Chapter Text
The Diggorys had always been known for their mild manners and unspotted moral quality. A righteousness worthy of envy.
But, sure, no one was perfect.
There were minor slips here and there. Amos had his fair share of them throughout his first Hogwarts years. Like the time he failed to report to Professor Slughorn that Mundungus Fletcher was fooling around in class, his lapse in judgement due to the threat of being beaten after leaving the dungeon. Or that other time, when Amos had incorrectly accused Velvet Blood'lust Melancholy Raven Way of copying in Charms. Even when the weird girl had it coming—how did she dare calling him a prep in front of Umbridge, that hottie from sixth year—Amos wasn't proud of his lapse in morals.
That said, on average, all Diggorys were better people than most. Like that crass Scottish family: the Oggs. They were said to be natural enemies of the Finnigans, the Goyles and the Ollivanders. Those Oggs were sure a contentious family.
Amos happened to have another slip that afternoon. To be fair, Malfoy had started it. He’d stolen his precious Gandalf action figure.
Amos had raged into that empty classroom only to find Lucius laughing over the broken figure.
"Let me through. Let me through. LET ME THROUGH! That's my toy! My toy. MY TOY! No, no... NO! NO! NO!” Amos shouted.
Without thinking, he’d hexed Lucius in the spot. Not only stunning him, but pulling a chunk of his perfectly smooth mane out of his scalp.
Amos panicked. What was he going to do?
Lucius Malfoy has a lot of beautiful hair, he thought. Surely it can cover the missing part.
Unfortunately, a big Willy entered. Willy Ogg. When the gameskeeper Willy caught him, Amos was braiding the lustrous hair of the unconscious Lucius Malfoy.
He watched, with no small amount of perverse fascination, at the tender interaction between the two men. He felt like a spectre, touch-starved and haunted by the intimacy of the living, as he crouched behind the boxwood hedges.
Amos moved with an assuredness he envied, each hand grasping Lucius’s flaxen locks and weaving them together with practiced ease. Willy’s gut churned as he watched Amos duck his head to Malfoy’s, lips fluttering like moth’s wings over the shell of his ear as he murmured something. He leaned forward in a bid to hear what gentle words were being spoken, but lost his balance in his haste. He fell, in a spectacular fashion, through the dense thicket. The resulting crash was thunderous, its echo seeming to linger even after Willy had reached the fall’s natural conclusion on the ground.
Embarrassment and fear at discovery heated his cheeks. He held still, barely daring to breath. “Who’s there?” Amos cried, dropping Lucius’s braid and turning towards the disturbance.
"It's not what it looks like!" Amos yelped, clutching the severed braid like a smoking gun.
Cedric stood frozen in the doorway, holding a tray of lukewarm tea. He looked at the unconscious Lucius, then at the jagged haircut, and finally at the frantic Amos.
"I... I was just..." Amos started, his eyes darting.
"Dad," Cedric drawled, setting the tray down with a rattle. "Why is he tied to the chair? And why are you holding his hair?"
"He had a... scalp parasite! A rare, silver-eating mite. I had to isolate the infected follicles immediately."
Cedric squinted at the healthy, shimmering lock of hair. "A scalp parasite. That requires a silk gag and a concealed dagger?"
"The gag is for the screaming! The mites scream, Cedric! High-pitched, psychic frequencies."
Cedric stepped closer, peering at the half-shorn mess. "Have you been talking to Mr. Lovegood again, Dad? You know that his magazine is nonsense, right?"
“Well, perhaps, but he’s quite dashing, isn’t he? I would trust any article from a man with dimples like that.”
“Ew! First: gross. Second: that really makes me question your judgment. You can’t base sources on aesthetics.”
“Didn’t you spend all of your allowance on a signed Gilderoy Lockhart book once?”
“I was, like, 12! That’s normal! It’s not like–”
They both froze as a stifled giggle came from inside the closet, short puffs of breath that were just loud enough to hear. No one in the room said anything. The giggles trailed off until there was only bated silence. Then the closet door slowly began to open… creaking centimeter by centimeter… revealing a quirked mouth, then a carved jawline… then the bright, forget-me-not blue eyes of Gilderoy Lockhart! With an impish expression, he waved to them, knees hugged to his chest.
“Oh, don’t mind me, just having a little look-see! All boring stuff in this closet, I’m afraid.” He lifted a discarded candy wrapper as if it proved the legitimacy of his reason for being there. “Do go on, please. Don’t let me stop you. I love to hear the praise of my devoted fans,” Gilderoy implored.
Lockhart swept down the hallway knowing he was the coolest wizard ever. Who else could lay claim to winning Witch Weekly's Best Smile as many times as he had?! With a little smile on his face, he sauntered off to tend to his beauty regime. He'd never admit his secret to anyone for as long as he lived, but the key to his glowing skin, blinding teeth, and Dewey complexion was goat milk. Lots and lots of goat milk.
He used it to make soaps, lotions, potions, toothpaste, pomade, and milkshakes, and the number one source of goat milk came from the best supplier in Hogsmeade: Aberforth. He'd heard from the old goat (hah!) that his best girl was named Clementine, and she was a right doozy to milk unless you knew how to handle her properly.
The proper way to handle Clementine was, as all females should be, with dignity, respect and love, the old goat (which didn’t stop being funny to him) knew to inform him. He approached Clementine carefully, tense with nerves, for he was unsure if he could treat her the way she required. Milking a creature such as her? Would he even be able to provide one of the three required qualities?
He let his eyes wander over the girls, trying to decide which one of them was Clementine. His eyes caught gentle brown orbs which watched him excitedly, and gripping the pail in his hand he decided they must belong to her.
He cautiously took two more steps, approaching as he would a rabid Cerberus, although he hoped that his encounter with her would go marginally better than that one had. He didn't think his ego would survive a second trip to St. Mungo's in as many weeks.
He put the incident out of his mind, adjusting the rusty metal handle as he manoeuvred the pail to his good hand. The contents thrashed around restlessly.
"Shush." He chided the pail. "She'll hear you."
Javi (for that was his private name for himself) wasn't sure what she'd make of him, but he was desperate to leave a good impression and deliver the goods without issue. Otherwise his mother would likely have a fit and he'd never be able to show his face in Diagon Alley ever again, no matter which new flavours Florean Fortescue had on offer for the summer.
So, gaining confidence, Javi picked his way across the terrain toward his destiny, metal pail and a new sense of determination in hand. He would not end up in the hospital ward this time.
No he wouldn’t. Someone else should take over the last adventure of the year. Harry walked around looking for a victim, I mean volunteer for this endeavor. He looked at the marauder’s map and saw that there was an erratic dot following him, Colin Creepy, I mean Creevey.
Harry turned back and sent an expeliarmus to a corner. Colin’s camera flew to Harry’s hand. “Creevey! Are you following me again?”
“Y-yes!”
“Look, can you do me a favor? If you do this, you’ll get an exclusive photo session.”
Colin blushed. “Can Demelza Robins help me?”
“You can get any help, as long you don’t involve me directly on this.”
“What should I do?”
“Look, Snape is up to something, and I’m pretty sure that something involves me in some way. You must go to his office and find evidence of him doing something.”
“Why? I know he hates you, but isn’t this excessive?”
“He is a greasy manchild, nothing is excessive in dealing with him. You may want to ask the Weasley twins for some potions.”
“Aye, sir!” Colin bowed and left.
Harry secretly celebrated. He’ll soon deal with all the annoying people, Malfoy, Snape, Voldemort, and the worst, Colin.
They were all pregnant and making a big deal about it, and Colin was nine months pregnant and proudly showing off his baby bump for all to see. To top it off, he was the cutest out of the bunch too, with his golden curls and handsome smile.
Theo was NOT jealous of how the girls all clamoured around him to admire his baby bump. His partner, Luna, was radiant with pride. How could she not be? She had the perfect seahorse husband.
It was every wizard’s lifelong goal. To create magic and carry their child to term.
Theo ran to the Magical Fountain and sobbed at the Golden House-Elf feet. “I too wish to find my darling and finally be pregnant. Mighty Magic, when will my time come?” He wiped his nose with his sleeve.
Harry was married to Voldemort. The best professor in the world had snagged himself Snape. Even Hermione had found herself a mate in Malfoy!!!!
Who was left for Theo?
“Oi. You’re ruining Golden Dobby there.”
Theo looked up, eyes red, face blotchy, and was face to face with one handsome Ron Weasley.
Theo sniffed and quite suddenly was overcome with the urge to smile.
The wedding was, perhaps, the most beautiful and romantic that he had had the pleasure of officiating in his 5 year long career. He wasn’t sure exactly why he had chosen this career. During Voldemort’s tyranny, both of the wedding officiants in the wizarding world had been killed, and suddenly the need for a successor became apparent.
For the first few years the job hadn’t been easy. Lingering resentment from the wizarding war still remained, but given the limited options - him being the only wedding officiant - marrying couples had little choice but to hire him for their weddings.
Over the years he’d seen a myriad of exotic locations, from Argentina to Zimbabwe, he’d done it all, or at least so he had thought. Here on Inaccessible Island, which turned out could just be apparated to, in the main hall of a school he didn’t know existed, ran by two of the most elusive figures in British wizarding history, he had come to marry the leaders of an anti-establishment group who had killed the Minister of Magic herself.
He composed himself
“Do you, Amelia Blair, take Gabrielle Delacour to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do,”
And with that, Theodore Nott wedded the 2 ministers' daughters.
Well, at least he wedded who he thought were the ministers’ daughters. Actually, it was Harry Potter and Ron Weasley who had drunk poly juice potion. Just after Theodore kissed his brides, the potions wore off with loud cracks that went unheard among the gasping crowd.
Theodore was flabbergasted. He blinked at the two men in ripped white dresses. Meanwhile, Harry and Ron shared a flustered glance before kicking off their high heels, accidentally hitting a few guests in their faces—like Dolores Umbridge and Rita Skeeter—before sprinting away.
“What the…” Theodore turned towards the officiant. “To whom am I now married…?”
The officiant was too stunned to speak. Suddenly, Dumbledore appeared out of nowhere to share his wisdom, “Why, my boy, I think you are now married to all four.”
“OBJECTION!” cried Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy and Romilda Vane.
“Harry is mine!”
“No, he is mine!”
“My father will hear about this!”
Theodore Nott watched them fight over his new husband Harry Potter, and tried to forget that he had three more spouses.