To my beloved Phoebe, for making sure this idea was brought to life.
And to my perfect (imagination) beta reader Phoenix, for being the best beta a girl could ever wish for.
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Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to JK. The rest is mine.
Note: This story is written in an honest attempt to figure out how the heck these two very lovable, very different persons might have ended up together. It's written as closely to canon as possible and it took nearly two months from first having the idea to actually reach some post-able result, so… I really hope you all enjoy!
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Prologue: A Not So Ordinary Sunday
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It all began on a Sunday morning, seemingly no different from any other Sunday morning.
The sun had once again reached the horizon of a sleepy London, and most of the citizens were still sound asleep; a few noticeable exceptions were the bleary-eyed morning paper delivery boys, awake solely by the power of caffeine. Within the hour, various Sunday paper editions had found their way into various British homes, and the usual weekend routine seemed to flow as normally as ever. In fact, nothing about this Sunday morning in London bore witness of anything out of the ordinary. But then again, since when did ordinary ever have anything to do with reality?
Few would have thought that this normal city also was the keeper of places strange and abnormal. On the rundown square of Grimmauld Place, for instance, any newspaper delivery to number twelve would have been utterly absurd. Mostly because there simply was no house between numbers eleven and thirteen, but also since the non-existent House of Black didn't even have a letterbox to begin with. Still, the most peculiar thing about number twelve this morning was actually taking place inside.
On any other early Sunday, we would have found all red-headed youngsters of the house sleeping in their beds, possibly accompanied by loud snoring sounds. The same would suffice for the fairly pretty, bushy-haired young lady and the famous, scar-faced young fellow with messy black hair (only the former rarely snored at all, and the latter sometimes had mysterious dreams about long corridors). These were not the only ones to take late Sunday "sleep ins", however, since there were currently four Order members residing at Grimmauld Place as well, and out of those, only former professor R. J. Lupin was likely to willingly rise before dawn. The exception of course being Mrs. Weasley, whose mother-hen-like energy sometimes spurred her into preparing extra festive breakfasts for the young ones. Her husband, Arthur, was never too early out of bed on weekends off, and gratefully, no one ever saw Grimmauld Place's rightful owner, Mr. Black, too early either, since he was a very scatterbrained person in the morning. Additionally, the man slept in the nude.
Rarely did notable exceptions take place from these weekend routines at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, but this Sunday morning was not like any other morning. Admittedly, someone was indeed in the kitchen, but it was not Mrs. Weasley. She was sleeping quite soundly (perhaps even a bit too soundly) some floors above and was not likely to wake up for another several hours. Instead, barricaded in the basement kitchen, her twin prankster sons could be found, seemingly in the middle of a very smug conversation about upgrades to their Skiving Snackboxes. Something bearing a faint resemblance to yellow toffee was stirring on the kitchen stove, but knowing Fred and George, this was hardly something as innocent as sweets. The twins' keen interest in the "art of pranking" (as they themselves no doubt would call it) was actually quite well known to everyone close to the Weasleys. They had all learned early on that if you did not want to have your nose growing into anything rude and amusing, you had better stay clear of the unpredictable paths of the Weasley twins. Still, never would anyone have suspected them to really refrain from an entire night's sleep in favour of brewing and plotting in the kitchen, and so this is where the remarkable overpowers the usual.
As night slowly turned to dawn, their latest experiment finally seemed to have been successfully mastered, which led to the self-satisfied discussion mentioned earlier. They agreed that the only thing left to do now was to conduct a trial. Naturally, this would be done on themselves first, but ultimately, they found that only trying it on themselves just wasn't nearly as much fun as basking in the humiliation of others. But who would be granted the honour of consuming this latest streak of brilliance? That was the tricky part because, outrageously enough, people tended to blankly refuse anything offered by a Weasley twin. They pondered on this for a while but were soon forced to put the matter aside, realising that they now desperately needed to clean this ruddy mess up and get the hell out of the kitchen before Lupin or anyone else decided to have an early Sunday breakfast.
In Muggle London outside, everything was still as perfectly normal as before, but inside the strange and musty house of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, something out of the ordinary had definitely taken place this morning. Little did anyone realise that the brewing of this particular prank was about to become the start of something best described as the very unlikely story of a wolf and a nymph.
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In a messy little flat across the city, a young witch with outrageously pink hair was stirring in her sleep, blissfully unaware of the worries lurking on the other side of her bedcovers. To her, this was still just an ordinary Sunday.
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