Inheritance is a series set in the years following the Battle of Hogwarts — following Harry, Ginny, and the generation they raised through everything the epilogue didn't show. Dark wizards who should be dead. Corporate empires built on old magic and older money. Family secrets that outlast the people who kept them. And children who inherit not just their parents' names, but their wars.
Each story stands alone. Everything is connected.
Welcome to the next generation.
Everything We Built
They survived the war. They didn't know that was the easy part.
Everything We Built follows Harry and Ginny Potter across the years that came after — the marriage, the children, the career, the arguments at midnight and the breakfasts that fixed them. The ordinary catastrophes of a life lived fully. The extraordinary ones too.
Because Harry Potter saved the world at seventeen.
But he still had to figure out how to be a husband. A father. A man who'd seen too much and somehow had to raise children who hadn't.
Ginny Weasley didn't wait for anyone. She just loved him anyway.
A Hinny series. Canon compliant. Each story stands alone.
The Road Not Taken
The Road Not Taken is an AU anthology — collecting every what-if, every divergence, every alternate timeline that demanded to be written. Each story stands alone. Nothing is canon. Everything is possible.
Same characters. Different worlds. Infinite possibilities.
The Extended Cut
There are stories that live between the lines — in the spaces canon rushed through or skipped entirely. The ordinary Tuesday evenings. The family dinners that got out of hand. The children growing up in the shadow of a war they only know as history.
The Extended Cut is everything that happened in between — Hinny domesticity, Weasley chaos, next gen disasters, and the occasional scene that will absolutely wreck you at 2am.
Manifesting Margot actually find someone who deserves her 🤞🤞🤞 and that's also why I want to manifest it cause i want Cassbus to be the Actual endgame🤞🤞🤞
Negative + Negative = Positive (lil bean🥹)
Fr.
Margot deserves 100% better than Albus 🤧🤧
But... Maybe... Albus grows up to be that in the sequel 🤷♀️🤷♀️
So just a suggestion for Amor Fati..You dont have to take it seriously.
First of all i love your writing!! big fan here!
Can we have like a period where Albus is like a single dad, because my girl margot deserves to be yearned for and cass leaves him for kissing Margot and being an ass..just so we can see more angst in The sequel. And How about lil bean(if she survives) having MAJOR daddy/mommy issues. Can you see i love parental angst? Sorry. love ya!
We'll get that single dad! Albus arc, but in the sequel.
And we'll see Cass leaving Albus in Amor Fati, so brace yourselves for that! 😁✨
I don't think lil Bean will have daddy/mommy issues in the sequel because she'd be a kid, though i think Harriett developing some daddy issues because of the bomb that's going to be dropped on them (read: Lucien) and also we have Lucien, so plenty of parental angst 😍
Don't worry, I've planned so much angat for the sequel (even though i promised myself not to make it angsty)
Thankyou so much for the suggestions, appreciate it really very much!! ❤️❤️❤️
Snippet: Ginny slammed the door shut. Her face was on fire. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. She stood there, frozen, her hand still on the door handle, her mind completely blank.
She had seen him. She had seen Harry Potter half-naked. She had seen his bare chest, his shoulders, the faint line of hair trailing down his stomach.
She had seen him.
And he had seen her. He had seen her standing in his doorway like some kind of lunatic, her wand in her hand, her hair a mess, wearing nothing but a thin sleeping gown and a robe that barely covered anything.
She wanted to die. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. She wanted to run — back to her room, back to the Burrow, back to anywhere that wasn't here, wasn't this, wasn't this mortifying, impossible moment.
But her feet wouldn't move. They were rooted to the spot, her heart still thumping, her face still burning.
She could hear movement inside the room — a muffled curse, the sound of fabric being pulled on. He was probably putting his shirt back on. He was probably as mortified as she was.
She should run. She should turn around and flee back to her room and pretend this had never happened. She could lock herself in her room and stay there forever, never speak of this again, never even look Harry in the eye for the rest of her life.
But she couldn't move. She just stood there, her hand frozen on the door handle, her heart pounding, her face burning.
And then she heard footsteps approaching the door.
i love your hinny andd next gen but would eat if you write some jily too 😍
maybe 👀👀😉
if i manage to finish the fic for my prompt on time, (i've chosen the first - mistaken identity one and it's on the first day XD) it's a bit similar to my other Hinny mistaken identity one but i love that premise 😅
and i've not written jily before (apart from that one oneshot) or participated in any fic-fest, so kinda nervous haha 😅💖
Kelsey ( @kay-elle-cee ) and I are thrilled to host Jily Week for the third year in a row. After being treated to 80+ creations each of the past two years, we can’t wait to see what all of you talented people will come up with this year. GET EXCITED for the week of August 17th to 23rd!!
To participate, post a creative work corresponding to the daily prompt – fanfiction, fanart, playlists, metas, moodboards, etc. – anything goes! You can participate in as few or as many days as possible, but we challenge everyone to try and create something for every prompt, even if it's only a hundred-word drabble or a 5-minute sketch! Don't stress about meeting the exact prompt or the deadline - the most important thing is to have fun with it!
Remember to tag your works with #jily week 2026, mention @sunshinemarauder and @kay-elle-cee, and add any fic you write to the Jily Week 2026 AO3 Collection.
🌟 PROMPTS:
☀️ Day 1 – 17th of August – Mistaken Identity
Or: when the road to love is obscured by mistaken identities. Secret superhero identities, masquerades, love squares, or wrong numbers can complicate things… but don’t worry, they’ll get there eventually.
☀️ Day 2 – 18th of August – Star Power
Romance is hard as it is, but it can get even more complicated when you’re in the limelight. Put one or both of our favorites in the public eye, and you get a recipe for delicious fanfiction. Make ’em celebs, actors, royals, athletes – anything goes!
☀️ Day 3 – 19th of August – Break Up / Make Up
You’ve heard of Angst vs Fluff – now get ready for Break Up / Make Up. Choose your fighter: break hearts or put them back together?
☀️ Day 4 – 20th of August – Mythos
Whether you choose to modernize your favorite myth or place James and Lily on Mt. Olympus, this is the perfect time to pull out all the obscure folkloric trivia we know you’ve been waiting to put in a story. (Percy Jackson crossovers WELCOMED.)
☀️ Day 5 – 21st of August – Damned to Detention
We all know the Marauders spent much of their Hogwarts years in and out of detention. Though Lily may have been a Prefect, she wasn’t so removed from their antics. Who’s the unlucky one this time?
☀️ Day 6 – 22nd of August – And There Was Only One Bed
You know it — a trope as old as time and a forever favorite.
☀️ Day 7 – 23rd of August – Write a Fic Rec
There’s a wealth of fantastic Jily works out and about. Take a moment to shine the spotlight upon a current fav/recent read/comfort fanfiction. Write the recommendation the author deserves and introduce it to a new audience!
———
Feel free to message either of us or drop an ask if you have questions! 🌟
Mailroom Harvey meets a bike messenger who's too smart for his own good — and Harvey's.
inspired by this post. my first marvey fic. written half asleep lol.
also available on ao3 to read :)
The mailroom at Pearson Hardman smelled like toner and burnt coffee, and Harvey Specter had decided, three weeks into this particular flavor of purgatory, that he hated every square foot of it.
He was good at sorting. That was the humiliating part. He could alphabetize a cart of interoffice mail faster than anyone else on the floor, could eyeball an envelope and know which partner's assistant would lose her mind if it sat in his outbox past four. He was good at a job that required him to be invisible, and invisibility did not sit well on Harvey Specter.
So when the freight elevator dinged for the second time that hour and a voice called out, "Delivery for—" followed by an actual pause to check a clipboard, like the guy didn't already have it memorized, Harvey didn't even look up.
"Mailroom. Third floor. Yes, I know, I work here."
"Just being thorough." The kid — because that's what he was, couldn't have been more than twenty-two, messenger bag slung crossways over a jacket that had seen better winters — wheeled his bike through the doorway like he owned the linoleum. "Some of us take pride in our jobs, Specter."
Harvey did look up at that. "You know my name."
"It's on your name tag."
It wasn't. Harvey had taken his name tag off in week one out of pure spite.
"Kidding," the kid said, reading his face with an accuracy that was frankly rude for someone who'd known him a total of, what, six deliveries. "I heard one of the paralegals complaining about the new guy in the mailroom who corrects people's grammar on interoffice memos. Figured that was you."
"That memo had a dangling modifier. I was doing God's work."
"Sure." The kid dropped a stack of envelopes on the counter, not quite in the tray, close enough that Harvey would have to reach for it, which — Harvey suspected — was the point. "Mike, by the way. Since we're apparently on a first-name basis now."
"We're not."
"Too late. I already decided." Mike hopped back on the bike seat without actually pedaling, just perched there, one foot on a pedal, watching Harvey re-sort the envelopes Mike had just messed up the order of on purpose, Harvey was almost sure of it. "You're gonna be here a while, huh."
"Excuse me?"
"This." Mike gestured, a lazy circle that took in the whole gray fluorescent misery of the room. "You've got the face of a guy who thinks he's better than this. Which, respectfully, everyone in this building thinks that about themselves, so you're not special. But you've also got the face of a guy who's actually right about it, which is rarer."
Harvey stared at him. "Don't you have other floors to annoy?"
"Fourteen of them. You're my favorite, though." Mike was already pushing off, already halfway out the door, tossing it over his shoulder like it cost him nothing. "See you Thursday, Specter."
He was there Thursday. And the following Monday, and the Wednesday after that, and somewhere around the fourth week Harvey stopped pretending he didn't know the sound of that specific bike chain before the elevator even opened.
He told himself it was because the kid was an easy target. That was a lie he was reasonably committed to.
***
The day everything went sideways started like any other, which was, Harvey would reflect later, exactly the problem with days that go sideways. Nobody sends you a memo.
He was three-quarters through the ten a.m. cart when Daniel Hardman came through the mailroom door like weather. Harvey knew who he was — everyone in this building knew who Daniel Hardman was, knew it the way you know where the exits are — and he knew, from the particular color of Hardman's face, that this was not a man here to pick up his mail personally.
"Specter."
"Sir." Harvey straightened up. Not fast. Never let them see fast.
"The Kessler filing." Hardman didn't raise his voice, which was somehow worse than if he had. "It went out to the wrong docket. Three weeks of work, and it went to the wrong docket, because someone in this room couldn't be bothered to read a case number."
"That filing wasn't logged through me—"
"I don't care whose desk it touched last. I care that Jessica put her name behind bringing outside temps into this mailroom on the theory that a cocky boy with a chip on his shoulder was somehow an asset, and this—" Hardman's hand cut the air, a flat, contemptuous chop "—this is what that gets her. This is what she gets for betting on the wrong guy."
Harvey's jaw did something. He kept his mouth shut, kept his spine straight, kept every visible muscle in his face arranged into the specific nothing he'd perfected for exactly this kind of moment, because he'd learned a long time ago that the version of himself that wanted to respond was not a version that survived contact with people like Daniel Hardman.
He was aware, distantly, peripherally, of Mike standing in the doorway with a package under one arm, not moving, not leaving, watching the whole thing with an expression Harvey didn't have the bandwidth to read.
Hardman didn't even wait for a response. That was its own kind of insult — he turned and walked out mid-silence, the door swinging shut behind him hard enough to rattle the glass, and left Harvey standing there in the fluorescent hum with his ears ringing and his hands, he noticed, curled into loose fists at his sides.
For a second nobody said anything.
Then, quiet, almost to himself, Harvey muttered: "Enjoy the coronary, Daniel. I hear middle-aged rage is very slimming."
It came out under his breath, meant for the empty air, and he genuinely forgot Mike was standing three feet away until he heard the snort.
Sharp, involuntary, the kind of laugh that escapes before you can stop it. Mike had a hand half over his mouth, shoulders shaking, package still tucked under his other arm, and he looked — delighted, was the word. Delighted and trying very hard not to be, out of what Harvey assumed was some misplaced sense of professional decorum.
Harvey rounded on him. All the pressure that had been building behind his sternum for the last ninety seconds needed somewhere to go, and Mike was, unfortunately, standing right there.
"You laugh at that but you don't have anything to say."
"I—"
"No, really." Harvey stalked toward the counter, snatched the package out from under Mike's arm harder than he needed to. "You want to stand there and snort like a middle schooler at my expense, be my guest, but do it on your own time. Paper boy delivers the paper and leaves. That's the job. That's the whole job."
He expected that to land. He expected Mike to go red, mutter something, wheel his bike back out the door with his tail between his legs, and honestly some small, ugly part of Harvey wanted that, wanted somebody smaller than him to flinch, because Hardman sure as hell hadn't given him the chance to make anyone flinch today.
Mike didn't flinch.
Mike tilted his head, considering, like Harvey had said something mildly interesting instead of something designed to draw blood. "You know the Kessler docket error isn't actually your problem to fix, right?"
Harvey blinked. "What?"
"The filing." Mike set his bag down on the counter, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world, like he hadn't just been dressed down by proxy thirty seconds ago. "Wrong docket number. It's a clerical re-file, not a substantive error — the case wasn't dismissed, it wasn't time-barred, nothing procedural got triggered because the underlying deadline was met, it just physically landed in the wrong tray at the clerk's office. You don't need Hardman's forgiveness. You need a corrected caption page and a same-day hand delivery with a cover letter citing the clerical error exception, and this whole thing is fixed by five o'clock and nobody outside this room ever has to know it happened."
Silence.
Harvey stood there holding the package he'd just snatched like a weapon, and stared.
"How," he said slowly, "does a bike messenger know what a clerical error exception is."
"I read things." Mike shrugged, but there was something pleased flickering under it, something that wanted Harvey to keep asking. "I deliver to like nine different litigation floors. You pick stuff up. And I've got a — " he tapped his temple, vague, deflecting " — a memory thing. Eidetic-ish. I read a filing once, I basically own it forever. It's not that useful for anything that pays, but it's great for winning bar trivia and, apparently, this."
"You just—" Harvey set the package down. Carefully, this time, like he needed his hands for something other than holding things. "You just solved, off the top of your head, in under a minute, a problem that made a name partner storm down here to personally humiliate me."
"I mean, I'd workshop the cover letter language. But yeah. Basically."
"Why didn't you say something the second he walked in?"
Mike's grin went crooked. "Because you had a face on that said if I opened my mouth while that balding man was mid-tirade, you'd have thrown me and my bike down the elevator shaft. I know how to read a room, Specter. I just also know how to fix a docket error. Two skills. Very versatile."
Harvey laughed — actually laughed, short and surprised out of him, the tension in his shoulders dropping half an inch he hadn't realized was there. "You're unbelievable."
"I get that a lot." Mike leaned an elbow on the counter, closer than the counter really required, close enough that Harvey could see the exact shade of blue his eyes were under the terrible mailroom lighting, close enough that it registered as a fact and not just an observation. "For the record, what you said about Hardman's coronary? Ten out of ten. I've heard associates try to be cutting about that man for two years running and nobody's landed it that clean."
"I have my moments."
"You have more than moments. That's the annoying part." Mike hadn't moved back. Neither had Harvey, and he noticed that too, noticed it the way you notice you've stopped breathing normally. "You're stuck sorting mail in a room with bad lighting and somehow you're still the smartest, meanest thing on this floor. Doesn't seem like a long-term arrangement."
"Careful." Harvey's voice had dropped, low, and he told himself it was just because the room had gone quiet, that there was no other reason for it. "That almost sounded like a compliment."
"Almost." Mike's mouth curved. "I don't do those for free."
"What's the going rate?"
"Depends what you're offering."
For one long, suspended second, neither of them said anything at all. Mike's hand had drifted to the counter's edge, close enough to Harvey's that if either of them shifted their weight even slightly, the backs of their fingers would touch — and Harvey found himself very aware of that half inch of space, aware of it in a way that had nothing to do with the mailroom or Hardman or the wreckage of his morning. Mike wasn't backing off either. He was watching Harvey with an expression that had lost every trace of the earlier smirk, something steadier and more direct underneath it, like he was waiting to see if Harvey would be the one to close the distance or the one to break it.
The freight elevator dinged.
Neither of them moved for a second, which felt, to Harvey, like it meant something. Then Mike straightened, unhurried, and picked his bag back up off the counter like nothing had almost happened, though the corner of his mouth said he knew exactly what had almost happened, and had opinions about it.
"That's my four ways down." Mike swung a leg over his bike. "Go fix your docket, Specter. Corrected caption, cover letter, clerical error exception. Cite the rule, don't apologize for the mistake, and for God's sake don't let Hardman see you sweat over something this small."
"I don't sweat."
"No," Mike agreed, wheeling backward toward the door, eyes still on him. "I noticed."
"Thursday," Harvey said, before he could think better of it.
Mike paused in the doorway, one foot down for balance, eyebrows going up. "What about it?"
"You said you'd see me Thursday. Last time." Harvey folded his arms, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to a man trying very hard to appear casual. "I'm just confirming the schedule."
"Very thorough of you."
"Some of us take pride in our jobs."
Mike's laugh followed him out the door, down the hall, audible even over the bike chain, and Harvey stood in the ringing quiet of the mailroom for a moment longer than the situation strictly required, looking at the space at the counter's edge where Mike's hand had been.
Then he picked up the phone to call the clerk's office, because he had a docket to fix, and — try as he might to keep them separate — a version of Thursday to look forward to that had absolutely nothing to do with the mail.
