A/N: I struggled immensely with this chapter, it's probably had about four different drafts and I hated all of them. So we're doing a few perspective leaps just to freshen things up a little, and for a little bit more character background. Also a note I feel I have to make: the sentiments expressed in this chapter in regards to religion are not necessarily mine. Thanks!

Monday 16th January

Georgette's thighs and calves were burning by her eighth lap of the Quidditch pitch, but she pushed herself to ten. The pitch was the only place could go for her morning run in the middle of winter—spells kept the space free of snow, as impeded boundary markers made it difficult for referees to call penalties and offsides.

But it wasn't as though Georgette minded. Nothing felt as familiar as the pitch, and her presence on it had always been inevitable. Her father had raised her on the adrenaline of the game, and he'd always discussed her position as Gryffindor captain as though it were set in stone, daring fate to intervene.

She knew her friends viewed her obsession with Quidditch with pity, as though her father had groomed her into the lifestyle. But Georgette thought she'd always have found Quidditch—whether her father had encouraged it or not.

She was fond of the tactical aspect of it—reducing people to players, and the chaos of the field to actions and reactions. She liked the way everything had a rule, every movement and decision on the field was preordained and regulated, by the thousand games played by thousands of athletes before her.

When she was in motion she could make a map in her mind, seeing passes and paths to winning. There were so many variables, all dependent on the players themselves and how they reacted under the buzz of panic and adrenaline. It was a study in the simple and the complex, but she found it came naturally. The Ravenclaw team were a clear example. Many people underestimated the role of the Seeker in a game of Quidditch. But Selwyn was their strongest player, and the other members of the team relied on his presence on the field. Most games he'd be found shouting directions to some players, because while Ravenclaws were smart, some lacked simple intuition. So without his constant instruction, the team had fallen apart—just as Georgette had predicted.

But what her friends didn't realize was that her love of Quidditch was as much for herself as it was for father. Cormac had always been an active person—a kinaesthetic learner. When her mother had passed six years ago, he'd taken the loss with some difficulty. Grief had trapped him within the walls of their house, and Georgette had taken it upon herself to drive him up and out of bed each day. She'd used the excuse of Quidditch practice to get him moving.

Georgette saw now that it was never going to 'fix' what her father had been going through, but in her ten-year-old mind it was her attempt at a solution.

The air was so cold that each exhale was a cloud of steam, and each inhale stung somewhere deep inside her chest. At least there was a hot shower waiting for her in the changing rooms, but then it'd be straight to breakfast, and classes immediately after. She almost wanted to push herself to do another lap, just to enjoy the silence of the outdoors before she was shunted into stuffy classrooms for the rest of the day. But she was running short on time, and she didn't want to push herself too hard, lest she hurt too much for tomorrow morning's run.

The familiar exercise high was starting to die when Georgette was halfway through her shower, and she carefully massaged the ache out of her calves. Though she sometimes exerted herself a little too much, Georgette liked feeling herself growing fitter and stronger with each session, as her body adapted and learnt from the strain.

While often she credited her father for encouraging such a physical streak in her, she couldn't underestimate her mother's influence. Bea McLaggen had been just as active as her husband, but she'd channelled it into a more creative process—woodwork being her main area of expertise. Using techniques of old magic and plain magic-less handwork, she'd crafted furniture that sold for handsome prices to people across the neighbourhood.

She was responsible for making the display case above Georgette's bed; it had been a gift for her tenth birthday. Bea had said it was for 'all the Snitches she was going to catch at Hogwarts'.

Bea's death had been such a shock for Georgette because it had been the first event in Georgette's life that was entirely unscripted. It sounded silly in her head—death was an unpredictable inevitably—but everything else in her life, until that stage, had been nothing short of predetermined.

The suburb they'd lived in was the one Cormac had grown up in, and he had no need to move away. The house they'd lived in was the same her father had been raised in, as they'd had no need to buy a new one. Georgette had been enrolled in Hogwarts since before she was born, as that was her father's school and there was no need to attend another. Georgette had played Quidditch because her father had decided she would, even before her conception.

Bea's death had not been pencilled in on the family agenda, and that had shaken Georgette deeply.

Georgette was still caught up in her thoughts as she changed into her uniform for the day, buttoning her blouse with routine efficiency.

As much as Quidditch had been a unifying force for Georgette and her father, it was just as polarizing. Her father's passion for the game was relatively infectious, until he was screaming advice from the stands and she felt nothing but embarrassment. Sometimes she felt reduced to nothing more than a score, or a point margin, seeing how it affected Cormac's treatment of her.

Georgette knew her father had something to prove. Her performance was all twisted up in his own 'failures' at school, as well as the extra scrutiny he was under as a single father. He used Georgette's successes on the Quidditch pitch to confirm his abilities as a parent—not just to society, but to himself. But Georgette didn't want herself defined by her performance, and she felt under double the pressure, playing for her team and for her father.

"Ready to go?"

Georgette jumped at the voice, turning to scowl at Magda, who'd suddenly appeared in the doorframe of the shower room.

"Are you trying to make me shit myself?" Georgette snapped, tightening the knot of her scarf with a tug.

Magda smothered a smile, "Well, it'd make us even more late, so no." Her friend's cheeks were pink from the cold, but there were no snowflakes caught in her short hair, meaning it had finally stopped falling.

"Why'd you walk all the way down here just to take me to breakfast? You don't usually."

Magda shrugged, but it wasn't a casual gesture, "I wanted company. Tessie is fast asleep, and Rose is bed stricken with heartbreak."

Georgette frowned, "She's still not got out of bed?"

"I think I heard her get up very late last night to use the bathroom, but apart from that? No."

Georgette thought for a moment, trying to find the right words to explain her thoughts on it all. She'd never been as eloquent as the other girls—Rose could make any essay sound like a profound piece of literature, Magda had a lightning quick wit that always earned a laugh, and even Tessie's impassioned speeches about the dire state of the world were so inspiring that Georgette felt revolution bubbling in her blood. But with Georgette, words were just a means to an end, and she didn't have the talent to make them very pretty.

"Rose feels things extra hard, doesn't she?" Georgette asked.

It didn't make much sense, but Magda nodded grimly, "Well put."

Monday 23rd January

Prayer was a habit Tessie hadn't broken yet.

Tessie's relationship with religion was a complicated thing. She knew, in her most detached and logical mind, that she shouldn't believe in organized religion. Tessie, a champion of freedom and all things new and revolutionary, couldn't defend tradition. A way of thinking shouldn't be upheld for the sake of sentimentality, defended because it was how things had always been done.

Bread, blood and absolution. These were the traditions Tessie was raised on, all twisted up in her memories of her childhood, her memories of her parents, the history of her country. It was so dramatically juxtaposed with the person she'd grown to be—radical, rebellious and outspoken—that it felt as though she'd crammed two lifetimes into one.

Coming to Hogwarts had been an opportunity to leave it behind, emerge as someone she recognized and respected. She'd placed miles between herself and her family, trying to write off her formative years as nothing more than an experience in method acting—playing the role of what she thought she should be.

But it wasn't so easy to shake. Sometimes, Tessie's guilt was a weight that bore down from above, as though she was keeping a subconscious tally of sins she was yet to absolve. She had to try too hard to take the lord's name in vain, jealous of her friends who could flash a 'Jesus Christ' around without an accompanying pang of nausea. Most Sunday mornings she would jolt awake, hounded by the feeling that there was somewhere she was supposed to be.

Tessie knew she hadn't left as much behind as she liked to think. Her experiences weren't in isolation, she couldn't just pick them out and throw them away. It was the basis of her personality, when she was carefully piecing together a world view, those were her formative memories.

When Professor McGonagall had turned up at Tessie's house, something had clicked. When the strange woman in the billowing robes had discussed magic, Tessie had felt it all come together, as though she'd only previously had threads of an entire tapestry. But judging by the way her mother had clutched Tessie's hand under the table, she was the only one.

It wasn't unknown, McGonagall had said, for magical genes to present themselves once every hundred years in a family. It wasn't unknown for there to be only one witch or wizard in a large family. That explained why Tessie, youngest of six, was the first in family to go to Hogwarts. Sometimes Tessie had wished one of her siblings had been first—even if she was condemning them to a life disowned. Just so she could have company at the mysterious castle a whole country away, for one of them to tell her that everything would be ok. That she'd learn magic, that she'd fit in. But instead it had been terrifyingly lonely at times, and she ached for a single letter from her family, even just a word of acknowledgement.

Tessie didn't hate them. Maybe if she did the separation would've been easier. But they'd been loving and kind, and so close knit. Tessie had always been surrounded by people and noise and movement, their farmhouse was never quiet for a second. Tessie had been big fish in a pond where everyone knew her name, and she'd never felt anything but protected.

Odd things had happened to her, which none of her family could explain. What she now recognized as magical outbursts, her parents swept under the rug, giving it the stray dog treatment—ignoring it and hoping it would go away.

The news of her ability was unwelcome news in her parents' eyes. To them, their youngest daughter was condemned to an afterlife in hell. Their faith was so unwavering, they believed Tessie's fate with utter conviction. They hadn't attempted to intervene in her journey to Hogwarts however, seeing as her powers manifested in ways they never had before, and they knew the skills she'd learn would give her control over them—McGonagall had taken care to emphasize this point in their discussion, perhaps detecting her parents' reluctance.

They'd accompanied her to King's Cross, but their good-byes had been more permanent than the other expressed on the platform that day—Tessie's choice to go to Hogwarts, her choice to embrace magic—meant she was no longer a part of the family. She went back every summer—she had to, she had nowhere else to go—but she was practically a ghost. She was never invited to mass, never spoken directly to. Her parents tip-toed around her as if she were something to be feared, and never let her siblings be alone with her, as though she'd convert them to her side. She was treated like a leper in her own home. Now she was of age, however, she wasn't bound the farmhouse any longer. She was already looking for summer work, hopefully where accommodation was included.

It felt as though Tessie had had independence thrust upon her without asking. It was funny, really, her friends complained about overbearing parents and the restrictions of school, but Tessie craved those familial actions again. Even if her parents screamed and yelled and punished her, it was better to know they cared—their outright neglect showing the opposite.

If Tessie was honest with herself, prayer was a habit she hadn't tried to drop. Prayer was the last act connecting her to her family, and her previous identity. Her rosary beads were tucked in the inner pocket of her suitcase, burning a hole in the leather that Tessie struggled to ignore.

"I don't suppose I could copy your notes?"

Tessie had been applying mascara in her little mirror, and she nearly gouged her eye out at the sound of Rose's voice.

The girl was out of bed, and had even managed a shower, if her wet hair was anything to go by.

Tessie tried not to show her surprise—knowing Rose hated an ordeal if it could be avoided, and she was probably looking to slip back into usual routine with as little fuss as possible.

"Ah, sure, just let me—" Tessie fumbled for her backpack, which she'd thrown at the foot of her bed the night before.

She dug around for the scraps of parchment that contained her scratchy writing—Tessie had never been a model student, only tending to gather and organize her notes about two days before her exams. But she'd tried harder this week to keep notes, knowing Rose would inevitably want them once she'd crawled out of her funk.

Rose took them, her expression betraying nothing, trying to flatten the crinkled pages with her hands. Tessie knew a straightening charm, but it seemed Rose needed something to focus on besides Tessie's inevitable question,

"You ok?"

Rose didn't look up from the notes, but she wasn't reading them either, her eyes still on the page. Instead she hovered by Tessie's bed, standing, watching the pages. Tessie had almost given up on an answer when Rose took a breath, still not looking up,

"I know I always say it, but I'm sick of debilitated by factors outside of my control. I'm sick of being so affected by the actions of someone who I don't mean anything to. I've decided I'm no longer in love with Scorpius."

Tessie didn't want to say that it didn't work like that—that feelings left because you told them to, they couldn't be given the stray dog treatment. But she knew a fair bit about rejection, so she just sighed,

"It takes time. You won't feel this shit forever, I promise."

Rose's robotic expression scrunched for a second, twisting into something that looked recently familiar to it—especially if her swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks were anything to go by—but she squashed it down, fighting to smooth her expression out again.

"Thanks." She said instead, and carefully took the notes and tucked them into her bag.

That night, when Tessie figured everyone was asleep, she whispered an inaudible prayer for Rose.

Monday 30th January

When people talked about Magda Urquart, her name was usually sandwiched between the words 'sweetheart' and 'trouble'. Magda liked her status in the community—she liked that people knew that she climbed out of windows and snuck into Muggle nightclubs.

Magda was the second degree that everyone knew, she could imagine her name coming up at parties and shouted over the bassline at bars—'Magda, yeah, that's Bridget's girl, isn't it? She's right trouble she is.'

Magda liked being an enigma, having all the connections but politely abstaining. She liked expanding her circle, and she was charismatic and quick-witted enough to warrant a memorable impression. She especially enjoyed her status amongst her Muggle peers—mysteriously procuring perfect fakes, and disappearing for nine months of the year. It was very mysterious, and she deliberately didn't fill anyone in.

At Hogwarts she was somewhat less sparkly, but living with people fulltime tended to do that. Magda preferred herself in less familiar terms—where she was a funny quip and a flirty wink before disappearing. Because everything fun happened in the places she wasn't supposed to be, and everything fun happened when she was there. She was a catalyst for events without trying.

Magda knew her charisma was magnetic, and she knew she got away with things most others didn't. She was loud and theatrical and electric, and people were attracted to it. She liked living nights that didn't seem real in the morning, because Magda was more ethereal in the dark.

It made her a little arrogant—she recognized that—but she wasn't wrong. People had told her as much, but they hadn't said it outright. The business man who bought her a drink offered her a trip to Cyprus, free of charge. The DJ who pulled her up on stage, and told her he had a room to himself backstage. The scout who'd said she was a little short, but had she considered acting?

It was her friends, she supposed, who kept her grounded. Magda knew she could get caught up in all that too easily, it was school and the mundane action of the week days that kept her from getting swept up in it all. Because she had enough common sense to recognize that beauty faded, and being fresh on the scene was only a brief advantage. Because there were a thousand girls prettier and more charismatic than her that were all vying for modelling and acting roles, all chasing the infamy that came with being the most popular girl in the room.

It had taken her a while to recognise, though. Her mother had attempted to rein her in—exasperated and frustrated that Magda insisted on making the same mistakes she had. But what, Magda had insisted, was really that bad about her mother's party days? Was she trying to say that Magda's existence was a mistake? Getting pregnant at seventeen hadn't turned out that badly, had it? That argument had led to Magda spending summer sleeping on a mattress on Rose's floor, and trying not to feel like a burden.

But where Magda had had her highs, she'd had her lows. Some of the nights she'd had aged her a little too quickly, but gave her the surprising advantage of being a guardian angel to her friends. Because while it was fun to be mysterious, witty, and brief, there was something more rewarding about counselling those who were a little lost in their own experiences, and being able to say 'we've all been there, you'll come out the other side.'

At least now, the arguments between her and Bridget had calmed, and they could peacefully co-exist over summer—Magda not being so hungover as she helped her mother sweep the floors of the salon.

Still, it sometimes itched, the urge to feel all eyes on her, to demand more from London's Muggle night scene, to end up somewhere unfamiliar when the sun reappeared. But it wasn't real—drunken conversations were rarely remembered in the morning, and everyone slunk off to their day jobs with nothing more than headaches. And when she spent her life waiting for the next Saturday night, she was living the rest in limbo.

"Magda. Hi."

Magda started as Ewan Diggory came around the corner, almost dropping her notes from that Potions lesson. Rose had taken off in the other direction, claiming she'd needed to visit the dorm before lunch, so Magda was alone in fending off her biggest admirer.

"Hello, Ewan. How's this Monday going for you?"

"Quite good, thank you." Ewan said quickly, obviously eager to get to the crux of what he wanted to say—another reason Magda despised him, he loved the sound of his own voice, "I just wanted to ask if you were free for the next Hogsmeade trip?"

Magda tried to sidestep him, but he cut her off, "Wow, there's another one coming up?"

"Yes, there is. I just thought because our last one went so well—"

Magda winced. She hadn't counted on Ewan being as quite a good kisser as he was. She hadn't counted on how nice Ewan smelt close up, and how they'd ended up in his Head Boy dorm after their date, with some heavy petting to accompany their snog session. She'd pointedly left out that part of the story when recounting the events of the date to her friends—she didn't want them thinking she had anything close to a crush on the pompous git. It wasn't her fault Ewan's lips were so soft, and then when he took of his glasses, he had very pretty lashes and warm hazel eyes.

"I'm going to stop you right there, Ewan."

He paused, his lips pursing as she dealt the inevitable rejection. They'd done this dance hundreds of times before, she almost had to admire his persistence.

"While I had a lovely time," Magda allowed, "I don't know if we'd work."

She didn't know how to politely tell him that she'd caved to kissing him out of sheer loneliness, and it wasn't her fault he'd been quite a bit better at it than she'd anticipated.

"May I ask why?"

Magda winced, "It's just, we're very different people, Ewan. You're studious, hard-working, and Head Boy. While I'm known as a bit of a trouble-maker, a barely above average student—"

He frowned, "If you're worried about your reputation sullying mine, I promise you I'll do my upmost best to dispel any ill-talk of you—I do have some sway, being Head Boy and all—"

She grimaced, "Thank you, Ewan, that is very… sweet. But I meant more on a personal level, on us being," she struggled for the word, "compatible."

Ewan pushed his glasses up his nose, the crease in his brow unseating them, "Well, I'm not sure what to say to that."

Magda didn't like turning people down—even though she thought she'd be good at it by now, "I'm sorry, Ewan. I've got to go to lunch, but maybe we could have a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks on the day?"

He looked a little less downtrodden at that, at least. "Alright. See you later, Magda."

"Seeya, Ewan." And she high-tailed it out of there.

Magda was sitting in bed, flipping absent-mindedly through Witch Weekly and trying not to feel bad for Ewan, when the door to their dorm slammed open. The force of the act startled Magda enough to make her jump, which seemed to be the theme of the day.

"I want you to cut my hair."

Rose stood in the door, a little flushed as though she'd taken the tower stairs at a run.

"Alright." Magda sat up a little tentatively, pushing her magazine to one side, "I know it's traditional to have a post-break up haircut, but I'd advise you to think a little more—"

"Nope, I want this." Rose insisted, "And if you refuse to do it, I'll lop the hair off myself. We both know you'll do a far better job, so don't make me."

Magda stood from her bed, slowly making her way to where Rose stood in the doorway, brandishing her wand at her hair like a threat. It felt a little like approaching a spooked horse, but Magda didn't want to move suddenly and have Rose slice off a hunk by accident.

"Why?"

The determined look in Rose's eye didn't slip, and judging by the tightness of her jaw, the decision was already made,

"Because I want to see if I can."

Magda understood. It wasn't the act of cutting her hair—she wanted to test herself, break a habit she'd held onto since childhood. Because she'd been growing her hair since she was small—it was her identifier, the first thing strangers would comment on. Because sometimes you needed to test yourself, give yourself a little shake up to see if you could take it.

"Ok." Magda acquiesced, and Rose relaxed. "Pull up a chair and show me how short you want it."