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At eleven years old, Antony Sallow is nothing like his father.
That is what the young boy tells himself, muttering under his breath every time a professor of Hogsmeade merchant makes the comparison. As hard as he tries to separate himself from his parents’ legacy, anonymity is hard to come by when you are the splitting image of Sebastian Sallow.
Antony had been excited when the owl arrived over the summer, carrying the Hogwarts admission letter he viewed as a ticket to freedom, away from the never-ending chaos that was his family homestead on the English coast. The grass is not always greener, he begrudgingly learns within his first few weeks in Scotland.
Instead of his annoyingly affectionate parents and rowdy siblings, he finds himself surrounded by sycophantic professors and patronizing students. Thankfully, between his sorting into Ravenclaw and his constant brooding, it quickly becomes obvious that no, Antony Sallow is nothing like his parents.
There is another reason for his perpetual annoyance, however, and it comes in the form of a lanky, red-headed Gryffindor—Beatrice Weasley. Despite their protests, Professor Sharp seems to get some sick gratification from pairing the two up, even if their bickering frequently disrupts lessons. It has always been this way with Beatrice—Bea—and if there were ever a time when they were friendly, Antony doesn’t recall.
While Antony is the oldest of his siblings, Beatrice is the third Weasley child, and the first-born daughter. He can’t help but compare her to his only, younger sister—a spoilt princess. The forced companionship only exists because their mothers are best friends, and because they are only a few months apart in age. They’ve grown up together, frequented the same wizarding social circles and are now doomed to complete their schooling side-by-side.
As he diligently follows the instructions outlined in the textbook, he can feel her staring at him and clenches his jaw. “Yes, Beatrice?”
“You need more honey water,” she says, though she might as well be calling him a moonmind. Antony doesn’t bother looking up from his work, stirring the potion after adding the boom berry juice. She hums, “if you let that simmer the way it is—”
“I know how to make a Wiggenweld potion!” he snaps, darting his gaze up to see the infuriating way she’s holding back a laugh. “My mother is—”
“Yes, we all know who your mother is,” Bea rolls her eyes. “But she’s not here, now, is she, bug boy?”
Antony grumbles at the nickname from his youth, infinitely worse than his shortened name. His hand tightens around the stir-stick. “Piss off.”
Bea gasps, pretending to be shocked. “Is that any way to speak to a lady?”
“I was unaware there were any ladies present,” he mutters in reply, suppressing a victorious smirk when she huffs and returns to her own brew.
Antony watches her out the corner of his eye, her lips tightly pursed as she carefully pours some of the contents of her cauldron into a small, glass vial. Professor Sharp comes to inspect her work and Bea confidently smiles when she is allowed to leave early for correctly completing the assignment. Antony can’t help but feel annoyed, especially when she flashes him a smug expression before breezing out of the classroom, books in hand.
By the time Professor Sharp dismisses the rest of the class, Antony’s potion looks more like rotten butterbeer than Wiggenweld. He’s frustrated with himself for ever allowing that ginger brat to distract him. If she disliked him so much, why couldn’t she just leave him alone? One of his roommates, Oliver Collins, walks with him as they head towards the charms classroom for the last lesson of the day.
“Are you ever going to tell me what is going on between you and Beatrice Weasley?” he asks, curiously.
Rather than answer a question he doesn’t know the answer to, Antony deflects, much to Oliver’s chagrin. “Are you ever going to tell me what is going on between you and Lucy Fig?”
To his surprise, Bea is absent from Charms. Antony should feel relieved but her daily pestering has become a constant—the lack of disruption is hard to ignore. Professor Ronen’s lesson goes in one ear and out the other as a nagging voice in the back of his head questions whether he has been too mean. For the full hour, it is a battle between conciseness and indifference—why should he care? Why does he care?
When it is time for dinner, Antony lingers behind to stalk the halls, wondering if Bea is nearby. Call it a gut feeling, but something tells him she isn’t hiding away in the Gryffindor tower. After a few minutes of searching, a passing ghost silently points over to an alcove nearby the staircase. It’s there that he finds Bea curled up on the marble floor, arms tucked around her knees and pressed tight to her chest.
She glances up, startled by his approach, and doesn’t even try to hide the fact she’s been crying. He thinks about running off—Antony isn’t good at comforting people. Sure, he can soothe his baby brother, but there’s a stark difference between a toddler and an eleven-year-old girl. He expects her to snap at him, or pretend what he’s seeing is just an illusion. Instead, her voice drops and she glances away. “Not now, bug boy.”
Antony tempers his irritation and shuffles closer, though he isn’t sure why. “Beatrice?”
“Why can’t you just…”
“Leave you alone?” he finishes and Bea flashes a bewildered look as he surprises himself by plopping himself down on the ground by her side. “You don’t leave me alone, so why should I suddenly play nice?”
Bea rolls her eyes. “Ugh.”
For a long time they just sit there until her sniffling grates on him enough to pull the spare handkerchief from his jacket pocket for her to use. Bea blows her nose into it without so much as a thank you.
“Ugh.” Indeed. Antony sighs, deciding to be the bigger person despite his earlier statement. “Why are you crying?”
“Because I feel like it,” she responds, dryly. A sigh later, she purses her lips in thought. “You might be an arse, but at least you’re…tolerable. My brothers, however, have been nothing but awful to me since I arrived.”
The older Weasley twins, now in their third year, have always been quite the troublemakers. Even more so than his own twin siblings. Antony wonders if that is simply what twins do. From his experience and anecdotal evidence—yes.
“It wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t be sorted into Gryffindor. I’m not even safe in my own common room!” she laments, shaking her head. Bea glances at him. “At least you have a few years until your siblings arrive.”
Antony shudders at the thought of Cailan and Finlay terrorizing him across the castle. Heaven forbid they are sorted into Ravenclaw, though that seems highly unlikely. Perhaps he can transfer to Beauxbatons, or better yet, all the way across the pond to Ilvermorny.
“You know, you’re doing a piss poor job at making me feel better, bug boy,” she murmurs and he scoffs.
“I didn’t realize that was my duty to do so,” he quipped in reply, furrowing his brows. “And will you please stop calling me that!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s what you are,” Bea said, firmly, turning slightly to poke at his shoulder. “You used to chase me around the garden of your parent’s house, trying to get me to look at some disgusting bug you’d dug up, and one time you got dirt all over my pretty dress! Mama charmed it to be clean but it still smelt like a gross bug boy.”
“And then,” she continued, her forefinger digging harder into his uniform’s lapel. “You tricked me into eating some slug that turned my tongue purple for three weeks!”
Antony blinked, wide-eyed by her explanation and stories. She was talking about him? Had he suppressed his childhood memories? All he remembers is Bea not ever wanting to play outside with him and the other children, preferring to stay inside to read from the safety of her father’s lap. Was her avoidance and hostility…his fault?
“How do you even remember all that?” he asked.
Bea waggles her fingers as she smiles a bright, sarcastic grin. “Trauma!”
Something cracks and a few seconds later the two are laughing—Bea starts, doubling over as she holds the handkerchief to her face in a lame attempt to hide her reddening cheeks. Antony’s lips twitch up and before he realizes what’s happening, he’s laughing like he’s been hexed. Eventually the mirth fades, and the two stare at one another as if a cloud has been lifted from their heads.
“I still think you’re an annoying prat,” Bea says with a small smile, pocketing the handkerchief without asking if he even wants it back (he doesn’t). “But…you’re my friend, Ant. At least, I hope so.”
“Yes,” he agrees with a nod. Merlin, has she always had such an unsavory vocabulary? “Friends, as long as you know I find you equally insufferable.”
“Truce?” she asks, pushing herself up off the floor before extending her hand. Antony hesitantly grasps it, allowing her to help hoist him up on his feet.
He nods. “Truce.”
“We should get to the great hall before all the good food is eaten,” she says next.
Antony smirks. “If there’s any good advice my father had, it was how to sweet-talk the kitchen elves in case of an emergency.”
It’s then that he realizes their hands have remained clasped for far longer than necessary, both pulling away with embarrassed expressions. She turns away with a nervous laugh. Antony is momentarily distracted by the standing clock in the alcove and the strange feeling that unsettles his stomach. Or maybe he’s just hungry. Bea calls for him to follow and with one last fleeting glance at the clock-face, he turns away. The two first-years depart, ignorant to the secrets they’ve left behind.