The Ones That Love Us Never Leave Us. You Can Always Find Them.

Absently, she petted at the little kid, sweet thing newborn and delicate, wobbly legs and hummed in gentle reassurance. A song she didn't quite remember vibrated in her throat, weak, a little pitchy. Faintly, she missed her more powerful voice, how easy it had been to lift into song and spell. Her voice wasn't as strong, in this life, wispy and a little breathless even when she attempted her best. As high as a songbird, with none of the finesse. The baby in her arms was a goat, sweet and new, and he seemed to like her voice despite that. The little kid resembled its mother with black fur spotted with white and gold luminous eyes. It bleated in a warble, as finely as her own voice, she noted with amusement. It was still covered in the after-birth, and it was a bit of a mess. Sticky and truly smelling awful, covering her pantaloons- trouser- clad legs.

But she didn't mind, smiling widely as he smiled at her in a crooked grin, brilliant eyes twinkling.

He sat with the mother, his long, unruly hair matted with sweat from the heat of his well-performed warming charms. Pulled back by a single tie, but still sticking up this way and that, wispy strands of his hair untamable. Guilessly, he petted the mother goat, sweetly cooing at a job well done. He didn't even notice that the goat was chewing at the edge of his robe. Or didn't truly care. His robes were often full of holes, and she wished she could mend them. Magically, she could not, too raw and young. And after she had broken all the needles in the house in a half-remembered ritual in their garden for finer soil, she suspects she would not be allowed near them again.

"You did well," he said cheerily, watching as she guided the shaky baby goat to its mother's teats, "You didn't flinch at all."

"It's a part of life," she said, simply. She supposed most children her age would be unsettled, but they both knew she was not most children her age. What was helping another creature give birth when you had memories of doing it yourself? Well, they were vague memories, but they were there.

"Still, all things considered. I expected some sort of squeal. Or a wrinkled nose at least."

She gave a slight huff, amused at the genuine fondness in his light eyes. It was strange, to say the least, to understand him- She had never had him, in her life as Rowena. She had been the last Ravenclaw for a long time, having lost her family at a frightfully young age. Living in another clan's household until she had been of age to set off on her own. They had been kind people, she remembered, but never warm. Too many of their own children to give warmth and affection. Who would think of the small child they had taken in?

Meeting her friends had sustained that part of her. Given that lonely little girl a family. Having Ruradiarh and Helena had only made her all the happier. Losing Helena had taken a part of her she would never recover as Rowena... But, now, being a part of a family again, small as it was... Strange.

But good.

Strange and good to have. Because it was slowly helping her recover from the loss she suspects had sapped her strength and killed her more than the fever had.

"We kept goats in Hogwarts," she said, softly. A flash of memory, something far away came to her, "Godric was fond of their cheese. But the herd was brought in by Salazar- he liked to keep a steady supply of Bezoars. Do they still do that, keep goats?"

He snorts, a gleam of interest in his eyes. He liked it when she spoke of before, of being Rowena, because it was a secret between them. Because she wanted it to stay that way. She did not like the thought of being exposed or judged for who she had been- She was still figuring out who she was becoming, much as she knew she would always be partly Rowena, and she did not want witches and wizards coming to them with questions and doubts. And there would be questions, there would be doubts. When she had been Rowena, she would have been able to take it. As she was now, she was too new, too soft, too unmade to confront what her coming back would mean to the World at large.

She could not do it alone, she needed her friends to stand with her. I cannot stand alone as I had before, my pride and stubbornness had prevented me from reaching out, and it will not to do that again.

"Far as I know, no. But I remember seeing chickens. Maybe I would've liked being there if they had goats. I like the milk," He said cheerfully.

She smiled.

"So do I... I didn't before. But I do now."

There were a lot of things like that. Some of her favorites tasted off on her tongue, or she did not quite like the darkness of the color of her clan's shade of blue against her skin, too pale, not quite the right shade to look, unlike a corpse. She could not sing, she liked goat's milk now. It was little things, little things changed that often startled her the most. Maybe it was because she expected the large things to be so different that it was the small things that stunned her. Maybe it was because it was the small things that were so often the most different. She wasn't quite sure.

"I gave it to you as a baby, after you weaned yourself. Maybe that's why?"

She hummed.

"I am a new person. Perhaps I will no longer like the taste of mead, or I will be horrible at sewing!"

He visibly twitched at the tangential mention of needles.

"I thought it was Helga that was good at the domestic arts?"

Her lips quirked, not quite a smile, but something like it at his misconception. A common one, to be sure. The Wizarding and Witching World was full of them. Some thought Godric simple-minded, some called Salazar elegant in manner, some perceived for Helga to be matronly to the extreme. In the centuries since their life, they had all been broken down, stripped of the people they had been, and left as simple archetypes. The founders of Hogwarts had ceased to be people, but rather paragons. Characterized by their most minimalist of traits.

Rowena the Wise. Rowena the Studious Bore.

Salazar the Ambitious. Salazar the Villainous Evil.

Godric the Brave. Godric the Reckless Fool.

Helga the Fair. Helga the Domestic Doormat.

All of us as nothing but that which we once valued. How disheartening it is, to see our legacies reduce us to these shadows of the people we had been.

"She was a fair cook and her feasts were legendary. But she did not have a natural hand at clothing. That was my natural art. But from what I can gather, she earned herself quite the reputation for that afterward… She liked to loom if illy, when I was alive."

He looked as if he wanted to write it down, face fascinated as she recalled facts of so long ago. But because he loved her, he did no such thing. Content on her behalf to instead share in the secret.

And for that, she loved him so much in return.

OOOOOOOOO

1983

Arthur Weasley woke to an aching back, and with his eldest son, curled tightly against his side. On his other side, his wife was resting much the same. They were warm, reassuring weights. He looked at Molly's sweet face, soft in sleep. Stress lined her face, however. Dark bruises beneath her eyes, telling him how she must have stayed up, longer than him, certainly, as she had been pacing as he had drifted off. Last he had checked, he had fallen asleep a little bit after midnight. Arthur lifted his hand and carefully traced the lines of her cheeks, her slightly furrowed brow. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She didn't wake, only gave a gentle snore. Arthur turned to look at Bill.

His eldest son, too, was lost in sleep. Face slack, eyelashes trembling. Arthur tried not to focus on the dark spots beneath his son's eyes, tried not to tremble at the dried tear tracks he spotted along his still round cheeks. He tried not to think of his other children, and the expression on Bilius's face, holding and bouncing little Ginny. He tried not to think of Charlie's face or how his fists had trembled. How Percy had blinked owlishly at him, his face starkly pale, freckles standing out, his little hands on the twins' shoulders.

It was the twins' faces that kept coming back: the look on their faces, the tears in their little five-year-olds' faces that really haunted him. They blamed themselves as children often do. It wasn't their fault at all. Molly had only been able to figure out from the twins that they had been taking back their teddy when "Ronnie went wrong." And their act of usual mischief had simply led to consequences that no one had expected.

Arthur couldn't help but remember his twins repeating: "Did we do that to him, Dad?", "He can keep the teddy, we don't need it," "We didn't mean to make him wrong." Arthur wondered how to talk to them about it. He didn't know how to reassure his children that they weren't at fault, that Ron's body was somehow wrong, somehow sick, and that it wasn't something that they had done to him.

"There's some tea if you need it," whispered a voice. He looked up, another med-wizard, lime green robes and all, holding a clipboard and nodding slightly to the table in front of him.

Arthur blinked rapidly behind his glasses and looked at the steaming pot.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice hoarser than normal, thick with sleep.

The med-wizard smiled faintly.

"Any news?"

The man, who Arthur vaguely remembers being in the room with Ron, gave a helpless sort of half-shrug.

"Your son survived the night, we just got another team to monitor him," said the Healer, voice tired, "If you need anything else, Mr. Weasley, please tell Mary at the desk. She'll help you out. The cafeteria will open in an hour as well."

"Get some rest and thank you for the tea."

" 'Course. Don't lose hope, sir."

With that, the Healer left the room. Don't lose hope. I suppose I can manage that much. Carefully, Arthur left his seat, mindful of his sleeping wife and son. He placed a single spoonful of sugar into his tea, black he realized, and brought it to his lips. It was a nice enough blend and brought a little life into Arthur. He took a deeper sip, lips dry and cracked. It did not take long for him to finish his tea and he poured himself another cup, grateful for the healer that had brought an entire pot. He began to pace. Just to stretch his legs, but with each step, his agitation grew and his pacing increased. Tea still in hand. He paced until he heard Molly wake, and he silently passed her a cup of tea with honey and milk, just as she preferred.

Her strained smile was telling as was the way she silently stared at the cup.

"Arthur..."

"Good morning, no news yet," he told her gently, "Ronnie… Ronnie did live the night."

Her expression crumpled, even as she tried her best to stifle her tears.

A witch came then, lime-green robes flying.

"Erm, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley?"

Molly dropped her teacup. Bill startled awake and jumped to his feet.

"Oh no," she wailed, voice cracking.

The witch seriously shook her head. A smile that looked a touch too widespread on her face.

"Oh no, Mrs. Weasley," said the witch immediately, voice soothing, "It's just, Ronald is awake, and he has some rather unintended visitors. Please, tell me you have twin boys?"

Arthur let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. It came out with a touch of a groan.

"Yes, yes we do, George and Fred."

The witch huffed a laugh.

"Called themselves Forge and Gred, but I'd figured they were yours with that red hair. They managed to Floo over, and as sweet as they are, they aren't supposed to be in this ward."

"I have them, Molly. Why don't you head over for some breakfast at home, take a bath? Why don't you take Bill with you?"

"But-"

"Mum," Bill said with a voice groggy from sleep, "Come on."

Molly looked at Bill's face.

"... Alright, dear."

She gave Arthur a firm kiss and reached over for their son's hand. At thirteen, Bill had begun to become more independent. It made him pull away from them both and walk without them. This time, however, he took Molly's hand, clasping it without his usual complaint. Arthur had no doubt by the way Molly's lips trembled that his eldest had squeezed her hand in comfort. Good lad.

"If you'll follow me, Mr. Weasley?"

With one last kiss to the cheek to Molly and Bill alike, Arthur followed behind the med-witch.

"I'm sorry," he mentioned after a second, "Never asked for your name."

"Oh. Holly, sir. Healer Holly Smith."

"Can you- Can you tell me anything about Ron's condition, so I can-?"

The Healer sent a smile over her shoulder. Gentle and careful.

"He was a little disorientated. Speaking strangely at first, but we aren't too sure how much he can speak yet. Did some impressive accidental magic. Couldn't seem to calm down until- Well until the twins burst in and scared us spitless when they jumped onto the bed."

Arthur sighed.

"Don't worry, they didn't hurt him. Just hugged him. It seemed enough to calm him down, some, or at least enough for him to stop conjuring water."

Arthur stumbled, one step, nearly three. And stopped in the middle of the hall.

"He did what?"

Healer Smith grinned.

"That's how we reacted. Nearly flooded the entire ward hadn't been for the wards on his suite. You don't have to worry about his illness making the lad a squib. Or at least for now-"

Arthur felt something crawling up his throat.

"That was never a concern as long as my boy is alive," He said sternly.

The Healer gave a serious nod. Her careful smile turned softer and more true.

"Of course, sir. But now that we can worry about his magic, you know that your son is out of immediate danger. We have concerns. Especially with the explosive nature of the incident. But we honestly don't know what happened."

"A Healer last night- She, ah, mentioned an Obscurial?"

"Similar but, unless Ron is a type we have never encountered before, unlikely."

They turned the final corner, and Arthur was ushered into his son's room. And there they were. His three youngest sons crowded on a hospital bed together. Each twin flanked Ron's side, and their faces were pressed into his neck and stomach respectively, dead asleep. Arthur nearly cried at the sight because in Ron's arms was what looked like a new teddy. Brand new, perhaps made by Billus or purchased by pooled allowances that he knew the twins had squirreled away.

Ron wasn't asleep. His eyes, clear blue and the same shade as Arthur's own were looking straight at Arthur as he walked into the room. Arthur was used to Ronnie lighting up at the sight of him. Of his long, freckled face creasing into a beaming smile. But… But Ron did not smile. Just looked at him. Steady. His little eyebrows pressed together. His mouth opened. Trembled.

"D-D-D-aa-dd-yy?" a stutter of words, a struggle of speech that had not been there before. The boy swallowed and tried again. But Ron could not say the word without a pause between each syllable, without things repeating and running together.

Arthur swallowed thickly and strode into the room, hands reaching. Ron stared at him, blue eyes creasing, his brows furrowed. But he pressed his face into the crook of Arthur's neck when he lifted him into his arms. His son was trembling. Just enough to be concerning, but his hands curled around Arthur's neck and clung. And Arthur clung back.

"It's alright, Ronnie, daddy is here."

OOOOOOOOO

1981

Sirius Black felt his tears, sticky with salt and lingering on his cheeks. Professor McGonagall sat next to him, whilst Professor Dumbledore stood over pacing in Lily's sister's living room. Said woman stood by the fireplace with her thick husband. Her lips were pursed, and her eyes were red-rimmed, traces of her morning makeup lingered on her pale, high cheekbones. She just lost her sister, poor woman. Her baby, Lily's nephew, was wiggling on her hip, practically thrashing. The boy was a distinct contrast to little Harry, who sat carefully against Sirius' chest. The fit of earlier had been settled and Harry had gone very quiet. Sirius wanted to take him to Saint Mungo's, but Dumbledore had stamped out that idea quickly. "There are too many of Voldemort's allies abound, Sirius, I will bring someone to the boy."

Sirius knew the logic in what Professor Dumbledore had said but he was still unsettled, still worried over what had happened. It wasn't natural, it wasn't-

A warm hand settled on his wrist.

Sirius blinked, looking down at the heavy emerald ring of Clan McGonagall on the right hand of Professor McGonagall. It was a thin, elegant hand with frail-looking fingers that were actually calloused. Vaguely, he recalled that she had been a Chaser during her own stint in Hogwarts and how hard-pressed Prongs had been set on beating her all-time scoring record. James, you never did beat that record. She squeezed, looking straight ahead. Sirius felt his chest, which he hadn't even realized had been heaving, settled slightly. Ease into an even steady pace. He blinked back more tears. The smell of laurel flowers, ginger biscuits, and cat reached him again, familiar and safe.

"Thank you," he whispered, "Professor."

"You are very welcome, Sirius. And you have not been my student in nearly five years. Minvera would do just as well," she whispered back, lips barely parting.

Something warm settled into his ribs, following down until it reached his heart. Harry huffed against his skin, a little whoosh of air against his skin. Rattled, Sirius quickly looked down at his godson. Lily's emerald eyes looked back at him. Steady, blinking slowly up at him, looking for all the world, a normal toddler with just a hint of drowsiness, a contrast from the boy that had been whimpering and thrashing for the better part of the six hours it had taken to reach Lily's sister's house.

"P-p-aa-ddy," Harry whispered, his voice was a soft, high little warble that had had Lily beaming, wide and displaying the small twisted tooth that she refused to have rightened by magic when he had said his first word, 'Mama' just a few months ago.

Something thickened in Sirius's throat. With a trembling hand, he placed his hand on Harry's impossible hair. Sticking up in the back like James's had, much to Lily's dismay and his delight. The toddler leaned into his hand, smiling softly. He looked paler than normal, perhaps, but otherwise, he looked alright.

"Hullo, little Harry," his voice sounded strange, rougher than usual, thicker with emotion. He swallowed forcibly.

"Hu-hu-llo, hu-hu-llo!" he said back, reaching up with a trembling hand to tug on his hair.

Sirius let him and tried not to press his godson tightly into his chest in response or sob uncontrollably in front of near strangers. He instead just leaned forward to allow his godson to pull on his hair more easily.

"You were at the wedding," said Lily's sister, for the life of him he couldn't remember her name, bringing his attention away from Harry. Her voice was pinched and shaky, but it sounded like Lily's, perhaps a shade higher. Her eyes, icy and just the same almond shape, were red-rimmed as Sirius looked up at her, "You were the best man."

Sirius remembers her, vaguely, he remembered thinking uncharitably that she was not quite as pretty as Lily because of her constant air of disapproval of the magical wedding of her sister. It had reminded him vividly of how his own family would have reacted to the muggle traditions that Lily had incorporated. He blinked.

"Yeah, I was, Sirius Black," he said and he was proud his voice sounded less rough.

"Why are you here now?" said the husband, sharply, small eyes squinted. His voice grew dangerous, grew louder, "Why are you lot here in my house?"

Lily's sister's eyes, however, were on Harry and she looked up at Sirius again.

"Did she name you godfather? Or was it her husband?" she asked.

Sirius tilted his head.

"Lily asked and James begged," he chuckled.

Lips pinched.

"I wasn't named godmother. It was some... schoolmate of hers, Alice?"

Something uncomfortable settled in the hollow of Sirus's stomach. He settled for a smile nonetheless, even as her eyes, not Lily's vivid emerald, instead a crisp and icy blue, burrowed into him.

"That's right. Alice Longbottom."

A wane smile.

"You've just told me my younger... sister is dead. You have just told us that people will be after her son for what just happened. I understand that he is still in danger," her lips curled further, not quite a smile, but it did show a lot of teeth, "I don't understand how that has anything to do with- What is it that her husband called us? Right. A lot of muggles."

Sirius suddenly realized that he didn't know why either.

He turned to Dumbledore and Minvera and blinked rapidly. Felt that something uncomfortable morph into something clawing and horrified as Dumbledore made a pained face.

"I'm afraid, Petunia, that you must take the mantle of protecting Harry despite your status as a muggle because of the fact that Lily was your sister."

No.

Sirius' arms tightened around Harry. Harry's fists tightened on Sirius' hair.

"How on earth is my wife supposed to do that?!" Bellowed the husband.

Sirus felt as if he couldn't breathe.

Harry began to cry. He stood, and like he had done many times, began to rock and pace. If they were in Godric's Hollow, he would have transformed and had allowed Harry to ride on his back… But he couldn't. Not here.

"Blood wards then," said Sirius, voice gasping, his grip on Harry went all the stronger. Harry gripped back.

"What does that bloody mean?!" boomed the husband.

Dumbledore moved. Stood up, and it was the same man that had defeated a dark lord himself that looked down at the large man. Sirius could not bear to hear the explanation. Knew that all it meant was that Harry could not, would not be with him after this morning. And neither did Lily's sister, as she walked away, bouncing her son just like Sirius, past a door that led into a kitchen. They sat at the pristine white table, as bellows were heard from the room over. Sirius gripped tightly to Harry, as Lily's sister stood again suddenly, stuffed her fussy son into his high chair, and strode deliberately to the counter, where a ghastly neon pink bag stood. She moved about the kitchen, kitten heels clicking, as Sirius stared at the table in front of him.

He lost time. Just staring at the false wood, the printed swirls and whorls as he realized that he would lose Harry for his own sake-

"Take him," whispered Lily's sister, voice soft, "Take him away."

Sirius jumped. Looked up and started.

Looked up and saw Lily's sister standing over him. The bag seemed full. Stuffed with things. Sirius saw what looked like bottles and diapers almost falling out. Lily's sister jerked her head. He followed her direction. And saw the back door.

"Go. Leave with him."

Sirius stared at her. Looked to the back door. Looked back at her.

"I can't have her son with me. Not if he is as magic as she was. It killed her. I don't want it to kill my family."

Sirius looked at her strained face, at her horrified look in her eyes. And in it he saw the same disdain that had been in his own mother's eyes. Clutched Harry to his chest, took the offered baby bag, and walked out the back door.

He did not look back.

OOOOOOOOO

1984

Henry's back ached as he made his way upstairs. It was hard now, taking over the practice by himself. Despite his acceptance, his wife had been his business partner and fellow practitioner. She handled the youngest of their clients, as well as most of the bookwork. Taking on the workload of two on little to no notice was taking a toll on him. Even after they had reworked his schedule as bests they could to accommodate their daughter's demanding needs-

Henry swallowed something thick in his throat.

Anytime he felt overwhelmed, he found himself thinking of the way Hermione's back had arched and cracked, how difficult a time she had when it came to speaking. The gibberish that had spilled from her mouth for months after her seizure. How sometimes she paused too long between words when she struggled to remember how to say something. How she trembled still after she had pushed herself physically too far.

Patience. Be patient. For my baby. My little rose.

Henry froze as he realized that Hermione stood at the top of the winding stairs. More than likely waiting for him. She was quiet, honey-colored eyes staring him down. She stared. And he stared back. Swallowed his worry of seeing her so close to the stairs, alone. And he wondered as he felt himself automatically speed up if his own scolding of his wife had been hypocritical. He too, felt himself automatically overcompensating for Hermione in her new delicate state. The frustration Hermione had over her own inadequacies reminded him to be cautious as he walked up the stairs. Made him slow and forced himself to swallow again.

"Hello, Hermione," he said, as cheerfully as he could manage, swallowing back his unease forcibly.

"Hello… Father," his daughter paused between words. Her brows furrowed between each word. He could see the mental calculation she placed as she uttered each word.

I'm not daddy anymore.

"Waiting for me?"

"You..." she took a breath, "Promised…"

Henry swallowed thickly.

"That's right. I promised. Doctor Jenkins left me that new book of folk stories during his appointment today. I think you'll enjoy it."

He lifted the book from his messenger bag, a thick tome that smelled old and right. A smile lit on his daughter's face. Gentle and small. But a smile nonetheless. A softness to her face that she rarely showed anymore gleamed in her expression, lit up her warm eyes. Hermione surprised him utterly by reaching forward and gripping his hand. Unlike before, her hand didn't seem to have the strength to grip his completely. But his daughter was holding his hand either way. And that was what mattered.

"Thank you," she said softly, "Really, Father."

Henry sighed in relief. Started to make his way to the library, Hermione walked with him.

"You're very welcome. If you want, sweetheart, I can read it to you. I know you're still struggling with your French."

Her hand squeezed around his.

"I know French."

He squeezed back.

"I know you do. However, you've been having trouble with it."

She let out a huff.

"It's changed."

You have, sweetheart. Henry didn't dare say his thoughts. Only huffed a laugh.

"I know, sweetheart. But together we can find the changes better."

She hummed. Hummed a tune that Henry did not know. But it was lively and jaunty. Completely at odds of her usual mood.

"I've always worked best at working with others. Thank you, father," said Hermione, and her voice touched on the cheerful.

Henry smiled.

"That's a lovely thought, Hermione."

AN:

I struggled so much with Hermione's part with this, hence why it was so frustratingly short. I apologize for the delay… It's just the fact that I feel that a lot of people mischaracterize her and my explicit purpose of having Hermione being Helga is to explore parts of her character that most of the fandom fucking ignores because it doesn't fit into their view of her. And I don't begrudge people for focusing on her intelligence, or her badass girl factor. But I think people really forget how much heart Hermione has, or what a petty person she can be, or how her emotions can get the better of her. There's a reason I immediately axed the idea of her being Rowena when I was drafting the idea of the story, cause… Books and cleverness, there's more to her than that, and it'd be boring as fuck to write her as her.

And it is boring and basic as fuck to just make Rowena that too.

'Cause I want fucking nuance with these damn Founders and their reincarnations.

But I digress.

Rowena's part was probably the easiest part to write if you're wondering. I finished that within the first few weeks of my outline, then Ron/Salazar, and Godric/Harry stalled a little until my sister took one look at me, and spat out some suggestions and I felt like an idiot.

But yeah.

I struggle the most with Hermione.

Dang her, much as I love her.