Wesley stood on a chair in front of a looming bookcase, furrowing his brow at the empty shelf. Behind him, stacks of books swayed on the long table, a whisper away from toppling over. He rested his hands on the dusty shelf, and coughed.

BOOM.

The books behind him fell, clattering onto the table and the floor.

He glanced around the aisle, and hopped down from his chair, only to hear the distant, ominous tap-tap-tapping of polished shoes hurrying across the polished wood floor.

"You!" The older girl pointed at him, squeaking to a stop at the end of the row of bookcases.

"Me!" His eyes widened.

The girl looked around, letting out a huge huff. Her dark hair fell in a neat braid over her shoulders, and her Ravenclaw uniform looked crisp and freshly pressed.

"Don't you ever learn?" She put her hands on her hips.

It was this gesture that made him remember her clearly. Just a few weeks ago, some of the older Gryffindors had been talking badly about Feliks in the library, and calling his mum names[1]. Wes had stood, hollered that their fathers smelt of elderberries, and then had to dodge their hexes and angry faces as they'd assumed the insult had something to do with elder wands. The Ravenclaw, Eirene, had found the librarian and landed them in trouble.

One of the Gryffindors still had it out for him and was making wand motions across his throat in the corridors. It worried Wesley. He didn't want to be Nearly Headless Nick. He wanted to be Wesley, Strong and Brave!

"I can't find the book I need," he admitted glumly, and started to pick up the books that had fallen.

Eirene waved her wand, levitating several back to the table. She stepped forward, glancing at the covers with suspicion.

"Which yearbook are you looking for? You've caused such a mess here, Wold."

"The one with Harry Potter, Longbottom, and all the rest. When they were younger. Up to their fifth year, I think. I'm looking for-"

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" She let the books fall onto the table with a thud. "I know what you're up to!"

Wesley blinked at her.

"You just want a souvenir. Like everyone else! Would you like to know why you can't find any yearbooks of Harry Potter and his friends? Because students, like you, get it into their heads to steal those editions, ruining it for the rest of us. Leaving a hollow, lonely space," she pointed with her wand at at the bookcase. "On our library shelves."

Wesley continued to blink at her. "Are you a library assistant?"

Her eyes narrowed. "No."

"Are you a prefect?"

She sniffed. "Not yet."

"Then why? Why do you care about what other students do."

That was the wrong thing to say. The Ravenclaw whirled around, braid swinging, her shoes squeak-squeak-squeaking away down the main aisle.

Wes looked down at the yearbooks in his arms. None of them had his mother in it. He hoisted the pile onto the lonely, empty shelf and blinked rapidly.

Then he stuck his head into the main aisle.

"Your mother is a hamster!" He hollered after Eirene, to a chorus of gasps.

1.	Secret Lovechild of a Murderess

The Library was supposed to be a quiet, studious place with ever the weight of ancient scholars and self-directed discovery. But rarely did any reality live up to its Platonic ideal. The rules of the library were not innate to the laws of nature, but rather set down by humankind. And so the Library, in actually, often resembled wilderness free for all where children were forced to recreate civilization.

So the crashing of books was of little concern to the Headmaster who was in the History section pulling texts for his N.E.W.T. class.

It wasn't until an insultatio rodentia sounded in the stacks that he thought he might investigate. The old bear made his way to the labyrinth pausing only to let Eirene Antonopoulos storm by; it was a common gait for the prickly Ravenclaw so not worth remarking on at the moment.

In her wake: Wesley Wold.

In his wake: the debris of bookstacks toppled.

He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned a bit to the side, hoping to appear as friendly as possible.

"Run in with Antonopoulos, Mr. Wold?"

Wesley's mouth tugged downward as he hefted another armful of books onto the lonely, hollow shelf Eirene had accused him of creating. He hopped off his chair, stomped to the table, and had just scooped up another armful when he noticed Headmaster Greyfriar at the end of the row.

Uh oh.

The bear of a man acted like a teddy bear, if teddy bears could turn into wolves on a monthly basis. But still, uh oh.

"Sorry for the noise, professor," he gave the Headmaster a sheepish smile. "It's good! I'm cleaning it up."

He stepped onto his chair again and looked at the shelf. The books were out of order, but they were there, and not on the table or the floor. Wes made a show of straightening the spines and slipped in 'Class of 2000' next to 'Class of 1985'.

"The books fell over on their own," he added. He'd coughed, and off they toppled behind him. It was magical, really, the sorts of messes he made.

"Eirene thought I was being careless, I told her I was just looking for something, she thought I was going to steal it, and I dunno."

He frowned, still not understanding how that had happened. His expression quickly cleared as he slipped in 'Class of 2001' right next to 'Class of 1989'.

"The Eirene's of the world can be a lot to bear, but they carry the world on their shoulders," he said philosophically, and not by way of admonishment, as he made his way down the aisle to observe Wesley's re-shelving.

"When things begin to fall apart, an Eirene will be vital to setting the world straight again."

He was shelving yearbooks. Knox was surprised and now desperately curious. What could the young Hufflepuff be looking for? Certainly he wouldn't be interested in a dusty photo of a 17-year-old Knox with floppy hair from 1970.

"Merlin's bones, Mr. Wold. What ghosts are you digging up? I'm a nosy old man, and can't help but ask."

Wesley looked up, trying to imagine a world that needed Eirene's kind of straightening, then shrugged, pushing the 1990 book onto the shelf a little harder than he'd intended.

Atop his chair, he smiled down at Professor Greyfriar's interest. Sure, the man had a few grey hairs to match his name, but so did Wesley's uncle after a day at the Alton Towers theme park with four kids in tow.

"My mum," he said simply. Eirene hadn't given him a chance to explain, but Greyfriar might.

"She started school in 1991. I know that much, but all the books from 1991 till 1999 are missing because everyone steals the ones with Harry Potter in them, Eirene says, but I wasn't going to."

He hopped down from his chair and looked up at him.

"Steal anything, professor."

"Ah, I see."

Knox's expression softened almost imperceptibly. The Hufflepuff Head of House had mentioned the basics of Wesley's situation - that his mother had gone missing when Wesley was younger. The Headmaster didn't have all the details, but he could imagine the weight that Not Knowing could have.

"Steal? We sons of Hufflepuff would never," said he. "Matter of fact, our reputation is as finders.  Allow me to demonstrate."

Knox Greyfriar had an idea. He gestured with his head a request for Wesley to follow him, and led the way to a very boring part of the Library where there was a locked door set into the stone wall that said 'Archive'. So dull were its contents that it didn't come close to outshining the temptation of Potter-era yearbooks or the Restricted Section.

The Headmaster's wand opened the door, and the pair were greeted by the smell of old parchment and leather. Their entrance has stirred up dust, the particles floating in a beam of orange light from a round window near the ceiling. The small round room with a high cieling was lined with shelves filled with bound volumes.

"Perhaps we have a more official record of your family's tradition here. What year did you say she was sorted?"

"Finders of mischief?" He piped up, following the Headmaster into the very exciting locked room that even Eirene Antonopoulos hadn't yet graced with her squeaky footsteps and scoldings. Wes left the last pile of books behind on the table, sparing them little thought. His mostly empty backpack rested lightly on his shoulder.

Wesley walked around in the round room, glancing up at the window in the ceiling. Not enchanted. That was Wesley's first inkling that the exciting room might not be as exciting as he expected.

Then the dust tickled his throat.

"Achoo!" He sneezed into his sleeve, and offered the professor a smile. The Headmaster was one of his favorite people here. He didn't even seem to mind that it was the weekend, when most professors were off having fun or catching up on naps. Though Wes wasn't sure what Headmasters did for fun, other than think of new, big words to say during class to confuse and impress students like himself.

"1991. Slytherin. Her name's Lucy." He paused, trying to think of other relevant details. "Same last name as me. W-o-l-d."

Not World. Not Wild. Not Wald. Wold! Professor Greyfriar of The Big Words likely didn't need the spelling help though, Wes realized after a few moments.

"My little sister's name is Wren and my brother's name is Wyatt and my Da's name was Walter," Wes rambled. "I think she made a joke or bet with someone."

The Professor burst forth in a great big belly laugh. Every sentence this one uttered had an impish, earnest, wry humor that Wesley had only given them the smallest taste of in boring old History of Magic class.

"How in the world did you manage your socks?"  In Knox's family, everyone's socks were marked with their initials on the soles. He imagined a pile of laundry, every sock a WW.

While they spoke of sneezing, names, and socks, Knox began to pull from the shelves. There was a spindly reading stand near the door, tall enough to read a book while standing. One by one, books, journals, and bound archives came down from the shelves.

"Lost and found from 1993... And here, The List from ninety-one," - a copy from the magical book that identified the next batch of first years to be invited to Hogwarts - "Oh, good one: we have hospital wing admittance from ninety-two! Perhaps your mother stubbed a toe or two."

The last one Knox pulled for now, was a tiny little journal and could fit on the palm of his hand. The cover was neon green, and inside was clearly the handwriting of a teenage girl. Knox wasn't sure what it was, but there were strange lost things hidden in these archives.

Wes laughed with the professor, though he didn't understand the joke. Socks were flung at each other, especially the dirty ones. Everyone in his family wore socks of different sizes anyway, and if his siblings accidentally took his socks and walked around with floppy toes, it was no big deal.

He trailed after Professor Greyfriar and flipped through everything handed to him, piling the relevant files onto the reading stand. He hurried back, his hand held out as if waiting for the baton.

A tiny green journal! Wes tried to hold it in his palm like the professor, but his hands were much smaller. He opened up the journal, and read:

the turmentings of Millicent Bulstrode ~~ bad ass slytheryn

He cocked his head. Bulstrode? Not his mum. Maybe they'd been friends! He flipped through the first few pages, then blinked in alarm.

What he held in his hands was a litany of "tormentings" doled out by this Millicent Bulstrode, starting from 1991 and never seeming to end. Every page listed the year and sometimes the month, detailing the cruel tricks she'd played on unfortunates such as lovgood, granger, petil, poter, wesly (Wesley did a double take), long butt, a butt, fench, mic milan, t. butt (so many butts!), lee, turpinn, brown, wuld.

Wesley looked closer.

Wuld.

Wold?

Wes meandered to the center of the archives and stood under the sunlight shining from the window in the ceiling. He scanned the journal pages more carefully, searching for any mention of 'wuld'.

91 Found Wuld helping Longbutt look for rememberal.  Stupid wuld how is she slythrin. I smaked her in the hed and said remember. Ha.

91 Kicked Wuld during flying Wuld hates hights. She glarred at me and clung to broom. Ha.

92 Found out Wuld a MUDDBLOOD. Stupid Wuld!

92 Blamd Wuld for spill in potions now Poter and Granger mad at her and Snape disapoint. Ha.

92 beet up Granger and Wuld at duling club. Ha.

93 put lakwing flies in wulds food. Pansy laffed. Dafne laffed. Duble Ha.

93  Farted on Wulds pillow as she watched. She sleeped in the bathtub tonite. Ha.

94  Hid Lovgoods shows and Wulds jacket in the owlry. The owls shit. Ha.

94 Woke up with BOILS on face! Wulds smirky. Hexed her to infarmy. HA.

In a neater script, on the last page, it reads:

1994- This journal is confiscated until Miss Bulstrode stops her bullying.

His eyes widened. "This girl was mean to my mum!"

He held out the journal to the professor to share in his outrage.

While Wesley took the small little journal to the middle of the room, Knox stayed at the bookstand poking through the list of first years who'd be getting their letter that year, and the hand-written notations in the margins, perhaps Minerva McGonagal.

A few moments more into their archival research, Wesley was holding the book out to him with distress.  The Headmaster strode over, and took the journal.

"Oh dear, let me see."

He had to make several adjustments to the location of his glasses on his nose and the distance of the book from his face, but he was able to make out the loopy, tightly packed, and creatively spelled script of one Millicent Bulstrode.

"Oh dear, oh dear."

Knox Greyfriar had no intention of doing a disservice to the young wizard and diminish what must have been a terrible experience for young Lucy Wold, an experience that probably didn't stop at first year, and that perhaps, even as an adult she didn't forget.

He snapped the book shut and presented it back to Wesley. He shook his head.

"What a cruel thing to have done. Did your mum ever tell you about her time here at school?"

It would be a pity of this young avatar of Millicent Bulstrode had the first and last word of Lucy Wold at Hogwarts School.

Wesley watched Professor Greyfriar, feeling vindicated upon hearing all the 'oh dears'. He took the journal and frowned down at it, and might have drop kicked it across the archives if not for the professor standing right there.

He didn't know why his mum's classmates had been mean to her. People weren't mean like that to him.

At the question, Wes looked up, thinking.

"She said she liked Potions and Herbology. She's really good with plants and farming and stuff."

He moved to set the journal atop the podium, and cast it a look full of angry thoughts about Bully Bulstrode before glancing at the professor with another thought.

"She said she always admired people in school who were brave and that's why she married my Da."

His mum had sometimes teased his Da about being a Gryffindor and he would tease her about being a Slytherin. He didn't recall her talking about any school friends.

"Oh! She did call some professor The Pink Nightmare. I don't know who. I remember because when I heard it, I started calling other things nightmares. Here's the green nightmare - that's Wyatt when he has snot on his nose. Or here's the red nightmare that's red like a sunburn."

He managed a smile at his own cleverness as he walked back to the professor. "Do you ever have names for things like that?"

Greyfriar scratched his beard in thought, very amused at the Wold's colorful epithets. He tried to remember if his family was at all that clever. 

"Oh, well my classmates and I, we did have code names for our Professors although I don't think they were as sly as we thought they were! Let's see... the potions master we called, well, Professor Bore-Us. And, ah ha, Kettleburn, my word, I think he was Professor Lefty. He lost his right arm to some dangerous creature, poor fellow. But it wouldn't be the last limb he'd lose!"

This was getting fun! "I'm ashamed, but our Headmaster Dippet, perhaps you've seen his portrait, in our wittiest achievement we'd named him Professor Dimwit. Creative geniuses, eh?"

"Professor McGonagall was there then, too, but we didn't dare call her anything but Professor or ma'am! You know she was a champion duelist?" 

It had been a long time since he'd thought about his childhood, his time at Hogwarts. It was easy to forget how tumultuous it all was. Even though it was only a drop in the cauldron of an entire life span, it felt so important at the time, every day life or death.

Wesley grinned, tickled to hear the History Professor and esteemed Headmaster of Hogwarts confess the nicknames he'd once used for professors. He opened his mouth, then shut it, choosing not to divulge all the professor nicknames he and his peers had invented. It was against kid code.

"I want to be a dueling champion," he swung his arm loosely at his side, his fingertips catching on the edges of the dusty tomes lined on the shelves. He didn't know what it was, but he liked the sound of it.

"Not now, but in a year or two. I was petrified three times the first day in Defense class," he stuck his hands in his pockets and gave the professor one of his fleeting woeful looks.

"I'm sure you've heard all about it."[1]

Clearly the professors discussed Wesley Wold during their staff meetings. How many times he'd made Professor Darkfall shout 'By the Morrigan!' during Potions, how many times he'd made Professor Kesali's one remaining eye twitch, and how many times Professor Storm's eyes had turned to ice upon hearing his cheek.

He imagined a tally on the chalkboard, right above the staff tea station.

The Headmaster's eyes hadn't twitched yet, however, or glared at him, which Wesley took as great encouragement.

"Are you a History champion?" Wes walked the circle in the middle of the room, looking up at the towering stacks. "Do you duel in, I dunno, the dates of when stuff happened?"

He did not want to be a History champion.

1.	First Year's Defense class

The name of Mr. Wold had, in fact, come up, but only very rarely did individual student shenanigans get referred all the way to the top. News of Professor Storm's infamous First Days had reached Knox Greyfriar and he spared a note of sympathy for Wold and his cohorts. Storm was a bit ... intense... but he kept everyone on their toes.

"Now that you bring it up," Knox said, "I am a History champion. Undefeated, in fact. No one has dared accept my open challenge in reciting north african magical lineages."

He shrugged.

"Heavy weighs the crown."

Knox brought over the Hospital Wing ledger so they could pore through it together.

"How do you like Hogwarts so far? Is it what you expected? Be honest, I won't be offended."

Wes looked up at the professor and then copied his shrug, taking his word for it. There were dueling champions and history champions! The dueling champions blasted their foes to bits while the history champions spouted lyrical phrases until their opponent was awed to silence or fell asleep.

"I like it!" Wesley nodded, prepared to be honest, anyway. "I thought the magic would be different. I don't remember much of it from when I was little. What I remember is my parents waving their wands and making things happen. I thought we could wave our wands and make things happen really quickly. But it's not instant like a computer game. Some of it is really, really brill to watch. I want to do everything right now."

He hadn't thought it would feel so much like school.

"When I'm home and there are no guests at the inn and I'm done with chores, I run around a lot and get into things, and here, I forget that it's both. It's both home and school. It's like professors are the parents and the other kids are all your siblings hunting ghosts with you, and I've never had a bunch of older siblings before. I'm used to being the oldest."

Some of the older students were nice enough, but others (the prefect types) acted like parents. He avoided those.

Wes pointed at a line on the Hospital Wing ledger:

M. Bulstrode, December 1994- mysterious boils on face

"Ha."

Wes smirked a smirk similar to his mum's smirk, but it fell away as fast as it had appeared. He took a step from the ledger, and rubbed at the back of his neck, done searching for his mum's name. He wasn't sure he wanted to know how many times she'd been sent to the 'infarmy'. His mum was the nicest person he knew. He was beginning to understand why she'd dropped out of school before her seventh year.