A/N: I'M LATE, I KNOW, I'M SORRY! It's because I'm always unsatisfied with a chapter and have to change it, and because I say stupid, time-consuming things like "I should start watching One Piece".

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Frankly, you people frighten me. Here I am, sitting in a corner unaware, when BAM! We're almost at the 300 review mark. Which means I will be writing another perspective request. Which is awesome, but still. It startled me.

Chapter dedicated to Elim Garak who helped me out with a certain aspect about the Valerians that bothered me. Thanks!

IMPORTANT NOTE: There is a math concept explained in this chapter. Don't worry, you don't have to understand it, as its main purpose here is for a character bullshitting around. Also, this chapter HAS BEEN SPLIT IN HALF. Thus, there are some things that won't be explained right away. Mostly, I'm just butt hurt over being forced to cut the chapter in two, and am now shoving my discontent in your faces.

Ten points to whoever can recognize the blatant Shingeki no Kyojin references. Oh, and that one DA:I reference.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Shingeki no Kyojin, and DA:I. Also, I got my Golden Ratio references from mathisfun . com.

Beta: Jin95

(V)(° 🌸 °)(V)

Chapter 14: Diagon Alley Part 1 - Ahoy There, Matey!

It was with great excitement and pride that Valeria tore open her heavy envelope alongside her older twin. Unfortunately, her dear brother tore through the actual letter as well, shredding the parchment to unreadable bits. Valeria and her parents suspected he didn't even realize it was a letter at all and thought they were just tearing things in general; though it didn't really matter in the end as the contents of both their letters would be exactly the same.

(On the contrary, charming little Vinnie was well aware he was ruining a letter that many young magical children dreamt of receiving the day they turned eleven—he just didn't care.)

Yet, it was also with great trepidation and anxiety that the young reincarnation read through her letters. The Hogwarts acceptance letter itself was considered by most to be purely customary and a waste of parchment, as the main content literally has not changed since the Founding of Hogwarts—not counting the translations of Old English all the way to modern day English. For Valeria, however, it was the physical manifestation of every child's impossible dream back in her own dimension. It was also the gateway into her worst nightmare: Plot.

The reincarnation automatically cursed under her breath.

It was slowly morphing into a tic, in which she was compelled to utter an oath every time she thought of or heard the word. At one point, while discussing a new novel Charlie had lent her in their letters, she compulsively swore every time she wrote the word Plot—

Valeria cursed.

—and every time she read it in the Gryffindor's replies. Her mother had overheard her, chastised her for five minutes, and then subsequently praised her when she found out Valeria had been replying to a Weasley, having assumed her ten-year-old daughter had been writing hate mail to a blood traitor.

But that was neither here, nor there.

It was decidedly eerie and dysphoric seeing her name, Valeria Irma Crabbe, addressed with 'We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry'. It was a name that, by all rights, should not exist on that parchment, and yet here they were. The four of them—which should have been the three of them—sitting around a coffee table opening two acceptance letters—which should have been only one letter. She shouldn't have this letter, shouldn't have nonsensical 'pure' blood, shouldn't have magic. She should've been a squib or something.

Heck, by all rights Valeria should have been dead.

'Should've, would've, could've.'

What did it matter to her anymore?

She was stuck where she was. She thought she had gotten over it.

Clearly not.

Clearly the situation and circumstances around her existence still mattered to her.

'Clearly. How whiny and angsty am I?'

Valeria had done enough of that teenaged bullshit when she was Valerie.

"Valerie, dear, are you excited?" Her father asked her, seeing as Vinnie was currently gnawing on his letter and evidently did not care.

Valeria took a moment to note the irony her 'nickname' provided and her father's excellent timing.

Whatever. Very soon she would have a magic stick and blow things up. Very healthy stress reliever, in terms of teenage angst. If one could even consider her teenaged.

"About as excited as the next person," she replied with forced blandness, and her parents couldn't help but glance at Vinnie and the parchment sticking out of his mouth.

Excited, indeed.

A small war cry sounded from the coffee table in front of them, joined by several other roars. The Valerians had sent a small contingent from their side of the manor to bear witness to the 'Goddess's sacred rite of passage' or something, and from what Valeria could tell they had taken great offense to Vinnie's less than gentle treatment of his letter.

"Liberate the letter!"

"This is an insult to our Goddess's coming of age!"

"Slay the beast!"

They charged across the crystal table top and waved their carved swords, axes, and needles, wooden feet clinking against the surface and the armour Binky had sown for them making a racket. Except for this one figurine with questionable fashion taste, that one just ran after them screaming something about them 'ruining his life' and 'the cast will hear about this'. The girl scrambled and opened the pocket of her robes wide in front of Vinnie's face. The contingent of figurine-people soared in an elegant—yet fearsome—arc, disappearing into her robes one by one, and the eleven-year-old girl swore she could hear little pings and an exuberant digitized voice in her head shouting, "Perfect Score!" The folds of Valeria's clothing gave off muffled sounds of surprise before quieting down. One of the warriors squealed, she was sure, but she was too busy slapping Vinnie's malevolent hand away from her pocket.

The grey-eyed witch hissed at him, "I will not have another manor-wide, genocidal war between you and my sentient, figurine fanatics!"

The twins scowled at each other, Vinnie shooting the bulging pile in Valeria's robes a look of extreme displeasure before resuming chewing on his letter. Besides their father and Valeria's ire, sweets, and quite possibly Draco (for whatever reason Valeria could not fathom), the Valerians were the only things that could inspire in Vinnie the energy to get worked up. Read: any emotion aside from 'complete and utter blankness'. The mini-adult was not quite sure whether it was because the toys had escaped from under his oppressive thumb, their vicious six-month long war, their appropriation of his playroom and that entire section of the second floor, the several assassination attempts, or a combination of all of the above; Vinnie hated the Valerian cult with a deep seated passion that could out burn the fiery pits of Hell.

The Crabbe girl rubbed her forehead.

A spontaneous migraine attacked her at the reminder of the suddenly sentient toy host and what the family had dubbed The War of 1990—something the Valerians themselves called The Half Century's War, The Attack on Titan, The Rise of the Righteous, and That-One-Time-When-We-Planned-To-Kill-A-Ten-Year-Old-God-Child interchangeably. It truly spoke to her family's airheaded-ness and complete and utter dysfunction that they did not even notice the War until its peak.

Or rather, Valeria did not notice. Her parents had described what they initially noticed as 'cute', and Binky had blatantly aided and abetted the Valerian's war efforts. Confusing, as the toy figurines had been obviously hell-bent on ending her ten-year-old brother's life, but alas. Their family was airheaded and dysfunctional to a tee, and Malfoy and Goyle had not seen fit to mention the transformation of a docile, virtually intelligent villager toy set to bloodthirsty, suddenly self-aware cultists, not even to their own parents—the idiots.

'All of them, idiots! Whose bright idea was it to advertise artificial intelligence as '98% realistic—they seem almost real!''

Somewhere deep inside of her, Valeria could feel the hate for Child's Play Inc. festering like an angry wound.

At least the Crabbes managed to broker peace between Vinnie and the toys.

'And we took all their corporate money in the lawsuit.'

That had been Valeria's idea. The vindication had been glorious.

They were still stuck with bloodthirsty extremists, but at least they had what's rest of the fuckers' money.

Oh, but were they stuck with bloodthirsty extremists. Sapient ones.

The reincarnation rubbed her temples in a valiant effort to stave off the migraine the entire conundrum of the Valerians' sentience presented her.

Valeria's mother smiled, lips curling up in an unfortunately sinister manner, and stroked her hair, "We're so very proud of you two."

The pocketed warriors' muffled cheers echoed her statement, and Valeria gave a wobbly smile back while Vinnie stopped chewing on the coveted acceptance letter in response—though that might've just been because he got a nasty taste of ink. The drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth was tinged a slight emerald, if one looked close enough.

"The ink tastes like spinach and grass," he said blankly after extricating the letter. The Crabbe family raised their brows. Valeria stared at her own letter for a second before giving it a giant lick.

Huh.

(V)(° 🌸 °)(V)

It was no use, Valeria quickly realized with horror.

No matter how many times she licked her dragon tongue flavoured ice cream, all she could taste was spinach and grass. She threw it in the trash angrily, the can gobbling it up with an audible burp.

The mini-adult glanced over at the Unholy Trio, who appeared to be enjoying their ice creams immensely. Even Vinnie's blank expression seemed pleased, despite having sucked on the ink covered parchment for a good few minutes. Valeria did not believe he could taste even a hint of his Nundu breath ice cream, which, considering what the flavour was inspired by, would undoubtedly be horrifically strong.

'Perhaps he likes the taste of spinach and grass.'

Or just enjoyed the fact that he was eating ice cream at all. Their mother had banned him a year ago after discovering he had eaten himself into a high risk of a magical strain of diabetes. He was finally allowed this treat in celebration of receiving their Hogwarts letters.

'…That actually might be why he tried to eat his letter,' Valeria realized belatedly. She should have caught that, as she had taken the brunt of the responsibility of herding Vinnie away from all the sweets and sugary treats. 'Oops.'

The girl eyed the other two Slytherin wannabes currently doing unspeakable things to their ice creams. She expected the Ape's behaviour, but really, Draco? Really?

It was made extra weird by his flavour of choice: Slytherin. Yes, the Slytherin flavour. No, not the House. There were no House flavours. It was Slytherin as in Salazar Slytherin. The Founder Salazar Slytherin, the wizard Salazar Slytherin. As in a person.

As in a person flavoured ice cream.

That a ten-year-old boy was currently devouring with gusto.

Who, by the by, had the most pleased grin she had seen on his face ever, including the aftermath of The Broomstick Incident.

Yes, Valeria was also having trouble wrapping her mind around a person flavoured anything, and she had four months to get used to it. She actually went a few weeks thinking they were House inspired flavours. She wasn't sure if it had been denial or honest confusion at the time because, sure enough, it wasn't only a Salazar Slytherin flavour. They had five people flavoured frozen treats.

No, Valeria can—despite what her father believed—count.

The final flavour was Merlin, who, according to rumour, tasted like power and squid.

One could see how Valeria was still having trouble accepting these relatively new releases. Though in all honesty she was a little, well, morbidly curious as to what these five famous people tasted like in the eyes of the artisan Florean Fortescue, and also severely disappointed there wasn't a Morgana le Fay flavour.

What? They included a Merlin flavour, why not his Dark, female counterpart?

Anyhow, one would be hard pressed to deny even the mildest curiosity as to what these flavours were like despite how outrageous the premise of it all was, and how disturbing the varied skin tone colours Mister Fortescue had decided to use for his ice cream was. Really, he couldn't have decided to just colour them with their respective House colours and Merlin's preferred colour, could he? Though, Valeria conceded that it added to the people's morbid fascination with these new ice cream flavours. Even she couldn't bring herself to ignore the people flavoured ice creams on display.

Valeria snuck a quick glance at the dark block of Merlin flavoured ice cream through the parlor window, then at Helga's pale, almost rosy block.

She unconsciously licked her spinach and grass flavoured lips.

What better way to prove herself a badger than to taste the very flavour of their Founder, to partake in the people tasting and become one with dear Hufflepuff herself? It would be like some sort of twisted version of the Christian communion. They ate Jesus, why not… Helga Hufflepuff?

Valeria mentally took a step back at that thought and noted that she was working her way up to an excuse to taste ice cream flavoured people—no… no that did not sound right. It was people flavoured ice cream… yes, yes that sounded... right?

She also noted that she may have been obsessing a tad, and that it was messing with her mind.

Had she just compared Helga Hufflepuff to a religious figure…?

Yes, yes she had.

The little girl pinched the bridge of her nose.

'Screw it.'

She lunged forward when the blond boy took a moment to breathe, and took a generous bite out of his Salazar flavoured ice cream. She swished it around with her tongue.

...It tasted like spinach and grass.

Valeria cursed violently alongside Draco.

'Stupid, stupid, stupid Hogwarts and their stupidly stupid flavoured ink!'

Why, why could it not have tasted something like lime, or green apple, or something!

Spinach and grass!

Really!

The nerve of them!

'Ruining my ice cream!'

A thought entered her mind, in which the Hogwarts staff possibly flavoured their ink with something nasty in an effort to dissuade the young children from sampling their mail.

They were taking their teaching a bit too far, in Valeria's opinion.

She turned and stared at Vinnie's ice cream and the Ape's orange sorbet— the most muggle flavour of the four of them—and considered taking a bite out of both in an attempt to taste something other than the Hogwarts ink, before immediately dismissing the thought. The Nundu breath did not sound attractive, and neither did the Ape's sloppy seconds.

She sighed.

"You—You—!" Draco's pale face was pink. "Have you no class?!"

"No," the girl stared morosely at his Salazar ice cream, and the Valerians in her pocket wiggled at the shouting. "I am wild and free of such restrictive nonsense."

His eye visibly twitched.

"You're not going to ruin theirs, are you?"

"No," she repeated in a monotone voice. "I will not deign to grace their ice creams with my essence."

They both flinched at how stupendously disgusting she managed to make that statement sound. Valeria pinched her lips.

"I mean, really," the mini-adult threw a look at the two idiots. "Would you take a bite out of those?"

Valeria could see him visibly consider it—skipping over the Ape's orange sorbet entirely—and zero in on Vinnie's old, yellow dishwater coloured ice cream. He snorted.

"Vinnie's looks alright," he replied matter-of-factly. "And you share food all the time."

"Are you joking?" She pinned him with an incredulous look. "That's Nundu breath flavoured ice cream. You cannot be telling me you'd even want to smell that!"

"And what exactly is a Nundu?"

"You don't know what a Nundu is? You actually don't know what a Nundu is?"

His flat look said something along the lines of 'not even if you clubbed me over the head with it'.

Or at least that was Valeria's interpretation of his expression, mostly because she felt like whacking the snooty look off his face half the time.

The animal enthusiast gave a long suffering sigh. "Nundu's are considered by most to be singlehandedly the most dangerous creatures on Earth, though in my personal opinion that title should go to Dementors—and don't even get me started on those creatures. A Nundu's breath is filled with disease and incredibly toxic, capable of exterminating entire villages of people on its own," she smirked a little at the blond's wrinkling nose. "It takes at least a hundred wizards to take down a lone Nundu, while in comparison a dragon would sometimes require only ten wizards to neutralize."

In a rare fit of eloquence (but certainly not intelligence), Vinnie piped up in his most inquisitive, dull voice, "Is that why it tastes like spinach and grass?"

Valeria stared hard at her older, twin brother while Draco looked a little lost.

"No, Vinnie," she patted his thick head. "The ink from the parchment you ate is still on your tongue."

He furrowed his brows, "What parchment?"

...

...

Of course.

Of course.

"The one that you ate earlier this morning, Vinnie. Your Hogwarts acceptance letter, remember?" The mini-adult explained patiently, ignoring Draco's disturbed look. The boy's brows only furrowed deeper.

"So I'm not tasting my ice cream?" The dark-eyed boy asked, receiving another pat for making the connection.

"No, you're not."

Valeria's favourite brick promptly let his arm go slack, dropping his ice cream on the cobbled stone of Diagon Alley, and wandered off in the general direction of where their parents were buying their potions' supplies.

"Oh, Vinnie," the reincarnation shook her head fondly, deliberately ignoring the incredulous looks the other Alley goers shot her brother.

Valeria started in surprise when a toy warrior, one with silver hair fibres, neon green painted marble irises, and Beachwood finishing, had managed to climb the folds of the pocket and stuck his head out. "Your Grace," he cried out. "Has this great Noon-doo beaten back your other half?"

Valeria noted with amusement the drastic change in Draco's and Goyle's moods at the sudden appearance of the toy cultist. The way they instantaneously dropped their ice creams and backed up with much fanfare like a pair of backup dancers was a comical sight.

"What is that doing here?" The Malfoy boy squeaked.

Before the witch could respond to either of them, another one—this time with aqua blue hair fibres, burgundy irises, and a deep mahogany polish—popped out with a wave, "Your Holiness, it is such an honour to be carried so intimately in your pocket."

Valeria marvelled at how the figurines looked exactly li—

Wait.

What?

Intimate?

What?

"I must beg for forgiveness on behalf of my subordinate for his transgressions. His forwardness is unbecoming of an honoured Stoic among our warrior platoon. I am afraid he is not as well disciplined as the other one," she continued, her voice even and firm, wooden eyelids clicking placidly. "I hope with all my ball joints that his insolence has not spoiled your afternoon with your... companions. Please, if you must, take your ire out on myself rather than my foolish subordinate."

For several moments, Valeria stared dumbstruck at the toy warriors, her mouth gaping open with reckless abandon. It was one of the few times any of the figurines had directly addressed her; she had avoided them as much as she could, as they made her extremely uncomfortable. The little girl could not decide if the unease was out of rampant guilt, denial, misplaced loyalty towards Vinnie, or disconcertion at their fervent worship of her eleven-year-old self—granted, Valeria had made half-assed plans to present herself as a god to some muggles in a grand scale prank, but that was completely different from having a new race entirely dependent on her for moral and spiritual guidance.

…But Christ, was this one eloquent. She had not expected the Valerians to be so cultured. Where did this one even learn that kind of language, let alone how to address a 'queen', or a term such as 'stoic'—albeit, learned it incorrectly. The Crabbe wasn't an expert on stoicism at all, but even she knew a full-scale uprising was the complete opposite of that school of thought.

"What exactly do you mean by 'stoic'," the Crabbe questioned apprehensively. The aqua-haired superior cocked her head woodenly.

"A Stoic," she replied calmly and evenly. "A member of a highly respected, specialized sect of our force known for their accomplishments and successes in battle. One who practices great mental fortitude, patience, and strength of heart in all areas of life so as to retain a level head in the heat of battle. One who does not indulge in idle curiosities, nor endangers their entire platoon at their whimsy." At this, her burgundy marbles narrowed pointedly at the silver-haired 'Stoic', who had gone as stiff as—well, he was already stiff as a plank seeing as he was made almost entirely of wood, but he looked incredibly uncomfortable nevertheless.

'Well, that's one way to interpret stoicism.'

Valeria chewed her lip, "And you're—what? The commander of this contingent?"

"Aye," the Commander straightened and brought her hand up to her chin in a strange salute reminiscent of the universal 'call me' sign with the pointer finger sticking out. Valeria's brow rose at the pirate-like affirmation and bizarre mannerism. "I am the commanding Stoic officer of the Honorary Guard of the Goddess, currently escorting the Witness. Ahoy!"

The mini-adult jumped a little at the seemingly random outburst as another head of fibre hair popped out with a wave. She had straight black hair, black painted irises, and a pale yellow polish—possibly pine, but Valeria's knowledge of different types of wood ended there after she got bored of wandlore. The raven haired soldier moved with fluid, controlled movements and she too brought up her hand in a 'call me' sign to her chin.

"Your Crabbiness," she greeted quietly, and Valeria had to suppress a snort.

"My second in command," the Commander indicated the other female toy, then, with a drop of disdain in her voice tilted her head at the silver haired one. "And my third."

The Third hastily brought his hand to his chin in their salute. "R-Rock on!" He shouted in a near querulous yelp.

'…Right.'

"What the bloody hell is wrong with these things," Malfoy interjected rudely, pointing shakily at the three Stoics hanging out of her pocket. "They're talking rubbish and—why are they even still here? The Ministry decided to burn—"

"Court case. Appeal. Decision overturned. Missed it when you ran off to Mumbai with your parents," she interrupted him blithely, paused, then continued. "Unofficially, we got loads of money out of damages, then bought off Ministry officials with the stipulation of containing the illegal artificial intelligence… I can see why your father likes doing it."

Draco sputtered indignantly while Goyle contemplated his dropped ice cream. "You have no right—"He stopped himself, glared, then stormed off, dragging Goyle along behind him. Evidently he foresaw the longwinded argument that would occur should he defend his father's crookedness.

'Good riddance.'

Silence reigned, before its rule was so rudely overthrown. "So, is everyone in your goddess-guard-thingy a Stoic? Better yet: what is a goddess-guard-thingy?"

"The Honorary Guard of the Goddess," the Third corrected proudly, painted neon marbles… glittering. "A small crew of handpicked warriors who silently watch over the Goddess—er… you— and aid her in her times of need. Though everyone else refers to us as just the Guard." He smiled sheepishly—actually smiled somehow despite his features being entirely carved from wood and marble.

'…So a group of professional stalkers, basically.'

The aqua-haired Commander flicked her eyes from where Draco and Goyle had been moments before and continued, the barest hint of frustration seeping into her voice, "Unfortunately, the three of us are the only Stoics currently in the Guard. The others have been assigned as scouts for the grounds and as sentries for the Playroom and its surrounding halls. We do, however, have a Berserker so I suppose he makes up for it a little."

A muffled yelp of indignation answered the Commander's off-handed remark and Valeria winced.

'Somebody is feeling salty.'

"Most Holy," the Commander addressed the Crabbe, who startled after a few moments when she realized the toy was addressing her. "Our sincerest apologies. It was never the Guard's intention to disrupt your activities with your companions and your other half, especially on a Holy Rite of Passage. I hope that you might find the same patience and tolerance you afford your other half, and extend your benevolence towards us lowly beings."

The three Stoics bowed their heads in submission, awaiting her 'judgement'.

"Um. You're forgiven…?" Valeria answered awkwardly, head spinning.

Patience? Tolerance? Benevolence? This was probably the first time anyone in either of Valeria's lives had described her in such a way, never mind so reverently and….fearfully. What did they think she'd do, break them? Snap their limbs, stomp on their wooden carcasses? Throw them to Vinnie—that. That was exactly what they thought she would do, she realized with a mounting horror. There had been a little girl toy hiding beneath a massive body pile, and Valeria had thrown her to Vinnie…

The image the Valerians held her to had suddenly become that much more stilted and twisted. It was one thing to assign the traits one would Mother Teresa to an eleven-year-old child—it was another thing entirely to fear the 'embodiment of benevolence'. What kind of message would that send an entire race? And—And—People didn't fear Valeria, she was harmless! The worst she'd ever done was throw around scathing remarks and pull questionably harmless pranks for crying out loud!

'And kill little girls,' Valeria couldn't help but think sardonically. 'You kill little girls too, apparently. Good job Valeria, you've become an accomplice to murder before you even attended Hogwarts. I daresay even Tom Riddle himself would be impressed! You've killed your very own Moaning Myrtle, you slippery snake, you!'

She growled and kicked at a pebble, the stone going high and hitting an older girl in the head. She turned around, her dark, beautiful face glaring malevolently at her. Valeria felt a shiver run down her spine, and quickly flashed an apologetic smile—but the girl had already stomped away with a huff, and the Commander and her subordinates had disappeared back into the pocket.

"Wait," Valeria yelled in alarm at the toys. They didn't pop back up, so she stuck a hand in and grabbed at cloth, pulling out one of the figurines. They blinked at one another.

"Who the hell are you?" The Crabbe demanded at the outrageously dressed man hanging by her forefinger and thumb. He was dressed all in white, style reminiscent of a nun's attire—only in this case, he had a woven cherry blossom hanging from his neck. The nun imposter squealed in response and the girl rolled her eyes, shoving another hand in and pulling out the Second in command by the hood of her… armored ninja outfit. Ninja outfit. She was wearing a ninja outfit, why in the blazing hell was she wearing a ninja outfit—

"This is the Witness," the Second answered blandly without prompt, black marbles half-lidded almost lazily.

"The Witness…?"

Unfortunately, the Second did not continue her explanation and stared obstinately back at her, as if she had answered all the questions she could possibly ask with that one statement. Valeria looked between the high pitched, gleeful man in one hand to the inflexible Stoic in her other. She groaned in frustration, set the Stoic down on her shoulder, and reached in to grab another figurine. This time she pulled out a violently red-haired male wielding an axe, then promptly dropped him on her shoulder without bothering to ask why he was wearing a mini bra of all things on his head, and struck gold with her next venture into her pocket.

"What the hell is a Witness?"

"A Witness," the Commander replied tranquilly as though she were continuing their last Q and A, and not dangling from her fingers like a limp doll—which she was, all things considered. "One who bears witness to the life of the Goddess. One who observes and attends the milestones in Her Holy life. Witnesses commit these events and details to memory, devoting their entire lives to remembrance and adding to Scripture. Also known as Truth Sayers and Yellers, for their devotion to spreading the new additions to Scripture to the Valerian masses."

"…Fuck."

This posed countless problems. Every action, every word was watched, recorded, and interpreted with religious zeal. There was no telling how this Witness fanatic would perceive her and twist the views of the rest of the legion of toys. And she couldn't just say she wasn't a god and invalidate all their beliefs. She knew better than to try and deny the delusions of fanatics—that usually lead to violent reactions.

The mini adult chewed her lip, eyeing the mild Commander and the fervent Witness calculatingly. She could just button up her pocket and hope the Witness didn't hear anything until she found a more permanent solution, but… she both enjoyed and was intrigued by the Guard.

When they reported their discovery of the Valerians' sentience to the Ministry and filed a lawsuit against Child's Play Inc., the Department of Magical Equipment Control, in conjunction with the Auror's Office, had declared the Valerians' existence in violation of a clause under the Restrictions Against the Creation and Fabrication of Dark Objects Act. Apparently, anything fabricated that could think on its own was Dark, and therefore dangerous and illegal, barring pre-established things such as talking portraits—thank god. They had a point, what with things like Tom Riddle's diary floating around, but there was a glaring problem with this law: it condemns all artificial intelligence. In fact, they failed to even classify them as creatures and neglected to consult the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. The department that dealt with them were a subdivision of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Magical Equipment Control. Equipment! The Valerians may have been equipment once, but they were far past that.

They'd evolved.

But they failed to recognize that and ordered a burning. The artificial intelligence was to be burned in a fortnight and production of The Village Play Set ceased.

Obviously, the family had saved the newborn race from the burning, and gotten saddled with an entirely new, unwanted, highly illegal race as a result… but Valeria never again had the picture of little, screaming people and flames licking at wood hanging over her head. She'd gone two days with the crackle of fire following her around before she cracked and helped her father devise a plan to save them from the anti-artificial intelligence law. The girl had been all too happy to wash her hands of them afterwards, her conscious clean. She saved them so now she doesn't owe them anything, had been her reasoning. She'd been scared of them. She wanted to ignore what they meant about her brother, her family, and herself.

With her conscious squeaky clean, of course.

The reincarnation had gotten by these past few months pretending they were tiny, violent neighbours she could just ignore, but now they'd gone from a walking, sentient migraine to cultured… people.

'Double fuck.'

Valeria was in deep.

How to question the Guard without encouraging the cult itself, maybe even discourage it…. Could she find a way to disillusion the Valerians of her apparent godhood? Maybe even completely eradicate this ridiculous notion? Convince them to integrate into society like proper people? As much as they could with their perpetual house arrest. It took the toys' confinement and most of the Galleons they won from Child's Play Inc. to buy off their artificial lives and keep them from the burning. She could be rid of this savage—

By god, she sounded exactly like her Canadian forefathers.

'Yes, Val, strip them of their culture, why don't you?' That snide little voice in her said. 'They're just savages, like the Aboriginal peoples your ancestors had ravaged when they settled in the New World. Just like great-great-great-great grandpa Brennan. He must be so proud.'

Okay, no. Let's not do that. They were not savage, they were just desperate to survive in a world that would spare no mercy for them.

Just treat them like people, and in turn they will do the same with her. Their strange little fledgling culture was fascinating anyways.

"Your Crabbiness," the Commander prompted as she tapped a strange contraption strapped to her thighs and above the ball joints of her hips, the straps stretching from the tips of her jointed feet to just above her shoulder sockets. Valeria blinked at her.

"Would you like to accompany me on my errands?"

The tapping stilled. "Are we not already accompanying your Holiness?"

"I meant as companions, not silent guards stuffed into my pockets." Speaking of, that was likely highly uncomfortable for the Guard. "You could sit on my shoulders, along with the rest of your contingent."

"By your command," the Commander bowed her head.

'No, damn you!'

"Only if you want to," Valeria controlled her impatience. "I'd rather you and your friends be present out of want, not duty or obedience."

"They are not my friends," the Commander corrected on reflex, and an outraged yell that sounded suspiciously like the Third came from her pocket. "But I would be honoured to accompany you as a companion."

The Commander offered her the tiniest smile and Valeria grinned back at her. Well, until—

"Ahoy!" The Commander yelled with animalistic force, her face twisting into a fierce scowl of epic proportions, and it took every ounce of Valeria's will to keep from jumping.

Two long black tethers snaked out of the device strapped to the Commander, hooking themselves in the material on Valeria's shoulder. The mahogany figurine twisted her hips and was wrenched out of Valeria's fingers with a roar, shooting out to land on her shoulder with the Second and the redhead at frightening speeds. At the same time, two more tethers shot from her pocket to hook onto her other shoulder, the Third Stoic whipping out on the other end with extreme ferocity, his face warped in a war cry. Behind him trailed two more warriors, each hanging onto one of his hands and with equally loud roars emitting from their tiny throats. The Guard, including the Second and the bra head, latched onto her unbound hair as one being.

From the corner of Valeria's eye, the Commander smiled serenely up at her, all traces of the terrifying transformation gone. "Shall we?"

"U-um," Valeria's teeth chattered and it took effort to unfreeze her muscles. "Ye-Yeah, s-sure."

What. The. Hell.

It was a damn wonder the cultists hadn't managed to assassinate her brother with these devices. One of them could have flown up and slit Vinnie's throat! Where in god's name did they get those? Where? It was altogether unlikely the Valerians developed this technology in the span of a year, and Binky wasn't of the inventive persuasion.

Just who was the idiot that gave them these bizarre contraptions? Who was the idiot!

She was going to kill them.

"Your Crabbiness!" The Witness cried from her fingertips, shocking her out of her thoughts. "Where shall I sit?"

Valeria stared blankly at him, spitting out the first thought in her mind much like she did with Snape or Lucius Malfoy. "You look like a nun."

"I do?" The Witness preened for whatever reason.

"I mean," the Crabbe sputtered. "You could hang from the lip of my pocket." And promptly dropped him back in.

"A most intimate gesture!" He screamed up as he fell down.

Squaring her shoulders for the Guard, the reincarnation began to walk carefully through the throngs of magical people towards Slug and Jiggers Apothecary, where the Crabbe parents were hopefully still gathering their potions ingredients.

"So…" Valeria began to ask about their weird devices, before she remembered something important when it came to basic social customs. "Do any of you have names?"

"Yes, we are the Valerians," the Third proclaimed jovially, twirling one finger in his silver hair fibres.

"What about personal names?"

The Guard stilled on her shoulders.

"…Personal names?" Bra head questioned incredulously, fiddling with the pink straps tied to his head. "By my ball joints, that is something reserved for the gods."

"Yes, the barbaria— pardon, Berserker is correct," the Commander said, ignoring his derisive snort. "We are the Valerians and nothing more."

Valeria began to chew on her lip. "Aren't you, though? I mean, you are the Commander of the Honorary Guard of the Goddess, or whatever. You are female, with mahogany finishing, blue hair fibres, and burgundy irises. You are calm, collected, passive-aggressive, and adept at diplomacy—or at least with handling me. You're someone. So is bra head here: he's a Berserker, has hair so red it makes your eyeballs want to bathe in acid, and is probably a pervert. No, definitely a pervert.

"And names aren't reserved for humans only. Everything has a name, so long as there's someone to call them by it."

The Commander looked thoughtful. The Berserker waved his axe around dangerously.

"Then I will gratefully take up the name you have dubbed me with," the redhead announced. "From now on, I shall be known as Braheed!"

"Yeah, sure why not," she responded absently, eyeing the apothecary's sign down the street. "Braheed's close enough."

"I wish to be known as Witness Nun!" Nun shouted up from the pocket. Valeria nodded slightly.

"A name," the Commander mused aloud. "To be known by something that is yours alone…"

"Have you thought of something?" Valeria asked, mildly amused by the Commander's deep contemplation.

"Yes…" she peered up at the reincarnation, burgundy marbles flashing. "My name is Noon-doo."

'Subtle.'

"Hey!" The Third whined at the Commander. "I wanted to be Noon-doo!"

The Commander blinked, "Then you can be Noon, brother of mine. And I shall be Doo."

'Siblings, maybe? Well that explains their off-kilter dynamic, and absolutely nothing about Valerian families. They do have families, right?'

Whatever.

She'll have all the time in the world to learn about them.

Wait, but she was leaving for Hogwarts in a few months.

"Second," Valeria squinted to the side at the pine figurine sitting silently on her shoulder with Commander Doo and Braheed. "Have you decided on a name?"

"…No."

"Oh, okay."

It was in the middle of the other two warriors arguing over the name 'Dragoon' that the Second straightened her spine and whispered, "Father Crabbe at one o'clock."

"Valerie!" Her father cried from the entrance of the apothecary, waving wildly at her.

She grinned back at his enthusiasm in spite of herself. "Father."

Valeria approached the potions shop, and as the crowd cleared they spotted Victoria Crabbe along with the Unholy Trio. Valere rushed up to her and eyed her suspiciously.

"You shouldn't wander around alone," he reprimanded sternly and his daughter rolled her eyes.

"I wasn't alone, I had the The Honorary Guard of—"

"—the Goddess. Oh yes, the Guard, excellent," her father nodded approvingly and his eyes brightened when they landed on the toys lining her shoulders. The Crabbe patriarch raised his fist up in a rock sign and grinned dopily at Doo.

"Rock on, Commander!"

Doo responded likewise, raising her fist to her chin calmly. "Rock on, Father Crabbe."

Valeria stared dumbly at them.

"Are the Magical Maneuverability Devices I built the Stoic division working?"

"Indeed, Father," Doo nodded at him. "It took a lot of practice and balancing techniques at first, but they work excellently," her voice dropped ominously. "We are putting them to good use."

"Wonderful."

"Y-You!" Valeria managed to choke out, pointing a half-raised finger up at her father as his wife walked over to join the conversation. "You're the idiot who gave them these devices…. And taught them these—these—nonsense mannerisms? What were you thinking?"

Valere reared back, affronted. "Of course not. That was your mother. Well, I taught them 'rock on' and made them the MMD's, but everything else was all Victoria! She trained them!"

"Aren't they splendid?" Victoria puffed out her chest and her lips curled up in a sinister smile. "Ahoy!"

The entirety of the Guard straightened to attention and brought their fists to their chins.

"Ahoy!"

Valeria's eye twitched spastically.

(V)(° 🌸 °)(V)

The family of four plus two stepped into the narrow, dusty old shop. They all eyed the lone, rickety looking chair in the corner, and walked right back out. Valeria and her brother were promptly kicked back inside with a pouch of gold and instructions to find their very own wands.

The eleven-year-old girl latched onto the sleeve of a sneering blond.

He slapped her hand away and escaped with his lumbering friend and the Crabbe parents.

She supposed she should be thankful that her presence hadn't changed his destined meeting with the Boy-Who-Lived when he went to get his own school supplies. Truthfully, she was hoping that their imminent bickering would distract her from this rite of passage.

Oh well, the Valerians were a distraction all on their own.

The shop was a derelict space, save for the wall to ceiling shelves piled high with thin boxes in various states of decay. Some were fairly new, more with old stains adorning the paper boxes, and others outright crumbling away. The owner was nowhere to be seen. She says 'derelict save for the boxes' despite the counter with the bell and the suspiciously old chair, because it was very clear to her when she walked into the room that the wands they encased were very much alive, and very much 'lived' in this space.

As far as she understood from the books in her past life, wands were non-sentient tools used to focus and direct magic. They were obviously highly regarded for such purposes because it was as simple as point and shoot, yet Valeria could very clearly recall other types of focus tools in Faddy's Foreign Fascinations that were equally common as the wand in other wizarding cultures. Some jewelled bracelets, heavy looking intricate cuffs, mysterious looking necklaces and chokers, and, oddly enough, a ratty old grimoire.

Valeria personally thought the cuffs were more convenient, as it was also a point and shoot kind of tool and much more difficult to lose than a fancy looking stick. The necklace and choker required more concentration and effort as one had to direct the flow of magic entirely with their mind, and she wasn't entirely sure how or why the grimoire worked the way it did. Apparently, one would record the spell in the grimoire (though it wasn't just a simple word; it relied on verses and passages from ancient texts, or something along those lines), and reciting the recorded incantation would draw the appropriate magic circle around the witch or wizard, which would then activate the spell.

Too much work and too flashy (unless you're trolling some unsuspecting souls), so Valeria wasn't all that interested in it either. It was the same with her father's runic circles—too much work rewriting and drawing the mechanics of the spell within a circle and calculating the correct placement of runes and such, when a simple incantation and flick of the wrist would have the same results.

While she was well aware that the intricacies and particulars of the different focus tools were useful in their own aspects, she had faith in her ability to blow things up with a magic stick or cuff like the other eleven-year-old brats—and mostly didn't really care to get into the details of how a grimoire erases the necessity for many of the steps put in place for wandwork, or how exactly a choker takes little to no magic power in comparison to wizarding Britain's beloved twigs.

Anyhow, like Valeria said, she thought a magical cuff was better than a wand simply because it was attached to a wizard or witch at all times, and thus easier to call on and harder to misplace. Initially, she thought that wizards had gotten all huffy about wearing 'jewellery' and witches had found the grimoires stupidly complex and flashy, and thus they'd all just agreed on wands as their medium. That's what Valeria had thought.

She thought that was all there was to it.

Until she walked into Ollivander's for the first time and discovered this new facet to wands.

The hypersensitive little witch (not that she was aware of this) had to wonder at how she hadn't picked up on this whenever her father, Snape, or any of the other magical folk she came in contact with drew their wands. She hadn't noticed anything at all. From what she could tell with her senses they'd just been glorified sticks.

Whatever the case, the wands in those thin little boxes were most certainly more than that.

The mini-adult could feel the magic thrumming through every single wand in the shop, the nuances of each creating a symphony of which Valeria had never experienced the like. Each one differed from the other in ways that should not have complement the other—in flavour, aroma, note, colour, texture—and yet, they did.

Splashes of vermillion, cobalt, jade across a bone white canvas, arcing sweeps of roaring tides crashing against one another in indigo, teal, carmine, jasper, ochre; gentle beats of feathery wings painting in watery, rose tinted colours. Sharp tangs of ocean brine and citrus, earthy dirt and green moss carried away on a breeze of jasmine, sweet peas, and fresh laundry, undertones of musk and the sweet scent of fur tickling the senses. A flaky pie baking in the oven giving off a buttery aroma mixed with several different fruits: peach, apple, rhubarb, blueberry, pumpkin, cherry, raspberry, strawberry; a cauldron of stew simmered over a crackling, smoky fire; bitter artichokes and olives; earthy mushrooms, potatoes, turnips; milky chocolate, hard caramel candies, sour blue lollipops, and sweet, sweet maple syrup.

The uppity, rich sound of a trumpet battling it out with a sax could be heard, clarinets and flutes and drums and guitars and oboes and trombones joining in an exquisite sonata. Electric guitars and heavy drums screamed together in an overload of sound as a gentle piano piece quietly played itself out. The cries of birds, squeaks of mice, and howls of lone wolves called out as a high tenor voice sang to nary a soul. Rough, coarse sand between fingers, soft velvet, slippery silk. Cool stone, warm blankets, freezing snow, and piping hot lava.

Or, at least...

That's how it began to feel like for Valeria. She had always wondered how some people could taste music, or see sound. In her past life, she remembered reading an article about a girl who could taste, hear, smell, and feel colours, and couldn't for the life of her imagine being able to experience that kind of sensory perception.

Now she had an idea of what it was like.

Valeria leaned on her obstinate brother, careful of the Valerians on her shoulders, and touched a hand beneath her nose. It came away red.

Really, it was a wonder Valeria hadn't felt this before. Wands were alive for Pete's sake! Well, they weren't alive alive, as in they didn't have what one might consider a soul or sentience. But they had that something, that spark, that none of the other focus tools had. It used to seem a little strange that wands would portray quirks in... personality and display behavioural traits in the books when they had clearly just been hyped up sticks with something magical stuffed inside; now it made perfect sense. Valeria had to marvel at wandmakers—Mr. Ollivander in particular—for bringing these twigs to life, and question how exactly they did so.

But that was a venture for another time.

The Crabbe girl sighed and looked with longing out the door. To be frank, escaping the sensory overload that was Ollivander's wasn't the only reason she had immediately stepped out of the shop. Besides the entirely scary realization that those sticks were... well, freaking alive, she'd been looking forward to this magical milestone with not a little unease. Don't get her wrong, the Crabbe was very much excited to blow things up with her soon to be wand. It was that she feared no wand would bond with her, it was also another marker that heralded the coming of Plot—

Valeria cursed.

—and she had vivid memories of Mr. Ollivander himself being frighteningly perceptive. As in, Yoda perceptive, or Gandalf—though Valeria was more inclined to attach that comparison to Dumbledore because, well, beards. She couldn't help but think that he might see through her eleven-year-old body and spot the nineteen-year-old girl that had died over a decade ago. It was an alarming prospect, simply because she had buried that girl so deep in her pendant and behind Valeria Irma Crabbe, it would be too painful to be her again. To have someone look at her and see her as Valerie Brennan too. To have someone listen to her talk about Valerie Brennan and believe that that girl really did exist once too.

Valeria knew, she knew how contradictory it was to hide who she really was and talk about it with her friend and enemy. She saw the paradox in burying her and simultaneously drowning herself in old memories. She knew. But this was different.

The Crabbe touched her blossom pendant.

A thought struck her.

Or rather, slapped her upside the head with a murderous Nundu.

'What if Ollivander practices Legume?'

A very frightening prospect indeed. If the old wandmaker did in fact practice the all-powerful vegetable mind talent—and looking back in her memories really made it seem like he did—then he stood a high chance of uncovering her secrets.

Which would not do because:

A: It would throw suspicion on her, and thus drag her into the Plot.

(Valeria cursed.)

B: Whatever foreknowledge he gleans from her would screw with the Plot.

(Valeria cursed again.)

C: He might try and convince her to meddle with the Plot.

(Valeria bit her tongue while cursing, and was pretty sure the appendage was bleeding.)

D: It made her highly uncomfortable having her mind invaded.

And E: He might uncover her half-formed plans to become a 'god' in the muggle realm and altogether fuck with everyone's minds.

...That last part might not be conducive for her plans to stay out of Azkaban anyways, but a girl could dream.

'Why hadn't I tried my hand at Occultmancy? Snape may have stopped infiltrating my mind and Dumbledore may not show interest in a random Hufflepuff, but they're obviously not the only Legumetist, or whatever they're called. Stupid girl!'

Though in her defense, she hadn't encountered mind magic at all besides vague mentions in the countless books she devoured with much enthusiasm. It was possible it wasn't a well-known art in the wizarding realm, or it might have been something taught through families or apprenticeships. It seemed like the sort of thing that could only be learned through practice and experience anyhow.

Valeria silently vowed to learn Occultmancy. She needed to find some books for it when she went to get her school textbooks, along with some Latin language books she needed to refresh her memory, and of course the books on artificial life and intelligence. Might as well add a bit of wandlore in her purchases for light reading and to sate her curiosity.

Jesus, what was she, a Granger?

"Your Grace," Noon whispered loudly, eyeing Vinnie warily. "Your face is leaking."

"Just a nosebleed," she muttered to him.

"Are you ill?" Commander Doo asked sharply. "Has the room offended your most holy nostrils?"

The Guard collectively glared at their surroundings, and Braheed waved his axe around as if to threaten the space around them. Doo tapped her MMD, a steady beat in the stillness of Ollivander's.

Tap.

Vinnie stared at nothing in particular and scratched at his nose.

Tap.

The Second murmured to herself, the words too soft for the reincarnation to pick up.

Tap.

"Did anyone ring the bell?" Valeria asked the room, desperately wanting to rub her forehead.

Tap.

"…No," the Second replied quietly. "Valeria, I—"

Tap.

A sharp intake of breath and a hiss from Noon, "Respect! You can't speak so in—"

Tap.

"—formally to Her Holiness!"

"Quiet, Third," the Second hissed. "This is none of your—"

Tap.

"Not now, Second," Doo interrupted them blandly. "You too, Noon."

Tap.

Valeria winced at the pain in her head and on her tongue, cursing Doo's tapping to high heaven, "What are you guys talking about?"

Tap.

"Nothing, your Crabbiness," Doo ceased her infernal tapping. "It is not of dire importance."

The second in command hissed violently in what was obviously disagreement, but held her wooden tongue, fuming all the while. Valeria did not bother pondering this. The behaviour of the Stoics was erratic at best, and she and her headache could not keep up with their ever changing disposition—and wasn't that ironic? They acted like everything except the 'Stoics' they claim to be.

Maybe it was just a bad day for them.

The reincarnation ambled over to the counter and slammed her hand irately on the little bell, muttering, "Let's get this bloody thing over with before I start self-medicating with excessive violence."

Or something along those lines. She might have referenced a Malfoy or two.

Predictably, Ollivander appeared in a mysterious and altogether 'crap-your-pants-where-did-this-guy-pop-out-from' sort of fashion. And, predictably, Valeria jumped, being the skittish paranoid person that she was (she was her father's daughter, after all) while Vinnie stood there completely unfazed (he was his mother's son, enough said). This, of course, jiggled the Valerians around and the subsequent pulling of her hair combined with a sensory-induced migraine made her head feel like it was splitting open.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?"

"Fresh Hogwarts students who've come to purchase wands, like every other eleven-year-old brat you doubtless get every year. Do you say the same line every single time?"

Wow, did Valeria have a mouth on her. What was with her and wizards that scared the bejeezus out of—was this a defense mechanism? By god, that has got to be the most useless defense to develop. A lot of good that would do her if she ever finds herself in front of Moldy Shorts. He'd probably kill her slowly the second a nose jab slipped past her lips.

A harsh tug at the reincarnation's hair from the second in command pulled her out of her thoughts, and Valeria found Ollivander waiting for a response. Fixing her gaze on his large nose instead of his eyes, she rudely ignored whatever question he might have asked.

"Yeah, you could just go ahead and start with Vinnie."

The Crabbe girl could tell the wandmaker was mildly frustrated with her blatant insolence despite his seemingly unflappable appearance, but he nevertheless turned to Vinnie and waved his wand at the large boy. Evidently the old man realized Valeria was not in the mood for any bullshit today, and had forgone any advertising for his wands or claims that they're 'the best wandmakers in the wizarding world'—which was true, and he knew the Crabbes knew it as well.

A measuring tape withdrew itself from his robe and began measuring the size of Vinnie's nostrils.

"He's right handed," Valeria supplied without prompt, already guessing at his question. Ollivander raised his hairy white brows but continued nevertheless.

He pulled out a wand from one of the shelves, holding it out with a flourish in his pale fingers. "Maple. Dragon Heartstring. Eight inches. Give it a swish."

Valeria and the Guard quietly observed the attempts at finding a wand for Vinnie, who was actually quite excited about getting a wand of his own, to no one's surprise. Valeria was observing Ollivander's mannerisms and attempting to pinpoint a trend between the tape measurements, what she already knew of wand lore, and his choice of wands… and obviously finding none—how in the hell did the distance between Vinnie's nostrils correlate with a seven inch pine wand with dragon heartstring?—and the Valerians were scrutinizing the proceedings with obvious distaste and trepidation.

"Commander," Noon leaned over, tone oddly serious. "This is—"

"I know," Doo whispered back, burgundy marbles watching quietly. "This changes things. With magic at the child god's disposal, he could easily take back the Playroom and slaughter the Cast—the Cast is what we call the Valerians collectively, after a cast of crabs, Your Holiness," the Commander automatically answering Valeria's inevitable question.

Valeria grunted in response.

Was it some Arithmancy thing? A form of bullshit? Does it make it look more official and science-y? Was he just enchanting the measuring tape for shits and giggles?

The girl could feel her self-control crumbling.

"So, Ollie," Valeria began pretentiously, and by god has she become such a snob. "How exactly do you choose wands by measuring the distance between my brother's breasts and his crotch?"

"Choice words, Miss Crabbe," the old man reprimanded softly while continuing to scan the shelves for a particular wand.

"He does have breasts though—no offense, Vinnie," Valeria replied blandly, eyeing the measuring tape whirling around the boy. "But seriously, how?"

"Magic has a peculiar relationship with the Divine Proportion, Miss Crabbe," Ollivander responded amusedly, stopping for a moment to shoot her an inscrutable glance to which Valeria studiously ignored. "I find a wand is much more receptive to a prospective witch or wizard when it measures out."

"The Divine Proportion?" Was that another ridiculous magic thing, like the enigmatic number seven?

The Second shifted uncomfortably on her perch when Ollivander stopped to pierce Valeria with another look, obviously trying to initiate eye contact—which Valeria wasn't going to let happen if the old man served her up to Lupin on a full moon.

"The Divine Proportion, Miss Crabbe, is a ratio that appears often in nature and several branches of magic," the wandmaker turned back to the shelf carefully selecting a thin box, and Valeria instantly hated him referring to her with Ms. Crabbe's name. "Applewood. Unicorn hair. Six inches. A flick, if you please—now, the Divine Proportion can be found if one were to divide a length in two unequal parts, in that the longer part divided by the shorter part is equal to the whole length divided by the longer part—no, no, that simply won't do, return the wand please, Mr. Crabbe. Ah, where were we?

"In simple terms, the Divine Proportion is equal to the number 1.618, the decimals continuing with no inherent pattern. An irrational number, if you will. The most successful witches and wizards employ the Divine Proportion in their work, most notably in the runic arts, warding, spellcrafting, spellwork, and even Divination. Some magical and muggle architects and artists even believe the ratio makes the most beautiful shape, the absolute most pleasing to the eye. Take the Parthenon, or a balanced pentagram for example. One, a well-known site in both realms, and the other a powerful, magical trapping symbol. They both employ the Divine Proportion in their structure. Arithmancers postulate that magic aligns itself with the Divine Proportion for these reasons."

Valeria blinked.

"So basically, magic has a particularly intense fetish for a mathematical proportion," she replied dryly, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Because it makes pretty shapes."

"Not in so many words, but yes," Ollivander replied breezily. "Magic is known to be quite irrational. Why not an irrational mathematical relationship for an irrational reason?"

She snorted.

"That is why Ollivander's wandmakers had utilized the Proportion to find measurements that might match up in a prospective wand," the old man continued. "It did not always work, but it certainly helped along the process."

The girl narrowed her eyes at the geriatric wandmaker's nose.

'That doesn't make any sense.'

Valeria thought she smelled bullshit.

'Why stop in searching for a wand for a longwinded, unnecessary explanation? Why use the length of a yet to be fully grown body to find something as long term as a wand? And why say they had used the Proportion if they still use it? Come to think of it, I remember Alice gushing about the Harry Potter series wands and how the length had something to do with their 'character'. And…'

Ollivander did not even pay any attention to the now-still tape. Had not even bothered to note down the measurements.

Yes, Valeria smelled bullshit.

The wandmaker selected another wand from the shelves, handed it to Vinnie, and subsequently drove a metaphorical ice pick through Valeria's skull when the boy waved the wand. Green sparks flew and Ollivander smiled triumphantly. "Chestnut, dragon heartstring, seven inches. Unyielding. Very good, Mr. Crabbe."

"I take it the wand's bonded to him?" Valeria winced and resisted rubbing her temples lest the Guard fall off her shoulders. How in the blazing hell did none of them feel that? He might as well have shoved that wand into her eye.

"Indeed. It took some time, but I've seen more difficult matches."

Valeria examined Vinnie's wand curiously. She could taste steak and Yorkshire pudding, smell pumpkin pasties, feel the snap of something breaking in her hands, and hear a strange, high pitched chatter. It was… a voice, yes, and it sounded rather obnoxious. A constant stream of white noise, tone matter of fact, with the occasional drip of sarcasm. A sharp, rather annoying—

Oh.

It was her voice.

"Oh, Vinnie," she sighed. The chatter was always blurred, the words themselves indecipherable.

Meaning he never actually listened to her.

'Wait… How is that even possible? Why is it that the one wand that chose my brother would be all of his favourite things? Or did it simply choose a master that reflects its song, or whatever this is. Or did it reflect Vinnie's song-thing…? This… the relationship between a wand and its master is even more profound than wandlore led me to believe. Alice was right, in more ways than one. Wands had everything to do with character.'

And nothing to do with some stupid fetish magic had with maths. Why would this asshole wandmaker bother bullshitting his method? Why even bother bullshitting an eleven-year-old kid?

It hit Valeria like a ton of bricks.

Why he would lie.

Why he would fake his method.

Why he would desperately try to initiate eye contact with her.

"I believe it is your turn to find a wand, Miss Crabbe," the wandmaker said jovially, turning to her after wrapping Vinnie's new wand up in its box.

He realized wand matching had everything to do with character and nothing to do with the Divine Proportion. And the best way to quickly measure a stranger's character…

'Oh, screw you.'

This bastard had been illegally using Legume on eleven-year-old children for decades!

The reincarnation was never going to let him invade her mind.

"It would be best if your illegal artificial intelligence were removed from your shoulders, Miss Crabbe," Ollivander pointedly said, a smile tugging at his lips. "It is imperative the tape is unhindered for accurate measurements."

…Touché.

The Crabbe blinked innocently at the old man's nose. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir. My toys are perfectly legal."

"I'm sure. Nevertheless, they must be removed."

The man was sharp, Valeria would give him that.

"Your Holiness," Commander Doo spoke up plainly. "We will vacate your most wondrous shoulders for your convenience."

"Knock that old god down, Your Grace!" Braheed grinned in a confident and cool manner, and slid off her shoulder, using his axe to slow his fall into her pocket and ripping a line through her thin cloak all the way down.

"Wow, thanks." You asshole, I liked this cloak.

With a silent pat, the Second stepped off Valeria's shoulder, simultaneously unleashing the MMD cords and whipping out of sight into her pocket. Noon sputtered something about honour and whatnot and did the same. The other two Valerians, Dragoon and Poe-shin—Valeria still couldn't tell which was which—laboriously climbed down the folds of her robes, evidently denied the Noon Express. Commander Doo tapped her magical maneuverability device one last time.

"This was enjoyable, Your Crabbiness," the toy soldier said quietly.

"Anytime, Doo."

Ollivander flicked his wand after the toy catapulted into her pocket, and the measuring tape went about its redundant business. The Crabbe girl fidgeted uncomfortably while the tape whirled around her. Vinnie's silent presence and the jostling of Valerians in her pocket calmed her some, but the headache still insisted on making itself known. Unsurprisingly, the wandmaker paid no attention to the measuring tape and began pulling wands out from their shelves. He settled on one, pulled it out of its box, and presented it to her handle first with a flourish.

The wand was light brown in colour, medium sized, with an intricately carved handle. To Valeria's magical senses, she could smell frankincense and earth permeating the air, taste rose water and flowers on her tongue, and feel rough bark and soft grass beneath her fingertips. The magic in the wand painted a picture of sprawling green, vibrant blue, and dashes of colour everywhere in between. A familiar piano piece rang in her ears, the name teasing the edges of her memory.

"Beechwood. Unicorn hair. Ten inches."

Valeria grasped the handle of the wand and her senses tuned in to it, the sensations increasing tenfold. A rather strange experience indeed, as she could physically feel the carved handle underneath her palm while her magic told her she was brushing her hand against grass and raw bark. The song blared and Valeria noted with detached amusement that the wand was playing a relaxing piano rendition of Pocahontas' "Colors of the Wind".

"Give it a wave, Miss Crabbe."

She did.

Nothing happened.

Before the girl could even deflate with disappointment, Ollivander had snatched the wand from her hand and whipped out another.

"Try this, a sycamore wand with dragon heartstring, nine inches."

A wand with a rather raunchy tune was shoved in her face, smelling distinctly of fresh air and dirt. Flashes of colour splattered together in a mishmash of a rushed paint job, and oh, ew, she could taste gasoline. The girl grabbed the wand and gave it a flick. Nothing happened. It was swiftly taken from her.

"Ebony, phoenix feather, fourteen inches, inflexible. Rather handsome wand, if I say so myself."

Valeria grabbed the jet-black wand. It smelled of mildew and a burning candle, felt like parchment and the turning pages of a muggle book. The taste of toffees and a picture of soft pencil crayons felt rather distinct to her. She was pleased to hear a violin piece strumming in her ear. This must be it.

But it wasn't.

"No, no, no," Ollivander muttered, sounding very happy with her predicament as he practically wrenched the wand from her fingers. "I must say, I'm always pleased to see a Crabbe in my shop. Always difficult to place a wand with your family."

That did little to soothe the knot in her stomach.

'I don't belong here. I should be dead. I know it. The wands probably do too.'

They continued on in such a fashion, Valeria waving wands around like a madwoman and Ollivander prying her fingers from them with increasing glee. Tart apples, crunchy cashews, sweet strawberries, cheesy chips, warm pies, hearty steak meals, and a flavour that was distinctly like a matcha green tea Frappuccino were taken from her before she could venture a bite. The sounds of instrumentals, nature, whistling birds, punk rock, tinkling streams, and rich voices quieted down before she could begin to appreciate them. Stroke upon stroke of colour, beautiful shapes, oil paint, acrylic paint, crayons, charcoal, and pencil crayons, all darkened into an unseeable abyss before she could take it all in. A myriad of smells assaulted her nose, ones she could not identify before they too were gone.

And with every wand taken away from her, she could feel the abyss growing bigger and deeper. The boxes piled up on the counter, the number of which Valeria had already lost count. Vinnie was snoring away on the stool and the toys in her pockets were still.

It might have been her mid-twentieth wand when something finally happened. Ollivander told her the specifics of the wand, but she ceased listening by then. It was a vain hope. The wand was of a dark grey hue, straight, and a little on the short end. It smelled, sounded, and was as hot as a busy kitchen, bright warm hues painted in various browns. Valeria's hand grazed the wood and it violently burst in red sparks. It burned the palm of her hand, singing the skin to an angry red. The girl yelped and jumped back, blowing on the appendage.

"Fascinating."

"Don't tell me that wand bonded with me," Valeria asked incredulously. "I mean, something happened. It sparked when I touched it. It bonded with me right?"

Ollivander twirled the wand in his hands, truly captivated with the reaction between wand and witch. "I will admit never to have seen something like this before. It is possible, but very, very rare."

"What? What is it?" The Crabbe girl pressed.

"This wand has completely and utterly rejected you."

The reincarnation's jaw dropped. "You're joking! How? Why?"

"I can only speculate, really," the old man replied contemplatively. "Black walnut wands are known to seek masters in the powerfully insightful and those with good instincts, its only oddity in that it is highly attuned to inner conflict and self-deception."

"So what. I'm not insightful enough for it?" Valeria glared accusingly at the grey wand.

"No, I'd rather say it was absolutely repulsed by your dishonesty with yourself," Ollivander corrected. "As I said, they're quite attuned with inner conflict and self-deception, especially when paired with phoenix feather. It abhors such uncertainty in the soul."

The girl gaped at the old man's nose in anger. She had half a mind to take the offending wand from its maker and shove it where the sun don't shine.

"I can only speculate, of course," the man replied to her silent anger. "Though..."

The man abruptly stopped talking and walked to the back of the room, disappearing behind one of the shelves. He returned a few moments later with a decaying, foul smelling box in his hands and a muted melody obscured by the static of the other wands. Valeria wrinkled her nose and shot the old man's nose a look.

"You can't be serious."

"Oh yes, I am," Ollivander said amusedly. "Forgive the smell, this type of wand fell out of fashion some centuries ago and so it was never picked up. It's quite old, but I believe you have a good chance of bonding with this wand."

"A few centuries ago!" The witch's eyes bugged out. "Is it even still alive?"

Ollivander was silent for a moment before quickly removing the wand from its box. "Yes, of course. Hawthorn, dragon heartstring, sixteen inches. Rather springy, considering its age. Give it a go."

Valeria's eyes widened further at the old wand. She did not want to touch it. Sixteen inches was abnormally large for a wand, most being between nine and fourteen inches. Valeria did not delude herself into thinking Ollivander thought she had 'a lot of character'. Almost half of the length was the handle. It was big, disproportioned, and looked like it would suit hands the size of Hagrid than any eleven-year-old child's. No wonder it fell out of fashion, her own father would have trouble handling it.

The wood was a pale brown, gnarled and twisted as though it had been picked off of any old tree. It looked like it could crumble at the slightest of touches.

That was not why she did not want to touch it.

The reincarnation could feel dog fur from the wand. She could smell its sweet scent.

Tears pricked at her eyes.

It was her dog's fur.

It was her little Snookum's.

Valeria could taste her Uncle Gabriel's famous chocolate dipped churros, maple syrup, and Marion's mother's kofta. She could smell her sister's stupid candy perfume, leather, fresh books, her dog's fur, and a scent that was home in another life. Blurred, faint colours of pink, grey, asphalt, and green that she knew was a distorted image of her old home stretched across the vision of her magical eye. Reds, golds, oranges, browns, greens, blues—colours of a Canadian autumn down by the local lake danced in front of her. Her fingers carded through her younger sister's wild hair and her dog's fur as the worn sweaters she always stole from her older sisters draped around her.

This was her wand.

The song the old wand was singing was still muted, indistinct. She thought she might cry.

But it was her wand.

Ollivander said something. She didn't catch it.

Valeria didn't want to touch the wand.

But she wanted to.

The girl gulped and reached out a shaky hand, the burn forgotten, and wrapped her hand around the bulky handle. Her fingers squeezed her sister Alice's hand. She stared, mesmerized, at her baby sister's big doe eyes gazing right back into her own through the bars of her crib. The scent of her aunt and mother's embrace filled the air, a coat of comfort. The blaring static succumbed to the quiet melody of the piano, the tune sedate, melancholic, and gentle. It filled her ears, the notes that only she could hear and the only thing she could hear.

The wand felt awkward in her hand, unbalanced. The handle was lighter and it tilted out of her hand by a significant degree. When she waved it, sparks flew, a zing traveled up her arm and through her entire body, her headache melted away and…

Valeria couldn't feel anything anymore.

Not a thing from the other wands.

Not a peep from her own.

Oh.

"Your Grace," Noon stage whispered from her pocket. "Your face is leaking again."

The Crabbe girl sniffled. "Yeah."

"Your Grace, it's coming from your eye marbles!"

"Really. I didn't notice."

The girl rubbed furiously at her cheeks and her eyes.

"I believe Ms. Crabbe has found her wand," Ollivander stated the obvious and was well received by the Guard with exuberant cheers.

'Stoic, my ass.'

The reincarnation fiddled with the unwieldy stick. She's supposed to be able to nimbly draw and aim it in a matter of seconds. That was not going to happen, not with this wand.

Especially when she was afraid it'd snap in half.

"What made you think this wand would bond with me?"

Ollivander, soulless man that he was, cruelly snatched it from her fingers and proceeded to wrap it up in its box. "Hawthorn wands are best suited to conflicted folk, or those who are in a time of disquiet."

"But I'm not conflicted or going through a rough time."

Ollivander gave her a look that could roughly translate to a sassy 'mhmm, honey, sure you are'. Valeria barely resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

"Why not any other hawthorn wand. Why this one?"

"The black walnut wand rejected you rather soundly," Ollivander said with glee, the little shit. "It was by chance that I had been leafing through some of the Ollivander forefathers' notes the night before and happened across a particular… frustration."

"Frustration," the girl deadpanned.

"Yes. The few who had tried your wand were systematically rejected."

That… strangely sounded like a wand that would be hers.

"Of course, they were very pleased they were fortunate enough the wand was repulsed, and thought its design a pain. I inferred you two would make a good match."

"The wand that rejects people and the girl that is rejected? How is that even rational?"

And wait, was he implying she was a pain?

"Magic, my dear," Ollivander answered, no doubt breaching some sort of copyright law with the trademark Dumbledore Eye Twinkle. "In itself, it is irrational."

'Right.'

The girl grumbled and exchanged the wands for fourteen Galleons. She trudged over to Vinnie, pinched him awake, and they set off onto Diagon Alley.

"They'd be at Flourish and Blotts by now, yeah?" Valeria asked her brother.

Vinnie grunted.

"Yes, Doo," Noon's voice pitched in a whine from her pocket. "But why is her face always leaking?"

(V)(° 🌸 °)(V)

Omake!

GHEGME

Omake! 3

Somewhere, in an alternate future in which Harry and Draco are above the age of fifteen or something….

They were having another spat.

Well, if you could call them being red-faced and screaming angrily at each other in a maddened rage while their Houses jeered them on from the sidelines a spat. Draco noted somewhere in the back of his mind that usually Potter wouldn't have let himself get so worked up over a few traded insults, barring 'mudblood'. It might have had something to do with the fact that the Dark Lord had risen from the dead, tortured him, and sent him back to Hogwarts with a corpse in his arms. Or perhaps it was that the wizarding world at large did not believe him and had been liberally defaming his name in an attempt to quash his claims. Whatever the case, Draco really couldn't care less about the Gryffindor's anger issues.

What he really cared about was...

was ...

it was...

...He couldn't remember what had started their argument. He didn't even think it started with any words, it might have been a simple sneer or glare from across the corridor.

Whatever.

He hated Potty, and that was reason enough.

The muscles in the Malfoy heir's face pulled into their trademark sneer, proof enough of his family name. His pale face was still flushed pink in anger. In turn, Potty's face was an angry red and he looked like he was ready to pull out his wand. It was mildly surprising that they hadn't done so already.

His fellow Slytherins jeered and a couple of Gryffindors shouted back. Granger was whispering furiously into Potty's ear, a restraining hand gripping his arm. Her other hand was hooked into Weasel's robes, effectively leashing him to her. The ginger was glaring murderously at Draco.

"What's wrong, scar head?" The blond spat. "Is little Potty too scared to duel?"

"I'm not scared!" The lion roared back at him.

"Then what are you waiting for," the snake taunted. "Whip it out like a man!"

Before either of them could whip anything out, a familiar high voice pierced the air and stopped them in their tracks.

"Whip out what exactly, Draco?" The smirking figure pushed through the crowd and crossed her arms. "Your willies? Are you and Potter going to whip out your willies? I can't imagine what for. Or rather... I don't want to imagine."

Potty glared at the Crabbe girl, and Draco whirled around to splutter at her.

"O-Of course not! This is a duel between men, Valeria!"

"Oh, I get it," the girl twiddled a bit of stringy hair in her fingers. "This is a measuring contest, isn't it? I must say, that is rather... caveman-like of you two. Not that you have much competition, Harry."

The crowed stilled for a moment as they processed what she had just said. Even Potty seemed to forget his anger for a moment as his mouth dropped open and his eyes darted between Draco and Valeria. Granger and Weasel looked equally stunned.

Draco flushed at the double implication.

"I pantsed him once, and saw a bit too much for my liking," she continued nonchalantly, too focused on a strand of hair to notice the people around her slapping their palms to their foreheads. "Wasn't very impressive, to be perfectly—"

"Valeria!" Draco hissed indignantly and she looked up from her hair.

"What?" The Crabbe idiot sounded genuinely mystified, convincingly unaware that she insulted... him and implied they had... relations.

"What do you want?" The Malfoy glared at Valeria and she rolled her eyes.

"Isn't it obvious?" She eyed the two groups with something akin to exasperation. "I want you two to stop this ridiculous temper tantrum."

"Temper tantrum?" Potty shouted angrily.

"He dissed Slytherin," Draco retorted, or at least ninety percent sure they had. Weasel snorted. Potty turned his glare back to the blond.

"You insulted the Weasley family, threatened to hex me, and called Hermione a mudblood!" The-Boy-Who-Lived shouted angrily. His words were punctuated with his friends' glares and Valeria's unimpressed look.

Draco paused.

Had he...? The blond boy could not remember exactly which insults and words he had exchanged with the Golden Trio. He was struggling to remember, despite it being only ten minutes since the fight began. Could you blame him? They've had so many spats he was having trouble differentiating between them. The Malfoy probably did say those things. It sounded like him.

And the mudblood comment would certainly explain the hissy fit.

"Calling you a slimy Slytherin is hardly anything compared to what you've said," Harry—sorry, Potty continued, green eyes narrowed dangerously. More students stopped to watch. He spotted the Weaslette and Looney Lovegood.

Draco was about to spit something back, when he remembered a conversation from years past, a conversation that felt like a lifetime ago. He remembered a disturbing scene of a legion of toys intent on beheading his friends, a peculiar portrait, and a flipping chess board. He didn't exactly remember any conversations per say, but rather snippets whispering from the recesses of his childhood in no particular order.

"But I can't be! Anywhere but that House!"

"I do?"

"If you're anything, you're a Slytherin, not a Hufflepuff! Merlin's beard, you're more of a lion than a badger!"

"Not to worry. You're also clever, determined, and resourceful. You fit the traits for Slytherin rather well."

"Uh, no. No, no, no,"

"...Gag me?"

"...Ah, and that would be?"

"It would appear that we are at an impasse."

"...Gag me?"

"The Greatest House Ever to Grace the Magical Earth."

"In whatever test they give us for the Sorting, just aim for the GHEGME."

"I'd find a different acronym for your House, Draco. 'Gag me' is practically begging for it!"

Right. He was about to spit out something along those lines, but remembering the two reactions he got for his acronym made the blond pause and fish around for another way to say GHEGME. What if... how about like... as in... 'rough', or 'tough'...

"GHEGME, Potty," Draco corrected triumphantly. "That's GHEGME to you."

Silence.

Not a single breath was taken.

Someone dropped a book.

Hushed whispers broke out.

"... What did he..."

"... Hear that..."

"... 'Feg me'...right?"

"... Sounded like..."

"... Actually say that?!"

"... Wants him, probably..."

"... Never would have..."

Draco's smirk quickly turned into a frown as the faces of the students around him gaped at him in shock. Weasel in particular was sporting an impressive cesspit with how far his jaw dropped. Granger looked as though she had been struck with an epiphany, and Potty was utterly frozen. A quick glance at Valeria revealed the most amused look he had seen on her face since he had been unfortunately turned into a rodent. Which told him this was entirely at his expense. Did he say something wrong? Didn't they get it?

"GHEGME," he repeated a tad warily, sounding out the pronunciation deliberately as 'fegme'... 'feg me'...

...

...

... Wait a minute.

Draco's oath was lost amongst the cacophony of shouts between the Gryffindors, Slytherins, and other Hogwarts students. Weasel looked green, his younger sister appraised Draco with a contemplative look, Looney smiled dreamily, Granger was looking at him with something akin to pity, and Valeria's face seemed like it was going to crack under the force of her grin. The Gryffindors were of a mixed sort, some still sporting gaping mouths, others angry, and a few snickering and blushing. His fellow Slytherins were sending him sharp looks and glares. Quite a number of the girls (and a few boys) were blushing furiously, some looking embarrassed and others crushed.

Draco had to do a double take at Vincent's reaction.

'Why in Merlin's name does he have such a defeated face?!'

He wasn't altogether surprised with Pansy's despair and subsequent tears, but now he supposed he had to re-evaluate every single interaction he's ever had with the Crabbe boy.

A quick glance at Potty informed him that the boy appeared unnaturally pale. Whether by shock or anger, Malfoy could not tell.

Zabini sneered at the Malfoy heir, "You want Harry Potter to fuck you, is that right, Malfoy?"

"Of course not," Draco instantly denied, and decided the other pronunciation would be much better. "I meant GHEGME."

The entire crowd recoiled and screamed in unison, "Gag you?!"

Well, Potty choked on his scream, Looney kept smiling dreamily, and Pansy and some other girls—for some reason or another—started one of the harshest cat fights Draco has ever seen. But besides them, it was one of the most cooperative actions Slytherins and Gryffindors had ever taken.

Draco started to panic. He didn't know if it was the accusing looks, the way Granger was nodding knowingly, or that look in the Weaslette's eyes that made a shiver run up his spine; but he did something that he will forever regret for the rest of his life.

He turned to Valeria for help.

"That's not what I meant! I was talking about—" He stopped and attempted to raise his voice over the mob and look at the Crabbe girl. "Valeria! Tell them! You remember, don't you? The GHEGME?"

Heads swivelled to stare at the raven-haired girl, who was shoving her way to Draco's side. He caught a flash of something in her calculating eyes, before it melted away into a piercing, soulful look. She took an exaggerated step forward and hesitantly laid her hand on his shoulder. Her brows furrowed in sympathetic grief and the corners of her lips tugged downwards in a frown.

"It's okay, Draco," she whispered, then spoke louder for the benefit of the student mob. "It's okay! You don't have to hide anymore. You're safe, here, with us."

What.

"I know how long this has hurt you. I know what it's done to you—but it's okay. You're okay. You can let it out now. You can let it go, Draco. Let it go."

And there, on her face and in her eyes, he could see it. It was barely noticeable in the angle of her head, the imperceptible twitch of her lips, the quiet glimmer of amusement hidden in her eyes. A small smile stretched across her cheeks that one might possibly construe as gentle, but not Draco. He could see the condescending grin there as she spoke the only words that were actually applicable to his predicament.

"The truth will set you free," she said firmly, and only the Malfoy boy could hear the small pfft that escaped her in a barely contained breath of laughter.

Valeria was laughing at him.

Bloody hell.

"It's true!" Valeria shouted as she turned to face the mob, her back straightened and arms outstretched as if to embrace the crowd.

A performer's stance.

"Draco Malfoy is in love with Harry Potter!" The girl declared.

"What—No. That doesn't make any sense," the mudblood Dean Thomas protested, and Lavender Brown nodded vigorously. "Malfoy hates Harry. Always has."

"Is this a joke?" Weasel glared at the Crabbe and Malfoy pair. "Are you making fun of Harry?"

"One in poor taste," the quiet, cold voice of Daphne Greengrass chimed in. The icy blue stare of the Slytherin of few words rested heavily on them.

"No, it makes sense."

The crowd gasped and turned as one towards the unexpected voice. Potty's face was stricken with betrayal as he stared at Granger's frowning face. She stared back apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but it makes total sense," Granger, that stupid mudblood, claimed.

"How?" Draco and Valeria yelped, and the horde of students nodded in agreement.

The blond shot the Crabbe girl the most venomous look ever to grace his face. "You're the idiot who started this."

"I know, and it's turning out better than I ever hoped!" She whispered gleefully into his ear. He stomped on her foot and she elbowed him in the ribs.

"I think he really is in love with you, Harry," Granger continued. "Since first year, he's been trying to get close to you."

"How?" This time, Potty, Weasel, and Draco were crying out in unison. Valeria had a hand on her chin and was nodding along, absolutely riveted.

"Don't you remember back on the train in first year? How he sought you out and tried to be your friend?"

"He wasn't trying to be my friend!" Potty denied vehemently and Draco nodded vigorously. "He wanted to use me for my fame!"

"Yes, ye—" Draco was rudely interrupted by Valeria's finger pushing against his mouth.

"Shhhhhh," she whispered. "It's getting interesting."

"Maybe he was then, yes, but ever since you rejected him on the train, he's been trying to get your attention," Granger explained. "Antagonizing you, picking fights, following you around the school. I don't think he knows how to make friends. And you rejected him, Harry! The only way you'd ever give him the time of day was if he made you angry!"

"Huh," Valeria muttered. "Well, aren't you just a dysfunctional, little cupcake?"

She pinched his lips together when he tried to protest, his face flushed pink in embarrassment.

"But," Potty stammered. "That doesn't mean he's in love with me, 'Mione."

She shook her head. "For years, Harry. He's been doing this for five years! He's absolutely obsessed with you, don't you see? He's like the playground bully that always picks on the one he likes."

"Yeah," Valeria's voice rose in agreement. "If Harry had pigtails, Draco would be yanking on them."

The mob made a collective oh sound, their faces mirroring each other's look of dawning realization. Draco gaped.

"Don't tell me you actually believe this crock!" Draco yelled at them all. "I don't even like boys!"

"What, really?" Valeria spun around on him, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes wide. "Oh no, poor Vinnie."

At the same moment, a pained, animalistic cry tore through the air and Vincent Crabbe bowled over the other students in his mad dash away from the crowd.

"He did go and make a bunch of those buttons for Potter during the Triwizard tournament," Seamus Finnigan addressed the crowd. "Hundreds of 'em."

The crowd murmured.

"We never actually talked about this," Valeria began, frowning at Draco. "You know, it's perfectly okay for boys to like boys, romantically."

"I know that!"

"Didn't you just make a scene about him being in love with Harry," Theodore Nott said quietly, eyeing them suspiciously as he dodged a Slytherin fourth year being viciously thrown to the ground. Pansy Parkinson stood over the boy, breathing heavily.

"Mine," she hissed.

"It's not as if he talks about this kind of stuff with me," Valeria looked affronted, playing it up. "Mind your own business, Nott."

The fifth year boy snorted and looked away.

"As I was saying," the Crabbe girl continued.

"And he followed us on the grounds, Harry!" Weasel looked at Potty wide-eyed. "Spying on us through the window of Hagrid's hut when he had Norbert. Spying on you!"

Draco's head spun.

"My eldest sister was gay, you know," Valeria blathered on. "And I was a-o-kay with that. I won't look at you any differently because of your choice in partners."

"You don't have a sister," he spat.

"That you know of."

"I think Draco being in love Harry is nice," Looney Lovegood piped up dreamily.

"I think he actually is in love with you, Harry," Weasel said in a dazed, horrified voice. Granger nodded.

"He is."

"So all this time," one of the Patil twins shouted. "He just wanted Harry to notice him."

"That's kind of sweet."

"That's kind of cute."

"Cuuuuupcaaaaake," Valeria whispered in Draco's ear.

"And kind of sad."

"Dysfunctional pastry," the Crabbe girl's voice dropped in a deep, serious voice.

Mocking him.

The Malfoy heir's gaze darted from student to student in a panic. His eyes locked with the Weaslette's. She stared deeply into his eyes. Her eyes darted to Harry. Then back to him. Back to Harry. Then they finally rested on Draco.

Slowly, she bit her lip and dragged her teeth over it.

And winked.

For some inexplicable reason, Draco was arrested with the sudden sensation of being trapped in the sights of a tiger.

Tigress.

'Oh Merlin.'

"This, Draco," Valeria snickered and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him tightly to her. They gazed at the chaotic crowd together as they confirmed Draco's undying love for Potty with each other.

"This is great."

He turned his head to stare at her.

"Because, see, every time you try to pick a fight, call him names, or even look at the Boy-Who-Lived… They will always think you're trying to get in his pants."

She gave him a shit-eating grin.

'…Shit.'

(V)(° 🌸 °)(V)

A/N: And there ya go! Some of my headcanon wandlore (some is canon), Valerian characters and culture, a funny omake, and plot progression!

That is not the entirety of my headcanon on wandlore, so if you have questions about that go ahead and ask, because it will never be answered in-story.

Valeria's wand's song is Mad World cover by Marius Furche, you can find it on my blog.

FRIENDLY REMINDER THAT THIS CHAPTER IS CUT IN HALF! The trip is not over.

!IMPORTANT! I made a blog on tumblr where I will be posting information on the visual novel, updates on the fanfiction, fan art, and little tidbits. If you have any questions you want answered then ask me on my blog, cause I will get back to you much quicker on there. I would prefer it, because I HATE the PM system on this site ( I will still answer your reviews on here, but it'll take a month or two). Just send me an ask or a message on Tumblr.

The URL is pretendfiction . tumblr . com, and is also on my profile.

Guest reviews:

Cap'nSmurfy: Thanks for pointing that out! I just looked it up though, and all I see is a mention of the picture of Penelope hiding because of the dripped tea. It doesn't mention her being able to speak or hold intelligent conversation, which was the point of the debate.

Marie: Thanks!

Random Lurker: Thanks so much! Your review was fantastic, made me smile:) . Viva la Valeria!

Anber: Thanks, hope you enjoyed this chapter :D

MissWhizz: Why thank you :3 Glad I made your day. Everyone is mentioning Charlie/Valeria, even the people that ship Draco (though they're more like, "please don't do it).

Guest: So funny you can't laugh? Like when you're laughing so hard no sound comes out? Success!

Guest: Thank you :DDD

Guest: Thanks!

Guest: Holy shit, you guessed who her family was O_o o_O? You are one sharp cookie. I'm going to assume you're the same one who reviewed the next couple of chapters, and yeah you're right. Valeria shouldn't depend on Dobby since he is the Malfoy's house-elf, but only when it conflicts with his masters' interests, I think.

Guest: Got it at Vinnie, eh? We have another sharp cookie over here.

Lilith: Thank you :). Although, it is concerning that you thought I dropped it. I hadn't, it just took me... 5 or 6 months to finish this chapter? Yikes. This one gave me trouble, so hopefully the rest won't take as long.