Untouchable: a Fred Weasley fanfiction

The Tipping Point

Dad is walking me to my band rehearsal after we ran into each other in the corridor. Classes are over, and it's a bright, sunny day outside, but The Forgivable Curses are experimenting with original songs, so we're skipping the crowds outside on the grounds and heading down to the basement for a jam session.

He hands me back my journal after leafing through my notes. "It seems to be going well. Your practice with these abilities."

"I think so," I reply, taking the book– "I guess I'm sort of just playing it by ear. Luckily, no one has ventured deep enough into the woods to see me empathetically controlling a hippogriff's movements, so that's a plus."

He smiles, nodding.

"What happens when I leave school?" I ask him. "Do I have to keep this a secret forever? I feel... abnormal. I didn't think I could ever top that feeling of not fitting in that I've been having till now."

He sighs, scratching his jaw.

"I'm not sure, if I'm being honest," he answers. "Right now, the future with your abilities is... blurry. As I've said many times before, this is such a rare and powerful case that it would be a drastic piece of news."

I chew my bottom lip. "Yeah..."

"Focus on finishing school first," he tells me as we reach the music room. I can hear my band laughing and tuning their instruments through the closed door. "We'll keep discussing this."

I run my fingers over the cover of my journal. "Okay."

He pats my shoulder and I look up with a small smile. My eyes venture over to the sign beside the music room door. The LUPIN MUSIC CENTER: est. JULY 1995 sign.

"I never really told you," I say, motioning to it– "I've always been curious about how coincidental it was that you requested a music room for the school right before I got here."

As I say it out loud, my smile gets bigger and I laugh a little, looking at him. He's got the same look on his face.

He starts a response: "Perhaps because it–"

"Wasn't a coincidence," I nod, chuckling. "Yeah, I see that, now."

He touches the sign, still smiling.

"Your mother always sent so many pictures of you playing the drums at home," he says. "I knew you'd miss it, being here for so long without a set."

He looks at me.

"Besides," he adds, "kids need music. It's been an important part of my life, anyway."

"Me too," I say.

That's not a coincidence, either.

He taps my nose with his finger. "Go on. You've got rehearsal. Any new songs?"

"Working on one," I reply, opening the door– "maybe it's something. I don't know. Who knows with this band of goons, right?"

"Jo!" A chorus of greetings emerges from the room as I'm revealed in the door way.

"Well, whatever comes of it," Dad says, "I can't wait to see."

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

I smile, running my hand over Wallace's feathers once again, the cool afternoon breeze of the forest rustling my ponytail against my back.

"We've gotten pretty far with this whole bond thing, you and I," I say to him, as if he can understand me. But in a way... can't he?

He wiggles his head and tucks it under my arm, requesting another scratch on his snout.

"I suppose it's a bit of a relief," I say, fulfilling the request, "having someone actually get you, once in a hundred years."