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 canāt 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, āDeath Eaters are Nazisāāwell, no, theyāre not. Because if youāre 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 makeāwhich already falls apart on its ownāeven more so collapses completely because of this. It just doesnāt hold up at all.
To begin with, I donāt even buy the idea that Muggle-borns are some kind of marginalized minority that is excluded from society and discriminated against, because thatās simply not true. They have accessāeconomically, socially, and politicallyāto 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 marginalizedāand could be compared to real-world minoritiesāare non-human magical beings, because they donāt 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. Youāre a Muggle-born, and from the moment youāre 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 canāt become is part of the pure-blood magical aristocracy. But that means Muggles arenāt racialized. Theyāre not comparable to ethnic or religious minorities. Theyāre more comparable to a kind of bourgeois class trying to climb socially, facing an aristocracy that tells them: āI donāt care how rich or how smart you are, youāll never be one of us.ā And thatās not an identity issue, itās 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 whatās 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 doesnāt make you a minority, because it means there is magic somewhere in your bloodline, it just hadnāt manifested until you.
So youāre not the same as other Muggles. And your parents arenāt entirely the same eitherāat least the one you inherited magic fromābecause there is magic in that bloodline. In other words, there is never a real separation. Itās absurd. It makes no sense. Politically and sociologically, it just doesnāt hold up. Itās 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. Itās just absurd.
SLYTHERIN BOYS REACT TO MUGGLE LONDON DECORATED FOR CHRISTMAS
THEODORE NOTT:
ą¼Æ 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:
ą¼Æ he thinks the lights are magical but heās too introverted for the crowd. he always tries to be next to you close as possible, because he doesnāt want to lose you in the people sea.
LORENZO BERKSHIRE:
ą¼Æ 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:
ą¼Æ maybe the lights are too much for him, but heās okay with that if he can see your smile and loves watching your little happy dances after you bought a snack. heās holding your hand while youāre walking around, checking every handmade gifts for your friends and family.
DRACO MALFOY:
ą¼Æ heās grumpy because you āforcedā him to go with you out to the Christmas market. the muggle decorated london is out of his comfort zone, but heās trying to be okay with all of the blinking lights, loud music and the people. only because he loves you.
TOM RIDDLE:
ą¼Æ he hates the muggle decorated london, itās obvious. but deep in his heart he really loves the Christmas market except the people who are accidentally bumping into you. heās 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 heād be back before dark. But when the Weasleys return and one pair of footsteps is missing, she realizes some promises donāt survive war.
You knew before it started.
Not every detail. Not every spell or strategy. But you knew enough.
They didnāt hide it from you.
Fred never treated you like something fragile just because you didnāt have magic. Heād 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.
āTheyāre fortifying the castle,ā heād said one night, tapping his fingers against your knee. āSecret passages sealed. Defensive enchantments. McGonagallās gone terrifying.ā
You tried to keep up with words that didnāt 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.
āYouāre not stepping foot in that castle,ā Fred told you gently but firmly. āYou donāt have magic.ā
āI have common sense,ā you argued.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours across the tiny space between your chairs.
āExactly.ā
You hated that you understood.
You hated feeling useless.
But you werenāt stupid. A battlefield for witches and wizards wasnāt a place for someone who couldnāt 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.
āYouāre brooding,ā he murmured against your hair.
āYouāre about to go fight in a war,ā you replied.
āMinor detail.ā
You turned in his arms.
He looked normal.
Thatās what sticks with you.
Normal.
Freckles. Crooked grin. That familiar warmth in his eyes.
āYouāll stay here,ā he said softly. Not a command. A request.
āI know.ā
He cupped your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks.
āIāll come back.ā
You nodded because that was the only version of reality you allowed yourself to imagine.
He kissed you.
Slow. Deep. Like he wasnāt 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.
āDonāt fall in love with anyone else while Iām gone.ā
You let out a watery laugh. āIdiot.ā
He smiled.
And then he was gone.
The waiting is the worst part.
The Burrow feels hollow without them. Mrs. Weasley moves like sheās holding herself together with thread. Ginny isnāt there. Ron isnāt 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, youād feel it.
You donāt feel anything.
So that must mean heās fine.
Hours pass.
The sky outside darkens.
Thenā
A crack.
Someone apparates into the yard.
Your heart leaps into your throat.
Youāre 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.
Georgeā
George.
Heās 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 donāt see it.
Your stomach turns cold.
āWhere is he?ā you ask, though your voice barely comes out.
No one answers you.
Mrs. Weasley stumbles forward, already sobbing, clutching Georgeās face in her hands.
Arthur looks older than youāve ever seen him.
āWhere is he?ā 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, brokenā
āHeāā
Thatās all he manages.
The world tilts.
āNo,ā you say immediately. āNo. Heās notā he canātāā
You shake your head like if you refuse it hard enough, it will disappear.
āHe was fine,ā you insist. āHe left fine. He promised.ā
Georgeās face crumples.
And thatās when it becomes real.
Thereās no body here.
He didnāt even come home.
Heās still there.
In the rubble of a castle you werenāt allowed to stand inside.
Your knees give out.
You donāt feel the ground when you hit it.
All you can think isā
You werenāt even there.
You werenāt there to hold his hand.
You werenāt 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 canāt 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 nowā
