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midnight1990 · 3 years

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Good Raven Chapter 1. Cofio — Remembering

July, 1995

As I unpack my trunk in the dusty, dingy room above the shop where my uncle, two brothers and two sisters live, I feel the slight dread of not knowing where my future will lead. I’m of age now and done with school, so finding work and avoiding trouble should be my first worries, but it ain’t just me I have to worry about. I can’t let the babanod grow up here for much longer — it’s eaten them and me for three years already.

We live in Knockturn Alley, the street off of lovely Diagon Alley where all of the things your decent witches and wizards won’t meddle in are sold; bought; traded or just plain found. In my uncle’s shop is sold potion ingredients, and because this is Knockturn Alley, they’re not normal ingredients — poisons; live creatures; contraband that he (Uncle) said if I ever told someone about he’d hex me for 7 years straight. He also threatened to feed me on only cold gruel if I sold anything cheap, ‘cause once I was all moved in those three years ago he was leaving me at the counter to haggle and sell while he went off to the Cauldron for drinks, or Borgin’s to try and buy even more nasty supplies to bring back to his own business.

I should be honest when I talk about the things we sell — they’re rather compelling. It’s a bit exciting to know that the fungi you’re holding (with a handkerchief that’s been charmed to keep the nerves in your hand from suddenly burning and losing all function) are one: that bloody dangerous and two: can put you on the ministry’s list of “Most Dark and Dangerous in Illicit Magical Trade”. Some of the things that the Ministry comes up with!

As interesting as my uncle’s business can be, me and the kids need our own place to live. It’s just too, well, dark in this alley. Ninety nine percent of the people who come through this place are just trying to get their business done; do their shopping — however ill-intentioned it may be — and go home, but that one percent that’s not so good is too noticeable for any decent body to want to raise four little ones here. I’ve been followed by a hag who wanted my fingernails (taken from a living witch or wizard, they’re more useful); groped by warlocks both drunken and sober; sang at by more drunken warlocks (some ditty with lyrics like “I once had a lass with a nice round ass” and it got even nastier) and I’ve even seen duels that ended up in the Prophet! One time, a curse missed its intended target and hit an old wizard who was just trying to get home with the flesh-eating slug repellent he’d bought! The poor old grandpa! I hope he lived.

I go into the smaller room across the hall where the boys sleep and of course Llon’s trunk is sitting wide open on the bed he and Afon, who’s only three, share. I see his rumpled up belongings and I know he scrambled to find his wand as soon as he got up here; I hid it in his trunk as soon we boarded the train to come back for his first summer holiday (and the rest of my life) so he wouldn’t try any last minute jinxes. Sometimes I’m amazed at how easily he obeys me, then again his most vivid experience with a female relative other than me is of Mam throwing him outside at night — all night — so she could drink and have a shag with that big warlock she came home with. He was nine, I was 15 and we were all lucky that it was spring holiday so’s I was home. I don’t know how they found out, but when the ministry officials who deal with family problems came a’visiting two days later, I was able to convince them to let the kids remain at Mam’s house so long as I was allowed to be there, courtesy of the school and a satisfied ministry witch. I had to write and beg Snape, McGonagall and Dumbledore himself to let me skip a few weeks. I remember feeling quite touched when the first two came to visit, a ministry witch in tow. I don’t think Dumbledore even considers his students well-being outside of Hogwarts.

I had expected McGonagall to be much less kinder than she actually was — more grave and pitying. She was certainly that way with Mam, “Eira, what have you gotten yourself and your family into?!”

Snape mostly sat all stiff in the chair I’d offered, his spidery black eyes glancing everywhere they could, taking in my raggedy siblings, Mam’s wan expression and the Welsh words doodled haphazardly on our cottage’s stone walls. Words like cariad — love — which had a bright pink heart drawn beside it and calon which had an arrow pointing from it to the rosy heart.

Witch, Welsh and Slytherin. That’s me. Even my name is Welsh, though my dad is English (obviously, my surname is Burke after all): Branda — brân dda — raven good; Good Raven. I have a middle name that isn’t Welsh at all, though; Patreva. Something Latin like what so many of our kind in Britain have — names like Draco, Severus or my Tad’s name, “Nicander” which may actually be Greek. It’s fancy and magical sounding. I’m the only one of my parent’s brood with any name like that — something about a Naming Seer who suggested it for me, but they never went back for their other four kids’s names. The younger ones have a Welsh name and that’s it. I like Welsh names quite a lot, though. Some of the names wizarding parents give their children are too — well — ostentatious is a good word.

Anyway, McGonagall, Snape and the quiet little ministry witch with the clipboard came to a decision: I could stay at home with Mam and the kids while the school year continued as long as one: Mam wasn’t bringing her “gentlemen friends” home anymore and two: I would take remedial lessons in all core classes the following school year.

“Of course, you will receive some lessons by post this spring and over the summer, miss Burke.” McGonagall can be so caring, sometimes.

“Your head of house has stated that you are among the more reliable students at Hogwarts, miss Burke.”

The little ministry witch hadn’t spoken at all to me, only to Mam and to my professors, but now she was gazing at me with what I believe was meant to be a placating — if somewhat sharp — look.

“He says you are quite skilled in his potions class as well as in mentoring the younger students.”

The look on Professor Snape’s face suggested this was meant to be unspoken. I’ve never had problems with Snape; he’s certainly a terror to many (okay, most) students, but he’s only ever had clipped praises or short orders for me to teach the first years how to behave without their parents around to guide them and comfort them and all that. A lot of the prefects were shite at that kind of thing.

Life at Mam’s with the kids was alright for awhile — could’ve probably gone quite tolerably if she hadn’t gone off to the Leakey Cauldron and met some bloke who took her to his flat in wherever-the-hell-it-was. Whatever they did in those six days she was gone, it was bad enough that he went to Azkaban, but not interesting enough for the Daily Prophet to report on. Mam got off, but us kids had to go live with the only relative who was willing to take us — Tad’s second-or-something cousin whom he’d done business with before Mam kicked him out: Mr. Donius Burke, purveyor of dark and illicit potion ingredients since 1974.

Fuck.

***

“Oi, girl! Come down here now! I need you for something!”

Calm down old man, I haven’t finished folding my jumpers yet. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already got a task for me, even though I’ve only been off the train for two hours. Sunset’s nearly come, and I don’t want to be outside in Knockturn Alley after dark, which ought to spur me faster down the stairs to see what he wants. Making him wait can feel too good though - not that he’s not willing to stomp his way up here which, as I put my last woolen top away, I can hear him doing. Thump, creak; thump creak; the ancient wooden steps groaning loudly as always. Has he still not fallen through them?!

“Are you going deaf?!”

I turn my head to look at him there, his reedy frame silhouetted from the dim light of the hallway. He hasn’t changed in the ten months since I’ve last seen him, and he hasn’t since we arrived here three years ago; grey hair slicked back, his aging face freakishly smooth without a hint of stubble (does he shave, or did he magic the hairs off?).

Before I can say anything he’s stepped into the room to stand over me.

“Get down there, now!”

He points his finger so forcefully that it’s curving up towards the ceiling, and I have to keep myself from glancing up to see if it’ll confuse him. He follows me out of the bedroom and down to the back of the shop, where Llon and the other two kids are on the floor playing with Mouser, the cranky black cat we keep to eat any mice or cockroaches in the the building.

Gwenyn is nine and has long blonde hair like Mam, round hazel eyes and a pink mischievous face. Next to her is five year-old Ffionwyn, who’s brown hair will turn nearly black like Tad’s and mine someday. For now, her head’s as shiny as a chestnut, with a pale face and a shifty quietness about her - probably because she’s been growing up in this dark hole of a place.

“Here”. A small roll of parchment is pressed into my hand.

“Take this to Aunt Onyxia, she’s been expecting it all day.”

He nods his head towards the children - “You can bring back the other one, as well.”

Of course, he’s talking about Afon, the youngest of the family. Three, dark haired and quiet like Ffionwyn, he had to come here when he was just four months old! Unwilling to keep a baby where his customers could hear him crying, Uncle struck a deal with the ministry officials who’d arranged for his guardianship — he would have to remain the legal guardian of Afon, but would be allowed to shunt him off to another adult so long as they were nearby and had no criminal record — a relative preferred. Enter Aunt Onyxia, Uncle Donius’s first cousin.

Onyxia Burke runs a “gift” shop right at the end of Knockturn Alley where she sells candles, cheap jewelry and clothing items, all of which are enchanted for various purposes; making someone fall in love with you; manipulating another’s dreams; even changing their moods or emotions. I hope she’s been keeping Afon away from her shit.

As I step through the door of my uncle’s shop into the balmy night air, I glance up at the old wooden sign hanging above the door: “Apothecary” it reads, surrounded by engraved bats, spiders and toads. I force a heavy breath through my nose as memories come creeping up again, for we used to sell those things — well, Mam ‘n Tad did - before everything went to Hell.

Mam ‘n Tad were gatherers and procurers of potion ingredients. Magical plants and animals, of course, some of which you must have a special permit to collect, but also things that are not so magical — bats, rats and adders; green things that grow in your back garden like nettles and dandelions; even farm animals like chickens and goats, the latter of which produce bezoars —hard stones that form in their gut and which counteract poisons.

Things that could not be grown or raised near our home (a dragon in the barn might’ve been a bit troublesome) we would search for. This was the best part of my family’s livelihood. Tad would research where things could be found, and we would gather our equipment and head off to some chosen spot ready to work.

He taught me to do many things without magic, which I never knew was unusual for our kind —until I went to Hogwarts. Nobody else knew how to butcher a chicken or start a fire without a wand (except maybe a few muggleborns, but even most of them didn’t know how, either)! My classmates didn’t seem to know what to make of me until the incident with Hagrid’s giant chicken.

One of Hagrid’s roosters had grown to a rather impressive size, comparable to that of a Shetland pony (he had to have charmed it somehow). Well, one day it managed to escape the coop and terrorize the courtyard where all of us first years were learning broom maintenance. Madam Hooch was knocked over before she even saw it, and a boy called Derrick attempted to scare it by kicking it away, his robed arms flapping all around him whilst yelling at it to go away. Unfortunately, Drumsticks now thought Derrick was trying to start a real cock-fight — chest to chest, wings flapping and spurs kicking!

Before it finished its little war-dance with his head bobbing low, neck-feathers puffed out trembling, I’d managed to grab one of the brooms off the work table; as soon as Drumsticks began to step towards Derrick I ran towards that overgrown alarm-clock and jabbed it as hard as I could with that broomstick!

I won’t say it was a smart idea, but the frustration I’d felt over those first weeks at school — people giggling behind their hands when I spoke in my Welsh accent; discovering that students in other houses whom I’d wanted to befriend would scoff at the idea of hanging around with a Slytherin — seemed to take hold of me. It felt good when the broom’s handle hit Drumsticks’ chest, shocking him backwards and confusing him so. It’s likely a good thing that Hooch had finally recovered herself enough to properly stun that scaly-footed bastard before I’d lost my mind completely — that broomstick was starting to feel like a skewer.

Dinner that evening consisted of a hearty chicken soup, platters of little chicken pies, mashed potatoes, boiled peas and fresh, steamy bread rolls on the side.

Oh, and most everyone in my year stopped calling me “Spleens”.

Tad had been bi— Tad had been given the boot by Mam by the the time I’d started school, and in the summers I’d been the one to continue most of the hunting work while Mam settled herself with tending the garden and foraging for plants. Mam knew the work alright, but she’d mainly been the one to keep records of what was brought home; researching the markets and packaging items properly. Didn’t take long for Tad’s absence to start its work on her though, did it? A little kid can only hunt so many kinds of creatures, and of course I couldn’t have a permit to collect things like doxy venom or dragon eggshells, nor could I travel more than a few miles from home.

Soon the goats were sold to another ingredi-wizard, then any magical plants in our garden that required consistent tending died. I didn’t understand how that could’ve happened, not at the time anyway. Mam was good at hiding her drinking back then. Since we were no longer able to provide the great amount of products as before, businesses started abandoning us for more reliable resources.

Sometimes — just every once in awhile — Tad would show up for a visit.

“Only a few days” I imagine Mam whispering harshly, fearfully, her eyes darting ‘round as though expecting whatever forces demanded they keep apart to come bursting out of her cottage’s walls.

He always went out to try and gather more for us to sell, did Tad. He didn’t take me anywhere with him that was outside of the county, though. The last time I went with him was at the beginning of summer after my third year at Hogwarts. He looked so much older than I’d remembered, or perhaps I hadn’t paid enough attention during his previous visits? Grey streaks were beginning to shoot through his thick black hair, which hadn’t been cut in years. He walked slower than I was used to, moving like his body had turned all sore and stiff; his head constantly swiveled around as we worked, as though the very land that surrounded us could not be trusted.

“Don’t let your sisters and your brother stay inside all day. Teach them how to look after themselves, better than your mam or I have done for ourselves”.

Until he said that, it hadn’t really occurred to me just how reckless my parents were compared to those of my classmates. Before Tad had been forced to leave, he and Mam had thought little of hauling me, toddling Llon and squalling Gwenyn to all kinds of strange and exciting places — places I now know where most parents wouldn’t allow their children to set foot. When they needed to collect dragon eggshells from high up in the mountains, us kids sometimes went along.

I learned where to find snakes before I was seven; how to untangle wire snares without slicing my wrist open when I was eight. I nearly drowned in a lake searching for plimpys — round little creatures with long legs you can tie together — Tad said that’s how Merpeople deal with them because they consider them pests.

My parents also enjoyed firewhiskey. Many times after we’d spent a long day trekking through bracken for mokes and doxy eggs, or slogging around in muddy ditches for flobberworms, Mam ‘n Tad would build up a fire. We would toast sausages, slices of bread and even apples for supper, while two of them added the throat-burning drink to their meal. I can’t recall the bottle ever not being empty the next morning.

The drinking didn’t interfere with much until after Tad was gone.

It’s a wonder all of us kids have lived to see three.

I worry Afon won’t recognize me, after I’ve stayed all year at Hogwarts instead of returning to the Alley during holidays. I know I have a responsibility to my siblings, but the Triwizard tournament and its accompanying delights were hard to resist. Uncle was furious when I refused to return to work at Christmas, while Onyxia wrote that I should try and catch a wealthy boy from Beauxbatons, though a Durmstranger would do.

By the time I make it to Onyxia’s front door the few glass street lamps holding charmed candles have sprung to life, casting faint and eerie shadows. I’ve only just touched the brass kneazle-head knocker when the door is wrenched open from behind.

“It’s about time - oh, Patreva! I hadn’t realized you’d returned already!”

I curl my lips into the sparest of smiles — it’s often a struggle to remain polite with this woman. Patreva is my middle name, not my real name. I don’t even know what it means, and Mam ‘n Tad always avoided using it.

“Noswaith dda, Modryb. Sut ydych chi?”

The pleasure I feel when I speak Welsh at Onyxia is the same as ever: sweet but all too bloody short.

“Patreva Burke! You know far better than to speak that way, to me!”

As if she understood a word I’ve just said?! She’s convinced that any language other than French or Latin is used to disparage her.

“Llon and I came back a few hours ago, Auntie. Uncle Donius sent me to give you this” - I hand her the roll of parchment - “and to take Afon back with me”.

Onyxia stares at the parchment in her hand, eyes narrowing in obvious displeasure.

“Did he send me no money, girl?”

Uh-oh

“I haven’t stolen it, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

Her eyes have gotten even narrower, if that’s possible.

“No, no girl. I suppose...I should’ve expected as much...this time.”

She isn’t looking at me as she says this, rather she’s gazing nowhere in particular at the space behind me, as if suddenly lost in thought...

“Well, wait here a moment, then. Here’s the boy’s belongings.” Before shuffling down her entryway she reaches down and hands me a midsized bag filled with clothes, children’s medicines and very few toys. No tea to be had in her house, apparently. Rude sow.

“Here you are, girl.” Onyxia appears at the door with my youngest brother in tow, his eyes widening at the sight of me and his fist going to his mouth in an image of absolute preciousness.

“Oooh fy mach i! Fy mrawd cy-“

“Speak English to him!” Shrieks the old hag I am forced to respect. “I had to teach him prop—“

But I’m not staying for her xenophobic rant tonight, and neither is fy mrawd bach — my little brother. He’s had enough, and I’ve had enough.

“Goodnight Auntie! Thank you for taking care of him, we need to go back!”

And with that, Afon and I are trotting up the alleyway and into the warm summer night.

Well, I’m trotting; Afon’s on my back.

#harry potter fic #death eaters #order of the phoenix #hp fanfic #lucius malfoy #slytherin #knockturn alley #dark fanfiction #my coping mechanism

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gjnnypotter · 5 years

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Looks like I’ve coughed up another oneshot witten at 3 in the morning. I was in the mood to celebrate my favourite bro-tp, Harry and Ron. Strong language ahead. Enjoy :)

“Harry I’m bored.”

“You’ve said.”

“No, I’m bored.”

“I know Ron.”

“Let’s go and do something.”

“Pardon?”

“I said let’s go and do something - anything - I don’t care what - before I go crazy!”

“But your mum said-“

“I know what she said, but what she doesn’t know won’t kill her.”

The sun was setting on the Burrow. It was a pleasantly warm evening for July, not too hot but certainly not cold. Harry and Ron were lounging out in the garden, hidden from Mrs Weasley’s worried eyes behind a clump of trees. The Battle had been a mere few months ago and Mrs Weasley was still concerned about the pair of them leaving the confines of house after night had fallen - and rightfully so. There had been many threats made against Harry’s life by a bunch of rogue death eaters out for revenge, and Molly had strictly forbidden them from leaving the safety the Burrow’s wards offered. They were both of age though, adults, so she couldn’t really keep them there against their will - but the thought of causing her any unnecessary worry made Harry squirm with guilt.

“I’m not sure.” Harry said, running a nervous hand through his hair while glancing back at the house.

“Come on it’ll be fine!” Ron stood up and threw is hands in the air in a placating gesture. He paced over to Harry and stood over him, offering out a hand that Harry grudgingly took. He straightened up and looked over his shoulder again to the Burrow, where he knew Mrs Weasley would be settling down for the night. He bit his lip and sighed, before nodding at Ron.

“If she finds out, I’m blaming you.”

Ron smiled and shrugged nonchalantly. “That’s fine by me.”

“Where are we going then?”

“You’ll see.” Ron started walking to the gate where they would be able to apparate from. Harry was by his side. He couldn’t help but feel bad for going against the promise he made to Mrs Weasley, but the thought of being able to go out and enjoy himself with Ron for a few hours made him grin with anticipation.

The months since the Battle hadn’t been easy for anyone, but Harry was having a particularly hard time of it. He would wake up screaming and on more than one occasion he had forgotten to put up a silencing charm and ended up waking the entire house. He found himself becoming caught up in his memories at the most random and inconvenient times. Slipping into flashbacks while at the dinner table, seeing a flash of green light speeding towards him in a forest clearing. Even looking after Teddy was taking its toll on him, as every time he looked into the baby’s eyes all he could see was Remus looking back at him. It made him feel some semblance of pity for the people who knew his own mother, he understood now how taxing looking him in the eye must have been.

However now was not the time for sorrow. So when Ron offered his arm, Harry grasped it with a trepidatious smile. The tight squeezing sensation of apparition only lasted for a few seconds, but he was grateful when it was over. Harry could hear loud shouts in the distance before he opened his eyes. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Where the hell are we?”

“Middlesbrough”

“Ok,” Harry said slowly, “Care to tell me why we’re in Middlesbrough?”

“We are here, my dear friend, to get you well and truly pissed.” Ron said, clapping Harry on the back as he steered him out of the dark alleyway they appeared in, out onto the busy street ahead of them.

The street was lined with small shops and a couple of pubs that were packed full to the brim. People were spilling out of the door, craning their heads to see something inside. They were chanting, but what they were chanting Harry couldn’t make out for the life of him.

“Merlin, is it normally this busy?” Ron shouted into Harry’s ear as they pushed past the crowds of enthusiastic muggles spilling out of the door of a pub called O’Connells.

“How should I know? I’ve never been here before have I?” Harry said while weaving through the throngs of people to get to the bar.

“Fair enough. There must be some sort of event on. Reminds me of the Leakey when there’s a Quidditch match on the wireless. George recommended this place to me, said he came here with Angelina once and it was nice and - sorry!” Ron hastily apologised after knocking straight into dejectedly pissed off looking muggle in a yellow and green shirt. The man glared at Ron before turning back to look at a small television screen perched in the corner of the pub. Harry followed the mans gaze to the screen and realised with a slight groan why the crowds were so large.

“Of all the nights you want to get drunk in a bar that’s not the Leakey, you just had to choose this one?” Harry hissed into Ron’s ear while pointing up at the screen. Ron stared at the screen in amazement before turning excitedly back to Harry.

“What is that? That is incredible! Is that the thing you told me about back in sixth year - a feletision?”

“Television.”

“Right, that’s what I said.”

“Mmhhm, so it was.” Harry arched an eyebrow in amusement.

“What is it showing? Looks like that crazy game Dean is always going on about.”

“Crazy game, lad?” A middle aged man turned to face the pair of them, his beer tipping precariously in his hand as he swivelled round, almost splashing the drink over his blue strip. “You can’t be from around these parts. That right there-“ he pointed passionately at the TV “- is the World Cup final. Brazil against France. Biggest game in four years, you boys should be glad you ain’t missing it!” the man spoke with a hearty grin and a lofty expression, he reminded Harry distinctly of Slughorn.

“I’ll just get the drinks then, shall I?” He didn’t wait for Ron’s response and instead pushed past a couple of people to get to the bar, leaving Ron to discuss the foreign matter of Football with the kind faced muggle. Harry waved the bartender over and received a rather pitying look from the young woman. She smiled with a pained expression.

“This your first time here? I can tell - you look awfully flustered. I get it, don’t worry. My colleagues and I drew straws to see who would all work tonight, and low behold I drew a short one. That’s just my luck.” She shook her head and sighed dramatically, causing Harry to grin slightly. “God I’m sorry! Here I am blethering - what can I get you?”

“I’ll just have two pints please, that’d be great.” Harry had to shout so he could be heard over the noise of the crowd shouting at the players in the screen to “just pass the bloody ball already!”

“Sure thing.” The bartender handed him two full glasses that Harry awkwardly paid for and carried back to the spot he and Ron had claimed as their own. Ron’s face lit up as he saw Harry weave his way back towards him.

“Harry! Thanks mate-“ Harry handed him his glass and watched on smirking as Ron chugged down half of his drink in one go. Ron wiped the froth from his face with his arm, the glow from the TV giving him a green tinge, “- listen, this muggle tele thing is brilliant! Imagine if we had that back at the Burrow, actually getting to see a Quidditch game instead of just listening to it! We should get George on it once the shop gets going properly again.” Ron closed his eyes and sighed with a blissful smile before peeling one eye open to see Harry laughing at him.

“What’re you laughing at? It’s a great-“ but Ron was cut off by half of the pub erupting in cheers and whistles, while the other half scoffed and shouted profanities to nobody in particular. The noise was deafening, people were waving their blue scarves in the air and were punching their drinks up in victory. The man reminiscent of Slughorn spun round on his heel, a look of sheer joy gracing his features, to face Harry and Ron and he slapped them both of the back - hard. Ron snorted as Harry stumbled slightly, sloshing his drink down his front.

Harry had never seen anything like the scenes in front of him before. The noise in the pub was deafening as the commentator screamed out that the score was now two nil to France. Even the Brazilian fans in the pub grudgingly wore looks of awe at the goal that had just been scored. He had been to the Quidditch World Cup final in the summer before his forth year, and the atmosphere there was similar to the one here - however the muggle environment, no major threats to worry about and the fact he was in a pub with his best mate made this final feel just that bit more intimate.

He looked to his side and saw Ron with one of the biggest smiles Harry had ever seen on his face, and so Harry couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed by his soaking t-shirt. He was beginning relax his previously tense stature as he began to feel more comfortable in this new environment, and seeing Ron chug down his pint while being egged on by the chants of the muggles around him made the last thread of worry Harry had disappear.

Hell, what is there to loose?

Harry caught Ron’s eye and tossed down what was left of his drink, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head slightly in satisfaction at his friends approving look.

Ron nodded his head, laughing, he slapped Harry on the back, “That’s more like it! I’ll get the next round.”

Ron got the next round, and the round after that and Harry the fourth along with one after. By the time they had finished their fifth round, Ron’s goal in getting Harry pissed had been achieved. Well and truly achieved.

The pair of them each had one arm each slung round the others shoulders, their free hand grasping a tall glass that was filled precariously to the brim. Harry’s cheeks were flushed and he was leaning heavily on Ron. He seemed to be having a slightly harder time coping with the drink than his gangly friend. Harry took another swig of his drink, however it was then that one of the Brazilian players were fouled.

Harry choked as Ron hollered abuse at the referee, flapping his hands wildly in fury and he accidentally elbowed Harry in the ribs.

“Oi! You lousy ref! He barely touched him! Merlin’s saggy left-“

“What he said! He barely toush-t- touched him,” Harry shouted, gesturing with his glass towards the game while looking to Ron, “what a joke! Is this a joke? Imagine if they were this biased in Quid- what? Don’t shush me like that I was speaking! That’s just rude.” Harry’s expression melted into one of exaggerated hurt as he removed his arm from around Ron’s shoulders and clutched his chest as if he were genuinely in pain.

Ron - who himself was only slightly less drunk than Harry looked horrified. He grasped Harry’s shoulder and squeezed it hard, looking straight into his eyes.

“I’m so sorry. That was mean of me.”

“It’s ok, I forgive you.”

“Thank you for your forgiveness.”

“It was no problem,” Harry gave Ron a hearty pat on the back and a wider than normal smile before draining the rest of his glass in one long chug.

The match was nearing its end and the French supporters were all going riot, while the Brazilian fans watched on with the hope that their team could score 2 more goals in 5 minutes - a feat that they knew was unlikely. Most of the pubs occupants were completely hammered, those in blue singing a drunken rendition of ‘We are the Champions’ while receiving disgruntled glares from those in yellow and green. Ron was completely immersed in the game as if he were watching the Canons play.

“Come on Goovash you glorious bastard.”

He hollered to the screen while linking arms with a tall blonde muggle who was standing just next to him.

“It’s pronounced Guivarch.” She turned to smirk at him, unwinding her arm from his as she did so.

“S’wat I said, isn’t it Harry?”

“Hmm? Oh right, yeah - that’s what he said.”

“Oh?” she nodded sceptically, “I don’t suppose you know what position he plays then?” She challenged them, crossing her arms and

Ron looked thoughtful for a moment, “don’t suppose he’s a-“ He made an inappropriate gesture with his hands “-kind of guy by any chance?” He asked seriously while Harry dissolved into giggles beside him.

The French-stripped girl looked torn between looking disgusted or amused, so she settled for shaking her head slightly and muttering, “so immature,” under her breath, the corners of her mouth twitching as she spun on her heel back round to watch the match with her friends.

Ron, meanwhile looked baffled.

“What was that all about? She asked a question and I answered it!”

Harry opened his mouth, about to reply with a sarcastic comment, when suddenly the hoards of muggles around them erupted in excited shouts.

“Come on, Come on, Come on Zidane you beautiful bast-.”

“Yes boys, go on-“

Hands were covering mouths.

Fingers were tangled in hair. Fists were clenched round glasses of bitter.

Harry had his eyes fixed on the game. He reached out blindly to his side, arm waving through the air until he eventually found Ron’s hand and grabbed it - pulling his best mate closer to him in anticipation. Ron clutched back, his grip unyielding.

On the screen, they could see a small player in blue zip towards the goals - kicking a small white ball that went streaking into the back of the net.

“ZIDANE I LOVE YOU YOU GORGEO-“

“Get the fuck in there!“

“C’MON BOYS!”

Drinks were flung into the air, and the frazzled bar staff couldn’t do anything to prevent the alcohol from raining down upon both the people and the floor. Harry and Ron punched their drinks into the air, Ron hollering joyous expletives to anyone who would listen and Harry drunkenly professing his love towards the French team.

It was then that the final whistle blew and the large crowd slowly began to file out onto the street, vacating the cramped pub. The sun had set, leaving a dark dusky pink sky behind. Chants could be heard echoing down the street as the elated muggles made their way home, most of them tripping over themselves as they stumbled away.

Harry was leaning heavily on Ron as they ambled back to the alleyway they had appeared in. He caught his foot on the kerb as they crossed the road from the pub to the opposite pavement, causing himself to stagger slightly. Muttering intelligibly under his breath he straightened up again, cursing all the way.

“Please remind me to thank George for telling me ‘bout this place. That was brilliant, I chose I good night to be bored!” Ron exclaimed at an unnaturally high volume as both he and Harry turned into the dark side alley.

“Don’t try and pretend you knew that football game was going to be on, you barely knew what it even was before tonight.” Harry slurred slightly, however he has basically shouting when compared to Ron’s loud rambling. His hair was damp and sticky from the beer he had thrown into the air, and his shirt was still sodden from when the Slughorn-esque muggle had hammered him on the back making him . But in spite of this, he was feeling as light as a feather - like nothing could drag him down from his current residency on cloud nine. It was as if the sound dial on all of his worries and fears had been turned down to mute for the first time in months, maybe even years. There was no weight left to weigh down his shoulders.

It was a truly wonderful feeling.

Harry shifted slightly to face the drunken Weasley next to him as Ron shook his head, hair flying and sending little drops of alcohol in every direction, while looking sheepish at Harry’s last comment. An immense surge of gratitude rose up from deep within Harry, and before he knew it - he had opened his mouth.

“I’m glad you were bored this evening, and thank you bringing me here - guess Middlesbrough isn’t as shit as I thought it would be. Your mum’ll be fuming if she ever finds out about this, but I don’t mind-“ Harry put his hands on Ron’s shoulders, eyes shining as he spoke in a slow and emotional tone, “-because if it weren’t for you I would be dead - literally. I’d still be at the bottom of that bloody pond. I don’t know what I’d do if I’m honest. Thanks for sitting with me on that compartment mate, you’re the best brother I could ask for - Merlin, don’t tell George I said that, he’ll take the piss out of me. Oh and thanks for sticking with me last year, the last seven years really. I wouldn’t’ve blamed you if you decided to bugger of and be pals with someone with a less demanding lifestyle than mine.”

Ron only looked slightly baffled before he put his own hands back on Harry’s shoulders. “T’was and tis my pleasure my dear Harry. You know us Weasley’s, we stick together. I couldn’t just leave my brother could I?” They looked at each other for a moment before stepping forwards and sharing a hug, something they didn’t do often - but it felt right.

The pair of them broke apart as the streetlight above them flickered on weakly, casting a dull orange glow over them. Ron held out an arm to Harry, whose glasses were slightly squint and were reflecting the light from above them.

“Guess we should head back before Mum realises we’re gone, eh?” Harry grinned at Ron’s nervous smile and nodded, grasping Ron’s arm.

“Yeah, that would be a good idea. D’you think she’ll have noticed?”

Ron glanced quickly behind him to assure that no one was looking at them from the street, before he shrugged his shoulders.

“Nah, I think we should be good.”

They disappeared with a crack.

#harry potter #hp #hp fanfiction #harry potter oneshot #gjnnypotter fic #gjnnypotter #Harry and Ron #Harry and Ron bro-tp #bromance #i’m so sleep deprived aha #this was spewed out of my exhausted brain

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quieteer · 3 years

Text

Chapter 1

As I unpack my trunk in the dusty, dingy room above the shop where my uncle, two brothers and two sisters live, I feel the slight dread of not knowing where my future will lead.

I’m of age now and done with school, so finding work and avoiding trouble should be my first worries, but it ain’t just me I have to worry about. I can’t let the babanod grow up here for much longer — it’s eaten them and me for three years already.

We live in Knockturn Alley, the street off of lovely Diagon Alley where all of the things your decent witches and wizards won’t meddle in are sold; bought; traded or just plain found. In my uncle’s shop is sold potion ingredients, and because this is Knockturn Alley, they’re not normal ingredients: poisons; live creatures; contraband that he (Uncle) said if I ever told someone about he’d hex me for 7 years straight. He also threatened to feed me on only cold gruel if I sold anything cheap, ‘cause once I was all moved in those three years ago he was leaving me at the counter to haggle and sell while he went off to the Cauldron for drinks, or Borgin’s to try and buy even more nasty supplies to bring back to his own business.

I should be honest when I talk about the things we sell - they’re rather compelling. It’s a bit exciting to know that the fungi you’re holding (with a handkerchief that’s been charmed to keep the nerves in your hand from suddenly burning and losing all function) are one: that bloody dangerous and two: can put you on the ministry’s list of “Most Dark and Dangerous in Illicit Magical Trade”. Some of the things that the Ministry comes up with!

As interesting as my uncle’s business can be, me and the kids need our own place to live. It’s just too... well... dark in this alley. 99 percent of the people who come through this place are just trying to get their business done; do their shopping — however ill-intentioned it may be — and go home, but that one percent that’s not so good is too noticeable for any decent body to want to raise four little ones here. I’ve been followed by a hag who wanted my fingernails (taken from a living witch or wizard, they’re more useful); groped by warlocks both drunken and sober; sang at by more drunken warlocks (some ditty with lyrics like “I once had a lass with a nice round ass” and it got even nastier) and I’ve even seen duels that ended up in the Prophet! One time, a curse missed its intended target and hit an old wizard who was just trying to get home with the flesh-eating slug repellent he’d bought! The poor old grandpa! I hope he lived.

I don’t know how they found out, but when the ministry officials who deal with family problems came a’visiting two days later, I was able to convince them to let the kids remain at Mam’s house so long as I was allowed to be there, courtesy of the school and a satisfied ministry witch. I had to write and beg Snape, McGonagall and Dumbledore himself to let me skip a few weeks. I remember feeling quite touched when the first two came to visit, a ministry witch in tow. I don’t think Dumbledore even considers his students well-being outside of Hogwarts.

Professor Snape was my head of house — good ol’ Slytherins looking out for each other — and I distinctly recall the feeling I had when I greeted him and McGonagall at the door that he’d been waiting for something like this to occur. You get that feeling when he looks at you sometimes — that he knows things about you. I had expected McGonagall to be much less kinder than she actually was — more grave and pitying. She was certainly that way with Mam — “Eira, what have you gotten yourself and your family into?!”

Snape mostly sat all stiff in the chair I’d offered, his spidery black eyes glancing everywhere they could, taking in my raggedy siblings, Mam’s wan expression and the Welsh words doodled haphazardly on our cottage’s stone walls. Words like cariad, ‘love’ which had a bright pink heart drawn beside it and calon which had an arrow pointing from it to the rosy heart.

Witch, Welsh and Slytherin. That’s me. Even my name is Welsh, though my dad is English (obviously, my surname is Burke after all). Branda — brân dda — raven good; Good Raven. I have a middle name that isn’t Welsh at all, though — Patreva. Something Latin like what so many of our kind in Britain have — names like Draco, Severus or my tad’s name, “Nicander” which may actually be Greek. It’s fancy and magical sounding. I’m the only one of my parent’s brood with any name like that — something about a Naming Seer who suggested it for me, but they never went back for their other four kids’s names. The younger ones have a Welsh name and that’s it. I like Welsh names quite a lot, though. Some of the names wizarding parents give their children are too — well — ‘ostentatious’ is a good word.

Anyway, McGonagall, Snape and the quiet little ministry witch with the clipboard came to a decision; I could stay at home with Mam and the kids while the school year continued as long as, one — Mam wasn’t bringing her “gentlemen friends” home anymore and two — I would take remedial lessons in all core classes the following school year.

“Of course, you will receive some lessons by post this spring and over the summer, miss Burke.” McGonagall can be so caring, sometimes.

“Your head of house has stated that you are among the more reliable students at Hogwarts, miss Burke.”

The little ministry witch hadn’t spoken at all to me, only to Mam and to my professors, but now she was gazing at me with what I believe was meant to be a placating - if somewhat sharp — look.

“He says you are quite skilled in his potions class as well as in mentoring the younger students.”

Life at Mam’s with the kids was alright for awhile - could’ve probably gone quite tolerably if she hadn’t gone off to the Leakey Cauldron and met some bloke who took her to his flat in wherever-the-hell-it-was. Whatever they did in those six days she was gone, it was bad enough that he went to Azkaban, but not interesting enough for the Daily Prophet to report on. Mam got off, but us kids had to go live with the only relative who was willing to take us — Tad’s second-or-something cousin whom he’d done business with before Mam kicked him out: Mr. Donius Burke, purveyor of dark and illicit potion ingredients since 1974.

Fuck.

#hp fanfic

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