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thethreebroomsticksficfest · 2 years

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furry little problem

Our fifth submission comes from @lanaturnergetup, a delightful look into the friendship of two of our favourite marauders. Read it on AO3 here.

username: lanaturnergetup

pairing: none, platonic James Potter & Remus Lupin

warnings: none

summary: How James Potter came to be the Head Boy of Hogwarts.

***

Remus approaches him on the second to last official day of sixth year before they go home for the summer.

James is already looking forward to the summer: Sirius has promised that he’ll come and stay, even though he’s officially moved out to his own flat. James still doesn’t understand why Sirius needs to move out at all, and he very much didn’t mince his words while telling him so.

“Ah, come on, Prongs,” Sirius said, easily, when James told him his objections to his moving out, “I’ll still come stay with you. After all, I can’t abandon my best friend, can I?” And then, with a straight face: “Effie would never forgive me, and she and I have been through too much together.”

So James thinks, despite no Sirius living with them anymore, it’ll be a good summer. He’ll come and stay, and hopefully he’ll be able to convince Moony and Wormy to come stay with him, too. And who knows, maybe Lily and he will write to each other. They’ve struck up an odd friendship, the two of them, and although he knows not to expect more, he can’t help but hope…

But anyway. Friendship is good. It’s good, being Lily Evans’s friend. She’s smart, and funny in a casual way that takes James by surprise sometimes, and sometimes when she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, James forgets how to focus, but… Friends. Friendship is good.

He’s spending his last day of the term enjoying the shade under his favourite beech tree. Padfoot and Wormtail are still in the Gryffindor dormitory, packing their trunks to go back home, and Remus is at a Prefects’ meeting – or so James assumes, because that’s where Remus usually is when he disappears. He’s lost his favourite Snitch, so he’s amusing himself by reading Quidditch Through the Ages – or, more accurately, he’s got the book propped open on his chest, and he’s peering at the Black Lake, trying to spot the Giant Squid.

He’s entertaining the thought of wandering closer to the lake and skipping stones across the surface to lure out the Squid (in his head, he’s named her: it’s Marietta and he thinks that suits her – he’s also decided that she’s a female squid, because of his fondness for the name) when he’s interrupted from his thoughts.

“Hey,” says a voice, making James jump.

James turns and is met with the gently smiling face of Remus Lupin, who sits down next to him.

“Moony,” he says, delighted. “I thought you were at a meeting.”

“I was. I’m not anymore,” Remus says.

James looks at him appraisingly. It’s been a week since the last full moon, and he seems to be healing well from it, although when he pushes up the sleeves of his robes, James can see the faint white scars on his arms, the scars that never quite seem to fade. He makes a mental note to get some hot chocolate from the elves for Moony later tonight. “How was it, then?” he says, instead of voicing anything that’s on his mind. Remus doesn’t like when he hovers or fusses – which he maintains he does not, no matter what Sirius says to the contrary.

“It was alright,” Remus says.

Alright from Moony can mean anything from awful to incredible. James knows better than to pry, though. If it was Sirius, he could just ask, and say What on earth do you mean by ‘alright’? Was it good or bad? Tell me everything!

That won’t work with Moony, so he tries a different approach. He rumples up his hair, slumps back against the trunk of the tree, and says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Remus says, and then glances at James. There’s a frown on his forehead, and his eyebrows are furrowed; nothing new for Remus, really, but James worries anyway.

“Was Evans there?” he asks.

“Course she was there,” Remus says. “She’s a Prefect, isn’t she?”

James pretends to notice the badge on Remus’s robes, extends a hand and pokes at it. “You’re a Prefect, Moony? That’s where you keep going off to?”

“No,” says Remus, “I keep going off to meetings of the I Hate James Potter society. Lily started it, she’s the president.”

James flips Remus off, but when Remus laughs, he can’t help but join in. He always feels vaguely proud when Remus takes the piss; it’s his influence, he likes to think, and a noble influence at that.

“Actually,” says Remus, the smile on his face fading slightly, “the meeting ran a bit longer.”

“Why’s that?” James says.

“Dumbledore wanted to see us. He called us to his office.”

James sits up a little. “Don’t tell me you and Evans have gone and got detention on the last day of term, Moony. Even Padfoot and I know better than that.”

“We didn’t get detention,” Remus says, which James already assumed. “But, uh. Dumbledore wanted to talk to us about… about being Head Boy and Head Girl.”

James’s eyes grow wide. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Remus confirms.

“Moony, that’s amazing!” James says, but then he sees the way Remus’s shoulders are hunched in. “Why aren’t you more excited?” he demands.

“I said no,” Remus says, after a second.

James frowns. Surely he’s misheard that. Surely there’s no way…

“You said no?” he says.

Remus nods. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

James has seen how the full moon can make Remus sensitive to the smallest bruise afterwards. It’s why he’s usually careful with him, more so than he is with Padfoot and Wormtail. Even so, he doesn’t hesitate before he hits Remus’s shoulder with the back of his hand.

“What was that for?” Remus protests.

“Of course we’re talking about it,” James says. “Idiot.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Remus says. “I can’t be Head Boy. Not with…” He pauses, and looks around them.

James groans. Remus’s significant silence can only mean… “Is this about your furry little problem?”

Remus smiles, the way he always does when James calls it that. “Well, yes.”

“You’re still the most capable student in this school,” James says. “And if Dumbledore thinks so, then–”

“Dumbledore’s always been nicer to me than I deserve,” Remus says. “I don’t think any of the parents would want their children’s Head Boy to be… you know.”

James hits Remus’s shoulder again. “Don’t say that,” he says. “You sound like a self-hating knobhead when you talk like that, Moony.”

Remus’s smile grows wider. “Can’t help it if I am a self-hating knobhead,” he says.

“You definitely got the knobhead part of that right,” James mutters, and gets to his feet, holding his hand out to help Remus up. He knows not to press the topic further, knows a lost cause when he sees one. Remus has made up his mind, that’s all there is to it. “Come on, then. Let’s go help Padfoot and Wormy with their trunks.”

Remus looks relieved that James doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Yeah,” he says, “Let’s go.”

***

On the very last day of term, James is woken up far earlier than he should have been. He’s deeply asleep one moment, and the next, there’s a thump to his shoulder that has him sitting up with a start, eyes wide as he looks around for the source of the disturbance.

“Oi,” says an unsympathetic voice, and James is met with the blurry face of one Sirius Black. “Wake up,” he says.

“M’already awake, thanks to your kind intervention,” James mutters.

Sirius smirks at him. “Well, you’ll be waking up faster when I tell you where I’ve been.”

James groans. He doesn’t have the patience for the build-up right now. “Where have you been?” he asks dutifully, feeling around for his glasses. He finds them and shoves them on, and is treated with the sight of Remus and Peter, both awake, both looking curiously at Sirius as they get dressed.

“At breakfast,” Sirius announces, grandly.

James groans, throws his head back down against the pillow. “Did you wake me up to tell me off about missing breakfast, Padfoot?”

“You wound me, Prongs,” Sirius says. “I woke you up to tell you that Dumbledore found me on my way back here. He has a message for you.”

That has James sitting up. “What’s the message?”

“That he wants to see you.”

“Oooh,” Peter says. “Are you in trouble?”

“Presumably,” Sirius says.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Remus puts in. “You should go, James. Shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

James nods distractedly, opening his trunk to get out a clean set of robes. “Yeah,” he mutters vaguely, and wonders what the hell Dumbledore could want with him.

It’s only when he gets to Dumbledore’s office that James realises he has no idea what the password is.

“Fizzing Whizbees,” he tries, and is met with the unimpressed face of the gargoyle. “Er… Sugar quills? Merlin, I don’t know. Honeyduke’s finest chocolate? Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans?”

Just when he’s about to give up, the gargoyle moves and reveals the moving spiral staircase. James grins as he steps on, and the first thing he says when he strolls into Dumbledore’s office is, “Didn’t take you for a Bertie Bott’s fan, Professor.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles. “Some flavours are, I admit, troublesome.”

“That’s one way of putting it. Did you know they have an earwax one?” James says.

“I was, indeed, familiar with that,” Dumbledore says with a smile. “Would you like to sit down?”

James sits down. He’s been to the Headmaster’s office loads – more times than he can count, really – but this is one of the first times he’s been there without knowing what he did to get him in enough trouble to go there in the first place. It’s a disconcerting feeling. He wonders if this is about what he and Sirius did during Charms last week – but no, Professor Flitwick had laughed that one right off, hadn’t he? He can’t have gone to Dumbledore about it.

“Is everything alright, Professor?” he finally asks, because Dumbledore hasn’t said anything and he feels like he might explode from curiosity.

Instead of answering, Dumbledore says, “Did Remus tell you about the conversation I had with him yesterday?”

James blinks. “The… the Head Boy conversation?”

Dumbledore nods, and then pushes a tin across the desk, towards James. “Would you care for a sherbet lemon?” he says. James looks down at the bowl – some sort of Muggle sweet – and picks one up. “I wanted to talk to you,” Dumbledore continues, “about that conversation. I was hoping Remus would have enlightened you already. I am aware that there is little that he does not share with you.” His eyes twinkle behind his glasses as he looks at James.

“Well… yes,” James says. He means to stay quiet, to wait to hear what Dumbledore has to say, but his mouth betrays him, and he says, “Honestly, Professor, I think it’s ridiculous. No one would make a better Head Boy than Remus!”

“Your loyalty to your friends is to be admired,” Dumbledore says, “however–”

“And I know why Remus said no, but… he’s got his furry problem under control,” James continues fiercely. “He would never put anyone else in danger, not–” his cheeks feel a bit warm as he thinks about the incident with Snivellus – “not intentionally, anyway, not on purpose, so I think–”

“I agree,” Dumbledore says.

James is a bit nonplussed by that. “You do?” he says.

“I do,” Dumbledore says. “Lest you forget, I am the one who offered Remus the post in the first place.”

James, who had forgotten that in his fury, flushes. “Right,” he says. “Er… yeah. Right. Sorry, Professor. I didn’t mean to… accuse you, or anything.”

“As I said, I admire your loyalty to your friends,” Dumbledore says calmly. “However, Remus has turned down the position, and I cannot force him to be Head Boy if he does not want to.”

James thinks Dumbledore probably could, if he really tried, but chooses to keep that to himself.

“That being said,” Dumbledore continues; he seems to be weighing his words very carefully. “That being said, I was very much hoping that you would agree to be Head Boy in his stead.”

James doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, he grins. “Good one, Professor,” he says.

“I assure you,” says Dumbledore, “I am not joking.”

“But… I’m not a Prefect!” James says.

“Be that as it may, you have shown your leadership skills in your tenure as Quidditch Captain,” Dumbledore says. He pauses for a split second and adds, “And you have shown your loyalty, and your bravery. All good qualities in a Head Boy, I would say.”

“Remus deserves it,” James says, adamant, “more than I ever would. Or… or the other Prefects, I dunno.”

“As Remus pointed out, his… condition would ensure he would not be able to attend all of the Prefect meetings, or conduct his Head Boy responsibilities. Not that I blame him for it,” Dumbledore says, seemingly anticipating James’s hot protest before he can voice it, “however, he is not confident that he would be able to do the position justice. And… both him and I, as well as Professor McGonagall, are in agreement that you are the best man for the job.”

“You… you spoke to Remus about it?” James says.

“Indeed. When he voiced his concerns about the positions, it was he who suggested you instead.”

James feels oddly emotional in a way Sirius would definitely mock him for if he was here. “Remus thinks I can do it?”

“As do I,” Dumbledore says. “My… concern, with the other Prefects, is that they might not be sympathetic to Remus’s… predicament. I do not have that worry with you. Nor with Lily Evans.”

“No,” James says automatically, “Evans wouldn’t ever do anything to Remus.” He thinks he understands what Dumbledore’s saying. He thinks about one of the other Prefects being Head Boy, whether they would be a knob to Remus if he was poorly or tired. He knows there’s been a snide comment or two from the Slytherin Prefects before, when Remus has to miss a meeting or swap patrolling shifts with one of the other Prefects; he can only imagine how much worse that will get if Remus was Head Boy. A sudden surge of fury courses through him at the thought. “I’ll do it,” he says.

“I was very much hoping you would,” Dumbledore says, delighted.

“It’ll help me… look out for Remus. Make sure everything’s alright. Right?” And if he gets to stop any potential Death Eaters then… all the better for it.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore says, looking oddly thoughtful. “Would you care for another sweet?”

James helps himself. “Thanks, Professor,” he says, getting to his feet.

“Before you leave,” Dumbledore says, “I wonder if I might ask you something. Are you of age yet?”

“Oh – yeah,” James said. “I turned seventeen in March.”

“I am aware of keeping you from your friends,” Dumbledore says, “but please, take a seat. I would like to tell you something.”

James sits down and frowns. “What’s up, Professor?” he says.

“James,” Dumbledore says, “Have you ever heard of the Order of the Phoenix?”

***

#ttb spring fling #hp fan fic #james potter #remus lupin #marauders

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thethreebroomsticksficfest · 2 years

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Today’s Spring Fling fic is a witty missing moment by @mrs-stubby-boardman, starring none other than Padfoot and Crookshanks. Read it on AO3 following the link above and get a glimpse into this iconic friendship!

#ttb spring fling #padfoot #crookshanks

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thethreebroomsticksficfest · 2 years

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It’s finally time! Day 1 of The Three Broomsticks Spring Fling and we have a submission full of dark intrigue from @mrs-stubby-boardman! We know you’ll love it!

#ttb spring fling #hp fanfic

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thethreebroomsticksficfest · 2 years

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Deliciously normal

Fic number 3, @fightfortherightsofhouseelves is taking us to Grunnings to witness a love story for the ages. Read it on AO3 here.

Username: fightfortherightsofhouseelves

Pairing: Petunia/Vernon

Brief summary: Petunia Evans and Vernon Dursley’s first date.

Warnings or triggers: extreme snobbery

‘Sex and the single gorilla,’ the title read. Petunia’s cheeks swiftly and properly flushed at the sheer indecency. Her head bobbed behind the wide pages of the Guardian, long neck craning to scan the empty train compartment with as much subtlety as a big, sharp rock. Upon ensuring it had remained securely empty, Petunia read on.

‘Only mankind has put not only love but sex on a pedestal, where it never belonged. Brainwashed into the erroneous belief that paradise lies beneath the belt, we rush about in small circles worrying.’ Her pale, blue eyes zoomed over those two sentences again and again as she struggled to understand. Brainwashed? Paradise beneath the belt? Petunia was too appalled to even gasp.

‘Are we getting enough of the right sort of sex?’ the article followed most audaciously.

At this, Petunia promptly crumpled the paper, perfectly permed head turning left and right at lightning speed. What if someone had seen her reading Jill Tweedie? What would they make of her? Oh, she would surely die of shame - well educated, nice women didn’t read such rubbish anymore, and for good reason. Petunia might have been curious, but she had her pride.

She stuffed the paper in her bag, content to chuck it into the first dustbin as she stepped off the train platform. She had temporarily lost her head today, but it will never happen again, Petunia vowed. She would continue to be properly embarrassed by the idea of sex, adequately unknowing and uncurious about it until her wedding, as any respectable young woman ought to be. She would most certainly not become a - a freak.

Petunia walked through the Grunnings car park with her head held high, blonde hair flickering in the grey morning light. As she’d always done before going through the revolving front doors, Petunia checked her lacquered black shoes, smoothened the creases in her lilac deux-piece where the black bag always seemed to crumple it slightly, and checked her nails and breath. All was in tip top shape, just as it should be.

She couldn’t give a rat’s toss about Wilson’s Sex Discrimnation Act, Petunia reflected on the elevator ride to the very top floor of the building; she was immensely proud of the job that had removed her from Cokeworth, and there was no sense dwelling on it now.

With one disdainful look at her Jet Jeans-wearing coworker, Petunia clutched her bag closely to her side and exited the elevator without a single word. The company should be more careful with the staff they employ, she thought waspishly as she turned the lock of her office door with practised dexterity. Right in the centre of it, a golden plaque sat shining proudly, the name Vernon Dursley, Junior Executive branded into the door of the largest office on the ninth floor. Petunia’s blue eyes glazed over it flaccidly, a little sigh forming in her throat.

The plaque on the door had a twin sister dominating the centre of a large desk expertly placed in front of the largest window. Petunia picked it up, gave it a quick rub with her sleeve, then carefully set it back in its place.

Next, she worked the coffee machine in the corner of the room, adding the exact amount of milk and sugar Mr Dursley preferred with clinical precision. She placed the Grunnings labelled cup on a coaster in front of the golden plaque, which Mr Dursley would later pick up and enjoy while he recounted the latest political events for Petunia’s benefit, offering her a wide array of his personal opinions.

Mr Dursley was very well read and had a word to say on any topic, he was ever so intelligent and cultured. Petunia could listen to him for hours, sat in enraptured silence, secretly wishing he would finally ask her out. Oh, how quickly she would say yes - she would take him like a shot.

Petunia was careful to be in her seat, at her desk, typing machine ready and landline pulled close enough to answer on the first shrill ring (Mr Dursley found the phone’s ringing most irritating), when Vernon Dursley himself arrived. Smelling of Lifebuoy soap and coated in Denim Aftershave, Mr Dursley was clean, shaven, and radiated authority. His neatly trimmed moustache and stiff white collar made Petunia’s insides tingle when he looked at her with his beady, small black eyes and barked ‘Morning!’.

Above all, Vernon Dursley was perfectly, deliciously normal.

‘This country is going to the dogs,’ Mr Dursley promptly announced upon entering the office, and Petunia hurried to nod as heartily as she could, taking his coat and carefully hanging it on the rack by the door. ‘Surely you’ve heard of those - those Sexual Firearms cavorting all over London with their rotten lyrics, inciting violence,’ he continued, small eyes flashing dangerously as he picked up his coffee cup.

Petunia was about to nod her acknowledgement when she realised how utterly, fatally damaging it would have been, and stopped herself. Indeed, Vernon seemed highly pleased with her ignorance, which permitted him to offer her a lengthy explanation on the despairing, deploring state of Britain’s youth. As she listened, Petunia once again congratulated herself for having the sense to dispose of the harrowing piece of evidence of having any sort of knowledge on any sort of topic, in the form of today’s edition of the Guardian.

‘Of course, this is all due to the Labour Party,’ Mr Dursley grunted through his last sip of coffee. ‘If Edward Heath had still been in office, such monstrosities would’ve never happened,’ he declared with an air of omniscient wisdom as he plopped into his executive chair. The leather gave a loud squeak while Vernon Dursley settled into a comfortable position, and accepted the red, thick agenda offered by Petunia.

‘Smith cancelled, eh? He better not have lunch at J.P. Whitter, that lying, rotten pillock,’ Vernon growled, double-chin flashing beetroot under his great bottom lip.

‘Said he was otherwise engaged,’ Petunia contributed, nose scrunched in contemptuous distaste.

‘Otherwise engaged? Ha,’ Mr Dursley laughed. ‘Not smart enough to come up with a decent lie, that one. He’ll be sorry when he gets his next order, I’ll make sure of it.’ He whacked his hands twice over his already generous stomach and laughed again.

Petunia kept the ill expression on her face, ready as ever to show Vernon Dursley how much she was on his side. To her absolute delight, he shot her an appraising, pleased look, then ordered her downstairs to intercept the postman.

Petunia was thrilled to report back with a nice, fat letter for Mr Dursley from his beloved sister (Petunia knew all about his family by now and had no qualms peeking at the rough scribblings on the envelope), along with a variety of snide remarks aimed at their various coworkers. Vernon Dursley grunted happily at each and every one of those, and Petunia was instantly besides herself. Such bliss in his little snorts, she thought, elated.

That Tweedie woman was abysmally wrong, then: paradise did not lie beneath the belt in any shape or form; it lied in the way he tore his envelopes like he was waging war against the paper, it lied in the particular way he applied himself to reading personal correspondence - not in a perfect whisper, but not completely audibly either, and it lied especially in the way he let everyone know he was the boss.

‘Marge has a new proper batch of pups,’ Mr Dursley cackled, interrupting her moment of rapture. ‘Look.’

He threw her a picture of a very large woman standing proud in the middle, a gaggle of menacing looking dogs at her ankles. A moustache nearly as thick as her brother’s crept up the woman’s upper lip, small eyes staring at the camera with open hatred. But most of all, Petunia was taken aback by the woman’s peculiar expression and intensely red cheeks.

Had it been anyone besides a member of Mr Dursley’s family, Petunia would have harped about people hitting the sherry in broad daylight and greedily forgetting to count their calories at every meal. However, in this unfortunate situation, she willed herself to focus on the dogs, and made a mental note to skip lunch today - she herself would carry on being thin, clean, and refinedly alluring.

‘Where are you having lunch, then?’

Petunia stopped abruptly, picture almost slipping through her fingers - so very shocked she was, she couldn’t think for a proper minute.

‘How about you come to lunch with me instead of Smith?’ Vernon followed without waiting for her answer.

It was not a suggestion, but a statement which left no space for ‘no’ or comments. But it didn’t matter: Petunia was swiftly transported into a fit of delight, so overjoyed she might have run round the large desk and hugged him. Of course, respectable women didn’t do that, so Petunia didn’t either.

‘Of course,’ she said, and sat down to calm herself. ‘Of course, Mr Dursley.’

Vernon Dursley watched her with curious intensity, his expression unreadable under the thick moustache. ‘You can call me Vernon, while we’re out,’ he then said.

Petunia nearly fainted.

Skipping lunch was no longer an option, but the very ticket to seeing her dreams come true.

She found it very hard indeed to maintain her usual composure throughout the day. Very often she would slip away to the bathroom and check her thinly plucked eyebrows, powder her nose, pat her permed hair, and quickly chew two Doublemints to freshen up her breath. She had been waiting for this to happen ever since she started the job and Petunia was determined not to blunder her chance away.

As the clock struck one, Vernon Dursley’s large fingers clutched the car keys off the desk, the solid BMW chain swinging at his wrist, and nudged Petunia to follow him.

Her heart rang in her ears as the lift descended; she could barely hear what he was saying, although it seemed something had troubled him - spit was coming out of his mouth as he talked. Petunia fortified herself, and put on a disgusted grimace that she very much hoped would tell Vernon Dursley they were of the same mind.

Luckily, he did throw her a searching look and his bad mood seemed to lessen considerably. By the time they were stepping into the Grunnings car park, Petunia was glowing.

‘Petunia,’ Vernon beckoned her into the freshly polished car, grey as the suit he was wearing and shining blindingly in the early winter sun. Her heart skipped as he shut the door, stopping to scowl at a passing coworker before he joined her in his BMW. ‘Black suit and brown shoes - ha!’ he shook his head in distaste, although his eyes shone with mirth. ‘This country is going to the dogs, I keep telling you. No proper blokes anymore, no proper leadership, we’ll be under Europe’s thumb before you know it.’

Petunia put on a thick mask of propriety, nodding on to everything Vernon - she could call him Vernon now! - was saying, her heart light and thudding with undisguised glee. There she was, riding to lunch with him, one step closer to building her own normal family, in a normal home, in a very normal world.

Soon, they were at Simpson’s Tavern, near The Bank - a restaurant for proper blokes with proper jobs, Vernon had described it on their drive there, between two revs of his precious new car.

‘And they have an assortment of proper lunch options,’ Vernon further explained, tugging at the hairs in his moustache with satisfaction as they walked. ‘Oho, some fine lamb chops - ah, and those pork chops with sausages!’

He held the door open for her and she pranced inside, taking in the staff and patrons with the air of someone who lorded over the place. After all, it was she, Petunia, who was lunching with the manliest, smartest, most proper man in the room.

‘The girls here have changed,’ Vernon exclaimed loud enough for everyone to hear. Then, he swiftly drew a chair for Petunia and offered it to her.

‘Mr Dursley,’ a mini-skirted young waitress greeted them within the minute, handing menus which Vernon briskly refused. Petunia eyed her scathingly, thinking that, perhaps, they did not really change - or not fast enough, at any rate. But that was a thought she kept strictly to herself.

‘No need, no need,’ Vernon chuckled cordially. ‘We know what we’re eating, don’t we, Petunia?’

Petunia did not, in fact, know, but waited to be told all the same. The young waitress pulled out her notebook and pen, and smiled politely.

‘We’ll start with the stewed cheese and a glass of port each. I want the bread well made, write that down, and some mustard - of the good sort. You got all that? Good, that’s it.’ And he waved her away dismissively, his small black eyes now on Petunia.

For a terrible moment, Petunia thought he was about to ask her about her family or past, and her stomach plummeted. It came back to its place in a second, though, when she discovered that Vernon had absolutely no intention to do so: this was not going to be an interview. Petunia settled more comfortably into her chair, and listened to him reverently.

‘- cannot watch the news without my blood pressure rising through the roof,’ Vernon continued. He had launched himself into an unforgiving, Europe-bashing campaign, and Petunia made sure her ears were fully functioning. She might not have needed to have an opinion this early, but she must carefully prepare for what was ahead. ‘Oh, that sorry excuse for a Prime Minister knew very well what he was doing, you listen to me. He opened the gates for Balkan riffraff and lazy, good for nothing Iberics to waltz in and whisk all our jobs away. No one’s taking my job if I have something to say!’ he grunted, eyeing a nearby patron with the deepest loathing in his eyes: the man had simply held his glass of Campari lemonade up in cheers.

‘Foreigners’ beverage,’ Vernon commented, still scowling at the man. Fortunately, the young waitress returned with their order just then, and Vernon accepted his glass of port with great gusto. ‘Now this is a proper drink.’

He wasted no time in smearing a loaf of bread with stewed cheese and a healthy helping of mustard - ‘Lovely, proper job.’ Then, he returned to his previous campaign.

‘It’s because of this sort that the referendum failed in June,’ Vernon pronounced with unquestioning finality, hooking a greasy finger over his shoulder at the Campari drinking patron.

While Petunia usually didn’t bother to vote and had never held firm political beliefs, she found herself waking up early that summer to cast her vote - a hearty ‘Yes’. So she nodded so fast her permed curls shivered, and listened closely as she too spread stewed cheese on a crisp loaf of bread. It was by far better than skipping lunch alone, or even than the Energen rye bread she had brought with her to work that day, and Petunia discovered that she did not care that she’d just kicked aside the 19 calories promised by Energen for what could potentially turn into a lasting disaster on her hips. Vernon Dursley held her spellbound -

No, not spellbound. What a ridiculous thing to think.

‘ - that was a good walloping that Thatcher woman from Education gave the Labour leadership, that was,’ he followed happily as he demolished through his plate. ‘Industrial Relations, ha! Those poxy beggars in the unions ought to be governed with an iron fist, not through a blighting bit of paper. They rob you and still you agree to their demands? Preposterous! This country is going to the dogs under the Labourists. What we need is a bit of Tory pride, I tell you. Who Governs Britain, ha! Not that Wilson muppet and not Jim Callaghan either.’

Petunia continued to nod, frequently running her tongue over her teeth to ensure there were no bits of food stuck there (it would have been most embarrassing), patting her permed curls here and there and batting her eyelashes up at Vernon as he monologued. It was the most interesting lunch she’d ever had.

By the time their chairs scraped back and they were ready to leave, Vernon explaining that the bread had not been crisp enough to warrant a tip, Petunia was absolutely certain she had struck gold. Vernon Dursley was, without a doubt, the man of her dreams.

Door held for her, Petunia stepped outside into the cold winter air again, long neck craning to search for the grey BMW. She quickly found it, parked under a giant billboard (‘Fancy a jar? Forget the car.’), which Vernon wholly and promptly disregarded.

‘Free again tomorrow?’ he asked as he joined her in the car. His arm had snaked round the passenger seat, and Petunia’s voice nearly wobbled when she spoke.

‘I should be.’

‘Right. I’ll treat you to a battered sausage and we can have a stroll after. My mother says it helps with digestion.’

Petunia felt she could have lost herself in his beady black eyes, longed to thread her fingers through his neatly trimmed moustache. Nevertheless, she restrained herself and nodded, clutching the bag she had placed on her lap to keep her hands from trembling.

She basked in the smell of Denim Aftershave, buzzed reminiscing their lunch together. Petunia Evans had been on a date and tomorrow she would be going on another one.

She raised a perfectly manicured hand against the car window. Vividly and jubilantly, she could imagine a ring on her finger, glinting golden in the sunlight, placed there by the grumpy, neckless man who was her boss.

#submission #ttb spring fling #petunia dursley #vernon dursley #hp fanfic

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thethreebroomsticksficfest · 2 years

Text

A Bad Idea

It's our penultimate fic of the fest and @starlingflight has wrangled you all invitations to Ron & Hermione's wedding! The drinks will be flowing, love will be in the air and some might say it's a perfect recipe for disaster...

AO3 link.

Username: StarlingFlight

Pairing: George/Angelina

Warnings: NSFW

Muggle music, George decided, was bloody awful. Muggle alcohol, on the other hand, was proving to be just as effective as its magical counterpart. He studied the tall glass in his hand, holding a drink that looked like a sunset in a glass, starting a bright sunshine yellow and gradually darkening to a rich, warm red

“What’s this called again?” He had to shout the question over the insistent pounding of drums and a very excitable duet singing about someplace called the ‘Love Shack’.

The girl sitting across from him shuffled her chair closer, edging around the table until her knee bumped into George’s beneath the delicate, lace tablecloth. “Sex on the Beach.” She had moved so close that her lips brushed George’s ear as she spoke.

He pulled back just far enough to see her face, inches from his own. Her chocolate hair was weaved into the same intricate style as Ginny’s and Luna’s and she wore the same flower-bedecked, baby blue dress, marking her as a bridesmaid and, most likely, one of Hermione’s Muggle cousins.

“Is that the name or a suggestion?”

She laughed far louder and more enthusiastically than the joke truly warranted. One of her hands landed boldly on George’s arm. He smiled triumphantly to himself and took another sip of the sugary sweet cocktail.

“Do you want to get out of here?” she asked. The multicoloured lights continued to strobe across the room, turning the tablecloth red, green and purple as though it had been hit by a colour-changing charm.

He smiled warmly back at her and opened his mouth to respond when -

“George!”

The bridesmaid’s hand fell away from his arm as they both turned to look behind them for the source of the shout. George suppressed a groan, Ron and Harry were staggering towards him, their arms thrown around one another’s shoulders.

“Alright?” Harry said, pulling out the chair on the opposite side of George and placing the amber-coloured pint glass he carried on the table with unnecessary force, causing some of the drink to slop over the side and spread across the tablecloth.

“Charlotte, I think Melissa was looking for you,” Ron said apologetically to the bridesmaid.

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes lingering on George, before pushing back from the table and scanning the busy dance floor next to their table. “I’d better go,” she said, sparing George one final glance before disappearing into the crowd of exuberant wedding guests. Ron wasted no time taking her vacated seat.

George turned to him, tearing his eyes from the dance floor. The bridesmaid was no longer visible, replaced by Bill spinning a laughing Fleur, narrowly avoiding a middle-aged couple who George did not recognise.

“Don’t you both have wives to entertain?”

“They’re dancing with each other,” Harry said, gesturing with his pint towards the opposite side of the wide room, where Hermione, Ginny and Luna had carved themselves a space in front of the DJ booth. They were hard to miss; Hermione looked the vision of a bride in her floaty, white dress, Auntie Muriel’s tiara flashed jewel bright in the disco lights, Ginny’s bridesmaid dress had had to be let out several times to accommodate for the baby bump which seemed to double every time George saw her recently and Luna was dancing with such wild abandon that several people nearby had paused in their own dancing to watch her.

George made a show of looking at his watch. “I think you’ve set a world record,” he said, looking up at Ron. “Married less than five hours and she’s ditched you already.”

The scowl he’d expected in response did not come. Ron had barely looked over at George, he was gazing over the crowded dance floor at Hermione as though he had never seen anything so miraculous in his life. George took another sip of his drink, swallowing down any further taunts that he ordinarily would have been unable to resist.

“Ginny sent us over,” Harry said, his expression only slightly less pathetic as he looked over at the dancing girls. “She says to remind you that you’re not allowed near any of Hermione’s relatives.”

George rolled his eyes, he had received this warning multiple times since the wedding ceremony this morning. His mother had cornered him whilst Ron and Hermione were signing their marriage certificate, Ron had reminded him during the endless session of posed photography in the manicured gardens of the country hotel Hermione’s parents had paid for for the day and Fleur had kicked him under the table at dinner when he’d innocently made one of Hermione’s cousins laugh.

“I hope Charlie’s getting this lecture as well.”

Ron snorted into his drink. “Unless one of Hermione’s cousins sprouts wings and starts breathing fire, I don’t think Charlie will be interested.”

Harry nodded in agreement. “He seems to be a bit busy anyway.”

George followed Harry’s eyeline and saw Charlie stood to the side of the dance floor with Victoire balanced on his shoulders and Teddy stood on his feet, swaying in time with the music. George’s smile spread unbidden across his face as he took in the scene.

“Fine,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “But answer me this, why is Harry allowed to impregnate our sister and I’m not allowed to snog Hermione’s cousin?

“I married your sister,” Harry said immediately, his face glowing crimson even in the semi-darkness of the wedding reception, just as George had hoped it would.

“And don’t use words like ‘impregnate’ and ‘our sister’ in the same sentence,” added a revolted looking Ron. He lifted his pint glass and emptied it in one deep swallow, George suspected he was hoping enough alcohol might help him erase the last thirty seconds from his memory.

“Look there’s Angelina,” he said, placing his empty glass back on the table and pointing in the direction of the bar. “Angelina! Come here!”

Angelina turned towards them. She was holding a translucent yellow drink, which looked like fizzy apple juice. Her braided hair had been swept into an elegant knot on top of her head and she was wearing a wine-coloured dress that did a remarkable job of drawing the eye to her curves.

“Alright, you three?” she said upon reaching their table. She took the empty seat beside Ron, placing a kiss on his cheek as she sat. “Congratulations! Who’d have thought, all those years ago back in Gryffindor Tower, that you'd actually manage to get Hermione up the aisle!"

George grinned. "I definitely didn't think he had it in him."

Ron’s dazed smile remained in place; he nodded in agreement. “I know,” he said dreamily.

“A toast!” Angelina declared, holding up her glass in the air. “To Ron and Hermione!”

“To Ron and Hermione,” George and Harry repeated.

The four of them clinked their glasses together loudly. George drained the last of his Sex on the Beach and slammed his empty glass back onto the table. Angelina made a noise of disgust. Her nose wrinkled as she looked cautiously at her now half-empty glass.

“What in Merlin’s name is that?”

Ron made a shushing noise and checked nervously over his shoulder for any nearby Muggles. It was pointless, George thought, given the volume of the music, which now featured a cheerful tune and a male singer begging someone called Eileen to ‘come on’.

“What did you order?” Harry asked, taking Angelina’s drink from her and giving it a cautious sniff.

“I told the barman to give me something strong,” she said. “He said it's triple vodka and red bull?”

“Triple vodka,” Ron repeated.

“Red bull,” Harry said, mirroring Angelina’s earlier look of revulsion.

George had no idea what red bull was and, judging by Harry’s face, he did not want to find out. “Come on,” he said, pushing away from the table and holding out his hand to Angelina. “I’ll get you a Sex on the Beach, it’s good.”

Angelina’s eyebrows shot up; a sly smile spread across her face. “Is that a drink or a proposition?”

“Go with him Angelina,” Ron said, pleadingly, “and keep him away from any of Hermione’s relatives!”

Laughing, Angelina rose to join him. She picked up her glass and forced the last of her drink down. “No point in wasting it,” she said in response to Harry and Ron’s puzzled expressions.

Angelina laced her arm through his as they moved away from the table. The hour was late, the reception room had been steadily emptying for the past hour leaving their path mostly unimpeded.

“What are you having?” George asked as they reached the bar. Earlier, the crowd surrounding it had made getting served a challenge; now the only people ahead of them were one of Hermione’s Muggle uncles and Neville, who seemed to be buying enough drinks to cover the entire guestlist.

“I’d kill for a firewhiskey,” Angelina said, leaning towards him so that no nearby Muggles could hear.

George picked up the laminated cocktail menu sitting on the bar and examined it. The look of distaste on his face had nothing to do with the way the sticky menu stuck to his skin and everything to do with the various sickeningly sweet drinks printed upon the paper.

His gaze flicked to the row of backlit shelves behind the bar, each one hosted an assortment of bottles filled with different coloured spirits. The music, which had started out fun and entertaining now seemed loud and irritating.

He looked from the bar to Angelina, “I have a bottle of Firewhiskey in my room.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “George Weasley, are you inviting me to your hotel room?” Angelina’s scandalised act was somewhat diminished by the amused smile on her face.

“You said you’d do anything for a firewhiskey,” George reminded her.

“I said I’d kill for one,” Angelina corrected.

“Are you suggesting that accompanying me to my room sounds less pleasant than murder, Angelina?” George asked, only pretending to be affronted.

Angelina pretended to look thoughtful; she tapped a finger to her chin and hummed in contemplation. “Is it a good year?”

“Seventy-eight - some would say the best.”

“I think most prefer seventy-seven,” she said, but she smiled as she gestured for George to lead the way to his room.

They passed the dance floor again as they headed for the exit. Ron and Hermione had been reunited and were now swaying slowly in the middle of it.

“Do you not need to say goodnight?” Angelina asked, nodding in their direction.

“No, I’ve given them both my congratulations. I’ll see them in the morning, Hermione’s given me a timetable for the whole weekend.”

Angelina laughed fondly. They continued their journey around the edge of the dance floor, in search of the exit. George nodded and waved as he passed a table at which Bill, Fleur, Harry and Ginny were now seated watching the happy couple dance. Even at a distance he could see Ginny had tears in her eyes; he filed this bit of information in his mind to tease her with at breakfast tomorrow.

The foyer of the hotel was blindingly bright compared to the dimmed reception room. A huge crystal chandelier cast brilliant reflections upon the panelled walls. A few people milled about near the doorway, clearly awaiting transport home. George saw the bridesmaid from earlier, wrapped, vicelike, around a young man who he did not recognise. No pang of regret, nor any spark of jealousy rose within him.

His room was situated on the second floor. It was as bland as any other hotel room George had ever stayed in. White and grey paintings hung on cream walls, crisp white linen covered the king size bed and the little 'lounge area' - two grey upholstered chairs crammed beside a small coffee table - looked out onto the neighbouring farmer's fields.

Angelina followed him inside. She wasted no time kicking her heels off and tossing them on the floor by the door before heading straight for one of the grey chairs.

"Ice?" George asked, retrieving the bottle of firewhiskey from the small suitcase in which he'd hidden it from the Muggle maids.

"I'll take mine neat," she said, stretching her long legs across the other chair. The skirt of her dress slid slowly up her thigh. George looked away, focussing on pouring out the firewhiskey and sending Angelina's measure levitating across the room to land in front of her on the little table.

She smiled gratefully, lifting the glass to her lips. George settled on the bed across from her, kicking off his black dress shoes and loosening his tie.

"Now, that's a drink," Angelina said through a sigh.

George took a long sip of his own drink. The exhaustion of the day seemed to melt away as the firewhiskey seared through his veins, burning new life into him.

“The sex on the beach was good,” George said fairly, earning him more raised eyebrows from Angelina. “I think you’re just picky.”

Her laughter seemed to fill the small hotel room. “I have taste, you mean.”

“You have taste?” George repeated incredulously. “Shall I remind you of Nick the healer who somehow had less brains than a mountain troll?”

She laughed again and shook her head scornfully at him. One long leg stretched across and kicked him playfully on the shin. “Shall I remind you of Katya, the girl who insisted on introducing you to everyone as ‘George Weasley: Order of Merlin First Class’?”

George winced and took a long pull from his drink. If he was honest, Katya had been pretty unbearable, but he would never admit that to Angelina. “What was that one’s name - it began with a T - the one who made a move on Alicia while you were away with work?”

“Thad,” Angelia supplied without any hint of discomfort. “Beautiful, repulsive Thad.”

“He was useless at dodging hexes,” George commented, smiling fondly at the memory of Thad, with his curly brown hair and chiselled jaw, howling in pain from the combined might of Angelina’s stinging jinx and Alicia’s conjunctivitis curse.

“Maybe we both have terrible taste,” Angelina said thoughtfully.

George raised his glass towards her, “I’ll drink to that.”

He drained the rest of his drink in one, refusing to acknowledge the difficult truth. The simple fact that there was nothing wrong with his taste in women, he did not go looking for the marrying type on purpose. He would never again give his heart and soul to another person who could be ripped away from him in a second. He would not put himself at risk of having to endure that kind of pain again as long as he lived.

“You know who was the worst,” Angelina said thoughtfully, pulling George back to the present. Her glass was now empty and she held out towards him for a refill. George obliged, topping up his own glass too.“The one who stole your watch - Valerie."

“At least she was a laugh - and I had a spare watch.”

He lifted his right arm, Fred’s gold watch glinted subtly in the dim light of the hotel room. George took another long pull of his firewhiskey, drowning the throbbing ache caused by the thought of its previous owner. His glass was empty once more.

“Merlin knows what she wanted with a watch,” Angelina said, staring contemplatively at her own drink. “I don’t think she could tell the time.”

“She always made me wear a hat when we went out - didn’t like the lopsided ears.”

Angelina looked up from her glass with an expression of abject horror. “You never told me that!”

George shrugged and reached for the bottle once more, lifting it straight to his lips, dispensing with the glass. Drinking seemed a safer course than replying. He was not about to tell Angelina that he had preferred covering up his ears too, that it had been the most exquisite relief to look in the mirror and think he saw someone else staring back at him.

“God, she really was the worst!” Angelina declared, throwing her head back and draining her glass so that she was caught up with George.

He stretched out a hand for her glass, prepared to refill it but Angelina shook her head in response. George watched as she rose from her chair, the tight skirt of her dress hitched dangerously high on her bare thighs. She padded across the room and dropped onto the bed beside him. Her fingers brushed softly over his as she plucked the open bottle from his hand and lifted it to her lips.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, lowering the bottle so it rested on the bed between them, “I think losing one of your ears was a big improvement for you.”

George’s laughter shook the bed and caused the bottle to teeter dangerously. He and Angelina grabbed for it at the same time, their fingers locked together around its cool neck. She was grinning wickedly at him, her face only inches from his. Blood and firewhiskey began to pound in his head.

Angelina’s grip loosened on the bottle. George pulled it towards him and forwent another drink in favour of placing it on the bedside table. He felt Angelina’s eyes upon him as he moved.

“I only came up here for the firewhiskey,” she reminded him.

“I know,” he agreed, but when he turned back to face her they both smirked at one another as though enjoying a private joke.

“You were also tasked with keeping me away from Hermione’s cousins,” George reminded her.

Angelina’s smirked widened. She leaned across the empty expanse of bed separating them, her dark eyes sparked with mirth and something else, something George had never seen there before but he now found utterly mesmerising. “I take orders from the groom very seriously.”

In any other moment, the notion of Angelina taking any sort of order from Ron would have made him laugh. Right now, however, George was having trouble catching his breath for vastly different reasons. Her face hovered inches from his, so close he could feel heat radiating from her.

He couldn’t say who moved first. One moment Angelina was stretched out beside him on the bed, her dress clinging to her curves in ways that sent George’s mind spinning, the next her lips were on his and they were kissing with bruising intensity.

The empty space between them seemed to disappear. Angelina’s hands gripped the front of George’s shirt, pulling him closer. Her thigh bumped against George’s; he grasped it, revelling in the feel of her smooth, bare flesh beneath his hand.

“This is a terrible idea,” she murmured as George’s lips left hers and began to forge a trail towards her neck.

He smiled against her skin, his teeth scraping lightly against Angelina’s jaw, eliciting a moan which sent a jolt straight to his stomach. She had said the same thing to him a hundred times before, always before following him into some ridiculous plot sure to land them in trouble.

“The worst,” he agreed, as he always did.

Angelina released her grip on the front of his shirt. George felt her fingers tremble as she moved to the topmost button and unhooked it. “It is a wedding though.”

It was one of her weaker justifications but George did not protest. He knew their routine well enough to play his part even when his mind was singularly focussed on the sweet taste of Angelina’s neck beneath his tongue.

Her hands grew steadier as they continued to work on the column of buttons, exposing more of George’s skin as she went. The tips of her fingers brushed languidly down his chest, sending a ripple of longing through him.

“What happens at Ashbury Hall-” he breathed.

“Stays at Ashbury Hall,” Angelina finished, completing their ritual. At the same time she tugged his shirt free from the waist of his trousers and slid it down his arms.

The cool evening air tingled against his warm skin but George didn’t care. His arms were now free of the confines of his shirt, he pulled Angelina close once more. She moved with the same graceful fluidity he had always admired on the Quidditch pitch, though George knew he had never seen her quite like this.

It was Angelina’s lips now that moved to his neck, lightly sucking and nipping as she moved towards his chest. George’s head fell back against the pillow; a low moan of pleasure escaped him. Her thigh hooked around his waist and he savoured the feel of her pressed against him.

It was the closest they had ever been to one another, but it still wasn’t enough. Desperate for more, George slipped his hands around Angelina’s waist, lightly caressing her hourglass curves before moving up her back. The zip holding her dress together was small, delicate, but George had never felt less gentle, desperately he dragged it down.

They separated only for a moment, allowing Angelina the space to shimmy out of the dress and kick it to the floor, and George enough room to discard his trousers and boxers, still he felt the loss of her keenly. A curious mixture of relief and desperation surged through him as she returned to his arms.

The swell of her breasts was covered by a fine layer of red lace. George’s mouth went dry at the sight of it.

In a flash it was gone. Angelina had unhooked it one handed and thrown the magnificent garment carelessly across the room.

"Beaters aren't known for their finesse," she whispered, her breath soft and warm against his cheek.

George brushed his fingertips lightly over her breast; her nipple hardened beneath his touch. Angelina inhaled sharply. "I think you'll find my dexterity breathtaking."

She lowered her head towards his, "shut up," she murmured before pressing her lips to his, giving George no option but to obey.

He wrapped his arms around her, gently rolling them so that Angelina was laid against the pillows and George was braced on his forearms above her. Her smooth, dark skin seemed to glow against the white bedding. She was a vision, a bright spark breathing life into the bland hotel room just as she had done for him when he’d wanted to end it all.

George hooked two fingers into Angelina’s matching red knickers and pulled them down her slender legs, removing the final barrier between them. His hand moved between her legs, every sigh, every moan he elicited from her proving that she had no complaints when it came to his finesse.

Angelina’s nails scraped down his back, George’s breath hitched in his throat.His mouth moved from her lips, to her jaw, to her shoulder, planting kisses on every inch of skin he could reach. Tension rose inside him like a coiled spring until George could bear it no more.

The mounting desire within did not abate as their bodies joined together. They moved in perfect harmony, the room filled with the sound of rustling bed sheets and the steady knock of the headboard bumping against the wall. Angelina's eyes met his and George felt as though she could see into his soul.

If anyone could, it would be her. If he allowed himself, it would be easy to imagine letting Angelina in. Allowing her to pass the walls he had so carefully constructed around his heart, allowing her the opportunity to, purposefully or not, destroy him all over again. Yet, his mind refused to consider doing any such thing, swiftly blocking out the mere idea of it and George knew there would only be tonight, this was all he would get and so he would savour it.

He would commit to his memory the way her eyes half-closed in the grips of pleasure, how her lips - so tantalisingly full - parted in ecstasy. He would remember how it sounded when she sighed his name in his ear, her breath tickling his skin like a caress. He would memorise the way their bodies fit so perfectly together, making George feel like he was whole once more.

They moved faster, the coiled spring stretched to breaking point. Angelina’s nails sank deeper into his back, gripping George to her. The headboard beat against the wall like a drum, the sound mingled with their harmonised cries of bliss.

George could have remained in that moment forever, but holding on was becoming more impossible by the second. The rhythm they had so carefully maintained faltering as George gripped Angelina’s sweat-sheened hips with white-knuckle intensity.

Angelina tensed beneath him. With a final cry, she came undone. George closed his eyes as he followed her over the edge, determined to cherish every last second with her.

***

Three Weeks Later:

George flipped the lock on the door, bringing an end to another hectic day at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Hogwarts letters had been sent out the previous morning, an event which always signalled the start of the pre-term rush.

He turned his back on the door, preparing to survey the wreckage. His carefully stocked displays had been torn apart; decoy detonators were wandering the shopfloor aimlessly, a thick, pink substance seeped across the floor where a customer had evidently shattered a bottle of love potion, and someone had set off a box of Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-Bangs which were flying recklessly around the store, periodically exploding into colourful shapes.

The fireworks disappeared with a wave of George’s wand, bringing peace to the shop once more. He ignored the potion for now, deciding he would feed the pygmy puffs before starting on the real clean up. He had barely moved two steps, however, when the freshly earned silence was broken by a loud pounding on the door.

“We’re closed!” he shouted, not bothering to turn around.

He heard the lock click, the hinges squeaked as the door opened. Wand in hand once more, George spun around, prepared to face the, apparently deaf, trespasser. “Impedi-”

His mouth slammed shut and his wand fell to his side as he recognised Angelina. George frowned in confusion, trying to remember if he had forgotten plans they’d made but he was sure he hadn’t. They had only seen each other yesterday at Alicia’s barbecue.

“Do you have a Canary Cream emergency?”

Angelina scowled at him, her foot tapped impatiently on the floor. “Don’t try and be funny!”

He raised his hands beside his head in mock surrender, supremely confused now. “What’s got your wand in a knot?”

“What’s got my wand in a knot?” She repeated, her voice rising somewhat hysterically. “You want to know what’s got my wand in a knot?”

George’s confusion was quickly turning to concern. Angelina began to pace agitatedly in front of the display of extendable ears. George wavered, part of him wanting to go to her and another, much wiser part, aware that he had never been fast enough to block her jinxes.

“Will you tell me what’s going on - please?” he added quickly in response to her glare.

“Oh, George ‘I’ve got a bottle of firewhiskey in my room’ Weasley wants to know what’s going on,” Angelina said. George got the impression she was talking to herself. Heat rose in his neck at the reference to Ron’s wedding night, an event that they both had steadfastly pretended hadn’t happened. Except alone at night when George could think of little else.

“This is what’s going on!” Angelina yelled, dragging George unceremoniously from his reverie.

She was holding something in her hand, George took a cautious step closer in order to see it. His chest constricted, the room began to spin so that the tiny vial clutched in Angelina’s became blurred. It didn’t matter, George had recognised it immediately.

The bottle was distinctive: rose-coloured glass with a blue stopper, a small clear window allowed a view of the potion within which would either remain purple when a drop of blood was added to it, or, as it had now, turn a brilliant white.

“Y-you’re,” George stumbled, the words seemed too big for his mouth. “You’r-”

“Pregnant!” Angelina finished for him.

#submission #george/angelina #george weasley #angelina johnson #ttb spring fling

44 notes · View notes

thethreebroomsticksficfest · 2 years

Text

Today we have a wonderful treat to kick off the week! A missing moment for all the quidditch fans from @merlins-sequined-hotpants!

Username: merlins-sequined-hotpants Pairing: Katie Bell/Oliver Wood Summary: Someone needed to go check that Oliver wasn't drowning himself in the showers after losing to Hufflepuff.

Steam curled around him, filling the room as the stinging hot water pounded against his back. Oliver was leaning against the wall in the same position he had been in since he entered the cubicle, his head hanging, his throat sore from shouting into the tiles.

A wave of gloom suddenly swept across the pitch. The cheers of the crowd turned to screams. A figure tumbling out of the sky with no broom and no control.

Three years as captain, his last year at school playing for the Gryffindor team and the bad luck that plagued the Gryffindor team had struck again.

Despite his admonishments to the team to not underestimate Hufflepuff, he had been so sure of the win. Diggory might be a good seeker, but one good seeker didn’t make the team.

The team raced as one to reach him, but he landed just out of Fred’s reach. The noise from the impact rattled through Oliver’s bones.

The storm made it nearly impossible to see anything. Oliver knew he had let too many goals get past him, he had no idea what the rest of the team was doing since he could barely see the other end of the pitch.

Oliver knew how many points Hufflepuff had, but had no clue about what Gryffindor had scored. Alicia had shouted something at him the last time the action was at his end of the pitch but it had been lost in the wind.

Harry looked so small where he had landed, his skin white and his body unnaturally still.

And then it happened, the horror that had been running over and over in Oliver’s mind all afternoon. The horrible feeling that came over him as dementors entered the stadium, and then—

After what felt like an eternity, Harry’s chest rose and fell. Oliver was vaguely aware of Angelina’s gasp of relief as he let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding.

Oliver shook his head, trying to get the rattling images out of his mind.

And of course they had to lose to Cedric Diggory, the handsome, noble bloke that all the girls fawned over. Landing with a confused look and the snitch clasped in his fist, its wings beating feebly. He had tried to argue for a rematch, but as hard as it was to admit, Hufflepuff had won fair and square. The match was called for Hufflepuff, 190-90, but no cheer went up from the crowd with Harry being levitated to the hospital wing by McGonagall. Oliver shook Diggory’s hand and hurried to the changing rooms, arriving just in time to lose what breakfast he had managed to get down that morning.

He was grateful the others hadn’t followed him to witness that. They had probably gone straight to the Hospital Wing. Oliver knew he needed to go too, needed to check on Harry, but he just wanted five more minutes alone. Another five minutes before he faced the world.

A sudden surge of anger ran through him and he hit the wall, relishing in the stinging against his palm. What would he do now? Their first match lost, and Harry out of commission for Merlin knows how long. He could kiss the cup and a professional career goodbye. What team would hire a player that had never even won a school tournament? Maybe Percy was right, maybe refusing to have a backup plan wasn’t courageous and backing himself one hundred percent. Maybe it was a foolish, idiotic, rash thing to focus everything on quidditch and not enough on his classes. Surely it wasn’t too late. He wasn’t too bad at charms. Flitwick or Hooch might have contacts at one of the broom companies.

He dropped his forehead against the cool tile, oblivious to anything outside the small cubicle. He couldn’t blame Harry, he didn’t blame Harry. The kid had been through more than anyone could even comprehend and there was no better seeker than him. Besides, the Gryffindor team hadn’t won for five years before Harry Potter had put the sorting hat on his head. They always had the best team in the school and yet injuries, illnesses and detentions (Charlie Weasley had a rather unfortunate habit of being caught in the Forest) had always managed to prevent them from grasping the cup. And here they were again, their first game, defeated by Hufflepuff. By Diggory.

—-------------------

“Oliver?”

Katie called out Oliver’s name as she entered the changing room. There was no response but the air was thick with steam and she could hear the shower running.

“Oliver, are you still alive, or have you actually managed to drown yourself in there?” She leaned against the end of the wall separating the shower cubicles from the rest of the room but still there was no reply. “Wood, if you don’t say something soon I’m breaking down the door.”

“I’m fine!” His voice was hoarse, whether from yelling or crying, Katie didn’t know. She leaned back against the wall, wondering how long he would have stayed in there if she’d left him to wallow like George had suggested. She was about to call out again when she heard the shower turn off. “What are you doing down here?”

“Well, since it’s been almost two hours since the end of the match, I figured I’d better come to check on you before the school ran out of hot—” The cubicle door opened and Oliver emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist. It wasn’t the first time she had seen him in such a state, they had known each other most of their lives and the boys tended to be a bit more comfortable in the changing room than the girls, but she was suddenly aware that they were the only two here and the way the towel was resting very low on his hips. “—Uh, water. Hot water.” She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks but, praise Agrippa, Oliver didn’t seem to notice.

“It’s a magic school Katie, they don’t run out of hot water.” He pulled his pants and trousers on under the towel before letting it drop and turned to sit on one of the benches that he usually paced in front of before a match. He looked a bit like a drowned rat after spending so long in the shower but his shirtless state did nothing to help douseher flaming cheeks.

Katie was well aware of how ridiculous her crush on Oliver Wood was.

He was a seventh year (a very fit seventh year), one of her oldest friends and her quidditch captain. He was already of age, and she was only fourteen and wouldn’t be fifteen for another eight months, by which time he would be eighteen and ready to move on to bigger and better things. He had always seen her as just another teammate, or (even worse) as a little sister.

Most of the time she could squash down that feeling in her chest that swelled when she saw him. She could be his friend, she could joke around and help him plan ways to make training particularly difficult for the twins when they annoyed him too much. But sometimes, like now, when he stood in front of her with no shirt and that grumpy look on his face that somehow made him even more handsome, and that Scottish brogue that got thicker when he was in a mood, she couldn’t help but wish that she was a little bit older, or that he was a little bit less quidditch obsessed and actually took notice of her as a girl.

“How’s Harry?”

Katie took a seat across from him, leaning her elbows on her knees. “He’s fine, Madam Pomfrey patched him up and he woke up not long before she kicked us all out.” Oliver nodded silently, not quite making eye contact. “He was pretty cut up about the match. It’s the first time he’s missed the snitch.”

“It’s not his fault! Those bloody creatures are horrendous!”

“You know what he’s like. He shoulders the blame for everything.”

Oliver shook his head, clearly frustrated and pushed himself off the bench. “Well he shouldn’t!” He started pacing back and forth. “I could’ve saved more goals and then it wouldn’t have mattered who got the snitch.”

“And we could have scored more, Fred and George could have taken out the Hufflepuff keeper and made all of our lives easier.” He stopped pacing, but didn’t turn to face her. “Harry’s not the only one on this team that shoulder’s all the blame.”

That made him turn, but he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I s’pose you mean me.”

Katie threw her hands up in exasperation. “Yeah, I bloody well do. How long did you spend screaming at a wall and then wallowing in self pity?”

“I was not—”

“Oh, please, you’ve been down here for ages, on your own. Am I supposed to think you were celebrating?”

“Well what do you want me to do?! We lost! We lost to Hufflepuff and the kid almost died and now we have no hope of winning the cup. I’ll leave this school after six years on the team and three years as a captain who never won a single tournament! What am I supposed to do with my life if I can’t play quidditch?” He started pacing again, moving back and forth like a trapped animal. A pang twisted Katie’s heart; they joked about his obsession with Quidditch but Katie knew how much it would really mean to him to play professionally. It had been a dream whispered when they were kids and never wavered from. She stood up, and forced him to stand still by putting her hands on his shoulders, resolutely ignoring the swoop in her stomach at his shirtless state.

“We only lost by a hundred points.” “So?”

“We only lost to Hufflepuff by a hundred points.” She saw the the realisation dawn on his face as he did the same calculations they had gone through in the Hospital Wing

“So if Hufflepuff loses to-” Katie nodded. “And we beat-” She nodded again. “But they’d have to lose by two hundred points.”

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility.”

His entire demeanour changed so suddenly it was like he had been hit with a cheering charm. “We’ll have to train even harder. Even if it all goes our way, we’re going to have to fight for every single point to close the gap. We’ll need three trainings a week, if not four.” He took a couple of steps before pausing again and pointing at Katie. “And you three are going to need to lock down the Porskoff Ploy.”

Katie scoffed. “Excuse me? We have locked down the Porskoff Ploy”

Oliver ignored her and kept talking, striding to the captain's office. “I wonder if Harry could pull off a Wronski Feint. We’ll have to get him practising as soon as he is well enough.” But enough was enough, Katie grabbed his arm as he tried to walk away.

“There’ll be time for that tomorrow.” She forcibly turned him towards his things. “For now, Fred and George have snuck down to the kitchens to grab supplies because we’re Gryffindor’s and win or lose, we’re going to party.” She threw his jumper at him. Oliver seemed to give in and pulled it over his head, giving Katie a brief but excellent chance to look at his chest without him seeing.

“Ok ok, but hopefully they’ve got something stronger than butterbeer.”

“Well McLaggen’s been bragging about the bottle of Ogden’s he stole from his old man, but he’s such a twat he hasn’t realised that Kate Olney only snogged him to distract him while we nicked it.”

Oliver laughed. “How long have you had this firewhiskey and why haven’t you been sharing it?” Katie just shrugged and shouldered his broom before turning to walk out onto the pitch. “Oi! Come on! I’ve just suffered a devastating defeat!”

Looking back over her shoulder, Katie grinned teasingly at him. “Well maybe if you’d just saved a few more goals.”

She ignored the way her heart soared at his bark of laughter and fake indignation. She obviously didn’t think anything of him jogging to catch up to her, and her heart definitely didn’t skip a beat as he slung his arm around her shoulders and they left the changing room together.

She knew they would never be anything more, but not many people were lucky enough to be one of Oliver Wood’s closest friends, and she could be happy with that.

#submission #ttb spring fling #oliver wood #katie bell #hp fanfic

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thethreebroomsticksficfest · 2 years

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Himbo and Bimbo

Submission number 2 is a glorious fic from @hinnyfied! Quick Quotes Quills at the ready, everyone! Read it on AO3 here

Username: Hinnyfied

Pairing: Gilderoy Lockhart/Rita Skeeter

Warnings: None

Brief Summary: Gilderoy Lockhart had been in the St. Mungo’s long-term memory care ward for nearly five years when he had a most unexpected visitor from his past.

Gilderoy Lockhart started his Tuesday morning as he did all his days. He sat up in bed, stretched and ran his hand through his blond locks, and reached over to the bedside table for his journal. He flipped to the first page, the one that summarised his current predicament, and read the delicate handwriting.

Your name is Gilderoy Lockhart. You are a very famous and accomplished wizard, and since June of 1993, you have been in this long-term care facility due to a backfired memory charm of your own making. You are best known for your thrilling novels and gorgeous hair, and you have many adoring fans. Answer your fan mail, keep your autograph up to snuff, and work hard on your memory recovery. Mediwitch Higgins says you’re getting better (she’s your favourite)!

Gilderoy was quite proud of himself, for this note was no longer news to him every morning. In the five years that he had been at St. Mungo’s, his long-term memory had finally, slowly begun to improve. He was able to retain his name, his birthday, the colours in which he looked best, the reason for his stay at the hospital, and the names of most of the healing staff on the ward. He wasn’t, however, able to retain much more than those basics or any memories older than a week or so. It was as though his memory was stored on a tiny record that repeatedly rewrote itself when it ran out of room.

Sometimes that little record in his head frustrated him, but on days when his memory exercises went particularly well, he liked to imagine the record expanding, adding rings as if to make room for another song, another memory.

Lockhart flipped through the last several pages of journal entries, refreshing himself on the recent happenings of his day-to-day life. He was delighted to note that he got all the way to nine days prior before the little notes from his past self became fuzzy and unfamiliar.

Feeling quite pleased with himself, Gilderoy slid out of bed, carefully pulling the lilac sheets back over his pillow, pressing them to perfection and tucking in the corners neatly. He took his journal over to the bookshelf in the corner of his room and slid it next to its many counterparts. He had finished it the day prior and was looking forward to cracking the spine of a fresh, new diary that evening. The Lockhart in the portrait hanging next to the shelf gave him a wink and a big thumbs up, flashing a pearly-white grin.

The book shelf was primarily filled with journals, but it also housed some magical history books and his prized possession: a complete collection of his own books. The memories of his famous adventures eluded him most of all, rendering his books the most frustrating to read. He persisted nonetheless, rereading them at least once a month. He was determined to make something within their contents stick

Even though he was discouraged by the absence of any sort of memory of the events, he could at least take solace in the fact that he was a compelling story-teller. It was during his first reading of his books, back when he could only retain the last 24 hours or so of his life at a time, that he got the idea to write journals. Mediwitch Higgins reminds him of that fact often and credits the idea with his slowly improving memory.

Gilderoy changed out of his baby blue silk pyjamas, trading them for dress robes of a similar colour. He was easily the best-dressed tenant of the long-term ward, and Gilderoy had no interest in relinquishing that title any time soon. With as many fans as he had, one never knew when a visitor might come calling, and he was absolutely horrified at the prospect of being unprepared for the occasion.

As Lockhart was smoothing his wavy blond hair with Sleekeazy’s, there was a knock on his door.

“Come in!” he said cheerily. A kindly-looking middle-aged woman entered the room.

“My my Gilderoy, you are looking handsome as ever this morning,” said Mediwitch Higgins, beaming warmly at him as she set his breakfast tray down.

“Oh hush, you,” said Lockhart, checking his hair again in the mirror and feeling immensely satisfied that he did, in fact, look quite handsome.

“I’ve brought you some eggs benedict, I know it’s your favourite,” she said.

“You do spoil me Gertrude. Leave the letters on the coffee table, would you?”

“There aren’t any letters today Gilderoy, but there will be soon I’m sure.”

“Ah. Well, word must have spread about my improving memory. I suspect the fans are giving me time and space to stay focused on that,” he said confidently. The Lockhart in the ornate frame behind Mediwitch Higgins nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

“I’m sure you’re right about that, my dear.”

The mediwitch took her morning break while Gilderoy had his breakfast, reading snippets from the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly aloud. All the articles in his recent memory had been pertaining to the demise of an evil, nameless wizard, and Witch Weekly couldn’t get enough of some Harry Potter fellow and his friends, who were apparently instrumental in the man’s downfall. Lockhart was rarely thankful for his stunted memory, but the way the writers in the paper described the recently-ended war made him quite nearly grateful that he didn’t have to recall such a dreadful time.

Just as he and Mediwitch Higgins were finishing the Prophet’s crossword puzzle together, a young mediwizard came into Lockhart’s room.

“Excuse me Mr. Lockhart. You have a visitor,” he said.

“A visitor? Who?” asked Gilderoy, his ears perking up.

“Ms. Skeeter, sir. Says she’s a friend of yours.”

“By all means, send her right in,” said Lockhart with glee. As far back into his journals as he had read, there were no mentions of visitors, and he was delighted at the thought. If she truly was a friend, perhaps she could tell him things about his life from before the incident and spark an avalanche of recollection.

“Are you sure you want her to come in?” asked Mediwitch Higgins with a look of unease.

“Why wouldn’t I? I can’t very well keep a lady waiting, it’s highly impolite.”

“I suppose. Just be careful Gilderoy. Rita Skeeter is a reporter, and she has a bit of a reputation for writing rather unflattering things about people.”

“Oh you do worry too much. Just because she’s a reporter doesn’t mean she can’t call on a friend for purely social reasons,” said Lockhart, getting up off the sofa and walking over to the mirror to make sure his hair potion was holding up.

Mediwitch Higgins sighed, “Very well. I will be reminding her of our press policy, however. I’ll take your tray then and give you a minute to freshen up before I send her in.”

Lockhart took full advantage of his moment alone, brushing his teeth to ensure their signature sparkle, spritzing himself with cologne, and strategically placing his basket full of fan letters in plain view next to his collection of books. It was important to Gilderoy Lockhart that he impress upon anyone entering his domicile that they were dealing with a proper celebrity.

There was a knock on the door and the Mediwitch Higgins was back, but Gilderoy hardly saw her, for standing just behind her was a stunning woman. Chin-length blond curls framed Rita Skeeter’s beautiful face, and behind her glasses were a pair of striking ocean blue eyes. She wore tall red heels and silk robes of deep sapphire, the sleeves of which were lined with black ostrich feathers.

She brushed past the mediwitch and marched straight towards Lockhart. “Gilderoy my darling, it has been far too long,” she said, kissing him on both cheeks.

Now that she was standing right in front of him, Lockhart couldn’t help but notice how form-fitting her robes were. It was certainly not an unpleasant sight.

“I’m afraid I don’t recall our last meeting, but it is lovely to remake your acquaintance. Ms. Skeeter, was it?”

“Oh heavens Gildy, call me Rita. We go way back, you and I,” she said with a mischievous wink, squeezing his arm. It made his scalp tingle pleasantly.

“Are you going to stand there all day, or could you perhaps allow two adults an unsupervised visit?” Rita asked Mediwitch Higgins without turning around to look at her.

The woman scowled at her back and begrudgingly closed the door with a soft click.

“So. Rita,” Lockhart said, clearing his throat. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“I just thought we could have a little chat, catch up for old times sake.” She started making her way around the room, her eyes taking in every detail from the bundles of fan mail to the many portraits of Gilderoy, all of which were watching their guest curiously. When Rita reached his bookshelf full of journals, an acid green quill emerged from her bag, a little yellow notepad in tow.

“I’m sorry, but I’m sure they informed you upon your arrival that the press isn’t allowed on the ward. I’ll have to ask you to put that away,” said Lockhart regretfully, sitting on his small sofa and gesturing towards the chair across from him. “Please, have a seat.”

“But I’m not the press, darling,” she said. Her quill was still at the ready as she sat down, not in the chair, but right next to him on the sofa, much to his delight.

“We’re old friends from our Hogwarts days, you and I.”

“Friends from Hogwarts?” Lockhart was intrigued. He doubted very much that he had met someone from his school days since the incident. He hardly even registered the subtle scratching of the quill behind Rita.

“Oh heavens yes, and between you and me, we were a bit more from time to time,” Rita said with a smirk.

“In fact,” she said, leaning in closer and putting her hand on his knee, “we could hardly keep our hands to ourselves. Don’t you remember our frequent use of abandoned corridors?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said, swallowing hard. The angle at which she had positioned herself allowed him a generous glance down the front of her robes.

“Though I daresay I wish I did,” he added slyly.

“Gildy, you haven’t changed a bit, you naughty boy,” she said, swatting him playfully. The scratching of the quill grew louder. “Now. I know that strictly speaking, reporters aren’t allowed, but I’m not here to write an article about you.”

“You aren’t?” Lockhart felt the slightest sting of disappointment.

“Not this time, although I’ll be first in line as soon as you’re ready. The world is, after all, always clamouring for more of Gilderoy Lockhart,” she said seriously. Lockhart felt warm as she spoke.

“Today, I’m only here as a friend and an author. I’m writing a book, you see, about Harry Potter. He’s a fascinating young man, and people are simply ravenous for his life story.”

“Ah yes, I’ve seen his name in the papers. He’s the fellow who took out You-Know-Who.”

“He is. You do have a good memory these days. I’m impressed,” said Rita, batting her eyelashes. Lockhart puffed up his chest with pride.

“Don’t be mistaken Rita, I am in no rush to dismiss your company, but unless you’re here for writing tips, I’m afraid I don’t know how I could be of service when it comes to your book.”

“I have to disagree with you there,” said Rita with a knowing look. She slid over on the sofa, close enough that their legs were nearly touching. She flipped her hair over her shoulder, sending an intoxicating waft of floral perfume in his direction.

“Has anyone told you that you briefly taught at Hogwarts, that your memory charm mishap occurred there?” she asked.

“That does sound faintly familiar, now that you mention it.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but Gilderoy wanted to keep the conversation going as long as he could. He made a mental note to include that tidbit in his next journal’s preamble.

“Well, let me refresh your memory just in case some details are missing,” she said, glossing over his confusion. He was grateful for that.

“Five years ago, you were finishing your first year of teaching at Hogwarts. You were beloved by students and staff alike, of course. One of those students was a young Mr. Harry Potter. You really took him under your wing. I daresay he wouldn’t be the wizard he is today without you as his teacher and mentor.”

“There was a peculiar evening in June of that year. A young girl had been taken by a monster into the Chamber of Secrets, a hidden part of the castle previously thought to be nothing more than a rumour. The rest of the staff didn’t know what to do or how to find her. They were ready to give up. That’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

“Oh yes. You gallantly volunteered to go save the girl. You were the only one clever enough to know how to get into the chamber and the only one brave enough to face the monster. It’s very impressive, but unfortunately not well publicised, and that brings us to our young Mr. Potter.”

“How was he involved?” asked Gilderoy, completely enthralled.

“Far be it from me to disparage the person responsible for You-Know-Who’s downfall, but young Harry was quite troubled. I tried warning the world about it years ago, but no one likes hearing the truth about our heroes. Even the bravest and most accomplished of them have skeletons in their closets, except for you of course,” she added with a wink.

“Mr. Potter has an appetite for heroics and attention. I can only speculate, but knowing him as well as I do, I’d say that he overheard your brave proclamation and decided that he needed a bit of the action himself. As I said, you were a great influence on him. Perhaps he simply wanted to help you, to come along and learn from the best. You, being the responsible professor and adult, surely declined his request. He was only twelve after all.”

“Yes. I can’t imagine I’d want to put him in any danger.”

“Of course. However, Harry Potter does not take kindly to being declined the opportunity for glory, if you will. It is unclear exactly how it all happened, but it would seem that he and his friend, Mr. Weasley somehow managed to follow you on your journey into the chamber, and it is there, my dear friend, where your memory charm backfired, or so they claim.”

“You don’t believe that it happened that way?” Gilderoy’s heart was pounding, eager to hear the truth at last.

“I don’t,” said Rita carefully. “You see, the fact that the beast within the chamber was slain and the girl saved has always been credited to Mr. Potter, but do you really believe that such a young boy could do that on his own?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I certainly don’t, and I’m not the only one. Again, without your confirmation, I can only speculate, but what I believe truly happened on that fateful night is that you saved the girl and killed the monster. Mr. Potter, being as unstable as he was at that age, couldn’t stand the thought of someone else being the hero. It is my strong belief that he attempted a simple memory charm on you so that he may take the credit.”

“No, certainly not,” Lockhart said, his voice hoarse. His mind was reeling.

“I would never accuse the young man of doing this to you on purpose, of course. He surely only meant to erase your memory of that evening, so that he may claim the victory for himself. However, he was very young and in shock, no doubt. What was meant to be a simple memory charm, went quite poorly, and that’s the real reason you’re here.”

Lockhart was speechless. It couldn’t be true, and yet, it made perfect sense. A wizard as skilled and celebrated as Gilderoy Lockhart would never be so careless as to do a memory charm on himself, yet he had never questioned it. How foolish he had been.

“But what of his friend, Mr. Weasley, was it? Wouldn’t he know the truth?”

“I’m afraid not. Ron Weasley is blinded by hero worship. Even if he did want to tell the truth, he’d be too cowardly to do so. Oh Gildy. I hope I haven’t upset you,” she said softly, closing the last, tiny bit of space between them and placing her hand on top of his. He felt dizzy.

“No no, it’s not your fault,” said Lockhart, taking her hand in his. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you to hear, darling, but as your friend, I thought it would be best to hear the truth from me.”

“Thank you Rita. You are very kind.”

“People are afraid to speak out about Harry Potter. What he did for us mere weeks ago was brave and has saved us all a lot of trouble moving forward, I’ll be the first to admit it. However, it does not change the fact that he has a very very troubled past, and the public deserves to know the full story before they put him up on too high of a pedestal.”

They were silent for a little while, the quill scratching furiously across the notepad while Gilderoy’s mind raced. Could it be true that the same young man that was being celebrated daily for liberating the wizarding world was also responsible for ruining Gilderoy’s life? It didn’t seem right, yet everything Rita said made sense, and she was his friend. She seemed so trustworthy, like she really cared for him.

“I appreciate your candour, and you’ve certainly given me a lot to think about. You are brave for pursuing the truth, but as you are perfectly well aware, I have no direct recollection of these events. I’m not sure how I can help you with your endeavour.”

“You may not have all your memories, but you do know your character, and the public trusts you. You are a true hero after all,” said Rita, gesturing to his books.

“If you could just comment on what you think is the more likely story, that would go a long way,” she said, squeezing his hand tightly and fluttering her eyelashes. She really was a ravishing creature.

It felt wrong to validate a story without proper recollection, and yet Gilderoy couldn’t help but trust Rita. He wanted to help her, and perhaps the truth coming out at last would somehow help them figure out his memory recovery. They could question Mr. Potter to uncover the precise spell that was used.

Just as Lockhart opened his mouth to speak, the door to his room swung open. Much to Gilderoy’s disappointment, Rita pulled her hand away and shifted away from him as Mediwitch Higgins entered, positioning herself on the farthest end of the sofa.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said the mediwitch coldly, staring at the place where the quill had been only moments ago.

“Gilderoy, you have your first round of memory exercises starting in five minutes. I’m afraid you’ll have to end your visit soon.” Her tone warmed significantly as she spoke to him.

“Thank you Gertrude. If you could just give us a moment.”

He turned back to Rita as Mediwitch Higgins left the room.

“I’m sorry. I want to help with your book, I really do, but I can’t in good conscience confirm a story I don’t remember firsthand.”

Rita smiled at him. “I understand. I do love a man with integrity.”

Lockhart stood and reached out his hand, helping her up and leading her to the door. He paused, wishing desperately that he didn’t have to end her visit.

“You know, my memory really is improving. I bet it won’t be long at all before I can confirm your story for you. Perhaps you could come by again soon,” said Lockhart, doing his very best to sound nonchalant about the prospect of spending more time together.

“Yes, I think I will. I have missed you, Gildy,” said Rita, running her sharp nails through his hair.

A heavy cloak bearing Ravenclaw’s emblem fell to the floor of the classroom, moonlight pouring in through the tall windows. Nails scratched the back of his neck, and he pulled her in closer. He made quick work of her shirt, undoing her buttons with one hand and tangling his fingers in her blonde curls with the other as they kissed with frenzied passion.

“The Transfiguration classroom,” he said. “That’s where we used to go.”

As quickly as the image had come, it began fading once again. He tried to focus, to keep it in view, but it was like catching water with a sieve, and it sank right back into the black abyss where Lockhart’s long-term memory should be.

“Well, Rita. It’s been truly delightful,” he said, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. “Please come again soon.”

Rita looked taken aback by his sudden change in demeanour. “It was, you know, the Transfiguration classroom.”

“What was the Transfiguration classroom?” asked Lockhart curiously. Rita had a peculiar look on her face.

“Nevermind that,” she said, shaking her head and smiling once more. “I’ll see you again soon.”

She kissed him on the cheek and bade him farewell, slipping out the door and out of sight.

#submission #ttb spring fling #rita skeeter #gilderoy lockhart #hp fan fic

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thethreebroomsticksficfest · 2 years

Text

Like Kicking a Quaffle

Today, the Spring Fling is happy to bring you a missing Dean/Ginny moment, courtesy of @hinnyfied - read on below, or on ao3 here.

Username: Hinnyfied Pairing: Dean Thomas/Ginny Weasley Summary: Dean planned on a quiet morning to himself. A chance encounter in the common room changes all that. Warnings: None

Dean awoke quite early on his first day of freedom. It was Saturday, and his O.W.L.s were finally over. Dean was quite certain that if he had to cram one more piece of information into his brain, it would simply burst, and he was relieved that his tortuous study schedule was behind him at last.

Despite the early hour, sunlight was already streaming into the dormitory, hinting at the summer holidays lurking just around the corner. Closed curtains and soft snores around him told Dean that Ron, Neville, and Seamus were still fast asleep. He glanced over at the bed next to Ron’s and was unsurprised to see that it was empty. In the few days that had passed since the fight at the Ministry, Harry had been making himself as scarce as possible, making sure to come to bed late at night and rise again long before the others in the morning.

The exact happenings at the Ministry were still a bit of a mystery, but Neville had filled him and Seamus in as much as he was able, clearing things up far more than the measly statement that Minister Fudge had put out the following day. Dean thought it was complete bullocks that the Ministry and the Prophet neglected to apologise to Harry and Dumbledore in their announcement of You-Know-Who’s return, and he wasn’t the only one. Seamus had been positively livid.

It frightened Dean more than he cared to admit to think about You-Know-Who being back. He had believed Harry from the start of course, but things would certainly change now that the dark wizard had ceased to hide in the shadows. Dean thought of his muggle sisters and shuddered.

Determined to start his day with more cheerful thoughts, he opened his bedside drawer and pulled out the fat stack of football magazines that his mother had sent to him. It was hard to get muggle news at Hogwarts, but his family had made sure to keep him up-to-date on the world cup. With all the chaos of his O.W.L.s, he hadn’t had the chance to read much of them yet, and he looked forward to catching up before the final match.

Dean decided to head down for an early breakfast while he read through the articles. The Great Hall would be fairly sparse that early on a Saturday, and it would be easier to concentrate without people around. Seamus would be annoyed that Dean went without him, but given that the alternative was for Dean to wake him up, he suspected Seamus would find it in his heart to forgive him.

After dressing as quietly as he could and sneaking out of the dormitory, he walked down the spiral staircase to the common room. Dean had fully anticipated being the only one up and about and was therefore surprised to find Ginny Weasley sitting in the puffy chair closest to the fireplace, combing through last night’s evening Prophet.

“Hey,” Dean said as he walked over towards her. She looked up from the paper.

“Morning,” she said, stifling a yawn. “I didn’t expect anyone else to be up this early.”

“Me neither.”

Dean hadn’t run into Ginny since her involvement at the Ministry, and he couldn’t help but notice that she looked rather poorly rested. It crossed Dean’s mind that perhaps Harry wasn’t the only one who wasn’t sleeping well these days.

“Your ankle alright then?” he asked tentatively.

“Yeah. Madam Pomfrey was able to mend it in a heartbeat,” said Ginny, her eyebrows raised. “How did you know about that?”

“Neville filled us in on the basics. When three of your roommates disappear all night without warning and one shows up again the next morning looking like hell, you tend to ask questions, especially when it’s the same night of some big altercation with You-Know-Who and one of said missing roommates is Harry.”

“I suppose you have to get used to that sort of thing, living with him and Ron. Bet you didn’t count on Neville though,” said Ginny with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“No. Neville was definitely a surprise,” said Dean, taking a seat in the chair across from Ginny. He caught a brief glimpse of Sirius Black’s mugshot from one of the inner pages of the paper as she folded it up and placed it on the table between them.

“Did you know him? Sirius Black?” Dean blurted out.

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, and she did not speak. Upon reflection, Dean supposed it sounded like a rather odd question given that the Minister had only briefly mentioned Black’s death in his statement to the Prophet, conveniently leaving out his innocence. To most readers, the statement could even be interpreted to mean that Black had been at the Ministry on You-Know-Who’s side. Dean thought of Harry and his anger at the Minister sizzled once again.

“Neville told me that he and Harry were close, that he was on our side,” Dean clarified. “I just thought maybe you and Ron would have known him too then.”

Ginny gave Dean an appraising look and seemed to accept that he could be trusted with the truth.

“I got to know him pretty well last summer, and we spent Christmas with him while my dad was in the hospital. He was a good man,” she said softly.

Dean was immensely curious as to how Ginny came to spend her holidays with an escaped convict, innocent or not, but thought it best not to ask for the time being.

“Look, I don’t know what all happened exactly, and I’m not asking,” Dean added quickly, holding his hands up, “but I think you’re really brave for having gone.”

“Thank you,” she said, pulling her hair behind her ear. Her cheeks flushed slightly.

They fell into a slightly awkward silence. It occurred to Dean that he and Ginny had never really been alone before. They had spoken plenty, goofing off together in DA meetings and making small talk while studying in the common room, but that had always been with other people and never regarding anything more serious than Quidditch or dreaming up ways to sneak a Skiving Snackbox into Umbridge’s food.

“What have you got there?” Ginny asked, gesturing to his stack of magazines. Dean was grateful for the subject change.

“Football articles. The world cup is happening right now, and I’m going to the final in London with my mum and sisters right after the end of the term. They’ve been sending me these so I can keep up with everything.”

Dean tossed one to Ginny, the Czech team unmoving on the front cover. Dean kept his muggle life a little closer to the chest these days. It felt as if with each passing moment, there were more people in the wizarding world who looked down on him for his muggle life, but he had no such reservations about Ginny, or any Weasleys for that matter.

“It looks like they’re kicking a quaffle around,” she said as she flipped through the magazine. Her eyes were bright and curious.

“Honestly, that’s not the worst description of football,” he said. “There’s only one ball though, no snitches or anything like that.”

“And they have to run back and forth across this massive field? What ends the match?” asked Ginny, not with the teasing tone often adopted by her brother when they discussed muggle sports, but with genuine interest.

“The matches are 90 minutes, played in two halves, and the winning team is the one with more points when the time is up.”

“Fascinating,” said Ginny, smiling at him. “That must get quite suspenseful.”

“It definitely can. That’s part of the fun though, isn’t it?”

“Sure, but what happens if they’re in a tie?” she asked, launching them into a far more detailed discussion about the rules of football than Dean had anticipated getting into when he woke up that morning.

The initial feeling of awkwardness had passed, and he was surprised to note just how comfortable it was to be around her, to let her into his world. Dean had never really appreciated just how pretty Ginny was, but as they chatted happily, he wondered more and more how oblivious he must be for her attractiveness to have escaped his notice all this time.

They went through several of the magazines, Dean going into great detail about his favourite teams, football strategies, and the most memorable games he’d been to as a kid. Much to Dean’s delight, Ginny was enthralled, asking endless questions and making frequent comparisons to wizarding sports. It was a glorious reprieve from the fear and anxiety of the last few days, and it wasn’t until Dean’s stomach gurgled hungrily that he realised just how long they had been talking.

“Hey Ginny?”

“Yeah?” she said, seemingly unable to prise her eyes from the page of the magazine displaying the bracket of teams.

“I was thinking I’d head down to breakfast soon. Want to join me? You can keep pestering me with football questions.”

Pestering? You bloody idiot, thought Dean, but before he could open his mouth to remove his foot, Ginny laughed.

“Pestering you?” she smirked, her eyes narrowing playfully as she looked at Dean. “As if you haven’t been loving every second of this.”

“You caught me,” he smiled. The butterflies that erupted inside him at the sound of Ginny’s laughter did not escape his notice.

“Let’s go. I’m starved,” Ginny said, closing the magazine and rising from the chair. “And for the record, I will spend the entire time asking you more questions. My father absolutely loves muggle stuff, and if I can properly teach him about a real muggle sport, it will cement my standing as his favourite child.”

“Well in that case, I’d be more than happy to be your tutor,” said Dean.

Their conversation continued to flow with ease as they walked through the portrait hole and down to the Great Hall.

#submission #ttb spring fling #harry potter fanfiction #dean/ginny

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thethreebroomsticksficfest · 2 years

Text

Fic 4 is our first mod submission from @floreatcastellumposts and she's giving us an insight into our favourite Hogwarts teachers! Read it on AO3 here.

Username: FloreatCastellum

Pairing: Minerva McGonagall/Dougal McGregor, Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald. Platonic Minerva-Albus.

Warnings: None

Brief Summary: Late one evening, Minerva is discovered in tears.

We bumped into auld Rosy Gillies at young Dougal McGregor’s wedding (I don’t know if you remember him, lovely young man, he’s married that wee lass from the Kinnaird farm) and she was asking after you; I told her that you had taken up a teaching post at a boarding school, though of course I told her that you were teaching science rather than transfiguration!

Her mother could not have known, when the ink flowed smoothly over the page to create that elegant cursive, that such a chatty, innocent paragraph would reduce her to this.

The wee lass from the Kinnaird farm. Minerva remembered her; Mairead. She had thick, golden hair and pale blue eyes, rounded cheeks on a heart shaped face that blushed sweetly pink when she giggled, which she did a lot.

The letter crumpled against her heart as she clutched it to herself and imagined, as much as she tried not to, the joy that Mairead and Dougal surely flourished in. Their little farm with the gentle highland coos lazily grazing, the crackle of the fire in a merry hearth to warm their humble home, the children that would surely come, as giggly and beautiful as Mairead and as witty and clever as Dougal.

Her shoulders shook and her vision was blurred, but the words so cheerfully written haunted her with a piercing ferocity. It came as a shock, the pain of it, though it shouldn’t have done. It had writhed in her for so long, twisting tightly around her heart, smothering her with terrible misery. Yet she had pushed it aside, or tried to, and now it overwhelmed her. She felt that she might crumple from it, succumb to her heavy sobs and collapse into nothingness.

She could see him so vividly, as though it had merely been the day before, his knee sinking into the soft, freshly ploughed earth, his hands grasping hers, his handsome face in a nervous but earnest grin. The mountains around them had been cast in glorious purple heather, the sky above a sunset of moody greys and dusky yellows and blossom pinks. She sobbed and remembered her own joy, and, yet again, as she always did, wondered if she might have held onto it, if she might have allowed herself to take that joy gently into her hands as one would do a baby or some other precious thing and clutch it to her chest as she now clutched the letter that had so devastated her.

Choking and spluttering and blind with hysteria, she stumbled from her desk and across her room to her bed, where she collapsed heavily onto the uneven floorboards. She shook here for a moment, screwing her face up against the dark wood, and then, dragging herself slightly as though a wounded animal, reached under her bed for the box.

With trembling fingers she reached beneath the high collar of her robes for the cord about her neck, on which was the tiny brass key that unlocked the box that held all her pain. Inside were letters, all her letters she had ever received from Dougal, his slanting handwriting, his wit, his love that poured from the page. She wiped away the tears as much as she could to try and read the letters that fell from her shaking hands, but such was her crying that she could see only snatches.

My darling, how I long to see you and hear your voice telling me something indisputably wrong so that I might correct you and finally have the upper hand.

You remain relentlessly in my thoughts, words fail me when I try to describe the depth of my feelings for you. A fact I'm sure you find very funny.

Minerva, my wise Minerva, when can I see you again? Say you will meet me soon, my love has made me selfish and I cannot bear to be apart from you.

Til all the seas go dry, my dear, and the rocks melt with the sun. I will love you still my dear, while the sands of life shall run.

Better that letters be locked away than a wand, she had always told herself, but in the tumultuous sea of her despair, in that moment she hated herself for her choice. She hated herself, she hated Mairead and her beautiful simplicity, and she hated the ramshackle farmhouse that might have been hers and she hated her brief career in London where the only good thing had been Elphinstone, and she hated being back here in the Highlands where, even though it wasn't home, the purple heather was still cast upon the mountains and she still hated that terrible memory of his bewildered, heartbroken face, his shaking voice, his questions…

'Because I'm a farmer?' he had asked hollowly, and that had hurt the most.

'No,' she had said, but it was yes really - not because he was a farmer particularly, but because she could never entwine her life with his, not wholly, not truthfully.

But she could not tell him this, so she left him without answers altogether.

She was so cruel, sometimes, she thought. That had been a cruel thing to do, and this was her punishment.

Even crueller, said an unpleasant voice in her head, to harbour hope that he would stay as lonely and lovesick as you.

She closed her eyes against the stinging tears, her teeth pressing hard against each other to hold back the wails that threatened to scream out of her. Let him at least be happy, she told herself. She would never want to condemn him to this agony.

I will love you always, it is an impossibility to think otherwise.

But he had been able to think otherwise, eventually; he had found new love, not with her, but with the sweet, cheerful farmer's daughter who had the beauty to match his.

There was a rapid knocking at her door; it jerked her out of her despair with such sharpness that she jumped, and then, heart pounding, hurried to messily shove the letters back into the box.

‘Minerva?’

‘Yes - coming,’ she called, trying her best to sound normal as she hurriedly wiped at her face. She rose unsteadily and hurried through to her classroom; the late summer evening was shining a warm gold over the empty desks, catching dancing dust particles in the air. The knocks continued.

‘Sorry - here,’ she choked out, and she tried to fix a pleasant smile onto her face as she opened the door.

It did not work.

‘Sorry to trouble you, I just wanted to go over the learning objectives for the- are you all right?’

Professor Dumbledore was fixing her with a sharp sort of gaze, his blue eyes piercing as they took in her face. She had no doubt that her efforts to wipe away the tears had not hidden the redness of her eyes or the puffiness of her skin. She tried weakly to smile. ‘Yes, of course - for the fourth years, did you mean? I was having a… a…’

But she could not finish, for Professor Dumbledore had stepped over the threshold and gently took her by the arm, guiding her into the classroom. At his touch, she had dissolved into tears again.

‘I’m sorry - ignore me,’ she spluttered out. She was trembling, and her sobs had left her breathless and dizzy. How humiliating, for him to see her reduced to this - how unprofessional.

‘Certainly not. Sit down.’

He ushered her into her chair, and then conjured up one for himself, which he set beside her, before prising open her tartan tin of biscuits that she kept on her desk. She tried to decline, but he pushed it firmly towards her and, trying not to hiccup, she steadied herself with the ginger sweetness.

‘What has happened?’ Professor Dumbledore asked, kindly but with a reassuring authority. ‘What is the matter?’

‘It’s…’ she swallowed, and though she had always considered herself professional and private and dignified and all the other things that were the perfect antithesis of sobbing in front of your boss, the whole story came tumbling out of her mouth before she could help herself.

How she had loved him, Dougal, with his square jaw and weather-beaten arms, always streaked with mud from the fields. How they had argued fiercely and happily about anything they could think of-

‘It’s altrostratus-’

‘Absolute nonsense, you’ve lost your head. It’s cirrus, absolutely, I’d stake my worldly possessions on it-’

‘Then you’re a fool, look at it, have you never seen the sky before?’

How he had seemed, to her, like the very earth he tended on his farm, deeper and richer and more precious than anyone seemed to recognise, and how she felt that in another life, another world, a world where borders stretched beyond Caithness, people might have noticed that - he might have noticed that. But she knew, always, that even if he had noticed that, if he had recognised his own intelligence and wit and tenacity, he would have still chosen to nurture his beloved family farm. He had been born into that life and even if he had born elsewhere he would have found it anyway.

‘Look at that. Look at the way the dawn hits those rocks, Minerva. Look at the red of it. Rain on the way, make no mistake.’

How he had proposed to her, and her heart had soared as though she were on a broom, soaring up and up and up into the golden evening sky and exploding in colour, she had never been so happy, would never be so happy again. She had accepted him at once.

How doubt had not entered her mind until she returned home, to tell her parents. Her mother had been turning the mangle by hand. Minerva had stared at it, watching the water squeeze out of the muggle-style dress, the droplets falling to the stone floor, the machine creaking and squeaking as her mother blistered her hands on the wooden handle.

‘Do you want me to do that?’

‘Oh… no, no, dear… your father could be home any moment.’

It had taken just one night of the clarity that being awake while the rest of the world sleeps brings. Those strange hours that stretched and went by in a flash with no sense or rhyme. The clouds of her mind had rushed and sank lower and lower, thickening into a fog.

She told Dumbledore, without really thinking, how Dougal did not know what she, Minerva, truly was, any more than her father had known the truth about her mother before they had married. In that awful night, Minerva had seen clearly what kind of marriage she might have if she wed Dougal. It would be the end of all her ambitions; it would mean a wand locked away, and children taught to lie, perhaps even to their own father. She could not fool herself that Dougal McGregor would accompany her to London, while she went to work every day at the Ministry. He belonged in the rugged terrain of the highlands, he needed the feel of rain in the air and the wind whipping at him, he lived for the burn across his broad shoulders as he guided a stubborn plough horse across a field.

She told Dumbledore how she met him the next day, and broke off the engagement before it had even begun.

She told Dumbledore how she had heard that he was married now.

‘Of course…’ she said eventually, her voice hoarse and low, ‘I should have known this day would come. This was the choice I made.’

Professor Dumbledore nodded gently as she spoke, listening intently, leaning forward slightly, his hand a steady presence on her arm. ‘I see,’ he said solemnly, as she finally finished.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll - it won’t - I’ll be all right, I’ll sort out the learning-’

‘Please do not trouble yourself with school things,’ he said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘Minerva, I am so deeply sorry.’

She didn’t know what to say in response, just shook her head slightly and tried to wipe away more of the tears with the handkerchief. ‘A situation of my own doing,’ she muttered eventually.

Professor Dumbledore seemed to be hesitating on the edge of something, his blue eyes cast downwards, his mouth slightly parted. Then, in a slow, measured voice, ‘such choices are unimaginably painful, but often… right.’

She swallowed, and gave a shuddering sort of intake of breath as she looked up at him.

‘The misery of such a marriage,’ he said heavily, ‘and it would be a misery - would have corrupted that love you have for him, and maybe his for you. It is painful to watch someone you love walk down a path you cannot follow; please do not be so hard on yourself for sparing you both that agony.’

‘This is agony,’ she said breathlessly.

He nodded. ‘I know,’ he said quietly, and a new sort of hoarseness in his voice jolted her. ‘I… I know what it is to make such a choice, not because it is easy, but because it is right. No matter how painful, we owe it to ourselves… and to them… to do the right thing.’

‘He will be happy with her,’ she said faintly, thinking of Mairead’s sunny smile and rounded cheeks. ‘That is… I will eventually find comfort in that, I hope.’

‘I hope so too,’ he said.

She dabbed again at her eyes, trying to steady herself. Her heart was thudding more normally now, her mind returning to the walls of the stone castle rather than wandering despairingly through purple heather. ‘Did you?’ she asked. ‘Find comfort?’

He seemed to think for a long time. ‘In my case… I comforted myself in knowing that it was the right choice. Not just for myself, but for many…’ At her bewildered look, he gave a twitch - the merest hint of a smile. ‘Do you know the barman at the Hogs Head Inn?’

Minerva considered it a matter of pride that she did not enter that particular establishment.

‘Only in passing,’ she said.

‘He is my brother,’ Professor Dumbledore said lightly, and then looked amused at her shock. ‘Oh, yes - a few years younger and, I’m sure he would agree, differently, er, minded to myself. But at the… at the funeral of our dear sister, he told me a few hard truths.’

Minerva was staggered. She had never expected to be entrusted with such deep, personal pain. But then, she supposed, she had entrusted him with hers. It was a certain type of bravery for both of them, she knew.

‘My duties to family, and to her especially… they had been neglected for the sake of a dalliance with one who was increasingly following a path I could not - or rather, should not - take. It was tempting, certainly, but it would have corrupted us both into misery, and we would have continued to drag others down with us. Just as you stated that it is better to keep love letters in a box than a wand, so too did I have to reckon with locking some things away.’

‘But you thought about it? About following that path.’

‘I did,’ he said honestly. ‘Because, of course, I loved him.’

He said the last words so distantly, so gently, with his eyes so far away like an early morning sky, that Minerva wondered if he realised he had said them at all. Things seemed to drift gently into place. She reached out and grasped his hand without thinking. She squeezed.

He squeezed back.

Then he fixed her with an intense look again, and though his eyes were shining, there was a slight smile in his expression. ‘We cannot live in our regrets, or construct them in hindsight. We would both make the same choice again, would we not?’

She nodded. ‘Because they were right.’

‘Precisely, Minerva! And though our broken hearts may leave us hard pressed on every side, this pain is to be human, and we will not allow ourselves to be struck down with dwelling on that pain - we owe it to ourselves to find higher purpose. Happiness will come again.’ He reached into his robes, and drew out his wand. With an elegant flick, intricate little stemmed glasses had appeared, along with a bottle of mead.

‘Oh,’ she said hurriedly, ‘please - I’m fine, thank you - I’m working-’

‘If you continue to politely refuse, I will, of course, retreat with equally polite grace, but if you’ll pardon me, Minerva, I think a steadying of the nerves and a shared drink between friends is perfectly acceptable, even if it is a school night.’

He looked quite mischievous all of a sudden, and she could not help but give a watery sort of chuckle, and accepted the small glass of golden drink he offered her.

It was sweet, and warming, like a pleasant dawn. Warming too, was his reference to her as a friend. She thought briefly and inexplicably of Elphinstone, and what a comfort it had been to her to have a boss that she considered a close friend. It seemed that she would have that comfort here, too.

‘The higher purpose,’ she said. ‘I suppose it is teaching?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said easily. ‘Very much. And one for happiness, too. You see, I have found, working here, that despite moments when all seems dark… the children have a way of bringing some light.’

He moved his glass to her own, and the chime of the toast was like phoenix song. Her eyes were still hot with tears, but she smiled back.

#submission #ttb spring fling #hp fanfic #minerva mcgonagall #albus dumbledore

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