Your colours had been the emerald of depth and the silver of noble mystery⎯worlds apart from the vivid gold and fiery red of your freckled, red-haired family. Perhaps it was this foreignness that sealed your fate, leaving you on the far side of the barricade with the platinum-haired boy and his gang. And Harry⎯it was a riddle why he sought you out for conversation. Maybe he hoped to soothe Ron, who could never reconcile himself to the fact that his youngest sister had landed in the serpent's house, or worse, that you had extended your hand to Draco.

The world has changed. Just yesterday, you were all students; today, having lived through the Wizarding War, you have stepped onto a new stage of life, scorched by the flames of change. Everything that once was now feels fragile and uncertain; beliefs that once seemed rock-solid suddenly lose their strength.

It could not get worse⎯but it did. You married Theodore. It is inevitable, nearly logical, as if it is predestined: divorce and single motherhood.

Harry and Draco love you, but you cannot respond to one of them without hurting the other. They love Elliot; they love him as though one of them really is his father.

The Auror leans back in his armchair, thoughtfully tapping a finger on the armrest. His gaze studies you, taking in every word as you passionately recount how Elliot throws a morning tantrum, demanding to see the baby dragons you blurted out.

“Oh, are we indulging your son, might I say?” Draco asks in a teasing tone, covering his mouth with a hand to hide a slight smile.

“No-o! Mummy is just dreadful!” Elliot protests indignantly, puffing out his round cheeks. His serious expression is all the more amusing given his tender age.

Harry lets out a hoarse chuckle, adjusting his glasses, which have slipped down his nose once again. His fingers absent-mindedly stroke his growing beard as he hums, in traitorous agreement: “You know, kid, you've got a point.” The Head of the Auror Office flashes a sly smirk, ruffling Elliot's hair, as if to seal their pact.