#and i still have asks sitting in my box that i DE S p RATELY WANT TO GET TO

[just-a-mod]

can't believe im being slandered like this in my own ask box

from a meme i reblogged

how dare /in humor

@sparklehoard @xhrystal-vampire

[ethereal-not-occult]

patience and the mulberry

"With time and patience, the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown."

Fandom: Good Omens Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Character(s) of Color, Sericulture, silkworms, past religious trauma, but nothing bad happens in this fic I promise, mixed bookverse w/ TV elements, references to Chinese culture Notes: Originally written for the @goodomensfashionzine​ !

“I'll only be a minute, dear.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley's cheek as he opened the door of the Bentley. “You don't have to see me to the door if you don't want to.”

Crowley tightened his grip on the wheel. “Sure, angel. Sounds good to me.” The sibilants slid far too quickly past his clenched jaw, and he bit his tongue to stop the instinctive hiss from escaping.

Aziraphale gave him a sympathetic look, but shut the Bentley's door behind him and soon disappeared through the doors of the church. Once he was out of sight, Crowley slumped forward slightly, sliding his sunglasses up and rubbing at his eyes. A few deep breaths later, and he felt composed enough to exit the Bentley himself in blatant disregard for the “NO PARKING” sign on the curb.¹

[¹ Given his new job position (or lack thereof), lawbreaking was no longer a necessity, but old habits die hard.]

The bright afternoon sun made him wince a bit, and two robins in a nearby bush were getting frisky in a way he would never be able to unhear, but they made it easier to forget the distant wail of air sirens. Even standing out on the road, Crowley's skin prickled faintly with the remembered sting of consecrated ground.

He pushed the feeling aside and walked resolutely forward. Aziraphale was bound to take his sweet time as he mooned over the church's dusty old tomes, but Crowley had his own investigations to conduct while he waited. No rest for the wicked and all that.

The concrete pavement under his snakeskin shoes gave way to grass, and the tingling sensation in his soles faded. Soon he found himself at his intended destination—an Edenic grove of mulberry trees, clustered together in a ring in the church's backyard. He'd spotted them on the drive over and couldn't resist the temptation of a closer look.

Crowley wandered into the garden with a scrutinizing eye. They were young, for trees, but growing well despite their callowness. A particularly stocky sapling hardly flinched when Crowley gave it a token glare, much to his disappointment. Then again, outdoor plants were rarely as well-behaved as properly cowed houseplants. It seemed this attitude persisted even in ecclesiastic gardens such as these.

He cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, then reached a hand up into the tree's umbrella-like branches and tugged. The season wasn't quite right for fruits, but he still withdrew clutching a handful of dark ripe mulberries. Hardly apples, but his lips twitched upwards nonetheless. He plucked a berry from the pile and raised it to his lips.

“Zaoshang hao!”

Only a hasty miracle saved Crowley from choking as he jumped and swiveled around. Hovering right outside the churchyard was a middle-aged human, well-dressed and smiling pleasantly at him. Judging by her formal clothing and the Bible she carried, she was a part of the congregation, maybe even the priest herself. Crowley swallowed and stepped backwards.

“Ni shi jiaohui de xinshou ma?” the human called again, picking her way across the dewy grass in his direction. Crowley eyed the Bible she held, willing himself not to break out into hives.

“Um. Wo bu—er, no. I'm not new. Not here for church at all, actually.” He fidgeted and clasped his hands, still full of pilfered mulberries, behind his back. “Just waiting for someone.”

The human raised an eyebrow. “You're welcome to wait inside, if you like,” she said, also switching to English. “I reckon we still have biscuits left from the children's morning service—”

“No!” Crowley said too quickly, and perhaps too sharply. He winced. “I mean. That won't be necessary. I'd much rather stay out here, if it isn't too much trouble.”

The human gave him a Look. Crowley's cheeks heated and he averted his eyes, willing his sunglasses a few shades darker.

“Beautiful, aren't they?”

Crowley's head shot back up. The human had turned her back to him and was running a hand through the glossy green leaves of the nearest mulberry tree. Crowley could practically see the branches stretch out in delight beneath her touch, like a purring cat.

“Volunteers from our congregation take care of them,” the human continued, smiling at the young tree. “The kids here like raising silkworms, you see, and we welcome them to pick leaves from the trees each week to feed them.”

Silkworms. Of course. Despite himself, a hazy memory rose to the forefront of his mind: Sichuan, China, several hundreds of years ago. A family farm, weathered and cozy and oozing enough sheer goodness to make the average demon ill with it. Crowley wouldn't normally be caught dead in such a place, but he had owed a favour to the angel. His fingers twitched at the phantom memory of butter-soft silk fibres against his skin; long, winding threads that stretched out thin and fine, tangling so easily around his uncertain fingers. With this memory came the golden, moon-round face of a child he hadn't thought about in centuries, grinning toothily as they held out a box to him, a box filled with small pale larvae that wriggled among the spade-shaped leaves. “Zhe jiao can.”

Crowley forced himself to return to the present. The human was speaking to him.

“—waiting on Mr. Fell?” she asked.

Crowley blinked. Shook himself a little. “Yeah. He's helping out with the restoration of some old manuscript or other.”

The human smiled again. It was an unnervingly piercing expression. “I'm aware. I was the one who requested his help. Such a lovely man. Are you a friend of his?”

Crowley tensed. “His husband, actually.”

He braced himself, but the human only brightened. “Goodness, then you must be Mr. Crowley! Mr. Fell talks ever so much about you. Finally gone and tied the knot then, have you?”

Before Crowley could stammer out a reply, something dinged loudly, making him jump. The human pulled a phone out from her pocket and squinted at the screen.

“Sorry, I have to run back inside. But it was lovely meeting you, Mr. Crowley.” She stuck out a hand—thankfully not the one that had been holding the Bible—and after a brief hesitation, Crowley shook it. As quickly as she had arrived, the human disappeared from the garden, leaving Crowley alone and off-kilter amid a grove of mulberry trees.

---

Aziraphale emerged from the church around an hour later to find Crowley seated on the curb next to the Bentley, basking in the last rays of the afternoon sun as he scrolled through his phone.

“My dear,” the angel sighed. His joints creaked as he eased himself down to sit next to Crowley on the roadside. “Don't tell me you've been sitting here the entire time.”

“Nope,” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’. “I toured the gardens for a bit. Swiped some fruits, too. The mulberries aren’t half-bad, for a bunch of church plants, but they’ll need a good deal more threatening before they're really up to snuff.”

Crowley stopped when he saw Aziraphale chewing his lip, brow furrowed as he studied Crowley's face. Now it was Crowley's turn to sigh.

“Really, angel. It's fine. I was hardly bored.”

The expression didn't leave Aziraphale's face. A soft brown hand reached out and brushed aside stray wisps of hair from Crowley's forehead. The demon hadn't bothered to cut it since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, and it was growing longer and more unruly by the day.

“I'm fine.” Crowley caught Aziraphale's hand and held it, carefully. He pressed his lips against the well-manicured fingers. “It was years ago, angel, and we both came out of it all right. You don't need to worry about me.”

Aziraphale still looked vaguely distressed as Crowley drew him close. With the sun setting behind him, framing his face and curly dark hair in a golden halo, he was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen.

He kissed him then, right there on the road, in full sight of the church and probably Someone Else, too, if She happened to be watching at that particular moment. Once, he would've been terrified of such a public display, but he hadn't gone through hellfire and holy water to care anymore about what others thought of them.

As he helped Aziraphale into the Bentley, he noticed abruptly that the angel was carrying what appeared to be a shoebox, of all things, along with his usual camelhair coat.

“What on Earth is that?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale carefully pushed the box over to Crowley. “Mrs. Lao gave it to me once I'd finished with those manuscripts. She said it was a gift for you, actually. Have the two of you met before?”

Crowley stared down at the box, baffled. “We talked for a bit in the gardens just now, but I can’t imagine why…”

He trailed off, and his mouth dropped open as Aziraphale eased open the lid and beheld the contents with a raised eyebrow.

“Good heavens. Are those caterpillars?”

“Silkworms,” Crowley corrected automatically, leaning in for a closer look. There were so many of them, somehow both smaller and larger than he remembered, all white and wiggly and chomping away busily at the layers of mulberry leaves filling their box. None of them paid any attention whatsoever to their occult observers hovering above them.

“Why would she give you such a thing? Not that they aren't dear little creatures,” Aziraphale added hastily, glancing into the box, “but I doubt I have the means to keep them in the bookshop.”

“No need,” Crowley said before he could stop himself. “I can raise 'em in my flat.”

Aziraphale gave him a curious look. “You know how to care for these… insects?”

“Yeah.” Crowley gently shut the lid of the inhabited shoebox and curled a hand around the Bentley's stick-shift. “I've done something like this, before. I know what I'm doing.”

“If you say so.” Suddenly Aziraphale chuckled. At Crowley's affronted look, he demurred, “I'm not making fun, my dear. It's only that you still manage to surprise me, even after all these years.”

Aziraphale leaned in and pecked Crowley's cheek, making him blush red and sputter. Much to his disgruntlement, the Bentley chirped a light-hearted rendition of Haydn's Crazy Little Thing Called Love all the way home.

---

Crowley had spent the past eleven years co-parenting the Antichrist with Aziraphale.² They had faced this challenge head-on, and in his opinion, it hadn’t gone too shabbily. Now, without the threat of the Apocalypse hanging over his head, becoming a surrogate parent was far less daunting the second time around.

[² Even if young Warlock hadn't really been the son of Satan, it was the principle of the thing.]

Still, Crowley worried. He had always been something of a worrier, and that hadn't changed even after the First Day of the Rest of Their Lives.

After dropping off Aziraphale at the bookshop, Crowley returned to his flat, where he commenced the preparations for introducing his unexpected twenty-odd guests to their new home. This was accomplished by miracling up a small glass aquarium onto his desk, lining the bottom with paper towels, and carefully (read: nervously) placing the silkworms one by one into the tank. Once this was done, Crowley scattered the half-eaten mulberry leaves from the box around the aquarium. The silkworms set upon their interrupted lunch with all the enthusiasm of Aziraphale devouring a meringue pie at the Ritz.

Crowley slumped into his chair, took off his sunglasses with a wince, and rested his chin on his desk, staring into the glass tank.

“I raised your ancestors once, you know,” Crowley informed the wriggling creatures. “Tiny farm in China several centuries back. We'd weave branches together into a tray and let you loose inside. Bit like how manmade beehives work, or something.”

Crowley paused. Watched one silkworm slowly inch its way across a stem to tackle a new section of leaf. “‘Course, humans use wire mesh nowadays, but the general premise is the same. Always thought it was bloody clever, what humans could come up with. If you gave me a bunch of moth larvae and told me to make a living out of them, I definitely wouldn't think to make clothes.” He snorted. “Whoever came up with that, I'd like a glass of whatever they were drinking.”

The silkworms munched on. They ate much faster than they crawled, that was certain. In the quiet walls of his flat, away from prying human eyes, Crowley loosened the knot of his silk tie and tugged it off, easing the tightness around his neck.

“You're the ones who made this, in a sense,” he said, waving the tie at them. He laid the tie beside one glass wall of the tank at just the right angle for the inhabitants within to see. Several silkworms looked up curiously.

Crowley tossed his suit jacket aside, then unbuttoned his shirt collar. He had always prided himself on his sharp, modern attire over the years, the better to tempt humans with—or so he claimed. Despite repeated scoldings from his superiors, his Lust quotas had never been quite up to par.

Sufficiently dishevelled, and feeling all the freer for it, Crowley sank back into his chair to watch the silkworms.

“The only thing I didn't like about the process was the boiling,” he murmured. “Logically, I can see why it was done. And you would all be in cocoons, so it's not like you'd be in any pain. Not like I was.” He exhaled, the sound becoming a low hiss. “But still. Never liked it. Always felt like an awful lot of trouble just for the sake of some silk threads.”

One particularly adventurous silkworm had nosed its way upwards and was now creeping over the edge of the tank opening. Crowley made a mental note to devise a lid of some kind and stuck his finger against the lip of the tank. The silkworm crawled onto his hand without any hesitation. Tentatively, he drew it closer. Its many feet stuck stubbornly to his skin, and it reared up as he approached, swaying slightly, its mandibles twitching.

Crowley stared at the silkworm. The silkworm stared back, and seemed disappointed when Crowley had nothing else to offer. Just to prove it wrong, Crowley materialized a single large mulberry leaf in his other hand and presented it to the insect, who fell upon it with gluttonous enthusiasm.

Staring at the miracled leaf, an idea formed in Crowley's mind. He smiled, slowly.

“I need a hobby, now that I'm jobless,” he said aloud to the silkworm, letting it creep onto his palm. He ran a careful finger over its smooth back. “I think I'll take up sericulture again, for old time's sake.” He reached back into the tank and gently encouraged the silkworm to crawl back inside.

“Humans have to boil you alive to get those nice unbroken threads off your cocoons,” Crowley mused, withdrawing his hand. “Fortunately, I don't have to do things the human way.” He lowered himself until he was eye-level with the inhabitants of the tank. The silkworm he had carried paused in its perpetual eating and turned its head, almost like it was looking at him.

“How's this?” Crowley asked. “You'll be able to grow into a fuzzy, fully grown silk-moth, and I can take your cocoon after you've finished with it and miracle the threads whole again.” He paused and mulled it over. “I guess I could take it a step further and just miracle the finished silk together, but there's still something to be said about the human way of doing things.”

The silkworm bobbed the front half of its body as though in agreement. Crowley smiled again.

“We can make silk, and no one gets hurt. I'm a few hundred years out of practice, but I'm sure I could make it work, somehow.”

The silkworm turned its attention back to its meal. Crowley didn't notice. He was too busy wondering if Aziraphale had any old texts on silk-weaving that he could borrow, just so he could refresh his memory.

The angel would appreciate having a new silk bowtie to add to his collection.

---

Thank you for reading! Replies and reblogs are always much appreciated. <3

[kevinscottgardens]

23 au 29 mai 2022

Monday through Wednesday was hectic. Monday morning the masons arrived and started working on the collapsing stone wall supporting the walkway. I found two Pistachia dug up and placed in my Gator. Why doesn’t anyone have conversations ? I then noticed that they covered another area the same size again that I had removed plants on Friday. They were going to squash them all under plastic. I said I would remove them and that all they need to do is ask. I also told them each plant costs 10€. I moved around another 40 plants. In the evening was a nice gathering at Denis and André’s for an early birthday dinner for André.

Tuesday I managed to lightly trim all the Pistachia in the prairie and lightly thin the Reseda lutea. I showed Thomas where the taps are and hopefully he’ll be watering for me while I’m away. It rained a little and we had lots of lighting and thunder Tuesday evening. I had a nice chat with Jody. The Iberis sempervirens I ordered finally arrived; they are tiny. I’m glad I went out Monday to purchase some nice big Limonium perezii for a pot that Laurie has been asking me to change for a few weeks.

I also bought a Convolvulus sabatius for another pot on the patio in dappled shade.

Wednesday I had to have a Covid test in the morning. Then I had my hair cut in the early afternoon then had an adjustment and a massage. Most of the Champagne flutes I bought from Ikea arrived, one box short. I’m going to see if things sort themselves out on this, I’m out of time.

Thursday very early I started my journey to LA for the first time in almost three years. British Airways, Economy Plus, via Heathrow, to LAX. Thankfully I’m still Silver so I can use the lounge during my layover. I was able to stop by Fortnum and Mason to buy a few gifts for Kerry and Sheryl, Yeah!

Friday the last box of Champagne flutes was delivered; I’m wondering where they are sitting. Sadly, Thomas’ mum died, I didn’t even know she was ill. Janet, Stacy and Piper arrived from Wisconsin. We enjoyed a good day of catching up. Saturday Kerry, Mike and Matthew drove down; Jeffrey was working at REI. Eric, Sofia, Heather, Kent and Megan all arrived around noon. Dianne and Ken hosted a really nice mini family gathering all afternoon. Janet and Heather had never met. That evening the Reilings took me back to San Gabriel.

Sunday Eric, Heather et al. met Kerry and me at Mt. Lowe Brewery, then they came over to Dad’s house for a barbecue in the evening. It was really nice to spend time with them. Heather and I have a bit of a bond. I hope we stay in touch now.

Plant of the week

Campanulaceae Campanula rapunculus L.

common name(s) - rampion bellflower, rampion, rover bellflower, rapunzel; français : campanule des haies; Deutsch : Rapunzel-Glockenblume; italiano : campanula commestibile, raponzolo infraspecific(s) - Campanula rapunculus subsp. lambertiana (A.DC.) Rech.f. synonym(s) - Campanula calycina Boeber ex Schult.; C. castellana Pau; C. coarctata Gilib.; C. decurrens Thore; C. elatior Link & Hoffmanns.; C. esculenta Salisb.; C. fastigiata S.G.Gmel.; C. glandulosa Banks ex A.DC.; C. patula var. rapunculus (L.) Kuntze; C. rapuncula St.-Lag.; C. rapunculus f. hirsutissima Faure; C. r. subsp. rapunculus; C. r. subsp. verruculosa (Hoffmanns. & Link) Nyman; C. r. subsp. verruculosa (Hoffmanns. & Link) P. Silva; C. r. var. bracteosa Willk.; C. r. var. calycina (Boeber ex Schult.) A.DC.; C. r. var. cymosospicata Willk.; C. r. var. hirsuta Schur; C. r. var. hirta Murr; C. r. var. micrantha Beyer; C. r. var. racemosopaniculata Willk.; C. r. var. reclinata Griseb.; C. r. var. strigulosa Batt.; C. r. var. verruculosa (Hoffmanns. & Link) Steud.; C. r. var. verruculosa (Hoffmanns. & Link) Vatke; C. verruculosa Hoffmanns. & Link; C. virgata A.DC.; Neocodon rapunculus (L.) Kolak. & Serdyuk.; Rapunculus verus Fourr. conservation rating - none native to - Europe to Mediterranean and Iran location - Domaine de l’Orangerie leaves - stem is erect, lightly hairy, branched on the top; basal leaves are petiolated, ovate, slightly toothed and arranged in a rosette, while the upper leaves are sessile and narrow lanceolate flowers - hermaphrodite; clustered in a racemose inflorescence, with a bell-shaped, light blue or violet corolla; are arranged along the stem in a fairly narrow one-sided facing cluster fruit - fruit is a dehiscent capsule in the form of inverted cone with many seeds habit - biennial, herbaceous, to 1m tall habitat - prefers limestone soils and grows in dry meadows, cultivated beds, forests of oaks and pine trees, along roadsides, from sea level to 1,500m pests - generally pest-free disease - generally disease-free hardiness - to -10ºC (H4) soil - sandy and loamy, moist and well-drained, neutral to basic (mildly alkaline) sun - full sun to part shade propagation - self-seeds; surface sow May/June in situ, usually germinates in two to four weeks at 18°C pruning - none nomenclature - Campanulaceae, Campanula - small bell, refers to the bell-shape of the flower; rapunculus - diminutive of the Latin rapa (turnip) and means little turnip, which refers to the shape of the root NB - once widely grown in Europe for its leaves, which were used like spinach, and its parsnip-like root, which was used like a radish; The Brothers Grimm's tale Rapunzel took its name from this plant

References :

Gledhill, David, (2008) “The Names of Plants”, fourth edition; Cambridge University Press; ISBN: 978-0-52168-553-5

IUCN [online] http://www.iucnredlist.org/search [22 May 22]

Plants for a Future [online] https://pfaf.org/user/plant.aspx?LatinName=Campanula+rapunculus [22 May 22]

Plants of the World [online] https://powo.science.kew.org/taxon/urn:lsid:ipni.org:names:140952-1 [22 May 22]

Wikipedia [online] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Campanula_rapunculus [22 May 22]

World Flora Online [online] http://www.worldfloraonline.org/taxon/wfo-0000828443 [22 May 22]

[illuminating-dragons]

Lay Here In My Arms (3/14): The Battles In My Heart

Summary:  Being in love with someone means your brain, your heart and your body are involved. Freddie Weasley faces obstacles with two of the three. Luckily, his heart is strong enough for all of them.

Mild Sexual Content (high T- low M)

Pairing: Fred Weasley II/ Rita Scamander (Fading Scars)/ Pierre Dwayne (Fading Scars) 

Read it on AO3

           There was a certain inborn prejudice in Freddie’s family about people called Rita. And Tom, but that was fairly universal (with the One Exception of Tom the retired bartender).

           So one summer when Rolf introduced his niece as Rita Scamander, Freddie was prepared to dislike her.

           Rita went to Beauxbatons, a choice no one in her mainly-Durmstrang-alumni family understood. But she absolutely loved it there, and somehow listening to her talk about her school was so fascinating that Freddie hardly got a word in edgewise. He didn’t really want to.

           Freddie’s desires were simple. He wanted to make people laugh, he wanted to understand how people thought, and he wanted someone who would love that he was a Slytherin. Not someone who would accept that wearing green and silver wasn’t the end of the world; someone who understood the values behind the green and silver, and shared them. In a family that accepted him and Lou but still wore mainly primary colours, Freddie longed for a meeting of the minds. He hadn’t even found it in his own house; none of the boys interested him so far, and the girls were either too ruthless or too serious for his liking.

           Rita, on the other hand, reminded him a bit of Aunt Gabrielle, whose exploits in France’s fashion scene left many people gawking. Aunt Gabrielle had several piercings, swore fluently in six languages and did everything in her power to make herself look ugly (she never did succeed). She was also one of the kindest women Freddie knew. She worked for animal rights, including delivery owls and familiars, and fought fiercely for the rights of refugees from dark wizards all over the world. Voldemort, it turned out, was not alone in his quest to ‘purify’ wizard kind, though his fellow monsters had differences in the ones they considered unworthy.

           So when Aunt Gabrielle met Rita and they got on well, Freddie knew she was the one.

           It took some convincing. Rita was dead set against a relationship, and it took a few letters to understand why.

           I wasn’t born Rita Scamander, her letter said. I was born Rita Karkaroff. Mum and Dad adopted me when I was five, but I still have Death Eater blood. It’ll be too much scandal.

           Freddie’s response was blunt and to the point. I love you.  

           Falling into bed with Rita was a whole other challenge. To Freddie’s surprise, he was actually quite nervous about sex. He’d always enjoyed flirting with other interested parties, but other than a few dates had never gotten very far. Rita was enthusiastic, and Freddie wanted to please her, but he panicked the first time she took off his shirt.

           Rita backed away immediately. “What’s wrong?”

           “I don’t know,” Freddie said hopelessly.

           He talked to his father, and George was a bit surprised too. He questioned Freddie carefully, more frightened of the answers than Freddie, but nothing had caused it. Freddie was just…afraid.

           “I don’t really know how to help you, son,” George confessed. “Do you want to go see Aunt Hannah’s friend?”

           ‘Aunt Hannah’s friend’ was a doctor, a woman sworn to secrecy by the Ministry to show them how to do psychiatry the Muggle way. Freddie had never been good friends with her, but Dr. Selma proved to be quite helpful.

           When Freddie managed to spit out his issue at last, Dr. Selma looked thoughtful. “Freddie, have you ever been to one of the magical Mind Healers?”

           “No, ma’am.”

           “I see. Freddie, I think you might have anxiety. That’s what’s causing the panic.”

           “Anxiety?”

           That started a two hour discussion, during which Freddie was amazed to learn that no, not everyone thought about their to-do list constantly; no, it was concerning that he couldn’t sleep because his brain wouldn’t ‘turn off’; and yes, it was worrisome that every time his heart rate went up he felt panicked, even when it was from playing Quidditch…or being intimate.

           He was eighteen that year. Eighteen, with family, friends, and an amazing girlfriend. How could he dare to feel unhappy?

           “Brains are complicated, Freddie. Yours is different.”

           Mum and Dad were equal parts relieved and horrified when he told them. Relieved, because it meant they had a name for what was troubling their son, and they could learn to help with it. Horrified, because they hadn’t known before.

           “I didn’t know myself,” Freddie reassured them. “I didn’t know that was something I could have.”

           He started seeing Dr. Selma once a week, and they worked through his anxiety. Freddie confessed his worries about his body (he was definitely the plainest in his family; plain was almost worse than ugly); he talked about his worries about how he could take on his father and uncles’ legacy when he had so many bad days; and he talked about how terrible he felt that these problems bothered him so badly in the first place.

           “My parents lived through a war! My family lost so many people; I’m named for my father’s dead twin! How can I sit here and say I need any kind of help?”

           “You’re fighting your own battles,” Dr. Selma said. “Just because it’s in your head doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

           Freddie cried then.

           Rita was patient, endlessly patient, and she came to a couple of sessions with him. Then she went a couple of times on her own. They didn’t talk about everything that went on behind Dr. Selma’s door, but it was enough knowing that they were being honest with each other about everything else.

           “Some secrets are okay,” Rita said. “Some hurt you too bad to keep.”

           Freddie kept going to counselling, and eventually started taking pills, pills that helped the worst days be as manageable as the good days. He became more comfortable talking to his family about his worries, and he was very proud when both Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron asked for his therapist’s name.

           And he and Rita learned to be comfortable with their own bodies, with each other’s bodies, including their brains. Intimacy was slow, but it felt earned.

           The first time they had full intercourse, orgasm felt like triumph.

           Freddie had been helping in his father’s store as his treatments happened, and when his appointments with Dr. Selma turned from weekly to biweekly, then to monthly, his Dad had an idea.

           “We need someone new to run the store in France, Freddie. Hector wants to retire, and I think you’d be a great fit.”

           Freddie swallowed hard, thinking about moving to a new country where he didn’t know the language well, into a job where he had to represent his family’s name. Then he thought of Aunt Gabrielle, who was established in Paris, of Rita who wanted to start her own clothing business, and of how much fun it was working with his family, even if they were a continent away.

           By September, he and Rita were across the Channel, with a small flat above the jokes shop and a robes store a few blocks away, right next door to Garments de Gabrielle. Rita worried she was stepping on her mentor’s toes, but Gabrielle’s work was different, avant-garde in the materials and patterns. Rita still used wool and cloth and silk, but the colours were what defined her works; clever combinations and designs that were sold to anyone who liked them, regardless of gender or creed. She experimented with Muggle clothing too, and Reveille was soon doing as well as the joke shop.

           They bought a nicer flat, close to the Tour D’Eiffel, and they ate macarons and went to the wizarding depanneurs for fresh bread and potion ingredients. Freddie became fluent in French, while Rita still stumbled over French but communicated well with the Eastern European clients who came on a certain Quidditch star (and former Triwizard Champion)’s recommendation. Freddie still had rough moments and bad days, and Rita still pulled away sometimes, worried they were making a mistake, but they soothed each other and found places and moments of calm, of peace.

           And then came Pierre.

           Pierre Dwayne, who damn near knocked Freddie off his feet with how attractive he was. Rita was enchanted by him too, this polite Frenchman who was nearly a foot taller than both of them. He worked for Rita nominally, helping her organize her cloths and lift boxes of materials, but he spent a good bit of time at the joke shop. Freddie was frightened for the first time, frightened that Rita might leave not for herself or her father’s name, but for him. And Rita became fractious, wearing her best clothes by turns and old raggedy ones by others, reasoning that Freddy could leave if he wanted to.

           When Freddie’s parents came to visit, Angelina picked up on the tension. And when she saw Pierre, she understood what might be going on.

           She pulled her son aside that night and told him a story. A story of two couples who’d met on the Quidditch field, and who had separate lives and children, but sometimes came together in bed, because they fit together.

           Freddie had never dreamed that his parents had been unhappy in their marriage. They’d always seemed so happy.

           “We are happy,” Angelina promised him. “But sometimes you love more people than your partner. And sometimes, when you’re lucky, you can find a way to work that out. I’m in love with your Dad; I’m not really in love with either Oliver or Katie. But I love them both dearly, and it’s nice to find a way to get all that you want.”

           Freddie called a meeting with Rita and Pierre the next day. It was a strange conversation, but it was necessary, and it brought about an interesting routine.

           Pierre kept his own life, but he spent nights at their place quite often. It took a long time for Freddie to be willing and able to have sex with both his lovers at the same time, but he watched until he could.

           Freddie still had bad days, and he still had moments where he was terrified he would lose everything; Pierre, Rita, the shop, his family, his mind. But the moments passed with long walks, talking with Dr. Selma and sex itself. (Ironic, that it once scared him).

           But they grew fewer, and he knew how to cope with them, and the day that Rita told him that she was pregnant and not positive whether he or Pierre was the father, he was able to laugh, hold her close, and promise that it was his child either way, and he was looking forward to being a dad.