Title: 1-2-3 Testing
Author's Name: Lylian
Rating: PG
Warnings: Blatant disregard for a set point of view. Minor profane language.
Disclaimer: JKR is the original magician, while I am merely an imitator and conjurer of tricks.
Beta's name: angelps7 and floorcoaster
Author's Note: I had so much trouble picking a prompt until a week before the fic was due. And then it ran off with a mind of its own. The story is only pre-romance, one of my favourite genres that doesn't get written about often. I was dying to kill someone off (YES, pun intended. I'm that cheesy), and I tried to keep the original characters at low. I only have one, and she's minor. She could even be canon! But alas, there are no mentions of Pansy's relatives, so I needed to create one. I'm sorry if the end of the story sounds like the stuff growing on the side of your toilet seat, but the end was just squeezed out in the nick of time, alright? Cut me the crap (HA, yes I did it again!). Thank you to my last minute betas. You two are awesome, and you both compliment each other, ready to save the world from bad grammar and punctuation one amateur at a time!
Without further adieu, I dedicate this story to iceesunrise, who had nothing on her profile to tell me what kind of story she really wanted. Thanks for that, and by the way, I searched your name up several times on different fanfic sites and came up blank. I really do hope you enjoy this, even if it was a work of procrastination.
Written for the PPHPficexchange on Livejournal.
Winner of the Best Adventure award on PPHPficexchange.
Summary: What mattered to me the most was survival. I never thought that things would turn out like this. But years after Hogwarts, when I should have been moving on in my career training and learning how to live on my own, I was out on the streets instead, struggling to keep myself alive.
- - -
1-2-3 Testing
The Ministry has found a way to trace our lineage and our blood. They now know who's a pureblood and who isn't. All they need is a strand of hair. They see it as a way to keep peace in a generation that desperately needs it. They say that the bad guys can be caught more easily with all Wizarding citizens recorded. The Ministry calls it a way of social identification. But we call it the Test.
- - -
I'm not a pureblood. My great-great-grandmother was Muggleborn. I don't tell anyone this, but if they'd just look at my family tree, they'd know.
Mary Anne Kirkwood. She was beautiful. I have seen the pictures. My grandmother used to say that we had similar eyes, but Grandma doesn't say things like that anymore. She's six feet underground and didn't speak much, even when I used to visit her.
I'd lay daffodils by her grave and just wait for something to happen. Nothing special ever did. The wind would just blow past and rustle the flowers and my hair a bit. Father used to say that Grandma was in the wind. I used to believe him until he stopped visiting Grandma with me.
When Father married Isabelle, he never wanted her to find out his true heritage. He discouraged me from mentioning my blood, and he betrayed Grandma in the process.
Isabelle wasn't a mean person, but she wasn't my mother. (My real mother lived in Guam, and she visited infrequently.)
I remember cringing every time someone said, "Pansy, your mother is waiting for you," or, "A young girl like you should listen to her mother," or even worse, "Like mother, like daughter."
It was horrible, the things people assumed. Isabelle was a rusty blonde, and her face was nothing like mine. Her disposition was usually optimistic, and she cared nothing about being beautiful, only about being presentable. We weren't alike at all, but people still assumed that because she was Mrs. Parkinson, she was my mother. She's not.
I remember fourth year when Isabelle, Father and I were shopping for dress robes. I chose these gorgeous, chocolate-coloured, fitted robes. But once Isabelle laid eyes on it, she declared them "unsuitable attire" for a formal event. By that I believe she meant the dress robes were too low-cut. Father immediately agreed. If it weren't for Isabelle keeping his senses in check, my father would buy me the world.
Instead she chose something a four-year-old would cringe in and cry over. I did nothing of the sort, but I remember being stoic for the rest of that shopping excursion.
When the girls at school saw what I would be wearing for the Yule Ball, their first response came out like this: "It's very… pink." Was I supposed to take that with ease, as a compliment?
Of course, I responded in kind. "I'm glad you know your colours."
That proved to be a bad choice, as I held Draco's arm in the only way I was taught. I figured we both looked at least presentable, even if I was 'very… pink.' I even placed my Grandma's favourite flowers in my hair. Then the same girls who had commented about my dress robes passed without a word to me, but with plenty of gossip among themselves.
They'd whisper so loudly that it was obviously meant to be heard. "There goes the Pretty Pureblood Princess."
I'm not.
It's terrible, the things people assumed. But who was I to tell them otherwise?
Things like dress robes and dances, titles and Transfiguration class, they didn't matter any more. What mattered to me the most was survival. I never thought that things would turn out like this. But years after Hogwarts, when I should have been moving on in my career training and learning how to live on my own, I was out on the streets instead, struggling to keep myself alive.
I wish all I had to worry about was my gossiping classmates, rather than how to avoid getting killed.
- - -
A man of average height, with plain clothing and a sharp nose, stood halted before a florist's shop browsing through the bouquets of flowers. The traffic passed behind him, but he took no heed; he was busy. Perhaps his wife needed some consoling after last night's spat. Roses? No, not roses. She thought that roses were too often used. Colourful carnations were in bloom, but that didn't seem to do. Ah, yes, tulips. The pale pink ones she would enjoy.
Abruptly, someone rushed into his back.
"I'm so very sorry!" said a voice behind him.
It was a blonde lady with dark sunglasses, who looked as if she didn't know where she was going.
"Oh, it's quite alright," he replied, shaking himself off.
"Flowers for the wife? She'd like the purple daffodils," said the girl, ominously.
"Now why would you say that?"
"Woman's intuition." She smiled before walking off.
He looked past the reflection of the window and signalled to the elderly man inside. When the florist came out, he couldn't find his wallet and found that he only had enough for the purple daffodils, which was odd, because he could have sworn that he had more. He must have kept his wallet in his car. Well, he supposed, perhaps it was fate.
He went and purchased the purple daffodils.
- - -
I walked briskly around the corner, away from the florist's. It was uncommon that I passed by the shop, but today I wanted to stop to smell the flowers. To my delight, I also found vulnerable prey.
Muggles were too easy. I had discovered this after two years of living among them. Many times they were so defenceless and caught unawares that they fell into traps effortlessly. They were only vaguely aware that chimaeras walked among them.
Only once at the beginning of my 'career' was I ever caught, and that was by a child, who screamed, "Mummy, she's taking your money!" The mother, in turn, called out to the authorities, and I made a run for it. There were so many security guards on my trail that I had to use magic to Apparate out of there. However, magic is now only for emergencies. I learned to be more wary of children after that fiasco.
The wallet I pushed into my bra wasn't removed until I returned to the safety of the hideout. It was nothing more than an unused basement of a rundown shop, but this was my temporary residence for the past three weeks, our longest stay ever.
I languidly emptied the contents of my undergarments (a little over 30 pounds). From behind me, I heard a scraping noise, and I turned quickly to the doorway.
Theodore Nott stood there in worn, black attire. His now brown hair was in disarray, and he looked as if he had run to get here. His deep breaths struck me as odd. He clutched a fist to his ribcage, where his shirt was stained with blood.
"We have to get out of here. Morag's been captured."
In was in these instances that my mind went blank with adrenaline, when all I thought was run, run as if the mantra was playing in my head. I shoved every little belonging into my mokeskin purse (which wasn't much), and ripped off my blonde hair. It was too noticeable, so I chose instead an inconspicuous, mousy brown.
"Let's get out of here," I said to Theo, as soon as we packed everything. He looked at me with downcast eyes and allowed me to lead the way. We were running before the door closed shut.
- - -
Life had not always been this way. Before the Test and before the war, things had been much simpler. As students, we didn't have to worry so much about politics. That was on the outside, in the adult world. But they invaded our world gradually.
It began with Ministry intervention at Hogwarts, then battles at Ministry Headquarters, and finally my best friend, Draco Malfoy. We were children living out roles meant only for adults.
When he disappeared, so did we.
The seven of us made up a motley crew, each with different reasons for leaving Hogwarts. Theodore Nott left to avoid being recruited by Death Eaters, Morag MacDougal for the same reason, Zacharias Smith for reasons unmentioned, three Ravenclaws because they were smart enough to know that they could stay neutral to the war, and I left for a myriad of things.
As one of mixed blood, there were no guarantees of safety from Death Eaters. Throughout all my years at Hogwarts, I remained staunchly in favour of pureblood supremacy, but as soon as Draco's disappearance was known, I knew that my security was a myth. They would come after me soon, thinking that I had confidential information about his whereabouts. I knew nothing. But they didn't know that.
I also knew that if either side won the war, I would have nothing. My father's position with them didn't help matters either. I knew that he would soon be questioning me too.
I didn't care much for politics or warfare before, but now it directly affected me. Besides all this, I was more determined to find Draco. And that was what kept me persevering.
For the first few months, running was easy, until the Test came. It was all over the Prophet.
No More Lost Children, cried the paper. Social Identification For Protection. Every Criminal Found.
That last was meant for us, the pariahs of the Wizarding world. We stole, lied, cheated, and hid, became a class of our own. Our purpose was survival; however, I was looking for anything but. I led them unknowingly on a chase to find Draco Malfoy, while the others searched for themselves, or perhaps some ran from themselves.
The Test gave provided control over people. They stored hair in an expansive database with every known witch and wizard categorized. The authorities had permission to use it in a Polyjuice potion for impersonation. Not only that, but it made locating criminals easier with this type of contagious magic. They knew everything: age, sex, family, wand type, residence, blood background. The Ministry had information on everyone, but they didn't have a thing on us.
Then one day, during our stay in Bristol, the three Ravenclaws did not come back from their daily rounds. We didn't hear a word from them afterwards but knew that we had to get out of there. They were either captured by Death Eaters, the Ministry, or had betrayed us. With no time to lose, we were out of the city by sunset.
Two months later, the Aurors caught our scent. We lost Zacharias Smith to them, which left only Theodore, Morag and myself.
Then only three weeks after Zacharias was gone, they captured Morag. I knew it had been coming. But I didn't anticipate how at a loss I would feel at being slowly pulled undone.
- - -
A stray thought passed, and I wondered if this would be the last time my grandmother would receive a visit.
It was the only place I had thought to run to that wasn't too far a distance without using magic. Magic was traceable; travelling by foot was not.
Theodore and I found a spot just beyond the thickness of the trees, where Grandma lay. As he sat down on the dirt, I saw the wariness he was burdened with.
"How did they find her?" he whispered.
Then questions ran through my head as well. Who were they? What exactly happened to Morag? Are we at the end of our rope?
But none of this was spoken aloud.
"We need to find a more secluded spot, Theo."
An unfamiliar voice replied, "I don't think that's necessary."
Quickly, before I had seen anything, a blinding light flashed, and then darkness.
Perhaps it was fitting that I would have my downfall on my half-blood grandmother's gravestone, devoid of any daffodils.
- - -
"She claims to be a Muggle, but we found this in her possession." Dean Thomas handed Harry a straight, wooden stick.
He examined the item and the owner before asking, "Did she shave her own head?"
"Says it's from chemotherapy, a Muggle healing technique. But she's not just hairless on her head. She has no hair on her entire body."
"At all?"
"At all."
"That means we can't do an S.I. test on her."
"Yes."
"That's convenient. Why was she running?"
"She's a fugitive. Stealing probably."
"How'd you find her?"
"We were tipped off by an old wizard who worked at a florist shop in London. He filed a complaint. Said that she came in every so often with a different wig and every person who encountered her ended up buying purple daffodils."
"A pretty observant wizard," replied Harry. "She might be a Legilimens. But that doesn't mean she's a criminal. If that wizard's wrong, we may have to Obliviate her."
"He also mentioned that afterwards, each customer said they lost his or her wallet."
"Now that's more interesting. So she's a pickpocket. But why was I asked to interrogate her?"
"I thought you might ask that. Why don't you go inside and take a good look at her? You'll be surprised."
- - -
"Hello," he said coolly. "My name's Harry Potter. I've been told that you go by Violet."
The bald woman sitting across from him didn't respond.
"You're here because you've been stealing money from innocent Muggles."
"W-what?"
Harry continued, "A florist from London said that you bewitched Muggles into buying purple daffodils and have been taking their money."
"I really don't know what you mean."
"Stealing, Violet. You know it's illegal to use spells on Muggles for things like that."
Suddenly, the frightened woman stood up hastily. "What do you want from me? Who are you people? Stop calling me these things like witches and—and Muggles! I'm not anyone. I'm just Violet. Just let me go!"
The guarding Auror at the door came quickly and placed a wand to her temple, trying to send a calming spell to her frantic gestures.
"No, don't put that thing next to me!" she yelled, before submitting to the spell and moving into a tranquil trance.
It was the opportune moment to look into her mind, and Harry had no qualms against it. But what he saw was blankness, emptiness, as if darkness had shrouded her brain. He kept going farther and father in, looking for a wall to end the empty space, but he found none.
Harry left the room to converse with Dean.
"What did you do to her? Was she Obliviated?"
"None of our Aurors Obliviated her."
"She's the striking image of Pansy Parkinson."
"We know."
"Do you think she could be… a Muggle?"
"She had a wand on her."
"You're right."
"You think it might be amnesia?"
"I don't know."
- - -
The next day, when Harry re-entered the interrogation room, he held a bulky briefcase.
"Hello, Violet."
She didn't meet his gaze, but kept her eyes downcast.
"I just want to ask you a few questions. Is that alright?"
Slowly, she nodded.
"Do you like flowers, Violet?"
She seemed confused by this question and looked up at him. The moment she did, Harry was captivated by her striking appearance. Her lash-less eyes looked simply blank and her smooth head made her seem as if she were not of this world, as if she were her own entity. Her dry, pale lips opened, and with a husky voice, she said, "Yes."
"Good. I've brought you some."
Purple daffodils were brought forth and placed on the table. She tentatively took one from the bouquet and put it against her nose to breathe in the fresh aroma.
"They're pretty."
"Yes," said Harry, watching for a reaction. "I hear they're your favourite. A florist in London informed me. Do you live in London?"
She continued to play with the flower. "I don't know."
"Do you remember anything?"
"I remember running."
"What were you running from?"
"I don't know."
Harry left it at that.
"What happened to your hair, Violet? I'm sure you had very pretty hair."
With a shrug, she replied, "I don't really know. Perhaps I have cancer."
"We've done tests on you and haven't found anything."
There was no reply, and Harry began to get frustrated. He fired away question after question, only to receive blank stares and more questions. She evaded many and left others unanswered.
Reaching his end, Harry said point-blank, "Stop pretending to be a Muggle."
Slowly enunciating each syllable, she asked, "What is a Muggle?"
Harry left the room crossly and did not justify that with an answer, just as she had been avoiding questions the entire time.
- - -
Harry came in the next time with assurance and sat across from her with poise. He placed four photographs in front of her and told her to look at them.
Each one was a picture they had taken of her on the first day of her capture, but the style of her hair was changed with every picture. In the first, she had long, dark brown hair, to bright amber plaits, to a mousy brown cut, and finally to an ebony bob.
Harry scrutinized her facial features before asking, "Read what it says at the bottom."
She flashed her eyes at him and hesitated. "That's not who I am. My name is Violet."
"Actually, no it's not." Harry sent her a predatory grin. "You read the bottom. It says Pansy Parkinson, who has been missing for two years, just after the disappearance of Draco Malfoy. She probably went on the run for two reasons: she wanted to find him, or she herself was evading capture from Death Eaters. Possibly both. The caption at the bottom of the picture is magically encoded so that only wizards and witches could read it. You've just confirmed that you're a witch. You were captured at the cemetery where your grandmother is buried, and you have been stealing from Muggles continuously using magic. You've been using a clever sort of Occlumency to direct me to a time when you had fainted, when your mind was completely blank. That way, you could pretend to be a Muggle named Violet. In order to avoid the S.I. test, you used the Alopecia Universalis spell on yourself, so that you'd be hairless for two weeks straight. That was the last spell used by your wand. You are Pansy Parkinson, and there is no denying it."
In an instant the girl named Violet disappeared to the hard-faced woman that Harry had known throughout school. The blank eyes were gone, along with the naivety.
"You think you're so smart, Potter," Pansy seethed. "But you know nothing."
"How have you been, Pansy?" he asked casually. "Haven't seen you in years."
"Like you don't know. Running, of course."
"You put up a good show. I almost believed that you were Obliviated."
"You've got to learn a thing or two when on the run," she said warily. "What are you going to do with me?"
"Well, because of protocol, we'll have to take a strand of your hair. But seeing as you have a couple weeks to go until your hair grows out, you'll be staying in custody."
"Potter, I haven't done anything to warrant a stay of two weeks. Just identify me, prosecute me, and let me go."
"No can do. Things have changed around here, Pansy. No citizen can feel safe when an unidentified person is set loose. You have some reparations to pay."
When Harry stood up to leave, she grabbed hold of his forearm.
"You can't do this," she said in desperation.
"Why not?" asked Harry, confused.
"He'll find me."
- - -
I was in a dazed trance for the next week. Every so often, I awoke to eat but that didn't last long. The lumpy mattress and closed quarters didn't bother me because none of it really mattered. I had a decent bed for the first time in months, and I wasn't in constant fear of being captured.
I felt as if I was at the end of my journey, and all I could do from here was dream.
My grandma was playing a game with me. We were happily running around in circles, as her lips moved to a tune. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but I knew she was singing, just like she used to do to put me to sleep. Finally, she slowed and I caught up to her. She embraced me and whispered in my ear the end of her tune: "…Ashes, ashes, we all fall down."
And to my horror, she fell from my arms and became the dust beneath my feet. I looked up, and there was Theodore, running and tugging the hand of Morag. A powerful spell shot Theodore. He stumbled and held on tight to Morag. He looked me straight in the eye, and I could hear him saying, "Save yourself."
At the same moment, a hand landed on my shoulder. It was Draco. I hugged him, and it was the Yule Ball all over again, but this time, when I released Draco, my dress robes were so big that I couldn't move. He walked away, saying, "C'mon, Pansy." But I couldn't even lift a foot.
"Draco! No, don't leave me," I cried. He was looking straight at me, coaxing me to follow him, but couldn't he see that I was trapped? I pulled on my overly pink dress, trying to rip it to shreds, but to no avail.
My father and Isabelle were whispering about me, looking disapproving. I cried out to them too, but no words left my lips.
Potter came from the darkness, and he was wearing dark robes, with unkind intent in his eyes. He pointed a wand at me and shouted, "Mordsmorde!"
The dark mark came and began to burn my robes, until I was bare before him. Slowly, it consumed all of my hair as well.
"I can't save you," he said.
Green vapours surrounded me and rested on my left forearm, piercing my skin to leave ugly, scarred flesh.
I died in my dream.
- - -
He entered the room with an ease and confidence that I identified on the spot. His hushed authority was what hadn't changed in years. With great care, he sat across from me.
"You're looking perky today."
"You mean prickly?" I replied, sarcastically. "Better be careful then, I might just draw blood."
To be honest, I felt hideous. My hair was just beginning to grow in, and although I've been known for my vanity in the past, I was most comfortable being completely hairless. That way, it was so much easier to blend in and vanish from who I used to be.
"We'll see," Harry replied, undeterred.
I hated that I couldn't get a rise out of him.
"We'll need to take a sample of your hair today."
"Take all you want," I said, again with the sarcasm. "I have too much of it anyway."
"I'll need you to stay seated," Harry added.
"I suppose you have my word."
"Actually, I've already placed an adhesive charm on your chair."
When I tried to get up, I realised that he was right. "Bastard."
"Thank you. Now, don't slump."
"Are you going to make me do that, too?" I asked, spitefully.
"Only if you don't cooperate."
From the one sided mirror, I watched as he moved behind me, wand raised. He flicked it into motion and began to say the incantation.
"Wait!"
I jumped at the chance to make him stop by any means possible and to stall for any more time. I hoped I would be able to keep this from happening altogether.
"Please don't."
He halted his movements to stare at me through the mirror.
"I—I know that once I'm Tested, nothing will stop You-Know-Who from finding me. He'll send people to kill me. He'll torture me with Unforgivables. I won't survive that."
"You're safe under Ministry care," he said.
"No, I'm not. He's infiltrated the Ministry, you know."
"You're overreacting, Pansy. This is just an identification test."
"You don't know what he's capable of!"
His eyes suddenly hardened. "You're telling this to the wrong person."
"Of course, you're the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived. What does it matter if a single criminal is captured and killed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Rid the world of one more evil, right? I'll just be a casualty of war, while you're prancing about taking hair from small-time thieves, a job that should be given to one of lower status!"
"That's enough, Pansy!"
He was red in the face and looked as if he wanted to throttle me. I've never seen him so worked up about something I had said. I hit a nerve somewhere and was damn proud of it. I continued to poke at the wound, in hopes of distracting him further.
"Why are you here, Potter, when you should be off fighting your war?" I said with quiet destruction.
He turned away from me, taking in deep breaths to calm himself. "You're going to be tested whether you like it or not."
And I shook my head in desperation. This was my death sentence; there was no stopping it.
"You don't understand," I said softly.
Potter moved before me to look me in the eye. I looked back through my half-grown lashes and could almost see my reflection in his glowing, green eyes.
"Yes, I do."
- - -
Harry sat across the older couple with a table for separation. Tea was set, but not poured; the sandwiches were ready to be eaten.
"Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson, how are you today?" Harry asked, gently.
Their answers were pleasant, but Harry went straight to the point.
"I have a few questions to ask you. A woman has been found who may be your daughter."
"You've found her?" exclaimed Mr. Parkinson. That his wife put a firm hand on his knee did not escape Harry's notice.
"Well, we'll need confirmation first. Would you mind looking through these photos?"
In the first, the girl had long, dark brown hair. The next had bright amber plaits. Another, a mousy brown cut, and one with an ebony bob. The last one was completely bald.
Mr. Parkinson shifted through each one, with Harry watching him closely.
He paused at the last photograph for a moment.
"Do you recognise her, Mr. Parkinson?" Harry asked.
"I—I think…"
His wife squeezed on his knee gently and spoke up, "This couldn't possibly be her. Nor this one, nor this one. Any of them, actually. They don't resemble Pansy at all."
"Really?" replied Harry. "Even this one with the dark hair?"
"You could say perhaps that the hair style is the same, but her face? It's not Pansy."
She struck Harry as a sensible person, with quick eyes and a quick intelligence.
"Here, you can look over the photos with some tea," said Harry, pouring out three cups.
Mrs. Parkinson looked apprehensive. Harry distinctly heard her whisper in her husband's ear, "Don't drink it."
"You're right not to drink it if you don't want to be subject to Veritaserum." Harry smirked, amused. "You're a smart woman, Mrs. Parkinson. I'm sure that Pansy inherited your brains."
"Isabelle is Pansy's step mother," said Mr. Parkinson out of the blue.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I just assumed—"
"Yes, yes," he continued with weariness. "Everyone did."
There was a silence in the room as each person contemplated quietly.
Harry said aloud, "You may think that I'm here to capture Pansy, or that she's in trouble with the Ministry. But I can assure you that I am here to help her."
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Parkinson cautiously.
"For the past two years, she's been on the run from both the Ministry and Death Eaters." Mr. Parkinson inhaled sharply. "She's evaded capture for so long, but finally we caught up to her. I'll tell you the truth. I did not invite you here on Ministry business, Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson; I came here to extend an invitation of sanctuary from the Order of the Phoenix."
"It exists?" cried out Mr. Parkinson.
"Yes, and I am willing to grant her amnesty for her past crimes."
"What do you want from us, then?"
"The one condition I ask, Mr. Parkinson, is that after the Light wins, you won't be ashamed of your true heritage."
He was shocked. "And—and that's all?"
"It's all that I can ask of you."
"And you'll keep her safe?" asked Mr. Parkinson.
"If she stays out of trouble," Harry joked lightly.
"Did she accept?" Isabelle Parkinson asked, almost inaudibly.
"She wouldn't until she knew that you two would as well."
"Then yes," said Isabelle with glassy eyes. "Of course, we accept."
- - -
Pansy sat at the party with Order members surrounding her, and they were all laughing heartily. She looked as if she was enjoying herself, and not only that, she looked healthy beyond compare. Her hair had grown into a lively faux hawk that rivalled Tonks's bright pink for most startling. Her lips were no longer dry and cracked, and her cheeks were flushed with life, like the purple daffodils that hung in her hair.
Harry noticed her immediately and grabbed the seat next to her.
"Parkinson."
"Potter. Tonks was just showing us one of the new noses she learned. Did you know that she can turn her nose into an elephant trunk?"
"Well, I can't say I'm surprised. Tonks always struck me as a bit of a—"
Out of no where, an elephant trunk shoved Harry's shoulder.
"Don't finish that sentence! Elephants always remember," cried Tonks from across the table, before she burst into a little earthquake of giggles. Draco sat next to her, splashed with liquor, but he continued to laugh with his cousin.
"Well," spoke Shacklebolt loudly. "We all know why we're here. It's the six month anniversary of the fall of Voldemort."
He continued with much reverence for the past, and then everyone raised their glasses and chanted together, "Never forget. Always forgive. And look to the future."
- - -
I turned to find Harry looking straight at me and smiling. I said to him quietly, "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For saving the Wizarding world."
"Oh, that?" Harry scoffed playfully. "It was nothing."
"Of course, for you it was nothing, but you know, for me it was just my life saved," I continued, in the same teasing tone. "I am so small compared to thee."
"In physical size, yes, but in boldness, no one can compare to you."
He was looking at me with a warmth in his eyes that made my cheeks flush.
With confidence, I asked, "Do you think this could ever go somewhere?"
Harry replied with a grin. "It's possible."
I smiled at him and thought, I could deal with that.
- - -
Prompt: #3. Action/Adventure, Plot-centric. Something complicated, like a mission of sorts. Post-Hogwarts. Any rating for this one is great.
Dealbreakers (absolute no-no's):Character death. Excess of OC's.