For Dorrito’s Every Flavour Mood Beans.

*****

Cold

The sitting room had developed a chill. She’d scolded the house elves to no effect at all, and of course Lucius was to blame. A husband imprisoned was a trial for any woman. A husband who fell to a band of misfit children… well, some things were simply too horrible to bear.

Her fingers ran over the small, lacquered box as she carefully pronounced each sequence of spells. Times like these were all about options, and Narcissa Black always kept her options in view. On her last word, the box sprang open, revealing its contents in perfect order. Narcissa smiled.

For Dorrito’s Every Flavour Mood Beans.

*****

Cheerful

Sometimes he studies a strand of hair, certain he could see through it if the light hit just so. She’s transparent all over, eyes and skin, and he thinks she must be descended from faeries, though he’s never seen one himself. The soft hum near his ear is not quite tuneful and she nips his nose, smiling. “Silly Neville,” she says, in reference to nothing at all. When she takes his hand, his feet feel lighter.

Later in the greenhouse he sings to himself, verses of no shape or melody, gliding past the Flutterby Bush with steps made of air.