Chapter Twelve

Harry thrived at the Burrow. He loved everything about it from the rude mirror hanging over the kitchen mantlepiece to the ghoul that lived in the attic and made noise at all hours of the night.

Dahlia was not as thrilled to be there. There were too many people and not enough space to take a breath. The twins were around every corner with a prank. Mrs. Weasley was as happy to mother her as she mothered Harry and that irritated the hell out Dahlia's extremely independent, mentally adult self. The worst was Mr. Weasley's every condescending comment about 'How smart muggles were!' or 'How fascinating they were!' that revealed the inner bigot he didn't realize he was.

It wasn't the same kind of bigotry as the bigotry of a traditionalist pureblood. Arthur Weasley – and many other 'good' wizards for that matter such as the rest of the Weasleys and Hagrid to name a few – may not believe wizards should be ruling over the muggles like kings and queens, but they still unconsciously assumed themselves superior simply because they could use magic. To them all, muggles were an inferior race. Every time Mr. Weasley exclaimed over a muggle invention gave the impression he thought that just because they couldn't use magic, muggles were inherently less smart than wizards and they should have been living in shacks and mucking about in mud instead of actually being more advanced than wizards, though he didn't quite realize that last part. Dahlia had the chance to flip through Ron's beloved The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle comics and it was… yeah. Fucking piece of trash suitable only for kindling.

Very quickly, Dahlia began packing her school satchel with enough snacks to last her the day, plenty of entertainment, and disappearing into the nearby orchards or the fields or anywhere that didn't have yet another Weasley in the vicinity. She didn't come back until it was time for supper and while at first Mrs. Weasley worried herself sick over her vanishing, mentioning plans on meeting up again with Cedric Diggory the next morning over a plate of mashed potatoes one evening calms her down. According to Mrs. Weasley, Diggory was a nice and clever young man who could no wrong and who'll keep Dahlia out of trouble.

She tactfully decided not to reveal that the first time she had come upon her year-mate during her exploring, he had fallen off a tree right on top of her and almost cracked open both of their skulls on a large rock. Later, he would explain that he had been returning a chick to its nest after it had tumbled out and the branch he had climbed on hadn't held his weight.

She had internally cursed him out long and hard for the heart attack she almost had while combing through her hair to check the bloody wound he had given her. It would have scarred without the magical help of his mother.

Funnily enough, it was only after Mrs. Diggory had left them in her yard with glasses of lemonade that Diggory had squinted at her and said, "Potter?" in a disbelieving tone.

She had lifted her eyebrow in response. "Did you seriously just realize?"

Apparently, dressed muggle with dirty knees and twigs in her hair, she was unrecognizable to people who had only seen her in proper pureblood getup before.

On the Wednesday they were to visit Diagon Alley, Dahlia opens her trunk by unlocking the heavily enchanted combination lock – her roommates, like any self-respecting Slytherins, were snoops – and with Ginny busy in the loo, shamelessly slips off her nightgown and considers her outfit options in but her boyshorts.

The trunk was her most expensive possession bar some gifted jewelry, and it had been worth every Galleon she spent on it. Having expected to carry around with her most of her worldly belongings for at least seven years, she hadn't penny-pinched when it came to choosing the perfect one. Standing instead of lying down, its left side was divided into uneven halves, the edge-most one longer lengthwise and narrower widthwise than the other. There, she hung her dresses, robes, and pants from hangers that floated in the air. The second half had shelves for the rest of her clothes and her shoes. It also had drawers on the bottom where she kept her underwear, jewelry, makeup, and other necessities.

The right side of her trunk had bookshelves for her many, many books – most rescued from the dump in the Room of Requirement – and more drawers. One of them was specially designed to hold phials of various shapes and in another, she stored her potion ingredients. A third had her equipment which ranged from knives and stirring rods to dragonhide gloves. Her cauldron was placed in yet another special compartment. In the rest of the drawers, she kept her many binders of notes, the sheets of parchment she used to hand in her assignments, pens, and anything else she would need for class.

Logically, all that shouldn't be able to fit inside the normal-looking trunk, but magic.

By the time Ginny comes back into the bedroom, Dahlia was almost done fussing in front of the ornate floating full-length mirror that had come with the trunk and was usually stored in the robe compartment. The white blouse she had finally decided on was tucked into the high waist of her skirt and her socks were secured to the garters she had clipped around her tights. Her cute Cuban-heeled Mary Janes were freshly polished and the wrinkles had been smoothed out of her summer robes. Her hair had been given a few passes with a hairbrush until she no longer looked like a stereotypical witch. All that was left was to dab on a hint of gloss and pin a particularly favored sapphire and diamond crescent brooch to her bow tie cravat of dark silk and Dahlia could be mistaken for a little pureblood witch from a rich, but not too rich, Traditional family. No wonder Ginny wrinkles her nose as she passes by.

"Well, I like it." Dahlia snaps stung. She leaves the room back ramrod straight and teeth clenched.

Breakfast was – as usual – a loud, chaotic affair that made her long for Aunt Petunia's order. Quickly scarfing down a couple of bacon sandwiches and downing a cup of scalding hot tea, she makes an escape to the garden where she waits for the rest of the household to get their act together.

A full hour after the time they were supposed to leave at according to Mrs. Weasley's carefully planned schedule, they gather in front of the lopsided fireplace.

"We're running low, Arthur." Mrs. Weasley sighs, taking a flowerpot off the mantelpiece. "We'll have to buy some more today… Ah well, guests first! After you, Harry dear!" And she offered her brother the pot.

He only looked befuddled. "W-what am I supposed to do?"

"He's never traveled by Floo powder," Ron lightly hits his forehead with a palm. "Sorry, Harry, I forgot."

"Never?" Mr. Weasley repeats with astonishment. "But how did you get to Diagon Alley to buy your school things last year?"

"I went on the Underground –" Harry begins and is immediately interrupted by Mr. Weasley's eager gasp.

"Really? Were there escapators? How exactly –"

Dahlia disdainfully rolls her eyes. And this is the guy who works at the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.

"Not now, Arthur," Mrs. Weasley thankfully interjects. "Floo powder's a lot quicker, dear, but goodness me, if you've never used it before… Dahlia, dear, what about you?"

"I know the theory." She says. "Take a pinch, throw it into the fire, clearly say where you want to go."

"Just right." Mrs. Weasley nods. "Go on first, then."

Taking a pinch of the offered glittering powder, Dahlia throws it into the fire and with a roar, the flames turned emerald green and briefly rose higher than her head before settling back down. With trepidation, she steps into the fireplace every instinct screaming at her that walking into the fire was a bad idea, recalls half-forgotten advice from the books, and tucks in her elbows. "Diagon Alley!"

It felt as though she was being sucked down a giant drain. There was a lot of spinning, blurry glimpses of more fireplaces and strange rooms, and she was glad she never had problems with motion sickness.

She stumbles out onto cobblestone and almost walks face-first into a passing wizard. "Watch where you're going." He snaps at her.

"Sorry," Dahlia coughs out at his retreating back, throat full of ash.

This had not been a pleasant experience. People do this regularly?

The fire behind her roars and a twin steps out of the enormous outdoor stone fireplace, soot much more visible in his bright hair than in her own inky strands.

"You made it." He observes, sour.

"Unfortunately." She bites back.

More roaring flames.

"You made it." The next twin also observes in the same tone as his copy.

"Unfortunately." She bites back again.

"You made it!" Mr. Weasley was much more cheerful than his sons and actually glad to see her.

Ginny is next to floo in and she looks around tensely. "Where's Harry?"

Borgin and Burke, Knockturn Alley, Dahlia knows but makes her face appropriately worried. "What do you mean, where's Harry? Did he go before you?"

The flames roar one final time and Mrs. Weasley steps out. "Did Harry make it? I think he might have fumbled a bit on his pronunciation."

There is a brief panic at the realization that Harry was missing. Dahlia makes a good effort to appear concerned despite itching to go do her own thing by rounding on Mrs. Weasley and declaring angrily that she should have had Harry partner up with someone for his first time. "What about your kids, huh? Did they also have their first experiences with Floo travel alone? It's a wonder you didn't lose one or two of them in – I don't know – Australia!"

"Let's go to Gringotts." Mr. Weasley suggests, sweating. "He might have gone only one grate too far and will be waiting for us there."

"You better hope so!" Dahlia snarls at him.

Hey, this was pretty fun!

"Oh, go! Go!" Mrs. Weasley shoos them off and the men sprint away, pushing through the crowd of other back-to-school shoppers.

Trudging off after them to the imposing snow-white multistoried marble building that towered over the neighboring shops at a more sedate pace, face contorted into a fuming grimace, Dahlia irritably attempts to brush off the soot of her shirt. Giving it up as a bad job, she lifts her head and spots her brother in a huddle of males Weasleys, Hagrid, and Hermione.

She speeds up.

"Where have you been?!" Grabbing him by the shoulders, she spins Harry around to look him over for injuries. Other than the sooty clothes and the broken glasses, he looked fine. "What happened? Where did you land?"

"Knockturn," Hagrid grumbles with displeasure.

"Excellent!" The twins breathe in stereo.

"We've never been allowed in," Ron explains enviously.

"I should ruddy well think not," Hagrid tells them.

Better not disclose her plans on exploring every nook and cranny of the street when she turned seventeen and could use magic freely.

"Oh, Harry! Oh, my dear! You could have been anywhere…" Mrs. Weasley arrives, huffing and puffing, ghastly handbag – did she know nothing of fashion? – swinging wildly and dragging Ginny behind her. She pulls a brush out of her bag and begins sweeping off the soot from Harry's clothes.

Meanwhile, Mr. Weasley takes Harry's glasses, gives them a tap of his wand, and the cracked glass fixes itself. He returns them and Harry puts them back on with a grateful smile.

"Well, gotta be off," Hagrid says. "See yer at Hogwarts!"

"Bye Hagrid!" The Golden Trio call after the half-giant strides away, towering over everyone in the street.

"You're flooing with me on the return trip," Dahlia tells Harry. "Can't have you getting lost again. We got lucky this time that you weren't far and Hagrid was there. You realize you could have landed anywhere in the world, right?"

One of the things she had been curious about ever since reading the books was wizarding means of transportation. They had Apparition, Floo, and Portkeys, on top of things like brooms, flying cars, and enchanted buses. She had wondered why they needed so many of them. Why not pick one of the first three and stick with it? They were much quicker and less likely to be noticed by muggles.

The answer was distance.

With distance, the risk of Splinching increases when Apparating. With distance, the greater the chances of stepping out of the wrong fireplace when using the Floo. With distance, the more probable you are to disappear, never to be seen again, when using a Portkey.

Scary stuff. And it was only part of it.

Apparition could be used only when teleporting to places you have already been. It was also quite uncomfortable and could make you sick. Children were not recommended to use this method alone. It was Side-Along Apparition for them until they got their license.

Floo Powder could only be used with fireplaces connected to the Network, which limited it to wizarding areas. It was also not viable for people with heavy accents or speech impediments as Harry had just proved.

Portkeys, like Apparition, could only be made to places you've already been to because both methods relied on picturing the location in your mind. Furthermore, they were hard to make, and most never got the hang of it. A badly made one could fling a wizard halfway across the world or again, have them simply disappear to parts unknown.

Even magic had its drawbacks.

Dahlia stops fretting over her brother only after they walk up the set of white stairs leading up to the burnished bronze doors guarded by goblins in scarlet and gold uniforms, and cross a small entrance hall and a second set of this time silver-colored doors which were inscribed by the famous rhyme:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

Forget a warning, this was a straight-up dare from the goblins aimed at thieves to just try and beat their defenses.

Behind the doors was a vast marble hall with long counters stretching along its length with more doors leading off to the vault passageways. Somehow, it always felt inappropriate to disturb the quiet of the room. The sheer grandeur of the place was very intimidating.

They approach a goblin that wasn't busy scribbling in a large ledger, weighing coins in brass scales, or examining precious stones through eyeglasses and Mrs. Weasley gives a small cough to get his attention. "We're here to take money out of the Weasley and Potter vaults."

"Identification?" The small being asks.

Goblins were slightly larger than house-elves. Their fingers and feet were very long and their heads dome-shaped. Their noses and ears were extremely pointed. Their eyes were slanted and their skin fair from the little time they spent outside. Allegedly, they spoke Gobbledegook, but Dahlia rather thought it was an old wizard insult that wizard-kind eventually forgot was an insult and that the goblin language had another, less ridiculous, name.

"Oh yes, here." Mrs. Weasley roots through her purse – truly awful – and pulls out a tiny, golden key.

Harry also pulls out his from a pocket and the goblin takes it, examining it closely through eyeglasses. "This one is no longer in use." He says after a minute.

"Right, sorry." Dahlia belatedly recalls. Reaching into her own pocket, she pulls out another key. "I found out last year there was a third key floating around." She explains to a confused Harry. "Without knowing who had it, I thought it prudent to change the locks."

It was probably in Dumbledore's possession. According to the bank's withdrawing statements he hadn't used it, but still. You don't give out your credit card information. This was the same principle.

The goblin examines her new key and the Weasleys' and slides off his stool. "Follow me, please."

Harry and Ron wave a temporary goodbye to Hermione who was exchanging muggle money at another counter with her parents, and they are led to a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped sharply downwards and there were railway tracks on the floor. With a whistle from the goblin, a little cart train comes hurling towards them. They climb in and Dahlia enjoys the world's most extreme roller coaster ride.

Plunging deep into the cavernous darkness, they twist and turn over an underground lake where stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor and come to an abrupt stop in front of the Weasley vault.

Mrs. Weasley climbs out of her cart, looking green around the gills, and sweeps the small pile of Sickles and the single Galleon located inside into her purse – such an eyesore. She even feels right into the corners to make sure she got everything. Having been a broke college student once, Dahlia felt a fleeting soul-deep connection to the woman. But only fleeting. There and gone in a second. The sight of the Potter trust vault, filled to the brim with cold, hard cash, quickly cures her off that. And this was the trust vault! Who knows how much more riches there were in the main vault. Goodbye, money problems ~

Hopefully, anyway.

Dahlia couldn't access the main vault until she came of age, so she didn't actually know what was inside it. She was fervently praying to gods she didn't believe in James hadn't decided to invest the entire famed Potter wealth into the Order of the Burned Chicken and left his children penniless.

She had a backup plan in progress in the muggle world, but it would be so nice not to have to worry about her future economic situation. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would certainly not be supporting her, nor Harry if they ever needed money help after they turned eighteen.

Closing the trust vault's door after filling her enchanted coin purse, Dahlia passes the key to her brother. "Keep it safe and don't give it out to anybody, even if you trust them." She tells him, recalling a couple of instances from canon where the Weasleys got Harry's money for him and while she was mostly sure they were trustworthy people, it was highly uncomfortable for her to outsiders have access to her bank account. It was all she could do to battle the urge to bar Harry from the vault too. As mature as the boy was for his age, he was still a child with unlimited access to what he thought was an incredibly large amount of money. He didn't quite realize it was a finite resource, and he could very easily get carried away as Dahlia would have in his place "Changing it again will be expensive."

"Don't you need it too?" Harry asks.

She twirls an identical copy between her fingers. "I had two made."

Back outside and blinking at the brightness of the sun, they separate; Percy off to get a new quill, Fred and George towards Lee Jordan, Mrs. Weasley and Ginny to a second-hand robe shop, Mr. Weasley taking the Granger couple to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink, the Golden Trio off to get ice cream, and Dahlia to replenish her potion kit.

"We'll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks." Mrs. Weasley calls after them. "And not one step down Knockturn Alley!"

Along the way to the apothecary, Dahlia stops by a tiny-looking shop, squished between the much larger Broomstix and Madam Primpernelle's Beautifying Potions. She had discovered it during her explorations of the wizarding district the summer before her first year and had fallen in love.

A gentle chime of a bell echoes as Dahlia enters the magically enlarged shop, announcing her presence. Sitting in a rocking chair behind a counter, the old proprietress cracks open an eye. "Back again?" She grouses. "Haven't you better places to be?"

"Hello to you too, Mrs. Shuttleworth," Dahlia replies pleasantly, looking around.

This was the opposite of Borgin and Burkes. Where that shop was dimly-lit and covered in dust, Mrs. Shuttleworth's Curious Curios was bright and clean. From the ceiling hung lamps of all shapes and sizes, made of glass, crystal, and metal. The walls were covered in portraits and landscapes, all moving and alive. There were clocks here and there too, each more interesting than the last. Dahlia's favorite was a dark gothic with a dragon statue sitting on top, watching her warily.

There was barely any space to walk around, the floor taken up by tables, chairs, cabinets, wardrobes, more paintings, grandfather clocks, and even an upright piano and a harp which were quietly playing an improvised piece in accompaniment with a floating violin, a lute, a flute, a clarinet, an oboe, a bassoon, a trumpet, and a trombone.

"Going to buy anything this time, girl? Or are you wasting my time again?" Mrs. Shuttleworth asks and Dahlia looks longingly in the direction of a second room barely visible from behind a curtain of heavy drapes. There, she knew, stood half a dozen mismatched bookshelves bursting with ancient books. Many were centuries old and could not be found in shops such as Flourish and Blotts. They were also too expensive for her to justify the purchase.

Dahlia gives a mental shake of her head. If she didn't go in there, she wouldn't know what she was missing. "But you have the most interesting things, Mrs. Shuttleworth. Like this… what is it?"

Lying on a nearby table in a fancy carved wooden box with a velvet inside, it looked similar to a fancy dip pen of black and gold glass. Except wizards didn't use dip pens.

"That's a rune wand, girl." Mrs. Shuttleworth says.

"A rune wand?" Dahlia repeats fascinated. "What is it used for?"

The old woman stands up with difficulty and approaches. "It is a tool for warders, enchanters, and curse-breakers." She picks the pen up and it softly lights up with an inner light. With a few strokes, a glowing Norse rune was hovering in the air.

"Wow." Dahlia takes the pen from Mrs. Shuttleworth's wrinkly hand and the glow winkles out. "Uh…"

"Concentrate." Mrs. Shuttleworth says snappishly. "It's no different from a normal wand, girl. The glass is magic conductive, it's not hard."

Jerkily, Dahlia sketches a flower, a silly grin lighting up her face at the passable result.

Mrs. Shuttleworth peers at her thoughtfully. "You take Ancient Runes, girl?"

Startled out of her doodling, Dahlia furrows her eyebrows. "Yes? Why?"

"You enjoy it?"

"Languages always fascinated me." She replies slowly, lowering the pen.

"And your grades?" Mrs. Shuttleworth continues her strange line of questioning.

"Outstanding across the board."

"Hmph. Wait here." The old woman disappears into her office on the second floor.

"Okay?"

Dahlia puts the pen back into its box and drums her fingers on her tight, awkwardly standing around. This was weird. Mrs. Shuttleworth had always just rocked in her chair, grumbling about everything, deigning to stand only to ring up purchases.

A crystal songbird sitting on a perch trills a few notes. Chessmen begin a war on their golden chessboard. The clock dragon sneezes out a jet of green flame. Outside the display windows, the Golden Trio passes by, chatting together and licking ice creams. Finally, after five minutes that felt more like fifteen, Mrs. Shuttleworth returns, carrying a dusty old tome with her.

"Half price for the wand and the book." She says.

Dahlia stares at the outstretched All You Need to Know About Using Runes with perplexity.

Mrs. Shuttleworth exhales harshly. "Look girl, lighting a rune wand on your first try takes skill. I was a runic enchanter back in my day, I would know. Had I been a few decades younger, I would have snapped you right up as an apprentice."

"But you said it was easy!" Dahlia exclaims.

"I lied." Right, people did that. She did that and often. "They start you on this after your O.W.L. year at Hogwarts, but it's the bare basics and nothing else. Anyway, it's better to start such things early."

"Why?" Dahlia asks, furrowing her eyebrows.

"Your magic, girl." Mrs. Shuttleworth sags in exasperation. "When you are young, it's malleable and eager to be used. That's why you get accidental magic. As you age, it matures and it becomes used to being focused through a normal wand. By your coming of age, it will fight if you try to use anything else as a focus. The earlier you start using a rune wand, the more time you are giving your magic to get used to being directed through it and the stronger your runes will be later on. Merlin, what are they teaching you at that school nowadays? I fear for the future if you are among the best and brightest of your generation. Two-thirds off."

"Alright." Dahlia throws up her hands, though her eyes were betraying her interest. "Alright, I'll buy them. But don't expect me to go into any rune-using professions. I don't know what I want to be yet."

Mrs. Shuttleworth's own silvery eyes gleam. "Lovely."

After the bewildering encounter with Mrs. Shuttleworth, Dahlia rushes to get her potion ingredients and only just makes in time to Flourish and Blotts where a large crowd compromising largely of witches Mrs. Weasley's age was jostling outside the doors trying to get in. Stretched across the upper windows was the reason, a banner proclaiming that:

GILDEROY LOCKHART

will be signing copies of his autobiography

MAGICAL ME

today 12:30 P.m. to 4:30 P.m.

Dahlia grimaces at it and squeezes into the bookshop with the practice of one used to the chaos of a Black Friday, happily elbowing everyone out off her path.

Ignoring the line winding to the back of the building where Lockhart was signing his books, she heads to the Charms section in search of a copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4.

"Potter."

"Hey, Malfoy." She greets the now sixth-year Prefect. "Shopping for Hogwarts?"

"We would have picked a different day had we known that buffoon would be here today." The pale blond tells her, handing her the text she was looking for with a charming smile.

Had Dahlia not been a reincarnation and truly been mentally fourteen and as such didn't find being attracted to literal children more than two decades younger than her icky, this would be the moment where her heart would give a traitorous flutter and she would blush attractively when their fingers graze together slightly as she takes the book. Thankfully, she was a reincarnation and not truly mentally fourteen despite the occasional hormones and as such did find being attracted to literal children more than two decades younger than her icky even if Ambrosius Malfoy was the prettiest man she had ever led her eyes on. Not only he had the usual Malfoy good looks, he also kept his hair long which was a big weakness of Dahlia's when it came to men. He styled it in this thick over-the-shoulder braid that dangled all the way down to the top of his hip and that never failed to make her want to get her hands on it. She bet it was silky soft… Damn pureblood etiquette, she'd have to marry the guy to do that. Plus, he had a better personality than most of their House put together and he'd never been mean to her and had actually helped her get out of a few tight spots back in her first year and he was sixteen.

Ugh, she was suffering here.

"Thanks. Not a fan?" Crouching down, Dahlia browses through the lower shelves and tries not to think about the earrings dangling from Malfoy's ears. Pale whitish chalcedony – if she's not mistaken – stones cut as teardrops on silver chains, this time. Is he doing this on purpose? Does he know she likes men with earrings? He's got a girlfriend already, doesn't he? Did they break up? Fucking hormones. Remember girl, two decades younger.

Dahlia's unknowing tormentor leans on the bookshelf beside her. "He's a peacock. And that's coming from someone whose family owns several of them."

She glances up, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. "All albinos too."

There is a theatrical groan from her upperclassman. "Horrible, horrible creatures. Pretty, but have you ever heard them yell? Get them properly started and there won't be any peace and quiet for hours."

Dahlia laughs and stands up, deciding there wasn't anything worth buying.

"Now, who's this?" Malfoy the Older drawls, looking behind her. "Harry Potter and his little lion friends. Come to save your sister from the big bad snake?"

"Oh, hello Harry." She smiles at her brother. "I don't need any saving, thank you. This is Ambrosius Malfoy."

"Malfoy?" Ron mutters distrustfully.

"A cousin of the main branch." Malfoy the Older smirks thinly.

Dahlia pulls out two copies of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 from the shelf and dumps them in Harry's arms. Ron was no doubt getting his own second-hand from his elder brothers, so only Hermione and Harry needed new ones. "Come on, we still have to brave the horde of love-sick fangirls."

Malfoy the Older lifts her purchases off the ground where she had put them as pureblood etiquette dictated men shouldn't let women carry anything if they can do it for them, and together, they snuck up the line to where the rest of the Weasley family was standing with the adult Grangers.

"Oh, there you are, good." Mrs. Weasley says breathlessly. She kept patting her hair. "We'll be able to see him in a minute..."

Dahlia has never understood people who hyper fixated on celebrities.

It is not the real Gilderoy Lockhart that they see first, but his enlarged photographs that were all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. The man himself is seen two minutes later seated at a table. He was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that matched his eyes and his pointed wizard's hat was crooked on his wavy hair. He did not look one bit like a man who has defeated a werewolf, traveled with trolls, or spent a year with yeti.

A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash. "Out of the way, there," He snarled at Ron, moving back to get a better shot, and stepped on the Weasley's foot. "This is for the Daily Prophet —"

"Big deal," Ron says angrily. And loudly.

Gilderoy Lockhart hears him. He looks up. He saw Ron and then he must have seen Harry because his eyes widened perceptibly. He stared.

"Oh, boy." Dahlia sing-songs under her breath.

"It can't be! Harry Potter?!" The man exclaims, leaping to his feet.

Whispering excitedly, the crowd parts allowing Lockhart to dive forward, seize Harry by the arm, and pull him to the front.

The crowd bursts into applause and Harry's face becomes tomato red.

Under the cover of the thick smoke the photographer's camera was producing, Dahlia slinks behind Malfoy the Older's wide back. She'd like to help Harry. She really did. But she was not risking getting dragged into that catastrophe. She'd been hounded by reporters exactly once already for news about Harry before he had started Hogwarts and had been missing from the Wizarding World, and that once had been enough.

Harry tries to sidle back over to the Weasleys, but Lockhart throws an arm around his shoulders and draws him tight to his side. "Ladies and gentlemen," He declares grandly, waving for quiet. "what an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I've been sitting on for some time! When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography – which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge." The crowd applauds again.

Dahlia wants to gag. Whatever else, the faker was good at showmanship.

"He had no idea," Lockhart continues, giving Harry a little shake that made his glasses slip to the end of his nose. "that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

"Joy, another year of substandard education." Malfoy the Older murmurs into Dahlia's ear.

"Tell me about it." She mutters back.

The crowd cheered and clapped while Harry was presented with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering under their weight, he finally manages to flee the limelight and back to their little group.

"You have these," Harry tells Ginny, tipping the lot into her new second-hand cauldron. "I'll buy my own."

"Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?" Malfoy the Younger snickers, descending from the second floor. "Famous Harry Potter, can't even go into a bookshop without making the front page."

"Draco." Malfoy the Older says warningly. "Not in public."

"Are you ready?" Mr. Weasley struggles over to them with the twins, their arms full of the books they had gone to get. "We're leaving soon."

"Well, well, well, Arthur Weasley."

"Uncle." Malfoy the Older says.

"Lord Malfoy." Dahlia ducks her head in greeting and is rewarded with a noticeably less cool look from the approaching man than the one the Weasleys had received. She must have left him with a favorable impression after attending his family's Winter ball a couple of times.

"Lucius." Mr. Weasley nods with a barely concealed grimace.

"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear." Malfoy the Eldest? the Senior? shares. "All those raids… I hope they're paying you overtime?" He reaches into Ginny's cauldron and extracts from amid the new Lockhart books, a copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration that was almost falling apart in his gloved hand. "Obviously not. Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

Mr. Weasley flushes darker than Harry had on stage. "We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy."

Cold eyes flicker to Mr. and Mrs. Granger. "Clearly. The company you keep, Weasley… and I thought your family could sink no lower –"

There is a crash as the haughty man tumbles into a bookshelf and Dahlia gasps, hand fluttering to cover her mouth. She was aware Lucius Malfoy was supposed to slip Ginny the diary in this scene but there was nothing about a barehanded brawl in her notebook!

"Get him, Dad!" A twin yells.

"No, Arthur, no!" Mrs. Weasley shrieks.

The crowd hurries away from the fighting pair, knocking more shelves over in their haste. Malfoy the Older grabs Dahlia by the shoulder and jerks her out of the way of the dozens of heavy books falling on them.

"What are you doing?!" She finds her voice. "Mr. Weasley! Mr. Weasley, let him go! You're an adult! You can't go around throwing yourself at people for insulting you! You walk away calmly! Think of the example you're setting for your children!"

"Say the girl who curses people for being the butt of a friendly joke!" The other twin retorts.

She gets in his face. George and Fred weren't that much taller than her. "I'm not an adult. And there nothing friendly about your jokes, brother-fucker!"

"What?!" Mrs. Weasley screeches louder.

"It's a rumor! A rumor you've spread! We would never!"

Malfoy the Older laughs derisively. "And how are you going to prove it?"

"Please! Please!" A Flourish and Blotts employee cries nearby.

Hagrid rounds a bookshelf and grabs Mr. Weasley and Malfoy the Lord? The Death Eater? by the back of their robes, forcibly forcing them apart. "Break it up, there, gents, break it up. You too, kids."

Unwillingly, they step away from each other. Dahlia flips her hair over her shoulder with an angry humph.

Mrs. Weasley dabs at her husband's split lip with a handkerchief. "What, by the great Merlin, possessed you?"

"I'm sorry, dear. It won't happen again." The man reassures her.

"Well, I sure hope not!"

Malfoy the – Lord. There. Lord Malfoy was still holding Ginny's Transfiguration book and he thrust it at her. "Here, girl, take your book. It's the best your father can give you. Draco, Ambrosius, come."

Malfoy the Older hands over her purchases. "I don't know what you're doing with the Weasleys, but if you need rescuing send me an owl."

"I will." She half-seriously promises.

The Malfoys sweep out of the shop.

"Yeh should've ignored him, Arthur." Hagrid rebukes the man. "Rotten ter the core, the whole family, everyone knows that. No Malfoy's worth listenin' ter. Bad blood, that's what it is –"

"The Malfoys have been nothing but nice to me." Dahlia interrupts icily. "It takes two to tango."

Nose in the air, she stomps away from the Weasleys to go pay for her books, mood ruined for the rest of the day.

The Malfoys were unapologetic bigots and corrupt, she wouldn't argue that. She didn't know about Narcissa or Ambrosius' parents, but Lucius had hurt and killed people. Even if he loved his wife and son – Draco was very obviously spoiled and not only by his mother, so there was none of that Lucius is an abuser shit that the Harry Potter fandom had invented – it didn't change the fact Mr. Malfoy was a murder.

Still, whatever their faults, the Malfoys had been polite to her. They had welcomed her into their home during one of their most sacred celebrations despite being the sister of the 'killer' of their leader.

Alright, yes, the Weasleys had invited her into their home no questions asked too, but they were the good guys. They were supposed to do that. She hadn't expected them to do anything else. The Malfoys? That first ball, she had been a hundred percent certain they'd throw her out on her ass the second she stepped foot past their fancy iron-wrought gates. They didn't.

It left Dahlia… conflicted.

She didn't want to feel that Mr. Weasley was in the greater wrong for the Flourish and Blotts incident, but she did. Lord Malfoy may have started it, but he had escalated it. Call her a hypocrite because in his place she wouldn't have calmly walked away either, but she also had the brain of a teenager despite having the mind of an adult. She couldn't always help her poor impulse control and her temper. Mr. Weasley could.

That night, Dahlia lies on her camp bed, unable to fall asleep. The gentle pitter-patter of the raindrops against the window, normally so soothing only annoyed her further. Ginny's soft and generally easy to ignore snores made her clamp her pillow around her head to block them out. One question plagued her restless thoughts; what kind of person liked the villains better than the heroes?

Anything you recognize is Rowling's.