Prologue
One would have expected change, especially after a war was won. But the war hadn't really changed anything.
Perhaps my phrasing is wrong, I apologise. Some things changed. Surface things. Attitudes seemed to have shifted. Tolerance, the defining twenty-first century value, was now in vogue.
Sometimes, we must examine closely what is tolerated.
This story isn't a simple one. It begins in the summer of 2021, with the possibility of a revolution brewing in the wizarding world.
Teddy Lupin grew up in a time where people were looking for a reason to rebel. Everyone wanted to count themselves into the minority, because that made them a majority. Teddy was no different.
In retrospection, Teddy would look back and realise he only enjoyed being a rebel with a cause because it provided some justification for his rebellion. He liked to pick fights and point fingers.
He wasn't a revolutionary; he was just angry.
Nevertheless, rebellion fit Teddy like a dragon-hide glove, because of who his parents had been and why they had died. Teddy Lupin was born out of their death. (It was his defining trait, more than his blue hair and piercings.) Consequentially, he had a chip on his shoulder. He had to make up for his parents' lost time. He had to live, and live big, because they couldn't. So, when you were with Teddy Lupin, you could expect action.
Teddy with the blue hair. Teddy with the tattoos. Teddy with the cheeky grin and the insolence and the lazy way he talked.
In the summer of 2021, Teddy became mixed up in what would be a key factor of the rebellion. It began as a usual day—all important days do—in which he threw on his clothes, pawed through his icebox and made his way down to Diagon Alley for work with a cold bottle of pumpkin juice in hand. He greeted Hannah Longbottom as he sauntered through the Leaky Cauldron. He tapped his wand on the familiar bricks of the courtyard and watched them waltz aside. Up until then, it was like any other day.
Bang!
The explosive sound echoed down the strip, and was answered with screams.
There was commotion outside of Gringotts. People stood about in mobs, spilling down the marble steps, attempting to jostle their way to the front. Security was trying in vain to disperse the crowd. Teddy, sensing the tension, immediately began to ebb closer. Angry insults were hurled towards the guards. At the epicentre of the mob, violence broke out with the sound of several popping spells and bright red sparks. The crowd surged forward.
Teddy wore a look of contempt. Gringotts had been closed because the goblins were on strike. He yelled out some abusive remarks to the wizards and witches trying to get in. "It never occurred to them until now just how much they need goblins to get their gold," he said out loud, venting his vitriol to no one in particular.
Eventually, Teddy had to move along, despite the desire to stay and inflame the protestors. He pushed his way towards one of the flash office buildings that had sprung up in recent years. Upon leaving school, Teddy had interned at a social welfare agency and swiftly made his way up the ranks. People greeted him like a hero, slapping him on the back as he passed through the narrow hallways. It took him a moment to locate Digby Mullins, who was scratching out memos with a silver quill.
"Mate, have you seen the mess outside?"
"I'm onto it," Digby replied.
They had been rallying against the Wizarding Rights Commission, trying to argue that goblins should be allowed to carry wands.
"We need to go further than the petition," Teddy said, leaning over to read Digby's memo. "We need to push this harder."
Meanwhile, the Notts were also struggling to remain apace with the current socioeconomic trends threatening their familiar system. The small family sat that evening around their enormous mahogany dinner table, served by several well-dressed house-elves. Edgar Nott was eating his dinner with what could be perceived as extreme ferocity. He was a tall man with a beanpole stature and brittle, black hair slicked over his forehead. Rarely would he abandon his manners when eating a meal, so the aggressive way in which he was stabbing his potatoes was very out of character. His wife reproachfully watched him as he attacked the food.
Edgar Nott was the capital of industry in Parchment manufacturing, and as boring as that sounded, it made their family very wealthy. They had become accustomed to a certain lifestyle. Parents, particularly parents that spoil their children, avoid discussing financial issues in front of their offspring at all costs. Isabella Nott was completely engrossed in dissecting her quail, examining each piece before popping it into her mouth. She was conspicuously fifteen and careless when it came to gold. Money had always been at her disposable, and although she was never one to boast about her wealth, neither was she one to complain about it. Hearing an argument about economic instability would surely put her off her dinner.
However, for the adults, the silence was excruciating. The tension grew in palpability. Edgar Nott dropped his cutlery with a clatter. He dabbed his sweating face with a napkin. His wife reached across the long dinning table to place a consolatory hand upon his shoulder. "Everything will be fine, dear."
"It's a damn two year recession, Pansy. Everything is not fine." His whisper was harsh, easily heard by his daughter, but just as easily ignored.
"Please, there isn't any need for stress," his wife replied through gritted teeth, impatient now. "The business has not been struggling as much as we anticipated. We can make it through another year."
They were old money, so Edgar Nott's stress really was unnecessary. Regardless of the impending depression, the Notts would survive sufficiently on a bed of relative luxury. Nevertheless, the economic instability would serve to disadvantage them in one respect—it would feed the ravenous revolutionaries.
In the weeks preceding the start of Rose Weasley's Fifth Year at Hogwarts, a letter arrived that was heavier than it usually was. With a feeling of deep satisfaction that outweighed any sense of excitement, Rose extracted her prefect badge. She grinned at the shiny piece of metal, and pinned it onto her T-shirt. She admired her refection in the mirror for several minutes before running downstairs to tell her parents.
The Potters were invited over to celebrate the news that both Albus and Rose had gained the position of prefect. Her aunt Ginny insisted that they take photos. A cake was cut and shared. After a while, the children left their parents, who were huddled in the kitchen, so that they could spend some time outside in the gloriously ephemeral sun.
Hermione Granger called it the Weasley bungalow even though it was a bit too big to constitute as a bungalow (it had to cater for the extended family that visited and often overstayed). The backyard was enormous. A tree with a tyre swing sat lonely on the far left. Rose splayed out on the grass, squinting up at the soft blue sky and wax-yellow clouds. Hugo retrieved a Quaffle from the garden shed and began to pass it back and forth with James and Albus. The rhythmic smack of the leather skin added a beat beneath their conversation. Without warning, Albus threw it towards Rose, who caught it quickly. She sat up and pegged it back towards her cousin. They laughed as he failed to catch it. Lily Potter kept her distance, reading beneath the tyre swing tree.
Eventually, it began to grow cool. The sun slipped towards the horizon. The five of them padded their way towards the kitchen, where they could hear the kettle boiling. Their parents had been discussing political matters—it was all they ever seemed to be doing those days—and little of it made sense. An argument was taking place in whispers. Harry's tone was reserved. Hermione's voice was frustrated and low; Rose could hear her mother's muttering before the back door closed.
If he becomes Minister we'll be living in a police state.
He's just preaching a message people want to hear.
Well, apparently it's working.
People are bloody thick, then. I'd rather quit than work for that nutter.
Rose hesitated in the doorway. Her mother, standing by the kitchen sink, looked up and caught her in a fierce look. Ron snatched up the newspaper and turned it back to its front page, concealing its guts and messy entrails and the words their children weren't supposed to read.
"It was getting chilly," Rose offered in way of an explanation.
"Of course, love. Come in, I'm making us some tea."
But the subject of the conversation was shuffled as easily as a deck of cards. The next topic to be drawn up was the impeding start of term, but the safeness of this subject matter was definitely not a matter of luck. So, still being somewhat sheltered from the qualms of the Magical Community, their children were safe. Rose had nothing to worry about between home and Hogwarts. At least, she felt that way on one of the last summer afternoons before Fifth Year.
No one ever sees a revolution coming until it has already arrived.
A war had been won, yet nothing had really changed. Human nature does not change. Humans want conflict—
Again, my phrasing is wrong.
Humans are not exclusively the ones who want conflict.
Disclaimer: This is all JK Rowling's. I am penniless and unemployed.
