"I want to show you something," William said quietly, and Albus paused. They were sitting on the back step of the house, having been talking about school. It was several weeks later, and the kiss stayed at the front of his mind, though it hadn't happened again. June had bloomed into July, and he had spent his time helping with the sweets and enjoying William's company.

"Oh?" Albus said, a little nervously. "What?"

William pushed up from the step, his lanky legs straightening, and stood with his hands behind his back nervously. "I want to introduce you to someone important."

Albus nodded as he stood up, thinking he meant someone in his family, and therefore expecting to go inside. But William lead the way through the house and out the front door, pushing open the garden gate. They walked down through the village, and Albus was suddenly hyper aware of everyone, of the looks they were getting. They weren't doing anything in particular, of course, but he wondered if it was paranoia and imagination that made every glance seem like a stare, every wave seem mocking. He pushed his glasses up his nose anxiously, and then realised they were probably staring at William. His waistcoat was a brilliant purple and decorated with silver stars. Albus wondered if it said anything about him that he hadn't noticed until now.

"Doesn't it bother you?" He asked, as their feet crunched over stones. "The way people stare at your clothes?"

William gave his crooked smile. "Why should it? People stare at things they don't understand. I think a chap ought to wear what he wants."

Albus grinned. "Even a polka dot waistcoat with buttons shaped like flowers?"

William nodded solemnly. "Even a polka dot waistcoat with buttons shaped like flowers. I might even have that made some day."

Albus laughed, and then the smile faded as they neared the graveyard, for he guessed now where they were going. William's face sobered as he pushed the creaky gate open, and he lead the way to a grave that was neatly tucked into a corner, surrounded with a beautiful little stone path. The headstone was white marble, decorated with swirling black script.

DORETHEA HONEYDUKE

DIED 5th NOVEMBER 1888 AGED 29 YEARS

DEARLY MISSED BY HER LOVING PARENTS, HUSBAND AND SON WILLIAM.

The grave looked well cared for, healthy flowers and plants flourishing inside pots, a shining silver vine snaking its way over the top of the stone.

William stood still, the breeze playing with his sandy hair, and Albus broke the silence. "It's beautiful."

He sniffed. "Yes. Grandad designed it all. Nan says it helped him a lot."

Hesitantly, Albus reached for his hand and squeezed it. William held it just as tightly back, then they hunkered down.

"You're going to think I'm mad," he said. "But sometimes I still talk to her."

"That's not mad," Albus said gently. "I would think it helps."

"It does," William said, then looked towards the stone. "Hello, Mum. I'd like you to meet someone. This is Albus."

Albus, strangely not feeling at all awkward, nodded. "Nice to meet you."

William smiled properly. "You can laugh if you like."

"I'm not going to laugh," he promised, then addressed the stone. "I'm Will's...."

He drifted off, glancing towards him.

William smiled, his eyes sparkling. "Are we courting?"

Albus grinned back. "If you'd like."

"Fine then, Mum, this is my sweetheart Albus. Try not to be too shocked."

"Would you...." Albus started, then hesitated. "Would you ever tell your father, or your grandparents?"

William shook his head. "No. Certainly not my grandparents. You?"

"My sister knows."

William's mouth opened. "And she's all right with it?"

"Yes," he said proudly, aware he was very lucky. "I think my brother might suspect. I don't think I could ever tell my parents, though. Especially my dad."

William sighed.

Albus was late back, later than he had thought. It had been late evening when they had left the house, and his father had not yet been home, for he was working late. But now it was approaching twilight, the summer breeze drifting along the hedges.

There had been more kissing. A lot, actually. Not in the graveyard but on the way home, carefully shrouded from view, and Albus could still taste Will on his lips, on which there was a stupid smile. A smile that faded when he saw his father waiting at the front door.

"Hello, Pa," he said, as casually as he could manage, his hands in his pockets.

"Hello, Albus," his father said, his voice a little distant. His blue eyes were slightly narrowed as they watched William walk up the path next door. Will saw him looking and gave an awkward wave that he didn't return.

Albus swallowed, going inside to an empty kitchen, and his father followed him.

The empty room was not a good sign, and even less was his father retrieving his pipe, his matches and his pouch of tobacco. His father rarely smoked, and it only meant one thing, which it was confirmed by the next sentence.

"I'd like to talk to you, Albus. Man to man."

The last time they'd had a man to man chat was when he had been fourteen, just before his voice had broken, and his father had given him awkward advice on girls.

"Take a seat."

Feeling like a stranger, Albus pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, and his father sat across from him, carefully packing the tobacco into the bowl of the pipe with his thumb.

"So," he said, somewhat casually, finishing with the tobacco and striking a match, which he always managed first time.

"You've been spending a lot of time with the Honeyduke lad."

"Yes Pa," he said. "I suppose we're friends."

He lit the pipe and took a puff. Sometimes Albus wondered if his father had only taken up smoking to look wise and mature.

"Indeed," he said, his voice still unreadable. "The thing is that I'm not sure I want you associating with him anymore."

Albus stared. It was a moment before he found his voice. "What? Why?"

"I have my reasons."

"But – but we're friends! I just help him with his sweets, and with his study."

"There's some things you don't know about him, Albus. It's all round the village."

He paused. "What things?"

"Things neither your mother or I want you exposed to. The reason why his father moved him here in the first place."

He seemed to have forgotten his pipe. It smouldered, releasing a cloud of smoke.

"But what? What did he do?"

"Albus, I don't want you mixing with him, and that's the end of it!"

"Why?" Albus asked, but he knew why.

"Because I don't want you exposed to that," Percival said gruffly. "It's not normal, Albus. It's not normal to be like that."

"Then I'm not normal," he said softly, looking him straight in the eye through the greasy cloud of smoke. "You know, don't you, Pa? I'm like that."

His blue eyes flashed for a moment, but then they settled.

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "No son of mine is a – a –"

"A what, Pa?"

"Do I have to spell it out, Albus?" He stood from the table, so quickly it made his son blink. "You're not to see him again, not now, not when you go back to Hogwarts. Do you hear me?"

Albus stayed sullenly silent.

"Do you hear me?" He asked again, a new edge to his voice.

"Yes Pa."