Florean Fortescue set the sorting hat back down on its stool, and walked to his place at the Hufflepuff table. Of all the yellow-adorned students, the loudest cheers came from his siblings- Dexter, who had just become head boy this year; Hubert, whose prefect badge glinted above his robes; and Margaret, whose name was called right after his. He clapped as she joined him at the table, a smile painted onto each of their faces.
The Great Hall was almost golden; the children were little splotches of white, black, pink, brown and yellow- and that, he realised, was just their skin. He tried his best to see all the colours that battled in such a harmonious manner in front of him, and it was beautiful; too beautiful, of course, to share with anyone but Margaret.
"Can you see all the colours?" he whispered in his twin's ear, as the cheers erupted once more for a girl named Molly Prewett who was named a Gryffindor. Margaret nodded, and her cheeks were the best kind of pink.
When Margaret died that summer of dragon pox, she was a pale green colour. Even years later, he never made any mint ice cream. It always reminded him of that day. That darkness. And Margaret never did like mint.
On the first day of his second year, the colours of the great hall grew darker, yet paler, somehow at the same time. He threw himself into food and studying, trying to find the right balance between forgetting his sister and holding her memory close. There were long days of grief, of nothing but her memory haunting him in every colour he could see. Sometimes, he managed to completely forget, and that was bliss- but it was also dull, screaming emptiness.
The summer before his sixth year, his father was framed for a crime he had not committed. That was one of the first signs of Lord Voldemort, and like most others, it was widely ignored. Almost everyone shivered in unison as a Dementor made its way past the crowd, but Florean, sitting right beside the it, did not flinch.
It had started as a hint of black- not the magnificent kind of black that glowed twenty different shades in the sun, but simply a lack of all colour. By this time, he had allowed himself to sink into that depression. It was not that he preferred the numb, infinite darkness that consumed him; it was more that everything else was too far away.
His father was sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban. He watched as his mother burst into tears, and his brothers looked on in utter shock as the Dementors took his father away.
But Florean had his own personal Dementor, and he let it take its grip on his soul because there were no colours left to cling to. The flavour was gone. Everything around him had dulled to black, and he almost succumbed to that darkness.
Almost.
That year, he made a vow: he would find a cure for sadness. That was what kept him going, the idea that kept him from taking his own life.
That, and Helena.
Helena Bayford. Everything about her was colourful. In the light of the sun, her seemingly dark hair shone with thousands of colours, and he loved the sight of her blue and bronze robes draped across the chocolate of her skin. Her pupils widened when she talked about something that she loved, and she loved many things. She loved books, and history, and making snow angels, and writing stories. She loved the many mysteries of the Hogwarts castle, and how the night sky went on forever, adorned in the yellowish light of the endless stars.
And she loved him. That was the best part.
He couldn't say that she healed him, but for a while she was the closest thing he had to a Patronus, the light that kept the Dementor inside him at bay. It was the white of the snow, and her smile that glowed like the sun through the clouds, and the way there could be a rainbow after the rain, that showed him he could be okay.
Besides Margaret and his mother, Helena was the first person he so desperately wanted to make happy. It was a purpose that sneaked up on him like faint candlelight, small and warm, and he decided to embrace it.
He wanted to bring people joy.
She proposed to him among the mess of cardboard boxes that would soon make up their very own ice cream parlour. There were no rings because they'd spent all the money they had (and the money they didn't) on this place, but there was no need; they had everything they wanted.
She was wearing pink that day, and the sunlight in the open window revealed every speck of dust that floated around them. Owners of other shops came to congratulate them on the new place, but ended up congratulating them on an engagement as well.
That was the day the first child walked into the parlour and asked for a vanilla and strawberry ice cream, and Florean realised a number of things:
First, that there was so much magic in ice cream.
Second, that he was finally making people happy.
Third, that he wanted a family.
The baby stirred faintly inside Helena's stomach. He could feel it, warm beneath his palm, if he placed it just at the right place and time. It was a future that he was so happy to expect.
He was going to be a father.
There were so many colours in the slight stretches of her pregnant stomach, in the new clothes and books that were bought in preparation, and the part of the room above the shop that they painted pink and blue and every other colour in the world, so whoever their child might be, they would never feel left out.
The ice cream parlour was his daily joy. He liked to observe the differences in every child; the expressions on their faces and the shapes of their shoes, the way they ate their ice cream and the flavours they requested- each with their own little changes, in the sprinkles, the whipped cream and the nuts.
The parlour was also the location for many Order meetings. Though neither he or Helena joined, they did agree to help. The presence of He Who Must Not Be Named could be felt in every household. A looming storm. And they had wanted to help; they had wanted their child safe.
It happened during one of the meetings.
The soft wandlight vanished in quick whispers of 'Nox', the cracking sounds of people disapparating echoed around them as robes swirled into nothingness, and soon the shouts grew closer as they held their breaths, fear etched onto their faces in the dark.
They killed Helena that night.
Helena and the baby, only four months old in the womb. Nameless, genderless, colourless. They lay against the painted wall that had been made to celebrate birth. Instead, it greeted death.
Tears marked clean lines on his face, contorted in an expression that was red, black and completely transparent all at the same time. Happiness was a goal he could not achieve without revenge.
Florean Fortesque was not one to murder. There was no hatred in his heart, only a need to vanquish all that was evil.
Humans weren't evil, in his mind. But Voldemort was barely human.
So he assisted. He did everything in his power to help, giving food, and shelter, and money when he had some. He was everyone's moral support. He was his own moral support.
Once again, ice cream was his magic. It amazed him, constantly.
The war raged on.
Then came Harry Potter. The boy who lived. He was Florean's relief, his salvation, and the same, it seemed, went for everybody else.
The celebrations lasted into the night, and Florean's parlour was never fuller, never merrier, than on that day. Grief and joy battled each other that night, eventually deciding that it would be best to go hand in hand.
Years passed before he finally met the boy. Over those years, he frequently thought about a family. But remarrying was never an option. The love he shared with Helena was the kind that never died. She stayed, warming his heart, her memory keeping him sane even in the worst moments. Grief became motivation, and on days when his wife and his sister came back to haunt him, he would take their memories, their colours, and turn them into the promise of a future.
He craved to avenge them with happiness. The kind of happiness that was given, spread, carved into the hearts of the people.
There was nothing heroic about Harry Potter. Nothing in his skinny build and messy hair that hinted to the great things this boy had done, and the great things he would do. Florean thought back to his unborn child, knowing that had it not been cheated of its life, his child would have been about Harry's age.
Would he have been friends with Harry Potter? Would she have played Quidditch with him, or against him? Would Florean be watching his son sit here studying alongside this boy, his daughter taking a bite of her ice cream as she read aloud from her schoolbook?
His child never had a chance. Harry Potter still did. He wondered why this thought did not anger him.
"Do you want some more ice cream?"
Florean hated when his ice cream parlour was empty. It pained him to watch each flavour stand alone, waiting. Such days were rare, but when they happened, he always made sure to have a taste of every ice cream himself, just so it wouldn't feel lonely.
On this day there were no children laughing, dropping ice cream on his polished floor, nor any of their parents scolding them lovingly; no young couples with their hands inching closer as they chatted over his famous butterbeer flavour with chocolate swirls; not even another shop owner in sight to come have a chat over a cone of vanilla ice cream. Today, he was alone.
Times were getting harder. He did all in his power to help, to be a reliable source of information, a meeting place, and moral support. There was not much money, but he felt that it was his responsibility to keep creating colours and flavours. Who would do it if not him?
He heard the sound of the glass front door opening and shutting. He turned, a spoonful of blueberry and white chocolate ice cream still in his mouth.
"Hello," he said.
The two hooded figures said nothing.
"Would you like some ice cream?"
They did not come for ice cream, as he soon found out. But as they dragged him away, his body paralysed and his apron slightly torn, he felt a certain sense of relief.
He had done enough to get their attention. Enough to help in the effort to defeat the only evil that he knew.
Florean smiled, the light dancing in his eyes- a mix of resignation and contentment. Had he not been paralysed, his mouth would have even moved.
He had given people love. He had painted colour into their lives, if only for a moment.
This was his twisted prize, his unfair end.
But Florean Fortescue smiled, if only to avenge his family until the moment he could meet them once more.