When I was younger, I used to worry a lot about whether my stories were realistic, or if they were balanced. I worried that people would accuse me of being biased, or liking a character overmuch, and so I would change my stories accordingly.

I'm in my late thirties now.

Suffice it to say, I … don't do that anymore. I understand that there's no accounting for tastes, and if someone doesn't like how I've approached something, that is their prerogative. I wish those people the best.

But when I write these stories, I'm playing in a sandbox. I'm doing this because I love to do it, and that's pretty much all there is.

I don't apologize for that.

One.

"What is . . . your purpose? Are you here simply to play with us?"

Kafell, having settled back into his portrait frame in Dumbledore's office, rubbed his chin as he considered the young man in front of him. "I suppose," he said, "that would depend entirely on your definition of play. I haven't a way to prove to you the magnanimity of my actions. You have, after all, no reason to trust me if I simply say that I am fond of people, or that I wish to do my part in saving a great number of human lives."

Severus Snape's face screwed up in something like disgust. "You are correct," he said. "I find myself resisting that notion very . . . strongly."

Dumbledore, seated below Kafell's portrait and thus unable to look his predecessor in the eye, said: "Now, now, Severus, even among a people known for trickery . . . sometimes a simple answer is in due course. After all, consider this: what could be more confounding than a fae prince giving you mundane honesty in return for asking after his motivations?"

"That . . . is hardly a convincing argument, Headmaster," said Severus.

"Oh, I don't know," Kafell chirped. "I like it." At Severus's searching look, he laughed; it was a musical sound, like chimes on the wind. "I've no way to explain my motives that won't sound condescending and patronizing to you. The unfortunate truth is this: I exist on a timeline that even your people, long-lived as you are compared to your non-magical counterparts, cannot reach. Tell me: are you familiar with mayflies?"

Severus's eyes narrowed. "Yes . . ."

"There is a species of mayfly whose females only have five minutes as an adult to breed," Kafell said, "before they die. Imagine, if you will, trying to explain to such a creature how long you live. Imagine what a creature like that mayfly would think, realizing that one of the shortest units of measurement you use to divide your time—an hour—is her adulthood twelve times over. Do you think that mayfly would be able to make sense of a day? A week? A year?"

Severus's brow creased. "I suppose you mean for me to infer that, in comparison to your people, we humans are mayflies. We cannot hope to comprehend how long you live, in other words. Right?"

Kafell held out his hands. "I have seen what humans are capable of. I have watched you build, and destroy, so many wondrous things. I am trying my best to help you, but you must understand: to me, the greatest of all human accomplishments is gone in a blink. I have cousins who consider it a light vacation to sit against a tree and watch a kingdom be built. Human dynasties are hobbies to them."

"And this," Severus guessed, "is your hobby?"

"Something like that, yes."

Dumbledore's hands were clasped in front of him, resting on his desk. Staring straight forward, past Severus, he said: "I must admit, I'm quite surprised to find you so talkative, Caius."

"What can I say?" Kafell asked. "I've been bored lately."

Two.

"I killed my father."

Sirius watched Merope fall from the high of having done something she'd been dreaming about, on some level at least, for most of her life. He knew what emotions must be storming through his companion right now, but he didn't know how to help her ride them out.

"If it makes you feel any better," Sirius said, eventually, "I helped."

Merope didn't laugh, nor did she respond with words; she held her head in her hands and started shaking. Sirius held Thomas against his shoulder, swaying from side to side as he regarded the boy's mother, feeling quite helpless.

He sighed. "You see, Thomas," Sirius said, softly, "this is what happens when adults make difficult decisions. One of these days, hopefully when you're older, much older, you're going to find yourself wondering what the right thing is. What you should do. There are going to be consequences for whatever choice you make, and you're going to have to live with them."

Merope shuffled, just a bit, and Sirius could just spy her eyes between her fingers; she was watching him. She was listening. Thomas babbled quietly, waving his little arms around.

"You're going to wonder," Sirius went on, "whether it would have been better for everyone if you'd made a different choice. You're going to wonder if you should find a way to go back, do it over, make that different choice, like I did. But the thing is, Thomas, most people don't get that chance. The only reason I got this chance is because a random fae took pity on me. Dumb luck, is what it is, so really it doesn't factor in. The important thing is this: sometimes, you just have to trust yourself. You need to give yourself permission to do something hard, even if other people are going to judge you for it. Sometimes, especially when other people judge you for it."

"Bah," said Thomas.

"Your grandfather was a cosmic mistake," Sirius said, grimly, "and your mother did what she had to do for you. He didn't deserve loyalty, he didn't earn loyalty, and he didn't give her any other choice. You deserve safety and warmth, and that's more important. Given the space and opportunity to do it, that old bastard would have vented his anger on you. Your mother saved your life, Thomas. I hope you know that."

"Abb," said Thomas.

Merope's face gave way to dumb confusion. "I thought . . . you couldn't speak Parseltongue. You said that, didn't you?"

"I did say that," Sirius said, "and I can't. Did he say something about Thomas?"

Merope nodded. "He said . . . he said he'd feed Thomas to me."

Too many emotions made war on Sirius's face, and they lit in his eyes. "I've met enough men like your father to know how . . . their beliefs manifest in behavior. Thomas was a blight on his honor, and that would never have been allowed to stand. No half-breed could ever be permitted to take his name."

"Is that . . . what your family would say? If . . . if . . ."

"If you'd been born to them? If Thomas had been born to them?" Sirius asked; Merope nodded. "Yes. Yes, they would have."

Merope looked pained now. "Then . . . how can we be sure . . . that this was the right choice?"

"Because not every pureblood family is like that," Sirius said, "and even if they were, that's no business of ours. You spent the night with a man, you gave birth to a son. There's nothing more natural than that. There is no world where you should feel guilty for what you've done, whether it be giving birth or dealing death."

"You . . . know a pureblood family who . . . doesn't think like ours?"

"I do," said Sirius. "The Weasleys are notoriously open and welcoming. Their reputation among their illustrious peers is suitably tarnished for it."

". . . I think I'd like to meet the Weasleys," said Merope.

Sirius nodded. "I think they'd like you very much," he said.

"Plblblblbt," said Thomas.