”Coralie!” her great grandmother’s voice carried surprisingly clearly through the racks of robes in the shop. 

Situated in the back, Coralie looked up from the intricate embroidery she was working onto a set of robes, eyes wide and fingers stilling instantaneously.   “Yes?” she called out, delicately sticking the pin in her hand into the hedgehog shaped pincushion. 

Of course, the next thing Gramma said was absolutely incomprehensible, the paradox of the shop, and Cora sighed.  “I’m coming!” she yelled out, hoping that the odd muffling would quickly be over.  Traipsing forward, the heels of her boots clicked on the floor before she skidded to a halt at the front of the store.  “Gramma?” Cora blinked, turning around in a circle to find where she went. 

Slightly quieter than the call from the back, but just as muffled, Cora heard something from behind the coat display they had been putting away earlier in the afternoon, but lost track of with the arrival of a couple of customers.  “Gramma?!” Cora repeated, realizing it was probably the time to rush forward and realize that the pile of wool on the floor was not just a pile. 

Lifting up several robes and tossing them to the side, Cora’s jaw tightened and she helped lift her great grandmother up.  “Are you okay?!” she asked, trying to see if her gramma was having trouble walking or looked like she might have broken a hip or something. 

Gramma, for all that was worth, flicked her away and rolled her eyes: expressive.  “Cora! Cora, I’m fine,” she was exasperated, and Cora let go of her grandmother’s arm, a rosy pink coloring her cheeks: a bunch of wool robes couldn’t possibly hurt her.  She was being ridiculous.  “Finish putting the winter robes away,” Gramma ordered here.  “Then you can go back to fiddling with that robe.” 

Looking at the mess, Cora knew better than to do anything but, “Yes, Gramma,” and obediently flick her wand to start putting the robes away. 

“I’ll be in the back,” her grandmother added, the flourish of a brightly colored robe catching the corner of Cora’s eyes: she must have been chilly.  “I’ll put on some tea.  Mind the front, would you?”  It wasn’t a question, really, and Cora obediently went about putting the wool coats away while her grandmother disappeared through the racks that towered above her. 

Rascal was wired.

He walked in quick, long strides down Diagon Alley while literally wringing his wrists and speaking to himself. Those who recognized the wizard paid little attention to the eccentric muttering. Why, at over 36 hours and still counting, Rascal wasn't just wired: he was on fire.

"But of course the nun can't go swimming," he complained out loud as a man passed, walking two Dalmatians. "They're bound to catch her that way. Why hello pups. No, no dogs in the ocean." Further evidence of his deranged writing habits sat in neat stacks back home, in dear uncle's residence. Manuscripts, drafts of manuscripts.

Was Alohomocha this way, even? The author halted, turning around on his heels decisively.

No. It wasn't. He hadn't meant for it to be after all, for here was his rightful destination! The store sign danced in the light wind as Rascal set his hand to the knob, smiling.

The door swung open and then closed behind him quietly. How very gentle Time had been to Madam Malkin's shop; there was still that musty scent, gathered in only by cloths. Still a stir of excitement in the air- left behind for months by the anxious tittering of eleven year olds.

And there, tending to heavy woollen coats, was something new. Touched by Time.

"Coralie!" exclaimed Rascal, at her side so rapidly that the racks above oscillated. "My dear Core, darling little seamstress~" he towered over her by nearly a foot but knelt over, swooping the tiny witch into his arms as if though she were a much younger and lighter person. "Look at you!"

He did, then, look at her- with a brilliant and impish grin.

Halfway through the packing up process, Cora had decided to change tactics.  Putting all the robes in the same box would be a mess next year.  No, they could do this better.  Whipping up several more boxes, Cora was going to do this right. 

“Maroon cloaks there,” she directed with her wand,  “and black there, now brown in this one…” she continued to talk to herself, separating out the dark, heavy wools that were fit for an English winter, but were now too warm for this swiftly approaching spring season, was going to be done right this year. 

As she continued on, she distantly heard the bell ringing, but she was about to crack the code of this.  Gramma would be entirely too impressed with her: it would be another notch in the bedpost of her takeover, so to speak. 

Apparently, however, the forces of fate had different plans in that moment, and Cora heard her name being announced and turned, the swirling fabric of her celestial inspired dress swishing about her knees, and caught a very quick glimpse of none other than Rascal Rosier: she thought she recognized the voice.

Immediately, as if on cue, Cora turned red from the bottoms of her feet to the top of her head (it must have been shining through her golden hair on her scalp), and held her breath as she was swooped up without any warning or time to prepare.  Her heart was beating so rapidly in her chest she might have died: nickname and swinging hug aside, Cora did not do well in situations like this. 

Relief flooded her instantly when she was let down and some of the redness from holding her breath for her life was gone, though the blush remained prominent.  “Mr. Rosier,” her voice cracked, “How can we help you today?” she fiddled with her wand in her hands. 

Feigning a wounded soul, Rascal tilted his head back and drew his eyebrows together dramatically.

"Mr Rosier is my uncle, Core!" he reprimanded and took off his spectacles, slipping them into the front jacket pocket with mock haughtiness. "You remember me don't you? You mended my sleeves! I tried to give you a flower once, I think. Now let me see... what was it..."

The look on his face softened and then- with a quirky little smile - fell into natural mischievousness. He reached into his pocket to draw out a green stalk. Inch by inch and comically long.

"Morning Glory?" Rascal finally hauled out the entire flower in a showy gesture. "I remember you liking these. Writer's memory you see, even back then." Which wasn't a lie, as he did often remember the interesting things from Hogwarts.

For a moment he thought somebody was speaking: a muffled, elderly voice. It didn't seem very loud and the author assumed quite easily that this was simply one of the many voices in his head.

"I've only come to visit you." He continued breezily. "But if you have anything in neon orange, I would be more than happy to see such a thing. Neon pink, failing that."

“I remember,” Cora stammered, that breath held red coloring her again.  Alright. Maybe Cora had known Rascal Rosier once upon a time, but that was totally different from the present.  While she was just her great grandmother’s great granddaughter, only carrying a name: she didn’t do famous things.  She was notoriously awful with people who did.

Rascal Rosier wrote books – he wrote famous books! And he was in the newspaper, and magazines!  It was insanity that he could waltz in like that and pretend he wasn’t practically some made up person that smiled for pictures and holed himself up while he wrote.  He clearly didn’t exist outside of that world.   

It was as though the past of mending sleeves and flowers had never happened.  Details she barely remembered: she’d mended quite a few sleeves in her day, and beyond that, couldn’t recall a single flower ever put in her direction.  Of course, details like that must be hard to make up, even for a writer, and Cora just about felt like dying as the ridiculously long stemmed flower he produced from his pocket. 

Without thinking, of course Coralie reached to take it, unable to really find the words to say anything about it.  “I – well – oh,” she shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek, trying not to make an idiot of herself and breathed deeply again, “Thank you, Rascal.”  His name came out uncomfortably, and she definitely put the emphasis on the wrong syllable… but it’d have to do. 

She sniffed the flower discreetly: she did love morning glories, and decided to meet the quirk with her own and tuck the long stem behind her ear, balancing the flower in her hair, like she might a quill, and bit her lip.  “I – I think we should have something!” Coralie announced, volume much too high for the ocassion (she had trouble regulating her voice when she was nervous), and gave a tight smile, like she might get sick, “I mean, of the orange… I’ve read you are a fan of… cravats, was it?”

The intense focus it took her to even speak correctly totally blocked out the sound of her grandmother's voice from the distance.

It wasn't typically his fame that caught people off guard.

Rascal quite liked that she wasn't telling him off for eccentricities, rather. He danced to his tip toes and then back down to his heels in a kind of wayward bow at her thanks. Lovely Core! Not a mean bone in her body, or at least none that he'd yet tripped over. Why he could even forgive her odd pronunciation.

"Perfect." The author commented on the manner in which she fashioned the Morning Glory. "Why, Core, you're prettier than a weed. And you know how I admire weeds." Well no- she didn't but he was taking a fancy to the stubborn things.

There it went! That voice again! He glanced up at the racks in a brief moment of rumination. When had the voices in his head begun to sound so... reproachful? They were usually quite good about egging him on. At the mention of cravats, Rascal's gaze dropped back down to his friend.

"Oh, I don't mind a good cravat~" he raised his eyebrows, shoulders shrugging in mock modesty. "But a glorious bow tie... now that I simply could not resist. Tempting as a bath of butterbe--"

The elderly voice suddenly cut through the shop in a shrill, blood-curdling tone that sent Rascal into a soldier's stance: his lanky legs snapped together. He couldn't quite make out the words but gave Coralie a pointed look.

"Now. Not sure about you but I'm quite certain that wasn't one of my voices."

Ah! Cora was going to panic.  She was good at panicking, particularly out of her element.  Rascal Rosier – pretty – well, prettier than a weed, but she wasn’t really surprised that that happened. 

He reminded her a lot of the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland.  She had read it many years ago, but ravens and writing desks seemed to be the sort of thing that might come out of his mouth.  Plus, the idea of unbirthdays and pocket watches, all of it – very Rascal.

It helped ground her a little bit – though, also reminded her  that he was practically a fictional character, even despite standing (towering) right next to her.  “Thanks,” she murmured and then blushed – realizing his trademark was the bowtie, not so much old fashioned cravats.  Ah! Another notch in her awkward belt. 

“We’ve got some bowties,” she nodded, hoping she didn’t sound tongue-tied… looking up at him, still a little star struck… until she finally made out her Gramma’s voice. 

”Did you finish those cloaks yet, Cora?” her voice carried and Cora finally heard her footsteps approaching.  She looked back at the boxes that were still not full.  She was opening her mouth to answer when the short and portly woman finally stepped into view and her crossness turned into smiles.  Thank Merlin for customers! 

“Rascal Rosier!” Gramma greeted with open arms and smiles, “Is my Great Granddaughter helping you today?” she slided a look toward Cora, who smiled embarrassedly and fingered at the stem of the flower behind her ear. 

There was a face that brought back memories!

Like slaps of cold water to a feverish face! Rascal should have recognized the voice but it had been many years now since he had bothered to come into Malkins by his lonesome, longer even since they spoke. A much shier little boy used to have his robes measured here and the smile he flashed her echoed the bashful youth.

A faint echo.. As the woman tottered over with open arms, he naturally had to respond appropriately.

"Madam Malkin!" Rascal lifted the elderly witch with nearly as much ease as he had Coralie, surprising himself, and then set her down with red cheeks. "Still sending larvae off appropriately attired, I see! Core is being a positive gem. Better, in fact, a weed!" More gardeners tended to earth at the sight of weeds, not florets. There that made sense now.

The author was untucking his cravat as he spoke, lips moving jerkily and looking between the two women with a delighted - fascinated really - expression. Family! Did Core think of her relation in the way he thought of poor Cam? Oh, Uncle. Madam Malkin made a sound that might have been approval. "W-why that's lovely-" she said uncertainly, and then added with more genial employment: "- has she found everything you're looking for?"

Hufflepuffs were good at that, so mayhaps the petite witch might someday find everything he was looking for. But Rascal reigned in the scope of his thoughts with a boyish grin at both ladies.

"We've only got started! Bowties to start-" he made a kind of curtsy before gesturing around the shop with flourish. "- and then robes! Neon colours, isn't that right Core?" Another, slightly more mischievous grin this time. "I don't want to be run over by Headless Horsemen or speeding dinner sets, the neon bit is extremely significant~"

Cora was not the most practiced poker face person.  She had to clap her hand over her mouth to avoid laughing out loud.  Oh Gramma was not going to be happy, at least she wasn’t going to get angry about it right there! She was busy and even more than that; this was an important customer (all customers, Cora mentally noted, were important customers), but to Gramma some were more important than others. 

It was particularly beautiful in this moment that this customer would be the one to make her Gramma’s head spin.  And then the weed comment, the befuddled expression on the older woman’s face was too much.  Cora couldn’t help it: she snorted into her hand and then immediately felt the desire to disappear forever at the striking look her grandmother gave her. 

He was a good on the summation of the task though, and Cora was able to lower her hand and smile at her skeptical looking grandmother.  She nodded when it was called for by Rascal’s question, and hoped it was good enough for her.  ”Of course,” Gramma responded to him, ”Well, I wish you the best –and do call out if you need anything.  I’ll be finishing the winter robes”

Cora was able to continue smiling as her Gramma started off – prowling nearby, like a cat in wait for the mouse to mess up.  She always did this.  Clearing her throat, Cora was dislodging all of the wayward giggles and laughs, ready to continue as soon as she got the last bit out from blocking her throat. 

“I think we should definitely have things to suit you,” she grinned, feeling a little more at ease: imagine what just a little bit of laughter could do!  “None of this getting run down business, to be sure,” she added, leading the way toward the brightly colored wall of accessories.  Cora didn’t do much for solids: she quite liked a daring, beautiful print, though color as well, but she supposed he could pick what he liked for the moment.  “If you see anything that catches your eye, we’ll pull it,” she instructed holding her hand up to gesture, ‘have at the wall of stuff.’ 

Like a boy in the candy shop - an especially devilish boy now that great grand mater was gone - he walked straight up to the wall with wide eyes, a smile of anticipation. Rascal held his hands behind his back, quite pleased by this array and also by Core's significant change of mood. Laughter! It wasn't just a sound, it was a bubble in your chest and you couldn't help the delightful pop!

So he hmmm'd and uuuuh'd for a bit.

"Blue. The bluest blue, the trickiest blue, the silliest blue..." The wizard helpfully pointed out several bow ties (and two cravats) that were not, in fact, blue at all. All the while glancing between shelf and witch, "... also deepest blue. Are you going to run this place like your cute old mater some day?"

The question was abrupt, like a full stop where you wouldn't expect one, but came in a tone so friendly it was innocuous. Rascal rocked back and forth on his heels as though dancing to something; he had his hands in his pockets and wasn't looking at Coralie anymore.

"I wanted to run a sweet shop once!" he continued breezily, reaching out to poke a dusty rose bowtie with a white dove pattern. "Before I wanted to write stories. It all came down to which was the best way to corrupt young minds, you know." A wistful sigh that might have been put-on. "Nobody's tried eating any of my stories yet, unfortunately."

It was truly a sight that someone so large (well tall, not exactly large) could move with such speed.  He was mumbling something about blue, but stayed away from the color entirely – an odd sort of thing, considering he was going on about it, but she held her tongue, knowing that Rascal Rosier was not one to be made sense of.  She’d read enough to know that.

She wondered, if in some ways, he did it on purpose.  Was he an entirely different – less bizarre human being when not in public?  She doubted it.  In Cora’s mind, no one could act that way if they weren’t actually that way.  No one was that good of an actor. 

At least he wasn’t a bad sort of crazy.  There were plenty of those out there, and she didn’t need them coming into her shop!  Her shop, wow.  Looking up at Rascal, she realized where the sort of thought came from and couldn’t help but laugh.  “Cute?” she echoed, snapping her jaw shut suddenly, peering over her shoulder to see if Gramma was still hunting – breathing a sigh of relief as it appeared she was not directly behind her. 

The question, of course, was more interesting.  “Maybe not the same way,” she shrugged, “but I’m going to… run the shop, I mean,” she clarified, walking up the wall and getting up on her tiptoes to pull down a yellow and green chevron bowtie.   She thought it might suit him and held it out as he continued. 

“You know, they made Aristotle poison himself for that*,” she pointed out, vaguely remembering a detail about it in potions because of the properties of hemlock.  It’d always stuck out to her.  “I imagine they’re far too busy reading them to consider eating them,” she added, wanting to assuage any anxieties he was feeling about the nature of people’s non-epicurean relationships with his books. 

She glanced at the wall again and smirked.  “I think that pink is too quiet,” she assessed readily and reached for a more outspoken sort of child’s toy pink, “this might be better,” and put her hand underneath (notably less pink than the bowtie) and grinned at the moving waves on it.  She loved enchanted fabrics. 




*Yes, it’s Socrates, but history was never Cora’s strong point.

"Yes cute," he repeated with a quixotic grin that gave him the contradictory quality of being perfectly serious and gently teasing. "All little ladies, young and old, are cute." Especially shy ones with unspoken dreams. Rascal had known his fair share of little women - most of them bewildered by his ways - and they very rarely displeased him.

Come to think of it, few women at all displeased him. Any whom did, likely cared not for the opinions of fools. Rightly so.

The bowtie she took down was not one of his blue ones (or at least he didn't think as he wasn't paying much attention, the best way to attain a delightfully nonsensical wardrobe) but he accepted the tie, turning it over in his hands as you might a particularly vexing tome.

Socrates, she meant, though the author didn't correct her. Dead men did not bother if you got their names mixed up with other dead men. He had never personally asked however. "We owe a rooster-" Rascal said in a deep voice. "-Please, don't forget to pay the debt." And then he put the bow to his neck curiously, glancing at Core. "His last words. I don't a rooster to anyone, not lately."

He nodded approvingly of the green and yellow affair before turning his attention to the pink bowtie she favoured over the rose one. Nothing one would wear in muggle London, always a problem with enchanted fabric, though wardrobe was the least of his problems with that bunch.

"I think I may have a three piece to compliment that, Core." Rascal folded an arm across, tucking his elbow into it as he scratched a pointy and thoughtful chin. "If you can find me a robe to match, I may yet have something to wear for dinner out with poor Cam. You know dear uncle, don't you?"

Cora didn’t truly understand what Rascal was quoting.  She was never truly academically inclined, and reading anything that wasn’t entertaining was out of the question.  The classics, as far as she had been forced to digest some of it, had been insufferable.  She tilted her head at him and smiled anyway, despite (or perhaps because of) not understanding. 

She thought clothes were so much simpler.  Colors, patterns, and fabrics: all of it was easy for her to understand and keep in order.  After all, it was all different!  Words could be jumbled together, names mashed and forgotten: she was not good for that type of pursuit. 

Right now though, she was relatively good at what she was doing and grinned wide as his posture changed.  She liked being helpful: it just reaffirmed that she belonged at the forefront of this store at some point.  Sure, she slipped up from time to time, but who didn’t? 

It was never the end of the world. 

Though, in this moment, it felt like it might be the end of the world if she didn’t pick something perfect for Rascal and his dinner with Cameron Rosier.  Of course Cora had heard of him!  “I mean, not personally,” Cora returned reaching up to rub the back of her neck, but accidentally knocked the stem of the flower and scrambled to grab it, her hands fumbling and awkwardly replacing it. 

Her cheeks lit up and Cora cleared her throat.  “But, yes, I mean, I understand.  Which bowtie would you most like to match your robes?” she asked, looking at the assortment.  She didn’t want to force her choices on him, after all, and for something like a dinner with an important person (family didn’t matter), one wanted to look one’s version of ‘best.’ 

“We just got in a rather brilliant purple set,” she informed him, if that would help him make his choice, “and a vibrant red.” 

It was a shame that lovely Core didn't personally know his poor uncle.

They would have been entertaining to watch as an interaction, or at least more entertaining than having to tolerate Cam with that shadow of a writer in whom he sometimes took a romantic interest.[1] Rascal smiled wistfully at his friend as she described two sets that the shop had recently got in.

None of the chosen blues were worthy of the dinner - though he would still be purchasing them - so it would have to be something else.

"Brrrrilliant purple-" the author rolled the words theatrically, dancing to his tip toes in consideration. "- Vibrrant red. You know, that pink one you showed me might go well with the purple actually." He suddenly stood still as if though it took the zeal right out of him to say something that made sense.

Inside his head, the attire came together like flowing cursive letters.

"Do you have handkerchiefs? I will need seven of them exactly, in different shades of brown. Actual brown." Rascal fixed Coralie with a perfectly serious look although he smiled like an imp the entire time. "As well as the vibrant red robes, but not in my measurements. I think I have uncle's somewhere, you can get them done to that. The sleeves must be embroidered with domino hearts and skulls. Oh, another thing Core-" here he paused to push the smile out into a grin. "- if you have the time, do come over."

No doubt the witch was a busy butterfly in her great grand mater's establishment but he was in the fantastic habit of inviting people to Cameron's house as it was and did not want to break the streak. "For tea. I am the Mad Hatter, obviously, and we could always use an Alice. Even if you are much prettier."

1.	Dolly St. James

The excitement he seemed to have over the colors she suggested was a little infectious.  Cora could feel her heart thrumming in her chest as she bounced a little on her heels.  “You’re absolutely right,” she added with a bright smile – truly understanding what he said for what it was the first time this conversation. 

Rascal was like an old manuscript.  He needed to be puzzled out and teased for meaning.  Cora always felt she was much too simple for that sort of puzzle. 

Maybe he was becoming less cryptic by the moment, or maybe Cora was just getting acclimated to talking to him because it sounded like he was making a direct request.  Brown handkerchiefs, she frowned.  “We might have some,” she didn’t think so though.  Brown wasn’t the most coveted of colors, but they did have a host of brown fabric.  “I can always make some, if not,” she offered.  The little squares weren’t difficult, and Cora’s stitching was good – they’d look beautiful when she was done with them. 

They’d have to check for the actual pre-made kerchiefs, however.  Blue, brown – now red!  Though, not so much for him, it seemed, and Cora nodded enthusiastically.  “I’m sure we have his measures on file,” Cora assured him. Her great grandmother certainly would have dealt with a customer like that, but they probably did have them around, and she had to ask:  “Do you want the purple as well, for you, I mean?” she looked up as she started to lead him away from the wall of ties and bowties, (really up, to see his face) and blinked at the suddenness of the second part around. 

Coming over?  That seemed just a little bit insane.  The crazy was coming back.  “Does that make your uncle the March Hare or the Sleepy Doormouse?” Cora asked, feeling a lot more comfortable responding to that piece of his invitation than the part where he’d called her pretty.  That was not her strong suit, at all.