Charlie Weasely rubbed his eyes with one hand. By the light of his wand he could make out the differing scribbles of his numerous siblings- letters that he really knew he should reply to.

His Mother's beseeching message lay atop the mountain of curled, smudged paper, looking especially guilt-inducing. Not that this was anything new, her letters had always had that effect. Charlie realized that she didn't mean to, but the endless comparisons between each of his siblings left a bitter taste. Not exactly easy to compete when one brother will probably become Minister of Magic, another has married the world's most perfect woman, and the youngest are partners in crime with the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Merlin's Beard, even the twins who were meant to be the family slackers will probably end up the most successful businessmen on Diagon Alley.

Not the twins, Charlie reminded himself, his gut clenching. Just George.

It had been worse since then. Since losing Fred. The letters which had always had a subtext of disappointment in them- the silent pleas to come home, to do something more traditional, to find a girl… There was an emptiness now, echoing abandonment. The old, carefree replies he used to send back no longer seemed sufficient. No one wants to hear a comic tale about Dragon Dung when the only true comic in the family is gone. No one wants to hear about a death-defying escape when not all of them had managed to escape. No one, especially not Charlie, wanted to read his actual letters. The ones that admitted he was thankful for escaping to Romania, how it got him away from the paralysis of home and having to look at the boy who was partly responsible for his brother's death.

He knew it wasn't Harry's fault. Harry was just a kid. A famous, world-saving, family-endangering kid.

Charlie remembered the first time he met the Boy Who Lived thinking he looked more like the Boy Who Narrowly Avoided Starvation. He didn't look cared for, quite the opposite. Yet he looked so blissfully happy wandering around the Burrow amid the cheap furniture, bearing his Weasely jumper with pride. A kid who thinks a Weasely jumper is the best gift anyone can get is not someone with naturally a lot of malice in them. Charlie scratched his own navy jumper thoughtfully. But malice or no, his presence in their lives had led to each member of his family being endangered. Father's life, Bill's face, Ron's entire childhood, Ginny got embroiled in Merlin knows what in Second year, George's ear and… Fred. They lost Fred.

Everyone sings Harry Potter's praises, yet they all seem to forget the foolish family who adopted and died for him.

Not for the first time did Charlie despair at living in a family of Gryffindors. Stupid, self-sacrificing Gryffindors. And not for the first time did he remind himself that they would have all done it again.

This didn't make the replies any easier though. The mention of Harry in his Mother's constant letters felt like a usurpation. Where in the past she would have been ranting about Fred and George turning the neighbour's cat purple, or filling the Charms corridor with five headed frogs, or extorting fellow students with their Weasely Wizard Wheazes… now it was how Harry was doing in Auror training, and how she thinks Harry may propose to Ginny once she's finished her final year.

Charlie suddenly realized that he'd accidently set his Mother's letter on fire.

"Char, you look a bit… fired up," said a germanic voice from the doorway. Marcus- blond, blue-eyed and built like a cross between a bull and seraphim- swaggered in and launched himself on the top bunk of the bed. When they had first become roommates they used the Babel spell and a lot of creative gesturing to communicate with limited success, but after a few years of working together the pair had managed converse more smoothly with a bastardardized mix of German, English and filthy jokes.

"Writing letters back home," he replied rolling his eyes. "Lest they think I'm dead again."

Marcus gave a large rumbling laugh. "Oh please, leave it a few weeks- I beg you. I almost pissed myself when The Dragon Lady got the howler accusing her of doing away with you. It's the first time I've ever seen Wynne look slightly less than absolutely terrifying."

Charlie gave a hollow laugh. "Well, my mother makes Wynne look like a toothless Drakeling." (This was saying quite a bit, especially as their boss- a hardy, middle-aged woman with steely eyes and a steelier personality- was said to have once been carried off by a dragon with nothing more than an empty travel bag and a hard-back version of Fantastic Beasts. The tale goes that the dragon brought her back to her nest where –with the help of her old school textbook- she asserted dominance over the three drakelings, and managed to convince the brood mother that she was one of her young. Apparently a team of wizarding explorers found her a fortnight later gorging on wolf meat, but no worse for wear).

"Yunno, if your mother if still giving you a hard time about your glamourous bachelor lifestyle… you could always let her know that I have two beautiful ladies lined up for your pleasure."

"If you try and set me up with Aoife or your sister once more, I will feed you to Norberta," promised Charlie, only half-joking. Aoife was lovely, but a co-worker. After one or two rather awkward dates, they decided that they were really better off being friends. (This was only partly based on their intense support for differing Quidditch teams.) And Marcus' sister… was probably –bar Fleur- the most attractive woman Charlie had ever laid eyes on. She had a very glamourous job that had something to do with Wizarding legislation in Switzerland, loved the outdoors, and didn't mind that his job was vaguely dangerous. Sadly she looked exactly like Marcus.

Luckily she was not too put out that Charlie broke things off, citing she knew he was a lone wolf and now she was free to date the Italian Minister of Magic. In fact, toward the end of their conversation Charlie had the disconcerting feeling that actually she had been breaking up with him the whole time… also he wasn't so sure he agreed about being called a lone wolf. He liked people. He just liked dragons more.

"Haha, no no. I am not going to try that ever again. This first girl you will like. From your home country, bit of a gothic thing going on. Shocking eyes. Very hot. The second is a bit more exotic. Big girl, but beautiful. Fiery temper."

"… To be clear, you're talking about dragons aren't you? Not actual girls." Charlie replied, feeling his mood lift already. Actual girls made him a bit anxious sometimes, but dragons… at least you knew they wanted to bite off your head. With girls you could never be sure.

"Of course. The only girls worth knowing are the ones that breath fire."

"A… Hebridean Black?" he enquired, Marcus grinned broadly in response. "And… describing a dragon as big and angry doesn't quite narrow it down."

"Looks a bit like Baldric, and has eyes to match with your golden locks," answered a female voice followed by the imposing figure of Wynne Warbeck, leather-clad with silver hair pulled tight back.

"Speaking of women worth knowing…" muttered Marcus. Wynne threw him a cool look.

"A Ukrainian Ironbelly?" Charlie replied swiftly before Marcus' joking got them on Dung removal. Again. "Awesome, I always wanted to see one of them- But aren't they a bit large for our reserve?"

Wynne nodded. "We'll be releasing the Ridgebacks into the wild this week, so Aoife will be taking a team to track their initial movements around Norway. That means we should have a bit of extra space… and that you will be responsible for our three guests."

"A third dragon?" Charlie said, infinitely more enthusiastic than he was mere moments ago regarding his family's letters.

"No," Wynne said shooting another cold look at Marcus, who had obviously failed to pass on the full message. "The dragons have been rescued by the British Beast Division. Apparently some Death Eater was keeping them in his basement as an ill-thought out and forgotten weapon. They've been in the hands of one of Newt Scamander's academics- they're writing some paper on dragons or some nonsense… Your job is to look after the academic. Answer questions. Make sure she doesn't get eaten. The usual drill."

Charlie looked a touch confused. "Why me? Shouldn't someone higher up be doing this?"

Wynne shrugged. "Aoife's away. Marcus is a dolt. Baldric will probably lead to some sort of sexual harassment case, and if they don't breath fire I'm not interested. Don't complain, Goldilocks- two dragons in return for a little babysitting duty is still a win."

With that their fearless, fear-inducing leader left. Charlie sighed. She was right. Two dragons was awesome, especially as they may be able to find a breeding partner for at least one…

"So what's the newbie's name?"

Marcus, distracted by treating his new burns, looked up. "Oh Rose, or Patrice, or something. I think we should call the new dragons Aphrodite and Clytemnestra. Apparently the Ironbelly is six tonnes…"

Charlie nodded wistfully, turning back to his letters. His Mother's and Percy's had been put to one side (the latter inducing so much boredom by paragraph two that either he give up or fall asleep). The note from his Father was brief, but relatively positive- the promotion was going well. Ron's letter was so short that one could almost mistake it for curt, and Ginny's handwriting was more frivolous than legible (something he knew she did on purpose). Bless Bill, who kept his letters light, direct and hopeful.

Ignoring them all, he found a new sheet of parchment. His mood had lightened, and he had worked out exactly what he wanted to say and who he wanted to say it to.

Dear George,

You're going to think me mad. But I am over the moon, under the troll bridge, in love. And the mad thing is I haven't even met her yet. Well… them. Yes, there are two of them. (Jealousy is a natural emotion. Feel it. Embrace it. Please be sure to let me know all the intricacies of your envy, it will only make my impossible happiness all the more impossible). It's a modern relationship but I think we can make it work. They're a little on the curvier side, with foul tempers, big beautiful teeth and an intense desire to rip off my limbs and burn me to pieces…


Pansy felt unhappy. It wasn't a new sensation, in fact it almost seemed to be her default emotion since sixth year- if not since birth.

Usually though it was overridden by anger, guilt, injustice, longing, confusion, loathing, helplessness. However standing on a train platform next to the man she once loved, as the rain dripped half-heartedly upon them, she simply felt sad. Her trunks were packed, and her owl stowed- all that was left was goodbye. A sentiment that felt infinitely unfair. Especially now there weren't many to say goodbye to.

Millicent sniffed. "I'm going to miss you, Pans. If you don't write sarcastic letters to me that deride my existence, I'll be certain your dead and either send out a search party or have an actual party. Perhaps both."

Pansy leant forward and gave her a hug. "If I do end up mauled by beasts or locals, do know that I've left a sizeable sum of money for you. Sadly my will only bequeaths it so that it can be used to build a life-sized shrine of myself that will follow you around a pelt lovable insults at you till the end of your days."

Millicent, towering over her as usual, gave her a smile that looked as if it were almost about to wobble into wet tears before stepping back and retaking the hand of Theodore Nott, her fiancé.

"Honestly though, Parkinson, keep yourself safe out there," Nott said, giving her a serious look. They hadn't really spent much time together at school, but by a method of sad subtraction and time spent standing over dead friends at rather empty funerals, he had become one of her closest companions.

"You too, Theo. If you need anything…"

"I know. Legal advice, illicit substances and witty repartee- Pansy Parkinson is the witch to call."

"Excuse me," Draco said indignantly. "I believe those are my specialties, you plebs."

"Bribes don't could as legal advice, Draco," Pansy said with a smile. Draco trying to reclaim the lime-light –even though half-heartedly- was a dramatic improvement to the boy who sat in his mansion and patiently waited for his life to end.

"Quiet, wench. I am the wittiest and best looking of you all. And I shall never forgive you for abandoning us in such a fashion."

"But not witty or handsome enough to make me stay! Alas!"

Millicent coughed, and though being somewhat terrifying at six foot, she managed to look as fragile as she did that day Pansy had discovered her crying in the bathrooms after some sodding Gryffindor had bowed to her in the corridor pretending she was a hippogriff. From that day they had been fast friends, especially as Pansy had jinxed the student so hard he limped for a week. No one crosses a Slytherin without retribution.

"Anyway, we best be off for a dress fitting. Be safe, and for Merlin's sake be back for the wedding. We love you, Pansy."

"Love you too, Milly," she replied, her eyes welling treacherously. Along the platform station she could see Luna Lovegood, her (eugh) colleague, saying her own goodbyes. Thankfully, her temporarily tear-impaired vision stopped her from perceiving who the figures were. She really rather would not know or be reminded of their part in the dismantlement of their lives.

Theodore and Millicent, hand-in-hand, walked off to disapparate in a more covert location, leaving Draco and her alone.

The only one missing from their party who was alive and not in jail was Blaise, whose mother had sensibly emigrated at the most opportune time in the war. Now he did a mysterious, glamourous job for mysterious, glamourous people. On more alcoholic nights, before they drift off into bitter memory and Pansy wishing Draco would kiss her (or at least look less unhappy), they pair would half-joke that Blaise had probably become a high-class male prostitute. They stopped joking once it became apparent that this may have become an actual, quite tragic possibility. Sometimes they get letters from Blaise, but mostly they don't.

Four left. A number that could drive anyone insane with sadness.

"Who would have thought that those two would end up together?" Draco said in a low voice, looking at the disappearing silhouettes. "I mean Theo has always had an unusual taste in women, though I never thought he would go for someone who could kill him with her bare hands."

"I think they're quite sweet," Pansy replied. It was an honest sentiment. Though mostly their togetherness seemed to make her feel even more alone. Following the war, engagements had spread through their year like a weird monogamous STD. (Not that any of the Slytherins had been invited to the weddings.) Everyone seizing the day. Though Pansy really thought of it as seizing the first one you can find. Desperation, she reassured herself, it's just desperation.

…But then why do I feel so desperate?

"Pansy, the secret romantic- who would have guessed?" Draco said giving a wan smile, his blond hair sweeping over his eyes as he looked down at his shoes. "Having said that I fell for a woman who could kill with just a look- so who am I to judge them?" His gray eyes flicked up to hers momentarily, crinkling at the sides.

Pansy's heart tore a little. He doesn't mean it in that way. He's speaking about the past. He needs you too much as a friend for you to say something stupid. He has no other friends.

"You always did have impeccable taste," Pansy replied smoothly, her face an easy mask. Hiding her love had become a habit, though a painful one.

Draco attempted a true smile for her, though it came out twisted. His pale hair was perfectly coiffed, and on his shoulders balanced beautiful, midnight-black robes reeking of wealth. From a distance he looked good. Close up you could see the cracks. His pale skin was more wan than ethereal, and his trim, quidditch-physique was too lean as if a brisk wind would dissolve him. Even his speech was blunted. That humour and wit that once commanded the whole Slytherin table no longer had the confidence or presence it once did. His mind that once whip sharp was now distracted by the dead, and the endless legal battles. The guilt should have be enough punishment, having to continue once all your friends and family are dead or incarcerated should have been enough punishment.

"Pansy, we are all honestly going to be alright," Draco said softly, his pale hand reaching out to envelope her own. It was perhaps the first time he had been the one comforting her.

"I know that," she lied.

Draco used to be the star the whole of Slytherin revolved around. He came up with the ideas, he kept them in order, he was the one who looked after them. (Yes, occasionally they had to endure his frankly weird obsession with Potter, and yes, he was more of a paranoid dictator than a benevolent leader- but by god, he was their paranoid dictator. And one thing Slytherin do well is loyalty, especially blind loyalty). Yet sometime in sixth year, they all seemed to have lost him. They were cast adrift, and had to endure alone. Without him the year fractured.

So Pansy stepped up. Slytherins looked after their own, and with no one left to take care of them, it fell to her.

His shoes were not the easiest to fill. Without someone feeding them instructions, Crabbe and Goyle started thinking for themselves- and frankly their thoughts were disturbing. Pansy had to start protecting from the inside, as well as the out. In the past all they had to worry about was the other houses hating them. In seventh year… everything was fear, and everything was uncertainty. So naturally, Pansy had to look after everyone.

Yet even throughout that year… Pansy felt she still revolved around Draco, her dying star. Soon perhaps to be an empty space.

"No, you don't," he said slightly more forcefully. His hand shook in her grasp and those grey eyes cast downwards, evading her. "Slytherins look after their own. No one else out there is going to. There may not be many of us left here, but we'll stay together and keep each other safe. All of us are far more worried about you. I mean- Dragons, Pansy? Really?"

Pansy could not help giving a low laugh. She felt off-kilter and a little delirious standing at that train platform. It was almost like going back to Hogwarts, if not worse. A midnight train holding a collection of Magizoology students, and somewhere two fire-breathing monstrosities, waiting to throw them off into the wilderness of Merlin knows where. Some would stay at the dragon sanctuary, and some would be off to Beauxbatons or Greece to have a more pleasant, luxurious field trip studying Winged Horses.

Dammit, if it wasn't for those unicorns in that one half decent Fantastical Creatures lesson, she would have spent much longer looking for a prominent Ministry job. Not that "Slytherin traitors" were among their top picks for the M.o.M graduate scheme.

Yet here she was, going down the academic route- risking dragon dung for a snowballs chance in hell to work with unicorns. Pansy, famous as the girl who caused Hufflepuffs to shake in their boots (not that this was difficult) and made Goyle cry when he got too handsy, was a push-over for unicorns. Sometimes she hated herself for it, but oh well…

There were other reasons, of course. Getting a job really was an issue, despite her grades, and getting away was tempting. Running from the train wreck that her life had become seemed impossible. Yet such an unlikelihood had somehow made her dream career seem like a strange possibility.

One thing would make her stay. But she wasn't about to ask Draco to say it. (She may have an embarrassing fondness for unicorns, but at least she had some pride.)

"You know me, Draco, excitement and death-defying danger are what I'm about."

"Hilarious. I do know you, Pans, and you're more 'champagne, diamonds and subtle revenge' than 'crash, bang, please set me on fire it would be the most fascinating academic experience-"

At that point, a waft of dreamy blond hair drifted into their presence. Pansy, who had been momentarily delighting in the final goodbye, tried not to look too distraught when Draco dropped her hand and adopted a cold, faraway sneer. Others would think him rude –and indeed, he was being terminally rude- but Pansy recognized the classic Draco "Please don't speak to me lest I crumble before you with guilty apologies and heartfelt woe." Pride (and social awkwardness) stood between him and such outbursts, but there was no doubt he felt such guilt.

"Hello, Pansy," whispered Luna Lovegood, looking disconcertingly at Pansy's left earlobe for no obvious reason. "I just wanted to let you know that we're sharing a room on the train… oh, and that we're off in about a minute. Oh hello, Draco. I like your ring. Very shiny. Like a Grossbert Beetle." And with that she was off, wandering roughly in the direction of the sapphire-coloured train.

Draco, temporarily flabbergasted that someone had spoken to him without the words "murderer," "Azkaban," or worse, stumbled a thank you.

"Guess I better be off," Pansy muttered, looking distantly at the bizarre figure of Luna Lovegood. She had no idea what a Grossbert beetle was or what half the things Luna spoke about actually meant. Either Pansy was grossly uneducated on the subject of magizoology… or Luna was mental. Pansy was not quite sure which answer she feared the most.

She took a last look at the wan but still striking face of her best friend. A dusting of purple shadows bruised his eyes and his face was still too pointy to be called handsome, and yet she still felt that familiar longing. A sickening tug on her heart. "Goodbye, Draco. If you need anything…"

"I know, Pans," he replied, and for a second he looked as if he was going to turn and disappear off into the grey of King's Cross station without another word. But then he paused and raised his hand to the thick blackness of her hair, leant down and placed his lips briefly on her forehead. "I'll keep an eye on everyone while your gone. Be careful." And with that he departed, leaving Pansy abandoned and alone and wondering who on earth was left that was going to look after him.