I lost the prompt for this one somewhere in my askbox, but one of you asked for What If none of the Weasley kids got Sorted Gryffindor?
The first letter was from Percy, who had ended up firmly on the opposite end of the Hufflepuff spectrum from Charlie (the spectrum went from “stuffy rule-follower” to “grows stuff behind the greenhouses,” though in Charlie’s case the stuff was dragons).
Dear Mum and Dad, Percy wrote. I wrote as soon as they let us out of the Great Hall. I’m afraid I must inform you…
But soon it was a flood of owls, tawny and snowy and speckled, large and small and all of them shedding feathers all over Molly’s kitchen table. She summoned all the occupied mousetraps in the house so the birds could at least do something useful, rather than just bring repeats of the news they’d been fearing all morning.
“At least they’re in the same House,” Arthur said, kneading at his growing headache as he leaned over his cheese sandwich. “I’d have hated to see them separated.”
“Maybe if the twins got a little time away from each other’s influences, they’d…” Molly shook the latest letter– Minerva McGonagall’s terse, stern script spelling it all out once again. The greasy, congratulatory note from Snape already had turned to ash without either of them reaching for their wands. “Slytherin. What did we do wrong, Arthur?”
Bang. The walls shook as Errol collided with the closed kitchen window with a squawk and a crescendo of feathers. The window above the sink had been open. The gathered owls all turned their heads in that same slow gliding movement.
“And that will be Bill’s,” Molly said, shoving herself up from the table. “That’s enough, I’m going to go weed the garden. If Lucius Malfoy himself shows up to welcome us into the fold, tell him I’m indisposed!”
The kitchen door banged shut behind her. Arthur sighed and reached for his sandwich.
When news had come home that Bill had gotten Ravenclaw, Arthur and Molly had shared a look but sent Bill a congratulatory letter and some newly knitted blue mittens. “He was always too smart for me,” Arthur had said, and Molly had hummed.
“Hufflepuff, it’s a… nice… House,” Molly had said the next year, searching in her knitting basket for a shade of yellow she didn’t dislike too badly while Arthur looked over the friendly little missive from Pomona Sprout. How had she ended up with so many ugly threads? They must have been gifts; she wouldn’t have bought this pastel mustard skein, even at a 90% discount.
“You know,” said Arthur, later, as they watched the Express carry Percy away to his first year at Hogwarts. “I don’t think Perce is gonna be the one to break the streak.”
“So it’s a streak, is it?” Molly said, keeping an eye on the twins, who were chasing pigeons she was hoping they wouldn’t manage to catch. It was making Ginny’s day, though, the little girl covering her laughter with her fists, so she wasn’t stopping them yet.
“I think it is now,” he said.
Molly sent the twins newly knitted mittens too, one pair dull silver and one pair a sedate greenish grey, with the knowledge that they’d probably swap one mitten each and wear them mismatched. The letter told them to behave, which, to be quite fair, was very close to what it would have said in a world where they were sorted Gryffindor.
Three months into Fred and George’s first year at Hogwarts, another owl swooped into their open kitchen window, this time carrying official school stationary.
“Oh dear,” said Arthur and went to wash the grease off his hands, leaving his Muggle typer-whatsit with its guts spilled on the table.
“Maybe Bill got an award,” said Molly, hopeful. She pushed her reading glasses back up her nose and put her budgeting paperwork aside. “Or maybe Charlie just set all of the Care of Magical Creatures specimens free again.”
“Maybe Percy punched someone for ending a sentence on a preposition,” Arthur said, tearing open the letter. “It’s from Minerva,” he said, unfolding it.
“Ms. Deputy Headmistress,” Molly sniffed.
Arthur’s face went grim, continuing to read. “The twins got detention for a month for cursing another student.”
Molly caught her breath in her icy chest. She dropped her head into her hands. “For– Arthur, what did we do wrong?”
There was a loud smack, as Errol hit the window. “That’s probably Percy’s follow up,” Arthur said, going over to help the bird in through the second, open window.
“Our little tattletale,” Molly said, mostly fond, but she hadn’t lifted her head from her hands. Paper ripped as Arthur tore the new letter open. “Arthur, I don’t understand how it could come to this. Our boys, in Slytherin? Cursing other students?”
“Molly, wait,” Arthur said, sitting heavily in the chair beside her. “It’s from Charlie.”
Molly lifted her head. “He never writes,” she said.
“He says the twins found one of their classmates throwing stones at the owls in the Owlery,“ Arthur said, squinting at the letter. “So Fred cursed him, so that everything he threw would come back and smack him in his own face. But the kid was a Chaser so there was a hullabaloo about it.”
Molly shoved her reading glasses up her nose again and reached for it. “Let me see that.” She dragged her gaze down over Charlie’s rounded, cheerful lettering. “He says they framed Warrington– you remember, the one who used to flush Percy’s head in the toilet– they got him suspended for some prank he couldn’t have done, but Charlie swears he doesn’t know how they pulled it off, either. He says they tricked Snape into eating some sort of creation of theirs to make him talk high-pitched for a week and to smell like burnt toast.” Molly sniffed. “Burnt toast would be an improvement.”
“He says they heard someone call some Muggleborn kid– call her you know what– and Fred punched him in the jaw and George enchanted the staircases to strand him on the way to all his classes.”
They sat for a moment, staring at the letters. Errol sipped water from a cracked saucer and Molly reached out to steady him when he almost tipped over mid-gulp.
“You know,” said Arthur. “I don’t think the Hat was wrong.”
“No,” Molly agreed, setting Errol back on his feet and thinking about what shades of green yarn she might have that she didn’t hate. Something bright. Something bold. “But I think they’re gonna be alright.”
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