Latest Posts by akasketch - Page 3

Just below these:

Where does their shit go?

What entertains these bitches?

Who takes care of the little bitch babies?

My top three rules for world building:

How are these bitches eating?

How do these bitches stay warm at night?

Who is paying for all of this bullshit?

I mean duh

Reblog if it’s ok for people to give you $599.99

This is so cute and exactly what it’s like omg

Staying over at her GF's place for the first time 🌃

This is very specific. Can I hear the song you commissioned, OP?

I think a lot of people really haven't considered the unlimited opportunities of being able to just commission art. Like you can literally just pay someone money to have them make practically whatever you want for you. Like you could probably hire some smaller soft rock band to write you a song about some shitty couple who obviously hate each other but instead of just breaking up already they keep getting drunk and fighting about the same damn subjects over and over and over while the neighbours can do nothing but listen to their publicly broadcasted private grievances.

And then put your stereos against the wall and play it on a constant loop until your annoying neighbours pause and go "wait, is this song about us?"

Way to go, modern Robin Hood

I’m not saying it’s right, but I understand (x)

Everytime a cis women tries to argue against gender neutral language in medical settings it becomes very clear they care more about their comfort then trans men being denied medical care and dying.

I don’t care how ‘uncomfortable’ the terms person with a uterus, person who can give birth, person with breasts, etc. makes you. I very much care more about trans men having access to medical care than a cis person’s feelings.

No. No they do not. And they think to do otherwise is “scary socialism”

I’m a barista and got pronoun pin even though I’m cis-assumed most of the time now. I’m confused as to how it’s me “wanting to be offended”. Like sincerely. Bless this commenter for calling out that bullshit.

Holy shit that Pandesouth person is *obsessed*. How do you make an entire tumblr blog cherry-picking the crazies (that might not even be actual trans people but cis folks faking it to make us look bad; this is the internet after all) from a given community and use it to hate and harass the whole community itself?! That’s insane.

You know how there are all those myths about how if a mortal sees the true form of one of the gods they can't take it and just disintegrate because it's too much power for them to comprehend?

That's my gender. Especially to cis people.

Oh my gods I’m crying this is so pretty! Thank you!!

Fanart for “A Time for All Things” by @akasketch

I never got into Harry Potter, but if you were and miss the feeling of the world without giving any credit to a certain author, try this story about finding your family and transing your gender with magic

In this world, the magic is real but so are the books, which were written and published by a witch who altered events to make a “better” story

My hair is growing out again so I get to say meeeeeeeee :333

If I’m honest with myself, ads have occasionally been useful to me to know some products exist, but this is EXTREMELY out of line; corporations really need a leash on them.

Damn do I feel this

She’s 45 mins from me, and we have a plan to hang Sunday, our first actual date! But it’s still a day and a half away and it’s hard to keep myself still.

She is so far away and I want to be with her so bad. It‘s eating me alive. My soul is screaming. And yet I have to pretend to be normal and go to work and do my chores and behave like a person.

You can lead a trans person to the cursed pool but you can’t make them jump in.

Only they can say whether theyre trans or not; however, I know many trans people (myself included) for whom this was a part of their egg story.

My advice is: internalized transphobia is a helluva drug. Let them figure out how to navigate that themself.

CALLING ALL TRANS PEOPLE

Someone I know says they wish they were born as the opposite sex (and that they would only transition if it could be done instantly) but still identifies as cis. I want to be as respectful and hands-off as possible so they can figure this out themselves but I just wanted to ask y’all if they are trans. I think the only things holding them back are some misconceptions about gender and a fear of being discriminated against for being trans. Do they count as trans if they don’t identify as it? I’m still going to respect their wishes to be called by their current pronouns and name, but I just want to know if it would be okay to refer to them as trans when talking about them (to people who don’t know them ofc). Oh also as a disclaimer: they said they didn’t want me using they/them pronouns for them but i’m just using those pronouns to protect their identity.

Is there an update on this story? What happened to the bus driver? His wife?!

fondly remembering that time I was working as a cashier when I was 19-20 and my former bus driver and his wife came through. He says to me "Hey, you look familiar" and I reply "Yes, I was one of the bus kids you drove, specifically the one you screamed at and threatened to ban from the bus and make walk home because I was crying out in pain while the other kids were ripping huge chunks of hair out of my head but you did nothing about them." and his wife slowly looked at him like this

Chapter 2, in Which the Crew Meets the Paladin

Michael Leigh stares out the window of the little white Nissan he finds himself in. He’d woken up to the sound of Mrs. Granger-Weasley yelling at him, frantic. He'd been staying in a Ministry safe house, and apparently no one had gotten him up in time for the train that he had only the faintest idea they were supposed to take (and that only because Harley—whom he’d been spending time with, along with the rest of The Crew that he’d met in Diagon Alley—hadn’t shut up about it all weekend). After scrambling about getting dressed, showered, and fed, they had shoved Michael's stuff in the trunk. It didn’t look like it should fit, but it had.

Mrs. Granger-Weasley had been cursing for a good portion of the half-hour drive, but eventually, she had stopped looking at the clock. Now, she drives in determined silence.

Crowded buildings fly by, sprinkled every now and then with a plot of trees and other assorted greenery. Michael watches those weird robed-and-pointed-hat people milling about on the sidewalk as they go through a roundabout, knowing now why the regular folk just… got out of their way, not seeming to see them. Muggle-repelling charm. Deletes them from nonmagical eyes so they wouldn’t have to deal with their ilk, wouldn’t have to explain anything. Seems like heaven to Michael, but also a tad cruel, to an extent. A bit much. What right did they have to remove an entire facet of reality from their lives, just because they had the power? How was that just? And Michael was joining this world. Would he come to see things as they did? That it was worthwhile to put aside what he believes to be right for the sake of his own comfort, his own convenience? Or was it more than that?

Inevitably, the great glass walls of the modernized King’s Cross rise before them, and Mrs. Granger-Weasley drives around them over to the parking lot on the northern side. He remembers the last time he came here with his parents. Their faces, full of love for him and his little brother, watching them explore the space, watching them watch the trains come in and out of the station. He wonders what their faces would look like now. Would they be filled with confusion? Something in the back of their minds telling them that he was their son, that he had existed in their lives previously? Or would their eyes simply slide over him like they did the other warlocks in the town? Probably the latter, to be honest. He had been there when they did the spell. Obliviate, was it? The Auror had been very thorough about what they were supposed to forget. From what Michael had researched after the fact, that bit wasn’t supposed to be spoken aloud normally. He still can’t tell if the Auror had been cruel (wanting the child to witness every excruciating moment of his parents being ripped from him), callous (wanting the child to witness the exchange to know what was and was not to be known by the nonmagical world), or just plain stupid.

The car comes to a stop, and while Mrs. Granger-Weasley immediately turns the key to turn the car off, she sighs into her seat, closing her eyes for a moment. Michael waits. He’s seen adults do this before. His mom, his dad, his neighbors across the street, all of them did this… thing, seemingly when they were overwhelmed. He’d learned it was best to not interrupt them in this state. Thus, he waits in silence.

Michael watches the digital clock tick up by one minute, then two, then three, before Mrs. Granger-Weasley opens her door. Michael follows suit, swinging his backpack onto his shoulders. The momentum causes Snuggles’ cute little bottle he’d found—and had been bought by Mrs. Jane over the weekend he’d spent with the Crew he’d met that day in Diagon Alley—to flail about wildly. He mutters a quiet apology to the spider, his Familiar. He was already starting to sense why every warlock seemed to have one: there was a connection between him and Snuggles, a powerful one. He had found himself capable of rudimentary communication with the tiny creature. Nothing vocal, but definitely more than that of even his connection with Argos, the family dog, and he was the only one that had been able to get him to learn any task more complex than “Fetch”. In just a few short days, the spider was telling him what its favorite insect was to eat. Carpenter ants, apparently. Hadn’t gotten to why, but it seemed to like the taste. It seemed to like its name, too; Michael had gotten a sense of satisfaction at the idea of being related to comforting spatial closeness.

Mrs. Granger-Weasley opens up her bigger-on-the-inside trunk, extracting Michael’s single suitcase, provided by the Ministry—they weren’t entirely obliviate-your-parents-out-of-existence level of evil, apparently—and Snuggles’ big cage. Seeing it, the spider scuttles around excitedly, seeming to ask if it could go into the bigger clear box yet.

“Not yet,” Michael whispers to the spider. “I still need you with me.”

Michael swears he sees the spider give a little salute.

The boy turns to his guardian. Mrs. Granger-Weasley is wearing far more

casual clothes today: a white turtleneck under a denim vest, and black leggings tucked into classy leather boots. A brown messenger bag is slung over her left shoulder, and her wand is tucked behind her ear—Michael couldn’t do that very well with his impractical wand. She still wears that nonmagical watch and the hourglass necklace.

“Do we still have time to meet with Ray and them like we said we were?” Michael asks as he follows her around to the front of the little car.

Mrs. Granger-Weasley purses her lips. “Yes and no. We are very late.” She extracts the car keys from her purse and… kneels down, hiding them under the front bumper. What? “Before we go, though…”

Mrs. Granger-Weasley turns toward him, staying with knees on the ground so her eyes meet his level. Michael stares at her chin. He doesn’t like when adults feel the need to do this. It might be a moment of importance, but they didn’t have to make it so… intimate.

“What happened to your parents—to you—was a travesty and an injustice. That law should have been struck from the books decades ago, and I’m so sorry I’ve… neglected it until now. I’m doing everything I can to reverse it, to right it, and I promise to continue to do so while you’re away.”

Michael shifts his eyes to the floor. She was deathly serious. “…Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank, not yet,” she says as she rises. “Now, about your train. We can still make it to a decently early time if you do exactly as I say.”

Mrs. Granger-Weasley holds her hand out, and he takes it with a confused nod.

“Grab hold of everything you own, make sure there is a chain of touch between you and each item you want to bring; the ground doesn’t count in the chain; squeeze my hand once when you are finished,” she directs.

Michael takes a quick inventory, then squeezes.

“Good. Be silent and still until the sky stops moving.”

With her free hand, she takes her necklace and turns it over, and over, and over, audibly counting the number of turns as she does so. The sky indeed moves as she does this, the clouds coalescing and dissipating in reverse, the sun moving from west to east along its path. The car beside them backs out of its space, and crowds fly backwards, moving ghostly along predetermined paths that they had trod before. It was now that Michael finally understood what Mrs. Granger-Weasley had been doing that day, how she had been in two places at once, and why the adults were so frustrated with her usage of this device (the Time-Turner, had they called it?). This was dangerous. Incredibly so. He still hadn’t yet decided if they lived in a multiversal or singular timeline, and that alone changes how he was supposed to act in this scenario. Is he changing things? Is he cloning himself with this—wait, that’s a yes; she’d used this to clone herself. And if one cloned oneself with this, one was changing the past. And yet, was his time-clone already here when he had been sleeping through the morning the first time? He doesn’t know. But then again, he has no knowledge of what had happened here already, what was going to now happen to him, so he supposes it doesn’t particularly matter. In that case, he… doesn’t really have to worry about what he does here, because he’s only here experiencing this location once. He doesn’t have to worry about causing paradoxes from experiencing a past self or a past self experiencing him. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Granger-Weasley is letting him make use of it in this very specific instance. It’s totally safe for him. Her, though…

The sky abruptly stops moving, and the populace—far more crowded now—abruptly changes direction and speed, moving more naturally, as if the entire world hadn’t just shifted.

“Come along. Act as if nothing happened; they’ll follow suit. There will come a moment when I must leave you. I can’t be seen by myself; I’m already here with my own children.”

That answers Michael’s last unvoiced questions. He does precisely as he had been told.

\~ * * * \~

Harley stands with her mom, Ray’s family, and Pazi’s family just beyond the wall. Getting Mom through had been a bit of a trick: Mrs. DeLanoy had used a spell she’d never heard of (“Auras Mendacem” had been the short incantation, along with a circular flourish followed by a tap to the sternum; Harley had muttered it over and over to herself to commit it to memory) to allow the wall to accept her. The effect itself wasn’t flashy, but they knew it’d worked when her mom had started, eyes suddenly open to the many warlocks about them. They’d all had a good chuckle about that; it was apparently supposed to be permanent? Why hadn’t someone else done that earlier; someone from the Ministry here, or even the Bureau of Magical Relations back home? The fact they hadn’t was… She didn’t want to think about that.

The brickwork beneath her feet seems old but solid, strong. Like ages of tradition had molded it into what it was. She could see a crack or two from nature’s wear and the many feet that had trod it, but here it stayed, never-changed, static. Harley breathes in deeply, taking in the smoke and steam from the great red engine before them through her nose, feeling their delightful prickle. Other families and groups mill about on the platform, some in their Sunday Best, and others, like their group, in cute but comfortable clothes.

Their group is large, numbering about eight so far: Herself, Ray, his mom and dad, Pazi, and her mom and big brother. Pazi’s mother is taller and thinner than her own, and darker of skin than Pazi, and she wears her curly hair constricted across her scalp by a red scarf covered in purple flowers; she wears a tight black pantsuit, which Harley assumes is required by her job. Her brother, meanwhile, contrasts her formal with his casual: he is a stocky boy—second year, apparently—wearing jeans and a blue Ravenclaw hoodie with two white stripes down each sleeve. The air is slightly chilly, and everyone else’s clothing reflects that: each other person in the group is wearing some variation of hoodies and long pants. Ray’s in particular is rather baggy: black sweat pants and a blue pullover that matched his pretty eyes.

Ray looks about, twiddling his wand, nearly dropping it for the third time. His face reddens, but no other changes occur. His form seems a lot more stable today than it had back in Diagon Alley; heck, it’d been a lot more stable all week as they’d all been exploring London together—Pazi more showing everything off than doing any exploring herself. He seems happier, too. More confident. She hadn’t expected to make friends so strongly, so quickly here; something just tied all of them together. Pazi, Ray, Michael—they were all what she needed in a new place.

Pazi breaks the silence. “Okay, Is Mikey ever goin’ to get here, or are we goin’ to have to board without him?”

Her mother gives her a light smack on the arm with the back of her hand; not at all meant to hurt, but definitely as full of disdain as her face is. “Hush now. He’s just running a bit late is all. He’ll make it.” Mrs. Equiano’s voice is precise yet smooth; Harley sees purple sparks fill the air as she speaks.

No one else reacts to the sparks, as no one ever does. After the magical world had been fully revealed to her, Harley had expected that particular odd symptom to be explained. It doesn’t always happen, but whenever sound becomes sufficiently musical, she… sees things. She wonders if it’s some kind of magical quirk, a bit of divination in her blood or something.

As if on cue, Hermione—Mrs. Granger-Weasley; she needs to remember that—strides up with Ron, her husband ( SQUEE ), two brown-haired kids ( DOUBLE SQUEE ), and a familiar red-haired one in tow.

“Oh, thank Heaven,” Harley’s mom says. “Everyone okay?”

“Thankfully, yes. This one… overslept. No one got him up. He got delivered to me just a bit ago,” Her—Mrs. Granger-Weasley explains.

Her younger one (seems to be in their grade) hides behind her, obviously intrigued but extremely shy. Harley makes eye contact and waves at them with a smile. Sheepishly, they wave fingers back. Their hair, not nearly as curly as their mom’s, is wavy and chopped into a pixie cut with orange tips. It’s hard for Harley to get a beat on their gender, but, as she and her mom had come to discuss over the week (for Ray’s sake, apparently; she didn’t quite get that, as he was obviously a he and presented as such), they probably like it that way.

Ron smirks down at her, then at his child, ruffling their hair. He, unlike Hermione, looks incredibly similar to the idea Harley had imagined. Fluffy orange hair, an incredible amount of freckles on his face, wearing a Gryffindor sweater and jeans. His build is somewhat athletic, which surprised her; she’d expected a tad more lanky. “Makin’ some friends already, eh Thorn?”

Thorn squints up at him, fixing their hair absentmindedly. Ron just chuckles. “Alright, alright, I’ll back off.”

Mrs. Equiano narrows her eyes at Mrs. Granger-Weasley. “ How long did he oversleep?”

Mrs. Granger-Weasley opens her mouth, then closes it. “I’m… honestly not sure.” She turns down to Michael.

Michael doesn’t turn away from the train as he responds. “I’m not going to alter the space-time continuum.”

The whole group gets a good chuckle out of that, but Michael narrows his eyes with what seems to be confusion, and Mrs. Equiano purses her lips before breaking the mirth. “Well, all, it was lovely meeting you, but we should say goodbye to the children now that they’re all here.”

The parents nod, ushering them to a car that is supposedly for the First-Years specifically. Harley’s mom turns her around right before the scarlet box, then kneels down in front of her to meet her eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says. “There’s so much… new here. You take it so well. Just promise me…”

She blinks back a tear, wiping it from her face with the heel of her hand before returning it to Harley’s shoulder.

“Promise me that… with all the magic you learn, you won’t forget the magic of my love for you.”

Harley sniffles, a tear running down her face. “I promise, Mommy.”

They embrace, the smell of her mom’s hair lingering in her nose.

She doesn’t remember letting go, but she does remember her first step onto the metal stairs leading to her new friends and her new life.

\~ * * * \~

Ka-chung, ka-chung. Ka-chung, ka-chung. The rails clang beneath the train car that houses the booth Ray and their—his crew had claimed for themselves. Their luggage and pets—excluding Michael’s spider, which sat in its bottle upon the table, watching them all play cards—had been set snugly in the compartment above.

Ray had—after some minor difficulty—taught them all Rummy. Harley had caught on surprisingly quickly (something about playing Rummykub with her aunt; this wasn’t quite the same game, but whatever works right?) but Pazi was far more into it, heavily strategizing her draws, plays, and discards, and Michael… well, he was having fun explaining exactly what he was going to do to Snuggles, asking him—her? It?—what cards to pick up and play. As the rest of the table only got half of the conversation, this had been surprisingly effective.

It’s Pazienza’s turn. Only three cards played thus far, opposed to each of their multiple sets, cards played off of others’ fields forming a complex web of relation. Web… that’s why Snuggles comprehends this game? Focus. Her narrow eyes scan the discard pile, looking to see if there was something she’d missed. She shrugs and draws the top of the deck instead of anything controllable. She blinks, smirks, and starts laying cards down in front of herself.

Two of hearts. She points to his three-to-five run. “Off of yours…” Nine of clubs. She points to Harley’s set of nines. “Off of yours…” A set of all four aces . What the he—heck? That had been risky.

And then a set of three jacks. Ah.

With one card in hand, she discards it for game. The other two kids sigh, then reveal their hands: among some other “chaff” lay the queen and king of diamonds in Michael’s, and queen and king of clubs in Harley’s. Ray looks down at his own hand, then lays it on the table. The queen and king of hearts.

“I saw you all pick those up earlier. Took the opportunity to show off a bit,” Pazi says.

Ray grabs his notebook and pencils in the points… and the negatives from Pazi’s little stunt. Thankfully they’d mostly saved themselves with their plays, but they’d all picked up quite a few cards from the discards. And after calculating it…

“That’s game. Pazi hit 150.”

“What?” Harley says. “She was only at thirty-five before?!”

Michael nods. “She just made one-hundred-and-fifteen points.”

“Yup,” Ray says. “So we can call it, or we can just… keep going with a running total..?”

“I think that might be fun to do later on, you know? In our common room, or the Great Hall. I think I’m done for now,” Pazi says, stretching her arms toward the ceiling and her grin between her ears.

Michael cocks his head. “ Our common room? Do you think we’ll end up in the same house?”

“Why not?” Pazi responds. “We’re all ridiculously smart. We’re probably all going into Ravenclaw.”

Harley nods vigorously. “Yeah! You with your animal stuff—“

“Facts,” Michael interjects.

“Yes, animal facts, Pazi with her strategies, and Ray…” Harley trails off. “What do you know Ray? How would you say it?”

Ray purses his lips. “I… A little of everything, honestly. I don’t know a lot in any one area; I just kinda… get stuff.”

It wasn’t like that, though, was it? You don’t have to be smart to get into Ravenclaw, and being smart didn’t put you there in the first place. It’s like… Slytherin isn’t the evil house, right? Voldemort came from there, true, but so did just about everyone that has organized institutional change in the UK, or just did big things: Bathilda Romanoff, Geoffrey Rose, Violet Kay… Those were the ones he could think of off the top of his head. Romanoff was an advocate for Magical Creatures’ Rights; one of the first people Moldy Voldy’d killed. Rose was a prominent music artist; he was the first warlock to figure out how to enchant his songs to be only found on iTunes by other warlocks. And Kay… Well. Ray was one of the few people they knew of that thought she was really cool.

“Lost in thought?” Harley asks.

Ray shakes his reverie from his mind. Just a liiiiiiiiiiittle distracted. He thinks. The joy that story would bring his dad echoes in him, making his lips twitch into a grin, even as a blush creeps across his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Ray says. “Sorry.”

He really needs to get that under control. He might’ve learned a little from the primers Mom’d bought, but this was all going to be new to him. He couldn’t sneak by, reading books under his desk anymore. Would they even have desks here? As terrible as the ‘Harry Crudder’ books (as Papa Keller called them) were, Ray had heard she’d gotten the descriptions of the school mostly right, and the way they’d depicted them in the movies didn’t give much room for—

Snaps from in front of him. Ray jumps, cheeks fully aflame now.

“Earth to Ray?” Pazi says as she reclaims her arm. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Fine. Just… got distracted. Sorry.”

He feels his scalp tingle, and hair brush past his ear. Not again. Every time he was with them, this had happened. Why did their opinions matter so much to him? He purses his lips and breathes in, then out, focusing on the present moment. He was here. He was here. He feels the hair growth slow, then stop.

Pazi’s eyes show compassion, but also concern. “You sure?”

“Positive,” he replies, tap-tap, tap-tap, rat-ta-tat -ing a beat into his lap.

They sit there for a moment in silence. Eventually, Ray takes up his pencil and begins doodling in the margins of his notebook.

Michael cocks his head at the ceiling. “Why do you have to keep that form secret?”

Pazi furrows her brow at him. Ray’s pencil stops moving.

“Did I say something wrong?” Michael responds to the awkward silence. “Was I not supposed to ask?”

Pazi opens her mouth, but Ray stops her with his own response. “No, it’s okay. I’m glad you did. I… Struggle with… This thing and… Well.”

Hearts lie, Raymond.

“…My heart… lies to me? Or something? My mom says it’s my shame that triggers it, which makes sense. I need to know that my friends love me is all. Knowing that makes it go away.” Somewhat.

That same look of concern on Pazi’s face, and it now echoed upon Harley’s.

“But…” Harley starts. “You got embarrassed when we had dinner at Pazi’s that night, and it didn’t happen.”

Ray smiles weakly. “No, it did; I just… pushed it down.” That had been some crazy willpower. He’d gone all the way into… her… back at the hotel that night, crying into their pillow.

Harley nods. “But like, why… Why do those changes happen? Longer hair, shorter..?”

Ray grits his teeth. They weren’t looking forward to this explanation. “I… Sometimes I’ve pictured myself… as a girl.” The hair started again. Crap. “It’s weird, it’s weird, I know! I’m sorry. You just asked and—“

“—And it’s nothing to be ashamed of, friend,” Pazi interjects.

“I know, but…” they couldn’t put thoughts into words. There were feelings of shame, of not wanting this… moment, of connections too deep, too strong, too fast. The hair grows faster.

Harley nods. “No, I get what she’s saying. It comes out more because you’re ashamed of the form itself, yeah? Magic is tied to our emotions, and yours fills your body, so…”

…Why hadn’t they put that together before?

Harley continues. “…So if you wanna stop, what if you… I dunno, worked on not feeling ashamed of the form?”

Ray saw the thought coming right before Harley had finished it. They nod slowly. Yes, that does make sense.

Michael blinks at them. “Let’s practice now. Let it out.”

Pazi scowls at him again. “Michael…”

“No,” Ray says, a tear in their eye. “He’s right. I think. I can… trust you guys.”

With that, they let the change take hold.

Allowing it was… difficult for her. Painful, almost. Like relaxing a fist she’d been clenching around a rope for long enough it’d become numb; the blood rushing back into each finger, reactivating each nerve with a searing flame that soon itself recedes into cool relief. Tears come to her eyes, a single one from each, running over cheeks now rounded by both the transformation she had allowed and the sheepish smile she wears. She lifts herself up and sits on her hands, narrowing herself in action as well as form, as much as can be told through her bulky sweater. She looks up, brushing curtain bangs from her eyes, recognizing with a bit of vertigo that her perspective had shifted ever-so-slightly downward; no more than half an inch, but it was notable enough that the subconscious mind thought for a moment that she was in another place.

Michael is looking directly at her, head cocked to his right, unblinking. Harley’s mouth is agape, brown eyes wide. And Pazi… Pazi looks shocked, but there’s something else underneath that Ray can’t quite place.

She looks down again. “I’m sorry. I can go back. You guys weren’t ready for—“

“No!” Pazi interrupts. “I thought you wouldn’t be ready yet.”

Michael turns furrowed brow to the table. “That’s something you can be ready for?”

The compartment chuckles at that.

“No,” Ray responds, “I guess not.” Her— their voice always weirded them out when… here. It was just smaller, higher, smoother. Much like the ever-so-slight height shift, it was just enough for them to notice a difference.

“You’re so…” Harley starts.

“So what?”

“Cute! Oh my gosh. Can I braid your hair?”

Ray opens their mouth, then closes it. This was… not the reception they’d been expecting.

What had they been expecting? Shock? Horror? No. Just… not acceptance. They just… Had to remember this was false. Not what was really there. They can have fun like this, but they can’t accept the lie.

They nod at Harley, letting her scoot over to their side of the booth, and she and Pazi get to work, giggling while Michael nods, then casually pulls out a book.

The fist closes again in their heart.

\~ * * * \~

Pazienza looks up from her novel, apparently titled The Lightning Thief , and toward its owner, Ray, who had swapped spots with her to nap against the corner of the compartment. Her—Their? Probably not His, although they might insist on it… Maybe she shouldn’t choose for them— Their mouth was hanging just slightly open, and their still-long hair—done up into two thin braids over their ears feeding into a long, thick braid down their back—hangs over their shoulder. They had fallen asleep stroking it, their expression something between longing and reluctance. Pazi recognizes the face as the one her cousin Socks had right before… what was the term they used? Their egg cracked? She thinks that’s it. From what she can tell, though, Ray seems to have been feeling this way for a while. Tough shell. Or maybe just not the right surface to crack it on.

Pazi shrugs. The metaphor breaks down after a while. Meanwhile, Harley and Michael swap a drawing pad back and forth, each adding something on before handing it back. They seem to be having fun. They’d called it “The Scribble Game,” and had offered to join her in, but she’d needed some time to her thoughts.

The light outside her window had dimmed; the sun was beginning to set in brilliant pinks and oranges and deep blues across the green hills. As it’s gotten darker, she’s been starting to see the reflection of the compartment lamp, and the compartment as a whole, in the window more clearly. How close were they? The castle had to be coming soon, right?

There is a light rapping at the door.

The three awake children jump at the sudden noise; Pazienza glares at it for a moment, then breathes out slowly. It wasn’t their fault that they scared them. They’re actually being quite polite.

“Excuse me?” Comes the voice from just outside the compartment door. It was definitely another child, but Pazi can’t even see the top of their head in the window covering the upper half of the compartment door.

Pazi slides the door open slowly, quietly. Behind it is a white boy in a modern-looking wheelchair. His brown hair is tousled nicely, and his piercing green eyes look into hers. He cocks his head at her with a furrowed brow, eyes flicking over her. Below the neck, he wears a white button-down with a black tie, and black robes over it; a plain red blanket sits over his lap, falling loosely upon empty footrests. Why was he wearing his dress clothes already? Must want to be prepared. Pazi chuckles inwardly at the red blanket. Already repping a house.

He straightens in his chair. “The conductor is sending me around telling everyone that we’re going to be there soon and you should probably get ready.” The words are rehearsed, measured.

Pazi squints. “Shouldn’t their voice have come over the whole compartment?”

The boy shrugs. “He couldn’t get the charm to work. Seemed kinda embarrassed about it.”

Pazienza sighs. He might be messing with them, but it had been a while, and it was late.

The boy looks past her, into the compartment. “Um, you might want to wake her up too.”

She feels the blood drain from her face. “We’ll do that, thank—“

“Ray, Ray..?” Pazienza spins around to see Harley reaching over to gently grasp their shoulder.

She barely needed to. Ray stirs, blinking awake. “What—?”

It was the strangest thing. A flurry of reactions fly over their face, wide eyes settling on the boy, their face going pale, then cheeks flushing red. If they hadn’t been already in girl-mode, Pazi was sure they would be shifting. But if they hadn’t been, would this have triggered them? Probably not.

The boy in the door cocks his head in the other direction. “You okay? I didn’t mean…” He composes himself, then nods. “Sor—“

“Sorry!” Ray blurts out. “I didn’t mean to— I know we’re not supposed to do magic til we’re at the school but I just thought—“

The boy squints at them. “What are you talking about?”

“I… shifted. I’m a Metamorphmagus.”

The boy’s face… becomes like stone. Hard. Harsh. “That… is thin ice. Fine, but close. We’re not allowed to cast spells until we reach the school. Innate magics and unintentional effects are technically allowed, especially under duress. That said, you definitely shouldn’t be lying about a dark affliction.”

Dark… what? What was he talking about?

Ray’s gaze falls. Why do they look guilty? “I wish I was.”

Wheelchair-boy cocks his head. “What’s your name?”

“Raymond. Thiessen.”

“Benjamin Williams. Good to meet you, Thiessen. And you can’t get out of this form?”

“…Well…” Ray trails off, flicking their eyes this way and that like they might find the words in the compartment itself.

To his credit, Ben lets them fumble about instead of interrupting them.

Eventually, Ray finds their voice, although their gaze still lacks an anchor, flying about as they gesture animatedly. “I mean, physically, theoretically? Yes. Emotionally, mentally? No. I’m kinda—I’m kinda stuck right now.”

Ben nods. “That actually makes sense. Please do be careful. Restrooms are down the corridor; I’m glad for your sake they’re unisex.”

Hands on his wheels, Williams backs out from their doorway, turns, then shoves himself toward the back of the car.

\~ * * * \~

Harley stands with the Crew just outside the train, upon the metal grate of a platform surrounding it, wearing her favorite yellow dress, black robe hanging from her shoulders. The Ben kid had been right; they had been close. She thinks back just an hour to that moment, to waking Ray up. Her thoughts spin and weave. Why had she done that? She’d known that would embarrass… Him? Her? How should she refer to him in… that instance? She supposes ‘him’ works. He’s still the same on the inside, right? She just… hadn’t been thinking. Ray seems fine now, wearing black slacks and a gray button-down under his robe, but it’d taken a while for him to calm down enough to get into them.

The smell of the great steam engine fades as she watches the many carts filled with belongings get taken off the train by warlocks, elves, and even a goblin or two. One of those carts had her trunk on it, and one of those covered cages had Furiato. She wishes she’d done something unique to her cage cover to be able to know which one it was.

“First years, Here please,” a voice just behind Harley calls. The projection is deep and rumbling, sending storming gray clouds across her vision.

Harley and the Crew turn to see a large man—extremely large, taller than the tallest person Harley had ever seen—with a magnificent beard and curly hair tied back into a low tail. His hair (both on top and on-face) is black with many white streaks, and his beard is brushed into a long but full point reaching the middle of his chest. His eyes speak of wisdom, of deep knowledge; his massive frame speaks of a strength beyond that which his mind—any mind—is capable of. He wears a black robe with blue and silver lining, and holds his arms behind his back.

Not a single soul speaks as they look at him.

“This all of you, then?” He asks, sending those rumbling clouds off again, little blue ribbons of light now zipping underneath.

None of the other students—barely thirty, if that—collected here react to the clouds. More of that… weirdness then. One does nod: although still silent, Thorn seems a little less tongue-tied than the rest, a smile resting upon their face.

“Alright, then. I am Reubus Hagrid, the groundskeeper here. I take my job very seriously, as should you. Some of you may have read Lockhart’s novels. I assure you that the bumbling idiot persona she gave me is highly inaccurate, and I shall only advise you of that fact once. Am I clear?”

A chorus of nods sweeps over the children.

“Good. We shall be taking boats to the castle, across the lake.” Hagrid turns to Ben, looking down at his wheelchair. “I assume you are Williams. Your chair was enchanted per the specifications? Or do I need to do so?”

“No, it is perfectly capable of getting into and out of the boats. And up stairs,” the boy replies.

“Good. Follow me, then.”

With that, the man turns, revealing incredible silver wings stitched into the back of his robes. This was not what she’d read in the books. Harley cracks a smile, following the crowd.

She feels her lips pull back over her teeth. Maybe the smile is a bit more than a crack.

The sun sets rather as they walk along a small dirt path, first in silence, but soon the group begins giggling to themselves, each small clique forming their own conversation. Harley looks to the Crew she’d formed and sees Ray and Michael just gazing about at the sights, wide grin on Ray’s mouth. Pazi, beside her, has her gaze on the road at first, but her eyes find Harley’s. There’s fear in them, anticipation. Her hand slips into Harley’s, and they make the rest of the small walk together. As they crest the last hill, the shore of the Great Lake looms before them, gravel and sand broken by a wooden dock jutting out from the lightly paved ground they had trekked.

Hagrid stops short, holding a fist out to his side, arm bent up at the elbow. “A gift for the night, at least until we reach the castle.” The massive man turns around and whips a wand from his sleeve—dark, she can tell, even with the low light. He gives it a flick upwards as he speaks his stormy words: “ Fluitantia globi, lumos a natorum viam! ”

Harley had never heard such a long, rhythmic incantation before, but she recognizes one word in the mix: Lumos. With it finished, white spheres of light burst from the wand, each zipping to a child, floating just above each head. There are murmurs of delight from the kids; a couple try to jump up to swat at their personal spotlight, only to have it bob up just as much, vertically connected to their jump, persistently just out of reach.

Ray looks at the display of leaping children and cocks his head, looks up at his own ball, then jumps. It bobs upwards. He kneels down. It dips down. Harley chuckles a bit at his experimentation, but then he stands, extracting his wand from his pants pocket. He then leans in an odd way, putting his right shoulder above his head, causing the ball to sink but his arm to rise. He dips his wand into the light .

As it is touched, the ball flickers, rippling, radiating like a star. Its form becomes less spherical and more like flame, although still a soft blue-white. As Ray pulls away, eyes greedy, his wand seems to take a bit with it, leaving it alight like a tiny torch. As the wand leaves the ball, it returns to its still self, no longer a floating bonfire.

Hagrid sighs and shakes his head at the display that has now thoroughly distracted his class as they all try the same trick, his smiling face now well-lit by the many spotlights just below his face. “One in every year. Always a Slytherin or a Ravenclaw. Fun trick with the fire, though.”

Harley doesn’t try it herself, but she watches the others each eventually succeed at touching their ball with the same leaning-trick. No one’s ball turns into flame, but each one does ripple and morph a bit at the touch, and a couple do manage to pull a glowing tip out, one girl getting a long glowing string attached to her wand that she flicks about, sending motion down the line and making her ball wiggle. Others wave their wands about in it, frustrated that they can’t get the light to share itself.

Hagrid turns to her, then to Ben. “You two don’t want to try? We’ve got a bit of time before we leave and you’re both plenty capable.”

Ben nods, then leans in his chair, bracing himself with his left arm. Suddenly, he stops, pulls on his blanket, shifting it to a better position before returning to his exploration. As he touches it, the surface of the ball seems to… harden, becoming like frosted glass rather than a fuzzy gradient of pure light.

Hagrid nods at her again. “Go on, lass. Try it.”

Harley leans over and notices the way the ball is anchored to her head, not her body. How did Ray get that so quickly? She raises her hand and finds it’s still just out of reach of her fingers, but with her wand…

Harley reaches into her sleeve pocket, extracting her wand. As she raises her arm and dips the tip into the ball’s surface, she feels a… connection with it. Like her heart is one with the little ball. She feels joy well up in her, and little streaks of glowing yellow thread whip out of the ball, orbiting it. She pulls her wand from the orb, and… nothing. The yellow streaks even stop. Frowning, she stabs her wand back in. Not even the ribbons of light. She does it a couple more times in quick succession, but then stops. She takes a deep breath. What was the difference? Why did it do that before? She was happy. She’s frustrated now. But why did the light do that? Why did it react like that before and not… hm. At least it had reacted to the happy. She knows that. Can she repeat it..?

Harley thinks of something happy. What makes her happy? She thinks of her mom, her family, and… No. That’s bittersweet. Too mixed. A tear falls from her cheek. What’s happy ? Happy is this new experience. Happy is the exploration of magic. Happy is learning what that crazy incantation was Hagrid did, how it made these beautiful lights. Happy would be… success. Satisfaction. She remembers those moments of hard work, of doing archery with her dad at that one party, imagined getting her first bulls-eye, that feeling, letting it well up in her slightly…

Her wand tip within, the ball flickers. The ribbons erupt, flicking out. Seeing that hint, she becomes elated , and they spin faster about the sphere, dancing and twisting amongst each other.

There’s a gasp from the crowd. Harley breaks from her reverie.

“ Sequitur ubi designo, wingardium leviosa a stragulum! ” Hagrid’s voice booms out. His wand flicks to Ben’s lap, and the red blanket that had fallen upon the ground returns to its place.

Ben’s lap.

The boy had pants on, but Harley caught a glimpse of his feet. Withered, mangled, blackened things. The very image of death. Her face pales, and something begins coming up from her stomach. She forces the bile down as Ben readjusts the blanket. He doesn’t seem too flustered by it, more frustrated than anything, but Hagrid seems mortified.

“Now,” Hagrid says, a bit more softly. The clouds still return. “It’s time to stop that game for now. There will be plenty more opportunities for magical exploration in the future, although I hope you learned something from this one.”

Murmuring from a couple cliques. Eyes dart to Ben, then off, back to their friends.

“Did you see—“

“What do you think—“

“That’s why—“

“Everyone shut UP! ” The words were out of Harley’s mouth before she realized she was saying anything.

Everyone’s eyes were on her.

She can’t break down here. Her mother’s voice comes to her, calm and consoling though the words themselves are harsh: “ You made your bed, now suck it up and lie in it. ”

Harley takes in a deep breath. “Look,” she begins. She makes her face stone, earth, strong. Strong enough to sell the bit. “He was hiding it for a reason. If you really want to know, you can ask him politely when we get to the castle.”

A pause rolls through the small crowd. Then a nod from one child. They bought it. The kids quiet down and look to Hagrid, who cocks his head, narrowing his eyes at her. It’s hard to tell if he’s curious, suspicious, or annoyed with her outburst.

“Right then,” Hagrid says, recomposing himself. “We are now going to enter the boats. You are not to reach into the water, and you are not to rock your boats. There are creatures in the lake that are not to be trifled with, although they are quite lovely once you have the requisite knowledge to respect them.”

Michael, eyes on the water, nods solemnly at that.

The rest of the children, seemingly taking his lead, nod vigorously.

Hagrid nods in response. “Good. Let us off then.”

The massive wizard leads the children along the dock. “Four to a boat. Williams and I each count as two for spacing.”

Hagrid guides each child to a boat, trying his best to not break up the cliques, it seems; he says a quick “sorry” to the group of five.

It comes to Ben’s turn. He wheels over to the edge, and Hagrid… steps out of the way. Weird. Runes on his wheels that Harley hadn’t noticed each alight with a green flame. A quick look over at the reactions on her Crew’s face reveals Ray in rapt attention, a toothy grin plastered on his face. Ben rolls over the edge and… keeps rolling, perfectly steady. Besides the runes, there’s nothing else flashy about the magic, it just… works, making the chair hang in the air like the dock extended out over the boat. Ben looks over the side, seeing where he’s wheeling; once he’s in a cleared-out section of the boat, the chair lowers slowly and securely until the boat bears weight, lowering in the water as the wheels rest upon its surface. Some—but not all—of the runes darken again, and Harley notes them scratched into the wheels’ surface where she hadn’t seen them before.

There are some more murmurs of “That’s so cool!” from the other children, but Hagrid continues to usher them into the boats, slowly quieting them.

Inevitably, it is the Crew’s turn. Hagrid helps each in with a hand and a step, as he’d helped everyone but Ben. Ray is first; his step is more ginger… dainty? Than she’d expect, but the observation is quickly forgotten. Then Pazi, who steps confidently in without the hand, almost scorning the help (to Hagrid’s chuckle), then Michael, who takes the hand, sits on the dock, then steps in without so much as a ripple from the water. Hagrid turns his dark eyes to hers and offers his enormous hand. Harley takes it, noting its strength and harsh callouses.

Harley remembers a moment with her grandpa, him pulling her up into the quad for a ride through the woods around his cabin. His hand felt like that. The strength. The care. The hard work that dried his palms.

Gone.

No. She cannot cry here. Not here. She can find a place later. Or maybe hide her face in the darkness of the lake. No.

Her face steel, Harley steps into the boat, the last of the Crew to be ready for their journey into Magic.

When the last of the students is guided into place, Hagrid taps his wand on the bow of his vessel, and the gaggle of stars lurches off into the night.

\~ * * * \~

The Crew’s boat scrapes into the shore; Michael feels the gravel roll on the bottom of the wood. He looks up from the grain he’d been following with his eyes—he couldn’t quite figure out what kind of wood the boats were made of; might be a magical breed he has yet to experience—to see the cave they had gone into. Michael had heard the echoing of the splashes on the stone walls, but he hadn’t looked up to see the smooth water-carved walls that are now behind them until this moment. The mouth they’d traveled through wasn’t far behind them; Michael could still see into the dark horizon. If it weren’t for the brick walls in front of them, this cave could have been completely natural.

Michael looks at the Crew as they start to get out of the boat, the lights still above each head, and his eyes linger on Harley. Her face had been as set as sandstone on the way here, her eyes a dam threatening to burst. He never did know what to do in those situations. Is he supposed to mention the obvious and comfort her, or pretend it doesn’t exist? It had turned out well enough when he’d been open with Ray in the train car, but he—they? Her? They.—they were an anomaly, an exception to the rules of society; they seemed to like his way of thinking better, align to it more instinctively. The others seemed to be distracted with the water at the time, especially Ray, so Michael had distracted himself with the most interesting puzzle he could find: identifying the boats’ wood.

It was going to bug him for a long time. Will probably lose sleep over studying it.

Everyone else is out of the boat. He should probably remove himself too.

Michael stands up and looks at the high wall of the boat. It comes almost up to his hip. Not fantastic. He puts his hands on it and lifts one leg over the side, unsteady. The boat tips as he plants his foot on the gravel, and he totters, almost falling over. He lurches, swinging his other leg out of the boat, almost sitting on the side, his hands between his thighs. The young wizard stands up straight, noting the eyes on the flagstone platform just above and before him, gazing, staring. His own focus avoids theirs, drifting down to the stairs before that flagstone entryway.

Crunch, cromch. Crunch cromch. Michael feels the gravel give way underfoot before supporting his weight. Feels small, rounded by time and tide. He wishes he hadn’t been forced to wear shoes; the little rocks would have felt good on his feet. The thought gives way as quickly as the texture and sound gives way to the solid pat-pat-pat of trotting up the cold stone stairs. Actually, that would feel pretty good on his feet, too. Not mud though. Sticky bad.

Friends. Friends good. Michael finds the rest of the Crew and stands with them before the door; they’re standing on the edge of the small crowd of students, waiting for him. A very small crowd, Michael realizes, and he cocks his head. Such a small selection of students from the population, a tiny sample size, and he had happened to find three people in it that understood, cared about, and liked him, one of whom even seemed to have a similar way of thinking. That seemed to be… Michael does some quick calculations in his head. Over 10% of the sample. Far greater than any other group he’d encountered, enough to be an outlier. Does the world of magic think more like him? Or did he just get lucky?

Hagrid’s eyes scan the lights overhead. He nods, then extracts his wand. “ Nox totalum ,” he utters. The glowing balls above each head wink out.

Mr. Hagrid raps twice on the door with a single (gigantic) knuckle; the sound echoes through the cave and across the water. In response, it opens to reveal a woman. Regular-sized. That is, much smaller than Hagrid. “Tovah,” he nods, “The children are yours.”

The woman to whom they are being traded off has light brown skin, deep—yet muted—brown-almost-black hair (done up in a low bun), and sharp brown eyes that scan each child one by one, not lingering on any in particular. Her clothing is of a style unique to anything Michael had seen thus far, a sort of harmonization of magical and mundane styles. She wears fitted, feminine black slacks and dress flats, but above that is a strange garment: The top half seems to be a plain button-down with long sleeves rolled up to just past the elbow, but as it passes under a gold-buckled belt sitting comfortably at her hips, it flares out, black fabric falling to just above her ankles, split wide in the middle. Upon her shoulders sits a cowl, blue silk with gold lining at the edges; attached to it is a thin cape and hood, the outside made of black silk, the inside of blue. At her side, the thick strap tucking just underneath the cowl, sits a messenger bag, its rough-hewn exterior contrasting with her tailored appearance: The edges are dyed-red leather, the fabric between them a muted navy, the buckle a dingy pewter. Within the outside pocket of this bag rests her wand, the handle poking out of its mouth (Bleached wood, but not damaged; could be several different trees; birch comes to mind but he’d have to get a closer look to make a true judgement). Resting on that bag is her left hand—nails painted blue. Michael’s eyes are drawn to her jewelry: copper bangles on that wrist, a light blue metal cuff on her right, and a simple but glittering gold six-pointed star hanging from her neck.

“Good evening, children.” Her voice is smooth, but projects easily out of this space; it has an accent Michael can’t quite place. Ray might get it, though; they like mimicry and seemed to be able to pick them apart.

To Michael’s right, Harley gasps. He looks around for what could have spooked her, but finds nothing but the stone underfoot and the castle hallway past the woman.

“You may call me Professor Menuhin,” she continues, eyeing Hagrid afterwards.

Hagrid bows deeply, grin upon his lips. “My apologies, Professor. I will address you properly for our next introduction.”

Professor Menuhin rolls her eyes. “As you’ve stated, Reubus. Now, Students: Please organize yourselves alphabetically by last name.”

What follows is minor chaos. Michael does not enjoy the din, nor being forced to mingle with so many unknown people simply to organize them into a line Menuhin undoubtedly already has. Yet, by the end, he knows the name of each peer, and has an exact count of the number of students in his year: twenty-six.

Menuhin raises a hand, and the talking halts. “Come with me, please.”

They walk through the hall, single file feet finding resounding rhythmic purchase on the stone floor, echoing through the stone pillars and walls, until they come to a wooden door with four intricately carved panels. On the upper right is a great Komodo dragon, each scale cut out with patience and precision; its back feet rest on the bottom of the panel, its front-right on the “wall” of the door, and its front-left hanging down. Its head leans over its shoulder looking down at nothing in front of the door, toward the center. In the panel beside it stands a mockingbird, its feet resting on a branch coming from the outside edge of the frame it is trapped within; its head is angled such that the eye is gazing down… toward the center. The panel below it houses an emperor penguin, little textured cross-hatching giving the illusion of black and white coloring, the accents marked out below its neck in just the right way that Michael can identify the breed; its head is angled slightly up from its lower vantage point to stare at the same point in space as the other animals. In the final, lower-right panel stands a polar bear cub, its fur carved with delicate, sharp strokes. Its body is to the side, but its eyes are turned upward, toward that same center point.

“Nemo Anderson, please step to the door.” Menuhin simply knows the name, not even checking a list. The… girl? Boy? Child in front of the line stands before the door, their head in just the right place that the animals each are staring toward their eyes. They have shaggy blonde hair tipped with dark purple, pale skin, and round glasses rest on their nose. The door opens outward, granting them entry to a room too dark to see within.

As the door closes, Michael cocks his head. Something is different. A moment passes while he tries to decipher this conundrum.

“Xane Ellis?”

A tan young girl with cleanly cropped black hair steps confidently to the door, and Michael instantly understands: The heads moved while they couldn’t be seen. Despite the fact that Xane was much shorter than Nemo, the eyes were gazing straight at her in just the same way. The door opens of its own accord once more, hiding the figures, and closes to reveal them staring straight at Pazi’s height.

This one takes a tad longer, but inevitably, Menuhin nods and calls out the next name:

“Pazienza Equiano?”

The girl steps forward, and the door admits the first member of the Crew.

\~ * * * \~

The room was small, barely a box with its four dark grey pin-striped walls, and in the middle was a tiny stool with a ratty old pointed wizarding cap. Its color was long-faded to a yellow-brown, and stitches once tight had long since come loose, revealing an opening in the side. The only reason it wasn’t moth-eaten was probably because the bugs thought it unappetizing. She was supposed to put this thing on?

The door closes behind her with a soft click. It seems to be the only one in here; Ben would probably see it as a fire hazard or something. She breathes in musty, dusty air and exhales it in a puff. Oh well; might as well get this over with.

She picks up the dry, crusted thing, feeling its unnatural weight and stiffness, and places it upon her head. It slips down, far too big for her, nearly covering her eyes; flaps fall from the brim, covering her ears.

“Hello, Pazienza Brigid Equiano. How are you today?”

The voice came from… Everywhere? Nowhere? It seems to be placed in the middle of her head. Neither masculine nor feminine; not even really androgynous. It simply was. That was expected from what her brother had told her—what her mom had corrected of the story anyway.

“No, I asked how are you , not was this expected . That is a different question. Would you answer my first please?”

Um. She is… good? She thinks? Excited? Scared? What’s the word for that?

“Apprehensive?”

Yes! That was it. Geez this is weird, the thing rooting around in her brain.

“A correction: not your brain, your mind. I don’t touch flesh. Well, I suppose the Hat does; more hair than flesh though.”

Mind, not brain? What’s the difference? It seems kinda stupid to put a difference on it at all, really.

She hears a sigh. “Yes, few understand. Roughly a third, a third which I am grateful for. Yet, this lack of understanding is not indicative of a lack of intelligence, is it young lady?”

Absolutely not. She belongs in Ravenclaw. That’s the one for her, isn’t it? The smart house!

Another sigh. “No, it is not. I do wish they’d keep the House thing more secret; it does make this job harder. Especially the misconceptions; nasty things. Did you know they think Gryffindors value bravery ? Can you think of a better joke?”

But… Didn’t they? And if Ravenclaw isn’t the smart house, where… where did she actually belong? Pazi’s heart begins to beat faster, her face growing cold.

“No, no child. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you, confuse you. Your mind is far too vast a place to think itself small. No. You are intelligent, yes, but what is that information, all this strategy for ? Why do you keep this here?”

Well… What was it for? Isn’t knowledge useless without a place to apply it, a goal to strive for?

“And there we have the core. Seek your goals, Slytherin. I look forward to seeing you achieve them.”

The hat is lifted from her head, and light blinds her darkness-accustomed eyes.

\~ * * * \~

Harley steps into the box of a room. Thorn had been the only student between herself and Pazi. There is no exit, only the door she’d entered from, which clicks shut behind her.

The ratty hat in the middle of the room wasn’t exactly how JK—Lockhart, she has to remember that—had described it, but she’d at least captured the idea right. Even if she hadn’t captured the smell. Ugh.

Welp. Only one way out of this, the assumption says. Pazi and Thorn hadn’t come back through, so they must have exited after putting on the hat. Harley lifts the hat off the stool, remarking at its odd weight, sits down, and plops it on her head as it slips over her eyes, the flaps covering her ears.

“Hello, Harley Grace-Stephanie Jane. Goodness is that a mouthful. Almost as bad as that Thorn child. How are you doing today?”

The voice was expected, but nothing could have prepared her for it. “Excited!” She says, teeth splitting open her wide grin.

There is a chuckle. “I can see that. You don’t have to speak your responses, you know. I can hear them just fine—“

“Oh I know. I just make better sense of—“

“—without you—“

“—The conversation this way.”

“— interrupting me. ”

“Oh, sorry.” Oops.

“There. And actually, you might find me harder to hear if you speak. Now tell me, why come to Hogwarts? Ilvermony alone is a fine school, not to mention Jackson, Liveman, Colonial, Angelton… all of those closer to home, especially Angelton.”

Harley remembers looking at all her options, everything available to her due to the Ministry’s New England Relations branch. And seeing the Student Exchange Program. None of them… were here. She had to be here. Had to see it.

“Yes, none of them were here . Was it just the ‘fangirling’, as you call it? Or was there something else?”

No, it wasn’t—okay, maybe that was part of it, but at the time, she’d already started to hear inklings of who Rowling—Lockhart—actually was. She had to see. Had to know.

“You just had to solve the mystery.”

That sounds pretty accurate.

“May your curiosity be rewarded, Ravenclaw.”

The hat is lifted from her head; Harley blinks the bright torchlight from her eyes.

\~ * * * \~

Michael steps into the room. Simple. Functional. Just him and the hat. Could’ve used some art or instructions or something, but with so few options, he gets the gist. He scoops up the hat and looks at it, turning it this way and that. Why hadn’t they at least given it a touch-up of color at least? Can’t they mend the fabric with magic too? Isn’t there a spell for that? Gosh this thing was old. Guess they just respect the classics?

Oh well. He tucks it on his head, letting the flaps fall over his ears, but keeping the brim above his eyes as he scoots into the seat.

“Could you… ahem. Never mind, I’ll do it myself.” The voice… comes from the flaps? Weird.

The hat tips over his eyes as if by an invisible hand.

“Hey! Who—?”

“No one, that was me, like I said. How are you today, Michael Eli Leigh?”

Woah that was weird. Had he… heard the spelling of his name? And had it been correct?

“Huh. Peculiar. Yes, I guess you did. You didn’t really answer my question, though.”

Wait: the thing actually wanted to—

“Not a thing, a… hat. I do use it/its pronouns, however, although most assume that properly out the gate.”

—Sorry, the hat, yes. The hat actually wanted to know. Normally people didn’t actually want to know; they just wanted to hear you say, ‘good,’ and move on. Michael thinks about this for a bit. He supposes he’s anxious, frustrated, lost, alone… well, not really alone anymore. He has Pazienza, Raymond, and Harley now. Maybe not now , but they’ll be there for him when he exits the room.

“You miss your family.”

Well, duh.

“I’m sorry, that was insensitive. That seems a grave injustice; I wish I could relate, but alas, I am but a hat. It is fun to see the students grow each year, however; I suppose I have a family in them; I can only imagine what it would be like for them to be ripped away.”

How… long has this thing—

“Hat.”

—Sorry, yes, this hat been alive? To have a community that large, that long…

“You are envious of that?”

Michael supposes he is, to an extent.

“But what is that community to you? What are you to the community?”

The young wizard thinks. The community is there to learn from, to teach what he knows, to use what he’s learned to enrich. That’s what it’s supposed to be, right?

“Is that what your knowledge should be used for, then? To enrich your fellows?”

Michael wonders what else it could be used for. Yes, selfish ends, but in the end, that’s not what it should be used for.

“Support your newly found family, Hufflepuff.”

The covering is lifted from his eyes, a new room, blurry and bright, fills his vision.

\~ * * * \~

Ray walks into the room. There were several behind him, including Ben, but not many. How small was this class? Was it supposed to be bigger?

The door clicks shut behind him.

There are no other doors.

No other exits.

This room is very small.

Ray’s breathing becomes sharp for just a moment.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Forcing himself to breathe manually, Ray considers his situation. There is a way out; it’s just not obvious: put on the hat.

The crusty, faded, old hat… did it used to be blue?

Ray squints at it, imagining it in its prime: baby blue with white stars and moons scattered upon it. Who wore it? Who had it first? How old was it when it was brought here? Was it made for the express purpose of sorting kids into houses?

There is a muffled shouting from the hat. Very hard to distinguish.

“Oh, right. Heh. Liiiiiitle Distracted,” Ray muses.

The boy picks up the hat and cringes at the rough texture. This is going on his head? Ew.

Bracing himself, Ray sets it on his head, letting it fall over his eyes. He giggles. This was definitely not made for him.

“Hm. Decidedly not. Yet, for many was I made. Although, I surmise you were not made for you either.”

The voice comes from… His head? No. The flaps! They’re acting like headphones! That’s so cool! What a complex enchantment.

“As much as I’d love to give you details on the mechanics of my construction… Gods below, what do I call you? Your name doesn’t… fit. Yet you’ve forced it to.”

Did… the Sorting Hat just swear?

“Yes I did. Please don’t tell McGonnagal. Or any of the portraits, for that matter; you never know when an old headwarlock is lurking about them. Now… Child. Ray? Thiessen. Thiessen. Gah. That one at least references a truth, if not the whole of it. Mistrum Thiessen. How are you feeling today?”

Mistrum. That was an odd word. Interesting title. Not mister, not miss. Huh. Did he… like it? A warmth blossoms in his chest. He supposes he does. But what did it mean that a thing—

“A Hat.”

—A hat, yes. Sorry. A hat that was rooting around in his head would choose that title?

“Curious, I see. Mistrum comes from Latin, as many traditions do. Bit… constructed as far as a title goes; uses the neutral suffix rather than the masculine or feminine. I used it because… Heavens above, your mind is very cluttered in here; you’re dragging me off track. And I’m not here to guide, only explore. Teachers teach, the school observes. Tell me, Thiessen, how are you?”

Oh. They blush, feeling a bit of hair growth pushing into the hat. They think they’re good? Excited, definitely. Maybe too excited.

“Too excited? And… interesting shift. Your mental walls are quite… thick. Strong. Incredibly powerful will you have here. Yet it’s not what feeds your strength, is it?”

What did feed their strength? One of their dad’s many bible verses came to mind, one about Jesus being their strength. But what did that verse mean?

“Oh dear. Lots of intrusive thoughts with this one. Thiessen, tell me: This Bible you’ve explored, why did you do it?”

Several thoughts bloom at once in their mind. To grow wise. To make family proud. Because they’re supposed to.

“Mmm, but it would have made them proud just that you read, not that you’ve begun to explore the depths of its construction and sought the original meanings of the ancient texts. You didn’t need to do that work.”

But they had. They honestly did want to know. To seek wisdom.

“And why do you want to?”

…Shouldn’t everyone want to? A memory of that old cartoon flits through their mind. “Knowledge is power!” The kid superhero character said.

“Power? Power to do what, Thiessen?”

Power to… Huh. Learn more? Just… Knowledge. You have to know things to do stuff. But also… Questions are fun. And exploring those questions is fun. The universe is full of wonder, and she—they just… want to see it all.

“That was what I was waiting for. I saw that crack. I saw you . Explore, Ravenclaw. Fill your heart with wonder.”

The hat is lifted from Ray’s head, and they feel their slightly-long hair flop in front of their eyes. As they brush it out of the way, they see the Great Hall in all its glory, a plate upon a blue tablecloth in front of them, Harley beside them, and Daisy across from them. Cheers erupt from the table, welcoming smiles and hugs from others. They look around, seeking for Pazi and Michael, and…

Michael, at a brilliant yellow table.

Pazi, at a bright green table.

No. Not split. No, please. They just made these friends.

Ray bites back tears. No. It’ll be fine. This was bound to happen. They’ll make new friends, like they always do, and spend their free time with the old ones. That’s how this works

Even if it’s not, that’s how it’s going to work, says the fire in her soul.

A Time for All Things

Known Content Warnings:

Transphobia (directed and internalized)

Parental/guardian resentment

Descriptions of Gender Dysphoria

Emotional Abuse

Manipulation

Bravery as a character flaw

Bullying

Depictions of a gender transition: this is not every trans person’s story; this is not quite mine, but it is heavily inspired by my own. A lot of language play is used to depict Ray’s own exploration of their gender identity; not all of it is healthy. Full explanation can be given on request.

Depictions of Fundamentalist Christian Theology, presented by characters as a positive but intended to be read as negative

Religious/Spiritual Abuse

Part 1, in which the Crew Finds Each Other.

It was a beautiful... cloudy day in London. Rain, as it does, seemed to have chased the city down once more and threatened to bear down on it with the might and force of a toddler granting its loving embrace to an unwilling puppy. A pub front bears a well-worn sign hanging in the street: The Leaky Cauldron. Nonmagical eyes skip past the out-of-place architecture, but the old bar still bustles with attention; most patrons gather under its roof, several rushing in from the soon-to-be-not-dry outdoors. A middle-aged two-witch couple rush their five children in, tap the back wall, and are released into the outside once more, allowed through the gateway to the now-famous Diagon Alley.

Families of all types, shapes, colors, and sizes enter the district, some through the path taken by the aforementioned couple, others popping out of the Cauldron’s fireplace with a flash of green light iconic of the great Floo network, and others through the uncomfortable process of slide-along apparition. Regardless of the method, each Witch, Wizard, and Warlock, both experienced and aspiring, find themselves in the familiar—or unfamiliar—one-stop market street for the student-to-be.

Outside the pub, a darker-skinned witch with explosively curly hair bound back tightly across her scalp searches through the frantic crowd, tapping her feet impatiently. She does something decidedly un-witchy, pulling back the left sleeve of her robe—black, with red accents—to check a mundane silver clockwork wristwatch. She shakes her head, then reaches into her right sleeve, extracting a small green notebook with brown leather-bound corners and spine that had previously shown no sign whatsoever of being contained within the drooping fabric. She disconnects the black pen hanging from its cover, clicks the button at its top to extend the tip, and writes something within its tiny pages before her eyes flick upward, finding their targets, and she snaps her book shut.

“Slow down, Harley! Remember I can’t see it,” A heavy-set mother with bleached-blonde hair and light skin chuckles as she holds the hand of her quite eager young brown-haired daughter. The accent is American, and indeed, the woman’s brown eyes (nearly hidden by round cheeks pushed up by her wide smile) slip over the magical pub in a way that her child’s don’t. The pair, rather than being dressed in robes like the other families passing through the pub, wear jeans and hoodies.

The witch from before notes their presence and, deftly re-stowing her notebook up her sleeve, approaches the pair. “Welcome! The Janes, I presume?” Her voice is smooth and soft, and surprisingly deep for her smaller frame.

“Yes,” replies the mother, still beaming. She extends a hand. “Mrs. Granger-Weasley, right?”

“Precisely. How has your visit to London been?” The witch notes the awe with which the child—Harley, by her paperwork—beams up at her. Ohhhh dear. Mundane family; she has to have read Lockhart’s terrible novels. Going to have to correct some of that. A lot of it, really.

“Hermione??! You’re…” The child struggles to put words to thoughts. Or perhaps she has some, and is struggling to find appropriate ones.

“—Nothing like Miss Lockhart describes. I do apologize; we’ve a lot to do and while we do have time, I must be precise about my application of it, as I intend to do it several times today. Shall we begin?”

Slight confusion drifts over Mrs. Jane’s face, but Harley’s gaze shifts to the hourglass-like charm hanging from Hermione’s neck. To her credit, the child’s eyes widen with understanding and her face falls from the ecstasy of total awe to the directed energy of sheer determination. She begins tugging on her mother’s arm once more.

“Got it. Books first.” Harley leads her mother toward the Leaky Cauldron.

Hermione puts a hand out, stopping the child. She kneels down, bringing them eye-to-eye. “Ms. Jane,” she utters with a quiet smirk. “Not speed; precision.”

Harley, stone-faced, thinks for a moment, then gives a sharp, exaggerated nod.

Mrs. Granger-Weasley stands to her full height once more, grin plain upon her face, and throws her arm stark-straight before the trio, toward their many destinations. “Onward!”

\~ * * * \~

Michael Eli Leigh stands alone and abandoned in the street, black slacks lying lightly on his cold legs and orange T-shirt not quite covering him enough, but the soft and smooth texture feeling good upon his pale freckled skin. Well, not really abandoned; Mrs. Granger was around here somewhere, keeping an eye on him like she said she would, but she also said she had to ‘keep moving to give herself room,’ whatever that meant. Of course, that makes it sound worse than it was. He asked for this, the time and space. The unfamiliar shopping district’s hustle and bustle, even with the dark clouds hanging overhead, was a tad overwhelming. He needed time to… soak it all in, at the very least. To find himself in the noise, at the best. And it did seem to be turning out for the best.

The young boy sees a quiet corner off to the side that the crowd seems to be avoiding out of efficiency, and strides over there, bobbing his head side-to-side to an unheard tune. He turns around, resting his back on the wall with feet flat on the ground, and grips himself tightly. The pressure helps him think, sharpen his thoughts, bring them into focus. This was a new place, new society. Everything he’d learned about his… Useless here. He’d worked hard to figure out all the patterns and lack thereof, and now… now they were all gone. Or, most of them. Mrs. Granger seemed to follow some of the old ones. The facial expressions are similar too, now that he’s thinking about it. But that never was his issue, was it? It was less the emotions of the moment that gave him trouble; it was the rules they expected you to just know. And he’d figured them out. And now they’re useless. Or at least, he expects them to be. The few times he’d interacted with magic folk this far, they’d all rolled their eyes and said, “muggle-borns” under their breath. With a smile, but that smile didn’t make it hurt any less.

He watches Mrs. Granger take a mom and daughter into the bookstore off to his right. So that’s where she went off to: helping another kid, another family; not that his was together much right now. Wonder if he’d broken some unspoken rule of—

She comes walking toward him from the crowd off to his left; the wrong direction. What? Michael cocks his head toward her, then toward where she’d just gone, then back at her.

The witch stops in front of him and looks to where his gaze had just landed, then back to him. “Something catch your eye?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice as concise as could be mustered. Just a factual response of what he saw. “I saw you, going that way, before you came this way. How did you do that?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you sure it wasn’t a trick of the light?”

“No, it was definitely you. How did you do that?”

“We apparated here, remember?” She was lying to him, but it was plausible enough.

And he did remember. Very uncomfortable squeezing.

“Wrong question then. Why did you do it? You knew I was right here, why apparate, then approach from there? Or are you lying to me?”

She purses her lips. Discomfort with the truth. He was supposed to have missed that or ignored it. “I’m… sorry. I shouldn’t give you the answer you’re looking for.”

What? That’s a new response. Can he accept that? Michael considers this; never had an adult actually admitted their bindings by societal expectation to him. He thinks he can. He nods.

Mrs. Granger gets a funny look in her eye, one Michael doesn’t know yet. “Who was I with?”

“A big lady, but not too big, and a girl. Brown hair, no robes, just regular clothes.”

Her eyes light up. “The Janes! Yes! That’s right; they’re here now! Okay. Have you decided what you’re doing first yet? If not, I have an idea that might help give both of us some structure.”

Structure? “I’m listening.”

The witch kneels down to meet his eyes. “That woman and her daughter are both—her daughter is muggle-born, like you. They’re American, so they’re having a doubly hard time fitting in, but Mrs. Jane is—as far as I can tell in her report—willing to take just about anyone under her wing, even looking for the opportunity to do so to the point that she’d feel more comfortable meeting someone like you to focus on ‘helping’, even if you don’t need quite as much help as she thinks. And Harley, the child, she’s got a plan in her head already of what they need to do when. I need that level of precision from you, and I think it would help your anxieties about this whole mess. Do you think joining them would help?”

Michael doesn’t have to think very long to nod back in ascent. They might be yet more new people to meet, but he feels he’s already met them in some respects, already learned a bit how they tick, what to expect. And on top of that, Mrs. Granger’s reasoning was sound.

“Fantastic. Come along, then.”

Mrs. Granger rises again, and the pair makes their way to the bookstore, where she opens the door for Michael, waving him in without looking. “After you,” she says with a smirk.

Michael nods, walking into the crowded room. Books whiz about, one almost hitting him in the head. The boy barely hears the “Sorry!” yelled over the din by a young Warlock on a ladder off to his left. The crowd of people is dense and ever-shifting, ever-moving. So many conversations, so many faces, so much movement. His breathing becomes more shallow. Where is Mrs. Granger? She—

She’s in front of him.

Michael does a double-take. He sees her there, too. She gives him a thumbs-up as she shuts the door, still not looking. He looks back at her, and she winks. The crowd between them has emptied, opening a pocket of peace. She holds out a hand, and his breathing slows to normal. He has an anchor here. He grips her hand tightly (when had his feet carried him over to her?) and she leads him through the crowd.

“Mrs. Jane? Harley? Can I ask you a favor?” Mrs. Granger says.

The woman and daughter Michael had seen earlier turn around at the address; their eyes fall on him. He notes immediate sad understanding in the woman by the angle of her eyebrows, and slight confusion in the girl by the tilt of her head. “Of course, Mrs. Granger. What d’you need?” Mrs. Jane asks. Michael wonders why adults do this song-and-dance. She seems to already know what’s going on; why ask? Is it to ensure accuracy?

“This one’s name is Michael; his family was…” Mrs. Granger purses her lips. “…Not quite accepting of the situation. I was wondering if we could continue his shopping and preparation with you, as a group.”

Mrs. Jane’s face falls into one of deep sympathy, but her loving smile remains. “Oh, you poor thing. Of course.”

Harley’s face turns to determination for a split second then falls, seeming to stop herself from making a sudden move towards Michael. She turns pleading eyes to her mother, who nods. Harley slowly lets go of her hand and reaches out to Michael.

The boy purses his lips, looks at the stranger’s offered hand, and clenches his fists before relaxing and slowly accepting the tender grip. Far too many new people he’s had to touch today, and the crowded store was making his brain itchy. Yet, when the girl clutches his hand, pulling him along, the itch… slowed. Calmed. Harley’s growing confidence had replaced Hermione’s hand as his fetter to focus on in the din.

“So. You need The Standard Book of Spells, A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration…” Harley rattles off their book list. Her extreme focus is contagious, and Michael feels himself getting sucked into the rhythm and plan she naturally falls into.

Yeah. She’s a friend.

\~ * * * \~

Pazienza Brigid Equiano holds her father’s robed black hand as her Auntie Hermes leads them through the throng. She didn’t understand why her dad insisted on wearing that old thing; the backpack Mom enchanted for him would’ve worked just fine at holding all their stuff, and by the looks of it, other muggle parents were here with their kids, and even some wizards were wearing casual clothes, so there wasn’t gonna be any assumptions.

Oh well. It’s like her Mum said: dads can be silly.

Pazi herself was wearing a light blue jean jacket over a colorful top tucked into black trousers, the rainbow-beaded cornrows her Dad had set her hair into last week spilling off her head and onto the jacket’s fuzzy white collar. It wasn’t necessarily her most waterproof outfit, but it at least had a hood, and it was only supposed to sprinkle today anyway. But then, that was according to the telley weatherman, not any diviner, so there was a degree of error there. And she’d planned this outfit weeks ago; she wasn’t gonna let a little rain mess up her plans.

The small group had just come from Madam Malkin’s to get her fitted with new robes (the old lady’s poking and prodding had made her just a tad sore and slightly self-conscious, but she was getting over that now), and had decided that it was time to head to Eeylops now. As they approach, Pazi notes that the storefront is covered in owl cages, but the windows reveal far more variety. They also reveal a mostly empty shop: only two students, a boy and a girl, a mother (Seemingly just the girl’s by the looks of things, but she could be wrong), and… her Auntie Hermes, chatting with the mum just before the counter. Pazi could have sworn Hermes had been barely in front of them, but her eyes might’ve been playing tricks on her.

“Gods I hate it when she does that. It can’t be healthy,” her dad mutters.

Pazi looks up to see the concern on his face, but her curiosity melts away as they walk through the door—a soft “ding” echoing through the room—and her nose is assaulted by the familiar and heartwarming stench of untrained animals.

“Hermes!” Pazi’s dad exclaims, his voice and smile dripping with the practiced honey of a man that spends all day every day talking to customers. He lets go of Pazi’s hand, gently nudging her toward the kids while he saunters over to the adults. “I was wondering what you meant by ‘I’m already there.’”

Hermione seems mildly annoyed at the interruption to her conversation, but replies to him anyway. “Bound by the floes of time, I am. You know how it is; this one’s my first go-round today, so I take it a bit more casually.”

“And which one’s the one that led us over here? Your sixth? Come on, Hermes, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Her father’s words, though argumentative, had become soft and comforting.

“I’m fine, Trev. Really. I’m getting enough rest this time.”

“But you’re stealing days, weeks, from your life. How long—“

“Hi, I’m Rose, Rose Jane; that’s my daughter Harley over there,” the mom interjects, saving Auntie Hermes from more of a lecture with a strategically placed handshake and a confused smile.

“Trevor Equiano, sorry about that…” her dad shakes his head, coming back to reality and remembering the other human here.

With the conversation shifting into less interesting adult stuff, Pazienza lets it fade into the background, turning her attention to the kids. The short red-haired boy is enraptured by a striped black and brown spider in a glass case, but the brown-haired girl keeps shifting her gaze to the adults, face made of unreadable stone. The girl makes eye contact as Pazi comes near, expression becoming a smile that lights up the room.

She sticks out a hand attached to a very straight arm. “Hi! Harley Jane. What’s your name?”

Pazi looks at the hand for a moment, considering. Harley’s grin falters a bit just before the shake is accepted. “Pazienza Equiano. You can call me Pazi.”

“Patsy?”

Pazienza cringes. “No, Pazi. Like PAHT-see. That’s not just the accent.” Americans.

“Oh. Sorry. Pazi. Got it.” Harley winces; she seems to really care. Huh.

“I’m Michael Leigh. Call me what you’d like.” The boy doesn’t look up from the spider. Knows his interests; she can respect that.

“Alright Mikey. Good to meet you both.” Pazi looks over the store, unable to see much from her low vantage over the tall shelves. “What have you guys looked at so far? Anything good here?”

“Not much,” Harley says. “We got here and Michael kinda beelined over to this spider.”

“It’s an Orb Weaver, and his name is Snuggles.” Michael doesn’t look up from the case.

Pazi chuckles. “Well, it looks like you’ve got yours picked out. You wanna help me and Harley find our familiars?”

“Nah. I won’t be much help. Familiars kinda come from the heart. I’ll tag along with Snuggles though.”

Very literal, this one. Pazi makes a mental note of how to communicate better.

Harley giggles. “Well, in that case, Pazi; what were you thinking? Owl? Cat? Frog? I wanted an owl coming in here, but…”

The girl keeps talking as she leads them off and Mikey hefts his case of spider off the shelf. Pazi lets herself follow; she hadn’t really thought about what she wanted. Waiting for the right one, the perfect pet to come to her, that sounds more like her speed. Let Harley find what she wants, keep her options open until the right one falls into her lap, the right moment coming into fruition. And besides, by watching Har, she could find out more about her new acquaintances, see if they were worth truly treating as friends.

\~ * * * \~

Raymond Daniel Thiessen’s heart thrums a beat of excitement as he opens the door to the Owl Emporium. He’d been looking forward to this moment since… forever, but had never thought it’d be in Britain. A familiar of his own… Something to look after, care for, to have as his companion. It’ll be helpful while he’s looking for friends here for sure.

His mom and stepdad trail behind him, watching him with hope in their eyes. The boy has his mother’s light brown hair (nearly auburn) and bright blue eyes, but while hers is pulled back into a sporty ponytail sitting under a baby blue baseball cap, his is cropped short in the same style as the nearly black-haired man behind him. All of them wear jeans and hoodies, slight protection against the damp day.

The boy meanders around the shop for a while, looking at each of the animals in turn. His eyes linger on a lizard—no, that’s a gecko. Leopard gecko, the sign says. It’s so cu—cool! He brings his nose closer to the glass, looking in detail at the slotted pads of its feet, analyzing them, trying to figure out how it sticks to the sheer surface. Eventually, he gives up; it might be magic, but it’s rare that such aspects of familiars are magical; typically it’s a biological reason. He’ll have to Google that when he gets home.

Ray passes through aisle after aisle, looking at cats, then dogs—who would have a dog at Hogwarts?—then rats… His heart wanted to go straight for the owls, but the other animals deserved their time in his attention, and an owl might not actually be what he was looking for, what he needed.

His bed. His dad beside him, strong jaw and set brow, face like a mirror through time. “Hearts lie, Raymond.”

Ray shakes his head and continues, almost running into the adults beside the front counter.

“Woah, boy! You alright?” The robed black man exclaims.

“Yeah. Sor—“ Crap. Accent mimicry. What was that? Scottish? Irish? He’ll have to figure out how to get back to that voice later. Cough, then back on track in his own Californian voice. “Sorry, sir. I’ll be more situationally aware.”

The man chuckles, kindness on his face. “That’s alright lad. Big words for one your age. What’s your name?”

“Raymond. You can call me just about anything that starts with an R though and I’ll answer.”

The trio laughs at that, honest brightness flowing from them.

“Good to meet you, Ray,” the bigger woman says; another American accent. Neat. Hard to tell where from precisely; it had a bit of a southern touch to it, but it was subtle, like the icing between layers of cake. “I’m Rose, this is Missus Granger-Weasley, and this is Mister Equiano. Where are your parents?”

Raymond blinks at Hermione. What? She said she’d meet them here, but had gone off on her own somewhere else. He’d known she was a skilled witch, but cloning? That’s another level. “They’re behind me…” He turns around to… nothing. “Oh. I thought so. But they’re here somewhere.” He wasn’t too worried. Small store. Heart didn’t have to tighten in his chest like that.

“I saw them come in. The DeLanoys, right?” Hermione asks.

Raymond cocks his head at her. But she..? Wait. Clone. Wouldn’t have the same knowledge. He nods. “Right.”

She extracts a green notebook from her sleeve—must have a pocket of holding in there!—and notes something down, checking the time on her watch. “They’re chatting outside. Why don’t you stay with us for a bit? The students there would probably love to chat, maybe help you find your familiar.”

Hermione nods up, over by the owls, gesturing to a group of three students. Two of them obviously belonged to each of the other parents here, but the third…

It seems Raymond wasn’t the only stray picked up today. He makes his way over to them, but can’t help but overhear the tail end of their conversation.

“Be ready,” Hermione says, hushed. “I don’t like making loops; something was big enough to warn myself about; I saw my sign…”

Okay, maybe he could have walked a bit faster. But something was up. With her talking about loops, Ray was starting to rethink his clone theory. Was that an hourglass around her neck? Dangerous equipment, Time-Turners. If anyone can handle them, though, he’s pretty sure the great Hermione Granger can.

The other kids look cool enough. The red-haired one is carrying a spider case—so cool. Ray wonders what kind it is. And the two girls giggle up at some of the birds. One of the girls has really pretty brown hair, very long. Looks like his shade too. The other one has colorful beads tied into her many tight braids. God he wished he could—

His bed. His dad beside him, strong jaw and set brow, face like a mirror through time. “Hearts lie, Raymond.”

Ray tears his eyes over to the boy, itching the back of his neck absentmindedly, and taps him on the shoulder. He turns; the girls notice and turn with him. They have nice eyes too. All of them actually. Two brown sets and one green.

“Hi, I’m Raymond. Hermione sent me over here. That’s a cool spider.” The boy swallows, shoving… something down, back into his heart.

“Michael. Thanks. It’s an Orb Weaver. His name is Snuggles.”

“Harley. Good to meet you! We were just—“

“Pazienza. You can call me Pazi though.”

Raymond chuckles. “Good to meet you Mike, Har, and Pazi. You guys can call me pretty much anything that starts with an R. What were you guys doing?”

Pazi cocks her head at his pronunciation of her name, but says nothing. Something about the way he said it? Had he mimicked improperly?

“Oh,” Harley continues. “We were just looking at the birds. I’m looking for an owl, but Pazi is thinking some other bird.”

“Cool! I don’t really know what I want to go with yet,” Raymond replies, eyes resting on a barn owl.

The little buddy was looking right at him. Majestic and sweet and—

His bed. His dad beside him, strong jaw and set brow, face like a mirror through time. “Hearts—“

A thought screams through his head: It’s just an owl you idiot!

He stares entranced at the white-faced bird of nightly prey. A friend to watch him in sleep. A symbol of wisdom and wonder. A messenger. His heart can get what it wants this one time.

A gentle hand on his shoulder. Ray snaps out of his reverie, hair whipping around. Harley. Hi.

“Um… Ray? Your hair is growing. Are you meaning to do that? Because if so, that’s super cool, but aren’t we not supposed to do magic outside of school?.”

Hair growing. Crap. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap

Raymond dashes toward the door of the shop, tears streaming from their eyes, now-long hair flowing behind them. Hearts lie. Hearts lie. Hearts—

They throw open the door to see their parents, frustration on their faces, in heated argument with one another. Not again, not now. They need—no. They need to shut their heart up. They run around to the other side of the shop, around a corner, in a thin alley between its building and another, put their back to its wall, and slide down, bringing face to knees. They feel just a bit shorter now. Might’ve been a trick of the mind, but regardless, they needed to let it pass.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Their breaths come out in shakes, sobs. Why can’t they be… something else? The wall around the wanted word held tight, keeping them from thinking it. Their head is buried in their knees now, boyish frame getting ever-so-slightly smaller, losing some of the height from their last tiny growth spurt.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“…Ray?” A small voice calls out, soft and gentle. Pazi?

The child looks up at her crouching over them, and her eyes widen. “Woah. Big change. Metamorph?”

Ray nods, tears in their eyes, cheeks flushing. Today was supposed to be perfect. They were supposed to keep this in today.

“Hey, it’s okay. Runs in my family; missed my mum and me, but my nibling’s got it. Just breathe, okay? Spontaneous?” Her voice is calm and soothing, like the doctor back home.

They nod.

Pazienza sits down beside them, hugging her own knees. “So… what set it off?”

They open their mouth to speak, then bite their tongue. Tears pour out again, and they feel the other changes, normally too slow to notice, beginning anew.

Screw it. No point in hiding now. “I—“

Their voice is too small, too high in pitch. They hadn’t made that change. They break down again, shoving their head back into their arms and legs.

“Hey! Hey! You’re okay. You don’t have to say anything.” Pazienza’s arm makes its way around their back, her head resting on their shoulder. “I’m here for you, mmkay?”

The two of them stay like that for a little while, Pazienza’s presence giving them the comfort they need to get a hold of themself. Ray eventually comes back, putting his body back where he wants—no, not where he wants. But, it’s back where it needs to be. Where it… should be.

“Hearts lie, Raymond,” he remembers.

\~ * * * \~

Harley Grace-Stephanie Jane watches Ray and Pazi walk hand-in-hand; he continues to seem very nervous, but the boy had also been holding hers for dear life since she’d led him back into Eeylops. Every time they’d have to let go, his hair had started to grow again until he was holding her hand again. The parents and Hermione walked behind them, talking in hushed voices. Ray’s parents didn’t look at all like they’d just been arguing, and actually looked quite concerned. Something else was in his mom’s face that she couldn’t place, something kind of… dark. Hateful. Harley couldn’t tell what it was towards. The DeLanoys and Mr. Equiano had been particularly talkative, but Harley’s mom and Hermione had been chiming in quite a bit, seeming to console the pair. They hold the cages for Ray’s barn owl (named Presto, after a brief giggle-filled discussion) and Pazienza’s raven (named Huginn, after Hermione had mentioned mythology. Apparently it was one of Odins’s birds? Kinda cool), but Harley carries her own birdcage: Furaito, a tawny owl.

Harley and Michael walk in silent tandem toward their last destination of the day: Ollivander’s. The boy had really latched onto her earlier, but as they met more people, he’d clammed up. As he is now, he just… continues staring at that spider, barely seeming to care where he steps. She wants to say something, but she’s afraid of being too pushy, of making him not like her. She can be too much sometimes. Gotta keep it under wraps.

Drip.

Drop.

The emissaries of the clouds land cold upon Harley’s face. Folks in the street and on the sides begin to perform the universal gesture for “Did I just feel rain?” Palms and eyes raised toward the sky, each decides that, yes indeed they did, and they should hurry themselves along to their destination.

“Rain’s coming! Come on, children!” Hermione rushes ahead, leading the crew and their parents faster, ushering them into the abode of the great wandsmiths. Ray is practically vibrating with excitement, the blonde streaks in his hair turning red as his toothy smile takes up his face.

The shop itself is tiny, barely a corridor, but on every wall sits shelves up to the ceiling, and on every shelf sits hundreds of wands, strewn about with little care seeming to be given for organization. The aroma of wood shavings, sap, dust, and sickly-sweet polish fills her nostrils, reminding her of her Papa’s shop.

As they crowd into the entryway, she realizes they are not alone in the confined quarters. A wizened old man with stark white hair hands a brown-haired, pale-skinned girl about their age wand after wand after wand, while what seem to be her parents (a broad-shouldered, muscular man with a round, cleanly shaven face and a small, thin woman, both with skin like the girls) cling to each other, looking frighteningly uncomfortable. The parents look up immediately at the chaos of eight new bodies entering the cramped area and shuffle themselves into the corner formed by the wall and the front desk; the man’s eyes flick between the group and the young girl, whose grin remains ceaseless as she tries each wand in turn.

Ollivander—for this ancient man must be him—doesn’t look up nor halt his progress as he gives his businesslike warning: “You all that just came inside, do please be silent. Holly and Unicorn, 12 inches? No.”

The petite woman stares at the group for a moment, then looks back at her child. She leans toward the group and whispers with a voice that would be naturally softer than the petals of a rose, “Is this normal? He’s been going at it for twenty minutes!”

Mrs. DeLanoy stifles a snort. “Absolutely. My family went to his cousin’s place for ours; my brother took close to an hour. The poor man thought it was gonna last at least a day.”

“Dragon Heartstring and Rowan, 11 inches? No,” Ollivander continues.

“Oh dear. Thank you.” The woman extends a hand, manicured nails painted a bright red to match her lips. “Anita Dursley; this is my husband Dudley,” she continues as the woman accepts the offered shake. Her panicked demeanor seems to fade with the conversation, but her husband seems even worse for it. “What might we call you?”

Wait. The Dursleys??!! Had a witch daughter?????!! Harley had to befriend her.

“Rochelle DeLanoy. This is my husband, Peter. That kid with the streaked hair there is our so—“ She stops, eyes flicking to Hermione. “Child. Raymond.” Weird correction. What had they been talking about?

“That one tickled,” the little girl giggles after another wand.

“Yes. It particularly disliked you.” Harley gets a hunch that he was referring to a bit more than the wand’s opinion of the wielder, what with Mrs. Dursley’s and Mrs. DeLanoy’s conversation. “Unicorn and Walnut, 9.5 inches, mildly flexible—“

Yellow and orange sparks fly out of the wand’s tip and shoot straight in the girl’s dark hair, making it fly up, before swirling around her head and falling to the ground. The girl’s eyes light up with wonder, and silence once again falls over the shop.

“Ah, yes,” sighs the old wandmaker. “There you are Daisy. Be sure to treat it well; that one has been sitting in the storehouse for quite some time. I will require payment from the parents, and then you can be off.”

Daisy holds her wand close to her chest while her father counts out coinage, Anita assisting him with the denominations. “No dear, remember? 29 to a sickle, 17 to a Galleon. You need two more sickles in that.”

Daisy, meanwhile, gives a small wave to the crew. “Hi. Good to meet you all! You, um, enjoy the show?”

Harley responds immediately, interjecting before anyone else can talk over her. “Yes! Your magic looked so beautiful! I’m so excited for mine! What did it feel like??”

Daisy giggles. “Well, it was different with each one. It was like they were… interviewing me? The first couple were a lot more dramatic; the first one flicked down an entire wall! Ollie called it ‘throwing a fit’.”

“I would thank you to never call me that again, Daisy,” the old man breaks concentration of the moment to say.

“Understood! And, yes. That’s my name, Daisy, apologies for my lack of manners. What can I call you all?”

“Harley.”

“Michael.”

“Ray.”

“Pazi.”

“Good to meet you all! I—“

“Miss Harley Grace-Stephanie Jane?” Ollivander calls. Dang. Harley wonders for a moment how he knew her name, but the question is quickly answered by seeing Hermione beside him, holding out a piece of paper.

The young witch-to-be nods solemnly, the only thing stopping her from trudging over to the center rather than simply walking being the fact that she is getting her wand. Ollivander immediately steps up, taking Harley’s arm and stretching a measuring tape across it one way, then another.

“So,” the old man says. “How did you come to be across the pond for schooling, Miss Jane?”

“The exchange program. Mom thought it would be a good way for me to experience more of the world, and I got a biiiiit excited about Hogwarts.”

“I see. You read Lockhart’s awful novels. And what branch of magic excites you the most, Jane?”

She hadn’t really thought of that yet. Oh, gosh. There’s a lot, isn’t there? Charms, transmutation, divination, even hexes and potions. All of them just seem so important and wondrous!

“I… don’t really know. I just want to learn everything I can, I guess.”

“Ah, a generalist,” he says as he finishes with the measurer and makes his way to a wall of wands, extracting one. “Acacia, eleven inches, dragon heartstring, supple.”

Harley takes the offered wand and feels her stomach turn. Ollivander takes the wand away as soon as it starts.

“Ooh. That could have been bad. Walnut and Phoenix feather, thirteen inches.”

Harley takes this one, and a sheaf of papers on the desk erupts into flames.

“No.” The flames immediately die down as the wand is taken from her grip. “Rowan and Unicorn—no.” Harley feels no different and sees no effect, but Ollivander takes it away as soon as it touches her fingertips.

Wand after wand, minute after minute, Harley’s face starts to fall.

“Sorry,” she mutters quietly.

Ollivander pauses his quest, kneels down, and looks her in the eyes. “My dear, whatever for?”

“I… I don’t think any of your wands will want me.” It was hard to put the feeling into words.

It didn’t seem to matter to the old man. His piercing eyes bore straight through her mind into her heart. “My young witch. You are more than you think and less than you feel.” He points to the crew crowding the tiny shop. “They all love you. Each of them. I see it. And they are seven in the billions that exist in the world. There are less than a thousand wands in my shop, and you are looking for one. Those are far better odds, my dear.”

A tear falls down Harley’s cheek, her face a mess of emotions.

“Now. English Oak and Dragon Heartstring…”

That wand was not it. Nor the next twelve. Nor the next twelve. Nor the next thirteen.

But finally, Ollivander utters the fateful words: “Spruce and Unicorn hair, ten and three-quarters inches, surprisingly swishy.”

As soon as the wand was firmly in her grip, the world made sense. A yellow glow seeps out of her and a wind whirls about her feet, then ankles, then knees, then torso, then head, playing with her hair, before dying down.

Harley smiles down at the wand, cradling it in two hands. The elegant curves had been inlaid with mother-of-pearl, filling in some of the natural cracks in the wood as well as some intentionally placed carvings, swirling around in lovely spirals along the handle and spinning lazily around the wand’s straight tip. It… was her.

\~ * * * \~

“Raymond Daniel Thiessen?” Garrick called. It was his turn.

The boy stepped up to the center of the room, apprehension clinging to every limb.

“Don’t be nervous, child,” the wizened man says as he measures Ray’s wand arm—his right. “What are you most looking forward to in your magical education?”

“Transmutation studies; I want to be an Animagus.”

“Oh do you now?! Transmutation is a difficult branch of magic; it requires either tremendous talent, study, or understanding of the art to even begin. Perhaps two, or all. Which do you think you will have?”

That question gives Ray pause. Talent? He has talent for art, and maybe his metamorph abilities count…

No. They didn’t help with that magic itself, but maybe they could give him some insight into how it works below the surface. “Understanding.”

Ollivander, who had moved over to the shelves while Ray thought, nods in contemplation. “I see. Took you some time to arrive there, but you believe it wholeheartedly. What makes you say that?”

Ray purses his lips before responding. “I’m a metamorphmagus. Spontaneous.”

Garrick then does something Ray hadn’t seen him do since they arrived: Stop. “Oh?”

Ray looks at the floor. “Yeah. Had an… episode before coming here.”

“What kind?” Ollivander begins rooting around the wands. Why haven’t they tried any yet?

“I… It’s a recurring one.”

“I see. English Oak and Phoenix feather, twelve and a quarter inches, slightly yielding.”

The man holds out a beautiful wand in a tender grip, cradling it like a child. The handle was beautifully carved and polished a deep brown, almost back, smooth and soft with its precision, capped on either end with gold leafing; on the bottom, a small ball, and on the top of the handle, a small ring, forming a sort of rainguard. The business end though, although stripped and polished, had been left completely uncarved. It spun and waved in that beautiful natural way driftwood tends to, left unaltered but strong. Altogether, it was a lovely balance between natural beauty and creative wonder.

Ray, eyes full of stars, picks up the wand. She knew what would happen before she touched it, but still gasped in amazement. She felt… right with herself in a way she never had, for a moment. Like a limb, long lost and forgotten, had been returned. Relief floods her mind, and fire ignites from the tip, climbing up her arm, surrounding her with warmth and no pain, at once cyan, violet, and deep rose. The fire bursts off of her, becoming nebulas full of sparkling lights before settling to the ground.

After the moment of revelation, though, things gradually returned to normal. Ray looked down at her—his body (unchanged, thank heaven), and the sensation of disconnection, like a tiny thorn ever-stuck in his side, returned, as he knew it always would. He looks at his new friends, though, sees their smiles at the color and shape of his soul being laid bare, and feels it fade just enough to recognize them as what they are: family.

“Seven galleons, please, sir and madam,” Ollivander says to Ray’s parents, who hurry over with the money.

Ray taps on Ollivander’s hand. The man meets his eyes. Through them, Ray can see ages of wisdom, much self-gained, some taught, but all contemplated and granted freely.

“How did you know?” The child asks.

“That wand,” Ollivander answers, eyes searching for the proper words. “Has many siblings. Each of its siblings has been given to another that—like you—has had… a particular trouble with their sense of self, often centered on their form. I had a hunch that yours was the same struggle, brought into the physical due to your unique abilities.”

More… like him? He didn’t fully understand Ollivander’s explanation, but he recognized that others might struggle as he did, and that this Phoenix seemed to… feel for those of his ilk. And that whatever it was Ollivander was talking about, his Metamorph nature revealed it—

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

They all know. They all—

Breathe.

Breathe in…

Breathe out.

Breathe in…

Breathe out.

In and out. Calm thyself.

The words seem to come from within, not truly heard, but felt all the same, as they often did. Others don’t know. At least they think they don’t. Ollivander knows. Their DeLanoy parents might suspect. Hermione might know. Maybe Pazi. And…

Did it matter if they did? They’re not treating them any differently. No less love. No less care. No less kindness. Perhaps more.

If Dad knew… that’d be a different story.

“Michael Eli Leigh?” Ollivander calls.

That’s right. He needs to move. Snapping back into reality, Raymond leaves his spot, letting Michael take his place.

\~ * * * \~

The boy steps up and lets his arm be measured—his left rather than his right, as the first two had been.

The two of them—maker and student—stand in silence for a moment.

“So, I suppose you don’t need to be a diviner to know what I’m going to ask,” the wrinkled face before him says, wispy white hair tumbling scattered around it.

“Magizoology.”

“Oh? Quite quick on the proverbial draw, there. What do you know of that branch of magic? Birch and Dragon heartstring, twelve inches even.”

“Plenty.” Not the right wand. It was taken from him faster than he could blink. “I need a place to start, though. Not so general.”

“Understandable. Holly and unicorn hair, fourteen and three-quarters inches. Tell me of your favorite creature you’ve discovered. No.”

Yet again, the wand is taken. This one had vibrated in his grip. Probably not a good sign. “Acromantula. They have such amazing properties and their biology—“

“Acromantula?” Mr. Ollivander interrupts. “And you have a spider familiar?”

Why did people feel the need to do that? They ask a question and don’t want to hear the answer. Very frustrating. “Yes. As I was saying, their biology is very fascinating due to their size; it’s not too much different from a non-magical spider, but the cephalothorax is disproportionately enlarged, suggesting—“

Ollivander flicks his wand, and a box flies over to him from under the front desk. He deftly catches it in his other hand, extracting its contents.

Garrick Ollivander stands before the boy, presenting a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. The dark brown-green wood had been carved with sharp, shallow angles, reminiscent of the creatures Michael called friends. Black varnish is set in deep at the bottom of the handle, but gradually fades as it runs up the flaws in the wood.

“Dogwood and acromantula tendon, nine inches even, springy.”

Acromantula?? Their tendons could make a wand core?! “I didn’t know you used those.”

“I don’t. My son made it while experimenting one day. If this one doesn’t choose you… I wonder if it will choose anyone.” Some measure of bitterness in his voice. Thoughts of wasted potential? Frustration at bucking of tradition?

Michael stops worrying about all of that as soon as he takes up the wand. A feeling of wholeness and connection to others washes over him, a sense of safety and comfort. A tear rolls down his cheek. The smell of treated pine and sap erupts into the air, and oak leaves burst forth from the aether about him, floating gently to the floor of the shop. Wordlessly, gazing down at his new possession, Michael fishes seven galleons out of his pocket, dropping them into Ollivander’s hand.

\~ * * * \~

Mikey steps away from the center of the room, looking lovingly at his creepy-ass wand. Pazi had always loved wand lore; watching each of her acquaintances—no: new friends, siblings—gather their wands, seeing their spirits laid bare before all of them… It had been intoxicating. Harley, with her outward elegance and inward playfulness, Raymond, with their outward balance between the constructed and natural, and inward beauty, fire, and wonder, and Mikey… She’d already misjudged him. His outward presentation might be off-putting to many, including himself, but within, he holds the welcoming feelings of the forest and the little corners of civilization in which nature still, omnipresent, stakes its claim.

“Pazienza Brigid Equiano. Your turn, my dear.” Ollivander’s voice was raspy. He was getting older. As much as he didn’t want to, it was time to let his son into the shop more. Waiting should only happen for so long; it was time.

Pazi steps away from the small crowd, taking her place in the center with the old wandmaker. Her determined exterior—facing front, patiently still in all ways, right hand out to her side—masks a practically vibrating interior. It was time. It was finally time.

“How is your brother, young Pazi? Treating his Dragon Heartstring well?” Ollivander asks as he begins his measurements.

“Think so. Mom took him shopping yesterday; I’ve not seen him cast anything yet, but he keeps it with him everywhere.”

“Good. Good. You still want to be a Mediwizard?”

“Yep.”

Ollivander shakes his head, smile betraying the mirth in his mind. “You and your plans. You’ll go far, I’m sure of it. It is a noble calling too, to be sure. Holly and Unicorn hair, nine and a half inches, brittle.”

Brittle? He—

He’s joking. Gods below. That wand is immediately taken; she didn’t even touch it. He has to know she had looked into this. She was not that stubborn.

And yet, after five attempts, she is presented with another brittle wand.

“Maple and Dragon Heartstring, ten and a half inches, Brittle.”

Pazienza crosses her arms; she is not having it.

“Dear, please take this one. Just to try it.”

Fine. She takes up the wand. Hope you like shattered product, Ollie.

And then her mind opens up. Black feathers explode off of her, wings bursting from her back, then fading into mist. Warmth blossoms in her hand, a golden corona blooming around the hand that holds her wand. A halo for the angel of death, it would seem. It’s like someone had held up a mirror to her soul, making her more of herself, more of what she already was. There is a euphoria that comes with that, a sense of oneness, wholeness. Yet, in it, she feels her flaws more clearly, like the cracks in a boulder clarified by a chisel wedged deep within. A tear rolls down her cheek.

She looks down at her burden, her heart. She has to admit that it’s beautiful. The bright wood had been lovingly carved, obviously by a master craftsperson: From tip to the beginning of the handle is perfectly smooth, but the handle… The handle is formed by two spiraling snakes, twirling around one another. The Caduceus. Hermes’ staff. The very symbol of medicine, so renowned that even Muggles emblazoned it on everything having to do with the practice.

Pazi notes its unpainted, unvarnished feel. Unfinished. She looks up at Ollie. “You knew.”

“I had a feeling. I also have a set of brushes, finisher, and paints ready for you. All properly enchanted and brewed. However you want to decorate it, I trust your artistic vision, and I’m sure it does too.”

Pazienza throws her arms around Ollivander. The old man is stunned into immobility for a moment, but eventually pats her back slowly, deliberately. She thought he’d be better at dealing with kids, what with having grandkids and all.

Eventually, she lets go, and her dad approaches, holding a sack of coins.

“How much for it all, Garrick?”

“Seven galleons, same as everyone else.”

“Ridiculous. You’re giving her extra product. How much?”

“I’m also giving her less effort. Seven galleons, no more, no less.”

Eventually, after a moment of silent contemplation, her father relents, handing the wandmaker the currency. “Thank you.”

“My deepest pleasure. Truly.”

Pazienza looks down at her wand, already planning out its form. She didn’t yet know what the future held for it, but she knows it’s going to be beautiful.

\~ * * * \~

Hermione watches the small crew part ways in the pouring rain, careful to block her peripheral with trees, an aether umbrella protecting her hair. She had scoffed at Trevor’s guess when he’d made it that first go-around, but he’d been right. Six times it took to get to him and her adopted niece. Six times going through the same day. Five days away from her husband and family. Normally taken without notice, as a blink, but the man had shown some true insight. How long can she keep doing this?

The woman watches from her hidden perch, as she had every evening the past five days. Dangerous, she knows, but there was something about this crew. They were certainly going to make trouble at that old school.

The best kind of trouble: Mischief.

Author’s Note

Thanks for reading! This is a post I made on AO3 a while ago, but the image links broke, so I’m bringing it around here to have a more dedicated place for them so that doesn’t happen again. I plan on posting the rest here as well (If I ever get around to finishing parts 3-5 lol). My goal is to sort of take the world that the-author-that-must-not-be-named gave us and expand on it in ways that make more literary sense, as well as make it inherently queer, as it should have been from the beginning, and would be sure to irk her Royal Highness if she ever caught wind of this. I have a whole 7-year arc planned, but this first year is the most important to me as it lays the foundation for the worldbuilding I intend to do.

Speaking of which, I think folks might enjoy what I’ve cooked up; If there’s some interest, I can share non-plot spoilers to show off said worldbuilding shenanigans. No plot spoilers tho (eg: there is indeed a reason that Moldy Voldy targeted a school, and that won’t be shared until after part 5, even if I never finish it).

Also: Yes, the Daisy concept is heavily inspired by that one post, as will be a lot of specifics on here. Tags have some non-plot spoilers, some out of context.

“Cave Johnson here. I’ve received complaints from anonymous employees that our support of the “homosexual lifestyle” is “degenerate” and “irresponsible”. It really got me thinking and I think I found a solution. So good news! We now have 23 vacated positions reserved for members of the LGBT community. Additional good news, we began a new testing initiative on evolutionary degenration with 23 test subjects all ready to go.“

Still find it funny that me and Robin came out around the same time

“what have you been doing over quarantine?”

well, uh…

Damn. Got it.

Thanks lovely! I’ll do my best to catch folks so they don’t make the same mistakes.

Gee, I hope becoming the wizened old mentor that can’t do the adventuring her students do doesn’t come with any unforeseen consequences!

Feminizing HRT is just a really long magical girl transformation sequence.

Nooooo! Is it possible to “replay” the tutorial? And what are the signs I can warn other trans gals to look out for so they don’t make my mistake?

Feminizing HRT is just a really long magical girl transformation sequence.

I’m proud of u, gremlin-pattie and hempkitty💜🎶

can someone please be proud of me like fuck I’m trying

True professionals have standards

I’m at 3 years and haven’t been able to use that. Did I miss a tutorial?

Feminizing HRT is just a really long magical girl transformation sequence.

Dang. At what point do the powers kick in?

Feminizing HRT is just a really long magical girl transformation sequence.

This. This right here.

My fam tries and has tried for a long time. Those that are affirming now were accepting immediately. Yet, they didn’t do *everything* right, so I didn’t believe it until it became hindsight.

as true as it is, there's more to the appeal of human domestication guide than "the fantasy for trans girls is to be loved unconditionally," it's that the affini can prove it. I'm certain there are people in my life who do love me unconditionally, but even then on some level it's hard to believe fully. it's impossible to prove a negative, "this person would love me no matter what" isn't something I could ever be comfortable testing anyway. "what if it isn't true?" a big part of being trans is having to justify your very existence even to well meaning people, and what happens when your justification falters?

and I think a big appeal to the affini that seems to be lost on a lot of people is how these stories tend to be from the perspective of "the person who is just about as against this as someone possibly could be." consider HDG proper, Elvira is against capture on a moral level for obvious reasons like "kidnapping is wrong" and "I deserve freedom," but she's also personally racist towards the concept of aliens. all of this forces the affini into a position where they can't just show "enough" kindness, to move from that position to one of love and trust, the affini are forced to show so much love and kindness that they prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that they really do care. they understand that behind every vicious word and lack of faith from their floret-to-be is a subtle hope that the world the affini promise is the real one. such a hope deserves nurturing at any cost; they deserve to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it is really true. by assuming the worst case scenario, the affini prove the negative.

that's the real trans girl fantasy at play here; to be at your worst and for someone to love you anyway, to not have to feel like you're hiding some layer of your identity deep down that would ruin everything if it came out. your mistress saw the very core of your being and yet here you are, still wrapped in her loving embrace. you bared your teeth and gnashed at every helping hand along the way, and yet she still says she loves you. she still shows you love and affection beyond what you could have ever imagined. why?

and then at some point you just have to accept that it's true.

Yup heterosexual sex does sound pretty lethal

The first thing you see after you zoom in is how you die.

How're you dying? 🤣😭💀