Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

Warnings: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers. Please exercise understanding of personal boundaries before and during reading.

Author's Note (Generic Note for the Houses Competition): All my works should be considered to be Not Epilogue Compliant and I treat everything that is not the HP books and the Hogwarts Library Collection as apocrypha (supplementary to canon but still outside of it) and treat it as such (including ignoring it unless it suits me). I also make a policy of not ignoring abusive and distasteful actions/decisions of characters and not handwaving the effects of trauma experienced by characters. If you feel that a character isn't acting like their "canon self" chances are good that it's because of one of these two things and they are merely displaying a more realistic response than they did in canon. If you feel that this is not explained in the fill, it is because it is not a major change to canon, and per official rulings, I do not have to treat it as an AU element.

Author's Not (Trivia to Know): Smaragdine is the fancy-pants name for emerald green; Shungite is a metamorphic rock created from a specific type of shale. The result is a black rock with a matte finish, even in its polished form; Kinyarwanda is one of the four official languages of Rwanda; Tutsi is an ethnic and cultural group that lives in the same region that Rwanda and Uganda are in; In October 1990, Rwanda began a civil war which would eventually climax with a hundred days of death and violence. The Rwandan Genocide of 1994 specifically targeted the Tutsi population and any who sheltered or supported them; Despite what many Wiccans and Neopagans like to believe, witchcraft is actually a generic term for all of the folk practices that affect "magic/power/force" and covers a very wide range of beliefs and practices; sìth bheag is "little fairy" in Scottish Gaelic and ihukukeya is "little cat" in Kinyarwanda. Both are used in place of a name, due to the pagan observance of names having power.

Author's Note(s): There are apparently a lot of stories that have Harry's abuse as a major factor. Seeing how this can be seen as a fundamental cause of pretty much everything Harry did in canon, despite how his abusers never faced any kind of justice for it and how Harry himself never received any aid, I am not surprised to learn this. I was surprised to hear this sentiment expressed as if it's some kind of detriment to good storytelling. So, my loyal readers, allow me to assure you now that I have no intention of suddenly abandoning my habit of having my characters actually deal with this in whatever way is appropriate for the given story. If you can count on nothing else from me, count on the fact that I will not be handwaving trauma or excusing abuse.

Dedication: To all my fellow abuse survivors, may we remember that the strongest weapons are created through flames and blows, and even broken blades still cut. To all abuse apologists, abuse denialists, and abusers, may you remember the same.

Challenge/Competition Block:
Stacked with: Houses Competition (Term 3); Paranormal Phantasm; Lessons Learned; Not Commonwealth; Terms of Service; By Any Other Name; Fem Power Challenge; Ethnic & Present
House: Hufflepuff
Year: 6th
Category: Additional (1000 – 3000 words)
Prompt: Rescue (theme); Smaragdine (color); "What makes you think I understand?" (speech)
Representation: Magic; Life Lessons; Harry Potter; Mentorship; Found Family; GUTERA Isabelle Love
Bonus Challenge(s): Second Verse (Not a Lamp; Ladylike – Stoic; Non-Traditional; Mouth of Babes; Found family; Tomorrow's Shade; Unwanted Advice); Second Verse (Fruit Fly; Odd Feathers; Delicious Lie; Hot Apple; Mermaid; Toto's Tribute)
Word Count: 2670

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Freak's Enough
Safe Enough
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It was Tristan Love who taught Harry how to braid and weave, not just ribbons and cords but also hair. It had started as the man giving Harry something to do that wouldn't be laborious but would still be something that would require Harry stay in the shop if he wanted to work on it. Harry knew that Tristan didn't like the idea of him leaving, hadn't since the first afternoon that he had pulled Harry into the warm shelter of the little boutique that he owned with his wife Isabelle. Despite how it cut into Harry's time to do his afternoon chores, Harry loved any opportunity to stay at Love's Bohemia or the Loves' living space behind and above the shop. Doing little things to help out and pay them back for their welcome and all the food that Tristan insisted Harry eat while he was there seemed like too small a gesture, but it was all that Harry had. Even if the Loves had never attempted to stop Harry from going back to the Dursleys every night, having a safe place for those few hours a day was something that Harry wouldn't have given up for anything.

The simple rhythm of the craft grew to be as relaxing to Harry as being allowed to stay in the little boutique with its unique mix of regulars and new faces. It was always nice to be around people who seemed happy to see him and openly appreciated what he could do for them. There would probably never be a time that Harry was anything less than grateful for the Loves deciding to pull him into Love's Bohemia when they had noticed him walking past that cold and miserable day back in first year, even if Harry tried to not think about why it had been necessary.

It was also Tristan who taught Harry how to embroider and sew. Harry may not have the same passion for textile work as Tristan, but despite that, Harry did enjoy being able to recreate the beautiful images that he saw in his head in a way that allowed others to see them. He wasn't good at drawing or painting, but he did have a deft hand with thread and needle. Knowing how to sew also allowed him to repair the Dursleys' clothes most of the time, which made Aunt Petunia happy enough to overlook how often Harry disappeared for hours when forced to walk home from school and sometimes even on the weekends.

When Harry started showing interest in Isabelle's work with jewelry-making, he found that a lot of what Tristan had been teaching him for the last few years transferred well to the new craft. Stitching beadwork together wasn't exactly the same as embroidery, but it was close enough. Shaping and carving things used a lot of the same dexterity that Harry had build up by doing the various braids and weaves in different materials. It felt nice to be able to create something and not have to worry about how the Dursleys would destroy it, even if it would have felt better to be able to show off his work the same way that Dudley could.

It was Isabelle who taught Harry the secret ways that everything could be used. Witchcraft, she called it the rare times she gave it a name in English instead of the Kinyarwanda of her Tutsi heritage. Tristan responded to discovering Isabelle's habit by adding tidbits from his native Scotland to Isabelle's lessons. The stories called to Harry, pushing him to devour books on mythology and history in the times when he was hiding in the school's library instead of risking the playground where Dudley and his friends lurked.

Then one rainy October day when he was ten, Harry entered the shop to find the main room dark and silent. Curious of why Tristan and Isabelle would leave the shop unlocked and certain of his welcome, he wandered into the back where their living space was. The kitchen that doubled as a crafting station for Isabelle was dark as well. Harry's fingers twitched at the sight of the plate with slices of cranberry tea bread on the counter, tempted to test the certainty of his welcome by nicking one. The memory of Aunt Petunia's punishments when Harry got caught taking any food made him turn away before he acted on the impulse and move into the Loves' living room.

He spotted Tristan first, sitting in his favorite armchair that was tucked into the corner closest to the door. His flame-colored hair had been pulled back into its customary bun but even in the dim light of the room, Harry could tell that he hadn't braided beforehand like he usually did. Tristan was tying knots into the thin green cord that draped across his lap. Out of the habit built from years of Isabelle's pop quizzes, Harry mentally listed everything he knew about the color and shade of the cord (smaragdine, good for protection, healing, and luck) and the material (leather, strong with emphasis on protection) along with the way Tristan was placing the knots (pressed against each other, with barely enough room to allow the cord to still bend, clearly meant to be worn with nothing tied directly to a count).

A flicker of light drew Harry's attention to Isabelle's shrine. The dark-skinned woman stood before the altar, a halo of smoke surrounding her. It would smell like the sandalwood, lavender, and cardamom herbal mix that she used for incense. Even from across the room, Harry was catching traces of the scent. The light that had caught his attention was from the nine black candles that stood in an arching half-circle around the shungite cat that served as the idol for it. Its smaragdine eyes gleamed in the dancing candlelight, just like its living counterpart's eyes would have.

As Harry watched, Isabelle picked up a thick needle and held in the flame of the centermost candle. The needle must have been one of the items that Isabelle brought with her when she had moved, because instead of blackening in the heat, it began to shine brighter. Harry had only seen Isabelle's special collection react like that. With the same somberness that Isabelle always worked, she showed the needle to the idol of her patron goddess. Then, with the quickness of a pouncing cat, she pierced the loose skin between her index and thumb. Isabelle fed the needle to the center flame to cook the blood off before sitting it carefully aside. Only then did she pick up the shallow offering bowl to catch the blood welling up from the small wound.

With each drop onto the dark stone of the dish, Harry felt something grow. He couldn't pinpoint what it was or where it was coming from, but it seemed to be both everywhere and everything at once. His attention zeroed in on the offering. As if at a distance, he felt himself moving forward, drawn in like a moth to a flame. His hand reached out on its own; he certainly didn't will it towards the blood. Every hair on his body seemed to be standing at attention and he felt filled with a restless demand for action, like the time that Dudley had made him stick a fork into a wall socket.

He wanted to touch it; he needed to touch it.

A hand gently wrapped around his wrist even as an arm wrapped around his waist. Harry snapped his gaze away from the blood towards the hand now holding him. A vicious growl filled the room. It was not until he had looked around to see what the sudden danger was that he realized that the sound had been coming from him. He looked back towards the hand again, this time following up the arm and over the shoulder to the person's face. The candlelight made shadows move sinisterly over Tristan's face, and knowing that he had just threatened the imposing-looking man made a ball of dread take up residence in Harry's stomach. Fear was not something that he often felt towards the Scotsman, despite how giant and bearlike Tristan was, but Harry certainly felt it right then.

"Right," Tristan said, as if continuing a conversation. Then he scooped up Harry like he was nothing more than one of the cats in the alley behind the shop. Effortlessly, Tristan carried Harry out of the living room towards the kitchen. Harry looked back over Tristan's shoulder to see Isabelle calmly completing the ritual that he had almost interrupted. The smaragdine eyes of the idol seemed to be glowing in the dimness of the room, meeting Harry's own like a living creature instead just something made of stone. Something inside of Harry purred at the attention and he found himself reaching out again.

He wanted so badly to touch it; he needed to touch it.

Once completely out of sight of the ritual, Harry felt cold and empty. He hadn't even realized how much the whatever that had been in the air had filled him with warmth. It was like every smile that the Loves had ever given him woven into a blanket and wrapped around him. Harry just wanted it back. A whine escaped him, prompting Tristan to squeeze him a bit tighter. The missing warmth began to seep back into him at the gesture.

"Shh, it's okay," Tristan soothed, as he settled them onto one of the chairs that surrounded the table for actual dinning. "It feels bad now, but trust me, sìth bheag, if you had touched like you wanted, it would feel much worse. The urge will pass."

"Wha…" Harry's voice faded before he could complete the question, seemingly devoured by the cold that lingered inside him despite the warmth that came from the way Tristan was holding him like a much younger child than his ten years. Luckily, Tristan seemed to understand the question anyway.

"That's the first time you've seen a full rite, isn't it?"

Harry thought back over the various little things that both the Loves had taught him over the last few years. Isabelle had often taught him in the space surrounding her altar. More than once, he had arrived when the scent of her incense was still strong enough that she had to have just completed her devotions. But he now realized that beyond the little craft workings, no, he hadn't seen either of them actively attending the altar with its feline guardian. Those smaragdine eyes flashed through his mind again, making him twitch with the renewed desire to touch. Harry gave a small nod.

"That's why it's affecting you so much, sìth bheag," Tristan explained. He shifted his hold enough that he could run his hands briskly over Harry's arms, like he knew how cold Harry was feeling and was trying to warm him up. "I'm sorry for losing track of time. Things have been a bit hectic today, what with the news and all. That's not how we planned on you ever being introduced to the Great Mother. I know you understand why."

Feeling bolder than normal, Harry leaned back to get a good look at Tristan's face before asking his question. He never would have dared ask anything if it was one of the Dursleys, but Tristan would never get angry. Isabelle would have likely turned any question into an opportunity to teach him something, usually by turning the question back at him.

"What makes you think I understand?"

"Because you reacted the way you did, sìth bheag," Tristan said, with the same simple acceptance that he had for every odd occurrence that happened in the shop, no matter the source or how freakish it was. "You've always reacted strongly to any of our crafts that we've put a little extra in. So we knew that we had to tread carefully. Honestly, I haven't seen anyone react that strongly to the Pull outside of my cousins."

"But what was that? I don't understand," Harry countered.

"That was Ashe, child," Isabelle explained as she entered the room. Her yellow-green eyes traveled over the pair in the chair, silently assessing both of them before she gave a single nod. She moved to begin making tea as she continued. "It is the force that exists in all things, even the intangible, and whispers the secrets of eternity to those who know how to listen. It flows through the universe as an unending current. Knowing this, tell me, ihukukeya, what do you think happens during the crafting of a spell?"

Harry turned the idea over in his head a few times. Occasionally, a shiver would travel through him, prompting Tristan to punctuate his rubbing with a few firm pats to Harry's back. By the time Isabelle was sitting a cup of her favorite jasmine tea in front of him, Harry thought that he might have an answer. He cupped his hands around the warm ceramic, distantly admiring how the rich green hue (smaragdine again, because Isabelle never could resist matching things, even if it was a cup to his eyes) contrasted with the pale gold of his tanned skin.

"If it is a river, then it must be diverted into the materials somehow, to make a spell be anything more than a wish," Harry said carefully, knowing that a careless word would have Isabelle demanding he articulate himself better. As she always advised, it was better to be clear from the start. "To divert a river, you build canals to send water where you want. It takes a lot of thought to change the course of a river. You've got to be careful or you'll get floods."

"And if the current is not water, ihukukeya?"

Harry thought of how his hair had stood on end as the energy had pulled him towards it. He thought of the words that Aunt Petunia had used as Harry had twitched in pain after sticking the fork in the wall socket, after he had dared to ask for some paracetamol.

"Then you have to be prepared to face the burn," Harry said, shuddering for a completely different reason than feeling… oh, feeling abandoned, like he had been in the presence of something and now it had left without him. But if it were really like a person… "But wouldn't it know better?"

"The universe is very big, ihukukeya, and very old compared to us. Even the oldest mountains are still young comparably." Isabelle moved the plate of tea bread from the counter to near Harry's hands. His attention caught briefly on the gleam of her many earrings, remembering the flash of the needle in the candlelight. "We call Her 'mother' more out of sentiment and respect than because She cares. Pulling Her attention is a delicate matter, not easily achieved and dangerous to slight."

"Like upsetting you?" Harry asked, certain that his cheek would be welcome. Isabelle gave him an amused grin full of white teeth that shone against her dark skin. The grin had an edge to it, like a large cat showing off its fangs. She nudged the plate towards him, just enough to draw his attention back to it.

"Eat, ihukukeya, before my beloved begins to fret," Isabelle ordered. "Food and drink will chase the ache of coming into the space unprepared. And do not think that the ill winds that blow from my homeland has chased away my memory. You have a test on Friday. Study a bit before letting my beloved talk you into playing with needles and thread."

Tristan objected to how she had phrased that, probably as Isabelle had planned. Not worried about the good-natured bickering going on over his head, Harry focused on drinking his tea and eating tea bread. As Isabelle had predicted, the cold ache slowly evaporated like the morning fog. Like many things he had experienced in their shop, the Loves had managed to save him again.

And that was enough.

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An Ending
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