Purple smoke puffed up in a narrow, twirling column between two intent blue eyes.  A nose that had an unsightly red pimple forming at an ill-opportune time owing to the month's celebrations wrinkled at the smell, but rejoiced that it wasn't so much cremation as a rather more productive tang, which also settled on a tongue that protruded out the left side of his lips.

Surrounding the object retaining his fascination, there was a graveyard of twisted metal, shattered glass, torn, singed parchment and the desk was scorched in long black streaks.  Ambrose's Gryffindor red jumper had a black hole in the left arm and his wrist beneath had a shiny red burn, but these earlier accidents were barely interruptions in the scheme of three and a half years of cautiously practising magic.  He still had four fingers, two thumbs, both eyes and all his limbs, so he was winning at life, even if the desk rather wasn't for his continuation.

What did it matter that this was the sixth attempt?

"I think - oh. You agree then?"

Ambrose put things back down on the desk softly and released a breath he'd held for over twenty seconds, not daring to breathe, to risk anything.  It had to be perfect, and more importantly, made by him, not Philo, not Theta, not Dad, and not even Tim, who sat to Ambrose's right, his wand arm, generally out of the line of fire.

"No, I just don't have any more stuff if I got it wrong this time, so I stopped."  The older brother confessed and rubbed a clammy hand through his messy hair which was on end in places.  The brothers surveyed the scene around them in the classroom, both hoping Ambrose's efforts would be appreciated.  It was a rather unique thing, a girl that made your heart sing, your head spin and deliver a smile so genuine and understanding.  She made Ambrose believe he wasn't just a catastrophic classmate, but someone who mattered, to someone who wasn't family.  He made someone happy, and he hadn't caused them to get hurt, and they weren't Winnie.  Such life firsts called for daring measures, and brotherly reinforcements.

Ambrose had made Tim sit on his hands, though his brother had slipped instantly under the desk once to avoid the charm that had backfired the most and turned the desktop black.  The speed had Ambrose wondering if Tim had greased the seat in preparation.

"Merlin! I don't care, shut your mouth, or I'll find a hex to seal it shut!" Tim had exclaimed, pushing his glasses back up onto his nose as he had clambered back into his seat from the floor.  Ambrose had agreed, wiping his sooty face with a handkerchief.

Those rainy summer days they had both spent at the kitchen table, either side of their father when he had been able to be home from the Ministry, being shown the basics on how to use those tiny tools, hoping that one or the other of his sons would be intrigued enough to follow.  Those days that had persisted the first few years of Hogwarts until Ambrose had felt sour about them, knowing that only so much could be done by hand, that the magical side would be beyond him and his inability.  He had sat there, all the same, pleasing his father, because he loved him.

Then, the summer their mother had been in St Mungo's, the moments stopped altogether.  It was partly because Francis had to go back - he was the one making the turners, the one who could instruct and fix them, there were none quite talented the same, and without him, the country was not adequately served, even with the likes of Holmes and the others who had filled the workshop after the war, as the Pepper boys knew.  It was that summer that the two of them had picked up the tools themselves and cautiously tried, and the morning that their father had stumbled into the kitchen, and his hollow, lost expression had given way to surprise and the natural love he had for his children.

That moment, despite Tim being the one with the success in that field, Ambrose had felt he could tackle the task in hand back at Hogwarts to create Cyhirae's valentine's day present.  He had explained his plans to Tim, who he hoped would help him remember things, but as it turned out as he laid out his plans in a quiet spot after dinner in late January, Tim would insist he be there, whether Ambrose wanted him to be or not.  Despite all the embarrassing moments where Tim wished Ambrose would not insist on trying to be his big brother and look out for him when it wasn't required, he still preferred to spend time with his accident-prone sibling - even when the project seemed unachievable by track-record.

Between them, a slender brass chain curled like a lazy snake over the pockmarks of the desk.  At one end, there was a simple clasp of a curled hook ending in a leaf and a loop.  It was shaped to be soft and lie gently across the back of a neck, burning fingers in the process.  At the other, and hanging at the bottom of the necklace was a tiny glass potions bottle, charmed to make it less prone to breakages (undoubtedly Cyhirae would be able to recharm it with her skills) with a cork stopper, and a tiny brass key.[1]

"Let me," Tim spoke from beside him, getting to his feet and reaching for his wand.  Ambrose became protective, cradling the piece in both hands, but then saw that his brother meant about the clearing up, rather than anything else.  Tim didn't want to risk Ambrose causing any damage, and shooed the Gryffindor aside to hand polish the necklace.

Perched upon a nearby clear desk, the older Pepper smiled to himself as he polished, hoping that when he presented his gift to Cyhirae, complete with tiny note in the bottle, explaining the symbolism of the key, and that she should keep a little of her favourite perfume, or potion in the bottle, that she would like it.  It wasn't a grand gesture, it wasn't tickets to Quidditch, or dinner for two or anything else he could hear the older Gryffindor boys discussing, but it was just for her...

... and he still had four fingers, two thumbs, both eyes and all his limbs.

Win.

1.	visual reference