The Weasley Home, Ottery St. Catchpole – Autumn Evening, 1961
The wind curled around the corners of the old house like a cat brushing against the walls, rattling dry leaves across the windowpanes. Inside, it was warm—quiet and golden with the soft glow of candlelight. Cedrella sat with her knitting by the hearth, but the needles had stilled in her hands. Her eyes drifted toward the window, drawn to the faint notch in the stone where the frame still bore a mark from years ago.
Septimus was leafing through the post at the table, squinting at a few dull Ministry notices until a dark blue envelope caught his eye.
Cedrella, still watching the sill, murmured, "Do you remember that window?"
He looked up. "The one Anatolius blew open when he was four?"
She smiled faintly. "He was so furious that day. I'd told him he couldn't go out in the rain. He stamped his foot and shouted, and the latch snapped clean off."
"He swore he didn't do it."
"He also said the rain was sad we were keeping him inside." Her smile deepened. "I knew then it wasn't just wild magic. It was the start of something deliberate."
Septimus chuckled, sliding the envelope open. "I think you called it 'delicate stormwork,' if I recall."
Cedrella let out a soft laugh, her eyes now distant. "It was the first time he looked frightened of himself. And also—the first time he asked me if the house would forgive him."
Septimus paused, letting her words settle like dust in quiet corners of the room. He unfolded the parchment inside the envelope and skimmed it, then cleared his throat.
"It's from Dorea and Charlus. Handwritten, of course. No flourishes spared."
He began to read:
Dear Cedrella and Septimus,
We hope the changing leaves are treating you kindly and that Septimus hasn't gotten lost in the orchard again—Charlus says he once did for a full afternoon, but refuses to admit it on record.
We're writing not only with affection, but with pride. James has been utterly beside himself since Anatolius started at Hogwarts. He keeps walking around the house waving a spoon and muttering incantations in what sounds like Mermish. We had to confiscate the teapot this morning.
He keeps saying, "I want to be exactly like Anatolius when I go to Hogwarts." You've raised someone remarkable.
Dorea has enclosed a charm—one of her protective pieces, enchanted subtly into a pin. It's in the shape of a badger (she insisted, of course). Let Anatolius wear it tucked into his robes, or keep it somewhere close. It's more sentiment than shield, but perhaps the meaning will matter more than the magic.
Give him our love. And tell him that his godmother is still better at Transfiguration than Charlus, no matter what he says.
With warmth and fond memory,
Dorea & Charlus
Cedrella's lips curled into a quiet smile. "He always liked James," she said. "Treated him seriously, even when he was still running about in too-large boots and flinging hay at chickens."
"I think he liked that James listened to him," Septimus added. "Most children don't stop to ask why the world works the way it does."
Cedrella nodded, brushing a thumb gently over the letter. "Dorea's note… it means more than she knows. She was the only one who stood by me when the rest of them stayed silent. And now, for her son to admire mine—"
She stopped, voice catching faintly. Then she looked down into the fire.
"They may have taken my name," she said softly, "but they never took my family."
Septimus came to sit beside her, folding the letter and placing it between them on the arm of the chair.
"He'll get that letter in the morning," he said. "And the pin too. I'll owl it straight to Pomona."
"I hope it reaches him after a good day," Cedrella murmured.
"Or a hard one," Septimus countered gently. "It might mean more then."
They sat together in companionable silence, firelight flickering across their hands, across the tiny blue envelope and the careful handwriting of old friends.
Upstairs, in Anatolius's tidy room, a packed trunk still rested against the wall, quiet but not forgotten. And on the dresser, a frame held a photograph of two red-headed boys — the older already tall and bright-eyed, the younger holding a tiny twig wand with serious concentration.
In the background of the picture, a black-haired boy with wild hair and bright eyes could be seen peering into the edge of the frame, as if trying to be part of something just a little too far away.
One day, he'd catch up.
But for now, he watched — and admired.
