Disclaimer: This is a Poly!Marauders x Muggle!Reader fic concept, but it is mostly focused on Padfoot and the reader. {Divider Credit}
Summary: Long hours, late nights, and dark alleyways. Good thing you have a guardian angel looking out for you. {Aka: Padfoot protects a muggle reader on her walk home}
Main story:
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Requested:
TBD
I will be taking requests with mini ideas that do or don't pertain to the main story. If I really like a request I might just make it into a main story beat, if you don't specify otherwise <3
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What do you think of Joanne's explanation for the origin of Muggle-borns? Basically, Muggle-borns are descendants of Squibs who, by some genetic luck, ended up awakening magic. This was one of the things that made me realize how this woman always manages to destroy any attempt to explain her own history. It's a decision that only accentuates the separation between Muggles and wizards, because the children of Muggles cannot develop magic without being descendants of real wizards. I personally find it quite obvious that this indicates eugenics and the racial supremacy of wizards; how could this have gone unnoticed by her? What do you think this says about her as a person?
What really amuses me is how this lines up perfectly with how little understanding Rowling has of real political issues. Because if Muggle-borns actually have magical ancestry, that means they come from magical families. Maybe many generations back, sure, but they still come from magical families. So you can’t compare that to racism, for example. Racialized people have never, at any point in history, belonged to a dominant elite; they have always been subjected to the forces of imperialism and colonialism. In the same way, when people say, “Death Eaters are Nazis”—well, no, they’re not. Because if you’re saying Death Eaters are Nazis and Muggle-borns are Jews, then what sense does it make that Muggle-borns have magical ancestry? That would imply that Jewish people were once Aryan at some point, which makes no sense at all. So the whole supposed political comparison Rowling is trying to make—which already falls apart on its own—even more so collapses completely because of this. It just doesn’t hold up at all.
To begin with, I don’t even buy the idea that Muggle-borns are some kind of marginalized minority that is excluded from society and discriminated against, because that’s simply not true. They have access—economically, socially, and politically—to the exact same things as pure-blood wizards, half-bloods, or any kind of wizard. As magical humans, they have the same rights and opportunities as any other magical human. The groups that are actually marginalized—and could be compared to real-world minorities—are non-human magical beings, because they don’t have the same rights or access as humans. And also humans like werewolves or half-giants, those can actually be considered marginalized minorities pushed to the edges of society.
But Muggle-borns, simply for being Muggle-born? No. You’re a Muggle-born, and from the moment you’re born, you have the right to access the same education as pure-bloods. By following that education, you can access the same institutions. The only thing you can’t become is part of the pure-blood magical aristocracy. But that means Muggles aren’t racialized. They’re not comparable to ethnic or religious minorities. They’re more comparable to a kind of bourgeois class trying to climb socially, facing an aristocracy that tells them: “I don’t care how rich or how smart you are, you’ll never be one of us.” And that’s not an identity issue, it’s a class issue within a hierarchical European-style society based on aristocratic structures.
That said, the fact that Muggle-borns ultimately descend from magical lines completely undermines everything. A Muggle-born could theoretically be descended from the Black family. If a Squib from the Black or Malfoy family kept passing down the surname through generations, eventually you could end up with someone considered Muggle-born who is still a Black or a Malfoy and still has magic from that same lineage. So what’s the point? Where is the marginalization? Where is the lack of rights? Because that would mean a Muggle with absolutely no magical ancestry whatsoever could never develop magic. So there is a clear separation between Muggles and wizards. But being Muggle-born doesn’t make you a minority, because it means there is magic somewhere in your bloodline, it just hadn’t manifested until you.
So you’re not the same as other Muggles. And your parents aren’t entirely the same either—at least the one you inherited magic from—because there is magic in that bloodline. In other words, there is never a real separation. It’s absurd. It makes no sense. Politically and sociologically, it just doesn’t hold up. It’s honestly insulting to the intelligence of anyone who has even a basic understanding of these issues.
And what annoys me the most is when people, while discussing the political aspects of the Harry Potter world, bring up real-world groups that have absolutely nothing to do with that situation. It’s just absurd.
SLYTHERIN BOYS REACT TO MUGGLE LONDON DECORATED FOR CHRISTMAS
THEODORE NOTT:
༯ obviously teasing you about how overdecorated is London, but secretly he loves every moment of it. he loves the city lights and the couples walking around at the Christmas market.
MATTHEO RIDDLE:
༯ he thinks the lights are magical but he’s too introverted for the crowd. he always tries to be next to you close as possible, because he doesn’t want to lose you in the people sea.
LORENZO BERKSHIRE:
༯ he loves the happy people around him, also the shining decorating too. his fav thing is the huge christmas tree at the Christmas market and he loves yapping about which type of tree is that.
BLAISE ZABINI:
༯ maybe the lights are too much for him, but he’s okay with that if he can see your smile and loves watching your little happy dances after you bought a snack. he’s holding your hand while you’re walking around, checking every handmade gifts for your friends and family.
DRACO MALFOY:
༯ he’s grumpy because you “forced” him to go with you out to the Christmas market. the muggle decorated london is out of his comfort zone, but he’s trying to be okay with all of the blinking lights, loud music and the people. only because he loves you.
TOM RIDDLE:
༯ he hates the muggle decorated london, it’s obvious. but deep in his heart he really loves the Christmas market except the people who are accidentally bumping into you. he’s trying to keep you close as possible to him. his love for you is stronger than the disgust towards the people.
For context: in this Muggle AU, Harry and Severus met online. Harry is still a virgin and fell in love with mysterious man from the internet. He wanted to meet Severus in real life. Severus had no plans to do that, because he's older and all that shite but at the end of the day, Harry came to him.
Severus' place is really old and far from nice. He didn't want that "sweet boy" to see how he lives. He couldn't change anything in two days but... he could do that stupidly romantic gesture and put christmas lights everytwhere. And it was miserable mission on many levels and for many reasons!
I hope one day I'll be able to write it properly, hehe.
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Fred Weasley X Muggle!Reader Angst- The Moment Everything Changed
|Misc. Masterlist| |Main Masterlist|
!She waits at the Burrow while the battle rages, replaying the kiss he left her with that morning and the promise that he’d be back before dark. But when the Weasleys return and one pair of footsteps is missing, she realizes some promises don’t survive war.
You knew before it started.
Not every detail. Not every spell or strategy. But you knew enough.
They didn’t hide it from you.
Fred never treated you like something fragile just because you didn’t have magic. He’d sit with you at the Burrow kitchen table, elbows on the wood, explaining things in half-serious, half-teasing tones while Mrs. Weasley pretended not to listen.
“They’re fortifying the castle,” he’d said one night, tapping his fingers against your knee. “Secret passages sealed. Defensive enchantments. McGonagall’s gone terrifying.”
You tried to keep up with words that didn’t belong to your world.
Horcruxes. Wards. Barriers.
You understood one thing clearly:
It was dangerous.
You were staying at the Burrow.
That part had not been a debate.
“You’re not stepping foot in that castle,” Fred told you gently but firmly. “You don’t have magic.”
“I have common sense,” you argued.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours across the tiny space between your chairs.
“Exactly.”
You hated that you understood.
You hated feeling useless.
But you weren’t stupid. A battlefield for witches and wizards wasn’t a place for someone who couldn’t even light a wand.
So you stayed.
You watched them prepare.
You watched Fred joke through it. Laugh through it. Kiss you in the kitchen while his mum scolded him for tracking mud inside.
The morning they left, the Burrow felt too small for all the tension inside it.
Fred found you outside before he apparated.
You were standing near the crooked fence, arms wrapped around yourself.
He walked up behind you and slid his arms around your waist like it was any other morning.
“You’re brooding,” he murmured against your hair.
“You’re about to go fight in a war,” you replied.
“Minor detail.”
You turned in his arms.
He looked normal.
That’s what sticks with you.
Normal.
Freckles. Crooked grin. That familiar warmth in his eyes.
“You’ll stay here,” he said softly. Not a command. A request.
“I know.”
He cupped your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks.
“I’ll come back.”
You nodded because that was the only version of reality you allowed yourself to imagine.
He kissed you.
Slow. Deep. Like he wasn’t in a rush at all.
You felt his heartbeat under your palms.
Alive. Strong.
When he pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours one last time.
“Don’t fall in love with anyone else while I’m gone.”
You let out a watery laugh. “Idiot.”
He smiled.
And then he was gone.
The waiting is the worst part.
The Burrow feels hollow without them. Mrs. Weasley moves like she’s holding herself together with thread. Ginny isn’t there. Ron isn’t there. The house is too quiet.
You try to stay busy.
You help clean. You make tea no one drinks. You sit at the kitchen table staring at nothing.
You tell yourself if something terrible had happened, you’d feel it.
You don’t feel anything.
So that must mean he’s fine.
Hours pass.
The sky outside darkens.
Then—
A crack.
Someone apparates into the yard.
Your heart leaps into your throat.
You’re already on your feet before you even know who it is.
More cracks follow. One after another.
Figures appear in the yard.
Injured.
Carrying others.
The air changes instantly.
You step onto the porch slowly, your pulse roaring in your ears.
You scan faces.
Bill.
Charlie.
Percy.
Arthur.
George—
George.
He’s being held up.
His face is streaked with ash. His eyes are unfocused. Someone has a hand on his shoulder like he might fall.
You look past him.
You look for the flash of red hair that always finds you first.
You don’t see it.
Your stomach turns cold.
“Where is he?” you ask, though your voice barely comes out.
No one answers you.
Mrs. Weasley stumbles forward, already sobbing, clutching George’s face in her hands.
Arthur looks older than you’ve ever seen him.
“Where is he?” you say again.
This time louder.
George finally looks at you.
And you know.
You know before he speaks.
His mouth opens but no sound comes out at first.
Then, broken—
“He—”
That’s all he manages.
The world tilts.
“No,” you say immediately. “No. He’s not— he can’t—”
You shake your head like if you refuse it hard enough, it will disappear.
“He was fine,” you insist. “He left fine. He promised.”
George’s face crumples.
And that’s when it becomes real.
There’s no body here.
He didn’t even come home.
He’s still there.
In the rubble of a castle you weren’t allowed to stand inside.
Your knees give out.
You don’t feel the ground when you hit it.
All you can think is—
You weren’t even there.
You weren’t there to hold his hand.
You weren’t there to say goodbye.
The last time you touched him was by the fence.
The last thing he said was a joke.
You press your hands to your chest like you can hold yourself together.
The Burrow is filled with crying.
But you can’t hear it properly.
Because in your head, you can still feel his heartbeat against your palms.
Alive.
Warm.
And somewhere between that memory and the silence now—
