Chapter Text
The diary occupies her mind for the next several hours.
She writes in it obsessively, but when she finds herself thinking about realistic ways a twelve year old would kill themself, she takes a step back for her own sanity and focuses back to the read world. Calm. Cool. Collected. Sleep comes disturbed.
Angelina encounters her in the morning, where Miri definitely should have slept in a few more hours after that tumultuous night, because her vision is spotty and black at the edges, and it takes a few tries to aim her fork at the fried eggs. The strawberry jam will be the next hurdle, definitely. She doesn’t notice a sweaty, post-morning practice quidditch player settling down in front of her at the Ravenclaw table for a good minute, just trying to get the eggs. Mmm, protein.
A hand waves under her nose.
“Hello? Earth to Miri?” Angelina asks.
Miri blinks. It doesn’t help with the exhaustion. “Good morning,” she says.
“Did George knock you up already, or are you starting a training regimine? Also, you look awful. How much sleep did you get last night?”
Her brain is mush, because she doesn’t understand any of that. “What?”
“It’s an absurd amount of eggs, is all,” Angelina continues. “I’d cap it at five, personally. But yeah, I think we ought to talk. Meet me in front of the Gryffindor common room today, half past?”
Miri doesn’t remember saying yes or no, but she must’ve shrugged or nodded, because Angelina leaves satisfied, leaving her to demolish the platter of eggs. And there’s a while to go till half past, so she wanders out of the Great Hall, unable to form any coherent thoughts, waiting for the breakfast tea to kick in, and finds herself in front of the prefect’s baths.
Might as well try to liven up a bit, she reasons, and goes in.
There’s proper shower rooms, all their own contained spaces with sealed doors and mirrors and a steamed seating area – an equivalent to a Finnish sauna, perhaps – from the hallway entrance before the massive multi-coloured fountain bath (which is co-ed, those nasty perverted founders), and she locks herself into one of them and stares numbly at the assortment of fancy taps and glass bottles. They all have different properties, for different hair types and styles, and in her delirious state, she can’t remember for the life of her which one she’s supposed to use. Wizards tend not to do helpful things like labels. It competes with the au natural hippie aesthetic, she supposes.
“This can’t end terribly,” she mutters to herself, picking up a shampoo vial with ruby-red liquid.
It ends up giving her possibly the worst bedhead she’s ever had in her life. The back sticks up like a hissing cat, and there’s a brand new curl here or there. At least there’s volume.
The shower has awoken her a bit, and she makes the leisurely journey to the Gryffindor tower to meet Angelina, who is chatting with the Fat Lady portrait, now wearing normal non-uniform clothes instead of quidditch garb. Her new braids are quite impressive, sleek and long, juxtaposed against her strong, bulky form, and in comparison Miri knows she must look quite severely concussed with her own dishevelled appearance, from the bedhead to eyebags to frumpy jumper hanging off her shoulders.
“Heyyy– oh, shit.” Angelina jumps.
The Fat Lady coughs.
“There was an unfortunate encounter with a potion,” Miri says. She decides to put her hair up in a ponytail to disguise some of the worst of it. “But I’m awake.”
Angelina doesn’t seem to believe her, which Miri finds slightly offensive, but after a moment of stumbling words, there’s general acquiescence. “Sure." There's a considerable pause. "Well, if you say so. Yes, it’s important so let’s go in now,” Angelina says. “Earl grey.”
The password must've been switched this morning.
They make their way through the short tunnel, ducking under the low rise bannister, and emerging out the other end into the common room, warm and cosy as yesterday, with a collection of seventh years piled on sofas around a fireplace. There’s George, sitting next to Fred, and Fowler and Jordan on another sofa. Miri sits next to George, and Fred moves to sit next to Angelina on the opposite couch.
“Is Roger coming?” Jordan asks.
Angelina shrugs. “Couldn’t find him. Kenny can catch him up, if he’s interested.”
George puts an arm around Miri and she leans into him, wondering if she can last long enough in his warmth to not fall asleep. She doesn’t know if they’ve gotten to the point in their relationship where it would be cute to drool all over his lap yet.
“Fine, well, I guess we can start discussing what to do about Umbridge’s detentions,” Angelina says, and Miri’s ears perk up. Ah. They work fast. Determined, loyal young people rising up against the machine. Last night, all the seventh years must’ve gone up and gossipped about the revelation behind Harry Potter’s torture. The final domino piece for those who appreciate a sense of morals and protection of minors. “I know a few people from Hogwarts who work for the Daily Prophet now, do you think we can reach out for a cover story? This has to be flat out illegal.”
Did anyone figure out Umbridge’s detentions in the Plot? Surely, yes. Abusers always escalate – it would’ve gotten out eventually, as an open secret, once Umbridge went from Harry to other students.
So the previous plan of exposing the crime must not have worked, or perhaps it was too late in the year, and the students’ psyches were too fractured and depressed after a long period of teacher abuse.
“We can purposefully do something nasty, get in trouble,” Fred suggests, leaning forward, fingers steepled against his temples, “could sneak extendable ears in her office that way and listen to whatever she gets up to with Fudge and the Ministry business.”
“Blackmail?” Stimpson asks.
George taps his fingers against Miri’s arm, in a nervous tell. “Anything to get her out, you think?”
“Bet there’s shite in there that’ll get the Prophet keening,” Fred snorts.
Corporal punishment isn’t illegal in the school, according to Hogwarts, a History, but blood quills were outlawed during the last war due to an unnecessary amount of pain inflicted on a minor – and frequent usage can result in permanent scarring. This society has a significant amount of focus on outward appearance, because magic can make anyone look their absolute best, with some (expensive) potions better than anything muggle cosmetics could ever dream to achieve, so any kind of scarring on the body is an instant what the fuck. Witches and wizards only ever scar from serious dark magic. Who wants to associate with someone on the receiving end of that kind of power? That’s risky.
The Gryffindors continue to discuss what their best options are. Miri slumps against George, and Stimpson catches her eye, and discretely mouths if she’s okay, pointing at her own eyes.
The eyebags must be horrendous. Miri conjures up enough effort to smile secretly, poke her tongue against the flesh of her cheek, and wink. Stimpson blushes, makes an amused face, and focuses her attention away.
The end consensus is to find a way to provide evidence to the media, because public opinion can heavily sway government decisions – it’s not a complete fascist dictatorship state. Yet. Which is why the current Minister of Magic is intent on defaming Harry as much as possible through the Daily Prophet, to make his word less reliable despite the truth of it. The confused and dumb masses will flock to Fudge and remain purposefully ignorant to the blinders forced upon them.
“Isn’t there a fourth year boy with a massive camera?” Miri asks, suddenly.
“Colin Creevey?” Jordan says. “Yeah, you’re right. But it’s not as if the cunt’s gonna agree to stand and pose, slashing open Harry’s hands in front of that bright camera flash.”
“Well,” Miri says reasonably, “why not a digital camera?”
“A what?” George asks.
“Muggle camera!” Jordan exclaims. “Fuck, that’s brilliant. No flash. You reckon you can ship it to the castle, though? I’m half-convinced they’ve been going through the mail this year – all my stuff has come up opened. Muggle stuff might not be approved.”
“Maybe they’re checking your orders because you’re you,” Angelina says. “Full offence.”
He flips the bird.
“I don’t know how digital cameras will interact with magic, though,” Miri says. “Professor Burbage keeps reiterating how the energy fields bounce off each other.”
“But has anyone ever tried taking a normal picture in Hogwarts?” Stimpson says.
Maybe, maybe not.
“It’s worth a shot,” Angelina says. “Miri, can you try owling it from your muggle relatives?”
No.
“My parents don’t do very well with the owl post,” she says, keeping her voice casual. “What about you, Stimpson?”
The serious meeting eventually devolves into a friendly catch-up, where the seventh-years complain about the new Slytherin jackass of the week, complain about homework, and discuss future career opportunities. They are all teenagers at the end of the day, and it’s important to socialise and joke around instead of only contemplating the inevitable slow crawl of the destruction of free media and public education. There’s no longer any need for her to pay attention, and her eyes grow heavier and heavier, and her head stuffier and stuffier.
Miri wakes up with a jolt.
This is not my bed.
It only takes a second to come to the realisation what must have happened since the last time she was awake. It’s a four poster bed with red curtains, there’s someone spooning her, so she must’ve fallen asleep, George noticed and carried her to the boy’s dormitory for an undisturbed nap (everyone catcalling all the while), and decided to nap with her. It’s an excellent deduction. Her eyes still feel heavy, but her head is clear, so it must not have been too long of a nap. This is why diaries suck.
But it’s nice to be held, she thinks privately. When was the last time anyone got this close?
A literal lifetime ago.
“Awake, are we?”
The low hum of his quiet voice, deep and breathy, in her ear, sends a warm curl at the pit of her stomach.
“Not yet,” she says. Her voice is husky with sleep. “I must still be dreaming, because there’s a strange man in bed with me.”
“Not too strange, I hope.”
“It’s an absolute nightmare. I think he’s stabbing me, too,” she says.
“Stabbing?” George says, with the ghost of a mocking tone. The half mast pressed against her ass stiffens, and his arm dragged over her twitches, the muscles tightening. “Knives are a bit gauche these days, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I suppose it is. I’d rather be stabbed with a sword,” she says.
“How disturbingly morbid,” he says. His arm slowly bends inwards, fingers grazing over the loose, thick fabric of her jumper, reaching down to the hem. “Is this foreshadowing?”
Oh god. He’s actually initiating all by himself. Miri could cry. Except this has to be the worst possible time, because she’s far too tired to fully enjoy or reciprocate any affections. “I hope so,” she whispers, closing her eyes. “But I’m so tired, I don’t think I could handle a sword or knife.”
A warm, dry hand crawls up her jumper.
“Up all night? Care to share with the class?”
Short fingernails lightly scratch the skin from her pelvis to ribcage. He traces around the swell of each breast, and she might’ve been moaning by now if she’d bothered to brew a pepper-up potion this morning. She can feel his heart beating against her back, blood rushing. “It’s a secret project,” she says. “I’ll tell you about it when it’s done. Might take a bit. Where’s my wand?”
“Bedside table,” he says. “You keep losing your wand around me, you know. Should I be worried for your safety?”
He fully grabs a boob, squeezing and massaging it, and she can feel lips brushing against the crook of her neck. He loops a leg over her hip to press himself flatter against her ass. His breathing is becoming uneven.
“I think I just trust you a lot,” she says, breath hitching, eyes still closed and heavy. “With things like my wand that falls out of my hair, or my unconscious body.”
“You about to fall asleep on me again, love?”
“Maybe,” she says.
She feels him pull away from her body, considers a moment of pity for blue-balling him, but a nap sounds really fucking good right now, and she drifts off.
And Miri’s woken up around lunch time, by a freshly showered and content George, so he’s probably already taken care of his own needs, and she grumbles out of bed, feeling much better and slightly ashamed of needing to nap like a baby. She draws back the curtains on the four-poster, and the dormitory is luckily empty – or by design – and the layout of four beds in the circular room makes her burn green with a sickening sort of miserable envy. Must be nice to have roommates. She stuffs her wand in her ponytail and does the walk of shame down to the common room, where more than a few eyes are on her coming out of the boys’ wing.
None of the seventh years are there to tease her, though. Small mercies.
The rest of the day is spent in the library, flipping through calculus books, thinking darkly about the diary in her bedroom. And when night comes, she grits her teeth, writes a few pages, and then goes to sleep.
The rest of the week follows the same pattern. Wake up, study, classes, study, diary, sleep. The pace of lessons has picked up drastically, the professors realising that there are only a few weeks left until the term ends, and she finds herself unable to have much time to see her new boyfriend or friends, who are all busy with their own fulfilling lives. The DA lesson that Thursday is a repeat of the last week, where Miri bullies Harry until he explodes and unleashes a torrential and uncanny ability of wandless magic. It’s quicker this week, however, and it only takes ten attempts for him to accio his wand straight into his face, leaving behind a funny looking bruise on his eyebrow.
“That’s a lot of power,” she notes.
Harry tenderly touches his head. His hand is still bandaged. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Right now, bad. Later on, once you’ve got a grasp of it, good. Really good.”
He gives her a bit of a stink eye, and she’s not sure why, so she brushes it off as random teen boy hormones making him jumpy as hell, and she goes off in her own corner to practice jinxes and hexes against the twins. They’re creating a new prototype of… something… and there’s black soot caked into their clothes and little papercuts on their hands. Miri knows the theory behind basic healing spells, but she’s not going to risk healing anything on them – her magical core isn’t the nurturing type, she’s always been better at mean-hearted offensive curses than anything resembling Episkey, and pretending to be a healer would cause more harm than good. It’s one of the most difficult forms of magic, after all.
Harry delivers good news at the end of the lesson.
“If we keep this up, I think we can cover the patronus charm after Christmas,” he says.
Miri salivates at the thought of it. Dementors are a wild card. If, during the war, if she’s hiding in even the most remote destination possible, dementors can still track her down. They’re a persistent being, not quite creature, not quite ghost. They’re not undead, but they straddle the line between realms too closely for most spells to work against them. The type of magical contract that ties them to the current Ministry’s control must be a very ancient, powerful magic indeed, to keep monsters such as them subservient. Every other living, breathing creature – werewolves, giants, other wizards – can have the scent trail taken away. Dementors are relentless. They don’t stop at anything. A fidelius can keep them away, or very, very powerful warding magic from an old family, neither of which is accessible to Miri. The patronus? In the end, it’s just a spell, and any spell can be learned.
The younger years leave first, as always. Then it’s Miri, patrolling the dark halls, a familiar shadow a half-step away.
“Am I going to be dragged away into a broom closet?” She asks, keeping her head forward, walking to Ravenclaw tower as normal.
There’s a hand on her hip and George joins her at her side, as if he hadn’t been following like a total creep behind her. “What an odd thing to say. Why would I do that?”
“Sorry,” she says, deadpan. “I automatically assume the worst of you at all times.”
He fake sniffs. They’re nearly at the eagle knocker now. “I’ll let you know, I’m a perfect gentleman. You’re the one corrupting me. My friends and family are all bullying me now because of you, and you bully me, too. Ginny’s refused to look me in the eye for the past week, and it might be because I’m consorting with the devil.”
Miri is pretty sure it’s because all the upper classmen have been whispering about his rumoured huge penis. If she had an older brother, she wouldn’t want to know anything about their genitalia. The Weasley siblings are all very close, but not close enough for that.
But she’d seen Ginny chatting with Fred earlier today… oh well. Maybe she’ll remember they’re identical twins one day.
He knows about the devil? Miri wonders, out of the blue. Isn’t that a Christian mythology figure?
That might be a conversation topic for later. The crossover between muggle and magical history is fascinating. To her knowledge, after being absorbed in the culture for the past several years, most witches and wizards are the muggle equivalent of atheist, but follow somewhat spiritualist ideologies along the lines of Paganism. And then random bits of muggle culture like Christmas and Easter pop up, even though Rudolph and Jesus' three days of death definitely are not a thing here. Culture adoption, maybe? Or one incredibly influential muggleborn writing it into the history books and then everyone followed forth.
“Thank you for acknowledging my evil capabilities,” she says. “I am going to evilly summon you inside to continue our conversation.”
“The horror,” he gasps, and follows her to the door.
The eagle knocker side-eyes George. “A lion? Is he even bright enough for you?”
“No, he’s very dull,” Miri says. She gets an elbow to the ribs. Ow. “What’s the riddle today?”
The castle furniture usually isn't this judgy. Then again, she’s never spent much time indulging them in conversation, content to get from Point A to B without any further ado. Who knew the door to the Ravenclaw tower was a snippy old man? She wonders if she starts talking to the portraits, if they’ll call her out on poor fashion choices and eccentric behaviours.
“I walk on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening. What am I?”
Nice, an easy one, she thinks, and is about to respond, but George beats her to it.
“A metamorphmagus, obviously,” he says. He taps a finger on his chin. “Or someone taking a bad batch of the limb-growth potion. Could be a selkie, actually, but they get caught in a mermaid trap and lose one of their flippers during an evening hunt.”
“Oh no, there’s two of them,” she hears the eagle-knocker quietly mutter.
The door swings open.
Well, problem solved. They pass through the common room and up the girls’ wing, all the way to the top floor of the tower. The diary is safely hidden at the bottom of several boring note-taking journals on her desk, so non-descript and plain that it would be a shock if anyone bothered to rifle through her things for it. The rest of the room is the same as it always is – mostly clean, books out, and a Spice Girls mug full of ballpoint pens situated precariously on top of said stack of books.
“Must be nice to get a whole room to yourself,” George comments, and circles around the room, investigating the blue walls, the windows, and the assortment of muggle books. He takes out an Anne Rice book and starts flipping through the pages. “I’ve always shared.”
Miri sits at the foot of bed. “I dunno, it gets a bit lonely.”
She loosens her tie.
He makes a face at one of the pages. Muggle interpretations of vampires must be rather confusing for him. “Really?” He says, briefly looking up, then back at the book. “I think the privacy would’ve been nice growing up. It was always crowded at home. Only one bathroom, too. I dunno why we never added another attachment.”
“Sounds rough. I’m an only child.” Technically. “So I could just wander around most of the house naked it I wanted to.”
Miri unbuttons her top collar and toes off her shoes.
George snorts. “Mum would have a fit if we did that. What’s it like, with sleeping alone and not sharing?”
“Lonely,” she says. “But I got to wank whenever I wanted to, so I suppose that’s a plus. How’d you get around that, sharing with Fred and with only one bathroom?”
“Very, very quick showers,” he says.
And flips through another page.
Is he daft? She thinks, running out of ideas. Do I just go out and say it? Where’d that red-blooded boner-fuelled man go? Does that make me a desperate harlot? Or is he playing hard to get on purpose? I wouldn’t put it past him to pretend to be an idiot just to be a tease.
“Hello George,” Miri says. “I am horny and would like to have sex.”
He puts the book down immediately.
Well, that was easy.
“You’re very blunt, “ he says, and there’s the tiniest foxy quirk to his lips, and she hates him because that was definitely all on purpose.
“I can start speaking in riddles, if you like,” she says.
He shakes his head and ambles forth, pushes her down on the bed, and kisses her. He kisses down her face, to her neck, and unbuttons her shirt and leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses where more and more skin is revealed, until he gets to her skirt.
“Take your shirt off,” Miri demands.
“Yes, dear,” he says, with an echo of humour, and quickly makes do of his shirt. She gets an eyeful of the shapely muscle of his well-built athlete body, before he pushes her higher on the bed, a knee pressed between her legs, and bites her shoulder. She claws his back, hoping that it hurts and leaves streaks of thin red marks. Marks that claim him as hers. Because he’s a worthy battlefield to be claimed and conquered, to bring her pride.
George presses his knee harder between her legs and she grinds into it, even though the disaster of the last time they did this is vivid in her mind. But there aren’t many coherent, intelligent thoughts bouncing around in her skull at the moment, and all she’s doing is chasing the pleasure that is happening right now.
She bites his neck and he reaches up to dig his fingers under her back, deftly unclasping her bra with astounding speed.
“Did you practice doing that when you stole mine for the day?” She asks.
He pauses. “Is there a wrong answer to that question?”
“Is there?”
He cocks his head. His mouth is close to her boobs and she can feel the breath from his words on sensitive nipples. “Answering a question with a question, are we?”
“Hush, you,” she says, and sinks her claws into his scalp to press his face down into her chest.
One of his hands clenches the bedsheets above her head, and the other trails down her side, reaching for the button on her skirt, and fumbling to yank it down. Miri helps it along, and wiggles out of her clothes, and squeezes the startlingly stiff erection through his trousers as she tries to unfasten them. It doesn’t go as planned, and he takes a break from marking hickeys to sit up and tug off his trousers, pants, and shoes in an awkward fashion, partially sitting on the bed. She takes that time to pull off her own underwear, and then it’s just the two of them, completely nude.
Will that even fit? She thinks, with sudden trepidation, eyeing that monstrosity. Miri’s an average sized person, with little to no muscle. Very soft, possibly lanky. Quidditch seems like an even more terrifying sport than before, because how the fuck is he built like that? The position of beater is like aerial horseback riding mixed with baseball played with a flying bowling ball, and it obviously shows on his body.
“Well? What are we waiting for?” She asks.
“Can I not take a minute to admire a naked girl laying in bed for me?” He says, and reaches down to pump the wet, shiny head of his cock.
She sits up, possibly to talk shit to his face and call him a coward, but that’s when he lunges forward, crawling back on to the bed and slamming her down. He’s kneeling over her, her heart is in her throat, and his dick is resting against her mons pubis, pulsing and pulsing.
“I– I can get you off first,” he says, eyes dilated, face flushed.
“No,” she says, and it comes out embarrassingly squeaky. “I want you inside me, goddamit.”
There’s an instinctive, mischievous smirk splitting his face, even though there’s precum dripping over her and her clit is pounding harder than any nightclub bass and she can hardly think in the rage that he’s such a twat even right now. “You’re blunt and impatient, you know.”
“I will slap you.”
“You can try,” he goads.
Miri’s never slapped anyone before, but it’s as good a time as any, so she raises her hand, but it’s quickly intercepted. George grabs it out of the air and slams it down on the mattress above her head. She tries with her other hand, but he traps it just the same, and it’s nearly terrifying, unable to move a muscle. On reflex, she bucks her body upwards to fight back, and gasps at the friction. She very distantly realises she should probably start working out, but the main thought at the forefront of her mind is mild fear and leaking wet arousal. She’s going to have to mentally work out this new kink after this is over.
“Well, you tried,” he says.
And he unhands her.
Miri swallows. “Are you done now?”
“Are you–?”
She reaches up with one hand to kiss him gently, and her other hand trails down to guide him in. She’s probably wet enough to generate her own hydroelectric-powered dam, but the initial entry burns, and her legs tremble because she doesn’t remember it hurting this much in the very, very distant corner of her memory, but his fluttering eyes make the pain totally worth it. He rocks his hips with a throaty groan and she grips the meat of his back so tightly she thinks her nails actually cut skin.
It stops hurting and starts feeling good about three slow thrusts later, and she clasps her legs around his waist and rocks her hips against his to quicken the pace. There aren’t any more witty one-liners, because there are literally no thoughts left to think, just the pure desperation of sex.
I feel emotionally vulnerable and I hate it, is what she’s thinking, but she doesn’t want to stop ever.
And when all is said and done, she feels incredibly disgusting, sweaty, and covered in more bodily fluids than she wants to be, but there’s a pleasant buzzing all over her body, and she collapses in a messy heap next to George, and listens mindlessly to the steady beat of his heart in his chest. Something feels wrong in her chest – too open, aching. He kisses the top of her head, stifles a noise, as if he wants to say something but shouldn’t, and she feels his eyes on her as she hypnotises herself into a dreamless sleep.
She wakes up with (yet another) boner grinding against her ass, and there’s a sleepy, very real, happiness flaring from within the deep trenches of her heart.
Sex becomes a new normal in her life. A new part of her weekly schedule.
Some days are mindblowingly good, to where she can barely walk the next day. Other times are awkward and funny, because two sweaty bodies rubbing against each other can make some pretty weird noises. It doesn’t quite reach the emotional upheaval of the first time, where Miri may or may not have suffered an existential crisis midway through. She feels like they barely know each other, yet they can’t ever be separated now.
Patricia Stimpson receives a package in the mail around the end of November – a small silver digital camera, but the two weeks left of term mean that plans must be held off of until the next term, because all the seventh-years are far too busy focusing on NEWTs to follow up with nefarious acts of rightful justice. The perfect opportunity is yet to come, because the staff are also slowing down their pace, as everyone prepares for the holiday.
In the last DA session of the year, the night before the start of the holiday, Miri walks into the Room of Requirement and finds it decorated with signs saying HAVE A VERY HARRY CHRISTMAS.
She squints at Harry, who’s anxiously rounding everyone up for the final cheer.
I honestly don’t think he’s bright enough to have thought up that pun on his own, she thinks. He’s got to be the most self-serious fifteen year old on the planet. The Dursleys must have beat a sense of humour out of him. It’s a miracle he’s survived this long, socially. Hermione and Ron must have found a hidden quality to him that keeps them attached, like leeches.
Chang, standing next to her, stares at Harry like she’s going to hunt him down and eat him for dinner. Miri takes a step back.
“It’s The Rook in Ottery St Catchpool,” Luna tells Miri, at the end of the small celebration.
She’s been invited to spend a few nights with the Lovegoods, starting on Boxing Day. It’s the only thing she’s been looking forward to lately, because George talked about going out for a winter date in January, and she’d only smiled along and pretended to agree, knowing that any plans they make will fall through.
“The Rook,” Miri repeats. Luna nods sagely. “Is there a post code?”
Luna looks at her oddly, which is an impressive feat for anyone. “A what?”
Right. This society’s so small that post codes aren’t needed at all. All the wizarding houses and neighbourhoods have their own distinct names, that muggle things like a fucking post code isn’t even necessary. However, she could always look up an ordinance survey at the library or post office and find out all the post codes within the county of Devon.
George kisses her goodnight underneath a sprig of mistletoe in the dark corridors after hours. He promises to see her tomorrow morning on the train, and Miri’s stomach does somersaults at the idea of briefly meeting Mr. and Mrs. Weasley at King’s Cross.
But come the next morning, Hogsmeade station is curiously devoid of any wild gingers.
Does that mean the Weasleys left by other means? Has Mr. Weasley been bitten already? Is it supposed to be this early?
She honestly thought she’d have more time.
Miri has never put much thought into holidays. The appeal of Christmas was ruined when her muggle parents tried taking her to see Father Christmas at Westfield, and she’d very sullenly mentioned that he was a hoax with bad breath and seemed to enjoy little girls on his lap a little bit too much. Her poor parents didn’t really know what to do with her growing up, really. She loves them, yes, but there’s always been a minor disconnect between her and her family because it was so jarring in the first few years of childhood, adjusting to a new body, face, and era. They love her (probably) but she declared herself independent very early on and then the whole ‘mum I’m a witch!’ thing meant further distance.
They may or may not be mildly neglectful by normal means, but Miri is not a normal teenage girl, so this suits her just fine. Personal space is a luxury.
The train is fairly empty. The trip is not note-worthy. She arrives in London at peak rush hour, and scrambles to switch platforms to the underground, and ends up at her mum’s flat an hour later feeling rather hassled and sweaty.
“Oh, you’re here!” Eliza says, about five minutes after she’d arrived, in the kitchen.
Miri puts down a cup of tea – a nice lemon and ginger blend – to hug her mum. “You know how it is at this time. King’s Cross is such a pain.”
“God, tell me about it,” Eliza says. “It was a nightmare trying to leave the office today. Someone was on the tracks again so the tube was delayed nearly an hour.”
They continue with mild conversation in the kitchen, and it’s just as if Miri hadn’t been absent for nearly four months. There aren’t any grand displays of affection, which is the way it’s always been (and possibly why her parents divorced), but she’s always felt more comfortable at her mum’s flat because she’s treated like a friendly, if distant, cousin, and gets to do whatever she wants with herself. Miri helps put the Waitrose shopping in the cupboards that her mum had forgotten to unpack, and they settle down with a picky tea in front of the television before bed. Very nice, normal, and lonely.
The next morning is relaxing in the way holiday mornings are, when she can wake up at her leisure and drag herself to breakfast in pyjamas. She sits at the counter with a paper and pen, staring blankly at her fingers, when her mum walks in, already fully clothed and holding a briefcase.
“Oh, a letter!” Eliza says, out of breath, instead of a ‘good morning.’ She’s sitting at the step, hastily putting loafers and a coat on. “Is that for your father?”
“No, it’s for my boyfriend,” Miri says mildly.
Her mum’s eyes widen and she nearly drops a shoe. “Huh.” She bends down to pick wrinkles out of her tights. “I suppose you’re at that age now. Eighteen, right?” And she checks the clock on the wall and blanches, not giving any time to respond to the question. “Sorry honey, I’ve got to go now, but you can tell me all about him later!”
And then the door closes and she’s left alone again.
Miri pens a short, simple letter, knowing that Mr. Weasley is probably dead or nearly dead, and leaves the flat to drop it off at the local post office. It’s addressed to an intermediary service in Diagon Alley – an elderly muggleborn witch who exchanges muggle mail for owl mail for a small fee – to the Burrow, and then takes a bus to her father’s house.
A little girl opens the door.
Miri stares at the child. The child stares back. It’s a tiny little thing, maybe two or three, with pigtails and a pink dress.
Is this the wrong house? She thinks. Did he move without telling me?
“Miri!”
She looks up from the girl, and behind her, is her dad, rushing up from the hallway. She’s still on edge at the random child – maybe a baby cousin she’d forgotten about? – and accepts the hug and the offer of tea and biscuits. Her dad, Leonard, looks the same as the last time she’d seen him, but there’s some purple glitter in his hair and beard.
“So, how’s school been? Amy’s thinking about private schools for the kids, but I told her no boarding school – I don’t wanna be away from them too long, you know?” Leonard shakes his head, and bits of purple glitter fly off on the carpet. “But anyway, you look a bit peaky. There’s some snacks in the cupboards, you know where. Custard cremes or hobnobs?”
Ah, right.
When she was eleven, Professor McGonagall had told her parents that Hogwarts is a school of witchcraft and wizardry, but over the years, they’ve slowly convinced themselves (out of disbelief, delusion, or disgrace) that Miri actually attends a normal private school in Scotland on a scholarship. It’s not an uncommon phenomenon among muggleborns, and she’s been purposefully not correcting them in fear of a great emotional upheaval. There’s no point in ripping off their blinders now, when she’s only got one term left. Maybe if she actually sat them down and screamed, they’d admit that it’s a school of magic, but making them uncomfortable again isn’t worth it.
“Hobnobs,” Miri says.
The little girl is standing right between the two of them, with eerie, unblinking eyes, the way toddlers are. There’s some yelling and crashing noises upstairs.
“I forgot to tell you!” Leonard says suddenly, and swoops down to pick up the little girl. She fits snugly in the crook of his arm, and lets out a peal of childish giggles. “This is Mary. We adopted her last month! You know how Amy and I wanted more kids, but the triplets were tough on her body, so here’s the new kid!”
Miri doesn’t want hobnobs anymore. There’s a sick curl at the bottom of her stomach and she wants to go back to her mum’s quiet flat.
“Isn’t she just so cute?” He tickles her face and she mouths ‘stop, stop’ but is unable to speak in her laughter. “She’s our little princess. Amy and I have been wanting a daughter since we met – isn’t she perfect? Say hi to Miri, Mary.”
Mary shyly waves, giggles again, and hides her face in Leonard’s chest.
“That’s nice, dad,” Miri says.
She doesn’t particularly want to hold Mary or play barbies with her, so she politely makes up an excuse about a mountain of homework, and goes upstairs to see her dad’s wife. Amy was a single mother with three kids, so marrying Leonard must’ve been a dream come true, because he took to her kids like they were completely, wholly his, and treated them spectacularly well. But every now and then, whenever Miri visits, Amy looks at her with such a sad face.
“Oh my god, it’s so messy,” is the first thing Amy says when Miri wanders into the playroom. And then, “Miri! Darling, it’s been too long. How’s Scotland?”
The triplets are rambunctious brats, but they’re mostly self-sufficient and unobservant at this age, so they’re left to their own devices with their nerf guns as Miri provides vague updates on highlands weather, an abridged version of her classes, and George.
“A boyfriend?” Amy says, and there’s a sly smile on her beautiful face. “I hope that goes well. Men can be tricky creatures, but every now and then there’s a nice one who’ll treat you like a queen. Like your dad, he’s been nothing but wonderful to me and my boys. And you met little Maryam downstairs?”
“Yeah,” Miri says.
The conversation halts when she can’t entirely cover up her sour tone.
Amy looks troubled, but the woman doesn’t say anything. Miri regurgitates the same excuse about homework and makes an abrupt exit. London’s afternoon weather is mild, with not even a hint of snow or wind, so she stews in a disgusting, gross heat under her coat on the bus ride back. It feels like her entire body is crying, so when she gets back to her mum’s flat, she sits in the bath for a while to scrub off the impurities leaking out. The expensive muggle soap is nice against her skin, but all Miri can think about is how much she misses the heady, herbal scents in the Prefect’s Baths – the solutions that come in giant glass bottles with wine corks, brewed and bottled by house elves.
Her mum comes home late, as usual, and forgets to ask about George.
The next day, Miri finishes all her holiday homework, and spends the rest of the week at the local library, catching up on muggle newspapers and Batman comics. She sends another letter to George, and it’s more heartfelt.
My family is nothing like yours, from what you’ve told me. Everyone likes to keep to themselves and I don’t mind it. My grandparents are coming over for Christmas, but they’re a distant sort as well so they’ll be in a hotel for most of it. I don’t know about my other pair of grandparents – they don’t really like my mum or me. I think I should’ve stayed at Hogwarts this year, because there’s nothing for me to do here. My mum is busy with work and my dad is busy with his second family. I could probably pull up the Knight Bus to Hogsmeade and get Hagrid or Filch to open the gates, but it’s easier to visit Devon from London.
She writes a bit more, little anecdotes about her muggle neighbourhood and news stories, and seals it off for the post box.
Of course, he won’t be able to write back, but it still aches a bit when there isn’t any response.
Christmas day is half-decent. Her paternal grandparents have elected to spend their time at Leonard’s house, but Eliza and Miri take a cab down to Central to have brunch at a fancy hotel with her maternal grandparents. She receives money, like always, instead of a wrapped up gift box with a bow, and the four of them go around the city and see an impressive theatre production. And then her grandparents, well to do and orderly that they are, head in early for the night to get ready for their long train journey back to Sheffield on Boxing Day.
Miri recalls that she neglected to tell anyone of her travel plans.
“A friend from school invited me to stay at her place for a few days,” she tells her mum when they get back home.
“When’s this?” Eliza asks.
“Tomorrow.”
Eliza hums. They sit down on the couch and turn on re-runs of the Queen’s speech. “That’s fine. I was thinking of helping out with my brother’s new baby up in Sheffield this week, so you would’ve had an empty flat anyway. Where’s your friend living?”
“Devon,” she says.
That’s the end of the conversation.
The train from Paddington to Exeter Central is tremendously packed due to the festive season, and Miri spends two hours standing up, packed like a sardine, having not been lucky enough to get a seat. Then she waits for the bus to Ottery, which is delayed due to, again, the holiday, and then packs into the vehicle for the bumpy, fast-paced country roads drive into the middle of nowhere, Devon. She’s never been this far west before, and doesn’t think she’ll want to again, because there’s absolutely fuck-all to do here except watch the cows moo and the sheep baa. The taxi service in this part of rural nowhere doesn’t run on Boxing Day, so she walks five minutes out of the village, already having found herself in what appears to be desolate farmland, and waves her wand around for a wordless Point Me for the Lovegood house.
It’s only five in the evening, but the sky is dark and starry, just as clear and beautiful as the Scottish Highlands but without the auroras. Miri stumbles across a gravel and dirt path on the way, and the spell tells her to follow it for a few miles.
A broom would be nice, she thinks, a little bitter. How much are they, again? Maybe a galleon for a nice second-hand broom?
Her stomach is grumbling by the time she bumps into a fence. She follows it a little more, sloping up a valley, and arrives at a gate at the base of the hill, stepped in vegetable gardens, with a tall, formidable looking rook-shaped house at the peak. Her wand tip emits a green glow, which means she’s arrived at her destination, so she tucks it away, opens the gate, and walks up to the house.
Luna opens the door before she can knock.
“You’re here!” She says, sounding more excitable than she’s ever been, the dreamy quality of her usual voice absent, and she grabs Miri’s hand and guides her inside. “Papa! My friend is here!”
There’s a loud bang from the other room and a man comes out, covered head to toe in what might be… ash?
“Wonderful, wonderful,” he says, and rushes over to kiss Luna’s forehead and squeeze Miri into a sudden and almost uncomfortable hug. “You’re here, yes, yes. My little Luna has been talking about you in all her letters, it’s good to see you here. But I’m afraid the gnomes have dug into the pantry again, so I’ll have to go outside to get dinner from the garden, I’ll be right back, dears!”
And, in all his explosive glory, the Lovegood patriarch hurdles out the door, the back of his long blond hair sticking up at all angles, clutching a stick (that does not seem to be a wand) and hollering at the gnomes.
The inside of the house is as equally chaotic as its residents. The walls are lined with horns, skulls, patches of fabric, and shiny trinkets – such as a greedy crow’s nest. The floor is layered with a mish-mash of several different carpet patterns, overlapping each other, but despite the horrendous visual appeal, at least there isn’t much dust or dirt anywhere. The couches in the sitting area look cosy and squishy, with many, many knitted throw blankets and pillows, and the dangerously lopsided staircase in the centre of the lounge is decorated with painted tiles. It’s a stark difference from the sterile environment of Eliza’s posh flat or Leonard’s cookie-cutter new-build, but Miri can’t bring herself to mind it.
“He seems fun,” she says.
“He tries his best,” Luna agrees easily. “But it’s good to be cheerful when the world is so dark. Anyway, let’s go to my room.”
Luna’s room is much more normal than Miri would’ve guessed it to be. The walls are a pretty cornflower blue, the ceiling is painted to look like a cloudy sunrise, and the many books on floating shelves are neatly organised by colour. The Dewey Decimal System would fall to its knees and cry, but that’s neither here nor there. And the floor is one giant bed, covered in blankets and what might be many scarves tied up together.
“You’ve laid everything out very nicely,” Miri commends, and puts her bag down. “Good job. Did you knit all these blankets yourself?”
“Mm, no, that was papa,” she says. “He likes his hobbies.”
They watch through the bedroom window out to the garden, where Xenophilius Lovegood has taken to tap dancing with a gnome to beg for a frozen chicken back. It’s a bewildering sight, but Miri can’t take her eyes off of it, and Luna starts yipping from her window to cheer him on.
Dinner is eventually sorted out.
Eventually.
(Miri is very hungry.)
While other people may think of Luna as senseless or erratic, she’s actually quite regular – just on her own, unexplainable schedule. So they go to bed together at exactly seventeen minutes past eleven, and Miri follows along but doesn’t fall asleep. She watches the moonlight dance against the walls of the room, fading in and out as the clouds pass by. She almost feels like crying but she’s not quite sure why. Honestly, she adores Luna, but it’s so weird to spend the night with someone. She’s been an only child for most of her life, and sleeping in an empty dormitory. When George sleeps over, the trespassing thoughts don’t bother her because she’s usually so exhausted from their activities to think about the oddness of sharing.
“It’s hard to sleep with your nargles buzzing so loudly,” Luna grumbles, almost crabby. Her voice is wrecked with sleep and she doesn’t get up from her pillow.
“Sorry,” Miri says quietly. “I’m just thinking about stressful things.”
After a moment, Luna turns around to face her, her massive head of hair flopping over. Her pale skin shines alabaster in the wane light, ghoulish. “You must tell me about your stressful things so the nargles can go away. What’s wrong, Miri? Is it George? I know that the Weasleys haven’t been in the neighbourhood lately – I tried knocking at their door to give Ginny a present yesterday and nobody was home. Do you think they’ve disappeared?”
She sighs. “No, it’s not that.”
If only it were just boy troubles. Life would’ve been much easier.
“You can tell me,” Luna says, and shuffles her hand out of the blankets with a pinkie outstretched. “I’m very trustworthy, promise.”
“I know,” Miri whispers, gentle. “You’re great. I’m very lucky to know you.” And she gets her own pinkie out and seals the deal. “I don’t think I want to talk about it right now, but thank you.”
Luna furrows her eyebrows. “If you insist. But I will be putting on music to drown out the buzzing.”
“That’s fine.”
She gets out of bed to turn on a record player stacked on top of a tower of green books, and a slow melody fills the room. Miri can’t name the artist or instrument, but it sounds like a mix between whale noises and Pagan hymns. It’s echoing, warbling, and altogether soothing, enough for the thoughts to drift out of mind and lull her to a dreamless sleep.
The next day, the two girls head to Diagon Alley via floo powder. Miri’s apparition skills are fairly good, but she has zero confidence in side-along apparition, especially for a minor. She can’t apparate to places she’s never been to, so she’d had to take the long train journey to the Lovegood home, but she’ll apparate back to London for the return trip – her mum’s flat ought to be empty enough.
They go to Gringotts first, so Miri can exchange some of her Christmas money for magical coins, and then they commence with the shopping.
It’s a lovely, extremely normal day.
Miri finds a second-hand Cleansweep for an absolute bargain, and Luna drags her to the emporium to observe the latest shipment of Amazonian monkey-tarantulas, which are just as horrifying as the name suggests. They spend an obnoxious amount of time in the bookshops before heading back home, and Mr. Lovegood spends dinner explaining their upcoming hunt for the legendary (and possibly not real) Crumple Horned Snorkack in the south of France. The next few days are more of the same, and they explore the sleepy village of Ottery St Catchpool, with Luna pointing at everyone’s houses and who lives there.
“That’s the Burrow,” she says after a brisk twenty minute walk down, down, down the landscape of rolling hills, still green despite the season. “They’ve got a lovely apple orchard year-round. Mrs. Weasley puts charms in the dirt to make the fruits large and round, but she won’t tell papa her secrets. It made him quite upset because our radishes keep growing square-like.”
In the valley, with a patchwork of fields and forest, is a very odd house, odder than the rook. The ground floor resembles a normal thatch-roof cottage, but then there’s another cottage on top, held with stilts. Then another, and another. It’s bent like the Tower of Pisa, and there’s a peeling wooden shed and a flat back garden with chalk lines in the form of a tiny quidditch pitch. Quite a few chickens roam around the property, clucking fiercely. Luna hops over the wooden fence, nearly trips over a pair of large wellies laying out on the dirt, and saunters round behind the shed to drag out of a cloth bag.
“They’ve not been in for over a week,” Luna says. Miri waits behind the fence, unsure if she’ll get magically zapped by wards if she attempts to enter. “You can come in, you know. Their family wards aren’t keyed against you, only people with ill intent.”
And Luna haphazardously throws around chicken feed.
The birds come rushing in, wings flapping, feathers flying. The chickens have enough grass to eat, but the seeds must be more nutritious for them. Miri decides to stay behind the fence, unwilling to get caught up in the crossfire. It’s also just weird to be at the Burrow. It’s a central part of the books and the Plot, and it’s just as fantastical as she’d imagined, but… it’s a bit of an invasion of privacy to enter someone’s property without them there. And awkward.
Luna finishes courting the birds and puts everything back to where it was found, hops over the fence, and they continue walking around the area.
Through the apple orchard and up another hill, they reach a proper stone path. There’s a nice big Tudor-style house surrounded by trees, and a similar estate over another hill. “That’s the Warringtons.”
“Oh, I know Cassius Warrington,” Miri says. “He graduated last year.”
He never acknowledged her, obviously, because he was a proud pureblood Slytherin and she was some nobody muggleborn in a different house, but he seemed decent enough. There weren’t any unsavoury rumours about him, which is more than other Slytherin boys can say about themselves.
Luna smiles, dazed. “He was a nice boy. His mama and my mama were friends. And over the hill is the Diggorys.”
Miri’s blood runs cold.
She’s careful to keep her thoughts clear, lest Luna notices the build up of nargles again. She keeps her mind peacefully blank until they finish their walk and return back home, where Luna helps her dad fix a fairy nest in the lemon trees and Miri goes to shower. And she sits in the basin, in the boiling hot water turning her skin red, biting her lip and clawing the skin of her palms with tightly gripped fists. Cedric Diggory is dead. That is a fact. Miri knew he would die and did nothing to stop it. That is also a fact. Her avoidance of interference is a safety mechanism for herself, because she is the most important person in her own story. To her shame, this is (was) a fact.
A boy is dead because he was meant to die. Was she meant to do anything to stop that? If she’d done anything, maybe more casualties would’ve occurred, maybe–.
Well.
She’ll never know now. Nobody will.
The next day is her last day. The daughter and father duo will be spending the next two weeks in France, and Miri has enough tact and social grace to not over-extend her visit, so she leaves just after breakfast time, holding her new broom in one hand, her bag in the other, and apparates back to her bedroom in Eliza’s flat.
The morning of the end of the Christmas holidays comes with a nervous pang in Miri’s heart. The streets are empty in the early hours of the weekend, and it’s not terribly unfashionable, so she wears her school winter cloak – enchanted with heating charms – to King’s Cross station. It’s empty and awfully lonely on the platform, with only a scant few students waiting for the return train.
Not too many students this year, she thinks. Many have lost faith in the institution. It must be popular to get in and out of school using private transportation, where a family is less likely to be targeted by the government or Voldemort. Or both. No friends for this journey.
Miri sits in a carriage by herself for the next seven hours.
The snow is beautiful up north. The sun sets around four in the afternoon and Miri decides to keep the lights off to be able to keep looking out the window – after all, this is her second to last journey on the Hogwarts Express, and she soaks up every last minute of it. Graduation had been a dull, distant thing in the back of her mind for the past several years, but it’s now the only thing she’s been able to think of since the new year. One more term and it’s over. All her obligations are done. She doesn’t even need to stick around once the last exam is finished, because the results can be owled later. That’s less than six months from now.
The train pulls into Hogsmeade station.
How depressing, she muses, pulling her cloak tightly around herself as she steps out into the cold, dimly lit platform. The handful of other students complain loudly about the lack of heating charms on the path. It’s a wizarding school, for Christ's sake. For all the magical world’s strangeness, I’ve grown used to it all.
She might even miss it.
“Oi!”
There’s a thwack to the back of her head, and icy drips crawling down the back of her neck. Miri instantly spins around to see who threw the snowball, but the cobbled path from the station to the castle hasn’t been salted – through muggle or magical means, which is hilariously bad oversight from the groundskeeper – and she slips from turning around too quickly. She loses her footing, theatrically falls backwards, and braces for impact by trying to get her elbows to block the fall as fast as possible. Fortunately, her ass isn’t met with instant concussive damage, and there are two arms wrapped uncomfortably from behind around her shoulders and chest.
“Darling, I think you’ve fallen for me,” George says.
“My hair is wet,” she says. “Fuck you.”
He lifts her up by her armpits, and in another asshole move, picks her up like Simba. The two Hufflepuff third-year students who were walking on the path behind her are staring at them with no hidden amount of confused guffawing. This shit wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t spun around so fast. Getting snowballed from behind is such a basic prank, everyone and their mother knows that the caster is always on the other side. It’s the magical equivalent of getting tapped on the opposite shoulder.
“Shhhhh,” he faux whispers, “not in front of the children.”
Miri kicks backwards and smiles when she hears her foot collide with a thump against an (unfairly) muscular stomach. He gently puts her back down.
He opens his arms for a hug. There’s a stupid, toothy smile on his stupid face, and the candle-lit lamp posts flicker warm, orange-yellow light on his skin, making him all comforting looking. So Miri frowns and quickly walks past.
The third-years have passed them by, leaving Miri and George the last two on the trail.
“Hey, wait a minute,” he says, affronted, several metres behind. Miri continues walking toward the gate. An unamused Filch scowls at them. “Hiya Professor. And hey, you, wait a minute.”
Once they’re within the Hogwarts wards, out of sight from Filch but not quite at the castle entrance, Miri bites her lip and tries to de-compartmentalise the stress of the entire winter break. She’s back. He’s back. He looks healthy and happy. Nothing out of the ordinary must have happened to the Weasley family, so Arthur Weasley must have survived the night at the Ministry. Good. The plot hasn’t been irrevocably fucked over. George looks extremely well, so his holiday must have gone well, even though he didn’t respond to her letters – or maybe that’s how the plot was supposed to have gone. She can’t remember if the main characters spent this year’s Christmas at the Burrow or at Sirius Black’s house, which for the life of her she can’t remember the address, either due to a fidelius charm or forgetfulness.
“Miri–.” He grabs her arm.
She tears out of it instinctively. “You didn’t respond to any of my letters.”
George winces. “There was a family emergency. I’m sorry, I couldn’t receive or send anything. Trust me, I wanted to.”
Well. She didn’t mean to blurt that out. She knows exactly what happened, so it’s unfair on her end to make up random relationship drama. But there are so many pent-up, stressful emotions threatening to spill out of her heart, and the knowledge that everything ended up okay isn’t cathartic. It’s terrible, and she doesn’t know why.
Miri swallows her next words. “Sorry. What happened?”
George looks at her with a dark sort of expression, sadder and quieter than anything she’s ever known him to be. A pang of guilt sounds from her heart. “My dad was attacked at the Ministry. He was touch and go for a while, but we were able to save him in time and he’s nearly recovered now. My family and I – we were at a safehouse. The – Dumbledore thought it best to keep us out of sight, in case more attacks popped up.”
He clenches his jaw and looks away.
She wants to hug or console him, but it’s hard to move. Snowflakes pile onto her eyelashes. She’s frozen in despicable, violent hatred of herself, something so sudden and new in ways she doesn’t think about herself very often, or at all. Miri knows she’s selfish and self-serving, and the lives of other people don’t come under her radar, ever. But now? Stupid boyfriends and the physical pain grappling in her chest at the slightest idea of him being upset.
The heating charm on her cloak is beginning to wear off. Her arms feel like stone against her sides, locked in place, unable to offer a hug.
I’m so pathetic, she realises darkly. Will I be this useless when Fred dies? If he even wants me then. If he knows.
“Sounds like a shitty Christmas,” Miri says lightly. “Is everything okay now?”
He exhales. “Yeah. No – it’s all good now. Really good, actually. My siblings and I and, well, some others, we just fooled around all holiday at the safehouse. Was pretty fun, really, once we knew dad would be okay. I’ll ask mum about the letters, she’s probably back at the Burrow by now. And you? How was your holiday?”
“Yeah, it was fine,” she says.
George gives her a look. He tilts down a bit to get on her level. “You… sure? You seem a little wired.”
She smiles. It feels extremely fake. “Maybe because I’m cold? You realise it’s snowing, right?”
He seems to think about something for a moment, then he loops one arm around her shoulders, leans down to kiss her cheek, and says, “let’s walk around the grounds.”
How unfair. He’s so, so warm. Men suck.
“So,” he says, as they crunch through the snow. “I’ve noticed you never talk about your family. We’ve been dating about two months now, is it? You’re a rather mysterious person. A bit hard to tell what’s really going on in that mind of yours.”
“You’re not very subtle.”
“I’m not trying to be, love,” he says.
Miri wiggles her toes in her boots. Snow is beginning to seep through them and her toes feel wet. “You could’ve just asked. It’s boring, is all. They divorced when I was eleven.”
“Divorced? I know that it’s common in the muggle world, but… was that because of your Hogwarts acceptance?” He sounds horrified. “Did they not accept your magic?”
His worry is cute. Miri quirks her lips. “No, unrelated. Probably.”
“If you say so,” he says, concerned. His arm wraps around her tighter. “So your parents divorced when you were eleven. What else? What’s making you so upset?”
Her smile fades instantly.
Might as well.
“During the summers, I used to live half and half with mum and dad,” she says. She’s never told anybody this before. Nobody’s ever asked or cared, except Luna perhaps. “And then dad met a woman with three perfect kids and they moved in together and they were so happy and I was the outsider, so I lived with mum full time after that. He was busy, so it was fine. And my mum is always busy – she works at the biggest bank in muggle London – so I was just left alone a lot. I liked it, I was fine,” she assures, when George starts looking a bit mad. “It’s not that.”
“It doesn’t seem like you were raised with a lot of love,” he says.
“Ouch,” Miri says.
He grits his teeth. “Sorry. Continue?”
“My dad and his wife adopted a girl recently,” she says. “Her name’s Mary, short for Maryam.” Her throat closes up. “He called her his little princess and that they always wanted a daughter.”
George lets out a string of not very nice curse words. He’s slower to anger than Fred, but when he does get angry, he is seeped in molten rage.
Miri knows she was far from an ideal child. But she tried, once. She didn’t get into trouble and was obedient and quiet, as someone with adult thoughts would be in a child’s body, but it doesn’t mean she didn’t psychologically and hormonally crave affection from the two people most present in her early childhood. But her mum and dad realised she was different very early on and immediately stopped trying. They wanted the terrible twos, the silly naughtiness, the adorable whining, not someone who didn’t need to be taught anything new. They wanted a baby girl, not a full formed adult daughter.
He squishes her into a hug, her head buried in his chest. His heart beats loudly, indignation palpable. “That fucking sucks.”
“It’s fine,” she says, muffled. “I ended up perfectly sane and normal, so my childhood must not have been too bad.”
George laughs, then groans. “Don’t joke around like that. You can just say it sucks.”
“Are you suggesting I’m not perfectly sane and normal?”
“I think you are positively the oddest person I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, darling,” he says. “Take that as you will.”
He lets her go, finally, from the suffocating embrace, and she misses being trapped by his body heat immediately. “And you the same, with displeasure,” she says.
They share a quiet moment.
I don’t deserve him.
George softly smiles, ruffles her hair, kisses her forehead, and drags her out to the rest of the grounds, close to the groundskeeper’s cottage. There’s a warm light in the windows illuminating the surrounding snow gold – guests, maybe?
But I want to deserve him.
Miri thinks she loves him. No, not think. She knows she loves him. She loves him. Miri loves George. She’s going to do whatever she has to do to kill anyone who stands in the way in his path to happiness.
“Let’s go back to the castle,” he says, holding her hand. “Would it be terrible of me to crash in your room? But I want to say hi to Hagrid first, talk to him about the pygmy puff’s magical properties. Wanna come?”
She’s never been particularly interested in the study of magical animals nor the half-giant. “No, I’ll wait outside.”
As her luck would have it, three very annoying fifth-year students stumble outside to yet again interrupt their date. Harry, Hermione, and Ron blink down at them from the half-step at the door, and Miri is entirely unamused. Why are they everywhere? She’d fully expected to only interact with Harry during the weekly DADA lessons, not any time else. Hagrid has too many friends. What a bummer.
“Hiya Harry, Hermione. Hagrid’s in, yeah?” George asks, unperturbed.
“Hi,” Harry responds, possibly without realising, because he flinches at the sound of his own voice the next second. “Er, yeah. Hi George. Miri. We were just visiting.”
“Oi, oi, why is it you never greet me?” Ron asks. “Am I not your brother?”
George shrugs. “I like them more than you, simple.”
Harry looks between the two brothers and Hermione rolls her eyes. Ron huffs, but doesn’t actually seem mad. “Hello Miri. Not you, George. Hope you had a happy holiday. Ours was a bit shite.”
“Thank you,” Miri says. “I heard about your dad. Let’s hope the aurors find the snake.”
George cocks his head. “I didn’t mention a snake.”
Oh, fuck.
“I was at St. Mungo’s over the hols,” Miri lies easily, turning to face her boyfriend. “Luna dragged me. Wanted to visit someone. I heard a healer in the reception talking about someone in the Ministry – sounded pretty bad, quite brutal it was. Didn’t piece it together it was him till now.”
“Really? You didn’t mention,” George says.
Hermione looks thoughtful. “When was that? And who’d you visit?”
Shit. She didn’t think anyone would actually ask. She doesn’t remember shit about dates and such, so she throws out what’s probably an insanely busy, crowded day for a hospital, and the only person she absolutely knows for sure was in St. Mungo’s, taken straight from the latest Witch Weekly article. Someone that these people surely would never bother to visit.
“Christamas eve,” Miri says. “And Luna and I popped ‘round to see Gilderoy Lockhart. Big fans.”
The three little Gryffindor fifth-years raise their eyebrows simultaneously, to the point where Miri realises she’s definitely said the worst thing possible, to receive such a visceral reaction.
“But–.” And Hermione elbows Ron in the ribs, cutting him off.
“That’s very nice of you,” she says loudly. “George, you might want to see Hagrid soon – it’s getting late. We have a curfew and I am your prefect, I hope you know that.
He’s not daft. He raises an eyebrow at both girls, glances at Miri, and nods along. “Yeah, alright then. I won’t be long.”
Then he’s gone, inside Hagrid’s hut with the door closed behind him.
“I think this is the perfect opportunity to confirm my theories,” Hermione says at that point, with an unsteady voice, stepping forward, right in front of Miri, both girls standing in front of the door to Hagrid’s hut. She can distantly hear the two voices speaking inside. “I have two eye witnesses and a professor nearby, so you won’t be able to lie out of this, Miriam Prince.”
Ooh, scary, Miri thinks, she used my full name.
“You were having theories? About what?” Harry asks.
“Ominous things,” Ron whispers. “I think she’s gone mental again. This the new SPEW, you think?”
Miri simply raises an eyebrow. She hadn’t expected to run into the trio during a date (again), nor be on the receiving end of someone’s ‘theories,’ so this better be good. Is it NEWT coursework related? Or, perhaps, something to do with Dumbledore’s Army? But the serious mien from Hermione remains constant and a tinge of doubt leaks into Miri’s brain – is this… has she… no way. It’s practically impossible to know that she’s a reincarnated soul who knows the future from a series of children’s books. But this is one of the cleverest witches of their generation, and she’s definitely been strange enough to garner quizzical attention from a girl so vastly intelligent. Maybe Hermione’s a master leglimens, better than Dumbledore himself, and has read every facet of her mind, every word, every sentence, every chapter.
“Shut up Harry, Ron, this concerns you,” Hermione says firmly, not turning around to scold the boys, staring resolutely into Miri’s eyes. “She’s the one who told me about the thestral blood, you know.”
Ron’s jaw drops.
Miri doesn’t like the look of this.
“And I’ve caught her reading occlumency books in the library. It wasn’t very discrete at all, was it? And there’s everything else, stuff that doesn’t add up if you really, really pay attention to her.” Hermione balls her fists and furrows her brows at this point onwards, ignoring the hesitantly beleaguered protests from the boys behind. “There are a lot of rumours about you, about who you are, and I know that you spread most of those rumours yourself. You’re trying to distract us from your real identity. Someone who knows more than they should. Someone who knows things before they even happen. You knew that Mr. Weasley was going to be stationed in the ministry that night, at risk of being mauled by You-Know-Who’s snake. You knew what kind of snake it was. You knew about things only a staff member should know. You knew about the visions, about the mind magic, about Harry’s need for occlumency sessions. You’ve known everything this whole time, haven’t you?”
“‘Mione, are you–?”
“No,” Harry interrupts. “She’s right.” And he gets a peculiar expression, of accusatory emerald green eyes, directed at Miri. “Lockhart didn’t receive any guests until us, on Christmas day.”
For fuck’s sake. Why the hell were these nimrods visiting that lunatic?
She’s going to legitimately crash out soon.
There’s a fire of victory in Hermione’s voice, boldened by Miri’s complete, baffled silence, and her friends’ slow agreement. “We’ve never interacted before, but this year is different, isn’t it? Because You-Know-Who’s back. Everyone in DA believes in Harry, but you’ve never met him in your life, you didn’t know him, so how could you believe whole-heartedly in him? You absolutely knew that You-Know-Who had returned, there wasn’t a hint of doubt in you. And I have a theory why. I did my research in the library – everything’s in there. You’re not just some random muggleborn witch. You’re more than that.”
Miri is unflinchingly still. Oh my god, she’s going to reveal my identity as a reincarnated soul. How the fuck does someone even guess that? This is happening so fast. How long has she been thinking about me? How good is my obliviation spell?
“It’s because Snape is your father,” Hermione says, triumphant.
George takes that moment to step out of Hagrid’s hut. “Sorry, what’ve I missed?”