Pairings: Harry/Mafalda, (past) Draco/Mafalda
Begun: Winter 2009/2010 Completed July 2018
Summary: Harry had never seen legs like that. They should be illegal—and how did little Mafalda Prewett grow up to be such a bombshell?
Notes: Mafalda as BLONDE Eleanor Tomlinson re: Death Comes to Pemberley
Who is Mafalda? Mafalda Prewett was a prominent character who appeared in the first draft(s) of HP4. JKR cut her out because she wasn’t serving the plot well, and she was replaced with Rita Skeeter, of all characters (at least for plot purposes). She was the cousin of Ron Weasley and her father was an accountant.
Warnings: Squibs, Blood Status, Jealousy
Harry swallowed as he came into the main sitting room of the Burrow. Surely that couldn’t—? Could it—?
“Oh, don’t mind Faldy,” Ginny said, coming up beside him. “Our cousins couldn’t be bothered to have a witch in the house for most of the summer, so she was shafted onto us again.”
How could he have forgotten little Mafalda Prewett who had followed them around the summer of the Quidditch World Cup? It seemed an age ago—it was an age ago. He had only been fourteen, and now, well, now he certainly wasn’t. Mafalda certainly was no longer a girl of eleven but a woman of seventeen? Eighteen?
She was dressed in Muggle leggings and some sort of peasant dress, that just showed off her long legs, her strawberry blonde curls pulled up into a loose bun and held in place by what appeared to be several quills. It was completely eccentric and yet utterly—well, Harry thought, he really shouldn’t be thinking such things.
He was suddenly glad he wasn’t wearing glasses anymore. They would just obstruct his view of her gorgeous legs—
At that moment, Mafalda glanced up from her Potions book and blinked, revealing her large green eyes. “Oh, hello, Harry,” she said casually, as if the hero of the wizarding world hadn’t walked into the room or was ogling her.
It was utterly amazing. Usually he only got that response from Muggle girls, though a few of them had started to recognize him as his modeling agency actually hired him out for Muggle ads. He knew it wasn’t really a serious profession, but he had decided he really didn’t want to go into the Ministry or any serious line of work. He had more than enough money, and really, his entire childhood had been about war and seriousness, so he thought he might as well be silly for once in his life.
Plus he had nice clothes for the first time in his life, without having to deal with the hassle of having to shop for them or develop his own sense of style.
Hermione had of course gone off on him, and her lectures seemed to get longer every time he saw her. Her latest cause was for him to find a nice witch or Muggle to settle down with—preferably Ginny, actually, who had remained surprisingly single since the horrid war had ended.
It could have been worse, he thought to himself. He could have become a playboy or philanderer. He could be like Malfoy and get drunk nearly every night and end up in the tabloids—usually with the outline of a witch’s arm at the edge of the photograph. As it was, Harry ended up in the tabloids, but only when he took some pretty Muggle to a nice restaurant. Some reporters speculated that his Muggle-upbringing was to blame. Why else would the Chosen One choose not to date a pureblood witch?
As if he ever would. If he ever dated a witch, it would be a Muggleborn, and Hermione was clearly taken—first by Ron, then Viktor, then someone whose name he couldn’t remember, then Viktor again. Really, he couldn’t keep track of it, if he was completely honest. That’s why he had a little black book—specifically to keep track of his friends’ love lives and so he wouldn’t make a complete idiot of himself.
Hermione also bossed him around. He probably wouldn’t date her anyway, he came to think of it.
“We really can’t seem to get rid of her,” Ginny started babbling, and Harry noticed that despite her casual position, Mafalda flinched. They were all in the same room, and Harry was amazed that Ginny would actually say something so thoughtless in Mafalda’s hearing. She’d been careless with her words when Bill was engaged to Fleur, but he’d thought Ginny might have grown up a little since then. Clearly not.
“Funny,” he remarked, specifically taking an armchair across from Mafalda so he could check out her legs a bit more, “my relatives often said the same thing about me.”
A small smile curled on Mafalda’s lips, showing that she was paying attention.
“Yes, well, they were horrible most of the time.”
“Most of the time?” Harry quipped, but he wasn’t even looking at Ginny any longer. No, really, Mafalda’s legs were really too good to pass up getting a good look at. Surely such legs couldn’t be single.
Harry felt like a lecher. She must be legal, though, right?
“What year are you going into, Mafalda?” he asked, glad when she actually looked up and made eye contact with him.
“Final. I’m a year behind, though, because of the war.”
Ah, eighteen then. More than legal. “Well, we all were,” Harry commented quietly.
“Yes, but you didn’t go back,” she remarked, smirking. “Don’t think that Slytherins don’t read the tabloids as much as Hufflepuffs.”
“Well, you don’t really need it for modeling, and the Ministry is for more driven individuals.”
She flipped the page of her book. “You could have done something else, you know. Not everyone goes into the Ministry.”
Harry actually blushed. “True, but I just fell into it.” He had, really. He’d been sitting at Florean Fortescue’s, a gorgeous blonde had approached him and given him her card, he’d called the number and found out that it was a business card of all things.
“I doubt you just fall into anything,” Mafalda mumbled under her breath, but she was no longer looking at him, which was a pity. Her eyes were nearly her best asset—after her legs.
Ginny cleared her throat loudly. “We put you in Bill’s old room,” she said, and Harry nodded. He was still staring at Mafalda’s shapely legs. “Harry!”
“Er—what?” he asked, looking about and his gaze landing on an irate looking Ginny Weasley. She looked far too much like her mother at such times. It really was frightening.
“Mafalda’s boyfriend wouldn’t appreciate the way you’re staring at her.”
Harry’s heart sank. She had a boyfriend? Really? Well, of course she did, but a bloke could hope…
He heard Mafalda snort behind him. “Low, Weasley. Low.”
Harry wasn’t quite sure he understood. He wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to. “So, you don’t have a boyfriend?”
“Course she does,” Ginny said, crossing her arms over her chest, emphasizing her large bosom.
“He’s not a boyfriend, Weasley, he’s a boy-toy. There’s a distinct difference.” Mafalda didn’t even bother to look up at her as she spoke. She just took one of the quills from her bun and scribbled something down in her book.
“I hardly see—“
“He amuses me and passes the time. He also happens to be my dearest friend. I am, however, single.” Her green eyes flashed at her second cousin, challenging her to say anything else. “Besides, what do you care? I thought you hated Malfoy.”
Harry spluttered. Malfoy? Draco Malfoy was little Mafalda’s boy-toy? He would agree to such a demeaning phrase? Then again, just looking at Mafalda’s legs, he would agree to anything, even being her boy-on-the-side while she walked around wearing gifts he’d surely give her.
“He’s a pointy ferret,” Ginny pointed out, and Harry couldn’t quite repress the smirk that crossed his lips.
Mafalda looked up at that exact moment, her green eyes calculating.
He studied her carefully, looking for any similarities between her and Ginny. They were second cousins on the Prewett side, after all. Mafalda’s hair was more blonde than strawberry, she was taller, her features more defined in a diamond shaped face. She lacked the pureblood cheekbones the entire Weasley brood had, but her mother was a Muggle, he remembered. Still, it would make her face too severe if she had them. He wondered for a moment at Malfoy actually being with her—or not being—whatever it was. Malfoy was obsessed with blood purity, and Mafalda’s mother was a Muggle and her father a Squib. Still, for magic to resurface in her, it would have to be really and truly strong. Also, who could resist legs like that?
“You can stop staring at me now,” Mafalda stated calmly as she turned back to her Potions book. “What would dear old Sluggy say? One of his favorites losing his mind because of little old me?”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “No one cares you’re in the Slug Club, Faldy.”
Harry’s ears automatically perked up. Old Slughorn was dying to have him come to one of his soirées, and if Mafalda would be there …
Mafalda looked up at him through her lashes as if she knew exactly what was going through his head. Harry wasn’t one for subtlety anyway, he decided. And she was eighteen and had proclaimed herself to be single.
However, before he could open her mouth, she was looking at him hard and saying something. “I don’t much fancy Cousin Molly’s cooking. Not tonight at least.”
“Mum’s a great cook! How dare you.. !” Ginny began, but Mafalda just looked at Harry, quills fluttering a little as she moved.
“I could take you out somewhere,” he offered. “I don’t often go to the wizarding world because I’m, well, me, but I know a fair few Muggle places.” He took in the length of her legs again and swallowed. He wondered what it would be like to have them wrapped around him.
“Oi! Eyes up here,” she laughed. “I want to be seen, Harry, not hidden away.”
Ginny was becoming plum-faced. Harry paid it no attention.
“Are you trying to make Malfoy jealous?” he asked carefully. “I don’t fancy playing second fiddle to anyone.”
“You take me out to The White Witch and then I’ll decide what to do about the two of you,” she bargained, pale green eyes flashing. “I won’t promise anything before that.”
Ginny was oddly quiet. Not looking at his ex, Harry instead said, “Let me go make the reservation.”
“You do that,” Mafalda said smugly. “I’ll just go wash my hair. It must be covered in ink.”
Gagging, Ginny looked at her.
“Don’t worry, I don’t want company,” she said snidely to her cousin. “Wouldn’t want to put you out, Gin.”
“Wouldn’t do it even if you asked, Faldy.”
“You do know how much I hate that nickname,” she muttered under her breath, leaving the room with her Potions book. Harry could only watch her go, his eyes glued to her perfect ass.
“Earth to Pegasus Rider!” Ginny said, snapping her fingers. “What the hell was that about?”
“Yes, I saw you ogling my cousin, and then she asked you to dinner, and you said yes, you moron! You know her parents only send her here because she’s a bit of a handful.”
“She may be a bit of a handful, but she’s certainly intriguing,” Harry countered, taking floo from the counter. “Now, I have to make a reservation and figure out where my Faywick robes are and whether or not I need to press them. Usually I have Kreacher, but I’ll have to use my wand.” He left it unsaid that they didn’t have a house elf.
Ginny just scowled at him.
Reservations were no problem. He was Harry Potter, after all, and Lord Black, though he never used that title.
Unfortunately, there was only one mirror in the entire Burrow and Harry needed a quick shave. He was wearing pureblood black, but he knew an easy charm where he wouldn’t need foam, so there was no chance of getting it on his clothes.
Knocking on the door, he heard a female voice telling him to come in and he found Mafalda in a bathrobe, her leg propped up on the edge of the clawed tub, shaving her legs. “You could have been kicked out,” she greeted. “We ladies are sensitive about our—transformations.” Her eyes went wide, her voice dreamy, and Harry laughed as it was an utterly comical impersonation of Trelawney.
“No mirror,” he told her, and she grimaced before going back to her legs.
He positioned himself and saw that he had a perfect view of her. Her right leg glistened as she let her wand hum as she pulled it up a good inch above her leg to leave the leg dry and smooth.
“You’re not shaving,” she noted, not even looking at him. “What would Cousin Molly say?”
He shivered at such a thought and went back to the mirror. His wand let out a singing sound, which seemed to startle her a little, as he began to shave, and then a small smile crossed her face.
When he had finished his neck and chin, she had begun on her second leg, and he noticed an Illyria dress hanging on the wall. He wanted to stalk over to her like a man possessed, but he stood there, watching her. Mafalda’s legs were beyond touchable. He wanted to run his hands along them, feel the pearlescent liquid against his fingers, stand behind her and just lean over so he could breathe in her scent as he caressed her.
“Since you’re staying,” Mafalda remarked, not looking up, “I’ve noticed something.”
“Oh?” he asked casually, leaning up against the sink, his arms crossed.
“Your advertisements are always signed Harry Potter in the wizarding world, of course they are, but I sometimes spend time in the Muggle world. There you’re Harald Potter. Why?”
He looked at her and pondered for a moment. “Get rid of Malfoy and I’ll tell you.”
It was a positively Slytherin answer and it made her smirk. Mafalda finished up her leg and ran her hand along it before letting it disappear behind the folds of her robe. “Now, Harry, I’m afraid I need the bathroom—” she apologized, but he had come up to her and snaked his hand around the back of her neck.
“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he swore to her.
Her green eyes widened. “In Slytherin I’m considered a pureblood,” she warned him. “They know Dad is a Squib but he’s a Prewett and nephew to Lord Prewett—so they just assume Mum’s a witch.”
Harry sighed. “So they assume you should be treated like a pureblood maiden. I won’t force a kiss on you, Mafalda.” Letting go of her neck, he felt a shiver pass through her.
Then, with all the elegance of a witch who knows what she wants, she lifted up a hand and stroked down his cheek. “Out, Potter,” she whispered near his ear, a smile in her voice. “Or do you want me going to dinner in my bathrobe?”
“I can see your legs,” he murmured back.
“True,” she whispered, “but then again, so can everyone else.”
Their green eyes met, and he left her to her primping.
It was worth the wait. She came down in an Illyria dress, her hair up in a low bun, still showing off its curls, green shadow on her eyes and the barest hint of pink lipgloss. She was simply a stunning example of the modern witch.
Harry was in the latest Fawick: dark blue with slashes of gray and white.
She smiled at him and took his arm. “Well, I guess being a model has its benefits,” she murmured to him. “Are they all eating?” The sound of the Weasleys could be heard from the kitchen, and Harry grimaced at her.
“I told them I was taking you out for a treat, and Mrs. Weasley at least seemed understanding.”
“Hmm…yes,” she mused. “But what if there’s a second treat, and a third after that?”
“Are you so confident of yourself?” he laughed.
She merely looked at him knowingly, as if she was aware of a secret he was not, and allowed him to open the floo connection to Diagon Alley. “It is a beautiful night,” she remarked as she got out her I.D. as they approached the maître d’, but Harry pushed it back in her bag.
They were rushed through and she looked at Harry in surprise.
“He always asks for my I.D.,” she confessed, a little bewildered. “He’s turned me away even though Lord Prewett is my great-uncle.”
“I’ll put in a word,” Harry promised. “You shouldn’t be treated with such callousness.”
“Harry,” she remarked after taking a sip of her water. Her lipgloss didn’t even leave a sheen on the glass. “You don’t know a thing about me other than that I’m in Slytherin House and you can probably guess that I’m Head Girl given that I was taking O.W.L. classes my third year.”
“You always were frighteningly astounding,” he agreed. “Tell me something, Mafalda—”
“The Carrows hated me,” she admitted, playing with her napkin. “It was Draco Malfoy who took the brunt of it for me. You see why I go about with him.”
Harry sat back. “I heard they were particularly brutal.”
“Yes, they were,” she agreed, looking away, her voice far off. “I had dirty blood, of course.” Biting her lip, she glanced back at him for the slightest of moments. “I’m hoping my academic achievements will be enough to convince the Unspeakables to take me. I’ve been petitioning Lord Prewett to write a recommendation for me, but so far, he hasn’t replied to my letters.”
“You’re the smartest witch in several centuries—” Harry asked bewildered. “Hermione has been positively jealous of you since you first turned up that summer of the Quidditch World Cup.”
“I’m not a pureblood,” she stated wryly. “I can’t get in without the right familial connections. Uncle Barnabas is it.”
Her green eyes stared imploringly into his, and he tried to read the message there but it was as clouded as a crystal ball.
The waiter came to take their order, breaking the moment.
Mafalda was glittering and devious and wasn’t afraid to have a negative opinion of anyone or keep it a secret. “No,” she disagreed. “Ginny is quite adamant. Viktor Krum showed an interest in her at Fleur Delacour’s wedding and Hermione stole him away. I cannot help but applaud the Muggleborn despite her annoying habit of ratting on me!”
“You really hate your cousin, don’t you?” Harry asked over champagne, forgetting the slur against Hermione. It was just the way Mafalda was. Everyone derided her for being the daughter of a Squib, so she fought right back. At least she hadn’t used the term ‘Mudblood.’
“Gin’s horrible: I’m a disgrace. My father’s a Squib. I’m a shame on the Prewett name. I’ve accomplished more than her on my pinkie finger than she has with all of the magic she’s ever performed.—She’s also ugly. I say this with a dispassionate honesty. All those Quidditch toned muscles.” She shivered. “She looks more like a man than a witch. Have you ever looked at her face?”
Harry hid a laugh behind his hand. “Mafalda!”
Shrugging, she admitted, “I only speak the truth.”
They stood from their table and he offered her his arm. The pair fell out of the floo, giggling, to a silent house. Harry hadn’t realized how late they had been out but he escorted Mafalda to the room she shared with Ginny before going to the one he had been given.
“You’re in the paper, Harry,” Arthur stated the next morning, handing over The Daily Prophet, “with our little Mafalda here.”
A picture was emblazoned of the two of them walking out of The White Witch with the words “BWL escorts Witch in Wizarding World: Forsakes Muggles.”
“Did they get my name?” Mafalda asked. She had come downstairs a little later than Harry, and when he had smiled at her from his seat, she had taken the empty place beside him.
Harry scanned the article, but she grew impatient and took the paper. “There,” she announced. “Mafalda Prewett, niece to Lord Prewett. Did you drop that, Harry?”
“I might have left a note with the waiter for the maître d’,” he admitted hesitantly.
She squealed, throwing the paper to the side and embracing him. “Uncle Barnabas will have to notice me now!” She kissed his cheek and then released him.
Harry was grinning like a fool. Ginny was glowering at the two of them. He just looked back at her, daring her to say something.
Of course, she didn’t. Not with everyone sitting there and eating their breakfasts.
“Work today, Harry?” Molly asked kindly.
“I thought I’d stop by the studio, see how some proofs are coming out. In the wizarding world,” he added for Mafalda’s benefit, looking at her. She was eating a piece of buttered toast. “Would you like to come?”
“What are you modeling?” she asked, looking at him from the corner of her eye.
He shrugged. “A perfume, I think. Siren’s Pleasure. I can get you some free samples, if you want.”
“Faldy doesn’t wear perfume,” Ginny put in unhelpfully.
Mafalda didn’t comment at first, blotting her lips. “No,” she agreed. “I’ve never had any. I couldn’t—” She looked about the table and swallowed. “Perhaps if I like the scent.”
Ginny snorted. “Only you would like a male cologne.”
Unfortunately, it seemed like Mafalda was immediately cowed, and Harry wouldn’t have that.
“Siren’s Pleasure is a lady’s perfume. I’m in the ad to admire another model who is supposedly wearing the scent. It’s quite artistic.” Of course, he was wearing robes without a shirt or waistcoat, his head bent into the neck of a witch who was looking out into the distance, but that could be considered artistic by some. He gave Ginny a cold glare before turning back to Mafalda. “The studio is just off of Diagon Alley.”
She gave him a small smile. “Of course, Harry. It should be fun.”
Harry took her hand under the table and squeezed it. Then he realized something. “Where’s Ron? Is he still sleeping?”
Mafalda and Harry had stepped out in pureblood black, mingling in with the wizarding crowd. He took her hand as it was rather thick and he felt her slim fingers entwine with his, making him smile to himself. Fortunately, she was wearing see through tights with some sort of triangle pattern so when he wasn’t paying attention to the witch who was showing him the proofs, he could look at Mafalda’s gorgeous legs instead.
Mafalda enjoyed trying on the scent and was given a whole bottle when she decreed that it was heavenly.
“Harry takes none of the perks,” one of the witches on set said. “I’m glad he’s found someone who will enjoy Siren’s Pleasure.” Winking at Mafalda, the two left hand in hand.
“How would you like to wear it tonight?” Harry whispered in her ear.
She turned to him and smiled. “Wherever would I wear it?”
“Why,” he answered, “The Wicked Stepmother.”
Immediately, she stopped walking, their entwined hands stretching until he noticed when their arms became taught. “Mafalda?”
“I can’t—I’m not—you’re not—don’t you have to—”
“Lily Evans, my mother,” he explained carefully, “wasn’t a Muggleborn. In the seventies she infiltrated the club and proved that she was actually a recalcitrant Black and that her father was from a side offshoot. She kept the name Evans for scholastic purposes, but among pureblood circles she was known as Stephanora Black.”
Mafalda blinked. “No one knows.”
He shrugged. “That’s their own fault. The purebloods at Hogwarts know. They only give me trouble because I’m famous and because I defeated Voldemort. However, I’m generally treated as a pureblood by those who know.” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “The Weasleys and Hermione Granger have no idea.”
“Then why are you named ‘Harry’?” she asked in obvious confusion.
“Who said I was?” he smirked.
“Harald,” she realized with a smile on her face and then, there in Vertic Alley, she reached up and kissed him lightly despite pureblood tradition. Mafalda pulled away first, her eyes closed, but she was smiling, and when she opened her eyes, an echoing smile was on Harry’s face. “I can’t get in.”
“Haven’t you heard,” he told her conspiratorially, “you’re the great-niece of Lord Prewett with assumed impeccable bloodlines and I can bring any guest I vouch for.”
Then a thought occurred to her. “You’re not dark.”
“Oh, Mafalda,” he told her, bringing her close through their joined hands, “There is a great deal you don’t know about me.”
Despite the fact that they were in pubic, he twirled her there in the street, and then pulled her along back toward Diagon Alley where they sat at Florean Fortescue’s eating ice cream and laughing at their time together at the Quidditch World Cup and how desperately she had tried to impress them all.
“Dad’s an accountant,” she admitted. “I have three brothers and they all hate magic. I must admit I gossip quite a bit, which Mum can’t stand. I’m Queen Bee, or I was until I went to Hogwarts.”
Harry took a lick of his ice cream. “There are Queen Bees younger than eleven?”
“Oh yes,” she told him. “As soon as popularity begins, the hive takes form and there’s a Queen Bee with her court.”
“Good Lord,” he admitted. “I’d hate to get on your bad side. Anything interesting you can tell me?”
She leaned forward and whispered, “Ginny shaves her arms every other day. They’re positively monstrous. And she doesn’t use magic.”
“She doesn’t use magic,” he checked.
“No, it doesn’t work with her Quidditch muscles. She’s still hoping to make the Holyhead Harpies though she’s getting past her prime. She’s—what?—twenty-two?”
“Or twenty-one,” he guessed. “I’m just twenty-three this summer.”
“I snuck in with a September 3rd birthday,” she admitted. “I’m only seventeen. Eighteen in September.”
Harry blinked. “I had no idea. We’ll have to do something—unless you’ve chosen Draco Malfoy.”
“You know,” she stated casually, “no matter what, he’ll still remain my closest friend.” Her green eyes glanced up at him, a firmness in them which he couldn’t help but respect. She was truly beautiful with her strawberry blonde hair and diamond shaped face and pretty features and those sinful legs. He could barely see any resemblance to Ginny apart from coloring. This enchantress was beyond anything magic could create.
“I will respect that,” he told her. “However, I may be many things, but I believe in fidelity—I’m a pureblood, Mafalda. I may date Muggles, I may kiss them, I may take them to my bed, but we are always committed to each other.”
“How can you bear to sully your blood?” she asked in all honesty.
“I was brought up with Muggles, with my mother’s adopted sister. It gave me a healthy respect for Muggles and they don’t care that I’m the Boy-Who-Lived or the Conqueror. The Chosen One. All that matters is that I’m a face plastered on a board, which is something I have chosen for myself. They see Harald Potter, something I haven’t found here.”
“You’d sully your blood with me,” she admitted, “unless you do not mean for this to go to the bondler, which is your right. Our children will never go to The Wicked Stepmother.”
“No,” he agreed, “but I would only marry you if you loved me—which would be a far greater gift to our children.” He squeezed her hand. “Now, if you’re coming with me, surely you want time to pick out your robes and I need to make reservations.”
She sighed and let him pull her to The Leaky Cauldron where he sent her back to The Burrow before he left her to go back to Knockturn Alley.
He walked into through the broken down door of The Wicked Stepmother, to see the maître d’.
“Mr. Potter,” the small wizard greeted. “You are most welcome, however, I must say you are not particularly dressed for tea, today.”
“I merely wanted to make reservations,” he explained, “for dinner. Seven-thirty. I am escorting Miss Prewett.” He stated this all confidently. “I trust this won’t be a problem given that she’s never been here before. She’s quite young and still attending Hogwarts.”
“Ah, yes,” the little wizard agreed, going to the reservation book and flipping a few pages. “I saw the article in The Daily Prophet. The niece of Lord Prewett, is she not? We would be happy to have her as a guest and hope she will one day seek membership, although Prewetts are generally light. Potters are, as well, however with your esteemed mother as a Black…”
“Yes,” Harry agreed. “A Black Card. I found it among her things. She was truly honored.”
“Indeed,” the little wizard agreed. “You are on our books.—Would you like a photographer, Lord Black?”
“Quite,” he agreed. “Miss Prewett would appreciate it.”
Harry bowed slightly to the little wizard before leaving again. He had robes to pick out.
He walked in on an argument between Ginny and Mafalda.
“We should just kick you out!” Ginny demanded. “What are you doing with Harry? Have you put him under Amortentia?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry interrupted. “Am I acting like a complete fool? Am I draping her in Potter or Black jewels? Shouldn’t I have proposed marriage by now?” he demanded angrily. “Mafalda, go get dressed.”
“Faldy, if you go out with him, you won’t be sleeping in my room,” Ginny threatened.
“Then she’ll be sleeping in mine,” Harry stated hotly. “I’ll move her trunk now and I’ll just sleep down here or move into Ron’s.”
“Harry—you can’t possibly,” Ginny began.
He blew out angrily. “I certainly can.—Mafalda, go pack.”
After playing musical chairs and placing himself in the living room, Harry got changed in the bathroom in Versace robes (few know he was a wizard): deep burgundy with fire red slashes. The Asian collar of the black waistcoat highlighted the yellow stars that twirled to create dust that would hang around the heavenly bodies.
“You look quite the thing,” Mafalda complimented as she came down the stairs. “I’m so glad I borrowed my friend Hortensia’s robes earlier this summer.” She was a vision in blues and green, which hugged her form, showing every curve, before the three quarter sleeves fell into medieval triangles. The neck came up to under her chin, flipping up over her chin so that it created a cone, her hair up in a high twist. It had been straightened that night.
“Why was Hortensia so generous?” Harry asked as he helped her down the last few steps.
“This is her spring wardrobe. She was getting a summer one, and I begged her to let me borrow this one in case I went out with, well,” They both knew she meant Draco Malfoy. Harry felt a smug satisfaction that she was employing it on him instead.
They flooed directly to the pureblood club and the little wizard took them in appreciatively before having them shown to the corner table that was highly prized. Harry’s name and his mother’s status as a Black Card, which proved she had the blackest of magic, gave him certain privileges. His card, itself, was a deep purple and registered rather high in dark magic potential.
“You look beautiful,” he told her as he pulled out her chair before taking his own. “I’m not certain I said that.”
“It’s quite nice to be appreciated,” she told him, her eyes bright, giving them almost a blue sheen.
They were naturally served Prosceco and Harry ordered acramantula eggs for the both of them as they were illegal and Mafalda had professed an interest in them as she was certain she would never have a chance to try them again.
“Tell me of your mother,” Harry prodded as they were waiting for their meal.
“Oh,” she murmured. “She’s a homemaker.”
“Like my aunt—pseudo aunt,” he admitted. “She liked to look over her neighbor’s fences. It was rather hilarious as she had a horse’s neck.”
Mafalda giggled. “I should certainly like to see that. No, Mum hates magic. All my brothers are—normal. She would often bemoan the fact that I was not. I first started collecting people’s secrets to try and please her. It backfired, but I found I rather enjoyed it.” She shrugged. “But I have quite a few of you.”
“Now,” Harry pressed, leaning forward, “would you tell mine?”
“To whom?” she asked. “I don’t believe in going to the press, and, well, I hate the Weasleys even though I’m often sent to them because they have magic. I suppose I could tell Draco, but I suppose he knows your name, he knows who your mother was, he knows about her card here, need I go on?”
Without a doubt, Mafalda was definitely teasing him now.
“Tell me about Hermione,” she prodded.
This certainly surprised him.
“What about her?” he asked wearily.
“I know she was dating Ron, but one of them broke it off. I don’t know why, but Ron’s miserable. There’s a photograph of the two of them beside his bed. I might have snuck in one day about a month ago…” She had the most innocent of expressions, which made Harry want to kiss her or run his leg up hers underneath the table. Yes, that would be perfect.
“Neither told me exactly what happened,” he admitted, “and I decided not to get involved. They’re both my best friends. Have been since first year at Hogwarts. However, she’s dating Krum now, though it’s an international relationship.”
“Krum,” she stated in surprise, “a Durmstrang student, where everyone prides blood purity, with a Muggleborn. Part of me thought Gin was overreacting.”
“No, it’s true,” he agreed. “Hermione and Krum.”
She hummed in thought as she sat back. “Ginny sometimes talks about Bill’s wedding and how Krum paid her some attention. I wonder how she feels about this—apart from her complaining.” Her eyes glinted in mischief.
“Not to sound self-centered, but I thought her attentions were turned to another target.”
Mafalda smiled at him honestly. “I had thought that as well. If you could hear her at night, lying in bed, her thoughts on that particular person and their future together, their history. It’s quite tedious.”
Sighing, Harry was glad when their meal came and he got to watch Mafalda’s first taste of acramantula eggs. She quite enjoyed them when she got used to it, though she ordered a second glass of Prosceco, saying the two went well together.
It was then that the photographer appeared and asked for a picture of the both of them for the club’s record book. Harry looked over at Mafalda who was fixing the cuffs of her robes before she readily agreed. The two sat with their dinner and glasses of sparkling wine, smiling at the camera.
“Will that be in The Prophet tomorrow?” Mafalda asked astutely.
“I expect so,” Harry agreed. “It will also go into the archives.—I thought the more exposure we could give you for the Unspeakables and for Lord Prewett, the better.”
She smiled at him genuinely. “You really know how to court a girl. You give her exactly what she couldn’t get herself.”
“It’s a campaign,” he answered. “I can’t promise anything, Mafalda.”
“But you’re trying,” she whispered. “No one’s ever cared enough to try.” Reaching her hand out over the table, he quickly took it and entwined their fingers.
They walked slowly through the streets of wizarding London after coffee. Neither said anything, but they just luxuriated in the night. When they finally ran out of street to walk, they Apparated back to the Burrow. The Living Room was dark, but Harry escorted Mafalda all the way up to Bill’s own room and they stood there at the door, just looking at each other.
“This is me,” she whispered.
Taking his cue from her, he leaned forward and hooked his hand around her high collar.
“The world thinks I’m a pureblood,” she whispered between them. “You’re a pureblood, Harald.”
“You called me ‘Harald,’” he murmured. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to kiss you now.”
She laughed and kissed his nose before ducking under his arm and opening the door and slipping inside. He heard the bolt of the door slide shut and knew that he was well and truly shut out, not that he would enter a lady’s room.
Walking down the stairs, he was surprised when the lights went on.
Ron was sitting on the couch—and Harry’s trunk was missing. “I put you in the twins’ old room when I got it out of Ginny what happened,” he told Harry straight out. “Really, though? Faldy?”
Harry sat down next to him in his robes and sighed. “She’s the most beautiful witch I’ve ever seen,” he admitted, “with legs that should be forbidden by magic they’re so desirable.”
“Oh, I see. You’re thinking with your cock.” Ron looked him up and down. “I suppose we all get to do that once in awhile. It’s why Hermione broke up with me.”
Looking over in shock, Harry glanced at his friend. “You weren’t thinking like that with her!”
“No,” he agreed. “I met this pretty little thing that just—“ He sighed. “I broke up with Hermione so I could bed that tight piece of ass and then get back with Hermione, but somehow she found out. It was all over then.”
Harry shook his head. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Ron admitted in frustration. “I was just so taken with Amanda. It was the most magical night of my life and I don’t regret it—I could never regret it—it’s just—Hermione.”
Slapping Ron on the knee, Harry breathed out through his nose. “There will be others.”
“Of course, there will be others for you, too.”
Harry didn’t correct him. However, he was beginning not to think so. Mafalda might be it for him. He didn’t know what love felt like, but this might be it, this tightening in his chest whenever he saw her, this desire to kiss her, to stroke her legs, to hear her thoughts and opinions.
“Well, goodnight,” Harry stated. He got up and stretched before heading for the stairs.
Of course, they were in the papers the next day, the photographer having carefully clipped out the acramantula eggs but leaving the glasses of Prosceco. The two were smiling brightly and there was a byline stating their names and her relationship to Lord Prewett.
“Did you know,” Ron said through bacon, “that Charlie is Lord Prewett’s heir.”
Mafalda looked up in confusion. “Your elder brother, Charlie?”
“Yes,” he stated, his mouth full of food. “Mum’s his closest relative, and, well, she can’t inherit, and Bill is the next Head of the Weasley House, so he can’t inherit, and so it’s Charlie.”
Harry blinked, having not known this. He was Lord Black through his mother’s claim, not that it was widely known. Harry didn’t plan on using it until he was married and then only for his wife and children’s sakes. He didn’t fancy his seat on the Wizengamot and let it lie fallow. He’d let his eldest son, if he was inclined, have the seat.
“It’s my seat,” Mafalda seethed in the garden. “I’m more closely related. It belongs to my eldest son, but he’s not born yet!” She was breathing heavily and Harry took her by the shoulders.
“Breathe,” he begged her. “I’ll do a bit of research and see what can be done. Do you have a family tree?”
“Of course not! My dad’s a Squib! My mother’s probably a Muggle!”
“Probably?” Harry asked in confusion.
“Never mind,” she stated, trying to pace but Harry was still holding on to her. “She has a wand. I found it. I thought she might have been keeping it because it belonged to someone, but I have no idea where it came from. She’s certainly not a witch!”
“What’s her name?” Harry asked carefully.
“I don’t know. January. January Fawcett, I think she said once.”
He sucked in a breath. “The Fawcetts are Sacred Twenty-Eight. They’re purebloods. Mafalda—I think you may be a pureblood. I need to write to your uncle.”
“What?” she squeaked. “What do you mean?”
Harry kissed her lightly, surprising her, and took her hand before running into the house and finding a quill and parchment. It didn’t take him long to pen the letter, explaining Mafalda’s ancestry and how he believed she was a pureblood and deserved every consideration from him including her inheritance of the title of Lord Prewett, which he hoped could be held in stasis for her oldest son to be born, and then he sent it off.
“I don’t think it can be held in stasis,” she muttered to him so no one else could hear. “That idea is ridiculous.”
“The previous Lord Black was my godfather and I’m from the offshoot of a second son so I don’t know,” Harry confided, “so I’m just guessing.”
“Wait,” Mafalda said. “Who’s the current Lord Black?”
Harry looked into her eyes and her breath caught.
“Your mother was a Black. It went through her.”
The sound of a plate crashing to the floor broke the spell between them and they looked over to see Molly Weasley staring at them. “You’re Lord Black, Harry?”
“How? Your mother was a Muggleborn!”
Mafalda, however, had it all in hand. “Family trees are so complicated, aren’t they?” she laughed. “Needless to say, the current Lord Black, whoever he is, must be a complete stranger to us.”
Molly let out a breath. “For a moment I thought—”
“Thought?” Harry asked with a curiosity he did not feel.
She shook herself. “Never mind, dear. I’ll leave you with Faldy.” She then waved her wand, the plate coming together as good as new, and left the room.
“I hate that nickname.” She ran a hand over her forehead in her frustration. “I’m sure ‘Harry’ must be grating.”
“Surprisingly not,” he disagreed. “I’ve always been ‘Harry’. I don’t know why. It’s just been—the way it is.”
“I so much prefer ‘Harald’,” she admitted, coming up to him and wrapping her arms around his neck. Leaning in so she was whispering in his ear, she elaborated, “Harald, Lord Black.”
“It excites you,” he guessed.
“Everything about you excites me,” she admitted after a moment. “You’re such a puzzle—and I get to keep you for a summer.”
“Just a summer?” he questioned.
She pulled away and looked at him. “I thought—I’m just a pair of legs—”
“And what a gorgeous pair of legs you are,” he admitted. “But, darling, if I just cared about your legs, I would have seduced you and have been done with it.”
Hurt momentarily passed over her eyes before they settled into a content expression again. “And here I thought you just spoke pretty words and were seducing me through your wealth and influence—with payment to come due.”
“And you would have paid it,” he realized suddenly, horrified what this beautiful witch was willing to do.
“You don’t understand what it is like to be tortured for being a halfblood and the child of a Squib, what it’s like to have doors closed to you, to have your dreams stolen. I wouldn’t sell myself for a flick of a wand, but I would sell myself for that, Harald.”
“I swear,” he stated carefully, “that you will never have to sell yourself to me or any other wizard—you are worth so much more than that.”
A blinding smile spread across her face. “I’ll keep you to that, Harald,” she stated solemnly.
“And I always honor my promises,” he told her succinctly before kissing her softly. “I will, however, kiss you.”
She looked to the side. “I don’t know why I let you. At this rate, I’ll have to find a way to make you marry me to defend my honor.” Her green eyes then moved to him, hesitant, searching, and he let his fingers trail down her cheek.
“Beautiful girl,” he whispered.
That night was the first one they spent with the Weasleys.
“What?” Ginny asked. “Is the romance over?”
Harry looked at her for a moment, wondering what he had been thinking his sixth year. “No,” he responded slowly. “It’s Thursday. Where we’re going is closed until tomorrow.” He took Mafalda’s hand under the table. “We have to wait a day.”
Ginny turned green. “Where?”
Mafalda just looked at her. “You’re not invited,” she stated quite clearly. “Didn’t you say Krum was coming?” she asked Harry.
He took a bite of his steak. “With Hermione, yes. Celebrities tend to congregate there as they are seen by the press—We’ll be asked to give an interview.”
“Oh,” Mafalda answered. “I’ve never given an interview.”
“List your academic achievements and your parents’ surnames to prove your blood status.” He looked at her meaningfully. “We can always state we met when we were still at Hogwarts through the Weasleys.”
Casually, Mafalda asked, “Are we dating?”
Ginny gagged on her water.
“I thought we were a couple,” Harry answered honestly. “Or haven’t you talked to Malfoy yet?”
“Hadn’t really thought,” she admitted. “He hasn’t owled even with the articles coming out.—I could always owl after dinner.” She looked at him hopefully.
“I would do that,” he answered. “We’re definitely a couple.”
A small smile flitted across her face. “A couple then,” she agreed. “I suppose this means tomorrow we’ll go swimming in the St. Catchpole?”
“I suppose it will.”
Mafalda disappeared that night, ostensibly to write Malfoy, and Harry prowled the lower garden. “Oi!” a voice behind him called and he turned, catching a bottle of firewhiskey in his hand. Thank Magic for his Seeker reflexes, otherwise it would have ended up in a pumpkin patch!
“I brought glasses,” Ron told him as he sat down on the ground. “It seemed like you needed something.” He grabbed the bottle from Harry and poured them each a generous drink. “To Little Mafalda Prewett!” he toasted.
“To Mafalda!” Harry agreed, taking a swig. “She’s not just a shag, Ron.”
“You know,” Ron admitted. “I got that at dinner. I think we all got that. I never would have thought it would have been my cousin who made you return to the wizarding world—Thought it would be Ginny. Hoped it would be.” He took a shot.
“It never would have been Ginny,” Harry admitted. “We were over before the three of us left Hogwarts, Ron.”
“I know, I know,” he griped. “Still, I want you part of this family.”
“There’s Mafalda,” Harry pointed out. “None of you seem to like her, but she is always here. If you want me here, perhaps you should be nicer to her. Mafalda is very important to me.” He took another sip of his drink.
“But why?” Ron looked honestly flabbergasted.
“She,” Harry breathed. “She’s funny. She’s scary intelligent but she doesn’t lord it over you like Hermione. She doesn’t care that I’m Harry Potter or that I’m a model. All she cares about is that I can get her into places she never could get into before. She doesn’t care how I do it, just that it’s done.”
“That’s a little messed up,” Ron put in.
“And once she’s found out I’m a three-dimensional person, Mafalda still fancies me.”
“I still think you’re making a mistake.”
“I always thought you and Hermione were a mistake,” Harry told him honestly. “Intellectually you just didn’t fit. I thought she’d get bored. I never thought you’d step out on her with—” and now he exaggerated the name “—Amanda.”
“Oi!” Ron cried. “I told you that in confidence.”
“No one’s here!” Harry insisted.
“Yeah, but there are windows open!” Ron insisted, pointing up to the house.
“Then why are we drinking here?” Harry burst out laughing at the hilarity of it all. “We’re baring our souls with open windows!—Hello!”
Mafalda popped out her head. “Having fun, Harry?”
“Want some whiskey?”
“You try writing this letter—maybe later!” Her head disappeared.
“See,” he told Ron, “not that bad.”
“Not that bad? It’s Faldy!”
“Oh, come on!” Harry whined. “She’s my girlfriend. She has to play nice. Actually, that’s not true. Sorry, mate.” He slapped Ron on the back and waited for him to pour more firewhiskey. “Hey,” he whispered exaggeratedly, “I get to see her in a bathing suit tomorrow.”
Ron walked away, causing Harry to unbalance.
Of course, he did get to see Mafalda in a bathing suit the next day. It was cute. Yellow on top with cups and a halter top and blue on the bottom with white polka dots. However, on the inside of her legs were thin white lines. “Spell damage?” he whispered to her at breakfast after she had slipped a white button up shirt over herself.
She looked over him with fearful eyes. “I’m wearing glamours.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Those don’t work on me.” He wrapped an arm around her and kissed her temple. “You look beautiful.”
She smiled at him winningly.
“Owl sent out?”
“Quite,” she answered, serving herself some scrambled eggs. “No response yet.”
“No,” Harry agreed. “It’s only been half the night.”
She giggled, causing Ginny to look up angrily. She was wearing a pink bathing suit that did nothing for her. Fleur was right all those years ago. Ginny and pink were not friends. If she wouldn’t take it the wrong way, Harry would buy her a gold one. At least he knew that that particular color looked all right on her.
There was much screaming as they jumped into the cold river, but Harry and Mafalda were off aways from the others. Mafalda had her gorgeous legs wrapped around Harry and he would caress them, his perfect fantasy, before he dunked her in the water to her screaming. She would then leverage him down beneath the water, and he would sputter back to the surface, and they would go back to holding each other until one or the other would start splashing the other.
Lying on towels on the shore, Mafalda opened up about her family. “Lionel is the eldest,” she explained. “He’s a year older than you. He’s studying to be an accountant like Dad. Then there’s Stepan, yes, Stepan,” she pronounced. “He’s your age, I think. He’s getting an advanced degree from Edinburgh.” Sighing, she admitted, “Then there’s me, the only girl. Finally, little George. He’s still in school.”
“How old is he?”
“George? Oh, fifteen. He has his first girlfriend. All he writes to me about is ‘what does she mean by this?’ ‘would she like this as a gift?’ That sort of thing.” She sighed. “Still, I’m happy to help. Of course, I am. He’s the only one of the lot who talks to me.”
Harry’s hand covered hers. “I’m sorry, Mafalda,” he whispered.
“It’s not your fault, Harald,” she murmured, using his actual name. “I’m just—difficult. You’re the only one who seems to be able to bear with me in the entire house.”
An owl fluttering toward them broke the mood and Mafalda grabbed the letter, clearly recognizing the seal. Opening it up, she read it quickly and laughed. Harry took it and smirked. Congratulations on such a Slytherin move, Mafalda. Of course, we’ll always be the greatest of friends. Draco.
“I’m a Slytherin move, am I?” Harry asked slyly.
“Well,” she asked, “do you doubt Draco Malfoy?”
Harry looked down. “I suppose not.—I like to think affection comes into it, Miss Prewett.” He wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Perhaps that’s the most Slytherin move of all,” she suggested as she let him pull her closer. “Making it real.” He kissed her shoulder and she laughed outright.
Harry and Mafalda ended up having to play exploding snap with the bathroom as they had to both shower and get ready for their evening at The Emerald Sphinx, an exclusive nightclub in London. They were both wearing pureblood black, but very revealing pureblood black. Mafalda had put on a shimmering top that left nothing to the imagination, her bra showing through. Her leather trousers had slashes in them. Harry was wearing a thin top with so many slashes that it could hardly be called a shirt, the arm pits falling down halfway down his chest, though his trousers were unmolested.
“You should always wear kohl,” Harry complimented as he saw the dark make up Mafalda had put up, her hair in a complicated—he wasn’t sure what it was called—on the top of her head.
Of course, they caused quite a sensation downstairs when Molly Weasley didn’t want to let them go. Harry wrangled her, stating his celebrity status and how he must go to certain events and he couldn’t possibly go without Mafalda, so eventually they were allowed to leave.
Harry led Mafalda out onto the dancefloor, whispering into her ear not to mind the cameras, which were everywhere. It took her a good few minutes to get used to the dancing, but soon she was twirling in his arms, letting her hands caress his face and neck as his arms snaked up her back.
They were so lost in each other, they didn’t realize when the next big celebrity entered. “Harry!” Hermione called and Harry broke away from Mafalda to embrace his friend.
“You remember Mafalda,” he introduced.
Hermione looked absolutely shocked. “When you said you were in a relationship—I never thought it would be with little Faldy.”
“Mafalda,” she muttered under her breath and Harry swung his arm around her hip. She then smiled. “Haven’t you been reading The Prophet?”
“Been in Bulgaria,” she explained. Hermione then flashed her hand where there was a very large diamond.
“That’s brilliant!” Harry exclaimed, hugging his friend again. When Viktor Krum wandered over, he gave him a firm handshake and congratulated him. “Have you met Mafalda Prewett?” he asked.
“I haff not been haffing the pleasure,” he answered, kissing her hand in the continental fashion.
Hermione took Krum’s arm. “How did you two reconnect?” she asked with a prurient curiosity.
“I’m staying with my cousins and Harry came for a visit,” Mafalda admitted. “I think Harry pretty much decided as soon as he saw me that—well—I’m not sure what he decided.” She looked up at him.
“My brain hadn’t gotten that far,” he said. “However, I couldn’t pass her up.”
“Never,” she agreed, leaning her forehead against his, Harry delighting in the pressure when he leaned back.
“Well,” Hermione said. “Faldy. I never would have guessed.”
“It’s Mafalda, Hermione. I’m not eleven anymore,” she stated with surety, her eyes betraying her vulnerability.
Looking at Harry, who had a solemn look on her face, Hermione nodded. “Of course, Mafalda. You are quite grown up.”
The two couples headed to the bar and had cocktails. Hermione liked Elven Wine, Harry Firewhiskey, Krum Blood Brandy, and Mafalda spiked Licorne Lemonade.
Harry kept an arm around Mafalda the entire time and at one point a photographer came and asked for several close ups of the famous foursome (well, famous except for Mafalda). Hermione even gave a small interview about her engagement and the history of her ring.
“Where are you going to live?” Mafalda finally asked the obvious question. When she was met by silence, she continued, “As far as I know, Viktor is not yet retired. Doesn’t Bulgaria have harsh laws against Muggleborns?”
“Mafalda…” Harry warned.
“No,” Krum interrupted. “It is being good question. Ve haff decided to liff in Bulgaria and raise our children there.”
“Oh, Hermione,” Harry sighed. “I guess I’m taking all of my holidays in Bulgaria. What will you do with yourself?”
“SPEW,” she answered, with only the smallest hint of excitement. “I think I can be a good activist.”
“Quite right,” Mafalda said in support. “Activism is important no matter where you are.—I think we need a round of whatever wizards have to celebrate. Champagne I’m assuming?”
Harry and Krum left to go get their champagne, which left Hermione and Mafalda.
It was relatively easy to get through the crowd. However, when they were returning to the table, Harry saw Mafalda leaning back, her arms crossed. Harry looked between the two of them. “Oh no, you’ve fallen back into your old hatred of each other.”
“I’ll keep the peace as long as she does,” Mafalda promised as she took her glass of champagne. “To activism, wherever it might be!”
Krum picked up his glass and Hermione carefully took up her own. Harry was the last, looking warily between his girlfriend and best friend. Mafalda gave him a tight smile, trying to show him that everything was all right, but managed to fail. However, she relaxed into his arms as she drank her champagne and soon forgot all about Hermione Granger as she danced in Harry’s embrace.
They wandered back to the Burrow just as the sun was rising and Mafalda fell atop of her covers. She definitely woke up with a pounding headache given how much she drank but with Harry sitting in a chair with a hangover potion waiting for her.
“Why are you up so early?” she asked, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“It’s two in the afternoon.”
“Hermione’s here,” he mentioned. “Talking to Ron of all people. Thought I should warn you.”
She reached her hand out for the hangover potion in one fell swoop and sputtered at the taste of day old coffee with milk that had gone off.
“First,” Harry told her as she sat up and rubbed her eyes, probably ruining last night’s make up, “we’re in The Prophet. Very good coverage. We’re in a group shot with Hermione and Viktor and another with just us dancing. I also got a letter from Lord Prewett.”
“Let me see,” she begged, crawling toward him.
Harry took a letter out of his jeans pocket and read—“He wants a blood test run on you and then he’ll acknowledge you. He also wants me as his pureblood godson.” Then he handed it over and she read it hungrily.
“Good, good. This is very good. You can get me an appointment, right?”
“I’ll contact the goblins on Monday,” he promised. “I’ve got a particularly good relationship with one named Griphook. You must promise to treat him with all due respect, Mafalda.”
She held up her hands. “I shall be all politeness,” she promised. “Anything to prove to Uncle Barnabas that I’m a pureblood and worth his time.”
Harry breathed out. He leaned forward and kissed her head. “Get dressed and you can go see what’s going on downstairs.” He waited for her to get ready, not willing to face his friends alone, and she was soon ready in what he thought was a pink peasant top and jeans. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back in a half ponytail.
Holding hands, they walked into the fray, where Hermione was listing every one of Mafalda’s faults. “When everyone was together, she was perfectly pleasant, but when we were alone…”
“You were attacking me,” Mafalda defended. “Did you expect me to be nice?”
“I expected you to be civil. I just can’t believe that Harry chose you over some nice witch like—Rosa Vane or Parvati Patil or—”
“Someone I couldn’t give a flobberworm about,” Harry brought in. “Really, Hermione, let this go.”
“What about Gabrielle?” she asked desperately. “She’s young. And pretty. She’s part Veela!”
“Gabrielle is spoilt and French. I can tolerate Fleur’s accent, I love her like a sister, but it would drive me crazy if I had to listen to it all the time. And she’s fifteen, Hermione! It’s illegal!”
She chewed her lip. “What was wrong with the Muggles?”
Harry sighed and glanced over to Mafalda. “They don’t know who I am.”
“They don’t know who I am. They don’t know what my life has been like. I’m the Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. The Conqueror. A Muggle will never get that no matter how it’s explained to them.”
“And she gets you?” Ginny asked, crossing her arms. “Where was she when you were going through You-Know-Who and the Triwizard Tournament and all those later years at Hogwarts?”
“Where was I when she was living through the Carrows?” Harry asked angrily, grabbing her hand. “But I think I get her better than almost anyone.”
“Even Malfoy?” Ginny shot back.
“Yes,” Mafalda stated. “He knows things I’ve never told anyone, things Aunt Molly doesn’t know.—Does he know you that well? Do you even know the name he goes by in the Muggle World?”
When Ginny gaped, Mafalda smirked. “I thought not.”
“Henry, I think,” Hermione stated. “I saw this picture of you with your shirt off. It was kind of hot.” She blushed.
“Thanks, Mione, but it wasn’t that,” he admitted. Turning to Mafalda, he asked, “Do you have any homework?”
“Some,” she admitted.
“I’ll massage your legs,” he leered, which made her laugh before she ran up the stairs, as he chased after her.
Monday came quietly. Harry and Mafalda woke up and donned pureblood black and had ice cream from Florean Fortescue’s for breakfast. Mafalda laughed at the sheer decadence of it. With hands entwined they walked into the bank and were led into an office for their appointment.
“I understand Miss Prewett might be a pureblood,” Griphook stated. “Why is she uncertain?”
“My dad is a Prewett Squib. Pureblood,” she explained. “My mum’s a Fawcett, but that’s all I know. I need to go back a few generations.”
“For the price of thirty galleons,” Griphook explained, “we can go back three generations and list every individual’s blood status—in triplicate. Will this be acceptable, Miss Prewett?”
Mafalda looked at Harry and he nodded, counting out the galleons. “I doubt Lord Prewett wouldn’t accept it.”
A large piece of parchment was spread on the desk as soon as money changed hands and Mafalda’s wrist was grabbed and her hand faced up. A large needle was used to prick her thumb, third and fourth fingers. Mafalda bit her lip as her hand was turned over again and drops of blood fell on the parchment.
Harry immediately grabbed her by the waist and kissed her cheek. She leaned into him as they watched as the words formed.
Lionel. Stepan. Mafalda. George. All were siblings and they read Squib pureblood underneath—except for Mafalda who was just a pureblood. Above them were lines that joined to two parents—Leon Prewett, Squib pureblood, and January Fawcett, Squib pureblood.”
“First line,” Griphook explained.
More blood dropped down and familiar pureblood surnames appeared as the genealogy table filled out. Every name was a pureblood and when it was done, gauze was wrapped around the three fingers. “Magic won’t work,” Griphook explained.
The three charts were certified, then rolled up and handed over to Mafalda.
“May your gold shine,” Harry intoned, bowing.
“May your gold flow,” he returned. Griphook nodded to Mafalda and she bowed to him respectfully.
“Well,” Harry said as they left, “one gets sent to Lord Prewett immediately. We’ll see if we can get that title for you. Lionel, Stepan, and George are obviously Squibs. They therefore were disqualified.
Mafalda paused in the middle of the alley. “Draco would know. He’s an heir.”
“I’m not letting you go alone,” Harry practically growled. “He’s—Malfoy.”
“He saved my life,” she argued.
“He was your boy-toy. I don’t want him around you.”
“Then we’ll go together. If we say it’s Lord Black and Miss Mafalda Prewett, then he will definitely see us, even if it’s just after breakfast.” She looked at a magical watch on her wrist that showed if someone were early, on time, or late. It seemed to show that they were early.
“Very well,” Harry agreed reluctantly. “I’ll say I’m Lord Black.”
They flooed to Malfoy Manor and Harry remembered the horrible place from when he was incarcerated in the dungeons. He didn’t mention it to Mafalda, but he told the house elf that “Lord Black and Miss Mafalda Prewett” were there to see Heir Draco Malfoy on a point of “the law of succession.”
The two were placed in a large living room and Harry went around looking at the beautiful charcoal landscapes that dotted the room. Mafalda sat on one of the sofas, her ankles crossed prettily, just sitting there and waiting in perfect pureblood form.
After about ten minutes, the door opened and Draco Malfoy walked in, wearing blood red robes. “Mafalda!” he greeted, going up to her and kissing both of her cheeks. “Do introduce me to Lord Black.”
“Of course,” she smirked. “You know Harry Potter. He won’t use his title until he’s married, but he thought you were more likely to see him if he used it.”
Harry turned from a sketch of Harlec Castle and grimaced. “It is important.”
“Succession,” he stated. “Who’s dying?”
“Uncle Barnabas,” Mafalda stated. “Eventually. He’s Lord Prewett. I just went to Gringotts and proved that I was a pureblood three generations up, which should be enough for him. Currently his heir is my cousin, Charles Weasley, but I am much closer but a witch. I can’t guarantee that I’ll have a son by the time he dies. I can’t let the Weasleys—”
Draco sat down and glanced at Harry. “Of course you can’t. I perfectly understand. You need to be married by the time of his death and then you have five years to produce a male heir. If—” he glanced at Harry again “—you’re married to another Lord, you have to produce two male heirs in five years. The first is your husband’s heir, the second is yours. If you do not, then it goes to Cousin Weasley.” Draco looked at Mafalda probingly. “You have a slight problem in that your father is a Squib. You’re going to have to convince Lord Prewett. He can disinherit you. Marrying Lord Black…” He let his voice trail off.
He held Harry’s eyes for a long moment, neither looking away, until Mafalda spoke. “Well, then. I suppose I’ve got some work to do.”
“Only you would describe the making of children as ‘work’,” Draco smirked.
She threw a pillow at him petulantly. “I’m sure Pansy lay back and thought of England.”
“Now that you mention it—” he smirked and Harry rolled his eyes.
“I don’t need to hear about Malfoy’s love life,” he stated calmly. “Thank you for the information. Now we know how to approach Lord Prewett.”
He glanced back up to Harry. “Not at all, Lord Black. Anything for Mafalda.—If you ever need to escape the Weasleys, Mafalda, you’re always welcome at Malfoy Manor. However, I expect that Lord Black wants to whisk you away.” He stood and nodded to them.
Mafalda stood and took Harry’s arm. “Goodbye, Draco. Till next time.”
They were walking out, when she stopped and kissed both his cheeks, and then they were being escorted by a House Elf back to the floo.
“Five years,” Harry mused as he waited for her to take a pinch of floo powder.
She looked behind her. “Up to the challenge?” Mafalda asked seriously. “We could get started after I graduate Hogwarts. There are dark potions that assure sons—”
Startled, he took her in his arms, and asked seriously, “Are you proposing if your uncle lets you inherit the title—?”
“And if he doesn’t, if you’re so inclined. If I need the title to entice you, then I’ll try even harder to get it.” She looked up to him and smirked at him in the way he was beginning to love. “Harald,” she whispered in his ear.
“I always wanted to elope,” he mused. “I don’t want a fancy wedding with reporters and adoring fans.”
“Any witnesses?” she inquired. “Ron? Hermione?”
Harry leaned down to kiss her. “You want Draco Malfoy.”
“I can live without him. I would like a wedding portrait,” Mafalda admitted. “Something to keep with me as a memory over the years.”
“That might be arranged. Tomorrow—” he suggested and her eyes lit up.
“Really? We’re actually going to?”
“We’ll wake up before the sun rises,” he whispered in her ear, “put on our robes, and go to the civil bondler. I’ll send you back to the Burrow now and I’ll buy your engagement ring and our wedding bands. You write your uncle and tell him you’re marrying Lord Black tomorrow when you request the title of Lord Prewett with the exact details.” Harry kissed her ear and pulled back.
She smirked at him again and took that pinch of floo powder and called out for the Burrow, while he went to Knockturn Alley. He immediately went to The Pumpkin Carriage, which specialized in gray and dark jewelry.
“Mr. Potter,” Mr. Floss greeted with a bow. “How may I be of service?”
“I’m marrying Miss Prewett,” he confessed. “I need an engagement ring and two wedding bands. I don’t want to use family pieces. I don’t trust that their magic is dark enough to protect her.”
“Of course, sir, and congratulations. Now, based on Miss Prewett’s fashion choices, may I suggest—”
Harry left a satisfied wizard and then went to The Wicked Stepmother and made reservations for the next day for morning teatime. “I need a formal photograph taken,” he murmured to the little wizard. “It’s my wedding day, and my wife would like one.”
“Of course,” he said, making a note. “We have taken formal portraits from celebrations before. This is not an unusual request.”
“Perfect,” Harry stated happily. “Mafalda will be so pleased. We need to get her a membership card. Not tomorrow, obviously, but in the next week or so. We’ve proven her heritage back three generations, all purebloods, so I don’t doubt that it continues six generations back.—We’d also like to be referred to by my title, Lord and Lady Black.”
“A wedding present to my bride,” he answered. “I’ve held the title for years but done nothing with it. Now I’m giving my wife an unparalled position in society.”
The little wizard made a note in his reservation book.
When Harry finally got to the Burrow, he was happy to see Mafalda reading a text book on the couch, her legs propped up against the pillows. He tapped them and she lifted her legs so he could sit there, her legs resting on his lap. He stroked them and she sighed at the pressure.
“Harald,” she murmured after dinner, just before they parted for bed. “You do care for me? It’s more than fancying me, isn’t it?” Her usually confident voice was vulnerable and he leaned in and kissed her long and slow.
“I’m falling in love with you, Mafalda. This is right. We are right.”
A brilliant smile lit her face. “Good. I agree.”
The next morning, Harry dressed in black Faywick robes. The cut was the height of fashion and swaths of silk gave way to brocade accents on the arms and cape. A matching waistcoat went with it and a flowing silver shirt finished the look.
Mafalda was in a dress Harry had never seen the like of. “It’s an Illyria,” she told him. However, it was pure white silk that formed into a bell with black bows that fell from the right shoulder to the bottom left of the skirt. “I thought it looked bridal.”
Going to the bondler was easy. Of course, the woman couldn’t believe that Harry Potter was there to get married and triple checked Mafalda’s I.D., which enraged Harry.
“She’s a pureblood,” he finally stated, shoving his own I.D. in her face. “I’m a pureblood.”
“But, Mr. Potter—” the bondler squeaked.
“Read my I.D. I am Lord Black, which happens to be through my mother, a pureblood,” he stated angrily. “Do I need to speak to your supervisor?”
The bondler gasped. “No!” she stated, taking their I.D.s, recording their blood status after she examined Mafalda’s blood status chart from Gringotts. “Two purebloods. I apologize, Lord Black, Miss Prewett.”
“See that it doesn’t happen again,” Mafalda stated icily. “Never assume.”
Harry had slipped the engagement ring onto Mafalda’s hand earlier that morning, a dark sapphire, and now they were using engraved bands of ivory that spelled out “love” and “fidelity.”
He barely heard the bondler, but repeated his vows after her, looking into Mafalda’s pale green eyes as he slipped the ring onto her finger. The kiss was gentle, sweet, and he held her face between his hands. A marriage certificate was issued so that Mafalda could be reissued a magical I.D. by the Ministry of Magic, which among other things, would state that she was Lady Black.
Carrying her out onto the street, he set her down on the steps of the Civil Servant’s Office and took her hand, kissing it. “Lady Black,” he greeted.
“Lord Black,” she returned, smirking at him. How he loved that smirk on her and wanted to kiss it away, but unfortunately, although this was his wedding day, he doubted Mafalda would let him.
“I’ve reserved a table for tea,” he told her, “so we can celebrate before we have to return to the Burrow—or, we can go straight to Grimmauld Place and collect our trunks later this afternoon or tomorrow, even.”
“Tea sounds wonderful,” she murmured, coming close enough to him to kiss. “I haven’t eaten.”
Biscuits and scones were rolled out for them along with champagne so they could toast their good fortune. “I’m going to be tipsy on our marriage morning,” Mafalda whispered, giggling a little after her second glass had been poured.
“Perhaps I like you artificially happy,” he told her as he clinked their glasses. “You deserve to be pampered.”
“You always pamper me, Harald,” she argued. “Does your I.D. say ‘Harry’ or ‘Harald’?” She held out her hand for it, and Harry handed it over.
“Harald,” she read. “That stupid little witch didn’t even notice. She was just held up by your blood status! By mine! We’re purebloods,” she then whispered dramatically.
He leaned back and smiled. “You take great pride in the fact.”
“Of course, I do. Our second son might now be Lord Prewett. Harald, this is so terribly important to me.”
He smiled at her. “I know, darling. And we will be ‘working’ on that soon enough.”
“Harald,” she laughed as she took another sip of champagne. “Ginny reads aloud the sex scenes from her novels. I know it’s not supposed to be work.”
Leaning forward, he asked, “Are you going to write your mum and dad?”
“No,” she answered quietly, hurt in her voice. “They don’t want me, so why should I want them?”
“Quite right,” he decided. Then, calling out, he declared, “Lady Black needs more champagne!”
A few heads turned round to look at them, and Mafalda laughed a little at Harry’s antics. Harry reached out and took her hand across the table, their fingers entwining. “Ah,” he commented when the champagne came, topping up their glasses. “We’re going to need a lot more champagne. Lady Black’s never been married before.”
“You’ve never been married before either, husband,” she pointed out.
“True,” he decided. “Much more champagne. And that photographer sooner rather than later so that my bride can stand.”
Their portrait was taken several times, the two standing in different positions, before Harry and Mafalda returned to their tea. They stayed so long they were served lunch before Harry finally escorted his bride to Grimmauld Place.
Setting down her parchments, Mafalda looked around and commented, “I thought this place was supposed to be dark.”
“I have a devoted house elf,” he remarked. “Kreacher!”
Immediately, an aged and stooped over house elf with large floppy ears and large blue eyes appeared. “Master summons Kreacher?”
“Kreacher,” he greeted, taking hold of Mafalda’s hand. “This is Lady Black. We were married this morning. She’s Lord Prewett’s great-niece.”
The old house elf had tears in his eyes and he leaned down and kissed her slippers. “Kreacher greets lady-wife to Grimmauld Place,” he stated solemnly. “If Kreacher can ever helps—”
“I will be sure to let you know,” she told him kindly. “Now, Harald,” she said, turning to her husband, “I believe you need to carry me somewhere.”
He picked her up and carried up to the third floor, glad for his Quidditch toned muscles, to the Master Bedroom, where he thoroughly undressed her and let her know just how desirable he found her.
‘Who would have thought that I’d have to undo each individual bow?” Harry marveled as they lay there, sweating in the sheets.
Mafalda laughed and turned toward him. “It’s the height of fashion, or was this spring.”
“I’ll dress you in silks and velvets for the autumn,” he promised, tracing a finger down her neck. “You won’t have to borrow clothes any longer.”
“You spoil me,” she whispered as the sheet fell down to her waist, revealing her bare breasts, Harry kissing one and massaging the other, causing Mafalda to moan.
“I don’t want to lose you in three weeks,” he admitted.
“Oh,” she sighed as she lay back over his chest, looking up at him, her strawberry blonde hair a halo around her. “Lucky for you I graduated after fifth year when I took my NEWTs. I just remain because the Unspeakables won’t take anyone younger than eighteen—and I thought I’d stay with my friends.”
Leaning down over her, Harry whispered, “I’d never take you away from your friends.”
“But I’m done,” she reiterated. “I’ve had seven years. I’m far beyond the curriculum. They’re running out of magic to teach me. We can prepare for little Heirs Black and Prewett.”
“And what about being an Unspeakable?”
“I can apply,” she responded, “and then defer for maternal purposes. I have two lines to potentially continue.” Leaning up she kissed him lingeringly. “The Prewett line has always been more important to me, Harald.”
“All right,” Harry agreed. “Let’s make a son.” And she giggled as he leaned over her and kissed her deeply.