HELLO!

So I woke up this morning and had the idea for this chapter. It's a bit of a mini interlude whilst also adding some details into the story that I really wanted to put in. I should mention that Dorea was born in 1920, and Charlus was born in 1919 ( at least that's when I decided I wanted him to be born).

Also, there are now 500 followers on this story?! Like WHAT?! That is bloody brilliant! Thank you all so much!

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.

Thursday, February 4th, 1915

Potter Manor

"Really dear, I know you wish to help the muggles, but going to the other members of the Wizengamot will do nothing," a gentle voice scolds lovingly from around the bend.

A tall man with quite an imposing yet kind aura follows the voice, his hazel eyes sparking with defiance. Irritably he rubs the side of his long, hooked nose, and clenches his sharp jaw once he reaches his wife.

"We have to help them, the German muggles declared a war zone around Great Britain. They have created a blockade with those metal contraptions they use in the sea. Someone said that they can stay under water.

This affects us all. If they blow up the island then it won't bloody matter if magic is exposed or not, since we'll all be gone."

"Henry."

"I don't care. I can't sit idly by and twiddle my thumbs. I have to do something."

Monday, April 18th, 1927

Potter Manor

"Charlus! Don't track mud into the house!" Guinevere Potter yells, shaking her head fondly from her seat at the kitchen table—one of the house elves disappears after the young and rambunctious boy.

Henry is standing in the doorway, leaning against one of the door jambs, a deep frown marring his features.

Guinevere sighs through her nostrils, lacing her fingers together before resting them in her lap. "Why do you think he did it?"

"Cause he's a sodding prick," Henry hisses.

Guinevere purses her lips and shoots a disapproving look at her husband, "no. That's not the reason. I'm pretty sure you know the reason."

"I don't know why Nott does what he does. Most likely he did it as a result of my views during the war. He tried to spread rumours that we have had muggles relations and that's why I was so adamant that we help the muggles."

"Cantankerus can't possibly think that we are related to muggles," Guinevere frowns, tapping the heel of her thick soled shoe against the ground.

Henry snorts, "of course he doesn't. I told you, he's a sodding prick."

"Harry Potter, you need to behave. What does it matter anyways, it's just a stupid list with a fancy name."

"It's a stupid list that holds weight my dear. I'm more worried for Charlus's future than ours," Henry sighs.

"Oi! Harry! Are you home?" The voice comes from a little ways away, and a peal of giggles soon follows.

"It seems Shacklebolt has decided to pay us a visit," Henry smiles gently, scratching behind his ear before pushing up off of the door jamb and seeking the joyous sounds.

"Harry!" The tall, sinewy man greets with a deep and jolly voice. His skin is a rich dark brown, he has broad shoulders, thick thighs and calves. Ruben Shacklebolt is not a man to be trifled with.

Henry greets his old friend with a quick and hearty hug, a smile sparkling in his eyes even though his expression is sombre.

Charlus is right beside the massive man, only making the eight year old look even smaller than he actually is. The hazel eyed boy looks up happily at his Father, his own hazel eyes filled to the brim with mischief and deviant thoughts. Charlus is a thin child, wiry and agile—the boy is always climbing trees and other things that he probably shouldn't.

"Son, why don't you go find Swishy, I'm sure I heard her mention that she has some cake for you," Henry urges his son gently. At the mere mention of cake, Charlus's face lights up radiantly and a split second later he is sprinting out of the room, his footsteps slapping against the hardwoods.

"Even though it was anonymous, we all know who published it," Ruben says gravely, his cheery tone now gone. He spread his feet apart slightly whilst crossing his arms over his chest, his muscles bulging and rippling as he does.

"He's a slimy git is what he is," Henry growls.

"How do you think it'll affect Charlus?" Ruben asks, his thick eyebrows burrowing downwards as his mouth screws to one side in thought.

"It'll be harder for him to find a Pureblood wife. Though with the way some of the Purebloods act with their pompous attitudes then perhaps it be best if he finds a Half-Blood or Muggleborn," Henry says, rubbing his temple.

"Or perhaps you just need to find the right family," Ruben smirks, his jovial tone.

"Ruben. You are one of my oldest and dearest friends, but are you seriously offering to have a marriage alliance with my family?" Henry raises an eyebrow.

"Why not?" Ruben shrugs.

"Because your daughter has been promised to someone else since her birth."

"Details, Harry. Details," Ruben responds cavalierly.

"Exactly. Details."

Ruben scoffs, "fine. Maybe I shouldn't have offered since that means going back on my word...the point is, there will be other families willing to marry into yours. You'll see."

Henry Potter looks around the foyer, at its simple grandeur. His home. His legacy. The place his Grandfather had built.

"I hope you're right," Henry murmurs, gazing out of one of the front windows, hoping that his son did not live out his days alone in this vast home.

Tuesday, May 4th, 1937

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Rushed kisses, eager hands. Heavy pants.

Strong hands grip the underside of her thighs and lift her into the air, her legs wrapping their way around his waist.

She is pushed up against a wall, causing her to open her mouth in surprise. His mouth is right there, swallowing her moan and caressing hers tenderly, his tongue stroking against hers with intense fervour and she can't help but return every ounce of passion.

"Charlus," she moans his name reverently, her fingers diving into his tresses and tugging softly.

Eventually they break away and there's a sated and cocky grin across the raven haired wizard's face.

Dorea rolls her eyes. Boys.

"I want to marry you," Charlus murmurs suddenly, and every bit of air in her lungs is suctioned out violently. She can't breathe, and her lips move soundlessly for a few moments in shock.

Then his face falls and she can sense him withdrawing into himself. He thinks he's made a grave error and her silence is a resounding no.

Fuck.

Dorea grasps his face firmly, grey eyes digging into his sad hazel ones that are now flickering with hope. With a watery smile Dorea responds, "I want to marry you too."

The giddy expression is back as he surges forward, claiming her lips victoriously.

Mother will be furious.

Saturday, July 3rd, 1937

Home of Cygnus Black and Violetta Black née Bulstrode

"JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE OF AGE NOW DOES NOT MEAN YOU CAN BLOODY DO AS YOU FEEL. I DON'T EVEN CARE THAT HE'S A SODDING POTTER. WHAT I CARE ABOUT IT IS HOW YOU ARE ENGAGED TO ABRAXAS MALFOY!"

"YOU STILL HAVE ANOTHER YEAR AT HOGWARTS."

"You can't possibly know what's best for you."

It is four days of torment. Four days of chilly snips and snarky comments, and she's convinced that today is the day her Mother has truly and wholly lost it.

Her Mother slams her study door behind her, cutting eyes at Dorea as she brushes past her.

Dorea breathes in deeply, this has to end. She's rubbing her temples and trying to come up with a conceivable plan when she hears, "you finally did it. The favourite daughter finally made a massive mess of things."

"Hush, Cassiopeia," Dorea grumbles, turning around to come face to face with her younger sister.

Cassiopeia's raven hair had been lobbed off just below her earlobes in an act of defiance against their Mother when she wasn't allowed to go alone to their Summer home in rural France. Her grey eyes constantly spark with a sense of superiority and boredom.

She was thinner than her older sister, but significantly shorter. Unfortunately a boy in her year once thought it was a good idea to rest his arm on her head and make comments about said height difference. He walked away with an arm broken in five different places.

They all say that the Blacks are either mad, dangerous or a horrifying mix of both (at least they'd been saying so for the last few generations). Cassiopeia teetered extremely close to the mad concoction of dangerous and mad. It's one of the reasons Dorea is so fond of her little sister.

At this current moment however, she is not in the mood for her sister's snide quips.

"Not now, Cassie," Dorea warns, a storm waging in her own grey eyes.

"You do know there's an easy way to solve this," Cassiopeia smirks as she stares at her nails in feigned interest.

That piques Dorea's interest slightly. This may be a situation for Cassiopeia's rash and calculated nature. "What exactly do you suggest I do?" Dorea raises an eyebrow, folding her arms over her chest.

"It's simple really. If you want something, you take it—" Cassiopeia giggles, "—take it from me, I'm getting out of this drab house and going to France by myself for the entire summer. Perhaps I too shall find love…or at least a lover."

Dorea rolls her eyes at that last comment. As if there is a man that Cassiopeia will actually find interesting enough to bed. Most people bore the girl to death.

"So what do you suggest I do then? Duel her?" Dorea snorts.

"Darling, that's exactly what I'm suggesting you do."

Wednesday, November 21st, 1928

Potter Manor

Drawing Room

"Can you not wait until he's a bit older to teach him how to use fiendfyre?" Guinevere scowls, crossing her arms over her chest.

Guinevere is a short but curvy woman, her hair is a dark chestnut brown, and it is currently wound into an elaborate updo, her skin is creamy, her lips are a dusty rose colour, her eyes are bright blue.

Next to her tall and muscular husband she is miniscule, but she has a fire that could knock a man's teeth in.

They are a marriage of equals, something most others in the Wizarding world cannot say, and when Henry "Harry" Potter is doing something foolhardy, Guinevere is sure to call him out on it.

"I was eight when I learned," Henry shrugs.

"Henry!" Guinevere exclaims in frustration, "that is irrelevant. Our son is nine."

"It's a rite of passage. Every Potter learns how to control fiendfyre at some point when they are children. It's tradition."

Guinevere narrows her eyes, "he'll learn the year he goes to Hogwarts. When he has a wand. I don't want anyone setting my home ablaze."

"I'll be here to stop any stray flames—" Henry starts, but falters before he utters another syllable. The death glare coming from his wife stops him short. He sighs. This is one argument that simply need not be had.

"Fine. When he turns eleven."

"Good."

Henry turns to leave and hears, "bloody trying to burn the house down. Potters I swear." He smiles fondly and continues on his way. He couldn't have married a better woman.

It's canon that Henry's friends and family often called him Harry, so I really wanted to put that in there cause it made me smile. I may have come up with Harry's Great-Grandmother's name and Ruben Shacklebolt on my own since they didn't have any information on that.

Love you!

Indieblue xxx