The Daily Prophet

December 25, 1991

A vision of the New Year?

By Rita Skeeter.

News waits for no one, dear reader, not even in Yuletime! Many of us have bundled down this wintry week in preparation for a cheery celebration 'round the Christmas tree or to light the Menorah. Perhaps still others rush to organize dogs and horses, readying for a traditional Hunt. Are you one of the lucky number invited to Malfoy Manor this December 31rst? Are you spending this week harassing clothiers and shoemakers, hatters and jewelers, tackmasters and arrowsmiths? If so, I hope that your steed is fast and fleet and true as your arrow, that you and your retinue prove both favorable and gleaming. That your grace on the Hunt is as great as your grace in the dance. And, of course, that the morning after is not so painful as your night was joyful!

Yet, clear as day is that, though House Malfoy is responsible for hosting the most glamourous event of the winter solstice, hardly all the estimable Malfoys are up to is Yule planning. Rather, it would seem the keen grey Malfoy eye is concurrently placed on the future.

Few in Daigon Alley yesterday morning could have possibly missed the commotion surrounding The Wand, Daigon Alley's most deliciously divine restaurant. With a waitlist longer than the average Sorting's, rigid rules are all that the keep the ravenous crowds from storming the delicate gold-leaf doors. However, apparently even an iron-clad reservation can be bumped for the luncheon of the year.

Sources have it that an extremely private, fire-called only guest list was invited at just seven the night before, RSVP for no later than midnight. The names on the list? Why, only the most powerful names would do. Pride of place in the gallery stands Minister Amelia Bones, radiant in ruby (see p.45 for a full fashion breakdown). Only her second official public appearance since election (see p.25 for a rehash of her foray to Hogwarts), the Minister spent the luncheon flanked by the debonair Lord Lucius Malfoy and the heart-stopping Lord Kingsley Shacklebolt. The cunning reader no doubt notes that Lord Malfoy has played a key part in Minister Bones' rise, rallying votes both moneyed and deeply old-Magic to her side.

Lord Shacklebolt is a comparatively new name. Noted mostly these past years for his dashing auror heroics (see p.26), one can only assume Lord Shacklebolt's presence at her left shoulder is a gesture of the Minister's confidence and trust. Do we smell a DMLE Head nomination in the wind? You read it here first!

Another new name to British politics: Alpha Fenrir Greyback. Tall, powerful, and dominating, stunning glacial blue eyes and long, thick—hair. Oh, I am going to embarrass myself! For, in a turn that not only stuns sensibilities but melts hearts, the stoic Alpha Greyback came to our humble Alley not only fighting for the rights of his marginalized people, but as a suitor to a British darling: William Arthur Weasley, heir to House Weasley. Making their first public appearance together, the pair glowed with newly mated bliss, though as yet no wedding announcement has crossed this reporter's desk (see p. 35 for a rundown on British Werewolf rights and culture).

Sources claim Greyback sat across the Minister all the luncheon, speaking courteously but firmly for his persecuted people. On his right, Mr. Remus Lupin attended as Greyback's Ministry liaison. The savvy reader remembers Lupin as a tragic figure.

A hero of the First War and lifelong confidant of Lord Sirius Orion Black and the deceased Lord James Charlus Potter, Lupin was denied an Order of Merlin for his valiant actions in the War for one simple reason: he is a werewolf. Following the monstrous Potter murders, Lupin's guardianship claim of the Boy Who Lived was also dashed for that same reason. So, rather than live under the love and protection of a hero and his honorary godfather (recognized so in the Potters' official will, see p. 36), the knowledgeable reader must mourn how our Savior was bludgeoned and abused by Muggles instead. All of this due to punitive, barbaric laws passed against werewolves by the British Ministry.

With this luncheon—hosted on Malfoy generosity, one must not forget—gathering the best and brightest of wizarding society, can we begin to see a more egalitarian future?

Politics in love, or love in politics?

Who says men can't multitask? Sources have it that more than just politics came to fruition at The Wand yesterday. This reporter will wait to see who escorts whom to the Malfoys' on the 31rst, but here are the rumors afloat:

Dressed in flowing black silk, Potions' Master Severus Snape stunned the wizarding elite just by deigning to represent the Potions' Masters' Guild at yesterday's luncheon. Notoriously selective, Master Snape has avoided the political and society pages. Instead, he became the Wizarding World's youngest potions master at just twenty-two, followed by an enviable career in experimental medical potionry. However, even more shocking than his mere presence: Lord Sirius Orion Black's presence on his arm!

A courtesy offered to a man still combating a long, unjust stay in Azkaban, or courting behavior? Impossible to tell! While undeniably friendly with each other, (regrettably) no untoward behavior was witnessed. There is also a tumultuous Hogwarts past to consider. Still, could these elements ignite to new love? It was hinted here first!

Rumors have flown on golden wings since the Malfoy Divorce. Who tempted who away? Princes, queens, emperors, or maids? Names from Weird Sisters front man, the steamy Welshman Myron Wagtail, to the Egyptian Wizarding Queen, Nabila II, have been offered and debunked. Could it be that we should have looked even closer to home?

When not standing tall and commanding at Minister Bones' side, Lord Shacklebolt could be caught hovering at the elbow of the enchanting Lady Black-Malfoy. He no less than twice served her tea, and was at least once witnessed conjuring her a cloth napkin when service proved too slow. He also gave her a quill that she, reportedly, used throughout the luncheon and then took with her. Lady Black-Malfoy, on her part, allowed him all of these gestures despite being perfectly capable herself. Could the bold Lord Shacklebolt, obviously just as Gryffindor now as during his Hogwarts years, be courting Lady Black-Malfoy's political favor, or something more?

Finally, you remember Mr. Remus Lupin, yes? Well, while Lupin did spend the afternoon beside Alpha Greyback, I should mention that also left him across from Lord Lucius Malfoy. While nothing particularly amorous happened, the pair looked particularly cordial for two negotiating men. And after the luncheon, in the stoop of The Wand's private exit, do my eyes deceive me or is that Lord Malfoy personally extending Mr. Lupin an invitation to the Malfoy Gala?

It seems, dear readers, that love and politics may well be afoot. Is it too soon to hope for a Valentine's Day wedding?

Harry folded the paper with a snap, sighing. He grinned at Ron, who was carefully balancing a stack of brightly wrapped packages. "Everything is just gossip, isn't it?"

The way Draco had talked about the luncheon, Harry had thought its news article would be heralded by politically well-versed angels, dressed sharply in pin-stripe robes. Perhaps announced from on-high, via a choir of saints. Or Merlin, standing on the Ministry roof, would simply scream out the most relevant details. Instead, Rita Skeeter had glibly skipped over the actual politics to write about parties, love affairs, and how wonderful the Malfoys were.

Peaking through his shiny paper barrier, Ron skimmed the article. He snorted. "Please. If I know the Malfoys, that's exactly what they wanted."

Harry frowned. "I thought this was a serious matter? Look, here. Rita barely stops from making a dick joke about Fenrir. How does that help?"

"It's humanizing, love," Ron explained. "Fenrir's a scary motherfucker. Wouldn't be good to make him scarier by pointing out he wrangled diplomatic immunity for himself. Better to focus on his love life and other, ah, assets."

Harry hummed. "All while pointing out how shitty the Ministry's been to werewolves."

Ron—with skillful balance, Harry reflected—deftly leaned over to press a kiss to Harry's hair, nary tipping a single parcel. "And nodding to how stripping werewolves of human rights can fuck up even the Savior's life."

"Don't call me that," Harry frowned. "I hate that."

Ron sighed. "Sorry, love."

Harry pecked him on the cheek. "Accepted. Now, do you know where Neville's gone? We're supposed to be down for noon."

Christmas morning had dawned bright and clear on Malfoy Manor. The snow had come down hard the night before, so out the windows lay a perfect white landscape. The peacocks had fled the cold for their aviary, so not even their prideful tracks blemished the crystalline sheets.

Inside the Manor, the people resident had spent the morning similarly subdued. Narcissa had settled a Christmas brunch for noon, followed by presents. However, the morning she had left free.

Perhaps she had learned from the, ah, staggered attendance at yesterday's breakfast. Most of the younger returned had arrived on time, free of the inclinations that often came with older bodies. The notable exception had been Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint, who were fifth years and had stumbled in fifteen minutes late, hair and ties gloriously askew.

Narcissa had raised one mercenary eyebrow. Those who knew her—almost everyone, due to her medical work in the Second War—however, could see the humor dancing in her eyes.

"I'm glad to see you've made an effort at punctuality, gentlemen," Narcissa had quipped lightly. Ever at her side, Kingsley had smiled into his coffee.

The pair had blushed, but been otherwise shamelessly cuddled up together all through the day. Harry thought they were terribly cute. If they didn't publicly announce their engagement by mid-January, Harry would also lose twenty galleons to the twins.

"Neville ran off to Seamus and Dean's," Ron supplied, distracted. He was determinedly trying to toe open the bedroom door while balancing his burdens. Harry was too amused by the display, or he would have helped. Probably.

Instead, he sighed purposefully louder, throwing his head back and flopping on the bed. "He was at Seamus and Dean's half the night! Are we no longer enough, Ron?"

Ron gwaffed. "That's it, definitely. He's been seduced by mystery explosions and charcoal stains. We'll never get him back, now."

"Well, maybe his present will woo him back to us," Harry offered, eyeing the topmost box of Ron's pile. The silvery paper had been hellish to wrap with, but it sure made a pretty picture.

Ordinarily, Harry wouldn't have given a whit about Christmas paper. Trivial stuff. Harry had merrily used newspapers in earlier (later?) days, or just given his gift without an inch covering it. Some years, Christmas just hadn't been feasible at all. With every spare penny and thought going to whatever battle was next, gifts and decorations and all that nonsense just weren't a priority. Especially when the likes of pureblood wizards, werewolves, and vampires didn't generally pay much attention to Christmas.

Harry had been surprised to find that out. Hogwarts, after all, went nuts for Christmas. The Manor, too, was all done-up. But that was for Yule, Draco had argued emphatically. A festival time from late November to early January that, for traditional purebloods, culminated in hunting and boisterous partying on the Western Muggle New Year. In the older days Muggles stumbling across celebrating wizards and witches called their celebrations the Wild Hunt, figuring the hunters as elves, fairies, devils, or the undead.

Muggle holidays like Christmas and Hanukkah had been woven in later, becoming dominate as Christianity and other world religions dominated previously pagan traditions. Draco said all this with a superior posture, but Harry had noticed Draco was just as supportive of the Christmas present's advent as any other well-to-do child. Harry, personally, didn't much care one way or the other. He was quite grateful to be somewhere as beautiful as the Manor, not in a cupboard or tiny bedroom filled with broken and abandoned toys. He wasn't even being shot at, or being threatened with being shot at. Instead, he was warm and well-fed, happy and safe. His friends, family, and lovers were with him. No one was dead.

Harry was happy to celebrate. He didn't care in whose supposed honor he was celebrating in.

Leaving their room on Ron's heels, they bumped into Seamus, Dean, and yes, Neville. The three were grinning and chatting amiably, and Harry felt his heart melt. Neville had a beautiful smile. Harry loved how often he saw it, this life.

"Harry, Ron, Happy Christmas," Neville greeted merrily. He immediately set to tutting at Ron, taking on half the packages with contented long-suffering. Harry settled to the sound of their bickering, to Dean and Seamus' quips, the sound of sweet peace.

"Lucius, I love you," Remus said seriously, leaning a hip against his lover's humongous oak desk. Lucius, still in his nightclothes, was slumped over the desk with a harried light in his eyes. He hummed.

"Lucius," Remus tried again. "I'm leaving for Hong Kong. There's nothing you can do to stop me."

Lucius turned a page of the document he was scouring. He crossed something out with a lightning-quick scratch of his quill. Blotted it. Turned the next page. "I love you, too."

"I'm sure," Remus replied tartly. "But Sirius and I have been hiding this for so long. I simply can't be constrained any longer. We'll be married in that little gin joint you hate before we go."

Lucius blinked, jerked from wherever his mind had wandered. "Not the one on 3rd, surely. Remus, darling, I'll marry you on the moon if I have to, but the place on 3rd uses plastic tumblers. I'd rather a Muggle church."

Remus felt his insides go gooey. His face must be utterly besotted, but he couldn't bother to hide it. Perching more fully on the desk, Remus planted a gentle kiss on Lucius' forehead, relishing the sweet, surprised blush that spread across his alabaster cheeks. "You're really too sweet, sometimes, dearest."

Lucius blinked again, obviously uncomprehending, but settled back into his chair. "Yes," he said cluelessly. "Of course. But only to you."

And your sons, and your ex-wife, and Severus, and half a dozen others, Remus thought, but dare not say. Better to let Lucius keep his mental image of himself as a dangerous, icy lord than try to convince him of the truth. Besides, to most people that was exactly who Lucius was. Remus was just one of the lucky few who saw the man underneath the frost.

"What has you so absorbed, anyway?," Remus asked, twisting to try and get a better look at the papers. "I know Christmas isn't your favorite celebration in Yule, but surely it can't be so hated that you'll work through it."

Lucius' lips thinned, a crease growing between his eyes. "I just need another hour, Remus. Get us some tea, I'll be down before the cup's cooled."

"Lucius," Remus said, catching Lucius' hand as it darted back to the inkpot. "What is it?"

Lucius sighed, his entire back sagging into his leather chair. It had been his father's, Remus remembered. When Abraxas died, Lucius hadn't been able to sit in here for the three months following. He'd done his paperwork in the family sitting room, until eventually Narcissa tired of maneuvering around ink and papers and other office detritus.

There wasn't a point to that memory, Remus thought. Just another example of—what? How old they were all getting? What a luxury that was.

"I suppose," Lucius said at length, "This could be considered something of a Christmas present."

"Dearest," Remus said gently, "What on earth are you on about?" Sometimes Slytherins could be terribly frustrating creatures, Remus thought fondly. And Lucius was one of the most Slytherin of the bunch.

Lucius sighed and turned the paper in Remus' direction, pushing it closer. Scrawled across the top was the Ministry's official letterhead, ornate and officious. An official document, then. A draft of a bill? Skipping through the "thus proclaims" and "hence by the power ofs," he went straight to the preamble. His eyes caught there, stunned.

"Remus?" Lucius prodded gently. He stood from the desk and joined Remus' side.

"Whereas," Remus began, "British werewolves have suffered undue and pernicious debasement and restriction through Ministry actions and whereas, these actions have impoverished an entire race and otherwise inhumanely limited that race, I move to eliminate The Werewolf Examination, Restriction, and Extermination Act, effective immediately."

"Ideally," Lucius said, after the silence had stretched far too long, "The Creature Amendments would have been enough. But the discussions with Fenrir have proved they won't be. So long as werewolves are classed as magical creatures, it's too easy for wizards and witches to backslide."

"And put us right back with the animals," Remus said faintly. "Yes, you're right."

Lucius swallowed. "There's a precedent. I made sure. The Goblins argued the exact same that we are. This won't fail." Lucius placed his hand on Remus', forcing his chin up with his other hand to meet Lucius' eyes. "And even if there wasn't a precedent, I would move Heaven and Earth to create one."

"Lucius," Remus murmured, overwhelmed. He cast his eyes down, locking at the swirling gold ink that proclaimed the motion. He gently drew his fingers over the creamy paper, almost feeling the freedom promised therein.

"What will replace it?" Remus asked, struggling to keep his composure. The WERE Act had destroyed Remus' life. But without it werewolves would be entirely without limit. That wouldn't stand.

Lucius shrugged. "Probably an amendment to the Charter, thereby placing werewolves on the same level as wizarding folk. I expect Fenrir will brief you once an accord is made. That's when Amelia's promised me mine."

"But there's enough of a plan they feel comfortable having you draft this?" Remus clarified. They would have only one shot. The bill would be so controversial, giving wizarding rights to individuals who had been dehumanized for so long. For this to work, they would have to be so, so very careful.

Remus had been prepared to fight for blood. For his revenge. But for freedom? That had been the cornerstone of Fenrir's madcap employment pitch, but Remus hadn't truly given himself leave to believe the alpha. Now…

Lucius looped an arm around Remus' waist, pulling him close. Remus went willingly, clinging tightly to Lucius. He tucked his face into Lucius' shoulder, breathing in the scent of home and love and safety. All that Remus had never dared to dream of sat at his fingertips. He just had to avoid fucking it up.

"It won't be easy," Lucius confessed. "It already hasn't been easy." He sounded exhausted, Remus realized.

"Darling…" Remus had been thinking of the inevitable publicity campaign, the exhaustion of interviews and photo-ops and public pressure. Already, Rita had begun. But Lucius must have already done so much. Just gaining Fenrir diplomatic immunity would have been a herculean effort. Never mind that Lucius had already done so much surrounding Muggleborns, the Hogwarts curriculum, the Old Magick movement. All done without a word of complaint.

Remus had been so caught up. Worries for Harry, concerns about Sirius. Lucius had taken that lapse to work himself to new highs—both of power and of drain.

"Thank you, Lucius," Remus breathed. He melted around Lucius' body, cradling him. His hands molded to the divot of Lucius' back, to his nape. "This is a gift beyond compare."

He felt the tension leak out of Lucius' body. After a moment, he dropped his head onto Remus's shoulder. "I won't let the past repeat, Remus. I can't."

"I know, my love. But this isn't just your fight." Remus pressed a gentle kiss the Lucius' lips, silencing the protest he saw building there. "Let me help. Unless you think I can't handle it?" Remus teased. More than a decade spent liaising with the magical 'creature' community for Dumbledore hadn't exactly left Remus useless, after all.

Lucius sighed. "You're right, of course."

Remus grinned. "Brilliant. And as your husband, you'll let me help you, too?"

"You're not even my fiancé, yet," Lucius quipped. "Unless this is your proposal?"

"No," Remus said firmly. "No, Lucius. When I propose to you, there will be no question." He kissed him, suckling his lip between his teeth. Caught Lucius' breath in his mouth and swallowed him down. Lucius moaned, wanting, but Remus pulled away.

Breathless, he lent their foreheads together. "Lucius," Remus said, "When I propose to you, the whole world will know you're mine."

The Christmas festivities were slowly winding down. The wrapping papers' colorful shreds covered the obscenely expensive carpet in the family sitting room, the seven-foot tree's antique skirts pillaged of all her presents. Delicate platters of equally delicate biscuits and pastries lay in ruins. Empty cups and glasses stood abandoned on every flat surface, from the mantle to the cabinet displaying Theodora Athena Malfoy's extensive dagger collection. Bright through the window, the last of the good afternoon light shone. Soon the sun would be setting and Malfoy Manor, to some degree, would empty.

"You're sure you can't just tell your aunt to stuff it?" Arthur's endearingly blunt son whined, his head slumped on Neville's shoulder. On the young lad's other side, Harry Potter made a commiserating noise.

"Some nerve of her, really, demanding you home. I thought purebloods were all for networking and what not?" Harry muttered, mutinously wrapping his arms around Neville.

Neville sighed, hard done-by but smiling. He stroked chubby fingers through Harry's unruly curls, pressed a kiss to Ron's cheek. "Yes, and that's why she let me stay this long. But she does want me home in time for the Christmas feast. Especially now that she can brag about me to the rest of the family, I imagine."

"Even more reason to ignore her," Harry replied.

"Come now, Pup," Sirius cut in. He was curled on a lounge with Severus, his cheeks flushed bright red. Severus deftly plucked his teetering wine glass out of his hand before tragedy could strike. "They'll all be back for the 31rst. Besides, can't have the old girl suspicious of our dear Neville sudden devotions, yeah?"

"I guess," Harry said. He fingered the new bracelet on Neville's wrist: a silver and a gold chain, wound together. The leaf charm was a portkey linked to Malfoy Manor.

Harry and Ron, always together, protecting Neville. A clever present for a trio in the first marriage contract talks. Arthur's head hurt, thinking of the stack Lady Longbottom's lawyers had sent over. The match was obviously attractive to the aging matriarch: who was better than the Wizarding World's Saviour? Ron's position as the Prewett heir was nothing to sneeze at, either. House Longbottom could thrive for the next hundred years from this match. There was no way she could sensibly refuse. Still, Arthur supposed he had to give it to her. She did appear to care for her nephew as more than just chattel, if the paperwork was any indicator.

Forcing the children to visit the Goblins and secure their titles had been necessary, Arthur could see now. At the time, the suggestion made Arthur hesitate. He had already been to the Goblins once that day, secretly. Could he count on the bank to keep his visit clandestine? Hufflepuff's cup had sat heavy in Arthur's pocket, despite its shrunken size. Mercifully, the Goblins hadn't acted at all out of the usual.

Already Arthur had had to make excuses for missing that blasted luncheon. Then he'd discovered that Narcissa had covered for him about missing the shopping, too. It should be said that Arthur was quickly remembering that he was a piss-poor liar, all things considered. Little wonder that Tom had left Arthur to his books and laboratories, handling people himself.

Arthur's heart tripped, flinching with pain. Smothering the pang in a long drink of his cocoa, Arthur forced himself to relax. Smile. Pretend. He almost had it so that he didn't have to try. The bright Christmas lights, his happy boys and their joyful lovers, his doting friends and kind allies, all eager to make him laugh and smile. But, sooner than later, Arthur's mind turned around again and again to his recently discovered secrets.

A child's diary.

A family ring.

A silver locket.

A golden cup. That one he had, at least.

A mother's diadem.

A beloved familiar.

His eyes flicked to Harry. An accident.

They hadn't ever intended to really use them. Arthur felt sure of that. Tom had given him the research assignment, but strictly hypothetically. A fail safe. Tom hadn't liked them for even that, but Dumbledore was a dangerous enemy and Tom couldn't afford to lose. None of them could.

But the seers kept spitting prophecy after prophecy, heralding destined child after child into this world. And every time, there was failure. Magic's scales never balanced and Magic was finally beginning to lose her tolerance. Magical children weren't being born. Even Muggleborns were fewer and fewer. Hogwarts was so diminished that a forth the classrooms weren't in use. Other schools across the world struggled to hide similar deficits.

The Ministry's responses restricted wizards and witches more and more. No sacrificial magic, no ancient rituals, narrow bounds and scarce room to move. Growing complacency, a world of unappreciative practitioners who thought all magic should be as effortless as a lumos. Magic now was an unthinking, entitled, unrecognized part of wizarding life. So Magic punished her neglectful children.

These theories had been new to Arthur, at seventeen. On the cusp of graduation and so ambitious his teeth hurt, he was a burgeoning spellsmith. He'd already patented little ones—a charm that kept candles from burning out, to keep an inkpot ever-wet, a better stasis for potions. He'd wanted more than that, though, and had felt confident he could manage it.

Arthur had developed plans for instant communication spells. Spells for capturing music, sound, rather than just images. Spells for storing, protecting, secreting, healing, hurting. Arthur had plans for all of these. He'd kept them hidden in his journal, the only one of its kind. To see what was written, the journal had to choose to let you.

But spellcraft was expensive. The art required years of study and testing, resources that were always rare if not expensive. One spell could change the world, but the development was often prohibitive. House Weasley had been well off, but not that much so. Arthur had needed sponsors. A friend of a friend Arthur couldn't remember anymore had managed to get Arthur on the guest list to the Malfoys' 1967 Yule Ball. And there, Arthur had met Lord Marvolo Gaunt.

Arthur now had a clear, vivid image of Tom that night. More than six feet tall. Broad shoulders draped in sharply tailored charcoal robes. Sleek dark hair. A face time hadn't touched, handsome like the gods and angels in Renaissance paintings. He'd stood dominate over a field of other beautiful, powerful people, the sunlight to their desperate leaves, the rainclouds to their grasping roots.

His cunning eyes had met Arthur's on a casual glance around the room, stuck a moment on Arthur's face. An eyebrow had quirked, and then his attention was drawn away again. But that was all the invitation young, ambitious Arthur had needed.

The words they'd exchanged were still lost to him. Arthur had flashes of Tom's tilted smirk, his intrigued eyes. He could feel the heat of Tom's hand on his shoulder, back, elbow. Snatches of music, the swirling grace of dance. Champagne bursting on his tongue. Lips brushing his ear. His desperate ache for more, left to grow as Tom escorted him to his carriage like a perfect gentleman.

A music box had been borne to him by an elegant eagle hawk the next day, scandalizing his aunt and thrilling Arthur.

"Who sent that?" Arthur grinned, remembering her aghast shriek. So improper, to send an obvious courting gift without an introductory letter first. Without a contract! But Arthur had understood. Tom had been a political powerhouse since the forties. They would have had no peace if anyone found them out.

But there had been no peace, anyway. Just war and blood. Tom had kept Arthur away, as much as possible. Secreted him in beautiful manor houses around the world during school breaks and Hogsmeade weekends. He stayed only with Tom's most trusted followers, and they were willingly Obliviated when he had to return to Hogwarts. So of course Malfoy Manor felt familiar. Of course Narcissa, Lucius, and Severus felt like old friends, though not one of them could remember Arthur and he only had the vaguest outlines of their places in his life.

The rest of Tom's people never knew he existed, let alone what he did for them. Charms, hexes, curses. Spells and incantations unlike anyone had ever seen. Tom at his side, working with him. A perfect pair.

Until, so far as Arthur remembered, the weeks before Arthur graduated, when Molly Prewett began poisoning him. There, Arthur's life fell apart.

But Arthur would put it all to rights again. The Horcruxes had only been researched as a failsafe, but he had done a damn good job. If Tom had done exactly what they had decided, Arthur would be able to assemble him again. But only Arthur. They had changed the ritual too much, rebuilt it on their combined magic—on their love. Arthur could only hope Tom had realized Arthur hadn't acted of his own will. That Arthur would always be Tom's.

"Dad?"

Arthur jerked his eyes towards Bill, smiling on reflex. Bill smiled warmly back. He hadn't noticed anything amiss, then. Relief and guilt swam in Arthur's gut. "That's me," he quipped, chuckling to let off the nervous energy. I will always be your father, he swore silently. Tom would just have to understand that.

And he would. Tom could never hate anything that was Arthur's. He just couldn't.

"I just, um, wanted to let you know Fenrir and I are heading out for a while, too. Just for a few days," Bill hurried to add. A larger smile broke crookedly across his face. "Fenrir wants to introduce me to the pack properly. You know, as his mate." His sweet boy blushed bright crimson. A step behind him, his imposing wolf grinned unrepentantly.

"With your blessing, of course, Lord Weasley," Fenrir said. His words were perfectly diplomatic, cultured with a nondescriptly 'proper' accent that was missing when Arthur heard him speak casually.

Arthur nodded obligingly. "By all means, Alpha Greyback. Though I'd like to think we'll be on first names in time for the wedding. The wedding I'll be hearing about shortly, I hazard?"

Amazingly, Arthur's Goblin-approved, curse-wrangling eldest blushed even deeper at that. "Of course, Dad. We were thinking late January?"

Fenrir raised his eyebrows at that—he probably hadn't heard a word about weddings one way or the other from Bill until that moment—but backed Arthur's boy up. "Yes. Late January. Of course." Well, points for trying.

Bill leaned forward and pulled Arthur into a crushing hug. "Thanks for everything, Dad."

Arthur, for the life of him, couldn't understand what he was being thanked for, but in the tradition of parents everywhere he rolled with it. "Never need to thank me, William, darling. Just be happy, yes?"

Bill inhaled deeply. "Of course, Dad." Then, grabbing Fenrir's hand, the pair disappeared around the corner.

"You know," Arthur said, sensing an opportunity, "I think I might go for a lie-down, actually. It's been quite a lot, the last few days." And Arthur had quite a few intense days in front of him. Raising the dead was no easy business.

A round of agreeing noises heralded Arthur's exit. With a few lingering hugs to his boys, Arthur made a quick escape. He darted up the stairs, for once not pausing to look for a face he would not find. He came to his room and stood a moment, glad of the quiet. Then he went to the desk and removed a small music box, first brought to him by an elegant predator's wings.

Arthur smiled. He opened the lid of the music box, taken from his sealed up boyhood room in Merriweather Hall. A sweet, delicate tune filled the room, teasing his memory.

Finding the box in his room had bemused Arthur when he'd first walked in. The ornate carving, inlaid with gold on the ebony wood, was not something he would have ever purchased or been given as a youth. But Arthur had been attracted to it. Within moments of dismissing his badgering aunt, Arthur had charmed the door locked and flipped open the box.

The memories had unspooled in his mind like wire, a gleaming strand that wove a spider's web of connections. He discovered new ones every time he tugged on a string. This song had been their first dance. When in Malfoy Manor, the gaze Arthur looked for was Tom's.

Ignoring the tiny, whirling wizard-couple as they waltzed around the box, Arthur hissed "Open," the only word he remembered of Parseltongue. Obligingly, the false top lifted to reveal a hidden compartment. Inside were hundreds of tiny books, each shrunken to the size of a thumbnail. Arthur's personal library and all his notes.

"Fortius quo fidelius, indeed," Arthur murmured, and set to work.

Updated 20/08/2022