Chapter Text
Draco woke to the sound of a chainsaw being murdered.
He blinked once, then twice, staring up at Hermione Granger’s living-room ceiling, momentarily convinced he had finally lost his mind. The noise came again, louder this time, rattling through his skull with all the subtlety of a Bludger.
Ron Weasley was snoring.
Not a gentle snore, either. No, this was the sort of aggressive, wholehearted snoring that felt personal. Draco lay very still on the rug, assessing his situation through half-lidded eyes. His leg ached where it had been stretched out too long, a dull reminder of spells and scars that still hadn’t quite faded. Percy was wrapped around him like ivy, one arm slung possessively over Draco’s waist, his breath warm and steady against the back of Draco’s neck. It was grounding, comforting in a way Draco still hadn’t gotten used to, the quiet certainty of being held because someone wanted him there.
Hermione was sprawled on one of the couches, hair escaping its tie in wild curls, a blanket twisted around her legs like she’d lost a fight with it. Harry and Neville had claimed the larger couch beside her, Neville half on top of Harry, Harry’s glasses abandoned on the coffee table, his hand still loosely curled in Neville’s jumper.
And the twins… well. Draco squinted toward the kitchen doorway and the hall beyond it.
“Honestly,” he muttered under his breath, careful not to wake Percy, “they could be anywhere. Or everywhere.”
His mind drifted back to earlier that night, to Peverell Manor bathed in warm light and laughter instead of ward flares and screaming stone. They’d all been gathered in the sitting room, scattered across chairs and the floor, plates abandoned, a game of chess half-finished between Draco and Ron. Draco had been thoroughly enjoying Ron’s increasing frustration, especially after baiting him into a risky maneuver that ended—predictably—with Draco putting his king in check.
Ron had stared at the board in dawning horror. “You absolute prat.”
Draco had smiled sweetly. “Language, Weasley. Some of us are trying to maintain a cultured atmosphere.”
It had been Hermione who derailed everything, leaning forward with sudden enthusiasm and saying to Harry, “You know, there are new films out I think you’d actually like.”
The reaction had been immediate and explosive.
“Films?” Fred had repeated.
“Movies?” George echoed.
Harry had groaned. “No.”
“What are movies?” Neville had asked, curious as ever.
Draco, for his part, had perked up instantly. “Are they those things you said are like an enchanted portrait?”
Hermione’s eyes had lit up, and that had been it. The twins had started firing questions so fast Draco had sworn they forgot to breathe.
“Let’s go get this telly thing!” George all but yelled shooting up to his feet.
Harry had pinched the bridge of his nose. “Muggle tech doesn’t work in magical homes. It shorts out. Also, we don’t have electricity.”
There had been a pause, and then Ron—who had clearly only just rejoined the conversation—had looked up from the chessboard and said, “We could go to Hermione’s place.”
Hermione had blinked. Considered. Then, to Draco’s genuine shock, nodded. “I don’t see why not.”
The rest of the evening had become a whirlwind. Blankets had been grabbed, pajamas conjured, snacks piled into bags. Neville had appeared triumphantly from the kitchens carrying a massive crate.
“I found Draco’s hidden crate of grape soda,” he’d announced proudly.
Harry had stared at it. “Why do we have that much grape soda?”
Neville had shrugged. “Ask Draco.”
Damn. I’ll need to find a better place next time. Bloody thieves.
The movie itself had been… baffling. Fascinating. Heartbreaking.
Draco had sat stiffly at first, suspicious of the large glowing box that showed moving pictures without a single trace of magic. He’d leaned closer and closer as the story unfolded, completely captivated. When the Titanic finally sank and the music swelled, he’d felt his throat tighten painfully.
“This is ridiculous,” he’d muttered, wiping at his eyes when no one was looking.
Hermione had passed him tissues without comment.
They’d followed it with something called The Nutty Professor, and Draco had laughed so hard his sides had hurt, even if he still didn’t quite understand why muggles seemed to enjoy humiliating themselves so publicly.
“So muggles have potions masters too?” he’d asked later, genuinely intrigued.
Hermione had smiled. “They’re called scientists.”
Draco had considered that for a long moment. “I think I’d like to meet one.”
Somewhere along the way, the talking had faded, laughter softened, and bodies had settled where they fell. Draco hadn’t remembered falling asleep. He just knew that now, hours later, he was surrounded by people who were breathing evenly—aside from Ron, alive and safe.
He shifted slightly, careful not to wake Percy, and let himself really look at them. His friends. His family, in ways he never would have believed possible a year ago.
The memories of the final battle still rose up sometimes, sharp and unbidden, flashes of green light and Dragon fire, of blood and pain and choices that could never be undone. But moments like this, quiet and ordinary, were why it had mattered. Why Harry had stood his ground. Why Neville had found his courage. Why Draco himself had chosen to fight, to live, to love.
Percy murmured something in his sleep and tightened his hold just a fraction, and Draco smiled into the darkness.
A New Dawn in the Wizengamot & The Rise of the Weasley Family
By Celestina Quill, Senior Political Correspondent
For the first time in many decades, the Wizengamot is changing—not quietly, not reluctantly, but decisively. At the center of this shift stands an unlikely but increasingly influential force. The Weasley family.
Once dismissed by political elites as loud, impoverished, and inconveniently principled, the Weasleys have emerged from the Second Wizarding War not merely vindicated, but empowered. Their renewed seat on the Wizengamot, formally restored six months ago, is a direct result of their actions during the war—actions that many now credit as instrumental in bringing about Voldemort’s final defeat.
Lord Bill Weasley, Curse-Breaker turned political powerhouse, now formally holds the Weasley seat. At his side stands his younger brother, Percy Weasley, whose sharp legal mind and uncompromising dedication to reform have quickly made him one of the most formidable political figures of his generation. Together, the brothers have spent the last six months dismantling legislation that, upon closer examination, reads less like civil law and more like the echoes of a regime the wizarding world claims to have defeated
“These laws were never neutral,” Bill Weasley stated during a recent Wizengamot session. “They were designed to restrict, punish, and control. Their targets were clear, and their cruelty was deliberate.”
The brothers’ efforts have focused on repealing and rewriting statutes that disproportionately harmed muggle-borns and half-bloods—laws that restricted wand ownership, limited employment opportunities, enforced invasive lineage audits, and permitted punishments that many legal scholars now openly describe as barbaric. Several of these measures, long defended as “tradition,” have since been revealed to have originated or been expanded during Voldemort’s first rise to power.
Perhaps most striking is not simply that these laws are being overturned, but how. For the first time in generations, houses once divided by blood status, political allegiance, and old feuds are working together. Ancient families who once stood on opposite sides of the chamber now co-sponsor reform bills. Debates remain fierce, but the tone has shifted—from obstruction to reconstruction.
Some observers suggest this unity is no coincidence.
The recent trials of war criminals resulted in the removal of numerous entrenched lords and ladies, many of whom had held their seats for decades. Their successors—often younger, less ideologically rigid, and far more willing to confront the failures of the past—have altered the balance of power almost overnight.
“The old guard is gone,” one anonymous Wizengamot clerk remarked. “And the new one doesn’t want to inherit their sins.”
Records confirm that information provided by the Weasleys—financial documents, witness testimony, and verified memories—was submitted as evidence during multiple high-profile trials. That such material included names of influential figures, some of whom were once political allies, has only reinforced the family’s reputation for integrity.
While critics argue that the pace of reform risks destabilizing long-standing institutions, public opinion has largely swung in favor of the changes. Protests have dwindled. Support letters flood the Ministry daily. And in a chamber once infamous for paralysis, legislation is moving with unprecedented speed.
Whether this marks a permanent transformation or a fleeting moment of post-war idealism remains to be seen. But one thing is clear, the Weasley family has become more than a symbol of resistance. Under the steady leadership of Bill Weasley and the relentless precision of Percy Weasley, they have become architects of a new wizarding Britain—one determined not merely to survive its past, but to learn from it.
Neville worked with careful, practiced movements, his hands stained faintly green as he adjusted the leaves of the plant hovering in front of him. The studio Harry had built for him sat warm and bright at the edge of Peverell Manor, glass walls letting in generous sunlight while the wards filtered it just enough to keep the more temperamental plants content. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with prototypes, half-finished projects, and labeled jars that would have made Professor Sprout weep with pride.
Never, in all his years at Hogwarts, had Neville imagined he would go into business with the Weasley twins of all people. And yet, that was exactly what he had done.
It had started so casually. One night, Harry had mentioned offhandedly that Neville should sell his inventions. Neville had laughed at the idea, certain Harry was teasing, until Fred and George had gone still in that unnerving way they got when something truly interested them. Within minutes, they were talking about manufacturing pipelines, distribution networks, and how their shop could use an entirely new branch. Not prank goods, George had said thoughtfully. Everyday magic. Useful magic.
Neville would design the products. The twins would handle manufacturing.
At first, Neville had been hesitant. The thought of his ideas leaving his hands and entering the wider world had been terrifying. But the more he considered it, the more excitement replaced the fear. Mixing his deep knowledge of Herbology with the crafting skills he had honed with quiet experimentation felt right. It felt like growth. Like choosing a future rather than simply surviving one.
Harry had been immediately supportive, of course. Neville was fairly certain he could have suggested selling enchanted mud pies and Harry would have backed him without question.
Harry himself had changed in the months since the war ended. Snape had called it laziness with a sharp sniff, but Neville knew better. Harry had stopped running. He no longer woke with urgency coiled tight in his chest. He took naps when he wanted. He lingered over meals. He focused on moments that made him laugh instead of plans that made him ache.
Neville had never once thought it was a bad thing.
Especially after that night shortly after the battle.
They had been sitting on the floor of the library, surrounded by Remus’s things, sorting through books and notes and half-finished ideas. The air had been heavy with grief, but quiet too, the kind of quiet that only came when words were no longer enough. Harry had stared at a page for a long time before finally admitting, in a voice so tired it hurt to hear, that he was exhausted in a way sleep could not fix.
He said it felt like his whole life had been pressure stacked on pressure. Expectations. Survival. Responsibility. And now, for the first time, he wanted to do the opposite of everything he had been trained to do. He wanted to live off his absurd inheritance. Visit the ivory dragon at Charlie’s reserve whenever he felt like it. Mess with his magical house just to see what it would do. Spend time with people he loved. Follow Neville around while he worked.
Neville had listened, heart full and aching all at once, and thought that Harry deserved every single one of those things.
Even now, as Neville adjusted the enchantment on his latest prototype, Harry lay sprawled on the couch Neville had placed in the studio specifically for him. Selyss, or Death as they had finally stopped pretending otherwise, was coiled comfortably on Harry’s chest and around his legs, gleaming dark scales rising and falling with each slow breath. A thick Muggle book titled A Game of Thrones floated above Harry’s face, pages turning lazily at the flick of his wand. One socked foot hung over the edge of the couch, utterly relaxed.
Still, Neville’s chest tightened as his gaze drifted to the clock mounted above the door. Nearly three in the afternoon. The knowledge settled heavily in his ribs, an ache that had nothing to do with the long hours he had spent standing at the worktable. He was supposed to leave soon.
His grandmother’s letter had arrived earlier in the week, neat and formal and unmistakably hers. She had asked to see him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Neville still wasn’t entirely sure what had made him say yes. Every instinct in him had recoiled at the idea. And yet, he had agreed. Now the weight of that choice pressed down on him, inescapable.
He didn’t know what to think about his Gran anymore. Maybe she truly hadn’t known about the compulsions his great-uncle had used for years. Maybe she had been blind to that particular cruelty. But in some ways, that almost made it worse. She had been there for everything else. She had stood by while Neville was tormented in his own home for things he could not control. Worse still, she had often taken part, her disappointment sharp and public, her standards impossible to reach.
The memory rose unbidden, as vivid as if it were happening all over again. The lake. The shock of ice-cold water stealing the air from his lungs, his body seizing as he flailed and sank. The way his limbs had gone numb almost immediately, panic clawing up his throat as water filled his mouth. The sound of his own gasping had been loud in his ears, desperate and humiliating. He had been so certain, in that moment, that he was going to die.
And she had just stood there.
He could still see her face clearly. Not shocked. Not alarmed. Simply watching, hands folded, as though his struggle were a lesson being taught rather than a child drowning. Neville had dragged himself out of the lake eventually, shivering violently, chest burning, vision blurred. He had fallen ill for weeks afterward, a horrible cold that settled deep and refused to leave. Even then, his sickness had been treated as proof of his weakness, not a consequence of what had been done to him.
A warmth against his hand pulled him back to the present.
Neville hadn’t noticed Harry moving until he was there, standing close, fingers curling gently around Neville’s own. The touch was steady and sure, grounding in a way Neville had come to rely on more than he liked to admit.
“You don’t owe her anything, Nev,” Harry said quietly. “We can just stay home.”
Neville looked down at him, really looked, and saw the sincerity there. Harry meant it. Completely. Neville could turn away from this now, could run from it for the rest of his life, and Harry would never judge him for it. More than that, Neville was certain Harry understood. Perhaps better than anyone.
For a moment, the temptation was overwhelming.
But Neville also knew he couldn’t let his Gran remain a looming shadow over his life, a figure he feared running into by chance, a name that still made his stomach knot. He didn’t want to keep living around that fear, letting it dictate where he went and who he was allowed to be.
He tightened his grip on Harry’s hand, steadying himself. “I know,” he said softly. “I just… I don’t want her to have this power over me anymore.”
They left Peverell Manor together.
Neville changed quietly, taking his time, as though if he rushed he might lose his nerve. Harry lingered nearby, close without hovering, giving Neville space while still making it clear he was not going anywhere. When they stepped outside, the afternoon air was warm and bright, almost deceptively gentle. Neville paused at the edge of the path, drawing in a slow breath before nodding once.
Harry took his hand again, fingers lacing through Neville’s without ceremony. “Ready?” he asked.
“No,” Neville said honestly, then managed a small, wry smile. “But let’s go anyway.”
The apparition was smooth, Harry having grown more skilled under Snape’s teaching over the past months. The world folded in on itself and snapped back into place, and suddenly they were standing at the gates of Longbottom Manor.
Neville hadn’t been here since the war. The sight of it still made his chest ache. The stone walls rose pale and imposing, ivy crawling up their sides in careful lines. The grounds were immaculate, every hedge trimmed to perfection, every flowerbed planned and controlled. It looked exactly as it always had. Untouched by everything Neville had survived.
Harry glanced at him, green eyes sharp with concern. “We can leave,” he said quietly. “Anytime.”
“I know,” Neville replied, squeezing his hand.
They walked up the drive together. Neville could feel his heartbeat in his throat with every step closer to the front doors. Memories pressed in around him, layered over the present. Raised voices. Cold looks. Silence where comfort should have been. His shoulders tensed, bracing out of habit.
The doors opened before they could knock.
Augusta Longbottom stood in the entryway, spine straight, expression carefully neutral. Her hair was pinned back severely, her robes immaculate. She looked older than Neville remembered, though that might have been because he was no longer small enough to be dwarfed by her presence.
“Neville,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to Harry before returning to him. “You came.”
“Yes,” Neville answered. His voice was steadier than he felt. “We did.”
Harry inclined his head politely. “Mrs. Longbottom.”
Her gaze lingered on their joined hands this time, assessing, calculating. “Harry Potter,” she said. “I see.”
Neville felt Harry’s grip tighten just slightly, a silent reassurance. He stepped forward before his Gran could say anything else. “You asked to see me.”
She hesitated, just a fraction, then stepped aside. “Come in.”
The manor smelled the same as it always had. Polished wood. Old magic. Faint traces of potions and dried herbs. Neville resisted the urge to curl inward, to make himself smaller as he had once learned to do. He stayed upright, hand still firmly in Harry’s.
They were led into a sitting room Neville remembered too well. It was where lectures had happened. Where disappointment had been delivered with clipped words and cold tea.
Augusta gestured for them to sit. Neville did, choosing a chair that placed Harry close at his side. He did not let go.
“I received your letter,” Augusta began, folding her hands in her lap. “Your… declaration to the Wizengamot.”
Neville wasn’t shocked that she raised it immediately. He had made his position very clear, and he had done so in the most public way possible. Before the full body of the Wizengamot, he had formally declared that Augusta Longbottom was no longer acting Lady of the house, stripping the title from her with words that left no room for misinterpretation. He had gone on to inform them that while their well-meaning condolences over his great-uncle’s death were noted, they were unnecessary.
The man had spent more than a decade secretly using compulsions to force Neville into submission to gain access to the Lord seat, hollowing him out piece by piece. His death was not a loss Neville mourned, and he had refused to pretend otherwise.
Neville swallowed. “Yes.”
“You could have consulted me,” she said, her tone sharp. “You made your intentions very public.”
“I did that on purpose,” Neville replied. His heart pounded, but he did not look away. “I needed it on record. For myself.”
Her lips thinned. “You are changing things too quickly. You always were impatient.”
Something in Neville snapped into clarity then. Not anger. Not fear. Resolve.
“I spent my entire childhood being told I was too slow, too weak, too much of a disappointment,” he said quietly. “I don’t think impatience was ever the problem. Though… none of that was really me, was it?”
Silence fell, heavy and tense.
Harry did not speak. He did not need to. His presence was a solid line at Neville’s side, unwavering.
“I came because I didn’t want to keep running from you,” Neville continued. “But I also won’t pretend anymore. I won’t let what happened to me be minimized or excused. Not by you.”
Augusta stared at him, something unreadable flickering across her face. For the first time, she seemed unsure. “I… I didn’t know what Algernon was doing.”
“Even if we take my great uncle out of the equation, you did more than enough harm yourself.”
She looked down at his words, her hands restlessly pulling on her handkerchief. “I see.”
“I am not here for your approval,” Neville said, his voice quiet but unwavering. “I am here to tell you that my life is my own now.” He drew in a steady breath, grounding himself in the warmth of Harry’s hand, in the certainty of the life he had built beyond these walls. “You can stay here if you choose. This house can keep all of its rules and expectations and silences. But I won’t be part of it anymore.”
He lifted his gaze fully to her then, meeting her eyes without flinching. “I have people now who taught me that love doesn’t come with conditions. Not the real kind. It doesn’t punish you for failing or ask you to bleed for approval. It doesn’t watch you suffer and call it strength. It shows up. It stays.”
Neville’s chest ached as he spoke, but there was relief threaded through it too, a sense of something long knotted finally loosening. “I won’t shrink myself to fit into what you think I should be,” he added softly. “I won’t live afraid anymore.”