Primrose hadn’t even really realized it was her birthday, to be perfectly honest, until she’d woken up to family and her mother giving her breakfast in bed – for two, tradition (Prim actually hated that – crumbs! Lack of brushed teeth!).  It was a nice gesture though and the house elves had worked on it… Plus, their mother had many things to distract her in life, especially as she was getting older and had her hobbies, but there was nothing she loved more, she confessed to her children, than spoiling them when they would allow it.

The spoiling might have stayed for two if not for the fact that her sisters had to come to share her big birthday as well.  Blessedly, their father had left early in the morning for some meeting or another or he might have decided the family looked so precious (all his blonde haired angels, he’d croon – she was never sure if he was being ironic or not) he’d have to join.  There was only so much spoiling she could take, after all.   Not that she would turn down the opportunity to add another gorgeous specimen to their stable if their father decided it had been enough birthdays since her last horse (flying or not) to surprise her with one.  It seemed doubtful, however. 

She didn’t like people thinking she was spoiled, regardless of whether it was true or not.  It was somewhat alienating for someone who wanted to attain political prestige. At least the flowers, always her namesake, that were given to her were not ostentatious.  Maybe the crystal and goblin iron wrought vase was, but the flowers weren’t.  It was fitting, she thought, that she shared a name with something like a primrose. Even if no one else felt the same way. 

After breakfast and chatting with mum, Prim managed to shoo her out of her room – explaining that she had to get ready for the day (she wasn’t going into the Legislature – lull between the full moons and very little to argue about, apparently), but Mum did not need to know that. 

The only one who was aware was Hattie, and though Prim feared her younger sister wouldn’t be able to contain the secret, she also had to trust that she had taught her well enough and that her sister still idolized her enough to not tell.  Slipping into her riding gear, Primrose sswept her hair back and held it into place with clips and pins.  She didn’t like it getting in her face when she was in the stables and apparated outside of the doors. 

The sound would spook the spirited breeds inside the large structure, so she took care to never go directly into the bar (having learned the hard way the first time).  Swishing her wand to wordlessly swing the doors open, Primrose strolled in, heading straight for the stall that housed her darling – a sixteen year old (barely a yearling when she received him in tandem with the birth of her babiest sister, in case jealousy crept in) gelding, Blue Valentine – affectionately called Valentine for short.  “Hullo, big boy,” she greeted as he poked his silky, black nose out over the wood, a puff of warm air greeting her hands. She grinned as his thick lips searched her hand for the sugar cube she’d grabbed as she walked in and stroked the side of his muzzle with her other hand.  This was how one should spend a birthday. 

Birthdays at home were the sort of memory Hattie loved, the thing that popped into her head when she smelled vanilla cake or clean sheets. It didn’t matter where she was, she would always think of creeping up on Prim— or any of her other sisters, or her mum, or their poor, estrogen-ladden father— mere moments after the older girl (now woman!) enjoyed the first bite of breakfast. It wasn’t as if she could eat it all by herself, so really they were helping.

And never mind the fact that Hattie was now at an age where she begged to spend her birthday in London, doing cool things with friends, and not getting crumbs in her bed. She was also at an age where she’d traded being stuck at home for being stuck at school on her birthday, in February.

But she still secretly loved the tradition. And not-so-secretly loved it when it was someone else’s party she could crash. Plus, Prim was her favorite.

Unlike that brat, Marigold. Marigold had once told Hattie she was an accident, and then Amaryllis had told Marigold that she was secretly adopted, a descendent of their father’s favorite house elf. The wand-borne hair-pulling that had ensued… Hattie would have won after being pinned to a cast iron coat peg underneath a portrait of Uncle Bushwick by her pigtails, if Mum hadn’t used petrificus totalus on all of them. It had been ages ago, but Hattie still sometimes laughed— or scowled— about it when she was braiding her hair.

Today she wore her blonde locks loose, and they paraded gently around bare shoulders Hattie had conveniently donned after breakfast and before trailing a certain elder sister. She’d gathered handfuls of flowers along the way, only ruining a few of them with ceremonious round-cheeked blowing and he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not’s.

As she approached the barn, the girl slowed her pace, adopting a childish prowl, the kind that employed all limbs and might have come with a finger raised to lips if she’d had a partner in crime. But Hattie wanted Prim all to herself. And the horses. She pressed her back into the barn’s outer wall and looked down at the flowers, arranging them carefully.

Then, whirling around, she poked her head inside. When she spotted them, her sister distracted by Blue Valentine, she grinned and quite suddenly strolled, trading the sidle for a confident sway.

“Val!” Hattie called out the horse, as if she were passing him on a busy high street, an old friend who was out on a shopping spree like she. Someone completely unexpected. But here there were no shops, only horses and countryside and Prim in pants. The last bit was more exciting than most boutiques, despite the fact that Hattie had seen her sister in riding crops a thousand times. “Did you know your rider is looking like a babe on her birthday?” She asked the horse as she approached, reaching out to pat his neck and grinning at her sister even so.

Hattie was in the habit of using school slang on Prim, just to get a reaction. And because sometimes her sister needed a good horse kick to realize hi, hello, she was pretty banging under the turtlenecks. (Banging was another term Hattie used regularly at school. But she managed a rare moment of holding her tongue, because she didn’t want to ruin Prim’s birthday.)

“Wanna race?” Never mind her airy skirt and trendy boots. “Wild Flower has had a million carrots lately, I think—“ Well, maybe not today. Yesterday, though. Hattie had brought a mountain of them outside. In addition to what the elves always fed her, of course! The youngest sister had spent most of yesterday loitering in the barn, hanging off wooden fences and letting her hair spill around while thinking about how bored she was and reading books she’d spied Neely reading. (Neely reading was enough to make Hattie interested.)

She lifted her head away from the horse and shoved out a dainty fist full of flowers. “Happy birthday, Primrosieposie.” Massive bunny teeth beamed at the other blonde.

Primrose cringed (only a little) as she heard Hattie call from the entrance of the barn, yelling to Valentine with her… less elegant nickname for such a fine animal.  Blue Valentine was a thoroughbred, the very best to offer, at that, and to call him something that short was… it just undermined how valuable he was.  Plus, she was being completely ridiculous (in an endearing, charming sort of way).

There was a special place in her heart for her youngest sister.  When she was born, Primrose had been nearly 13 – already in Hogwarts, away for most of the year and missed the brunt force of newbornness that perhaps their other sisters couldn’t  forget and perhaps held resentment toward their sister.  But, Prim had waltzed in four months in and lavished affection on the little darling, babysitting and dressing her and playing with her – and then rushed away again as the school year picked up. It happened every year until she graduated, obviously, and by then, she was besot. 

It helped that she could pick whatever Hattie was going to wear and she even came up with the nickname Hattie, lest her baby sister have to deal with the moniker Hyacinth without any form of respite.  So, when she was approached and had to remark on Primrose and her birthday – and being a babe, Prim rolled her eyes.  “I’m not so sure Valentine,” she stressed her prize baby’s name just so Hattie could hear it, “doesn’t care about such silliness.” 

She looked back to the horse and met his deep, dark eyes.  “Of course you don’t,” she cooed with a tight-lipped smile, her fingertips gingerly stroking the side of his face.  “You care about hay and sugar cubes,” she nodded, sensible really for a horse, and turned her face back toward Hattie, expecting her to be sour-faced about her dismissal of the idea – instead she said something that made Prim’s eyes light up.  Race? 

Looking over her sister, sure, she wasn’t exactly attired for it, but she could make quick work of a change… though, when Prim’s eyes lifted back up, a smirk was only left on her face.  “You wouldn’t want to do that… birthday or not, I’ll trounce you,” she laughed and Valentine let out a deep breath: obviously, he agreed. 

“But, since you bring such a splendid offering,” she took the flowers from her sister’s hand with a fond look toward her, she really was a sweet girl when she wasn’t testing her limits. Prim found herself growing increasingly nervous about her extracurricular activities and the way her short skirts were not so much adorable anymore.  Valentine leaned toward her and tried to grasp at the flowers with his teeth, but Prim was quick and rubbed the velvety underside of his muzzle.  “Not for you, Sir,” she scratched him gently and turned her blue eyes back to her sister. 

“I guess we can do a race,” she smiled. “You have to change.”  It was not a request, obviously, “and I’ll tack up the horses.  Fair?”

“Valentine should care,” Hattie argued back, still smiling. She used the same emphasis Prim had, but the name came out sounding like a taunt. Just a little. Lovingly. “If he’s particular about his name, he should be particular about your boyfriends, so you’d better start reeling them in and bringing them around for his approval.” Brows shot up a sizable forehead. For a moment, Hattie looked serious, but the smile returned, an open-mouthed delight. “And so I can win a race.”

There had to be some way to distract Prim, truly.

Once the flowers were exchanged and Primrose had traded making lovey eyes at her horse for sisterly affection toward Hattie, the younger girl thought she was finally getting somewhere. There might be a wild ride in there yet for Wild Flower.

Only, with a stipulation.

Hattie’s face scrunched with distaste. “Not fair,” she corrected, as if it were a fact. “What’s wrong with my outfit?” Hands shot out as her face relaxed into something more serious. They framed the airy skirt with the expertise of a fifteen year old used to arguing about her wardrobe. Poise. Only it seemed to have worked better on Prim when Hattie was three. Didn’t she still look as cute?

“I was just kidding, before. You can reel in all the boys you want dressed like usual. But you know how dramatic mum is. The other day she said—” Hattie stopped, took a deep breath, and let her shoulders fall. As if gossip could wait a day. And parroting what their mother had said— with a Hattie-ish flair— was hardly the best way to win a debate with her sister.

“Fine, fine. I’ll change, you stay in your babe trousers. Only because it’s your birthday.” A tongue shot out faithfully, affectionately, before the younger girl turned on her heel and started with much heavier step’s for the stretch of green between the barn and house. “Get Wild Flower ready for me!” She called out over her shoulder, and then quickened her pace.

It went like that, an alternation between speed-walking and I-don’t-want-to trudging until Hattie reached the house. Then she slowed to her slowest pace yet, inspected things wearily, and then with an elfish curiosity. And then she made a run for it.

“Hi, Mum.”

“Hyacinth—”

Soles of boots made barely a sweet tap against the stairs as the girl took them in a rush— as if she were running toward water, ready to plunge. Instead, she shot up to the landing, whirled round a bannister, and flew toward her room, the handsome floors an afterthought. As she sailed from the corridor into Hattie Land, her top was already half-scrunched up over head. An eye’s blink later and it was flying across the room, in the general direction of the bed. Hattie had a different top in mind, one that better suited her riding “pants.” If it was a change Prim demanded, it was a change Hattie would deliver in full. Few people had ever accused the baby of the family of practicality.

Hattie would argue that Prim wasn’t practical either. All of that modesty just got in the way of things… even if the girl did her best to follow her sister’s lead when she was home.

The point was that Hattie was now wasting time she could be spending in party mode!

But Merlin did her legs look fabulous in floral. Grinning at the mirror in the same way she would most assuredly grin at Prim when she resurfaced in her riding gear, Hattie gave a half turn and inspected her backside. It was clad enough, even if it probably had a bit more of a detailed silhouette than her sister had had in mind.

The next moment, she was near-airborne again, rushing back down the stairs in a storm of yellow hair and cotton candy fabric.

“Hya—”

“Bye, Mum!”

Through the cheerfully slammed door came a muffled “The floors.” But Hattie knew her mother knew how to use her wand. (And she didn’t even mean that sass-ily.) Plus, her parents could barely afford to be angry on a birthday. It was a day for spoiling one of their dears, which meant the others got to bask in the luxury by default. Plus, Mum was still Mum. All soft in the middle, Hattie knew.

The trip back to the barn was far more breath-catching, and by the time Hattie arrived, she was pink-cheeked and a perfect match for her pants. “Ready to watch me zoom off in front of you like Bristol Collins?” She asked, even as she was tempted to slump down in the shade of the wide, tidy corridor of stalls.

Primrose was smart enough that she could step away from Hattie’s comments about boyfriends and whatnot.  She had been dodging it for plenty long enough, thank her very much, and she knew Hattie would figure it out eventually.  Boyfriends were obviously not the be all, end all of the world, but at fifteen it probably seemed like it. 

Even Prim had been distracted by such things, passing fancies and all of that.  So, it wasn’t a surprise that Hattie would be at the place to mention it.  Their mother certainly did, though not in a pressuring sort of way.  She wasn’t set on her daughters all getting married and being wives, it wasn’t what she told them growing up.  She was a career witch – an oblivator.  Her marriage was secondary to her work, and it was only recently that she’d even begun retirement.  She had loved working far too much to give it up for her husband, Gringotts liason. 

But, she worried that Prim didn’t have enough friends.  It was good to have a career, excellent to have a passion, but… she’d heard of a muggle book (one of her colleagues was an avid reader of all types of books) had read a rather chilling tale where work and no play led to some terrible things.  She made sure to recount it to Prim, just in case she got too consumed in what she was doing. 

So, Hattie listened to her too much, and she’d realize later that Mum was Mum and she had a ton of crazy ideas.  Rolling her eyes, it was getting very difficult to ignore and she sighed.  “Just go change, Hattie,” she sighed, albeit with a smile, “So you can be reminded who the older sister exactly is here!” she added as her sister flounced and that very tiny skirt of her’s swished. 

Primrose was naturally modest.  She didn’t like being uncovered.  Wearing her riding pants were just about the closest anyone got to seeing a fully imagined figure on her, and even then, not quite.  As her sister fluttered away, like a blossom on the wind, Prim was left to the horses and she looked at Valentine in his deep, dark eyes.  “She is a delightful nutter,” she laughed and stroked the gelding’s velvet nose.  He pressed into her hand and Primrose took it as a sign to grab his halter off the hook and slip it over his face. 

It was a familiar act, her hands moved from memory and the clasps were adjusted, rope was clipped, and the stall door was waved opened.  It creaked on the hinges and the powerful thoroughbred followed out quickly.  He was large and finely grown, exercised well and trained to perfection.  Really, Hattie even suggesting that she could win was absurd.

But, Prim would humor her, and they would have fun of it.  At the very least, though she was competitive just like her sister, Hattie did not seem to always mind losing.  Whereas, Primrose couldn’t stand it – losing to relations or not.  So, friendly race with her sister turned into quite the serious thing, and she clipped the cross ties before going to retrieve Wild Flower and maximize her time.

She was sure Hattie would be quick, so Prim summoned her grooming boxes and all of their tack with careful hands, controlling the speed and direction at which they came.  She did not want to spook either of the animals, and she had gotten quite good with careful maneuvering in the barn.  Everything neatly arranged on the hanging posts, Prim set one set of brushes on Wild Flower, preferring to brush Valentine by hand. 

It was necessary to do before a good workout and though she was certain of his (and Wild Flower’s, despite Hattie’s overfeeding, physical health), it never hurt to do a thorough once over: the same at the end. 

Prim could have lost herself in the act, going over each section of her boy, checking musculature… But, once she was down to his hooves, picking out any dirty or debris, Prim realized she had finished her routine.  Valentine’s withers twitched and he whinnied, stamping his back foot.  Certainly getting restless. 

Lucky for him, tack was easy enough to do with magic and the saddle blankets were on both of their backs, saddles in quick succession with the clink of clasps closing to the perfect tightness.  Bridles, of course, were to be done by hand after being unclipped, but Prim would allow Hattie to do that herself.  She took it upon herself to prepare Valentine ahead of time.  Wild Flower did not appear pleased as she flicked her tail. 

Prim laughed and led Valentine a few steps forward.  He was positively jittering with energy: Primrose always liked that out of a hot blooded horse.  When Hattie returned, only a little bit slowly… Primrose had to accept her peculiar brand of riding habit.  She might have had a lot of confidence, but she should best hope she didn’t fall off or any bit of exposure would be left to the rocks and bramble. 

“You are sadly mistaken, Hattie, darling.  I will be the Lorraine Irving to your Bristol Collins any day.”  She flipped her ponytail with skill unrivaled before she stuck the toe of her red boot into the stirrup and pulled herself up.  Primrose might not have appeared to have any strength, but she was certainly strong enough to command a 15 hands tall and thousand-one hundred pound creature and use only her arms and legs to pull herself atop him. 

He took a few prancing steps beneath her and Prim held the reigns tightly until he settled.  She then let the leather strap down to adjust her stirrups to proper length while she spoke.  “Hurry it up, then or I’ll win the race by default.” 

Even if she was cheeky about it, she’d done as Prim had said. Because Primrose was right: she was the older sister. And Hattie adored her, even if she liked to push Prim’s very refined buttons. Hattie might have been trying to find her own dress sense, but she still wanted to grow up to be as brilliant as the witch who was about to cream her in a race in proper riding trousers.

And as magically as Hattie had changed, Wild Flower was suddenly ready for her little, pink mistress. See? Sisters were brilliant.

The ones who weren’t named Marigold.

“But Bristol Collins’ face is better than any seeker, Prim, so he wins— and I win— by default,” she pointed out, reaching out to gently run knuckles over Wild Flower’s nose. The horse bumped her hand in greeting, and Hattie felt only a little guilty she hadn’t prepared her herself. “Oh, thank you, thank you, sweet sister of mine,” she sung, a little too loudly. “This was the other part of your gift, because I know how much you love spending time with horses.”

Kidding, kidding. Hattie had given her a real gift that morning— not just wild flowers and Wild Flower grooming duties.

 “Irving is alright, though,” she continued, jumping from one topic to another, and somehow managing not to let any of them slip away. Hattie loved bringing up points other parties might have thought settled. Arguing people into corners. Or occasionally being reasonable. “She was in my house. She smirked at me once.”

Too bad it hadn’t come with a signature. That would have been a nice crowning jewel to Hattie’s summer allowance— not that it was lacking. And now summer was over. Ugh.

She followed her sister’s lead, suddenly becoming Proper Hattie as she settled her legs into place and adjusted things. “Alright, Wild Flower, you heard her,” she growled prettily. “Prim thinks we’re slow, but that’s her mistake.”

And then, she and Wild Flower gave a teasing little jolt toward the barn’s edge.

Primrose rolled her eyes.  Her sister’s infatuation with Bristol Collins was not shared by her.  But, it was funny, and of course she would think so.  And then there was the present bit and Prim just laughed from the saddle, readjusting and stretching her leg in the stirrup, her heels pressed downward.  She shifted the reigns from her right hand to her left so she could reach up – secure a fallen piece of hair back into her plait and rolled her shoulders a bit. 

“It sounds as though you might drop all your other aspirations and play professional quidditch then,” Prim teased, “That smirk was probably an invitation to train with her.”  Of course it wasn’t, and she really hoped Hattie could read her sarcasm.  She didn’t do it because she wanted to hurt her sister’s feelings, but she supposed some of the things she said could come off that way.

That was just the way of siblings.  They tried to push each other’s buttons, and thankfully, Prim would always occupy a special place in their house because Marigold was Hattie’s eternal nemesis and Amaryllis was usually lost in the shuffle, not as strong willed as her other sisters. 

Really, it was a good thing that she was more like their mother, quiet but determined.  It wasn’t a surprise when fights ensued, the first to calmly pull her wand and freeze someone (if mum wasn’t around) would be Amaryllis.  Unluckily for Hattie, it was not Amaryllis she was racing because as soon as Hattie set off for the barn’s door, Prim dug her heels in to urge Valentine into motion. 

His muscles twitched and jolted into action, Prim pulling through the divide on the two wings and heading out the back toward the pasture.  It was gated, but she’d have time to balance and open the lock with her wand, at least she thought so, drawing her wand and pointing forward.  It was harder to do in a canter.  But, Prim managed and Valentine raced through the gate, which put Prim in a position to see where Hattie had ended up. 

She slowed Valentine to a trot before lifting her hand with a wave and a competitive, cutting smile, “Over here, dear!” she called across the grass and then gripped the reigns firmly (but not enough to suggest a slow down) and spurred him forward down toward the riding paths over the fields that belonged to their family. 

“I was making analogies, Prim.” Hattie was all about Academia. But a little Neely might have been tinting her tone; the more she aged, the more she found herself dabbling in the mannerisms of her sister and cousins— even Marigold. The prat. Others characteristics marked her as quite different. If she agreed with Neely’s assessment of sweaty quidditch fields, and much preferred the open fields on horseback, she wasn’t opposed to the hitting the books and earning a job that would bore her cousin to tears. “I’m thinking the Ministry needs more Woolfolks. I would make a great head of the Games department, don’t you think? Or fashion.” (Not all jobs were boring.) “What about a Ministry for fashion? The first Minister for Fashion. They’ll have to give me a seat on the Wizengamot for that. Splitsies?”

Marigold would see red.

“But I’ll still take a raincheck from Irving,” she announced grandly, as if she were a prancing pony. Haughty Hattie. The playfulness in her tone— and in the teasing way she edged out of the barn— were replaced a quickly drawn breath as Prim bested her. How improper! And poised. And Prim.

The look of surprise became one that combined knitted brows of revenge with a childish smile.

Hattie took off, for real this time. “What’s that? I can’t hear you!” She called, as she leaned in and felt the gallop underneath. “I was back here being generous and giving you your birthday advantage!”

She pulled the reigns and raced after her sister, closing the distance, but not enough to catch Valentine’s heels. Which wasn’t to say she wasn’t trying. Hattie was putting her all into it, as she always did in these situations, even if she liked a good bit of banter and did think a birthday girl should win on her birthday.

Winning was in their blood.

“Come on, Wild Flower,” she murmured loudly, leaning in. The whirl of grasses were like paint strokes, one blending into another, summer’s colors on display. But, whatever the pace, and however quickly they passed out of Hattie’s vision, the plants still held a gentleness as they bowed to the girl on the horse and basked in her dusk. As if they were sentient of the house full of girls and their feminine mysteries. (Ones which were admittedly shouted, laughed, squealed, and paraded often in these fields.)

“If I do take over Games and Sports,” she shouted, in the general direction of Prim— Valentine’s tail had just disappeared around a bend in the path— “I’m going to make sure these places are heavily inspected. I mean, just anyone can jump on a horse and fly around here these days, leaving hers sister to fend for herself. There are fireflies in a few hours, Prim!”

The race had been all Hattie’s idea, and it was barely afternoon. And she’d kick a troll in the shins before she ever allowed people to inspect and tear apart her childhood home.

“And I think a patch of mean doxies over there, but those don’t scare us.” She gestured vaguely to where her father warned her not to go and followed Prim in the opposite direction, hair whipping impractically as it was wont to do when Hattie determined she would ride in style and still make her coaches proud. (Prim being the only one around, and an unofficial one at that.)