Chapter Text
Alfā Hermione Mendonça
September 19th, 1986
(Hermione’s birthday)
7 years old
She is born in overbearing heat, and yet, her body is covered in a cold sweat; a great yawning pit of empty loss twisting deep within her gut. Eyes open slowly, ash and grit sticking to her lashes, she beholds a dark world of black fire. Writhing, churning, lashing out like a caged beast, the black tongues of the living furnace displays its displeasure; it’s hunger; and it scares her.
And then: a soft warmth on her back.
She tears her gaze from the all consuming monster to behold a tall woman next to her who looks to be in her late twenties, staring at the black fire, face blank. But the woman’s hand, large and firm, is comforting. Familiar, somehow, but she doesn’t recognize the woman.
The woman raises her other hand with the lazy grace of a predator, and without a word, a beam of brilliant white flames erupt from her palm, blinding the girl and leaving after-spots dancing in her vision.
The effect is immediate: the black fire screams just once, only once, as the white flames subsume it entirely, changing the world from an eerie glow to a stunning brilliance. The woman lowers her hand, her white flames sputtering out around her palm, but still continuing to crackle and twirl where the black fire once was.
Powerful still, yes, but these are flames she could stand proudly in their caress.
“I am sorry, dear one; I should have arrived sooner,” the woman says mournfully, her words tingling in the girl’s ears, and her young mind catches up seconds later.
French. The woman spoke French, and she understood.
“It’s okay, I forgive you,” she replies, the language coming naturally to her, although the sound of her first words startles her.
The woman smiles sadly, and then finally looks down at her.
“Do you remember me?” the woman asks, hopeful, perhaps?
Under the calm darkness of pre-dawn, illuminated by the white flames, the girl takes the time to properly study the woman, noticing the burn scar first.
Massive, the savage markings cover the entire left side of the woman’s face, neck, and presumably shoulder. It is distinct, direct, and the girl finds that she doesn’t mind looking at it; it holds no fear over her.
The woman’s facial features are angular, almost bird-like in a way. Short, wavy auburn-red hair is styled back and away from the face, highlighting pale skin and burning-amber eyes—an unforgettable color. One the girl is sure she’d remember. Yet, not even the woman’s scent of ash with a hint of underlying hyacinth stirs any namable recognition in her mind.
“I’m sorry, I don’t. Who are you?” she asks, a touch of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. The woman tilts her head, contemplative, nonjudgemental, or at least the girl hopes so.
“I am Alfā Scarlet Mendonça, and,” here Écarlate pauses, eyes sliding back to the white flames for a long minute before returning to the girl’s.
“You are my daughter, not by flesh, but by blood and heart,” Écarlate confesses, and the girl blinks slowly, confused. This woman is her mother by blood and heart? What is an Alfā? What does that even mean?
She inquires Écarlate so.
In response, the woman gestures to the white flames, regret lingering in her eyes.
“Your Mum, the one who conceived you, has joined the Peaceful One’s dreams,” she replies, not quite answering the question.
Ah, so her mum is dead then. A pang of sadness resonates in the girl, for she mourns what she could have had, even if she doesn’t know her mum.
“Why?” she asks, and at this, Écarlate, her mother, moves to gently pull the girl close to her side, her hand on the girl’s back sliding up to rest on her shoulder.
“I . . . I don’t know. Black fire is the unnatural work of the Cold Souls,” her mother spits out the last words hatefully, and the girl is even more confused. Who is the Peaceful One? What are Cold Souls?
“So, the . . . Cold Souls, got her? They’re why she’s with the Peaceful One?” she clarifies, and her mother nods silently.
“She loved you a great deal, Hermione. She would not have left you otherwise,” her mother says, and the girl, Hermione, jolts at hearing her own name.
Her name, how could she have forgotten? How silly of her.
She is Hermione Mendonça, the—the what? What else is she? The loss in her pulls at her, trying to remind her of something just out of mental reach.
“Oh,” is all she can respond with. There’s simply nothing else to say.
Her mother observes her face, searching for something, but of what, Hermione knows not.
“Come, let us depart from this wretched place,” her mother decides, hoisting Hermione into her arms.
“Where are we going?” Hermione asks, a sudden trepidation gnawing at her insides at leaving the spot where her memories began, even if they were born bathed in the light of the Cold Soul’s black fire.
“Home, dear one, we are going home,” her mother coos, and the world of fire falls around them like shifting grains of sand dispersing into the wind.
Beta Daphne Greengrass
^ September 19th, 1986 ^
7 years old
“Astoria! Come on, this isn’t funny! Father is going to be so mad when he finds out that you’re spying!” Daphne hisses at her younger sister. Her younger Alpha sister, who at five years old assumes she can do anything she pleases, consequences be, well, damned.
“You mean, if, Father finds out, now shush, I’m trying to listen,” Astoria sticks her tongue out childishly, and then presses her ear against the crack in the wall in the quaint little sojourning tea room. Daphne scoffs, but glances about quickly, scenting the air.
There is no one in this part of the prestigious Malfoy Manor, but that does not mean they are alone, of this Daphne is certain. The portraits of past generations of Malfoys could report them, not to mention any House-Elf coming to clean will be very cross at their loitering presence indeed.
They are most definitely not supposed to be here—they have tea time with Lady Malfoy and their mother in an hour!
“Astoria, cease and desist this at once! It is unbecoming of a—hmph!” Daphne shoves away the hand slapped over her mouth with a glare, a retort on the tip of her tongue when she hears her name seep through the crack. Quite loudly in the voice of her father.
Astoria glances wide-eyed at Daphne, who reluctantly presses herself close to her younger sister, tilting her head to listen as well.
“—apologies, Lord Malfoy, for my outburst, but again, I’m afraid I cannot accept your request. My Lady wife’s maiden family, the Fréminet’s, are Vassals to the noble French House Beauharnais, and as such they have greater claim for my Heir’s hand. Furthermore, my Spare will continue my line, so unless you have a Spare of your own, my hands are tied.”
The usually calm and steady timbre of her father, Alpha Hughes Greegrass, is strained with frustration, and a hint of anger, if the way his curt words are any distinction.
Astoria nudges Daphne hard, and she shoves her younger sister right back. She knows this is about her future, she doesn’t need a physical reminder. If anything, she’s surprised that her father hasn’t lined up more offers for her hand.
Most respectable Pureblood witches have contracts drawn up before they are born, although Daphne concedes—and thanks Merlin for—her French heritage grants her some decisions and time for her future marriage.
“I see. Very well, Lord Greengrass, I can see your mind is made up. However, before I shall bother you no further on the subject, would you indulge me in what your plans are for your Spare? Consider it friendly curiosity, nothing more,” the smooth, low tones of Lord Malfoy responds neutrally.
“How persistent of you, Lord Malfoy. Nevertheless, I shall indulge your curiosity. As it stands, the French House Delaroche and House Zabini have lobbied forth their offered prospects for my Spare. However, when she comes of age, I predict she will have no trouble landing herself a spouse,” her father chuckles a little at this, and Lord Malfoy hums.
Daphne ignores Astoria’s poking. She knows she’ll most likely end up marrying some Beauharnais Alpha, and can only hope that she will grow to love them. She remembers her best mate and confidant, Alpha Pansy Parkinson, whining about her own parents impressing upon her need to find a respectable Omega. Realistically, Daphne also knows she’s very lucky to have some choices in marriage. Many Pureblood witches lack such opportunities.
“That is indeed fortuitous news, Lord Greengrass. Alas, it is a pity that we could not join our Houses today, but I respect your matches, and wish my blessings upon the future unions,” Lord Malfoy says slyly, and Daphne hears her father shift.
“In the spirit of fortune, if I may be so bold, why did you not produce a Spare? I will admit I then would have been tempted to sway my Lady wife’s ear to the British prospects.”
Astoria pretends to gag while Daphne rolls her eyes. Thank Merlin that Lord Malfoy’s Heir is an only son, and although she’s never met Alpha Draco Malfoy in person yet, she’s heard from Pansy that Heir Malfoy is a spoiled prat.
Lord Malfoy sighs.
“I’m afraid it is a little more complicated than it seems, Lord Greengrass, but my Lady wife is content with our one son, so I have not broached the subject with her,” he replies candidly, which surprises Daphne. She hears the sound of soft thumbing of clothes, and surmises her father must have given Lord Malfoy a reassuring pat on the arm.
“House Malfoy has always been good to House Greengrass. If an opportunity arises, you shall be the first to know, my friend,” her father says, and Daphne can practically hear Lord Malfoy grin.
“I appreciate it, truly, my friend. Now, let us discuss other matters—wine?” Lord Malfoy’s tone changes, turning almost casual.
“I’m afraid I must protest, Elain has gotten it into her head that I shall not consume any wine that did not come from her family’s vineyards, or before she tests it for herself first,” her father laughs.
“Omegas with their peculiarities, eh, Hughes?” Lord Malfoy drawls, and Astoria pulls away from the crack, a bored expression on her face.
“Well, that was something,” she yawns, and then squeaks hard. Daphne leaps to her feet, pulling her younger sister up with her to see an angry House-Elf in a clean pillow case, glaring up at the sisters with their tiny hands on their hips.
“Guests not be allowed in the Master’s Wing!” The House-Elf huffs, and with a snap of their fingers, Daphne and Astoria shriek as they’re instantly Apparated away back to their assigned guest rooms.
Alpha Draco Malfoy
^ September 19th, 1986 ^
6 years old
Spending time with his older cousin—first cousin once removed if he wants to be technical—is both annoying and boring at the same, Draco decides, sighing again. Grimmauld Place gives him the creeps—what is with the “decor” of the place?! House-Elf heads on the walls?!
Ludicrous!
Absolutely mad!
Who wants to see the help as ornamental pieces anyway? House-Elves are to be heard and not seen, if you have to ask him.
Sighing for the umpteenth time, Draco flips the page of the book in his lap, eyes reading but mind not absorbing any of the contents. His older cousin, Beta Regulus Black, takes a sip of his tea, perfectly content to read in the library.
Merlin, what he would give to be back home on his broom. Why he was kicked out of his own Manor is preposterous; it is his territory! Well, not really, but it will be his when he grows up!
So what if his father wants to speak to an old packmate from his school days? Draco can behave! He can’t even get to meet the two children coming over. One of them is an Alpha, so they could have done something fun.
Grumbling, he flips another page, and Regulus looks over at him.
“What seems to trouble you, Draco?” the older Beta’s soft voice is often a balm compared to his elder Alpha brother, Sirius Black, who is brash, crass, and a scoundrel. That’s what his father describes the “Rogue Black” as.
Currently, Sirius isn’t at the house, he practically never is unless needed, something about “bad blood” between him and the recently deceased great-aunt Walburga, who passed away last year.
Therefore it fell to Regulus to take care of Grimmauld Place.
“I’m bored,” Draco grumbles, carefully shutting the book. One earful from his mother about damaging books is enough warning for a lifetime.
“Well, what would you like to do?” Regulus asks, and Draco immediately brightens.
“Let’s go flying! Father wouldn’t let me today because of his ‘oh so important meeting’,” Draco rolls his eyes, and Regulus chuckles.
“Alright then, I have some spare brooms that we can use,” the Beta says, leading the way out of the library.
“Ha! Yes! Get ready to eat my broomsticks, old man, I bet I can out race you around the house!” Draco brags, elbowing Regulus, who smirks.
“‘Old Man?’ I’ll let you know I’m in my prime, and you’ll be eating my broomsticks,” the older Beta drawls, using his longer legs to stride faster to the where the brooms are kept on the first floor, forcing Draco to trot after him to keep up.
“If by ‘prime’ you mean ‘ancient’! Twenty-five is old!” Draco retorts playful back, waiting for Regulus to hand him a broom. He gets a flick to the forehead for his smack. Ouch, Draco rubs the spot with narrowed eyes.
“Prepare yourself then, this ‘old man’ is going to beat your arse,” Regulus grins widely, and then they’re outside on the lawn.
“First one to loop the house at the third floor level and land here is the winner!”
Draco has no time to prepare as the older Beta rockets off with a crackle.
“Hey no fair!” he cries, leaping on his broom and racing after Regulus, pressing himself close against the broom handle for faster speed. The world blurs around him as he skims close to Grimmauld Place, Regulus soon behind him.
“On your right!” the older Beta crows as he deftly zooms around Draco, who roars his frustration.
“Smarmy git!”
One lap becomes two, two becomes three, and Draco dives for the landing spot, hurting at breakneck speed; he’s got to win! He doesn’t hear the panicked yell, but as he looks back to gloat his win, he catches a flash of Regulus’ terrified expression before pain explodes through his torso.
Air knocks out of his lungs, and Draco sees black for a few seconds. His body is on pins and needles, as if his skin is being stabbed by thousands of knives, his chest rattling like chimes. Blinking, he idly wonders who put a blindfold on him, and can someone stop that infernal ringing?
Gradually, thought he doesn’t know quite when it happens, his world stops being black and slowly the sight of Regulus leaning over him appears, wand waving over him.
“Regulus?” is what he wants to say, instead something garbled comes out.
“Shhh, it’s okay Draco, you’re safe, I’ve got you,” the older Beta soothes, his pheromones clouding around them in a protective bubble. It feels nice, whatever his cousin is doing, numbing Draco’s body.
“Fuck, Cissa is going to kill me, revive me, and kill me again,” Regulus mutters under his breath.
“Mother?” Draco gasps, successfully this time.
“Yes, Draco, I sent a Patronus to your mother,” Regulus says in a grave tone of a man marching to his death. Draco has no idea what a Patronus is, but deems that it isn’t important.
“It was my fault, I should have paid attention, I’ll tell her that,” Draco rasps, and something warm shines in Regulus’ eyes at that.
“Thank you, but as much as I appreciate it, as your elder, I should have not encouraged the race, the responsibility falls on me,” he says softly, tapping his wand against Draco’s chest, and the pain of breathing wrong vanishes.
“How’d you do that? And since when do you know so many healing spells? I thought you were a librarian?” Draco asks, sitting up, and Regulus flicks him on the forehead, much more gently than the first time.
“How rude! Is this the thanks I get for healing you? Hmph! Some Pureblood Alpha you are, no manners at all!” Regulus scoffs, folding his arms, but a wry smile graces his lips. Draco ducks his head, embarrassed by his lack of tact. What would his mother say?
“Sorry, Regulus. Thank you for healing me with your powerful healing magic. I’m grateful,” Draco apologies, and Regulus laughs.
“Why, I accept your apology, I’m glad I got to you in time, or otherwise this would be an entirely different conversation,” the older Beta jokes, nudging Draco with an exaggerated wink. Draco takes stock of himself: his completely healed self, and something pops into his head, his mouth moving before his mind can.
“Say, why didn’t you use your healing magic on great-aunt Walburga? I mean, did you?” he asks curiously, and instantly knows he messed up. Regulus freezes, his expression closing, and for the first time in Draco’s life, he looks at the face of a Heir Black staring him down. Even though his cousin is a Beta, his intensity makes Draco lower his eyes, clicking his mouth shut tight.
The air is palpable with tension around them, and he wishes desperately to return it back to the carefreeness it was before.
“Sorry, forget I asked,” he mumbles, and after a beat, Regulus lets out a tight, controlled sigh.
“Tell me what you know of my mother,” the older Beta orders, and Draco rushes to comply.
“Father never said much about her, other than she was a Beta of a respectable family. Mother too, but that she was very sick. Aunt Andy said that great-aunt Walburga was ‘heavy’? I mean we all knew she was fat, so I don’t get why that was such a big secret. Aunt Bella said that she was barmy. Sirius, well, he said that she was evil, but he’s a Gryffindor, so anything he says is utter codswallop,” Draco reports, and Regulus looks away.
“Did your parents tell you how she died?” Regulus asks. Draco shrugs.
“Some kind of old age sickness that comes with old age, I assume, they never really told me outright,” he replies.
“Yes . . . ‘Old age sickness’ indeed. I could not help her even if I tried, I could only hope to . . . Alleviate her symptoms, to the best of my abilities, but not even I could stop her death,” the older Beta looks stoic, probably hiding his pain of losing his mother. Draco knows he’d be devastated if his mother died.
“It’s alright, at least she’s better off now, right?” he tries his best to console his cousin, who gives him an indiscernible look before a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“Yes . . . Quite. You are right.”
Draco smirks, pleased that he got the consolation right.
“Of course I am, I am Heir Malfoy, and I am never wrong!” he brags. Regulus raises a brow, opening his mouth to reply, but the sudden POP of Apparition next to them startles both of them.
A shadow looms terrifyingly over them.
“Beta Regulus Leonis Black, how are you faring today?” the paralyzing, sugary sweet voice of one Omega Narcissa Malfoy asks, her false smile showing every inch of her fangs.
Draco’s House-Elf, Dobby, worriedly glances between his mother and him.
“Dobby, take Draco back home, it appears I must have little chat with my darling cousin,” his mother orders, still in that fake sugary voice.
Draco wordlessly obeys, casting a look of camaraderie to Regulus over his shoulder, who’s visibly sweating. Taking Dobby’s hand, the House-Elf Apparates them back to the safety of his room, and he’s oh so grateful to be far away from the presence of his mother’s infamous cold fury.
Alpha Harry Potter
^ September 19th, 1986 ^
6 years old
Mabon, the Autumnal Equinox, is only three days away, and this means the Potter Manor is packed to the brim with people preparing for the celebration.
Harry’s grandpa, Alpha Fleamont Potter, directs the chaos of ongoings outside, his Alpha voice clear and commanding above the general hubbub of the crowd.
“Harry, you’re not picking the grapes right, you gotta twist,” his longtime childhood companion and best mate, Alpha Neville Longbottom, chides, tapping Harry’s hand.
“Oh, right mate,” he turns his attention away from people watching back to his assigned task.
“Worried about your Mum?” Neville asks gently, and Harry nods.
“Yeah, I dunno, I know she’s strong, and she’s got Bella with her, but I overheard Uncle Remus talking to Uncle Peter that the ritual sacrifice is a lot bigger than usual. I just don’t want her to get hurt,” he confesses, and Neville pauses in his grape picking to pat Harry’s knee.
“She’s gonna be fine, you know her! She’s the ‘Cleverest Alpha of her Age’! She’s powerful too,” Neville says, trying to cheer Harry up.
“Yeah, but why did Bella go with her? Usually the ritual hunt is done alone . . .” he trails off, unsure of himself. Neville thinks, and then shrugs.
“Maybe Head Black just wanted to? Merlin knows she does whatever she wants,” the other Alpha shivers, very much intimidated by Bella.
A bout of noise catches their attention, and they look over to see Alfā Dora Black apologizing profusely near a pile of spilled baskets, piles of bread strewn about her.
“Remind me again what an Alfā is?” Harry asks, watching as Beta Andy Black places a calming hand on her daughter’s shoulder, deftly steering her away from the mess.
“Um, basically, how to describe it, so there’s one big Alpha genus, and two species of Alpha within that class, but Alfās are the less dominant to crop up, so they’re a bit rarer,” the last part Neville mutters to himself.
“In non-plant speech please,” Harry clarifies. Uncle Sirius, his godfather from his dad, appears next to Dora, grinning and laughing at her while she playfully punches at him. Andy rolls her eyes good naturally, and makes her way over to her wife, Omega Teddy Black. Harry knows that Teddy’s real name is Theodora, but like mother like daughter, she prefers a nickname over her given one.
“Oh—ah, well my Nan just calls them ‘superior Alphas’, so, yea, but they’re just another kinda of Alpha,” Neville stammers.
“Harry! Neville! There you are, come on, the grapes can wait, they need some help in the kitchen,” uncle Peter calls over from near the Manor, and Harry eagerly dumps his grapes back in the bucket.
“Coming!” he yells, scampering off, Neville scrambling to follow him.
“What task are you doing?” Harry asks when they reach his older Beta uncle.
“I’m on herd duty,” uncle Peter jokes, ushering them inside.
“Now off to the kitchen you go! No detours!” he calls after them before departing. The inside of the Manor is transformed to appear like the wild, with moss covering the floors, vines draped elegantly over every wall, and so many flowers and plants nestled in the corners.
Plant heaven for Neville.
Heading swiftly to the kitchen, they are passed by two of Harry’s aunts, Alpha Emmeline Vance, his godmother from his mum, and her wife, Beta Dorcas Meadows, both sporting flower crowns. Although aunt Emmeline’s is crooked and refuses to be fixed.
“Good afternoon, Harry, Neville,” she greets them, attempting to correct her flower crown.
“It’s a bloody mess in the kitchen, you were warned,” she adds, and aunt Dorcas smacks aunt Emmeline on the shoulder.
“Language!” she scolds, reaching up to take her wife’s flower crown, while aunt Emmeline ducks her head, chastised. They round the corner, and are gone.
“What do you reckon is happening?” Neville asks worriedly.
“Well, I know Dad is there, so something crazy,” Harry replies, and Neville shudders.
“Oh no,” he moans.
“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” Harry reasons.
. . . It is that bad.
They stare in shock at the state of the kitchen, and the two full grown adults having what appears to be a food fight.
“Dad? Uncle Sev?” Harry asks, bewildered. His dad, Omega James Potter, is wearing an apron smeared with jam, tomatoes, and who knows what other kinds of vegetables and fruit, his wild hair similarly dirtied. In his hands he wields a rolling pin, the roller covered in oil, it’s rounded handle pointed at his opponent, uncle Beta Sev Snape, his godfather from his mum.
Uncle Sev’s face has some pie guts smeared across his face, and some strawberries stuck to his apron, but otherwise he was untouched. His weapon of choice is a cutting board.
“Um, Lord Potter? We came here to help?” Neville squeaks out.
“Oh—well, yes, I do suppose we went overboard,” Harry’s dad coughs, blushing as he rubs the back of his neck—smearing more food stuff there. Uncle Sev rolls his eyes, but puts the cutting board down.
“‘We’? I seem to recall that it was you, Potter, that threw the first olive,” uncle Sev drawls smugly.
“Oi! you ba—bat! Even if I did or did not throw such an olive, then you deserved it, you no-pie-crust lunatic!” his dad exclaims.
“Pies do not need crusts—the purpose is to see the intricate, interweaving mastery of the pie’s woven top!” Uncle Sev snaps back, jabbing at the lumpy mess on the floor.
“Yeah—well—your ingredient mixing skills are ass—assembled wrong!”
“‘Wrong?’ ‘Wrong?!’ Listen here, James, I am a Master Potioneer! I do not mix, ingredients, wrong! It is you who can not see my craftsmanship for what it truly is!”
“You put the eggs in before the butter!—Eggs, Severus! Think of the eggs!”
“The recipe did not specify when the eggs were needed, so I improvised!”
“No one likes to taste egg yolk on the sides of the bowl!”
“No one will! Everything—will—be—mixed! That is the point of the mixer!”
Harry and Neville give each other side eyes, as they slowly edge out of the kitchen, leaving the two arguing adults to battle their dominance over how to best prepare food. On the way, they bump into Harry’s grandma, Omega Euphemia Potter, who tilts her head, listening to shouting.
“—I’ll show you who can make the better strawberry jam! You slimy little ass!”
“You couldn’t show yourself out of a cauldron! At least I know how to use jam correctly!”
And more of the like. Grandma Euphemia rolls her eyes, and motions for Harry and Neville to follow her.
“Let’s leave them be. Now, follow me, there’s someone who would like to meet you two,” she says.
“Both of us?” Neville asks, surprised and she nods.
“Indeed. Now hurry along, best we not keep him waiting.”
Quickly following his grandma, she leads them to grandpa’s study lounge, pausing before the door.
“Be on your best behavior, I do not want to see any tomfoolery like those two rascals in the kitchen,” she orders, and Harry and Neville nod. Satisfied, she knocks, and then opens the door.
Entering, Harry notices a couple of people already in the room. Aunt Omega Marlene McKinnon is talking softly with aunt Omega Mary Mendonça, his godmother from his dad. Aunt Alpha Alice Longbottom is reclining on a chair, reading the Daily Prophet with her right hand, because her entire left side is nearly paralyzed. Her husband, uncle Omega Frank Longbottom, has his right thigh stump propped up on a stool, and his handless left arm rests on her chair arm.
Oh, and there is a massive snake coiled up on the floor near the fireplace, resting, tongue flicking out to taste the air every now and then.
There is also a new, middle-aged man talking with uncle Frank, who smells similarly to Tonks, in that they both have an almost spicy flavor to their Alpha scent.
“An Alfā,” Neville gasps quietly.
“Boys, I would like to introduce Alfā Tom Riddle, the British Minister of Magic,” grandma Euphemia says, her head bowing respectfully.
“Minister of Magic?!” Neville repeats in a squawk. The Alfā man in question pauses his conversation with uncle Frank, turning to face Harry and Neville. His dark eyes lighting up when he sees them.
“Ah, Lady Potter, is this Heir Potter and Heir Longbottom?” he asks, his voice deep and resounding. He walks closer to them, and Merlin, he’s tall. Harry has to crane his neck to look up at him: his short, wavy black hair sweeping elegantly to the left side of his forehead, and high cheekbones scream aristocracy.
This close to Minister Riddle, Harry can basically taste sheer power radiating from the him.
“Heir Potter, Heir Longbottom, I am pleased to finally meet your acquaintance, both Bella and Lily speak highly of you,” Minister Riddle says fondly.
“Er—likewise?” Harry says stiltedly, glancing at grandma Euphemia, who nods encouragingly. Minister Riddle smiles.
“I have been told that you both possess quite talented skills for your age; Heir Potter, master of broomsmanship, and Heir Longbottom, the steward of the earth,” he states.
“Oh, thanks. I really like flying, it kinda feels natural, you know?” Harry replies, and Minister Riddle chuckles.
“Ah yes, I remember my Quidditch days, quite exhilarating they were,” he reminisces.
“What player were you?” Harry asks, relaxing. He can talk about Quidditch.
“Why, I was a Seeker,” Minister Riddle says with a smirk.
“I wanna be one too! I’m gonna be a professional Quidditch player when I grow up!” Harry declares, and Minister Riddle smiles again, amused.
“I have no doubt about that, Heir Potter. As long as you keep your studies up, I see no obstacle in your desired path.”
Minister Riddle’s words make Harry swell with pride, and he nods, happy.
“Heir Longbottom, I have heard nothing but praises song from Lady Zanini about your skill in her gardens, ‘an Alpha with an innate green thumb’, is what I believe she described you as,” Minister Riddle compliments. Neville stammers intelligibly, face flushing nervously, still looking down.
Harry, as subtly as he can, nudges the other Alpha, who finally dares to look at Minister Riddle, not quite meeting the Alfā man’s eyes, but at least his head isn’t bowed.
Harry nudges Neville again as the awkward silence persists.
“OH! Right! Thanks! Er—thankyouverymuchforyourkindwords!” the other Alpha blurts out.
Harry nudges Neville again.
“Thank you! It was nothing,” Neville shouts at first, then trails off. Harry glances at grandma Euphemia, whose eye is twitching.
“Ah nonsense, you have a talent with the greenery, Heir Longbottom. Tell me, have you considered becoming a Herbologist or a Healer?” Minister Riddle continues on as if Neville hadn’t just made the most awkward social interaction in his life, and coming from Harry, that’s saying something.
“Ah, um, I guess?—Sure! I think, I, I think I want to, I mean, I think it would be cool, but I’m not sure, I like plants, but I dunno if that pays well,” Neville stammers, and Harry wants to face palm. Neville is great one-on-one, he’s intelligent, but put in him in a room with strangers and he shrinks in on himself.
“Nev’s a whizz at making plants grow, Minister Riddle!” Harry interrupts, ignoring Neville’s soft, panicked whisper of his name.
“I mean it! He could make your dead plant come back to life! He’s great at knowing all kinds of plants too! Especially magical ones, he knows them all by heart!” Harry boasts for his friend, who has gone even more red. Minister Riddle stares down at Harry, silent, his expression blank, but eyes calculating.
“How extraordinary, Heir Potter has truly sung your praises, Heir Longbottom,” Minister Riddle says, but Harry catches something weirdly off with his tone, and by the narrowing eyes of grandma Euphemia, she does too.
“Heir Longbottom is indeed gifted in the studies of herbology, Minister Riddle. Perhaps he could show you some of his collections,” grandma Euphemia says, pulling Minister Riddle’s attention away from them. Neville sags as soon as the intense Alfā’s gaze leaves them, but he squeezes Harry’s hand.
“Thanks,” he whispers. Harry squeezes back.
“You’re amazing Nev, everyone should know it,” he whispers back.
“Heir Potter, Heir Longbottom.”
They look back at Minister Riddle, who has a distinct gleam in his dark eyes.
“I expect great things from the two of you,” is all he says before turning to speak with uncle Frank again. Grandma Euphemia makes a fast shooing motion, and Harry and Neville book it out of the room, but not before Harry swears the massive snake waves its tail tip at him.
Beta Neville Longbottom
^ September 19th, 1986 ^
6 years old
It’s nearing the turn of evening, and everyone congregats to the Potter Manor great hall for an early dinner. Looking up from his place further down table towards the head, it’s clear to Neville that Harry’s fidgeting. Vibrant green eyes glancing to the great hall’s doors, as if willing the younger Lady Potter and Head Black’s return.
The two noticeably empty chairs, one beside the elder Lady Potter, and one beside Mrs. Black, Head Black’s sister, make the entire hall feel uneasy. Even Mr. Lupin and Lord Black are deep in what looks like a serious discussion, while Mr. Pettigrew keeps looking out the many windows.
Only Neville’s Nan remains unconcerned.
“Lady Potter is a mighty fine Alpha, and Head Black is fierce. If they have taken this long, it is because they have found a worthy prey to hunt,” his Nan declares loudly.
“I quite concur, Lady Longbottom, my daughter-in-law shall return to us. There is no cause to fear,” the elder Lord Potter adds, his authority spreading down the table. Another glance at Harry, and Neville knows that his best mate isn’t convinced.
“Reckon they found something big?” Dora, who’s next to him, wonders aloud.
“Maybe? I just hope they weren’t hurt,” he mutters, and she shrugs.
“Well, given it’s Aunt Bella, so it’s probably big,” she muses, her hair starting to morph back into its bubblegum-pink at the edges. Neville gently taps the table near her hand. She glances at him, and he looks pointedly at her hair.
“Ugh! This is so stupid, why does it matter if my hair is pink or not? It won’t get Fleamont’s wrinkled knickers in a twist,” she grumbles, and then yelps as her mum pinches her.
“That’s ‘Lord Potter’ to you, young lady. And while in his household, eating his food, it is respectful to honor his wishes and rules,” Lady Black—the Beta—lectures, and Neville sees Dora barely hold in an eye roll.
“Yes, Mum,” she huffs, stabbing at her food, the pink fading back to black.
“Dora, you’re a First year now at Hogwarts, right? How is it?” Mr. Pettigrew interrupts, smiling calmingly.
“Oh it’s great! I got dared to swim in the Black Lake, and I did! Won me some galleons for it too!”
“Nymphadora! You swam in the Black Lake?!” Beta Lady Black gasps, scandalized.
“Muuuuuuum, I told you not to call me that!” Dora whines.
“Darling,” the other Lady Black—the Omega—places a hand on her wife’s shoulder, and she calms down a bit.
“You shouldn’t have done that, the Black Lake is not the place for students to go swimming in,” the Beta Lady Black scolds, and this time Dora does roll her eyes.
“But Mum! The Giant Squid is harmless, it—”
“She,” Neville mutters the correction. His mum told him the Giant Squid didn’t like being called an “it”.
“—she even let me touch one of her tentacles!”
“You TOUCHED—”
BANG!
All heads whip to the great hall’s doors, and Harry leaps to his feet with a jubilant laugh.
“Mum! Bella! You’re back!”
Indeed, standing proudly in the great hall’s doorway, is the younger Lady Potter, covered in blood, clothes shredded, scratches marring her freckled pale skin, and red hair untamed with all manner of forest undergrowth stuck in it, grinning madly.
Head Black is very similar in appearance, except her mouth is stained more with blood, her sharp fangs completely red. The pair look like two wilde fey creatures come to wreck havoc on the great hall, their magic whipped up around them in a primal frenzy.
Neville looks between them, and his jaw drops. There, blood pooling into the moss covered floor, lay the carcass of a full grown wolf, and it was beyond massive.
“Got your sacrifice, Lord Potter!” Head Black crackles, the sound sending chills down Neville’s spine.
“So it seems. Although, perhaps it could be moved so it is not melting into my floor?” the elder Lord Potter responds dryly, completely unfazed in the presence of an slightly unhinged Black.
“Boo,” Head Black sticks out her tongue, and Neville can’t help but notice that it too is still covered in blood. How is that even possible? Unless she took a drink of the wolf’s blood just before they burst in.
“Bella, be nice, we are messing up the moss,” the younger Lady Potter pants, but her eyes are still restless.
“We’ll be right back everyone,” she says louder, and together the two Alphas half haul half carry the huge wolf off.
“I didn’t know there were wolves out here,” Dora says, her tone suddenly pained.
“Do you like them?” Neville asks, and she shrugs.
“Kinda, I guess, I mean they’re cool, you know? They’re the animal most similar to us, with packs and all,” Dora frowns into her meal, stewing.
“I just don’t think I like to see them hunted?” she finishes, and Neville pats her arm.
“That’s okay. I don’t like to see people mistreat their plants either,” he says, and she smiles at him.
“Thanks Neville, you’re a good pup,” she teases, and he blushes, looking away from her. He can’t handle compliments and he certainly can’t handle them from pretty girls who like nature stuff.
“I’m not a pup,” he protests, and she giggles at him.
“Should I call you seedling instead?”
Now he rolls his eyes.
“Forget I said anything,” he says while she smirks.
Alpha Ginny Weasley
^ September 19th, 1986 ^
5 years old
If Ginny is going to accomplish anything, it’s going to be beating her older brothers on a broomstick.
No, Ginny, you’re a girl and so we don’t want to play with you.
No, Ginny, you’re too young to handle Quidditch.
No, Ginny, you’re too small.
No, Ginny, you’re too innocent, we will protect you.
No, Ginny, even though you’re the first Alfā Weasley in generations you must stay inside where it’s safe and comfortable and girly.
Well screw that!
Screw her brothers who pushed her to the side, especially Ron, bloody Ron! Acting as if he’s better than her even when he’s just a Beta, and a shit one at that. All her other brothers are Alphas, so they at least kinda respect her presentation.
The only brothers worth listening to—Bill, who’s a Sixth year, and Charlie, who’s a Fourth year—are off at Hogwarts. The perfect Alpha son and the disappointment Alpha son—her mum’s quiet mutterings, not Ginny’s opinions. Her dad has no opinions that aren’t her mum’s.
So she’s taking things into her own hands; sneaking out at night to practice on the old brooms from the shed. Flying clears her mind, when she’s practicing maneuvers she saw her brothers performing during the summer. It’s a little hard without other players, but she drills herself, imagining future opponents.
She’s got a smart enough head on her shoulders that she doesn’t bother touching the bludgers, she’s not that dumb, but she does take a gander at the quaffle and snitch. Although, given it’s extended and rough treatment from generations of Weasleys, the snitch is sluggish, and tends to fly in wide arcs instead of zipping around. After a few nights with the snitch, she decides that the quaffle is more her game anyway.
Rising as high as the broom can go, Ginny breaths in the cold night air, hovering near the second floor of the Burrow. Overlooking the rolling hills and scattered few houses here and there, she imagines herself flying away from everything.
Overlooked and suppressed is not the way to live, and she burns for more. To be more. She may be young, but she’s still got aspirations that aren’t finding some good Omega to sire a family with. Why is it up to her anyway? She’s got six older brothers, any of them can go tie the knot themselves to satisfy her mum’s weird obsession with a large family.
They’re too much already as seven.
Tossing the quaffle up and catching it, Ginny has an random thought of, what if? What if she did bow to her mum’s nagging about finding some future husband? What if she did marry? She scrunches up her nose at that. If she’s gonna marry, it’ll be on her own terms, and with someone she likes, not that she sees herself getting hitched.
Professional Quidditch players don’t have time for marriage, especially the Holyhead Harpies. Yes, that’s her goal; she’s got their posters all over her room. A full female team of Alphas, Betas, and Omegas; that’s her dream.
However, she knows she’s got a long way until then, so for now, she’ll train under the cover of night. She’ll lie to her mum about “yes, I’ll think about marriage”, she’ll lie to her brothers that “yes, I’ll stay safe”, and she’ll grow so strong so that one day she can say “yes, I’m more than just a tool for my family.”
Yes, that’s the dream.
Gamma Luna Lovegood
^ September 19th, 1986 ^
5 years old
She knows when her mum will knock on her door.
Knock knock!
She knows what her mum will say.
“Luna-love, dinner’s is ready,” her mum says sweetly.
She knows that it’s only salad because her dad, even as an Omega man trained in the culinary arts—burned the chicken.
“Unfortunately, Xeno burnt the chicken, so salad only,” her mum says.
She knows what to say to get her mum to come to her side, distressed Gamma pheromones flaring. She knows what to say to have her mum leave none the wiser. She knows what to say to shock her mum frozen.
“Oh that’s alright, I’ll still eat it,” she says.
She knows what her mum will say.
“Ah, we should eat it! A bit of char never hurt anyone,” her mum laughs, and leaves.
She knows she knows she knows she knows she knows she knows she knows she knows she knows.
It hurts to know.
There’s just so much to know—and in the knowing she knows things can change on the spin of a knut. So many threads, so many connections, all knowings and know-hows and know-nots and she knows how it all ends.
She knows how she ends before she knows the beginning.
She knows too much, but that is her burden to know. Always knowing, always watching but always never telling. No one can know what they shouldn’t know.
She can’t let her dad know that he will purchase a murder weapon.
She can’t let her mum know that she will orchestrate her own death.
She can’t let her mum know that she knows when she’ll die, and she’ll be unable to stop it.
So she cherishes the time she has with her, and knows that she’ll only have four more years with her mum.
Magic/Lexicon:
Turning on the spot/moving swiftly while concentrating on the three D's: Destination, Determination, Deliberation, thus instantly teleports the user with a crack or pop, feels like being squeezed in a narrow tube when traveling || other magical creatures can Apparate, sometimes differently too = Apparate/Apparator/Apparition/Disapparate