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hollowed-theory-hall · 3 months

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How the Trace in Harry Potter Works Because it Bothered Me

So, this fandom likes to talk about how contradictory the Trace in the books is. The Trace, as in the Ministry’s tool to locate and track underage magic.

Like with Horcuxes, I've seen theories about how the Trace works, but none of them really covered everything or made magical sense to me (when broken down into Alchemical components).

So, I'm here again to explain how spells work in Harry Potter because someone has to.

Let's Cover What We Know:

1. The Trace is defined as a "Charm" that detects magical activity around underage wizards:

“Second problem. You’re underage, which means you’ve still got the Trace on you.” “I don’t—” “The Trace, the Trace!” said Mad-Eye impatiently. “The charm that detects magical activity around under-seventeens, the way the Ministry finds out out about underage magic! If you, or anyone around you, casts a spell to get you out of here, Thicknesse is going to know about it, and so will the Death Eaters. “We can’t wait for the Trace to break, because the moment you turn seventeen you’ll lose all the protection your mother gave you. In short: Pius Thicknesse thinks he’s got you cornered good and proper.”

(Deathly Hollows, page 46)

2. The Trace instantly alerts the ministry when magic is cast.

“Harry, you don’t understand! Dumbledore will need to act as quickly as possible, the Ministry have their own ways of detecting underage magic, they’ll know already, you mark my words —”

(Order of the Pheonix, page 22)

3. The Trace automatically broke upon a wizard or witch's seventeenth birthday; Remus Lupin and Ron Weasley both claimed it was impossible for the Trace to continue to affect a person over the age of seventeen and that it could not be placed on an adult.

“But how did they find us?” Hermione asked, looking from one inert man to the other. “How did they know where we were?” She turned to Harry. “You—you don’t think you’ve still got your Trace on you, do you, Harry?” “He can’t have,” said Ron. “The Trace breaks at seventeen, that’s Wizarding law, you can’t put it on an adult.”

(Deathly Hollows, page 147)

“We wondered,” said Hermione tentatively, “whether Harry could still have the Trace on him?” “Impossible,” said Lupin. Ron looked smug, and Harry felt hugely relieved. “Apart from anything else, they’d know for sure Harry was here if he still had the Trace on him, wouldn’t they? But I can’t see how they could have tracked you to Tottenham Court Road, that’s worrying, really worrying.”

(Deathly Hollows, page 178)

4. Students can use magic freely in Hogwarts and on the Hogwarts Express as we see many times in the books.

5. The Ministry trusted magical parents to properly discipline their children if they performed magic, due to the fact that the parents' own magic would constantly interfere with the Trace.

With two loud cracks, Fred and George, Ron’s elder twin brothers, had materialized out of thin air in the middle of the room. Pigwidgeon twittered more wildly than ever and zoomed off to join Hedwig on top of the wardrobe.

(Order of the Pheonix, page 68) — example of Fred and George apparating (doing magic) inside Grimmuld Place before they are seventeen and the Trace not activating.

6. Children who grew up in the Muggle world, such as Harry Potter, are more closely monitored — any magic performed at or near 4 Privet Drive was assumed to have been caused by him because he was the only known magical person living in his neighborhood (Both with Dobby in CS and the Patronus Charm in OOP).

Dear Mr. Potter, We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine. As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C). We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy. Enjoy your holidays! Yours sincerely, Mafalda Hopkirk IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE Ministry of Magic

(Chamber of Secrets, page 27)

Dear Mr. Potter, We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle. The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.

(Order of the Pheonix, page 26)

“We have no record of any witch or wizard living in Little Whinging other than Harry Potter,” said Madam Bones at once.

(Order of the Phoenix, page 143)

6. Hagrid used magic around Harry before his first year, with no ministry warning letter.

He [Hagrid] brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Dudley — there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Harry saw a curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers.

(Philosopher's Stone, page 45)

7. Similarly, Hermione has said she successfully tried out "a few simple spells" before her first year. No ministry warning was issued for her either because she hasn't arrived at Hogwarts yet

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" said the girl. "Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard -- I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough -- I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you.

(Sorcerer's Stone, page 105)

8. Childhood accidental magic isn't picked up by the Trace.

Snape had removed his coat now; his odd smock looked less peculiar in the half light. “. . . and the Ministry can punish you if you do magic outside school, you get letters.” “But I have done magic outside school!” “We’re all right. We haven’t got wands yet. They let you off when you’re a kid and you can’t help it. But once you’re eleven,” he nodded importantly, “and they start training you, then you’ve got to go careful.”

(Deathly Hallows, page 666)

9. When Arthur Weasley used magic around Harry to pick him up in 1994, no ministry warning arrived.

“Boys, boys . . .” said Mr. Weasley vaguely. “I’m trying to think what to do. . . . Yes . . . only way . . . Stand back, Harry.” Harry retreated to the sofa. Uncle Vernon, however, moved forward. “Wait a moment!” he bellowed at the fire. “What exactly are you going to —” BANG. The electric fire shot across the room as the boarded-up fireplace burst outward, expelling Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, and Ron in a cloud of rubble and loose chippings.

(Goblet of Fire, page 44)

10. The Order used magic when picking up Harry in 1995 after he was already set for a hearing for the Patronus charm. No warning came from the ministry for the magic of the Order members.

“Don’t be stupid, it’ll be much quicker if I — pack!” cried Tonks, waving her wand in a long, sweeping movement over the floor. Books, clothes, telescope, and scales all soared into the air and flew pell-mell into the trunk.

(Order of the Pheonix, page 53)

“How’re we getting — wherever we’re going?” Harry asked. “Brooms,” said Lupin. “Only way. You’re too young to Apparate, they’ll be watching the Floo Network, and it’s more than our life’s worth to set up an unauthorized Portkey.”

(Order of the Pheonix, page 51)

11. The Trace didn't pick up the magic on the magic in the graveyard during Voldemort's resurrection.

12. Neither did it pick up on Tom when he murdered the Riddle family in the summer between his fifth and sixth year (He was sixteen at the time, and therefore still underage)

“But how come the Ministry didn’t realize that Voldemort had done all that to Morfin?” Harry asked angrily. “He was underage at the time, wasn’t he? I thought they could detect underage magic!” “You are quite right — they can detect magic, but not the perpetrator: You will remember that you were blamed by the Ministry for the Hover Charm that was, in fact, cast by —” “Dobby,” growled Harry; this injustice still rankled. “So if you’re underage and you do magic inside an adult witch or wizard’s house, the Ministry won’t know?” “They will certainly be unable to tell who performed the magic,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly at the look of great indignation on Harry’s face. “They rely on witch and wizard parents to enforce their offspring’s obedience while within their walls.” “Well, that’s rubbish,” snapped Harry. “Look what happened here, look what happened to Morfin!”

(Half-Blood Prince, page 368)

13. Harry and Hermione hang out in the burrow in summer where magic is constantly cast around them, yet, no warnings of Underage Sorcery are issued.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” she snapped, now directing her wand at a dustpan, which hopped off the sideboard and started skating across the floor, scooping up the potatoes.

(Goblet of Fire, page 58) — example of Molly casting magic at The Burrow near Harry and her kids.

So, How Does it Work?

The Trace isn't placed on wizards and witches but on locations. In both occurrences, Harry received a warning for Underage Magic mentioning his documented place of residence. It is also repeated again and again, the Trace can't pick up who cast the magic, just where.

So, my conclusions are that the Trace is old magic, probably older than the ministry and no one really knows how it was cast or how it works anymore. But the Ministry knows how to use it.

They keep the knowledge very secret and don't share it with almost anyone. We can see that by the way Lupin and Ron talk about the trace in completely different terminology than the likes of Dumbledore or Madam Bones. They also say it's illegal and impossible to cast the Trace on an adult wizard. I think they're right because the trace is never cast on wizards and witches at all.

I believe the Trace is a charm cast on the entirety of Britain and Ireland and picks up all magic cast in there. When magic is cast, the ministry gets a notice that describes what was cast and where.

The ministry office that receives the notice then looks over the documentation of wizard residences. If an adult wizard lives in the location where the magic was cast, they are assumed to have cast the magic. If no wizard lives in the area, it is assumed to have been cast by an adult wizard passing by.

With muggleborn and muggle-raised wizards and witches, they only have their place of residence updated in the ministry documentation once they start Hogwarts, hence why childhood accidental magic isn't traced.

In the case of the Riddle's murder, Morfin was the only wizard documented to be living in the area, therefore all the magic traced in Little Hangelton was assumed to be done by him.

And no wizards were documented to be living in Little Hangleton during Voldemort's resurrection, hence no trace.

Arthur had to inform the ministry of the floo connection in the summer of 1994 because there was an office regulating the floo network. Therefore, they knew he'd be there so the magic was attributed to him. The same goes with the Order since Shacklebolt was a ministry official when the ministry was still under Fudge.

For fanfic purposes, it means that no one could trace Harry's magic to him the moment he's far enough away from Private Drive.

#harry potter #harry potter theory #harry potter thoughts #hollowedtheory #hp theory #overthinking #wizarding world #ministry of magic #the trace #hogwarts #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #harry potter analysis

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training4theapocalypse · 8 months

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Finders Keepers Ch 11. (Cormac McLaggen x fem!reader)

Rating: Explicit 18+ (no smut)

Word Count: 5.9k

Warnings: Violence, injury detail

Summary: The new friend you made at the Holyhead Harpies tryouts is more than meets the eye.

A/N: If there's one thing I'm always gonna do it's announce a chapter will be posted on Sunday and post Friday instead. Sorry this took a hot minute - it's been through several drafts. McLaggen briefly channels Marc Darcy from Bridget Jones's Diary 2 and it made me swoon.

Tag list: @pretendfan, @countlambula, @ratsys, @aweidlich, @navs-bhat, @stainedpomegranatelips, @chiaraanatra, @xxvelvetxxxx, @ohnoitsrosie, @dracosisteer, @daisydark, @intense-sneezing, (let me know if you want removed at any point btw!)

Chapter 11: Blood Traitor

“Right then, here’s to the Holyhead Harpies’ two newest signings,” says McLaggen, grinning and raising his pint glass.

You beam at him, still giddy with excitement and hardly able to take it all in. You’ve done it. You’ve actually done it. And what’s more, you think you’ve made a friend in your new teammate. The only prospect at tryouts who had managed to get a goal past you was the other newest Holyhead Harpy signing and chaser, Cerys Thicknesse, who had taken McLaggen up on his offer to join you at the wizarding pub a few miles outside of Surrey to celebrate.

“And you’re sure you don’t mind a third wheel while I wait on my friend?”

And with that, the three of you apparated to The Black Dragon which was, from the way McLaggen and Cerys told it, the only decent wizarding pub in the south outside of London. When you arrived, you found it was as packed as you’d expect any pub to be on a Saturday evening. And now as the three of you sit around a small, beer-soaked table, you feel like you can finally relax and enjoy your moment.

“Here, here!” Cerys cheers, clinking her glass against yours and McLaggen’s. She twists the ends of her long, black hair, looking at him. “I’m so sure I know you from somewhere. I recognise your face.”

“Probably from Hogwarts,” he suggests.

She laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” he says.

“Both of you? You’re just babies! I would have been in my sixth year when you started. And no offense but I didn’t pay much attention to the ickle firsties.” She pauses, drinking thoughtfully.

“Does your family live around here?” You ask. “McLaggen, your house isn’t far from here, right?”

Cerys clicks her fingers in realisation.

“McLaggen! That’s it. Crickey, you’re the spitting image of your dad. He’s the Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement, right?”

“You know my dad?” McLaggen looks baffled.

“He works with my dad, Pius Thicknesse, you know him? I did a bit of work experience with them at the Ministry a few years ago.”

“Oh, right! Of course… yeah. How is he?” He asks tentatively.

She hesitates. “Always at work. Yours?”

McLaggen laughs a little awkwardly. “Yeah, he’s the same. Your dad is keeping him busy.”

Wow. So Cerys’s dad was McLaggen’s dad’s boss.

There’s a bit of a grim silence when neither of them says anything. You haven’t read a copy of the Daily Prophet all summer but you know from what McLaggen’s told you that everyone at the Ministry is under a lot of pressure in the wake of You-Know-Who’s return.

“God, it’s like half of Hogwarts is here,” you say, just to break the stony silence. There are a few faces from other houses and years that you sort of recognise from Hogwarts. You suppose it’s a small world when every witch and wizard in the country goes to the same school.

“Oh yeah, all the really old wizarding families live around here. Makes sense really, they all moved out to the country hundreds of years ago when the Muggles in London started multiplying.”

“Right, yeah…” You’re pretty sure that was a note of disdain in her voice. Normally, you’d question it but you’ve only just made the team. The last thing you want to do is make assumptions about your teammate and jeopardise your position before you’ve even picked up your uniform.

McLaggen senses it too. He gives your thigh a comforting squeeze under the table in acknowledgement. Silent reassurance that he not only heard it but understands your predicament.

“So, how long have you two been going out then?” Cerys asks.

You’re glad of another change of subject but you’re not sure when to start counting from.

“Since December,” says McLaggen, looking at you adoringly and not concerning Cerys with the finer on-and-off details. His warm smile and his hand on your leg make your stomach flip.

“And you both live down here?”

“McLaggen does. I’m about to stay with his family for a couple of weeks until we decide where to live.”

She groans. “You’re so lucky. It’s so hard to find a boyfriend from a decent family these days.” Well. Now you know what she means by that. You’re wondering why you’ve flown under her radar as a Muggle-born. Your performance at trials? Your being here with McLaggen?

Before either of you can reply, Cerys excuses herself to the bathroom. As soon as she’s out of earshot you turn to McLaggen. “What the fuck?” you half-laugh, half-exhale in disbelief.

He looks at her figure darkly as she disappears through the bathroom door. “I had a bad feeling as soon as she said who her dad was. You’ve heard of Amelia Bones, right?” he asks in a hushed voice.

The name sounds vaguely familiar. “Someone at the Ministry?”

“Amelia Bones was the Head of my dad’s department. But she was murdered - by You-Know-Who himself apparently.”

Your eyes widen. “Murdered?”

“And then everyone assumed Scrimgeour would put my dad in charge. But for some reason, he gave Thicknesse the job.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink. “He and my dad are good friends… he must have had his reasons. But now Thicknesse is making everyone work on a ‘top secret’ piece of legislation.”

You frown. “How can legislation be top secret? Doesn’t it need to go through the Wizengamot? Anyone can turn up to watch those meetings.”

McLaggen shrugs. “None of it makes sense. I guess I’ll find out more when I start working there.” He puts down his pint glass glumly.

“You alright, McLaggen?”

“Yeah! Yeah, totally fine,” he says a bit too quickly, rearranging his face into a smile.

“Are you worried about your dad?”

“We’ll talk later. I don’t want to make things about me. Not when we’re celebrating.”

“Well, I think someone’s already put a bit of a dampener on that.” You give an edgy look at the ladies’ to make sure Cerys isn’t coming back. “Tell me. Please.”

He puts down his drink and takes both of your hands in his. “I am so incredibly, unbelievably proud of you. You know that, right?” You stare into his green eyes. He means it. “And seeing your dreams come true today makes me so happy. You’re so sure of what you want and so determined to get it - and today you did. But it also made me realise… I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You mean working at the Ministry?”

“The more I find out about the office politics the less I want to work there.”

You twist your mouth, thinking about Amelia Bones. “It sounds really dangerous. I’m surprised your dad still wants you to join.”

“Yeah… I mean, I don’t think I’d be great at keeping secrets the way my dad does. Or working in an office with all those Ministry-types.”

“You’re starting to sound like my dad.” You allow yourself a small smirk but he doesn’t say anything, he just looks at your hands in his. “Cormac,” you add quietly. “You should take him up on his offer. It would mean you could at least lie low for a bit”

He lets out a tiny exhale of a laugh. “Yeah, right. My dad would kill me. He’d say it’d bring our whole family into shame if I ditched the Ministry to play a Muggle sport.”

“Well… you don’t need to tell him. Not right away,” you suggest. “Keep it vague - you could say you’re taking a gap year in Scotland. Hunting Nogtails or whatever it is you used to do with your Uncle Tiberius.”

McLaggen pauses, considering this. “Yeah… that might work.”

“We’ve still got a few weeks for you to decide.”

“What about us, though? I thought we were going to start looking at places to live near The Harpies’ training ground?”

“I’d move back to Scotland in a second. We could always get a flat, and connect it to the Floo Network so I can travel to Wales. I mean, we’d probably spend a fortune on Floo powder. But it would be worth it if we were both happy.”

He nods, looking considerably more cheerful than he had been a second ago. “Let’s talk about it back at mine. Here comes Cerys - we’ll make our excuses and get out of here after this drink.”

Cerys stops in the middle of the pub, talking to a tall, hulking boy with black hair who has his back to you.

“We might be in for a lucky escape,” you say. “Looks like her mate has finally arrived.”

Cerys waves brightly and starts walking over to your table. Her new companion turns around to follow her and with a sinking feeling, you recognise him. And from the way his eyes narrow when he spots you and McLaggen, he recognises you too.

Marcus Flint. He was the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team when you first started playing in your second year. He and your predecessor Rodger Davies hated each other with a passion. And for good reason. It was no secret that Marcus was highly selective when it came to the Slytherin team - only allowing purebloods to even try out whereas Davies was Muggle-born just like you. You frown, remembering how Flint would make a spectacle of wiping his hand on his robes after their Captain’s handshake.

Cerys sits back down. Her new companion doesn’t follow suit. “This is Marcus. Marcus this-”

“I didn’t expect to see you keeping company like this, Cerys,” Flint snorts.

She looks up from Marcus and back to the two of you, confused.

“You’re having drinks with an up-jumped daddy’s boy and a mudbl-”

“Careful,” McLaggen cuts across him warningly. “Say that word and we’re going to have a problem.”

“Careful?” laughs Flint. “You’re the one who should be careful, McLaggen.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“What is this?” asks Cerys, her nostrils flaring as she glares at you accusatorily. She looks at McLaggen. “Have you been confunded? Or maybe your dad just hasn’t told you.”

“Won’t be long til they’ve got them all rounded up, McLaggen. You should ditch her before they throw you in Azakaban too for being a blood traitor.”

Rounded up? Azkaban?

“I’m not going to tell you twice -” starts McLaggen, getting to his feet. You remember when you first started playing Quidditch you thought the then-sixth-year Flint was the biggest person you’d ever seen. But as McLaggen draws himself to his full height, you see the tiniest flicker of surprise in Flint’s eyes when McLaggen’s become level with his.

“Cormac, what’s going on?” you ask, panic making your heart pump wildly in your chest, all your senses telling you that something dangerous is about to happen.

“Nothing. It’s nonsense.”

“Didn’t you read this morning’s Prophet?” Flint sneers. “Times are changing. S’perfectly fine to call her what she is.” He takes a step towards McLaggen. “Mudblood.”

McLaggen takes a deep breath. “Flint, will you step outside, please?”

Marcus Flint sneers. “What? You gonna duel me, McLaggen?”

Absurdly McLaggen laughs. So loudly it attracts the attention of several other pub-goers. He looks at you as he laughs as if he simply can’t believe the punchline of a hilarious joke Flint has just told.

He straightens his face. “No.” He turns back to face Flint and looks at him seriously. “I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”

Before Flint can even twitch his fingers for his wand, McLaggen punches him square in the face. The witches and wizards in the pub reel away from the commotion in panic. Cerys screams and Flint grabs McLaggen’s shoulders, dragging him out of the front doors onto the gravel path outside.

You abandon your bags and brooms, almost knocking the table over to push Cerys out of the way and get through the door before her.

You burst outside in time to see Flint elbow McLaggen in the face as McLaggen drags him to the floor. They scramble on the ground, sending dust and pebbles flying. McLaggen gets up first, pushing down hard on Flint’s face against the gravel. Flint tries to lift himself up but McLaggen punches down, hitting him once, twice, three times. The sound of his fists make sickening, dull thuds as they sink into Flint’s face while he splutters on the ground raggedly.

You’d always joked you’d like to see McLaggen hit someone.

But this is brutal.

“Cormac!”

Your cry rips through the evening air, making McLaggen look up at you for a split second, his bloody fist raised above Flint’s head.

“Petrificus totalus!” screams a voice behind you.

You turn to see Cerys with her wand pointed at McLaggen.

His body goes rigid and you barely have time to register her using such an unfair, underhanded tactic before Flint kicks out from under him, getting to his feet. Using all his might, he kicks McLaggen’s constricted body right in the stomach and you hear the distinct crack of ribs breaking.

A horror-stricken sob escapes your lips as Flint walks around to his head, and it’s like you see the scene before you unfolding in slow motion as Flint raises a foot, getting ready to stamp on McLaggen’s face.

You don’t have time to think. You just react.

“Impedimenta!” you cry, brandishing your wand and sending Flint flying backwards. Before Cerys can open her mouth again, you dive on top of McLaggen and extend your wand.

“Protego!”

The shield charm forms an invisible barrier between you and McLaggen’s frozen body, and Cerys and Flint who’s getting to his feet. Flint limps over towards you but you hold fast, concentrating on your shield charm with all your might - exactly how McLaggen showed you.

“You dithgusting-” starts Flint but he stops, raising a hand to his mouth. Cerys looks at his face in shock. In the dim light coming from the pub windows, you can see that several of Flint’s front teeth are missing.

“Let’s go, Marcus,” she says, scowling at the two of you on the floor. “My father will hear about this.”

She links her arm through his and with a crack they disappear into the night.

With a shuddering gasp, you lower your wand and the shield charm breaks. You bring yourself to look at McLaggen. His eye is bloodshot and starting to bruise, and blood trickles from his nose into his mouth through parted lips.

“F-f-f-finite. Fuck! Finite incantatem,” you whisper shakily and he sits bolt upright, choking and coughing as your spell releases him from the body-bind curse. He pants, trying to catch his breath and spits out a significant amount of blood onto the dusty ground.

“Oh, Cormac,” you sob, looking at his broken nose and red welt on his eye.

“I’b alright…” he says thickly, pinching the bridge of his nose then thinking better of it with a wince.

“Do you want me to fix it?” you ask.

“Cab you?” he asks.

“You think I’ve never taken a bludger to the face?” You give his hand a soft squeeze and touch the tip of your wand to his nose. “Episkey.”

McLaggen scrunches up his face, feeling his nose resume its usual shape.

“I’ve never done ribs before. I think you need Skele-Gro.”

Every time you blink your mind switches from Flint kicking McLaggen to McLaggen pummelling Flint’s bloody face.

“I’m still handsome, right?” McLaggen’s voice snaps you out of it. You look seriously at his blood-strewn face, dripping down the front of his T-shirt. Flint came off worse, sure, but there’s no two ways about it - even in the moonlight you can see he’s taken a severe beating.

“Cormac, it’s not funny.”

You hear the noise of the pub revellers as the door opens and with a clatter and thud, the barmaid throws both of your brooms and rucksacks out onto the ground.

“Can you fly?” you ask, getting to your feet and extending a hand.

“I don’t think so.” He groans, accepting your hand and with a heave, you pull him up. McLaggen clutches his side and stumbles when he tries to put one foot in front of another. “It’s not far but we should probably just apparate.”

You quickly pick up all of your things and McLaggen shakes his head like a dog shaking water from his ears and nearly falls again.

“Christ, don’t do that Cormac. You might have a concussion.”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

You put his arm around your shoulders, taking as much of his weight as you can manage. It’s not easy given his size. Then when he shuffles forward everything goes dark as the familiar feeling of all-consuming pressure encapsulates your bodies and you disapparate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You materialise outside a gate looking onto a sprawling lawn, spilling out in front of a historic country house a few miles deeper into the Surrey countryside.

“Wow,” you look at your surroundings as the moon streaks down, casting a pearlescent glow over the gates. “How far is the walk to yours? Not that I’m complaining,” you add, feeling his weight on your shoulders.

McLaggen gives you a confused look and points his wand at the gate tentatively. “About thirty seconds?”

Maybe he is concussed.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” You ask gently.

“I’m pretty confident I know where I live. Flint doesn’t have that good a right hook.”

You almost drop your brooms. You knew McLaggen was well off but this can’t be where he lives. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Yeah, it’s just there. Woah - are you okay?”

You feel your knees buckle and it’s not to do with your strength faltering under his weight - although it doesn’t help - his house is bigger than your entire block of flats.

“This is your house?”

His wand emits a soft golden glow and the gate unlocks. He tries to push it open but lets out a wince of pain and grips his side.

“Here, let me,” you say. McLaggen holds onto the wall so you can shove the wrought iron gate. When you jam it open, you hook his arm over your shoulder so you can help him through.

You feel a trickle of embarrassment creeping through your body as you half-carry him through the open gate and up the path towards the manor thinking about your parents' little flat. Your bedroom so small that your bed is pushed up against the wall. It makes you want to retreat to the safety of your own home.

Home. With your Muggle parents.

You have a million more questions about what Cerys and Flint meant but now isn’t the time. McLaggen is in no fit state to answer them. Instead, you concentrate on helping McLaggen up the old stone steps leading to a pair of giant oak front doors.

“My dad will probably still be at the Ministry but let me do the talking if my mum is still awake.” You help him push the heavy double doors open with difficulty.

When you step inside and your eyes widen. Until now, the only place you’ve ever been before with an entrance hall like this is Hogwarts. This house is dark at this late hour but there’s enough light that your eyes can make out objects you’ve come to associate with the wizarding world.

There are moving portraits on the walls who peer out at you as you pass through the foyer. McLaggen’s family of times gone by - a few of them look aghast at his appearance as you half-carry him in.

In the centre of the ceiling is a giant, levitating armillary sphere, depicting the constellations around the earth. Tiny glowing stars light up the bronze ball, casting speckles of light throughout the entryway.

“You’re home!” Comes Mrs McLaggen’s voice, her heeled slippers clicking on the grand wooden staircase as she comes downstairs wearing a beautiful satin robe.

You feel McLaggen bracing himself for her reaction.

“So? Can I assume we have a famous Quidditch player staying with us?” She asks. “What are you doing down there in the dark? Lumos,” she says and a dozen gas lamps light up the hall.

She claps her hands to her chest when she reaches the bottom landing and lets out a whimper of shock when she sees you both.

“Mum, I can explain-“

“Cormac, darling, what on earth happened?!”

“We ran into some trouble. Just… let me get cleaned up before Dad comes home and sees.”

“Before I see what?” Comes a voice from upstairs.

Uh-oh. You and McLaggen glance at each other before looking up to see Mr McLaggen leaning over the balcony.

“What in the blazes have you two been doing, Cormac?” he sighs, coming downstairs.

“It’s my fault - not hers. I got into a fight.”

“You’ve been duelling?”

“Not exactly.”

Mr McLaggen reaches the bottom of the stairs and gets a better look at McLaggen’s bloody appearance.

“Merlin’s beard - don’t tell me you were Muggle brawling. And for goodness sake, stop using your girlfriend like a coat rack. I thought we raised you to behave like a gentleman.”

“I can manage-“ you start but your slightly strained voice gives you away.

“I think I’ve broken something,” says McLaggen.

Mr McLaggen positions himself under McLaggen’s other arm and you’re relieved when he takes the brunt of the load as the two of you help Cormac to the end of the hall and into a large, opulent dining room while Mrs McLaggen busies herself with picking up your things and lighting the chandelier with her wand. Mr McLaggen pulls out a chair so Cormac can sit down gingerly.

“I think he might need Skele-Gro. I’ve never mended ribs before,” you say. Mrs McLaggen puts your brooms, bags and wands on the dining room table before summoning some potions and fabric.

In the bright light of the room, you can see his lip is burst too. Mr McLaggen draws a chair in front of him while Mrs McLaggen dabs some potion on his face. Cormac winces when it stings his face, healing the skin almost immediately.

“Nose looks good. Did you fix that for him?” Mr McLaggen asks you and you nod, stunned silent by how awful he looks now you can see him properly.

“Hold this on your eye, sweetheart.” Mrs McLaggen hands him a piece of potion-soaked fabric.

“Did you win at least?” asks Mr McLaggen and Cormac hesitates.

“It was pretty even.” You answer for him. “I had to break it up with a shield charm.”

“That’s a tactful way of saying he lost,” says Mr McLaggen. “But at least one of you can use magic.”

This isn’t the reaction you’d expected at all. And judging by the confused look on Cormac’s face, he too had expected his dad to be furious.

“Cormac actually taught me how to do them this summer,” you admit.

“Well, it’s lucky he did,” says Mrs McLaggen, wiping blood from his face. “What a dreadful mess. Who did this to you, Cormac?”

“Dad…” says McLaggen in a strangled voice, looking past his mother warily. “It’s really bad. I’m sorry. It was a fight with Cerys Thicknesse’s friend. And she was there too. She’s going to tell her dad.”

Mr McLaggen freezes. For a moment, you think someone might have hit him with a body bind curse. “Cerys…? You can’t be serious.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight. Her friend was someone we went to school with and he -” he hesitates.

“He called me a mudblood,” you finish for him. Mrs McLaggen lets out a shocked shudder but Mr McLaggen just clenches his jaw.

“Cormac,” he says seriously, glancing at you. “I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

He still doesn’t sound angry - just worried.

McLaggen removes the piece of fabric from his eye to look at his dad properly.

“Dad, I’m... I know I’ve made things difficult for you at work- ”

“Tell me everything - it’s imperative that I know all the details.”

McLaggen launches into the story, explaining what happened at the pub while his parents listen intently. When he gets to the part about Flint calling you ‘mudblood’, Mr McLaggen’s knuckles turn white. You fill in the gaps where Cormac’s memory is slightly hazy and Mrs McLaggen looks faint when you tell them about Cerys putting him in a body bind curse so Flint could hit him unarmed.

“And then we apparated here,” McLaggen finishes eventually. “But I still don’t know what they meant about Azkaban.”

“That’s where I come in,” says Mr McLaggen, taking off his glasses to clean them with a handkerchief from his pyjama pocket. “I’ve been trying my damndest for months to prevent something called the ‘Muggle-born Registration Commission’ coming to pass. You might have read in the Prophet this morning that it’s all but confirmed. And Rufus Scrimgeour didn’t come to work today. I fear the worst - it’s only a matter of time until they announce the Ministry has fallen.”

“Fallen? Dad, you mean-“

“Scrimgeour is either missing or dead. But the outcome will be the same.”

He says it matter-of-factly but you can see the pain in his green eyes, so strikingly similar to his son’s when he puts his glasses back on. They were good friends. Such good friends they spent Christmas together. And now he was gone.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Your father came home from work early to tell you. And when the two of you didn’t come back right away from tryouts, we assumed it had gone well and you’d be down the road at the pub,” says Mrs McLaggen. “We wanted to let you both have one last day of…” she trails off. You understand. Those precious couple of hours when all your dreams had come true were almost perfect. They wanted you to have that moment.

“And the Muggle-born registration commission?” asks McLaggen, extending his hand to take yours and gripping it tightly. “What does it mean?”

“All Muggle-borns will soon be asked to register officially with the Ministry so the source of their magic can be investigated.”

“The source?” Your face screws up in confusion.

“Unless you can prove that you have at least one close wizarding relative, the commission deems that you must have obtained your magical power illegally and you’ll be put on trial. But these will be sham trials - any Muggle-borns who present themselves will be arrested.”

“Well, we’ll just say you’re my sister or something,” says McLaggen defiantly.

“Cormac, there’s no way- ” you start but Mr McLaggen beats you to it.

“You and I both know that everyone at the Ministry knows our family. And therein lies our problem with your altercation with Cerys,” Mr McLaggen looks at you. “I had made sure your name was erased from the record of recent Hogwarts graduates. But if Cerys knows, I’m sure she’ll make sure her dad adds your name to the list again.”

Mr McLaggen had erased your name. Now you understand why he couldn’t look you in the eyes when you met - he was putting his career and his entire family at risk to keep you safe. Your heart sinks realising that it was all for nought. McLaggen groans and rests his head in his hands. “Shit.”

Mrs McLaggen makes a disapproving noise at his language but she touches his shoulder gently.

“It’s not your fault, Cormac,” you say. “Flint knew I was Muggle-born.”

“Realistically, it was only a matter of time,” says Mr McLaggen. “But I thought you’d be safe here for a while. Now we’ll need to move swiftly and carefully so as not to draw attention to ourselves.”

“Dad, can’t you stop it from the inside? When I start working at the Ministry we could do it together,” says McLaggen bracingly, trying to sit upright in his chair.

“I’ve tried to do everything I can to stop it already. And with Scrimgeour gone, we need to be seen to be cooperating. I have a feeling Dolores Umbridge will be keeping a close eye on me after your involvement with Dumbledore’s Army last year. She knows I have a son who’s sympathetic to the resistance.”

Cormac groans again. Between his actions and your presence, the two of you have put McLaggen’s family at risk.

“I should go,” you decide out loud. “You heard Flint, Cormac. It’s not safe for any of you if I’m staying here.”

The three of them protest immediately but Mr McLaggen protests the loudest and everyone turns to listen to him.

“No. The two of you can go to your Uncle Tiberius’s first thing tomorrow. When things settle, we’ll join you. But who knows how long that will take.”

“I need to be with my parents.”

“They’re only in danger if you’re with them. The Ministry doesn’t care about Muggles who have produced magical children - only the witches and wizards themselves,” says Mr McLaggen solemnly. “The best thing you can do to protect them is to keep your distance, write to them and pretend everything is as it should be.”

You feel your eyes welling up. Being brave doesn’t come easily to you the way it seems to come to Cormac and his family, so you shut your eyes and nod solemnly, hoping to stave off the tears.

Just this afternoon you were about the join the Holyhead Harpies. Now you’re going into hiding. You were going to move to Scotland near your parents. Now you’re not sure when you’ll see them again.

“How about I make us some tea?” asks Mrs McLaggen. “And then we can all get some rest.”

McLaggen nods resignedly and Mrs McLaggen conjures a teapot from thin air. You watch numbly as the teapot busies itself, filling three china teacups with the hot liquid before one of the cups slides in front of you.

“Something stronger than tea for you, darling,” says Mrs McLaggen, conjuring two small cups and pouring Skele-Gro into one. “And something to help you sleep through the pain.” She pours a purple potion that you recognise as a sleeping draught in the other cup. McLaggen drinks the Skele-Gro with a grimace and goes to pick up the other cup.

“Not here. I’m not carrying you unconscious upstairs, you great lump,” Mr McLaggen admonishes.

“Oh, right. Yeah,” says McLaggen sheepishly.

As you drink your steaming hot cup of tea McLaggen screws his face up.

“You alright, McLaggen?”

“Yeah, it’s just the Skele-Gro. It’s definitely kicking in.”

He eventually manages to stand up and Mrs McLaggen tells you pointedly that the guest bedroom is next door to Cormac’s room. The two of you bid his parents goodnight before slowly making your way upstairs as McLaggen grips onto the bannister and you carry the small cup of sleeping draught carefully.

“This is my room.” He nods at the door and you open it, letting him in.

There’s no need for a bed to be pushed up against the wall for space in here. His four-poster sits in front of an airy bay window overlooking the vast moonlit grounds outside. With a pained exhale he sits on the edge of the bed.

“This is adorable,” you say, picking up a framed photo of a children’s Quidditch team on his bedside table. “Which one are you?”

“Wait for it,” he sighs. A small boy on a broom cuts through the group and the rest of the team scatters.

“That makes more sense,” you giggle, watching an eight-year-old McLaggen causing chaos. “It’s very cute.”

He shakes his head. “I had meant to tidy that away before you came to visit.”

“I used to think you were tough, McLaggen. This is much better,” you say, replacing the picture on the table.

“I’ve been in a pub fight today. I think that’s pretty tough.”

You sit beside him on the bed and look at his blood-stained t-shirt.

“I’ll help you get this off.” He winces as you help him take it off over his head. You help him undress and arrange his pillows so he can lie back comfortably.

“I’d hoped you’d be taking my clothes off in here under different circumstances,” he says, a little weakly. And despite his injuries, he still manages to give you an arrogant smile that makes you melt.

“Well, I still get to enjoy the view,” you shoot back with a grin as you pull the feather-down duvet over him.

“Sleep in here tonight.” He grips your hand as you smooth out the quilt and those green eyes look at you beseechingly.

“Your parents have been so good to me - I need to respect their wishes. But I’ll stay here til you fall asleep,” you say, running your fingers through his hair. He leans into your touch when you stroke his face. His stubbly chin somehow feels as comforting against your palm as your own touch reassures him. “Drink up.” You pass him the sleeping draught.

He does so and you trace your thumb over his healed lip, wiping away the purple liquid.

“Still handsome. Your dad was right - I did do a good job with your nose.”

He exhales softly and you see his eyelids getting heavier.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” he says sleepily.

You’re not annoyed at him. It would be hypocritical of you to criticise him for being hot-headed and getting into a fight. You’d have done the same in his position. And yes, it was awful - you’ve never been so scared. But McLaggen would go to the ends of the earth for you. And you for him.

“Don’t be sorry. You were standing up for me.”

“Not that -“ He stifles a yawn. “I’m sorry… that you have to… go into hiding.”

You’re trying not to think about your dreams of playing for the Holyhead Harpies shattering into a million pieces.

“I’m just glad we’re together.”

You look sadly at the photo of the little quidditch team. McLaggen zooms in and out of frame in his yellow robes.

“You never told me you were a Wimbourne Wasps fan.”

When he doesn’t reply you look back to see he’s fast asleep - dead to the world. You kiss him on the head and inhale deeply. The beautiful, comforting smell of amber and jasmine calms all of your senses. Everything has gone wrong. But it’ll all be alright in the end.

Just then an urgent clanging sound rings, echoing through the vast hallway outside. You hear Mr and Mrs McLaggen running into the hallway downstairs, their voices raised in panic but Cormac doesn’t even stir.

You wrench your wand from your pocket and leap off the bed and out of the door. When you look over the bannister, you see the giant armillary sphere spinning wildly, the glowing stars burning red.

“The gate?” Mrs McLaggen asks her husband, colour draining from her face.

“Oh no,” you whimper and they look up at you.

You were so encumbered helping Cormac and carrying your belongings that you didn’t shut the enchanted gate behind you. And you can tell by their panic that the gate had some sort of protective enchantment.

Mr McLaggen grabs his wife’s shoulders “I’m sorry.”

He spins around and points his wand at you.

“Expelliarmus!”

Your wand flies from your hand before you even realise what’s happening. Mrs McLaggen shrieks and backs into the wall in terror, away from her husband.

“Gregor!” calls a voice from the front doors. “I’ve received word you’re harbouring a Muggleborn.” A man with long black hair and a pointed silver beard storms through the entryway, accompanied by two others who you assume to be Aurors.

“She’s upstairs, Thicknesse. We’ve got her!” Mr McLaggen calls back.

Fuck.

Chapter 12: Cold, Hard Facts

#cormac mclaggen x female reader #cormac mclaggen #cormac mclaggen x reader #ravenclaw #ravenclaw fanfiction #fanfic #harry potter and the half blood prince #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #freddie stroma

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lanaturnergetup · 6 months

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out, damn spot

percy/audrey, drabble

written for @thethreebroomsticksfic weasleyweek, here's some percy!

ao3 link here <3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Percy’s read Shakespeare before. Of course he has. Muggle or otherwise, he likes to enjoy the classics. So he’s well familiar with Macbeth. And King Lear. And Hamlet. (The tragedies are his favourite.)

But he’s had no reason to think about it in the context of his personal life.

Until, that is, the first time Audrey sleeps over at his flat.

It’s new, this thing with them, it’s tentative and new. So new that he feels like tiptoeing everywhere he goes around her, so he doesn’t accidentally disrupt anything. She’s the only thing in his life that’s unequivocally good, and he doesn’t want to give that up. Work is tinged with a layer of guilt. His family life… it’s coloured at the edge with regret, and he doesn’t know how to toe the line with apologising before it gets annoying. Everything in his life is complicated in a way he doesn’t know how to process.

Everything but her.

So he takes her out to dinner, a tasteful selection of Muggle wine bars and restaurants. They go to the park. They meet up after work. And she sleeps over, after a perfectly respectable period of time.

And because it’d been going too well, the moment she sleeps over… he has a nightmare. Not a nightmare, not exactly, but he dreams of Pius Thicknesse’s face, and Fred’s body, and the hurt look in his father’s eyes. He wakes up with a start, and leans against the pillow, panting and trying to calm his frantic heartbeat down. He thinks about breathing. Breathe in, hold it, let it out. Breathe in, hold it, let it out, but his damned heart won’t stop going fast, fast, fast, and he feels like it might explode out of his chest.

He wakes Audrey up, because of course he does. Who wouldn’t be awoken by a madman in bed next to him. “What are you thinking about?” she asks him.

He’s too tired to do anything but tell the truth. “My family,” he says. “I’ve made some mistakes…”

“Did you kill anyone?” she asks.

“No,” Percy says. “But–”

“Did you get anyone else to kill anyone?”

“No,” Percy says again. “But I was awful to them. I wasn’t there when it mattered, and when I got there, it was too late.”

Audrey rolls over onto her back. “So you were a twat. Who isn’t? You don’t have to go all Lady Macbeth about it.”

“I’m sorry?” Percy says. He’s so taken aback that he momentarily forgets his panic and fatigue and his regret. (Regret, always regret.)

“Out, damned spot, out,” she quotes. Her face is wrinkled up with sleepiness, and the look on her face takes a moment for Percy to place. Amusement, he realises. She’s amused.

“I’m not going all Lady Macbeth,” he finally says. What else is there to say?

Already, the panic and guilt is leaving him, leaving room for… an odd happy little feeling in his chest, one he associates with Audrey and Audrey alone.

“Good,” Audrey says. “It’s too late in the night for Shakespearan tragedies. Let’s go to sleep, shall we?”

And, rolling over and wrapping an arm around her, Percy does.

#my fic #**#***#weasleyweek #percy weasley

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dhr-ao3 · 2 months

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It's a Simulation Malfoy

It's a Simulation, Malfoy https://ift.tt/W9YirJ4 by quillandplume Draco Malfoy is being tortured in Azkaban Prison. After many rejections, and as last resort, his financier reaches out to the law firm where Hermione Granger is employed. She jumps at the chance to take his case, hoping the one million galleons he's offering will help fund the beginning of a pro-bono service for the poor. While she's navigating the legal world in a fight against The Ministry, Draco is subjected to the twisted, feral mind of Pius Thicknesse. Using a new Muggle device that puts the user inside of a simulation, Draco becomes increasingly unable to distinguish between what is real and what is fake. While in the simulation, he's exposed to an alternate reality that he would never dare to dream of: marriage, children, a family that loves him, friends that are no longer dead, and a life free from pain. But what happens when he wakes up? And what if he decides he no longer wants to? 'It's a Simulation, Malfoy' is a post-war, dark novel-length fanfic with short chapters. Words: 2610, Chapters: 2/50, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/M Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Narcissa Black Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Luna Lovegood, Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Ernie Macmillan, Original Malfoy Characters (Harry Potter), Lucius Malfoy, Original Granger Family Characters (Harry Potter) Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture, Psychological Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Reality, Married Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Prisoner Draco Malfoy, Lawyer Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy in Azkaban, Azkaban, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), The Ministry of Magic is Corrupt (Harry Potter), Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Sad Draco Malfoy, Post-Second Wizarding War with Voldemort (Harry Potter), Post-War, BAMF Hermione Granger via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/cfeKoSD February 19, 2024 at 01:07AM

#IFTTT #Dramione #Draco x Hermione

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buckets-and-trees · 1 year

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Sedition

a DARK crossover between the Marvel Cinematic Universe and the Wizarding World of Harry Potter

Everyone knows the story of how Peter Parker, the Boy Who Lived. In the race to find the Infinity Stones during the first Infinity War, Peter was exposed to the Aether in a magical catastrophe after his parents - members of the Order of the Phoenix - found the Reality Stone in its liquified form. Driven to complete his collection, Thanos hunted down the child and his parents, killing them both in the confrontation, and stopped from gaining the Aether when it protected its host from Thanos's killing curse. The Wizarding World assumed the titan was dead, and his followers scattered to the wind or reformed and made penance.

Until Thanos returned thirteen years later, making his absence seem only a Blip in the respite of his pursuit to control all the stones, and thus not only all magic, but all elements of the universe, and every wizard and muggle in existence.

If there's any chance of stopping the mad titan, desperate players on both sides will have to band together or risk losing everything.

Content Warnings: murder, character death, political corruption, violence, torture, manipulation, mind control, betrayal, sexual situations - each piece in the collection will have applicable warnings listed, and any necessary additions overall will be added to this list

AUTHOR NOTE ON THIS PROJECT: I will be playing FAST AND LOOSE with pieces of canon from both the Marvel Cinematic Universe and the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. This is not a copy/paste retelling of HP with Marvel characters. You will see characters from both narratives. I will be crafting the storyline overall to serve the Sedition AU, not the existing storylines from the MCU or HP. I will be putting some of the 'hero' characters from the MCU into dark 'villain' roles, but I will maintain their core character identities.

Additional Notes: This concept was initially sparked by some incredible moodboards created by @ghostlytyrantpeach and a lively conversation that then ensued on a discord server.

Statement about me, HP, and she who should not be named

PART ONE: Unrest - Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes

Currently revealed Character Roster:

Steve Rogers = Death Eater, no HP equivalent

Bucky Barnes = Death Eater, no HP equivalent

Voldemort/Tom Riddle → Thanos

Harry Potter → Peter Parker

Severus Snape → Natasha Romanov

Lucius Malfoy → Clint Barton

Narcissa Malfoy → Laura Barton

Draco Malfoy → Cooper Barton

Bellatrix Lestrange

Yaxley

Dolohov

Pius Thicknesse = Ministry Official, under Yaxley's control

Thaddeus Ross = Ministry Official, under Yaxley's control, true allegiance TBD

Alexander Pierce = Barty Crouch, Sr. adjacent/replacement, head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation

#sedition au #harry potter fanfiction #hp crossover #mcu crossover #mcu fanfiction

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carewyncromwell · 1 year

Photo

“I wish I could stop the world from turning -- Keep things just the way they are... I wish I could shelter you from Everything not pure and sweet and good... I know I can’t...I know I can’t... But I wish I could.”

~“I Wish I Could” by Collin Raye

x~x~x~x

tw: emotional manipulation, mild gore

x~x~x~x

the Cromwell family tree // includes references to original character Hermia Flume // learn more about Blaise and his son Tristan

x~x~x~x

In February 1998, the Second Wizarding War was in full swing. Terror reigned supreme through the Death Eaters’ hold over the British Ministry of Magic, with puppet Minister Pius Thicknesse ordering the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to facilitate the persecution and imprisonment of Muggle-borns, political dissidents, and other such “Undesirables.” It was a very scary time for everyone, including people who had to work at the Ministry, such as magical lawyer Carewyn Cromwell.

However scary the entire War was, however, one of the scariest moments of it for Carewyn ended up being when the new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Death Eater Corban Yaxley interrupted a private meeting with one of her coworkers to pass along a letter for her that he’d unceremoniously ripped open.

When Carewyn took the letter from him and read its contents, her heart leapt into her throat.

Winnie --

Jacob has fallen very ill. I’m caring for him here at the Cromwell estate, but I know he will rest easier, with you at his bedside.

Apparate home at once.

Blaise

“Jacob would be your brother, yes?”

Carewyn looked up at Yaxley. His cold eyes were very beady upon her face.

“I was under the impression that you and your brother weren’t on good terms with your uncle,” he said. “You two helped land him, my brother’s wife, and your other aunt in Azkaban at one point, if memory serves me. Rather charitable of Blaise, to now suddenly want to tend to wittle Jacob’s sniffles...”

Carewyn averted her eyes as she quickly got up from her desk and grabbed her purse.

“Forgive me, sir, but my brother needs me,” she murmured. “I must go to him at once -- ”

Before she reached the door, though, Yaxley blocked her.

“Oh, of course,” said Yaxley, his lips upturned in a rather cool, insincere smile. “Naturally, you must go to him. He is your family, after all. The last thing I want is for one of my most hardworking subordinates to lose a member of her family...especially to such a sudden illness.”

He was so close to her that Carewyn could hear his thoughts without even looking at him. Images of prowling around Jacob’s apartment -- of casting anti-illusionary spells at the walls that did nothing and Yaxley’s fist clenching around his wand as he ruthlessly kicked over Jacob’s coffee table -- rippled over her vision.

“In fact,” Yaxley pressed on, “if Jacob’s illness is truly so severe, I might recommend he be transferred to St. Mungo’s, for more expert treatment. I think it’s best that I Apparate over to Yorkshire with you, to see him for myself.”

Carewyn’s heart clenched.

“That won’t be necessary -- ” she said at once, but Yaxley cut her off.

“I insist.”

He pushed her office door the rest of the way open, indicating the hall to her pointedly.

“After you, Miss Cromwell,” sneered Yaxley.

~*~

The knowledge that Jacob was ill would’ve worried Carewyn enough on its own. Jacob and Carewyn had always been incredibly close, and that bond had only deepened further after Carewyn saved Jacob from being trapped in a magical portrait for seven years and the two of them refined their shared talent for Legilimency as adults. But Blaise’s note was incredibly suspicious from the off-set, and not just because of the reason Corban Yaxley had cited. For yes, however disconcerting it was that Jacob was with Blaise at the Cromwell estate, when Jacob would never have willingly accepted Blaise’s help in a million years, Jacob had also always been in very good health. Therefore he couldn’t just be “ill.” Injured, on the other hand...

Carewyn couldn’t remember feeling more disconcerted than she did when she Apparated with Yaxley to the Cromwell estate -- or, more specifically, to the lands just outside the Cromwell estate. For around the house itself was a very tall, black wrought-iron gate, enchanted so as to prevent Apparition and Disapparition. Lane Cromwell had told her children all about how impregnable of a fortress the Cromwell estate was -- not just keeping everything from animals to even the weather out, but also trapping all of its residents inside with no chance at freedom.

The thought of Jacob, trapped in such a foreboding manor house behind such a terrifyingly cold, cage-like gate...

“Hmph,” said Yaxley, eying the gate with displeasure. “Suppose this thing prevents Apparition onto the grounds itself. Very well, then...”

He strode up to the gate, whipping his wand out with a flourish. The gate, however, didn’t open -- instead, it only seemed to flicker like red-hot cinders in a fireplace, before fading back to its normal cold black.

With a deepening frown, Yaxley waved his wand, but once again, nothing happened. He then reached out as if to open the gate manually -- when his fingers enclosed over the wrought iron, however, it flared a violent shade of red, and he catapulted backward, bellowing with rage and pain as he clutched his wrist.

“GYAAAARGH!”

It was as if Yaxley had touched a red-hot poker. His palm and fingers were covered in cauterized sores, the outer skin being ripped open exposing the red and violet veins underneath. Carewyn recoiled in horror.

“Corban,” said a very dry voice. "What an unexpected surprise.”

Both Yaxley and Carewyn looked up. From the other side of the gate, Carewyn could see the frame of her uncle, Blaise Cromwell, sweeping toward them. He was dressed in elegant black silk robes with a high white linen collar and white cuffs, and his blond-bearded face was twisted with the kind of immaturity and arrogance better suited to a schoolyard bully.

“If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve arranged to meet you at my fireplace,” the Head of the Cromwell Clan said sleekly. “I’m afraid this gate’s old enchantments don’t allow anyone without Cromwell blood to enter. Don’t tell me Marek didn’t mention it?”

Yaxley gritted his teeth with both pain and fury as he nursed his injured hand.

“...He...must’ve neglected to,” he hissed. “I’ve come to see your nephew, Jacob. I’ve received word that he’s here, in your care.”

Blaise’s eyes flitted over to Carewyn, who was standing just behind Yaxley. Her eyes flashed with contempt upon Yaxley’s back.

“That he is,” said Blaise, putting on his most innocent expression. “I paid his flat a wellness check this morning, only to find him completely emaciated in bed, fighting back a bad case of Black Cat Flu. Nothing life-threatening, of course -- but the boy’s always been hopeless, when it comes to caring for his own health. So I brought him home, so as to make him more comfortable.”

Yaxley cocked his eyebrow disbelievingly. “Awfully charitable of you, Blaise.”

Blaise shrugged. “I am Head of the Cromwells. It’s my duty, to take care of my own.”

His eyes flitted back over to Carewyn, his hand sliding absently into his pocket.

“Now, then,“ he said in a much crisper, more business-like tone, “come, Winnie, my dear -- best get you inside...”

Carewyn didn’t move. The very last place she ever, ever wanted to go was inside the Cromwell estate. After everything her mother had told her, she knew that it was a prison of the highest order...and after everything Blaise had done to try to force Carewyn, Jacob, and Lane to return to the Cromwell estate and rejoin the Clan, the very last thing she wanted to do was to give him a chance at trapping her inside his house.

Carewyn looked up at the foreboding manor with narrowed eyes. Her mind lashed around, trying to grab onto Jacob’s, if it was anywhere...but the gate, it seemed, blocked her Legilimency just as well as it did everything else...

“Don’t dawdle, Winnie,” Blaise said a bit more sharply. “Jacob is waiting.”

Carewyn’s eyes shot back up to her uncle’s face. “You can stop calling me Winnie, you are not entitled to that name.”

It was Carewyn’s mother Lane’s nickname for her, and so it was solely Lane who was allowed to use it.

Blaise returned her mistrustful glare with a far more impatient one of his own as his eyes darted back over his shoulder at the house. It made her really, really wish that his Occlumency wasn’t so rock-solid that she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

But if Jacob really was in such bad shape...she knew she truly had no choice. And so, taking a deep breath, she swept past Yaxley, her light gray robes billowing behind her as she walked up to the gate.

As soon as she approached, the wrought-iron sparkled with silver, and within seconds, the gate had sprung open, allowing her access. Carewyn walked through, only to realize with a start that someone had abruptly tried to sneak up behind her. Before he could get too close, though, or even before Carewyn herself could react, the gate clanged shut behind her, trapping her inside and flaring with red as it forced Yaxley out. The wizard gave another bellow of rage and pain in response to the iron once again burning him.

“Forgive me, Corban, but you’ll simply have to return to the Ministry and use the Floo Network,” Blaise said airily. “I’ll be happy to receive you properly, once I make it back to my office.”

Carewyn flinched as she felt Blaise snake his arm around her and steer her away from the gate.

“Come, Winnie.”

Blaise led her at a very brisk walk away toward the manor house. Fully aware of Yaxley’s glaring eyes on their backs, Carewyn kept her gaze on the manor house rather than at Blaise. As her eyes passed over the climbing ivy and tiny windows, she reached out with her mind again.

Jacob! Jacob!

Something seemed to stir, somewhere in the lower West Wing of the house -- like a child too weak to move.

Pip. Where...Pip...?

CRACK. A ways away, Yaxley had Disapparated.

As soon as Yaxley was gone, Blaise lost all pretense of sophistication or composure. Seizing Carewyn’s arm in a rough vice grip, he yanked her behind him as he ran into the house.

“Augh -- let go of me!”

Carewyn tried to break free, but it was no use -- Blaise had always been much stronger than her. Her uncle whirled on her with a fierce eye.

“Don’t be a child,” he spat.

With a wave of his wand, he’d thrown open the front door, dragging Carewyn inside the house, and then slammed the door behind them. Then without skipping a beat, Blaise forced Carewyn to follow him up the stairs.

“The instant Corban arrives at the Ministry, he’ll be on his way back here through the office’s Floo grate,” Blaise muttered to Carewyn, his arrogant, condescending voice strangely urgent. “I must be there to meet him, if I don’t want him to wander -- ”

Pip? Pip?

Jacob! Jacob, I’m here!

Pip. Where...? Where...?

Jacob’s voice was becoming fainter -- almost as if he was losing awareness, or...as if she was getting further away from him...

“ -- Claire’s not bright enough to keep him occupied there that long,” Blaise pressed on, unaware of Carewyn and Jacob trying to mentally reach out to each other. “And even if she could, Corban will have to see you with Jacob, in order for him to believe that he’s ill and halt any further questioning...”

Ack...Pip...

Carewyn could practically feel Jacob’s pain shooting through her own veins. It made her eyes flash.

“If Yaxley saw me with Jacob, then he would know full well he wasn’t sick with Black Cat Flu, Blaise. What happened to my brother?”

“Nothing the foolish boy didn’t bring upon himself,” scoffed Blaise. “Now come along -- Jacob’s right up here -- ”

“I know full well he’s not, Blaise!” Carewyn spat. Yanking out her wand, she pointed it right at Blaise’s jaw, so as to force him to stop pulling her along. “Now take me to my brother right now, or so help me -- !”

WHOOSH.

Blaise and Carewyn both straightened up sharply at the sound of a gust of air rushing through a fireplace not too far away: likely in a room around the corner down the hall from where they were standing. A moment later, Carewyn could just barely hear the simpering voice of her aunt Claire.

“Corban! What a nice…surprise!”

A flash of panic pulsed through Blaise’s expression before he whirled on Carewyn, his face twisted with anger and anxiety.

“There’s no time to explain -- I need you upstairs, with your brother, while I go deal with Corban.”

Carewyn’s eyes flashed. She dearly wanted to hex Blaise right in the face -- but with Corban Yaxley inside the manor and Jacob in no fit state to fight back or escape, she knew she couldn’t afford to act rashly. So, her face full of distrust and contempt, she reluctantly lowered her wand.

“As soon as Yaxley is gone, you will bring me to Jacob,” she hissed.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Blaise said dismissively. “Now move.”

He yanked him by the arm up the last set of stairs and down the hall, running to the closest door, which was painted a dark blue. The head of the Cromwell Clan opened the door and quickly shoved Carewyn inside.

“Tend to him until I return,” Blaise told her sternly. “Quietly. His headache doesn’t need to get any worse.”

With this, Blaise shut the door right on Carewyn’s back, forcing her fully into the room, before his footsteps retreated rapidly back down the stairs.

Carewyn glanced at the shut door, before turning to look at the figure lying down in bed. When she saw his face, she gave a start.

Jacob?

It was her brother -- at least, visually. His long messy black-brown curls were all in his face, which was pallid and lined with sweat. He was also shivering noticeably as he blearily blinked up at her. His gaze was distrustful and guarded, despite his exhaustion -- a kind of look Jacob would never give his younger sister in a million years.

It didn’t take Carewyn long at all to guess the truth.

Polyjuice. How like Blaise.

A bitter taste rippled through her mouth at the thought of Blaise similarly disguising himself as Jacob, eight years ago. This time, though, she wasn’t going to be fooled by someone pretending to be her brother.

Yet Jacob was in the house somewhere. She had sensed his thoughts. So for now, at least until Yaxley left, Carewyn would have to play along with whatever Blaise was up to. And so, after a moment, she took a few steps closer to the bed, coming to stand behind the chair positioned next to the bed.

Not-Jacob stared Carewyn down, his eyes filled with just as much distrust as she’d felt toward Blaise. Even so, the fire was tempered by his lack of energy and consciousness. His mind was a swirling, turbulent sea of clouds that disoriented both its owner and anyone looking in on it. Disjointed echoes of Blaise’s voice even bounced sickeningly through Carewyn’s sinuses, just looking into this stranger’s eyes.

“ -- Winnie -- ”

“Lie down. You’re in no fit state to move, let alone argue -- ”

“Now drink this -- ”

Intense nausea rippled through the stranger’s eyes. He was clearly quite ill -- maybe even with the same Black Cat Flu Blaise had claimed Jacob had.

Polyjuice Potion tastes weird enough when you’re not sick, Carewyn thought. How gross must you feel, drinking it when you are?

“You’re Winnie, aren’t you?” said the stranger.

The question was as petulant as a child’s. It sounded strange, as Jacob’s voice certainly had never sounded that way. It was also accompanied by multiple memories.

“ -- little Winnie -- ”

“ -- saw her the other day -- our little bastard cousin, I mean…”

“Watch your tongue, Iris. Bastard Winnie may be, she is still one of ours.”

“ -- she’ll return home to us soon enough -- ”

Not all the words Carewyn heard were Blaise’s this time, but most of them were. …Come to think of it…the stranger’s childish affect did sound a bit like Blaise’s too…

“…I am Carewyn, yes,” she said softly. “My mother calls me Winnie.”

Not-Jacob’s eyes narrowed further, flashing with resentment and suspicion as he coughed harshly. Carewyn could practically sense the voice of a much younger boy coming off of him -- “I don’t want her here! She sent you away! I hate her, and I hope she never comes back!” -- followed by a loud SLAP and searing pain across the face. The recollection made Carewyn flinch — even when she felt a rocking, queasy sea of guilt wash through her, it only served to make her feel more pain in her face, alongside the pulsing of the stranger’s sinuses and head.

Carewyn rested her hands on the back of the chair as she considered the stranger who was not Jacob lying down in bed. Then, after a moment, she reached into her purse, took out a handkerchief, and wordlessly wet it with her wand.

“Here,” she said gently.

She leaned in and started dabbing the cold wet cloth to not-Jacob’s forehead. He flinched, startled and confused.

“What are you doing, you -- hack, hack -- idiot?” he said very rudely, his voice thick with congestion. “Hack -- I’m not your…your stupid bastard brother — ”

“Surprisingly I figured that out a while ago,” Carewyn shot back dryly. Her expression then grew a bit grimmer. “…Blaise told me to tend to you until he got back. Considering I can’t look for Jacob properly until after Corban Yaxley leaves, I reckon I should do that.”

Especially when you are actually this sick. You must be miserable…

She continued at not-Jacob’s temple with her wet hanky. He kept glaring drowsily up at her, even though his thoughts were so disoriented that Carewyn felt like she was riding a hexed broom. It made her avert her eyes, just to try to shut out his thoughts -- when she did, she noticed the empty glass on the side table.

“Can you sit up?” she asked.

Not-Jacob looked away with a loud huff.

“Use your eyes!” His voice was laced with resentment. “Hack -- I’m obviously in no fit state to move...”

Blaise saying the exact same thing in the stranger’s memory rippled over Carewyn’s mind again, and it made her raise her eyebrows.

“Is that so? Hm…if you were truly in no fit state to do anything, then I would think you would be sleeping so you could build up your strength.”

Not-Jacob grumbled irritably. “I can’t sleep either. Hack — hack — my cough’s too bad.”

“Well, propping your head up and drinking some water should help with that. Here.”

Carewyn reached out a hand back behind not-Jacob’s shoulders, supporting them enough so that she could help ease him up and adjust his pillows under him. He squirmed.

“Get off me, you -- ” he muttered. “ -- you tramp, you -- Muggle-raised bastard -- ”

“If you’re in a fit state to swear, then you’re in a fit state to sleep quietly,” Carewyn scolded him as she picked up the glass from the side table and wordlessly filled it with water from her wand. “Now settle down. I don’t want you to choke.”

Despite all of his fussing, not-Jacob did ultimately do as Carewyn said, however sour he looked about it. He clearly was not feeling well enough to actively rebel against her help, and he did seem a little refreshed after drinking some water and repositioning himself. When he cleared his throat, he actually was able to clear up some of the phlegm that had been trapped there.

“Does that help?” asked Carewyn.

“I suppose so,” not-Jacob said begrudgingly.

“Good.”

“Is it, though?”

Carewyn blinked. Not-Jacob cocked his eyebrows arrogantly.

“Hack -- it’s not like you actually care about your family, aside from your brother and mother,” he said scornfully. “So what does it matter to you, if I get better or not?”

Carewyn frowned deeply as she put down the glass again. “Family or not, no one deserves to suffer.”

“Even the guys who hurt your brother?”

Carewyn stiffened. Not-Jacob’s eyes gleamed -- he seemed pleased that he’d gotten such rapt attention from her.

“Do you want to know what happened to him?” he asked under his breath, rather like a kid divulging a secret. “He got into a duel with a bunch of Uncle Corban’s mates in Hogsmeade.”

Carewyn felt like her heart had been squeezed. “The Death Eaters attacked Hogsmeade?”

“Yeah,” said not-Jacob, seeming even more pleased by her reaction. “Uncle Marek said that one of Honeydukes’s people has been sending enchanted sweets to Hogwarts...so the Death Eaters decided to send them a message, for trying to stand up to the Carrows. Father said he saw them burn Honeydukes’ Sweet Shop to the ground.”

Carewyn’s heart hurt, just hearing this. Jacob had mentioned once that one of Ambrosius Flume’s daughters had been providing him with healing pastries for the fugitives he’d been keeping hidden inside his flat. Not only that, but one of Jacob’s closest friends was the owner of the Three Broomsticks, Madam Rosmerta. He must’ve gone to Hogsmeade to help them, upon hearing their home was in danger...

“...When you say your father, I assume you mean Blaise,” Carewyn asked quietly. It was the only thing that made sense, given not-Jacob’s incredibly distinctive, arrogant attitude. “What was he doing in Hogsmeade?”

Not-Jacob gave another scoff. “What do you think he was doing? Hack, hack -- he was making sure your brother didn’t do anything stupid. Not that that stopped him.”

“But how did he know Jacob would be in trouble?” Carewyn pressed, her eyes narrowing a bit more suspiciously.

“He overheard Uncle Marek talking about it while tending to me,” her disguised cousin said with a shrug. “Hack -- Uncle Marek is Uncle Corban's brother, you know. Uncle Marek really wants to join the Death Eaters himself, though Father won’t let him. Father thinks we should stay out of it and just look after ourselves.”

Carewyn’s brows knit together. “And what do you think?”

“That Father’s right, of course,” not-Jacob said, as if it were obvious. “Family’s the only thing that really matters. Not that you and Jacob know anything about that -- all you can do is run around trying to save people who aren’t anything to you.”

Carewyn crossed her arms. “There are a lot more people in the world that matter besides those who share our blood.”

“So you’ll put yourself in danger just for them?” not-Jacob shot back. “A bunch of nobodies? When your family needs you, when -- hack -- all it does is make your family worry about your safety, all the time?”

Carewyn’s eyebrows knit together over her eyes. She could sense an odd kind of conviction ebbing off of not-Jacob, when he said this -- something oddly fiery, under the surface. She could see Blaise’s pale, anxious face, as he carried Jacob past the open door of the bedroom they were currently in -- “Damn you, Jacob!”

“You and Jacob are so selfish,” not-Jacob said coldly. “All you can do is run around -- hack, hack -- making yourselves feel good by helping a bunch of outsiders who will never love you the way your real family can. Hack -- meanwhile, that real family has to sit on the sidelines helplessly -- hack -- hoping and praying that you’re going to be okay. All because you won’t even come home, where it’s safe.”

Carewyn could sense someone entering an old room with only one very high window looking out toward the grounds -- “To hell with the world. ...It could never love you, as I do, my son -- ”

That must be Mum’s old room, Carewyn realized -- Lane had described her old bedroom as tiny and dark with only one high window.

And sure enough, Blaise had come to take hold of the person’s shoulders from behind, when he stood in the doorway, a gesture that made the person flinch, given the possessive strength in his father’s hands -- “She’ll return home to us soon enough -- ” “You’ll be able to hear her sing yourself, when she does -- ”

Carewyn’s red lips came together tightly as she considered Not-Jacob solemnly.

“Family is more than just flesh and blood,” she said softly. “I have many friends who have put themselves on the line to fight for my safety and happiness...and I’m grateful every day, for that love they’ve shown me. And I know that there are a lot of other people out there who...yes, perhaps they haven’t done anything for me...but they have the capacity to express just as much love themselves -- for me or otherwise.”

Her eyes drifted down to the bed covers under her hand.

“...As much as...your father might worry about us, in his own weird way...he’s been very lucky, to be able to stand on the sidelines and act like the War doesn’t apply to him. We've all been lucky, to be able to live somewhat normal lives. Many other people aren’t so lucky. And those people aren’t nothing to us. They’re our friends -- our coworkers and mentors...even just people who we’ve gotten used to seeing every day on our commute, but never really talk to. And those people do matter. Maybe not as much to us as other people do -- but they still matter.”

With another loud cough, not-Jacob crossed his arms and turned over in bed, away from Carewyn. The lawyer’s eyes narrowed upon his back.

“You called Jacob and me selfish, a moment ago,” she said a bit more coldly. “Well, we’re not selfish enough to only care about a human life if it benefits us.”

Glancing around, she eased herself off of the bed and stood up. She strolled across the room, over to the window in the corner, and looked out into the garden below. It was very well-manicured with many white flowers, but the hedges around it were so high, one could hardly see the sky. When she reached out her hands and, with a bit of effort, opened the window, though, Carewyn was a bit put-out to discover none of the nice ambient noise one could expect from opening a window: no wind blowing through the hedges, nor birds singing.

Looks like the shields around this house really are impregnable, she thought grimly. She had to get Jacob and herself out of here...

“What are you doing? Father shut that to keep out the cold air.”

Carewyn glanced at Not-Jacob. He was peeking over his shoulder at her without uncrossing his arms or fully turning over, which made him look all the more like a child stubbornly refusing to apologize for his bad behavior.

Carewyn regarded him with a slight wry smile. “Cold air doesn’t hurt you when you’re sick. When you cough, you’re expelling the germs that are making you sick into the air -- if you keep all the windows closed, then all you’re breathing in is the air that made you sick in the first place. So we need to bring in some fresh air so it can push the bad air out.”

“Yeah, right,” said Not-Jacob, as he turned back over.

Carewyn could practically feel him pause. Then, abruptly, he said,

“Bring me some soup.”

Carewyn cocked her eyebrows.

“Hack -- if anything’ll make me feel better, it’s some soup,” Not-Jacob said petulantly. “So bring me some.”

Do I look like a maidservant to you? Carewyn thought scornfully. I have no idea where the kitchen even is in this house, anyway.

“Sorry, but your father told me to stay here with you,” she said primly instead.

“Well, then, the very least you can do is sing something, to help me sleep,” not-Jacob said without skipping a beat, as he closed his eyes. “You said that I should be sleeping, so I can build up my strength.”

Carewyn gave Not-Jacob’s back a rather bewildered look. He didn’t look at her again, though -- instead he simply sat there and waited. Rather than merely seeming expectant or entitled, though, there was something anticipatory, coming off of him -- almost hopeful.

Blaise singing to a dark-haired teenager resting fitfully in this exact same bed -- “You are my sunshine -- my only sunshine -- ” -- Blaise fixing the boy’s collar as he sat at the piano -- “You’ll be able to hear her sing yourself, when she does -- ”

The tension in Carewyn’s eyebrows slowly faded, despite herself. It left her expression far more pensive than it had been previously, as she settled herself back down on the bed. She paused, considering the stranger wearing her brother’s face still turned away from her in bed as his shoulders tensed.

Blaise’s son must still be rather young, Carewyn considered for the first time. A young teenager, most likely, if one factored in both his vocabulary and his bratty attitude. How old was he when his father went to Azkaban, with the rest of R? He would’ve had to have been at least a toddler, to have any memory of the Ministry arresting Blaise. How old was this boy now, when he wasn’t wearing Jacob’s twenty-seven-year-old face?

Carewyn’s eyes drifted around her cousin’s bedroom. However sparsely decorated Lane’s old room had been, this room was not so austere. It actually looked rather cluttered and “lived-in,” despite the grandiose furniture and bed curtains. A large collection of model dragons, griffins, basilisks, and Acromantula was scattered about the room; the bookshelf was almost completely full, its only incomplete row of books being supported by a pair of dragon-skull-shaped bookends; and there was a fake dog skeleton wearing a red collar and an ugly Christmas sweater sitting loyally next to the chair in the corner. There were even two signed posters for Lorcan D’Eath and the magical boy band Spellb🔮und hung up on the far wall beside the bed’s ornate side table. What caught Carewyn’s eye most, though, was the tiny model thestrals that had been hung on every handle or knob in the room so that they dangled off of them, their wings occasionally flapping with the force of gravity.

Carewyn’s eyes lingered on the thestral dangling off the side table’s drawer handle as she quietly inhaled and started to sing.

“Hush-a-bye -- don't you cry -- go to sleep, little baby... When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses...”

As soon as she started singing, she could feel the boy wearing Jacob’s face give the slightest start, but it almost instantly softened his posture. Almost immediately, all of the tension had rippled off his shoulders, and his arms crossed so tightly over his chest had fallen loose beside his covers. His hand even lightly clutched his covers. He’d also gone so quiet that it was clear he was paying her rapt attention.

“Dapples and greys -- pintos and bays -- all the pretty little horses...”

Carewyn could sense something almost wistful coming off of her cousin, as she sang for him -- watching his model thestrals “fly” across his room -- wishing he could ride one -- crying bitterly when his father broke one, in the heat of anger, when he was a toddler -- clinging to his legs, sobbing and begging forgiveness -- “I’m sorry, Father! I won’t leave you alone -- I swear I won’t!” -- Blaise holding an older boy, bringing a hand through his hair -- “ -- no one out there could love you as much as I do -- remember that -- ”

Blaise’s son isn’t happy here, any more than Mum was, Carewyn realized. He just feels guilty about the thought of leaving his father...no matter how badly Blaise treats him...

Her blue eyes softened with pity despite herself as she reached out and rested a hand on top of her cousin’s hand on the covers. The gesture made him flinch, so Carewyn sang the next lines more gently, in an attempt to reassure him.

“Way down yonder, in the meadow, Poor little baby, cryin’, ‘Mama’... Birds and the butterflies flutter ‘round his eyes -- Poor little baby, cryin’, ‘Mama’...”

Slowly not-Jacob seemed to relax again. Carewyn could once again sense Blaise in his thoughts -- the times when his touch made the boy flinch, as he wasn’t sure what kind of mood his father was in, when he held him so tightly --

“Don’t pull away, and perhaps I won’t hold so tight -- ”

Carewyn very gently took her cousin’s hand, being careful not to hold it too tightly. She wanted to comfort, not restrict him.

“Hush-a-bye -- don't you cry...go to sleep, little baby...”

Not-Jacob quietly exhaled as Carewyn’s song came to an end. His hand even very lightly enclosed over Carewyn’s in return as she heard the click of the door opening behind them.

She looked over her shoulder, to see Blaise and Corban Yaxley in the door frame.

“Here you are, Corban,” said Blaise. “Your proof of my testimony.”

His blue eyes passed from his disguised son in bed to Carewyn, zeroing in on her holding his hand. Something strangely happy flitted through his expression, before he put on a more solemn face and approached his niece.

“How is he?” he asked softly. The sincerity came through seemingly despite himself, but so did something oddly smug that Carewyn couldn’t quite place, thanks to his rock-hard Occlumency.

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed up at her uncle. “Better. You shouldn’t have shut him up in your son’s room like this -- he’s not going to get any better, breathing in nothing but stale air.”

Blaise looked miffed at being told how to take care of his son, but he tried to feign nonchalance. “I merely thought to stave off the chill.”

He turned to Yaxley, who was peering carefully down at not-Jacob.

“As you can see, Jacob is in no fit state to have been anywhere, Hogsmeade village included,” said Blaise in a slightly haughtier voice. “I don’t know who your scouts thought they saw, back there -- but my nephew has been here at the Cromwell estate since this morning.”

Not-Jacob stirred at that moment. He glanced from Blaise, his eyes blinking blearily up at him, before looking over at Carewyn.

“...Pip...” he rasped.

The nickname coming out of anyone besides Jacob made Carewyn incredibly uncomfortable, but she quickly feigned concern as she rested a hand over not-Jacob’s head on the pillow.

“Shh,” she whispered. “Don’t try to talk...rest now...”

Not-Jacob’s hair fell into his eyes as he reclined back on the pillows with a tired sigh. Carewyn brought a hand down to gently pat his head -- out the sight of her eye, she could see Yaxley’s upper lip curling with displeasure.

“...I see,” snarled the new Head of Magical Law Enforcement. “I suppose there must’ve been some sort of mistake.”

It was clear he didn’t fully believe this -- but with Jacob present, and seemingly too ill to leave his bed, he didn’t have anything to justify further investigation. He’d been outmaneuvered...and he was not happy about it. And the Death-Eater-turned-Ministry-employee turned on his heel as if to leave.

“Very well -- I shall leave you to tend to your nephew,” he said coldly. “I’ll make a follow-up trip tomorrow, to check on his progress.”

“I’ll expect you at noon,” Blaise replied crisply.

Yaxley headed for the open door. Waiting in the hall just outside was Carewyn’s brown-haired, doll-like aunt Claire. At the sight of his sister, Blaise straightened up a bit -- she gave a covert little nod before shooting an anxious look over at Yaxley. Blaise’s eyes narrowed.

“Claire, escort Corban back to the fireplace, won’t you?” the Head of the Cromwell Clan said pointedly. “I daresay he has very pressing matters to attend to, back at the Ministry.”

Yaxley shot Blaise a rather dirty look over his shoulder, before sweeping back down the hall from whence he came. Claire rushed after Yaxley -- even after they had both left down the stairs, Blaise remained in the door frame, listening carefully as their steps faded away down the hall below.

“Winnie?”

Carewyn looked down at not-Jacob. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, still pretending to be asleep.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Your brother’s hair is really long and annoying,” he mumbled.

Carewyn’s lips turned up in a slight smile as she reached out to smooth some of her brother’s messy curls out of Not-Jacob’s face. He relaxed again, smiling ever-so-slightly despite himself.

“Did it work, Father?” he asked a bit more loudly.

“Quiet, son,” Blaise said tersely. “I’m trying to hear.”

Not-Jacob shut up at once. Carewyn glanced at Blaise -- her uncle’s eyes were narrowed upon the staircase as he listened hard. Finally, in the distance, Carewyn heard the loud WHOOSH of the downstairs fireplace, and Blaise’s shoulders finally relaxed as he exhaled.

“...He’s gone,” he murmured.

Not-Jacob blearily opened his eyes at last, his features spreading into a bigger, brighter smile.

“So it worked?” he asked eagerly. Then he devolved into a coughing fit.

“Hush,” said Blaise sternly. “Lie back down before you cough up your entire lung.”

Once his son had quieted down again, Blaise gave him a smug smile.

“...Yes, it worked. You needn’t have worried -- it was truly not so difficult for your father to manage. Your Uncle Corban has always been a stupid man.”

“If he’s so stupid, I must wonder why it took you so long to join us,” Carewyn said dryly.

Blaise shrugged. “Perhaps I just wanted to give Tristan some time to get to know his cousin.”

He crossed over to not-Jacob (in truth Tristan Cromwell), fetching a small, green-tinted bottle out of his robes.

“Here, son, drink this. No sense in you looking like a ragamuffin any longer than you have to...”

Tristan obeyed. As soon as he’d downed the contents of the bottle, his frame began to morph, his features smoothing out with fresh youth, his height shrinking and Jacob’s long curls bending back in on themselves and straightening out to a flat, straight black.

When the Polyjuice Potion’s effects had been completely negated, Carewyn found a pale, frail-looking thirteen-year-old boy laying in the spot where the “not-Jacob” had before. And when he blinked up drowsily at Carewyn with eyes as blue and almond-shaped as hers, but far less sunken-in or tired than hers or Jacob’s, he offered her a weak, cheeky smile.

“Hi, Winnie,” he said impishly.

“Hello, Tristan,” Carewyn answered coolly. “And it’s Carewyn, please.”

“Father calls you Winnie, so will I,” Tristan shot back. “After all, I’m going to be head of the Cromwell Clan someday -- which means one day, I’ll be head of you too.”

“Sorry -- but the only head that shall dictate my fate is the one on my own shoulders,” Carewyn said very coldly.

Rather than being offended by this, Tristan's cheeky smile spread as he gave another hacking cough.

“Hack -- I made Winnie sing for me,” he told his father, his haughty voice oddly boyish in its mischief.

“I heard,” said Blaise, looking incredibly pleased with both himself and his son as he smirked at Carewyn. “Very pretty, Winnie. I sincerely hope it was a song your mother picked up somewhere, rather than something from that Muggle wretch who sired you.”

Carewyn felt a flare of loathing.

“Stop calling me Winnie -- and Mum did sing it to Jacob and me as children, yes,” she said. Her red lips curled up in a rather cold smirk of her own as she added, “It’s an old folk song -- though the version Mum heard first was performed by her favorite Muggle band, Peter, Paul, and Mary.”

Blaise’s nose wrinkled at once, but Carewyn pressed on a bit more aggressively.

“Now enough stalling, Blaise. I want to see my brother. Now.”

Blaise gave a rather irritable sigh. “Oh, all right. Forgive me for trying to encourage some familial affection...”

His tone dripped with a kind of passive-aggressiveness that could make anyone want to punch him in the nose. But before he could say or do anything else, the clock tolling in the hall made him stiffen like a startled cat. Tristan likewise had bolted up in bed, looking up toward the hall.

“Father?” the boy said hesitantly.

“Blast!” swore Blaise. “Pacifying Corban took more time than I thought -- ”

Carewyn cocked her eyebrows dully at Blaise. Guess he wasn’t so easy to deal with, after all.

Blaise strolled out of Tristan’s room to the top of the staircase, shouting down the stairs.

“CLAIRE! Keep Pearl and that neanderthal husband of yours on the ground floor until I come down there, do you hear me!?”

Somewhere downstairs, Carewyn caught the muffled sound of Claire’s voice obediently shouting back some kind of assent before dashing down the stairs. Blaise then swept back over to the bed and brought a hand down on his son’s head, looking down at him sternly as he steered him back down onto his back.

“Rest here quietly until I return, Tristan,” he told him. “I must send Winnie on her way at once.”

Carewyn’s brows knit together tightly over her eyes in righteous anger. “I’m not leaving without -- !”

“Without Jacob, I know, now be quiet and come with me!” spat Blaise venomously.

He tried to grab hold of Carewyn’s arm again, but this time she was able to dodge his hold.

“Don’t touch me,” she said fiercely as she dashed out the door of Tristan’s room and back to the top of the stairs.

Sensing that Carewyn would at least follow him this time, Blaise gave an irritated growl before sweeping past her and down the stairs. Carewyn glanced back at Tristan briefly, noting the anxiety in his pale, boyish face, before quickly taking off after her uncle.

“Your brother is already in the room across from my office,” Blaise shot over his shoulder at Carewyn as they raced down the hall. “I instructed Claire to move him to the chaise longue in there while I distracted Corban. In the office is the Floo grate you can use to transport Jacob out of here -- I’ll mop up whatever blood he leaves behind once you’re gone -- ”

The thought of Jacob bleeding heavily made Carewyn’s heart pang with anxiety. She tried once again to reach out to Jacob with her mind.

Jacob. Jacob!

That familiar presence stirred again.

Pip? Pip!

He was close! Carewyn felt her heart leap.

Jacob! Jacob, are you awake?

Pip -- no -- I don’t think so, Pip --

Images of buildings overwhelmed by Fiendfyre dragons and manticores swam over Carewyn’s eyes. Jacob himself was fully surrounded, flinching with pain every time the heat lashed at his limbs -- holding his arms out wide as if to protect the alley behind him from the flames he was actively confronting -- Jacob’s determined thoughts echoing in her own head, and then his voice choked by the sooty air -- I can’t let them go any farther -- “Finite Daemonium!” --

You’re dreaming, Jacob, she told him firmly.

I thought so. Pip, where are we? You’re close, but...I can’t tell where you are, from looking at it...

Never mind that now. Don’t worry, I’m coming --

Carewyn was so locked on her brother’s mind that she ended up overtaking Blaise in the last stretch, barreling over to the door through which she could sense Jacob. She seized the door to the room neighboring the office that had once belonged to Charles Cromwell and threw it open.

Lying prone on his stomach across the chaise longue was the real Jacob. His face, neck, and back were covered in bandages and orange burn paste, both of which could only half disguise the severe burn marks that slashed across his back and had hacked a good chunk out of his long hair.

Carewyn’s heart leapt into her throat.

“Jacob!”

She ran to her brother’s side and quickly tried to turn him over enough that she could take hold of his face with both hands.

Jacob! Carewyn urged him with her mind. I’m here, Jacob -- focus on my voice, Jacob --

Jacob gave a soft groan of pain in his sleep, but inside his own mind, he was more aware and easier to hear than before.

Pip. Pip -- Honeydukes. Were there casualties?

Carewyn’s heart sank remembering what Tristan had said about the Death Eaters’ attack in Hogsmeade.

...I don’t know, but...the building was completely destroyed. It was burned to the ground.

She could feel Jacob’s heart pang with guilt and sorrow, hearing this. The face of a pretty woman with a blond bun and a strong jawline handing him several boxes rippled over her eyes -- “ -- for your tenants, not you, so don’t gorge yourself -- ”

“You’ll have to hide him yourself,” said Blaise tersely, once he’d caught up with her. “Claire might be loyal enough to keep her mouth shut, and Pearl dislikes the Dark Lord’s methods enough herself that she won’t be too cross, but I can’t take the risk that that idiot Marek learns of Jacob’s true condition, considering his blood relations...”

Carewyn’s eyes shot back up to Blaise, narrowing slightly.

“Is this why you wanted me to come so quickly?” she asked. “Because you knew once Claire’s husband came home, it’d be harder to hide Jacob from him and the Death Eaters?”

“Of course,” snorted Blaise. “Your brother would undoubtedly throw a fit if he woke up here. And although I would normally be perfectly willing to deal with one of your brother’s little temper tantrums, Marek hears more than enough from Corban that he’d be able to deduce where Jacob’s injuries came from, if he saw them. And just about everything Marek thinks, Corban could eventually hear.”

Jacob’s form twitched sharply.

Pip. Pip -- is that Blaise with you?

Jacob seemed to writhe in both anger and anxiety, even through the pain that still pulsed through his every vein and made it hard for him to move. Carewyn hurriedly brought a hand through his bangs, trying to soothe him.

It’s okay, Jacob. It’s okay.

“As much as I could take better care of both of you here,” Blaise said with a glare across the hall at the closed office door, “I’ll have to leave this to you and your mother, to sort out...”

The Head of the Cromwell Clan strode over to the office, threw open the door, and moved toward the blazing fireplace. He seized a cluster of Floo powder from a dish on the mantle and tossed it into the flames, turning them a bright emerald green. Then he returned to the sitting room where Carewyn was bent down beside Jacob, hoisting Jacob up into his arms with some difficulty so he could carry the younger man into the office. Some blood leaked through the bandages on Jacob’s right shoulder, staining the carpet.

“Ugh -- you’re far too weak to lift him on your own, but I must get downstairs quickly,” Blaise instructed Carewyn. “Choose your destination, and then use Mobilicorpus to carry him into the grate. The fireplace’s tiles are already arranged in the correct order to allow one to leave on a Tuesday, so we shouldn’t have to worry about anyone else coming through the Floo Network in the meantime.”

Seeing Carewyn's deep frown at his word choice, Blaise gave her a dark smile.

“Your grandfather was very strict about when a person could come or go from this house, and so am I,” he said, lowering Jacob down into the armchair beside the fireplace. “Be grateful for my mercy, under the circumstances.”

Carewyn pursed her lips.

“Grateful? For not keeping us locked up in a cage?” she whispered tartly. “Forgive me for not singing your praises. It’s shameful enough that you’ve already done it to your own son -- ”

“I’m protecting him,” Blaise retorted, his eyes flaring with temper. “Just as I would you, Lane, and Jacob, if you all would just open your eyes. At least then you and Jacob wouldn’t be throwing yourselves into Fiendfyre for the sake of some low-class shopkeepers -- ”

Jacob must’ve heard that through his connection with Carewyn’s mind, despite the state of delirium he was in, for at that moment he lashed out his limbs violently. The burns to his chest, however, abruptly made his body crumple in on itself as he moaned in pain.

“Clearly those ‘low-class shopkeepers’ mean a lot to Jacob,” Carewyn said fiercely. “So keep your insults to yourself.”

She turned her focus back to Jacob, trying to send soothing thoughts through her Legilimency. Then, her eyes still narrowed, she looked back up toward Blaise, her gaze landing on his shoulder rather than his face.

“...Thank you,” she said softly. “For saving him.”

Blaise scoffed as he turned away. “I said it before -- I’m the head of our family. It’s my duty to take care of you.”

Despite this, his face betrayed a rather self-satisfied expression as he headed for the open door. Once he’d reached it, he rested his hand on the frame as turned back to look over his shoulder again at Carewyn.

“Safe travels, Winnie,” he said, unable to fight back a smug smirk despite himself. “Do try to return home sometime in October, won’t you? Tristan plays the piano for hours, on his birthday...”

“This is not my home, Blaise,” Carewyn said coldly. “And don’t call me Winnie.”

Blaise was still smirking like a cat who’d successfully caught a rat as he retreated from the room, closing the office door behind him with a snap. As soon as Blaise was gone, Carewyn took her wand back out and flourished it at Jacob.

“Mobilicorpus.”

Ghostly white ropes emerged from her wand and lashed themselves onto Jacob’s limbs, allowing her to lift him off the chaise longue and carry him after her like a balloon on a string.

Pip --

Shh, Carewyn sent Jacob more comforting vibes through her Legilimency. You can sleep easy now, Jacob -- we’re going home.

With some difficulty, she eased herself and Jacob into the Cromwell fireplace, resting a hand beside Jacob’s head so that it didn’t accidentally hit the top of it.

“Cromwell Cottage,” Carewyn said her mother’s new address very clearly, “Tintagel, Cornwall!”

And with a flash of green and a WHOOSH of air, both Carewyn and Jacob disappeared from the Cromwell Manor.

~*~

Lane Cromwell was also absolutely beside herself, at the sight of her son. She quickly shut down all emotion so she could set about brewing a large batch of burn paste at her large kitchen cauldron, while Carewyn reached out to her Healer friend Chiara, who sent over several more potions she’d brewed herself via Owl Post, which were specifically intended for reversing curse damage.

After administering the multiple potions to Jacob both orally and topically over the course of several hours, Jacob’s condition finally seemed to improve -- his back and right shoulder had scarred over badly thanks to the violently angry third-degree burns, but the pain had finally been tempered enough that Jacob could sleep peacefully and wake up very early the next morning, just before sunrise. Carewyn, who’d curled up asleep in the chair at Jacob’s bedside, woke up not long after he did, subconsciously sensing his thoughts poking at the inside of her mind.

Pip. Can you hear me, Pip?

She stirred restlessly.

Jacob...?

She slowly opened her eyes. Her older brother smiled tiredly up at her from the bed.

“Morning, Pip,” he murmured. His orange-paste-soaked, scruffy face was very gentle as he passed her several comforting mental images through his Legilimency -- Jacob and Carewyn hugging each other upon their shared graduation from Hogwarts -- them singing Christmas carols together -- Jacob as a teenager carrying his very sleepy little sister on his back to bed --

Carewyn immediately moved to unfurl herself from the ball she’d been curled up in on the chair, rubbing her eyes quickly to try to wake herself up.

“Jacob...”

She slid out of the chair to the floor, crawling on her knees over to Jacob’s bed. When she reached him, she threw her head protectively over his heart as Jacob -- predicting the move long before she’d made it thanks to his Legilimency -- encircled her in his arms, bringing a hand gently through her hair. She knew he could feel her heart beating against the front of her rib cage -- see the memory of how scared she was, seeing his condition at Cromwell Manor -- Lane’s reaction, to seeing him...

“I’m sorry, Pip,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I worried you. You and Mum.”

Carewyn gave his arm a squeeze. “You were just trying to help the Flumes and Rosmerta. I know that.”

“I was,” assented Jacob guiltily. “But I should’ve been faster, I should’ve been able to do more. Then maybe Honeydukes...”

He exhaled heavily as he closed his eyes.

“I’d really wanted to save it,” he said lowly. “Even if just some of it was salvageable, at least then the Flumes would have somewhere to go -- some piece of what they had, at least some small thing they could hold onto and build off of. But they don’t...and now Hermia...”

He broke off, too despondent to put his grief into words. Carewyn gave her brother’s arm another supportive squeeze.

“They can rebuild, Jacob,” she said gently. “Jae told me that there were no casualties in Hogsmeade that night, because someone was able to reach the heart of the Fiendfyre tearing up the village and extinguish it.”

Carewyn smiled softly.

“I have a strong feeling that ‘someone’ was you, Jacob. And if it was, then the Flumes, and everyone else in Hogsmeade...they owe you their lives.”

She passed the warm pride that made her chest fit to burst through her mind to Jacob’s. It made his brother hold her that bit more tightly, leaning down awkwardly to rest his head on top of hers on his chest. Carewyn could see herself carrying Jacob into the Cromwell grate while supporting his head -- herself at age fifteen, running through the Portrait Vault to throw her arms around Jacob --

“And as usual,” he said through a slightly choked smile, “I owe you mine.”

Carewyn could sense him parsing through her memories of the Cromwell Manor. Seeing Blaise and that dark, cold house through her eyes made Jacob’s heart flare with distrust and resentment.

“Thanks for getting me out of there, Pip,” he murmured. “I don’t like thinking I owe that no-good, gaslighting old knob Blaise a favor.”

“After everything he did to you as part of R, this is the very least he could do,” Carewyn said dryly. “Even so...for once, I’d say we should be glad that Blaise is only stupid enough to pacify the Death Eaters, not actively support them...and that he’ll choose to protect you over elevating those relations of his that do.”

She paused. The memory of sitting by Tristan’s bedside while he was disguised as Jacob passed over her mind.

“...Jacob?”

“Yeah, Pip?”

“I think we should send something along in October, for Blaise’s son’s birthday. What Muggle sheet music do you think we should send him?”

Jacob blinked. Then his bandaged face broke into a huge grin as he started to laugh.

“...Dancing Queen. Merlin Alive, Pip, one of them HAS to be Dancing Queen.”

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #my writing #carewyn cromwell #blaise cromwell #jacob cromwell #tristan cromwell #corban yaxley #claire cromwell #hermia flume #clare's a stay-at-home mom so she's pretty much always at the cromwell manor #blaise stayed home because 'family emergency' -- in this case tristan being sick #the others all have work until five or six in the evening #including tristan's older cousins arsen and kain (pearl's sons) and dahlia iris heather and elmer (claire's kids)#they have very prompt schedules and are expected to *never* be late #due to blaise's latent 'control freak' issues (thanks charles)#so yeah little to no social life for those poor kids :(#still at least they get *some* social interaction by being at work -- poor tristan is stuck inside almost 24/7 #unless his father actually agrees to take him on an outing #tristan is fascinated with creatures and their anatomy hence the dog skeleton #he put the ugly christmas sweater and collar on it because it's the closest thing he has to a pet #the dog skeleton's name is funny bone #honestly this kid would be SUCH a tim burton fan if he was in the muggle world #he's legit that 'weird kid' archetype #it's also why thestrals are his favorite magical creature -- he thinks their skeletal look is oddly beautiful #not that he's been able to see one for real hence why he looks at pictures others have drawn and collects models of them #honestly it was kind of fun to explore tristan's personality outside the cinderella au #in canon they meet when they're older and after blaise was sent to azkaban due to carewyn and jacob's efforts #so yeah a bit more baggage and yet also tristan is older and has seen how desperately blaise wants their family together again #even though yeah jacob carewyn and lane are thoroughly within their rights not to want to engage with that toxic bugger

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