Dear Mr and Mrs Cattermole,
I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve sent four others—one for every year—but either the worst has happened and I’m doomed to be a guilty man for the rest of my life, or my unreliable owl Pigwidgeon misdelivered them, as he’s wont to do.
I hardly know how to begin.
It’s been five years. Five horrible, heart-wrenching years since the war’s end, and I find my thoughts turning to you and your three children often. I can’t remember their names, the events of that day too muddled to recall, but I know my friends and I nearly cost you and them everything.
I hope that’s not true, but if it is, I send my humblest apologies with the understanding that you might not want to hear them. I’ve been wracked with nightmares of what might’ve happened had Mary been sent to Azkaban that day, or if Reg hadn’t been the one whose identity we stole (sorry, again, for that.)
At the very least, please accept my help if you need it. I’ll come, rain or shine, through any conditions to help you. I’m forever in your debt.
Ron Weasley
“He wrote to us, again…”
Reg stiffens in his seat, but the children don’t notice, the clatter and scrape of their bent forks on mismatched plates clamouring alongside their happy, unaffected voices.
He shoots his wife a significant look, darts a pointed glance to the cheap plastic wall clock, and then the children.
We can talk once they’re in bed.
Bed. One bed. One bed for all five of them, because that’s what they’ve been reduced to.
Mary doesn’t want the life they’ve cultivated from the ashes of the war, and if he were being honest with himself, neither does Reg. But he’s still running scared, still bundling the family up to move every few months to a new leaky-roofed cabin in the woods, or a derelict flat in a country where they can’t string two words of the language together.
It’s a wonder Reg can find the odd jobs he does, and that it’s enough to scrape together coins for food, rent, and, occasionally, a school book for the children.
Mary slides one hand into her pocket, feeling the scroll of parchment, warmed by her body heat.
After the children are in bed, she closes the door, and turns to face Reg.
“Let’s see it, then,” he says, holding his hand out.
Mary passes it to him reluctantly. He squints at the words, his face curling into a scowl. Still, she smooths her hair, waiting for the inevitable verdict.
He’s going to say no like he does this time every year, but—
“—We’re almost out,” she blurts, unable to hold the words in, desperation scrabbling at the cage of her heart. “We’re almost out and— I think we should ask him for some. I think he’d give it to us, he seems keen on helping!”
Reg drops the letter and the look on his face is abject misery. “It’s been five years, Mary. Don’t you think it’s time we… got back to normal without it?”
Mary scoffs, folding her arms. Usually, she bites her tongue, but a surge of anger spurs her on. “Oh, you want us to get back to normal, do you? Rich, coming from you, Reg. How’s the permanent employment situation going? Or, have you reconsidered the solution I put forth?”
“Mary! You can’t work, the children…”
“Yes, the children. There are schools for them. If we move to someplace permanent, be around our people—”
“—Who’s to say we’ll be safe? It’s never going to be safe for us, not while—” he bites the accusatory words off, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have to say them for her to feel the full blow of their situation. Mary despairs of them ever escaping from the well-travelled rut of this predicament. She’s the one who makes it impossible for them to trust their kind because of her blood.
Reg is still afraid of what happened that day, of not being there when they’d almost taken her away. He blames the war heroes for their interference at the ministry that day, for his constant need to move, to pop by the house and check to make sure they’re still safe.
At first, it had been comforting. Sweet, even. But after the tenth or eleventh move, and after the papers declared the Death Eater Order dismantled, she began to grow impatient with her flighty, cowardly husband for not loosening his grip on that fear.
She wants to be done with the nomadic life of refugees, not when they don’t have to live that way anymore. She’ll get what she wants this time, and he won’t refuse her, distasteful as the prospect is to him.
“You know I need it, Reg, it’s the only way I can experience some small amount of happiness. I’m going to write him back and ask for some. Also, I think he might be willing to send a bit of gold, just to help us get by,” she nods to herself, bustling to the torn cardboard box that houses the various odds and ends they need for daily life in this hell hole.
Reg wrings his hands, trailing after her with the blustering huffs of a cow in distress. He won’t stop her, at least, but his snivelling is f*cking annoying.
He’s weak, and she hates him for it, hates that she has to rely on him for everything.
Not anymore.
She finds the singular bent quill feather and blunt razor to sharpen it. They’re nearly out of ink, but if she adds just a smidgen of water, it should be enough for a short missive.
*****
Ron’s reply comes three days later via that same bedraggled owlette, and it’s more than Mary could have hoped for. The hooting, twittering ‘Pigwidgeon’ collapses on the scuffed particleboard table, heaving and squawking so loudly that the children playing in the yard peek their curious heads over the sill of the window to see.
Mary shoos them away and discovers the reason for the owl’s distress. Tied with a tiny scroll of parchment is a leather pouch bulging with clinking coins.
Mary gasps, looks over her shoulder to make sure no one is watching, and then scrambles for the loose floorboard next to the kitchen sink.
Reg has never thought to look there, because he refuses to touch a pot or pan—that’s Mary’s job, since he’s ‘working hard to provide for the family’. She lifts a dented coffee can of coins and bills, both Muggle and Wizard and adds the improbable sum of fifty galleons to it.
It’s generous—she can use the money to buy all the potion ingredients she needs, some new boots for Maisie, and scarves and gloves for Alfred and Ellie. She could fix up the house a bit, save for something to help establish themselves here.
Once the floorboard is safely in place, Mary straightens, checking that the children are still playing. Her heart hammers in her chest as she unrolls the scroll and reads.
Mary,
I sent a little something to get you by. I’d have sent more galleons, but Pig is too small to make the trip in one go. Hermione and Harry keep urging me to buy a proper owl, but as much as I grumble about the inconvenience, I can’t bear to replace my stalwart little friend. I will send more as soon as possible.
I can’t tell you how happy I was to hear from you, how desperate I’ve been for news of your whereabouts. As for your second request, I can give you what you seek, but I think such an intimate and unusual request ought to be delivered in person. I understand if you and your husband are not ready for that yet, hidden as you are, so I’ll keep in touch. Anything you need, I’m yours.
Ron
*****
The closest town is ten miles away, and with no car, the family relies on magical travel. It’s difficult to move the children without a floo channel, so Mary takes turns with Reg to Apparate to a nearby safe spot before venturing into town to rummage through charity shop boxes and buy nearly expired food from the bargain bin.
After three more instalments of Galleons from Ron, Mary has enough to write a letter to the Ministry of Magic with her new quill and ink bottle, asking them to send a Floo network official with the paperwork and installation task force.
She doesn’t tell Reg, and he doesn’t ask when their cabin is outfitted with a new hearth and flowerpot of bright green ashes. He just looks away and goes about his day, always tired and inadequate in every way.
The children start attending primary school, now that they can floo to a local hearth. Mary feels like she’s finally getting her life back, applying for a job at the Apothecary in Diagon Alley, brewing at night now that she has the money for ingredients.
Reg doesn’t comment on the sudden appearance of decorative throw pillows, the shiny stove kettle, or Mary’s new wardrobe. As long as he doesn’t have to confront the fact that she’s putting down roots, he’ll keep tolerating his life of coming and going, doing his odd jobs here and there, and pretending she isn’t the one supporting them, now.
He does, however, raise his eyebrows when he comes home one night to find a brand new wing added to their cabin, this one just for the two of them. It’s small, but it has a sound-proofed door, a large scenic window overlooking the woods, and a luxury bed she purchased that cost almost the entire sack of money from Ron’s most recent owl.
“Oh, Reg, let’s make love tonight,” Mary beams, entreating him with sparkling eyes and clasped hands. “I have enough potion left to get us through one more night.”
But Reg seems to shrink further inside himself, diminishing even as she radiates the glow of long-lost youth. They have a system in place, ever since the traumatic events of that day at the Ministry when their lives changed forever. Anytime they lie together as lovers (though far and few between), Mary makes Reg take the potion because it’s the only way she can enjoy it anymore.
She knows it’s demeaning for him, but really, it makes him so much more appealing to her. After that day when he hadn’t been there for her, she grew to associate his face with the deepest kind of misery. Added the fact that he’s lacklustre on his own with hardly a romantic bone in his body, Mary finds she can’t make love to him without the potion.
That precious, priceless potion makes him beautiful, and it makes her blood sing.
“Oh, go on, Reg… Don’t you want to see what new lacy bits I’ve got under my robes?”
There’s a hint of a spark in his beady eyes, and it’s enough of an answer for her to retrieve the bubbling crimson brew.
“Drink,” she commands, fingers already toying with her buttons as a rush of heat floods her c*nt.
He obeys.
*****
Mary,
Lovely to hear from you, as always. I got your invitation, and I’d love to visit! I can give you what you asked for when I’m there, and I’ll bring some more Galleons. Even though you told me you don’t need them anymore, I want to.
Can’t wait to see you and your family!
Ron
Mary paints her eyelids with fresh black kohl, stains her cheeks with rouge, and spritzes a bit of perfume on her neck. After a second thought, she sprinkles extra on her cleavage, quite tasteful in the plunging dress.
“He’ll be here any minute, Reg! Comb your hair, for Merlin’s sake!”
Reg looks utterly miserable.
He has nothing to complain about, not when Mary holds their purse strings with a steady hand, building the home he could never manage in those awful, lost years.
“Mary… Are you sure you want this? I-I mean, don’t you want to just do without? Things are r-really good right now, maybe we could try again without help from the potion—” His voice is weak, just like he is.
Pathetic.
Mary snaps her compact mirror shut and turns to spear him with a steely glare. “Things are good right now because of me and because of Ron. Of course, I want this. I deserve this, Reg. My entire life has been about making others happy, about pushing out your babies fresh off our honeymoon, one after the other. It’s been about raising them during a war, being persecuted left and right, and worst of all, about following you blindly through ruinous circ*mstances. If you don’t like it, then leave. If not, pull yourself together and smile when Ron gets here. He’s been generous to us, and you wouldn’t want him to think you rude.”
They whirl around at the sound of smart rapping on the door. Mary’s already smiling when she tugs the door open to see… him.
Glorious, beautiful, him.
He’s just as tall as she remembered, his shoulders broad, his eyes blue, and his hair…
It’s almost to his shoulders in shaggy waves, and Mary longs to get her hands in it.
She longs to do other things, but she’s a good wife, she won’t cuckold her husband like that, at least… well. Not now, anyway. Merlin, he’s lovely, testing her resolve with that lopsided grin and large hands resting on his tapered hips.
Mary flirts with him, pressing a little too long into a full-body hug. She likes the way his eyes dip to appreciate her low neck and high hem when he pulls back.
“It’s good to see you, too, Reg,” Ron holds out a hand.
Reg doesn’t take it, and Ron awkwardly drops his, cheeks pink, smile faltering.
“Oh, don’t mind him. He’s had a long day at work.” Mary grabs Ron’s arm and tows him to the patched old sofa, making a mental note to replace that next.
“Where are the kids?” Ron screws up his face, trying to remember their names. “Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred, right?”
“You remembered!” Mary pops the cork of the cheap wine she’d gotten from the muggle supermarket earlier and pours them two glasses. “They’re asleep already, sorry you missed them. Perhaps you can visit again sometime?”
She does a third glass for Reg, as an afterthought. He could use a bit of alcohol to loosen up.
“I’d like that,” Ron nods, still smiling at her.
Reg takes the armchair by the fire and accepts the proffered glass with limp fingers, and Mary sits next to Ron. Not too close, but close enough that she can lean in with a hand on his knee when he says something endearing.
They chat about Ron’s family, his job as a fully-trained Auror, and the many places the Cattermole family has lived since the war.
Reg’s silence is so loud that Mary has to cover it up with a sheen of glamour, telling Ron their fragmented story in a way that makes it all seem like a spontaneous, grand adventure, rather than the hellish nightmare it was.
What she really wants to talk about is her request, because the longer they sit and drink, the warmer it gets, their bodies relaxing into the cushions, scootching close enough that Ron’s knee grazes hers every time he gesticulates. She toys with the neckline of her dress, the tickle of her fingers against her skin a test to see if Ron is paying attention.
His eyes are not too good at staying strictly on hers—an observation she relishes.
Ron brings it up first, his cheeks going pink after Mary takes another calculated scoot forward on the cushion, the hem of her dress rising three inches to bare more of her thighs.
“Erm… Mary? I wanted to ask if you’d like to have some of my hair now. I’ve been growing it out for you ever since you wrote that first letter eight months ago.”
“Of course! And, thank you again, I know it seems like a strange favour.”
“No problem at all! Where do you want me?”
Where doesn't she want him?
Reg fiddles with the stem of his glass, some of the wine sloshing over the edge to stain his knee. Mary ignores him, her eyes full of Ron as she angles herself closer on the pretence of inspecting his hair.
The coppery strands left on her robes from the trial that day had been much shorter, and far less numerous. She’d stretched them as far as they’d go, saving those precious nights in bed for when she needed them most. She always longed for handfuls of it, soft and silky auburn under her fingers.
Ron’s eyelids flutter, and his lips part as that pretty pink flush deepens.
Reg clears his throat, reminding them of their surly audience.
“One of the kitchen chairs, if you please…”
Mary could use magic, but she wants to touch his hair again and brush the tender skin at the nape of his neck and behind his ears.
“How much can I take?” she leans to whisper in his ear.
“A-as much as you wa-nt,” Ron answers, voice cracking.
“Okay. I’m good with haircuts. You’d never know looking at Reg—he does his own—but Alfred’s looks quite nice. I think I’ll do it like that.”
Ron’s eyes crinkle as he smiles at her over his shoulder. “That sounds nice, Mary.”
It’s a sensual experience, the sharp snip of the shears taking bits and pieces, each lock placed right in the jar on the table, not a precious strand dropped. With each bit, Mary grows more excited, hands shaking, c*nt flooding until it slicks her slit and pools in her knickers. Days, weeks, months, years worth of hair. She’s going to come five times a day with this, maybe more if Reg is up for it.
Thankfully, there’s a potion for that, too.
“All finished,” Mary murmurs, fluffing Ron’s hair one last time to catch a few strays before tucking them under the lid of the jar. “Would you like to see?”
It’s an effort not to shove Ron until his legs buckle on the edge of her bed. Mary has to hold her arms in a tight knot, while she watches from the doorway of the bedroom as he admires her work in the cracked, speckled wall mirror.
“Wow, you really do know what you’re doing, huh?”
He grins at her in the reflection, and her knees wobble.
“Nice room,” he gestures, eyes landing on the bed, purchased with his money. Gods, it’s sweltering in here.
“It’s new— the bed and the room. And see? I’ve had this large floor-to-ceiling window installed, it’s an excellent view of the woods. It’s all thanks to you, Ron… We’re so grateful for the help. I hope I can repay you someday…”
Ron’s expression turns stern. “No, Mary. It was a gift. A—penance of sorts. I felt so terrible for what happened that day, I…”
Mary cannot keep her hands to herself any longer, one finger pressing to Ron’s lips to hush him.
“You saved us. It is I who is in your debt, Ron. It is I who should be giving you anything you want…”
The heat of her words is too much for both of them, and she doesn’t miss the way he presses his groin with the heel of his palm. Ron darts a look back out to the main room where Reg still sits in silence, clears his throat, and says, “I-I have to go… Erm… I’ll write about visiting again. Y’know, for the kids.”
She’s so wet by the time they’re at the front door, she shoves Ron out the door, thanking him profusely, one hand already craning behind her for the zipper of her dress.
“Bedroom, now!” she barks at Reg, who moves about as quickly as Bubotuber Pus. By the time he’s up and walking, Mary’s dress is a puddle on the floor, and she’s gotten the prepared vial from her potions cupboard.
She sprinkles a few precious hairs from her ample supply into the potion, and it bubbles up in its usual appealing, frothy crimson colour. Her eyes stray to another bottle she’s prepared, its electric purple hue almost pulsing from its spot on the shelf.
She hadn’t planned on using it, but Reg is little more than a warm body at this point. She’s not sure he’ll rise to the occasion, so she drips one drop of it into the Polyjuice Potion and swirls it around.
His eyes sweep dully over her naked skin when she hands him the vial. It’s like he doesn’t even see her anymore, and it’s insulting. After the way Ron had admired her, she doesn’t feel bad for slipping Reg the lust draught.
Reg drains it in one gulp, and Mary bites her lip, waiting as he transforms, growing taller, shoulders broadening, hair turning like leaves in autumn, eyes lightening to sky blue, and Merlin, but he’s finally noticing the way his wife’s breasts pucker in arousal and the curve of her hips, so close he could grab them.
He does, pulling her flush so that she can feel the expert work of her potioneering skills at work in his too-short trousers. He groans, but when he speaks, the words are pained, “Mary, what did you put—”
“—A little something to help you out. You’ve been unmotivated lately, and I wanted to ensure that this was worth it for me. For both of us. It’s been too long,” she says in a breathy moan. Reg’s hands smooth over the curve of her bottom as if drawn against his will.
Gorgeous. He’s f*cking gorgeous like this in the soft lamplight, the dark of night outside the enormous window pressing in around him.
“Take your clothes off,” she commands, and he does, ripping at buttons, fingers shaking, breaths coming in short little bursts. She helps him, going for the belt of his trousers, the leather of it so worn through that in her haste to remove it, it rips clean through.
He’s still struggling to extricate arms from sleeves when Mary presses herself against him, sliding her tongue along one pectoral to taste the sparse freckles there, her fingers clawing furrows in his back.
“P-please, Mary…” he whines, and she can pretend it means something else entirely.
“Of course Ron, you can have me.” She shoves his trousers down, and his co*ck springs free to slap her stomach, long and pretty pink and glistening with precome.
She drops to her knees and takes the head in her mouth, one fist working his shaft in tandem with the suck of her hallowed cheeks.
Reg tangles long fingers in Mary’s hair, ruining her neat bun to pull her closer, to f*ck her face and Gods, it’s better than she ever could’ve imagined, having Reg want her this badly while he wears this body.
“F-f*ck, Mary…” Reg throws his head back and groans.
She pops off the tip of him and looks up, letting the pulsing meat of him rest on her face—an invitation.
His fingers claw her nape, angling it up so he can slap his co*ck against her cheeks and nose with one hand wielding it like a bat. He spanks her face with it until she puts her tongue out and he rubs the swelling drip of precome all over the velvet pink surface.
It’s devastating, that hardened expression of his as he spits a vindictive “f*ck!” and punishes her mouth with one thrust that shoves past her throat.
She gags again and again, spittle dripping down her chin and tears stinging her eyes as he f*cks her face senseless.
When he releases her, she holds her breasts out for him a split second before warm wet strands paint her rounded flesh, dripping down her sternum and nipples as he shudders and grunts, his fist pumping the dregs of it all over her.
He stumbles back, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. It was embarrassingly quick, his stamina atrophied by the sparse intimate moments between them. The potion is thankfully not through with him yet, though, his co*ck still half hard, his eyes burning as he admires the painted mess of her skin.
Mary stands and turns to crawl up on the bed, her lower back bowing to accentuate the curve of her arse. She balances on one hand, the other pulling her cheek aside to reveal the glistening slickness of her c*nt, the tight furl of her arsehole. “My turn,” she purrs. “Use your tongue, Ron, and please, don’t hold back.”
He’s on her in less than a second, his thumbs peeling her vulva apart to lick the soft bits of skin, the swipe of his tongue hot on her cl*t, and so ravenous she delights in a little moan of pleasure.
“Suck,” she commands, and he does, his chin digging into the junction of skin crowning her cl*t, mouth round and tight as it seals around her, tongue still circling with unrelenting enthusiasm.
“Don’t stop, Ron… Please, oh, God, please don’t stop…”
Mary is so aroused, it doesn’t take longer than a couple minutes for her to come apart on him, her hips mashing back to suffocate his face.
Reg comes up for air, the mattress depressing as he kneels up behind her, his co*ck hard again at her entrance.
He claws the reigns of her unravelled bun in one fist, his revived co*ck nudging against her until it slides through the wetness from her last org*sm. Her c*nt clenches around his girth, the aftershocks of climax shivering to accommodate the welcome intrusion, filling her to bursting.
Mary indulges in the sight of his reflection towering over her bent form in the window glass. Ron’s tight stomach muscles flex as he draws himself out and shoves back in, the rhythm slow, but punishing.
Fwap. Fwap. Fwap. Fwap. Fwap. Fwap. Fwap—
The tension rises in her for a second time, now rooted in the intensity of him rubbing her from the inside.
And then, Mary sees his face. Not just his face in the reflection, but his face outside it.
Mary can just make out his shadowy form out there, standing before the glass, one hand resting on the window’s edge, the other between the unzipped flaps of his jeans. His breath fogs the glass, but she can see his eyes, hot on her face, on the sway of her dripping breasts as Reg f*cks her faster and faster.
It’s him.
The real Ron.
Watching her, jacking off to the sight of his body f*cking hers.
Tension snaps and Mary comes again, eyes rolling up to see nothing but stars under her lids. Her c*nt squeezes in a death grip around Reg, who groans with his second premature release of the night.
They’ll need to work on that. Thankfully, they have all the time in the world.
When Mary opens her eyes, the real Ron is gone, but she sees the glint of something wet dripping down the glass outside.
A souvenir.
She vows to come a third time using it as lube for her fingers, tasting it on her tongue, massaging it into her cl*t, and shoving it inside her as she imagines having a fourth baby with him.
How scandalous…
She whimpers with forbidden longing.
Reg fades into the background as she grabs a threadbare towel, wrapping it around her body while she marches outside to do just that.
*****
Mary,
I’m glad I came. I’d like to come again sometime. Whenever you want me, I’ll drop everything and visit you.
Ron
