This is a fan work. I don't own the copyright to Harry Potter. She-Who-Should-Stop-Tweeting does, but I also don't spend millions trying to hurt trans folks, so...


Week Two


A white blur speeds past his head, and a hard talon nicks his cheek. Harry yelps, scrambling for his glasses and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Easy, Hedwig!"

With a screech he wasn't aware she could produce and a dive at its head, she sends the gigantic barn owl out the window. A bundle of parchment the size of a shoebox falls to the floor of the dorm with a thump.

Another screech outside is followed by another bundle of parchment crashing through the window between Dean and Seamus' bed, where it impacts Seamus' trunk and explodes into hundreds of fluttering pages. A startled, bare-assed Dean scrambles back to his own bed.

"I-I-I..."

Harry holds up his hand.

"Happy for you, mate."

"Er, right. Thanks."

A third parchment projectile flies through the window and straight through the curtains of Neville's bed.

"Oww..."

"You good, mate?" Seamus calls out.

"Right in the bludgers," Neville groans. "Harry, your post is trying to kill me."

He pushes the bundle out of the curtains of his bed and it hits the floor like the foot of a charging troll.

Apparently satisfied with her re-enactment of the Battle of Britain and the rout of the remaining attackers, Hedwig swoops back through the window and lands on Harry's shoulder. She hoots softly and brushes her wing against his bleeding cheek.

"Yeah, yeah. Love you too, girl. Just...mind the claws. And maybe don't kill the other owls? They're just doing their jobs, I'm sure."

She nips his ear-no blood, this time-and sails over to the perch by his bed. Delphini babbles something from her basket beside it, and Hedwig hoots a cheerful-seeming reply.

"Merlin's tits! How is Ron still asleep?" Neville wonders.


"Nine thousand one hundred and four, wait..."

Harry glances back at the Great Flight's mail receipt. Apparently, it's possible to get enough mail to need a receipt and according to Neville, a veela family out of Holland operates every for-hire mail owl in Europe and North Africa. Must help that they can fly off after any misbehaving owls. Having seen Fleur after someone's eyes lingered too low and too long, he doesn't want to think about an angry veela.

"We're short a few," he tells Dean, who was keeping count. "Last thing I need is to not respond to some Dark Lady's marriage proposal and get another nemesis."

Seamus snorts and looks around.

"There's two more under your arse, mate."

Ron blushes red as his Christmas sweater and hands the contracts over.


Albus has been through almost every bottle in the cabinet. A few less-important memories are spattered around the pensive's base, writhing unhappily on the stones. Fawkes is preening his just-burned body on his perch, flexing his unready wings and beating madly, but not managing even a hop.

He must look dreadful. A long night of watching memories of events no one should have to experience, let alone confess to him, let alone provide him with copies of. He knews there had to be something he missed, so he plunged himself face-first into the war.

A bottle of mercy and kindness made flesh. A field report from Marlene McKinnon, two weeks before her murder. Lily Potter in the lead, wand tip spitting sparks as she stands guard. Picking her way through a ruined Muggle home, covering the father's body with a sheet. Healing the cuts the Aurors didn't bother with, putting a little girl back to rights, healing injuries a male Auror wouldn't even consider, straightening the victims' minds beyond simply wiping the remnants of magic...moving the maid's body from atop the trapdoor and searching the bolt-hole to find twin girls, tucked behind a false wall. Muggle trickery, not magical, and missed by the arrogant beasts who had attacked. The Order sent the family to France, as he recalls. Or maybe it was Russia. He remembers Marlene demanding they go to a place where the schools would take a squib in right alongside her witch sister, teach her potions and runes, jewelry-crafting and dragonhide tanning and acromantula silk spinning. All the things squibs could do for wizards, if only they were asked.

Marlene was such a gifted legilimens, and she had a Healer's heart if ever there was one. Were Marlene alive, Albus has no doubt that wizardkind would be happier and saner.

A bottle of pure fury. Sirius Black, shrieking his rage at a Death Eater, unleashing the full wickedness of his family's ancient grimoires, his wand-tip spitting dark magic not cast in centuries. Gut twisting with shame when James Potter catches up to him and his wand hand twitches as if he's afraid of Sirius. Inside the apartment, finding the Muggle's ravaged body sprawled on her bed, cut and sliced and peeled and stabbed, broken bones piercing her skin outwards, not in. Meaning she'd snapped them herself while fighting her bonds, thrashing in pain. Unblemished above her neck. The metal rings and studs in her face left pristine, so Sirius would recognize her.

Carrying a shrouded mass in his arms in Muggle London, tucked under James' cloak. A door lacquered red creaking open to show a stately, dark-haired woman with snow-white skin and rivers of dark curls. "She deserves a burial, Andi, but I...don't remember the rites." A nod, a cup of tea, a long hug from Ted before he hurries young Nymphadora away from the 'grown-up stuff' she is far too young to see.

A witches' pyre of yew and ash and slivered oak. The corpse washed in a cold stream and clad in linen. Mourner's bodies bare, painted in woad and crushed herbs. Flint scraping along the blade of a copper athame. Embers fanned to flame with living breath. Flames crackling, spitting sparks higher than the tops of the trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Andromeda's hand firm and steady on Sirius' shoulder, her head leaned against his on one side, James on the other.

A funeral fit for a pureblood lady, for a Black, even for Boudica herself. Honors of the Old Ways, the sort reserved for a war-witch fallen in defense of Britain. And without a drop of magic in her, the poor girl had done just that. She knew where Sirius was staying in the Muggle world, but her killers never came for him, which could only mean that they didn't-couldn't-get it out of her. "One night, Prongs. We were smashed. Sex Pistols. She had tickets-bloody hard to get those, mind you-so I did whatever she asked. Wasn't exactly a hardship, mind. She did this thing..." A disapproving glare from Lily. "I'm not even sure I got her name." James' hand clasped tight around Sirius', with one of Lily's clamped on each man's wrist. Swearing the Unbreakable Vow that the next one of them to lay eyes on Bellatrix Lestrange either kills her or dies trying, and whoever survives cares for Harry.

With the truth in hand, Albus wonders how he ever dreamed Sirius could betray James. He didn't use his clout in the Wizengamot, or his powers as chief Warlock, or even as headmaster in the school. He didn't lift a finger to save Sirius. It was two thirteen-year-olds who saved him.

He slumps back in his chair, having completed his review of the memories given to him by every Order member that has fallen. Best to send owls to those left standing. He has to have missed something. Tom was a brilliant lad from the day Albus met him, but no killer is perfect at covering their tracks. There's a clue here. A thread he can pull on, and a clue to chase towards the next clue, and the next, until he finds what exactly Tom did. Once he knows what the curse or ritual is, he can look at counter-curses and ask ward-breakers like the eldest Weasley. Brilliant lad. Taste for adventure and old treasure. Bit like Albus himself at that age.

Whatever it takes to make it right for Harry.

It should be a simple choice. The Greater Good, and a victory for the light. What's one boy weighed against that? What's orphaning one more child, especially with plans in place to care for her?

"Albus, you romantic, you," Gellert would have drawled if he were here. "This is why I win our little skirmishes, you know..." he would tease, mismatched eyes gleaming and his hair perpetually caught in the breeze. He fondly recalls a summer afternoon where Ariana sat on the rock by the beach, reading, and keeping their secret from Aberforth. For a price. She had asked to visit a Muggle city to see something new. In London, they discovered Muggles had taken to putting knives on their shoes and dancing on ice. With a grin, she deemed it new enough, and let her brother and 'Uncle Gellert' take her home.

Knives on shoes and the Greater Good have been much on his mind since a Ravenclaw in his office the other day went on and on about that-apparently it's called 'figure skating'-and how she was training to compete in it when she got her letter. She'd wondered with cheeks stuffed full of lemon drops if they allowed witches to try out. The Olympics are coming up, she explained. When he had joked about it being 'newfangled' she'd shot back that it had been a popular sport for a century. That trip to London for Ariana crashed back on him.

A century. That's how long he's been doing what's right on paper, after looking at every angle and pitfall, adding suffering of innocents and subtracting the defeat of the wicked, dividing and reducing...rather than doing what's right in the gut-instinct, by-the-heart way.

"A good man cannot bring about the Greater Good," Gellert told him one lazy, foggy morning. "We give up our right to that."

Albus could take the babe away, or let her be taken after Harry's sacrifice. Half a dozen families he trusts could raise her, and do so far more kindly than Harry was raised. Or rather, he could have before he saw Harry half-sob, half-laugh when Delphini furrowed her eyebrows and glowered at him like she wanted to grow hair to match her father. He's the only father she's ever known, and Dumbledore wonders if she's the first person Harry's had who he would live for. He's long since proved his bravery and his willingness to die for Hermione, Ginny, Ron and even a total stranger in a lake.

No. Sacrificing Harry will not do, not at all. These traps of Tom's are foul, awful, unnatural things, but they're just things. Things can be broken, as Harry had proven with the diary-though he had not a notion of what it was. Delphini deserves another way. Albus couldn't call himself the greatest wizard alive if he doesn't find it, and he's terribly fond of calling himself that.

He casts a waterproofing charm on his robes and aims his wand at his face for a blast of cold water.

The bell on his desk rings.

"Yes?"

The brass twists and curls into a pair of lips. "Harry Potter is waiting downstairs," it replies before the charm fades.

He should not let Harry see him like this. It isn't headmasterly of him, and it certainly isn't Leader-of-the-Light of him. Too familiar. Too much like colleagues, or equals. Too much, dare he think it, like friends.

"Send him up."


Harry blows out a long breath, shakes the nervousness out of his limbs, and strides up the gargoyle. Dumbledore's passwords aren't exactly hard to guess-whatever candy he's been eating the week before-and he supposes it's on purpose, so students can find him if they need to talk.

"Marshmallow manticores."

The statue rotates aside, and the staircase replaces it.


"'Mione?" Someone asks in a voice she doesn't recognize, small and meek.

Hermione jerks her head out of her book and scans the room. Two third years flinch and duck behind a table. A fleck of pure heat drops down into her tea. Great. She's so pissed off her hair is doing that weird thing where it sparks.

"I, uh, I'll come back later. Sorry."

She wheels to face the voice.

"Harry?"

"Hi!" He replies from behind a stack of paper the size of a firstie, wiggling a pinky as a hello. Doing any more would probably drop the stack.

She huffs her amusement and flicks her wand to transfigure the nearest chair back to full size, then waves through another pattern to dispel the wards. Handy way to avoid table-mates while studying.

Non-lethal, even.

"Right. What are those? Detention notes from Snape?"

"Remember when you said it'd take a flock of owls to carry the marriage offers?"

Hermione drops her face into her hands.

"I'll clear the table, then."


Harry has been watching Hermione for over an hour now. She flicks her wand, lifts a parchment off the stack-don't touch papers you don't trust, Moody told them, compulsion curses and so on-and moves it in front of her, slides it behind a piece of charmed glass, and starts reading.

Watching her work is fun. She does all these strange things. Chews on her pencil, leaving lipstick on it if she's had a row with Lavender lately and starts wearing make-up to prove she can. She huffs angrily when her hair falls into her face, pulls her wand out of the bun at the top and casts immobilizing jinxes at it and goes back to work. Sometimes, she asks Harry to hold it back while she gets out a hair tie. It doesn't behave, but neither does his, and her curls spill out of his hand like wild animals playing. Maybe she'll let him do that for her tonight.

When she's reading something stupid, or that makes her angry-Muggle studies, usually-her face scrunches up. It makes the little freckle things across her nose-creamy tan rather than nut-brown-draw together like a bird's feathers when it closes its wings. When she's been studying for hours, she fishes in her bag for reading glasses-her grandmum's, she explained-that she spelled to her prescription and covered in twinkling jade-green runes to keep bullies from getting them. They'd probably blow Malfoy's leg off if he tried to step on them.

"Well?" He asks.

Hermione laughs, but it's squeaky.

"I'm not sure what to say, Harry. We're only sixty contracts in and it's all over the place. Some of them look more like invoices than marriage proposals. Sign here, pay dowry, and she's yours, no questions asked and let her dad know if she gets cheeky about not sleeping with you."

"Spectacular," he huffs. "Boy-Who-Lived becomes Arsehole-Who-Enslaved."

"Others are huge lists. More like a Muggle pre-nup."

"A pre-what?"

"It's an agreement before marriage that sets up what happens if there's a divorce. My mum and dad signed one, just in case."

"Your mum and dad seem real happy with each other."

"Sure," she replies. "But since they were merging their practices, there were employees involved, loans, rent for the office space. If they do get divorced, they want the practices to survive. It wasn't just about them. Here, look at Morag MacDougals's. It's a good example of a strong one."

She slides another sheet under the glass.

"Page one is the family expressing her interest in a marriage, explaining how many heirs would be Potter and how many MacDougal. You only get the first two, unless the first two are both boys. One boy each and one girl each, if you have four kids. Page two is her expectations for courtship. How many dates, which ones have to be chaperoned, intervals at which she can tell you to piss off if she doesn't like you, which family members you need to get the approval of. Her dowry is practical: Her dad wants farmable land, already warded. Her mum wants heirlooms from the Potter vault. Weapons, ideally. I think I might have to meet her mum!"

"Pages three through eight are you agreeing to stipulations and protections beyond what Ministry law provides wives. I'm going to have to get a copy of that law," she snarls. "Having access to her own money, disagreeing in public and not being beaten shouldn't be extras...and then there's a letter in here. Looks like it was written to you when she was a girl. Notes on the back added after she met you in school."

"Huh."

"Huh? Huh, Harry Potter? I'm basically acting as your solicitor, for free. Do you know what the going rate for a wizarding solicitor is? There's a reason Andromeda Tonks is doing just fine without her family's money. Between her and Ted, I think the only reason they have that little cottage is Tonks would trip and knock the house over if it was any bigger."

"Now I get the feeling I don't want to know. Let me know and I'll pay you. I...I can't trust boys with this, Hermione. Neville, maybe. He was a gentleman about it. Explained a few things about what I have to do. But some of these have, ah..."

"I'm well aware of the boudoir photos Pansy Parkinson sent you, Harry Potter. Surprised she was willing to have those taken. She hates our guts. More surprised she owns a tailored Muggle pantsuit. Probably figured it'd get your attention to pay lip service to Muggles."

"So you can see why I want you, who I can trust not to be...weird about it? Right? These pictures don't belong to me, not really. I don't want those all going up like the Chudley Cannons posters over Ron's bed."

"I dealt with Pansy's," Hermione assures him, catching her lip in her teeth. She glances over to a warded strongbox.

"That's a relief."

She yawns, stretching in her chair. It's like watching a grumpy lion having a bad mane day.

"Off to bed, you tired witch."

"Another hour..." she whines.


"So if we've met, or she goes to school here, I have to turn it down in person?"

Neville nods. "It's an honor to get them, and it's an insult not to look her in the eye, even if you don't want her. Some families just want the contract back, but that's not gentlemanly to her. I'll teach you how to do it. Gran sent me a howler the other day about being Heir and making sure I didn't offend any witches."

Hermione scribbles down a note and starts counting and scratching notes on what they've dubbed The Index.

"But I can write back to the ones I've never met?"

"It's pretty ordinary to reply by owl, especially if he or she lives somewhere far off. Don't think any would be too surprised that Harry Potter is a bit overworked right now."

"She?" Hermione demands. "Women get these?"

For the first time any of them can remember, Neville looks at Hermione as if she just said something stupid.

"Why wouldn't they? Some witches come from rich families, some are really good with the family magic. Maybe some family's got a fit son, but not much else, and he figures they can marry into the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Gran says that Cassiopeia Black got piles of them. Took the rejects and lit them on fire in the great hall. Headmaster Dippet fainted."

Hermione cocks her head.

"Interesting. Makes sense, though. Families keep magic to themselves, the books barely mention it. Letting you see the spellbooks can be more important than the dowry. Blacks are known for curses and rituals. Parkinsons seem to be big on poison and fancy potions. Yaxleys seem to be in the animal business."

Her face twists.

"And the house-elf business. They live close to the Parkinsons, vote together in the Wizengamot, and so on. Probably because they sell them venoms. Seems like a lot of these letters are just as concerned with getting access to the Potter family magic as Harry. I'd marry Cassiopeia if I could get my hands on the Black Library."

"Well, she's eighty-something."

"Pfft. Witches age slower."

Harry and Neville just stare at her.

"It's a joke!"

"What about the Potters?"

"Potions, but just recently. Battle magic, like the Bones. I think 'Bones' may be from way back. Like, maybe they were priests before Christianity. Lots of ceremonies use animal bones."

Neville shrugs.

"Makes sense. Lots of families take their babies to a Bones for a blessing at Midsummer."

"Midsummer?"

"Wizarding holiday, Harry. It's one of the two big ones. Midwinter, Beltane, Midsummer, Samhain."

Hermione lifts her head from the notebook it was buried in.

"Those are all pagan holidays. Neville, are pure-bloods usually not Christian?"

He shrugs.

"Depends. Not the Bones. Wouldn't be anyone left who could preside over a Midwinter if the Bones converted. Gran says that Dumbledore nearly got sacked not long after he started when he stopped doing the hols and just did Christmas-the break starts after Midwinter, you see-and it was Madam Bones' mum who went after him. Weasleys usually marry in churches, but I don't know if they go besides that. Potters too, at least if the wife wants it. Abbotts are...well, the Abbotts. They stuck pretty close with the Church, until things got bad. Lot of the wizard vicars are Abbotts, and plenty of the squib pastors and priests were trained by them. It's part of how they got the name. Longbottoms..."

He gulps.

"Merlin. No idea. Gran says my mum and dad just scuppered off to the Ministry and got the papers. It's been a long time since a Longbottom got married, so I guess it depends on who I marry. I think your dad converted for your mum, Harry. But his parents didn't. You don't ask a Black to give up the old ways. It's just not done."

"What's House Black got to do with my family?"

"Your dad's mum was Dorea Potter, but she was born Dorea Black. It's a big honor if you can get a Black to attend your Midwinter bonfire...at least it was. Most people don't invite them to Beltane. That holiday's already a randy one and Blacks have a..."

Neville cocks his head and thinks it over.

"Reputation. I think Sirius Black maybe isn't so weird, as Blacks go. A few of my aunts giggle about snogging him, when they're really drunk. Gran always told me that if I was courting a Black, or any girl with Black blood, I needed to get a husbandry tutor."

"A what now?"

Neville's cheeks go red as a Weasley's hair.

"Black ladies are known for hexing a bloke if the wedding night goes badly." He straightens up and squares his shoulders. "It's part of a wizard's job to keep his witch happy, keep her magic stable and all that. And you don't want a witch with the itch hexing you. Better to study up."

"Interesting," Hermione mumbles, looking like she's about to laugh.

"The Dark families usually keep the old ways. Not sure if it's a religion to them, like a 'where you go when you die' thing, but it's what you do. You do the rites, you do the sacrifices, you say the words. Christianity is a Muggle religion, and Dark families like to hold a grudge. Malfoy's great-grandmother is still stalking around somewhere. She was alive during the witch trials and when the Statute of Secrecy was passed. Lot of Muggles, Muggle-borns and even some half-bloods ended up dead all of a sudden. I think it was so that there wouldn't be people who would talk."

"Oh."

Hermione turns around to face Neville.

"How do you know all this?"

"Gran made me learn it. Uncle Algie thought if I was a squib, I could have a job keeping up the family library."

"Why the bloody hell aren't you teaching History of Magic?" Harry grumbles.


Harry stumbles out of Divination, yawning. It's loads better since Tonks showed him some charms for the teacup-apparently, Hufflepuffs pride themselves on being good at divination-but Trelawney still drones on and the hot room, incense, and cushions on the benches make it almost as easy to fall asleep as it is in Binn's class. Lately, falling asleep is something he's become real good at. Dumbledore's set three tutors on him to get him ready-"Just in case, of course, my dear boy."-and said it's important that Harry keep himself safe while they 'sort out' this mess with Voldemort.

One dueling tutor, one theory and spell-crafting tutor, and one for devices and potions. He's got tired and sore parts where he didn't know he had parts, and Trelawney's classroom is a sleeping potion with a trapdoor. He'd drop it again, even if he is learning a bit of usable magic, finally, but Delphini seems to love the place.

Easy OWL and puts the baby to sleep.

As he winds past the sixth floor stairs, he hears a sound like a mouse being squeezed to death. If he can't learn to spot terrifying amounts of pink just off to the left, he's got no chance. Death Eaters wear black, and have the brains to skulk around at night, not lurking next to a Ravenclaw study group in a Charms classroom like an overgrown sweet stuck to the wall. And he still missed her.

"Yes, Professor?"

"How is fatherhood treating you, Mr. Potter? She's a lovely child. What's her name?"

"It's fine, thanks. Have a good afternoon."

"I didn't dismiss you, Mr. Potter. I think it's time we had a nice little talk. Don't you think?"

He tugs on the string at the edge of his sleeve and drops his wand into his hand.

"First class you're in, you call me a liar and imply I killed Cedric."

"I merely pointed out that your story is a bit..." She giggles. "Fanciful."

"We're wizards and witches. We use magic. Our chocolates hop around. That stuff's fanciful. Makes sense that a paranoid git like Vold-"

"Don't say his name!" She wails. "For Magic's sake, there's a chil-"

"I will protect her. And she will be raised to be brave, and not be afraid of dumb nicknames. First class, you insult me, implied I killed Cedric, my friend. And give me detention. Second class we're in, you tried to kill my owl. Then you insulted my friend when she stopped you. So why on Earth would I want to talk to you?"

"Why on what?"

Harry groans.

"Muggle saying. Earth? We stand on it? Big ball of dirt? Bunch of countries?" He waves his wand at the hallway. "Castle or two standing on it? Why on Earth? Do pure-bloods have to be difficult about every little thing?"

Her smile cracks, just a bit, so she fake-giggles a little harder. Her laugh is like that one teacup Dudley made her when he was six. It's cracked and leaks, but Petunia swears it's in the best cup in the house.

"Well, I'd be happy to teach you about our proud trad-"

Harry rubs his fist in his eye-bloody incense, maybe Hermione's right and he's allergic to it-but he makes sure that his wand tip is always pointed in her direction. He's not too worried about shielding Delphini's basket, not yet. Hermione, Luna, and the Ancient Runes class did an extra-credit project to 'celebrate' Harry switching from Care of Magical Creatures to Runes. Some old thing about Hagrid and Babbling not getting along. The basket is a Gringotts vault with a blanket in it.

"I'm fine, Professor. I already have several tutors to keep up with. Good afternoon."

"Oh? Tutors in what?"

"Good afternoon."

"I didn't dismiss you."

"So put me in detention, then. I'm going to get D-the baby back to Gryffindor Tower. We've had a run of..." He pretends to have to think. "Four Defense Against the Dark Arts professors who've tried to kill children, so far."

He throws up a shield charm just in case she's quicker on the uptake than Dudley is, and makes sure to use that one the Korean lady invented that also works as a silencing charm. Delphini is finally asleep.

He'd like her to stay that way.


Raising a hand without realizing it, Pansy scratches at the blemish forming on her shoulder. Seems to run in groups. If one witch in a dormitory has the itch, so do the others, or they will soon. To be expected, perhaps, with so many witches in close quarters, auras pressing close and the miasma of spent magic exhaled with every breath.

Cringing at her own crassness, she looks around to make sure the Common Room is empty.

Slytherin, house of the cunning. Apparently she missed that class in first year because the sight of her sent the first, second, third and even fourth years scattering from the Common Room. They haven't come back.

She flicks her wand and summons some parchment for her bag, then flicks it again and transfigures a table out of the sterling silver paperweight Draco had "donated" to the Common Room.

It's like fixing a potions recipe," she reminds herself. "Break the problem down into smaller pieces.

Problem one: Hermione is in Gryffindor, the house with the worst attitude towards Slytherins. Were she in Ravenclaw-Why the bloody hell isn't she, with that mind of hers?-a rare book and tea with Pepper-Up in it would be enough to get an audience. Hufflepuff would be more difficult, because she'd need to impress friends, not just her target. But Gryffindor hates Slytherin, thanks to Draco Malfoy as much as anything. If only she could prove those rumors that Granger and Potter met before the sorting. Everyone in their year saw that Potter was a hat-stall, and a long one at that. The Boy-Who-Lived rejected Slytherin because of Draco. It would be an easy tale to tell, that rumor...and might even be true.

Problem two: They only share one class, Defense, and that over-perfumed, over-laced abomination the Ministry had sent watches them closely. Hermione especially, after she trounced the overgrown marshmallow on the third day. Pass a note? Stinging hex. Cough too loud? Silencing jinx.

Problem three: Potter and Weasley. Weasley is a lost cause, but for his idiocy more than his blood-traitor family. Clearly the oldest three brothers got the lion's share-as it were-because all indications from her aunts and older cousins are that Heir Weasley was a proper gentleman, and a proper treat for the eyes. Potter is a wild card. He could smooth things over, or if he tells Granger he dislikes Pansy, he could raise a wall a dragon couldn't fly over.

Problem four: Granger is a...best not even to think it, break the habit...Granger has no family name to live up to. She's free in a way no pure or half-blood ever could be, free to amass magic and gold and power and do anything or nothing with it. She could marry for love, or not marry at all. Thanks to Draco-note to self, poison that smarmy twat-Granger thinks that everyone in Slytherin thinks she's vermin.

She has answers to none of the above. Granger draws her wand the instant she sees Pansy, and Salazar take her for her stupidity, she's participated in some of the Slytherin schemes and taunts, back before she understood why Hermione Granger made her feel so strange. How is she supposed to get close? How is she supposed to convince her skittish lion that she means no harm?

"Gods below and above, woman." Pansy huffs. "You're not making this easy."


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