Author's Note: This piece is a collection of one-shots. Although one or two chapters may be synergistic, they each stand alone as a work of their own. Each chapter is influenced and inspired by a line of Kelly Clarkson's "Because of You"; therefore, in a way, this is a kind of songfic. Please enjoy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own imagination. The characters depicted here all belong to J.K. Rowling except for those that I have fabricated for the story's purpose. The song lyric belongs to Kelly Clarkson and company.

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I will not make the same mistakes that you did

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"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Algie, will you leave the poor lad alone?"

The comment comes airborne from boisterous Cousin Gerri in the parlor and I sigh in frustration. Algie's been trying to get that boy to show signs of magicality for years, and every time I catch him at it I always tell him that if he's going to be magical, God'll give us a sign without his interference. Age is a thief in the night, though, and Algie is prone to leaving the key to his memory unlocked, because not more than fifteen minutes later Algie's off pulling another of his wild stunts to torture poor Neville.

In any case, Neville's someone special to have survived all of Algie's little experiments and live to tell---well, as much as he can, the little tyke---the tale, especially considering what he's been through so far in his short life. It's been three years since the accident. I consider it a miracle that Neville made it past that relatively unscathed; then again, it's also a miracle that Neville had the sense to stay away from Cousin Meretta's potato salad today. Honestly, that woman swears by the culinary wonders of pickle juice and horseradish, and she puts them into nearly every dish she makes. More power to her, I say, if she can digest that without running to the loo every twelve seconds.

The kettle whistles, and I take it off the stove, preparing the tea tray. For as long as I can remember, these weekly Sunday get-togethers have always taken place. Call it a family tradition. No matter what's going on, no matter what Dark Lords are menacing into our lives, no matter what squabbling took place last week, we always come together at the eldest family member's home to spend the day---after church services, of course.

Since Mum passed three years, six months, two weeks, and twelve days ago (may the Lord bless her in heaven), the responsibility of hosting the get-together has fallen to me. I don't mind. Cooking is one of the things I enjoy, even if it takes a while since I don't use magic to do it, especially now with Neville in the house. It's never a good idea to leave a wand lying around when you've got little ones, Mum always said, and I've taken it to heart. Of course, I still use it when I need it for other things, but when I'm cooking I always leave it in my top apron pocket, just out of little Neville's reach.

"...and then the Jarvey says, 'I'm a stinker? Have you smelled your shoe lately, Emeric?'"

The room explodes into laughter as I walk in with the tea service, tutting.

"Honestly, Jarvis, you shouldn't tell those kind of jokes, especially on a Sunday. What would Mum say?" I scold him, taking my usual seat in the overstuffed Gryffindor red armchair near the fire, tea and saucer in hand.

"She wouldn't say nothin'. She'd just give him a good whack!" Jarvis' wife, Teri, exclaims, and bops Jarvis with one of the throw pillows on the sofa for good measure.

The room dissolves into laughter again. The din increases as the clinking of glasses, saucers, cups, and other china fills the air as the family gathers their tea. I sit and watch, serenely sipping my tea and listening to the fire crackle behind me. Their words batter my ears, but I do not listen nor hear them, and, upon noticing my faraway look, nobody engages me in conversation. I appreciate them all for it. Sometimes it's pleasant to just sit back and reflect on things when everything else around you is in chaos.

My eyes alight on little Neville, who is sitting on my brother Fran's lap. Fran is a sweet man. Never married, and I never understood why. I never asked, either. There are some boundaries that even siblings do not dare to cross.

Neville laughs as Fran tickles him. My heart is stabbed with the memory of dear, sweet, loving Alice. Frank would tickle him like Fran does now on so many of those Sundays, and Neville would gurgle and later laugh that now haunting melody that we always remarked sounded so eerily like Alice herself.

They loved him, yes, that was for sure, and in the end that's what did them in. When they were attacked, they spent their time trying to get Neville to safety instead of reinforcing their wards. If they had only noticed that their Anti-Apparition ward had been disabled...

I break myself from the thought. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Albus always says that. It's one of the few things I think he's gotten right all along, the barmy old coot. He's a brilliant man, but he's got a few screws loose. No matter; we all still love him.

"Can I have some, Gran?"

Neville stares up at me with Frank's eyes. I take a moment to regain my senses and realize what he's asking for---tea---before I respond.

"No, you may not," I answer, stressing the 'may', "And remember to say 'please' when you ask for something," I remind him, patting him on the head as he nods and goes over to Cousin Gerald, who sweeps him up and asks how his sunflowers are doing.

It pains me to be so curt to the child, but it worked with my own children and it's going to work with Neville. Spare the rod and spoil the child, the saying goes, and I do not intend to do that. Frank and Alice did once and it cost them their lives. No matter how well-intentioned it was, I will not repeat their mistake.

Besides, if I did, it'd leave poor Neville at the mercy of Algie, and no child deserves that.