Chapter 1: The Letter
Chapter Text
Harry is stretched out on the sofa in his quarters, a mug of tea cooling on the low table beside him. His rooms sit on the western side of the castle, just far enough above the greenhouses that, with the windows open, he can hear the faint hum of the glass panes shifting with the breeze. It’s a quiet corner of Hogwarts, close to the staff quarters but with its own narrow corridor and a view over the Black Lake that catches the late-afternoon light. He’s been here for years now - long enough for the castle to feel like home again, to make these rooms feel like truly his - but not so long that he’s stopped noticing the small ways it changes with the seasons.
He's trying to do more of that, recently.
He’s spent most of the afternoon with Neville and Eliza - otherwise known as Professor Marlowe from Muggle Studies - loitering in the staffroom long after the conversation drifted from lesson plans to the merits of treacle tart versus jam roly-poly. These days, that’s his social life: endless tea, sprawling conversations, and the kind of steady camaraderie he didn’t realise he’d missed until he had it back. He’s not a professor - his work in magical habitat research keeps him moving between the castle, the greenhouses, and the edges of the Forbidden Forest - but the staff pulled him into their orbit long ago, folding him into routines and friendships without him ever really trying. He didn’t exactly know what to do with himself at first, the strange imposter syndrome clawing all the way up his throat despite Hogwarts being the place he always felt most at home.
He’s half-thinking about changing for dinner, debating whether he can get away with skipping the Hall and bribing the house-elves for a tray instead, when a sudden draught sweeps through the open window. A second later, a tawny owl shoots into the room with a flash of parchment clamped in its beak.
The bird lands neatly on the arm of the sofa, offering up the letter with a low, impatient hoot. The wax seal is unfamiliar, but the handwriting across the front pulls Harry upright before he’s even broken it. It reminds him of Ron’s own bold scribble, but it’s slightly more polished – cursive, at that. Unless Ron picked up calligraphy lessons since they’ve last gotten drunk last Wednesday, Harry’s pretty confident it’s from one of his siblings.
He opens it slowly, eyes skimming to the signature at the end as the first thing.
Charlie Weasley.
Harry sinks back into the sofa, running a hand through his hair as he tries to pin down the last time he saw the man. Charlie had travelled with the dragons to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament fourteen years ago, but Harry is fairly sure they spoke - or at least managed a few words - in the days just after the war ended. That must have been… nine years ago now. Since then, Charlie’s been a name dropped in passing: Molly mentioning a visit cut short by work at the reserve, or Ron muttering about “that ridiculous broom race” they’d managed during a family gathering. Harry’s always seemed to just miss him - wrong week for Christmas at the Burrow, a cancelled trip here, an early departure there. Enough to feel like they were orbiting each other without quite crossing paths.
And maybe that’s why the letter feels a little strange in his hands - because he doesn't feel like the Harry that Charlie would remember. Not that he thinks better or worse of himself now, but the time has done what time always does. The years have left their marks: a few lines of wear at the corners of his eyes, the comfortable weight of experience, and a handful of small rebellions. One of them glints gold in the light - a neat piercing in his eyebrow that still makes McGonagall sigh when she catches sight of it. He’s filled out a little, his stance more deliberate, his edges smoothed in some places and sharpened in others. Growing into himself has been a slow, stubborn process, and it wasn't just physical - it was the kind that comes when you’ve had to piece yourself back together and decide, step by step, what to keep and what to throw out.
Humour’s hardly the healthiest coping strategy, but it’s the one that stuck. And somewhere along the way, Harry realised he could - within reason, and sometimes well beyond it - do whatever the hell he wanted. There’s a certain freedom in that, and Harry’s learned to make good use of it.
His eyes return to the start of the letter.
Harry,
I hope you’ve been keeping well and that life at Hogwarts is treating you better than the last time we spoke.I came across your papers on emotional magic in habitats. Hagrid sent them along, said you’d been doing fascinating work. I read them all, and I’ll admit, a few parts went over my head. But the rest… well, it made me think you might be the one person who could help us make sense of something that’s been happening here at the reserve.
For the past couple of months, every dragon - regardless of age, sex, or species - has been on edge. Not sick, exactly, but agitated in ways that don’t match any seasonal patterns or breeding cycles we know. There’s a pattern to it, but it slips through our fingers the moment we think we’ve caught it. One week we’re sure it’s tied to the storms; the next, the skies are clear and the behaviour’s worse.
We’ve gone through every usual suspect by now: feed, water sources, weather shifts, even changes in the handlers’ rosters. We’ve had the healers in twice to check stress markers and overall health - clean bills across the board. We examined the wards from top to bottom, reinforced the perimeter charms, ruled out external interference - no raiders, no magical predators, no lingering curse residue from the older containment spells. In short, every obvious cause is off the table.
The pattern part is what made me think of you, especially since the agitation isn’t constant. It rises and falls in a rhythm that’s got nothing to do with the environment as it is now. It feels… odd.
I wondered if there is a way to check for signs of what you mentioned in your third paper - the section on “emotional echoes” in magical terrain, where a place can carry imprints strong enough to re-emerge years or decades later, independent of current conditions. Would you be willing to talk more about what could have caused it, and whether it could be, say, the land itself that's the problem?
Do tell me to fuck off if you’re not interested. I’d still like to know how you’re doing, though. There’s only so much one can piece together from the stack of weeks-old newspapers that get here – unless you really did recently propose to Celestina Warbeck’s mother in Flourish and Blotts. In which case, I sincerely apologise for the judgy tone and will expect an invitation.
Charlie
Harry reads the letter through once, then again, slower. He’s surprised Charlie’s read his papers at all - even more so that he’s quoting them back. Most people skim, nod politely, and change the subject when he talks about long-term magical memory in landscapes. He gets it - not only is it fairly unexplored, it’s also, as Hermione herself likes to remind him, “hopelessly nerdy.”
He never thought he’d be doing this. If you’d told his seventeen-year-old self that a decade later he’d be elbow-deep in survey maps, cross-referencing plant growth with recorded instances of magical trauma, he’d have laughed in your face.
And yet here he is.
Cyclical agitation. No seasonal cause. Nothing in the wards or health checks. If the land really is holding on to something, letting it surface on its own rhythm… it could be any number of things. Old magic. Trauma. A long-forgotten event leaving a mark deep enough to ripple through the years.
It’s the kind of puzzle he likes best - messy, layered, impossible to solve without really looking at the place. And looking is something he’s been doing for years now, almost by accident. After the battle, when he stayed to rebuild, it was impossible not to notice that Hogwarts felt different. Not just because the walls were cracked or the grounds were chipped, but because the very air seemed to carry the memory of what had happened. Certain corridors felt heavier, quieter, even when full of noise. The greenhouses grew differently - faster under a happy Pomona, sluggish when she was worn down. The Forbidden Forest seemed to shift mood from one glade to the next, some alive with sound, others unnervingly still.
When he’d mentioned it to McGonagall, expecting a polite dismissal, she’d just paused, looked over her spectacles, and said, “Observe it properly, Potter. If you’re going to notice things, put it to use.” With her permission, he stayed on, building observations into something more formal.
It turned out the patterns were measurable. The land and its ecosystems did respond to emotion - to grief, joy, fear - especially when the magic in that moment was strong. He’d proven that much beyond any doubt. The real challenge, the part that still kept him up at night, was figuring out how to prevent those imprints from turning destructive, or how to rebalance them after the damage was done.
The Thestrals became his best allies in that work. They were creatures shaped by grief, their very visibility a mark of it, and the herd in the forest had been through the battle just as much as the castle had. Watching them, and watching the land they roamed, gave him living proof of what he’d suspected since those first weeks after the war: magic and memory didn’t just touch a place, they could settle into it, altering it in ways that lingered long after the moment had passed.
He spends his days reading, writing, walking the same trails until he can feel the smallest changes underfoot. Sometimes it’s quiet enough that he forgets there’s a whole school just beyond the trees. Sometimes the air hums with magic so thick it prickles against his skin. And now, for the first time, someone outside these walls is asking if he can make sense of it - not out of politeness, but because they might actually need him to.
His eyes flick back to the bottom of the page. Do tell me to fuck off if you’re not interested.
Harry huffs out a laugh before he can stop himself, rubbing the back of his neck. He wonders if it was meant to come across as playful as he took it, or if that was just Charlie’s default tone bleeding through.
In which case, I sincerely apologise for the judgy tone and will expect an invitation.
He shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. Yeah. Still a Weasley. He sets the letter down, tapping it once against his knee, mind already pulling together the questions he’ll need to ask.
Charlie,
It’s good to hear from you - it has been far too long.I’d be very interested to hear more about what’s happening at the reserve - if you’ve read my papers, you’ll know I’m not likely to turn down the chance to study another possible case of long-term magical memory in the land. Not many people are willing to let me examine both their ecosystems and their emotional grudges.
I should say up front - I’m hardly an expert in this. I’ve only been working in this field for a couple of years, and my research is mostly observational. And while it’s been enough to convince most of the magical world that it isn't just a nice theory - the challenge is working out exactly how and why it happens, and how to identify the signs early enough to help without disrupting the balance.
If you can, could you send me:
- A rough map of the affected areas (and whether agitation levels vary between them)
- Any notes or logs from the past three months, including specific behaviour changes
- Details on any recent ward reinforcements, repairs, or boundary alterations
- Any previous incidents in the reserve’s history that might leave a lingering emotional imprint
The more context I have, the better I can cross-reference it with similar cases. If I spot anything that could point it to be memory related, I will let you know.
And for the record, I did not propose to Euphemia Warbeck in Flourish and Blotts. She proposed to me.
Harry
At dinner, he sits with Neville and Eliza, listening more than talking. Neville notices, of course.
“You’re thinking about something quite hard in there,” he says, glancing up from ladling gravy onto his plate to gesture at Harry's forehead.
Harry shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Am I?”
“That’s your 'puzzle face',” Neville says knowingly. "Haven’t seen it since we tried to sneak into Flitwick’s office to measure him for a Halloween costume without him noticing.”
Harry doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t explain either. The less fuss made over it, the better - at least until he’s sure there’s something worth fussing over.
Later, in his quarters, the letter from Charlie sits on the low table beside his tea while he skims a book. He keeps glancing at it without meaning to, the details circling back through his head.
Maybe he ought to pay Hagrid a visit again. He certainly didn’t mention sending any of his work over to anyone when he's last seen him.
Harry doesn’t expect a quick reply. By the time he’s sent his letter off with one of the school owls in the evening, he’s already resigned himself to waiting at least a week. Records, maps, ward logs - it’s the kind of thing that takes time to track down, especially at a place as sprawling and unpredictable as a dragon reserve.
Which is why the small greyish owl swooping down onto his breakfast plate in the Great Hall the next morning makes him blink mid-spoonful.
“Oi,” he mutters, steadying the edge of the plate before it tips. The owl steps onto his arm without hesitation, feathers warm against his sleeve, and waits patiently while he unties the parchment from its foot.
The seal breaks easily, Charlie’s handwriting curling across the page in confident loops.
Harry,
Thanks for this - it’s more than I hoped for. I'm sure you have plenty work to focus on outside of this, so I appreciate it. I’ll start collecting what I can straight away. Some of the older records might take a bit of digging, but I’ll get them to you along with the maps, logs, and weather data as soon as they’re in some kind of order.
I see you’re just as sassy as I remember. Good. Would’ve been a shame if you’d gone all sensible.Charlie
Harry huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he folds the letter once and sets it beside his plate. There’s a flicker of something at the back of his mind - curiosity, amusement, maybe a hint of satisfaction at the idea that Charlie remembered enough to make the comparison at all.
He thought about this while reading his first letter just yesterday - sometimes it feels like almost everything has been taken apart and rebuilt. And yet, with one line, Charlie’s reached back through all of it and found something that stayed. It’s strangely grounding, the thought that someone who barely knows the man he’s become can still spot the thread that runs straight through. It makes him feel, unexpectedly, a little seen.
He tries to ignore Minerva’s knowing gaze from opposite him as he fights his smile down. His mind itches to go over his old notes - every other site he’s surveyed in the last three years, from the moss-slick glades in the forest to the weathered ruins beyond the northern boundary. Grimmauld Place, too, when he’d finally been able to strip back the layers of old magic and see what the house had been hiding. But nothing has ever been this large-scale, not even the forest - as far as he knows, the reserve spans across nearly a hundred square miles of rugged, warded terrain.
By mid-morning he’s in Greenhouse Four with Neville, who’s got his sleeves rolled up with an expression of concentrated determination as he wrestles a magical basil plant back into its own bed. Harry and Eliza aren’t here for anything urgent. They’re both free for the hour and, in the way things often work at Hogwarts, have wandered in to “chat”, only to be roped into re-potting.
Eliza crouches opposite Harry at the workbench, her cropped chestnut hair escaping in wisps from a loose bun, brow furrowed as she tries to untangle one plant’s roots from another’s. She’s quick-witted in that understated way where you realise she’s already ten steps ahead in the conversation; sharp enough to call Harry out when he’s distracted, kind enough to change the subject if it’s not the right time. They’d hit it off almost immediately - same age, same dry humour, and a shared knack for bridging the gap between the magical and muggle worlds.
Muggle Studies had shifted after the war from a fringe elective to a core subject for younger years - the idea being that understanding the non-magical world might close some of the divides that had helped feed the conflict in the first place. Eliza, who grew up with one foot in each world, was an obvious choice for the post. She’d told Harry once that her first term was “equal parts explaining the internet and unteaching twenty years of bad muggle movie stereotypes.”
They talk easily as they work, the rhythm familiar: Eliza teasing him about his potting technique, Harry pretending he’s too good for gloves, the both of them quietly competing to see who can finish more without damaging a single root. From the far side of the greenhouse, Neville’s voice drifts through the rustle of leaves and clink of terracotta - occasional commentary about which plants are being “helpful” and which are “absolutely taking the piss.”
Eliza leans over the bench to swipe a stray leaf from Harry’s jumper. “So, what’s got you looking like that this morning?” she asks, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.
Harry lifts one shoulder, keeping his gaze on the plant in front of him. “Some prospective work.” he says, tone deliberately vague.
Her eyebrow arches at the way Harry ignores the subtle poke. “Mm-hm.”
From somewhere inside a dense patch of shrivelfig, Neville calls, “Not the bloke from the bar last week, then?” His head pops into view, grinning like a man who’s not nearly busy enough to mind his own business.
Harry’s fingers still on the rim of the pot. The memory flickers - warm hands, a too-eager smile, the kind of attention that felt good in the moment but hollow underneath. He’d almost taken the man home. He’s not proud of it.
It’s been a while, and part of him had wanted something - anything - to take the edge off. But it had been clear the blonde was only there for the novelty of the name, not the person. Harry had got his head on straight somewhere between the third drink and the walk outside, mumbled something about an early start, and stumbled home alone to curl around his pillow instead.
He’s not lonely. Not often. It’s more that every now and then the quiet stretches a little too far, and the urge to fill it - even with something meaningless - creeps in. He’s learned to wait it out.
“Didn’t work out,” Harry says finally, reaching for a fresh pot.
Neville makes a sympathetic noise that’s only half sincere. “I’d say your standards are too high, but I agree with you this time. Bloke didn’t even know what a flutterby bush was.”
“My standards are exactly where they should be,” Harry counters, and Eliza snorts, shaking her head as she presses fresh soil around the base of her plant.
“I had a look around too,” she says, lips curving. “Didn’t see much worth my time either. Closest thing to a decent prospect was the barman, and he was far too busy being horridly understaffed.”
Harry huffs a laugh. “You spent the whole night complaining about the lamps.”
“I spent an hour on my makeup,” she adds, tossing a bit of soil back into the pot with mock solemnity. “If I’m going to waste my time on small talk, I at least want good lighting to show off the sparkle.”
Neville snorts from his corner, muttering something about “priorities” under his breath, and the three of them fall back into the easy rhythm of work. Outside, the autumn light shifts against the glass panes, gilding the leaves and turning the soil almost black.
The day’s clear and cold, and he spends the rest of it out past the forest boundary, notebook in hand, watching the thestrals pick their slow way through the thinning grass.
They’re quieter today, their wings folding neatly against their sides as they forage, the faint shimmer of their black hides catching what little winter sun filters through the clouds. Every flick of an ear, every slow stretch of a wing is a reminder of his past - sharp and unshakable, as much a part of him as the scar on his forehead. But he doesn’t mind it anymore.
If anything, there’s a strange comfort in their presence, in the fact that they keep existing, keep moving forward without apology.
He scribbles a few observations into his notebook, pausing now and then to push his glasses up his nose and watch the herd settle again. Nothing remarkable today - no changes in their grazing patterns, no unusual restlessness.
By the time he’s back inside, the castle’s already humming with the low sounds of evening - distant footsteps, the soft rattle of a cart of dishes in the Great Hall, the occasional hoot of an owl passing the window. He takes his tea by the fire in his quarters, the warmth loosening the chill from his hands.
Charlie’s already promised to send the maps and records once he’s dug them out. It’s not urgent. But Harry can’t quite let it sit unanswered - not when he’s been picturing the reserve all day, imagining its scale, its edges, the wind over it. He wants more than numbers on parchment.
He moves to his desk, pushes a stack of books aside, and pulls a sheet of parchment towards him. The quill hovers for a moment before the words come, easy enough in the quiet.
Charlie,
Can you include some photos of the reserve too, please? I realise it’s a big place, but at least a few would be helpful from different areas.
He pauses here, tapping the quill against his knee. The sensible part of him says to sign off and leave it at that. The other part - the one Charlie seems to have woken up with a single line - can’t resist.
I struggle to imagine what memories of me you’re working from – but I can assure you they’re inaccurate. Euphemia is deeply hurt by your disbelief.
Harry
He reads the letter over once, lips twitching at the last line, then folds it neatly and brings it to the waiting school owl. The bird takes off into the night with a quiet sweep of wings, disappearing past the window’s edge.
Harry returns back to his quarters and sits back down by the fire, reclaiming the chair and the cooling mug on the side table. The tea’s gone lukewarm, but he drinks it anyway, watching the flames shift in the grate and wondering - not for the first time today - what the reserve looks like in late autumn.
Chapter Text
The library is quiet enough to hear the scratch of Harry's pen against paper. It’s the good kind of quiet - the kind that hums faintly with the occasional whisper of a turning page somewhere out of sight. He’s claimed a corner table under the window, old parchments spread out in loose clusters, a pile of reference books threatening to topple into the teacup at his elbow.
It’s not unusual for him to spend a day like this - head down, shoulders hunched over diagrams and notes - but he's definitely been here longer today. Maybe it’s the rain tapping steadily against the windows, or the creeping urgency of wanting to push the research forward, but the questions keep looping through his mind, stubborn and insistent.
If the land can absorb magic and emotion deeply enough to hold onto it, how exactly does that happen? And why does it manifest so differently from one place to another?
It’s the questions he’s been chasing for the past six months, the natural next step after proving it happens at all.
He flips open a worn, leather-bound volume on enchantment in magical structures, tracing a finger down a chapter on sympathetic retention. It’s as close as anyone’s gotten to naming what he’s been studying - though here, the examples are mostly buildings: an ancestral home still remembering its first master’s grief, a goblin forge that cools faster if the smith is in foul temper. But the theory’s there, under the surface: magic and emotion are never just thrown out into the world.
He sketches a rough diagram of the magical flow. One version for a building, another for an open environment. The latter’s messier, lines darting off in all directions like veins. His eyes linger on the central note he’s scrawled, that one he’s most sure of.
source/event → absorption → expression
If he can work out the middle part, then maybe he can start thinking about prevention. Stop the land from turning into a mirror for every spell and feeling thrown at it.
Except… not every emotion is harmful, and not every instance of this phenomenon is dangerous.
Hogwarts is the perfect example. Its history is tangible, but it doesn’t feel poisoned. The weight of the recent war is there, unshakable, but it’s steady. There’s also laughter, excitement, heartbreak, failures, and hope stitched into the land. The magic here seems to fold everything together, weaving the good and the bad into something whole.
And yet… it hasn’t always been like this. He frowns, tapping the pen against the table. Hogwarts only started exhibiting active absorption signs after the war - two, maybe three months after the final battle. If it works like the other cases he’s studied, there’s usually a traumatic event at the start that locks the land into the process. But why then? Why not during the Triwizard Tournament, or after Dumbledore’s death, or any other time the castle had been steeped in fear?
Is it a matter of scale? Of timing? Does the land only keep what comes immediately after the initial event, or does it take everything - good and bad - until it reaches some kind of equilibrium, like Hogwarts seems to have now?
And if so… could he make it start without the initial trauma? Could he choose what it keeps? If the land could be coaxed into absorbing only positive emotion - joy, safety, harmony - it could be beneficial, endlessly so. A forest that naturally encouraged cooperation between its species. A meadow that resisted invasive growth. A hatchery where dragons were calmer, less prone to stress.
The possibilities make his chest feel tight in a way that’s almost giddy. But they’re only possibilities until he understands the how. Does the land select what it absorbs, or does it stick based on intensity? On recent activity? On some unknown time frame?
And that’s where he keeps hitting the wall.
He’s tried things. Reached out to people in magically saturated buildings, like the witch who’d inherited a house not unlike Grimmauld Place - heavy with personality, steeped in wards. Her description of the place’s moods had been unnervingly familiar, but her account was all anecdote, no measurable data, and she didn’t like the idea of Harry poking around too long.He’s never attempted the same work at Grimmauld - it was too personal, too tangled in his own history to be objective. His presence alone would skew the results, the place reacting more to him than to anything he tried to measure.
Instead, there’s the little test site he’s set up for himself. An isolated clearing at the far edge of the grounds, sealed with temporary wards. His blank slate. A space he can deliberately fill with a single kind of emotion in a controlled time frame, see if it lingers, measure how long it takes, and how long it lasts. He’s gone there calm, focused, restless - and even, once or twice, just to shout until his throat ached. Which, okay, was satisfying, but still not enough. The monitoring charms he’s left aren’t conclusive, though there have been faint fluctuations in the readings.
Most of his documented cases have taken a couple years to form - Hogwarts being the anomaly, exhibiting clear signs of absorption and expression within only a couple of months after the war. He suspects it has to do with the sheer density of people there, the emotions layered and concentrated until they practically burned themselves into the foundations. If that’s true, then his own test site may need the same kind of intensity - something stronger, sharper - to produce faster, more measurable results. Something on the scale of a traumatic event searing distress into hundreds of people, animals and nature at once.
Simple enough, then.
Harry rubs at the corner of his eye, pen still tapping idly. It’s the one Eliza gave him for his birthday, with stains-repellent ink, sleek and slightly heavier than a quill. She’d claimed it was a practical gift, though he’s fairly sure it’s part of her ongoing campaign to sneak muggle devices into wizarding life, using him as one of her more cooperative test cases.
If he could project a more intense feeling into his test site - condense years’ worth of emotional weight into a single, controlled burst - he might finally get something measurable. And if he could control what it took in… That’s when it could start to matter.
***
By the time he wanders down to the great hall, the smell of dinner has already spread through the corridors. He takes his usual seat beside Neville, shaking the thoughts from his shoulders.
“How’s it going?” Neville asks, reaching for the roasted potatoes. “Any luck yet? Did Charlie send the details?”
It’s been a couple of days since he’d first brought up the reserve’s problem, and eventually he’d told Neville and Eliza the basics – enough to explain why he’s been so focused lately.
Harry shakes his head, pulling a plate toward him. “Not yet. I think my next step’s going to be trying to project something bigger into the test site - more intense. See if that gives me a clearer reading.”
Neville raises a brow. “Bigger as in…?”
Harry shrugs, piling roast chicken and carrots onto his plate. “Not sure yet. That’s the problem. I need enough emotional weight to make a measurable shift, but without, you know, traumatising myself in the process.”
Neville starts throwing out ideas - layering amplifying charms over the clearing, runic resonance to hold the effect longer, even roping in a few people at once to create a collective emotional spike. Harry counters with the potential pitfalls: noise in the readings, the risk of muddling the emotional imprint, the problem of controlling it once it’s set in motion.
They’re still batting possibilities back and forth when Eliza drops into the seat opposite, setting her bag down with a little more force than necessary. “What do you two know about Back to the Future?”
Harry blinks. “…The muggle film?”
“Yes, the muggle film. Or Lord of the Rings. Or Jurassic Park. Because half my second-years have apparently been on some kind of muggle cinema binge over the weekend and decided to interrogate me about which bits might be possible in the wizarding world.” She stabs a fork into her dinner. “Do you know how hard it is to explain to them that some things - like time travel - technically exist but are extremely restricted and dangerous, without sounding like I’m inviting them to try?”
“I thought they’d be more focused on the dinosaurs and guns,” Harry adds, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.
Eliza lets out a laugh, shaking her head. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But no, apparently the idea of them running around with automatic weapons was less interesting than whether or not orcs could cross-breed with trolls.”
Harry chokes slightly. “They asked you what?”
Neville just blinks at both of them, clearly lost, and mutters, “I have no idea what either of you are talking about.”
They drift into talk about some of the students Eliza shares with Neville instead - whose essays are late, who’s quietly excelling. Harry chimes in when a few familiar names come up, mentioning the ones he sometimes plays quidditch with on weekends.
“Pretty sure they only invite me so they can say they’ve beaten the chosen one,” he says dryly, refilling his drink. “Not that they ever do.”
Neville shakes his head with mock disapproval. “You’re crushing their dreams, you know.”
“How?” Harry protests, pointing his fork at him. “Am I supposed to just let them win? They’re the ones begging me to play. I’m doing them a favour while preserving my reputation.”
Eliza tilts her head, as if giving it serious thought. “Your reputation as what, exactly? The boy who won’t let kids win? Coach don’t tell McGonagall about the tattoos?”
Harry throws a glance toward the other staff table. “Low blow. I never said I’m keeping it a secret. I’m just not exactly volunteering it. She’s only just stopped side-eyeing the piercing, and that took months.”
Neville just smiles. “She must have some idea after you spent the whole summer sweltering in long sleeves. Even if finding out it’s an entire gallery would probably take a few years off her life.”
Harry’d spent most of the last summer in and out of St Mungo’s Inkwrights, extending the work on his arm - a long, steady project he kept coming back to. By the time it healed, autumn had rolled in, and Minerva never had the chance to raise one of those perfectly arched eyebrows at it.
His arm wasn’t the only canvas. He’d started a couple of months after the war, in places usually not visible, and it was the sort of thing only his closest friends knew about - and the couple of people Harry had taken to his bed in rare, restless moments. The process wasn’t exactly painless, far from it, but there’d been something strangely grounding about it. The steady scratch of the needle, the sting that turned into warmth, the permanence of ink sinking into skin. After technically dying and clawing his way back, it had been oddly reassuring: a physical reminder that he was here, still in his body, still alive.
Ron had found the whole thing hilarious when he first accompanied him, of course - leaning against the wall and laughing himself sick while Harry grit his teeth through the worst of it. These days Ron usually left with something new too - a rune on his forearm, a quidditch formation curling along his ribs, even a lightning bolt on his ankle just to wind Harry up. It had become a tradition, of sorts. Their last round - Ron’s birthday - had ended with them staggering out of the shop slightly drunk with matching tattoos of enchanted chess pieces: Ron’s knight, Harry’s rook. The pieces even shifted occasionally, as though mid-game.
Harry shakes his head, grinning faintly. “Merlin, you’re weirdly morbid today.”
Minerva and the rest would find out eventually, probably on one of the staff trips that Professor Merrythought had taken it upon herself to organise every three months. And sooner or later, Harry was bound to be caught shirtless at a swimming pool. Not that it was against the rules anyway, half the staff were eccentric enough in their own right. Vector from Arithmancy seemed to change the streaks in his hair to a new colour every other day, and Sinistra from Astronomy wore enchanted constellation jewellery that shifted and re-arranged itself across her robes based on the sky. Compared to that, Harry’s ink was hardly scandalous, even if it was extensive.
He wasn’t even technically a professor.
“Anyway,” he says, turning to Eliza, “Since you tend to gift me muggle things and use my amazing reputation of a quidditch legend entirely for your own benefit - here’s a question with a possible opportunity. Let's say I wanted to exchange photographs overseas consistently, maybe even daily… would a smartphone work for this type of correspondence?”
“I am not using you,” Eliza says, affronted for all of two seconds before her eyes light up anyway. “But yes. Absolutely. Do you need them all stored? Or night vision?”
“I said it’s a question.” Harry warns, hand waving in an uncertain gesture. “I might not need it at all. I'm hoping I'll be able to tell from the initial photos and notes whether there’s any emotional instability in the reserve. But if there is, which is likely, I’m going to need much more frequent visual updates.”
Eliza leans in, connecting the case to his request, already planning out ten solutions in her head. “Right. Subtle shifts, so you need a good camera. You’d want something the handlers can use without you there to explain the technology?”
“Exactly.”
“Okay, I can do that,” Eliza says, practically bouncing in her seat. “Just say the word. I’ll get you set up with something that’ll make you admit it’s worth the effort.”
Neville, who has been watching this exchange with a faintly smug expression, shakes his head. “You realise she’s going to give it to you anyway, right? Doesn’t matter if it’s theoretical - you’ve basically already ordered one.”
Eliza grins, visibly cheered up. “Oh, you too, plant boy. It has started. We’re adding each other on Snapchat.”
Neville blinks. “Snap… what?”
***
Harry,
Evidence attached.
- Site maps: one full reserve overview and the rest more detailed sections. I marked zones in red where agitation reads highest.
- Behaviour logs (11 weeks): pulled from daily handler notes. I highlighted entries where the same individuals reacted differently in the same conditions.
- Weather & atmospheric records: barometric pressure, wind, temperature, magical conductivity, and storm index. We did have two minor magical squalls, but agitation spikes precede them by days.
- Healer checks: Stress markers up across the board but no illness, parasites, or injury clusters. You’ll see the graphs.
- Ward audit (last month, independent team): perimeter and pen wards are sound. No leaks, no curse residue, no tampering. We reinforced anchors anyway. No change.
- Feeding & rota schedules: in case human patterns were adding fuel. We shuffled handlers twice. No effect beyond the usual “first-day nerves.”
- Incidents ledger (historical): anything in reserve history that might echo marked there, even small things - raids, containment failures, the wildfire eight years ago, even the time we relocated a nesting pair. I don’t dare highlight which of these might be important.
- Photographs: Most were taken between feeding runs and dodging tail swipes. I added a few wide shots of the ridgeline and the north marsh so you can read the ground as well as the dragons.
The photographs are not the best; most were taken in a hurry between feeding runs and dodging tail swipes. I’ll see if I can get a few better ones for you, or think of another way to show you the place properly.
My memories of you and your cheek are perfectly accurate. I refer you to your last letter as Exhibit A. Also, you still haven’t told me how you are doing.
Charlie
***
The castle’s gone quiet. Harry sits down at his desk, the hearth in the corner throwing out just enough heat to keep the chill from creeping into his fingers. His tea’s gone lukewarm, but he doesn’t mind; it’s an excuse to pause between lines, letting the steam curl up while he thinks.
The photos Charlie sent are spread out beside him - wide shots of jagged ridges and long, wind-bitten plains, pens lined with fencing that disappears into the distance. Even in still images, the place looks alive, like it’s breathing under the weight of the sky. He props his chin in his hand for a moment, imagining what it must be like to stand there and feel that kind of open air.
He’s already picturing Eliza’s triumphant grin when he tells her the news. The photos aren’t bad – but magical photography can only get you so far, and Harry can already tell he would need to monitor the visual changes consistently to come to a conclusion. If getting a smartphone will enable sending a couple images a day without tiring out multiple owls, he’ll call it professional progress. The magical world is incredible, but there are definitely a couple muggle inventions that should have been adapted ages ago.
After dinner he’d half-planned to walk down to Hagrid’s hut, check in, maybe let Fang slobber over his jeans before heading back up. But when he reached his room, the owl was already waiting on the back of his chair, feathers puffed against the cold and a packet of carefully bundled papers tied to its leg. He’s had a look, scanning over the parchments, but it’s too late to properly get into it. The ink is starting to blur before his eyes, and even curiosity can’t keep him awake much longer. He gathers the photographs and notes into a neat pile, resolving to spend tomorrow combing through them with a clear head. For now, he focuses on writing a reply.
Just to be polite.
Charlie,
Thanks for the information - and the photos. I’ll have a proper look tomorrow morning, but even from a glance I think more photographs could be especially useful.
With that in mind, I asked the muggle studies professor, Eliza Marlowe, whether a smartphone would be a better way to manage correspondence like this. It’s a muggle device, about the size of a pocket journal, that can take clear pictures and send them instantly - no creasing, no ink smudging, no waiting on owl post. In theory, it would mean you or any of the other handlers could take a quick photograph on-site and send it straight to me, which would let me build a running comparison instead of relying on occasional parcels. If you’re not opposed.I suppose I’m doing well enough. The research keeps me busy. Neville’s been trying to rope me into helping him map seasonal changes in the greenhouses too, but it’s mostly an excuse to gossip over lunch hours. On the domestic front, I finally managed to fix the enchantment on my kettle so it doesn’t try to whistle the Hogwarts anthem every time it boils, so that’s a win.
I’m not sure what exactly it is you wanted to know, though, so feel free to send over additional questions as well as some information on your own wellbeing, too - including, but not limited to, your current favourite biscuit.
I will let you know once I’ve had a proper look at everything.
Harry
***
Harry wakes earlier than usual for a Saturday, the grey morning light just beginning to push its way past the castle’s tall windows. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and drags a hoodie over his head. The thought of diving straight into Charlie’s bundle of notes and photographs tugs at him - but he knows himself well enough. Once he starts, it’ll be hours before he remembers to eat, let alone speak to anyone. Better to get out first, while the day is still fresh.
The chill hits as soon as he steps outside. It’s the kind of damp cold that seeps into the stones and lingers, breath puffing white before him. He shoves his hands in his pockets and sets off down the path. The air smells of wet earth and woodsmoke, frost crunching under his shoes. From the slope he can see the lake lying dark and still, the forest looming beyond, its branches skeletal this time of year. A few students cross the lawns, wrapped in scarves and carrying books; they greet him cheerfully as he passes, one or two eyeing him with that lingering mix of awe and familiarity.
By the time he reaches the hut at the edge of the forest, Fang’s bark is already carrying through the air. Smoke curls from the crooked chimney, and the door swings open wide at Harry’s knock.
“Harry!” Hagrid beams, a gust of warmth and woodsmoke spilling out. Fang barrels into Harry’s knees, nearly toppling him before he can step inside.
“Morning, Hagrid,” Harry says, ruffling Fang’s ears as he shakes off the cold.
The hut is as cluttered and familiar as ever - crossbows, pots, scraps of wood, everything half-finished or mended. They sit with steaming mugs of tea. Hagrid slides a plate of rock cakes across the table, and Harry grins faintly. “Not sure I’m awake enough for those yet.”
“Suit yerself,” Hagrid chuckles, popping one in his own mouth. He chews noisily, waving a hand toward the window. “Bin an early frost last night. Greenhouses’ll be slicker’n a skating rink.”
Harry nods. “Neville’s going to love that. He was already moaning about the cold last week.”
The frost hadn’t been forecast, and it would be impossible for Harry to ignore the timing. Right before exams, after Quidditch rows - periods when nerves seemed to thrum louder than usual. He makes a mental note to jolt it down later.
Hagrid laughs, shaking his head. “Still, he’s got the knack. Always did. Fussin’ over his plants like they’re his own kids.”
Fang lolls by the fire, tail thumping against the floor. Harry leans forward. “I had a letter from Charlie. He mentioned that he’d got my papers from you.”
For a second Hagrid looks almost sheepish, then his chest puffs with pride. “Aye. Sent ’em off a while back. Figured yeh wouldn’t mind. Charlie wrote, askin’ if I knew anythin’ that’d be any use to him. An’ I said, o’ course this would - Harry’s work’s worth sharin’. Told him he ought to see it, keep yeh both on the same page.”
Harry flushes a little. “Might not even come to much.”
“Don’t sell yerself short,” Hagrid says firmly, waving one massive hand. “An’ besides, it’s Charlie. He’ll see to it yeh get what yeh need. He always keeps me updated, yeh know - writes about Norberta every so often. Still can’t believe how well she’s done, settled right in at the reserve.”
At that, Harry smiles, memory tugging at him - the frantic scramble years ago to get Hagrid’s smuggled dragonling safely out of Hogwarts, Charlie’s friends swooping down from the sky with the crate. “You mean Norbert,” Harry teases.
“Norberta,” Hagrid corrects with great dignity, though his beard quivers with a grin. “She’s a grand girl now, big as the roof o’ this hut. Charlie says she’s lively, but clever. Knows him, too. Yeh can see it in the way she behaves when he’s near. Makes me proud, it does.”
“Yeah.” Harry murmurs, thinking of the documents waiting for him. “Nortberta. I should’ve guessed. You didn’t mention anything.”
“Well, I thought you’d be glad,” Hagrid says, eyes bright, his huge hands cradling the delicate teacup like it’s no heavier than a thimble. “An’ I am proud o’ yeh, Harry. You’re just defendin’ the world anymore, but understandin’ it. That matters.”
Harry waves him off, but there’s an unmistakable warmth in his chest. Hagrid pours them both more tea, the steam fogging his beard, and leans back in his chair with a creak of old wood. “An’ how’s Ron an’ Hermione doin’, then? Need to write ‘em a letter myself.”
Harry chuckles, wrapping both hands around his mug. “They’re good. Ron complains about the hours, but honestly, he loves it. Hermione’s just switched departments, actually. She’s moved over to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures - she’s set her sights on the old Werewolf Code of Conduct. Said she couldn’t keep watching laws stand as they were without trying to fix them.”
“Ha!” Hagrid lets out a booming laugh that rattles the plates on the table. “Tha’s Hermione, right enough. Won’t rest till the world’s set straight. Reckon I always knew Ron’d make a fine Auror, too. Remember when he told me he might give it a go? Sat right where yeh’re sittin’ now, tryin’ ter sound casual. I could tell then he’d be brilliant at it. Just needed ter believe it himself.”
Harry’s smile grows. “He’s made his name already. Mostly for winding up his supervisors, but that still counts.”
They sit in companionable quiet for a couple moments, Fang thudding his tail against the floorboards at Harry’s feet. He appreciates Hagrid, is forever grateful for the conversation – but there’s something in these moments, where they’re both sat in silence in his warm hut, that always makes him feel especially at peace.
“Say, yeh don’t mind passin’ a word along to Neville for me, do yeh? I was meanin’ ter ask about that plant he mentioned - the one that keeps moisture locked. Might do wonders for me bakin’, keep things fresh longer. But - ” He pats his knee with a rueful grin, “- these old bones don’t much like the walk all the way up ter the greenhouses these days.”
Harry nods easily. “I’ll tell him. You’ll probably end up with half a greenhouse of samples before you know it.”
Hagrid beams.
***
Harry’s back in his rooms by late morning, the november light dim outside the windows. He drags the small coffee table to one side and clears a wide space on the rug, stacking the photographs, maps, and bundled notes in careful piles. The kettle goes on in the corner, and by the time he’s brewed another mug of tea, he’s kneeling on the floor with parchment spread around him like an oversized puzzle.
The first thing he hunts for are the signs. If this is the same phenomenon he’s seen elsewhere, it won’t be hiding in the big events, but in the details - strange consistencies that have no natural explanation, just like Charlie mentioned. He works through each page slowly, methodically, making notes in his cramped hand and drawing arrows across the maps to mark patterns.
He finds them within the first couple hours. Notes about unseasonal budding or patches of odd frost tucked between feeding schedules and fence repairs. One handler records a strip of grass frosting over in July, dismissed as a quirk of the highlands. Charlie’s photographs sharpen it further. He finds jagged crack cuts across soil that looks darker than it should, as if scorched and refusing to heal. Harry drags his quill across the parchment, marking small X’s where photo and note align.
Temperature too, though harder to catch. A handful of comments in the logs mention ridges 'still warm to the touch' even with no recent presence of dragons.
Charlie seems to be working with the majority of the aggravated dragons himself, and his notes are nothing if not meticulous. As he said, their agitation never tracks with illness, breeding cycles, or territorial disputes. The only common factor is geography, even if that changes periodically as well.
Geological anomalies don’t act like that - only magical absorption does, lingering where it shouldn’t. Magic being pulled down into the ground and bleeding back out in unpredictable pulses. By the time he leans back, rubbing the bridge of his nose, he’s fairly certain the reserve land is not neutral.
The reserve’s history is thinner than he’d like - mostly acquisition records and Ministry reports - but he builds what he can: the decade the site was first warded off, the first dragons introduced, the accidents that followed.
There are a few incidents that catch his attention. A firestorm fifteen years back that scorched an entire ridge. A mass migration of ridgebacks recorded ten years ago, unusual for their species. The collapse of one of the original binding wells, its wards rebuilt on shaky ground – more recent. A mention of a cursed artefact incident from nearly forty years ago - some smuggled object buried in the cliffs, tainting the land until the Ministry had it seized. Normally, magical residue that old would have faded by now, unless it was continually fed. Harry skims over the note, setting it aside. Unlikely.
Each incident is tied to upheaval - trauma, in its way - and though the human population of the reserve is small, the dragons themselves carry an intensity of emotion unlike anything else. Territoriality. Grief when a clutch fails. Rage when a rival intrudes.
The wildfire seems the most plausible. It matches the timeline, the scale, the intensity. He underlines that one twice.
Every so often he rubs the ink from his fingers and considers what else Charlie might be able to show him. Soil colour, perhaps. Scorch marks and hot spots recurring in weird places. Shifts in vegetation growth on the edges of the ridges. Even the way the fencing might warp under repeated dragon stress. Any change that seems unimportant, silly or dismissable. He jots down a list, thinking if he could line them up side by side over a few weeks, the progression would either prove or disprove his theory.
By the time he finally sets his quill aside, the sky beyond the window is deep with early winter dark. His eyes blur when he leans back, shoulders stiff, a low throb settling at the base of his skull. He rubs at it absently, reaching for very cold tea - just as wings beat hard against the glass.
An owl.
Harry blinks in surprise as he rises to open the window. A draft of cold air sweeps in with the bird, puffed and disheveled, a fresh letter tied to its leg. He unties it quickly, brow furrowing as he smooths the parchment open. It’s the same owl he’d sent last night, still carrying the faint shimmer of the charm woven into its feathers to let it carve through headwinds and storms. They’re usually reserved for staff and students with family abroad, but the roost had been quiet when Harry had been to the owlery. Hagrid once told him these couriers could cross the Channel in a few hours and, if pressed, make central Europe overnight. Even so - for it to be back already, Charlie must have tied on his reply almost the moment it landed.
He glances to the pile of papers behind him, then quickly scans the letter.
Harry ,
The last muggle device I touched was one of dad's wind-up torches in my fourth year. It died shortly afterwards, though I maintain that was not my fault. I’ll happily give it a try.
As for my favourite biscuit - this is a more complicated question than you realise. For tea, it’s a custard cream, no question. The balance of sweet and not-too-dry works with anything you put in a mug, and you can dunk them without the whole thing disintegrating in two seconds. If it’s after a long day and I’m drinking something stronger, it’s ginger snaps. And for those days when I can’t be bothered to make dinner, I’ll have digestives with cheese. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.
Now, to my questions:
– You and Longbottom are mates, then? Anyone else from your lot still knocking about at Hogwarts these days?
– What exactly does a day of this research look like?
- Did Eliza attend Hogwarts? The name feels familiar.
– Most importantly, what’s your favourite biscuit? And why am I picturing it being something ridiculous like those biscuits shaped like cartoon animals?Thanks again for having a look.
Charlie
Urgent, my ass.
Harry laughs to himself, the sound a little rough after being quiet for most of the day. He’d half expected something dire when the owl had battered itself against the glass like that, Charlie writing back in record time as though the reserve had gone up in flames. Instead - biscuits. A whole bloody paragraph about biscuits.
Not that Harry’s entirely surprised - Ron had always gone on about food like it was a tactical subject - but still. He'd mostly included that as a joke, not even expecting Charlie to acknowledge the question. He traces a thumb over the rushed handwriting, the ink blotched in places, as though Charlie had scrawled it out standing at some draughty workbench rather than at a desk. Somehow, that’s what makes Harry want to write back immediately, even though his eyes sting from hours of notes and maps.
Charlie,
I hope you are aware that you are effectively delaying me from looking at the information you sent with every line of the biscuit infatuation I’ve just had to read. I’ll have you know my answer is extremely straightforward: chocolate hobnob. That’s it. End of discussion. And I am offended that animal biscuits were the thing you thought of - you clearly still think of me as a twelve-year-old.
Yes, Neville and I are mates. He’s Sprout’s teaching assistant and just as good at keeping things alive as you’d expect, though he’s grown into quite a mysterious man. His students still can’t work out if his encouraging smile means ‘well done’ or ‘you’re about to fail this class.’ Might be Luna’s influence. He helps me identify some of the unusual plant growth and behaviour that shows up.
Eliza did attend Hogwarts, though it was before I even started - which would actually make sense for you two to have possibly crossed paths. She’s a good friend - spends a fair bit of time teasing me, so you’d probably get along. A couple of others from my year are here in passing, but most have moved on.
A day of my research… well, it’s usually more walking than glamour. Notebook in hand, watching how a space feels and behaves over time. Sometimes it’s as simple as observing the animals, sometimes it’s charting temperature shifts in places that shouldn’t have them. And then there’s the fun part: writing it up so it makes sense to anyone who hasn’t been standing in a muddy field for three hours.
What does a normal day look like for you at the reserve when you’re not converting biscuits into crime scenes? What kind of cheese, exactly?
I’ll tell Eliza you’re game for the smartphone experiment and make sure she gets you something indestructible.
Defender of the only correct biscuit,
Harry
Notes:
Okay, lots of theory in this one, but it's gotta be done! Let me know if you have a favourite biscuit.
I was going to post this next week as per my usual once a week schedule but I got sick and had some more time so...
Chapter Text
Harry,
I said it broke, not that I launched it off a cliff, you twat.
A typical day depends on which part of the reserve I’m assigned to. If I’m on transport duty, it usually means an injured or misplaced dragon that needs moving. Sometimes it’s saddling them, or flying alongside them, keeping them steady. Depends on the circumstances, the distance and the attitude, making sure they don’t burn through half a valley in protest. Every dragon is different - some follow you like overgrown hippogriffs; others act like you’re their personal chew-toy. I spend more time in the air than I do on the ground lately.
I’m curious what is it that you like most about the work you do? You’ve seen enough of life to walk away from things that don’t fit.
Funnily enough, I’m pretty sure a chocolate hobnob was my favourite biscuit at about twelve. My point still stands. Digestives with cheese - since you asked - is usually a sharp cheddar, but if you’re looking to judge me, there’s nothing I can say that will stop you.
Unrepentant,
Charlie
***
Charlie,
You make it sound like you’ve swapped quidditch for something with sharper teeth. I did see those old photos at the burrow, you know. You were good - Ginny still says you should’ve joined her in Puddlemere. Can’t imagine you’d have put up with the Prophet headlines for long, though.
Does every dragon have a personality, then? Got any interesting transport stories?
As for your question - honestly, I didn’t think too much about it at the start. After the war, I didn’t want to be pulled into ministry nonsense. Hogwarts was home, so when the chance came up to stay here and help shape it, I thought - why not? It feels right.
Sharp cheddar? Merlin, Charles. There’s being unrepentant and then there’s being wrong.
Harry
***
Harry,
It does suit you, what you’re doing. I’ll give you that. I can picture you chasing thestrals across the grounds or trying to talk the grass into explaining its moods.
Dragons have more personality than people give them credit for. Some are all brawn, some are curious, some just want to be left alone. I’ve had one that followed me like a dog for weeks, and another that tried to knock me out of the sky every time it caught sight of me. You learn quick which ones to trust, and which ones to avoid turning your back on.
Most interesting transfer was a Welsh Green that somehow got itself lost in the Alps. Don’t ask me how a dragon the size of a cottage manages that, but there we were - half a dozen handlers trying to coax it two valleys over and across a village without anyone noticing. Even with concealment charms, we couldn’t risk flying it in daylight, so we had to hole up in a forest with it until night. Definitely the weirdest camping experience I ever had.
You’re right about quidditch. I played, but I never wanted the rest of it. Flying’s good enough on its own, and I get plenty of it now without someone screaming at me from the stands. You were a great seeker - we should have a game sometime.
I’ve attached more photographs of the west ridge, which I wasn’t able to get last time.
Concerned,
Charles (what are you, my mother?)
***
Charles,
Please. If I could just ask the bloody vegetation what its problem was, my entire job would be done by now.
I’ve gone through the photos you sent, and I’m very sure there are instabilities in the land at like you thought. Some of them are subtle, but you can see the shifts if you know where to look. I expected that, especially since you’ve already made so many connections to this being the problem. Now comes the difficult part: figuring out how to prevent or stabilise it. That’s the same work I’ve been attempting here at Hogwarts, and it’s taken me months just to get the smallest foothold. So don’t expect a quick answer. I’ll need more photos as time goes on - especially of the areas that shift fastest or look the most unsettled.
As for quidditch - I might be rusty, since I mostly just play with the kids here, but you’re on. If you lose, are you going to blame it on something else too - like the poor muggle torch you broke?
Luna will absolutely love to hear about your dragon dog. I’ll tell her next time I see her, though I’m not sure if you’d appreciate her showing up demanding to meet it. She would do that.
Harry
(not your mother, but still right)
***
Harry,
I’ll be the bigger person and let the biscuit joke go.
I’ll keep sending the photographs. The ridge is changing quicker than I expected, so you’ll have more to work with soon. Don’t wear yourself out chasing it too fast, though - I’d rather not have to explain to your colleagues why you keeled over mid-lawn-interrogation. We’re all grateful you’re having a look, and we are managing the agitation well so far.As for quidditch - if I lose, it’ll probably be thanks to whatever back-handed tactic you come up with to distract the hell out of me. How’s your score with the kids? Anyone promising in the lineup?
I swear I have a photo of the dragon dog stealing my sandwich somewhere. I’ll have a look.
Charlie
***
The faculty meeting (which Harry had been “unofficially” attending for the better part of a year) runs long, as they always do before the winter ball. A dozen voices tangle themselves in chatter - catering charms, cloak storage, whether the seventh years required stricter supervision - while Minerva’s quill keeps pace, scratching briskly across the parchment with an air of finality that brooks no argument.
Harry leans back in his chair, listening half-distracted. “We will require volunteers for the decorations,” she says, firm and precise. “Particularly if the weather continues to deteriorate. It is colder than usual for this point in the term, and the frostwork charms will need recalibration.”
Harry lifts his hand almost without thinking. He’d been to a handful of Yule feasts in his life, but the winter ball at Hogwarts had a nostalgia all its own. He remembered the air of it - snow in the air, frost on the stone, the way the hall shimmered under charm-made ice. Somehow it was always more than pretty; it felt charged, humming with an atmosphere he still hadn’t been able to pin down.
He was looking forward to the subtle distraction, too. After days of combing through records, mapping seasonal changes, and cross-referencing notes on old ward magic, he was starting to feel a little down. If he couldn’t untangle Hogwarts itself - his own home - how was he supposed to get a grip on the case waiting beyond its walls?
The past week he’d pushed further into his test zone. He’d been experimenting with ways to inject emotion into it, layering charms that drew on memory and projection. It was difficult work - half spellcraft, half instinct - but eventually he’d managed to tie a memory so tightly to the wards that the land itself seemed to reverberate with it immediately.
The discovery had been mostly small, confirming what he already suspected, but still needed. The input didn’t fade when he stepped away. It lingered, echoing long after the memory itself had slipped from his mind. Trauma was obviously a trigger. Once activated, the ground resonated on its own, feeding back the emotion like it had learned it.
He logged it carefully.
Testing Repeated Negatives
Method: Projected several different negative memories over the same ground.
Result: Symptoms stacked. Each memory reinforced the effect.
Conclusion: Trauma accumulates endlessly in a place, building up.
But even as he wrote it, the conclusion rang false. Or rather, that wasn’t all. The questions scrawled themselves in his head faster than he could answer them. His notes looked untidy, ink smudged where he’d pressed too hard.
If that were the whole story, Hogwarts would have collapsed long ago. He already knew both negative and positive emotions have been projected by the area; he’d felt it. Hogwarts seemed to hold the balance, as if the memories settled into something larger than the sum of their parts.
The next step seemed obvious, though it unsettled him. He would need to try projecting something positive into the test zone - a happy memory, something bright enough to test its weight. Would the ground take it in? How much of it would linger? And more importantly, would it shift anything at all?
And which one? His mind flicks through them too fast - moments with Ron and Hermione, flying high above the pitch, the sound of the crowd roaring. The first time he’d held his godson. Warm evenings in his kitchen, laughter spilling like light through the windows. Even the ridiculous comfort of treacle tart after a long day. All of them carry weight, but the thought of pressing one into the earth, of binding it with charms so it stays there, echoing, doesn’t sit quite right. It feels too much like cheating. Or worse, like tainting something pure by forcing it to work for him.
He tapped his pen against the notepad, restless. Is that really any different than what Hogwarts itself does? The castle doesn’t ask permission to keep what it has been given - grief, fear, joy, hope, all mingling together in its bones. That balance could be what has saved it.
Next trial was happiness.
He hasn’t quite gotten there yet, though - and the thought still gnaws at him as the meeting wraps up. People stand, chairs scrape, chatter spills into the corridor.
He’s halfway down the corridor when Eliza stops him. She’s holding something small in her hand like contraband and promptly drags him away.
Her quarters are nothing like his. Harry’s own space is cozy in its way - books stacked neatly, a sofa he’s finally picked out himself, warm lamps and a worn rug, the kind of home he never thought he’d be allowed to make. Eliza’s, by contrast, is a riot of colour. A scatter of bright cushions litters the sofa, candles of every size and scent line the shelves, half-burned and dripping wax. The walls are stacked with books, not wizarding texts but glossy-spined muggle detective novels, their lurid titles shouting in bold fonts. A coffee mug sits abandoned on the sill, lipstick smudged red against the rim.
“Sorry about the mess,” she says cheerfully, sweeping a scarf from the floor. “I’ve been bingeing Poirot again. Can’t help myself. And I’m meeting someone later, so - ” she gestures at the heap of clothes spread across the sofa, a chaos of colours and textures, "- I had to try on everything I own. Don’t judge me.”
Harry grins, holding his hands up. “Not a word.”
“Good.” She drops cross-legged onto the carpet, tugging a small box closer. “Now. Your very first muggle smartphone.”
Harry snorts, sitting opposite her.
She pulls out hers as well, already lit up and glowing. “I set mine up ages ago - mostly for music, but it does everything else too. Photos, videos, voice calls, messages. Muggle kids live on these.”
He leans in, curiosity prickling. He remembers Dudley glued to the television for most of their childhood – with hours of flashy adverts, as far as he was aware - but this feels sleeker, more like magic disguised as glass.
Eliza talks him through it briskly, fingers dancing across the screen as she explains. He catches on quite quickly - taps, swipes, adjusts brightness, tries to type. “Here - try this,” she says, nudging closer. She shows him how to open the camera and flip it around. Before he can think better of it, she leans in, grinning, and snaps a photograph of the two of them.
They set up two more devices before the evening is done - one for Neville and another for Charlie, already queued with basic contacts and instructions. By the time they finish, Harry is laughing at the string of awkward selfies that she's bombarding him with.
“Thanks, Eliza. Really.”
She brushes it away immediately, waving a hand. “No, no, it’s fine. You’ll get the hang of it.”
Harry just rolls his eyes, biting back a smile.
***
Charlie,
Generous of you, though I think what you mean is you’ve admitted defeat.The ridge really is changing faster than I’d like - you weren’t exaggerating. I’ve marked a few points that look the most unstable and I’ll keep tracking them against what you send.
There’s one fourth year who has a terrifying eye for the snitch. If we're not careful, she’ll beat us both in a few years, but I’m not admitting that to anyone else until it happens. And I’ll have you know, distraction is a perfectly valid strategy. If you lose, it’s not my fault you’ve no defence against it.
Now. Enclosed you’ll find the muggle phone. Don’t panic. It’s sturdier than it looks - should survive any mild threats to its wellbeing.
Eliza’s shown me how it works, so since I can't exactly do the same for you I thought a step-by-step for the beginning would help. Inside, you’ll find the list of instructions I made - first for charging, then for sending messages. Once you’ve got it running, we can move forward.
Harry
***
The Great Hall smells faintly of pine and polish, the long tables pushed to the side to make room for a dance floor. Lanterns drift lazily overhead, shedding a soft golden light that glitters across the enchanted snow falling from the ceiling.
Harry stands on a ladder, wand in hand, guiding a garland of evergreens into place above the doorway. Minerva McGonagall stands below, supervising - or pretending to supervise - her wand flicking every so often to adjust a bauble or straighten a banner.
“You’ve put that one too close to the torch,” she says crisply.
Harry leans down to look, eyebrows raised. “Minerva, it’s three feet away. I think we’ll be alright unless the torch develops a grudge.”
“Don’t tempt it,” she returns before flicking her wand. The garland shifts precisely one inches to the left. “Much better.”
Harry climbs down with a thump, smiling. “You do know I can see through that headmistress routine, don’t you?”
Her eyebrow arches in mock offense. “Routine?”
“Yes. Routine. Behind it you’re secretly enjoying this as much as the students are going to. Admit it.”
Minerva sniffs, but there’s laughter in her eyes. “I enjoy efficiency. If it happens to coincide with a bit of frivolity, I don’t complain.”
Harry grins and flicks his wand toward the garland, setting a handful of silver stars twinkling along its length. They work in companionable silence for a while, attaching holly wreaths to the pillars and coaxing the enchanted candles higher to leave room for dancers below. Every so often, Minerva practises a spell that sends snowflakes drifting in elegant spirals, only for Harry to charm them into snowballs that hover threateningly until she banishes them with a sharp look.
“Childish,” she says, lips tight against a smile.
“Seasonal,” Harry corrects, smirking.
As she adjusts a banner reading Welcome Winter Ball, Harry leans back against the nearest pillar, surveying their handiwork. “Looks brilliant, doesn’t it? You’ve outdone yourself.”
“We,” she corrects softly, though her gaze lingers on him rather than the decorations. “You’ve become quite useful with this sort of thing. I distinctly recall when you could barely vanish a button.”
Harry snorts. “For the record, my academic weakness wasn’t entirely my fault. I was a bit occupied, as you may remember.”
“Mm-hm.”
Harry watches her in the hush that follows. Her hands are fussing delicately with a wreath, tilting it by degrees until it sits just so.
“Minerva?”
“Yes?”
“Would you save me a dance tomorrow night?”
Her head snaps around, eyes sharp as a whip-crack. But then, just as quickly, the surprise softens into something almost fond. “Harry,” she begins, already halfway into a gentle refusal. “Surely there are far better options for your company. A handsome young man such as yourself -”
“Stop,” Harry interrupts, grinning. He shakes his head, half amused, half earnest. “I’d really rather not go through this whole thing again.”
The words hang between them, absorbed into the crackle of the floating torches. For a moment she only studies him, lips pressed together, as though weighing the wisdom of giving him an inch. Then, reluctantly, her composure falters; the smallest curve threatens her mouth.
“Incorrigible.”
“You’re stalling,” Harry counters.
“And you,” she says, arching a brow, “are far too persistent.”
“I am.”
This time the smile escapes her before she can catch it, quick and bright, like it surprises her as much as him. She straightens at once, chin lifting as though to restore order. “One dance,” she concedes, voice firm, as if issuing a decree. “And if you step on my toes, I will be retracting the offer.”
Harry beams. “Deal.”
He charms the last string of lights into place with a flick of his wand, colour blooming across the vaulted ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Minerva’s hands still for a moment against the wreath. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, almost thoughtful.
“You’ve grown into a fine man. I do hope you know how proud I am.”
“Careful. You’re dropping the act again.”
She glances sidelong at him, eyes glinting. “Perhaps with you, Mr. Potter, I don’t need it quite as much.”
He lies in bed that night, blankets bunched around his waist, the glow of the hearth low against the stone walls. His new device rests on the side table beside him, its sleek surface catching the light. The owl that had delivered Charlie’s package had winged back that morning, which meant Harry should probably keep an eye on the thing. Eliza had shown him the faint flicker it gave when a message came through, and though he’d never admit it aloud, part of him keeps glancing over, waiting.
He’s just turning onto his side for the third time when the screen flares pale blue. Harry blinks, sits up, squints and reaches to his nightstand for his glasses.
Unknown Number (22:39): Is this how this works?
Harry huffs a laugh, thumbs fumbling as he opens the little box Eliza showed him, adding a new contact.
Harry (22:41): Yes. Well done. You’ve successfully written a whole sentence.
It takes a couple moments before the reply comes.
Charlie (22:45): Wonderful.
Charlie (22:46): You didn’t attach any instructions for photographs.
Harry sits up straighter.
Harry (22:47): Easier to start with texts. It's the little image of a camera on the left side.
There’s a long pause. A flicker of dots. Then -
Charlie (22:54): Cool. Have you tried it?
Harry starts to type again when the screen suddenly goes black - and rings. Loudly. The device buzzes in his hand, startling him so much he nearly drops it. In his scramble to make it stop, he swipes, and the line connects.
“Merlin - hello,” he blurts, voice shaking with amusement. “That was loud.”
There’s a beat, then Charlie’s startled voice, close: “The fuck - hi?”
Harry laughs outright, rolling onto his back and pressing the phone against his ear. “You pressed the little green button, yeah? That’s what makes it work like floo without the soot.”
“Fuck,” Charlie mutters, then he’s laughing too, rough and warm in Harry’s ear. “Sorry. Did I wake you up with the text?”
Harry flops back against the pillows. “You’re alright, I wasn’t quite there yet.”
There’s a pause, the sound of Charlie’s exhaled breath on the line, steady. Then, wryly: “You sound exhausted, though.”
Harry snorts. “Gee, thanks. I’ll hang up and go to bed then, shall I?”
Charlie laughs again, softer this time, like he’s trying not to wake the whole camp. “Don’t get pissy. Just - you’ve got that end-of-a-long-day voice.”
Harry lets the silence stretch for a moment, the remark making him catch the rough edge of Charlie’s own tone. Tired too. Familiar, though it still takes him by surprise. Has he always sounded like that?
Some people really are just bloody lucky.
He clears his throat. “Well, I suppose it was. Isn’t it even later over there?”
“Hmm, yeah.” Charlie replies, his voice dropping lower. “I was going to wait till morning but...here we are.”
“Fair. We’ll work up to pictures.”
“Yeah, yeah." Charlie's still laughing quietly. “You’ll make a proper muggle out of me yet.”
To Harry’s surprise, Charlie becomes a speedy texter. Harry asks Eliza for her expertise again, and she scribbles down further notes about focus and brightness while Harry practises taking photos himself, fumbling through angles and light until he becomes more familiar with the process. Only once he’s confident enough not to confuse the poor man does Harry call Charlie to talk him through it.
The next afternoon, Harry receives the first photos while he’s in the test field. The air is sharp with the residue of the last trial, faint frost clinging at the edges. This time, he chooses carefully - not one memory, but several positive ones strung together. When the glow steadies, he sets the monitoring charms to record and leaves it to settle.
He drags a stack of parchment toward him, preparing to reconcile Charlie’s photos with the notes he’s already compiled. His pen scratches across the margin as the phone buzzes with more of them.
Charlie (13:45): This one’s from the ridge by the hatchery. You can see the weird grass better here.
(Attached: a decent photo – unevenly lit, but clear, the ground covered with streaks of green growth-like veins.)
Harry tilts his head, impressed despite himself, and adds a note beside the report: growth pattern doesn’t match readings.
Harry (13:50): Not bad. Almost like you meant to take this one.
Charlie (13:52): Hilarious.
Harry (13:53): I am.
Charlie (13:55): You are contributing to the release of negative emotions on this land.
Harry (13:56): I’ll be sure to record that in the official log.
He sketches a rough outline of the ridge, frowning at the ink smudge that spreads across the parchment when another buzz interrupts him.
Charlie (14:10): How many parchments are you buried under right now?
Harry (14:13): Enough. Why, are you going to add to them?
There’s a pause, dots flickering on and off.
Charlie (14:15): Found a book on sympathetic resonance. There’s a section on how outside triggers can mess with recovery time.
Harry flips the phone toward the desk.
Harry (14:18): Behold: thrilling wizardry in action. I’ll be done in an hour, can talk about it then.
(Attached: a photo catching the edge of his tea mug, a half-devoured hobnob, and his hand mid-scribble)
Charlie (14:18): Cool. What tea is that?
Harry (14:19): Camomile.
Dots flicker, stop, then start again.
Charlie (14:20): Come again?
Harry snorts but bends closer to the page, determined to steer the conversation back.
Harry (14:23): The vegetation in the left corner is weird. Do you notice heat patterns?
Charlie (14:24): Not there, we haven’t. Want me to check properly tomorrow?
Harry (14:25): Yes. With a diagnostic charm, please. Not a burned hand.
Charlie (14:26): Spoilsport.
The parchment slowly fills with his messy additions, cross-referencing.
Charlie (14:30): So why are you drinking boiled weeds instead of proper tea?
Harry (14:33): Pretty sure you said biscuits go with everything you can put in a mug.
There’s a pause. Dots flicker, vanish, flicker again.
Charlie (14:34): Didn’t realise I had such an attentive reader.
Harry rolls his eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitch despite himself. He props his chin in his hand, thinking.
Harry (14:37): I just like catching you contradicting yourself.
Charlie (14:38): Whatever you say.
He laughs into his sleeve, letting the warmth creep in, then carefully underlines a phrase on his parchment: rate of regrowth unnatural - compare to other sites.
Harry (14:40): You must be quite bored.
Charlie (14:43): You’re good entertainment when you get huffy.
***
Harry stands in front of the mirror, shoulders hunched, a tux jacket hanging limply in each hand. One draped over his left arm, the other over his right.
Eliza hasn’t exactly asked to see what he’s planning to wear, but she’d dropped enough pointed hints - and left her butterbeer conspicuously on his bedside table - that he knows she fully intends to spend the evening critiquing his choices.
“I only have these two,” he says flatly. “And they’re basically the same.”
Honestly, he thinks his wardrobe is doing fine. Sure, it’s mostly dark colours, jeans, hoodies, and shirts, but it’s practical. He even has a couple of proper ‘date’ outfits tucked away. From her spot cross-legged on the bed, Eliza squints at him like he’s just handed her two identical puzzle pieces and asked which was prettier.
“You’re joking.”
Harry frowns at her reflection. “What?”
“They’re different colours.”
He looks down at the jackets, then back at her. “Are they, though?”
“Yes,” she insists, already exasperated but grinning. She hops off the bed and tugs one sleeve closer to the light. “This one’s very dark grey. That one’s black.”
Harry stares. “Right. A whole universe of difference.”
“It is a difference,” she insists, presenting the grey like evidence in court. “The grey’s softer, less formal. The black is classic. Sharp. It says I made an effort and I know it.”
Harry narrows his eyes at the mirror. “They both say I am a dark tux.”
Eliza snorts and smacks his arm with the sleeve. “Aren’t you supposed to know your colours?”
“Why?” Harry fires back, mock affronted. “Sorry, let me just pull out my neon pink one, shall I? Really lean into the flamboyant gay stereotype.”
Eliza nearly spills her butterbeer, laughter bubbling so hard she doubles over against the dresser. “Oh, I wish you would. I’d pay actual money.”
Harry rolls his eyes, though a chuckle slips out. “Glad to know my humiliation has market value.” He tosses the grey jacket onto the bed with finality and shrugs into the darker one. “I’ll take the black.”
“Wise choice,” Eliza says, still grinning as she settles back onto the bed. “You’ll look sharp.”
Harry adjusts the lapels in the mirror, then fumbles for his tie. His fingers are clumsy, tugging the knot too tight before loosening it again. He knows Minerva will notice if it isn’t perfect - and the thought makes him work at it twice as hard.
“There is something I can provide you with, though,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Flitwick said he’s wearing tartan.”
That sets her off into a long rant about clashing colours and questionable choices while Harry tries again, tongue caught between his teeth as he folds the fabric over.
“Sprout’s apparently bringing out her best hat,” Eliza continues. “Something with pheasant feathers.”
“Sounds glamorous,” Harry says, finally getting the knot passable, though he adjusts it twice more just to be safe. He studies her reflection in the mirror. “Speaking of glamour - how was your date?”
“Mm. You remembered.” She takes a swig of butterbeer. “Tall, works with the floo authority, dimples you could drown in. We’re seeing each other again.”
“Good to hear.”
“Actually…” Eliza leans forward, eyes glinting. “Are you planning to meet with someone again? Because I might have the perfect opportunity.”
Harry shoots her a wary glance in the mirror. “I’m not not planning to, I suppose.”
“My date has a brother,” she says smugly. “We were talking, and I mentioned this restaurant I love. It only has a spot left for four this month. So, you and me, him and his brother. Neat little double date.”
Harry sets his glasses down on the table with a sigh, muttering the temporary vision charm he uses when he can’t be bothered with lenses. “Right, because nothing says romance like being set up on a blind date while you’re sitting across from their sibling. That won’t be weird at all.”
“Come on,” Eliza wheedles, grinning. “Neville and Luna won't be interested, and you’d be saving me from inviting some random strangers off the street. Think of it as charity.
"Mm.” Harry hums noncommittally, reaching for his buzzing phone. Another batch of photos from the reserve lights up the screen. Charlie’s been kind enough to take morning and evening rounds for a few days - just for a trial, to see if the extra coverage makes any difference. Harry scrolls through the images, gives them only a cursory glance, then types a quick thanks and promises to look at them properly in the morning.
Almost immediately, another message appears.
Charlie (17:30) Found it.
Not the ridge this time. It’s Charlie himself, sitting on the grass, his back against the broad chest of a young dragon. The beast is mid-snap, teeth closing around what’s clearly Charlie’s sandwich, while Charlie braces uselessly against it, laughing. His hair is much shorter than Harry remembers, although the photo must have been taken a couple months back at least, probably in spring - judging by the thin, dark henley he is wearing, collar slightly unbuttoned.
“Merlin,” Eliza says, peering over his shoulder before he can angle the screen away. “Is that Charlie?” She plucks it out of his hand before he can react, squinting. “Oh, he’s changed quite a bit. I dug out some old photos to check - we were mostly in different classes, but still.”
She flicks him a look, handing the phone back with a wink. “Lucky boy. What did you do to get photos like these? And how’s the work going?”
Harry rolls his eyes, though there is a hint of warmth low in his stomach. “We aren’t really getting anywhere yet. And that one is for Luna, actually.”
Harry glances at the photo again. It’s strange, how neatly the man he’s come to know through letters and texts fits the face on the screen. Some things haven’t changed at all, though - Charlie’s eyes are still steady, still bright, carrying that same unhurried ease Harry remembers.
Harry (17:35) You cut your hair?
“Uh-huh.” Eliza tips back the last of her butterbeer, smiling over the rim. "Merlin, it’s always strange, isn’t it? Seeing the cool kid from school all grown up. Throws you off balance.”
Charlie (17:35) More practical this way.
“Although I suppose you wouldn’t understand,” she adds, setting down the empty can, “You were the cool kid in your day.”
Harry (17:36): Suits you.
Harry barks a laugh, shaking his head as he tucks the phone back in his pocket. “Only because homicidal maniacs make great PR.”
The night spins on faster than Harry expects. He manages not just one, but three dances with McGonagall - a small miracle in itself. Somehow, with the right song and enough coaxing, he keeps her on the floor longer than he thought possible. She keeps her chin lifted even as he tries to sneak in a joke about her steps being sharper than any hex he’s seen her cast.
After that, he’s dragged into a whirl of partners: a cluster of giggling sixth-years insist he join their circle, and he lets them spin him until he’s dizzy, bowing theatrically at the end to a chorus of applause. Neville keeps topping up his glass until they’re both laughing louder than they should at a story about a misplaced venomous tentacula, cheeks growing pinker with every pour. The smell of sugar and spice rises as dessert plates pop up, and Neville wanders off to fetch a stack for their table. Eliza vanishes into the crowd, determined to keep the dancers moving, her dress a bright streak weaving through.
Minerva sits beside him, posture straight as ever, though she’s laughing more freely than he can ever remember - proper, unguarded laughs that only slip through when the second glass of wine has been coaxed into her hand. Harry watches her quietly, and something stirs in his chest. It reminds him of the first photograph Eliza took with him not long ago, both of them grinning like idiots in her cluttered, candlelit flat.
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time - but he’s caught himself looking at that photo more often than he expected. There’s something nice about it, having it always there, not tucked away in a frame or an album, but ready whenever he wants it.
The thought lodges itself before he can stop it, and his fingers are already twitching toward the phone. He flips it around and taps record.
The screen frames the two of them: him, suit jacket off; her in deep emerald satin, a gloved hand poised elegantly on the table.
She notices the little red light immediately. “Potter… what are you doing?” Her voice is crisp, but there’s the tiniest wobble to it that makes her own eyes widen in mock horror.
He grins, warmth bubbling up before he can think better of it. “Just preserving the memory.”
Minerva presses a gloved hand to her mouth, looking scandalised at herself. “Good heavens, don’t tell me you’re capturing this -” She makes a swat for his shoulder, but it’s half-hearted, her laughter spilling out even as she does it. “I was under the impression that you got this device to communicate with Charles.”
Harry planned to keep this video private, mind you - but as soon as Minerva says that, of all things, it lands with the exact weight of the private joke they have been batting back and forth for weeks. So Harry grins, helpless, and tips the camera closer. “I do communicate with Charles, yes.”
He glances sidelong at Minerva, eyes bright with mischief. “Care to say hi?”
Minerva blinks, caught in the act of her own daring. For a breath Harry expects her to wave him off, retreat into dignity - but instead she leans ever so slightly toward the lens, silk catching the low light. “Well. Good evening, Mr. Weasley. Do notify me if Potter becomes intolerable.”
Harry snorts, turning the camera back to himself. “I've been good, I'll have you know.”
She narrows her eyes at him, though they’re still glinting with amusement. “I’ll take Mr. Weasley’s word for that, not yours.”
Another chuckle bursts out of him before he can stop it, shoulders shaking. He fumbles with the phone, half afraid she’ll confiscate it, but she’s still smiling, fond despite herself, as if the effort of being scandalised is too much tonight.
He stops the recording and watches the replay. Ridiculous, really - him flushed from wine, Minerva hovering between regal and tipsy - but it’s good. Still laughing, Harry doesn’t give himself time to think better of it. He hits send.
“Rescue mission successful,” Neville declares grandly, returning with a plate piled high. Around the hall, people are clearly succumbing to the same craving, clustering around treacle tarts and sugared fruit as the music drifts lazily on. “Treacle tart, pumpkin pasties, and whatever this… purple thing is.”
Harry eyes the wobbling mound. “Jelly? Who knows.”
His phone buzzes.
Charlie (21:30): I almost didn’t recognise you without the glasses.
Charlie (21:30): Is that a piercing?
Charlie (21:31): Is McGonagall drunk?
Charlie (21:31): What the hell is going on?
Harry huffs a laugh into his wine glass, glancing sidelong at Minerva sipping her chilled water. He taps back a quick reply.
Harry (21:33): Yes and yes. Winter Ball.
Neville carves off a slab of tart with his fork, the crust crumbling onto the plate. He always gets the worst sweet craving if he so much as walks past a bottle. “I fought a horde of Ravenclaws for it.”
Minerva actually snorts a little - a soft, surprised sound - before schooling her expression as close to normal as she can manage. “Mr. Longbottom, you are a professor now. Do try to model some dignity.”
Neville only shrugs, cheeks bulging. “S’worth it,” he mumbles.
Harry chuckles, tugging the plate closer to pilfer a pastry.
Charlie (21:40): Suits you.
Notes:
Ugh, they're flirting so bad! I just love the idea of them texting so much.
Also, Ginny being a professional quidditch player is just canon in my head at this point.
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