Spring, 1944.
His mother had cried on his first workday. "My boy, working for the Department of International Magical Co-operation! A future diplomat! I knew you'd be something great!"
Fast forward six months and Septimus was still tasked with the very important duties of fetching coffee and chasing rogue mail across the halls before being given the gravest task of them all: delivering pigments for a painter, so they could hang a fancy new portrait of their boss, the frightening Mr. Burke who haunted his nightmares.
Oh, and grab some pudding on his way back. Obviously.
Thank Merlin his father wasn't here to see what had become of the long and proud line of Weasley ministry workers. At least he had been a board member in the Floo Network Authority in the end, albeit for just a few months before his untimely, ironically funny end at the hands of Uncle Eustace's priceless Tudor-era fireplace.
He stopped outside the black door of the three-storey redbrick building. Usually, Septimus was not a vain nor an insecure man, but knowing that the gilded door knocker itself most likely cost more than his yearly wages did make him check twice that his tie was pin straight. Before his raised hand could meet the gilded griffin, the door swung in.
He was neither an easily scared man, but braver men than he would've let a similar high-pitch yelp when being greeted by a black eye. The perpetrator swiftly flew back and perched itself on the stair post, bending its silver wings in front of it in shame.
"Bloody hell, this old money," Septimus muttered before spelling away the injury, completely disregarding the fact that he had been born old money as well. "A golden snitch as a butler." He could've sworn the snitch let out a sniffle, so he had no choice but to add, "You are darn cute, so I forgive you."
The snitch perked up and tilted its body like a puppy would its head. Septimus bent down and pet the little thing with his forefinger. "Come on now, little guy. Show me to your lady."
The snitch shot up and flew a few celebratory rounds around its new friend's head before rushing upstairs. It had the decency to wait at the landing, and after a few more gentle scratches to its head it continued to the third floor. Thankfully Septimus' physique had drastically improved in his six months literally running puny errands for the higher-ups; otherwise, he would've complained about the steep stairs and how they were clearly not designed for fashionable floor-length velvet robes.
On his way up he finally paid attention to the townhouse, which he had no time downstairs due to the shocking welcome. Septimus was used to the hustle and bustle of his own home, where even the house-elves and spells couldn't keep up with the mess that eleven people in one household could cause. This house had no signs of being lived in; there wasn't even a speckle of dust, but neither were any personal belongings that he could see. The house was decorated in the same opulent way all the Sacred Twenty-Eight houses were, but there were no pictures, no signs of hobbies or personal interests, no nothing.
Things only changed on the top floor, when a hallway of paintings highlighted the way to the farthest room and the woman in front of an easel. Septimus saw strange new worlds, creatures of ages past, a wizard with a hair of fire, Hogwarts under the autumn moon, lovers walking on a serene lake, a child inside his dollhouse having a tea party, a mermaid braiding her seaweed hair, and finally, Her.
The snitch abandoned him in favour of its mistress, landing on her shoulder and snuggling her pale cheek. The painter offered her palm to the tiny butler, where it quickly curled into a sleepy ball in the warm embrace of her skin, not caring at all when its still-sitting mistress turned to their guest.
"You're not Ms. Mallard," a surprisingly low voice stated the obvious.
Septimus was taken aback by the lack of a greeting. "She's been sent to France. Better use of her talents, I've heard."
In fact, he had not heard of his predecessor for weeks. They had gotten along well, complaining about their equally menial tasks at lunch, and they had been equally shocked when she had been sent abroad.
Ms. Mallard had gone missing after the same battle as Mr. Burke.
Septimus tried not to think of it.
"And your talents are then better used here?" she inquired. Septimus was glad for the somewhat demeaning interruption before his thoughts went down the dark road.
"I suppose so. Not many people in the ministry have the talent for map-reading and conquering the London road network that I do."
She furrowed her eyebrows in the uncomfortable silence before slowly saying, "They are lucky to have you, then."
"It was a joke."
The grey eyes stared at him blankly. "…ah. I see."
"Not a very good one," he admitted.
The woman tilted her head and looked at her for a few more seconds before turning back to the easel. "I meant no shame. I remain here as well."
"The world needs beautiful things. No shame in that."
Septimus swore he heard a small sigh before the woman said, "I suppose so."
She had a low voice, clear enough to hear but far from the high-pitched chirping he was used to hearing from fancy ladies like her. He wasn't sure if they had been at Hogwarts at the same time, as her face escaped his memory, but the strong jaw, hooded eyes, and regal haughty looks screamed her ancestry to the world in a way his own never had.
Septimus cleared his throat, crossed the room, and placed the packet on the side table next to the easel. His attempt to quickly distance himself from the aloof painter was interrupted when the cold eyes of Mr. Burke met his own.
The likeness was striking. The same greying hair on the temples, the same stiff posture, but –
"He looks kind," he blurted out. Not at all like the stern boss he'd gotten used to, whose bellowing voice echoed through the hallways, the same voice Septimus has at first gladly bid goodbye on Mr. Burke's trip to France but has since learned to miss. His boss might have been stern, but he'd always been fair. He bent down to look at the painting closer, at the tiny details he would have otherwise missed.
"He is kind," he was answered. Septimus turned just enough so he could spy the painter from the corner of his eye, seeing how her hooded eyes spanned the canvas; the red poppy field, where the terrier at Burke's feet looked lovingly up at its master. "He is my cousin, on my mother's side. He used to play my butler when I was the princess of my own castle."
Somehow Septimus could imagine the cranky man standing still at a corner, waiting for his lady to finish her afternoon tea. Septimus had never played a king or a prince himself; he was raised in pureblood grandeur, after all. There had been no need to pretend. His youngest siblings had embraced playing pretend in a way he had never needed to.
He could think of nothing of substance to answer her, so he settled for the muttered platitude of " good man".
The low purr of the happy, sleepy snitch caught his attention. The painter's thumb slowly caressed the snitch in her palms, while her eyes scanned Septimus' features in a way that surely must go against the rules of polite society.
"I like your freckles."
"Ah. Ta?"
He could feel his cheeks turning to match his hair. Again, he found himself with nothing witty or interesting to say. Septimus did not know what to do; should he compliment her back? Perhaps on her slanted eyes that he could not read? Or perhaps he should mark the neat brush strokes? Or maybe –
"I like your painting."
Certainly not that, Septimus thought as he pondered on disapparating to his well-deserved death. He was never the one with words, he could speak endlessly but say only the wrong things, and –
"…was that a smile?" he blurted out.
The smile still twitched at the corners of her mouth when she said, "I did no such thing."
"Liar," he chuckled. Realising how close he was still standing to the easel and the lady, he finally straightened back up and took a step away. The small smile on her lips died before she spoke again.
"They will reject it, will they not?"
Septimus swallowed. "I believe so, yes. He looks too… cosy."
"And we don't want cosy in wartime, do we?" she sighed. He shifted his weight awkwardly and looked out the window, across the small front yard to other wealthy townhouses, their inhabitants ready for bed in the dusk.
"Add a griffin and a cannon in the background and that should fix it," he suggested only half-jokingly.
"Burke was afraid of griffins."
"…surely not?"
"One pecked him as a child, I hear."
Septimus chuckled at the unexpected crumb of knowledge. His stellar superior, not afraid of even death itself, was still shaken by a childhood memory. In the offending griffin's defence, Septimus was certain that the future minister had been reprimanding the beast for its non-standard length of talons or something silly like that.
"Enough of the dead," the painter blurted out and turned her back on the painting. "I shall make a new one. A worse one. Maybe he could ride a basilisk."
"Or a unicorn," Septimus suggested helpfully. She again turned to look at him, bemused.
"Not very terrifying, is it?"
"…a joke."
"Naturally," she nodded gravely before finally standing up to tower him and raising her hand in expectance. "Cedrella Black."
Her fingers were still covered in wet paint when Septimus shook her hand. "Septimus Weasley. Obviously." She cocked her head. "The hair," he muttered, feeling self-conscious about pointing it out.
Her eyes lingered on the hair for a moment or two, before stating, "I do not like presuming things." She pulled her hand free and swiped her hands on her apron.
Septimus stared at his palm coloured in blues and reds, forming a mosaic on his palm lines.
"Looks like a flubberworm," she said, staring intently at his still-raised hand. "A chubby one. Good for him."
He was just supposed to deliver some pigments at the end of the day. Drop them off, go home, and enjoy the weekend. In and out. But just like in the portraits in the hallway, he had been transferred to a strange new world, where a woman with chestnut hair talked softly about war heroes and painted his hands in a mosaic of colours and magical creatures.
What could he say? He was always quick to fall.
"Your cheek," he stammered. "A murtlap. I think." His paint-stained hand rose to level with her face, and with a clean finger, he drew a picture in the air. "Tentacles here, on the right. The nose on top. And, umm, some flames, on the bottom, coming from its… bottom."
And his mother still wondered why he was single and not blessing her with grandchildren.
"Fascinating creatures, murtlaps," Ms. Black said. His cheeks felt like fire when he quickly tucked his hand behind his back, but she gave no indication of embarrassment. Her grey eyes still scanned his features, over his constellations of freckles and the flaming red cheeks.
A siren filled his galloping mind.
"We are quite safe," she reassured him to no avail.
He'd never heard sirens before, but he instantly recognized them from the tales he'd heard.
"So loud," he muttered. Absent-mindedly his legs led him to the window, where the setting sun and orange skies did not tell about the destruction raining upon the city in just a few moments. He stood by the empty windowsill until the first rumbling reached his ears from somewhere out of his eyes reach.
"The ministry is so quiet," he whispered, but Ms. Black still heard him.
"Just because it is quiet, doesn't mean it is not happening," she said. "We wizards are safe. They are not. The least we can do is to not pretend we don't know that."
Septimus said not a word. He knew she was right, but at the moment he longed for nothing more except the quiet peace of his home, where the air smelled like fresh-baked scones and where there were no dark wizards, no skies painted orange by the flaming ruins of a grand city, no people making the streets their graves.
The soft murmur on his shoulder was accompanied by the gentle flap of the snitch's wings, which soon ceased altogether as the tiny creature snuggled at his neck. The cold metal felt oddly soothing against his skin, and almost instinctually he tilted his head towards his new, cuddly friend. He chuckled as the snitch purred, but even that tiny comfort could not tear his eyes away from the window.
Another boom echoed in the distance. His flinching body could not resist the tears, bravely held, finally falling on his freckled cheeks.
A pale hand lifted his own, but his blue eyes remained still.
"Look," a soft voice said. He finally followed the line their two hands formed, her elegant fingers supporting his, down to the front yard he'd paid no attention to before, where the city lights cast their mellow light on –
"Peonies," he whispered. Blush and peach and coral and mauve and violet and fuchsia and pink and plum, and all the other colours he could not name, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Bloomed today," Ms. Black smiled. He looked up at her grey eyes, looking downwards with adoration and warmth that made his mind throw a cartwheel, and the horrible world continued its turn a slightly better place than a second ago.
"Exquisite," he muttered, agreeing to a thought quite unrelated to the flowerbed. Suddenly feeling conscious about their still touching hands, he quickly drew his away and wiped the dampening palm on his emerald robes. He miraculously enough managed to shift his gaze back to the peonies, but keeping his gaze there turned out to be a difficult task indeed, with Ms. Black breathing right beside him. From the corner of his eye, he spied her tucking a runaway lock of dark brown hair back behind her ear, and by that point he had made up his mind.
"Ms. Black, could I -" he began and frightened himself with his squeaky voice. He turned to face her, cleared his throat, and tried again.
"We could, perhaps – "he tried again, but at that moment she raised her hand to pet the snitch still perched on his shoulder, and her forefinger, surely by accident, brushed his cheek, and with all the courage within him, he managed to say:
"Buh-bye."
NO, he screamed inside.
"Enjoy your pigments," his mouth helpfully saved the situation.
NOT THAT EITHER.
"Happy painting," he concluded in defeat and practically sprang to the door, the snitch escaping the sprint halfway and buzzing in quite a cross manner around him. His hand was already at the gilded doorknob when behind him he heard the most peculiar thing.
"Stay safe, Septimus."
He turned to look at her over his shoulder at Her, the snitch perched on her forefinger, and most importantly, a shy smile on her lips. The murtlap still decorated her cheek, and her apron was still a modern piece of art with all the mismatched colours, and Septimus was so, so afraid of leaving and never coming back to this haven he'd found with her.
He nodded furiously and closed the door behind him, his heart thundering in his chest. The steep steps of the Victorian country-house nearly tripped him on his rush downstairs and to the cruel outside world, where the city was blessed with a few moments of peace and quiet. He bent down towards the red bloom of peonies and let the soft scent fill his nostrils and a smile tucked his lips, with one thought on his mind:
Spring!