HELLO HELLO MY LOVELIES! I know it's been far too long, and I'm so sorry about that!
I really wanted to get this chapter out for Ron's birthday (March 1st, as I'm sure most of you know), but alas, RL got in the way. I am however, getting it out to you on Remus Lupin's birthday! Our wonderful, brilliant werewolf.
Please leave a review, and let me know what you think ;)
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.
As always, for Sable and Lais xxx
Saturday, 23rd June, 1979
Potter Manor
Ron is nervous, he doesn't know why he's nervous—they are family after all. Family that he's never met, family that he could only ever dream of meeting; mainly because until a few months ago, it had been impossible to do so.
A shiver runs down his spine, and goosebumps scrawl their way across his skin when he hears, loudly, "Oi! Potter, what secrets are you hiding that my big sister made me make a wand oath?"
Ron has no idea who the voice belongs to, and he wipes his clammy palms across the front of his jeans. It's ridiculous, why is he so darn anxious?
Ron hesitantly steps forward, glancing to his right over the bannister and down into the foyer: Dorea is warmly welcoming Molly, Arthur and what must be Gideon and Fabian Prewett—his Uncles, his deceased uncles, who died bravely fighting off five Death Eaters.
Ron halts at the top of the grand staircase, marvelling at the two wizards (he'd only ever seen pictures), and stifling a laugh when Molly lightly hits Gideon on his arm—clearly the vociferous declaration had come from him.
"What? It's true, what could possibly be so big that I had to make a bloody oath, and you refused to tell me when I did," Gideon shook his head, nodding politely at Charlus as the Patriarch took Gideon's cloak from him.
Ron doesn't wish to reveal himself just yet, so instead he leisurely begins to descend the stairs, and when he is about halfway, he catches Molly's eye.
The witch smirks, rubbing at her slightly swollen belly—she told him the news a couple weeks ago, she is pregnant again, with baby number six, but she keeps grumbling about how big she is this time, even bigger than she was with the twins. She also says she is craving pickles all the time, and spicy food, something that Ron quirked an eyebrow at—Ginny loved spicy food.
A pang tugs at his heart, thinking about Ginny always hurts. He desperately wishes he could see his sister again, if only to tell her how much he loves her. It's odd, but in a different dimension, she is still living her life, albeit without them. Ron shakes the thought away—pondering on the goings on of a different dimension, that he has no claim to anymore, is pointless—it only serves to fill him with longing.
A different thought springs up as he reaches the first floor, shoving his hands into the pockets of his navy blue trousers. We can make it so that they grow up without war, without fear, without the death of their classmates, or their loved ones.
Ron freezes, suddenly feeling the urge to flee. The group of wix must have heard his arrival, because they all turn towards him.
"Right then—" the smile on Gideon's face slowly fades, and Ron gets a better look at him.
Gideon is a few inches shorter than him, there's a jagged scar that runs diagonally across the length of his face, his blue eyes are a startling blue—much like his own—there is a spackling of freckles all over him, but nowhere near as bad as Ron nor any of his siblings—Ginny's had been the worst. His hair is more of a rust colour, and threaded throughout is a heavy helping of coppery strands. The wizard is quite stocky, and he reminds Ron of Charlie in that regard.
"Bloody hell," Fabian whispers beside his younger brother, eyes wide.
Fabian is a stark contrast to Gideon: wiry, almost as tall as ron, his hair is just shy of his shoulders, but he's pulled the top half into a neat bun. His pale skin is barely dusted with freckles save for his nose, cheeks, and the tips of his ears. His blue eyes are much darker, like the dark recesses of the ocean, and there are faint, smile lines around his mouth.
"Hey," Ron raises a hand awkwardly in greeting, the nerves sparking, hissing that he should run as far away from here as possible.
"Molly…molly, who is he?" Gideon asks, mouth agape, half-turning to his sister, but refusing to pry his gaze from Ron.
"It's a bit of a long story," Molly starts, faltering, shooting Ron a sympathetic smile, "I wish I could have warned you…but they are very important, and the less people that know, the better."
Fabian slowly approaches Ron, pursing his lips, his eyes flitting about, and examining him: Ron raises his chin, straightens out to his full height, yet he relaxes his limbs, he will not crumble under Fabian's scrutiny—even if his heart is beating far too fast.
"You're him, aren't you? You're the one that was with James and the others on that mission?" Fabian asks, his gaze almost unbearably intense, but Ron holds his ground.
The number of people that know the truth about the Golden Trio keeps growing and growing: the Order members that were there the day they arrived, Frank, Alice, Emmeline, Dorcas, the Marauders, Dorea, Charlus, and the Weasleys. That number is about to grow two more to include the Prewett brothers.
Rumours have been rampantly circling about the ginger haired boy since the ambush, most of which are wildly exaggerated, and improbable. The Weasleys sequestered a child away: he is the love child of Septimus Weasley (Arthur's Father) and some muggle lady, or that Bilius Weasley (Arthur's eccentric older brother) had carelessly impregnated a witch. There was even a rumour going around that he wasn't connected to the Weasleys (or Prewetts, but for some reason, none of the rumours hinted at him having any relation to the family in the slightest) at all, and he'd simply glamoured his appearance to throw the scent off of his real identity. However, there are a few that strike far too close to home.
Which is why McGonagall and Mad-Eye decided that the rest of the Order—whoever was not already in the know—would stay in the dark about the inter-dimensional time travellers.
"That'd be me," Ron answers, a sheepish smile on his face. "Sorry, should probably introduce myself, I'm Ron Weasley—your nephew."
Gideon and Fabian both whirl around to face their sister, befuddled confusion pointedly spreading its way across their features.
"I'm also from the future in another dimension," Ron adds quickly. Mentally cursing himself for not starting with that.
"Sorry?" Fabian's jaw drops, once more facing Ron, his brow deeply puckered.
"It's true," Molly says calmly, stepping past her brothers, stopping in front of Ron, and she holds her hands upwards—he bends at the middle so she can reach—and gently cradles his face.
Ron smiles softly, his hands finding Molly's stomach, and carefully places his open palms against her swollen belly. "I still think you're having a girl," he murmurs so only she can hear.
"Nonsense," Molly whispers back, dismissively patting his cheek.
"We'll see," Ron chuckles.
"I need a drink," Gideon says, holding a hand to his forehead.
"I echo that sentiment, a strong drink," Fabian agrees. With a warm smile, Charles comes up behind the boys, places his hands on their shoulders, and then ushers the brothers out of the foyer, and down the corridor.
"Shall I fetch the others? I suspect they're all a bit peckish," Dorea asks, her fancy, well tailored black robes shimmering, and sparkling as she moves, her emerald studs glittering prettily in her ears.
"You'll find Mione in Remus's room," Ron smirks. Hermione's been sleeping in Remus's room as of late, leaving Ron and Harry to share a bed, and stave off their nightmares alone. Neither of them minded, they're happy Remus has found his mate, and more importantly, they are overjoyed that Hermione is happy.
A breathy laugh escapes Dorea before she glides up the grand staircase, her robes fluttering out behind her as she goes.
Ron returns his attention to Molly, "that could have been worse."
"Are they anything like what you imagined?" Molly asks fondly, glancing over her shoulder when Arthur settles behind her.
"No. Well. I don't know what I imagined. Probably that they'd be like Fred and George, but they aren't. Not at all. They're completely different," Ron laughs dryly, allowing his shoulders to slump.
"I do feel a tad guilty that we didn't warn them, but we did promise, and they'll get over it," Arthur says, the first time Ron has heard him speak for the evening.
Molly snorts, "and then some. They won't quit asking questions, or humbugging you. I give you full permission to ignore any frivolity, or rubbish that they send your way." She releases Ron, one hand settling over his on her stomach, the other resting on her chest.
Molly is wearing a simple set of crimson, velvet robes, her hair is tied back in an elaborate updo, and the only jewellery adorning her, is her ruby engagement ring, and unassuming, white gold wedding band.
Arthur is dressed a bit fancier, with well cut black robes—that make him look quite distinguished—black, dragonhide shoes, and his wedding band proudly glints on his left ring finger.
The main difference in this dimension for the Prewett family—aside from Gideon and Fabian surviving the Death Eater ambush—is that Molly and Arthur didn't elope, and thus she was not unstatedly disowned.
That may have had something to do with Septimus Weasley not being labelled a blood traitor, despite his vocal disapproval of the Dark Lord. That is, until Dragon Pox claimed him a couple months before they arrived.
Ron's grandmother, Cedrella, is still alive, but mainly keeps to herself these days. She has no time for wars, and blood purity, and all that other hogwash as she once told her son. She would rather spend her days attending high socialite luncheons, dinners and events. (Ones that are free from strenuous conversations about Voldemort, and his followers. Which meant her circles keep getting smaller, and 'good riddance,' she would sneer with her head held high.)
Also, in spite of his endless fascination with Muggles, Arthur does not work in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, instead, he works in the Improper Use of Magic Office. (Though one could often find him in the other office during his breaks, asking a myriad of questions with childlike wonder).
Small changes, that made such a massive difference, yet, to their core, Molly and Arthur appear to be the same people who raised him.
"This ought to be an interesting evening. Do you think we should tell them about Harry? Or just let them find out?" Ron queries, wrapping an arm around Molly's shoulders, and leading her towards the dining room.
"Let them find out, I do wish to see that look on Fabian's face again. He's always so bloody calm," Arthur chuckles heartily.
"Behave," Molly tsks, but a smile is tugging at her lips. "It was rather amusing, I must say. His feathers never get ruffled like that."
Fabian did in fact almost fall out of his seat at the dinner table upon seeing Harry, whilst Gideon had gotten over the initial shock, and instead was rolling with it.
"Anyone else? This is bloody brilliant," Gideon cackles, playfully shoving his brother—who is still as stone.
Fabian soon melts into a fit of laughter, his gaze turning to Ron, and disbelievingly he says, "I have a nephew. Well, another one."
Soon you'll have a niece, Ron thinks to himself, picking up his stout crystal glass, and languiding sipping some of its amber contents.
"What do you want us to call you? Ronald? Ronnie?" Gideon jokes.
"Shove off, Gids, we're obviously going to call him Ron Ron," Fabian says with a wide grin, his blue eyes sparkling with gaiety.
The nickname is far too close to an old one he'd had. Won won, Ron muses sadly, thinking fondly of Lavender. She'd been killed in the worst way during the Battle of Hogwarts, mangled, and left a bloody mess by Greyback. Even if they'd broken up at the end of Sixth Year, he still thought of her as a dear friend, since they'd ended things amicably.
"Come off it. Both of you, you'll call him Ron," Molly scolds her younger siblings, waving her wand, and sending stinging jinxes at them both.
Ron learnt more about the Marauders's exploits during that dinner; Gideon had still been at Hogwarts when they first attended, and in a way he'd taken them under his wing. Though, they were 'mischievous little rascals' as he affectionately called him, and they far surpassed their mentor with their elaborate and creative pranks.
The events from a month ago seem to be a distant memory as the massive group of wix dines, and jokes, and shares a moment as close to perfect as it gets.
Dorea lightheartedly teases James about grandchildren, and the animagi almost chokes on his Elf wine, and Lily happily rubs his back before patting his cheek.
Hermione and Remus hold hands under the table for the entire duration of the meal, and Molly keeps fussing at Harry's hair, "it needs cutting, it's covering your eyebrows for goodness sake." To which Harry protests, he wishes to grow it out he says.
Sirius leans back, and focuses on throwing artful verbal jabs at Gideon, who gives back as good as he gets.
Fabian, Arthur, and Charlus are in a heated discussion about the Wizengamot: Charlus has a seat on it, but with the state of things he refuses to attend their gatherings, "I left my job as an Unspeakable, Arthur." (Ron didn't know you could stop being an Unspeakable, and he doubts Charlus will share the details of his resignation.) Fabian has been offered a position as the new representative of the Prewett family, but he has yet to accept their invitation, and Arthur himself is in a similar position to his brother-in-law.
Ron's focus however, is drawn away by something else: Regulus has been silent for most of the meal, most likely feeling left out amongst the large den of lions (with the exception of Dorea of course, alas she is on the far side of the table from him).
"You alright, mate?" Ron asks quietly, and Regulus stiffens, but swiftly relaxes—tugging a impassive shield down. The Black turns a key eye on Ron, curiosity poignant in his grey orbs. Ron and Regulus have had little to no interaction up until this point, so he can see why the wizard has his reservations in speaking to him.
Regulus works his jaw for a few moments, but then leans into Ron and replies, "I don't know why I'm here."
Dorea had dragged him downstairs earlier, insisting that he join them for their dinner party (the only occupant of the house who is missing is Emmeline, and she is spending a couple days at Frank and Alice's—much to Harry's obvious disappointment, and Ron thinks if one of them doesn't do something soon, he may have to intervene).
Ron shrugs, "it's cause you're one of us."
"Am I?" Regulus asks softly.
"Yupp, we claimed you…well, to be more succinct, we claimed each other. You deserve to be here just as much as the rest of us," Ron states, placing his drink down on the starch white tablecloth, his electric blue eyes meet Regulus's, and there is nothing but blatant honesty shining in them.
"Dunno how I feel about being 'claimed'," Regulus says with a wry smile, brushing a hand down his velvet, black robes, smoothing them down neatly.
"Regardless, again, you're one of us," Ron repeats, and this time, without protestation (and in spite of his slightly doubtful expression) Regulus respectfully inclines his head in the ginger's direction.
It's a step, a small one, but with it comes boundless potential.
Wednesday, June 27th, 1979
London, England
Killian's Tattoo Parlour
"Son of a bitch," James curses loudly, gritting his teeth together, torn between looking, and averting his gaze entirely.
Lily rolls her eyes, flicking her long hair over her shoulder, and adjusting her grip on James's other hand.
"My other one didn't hurt anywhere near as much as this," James whinges.
"Bollocks. The other one is massive, James," Lily scoffs, raising her free hand, and staring at the fresh ink—she'd already applied healing charms—and how it moves and crackles across the inside of her wrist.
"Mine didn't hurt that much," Lily says with pursed lips and a quirked brow.
James narrows his eyes at her, " you don't have to look so incredibly smug you know."
Lily's only response is to shoot him a dazzling smile.
They are currently in the middle of getting matching tattoos, and they placed them so that when they hold hands, their tattoos will touch. Killian rolled his eyes at the adorable sentiment, but began to ready his equipment.
"You're lucky that they aren't that big, Lily, and that I like you two. We're solidly booked all week, and this is my only break for the day." Killian said when they strolled in earlier.
Killian stays under the radar for the most part, tattooing Muggles, Wizards, Witches, and even some magical creatures, more so Beings than Beasts though.
The Parlour is black with splashes of white, and pops of blue, well lit in the back rooms where the tattooing actually happens, but the entrance area is normally only lit by the outside through the grand, glass windows out front, (which Killian had strengthened with numerous charms and anti-burglary spells, they are in a slightly sketchy area after all) and the streetlamps outside on an evening.
Killian's body is littered with tattoos, but he refuses to put any on his neck or above, it's some weird rule he has.
Pale eyes, dark hair, his light brown skin has an almost golden, coppery tint to it, he's average height, and he's a nimble, sprightly wizard, who cannot sit still for two seconds. Unless he's working on a tattoo, then he's as still as a Panther lying in wait, hand steady, no movement rushed or unnecessary.
He's the best in the business, and he serves everyone, no matter who you are, or where you're from. The one rule the Parlour has, is no fighting within its doors, and it's a rule that is generally abided by.
There are of course a few exceptions: a Veela and a werewolf got into it a couple weeks ago, and Killian has yet to replace the shredded wallpaper on the adjacent wall when you first walk in, honestly, he can't be arsed.
Killian straightens out, lifting the needle from James's skin, narrowing his eyes as he peers at the tattoo, tilting his head this way and that. "I think I'm finished."
James cranes his neck to glance at it, without moving his hand, "really? Can I look at it?"
"Go ahead, mate," Killian smirks, "want to tell me why you got a lighting bolt of all things?"
"Nope. It's a secret," Lily giggles, leaning down and dropping a quick kiss to James's lips.
"Whatever, I'm going to take a nap, still got plenty of work to do later," Killian yawns, scrunching up his nose as he meticulous cleans up, whilst setting up for his next client.
"Appreciate you seeing us today," James says as he sits up—swinging his legs over the side of the reclined chair—properly getting a look at his new tattoo for the first time.
The tattoo crackles, sparks, and practically jumps off of his skin: it's such detailed, intricate linework—the electricity is itching to jump off his wrist, and slam into the ground with formidable force.
Killian gets up, stretching like a cat as he strolls out of the room, "see you lovebirds later, don't get killed and all that."
James presses his lips together, and Lily smile is a bit strained as she points her wand at James's wrist and begins to heal the reddening skin.
"How do you think Harry will feel?" Lily asks, her voice barely audible, her bright green eyes studying James carefully.
James sighs, tugging her into him, "honestly? No idea."
"Y—You didn't have to do that," Harry whispers softly, eyes glistening behind his wire frames. The wizard is a few feet away from Lily and James, as if part of him wants to come closer, yet there is something holding him back—firmly rooted in place, arms crossed over his chest.
Lily had dragged Harry into the Sun Room a few minutes ago—making sure to hide the inside of her wrist by keeping her arm close to her side—where James was already awaiting them.
The remaining crisp tinge of the prior months is entirely gone now, the heat coming in droves and clinging to their sticky skin. Which is why they have been avoiding the Sun Room around midday, when the sun is at its highest, and its hottest. Though, many a lazy afternoon has passed in the warmth of the setting sun, as they bask in its reddish-gold rays.
Charlus is beside himself with joy at how well all of his fauna is blossoming, and unfurling into gorgeous displays of bursts of colour. Their smell drifts into the house through the perpetually open windows (the inhabitants of the manor desperate for any breeze they can get), and perfuming their surroundings with their delectable aroma. Mipsy has taken to going out into the Orchard to gather some of the newly ripe fruit, baking decadent, delicious pies, not to mention making freshly-squeezed juice for breakfast every morning.
It is almost as if one can forget there is a war raging all around them. Almost.
"We wanted to," Lily says gently, shooting Harry a wide smile, her rows of white teeth on fully display, and she closes the distance between them.
The crimson haired girl slowly embraces Harry, and wordlessly, James follows suit.
Ever so quietly—slightly muffled as Harry's forehead is resting on Lily's shoulder—comes, "thank you."
James tightens his grip on the boy, and marvels at how different everything is now, and how one moment, irrevocably altered the course of their lives forever.
"Can I see them again?" Harry asks, and Lily and James pull back immediately—just enough to thrust their wrists towards him, in order for him to see them properly. As if in a foggy daze, Harry tilts his head, and with a feather-light grip, grasps Lily's wrist.
"Do you like them? We tried to replicate parts of your scar when we had Killian draw it up," Lily informs him, and Harry nods dumbly, sniffling.
"They're beautiful," Harry responds, the fingers on his other hand moving to trace the lines of James's tattoo; the harsh, yet impossibly soft lines, ending in sharp strokes that appear to be attempting a wild escape upwards along their forearms.
Earnestly Harry's head shoots up, and he bares his raw emotions through his eyes, and once more, he thanks them.
James smirks, stepping forward and again, engulfs Harry in a hug.
Yes, it is far too easy, far too easy to forget about the war. For now that is.
