Chapter 25 – Mountain to Climb

Sirius flexes in front of the mirror, a grin adorning his face. He’d always been a good looking teen; any spots were easily erased by lotions or the more stubborn ones hidden under glamour. Blessed with good genetics, he’d had a good body, conditioned by Quidditch, and despite being abused by junk food raided from the kitchens or nicked from Honeydukes’ cellar, he’d remained as flat as an ironing board.

Never had his body looked or felt this good. He’d been training with Dudley every Saturday for the last five weeks, followed the training regimen the teen left behind down to the letter, and even ate what the boy recommended without argument. Looking in the mirror, he could see the results from all the effort he’d put in. He’d always had a flat stomach in his teen years and lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose during his incarceration and subsequent escape. Living with Regulus for the past year, followed by a summer of good cooking and plenty of targeted exercises, Sirius’s body is at its peak condition. He’s definitely gained some definition. His arms are muscular, he thinks as he flexes his bicep once more.

“Looking good, love,” the mirror winks at him.

“Always,” he replies flirtatiously.

“Get your skinny backside down here, Sirius,” Regulus yells up the stairs. “Dudley will be here any minute now.”

“For your information,” Sirius yells back as he sticks his head out of his bedroom door, “my backside is no longer skinny.”

There’s a pause during which Sirius gets his tee and slips it on, regrettably covering up his burgeoning six-pack. Oh well, he can always takes it off when he gets too sweaty. His calves and thighs are toned and muscled, and Sirius has taken to wearing shorts to show off his legs.

“Get your fat arse down here,” Regulus shouts up instead.

“Don’t be jealous of my curves,” Sirius smirks as he descends the stairs.

Relations are by no means any easier for the brothers. They still argue more often than not, but their topics of contention are practically inconsequential. Neither is ready to face their past slights yet, so they hide their fights under superficial disagreements.

The front door opens just as Sirius takes the last step.

“Great timing,” Sirius comments and heads towards the kitchen for his pre-workout protein shake that Dudley has them all drinking. As he is a teen, Dudley’s doctor has restricted his allowance, but others within the Order who turn up for the sessions enjoy the protein shakes. Regulus keeps the pantry stocked with a variety of flavours. Though there are potions that could do the same thing, Sirius finds he prefers the muggle version.

“Hiya, Dudley,” Sirius greets as he and Dudley enter the kitchen together.

“Looking good, Sirius,” Dudley returns with a smile.

“I know,” the older wizard acknowledges with a cocky grin.

Andromeda, already seated, visibly rolls her eyes, her strawberry shake already in front of her.

Footsteps come pounding down the stairs, followed by Remus’s explosive entry into the kitchen.

“Any chocolate shake left?” he asks urgently.

Ever since two weeks ago, when someone (Sirius) had finished all of the chocolate protein shake and seeing Remus’s subsequent tantrum, in which Andromeda had to heal three different people for broken bones and lacerations (only some were superficial) during a mock duel where said werewolf might have gone overboard, they always made sure to have a separate jug for Remus alone.

Case in point, everyone immediately points to a lone chocolate shake filled jug that sits on the counter, which no one but Remus is allowed to touch. All other jugs with different flavours are displayed on the kitchen table for the others, and more will be waiting for them after their workout, along with a hardy meal.

Remus sags in relief and makes a beeline for his jug, wasting no time chugging it down, coming up for air occasionally to smack his lips together in satisfaction.

“We’re still waiting for a few more people,” Regulus informs Dudley. “You go up and change, and we’ll meet you in the basement.”

“All right,” the boy nods and back up the kitchen stairs. “Hi, Narcissa,” they hear him greet.

“Hello, Dudley,” the witch in question replies warmly.

Narcissa descends the stairs and enters the kitchen, heading to her sister, who already has a glass of chocolate and salted caramel shake ready for her. Both sisters are wearing matching black yoga pants and blue short-sleeved tops, their long hair piled up in neat buns on the top of their heads.

“Wotcher, everyone. Dudley here yet?”

“Getting changed,” Regulus answers.

“He won’t make us do battle ropes today, will he? I hate those,” the pink-haired witch grumbles.

“Don’t let him know,” Sirius warns her semi-jokingly, “or he’ll make sure to add them in.”

“I don’t mind the battle ropes,” Bill adds as he joins them in the kitchen, reaching for an empty glass and filling it with a vanilla shake.

“I don’t either,” Remus adds, unlatching himself from his jug.

Dora sneers in their direction.

“Rough night?” Sirius asks with a raised brow.

Poor Dora is pulling double duty with the Aurors and the extra patrols for Dumbledore. Sirius doesn’t envy the patrol up north. It’s the one time he’s glad he’s not allowed to leave the house, unable to face the cold borders where he’d painstakingly swum to when he’d escaped Azkaban. Not anytime soon.

“I didn’t think you’d be joining us today,” Andromeda mentions, looking over her daughter in concern.

“I was up early and couldn’t get back to sleep,” Dora replies with a yawn that splits her jaw. “I thought I’d get a workout in. I didn’t notice it at first, but these workouts the boys have had us doing have really affected my stamina and spell work.”

“I noticed, too,” Bill adds, who’d resolutely not looked toward Narcissa since he’d entered the kitchen.

Narcissa, likewise, doesn’t try to engage Bill in conversation and keeps her distance from the red-haired wizard.

“Yeah,” Dora says, warming up to the topic now that someone admitted a similar experience. “Are you finding you’re not as out of breath when you’re doing chain spells? Like the pulls not as bad as it used to be?”

Bill nods agreeably, “I’ve never had a problem with Shield spells in the past, but I’ve found recently that I can hold them for longer.”

Intrigued, Remus steps forward, “I’ve not been paying attention to that aspect. We’ll have to do some experimenting the next time we’re duelling.”

“As a Healer,” Andromeda adds her two knuts in, “I have found that the better condition one’s body is, the better the magic responds. Quidditch players, for example, who must keep their bodies in peak condition, have no issues stepping into Magically demanding jobs upon retirement. However, once they stop maintaining their conditioning, so does their magical stamina.”

“Maybe we need to do what Lucius is doing at the school,” Regulus suggests. “Next time we duel, we will establish a baseline to see where we are now with Shield Charm and then test ourselves periodically to see if there’s an improvement.”

“Baseline should be to exhaustion,” Remus inputs thoughtfully. “Of course, we will have to factor in the magical ability of each individual as well.”

Before they could start planning how that would work, Sirius interrupts, “We could start that tomorrow. How about we not keep Dudley waiting? He’s probably waiting for us.”

“Yes, I did hear his footsteps,” Remus concedes. He heads for the stairs to make his way to the workout room as they all begin to get up and follow.

Catching Dora admiring Remus’s short-clad backside, Sirius raises a brow in her direction when she realises she’s been caught. Perhaps that’s why she wanted to join. She certainly seemed to enjoy ogling the rears of the wizards bending over during their exercises. No wonder she preferred to stay at the back. After being trained by Moody, Sirius had put it down to paranoia, but his niece clearly has other motives to watch their backs.

“What?” Dora grins unrepentantly. “I’m allowed to look, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Sirius mutters. “He’s not seeing anyone, in case you wanted to know.”

Dora shrugs. “I just like looking.”

Sirius notices she doesn’t meet his eyes when she says this. He’s caught both Dora and Remus looking at each other when the other can’t be seen doing it. His friend, though he comes across as confident, which he is when it comes to magic and scholarly debate, is crippled by fear of rejection. Always believing his werewolf disease would never be accepted fully. His werewolf friend and metamorph niece clearly have some feelings for each other, but neither has acted on them yet. Sirius hopes they do. Remus deserves happiness and believes Dora can offset his mature outlook in life. And Remus would certainly keep Dora on her toes. Behind Remus’s mature exterior lies a wicked Marauder.

ooOoo

Ninety minutes, a hard workout and lots of cursing later, various members trudge out of the workout room and up to their respective showers to clean up.

“I don’t think I like Dudley,” Dora grumbles as she collapses into a chair at the dining table once more, freshly showered, her face as pink as the hair she usually maintains. Currently, her hair has defaulted to its original mousey brown.

“Come on,” Bill argues, looking invigorated after his shower, his red hair still damp and loose around his shoulders. “That was a brilliant workout.”

“I miss Harry,” she continues, ignoring Bill’s words. “He wasn’t such a tyrant when he trained us.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Sirius agrees, reaching for a jug of water with a wince. Dudley did make them use the battle ropes, and just like Dora, he hates them too. Thankfully, he’s getting better at using them.

“They just have different styles,” Bill comments, having experienced training with Harry during the summer. “Harry’s workouts weren’t easy either. I always thought I was in good shape, but after that first workout with Harry, I didn’t want to move for almost a week. And that was after Mum gave me all those potions to help. I thought everyone would be the same, but Fred and George – they went through the training so easily.”

“They have been training with Harry for years,” Sirius points out, pouring himself a vanilla shake. The post-workout protein shakes have been supplemented with additional nutrients by Andromeda, which thankfully enhanced the taste of the shakes. Otherwise, Sirius would have killed his cousin if she’d ruined his wonderful protein shakes.

“Yes, but I didn’t fully realise that then,” Bill says defensively. “I didn’t know Harry had been training the Quidditch team with this sort of stuff. They certainly didn’t have it my days. No wonder the Gryffindor team has been unbeatable since Harry joined the team. I thought it was just his skills as Seeker, but Merlin, that boy certainly improved everyone’s game.”

Sirius smiles proudly at the praise his absent godson is receiving.

“What are we talking about?” Dudley asks as he enters, reaching for the chocolate shake jug.

“That’s for Remus!” they all shout together.

Dudley pales and back away.

“Here,” Sirius says gently, “this one’s for us.”

He passes over a second jug reserved for the rest of them, which Dudley pours a glass from and sits next to Sirius.

“We were talking about how much we hate you training us and how gentler Harry was with us,” Dora answers frankly, taking a sip from her strawberry shake.

“But I’ve improved your footwork, haven’t I?” Dudley smiles, not offended.

“Harry doesn’t yell at us like you do,” Dora argues, unwilling to concede how much less clumsy she’s been. Harry might have started the process since he’d taught them skipping several weeks ago, but Dudley certainly stepped up the game.

Dudley is undoubtedly louder than Harry had been. Harry had indeed been gentle in his training. Softly but firmly correcting their stances. If they were unsure, he would repeat the moves until everyone could copy them. He gave Dudley an excellent foundation to work with.

Dudley’s training often left them feeling like they’d gone a full Quidditch match with only Bludgers. He is more brutal and unrelenting. However, he is effective. Every week, he’d leave them with a different training plan, and when he found they didn’t follow, and he always knew when they didn’t, he made them do ten solid minutes of their least favourite exercise. The boy’s a tyrant.

“Yet, you still turn up,” Dudley banters.

“Glutton for punishment,” Bill snorts.

Dora grumbles but doesn’t argue further. Despite her post-workout grumpiness, she likes the boy.

They hear several footsteps descend into the kitchen, and the rest of the occupants enter together, taking their seats as they serve themselves a drink and wait for Kreacher to serve them lunch.

“Harry said he started Gymnastics when eight or nine,” Bill starts. “Did you do Gymnastics before switching to Boxing?”

There’s an odd pause before Dudley answers, “I was never active like Harry was. Oma paid for Harry and Holly to go do Gymnastics together, and I was never interested in doing more than sitting in front of the telly and eating cake.”

“How did you get into boxing then?”

Dudley stops to chew his food and swallow before he continues, “I used to be fat. Like really fat. My mum’s dead skinny, but from my dad’s side of the family, we all seem to be overweight. Dad never seemed to care about his weight, so I never cared about mine, either. But after I started at Smeltings, it got worse. Getting a uniform that fit by the end of my first year was hard, and we had to get tailored clothes made just for me. Mum and Dad aren’t poor, but tailored uniform still costs a lot. The school nurse recommended that I lose weight for my health. They said they were concerned for my heart because it was under too much strain. Mum and Dad didn’t like that, but the school insisted. They gave me a diet sheet to follow, and I had to stop eating so much junk food and eat salads and healthy stuff instead. They wanted me to exercise, but sometimes, I could barely walk without getting out of breath. It took me all year at school to lose enough weight to be able to exercise properly. Oma suggested something simple like twenty-minute walks every day. One of my teachers used to be a Boxer, so he started training me. I found out I was good at it, enjoyed it, and put more effort into training. The weight started to fall off quickly. I was getting better, and Coach asked if I wanted to enter the Junior lightweight competition, and I said yes. I won a few matches. I love it.”

“That’s inspiring,” Andromeda praises. “You’ve certainly done well for yourself.”

“We’re certainly getting the benefit of your hard work,” Bill adds.

“I couldn’t do what Harry and Holly do, though,” Dudley says with a blush. “I couldn’t move like they do. It’s a different type of flexibility I don’t have.”

“Perhaps if you’d been learning it with them, you might have been able to do it as well,” Regulus says, spearing his pasta.

“Probably not,” Dudley disagrees. “Even if I’d not been fat, Gymnastics wouldn’t have been my chosen sport. My body’s just not built for Gymnastics like Harry’s is. He’s tried teaching me a few times, but it’s not like boxing, which I enjoy more.”

“Fair enough,” Regulus smiles.

“But you do some training together?” Sirius questions, listening keenly.

“Well, yeah,” Dudley tells him. “There are some exercises that overlap. Skipping, for example, is good for footwork-”

“Bill had the idea to start skipping to help with footwork for duelling purposes,” Regulus interrupts.

“And it worked,” Bill adds with a laugh.

“Exercises that focus on balance and reflexes are important to both disciplines,” Dudley continues, smiling at their enthusiasm. “Working on upper body strength is important. But overall, all sports have the same importance on being comfortable with your own body.”

“You said you couldn’t do what Harry does, but do you think Harry could be a boxer like you?” Sirius questions curiously.

Dudley answers carefully, thoughtfully, “I – Yeah – but he’d be a different kind of boxer. Like – I’m heavier than he is. I’m not slow exactly, but my focus is more on power and accuracy when I’m throwing my punches. I have to stay light on my feet, but it’s more important to come close and make my punches count. But I’ve got the length to give it some distance as well. Harry’s always been fast. If he was a boxer, he’d come in, throw a few punches, dazzle his opponent, jump back and then come back in with a few more punches.”

Sirius nods thoughtfully. If forced to compare their styles, Sirius would say that Dudley is a mountain, firmly planted and would throw his punches with power. On the other hand, Harry is only still when he’s brooding. When in the workout room, Harry is rarely still. He’s more like a reed that will sway with the wind, constantly in motion. The only time Sirius has seen Harry motionless in the gym is when he’s holding a callisthenics position.

Sirius would say he’s more like Harry in terms of physique, but he doesn’t have Harry’s speed. Dudley calls it muscle memory, doing the same movement with practised repetition to make the moves instinctive. He’s seen in Harry, Fred and George over the summer. Their reflexes are excellent. He’s seen it in Dudley over the last few weeks. Movements that were well practised in that they are automatic. Dudley doesn’t even need to see a punch coming; it’s already instinct for him to duck, his peripheral vision taking everything in.

Sirius couldn’t deny that he’s enjoyed his workouts with Harry and Dudley over the last few months. And he’s never felt better. The only thing he wishes for now is his freedom. He occasionally ventures out in his dog form with Andromeda and Narcissa when they go to their local Yoga studio and have his belly rubbed by slender ladies in tight-fitting yoga pants, but he’d like to go out in his human form and actually chat with some birds instead of barking at them.

ooOoo

Lucius holds training sessions with Draco and his friends every Thursday evening after dinner. They could be going better, the blond reluctantly admits. Draco, Pansy, Daphne, Blaise and Theo have an open invitation where Lucius makes sure his diary is free to train them. Apart from Draco and Pansy, the others have been attending regularly, and their progress has been easy to see. He is pleased with their efforts.

Pansy’s never been interested in duelling and only attends when Draco is there. The problem is his son. The little twit asked for these sessions to prepare and give himself an advantage for the Duelling club he’d announced earlier in the week, aimed at Fourth years and above, held every Saturday in the Great Hall before lunch.

Only the faculty, Draco and his friends knew about the Duelling club before the rest of the school. He hadn’t even told Potter, who’d regularly attended every duelling lesson held every Sunday. Having been a teacher for over a month, Lucius has been able to judge everyone’s abilities to ascertain that Harry Potter, should he join the Duelling club, would be ranked in the top five easily. The only people who pose a challenge for him would be a select few Seventh years, three of them Slytherins.

Draco, however, only attended two sessions out of five, citing poor excuses for his lack of attendance. Lucius is sure his son is spending private time with his girlfriend, which Lucius has no issues with as long as they are both consenting, but he’s irritated that Draco would rather squander his time when he could be pushing his advantage.

The first Duelling club meeting will be on Saturday, and Lucius knows his son will be nowhere near the top, to both their disappointment. However, if Draco turns up today, Lucius will have to push the boy hard to get him to realise how behind he is.

A knock on his classroom door interrupts his thoughts.

“Enter,” he calls.

He sees Draco’s blond head behind Theo with relief.

With a light smile, he pushes his chair back and stands up, bringing out his wand. He closes and wards the door behind the group.

“Excellent. Daphne, you’re with Theo today. Blaise, you and Pansy, please. Draco, you’ll be duelling with me. Everyone will have a round with each other. Then you’ll take turns duelling with me with everyone observing.”

Lucius never wastes time with pleasantries regarding training and gets them to space themselves in the classroom.

Draco looks pleased he’s the first to duel his father.

“Ready?”

The timer pings to begin, and they each give a shallow bow to their opponent.

If Draco put effort into his duelling, he could do so well. However, once Draco lands a good shot, he gets complacent and cocky. Not that he’s even been able to do so with Lucius, but the elder Malfoy feels like his son could do much better. Annoyed that Draco isn’t making an effort, Lucius sends a Stinging Hex strong enough to rip through the boy’s hastily conjured Shield. Yelping as the hex hits his wand arm, Draco drops his wand, giving his father an indignant look as he nurses the weal left behind.  

“Work on your reflexes, Draco,” Lucius says coldly, ignoring the hurt look Draco aims in his direction.

Lucius turns to the others, observing them without commenting.

Daphne and Theo are about even. Daphne is vicious, and Theo sticks to spells he knows well. His reflexes could be better as well, Lucius notes, as he’s hit by a leg locker curse, the duel ending in Daphne’s favour.

Pansy, though not a fan of duelling, certainly holds her own against Blaise, making the boy work for a win. Eventually, though, Pansy drops her guard, more out of fatigue, and Blaise wins that duel.

He shares his observations with the group, gives them a few minutes to get some water he’s left for them and changes duelling partners again.

“Blaise, with me. Draco with Daphne. Theo with Pansy. Ready?”

The timer pings again.

Blaise performs better than Draco. Starting with a spell that has Lucius conjuring a strong Shield to deflect the tiny darts conjured. By angling his Shield, he’s managed to send some back to Blaise, who’s unable to block, so he is forced to dodge. Still, Lucius isn’t even out of breath when he ends the duel within a few minutes with a spell that pulls his opponent’s feet from under him.

“Well done, Blaise,” he praises, holding a hand to pull the boy to his feet.

Blaise nods respectfully and turns with Lucius to observe the others.

Draco loses to Daphne, scowling bad temperedly. Pansy loses to Theo, again due to fatigue. Lucius will have to think about how to help improve the girl’s tendency to expend too much energy when duelling.

By the time they have all duelled each other at least once, Lucius can see they are all getting tired. On the other hand, he feels invigorated and ready to keep going.

“Take a ten-minute break, have another drink,” the Professor instructs. “After that, you’ll take turns duelling me again.”

Looking more hydrated, Lucius lines them up in the order he wants to duel them: Pansy, Theo, Draco, Blaise and Daphne.

Duelling with Pansy is over in less than a minute. She’s struggling with casting spells, over or underpowering them, and losing focus.

Theo performs much better, focused and confident, but loses because he is predictable and doesn’t do as well at dodging.

Draco barely moves his feet to dodge, relying solely on Shields, which weakens as the duel continues.

Blaise is much more fluid on his feet, relying on dodging as much as he does on his Shields, but he always tries to aim his spells towards Lucius’s feet and gets distracted trying to see if his attack landed or not.

Daphne relies on offensive spells, attempting to get her opponents to work on shielding themselves, but she tends to overthink her attacks. She might be a vicious dueller, but she would struggle on a duelling stage with an opponent she doesn’t know well. Which is strange as she is a good judge of character in a non-duelling environment.

Lucius shares his observations again and gives them pointers to improve themselves for Saturday’s Duelling Club. They all take his advice seriously and are happy with how today’s session has gone.

“Draco, stay behind,” Lucius orders as they leave. As the others exit, Lucius leads his son to his private rooms.

“How did you think that went?” he asks when they’re settled with a cup of tea.

Draco doesn’t answer immediately, rubbing his right forearm. “You hit me with a Stinging Hex.”

“Your Shield Charm wasn’t strong enough to block it,” Lucius replies with a raised brow. “Did you think I would take it easy on you because you’re my son?”

He grumbles, “I didn’t think you’d make it that strong. It still hurts. Look, I still have a mark.”

There’s no mark, but there’s a stark contrast between the residual redness and the rest of Draco’s pale skin. Realising he will get no sympathy from his father, the young Malfoy pulls down his sleeve with a pout. Holly handled her twisted ankle with more grace than Draco deals with a mild Stinging Hex.

“How do you think you’ll perform on Saturday?” he asks instead.

“I’ll win, of course,” Draco brags, and for once, Lucius is irritated by his son’s confidence. In this case, Lucius believes Draco’s confidence is misplaced, having spent the last several weeks assessing the boy in class and his intermittent attendance of their private sessions.

“As long as you perform better than today,” Lucius says coolly. “You still struggle to hold a Shield.”

Draco scowls at the reminder of his performance today and his overall ranking with the Shield Charm compared to the rest of his year mates. On his first try, Draco lasted twenty-one seconds, but since then, he has struggled to hold it for thirty seconds. His ranking is at the lower level of the fifth years.

Everyone else’s ranking slowly climbed up. Potter’s had shot up by almost two minutes, higher than even the sixth and seventh years. Even Longbottom’s ranking had shot up by a surprising amount. Potter’s talk with his friend greatly impacted the boy’s confidence and performance, even with an ill-suited wand. It seems Longbottom was forcing his wand to submit and behave. He would still do better to get a wand more suited to his magic, but for now, his spell work had improved in Defence and his other wanded classes. Minerva and Filius are pleased with the improvement.

He pins his son with an expectant look, “I push you harder, Draco, because I know you can perform better.”

The trouble with Draco is that once he receives a compliment, he stops putting in any effort, believing no one else will be able to beat him. So Lucius is sparing with compliments in an attempt to get his son to work harder, or better yet, smarter. Draco’s so clumsy with strategy that even Holly beats him in chess.

“Better than your friends. However, without practice, you will not get anywhere. I will not be duelling for you on Saturday. You will have to show everyone that you are capable of holding your own.”

“Yes, Father,” Draco says sombrely.

“Good,” he finally smiles. “Now, I want you to make sure to take time to put in a final duel with your friends tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father,” Draco nods.

“Now, I’m sure your friends are waiting for you,” Lucius says, knowing they are not far from his classroom. The group are quite religious about not leaving anyone to walk alone.

He walks Draco to the door, and sure enough, Pansy and the others are waiting for Draco to join them. Pansy even reaches out to hold Draco’s hand. Lucius holds back a smile at the sight as they walk away.

ooOoo

“But – but – but – Professor,” Ron yelps, annoyed. “You know why we can’t be in the same room as Malfoy. Why can’t we have a separate Duelling club?”

McGonagall heaves a breath and pins Ron with a stern look over her glasses. He freezes, swallowing hard. McGonagall’s as scary as his mum.

“You have no issues in being in the same room as Professor Malfoy when it comes to meal times, Mr Weasley and this is no different. Furthermore, you choose not to be in the same classroom as him, for which you know I needed explicit permission from your parents as much as I understand and sympathise with the why.”

“Harry’s been tutoring us,” Ron quickly rallies. “Why can’t we have a different Duelling club with him leading us?”

“Professor Malfoy has received permission from the Headmaster to open this club exclusively for fourth-year students and above. I’m not sure you understand that starting a new club does not just mean finding like-minded individuals and setting regular meeting times. For a school-sanctioned club, permission must be sought and granted from a sponsor, and something like a Duelling club requires the Headmaster’s permission – ”

“I’ll ask Dumbledore then,” Ron interrupts.

“Professor Dumbledore,” McGonagall corrects.

“I can ask Professor Dumbledore,” he continues, “I’m sure he’ll give us permission.”

“Mr Weasley, as I said earlier, I understand why you are averse to learning from Professor Malfoy (Ron scowls, annoyed that she keeps calling that ponce Professor); however, you are incorrect in believing Professor Dumbledore will grant you permission to start a separate club for duelling.”

“Why not?” Ron asks petulantly.

“Because there is simply no one available to supervise,” she answers.

“We don’t need anyone to supervise,” the redhead interrupts again. “Harry’s been teaching us Defence, and he can teach us Duelling as well.”

McGonagall doesn’t say anything immediately, seeming to think over his words, and Ron feels a surge of hope that maybe he’ll walk out of her office with permission for a rival Duelling club like he wants. He’s sure once people find out about his and Harry’s new Duelling club, everyone will flock to join that rather than Malfoy’s crappy one that probably only teaches Dark spells.

McGonagall sighs and begins, “Mr Weasley, I am only going to say this once, and then I don’t want to hear anything regarding this again, so listen well. You and your siblings didn’t feel comfortable learning from Professor Malfoy and, with permission, dropped out of his classes. As Defence against the Dark Arts is a mandatory class until OWLs are completed, you and your sister shouldn’t be allowed to drop it, but given the combined responsibility of Mr Potter and Miss Granger, with whom I’ve placed great trust in allowing an unsupervised tuition session to be run. I allowed the tuition to continue only because their Defence scores are exemplary.

“The tuition is only supposed to be for yourself, your brothers and your sister; however, trusting Mr Potter’s judgement, I have allowed him to include half your yearmates, the Quidditch team and Miss Lovegood. That is already more than the agreed number of people Mr Potter is supposed to be tutoring. He is doing this alongside his Prefect duties, Quidditch training, which you are also a part of, OWL year course, which you also have, and the other various clubs he’s a part of. Asking him to lead yet another club is unfair and unreasonable.”

Ron flushes at the censure in her gaze. If Harry dropped the Food club he joined with Holly, he could teach Ron and the others how to duel. But he doesn’t say this out loud. Holly is everyone’s darling. No one else seems to see that she’s just a baby snake. She’ll only lead Harry into trouble and end up hurting him. He is Harry’s best friend. He’s the one who helped Harry rescue the stone, walked into a colony of Acromantulas with him, and stood against Sirius Black on a broken leg for him. Holly just stayed home and ate all the sweets and chocolates she demanded Harry send her. It doesn’t occur to him that he’s being irrational.

“I don’t want to go to Duelling club run by Malfoy,” he sulks.

“The Duelling club run by Professor Malfoy is not mandatory,” McGonagall says coldly. “If you wish not to be taught by him, you simply need not attend.”

“Surely someone else could sponsor and supervise us,” Ron tries again, stubbornly trying to get his way.

“Mr Weasley,” McGonagall snaps, patience finally eroded, “you seem to be under the mistaken belief that once classes are over for the day, all teachers have an abundance of time to cater to all students’ whims. Once class time is over, we still have to mark students’ homework, for which your quality seems to be increasingly abysmal, supervise detention because some of you don’t feel the rules apply to you, supervise existing sanctioned clubs, which are already numerous, and defend our curriculum to an ignorant Ministry, fight the board not to cut down our budget yet again. We simply do not have time to supervise a duplicate club simply because you have a grudge against the current teacher.”

Seeming to calm down, she takes a deep breath and coolly takes in a frozen Ron, whose jaw is somewhere around his knees.

“Now, if you are done wasting my time, Mr Weasley, I suggest you run along to your Defence tuition. Should you fail any of your monthly assessments, I will not hesitate to revoke your permission and insist you attend the classroom again. Dismissed, Weasley.”

Ron beats a hasty retreat.

ooOoo

Once the door closes behind Ronald Weasley, Minerva takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. She regrets her momentary loss of temper, but Weasley was a stubborn little twit. She catches her thoughts on calling Weasley a twit.

Understandably, the boy would not want to join a club run by the wizard who put his sister in grave danger. Lucius had done wrong; there’s no denying that. He’d not apologised or made reparations; there’s no denying that either. Minerva might not like the man on a personal level, but his behaviour since becoming faculty had been surprisingly above reproach.

Minerva expected more complaints that the man favoured Slytherins above the other Houses like Severus does, but Lucius had been astringently fair about removing or awarding points for transgressions and accomplishments, respectively. Minerva would know, having kept an eye on the register and ready to step in if required.

However, she has not had to do that. Of course, there’s still time. They are only in October. Lucius could well slip later down the line. Just because he hasn’t yet doesn’t mean he won’t.

Weasley doesn’t understand the huge concession already made for him and his siblings. Technically, George and Fred could have dropped Defence class, and it wouldn’t have been an issue. They weren’t required to take it. However, Minerva had insisted on a specific class load for them to continue on the Quidditch team. As for the youngest two, they would not be allowed to drop the class until they’d completed their OWLs.

Only because Albus and the Weasley parents gave their permission were the children allowed to take it as an independent study, something ordinarily only offered to Sixth-year students and above. Ronald didn’t know that letting Harry Potter teach them was another concession. In the rare scenario where a student decides to take Independent study, it would usually cost the parents a fair amount to pay for a qualified tutor. It’s a sad fact that due to the decreasingly shoddy quality of Defence teachers over the last few decades, even the current Sixth and Seventh years would struggle with their DADA NEWTs. Another sad fact is that anyone could take that NEWT as it didn’t have the same requirements for passing as the other teachers did before allowing students to continue to take that class.

Anyone who passed their Defence was more due to aptitude, rigorous self-study, hard work, or an expensive tutor. Ronald doesn’t have an aptitude for Defence like Mr Potter and is too lazy for self-study, unlike Miss Granger. His parents certainly can’t afford a tutor, so he should consider himself lucky that Minerva trusts those two to keep the number of students they have in their Thursday session in line. However, Minerva is more than ready to interfere if she believes the sessions get out of hand.

Potter and Granger are already working hard with everything else they are uncomplainingly doing. Granger is the one who puts together a schedule that dictates which years should know what spells for their exams. Potter is an effective teacher, patient, good-natured, and easily able to keep their attention. Not only are the students under his tutelage on track, but the lower years are sometimes ahead.

Yes, Weasley should count himself lucky indeed. Had he been left to himself, Minerva doubts the boy would have time to do any studying for his Defence OWL. He’d be too busy reading Quidditch magazines and playing chess to do any work.

If Ronald Weasley ever wants to make something of himself, he shall have to realise that he’ll have to work for it.

ooOoo

Ron storms into the Transfiguration classroom where they hold their Defence tuition, slamming the door on entry, face like a thunderstorm, the last to arrive.

Hermione doesn’t need to put her genius to use to know that the meeting with McGonagall hadn’t gone well. Hermione had tried to warn him that McGonagall wouldn’t allow another Duelling club, but Ron’s too stubborn to listen.

“What did she say?” Hermione asks, breaking the silence as everyone turns to look at face-as-red-as-his-hair Ron.

“She said- she said she’s not got time to supervise a second duelling club, and nor does anyone else,” Ron shares bitterly.

No one says anything, though Hermione spots Angelina and Alicia exchange an eye roll. She bristles at the attitude but doesn’t say anything.

“Well, we expected that,” Fred shrugs unconcernedly. “Just because she let Harry teach us enough Defence to help us pass exams doesn’t mean she’d let us start a separate Duelling club.”

“That’s what McGonagall said,” Ron says, still bitter. “I can’t believe Dumbledore’s letting him run a Duelling club. You know he’s going to make sure the Slytherins win every match. He’s probably teaching them Dark spells.”

Angelina and Alicia share another glance exchange and eye roll.

“Doesn’t matter,” George says, as unconcerned as his twin. “I’ll happily kick all their arses.”

“You mean you’re joining?” Ron looks at them incredulously.

“I am, too,” Ginny adds coolly.

“What?” Ron gapes at her. Then, pulling himself together, “No. You’re not. I forbid it.”

“You forbid me?” Ginny repeats coldly.

“You’re not joining a Duelling club run by Malfoy,” Ron exclaims mulishly.

“Why not?” Fred asks mildly.

“Why not? After everything that bastard did?” Ron yells. “You’re going to join a club run by him?”

“There’ll be other teachers there,” Hermione interrupts, hoping to calm her friend down.

Everyone in the Wizarding world who knows the Malfoys and the Weasleys knows they are feuding families. Anybody who has been in Hogwarts since September 1991 knows that Ron, Harry, Hermione and Malfoy don’t get on, and that’s putting it mildly. There have been rumours and speculation following Ginny’s first year that escalated the feud, but outside of Harry, Hermione, the Weasleys, Dumbledore and McGonagall, no one knows the whole truth.

Other students know that none of the Weasleys has attended Defence Against the Dark Arts with Lucius Malfoy since September, but they can only speculate about the true reason.

However, out of the Weasleys currently attending school, only Ron is the most vocal about his hatred of all things Malfoy. He’s not wrong to be angry after everything Ginny suffered, but he can also get excessive in his anger about, well, everything. Hermione believes his anger stems from guilt at not realising that Ginny wasn’t herself that year.

“I don’t care,” Ron says, stubbornly crossing his arms. “Ginny’s not going to that club. That’s that.”

“You don’t have a say on what clubs I can attend,” Ginny returns, equally stubborn. “Harry’s been teaching us some great spells, and I’m going to use them and show Malfoy I’m not a scared little girl.”

Scowling, Ron turns to his brothers. “You really support this?”

“We told you, Ron. We’re going to be there as well. It’s a legitimate excuse to hex some people in front of a load of people and not get in trouble for it.”

This time, Hermione’s the one who’s rolling her eyes.

“Fine,” Ron grinds out. “But I’m not going.”

“Up to you,” George shrugs.

Harry clears his throat, having stayed out of the argument.

“Shall we get on with the lesson then? We’ll do ten minutes on Shields, then Ginny will show us the Bat-bogey Hex,” he tells them, and they all get in place.

Harry’s a good teacher, Hermione reflects. He makes everyone work on the Shield weekly, which has helped immensely since Malfoy tests them every two weeks. Hermione’s still angry at how easily he ripped through her Shield that first time, but she’s improved significantly since then.

She’ll show him on Saturday that she’s a good witch. Much better than his spoiled son, Draco. Hermione doesn’t usually wish bad things on people, but this year, she hopes that the rumoured Curse on the Defence post does something truly horrendous to Lucius Malfoy so as not to make him return next year. Even if she has learned a lot in his classes. She only wishes he’d mark her fairly on her homework and hopes Professor McGonagall is more supportive of Hermione’s issue than she was of Ron’s.

ooOoo

Severus has officially determined that Potter’s last perfect brew of the Invigoration Draught was a fluke. And the way the boy handled the ingredients? He must have just been playing around with the plant, and Severus just happened to look in that direction at the time and misinterpreted the whole thing. Potter isn’t an instinctive brewer at all. His essays are as abysmal always; his brewing leaves a lot to be desired, and it’s clear that the boy could care less about the art of Potions.

The only (grudgingly) positive thing Severus can say, given his recent scrutiny of the boy, is that Potter’s knife skills are better than anyone else’s he’s ever seen, and his workstation is always efficiently organised. Potter even takes the time to measure some of the ingredients beforehand. Yet, he’s still a shoddy brewer.

He’s only got himself to blame for his disappointment, he firmly tells himself, for thinking Potter is as good at Potions as his mother was. Lily had been Severus’s rival when it came to Potions. She could have gone on to get a Potions Mastery of her own; however, Charms was her first love. And what was Potter good at? Quidditch and being a pain in Severus’s backside.

“Dismissed,” Severus tells the class, watching Potter pack up and leave, pausing only to let Holly catch up to him.

To his frustration, there’s nothing he’s been able to do that’s been able to break the bond between Potter and his daughter. He’s tried to interfere with their schedule to minimise their time together. He’s given the boy several detentions, all of which are overturned by Minerva, and forced to stop as he’s still under probation. Instead of ignoring him in the classroom, he’s taken to nitpicking all of the boy’s techniques. He can tell he’s getting to the boy, but one look at Holly calms Potter like nothing else.

He’s tried to inveigle himself into his daughter’s graces by learning to cook for her. First, he’d attempted her favourite blueberry pancakes. The first time the batter had been too thick, he might as well have tried to make pancakes with Bubotuber pus. The next time, the batter was runnier than diarrhoea. It took him an age to get the batter to what he judged to be the right consistency. Were his pancake troubles over? No, they were not. Not only did he fail to make perfectly round pancakes like Potter did, but none were edible. They were too burned or undercooked from the middle.

His attempts at making Butter Chicken curry yielded equally unpalatable results. All he’d accomplished from that fiasco was giving himself food poisoning, being laughed at by Lucius, and the House Elves refused to send any more ingredients to his kitchen for him to practice.

Indeed, tearing that duo apart seemed more challenging than he’d anticipated. What he lacks is more information. He doesn’t know how Lucius discovered everything in the first place, but Regulus was clearly involved in that. Both remain tight-lipped about what they know, leading Severus to believe there is still much more to uncover.

So, today, after dinner, he plans to go to Surrey. His probation and resulting restrictions are over. He’s managed to catch up with all the work that piled up due to that. He’s not on patrol today, and Holly will be with Potter. All he needs to do is inform Albus that he’s got a personal issue to take care of, and he’ll apparate straight over to Arabella Figg’s home. As a member of the Order, he has her address, which many trusted members had, considering she lived so close to Potter. He’ll be back well before Holly’s curfew, this time armed with the information he should have had since the beginning.

According to plan, Severus leaves for Albus’s office straight after dinner. Giving the password (Whizbees), Severus ascends the spiral staircase and knocks on the Headmaster’s door.

“Enter,” he is bid, which he does immediately.

“Evening, Severus,” Albus smiles cheerfully. “How can I help you today?”

“I need to leave for a few hours. There’s something I’ve needed to do that’s been put off for too long,” Severus informs the Headmaster.

“Oh, dear,” Albus says, “I do hope all is well?”

Severus pauses before answering, “I would appreciate it if you allow me to leave the grounds to take care of this. The matter has become urgent.”

“Of course, Severus,” Albus exclaims as if surprised the Potions Master has to ask. He looks at Severus intently over his glasses, perhaps hoping he will share why he needs to leave. However, Severus has come to realise that as much as he trusts Albus to keep his daughter safe, he doesn’t trust the old man would share any pertinent information regarding her that he, Severus, as her father, is entitled to. Especially if it includes his precious Potter.

Severus doesn’t feel the tell-tale probe of a Legilimency scan, but he tightens his shields automatically, nonetheless.

“Thank you, Albus,” is all Severus is prepared to say.

“Severus,” Albus stops him as he turns to leave. “If the matter is as urgent as you say, feel free to use my Floo.”

“Thank you, Albus,” he says again. It would save him a walk through the grounds and out the gates. “I shall return in a few hours.”

Taking a pinch of floo powder, he throws it in the already lit fire, calling out “The Three Broomsticks!” as it turns green and steps in without hesitation.

Walking out gracefully of the grate of the aforementioned pub, Severus doesn’t stop to greet anyone as he walks out into the brisk air. Walking away from the Broomsticks, he steps off the path, only taking the time to spell his robes into a raincoat, calls up the appropriate coordinates and disapparates, appearing seconds later beside the gates of the local park. He quickly looks around to check if someone, a muggle, might have noticed his sudden appearance.

It’s dark enough around this time of year that parents call their children inside for dinner. The park is clear.

He freezes mid-step. Park.

Park.

Potter said he met Holly in a park. Is this the park he meant? The park where Jasmine abandoned his daughter, only for Potter to find her. Is this where their relationship started? Holly had only been two when Jasmine dumped her here. Discarded her like she was used tissue. He walks towards the play area, penned by more gates.

His child had grown up here, playing in this playground. Until a few months ago, she’d probably come here with her grandmother. She’d slid down this slide, Severus thinks, walking over to the slide, placing his hand in the middle of it. She’d climbed up this ladder. Coming to stand behind the swings, he holds the chain. She’d sat on this swing. Crouching, he slides his hands down the chain until they hit the seat, then spans his hands over it.

She’d sat on this swing. Had Jasmine pushed her? Played with her at all? Iris surely had. By Holly’s account, she’d been fond of her grandmother. It goes without saying that Potter spent time with Holly in this park. It should have been him, he thinks fiercely, sinking onto the swing, awkwardly stretching his legs, given that the swing is made for children.

He should have been here, pushing his daughter on the swings. That’s what fathers do, right? His father never had, but Severus had stalked their local park in Spinner’s End enough times to see parents pushing their children on the swings or helping them climb the ladders and wait for them at the other end of the slide.

He could have been there for his daughter. But he hadn’t been. Because Jasmine had denied him that.

Clearing his throat from the sudden lump, he stands up abruptly. He needs to go see a certain squib. Walking towards Magnolia Crescent, he takes in the affluent neighbourhood. It’s all disgustingly similar. Like a Gemino Curse, each house is a replica of the last. The only difference he sees is the different types of flowers each garden has planted, though roses seem to be the favoured option, as are cars that are either black, white, or silver. Everything seems to stand out and blend in at the same time. Everything about this place is ostentatious. It’s a far cry from the dilapidated houses and council flats of Spinner’s End.

Of course, it would be the kind of neighbourhood Potter would live in. The pampered prince that he is, Potter would fit right in here.

Finally arriving outside Figg’s house, Severus takes a quick look around. He spots a neighbour peeking out from behind a curtain, but noticing she’d been spotted, she quickly ducks away. Which doesn’t necessarily mean she’s not watching from behind the twitching curtain.

He knocks louder than he intended, or perhaps it just sounds loud, given how quiet the street is. Unusual when it’s barely after six in the evening.

Figg takes her time opening the door, and impatiently, Severus raises his hand to knock again when the door slowly creaks open, a sliver of gap showing a grey eye staring at him cautiously.

Belatedly, he remembers the code phrase Albus insisted they use, especially with Arabella Figg.

“I’m here to pick up a Maine Coone,” Severus says shortly.

“Professor Snape,” Figg welcomes him in, opening the door wide enough to let him pass.

He’s immediately besieged by cats. Oh, that’s right. She’s obsessed with cats. Dozens of them crowd around him, then scatter just as quickly.

“Come in, come in,” she beckons, leading him to the kitchen. “Did Albus send you? Does he have a task for me?”

“No,” he says abruptly. “Albus didn’t send me. I came – because, because – I needed some information from you. It’s important.”

“Of course,” she says solicitously. Though she’s still dressed as she’s been out, she’s already wearing her house slippers. Gesturing to the kettle, “I was about to make some tea. Would you like a cup?”

“Yes. Please,” he forces himself to say. He observes her carefully, picking and discarding several strategies in quick succession. He waits in silence until she has the tea set ready, places it on the table, and takes her seat across from him.

“Sugar?” she asks.

“No. Just milk. Thank you,” he adds belatedly.

He doesn’t realise how cold his hands are until he’s cradling the cup. Looking over the rim of her own cup of tea, Figg gives him a curious look. Waiting for him to start.

“You knew my daughter,” he starts in a stilted voice. “Holly,” he adds as if she might have forgotten her name.

“Yes, of course,” Figg adds with a fond smile. “How is she?”

“She’s well,” he tells her. “I wanted- I realised I don’t know much about her. She lived in this area, and I didn’t know. She’s close with Potter,” he manages to say without showing his true feelings, “and I know you looked after Potter. I was hoping you could tell me more. About Holly. Her mother. Her grandmother.”

Figg calmly sips her tea and nods agreeably.

“Ask, Severus,” she encourages. “I shall answer all I know.”

Hoping that is true, he starts simply, “How did you come to meet Holly and her family? What were they like?”

“I met Holly because of Harry. Harry was supposed to be visiting me that day,” Figg narrates, and Severus has to hide a grimace. Of course, his daughter’s introduction is linked to Harry bloody Potter. “Harry was at the park with his cousin, but Dudley and his parents had to leave, and they asked me to look after Harry. Harry was a few hours late, I remember. By the time he knocked on my door, I had assumed his aunt and uncle had decided to take Harry with them.”

Severus bites his tongue about Potter’s lack of timekeeping at the age of eight. The squib is as fond of Potter as she is of Holly, and if he starts bad-mouthing the boy, he doubts she’ll be forthcoming. He doesn’t bother to ask why his aunt and uncle had left him behind, assuming it’s a punishment for some transgression or another.

“Jasmine was supposed to drop Holly off directly at Iris’s but apparently was in too much of a rush to walk down a whole extra street,” Figgs says, some acrimony seeping into her voice at Jasmine’s actions. “Told her to play and how her granny will come and collect her. Except, she hadn’t seen fit to inform Iris what she’d done. Just up and left poor Holly. Harry saw her wandering around and decided to wait with her. Neither knew whether Jasmine intended to come back.

“They waited for hours. Meanwhile, Iris was out of her mind with worry. She was expecting Jasmine to knock at any moment, see? She kept calling and calling Jasmine, but she didn’t answer. When she finally got Jasmine to pick up the phone, Jasmine informed her where she’d left Holly.

“Iris ran to the park to retrieve her grandchild. She almost missed them. Harry didn’t know anything about Holly, and the girl was too young to know her grandmother’s address, so Harry had the idea to come to my house with little Holly. To see if I could track down Iris, to help Holly get home.

“Iris caught them as they left the park, and once Harry explained what he planned, Iris insisted on walking him to my house to explain. Harry and Holly have been thick as thieves since. Iris and I struck up a friendship of our own.”

“You looked after Holly as well?”

“Oh, occasionally they came to me when Iris needed to run errands she couldn’t take Holly with her on. But more often, Harry visited Iris and Holly at their house.”

“Did Iris look after Holly well?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Figg says instantly.

“What about Jasmine?”

Figg’s expression darkens.

“She left a two-year-old in the park; what do you think, Professor?”

“Yes, I mean – I just want to know. As much as you can tell me,” he flounders.

“I had little to do with Jasmine while she was alive. I never spoke to her directly. Most of what I know is the information passed from Iris or innocent comments Holly made. Jasmine had a constant stream of boyfriends. She was not liked in this neighbourhood. This lot is judgemental of anything outside their idea of normal.

“Iris told me when Jasmine fell pregnant, she had no one to turn to. She tried to reach out to you, but none of her letters returned with an answer,” Figg continues, ignoring the shameful flush gracing his cheeks. “She tried your father, and he turned her away also. She suffered during her pregnancy, which caused her to lose her job at the Ministry. With no job, she had no income. With no income, she struggled to pay her rent and her bills. Her savings didn’t last long. By the time Iris found her, Jasmine was in bad shape. Ill to the point of almost losing not only her baby but also her own life.”

Severus can’t stop the intake of breath at the thought of Jasmine almost losing his child. He could have lost Holly and not even have known.

“Iris took her back home, looked after Jasmine, nursed her back to health. Jasmine took time to recover. From what Iris told me, I’m not sure she ever did. Iris named the baby. Jasmine, she was diagnosed with post-partum, didn’t even care. Iris begged Jasmine for full custody, but Jasmine – God knows what it was, but she never would. So Iris couldn’t do anything more than be a steady rock for her granddaughter. And that’s what she was. The only good thing Jasmine did before she died was granting Iris full custody.”

That could have been his chance. If he’d been informed at that point and known then that he’d had a daughter, he could have been contacted as next of kin. He could have been reunited with his daughter sooner. Instead, he didn’t find out until four years later. By which point, Potter had sunk his hooks in deeper with Holly.

He’s hesitant with the next question, wary of turning her censure on him and stopping the flow of information with which she has been so forthcoming.

“What did Iris tell you about me?” The subtext being that he needs to know what she might have told Holly about him.

He tenses, expecting her to turn on him, but she just gives him a sad smile.

“Little, if she could help it,” comes the answer, and he doesn’t know if this is better or worse than Iris bad-mouthing him to his daughter. To vilify to her granddaughter, the man who ruined her daughter’s life. “Iris said she couldn’t change what happened between you and Jasmine. She knew Jasmine talked you down to Holly, but only when Jasmine got in certain ... moods.”

Severus frowns, not understanding. He debates pressing for more on this point, but, in the end, decides to let it go.

“Iris didn’t like what Jasmine had become. She tried to keep Holly away from that bitterness. Holly had asked about you occasionally but always told her she wasn’t ready to talk about you.”

He’s grateful that Iris hadn’t added to the vitriol Jasmine spouted about him to his daughter; however, it seems that her mother’s words alone had done enough to damage his and Holly’s relationship. Not to mention whatever Potter had said about him over the years.

“Was Iris close to Potter as Holly is?”

Figg’s eyes fill with tears. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she hiccups, moving her hand to shield her face. “She loved that boy like he was her own.”

A tear escapes, quickly joined by another, to Severus’s panic. He doesn’t know how to handle crying females.

“Oh, damn it,” she says crossly, leaping from her chair to snatch off a piece of kitchen towel, folding it twice before dabbing it under her eyes. She makes an attempt to control herself as Severus watches uncomfortably.

“Iris loved Harry and Holly. So much. So much,” she says thickly, her tears refusing to stem. She turns away to compose herself. Severus takes the opportunity to take a sip of his now lukewarm tea. He still has so much he needs to know.

“You and Iris became close,” Severus states, not looking at the woman.

“Iris and I were outcasts in this neighbour. We didn’t fit in with the rest,” the woman says, retaking her seat. “I was placed here to look out for Harry. I wasn’t welcome in this area, and Iris kept to herself. We bonded over being outsiders, and she talked to me.”

“What more can you tell me about Holly?” Greedy for information, Severus realises Arabella Figg is a treasure trove for it. He’s supposed to be a spy, but after collecting Holly, he’d not made a single move to find out her history, mistakenly believing it was no longer relevant.

“I’m not sure what you want to know?” Figg looks at him uncertainly.

“Anything.”

“She’s a bright little child. Clever. She has Harry wrapped around her finger. That boy – he’ll do anything for her,” she says with a quivering smile. “Iris always said Holly listened to Harry more than she listened to her.”

Severus can’t entirely hide the grimace.

Seeing it, she gives him another sad smile, “Try as you want; you’ll never be able to separate them.”

Severus doesn’t say anything to this but privately vows he will not rest until Potter is far away from his child. Seeming to read his mind, she gives him a knowing look.

“Did Iris have other people she spoke to?”

“Not really. She kept to herself.”

“Can – I’d like to see where they lived,” Severus says, pushing his half-drunk tea away.

“I can take you there if you’d like,” Figg offers to his relief.

“Thank you,” he says stiffly.

“Let me just get my coat,” she smiles at him.

She leaves him alone in the kitchen as she goes to change out of her house slippers and grab her coat. The cats crowd the door, staring at him from a distance, but don’t dare come closer. They scatter again when Figg’s footsteps come closer. Severus gets up from his chair and moves back into the hallway, meeting the squib there.

He follows her out of the house and waits as she locks her front door. She points out Potter’s relative’s house, which is just one street over. Just one street over from Privet Drive is Iris and Holly’s home.

“She ran all the way to my house,” Figg says into the quiet evening as they walk past Privet Drive. “That day when – Iris had been feeling off all week. She was supposed to meet me that morning but begged off because she was ill. So I went shopping by myself, told her I’d get everything on her list. I went home first to pack away my shopping first, and I intended to take hers later in the evening. Suddenly I hear a loud knocking on my door. It was Holly. She was hysterical; told me her grandmother wouldn’t wake up. I called for an ambulance first and then ran back to Iris’s house.”

Severus listens in silence.

“Took me ages to calm her down. She kept asking for her Harry. Only he could make her feel better,” Figg continues. “That day was full of tragedy all around.”

“What do you mean?” he asks with some confusion.

“Iris died on June twenty-fourth. The same day, Harry went through the task. The same day...” she trails off, stopping suddenly.

The same day the Dark Lord returned, Severus finishes, stopping with her.

He follows her gaze to see the only house on the block with no lights on. There’s no sign to say it’s still on sale. Surely it’s sold by now. Are the owners out?

“Do you want to take a look inside?” Figg offers, walking down the short garden path.

“There are no new occupants?” Severus questions in surprise, his footsteps hesitant.

Figg doesn’t answer immediately as she pulls out a small key from her pocket, unlocks the door and gestures for Severus to enter first.

“It’s never been put up for sale,” she informs him.

He looks around. There’s no hallway as such. The front door opens straight into the living room, but a little further to the right, there’s a door away leading into the kitchen. Though the house is furnished, there are no personal effects, no family photos. There’s a small television in front of the sofa that Severus recognises from the few pictures he has. He’s obsessed over those photographs enough that he recognises precisely where they’ve been taken.

He takes his time looking around the kitchen, imagining his child sitting at the dining table eating breakfast, sitting on the sofa watching television. Doing her homework, laughing with her grandmother. With Potter, even.

There’s another door towards the back where the stairs are located.

“It leads towards the basement.”

Severus nods in acknowledgement of her words and begins ascending the stairs. The bathroom door is open, and he walks past, darting a quick glance inside.

The first room belonged to her grandmother. A small wardrobe, a double bed. A nightstand with a lamp. It’s all barren and desolate. The bed’s been stripped, revealing the bare mattress.

The next room was clearly Holly’s, furnished with a child-sized desk and chair, a wardrobe and, to his confusion, a bunk bed.

“Did Holly have friends stay for a sleepover?” he asks of the squib who follows him like a silent shadow.

“Not friends, no,” she answers. “Occasionally, Harry stayed the night.”

He swallows the retort that almost escapes his lips at the knowledge that Potter stayed in the same room as his child. He has no choice but to let that go.

Still looking around the room, he asks, “Why do you have the key to the house?”

“Iris knew she was ill for some time. She’d already made her arrangement. Named me her Executor. She owned the house outright and left me to look after it until...”

“Until Holly comes of age?” he prompts when she trails off.

“She left her house to Harry and Holly,” Figg tells him gently. “It belongs to both of them.”

“Pardon?”

Potter had inveigled himself into an old woman’s house, taken Holly’s affections for himself and got himself a house out of it? Is that why he continued to stick by Holly? For this house? But Potter didn’t need this house. He had so much money that he could buy several houses like this. His grandfather’s potion is still so popular that Potter’s vault still collected the galleons from the royalties from the recipe sold. What is Potter after? That’s what he doesn’t understand.

“Iris left the house to both of them,” Figg repeats with the same gentleness, giving him an intense look.

“I see,” he says stiltedly. “I take it you emptied the house.”

“I did. Dudley helped quite a lot. Regulus came and helped when he had a spare chance. All of Iris’s clothes were donated to charity, along with her bedding and such. Dudley and I picked some of Holly’s clothes to send to her. I gave them to Harry to pass on.”

Severus recalls the trunk Holly had Lucius unshrink. It contained a lot of her clothes and knick-knacks and such. She’s shown Lucius some of her belongings and told stories of how they came into her possession, but she’s shared none with Severus.

“The kitchen still has all her dishes,” Figg continues, oblivious to Severus’s thoughts. “I thought I’d leave them for now. I wanted to ask Harry about what he wants to do, but I don’t think he’s ready to come back here yet. He’s asked me to take care of it. He sends me money to make sure someone comes in and looks after Iris’s garden and comes and does the dusting. I would have done it myself, but I don’t always have the time with everything going on. Dudley helps whenever he can. Considering how he used to be, he’s grown into a good boy. When he comes home from school on the weekend, he trains the Order every Saturday, and on a Sunday, he helps me with this house and even helps me with my chores. That was Iris’s influence as well. She’s made such an impact on both of them, Harry and Dudley. God knows how they might have turned out without her.”

Potter must have been genuinely horrendous before meeting Iris Pierce if this current version of Potter is what others considered good. He walks towards Holly’s desk, crouching slightly to place a hand on her desk. He pulls out the tiny chair and sits on it, uncaring of how he must look.

“Dudley,” he says, the name awkward on his lips, “he is Potter’s cousin?”

“Yes.”

“Holly is close to him as well? And the rest of Potter’s family?” he questions, rubbing his thumb over a crayon stain that’s not been cleaned properly.

“Holly’s much closer to Harry than she is to Dudley, though the boy adores the little girl. She’s not close to the Dursleys. I said before that Iris was an outsider. I mean that in every regard. Iris never spoke to Petunia and didn’t like her much. She welcomed Harry and Dudley into her home but never gave Petunia the time of day.”

Just like that, his esteem for Iris goes up. She clearly had been a good judge of character; pity her judgement let her down when it came to one Harry Potter.

“Petunia would have been just as welcoming, I’m sure,” Figg tells him, and there’s something in her voice that is just that little bit dark when she’s talking about Petunia. This is something Severus can understand. Petunia had been a horrid little bitch who’d made Lily miserable for being a witch. Jealous, spiteful shrew. Though she clearly got over all that when it came to Potter, considering how much she spoiled him. He’s seen the expensive clothes the boy wears. The boy also had Regulus sending him clothes, for Circe’s sake. How did Potter do it? How did he have people catering to his whims? How did he have people so wrapped around his fingers?

Even Lucius – the Malfoy patriarch who is usually so discerning about other people - has been taken in by the boy. Severus has seen the blond’s changing opinion and attitude over the last few weeks. The familiarity in his tone on the rare occasions he brings up Potter when speaking to Severus.

“May I take this desk?” he looks at her, seeking permission. He could easily make space in Holly’s room for it. “I would like to take it back for Holly.”

“Of course,” she nods.

Heaving himself from the child-sized chair, he pulls out his wand, shrinking the desk and chair and pocketing them. He walks back to Figg’s house with her, declining to come inside again on her invitation.

Just as he turns to leave, she calls him back, “Severus.”

Startled at her sudden familiarity when she’d spent most of the evening calling him Professor, he turns around.

“Harry and Holly are extremely protective of each other. If you’ve hurt one, you hurt the other. And earning forgiveness for that transgression? It’s almost impossible.”

Severus swallows at the glittering hardness in the eyes of an otherwise benign squib.

“Holly is much less forgiving than Harry. Mark my words, Severus, if you want to get back into Holly’s good graces, if you ever were in them in the first place, Harry’s the best person who can get you there. You may not like it, you may not like him, but Harry can help you. If you only open your mind and let him.”