Persephone and Joseph - Our Boy

As everyone waited for the first years to join the welcome feast, Neville sat at the head table feigning interest in Professor Sujay Sugarbush ramblings about adjustments to the NEWT level Arithmancy course. Usually, Neville enjoyed discussing pedagogical techniques with his colleagues, but tonight he couldn't focus; his wife hadn't talked to him in a week.

After comforting each other that first night, Hannah pushed him away in the morning. At first, Neville believed she was strategically retreating to collect herself before coming to a decision together. When her a couple of days transformed her cold shoulder turned into a Siberian winter of indifference, he began to worry. In eight years of marriage, they'd never fought like this before. Neville wondered bleakly if this was how most divorces began.

"Professor Longbottom...Neville, are you alright?" Neville started as a hand touched his shoulder. Professor Sugarbush's eyebrows furrowed and he pitched his voice low. "You seem preoccupied."

Neville was spared the indignity of lying to a friend when the hall doors burst open, and twelve terrified, energetic, and awestruck first years stole everyone's attention.

The first child was called up to the hat. "Bellwood, McKenzie" bounced to the stage, energetic, but coordinated. His gloomy thoughts disappeared as Neville imagined her flying a broom, tossing a quarrel through a hoop, proudly wearing her house colors of... "GRYFFINDOR!" The hat wasted no time with her.

"Daniels, Nia." In contrast to the bubbly, blonde and bespeckled Bellwood, Nia cautiously moved toward the front. As she ascended the steps, the girl bunched up her robes in her hand as if afraid she'd trip, a clear sign that she was muggleborn. Soon, Neville witnessed another student sent his way to, " GRYFFINDOR!"

Next, "Eckard, Keeler," became the first Ravenclaw and the two Forbes twins, Kierra and Sara, quickly found their way into Slytherin. Neville quickly forgot himself in the excitement of the sorting.

Then the name "Lupin, Edward" caused a ripple of tension to pass through the staff. Curiosity and painful memories overtook the older staff as the boy with bright neon green hair and his mother's heart shaped face patted another first year on the back before racing to the stage. He waved enthusiastically at the crowd before dramatically dropping down onto the stool. Neville had been teaching long enough to discern the nerves beneath the exuberance, though.

Painful minutes ticked by as Teddy and the sorting hat engaged in a seemingly vicious, but to everyone's disappointment, silent debate. "GRYFFINDOR!" The hat finally announced, and Teddy punched the air in victory.

The hat proceeded to make a short order of two Ravenclaws-Heap Ngo and Svetlana Petroshka. Then, a petite blonde, Sage Rouke, became a Slytherin.

A reserved brown haired boy proceeded to climb the steps. Neville remembered him standing next to Teddy Lupin earlier. Neither flustered nor frightened by the magical sorting hat, Neville inferred that "Scarborough, Isaac" wasn't muggleborn. The calm confidence caused Neville to suspect that he had another Gryffindor on his hand, but the hat declared, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

The hall erupted in applause, with the Hufflepuff students pounding their table and jumping off the benches. Professor Sugarbush, the Head of Hufflepuff house, nearly deafened Nevile by his cheering. More than half way through the list of first years, and this was the first hufflepuff announced.

Twelve. The inescapable number popped back in Neville's head. What a ridiculously small number. In fact there were only two more students waiting to be placed. Neville watched as Scelestus Tripp became a Ravenclaw and Hadrian Yaxley joined Gryffindor. As the hall settled down to feasting, Professor Sugarbush became agitated.

"Four Gryffindors, four Ravenclaws, three Slytherins, and one Hufflepuff," Sugarbush summarized. "The statistically likelihood of this scenario had been low, but like I tell my students, probability isn't synonymous with reality."

"He'll be all alone, then," Neville sighed.

"Never!" Sugarbush said, "We badgers look after our own."

"I know, but it'll still be hard."

"True," Sugarbush admitted. "Inter-house friendships are going to be more valuable than ever this year."

"Hm," Neville agreed as he stuffed the first forkful of the feast into his mouth. It tasted bland, though he knew the house elves hadn't changed their spice mix. "If anyone can make friends, it'd be a Hufflepuff."

"Here, here!"


Two months previous ...

In a small kitchen of Cherry Grove on the outskirts of Otley, sausages sizzled in an old copper frying pan. Persephone Scarborough opened the window above the sink to let the grease smoke tempt her squirrels instead of it setting off her fire alarm. As a pureblood witch, she thought the beeping device was an annoyance when whipping up a potion or a full English breakfast, but her muggleborn husband was adamant about the added safety, especially at night.

The smell of meat must have also reached her eleven-year-old son upstairs since she heard a pounding descent down the front hall stairs. Isaac slid into the kitchen with his socks on the hardwood flood, slamming into the table with a small oomph and a chuckle.

"Morning, Pops! Food, Mum!"

"Isaac!" Persephone scolded, "Manners start in the morning and—"

"—and stay until snoring," Isaac rolled his eyes and plopped down in the chair across from his father. He put on his best posh accent, "May I please have eggs, beans and meat, ma'am?"

"Eggs and beans are on the table already, and drink a whole cup of pumpkin juice today, you hear?" She wagged her tongs in his direction.

Isaac obediently poured himself a glass. "Do you think it'll come today? My Hogwarts letter?"

"It should be coming soon," Persephone hedged, and summoned a couple sheets of paper towels to absorb grease before she transferred the savory sausage to a serving plate. "But it depends on the availability of owls. Some owls make more than one trip up and down the British Isles."

"But we're closer to Scotland; shouldn't we get ours quicker?" Isaac slopped some baked beans on his plate and eyed the scrambled eggs at the other end of the table, next to his father's elbow. "Dad, can you pass the eggs?"

Youthful brown eyes stared at the top of curly blond hair. Joseph Scarborough had the Daily Prophet spread across his lap, open to a full-page spread:

Hogwarts to Welcome Last Batch of War Babies:

Eleven Years Since You-Know-Who

"Dad, eggs."

Joseph blinked twice and muttered an apology. While reaching for the platter, the newspaper slid off his lap and scattered over the floor. With a groan, Joseph rolled his wheelchair back from the table and bent over, ineffectively trying to collect the pages.

"Let me," Isaac vaulted out of his chair and knelt on the ground, sweeping all the pages into one large heap within seconds. "Here you go." He handed his father the paper and grabbed the egg platter himself, dumping the last remains of the eggs on his plate before dropping the empty dish off in the sink and snatching two links of sausages from the paper towels. Persephone clicked the gas stove off and moved to fill her own plate when she heard the loud buzzer from the dryer. She momentarily denied her hunger and dashed to the laundry room to hang up several temperamental blouses before the wrinkles settled in. Growing up with house elves, Persephone never did learn all the clothes cleaning spells and just following the simple muggle way took less energy than finding the time in the middle of her job editing potions textbooks, clearing away clutter, and keeping the fridge stocked for her husband and son's lightening quick metabolism to flip through Madame Bennett's five volume Essential Household Spells. The fact that as an introvert she liked having a room to retreat to and a mindless chore to justify her time alone, well, that might have influenced her embrace of the muggle way, too.

Once hanging up the laundry, Persephone got carried away and started folding the other clothes and decided to throw in another load, even if it was only a half load; when Isaac's Hogwarts letter did come, there'd be trips to Diagon Alley, a rush of play dates before school started, and she'd be lucky to escape between the shopping, supervising and packing to keep up with household chores. She was recapping the detergent when Isaac poked his head into the room. His dark brown hair fell over his eyes in straight and oddly spaced lines like broken window blinds. She'd have to corner him for a quick trim before he wandered out into the wizarding world.

"Something wrong, Isaac?" Persephone continued fishing for pairs of socks from the wicker basket of clean clothes.

Her young son shifted his weight nervously. "I think Dad is having one of his days."

Persephone dropped one of her argyle socks on the dusty floor. It had been several months, and Persephone had begun to let herself believe that maybe they were out of the woods—forever, as foolish as that sounded now.

"Are you sure?" She pinned Isaac with a glare, harsh from concern more than anger, but it still made Isaac squirm.

"He's biting his lip and giving one word answers to my questions."

Persephone closed her eyes and with a deep breath gathered her strength. Feeling more collected, she turned and smiled at her son. "Thank you for telling me. You're a good kid." She wrapped her arm around Isaac's shoulder. Pulling him close, she kissed the top of his head, Persephone's long strawberry blond curls contrasting with his dark hair; she'd miss these moments when her baby boy was small enough to envelop in her arms like this. But, when Isaac squirmed in her prolonged embrace, Persephone snapped herself out of her sentimental musings.

"The weather's supposed to be scorching today. Water guns are in the shed. Now get," Persephone spun her son around and forcibly marched him to the side door. "Remember, our garden or Eric's. Don't come back until you're soaking wet."

"Yes, ma'am," Isaac jokingly saluted, but as he turned the doorknob he hesitated.

"Go," Persephone pushed him outside. "Don't worry about Dad. Mum's got it covered, you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am!" Isaac smiled and headed towards his friend's house.

As soon as the door closed behind Isaac, Persephone strode down the hall toward the kitchen at a fast clip with the determination of the healer headed into a tricky splinching refiguration. She wanted to face the problem with clinical detachment, but her heart clenched as she cast her eyes over the scene. Joseph was still looking at the newspaper, but not reading it. His breakfast was completely untouched; he hadn't even poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice. With anxiety building, Persephone recalled how shy he acted this morning, and she suddenly realized how he had progressively withdrew into himself more and more this past week. She cursed her previous optimism for blinding her to all the signs.

"Joey, baby, what's wrong?" Persephone slowly approached and knelt down beside her husband's chair. She ran her fingers through his blond curls reassuringly.

When Joseph faced her, there was water in his light blue eyes.

"Is it your legs? " Persephone reached down, and ran her hand up one leg of his trousers, following the plastic prosthetics up to his upper thigh. "I thought the potion was suppressing the phantom pains. Maybe a massage would help?" She started unsnapping the leg, but Joseph pressed his calloused hands over hers.

"It's not that."

Persephone withdrew her hands. "Then what?"

"Isaac's Hogwarts letter is coming."

"And? Oh," She caught site of the newspaper spread out over the table. Tilting her head, she clucked," You're not seriously upset about Isaac leaving, are you? He's eleven, he's growing up, it happens! Children do come back from Hogwarts, Joe. Stop being so maudlin."

When the expected eye roll and faint smile didn't manifest, Persephone felt something twist in her stomach; it was the feeling of dread like one feels after putting the wrong emphasis on spell in a duel-that horrifying helplessness combined with the certainty of getting hit with a nasty hex. Persephone despised dangling at the mercy of fate.

"What are we going to do if the letter comes and it's not addressed to Isaac Scarborough?" asked Joseph.

"What do you mean not addressed to Isaac? Did we just hallucinate the accidental magic bursts through the years? Do we have a secret son or daughter up in the attic?" she laughed.

"What if the letter doesn't say Isaac Scarborough?"

Persephone froze, suddenly realizing what he was implying. "B-b-but, his birth certificate—"

"The Hogwarts census is magical not legal, and as much as I wish, heavens, I wish—"

Persephone stood abruptly and backed away from her husband, managing to trip over Isaac's chair sticking out from the table.

"I have laundry," she muttered and escaped down the hallway.

Joseph ran his hand across his face before rolling his chair backwards. With a grunt, he maneuvered around the table, knocking Isaac's abandoned chair out of the way. Once in the open hallway he found himself struggling to find the motivation to turn his wheels. Over the week, the reality of their situation had slowly filled his mind and forcing himself to share it with another was like climbing out of a pit of molasses. It didn't help when the person who should be holding your rope was running away.

"Persephone," Joseph ventured upon reaching the small room.

The strawberry blond witch was trying to fold one of Isaac's youth quidditch jerseys. She growled at how the steamed-on letters wouldn't fold correctly. "Stupid shirt."

"We need to talk."

Persephone crumpled the jersey into a ball and threw it on top of the folded clothes. "And I need to get these upstairs." She snaked past her husband's chair, hoisting the wicker basket over his head. Joseph fumed, and his lethargy instantly evaporated at her quick dismissal. .

"You can't run away from your problems!" He snapped over his shoulder at his wife's retreating form, unable to turn around in the narrow laundry room.

"Don't you start," Persephone shot back. She knew she'd regret that brutal stab later, but under such a siege of emotions she'd avail herself of any means of defense.

"This time I'm not," Joseph combated, maneuvering backwards into the hallway. Pumping his arms to move fast, he cut the distance from his quickly retreating wife in half. "We need to be on the same page, have a game plan."

Persephone ignored her husband's plea to converse normally. Instead, she pounded up the stairs, not sparing a second glance to her husband stuck at the bottom.

The steps mocked Joseph and he contemplated them with a special hatred. As insignificant as an anthill for Persephone, the stairs loomed like a personal Mount Everest over him. It was another example that his life was far from normal, another reminder that fate had targeted him unfairly. Everyone could move on with their lives while he was left behind.

Well, Joseph had enough of that.

He slipped his wand out his trouser pocket and held it up aloft with a slight downward angle. With a steady, but gentle grip, he twisted his wrist ever so gracefully and muttered, "Wingardium Leviosa."

Slowly, the wheelchair started to rise, and with slightly upward motion he hovered over the stairs and ascended. Persephone glared daggers at him, biting back a retort until he landed safely at the top of the stairs.

"What are you thinking?" she snapped venomously. "The Healer warned you that levitating like that is too dangerous. What if you lost concentration for one second, Joe? What then?"

"I'd hate to break a leg." He pounded on his hollow appendage, and a corner of his mouth twitched upward. "A crack really ruins the beauty of the plastic."

"What about your skull, Joe?!" Persephone's high-pitched screeched lacked true indignation as her anger crumbled into tears. "Why are you such an idiot?"

"Because I can't let you walk away, Seph." He grabbed his arm rests and pushed himself to a standing position, ignoring the discomfort of his newly acquired prosthetics; for years the phantom pain had made such accommodations impossible. After a slight wobble, he stepped forward and grasped his wife's shoulders with outstretched arms. "Eleven years ago, we stood at a crossroads and decided to move forward together. Heaven knows, I don't like thinking about what happened back then, but there is a likelihood Isaac's Hogwarts letter is going to open that can of worms, and we need to decide what to tell him. Let's make this decision together, yeah?"

He caressed the side of her face with his hand, before finding himself exhausted and needing to return to his chair; the tricky levitation and standing had proved more taxing than he anticipated. However, Joseph took his wife's hand, and pulled her into his lap. Persephone gently balanced on his lap and his armrests; her thighs carrying a bit more cushion after years baking biscuits for her son and taste testing a quite large amount of batter. She buried her roundly padded cheek on the top his blond curls.

"It's just—I wasn't expecting this, you know? But I should have, I mean, Hogwarts letters are always so precise; they know the exact room a child sleeps in, so of course the quill would know that you're not—bollocks, Joe," She held the back of her hand pressed against her mouth. "How can we tell him that? For Merlin's sake, he's eleven! He barely knows about the birds and the bees. I had never planned on telling him so young that his mum—"

"I was never going to tell him," Joseph cut in, squeezing Persephone's hand reassuringly. "For all intents and purposes, I'm his father; we raised him together, and that's what should matter."

"How certain are you that he'll find out the truth anyways?" Persephone asked. "Surely we can't be the first couple . . . in this situation."

"I don't know of any other cases," said Joseph, "I doubt anyone would admit it, though."

"No, they wouldn't, would they? At least not those from my background," she scoffed. "None of the Most Noble Houses would confess to it; that would be indecent." Persephone paused as something in her thoughts struck her as odd. "Why are you so worried, Joe? Isaac's not going to think less of you because of this."

"I'm not sure about that," Joseph hedged, feeling the weight of an uncertain future. "If he finds out I'm not his biological father, he might think I don't love him as much. He might think because we lied to him his whole life that our relationship is a lie."

"That's stupid," Persephone playfully slapped his chest. Joseph didn't feel reassured.

"It's easy to know you love someone. It's harder to believe someone could love you," Joseph confessed. "I'd hate for him to think that there was ever a moment I didn't want him or I was ever upset that he wasn't my natural child. Because I never thought that. Never."

"I know." Persephone rubbed her thumb over his hand. "I don't deserve you, Joey—after all we went through for you to say that, and mean it—I don't deserve you."

"I'm just thankful you're here with me," Joseph kissed her full cheek. "I'm lucky to be with you. And we're blessed to have a son. We're lucky and blessed. Never forget that, Seph. We're lucky and blessed."

Persephone gave a tight smile in return. "So, what do you want to tell him, Joe?"

"I haven't the foggiest."


A sudden feeling of cold woke Joseph up in the middle of the night. In the shadowed room, lit only by the moon through the blinds, he saw the outline of his wife thrashing wildly, tangled in their bed covers. Persephone's nightmarish mutterings echoed, a whispered cry, but earth shattering nonetheless: "Please don't, please, I'd rather die . . . please stop, stop! Not in front of him . . . please, just kill me now, p-pl-please. . . I can't . . . "

Her words wrecked Joseph just like they had eleven years ago; her cries producing more pain than when those Death Eaters took pipes to his legs and shattered the bones into thousands of fragments.

Joseph shuffled over closer to his wife, and stilled her thrashing arms with a gentle embrace, "I'm here now, Sephie, I'm here. You're safe, I'm safe, and we're both alive. We're okay; we got lucky and made it out. We're okay, baby, we're okay..."


"Has it come today?" Isaac bounded down the steps and raced into the kitchen. He plastered his face against the sliding glass door to their patio. "It's almost August; It should be here by now."

Persephone and Joseph shared a look that Isaac wouldn't know how to interpret if he had seen it. Neither parent could find the energy to feign excitement; both hadn't slept well enough for that. Instead, Persephone retreated into a more comfortable role.

"Your hair is atrocious, Isaac," she scolded and the boy tried to straighten his dark locks with his fingers, not realizing his hands added to the grease that practically glistened in the morning light. "When did you last take a shower? June? April? Go upstairs and use the correct amount of shampoo this time, you hear?"

"Mum, I haven't even eaten," Isaac whined.

"Obey your mother," Joseph snapped harsher than he intended, and Isaac started at his voice. The young boy analyzed his dad's appearance, taking in the hollow rings under his eyes and lack of smile, before coming to a conclusion.

"Yeah, of course, Dad. I'll get right on it," He moved to leave the kitchen, before deciding at the last minute to race around the table to wrap his arms around his father's chair and chest. "I love you," he whispered into his ear before scampering off back to the entrance way and up the stairs.

"That boy," muttered Joseph blinking back tears.

"Our boy," Persephone corrected.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

With a sinking feeling, the couple turned to the sliding glass window. Hopping on one foot one their patio was a Hogwarts owl, shaking the letter on his other leg authoritatively.

"Can you see what it says?"

"No."

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Maybe the truth will be a good thing," suggested Persephone, nervously wringing out a dishcloth over the sink. "For medical reasons and such. We'd know for sure which one . . . you know . . . instead of guessing whose features he inherited."

"When I look at him, all I see is you," declared Joseph. "You're round eyes, your thin lips, your funny little nose."

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Persephone smiled gratefully at her husband and crossed the room to hold his hand. "And when I see his imagination, his determination, his compassion—that's from you."

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"We should open the door before we get pecked to death by an irate bird," said Joseph, resigned.

"We still haven't decided what to tell him," Persephone reminded.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"We lost so much that night, but nine months later we gained something so beautiful. And when I look at Isaac, I don't remember any of that night; I just see Isaac. I don't care about how we got him, just that we got him. That's what matters, right? That's what we'll tell him."

Persephone's light kiss on the crown of his golden curls confirmed it: "That's what we'll tell him."

TAP. TAP. TAP. TAP!

She opened the window. The owl flew in and immediately soared up the stairs. The nervous couple heard the shower shut off. A second of silence passed before a loud celebratory whooping filled the small cottage on the outskirts of Otley; the long awaited letter had arrived.

It was addressed:

Mr. Isaac Scarborough

The Green Bedroom with a Bunk Bed for Sleepovers

Cherry Grove Cottage

It appeared that magic had very little to do with bloodlines after all.