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I'm still tryna figure out who I am
You were hardly a toddler. Barely qualified as one. You were just a tiny little thing that didn’t like to move much. Your parents were often worried about you; thinking you lazy. Perhaps you were. You had a habit of bringing the things you wanted towards you, particularly when your parents were occupied elsewhere. You were caught levitating your pacifier towards you. You were leaning against your activity walker. Too unmotivated to actually move around regardless of the reward. Your mother took one good look and screamed. Like suddenly everything made sense. How you managed all of the weird things you did. All the moved items that were definitely not where they were initially placed.
They didn’t want you. Or they couldn’t have you. Couldn’t care for you. Didn’t know what to even do with you. You’re not sure and you will never find them to ask. Not because you can’t, but because you don’t want to. The only memory of your birth parents you have is the small, fluffy green blanket they left you in. You’re don’t really remember the foster homes, either. Just rooms that had too little in them. The older foster kids swore the younger ones were adopted faster. Promised that the younger ones were wanted and loved and taken.
Maybe it was true. Maybe it was true for other children. It wasn’t true for you.
Not that you have the most heartbreaking story in the world. You really don’t. You were bounced between three different foster homes, moved because of your peculiarities. Word eventually got around to Mrs. Malfoy. A meeting and a few tests later and you were officially in the custody of a magical orphanage. Not that you stayed there for long. You were reading by then, hardly socialising with the world around you. You already had other preferences, namely learning and keeping to yourself. Because everyone was loud and annoying and couldn’t keep up with you. Any older kids that could talk to you wouldn’t because of your age.
Put in so many hours, and I just want the outcome
Your dad told you that you could call him anything. You called him dad. Your other dad told you to call him, “Ben” because “I don’t believe in labels.” They introduced you to a series of aunts and uncles. And grandparents. A lot of grandparents. Your favorite is your aunt Emmy. She spoils you rotten and introduces you to cousins. You don’t know if your birth family has given you any cousins. You’re not sure you’ll ever find out. Part of you wonders if huge families are the norm in the wizarding community because you’ve only seen a handful of individuals who aren’t related to five or six others.
You drop your surname when you are five and when your dad and your Ben ask you if you want to take on their last name. You do because they are your family. They fill your room with books and frank discussions about the world. You’re constantly finding your Ben writing, zooming all around ‘his office’ which is really the kitchen. Your dad is much calmer.
Your dad tells you that he wanted to be a Healer when he was younger. That he wanted to help people. It occurred to him halfway through his residency, partly because of your Ben, that there were other ways. Ways that hadn't been expanded on beforehand. People tell you that you take after your dad, Michael. That your mannerisms are just like his. You do not understand this until you're seven. Because they are your parents but little you also knows that they're not. You're eating breakfast - toast with jam - when Ben slides an annotated child development book your way.
“I believe in nurture versus nature.” He says in that way you know he thinks you know what he's talking about. You don't normally. “Ask if you have any questions.”
You have a bunch of questions, none of which you ask your Ben because he will confuse you more and your dad will at least explain what his partner means. But, you read the book and you understand. Your chest begins to swell because they understand you.
Tell the truth, regardless of the consequence
You're nine when your dads sit you down to prepare you for what's to come. A couple of years of scrutiny. Ben tells you about himself; of his beliefs and desires for the wizarding world as if you didn't already know. He does not realize you read all of his articles. That you inhale his criticism and compliments like they're your favorite ice cream. They ask you if you want him to wait. There is a part of you that does. Because you want to keep him for yourself. You want him to be home. There is a bigger part of yourself that wants your Ben to change the world. A mind like his needs to be shared.
He wins the election. You think this means that you have to change. Be more professional or something. Less like you stayed up all night solving a puzzle or creating word games. That is until you see Ben doing it. Being as professional as always. That is to say, sarcastic. He makes faces at press conferences and tells the Daily Prophet he won't take their questions or interviews unless they remember they're not a tabloid. You become accustomed to having your picture taken without permission.
Your dad lives for this. He goes after the publications that do so with gusto, placing your winnings into a fund you'll receive when you graduate Hogwarts. (Ben asks if you even want to go to Hogwarts because he has never believed it to be particularly safe. Your grandma, your dad's mom, agrees and teaches you how to look after yourself.) Your dad manages Ben’s public image. Because he needs it. It's one thing for you to tell him he's dramatic. It's another for you for government officials to tell him. They must be wrong because your Ben never is. You're proud if him. Proud of all his laws and the way he conducts himself.
Maybe not the way he tells the president of MACUSA to, “get back at me when your magical community isn't protesting your inequality.” Who are you kidding? It was your favorite thing. Your dads are not social creatures and the biggest disadvantage of it is that they have events to attend. They bring you with them and your dad laughs when you sneak books in with you. Or your notebook and a pen. Pens. You're always running out of ink. You write snippets like some people doodle.
Ask more questions, talk about yourself less
People tell you that you're too intelligent. That, maybe, it was a mistake to let you be adopted by Michael and Benjamin Fawcett-Vance and sometimes Vance-Fawcett. They're clearly not the good influence they seem because you are just like them. Too smart and dedicated and unwilling to do your homework 80% of the time because it does not matter. You do your work only when you are in class. Your professors take to telling you your assignments at the beginning because you will not do them. It is a wonder to them that you do so well in your exams, but most of them did not have your dads.
In your first year, you are sitting in Transfiguration and you write something about how school seems to be actually pointless and why it is a hazard that the castle be allowed to move around like a sentient being, but also how brilliant that is? Tactically, of course. A girl rushes into the room barely before the bell and you have to admire her for her tenacity. Because that’s something that you would do. She pulls out so many things in preparation for class that you can’t help but stare out of the corner of your eye.
She forgets her quill and looks miserable for it. Or like she’s trying to think of what she’s going to do next. You think of all of the quills and pens that you have in your knapsack. You cannot fathom how it will change your life. How it will lead to a wondrous, illustrative two friendships. How it will cement your own trio. You just think, maybe she should be better prepared. But also, you’re not her mom or her dad and so what you think doesn’t really matter. That and your dad tells you that, maybe, you should think before you speak so you don’t end up like Ben, accidentally hurting people’s feelings.
You give her your third favorite quill and don’t let her know that it’s your third favorite. As you hand it over, you know that you will not be getting it back. You didn’t know that she would take that as an open invitation to sit next to you in every Transfiguration class that you can. You didn’t know that you would hold the seats open, waiting for her to take the seat next to you.
You didn’t know she was Dominique Weasley.
Watch the sun set with best friends from a rooftop
You are really good at school. You don’t know why. You really, really don’t put that much effort into it. It makes some people mad, but school is overrated. You tell your dad's as much and they laugh at you. Because they agree. Mostly Ben. You start to devote yourself to other things. To that which your friends do. Dom is not chill and Charles might be too chill and you fall somewhere in between them.
Your love life is not. Your dad is bisexual and your father is demisexual. You are poly. It’s weird and it involves a lot of rules and conversations that are deep. Deeper than you would like since they’re not the fun kind of deep. They are the respectful kind of deep which is still kind of fun, but not the same. You don’t know stress until you’re balancing two partners and, whoa, is it difficult. You handle it, somehow. You handle a lot of things.
Like when your name is toyed around with being the head boy. You laugh so hard that you forget to breathe. You don’t even want to be a
prefect. Ben tells you he was head boy and how it was weird and it was a lot of responsibility and he didn’t like it. Myrtle laughs and tells you about all the time he spent in the girl’s loo and how he never got reprimanded. You direct yourself to other tasks. To graduating because getting your N.E.W.T.s is somehow supposed to design the outcome of your life as opposed to, you know, how actually intelligent you are.
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