RedSioda's Lair

Top Five Reasons...Why Bill Fell in Love with Fleur (ficlet)

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 16:56:13 GMT

From the 'Top Five Things Meme.'
Requested by pili204
Warning: Unbeta'ed. Creative grammar. Sorry.
Rating - PG-13

Top 5 Reasons Why Bill Fell In Love With Fleur

5. Have you looked at Fleur? Really looked at her? Men lose their countenance when they meet her, whether for the first time or the tenth. It's a shame that Bill didn't get it the first time he saw her. He was at a distance. He thought she had great hair.

While he knows now she's indecently beautiful -- he's seen her in every possible situation by now and will die with the memories of her literally glowing during her three pregnancies -- he wouldn't limit it to her features. He has seen many perfect women walking the streets of Thebes with their eyes lined with kohl, their enticing figures and their bracelets tinkling on their wrists. Beauty attracts, of course, but Fleur has something that these luscious women never carried. It has dawned on him that attractive women hold their beauty close to them and make it all about themselves. He is pretty sure Fleur never does that. Her grace lavishes on everything, on everyone. She is insanely generous with her beauty. It touches him in a way that he cannot comprehend.

4. She’s French. One night he was running late to meet her for a date, he spotted her at a table, all the way back of the pub. She was engrossed in a conversation with an older woman. As he moved closer to the table and he watched her throw her head back to laugh, he understood she was chatting with a fellow expatriate, and he stopped dead in his tracks. It wasn't the nature of the conversation that held his attention.

It had everything to do with her body language, the way she reached forward to listen, how she used her hands when speaking. Even her voice was different; it hit him, at that very moment, that she was free to be. She didn't have to make any effort to make her tongue hit her teeth in a precise way or to care about repeating words he had not quite caught. While he already thought she was a wonder, seeing her so true to herself made him think about possibilities that hadn't crossed his mind yet.

3. She used to come by his office, trail a hand on his desk and ask what he was working on. He’d look over her shoulder, pushed back the parchments full of numbers before him and retrieved from his drawer what really took his mind, a small affair related to runes he was discreetly conducting for ya chikh Zuberi back in Thebes. He’d then exposed his views at length about interpretation of Egyptian runes until he’d stopped himself, embarrassed. ‘Merlin, I must be boring you senseless.’

She shook her head and pulled over a rickety chair. ‘No, not at all. Runes was one of my favouritest subjects at Beauxbâtons.’

Before he could correct her English, she proceeded to tell him about her fascination for the symbology of Franks and how it could be linked directly to the Trojans. She then exposed him the criticisms she’d read about it. ‘What do you theenk, Beel?’ she finally said as he pushed himself back on his chair, awe-struck and vaguely aroused.

I think I should marry you, he thought.

2. One night he was hesitating about how to tell her about the Order of the Phoenix and his involvement into it, she waved her hand before his eyes. ‘Where are you?’

He chuckled and stared at her as she prompted herself on her elbow. If there was a place he felt safe to talk about this, it was in her bed at the boarding house she lived. ‘I have something to tell you,’ he murmured.

The bed sheets felt oddly cold against his back as he whispered about him being involved in a secret organization. ‘With my family,’ he added. ‘We’re all involved, whether we want it or not.’

Her fingers slipped into his hair, and he closed his eyes. ‘I see. Zey want you to --’

‘No, it’s not them asking me to do something.’ He shifted on his side and laid a hand on her waist. ‘My family is at high risk to be targeted. I have to do something, you know.’

She frowned deeply and caressed his face slowly, tenderly. ‘Eet is about family. I understand. Family is everything to me.’

1. This one he never mentions to anyone.

He is pretty sure she’d have been sorted into Gryffindor if she had been schooled at Hogwarts.

The thing is, he’s not really sure why he clings to that one or why it’s so important to him, but thinking about it never fails to make him very randy.

Everything Shines (Teddy Lupin)

Sat, 18 Jul 2009 14:06:47 GMT

Everything shines (Teddy Lupin)

Rating: R, for sensual themes
Pairing: Teddy/Victoire
Word count: ~ 5500 words
Summary: Teddy Lupin waits for Victoire Weasley to come back from an internship, only to be faced with a proposition.

A/N Part 3 of the ‘Ten Seductions' series. Ladies and gentlemen, be warned. Fluff ahead.

: : : :

Teddy Lupin had been waiting for her. He’d been waiting for yesterday to happen for six months now. As he kicked off his shoes, an antique clock chimed behind the wall. Its deep and brassy notes faintly echoed in the room he’d rented for the night.

The more he thought about it, the more he believed impatience to be a sorry state of mind to maintain himself into. All that focused waiting for yesterday had been pointless, because the big deal was in fact today.

Victoire Weasley had been away for a few months, but it might have been a year or a thousand. Her absence had unsettled him. Flipping through the calendar and calculating the weeks before her return was a proof of his desperate longing, if not his neediness.

He was not needy. He loathed needy.

In hopes to forget how many days separated her from him, Teddy had hid the calendar in his underpants’ drawer, only to reach for it every time he got an Owl from her. He’d stared at the square, the yesterday square, scarred with his handwriting.

The few words he’d jotted down did not reflect the agitation they stirred.

V is back.

He’d tried to replace his nonsensical staring at the calendar for a reread of her neatly scripted letters. He’d lost himself in her accounts of healing practice in the jungle, desperately trying to share her excitement as she was sharing the daily minutiae of her life far away from them, from him, as she was recipient to knowledge that was not taught anywhere in Europe.

It worried him. He could feel her blooming between the lines. She was becoming more vibrant, shinier…as if she could. Evocating the dimple in her cheek when she smiled or the soft tuft of raspberry blond hair at the confluent of her thighs was enough to trigger a familiar ache that had him recreating feelings and images, pictures so translucent that he wondered if they captured moments that happened at all.

But they did. They had. He could invoke smells and sounds behind his closed eyelids when laying in bed, when working late on a translation at Gringotts, or when waiting in line to pay for books at Flourish & Blotts.

‘I love you,’ she’d breathed out on the eve of her departure. He’d pulled back from her and watched her long and luminous nudity against the bed sheets. She’d laughed at his expression, and when she’d realized he’d been miffed about her mocking him, she’d brought her hand to his lips. ‘You know I love you…please don’t make that face, Teddy. I will be back.’

He had not been able to voice his feelings as ardently as he would have wanted to, consumed he had been in keeping himself together as he’d reached for her body for the last time before she left for six months.

He’d wanted to last forever. That way, she’d never have had to leave.

It had not been the first time their bodies and minds had meshed together so perfectly, but it might as well have been. Making love ten times is barely the beginning, he thought as he pulled off his socks, irritated.

Teddy had plans; they were just getting used to each other, just starting to get their stride. It had taken a few years to figure out how much Victoire meant to him. He had broken her heart on his way there, and he wasn’t proud of that.

It took too long, he supposed, but he wondered if this wasn’t the sad commonality of every love story. He’d asked his grandmother several times to recount what she knew of the misunderstandings and complications his parents undertook for him to be alive.

Making love with Victoire had blown his mind. He had known her all his life, and yet, he saw her truly for the first time when they passed themselves as newlyweds before a suspicious inn owner, just before they nervously removed their clothing in a room the size of a matchbox.

Lovers. He secretly liked the word, and he used it in a half-serious, half-joking way when he was alone with her. Victoire never failed to roll her eyes to the ceiling with an exaggerated sigh. ‘You make it sound like we’re fifty.’

Whatever she thought about it, he had the word in mind whenever he spoke about Victoire. He hoped it would give him gravity and perhaps influence his grandmother’s unwillingness to concede how serious their relationship was. How many times had those seemingly happy couples surrounding him made love in their life together? How much lovemaking equalled a lifelong bond? As he found himself studying how men and women moved around each other, he’d tried to keep the embarrassing specifics at bay, but he couldn’t help but to wonder.

The inn’s room was cramped, and he pointed his wand decisively at the window. A hot breeze whipped into the room. He stared at the flapping curtains. Holding on to the last night they slept in the arms of the other was perhaps his wicked way to allow himself to cling to a fantasy, his fearful resolve to keep the past alive and to avert the reality of his girlfriend coming back home metamorphosed and unrecognizable.

Teddy hadn’t been worthless during this time, whatever his friends had hinted at. He had been translating financial records from Gobbledegook to English and French, thanks to the recommendation from Victoire’s father to a Gringotts’ administrator. He spent his nights learning languages and obscure dialects, working with words like others enjoyed puzzles. Truly, he’d been living a busy but peaceful life between his beloved books and dictionaries, giving his grandmother a few hours of his time to help her with her thriving healing herbs business, and enjoying animated dinners with the Potters and occasionally with Victoire’s parents.

She had been training in a dispensary in the depths of the Amazon rainforest and learning complicated healing magic from shamans. She had been moving forward while he had the bitter feeling he had resorted to well-known strengths and not looking so much to move pass them.

The room he had rented at The Jolly Shonny Inn was not as inviting as he thought it would be. Walls had been covered with tacky wallpaper showcasing plump and red-cheeked fairies, and he wryly thought to himself that it had probably had to be charmed there for good reasons. He pulled out a book from his bag, and he leaned back into the lumpy mattress.

Gobbledegook idioms eluded him as the sentences slipped from his attention. Victoire was hiding between every page, behind every comma. During the hoopla of her return last night, he’d whispered his invitation in the corridor separating her parents’ sitting room and kitchen. She’d smiled in a way that had brought his knees closer to the floor. ‘Of course. Of course, Teddy, I’ll meet you there.’

And he was there. The glass vibrated under the force of the wind, but he didn’t bother looking up to the window.

Teddy Lupin was waiting for her, waiting again today, waiting for Victoire Weasley to open the door and to, he hoped, reveal something about himself.

:::::

Yesterday was all about flutter and fleeting while he expected certitude and grounding. He had planned his day carefully: a quick jog, a boiling-hot shower, the usual Sunday meet-up with friends at The Leaky Cauldron for a hearty breakfast, and his departure for Shell Cottage around noon. He had even bought a new cloak for the occasion.

Victoire had Owled her parents with her travelling plans, and her father had informed him that it was reasonable to expect her early in the afternoon. However, Teddy’s plans had gone haywire ten seconds before his charmed alarm clock had went off.

A threatening grey bird had flown in his room in a great mess of feathers, landing on his bed and pecking him viciously on the shoulder. Teddy had read with dread the Owl urging him to drop by the bank for some unexpected and urgent work. He’d been promised extra Galleons for his troubles as well as his Monday off.

He’d Flooed from his grandmother’s house for the Bank in a hurry, badly shaven and his hair sticking up in three directions. He’d translated several reports at top speed, and his daily run had been replaced by a frantic pacing from his office to Gringotts’ archives to finally drop his work on his boss’ table. He nurtured the hope he could leave as soon as the parchments were magically embossed and sealed, only to be shown the way back to his desk with extra work.

Time was ticking away, and with relief he finally Apparated on the lawn surrounding Shell Cottage. The house’s windows had been opened to let the air in, and the curtains flapped from inside out as if trying to escape.

He didn’t have to look around to know that the extended Weasley family had already arrived. Voices could be heard coming from behind the house, facing the sea. People were scattered on the lawn in small groups; many lounged on chairs in the shade, while James was chasing Albus and Hugo under the bright sun, driving them dangerously close to Victoire’s mother's prized and thorny hawthorn bushes.

Teddy waved back at Victoire’s parents, who had seen him arrive, and he lifted his hand again when others joined them. He took a few steps towards the porch. Harry sat in the stairs with his head down as he fiddled with a Chocolate Frog wrapping. Lily wiggled to his side, wrapped around his left arm.

‘Ah, not my card again… Teddy!’ Harry stretched a hand to greet him, and Teddy shook it with affection. Harry had a way of making him feel welcome, even when it had been clear that some days he had his hands full with his own family. ‘Good to see you. How’s work?’

‘Busy, but good…I think. The Goblins are satisfied, not that they let me know about it.’

‘Yes, I can figure.’ Harry chuckled and handed the card to his daughter, who put it away absent-mindedly. ‘My offer still stands, you know. There would be a place for you in the Auror training program.’

Teddy flattened his hair with embarrassment. Since he finished school two years ago, Harry had been hinting that he, a smart student with excellent transfiguration skills and an impressive talent for languages, would be a welcome addition to the Auror squad. Many friends had been heckling him to take the offer and run with it. As for himself, Teddy had invested a great deal of energy to not get himself brought into such idea.

He couldn’t bring himself to do so. His grandmother never failed to gaze at the picture of his mother on the mantle whenever Aurors were mentioned in casual conversation.

‘Thanks… but I’m not sure I’m Auror material, honestly.’ He avoided Harry’s frown to hastily grin at Lily. He’d noticed with amusement that she seemed to have taken to blushing while in his presence. ‘What’s happening with you, flower? Have you got a sunstroke?’

She let out a giggle behind her hand when he matched his hair to hers for a few seconds. ‘Hullo, Teddy.’

‘I won’t insist, now. But… you know I will, eventually. ’ Something boyish and teasing lighted up Harry’s eyes for a second before he handed his daughter half of the Chocolate Frog. ‘Lily was telling me how sad she was you can’t join us for dinner tomorrow.’

‘Daddy!’ the girl squeaked.

Teddy scratched his neck and winked at Lily. He peered around as he remembered all of a sudden the reason why he was standing there. ‘I hope I didn’t miss Victoire’s arrival.’

‘No worries.’ Again, Harry smiled pleasantly as he pulled his daughter closer to him. ‘You didn’t miss her. She’s late.’

Teddy didn’t hear the faint pop at his back. He watched with a deepening frown the mass of Weasleys coming his way waving excitedly, walking and running, Fleur trotting ahead with her arms wide open.

‘VICTOIRE! Ma chérie! Viens ici que je t’embrasse …Oh! You cut your ‘air!’

Victoire had been away for six months. As he spun on his heels, Teddy thought arrivals were wondrous things. She had returned in a split second as if she never went away.

His heart skipped a beat when he detailed her. Her lithe frame was even lither (he couldn’t resist peeking at her breasts, small and high under her light jumper), and her usually pale skin had taken a deep golden hue. The heavy mass of hair he loved had been chopped away, and soft locks now barely touched her cheekbones. Lustrous feathers dangled from her ears, grazing her shoulders when she opened her arms to her mother.

Victoire was back. She had changed. Yet, she smiled at him over her mother’s shoulder, and he smiled back, afraid that his face would break in two parts, relieved that her eyes were as telling as before.

‘You cut your ‘air!’ Fleur cried out again, kissing her daughter on both cheeks before crushing her in a tight embrace. ‘Tu es superbe, chérie.’

Victoire had dropped her haversack with haste to accept her parents' and siblings’ hugs. ‘So good to see you, Mum! Papa! I love your new glasses! Yeah, the hair…It’s more practical this way, Mum. Dominique! Louis! Oh my goodness – you got to be kidding me…the entire family is here!’

‘She’s so thin,’ Teddy heard her grandmother say under her breath as she passed him. ‘I’m sure she forgot to eat…she’s exactly like Bill at this age, skin and bones.’

Lily slipped her hand in Teddy’s, prompting him to lean towards her. ‘Is Aunt Fleur mad because Vee cut her hair?’

‘No, no.’ Victoire was being kissed and hugged every two steps she took, but her gaze was directed at him, and he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, impatient to hold her in his arms. ‘She’s a little overwhelmed, that’s all. She says she looks beautiful.’

‘Why does Aunt Fleur look so mad, then?’ Lily twirled a lock out of her hair, her pretty features crunched from wondering. ‘She can be so scary sometimes.’

Before Teddy could voice his views, a brutal clap in the back had him groaning. Harry’s oldest son, James, was standing behind him with an attitude full of swagger. ‘Why? Well, she’s French, for one.’

He messed with his sister’s hair before winking at Teddy. Teddy rolled his eyes dutifully, trying hard not to laugh. James had morphed into a tall, sarcastic teen. ‘How’s it hanging?’

‘I’m hanging all right. Merlin, James –‘

‘That’s a rather prejudiced thing to say, ya know.’ Lily had let go of Teddy’s hand. She combed the stray hairs with her fingers before crossing her arms, her eyes fiery and her lips thinned into a straight line, eerily reminiscent of her father’s. ‘Aunt Fleur being French has nothing to with her temper.‘

‘Yeah, yeah.’ James waved dismissively. He snorted when his sister addressed him a scolding look. ‘It’s what we educated souls call a joke, Lily. You really need to find yourself this pretty thing we call a sense of humour to appreciate that.’

‘Pff.’ Lily rolled her eyes towards the sky, and Teddy rubbed his face with both hands. He felt old. Lily’s year at Hogwarts had given her confidence. She used to be silent as a mouse, and everything he heard from her last year through the news her slightly surprised parents relayed him had to do with her newfound leadership. ‘Sir Sense of Humour here had a crush on a French girl while we were on holidays last summer, and since she never wrote back, he decided all French girls are mad.’

A violent blush took over James’ face and he took a step towards his sister. ‘Why, you little –‘

‘Enough,’ Teddy spoke with enough authority for his younger counterparts to brood and exchange scathing glares. They kept silent for a moment, until James elbowed him as Victoire accepted an enthusiastic hug from his mother.

‘Fancy that.’ While Teddy loved Ginny a great deal, he wished she would let his girlfriend go already. ‘Mum never welcomes me like that after a semester at Hogwarts. She expects me to clean my room from floor to ceiling…it’s not like it’s dirty, you know. I haven’t been in there for, like, months.’

‘So now we know… James wants more kisses from mummy,’ Lily said conversationally, and this time, Teddy chuckled while James shrugged it off, pink-faced, muttering a few choice words about irritating sisters who couldn’t hold their bloody tongues.

‘Vee is so pretty,’ Lily dreamily murmured.

‘I agree,’ Teddy said. And then Victoire stood before him. ‘I agree.’

:::::

But that was yesterday. Yesterday he had kissed her chastely on the lips, had held her against him under the unflinching gaze of her father, and had kissed her again. He had to share her with everyone. He’d been itching to be alone with her.

Then he did not have to wait anymore. ‘Teddy?’

Her voice was muffled but shaped into a smile through the door, and he jumped from the bed, tripping over the scattered shoes and socks. The door opened wide as his heart, and he took her smile like an uppercut.

‘Teddy!’ He moved back a step or two as Victoire wrapped her arms around his neck, and he muttered, ‘About bloody time,’ before scooping her off the floor and pulling her in. The door closed in a bang.

‘I missed you so, so much,’ Victoire breathed against his cheek. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t want to speak. He wanted to greet her with his mouth and hands, with the length of his body. He detailed her face and the delicate lines around her eyes. She seemed tired, but in the light bathing the room, she glowed.

Her tee went off quickly over her head, and he stared at her as she panted slightly, already half-naked, her smile wide and tender. The smell of her skin went to his head, as if she had showered herself in something exotic and musky.

‘Whoa,’ Teddy exhaled. His hand slowly moved up from her waist to cup a pert breast and to tease its nipple with the flesh of his thumb. ‘That’s quite a way to say hullo.’

Victoire pressed herself against him, her mouth searching his. ‘What, don’t you want to-‘

‘Oh yes.’

: : : :

Teddy lay on his stomach, his hands under his chin. The lumpy mattress had been stripped of its bed sheets, the remnants of their dinner abandoned on a platter haphazardly set on a chair. Their clothing had been scattered on the floor less than two minutes after Victoire had arrived.

He sighed happily as he detailed the soft, golden curve of Victoire’s back. She gave out a shiver and flashed him a smile before chomping on an apple with obvious glee. ‘Mad how much you don’t care for chtuff until you actually mich it,’ she managed to say, her left cheek bulging from a big piece of apple.

Teddy rolled to his side and said nothing, holding out a hand to stroke her thigh up to her hip. Sun had come down hours ago, and he felt at peace in the feebly lit room. The last hours had been bursting at the seams, sated with sighs, moans, and chatter. He loved to look at her as she sat naked on the bed like this, laughing and eating. He wished the inn’s bedroom had been theirs.

She noticed his dreamy gaze. ‘Sooo…’ she trailed on with a wink.

He smiled devilishly as he pinched her hip with mischievousness. ‘Sooo…’

Her eyebrows went up, and Teddy knew her well enough to understand that whatever could have brewed between the lines was over. ‘My father told me all about your last successes.’

Her father. The sensual appeal of the moment was definitely gone. He yawned. ‘Your father’s too kind.’

‘I don’t think so. Papa happens to be pretty demanding.’ She flicked the apple core into the platter before licking her fingers clean. ‘As I am –you told me numerous times, didn't you? He’s not impressed easily. He told me last night how you replaced the Goblins’ official interpreter on the spot when a Russian delegation visited Gringotts last week.’

‘Yeah, poor Gornak. He had a mild case of Dragon Pox.’ It hasn’t been an easy assignment. Russian wasn’t a language he mastered completely, but he had focused on listening to the delegation intently before uttering anything. He then replicated what he heard. ‘It’s my job, Vee.’

‘No, it’s not your job.’ Victoire shifted in the bed and faced him. He allowed his eyes to move down to her breasts. ‘Papa told me you were spectacular. The delegation couldn’t believe you weren’t Russian. Papa said that your attitude helped Gringotts tremendously in making the exchange of the artefacts.’

‘Tsk.’ He scooted on the bed and dropped a kiss high on her thigh. It was hard not to gloat, but he had done a great job, and he knew it. ‘My job.’

She clicked her tongue as she leaned back on the bed. ‘Why do you still work at the bank as a freelancer? I don’t understand why you don’t use more of your abilities. You could easily go into international magical cooperation.’

‘So Papa Bill said that, uh?’ he let out, a smidge of irritation in his voice. It occurred to him that most people around him had a very clear idea of what he should –or should not- be doing with his life. Victoire bringing this up here, of all places, made his cheeks burn.

‘No.’ Victoire bit in the word. ‘Hermione said it, actually. You’re good with people, Teddy.’

He snorted. Strange how a six-month absence did not lay old quibbles to rest.

‘It’s in your nature,’ she insisted. ‘You understand people. You really get them.’

He shook his head slowly before speaking. ‘It’s in my… Metamorphagus nature, you mean?’

‘No!’ Victoire escaped his hands. She got to her feet and faced him her fists on her hips. The feathers dangled fiercely from her ears, and he commanded himself to look her in the eye. ‘It’s you I’m talking about, Teddy. You also happen to be a Metamorphagus, but I’d really like you to stop insinuating that it’s the only thing I see of you.’

‘But it all comes down to this. That’s what I am, right?’ He raked his hair roughly before he stared at her again, his cheeks ablaze. ‘D’you know how many people come to me with their mouths full of compliments and snide insinuations about how I’m not living my life fully if I don’t transform myself at least fifty times a day? Even Harry thinks that.’

As soon as the words slipped through his lips, he felt guilty. Harry had never said anything as such. He always praised Teddy’s smart and shrewd mind, but Teddy knew enough about his godfather’s job to understand how a Metamorphagus would be of tremendous help with the Auror Squad.

‘Well, I don’t believe that one minute.’ She shook her head, and the feathers danced over her shoulders again. ‘Uncle Harry loves you like his son. I’m most certain he wants you to be successful. You’re not allowing him – or anyone for that matter -- to think highly of you. That’s a mad idea, because whatever you do or say, we’ll think it anyways.’

‘It’s the old Gryffindor prejudice that motivates him – and you Weasley lot, I suppose. The whole ‘do your heroic best‘ shebang.’

Victoire stared at him incredulously before chortling. ‘You know, I never thought about this, but you could be right.’ She kneeled on the bed, and he reached out for her. ‘We Gryffindor nuts don’t know what to do with brainy and independent Ravenclaws. At least you opened the door for Hugo.’

He grinned slightly, relieved to see her lose her fire. ‘You tell me. You’re a brainy and independent Gryffindor.’

She snorted and looked down at the mattress, the corners of her mouth sagging a little. ‘You know I love you, Teddy. I only want –‘

‘I know,’ he interrupted her. He felt like he had to say something to justify himself. ‘I like translating stuff right now. I don’t want to move into a career too fast.’

The eventuality of a career, with its steady path and one direction – up -- made him restless. It was a form of commitment he wished not to take just now.

‘Okay,’ she whispered.

‘I’m not like you. You’ve had your mind set on what you wanted to do when you were this tiny little girl.’ He shook his head, a somewhat forced grin stretching his lips. ‘I’ve always wondered if us playing Healer in your room had any influence on that.’

She blushed and laughed raucously as she fell in his arms, finally. ‘You’re the first boy I kissed,’ she murmured, and he pressed his lips on the top of her head. ‘I do miss your blue hair. Lily told me you wouldn’t change it anymore.’

‘The blue hair I kept for you, Vee. Only for you.’ He closed his eyes and chuckled when he felt her fingers tracing small circles against his scalp.

‘Love it,’ she whispered in a sigh. ‘Love you.’

‘Love you, too,’ he muttered.

‘I’m going back to Brazil, Teddy.’

He opened his eyes wide. ‘What?’

‘I’m going back.’ Her fingers slipped from his hair to his torso, only to stroke the fine line of hair leading to his navel. ‘I have to.’

‘You don’t have to,’ he gasped as he prompted himself on one elbow, brushing away her fingers.

What was she saying? His mind was already unravelling about how to convince her to move into a flat together, a little place just for them where they could walk naked all the time and eat supper in bed, surrounded by books.

He just got her back to understand he couldn’t make her stay. Saying goodbye and parting with her again.

‘When I was there, I saw…I saw incredible feats of magic.’ Teddy fidgeted as he detailed her curiously. Her smile had vanished. She was frowning slightly and looking up at the ceiling, suddenly miles away from him and the cramped bedroom. ‘Those shamans who trained us use magic I need to learn, complicated incantations I need to master if I am to specialise in Healing magical wounds.’

Teddy snorted unpleasantly. ‘Oh…I know where you’re going with this.’

She smacked her lips, flustered. ‘Well, yes. They know a lot about werewolves, Teddy, more than our Healers do.’

He turned his back to her. ‘Nothing can be done once you’ve been bitten. You were talking about nature earlier. I thought you knew that.’

She was infuriating.

Victoire had been obsessed with werewolves her whole life, reading everything she could put her hands on and shove it in his face, only to get increasingly angry at the same information she found everywhere, and never failing to buy every damn book she encountered on the subject. She seemed to think that he had interest in the question.

He had worked very hard to convince himself he didn’t.

Victoire’s voice sounded dreamy, and he tried not to pay attention too much by staring at the garish wallpaper. ‘Apparently, there could be. I’ve heard several promising things about a small village of old wizards. They are all werewolves, Teddy. They had been shunned from their homes years ago, and some say they do not need Wolfsbane Potion to control themselves. There might be some way to contain aspects of the curse.’

She touched his shoulder. ‘It’s complicated magic and highly hypothetical, but I need to make an idea about that for myself.'

‘How long will you be gone?’ he asked dully.

‘A year.’

‘A year?’ He sat upright on the bed, furious. ‘You can’t go for a year! Not –‘ he struggled with the words, ‘not when you just came home! Not on a hunch!’

‘I won’t be going tomorrow. I have two weeks off, then I’ll have at least eight months of intensive training at St. Mungo’s before I go back.’ She sighed. ‘We’re not going on a hunch, Teddy. It’s an official expedition. We will be going as a delegation, and I decided to sign up as an assistant to get some extra credits. Come with me.’

‘I’m not a Healer.’

‘Of course you’re not, but I want you to come with me!’

He stared at her. Her chest heaving from indignation, Victoire pushed back a wisp of hair barring her forehead. ‘I told Healer Babcock earlier today that I knew someone who could learn languages quickly. We’ll need someone to help us with communication, and she wants you to meet up with her tomorrow. There will be lots of stories and testimonies to get from those wizards, so we’ll need someone non-threatening and gentle, and a good writer, and - ’

‘Ah, you want to find me a job. Most excellent. Can’t make it to the meeting, love. I’m working tomorrow.’

‘You are such a liar! You’re off tomorrow, you told everyone!’ Victoire exclaimed, patches of red blotching her neck. ‘I have a brain, I use it! You’re insanely talented with languages, so stop pretending it’s nothing and use it! Come with me to Brazil!’

‘You’ve got this all decided, right?’

‘Yes.’ Her gaze was hard as glass. ‘Just think about it, Teddy. Please tell me you will.’

He shook his head, and she urgently touched his hand. ‘And you could learn something about yourself. About –‘

‘About my father?’ Teddy feebly said. ‘I know all I need to know.’

He believed that, forcefully and against all good sense. He rubbed his face with both hands. He was a memory away from a gloomy afternoon when he had blood on his robes after angrily cursing two students, desperately trying to forget the continuous insinuations a small group of snickering six-years had made about his parents.

Werewolves don’t breed, Lupin. Who’s your daddy, then? Was Mum sleeping around?

Teddy had waited in old Professor Binns' office for his grandmother to thunder out of the chimney in order to give him an angry speech, but had been utterly bewildered to see Harry step out in full Auror gear, his face pale and his green eyes gleaming.

Teddy had stared at him with his heart drumming until Harry opened his arms to him, and he ran into them, forgetting he was fifteen and a Prefect. He had cried his heart out and slobbered all over Harry’s shoulder until he had stepped back for a second to wipe his nose, enough time for his godfather to pull something out of his robes.

Teddy had been presented with a picture of four young men, one looking uncannily like a younger Harry, and one he recognized with a wince.

Your father faced his demons, Teddy. He was your father, and I’m as sure of that as I am sure that Voldemort died. Look at him. You are like him, whatever features you may take.

‘My parents are war heroes.’ He controlled himself to keep his voice even and calm. ‘My godfather is The Boy Who Lived.’

‘So?’ Victoire threw her arms up. ‘So? We’re doomed, Teddy. We’re surrounded by war heroes. If we need to look up for inspiration or to understand what terrible underachievers we’ll become, we just have to ask someone for the cabbage dish and we’ll have one smiling at us.’

He scoffed. When he met her eyes, they both roared with laugher and they rolled on the bed together.

They kissed softly, less urgently that they did earlier, and Teddy was about to throw every rational thought out the window when Victoire muttered again, ‘Just think, Teddy….you and me. Alone. Without my parents and your Gran. Together every night…like this.’

‘Why would they take me?’ He gulped as she pulled him down on the mattress. ‘Why me? I’ve got no training, I’m a self-learner…’

‘I can’t seem to make you understand this. You’re unbelievably thick-headed,’ she whispered. Her mouth grazed his shoulder lightly before she rolled over him. He stared at her face, her swollen lips, her expressive eyes, and he ran his hands down her back, cupping her buttocks. His breath hitched when she parted her legs and straddled him, the intimacy of the position triggering a twitch in his loins.

‘I don’t know how to put this, but…’ She ran her fingers in his hair, searching for the right words. His heart oddly stammered when her eyes met his, and she detailed him with loving, passionate stubbornness. ‘They will want you for the same reasons Harry wants you in his squad, why Papa wants to you to get to a higher position at Gringotts, and why Aunt Hermione is ready to slay her personal ethics about pushing family interests to mentor you at the Ministry.’

She moved her hips against him, and he let out a sigh as he grasped her closely. In the feeble light diffused by the gas lamp, her skin had an unreal glow, as if Victoire had turned into the moving statue of a deity of some sort.

‘When you’re around,’ she whispered against his mouth, ‘when you involve yourself into something, Teddy, it becomes instantly better. I swear. Everything shines.’

Déjà Vu (R/Hr)

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 17:24:15 GMT

Déjà Vu
Rating: PG, with an extra dash of humour
Summary: Hermione has a curious habit that never fails to lead her children to look away from embarrassment.
Word count: ~ 1,500 words.

A short fic written in honour of spidergirl30's birthday.

After spending two weeks alone without Ron, welcoming back the kids from Hogwarts is a relief.

Hermione isn’t used to Ron travelling away for so long, and while the nightly solitude and the tic tac of the clock used to generate her best work in her former years, she has come to realise that Ron’s gregarious need to be surrounded by a noisy family has rubbed off on her.

But Rose and Hugo are finally home for summer, and as she stood on Platform 9 ¾, Hermione had felt so deprived of the sheer madness resulting from family meals that she spontaneously invited Ginny and Harry and their children to join them for dinner.

They are all cackling around her now and keep on asking for more things to do. Hermione blows upward to push a curl from her forehead before smiling brightly. ‘Honestly, it’s fine. I’m glad you’re all here.’

She stirs the casserole before wiping her hands on a tea towel. The scene fills her with satisfaction. Rose has her tongue pulled out in concentration as she carves exquisite flowers from radishes, a nifty trick Hermione’s mother showed her two Christmases ago. Hugo, who must have grown at least an inch since he came home for Easter holidays, nonchalantly folds napkins with the expression of someone who drew the short straw. Albus sets the table with James, and it looks like it might turn into a bickering match because Lily pesters them about how they’re doing it wrong.

Lily huffs as she pushes back her heavy braid. ‘Don’t you two ever notice anything on how the table is set before stuffing yourselves?’

James takes a step back from the table with an exaggerated frown and switches all the knives to the left, prompting his sister to shriek and point. ‘Oh, but we do notice very much, Lily. We do.’

‘You two... James, enough with the teasing.’ Ginny mixes the salad expertly, and the bangles around her wrist shimmy when she reaches for the pepper mill to season the gazpacho. ‘So, Hermione…when is Ron coming back?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe in a week. I hope he won’t be away much longer than that…I miss him.’

‘Have you heard from him, at all?’

‘Hmm.’ Hermione washes her hands before handing bowls to Hugo. ‘He says he’s all right. He’s been doing some trouble-shooting for the new store in Moscow. From the last news I got from him, he also had business to conduct in Romania, and Charlie met him in Bucarest for a day. It seems like he might visit this summer.’

Ginny’s face illuminates from the news. ‘That would be wonderful! Did you hear that, Harry?’

Hermione cannot bring herself to admit that she got this information from a Patronus Ron sent earlier this week, surprising her when she was in the shower. Facing the silvery Jack Russell waggling his tail frenetically as he stood on the bath mat soon had her laughing between her hands, even if she dripped with soap and water. ‘Hello, beautiful. I’m exhausted but all right. Charlie says he might visit in August. I’m kind of hoping you’re naked right now. I love you.’

‘That’d be good. It’s been a while since Charlie visited…Got it, Hermione.’ Harry enters the kitchen with a bottle of wine. ‘Found it where you said it would be.’

It’s Ron’s job, usually. He uncorks whatever needs to be uncorked. Hermione bites her lips to restrain herself for calling out on Harry on how to open the bottle because this Goblin wine might splash everywhere and while she doesn’t care usually for a little spill, she doesn’t have more than two bottles left.

She spoons the casserole in a plate, wiping the sauce along the ridge of the porcelain dish with the tip of the tea towel. Fresh parsley will make this look perfect. ‘We’ll be ready to eat in a minute. Hugo, why don’t you serve the gazpacho, dear?’

Someone touches her elbow, and she looks over her shoulder, expecting to meet with one of the kids’ face.

But Ron stands there, all blue eyes and towering height and stubbly cheeks and smiling lines around his eyes and mouth when he broadly grins over a bunch of wildflowers.

‘OH MY – RON!’

And she literally drops everything she is doing to jump to his neck.

If there were such things to be bought at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes as Fireworks with Extra Sauce or Exploding Casserole, Hermione would have her name on the patent. Sauce drenches her shoes; the plate rebounds three times on the counter before tilting slowly for its last fall; the impact knocks over the bowl of ice-cold gazpacho Ginny swiftly avoids mostly because of her much-celebrated Quidditch reflexes while Hugo, more of the bookish type, gets everything on his tee; bits of potatoes and carrots flee the plate like old Crookshanks before bath time, and the splat announcing the meat hitting the tiles puts a snarky exclamation mark on what could have been a hell of a meal.

‘Oh shoot! This is, this is --’ Hermione cries out as soon as her mouth leaves Ron’s. She brings her hands to her face, crestfallen. ‘My casserole!’

‘All my fault,’ Ron breathes against her hair before pulling her back from the lake of sauce, meat, and vegetables lying at their feet. ‘Crickey, that does smell terrific, love. It’s a shame, truly.’

‘Sooo…’ Rose trails. She carefully avoids gazing at her parents while she picks off bits of potatoes from her cleavage. ‘At least the radishes are all right. Hi, Daddy.’

Hugo pulls his drenched tee from his body and mumbles something about parents are supposed to behave like adults before quickly glancing at James, Al, and Lily. They are obviously too busy showing matching stunned expressions to mock him about his parents kissing.

‘Salad’s okay, too.’ Ginny eyes the mess with disbelief. She wipes Hugo’s chin with the tea towel before pointing out her wand decisively at her nephew’s tee with a frown reminiscent of her mother’s. ‘And wine. We’ll need lots of it. Good to see you, Ron.’

Hugo takes a critical look at his spelled-clean tee. ‘Thank you, Aunt Ginny. Yeah, Dad, so brilliant you’re here.’ Hugo turns to Harry. ‘There’s this curry place around the corner. That’s where we always go when Dad surprises Mum and dinner lands on the floor.’

‘You always go there when-?’ Harry stands with the open wine bottle in his hand, an awe-struck expression slowly taking over his face.

Hugo nods, thoroughly unimpressed. ‘Every. Bloody. Time.’

Ginny Scourgifies the floor and kitchen counter while lamenting about the loss of Hermione’s meal. Hermione asks Hugo to watch his mouth and thanks Ginny profusely before apologizing for wasting food in such a clumsy fashion. Harry makes a rather humorous comment about those freaky déjà vu moments that no one really gets except Ron and Hermione. The flock of teens leave in a hurry with the Muggle money Ron hastily shoved in their pockets so they’d run to order a Chicken Tikka Option for ten at the curry shop.

‘With extra chutney…and Hugo, don’t forget the pappadums like you did last time!’ he exclaims as the front door slams shut.

Ginny prudently retreats to the dinner table with the radishes and the salad. She eyes her husband with suspicion. ‘You’re giggling, Harry. Like a bloody schoolgirl.’

Harry rakes his throat before turning to Ron. ‘Do you always have Muggle money on hand when you decide to surprise her around dinner time?’

Ginny watches them grin at each other like idiots. ‘It seems to me that you’ve all gone mad.’

Ron addresses Harry with a loop-sided grin. ‘It’s been known to happen,’ he says, his eyes sparkling. ‘I’ve learned.’

‘It’s just a stupid accident, Ginny. I tend to drop…things when Ron surprises me.’ Hermione smiles at Harry sheepishly. It touches her to realize that he kept the circumstances of their first kiss for himself, even after all these years.

She reaches for Ron with eagerness, and this time they kiss with less restraint. She gives herself fully into it, and his thumb goes for a spot that still tingles on her cheek – probably wiping a drop of sauce, to think of it – before he pulls back with a sigh.

‘You mad, brilliant, beautiful woman… Never change,’ Ron says as he slicks her hair back with his palm, before closing his fingers on a curl. He pulls on it carefully and shows her what seem like carrot bits. ‘This is almost the best part about coming home.’

Things That Can Be Taken Away From You

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 15:43:58 GMT

Title: Things that can be taken away from you
Author/Artist: redsiodaslair
Recipient: shiiki, for the springtime_gen exchange
Character(s): Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Ginny and Ron Weasley, Minerva McGonagall
Rating: PG-13
Word-count/Media: ~ 6,500 words
Warnings (if any): Implied violence, dark themes and deaths.
Summary: For five warriors, considering moving away from Hogwarts after the battle also means leaving something of themselves behind, willingly or not.
Betas: Huge thanks to queenb23more. I owe a limb or two to magglenagall and a attilatehbun were sweet enough to give me feedback. I also corrected a canon error and a few things, aargh.

All remaining mistakes are mine.

Things that can be taken away from you

I hope the leaving is joyful; and I hope never to return. Frida Kahlo

1. Boundaries

Nearing the conclusion was a wretched feeling, almost as awful as the wait.

Now that it was about to materialize before her eyes in what remained of Hogwarts, Ginny Weasley wanted to go back in time and never have wished for it. The tips of her fingers trailed on her cheekbones as she wondered what to think of the strange spectacle of Voldemort’s power diminished by the shadow of doubt.

Around her, known and familiar faces shone from sweat and tears. Some jaws clenched, some mouths gaped. A young man with vaguely familiar features was staring at her apart from the circle formed around Harry and Voldemort.

He reminded her of someone. Wasn’t he a friend of Bill’s? Or perhaps one of Charlie’s old schoolmates?

The man mouthed words she wasn’t sure she’d read right on his lips.

I’m sorry for your loss.

She shivered and brought her attention back to Harry, angry at the odd timing of this anonymous wizard’s kindness. It had been unimaginable hours since, and manifestations of sympathy felt surreal. Grief, she believed, should be a private event, experienced within oneself and shared with a selected few.

But her beliefs had been shattered one by one, like the glistening crystal globes of Professor Trelawney. Against her will, Ginny had worn grief as she fought for her life, held hands with the wounded, help to move the dead before being denied the chance to take action while Harry faced his destiny.

Her numbness must have been visible in those hours when the castle thundered from spells and cries. Well-wishers had touched her, muttered words of pain and comfort, and she’d read pain or pity in their features.

She could have said, ‘Thank you’ and appreciated the thoughts. She could have nodded in silence.

Instead, Ginny had moved away hastily.

The challenge had been to keep herself whole - evading her thoughts and feelings to concentrate on what had been set in motion. Grief floated upon the fighters, and the astounding weight of the lost lives smothered her.

The world had crumbled around them and Hogwarts followed through. Ginny had the distinct impression that the battle had a mind of its own as it trashed its warriors back and forth in tides against the castle.

‘You won’t be killing anyone else tonight,’ Harry said to Voldemort, and she whole-heartedly trusted him.

Some wizards around her had already abandoned him to his faith and had closed themselves up. They had fought, they had lost someone, and they were choosing to look away. Perhaps hiding behind her hands and hoping for the best was a valid reaction.

Ginny found herself incapable of doing so. Harry had died once before, and yet, still stood before them all. She would take her chances, anguish be damned. This battle had proven to be ruthless when dealing with regrets.

Ron’s fingers clawed deeply on her shoulder, and despite the insignificance of the pain, she slipped away from him. Her hopes for Harry to live brought her to the edge of herself. It would bite her a few weeks later, above all the things that faded into Harry’s triumph and Fred’s funeral. She would stare over Ron’s shoulder when he’d take the fancy to hug her. She’d face guilt right in the face for not having understood her brother’s need to be reassured.

However, as she stood and waited, life had not allowed this possibility yet. Before her eyes, Harry swiftly jumped like she had seen him do so many times during Quidditch practice, no broomstick beneath him to outline the impressive arch of his catch.

There were no cheers, no Snitch. His life hung in the air, and eyes boggled when his hand clasped the wand. She lost herself in the sobs, the laughter, the formidable pulsing energy that brought Hogwarts from the dead.

Harry lived, even if his eyes opened on alternate possibilities.

Hogwarts was still standing, even if it had been eviscerated.

Voldemort had died but, Ginny noted in a daze, not every suffering ended with him.

2. Old ways

From all the things that could have awakened Neville Longbottom, his voice did.

His gasp saved him from a paralyzing nightmare, one that stranded him into witnessing faceless students falling from the sky in a morbid stream. A few seconds passed before Neville reasoned himself into relaxation, only to feel the deep stillness in the room.

It coiled around him, suffocating him within its rings.

‘Well, well,’ Neville exclaimed aloud, his voice unpleasantly high to his ears. ‘Everything’s fine.’

The Room of Requirement offered back a feeble echo of him raking his throat. He was alone – a stupendous occurrence after several weeks of shacking up with a growing number of refugees.

While many wizards had handed a helping wand to the teachers who had taken it upon themselves to make Hogwarts less of a battlefield, Neville had groggily retraced his steps to the Room of Requirement, just to prove Ron Weasley’s assertion wrong.

The Room, Neville hoped, couldn’t be destroyed.

He had paused on the threshold. A sole red hammock swung gently in the middle of the impressive space, as if the Room had waited for him, and him alone. Its desertion had already let staleness inside.

Neville had understood early on that the Room’s power did not outgrow the magic or brains of Dumbledore’s Army. It gave material answers to the ones who had asked for tools when taking on something greater than them. Perhaps the Room had provided the DA with invisible but precious instruments, too. Neville had heard the inspired and philosophical discussions held while half-sprawled on cushions or in the boys’ showers. He’d heard the passionate debates, the worry for those who dared to take a stance, and the determination to save them from the consequences.

He’d heard it all because he was often in the middle of them, moderating with one hand and encouraging with the other. First without Luna Lovegood’s wise insights into the Carrows’ probable actions, then missing Ginny Weasley’s natural ability to control a crowd, Neville had felt lost. He’d chosen to keep his feet firmly on the ground, in case some students got carried away and tried to make heroes of themselves.

The Room had been more than generous with him. Neville had given some thought about it. Perhaps he had a special affinity with its fickleness because he’d understood at an early age the muted qualities of hoping and wishing. Hoping required, at the very least, possibility. Wishing, Neville had figured, meant being delusional enough to believe in one’s will to hold a tad more than personal power in rewriting the past, tracing the present as well as shaping the future.

Delusion or not, waiting in action for Harry to return had been hope. Keeping everyone safe from the Carrows had been a wish.

The Carrows wouldn’t need to be countered anymore. It had been taken out of their hands with a swish of Harry’s wand.

The Room had proven not to fail him, even when he needed it for a mundane purpose. It had provided him enough peace to crash into sleep like others had fallen in the line of fire. But now that he was awake, unease overcame him.

‘It’s over,’ he offered aloud to the ceiling. ‘It’s over.’

His heartbeat strong and quick, Neville took a sharp intake of air, his eyes scrutinizing the obscure and imperturbable vastness over him. The discrepancy between Dumbledore’s Army’s siege and the feeling of agonizing duration it had imposed over them had hit him when exchanging a few words with students who had not been locked in Hogwarts.

The dark rings under Hannah Abbott’s eyes spoke for themselves. Dean Thomas sounded like he’d been to hell and back.

Even if a few months weren’t a long time, merely a speck of dust along the way of a long lifeline, it had been a year of misery for all of them. At the very least, the DA had the Room of Requirement. Many Muggleborns hadn’t been that lucky.

Neville swung his legs over the edge of the hammock and flinched, dizzy from moving briskly. The surrounding silence was disconcerting, especially after thunderous efforts to end Voldemort.

He wasn’t sure he enjoyed it. No more sniffles. No more words of comfort sleepily muttered from the edge of a hammock to another. No more hiccups and chocked sobs. No more tiptoeing from one side of the Room to the other. No more fabric squeaking under bruised and restless bodies.

Neville’s mind roamed again. He ignored his guts twisting. He stood up and moved decisively to the door.

There would come a time when he would walk the corridors at night to bring students back to their dormitories, a time he’d ignore he had become a teacher and sneak off from his quarters to try to open the Room of Requirement again. Old wounds would have smoothed out by years passing, love, and enduring friendship. When this moment would come, he’d face impassable walls and regret his youthful haste. He would ponder how much he’d changed for the Room not to obey him anymore.

That time would come indeed. But a few hours after the Battle of Hogwarts, Neville took a hard look on the gently swinging hammock and the deserted space, and he hoped with all his heart to never need to lay foot in the Room of Requirement again.

3. Marks

Voldemort was dead. The Death Eaters had been defeated. Nevertheless, Luna Lovegood inspected every turn before stepping into the next corridor.

There was definitely something to be said about seeing and believing, but Luna knew better than to underestimate the complexity of the human mind’s idiosyncrasies, counting hers. Even if she had witnessed up close Voldemort’s power over them wilting and vanishing in a split second, even if she was certain there were no more traps or Death Eaters lurking in the nooks of Hogwarts, how arduous it was to acknowledge in all of its extent the gigantic reality of being free.

Luna chuckled lightly, only to wonder why the walls of Hogwarts gave her back such a sinister interpretation of her relief.

She peeked into a feebly lit passageway before engaging into it. Voldemort might be dead, but the memories, the sights and sounds of combat had newly come alive and were still young in her mind.

They would ripen, she trusted. They would become objects independent from her mind, and she suspected she’d had to be careful not to deceive herself in the process.

Obviously, others would try to manipulate and alter the memories of the events.

Her shoes squealed when she took another turn. Truly, she’d been sheltered from the worst. Being imprisoned in the dark for weeks had been less daunting than risking one’s life every day. From the moment the Death Eaters had erupted on the train and Disapparated her against her will, she knew she would live, whatever they hinted and cast her way.

The two men made ostentatious menaces. They wanted her to be afraid, and they obviously had not suspected she’d had a few months to meditate on how cruelty, to be effective, necessitated for its victim to see what was coming his way.

While being very poor impersonators of professors, the Carrows had at least taught her something.

Throwing someone in a murky cellar was more of a cop out than a well-thought plan, she’d figured. She held onto that thought until the anxiety of being plunged into darkness unexpectedly slithered into her plan of keeping her cool.

The first time it rose in her, she’d fumbled in the obscurity to find Mr Ollivander’s hand and she held it for a while as he whispered words of comfort.

She pretended she was doing it for him, and his silence had been enough to precipitate her confession. She admitted she was afraid, as irrational it had seemed. When Mr Ollivander’s fatherly compassion and slight fingers weren’t enough to keep the demons from obscuring her inner resolve, she’d close her eyes as a provocation and chose the darkness of her closed eyelids instead of the one being imposed upon her.

Darkness, she’d repeat to herself, is first and foremost a state of mind.

Luna slowed down as she turned another corner. The Room of Requirement was close, and she trusted that Neville would be around. If she had access to such a secure and unfailing place, she would have rushed to it.

The Room wasn’t hers. There was no home anymore. The Quibbler’s quarters had been burned to the ground and invaded by salamanders.

Luna walked on centennial rocks that defined the very edge of a cliff.

She made a resolution not to look at the wreckage everywhere she laid foot. Everything that rose had to fall, of course. She never expected Hogwarts to follow the same rules.

Luna cried out when Neville appeared before her and almost knocked her to the ground. Her shoulder hit the opposing wall, and she quickly pushed her back against it.

‘You scared me!’ Luna exclaimed in surprise. ‘I was looking for you but not expecting you to appear in front of me. I guess I’m still jumpy.’

‘No need to explain.’ Neville reached out for her. She gladly pressed his hand between hers. ‘I thought you went home,’ he added, his voice dull, as if he had just woke up.

'I am home, for now.' Luna opened her arms on the desolation around them. 'I cannot exactly go home or anywhere else, for that matter.'

Neville nodded distractedly. She pulled closer, taking a hard look at the deep marks on his face. Again, she regretted that two random Death Eaters took away from her the liberty of choosing to fight alongside her friends. ‘The Carrows certainly did want to scare you, didn’t they? I’m glad they didn’t succeed.’

‘They sure wanted me to disappear.’ He chuckled, and his eyes met hers. ‘I reckon it’s like you said, Luna…they were weakening our resistance, one member at the time.’

She nodded. ‘They had no imagination. But they’ve been neatly tied up. Oh, your grandmother was looking for you.’

‘Oh.’ Neville flushed. ‘I – I went for the Room. I must have fallen asleep there…I’ve got no idea what time it is…’ He shook his wrist. ‘My watch stopped working.’

‘It’s night already.’ Luna took a few steps into the corridor, and Neville followed her. ‘I was hoping to find you around to give you the message. Your grandmother accompanied Michael’s parents to St. Mungo’s. He’s been hit by a rather nasty Memory spell, and she said they might need some support. I think it was a very kind thing of her to do.’

She did not need to turn back. She held her tongue. Some observations didn’t need to be worded.

‘I see,’ he said, moving briskly in front of her. Light reflected in his eyes when he glanced her way. ‘Have you got any news from your father?’

‘He’s safe. He’s already working on a new publication from the basement of a long-time supporter as I understood it from his Owl. I believe that means he’s all right.’

‘And don’t you want to be with him?’

She ignored the question when something drew her attention. To her silent invitation, Neville marked a pause when they stopped before a half-crumbled wall. Luna replaced a portrait, tapping it inch by inch with her index finger, until it stood straight.

The child on the painting addressed her a smile. ‘That’s much better, don’t you think?’ Luna murmured, grinning back to the smallish figure.

‘You haven’t answered, Luna.’

She spun on her heels. Neville was waiting her reply with a frown. Her heart swelled up with gratitude and sadness. She had missed his concern, even if she wouldn’t know where to begin in explaining what kept her roaming the corridors.

‘I didn’t answer because I cannot find anything worthy to say.’ She shrugged. ‘It is hard to explain, truly, but I’m not sure I want to be around my father right now.’

Luna loved having friends, despite the conflicted feelings they never failed to raise.

They always wanted to hear the hardest answers.

4. Faith

Ron Weasley aimed a kick at the door and pounded it hard.

He hadn’t hit the heavy door nearly strongly enough. His foot made contact with the wood again.

Blasted castle. BAM. Blasted war. BAM.

As much as his toes hurt, reality stung harder. He stood in Professor McGonagall’s office, astounded by what just happened. In a mess of Floo Powder, Harry and Hermione had unexpectedly gone their separate ways - ‘just for a few hours’ they both promised, their faces haughty and pale.

He’d tried to listen to their explanations and understand. He’d failed: he hadn’t been competent enough to find the right arguments to keep them from leaving Hogwarts…even if it was tentatively ‘just for a few hours’.

Ron thought Harry looked mad, and it hit him that he’d expected his friend to be free, to look free when he’d be standing before the rest of his life.

Tired, sure. Stunned, of course. Ron had simply hoped for Harry’s shoulders to move down a couple of inches. Since Voldemort had died from the Elder Wand, Harry’s hair stuck up as if he’d been caught in some hazardous wind event. His eyes kept on roaming everywhere, not really stopping on the people who spoke to him, avoiding faces and eye contact.

‘There’s somewhere I need to go back to for a few hours,’ Harry had pleaded as he stared down to his tattered robes. ‘I need to do this. I need – I need to go there. I swear I will back - it will be fine, mate.’

Ron didn’t need reassurance for Harry’s capacity to defend himself. He acknowledged that Harry had messed up by not understanding what he’d meant. His mate had slipped away from his objections, leaving Ron with a bitter taste of abandonment.

As for Hermione, she’d suspended herself from his neck, whispering something about the need to go home -- to see home -- before joining him at the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole (‘I’ll camp out, Ron, if necessary. I don’t want to be a burden to your parents.’), and when she stepped into the fireplace right after Harry, whispering she’d be as quick as Muggle transportations would allow her to, his anger fizzled. He couldn’t be mad at her.

He looked down to his shoes, frustrated that he had been unable to say what blistered his mouth. They probably thought he could shoulder himself on family. They would probably have done just that, if they’d had any.

But Ron needed them, egoistically. Fred was dead, and he needed them to help him face the reality of it.

Sure, he’d fled them a while ago. He’d left them because he’d been half-mad with the Horcrux dangling next to his heart. What was he supposed to do? He hadn’t given much thought to how he should have dealt with it. The impulse had been powerful and explosive, an impetuous act of self-preservation, and leaving them had been the only idea he’d had come up with.

And now they just left him, and he wondered if the power of something he thought had been destroyed still dangled from their necks.

‘We have to go, Ron.’ Ginny spoke from a corner of the office, and he jolted before facing her.

He’d almost forgot her presence. His sister had not uttered a word to help him keep Harry and Hermione at Hogwarts. She had listened to their frantic speeches as she stood in a shadowy part of the room, her face inscrutable.

She had not even voiced a goodbye.

Ron turned again to the door, unable to make his voice less sour. ‘Yeah.’

He heard ruffling behind him, and he wasn’t surprised to feel the warmth of Ginny’s hand cupping his elbow. ‘Mum and Dad are waiting for us at home. We need to go. And you heard Mum, didn’t you? She specifically asked Harry and Hermione to come home. They know they’ll be welcome. You know they’ll come.’

‘Yeah.’ His forehead touched the door, and he considered banging his head for as long as needed to fall into oblivion.

He should be triumphant. He should be boasting the end of this hellish year. Yet, the aftermath of the battle felt like rushing into a beginning with no refreshing transition to catch his breath.

Ginny shook his arm with concern. ‘They’ll come back, Ron. You know they will. You know them.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Ron!’ Ginny pushed him slightly, forcing him to face her. ‘We need to be home.’ She paused, her expression fading into a despair that angered him. ‘Don’t you want to be home? With us?’

Home. He’d dreamt of it. He’d longed for it on cold nights, after dreadful conversations. He’d never wanted it more than when he thought he’d never see it again.

Ron certainly wanted to go back home…the one he expected to exist until he’d become a grumpy old bugger. He wasn’t sure how he’d be proficient to deal with what had replaced it.

‘Yeah, sure.’ He raised his hand before Ginny exclaimed herself again, this time her face reddening in frustration and something else he didn’t want to look at too closely. ‘I just want to say goodbye to Nev and Luna, if that’s all right with you.’

Ginny stepped back, losing her fire in an instant. ‘Of course. I’ll go with you.’

The corridor leading to the stairs was full of rubble. They stepped over the smaller stones and went over the other ones by straddling them before Ginny pointed to something on the floor, a small object covered with dust.

A laced trainer laid in the middle of the corridor. Ron kneeled down in front of it. His sister’s hair brushed against the top of his head as she looked over his shoulder.

‘Padma was missing a shoe when Luna found her. We should bring it over to Professor Flitwick. Perhaps her parents will want to have it,' Ginny muttered.

Ron bit his tongue. Why parents would want relics of their deceased child? Why load themselves with more proof of their loss? Why care about a stupid trainer?

It made no sense at all. It was rubbish, like all those things that swamped the castle.

Yet, Ron couldn’t order his legs to stand up and move past it. Ginny sniffed and bended forward, her right arm embracing him. Her forehead touched the back of his shoulder.

Tiredness washed over Ron when he felt her weight against him. He patted his sister’s hand and grabbed the shoe by its laces. ‘Yeah. Yeah, we should do that.’

Ginny’s mouth grazed his ear. ‘You know, if they’d known how you truly felt, they wouldn’t have left. Everyone’s-’ she sniffed, ‘everyone’s messed up.’

‘You and me….we aren’t messed up,’ Ron muttered. His mind turned blank. ‘We aren’t.’

‘We are,’ Ginny whispered again as he stubbornly stared at Padma’s shoe. ‘Everyone’s who’s fought here is bloody messed up, Ron. You’re just too stunned to notice how much.’

Ron scoffed as the trainer swung gently from his hand like a pendulum. Padma, he decided, had the smallest feet he had ever seen.

His sister was right. It was time to leave.

5. Heart

Shouting pierced through the silence looming over Hogwarts, and Neville followed his instincts.

He firmly grabbed Luna’s hand, and they rushed down the stairs.

At ground level, standing right where Neville had witnessed Lavender Brown plummeting from a higher level, Professor McGonagall was unsuccessfully trying to make herself heard by an agitated middle-aged man. Neville couldn’t help but to admire her poised and imperial manners as she spoke soothingly through the man’s imprecations.

After his angry tirade, the man’s hands flew in the air. ‘Can someone – anyone – tell me where the hell is my daughter?’

Neville had heard that cry plenty times before, during many aching hours when parents and relatives rushed from one side to the castle to the other, looking for their children. He had seen the Patils, elated at first that Parvati had come through unscathed, only to howl when she weepily gave them the news about Padma.

It rammed him again. He had heard the sunken hopes too many times. The man’s obvious anguish was a fearful sight. Neville felt his stomach clenching.

He’d heard enough for a lifetime.

‘Let’s move away,’ he whispered to Luna, pulling her back. ‘I don’t think we should be here.’

To his surprise, Professor McGonagall briskly moved away from the man and gestured for them to come closer. ‘Neville, Luna…I’d appreciate you coming here, please.’

'Where is my daughter?’ the man cried out again, oblivious to their presence. ‘Where is Daphne? You are in charge, as I understand it - you’re a bloody teacher - you should know where she is!'

The man had to stop to breathe, and Professor McGonagall took it as an opportunity to cut in.

‘Mr Greengrass, I wholeheartedly understand your worry.’ She raised her hand, and Neville gulped when he saw her slight quiver. He had seen her on her feet since the ending of the battle, and he wondered if she’d had the time to rest. ‘We will find her, wherever she is. It must be a misunderstanding. Most Slytherin students left Hogwarts before the beginning of the battle. Daphne must have followed through.’ Professor McGonagall turned to Neville. 'Would you, by any chance, have seen Daphne Greengrass somewhere?'

Neville frowned, replaying in his mind the leaving of the Slytherins and the younger students. It had been raucous and messy, but Daphne Greengrass' tall silhouette and light hair had not stood out for him, as preoccupied as he’d been by the upcoming doom hovering over Hogwarts.

'I didn't see her leave,' he said, mentally trying to retrace his steps.

And then it hit him and he opened his mouth, struck by a thought. ‘But-'

'But what?' Mr Greengrass pressed on, taking a step before him. ‘But WHAT?’

Neville took his time to answer back, wondering how to phrase the awful possibility to the bewildered father. How much had the parents known about what happened between these walls? How much did they need to know without blaming other professors? 'She – Daphne - I’d heard she’d been into detention, a few days before…before….'

Professor McGonagall tensed up. 'When? When was she taken into detention?'

'I couldn't say exactly,' said Neville earnestly, his throat tight. 'I’ve been living in the Room for a while. Seamus relayed us a rumour...Seamus could perhaps -’

Professor McGonagall laid a hand on his shoulder. The coldness of her fingers through the thin layer of his shirt sent a shiver down his spine. ‘I’m afraid Mr Finnigan is in St. Mungo’s and in no state to speak. What do you know, Neville?’

Many members of the DA had fallen. Neville had seen the blue bolt erupting from an anonymous wand, hitting Seamus straight in the face.

He complied at Professor McGonagall’s encouragement, his mouth dry. ‘Daphne didn’t obey the Carrows’ orders, so I heard.’

'Didn't obey whom?' The man was now obviously nervous as a bead of sweat slipped on his temple. Neville thought the Carrows’ reputation must have made it through. Daphne had a younger sister. ‘My daughter would never disobey. She is a very reasonable-’

‘Reasonable has nothing to do with what students just went through,’ Professor McGonagall interrupted him curtly.

‘Daphne probably refused to use the Cruciatus Curse on a student.’ Luna tapped her chin. ‘What do you think, Neville?'

'That was the rumour.' He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 'Seamus was told that one of the Carrows came for her at the end of class.'

It felt unreal, after everything that had happened, to recount rumours that used to mobilize them for hours. These were the things they were supposed be recounting later on, things they’d remember in many years, not hours after Voldemort’s defeat.

Daphne had been forgotten in the mayhem caused by Harry’s return.

‘Yes, they must have removed her.’ Luna nodded, oddly content. ‘Removing. That’s how they worked.’

Professor McGonagall clicked her tongue. 'As for myself, I haven't seen Daphne at all. We should try to send some Owls and perhaps check with Poppy Pomfrey at St. Mungo’s or even-’

‘She might be in the dungeons,’ Luna suggested. ‘Many of the detentions occurred there.’

‘I’ll go into the dungeons,’ Mr Greengrass said grimly. ‘I believe this is the way...’

Professor McGonagall seemed very tired all of a sudden. ‘We would have seen something, I dare to believe. If she’s here, we would have-’

'I’ll search the dungeons, Professor McGonagall.’

Neville looked her in the eye. He hoped his glance was telling enough. He had to be the one looking for Daphne. The importance for Mr Greengrass to be looking for his daughter above the ground, within the living and the wounded seemed to Neville of the uttermost importance.

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow without missing a beat. ‘Mr Longbotton will go into the dungeons, Mr Greengrass. He has been there before.’

‘I’ve been there.’ Neville held firmly the man’s stare. ‘A lot of us have been down there in the past months.’

6. Mind

The dungeons seemed to Luna like a giant maze, an incongruous image she had never conjured when moving down into them for her Potions class. They unravelled before her feet, and she wondered why she’d never noticed how low the ceiling was.

The dungeons opened up to her like a trap. She stepped into the first corridor with precaution, lending an ear against the first door she touched.

‘Daphne,’ she called out unconvincingly before pointing her wand at the lock. ‘Daphne, tell us where you are.’

The dungeons looked like the bowels of a monstrous creature. A door creaked open. Luna regretted not having Ron and his nifty little light device with them. The beam coming from the end of her wand wasn’t nearly enough for her to feel what was truly light.

She took a few steps forward, her heart strumming in her ears. Neville has already walked to a third door. ‘Locked,’ he mumbled before she heard a clicking sound. ‘Nothing. Daphne! Are you in here?’

The dungeons seemed to Luna like the last place she should be wandering. She swallowed hard, her knees shaking under her.

Neville’s voice came from a room, eerie and disincarnated. ‘She could be elsewhere, you know.’

She glanced his way. Neville, her brave and unbreakable friend, was already out there, already knocking on another door.

Luna couldn’t see his face, only the pale fabric of his shirt. ‘She’s not.’

‘She could be,’ Neville said as he busted open the door to another room.

‘I don’t think so. I think she’s here, somewhere, in the dark.’

Perhaps she had been wrong about the two Death Eaters. Perhaps dark rooms were the best place to hide someone to be sure they’d be wounded without getting dirty.

‘How do you know that?’

Dark. Hot. Rank. The memory of cold fingers, slight and dry.

‘Darkness breaks the spirit.’ Luna crouched to the ground, breathless. Sweat prickled down her neck. ‘It breaks the soul. It makes you mad, wishing for light.’

Neville’s voice floated to her. ‘Yeah…I don’t know. The dungeons stink, for sure.’

Luna was surprised to hear her voice exploding so fully in the dark. ‘I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here, quick.’

There would be a time, she predicted to herself as she hid her face behind her hands, when she’d stand into darkness with all her might, all senses acute and alert. Her serenity would lead her to solve the mysteries of the Snorkacks.

She would vanquish darkness, of course. She would reason it.

But that time had yet to come.

7. Edge

As soon as he had laid foot in the dungeons, Ron heard Luna’s voice and pounced forward, Ginny at his heels. When Professor McGonagall had seen him hopping down the stairs, she’d grabbed him by the sleeve, urging him to go with Neville and Luna as they searched for a Slytherin student in the dungeons.

Ron had run without thinking, shoving deep into him the urgent need to leave.

They had found a student all right, but not the one Professor McGonagall had wanted them to bring back. Luna was crouching against a dusty wall, her lips trembling under the beam of lights erupting from their wands.

‘I’d like to get out, please,’ Luna said shakily, her eyes on his shoes. ‘Would you be so kind as to help me out, Ginny? Unless you happen to have your lightening device with you, Ron?’

Ron searched for his back pocket, rather surprised. ‘Of course.’

The Deluminator casted a warm glow in the dungeons, and Luna took support on the wall to bring herself up. ‘That’s so much better. I need a minute.’

‘What’s wrong, Luna?’ Ron pressed as she leaned against him.

Ron had never considered that Luna could look defeated. ‘That’s a hard question,’ she whispered, pained. ‘But I’ll tell you because I know the answer. I’m afraid of the dark.’

Ron stared at her, astounded by her unsteadiness as she wrung her hands, shaking her head with incomprehension. ‘My mum used to tell me that darkness is a state of mind. I’m starting to believe she was wrong. It catches up with you.’

As Ginny embraced her tightly, Ron made sure the light never left Luna’s face.

They all had to get out of there, quickly. They all needed to put some distance between Hogwarts and themselves. He had to get them out of there.

They stood silent for a minute, and Ron said, in a sudden inspiration, ‘I don’t know if it will make you feel better, but I reckon you aren’t afraid of the dark, Luna. You’re afraid of what’s hiding in it. We all know how that feels.’

Her feeble smile convinced them she was well enough to move forward. Ginny held on to her, and Ron held the Deluminator high until he heard Neville yelling.

There would come a time when Luna would surprise Ron by recounting in her tenth book, By Night: A Naturalistic Understanding of Fear in Magical Creatures, how smart he’d been by giving her the keys to shaping her theory. He’d flush deeply when he would read about that.

Time would play tricks on Ron’s memory. He couldn’t remember saying those words to her.

At all.

9. Illusions

Minerva McGonagall walked briskly towards greenhouse number three, wiping the drizzle from her forehead.

Pomona Sprout’s Patronus had found her as she was resting her legs, an hour following the sudden eruption of Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley announcing they had found Daphne Greengrass, followed closely by Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley carrying the distraught girl, famished and shaky, up from the dungeons.

She’d felt again the blister of failure. She’d been roaming the castle, working magic as much as she could, only to face the giant task on hand. What waited for her in the next months was unrelenting work. She’d have to spend every minute researching, questioning her choices of spells and protection, but also navigating through the bureaucracy imposed by the Ministry.

Perhaps they all had a chance. Shacklebolt had been one of her smartest students, most preoccupied by the ethics of Transfiguration.

But she had missed a student.

‘I thought they’d expelled me if I didn’t do what they wanted,’ Daphne had muttered as she brought a cup of water to her lips. ‘I just wanted to get out of here.’

Thank goodness Poppy had Floo’ed back from St. Mungo’s. Thank goodness she had found a cooperative Healer to take charge of the girl as well as of the father.

Minerva had stared at the students numbly before Ron had taken upon himself to leave. ‘I’ll be back when you need help, Professor. I reckon everyone at home will want to contribute. And Harry, of course, and Hermione too….But for now Ginny and I, well…’ He had stared at his sister before rounding her shoulders protectively. ‘We really need to go home.’

‘You should all be going home,’ Minerva had declared, showing them the way up to her office. ‘There will be a time for rebuilding.’

Neville and Luna had been the last to leave, the Lovegood child murmuring something about how needing time to rebuild would give everyone time to grieve. ‘Will Hogwarts reopen in September, Professor?’

Minerva had been saved from answering vaguely. Luna had disappeared into the fireplace, bound to meet with her father.

She finally stood before the greenhouse, assessing its heavy damages. Minerva pushed the door open. ‘Pomona?’

Pomona Sprout was half-slumped on a chair, her breathing audible behind her hands. Around her, devastation: it seemed like every pot had been crushed to the floor. Some plants were wiggling in hopes to flee the greenhouse by cavorting on the ground, hopes to which Minerva cut short by sharply closing the door behind her.

The glass-panelled ceiling had been struck open in several places. ‘Oh dear,’ Minerva said tentatively as she looked up. ‘Oh dear. You cannot expect to be fixing all of this now.’

‘Yes, you told me last night. I should visit my sister instead of helping you here.’ Pomona looked upon her hands, her eyes bright from determination. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’

‘Of course not.’ Minerva manoeuvred between broken tables. ‘We all need time to think. It will prove salutary.’

‘Yes.’ Her colleague snorted before wiping her cheeks with the back of her hands, leaving a streak of dirt on her cheeks, a belated war paint. ‘But we have a destroyed school and teachers wondering what to do next. I know you have been thinking about leaving. I won’t let you doubt your actions. Hogwarts needs you.’

Rain fell harder into the greenhouse, and Minerva breathed in. Perhaps truths would sound less frightening when voiced outside than when reverberating in the abandoned castle. ‘I’m an old goat, truly. I fancy myself into thinking I can leave. But I can’t. The sad truth is that I cannot leave Hogwarts. I won’t.’

She couldn’t fool herself – she was an aging woman, and her stubbornness in making Hogwarts whole again would be criticized and attributed to the obstinacy of experience upon which youth sneered.

She could never bring herself to move on if she didn’t feel, in earnest, that she couldn’t do something more for Hogwarts and its students or for their memories. It was deep in her, unavoidable, rooted at her core. She’d seen so many faces clenched in determination. She had seen students suffering, crying, hurling, taking power, fighting for something bigger than them, bracing choices she made for the first time when she was twice their age.

She owed it to herself to be worthy of them, every single one of them who had left to never return.

Hogwarts had been a silent witness to their youth, but the castle held her life within its walls.

The time would come when it wouldn’t mean much anymore. She would then be another portrait in the Headmaster’s office.

But obviously, she thought fiercely as she straightened up, the time hasn’t come yet.

‘Old goat might be a bit mean.’ Pomona’s wand traced a graceful arabesque, and one of the ceiling’s glass panels reformed itself in a crystalline chime. Soon, rain gently tapped against it, and its soothing sound filled the greenhouse. ‘But if this old goat’s incapacity to let go is the reason why students flock back without fear next September, so be it, my dear. So be it.’

The Onyx Runes (G, a fic for romanesca08)

Mon, 11 Aug 2008 13:35:05 GMT

Now that stellar mod

star54kar has posted the reveals of the weasley_fest exchange, I can claim the maternity of the Bill genfic I wrote for romanesca08 - The Onyx Runes. Here is a slightly modified version of what I sent to the community. I had left in a couple of little awkward things.

I was also happy to receive a lovely epilogue-era fic from solstice_muse, in which Arthur Weasley attempts to find the most representative picture of his family. The title is Bookends, and you can read it here. :)

The Onyx Runes
Title: The Onyx Runes
Author: redsiodaslair
For: romanesca08
Rating: G
Featured Character or Pairing(s): gen, Bill centered
Summary: A chronicle of the events leading to Bill Weasley’s abrupt change of career during the summer of 1995.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 7,490 (oh dear)
Disclaimer: Ah, if I were JKR. But I’m not.
Author's notes: Dear romanesca08, you wanted a gen piece about change and newfound maturity. I sincerely hope you will enjoy this interpretation of your prompt as well as this look into Bill’s character. My beta-reader queenb23more deserves cookies and flowers – lots of them. Thank you, dearest. <3 All remaining mistakes are mine. Sahbee translates into my friend.

The Onyx Runes

+ + +

Egypt – July 1995

The worn carpet raced at good speed, three feet above the ground, gliding effortlessly against the wind current, a snake of fabric under the platinum light of the sun. Sand whirled on its passing, raining down on the flying carpet’s two passengers. Both men promptly protected their face to avoid its abrasiveness.

At that time of year, sun seemed to be suspended forever in the sky, only to be masked by temperamental winds that blew sand in great gusts. But the horizon was clear and wide, and the branding heat of the day would leave its place to a shockingly cold night in three hours, in what promised to be an orgy of oranges, yellows, and reds.

Muggle tourists and their guides did not risk adventuring themselves on this side of the desert after dusk. The two employees of Gringotts Wizarding Bank seated on the flying carpet would be free to do their job.

Bill Weasley readjusted the white cotton scarf against his mouth to avoid inhaling sand. He pondered that he should have spent his last day in Egypt between the cool walls of the bank. Working on last minute filing and paperwork would have been more reasonable than pleading with his mentor to accompany him for one last ground assignment that would leave him scrambling to get everything in order before his departure for England the next morning.

But there was a time for reason and a time for personal indulgence, and he smiled to himself as he quickly pressed the fabric to his face, just to feel the grains prickle against his hands. He needed to be out, somewhat lost in the scorching deserts of Egypt one last time, before leaping into a life he’d never thought he’d live.

The carpet shivered before landing smoothly at the base of an impressive dune.

‘There it is – the chamber of Aten the Sleepwalker. We’ll have to wait for a few hours now.’ Ya Chikh Zuberi, a diminutive curse-breaker who was rather graceful for a hundred and ten year-old man, sprang up from the carpet and strolled to the dune, swirling his wand before him in smooth circles.

Blue light cracked from nowhere in a dazzling number of sparks, and Bill whistled, impressed. ‘Lovely layering on that one, I’d say.’

Zuberi nodded with large smile, disclosing two golden teeth. ‘It’s a beauty. The entry is well protected and accessible at night only. I figured this one would amuse you.’

Bill smirked as the old man walked back to the carpet. After he slowly lowered himself down, Zuberi searched through the content of a small haversack before pulling out a gourd. ‘I would not have you leave before seeing one last time magic you could appreciate, sahbee.’

Bill laughed, his throat tighter than he’d have expected. ‘I do appreciate it, ya chikh. I’ll set up the tent.’

They waited for a while under the thick, cooling protection of the Muggle-repelling cotton tent. Sun was dipping into the west as Bill was rereading his notes, referring constantly to a battered runes dictionary. Zuberi was flipping through a thick book that had seen better days.

‘The ancients write you should look for the world in yourself,’ Zuberi said abruptly, troubling his focus. ‘They write you should never look for yourself in the world. What do you think? Is that camel dung, sahbee?’

Bill peered up from his pad. His mentor had been curiously silent since he had announced his transfer to London, but Bill knew the old man well enough to anticipate a unique way of addressing this issue. Zuberi was an oddball in the curse-breaking profession, the fifth and last generation of a well-known Egyptian family that ‘read’ the desert intuitively like others anticipated the behaviours of rare creatures or the needs of fickle plants. He also had a very metaphorical perception of their employment by the Goblins. ‘We open, we free, we simplify,’ Zuberi used to say, pretending not to hear the sniggering from the other curse-breakers. ‘Can we do a nicer work?’

‘It seems wise to me,’ Bill finally said. ‘Self-knowledge is essential.’

Was Zuberi hinting that Bill was making a foolish and egoistical choice? Was his professor finally expressing an opinion about him leaving?

‘Oh, I know. I taught you well.’ Zuberi chuckled somewhat smugly. ‘I’m an old man who parrots the wisdom of my ancestors. You, however, are a sensible young man. You seek balance in yourself. Whatever choice you think you make because of circumstances, you always make them through the sieve of your beliefs.’

Circumstances. Bill slowly shook his head. ‘Beliefs, yes, but also reason,’ he added, brushing his mouth against the scarf. ‘And duty.’

‘As you wish - reason.’ The old man tapped a short and knotty finger against his lips. ‘And its weighty brother, duty. But both words mean nothing without what you believe. Why are you leaving? What’s true?’

Bill kept silent for a moment, wondering how to explain the visceral need to stand by his family and to take action into what he anticipated would evolve into an open war soon, but Zuberi did not wait for an answer. ‘Open your hands.’

Zuberi pulled from his jilbaab a small jute pouch, and Bill watched him loosen the ties. Onyx runes cascaded into his open hands, fresh and slick against his palms.

Bill clicked his tongue. ‘Ya chickh, you know me,’ he said, almost apologetic. ‘I’m not superstitious at all.’

‘This has nothing to do with superstition.’ The old man pressed Bill’s hands together. ‘This is me wanting to give you something to think about.’

‘What happened to looking in myself to get answers?’ Bill inquired, cocking an eyebrow at the old man. He stared at the shining pebbles, masterfully engraved with powerful symbols he had come to interpret and anticipate. ‘That’s my problem with divination – one tries to apply a symbol or an interpretation to himself. Doesn’t make any sense at all.’

‘That’s because you’re doing it wrong.’

Bill laughed whole-heartedly as the old man fished for a date and flicked the pit in the air. It disappeared with a pop.

‘Now, humour this old man, and let me reassure myself by reading the runes for you.’

Bill sighed. He had seen the ceremonial done so many times in the sandy streets of Assouan by devious witches, thirsty for money. Eyes closed, he let the runes slip one by one from the cup of his hands until Zuberi stopped him. ‘Pick one with your eyes closed, sahbee… it will be the rune of past and foundations.’

The onyx pebble shined against the scarlet of the carpet. ‘Ah, you are such a surprise to me. You look at this, Bill. To express where you come from, you choose the pharaoh’s symbol of power, brandished from the father to all ancients. Father and family.’

‘Indeed.’ Bill slicked the rune with his thumb, the engraving sharp against his flesh. ‘The Was.’

The Was
Ottery St.Catchpole and Scotland - 1979-1989

Bill Weasley had set his mind on a career at the reasonable age of nine years old.

His ‘Geoffrey Walters, Mysterious Wandmaker’ albums had something to do with it. In the dead of the night, when his brother Charlie mumbled in his sleep, Bill struggled to find enough light to devour the tales of Mr. Walters’ efforts to counter a syndicate of adventurers and their malicious ploys to steal the wandmaker’s secrets.

Bill ate, dreamed, and read everything wandmaking-related his mother allowed him to put his hands on for two years, until he got his wand from Mr. Ollivander’s hands. He then realized that he had wanted to be the heroic Mr. Walters, with his manly manners and quotes (‘I’m afraid ASHWINDER ASH won’t do it for you, crook!’), and not a solitary and highly qualified craftsman obsessed by wood grain and iniquities behind the Demiguise hair trade.

I’m going to do something exciting and challenging that has nothing to do with what Dad has to put up every day.

His father was an entertaining if not tireless storyteller of all things Ministry. Laughing at his hilarious stories about spanking frying pans and insult-blaring fellytones, keeping silent when his father faked carelessness when alluding about how administration and old fortunes complicated his work, asking questions about the War and prejudices based on blood status; Bill was like any other curious teen, surprised by the revelation that his father had an involved life beyond The Burrow.

With the years, he became aware that his father faced the same, immutable situation every day: Bill could grasp that he valued his job and wanted to be useful to both Muggles and Wizards. He could also understand his father’s frustration of holding the officious powers to make it happen but being pushed aside by invisible string-holders when he did so.

I don’t want to struggle within the system to do my job, Bill thought with a tinge of shame. Not like Dad.

It took someone else than his parents to point to other paths and to relieve him from the embarrassment he felt. ‘I understand very well why you are on two minds about the Ministry career path, but there are other options,’ Professor McGonagall rightfully observed. ‘Have you heard about Gringotts’ curse-training training program? It would certainly put to use your excellent Transfiguration skills.’

Spectacular and eerie images of the desert, intricate drawings of hieroglyphics and runes, pictures of heavily moustached men and solemn Goblins unravelled before his eyes as he flipped through the flyer. He tried to keep his mind on Professor McGonagall’s speech about the requirements needed to get into such a program, but the inner need to be there, to be one of those adventurers searching for treasures and gold, was all he could hear.

He kept the brochure, with Professor McGonagall’s blessings, and he slipped it in his History of Magic book, leafing through it as Professor Binns involuntarily plunged his schoolmates into a comatose state.

Mystery awaiting in tombs. Millenary curses to decipher like a challenging puzzle. Access to the Goblins’ world-reputed library. As far as Bill understood it, it had a complicated training program and it cost a small fortune, but it could be accessible through an excellence scholarship that was well to his reach, according to Professor McGonagall.

It also meant moving to Egypt. And living in a single-room flat owned by the bank.

Alone.

There were no choices to make when life offered such a luxurious and exhilarating opportunity.

It took many owls to reassure his mother that he would survive away from her. He lost count of the hours devoted to studying and practical Transfiguration assignments under Professor McGonagall’s stern tutelage. The application forms to fill out were tedious, but every step he took brought him closer to his objective as well as it was tearing him from his father’s choices.

Bill was relieved to see him so proud when the congratulatory gold-rimmed parchment finally arrived. ‘Not yet,’ he had to repeat often, as his father introduced him to his Ministry colleagues as my son, the curse-breaker.

Bill left for Egypt with a hungry mind, and he missed his uproarious siblings quite a bit during the first week, bewildered at how peace occupied the space he now lived in; the next one, not so much.

It was his future he was building, after all, and he had it to his feet, his life as wide as the golden sea of the desert.

Egypt – July 1995

Zuberi had taken the Was rune, and Bill watched him polish it with his sleeve. The old man glanced at him over his glasses. ‘Pick another one, so I know where you stand.’

Where he stood? Bill had a fair idea about that, but he was also on the verge of diving into shadows thicker than the ones looming in a funeral chamber.

Bill sighed but obeyed under the old man’s pressing gaze.

The winged silhouette of the goddess Maat shimmered between his fingers. Merlin, he thought. That was one hilarious fluke, if he had seen one.

‘Why are you laughing?’ said Zuberi, a glint of mischief in his deep-set eyes. ‘Maat does not like to be taken lightly.’

Bill flipped the rune between his fingers. ‘I had many encounters with mummified devotees of Maat. Tombs trapped to the ceiling, enough dark magic to kill a small village, vicious curses mixed with her otherwise protective symbols…What people will make themselves believe to create their own version of justice is bewildering.’

Bill had lost quite a number of idealistic illusions through the years. Comparing both the previous and current state of the world through his job and the life of his family back in England had kept showing him how wizards through the ages were incapable of separating true justice from their skewered feelings of ownership.

Zuberi stared at him with attention, his dark eyes suspicious. ‘You never bragged much about your successes.’

There was so much Bill had not said. It had been freeing to have the power to rewrite who he was in Egypt, away from his geeky reputation in Hogwarts. ‘Why should I? This is my job.’

‘Ah, that noble mind of yours….Maat is so much more than justice, and you know it. Indulge me and play this game with me, sahbee.’

‘Oh well,’ Bill breathed out, ‘Maat is about one’s own truth.’

The Maat
Egypt and Quidditch World Cup – 1989-1994

It would never fail to happen. Whatever the ex-classmates clamoured when he rekindled with them on the grounds of the camping adjoining the stadium that would be presenting the Quidditch World Cup, whether they said it with teasing humour or admiration, Bill shrugged off their exclamations with a smirk.

‘Still in Egypt! I never knew you were one for adventure, Head Boy!’

They would insist by waving their hands at his hair, at the fang dangling from his earlobe and at his dragon hind boots as if to say, but would you just look at you?

He was just the same as they knew him, perhaps with cooler shoes.

Bill knew better than to get caught in what promised to be a labyrinth of embarrassing flattery and to struggle his way to the exit. Five years into the curse-breaking profession had cleared any confusion he might have had with himself. He was a bona-fide geek obsessed with details and planning, keen on solving enigmas and finding his satisfaction in dumping the result of his research on the desk of Gorbagash, the unflinching Goblin that held the title of Head of Treasure Retrieval.

But was he an adventurer? Bill had grasped that his brother Charlie had the daredevil streak he lacked. Only Charlie, Bill believed, could giggle like a five year-old when he recounted the events that had led to him almost having his head chewed on by a Romanian Longhorn on his first day as a dragon keeper.

As far as curse-breaking was to be addressed, adventurers were reckless and dug for treasures at any cost. The appellation was used with a sneer to designate uneducated looters, ones that would break through ancient spell work with disrespect as they blasted magic in showy displays and poor mastery, often damaging what they were hoping to retrieve. Adventurers were those who forgot or ignored how the intricate layers of magic unravelled and had no empathy or sense of foreboding for the intentions of ancient wizards.

Adventurers ignored the cardinal rules of curse-breaking, which had been hammered into Bill many times during his first year in Egypt.

Use minimal magic to get to your objective. Your brain will bring you closer to what you seek.

But brains did not seem to have the same appeal as the aura of glamour shrouding the curse-breaking profession. The eyes of pretty women glittered when Bill told them what he did with his life. Men wanted to hear about mummies and life-and-death adventures. No one held much interest for the sites he visited or the archaic magic he had invoked. There were undeniable advantages to that attention, and he sometimes spiced things up by recounting anecdotes or puzzles he’d faced, consciously forgoing the astronomical number of hours spent studying so he could get through a single door and face the object of the Goblins’ demand. There was no pizzazz in sweating buckets on a sweltering day in the desert, flipping through parchments to identify the entry of a secret chamber.

Cursed snakes hissing at his ankles were, after all, infrequent and flippant occurrences.

Gorbagash had mentioned enigmatically that Bill had ‘the profile’. Bill had honestly never given much thought on how that job could fit him; he had been more preoccupied with fitting into it. Gorbagash confided him in the capable hands of the one curse-breakers referred fondly as ya chikh Zuberi – Professor Zuberi – a diminutive, wise man with delicate manners and features as smooth as a child’s even if he was well over a hundred years old.

Curse-breaking indeed provided the intellectual challenges Bill craved, but he soon discovered he did not dislike its insiders’ games. Professor McGonagall had not said anything about him having to learn vicariously from Zuberi the un-teachable and ruthless art of negotiation with the Goblins.

She had also skipped the part about the necessity of him self-learning moribund languages as he scrambled to find the right incantations that would lead him through a string of rooms. He had felt their impact in his bones when he shouted them for defence, since they had a way of expanding in the rarefied air of a tomb. Bill now spoke with one invested with the knowledge of how hefty and powerful words can be, whether they be rational words of business, cunning words to get his fair paid share, or words of magic and history, opening doors and freeing treasures.

Most importantly, Professor McGonagall had forgot to mention that he would be spending many hours alone in the night, scratching his quill on a notebook, tearing his eyes out in the feeble light he was restricted to use in tombs. The Goblins were firm believers in the philosophy that there was no need to wait for daylight to send curse-breakers on assignments when treasures were to be found in the antechamber of eternal night.

The last few years had him contemplating new pieces of knowledge about himself. He had been surprised at first about how unashamed his marvel and appreciation were when confronted with a beauty of a curse, a cunningly crafted work of doom twisted on itself like the Arabian Nights stories. He had caught himself shaking his head with a drop of superiority as he removed a jinx from a gold necklace, informing ya ckikh Zuberi in the same breath that he was most certain of the way he would have made it untouchable.

Bill had become less naïve with the use and impact of magic, more understanding of the greed of wizards who could not bear separating from their possessions and wished to give themselves the certitude of immortal ownership through complicated and somewhat sadistic curses that spanned over centuries. He had spent days and nights by himself pondering on life and death, on the subtle line between love and possession as he experimented the extent to which ancients were willing to go to protect in eternity what was theirs and their family’s.

The carefree but reasonable teenager he had been changed into a resourceful and responsible curse-breaker. He was enjoying his youth in Egypt, sometimes pulling the string that tied him back to his parents and siblings who - to his surprise - he missed more than he thought he would.

He relished the new identity and what it entailed, from the pleasure of spending hours leafing through ancient books of magic to wearing the protective earring offered by Zuberi.

And yes, occasionally, it would mean coming out from a tomb with a story he could use to entertain young ladies.

The word adventurer evocated an ink spill, a blot covering his essential qualities.

Egypt – July 1995

‘Inner truth,’ said Zuberi pensively. ‘It does take courage to face it, I’ll give you.’

Bill nodded. It always came down to courage. It was glittering red and gold, deep in his genes. It was about standing straight, holding one’s head up high, tolerating to be different, giving one’s confidence and loyalty, refusing to cower. There was no way Bill would have pursued his goal to work in Egypt if his parents had not been so modest about their own sacrifices and not expecting for him to do the same.

They gave him freedom and the possibility to embrace their values in his own way. He should find a way to thank them, when he was back home.

‘Let me see what pains you, sahbee.’ The rune fell from Bill’s fingers into the sand, like a dead body. Zuberi raised his eyebrows. ‘The Leb? This is unexpected.’

Bill smiled nervously. The heart, the siege of consciousness according to the ancients of Egypt. It shocked him to acknowledge that he could see so much into those runes. They embraced all human experience, Muggle and Wizard alike.

Leaving Egypt was not only about standing up to You-Know-Who anymore.

The Leb
Scotland - 24 June 1995

The Triwizard Cup was not unlike those treasures Bill made his priority to locate and to reach both with patience and a handful of disparate clues. He could not help a tinge of disappointment as he waited in the stands for Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory to return from the task that would crown one of them as the Triwizard champion.

He’d had an earful about how the twins tried to qualify for the tournament, and he sympathized with them. It struck him that Fred and George were increasingly thirsty for money and recognition – these were the twins after all, with their off-the-chart attention-seeking behaviour as well as their boasting will to prove themselves in spite the others – but if he’d had the chance, Bill would have dropped his name into the Goblet of Fire for the challenge of it.

This admission had not elicited a word from his mother. She had the shrewdness of choosing her battles, and she was fighting one at that very moment.

‘Harry has been in there for so long already,’ she said for the hundredth time as she stretched to get a glimpse of the entrance of the maze. She wrung her hands and wiggled on her seat to peek over the heads of the wizards sitting in front of them. ‘Shouldn’t he be out by now?’

Bill patted her hand with affection. She was convinced that she could save children by worrying as if it could protect them from the pitfalls she suspected gaped under their feet every step of their way. No words, no success, no proof of independence, no demonstration of highly skilled magic would ever appease his mother’s distress about the ones she decided were vulnerable.

Bill’s excitement left place to contemplation as others around him loudly grumbled about the oddness of them being seated in stands in front of nothing and waiting patiently for some victorious action to happen - the celebration, the end of it all - while nothing transpired from the third task.

Facing nothing and discovering what it hid was his job, and he didn’t mind the suspense.

His younger siblings were discussing with animation Harry’s chances to win, Fred and George attempting their best to enrage the others; a few rows down to his right, Cedric Diggory’s father was laughing and entertaining his neighbours with a loud story about his son’s smarts while his wife stubbornly stared at the maze in a tensed attitude surprising in its poise, her lips tight and colourless.

Bill smiled to his mother when she clasped on his hand only to release it with an indignant clicking of her tongue. ‘Do you find this normal? The French girl and Viktor Krum are back, but Harry and Cedric have been in there for hours.’

He peered at his wristwatch. ‘It hasn’t been that long. Merlin knows what they’re facing in there.’

His mother gazed at him with severity as if he was personally responsible for this situation. ‘Honestly, Bill! You think you’re being funny, do you?’

‘I’m joking, Mum.’

‘They are children. I hope the officials did not forget about that while they prepared the third task.’

‘They were chosen for a reason.’

‘But how do you explain that Harry was?’ Her eyes were blazing from fierce logic. ‘He’s not of age! This is…this is….’

‘He’ll be fine. He’s done more than alright until now, hasn’t he? You said so yourself.’

Bill hoped with all his heart that Harry would come out of the task unscathed. Avoiding his mother’s glare, he studied the contraction of his fingers, their slow unfolding before the renewed closure, again and again, like a heart pumping life at accelerated speed.

He was slightly embarrassed to have been disappointed when he laid eyes on Harry for the first time last summer. He’d then figured he was expecting someone else, and he laughed it off later with Charlie, feeling rather silly about his expectations. The boy was Ron’s age. Harry Potter may have defeated He Who Must Not Be Named in a bewildering and incomprehensible way, and he may have dealt with his dragon with ‘sheer poetry’ as Charlie rhapsodized about it in his Owl, but Bill had not been able to shake the idea that Harry Potter was first and foremost a scrawny and awkward kid, with eyes that were livelier than him.

‘OH MY – HARRY!’

Hermione Granger had jumped to her feet, and the roar of the crowd pushed Bill up as well as he scanned the edge of the maze to get a glimpse at him.

Harry was flat on his stomach, writhing, reaching blindly for something, for someone.

The sight parched Bill; mouth, heart, mind.

He felt he should have been doing something, but he stood motionless before his seat, a feeling of déjà vu grounding him on place. His mother was jumping up and down, not bothering with her immediate neighbour who elbowed her with reprobation. ‘Is Harry alright? Can you see something, anything at all? Bill, tell me!’

In the midst of the brouhaha, he was reminded something old Zuberi often said in tombs when he moralized the remnants of malevolent wizards. We have heavily irrigated lands inside us, easily poisoned if unprotected.

That was his mentor’s personal and flowery theory on how good and evil came to people.

Bill closed his eyes for a second. His heart was a finely tuned metronome of flesh and fluid. Heat flooded his cheeks, his mouth. He mused that his pulse should have been running in a gallop of adrenalin and oxygen. He should have been running. ‘He’s – yeah, Harry’s alright, Mum, no worries.’

Shock, he distantly thought as screams and hollering fused around him. A rustling of fabric and worried exclamations informed him that someone had just slipped to the ground, inanimate.

‘Did he win? Did he? Tell me!’ His mother suspended herself to his right arm. His siblings were already threading into the mob emptying the stands as they hustled towards Harry, the Cup, and the fallen Hufflepuff champion.

‘Bill!’

‘Cedric’s mother,’ he uttered, pained. “Cedric’s mum…she needs….the boy’s not moving, Mum.'

His mother spun on her heels. Mrs Diggory was sitting alone in the stands as if collapsed on herself, a lone and crumpled form surrounded by empty seats that had been abandoned in haste.

‘Cedric…is he…? Oh no…oh dear… oh poor woman...’

Bill jogged down the stands, his legs trembling as they supported him to the grounds. Incomprehension floated on the faces he encountered. He gently pushed back crying girls and shocked boys, murmuring what felt like insignificant words of consolation to the sobbing Beauxbâtons’ champion as he moved through the crowd towards the high silhouette of Professor Dumbledore.

‘What can I do?’ he murmured to Professor Sprout who took support on him, her plump face drained from her usual cheeriness. Time fizzled as people cried, screamed, asked for answers.

‘Cedric Diggory is dead! Dead!’

The murmur ran through the crowd and Bill blinked, finally emerging from his daze. Through the tumultuous crowd of arms and bodies, Harry’s death-pale and thin face was glistening from tears and sweat. The boy’s bloodless grief and fear, raw and unthinkable, was exposed to Bill for a brief second, and he exhaled quickly.

Harry Potter was no ordinary boy who had survived to an extraordinary event, he decided. There was no mistake. Harry Potter was reminded often of his personal, never ending hell that kept him on the edge of himself, and he was indeed extraordinary because he kept on living.

Bill would have not seen that much if he had not been able to tear himself from the sight of the lifeless body of Cedric Diggory. And no one, save Moody and Professor Dumbledore, who was keen to notice the richness of the human heart, had seemed to watch closely for signs in Harry Potter’s face.

The injustice of it appeared to Bill as clear as the Death Mark in the sky the summer before. The crowd as a sum had no sympathy for the one who had survived again. They all spoke in a panic, mourning with reason the mysterious death of a talented boy.

If the war came upon them, he feared, they would notice only the dead and not the one who scrambled to stay alive.

Bill handed his handkerchief to Professor Sprout. He watched Moody and Harry’s silhouettes shrink as they approached the castle. What a sheltered life I’ve lived, he thought, staring at Harry’s back. He had been enjoying the comfort provided by a united family in spite of deaths and prejudice, of a home, not rich with money but with life.

A wail he attributed to Cedric’s mother pierced through the cacophony of voices. The audience wavered on itself.

Old Zuberi was right. Bill had felt it once at the Quidditch World Cup as he breathlessly ran, casting spells at who he’d thought at first were troublemakers.

It was over Hogwarts now: the invasion of fear, its venom diluting in the blood of the bystanders.

Egypt - July 1995

‘I knew the power of the Leb over you as soon as you came into my office,’ Zuberi grumbled. He rearranged the runes on the carpet, shuffling them as if trying to find the best sequence for them to exist.

Bill pursed his lips before drinking a large gulp of water off the gourd. If Gorbagash had been rather inexpressive when he asked for a transfer, the small team of curse-breakers had turned silent on him as if he had been committed treason. It had hurt him more than leaving the actual job.

‘Why’s that?’ he said reluctantly, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. The tent was casting on him a fresh shade, but sweat was sticking his ponytail to the scruff of his neck.

‘You live elsewhere,’ said the old man quietly. ‘Always have.’

‘I see.’ Bill dropped another rune to the ground. Irritation was flushing his cheeks, and he forced himself to keep an even tone as he spoke. ‘What’s the significance of the Shenu when picked in fourth rune?’

Zuberi cleared his throat. ‘The Shenu stands against the other runes as the solution.’

Bill bit his lower lip. He wondered if the curse-breaker had tampered with the runes, if he’d guessed more than he had let out. The Shenu was a potent symbol, the absolute and devoted protection to the family name.

Bill shuffled uncomfortably as the old man took a hard look at him. Something in Zuberi’s face expressed disappointment, and Bill felt that he couldn’t leave his mentor without knowing. He sighed. ‘I’m not leaving at the request of my family, ya chikh. It’s complicated. It has to do with me needing to be a part – an active part - of something that involves them…and me.’

‘Ah.’ Zuberi exhaled slowly as he touched the rune with the tip of his finger. ‘Of course it is complicated. Leaving because you chose family, even if you say that it does not represent the only reason, is always complicated.’

The Shenu
Scotland and London - 25 June 1995

Leave it to me, Bill had said to Professor Dumbledore before leaving the Hospital Wing in a hurry. Hogwarts was echoing from sorrow as he thundered down the stairs, hoping to find Professor McGonagall who would hopefully let him use her fireplace.

Bill was now standing in his father’s cramped office, slightly nauseous. The travel from Hogwarts to the Ministry was lost in a blur, consumed as he had been at hypothesizing about the implications of Dumbledore’s words. He passed serene-looking employees of the Ministry that were strolling the corridors in a gale of laughter. Apparently, news had not reached the Ministry yet. He wondered what would be said, how information would be twisted to protect Fudge’s despicable stubbornness.

Blood drained from his father’s face as Bill transmitted Dumbledore’s message almost mechanically. The door shut by itself, and Bill heard the click of the lock.

‘Harry’s fine, you say? Oh Merlin…’ His father plopped himself on his chair, devastation clearly readable from his features. ‘The Diggorys…Cedric….such a fine young man…I wish we’d never had to come down to this,’ he muttered behind his hands.

‘Come down to what, exactly?’ Bill propped himself on the corner of the desk, eager to have a bigger picture of what would be happening. Dumbledore had not been clear to what use this network of well-advised wizards had been intended to be.

‘To this.’ His father shuffled parchments on his desk, his mouth contracted in a bitter grimace. ‘To face this…once again losing promising young people and loved ones. I’m sorry to use you as a messenger, son, but please assure Dumbledore that I’ll be on my way to contacting those he wants me to reach.’

‘Of course, you can count on me,’ pressed Bill with haste. Two wars in a lifetime filled its survivors with enough horror to breed nightmares and pessimism. His father had been a spectator of the first one from a distance, until it hit him and the Prewetts in full face.

‘It will be different, this time, I tell you,’ his father continued with surprising harshness. ‘First time around, people had no idea how it would spiral out of control. They had no idea of what they were heading into by being passive. Now they know. They’ll make better choices. They’ll have to make better choices. They remember what happened…everyone’s lost someone they knew to You-Know-Who….and there’s Harry. They’ll regroup behind what he represents.’

‘I’m not sure I agree with you, Dad.’ Bill rubbed his face with both hands. He could read the indignation in his father’s face, his angry hope. ‘It will be harder to get people to openly oppose the Death Eaters, especially if Fudge publicly disavows Dumbledore. It would be horrible, but it looks like it could be a real possibility. There’s much more at stake than the public opinion, here…it’s politics, and Fudge’s damn good at it.’

‘Fudge,’ his father spat between his teeth. ‘Who’s the one without proper wizarding pride now, I ask you?’

Bill scoffed. ‘Fear leads wizards to use power in very despicable ways, Dad… you know it. As you said, the ones who lived through the first war know exactly what You-Know-Who can do. They know what they’re getting into. If what I just saw at Hogwarts is any indication for the future, those sensible wizards will not learn the truth from the Ministry, I’m afraid.’

‘Fudge!’ His father jumped to his feet, furious. He paced the diminutive office, the few hair he had left sticking up as if it had been swept from wind. ‘This is a scandal. Are we all cowards? Are we such cowards that we can’t stand for what is right?’

‘Some of us are braver than others, perhaps.’ Bill leaned to his father urgently. ‘Dad, you have to be careful about what you say. The Ministry’s well informed with your views. They’ll use them against you. It could be worst than last autumn.’

‘Then it will not come up as a surprise, will it?’

Bill agreed with a feeble smile. ‘I know.’

‘There’s something you should know, Bill.’ His father inhaled with effort, his face blank. ‘You’ll soon hear about the – about an organization Dumbledore created the first time around. Fine wizards were involved – Harry’s parents, Remus Lupin, Alastor Moody…’

‘And Dumbledore wants to recreate it,’ said Bill, understanding washing over him.

‘Yes. Your uncles were in it too, Bill. Gideon and Fabian were in the original organisation that built the resistance to You-Know-Who under Dumbledore’s direction, and that how they got killed – slaughtered - for it. They did not ask me to join at the time.’ His father’s shoulders sagged, and something somersaulted in Bill’s stomach. ‘I always wondered why they didn’t ask me to join.’

The pain in his father’s voice was overwhelming, and Bill held out a hand to him. ‘Dad-’

‘This time, your mother and I won’t be witnessing at all this from the sides. You need to know, if anything happens to us.’ His father gazed at him sharply before rounding his desk. He reached for a blank parchment and jotted down a few words in his tidy handwriting.

‘You did a lot,’ Bill said. ‘ You don’t need me to say it, but you still do a lot. At that time, I reckon you lot did what you could do – you told us about how you had to intervene for the Muggles’ protection day and night.’

His father folded the parchment and pocketed it with steadiness. ‘There are moments when doing a lot is not doing enough.’

Bill was thinking furiously, and all scenarios were leading to the same solution, frightening but unavoidable. ‘I could help you lot within Gringotts,’ he said quietly. ‘The Goblins hold the money strings, don’t they? If You-Know-You’s back and trying to recruit new Death Eaters, I reckon we’ll start to see old fortunes urgently seeking liquidities.’

‘And how would you do that from Egypt?’ wondered Arthur.

‘I couldn’t do that from Egypt,’ said Bill flatly. ‘I’d do that in London.’

‘No.’ His father shook his head vigorously. ‘No. Absolutely not. We’ll be fine.’

Bill straightened up. The eventuality had been planted into him hours earlier, and the night sitting to Harry’s bedside had made it blossom.

His decision was already breathing and evolving within him.

To have a fair chance of triumphing, he thought with resolution, there is an obligatory passage to loss.

Egypt - July 1995

Night had tiptoed on the desert without them noticing.

Bill was still clinging to the last two runes, and he had no wish to look at them.

‘What do you have left in your hand?’

Bill stood up, and the tent disappeared at once with a flick of his wand. He stared at his clenched fingers. He was hungry for magic, for spells, for energy, for action. He was eager for now. ‘To be honest, ya chikh, I’m not sure I want to know.’

‘This is the future – those who wait for you as well as who you will become.’ Zuberi accepted the hand Bill lent him, and he huffed as he got to his feet. ‘Very well. I’d like very much if you kept the runes. This is my gift to you. Keep them and remember mad old Zuberi.’

Bill laughed politely before shaking the hand of his mentor. ‘I will. Thank you. You gave me so much already.’

He pocketed the polished stones, and they walked decisively towards the dune, old and young, embarrassed by the affectionate silence that had spread between them. Their wands danced in the chilly air. Ephemeral and shimmering bands of magic surrounded Bill as he worked his way through the layers protecting the tomb, and sand finally recessed to his feet as the opening of the chamber appeared before his eyes.

The tomb was a clever hoax, since it had been emptied from its gold centuries ago, but no matter. Treasures were to be found, even in an empty room.

Bill spent hours admiring the intricate art adorning the wall, and he shared a late lunch with Zuberi, buried in the dune. They played cards until the wee hours.

It was a night of beauty, heartbreaking and exhilarating.

Minutes before Apparating the next day, Bill noted with disappointment that the sky was colourless and empty. Egypt had decided to evict him from its splendours. His trunk was already on its way home.

The runes gifted by Zuberi were heavy in his pocket. Bill had not been able to resist looking at them in the faint light of the empty room.

‘The Nebu and the Djed,’ he had whispered.

The gold and the pride. The complexity of a symbol as maligned for its appearance as it was admired, and the inner strength to keep moving forward, whatever would be laid in front of him.

‘Beautiful,’ Zuberi said with emotion before planting a paternal kiss on his cheek. ‘Your life will be beautiful.’

Three steps, a pop, and Bill was already far away, on his way to the International Portkey Office in Memphis.

The sands swallowed his steps as if he had never laid foot in Egypt.

The Nebu and the Djed
London, July 1995

‘You left your curse-breaking job? How’s that?’

His friends had meant well. They were curious about him coming to London and accepting a desk job, and they were surprised to see him speak evasively of family matters he needed to take care of as well as for a suspect need for change.

They frowned when he hinted that the recent events at the Triwizard Tournament had prompted his decision.

‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

Since they were smart blokes, they trusted his judgement. They ordered liquor so they could toast his return.

The next morning, Bill and his slight headache faced parchments and quills, a sturdy desk, Zuberi’s runes, and a bookcase full of administrative procedures in a room as cramped as his childhood bedroom at home. His new work settings were reminiscent of a dusty and feebly lit chamber. They were depressing but necessary.

No mummies though, he thought as he stared with disgust at the stuffed Crup head on the wall.

That would definitely have to go.

He humoured himself and theatrically opened the door of the smallish closet in the corner, wand in hand, almost hoping for something to jump at his face.

Darkness and a stale smell of mold assaulted him, and he stared at the spider weaving up a cobweb in a panic. ‘This is what I open now,’ he declared aloud, before heading towards the desk. ‘Empty closets.’

‘Zat is not a closet…eet is a lift, and eet is not empty.’

Bill stared at the impossibly beautiful young woman that had just materialized with a clunk in the closet, her arms filled with parchments. He wavered to the side to let her in, and she undulated to his desk, her silvery hair faintly glowing in the office.

She dumped her burden without ceremony. ‘I was told zat you would need more to do. Do you talk to yourself like zat often, Meester Weasley?’

‘Only on Monday mornings,’ Bill said, incapable of controlling the daft smile that seemed to have taken control of his mouth. ‘I believe we were never formally introduced during the Tournament, Miss Delacour.’

‘Non.’ She waved her hand dismissively, and she brushed past him, her eyes sparkling with mischievousness. ‘It does not matter, I theenk. You know who I am.’

Merlin. He chuckled, savagely happy. ‘I sure do.’

‘Oh yes, I almost forgot,’ breathed out the young woman as she handed him a tightly rolled parchment. ‘An owl for you. An urgence.’

He stared wistfully at the deserted lift until he took over himself and opened the missive.

Someone was enjoining him not to forget to start over the F67 forms.

Blood rushing to his head, Bill tapped it with the tip of his wand. From his father’s hand, the sentence that glittered on the parchment was more powerful and visceral than any millenary magic or soul-deep attraction to Egypt.

You are expected to help with the rise of the Phoenix tonight.

He held on to it as he would of a talisman.

+++

The end.

Ten Seductions - 2. The Thirsty Woman (Flavia Antonescu)

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 12:49:52 GMT

Oh well. I said I was writing this fast, and it seems I am. Here is a second seduction, rather different in tone than the first one. It is difficult to write about Charlie without creating characters around him. Thanks again to queenb23more for her beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine. Afinata and horinca are liquors served in Romania.

Title: The Thirsty Woman
Rating: R, for sensual themes
Characters: Charlie, OCs
Word count: 3,062
Summary: The third week, six young men dressed in white tees streaked with black, thick grey trousers, and heavy boots came in and sat themselves in the corner, and her uncle grabbed on her apron to pull her in the kitchen.

‘Do you hear me, Flavia?’ roared her uncle, his moustache trembling. ‘No flirting!’

2. The Thirsty Woman (Flavia Antonescu)

: : :

Flavia Antonescu would have preferred to tend to her father’s cows instead of helping out in his uncle’s crama, a little wine bar where he served food and musicians entertained the crowd. She would have been surrounded by peaceful green fields. She would have had nothing to do but to flop to the ground with a book while keeping an eye on the herd.

But her uncle Darius insisted, and her father insisted, and she was at loss for arguments, so there she was instead, manoeuvring platters of beer jugs, food, hard liquor, and wine cups between worn wood tables filled to capacity with mixed tables and loud customers. She barely had time to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand before boisterous men waved at her, and she was trotting her way to take their orders.

It was not that bad. She despised, however, that her uncle refused to allow that she use magic while tending to customers, just to get her walking to the tables and chatting with them. She resented his reasoning about how a fresh-faced, slender girl with a long plait of rich brown hair made men drink more.

The first week, she learned the names of the regulars and made it clear to old Cristu that being his uncle’s oldest customer did not give him the right to pat her bum when she passed by. The crowd kept silent when the old man raised his hands to feel his ears she’d just turned into purple and leafy cabbages. When he finally dismissed her uncle’s furious hissing with a wave, he kissed her hand reverently and declared that he loved his ladies with a strong character. Flavia decided she liked this crowd after all, especially after they rose in block to toast her and tips were accumulating faster that she could count them.

Uncle Darius was a business opportunist. The next day, she was the talk of the village, and Thursdays at the crama from then on were known as ‘Flavia’s Stuffed Cabbage Night’.

: : :

The third week, six young men dressed in white tees streaked with black, thick grey trousers, and heavy boots came in and sat themselves in the corner, and her uncle grabbed on her apron to pull her in the kitchen.

She raised her eyebrows as he pointed his finger alternatively between the men and her. ‘You don’t flirt with the ones who work with dragons. You understand me? Those damn dragon boys…they bed my good waitresses, and then the girls leave because they can’t look them in the eye when they don’t want anything more to do with them.’

She gazed at them through the slit of the door as she nodded to her uncle. They were young, around her age. They were energetic and carefree, with the healthy complexion of those who spend their days outdoors. They spoke in a hubbub of languages, and she smiled when they laughed aloud as they seemed to be mocking one of them who had angry hair, furiously red.

‘Do you hear me, Flavia?’ roared her uncle, his moustache trembling. ‘No flirting!’

‘Da!’ she answered briskly, grabbing for a platter. She patted his arm. ‘If I can change old Cristu’s ears into cabbages, I can change other things into cucumbers.’

Her uncle scoffed as she impatiently clicked her tongue with an eye roll. He pulled her to him, smacking a kiss on her cheek. ‘Sweet Flavia. You do just that if they come closer or I will.’

She busted out from the kitchen, walking straight to the table with a close-lipped smile, wondering how Uncle Darius would interpret the slight spring in her step and the swaying of her hips.

‘Buna ziua,’ she welcomed them in a chirp.

One of them, a heavily muscled black-haired young man with long lashes, studied her face with attention. ‘Flavia?’

She nodded, surprised. He handed her a thick hand, and hers got lost in it. He told her he was an old friend of his cousin Alexandru, and she exclaimed herself as she remembered him indeed, the youngest son from the Vasilescu family in the village of Alba Iulia, the gifted one who had made a horse dance without magic.

They all laughed but the red-haired young man, who grinned while staring at his companions. He seemed more subdued than the others, perhaps because he discreetly bit his lips as he tried to follow the conversation. Dimitri pointed to every one at the table. ‘Now that I know you work here, we’ll be coming often! Here’s Martin, Francesco, Lucas, Markov – a nut, if you ask me - and that’s Charlie…he’s arrived two weeks ago. He’s a Brit, doesn’t speak much Romanian, but he’s learning.’

She took their order, her thin quill scratching on a diminutive notebook. Dimitri spoke to the young red-haired keeper in English. The young man had a broad face, freckled, with kind brown eyes. He smacked his lips with nervousness as he stared at her. ‘Sunteti scumpa?’ the young man asked tentatively.

The others roared, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other as the fire of blush crept to her neck and cheeks. The young man’s smile fizzled as Markov spoke in rapid English between two gales of laughter, probably explaining that he just asked her if she was sweet instead of asking what were the sweets on the menu.

‘Dulce,’ Markov said with a wink in her direction.

‘Er – dulce meniu,’ Charlie added hastily, blotches of red on his neck and cheeks as he brandished the faded menu, and his colleagues raucously laughed again.

‘Pajitura cu marmelada,’ she suggested, incapable of resisting a giggle as she looked to the table to avoid facing his palpable embarrassment. ‘Pajitura cu visini.’

‘Ah, marmalade!’ He sat back on his chair, and she laughed frankly as he looked happy as a child to have caught a known word. She joined with the others as they applauded him when he twisted his tongue around the unfamiliar syllables with endearing effort. ‘Marmelada. Pajitura cu marmelada.’

She came into the kitchen chuckling, but she sobered up when Uncle Darius eyed her with a frown.

: : :

Dimitri held to his word. The dragon keepers - she was surprised to realize that muscular female colleagues joined them often, loud and rough women with burns on their arms and hands and dirt under their fingernails – sat every Friday evening in the corner, eating outstanding amounts of food and chatting for hours while they drank Uncle Darius’ excellent brown beer, sometimes leading the crama to shake as they bounced around when the musicians played an upbeat tune.

If at first Uncle Darius was wary of them waving for her as soon as they got a seat, he became much more hospitable when he realized that these young people were tipping her more than generously, as well as they seemed to attract more young wizards who drank and ate well until the wee hours.

The busy summer led into busier autumn and winter for Flavia, and she longed every week for Fridays, when the dragon people would be around and youth would take control of the crama. She did not feel like missing out on anything when she was allowed to laugh, to sing along, to joke with the customers, and to feel her age by trading quips with the ones who teased her.

Uncle Darius had not said anything even if she flirted occasionally with some of the dragon keepers. He had resigned himself in thinking that it was good for business to have such a lovely girl as his niece, but he made sure she had busy hours, making any romantic arrangements impossible.

She would be serving wine and occasional free shots of horinca to all of them. Sometimes, this funny fellow Charlie insisted upon taking the platter from her hands so he could serve her tables and another dragon boy led her to the dance floor for a few steps, before she cut it short, flushed and laughing as she recuperated her platter from the hands of the teasing young man.

‘My pleasure,’ Charlie would say in Romanian when she thanked him with a shy smile. He was becoming like his colleagues: stronger, assured, more solid as the weeks went by. Flavia enjoyed his friendly manners and his way of laughing. He was one of her favourite customers, and he wanted so much to communicate in Romanian while he ordered even if she’d caught up on a couple of English words.

She’d giggled, flustered, when she had a whiff of his smell whenever he moved past her, never failing to touch her slightly – her elbow, her lower back, the curve of her waist.

Charlie smelled like fire and beer.

‘His accent is getting better,’ she affirmed to her uncle who gauged the dragon boy with suspicious eyes.

: : :

No dragon keeper asked her out, even after five years of coming to the crama every Friday, and she resented it in silence, holding her disappointment in and not allowing it to show as she served them liquor.

Dimitri lazily slid a tip on the table as his other hand was busy under some girl’s shirt. Uncle Darius did not allow it when he was there, but on nights he left the crama to her care, she did not feel entitled to interrupt. She’d watched Charlie with fascination from the bar one or two times; how his slow, unnerving mouth operated its seduction until he grabbed his cloak and led the girl out in the night. She found it hard to move back to the tables and to do her job.

One night when she’d decided to show the exit to some over effusive couples, a platter flew from her hands and crashed against the panelled wall between the kitchen and the washrooms, and she swore loudly as she wiped her hands on her skirt, staring at the shards of glass with excessive sadness.

There was a cut on her thumb, deep and dark red. She was crying before she knew it.

‘Flavia!’ Charlie had come out from the washroom, and he eyed the mess with his mouth gaping. ‘Are you all right?’

He grabbed her wrist to check on her thumb. The tip of his wand touched her skin and the blood stopped flowing.

He was slightly inebriated; she had been serving him a few beers that night, and she barely blinked when he tilted her head backward and wiped her tears with his thumbs.

She let him kiss her with a hand cupping her chin. The wood panel was hard and rigid against her bum, her plait was painfully stuck between her back and the wall. His body pushed against her, but his mouth was the softest thing she had ever had against her lips.

She hesitated at first, but she finally answered back. His hand moved up from her waist. He was merely taller than her, and he pressed against her harder, prompting her to whimper and to grab onto him reflexively.

He whispered something in English, and she faced him with incomprehension.

‘Ai par frumos,’ he whispered, ‘you have beautiful hair.’

He twisted the end of her plait between his fingers, and she smiled.

: : :

It was hard to hide from Uncle Darius, but she went to great lengths to keep the men’s washroom impeccable. She would escape from the boisterous room where musicians played number after number, and Charlie would be crouching there, his back against the wall, his arms crossed and his face already flushed from arousal.

The wood panelling was cold against her back, but she did not mind; everything else was warm and flowing.

She writhed and whimpered against him when he breathed quickly in her ear; she yelped from joy when they found a pace that went to her head like afinata, and he climaxed in a cry while the restaurant shook to its foundation from dancers jumping to the music.

: : :

It did not work. It could not work. She was stuck in the crama day and night, and one Friday she whispered to him as she placed a dish in front of him that they could not do this anymore, not here, not going at it against the wall or the sink every night he was there.

She had repeated his possible answers so many times in her mind. He would whisper that she could come to his place. He would plead with her to continue seeing her. He would say she was mad. He would leave the restaurant without another look back.

But Charlie stared at her with his kind brown eyes, and he nodded thoughtfully.

She turned away, holding up her head up high.

: : :

He did not visit the crama as often, never alone, only with other dragon keepers.

She saw him months later, one night she was walking back home from a tiring night. He was draped around a woman she’d seen him with, a colleague. He was walking like a man on the road to love.

She was surprised to feel this free.

: : :

Charlie came back on Stuffed Cabbage night two months after the news had been roaming all over Europe that Harry Potter had triumphed again, and she almost dropped her platter as she threw herself in front of him. ‘Charlie!’

He hugged her, and she closed her eyes. Perhaps his bearded cheeks made him feel chunkier. He looked out of shape and soft. There was also something lingering in his eyes, something hard and brittle as glass.

Uncle Darius poured him ale. Rumours had been circulating, whispering that some dragon keepers had been rather close to the action. ‘Harry Potter? Did he-’

‘He did,’ Charlie said with a tired voice. ‘He defeated Voldemort. I was there.’

The few customers that were sitting near Flavia hung to his words as he recounted what he had seen in quick, hoarse Romanian. She wiped her eyes when he described the bodies resting on tables. She swallowed a sob when he admitted he lost a brother, friends, and a colleague to the battle, and Uncle Darius kissed him three times on the cheeks to hide his own tears.

She prepared sarmale for him as he quietly chatted about politics with the other customers.

When Uncle Darius decided to leave her close the crama, Flavia uncorked a bottle of afinata, and its distinctive berry smell filled the space between them. He sighed when he stopped her hand, and he brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them softly. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered.

She opened her mouth to protest. There was nothing to be sorry about. The affair was long done, and she had a pretty ring on her finger that made it a mere memory. She had found a smart man with kind eyes and a fierce will to take care of her.

Charlie grazed her ring with the flesh of his thumb, and he inhaled like the world has just started to turn again.

He got to his feet. ‘I’m very sorry, Flavia. Buna seara.’

She stared at the door until her husband arrived, and she pulled him into the washroom after locking the front door. She asked him to be strong, to be hard, and she made herself loud as she felt like as they banged against the wall, covered in sweat.

: : :

Charlie stopped altogether coming to the crama.

Flavia was angry at first. She had served Charlie food and drinks for years…years of surprising intimacy where she felt that it had become more than just a relationship based on service and tips, more even than the hidden rapports they'd had. She felt he owed her every day he ate or drank elsewhere.

She wiped the counters and polished the glasses every afternoon, her gaze mechanically attracted to the door, somewhat hoping for him to appear on the threshold. She wondered if he had left Romania, but Dimitri Vasilescu, newly married and eating out with his wife, informed her that Charlie was still working on the reserve - more than ever - since he had actively pursued a promotion and his bosses had been more than happy to oblige by giving it to him.

On a sunny Thursday morning, Flavia took a leisurely walk to the market. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard Charlie laughing.

She saw him through the dirty window of old Irina’s shop, his voice carefree and warm as it was when he started to visit the crama. Flavia entered the shop, and she watched old Irina encourage him to taste acacia honey on a wooden stick she was handing him.

She tapped his shoulder. ‘So…shopping for your woman, are you?’ she joked, her heart in her throat.

He jolted before turning to her. The beard was long gone. He was thinner than the last time he had dropped by the crama. His face showed no surprise when he shook his head, handing out money to old Irina. ‘Hello, Flavia. I figured that if I made my life in Romania, I’d better learned to cook,’ he said lightly, tucking the glass jar in his bag.

He had carefully avoided answering the question, and she pondered on what it meant. ‘You’re always welcome,’ she said, eyeing the fresh vegetables bursting from his bag. ‘You may cook but you haven’t stopped drinking afinata, have you?’

He scoffed good-humouredly and looked at her boots. ‘No, of course not.’

She stared at him with insistence, for so long that he had to look her in the eye. Her throat tightened as he smiled briefly and opened his face to her. Little lines scarred the corners of his lips and around his eyes. His mouth curled up in the charming smile she remembered.

That first night he’d kissed her in the corridor, she had understood how devious his mouth was, and she wondered if he knew how he gave himself away to women, if he knew who he was truly fooling.

‘I will come by, Flavia. I will,’ he said. He touched her hand before he left the shop, and his hair blazed alight in the sun.

But he never did.

: : :

Wine Tasting (R)

Fri, 04 Jul 2008 20:35:43 GMT

I'm working on a little string of short fics that deal with desire and seduction with a Weasley, and I have no idea how this is going to turn into but, eh, I like to try stuff like that. Here is the first Weasley to be seduced...or is he the seducing one?

Wine Tasting
Rating: R, for sensual themes.
Characters: Fleur, Bill
Word count: 2 595
Warning: This is s~~eriously fluffy~~ romance.

queenb23more sacrified again a bit of her sanity by keeping my punctuation in line. Thank you. <3

: : :

She never doubted her beauty. She was as certain of her attractiveness as others trusted their brains, their judgement, or their political ascendancy. She did not make excuses for being who she was; she was gifted with both radiance and intelligence, and she refused to shy away from her qualities.

She realized at the age of eighteen that if she was being desired and admired by young men – sometimes boys, she had resigned herself with the reality that she could not have it all – seduction was a much more complicated venue, since these young men lost their balance at the sight of her.

She had been a witness to the harmonious rapport between her mother and father and the constant flow of charming nothings that were mouthed with connivance, a wave that drifted from one to the other in loops, unfolding before her and her sister.

All this kissing they both saw, without their parents coming anywhere near the other’s lips.

Fleur Delacour wondered why men smothered her in flattery since it was evident that she was who she was. Those clumsy attempts, whether told with flowers or grand gestures, could not graze her surface. Some girls had guessed it, and they sharpened their knives.

Was Fleur Delacour gifted with a heart as delicate as her name? Why, no! She was gifted with surreal beauty! She walked on paths made from slavish men! She captured them; she lavished in their praise; she devoured their heart before smiling to the next one with blood on her teeth!

Girls were scornful little hissers not worthy of her attention if they believe such things.

She would not have gone to the extent of hypocrisy and to pretend that beauty was a burden. She would have never wished to give away who she was. She was beautiful, and she was also lucid: with beauty comes power, and with power comes respect.

: : :

She first desired the young man with this possessive and immature want one feels when in presence for the first time of an object of beauty. He was undeniably handsome; a tall physique with a certain je ne sais quoi, perhaps humour in his mixed expression of calm and nostalgia, unavailable to everything and everyone around him, unattainable to her, but not to the woman beside him, a plump older woman she’d supposed was his mother.

He was not Harry’s brother, she deduced. She wondered who could feel so strongly about him as to present themselves as his family.

After a bit of poking around, she was informed by an awe-struck young Gryffindor that he was Ron Weasley’s older brother. She was directed to a wall where former Head Boys gamely stared at her, flattening their hair under her scrutiny.

She found him under the form of a photograph, a younger William with short hair, beaming at her with confidence.

Confidence. He made Roger Davies appear like a besotted schoolboy.

That he was, to think of it.

Later, she sat herself in the Great Hall so she could observe him. He was eating with appetite, alternatively chatting and listening with attention to a mob of young people. The slight rebel streak she felt coming from him was truly his. He certainly did not look like he was playing a part. He was an unexpected sight in these drab settings led by correctness.

William Weasley supremely annoyed her at first, and she kept the reason to herself. Admitting it, even on the tone of banter, would have opened a window for others to snigger about her shallowness and her self-absorption.

When their eyes met over Harry Potter’s head, Ron’s brother had answered back to her smile with one of his own, before turning again to Harry, unfazed.

: : :

Trainees and employees were mingling during the summer meet-and-greet party that was taking place in a sinister windowless room, somewhere in the torturous corridors of Gringotts. The Goblins were nowhere to be seen. Fleur had the distinct impression that they arranged this gathering with much scorn, cursing against wizards and their need to cluster in tight, chatty groups.

She had been surprised when William Weasley planted himself before her.

“You must be Fleur Delacour,” he said as she was eyeing her glass of wine with much doubt. “We haven’t met, but I was at Hogwarts for the last task of the Triwizard Tournament. I’m Bill, Bill Weasley.”

The nightmare of the last task rose in her, thick and ominous. She fought back the fear that tightened her stomach every time she thought about it.

“Yes, I see you once,” she said. “I did not know you work ‘ere.”

“I just transferred from Egypt.”

She shook the hand he held out to her, and her initial attraction mutated into effervescence. He quickly moistened his lips, and she wondered how it would feel to kiss someone that wasn’t a schoolboy.

“Very good,” Bill suddenly said, looking into his glass. “This wine is good.”

She cringed. He obviously knew nothing about wine. She gave him another chance when he noticed her pout.

“And perhaps you should tell me why I’m wrong,” he said pleasantly.

She indulged into a throaty chuckle, and she jabbered, half in English, a quarter in French, a quarter with her eyes and hands, about the pleasures of wine tasting. She explained with much flourish that wine was not to be solely drunk but appreciated for its colour, its smell, for the feel in one’s mouth. “Senses,” she said as she hesitated, looking for the right words. “Wine, eet is a - a sensual experience.”

“Oh,” he said as she lightly touched his hand so he’d raise his cup before his eyes. “What am I looking at?” he added in a quiet voice as her fingers lingered on his wrist.

“Rich colour in ze rouge,” she replied, making eye contact with him and feeling slightly breathless when he didn’t look away. “Dis, not nice red. Now, you smell eet.”

She touched his hand again, and he brought the cup close to his nose. “Like dis,” she murmured, stretching her neck as she pretended to take a whiff of an imaginary glass. He stared at her, nose in the glass, his eyes so expressive she felt the unusual warmth of blush on her cheeks.

“Dis eez not good wine…eet smells like bad cheese,” she said bluntly.

He chuckled. “I reckon it’s not suppose to smell like that.”

“Oh non. You want to smell-”

“Fleurs?” Patches of red appeared on his cheeks, and to her surprise, he shook his head with a smile, as if saying, Would you believe I’m saying this, now?

She was not surprised that he was flirting - not very well, she was sorry to admit it, but then who did?

He was also laughing at himself in a very endearing manner.

She giggled. “Sometimes, yes. But smelling fruit eez nice, eet will be…er, ‘appier on ze tongue.”

“Tastier,” he whispered.

She bit the inside of her cheeks. “My Eenglish eez not vairy good.”

“My French is trollish, so no worries. You’re doing very well,” he said.

She was not blind. She had the same effect on him that she had on boys and young men: they mollified in front of her and they acted as they truly were – drooling fools or possessive creeps. Wine did that, too. It softened them, leaving their true nature free to emerge. She wondered what she would learn from Bill Weasley. “And now you taste. Terrible, dis, yes?”

He swirled the wine in the glass, looking at it with so much seriousness she could not resist a grin. He sipped on it and grimaced.

Several heads turn their way when she laughed whole-heartedly.

“You’re right. It’s awful.” He flashed her a smile that melt the tension in her stomach. “I know nothing about wine, to be honest. Would you be kind enough to recommend a place where I could taste good wine?”

“Mais oui.” His attitude encouraged her to move forward. “And I could come and taste too.”

She noticed the freckles on his nose, under his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “Since I know nothing about it, I’d need an expert with me, right?”

She desired him because he was honest.

: : :

“There are no words, really,” he’d said every time when he greeted her with an appreciative look, as she met with him for a day out.

If she was surprised by his countenance at first, she felt truly happy to leave him speechless, day after day, as they explored Muggle London together or met for lunch at work.

One afternoon, he brought her to the British Museum, and he helped her navigate through the Egyptian exhibition, whispering in her ear fascinating stories of love, desire, revenge, and treason about the Wizards that lived among the Muggles in those times. She relished his confidential tone, his breath on her ear, the slight throaty rasp his voice had when he murmured.

She was walking around in an acute state of arousal, questioning him incessantly so he’d speak again, even if she missed words and sentences. She did not catch all that he was saying; she knew he was talking about doomed lovers, gods, and terrible magical things one would do for power and lust. She let him lead her from one room to the other, wrapped up in those sensual but horrific tales he was regaling her with, wondering about his past there, if he’d had women in his bed, if he’d made love to them.

She was jealous of those imaginary women that sprouted from her mind. She imagined for him women with mystery. Beautiful, elegant, dangerous, and sophisticated. She was consumed by the desire to be one of them.

He’d kissed her in front of Madame Maintenon’s pension with his hand flat on the small of her back. One night, she grabbed his arm, silently asking him to be bolder, and they stepped out of the light.

When he left a while later, she stood alone in the dark. She straightened her shirt, her skin still feverish from his mouth and hands on it, her mind flooded with French words but no translation to offer.

: : :

When he hinted that he was ready for another wine-tasting lesson, she invited him to the pension. Madame Maintenon, her unofficial chaperone, had left for a few days abroad, and Fleur had the house for herself.

He had hesitated before saying yes, with a deliberate pause that had her squirming from things to come. She thought it could be the night.

If he asked, she’d say yes.

If he didn’t ask, she would.

She had charmed lanterns over their head as he sat on the settee. The bottle of wine clunked against the table as she opened it with her hands shaking, conscious that he was staring at her back. She wondered what he was thinking.

She handed him a finely crafted glass. “Look at ze colour. Dis eez beautiful.”

When he accepted it, she plopped down to the cushions scattered on the floor. He did not raise his glass to his eyes. He merely contemplated her, before slipping from the settee to the floor, glass still in hand.

“Beautiful,” he repeated, and her heart fluttered. She was not familiar with that voice of his. She hoped she would hear it again.

She sat on her heels, and she touched his glass with the tip of her fingers. “Ze smell. I promise you, Beel…dis does not smell like ze uzzer one.”

She sighed when he laid down the glass, sliding it away at a safe distance. He leaned towards her and breathed in close to her hair, his cheek slightly brushing against hers. She blew on his earlobe, pressed her mouth on it, and she felt his long, slow exhale against her neck.

“Doesn’t smell like bad cheese, most definitely,” he murmured.

“You theenk you are funny.” She swatted his shoulder, and he reluctantly moved back with a chuckle.

She was half-disheartened that lust was building between them on silly premises.

“And now? What do I do?”

“And now,” she whispered as she impishly touch his mouth with the tips of her fingers, “you taste.”

“Are we still talking about wine?”

His fingers slipped from her knee to her thigh. She loved the dizziness that came with the knowledge that she could light up against his hands.

“Non. You taste.”

“Just me?” His palms trailed on her thighs, her hips, her waist. He was stroking her with his eyes and voice. “Ah…I reckon you meant we. We taste.”

And they did, thoroughly.

: : :

Years later, she is sitting at a table where people are laughing too loudly to be sincere. Pregnancy has slowed her down, so Bill has jumped in to help.

He pours wine to everyone that has joined them for dinner. He grins as he listens to his brothers and their girlfriends; he pats their back, asks questions, laughs at their jokes; he kisses his sister on the cheek; he chats with his father; he massages his mother’s shoulder.

At last, he sits by her side, and he rubs her back with concern. “How was your day?” he whispers as she fidgets with her fork.

It was a hard day, she wants to say. I had a hard time watching your mother cry as she baked a cake for George’s birthday. I felt powerless, so I held her in my arms. I tried my best to find the right words. I wiped away her tears, and I kissed her like a daughter.

She will tell him everything later, in the dark, when he will press himself against her and will stroke both her and her bump.

“I’m tired,” she admits.

Bill shakes his head. “I knew it would be too much for you…why didn’t you let my mother handle this?”

Because, she wants to say, because I knew she needed to be elsewhere than at home, surrounded by memories of Fred and her lingering sadness.

“I wanted to,” she says. “Eet was important for me.”

His voice barely shades through the voices booming around her, but she hears it. “I love you.”

Bill pours himself some wine, and she lets him take a sip before she leans in. “Kiss me.”

She tastes the wine’s raspy tannin with the softness of his mouth. She then bravely chuckles to make sound Molly’s laughter sound less fake when Ron jokes.

“Would you like a cup of water?”

He doesn’t wait for her to answer. The cup is already before her.

She takes a sip, before touching his face so he kisses her again. The way he breathes against her lips triggers a vivid recollection of the first time they made love. He had sighed in her mouth, on her skin, everywhere, igniting small fires in her body every time he moved with her.

That night, she’d wanted to cry out in perfect English, You’ll never know if you’re the first or the fifth because I love you, only you.

His hand meets with hers under the table, and she stares at him as he alleviates his mother’s sadness by complimenting her on the dishes. Shame overcomes her when she wishes for his family to be elsewhere so she could be delivered from their grief.

She would be alone with Bill, and they could deal with the thick onset of desire that makes her core pulse tonight.

: : :

Familiar Rooms (PG-13)

Thu, 03 Jul 2008 03:53:53 GMT

Here is a story that has been in the works for a long time.

For dragon_animagus , I hope you will enjoy it, dearest. The last part of this story is what I should have written instead of what I did for 'Ready'.
The beta reading was done by dear queenb23more.

Familiar Rooms
Characters: Charlie (MC), Bill (MC), Ginny (SC)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It was a deceptively normal room in a quirky house, complete with an imaginary and hotly debated frontier that dug a trench at the heart of it.

They lived in that room, and the room lived within them.

Familiar Rooms

In a house of such improbable shape, the brothers’ bedroom was an oddity, a set of lines unusual in their straightness.

The wainscot had been repainted in crisp white by one of its occupants. The dark wood flooring shone when days were sunny and bright. Scratches were discernable to the naked eye on the surface of the furnishing; polished slants attested their multigenerational (mis) usage.

The two single beds might have looked Spartan if colourful quilts had not puffed them up. A wobbly table separated them and was host to a charmed lamp, several battered books, and a set of natural curiosities, one of which appearing to be a desiccated toad.

Sunlight pushed the shadows back, deep into the corners of the narrow bedroom. From the window, one had an incomparable view on the neighbouring hills behind which a pond offered relief on summer days. Oncoming thunderstorms were monitored from there.

Storms seemed more menacing and spectacular without a tree line to narrow the sky into a thin rectangle of grey. The brothers often pulled up their kid sister so she could sit on the table and join them in their observation. The little girl shivered with a mix of fright and excitement as they listened to the ominous rumbling in the distance.

The wall behind their respective bedposts was covered in posters, newspapers clippings, pictures: here, the five members of famed wizard rock, Minotaur’s Wrath, slouching for the camera; there, pictures of redheaded teens flashing smiles. A miniature flag to the colours of Brazil flapped as if a breeze blew incessantly in its direction. Three clippings from The Daily Prophet mentioned teenage Quidditch exploits and teased readers by suggesting that young and promising Charles Weasley could be the spectacular rookie player England had been hoping for since teen prodigy Montague Fellowworth in 1967. Another clipping trumpeted the attribution of the annual elite scholarship sponsored by The International Curse Breaking Federation and Gringotts Wizarding Bank to outstanding student and current Hogwarts Head Boy, William Weasley.

A poster of Mona Young, the popular captain and all-star Beater for the Tutshill Tornadoes, had been pinned on the back of the bedroom door. Neither brother was a fan of the Tornadoes, but the appeal of curvaceous Young straddling her Nimbus as she weighed her club with suggestive dexterity had them agreeing in silence about her rightful place in their room.

“She’s the best Beater in the league,” red-faced Bill had explained to their inquiring mother as they both pretended not to hear Charlie making kissing noises in the back of the room.

It was a deceptively normal room in a quirky house, complete with an imaginary and hotly debated frontier that dug a trench at the heart of it. Both sides were symmetrical in their mess: on Bill’s side, books, violently coloured albums, handwritten notes, quills and ink were approximately piled. On Charlie’s side, clothing and scribbled diagrams of Quidditch strategies littered the floor while a meticulously assembled and full size Moontrimmer broom collectible was displayed on the wall.

While studious Bill tolerated an overflow of Charlie’s Quidditch magazines on his side, critters in any shape and size, might they be safely tucked away in glass jars, had him pointing fingers. Charlie was more adamant to push back Bill’s mess. He touted that every inch of his side was of his jurisdiction, and he was determined into making it so.

One early morning of August, Charlie stood in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. Bill’s side of the room was immaculate against his pigsty. It was already deserted: his brother’s bed was stripped from its sheets while his gleaming new trunk was opened at the foot of the bed. Clothing and personal effects were waiting to be packed in.

Charlie pulled a green shirt from a pile. Bill would have to leave for Egypt without his favourite tee. He rummaged through the clothing, pestering between his teeth when he extirpated from it a pair of beige trousers.

“What d’you think you’re doing?” Bill exclaimed as he stepped into the room, dumping an armful of fresh laundry on the bed. “I had it all organized!”

“I reckon it’s a good thing I checked.” Charlie unfolded the green tee and waved it at Bill as an accusation. The gold letters shimmered its mocking message, So long, Seeker! “Well, well, fancy that… this tee’s mine.”

“I must have put it in the pile by mistake. Sorry.” Bill scoffed as he pointed at the beige trousers, now crumpled on the floor. “Those don’t fit you…don’t tell me they’re your favourites too.”

Charlie frowned as he picked them up. “They do fit when I roll up the hems.”

The fabric slipped from Charlie’s hands to Bill’s trunk. “Yeah, rolling up the hems…smashing. That’ll make you dapper. Let it go. Mum decided I should take them, so… mine.”

Charlie kneeled next to the bed as he went through the piles of clothing Bill had neatly folded. “Did Mum tell you could bring these too?” he said indignantly. He brandished a pair of well-worn blue socks. “These are my lucky socks!”

Those were lucky socks in more than one way. He had them on when he caught the Snitch to help Gryffindor win the last two Quidditch Cups at Hogwarts. He was also wearing them when defeated Ravenclaw Chaser Jennifer Hopkirk came to the Gryffindor common room to pull him out from the celebration under the pretext she wanted to congratulate him, only to find himself backed against a wall as she consciously proceeded into snogging him. After they dissolved their yearlong competitive bickering in saliva, Charlie appreciated the wonder of that day.

The Quidditch Cup and Jennifer Hopkirk. He had pined after both all season.

He would have preferred to be Stupefied than to admit to his brother that he had a girlfriend. To think of it, he would have preferred to be Stupefied than to admit to Bill that he somehow believed his socks had something to do with it.

Bill glanced at the precious garments over his shoulder. “Nah, these are mine.”

“No way. I’d leave them to you, but I need them. Ravenclaws claim they’ll kick our arses next year. Can’t let that happen.” Charlie slipped on the socks, and he wiggled his toes in an act of defiance. “Look, they fit perfectly.”

“Bugger it.” Bill sighed with irritation. “They’re mine. You have an identical pair in your drawer.”

“Well, take the ones in the drawer.” Charlie waved with majesty as he leaned back on his bed, clasping his hands behind his head. “I’m not parting with my lucky socks.”

Bill retrieved the twin pair of socks in the drawer, shaking his head. “Prat… just how can you tell the difference between them? They’re the same frigging colour!”

“See this here?” Charlie slipped the tip of his finger in a tiny hole near the big toe. “Mine.”

Bill waved the socks with disgust. “There’s a hole in one of those too. And what if you’re wearing only one lucky sock? What will happen? You’ll get half the luck?”

Charlie whistled between his teeth, singularly enjoying the sight of Bill getting himself worked up over a pair of socks. “Okay, geek. How do you know the ones I’m wearing are yours?”

“Because they didn’t bloody stink before you slipped them on, for one.” Bill scowled as he threw the socks on top of the pile. “You’re such a kid. It’s just a pair of socks.”

You’re such a kid was Bill’s most stinging insult, and Charlie confidently believed that he had the upper hand. “And you’re so mature, arguing over socks…wool socks you want to bring to the desert.”

Bill moved briskly towards the trunk, his back to him. “So you know, nights are cold. Keep your lucky socks. I’ve got no time for your rubbish. I’m leaving you Mona so you should thank me. ”

Everyone had been fawning over Bill’s scholarship in the last weeks, and Charlie was tired, if not dead bored, that his brother, who usually did not indulge into giddy excitement, had blabbed non-stop about Egypt and about how he would be taking residence in a single room flat, and how he would be exploring ancient hideouts with top curse breakers for his training - ad nauseam.

“Independence and privacy, finally!” Bill had exulted one night as they were lying on their beds in the darkness.

All that privacy talk had an enticing charm to it. Charlie pursed his lips as he watched his brother smooth a jumper with the flat of his hand. His brother seemed nervous about his freshly gained independence. “Cool. But Mona’s always been your type of girl.”

“I won’t be putting up a poster of a female Quidditch player in my room,” Bill said tersely, placing books at the bottom of the trunk.

“Why’s that?”

Bill sneered, recovering his aura of smugness in a second. “You have to ask? What d’you think a girl would say if she visited a bloke’s flat and came face to face with a giant poster of a woman clad in tight Quidditch gear?”

As Charlie raked his brains to figure how a picture of a star Beater could offend a girl, Bill clicked his tongue with superiority. “Listen and learn, mate. Not a smooth move.”

“But it’s a poster! It’s not a giant picture of your, say, ex-girlfriend.”

Bill stared at him with mocking despair. “Won’t make that big a difference to a girl when she’s staring down Mona’s cleavage, y’know.”

Charlie was tempted to point and laugh. The word ‘cleavage’ was ridiculous in Bill’s mouth, especially because this brother had won three years in a row the highly confidential breast synonym contest that went on each year in the boys’ dormitory.

But titillating information had been laid on a silver platter, and Charlie took it as an opportunity to research.

“So you’re planning to bring a girl to your place?” he said as he sat straight on the bed, all ears.

“It might happen…why not?” Bill folded the last pair of trousers and laid it in the trunk, now filled to the rim. Charlie pouted in appreciation as he watched how his brother skilfully avoided the subject. Bill was a master at deflecting. “Trunk’s full and there’s still a couple of things I wanted to bring – blimey. I’ll have to ask Mum to send them by owl.”

Bill straightened up as he passed his shirt over his head. Charlie stared at him as his brother slipped into a linen tunic, what Charlie had understood was a traditional gift from the man who would be Bill’s instructor for the next year. Bill then rummaged in his travel cloak’s pocket and retrieved an engraved silver band.

Charlie watched him slip it on his middle finger with curiosity. He had been lavishly informed that curse breaking was a ritualized occupation, full of superstition and details that would have him bored in less than a week, but Bill was obviously taking it all into stride, yapping incessantly about how fascinating it was to enter a culture where magic and non-magic worlds were so deeply intertwined for millenaries.

“All set,” Bill said after a quick look to his wristwatch.

Charlie pointed at the band with his chin. “You don’t believe in that stuff.”

“I don’t, but they do.” Bill clipped on his travel cloak as he shrugged. “I reckon I’ll come to understand why, right?”

Something heavy plopped on Charlie’s stomach when it became obvious that Bill had come into the room as his bickering older brother and was leaving it as an apprentice curse-breaker. He did not even look like his tee-stealing, champion breast synonym-naming brother anymore. Bill was now one of those adventurers he’d shown him pictures of in his books: bright and smart, confident in himself and in his magic, a young man who would be making a life on his own, working in the uttermost ancient sites of magic to find treasures.

Free. Independent. And Bill has also confided in him something he had managed to keep from their mother, about how he would be getting a Mark, a protective and complicated magical tattoo that was mandatory to get into death chambers.

Bill was getting a tattoo.

And a smallish flat where he might bring a girl.

Bill truly has it all, Charlie thought, envious, wishing that he was the one leaving for an adventurous world and getting a fancy Mark, instead of going back to Hogwarts for the next two years.

“Bill!” Their mother called for him from the kitchen, her voice rising in characteristic agitation when departures were imminent. “Are you ready, dear? It’s almost time! We don’t want your father to be waiting for you at the Ministry. Percy, Ron, come say goodbye to your brother! Ginny, darling, you know you can’t go with him... put that travel bag away, dearest.”

The trunk shut in a rattle, and Bill weighted his wand. “Coming down, mate?”

“Nah.” Charlie stepped back, fiddling with the tee. “Got stuff to do.”

“Stuff to do?” Bill asked, startled.

“Mmm,” Charlie said equivocally.

Was Bill serious? Was he expecting a princely send-off where he, Charlie, would witness him go with tears in his eyes and tremors in his voice as he waved his handkerchief?

Bollocks. Charlie clutched the tee tighter. King Bill, he cursed inwardly, always seeing himself as royalty.

“Oh, okay. Bye then.” Bill pushed back his travel cloak and took a step his way, offering his hand to shake. “Just kick Ravenclaw’s arse, will you? I know Jenny Hopkirk’s your girl, but I hope you’ll be ruthless when you’re playing for the Cup. I’ve got an ongoing bet with her brother and you’re making me rich.”

Charlie let his brother shake his hand with vigour, his face igniting from embarrassment. He shrugged as he pretended to ignore his beet-red cheeks. “Good luck, mate. I’m sure you’ll wow the mummies. But no need to talk about the Cup that right now…keep the wishes for Christmas break.”

Bill moved back as he waved his wand, and his trunk effortlessly lifted from the floor. “I told you, Charlie. I’m not coming back for Christmas. I have classes during holidays.”

Charlie frowned, his mind going into overdrive as he tried to recall that particular conversation. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I did tell you. When I got the schedule two weeks ago. I’ll be back for a month next summer. But I’ll write.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Charlie repeated, adamant. His mind was blank on that issue. He would have never missed a detail like that.

Bill clicked his tongue as he moved towards the door, his trunk floating in front of him. “I did tell you, but perhaps you didn’t hear me. You’ve been too busy locking yourself in the loo to read your girlfriend’s letters to listen to what I was telling you, I reckon.”

Charlie saw red as childish anger burned his throat. He’d have shoved Bill if their mother’s voice had not insinuated itself between them and defused his impulse. “BILL!”

They stared at each other. “I didn’t know,” Charlie mumbled, defeated. “See you next summer then.”

Bill nodded with a half-hearted smile, and he left the room.

Charlie sat on Bill’s bed. Seeing his brother prepare himself to leave all summer had been annoying; he did not believe the fuss around it, as they all knew that Bill would be back home, like they all would, around Christmas time. His mother’s anxiety made sense all of a sudden.

“Charlie!” she called from downstairs. “Your brother is about to leave!”

“It’s okay, Mum. We spoke upstairs,” Bill hushed.

Charlie kicked the bedpost, slightly humiliated. His brother was covering for him.

Of course. The noble prat.

He walked to the stairs, listening intently as Bill said his goodbyes in the kitchen. “That’s smashing, Ginny-Gin, I’ll put it on my wall. Don’t kill yourself studying, Perce…sure, I’ll write. Gred, Forge… well, mates, that’s very generous of you both, but how can you be sure it won’t explode on my way there? Bye, Ronnie…. ah, Mum, please… please don’t cry.”

“Charlie, I want you down here right now! Bill dear, you must promise that you’ll be careful and that you’ll -”

“Mum!” Bill vehemently protested. “I’ll be fine!”

“CHARLIE!”

Charlie obeyed. He thundered his way down, stopping halfway on the staircase. Bill was glancing over their mother’s head, already somewhere else.

Charlie faced his brother’s slow, enigmatic tight-lipped smile before he kissed their mother goodbye. He did not wait for the whoosh indicating Bill’s departure. He had already turned away and climbed up the stairs two by two. In the silence of the bedroom that was now all his, he mechanically stretched sheets over Bill’s mattress, spreading the quilt over it, attempting to alleviate the gaping difference between his side of the frontier and this newly deserted land.

He stared at his handiwork with a frown. After a short hesitation, he threw his green tee on Bill’s side, kicked his shoes under his brother’s bed, spread his Quidditch magazines on Bill’s side of the table. It did not satisfy him as much as he thought it would.

Charlie plopped down on his bed.

Boundaries were irrelevant when territory was abandoned.

: : :

The room was a void.

Charlie did his very best to avoid the bedroom that was now his alone during the last days before his departure for Hogwarts. It was small for two teenage boys. Since Bill had left, its narrowness drove him restless.

He roamed The Burrow’s surroundings upside down on his broomstick to his mother’s ire and avoided being sent to his room by agreeing to Ron’s plea of showing him flying techniques. He was genuinely surprised to have such a good time, and he taught dirty tricks to the twins, who appreciated the lesson even more when he encouraged them to play them against him.

The afternoon before leaving for Hogwarts, he lounged on his bed, morose, unwilling to pack his things.

“You miss him, do you?”

His mother came in with a pile of carefully folded trousers, and she placed them on the chest of drawers.

Charlie shrugged. “Mmmyeah.”

“I miss him too.” She sat on the edge of his bed, flattening on her lap a piece of parchment covered with Bill’s square and regular handwriting. “But he says he’s fine and that he’s eating well. I trust him.”

Charlie squirmed. Please, please, please, not one of these conversations.

“Are these the socks I’ve knitted for him last Christmas?” Her mother lightly tapped on his toes. “I’ve looked for them everywhere…I hoped to have time to mend them before he left. I’ll send them by owl, then. Have you found your lucky socks, dear? We wouldn’t want you taking any chance of parting with them, would we?”

“I gave Bill my lucky socks.” Charlie sheepishly grinned as his mother stared at him, wide-eyed.

“You did?” He looked down to his magazine when his mother stroked his knee with affection. “What did he say?”

“Nothing.” As they were alone, Charlie allowed himself to be comforted by his mother’s loving gesture, and his cheeks prickled. “I didn’t tell him. Bill wouldn’t believe in superstitions even if they bit him in the b -“

“Enough, young man.” Her smile contradicted her scolding as she turned away on her way out of the room. “He would have appreciated knowing what you did. You should tell him. Ginny, come with me, dear. Let’s leave Charlie alone, he has lots to do before tomorrow.”

“But I want to watch the storm from his room,” pleaded Ginny in a quiet voice. She stood on the doorstep, her shiny hair plaited in a crown.

Charlie shrugged. “Sure, Ginny-Gin. I don’t mind.”

Ginny dumped the content of the table on Bill’s bed before Charlie seized her up so she could perch on it. He slouched back on the mattress, and they watched in silence the clouds glide in the sky as they formed a steely-looking wall that darkened the room.

“You’re not going away, are you?” Ginny asked. Thunder rolled at the distance, and they both shivered as a cool breeze ruffled the curtains.

“Of course I am. I’m leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow,” Charlie said. “Like every year.”

“But you’re not leaving forever like Bill.”

“Bill’s not left forever,” he objected with a snort. What was it with girls and heavy, dark-clouded words? “He’ll be back next summer.”

“But he’s not coming back to live here,” she argued. “He lives in Egypt now.”

Charlie felt daft to be brought back to reality by his eight-year old sister. She was looking at him curiously. “Are you going to be a Quidditch player after you’ve finished at Hogwarts?”

“Dunno yet. I might try out for a team. I’d fancy that, playing Quidditch every day and getting paid for it.”

And he would be living elsewhere, and Ginny would be pestering Percy and asking when he’d leave forever.

“Oh.” Ginny nodded with enthusiasm. “You’d be smashing.”

He stared at her with surprise, and then he chuckled heartily, amused at how she used Bill’s words, even mimicking his intonation and smile.

“You don’t ask me what I’m going to be?” she added with a frown.

He sighed, nudging her with his foot. “Okay…so what are you going to be?”

“A Quidditch player…a Seeker, like you.”

Charlie laughed. “Sure, flower.”

She turned to him, eyes fiery from indignation. “I will! And you will ask for my optograph one day!”

The girl never even flew since their mother did not allow her to. “Don’t let me forget about that.”

“And you should write me more Owls when you’re in school,” Ginny said, examining him from the corner of her eye. Rain was now falling in sheets, and Charlie stretched himself. There was something about the smell of earth and rain that made him feel full. “Bill used to write me every month, but you never write me anything. Send me something when you get there, okay?”

“What do you want me to send you?” he teased. “My school work? That would be brilliant, my baby sister writing my History of Magic essays.”

Perhaps Binns wouldn’t notice, especially after flunking his O.W.L.

“Not your homework, silly.”

She had an endearing way of giggling, crinkling her nose and eyes like a real charmer, and Charlie wondered how she’d fit in Hogwarts in a few years from then. Ginny could be as silent as a mouse, but she could tantrum with the loudest of them. “What, then?”

“Send me something – but not socks. You gave your lucky socks to Bill, uh? I would have never worn them if you’d gave them to me.”

“You listen to doors, snitch.” He stretched his arm to tickle her, and she slapped his hand. “These are genuine lucky socks.”

“Your feet stink.”

“They sure don’t,” he protested as she pinched her nose.

“They sure do.” A smile quivered at the corner of her lips. “Charlie Weasley is the Gryffindor Seeker with the amazing stinking feet!”

“So if this is the truth…”

Ginny screamed as he pulled off his sock, and he captured her quickly, striking with efficiency so she wouldn’t have time to squirm out of reach. He dropped her on the mattress, and he fought light-heartedly with her until he succeeded into rubbing the offending sock under her nose.

“AAAH! CHARLIE! YOU’RE DISGUSTING!”

Charlie slipped to the floor, laughing, under Ginny’s outraged gaze and hissing.

The sock trick was priceless. How many times did he play it on Bill, even cunningly waiting for him to be asleep before shoving the sock under his nose, only to move away as fast as he could to avoid a wallop?

He rubbed the tears of laughter from his eyes and when she fell into his arms, she almost choked him in her embrace.

“Wha-?” he uttered, but Ginny squeezed him harder. Something wet found its way under his ear, and he sighed, wondering how to extricate himself from her steely grip. “You’re sad Bill’s gone, uh?”

“Yes.” She hiccupped a sob in his ear. “And everyone misses him too - makes me sad.”

After some time, Charlie filled his trunk in the dark. Ginny was sound asleep, tears still wet on her cheeks, curled on Bill’s bed. He cautiously balanced the desiccated toad on her head, just to get a kick out of it.

He feared waking her if he tried to carry her to her room, so he draped a quilt over her. At least she did not snore like Bill did. Her breathing was curiously appeasing. He slept well that night.

: : :

Over time, the room felt more and more like an ill-adjusted but enduring garment. Their mother seemed to take great care in keeping it intact, as if to make sure they’d constantly remember that they had been children. They weren’t sharing the room anymore. They were borrowing it from earlier years.

Charlie yawned as he dropped his haversack on the floor only to fling himself on the narrow mattress after a long journey back from Romania. The bed gave out a whopping metallic crunch, and Charlie winced as he felt the springs through the mattress.

He’d take care of that tomorrow. It was nice to be home, but he was used to a little more leg space and comfort.

A sleepy groan came deep from Bill’s bed. “Blimey, Charlie….can you possibly make more noise?”

Charlie snorted as he slipped under the sheets after quickly shedding his trousers and tee and kicking them to the ground. “Ah, I missed you too.”

Bill emerged from under his quilt, his pale and sleep-deprived face against the blue fabric, and Charlie sniggered before fluffing his pillow. “Don’t move…you got something crawling up your neck.”

“What?” Bill looked around idly, before he closed his fingers on the fang dangling from his earlobe. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“What’s with the earring?” said Charlie in a yawn. “I have to agree with Skeeter, mate…what’s with the hair?”

Bill rubbed his eyes vigorously. “What time is it?”

“Four in the morning.”

Bill sat straight up in the bed, and Charlie had a glimpse of him stretching his neck and shoulders. “I got in from Egypt last night and went for some pints with a couple of friends. That’s like … two hours of sleep, thanks to you.”

“Hey, why don’t you shut up and go back to sleep?” muttered Charlie. “No one’s keeping you from it.”

There was something to be said about slapping pillows, but Charlie merely smiled. “Keep to your side of the room, prat.”

He had a couple of days to get even.

: : :

The room had ripped from time passing. Years had smoothed the angles and paled the wood.

Memory played tricks on him when he’d come home. Charlie half-expected mess and clutter to reign in their old bedroom, just a second before he set foot in a clean-scented space. Bare walls, dustless furnishings, and the smell of soft wax welcomed him and brushed away his reminiscence. The wainscot had started to peel, and Charlie scratched off a scale with his nail before brushing it off.

His travel bag was wide open on the floor, and his dress robes were carefully set on a chair. The room had been redecorated, the lamp leaving its place to a double daisies-filled vase. The worn and simple white cotton curtains had been replaced with flowery ones, and Charlie smiled inwardly, imagining the indignant outcry if their mother had decided to introduce flimsy fabric and flowers in the room while he and Bill were still living at home.

A hand smacked him right between the shoulder blades. “I hadn’t seen you escape the dinner table!” Bill exclaimed. “Merlin, I have to say - mum did a brutal job on you.”

“I’ll regrow it later.” Charlie turned on himself only to swallow nervously at the sight of Bill.

As soon as he’d set foot in the house, he had been prompted by his mother to act normally around Bill and George as if he had been a wide-eyed child, prone to mindless babbling. He had replied rather testily, that he had seen blokes burned so badly their mother hadn’t been able to identify them in the dispensary, and that nothing could ever shock him again.

He regretted his bravado a second later. He noticed the dark circles under his mother’s eyes and how her skin had an unusual sallow colour. “Don’t you mock me. You all think I’m a mad woman for worrying about you children…we almost lost Bill twice in the last few months.” She had wringed her hands, worry etched on her eyebrows, in the small lines around her eyes. “He’s…he’s so different now. Like he’s got nothing to lose… Please tell him to be careful, dear. You know how he listens to you.”

It had made him open his mouth in a stupor of what she just said, and he understood her being worried about the present and about not all those hypothetical scenarios she usually created about what she feared was to come. “Of course, Mum, I will. And I forbid you to worry about me,” he had said with faked cheerfulness and a powerful hug. She had mollified a second in his arms, only to pat his cheeks and to run away from him to organize one of a thousand details still to be worked out for the next day.

Yet, it was hard not to stare at his brother’s features. Charlie had been doing his best to keep the conversation light until the arrival of the Minister and its cold-shower effect on the crowd. It now felt surreal to look for what was salvaged from his features.

“Stop looking at me like that, prat. You know I’m fine. I was much worse when you first saw me.” Bill gave out a twisted smile, and he waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not painful anymore. How’s Romania?”

“Busy. New members, but you know how it is…hard to get them into action.” Charlie welcomed the change of subject with relief. “There’s a new recruit, a bloke who’s a Vampire Watcher. He could give us access to Jan Popescu’s doings.” As Bill furrowed his brows, Charlie shrugged. “This lad’s to be watched closely – he’s pretty much the big wig of interlope trading. You told me to keep on the lookout for a sudden rise in smuggling. Popescu has been trying to put his hands on dragon blood from all over Europe, including Romania. Rather worrying.”

“How d’you know that?”

“Through Dimitri, a workmate. He’s been offered lots Galleons to provide blood from a Chinese Fireball. As soon as he reported the attempted the bribe to the Minister de Magie, his parents’ cowshed was burned down with all their livestock. Giant salamanders all over the place. His parents barely escaped.”

Bill whistled softly. “Sorry to hear about that. D’you think the fire’s related to the Death Eaters?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Charlie sighed. “That’s why we need access to Popescu and to find out for whom he’s smuggling it.”

Bill nodded. “Good…great, Charlie. You’re doing great.”

They stared at each other with gravity, and Charlie scrambled for words, wondering what to say, how to word his relief to recognize his brother in the slant of his smile. “You look…You look better. It healed more than I thought it would.”

“Never looked better,” Bill said in a breath, an eyebrow cocked at him.

Their hands clasped, and Charlie pulled him closer for a short embrace before patting his back forcefully. “You’re alive and on your feet, are you? And you will be getting married in spiffing dress robes, according to Fred and George, of all people. That’s good-looking in my book.”

Bill shook his head, his face scrunched in an undecipherable expression. He seemed miles away. “Yeah. Sure. We don’t have much time to dwell on anything these days, and perhaps that’s the best way to go through this war… y’know, focus on the next day and try not to look back too often.”

Charlie shuffled from one foot to the other as Bill sat on his bed, hands joined. He had seen chirpier grooms. “There’s something I never want Fleur to know,” Bill said in a sour voice.

He did not feel he was in a position to refuse his brother anything, as uncomfortable it sounded. “Oh?”

“I’ve thought about postponing it. The wedding.” The corners of Bill’s lips sagged. “When I’d realized that I’d be in front of all these people showing that I couldn’t protect myself.”

Merlin.

“No. No. No one in their right mind would think that of you.” Charlie shook his head decisively as he sat in front of him. That was ludicrous. “You can’t give into that thought.”

“I’m not.” Bill shifted on the bed, still looking to his hands. “I’m not proud of saying it, Charlie. I never wanted so much for something to happen and raking my brains wondering about its consequences altogether.”

“Ah, wedding jitters,” Charlie said lightly. “Fleur’s not going anywhere– you haven’t deterred her one bit with your snoring.”

“You make her sound like a vacuous tart.”

Charlie winced under his brother’s scathing look. “What’s with you? I certainly have not said that.”

But Bill had not heard a word he was saying. “All that shit I’ve been given about how trials make a marriage stronger… I can’t swallow anymore of this.”

“Reckon I’m going to shut up, like others should have done. I’m sorry. I wish I knew what to say, mate.” Charlie twisted his neck to look outside the window. The sky was deep blue, and he wished for a storm, a violent downpour that would distract him from his discomfort. “I find it hard to believe that you care about what others think. Doesn’t sound much like you.”

“That’s the mad part,” Bill cut in with unusual bitterness. “I don’t care about what they say. If I were you, I’d told them to fuck off, and I’d be over it. But, blimey, I care about what I think.” He rubbed his face with both hands, subtracting himself from Charlie’s scrutiny. “Fleur almost slipped from the Thestral when we were under attack, the night we lost Moody.”

Ginny erupted in the room that had been stunned from the brothers’ silence, her arms outstretched in front of her, brandishing a pair of socks. “Mum says you’ve gone mad if you think she’ll let you wear these socks. She was talking about burning them, so I hurried to bring them up.” She stopped dead as she glanced at them both. “Oh, I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“You aren’t.” Bill’s voice had regained his easygoing warmth, and Charlie numbly nodded at his pointed look as he stretched his arm. “My lucky socks. I can’t get married without my lucky socks. Thanks, Ginny.”

“My lucky socks,” uttered Charlie. “You’re still wearing these? These were mine. I gave them to you, when you left for Egypt.”

“I know, Mum told me.” Bill laid them on the table. “These are genuine lucky socks, mate, I should have believed you. But since you gave them to me, they’re mine, no?”

“I remember when I used to sneak up to your room to watch the storms with you boys. No clouds on the horizon tonight, though,” Ginny dreamily said. She walked to the window and yawned, her face shining softly from the moonlight that cut into the room. “We should have perfect weather for a perfect wedding.”

Charlie cleared his throat when Ginny turned to him. “D’you remember the time you tried to haul me up the table, and I slipped off my nightgown?”

“You remember that? Crikey…I think you were three or four, this tiny little lass,” he said while Bill laughed briefly.

Ginny stared out the window, and soon, Bill joined her in her contemplation.

“Beautiful… is the sky ever that beautiful in Romania?” Ginny whispered as she twisted her neck to have a better look out.

Charlie did not bother with an answer as he leaned on the windowsill to locate Centaurus as he would seek the approval of an old friend. He did not want to disappoint her.

The feeling struck him as odd, both rousing and sad, when the room seemed to close around their proximity, isolating the three of them in a transient haven from war and worry.

Life will never be simple again, Charlie thought as he detailed Bill’s mangled profile. It stopped being simple ages ago.

The infamous invisible frontier they had built and argued over to the point of silliness during their childhood and teenage years still existed, after all. While it did affirm their strength to hold their own towards the other, they had built the acceptable boundaries of what could be tolerated from one another as they lived side by side.

But he had never seen it as preparing them for what was to come. Bill was getting married in a few short hours, and his silence was filled with thoughts that Charlie was sure he would never speak of again. The sting of loss surprised him, and he found himself reaching for Ginny, who laid her head on his shoulder after a short hesitation.

“Congrats for the Quidditch Cup,” he said hoarsely, taking a pause before impishly smacking a kiss on her forehead. “Maybe you’d fancy a flight after the wedding, so I can see for myself the star player in action.”

“Sure.” She looked up to him, and Charlie was relieved when she resumed her observation of the night, a slow smile taking over her lips.

I’m still a kid, he thought with disappointment. Bill was lying on his bed, head on the pillow, looking at the sky from there. He was holding himself together by hiding his anger and determination behind his relaxed ways; George was downstairs making god-awful jokes about his missing ear; his sister had sadness and longing in her eyes, and he – he - was mumbling about Quidditch.

I’m still a bloody kid. How else could he understand this feeling of losing a brother to worlds that spoke to him in ways he could not understand? Bill seemed to be flowing through life and love with disconcerting will and wisdom, even when wavering at the edge of life.

Charlie predicted that another frontier would probably grow between them after tomorrow, that time not prompted by space and need for ownership but by reserve and respect for their way of living. It would be strengthened by distance.

“Thank you for agreeing to be my best man. Means a lot to me, ” Bill said quietly.

Charlie was met with his brother’s enigmatic tight-lipped smile. Bill, the master of deflection, was going against character.

“I’m happy to do this for you, mate.”

“Good. I reckon you’re the only one qualified for the job.”

The vivid impression of moving back into a space he had left many years ago floored him, and Charlie fidgeted, leading Ginny to slip away from him.

Perhaps shaping that frontier all these years prepared them to live as brothers should – side by side in a too small and sometimes uncomfortable room.

Even at a distance.

The end.

Sepia (R, Hr/R)

Sat, 03 May 2008 13:57:31 GMT

I can't believe I forgot to post this here. I fixed the wonky formatting, a couple of things that nagged me and a few typos. All remaining mistakes are mine.

exartemarte and pili204 tremendously helped me on making this story happen, and they deserve all my thanks. dragon_animagus and queenb23more are the reasons why I'm still sane after writing this one, and I owe them.
Was first published on Checkmated on January 15th, 2008.

Title: Sepia
Rating: R
Characters: Hermione, Ron, Harry, Ginny, Rose, Hugo
Genre: drama
Summary:

Written for the Ron/Hermione Colorful Winter Quote!Fic Challenge

"You cannot make yourself feel something you do not feel, but you can make yourself do right in spite of your feelings." -- Pearl S. Buck (color: sepia)

+ + +

There was a picture of Harry, Ron and herself on page four of The Daily Prophet. It had been only a few years since Harry defeated Voldemort, and the photograph seemed prematurely faded.

It had the distinctive colour of memories.

Sepia

+ +

She always wrote in black, whether the words she lay down on paper were loving, caring, pressing, or official.

As she was a deeply practical witch, she was not sentimental about ink. Ink needed to be available when required; ink was reasonable and reliable. It was a necessity of her everyday life, and she could care less about those fancy inks that fade in colours she felt covered the true message, however the lovely ink may be sepia, green, red, or blue.

But according to her son, she had on ongoing love affair with parchment. Parchment smelled of luxury and intoxication. It exuded powder and wildflowers. Buying fine parchment thrilled her. She shared her enthusiasm with various shop owners who quickly understood this client’s needs and wants. The best way to get this aficionado raving (and spending) was rumoured to use a spell with a unique magic understood by a few of us: ‘Egyptian parchment’…two words that could become the strongest enchantment when placed together.

Ink on parchment meant to her knowledge or lies, and since she was an avid reader, the written word fuelled her reflections and actions.

In books lay words that she claimed were faithful companions and made her winters more golden and less grey.

[…]

Winter 2014

In the feeble light, Hermione buttoned her blouse, a sated sigh escaping her. A low humming told her that Ron was still occupying the bathroom. Rose’s giggles could be heard, as well as Hugo’s increasingly high-pitched whining.

“Enough of that, you two,” Hermione said to her reflection in the mirror as she fastened her hair into a bun.

Something heavy fell to the floor. She could not resist a small grin as she imagined her children looking at each other with surprise in the neighbouring room. “Rose, stop teasing your brother. And Hugo, you need to get dressed. Madam Snell will not accept you wearing your pyjamas all day.”

“How does Mummy know everything?” Rose audibly whispered.

Fair question, Hermione thought. Her reflection in the mirror smiled back at her when Ron belted out a chorus with a stentorian voice.

Their children laughed. “Silly Daddy, silly Daddy, my Daddy is a silly Daddy,” Hugo sing sang.

This breezy winter morning, singing Ron or not, Hermione could not forget the intimacy of their lovemaking when night remained dark, and the sun hesitated to rise. Ron’s touch lingered on her; his caresses lived on her skin, covering her like the silky and luxurious chocolate slip dress he had hidden under her pillow on her last birthday.

Hermione stepped into the kitchen. An owl was patiently awaiting payment for The Daily Prophet under Crookshanks’ interested guard. The wall clock informed her in a stern and stiff croak that her presence at the Ministry would be required in an hour, and she’d better be there or else.

Hugo, she noticed, had dressed himself artistically again. “A green jumper and green trousers, dear…are you sure you want to wear this today?” she asked as she busied herself to prepare the children's breakfast.

Hugo shrugged. “I’m a tree, Mummy. A tree that eats birds.”

“I never saw one of those, so thank you for warning me. You’re a ferocious tree. I shall remember that.”

Rose came in, all curls and smiles. Hermione leaned in to kiss her forehead. “And what are you today, young lady?”

All that red was blinding. Hermione acknowledged with an inward sigh that monochrome outfits were a small price to pay in exchange for raising self-confident children.

“I’m myself,” Rose stated with worry.

It was a lazy morning. Hermione did not want it any other way. She let the moment sink in: the children were talking quietly as they munched on fruit, waiting for their porridge.

Moving slowly would help to preserve the memory of Ron’s skin on hers. She was still making love to him as she carried the teapot to the table. She relished those moments before dawn when the sky faded and their children were sound asleep in their beds.

Ron’s caresses were not quite as precise as they were at night when he captured her. Their strokes were not as passionate as they had been some afternoons when they had breathed heavily against the other’s mouth. She loved Ron’s fire and energy, but she treasured his surprising gentleness when he hovered between slumber and wakefulness. Earlier, he had fumbled when searching for her mouth with his. He had not bothered with excuses when he had yawned in her face; he went to the heart of the matter with simplicity.

He had chuckled with a husky voice against her neck, and then he had murmured words that made her heart swell.

The teapot dripped on the table, and Hermione shook herself from her reverie as she wiped a spot of tea with her thumb. The kitchen window was showcasing what would probably turn out to be a sad winter morning, grey and muddy. Rain had washed the snow from the ground, and what had been white and luminous the day before was now soiled with dark patches.

Hermione closed her eyes when Ron suddenly pulled her backwards, his hand tilting her chin up so his mouth could pause on hers.

“Morning,” Ron whispered against her lips.

Hermione gave into his kiss before going back to her daily perusing of the paper. Ron carried the porridge to the table. “Slow down, Hugo,” he warned, before he caught a bowl sliding away. “Ah! See that, son? Keeper’s reflexes.” He winked in Hermione’s direction. “I’ve still got the moves.”

“Good for you.” There was a picture of Harry, Ron and herself on page four of The Daily Prophet. It had been only a few years since Harry defeated Voldemort, and the photograph seemed prematurely faded.

The picture had the distinctive colour of memories.

That image was opening a window on a life that ended with a glorious sunrise. She had spent the following years methodically, invested by a conscience of the past, present and future, all consumed by building a life… her life, their life. She had busied herself to look out for others still aching from their bruises; to attempt to soothe hers; to study and to work; to enjoy friendships that became much less complicated and frantic; to mend tenuous relationships; and most importantly, most essentially, to make love in the early morning with Ron.

And then they had children, as well as they build a place for them to call home.

Hermione studied her face, immortalized by a random photographer. In that picture, her gaze was unflinching and her jaws clenched. Harry had triumphed over Voldemort a few hours earlier, but tiredness had the best of her. On the picture Ron’s hand kept on clutching her arm as if he’d hoped to keep her to his side.

She eyed the adult version of him over the paper. “It’s been more than ten years. But they persist in writing that Kreacher was with us the whole time, and they spelled my name wrong. You’d think they’d be getting the facts straight after all this time. Journalism is about facts. This isn’t journalism.”

Ron helped himself to tea and toast. “I’d expect you to do something about it.”

No smile stretched his lips. No twinkle shone in his eyes. Hermione sighed. Ron was not joking.

She attempted to make some sense of Ron’s expression as she stared at him over The Daily Prophet. Hugo was pushing the porridge with his spoon. Rose was chewing mechanically, her hungry eyes taking in the scene as she hung on to every word as usual.

“What? What do you think I should do?” Hermione asked, somehow anticipating his answer.

The idea had been floating between them for a while like a rippling wave of understanding. Ron would whisper that she should do something about it, and she would take it in, only to ask him what he wanted her to do. The familiarity of the exchange was comforting, almost agreeable. She felt his enthusiasm, and his eyes reflected his silent belief she could do it.

She wistfully smiled. Ron had faith that she could do anything, and he strongly hoped she would do so.

Crookshanks rubbed his head against her feet under the table. The teapot clank against the table, and the cat hissed before sprawling himself on her left foot.

Ron poured milk into her cup. Despite the fresh scar on his cheek, he radiated like the winter sun. “You should write what happened,” he insisted. “You should write it… y’know, write how we managed to get through that year.”

She pushed herself backwards on the chair as she studied him in silence. Ron was absorbed by this idea, enough to abandon his breakfast. He crossed his fingers under his chin. “Yeah,” he added. “You keep telling me how they get everything wrong.”

“They do,” she retorted. Her hand lightly tapped the newspapers. Sarcasm was difficult to resist, when such foolery was being written. “The worst of it are the supposedly eavesdropped conversations that never happened…all this rubbish about me and Harry.” She scoffed when Ron hid a cocky grin behind his hand. “Don’t laugh. It’s infuriating.”

“Write the truth,” Ron repeated, his blue eyes grey in the winter light. “About how you always thought Harry was a toad.”

“Uncle Harry doesn’t have warts,” Rose said with a scowl.

“That’s what you think,” quipped Ron.

“Of course not. Daddy is joking.” Hermione stared at the picture. “I’m not a writer, Ron.”

“Not true. You write all the time.” Ron was making himself seductive. He grinned, seemingly convinced that his idea was worth the shot. “You’d be brilliant.”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” Hugo exclaimed, slipping from his chair. He disappeared under the table, and came out with a rather discontent Crookshanks in his arms.

“Go easy on Crookshanks, little man. He’s old and grumpy,” Ron warned. “Not that age has anything to do with it that in the first place.”

“Go and brush your teeth, now.” Hermione glanced at the clock as the boy scurried off. “You too, Rose.”

“May I have some toast, Daddy, please?” Rose bit into the buttered bread he handed her, and she sank into her chair.

“Hurry up, dear.” Hermione picked up an orange slice from Hugo’s plate.

“Do it,” Ron insisted.

She sucked off the juice on the tip of her thumb. “I write reports, not stories.”

He dismissed her point with a wave. “You’re a reader.” She thought that Ron was enjoying his reasoning a bit too much. “You must have caught here and there a few tips about writing. It shouldn’t be too difficult for you,” he concluded with assurance.

Hermione shook her head, bemused. “You really want me to do this, don’t you? Why?”

Ron was not grinning anymore as he spread preserves on his toast. “For you. So you can forget.”

“Forget? Ron, I could never forget,” she objected, eyeing Rose who was intently listening. “I don’t want to forget.”

She kept the deepest memories to herself. Some pains would never be forgotten, neither would sacrifices. But relief and victory were also deeply etched into her.

“And why would I want to forget?” she added. “My memories aren’t all rosy and lovely, but they’re mine…and yours! We need to remember so it never happens again.”

“What’s a Mudblood, Mummy?” asked Rose with a tiny voice.

Tea splattered on the table and drenched the newspaper. Hermione dried Rose’s skirt, and wiped the fat, round tear that was running down her daughter’s cheek. Ron stiffly waved his wand as he took care of the mess. “Where did you hear that word?”

“Al said it. Are you angry, Daddy?” Rose’s lower lip quivered.

“Al? Al Potter? Bloody -” Ron contained himself as Hermione nudged him under the table. “I’m not angry at you, Rose. I don’t like that word. I don’t want to hear in this house or anywhere else.”

Hermione touched Ron’s hand, but his eyes were glued to their daughter’s face. “Al shouldn’t have said it,” she said. “What happened?”

“Al said it, ‘cause Karin kicked Simon so Miles was saying mean things to her and Madame Snell wasn’t looking so I ran to protect Karin ‘cause she was crying and then Simon shoved me and said that my mummy was a Mudblood and then Al punched Simon in the mouth and Al said that Mudblood wasn’t a nice word to say and Madam Snell punished Al because Simon had blood on his face -” Rose halted, indignant. Her worry was overwhelming. “Is something wrong with your blood, Mummy?”

“I’m quite sure Madam Snell wouldn’t have punished Al if she had known that Simon had said that,” Ron said under his breath. “I’ll have a word with her.”

“Madam Snell would have punished both boys if she had heard what Simon had said.” Hermione glanced at the clock. “Hitting someone is wrong, Rose, as well as saying that word. We can’t talk about this right now, but we will tonight, dear. I want you not to be worried, okay? Nothing is wrong with me. Mudblood is a nasty word, a word people use to hurt others. It has no meaning unless you believe it has. Now, go brush your teeth, and tell Hugo to stop daydreaming. We’ll be leaving in ten minutes.”

Rose nodded fearfully, and slid off the chair, holding out her arms to her mother. Hermione kissed the top of her daughter’s head before the child slipped away from her embrace.

Hermione sighed deeply. Ron was staring at her, his fingers rapping the table. “I reckon this is a good reason why you should write. People - children - know that frigging word because their sodding parents use it!” He pulled on the newspaper and tapped the picture with disgust. “We were kids, and blimey, after all we went through, we were still naïve… that’s a bloody miracle, if you ask me. Remember how we thought everything would change? How we thought that people would finally understand how blood status is utter rubbish?”

Ron pushed himself back on the chair, both hands raking his hair. “Now, our daughter is exposed to the same dung. You remember what happened, but you need to write about it so others - the ones who should - can remember it too. People forget too easily.” Red crept to his cheeks. “Let them remember for you. You’ve done enough of that.”

“Ron, calm down.” She touched his hand, unsettled by his sudden burst of anger. “Simon is a good boy. When he knows what it means, he won’t use the word again. I know his mother, she’s a reasonable woman.”

“I can hear you at night sometimes.” He stared at her briefly before looking at the picture again. “You remember certain events too much.”

Hermione waved her wand to banish the remnants of their breakfast. The bitter taste of orange was still lingering in her mouth. Ron folded the paper. “I wish you’d forget, love. I wish I could find a way to remember all that stuff for you,” he said quietly.

“I love you,” she whispered, her fingers intertwining with his.

“I can’t blame you for that.” Ron pulled her onto his knees. The clock tick-ticked its disapproval. “But I love you more.”

Hermione was suddenly less than eager to leave home. “Writing about it remains the best way to re-establish some facts,” she reflected as she leaned her head on his shoulder. “I wanted to do it one day, but I do wonder. Isn’t it pretentious to be writing something like that at thirty-four years old?”

“You should do it while you still can remember everything,” Ron said, playfully pinching her hip.

“Honestly.” As he chuckled, she let the idea sink in. “You forget what is most important. It’s mostly Harry’s story, not ours. I can’t write about him without him knowing about it.”

Ron shrugged her concern away before his lips met hers. “Ask him, then. He’ll say yes.”

+ +

[…]

She called it ‘my winter project’. She claimed that winter was the only season that inspired her to reminisce and to remember. She would wrap herself in the maroon wool shawl, the one that had been specially knitted for her one Christmas as she was pregnant, and she would sit at her desk in the study for hours, staring at her quills, at photographs. She attempted to recreate moments that she had naively thought she would remember forever.

Time had already started its softening work. It had begun to fade details. The contours of her memories were blurry. It frustrated her beyond belief.

[…]

+ +

Winter 2014

A small flock of notes entered the lift. “So… what do you say, Harry? Would you accept me writing about it?”

If at first Hermione had hesitated to enter in such a project, Ron had made sure he warmed her up to the idea. He could make himself convincing.

“No.” The lift gave a shake and squealed. Harry’s answer had been quick to come.

Hermione believed that Harry was the one of them three who had changed the most. Since he was not in survival mode anymore, his will was tangible and irresistible. Getting rid of the horror of having his life hanging by a thread had freed him to grow.

Her fear of seeing him crumble when he looked back on the trail of death Voldemort had left behind him had been unfounded, for all she knew. However strong their friendship might be, Harry had found someone else to help him pick up the pieces.

Harry is such a gushing father, she inwardly marvelled as he mentioned something funny Lily had said the day before. It never failed to stir elation and something deep in her that was associated with love and relief. “She is a precious girl.”

“Oh, she is.” He grinned as he stared at the ground. He was clearly somewhere else, in a land where daddies are heroes to little girls just because they breathe.

She nudged him. “I don’t want to bug you about this…”

“Since when did you ask for my opinion, Hermione?” Harry took a deep breath in as he pulled her closer while three more wizards crowded the lift. “I don’t want the past re-written. Some of this stuff I never want to see on paper.”

“I’m responsible about this.” She ignored his surprise. “The press is taking advantage of you. Everyone claims they know what you went through. Lies are being written and so many are perpetuating disinformation.”

“You can’t let it go, can you?” His eyes sparkled behind his glasses. “Perpetuating disinformation? Have you spoken to Luna lately?”

“You’re being silly.” Hermione clicked her tongue. “Luna is an outstanding naturalist, but honestly, I'm not sure she understands the political mechanics of disinformation as well as she masters the ethology of unicorns’ behaviour.”

"That's rather harsh to say." Harry looked over her head and nodded at a colleague. “You forget who her father was. You shouldn’t dismiss her understanding of politics. She made quite a - er, dare I say entertaining analogy with the new tax system and the way Blood-Sucking Bugbears mate,” he spoke into her ear, grinning widely. “Ginny kept the picture she drew.”

“She drew a picture? Oh dear.” Hermione laughed whole-heartedly as Harry chuckled. “I miss her.”

“I can’t stress enough how her explanations made perfect sense.” Harry shook his head with glee. “Ron would have enjoyed her lecture immensely. Pity you lot couldn’t join us.”

The lift was crowded, and Hermione leaned against Harry in a vain attempt to avoid the revolting smelling package an old man was holding away from himself. “I’m sorry we missed her. Hugo and Rose weren’t feeling well so I put them to bed with Pepperup Potion.”

The man with the horrid package stepped out, prompting a collective sigh of relief from the Ministry’s employees occupying the lift.

“About your project, Hermione…I don’t want to be rude.” Harry chewed on his lower lip. Lights flickered as the lift rattled. “I know what happened. You and Ron both know everything firsthand. Ginny knows. I’m rather content with that. I’m sick of those books claiming to reconstruct every step of our way. I’m not saying no to you writing about it for you. I just don’t want it out there, you see? I don’t want you to make this about me.”

“But it is about you, Harry.”

His hand grasped her elbow when he accompanied her out the lift. They walked in silence into a corridor buzzing with activity. As they took a turn, shadows became longer on the carpeted floor, and a long hallway with walls placated with dark wood stretched before them, virtually deserted. Soon, Hermione would be giving an introductory lecture about the ethics of dealing with magical creatures to Harry’s rookie squad.

Before opening the door on the murmuring group of hopefuls, Harry leaned towards her. “There are many ways to look at it, I reckon. It was about me for a while, and I don’t want it to be that way anymore. If you go forward with that, I’d prefer you didn’t make it my story. It’s our story. Whatever you decide to write about, please tell me you’ll make it about us.”

“Us?” Hermione repeated as a shadow of a smile appeared on Harry’s lips.

“Us.” Harry nodded as he held the door open for her. “All three of us.”

+ +

[…]

Urgency as well as fleeting melancholy can be found through those words she put to paper during many winters.

She forces admiration. She had fathomed the danger she was in, as she was a Muggleborn witch persecuted by a shadow government, but she feared mostly for them, the boys with whom she completed a trio of friends.

About the year 1997-1998, she wrote:

“During the year we were on the run, mornings succeeded one another, faceless and anonymous. Each day felt like the day before, and the promise of an eventual tomorrow did not entice us as much as I thought it would. As irrational as the thought was, I feared that winter would never end.

Tomorrow meant a step forward, a step closer to Harry facing Voldemort. It meant that Ron and me were to be standing at his side, without knowing exactly what would be asked of us. I did try to plan everything I could during the months before we left. I spent that summer imagining the worst and most horrid possibilities, so we could have an edge over Voldemort.

All those tomorrows were inexorably getting us closer to events that we could not fathom at all. Tomorrows meant that time was running out quicker than we could appreciate its passing. That year we spent as outlaws; no day was long enough to live it as completely as I wished to. As we chased around for what would lead us to Voldemort, I do not recall going to sleep with satisfaction or peace of mind. Every step we took forward was a reminder of how many were left before us and how dangerous the path would be. Every night I went to sleep with a sense of foreboding, fearing that a fact might have escaped me, and that it could make a difference at the end.

I cannot speak on Harry or Ron’s behalf, but the preciousness of time preoccupied me during those months. For seven years, we had fought against it; I had toyed with it, and we have attempted to deal with its boundaries as much as magic would allow us to.

That fateful year, I believe I understood what time was about for me. I am still young as I write these words, and hopefully, I have a long life before me. I will probably look back on this many years from now and dismiss what I wrote as a proof of my naiveté.

Time has no reprieve, no pity; days fly away. We live our life learning to accept that tomorrows become yesterdays. This is why we must make the most of it through knowledge and action. ”

[…]

+ +

Winter 2014

The amber globe was charmed and hovered motionless over her desk so the room that served as her office and library could be bathed in a rich and warm glow. Her quill tentatively grazed the parchment, but to no avail. The irony of it was not lost on her: she was a woman of many words, but now they were fleeing her.

Hermione pushed herself back into her chair. “Ron and his mad ideas,” she muttered to herself for the tenth time of the evening.

Ron was away on business, and had promised be back the following night. She was relieved he would not be a witness to her struggle. It’s better this way, she thought with a sigh. He would have been making fun of her as she hesitated to commit herself to a few words.

Start with the beginning, Ron would have said. End with the ending. Works for me.

Hermione stood up and paced the study with fleeting irritation.

Quills waited and blank parchments lay on the desk, taunting her with their inviting pale golden hue. Crookshanks sat upon them, seemingly daring her to push him away. The house was silent: Rose and Hugo were asleep, impervious to her agitation.

Her fingers grazed the scattered pictures on her desk. Supressing a sigh, she shuffled them; here, Harry and Ron during the Quidditch Cup, pulling their tongue at the camera; there, a picture Mr Weasley had taken of them, on which Harry was smiling as Barny, the long lost Weasley cousin.

The last one swamped her in a wave of nostalgia: there they were, the three of them, a few months after the Battle of Hogwarts, smiling timidly but genuinely as they were still dripping wet from a dip in the pond at The Burrow. Hermione pulled out the battered picture from the Prophet. The difference over a few months shone through: they seemed to have been brought back to life.

Harry had a smile that she attributed to Ginny taking the picture. Ron had his arms around her shoulders.

In the picture she was giggling, trying to prevent him from throwing her back into the pond. Hermione searched for intention in his features. What had followed later was a precious memory that she hoped would not wilt, a hopeful escape from the grief that was still taking possession of The Burrow.

As moon oversaw them, she had rested half-naked on a blanket that scratched her back but felt like the softest of fabrics.

Ron’s words had made everything real.

“I want to do this with you again,” he had breathed out against her hair.

She had struggled to keep herself composed. “All the time,” she had whispered, legs shaking from euphoria, her throat tight, as they fumbled to rearrange their clothing.

His joy had been contagious. She had found herself laughing aloud. “All the time,” he had repeated with a lopsided grin.

Hermione put down the pictures. She wanted for him to be here tonight, and not somewhere in Spain.

All the time.

The pile of books and manuscripts she had borrowed from the Ministry library stood in a corner. The number of writing and archives documents attempting to recount their whereabouts had astounded her. Many facts and truths were there: she had even discovered a well-researched itinerary of their travels, probably worked out by a patient researcher, who must have gone through thousands of articles and interviews to come up with it.

She felt she was looking at the canvas of what promised to be an intricate work of art but was still looking for a heart and soul.

She forced herself to sit down again. “Come here,” she murmured to Crookshanks as she pulled him upon her knees. She dipped the quill in the ink bottle, tapping it expertly against its rim to avoid blotching.

How does one summarize years where three lives were so intimately intertwined?

She stared at the question, not entirely sure that it was the best way to begin.

She crossed out so intimately.

Hail rattled on the window. Hermione stared at the question for a long time, attempting to find an appropriate answer.

With facts and objective observation.

Words she believed in offered no comfort. The quill obeyed to her impulsion.

Or maybe not. Maybe I have to do this some other way.

+ +

[…]

Her loyalty, while never faltering, was opinionated. This can be read in this excerpt, written circa January 2017:

“It has been widely written […] that the Battle of Hogwarts was predestined before Harry’s birth; consequently, Harry had no choice but to accomplish his destiny.

I strongly disagree with this assumption. It trivializes Harry’s quest and character. What was Harry’s fate but the one he chose? Him facing Voldemort was the result of his actions and determination to do so. Claiming that Harry stood before the one who robbed him of a family because ‘his life was written for him’ hypocritically undermines the boy he was and the man he became. Fate does not mean anything unless one decides to give it some sense.

One could wonder how Ron and I made our way to stand at Harry’s side for all those years. It would be most preposterous to say that our fate as friends was written before we were born.

After all, I could have decided to hide my magic and to be ashamed of it. My parents could have been intolerant and fearful of what they understood as my ‘difference’. They could have denied me the right to discover what magic was and censor my reading.

For all we know, Harry could have been sorted into another house if he had dearly wanted to. He could have rebelled against everything his parents fought for, from fear or from cowardice. He could have become fascinated by his wizarding condition and been comforted by the power of his magic. He could have become another Voldemort.

But then, he would not be himself. He would have been another boy, another man. He would have been another Harry Potter. Our friendship might not have existed. It is my uttermost belief that complacency leads us to delve into the realms of ‘what could have been,’ and to deconstruct events in a perverse way, so we can please ourselves with the idea that we have the power to reject the elusive means of choice and decision.

It comes down to the choices we make. Harry choosing in cold blood to free himself and the world from Voldemort is truly what makes him a hero. ”

[…]

+ +

Winter 2016

“I can’t make myself write it,” Hermione muttered as she attempted to gather the parchments into an orderly pile.

She stretched, pulling down on the silky hem of her slip dress. Ron was teasing the back of her thigh with the tip of his fingers, deep into his reading. She attempted to keep her buttocks covered as she bended forward to reach for her wand on her bedside table. “Why don’t you read them in the order I wrote them, anyway?” she pestered. “You made a frightful mess.”

When she had stepped into their bedroom an hour earlier, it appeared to her as if the cold wind blowing against the windows had been allowed to sweep in. Parchments littered both the bed and floor, and Hurricane Ron was in the middle of it all, comfortably leaning back against all the pillows in the room.

A frown had tensed his features as he read parchment after parchment. He held out to her the one he was perusing. “You see… I don’t get that. Why don’t you write the word Horcrux? All of this would make more sense.”

She sighed with irritation. “What I wrote makes sense, Ron.”

“It makes sense,” he conceded. “But isn’t it all about how we were trying to help Harry as he went for the Horcruxes and tried to finish Voldemort through them? Don’t you think it deserves a mention somewhere?”

Hermione hid her face behind her hands. Ron was inadvertently underlining how powerless she felt in front of this growing number of parchments, not connected through anything but the three of them.

“I know how I should be writing. I know how to build a report, Ron. That would be the best way to do it.”

“Crickey, you don’t have to do anything!” Ron exclaimed, dropping the paper to the floor in surprise. “You’re talking like you’re being ordered to do something.”

“It feels like it. This isn’t what it should be.” She rubbed her eyes, and tiredness sweeping over her. “I hate writing. I hate it. If I could just documented what happened, I’d do it. But this is not the same thing at all.” She felt like a child, revolting against an early bedtime. “It needs something else from me.”

“So don’t do it this way.” Ron’s fingers tried to lure her to him.

“It’s more complicated than that.” Hermione slipped from him, and she grabbed her wool shawl. She stared at him for the end of the bed. “I’ve given much thought to this, and I think it’s the best way to do it, even if I dislike how self-indulgent it is. Writing is somehow taking responsibilities…it means that you implicitly accept being read, even though you want to keep it just for yourself.”

“Are you talking about me?” Ron opened his arms on the scattered parchments. “But I’m your husband!”

She exhaled slowly. “I can’t bring myself to write down everything we know about Horcuxes, everything we know about Voldemort. I can’t,” she said desperately.

The more she had written, the more she had comforted herself with the thought. Now that she was sharing it out loud, her resolution seemed self-serving and cowardly.

“I don’t understand.”

“I know that it seems logical to write down a story from beginning to finish, to recall events and difficulties, to shed the light on realities, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Do you remember how much work it was to research so we could find something about Horcruxes? Do you remember how Harry told us how Tom Riddle was fascinated by them, and how Harry had to drink Felix Felicis to get information about it? It makes me wonder…” she hesitated, “… what if this fell in the wrong hands? There are reasons why some knowledge isn’t easily accessible.”

“Are you telling me that you haven’t thought protecting of it with some kind of fancy and obscure spell I’d bet you’re the only one to know about?” Ron wondered, eyes wide. “Are you saying that you don’t want to write the truth?”

“But I do! I am writing the truth!” she exclaimed herself. The parchments flew back to her bed table and sorted themselves out. “This is the truth! Only, it’s not the truth I’d expected I’d be writing about.”

“I like it.” Ron pulled himself closer. His hands slipped up her knees. “I like when you surprise me.”

+ +

[…]

She was a strong character, a bright and gifted witch who knew how to make people stop and listen. Acquaintances have often mentioned her stable and reassuring presence, and her unrelenting care for the ones she loved and the ones who needed to be defended. Political enemies have called her shrewd and stubborn, a brilliant negotiator. But the ones who really knew her underline incessantly her fiercely loving nature and her sense of duty towards her friends and family.

Her courage has been saluted. Her words speak for themselves:.

“There were several moments where I knew I faced death. What frightened me was the sense of immobility it laid upon me, how it froze my thoughts and prevented me to find a way out. When I allowed myself to think about death, anger invariably took hold of me. I interpreted that back then as my will to survive. Could the answer be more complicated? Could it mean that when we are about to face our death, we are stripped from everything but our essence, and mine would be justice?

In Malfoy Manor I thought that my time had arrived. I feared that every step I had taken had in my life had led me there… to die on Lucius Malfoy’s expensive rug, amongst hatred and scorn for who I am.

It is difficult to admit that what saved me was not my faith in my capacity for overcoming torture. It was not the belief that Ron and Harry would come and deliver me from the pain coursing my body even though I attempted to stretch my mind to them, calling them for all my soul, wishing for them to pull me out.

It was anger, pure and simple, that had me clinging to life. Anger at them, anger at myself for not taking opportunities that I should have taken.

Pain is a complex notion. We respond to physical pain by retreating and protecting ourselves. But our brain also interprets pain emotionally, and we have learned to avoid it and to find ways to numb it before it claims our mind.

When I felt Ron’s hands pulling me through the haze of pain, I was delirious, completely out of my mind. Whatever I believed about free will and choices was thrown out the window.

I was certain that Ron and I were bound to be together; sometimes we’re pulled away from one another by a twist of fate, our faith bound up with Harry. I felt immortal.

I still believe that we are bound together, but now that these painful moments are far behind me, I know how hard we all had to work on ourselves to make it happen.

+ +

Winter 2020

Harry slowly stroked his face with both hands. “I don’t know what to say.” Hermione’s office amber globe radiated its soft, appealing light on his features. “I really don’t know what to say.”

“You wanted to read it,” Hermione said accusingly.

They had argued rather animatedly about it a week ago, and she’d hoped for him to let go when she claimed that the manuscript was not turning into what she had intended it to be.

“It’s very subjective,” she had warned him.

“Well, I hope so,” Harry had said, perplexed.

She had given in, handing him her unfinished manuscript, overcome by a tenacious grief that made little sense to her.

And now, on Ron’s birthday, Harry had brought her words home. He was standing next to them, eyeing the document as if looking for inspiration. As Ron leaned back against the wall with a frown, Ginny grazed Hermione’s arm, prompting her to face her. “I read it over his shoulder. During the year you lot were on the run… I spent most of my time trying to imagine what you were going through and kicking myself to move and to make myself worthy of you.”

She addressed Hermione with a sad smile. “Reading your thoughts transported me back then… back when I hoped with all my heart I could be one of yours. You made me cry, Hermione. I felt so much for you.”

Hermione nodded stiffly and clutched her cup. Harry shifted his weight from one leg to the other, still staring at the bulk of parchments in an unsure silence.

“Say something,” Ron stiffly pressed. “She’s writing it as she saw it. I think it’s brilliant.”

“I know. It is. ” Harry crossed his arms, and Hermione’s heart leaped. “I don’t know what to say,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Seeing this through your eyes…seeing myself, and Ron, and….” He cleared his throat. “Your thoughts…It’s…I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Hermione sipped on her wine.

“You never spoke about it… to me, at least.” Harry raked his hair. “About Malfoy Manor and how you felt about it.”

“And why should I have spoken about it to you?” she softly answered. “You know it happened. War wasn’t easy for anyone, especially for you. You didn’t need to know everything, Harry.”

He swallowed. “I knew that rationally, I reckon. I know how it feels to be tortured. But now, I can feel how you lived through that.”

“You lot are meant to be friends whatever you think about fate, Hermione. You’re all alike.” Ginny stood up. “The three of you…Merlin. You’re all so moral. I never thought I’d say that one day, but even Ron is,” she quipped as she affectionately nudged her brother who welcomed her jab with a fake scowl.

Hermione was still drawn by Harry’s indefinable expression. “Reading this reminded me why you got us out of trouble so many times.” Harry shook his head. “You cannot make yourself feel something you do not feel, but you can make yourself do right in spite of your feelings. You’re so honest with yourself it’s frightening.”

When Harry reached for her, she hugged him fiercely, trying to communicate her relief.

“I noticed that something important is missing in here,” Harry muttered as he let go of her. He flipped the pages quickly. “There aren’t many mentions of you and Ron.”

“Of course, there are,” Hermione countered, stretching her hand to grab the pile of parchments. “We’re all over the place…you said you wanted it to be about us.”

“I saw that.” Harry gently tapped her fingers away. “What I meant was there’s nothing yet about how you two…well, how you two fell in love. You mentioned Ginny and me, but not you two.” In the soft light, Harry grinned. “I’d expected you to do an exhaustive research on that subject. ”

“I’m not finished with all this, but honestly, I don’t think this is the place for that,” Hermione admitted.

“And where should it be?” Harry shook his head as he flipped the manuscript between his hands. “Where should it be if it’s not in there?”

“Ron and I falling in love had nothing to do with our friendship story. It’s private.”

“Oh, now, it’s private?” Harry snorted as Ginny rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Where are your quills? I’ll make this private.”

[..]

What might be the biggest surprise of these memoirs are the intrusions of her friends. We feel them everywhere. We know they are looking over her shoulder and we can almost feel her dialoguing with them and arguing about small facts.

She kept surprisingly silent on her love life. We understand now the tumultuous rapport she shared with Ron Weasley, but she has not written much on how their love grew.

This is why it was unexpected to discover the enigmatic sum of it hastily written by Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, an addendum only recently recovered from Professor Weasley’s notes.

“I was expecting Hermione’s project to be a recollection of events leading to Tom Riddle’s defeat, she being so fond of details and facts. But I was wrong. You think you know a person, and then she goes out of her way to surprise you. Hermione is in the process of writing a testimony to our friendship.

However, there is an important fact missing here. I believe Hermione will not bring herself to write it, because she believes it is not pertinent in the sequence of those events. But it is because it means something to me.

Someone has to write it somewhere, for the sake of it.

During many of those years as we three were inseparable, Ron Weasley was in love with Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger was in love with Ron Weasley.

It is the simplest way to write it, but it was much more complicated than it seems. They know it was.

I know it is.

H. Potter

[…]

Winter 2020

“For the sake of it?” Hermione nervously chuckled, unable to contain her emotion. Ron was still reading, an undecipherable smile on his lips.

Harry slipped the loose parchment under the pile, and with a bit of unease, he held out the bulk of it to Hermione. “Here you go.”

She stared at her words, tangible and fleeting, resting between her hands, suddenly amazed by their weight and importance, taking in for the first time the concentrated effort and thought she had invested into what was supposed to be simple written pictures, words written in sepia ink of not so distant memories.

“Should I burn it when it’s finished?” she impishly suggested. “As a symbol?”

Ron and Harry stared at her with their mouth agape. “Don’t take it badly, Hermione, but now you’re freaking me out,” Ginny quipped. “Stop pouring her wine, Ron. You can’t burn this. Never.”

“That’s mad.” Ron shook his head. “Burning it destroys the whole purpose of you writing it.”

Ron reached for it and placed it on a high shelf as if he feared nothing more than but to see her run towards the fireplace. “I reckon you need to take a look at it sometimes. You need to add stuff here and there.”

“I’m not ready to write more,” Hermione admitted.

She needed her memories to distance themselves from her. Next winter she would ask herself if she wanted to re-address the past of a friendship that evolved into another form.

Ron shrugged as he poured more wine into his sister’s glass. “Look at dad. He has a garage full of stuff. He doesn’t use half that Muggle junk. But it’s there. He goes into that place, and it gives him… dunno, comfort to know it’s there, and he can visit it whenever he feels like it.”

Ginny lifted a hand pre-emptively. “What you wrote is no junk, Hermione.”

“I didn’t say that,” scoffed Ron as he turned to Hermione. “You know what I mean.”

Ron had a way of looking at her in public that was not unlike the way he did on those mornings when love might be the only thing worth doing.

Hermione smiled. This look she would fight to keep away from paper as she would be content with it in her mind, in her skin.

“I say we celebrate,” Ron announced quietly as he raised his cup to her.

+ +

[…]

It does come to this conclusion. If many books have attempted to help us comprehend the complexity of critical events of our history, few of them have lived throughout the years as Pictures of Dark Years.

Every Modern History of Magic textbook tells us how Mrs Granger-Weasley’s work and activism has helped to reform several iniquitous practices in our institutions. But as the keen reader might have observed, Pictures of Dark Years shows another side to her in those lucid and passionate memoirs relating to the years 1991-1998, years she lived intensely as a close friend of Harry Potter and of the boy who would later become her husband, philanthropist and businessman Ronald Weasley.

Her voice represents an urgent reminder that our world is still in dire need of tolerance, cooperation, and action.

The publishing of Pictures of Dark Years has been widely written about. Many books have documented its amazing fate, the most acclaimed being Rewriting Hermione (2097) authored by her son, Professor Emeritus Hugo Weasley, Order of Merlin second class.

Professor Weasley devoted his later years to protecting the privacy of his mother’s manuscript, which he claimed had never been intended for publication. He stated that the book was written as a string of private reflections of an enduring friendship. When Parkinson & Turpin Publishers were allowed by the Wizengamot to release Pictures of Dark Years, Professor Weasley went back in court shortly afterwards to point out the publishing house’s work of censorship and to demonstrate how powerful families with misplaced interests had intervened. The following public scandals are still fresh to our collective memory.

We have restored the manuscript with Professor Weasley’s priceless notes and the exceptional help of his son, Arthur Weasley. The Malfoy name has been reintroduced into Mrs Granger-Weasley’s manuscript, following the ruling in favour of Professor Weasley. Crivey Publishers proudly present to you the third and uncensored edition of her memoirs.

Whether she had intended or not to speak through a book, Hermione Granger-Weasley began to write her memoirs at the young age of thirty-four years old (Professor Weasley attested however that most of the book has been written through her later years). She gave posterity a vibrant and powerful testimony that immortalized the strength and depth of a life-enduring friendship that was born between three young wizards in one of the darkest moments of our history.

J. L. Crivey, Publisher

London, 2156

(Note from J.L. Crivey in Granger-Weasley, Hermione. (2156). Pictures of Dark Years. 3^rd edition. Crivey Publishers, p. ix.)

+ +

The end

I cannot even begin to say how much I owe to Pili204 and Exartemarte for their excellent beta help. Thank you.

Special thanks to PureBloodMuggle and Queenb23 for their friendly cheerleading.

All Blues (Harry, Luna)

Sat, 08 Mar 2008 22:03:13 GMT

All Blues
Characters: Harry, Luna (Harry/Ginny)
Rating: Pg-13
Genre: Flangst – all the way.

Warning: Don't read if you think you could dislike me for breaking up Luna and Dean. ;) I'm mad enough to write Harry first person- who knew? Not beta read. I’m usually canon inclined ship-wise and happy with it, and the friendship between Harry and Luna has been quite intriguing to me since OotP. Post DH. I tried to write this on with a very simple narrative. Let me know what you think.

++

Summary:

I knew I was falling into some sort of a trap when you pointed the sign that swayed over our heads.

“I’d fancy a pint,” you said.

I had no idea you drank ale. You slipped your arm under mine, and you smiled at the door.

+ +

I knew I was falling into some sort of a trap when you pointed the sign that swayed over our heads.

“I’d fancy a pint,” you said.

I had no idea you drank ale. You slipped your arm under mine, and you smiled at the door.

I stared at you for a few seconds, wondering about what you had in mind. You were not usually one to be conspicuous about what you wanted. Standing there with you felt like I was agreeing for something to happen without knowing what it was.

I pushed the door open. You leaned against me to avoid touching the doorframe. “Nargles,” you muttered to my jumper.

I nodded, more from habit than from acknowledgement. You walked straight to the booth in the corner, the one where I spent many evenings with Ginny.

The light bathing the room was surprisingly harsh. The smell of house-brewed ale, sweet and pungent, made my mouth water. I felt thirsty for the first time in days.

The place looked better in the evening. Maybe it didn’t. Perhaps I thought it was a homey bar because memorable nights begun between its walls.

The booth was a disappointing sight, with you sitting at Ginny’s place.

Monroe, the bar owner, came our way. He wiped his hands on the black apron tied around his waist. “We’ve been serving a new brew, Mr Potter! Lemme bring you some to you and your lady friend - on the house.”

You nodded. “I’d love that. Thank you.”

“Ah, Monroe, you must let me pay for it today,” I said. He did not wait for my approbation. He was already behind his counter, getting our order ready.

“They love you,“ you said, and I decided that the game you were playing wasn’t funny anymore.

For someone who saw mysteries in every place and every thing, you read human nature loud and clear. Your honesty embarrassed me. That was how you were, and yet, I had never wanted for you to change before that day.

You were someone else that afternoon – detached, nonchalant. You were responsible for the silence that hung between us. It made me nervous.

Did you know that a month earlier, I went around that table you were rapping on?

I sat beside Ginny. I slipped my hand on her thigh, and we kissed.

I smacked my lips. “How are you, Luna?”

“I’m well. Thanks for asking,” you replied. You didn’t ask me how I was. Another surprise.

The pints were brought to the table. I stared at you while you wiped the humidity your pint left on the glossy surface. When I voiced aloud that you seemed preoccupied with something, you shrugged. You were working hard to avoid my eyes.

I would have expected for you to ask why I believed such a thing.

Your behaviour puzzled me. You weren’t on the lookout for answers. You had been my friend for a few years then, and the least I could say about you was that you were constant in your idiosyncrasies.

Something unfamiliar in our friendship was switched on as we were sitting face to face, in that depressing place I had done my best to avoid since Ginny decided to take a few weeks to think.

The last time I was here, I left alone.

“It’s a nice place to people watch,” you said.

The ale was light, a bit too fruity for my taste. I attempted to make you smile. “Not many people to watch at this hour, I reckon.”

We were the only customers in the room. Clanks and clunks were coming from behind the bar where Monroe was busying himself. You smirked. “There are always people to watch.”

The afternoon light did not flatter you. I gazed at your hands and at your uneven nails. “Look at the owner, “ you added. “He is looking at us .”

You jerked your head quickly – left, down, left, down, not unlike a bird. “Like this. He wonders what you think about his ale.”

“Well,” I said. “I guess you can people watch everywhere.”

You touched my hand. Your skin seemed pallid in comparison of Ginny’s milky complexion. I was learning the hard way that every woman paled against the mere memory of her. “What’s going on, Luna?”

“I’m happy to be here.”

I was not expecting to be the one people-watching and wondering as we drank.

-)-

“Dean broke up with me. “

When I was about to reach for money to pay for our ales, you finally spoke. You recounted how Dean left your flat a week before to never return. You used short and simple words to describe that it was over.

I hid my mouth behind my hand as you were talking. You had a way of depicting the scene that made me feel like a voyeur. That side of you I never gave much thought about. As you were talking quietly, I could see you in my mind’s eye - Luna the lover, your arms around your knees as you sat on the bed, watching Dean go.

You spoke for a while. You were cold and meticulous in your description of him kissing you one last time.

I was astounded by your remoteness. When Ginny had said she needed time to herself, I yelled my sadness that night, alone in Grimmauld Place.

“I’m so sorry, Luna, so sorry.” I was. Truly.

You pursed your lips. “Would you mind if I spent some time with you today? Maybe play chess, perhaps? I don’t feel like being home alone right now.”

You used a tired cliché, and of all the unusual things you did that day, that was the one that bugged me the most.

We walked back to Grimmauld Place side by side but not together. An outside observer would have sorted us as not-friends-yet acquaintances. You were deep in your thoughts so I kept my distance. You probably had a reason to look away, but I couldn’t figure what it was.

Grey streets unrolled before us. I became aware of the sound of your cloak swishing against your skirt.

You weren’t wearing socks. There was a smudge of dirt on your calf.

“He’s such a wanker, I told him off, but you’ll never believe what he said.” Two women broke the silence as they passed by, leaving behind them a heavy cloud of flowery perfume and onion.

You were keeping up with my pace, head high and hair damp from the drizzle. Your cheeks were wet as if you had been crying. The sight struck me; I couldn’t recall seeing you doing so in the years I have known you.

“D’you want to Apparate?” I asked.

Fat drops of water splattered the sidewalk, and I shivered when the drizzle became rain.

You wiped off your forehead. “It’s just rain. I like rain.”

We turned a corner and then another. It felt like an afternoon fit for a funeral.

-)-

The chessboard was imprisoned between us, and I studied your game. You were being quite a strategist.

“Do you like living alone?” you asked, troubling my concentration.

“I’m not alone,” I said. “Kreacher is here. He refuses to leave me.”

“Oh.”

You were right. You had a keen eye for spotting loneliness. I felt alone, even if I had friends, dear friends that went to great lengths to not leave my side.

However, Ron had some issues to work out during that time. Seeing me brooding over his sister must have convinced him he was not welcomed. I isolated myself so he would not feel pressed to offer words of consolation.

I did believe that you were part of my intimate circle of friends. You had fluttered around for a while, looking at me from behind your supposed weirdness, and then you came out of your way to open up those drapes so we could all see how truly shining you were.

We played for a while. We both won a game, and then you said you were ready to go.

I accompanied you to the door. You let yourself go against it, and you stared at me.

“I’m not loquacious today,” you said.

You came closer. You kissed my cheek. “You’re a good friend, Harry,” you said.

Blonde women never attracted me much. I found them subdued against the vibrancy of a redhead, or the mystery of a brunette, or the exoticism of a black haired woman.

But that blonde woman was you, and I never imagined how it would feel to kiss you. I swear.

You kissed me very lightly. It did not feel like a kiss, more like a desperate hug. I thought of Ginny the few seconds our lips touched. I’m not sure I liked how your mouth felt on mine.

You took a step back. “I’m not attracted to you.”

“I know.”

“I love him,” you said with a voice that broke my heart.

You let me hug you. There was no misunderstanding between us, and I was relieved.

There was only grief, rich and overwhelming, hanging over us. It was enough.

It took a couple of seconds before you exhaled and relaxed against me. You broke our hug and announced you were leaving. I thought you needed to be alone to cry.

I learned later that you went where you could speak. You stayed at Neville’s place for a couple of days, and Ginny consoled you for hours. They both helped you to find a new flat.

That was what Ginny told me when we met a week later at the bar you and I visited. She then said that she was tired of thinking about answers she already knew.

I did not leave alone that night. I still think that you were the one who made it happen.

-)-

Many years have passed since that day.

Today is a perfect afternoon to enjoy summer. We were all glad to hear that you were coming back for a couple of weeks, and we made sure we would spend as much time with you as we could.

Lysander sleeps in some sort of a fabric pouch that crosses your chest. Lorcan babbles at your feet, comfortably installed in his crib. My beautiful Lily lies on her stomach to his side, not leaving him out of her sight for a minute. She tickles him, and he shrieks, rewarding her with a toothless smile.

She told me earlier that she wants a baby too.

Rolf and Hermione are animatedly discussing politics, and they are agreeing on everything and ready to take over the world. Ron runs around with James, Al and Hugo. The boys are yelling and giggling, and unexpectedly, Ron grabs James and sweeps him off the ground. The two others run away. They secretly hope to be the next one to be caught.

Rose explains to Ginny why books hold more interest than Quidditch. Ginny nods with a smile.

You look happy. Time has been kind to you. I’m glad to see you and to hear you speak about you next expedition.

Out of the blue, you say, “I saw Dean, a few months ago.”

“You did?”

You accept the glass of water I hand you. “I visited his gallery. I bought a painting.”

“We did too, “ I say. “Have you seen it in the stairway?”

“No. I’d love to, though.”

We both rise, and Ginny insists to take Lysander from you. “He looks like a sweet pea in his pod,” she gushes. I chuckle. “We should have had this when we had the kids. How ingenious.”

We chat quietly as we enter the house. You stop before Dean’s painting, and you look at it for a long time.

It is a rather simple landscape in tones of blues, greys and yellows, a sandy shore battered by wind and tumultuous water. I knew the painting had to be mine when I first saw it. It reminded me Shell Cottage and years past, some deep-stirring feelings I did not want to forget.

“How beautiful,” you whisper.

“Isn’t it? Dean’s talented.”

“He is, he truly is.” You stare at the painting. “He paints like he makes love – he loves transforming a simple canvas into a work of art.”

I honestly don’t know what to say about that.

You turn to me. You do not look as mysterious now, with your eyes sparkling and your mouth stretched in a grin. “I was never much of a still life, you know.”

You go back to your observation of the painting, and I stand by your side, silenced by the elation I see on your features. You have changed, but your eyes are still reflecting this part of you that is deeply intertwined with your soul.

People cannot stand to see you so naked. They have to cover themselves. They have to drape their minds in thick cloaks of disdain, because seeing you so bare hurts them.

It used to make me want to look elsewhere, but as you slip your arm under mine and we go back into the sun, I can’t find a reason why I would want to do that anymore.

I will never have for you the all-consuming love, admiration and desire I have for Ginny and the instinctive connection we share. I will never feel for you the overwhelming brotherly tenderness I have for Hermione.

You would probably be better than me to find the suitable words that would describe those feelings I have for you.

The end

Monster - fic

Sat, 05 Jan 2008 05:09:22 GMT

This is not a Holiday fic, but material that I wrote in relation to spidergirl30's fic. I was exploring a path, and it led me to a major detour. The story can be read by itself. This is mainly an experiment. That fic is not my best. Please note that the fic is not beta edited. I still don't know what I'll do with it - rework the story or include it in a larger piece.

Now, I decided to have Victoire calling her parents Papa and Maman, which are the equivalent of Daddy and Mummy in French. I cannot imagine that Fleur would not teach the language to her daughter, in some way or another. After all, JKR has confirmed that Bill and Fleur had children with unmistakable French sounding names.

Read to your own risk! This is the closest to next generation fic that I will ever attempt.

Title: Monster
Rating: PG
Characters: Victoire Weasley, Fleur Delacour, Bill Weasley, Teddy Lupin
Summary: Monsters do not have sparkling and teasing blue eyes.

Monster

+ + +

Papa has long hair, just like a girl’s. “Papa is a GIRL! Papa is a GIRL!” Victoire cries out as she runs towards the trees, her plaits to the wind.

She knows that Papa does not mind with her teasing, unlike her friend Teddy. Papa grins and feigns to take a bite off her. She knows he is attempting to scare her, but she is unafraid. Her father is such a trickster. He enjoys nothing more than to pretend that he is a ferocious creature that has the power to capture her and tickle her until she begs for mercy.

She shrieks with delight when she dashes away from him. She is a gust of wind, slipping through his fingers. But she knows that if her father really, really wanted to, he would catch her. Papa is a wizard, and Maman is a witch.

Victoire is a witch too. If she concentrates enough, her rock collection hovers over her desk for a few seconds, only to spatter on the varnished wood in the most fascinating way.

Papa stands right in front of her, half crouching, his hands clawing the space between them as he pretends to prey on her. “RAWR!”

Her exhilaration explodes into a high pitch scream. “PAPA IS A MONSTER! PAPA IS A MONSTER!”

Papa does not mind being called a monster. He tails her, and his growls are often so silly she giggles until her belly hurts. However, it happens that she gets caught in the game, and she imagines his roars deep and terrifying. They leave her breathless as she scurries away from him as fast as she can.

The illusion disappears when she looks at him over her shoulder. Monsters do not have sparkling and teasing blue eyes.

It is all in good fun. Papa knows that she will jump in his arms, much later, when he decides it is time to go back inside.

+ + +

Papa has a scruffy chin in the morning. She complains about how his unshaven cheeks scrape her soft one.

She forgives him in a snap, because he knows how to awake her gently, not like her mother who calls her invariably from downstairs, with her voice rising commandingly (“Vic-TOIRE!”).

Papa tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear, and presses his face against hers to make her laugh.

He calls her firecracker.

+ + +

Papa has bright red hair that spills on his shoulders late at night when he reads at the kitchen table.

Victoire finds herself a good excuse to escape her bed. She observes him from the door. She chooses a long shadow to hide in, but she does not bother walking on her tiptoes. During those nocturnal explorations she has come to believe that her father knows Everything because he senses her presence before Maman catches her out of her room.

He looks away from the Very Important Papers he is working on. “What are you doing up?”

“I want water, please,” she says, because Maman taught her that asking politely is how good little girls ask for something.

Papa lets her drink from his cup. She takes tiny sips of water with her eyes on him. When he catches her staring at him, he grins. “Are we finished?”

“I was very thirsty, Papa.” He then wipes the droplet of water at the corner of her lips as well as he brushes away the lie.

He welcomes her little trick with a hug, and he turns her away with a pat on the bum. “Up to bed, now. Tomorrow morning will come soon enough.”

+ + +

Papa is one of those people that tower the world.

Victoire swears it to Teddy over her favourite rock, the smooth one with the shiny pink flecks that uncle Charlie sent her in a jute pouch.

The way she needs to stretch her arms to Papa proves without a doubt that she is right. When she pleads him enough, he lifts her sky high, at the length of his arms. Up there, the wood floor seems like murky waters, a dangerous place to be. She shivers with glee, knowing that Papa would never drop her.

Teddy does not believe her. He says that somewhere, deep into dark forests and up the tallest mountains, very tall men rule every creature. “Your dad would be crushed like a snail,” he sneers.

“Papa wouldn’t be crushed. Papa is the best wizard in the world,” she brags, her chin up towards him.

Teddy does not believe that either. He says she owes him her rock because he has proven she lied. She pouts, points a finger at him and declares he is the liar, and she shoves him.

Teddy gets angry with her, and he shoves her back. “Your father’s ugly like a monster! Ugly!” Teddy cries out before her discontent mother witnesses her kicking Teddy in the shins.

Later, when Teddy has left with his grandmother, Victoire buries herself in her bed and weeps, head first into the pillow.

Teddy has decided that her father is ugly. She does not want this to be. Not her papa. She hears the creaking of the floor. Her mother’s hand flows in her hair, on her back, gentle and soft. Victoire sinks under the quilt.

“Chérie?” Maman’s touch is impossible to resist.

Victoire wiggles to let her lie to her side, and after a while, when her throat hurts from sobbing, she whispers her secret, how she just learned from Teddy that Papa is ugly.

Maman keeps silent for a moment. Victoire raises her head from the pillow and presses herself against her mother. “Papa a des cicatrices, chérie.”

“Scars are ugly,” she sniffs, inconsolable.

“Scars do not make people ugly,” Maman insists. “They show how brave, how strong Papa eez. There are many ways to be beautiful.”

But Victoire cannot forget the disgust on Teddy’s face, and tears fall again on her cheeks. “Papa is different. He has a strange face,” she whispers with despair.

Maman clicks her tongue and pushes back her hair from her damp cheeks. “Being different eez not a bad thing, you know. Do you reelly theenk that Papa eez ugly, mon coeur?”

Victoire stares at her mother’s features, perfect and royal, even when she wipes away her tears.

+ + +

“Hullo, firecracker.” Papa has arrived from work early.

Victoire is serving tea and a rock to her doll when she hears him walking into the sitting room. He addresses her with a gentle smile. “I hear you had quite a day.”

How could she be so blind? Her lips tremble. Papa’s smile is not even straight. One of his eyes has the shape of a tear.

He unceremoniously plops himself down to the ground, right in the middle of the wide, warming autumn sun that divides the room between dark and bright. He opens a box of photographs Victoire is not allowed to touch by herself. “Come here.”

He takes out two pictures, and he lays them on the floor next to her. He points to one. “That’s me and Charlie. I was about to leave home for Egypt. We look rather cheery on this one.” He chuckles. “Of course, that was before I realized George had slipped something horrible into our trousers.”

Victoire gingerly touches the picture with the tip of her fingers. A younger version of Uncle Charlie, perhaps with less freckles and leaner muscles, waves at her with a toothy grin. His arm rounds the shoulders of a taller boy. That one has a funny haircut, and he stares at her with genuine excitement.

“That’s you, Papa?” She brings the picture closer to her eyes. Papa’s smile on the picture radiates from happiness, and when she stares at her father, she cannot find the handsome features under this mask of scars.

“Uh uh. Hard to believe that I had short hair once, eh? Granny Molly got carried away that day.” He hands her the second picture. She eyes it with avidity. Papa has a scarf around his neck and a claw at his ear. He holds Maman against him, and they sway to an inaudible music. Maman looks at him with adoration.

Her father was beautiful. Victoire tickles Papa’s underarm on the picture, and he silently laughs with his deep, explosive laughter.

“Why are you ugly now?” she asks quietly, her eyes stubbornly glued to the picture where his father is perfect like her mother.

Her father clears his throat. “Before you were born, there was a war.”

“Beel.” Maman walks into the sitting room, and crouches to his side. “She eez too young to understand what is a war, Beel. Papa eez not ugly, chérie.”

“I’m handling this, Fleur.” Papa brings himself closer to her. “I got the scars then.”

Victoire straightens up. Her father is a strong and powerful wizard. He must have been hurt by something so strong nobody could resist to it. “A big monster attacked you, Papa?”

He nods. His hands frame his face. "We could say it was a monster.”

“Is he dead?” Victoire shivers. Papa’s face is obscured by shadows. She imagines a big creature looming over him, with long fangs and horrible scars and warts. She imagines his breath on his father’s neck.

Maman rubs her back. “She eez afraid,” she whispers to Papa. She caresses her hair. “Ze monster eez dead. There eez no danger for you.”

“He cannot hurt me?” The monster hovers in the shadows behind her father. The creature is growling. It is wondering how to get to her.

“Of course, he cannot hurt you. I wouldn’t let anything or anybody hurt you, Victoire.” Papa’s eyes are fierce, and she trusts him.

Papa holds his promises, whether it is a treat or a punishment.

“Did Teddy’s father hurt you?”

Her parents open up huge eyes as they look at each other. Papa gently rolls the end of her plait between his fingers. “Did someone suggest - who told you that?”

“No one.” She sniffs. Her parents stare at her with accusing eyes, like when they want to know who left a mess in the sitting room. A tear slips from her eye. “Teddy says his father was a werewolf before he died. A werewolf…a werewolf is a monster…is it a monster, Papa?”

Maman hides her mouth behind her hand. Her father tilts her chin up as he forces her to look him in the eye. “Werewolves are very unlucky people. firecraker. Teddy’s daddy would have never attacked me,” he sternly says. “Teddy’s daddy was a good man. Never, ever call him a monster, do you hear me, Victoire?”

“Yes.” Papa has grown so tall now, and she wishes for Teddy to be here right now. He would see what she means when she says that her father would never be crushed by anything. “You’re not a monster, Papa, are you?”

“Of course I’m not!”

She falls into his arms, and rubs her face against his jumper. He smells like tomato soup. “You have scars.”

“I do.” Papa chuckles. “It's very useful when I play the monster chasing little girls.”

Maman has a twisted smile. Victoire follows with her index finger the long scar that goes from her father’s cheekbone to the corner of his lips. “I wanna kiss it better.”

Papa winks. “It won’t get better, but I’d love if you’d give me a kiss.”

Papa has long arms. He knows how to give great hugs.

Happy Holidays Spidergirl30!

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 20:05:48 GMT

Title: Merry Christmas, Charlie Weasley or The Recount of the Infamous Moments Leading to the Disgrace and Following Rehabilitation of William Arthur (Bill) Weasley on Christmas’ Eve, 2005
Rating: R, because Charlie and George cannot help it.
Characters: Bill Weasley, Fleur Delacour, Victoire Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Ron Weasley, George Weasley....well, you see the pattern. Spidergirl's OC Sophie.
Warnings: This fic leans strongly towards crack. Bill is OOC but he assured me last night that he does not care because he loves me. Fleur talks. A lot.
Summary: Plot, what plot? It all starts with a angst-filled owl. Bill does something incredibly stupid, and Victoire overdoes it as she expresses her love for Uncle Charlie. Hermione saves the day during a riotous Christmas Eve morning at The Burrow that I will admit to be loosely inspired from my first Christmas in my SO's family.

A/N: Spider asks for fluffy humour, and I write her something like this. I'm so sorry, dear. Charlie's approximate French is intended, because it cracks me up. The fic was not beta edited, but I was told it was very readable. :-)

Merry Christmas, Charlie Weasley or
The Recount of the Infamous Moments Leading to the Disgrace and Following Rehabilitation of William Arthur (Bill) Weasley on Christmas’ Eve, 2005

For Spidergirl30

***

1. The First Angst-Ridden Owl

Christmas angst starts rather early this year, Bill Weasley pondered as Albastru, his brother Charlie’s stout owl, politely pecked on the window. The November wind was hurling against the house when Bill pushed open the pane to free the owl from its parchment.

“Treats are in the shed…why don’t you fly over there and stuff yourself?” he murmured as he stroked Albastru’s lustrous feathers with the tip of his fingers.

The owl obediently flew away to seek shelter and food. Meanwhile, Bill stood in the kitchen, biting his tongue as he deciphered Charlie’s hurried handwriting.

Bill,

Happy Birthday! One year closer to losing your hair. Ha!

In other news, I’ve started to think about Christmas. What do you think Victoire would enjoy? I can’t buy princess gear. The blokes at work are already kicking my arse about that picture of me holding Victoire I pinned in the changing room.

They nicknamed me “the sensitive one”. They’re all jealous, if you ask me. Women gush upon this picture like you wouldn’t believe.

I know what you said about Victoire being too tired to appreciate my gift last year, but I know she hated the toy dragon. Give me something to work with.

Kiss Victoire and Dominique for me. And kiss Fleur too while you’re at it.

Thanks,

C.

P.S. Just so I make myself clear - NO PINK STUFF, IF POSSIBLE.

“Why are you laughing, Papa?” questioned Victoire, a mock tiara set askew on her hair.

He peered down to his daughter. Victoire had slid to him in Fleur’s black high-heeled shoes, the ones he thought he had hid in the safety of their bedroom the following morning his very naked and very self-assuming wife had joined him into bed wearing them.

Victoire’s left hand was grasping firmly the tail of Charlie’s toy dragon. She was also tugging at the hem of Bill’s shirt to regain her balance.

“Charlie’s owl told me a funny joke,” he replied, folding the parchment and slipping it in his back pocket.

His fingers clutched Victoire’s to help her stand straight. The child sternly stared at him. ”Owls don’t tell jokes.”

“And how do you know about that?” Bill caught his daughter’s chin between his thumb and index finger. “I’ve never seen you asking an owl to tell you a joke.”

The child rolled her eyes. While Victoire’s temper and manners were reminiscent of Fleur’s, she also had expressions that reminded Bill of Ginny. His brothers had been infuriatingly quick to point out that his daughter’s shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair and lovely features would give him much to fret about when boys would burst into the picture.

When she held her arms to him, he smugly congratulated himself for having his gene pool considered in bringing to life such a vivacious little girl. “I know because owls don’t speak. They don’t speak. Did Uncle Charlie write a message for me?”

Bill embraced his daughter and planted a kiss on her cheek. “He wrote you a kiss. Now, tell me - where did you find those shoes?”

“Under your bed, Papa.”

Bugger.

+++

2. The Second Angst-Ridden Owl

“Not again?” Fleur prompted herself on an elbow. “’E eez going completely crazy, your brother.”

After closing the window shut, Bill entered the bed where Fleur’s warm body contrasted rather nicely with the slight chill in the bedroom. “He’s a nutter, I agree.”

Fleur rubbed her chin against his bare shoulder. “I sent ‘im an Owl already…what does ‘e want more?” she complained as she tugged on the parchment so she could read along with him.

Bill,

I got Fleur’s owl.

What the hell did you say to my beautiful and amazing sister-in-law? She seems to be on the impression I’m some sort of a materialistic freak.

(By the way, I know how funny you think you are. I’m man enough to buy pink toys, you git. I’d just prefer not to. Stereotypes don’t do it for me.)

Teaching Victoire to enjoy Christmas as a family celebration and not for gifts demonstrates how smart and grounded Fleur is. I agree with her whole-heartedly. You are a lucky bloke to have married such a value-oriented woman. I envy you.

BUT.

I really don’t want to mess up this year. Fleur wrote Victoire likes rocks. Are we talking about real rocks? I’ll find a couple for her, but there must be something else she likes. How about a toy broomstick? Did Fleur change her mind about them?

Help,

C.

P.S. Bonjour Fleur. I know you are reading la parchemin. Merci for la message. Kiss Kiss, Charlie

P.P.S. Bill, be nice to my sister-in-law.

Bill snorted. “He’s such a kiss arse.”

“What does ‘e means, she doesn’t like ‘is gift? She takes it in ze bat’!” Fleur exclaimed. She reread the Owl, slightly crestfallen. “’E eez stubborn.”

“Tell me again.” Bill leaned back on his pillow to drop the parchment on the bed table while Fleur spelled the lights out. “He’s going mad at the idea of disappointing her…don’t worry, I’ll write him that you haven’t changed your mind on the toy broomstick.”

Fleur cuddled up to him, her legs slinking against his. “I don’t want ‘er to be spoiled. Write ‘im she cannot be disappointed if ‘e eez at your parents’… ‘ave you seen ze calendar, in ze kitchen?”

Bill slipped an arm under his wife’s body as he pulled her closer to him. “I though you were the one marking the days to our visit to The Burrow.”

Fleur smirked. Bill preferred to ignore the subtle message expressed by her arched eyebrows. “She eez counting ze days to see Oncle Charlie. You tell ‘im.”

“I’ll write him that. Maybe he’ll get it, somehow,” Bill said, thoroughly impressed by his brother’s thick headedness. “Yeah…I’ll find something. I’ll write him she likes those charmed crayons, you know? And we’ll send him every single drawing she’ll produce, so he can plaster his walls with them. A month should be enough for Victoire to redecorate his flat.”

Fleur muffled her laughter behind her hand. “We will send ‘im ze proof she likes ze crayons. I like this idea.”

“Et voilà,” he murmured against her hair. “Am I a good brother or what?”

“You are a good brother and a good father,” whispered Fleur in the dark before her hand caressed his thigh upwards. “But…oh. I theenk you are about to be an even better ‘usband.”

If Bill were being honest with himself, he would have never imagined that being a good husband could grant him so much sex.

+++

3. The Character Trait About to Provoke the Incident

“Rise and shine, milady.” Bill helped Victoire out of bed, only to be faced by a pout of impressive proportions. He crouched, wiggling the hairbrush in her direction. “Turn around.”

“I want Maman,” his daughter whined.

“You’ll have to do with me this morning.”

Victoire extracted herself from his grip. “I don’t want a boy’s ponytail. I want a girl’s ponytail. I want Maman.”

“She’s feeding Dominique before we leave. I sure can do a girl’s ponytail.”

“No.” Victoire pouted again, her arms crossed against her chest. “You can only do one kind of ponytail.”

Bill turned her away from him, and she whimpered when he gently pulled her hair higher than usual. “Enough now. What’s with this face?”

“Maman said she would help me wrap Uncle Charlie’s gift.”

“I can help you if-“

“No. You can’t keep a secret.”

“What’s that?” Hair styling was forgotten for more urgent matters. Bill made his daughter face him. “Who says I can’t keep a secret?”

Victoire gazed at him with contempt. “Granny Molly says so.”

One lousy indiscretion at age seven (“Come on, Perce! Open this one! You’ll love that book!”), and the past was now kicking his arse with its scrawny little legs.

“I can assure you that I keep tons of secrets,” Bill said as he tied the ribbon on her hair. “Your secret gift is safe with me.”

“I prefer Maman.”

Bill thought that his child was too stubborn for her own good. “I’m done. Tell me if that’s a boy’s ponytail, now.”

Victoire ran to the mirror and shrieked. Bill foolishly believed he had succeeded. That was undoubtedly a girl’s ponytail, and a damn pretty one too. But his daughter turned to him with indignation, her little fists firmly planted on her hips. Bill understood his mistake when she pulled on the ribbon. He wondered if he would ever learn.

“It’s not a girl’s ponytail with a green ribbon! Pink, Papa! Pink!”

+++

4. The Incriminating Conversation

“I got Victoire a doll,” Charlie muttered for a greeting as he entered The Burrow. He shook the snow off his cloak. Melted flurries beaded in his hair. “A frigging doll. Is that Firewhisky? Are you working while drinking?”

“Why, nice to see you too, mate.” Bill scoffed as his brother eyed his cup with envy as he rubbed his hands reddened by the cold. “I’m reading a couple of files before going to bed.”

“Where’s everyone? No one’s here to welcome me?”

“I’m here, am I?” Bill stared at his younger brother as he dropped his hefty travel bag to the floor. “They all went to bed hours ago. Mum wanted to wait, but she fell asleep on the settee so I sent her up. I said I’d wait for you to get here. She left stew for you, if you’re hungry.”

“I’m starving.” Bill caught a glimpse of a toe escaping Charlie’s left sock as he walked to the counter to cast a Warming charm on the plate. “Mmm… stew. Blimey, it’s good to be home.”

“It’s good to see you.”

Charlie’s smile widened as soon as he shovelled meat into his mouth. “Nishe to shee you too.”

Bill yawned when Charlie sat himself at the table. “So yeah…doll. Charlie, I hope you understand that whatever you’d have decided to give her makes you godlike.”

“You don’t understand.” Charlie winced, obviously thinking that Bill was mocking him. “I wouldn’t give my goddaughter some sort of a lame arse doll with frilly clothing and big -”

Bill did not bother to hide his chuckle. “Yeah, OK. “

“Sophie’s grandmother makes them,” Charlie said as he looked away. “I asked if she could sew a Dragon Keeper outfit. She did, and she threw in the lot the Romanian costume, y’know, with the embroided apron and the scarf.”

“Brillant. Victoire will be thrilled.” Bill smacked his lips. “I was waiting for you to mention that tiny detail... where is Sophie? Wasn’t this year supposed to be the year?”

Charlie leaned back from the table.

“Did you two break up?” Bill asked with a frown.

His younger brother shook his head, still avoiding his eyes. “Nah. She’s in Romania.”

“Don’t tell me…no. You didn’t invite her,” Bill flatly said, shaking his head at him. “You chickened out.”

“I most certainly didn’t,” Charlie retorted. He hesitated before adding, “I’m not ready to bring her here. I told her.”

Bill raised his palms up. “You’ve been with her for two years.”

“We’ve made this official only six months ago,” Charlie pointed out.

“The informal shagging days count too, mate! Two years! I can’t believe that I’m the only one here who knows about her. How does she put up with you? But what I’d really like to know is how you keep that from mum.”

“I wouldn’t have told you either if you hadn’t-“

“If I hadn’t had the misfortune of barging on you two going at it on your kitchen table, yeah. You told me a gazillion times. The image of your naked arse has burned my eyes forever, etcetera. ”

“We were not going at it -" Charlie moaned, shaking his head at him. “Let’s change the subject, OK? Anyways, you’re not the only one to know about her. I know you told Fleur. You couldn’t keep that to yourself, like everything else.”

“What do you mean, you couldn’t keep that to yourself? Of course I told Fleur! She’s my wife.” Bill refrained from reporting what she had purred. At that time, he did not need to know any French to understand that she was rather pleased with the idea of testing the kitchen table. “But hiding your girlfriend of two years, Charlie…I don’t know where to start to demonstrate to you how mad this is.”

Charlie pushed back his plate. His smile vanished. “Please don’t demonstrate anything. Not sure I could take it tonight.” He then spoke under his breath. “I know I made a mistake. I should have invited her here.”

“There’s still time.”

Charlie shook his head. “I messed up. I’m …I’m tired, mate.”

Bill clapped his brother’s hand before he watched him climb up the stairs two by two. Things will never change, he grimly thought as he sipped on his Firewhisky.

+++

5. The International Incident in the Making

“Oh shite, shite, shite!”

Bill peeked into the room. Charlie was on his knees, frantically searching into his travel bag. Jumpers in various states of cleanliness were scattered on the floor next to approximately wrapped gifts. “What’s the matter?”

“I forgot the fucking doll!” Charlie clapped his thighs, before throwing his arms in the air. “I’m an idiot!”

“Charlie…” Bill sighed.

“I must have forgotten it at Sophie’s place.” Charlie winced. “Blimey…I can’t believe it.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll send it to her when you’ll be back in Romania. Victoire is thrilled to see you here, haven’t I told you she would be?”

Charlie frowned as he gauged his brother with suspicion. “Are you the one who sent her singing me good morning and jumping on my bed at six this morning?”

“She did?” Bill chortled. “I told her not to.” A sudden shimmer in Charlie’s face encouraged Bill to take a few steps towards his brother. “What’s with the sparkly stuff on you face?”

“I thought I washed it off.” Charlie rubbed his eyes. “It’s the eye glittery thing. Victoire said she would play with her make-up kit when I had my eyes closed, and I said yeah, OK, ‘cause I thought she was going to apply it on herself. She was rambling on and on how lilac is a pretty colour. I reckon I must have fell asleep…so when I woke up, well...”

Bill was laughing himself silly when Charlie shoved him as he left the room.

+ +

When Bill peered upon the file he had promised a colleague before Christmas, the kitchen’s window offered him a view on the riotous snowball fight that was unfolding on The Burrow’s grounds. His mother and father had escaped for last minute shopping, leaving the house comfortably silent. A sudden cough made him look towards the fireplace. Over the green flames, the face of a young woman was anxiously eyeing him. “Am I at the Weasleys’?”

Bill kneeled, still clutching his quill. “Yes, yes, you are. But I know you. You’re Sophie.”

The young woman smiled, red creeping to her cheeks. “You are Charlie’s older brother. I’m sorry I hadn’t recognized you. The first time I saw you, er-“

Bill nodded. He could not blame her for being more interested in covering herself than in looking at him, that faithful night he caught her scarcely dressed. “Charlie’s outside. You want me to get him?”

Sophie nervously smiled again. “I realized before I left Romania last night that he forgot his goddaughter’s gift. I had a last minute invitation, and tomorrow morning I’ll be passing by Ottery St. Catchpole. I was thinking of stopping by to give it to him.”

“I’m sure he’d be thrilled.”

Sophie swallowed. “Something tells me that he would not be that thrilled.”

Bill stared at the young woman. “You know what, Sophie? I think you should come by and maybe spend Christmas’ Eve with us, if you’d like to. I guess Charlie’s terrified of you discovering how mad his family is.”

She blinked. “I was under the impression that he didn’t want me to-”

“Nonsense.” Bill had no idea what fuelled Charlie’s twisted logic, but him assessing his regret of having not Sophie with him last night made him righteously convinced that he was doing the best thing. Charlie would thank him later. “We’re a loud family, and my mother will want to force feed you, but we’re not that bad.”

Sophie laughed. “I can deal with that. I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

Bill congratulated himself when her face disappeared in a flash of green. A little more love in the world, he thought with giddiness, sitting himself at the table.

Fleur’s voice made him jolt. “What are you doing?” She took off her cloak, and snow fell in large clumps from her jumper. “It eez crazy out there. Your brother George, ’e eez a madman.”

“I just invited Charlie’s girlfriend for tomorrow.”

Fleur clicked her tongue. “And you plan on not telling ‘im, do you?”

“How do you know that?”

“I know this smile. You theenk you are being very bright.”

Bill pursed his lips as Fleur fished for a biscuit in a jar. He toyed with his quill. “I can keep secrets. It will my Christmas gift to him.”

“’E will be angry.”

“He’ll be thrilled. It’s quite pitiful I still have to invite girls for him. You’d think after all this time he would have learned a thing or two.”

+++

6. The Consequence

The Burrow’s kitchen had turned into proper mayhem. The morning of Christmas Eve promised to be loud, and it announced the hectic crescendo that would culminate, Bill predicted to himself, into a splitting headache on Christmas morning.

On top of it all, Victoire was singing a Christmas carol of her own, while James and Dominique were shrieking what could generously be called a chorus.

“Bill!” Ginny was pleading him. “Will you pass that bacon platter my way, please?”

“Show me your muscles, Uncle Charlie!” Victoire begged, interrupting her heartfelt singing.

Bill snickered when Charlie flexed and encouraged Victoire to punch his biceps. “You’re a show off. What’s that stuff on your lips?”

“Lip gloss, so I’ve been told.” Charlie wiped his mouth before tickling his goddaughter. “Hey lass, your dad is jealous, ‘cause you have bigger muscles than he’ll ever have. Show me your biceps – whoa.”

“God, bacon,” Hermione moaned, eyeing with envy the plate Bill was holding out for Ginny. “I never thought I would crave bacon.”

“You frighten me,” Harry quipped. “You women have become obsessed with bacon.”

“Percy and his tribe will be joining us later today,” George announced, waving a parchment in the air and sitting to Bill’s side at the table.

“Leave some bacon for the non pregnant folks, now,” Charlie joked, only to be swatted by his sister. He leaned in to Bill. “I’m going shopping this afternoon. Ginny promised she’d hold my hand in the princess-y shops.”

“You won’t need to,” Bill replied as he heard a discreet knock on the door that could be easily missed with the brouhaha around the table.

Charlie turned his head towards the door, frowning. “Is someone out there?”

“That must be Sophie,” Bill casually said under his breath.

“Yeah, right.” Charlie chuckled. “Fruit?”

“I’m serious. She’s bringing the doll, and I invited her for the day. Open the door before Mum does.”

Bill admired the quickness of his brother’s reflexes as he jumped to the threshold. He also congratulated himself when Sophie’s red cheeks and pretty features appeared behind the door.

Charlie stood his back to the table, petrified.

Ron peered up from his plate. “Are you going to stand there forever? You’re about to freeze a nipple, I reckon.”

“Hi,” Charlie emitted. The tattooed dragon on his shoulder rippled when he shivered.

“Or worse,” George brightly added, defying his mother’s don’t-you-dare-saying-what-I-believe-you’re-about-to-say-before-the-children-in-this-room stare, “you could freeze your willy. Hello, pretty stranger.”

Sophie wiped the snow from her face. “You look surprised to see me. Bill must have told you…”

Charlie kept mum. Good grief, thought Bill as he witnessed his plan taking the slippery road to hell when her voice died.

It did not help that Fleur was staring at him with a feisty I told you face that was much more efficient than his mother’s because it was French.

“You should do something,” she muttered. “You are ze one who made this ‘appen.”

“Shhh. He’s a big boy.”

Fleur rolled her eyes. “’Ee is very nice, I love him very much, but with women, ‘ee eez un idiot.”

“Uncle Charlie has a willy, ‘cause he’s a boy.” Victoire loudly decreed. “Papa is a boy, and he has a willy, I’ve seen it. So Uncle Charlie has a willy, doesn’t he, Maman?”

“I can’t wait for our kid to humiliate us,” Ron confided to Hermione, before leaning in to kiss her.

“Oui chérie,” Fleur said as she wiped her daughter’s chin. “Eet eez not polite to ask boys about their willies. Now, you’ve ‘ad enough chocolate bread. This eez too much.”

“Uncle Harry, do you have a willy? You’re a boy.”

Bill was tempted for a second to let Harry claim his manhood, but he turned to his daughter instead. “Victoire, what did Maman just say?“

“Willy!” shrieked James with a wide grin, arms and legs batting the air from excitement. “Daddy! Willy, willy, willy, daddy!”

“Yes, James, I get the point.” Harry sighed as he cut a hotcake into tiny pieces.

Bill nervously laughed when the tyke shoved a piece in his mouth and growled like a baby tiger. Every distraction was welcomed to avoid the silent drama that was unfolding at the door. “Stuffing them with food…that always works.”

Harry smirked. “You bet.” He lowered his voice. “Who is this woman? Charlie’s girlfriend?”

Gah.

Molly’s hearing had never been better, and she jumped into the conversation. “Girlfriend? Charlie, you didn’t tell us about your girlfriend coming in today, dear!”

“Uncle Georgie, do you have a willy?” Victoire asked seriously.

Molly seemed nervous all of a sudden. “You didn’t hear well, dearest. Uncle George was talking about Charlie’s…er…about a – a whale. Now, Charlie, let your girlfriend in so she doesn’t freeze to death!”

“Mum fancies exaggerations, don’t you think?” George muttered in Bill’s ear, as Fleur was eyeing them with a frown. “A whale…we lads know the dragon arse is well-hung, but I reckon this is out of proportion.“

“Uncle Charlie, I wanna see the whale!” Victoire shrieked.

“Charlie,” repeated Sophie. Her blue cap was flecked with snow. Guilt chewed on Bill’s stomach when she whispered, “I’ll go if you don’t want me to stay.”

“Nonsense…ouch!” exclaimed Arthur as Dominique mistook his fingers for the spoon. “Charlie, let your friend in! Welcome, er….”

“Sophie,” she said. Charlie was still blocking the door. She shoved a parcel in his arms. “I’ve had enough. Here, you forgot that. I’ll go now.”

Fleur’s eyebrows rose to the sky. Bill tentatively said, “Sophie, please come in.”

“Don’t be silly, darling! You’re not going anywhere in this weather!” Molly cried out. “Charles Septimus Weasley, where are your manners? Let your girlfriend in! Would you enjoy a hot cup of tea, dear? Have you had breakfast yet? Oh … don’t tell me you just travelled all the way from Romania, did you? CHARLIE! Your GIRLFRIEND!”

Ron nudged Hermione who dropped her piece of toast. “Do something.”

“Why me?” she questioned, taking the bacon platter Harry was handing her. “He’s your brother.”

“But you’re pregnant.”

Bill caught Hermione’s dubitative look, and she extirpated herself from the table. She walked to Charlie, stroking her bump. “Charlie, would you please let - Sophie, right? Please let Sophie in and close the door. I’m cold, and with the baby…”

“Oh shite, yeah,” Charlie gasped, pulling Sophie into the kitchen and closing the door on the snow. “So sorry, Hermione.”

“Shite, shite, shite!” James beamed. “Shite, daddy!”

“Charlie!” Ginny clicked her tongue. “You’re not the one stuck with him crying it to strangers!”

Ron leaned over the table towards Bill. “Hermione is brilliant,” he declared matter-of-factly.

Bill had to agree.

+++

7. The Further Humiliation

The Burrow was suspiciously silent to Bill’s liking. He soon understood why when he stumbled onto the extensive spying operation that was undergoing in the room next to the one Charlie and Sophie had barricaded themselves into as fast as they could after breakfast.

“You cannot be serious about this,“ he moaned before Fleur applied her hand to his mouth. “Aren’t we adults?”

“Fair question,” Ginny hushed. “You invited her without telling him. What kind of a sick adult plan is that?”

Hermione lifted an imperious hand, waving the Ear Ron had just handed her. “We shouldn’t be using the Extendable Ears. It’s a personal conversation.”

“What are you doing in this room, then?” Ron muttered.

“Personal conversation, my arse,” George announced, waggling the device. “This is worth a fortune. He’s being very smooth.”

“Charlie forgot Victoire’s gift,” Bill explained to Ginny as Fleur tapped her foot. “Sophie was travelling near The Burrow. I told her to stop by.”

Ginny sighed. “Do you know how it feels to have your girlfriend ousted in front of your whole family like this?”

“Aren’t you the one who ousted your boyfriend before he even knew he was?” Ron asked with a snort. “What was it? Green eyes as the fresh-pickled toad?”

“Why Charlie did not want to bring ‘er ‘ere, you theenk?” Fleur mumbled, her eyes to the ceiling.

“Shhh, Fleur, we’re about to know.” George frowned as he listened intently. “Now, that’s bad. Dragon arse thinks we would have pulled the mickey out of her. He says he wanted it to be less painful. Oh, now, he’s kissing her. Smart move, but I would have used less tongue.”

“Painful? What could be painful? ” Ron wondered.

Bill moved towards the door. “It will be fine. She’s a sweet woman, they’ve been together for two years…”

“TWO years!” Ginny, Hermione and Ron gaped at him. “TWO years!”

“Merlin, I always thought my older brothers were role models, but my innocence is being trampled on right now. A grass and a prat, that’s who they are.” George raised a finger as he pressed the device against his ear. “Charlie says that we should be quieter because he can hear what we’re saying.”

The door flung open, and Charlie appeared, discontent. “ What the –“

Ron squinted. “What’s that thing on your cheeks?”

“What d’you think it is? Victoire is going make-up crazy.” Charlie moved to the side, and Sophie appeared with a weary smile. “You lot, meet Sophie.”

Bill tapped his chin with a finger. Charlie seemed relatively proud of himself. However, he had no look for him.

+++

Much later that day, minutes before Sophie was about to leave and Molly was attempting her best to prevent her from leaving, Bill bumped into Charlie in the corridor.

A quick look to his brother’s face was enough to assess the obvious. “You’re wearing make-up again.”

Charlie faced him in silence. “Are you going to talk to me before you leave for Romania in three days?” Bill inquired. “Blimey, do something with the sparkles. You look like a bloated fairy.”

“Fucking glittering stuff.” Charlie rubbed his face with both hands. “I’m angry, Bill.”

“I told her to stop using that stuff on you, mate. You could just say no.”

“I’m not talking about Victoire!” Charlie crossed his arms tightly against his chest. “I’m angry at you. Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”

“I thought-”

“Yeah, you thought.”

Christmas Eve was one long evening.

+ + +

8. The Mandatory Reconciliation

As the first hours of the Christmas night had gone by, Bill whole-heartedly believed he should be doing the same as the others and sprint upstairs to collapse into bed. However, Charlie decided against sanity that it was the perfect moment for them to get pissed with the abrasive plum alcohol he had brought back from Romania.

They kept silent for a long time, staring at the fire, until Charlie hoarsely declared before emptying his cup, “I keep on forgetting how you never mind your own business.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Bill objected. “Sophie fits right in. Too bad she couldn’t stay longer, mum adores her…I think she invited her for Easter.”

“Easter? That’s like…in four months.” His brother shook his head. “What did I ever do to you? Was this a way to make me pay for kissing your girlfriend in fourth year? I thought I’d paid enough for that.”

“I made better what you mucked, what’s wrong with that? I’d forgotten how much of a fearful wanker you can be,” Bill retorted, his mind and mouth slightly numb from alcohol.

Charlie snorted. “I’m no coward. I’m protective. I have a personal life and I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”

“You can’t humour yourself.” Bill blinked. “I just noticed…how freaky - you got Mum’s eyes.”

“That’s the casmara. It’s kind of cool. I never really noticed I had eyelashes before.”

“It’s mascara, prat, and I’ve got to trust you on that. You’ve got such a girly heart.”

Charlie exaggeratedly batted his eyelashes, and they collapsed in a sniggering fit. “Why does Victouaaare want to doll me up for, you think?” Charlie slurred.

“She loves you,” Bill poured shots so they could merrily toast to mascara. “I reckon she wants you to be pretty…or maybe she just wants to take care of you.”

“I’m already very pretty.” Charlie never looked as much as an overgrown kid at that particular moment. “I’m going tell you a secret, and I want you to keep it to yourself. Don’t tell Fleur.”

“Uh?”

“I love Sophie. I really, really love her, mate. That’s why I didn’t want her to be here.”

“Shite, you’re having trouble grasping the basic concepts of a relationship, do you?”

“Look who’s talking.” Charlie took another swig.

“What does that mean?”

Charlie stared at the bottom of his cup. “You’re the bright one… figure it out.”

“We should stop drinking,” Bill concluded.

“Yep, brainiac.”

They went up the stairs as silently as they could manage it, holding out to each other, daftly believing that the other was in worse shape than he was.

As he laid a hand on the door leading him to his room, Bill was suddenly pulled into an embrace reeking of cheap flowery perfume.

“Eau de lavatory,” Charlie sniggered in his ear, “courtesy of your daughter. “

Charlie then spoke in a hurry, and Bill patted his back too harshly as he muttered excuses. They separated to get some sleep that would be undoubtedly cut short.

Fleur wrapped herself around him when he crawled into bed. Bill attempted, in his sleepy and inebriated haze, to make sense of the true meaning of what Charlie just mumbled to him.

“I’m so glad you’re not in Romania to fuck up my life.”

+ + +

9. The Surprising Conclusion that Can Be Drawn from this Farce

A few days later, when the time came for Charlie to travel back to Romania, Bill consoled Victoire, who was hanging to his neck in tears.

“Charlie wants a hug too.” Bill glanced to his brother, but he was surprised when Victoire pushed into his arms a pretty but kick arse- looking doll.

“You named your doll Charlie?” Bill asked, fighting the grin that threatened to take over his face. “That’s a nice name for a girl.”

Fleur loudly kissed her brother-in-law on the cheeks the French way. “You are welcome to Shell Cottage anytime,” she trumpeted, her arched eyebrows daring Charlie to contradict her. “Both of you.”

Charlie had the good grace to smile. His eyes sparkled when he held out his arms to Victoire. “What do I have to do to get a goodbye kiss?”

Victoire left the Charlie doll into Bill’s arms to jump into her uncle’s. She sniffled her goodbyes on his travel cloak.

“Hey, don’t cry, sweetheart. We’ll visit soon.”

“Pro-ooo-mise?” sobbed Victoire.

“Promise.” Bill watched his brother hug and cradle his daughter. “Love you, lass,” Charlie murmured against Victoire’s hair.

That’s so typically Charlie, thought Bill, unable to stop himself from looking away from his brother’s burst of affection.

Charlie, his savagely private brother, childishly protective of his life and choices, was hugging Victoire farewell in the peaceful kitchen of The Burrow, his short and chewed nails impeccably glossed in ten horrid shades of sparkly nail polish.

When Charlie patted his shoulder goodbye, Bill wondered if he had that kind of courage in him.

The end.

Remembering and Forgetting (Merry Christmas Queenb23more!)

Sat, 22 Dec 2007 00:23:18 GMT

Title: Remembering and Forgetting
Rating: R
Characters: Ron Weasley, Harry Potter, Hannah Abbott, George Weasley, Hermione Granger
Warnings: Second person POV, minor erotic imagery, angst (arrgh - you asked for it :-))
Summary: It has been ten years, and you still have that image of him, lifeless and frail in Hagrid’s arms, a mere nightmare away. You cannot make the image disappear even when you berate yourself as you wake up suddenly from the dream invading your waking life.

A/N: Many, many thanks to pigwithhair who helped me in making this pretty and shiny in this busy season. If you love the story, it is all because of her. If you don't like it, it is all because of me. :-) All remaining mistakes are mine. I hope you will enjoy it! Happy Holidays!

Remembering and Forgetting

* - *

Voldemort has died ten years ago. Your Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes A Mischief a Day table calendar made sure you remembered when you arrived at work this morning. However, you do not feel like slipping Canary Creams to anyone.

Ten years ago…as if you could forget.

When you sat at your desk, your stomach did a flip. You regretted downing the copious breakfast you had an hour earlier when you saw what picture made the cover of The Daily Prophet. You attempted to ease your agitation by chatting with colleagues. You drank too much tea, and it resulted in you pacing between your desk and the loo.

You now attempt to busy yourself in the hope that you will wrap up the case you have been wishing to close for a couple of days, but to no avail. Distraction leads you to stare at the forms without truly reading them, and you glance at the date from the corner of your eye, again and again.

The same thing happens each year since that faithful day ten years ago. The date stares at you and makes itself unavoidable.

Parchment ruffles on the desk facing yours. Your best friend, colleague and brother-in-law looks deep in concentration, his eyes focused on a file. This sight is in itself nothing short of miraculous. You might not be able to contemplate the miracle as often if the rumours are proven to be true, though. Your best friend might land an office to himself. Some say he is about to be named head of the Auror Department.

You knew it was bound to happen. You wonder what took the Minister so long, to tell the truth. Harry has it in him, and it would have been ridiculous not to consider his profile, now that McQuillen has been appointed to a new key position.

You would have never believed how much your friend would change in ten years. When Harry vanquished Voldemort, you were eighteen. Ten years represented more than half of your life. Back then, you were both prats, you realize it now. He wanted to go through everything alone. He did not know how to ask for help or to accept loyalty. He was a kid with the daunting task of killing the most potent Dark wizard of his time, and he had the inner certitude he needed to do this by himself.

It has been hard to accept he had been partly right. He was the one to finish Voldemort, after all. He was the only one who could do it. But the more you think about it now, you believe that he got to do it because so many stuck by him, and this does not take anything away from him.

On the contrary: you admire him. But he learned a couple of things from you.

You had to bully into him the idea that he led the way, but you and Hermione were there to keep him afloat. You had trusted him to succeed, even if you were scared witless many times.

A little more than ten years ago, he had feared you would abandon him. You now have made peace with yourself about this. The memory is no longer a raging fire of guilt. It is merely a blister, but you still carry it wherever you go, so you will not forget that you can be your own fiercest enemy.

Being an Auror means knowing your own shadows so nobody can use them against you. The gruelling schedule, the botched spells, the physical pain…nothing was harder for you during Auror training than to tolerate those inner shadows and to befriend them.

Time is a good teacher. You were not the only one who had faults in this friendship. Harry often did not trust himself to know how to be your friend. You both had to grow up to understand that he needed to learn to trust himself in order to completely trust you.

And since you often work together these days, you can see how much he has grown into this. And you hold on. You still have to force your generosity on him, even now, since he is wary of taking too much from you and wondering if he deserves it enough. These are Harry’s shadows and not yours, but they are familiar as well.

It has been ten years, and you still have that image of him, lifeless and frail in Hagrid’s arms, a mere nightmare away. You cannot make the image disappear even when you berate yourself as you wake up suddenly from the dream invading your waking life.

Gladly, it happens less and less these days, but the image haunts you from time to time, and it surprises you just the same by its ability to recreate itself in painstaking detail. When you play that moment in your mind, when a part of you feels compelled by a twisted need to remember it, you feel powerless and overcome with fear. You are not much more than a defenceless child, never mind that you have become an Auror, and a bloody good one to boot.

It leads you to hear again Hermione supplicating, hurling in pain, and the sound of it is unbearable, a pervasive and frightening creature sprouting from your own memory.

When it happens, you leave that dream with haste. You press yourself against Hermione in bed, and you hide your face in her hair. You need to slide an arm around her and to slow down your breathing by pausing your hand on her stomach, or cupping one of her breasts.

Those familiar gestures help you to grasp that you are not eighteen anymore; you are twenty, or twenty-five, or twenty-eight, and you touching her in this intimate way means you are not stuck back then.

All is well, you think as Harry lifts his gaze from the file.

It does not matter that you have seen him laughing, carefree, or thoroughly pissed. He is now your daughter’s godfather and your sister’s husband, and all of this is washed away when you think about that day, ten years ago.

It does not matter that you know him better than you know your brothers, that you did reckless things together, that you get on each other’s nerves sometimes, that you turn his incredible instincts into carefully orchestrated plans.

It does not matter. You saw him dead once and you tasted your failure, your all-consuming fear and your unfailing friendship for him.

You will never forget it.

“Have you got the file on the Kremski case?”

You face Harry, caught in the act of drifting away from him as you stare at your darkest memories. You hand the file to him and words that have been itching your tongue finally come out. “Ten years today, mate.”

“Really?” He glances at the calendar and looks down at the paperwork. “I’d forgotten about that.”

He lies, of course, and he has always been pitiful at it.

“I’m surprised the giant picture of your fuzzy face on the first page of The Prophet this morning didn’t remind you about it. ” You sip on tea, and you burn your tongue.

“I’m not so keen on remembering it.” His eyes blaze behind his glasses and you shake your head, because he is hopeless. What he does remember about this day are not his victories or how he fought to get his life back, but what he believes to have been his failures.

You would like to smack some sense into him. You tell him.

He laughs a bit too loudly. You shake your head. “But I can’t smack my future boss, right? You’re on the fast track, mate. You’re going to be the boss here very soon. You’ll have an office to yourself.”

Harry looks at you with a twisted smile. “What do you want me to do with an office to myself?”

“Dunno. Arrange pictures on the wall, close the door. Have your own workspace.”

He snorts, and he files a parchment. “I like my desk too much.”

“Move it into your brand new office, then.”

“This is my office,” he says, pointing at the area around you two. “It’s our office. I don’t need another one.”

You lean back on your chair, and Harry mirrors your move. “I’m taking the afternoon off,” you say.

Harry nods. “You’re going to see George, are you?”

“Yeah.” You fuss with your quill. It is a half-truth. You have another visit planned afterwards. “On this day, he tends to be, you know…weird.”

Harry leans forward on his desk, and he is ten years younger, asking you if you will forgive him one day. You have nothing to forgive him for. You told him numerous times.

“You’re a good brother, Ron,” he quietly says.

You shrug before going back to your case, a blush creeping to your cheeks. You know what he means.

* - *

The day is not particularly sunny or particularly cloudy. The air is stale and dusty, yet you breathe in deeply. You walk leisurely towards the Leaky Cauldron in long strides. As you are about to enter the pub, you notice the old and faded sticker that has been applied ages ago on one of the pub’s dirt-crusted windows.

To Remember and To Forget

Those stickers are everywhere, on every window where decent wizards live and shop, a discreet tribute to Harry’s feat. When you push open the pub’s door Hannah Abbott greets you with a beaming smile.

“Ron! What brings you here so early? Kidney pie is on the menu today.”

You take a few steps in. Nothing is dusty in here. The Leaky Cauldron smells like comfort food and soft wax. A pungent lemon scent lingers in the air. Two wizards chat in a corner, and a young family are having an early lunch.

Hannah lays her elbows on the counter but it cannot hide the size of her bump. You walk to her, answering to her smile with one of your own. “Hey, Hannah. I’m sorry I’ll miss your kidney pie…I’m off to Diagon Alley. Still on your feet, are you? When is the baby coming?”

“I’m trying to convince him to wait for Neville to come home tonight,” she says pleasantly, and you chuckle. “Lucas and Jane will have the pub to themselves for a few months, but until then, I need to move around or I’ll go mad.”

Hannah wipes the counter in large, circular gestures. You smile again, and you are aware that you look a bit daft in doing so. Watching pregnant women does that to you. The memory of Hermione insisting to scrub the floor by hand, three hours before she announced that she needed you to take her to St. Mungo’s is not so far away. That memory moves you. You could not love her more than when you held your baby daughter whimpering in your arms ten hours later.

Hannah touches your hand over the counter. “Ten years today.”

You nod carefully. She does not need to know about your nightmares, does she? She has hers. “Yeah…time flies. You know what? Maybe I’ll take that kidney pie to go. I’m lending George a hand today. I know how much he likes your cooking.”

Hannah’s face darkens. Her tiredness shows as she massages her lower back. “Wait, I’ll prepare something for both of you.”

When she turns again towards you, she pushes a well-wrapped package in your direction. “Kidney pies, rhubarb crumbles and two bottles of this apple cider I’ve been brewing. You lot tell me about it.”

You shove your hand in your pocket to grasp your money pouch, but she tut-tuts. “Now, Ron. It’s on me.”

“You’ll be out of business if you don’t let your customers pay,” you argue.

You feel the warmth of her hand on yours. “Don’t be silly. Please tell your brother I miss having him around.”

* - *

Diagon Alley buzzes with activity at this time of day. Two ancient looking women nod in your direction, and you do just the same. You will never get used to this, whatever George says. He often addresses you as “Ron, my brother the attention whore”.

A pretty woman looks at you, and she grins. You give her a tight-lipped smile, and you look away.

At first, the looks were overwhelming. It was difficult to keep to yourself that you were struggling when people expected you to be Harry Potter’s best friend and resistance hero.

Everyone around you had seemed to be eager to forget and to let go. Wounds became less apparent, and smiles crept back. Your mother dissolving into tears became an infrequent occurrence. Hermione buried herself into work, and Harry did not want to be remembered for his victory.

As you check out the new Nimbus Aero on display at the Quidditch Quality Supplies Shop, you calculate that it took you two years to feel grounded. Two years of mourning, of looking around for yourself, of feeling that you lost more than a brother in that quest, only to shake yourself up when you realized that what was lost from you needed to be abandoned anyways.

You lost fears and pains. You gained yourself in the process.

At first you followed the flow. You started Auror training, and you found time for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

You finally understood firsthand what the fuss was about sex, and you went mad with it for a while. It was real and good, and it made you feel alive. You made love with Hermione in a frenzy with hunger and passion.

You began to exchange Owls more often with Bill and Charlie. You felt like you needed them more than you ever did when you were a kid. You were happy to see that they wrote back with affection and teasing jabs. You now have lunch with Percy once in a while. Life has reminded you that you can be close to your brothers, not only to your sister. You see Ginny all the time. You think often how lucky you are to know what it is to have both a sister and brothers. You see how good she is to Harry. You also see how good she is to you.

Because instead of hexing you these days, she hugs you; instead of feeling embarrassed, you hug her so hard you lift her up off the floor.

You honestly believe that some had it rougher than you. It could have been you - the destroyed, the never forgiving one - but you never stop moving. You did follow the current, but you never stopped swimming.

George was the one who almost sank to the bottom of the sea, and you did everything to prevent him from drowning.

You enter the shop and close the door behind you. You wave at George, who acknowledges you with a nod as he concludes a sale. You slip into the scarlet robes, and when his customer leaves, you put the package on the counter.

“Hannah Abbott said you might be tempted by her kidney pie.”

“She’s about to pop, right?” George straightens the parchments on the corner before taking a sniff. “Blimey, that smells great.”

“I reckon she’s due any minute now. She asked me to tell you she misses you.”

George smiles without joy. “I’ve been busy with work…this new line of counter defensive portable mini shields? I realized it couldn’t resist Transfiguration. I’m back to the drawing board again.”

You stare at him as he opens a thick book. “Professor McGonagall sent me this with a fork,” says George.

“A fork?”

George snickers. “She said I needed to eat my words about my education being finished.”

You chuckle. George flips through the pages, his fingers slipping on the very thin parchment. “I’d never thought Transfiguration could be so useful in a joke shop, to tell the truth,” he says pensively. He looks at you with his eyebrows arched. “What are you doing here? You told me you’d help on Friday, and you’re gracing the store with your presence today. What’s up?”

You replace the boxes of Sweet Memory Charms on the counter. “I thought-”

“You thought it would be better to never let me forget.”

You shrug, and you turn your back to him. George’s voice drips with sarcasm. “You’re not helping, Ronniekins.”

You hate that nickname. He is still the one brother who can make you feel like a snivelling kid. You face him. George has planted a fork into his kidney pie. He chews slowly before muttering, “I’m a father now, Ron. I’ve got a family. You don’t need to get me out of trouble anymore, you big macho Auror.”

You shake your head with frustration. “I’m not here to keep you out of trouble. I’m here because -”

“Freddie said his first word today.” George casually interrupts you. He averts your eyes.

You breathe in. “Yeah? That’s brilliant.”

George’s eyes glitter when he meets your stare, and your heart misses a beat. “Katie presented him with porridge, and he said dung. My son said dung. I’m so proud.”

His laughter surprises you in its explosiveness. You toast your nephew with the apple cider, and you both merrily joke about what will be Freddie’s next words.

The afternoon slowly passes by. It rains a bit around four o’clock, and the weather brings you many customers willing to let themselves be charmed into buying several products.

When George pats you on the shoulder before he locks up the shop behind you, you believe you have found the way to stop the defensive shield from being Transfigured.

* - *

You stand on the threshold of your bedroom, and you let the clothes fall far away from you. Nothing else matters when Hermione welcomes you with a smile. She holds out a hand to you as she drops her book on the bed table. “You’re late. I was wondering if you’d forgotten.”

“Had a lot to do at the shop.” The sheets are cool against your skin. Her hand strokes your chest. “Rose’s asleep?” you murmur.

“No. Your mother asked if she could take her for the night. She also took James. Molly said she needed to spoil children today.” You touch her cheek when her smile tenses. “How’s George?” she whispers.

Her face moves closer to yours, and you softly kiss her, before you insinuate your hands under her blouse. “He’s George.”

She hesitantly smiles, worry crinkling her eyes. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t worry…he’s fine. He’s great.” Your mouth moves to her neck, her collarbone. She throws her head back, and you roll on her, cradling her face between your hands. She sighs happily, her thigh brushing against your hip.

She pushes you back for a second to banish all clothes and undergarments from the bed, and when she returns to your arms she glows from the light of the cloudy day that is about to slip away. “So I take it you’re happy to see me?” she whispers as she straddles you, and her hands slide down your body.

Your lips stretch into a smile as she eyes you with the playfulness that she keeps for you, only for you. “Always.” Desire pulsates in you. It throbs, it is sad but triumphant, and you want it to never die.

There are other days to play and to laugh. There are other days to talk dirty and to be adventurous. There are other days where sex serves no purpose than fun, when sex is sex, plain and simple.

But not today.

As you roll on the bed with her, and you are about to leave all rational thoughts behind, you are sure, once again, that this is the best way you two have found to commemorate Voldemort’s defeat. You both come home in daylight to each other, and you make love.

You soothe the old pains with what is true to you. You celebrate all victories by getting yourself caught in the fever of the love you feel for her. You hear her whisper your name lovingly, and oddly, you feel like crying from relief.

You get drunk with the taste of her skin and the renewed pleasure of touching her, and time stops.

As she smiles, breathless, sweat already glistening on her body, you move purposefully into her. You know that you have found your way of remembering everything that has survived, and to forget all fears of what could have been.

The end

Desheret (Merry Christmas MrsQuizzical! )

Fri, 21 Dec 2007 02:22:38 GMT

Some of the fics that I have written are ready to be posted, so I decided to post two, maybe three of them before Christmas.

Title: Desheret
Rating: R
Characters: The ghost of an Egyptian witch, Bill, Charlie
Warnings: Erotic themes
Summary: The time has come. It has been a hundred or three hundred years I have waited for a son to take. This chamber will be reopened. I feel magic swirling near me… masculine, one of strangers.

A/N: I owe so much to dragon_animagus and queenb23more who helped me to make this ready for you. If you love the story, it is all because of them. If you don't like it, it is all because of me. :-) All remaining mistakes are mine. I hope you will enjoy it! Happy Holidays!

Desheret
This story was written as a gift for MrsQuizzical on LJ. I owe many thanks to PurebloodMuggle for her support, to Queenb23 for her beta help, and to PigWithHair for her appreciated suggestions for the final touch-ups. This is rather different from what I usually write. I hope you will enjoy this story.

I am Anat, daughter of Ammon, son of Amehnemet, son of Pepi, son of Imhotep, son of Menes.

I am the only child my father has engendered, despite his adulterous attempts to create sons by being intimate with many fertile women.

My mother died from grief. She was not a clever woman. My father explained to me that she did not understand the need for man and woman to experience pleasure as often as possible. She could not fathom the importance of ancestry, of preserving life and magical arts through blood and celebration of flesh. She valued the vague emotion of love before the pleasures and luxuries skin rouse. The moist power women have over men eluded her. My father often questioned himself how a woman like me could be born from her womb.

"How can you be, Anat? How can you be?" he had murmured when he’d watched me succeed in creating a spell that made men forget hours of their simple lives.

I am his daughter. I inherited his power and intelligence. Oh, to hold in my hands again the unrelenting will of Ma’at! One day, I will touch again the subtle powers of the gods.

I am a sorceress, although I am my father’s doom as well as my grandfather’s and my great-grandfather’s. I am the plague that ended a long lineage of formidable and great wizards, all of them men, who could alter life and provoke death. These men held the souls of gods in their hands. They had the power to summon the desert, to send great and bloody gusts of wind to suffocate enemies. With a flick of their wands, they could bury spies alive in the inscrutable sands of my mother, my true mother Egypt, and for the traitors they reserved the most dishonouring fate by transforming their flesh into stone and depriving them from a proper repose.

Because my male ancestors touched the gods, they were dusted with their powers. They made the sun rise higher in the sky so it could burn the ones who did not believe that they could indeed be burned. I am what Father wanted me to become. In my former life as a woman, I had mastered secrets that men would have traded their wives to obtain… They would have betrayed their sons or perhaps killed their fathers to possess the knowledge I had.

I had powers that reduced men to slaves.

II.

My spirit is intact in the confines of this precious recipient my father chose for me. This casing of porous rock in which my soul was offered to the mighty Set, the god of desert and chaos, has not altered the deadly blooming of my magic. This statue was the only way for me to exist within this world, and for my father to pursue his vengeance for centuries, long after he mourned my death, long after my beautiful and supple corporal form lost its gloss and became leathery from the rituals of embalmment.

I have accepted to exist between the afterlife and the lower life so I could take as many souls as Set will allow me to. I will avenge my father for not having sons by ravishing some of them to their fathers.

I feed from men and their vital energy. The splendour of the stone shelter my soul inhabits raises their fever to the point they think I am back from the land of the dead and breathing. They listen to the impetuosity of their lust when they accept the idea that I have become alive by their touch, that my skin exhales the sensual scents of myrrh and fenugreek.

My magic is potent and makes their flesh hard and impatient. When those who are astute or lucky enough pierce the enchantments of this chamber, I offer my thanks for freeing me from the spell that held me captive, and I agree to their carnal ministrations with much pleasure for I am the one who created their need– oh, the fools who ignore my cunning. I relish every second of their attention.

And what one barbaric treasure hunter called la petite mort becomes their last breath. They die seeing the threshold of afterlife in my eyes.

For each son I seduce, my magic becomes stronger, and my soul takes a step closer to becoming once again embodied in flesh and blood. One day, I will be walking on the hot sands of my mother Egypt, and I will pursue my services to the will of Set.

III.

I am carved with exquisite details, and I still bear the print of the lust and desire the artist had for me before he died at the hands of my father when he found him possessing me on the floor of his workshop.

My father had asked for a heresy, a work of art that defied the idea of beauty. He wanted the statue without jewellery, without clothes, my hair flowing on my back, my whole body open to the eyes of admirers. My father had to accept the refusals of many great artists who judged his request injurious to Thoth.

The artist who finally agreed to the order requested to be alone with me when he worked. He was a young man with talent but not much discipline. He pretended he needed to feel the pulp of my breasts, to tongue their tips, and to dig his fingers into the flesh of my buttocks to carve them accordingly.

He was indeed right; no other artist could have carved accurately the slope that leads to my breasts nor the aggressiveness of their tips if he had not tasted them or followed them with his hands. It made the statue familiar. I suspect my receptacle reminds men of the exciting moment when they discover skin that is soft and vulnerable as powdery sand.

The young artist did complicate his work by showcasing my naked body in such a way one would think it would step down its pedestal and live. The smooth surface of it is now slick from the contact of many hands throughout time. I have accepted so many of them grazing my bosom, slipping on my buttocks, cupping the mound between my legs.

Callused, damp, hard, soft, limber, delicate, powerful, indecent, respectful…so many souls, so many bodies against mine through the centuries.

But only one survivor, my spirit and its insatiable thirst for living.

IV.

The last man who dared to touch me was an explorer from the north, a lower form of man. A man with not much magic and imagination; this I quickly understood through his deceptive embrace. His wife did not make him understand the importance of learning sensual pleasure and exaltation. It was easy to lure him to me. He could not tear himself away from this chamber that became his tomb as well as it is my soul’s temporary resting place.

In a way, I saved his wife from a life of a misery. I do hope the man who replaced him between her legs was more proficient.

I do wish for my next lover to be tastier.

The time has come. It has been a hundred or three hundred years I have waited for a son to take. This chamber will be reopened. I feel magic swirling near me… masculine, one of strangers.

Most pleasing it is. Not a feminine or intuitive one.

This time, Set cajoles me to take an adversary worthy of my power, one that could make me truly alive so I can pursue his work of chaos upon the world. For this to prevail, I need a man with vibrant magic in his soul.

There are two men working on the entrance of the trap that is laid for them to be caught. I sense the old magic being invoked and its titillating strength and precision. One of the men is very old. His magic is supple and harmonious, but he knows about the darkest turns of the human heart. He knows too much about love to succumb to my ploy.

But the other one, oh, the other one…

His magic pleases me – where does this man come from? He is young but already wise in his control of it. Each spell he takes away from the chamber’s door is the careful and calculated work of an astute combination of spells.

This magic I know… because I created it.

The door opens in a thunderous crack, and here they are, amazed and panting from their efforts, remnants of spells echoing in the darkness.

"Wow," murmurs the young wizard. He expresses himself in a lower language, one I have heard before taking the life of one of its speakers. The young man walks in and from his wand bolts out a light I have not seen in centuries.

And I can see him clearly. This one I will take as my lover and he will give me life.

VI.

"I can’t believe it!"

His chuckle betrays his excitement. His head is wrapped in a pale fabric that shows sweat stains, and he wears a tunic over what I understand is a form of leg wear. His arms are slender but muscular, and his skin shines from paleness. Is he a prince of some sort?

Or maybe the man was trained as a wizarding warrior? A claw of a beast that was deadly in its living incarnation dangles from his ear. The wizard is young, but his imprint bears the marks of potent power. I wish I could arch my back a bit more. I hope he would stop looking at the drawings on the walls of this chamber to let his imagination be perverted by my image.

He is tall, and I dislike not having more advantage on him from my pedestal. When he stares at me with eyes as blue as those lapis-lazuli stones that used to adorn my mortal body, I have to hold in my powers and not give out my presence.

I need the old man to leave. I need the young prince vulnerable, alone with his feelings of solitude, his lust and his hardening sex.

In the meanwhile, his humanity makes my starved soul twitch from want. He observes me from below the cube of granite, as the curves of my body finally receive his attention.

"And there we meet. Anat the Sorceress."

The old man walks to him, a wide smile under his moustache. "Indeed she is. Your idea for containing the snakes when we entered the tomb was inspired spell work...I’m proud of you, Bill. Soon you’ll lead the treasure hunts by yourself, and you’ll be showing your tricks to this old man."

The said Bill, the warrior prince, laughs with abandon. "Oh no! I’ve got so much to learn, Ammi Msrah. The snakes were quite a lucky guess."

"Not lucky." The old man scolds him with gentleness as he scrutinizes the elaborate art on the painted floor of my trap. "The best curse breakers know how to merge their knowledge of ancient history and magic. Recognizing the intentions of Anat the Sorceress through this spelled snakes’ pit was a good intuition."

"When the first cobra slid towards us, I wasn’t so sure," the young man admits. "But I remembered the drawings of Meretseger we found on Anat’s spell parchments."

My future lover is humble. I can already taste his innocence. The freshness of his mouth will be like the honeyed water I have been yearning to drink for centuries.

The Bill man smiles as a bag made from thick cloth falls on the ground. "She who loves silence. Rather fitting for a tomb."

"That’s why Silencing the snakes instead of Stunning them was a brilliant stroke of your said luck," teases the old man. He walks around me with paternal pride in his step. "Wonderful job! You will be rewarded. The Goblins have been trying to recuperate the Knife of Judgment she is rumoured to have stolen from their ancestors."

"I hope they’ll be generous. I’ve been on this hunt for two months now. But the Knife won’t come to me easily."

The named Bill unrolls the fabric from his head. A flow of fire falls on his shoulders, and my curiosity is unbearable. He has red hair. He is son of Set. He is a challenge from the gods.

He studies the shape of my prison with interest and genuine admiration. "This is unexpected," he adds, his eyes following the perfect curb of my breasts. "This statue…it doesn’t look Egyptian to me."

Oh, do I wish for his life, as I sense through the sweeping look he gives me how he desires women! He is not like those lower men who expect submission and immobility from the woman they service with their sex. My prey wants his woman to arch under him. He appreciates her power, and he wants her to say words that will get him to the edge. The young prince of Set is a thinking man who needs more from a woman than her body to arouse him.

The old man nods. "I agree. This statue is highly unusual. This carving here," and he points to the careful work left by Father on my left ankle, "tells us that its artist didn’t live very long after crafting it."

"I’m somewhat not surprised about that. Anat had lots of blood on her hands," sighs the Bill man, his eyes still on the hard peaks of my nipples.

"Oh, you know the legend like I do…According to old wives, beautiful and deadly Anat isn’t resting peacefully. They believe her magic was so potent it survived through the millenaries, and she still haunts the bedrooms of Memphis…They would swear to you that she possesses women so they become sexually insatiable, leading their husbands to die between their legs."

Bill clicks his tongue as he reaches into his bag for a heavy set of parchment. "That’s a rather simplistic way of explaining crimes of passion, I reckon. I’m more afraid of the lingering magic in this room than of the ghost of a possibly nymphomaniac witch."

"Ah, if my wife were!" The old man giggles. "Seriously, Bill, you are young. You know nothing about passion yet."

I pulse from the slight aggressiveness I feel in the young man’s words. "Don’t want to brag here, but -"

"I’m not referring to the arousal of occasional encounters with a beautiful woman," the man says quietly. A subtle tinge of red creeps to the cheeks of the younger man who dissimulates his trouble by scurrying into his bag, his features seemingly unfazed.

The old man stares at the hieroglyphs that line the chamber. "The delicious moment where one forgets about herself and her lover…this moment where there are no more limits between she and he, and nothing in the world makes sense but their commonalities…"

I catch the younger man’s quick glance to the slick mound at the confluent of my legs. "Quite eloquent today, Ammi?"

The old man smiles. "I wish. These words somehow live on the walls of this chamber."

The young man casually sits on the ground of the chamber, flipping the pages of his collection of parchments. "Strange. She was a cruel but brilliant woman who did not have anything but her interest for her magic, according to everything I’ve researched about her. Seems rather cold-hearted to me."

"See how young you are, Bill." The old man observes the firmness of my buttocks with nostalgic longing. "You spontaneously link passion to fire and love."

The young man’s silence that follows is a perfumed sweet. I hear the subtle sound of blood rushing to his loins. "Passion is a violent feeling. It’s devouring," the young man says, leaving his parchments for a second to tie back his hair. He adds with good humour and a wink, "But then, what do I know about it, as you say, since I’m too young?"

"Not too young to have an idea about its taste, though." The old man shakes his head, bemused.

The red-haired man is perfect: his ingenuousness makes me fear he will perhaps be too easy to submit.

He looks up at me, and he gazes right into my eyes of stone. "Anat was attracted by the Dark Arts as much as one can be."

His wand traces a long strip of blue, and the air in the chamber shimmers from old spells and ancient incantations. "The statue seems inoffensive, but I wouldn’t bet on it. I reckon we should abstain from touching it as long as I don’t understand thoroughly the magic emanating from it. It’s very beautiful, though."

"Do you think this statue represents how Anat wanted people to see her, or how she really was?" the wise man questions, a finger tapping his chin.

I will wait. Set’s son has much magic to bring me to life and to feed my soul for many centuries.

VII.

The seduction of the young prince has begun, and I am sorry to acknowledge that my patience will know new boundaries because of him.

He works differently with magic than did the ones I have already ravished through time. Instead of staying alone in the chamber with me for many days and gradually losing his mind over my stance and the sensual appeal of my beauty, he keeps me company for hours and leaves me to my solitude and my pulsating core.

My anger rises. I have to work harder on him. I foolishly believed that he had the energy of young men that think not so hard with their head, but with the bit of flesh that is of uttermost importance for them. I thought he could not help himself but to touch me like others did.

This one is different. His passions take the path of his brain first, before they expand in his body.

Bill, the one with the name I know nothing about, writes and reads and stares at the walls for hours, in silence, in a pitiful attempt to recuperate my treasure. "Accio Knife of Justice," he attempts, and my spirit laughs madly.

When he is in my arms, listening to the urgency of his lust, he will forget all about it. The Knife is safe when I am of stone.

One day, he stares at me.

And he stares at my curves from that moment on, when he dares to share my chamber.

I will possess you, son of Set.

VIII.

Two voices crash the solitude in which I revel.

"I’d like to bring everyone here, but since I’m not sure about the statue –"

"No worries, I’ll keep my hands in my pockets."

Bill stands in the threshold of the chamber. To his side, a young man whose flaming red hair makes him look brutal in his manners stares at me, wide-eyed. "So that’s the girl you’ve been seeing."

"Git." The two young men have familiar souls that live side by side. Brothers, they are.

"Meet Anat."

"Hey, Anat. Impressive tits."

The insolent one is very easy to manipulate. It would not take much for me to lead him to bend me forward. If Bill leaves, I will claim his brother and devour his soul. His hands itch to slip on the stone. This young man is painfully simple in his desires. Him I could see bolstering about his stamina and hardness.

Not every conquest has to be complicated. This one makes me hungry for a quick seduction.

"I have to say, Charlie, you have class."

"I’m pulling your wand, geek." The two young men enter the chamber, and I am surprised by the raw physical strength of the younger brother. I am not one to appreciate the unsubtle ways of brutish men, but this youth has appeal.

"So what’s the deal with her?" the named Charlie says, plopping himself down to the ground and hungrily detailing my naked form. "Is that the treasure you’ve been obsessing about?"

"I’m not obsessing," Bill scoffs. "I want to find the Knife. There’s lots of Galleons and a week paid vacation for me if I hand it to the Goblins."

"Yeah, but two bloody months…that’s obsessing in my book." The Charlie man rolls his eyes. "Where do you think it is? Not many nooks and crannies around."

Bill sits down to his side, leaning back against the wall. "No. I searched the room for magical concealments, but nothing. I’ve neutralized every spell from this room. The only magic left is the one that comes for this."

He points to me. His brother whistles between his teeth.

"From the statue? Could the Knife be in it?"

Bill shrugs. "Maybe."

"So you’ve been living for two months in this chamber with the statue of a naked woman," pensively says Charlie. "That might explain your very boring life and your poor tan."

"Curse breaking is my life right now." His blue eyes gauge me. "There’s something with this statue."

"I’d say. She’s bloody hot. Can’t blame you for wanting to look at her all the time. What do you do, all this time alone with her?"

"It’s a statue."

"A statue of a naked woman." The young man chuckles. "With tits like -"

"You don’t see many naked women, do you?" Bill interrupts dryly.

Is this the tinge of longing I was hoping for? Is his sudden move forward the indication that I might I have caught up with him?

"More than you did in the last two months, I reckon," retorts his brother, full of swagger, dimples in his cheek. He pensively stares at me, and I hear him swallow. "It looks like it could come alive any minute."

"Yeah." This time, Bill laughs with unease. "I’m relieved you feel it too. I think I’m going mad."

Silence welcomes his declaration, and his brother frowns, inciting him to speak his mind. The eldest spurts out, "Charlie, I’m not mad."

"I reckon that’s not what you should say first."

Bill wrings his hands. His vulnerability is a balm for all my efforts. I have not worked my magic in vain. "Ok…see, I’ve been trying to understand why this statue’s in this chamber. There’s no tomb, the statue doesn’t look like funeral art. It’s naked and it’s not common for Egyptian art to depict bare women without symbolic clothing or jewellery."

"And why do you think you’re losing it?"

"Because I feel it’s got a will of its own."

His brother nods. "Yeah…I could understand why. I got to say, it’s very well done." The said Charlie gets to his feet and walks to me, his mouth agape as I feel his lecherous gaze swirl on my body. This one I hold in the cusp of my magic. "The stone looks really smooth. I’d fancy touching it, just to feel if it’s warm like skin, y’know."

"Don’t. I still don’t know what’s the nature of the spell lingering on it." Bill approaches him, his eyes not leaving his brother’s hand.

Charlie sighs. He shifts his weight from a leg to the other, and I know what possesses him to do so. "Maybe that’s the thing, Bill. Maybe you’ve got to stroke it really nicely, and it will give you whatever you want."

"I hadn’t thought about that," Bill concedes.

The young brother is mine. His fever rises and his head slowly tilts back. He knows what I could give him, and he ignores what I will ask for in return.

"I like to touch women," Charlie whispers to me, his fingers reaching for my thigh, wanting for me to hear his fantasies. His desires are moving, in their own brash ways. "I like to slip my fingers between their thighs and then suck on-"

"What makes you think I want to know about that?" Bill scoffs as he grabs his wrist. "What’s the matter with you?"

But my attraction is stronger than the reprimand of a prudish brother.

"I go mad watching them when they go down on me," murmurs the young man, and this time, his brother pushes him from my reach.

Bill shakes him, and Charlie’s head hits the wall behind. "Will you keep it your trousers, for Merlin’s sake? What’s with you?"

Anger hardens the younger brother’s traits for a brief moment, and when red blazes on his face, I know that I have lost this soul.

Prince of Set, you are making me ravenous, be warned.

"I…er…I…" He looks down with haste. "I don’t know…shite…I…I need…I need to get… out of here."

The sound of footsteps hurrying out does not disturb Bill from studying me again with attention.

I know that he thinks he can be stronger than me.

I have already won.

IX.

Oh, the perfect moment of this thinking man’s fall, the perfect pathway to his doom his stretched arm draws upon himself. The palm of his hand, warm and dry, pauses on the hardness of my midriff, and he follows it with the naiveté of one who does not knows yet the mix of fear and pleasure this caress brings to women.

He will never know.

His hand slips upwards to the curve of my waist, and I feel him quivering slightly as the pulp of his fingers graze the fresh stone.

"What’s your secret, Anat?" I sense his heart beating, hard. His soul mists up from the fear and the odd arousal I inspire him. I can read him as he is; my skin catches his longing.

He wishes for a woman with mystery, a woman that would not leave her clothing with indifference.

"Is that the thing? Will stroking you make me find the Knife?"

He leaves my skin of stone for a moment to haul himself up on the granite cube, and through my thick coating of rock, I feel his energy and determination rising.

He hesitantly caresses my arms from my hands to my shoulders with the back of his hands. The stone shield between us becomes thinner as his hands run down my back with lightness.

I hear the slight hitch in his breath before his fingers slip under my breasts, slowly, the palms of his hands attempting to cover as much stone as he may.

Deliver me

His fingers close convulsively on the tips of my breasts. "What?" he whispers.

Help me out of this casing of stone

When his hands delve down and encounter moisture, he instinctively brings himself closer to me.

His engorged sex cannot lie. I know he is mine.

I take over his resistance with much persuasion. I convince him that he helps me every time when his fingers suddenly sink into my flesh: each enveloping stroke he rewards my body makes my skin more supple, more fragrant, and when his mouth meets my lips with much doubt, I feel his overwhelming amazement.

My mouth tastes like something he never tasted before. He did not know about the sweetness of honey and almond paste; he has never given much attention to the enrobing quality of olive oil. My tongue flows in his mouth, and I sense the growl rising in him as he buries his hand in my hair.

I want to reward you

"Oh." His eyes betray what his body really wants.

My hands, now free from their forced immobility, help him out of the tunic he wears. My teeth graze one stiff nipple before my tongue follows the definition of his chest, and his hands bring my hips closer to his. "I want…I want the Knife."

The Knife? But I’m offering you more

I believe that I am winning him inch by inch when my hands plunge into this strange leg wear he insists on wearing, only to feel him palpitating like a beating heart between my fingers. I work on him the talents I have mastered through my times, and I sense him weakening, bowing his head down as he presses his hand against mine.

"God," he moans through a quick exhalation.

There are no gods here

Only magic and flesh

Sweat beads on his chest as we engage into an exhilarating dance where hands rhythm the pace. His panting echoes in the chamber, and each feverish breath means I am getting closer to life. He sucks and licks on my breasts with undoubted relish, only to invoke the gods again when he discovers their taste. I see the madness catching up with him when he brings us down to the solid block of granite, and he helps me spread my legs for him to enter me. I smile when he lends his fingers first, opening slowly a way. He caresses me in an endearing manner, his teeth grazing his lower lip, his eyes closed.

Open your eyes

He lazily blinks. I will admit that his fever contaminates me when he gives himself two short strokes, and I push myself against him. I do not want to lose a second of his arousal.

His red hair blazes over his shoulder, his skin is the colour of the palest sand, the blue radiance of his gaze shines… He is Egypt’s red earth crumbling under my feet, my much-missed desheret. Set wants to please me through him. I am blessed.

"The door…I need to close the door." His voice is muffled against my stomach as he dips his tongue into my navel.

I need you to open every door

His hand trembles as he reaches for himself. His stiffness grazes my moist flesh, and against me, I shiver from the anticipation of the kill.

"My brother…He’s out there." His mouth twitches when I stroke him slowly. "I don’t want my brother to see me…to see us."

I open my legs wider and buck against him to take him on all his length, but he, the coward, has already slipped away from me, and he has spelled the door close.

And then, this rebellious prey, this lowly ungrateful bastard with his manhood clearly showing how good and generous I was to him, points his wand at me.

XI.

As he hides his vulnerability in his ridiculous leg wear, he yells something, modern and obviously insufficient magic that does not touch me. I implore Ma’at to give me the strength to punish the unthankful rat, and the sphere of blue light that erupts from my hand is nothing as he has ever seen. I can tell by the way his mouth opens in astonishment.

The sphere hovers in the air for a second, hypnotizing him, and when it bolts at him, he barely manages to avoid it with a lucky spell that keeps him safe for the moment.

He dares throwing at me a curse much too unsubtle to even make me sneeze, and I demonstrate my superior powers by defying the earth as I suspend myself to the top of the chamber. At my request, Isis lends me the power to invoke scorpions as big as fists, and they emerge from the pedestal that I stood on for so long.

The young son of Set will be bitten and slowed down by the scorpions, and I will jump on him before his last breath. I will force myself on him. I will conjure pleasure and agony for him, even if he does not deserve it. He will die spilling his seed in me, whether he wants it or not.

There is an explosion of his power when he defies Isis by turning my work of doom into dust. His voice booms again into the chamber. "Accio Knife of Justice!"

You don’t deserve the Knife, lower man

His gaze lashes me. "What do I have to do to deserve it?"

His next incantation makes my spirit boil with rage. How dare he uses my magic against me? The thin slant of the whip snakes out of his wand, and it catches fire when he hurls it at me.

I scream from all of my soul when the white-hot whip bites into my borrowed shield, and I snarl with hate when he tugs on it, making me fall down to the pedestal.

Ra gives me the power to blind him, but he uses a potent magic to make it fade away like a sunset.

I invoke powers that he knows nothing about.

Wind rises in the chamber, and I sense him weakening as he has to shield his eyes from the sand littering the ground. A rock hits him in the face, and I hear him breathe quickly as he wipes the blood from his nose.

Snakes fall from the ceiling of the chamber in long, viscous rain. I jump down the pedestal, and the powers given to me by Meretseger protect me when his wand slashes the air.

His mouth is paling, air is leaving him, and he still has in himself the rage to insult me by shouting a spell. I deflect it with a lazy hand.

Pain sears me when his thoughts implode in my casing of flesh as he looks into my soul.

She who loves silence, his mind whispers. I smile.

Accio Knife of Justice, his mind commands.

The Knife bursts from my womb without blood, for I am not alive but living nonetheless, and we both stare at the precious object glistening on the floor with surprise.

The spell that goes through me is like ice, freezing my intentions, numbing my powers, and he is now standing above me, his hair wild and painfully vibrant to my old soul, sand dusting his bare torso, his lips red from blood.

He towers me as I lie to the ground, suddenly feeble, cold, shrinking from the loss of the power of the Knife.

Would you kill a woman, young prince of Set?

There is no hesitation in the expert twist of his wrist when he explodes my magic in too many pieces to count and I float in pain, everywhere and everyplace before I feel myself disappearing into the dreaded afterlife.

Set, my beloved master

the only god that I have ever feared

why do you punish me?

XII.

He tugs on his trousers with tiredness, his fingers quivering as he misses a button. Without thinking, he wraps the knife into his abandoned tunic, and his voice tremors when he spells the door open. He jogs away from the chamber, feverishly following the corridors that will lead him to the light, the stones scratching the skin of his back as he slides himself against them.

Sun leads him to shut his eyes when he erupts out.

"Bill? Shite…what happened to you?" The heat smothers his shoulders, and Charlie stands, red-faced, his hand cast over his eyes. "Did you feel the earthquake?"

Bill shakes his head and accepts the gourd his brother hands him. Charlie points to the crumpled tunic with his chin. "What’s in there?"

The Knife glitters from the scorching sun. Charlie exclaims, "You got it? How d’you managed it?"

"I owe you one." Bill hides the Knife in layers of linen without looking up to his brother. "You said that stroking it could be the trick."

"Stroke it? You mean, you…" Charlie pauses. His embarrassment is palpable. "Look, I don’t know what happened to me in there... I’m not used to this heat, I reckon."

"It’s okay, mate." Bill wipes his face. "I stroked it."

Charlie chokes on a gulp of water. "You touched the statue?"

Bill keeps silent. Teasing and shame are fighting on Charlie’s face. Some things will have to remain a secret, Bill decides. How could he explain the feverish rise of his arousal? How could he explain the logic of being ready to forgo everything for an intense romp with the soul of an ancient sorceress until he was reminded the words of old Ammi Msrah when he felt with his fingers the coolness of her juices?

A spell or a secret wish?

You link passion with fire and love, his mentor had said. Bill’s good sense saved him as it screamed for him to stop, to move away. It took everything he had. The need for the warm tightness of a woman who wants him, oddly, is still there, pulsating in his lower stomach, in spite of the horror.

He had promised himself he would not root himself to Egypt, and now, he wants to take in everything it has to offer.

He lets out a strangled sigh. "It’s not just any statue, you said it yourself," he spurts out, impishly swatting his brother’s shoulder.

Bill knows when lying is mandatory. His wink is forced, his heart flutters, but Charlie’s sunny grin shows that he has not felt his pain. "Didn’t you notice, Charlie? It’s a statue of a naked woman."

The End

Status - Christmas fics

Wed, 19 Dec 2007 13:50:16 GMT

I have been having a crappy month of December health-wise, and since I have not written much in the last weeks, I am sorry to say I will not be able to respect the calendar that I established earlier this season.

I cannot bring myself to give out a story not worthy enough of the recipient. I'm sorry for the delay...they won't be Christmas fics but Happy New Year fics. Please be assured that they will be given out with as much gratefulness for your support and friendship, though.

I'm so sorry to keep you waiting, but for now, here are the titles of the stories....

dragon_animagus: Smelly Socks (PG-13; Bill and Charlie)
magentabear: A Piece of Pie (PG-13; Bill, Charlie, Percy, George, Ron, Ginny; second person POV (!!!!!!))
malvernrob: Smart Boys (R for language; Neville, Dean, Seamus, Ron, Harry and ....Luna)
msmoocow: Neville Longbottom Likes Girls (PG-13; Neville-centered; in the MoC universe)
~~msquizzical - Desheret (R; Bill, Charlie, the ghost of an Egyptian witch)~~
punimpotter: Master Key (R; Ron, Molly, Hermione)
spidergirl - The Recount of the Infamous Moments Leading to the Disgrace and Following Rehabilitation of William Arthur (Bill) Weasley on Christmas’ Eve, 2005 (PG-13; many, many Weasleys, Spidergirl's OC Sophie)
~~queenb23more: Remembering and Forgetting (R; Ron (and Harry, Hannah Abbott, George and Hermione), second person POV)~~
sowritesauds: Triptych (PG-13; Teddy Lupin, Neville Longbottom)
shiiki: All the Arms We Need (PG-13; Neville, Ginny, Luna)
twy: The Long Lost Art of Making Love (R; Tonks/Lupin, Andromeda T.)
redonthefly, my quote fic on CM will be for you...I think the theme I chose (writing and memory) will be of some interest to you. Sepia (R; Hermione, Ron, Harry)

The Essence of Teaching

Thu, 04 Oct 2007 17:47:33 GMT

This piece is unbeta'ed. It needed to come out. Sorry for the downer.

The Essence of Teaching
Genre: angst, drama
Rating: PG-13
Words:
Characters: McGonagall-centric

Summary:

Albus patted her hand, and his eyes sparkled. ‘The act of teaching displays one’s faith in humanity, Minerva. You want to enable them to make complex choices. You allow them to become who they want to be, within their potential.’

‘Of course,’ she answered back, startled. ‘It is the essence of teaching.’

The shadows on his face strongly contrasted with the light tone of his voice. ‘Your reasons for teaching. It is also one of the countless definitions of love, I believe. Would you care for a Sherbet lemon?’

A McGonagall centric fic, post DH battle. Some sort of a follow-up to That Last Door.

* * * *

Bodies. There are bodies everywhere she dares to look. Children. Students. Adults.

Ex-students. Former children. Proofs that she has failed to protect while she attacked, testimonies that attest that victory without losses is inevitable and expected, evidences that she should have insisted, she should have fought children out of the castle. The weight of her responsibility crushes her, yet she stands up, breathing, sensing, and thinking.

Alive. She is a living part of this grotesque picture that refuses to stay still.

Bodies. Many of those children she cared about with possessiveness, and she would have never admitted it to her colleagues.

But Albus knew.

One of the countless times they had tea together, Albus patiently listened to her fervent and idealistic monologues about how she wished that students would comprehend they were learning more than Transfiguration. She wanted them to be more than parrots casting spells. She hoped they would understand that they were learning ethics and critical thinking when the Transfiguration Act was required and in what form it was needed. She hoped for them to understand that Transfiguration was more, so much more than molding the environment to one’s magical will.

Transfiguration means acting upon the world. ‘With Transfiguration come great responsibilities,’ she said with passion.

He smiled. ‘This old teacher is impressed by the love you have for your students.’

She did not deny it; she stared at him, not knowing precisely what he expected her to answer. She was still a student herself then; she had not learned yet that she could speak her mind freely with the Headmaster.

‘Of course,’ she answered back, startled. ‘It is the essence of teaching.’

The shadows on his face strongly contrasted with the light tone of his voice. ‘Your reasons for teaching. It is also one of the countless definitions of love, I believe. Would you care for a Sherbet lemon?’

What would her mentor do, if he were at this moment facing this, this astounding number of lifeless students she’d wanted for them to succeed?

She brings Albus to life in her mind; here he is, walking in the Great Hall, comforting people, taking care of others by allowing them to grieve in his presence, soothing them from their guilt, teaching wisdom in his own way by being humble.

Subtly explaining how being a resourceful wizard does not mean holding the power to stop everything.

Smoothing differences of classes and power by saying how there could only be one Harry Potter.

Albus would have been keen to show that even with his age and tremendous talent, he had to tolerate that a young man had to make his own decisions, make his own choices to act upon the world.

That the only way for this to happen was to let go.

Albus would have cried over the lifeless bodies. He would have been incorruptibly himself.

She is not Albus. She is stubborn and hot-tempered. She is proud to a fault. She must be a coward, because she cannot get herself to move and to meet with those parents who just lost the children she cared for.

Albus’ voice expands inside her. He mentors her, whispering that she was successful, that her students learned something from her. They learned to take their own decisions; they learned ethics. They decided what is right and what should be right. They showed her that they embraced values she taught them to respect. Staying in Hogwarts to fight is the undeniable proof of them understanding the impact they can have on the world.

‘You trusted them to become what they wanted to be,’ the ghost of Albus’ voice whispers, and it does not make her feel any better.

‘Did they have to die for it?’ she mentally questions, hoping for a reply. But Albus does not answer back.

Trusting parents confided them to her, to them, the teachers.

Severus, how could you? How could you live your life carrying this burden?

She stands, not in the middle of it all, but in a remote point, surrounded by remains. The taste of her failure is overwhelming, it swallows light: winning has a distinctive flavour of ashes.

Now that she thinks about it, the noise is atrocious. It reverberates in dissonant waves in the Great Hall. This noise is a disorganized set of sounds, a cacophony that is neither joyous nor sad, an uproar that will never be heard between those walls again, one that she wishes to forget one day. This is not noise made of the copper sounds of autumn, when students meet again in a hubbub. It is not the shrill and boasting noise that punctuate the final feast, when winners triumph and losers hiss.

This clamour is life and death, it is pain and grief, it is triumph and acceptation, and it is anger and love. People are laughing and crying and yelling and hugging and sobbing and kissing. People rush from one side of the Great Hall to the other, attempting to save lives, or rejoicing for themselves, or counting their blessings, or mourning their losses, or contemplating their lives without others.

This noise is almost unbearable. It concentrates all of what life is about, and it explodes against the castle’s walls.

She closes her eyes. What is left now for her is to remember all of this, where the impossible collided with the inevitable. Duty confronted freedom of choice. Students chose to become warriors. Random deaths allow others to live.

A hand touches hers, and she cannot turn around to face its owner. Her feet are rooted to the flooring of this school. She barely left it in those long years of teaching; this is her home, and her family.

She knows her colleagues. This hand does not belong to Pomona.

Pomona stands mere feet away from her. She shows the way to people scurrying around the wounded children so many children around the tables that have become impromptu shrines. Pomona expresses her grief by hugging as many students as she can grab, kissing foreheads, wiping tears with her thumbs, slicking back hair. Everyone in this room becomes Pomona’s child. She exudes comfort and openness, and her plentiful generosity heats the room from within. Longbottom passes by, and Pomona lets out a cry that goes straight to Minerva’s core, ‘My brave boy!’

Neville lets himself being embraced fiercely, only to slip away with an expression of mixed pride and grief, the expression of a man that has decided to leave childhood and is resolute to deal with the consequences.

The hand slides up to her elbow, and she knows it is not Filius’, because he is right in front of her, to the side of one of the Patil twins, one still wearing a jumper to the colours of Ravenclaw bright and talented Padma, and Filius has tears on his cheeks, brave Filius, who has the courage of his sensibilities and his intelligence. He pushes away Ernie McMillan to let the Patils come closer, so they may cry for their daughter while Parvati stands up beside the table with swollen eyes. Their concerted love will cradle Padma in a higher place, a place where she will be comfortable before she is laid to rest.

The hand is still there, and she wants to believe this is not a student’s, since she sees where they are, great students, amazing students that are more talented than they believe themselves to be.

This is not Harry’s. He is in the midst of it all, disconnected, looking around him as if he was seeing these surroundings for the first time.

Her heart menaces to burst.

Harry.

The hand is still on her elbow, and she knows it is not Sybil’s. She is holding the hand of a savaged young woman lying on a table, a young woman with long, luxurious but bloodied hair, hair that looks uncannily like -

Lavender's, dear God.

‘Thank you, Professor McGonagall.’ She turns her head to her side, and Luna Lovegood studies her with those penetrating blue eyes in which float something that belongs to Albus. It is her hand that touches so soothingly her elbow. ‘If you hadn’t thrown the desks at the Death Eaters, so many of us would have died.’

Unreasonable, nonsensical laughter threatens to slip through her lips.

She just knows it. Somewhere, Albus is celebrating the Lovegood child and her astonishing sense of serendipity, pointing to her saying ‘ah-HA!’.

She pats Luna’s hand, and she moves to the centre of the storm. The first step is the most arduous, but every one that follows eases her to go back to whom she is. `What could be useful to you?’ she whispers, while Poppy mutters incantations as she points to Seamus Finnegan’s side.

‘Healers are Flooing in from St.Mungo’s. We cannot do much for the dead.’ Poppy’s eyes are sombre and unfathomable as she stares at her awakening patient.

Poppy saw some of those children lose their battles. She was the one who held them alive by the tips of her fingers or with her wand. How many she had to witness slipping away from her? ‘People need to eat something, to sit. They need relief.’

‘Dearest Poppy.’

The Healer’s voice trembles slightly. ‘I did not become a Healer to see children die, Minerva. I was supposed to save them.’

‘I know, my dear. You saved so many already.’ Poppy has already regained her composure, and she whispers welcoming words to Seamus who is stirring.

Moving, leading, doing. These strengths are hers. She nods to Kreattur who bows low to her feet. ‘What does the Mistress of the Castle need?’

‘We need food. As much food needed to feed these people. Thank you.’

Another bow and Kreattur is already gesturing to the House Elves who gather around him and run away to busy themselves.

The next hours are blurry. The night goes by in a blink, and when Arthur Weasley plants himself in front of her, she realizes that she had been doing without hesitation everything she had feared to fail. ‘Would you mind if we used the dormitories to rest a bit before Flooing back home?’

‘Of course not. I will do a quick round to see which ones can be used.’

Arthur nods, and she presses his hand between hers. ‘I’m so sorry, Arthur, so sorry.’

* * *

She climbs the stairs leading to the Gryffindor dormitories. Fatigue courses through her legs. Her fingers graze the lush tapestries. Her wand burdens her, but she cannot resolve to let it go.

She pushes the door that leads to one of the boys’ room, and there they are, the three of them.

Ron Weasley is sleeping on his back; Hermione Granger is curled up to his side. Their heads touch. On the bed next to them, Harry lies on his side, alone, his hair sticking up softly under the light early morning breeze.

She walks to his bed, and she experiences a bewildering déjà vu. The last time she stood above him like this was on the Dursleys’ porch, preparing to leave him, barely tolerating to abandon him to his faith for many miserable years.

His eyelids tremble. His cheeks are flushed. His forehead bears the light bolt-shaped scar.

He is alive.

‘A child cannot survive Voldemort,’ she’d whispered in a panic to Albus when they’d realized Harry had seen Arthur Weasley’s attack, two years ago.

‘But he already did.’

‘Could he do it again?’

A child did defeat Voldemort two times. A loving old wizard trusted it to happen.

Many of those still in the Great Hall, living and dead - students, teachers, friends, allies, carers, mothers, and fathers - did also vanquish Voldemort in life and death, through Harry.

He is alive. He breathes. He dreams. He snores.

She walks out the room slowly, closing the door with care. This dormitory will not welcome more sleepers. She will lead people to other beds throughout the castle; she will lend her own quarters to those who need it.

Then, only then when everyone will have been tended to, she will walk alone in the deserted and immense Great Hall without Albus’ voice to soothe her sadness. She knows the years will catch up to her, but she will walk sharp and straight through the aisles, and she will be proud to a fault.

She will ruffle hair. She will let her fingers trail on a relaxed hand. She will allow herself little gestures of affection to those who made her cringe from their ignorance, to those who surprised her, to those who made her proud, to those who made her laugh to tears when she was behind closed doors. She will remember.

She will count them, and count them again. She will allow herself a few quiet hours in the morning to grieve those she taught to.

* * *

And love dares you to care for
The people on the edge of the night
And loves dares you to change our way of
Caring about ourselves

Under Pressure (Queen and David Bowie)

* * * *

The end

25 (Fluffy) Random Brotherhood Tales about Bill and Charlie Weasley

Thu, 20 Sep 2007 20:38:12 GMT

This story was written in honour of PureBloodMuggle’s birthday.

Many thanks to Pili204, for her encouragement and suggestions, and to queenb23 for her considerate and thoughtful help. Special thanks to Chicken Little for pointing discrepancies in the timeline. This story was posted on Checkmated.

ooooOOoooo

When little Illy Weasley was almost two years old and proud to claim it to the world by showing off his fingers (“ILLY! TWO!”), his mother grew a large belly.

But then, two weeks after Illy turned two (“ILLY! TWO!”), his mother’s belly deflated, and she carried instead a very red baby that Illy thought looked not unlike a piglet, but screamed much louder. His father made Illy sit on his knees and attempted to explain that this bundle of smells was in Mum’s belly just before, and now, wasn’t it great to have a real baby brother?

Illy preferred his mum’s belly. It thumped back whenever he poked it.

But this? There was nothing much Illy could do with this but to smell it rotting, or to watch it wail and sleep, or to stubbornly suck on his pacifier when Mum cooed to this.

Mum would also coo to him, and it was when he’d forget all about this.

When Illy was two and half, he could not suck on his pacifier anymore because of the other.

One morning, his mother held him tightly against her. She told him he was a big brother and a big boy. She also informed him that big boys don’t have pacifiers, and that a big brother is supposed to love the other, and that he shouldn’t try to stick a toy broomstick up his little brother’s nose.

He nodded, rather sad about this situation.

His mum later complimented him on what a good boy he was being, spending all this time watching his little bother.

She didn’t know that he was waiting for the perfect moment.

Illy learned the hard way that the other could snap quite harshly.

When Illy was three, his brother Arlie celebrated his first birthday, and a cake was on the table for them to eat. Arms crossed against his chest, Illy was sad that it was not his birthday again and also quite unhappy with the fact that Arlie was able to make Mum and Dad laugh by blowing bubbles of saliva. He couldn’t understand why they chided him when he did the same thing during dinner.

His mum left them at the table for a minute, and, splat, Arlie willingly shoved his head into the cake. Illy hoped that Arlie was going to be punished, and that he would loose his privilege of using a pacifier.

But instead, his father laughed as he helped Arlie straighten up. When he saw Illy’s expression, he told him he’d done just the same when he’d turned one. Arlie had icing smudged over his face and crumbs on his lashes, and he opened his mouth wide to let out the fattest belly laugh Illy had ever heard.

So he chuckled too and watched his brother suck sloppily on his plump knuckles with envy.

His father said, “This little tyke knows the best way to eat cake.” Soon, Illy, his dad, and Arlie had both hands in the dessert. His mum came in, and she decided that his dad was worse than a one-year old. She also laughed, but not when she washed crusted icing behind Illy’s ears.

When Illy was three and a half, he became Billy, but he had other identities.

Billy was reserved for the precious moments when cuddling with his mother; Billdear was the name he told the people who inquired about such a pretty boy when his mother ran errands.

“What’s your name, little man?”

“BILLDEAR!”

Arlie became Arliedear. Billdear thought it was quite amusing to scream, “Arliedear! Arliedear!”

Arliedear giggled when he did, but his mum asked him to stop in the name of God because she’d thought Arliedear had fallen into the pond.

Somewhere near his fourth birthday, Billdear became Bill, and Arliedear became Charlie.

Bill had also an invisible evil twin called William with whom he spent most of his time. William made smudges on the walls, brought mud into the house, and sneakily dropped spinach under the table.

“BILL!”

“Mummy, I like spinach, but William doesn’t!”

When Bill was about to turn five, his mother had grown a large belly again. Soon, there was a baby hanging on to her. Charlie sobbed because she could not pick him up while she was carrying the other.

Bill took Charlie’s chubby fingers and brought him outside. Under the tree shading the house, he solemnly said that Charlie was now a big brother and a big boy, and that big brothers don’t try to stick a toy broomstick up a little brother’s nose.

To help him avoid further punishments from his mother, Bill threw away Charlie’s pacifier in a gesture of brotherly love.

Charlie punched him in the nose.

When Bill was six, he was quite certain that Charlie would stop crying if those two frogs they were holding would change colour. He intently stared at the frogs and whispered to the croaking creatures, “Charlie likes bright colours.”

His brother shrieked with joy when his frog turned orange, so Bill showed his mother who squeezed him so hard he could not breathe.

She made a special cake that night to celebrate the orange frog, and his father told him he was very proud of his big boy.

A couple of more orange frogs later, his father told him to watch it, though.

When Bill was seven, he and Charlie, hidden under a tent of bed sheets, held epic Wizarding duels at night with little figurines.

They would often fall asleep under the thin fabric. In the morning, their arms and cheeks would bear red and indented marks, the proof of them sneaking off after dark to play with their toys.

Bill expected his mother to say something when they appeared for breakfast, him with the tiny shape of Leo the Mighty embedded on his forehead, Charlie with a deep mark left by the ridiculous hat of Uric the Oddball on his upper lip, but she never did.

When Bill was nine, Charlie was inconsolable for days because he’d torn a fairy’s wing by accident while catching it. The fairy had died, chomped by a Jarvey.

Bill sat beside him on the porch, and he felt powerless when his brother whispered with his voice broken, “I killed a fairy.”

After a couple of minutes of listening to Charlie sniff behind his hands, Bill pointed out, “You didn’t kill it. The Jarvey did. Fairies are tiny. It’s amazing you could catch it in the first place.”

The next morning, Bill left a very soft Chocolate Frog on Charlie’s bed table to cheer him up. Later, Charlie slipped a live one into his trousers, and it was as disgusting as it was hilarious.

They spent the whole afternoon dropping frogs in their trousers.

Charlie argued with seriousness that if he put many, many frogs in his trousers, he would be able to jump so high he would touch the sky.

Later that same day, their dad had to take his broom to get Charlie down from the tree, and there was cake that night.

10.

When Bill was ten, there were many siblings running around. Kids, he thought with superiority. They followed him everywhere. He could not get any privacy, and they were trying to get their hands on everything he had, especially the little ones.

It was frustrating. They hung themselves to his arms or to his trousers, squeaking, “Bill, look at me!” “Bill, I want to climb on your back!” “Ill, aghagha!” and Bill sometimes shoved them away.

But many times he did what they asked him to do, and it often ended with him carrying a little one on his back and being deafened by his cries to run faster, or all of them cavorting in mud to their knees with him leading the way. It also involved Charlie digging deeper in the earth to extirpate some innocent, wiggly creatures that made Percy scream.

Around that moment, his mum would come out running, conjuring towels with an impressive flick of her wand.

“You’re supposed to set the example, dear,” she said on those days. But then she would hug him, and she would say how proud she was that he was such a good brother to his siblings.

Bill would feel like a kid again, and it was as wonderful as it was embarrassing.

11.

When Bill turned twelve, Errol dropped a large parcel in his plate, and bits of hotcakes and eggs flew everywhere. When Professor McGonagall gazed at him sternly, he felt ashamed for a second, but when he opened the box, he did not care anymore.

Home came out of the package in a swarm of colours, letters, drawings, and sweets. He could hear the voices bursting out of the box, begging to play, to be read to, to wash his face, to come closer for a hug.

He regretted being the big brother sometimes and having to face Hogwarts all by himself.

12.

During the summers from age twelve and fourteen, Bill slouched around to Charlie’s disgust, and he was more often Git than Bill.

But Ginny, the very stubborn little girl, never took no for an answer, so he bounced her on his knees each day he was home, and he pretended he was bored out of his mind when he took her to the pond.

13.

When Bill was fourteen, he developed a huge crush on a pretty girl that was in Slytherin, one with long blond hair and a mysterious smile. He was careful to avoid Charlie when she was around, because he did not want her to think he hung out with his brother. Charlie noticed this, so he ignored him too.

For weeks, the brothers did not talk. Bill convinced himself he didn’t miss Charlie.

After all, it was not his fault if Charlie was just a kid.

14.

When Bill was fourteen and a half, he had learned his lesson. He kissed the pretty Slytherin girl, tongue and all, and he bragged about it to Charlie an hour later.

“Yuck,” commented Charlie, unimpressed.

Bill learned that Charlie had already kissed a girl on the lips, but had made a vow to never let her tongue into his mouth because it was “the most sickening thing ever”.

15.

When Bill was fifteen, he learned that he had been made a prefect. Percy held his badge with deference, Fred and George chanted a silly song, and Ron and Ginny somewhat understood that it was an honour.

Charlie didn’t say anything in front of his siblings.

But he spoke later, when they were about to go to bed. “You deserved it.”

16.

When Bill was sixteen, he watched with astonishment as Charlie soared into the air in his red robes. His stout, powerful younger brother flew with so much ease that Bill was convinced that somebody had tampered with him. When the crowd got to its feet and loudly cheered his catch, Bill cheered louder, and answered with a grin the flirty question a curvaceous girl with black hair had asked. “Yeah, he’s my brother. I’m the one who taught him to fly, y’know.”

Bill grabbed Charlie by the shoulders much later. “What was that about? That was brilliant!”

Charlie shrugged with carelessness, but Bill saw the dimple in his cheek and the glimmer of pride in his eyes.

17.

When Bill was sixteen and a half, he caught his brother kissing a spirited Hufflepuff girl during his prefect rounds. “What happened to snogging being the most sickening thing ever?” Bill sniggered as he accompanied him back to the common room.

“Bugger it,” Charlie replied, his cheeks crimson. “I don’t kiss many girls like that, not like other blokes I know.”

“What do you mean?” Bill stopped in his tracks and pulled on his brother’s shirt.

“You know what I mean,” Charlie sniffed as he shoved him. “Don’t touch me.”

Bill saw red. He was discreet. How did Charlie know? He pulled harder on his shirt. “You’re just jealous.”

“You wish.” Shove.

“That’s a yes.” Pull.

“Wanker!” Shove.

“Tosser!” Pull.

They resolved their matters in detention.

18.

When Bill was seventeen, he had a fantasy about becoming a Wizarding rock star because it sounded quite cool.

Charlie reacted as he thought he would. “You can’t even sing! You’re a know-it-all; you’ll have some sort of a know-it-all job.”

Professor McGonagall convinced Bill that he had everything to become a curse-breaker, and he decided it was cooler than being a rock star. He was rather pleased with the idea of exploring tombs to find ageless treasures. Professor McGonagall also said he was a brilliant student and a gifted wizard, and Bill blushed, because she never gave out much compliments.

When Charlie heard about what Professor McGonagall had said about his abilities, he did not snigger or call him a know-it-all.

Charlie laconically said, “Told you.”

19.

Later that year, a girl broke Bill’s heart.

He did not understand how Charlie came across this information. Bill could not comprehend how Charlie understood how painful the situation was for him through the four words he grudgingly admitted to him.

“She cheated on me.”

He had no idea how Charlie smuggled Firewhisky into Hogwarts two days later.

The two things Bill would remember from that day were: one, he’d owed his very first hangover to his kid brother; and two, Charlie Scourgified every trace of the mess he’d made.

20.

The summer before Bill turned eighteen, he realized as he was reading a book Professor McGonagall had lent to him that he was leaving Hogwarts in one year. If she had seen right, he would be accepted in the training program in Egypt, and he would leave The Burrow for good.

He ditched the book, tackled Ron into the wild grass, teased Ginny, played endless and extreme games of Explosive Snap with Fred and George, and listened to Percy’s views.

He studied at night when Charlie was snoring.

Bill also spent hours flying with him. They were inseparable in silence or in uproar.

When Charlie became prefect, Bill clapped his shoulder. But when no golden pin fell from the envelope, and it became obvious that Charlie had not been named captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team that year, Bill liked Professor McGonagall a little less.

21.

When Bill turned twenty-one in the balmy and perfumed night of Egypt, a stern-looking owl perched itself on his knee while he was in bed reading. He unfolded the parchment covered by Charlie’s untidy handwriting, bubbling with exclamations.

Should I accept the offer from the reservation? They say that my O’s in Care of Magical Creatures and my flying abilities are “remarkable”. On the other hand, everyone’s telling me I’d be daft not to sign for England’s rookie team, but I don’t know.

These are chances of a lifetime! What do you think?

P.S.How did you tell to Mum you were moving to Egypt?

Bill answered back.

It’s nobody’s choice but yours. You’d be brilliant in either place.

I guess it all comes down to this: what kind of life you want to live? Having your performances nitpicked all the time and handling herds of pretty groupies, or living in a remote place where you can have your arse roasted on a daily basis?

P.S As for Mum, there’s no special trick there. She’ll accept anything if she knows you’ll have enough to eat, if you Owl her regularly, and if you’re happy.

Bill knew what Charlie would choose long before he got another owl, three weeks later.

You’ve helped more than you can think. I’ve decided to place a bet on my arse. Maybe there are dragon groupies, ha!

22.

When Bill was twenty-six, death materialized itself.

He hadn’t really thought about it before. He had been in sticky situations at work, and he often had sensed its cold breath on his neck. Ancient spell work was a game for him, a highly skilled competition where a tiny alteration in magic could change everything.

He was an excellent player at that game.

But an attacker sinking his nails and teeth into his face was not subtle and intuitive spell work. This was brutal savagery, and this he believed he could not counter. He thought he would die.

But he didn’t. Weeks later, he was working on reconciling himself with the idea that some part of him had died at Hogwarts. When Charlie arrived at The Burrow and clapped him in the back saying that he looked good, Bill could not withhold a sarcastic remark. “Yeah, never looked better.”

Charlie pursed his lips, unflappable. “You look good to me. You’re alive.”

Bill wondered if Charlie would understand how different he felt. “You’re the same, Bill. You’re still my brother,” answered Charlie without thinking.

It was painful for him to realize that this reality was too complicated for his closest brother to acknowledge.

23.

When Bill was a few months shy of turning twenty-seven, his best man energetically pulled him out of bed. “Get up, lazy arse! You’re getting married!”

All day, Charlie watched over him, and finally Bill turned around with a sigh. “What’s this about? Did Fleur ask you to supervise me? Do you think I’m going to flee?”

“No,” Charlie scoffed. He chewed on his lower lip before he added, “It’s excellent, Bill.”

“What’s excellent?” Bill tied his hair back and turned again to his brother who was handing him his trousers.

“You… getting married. It’s excellent.”

“I know!” The shirt slithered on his skin, and his mind strayed away from Fleur. “What happened to your hair?”

“Never mind.” Charlie waved his hand as he helped him with the dress robes. “I’m not sure I’ll get married.”

“Yeah, you’ve been saying that for years.” Bill adjusted his robes, and Charlie turned his back to him to fetch the flowers.

Charlie struggled as he attached the delicate blossom to Bill’s robes, and he took a step back to admire his work. “I’m not sure a woman would fancy sharing the life of a dragon keeper,” he said pensively, straightening the flower.

“And why not? Aren’t women working with you on the reserve?” Bill inquired.

“Well, yeah, but-“

“Some women could live with the idea, then. Those colleagues of yours…are they dishy?”

“Dishy? Bloody hell, Grandpa,” Charlie snorted with derision. “Yeah, there are fine birds. Git.”

“You’re admitting some of them are fanciable, then? Didn’t you speak once about that–“

“She – I mean, they’re colleagues.”

“What’s her name again?”

“It’s not about me today.”

“Charlie, seriously, why can’t you just-“

“Ok, I think we’re ready.”

“I’m just saying that-“

“If you’re late, Fleur will destroy me. Stop arsing around.”

24.

When Bill was twenty-seven, he realized that the world indeed could stop. When it moved again, all life had been drained from it. The young man lying motionless on a table was his brother, and the woman sobbing her helplessness against his inanimate chest was his mother.

Bill took a few steps back from them. A new reality was unfolding before him, and he childishly wished to wake up.

Tears moistened his eyes, but he willed them to stop them as Fleur touched him with loving solicitude, her features betraying her grief. He bit the inside of his cheeks when his father wept.

When Bill was twenty-seven and furiously decided to turn twenty-eight as a personal revenge against destiny, he fought again. This time, his magic was tinted with rage and his hexes were deadlier. While battling, from the corner of his eye, he attempted to locate Fleur with all his might as his wand whipped in the air. He was looking for his siblings and his parents as bolts of light fused from everywhere and Hogwarts palpitated with deadly menace.

When Harry triumphed, a long yell escaped him, and he could not tell if it was from joy or pain. He saw Charlie fighting his way to him through the crowd, his face pale and his jaw set. “I can’t find Fred…Where is he?”

Bill numbly stared at his brother. Charlie hollered as he shook him, “WHERE’S FRED? TELL ME!”

Bill’s wince betrayed his sorrow, and Charlie whimpered, “Oh no…oh no, no…”

The two of them held on to the other’s arms, attempting to anchor themselves for a moment in the deafening maelstrom of voices.

Mirrored tears slipped from the corner of their eyes.

25.

Minutes before Bill turned thirty, Charlie came into the room he was standing in. Thin lines appeared at the corners of his lips when his brother smiled. “Nice to see you,” Charlie whispered, his voice raw with fatigue.

Bill’s stomach fluttered when a tiny hand closed on his finger. “It’s been a while. You must be exhausted… flooing all the way from Romania.”

“I’m not talking to you,” Charlie quietly replied, his eyes sparkling with good humour. “I’m talking to my goddaughter.”

Head to head, the brothers watched upon the baby sleeping in Bill’s arms. “I had to see her with my own eyes,” Charlie murmured, brushing with a robust finger the baby’s hand clasped into a minuscule fist. “It’s hard to believe you’re a father.”

Bill chortled, readjusting the blanket on the baby. “Yeah. Amazing, isn’t it?”

Charlie snorted. “That’s not what -”

“A miracle, a phenomenon, a -”

“Oh, shut up. What I meant is congratulations. I just saw Fleur on my way up here. She looks good.”

“She’s amazing. There are no other words for it.”

The baby burped, and they snickered. Bill thought how peculiar this feeling was… being as much of an adult as he would ever be with his newborn child in his arms and still able to feel like a kid when he was around Charlie.

“Fancy holding your goddaughter?” Bill almost roared with laughter when Charlie rolled his eyes in panic. “Ah, come on! You should thank me for giving you a chance to practice.”

“Er…well, she’s really – I –“

“You handle dragons!”

Charlie shook his head vigorously. “Not the same, mate. She’s tiny…she’s yours. I’m not sure I can be trusted with -”

Frowning, Bill swiftly handed Victoire to his brother. He avoided looking at Charlie in the eye when he saw him swallow hard as the baby opened her eyes to him.

“Hey, look at you,” cooed Charlie as he awkwardly nested the baby in his arms.

When his brother’s already enamoured gaze crossed his, Bill smirked.

No, Charlie. Look at you.

ooooOOoooo

The end

Fri, 07 Sep 2007 17:27:39 GMT

I was deeply saddened to read about what happened to Jordan. I'm sorry to say I did not have a close relationship with her as some of you did, but I had the pleasure to exchange comments with her, and to appreciate the friendly and genuine person she was.

One day I joked in an entry about my desire to express my affection to the world for a certain Weasley, and five minutes later, she sent me this icon ^. I was touched by her generosity and her thoughtfulness.

That is how I would like to remember her from our too short exchanges.

To all of you who are grieving a friend, I would like to offer my most heartfelt condoleances.

Giving back 2007

Thu, 23 Aug 2007 17:42:26 GMT

I have been fortunate to meet people who have been supportive of my attempts to come back to writing. Writing and gaining confidence in uploading those pieces of writing to websites and LJ have been quite liberating. I have gained experience, hopefully improved in some areas, realized on what I would like to work on and on all that is needed to be worked on. This means the world to me, and I lack the words to express how much it made a huge difference for me.

Last year on my personal LJ, I offered to give out a fic for Christmas for those would like to receive one. Ten fics were offered to my LJ friends as a heartfelt thanks for their friendship and support. It was one of the most fantastic experiences I lived in fandom so far.

I know that Christmas is very far away, but I am now opening the wish list until August 29, 2007. I'm not sure I can take more than 15 requests.

If you would like to get a story for Christmas, here is what Santa would like to know:

Characters: who would you like it to be the primary characters/secondary characters? Are there characters you would prefer not to read?

Gen or ship: would you like your story to be shippy in nature? I'll try to accomodate you.

Rating: Please indicate a rating or a range of ratings that would work for you. If you've read my stuff, you know that I'm worthless with graphic stuff.

POV: First person? Second person? Third person? A character in particular?

Genre: Crack? Angst? Drama? Romance (you courageous one)?

Elements you would like to read in: If there are things you would like to read specifically in that story, a word, a color - whatever suits your fancy - please mention it.

Things would prefer not to read in: thanks for writing them down.

Other comments or notes: go ahead.

I'm offering this to all of you who sometimes come across this journal, regardless if we know each other well or not. It's my way of saying thank you for stopping by.

A schedule will be put up soon so you know when your fic will be posted during December.

If you are not familiar with my stories, I would recommend for you to read one of them that has one of your favorite characters in it, so you'll know if you like the style and the way the characters are depicted.

*** Some of you had made requests during the month where I attempted to do a every day in June kind of thing and I got swamped with contracts. They will be honoured in September 2007.***

So You've Think You've Found a Keeper - chapter 3

Fri, 15 Jun 2007 18:11:45 GMT

Chapter 3: Glory’s Truly Sexcellent Adventure

I’m taking this badfic to highs of silliness. I promise things to the readers that will never happen. : P

Harry’s chapter will have to wait.

All the misspelled words from canon are intended to be so

Glory/one sultry HP character

Glory O’Fe D’Day was no ordinary Mary Sue.

No, she was not, and tonight was certainly not the night to tell her otherwise, since she was drunk to her eyes, and looking eagerly for some arse in a shadowy bar in Knockandturn Alley.

This character thought she was an super Mary Sue, and Merlin be hung by his filly pants if it was not the case. In fact, that is exactly what she was drunkenly sobbing to the barman in front of her. “I’m not a hiccup, an ordinary hiccup Mary Sue. I’m a – a hiccup rubber Mary Sue.”

Well, she was a Mary Sue. The Real Stuff, down to her silky mane, her dizzying curves, her outrageous powers and her overall Slythebin hotness.

A Mary Sue that had tried to coax in the Wizarding world’s most eligible available bachelor, Wogmarts’ brooding Potions Master Sternus Steak.

An international caliber Mary Sue. One that makes you hate her because you, like, want to look like her.

She knew all about her reality because her Writer had told her so in one heated argument, and you, brave reader, do not know your chance to have not witnessed this unbearable moment of pathos.

(But since this is a silly piece of writing, please sit back and enjoy the play by play.)

The scene opens on two women: a ravishing and sexy woman, and Glory.

Glory (distraught, clutching a rubber chicken for comfort): So I’m…I’m a figment of your imagination.

The Writer (basking in her sexiness): Yes. You are. You’re a crazy part of me, and I’m attempting to make you seduce every bloke in that series. I don’t want to sleep with Snape, but I think Alan Rickman is OMG.

Glory: What? You are me? I’m myself, you silly one. I have my own psychology: my moral judgment stage is at 3, my locus of control is external, and I’m a borderline/narcissistic character and I-

The Writer (with a sexy pout): This is my psychobabble, dear. I created you so I could expiate from creating an OC that sounds a bit like a Mary Sue, and I will make you as improbable as I can. You’re an ordinary Mary Sue.

Glory (crying and holding the rubber chicken to her heart): Improbable? Ordinary? But, but…. I’m so hot.

The Writer (oozing from sexy cruelty): Yep.

(You were told it was bursting from pathos. You feel robbed from it. Sorry, you just had to be there.)

Glory had decided to drown her sorrows in a couple of Redsiodas, some kind of drink that mixed Mercy, Silliness, and Instinct in one quite appetizing blend. The barman told her to sprinkle some Wisdom on it, but her being her stubborn but charismatic self, she decided to throw it over her shoulder.

No, she was not an ordinary Mary Sue. She was a Mary Sue out on a bend, looking for rightful shag, and in her drunken state, she did not notice the dapper gentleman that sat to her side. She heard his voice through her sobbing. “From your eyes is pouring the sweetest water.”

Glory had always had a thing for pick-up lines, especially when said with so much erotic glee.

She lifted her swollen eyes to him. Though her tears, she saw a blinding smile, and hair that looked as pretty as hers. In fact, he looked so much like her, she became aroused at the second, and decided it could be a wonderful experience, to shag someone that looks so much like her.

She considered going to bed with Gilderoy Lockhart.

She decided she would have him. She would possess him. She would go out of her way to drag him to the crummy hotel down the street. He would indulge her into hot, sizzling sex, and she would have nothing to do but being amazingly beautiful and cry her pleasure at regular intervals, so he would get more pumped up.

He was a sex god. It was written in his smile, in his face, in his hair, dammit.

My writer be damned. Shagging is a very simple thing for Mary Sues, she thought fiercely.

(Writers have to be funny, and smart and very patient, but Mary Sues go right to the point.)

She just had to lick her lips, and the deed was done, the contract was signed. That’s how her sisters did it. The wizard lent her his handkerchief, and as she worked her magic, she became stunningly sober in a split second.

Glory tied a cherry stem with her tongue. Astonished by the innuendo, Lockhart choke on an olive. Glory, being a fully trained Healer and knowing exactly what to do, gave him mouth to mouth, ten seconds before the bar owner took pity of the man, and operated on him the Heimlich manoeuvre.

+ + +

The hotel was crummy. The room was crummy. The bedspread looked like it had been turned into crummy drapes, than into a crummy dress, then into a crummy bedspread. But Glory did not see anything of this because she was backing in the room, luring in the wizard with a slightly cheesy hip move.

But I’m a Mary Sue, she thought angrily. I’m Sex, and Lust, and Creative Karma Sutra, but I stay at all times very proper.

But that was her second mistake, because she tripped on the bedpost and fell on the bed with her hair spread like a halo around her head, and in one surprising moment her low cut dress vanished from her. She was now radiant, all curves and glowing skin, luscious and awaiting for him.

(You know, like Fleur Delacour, but much more seductive. Will Wisely should have known better. But that’s another story.)

The gentleman looked at her with confusion. “Are you fine, Miss? You seem to be naked.”

Glory raised herself on one elbow. “Rawr.”

The wizard shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand your dialect. Me,” he pointed to his chest, “Gilderoy.”

Glory laughed with a coquettish giggle. “Kilteroy…Oh I like you already. Why don’t you take your robes off and show me your wand, you randy dandy.”

Because Glory knew that a sexual pun always work wonders in a so-so crack!fic. She knew that her mother, the cruel Writer, could pen some and compete with the best of them. Glory was in total confidence that she would not be let down in that department.

What happen next will not be described into details, but Glory being an exhibitionistic Slythbin, insisted to communicate to her readers that the sex was so mind-blowing, she did not remember a thing afterwards.

Two days later, when she finally let go of her lover who was wearing an appropriate weary look, she caressed his chest with tenderness. “You will always have a special place in my heart, Milderoy,” she whispered.

Lockhart shakily smiled. “Yes, good Merlin. I hope so.”

She also grabbed her cell phone to check her voice mail, and thereby crushed any remotely credible canon facts linked to this story line.

Lockhart smiled to her, and escaping her touch, slowly slipped out of bed, smiled again, grabbed his robes, smiled again, showed her his round behind when he turned away, and ran for dear life.

But Glory was not crushed.

Even when Lockhart published his new erotic take on the Wizarding world, Sleeping with Sues.

She liked how he depicted her. She thought he understood her quite well. He made a very flattering portrait of her as an insatiable, shameless, sex-crazed, well-rounded nymphomaniac with a heart of gold and an arse of steel.

Glory was a vicious, man-eating Slythebin, and really, that two-day shag had been a nice afternoon tea party. It was mainly a rehearsal for the Big One. The Shag of all Shags.

Because she had learned all about Snarlie Wisely, and she knew her Writer was quite smitten with him.

And he was a Dragon Keeper. A redhead. A sex god.

She licked her lips as she eyed the schedule for the trains to Romania.

So many wizards, so little time.

Jotting in June

Tue, 12 Jun 2007 03:40:50 GMT

Oh yes, I'm still three stories late...I will make it, I promise.

June 8

Title: Raspberries

HP or not – HP and oh my gosh I've written Ron and Hermione and OMG it’s fluff *faints*

Rating- PG

Words: 560

[ - ]

Their footsteps brought them closer to the pond, and they stared for a moment at the gentle ripples on the water. The welcomed freshness of the evening was finally settling in, and she rubbed her arms when a shiver ran the length of her spine.

The wind lazily swept up her skirt. She slicked down the fabric on her thighs.

He broke the silence. “Tomorrow, uh?”

“Yes.” She gave him a small headshake.

“Can’t believe it.”

“I know. We’ve been planning this for months.“

She followed him when he led her further away from The Burrow.

She thought he led her. Maybe it was she who led him to take the narrow path that went up the hill. She could not have told for sure: his fingers had hesitantly grazed hers, and she had taken his hand.

They walked side by side with the same intention: staying close to each other, but domesticate the idea that they would put much distance between everything they knew and themselves during the weeks to come.

They looked down at the scenery. Her heart compressed in her chest. The sky was putting a spectacular goodbye show for them. She frowned when he started to fidget, releasing her hand, looking around him as he was searching for something.

He walked to luxuriant bushes, and his voice was carried away by the wind. “Been a while since I came here, but I reckon there are ever-ripe raspberries bushes around here.”

She called out to him, amused. “Still hungry? I couldn’t eat another bite. Anyways, it’s getting dark. Maybe we should go back. I’m quite sure your family would like for us to spend the evening with them.”

“But you have to taste this.” His voice came out muffled as he kneeled and started fussing through the bushes. All she could here were ows and bloody thorns through his gritted teeth.

She walked to him with her wand in hand. “Really, no need to hurt yourself.”

He looked at her above his shoulder, appalled. “But it’s half the fun!”

She took a step back when he turned around to face her, still on his knees. In his scratched hands were a dozen raspberries, glistening from dew.

“You’re bleeding,” she whispered.

“Nah. I squashed one. Take a few and smash them into your mouth. So friggin’ good."

She bended forward and picked a couple of swollen berries from his hands. She placed them on her tongue as she felt incapable of smashing such perfect fruits, and she closed her eyes when the raspberries revealed their bittersweet taste in her mouth.

A shiver ran through her again, and tears welled up in her eyes.

It had such a full taste. It awaked her mouth.

It tasted summer and scorching days. It tasted insouciance. It tasted comfort and lazy Sundays.

It tasted everything she was leaving behind.

“So?” he asked, still kneeling before her, a drip of juice on his lower lip.

She drank it from him. “Amazing,” she whispered as a smile illuminated his face.

With a wink, he turned away from her, and he reached for more fruits.

She stood there, licking the juice on her palm. She watched his hands getting scraped and bloodied by the thorns.

And when he decided he had enough, he got up to his feet and again, he offered her rubies from his cupped hands.

[ - ]

June 4 - Jotting in June

Tue, 05 Jun 2007 03:27:08 GMT

June 4

Motherwatching

HP or not: not – I’m going to bore my flist to death this month.

Rating: PG-13

Words: 985

I’ve been working on a humorous 17 year-old girl voice for quite a while, and I worked on this snippet a good part of the day. Bloc Pot is a political party in Quebec who wants to legalize, well, pot.

{ - }

My aunt spends hours complaining about men. Last Christmas, I was initiated to the fine art of bitching about men while in presence of men.

I was impressed on how women of my family master this subtle art while smiling to their significant other at the other side of the room, and how my father and uncles were completely clueless and just winked back. That’s when I understood that my mother, her sisters and my other aunts are plain devious.

Right now, if I’m correctly deciphering my mother’s grunts and eye rolling as she clutches to the phone like she was choking a deadly snake, aunt Anne must be blabbing about her new boyfriend. It seems that Bernard is too malleable, too feminine, and way too cheap.

Well, that’s what I could hear from the voice booming from the phone.

And I know exactly what comes next. “You’re so cheap with guys! I’m not surprised you only had daughters!”

That’s what my mom says when she’s about to hang on the phone on their weekly Sunday rowing session.

It’s not her finest moment.

I think she forgets that she only has one daughter herself.

But right now, after quite a string of rude words, my mother squashes the phone like it was a black widow spider. I’ve got be honest: I’m all sorts of tired to see my mom crash on the couch with a stiff Bloody Mary in hand on Sunday night.

I grab a cushion and sit at her feet, clearly decided to understand what the fuss is about aunt Anne’s angst. “Mom, why d’you call her every week?”

Because, yes, she’s the one calling Anne. I love my mother, but she is so twisted. I’m amazed that she managed to raise a sane teenager like me. “You can’t stomach her. Why give yourself the trouble of listening to her rant?”

Her toes curl upward, and my mother attempts to regain her dignity by straightening herself on the couch. She stares at me as if Bloc Pot just won the provincial election. “What?”

“Well, it’s true. I don’t understand why you call her every week if it leads to, you know,” I point her glass, “knocking yourself out.”

My mother almost drops her Bloody Mary. She reaches for me and pat my head like I was a little animal who just showed its obedience by not relieving itself on the carpet.

“Baby, she’s my sister. Of course, we tend to go crazy sometimes. And for the record, missy, I’m not knocking myself out. This is one drink. One lousy drink. Your dad’s cheap on the booze.”

Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.

“Okay. She’s your sister. Wouldn’t you be supposed to get along instead of pulling each other’s hair one day a week?”

“Baby,” she says, stretching her legs and wiggling her freshly painted toenails (they look like little green capped aliens, I’ve just noticed), “family is family. We share the same blood.“

I fake my best understanding face. I pretend that my mother is perfectly logical, and when she starts sipping her drink, I counterattack before she can protest. “Nope, I still don’t get it. Why bother?”

Mom finally looks away from the TV that is blaring something about the ten filthiest houses in the U.S. or something like it. She’s really into this kind of show nobody listens too but that always manage to be in the top of the ratings.

She frowns. “We do come from the same womb, you know.”

Yuck. Why Grandma’s womb has to be mentioned? I wince, but I figure she’s trying to divert my attention. “She’s always bitching against Bernard, and you’re always defending him. Women aren’t supposed to be sisters, or something? You know, that entire thing about women’s liberation? You’re, like, sisters two times.”

The thing is, I say that to be funny, but Mom seems to grow taller. “Listen now, I’ve set my bra on fire in the seventies, but I’m not ready to put every man in the same boat. What do you do of men’s liberation movement?”

I’m flabbergasted. I’ve seen some mind scarring pictures of my topless mother with a flaming bra in hand, but I’ve never heard about men’s liberation movement before. I didn’t even know that men needed to be liberated. “Liberated from what?”

“Liberated from crazy women like my sister who say they have zero expectancies but ask for the moon!” My eyes must be as big as saucers. Mom is on a roll. “Anne wants him to touch her more, but when he does she pushes him away because she’s ticklish. She would like him to cook more, but she can’t stomach his food because it’s not low-carb. She wants him to be self-assertive, but she tramples him when he tries to be so. She wants him to be more of a talker, but she thinks he’s got a boring voice and he’s a poor conversationalist.”

“You mean, she doesn’t know what she wants?” I’m quite a novice at all this relationship politics, but I’m trying to get a feel of the game.

“Yes!” My mother holds on her celery branch with the look of a woman who’s seen the light. “She doesn’t know what she wants, you said it. And the poor guy works like crazy to understand what she wants, but Madam changes her mind ten times a day! How does she think he’ll know how to act with her? How they’ll understand each other?”

“Okay, so I get it now,” I claim, hoping that I’m getting an understanding of the whole drama. “You want to defend Bernard, ‘cause he’s making efforts to make her happy.”

“You got it. I know, baby, I know. “ Mom sighs with dismal, and then she sneers, her nose in her glass. “But you know what’s his real problem? The guy’s a wimp.”

{ - }

June 3 - Jotting in June

Mon, 04 Jun 2007 04:57:09 GMT

A/N: I had started this for

hp_genlove , and I never found the time to finish it. Here it is, finally.

June 3

I have news for you

HP or not: HP

Words: 374

{ - }

The old man was standing still as he peeked out the dirty window that overlooked a sordid street. Wizards were moving lazily in this unusually foggy early summer day, walking from one tiny shop to another, clustered in tight groups in the narrow pathway.

The man observed that the pedestrians’ trajectories were smooth curves, and this might be why he saw him immediately. The long silhouette of a man draped in black was hastily making his way through the sluggish group that wavered from one side of the street to the other. His path was straight as an arrow leading to the crummy pub where the old man was hoping for him.

The old man hummed an old waltz, paying attention to the footsteps coming his way, and reflecting about their heaviness.

After several words were exchanged, discrete spells were casted and the relative security of the setting lead the old man to believe that this was the Wizard he was waiting for. The door creaked open, and his visitor stepped in.

The guest’s eyes adverted him. In the tightness of the settings, the young man seemed frail, hunched forward in an overpowered posture, his hair masking his face like a veil of secrecy.

“I have news for you,” he muttered.

To the old man standing peacefully, the visitor seemed like a mere shadow of the arrogant pupil that had come to him to beg for a position a year ago. His clothes reeked from humidity, and his eyes were blank.

“Severus...” The young man jerked upright, and Albus Dumbledore could read the doubt distorting his features. This young man was very afraid. He seemed jittery, ready to attack at the smallest provocation.

Dumbledore crossed his hands on his lap. “Now, tell me. Why should I be listening?”

“Because you have to.”

Soon, preoccupying words, treacherous words, terrifying words filled the room, and the old man closed his eyes on the emptiness that was corroding his informer from the inside.

In the hot humidity of a small room on the last floor of a crummy pub, Albus Dumbledore had the vivid feeling that past and future were colliding in way that escaped him for the time being.

{ - }

June 2 _ Jotting in June

Sun, 03 Jun 2007 07:31:37 GMT

June 2

The table

HP or not: HP

Rating: PG-13

Words: 327

{ - }

Sixteen years ago, small fists pounded daily on the massive table’s uneven surface, already eroded by hundreds of meals. “Hun-gry! Hun-gry!”

“Fred, George, enough with this! Bill, would you help Ronnie to his chair, dear? Charlie, you are not bringing this…this thing in the house. And wash your hands, young man.”

The world rotated around the table. Uproarious life orbited around it. A mess of children constantly ran around its sturdy legs. Sometimes, delicate freckled flesh was bruised when adventurous tykes accidentally rammed their forehead against its corner. Tears and blood had permeated the wood, laughs had made it vibrate.

Once, it was carved on slightly with a butter knife, before the culprit was shown the direction to her bedroom without dessert.

Nine pairs of hands slipped on it for many years. Food got spilled on its surface in big, warm gushes. Many teacups had warmed it during long, sleepless nights.

So many spells had been casted on the table with a tired or exasperated flick of a wand. It was longer and shorter on the same day.

One very warm night, a long time ago, it had supported the uncovered curves of the woman who was the catalyst of this energy roaming around it.

Love was engraved in all its knots and lines.

Books had hit the table hard, ink had been running on it like a river out of its bed, cards have been slapped on it. The table had heard and seen everything. Newcomers had discovered its amazing power of giving a sense of belonging to the ones who would sit around it.

Sixteen years later, no fists are pounding the table. Two elbows are resting on its surface, now silky from the time washing it smooth on its passage.

Hands before her mouth, a cup of tea before her, a woman contemplates the empty table as if it was a mirror that had the power to make all of its memories come to life.

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Jotting in June - June 1

Sat, 02 Jun 2007 03:09:08 GMT

A/N Inspired by some writers of my flist, I have decided to take the relay of the challenge they took over in May. They wrote drabbles, ficlets, fics every day in May and shared them with us. I'll be posting a piece of writing every day for a month ( HP fanfic and original writing exercises). If you have prompts for stories you'd like to read, please don't hesitate to share them with me. I'll try my best. :)

June 1.

I want a bag

Hp or not: not

Type: an ~~excuse to create images~~ drabble

Words: 370
Rating: G

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I want to sew myself a bag with the untiring meticulousness of a seamstress and the flourishing imagination of an artisan.

I want to create myself a bag from old and new pictures, where fresh smiling faces and wrinkled cheeks flawlessly fade into one another.

I want to find the peerless way of fitting its pieces together. I want it to become a timeless, an ageless bag, and I want to never get tired of its newness.

I want a bag containing frivolous bits and scraps of everything I love, everything I do not know yet I love, and everything I wish I did not love.

I want a work-in-progress bag. A stash in, hide out bag where the little everything I own belongs.

I want a bag in which all my misplaced vanities could be spied on and flushed out.

I want a bag in which crumbs of my life will be weaved in its lining. If a tragedy has to befall on my bag, if it had to be turned outside out, if it was torn by accident, if it ripped like a stormy sky, I want those pieces to stick to it.

I want a resilient bag.

I want a bag made of sticky and sweet, a bag that exhales a sigh when I open it, a bag that growls when I forget to take it somewhere.

I want a bag that wants the exclusivity of me.

I want a bag that would lead bystanders to wonder why such a person burdens herself with such a bag.

I want a bag that will never be stolen from me, a bag that would pull and stretch in all directions but never lose its real nature.

I want a bag that contains, holds and carries. I want a simple yet intricate bag.

I will haul that bag on my shoulder, and I will snail into life with my unique, self-made bag.

And when I will decide to empty it, when it will be time for me to reverse it and to expose all of its content, I will watch with elation these pieces of my life fall from it for what they truly are.

Beautiful, odd shaped, oversized confetti.

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