesture that had long lost it’s meaning to the young woman. 

( “I don’t know, you tell me. I’ve only been here a couple of months, barely enough time to get settled in - let alone give anyone reason to come knocking on my door…” ) Feigning innocence had been one of her greatest skills, a little show that hoodwinked the masses. Of course, feigning innocence believably was one thing, changing the minds of the ignorant was another - and though she’d managed to keep a target off her back through school and over the last few years, there were still some that looked at her with suspicion. ( “Took the words straight from my lips. You cannot blame the wand for the action of it’s master, after all. Still; genuine compliment or not - if not here on ministry business, what does bring you to the wrong end of town.” ) She failed to see a reasoning other than one regarding their work that might have brought him not only down Knockturn Alley, but also into this store in particular. She might have joked about him visiting her as if they were old friends, but they were hardly what anyone would have called friends back in school.

James was never someone who accepted assumptions without first coming to his own conclusions that he drew from his own observations. In the wizarding world, surnames came with reputations. James was a Weasley-Potter hybrid, two notorious so-called blood traitor families with heroism and bravery boiling in their blood. Medea was a Nott, a Sacred Twenty-Eight family that had come up with the very concept and the values that came with pureblood culture. This meant, throughout school, she was labelled similarly as someone who adhered to the notion of blood supremacy. Her owning a shop such as Borgin and Burkes only fed into the caricature crafted for her, but James was not so quick to judge. Just as he was perhaps not as upstanding as he could be given his familial background, there was the possibility that Medea was more  than what she was presumed to be. 

No matter their murky history, James did not approach their interaction with inherent suspicion. He had no reason to do so as of yet. “I don’t really see this as the wrong end of town, frankly. A bit more shrouded in shade, maybe, but, you know, I’ve never been afraid of the dark.” If anything, James embraced the allure of the night, preferring midnight strolls where the air was crisp and the streets were quiet. “I just found myself wondering what you’d done with the place, that’s all. I’m not up to anything insidious. The rest of the shops in Knockturn Alley, admittedly, aren’t all that appealing to me. The tattoo shop would be the only other one that I’m interested in, but I’ve seen some of the work done there and it’s not my style.” His eyes traveled around the vicinity. “Not that I’m sure I want to purchase anything here, either. I’d say it couldn’t hurt to look, but...well.” His following laugh was breezy. “Do you have anything that could be, I don’t know, an interesting read that won’t snap at my hand upon opening it?” 

Astoria yearned for the day when her father’s words didn’t stir up so many feelings. She was so used to moving through life as an obedient child that her transition to sullen, defiant-in-small-ways grown daughter snuck up on her the same way it did her parents. Their expectations seemed  It stung, their voiced (and unvoiced) disappointment. So much so that her heart would ache, her hands would sweat and her fingers, yet again, clawed at the skin around her nails. Knowing she was in Draco’s presence, she tried her best to look nonchalant and make her closed eyes look like a choice rather than a necessity.

Close. Breathe out. Breathe in. Open.

Daphne had an enthusiasm for life, refined tastes - perhaps overzealous, gossipy, and emotional, but she had a knack for shapeshifting her way through any life event, capturing just the right amount of attention to seem interesting but non-threatening. Astoria couldn’t help but burn with envy as she watched her sister laugh with a gaggle of wedding guests, likely having met them just moments before.

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” she’d said to her sister late last night, sitting in the shared atrium between their bedrooms, confessing that she worried she’d never feel good enough, never love anyone (except Daphne, of course), never feel whole.

A buzzing noise sounded from the string of lights above, startling Astoria from her reverie long enough to glance up. Each lantern held a live fairy inside its glass enclosure, barely wide enough for the tiny creatures to move their wings. She scoffed, rolling her eyes. The show of utter opulence was not enough - in order to be a true pureblood event, someone had to suffer. Annoyed, she slipped her wand out of the hidden pocket of the dress and silently alohamora’d! a handful of fairies from their confines, allowing them to flit out a near window. And speaking of suffering — a house-elf scurried past, holding a tray of drinks above their head. Astoria took a glass to keep her hands occupied with something less destructive, murmuring a quiet thanks to the creature and earning an embarrassed squeak! in response.

A sip, a small cough — whiskey-ish in nature, much too strong for her tastes. She pursed her lips against the burn. 

“If I were stalking you, I’d hope to be less obvious about it.” She listened to Draco (slightly) malign her sister’s complicated relationship with Theo before shrugging in response. He wasn’t here tonight - something Astoria was thankful for. Only one Greengrass sister could have an emotional crisis at a time. “Their first choice has always been Blaise,” she offered. “Everyone’s first choice is Blaise. Blaise’s own first choice is Blaise.”

“Do you see Theo often, then?” Astoria asked, curiosity piqued. He was still a friend, dear to her, even if their relationship was just as tangled as his and Daphne’s. “I’ve not had the pleasure since the Nott estate was sold.”

Draco was a keen observer. Some may assume otherwise, considering his penchant for the dramatic and being the center of attention, but he was a master of deduction, able to draw conclusions from minimal cues and details. He knew what symptoms of panic and anxiety looked like. Astoria’s attempts at controlled breathing were transparent to him. He’d been there, after all. Forced composure was a practiced art, one that he had mastered in his sixth year, anxiety only leaking out in the security of the girls’ second floor lavatory, flowing from his pores in attacks that drowned him. 

The panic attacks had subsided with age. Now, he was numb. 

It wasn’t a coping mechanism he would recommend. He had enough tact to not vocalize his observations, instead opting to quietly watch any signs for concern, any indication that Astoria’s attack was amplifying rather than subsiding. 

His eyes followed hers, upward, watching the freed fairies flutter away. He had never given much consideration to pureblood culture prior to the war. Quite the contrary, he had embraced it all and accepted the norms with open arms. Astoria clearly did not. Perhaps this contributed to her apparent discomfort, though Draco could not be completely certain on whether or not his presence served to only worsen her mood. He leaned toward the latter, considering she had yet to seek refuge elsewhere. 

She was a curious one, no doubt, taking on more than she could handle. And not just with the liquor, Draco would assume. 

“Zabini does come with charm, I suppose. Along with a fair amount of other amenities.” He waved to the grandiose decor surrounding them, blazen displays of the wealth that the Zabini family procured through the years. Blaise came with wealth and a powerful name. The combination made for the ideal equation for other pureblood families who sought to continue keeping with tradition of advantageous marriages. His own parents, he knew, wished for him to marry within the Sacred Twenty-Eight circle, to marry someone who would carry the Malfoy legacy -- and their longheld values that came with it -- to the next generation. 

Draco was not certain that was what he wanted. 

He cleared his throat. “I do not frequently find myself in Nott’s company, no. Neither of us make the effort.” With good reason. He very much doubted Theo would welcome him attempting to sustain any level of communication between them. Theo’s father’s sentence was, in part, the result of Lucius’ testimony against him. No matter how Theo felt about his father, Draco was not too interested in walking through the muddied waters and risking being bit. “I believe this is the first time that I have seen your sister, as well, since we all left school. We all lead busy lives.” 

“Though that does not seem to prevent you and from I continually crossing paths. I would think that you would be far too consumed with your pursuits of justice to pay much mind to more mundane affairs such as this. Or did you come here with the true intentions of freeing creatures that are beholden to our whims?” 

She failed.

Amidst the bouquets, sky-high ceilings and twinkling champagne glasses, Astoria’s sour mood stuck out like a sore thumb, because she’d failed. A mere twenty-four hours earlier she’d been arguing a case before the lower courts, her first solo case, painstakingly prepared all by herself, only to have holes blasted in her logic and her client paying a hefty fine for misuse of a muggle vacuum he’d enchanted to fly. She spent much of Madame Zabini’s wedding with a frown etched into her features, her brain replaying every moment of the case, every scrap of Magical Transportation Law she’d pored over in her nervousness to defend someone in front of her superiors. Daphne, a fixture at her side, had noticed her state, and throughout the night attempted to engage in some good-natured gossip at the reception:

“Aster, do you think Madame Zabini gets a discount on these floral arrangements? Buy eight wedding packages, get the ninth for free?”

She couldn’t help it, lips quivering at the thought of the mountain of ill-gotten gold sitting in the woman’s vault. “How else do the rich stay rich?” she asked around a mouthful of canapé, earning a glare from her mother, Min-seo, across the table (more for her table manners, she assumed, than anything said about the blushing bride).

Daphne, again, sotto voce. “I think Blaise appreciates these events all the more for the fact that his own betrothal gets pushed back another year.”

Astoria scoffed. “Yes, I’m sure he just adores turning a blind eye to all that poisoning.” A frenzied “hush, girls", this time from her father.

For the second time in as many days, the young woman felt a flush from head to toe the only way public embarrassment or parental scorn could bring forth. It bothered her, the way her nerves frayed at the slightest agitation, how she felt so useless and unelegant despite her gorgeous robes and coiffed updo. Her parents had noticed her mood as well, but unlike Daphne, were unequipped to “deal with” Astoria’s behavior, as if her troubles stemmed from silly, girlish angst and not the very same desire for perfection they’d instilled in her since she was young.

Astoria felt the words bubbling to her lips before she could contain them, “Papa, allow us our fun, please, I’ve had a rough week—"

“All I ask,” began Jonathan Greengrass, matching her glower with a frown of his own. “Is that you two to keep your composure for one night. I give you two full reign over your lives in the meantime, allow you your professions,” a hand waving in Astoria’s direction, “ -and your shopping.“ a nod to Daphne. “Younger women than you both are married by now.”

Younger women than you both are married by now. Younger women than you both have families. Younger women don’t deign to join the workforce. It was not a new speech. Astoria faintly heard her sister excuse the two of them from their table before she was gently tugged across the grand hall to a far wall. Astoria gently stopped her sister, placing her hands on her elbows and spinning to face her.

“I’m okay,” she said, pinning a smile to her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I feel bad for you taking care of me, Daph. I’ll — I’ll take a break. Go back to the table, dance with a gentleman — okay? Have fun. For me.”

Daphne, realizing that Astoria wished to be left alone, slid her arms from her sister’s hands and squeezed them, placing a featherlight kiss to each cheek before sauntering off back to the table. Hoping to escape unnoticed, the younger Greengrass strode off in the direction of what looked like a quiet, dimly lit corner of the room. She brushed past dancing witches and wizards and smiled mechanically at the families whose last names bubbled at the back of her brain from early lessons in pureblood etiquette.

Astoria reached the quiet corner she set out for and let out a stressed laugh. Oh, what was wrong with her? She never liked these pureblood soirees before but something about them brought out her ire and anxiety with dizzying speed. She slumped against the wall, some of the tension in her shoulders loosening before she looked to the side and saw she wasn’t alone —

“Mr. Malfoy,” she laughed again, hiding her hands behind her back, nails picking at the skin on her fingers of their own accord. “We have got to stop meeting like this.”

His parents were growing all the more concerned, he knew, to the point where it was nearing agitation. 

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy doted on their son. This was no secret. To them, he could do no wrong, and for a bulk of his life, they catered to his every whim. He didn’t ever need to ask twice. Hell, half the time he didn’t have to ask at all. The silver platter was put on his lap, all his for the taking, and he had responded accordingly. All he knew was to take take take as if everything belonged to him. It all seemed so juvenile now, the belief that he had earned any of it. His pride was still locked in place in some ways. He still dressed himself down to the nines, each silky blond hair jelled to perfection. The style was different now, trimmed closer to his hairline and swooped in a more mature fashion. He’d once adamantly grew it out in the hopes that one day, he would have similarly luscious locks as his parents, but that was no longer his wish. 

He was deviating from them in ways he never would have expected. In ways his parents never could have anticipated. 

They had handed him everything. When they were backed into a corner, they’d pulled out all the stops to protect him, shield him from the shady business they’d entangled themselves in. They’d brought him up to believe that he was the best, to expect the best, and with the ideology that his pureblood made him superior to others. Now, he knew that blood was murkier than water. 

Blood was messy, and he was not interested in anyone’s any longer. Not in their status, not in seeing it spill from their body in spades. When backed into a corner, he was a coward. He was a snake that could spew venomous, hateful words, but his bite was nonlethal. 

It was no wonder that he no longer made his parents proud. They still loved him, but their relationship was strained. Draco was away from the Malfoy estate more often than he was there, and his parents could no longer watch as their son walked the same path as them. They had paved the road, ensured that there were few obstacles for him to cross. When a monumental obstacle threatened his smooth course, they had done all they could to obliterate it. Shards had broken free in the process, scratching against is one smooth, impenetrable shallow surface. He was not as shiny, lackluster. 

He was working to pave his own path rather than walk the one that was already cleared for him. Some days, he still didn’t know the right way forward or if he had the strength to take that step. Plenty of occasions, he was dizzied by the circles that he ran. 

His parents didn’t voice their disapproval, but he could feel it all the same, looming over him like a heavy clock. 

Sometimes, they would look at him as if he was a stranger, as if he were transparent, a ghost of the son they’d raised. He couldn’t deny that such gazes brought about a swelling of shame, tender as a bruise. He wasn’t the masterpiece they had molded. He was chipped, damaged. 

For all they had done for him, he owed it to them to do all that he could to pick up the pieces, to mend what had been shattered. He could salvage the Malfoy reputation, maybe, could swag his tongue like he’d used to to charm his way back into the public’s good graces. They’d already been given amnesty for their crimes. Nothing could be pinned on them now, but everyone still knew. 

Still, he could ignore the truth, turn his nose upward and keep his head held high. For his parents’ sake. 

Selfish to the end, he refused to give that to them. His core was still rotten, and while he no longer took, that didn’t mean he had it in him to give. Not in the capacity that his parents’ wished. It was no secret their true intention of insisting he come to the wedding. 

He had just grabbed another wine glass from the house elf walking by, chugging the contents in one swift swallow, when a familiar voice brushed over him. 

He found that he was growing accustomed to Astoria Greengrass’ presence. Unlike many others, her voice was not grating, and her appearance did not churn his guts. 

“Ms. Greengrass. Younger Greengrass.” His eyes caught Daphne’s figure in the distance before he gave apt attention to the woman before him. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say that you were stalking me.” He clucked his tongue, sinking back into the knobs of his feet. “But I don’t see you as the type. Not even your sister went to such lengths when she was pursuing Theodore. She’s given up on that lost cause, I take it? All the better for her, really. Theodore’s...well, let’s just say I’m sure that your parents would prefer a more suitable match for her.” 

In the few short months that Medea had owned the store, she’d grown accustomed the weird and wonderful patrons that often passed through the threshold, but nothing could have honestly prepared her for the appearance of James Potter. Perhaps partially because she’d almost forgotten about him and their almost friendship in their final year at Hogwarts, or perhaps because she believed him smarter than to venture this far into Knockturn Alley for any reason other than work - and she’d made damn sure, as Burke had done before hand, that nothing out there that might have ever drawn the attention of the ministry, could ever be traced back to her shop. ( “Don’t I know that all too well, but for the record - I cannot be held responsible if you leave the store in one piece or not.” )

She stopped, head falling to the side slightly as she listened to him. James had always confused her - always talking but yet never one to really open up. She’d tried so desperately hard to get him to reveal something more than just the surface level, but he’d been stubborn, perhaps even more stubborn than herself. ( “You will find much worse than squid ink and dragons among the artefacts in my store, James. I’m sure you already know that, and I’m also sure you’re quite fond of your current mental state… so hands to yourself.” ) It wasn’t meant to sound like a threat, though maybe it actually had been, it was meant to sound like friendly words of advice. Looking around at the store that had once been dusty and clutter, Medea smirked - a small sign of pride. ( “Well, presentation is the key to anything and anyone’s success.” ) She brushed off non existent dust, as if to highlight her perfectly presented self too. Her eyes snapped back to look at him with a glint of suspicion. ( “Is that why you’re here, James? Did the ministry send you? And here was me thinking that perhaps you were merely here to visit an old friend.” )

James was responsible for his own actions. He understood that long before he’d walked into the store. Responsibility weighed down his shoulders, matured him. His youth had been filled with questionable decisions, and he’d embraced the consequences of each of them. Some were more inconsequential than others. His decision to nab the Marauder’s Map from his father’s des in his third year had led to a great number of adventures, some of them regretful, but each memorable. He would like to say that he learned from each decision he made, regardless of how they turned out, but despite his own outlook on life, there were some decisions that grounded him in a way that was akin to clipping his wings rather than growing roots. If he could turn back time, he could not say that there weren’t paths he would choose to divert.  

He doubted this decision would wind up in that small yet impactful pile. “Yeah,” a laugh passed through his lips with ease, natural as air. “I would prefer to keep my mental capacities, thanks, otherwise I’d be shit out of luck with my own career. I’ll keep my hands away from the merchandise from now on.” He held up the digits with a wag of his fingers to indicate his sincerity. Even as the conversation took a sharp dive, James kept his lofty demeanor. Turbulents waters were rocking the Ministry, to be certain. His aunt Hermione and his father were especially heavily involved in the happenings. It seemed that not everyone was as thrilled that a muggleborn had been elected Minister as some. New era, same prejudices. Shifty circumstances surrounded disappearances, individuals being murdered in an air of mystery. Dark magic was resurging, and Borgin and Burkes’ wreaked of Dark Arts, filled to the brim with items that could be weaponized. “At ease, Medea. I was genuinely offering you a compliment, nothing more, nothing less. I’m not really the underhanded type. Besides, I’m an Unspeakable, not an Auror or anything of that ilk. Is there a reason the Ministry should be sending someone?” He quirked up a brow, unaccusatory but curious, carefully surveying the situation. “I mean, you can’t be held responsible for how people choose to use the merchandise, right? You’re the seller, not so much the supplier, necessarily. Though this shop has been use that way in the past.”