Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spring of 1981

Dear Diary,

I thought the most I would be up to today was worrying about Mum’s tummy bursting. How does she walk around like that? Little Ginny must be damn heavy. I can’t imagine being a parent. I don’t know how Mum and Dad do it, taking care of all six of us - well, seven now that a new one’s on the way. Every time I see him, Dad looks ecstatic, bursting at the seams as though he’s gonna pop Ginny out himself. I’ve never seen them so happy. I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

They’ll have one more reason to be happy, though. I think.

There’s a small cottage down the valley, far enough to cross the Diggorys’ land just by the Malus Meadow, but close enough for me and Charlie to see over the hill. It’s been there for as long as I can remember. Heck, I think it’s been there since even before the burrow was built. Dad says there are Muggles down there, which is probably why he’s banished from entering within 30 feet of its vicinity. Not by the Ministry - I wish - but by Mum.

Muggles would be an issue. They’d tattle. Tell a friend or two about floating furniture or a mysterious unicorn. But apparently, the little old lady down has a loose cog in her head. Demensha? Alzaymurs? (That can’t be right. Is it? I don’t know how to spell it.) I wonder if wizards can get it too. She forgets things really easily too; she has a difficult time figuring out what’s real and what isn’t. That’s probably why she rarely ever questions gnomes flying from the Burrow.

I’d see her every time Dad sent me down to look through her rubbish, to see if she was hoarding anything interesting. Most of the time, she wasn’t. Although there was the occasional Muggle machine. Like that two-piece doohickey with a tangled coil wire and number buttons to push, or a box-like machine, nearly as tall as me, that inhaled blank papers and spit them out with ink on them. Merlin knows how that works; it’s all gobbledegook to me.

She’d smile, wave, and make the occasional small talk. She’d ask how I am - how my family is, or who I am and why I was there. To that, I’d reply with what my parents told me to. ‘Just wandering around, causing trouble.’ Somehow? That’d work. She’d smile, wave, and wish me a good day. I correct her everytime she calls me ‘Theseus’. That’s drastically far from Bill. But I can’t get angry, really. She’s nice.

I noticed she lived alone for the most part. It was just her, alone with the few livestock she raised. From the hills, while Percy - even at the ripe age of four - complained and stayed sheltered inside, Charlie and I would watch as she threw seeds to the chickens. She’d follow this routine: wake up, presumably cook, then she’d come and sit out, read, and then feed her livestock.

Lately, though, I’ve seen less and less of her. Whole family got worried she finally passed. There was talk of what we’d do. She wasn’t supposed to be here, and we were definitely not supposed to communicate with her. So, as usual, Dad sent me down.

Thank goodness he had the decency not to write me a list of muggle things he wanted me to ‘claim’ from her house before ‘anyone swipes ‘em first’. He did this last week. No one is ‘swiping’ anything first, she probably doesn’t even know anyone. Sometimes, I think he's gone mad.

I swear if I have to get any more of those stupid clickety-clackety metal quills, I’ll go mad too, madder even!

Once, while spying, I knocked my head on that little old lady’s bookshelf and those things just had to fall all over me. Dad calls them billpoint pens because I found them in black and blue (like the bruises I got from it).

I was sent to her house a while back. I felt cool, sneaking around bushes, looking over the fences. But for maybe the first time since we first discovered her little cottage, all her windows were shut, locked, and draped over by curtains. This was an obvious sign that she was not okay. She’d usually forget to do at least one, if not all. Something was wrong, and it was up to me to find out what.

I heroically climbed over her fence, looking out for any trespassers (other than myself) before I, once again, majestically landed on her freshly mowed lawn. I chose to ignore the fact that the old lady could be unconscious, flopped over her kitchen counter, similar to how I chose to ignore the newly potted flowers and the cleaned chicken coops. I had a mission to complete, and I wouldn’t leave until it was finished.

She could very well be dead, but certainly not killed. Who would break into an old woman’s home, mow her lawn, kill her, plant a garden, then leave?

I took the deepest breath I could as I pressed my back against the panels below the windows. With one final exhale, I gathered all my courage and knelt up, peering over the glass frames and inside the house.

It was cosy and small, only a wall divided the living area and the only other room. Old framed pictures littered the dusty walls - not painted, but captured in black and white. Old London, a group of girls in matching plaid uniforms, a family of five. It was jarring, how lifeless the images were, unmoving, still, trapped in time - not at all like the ones we have at home. Aged sheets and linens clung to the furniture, and something aromatic brewed in the kitchen.

And thankfully, there she was, on the couch. I don’t think I could even begin to describe how relieved I was to see her, other than the heavy sigh that left my lips. She looked like she’d seen better days, eyes glazed over as she stared at nothing in particular. She was slouched over in a recliner chair as her shaky, gnarled fingers pushed and pulled the knitting pins back and forth, forming a cute pattern that seemed to grow more and more distorted.

Ah, muggles and their quirks.

But, wait. If she was on the couch, who was in the kitchen? I blinked, scooting over to the next window frame, squinting to see through the murky glass. There, in the small kitchen, stood a skinny boy, hardly older than me, perched atop a stool, his blond hair in unruly patches defying gravity, as he vigorously stirred a pot. I couldn’t stop grinning from how utterly stupid he looked.

The old lady was alive, and even better, she has relatives!

Phew, worried for nothing!

Satisfied with my successful mission, I had cautiously stepped back from the dusty window. I had taken one final glance at the little boy’s continued struggle with the pot, as he gripped a spoon seemingly thicker than his own arm. Then I made my grand exit, manoeuvring awesomely out of their dreadfully prickly flowerbeds, over their fence, and back to the Burrow.

A grandson. I’m unusually glad. It's nice to know she has a family... and that she’s not dead. I could already hear Dad’s voice, urging me to befriend him, so it was best if I didn’t mention that particular detail.

“She has a grandson?!” Charlie announced, after I had specifically told him to whisper. At times like this, I almost preferred hanging out with Percy.

"Shh, not so loud," I hissed, shooting a glance around before Charlie made it a neighbourhood discussion. "Yes, she does. And she's not dead. Grandkid's the one doing all the chores."

Charlie's eyes widened in disbelief. "Really!? Why didn't you say so? What's he like? Is he our age? Is he magic?"

"Lower your voice, will you? And no, I didn't see any magic." I tried to keep my voice low, but excitement always got the better of Charlie. "Look, we can't just go there and barge in anymore. He’s a muggle with a perfectly intact memory, I think. Mum would hex us into next week if she found out."

“Found out what?” Dad popped out from who knows where. It wasn’t long before my idiot of a brother blurted everything out. Dad looked positively awestruck after I gave him a proper rundown of everything I saw.

“Muggles knit clothes by hand?!” Dad had gasped and clapped enthusiastically, almost in a seal-like nature. “I have to write this down.”

I think that conversation lasted about half an hour, when it could’ve been done in a few minutes. Dad wanted all the details, every nook and cranny and all the nitty gritties. Fortunately for me, we all collectively agreed to not tell Mum. Unfortunately for me, I still had to continue stocking up Dad’s rubber duck collection.

There was very little change even after our discovery. Charlie and I still took turns keeping an eye on the little cottage down the valley. We'd discreetly watch from a distance, making sure the old lady and her grandson were safe and happy. And they were. We saw less of the old lady, like I said, but the little boy was far more efficient at completing chores than she ever was. The little cottage and its surrounding areas looked more green now that he was there.

There was one day, though, when Charlie and I observed the humble family of two from behind a cluster of bushes. The little Muggle boy was tossing seeds at the old lady’s chickens before he suddenly looked up. When, suddenly, his head jerked around and he squinted in our direction! I had already began counting my rations in Azkaban, but by some miracle, he just smiled and waved. I hesitated before waving back, unsure of the consequences.

"He saw us!" I whispered to Charlie, panic evident in my voice.

Charlie, however, seemed unfazed. "Relax, Bill. Maybe he thinks we're just some normal muggle kids. Besides, chickens don't report to the Ministry, do they?"

“No, and that’s a stupid question. Don’t ever ask that again.” I’d said as I flicked him on the forehead.

That would result in a whine-and-cry as he ran back up the hill then down to the Burrow to complain to Mum and Dad.

Not too long after, I’d be left alone to continue staring at the boy feeding chickens. I think he’s deathly afraid of those birds. When the chickens jump up at him, he’d toss the bag of seeds in the opposite direction and run away screaming in a way that reminded me of my little brother. I laugh every single time.

The days at the Burrow would remain mostly the same if not for the occasional visits of Dad’s friends. On weekdays, he’d be off working at the Ministry. He’d show the muggle artifacts he’d found off to his friends whenever they came over for beer to drink or to watch Quidditch or to complain about work. They live nearby - Mr. Amos down at the Diggory’s and Mr. Watson at the meadow, so that made their gatherings awfully convenient. Not to mention quite frequent.

In one instance, Mr. Watson, in a somewhat naive move, brought his daughter to the Burrow. And believe me when I say ‘one instance' because she never came back. Personally, I couldn’t have cared less, but for Charlie, it was an absolute thrill to have someone else to bother other than me. Perhaps he was a tad bit too thrilled, because the moment the girl stepped foot into our home, he launched a ball at her face.

He yelled, “Are you blind?!” before getting instantly reprimanded by Mum’s ear-pulling, which was then followed by an hour-long lecture that was usually reserved for the twins. Dad would usher the poor girl out the door with apologies, while I had taken on the kind role of reviving Percy who had fainted at the sight of blood.

In Charlie’s defence, no one had told him the girl was in fact, blind.

He cried, like he always does, and ran off after Mum's lecture. After dinner, I had to navigate my way around the cramped space of our shared bedroom to find him huddled there, indignantly scribbling something on his tear-stained book. Or what was actually my precious tear-stained book.

Normally, I would have snatched it away and thrown him out the window, but I was feeling rather sympathetic today, so I didn't. Instead, I watched quietly as he sketched dragons across the pages of my journal. I then pulled him up from the floor and dragged him into his bed.

"It's alright, Charlie," I reassured, ruffling his hair. "They'll get over it," I shrugged, trying to downplay the situation. He was still hunched over my journal, avoiding eye contact because he thought I’d take my book back. He was right, of course, but I thought I’d let him off easy, climbing into my own bed.

Barely a moment passed before I felt Charlie worming his way under my blanket and slip under my arm. He fell asleep before I could complain.

Now that I think about it… Mr. Watson and Mr. Amos were almost always our only visitors. That was… until this morning.

Chapter Text

Spring of 1981

Dear Diary,

Breakfast was promptly interrupted by a knock at the door. Charlie nearly burst into tears as he accidentally dropped his crayon, leaving his drawing of what was supposed to be another dragon unfinished. Percy grumbled and hissed through the gap of his missing tooth as he ran off upstairs, to find somewhere else to read in peace and quiet. Fred and George’s heads bobbed up in excitement, already thinking up a gag for whoever may be at the door.

“Bill, do you mind?” Mum hummed. I did mind, especially when my assigned seat was next to the twins. But I didn’t have much of a choice.

And so, I rose out of my seat, leaving my bowl of cereal unattended. Of course, I wouldn’t be touching it again because as soon as I looked over my shoulder, Fred and George were poking at my share with their spoons and with what looked like fire glitter.

I sighed, shaking my head. What a waste of food, I thought to myself as my fingers ring around the door knob, twisting it. The door creaked as I pulled it inwards. I blinked the sunlight out of my eyes.

I blinked again. Just to make sure that I wasn’t imagining things. Just to make sure the old lady’s grandson wasn’t the one staring blankly up at me. Gigantic and dauntingly blue eyes were staring right into mine; it felt like I was peering into pools of water. He was even smaller than I thought, even skinnier than I had pictured.

“Toasteur?”

“What?”

"Toasteur?" he asked again, gesturing a very irregular rectangle.

I squinted which, surprisingly, did not help me hear better.

“A toes tour?” I blurted out. Must have made a very unflattering expression when I said that because he recoiled back suddenly.

“Toes tour?” he repeated, or offered. I don’t know.

“No…” I politely declined, “... thank you?”

I knew muggles enjoyed a variety of… unique things. But, Dad never mentioned this sort of behaviour before.

“Non?” the young boy's eyes widened a bit, as if trying to comprehend my response. He adjusted the strap of his worn satchel, shuffling his feet on the doorstep with apparent uncertainty. “You don't have?”

“No, I mean…” I chuckled stiffly. “Everyone has toes.”

“Do you not have toes?” I asked as a joke, but I didn’t think the little boy found it funny.

“Quoi?” He sounded very disappointed. He’s probably embarrassed; I would be too if I didn’t have toes.

Obviously, I felt bad for him, but I drew the line at showing my feet to muggles. And anyone else, for that matter.

“Um…” I looked around, anywhere but at him. What do you do in a situation like this?

With raised brows, I smiled my most polite smile, and placed my hand on the door. “No thanks. You should go along now!”

I shooed the boy, slamming the door in his face. My vision is suddenly blurry and my ears are burning like coal. No thanks? Go along now? Slamming the door in his face? Really?

I turned back to find chaos unfolding inside my house. There was Fred and George flicking cereal at each other. Then Percy’s feet barely grazed the final step on the stairs before he ended up turning back around with a disgruntled groan; and Charlie crawling under the table to piece together his fallen crayon.

The thunderous bang of the door echoed through the house. I swore I felt the ground shake a little.

Charlie grunted softly as he hit his head climbing out from underneath. “Ugh... who was it?”

Mum, Dad, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, and even baby Ron were all staring at me. That’s what made me realise I didn’t say anything in response. I stood there awkwardly with my back pressed against the wood of the door as if I was afraid the little boy would come tearing our house apart, furious that I did not offer my toes.

“The old lady’s grandson,” I croaked out.

“The old lady’s grandson?!” Dad grinned all wide and toothy, clapping in his usual seal-like manner, as he practically leapt out of his seat.

“What’d he say?” he asked eagerly, skipping to the window to see if he was still out there.

“The old Muggle has a grandson?” Mum asked. I pretended I didn’t hear her.

“He said something about... toes and a tour?” I looked at Dad wide-eyed, hoping he had an insight on muggles’ lack of limb appendages, and why they were coming for ours.

Dad looks back at me with a contorted expression, brows furrowed in confusion. “Toes, and a what?”

“A tour?”

“Toes and a tour...” Dad said ponderingly, scratching his chin, deep in thought. Then, his eyes light up, beaming with realisation.

He laughs, reaching out to ruffle my hair. “Ah! William, my boy! Toaster!”

What in the bloody hell is a toaster?

“Oh” was all I said. How did he reach that conclusion?

Dad strode to the door, a skip in his step as he twisted the hinge. “Come, come,” said Dad eagerly, ushering me out the door with a few less than gentle pushes. “We must go see him.”

I protested, of course. But every whine and groan that left my lips fell on deaf ears. So as the door opened, we found the boy already halfway down the hill. Dad stepped out slightly, letting the light into the house.

“Young man! Young man!” he called out, just loud enough for the boy to perk up. Turning around, his big blue eyes bulging out of his skinny face like a chihuahua.

Dad gestured to him to come closer, smiling, and he did, climbing up the hill with unusual agility.

As the boy approached, his eyes darted between Dad's beaming face and the rest of us gathered at the doorway. He looked hesitant. He was a small, wiry kid, with a mop of messy hair, stumbling slightly as he neared us.

It was peculiar, how his pigeon-toed legs could barely handle his weight, and how evident his lack of articulation in both mobility and speech was.

I could already feel my blood pressure rising when I saw Dad’s face.

The boy’s feet barely touched the wood of the porch before Dad burst out into an onslaught of interrogative questions.

"What’s your name? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Please do come in! What other colours does billpoi- I mean ballpoint pens come in? Red? Perhaps turquoise?"

The boy just stood there with a tilted head, his lips moving in a way that mimicked Dad’s, like he was piecing together the words in his head to make sense of it all.

"Let him speak, Dad,” I protested, stepping between them. He pushed me to the side.

He enthusiastically extended a hand, offering a firm shake.

"Yes, apologies! Welcome to the Burrow, home of the Weasleys! I am Arthur, and this here is my eldest son, William. But we call him Bill."

He sounded briefly disappointed while saying that - as if he didn’t name me.

The boy was clearly struggling to comprehend dad’s English. He just nodded vigorously, his thick accent making his responses difficult to decipher.

Dad continued, oblivious to the language barrier, "Now, tell us - what brings you to our humble abode? Toes and a tour, was it?” He then proceeded to laugh at his own joke.

The boy blinked, looking at me, then back at Dad, then at the ceiling as if in thought. His hands fiddle with one another before he responds with an uncertain nod.

I watched, dumbfounded, as Dad continued firing questions, still unfazed by the boy's lack of verbal response. Meanwhile, Mum was trying to corral the other kids back inside before one of them ended up tackling him.

I noticed the boy’s eyes widened at the chaotic scene inside, and he hesitated for a moment before stepping cautiously into the lively mayhem that was my wonderful family.

Dad's excitement was contagious as he led the boy through the house, gesturing animatedly at each seemingly mundane item, turning them into tales of wonder and intrigue. Meanwhile, the rest of my siblings bombarded the poor boy with questions, also unfazed by the fact that he was wide-eyed and could only nod in response.

Eventually, Dad ushered the boy into the kitchen, where Mum was preparing cookies.

"And this is my lovely wife, Molly! Say hello, Molly!"

"Oh! Hello there. Would you like some cookies?" Mum greeted the boy with a warm smile, though she looked just as puzzled as the rest of us.

She did her best not to show it, though.

The boy nodded, a grateful expression crossing his face as a tiny hand reached over and picked up a cookie. Like a rabbit, he brings it to his lips and nibbles at the crumbs.

Dad, an ever-curious man, continues, "So, what's your name, young man? And how did you end up here in little ol' Ottery St. Catchpole?"

Mum handed the boy his own plate of cookies after smacking Fred in the back of the head for trying and failing to take three.

He eyed them cautiously before taking one, his eyes widening in delight as he took a bigger bite into it.

Amidst the babble of voices and attempts at communication, I felt a glimmer of frustration burgeon within me. This boy, thrust into our home by sheer chance, was placed under a spotlight, on a pedestal, for Merlin knows why!

He could barely walk or talk, barely respond to the questions he was asked. Bloody hell, he barely knew how to eat a cookie! Does Mum and Dad not see the chips stuck between that gap in his teeth?

Charlie had tugged at my sleeve, snapping me out of thoughts. I turned to him, finding his sapphire-like eyes were wide with fascination.

"Bill, he’s French, right? Did you hear him talk?"

"Yeah, I heard,” I replied, feeling the previous frustration in me begin to brew with bewilderment.

“You better become friends with him, William,” Dad said suddenly, clapping a hand on my shoulder, oblivious to my exasperation.

My blood ran hot. I practically felt the hair on my arms stand at the mere thought of entertaining this boy.

"Why me?!" I scowl. “Tell Charlie too!” I quickly pointed at my brother.

“Huh?” Charlie turned, confused.

“No buts,” Dad shook his head firmly.

“We didn’t even say but—”

“No buts!”

“Dad.”

He only chuckled before turning back to the boy, offering to show him more ‘exotic artefacts’ from our travels.

"Do you like adventures? We've got a whole bunch of stories here! You must want to see the garden, right? Oh, no, definitely not the garden. Maybe the garage? You must see my garage! Oh, and we've got a lot of snacks—”

“We do?” Charlie asked.

“As if,” I replied.

The boy nodded again, looking a bit overwhelmed by the sudden flood of attention. He glanced around nervously, his gaze lingering on each of us before darting back to Dad, who was still completely oblivious to the boy's discomfort.

“Dad, just give him his toes and tour so he can go!” I scoffed as I stepped in front of the boy, trying to obscure Dad’s sight of him. Maybe if he couldn’t see him he’d forget about him and let him out of the bloody house.

“We don’t even know his name!” I say, absolutely exasperated at this point.

I turn behind me, my gaze falling on the little boy as I point at him.

“What’s your name?!”

“What?”

“Your jell my pell!”

“Je m'appelle...?”

“Bill.”

“What?”

“What?”

Oh, boy. I pinch the bridge of my nose as my face sours in a fit of annoyance. I can practically feel the migraine take over the flesh of my brain.

No matter what Dad tells me, no matter what he makes me do. There’s one thing that won’t change.

I don’t want to be friends with this French toast.

Much to my disgrace, however, Dad points at me and addresses the boy, "You! Be friends with William here. He'll show you around. Right, Bill?"

I blink in complete and utter disbelief. Do I look like a tour guide? I opened my mouth to protest, but Dad interrupted me with a look that warned me not to make any objections.

"Of course," I mumbled offhandedly, wearing a false smile on my face so Dad doesn’t chuck me instead of the gnomes out back.

"Great! You two have a blast!" Dad beamed, completely satisfied.

Mum sidles up beside me, giving a sympathetic smile.

"Looks like you've got a new friend, dear."

I groaned inwardly, kicking at the crooked floorboards to avoid looking back at him.

But, the boy glances at me anyway. He gazes up at me with those eyes again, just standing and smiling politely, fiddling with the plucked hem of the oversized shirt he had on.

“Toasteur?”

Chapter Text

Spring of 1981

Dear Diary,

I never thought I'd have to spend my morning traipsing to Dad's dusty, old garage, especially not with a Muggle boy in tow. But here we were, standing at the threshold of the ramshackle structure that Dad insists on calling his ‘museum’ of Muggle artefacts.

“C’mon, then,” I sighed, waving the boy to follow me as I led my small entourage towards the garage. Charlie enthusiastically tagged along.

I glanced back over my shoulder as we walked past the yard. The small boy trailed behind us slowly, taking time to wander about our chicken coops and stare at the grass. I couldn’t tell if he was nervous or didn’t understand a word we were saying. Maybe both.

I turned back to Charlie, who was practically bouncing on his toes.

"I still don't understand why we have to do this," I muttered, feeling my brows knit together as I shoved my hands into my pockets.

Charlie gave me a reassuring look. Ever the optimizer, my little brother. "He just wants his, uh, toaster,” he attempts reassurance, but I hardly feel any better. “He’ll be out of here in no time.”

“If that bloody toaster even exists,” I grumbled.

"But don’t you think he’s interesting, Bill? I mean, he’s French!" Charlie's voice rang with enthusiasm, the kind that made me want to walk back home.

Of course, Charlie found him interesting. My younger brother finds excitement in the most mundane of things, including but not limited to: rocks, weird insects, and now, random French boys.

"Alright, never mind.” I shook my head, eliminating the thought of the French boy from my mind as I stopped at the door.

"We go in, find the toaster, and leave.” I turned to Charlie, raising a firm finger. I said each word slowly, making sure he heard, and more importantly, understood my instructions.

“You’re only allowed to look and make sure to stay close. Do not touch anything, and for Merlin's sake, do not break anything." I shot a stern look at both Charlie and the boy. They both nod in response, with unusual synchrony.

I nodded as well, taking a deep breath before I turn back to the door. A hand on the rusty knob, the door opens with a whining creak and a click. Behind it is a cramped space filled with shelves. Atop them laid deserted boxes, their surfaces lined with a sheer layer of dust, bugs of varying sizes hightailing it at the crack of light entering the garage.

Charlie darted in, nearly tripping over a bicycle wheel, his ginger hair a blur at the speed he ran inside; leaving my attempts at control futile.

“Charlie!” I called out, grabbing him before he face-planted into a pile of rusty tools. He grinned sheepishly, straightening up as he wandered off.

"Don’t trip," I had cautioned the boy, carefully stepping over a pile of old, tangled wires.

With so much clutter beckoning me at every step and Dad's prized collection of Muggle items stacked arbitrarily on the shelves, there was barely enough room for even the French boy and his little figure to squeeze through.

It was hard to focus on where I was looking and where my feet were stepping through. As I took a disgruntled breath in, I was met with the unpleasant scent of a musty melange. I could practically taste the brew of old car fuel and rotting cardboard on my tongue. I pursed my lips, gagging as I resisted the urge to puke. I always wondered how Dad managed to stuff so much stinky junk in here without causing a major landslide (or a divorce). How he spends most of his free time here is beyond me.

I blinked out of my thoughts as I heard a small whine. Turning, I found the boy had pointed to a particularly oddly shaped item stacked on a high shelf, mumbling something in what sounded like French. Not that I understood.

"I’m not tall enough for that yet," I huffed, brushing cobwebs off my arms from peering under a table. "Where would Dad have put it?"

Suddenly, a massive cloud of dust wafted towards me and exploded mere inches from my face. I sneezed, and with barely another breath, I sneezed again. The boy, with the maturity of a cheese sandwich, simply stood there giggling because apparently, my nose matched my hair.

“Piss off!” I sneezed once more.

We eventually began our search, sifting through the clutter. Charlie’s attention span had always been shorter than a gnome’s temper. So, it didn't take long for him to get distracted by a disordered pile of broken gadgets in one corner.

The French boy, however, seemed more intrigued by the jumble of items scattered throughout the garage — an assembly of Dad’s acquisitions that ranged from newspapers to half-disassembled furniture.

And of course, our father’s pride and joy. Well, pieces of his pride and joy. The car. He’d been talking about it for ages, but it’s still in its very early stages. Some parts were strewn together and some parts were forgotten, clipped on a clothes’ string or the floor. The project he’s devoted the most energy and time to, no doubt.

That’s all we tell Mum, at least.

It’s a secret. Mum thinks Dad bought the car to peel and fiddle about for fun, but no, he’s been trying to make it fly. He’d been separating parts of the car and charming them to take flight. He’s not very good at it though. Last time, the car successfully took flight - floating a few meters off the ground, but then the motor oil started leaking, and then another other time, the headlights exploded. He is very optimistic.

"Charlie, help me look," I had called, pushing the boxes under the table away to clear a path. But, of course, my little brother was already preoccupied, poking at a strange device that made a buzzing sound when he touched it.

"Bill, what's this?" He asked, his eyes wide with fascination.

"Like I know," I shrugged. "Hey! Is this the toaster?" I yelled over, holding up the item.

The boy looked up, shaking his head no. Sigh.

The boy was also already poking around, his fingers brushing against the dusty surfaces. He looked surprisingly intrigued, wide-eyed and with a curious glint in his eye. "Toasteur," he murmured to himself as if the word might conjure the object from thin air. Did he think he was in a museum?

I had put it on myself to find it as I dug through a drawer, not finding anything I could remember ‘borrowing’ from the nice old lady. My hand quickly slithers out of the drawers though, as a loud crash echoes through the garage. I turned to see Charlie sprawled on the floor, a case of assorted junk toppled over next to him.

“Charlie…” I groaned, rushing over to help him up before he started crying. “Did you break anything?”

“I think my nose...” he whined.

“No. I meant Dad’s stuff.” I huffed, prying the fingers he had pinched over the bridge of his nose to see if it still fit straight on his face. “Your nose is... fine.”

Charlie nodded, though his attention was thankfully diverted by an old radio that crackled to life when he accidentally nudged the dial.

I turned back around and I heard yet another crash. “I swear I’m going to slap—” I had turned back, expecting to see my brother plastered on the floor, but it was the boy this time, with a knocked-over container now empty of its screws and their drivers.

"Careful!" I snapped, rushing to stop it from toppling completely. “Can’t you both focus?”

An answer was not given.

Feeling all the blood rush to my knees as I bent down, cupping the screws into my hands and pouring it back into its box, I tried to recall everything I ‘borrowed’ from the old lady’s home and where Dad would have placed them when I returned home with them.

The boy, who still hadn’t told us his name, often glanced between Charlie and I. He didn't speak much. He only responded with ambiguous gestures and half nods, all with a muddled look on his face. Now and then he’d mumble a word or two in broken English, which Charlie found endlessly fascinating.

So Charlie, in the midst of the muggle junk we were surrounded by, huddled over to him, determined to befriend the boy. “So, what’s your name?” he asked, attempting conversation.

The boy glanced at him, then at me, before nodding.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” asked Charlie.

The boy nodded again.

“Brilliant. I’m Charlie, and that's Bill. Do you like dragons?”

The boy simply nodded once more, more interested in Dad’s Russian doll collection. Merlin knows what he gambled to acquire that.

“Awesome,” Charlie grinned, the freckles on his face stretching over his skin as his round cheeks fattened up with his toothy smile.

Though it was abundantly clear the boy was only nodding for courtesy, Charlie didn’t seem to care, or notice for that matter. His stream of inquiries only prevailed, wanting to know if the boy knew more languages, where his parents were, or how old he was.

The boy began to follow my little brother around the garage. He was mumbling things Charlie had said back to himself, repeating his sentences, as though he was picking up on new words and phrases. He was hardly listening as Charlie enthusiastically demonstrated another Muggle invention that Dad had nicked from work. I couldn’t help but chuckle as Charlie fumbled with the strange device, trying to explain its purpose with exaggerated gestures.

“See, this thing... it’s like...” He struggled to find the correct words, though he ended up giving up and eventually resorted to miming. “You press here, and it, um, does that.”

The boy’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he nodded politely nonetheless. Charlie pursed his lips, shaking the device in his hands, hearing parts rattle inside it. “What even is this stuff?" Charlie wondered aloud, holding up another strange appliance that looked like an amalgamation of a whisk and a torture device.

“No idea,” I replied, honestly, prying it out of Charlie’s hands. “Dad probably found it in a bin somewhere.” I tossed it aside, ignoring whatever shattered behind me.

I had turned to look at the boy, who was staring at this week’s paper with wide eyes; little, skinny hands reaching out to the edges of the print. I was surprised. I didn’t even think he could read. Maybe he was ignoring Charlie after all. Not that I can blame him.

Just as I was about to give up, my attention wavered to the higher shelves, sagging under the weight of strange gadgets and boxes stacked haphazardly. I sighed, pulling a rickety chair over and climbing atop it, my eyes scanning the mess for any sign of a toaster. Boxes wobbled dangerously as I pushed them, the contents threatening to spill out with each shift.

Dad really needed to organise this place better.

“If you fall, I’ll tell Mum,” Charlie called out, his voice tinged with amusement as he watched me teeter on the edge of danger.

I glanced down at him, who was playing with a crate of what looked like mini clocks. He picked one up, turning it over in his hands. “Then she’ll get mad at you for putting us in danger...”

“I’m fine,” I grumbled, “just need to find that damn toaster.”

The smell of old paper and rust filled the air as I pushed aside a newspaper, scowling at the stern-looking man on the front page, who shook his head disapprovingly when I crumpled him.

Then it finally hit me. I looked down to see the boy with the newspaper now firmly in his grasp, his mouth agape as he stared at the equally fascinated couple on the front page.

Muggle newspapers don’t move.

“Wait!” I had yelled, attempting to kick the newspaper out of the boy’s hands and failing miserably, the chair rocking backward.

Suddenly, a painfully screeching ring pierced the air.

“What?!” Charlie screeched in alarm, his eyes wide with panic as the device in his hand emitted an ear-splitting noise. “OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!”

“Charlie, turn it off!” I shouted, twisting too quickly and losing my balance. The chair leaned dangerously to the side as I grabbed a nearby cord as a last resort, only to find myself tumbling down on top of the boy.

A loud crash echoed through the garage, dust swirling around us in a choking cloud. I pulled myself up, succumbed into a sneezing fit again, the god-awful ringing piercing my ears as the boy yelled from under me.

“TURN IT OFF!” I shouted, lunging at Charlie to snatch the obnoxious alarm from his grasp.

“I’M TRYING! IT’S NOT WORKING!” He shouted, knocked to the side as the alarm slipped from his hands, bouncing around like a deranged, shrieking cricket.

“DID YOU TRY PRESSING THE BLOODY THING?!” I yelled.

I grabbed the alarm in frustration, slamming it on the ground, but it only bounced off and smacked Charlie’s leg.

“OW, OW! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!” He yelled, hopping around on one leg in pain.

In a desperate bid to end the madness that had ensued in what was supposed to be an innocent search for an innocent toaster for an innocent boy, I bent down to grab the nuisance. Instead, I tripped on the cord, stupidly nailing myself on the table, pulling a grunt and a sour expression of discomfort out of me.

“Where’s the off-button?!”

“JUST BREAK IT!”

For some reason, the wailing of the stupid alarm only increased in volume. Charlie had been smacking it on the table repeatedly in a futile attempt to stun it even temporarily. But, as the boy suddenly grabbed it, it was hurled out the window.

The glass shattered as the alarm sailed out into the yard, the noise fading into blissful silence. All three of us just stood there, panting and wide-eyed while we all collectively processed the consequences of our actions.

“We’ll take the blame for the window,” I had said, standing up straighter when my foot suddenly collided with some metal block that fell with me. “So, let’s—”

“Toasteur!”

Me and Charlie’s heads whipped around, eyes in the direction the boy had pointed at. There it lay, in all its grimy and faded glory, a rectangular device with two long slits, a long cord and a plug to match, with a small lever to pull.

We exchanged bewildered looks, utterly baffled.

"Huh…" Charlie muttered, poking at the lever.

"Are you sure?" I asked the boy, examining the toaster.

"Toasteur," he repeated, a small smile tugging at his lips.

I exhaled, relieved. We’d finally be out of the garage. The boy would be finally out of the Burrow. I basically leapt at the damn box as I pulled the toaster out from under a plastic wrap and held it up.

We stood there for a moment, just staring at the toaster, before Charlie finally broke the silence.

"What the heck does it do?" Charlie asked, echoing my thoughts exactly.

"No idea," I admitted. "But if it gets him out of here, I’m all for it."

We handed the toaster to the boy, who cradled it like it was the most precious thing in the world. He seemed relieved, smiling slightly as he held onto it, holding it to his chest. It was nearly as big as his torso, and yet, he carried its weight just fine.

“Thank you,” said the boy, and his eyes curl into grateful half-moons.

“Yeah, sure,” I replied, awkwardly. I didn’t like the way I stiffened up at the sight of the boy’s large, pool-like eyes. I took a breath, trying to calm my beating heart.

“You’re welcome.”

Chapter Text

Spring of 1981

Dear Diary,

For a Frenchman, that boy is a wimp.

As soon as he found the toaster, he fled. I barely glanced at my little brother before a blur of blonde hair zoomed past me and out the door, that bloody toaster clutched tightly against his chest. Charlie and I peeked out of the broken window to find he was already halfway down the hill, skinny legs scampering back to the old lady’s cottage.

“That little…” Just as I had taken in a breath to yell out a threatening demand of return, the garage - and I’m pretty sure the entire Burrow - shook with the impact of the door slamming open, the boom of the bang so loud Mr. Watson and Mr. Amos probably heard it too.

The hair on my nape stood up as a shiver went down my spine. When I glanced at Charlie he was already looking at me, wide-eyed and completely paralysed, with the fear of Merlin in him.

We turned simultaneously to find Mum in the doorway, chest huffing and puffing and before we knew it, our ears were being blown off with the volume of her tongue-lashing.

“William! Charles! How dare you!? We just fixed the fencing to the chicken coop last week!” berated Mum, screaming at the top of her lungs, face as red as our shared hair colour.

I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was going to pass out from sheer fear, or if Mum’s yelling was taking up all the oxygen in the room.

“First, you steal a toaster! And then, you break a window! Look at my window! My poor window! Oh, Merlin help me, the window! If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was raising a pair of hooligans!”

Charlie whimpered. I didn’t dare look at him, but I could feel him shuffling nervously to my side, trying to make himself appear smaller behind me but failing miserably.

I tried to explain. Really, I did. But Mum’s never-ending lecture made little room for me to cut in.

“Mum, technically, I didn’t steal it, Dad—”

“Oh, you want to blame your father now, do you?!” Mum bellowed, rounding towards the house.

We trailed behind her, exchanging terrified glances, as she marched into the sitting room where Dad was, fiddling with some Muggle contraption with far too many buttons as usual.

“Arthur,” Mum said, and the way she said it sent a bolt of dread straight through my chest.

Dad looked up, beaming, completely unaware he was seconds away from devastation. “Mollywobbles! Look at this — absolute genius, the lot of them! It makes little flashing lights when you press—”

“I DON’T GIVE A TOSS ABOUT THE FLASHING LIGHTS, ARTHUR!”

A brief beep from his gadget punctuated the silence, followed by Dad’s clumsy shuffle as he hastily stowed it away, his glasses askew. The hopeful smile on his face vanished the instant he registered the full force of Mum’s fury.

“Yes, dear?”

Mum’s hands flew to her hips, nostrils flaring. “Would you like to explain to me why our eldest has been out nicking gadgets from the neighbours like some common bandit?”

Dad blinked, his smile bravely unwavering. “Ah.” He adjusted his glasses. “So he found the toaster then?”

I closed my eyes. Charlie whimpered again.

“Arthur!” Mum’s voice hit a pitch that rattled the remaining windows. “You put Bill up to this?!”

“Well, ‘put up to’ is a strong phrase—”

“You had our child stealing muggle appliances!”

Dad winced, raising a defensive forefinger. “Borrowing.”

Mum looked about two seconds away from hexing him. “You—” she took a deep breath, one hand pressing to her belly as though Ginny inside might be just as scandalised. “That is it. That is absolutely it! All of it - every single device is going back!”

Dad blanched, rising from the inclined chair to his full height, hands raised as though in surrender. “Molly, be reasonable, some of those items are irreplaceable!” He attempted reason, but I’m sure Mum was beyond that.

“Oh, I’ll tell you what’s irreplaceable, Arthur Weasley — my peace of mind! Bill, Charlie, you are both carrying back every last thing your father has stashed away, and you will return them to that poor old woman at once!”

“All of it?” I muttered in disbelief.

Mum passed her furious glare onto me. “Every. Last. Thing.”

Dad sighed in deep, unspoken sorrow, like a man about to watch his entire life's work unravel. But one look at Mum’s expression, and he knew there was no fighting this battle. He slumped back into his chair, completely defeated, caressing the device he had in his hands like it was his baby.

Much to his disgrace, Mum snatched that last device from him and handed it over to me. Her glare intensified. “Every. Last. Thing.” She repeated warningly.

That’s how Charlie and I ended up hauling an absurd number of Muggle items stuffed into three gigantic wheat sacks down the hill, lugging them back to the cottage we had no intention of returning to so soon. We had a large crate, a radio, a set of silverware, a mechanical tin opener, a few books, and, for some ungodly reason, an entire bicycle wheel in tow.

The back of my hand had pruned with the sweat I’d wiped off my forehead, but that was the least of my concerns as just as I approached the home of the French boy and his grandma, I looked over my shoulder to find that Charlie was flopped over at the bottom of the hill.

I sighed and rolleed my eyes. He’ll be fine, I told myself, dragging the last of my share of the stuff we had to return to the gate of the property square.

The cottage itself was small, much smaller than the Burrow, but with a quaintness that made it look like something out of a fairytale. It had walls of weathered stone, a chimney that puffed a thin line of smoke, and a front garden bursting with wildflowers in every colour. A few hens strutted about, pecking at the dirt, while an old wooden fence, slightly crooked in some places, framed the property. The whole place smelled like earth and fresh bread, warm and comforting in a way I hadn’t noticed before — but now, weighed down by guilt and an armful of stolen goods, it felt more suffocating than inviting.

With a grunt, I pulled the sack over my shoulder and tossed it over the gate. Dust formed a cloud as it landed on the grass with a thud. I followed soon after it, gritting my teeth as I felt the last of my energy soak up into the sweat dampening the pits of my sweatshirt.

I thought of Charlie and how relaxed he must be sunbathing on the naked grass under the gentle caress of the morning sun, and I felt myself begin to succumb to a similar bliss. Face-planting into the greenery didn’t sound so bad anymore, especially in this fit of exhaustion.

Just before I could, though, the decaying door creaked open, and through the crack peeked the blonde head of the little boy.

I was sure it was the exhaustion that made my hand rise and sway into a wave, earning a small friendly smile from the boy. I think I was just desperate for water or a snack, something, anything to regain energy.

He gestured to me to come inside, leaving the door just slightly ajar, enough to welcome me. I abandoned the sack of stolen muggle devices and found myself stumbling inside.

“Please tell me you have water,” I breathlessly puffed out, hoping and praying that by a miracle this would be the one time this Frenchie understood English.

And Merlin must have heeded my prayers, because little footsteps thumped against the concrete, revealing the little boy’s movement as he came from the kitchen, a large mug filled to the brim with water between delicate yet calloused fingers.

I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding out, practically snatching the mug from his hands, dumping the water into my mouth. I felt the blood in my veins turn red again, the gears in my brain begin to turn, and the bones in my body clinking together in a dance of celebration.

The boy looked at me, bewildered, and I had barely any idea it was because I had practically taken a shower in the water in my haste to drink it.

I wiped myself down and let out one final shuddering breath, meeting his gaze. “Sorry,” I swallowed, my ears warming. “It was a long way down here.”

The boy only nodded, and it refreshed a memory that was temporarily discarded in my haze of thirst and tiredness. I recalled why I was here, why I was tired, and why I was in trouble in the first place. I could practically feel my blood begin to boil again.

“You—” I pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Do you not have any manners? You left without a word! Mum nearly caused an avalanche in the Himalayas because of you! Look! She made me and Charlie haul all of that down here!”

I pointed at the wheat sack of muggle artefacts laying idly on the grass. The boy’s gaze followed, but it was clearer than day that he was more interested in the chickens curiously pecking at the cloth of the bag than the words I was furiously spitting at him.

“You should know better than to provoke a pregnant woman! They’re bringers of doom, makers of chaos!”

Every word that falls out of my mouth seems to go into one ear and right out the other as the boy purses his lips, turning on his heel and walking right back into the kitchen.

“You know the least I can get for coming all the way here is a ‘hello’, maybe even a ‘how are you’,” I continued to talk his ear off, trailing a few paces behind him. “Even French will do. Como estas, muy bueno - whatever it is you blokes say.”

I had cut myself off. The tempting aroma of what I could tell was crumpets began to fill the small space of the cottage, a small cloud of its smoke escaped the gaps of the running oven.

Operating it was the old lady, with faded silver hair and flimsy fingers twisting and turning the dials. She turned to me, eyes sweetening with gentle recognition. Her gaunt lips turned up into a pinched smile.

“Why, hello again, Theseus,” she cooed affectionately, reaching over to pat my cheek.

My brows knit together. “Ma’am, my name isn’t—”

I jolted at the soft blast of toast snapping out of a familiar device. I hadn’t even noticed the boy standing atop a small stool, snatching the piece of bread out of the air and placing it on top of a disarrayed stack of toast; some of which were blackened and burnt whilst some were still pale and hardly heated.

“Is that—”

“Toasteur,” interrupted the boy, a small proud smile on his face that made it abundantly clear he was responsible for the tall tower of poorly made toast.

How do you mess up toast when the damn toaster does the work for you?

I wasn’t sure if letting the boy cut up the butter with a knife was a good idea, seeing as he was basically slamming the flat face of the blade against the bread, having not even half a mind to spread it instead. It’s a wonder how the old lady is letting this pass under her supervision.

“Join us for lunch, will you, boy?” Offered the old lady, “Mal here made toast, and the pie’s just about done.”

A denial of the invitation was just on the tip of my tongue but before it could make its escape, the boy had thrusted his tall plate of toast into my hands, ushering me into the living room.

An exhale escaped me. If Mum had raised me wrong, I’d already be back in the burrow with a book in my hand.

The boy scurried off into the kitchen again, leaving me alone with a lovingly used recliner seat and a running fireplace. The withered brick walls of the cottage had shelves, on which there were dusty books and framed photos.

Curious, I peeked over the wooden display, finding pictures of what looked like the old lady at a time her hair wasn’t yet a pale frost-kissed hue. She was beautiful, with rounded rosy cheeks and auburn curls that fell her shoulders, with a remarkable smile that you wouldn’t find on any other person.

I tilted my head thoughtfully, wondering how she could have ended up here.

Safely behind another frame, she was posed with two men. Her arms were looped with theirs, one man on each side with their heads sweetly tilted towards hers. One was hauntingly tall with a piercing gaze, and the other with a face full of freckles and a pair of cheeky dimples.

I squinted, recognising him.

“Toast?” The boy chimed from behind me, a small plate of butter and two butter knives in hand.

I turned to him. Pointing at the framed picture, I glanced at him, then the image, then him, then the image.

“Is that Newt Scammander?” I asked, bewildered. How I couldn’t wait to tell Charlie this. The little twat would pee himself if he found out the old lady was friends with the talented wizard.

He mimicked my movements, glancing between me, the image, then me, then the image. “Noot?” The boy tilted his head.

I let out a sigh, hoping that would account for my dwindling patience. “Newt Scammander” I repeated slowly. “The magizoologist. He wrote ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find them’.”

He stared at me blankly, a half-confused, half-fearful expression that made him appear as though he thought I’d cast a spell on him. Little does he know, I would if I could.

“Nevermind that.” I dismissed the topic, taking a seat on the recliner after setting aside the old lady’s current knitting project. “You made toast for lunch?”

He nodded, and proudly gestured to the arrangement he’d set up on the withered coffee table. The stack of toast with varying degrees of burns made a reappearance, though this time with the accompaniment of a plate of butter and a tall glass of warm milk.

I picked up a piece with a color closest to golden brown and spread a sheer layer of butter on it, taking a bite thereafter. It wasn’t half bad, not at all actually.

When I looked up the boy was sat across me, legs swinging off a tall stool. He was busy chewing on a burnt piece. I wasn't quite sure what was more astonishing: the near-black hue of that piece of toast, or the fact he seemed to enjoy its taste despite its flavor likely being akin to charcoal.

I almost let out an amused laugh. Almost.

“So, your name is Mal, huh?” I asked, taking a sip of the milk he’d brought me.

The boy - who I now know is named Mal - nodded, leaving me unsure of whether or not the gesture was merely out of habit. I wondered if he actually understood what I asked.

“Well, I’m Bill,” I said, hoping the ice would melt faster. “But you already knew that, didn't you?”

He nodded again.

Before something extremely hurtful could leave my mouth, he waved, and he smiled, and his eyes practically glowed with contentment.

“Bonjour, Bill.”

Chapter Text

Summer of 1981

Dear Diary,

I think Mal had mistaken my friendliness when I visited him and the old lady for friendship.

It was always just Charlie and I. Percy and the twins were too young to understand any of our jokes, and Mum wouldn’t let them step foot beyond the Burrow after Percy tripped on a rock and scraped his forehead, shattering his glasses along with his freedom to explore the greenery. So, when we finished helping around the house, Charlie and I would be free to go to the creek, where I made sure he didn’t end up drowning while he sketched his bright green dragons and lizards.

But, since we returned all the muggle devices to where they rightfully belonged, we began seeing Mal more and more. He kept hanging about the burrow like a stray cat who’d come back because you fed it a can of sardines once. He would appear just as we’d start doing something interesting, as if he had a nose for brewing mischief. At first, I thought he was spying on us for some nefarious purpose, but then I realised he was just... there. He never joined in, never suggested anything. He just loitered until we either included him or left him alone. Eventually, including him was easier than ignoring him.

Charlie and I had been tossing stones in an old bucket near the pond when Mal had wandered downhill. He’d watched us for a bit, his big, blue, weird goblin eyes all sharp and calculating, and then he’d pick up a stone and fling it so hard the bucket actually bounced. It was so unexpected that Charlie and I ended up just staring at him. He didn’t even look smug about it, which was rare for someone who was good at something. He just picked up another stone.

That was the moment, I think. One second we were two, and then the next, we were three.

Summer had come, and by then we had settled into a rhythm.

Mal would come at half past eight in the morning, which gave us enough time to de-magic the house and make it muggle-friendly. He usually came equipped with enough toast and milk to sustain himself, me, Charlie, Percy, and the twins. We’d eat what he brought before scaring off the gnomes in the back garden, then we’d sweep up the shelves and water the plants. We’d return inside thereafter, where we’d relax if Mum didn’t need help in the kitchen. Sometimes Percy would recite the book he was currently reading to us, sometimes Charlie would get us to help him stick his drawings up on his wall, and other times we’d end up becoming the object of one of the twins’ many pranks. But, Mal was there for everything, and now, we were used to it.

I had sat on the edge of the Burrow's overgrown garden, idly chucking rocks down the sloped hill. Charlie sat next to me, watching a particularly large beetle with an intensity that made his face purple. Mal, perched on a tree stump nearby, had taken to tossing rocks straight up into the air and then dodging them at the last second. That was possibly the worst game I had ever seen.

Then came the worst possible sound known to mankind: Mum calling our names.

"Bill! Charlie! Get inside, we’re doing lessons!"

I groaned so hard I nearly choked on my own breath. "We’re doing what?"

"Lessons," Charlie muttered darkly. "She threatened this before, remember? Proper schooling over the summer so we don’t ‘grow up thick as porridge.’" He mimed, mimicking Mum’s high pitched voice.

Mal just blinked. He still only understood about half of what we said on a good day, and that was assuming he even understood us at all. But, when Charlie and I trudged inside, he followed. He didn’t seem to like being left out of anything, even when he had no idea what was going on.

Inside, Mum was stationed at the dinner table. One arm was wrapped around baby Ron, gurgling into her shoulder, while the other rubbed her enormous belly where baby Ginny was still busy being inconvenient.

“Right. Sit,” she ordered, nodding at the chairs. “We’re doing lessons. You lot may run around like a pack of wild Kneazles, but I won’t have my boys growing up ignorant.”

The only thing worse than being chased inside on a boiling hot day was being sentenced to learning. My shirt was practically glued to my back, my brain was already sluggish with the heat, and the kitchen smelled overwhelmingly of tomatoes and impending doom.

But Mum had spoken, and her word was absolute. No known force in the wizarding world could override that.

Charlie had let out a pitiful groan and flopped forward onto the table like a man meeting the gallows. Across him, the twins, barely able to form full sentences yet already fluent in menace, bounced in their chairs with suspicious enthusiasm. They adored lesson time — not for the learning, obviously, but for the fresh opportunities to inflict suffering upon Percy, who – to his credit – sat up straight with his hands politely twined. Mal simply stared at Mum like she’d sprouted a second head.

She looked like she was already regretting this decision. Her hair was frizzing at the edges, and her brow twitched in such a way that made it clear someone was about to get a high-pitched lecture.

That someone was probably me.

“All right, boys,” she said, in a voice that sounded like it had been ground down to its last shred of patience.

Mum gestured to the stack of literature next to her as she set baby Ronald down in the bassinet by the dinner table. The hardcovers of the books varied in colour, and its titles were a testament to its difficulty. There was ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ for your average Joe, and ‘Grimm’s Fairy Tales’ for your more advanced learner.

I glanced at Mal, who hadn’t even registered the books Mum had begun handing out based on age. He was too busy tugging absentmindedly at the ends of his hair. Hair that I am just now noticing was asymmetrical, with portions shaved and others overgrown.

Then I glanced at George, who pulled a suspiciously bouncy rubber ball out from his pocket. I watched as he silently lobbed it to Fred under the table. I narrowed my eyes. There was no way that was just a ball.

Mum sighed, as she finished distributing the last of the books. “Put that away, Fred.”

“I’m George,” Fred replied, accepting a copy of ‘The Frog Prince’.

Mum only raised an unamused brow. “No, Fred, you’re not.”

The ball disappeared into Fred’s pocket. They have plans for it later, I’m sure. I think it’d end with Percy crying again.

Pages were turned as the first portion of lessons began – reading for about half an hour, to ‘keep the brain active’ as Mum said before. Percy’s nose was already buried in the book I was meant to be reading. But, if I’m completely honest, he probably knows more of the words in ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’ than I do.

Mum soldiered on, her hands forming blurs in the air as they moved swiftly to maintain a peaceful order. “Charlie, sit up properly. And for heaven’s sake, keep your eyes open. And Percy, don’t keep the book so close to your face, that’ll raise your prescription.”

She then turned to Mal. "And you... Oh, you... I haven’t the faintest idea where to start with you."

Mal nodded, his lips pursed as if ashamed. Maybe he does understand what we’re saying.

Mum stopped to think for a moment, and her eyes seemed to glow as an idea crossed her mind. She stood up, waddling over to the drawers stationed just before the kitchen. She withdrew a piece of paper, as well as a cup of ink and a quill.

The moment Mum turned her back, though, Fred made his move.

“I need the loo,” he announced grandly, already halfway out of his chair.

Mum didn’t even look up as she flicked her wand. I only hoped Mal didn’t see as Fred’s legs locked together mid-step, as he wobbled dangerously before plopping right back into his chair. “Unless you are physically about to disgrace yourself, you stay put.”

I had let out a sigh of relief when I found Mal was distracted, flipping through a book with pictures, completely uninterested in the words that accompanied them.

George let out a choked laugh as Fred nearly flopped off the chair; he would have toppled to the ground if not for the arms that darted out to cushion his fall. Both twins caught Mum’s glare, and both twins immediately busied themselves with the books they were given.

Mum turned back to Charlie, knocked out bonelessly on the table like a stunned flobberworm. Without hesitation, she reached into the cluttered depths of the kitchen, grabbed an iron pan, and smacked it against the counter with a deafening CLANG!

Charlie shot up so fast he nearly knocked Mal over with the whiplash. “Bloody hell, Mum!” He said in protest, looking positively foolish with hair that stuck out in different directions.

“Awake now?” She asked sweetly, already tucking the pan back into its rightful place in the cupboards. “I don’t want to hear so much as a yawn out of you after I told you to sleep on time last night.”

Charlie nodded, wide-eyed and fully alert, rubbing his ear like he’d just survived a snare to the head.

No sooner had she finished giving her instructions than disaster struck.

Charlie, still recovering from the pan-induced wake-up call, managed to knock his inkpot straight into Percy’s lap. Percy let out a strangled gasp and shot up from his seat, sending his parchment flying into George’s face.

Seizing the moment of chaos, Fred tried, again, to slip from his chair — only for Mum to grab him by the back of his collar and shove him back down with a force that could’ve pinned a troll.

“Sit. Down.”

Fred sat.

For a wonderful, fleeting moment, everything was quiet. Percy, ink-stained but determined, was still reading the words in the storybook with the precision of a monk.

Fred, by some miracle, was pronouncing ‘elephant’ beautifully. George was perfectly sounding out the words in ‘Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests’ as if he wrote the book himself. Even Mum looked cautiously hopeful, rubbing her temples, as if basking in the miracle of silence.

It was at this exact moment that everything fell apart.

Charlie, still dazed, tipped his chair too far backwards. He had hit the floor with a spectacular crash, limbs flailing like a fallen knight in armor. Just as he started to sit up, one of the twins (it didn’t matter which because they were both equally guilty) chose that exact moment to hurl the rubber ball across the room. It bounced off the cupboard, rebounded off the table, and smacked directly into Ron’s bassinet, startling him into an ear-splitting wail.

Fred and George, emboldened, cackled and took off in opposite directions. George dove under the table, but Mum — moving with the speed of a seasoned duelist — caught him by the ankle and dragged him back out with strength befitting a woman who had birthed six kids and was prepared to do battle with a seventh.

Meanwhile, Charlie, in his attempt to recover, pushed himself up — only for Fred to come hurtling on him like a rogue Bludger.

The result was instant. Charlie had let out a wheeze as Fred tripped over him, sending them both sprawling. Fred, undeterred, simply used Charlie as a springboard to keep running.

Ron, sensing the rising chaos, decided now was a good time to throw up. And Mal, who had been perfectly still up until now, slowly reached out and pushed an inkpot over, watching the ink seep across the table with the detached curiosity of a scientist.

Me? I fearfully covered my ears.

Mum inhaled. Deeply. The kind of inhale that signaled the end of all matter, destruction itself.

“ENOUGH!”

The air crackled. The walls trembled. The very foundations of the Burrow seemed to quake in fear. The entire room froze. Even Ron stopped mid-wail, startled by the sheer force of Mum’s scream.

Mum glared at all of us, her face flushed, her chest heaving, and then jabbed a finger at me.

Wait. Me?!

“I can’t do this anymore!” Wailed Mum. “Bill! Your father is at work, I’ve got a screaming baby, I’m eight months pregnant, and I refuse to deal with any more idiocy today!” her eyes flashed in anger. “Your siblings are your responsibility now! Make sure they have their lessons, or so help me Merlin, I will transfigure you all into teapots and leave you on the shelf until the day Ron graduates."

Protest was at the tip of my tongue, but the look in Mum’s eyes told me I would not survive such an attempt.

I gulped. “Yes, Mum.”

Mum, eyes twitching, waved her wand to clear the ink from the table. With a final flick, the ball vanished into the void, and whatever spell Mum had casted also managed to get rid of the lingering smell of Ron’s sick.

Then, without another word, she picked up the baby, held him against her shoulder, and swept out of the kitchen, leaving us all stunned in her wake.

There was a long, stunned silence, only soft breaths and the ticking of the clock filled the air.

Charlie, still flat on the floor, let out a quiet, “Oof. Unlucky, mate.”

I nodded solemnly, glancing around the dinner table to find the eyes of Mal and all my siblings expectantly glued onto me. They look at me wide-eyed, as if waiting for instruction or guidance.

I had let out a sigh. That was how I, Bill Weasley, age ten, had become a teacher.

And so, with the crushing weight of responsibility suddenly dumped onto my shoulders, I finally turned and faced my lovely group of students: a ran-over Charlie, a doomed Percy, a pair of evil twins, and a completely illiterate Mal.

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Chapter Text

Summer of 1981

Dear Diary,

Teaching Mal and my younger siblings was going about as well as I expected.

Chaos had ensued in my house. I felt my eardrums pleading with me for silence. But ultimately, it was futile. I was tragically stuck between children, all under eight years old, and completely uninterested in learning. Well, four of them. One was interested.

"Right, so—" I tried to start by helping Percy with his handwriting practice - the one person here actually eager to be taught - but I had to duck as a quill moving at an alarmingly fast pace darted past my head. I turned to glare at the twins, who were currently engaged in some sort of duel involving parchment airplanes.

I snatched the stationery from them with a scowl. "Fred! George! Can’t you stop trying to blind each other for five minutes!?"

"Aye aye, Professor Bill!" Fred saluted, and not long after launched another ink-soaked missile at Percy, who had foolishly chosen to sit between them. Merlin knows where he got that quill when I could swear I had confiscated them all.

"Bill! Do something!" cried Percy, aimlessly flailing as the ink splattered across his face.

I groaned, flicking Charlie awake. "Just ignore them, Perce."

"I can’t ignore them, one of them just put a—" With a horrified scream, Percy was cut off as something small and definitely not a paper plane wriggled out of his ink bottle.

Slowly emerging from the narrow neck of the bottle: a tiny, squirming creature with too many legs and a disturbing penchant for groaning discordant gurgles. A creature akin to a spider had decided to make Percy’s inkpot its new home.

I jumped up, eyes wide in disbelief, but before I could do anything, Percy started screeching, backing away as if the creature were a Dementor rather than an arthropod.

"Make it go away! Make it go away!" Percy shrieked, now shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.

"Relax, will you!?" I grabbed Percy by the shoulders, trying to calm him down as he turned an alarming shade of pale.

Trying to maintain my nonchalance, I turned back and swiped a nearby book off the table, flailing it over the creature in an attempt to squish it. The creature dodged like it had an agenda.

I wasn’t sure if I should be proud of the twins’ amalgamation, or absolutely horrified.

Right, that called for a Plan B: extract Percy from the situation. Deciding that horrific creature was not Charlie and Mal’s problem, I wrapped my arms around him like a bear and with a strained breath, dragged him to the couch.

"Here. Read this." I thrusted a book into his hands and patted his head like one might a distressed cat. "It’s about the most powerful magical Chinese dynasties or something. It’s boring enough to distract you."

Percy glanced between me and the title, a bewildered expression on his face as he blinked at the book. The four-eyed idiot was still trembling. "The dynasties?"

"Yep. A whole bunch of old dead people who liked to wear robes with dragons on them. Very dull. You’ll love it."

To my surprise, Percy took it in hand with a newfound sense of purpose, flipping open the pages and quickly getting absorbed into whatever ancient politics the book described.

Crisis averted.

Charlie, meanwhile, had fully given up the pretense of studying and was slumped over the kitchen table, asleep, his face smushed against an open book. I prodded him in the ribs. "Oi, at least pretend to pay attention."

Charlie let out an unintelligible grunt.

And then there was Mal. I glanced at him, expecting him to be causing his own brand of mayhem, but instead, he was just staring at me blankly, his quill poised above the parchment like he was waiting for divine inspiration.

"You’ve written absolutely nothing," I pointed out.

Mal proceeded to jot down some kind of doodle. Was that a circle or a number six? It didn’t matter because he looked up at me like he’d just solved world hunger, with insurmountable pride in his own creation.

Should I be proud? There was at least something on the parchment now, right?

I rubbed my temples. This was an all-out disaster. My brief tenure as a teacher had lasted exactly seven minutes, and the classroom had already descended into total anarchy. I needed to do something. Yelling clearly wasn't going to work; Mum had tried that and failed spectacularly. Threatening them wouldn’t work either—Fred and George treated threats like challenges. Charlie only responded to threats if they involved taking away his access to the outdoors, and Percy, well, he was too busy learning about the Chinese bureaucracy now.

Desperate measures were needed.

I cleared my throat and leaned in, placing one firm hand on each twin’s shoulder. I lowered my voice to something just above a whisper. "All right, listen here, you two. You have exactly five seconds to sit down and shut up, or we can play a little game. It’s called Find Out What Your Twin’s Been Hiding From You."

I flicked my gaze between Fred and George, letting my words settle like a dropped match on dry grass.

"George, did you know Fred’s been stealing biscuits from the tin and leaving the crumbs on your bed? That’s why Mum keeps blaming you for the mess. A bit unfair, don’t you think?" I let the words hang just long enough for doubt to creep in.

"So what’s it gonna be? You lot start behaving, or do we start unraveling secrets, because I know what you did yesterday, George. I was there."

The reaction was quick — and utterly chaotic.

Fred’s face scrunched up with immediate irritation, his little hands balling into fists at his sides. "I didn’t! I didn’t steal biscuits! Quit fibbing, Bill! No crumbs! No stealing! I don’t do that!" His ears burned red as he stomped his foot, pitching a fit. "I ain’t a bad brother! Bill’s makin’ stuff up! Bad Bill! Fibber Bill! Fibbill!"

He then tried to lunge at me, as if beating me up with twig-like, freckled arms would somehow solve everything. Instead, I effortlessly shook him off, his tiny body flailing about like a very determined, but entirely ineffective fish.

He spun frantically to George, desperate for backup. "George! Tell him! You know I wouldn’t! I didn’t do nothin’!"

But George didn’t respond. He just stared, his face twisting into a subtle expression of hurt. He glanced down at his hands, his mind racing. The truth hit him with a heavy weight. Fred had always been the more boisterous of the two, the one to take the lead in their pranks and schemes. But George? He had always shared. Always. He’d given Fred his favorite toy when he thought Fred might like it, even though his twin rarely reciprocated. The thought left a sour taste in George’s mouth, the harsh realization settling in his gut like a stone.

Has it always been one-sided?

Has it always been this way?

And then it hit him: Bill was right.

Not that I could hear his thoughts, of course. I’m just guessing.

"Georgie?" Fred repeated, his voice shaking now, cracking with something like desperation.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. They were three years old—literal toddlers—and yet they acted like I’d just exposed a royal scandal. If I had left them alone for five more minutes, Fred would be writing a heartfelt betrayal monologue, and George would be dramatically staring out a window, contemplating revenge.

Anyway, George still didn’t reply. Instead, he slowly shifted away from Fred, moving to the far side of the table. It was as if the very act of separating himself from Fred had drained the energy from his small body. His gaze dropped to the floor, avoiding Fred’s eyes, his silence hanging between them like a thick fog.

I stood there, watching it unfold before me. A knot tightened in my chest, a twinge of guilt. I knew they would get over this—they always did. Just like Charlie and I had our spats when we were younger.

Or more like last week.

"Now," I continued, feeling powerful, "If everyone behaves and actually learns something, I will take you all down to the lake later, and Charlie will show you how to wrestle a Grindylow."

Charlie, who had been asleep, suddenly bolted upright. "I will?"

"You will."

"Wicked."

For the next few minutes, a tentative peace settled over the table. Percy, hunched over his parchment, carefully copied the names of ancient Chinese emperors, each stroke of his quill heavy with wounded pride. George, still sulking, jabbed his quill into an old spelling primer, dragging out wobbly letters with exaggerated effort, as if each one personally offended him. Charlie was flipping through a book on magical creatures, possibly looking for other lake-dwelling things he could fight, and Mal made a single, deliberate mark on his paper, looking intensely pleased with himself.

I exhaled slowly. Maybe this could actually work. Maybe I wasn’t the world’s worst teacher. Maybe I—

Then I noticed Fred.

He was sulking by the staircase, eyes wide with silent fury, tears barely contained in his small face. He was angry at everything—angry at me, angry at George, angry at the cruel injustices of the universe.

His little bottom lip quivered, and there he sat, utterly defeated, his arms crossed tightly against his chest.

I took a deep breath, the weight of my role as the eldest brother settling heavily on my shoulders. With a quiet exhale, I walked over to him, my footsteps soft as I sat down beside him on the stairs. Fred, stubborn as ever, flinched at my approach, but I gently reached over and wiped away the tear that had trickled down his cheek.

His eyes were wide with defiance, his mouth set in a stubborn frown, but he didn’t pull away.

"Hey," I murmured, my voice softer than I’d intended.

"I’m sorry, alright?" Fred didn’t say anything at first, but I could feel him listening, his tiny frame still as stone. "I shouldn’t have said that about the biscuits, and I definitely shouldn’t have dragged George into it. That was my mistake. Can you forgive me?"

Fred hesitated, his lip trembling slightly as he sniffled again, clearly still upset. But after a moment, he finally nodded—just barely.

I smiled, scooping him up onto my shoulder. "How about we go get some more biscuits. Without stealing."

Fred perked up. We headed into the kitchen, where I accidentally smacked his head on a cabinet (eliciting an outraged screech), but he brushed it off with the enthusiasm of a seasoned biscuit thief. He found the tin with terrifying ease, flipped it open like a professional burglar, and plucked out the biggest one he could find, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.

Then, to my utter betrayal, he vaulted off my shoulder with the grace of a miniature acrobat—except instead of a clean dismount, his tiny foot rocketed straight into my nose. Stars exploded behind my eyes as I staggered back, clutching my face, while Fred landed with a triumphant thud.

To my surprise, he clambered over to George, holding out the biscuit with both hands as if it were the most important offering in the world.

"Sorry, George," Fred said in the smallest, most sincere voice I’d ever heard.

George stared at the biscuit. Then at Fred. Then at the biscuit again. Then finally, at Fred.

And just like that, they made up.

I collapsed onto the couch beside Mal, who still had the parchment clutched between skinny fingers. I was still clutching my throbbing nose as I noticed he had drawn more of those meaningless marks. He still looked proud.

I exhaled. "You know, Mal, I didn’t sign up for this. I’m just as much of a kid as they are, aren’t I? Now I’m supposed to be a peacemaker, a professor, the bloody biscuit broker, apparently. I’m supposed to be summoning ink monsters from ink pots and sleeping on books. But, now, I’m just some glorified babysitter getting assaulted by rogue children."

Mal stared at me, utterly uncomprehending.

I was wrong to hope that he’d understand the depth of my plight. I scoffed, avoiding his cerulean gaze. "Fantastic. I’m ranting to someone who doesn’t even understand a word I’m saying."

Mal blinked slowly.

I lifted a finger, still pinching the bridge of my nose. "Right then. Lesson one: Responsibility. Also known as: Bill’s eternal curse. Repeat after me, 'It’s always my problem.’"

Mal cocked his head, watching me with the patient confusion of someone observing a cat try to open a door - mildly intrigued but ultimately doubtful.

"Oh, come on, at least try—‘It is always my problem.’"

Silence.

An hour had passed, and I was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, the universe had decided to throw me a bone. The house, which had been teeming with chaos not long ago, was now eerily quiet. No ink splattered across the walls, no screeching children, no frantic flapping of parchment. Just the occasional coughing and the faint hum of the house settling into its usual rhythm.

And then there was Mal. I’d been sitting next to him for the better part of the last hour, and it had become surprisingly... peaceful. I had tried to guide him through English, though I wasn’t entirely sure he understood a word I was saying. It felt more like a game than anything else. I pointed at various objects around the room, from the fireplace (which belched green flames randomly, even when no one was using the Floo—I had given up trying to explain that to the Muggle boy) to the knick-knacks scattered across the mantel, each time saying the word aloud and waiting for him to repeat it.

"Chair," I said, pointing to the one Charlie had abandoned. "Chair."

Mal stared at it, his brow furrowing in concentration. He opened his mouth and—barely audibly murmured, "Chehr."

I smiled, pleased with the progress, and repeated the word slowly, "Chair."

He repeated it again, more clearly this time. "Chaire."

"That’s right!" I said, now feeling like I had just solved world hunger. "Chair!"

We continued our impromptu lesson, one object at a time. Every so often, I would glance up to check on the others, watching Fred stack old Howlers precariously—some still faintly smoking from explosive lectures of the past. George, who was wrapping his entire arm in yarn, was now softly humming something under his breath, though it didn’t sound like any song I recognized. Percy was still nose-deep in his book, muttering to himself something about the abdication system, while Charlie had gone to nap in his own bed.

A soft creak of the stairs interrupted our quiet moment, and I had froze. My heart did a strange little flip as the sound of footsteps filled the hallway.

Mum.

I quickly looked around, half-expecting the familiar mayhem that seemed to follow her wherever she went, but when she walked in, there was none of the chaos that had greeted her last time. No shrieks of frustration or paper airplanes soaring dangerously close to someone’s eyes. Instead, everything was still, almost too still.

Mum paused, her gaze scanning the room with a mix of disbelief and appreciation. She hadn’t expected this level of calm, especially not after the storm that had erupted not long ago. And just as silently, she crossed the room to where I was sitting on the couch, leaning slightly over to press a soft kiss to my head.

"Thank you," she murmured.

I barely had time to register the rare, heartfelt moment before her eyes narrowed, and she grabbed my chin with surprising speed.

"Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Bill, you’ve got ink all over your face—hold still."

Before I could protest, she spat onto the corner of her shirt and went to work scrubbing my chin with a motherly aggression. Mal, who had been quietly repeating ‘table’ under his breath, stared, eyes wide in horror as I squirmed, desperately trying to reclaim my dignity.

"Mum, stop, I—"

"Honestly, you let yourself look like a walking inkpot; it’s a wonder you’re the eldest."

By the time she let go, my face was red from both scrubbing and embarrassment. Mal was failing spectacularly at hiding his smirk. I shot him a glare before quickly flipping to the next object in our lesson.

"Right. What’s this?" I pointed aggressively at the lamp.

Mal’s cheeks were cheekily inflated, as if laughter was on the verge of escaping him. "Lompe."

Mum patted my cheek affectionately, looking far more cheerful than when she had left. "Much better. And make sure Mal eats something, poor boy looks like he hasn’t had a proper meal in weeks.”

With that, she bustled off to the kitchen, leaving me to wallow in my public humiliation. Mal, meanwhile, turned to me with an exaggerated look of contemplation.

“Eenkpot,” he said, pointing at my chin.

“Shut up, Mal.”

Chapter Text

Summer of 1981

Dear Diary,

I thought I was going crazy.

The house had become more lively since Mum had appointed me as my siblings’ home tutor. And not in the sense that Fred and George were trying to fling each other off the mezzanine balcony of the third floor again, but in the sense that my teaching and supervision were actually rather compelling.

Giving Percy a copy of the history of magical Chinese dynasties seemed to inspire him, stimulating an interest in politics and governance worldwide. The couch had an imprint of his butt from the sheer amount of time he spent learning about American noble families and Italian policies on magic exposure to muggles. Where he had gotten those books in the first place was beyond me, even more so, why we had them in the house.

The twins also took about an hour or two out of their busy schedule of capers and didoes to test each other on spelling different words. One would recite a word and the other would try to spell it. Then if one got it right, the other would try to make it more difficult by assigning words with more than three syllables. I would have applauded their eagerness to advance their skill in spelling if it weren’t for the fact Fred nearly went bald the time he asked George to spell ‘extraordinary’.

As for Charlie, I wasn’t quite sure if I had any contribution to his progressing skill in drawing, but the random doodles he made in his journal began to blossom into near-coherent sketches of actual vertebrates.

But that wasn’t what was driving me nuts, no.

It was Mal.

Was it the fact he could form half-comprehensive sentences now that he actually knew a couple of words? No. Was it the fact he stayed in the burrow long after the sun had set? No. Was it the fact that he had a bigger share of whatever Mum had got boiling on the stove than I did? No.

It was the fact that I couldn’t bring myself to mind it anymore.

Conversation had become easy. Maybe it was because he could actually reply now. His eyes always squinted at me while he listened to me talk, as if he was manually translating every word I said in his head. Maybe it was because he wanted to understand. He listened. He wanted to listen.

How had I gone from hating this French toast to enjoying his company and treating him like family? Merlin knew. But what I knew was that Mal—whatever his surname was—was a friend, and that his company was very much appreciated.

“Are you ready?” I asked him as we sat together on the couch, facing one another.

“Yes,” he answered with a firm nod.

In front of us was the family grandfather clock, each golden arm embedded with each Weasley’s initials. In place of numbers that represented time were places we often visited: home, work, ‘in transit’, Quidditch, school, lost, home, hospital, prison, and—where the number twelve would have been on a normal clock—‘mortal peril’.

Today was the day of Mal’s final test. To prove that he could understand what we were saying, and more importantly, that he could answer.

The air crackled with a fiery tension. My hands moistened with my sweat, his in knots as he nervously fiddled. We didn’t dare break eye contact in fear of missing a single syllable of a word—his grey eyes bored into mine as I finally asked the first treacherous question of this defining quiz.

“Where is my dad?”

Mal swallowed and glanced at the clock. His lips parted, and he seemed to mouth the words to himself before finally answering. “Mr. Weasley just came home from work.”

The grammar was perfect. He remembered to use honorifics for people he respected. And he even sounded confident despite the presence of an accent.

“Correct,” I said with a nod.

A brilliant start but certainly not the end. That was but a basic question. He needed something more advanced to pass William Arthur Weasley’s English board examination with nothing short of perfection, and that was the least I expected from him.

He stared at me wide-eyed, practically shaking where he sat as he awaited the next question.

“Where is Charlie?”

He glanced at the clock, but answering the last question right seemed to have given him a slight burst of confidence. He only gave the clock a quick once-over before answering: “He is sleeping.”

I nodded again, a proud smile forming on my face. Proud of him for having learned basic communication in English and of myself for being the one who had taught him it.

I glanced briefly up at the ceiling in thought as I came up with the next question.

“Mal, where is—” I looked back down to meet his gaze once again, but my body stiffened up at the sight of his complexion, pale with an indescribable horror that he had seemingly succumbed to. His eyes were so wide he looked like he had aged several years in mere seconds.

“What’s…?” Stammering over my words, my eyes followed his, falling where he looked. Mum’s respective golden clock hand was but a millimetre away from striking the height of noon—the hour of mortal peril.

Just as the tip of the hand pointed northward, an ear-piercing screech shook dust off the crevices of wood that formed the withered ceilings of the burrow. Both of us had our hands fly up to cover our ears, so I could barely make out the panicked string of words that spilled out of the horrified blonde sitting before me.

“Bill, did I…? Was I the one that…?”

“William, my boy!” I heard Dad call out.

Two pairs of footsteps trampling down the creaky staircase filled the silence. Looking over my shoulder, I found that Dad had a suitcase in one hand and my sweaty, sickly mother in the other. She was clutching her watermelon-like belly as she cried out: “She’s coming! Ginny’s coming!”

I found myself unconsciously rise to my feet at the sound of her strained groans of labour. Mal followed suit behind me, looking awfully relieved to see her. “Dad, is Mum—”

He ruffled my hair as he shuffled past us, through the living room and out the door. “Yes, son! And we must make haste, not a second to be wasted!” he yelled out, his voice drawing quieter the further he got, the panic in his voice seeping through his calm façade.

Mal and I shared a glance, though one of us was significantly more befuddled than the other. He trailed behind me as we followed Dad out, both of us squinting at the gentle graze of sunlight.

When both our visions cleared, Mum was already stuffed into the passenger seat of the car while Dad struggled to slam the hood shut. It was no wonder, with the way it was overflowing with comfort items he thought Mum would probably need in the hospital.

“You know the drill, William, there’s dinner in the oven and you and your brothers must be fast asleep long before nine-past,” said Dad, grunting as he attempted to use his own weight and gravity to push the hood down.

I nodded, of course, but just as I was about to offer help, a figure had emerged from the bottom of the Burrow hill. Broad-shouldered, with several small moles decorating his face like stars, and a charming smile practically crafted for fame; Mr. Watson Malus from down at the meadow was at our aid.

“Arthur, I came as soon as you called,” he said silkily, not bothering to ask as he, too, placed his weight upon the hood.

With two deep sighs, the hindrance finally locked close with an endmost click.

“I’m in your debt, Watson.” Dad shook his head gratefully, pulling the other male into a firm embrace, one that was reciprocated with a smile.

“Anytime. Always glad to help.”

Dad quickly pulled away and dashed to the driver’s seat, pulling the door open with so much strength he might as well have ripped it off. “We’ll be back! Just ask my son William for any—”

We all flinched as the door slammed shut. Dad hadn’t even finished his sentence before the engine revved and roared, before the wheels ground so hard against the grass that it was shaved bald, before they took off. The car disappeared down the hill, and re-entered our line of sight practically bouncing up and down the road leading out of St. Catchpole.

I didn’t get much time to process the fact Mum was giving birth for the seventh time. Hopefully baby Ginny would be the last. The house got more and more crowded, and more and more responsibility fell upon my shoulders.

I did think it would be nice to have a girl around the house though.

But my moment of happy bliss abruptly ended as I felt Mr. Watson turn to us, and I felt dread creep up my body.

“Well, someone’s in a rush!” he said with a laugh, though the quip was completely humorless.

I glanced at Mal, my face distorted into complete disappointment.

I liked Mr. Watson. A lot. He was cool. He had been the national team’s star chaser for barely a month before he retired to support his wife, Mrs. Druscilla. He was fit and fun, but Merlin, he had a terrible sense of humor. Dad jokes were terrible, but Watson jokes? Don’t get me started. I felt terrible for his daughters. Their house was full of laughter, I was sure. Fake laughter.

Bear with me. I mouthed to Mal as Mr. Watson walked away, towards the Burrow; but he looked as though I had just summoned a ghost. I forgot. This piece of French toast could barely communicate verbally; how was I meant to communicate with him through lip-reading?

“Bill, where your Mum and Dad go, and who this strange man?” he asked me, but I shushed him, my forefinger on his mouth.

“Mal, Merlin forbid you set him up for a joke, because I will smite you myself!”

“Come on, you two, no smiting!” Mr. Watson said cheerfully, gesturing us to come inside as he pressed the door to home open.

I placed a firm hand on Mal’s shoulder, a finger raised as I urged him to listen carefully. My footsteps were quiet as to not alarm Mr. Watson, who had just made his way inside. We had at least five minutes of briefing time while he looked around inside.

“Listen to me, Mal,” I said slowly. “You know how Mum’s belly had been huge for the past few months?”

He nodded.

“That’s because she’s pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” He raised a thoughtful brow. He pointed at his belly, addled. “Like ‘fat’?”

“No, Mal! Like—” I placed my hands on my belly, leaning backwards as I mimicked Mum’s pregnancy waddle. “Like she has a baby inside her.”

“Mon dieu, Bill!” He jumped back animatedly, hands in the air as if repulsed by the idea of being anywhere near me. “Your Mum eat a baby?!”

“No, Mal!” I yelled. I could practically feel my blood boiling under the stress of this conversation. I shouldn’t have set his final test for that day.

“Okay, listen…” I took a deep breath, instilling Merlin’s patience onto my own body. “When a man and a woman love each other, they—”

“Woah, there!” Mr. Watson had somehow reappeared behind me, and grabbed me by the shoulders, clasping his hand over my mouth. “That’s a conversation your friend here should have with his family, William.”

With a miffed grunt, I broke free of his grasp. “My name is Bill.”

“Well, alright, Bill,” Watson said with a light laugh. “Come inside, alright? It’s getting cold nowadays. Fall’s approaching.”

Darn this unhumorous manbaby, the least he could do was take me seriously.

Mal, who had been supposed to be on my side, was more than intrigued by this ‘strange’ man and followed him inside. Darn the French! Absolutely no sense of loyalty, these Western Europeans!

With a mumbled protest, I followed along as well, trailing a few paces behind Mal as he followed Mr. Watson into the kitchen.

This wasn’t the first time he had been here to babysit me and my brothers while my parents were off elsewhere. He had been more than happy to, usually, but he hadn’t been around much since Charlie nearly blinded his daughter a second time—if that was even possible. I thought he looked up to my Dad, but Mum always said he was ‘too joyous’ for her taste. He made good company when he wasn’t making those stupid jokes, though.

When Ron was born, Dad also called Mr. Watson here. All five of us refused to sleep so he made us do several laps around the Burrow until we collapsed on the couch. I wasn’t sure if that was legal because I ended up waking only twelve hours after.

I followed Mal’s suit, but that led to us standing stupidly in the corner of the kitchen while Mr. Watson prepared a snack for us. He looked particularly impressed by his ability to spread butter on bread without macerating it to shreds.

He would occasionally glance at us, his brow slightly crumpled at the sight of two big blue eyes staring absentmindedly into his.

I guessed his mild discomfort became extreme discomfort because he ended up making conversation.

“Excited to meet your sister, Bill?”

I nodded solemnly, to which he responded with an awkward chuckle as he had failed to break the ice.

“So, who’s your friend? I haven’t met him yet. Doesn’t seem like much of a talker.”

“I am Mal,” he replied, before I could. I should be proud. And I was. “I am from small house near Burrow.”

“Ah,” Mr. Watson glanced over his shoulder and at Mal, and laughed a little, clearly amused by the boy’s bluntness. “Well, I’m Watson, Mal. I’m from the Meadow—also near the Burrow. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

He looked at me in such a way that asked if he did good. I scoffed lightly, and nodded. Because he did. He did well. He had come a pretty long way for only a month of being taught by a ten-year-old.

“Mr. Watson?” He called out, and his accent made the man think he was referring to someone else.

“Oh, uh…” He finally turned after the fourth time Mal had addressed him. “Yeah?”

“Did Bill’s Mum eat baby?”

I cringed. I thought I had misinterpreted what that look meant.

Mr. Watson nearly dropped the kettle. “What?” He blurted, blinking rapidly.

Mal gestured vaguely with his hands, as if this were a completely reasonable question. “Bill said she having baby. Where is it?”

I groaned, rubbing my face. “She’s having the baby, Mal. Not having baby.”

“Oh.” Mal paused, mulling it over. “Oh.”

Mr. Watson let out a relieved chuckle, shaking his head as he turned back to the tea. “Speaking of babies,” he said with a grin, “You know, I tried to start a baby photography business once... but I just couldn’t get it to develop.”

He snickered to himself, clearly proud. Mal, however, gave him an utterly baffled, appalled look.

It took every ounce of my strength to hold back a laugh, like trying to stop a river with a teaspoon.

Fred and George, thank goodness, broke the silence by toddling down the stairs, looking equal parts confused and intrigued. They had probably heard the commotion but didn’t quite understand it. Percy was close behind, adjusting his glasses as if that would somehow clarify the situation.

“Where’s Mum?” Percy asked.

I sighed. “Having the baby.”

The twins gasped as if I had announced we were under siege. “Right now?!” they squeaked.

“Yes, right now.”

George’s face twisted in thought. “Does this mean I’m not the youngest anymore?”

I rolled my eyes. “Ron is younger than you, genius.”

“Oh.”

Charlie wandered in then, looking only mildly interested. “How long d’you reckon it’ll take this time?”

Mal, still looking slightly scandalized from earlier, stared at me like I was about to impart ancient wisdom.

I shrugged. “Dunno. A few hours?”

Charlie nodded. “Alright. I’ll be outside.” And with that, he turned and left, likely to check on the chickens or sketch something weird in his journal.

Mal looked after him, then back at me. “He does not care?”

I thought about it. “No, he does. He just... shows it differently.”

Mr. Watson, who had been eavesdropping while pretending not to, snorted. “Well, that’s one way of putting it. Though, to be fair, waiting for a baby was a lot like waiting for tea to steep. Took forever, made you a little anxious, but in the end, you got something warm and wonderful.”

Mal blinked at him. “You compare baby to tea?”

Watson grinned. “And to bread! Gotta let it rise before it’s ready. And, of course, never poke it too much, or it’ll collapse on you.”

Mal looked at me, staggered. I just sighed. “Don’t think too hard about it.”

Hours passed thereafter, and as the sky deepened into inky blackness, we sat in the living room, feigning disinterest while every ticking second stretched unbearably. Mr. Watson had brought out an old wizarding wireless, and we listened to some scratchy Quidditch commentary, but no one was really paying attention. Percy flipped through a book, his eyes skimming the same page over and over without comprehension. The twins, after a valiant effort to stay awake, had nodded off, curled against Mal on either side, which I found absolutely hilarious considering how much they claimed to dislike him. Even Mal, stiff as a board at first, eventually gave in and let them lean against him.

The night dragged on, each moment pressing heavier, until at last, close to our bedtime, the Floo flared green. In an instant, my father stepped through, his hair in complete disarray, face exhausted yet alight with joy.

“She’s here!” He declared, voice brimming with pride.

The house erupted. Fred and George shot upright, cheering like we had just won the lottery. Percy scrambled to his feet, book forgotten.

Mal, on the other hand, looked around wildly, as if someone ought to be questioning how my father had just materialized from the fireplace.

Over the noise, I called out, “How are they?”

Dad’s grin widened. “Mum’s doing brilliantly, and little Ginny was just perfect and healthy.”

Relief settled over me like a warm blanket, easing the tension I hadn’t even realized I had. The house would be louder, fuller, and changed in ways we would not yet know. I didn’t even know how we would make room for another. But for then, all that mattered was that she was here and that she was safe.

Mr. Watson turned to Mal, smirking. “Well, that’s the yeast of your worries, then.”

Mal groaned loudly, rubbing his face as if he could physically scrub the joke from existence. “That is it. I am going home.”

Mr. Watson only chuckled. “Ah, but you’ll miss my best material.”

“I’ll live.” Mal stretched stiffly and made for the door.

Dad, still beaming, turned to Mr. Watson as well. “Thanks for keeping the lot of them company. It meant a lot.”

Mr. Watson waved a hand dismissively. “Please, I had a grand time.” Then, with a softer smile, he added, “A daughter, huh? Nothing like it. Mine drives me up the wall sometimes, but I wouldn’t change a thing. Even the one I didn’t expect — I can’t imagine life without her.”

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “I have no doubt.”

“Give my best to Molly,” Mr. Watson said, clapping Arthur on the back before making his way out the door.

Dad swept his arms toward the fireplace. "Alright, let's go meet your sister!"

The twins shot up like fireworks, already halfway there before anyone else had even moved. "Saint Mungo’s!" They whooped in unison, practically vibrating with excitement.

Percy straightened his glasses and followed with his usual air of dignity, while Charlie trailed behind, hands in his pockets, as if this were some mild curiosity rather than a major family event.

I hung back, taking in the sight of the now-empty room. Even with the lingering energy of the moment, it felt different — like the house itself had shifted somehow, making space for someone new. Another Weasley. Another sibling. But this time, I knew. There wouldn’t be another after her.

At least, I really hoped not.

Chapter Text

Fall of 1981

Dear Diary,

Ginny’s home now.

We brought her back a while ago, and already, the house feels different. It hasn’t quite settled back into its usual rhythm. She’s practically miniscule, much smaller than any of my brothers when they came out. Mum carries her around like she’s made of the finest crystal, and Dad gazes at her as if she’s the most precious thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

Mum and Dad have been talking about building up the house again. Another room, for when Ron gets older, and then eventually another one for Ginny. Dad says they’ll figure it out, but I don’t know how much higher we can build before the whole thing topples over.

The rest of us don’t quite know what to do with her yet.

Charlie mostly ignores her, though I did catch him peeking at her once when she was sleeping in her crib. Percy acts like she’s some rare artifact he’s been put in charge of guarding, always hovering and giving Mum completely unnecessary reminders about how to hold her properly. Fred and George have already tried to smuggle her out of her cot twice, claiming they just wanted to ‘borrow’ her. And Mal — well — Mal is absolutely terrified of her.

“She is so small,” He whispered to me the first night she was home. “What if I break baby?”

I laughed, the mere idea absurd in my mind. “You’re not going to break her, Mal.”

He looked at me with so much doubt that I almost believed him. Since then - even with my words of reassurance - he’s maintained a cautious distance from her, treating her like a fragile vial of phoenix feather essence, afraid even to breathe too close in case that alone would kill her. It’s almost comical, watching him tiptoe around Mum whenever she’s holding Ginny, as though proximity might bring some sort of curse upon her.

With all the attention Ginny’s been getting, I’ve noticed poor Ron’s been left to fall into my hands. I mean, I’m happy to help, but it’s strange how quickly everything has shifted. One moment, Mum and Dad are entirely absorbed in Ron, cooing over his every little movement, and the next, I’m the one who ends up holding him during dinner or cleaning him up when his pampers begin to reek. It’s funny how quickly balance can tip.

But nothing can quite compare to the horror of the twins. I still have vivid, unsettling memories of those days, and I know Charlie does too. George was always glued to me, a constant, shrill reminder that sleep was a luxury I could never afford. And Charlie, poor bloke, had Fred — a tiny whirlwind of shrieking and feces. They were nothing short of savage, relentless in their demands, leaving behind a trail of mess, noise, and a persistent smell that still makes me gag. Every night felt like survival.

In the end, Charlie and I made a pact: whoever the next baby is, we’re force-feeding it straight into Percy. Let him have the full experience, and see how he likes it.

That unfortunately never happened. So I wish it upon his future kids.

My thoughts were very rudely interrupted by a spoon of mashed potatoes being flung into Charlie’s face, the emulsion filling his mouth through his nostrils as he unintentionally inhaled.

“Charlie!” I had quickly got up, but he seems to blank as his life flashes before his eyes. I tried desperately to get him to catch even a whiff of oxygen to keep his heart beating. But he seemed too distracted by the images of his short life playing in his mind, so much so that he didn’t seem to notice the aggressive patting on his back - my futile attempts to get the little solid chunk of scallion out of his throat.

He gasped like a drowning poltergeist as the little slice went flying across the room from his throat, he clutched his non-existent pearls as he coughed, refuelling his lungs with its vital gases.

“Fred, George,” I snarled and turned, deadpan, to find Mal and my siblings in a petrified state, the twins wearing an unusually guilty look.

“It was him!” They yelled fearfully, simultaneously raising their hands to point at each other.

They’re lucky it was me supervising lunch today and not Mum who was upstairs with a sleeping Ron and a feeding Ginny. If it had been her, suffering from compulsive postpartum symptoms, neither twin would have hair or a bed to sleep on for the next week.

“It doesn’t matter who!” I had said firmly, still rubbing Charlie’s back.

I gestured to Percy to get a glass of water, to which he responds with an eye-roll, to which I respond by slapping the book he was reading out of his hands. With a groan, he had gotten up with Charlie following closely behind, disappearing into the kitchen.

“You nearly killed your brother, and with a bloody spoon of mush for Merlin’s sake!”

As if they knew what I’d say next, they got up, protesting like a pair of hippie vegan activists. Fred shot up defiantly: “We’re already banned from the lake! You can’t possibly—”

“Oh, I can indeed! Neither of you is allowed in the barn anymore! No more dyeing the chickens and absolutely no more feather-plucking!”

“Bill!” They whined in sync, and even though they looked particularly endearing at this moment, I placed a firm foot forward and shook my head. With crossed arms, I let out a short sigh that proved I would not be budging.

They thrashed around a little, and Mal, who was still munching on a burnt piece of bread, expertly dodged all the napkins and cutlery they sent flying.

“None of that!” I howled, grabbing their wrists and dragging them to the bottom of the staircase, heaving them even as they dropped theatrically to the floor, kicking their feet around as if that would grant them a one-way ticket back to the lake where they could bully the trout.

They took a shot at begging when I climbed the first step, both of them on their knees with clasped hands as they pleaded for another chance, but that wouldn’t work, nope, not on big brother Bill.

They made sure I knew they weren’t happy with the punishment. They stomped on each step they climbed up on the way to their rooms, making the wood creak and leak dust.

I rubbed my temples. Is it possible for a ten-year-old to get wrinkles? I could swear I have them.

“You ban them from barn too?” Mal asked, pouring a spoon of oats into his mouth. He hasn’t stopped eating the rubbish since Mr. Watson made it when he babysat us. “That is... mean, no?”

“You’d understand if you had siblings, Mal.” I sat back down and frowned as I realised my meal would have gone cold by now.

“Siblings?”

I took a spoonful and stuffed it into my mouth, cringing at the low temperature. “Siblings,” I murmured through a mouthful, “Like brothers and sisters.”

“Ah,” he nodded with understanding, and it was like a lightbulb went off in his mind as he added to his dictionary of newly discovered English words. “Sibleengs,” he repeated quietly to himself.

“I’m just glad we’ve got a girl now,” I swallowed and let out a sigh of relief as I did, half because Ginny would be much easier to help raise and half because that spoonful of cold mush didn’t make me puke.

He stared at me wide-eyed again, that same doe-like look of curiosity whenever I said something that was, for him, out of the ordinary. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “We’ve never had a girl around here before. I could use a change of scenery. Or just some relaxation, really. My brothers love raising my blood pressure.”

“But you have a girl around here before.” He tilted his head. What was this French toast getting at?

I laughed amusedly. “Mum doesn’t count, Mal.”

“Not your mama.”

“Well, Charlie doesn’t count either,” I chuckled to myself, giving myself the credit knowing the joke would’ve flown over his head. “And you certainly don’t.”

“But I am a girl?”

I blinked.

I blinked again.

“What?”

“What?”

I think I had the wind knocked out of me at that moment. We stared at each other, both as disoriented as the other. My mouth parted to say something but nothing came out. I was quite literally speechless. All in my mind then was every day we spent together, every day I spent thinking he was a boy. I’ve known Mal for four months now, but evidently not as well as I thought.

“Are you sure?” I asked stupidly, whispering as if he was telling me a secret, not thinking before I spoke. But maybe he didn’t know what a girl was. Maybe I misheard him. “Are you sure you’re a girl?”

Mal looks almost offended. “Yes. I am sure I am girl.”

“Oh,” I said, and I think my eyes got wider.

Then, the silence was suddenly broken by a sharp, sputtering cough from Charlie, who I’d momentarily forgotten about. It sounded like his soul had briefly left his body and then decided at the last second that maybe it wasn’t his time. He hunched over, wheezing, his face pink and thoroughly shaken but, miraculously, still alive.

“You good?” I asked while Percy unceremoniously shoved a glass of water into Charlie’s hands.

Charlie took a sip, then another, before setting it down with an unsteady hand. “Yeah. That was—” He cut himself off, eyes narrowing at me. “Wait. What were you saying before I nearly died?”

I hesitated. “Uh, well...”

Mal, sitting across from us, looked unfazed, still chewing on those oats like he she hadn’t just upended reality itself. We sat idly, the half-filled bowls now abandoned.

Charlie’s face was a picture of disbelief, mouth hanging slightly open. “Wait,” he started slowly, “You’re not... you’re not a—” he trailed off, like he couldn’t even finish the sentence.

I looked at Charlie, who had gone pale, a look of utter embarrassment spreading across his face.

“He’s she's a...” I started, trailing off just like my brother did.

Mal’s face remained completely neutral, as if he, she hadn’t just shattered the fragile construct we’d been living under for months.

Charlie blinked a couple of times, clearly trying to recalibrate his brain. “But... you’re Mal,” he muttered, as if that was some kind of explanation.

“You’re not pulling our leg, right?” I said, chuckling dryly, unsure if I was joking or not. But deep down, I wasn’t convinced.

“No...?” He said. She said.

It took a moment for Charlie and I to process what he’d she'd just said. Then it hit us. For months, we’d been thinking Mal was a boy. Not once did it cross our minds to question it. He she was Mal — the boy the girl who’d spent countless hours with us, shooting stones into the lake, getting up to all kinds of indescribable mischief. We’d been so wrapped up in everything else that we'd never thought twice.

“It’s just... I don’t get it!” Charlie threw his hands up in frustration.

I swallowed, now feeling like the ground was shifting beneath me. "You've been... you've been a girl this whole time and we never noticed?" I muttered, eyes wide.

The pieces start falling into place. That’s why Mal was so different compared to the rest of us. That’s why Mal’s hair grew faster. That’s why his her voice was so high.

It was not because Mal is French. It was because Mal is a bloody girl.

How could we have not noticed? How could I not have noticed?

Mal also threw her hands up in frustration. “I do not understand? If I’m a girl, I’m a girl! Why matter?!”

I finally spoke, my voice calmer now but still heavy with disbelief. “We just never... we never guessed. It’s...” I had let out a breath, still looking unsure of what to think. “We’ve been hanging out with you for months and months, and not once did you—”

Mal’s face reddened instantly, and she stood up, fuming. “Granny said I’m girl, so I’m girl!” Her voice was sharp now, and I could feel the tension rising between us. She was standing taller than both of us, her patchy blonde hair sticking out in wild tufts, and I — wait — Mal is taller than us?

Taller than me?!

I couldn’t even process that thought. I had put a hand where my head would be standing, and compared it to where her head was. Unbelievable. How could a girl be taller than me? That was impossible. I had to have grown a couple of inches since we met... surely.

Charlie, still looking utterly bewildered, squinted at her, pointing an offending, accusatory finger. “Did your Granny also shove your head in a fire like a bloody lunatic?”

Before I could even process what he’d just said, Mal lunged.

Charlie barely had time to yelp before she tackled him clean out of his chair, sending them both crashing onto the kitchen floor in a mess of flailing limbs. Plates rattled, and I had to dive forward to yank Mal off before she could start swinging, catching an elbow to the gut for my efforts.

“Oi! Get off him, you maniac!” I shouted, hauling her backwards. She kicked and thrashed in resistance.

Instead of staying down, Charlie shot back up, face as red as our hair, filled to the brim with outrage. He didn’t run. No — he lunged back.

He grabbed Mal by the arm and swung her sideways, nearly taking me down in the process. I stumbled back against the counter, knocking over a bowl of apples that rained down onto my head, bouncing off me and to the ground.

The two maniacs hit the floor again, rolling, elbows flying. At one point, Charlie managed to pin Mal for all of two seconds before she kneed him in the stomach and flipped him over.

“I will bite you! Let me bite him!” Mal yelled, thrashing in my grip as I tried to drag her away.

Charlie, never one to back down from a challenge, wrapped his arms around her legs and tried to drag her back down. “You can tr—”

Without thinking, I shoved Charlie back — hard. He smacked straight into the table, knocking over a pitcher of pumpkin juice in the process.

I wasn’t supposed to; but, honestly, I didn’t feel bad at all.

“OW! BILL?! WHAT WAS THAT FOR?” he yelped in betrayal, rubbing his lower back.

“What do you think that was for?!” I hissed. “And Mal, STOP TRYING TO EAT HIM!”

She twisted violently in my hold, her wild clumps of hair sticking up in every direction. “YOU WILL BE A DEAD BOY!” She shouted. Give her a pitchfork, a torch, a giant troll, and she'd have this whole thing wrapped up in minutes.

Sometimes I'd forget she's French. But, it was times like these that proved she is.

I locked my arms around hers, knotting our limbs together in a futile attempt to still her. “NO, HE WILL NOT!”

Charlie, still gasping for breath, shot back, “I’d like to see you try, hedgehog-head!”

At that exact moment, Mal broke free.

What happened next was simply humiliating.

Just as I thought things were about to settle, Mum came down the stairs. I think we all heard her before we saw her, her footsteps echoing like a thunderstorm. She took one look at the entanglement in the kitchen, then at Charlie’s defiant face, and I saw it in his eyes: the terror.

Mum didn’t raise her voice, no, that would’ve been merciful. Instead, she let silence do the work, fixing Charlie with a look that could melt iron. The whole room held its breath. Even the dishes in the sink and the furniture in the foyer seemed to tremble.

The scene must’ve looked like something straight out of a mad circus, and I wasn't sure whether to feel embarrassed or simply exhausted by the sheer absurdity of it all.

Mum folded her arms. “What—” she said, lowly and slowly, “—is going on here?”

The kitchen transformed into a courtroom in that very instant. Mum, the judge, towered over us. Charlie, the accused, stood in the middle of the room, looking shifty. Mal, the prosecution, had her arms crossed like she was about to catch another case. And me? I was the unfortunate jury, watching this mess unfold.

Charlie, to his credit, stood his ground at first: “It wasn’t my fault. She started it.”

“She?” Mum interrupted, her voice dangerously calm.

Oh, he was done for.

And so Mal decided to present her damning new evidence. She practically threw the words into the courtroom like evil dungbombs. Mum’s eyebrows shot up so high I thought they might leave her face entirely. Sharply, she turned to Charlie.

“Is this true?”

The accused — my brother — visibly wavered. “Er... well…”

Charlie’s defense crumbled right before our eyes. He opened his mouth, probably to say something stupid, thought better of it, and promptly shut it again.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. I glanced between them, waiting for the final verdict. Then came the sentence.

“No flying for a month,” Mum declared.

Charlie let out an actual gasp, like he didn’t want oxygen in his body anymore, like he wanted his jaw to unhinge entirely from his skull.

“A month?!” he croaked, like she’d just told him he had to live underground and survive on stale bread.

“And,” she continued, her voice cool and firm, “you’ll be de-gnoming the garden every morning before breakfast.”

Charlie clutched his chest like he was about to collapse.

Mum gave one final, disapproving look between him and Mal, then shook her head. “Honestly. Fighting in my house.”

Mal didn’t say a word as she was sent back to the cottage. No triumphant smirk, no gloating, not even a glare in our direction. She just went, head down, shoulders drawn in, like the fight had drained everything out of her. But just before she left, her eyes met mine for only a moment. Her face was tight, her eyes too bright, and for a split second, I realized she wasn’t just upset.

She was hurt. The kind of hurt that doesn’t come from a scraped knee or a hard fall. But, before I could make sense of why, she was gone.

That was hardly the end of it, though. The fight — the tension — lingered until the evening. Charlie sulked through the whole day, like he was wearing the world’s heaviest sorrow. I couldn’t blame him, really. Mal had gone off on him like a wild thing, but he also had around twenty instances to avoid it in the first place.

I just wish that had been the last of it.

Chapter Text

Fall of 1981

Dear Diary,

Dinner was awkward. Percy was fiddling with the radio, turning the knob with unnecessary aggression, trying to catch something other than static.

Mum was at the stove, stirring a pot with slow, deliberate movements. Her mouth was set in a thin line, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. Dad, sitting at the head of the table, was flipping through the Daily Prophet but not really reading it, just turning the pages, scanning over words that seemed as though they went in and then right back out.

That's because his eyes kept flicking toward the twins. The two of them were squirming in their chairs, chubby hands smacking against their plates.

“Arthur?” Mum started, already knowing the answer.

Dad sighed, folding the newspaper and rising to his feet. “Come on, boys,” he said, scooping up one twin while the other whined for attention. “Bedtime.” Dad carried them out, their giggles growing fainter as they disappeared upstairs.

And just like that, the kitchen became even quieter.

I shifted in my chair, adjusting my grip on Ron. He was warm and drowsy in my arms, his tiny fingers curled into a fist near my shirt. His head lolled against my chest, soft tufts of red hair tickling my chin. I was trying to keep still, hoping he’d fall asleep properly before I delivered him back to Mum.

Charlie, still sulking, sat across from me, stabbing at his mashed potatoes with his fork like they’d personally insulted him.

“Tomorrow,” I said quietly, glancing at him.

Charlie looked up, his frown deepening. “Tomorrow what?”

“We’ll make it up to Mal.”

His grip on the fork tightened for a second, then loosened. He exhaled, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I feel bad,” he admitted, his voice barely above a mumble. “I shouldn’t have insulted her. But can you believe it? Imagine if we never found out.”

“She’d hate us,” I chuckled, still feeling a little guilty. “I’m just... I’m still trying to figure out how she’s taller than me. I can’t live that down.”

“Yeah, that’s embarrassing.” He finally took a proper bite of his food, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth like the worst of his guilt had been absorbed by the meal. Then, in a hushed, horrified whisper, he added, “Do we have to start being polite to her now?”

“Maybe just tone down the hair remarks.”

Charlie made a face, but he didn’t argue.

Percy was still on a mission to tune the radio. His little hands twisted the knob with growing frustration, skipping past bursts of cheerful jingles and snatches of muffled conversations.

“Percy,” Mum said, her voice holding a touch of warning.

He ignored her, continuing his battle with the radio.

Static crackled and hissed. Then, faintly, through the interference—

“...many of them lost in a single night. A blow to the resistance, and to us all.”

Percy twisted the knob again, and for a moment, it was gone, swallowed by more static and half-caught snippets of another station.

“...and Antonin Dolohov, who orchestrated the—”

A sharp burst of static, then silence.

Mum turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at the radio, but she said nothing.

Charlie looked at me, his brows drawn together. “What was that?”

I shrugged.

Percy, still determined, twisted the knob again. The radio whined, then settled, the same voice returning, clear now, steady and grim.

“...a time of fear, of loss, and of unimaginable sacrifice. The war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named saw entire families torn apart. Brave men and women fought, some giving their lives in the effort to stand against the Dark Order...”

I glanced at Mum. She had gone completely still.

Percy, intrigued now, kept listening, hands resting on the radio as if afraid to disturb it.

“...Winger, Edgar Bones, Benjy Fenwick, Gideon Prewett, Fabian Prewett, Dorcas Meado—”

The radio clicked off.

Mum stayed where she was, her hand still hovering near the dial, staring at the darkened radio.

Percy blinked at the radio, his mouth falling open in protest. “Hey, I was listening—”

I shot him a look, sharp and immediate. Percy’s lips pressed together, confused but obedient.

Mum turned back to the stove as if nothing had happened, lifting the spoon she’d dropped and giving the pot a slow stir. It was slower, rhythmic, like she was stirring but not necessarily mixing. The thick silence that followed made the bubbling of the stew seem unnaturally loud.

Charlie scraped back his chair and stood, grabbing his empty plate and trudging toward the sink. “Goodnight.” he yawned, after rinsing off his dish.

Mum turned, smiling softly. “Goodnight, love.”

Her lip trembled as she saw Charlie off, as if it was taking every part of her to maintain that face of happiness.

Charlie left the kitchen, footsteps thudding up the stairs.

Percy, still sulking, crossed his arms. “It wasn’t finished,” he mumbled.

Mum gave him a small, patient nod. “It’s late, Percy. Time for bed.”

That was it. No frustration. No edge of warning. Just a quiet, steady certainty.

Percy hesitated, glancing back at the radio as if it might start speaking again without permission. But something in Mum’s expression — too composed, too perfectly normal — made him think better of arguing.

“Fine,” he sighed, standing up. “Goodnight.”

Mum reached out, brushing his hair back as he passed. “Goodnight, dear.”

The kitchen got even more quieter.

I stayed where I was, cradling Ron, who still refused to sleep, his tiny fingers curling against my shirt, watching Mum move around the kitchen, putting away dishes, wiping the counter. The same way she did every night. But, there was just something I couldn’t put my finger on. Her movements were a little too measured. Her breathing a little too even. Like a mask had been drawn over her face, concealing something that had been dangerously close to slipping through.

But she wasn’t going to let it. Not until we were all tucked in and asleep upstairs.

I shifted Ron in my arms, his head heavy against my chest. He was half-asleep now, eyelids fluttering, but not quite closed.

Mum turned her back to me, hands resting on the edge of the counter. Her shoulders were drawn up, and an exhale that she was very clearly trying to keep as quiet as possible left her lips.

“...Mum?” I started quietly.

She exhaled, just once. Then she glanced over her shoulder, offering a warm, practiced smile. “Time for bed, Bill.”

I didn’t argue.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t push.

I just held onto Ron a little tighter and carried him upstairs, mindful of the creaks in the old wooden steps.

My bedroom door was cracked open as I passed, moonlight spilling in through the slanted window. Charlie was sprawled on his stomach, one foot hanging off the bed, snoring softly into his pillow. He would regret that in the morning, I’m sure, afraid that a beast would take a toe as he slept.

His side of the room was a mess — Quidditch magazines stacked precariously on his trunk, a set of toy dragons mid-battle on the nightstand, a pair of muddy boots abandoned at the foot of his bed.

My side? I won’t lie, it’s not any better.

I climbed past the twins’ room next, the door shut suspiciously. I won’t question it. Percy’s room, just beyond, was still and silent — no doubt he was curled up neatly under the covers, hands over his chest like he laid soulless in a casket, dreaming of a high ranking position in the ministry.

The staircase leading up to the nursery was narrow and slightly tilted, lined with framed photos, their subjects shifting in and out of motion. Except one. Mum as a girl, freckles vivid against sunburnt skin, grinning beside a crusty, serious-looking Aunt Muriel. Nasty old hag. Last time she saw me, she took one look at my hair and sniffed, 'Good heavens, boy, you look as though you've been dragged through a hedgerow by a drunken plough horse and deposited in the nearest midden heap.'

Oh, I’ll show you a hedge, you vinegar–hearted old crone. I'd shove you in one and tell the gardeners to trim around your bramble-thick ankles, if they could manage it without their shears breaking.

Then I realized I was talking to an unmoving portrait. Serves her right, no one wanted to charm a personality on that shriveled old turnip of a face anyway.

I shook the thought away, stepping into the makeshift nursery. The nursery was a jumble of childhood memories, cast-off toys from each of us, littered around mindlessly. A battered toy broom leaned against the wall, a stuffed dragon missing a wing, a wooden train set with half the tracks misplaced. The cradle, nestled in the corner, had been mine first, then Percy’s, now Ron’s, and soon enough, Ginny’s.

I eased Ron into it, careful not to jostle him too much. His little body sank into the blankets, warm and drowsy. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and I held my breath, watching, waiting.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Ron twitched.

His nose scrunched, and then his eyes cracked open.

I frowned. “No, no, no. Go to sleep.”

He stirred, tiny fingers curling, his face scrunching up in protest.

“Come on, Ron,” I whispered. “Be reasonable.”

He blinked sleepily up at me, then let out a grumpy little whimper. I tried patting his back. No luck. Humming? Didn’t work either. He only fidgeted more, pushing up onto his elbows, wide-eyed and expectant. Does he want something to hold? I bent down to pick up the little stuffed dragon at the foot of the cradle, battered but still intact.

I held it out to him, who was now glaring at me like I’d personally wronged him.

“You’re exhausted,” I whispered, dropping the toy. “Why are you fighting it?”

Ron, unhelpfully, smacked his fist against the mattress.

I sighed, thinking. Then I realized. Where’s the bear?

That scruffy brown bear Mum always tucked under his arm at night, the one he chewed on when he was teething. It was just a well-loved thing, its ears mangled, one of its legs slightly looser than the other. But I hadn’t seen it when I brought him up which meant it was probably still downstairs.

“Seriously?” I muttered, rubbing a hand over my face. “You’re not going to sleep without it, are you?”

Ron only let out a plaintive noise of protest, bottom lip wobbling. If he started wailing, he’d wake Ginny.

Waking Ginny meant waking Dad.

Waking Dad meant getting assaulted.

Absolutely not.

I let out a quiet sigh. “Alright, alright. I’ll go find it.”

Moving slowly, I backed toward the door, pausing with my hand on the knob to make sure he wasn’t about to start crying the second I left.

Silence.

Good enough.

I slipped out, closing the door behind me with barely a click.

The hallway was silent, dark. I moved quietly, my fingers trailing along the rough, uneven wall, the wood warm and familiar under my touch. The Burrow had always felt alive to me, with its patchwork repairs and swirling staircases, its towers stacked at odd angles like the house simply never stopped growing.

As I reached the staircase, my eyes caught on the walls.

The pictures were everywhere, crammed together in a way that should’ve looked cluttered but somehow didn’t.

Mum and Dad on their wedding day, younger and brighter, Mum’s hair curling around her face as she laughed, Dad looking at her like she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Another one with Dad, Mr. Watson, and Mr. Amos, barely twenty, out in the hills. Mr. Watson had a broom slung over his shoulder, grinning like he’d just scored the winning goal. Mr. Amos looked mildly disapproving at him, probably lost. And Dad — Dad was laughing, his hair still full and untamed.

I squinted at the picture, wondering when exactly my father’s hairline had decided to throw in the towel.

Then us: me, Charlie, Percy, and the twins, all in a family photo from two years ago. My eyes lingered on it, a realization. We needed an updated one, with Ron and Ginny (maybe even throw in Mal). I made a mental note to pester Mum about it.

I skimmed past the individual portraits I couldn’t care less about, which are either my brothers or stiff, pissy-looking ancestors with faces like they’d swallowed a lemon — until I reached one that made me pause.

Mum’s family.

She stood in the center, beaming, flanked by two men, one on each side. They had the same grin she did. The same eyes. The resemblance was undeniable. Those were my uncles. We didn’t see them often because of the war. They were part of some Order, always away, always fighting, always just a little too far out of reach.

A small part of me knew exactly who they were.

Well, I never actually knew them, not in the way I wish I had. But looking at this picture, frozen in time, laughing like nothing could ever touch them. They must’ve been fun.

But I didn’t want to think more about it. Instead, I just stood there for a moment, swallowing the quiet weight of it all.

By the time I started moving again, I was nearly at the bottom of the stairs.

That’s when I heard it.

A soft sniffle.

I froze, my foot hovering over the next step. The house was still, except for that sound. Barely there, but unmistakable.

Mum.

I crept lower, peering into the kitchen.

She stood by the counter, her back to me, gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her head was bowed, her shoulders stiff, her hand lifted to her face, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her sleeve.

She wasn’t making a sound.

Not really.

And suddenly, the names from the radio weren’t just words anymore.

I gripped the banister, watching, feeling like I was intruding on something I was never meant to see. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to feel.

Mum wasn’t like this. She never let us see her cry. She never let us see anything but the certainty of her hands, the strength of her voice, the warmth of her embrace. But right now, she was silent, still, small.

I let go of the banister and stepped forward, my feet soundless against the floor. The kitchen smelled of burnt-out candles and cold tea. Mum must’ve heard me, or maybe she just sensed me, because her back straightened. She wiped her eyes quickly, fingers brushing away any trace of grief, and turned around with a face that was meant to be normal. The dejected wrinkles in her face were ironed out into a nearly perfected image of normalcy, neither happy nor sad.

Just normal. Just Mum, as we knew her.

“Bill, love,” she said, smoothing her apron like she’d just been cleaning up and not falling apart. “What are you doing up?”

I could’ve asked her the same thing. Instead, I just looked at her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the weight of something enormous pressing down on her small frame, something she wouldn’t let the rest of us carry.

So I took a step closer and said, “I heard the radio.”

That was all it took.

Mum sucked in a breath, barely a sound, but her whole face seemed to shatter with it. The mask fell, the normalcy crumbled, and for a moment, she looked so unbearably lost that it hurt to even look at her. She clutched the edge of the counter again, as if that would stop the shaking.

I stood there for a moment, swallowing hard, because I simply couldn’t look at her. So I turned my head away, stepped forward, and wrapped my arms around her without meeting her eyes.

She hesitated, only for a second, before she hugged me back, fiercely, one hand cradling the back of my head like she was afraid to let go.

And we just stood there.

Mum held on to me like I was something to anchor her, and I let her, because I thought maybe she’d spent too long trying to be everyone else’s anchor.

Eventually, when the night had stretched as far as it could go, Mum exhaled, her hand smoothing over my hair one last time. "You should go to bed, Bill," she murmured, voice gentle but firm.

I didn’t want to let go, not yet, but I nodded against her shoulder. Slowly, reluctantly, she loosened her grip, though her fingers lingered on my shoulder, like she wasn’t quite ready to lose the warmth.

I climbed the stairs quietly, pausing only when I spotted Ron’s teddy lying forgotten on the floor. I picked it up and carried it upstairs, but when I peeked into the nursery, Ron was somehow already fast asleep, his tiny fingers curled around his blanket.

I placed the teddy beside him and stood there for a moment, shaking off any creeping thought.

Then, I walked back down the stairs, solemnly stepping into the room I shared with Charlie.

He was still carelessly laid out on his bed, drooling into his pillow. I stared at him for a long moment, at his stupid, peaceful face, at the way he took up so much space like nothing in the world could ever touch him.

And for the first time, I imagined losing my brother, losing any one of my siblings.

The thought alone made my stomach clench, made something awful and hollow open up inside me.

And then, I understood Mum.

Chapter Text

Fall of 1981

Dear Diary,

Mum’s not talking much these days. She used to hum while she worked, sometimes off-key, which Charlie and I would laugh about until she smacked the backs of our heads with a wooden spoon.

Now, the house is too quiet. Even the ghoul in the attic isn’t making much noise. I reckon it can feel it too, whatever it is that’s settled over us like a thick, heavy quilt in the middle of fall.

Apparently our uncles couldn’t even have a proper funeral. Not with the war the way it is. Mum couldn’t leave either, well, she wouldn’t. She has seven kids depending on her at home, and she wouldn’t risk leaving us. Not for anything.

I don’t think she knows what to do now.

She keeps moving - cooking, cleaning, mending clothes that aren’t torn, polishing things that don’t need polishing - but it’s like she’s running on some old spell that’s flickering, just barely holding on.

Charlie and I have been trying to make things easier where we can, but we’re rubbish at it. We did all the washing up on Sunday, but then he dropped a plate and Mum... barely reacted? Just waved her wand to fix it and told him not to worry.

That scared us more than if she’d yelled.

The twins are too young to know anything. However, they’re old enough to know something’s off, but not what or why. Fred’s taken to following Mum around the house, like if he sticks close enough, he can figure it out. George mostly stays with baby Ginny, poking her little fists to make her giggle, which at least gets Mum to smile for half a second.

I’ve been writing a lot more in this journal lately, probably because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what’s expected of me. Am I meant to talk about them? Or not? Do I remind Mum to eat when she barely touches her plate, or will that just make things worse? I’m supposed to be the eldest, the responsible one, but I feel about as useful as a chocolate frog left in the sun.

Dad’s the only one who seems steady, but I can see it in his eyes, how tired he is. Every morning, he lingers by the door longer than usual, adjusting his coat, checking his pockets, finding excuses to stay just a little while longer. He loves his job - he’s always loved his job - but now, leaving for the Ministry seems harder for him than ever. He keeps rubbing his temples like his head aches all the time, but he still listens when I talk, still asks how things are at home, even though I don’t have the heart to tell him what it really is like.

I don’t know how long it takes to stop feeling like this. But I hope, for everyone’s sake, it’s soon.

Because it’s somehow getting worse.

Mum won’t let us out of the house. Not even to the ends of the garden.

Her worrying has always been a constant, but now it’s taken on a sharp edge, restless, and unyielding.

At first, I thought it was just her usual fussing. But this time, there’s something else. The excuses keep changing: too much rain, too many chores, a sudden worry about us catching colds, and an increased and entirely new concern about wild badgers. But the rule remains.

No going out.

And Dad, usually the voice of reason, hasn’t so much as raised an eyebrow in protest. He just comes home looking worn and frayed, rubs his chin like he’s trying to remember something important, then sighs through his nose and nods. If Dad agrees, it means something’s wrong.

Even Charlie, who - with the right amount of feigned stupidity - can get away with nearly anything, is trapped. He’s tried everything: sulking, bargaining, even dramatic sighs at the window like a widow waiting for his lost love. Nothing works.

Percy, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about being stuck inside. If anything, he prefers it. But what he does mind is that the twins are now stuck with him. They cling to him like particularly noisy barnacles, shoving their fingers into their noses and then his books, climbing onto his shoulders, and stealing his things just to see him twitch. He’s been trying to suffer in silence, but after Fred dropped a soggy biscuit (Merlin knows how it got soggy) into his lap at breakfast this morning, I think he’s reached his limit.

At first, I thought this was all because of the war. I mean, it is, obviously. But it isn’t just because of the news on the radio. Mum and Dad don’t just want us safe. They want us here. Always. No unnecessary risks. No running off. No flying outside.

We’re being collected, like marbles in a pouch, just rattling around together until someone shakes it too hard and sends us scattering across the floor. Eventually, someone will step on them, slip, and go flying.

That someone was me. Yesterday. Down the stairs.

Charlie’s furious about it. He’s got to de-gnome the garden every morning now, which he claims is far worse than being banned from his broom. “At least the broom doesn’t bite,” he’d grumble, flinging a gnome over the hedge.

He was already miserable after getting banned from flying for a month but now, with the whole ‘no going outside’ rule, he’s downright despondent. So he’s resorted to a new coping mechanism: dragon research. Apparently, if he can’t be outside, he will pretend to be outside, stranded in a remote cavern, diligently studying dragons in his confinement. His prime subject? Errol.

The poor owl has been unwillingly recruited to wear a dragon mask and is sent flapping around the house in what can only be described as an exhausted, elderly attempt at reptile. Charlie follows him everywhere with a notebook, occasionally nodding to himself and murmuring, “Remarkable adaptation... fascinating defensive instincts...” as Errol crashes into the dresser for the third time this morning.

A while ago, he lined up all the kitchen chairs and sat in one, making notes like he was an esteemed professor delivering a lecture on the territorial behaviors of confined dragons. He’s also been stuffing pillows under his jumper and stomping around the house, claiming he’s studying the effects of weight imbalance on dragon flight.

Mum lets him do it, which means she’s either too tired to care or genuinely believes it will keep him occupied long enough to stop complaining.

It hasn’t.

I thought he’d finally cracked until he somehow managed to convince Percy to pretend to be his rival researcher. This resulted in a heated argument over who held the official documentation rights to a ‘rare Errolian winged beast’. Dad had to step in when they started drafting legal contracts in crayon.

I’d feel bad for him if I weren’t just as frustrated. I haven’t seen Mal in weeks.

Not since our fight.

I keep replaying it in my head, trying to figure out what exactly made her so mad. Was it because we didn’t know she was a girl? No, she didn’t care about that. Was it the part where we didn’t believe her? The hair comment? If I had known that would be the last thing I said to her for weeks, I would’ve said something... better? And now I’m stuck inside, with no way to find her and say sorry.

I feel weird. There’s this weight in my chest, and I don’t know what’s causing it. Maybe it’s the war. Or maybe it’s Mal. Maybe it’s both. I don’t know. I just wish I didn’t know as much as I do. I wish I could be like Charlie — just knowing war as a word, not as a thing with real consequences. But I do know. I’ve heard the names. I’ve heard how people talk about You-Know-Who, how they lower their voices and glance around, as if merely saying his name could summon him right into the kitchen. I know that things are getting bad. Really bad. And I know that this from the way Mum hovers, the way Dad doesn’t meet our eyes when he comes home, the way the radio cuts out at the worst moments. It isn’t normal.

But there’s one thing to look forward to. Hallowe’en.

One morning, Dad brought it up at breakfast, eyes shining with excitement.

“I heard about it at work,” he said, practically beaming. “Muggles dress up, knock on doors, and get sweets! Thought it might be fun, get everyone’s minds off things.” He shot Mum a careful glance, hoping she’d latch onto the idea.

Mum frowned slightly as she set a teapot down on the table, but her gaze flickered toward him, intrigued. “You mean they go around asking for sweets?” she asked, as if the idea were completely backwards.

“They expect to get them,” Dad said enthusiastically, as if this was the most brilliant concept in the world. “No hexes involved, no tricks, just treats! And they go in costumes. I saw a Muggle photograph of it once. A little girl dressed as a witch. But she isn’t one! Absolutely mind-boggling.”

Charlie perked up immediately. “Do they get to pick any costume?”

“Anything at all!” Dad confirmed, eyes twinkling. “Muggles love it! We should follow their traditions quite often.”

Mum tapped her fingers against the table, her lips pursed in thought. Then she glanced at us, at the eager, excited faces around the table, the way Fred was already trying to fashion a ghost costume out of tissue. Slowly, her face softened. “Well... I suppose they do deserve a bit of fun,” she remarked with a small smile.

The cheers that followed were deafening.

And I was one of them.

Mum said we could go out that night, but only for a little while, and only if we behaved. It’s not much, but it’s something. Something to count down to, to hold onto. It’ll be the first time in ages that we’ve been allowed beyond the front step.

We’re going to dress up and knock on doors and demand sweets from our neighbors, which, as far as I can tell, is sanctioned robbery. But Mum insists it’ll be fun, and she wants us to have fun.

I know what she really means. She means we deserve to feel normal. If only for a night.

I’ll take it.

The days slowly passed. I found myself watching the clock a lot more than usual, counting down the seconds until Hallowe’en. I kept convincing myself it was because I was excited to finally get out of the house, to breathe the crisp autumn air, and to indulge in the chaos that would surely follow a night of ‘trick or treating’. But deep down, I knew there was another reason, something that had been gnawing at me for days. I was going to see Mal.

It was a secret. I didn’t tell anyone, not even Charlie, who had been throwing himself into his manic dragon research so hard I’m surprised he hadn’t turned into one by now. I’d wait until I could slip away — a small chance, a fleeting moment. And when it came, I’d say sorry. Then I’d chuck a sheet over Mal’s head, call it a ghost costume, and drag her off for free candy.

But after lunch, when the sun was high and warm against the windows, the waiting got too much. I decided to do something. Anything. Even if it meant helping Mum.

She was in the kitchen, carving intricate patterns into a plump pumpkin, its bright orange flesh curling away under her knife. A pot bubbled on the stove, filling the air with the scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves, mingling with the faintly earthy aroma of pumpkin. Strands of pulp clung to her fingers, and the table was covered in a riot of decorations — paper bats, enchanted candles that flickered in different colors, and little charmed pumpkins bouncing around like excited chicken.

“Mum?” I leaned against the counter. “Can I help?”

She blinked like she hadn’t expected me to be there. “Oh, of course, love. Here, carve this.” She pushed a hefty pumpkin toward me, along with a small, curved knife. “Make it a good one. We’ll light it up properly when you’re done.”

I hesitated, then set to work, slicing through the thick orange skin and scooping out its stringy insides. I carved a jagged mouth, a crooked grin, and eyes that slanted mischievously. When I was done, Mum wiped her hands on her apron and pointed her wand at the pumpkin. With a flick, the inside blazed to life — not with a steady glow, but with shifting expressions. The jack-o’-lantern smirked, then scowled, then waggled it's carved brows like it had a secret to tell.

I couldn’t help but grin back.

Mum chuckled. “That’s better. A little magic makes everything more fun. Don’t tell your Dad.” She dusted her hands off and turned to me properly, her eyes softening. “You’re quiet today.”

I shrugged, focusing on the pile of pumpkin guts. “Just thinking.”

Mum nodded, still stirring. “About Mal?”

I froze mid-peel. “What? No. Why would I—? No.”

She gave me a look, the kind that sees right through me. “Bill, sweetheart. I know you miss her.”

I sighed and dropped the peeler. “She’s the one who stopped talking to me. It’s not my fault.”

Mum reached over and brushed my hair back. “Maybe not. But sometimes, being right doesn’t matter as much as making things right.”

I frowned. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

She smiled sadly. “It usually isn’t.”

Mum’s talk stuck with me. Even as I scrubbed pumpkin pulp from my hands and tried to focus on the excitement brewing around the house, the words echoed in my head. Making things right. I wasn’t sure how to do that, but at least Hallowe’en gave me a chance to try.

Chapter Text

Fall of 1981

Dear Diary,

Chaos had erupted in the sitting room. It was a battlefield strewn with fabric scraps, discarded hats, and remnants of Dad’s ever-growing collection of questionable Muggle outfits.

Costumes had been decided upon, but execution was another matter entirely.

The twins were already in full attire, bouncing around like pint-sized menaces, barely contained by their respective outfits. Fred’s face was a patchy mess of green, his skin daubed with uneven splotches of paint. Then there was George who strutted about in a far-too-large lab coat, which he somehow acquired from Dad, his outfit completed with enormous goggles and kitchen gloves. Technically, they were supposed to be Frankenstein and Frankenstein’s monster. In practice, they were just two lunatics arguing over who got to be called Frankenstein.

“I’m the real Frankenstein,” George declared, puffing out his chest.

“No, I’m Frankenstein!” Fred argued, stomping his foot, which was wrapped in a bandage for authenticity.

“Boys,” Mum sighed, wiping green smudges off her hands. “You’re both Frankenstein.”

"Actually," Percy interjected primly, pushing his glasses up his nose, "George is correct. In the novel—"

"Oh, hush, you little minister," Mum cut in before George could launch himself at Fred. "Let them sort it out themselves."

Mum had really gone all out for them. Fred had bolts stuck to his neck - Mum had transfigured some old buttons - and she’d enchanted his jacket to look like it had been stitched together from different fabrics, though really, it was just one of Charlie’s torn jumpers. George’s lab coat was now properly fitted thanks to a bit of tailoring magic. Mum had then charmed his goggles to give off the occasional ominous flash while it rested on the wild streaks of white in his hair (courtesy of a temporary potion).

Their faces were a mix of smudged green, lopsided scars drawn in eyeliner, smudged soot marks, and the undeniable glee of three-year-olds playing dress-up.

Speaking of Percy, he was standing primly in front of the mirror, adjusting his tiny lapels. He was, in his words, ‘dressed for success.’ I think he was going for the Minister of Magic.

His robes, tailored from one of Dad’s old dress sets, still drowned him slightly despite Mum’s best trimming efforts. He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he relished the extra grandeur. He clutched a rolled-up parchment like it was an important piece of legislation, and his hair had been slicked back with what I could only assume was an entire cauldron’s worth of pomade.

Charlie snorted when he saw him. “Look at you. Minister of Magic.”

“Mini-ster for Magic,” I corrected. I was real proud of this joke.

Percy scowled, his little nose wrinkling. “I’ll remember this when I’m actually Minister.”

If he wasn’t three feet tall and covered in remnants of Mum’s sewing charms, I might’ve been inclined to take him seriously.

Ron and Ginny were too little for proper costumes, but Mum wasn’t about to leave them out. Ginny, being a baby, got the easiest costume: a pumpkin. A bright frizzy orange jumper with enchanted fabric leaves, which she happily gnawed on. Ron, meanwhile, was dressed as a farmer, complete with overalls and a plastic fork clutched in his tiny hand, which he also happily gnawed on.

Then there was Charlie.

Fully committed to his role as a dragon rider, he had somehow convinced Mum to enchant some paper dragons he had fastidiously folded so they flapped and flitted around him, resulting in a small, excitable swarm that followed him everywhere. A few of them got stuck in his hair, but he merely declared that real dragon riders probably had worse problems.

His outfit was a mismatched ensemble of Dad’s old leather vest, like three of his belts (wrapped twice around his waist), a scarf that he’d dramatically proclaimed his dragon taming sash, and an assortment of oddly shaped knee and elbow pads — leftovers from an old Quidditch set — that he insisted were essential for when he ‘inevitably’ got thrown off his dragon mid-flight. To top it off, he had strapped a saucepan lid to his back, calling it his emergency dragon-scale shield or whatever, though it mostly made a loud clunk every time he moved too quickly.

“Charlie, you look ridiculous,” I had told him, dodging a rogue dragon that nearly gave me a papercut.

“Ridiculously awesome,” he corrected. “Unlike you, Mr. Boring Adventurer.”

Boring? Excuse me.

I had taken great care in crafting my look. A highly esteemed yet feared curse-breaker, complete with a rugged cloak (Dad’s old trench coat), an explorer’s hat (Mum’s gardening hat, transfigured to look slightly less ridiculous), and an old leather pouch I’d stuffed with valuable artifacts — including a handful of rocks, a bent spoon which is basically a cursed relic, and an impressive-looking key.

My outfit was perfect. Or at least, it had been before Mum confiscated all my ‘dangerous’ props.

First, she took the fake wand I had painstakingly whittled from a bit of firewood, claiming it was too sharp. Undeterred, I went back to the drawing board. A machete, carefully constructed from a broken saw blade I found in the shed? Confiscated. A sword, fashioned from a broken chair leg? Snatched away before I could even explain that all legendary adventurers carried one. I tried making a trident out of an old broom and a fork — Mum didn’t even let me finish before separating it with a flick of her wand.

Clearly, I needed to be more discreet. So, I got creative.

A grappling hook, masterfully engineered from a whisk and a length of rope? Gone before I could even attempt a test swing off the bannister. A throwing dagger set (just actual knives smuggled from the kitchen and expertly wrapped in cloth for stealth)? Confiscated and returned to the silverware drawer. A whip, ingeniously braided out of old shoelaces and — admittedly — several strands of Mum’s good knitting yarn? Gone the moment she caught me testing its snap against Percy. A spiked mace (a potato punctured with toothpicks, because I was running out of options)? Vanished before it could make a single satisfying whomp on the floorboards. Throwing stars? Transfigured to tea coasters. Nunchucks? Turned to a tasseled skipping rope. Pepper spray? Glitter spray.

The final insult came when she waved her wand at my spiky belt — upgraded with thumbtacks from Dad’s desk — and transformed it into a fluffy kitten-themed fanny pack.

“Safety first,” She said with a satisfied nod.

Charlie, of course, cackled. “You’ve been baby-proofed.”

I scowled and yanked the ‘belt’ off. “Mum, Charlie has actual dragons! How come he gets to keep all his cool stuff?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Because his dragons are made of paper.”

“They’re enchanted paper!” I gestured at the small flock of them still flapping around his head. “He’s practically a walking fire hazard, and yet I’m the problem?”

Mum only sighed, then flicked her wand again, giving my hat a dramatic tilt. “There. Now you look dashing.”

“Dashing doesn’t count,” I grumbled, but I didn’t push my luck. My props might have been stripped away, but I refused to let my heroic aesthetic be compromised. The curse-breaker look still worked. Probably. Maybe if I stood in the right lighting.

Charlie, meanwhile, strutted past me, his ridiculous dragon-riding ensemble clanking and flapping with every step. One of his paper dragons swooped toward my head, and I swatted at it, missing spectacularly.

He grinned. “Looks like my dragons already don’t like you.”

But before my brother could get too smug, I tried to grab him.

He jumped back with a loud clunk of saucepan and knee pads, quick on his feet, but not quick enough to save one of his dragons. My hand shot out, snatching a stray paper dragon right out of the air. It squirmed and flapped feebly in my grip, the enchanted charm sputtering.

“You wouldn’t dare...” Charlie’s eyes widened in horror as I slowly closed my fist. The little dragon crumpled with a pathetic rustle of paper, its wings folding in on themselves while I watched as it twitched one last time before dropping lifelessly on the floor.

He gasped, clutching the remaining dragons to his chest like a mother hen. “You monster...”. He then began cooing over his surviving flock, stroking their crumpled wings as he herded them away.

“Papa won’t let him hurt you...”

On any other day, he might have sprinted straight to Mum, wailing about my cruelty, but tonight, my utterly pathetic excuse for a costume seemed to amuse him too much to bother. I was about to take this as a small win but my thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, dramatic shuffle from the stairs.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Arthur,” Mum huffed, arms crossed, as she stared at him from the foot of the stairs.

Dad, to absolutely no one’s surprise, had dressed as ‘A Cool Muggle’. His hair was slicked back, and he was wearing a battered leather jacket that, for a moment, I could have sworn I’d seen Mr. Watson wearing before, and - most egregiously - sunglasses. Indoors. At night.

You know who wears sunglasses inside?

“Do I look the part?” Dad asked with a grin, adjusting his collar like he was auditioning for a role in a low-budget Muggle action film.

“You look like a hooligan,” Mum said dryly.

“A Muggle hooligan,” Dad corrected proudly, as if that somehow improved the look.

Mum rolled her eyes the way she always did when Dad got like this, but there was no stopping him now. With the swagger of a man who had absolutely no idea how ridiculous he looked, he clapped his hands together and said, “Right then, my dudes! Let’s roll.”

And despite looking like someone who had just been kicked out of a rock band, he managed to usher us all outside safely.

The sun had long since dipped below the hills, leaving the sky a deep, velvety blue. The sharp, biting air carried the scent of damp leaves and the faintest wisp of chimney smoke curling from some distant fire. The trees stood half-dressed, their thinning branches rattling in the wind, and the ground crunched softly beneath our feet, littered with brittle, curled leaves that revealed the season’s change.

Everyone was busy checking their goody bags, making sure they had enough space for whatever loot they planned to collect.

I had one mission, though. And as we stepped out into the crisp autumn air, my heart pounded with something far beyond excitement.

Tonight, I was going to find Mal.

And I was going to make things right.

Chapter Text

Fall of 1981

Dear Diary,

The sun was sinking low, washing the sky in streaks of pumpkin orange and dusky purple as we finally stepped out of the Burrow, a ragtag crew of costumed misfits ready to terrorize the countryside for sweets. I adjusted my explorer’s satchel, full of supplies (a notebook, a piece of twine, and half a biscuit I’d forgotten about), while beside me, Charlie, dressed as a dragon tamer, tugged at his ‘dragon-hide’ gloves like he was about to wrestle an actual Hungarian Horntail.

“Alright, alright! Line up, you lot!” Mum clapped her hands as she fished for the camera. "I want one nice picture before we go!"

Percy, of course, stood bolt upright, taking his role as Minister of Magic deadly serious. his paper badge proclaiming "P.W, Minister" pinned neatly to his chest. Meanwhile, the twins were busy arguing over whether the monster had to obey its creator, which resulted in George trying to make Fred carry him.

Dad adjusted his collar and shot Mum finger guns. "Take the pic, babe, before these kids lose their cool factor."

Mum sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Arthur, for Merlin’s sake, just stand still.”

After an excruciating minute of jostling, blinking against the camera flash, and Fred attempting to pull a monster pose, we were finally off. I’d fully intended to lead them to the cottage first, but Dad had already swung an arm around me and was steering us towards the Malus Meadow.

Sigh. No choice now.

Malus Meadow looked particularly eerie tonight. Paper ghosts and jack-o-lanterns floated at odd angles, flickering ominously. The trees, already twisted and gnarled, had extra cobwebs strung between them, and the Maluses had really outdone themselves with enchanted candles that flickered green. A few bats swooped overhead, though I had the sneaking suspicion that at least half of them were charmed napkins. 

Of course, living up to its name, it was a meadow. Stretched wide and uneven around the crooked house, grass curling into the distance like it didn’t know where to stop. There wasn’t much to look at now, it being late autumn — just brittle leaves crunching underfoot and bare trees scratching the sky — but come spring, this place does a whole flip. Flowers everywhere, bees buzzing about like they owned the place, and wild herbs sprouting up wherever they pleased.

Tonight, though... it looked like the perfect setting for a ghost story.

It made sense, I suppose. Mr. Watson is a Muggleborn wizard, so it was natural he’d want to pass his own childhood traditions down to his daughters. It was nice, in a way, even if I was mostly focused on scamming as many sweets as possible.

Dad, fully immersed in his ‘Cool Muggle’ persona, whistled as we approached their door. "Alright, dudes, let's get some candy. Stack up!"

We had attempted to squeeze together on the doorstep, but the effort quickly devolved into elbowing, bickering, and Percy trying to institute some sort of formal trick-or-treating protocol. Dad gave up and knocked.

The door creaked open to reveal Mr. Watson, fully kitted out in what I think was meant to be a robot costume. Honestly, he looked like he’d been mugged by a scrapyard — all metal sheets, tinfoil, and some blinking fairy lights strapped to his arms. The effort was... well, points for effort.

Dad and Mr. Watson exchanged grins.

“Arthur!” Mr. Watson greeted, the fairy lights on his arm blinking excitedly. “Wait. Is this why you asked to borrow my jacket?”

Dad adjusted his sunglasses coolly. “Could be, could not be. Man of mystery, that's me.”

We all just... stared. For a solid five seconds, no one moved. The sheer ridiculousness of the costume had short-circuited us. Even the twins stopped bickering. Percy’s mouth hung slightly open.

Mr. Watson raised an eyebrow, glancing between us.

It took another second before we all seemed to remember why we were there.

“Er... trick or treat?” I offered, far too late.

“Trick or treat-” Charlie blurted.

“Trick- trick- treat!” Fred and George shouted over each other.

“Treat or trick.” Percy muttered stiffly, still staring at the fairy lights like they were personally offending him.

Dad sighed, “We’ll do better next time.”

Hovering behind Mr. Watson was his eldest daughter, the one Charlie unintentionally attacked last time. Short, dark hair framing her face, and that scar. It slashed across her eyes and down her cheek slightly, pale and jagged, like a wild animal had a swipe at her. The few times I’d seen her before, she’d always worn a blindfold, so this was the first proper look we’d gotten. And, honestly... it was a bit unsettling. Not gross or anything. I don’t think. Made your stomach twist a little if you stared too long though.

I understood why she covered it. She looked uncomfortable enough without the blindfold, standing awkwardly in the doorway, clutching a big bowl of treats to her chest.

Meanwhile, Mr. Watson started enthusiastically hurling handfuls of candy into the air like he was feeding pigeons. “Here you go, kids! Candy for all!” He called cheerfully, throwing them over the doorstep like breadcrumbs.

Everyone immediately dove for them, flapping their arms like birds mid-feeding frenzy.

“Mine! Mine!” Fred screeched, scrambling after a falling toffee.

The so-called Minister was no better, half-crouched, arms out, pecking at the falling sweets like a deranged seagull.

It would’ve been unfair of me not to partake, so naturally, I succumbed to instinct and started snatching goodies out of the air.

Charlie, on the other hand, was hopeless. His ridiculous costume made bending or jumping near impossible. After a few tragic flaps and waddles, he gave up entirely and lumbered over to the girl, plucking sweets from the bowl she held like the fat pig he is.

That’s when he noticed the scar with a gasp.

He leaned in, curiosity written all over his face. “Whoa— your scar looks proper real! You drew that on well... slightly smudged a bit wonky there... hang on, can I—”

He reached out, fingers halfway to poking her cheek before I hissed, “Charlie,” under my breath. But it was too late and she jerked back instantly, nearly dropping the bowl of sweets. 

She clearly hadn’t seen that coming. 

Her head snapped in his direction, expression sharp with annoyance. For a second, I could see the thought cross her mind — the pure temptation to lob the rest of the treats at Charlie's big stupid head in retribution. But, in the end, she decided against wasting good chocolate and without a word, turned on her heel and stalked off inside. 

Mr. Watson paused to glance after her, his cheerful expression flickering for half a second with mild concern. “You alright, love?” he called vaguely, but she was already gone. And he went right back to enthusiastically chucking sweets around like it was his life’s calling.

Charlie stood frozen, hand still awkwardly hovering mid-air. “What? What’d I say?”

Charlie Weasley try not to insult girls challenge: Impossible.

Before he could dwell on it for too long, something small and fast launched itself from behind the door frame: a tiny werewolf, fully masked, snarling, and lunging at us.

The twins shrieked as the little werewolf gave chase. I barely dodged a gnashing set of fake teeth as the kid attempted to bite me, instead latching onto the back of my explorer’s coat.

"Ugh, get off," I muttered, trying to shake her off as she turned her attention back to Fred and George, tackling them with alarming ferocity.

Meanwhile, Dad and Mr. Watson had already fallen into an animated discussion about the finer points of Muggle car mechanics.

"Listen, it's all about fuel efficiency, man," Dad insisted, jabbing a finger for emphasis.

"I mean, yeah, but have you considered tire durability?" Mr. Watson countered.

Truth be told, I didn’t hear half of it. I made that bit up. I was too busy trying to peel a feral werewolf off my boot.

After a few moments of letting the chaos settle, Mr. Watson clapped his hands. "You know what? Why don’t me and my youngest tag along? My eldest isn’t into this sort of thing."

We could tell.

Dad shot him a pair of finger guns. "My dude, let’s hit the town."

And just like that, our group grew by two — one enthusiastic tinfoil-wrapped father and one feral little werewolf who was now hanging off of George’s arm like a particularly aggressive bat.

Charlie, still looking bewildered, muttered, "Darn. Her fake scar was really cool."

I just shook my head. "Come on, let's go."

We marched along the lane, crunching leaves underfoot, looking like a bunch of circus performers with ringleader Percy far ahead leading the way while simultaneously, not knowing the way.

Dad was chatting away with Mr. Watson, who was still shuffling along in that ridiculous robot get-up. The man sounded like a walking kitchen drawer — all creaks and squeaks. That’s him not opening his mouth as well.

Charlie was plodding along beside him, the saucepan lid strapped to his back, clanking in perfect sync with Mr. Watson’s metal limbs. His last few surviving paper dragons circled his head like they were barely hanging on, while Mr. Watson’s dangling fairy lights blinked weakly. The pair of them, utterly oblivious, waddled along side by side like two broken wind-up toys.

If Charlie wasn’t my brother, I’d be convinced they were related.

I almost choked trying not to laugh, instinctively turned to my side to share the joke to particularly no one. Well, normally, that’s where Mal would be, walking beside me, chuckling along and then asking me to explain the same joke all over again. But that... that hadn’t happened in a while.

A weird, stiff feeling settled in my chest. 

The adults were up ahead, completely lost in their conversation. This was my chance. I could sneak off to the cottage, climb in through the kitchen window if I had to, and drag her along. I just knew she’d love the whole premise of trick-or-treating.

But before I could take two steps, the god-awful werewolf kid latched onto my back like a leech. Again. Honestly, I was starting to think she was doing it on purpose. 

I sighed, trying to pry her off without causing a scene — but then I spotted my brothers barreling towards me, eyes wide, pockets stuffed with sweets, and I realised far too late the little monster was using me as a human shield.

The sugar rush had clearly hit them hard. Within seconds, I was getting kicked, climbed, and tossed around. 

I must’ve shouted something unrepeatable, because next thing I knew, Dad’s voice cut through the noise.

“Oi! Quit wrestling with the kids, Bill! Come on, keep a move on.”

Right. Plan delayed slightly. 

We rounded the bend, and there it was — the Lovegood’s place, perched on its hill like a giant chess rook. All round and tall and strange-looking, the black stone walls catching the last bits of purple evening light.

The garden wasn’t nearly as wild as it would probably end up, but it still looked... odd. Pots of weird plants lined the path, some glowing faintly, others making those unsettling rustling noises even though there wasn’t any wind. I spotted those little orange plum things which Mrs. Lovegood called Dirigible Plums, though they looked more like shrivelled oranges on sticks to me.

A rickety blue gate hung off one hinge, with a painted sign dangling from it that read ‘Beware of the Nargles.’ Pretty sure Mum reckoned Nargles weren’t even real, but the family seemed deadly serious about it.

Two skinny crab apple trees flanked the front door, which was thick and black with big iron studs, and an eagle-shaped knocker gleamed right in the middle like it was watching us.

As we marched up the zig-zag path, I couldn’t help but notice the windows glowed warm yellow, and somewhere inside, little bells and chimes tinkled softly. It all looked a bit... wonky. But in a good way. I like them.

The front door opened before we even knocked, and Mrs. Pandora Lovegood stood there in her flowing purple robes, her big heart-shaped glasses slipping down her nose. She clapped her hands together, beaming.

“Oh, look at you all! Aren’t you just adorable!”

We’d practised this part. After last time’s complete disaster, Dad had drilled it into us like we were heading into a Ministry hearing.

“Trick or treat!” We chorused, mostly in unison this time.

Mrs. Lovegood cooed over our costumes, fussing at Charlie’s dragons and Percy’s little Minister badge, and handing out proper good sweets — not those weird barley-sugar things that feel like you’re chewing on rubber.

She raised an amused eyebrow as her gaze landed on Dad and Mr. Watson. “Arthur... let me guess... er... a ‘Cool Muggle’?” Her eyes flicked to the robot ensemble. “And... oh my, you’re a, ah, very shiny... appliance?”

“Android,” Mr. Watson declared proudly, a light blinking mournfully from his elbow.

“My second guess,” Mrs. Lovegood smiled politely, clearly fighting a laugh.

Inside, I spotted little Luna, a baby, snoozing peacefully in a floating cradle by the window, wrapped in what looked like a blanket covered in moons and stars. Fitting, honestly. 

A second later, Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood appeared in the doorway, his blond hair sticking out like he’d been electrocuted and his eyes wide with theatrical glee.

“Ah! Good evening, Arthur! Watson!” he exclaimed, clapping both of them on the shoulders with alarming enthusiasm. “Perfect night for... a crime!”

What made it worse (or better, depending who you asked) was the fake blood smeared across his face and the rather dodgy shadow of what looked like a massive knife glinting behind him.

He bared his teeth dramatically, looming forward — the twins shrieked and bolted, the werewolf kid howled and sprinted in circles, Percy squawked “Inappropriate conduct!” while shielding his sweets. I think Charlie fell over.

Mr. Lovegood straightened up, laughing. “Only joking. How lovely to see you all.”

Mr. Watson grinned, shaking his head. “Good to see you too, Xeno.”

The adults fell into their usual chatter — recounting some elderly nonsense, Dad laughing along, Mrs. Lovegood asking after Mum and Ginny, and Mr. Lovegood leaning in with that wide-eyed, half-mad look he always got when being mystical.

“I heard about Molly’s brothers,” Mrs. Lovegood said gently. “I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

Dad gave a tight smile. “Thank you. It’s been... hard.”

Mr. Lovegood’s gaze drifted to the sky. “The winds have shifted,” He declared, voice oddly distant. “I feel a great change is upon us.”

The adults all exchanged polite ah-right-here-he-goes looks so I assumed this happens often.

“Course they have, mate,” Watson said lightly. “It’s autumn.”

But I wasn’t sticking around for more weird weather prophecies. I saw my window: the grown-ups distracted, the others still scoffing sweets, or nursing their near-heart-attacks from Mr. Lovegood’s dramatics.

I inched backwards, already plotting how I’d leg it to the cottage. 

But before I could even turn, a sharp, treacherous voice cut through the air.

“Bill’s trying to sneak off!” Percy announced at full volume, pointing like a tattling snob.

Then, of course, the werewolf kid shrieked in glee and launched at me like a projectile. The twins followed, cackling, diving for my legs, my sweets spilling everywhere as I was tackled onto the grass.

Again.

“Oi—! Get off—!”

So much for sneaking away.

After a chaotic round of goodbye waves and shouts of thanks, we were off again to complete the trio — next stop, the Diggorys.

The journey there was absolute carnage. The werewolf kid kept darting out of the hedges like some gremlin on a sugar high, and predictably, the twins copied her, tearing through the leaves like wild animals. Charlie’s paper dragons were long gone, his costume was falling apart, and he’d resorted to scoffing down the sweets straight from the bag. Pretty sure Percy got tired halfway and Dad ended up carrying him.

We finally herded everyone to the Diggorys’ place — a neat little cottage tucked behind a low stone wall. It took another few minutes to wrangle us onto the doorstep, and when we finally knocked, the door flew open... and out bounded a tiny vampire.

He was slightly bigger than the twins, jet-black cloak swishing behind him, brown hair perfectly fluffed, pale cheeks glowing in the porchlight (or should i say shining like the twilight LOL please cut this out). Little fangs poked out when he grinned wide enough to blind you. He looked like a pint-sized, wide-eyed version of some Muggle idea of a vampire.

The twins and the werewolf kid squealed with delight at their new recruit and immediately descended into another game of chase, tearing around the garden, giggling like lunatics. The mini-vampire flapped his cloak dramatically, but there was this little hesitation to him — like he wasn’t entirely sure if joining them was allowed. But within seconds, Fred had grabbed his hand, George shoved a sweet into his mouth, and the werewolf kid snarled at him (she’s so odd), and that was that. He was off.

At the door stood Amos Diggory dressed up as... erm well...technically still Amos Diggory. He looked exactly the same as always, just with a slightly crooked hat on his head and what might’ve been a slapped-on moustache half sliding off.

Mr. Watson snorted. “Oh c’mon, Amos, forgot it was Hallowe’en?”

Dad shook his head, sighing. “That’s not a costume, mate. That’s... that’s Tuesday.”

Mr. Amos huffed. “I am a wizard! What more d’you want me to do?!”

They both then booed him like pantomime villains, both waving their hands and groaning in disgust.

Mr. Amos just scoffed, disappearing inside with a “Hang on, hold your hippogriffs.”

Dad folded his arms. “Typical Amos. I send him a Howler twice a week to remind him it’s Hallowe’en. Look at this bum, shows up like that.”

Mr. Watson gestured down at himself. “And I look like a knock-off tin man from the Wizard of Oz... for what?!”

Dad pondered. “Wizard of Oz? Do I know ‘em?”

“Geez, Arthur. What did you grow up watching?”

Moments later, the door slammed open again and out swaggered Mr. Amos in full, over-the-top vampire hunter gear, long black coat billowing, a blunt wooden stake in hand, and a singular... garlic? 

Is that another Muggle myth? A vegetable against immortals?

He spun the stake between his fingers like he’d been practising that move in the mirror for weeks. “Ha! Pranked ya!” he declared proudly, striking a ridiculous pose like he was about to feature on the cover of Witch Weekly.

To my eternal embarrassment, the three grown men actually cheered. Full-on clapping, whooping, practically hopping on the spot as they slapped each other on the back with affirmations.

“Didn’t even clock it! I didn’t! Did you?!” 

“I didn’t!”

This whole thing seemed a bit more for the adults than us kids.

I groaned loudly, but not enough for them to notice. Good. 

Silver lining: they were distracted. This was finally my chance to sneak off.

I slipped away from the group, ducking behind the low garden wall, edging towards the lane. Just a quick dash to the cottage. I’d explain it all to Mal, apologise or grovel or whatever, and then maybe the weird twisty feeling in my chest would go away.

I was this close to freedom when that traitorous little Diggory vampire spotted me.

He bared his tiny fangs, pointing dramatically. “Get him!”

Before I could even process it, the twins and the werewolf kid came crashing into me like a pack of wolves, tackling me straight onto the grass.

Yeah. Again. At this point I was practically part of the lawn.

“Wait—” I wheezed, wrestling to get free as my remaining sweets flew everywhere like confetti.

I clawed my way halfway upright, ready to make another break for it, when Cedric Diggory - who I was just starting to like - flapped his little cloak and declared, in his best brooding vampire voice:

“Thish ees the skin of a killer!”

The effect would’ve been more intimidating if not for the fact his fake fangs gave him the world’s worst lisp. But before I could even laugh, he lunged, trying to sink them into my arm, only for the flimsy plastic to snap in half, bounce off my sleeve and land in the grass without leaving so much as a mark.

“Aw”, Cedric blinked at them.

Dad finally noticed the commotion, calling out, “Bill! Stop winding the little ones up and get back here, we’re heading into the village!”

And just like that, my chances were gone. 

I sighed, flopping onto my back in the grass, watching the clouds drift across the darkening sky. The only thing scarier than the Muggle village right now was knowing Mal probably hates me... and I couldn’t even sneak off to fix it.

You’d think this was the most eventful thing that happened tonight. Oh little did I know...