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She had a book of old stories, once, when she was very small, before her father threw it away. Although she could no longer remember most of it, there was still one story that stood out to her clearly. It was about a maiden who was trapped in a tower and the prince who came to rescue her. She still remembered the picture. The maiden was beautiful, and so was the prince. He had the most wonderful dark hair and eyes.
Merope wasn’t beautiful, of course, but she still hoped, somehow, that the story might happen to her. Tom Riddle, she thought, looked like the prince. And on the days when her father shouted and mocked, she told herself that someday, perhaps, Tom would come and rescue her.
She realized, eventually, that it wasn’t going to happen, and she might have despaired. But then she thought over the story again. She thought of how much the prince loved the maiden, how he used all the magic that he knew to get her out of her tower, how he never gave up until he had her. The prince was powerful, she remembered, and he used everything that he had to win his love.
Tom wasn’t going to come for her. So she would win him instead.
It was no secret that Albus had read lots of books. He’d spent half his time at Hogwarts in the library, after all. But he’d read more than the books for his courses, more than books about advanced magic. He’d read stories of romance as well. He read stories about handsome young men going on wild adventures together, sharing danger, sharing witty banter, sharing beds. He’d never seen anyone with whom he particularly fancied a romance in real life, but books made it feel real.
He couldn’t believe it when Bathilda Bagshot introduced him to her great-nephew. The first thing he noticed was how handsome the other man was, but they didn’t have to talk long for him to realize that Gellert was clever and witty too, that he was exciting, that he was just the sort of young man who might be in one of those books. He remembered certain scenes from the stories—scenes of kisses, of touches—and couldn’t keep himself from flushing at the thought.
Gellert was handsome and clever and witty and exciting, and Albus was lost indeed.
Minerva was not one to get carried away by flights of emotion. She was practical. She did what she was supposed to do. She had spent her seven years at Hogwarts focusing on her studies, not getting distracted, giving herself over to the mind more than to the heart.
And so she was stunned by what she felt for Dougal McGregor, the way he made her heart race and her body ache with want, the way he filled her dreams (ridiculous clichés!). She threw herself into the feeling, though, just the way she’d always thrown herself into things—studying for her NEWTs, playing quidditch, becoming an animagus. They were together every minute, and Minerva found that she couldn’t care less whether the people in the village talked. She wasn’t entirely inexperienced—she had gone to Hogsmeade with boys, held hands, kissed—but this was like nothing that she’d ever known. She wanted to be with Dougal in every way possible. They couldn’t talk enough. They couldn’t kiss enough. And on the night when they first slept together, when they touched and held each other and she felt a kind of pleasure that was wholly new and wholly wonderful, she began to seriously rethink her previous dismissal of the idea that two people could be destined for each other.
Even so, she did not let herself get entirely carried away. She told him, joyously, that she would marry him, but when she thought about it that night, she realized that she never could. She couldn’t do what her mother had done and cut herself off from the wizarding world, couldn’t nip her future in the bud, couldn’t live without the magic that made her, in its own way, as fiercely happy as Dougal did. She loved Dougal more than she’d thought it possible to love anyone, but she knew that eventually she would find herself unhappy if she left her world to marry him and that that would only make him unhappy too. Her love for him could not be the only thing in her life. And she decided that she had to tell him no.
Time heals all wounds (another ridiculous cliché!), she told herself the next afternoon, as she sat in her room, a imperturbable charm placed on the door so that her parents wouldn’t hear her sobs, remembering Dougal’s face when she told him that she’d changed her mind. But she would think of him often over the years, walking on the Hogwarts grounds on a warm summer day or alone in her bed late at night. She would marry eventually, and she would be very happy, but she would never get that close to being carried away again. Perhaps that was best.
Bellatrix had always known that she was better. It started with her blood, of course, but it spread into every part of her, into her intelligence, into her talent, into her power. She had known since she was a child that she was going to be special, celebrated, lauded, feared. She remembered it as she grew older, as she found herself too frequently surrounded with inferiors, filth that wasn’t even worthy of being near her.
She was seventeen when she first heard the name whispered—Voldemort—and everything fell together then. He was everything that she aspired to, his blood pure, his magic strong, his ideals fierce and right with no room for weakness or compromise. She would join him, this man who was not less than she, and he would admire her, recognize in her a fellow warrior. They would work side by side, and their names would be paired on every tongue, and he would make her his own.
They always whispered at night, the three of them, sharing secrets when they were supposed to be sleeping. Bella had always been there, and Andromeda couldn’t remember a time before Cissy; it was the three of them, the Black sisters, telling each other everything. And she had loved those times, once.
She couldn’t tell them everything now, not since she’d started seeing Ted, and what made it worse was that she was the only one who knew about the barrier. Neither of her sisters had any idea. Tonight it was getting worse every minute. Cissy had fallen asleep, but Bella had the floor, and she had to listen. Everything that came out of Bella’s mouth was wrong, wrong, wrong, and she couldn’t say anything about it.
“I don’t have the words for it,” Bella was saying, “what it does to me. The other night, I got back and he touched my arm and told me that I’d done well. That I’d done well! That’s all I’ve wanted to hear, you know. The only thing I’ve wanted to hear him say.” Andromeda’s throat felt tight. “You can’t know what it means to find someone who believes in everything that you believe. It’s the most incredible thing. You feel like you’re part of something. I’m…I’m happier when I’m fighting for him than I’ve ever been in my life. I’d go through anything for him.” Her voice was a trembling whisper. “I love him, Dromeda. I love him. You wouldn’t know what it’s like.”
But Andromeda had found someone who believed what she believed. She was happier with him than she was with anyone else. And fighting to be with him suddenly seemed like something that she had no choice but to do.
I love him, Andromeda realized. The thought was not as happy as it should have been.
The Easter holidays were almost over, and Narcissa was supposed to go back to Hogwarts tomorrow. And as much as she tried to tell herself that there was nothing to be nervous over—she was still a Black, after all—she couldn’t help worrying.
“Whatever are you mooning about, Cissy?” her mother asked her after supper. “Your mind’s been somewhere else all day.”
“It’s…it’s nothing,” Narcissa said. “Only…do you think that at school tomorrow people will…will say things?”
“Say things?” her father asked.
“I’d like to see them try,” Bella muttered.
“Why on earth would people say things?” her mother asked.
“I don’t know,” Narcissa murmured. Her mother moved the conversation on to another topic, but Narcissa still couldn’t pay very much attention. They all told her that people weren’t going to say things, but she knew that everyone at school would have heard about Andromeda by now. Yes, Andromeda wasn’t a Black anymore—the family had made their feelings about her more than clear—but people would still know, would still associate Narcissa with scandal and shame. People might whisper about her in the halls. Her friends might not want to spend time with her anymore. Lucius might think that it was shameful to take her to Hogsmeade. How could Andromeda have done something like this to her?
She was still worried as she walked onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters the next day, but she held her head up anyway, trying to show that she was still someone to be respected. Was it just her imagination, or were people staring at her? They were. Was it in admiration or in revulsion? Were they…?
She felt a hand on her arm and turned abruptly. It was Lucius, and she smiled at him, trying to act like it was any other day. “Hello,” she said.
“Hello, Narcissa,” he said. “I hope you had a good holiday. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again. Shall we find a compartment?” He offered her his arm.
Narcissa took it, feeling like she was floating. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’d like that very much.” And she smiled as they boarded the Hogwarts Express, so glad that everything was going to be all right, so glad to be with him.
She had grown up knowing who he was, of course. It would have been very difficult not to know. It was one of the basic facts of life: the sky was blue, water was wet, and Harry Potter had defeated You-Know-Who when he was only a baby. It was much more exciting than those other facts, though. Harry Potter was a real hero, and he was only a year older than she was.
She saw him for the first time when she was ten, and for almost a week she could talk of little else. “Oh, Ginny,” her mother eventually said, “I’m sure it was very exciting, darling, but really, he’s just a boy like any other.” But Ginny couldn’t believe that. Harry Potter was not a boy like any other. He was special and different, and she wanted to be at Hogwarts right now so that she could see him again.
But once she did get to see him again—once he was spending the end of the summer in her very own house!—she found that she could barely speak to him. She tried, but the words wouldn’t come out. It made her furious. She never had trouble talking to people. Her brothers all called her a chatterbox. But Harry Potter made her stomach flutter until she couldn’t talk at all. So she just watched him, watched him laugh with Ron, and wondered what he thought about her. He probably doesn’t think anything about me, she told herself sadly. He probably just thinks that I’m Ron’s little sister who can’t talk.
And once she knew that he did think something about her—once he’d rescued her from the Chamber of Secrets—she still didn’t know what to say to him. It was hard to be just regular friends after that. They talked some, of course, and she knew that he knew that she liked him—she had Ron to thank for that—but it still didn’t mean anything.
It was Hermione who gave her advice, who helped her figure out what to do, and she was grateful for that. She’d always had to muddle through her feelings on her own before; she’d never had another girl to talk to about these things, and the thought of going to her brothers was more than absurd. Hermione told her to move on; she tried that, and it was even fun. She could talk to Harry better when she wasn’t actively hoping for something more than friendship. They could be good friends. She could get to know him.
Because none of what had come before was love. It was fascination, hero worship, a very serious crush. But it couldn’t be love with someone that you didn’t really know. Love started to come in her fifth year, she thought when she looked back on it later, when they spent time together as friends and eventually started going out. Love was what made her heart ache when he told her that they couldn’t be together because he was going to go off and fight You-Know-Who again and he wanted her to be safe. Love was what kept her awake nights during her sixth year, wondering where he and the others were now, wondering if he was hurt but somehow knowing that he was still alive.
But most of all, love was what she felt for Harry when the war was over, when he came to Hogwarts for her quidditch matches and they walked the grounds hand in hand and snogged in secluded corners, when they laughed together until they couldn’t speak, when they had sex for the first time at some seedy inn in Cornwall because they couldn’t find another spot where they didn’t risk having at least two members of her family walk in on them at any moment, when they mourned their dead together. It was what she felt for him on their wedding day, standing next to him in the backyard of her childhood home, and what she felt when they had children of their own. It was what she felt when he did things around the house that annoyed her and what she felt when he was thoughtful and sweet. It was how she felt about Harry, knowing him.
Hermione was sitting on her bed with the curtains closed when the other two came in. “Well, I’d just never have believed it!” Parvati was saying loudly. “The two of you!”
“Well, you saw it with your own eyes,” Lavender said. “What’s not to believe?”
“Like I’ve told you, he’s just not my type at all,” said Parvati. “But I’m happy for you, of course. Is he a good kisser?”
“Ooh, yes,” Lavender said. “He’s wonderful.” She squealed happily, and Hermione pressed her head against her knees, hoping that they would leave. She didn’t want to be hearing this.
You have no right to care, she told herself. Ron was never your boyfriend. She was already half-regretting what she’d done with the birds, but there was a part of her that was still simmering with anger, that was telling her that he had deserved it.
He can’t really like her that way, Hermione thought. He’s never said anything about it. I’m…I’m…I’m one of his best friends. If he fancied her, I would know.
But maybe Ron really did fancy Lavender. Looking at it dispassionately—which was very hard to do, but she would try—Hermione could see why he might. Lavender was funny and friendly, and she obviously liked Ron a lot. But…but…they were wrong for each other!
And the two of you are right for each other, I suppose? You drive each other mad when you’re only friends. Imagine what it would be like if he was your boyfriend.
She could imagine it. Only too well. Yes, they drove each other mad sometimes, but there were so many things that were wonderful about Ron as well. He made her laugh, and when it came down to it, he would always put aside any argument that they were having and help her. And they understood each other. Much, much better than he and Lavender ever could.
Well, you obviously don’t understand him as well as you think you do. You thought that he might feel about you like you feel about him, and here all he wants to do is snog Lavender Brown. Lavender’s voice rose then, saying, “I’m so glad it’s Hogsmeade next weekend. We can go to Madam Puddifoot’s!” Hermione felt like she might scream.
He is not the only boy out there, she told herself as firmly as she could. Find someone else. That’s what he did. You can show him.
She would do it, she decided, but the prospect did nothing to lift her spirits.
Hannah bumped into Neville in Flourish and Blott’s about two years after she’d last seen him. She was browsing the bestsellers when she heard someone call her name; she turned around to see him. “Neville!” she said, smiling. “How are you?”
His smile had the same sweet shyness to it that it had always had. “I’m doing well, thanks. How about you?”
“Can’t complain,” she said. “I’m working at the Leaky Cauldron, actually; it’s really fun. It’s my afternoon off today. What are you doing with yourself?” She knew that it was going to be something impressive; this was Neville, after all, who’d led them all through that terrible year and had never let any of them give up.
“I’m working at Hogwarts, actually,” he said. “Teaching Herbology. I don’t know if you heard that Professor Sprout retired?”
“I’d heard that,” Hannah said, “but I had no idea that you got the job. That’s fantastic! Congratulations!” She’d been right: he was doing something impressive. Maybe not impressive to everyone’s minds, to those people who liked glamour or derring-do, but very impressive to her. It was exciting to think that one of her classmates was back at Hogwarts as a teacher, and she was sure that Neville would be a good one. He was patient and kind, and he always encouraged anyone who needed help.
“Thank you,” Neville said. “I’ve been enjoying it a lot.”
Another patron jostled them then, and Hannah stepped aside from the shelves. “Do you want to go somewhere? Maybe get something to eat or drink? I can always vouch for the Cauldron.”
Neville smiled at her. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
They chatted over steak and kidney pie. “So how are things at Hogwarts?” Hannah asked. “Is it really different?”
“In some ways, yes,” Neville said. “Professor McGonagall’s different from Dumbledore, obviously, but I think she’s a very good headmistress. She’s good at having a balance between honoring the war and letting things go on normally. So in some ways it’s the same. Good feasts. Lots of strange animals around Hagrid’s. A new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”
Hannah laughed. “Think this one’ll last?” she asked.
“She was there last year too, actually, so she seems to have beaten the odds,” Neville said. “She’s very nice. Seems good at her job too.”
“That’s a relief,” Hannah said.
“The weirdest part is being a professor, though,” said Neville. “I can’t get used to that. Professor McGonagall asked me to call her Minerva months ago, but I still can barely get up the nerve.”
“I don’t blame you for that,” said Hannah.
“But I like it,” said Neville. “I really do. I just feel a bit intimidated, I suppose.”
Hannah smiled at him. “There’s no reason for that,” she said. “I’m sure you’re a really good professor, Neville. I mean, you’ve always been good at Herbology. And you’re a nice person, so I’m sure the kids like you.” She sounded silly, she thought, like she was trying to flatter him, but she really meant it.
Neville didn’t seem to think she sounded silly, at least; he only blushed. “Thanks,” he said. “I…that’s really nice of you, Hannah.” He took another bite of the pie. “I want to hear more about you, though. How’d you wind up working here?”
“I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, really,” Hannah said, “so I thought I’d just try some things out, you know, see if any of them stuck. I’m really liking this, though. You meet a lot of interesting people. And then it’s pretty low-key, which is nice. I get to spend more time with my dad that way.”
“It sounds really good,” Neville said. “Who’s the most interesting person you’ve met?”
“Well,” said Hannah, “Celestina Warbeck came in last month.”
“What? No way!” Neville said. “That’s incredible. She’s an institution! What was she like?”
“She was really sweet,” said Hannah. “Got soup and a butterbeer and sat at that table over there.” She pointed.
“Nice!” Neville said appreciatively.
She liked that about him. He was a celebrity himself, after all, one of the heroes of the war, but he didn’t have a big head about it. He didn’t want to talk about himself all the time; he seemed genuinely interested in what she was doing. He was the same Neville she’d always known.
She was glad she’d bumped into him, she decided, and she wanted to see him again.
She started to love him because he didn’t know anything about her. Which was partly because she lied, of course, pretended that all those weird things that were normal for him were second nature to her as well. She told him that he couldn’t call her because her telephone was broken, which he seemed to believe, even after a few months (that was normal, wasn’t it?). She sat in the dark next to him at the movies and tried not to act stunned by these giant portraits that talked for hours. So he had no idea that she was a witch, but that wasn’t the most wonderful part. The most wonderful part was that he didn’t know about her past.
One would have thought that by now it wouldn’t bother her when people asked her about Cedric and about Harry, but it did. It made her some sort of freak: The Girl Who’d Dated Cedric Diggory And Then Harry Potter And Had Cried About It A Lot. She’d been out of Hogwarts for three years now, and it was still almost inevitably the first thing any casual acquaintance she ran into mentioned. She wasn’t Cho; she wasn’t herself. She was a supporting player in some larger saga.
But with Paul it was different. Paul had never even heard of Harry or Cedric. They were just Cho and Paul to each other, and they talked about other things. Favorite books. Aspirations. Favorite foods. Their families. Places they wanted to travel. Things that scared them. Things that made them laugh. The future that they might have together.
It wasn’t that easy, though. In some ways, Paul knew her on a deeper level than almost anyone did, but in some ways he was missing all the information. How could she have a future with someone who didn’t know anything about the wizarding world? What if they had kids? He would feel betrayed, lied to, used. She didn’t want to do that to him. She was scared, though, about what it would mean to tell him the truth, about what it would mean to have him know the things that defined her for everyone else.
But when she finally told him, when she got up her courage and spilled out the whole story, with a lot of explanations and digressions and, yes, some tears, she found another reason to love him. Even when he knew all about her, about magic and Cedric and Harry and the war and all of it, he treated her just as he always had. He held her close and kissed her. He told her that she could always talk to him about these things if she wanted to and that she didn’t have to if she didn’t. He asked her to explain Apparition to him, and when he understood what it was, he was just as indignant as she had been when she had learned that Muggles had something called a Google that you could use to find out any piece of information and that she had never known about it.
She was still Cho to him—just a Cho about whom he knew more. She was able to be so many things with him. She was able to be honest. Multifaceted. Sad. Happy. She was able to be herself.