Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

i. sorting

The hat's heavier than expected and smells faintly like rot. Gwaine can't help the way his nose wrinkles, but he smoothes out his face just as fast.

You're an interesting one,"  the Sorting Hat murmurs. "Ambition...oh, boundless ambition, though you prefer to keep that to yourself. And more than a little cunning. You'd thrive in Slytherin."

Gwaine's stomach twists, and he peers over at the table in red. Charlie's already talking to another student, but Bill gives him a reassuring look, smiling as if to say "Don't worry, I know you'll end up with us." Percy's nose is in a book, but Gwaine can see his red mop from here.

He imagines their faces if the hat sends him to Slytherin. What’s wrong with you, Gwaine? Not brave enough? Not good enough? What makes you unworthy-

Merlin, he doesn't even want to think about how Mum would take it. He'd get a Howler for sure.

“Gryffindor,”  he says sharply. He can be brave. He can be-

The hat chuckles, a low, knowing sound. “Oh, you think this is about bravery? About nobility? No, no. You’re not choosing Gryffindor because of what it stands for. You’re choosing it because it’s safe. Because you don’t want anyone to see what’s really inside, hmm?

Gwaine flinches, fingers tightening on the edge of the stool, knuckles white. He swallowed hard.

“Slytherin would understand you, you know,”  the hat continues, its tone almost persuasive. "It’s not about being evil. It’s about accomplishing your goals.”

"The only goal I have,"  he says, gritting his teeth as he begins to panic, " is to be with my family."

“Gryffindor,” he repeats, louder now, firmer.  Listen to me,  he begs.  Do not place me away from my family. I do not want to be anything but another Weasley.

The hat is silent for a moment, as though weighing its options. Gwaine feels the seconds stretch unbearably long, cold sweat pricking the back of his neck. What if it doesn’t listen?

Finally, the hat sighs, almost reluctant. “Very well. Gryffindor it is. ”

The weight lifts, and the cheers from the Gryffindor table are deafening. Bill and Charlie are the loudest, of course, shouting something he can’t quite make out. He slides off the stool, plastering a grin across his face like armor, letting the applause wash over him. His legs are shaky, but no one notices, not with the way he’s laughing, the way he struts toward the Gryffindor table like he belongs.

Percy scoots over to make room, his eyes gleaming under the candlelight. “Well done,” he says, patting Gwaine’s shoulder. His tone is perfunctory but not unkind. The way he links his pinkie around Gwaine's tells him all he needs to know.

Someone slaps him on the back—Charlie, maybe, or a seventh-year whose name he doesn’t know yet. He laughs, loud and bright, and it feels almost real. Almost.

He’s safe. He’s safe. He's free to blend into the background and do as he pleases.

But as he settles between Percy and another first-year, pretending to listen to the chatter around him, the hat’s words linger in the back of his mind, quiet and pointed.

“You chose Gryffindor to blend in. But what will happen when you can’t?"

The question makes his stomach twist. He doesn’t have an answer.

But. He doesn’t need one, not yet. For now, he’s just another Weasley in red and gold, another bright, cheerful addition to the family legacy.

And that’s all anyone needs to know.

Chapter Text

ii. letters and notes

Letter to Bill (Third Year, September)

Dear Bill,

How’s Gringotts treating you? Mum says they’re sending you all over—Egypt, Turkey, places that sound straight out of an adventure novel. That’s mint, honestly. Have you made any friends? I reckon you’d have the best stories if you did. Imagine befriending an assassin! Everyone says the Levant doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore, but you’d know better than anyone, right?

Term’s going fine so far. We’ve got a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year, Garrett, from the Americas. He’s probably the best one yet. Tells us all these wild stories about his days working as an Auror, or whatever they call them over there. Everyone loves him already, but… I don’t know. He’s odd. Not in a bad way, exactly, but there’s something about him I can’t put my finger on. I’m probably just being paranoid.

The twins are back at it with their usual shenanigans, terrorizing the other houses, thank Merlin. If I have to hear Percy shout at them one more time, I’ll go stark-raving mad. Honestly, it’s like they’re trying to get his attention on purpose. Not that Percy notices anything unless it comes with a rule attached. I’ve been helping him prep for his inevitable rise to Prefect, and let me tell you—he’s got enough charts and schedules to drown a dragon. Sounds like a whole lot of work for nothing if you ask me, but Percy swears it’s worth it.

Anyway, write back soon, yeah? I know you’re busy, but I miss you.

Gwaine

Note, passed at lunch, from Gwaine to Percy

Perce,

Is Arithmancy actually worth taking next year, or is it just equations in fancy robes? Don’t lie—I know you secretly love math. Also, Snape glared at me for five straight minutes when I handed in my Sleeping Draught today. Pretty sure he’s plotting my demise, but that's nothing new.

Meet me after dinner if you’re done worshiping your timetable. I need help with Flitwick’s essay, and you love bossing me around.

Gwaine

P.S. Stop sighing at the twins every five minutes. It’s boring, and it only makes them want to bother you more!

Note, folded neatly and left under Gwaine’s bag

Gwaine,

For the hundredth time, Arithmancy is not just equations—it’s fascinating, structured, and infinitely more useful than watching Snape decide whether or not he hates you. He's already taken twenty points today, and don't lie, I know it was you.

And I’m not sighing at the twins. I’m sighing because the twins exist. There’s a difference.

If you bring your essay and stop calling me Perce, I’ll help you.

Percy

P.S. You’re insufferable, and I’m not going to stop disciplining the twins! Someone has to keep them in check, and it's clearly not going to be you!

---

 

Note, passed in the Gryffindor Common Room from Gwaine to Percy

Perce,

I’ll stop calling you Perce when you stop pretending to love rules. Face it—you’re just as bad as the rest of us! Anyway, if things keep going as they are, you're going to marry a rulebook someday, and Mum’ll cry because she wants grandkids. Do you want Mum to cry?

Garrett gave us another story today, something about dueling three wizards at once and coming out with nothing but a scratch. I thought it was a load of bollocks, but everyone was eating it up.

Don’t you think he’s a bit much, though? Too smooth, too…perfect. Like he’s trying to be everyone’s favorite. He's awfully friendly, and I know I should be happy about it, but. I don't know.

Anyway, I’ve nicked your Arithmancy chart. If you want it back, help me finish Flitwick’s essay before he docks me another point for “lack of effort.”

Gwaine

P.S. The clock is ticking! Your poor chart is weeping tears of blood. You want it back, you help me with Flitwick. Hurry!

---

Note, slipped into Gwaine's bag

Gwaine,

If you ever suggest I’d marry a rulebook again, I’ll personally tell Snape how you spend your free time trying to break into his stores and suggest he keep a closer eye on you. Don't push me.

Professor Garrett is competent—more than competent, honestly. Not everyone spends their time doodling dragons instead of paying attention. I don’t know why you’re so determined to dislike him.

And give me back my chart. I know where you sleep and I'm not above smothering you.

Percy

P.S. You’re lucky I haven’t reported you to McGonagall for “borrowing” my quills. Again. What are you even doing with them?

---

Note, unfinished, Gwaine’s handwriting—crumpled and smudged

Perce,

I don’t dislike Garrett. I just think… something about him’s too perfect. You ever meet someone who makes your skin crawl but you can’t explain why? Forget it. You wouldn’t get it.

---

Note, handed to Percy

Perce,

The twins stole my unfinished potion. I was feeding your quills to it, and now I may have created a golem. Sorry in advance, I may have thrown you under the bus a bit.

Gwaine

P.S. If you survive, I'll treat you to Honeydukes.

Chapter Text

iii. a glimpse into the after

The Gryffindor common room was quiet for once, the fire reduced to soft embers and the clock on the wall ticking steadily toward curfew. Harry glanced up from his Potions notes, stifling a yawn. Beside him, Ron had started muttering complaints about his essay.

“Why do we even need to know this?” Ron grumbled, scribbling out another line that dithered enough to make the paper length.

“Because Snape will fail you otherwise,” Hermione hissed from her chair across the table.

Ron groaned. “Who even cares about half this stuff? Who needs to know the twelve uses of dragon’s blood? If I ever need to know, I'd ask Charlie!" He slumped forward, his forehead hitting the parchment. Harry smirked, ready to suggest they pack it in for the night when something caught Ron’s attention out of the corner of his eye.

“Hang on,” Ron said suddenly, straightening up. His face lit up in a way Harry had rarely seen. “That’s Gwaine!”

Harry followed his gaze to the far end of the common room, where a long couch faced the dark windows. Someone was sprawled across it, lying half-curled on their side with an arm flung lazily over their face. Shoulder-length, faintly untidy red hair caught the firelight, a shade duller than Percy’s polished copper but unmistakably Weasley.

“Gwaine!” Ron whispered loudly, practically leaping from his chair. He bounded across the room, leaving Harry and Hermione to exchange puzzled looks. He sprinted over with the kind of energy that he usually reserved for chess or the Chudley Cannons, stopping just before the couch and dropping into a crouch beside it.

Harry had seen Gwaine around, of course. Ron talked about him like he was some sort of legend, brilliant, mysterious, and effortlessly cooler than all the other siblings. How much of that was simply because he was Ron's favorite sibling was unclear. But Harry had never gotten a proper sense of him. Gwaine Weasley seemed to float through Hogwarts like a shadow, always present but rarely noticeable.

“Oi, you’re awake, aren’t you?” Ron said softly, nudging Gwaine’s shoulder.

The figure stirred, the hand slipping off his face to reveal a pair of soft blue eyes blinking sleepily up at Ron. Gwaine smiled faintly, though it looked more like an expression of fond resignation than surprise.

“Ron,” Gwaine murmured, his voice soft and hoarse from sleep. “What are you doing up?”

“What am I doing up?” Ron retorted. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in days!”

Gwaine shrugged. “Around.”

“You’re so annoying,” Ron said, but his grin betrayed his fondness. “We’ve been looking for you! We’ve got a question—well, a project, really—and you’re the only one who’d know.”

Gwaine sat up slowly, brushing his hair back from his face. Harry and Hermione, curious now, abandoned their table to join the brothers. As they approached, Harry noticed the way Gwaine moved, slow and deliberate, like he was constantly conserving their energy for more important things. Up close, Harry saw the faint hollows beneath his eyes, the way his soft, fine features mirrored Percy’s but seemed far less severe.

“What’s this about?” Gwaine asked, ruffling Ron’s hair in a way that earned a huff and a swat. His voice was quiet but curious. He turned his gaze to Hermione and Harry as they hovered nearby, inclining his head slightly. “And who’ve you roped into it?”

"We’re trying to figure out more about alchemy. You’re brilliant with that stuff, alchemy and potions and all.” Ron said quickly.

“Alchemists?” Gwaine repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Ron nodded eagerly. “Nicholas Flamel.

At that, Gwaine blinked, his expression sharpening ever so slightly. He tilted his head, considering the question before a faint smirk tugged at his lips.

“Flamel?” Gwaine said, his tone half-teasing. “That’s a bit basic, isn’t it? I thought you were going to ask about George Ripley or Hermes Trismegistus. You know, someone obscure.”

Ron frowned. “Who?”

Harry glanced at Hermione, who looked like she was trying not to explode with indignation at being out-knowledged. Meanwhile, Gwaine stretched his arms over his head, his voice casual as he added, "Nicolas Flamel is the most famous alchemist known to modern wizardkind. And that is because of the Philosopher's Stone."

Gwaine leans back against the couch cushions, his steel-blue eyes half-lidded as he watches Ron eagerly await his answer.

“The Philosopher’s Stone,” Gwaine begins, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of someone who knows his subject, “isn’t just some magical artifact. It’s the peak of alchemical achievement, a theoretical object most alchemists only dream of making, but only one actually exists.”

Harry and Ron lean forward, rapt. Hermione sits straighter, her quill poised over her parchment, ready to record every word.

“The Stone can transform any metal into pure gold,” Gwaine continues, his tone smooth and deliberate. “And it produces the Elixir of Life, which grants immortality to those who drink it.”

Hermione frowns slightly, her brows knitting together. “Immortality? On a permanent basis?”

“Not quite,” Gwaine replies, tilting his head thoughtfully. “The Elixir has to be consumed regularly to maintain its effects. Stop drinking it, and you’ll start aging again, and quickly.”

Harry shifts uneasily. “That sounds… unnatural.” He imagined someone withering to dust in the blink of an eye.

“It is,” Gwaine says simply, before smirking faintly. “Doesn’t stop people from wanting it, though. There’ve been plenty of reports about the Philosopher’s Stone over the centuries, but as far as anyone knows, only one exists. It belongs to Monsieur Nicolas Flamel.”

At the name, Hermione gasps softly, but Gwaine doesn’t pause.

“Flamel is the most famous alchemist of our time, though I’d argue he’s more of a philosopher than a scientist.” His voice takes on a slightly teasing tone as he adds, “He’s also an opera lover, if you believe the books. Lives in Devon with his wife, Perenelle, who’s just as brilliant as he is. Flamel’s celebrated his six-hundred-and-sixty-fifth birthday, and Perenelle’s not far behind at six-hundred-and-fifty-eight.”

Ron’s mouth drops open. “Six hundred and sixty-five?! That’s mental!”

“It’s what happens when you drink the Elixir of Life,” Gwaine says dryly. “Flamel’s kept it quiet, but even wizards don't live that long without, ah, outside help. Demon deals and god promises, that sort of thing. So everyone knows, and everyone talks about him in libraries, alchemical circles... even some Potions Masters.”

“Why hasn’t anyone tried to steal it?” Harry asks, frowning. If it were that valuable, then-

Gwaine raises an eyebrow, an amused glint flickering in his eyes. “Who says they haven’t? Flamel’s clever, and he’s had centuries to learn how to protect himself. Who knows what that old man has cooked up?"

"Besides, in terms of making it,” he adds, leaning forward slightly, “the Philosopher’s Stone isn’t just about gold and immortality. It’s about transformation, changing the very essence of something. The Stone works on principles of perfect transmutation , something even advanced potions can’t fully replicate.”

Hermione’s quill scritches furiously as she writes. “Perfect transmutation?”

Gwaine nods. “Alchemy is about balance, precision. The Stone aligns magical and physical forces in ways most wizards can’t even comprehend. Potions brewed with fragments of the Stone enhance their potency, stabilize dangerous reactions, and allow otherwise impossible combinations of ingredients."

Ron stared at him. “Fragments of the Stone?”

Gwaine nodded. “If Flamel let you borrow a sliver—good luck convincing him—you could brew potions that would otherwise blow up in your face. The Stone’s magic balances forces in a way nothing else can. That’s why it’s not just valuable; it’s dangerous.”

Hermione’s eyes were wide, her quill hovering over her parchment. “How is it made?”

“How do you make it?” Ron asks, his voice hushed.

“You don’t,” Gwaine says flatly. “Not unless you’re prepared to pay a price. Flamel spent decades perfecting his methods, and even then, the materials he used might not exist anymore. He made it more than 500 years ago. Alchemy isn’t just about skill—it’s about luck, patience, and having enough money to burn in the pursuit of your ambition. It took decades of study and rare, possibly extinct, materials. Even if someone did try to replicate it, there’s no guarantee they’d survive the process.”

The trio falls silent, Hermione staring down at her notes with a mix of awe and apprehension.

“So it’s impossible?” Hermione pressed, one last time.

“Not impossible,” Gwaine said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But definitely not worth it.” Harry shivered, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Gwaine’s words carried an unsettling weight, like he knew more than he was saying. Like he had personal experience.

Gwaine leaned back into the couch cushions, staring into the fire as if the conversation had worn him out. Ron beamed at him anyway, turning back to Harry and Hermione with an expression that said told you he was brilliant.

“Come on,” Ron said, tugging at Harry’s sleeve. “We’ve got to figure out what this means before Hermione explodes."

Harry remembers how quiet Gwaine is most of the time, how he drifts through the castle like a ghost. But in moments like this, he seems to light up, his words sharp and deliberate, his steel-blue eyes brighter.

“Why do you know all this?” Harry asks suddenly, unable to stop himself.

Gwaine’s lips curve into a small, secretive smile. “Because I like to know things,” he says simply. “And because sometimes the things you learn end up being far more useful than you’d expect."

Sweet-faced, sweet-voiced... dangerous things to overlook, Harry thought suddenly, though he didn’t know why.

Harry glanced at Gwaine one last time before following Ron and Hermione back to their table. Behind them, Gwaine stayed where he was, perfectly still, eyes fixed on the fire like he was seeing something none of them could.

Chapter Text

iv. dying light

The Gryffindor fourth-year dormitory was quiet, save for the soft snores of Oliver Wood and the occasional rustle of the wind against the windows. Percy stepped inside, his arms full of textbooks. Fred and George’s latest chaos had overrun his usual study spot in the common room, so he’d retreated to the library. His head was already buzzing with plans for the next day, assignments, his prefect application plan, and the subtle ways he could steer his roommate toward some semblance of order. A person couldn't succeed with just quidditch in their brain!

But all those thoughts stopped when he saw someone on his bed.

At first, Percy assumed it was a prank. Fred and George, probably, or maybe even Oliver, who loved ribbing him about his neatness. But as he stepped closer, he realized it wasn't any of them. It was Gwaine.

Gwaine was curled up on Percy’s neatly made bed. His long limbs were pulled close, his head tucked down, and his red hair fell in messy tangles over his face. Percy’s first thought was irritation. Gwaine wasn’t supposed to be here. Third-years had their own dorm rooms. What was he doing sneaking in here?

“Gwaine?” Percy said, setting his books down on the desk with a carefully measured thud. “What are you doing here? You’re in the wrong dormitory.”

Gwaine didn’t move.

Percy frowned. He stepped closer, his irritation giving way to concern as he got a better look at his brother. Gwaine wasn’t just asleep or lounging around. His shoulders were tight, and his breathing was shallow. From where he was standing, he could only see a sliver of his brother's face, and it looked pale and damp with sweat. His eyes—steel-blue, usually lively and sharp—looked glassy, unfocused. His expression was slack, almost blank.

“Gwaine,” Percy said again, softer this time. He sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching out to nudge his brother’s shoulder.

Gwaine flinched at the touch. His head snapped up, and for a moment, Percy saw the raw panic in his wide, steel-blue eyes.

“Percy?” Gwaine’s voice sounded destroyed. Like he'd been screaming.

“Yes, it’s me,” Percy said, keeping his voice steady despite the uncomfortable twist in his stomach. “What are you doing here? Did something happen?”

“I—I didn’t mean to…” The words slipped out of Gwaine’s mouth like they’d been dragged from him, faint and broken.

“What?” Percy leaned forward, his brow furrowing. “Didn’t mean to what?”

But Gwaine didn’t answer. His arms tightened around his knees, his body curling in on itself. Percy caught the faint tremor in his shoulders, the way his breathing hitched unevenly, like he was trying not to cry but couldn’t quite hold it in.

Percy reached out instinctively, his hand hovering just over Gwaine’s arm. But then he stopped, unsure. Physical affection wasn’t their thing. It never had been. They were Weasleys, yes, but they were also Percy and Gwaine. Teasing, bickering, perfectly synchronized in their shared disdain for sentimentality.

This wasn’t that.

This wasn’t anything Percy recognized.

“You’re being strange,” Percy said finally, his voice too stiff, too unsure. It was the only way he knew how to cover the gnawing unease in his chest.

Gwaine let out a shaky breath, something like a laugh but far too broken to be real. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m being strange.”

It wasn’t a denial.

Percy didn’t know what to say. His mind raced with half-formed questions. Did someone hurt you? Did Fred and George take a prank too far? Are you sick? Are you scared? But none of them made it out.

Instead, he said, “You should go back to your dorm.”

Gwaine didn’t move.

Percy stared at him for a long moment, his jaw tightening. “You’re not telling me what’s going on, and I’m not going to sit here and guess.” His words were clipped, but his hand lingered near Gwaine’s arm. He didn't know why, but he knew he had to keep an eye on him.

When Gwaine finally lifted his head, it was slow and heavy, like it took all the effort he had. His gaze met Percy’s for a fleeting second, and Percy felt something cold twist in his stomach.

It wasn’t just that Gwaine looked tired. It wasn’t just that his face was pale and his eyes too wide. It was that he looked hollow. Like something inside him had been scraped away, leaving nothing but an empty shell behind.

“I’ll go,” Gwaine whispered, his voice so faint Percy almost didn’t catch it.

But he didn’t move. He stared at Percy, wet-eyed.

Percy sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. Stay here if you want.” He stood, reaching for his blanket and draping it over Gwaine with the kind of stiffness that came from not knowing what else to do.

Gwaine didn’t react, but Percy thought he saw the faintest flicker of something in his eyes...gratitude? Relief? It was gone too quickly to tell.

Percy turned toward his desk, pretending to busy himself with papers he didn’t need to sort. Behind him, Gwaine lay perfectly still, his breathing shallow and uneven.

Percy didn’t know what had happened.

But something had. His brother had always been quiet, but not with Percy. And he'd never been wrong like this. His usual sharpness had been stripped away.

Percy glanced over his shoulder, watching as Gwaine’s eyes fluttered closed, his face slack with exhaustion.

He thought, oddly, that his brother looked like a broken doll, crumpled body and broken joints. The thought was repulsive enough that he shied away from it. But he couldn't help but come back to it as his brother lay prone in his bed, barely breathing.

Chapter Text

v. mother

The kitchen smelled of fresh bread and a bubbling stew that Molly had been stirring absently for the past twenty minutes. Outside, the faint sounds of Ginny and Ron arguing about something carried through the open window. Fred and George had roped Percy into one of their elaborate pranks because Percy’s muffled shouting echoed faintly from somewhere upstairs. Gwaine kept an ear out for anything truly heinous, but it seemed rather normal.

His mum didn’t flinch. Molly had long since mastered the art of letting the chaos roll off her shoulders. Besides, she had someone to talk to, someone to keep her company.

Gwaine sat at the table, a stack of peeled potatoes in front of him, his hands moving in quick, precise motions as he chopped them into even cubes. He didn’t look up as Molly sighed and leaned on the counter, turning the spoon over in the pot.

“Your father has the nerve to tell me we should host a dinner for the Lovegoods,” she said, her voice laced with exasperation. “Dinner! As if I don’t already have enough on my plate with seven children tearing this house apart!”

Gwaine hummed lightly, a sound of acknowledgment more than agreement, and kept chopping. He kindly refrained from reminding her that Bill and Charlie were out for the country...or that two of her children were in the garden. His knife hit the cutting board in an even rhythm, and Molly found herself relaxing a bit just listening to it.

“‘It’ll be good for them, good for their morale, Molly,’ he says,” she continued, her tone shifting into a wry imitation of Arthur’s voice. “‘Morale!' Who needs morale when the kitchen’s half-falling apart and the larder's half-empty? And the Lovegoods! You know how Xenophilius gets!”

Gwaine made a face. He did know how Xenophilius got. Poor Luna. But as Molly turned to look at Gwaine, waiting for a response, he glanced up at her, his steel-blue eyes soft and understanding, and gave her a faint smile. “You’d pull it off, Mum,” he said. “You always do.”

That was all it took. Molly sighed again, but this time it was less sharp, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. “I suppose,” she said, turning back to the stew.

This was how it always was with Gwaine. He didn’t need to do much, just sit there, listen, and offer those quiet, reassuring words that made everything seem a little less overwhelming. She didn’t have to explain things to him the way she did with the others. He just understood the pressure his poor mother faced.

“You know, love,” she said, stirring the pot with more vigor now, “you’re a better listener than most adults I know. You’ll make someone very happy one day.”

“Mum,” Gwaine said softly, the faintest hint of a laugh in his voice. “You keep saying that like it’s the goal,” he teased lightly. “What if I just want to be a good cook for myself?”

“Well, that too,” Molly allowed, watching him with a fond smile, before insisting, “but mark my words, whoever you marry will count themselves lucky. You’re kind, you’re clever, and you’ve got such a steady head on your shoulders! Not like Fred and George, always scheming. Or Percy, bless him, who’s so wrapped up in his books he can barely see past the end of his nose. You’re so reliable, Gwaine. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Gwaine’s smile didn’t falter, but his hands paused for just a moment before he set the knife down. “I think you’d manage just fine, Mum,” he said. "Remember that Christmas, the one with the reunion? No one had a single bad thing to say about the food, not even Great Aunt Muriel."

It was the kind of thing Molly loved to hear, even if she didn’t notice the way his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve or the brief flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

Her boy was solid, steady, and dependable in a way that let her lean on him without a second thought. She didn’t realize how much she did it, how often she sat him down at the table and unloaded her worries, not because she needed him to fix them, but because he was there, and he listened, and he always knew the right thing to say. There was something in his boy's sensible nature- he could be trusted to calm her without downplaying whatever issue that plagued her.

She didn’t worry about Gwaine, not really. He was so capable, so mature, even for his age. There was nothing to worry about because Gwaine never gave her a reason to.

And that, in Molly’s mind, was proof of how strong he was.

“Do you think I should invite the Diggorys if we do this dinner?” she asked, moving on as if she hadn’t just heaped half her mental burdens onto his shoulders. “Amos can be a bit much, but they’re lovely people, really.”

Gwaine nodded, reaching for another potato. “They’d probably appreciate it,” he said, his tone as calm and even as ever.

Molly smiled. “That’s what I thought.”

She kept talking, her voice warm and bright as she planned out this hypothetical dinner. To her, this was normal, mother and son, working together in the kitchen, sharing the kind of bond she thought every parent dreamed of having with their children.

And to Gwaine, it was normal too. Normal to listen. Normal to carry. Normal to offer reassurances he didn’t always believe in himself.

By the time the stew was finished and the potatoes were neatly diced, Molly was feeling much better. She kissed Gwaine’s head as she passed him on her way to the sink, her heart full of love and gratitude for the boy who was always there when she needed him.

“You’re such a good lad,” she said, her voice soft with affection.

Gwaine smiled, ducking his head. “Thanks, Mum,” he said quietly.

She didn’t notice the way his shoulders tensed just slightly before he picked up the knife again. She didn’t notice the way his smile faltered when her back was turned.

Why would she? Gwaine was fine. He was steady, dependable, her sweet boy.

And that, Molly thought, was all she needed to know.

Chapter Text

vi. mindwipe

Gwaine felt his blood go cold. "Lockhart tried to do what?" The words didn’t come out as words. They came out as a hiss, low and sharp, more snake than human.

Ron flinched, but he pushed forward anyway, his exhaustion making him flutter nervously around Gwaine. “He tried to Obliviate us, but you know my wand-it backfired on him. It was… what was that word you told me? Caramel? Caram-”

“Karmic,” Gwaine breathed, barely loud enough to be heard. His hands trembled as he reached for Ron, pulling him into his arms like a lifeline. His baby brother squirmed against him, muttering half-hearted protests, but Gwaine didn’t let go. He buried his face in Ron’s hair, clutching him like he could hold him in place forever. Ron stilled slowly, his small hands curling into Gwaine’s robes as he gave up, leaning his weight into him. A dampness spread through the fabric where Ron turned his face. Gwaine only held tighter.

For his part, Gwaine didn’t shake. He didn’t panic. He didn’t cry. No, he had moved so far past those things that he had looped around and reached a state of icy, blistering fury.

Garret had taught him what it was to be powerless. Garret had held him down and forced himself on him. He'd sealed his mouth shut and hurt him enough that he still couldn't speak of it. His body had been hollowed out for that wretched worm to puppet. But no matter how much had been taken, his memories were his own. His mind was his.

Your body was sacred. Gwaine had believed that, even when his own belief had been tested, shattered, mocked. But more than that, your mind was your last bastion, your only inviolable fortress. It was yours. And that was why the darkest magic went straight for it, twisting it, corrupting it, leaving behind nothing but shadows and ruin.

The idea that some lowlife, some petty, pathetic charlatan, had dared to tried to mindwipe—no, to mind-rape—his baby brother?

Gwaine was glad Ron couldn’t see his face. Whatever he looked like now must have been monstrous. It must be ghoulish because he could feel the way his face had locked up. It was not fit for human eyes.

Ron and Harry might think Lockhart’s punishment was enough. They were children. Of course they would. They still thought the world could be fair, that justice was a thing you could hold in your hands. But Gwaine knew better. What justice was there in a man who had no qualms about erasing children’s minds just to protect his ego? What justice was there in letting this man, who tried to strip away someone’s very identity walk free, his life intact? What justice was there in letting a parasite thrive?

Gwaine thought of his mother’s shelves, crammed with Lockhart’s books. He had counted them once. There were eleven. Eleven pieces of stolen glory, each one written over the erasure of braver people, on the backs of those far better than him.

What had Lockhart done? He had laughed his way to fame and fortune, fashioning himself into a false icon. And he had never paid for it. He had only prospered.

Gwaine almost laughed, hysterically. He was not surprised, now, that another monster had come to Hogwarts. He was not surprised in the slightest.

Gwaine didn’t think of himself as an avenger. He was a broken child, shattered by the hands of a beast, and half-mad from what he had endured. His literal only coping mechanism was pretending to be Percy, wearing his brother’s skin like holy armor to shield his fractured self. He was more ghost than boy, and rarely a night went without him crying himself awake.

But by Merlin, by Morgana, by his blood and bones, he would make sure Gilderoy Lockhart never recovered.

Chapter Text

vii. the first time

The first time Gwaine told someone, someone who should have been listening, someone with the authority to fix it, he said it carefully, in words that weren’t too big or too small. Just right. Measured.

“There’s something off about him.”

The professor smiled too much. Stood too close. Looked at the other boys—and sometimes, at the girls—in a way Gwaine recognized was off, though no one else seemed to see it. They told him he was imagining things. They told him he was exaggerating. That Professor Garrett was excellent. That he was an exceptional teacher. They were lucky to get him, you know. They were very lucky to be taught by him.

Gwaine had always been good at swallowing his words. No one wanted to hear him speak the truth.

And then, the first time it happened-

Gwaine told no one.

The first time it happened, Gwaine froze. It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t really a loud, or rough or- Garrett’s hands were cold and steady, pressing just a little too long, lingering where they shouldn’t. Gwaine stared at a spot on the wall and waited for it to end. He waited and waited and waited, and walked out, legs shaking.

“It’s nothing,” he whispered to himself. “I’m imagining it. I must be.” He had to be imagining it, he had to be making it up, because the alternative was-

The shame sat heavy in his chest, pressing into his ribs like a stone, but he thought (hoped) he could ignore it. Forget it. Because–who the hell would believe him? Professor Garrett was charming, respected, liked. He smiled at all the right moments and spoke softly, with just enough authority to make students hang on his words.

“You’re lucky,” people said when they found out Gwaine was staying late for ‘extra help.’ “He’s a brilliant teacher.”

Gwaine thought he could pretend it hadn’t happened. A nightmare was all it was. A nightmare was all it could be. A nightmare, he didn’t know then, was only beginning.

He was thirteen, and what could he do? He told himself to forget it. To let silence bury it deep enough that it wouldn’t rot. No one knew. It wouldn’t happen again. It wouldn’t.

The second time it happened, silence wasn’t enough. Because with that second time came the ugly realization that this was going to keep happening. As long as Garret was there and Gwaine was in his power, this would repeat. Until whatever was left of him died, too.

He tried to tell someone again, but by then, the truth had become something slippery and shameful. Everyone liked him. Gwaine was clever enough to know that no one was going to look closer just because he asked them to. So he stopped asking.

He stopped going to meals and started avoiding his friends. He hid in the library, then the empty corners of the castle, as if he could vanish entirely into the stone walls. No one noticed—he was the quiet one, after all. The overlooked one. The Weasley who didn’t make a fuss. Why would strangers notice when his own damn family didn't?

And the shame grew roots, deep and tangled, wrapping itself around him until it felt like it was his fault. Until he thought, maybe, that this was just what happened to people who weren’t careful enough.

And then it happened to someone else.

Chapter Text

viii. collision

The corridor was quiet, muffled by thick stone walls. Gwaine’s not looking where he’s going. He turned a corner at a half-jog, head down, arms full of scrolls. He didn’t see her until they collided.

A soft “oof” and a thud. Gwaine swore under his breath, kneeling instantly.

“I’m so sorry-here, let me-”

The girl was a tiny thing. A bite of person, if that was even a description. He knew that she had to be at least eleven to be in school, and yet she reminded him of a child much younger.

Her Hufflepuff scarf was too long for her neck, trailing behind her like she’d forgotten how to wear it properly. Her hair was dark and plaited and she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the floor, cheeks blooming with embarrassment.

“It’s alright,” she whispered. The elder sibling in him melted.

“No, really,” Gwaine gentled his voice as he passed her a heavy copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi “I should have been looking. Are you well?”

She nodded. Still no eye contact. Still kneeling, she clutched her books like armor.

“What’s your name?” he asked softly.

A pause.

“Eleanor.”

“Nice to meet you, Eleanor. I’m Gwaine Weasley.”

Her head dipped in the barest suggestion of a nod. He offered her the last of her fallen books and a smile she didn’t look up to see. Then she picked herself up and scurried off down the hall, steps quick, braids swinging behind her, with the lavender ribbon trailing down her small back.

Gwaine stood there a second, watching her go. He frowned. She reminded him, oddly enough, of George. When they were younger and in the middle of the War. Hiding in cellars and bunkers made his younger brother jumpy, careful. Afraid of contact.

Then he shook his head and continued onwards.

Chapter Text

ix. body in the lake

Gwaine decides to stay over winter hols that year because the idea of escaping, only to come back to Garrett, burns. He'd rather not give in to the temptation to run away to Ireland. He must believe that he will eventually escape from the monster that lusts after him, and the latter requires education.

(Also, books and parchment can never judge him for suddenly, silently sobbing in misery. He truly might become a better student as a result, purely out of necessity.)

There are fewer students around, including his family- the twins decide to stay because they want extra time to case the school, but Percy needs to grill their father on the Ministry to make more concrete plans. Charlie has invited himself over to Nymphadora Tonk's house (their friendship confuses him beyond words), and Bill is so visibly burned out from his NEWT classes that they, Weasley siblings extraordinaire, show some unprecedented unity in shoving him onto the train with nothing but his wand and a few stolen meat pies.

Fewer students could mean that there was more space for shenanigans, but fewer students also apparently mean professors keep a more earnest eye on them. The fact that Garret is included in this number, again, burns, but without classes, he can afford to stay wrapped up in his bed (or rather, Percy's empty room, with Oliver also gone for the break). He leaves for nothing except to shower (to scrub at his skin until it's red and raw, even if Garret hasn't touched him in over a week) and to eat.

This isn't the only reason he doesn't know, but he will offer it up as the most obvious. He is so busy trying to hide from Garret that he simply does not realize the sickening alternative- a predator like him can and would seek out other victims. And there are others, even more malleable and vulnerable than he.

But he is so grateful for the reprieve. He is so grateful that he can almost pretend he doesn't dream of spearmint flavored kissing that churns his stomach. It would be easier if the villain of his story had obvious tells, such as foul breath or a miserable appearance. Something so that showed his evil clearly, so they could banish him to the vilest prison.

Garrett is handsome, soft-spoken and confident, and charming. Garrett is so loved that he suspects that several students have started an informal fan club for him. They hands that feature in his nightmares are cooed over.

Gwaine wants to dig his thumbs into the soft tissue of his eyes until they're crushed. Gwaine hates relentlessly and wretchedly, like a child praying with devotion. 

It also does not occur to him, in truth, that there were consequences beyond the horrors he was already facing. He didn't understand, not truly, that people reacted to things differently. For some people, a large, gaping cut across the torso would barely inconvenience them.

Others are…more fragile. A small cut on the arm could make them tremble and pass away from the shock. More delicate, maybe gentler? Purer, unable to endure the pain. Unable to bear the circumstances. Maybe too young, even if they're all really too young for beasts to prey on them.

Regardless. Gwaine is desolate, lost, and miserable. Gwaine also will not allow this man to kill his future, the way he has forever tarnished the present. He must live, must cling to life so that he may be free.

But, as they pull the small, sallow body from the Great Lake, it hits him how a person–how a child (because surely, he can't be a child anymore, not with all that's been done to him–) might see that the only way out was…

Was…

It's not like he knows, immediately, who it is. Or what it is they've found, with the implications and theories. He was sickened by the rumors, but the idea of a first-year's body being hauled up from the waters, reported by the Merfolk, is horrible enough that anyone would feel the same.

But initially, they were just rumors. Albeit in a particularly dark bent, but. Dead children are dead children. The rumor mill grinds forward, saying it was suicide. But people generally attribute purpose to what is usually chance. It is cold outside in Scotland, and dark near the lake.

If a ickle-firstie managed to dodge the patrols enough to escape supervision, only to end up tripping or slipping into the dark, murky waters…it was tragic, that's all.

But it itches at him. The rumors don't get confirmed, but he drags himself to the funeral along with his peers, still in school. He sees the twins, unusually sober, some space away. He sees George curl into Fred, discreet and unnoticeable to anyone who didn’t study them obsessively like he does.

He still does not know. Not yet.

But the casket is open– at least for a brief period, and he catches sight of damp lavender ribbons.

That night, he allows thoughts to float in his mind, randomly. He allows everything, all the horrible, miserable rumors and suspicions coalesce into something more concrete. He lets his mind assume and suspect and connect the pieces together.

By the time classes start again, he has a truly upsetting idea of what might have happened. What might have driven a shy, secretive first-year to the brink.

That idea becomes fact once he trails the lake, hand cupping a dim light, suspecting and hoping against everything that he was wrong–

He finds her small, ghostly self, and screams into his palm.

Chapter Text

x. ghostly

Up until then, he still had (however slim and meager) some hope that he was wrong. His mind was always prone to jumping to the worst consequences, and after…everything, his tendency to assume the most horrible option had doubled.

He supposed it was easier to be proven wrong than to be hit by terrible events over and over again. Easier to not have hope.

But staring at the bedraggled corpse of a spirit in front of him, he wished, again, that he had been wrong.

He didn't know much about ghosts- or. He knew the same things an average Wizarding pureblood or half-blood did. In the same way a Muggle would know a few facts about the pests that invaded their gardens or the animals in the zoo, Gwaine knew about local wizarding creatures. He knew about ghouls and gnomes, and (thanks to Charlie's unfaltering obsession) dragons. He knew a bit about the Fae as well, as he once caught Great Aunt Muriel in a particular Mood.

Ghosts were–not beings, they had strenuously objected to being called that–imprints. They were the remnants of magical people, a lasting effect left behind. There were arguments that while ghosts made a choice to linger, it was hard to say that…the entirety of their soul was within their ghost. It seemed more likely that whatever comprised a ghost was a collection of memories that linked them to a specific location or person.

Case in point: that annoying ghost in the girls' lavatory. Gwaine had heard many a complaint about that.

Like all ghosts, there was a chill around her. As he stumbled closer, gooseflesh rose on his arm, and he began to shiver. His teeth weren't chattering…for now.

"Eleanor?" He whispered into the night. Whispered to the tiny figure in front of him.

It's odd to be so close to a ghost. The Hogwarts ghosts don't…they don't hover so close. Oh, they dance around the populace, floating above eye level, shifting back and forth, but they're never within a grasping range. He never considered why, but he might understand now.

Because something inside of him is screaming to move back. To stop, to freeze. Like looking at an oncoming thunderstorm, like standing in front of a tsunami. This was something dead. Or worse, someone. Someone who died in pain and fear. It radiated from her, like a jagged wound dripping blood on the floor.

He hadn't really meant to speak. It just. It just seemed wrong not to, though, not to see her and name her and talk to her like a person. To just think of her as a ghost and not a little girl.

She turned towards him, slowly, like she was frozen over. Based on the icy water dripping from her form, he suspected her death had been long and cold.

Her large, solemn eyes still seemed too big for her small face. They didn't bore into him with accusation or with hatred, but the way she still looked frightened haunted him.

Gwaine's hands balled into fists at his side. He opened his mouth to ask her, to confirm, to interrogate so that he could know for sure, but all that came out was a hiccupping sob. It startles both of them, he thinks, as he crumples to the ground, the lamplight skittering in front of him until it goes out.

He tries to shove his fist into his mouth, but all that does is muffle his sobbing. He doesn't know why he's crying. His chest aches as he lies prostrate on the ground.

"Sorry," he breathes. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." Like a sinner in front of a saint, he whispers it over and over and over again because he is.

While he was hiding in Percy's room, Garrett was sinking his claws into someone else, and that's his crime, but it's Gwaine's fault for not realizing. For not even considering the possibility.

"Sorry," he whispers, voice cracking. His head hurts a little. He stares up at her, wishing she would do something. Scream at him, maybe. Float away in rage. Cry, even, instead of staring at him with that dead, frozen look that reminds him of a carefully stifled scream. She's a child, he thinks. She's a child and she's dead and it's all-

Gwaine drops his head into his palms and tries to breathe. He has to get back to Gryffindor Tower. He has to pick himself and drag himself back inside, back up the stairs, and past the hallways when all he wants is to sink into the deep, cold waters.

"Oh, Eleanor, we're really in it now," he whispers, feeling like there's a balloon inside his rib cage that's about to pop violently.

Suddenly, there's a cold, weightless pressure on his head, and he nearly flinches back from the chill when he looks up to see a small hand sitting against his forelocks.

Limpid eyes looked at him. Ghostly tears dripped down her face. It's the first actual expression she's made, and it makes him tear up again.

There was so much he wanted to say. Much of it was hysterical repetitions of "I wish he never saw you, I wish he never saw me, I wish he never came here, I wish I wish I wish-", but what comes out of his mouth at the end is-

"I'm going to stop him. Eleanor, do you believe me? I'm going to stop him."

The chill of her hand remains, and Gwaine. Remains crumpled on the bank of the lake.

He stares at the damp grass.

"I'm sorry, Eleanor," he whispers again.

Both of them know the truth. There's no comfort to be found in this situation. It will never be alright. Garrett is going to get away with it.

He already has. They're never going to link his actions to her death, not without specific bits of context. And Gwaine wouldn't mind offering up that, wouldn't mind telling someone so long as he was believed. So long as someone looked at him and saw the bruises on his soul, and thought him honest.

("He held me down and-")

But no one has even entertained the idea that there's more to the man that his shallow smiles. No one has even–no one has even heard Gwaine out. Not even the barest, minute details he can force himself to say. Garrett is a monster because he flies underneath everyone's notice.

He can stand a lot of things. He has endured a lot of things. But if he's accused of lying, if someone looks him in eye and tells him that he's making it up, he's going to follow Eleanor into the grave.

He can endure a lot, he knows. He can't endure this. He won't endure this.

Garrett can't be allowed to get away with this. Gwaine knows that most DADA professors only stay for a year, due to the curse or happenstance or whatever, so it's very likely that Gwaine himself will escape. But teaching at Hogwarts–the mark of having taught at Hogwarts…

How many doors can that open for a charming man? How many schools would offer to hire him after this year?

Gwaine imagines, sickened, another version of himself, another child, staying late in Garrett's classroom. Asking for help, or being offered tutoring. Staying late, staying alone, with that beast. He imagines another little girl being cornered and trapped until they decided dying was safer than living.

Gwaine can't- Gwaine can't. He can't let that happen. He can't give the man the opportunity. If he leaves, Gwaine will be free. But his freedom means someone else will be under Garrett…Garrett's influence. Someone else will take his place. So many other children will, they'll get, all of them-

So long as Garrett lives, someone will get hurt. When he thinks of it that way, things become very clear. So long as Garrett lives, none of them are safe.

"I'm going to kill him," he whispers, voice hoarse. He surprises himself with the amount of conviction he feels. Like this is a choice he's been thinking about in the back of his head forever, only to decide on the course of action finally. "I'm going to kill him." He looks up at the ghost, and she stares back at him, eyes wide with something like wonder.

"Do you believe me? I'm going to put him in his grave."

And he will never hurt anyone else.

Chapter Text

xi. premediation

The fact that he comes down with a chill immediately after swearing to kill someone is…rather unimpressive, but also in line with his general luck. It could have been caused by the icy sleet that still lined the outer courtyards despite the enchantments placed to prevent that. It could’ve been the cold air blustering at his face and turning his nose drippy.

It could also be Gwaine’s ancestors, reminding him from beyond the grave that Weasleys didn’t do this sort of thing. Plotting. Scheming.

The Weasleys, from back when they were migratory Druids following unicorns to their current modern day situation, where most of them are scattered across Europe post-war, were firmly aligned with the light. His family has never really been known for the darker magics, not the way that the Notts or Blacks were.

Ignoring all moral arguments about the inherent dignity of man and the way righteousness paid off and so forth-

They just…didn’t have the right temperament for it.

Brewing up a bloodline curse that struck precisely when the caster wanted, years from the initial spell- that sort of behavior was not only decidedly uncharacteristic, but also just. Plain impractical in his family’s eyes.

If you wanted someone dead that bad, you could just keep thumping them until they took a dirt nap. If it doesn’t work, you’re simply not hitting hard enough.

The Weasleys tendency to hit it until it died was….something, for sure. And he can’t even knock it.

This method has served his family pretty damn well, with the state of wizard forensics!

If everyone expected you to kill a man via hex, it was actually pretty clever to circumvent that entirely but wrapping your hands around your quarry’s throat until they stopped struggling. It was easy to cast a jinx. It was even easier to slash and hack and bury the body in your detestable neighbors’ yard, so the inevitable tracing spell pinned it on them.

Unfortunately, Gwaine doesn’t have an ancestral sword or a shovel at Hogwarts. He doesn't have a plot of land magically imbued with the blood and bone of his ancestors, who would probably happily devour the body of his rapist. He doesn’t even have his siblings, because none of them have the time or inclination to notice that he’s increasingly going insane.

Which.

Is maddening! And so very usual.

(Percy does notice the sickness, though, and even deigns to berate him for his carelessness as he boils tea for him. He is probably the only sibling willing to come near him. The twins have noted his absence and have declared they won’t come near him, lest their pranking get interrupted. Knowing their general relationship, he’s just surprised they haven’t snuck inside to hex him and make him worse.

Oliver Woods has threatened that if Charlie falls ill before he can implement the 47 new strategies he’s come up with for his prized player before the next match, he is going to throw himself off the Astronomy tower and take Charis Selwyn, the Slytherin seeker, with him.

Bill doesn’t know whether it’s day or night, not since he’s come back and hit the books again, so Gwaine decides not to hold it against him too much, not when he can always twist the knife in later.)

Gwaine dreams of a day when he can linger in the DADA classroom without dry heaving. He dreams of a day when he can walk past that wretched office without trembling. He dreams of a day when he no longer fears for himself and for children younger than him.

Maybe all insanity is really just desperation twisted. And Gwaine, deep down, is so desperate it hurts. He would pray to the gods, but his people had never worshipped anything but Magic itself.

He can’t be a Weasley about this. He can’t be Gryffindor about this. He wants to kill one man and get away with it. He wants to kill one man, promptly and easily as he can and move forward from this. He-

(And this is the not-so-Gryffindor part-)

He needs this man dead. Not for honor, not for safety, not because he’s a predator-

He needs him dead because he wants him dead. It’s as simple as that. And as complicated as that. Because he’s not, he’s never had to ever consider it. He’s never wanted a man dead before, and he feels so incredibly out of his depth. He’s woefully…inexperienced. Panicked.

Look at you, he grumbles to himself, sneezing into a napkin. Can’t even properly plot to kill a man. And the hat said he was a consummate Slytherin. For someone who embodied cunning and ambition, he isn’t good at walking the walk, was he?

How terrible, he thought, staring at the snow falling outside. How terrible, that the only part that really bothered him was his proficiency, and not the state of his soul. How awful, that he really didn’t mind aforementioned apathy all that much anyway.