108

Ollie lay on the couch, drained, his eyes closed though not sleeping, wishing that Remus and Snape would let him in to see Norah, he needed to know one way or another if she was going to survive. He wanted to tell her how he really felt for her.

Ollie could stop hiding his true emotions, and they could just be free, free of the confines that society had set for people like him and the young blonde werewolf.

He did not think he would eventually fall asleep at all, until he was, falling asleep in a position where he looked like one of those contortionists.

He slept well, for perhaps the first time in six years since imprisoned in Master Crouch's estate, dreaming of that fateful day when he was thirteen years old and he met Tonks.

The pain in his eyes stopped and he felt a small ghost of a smile flit across his pale, exhausted features form on his face as he succumbed himself to that memory, a day which had started out like all the others, and ended in only a way that he could describe as a Merlin-blessed miracle.

He had asked Him for a friend that day, and he'd gotten her.


Oliver Brennan, his youngest of two sons, to Jack Brennan had quickly become a disappointment. He was not at all like Dominic, and Death Eater Brennan's pallid eyes stared straight ahead at a spot on the wall behind Mr. Borgin's head as he and Lucius Malfoy discussed the removal of a few precious items from their home in case the Aurors decided to pay them both a home visit with the aging shopkeeper.

A small figure nudged beside him. Oliver.

His bastard son gave him a wan look before inkling his head. "F—Father," he murmured lowly. Jack Brennan gazed at his youngest son, the boiling on his blood ensued though not quite as much these days, considering the boy was due to return to Hogwarts here in two more weeks.

There was something within Oliver that Jack knew he needed to mend though he knew he couldn't. When the boy looks at him, he could see the hateful eyes, back when Ollie was little, and his mother had abandoned them.

He had since taken a new wife, Liara, Oliver, and Dominic's stepmother, whom neither boy seemed to care much for, though both were polite enough in her company.

Jack now saw that same little boy now, small, and gaunt, trembling with tears, his scrawny little fingers weaving in between his knuckles, though Ollie was no little boy anymore at age thirteen.

"Hush, boy, the adults are speaking. Be quiet, Oliver," he barked in a tone laced with bitterness as he glanced down his slender, slightly hooked nose at his youngest son, despising the way his bastard son stuttered so horribly.

It was a pain to listen to. Dominic did not stutter, did not look upon him with such fearfulness. He hates me, Jack Brennan thought as he regarded Ollie.

He will die hating me.

So, this morning, he decided if nothing else, he could be proud of Oliver for excelling in his studies at Hogwarts and performing well. He would make a truly fine addition to the Dark Lord's ranks when the boy came of age one day.

"Do not interrupt me while I conduct business with Mr. Borgin, son." His voice was firm and hard.

Oliver gave a nod, offering no verbal comment, for which Jack was grateful. Mr. Brennan sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, fighting off the beginnings of a splitting headache.

"Touch nothing while we're here, Oliver. You may look around Mr. Borgin's shop if you like. Besides, the curious wretch that I know you to be, boy, you would run off anyways. Just be sure to stay on the ground floor and away from the staircase. You are NOT to set one foot on that staircase and again, do not touch a thing. If I find that you have, I should flay you alive with my own two hands until there's nothing left of you, boy. Feed what's left of you to our dogs, Oliver. I'm sure they'd enjoy picking the meat off your bones."

Ollie nodded his head in agreement, watching with a pained stare as Father slowly turned his back on his youngest son. "I won't. Thank you, Father," he murmured. "You—you are good to me, Father. I…" he bit his lip in hesitation, hard enough to crack the skin and cause it to bleed, wondering if he should say it anyway. In the end, he decided to speak his piece and say what was on his mind. "I love you, Father," he muttered under his breath, and he let out a hiss.

At those words, Father paused, halting in his movements while Mr. Borgin murmured something under his breath about Jack meeting him and Lucius in the backroom whenever he was ready.

Ollie mentally swore when Father's icy stare angled down at him, his ringed fingers clasped neatly in front of his middle, ready to fire, and Ollie winced, letting out a low whimper, hoping Father wasn't reading his mind and wouldn't punish him for his thoughts.

"What was that, boy?" Father went on through gritted teeth, sending a chill down Ollie's throat as Jack Brennan carefully schooled his pale features into a look of sternness and curled his hand into a fist over the handle of his wand. "What have I told you about lying?" he barked, an accusatory look on his face. Father had turned his back to Ollie for a moment to mutter to the two men that he would be joining them in a moment, and when at last he turned around to face his son, there was no trace whatsoever of any kind of emotion.

Not in his dark brown eyes nor in his reddening face. Father's eyes were narrowed, rigid, cold, and hard.

At that moment, Ollie knew Father was already far away. Once more, he was the bastard son, the hated son, and the enemy.

These swings from most loved to most hated would be the end of him, his states had no greyscale, only the polar extremes existed.

Ollie drew in a deep breath that he thought was nothing short of a miracle, considering how much it hurt right now. The bruises on his left ribcage still stung and swelled from where Father had kicked him the other night for trying to talk to Tandey, the family's female house-elf.

He let out a whine and whimpered, low enough that he thought Father didn't hear. But he was wrong.

"Answer. Me," Father growled in a low, dangerous tone, eliciting a shudder from his youngest son. "What have I told you about lying, boy? You have made me repeat myself, Oliver. You know I hate saying it a second time."

"Not to do it," Ollie whispered hoarsely, feeling a stab of a fear prick at his heartstrings as he forced his gaze to remain fixated on Father. It would be much worse for him later back at home if he looked away. "What did I…lie about, Father?" he asked, fear of Father chilling his very bones and the blood in his veins to ice. He had no idea why Father was mad.

"You said you loved me," Jack reminded Ollie, his dark brown eyes listless as he glowered down his nose at his thirteen-year-old son. "You have lied to me, Oliver. You are a bastard. You don't love, you're not capable of it. You're nothing but a little wretch and you will never know what it means. You do not love me, Oliver. You need me. These two concepts are not the same," he countered with an eerie sense of absolute calmness. "When you're a little older, someday, boy, you will understand. I cannot explain to you what love means because you do not understand it, and it is something that you never will. Love is not a selfish concept, and your dependence on me to provide for you, feed you and clothe you when you are not at school is selfish. Now, you're going to wait out here until Mr. Borgin and Mr. Malfoy and I are finished. Is that understood?" he growled, to which he received no immediate response.

Father's words wounded him more than he could have known, and Ollie had never felt more cut to the core by the words that had tumbled unchecked from Father's thin, wormy-looking lips.

He knew Father held a tendency to be harsh at times in order to teach Ollie and Dominic how the world worked outside of their manor, and he knew himself to be the lesser favorite in Father's eyes, but to be told that he could not love, it seemed like Father was wrong—

"But I do love you, Father!" he insisted. "I do, I—"

"Enough!" Jack Brennan bellowed, his dark brown orbs flashing with unbridled rage. "You go too far, Oliver!"

Quicker than Ollie thought possible, Jack Brennan stopped down from where he stood in front of his son, and seized a handful of his black woolen robes, and backhanded his son across the cheek.

"Do. Not. Lie. To. Me!"

The razor-sharp edges of his glistening emerald-green rings cut cleanly into the soft flesh of Ollie's cheek as they made contact. Ollie whimpered in pain and surprise, his hands immediately flung up in front of his face to shield himself from another of Father's harsh blows, falling to the hardwood floor beneath his feet. Ollie raised a trembling hand to the right side of his face.

He felt sticky wetness, a horrible warmth, and he knew one of Father's rings had cut him and left its mark. Tears marred his vision, pricking and stinging at the corners of his eyes, but he fought down the liquid.

Crying wasn't allowed, and he would not allow Father to see him cry.

Jack Brennan made a noise that sounded like a sniff of disapproval and turned his back on his son. "Remember, Oliver. You're nothing but a monster, boy. It's an important word to be familiar with," he growled, his tones devoid of all warmth and affection.

Ollie glanced up from staring at his shaking hands resting in his lap just in time to see Father follow Mr. Borgin and Mr. Malfoy to the back of his shop, and when he answered, his voice was in much too low a tone for his father to make out his words.

"Trust me, Father," he murmured darkly to himself under his breath. "I'm familiar with it."


He didn't know how much time had passed. A half-hour, maybe two, but Ollie remained rooted to his spot in the corner of Borgin and Burke's, leaning back against the wall as best as he could, given the multitude of bruises and lacerations on his back, not wanting to injure them even further and exacerbate them, and cried into his knees.

It was always something he did after Father was finished with him, lamenting how stupid and monstrous he was. How he would never live up to Dominic in Father's eyes.

Father showed little to no mercy towards him, explaining why he was being punished so harshly, and that Oliver had to try harder to measure up to his older brother.

As if Ollie weren't already trying his best, but he would never be like Dominic. "It's my fault," the thirteen-year-old whispered to himself, staring at a dust bunny near the edge of his black boot through tear-filled, red-rimmed irises. "I'm just a stupid kid. I—I can't do anything right."

He growled through gritted teeth, curling his hand into a fist, and slamming it into the wall behind him, which hurt like hell and made his tears come even harder, more intense, now cradling his sore, injured left hand.

More than anything, Ollie wanted someone to be kind to him for once, but such a concept was foolish, and contact with other people outside of Father's work was scarce since when he was home for the holidays, he was not allowed outside the house.

The only person who ever had kind words for him was Mother, and their house-elf, Tandey, who always made it a habit on Mother's orders to sneak him an extra piece of chocolate when Father wasn't looking, or give him as many sugar cubes in his tea as he wanted, and even then, the house-elf only visited him in his room, as he was not allowed downstairs when guests were present in the Brennan manor.

"Merlin," he whispered hoarsely, wiping the blood off his cheek and now his hand with the overly long sleeve of his black woolen robes and drying his eyes. "Please. Can you send me a friend? M—maybe more than one, if you want to, but I'd be content with just one, I—I promise," he begged through gritted teeth and closed eyes.

Ollie looked up at the ceiling of Borgin and Burkes, and then out the front shop window as if expecting a new friend to just…waltz right in the front door of the shop, but none did.

Ollie shakily rose to his feet, having to clutch onto the corner of the bookshelf in order to right himself, wiping at the last of his tears that threatened to escape the corners of his lids with a well-practiced flick of his finger and he sniffed.

Tears were no stranger to him at this point in his life, and he never allowed Father to see him cry. He was forced to do it in private, but he should not have to. Ollie sniffed once or twice as he raked his fingers through his thick tuft of black hair, swiveling his head to the left and right, taking in all the sights of the Dark objects.

He kicked at a stray pebble that a wandering customer had brought in from outside, his pale, tear-stained face full of immense anger and utter disappointment.

Who am I kidding? No one would want to be my friend, he thought, and he heaved a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat, though a faint noise from outside caused his ears to perk up the moment he made to head towards the back corner.

"Ooh. I can't believe I'm really doing this. I really am a stupid girl!"

A girl's voice, sweet and succulent, wafted through the open front door of Borgin and Burke's and sent his eardrums ringing, causing his senses to become heightened. Intrigued, he crept closer towards the front of the room for a better look.

A new friend? Ollie thought, biting the wall of his cheek, though once he got a good look, he panicked.

It was…a girl. Ollie felt his cobalt blue eyes widen in shock and awe, giving his head a curt shake to clear it, as he noticed a short, pale girl around his age nervously approaching the front of the shop, toying with the ends of her dark purple ponytail.

Damnation, he thought, cursing under his breath, and praying for Father, also a natural-born Legilimens, that he wouldn't hear him swear like this.

His eyes widened as he got a good look for himself, peeking out at her through the shop window, ducking behind a shelf.

This…this was no girl. She was…an angel.

A narrow, heart-shaped face, tumbling maroon-colored curls splayed around her head as she loosened her ponytail from its elastic holder, taking a second to redo it before nervously toying with the ends.

The girl's skin was fair, even lighter than his own, and how soft and unblemished it looked.

Ollie winced, drawing in a breath that was more of a hiss as his left hand instinctively wandered to the burn mark over his right arm, where Father had burnt him for accidentally dropping and breaking a plate in the kitchens last week.

He bet she didn't have any kind of bruises or scars on her body. Heavy, dark lashes framed a pair of glistening gray eyes that were like the wings of a pigeon's wing, or the last ashes on a dying fire billowing in the breeze, or the ocean water right before the first rays of dawn strike it, and her elegant, lily-white neck was tilted slightly to the right as the young witch his age cocked her head in a moment of pure intrigue and curiosity.

She really was quite pretty, though the second Ollie swore he saw the girl had gotten a good look at his face as he poked his head around the corner of a bookshelf, he bolted, and he ground his teeth as he heard the young girl his age start to give chase.

"Wait!" she called out after him, and Ollie swore upon hearing how close she actually was. Hide, hide, need to hide, can't let her see me, he thought wildly.

Thinking quickly, looking to the left and right for a good hiding spot, he ducked behind a green curtain that separated the first level of the shop from what he knew to be one of the storerooms in the hopes of avoiding the girl chasing him.

Everything was not fine! Why was she here? She—she didn't look like she belonged in Knockturn Alley! She should not be here!

Damn, damn, damn, damn!

Ollie's thoughts were a jumbled mess, swirling around like a hurricane in his head, and he debated whether or not he was having a panic attack or a heart attack.

Both seemed plausible, given his paralyzed state, and he froze as he heard her footsteps draw nearer, and he swore, from his place in the shadows, he saw her look in his general direction as she took a cautious step towards the green woolen old tarp.

She must have seen the fluttering movement of the curtain swaying as he ducked behind it to hide from her and might be struck with curiosity.

Don't, he silently pleaded, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and grinding his teeth, waiting for her to peel back the tarp he hid behind, and once she got a good look at him, she would run away.

Don't.

He did not even know if this strange girl his age with the dark purple ponytail was a Legilimens like he was, but the moment he opened his mouth to try to speak to her, all that came out was a strangled attempt at speech, and Ollie cursed himself.

The palms of his shaking hands had gone numb by this point, and he began to wring them together frantically, beads of sweat forming on his brow and trickling down his front temples, and Ollie had no idea what to do, and he cursed himself for his nervousness, and his brilliant blue eyes widened as the girl looked away from Ollie's hiding place, and to his dismay, she started to walk towards the Hand of Glory, resting on a shelf.

Don't touch it! He exclaimed, his eyes tightly shut, feeling like his mouth was full of sandpaper as he tried to reach out to her in the way that he was comfortable with, not even knowing if his words were reaching her or not.

It's evil! It calls to you. It's cursed. Don't touch it, don't touch it!

Ollie was screaming inside his mind now.

A fat lot of good it did him, though, however, it did provoke a response from the girl with the maroon-colored ponytail, as she whirled around and frowned at him, though Ollie knew she couldn't see him, and it was bloody going to stay that way.

"Wh—who said that? Was it you?" the girl asked nervously, biting down on her bottom lip in an adorable little pout. Ollie let out a sigh. Oh! "You're a Legilimens?"

Yes. He was surprised at how easy the answer came to him, even though his voice even inside his mind like this shook, and he flinched, grateful she didn't see it.

He jumped a bit at the sudden noise when the young thirteen-year-old witch clapped her hands in excitement, feeling reminded of the noise Father's hand made whenever he backhanded him across the cheek, though he blinked owlishly and shook his head to clear his mind. This girl, however strange she was, didn't know the truth.

His mind felt like it was racing as Ollie noticed the girl had turned back towards the Hand of Glory, and he swore, already knowing what was about to happen, and the little scream she let out confirmed his suspicions that she had touched the Cursed Hand.

Damn, he thought, a stab of panic pricking at his heartstrings, swearing through gritted teeth, and darted out from behind his safe sanctuary of the green woolen curtain before Ollie could think of stopping himself.

At this point, he didn't care if the girl got a good look at his face and ran away. All he knew was the young witch had touched the Hand of Glory, and he could not let Mr. Borgin find her here, or else then they would really both be in a lot of trouble.

And he could not let this girl get in trouble.

"Hang on! I—I told you not to touch it! I—I've got you!" he called out, darting forward, and tugging on the witch's arm. He seethed, silently shooting up a prayer to Merlin and his grandma or anyone else who would listen to him that she didn't get a good look at his face, at the scars from Father, and run away.

Ollie grunted, almost growling with the effort to free her arm as he fought against the Hand of Glory's ironclad grip, though he heard the girl let out a squeak of terror, and finally, after a minute or two of struggling, the Hand relinquished its grip.

He heard the girl with the maroon-colored ponytail cough, turning her head to the side, and he panicked, swiftly retreating back behind the green woolen curtain and into the storage room before the girl could lift her gaze and get a good look at his face.

"Are you hurt?" he asked immediately, stiffening at the sound of her confused thoughts swirling around in his tired head. Ollie tried his hardest to block out the sound of the girl's sweet voice inside his mind, but it was always a struggle for him.

As he slowly opened his eyes and got a good look at her, it looked like she did not belong here, she was much too pretty to dare to set one foot inside a dingy old shop like this.

"No. Thanks," the girl whispered, a light pink blush spreading along her cheeks. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come in here a—and disturb you." She looked away.

For a moment, Ollie wished she hadn't. From his place in the shadows, he liked to be able to see her eyes. He froze, realizing she had asked him his name from where she stood.

"What's your name?" she whispered, biting down on her bottom lip in fear.

Ollie bit the inside wall of his cheek, not sure at all if he should answer the girl.

This was, admittedly, the first time he had ever held a conversation with a girl his own age, and he could feel his hands at his sides ball into a fist and start to shake like mad.

Ollie, he whispered, and Ollie could tell by the way the young witch's gray eyes lit up that she had been able to hear and understand him when he communicated this way, for which he was relieved.

Her eyes were scanning the area in front of her, his precious hiding spot, and he realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that she must have noticed him duck behind the sanctuary of this green woolen curtain.

He wished she hadn't, for a moment. He didn't want her to look at him, at his face.

His eyes flicked immediately to the left corner, right where she was standing, and Ollie knew he would never be able to sneak over that way without her noticing him.

Tonks, he heard the young witch say, after a moment or two of intense concentration on her part. Legilimency, if you were not naturally born with the gift, was an incredibly complex magical skill to master, but she was already doing quite well.

Ollie jumped, a hand over his racing heart as her voice reached him again.

You can come out from wherever you're hiding, she thought, her sweet tone sounding nonaccusatory, which sent a spiraling warmth throughout his chest. I promise I won't hurt you. I don't mean you any harm. Don't you want to come where I can see you? She asked in their newly-discovered impossible telepathy together, and he was surprised to see the young witch was now seated cross-legged on the hardwood floor.

It was clear she had no intention of letting him leave undetected. Inwardly groaning, he shook his head, though he cursed himself, realizing the girl couldn't see it.

I—I can't, he managed, and the boy who was something of a nervous wreck at this point, gave his head a curt shake to clear it, thinking he couldn't remember the last time he'd been this nervous around another human being who wasn't his own father.

Why not? Tonks asked Ollie and scooted closer to the curtain a fraction of an inch and outstretched her arm as if making to pull back the curtain and expose him.

No! Please! He was begging this young witch now, but he no longer cared what she thought.

Ollie ducked his head and brought his hands up to cover the length of his face, waiting for the inevitable flood of light that would momentarily blind him when the girl would draw back the curtain he'd seen fit to duck behind, and then her scream.

But it didn't come.

"Oh," he heard her voice breathe, sounding crestfallen, and he flung his eyes open and he watched, stunned, as Tonks cocked her head to the side.

He knew she was trying to see him from a new angle, which only caused him to retreat further into the darkness, where he was most comfortable.

His monster, his monster being his dad, never came for him in the dark. Only when it was daytime did Father come.

Ollie breathed in a deep breath to steady himself, knowing that, sooner or later, Father would come out and he would have no choice but to emerge from his spot.

With a hesitant step forward, his foot slowly slipped into the light as he slid out from behind the curtain, and soon the rest of him followed.

The shadow fell away like water over rocks, and he cringed as he heard Tonks draw in a sharp gasp of surprise.

Ollie clenched his teeth in nervous anticipation, waiting for her to scream, to run away like he fully expected her to as he felt his cheeks burn with shame, feeling her wandering gaze as those glistening gray orbs landed on the red welt Father's ring from a half-hour ago had caught him just underneath his eye, and he ducked his head angrily.

Tonks must have realized she was staring and being rather rude, though as Ollie dared to lift his chin and meet the young witch's gaze, to his relief, she was smiling.

"There?" she grinned. "That's better!" she chirped, resting her cheek in her hand, trying to meet Ollie's brilliant blue eyes better, leaning forward from her spot on the floor, but not in a suffocating kind of way.

He flicked his skittish eyes up to meet hers, and the sight before him was way more than relaxing. Her friendly smile and bright gray eyes slowly but surely calmed whatever nervousness he had felt before.

Ollie furrowed his brows in a light little frown, searching Tonks's pale face for any sign of fear or hesitation as he knew she had seen the scars on his neck and the welt on his cheek, but he couldn't find any.

She really did seem like she was happy to see him, and that in it of itself was a foreign thing for the soon-to-be third-year Slytherin student to hear.

"Well I—it is…" He trailed off for a moment, unsure of what to say to a girl his age, and coupled with the fact he'd hardly had this time of interaction before with too many people that weren't his immediate family or Professors at Hogwarts, "n—nice to m—meet you, Tonks. I—I'm Ollie. Ollie B—Brennan," he stammered.

But Merlin's Beard, his heart was racing!

The glances he did catch of her in the dimly lit shop were…really something. Her brilliant gray eyes looked like they sparkled, and her white smile, Ollie was sure no other witch their age held such a gentle smile.

As the two stood nervously in the backmost corner of Borgin and Burke's shop, he shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the next. Then a thought hit him.

Why was she here? Surely, she hadn't come just to take a look around the shop.

"I—it is… nice to meet you, Tonks, b—but…" Ollie was unsure whether to ask Tonks or not, as he didn't want to offend the young witch and scare her off for good.

A memory of Father chastising him for asking 'ridiculous' questions and to mind his place and stay silent flashed through his tormented mind. He had trouble shaking the not-so-distant memory away, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Why are you h—here?"

He bit down hard on his bottom lip and waited for Tonks to answer him, cringing as the young witch's expression changed, only slightly, but more than enough.

Tonks straightened her posture and fidgeted with her fingers, nervously weaving her fingers in between white-boned knuckles, almost as if she were suddenly ashamed.

Well, of course, Ollie would ask her that, what else was she thinking he would say? Ollie, against his wishes, dipped into her mind, closing his eyes, reading her mind.

To be honest, she was not exactly sure why she had come. To prove to her friend waiting just outside the shop that she wasn't a coward, sure, but no other answer came, at least, not after she had met Ollie and the boy her age had saved her life then.

Was it to ask him questions? No, Tonks thought. That was the last thing he needed.

She thought for a moment, tapping her chin in contemplation, and taking a maroon curl of her hair in her thumb and forefinger to twist it around nervously.

Maybe…she was here to help him, Tonks wondered, glancing apprehensively at the vicious-looking, angry red welt on the poor boy's cheek, wondering who on Merlin's green earth could do that to a boy, when he seemed so kind, gentle, sweet.

Tonks lifted her chin and jutted it out slightly defiantly, meeting his questioning gaze as he patiently waited for the young witch to answer. "I don't know, honestly."

Her smile returned, causing poor Ollie to feel like he was going to faint. He really needed a moment. The blood pounded to his head and his blush intensified.

The girl's next words in her newly discovered impossible telepathy almost made his heart stop right there on the spot, and if it had, he would have been fine with it.

Maybe I'm just looking for a friend.

Ollie blinked owlishly at the young witch as the pair stood in silence in Borgin and Burkes, no further physical words exchanged between the two of them, but he knew that was okay because, in their own way, the two thirteen-year-olds were already communicating in a way that was special to them.

He felt certain he must have misheard her. Ollie knew he looked a little shocked but less so than he had expected to be by the revelation that Tonks wanted to be his friend.

A hesitant, somewhat crooked, awkward little half-smile crossed his face.

After a while of increasingly warm conversation via Ollie's way, Tonks begrudgingly admitted that she had to go, or else her parents would be missing her.

Ollie bristled, wanting to throw a temper tantrum at the thought of this young witch leaving his side.

He nervously glanced at the back door. Father was still back there, but he could slip out of the shop, just for a minute.

Just to see her safely back to Diagon Alley, is what he told himself, determination and resolve clear on his features.

He could not let Tonks wander around on her own in Knockturn Alley.

I'll walk you back, he offered, holding out his hand for Tonks to take.

She initially appeared hesitant at first to take it, but the moment their palms touched, Ollie was hit with a spiraling warmth that flooded his entire system, warming and invigorating him from the roots of his black hair all the way down to the boy's toes.

Ollie decided that as he escorted Tonks and the boy she had been with, Charlie Weasley, out of Knockturn Alley, that he liked the warmth the young witch gave off.

The darkness of Knockturn Alley did not seem so bleak anymore, he noticed, as the trio walked in silence back towards Diagon Alley, but not as strangers anymore.

As friends.


And that about wraps up this chapter! How was it? Cute? Too fluffy? The next chapter (finally) checks in on Norah as Remus and Snape work together to treat her wounds. An interesting pairing for sure, lots of snarkiness on Snape's part.