Part Two: The Long Peace
Won't you come down to the Manor?
Won't you come?
There's singing and laughing and playing in the Summer
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
There's a pond made for swimming and games made for winning
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
There're lovers all a loving and mothers all a mothering
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
There's peace and there's laughter and there's fun
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
Won't you come down to the Manor?
Won't you come?
There's leaves falling fast and Halloween scares in the Autumn
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
There're leaf piles growing and cheeks all a glowing
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
There're children playing pranks and mothers baking pies
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
There's peace and there's laughter and there's fun
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
Won't you come down to the Manor?
Won't you come?
There's fires crackling and toes toasting and Christmas cheer in the Winter
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
There're snowballs and snowmen and frosted over windows
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
There're baubles on the tree and children baking gingerbread
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
There's peace and there's laughter and there's fun
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
Won't you come down to the Manor?
Won't you come?
There're leaf buds a sprouting and children a shouting in the Spring
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
There're flowers a growing and sunshine a showing
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
There's men and there's women and there's children a playing
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
There's peace and there's laughter and there's fun
Down at the Manor
Won't you come?
Section One: Wedding Season
Chapter One: Sweet Summer
"You want a job, you say?" Mr Borgin said, peering through his dirty glasses at the boy on the other side of the counter. He was tall and handsome, unnaturally pale, with smooth black hair. Not the sort of boy you expected to come across in Knockturn Alley.
"Yes, sir," the boy said.
Mr Borgin hummed to himself. He could certainly do with some help. After Mr Burke had taken off last year with a young Muggle girl, he had found himself rather short-staffed and overworked. In principle, it was a good thing that his business was in demand. Practically, however, it meant that, at least until Mr Burke's teenage son was old enough to help, Mr Borgin was finding himself rather at a loss.
"Alright," he said. "Come through to the back and we'll negotiate your payment."
The Potter Mansion had felt horribly empty over the past few months. Now, though, Gertrude was delighted to see it returning to its usual levels of occupancy. There were three children under her feet again — Olive had been joined by Lucy and Charlie — and she was back to happily planning Monty and Mia's wedding and ribbing her husband about how unhelpful he was about the whole process.
The world felt right again.
Tears dripped down his long nose and onto the parchment. He'd kept them. Gellert had kept them.
All the letters Albus had ever sent him, some of them only a single line that made so little sense out of context that Albus couldn't remember what they had been intended to mean. They were all still here, lying with some of Gellert's more powerful dark artifacts in the luxurious room he must have slept in, deep in his secret base.
Albus had thrown the letters Gellert had sent him one by one into the fire while Aberforth wept inconsolably for Ariana.
Gellert,
You're right, of course. Something so complicated could only be achieved by runes. I've enclosed a sample; it's not the final product, but it will be something to start with!
Perhaps we should focus more on the political scene rather than the forceful side – you are right that the ends justify the means, but it would be preferable to achieve our goal through peaceful methods. I suppose we'll both just have to live with people who aren't as intelligent as we are!
I've an idea about the DH you mentioned, but I don't want to put it in writing, so I suppose you'll just have to wait until I see you next; if we have any time for talking, that is!
Albus
Gellert,
I miss you already. The house is so stifling anyway and the heat isn't helping – I have to keep all the windows closed, of course, but the heat makes her crotchety anyway and Aberforth isn't helping – those goats of his make everything stink. I'd much rather be abroad somewhere. Sometimes I think you're the only thing keeping me in Godric's Hollow.
Albus
Gellert,
I'm sorry. I feel dreadful; you are quite right (aren't you always?), we shouldn't fight and leave things on bad terms like this.
I haven't changed my mind. I still think we shouldn't use such spells or even contemplate using them. The Unforgivables are Unforgivable for a reason. Still, I understand where you are coming from and I know that you mean well.
Agree to disagree?
Albus
So many reminders of a life he'd lost. So many reminders of who he had been and what he had done. His fingers twitched towards his wand – the wand, the wand that Gellert had wielded only days before. Already he could see the flames.
Something stopped him before he could cast the spell. Some part of him still clung to Gellert he had though he'd known, so long ago. And there Bathilda. Surely some memories of the boy she'd loved…?
It was an excuse and Albus knew it was. But, after all, he'd always been good at lying.
There comes a time in your life when you finish with one thing and are thrown headlong into the next, almost before you realise it, and suddenly you are lost and have no idea what to do. That was what had happened to Minerva McGonagall.
She'd always been the one with plans, the one with goals. She still had them, but…
It wasn't possible to become a Hogwarts professor straight out of school. Minerva's goals had always centred on becoming a teacher, preferably at her old school. She would teach Transfiguration and help to prepare young minds for the world beyond Hogwarts.
Except she didn't know how to cope with that world herself.
Minerva had always regarded friendships as secondary to studies. Consequently, she had few people whom she really knew. Acquaintances, certainly. Friends, not really.
She had had three real friends. Augusta Spinnet was busy planning her wedding, Cyadir Hoarfrost had already been given a job at an illustrious American company, and Poppy Pomfrey was remaining at Hogwarts, except when interning at St Mungo's, to aid her mother in the care of the Hospital Wing.
Which meant that Minerva was the last one left. She had never felt so lost before and she didn't like it.
There is a time for peace and there is a time for war…
Elli carefully wrote out the passage in her blue spiral-bound notebook. Each letter was perfectly curved and perfectly joined to every other letter, every word evenly spaced, every punctuation mark identical. It was perfect.
It didn't look quite real.
Elli checked that she had put the correct date at the top of the page, then closed the notebook and the book and laid her fountain pen on top. She put it neatly on her desk.
Every part of Elli's room was arranged neatly. Every book on the bookshelf was exactly in line with every other book and they were all the same height. Inside her wardrobe, every item of clothing was folded into a square of fabric that only differed in their colours. You could have measured her duvet with a spirit level.
Ellie was as perfect — and as unreal — as her bedroom. She had perfectly straight brown hair, cut in a bob that was so level the best if hairdressers would have given up their job and taken up sheep shearing, blue eyes precisely the same shape, size, and shade as each other, a completely symmetrical face, and clothes that looked as though they had been drawn on.
Elli did not regard herself as odd. Everything in her house was as neat and perfect as she was. Her parents had died years before, leaving only a few paintings behind, and she saw no one except the occasional glimpse of her house-elf, a wide-eyed little creature in a pink pillowcase with a neat bow over each ear.
Elli had never left her house before, except to walk in her garden. It had a striped lawn, symmetrical flowerbeds, and a huge dark hedge that Elli couldn't see over.
Nothing else existed in her world.
There was a letter waiting for her at her place at the dining room table, beside an evenly cooked slice of toast and a glass of orange juice with no drips. Elli picked it up and turned it over. Her address, right down to the location of her bedroom, and a seal. She'd read about that seal.
She opened the letter neatly, leaving an unbroken seal, an envelope that had not yet been used, and a folded sheet of parchment.
"Pinky!" Elli called.
The house-elf appeared in front of her. "Mistress?"
"Send an owl to Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry."
"Yes, Mistress. What does you wish to say, Mistress?"
"That I am grateful for his kindness in sending me an invitation to attend his wonderful school and that, unfortunately, I will not be availing myself of the opportunity of attending."
"Yes, Mistress."
Lucinda Potter stared disconsolately at the dress robes being held out to her.
"What's wrong, dear?" her mother asked.
Lucy sighed and screwed up her face.
"If I have to try on more robes I'll just die!" she declared.
"Lucy," Gertrude said, cajolingly, "your brother is getting married soon. You don't want to ruin his day, do you? You are going to be a bridesmaid, you know."
"We've tried hundreds of dress robes! We don't need to do anymore!" Lucy almost stamped her foot, but stopped herself. Since Olive's arrival, she had found herself to no longer be the youngest member of the family and consequently held herself to be quite grown-up and much above such childish displays of pettiness as stamping her foot. Besides, she was sixteen now. She was almost of age!
"You know we need something that will suit you, Olive, Letitia, and Cecilia, darling."
Lucy sighed again. She had nothing against the other three girls. Olive was sweet and good fun and it was nice to have a little back up against her brothers, Mia's sister-in-law Letitia was lovely, and Cecilia was her only female cousin and therefore her favourite cousin, but none of them looked at all alike. Olive had curly dark hair and Lucy's looked sometimes red and sometimes gold. Letitia had wispy pale blond hair and much paler skin than either Olive, whose skin tone almost matched her name, and Lucy, who spent far too much time outside to be pale. Cecilia was the only one of them with freckles, and she was also the only one who actually had curves. Finding one colour and style of dress robes to fit all of them was a challenge.
She just didn't see why she should have to spend all her time trying on different patterns, especially she knew they would just end up wearing their families' colours. Possibly they would be allowed to wear something else for the party afterwards, but they didn't need to match then!
Gertrude, seeing her daughter's mutinous face, laid the robe carefully on the bed.
"The wedding is in only a few weeks, Lucy. We need to find suitable robes before then. But, I suppose, you can have a break now. Go and help Mia and Ceci with wedding favours."
Lucy brightened at once. "Thank you, Mum!"
She hugged Gertrude around the waist and ran off. Lady Potter watched her go with a fond smile.
Potter Manor had filled up with guests for the occasion. Edmund's younger brother, Harold, had arrived with his three children, of whom Cecilia was one. Various members of the Prewett family had arrived. Gertrude's mother was terrorising everyone and her brother and his wife had sufficiently recovered from the loss of their young son to be able to face a wedding. Trisha Abbot, Edmund's cousin, had brought her three toddlers and a delegation of Dearborn cousins had arrived from France. Other relatives, friends, and acquaintances — indeed most of the wizarding world — were expected to attend the wedding and had decided to stay elsewhere so as not to impose on the busy family, but a few friends were staying at the Manor.
Among these was Albus Dumbledore.
He had been a friend of Edmund's for many years; he had attended the wedding of the current Lord and Lady Potter and had now been invited to witness the nuptials of the future Lord and Lady Potter. He'd offered to stay at Hogwarts. Edmund had refused to hear of it.
It was at Potter Manor, in the flurry of pre-wedding preparation, that Albus first met Olive Garden. The little girl was sitting cross-legged in a corner of the biggest dining room, carefully folding paper into doves. Her hair was tied back in two plaits, and she was wearing a red dress Albus vaguely recognised as one of Lucy's.
Albus had been sent to check that there would be enough seats for everyone to eat inside, but he changed course at the sight of someone he'd heard so much about and never met. After all, the hall could always be magically expanded.
"Hello," he said, when he reached the girl.
Olive looked up with a squeak. Her wide eyes reminded him a bit of Ariana and he felt a pang.
"May I see what you are doing?" Albus asked.
Olive held up the half-folded dove in her hand, wordlessly. Just as Albus had recognised her by Edmund's description, she had recognised Albus from the many stories she had been told by Mia, Monty, Edmund, Gertrude, Charlie, Lucy, and just about everyone else she had met in this strange new world that had turned out to be hers.
Albus took the paper gently from her. He turned it over. The paper was white on one side and decorated with a thin red lattice on the other, leaving an impression of just the occasional snatch of colour on the finished bird. Every fold was neat and crisp and the pile of completed doves looked identical to each other.
Albus gave the bird back, then drew his wand. Wordlessly, he swished it over the pile and the doves gained a semblance of life, flapping round Olive's head as though they were alive.
She smiled and laughed, breathless with delight. Albus smiled. This was why he liked teaching.
"You're handling this shockingly well," Cecilia said, as she helped to pin the sleeve of Euphemia's new dress robes — the dress robes she would be wearing at the wedding breakfast, not during the ceremony or the reception. "Normally a bride gets a bit worried, you know, about whether the wedding is all going to go as planned."
Mia laughed, then sobered as Trisha jabbed her in the side to keep her still.
"I suppose I might be, if I hadn't already married him. Anyway, I hardly need to worry — Gertie is doing enough of that for me!"
Ceci joined in the laughter. Lady Potter was driving herself mad with the preparations for her oldest son's wedding, determined that it should be perfect.
"Poor dear is acting like it's her own wedding," Trisha said. "But then I suppose that mothers do. I know mine was in a right flurry, and my mother-in-law as well, poor dears."
"Yes, that's right!" Ceci exclaimed. "You got married recently — you can tell Mia how stressed she ought to be!"
Mia laughed again. "I don't think there's an 'ought'."
"Of course there's an ought," Cecilia said. "When I get married I'm going to be having hysterics all over the place and believing the worst and overreacting to everything.
"That's if I ever find anyone who wants to marry me," she added, more gloomily.
"Of course you will, dear," Trisha said bracingly. "Men are easy to find and easier to seduce. You'll find yourself a wonderful husband."
"You have men lined up at your door, Ceci, I don't know why you're worried," Mia said, laughing. "I'm sure they'd fight to the death for your hand."
Cecilia joined the laughter. "Maybe they would. Hey, that would be fun, wouldn't it?"
"Not for them," Mia said, smiling.
Tom glanced at the newspaper and sneered. All of it was rubbish. Lot of people shrieking in excitement about the upcoming Potter wedding. Some talk of how scandalous it was that the happy couple were already married; others were declaring the wartime wedding as a triumph of love in times if hardship. Tom wasn't interested in blood traitors and he certainly didn't believe all that nonsense about love.
He flipped through the paper, bored. He only had a subscription so he could read about his exploits — when he decided the time was right to have them. Currently, it was all rubbish.
He crumpled the paper into a ball and set it on fire, wandlessly, before pulling on a slightly worn cloak and leaving the house.
He Apparated into a doorway at the edge of Knockturn Alley. The skulking figures who constantly haunted the edges of the narrow, dirty street ignored him, or moved respectfully out of his way as he passed. In this cloak, he was only a poor salesman at Borgin and Burkes, but the inhabitants of the alley were nonetheless wary of offending him. Mr Borgin was considered an influential character around here and the people who worked for him were awarded a modicum of respect.
"Good morning, Tom," Mr Borgin said as Tom entered. Tom inclined his head respectfully.
"Good morning, Mr Borgin. Anything of interest come in?"
"Not just now," Mr Borgin sighed. "Business is being rather slow. I've got a lead on something, though — a rather nice little trifle that I bought for a ridiculously cheap price and sold on for a profit. I want it back now. Woman who bought it lives alone, in her forties, just an old house-elf for company."
"I'll pay her a visit later today," Tom said. "Is there anything I can offer her as a reason for coming?"
Mr Borgin pointed to a necklace made of round, pale gems — pearls or opals, Tom suspected. It was the sort of thing Marigolda or Cedrella might wear.
"Opal necklace. Just came in. Got some nice enchantments on it — got it for fifty Galleons from an old broke Lord — it's worth fifty thousand."
Tom approached it. He did not touch it — he knew better than to touch anything in Borgin and Burkes. Instead he pulled his wand out and levitated it, looking at it closely.
"It's very pretty," Mr Borgin said, hovering behind Tom. "She's on record as having bought a necklace. If we're lucky I'll get my treasure back and I'll sell that there necklace for a nice tidy profit. Take all the time you want, Tom. It's something very important I want."
Tom smiled. In one of the reflective opals he caught a flash of red.
"Alfred!"
Mia threw her arms around her brother. Alfred Dearborn, tall, blond, and strong, picked her up and spun her around, both of them laughing. Monty kissed Alfred's wife, Letitia, on the hand.
Lord and Lady Potter greeted their soon to be son-in-law with equal delight. Gertrude folded him in her arms and Edmund shook his hand, slapped in on the back, and challenged him to a Quidditch game. Charlus and Fleamont kicked up a fuss immediately, and soon it was decided that the game would be married men against bachelors.
Predictably, Charlus, who played Quidditch at Hogwarts, and Monty, who had been Quidditch captain only a few years ago, beat the two older men.
Letitia was swept into the bustle of wedding preparations immediately. She'd been married only the year before, more recently even than Trisha, and so was considered to be the best source of wedding related information.
The man coughed weakly. He spat blood from his mouth. Hunched on the ground, beaten and bloodied, his long hair falling in his eyes, he made a pitiful sight. Still, when he spoke, his words were light, scornful.
"You're going to have to do better than that."
The other figure ground his teeth. He was young, little more than a boy, dressed neatly in smart robes and carefully parted hair. He was holding a wand aloft, and his eyes seemed to glitter in the darkness.
"One last chance," he said, his voice soft, dangerous.
The man laughed, or tried to laugh. It came out as a hacking cough. More blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"You're nothing but a child," he said.
"Wrong answer," the boy said. "Crucio."
The man screamed. It was not a noise he made intentionally. It was forced out of him as pain wracked his body, twisting it and contorting it. He was screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming, unable to do anything else, to wipe away the blood gushing from his mouth, to beg the boy to stop.
The pain ceased.
"Tell me."
This time, the man told him.
Tom emerged triumphant from the dim little cellar. The street he was standing in was shabby and there were few people scurrying about. Those that were kept their heads down, intent on their own lives and troubles, all of them knowing better than to pay attention to an immaculately dressed stranger.
Tom flicked his wand and a speck of blood vanished from his shoe. All in all, he thought that had gone fairly well.
He had the information he needed, anyway.
It was a shame that the man had not been able to tell him more. Tom would have liked to know where the girl was, not just that she did truly exist. If he could find her, she would an invaluable asset.
Elli dreamt that someone was looking for her. She was standing in the middle of a long corridor and someone was looking for her. They were just around the corner. She could not see them and did not know who they were or what they'd do if they found her, but she knew that they were looking and she was horribly, helplessly frightened. At every moment she expected someone to come around the corner and see her and at every moment they did not. It was like the moment before a long fall, the moment before death — frozen in time, always just about to happen but never truly happening.
She woke to rain lashing against her window and the shadow of a half-remembered laugh.
"It had better not keep raining!" Lucy Potter said, her face pressed against the window of the room her cousin Cecilia was staying in. "Mum'll be furious if the wedding isn't perfect and Mia will too!"
Ceci had been lying on her bed, counting RSVPs. She looked up now.
"Calm down, Lucy, it won't rain forever. I'm sure it's just a summer shower. It'll have stopped by lunch."
Lucy huffed. She wasn't very comforted.
Now that Letitia and Alfred had arrived and Gertrude had more helpers (read: slaves), Lucy had found that she wasn't in much demand anymore. At first she had been delighted. Freedom! She could do what she liked while her mother was distracted with wedding preparations!
Except that she had to keep out of the way of everyone else. She couldn't go outside, because it was raining, and she couldn't go into any of the main rooms in the house because they'd all been taken over for the wedding, and she couldn't distract anyone else, because they were all working. So Lucy was bored.
And when a Potter is bored, it usually means something awful is going to happen.
The trouble was, Lucy couldn't do anything too truly terrible. She liked Monty and she liked Mia, and she wanted their wedding to be wonderful. She was just… bored.
Ceci had gone back to her RSVPs. Lucy watched her thoughtfully. If she couldn't ruin the ceremony or interfere with the preparations, then…
Lucy jumped up. "Sorry, Ceci, have to go!"
Her cousin looked after her, confused, then shrugged and returned to her work.
Lucy ran through the corridor containing the nicest guest bedroom. Near the end, she crashed into a little pillar with an urn on it and dived through the gap it revealed in the wall. She ran crouched over through the house-elf tunnel, turning sharply, almost banging her head on the corner of the wall, and hurrying up a sloping tunnel. A few more twists and turns, enough to have anyone thoroughly lost, and she was emerging in a completely different part of the mansion than the one she had started in.
Lucy steadied herself against a wall, breathing hard. She was in the attic now, or part of it, at least. There was one large window set against a wall that was cut diagonally in half by the slope of the roof. Outside, the rain obscured most of the landscape, leaving only an impression of grey hills and trees.
Inside, there was an empty stone room. The walls were a soft brick white and the floor was smooth and flat. There was an empty fireplace and soft, glowing lights in the corners of the room, which seemed to float without any support. The only item of furniture was a large wooden chest against one wall.
Lucy opened it, and smiled.
The room was richly furnished. The walls were hung with silk banners in black and silver, interspersed with a few large portraits of pale, black haired men and women with cold, arrogant, sneering faces, most of whom were currently asleep. The large fireplace, with its ornamental mantlepiece, was empty, and even when a fire was lit, it did little to lift the coldness in the unnecessarily large room. High backed, curved chairs and sofas were gathered around the fireplace and dotted in the corners of the rooms. There were small tables that cost more than a small house and were useless for anything other than large urns and vases, empty of flowers. It was the sort of room that screams wealth and discomfort.
Marigolda Lestrange, once Nott, smiled to herself. The sofa she was lounging on was built for lounging, provided that one had a fan, a draped silk dress or robes, and an extremely expensive painter standing in front of you. Marigolda had all three.
Her husband was out, probably lying in the thickly draped bed of his lover. Marigolda tried to encourage his absences whenever she could. She hadn't married him because she loved him, after all.
"Arm a little higher, please," the painter said. "We don't want it actually covering your face. And—" he darted forwards, paintbrush in hand, and tweaked one of her long dark curls a centimetre to the left. "Perfect."
Marigolda kept herself perfectly still, keeping the tranquil, half-exhausted and half-bored expression she'd been told to maintain. She trusted the painter completely. After all, she was paying him several thousand Galleons.
The minutes ticked by. Marigolda found her mind wandering.
When would she have children? She didn't require any yet, and certainly didn't want them. They'd be necessary someday, of course. Her mother was always encouraging her to hurry up and have children.
Marigolda didn't allow her fond, amused smile to appear on her face. Like many worldly people, Marigolda had a subject on which she was as naive and trusting as a child. For many people in Marigolda's position, this would have been love, either for her husband or for someone else. For Marigolda, however, it was her parents. She did not believe in true love, except for her parents. It was why she had asked Tom for a love potion.
Tom. Marigolda knew that a lot of society pure-bloods assumed they were having an affair. Have you heard about young Madam Lestrange? She's sleeping with a half-blood, and a poor one too… Tom had gained some respect by the rumours and Marigolda had lost some. It didn't matter. She had enough power and would soon accumulate more.
"Head a little to the side, Madam."
She tilted her head and continued to think of Tom. Yes, he was handsome. She couldn't deny that. If he decided to pay for a favour sexually she wouldn't refuse him. But Marigolda didn't feel any romantic, or even physical, affection for Tom. No, she admired him intellectually, in the way an ambitious, ruthless, power-hungry individual feels respect for another ambitious, ruthless, power-hungry individual. Marigolda admired Tom's urge for power and the way he went about accumulating it. She admired his strength of will and his magical prowess. She admired the way he was prepared to do anything to reach his goal.
Tom had been here only a few days before. His presence always made Rabastan slightly uncomfortable. He wasn't fully invested in the Cause, Marigolda knew. It was a pity.
Tom had been bringing them information. He knew where a Squib sibling of Marigolda's lived and was prepared to sell the knowledge in return for a collection of very Dark spell books and a Dark potion. Marigolda had said she needed time to think. They both knew that she did not.
The door to the dusky parlour opened and the painter turned, jumping. A little splatter of paint barely missed the canvas.
"Why are the curtains drawn?" Rabastan asked. He sounded more irritated than usual.
"Dear, you're interrupting," Marigolda told him languidly. She hadn't moved.
"Is this that portrait thing you were talking about?" Rabastan asked. "I don't know why you're lying like that Marigolda, you aren't vain."
"Would you like your great-aunt to think you've married someone who can't sit for a portrait properly?" Marigolda asked.
"My great-aunt would hate to see such self-indulgence," Rabastan said, sounding bewildered. Marigolda smirked. "Also, she's been dead for years."
"I know," Marigolda said. "Why don't you go and write that letter now?"
It was an obvious hint to leave and one that even Rabastan couldn't fail to understand. She could hear him muttering as he left, something about not wanting to write the letter in the first place and why couldn't she write it if she was so desperate to get involved?
Marigolda waited until the door had banged closed behind her husband and his footsteps had receded before smiling seductively at the painter.
"Please, carry on."
He gulped audibly.
"I gave you my heart
On a warm sunny day
A long time agooo…."
There was a song playing from somewhere in the back of the shop, one of those sweet-voiced women who sang bittersweet songs for old lovers. The boy shifted uncomfortably in front of the counter. The pink teapot, a gift for his mother, felt like it might slip out of his hand and shatter on the scuffed floorboards of the little shop.
At last, a plump, dark-skinned witch with a warm smile emerged. She was humming softly to herself.
"Hello, dear," she said. "What can I do for you?"
The boy, no more than fourteen, thrust the teapot forward with the air of one whose good deed is about to catch up to him. The witch behind the counter made polite conversation with him as she wrapped the teapot and look his money.
As the boy was leaving, hoping to make it the sweet shop before he had to go home, a girl entered. She was a bit older than he was — he recognised her from Hogwarts — and now that he'd seen them close together he was sure she was the daughter of the witch who ran the shop.
"Eleri!" her mother exclaimed as the girl let the door swing closed behind the teapot boy. "How was your day?"
"Ran into Shacklebolt again," Eleri said, making her way through the shop to the counter. "I think he's following me."
Her mother laughed. The music drifted through from the storeroom at the back.
"The sun was shining
The birds were singing
Your told me you loved me
A long time agooo…"
"That poor boy had a crush on you," she said.
Eleri wrinkled her nose. She'd known Jared Shacklebolt since they were children — she could remember making him cry while playing Quidditch! If you could remember making someone cry over a Quidditch game, you couldn't feel romantically about them. It wasn't possible. It shouldn't be possible.
Her mother laughed again, deep and warm.
"There's still time," she said. "You're only seventeen."
Eleri hopped up on a stool behind the counter and laid her head down. She still had loads of time. She didn't need to decide if she was going to marry Jared yet (the answer was probably yes).
It would help if he'd stop asking her, though.
The Daily Prophet 11th August 1945
Dangerous Muggles?
Do Muggles Pose an Existential Threat to Wizarding Society?
The danger Muggles pose to wizarding society has long been a contentious topic within our world. Since the Statute of Secrecy was first put in place following the witch burnings of the Middle Ages, powerful witches and wizards have argued that it should be Muggles, not wizards, who must regulate their behaviour to fit in with society. With the rapid progress Muggles have made in variety of different technologies in recent years, culminating in the atomic bombs created by American Muggles, these fears are more prominent than ever.
Lord Scorpius Malfoy, a prominent member of wizarding society, who holds a seat in the Wizengamot, today released a statement voicing his concerns over the growing power of Muggle weaponry.
"I think it is horrifying that Muggles are being allowed to threaten the lives, not only of other Muggles, but of witches and wizards peacefully going about their lives," Lord Malfoy, whose son recently graduated from Hogwarts and has since been touring the Wizarding World, told the Daily Prophet. "I think the events of the past week have proved that Muggles cannot but trusted with the ability to cause widespread destruction. if the American Ministry for Magic refuses to step in, then it should be up to us, as the most prominent wizarding society in the world, to say that enough is enough. Muggles cannot be allowed to continue destroying the world we share with them."
Well-informed readers will be aware that, only two days prior to this edition of the Daily Prophet, the Muggle authorities in America dropped their second 'atomic bomb' in Japan, killing thousands - Muggles and wizards alike. An atomic bomb is similar to a large-scale Dark curse. The first blast can instantly kill over a large radius - far larger than the bombs that have been pounding Muggle London for years. Expert Healers from across the globe, including St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies, say that the bombs can have lingering physical effects on a person as well, including DNA mutations. Fortunately, wizards are well equipped to deal with such problems; Muggles, however, are not. The atomic bomb is a frightening development in a spiral of Muggle violence which has been going in for decades.
Lord Malfoy is not alone in expressing concern in the latest developments of Muggle warfare. Young Lord Black, not long out of Hogwarts, said earlier today, "I'm terrified of what this could mean for the future. I have a young son and I want him to be able to grow to maturity without the threat of extinction from mad Muggles." Lord Black's Heir Orion was born shortly before the death of the old Lord Black and is now nearly twenty months old.
However, not all wizards view Muggle advancement as a bad thing. James Weasley, who recently returned from fighting the Dark Lord Grindelwald, said, "It's about time the Muggles learnt to defend themselves. Of course what happened with the atomic bombs was horrible, but wizards have been massacring Muggles for centuries - some of the worst curses we saw while fighting in Europe were designed especially or exclusively for hurting or killing Muggles."
Albus Dumbledore, defeater of Gellert Grindelwald, added, "It is never right to kill. What the Muggles have done is completely despicable, but until wizards can claim that they have never intentionally set out to invent ways of killing large numbers of people, we are not in any position to set ourselves up as morally superior to them. We have just seen what can happen when wizards view themselves as superior to Muggles."
So what do you think? No one could deny that the invention of the atomic bomb is an evil the world didn't need, but are wizards much better? After all, we have ways of killing each other that Muggles can only dream of. Do wizards need to keep a tighter rein on Muggle behaviour?
Do Muggles pose an existential threat to our society?
The rain continued to pour down past Potter Manor. It had lasted for days now, and Gertrude was starting to get worried. It was nearly time for the wedding and she hoped for a summer ceremony, a day of blue skies and bright flowers. A perfect day.
Lucy had been holed up in the attic for days — never a good sign — and Charlus was starting to get impatient. Euphemia, confident in the manner of a woman who has already got her husband and is now only going through the motions, was nevertheless starting to feel the pressure of the bad weather. This was supposed to be a nice moment for her, Gertrude thought, a way of reclaiming her marriage from the spectre of war which hung over her first wedding.
Gertrude sat in one of the smaller parlours on the fourth floor, enchanting flowers. Letitia and Trisha sat near her, on elegant and comfortable deep red chairs, listening to the pattering of the rain against the window. There had been a little conversation earlier, but all three women had soon relaxed into a companionable silence. Gertrude found herself almost forgetting that the other two were young enough to be her daughters.
There was a bang from the attic. The women looked up. The air felt greasy with magic. Gertrude laid aside her flowers and stood up. Elsewhere in the house she could hear hurrying footsteps and the distant voice of Edmund demanding to know what had happened.
When they reached the long flight of stairs that led to the top of the house, they found Lucy, her long hair tangled and her face stained with soot, peering down from the attic, clinging to the banister as though she expected to be dragged down kicking and screaming.
"Sorry!" she said. "Sorry, I didn't mean— sorry about the noise, it's not that bad, I swear, it just needs a little modifying, I'll get it right next time, sorry for disturbing you."
"What are you doing up there, Lucy?" Gertrude asked, torn between amusement and disapproval. She'd long since resigned herself to her daughter's inventive, mischievous streak.
"Um," Lucy said. She leaned back, her head vanishing for a moment, as though she'd looked behind her. "It's… kind of a surprise? It's nothing bad, I promise."
"It exploded," Edmund pointed out. There were titters from the assembled crowd of relations.
"Yes," Lucy admitted. "I need to… adjust some things. It won't be bad when I've finished, I promise. It… It won't be bad."
Gertrude sighed. "Well, if you're sure. Try not to blow the house up, won't you, dear?"
Lucy nodded vigorously. "Yes Mum. Sorry again."
Gertrude returned to the parlour with a slight smile on her face. At least something interesting had happened today.
The day of the wedding dawned clear and bright. The sky was a pale, washed out blue, and the green leaves looked pale and silver were the sunlight caught them. Light caught on the water of a crystal-clear pool in the forest and lit up the Potter Lake, where Monty, Charlus, and Lucy had spent so many of their summer days, turning into a clear mirror of blue. The large white canopy in the garden was almost blinding and dew glittered on the magically preserved flowers.
Despite the desperate flurries of last-minute preparation that would take place in less than an hour, the Manor seemed peaceful in the dawn light. The stone blocks than made the mansion weren't quite white enough to blind, but they glowed with a sort of idyllic softness, the picture of countryside luxury. The slate tiles on the roof were tinted with gold.
It looked immovable, as though it had always stood here and would always stand here, unchanging. In thousands of years, it seemed, when the Potters returned to claim their birth right, it would still be here, looking exactly as it did on that Summer morning.
Inside, Euphemia Potter, the bride-to-be, was the only one stirring. Although she'd already married her bridegroom in a hasty ceremony the previous year, she hadn't escaped the nervous, fluttery excitement of a wedding day. It was inevitable, wrapped up in the glorious prospect of the ceremony, of the gorgeous robes waiting in the next room, of the attention and congratulations of the entire wizarding world.
Mia had been born a Dearborn, a prestigious family, but one tied inextricably to France and the tragedy of her parents' deaths. Marrying into the Potter family, the oldest family in wizarding Britain – possibly in the whole world – was like a homecoming for them, a way of being accepted back into the society her ancestors had abandoned.
Not that Mia cared. She had fallen in love. She and Monty had been in the same year at Hogwarts and she had been drawn to him from the first, a confident, smiling boy with the air of being well off and uncaring the characterised all the Potters, with his expensive robes and messy black hair, his elegant bows and his crooked smile, his refined pronunciation and his loud laugh. She'd fallen for him completely and utterly, and he had fallen for her, just as completely, just as unreservedly.
They'd married in Europe, during a war. Mia couldn't remember what country it had been in. Italy, possibly, or Spain. Somewhere warm, with a little white church where dust motes caught in the light streaming through the stained-glass windows. There had been just two witnesses: Monty's father, Edmund, and the couple's close friend, James Weasley, who had said the spell that bound them together for life.
Mia knew she would never forget that day, those precious moments spent in that tiny church. When she died, that would be the memory that lingered to the last – the warmth of the air, the soft singing of a distant choir, the dust in the sunlight, Edmund wiping away tears, James grinning, and Monty looking at her like that, like she was all he wanted, something precious, something more special even than the magic that had swirled around them. Perhaps when she had children, she would remember them also: their births, tiny little faces and hands, all mixed up with the memory of that moment.
The ceremony today would be much grander, but it would be smaller, too. Though most of the wizarding world would be there and all the proper traditions and customs would be followed, Mia knew it wouldn't hold the same depth of meaning, the same dreamlike rightness of the Oath in the little stone church.
Still, it would make Gertrude happy, and her brother and siblings-in-law. Lucy, she knew, was relishing the chance to dress in a pretty robe and stand in front of a crowd of people – and of course there was whatever surprise she had been working on for the past week.
And it wasn't like she was going to resist a chance to publicly declare her love of Monty, was it?
The guests arrived in good time. There was a certain amount of chattering as they filed in, finding their seats and greeting their neighbours. Gertrude had spent ours carefully arranging the seating chart, making sure not to sit Blacks next to Abbots, Malfoys beside Johnsons, and not to make any family or individual feel slighted. There would be no fighting and bickering at her son's wedding.
Birds chirruped. Soft music played. Trays carrying drinks and snacks floated through the tent.
The bridegroom was at the front now, standing underneath an arch of soft white roses. His uncle and brother-in-law stood beside him, all resplendent in sumptuous robes in their families' colours: the two Potters in a deep burgundy and Alfred Dearborn in pale blue and silver. The Minister for Magic himself was officiating, tall and imposing in the traditional robes of silver and gold.
Fleamont was looking down the aisle, an expression of lovestruck adoration on his face. There was a murmuring in the crowd, matching the swell in music, as Euphemia Dearborn walked up the aisle, leaning on Lord Potter's arm. She was dressed in a simple robe of pale blue, her long auburn hair loose and tumbling down her back. The deep burgundy of her father-in-law's attire contrasted her beautifully.
Her bridesmaids were following, their robes considerably more elaborate than Euphemia's, but their beauty still somehow dimmed next to her radiant happiness. Letitia Dearborn, Alfred's wife, was dressed in a robe of similar colours to her husband's, but infused with a light yellow: a tribute to her father's family, the Smiths. Cecilia Potter, beaming, her dark curls caught up behind her in a loose net of gold, was wearing burgundy, embroidered over with gold. Lucinda Potter wore a similar robe, though her reddish gold hair was allowed to flow free, and there was an innate gracefulness to her that her cousin couldn't hope to match. The last girl was very different than the others: her skin was darker, she was considerably younger, and she wasn't wearing the colours of a recognised family. There was burgundy there, but also Dearborn blue, and soft green, and a myriad of other colours that should have made a dirty brown but instead made a shimmering masterpiece.
They had reached the arch now. Euphemia gazed up at her husband with the same love that he looked at her with. Fleamont's younger brother, still with the same untameable hair as he always had, presented the rings on a cushion of deep burgundy – the cushion that had carried the rings of Godric and Guinevere Gryffindor, and of his son, Guardor, and his bride, Scarletta Slytherin, and their children, down to the Lord and Lady Potter here today, watching their son's wedding with tears in their eyes.
The rings were slid onto the fingers. They glowed gold, pulsing with magic.
"Do you, Fleamont Fabian Potter, take Euphemia Henrietta Dearborn for your wife, in the eyes of the world and the heart of magic, to bind your souls and your magic as one?" the Minister intoned, his wand already out, already casting. The same magic that made the Unbreakable Vow went into the Marriage Oath – that was why each family had a different one, to suit their different needs.
"I do."
"Do you, Euphemia Henrietta Dearborn, take Fleamont Fabian Potter for your husband, in the eyes of the world and the heart of magic, to bind your souls and your magic as one?"
"I do."
"Then I pronounce you husband and wife, one being in the eyes and hands and heart of magic, to be always together, even after the moment of death."
They kissed then: it was unnecessary, it did not bind the magic – it was bound already – but it was a part of tradition, of the ceremony. The marriage would have felt incomplete without it.
As the spell sealed and their lips touched, Euphemia's robes flickered and changed. Her simple blue dress became a great swirl of burgundy satin and gold lace and tiny little golden roses. Her hair was caught up, laced in a net of gold, pinned in place by more golden roses.
And as her dress changed, so did the roses. It was not expected, not traditional: there were gasps of surprise and awe from the crowd as a flock a white doves rose from the arch and fluttered off, over the heads of the wedding guests and into the golden-bright morning beyond.
There was a dinner, of course, with a towering wedding cake that Gertrude had slaved over, making every inch of it by hand, pouring her heart and soul into it. It was widely regarded as a triumph, and Lucy was delighted to see that enough remained of it that there would be leftover wedding cake for some time.
Lucy got her share of the congratulations, as well as the married couple. It had quickly become known who behind the roses-into-doves tricks, and Lucy was inundated with admirers, all praising her talent and skill at creating a spell at such a young age. She beamed at the praise.
There were plenty of people to ask her, and her fellow bridesmaids, to dance, but the real focus was, of course, on the bride. She didn't sit down the whole evening. Some were speculating that she had taken an energy potion (there were a few jokers who had some rather dirty ideas about that), but others, more observant and more romantic, noticed that she seemed to gain a burst of energy any time she danced with her husband.
The day, and then the evening, passed in a golden haze. It was a perfect wedding. Cecilia left it determined to have her own wedding, a surety that needed only a groom to happen, as identical to her cousin's as she could. And possibly before she turned thirty.
The Daily Prophet
Potter Wedding a Success 26th August 1945
Potter Heir's Wedding Went Smoothly, Complete With Special Twist
The summer wedding of Fleamont Fabian Potter, Heir to the Potter family, went without a hitch. A downpour of rain in the leadup to the happy event raised some concerns about the wisdom of an outdoor wedding; however, the day dawned bright and clear.
Fleamont's bride, Euphemia Dearborn, looked radiant in her robes, although witnesses insist that after the Binding she 'looked even more beautiful, if that were possible – like a queen' (Lady Regalia Abbot, a distant cousin of Lord Edmund Potter). It was at the Changing of the Robes that an unexpected event occurred. The bride and groom were standing beneath an arch of roses, and as they were magically bound together in a touching display, the roses turned to doves and took off. It appears that Fleamont's younger sister, Lucinda, was responsible, saying, 'I wanted to give my brother and his wife something special on their wedding day. They are such lovely people, and they've been through so much together, I just wanted to do something nice for them.'
The choice of the dove rather than another bird may be significant. Fleamont and his young bride, both aspiring Aurors, have recently returned from Europe, where they, along with Fleamont's father Lord Potter, had been part of the fight against Gellert Grindelwald. The couple risked their lives for the innocents targeted by Grindelwald. Lucinda's tribute may be related to her brother and sister-in-law's actions during the war.
Of course, the war against Grindelwald has brought a slew of less pleasant rumours about the happy couple. There have been suggestions from several different quarters that Fleamont and Euphemia were in fact married in Europe before the end of the war, in a small ceremony featuring only Fleamont's father and the couple's close friend, James Weasley. 'It wouldn't surprise me," Lord Malfoy said when asked, 'the Potters have never been afraid to flout tradition.' In contrast, Lady Prewett said, 'I thought it was romantic, those poor dears, so in love that they couldn't bear the thought of dying unmarried.'
Regardless of when the wedding took place, it remains an advantageous match for both parties. The Potter family is one of the most ancient in wizarding Britain, with roots leading back to the Peverells, the Gryffindors, and even Merlin's own line. The family has several seats in England, Wales, Ireland, Switzerland, Italy, the Americas, and even Australia, including Gryffindor's own mansion. Lord Potter, as well as remaining the Head of the Auror Department within the Ministry of Magic, has a seat within the Wizengamot and holds a prestigious position in the International Confederation of Wizards. Lady Potter, once a Prewett, brought her own fortune and a slew of dower properties when she married Lord Potter, including a castle in Scotland.
Euphemia comes from an equally distinguished line. The Dearborns are a British wizarding family with close ties to various French pure-blood families, including the Delacours and the Dubois family. Her older brother, Lord Caradoc Dearborn, recently married to Letitia Smith, has inherited properties all over France, England, and Europe. Euphemia herself has brought the Potter family several chateaus in France and a mansion in Spain. The alliance has served to make both families more powerful and influential than they were before, while appearing to have been built upon a genuine love. Yesterday's glittering wedding is a perfect symbol of the splendour of the unity between the Houses of Potter and Dearborn.
