The McKinney household has sustained themselves throughout the reign of Voldemort's horrendous war. Refusing to get themselves involved, remaining neutral during the numerous battles and shielding their location from discovery...the McKinney clan has survived perhaps the most devastating event in Magical History. Self preservation is a natural instinct. Especially when a young child is concerned. The McKinney family's actions may be distasteful, cowardly or even selfish....but, everything they did was to protect their beloved heir and her son.

Speaking of which, the aforementioned heir originally had desperately wanted to participate in the war. However, once she began a mother, her mindset changed and her baby became her sole concern. The McKinney clan has always valued family above everything else. Not to diminish the innocent lives tragically lost during the war, though. It's just that this clan is so invested in protecting the members of its family, everyone else tends to be set aside from their thoughts.

Even with the war concluded and normalcy slowly beginning to take its place once again, the McKinney elders were hesitant to allow their heir permission to leave the private estate. Before the war, this request would have been granted without a second thought. "We hae (have) tae (to) see whit's (what's) best fur(for) yer(your) son." That was her mother's response. Every single time the mentioning of relocating came into conversation. Of course, she understands her mother's concerns. It's natural and good intended.

"Maw?"

Another attempt, perhaps this time it would be successful.

The elder woman cast a glance over her left shoulder, unwilling to face her daughter directly. "Aye, darlin'?"

When nothing came in reply, it immediately worried her. "Nathaira?" A loud clunk was heard as the mother dropped her cutting knife down to the counter top. "Nathaira? Whit's(what's) wrong?"

Unable to deny her mother's inquiry, Nathaira confessed the concerns hidden within her mind. "Maw, Ah(I) loue(love) living 'ere(here) at th'(the) estate, bit(but) a'm(I'm) waantin'(wanting) Olyson tae(to) graw(grow) up in th' countryside. Tae(To) be among Muggles 'n' learn thair(their) culchur(culture)."

"Muggles? How come?"

Nathaira sighed, eyes falling downcast to the floor. "He's safer in th' company o'(of) Muggles."

Troubled by her daughter's distraught expression, the compassionate elder came forward while drying her hands off with her apron. Nathaira immediately relaxed at her mother's touch, losing herself in the affectionate strokes that her mother weaved through her hair. "Darlin'?" Her mother questioned, hands stilling midway through her daughter's crimson-colored locks. "Is this truly whit(what) ye(you) want?"

Nathaira mutely nodded, afraid to speak a word.

"Well then, ah(I) wun't(won't) deny yer(your) request."

Such lovely words, a sentence that Nathaira had never expected to hear. "Ye...ye will?" She confirmed, fearful to believe her mother's words.

The elder chuckled, pressing a kiss to her daughter's furrowed brow. "Aye." She wouldn't restrict her daughter, no longer. If this was Nathaira's desire, then so be it.

Nathaira's eyes welled with tears, blurring the emerald orbs. "Thank you!" Happiness overwhelmed her entirely. Nathaira hurried off to pack her belongings, not forgetting to bring along Olyson's necessities.

* * *

"Draco? It's time to go, son."

He followed loyally at his mother's side, not questioning her. As he walked alongside her, his father's absence began to trouble him. The man he'd grown to despise, his tormentor, his own flesh and blood. Lucius would no longer sit beside him at the table. The Ministry has taken Lucius into custody. If it wasn't for Narcissia and her sincere pleadings to the Ministry of Magic, Draco would be joining his estranged father in Azkaban. Draco owes his mother so greatly, but she wants nothing in return.

"Draco?" He hates her voice now. It's so broken. She's never been weak, even during the war. Narcissia remained strong for her son, but now without her husband, the emotional strain finally caught hold. Try as she might to endure the suffering in silence, Draco knew her. He saw the vulnerable side of her personality, the hidden aches and pains that she'd shield from everyone else. "Perhaps you should venture on without me," she suggested suddenly, halting her heels on the pavement.

Grey eyes widened, focusing on the fragile woman before him. "Why?" It didn't make any sense. Narcissia could not support herself in such a state. Draco knew this to be a fact and wouldn't abandon her. Never, especially not now. "Mother?"

Narcissia gave her boy a false smile, tenderly stroking his cheek with a slender finger. Draco felt it shaking. "You have so much potential in this world, my boy. I don't want you confined to worrying about me and let your life be discarded in my misery." Always acting selflessly when it concerns her son, Narcissia was willing to put herself out of the picture, in efforts to aid her son's future.

"I have no future ahead of me," Draco scoffed, turning his head away curtly.

Narcissia's frown was unmistakable. "Don't you dare speak of yourself in such a way, Draco." She wouldn't hear it. "You may have been forced into a terrible past at your father's hand," and her own, "but you have time to correct your errors and make something of yourself in this unknown future."

With those final words, Narcissia appriated herself away. Leaving Draco, wide-eyed and quite frankly, lost in what remained of the streets in Diagon Ally.

The portrait in front of her had taken on life as she finished the minor details of a stray lock of hair, a tiny reflection on a silver bead in the hair, and her small signature down in the corner. The couple in the portrait waved at her with their own smiles wide and gracious that finally they were complete. Specializing in the art of magical portraits was something that very few did and after the war there had been a demand of the portraits. It seemed that everyone wanted their loved one back in the form of a never-dying painting.

Her studio was modest; a drying rack for the paintings was pushed into the corner closest to the window that faced Diagon Alley, her paints and other items such as different sized brushes of synthetic and natural hairs, her paints and canvases were stored away in a large closet. Her studio joined onto her small home. It was a simple bedroom with a tiny bathroom and there was a very tiny kitchen that branched off of her studio as well. In all, it was her little slice of heaven. Isabelle Ashcroft was a different witch than the rest that populated the semi-restored Diagon Alley. She had not been involved in the war; she had not seen her friends die. Certainly some of her family had died; aunts, uncles and cousins had died. But she had helped in a small way, coming back from her American school to help her family take in and hide three muggle born folk, although it had been for a short time. Her parents had been unable to keep the charms and barriers up around their home and with Isabelle, their oldest and most experienced daughter, had helped.

She had been an average witch in school but during her free time, when she was free to learn whatever she pleased, she had excelled greatly.

Placing her completed painting on the top of the drying rack, the twenty year old witch wiped her messy hands on her equally messy apron before glancing at the clock on her wall. Her new friend George Weasley would be leaving for Scotland on a minor business trip today. They had met when he contracted her to create paintings of his beloved twin, which she did gladly and free of charge. It was hard loosing someone so close to you—she had learned that the hard way with this war. Her dearest cousin had been killed. Slipping off her apron and setting it over the back of her chair, Isabelle walked into the small kitchen and washed her hands, arms and face before fixing her short brown hair into a presentable style. George wouldn’t be leaving for another hour and a half but she didn’t want to make him wait.

Grabbing her small messenger bag, the young woman quietly left her home, locking the door before heading down the stairs. She had shared her space with the business down below, a simple clothes shop that would often send a few customers her way. The walk would be short but she didn’t feel the need to rush much anyways. Taking her time and looking in the shop windows, the young witch stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans as she observed a small necklace suited for a child. Her sister, Hailey, was much too big for it but a cousin just had a child, a daughter, not too long ago. Perhaps when she had the money she would buy it for her newest cousin.

--

George’s day started off on a better note than each day since the war had ended. He had been sure that his life was over, without Fred, his other half; nothing seemed to mean anything anymore. The red haired man had gone into a depression. Being six months after the war, things were being rebuilt and lives were being patched with the beginner’s hands at sewing. He knew, just like everyone else in the Wizarding world, that it would take time to heal the wounds. They wouldn’t fully heal, but it would be bearable.

Packing his clothing tightly into the trunk he was going to use, George had decided for a change. His father had finally gone on his dream vacation, if it could be called that. A cruise ship to live for a week like a muggle; his mum had been less than thrilled since her place was always the caretaker and on the cruise she hadn’t been able to cook or fuss over everyone like she was used to. George had been persuaded to give it a try and what better time to try than now, when he was going to be gone for a week on a combination work-and-vacation trip to Scotland? He had seen it as a well-deserved event.

The photographs of himself and Fred hung on the walls: a playful, brotherly shove there, a wicked smirk or grin, matching gap toothed smiles; a picture with Ron and Ginny. They did little to still his depression and heartache. How could he move on when the one person he knew the best, and who knew him the best, was gone? They say that soul mates don’t have to be romantic. They are simply the person who knows you the best—the one that can get into your head without being in the same room, or even the same country. Fred, without a doubt, was his soul mate and it had hurt when that bond was severed. For a long time, up until he had been given closure, he had been angry. He had been angry at everyone and everything, including himself. He should have saved Fred, he should have been there. This wasn’t in the grand plans of how they seen things. He wanted Fred to be the best man at his wedding; he wanted to name Fred the godfather of his children. He wanted to grow old and still be able to laugh with his brother. He missed Fred terribly; the ache was a deep, dull constant pain in his heart. No healer or amount of herbs and medicines could fix him.

Ron had helped as much as he could around the shop but it wasn’t the same. Ron didn’t think like he or Fred. There was no joking when Ron punched in the numbers and worked late at night to keep the burden from his brother. They had grown closer within the six months of the war’s ending but it didn’t feel right.

With his bags packed and everything in place, the brown eyed man looked slowly around his home. Isabelle was coming over to say goodbye. She had played a hand in his road to healing; the portrait of his brother, enchanted beautifully to be a part of Fred that would never die, hung in the Burrow. It wasn’t the same, but it was comforting. George could not hug the painting in the same way he could hug the flesh and blood brother he had lost.

With nothing to do but wait, the man sat on the couch in the living room with his head in his hand. One hand trailed to the remnants of his ear, shreds at best really.

He should have been there for Fred, like Fred had been when he lost his ear.

George wished that there was a way to change everything.

Soon, within the hour, Nathaira would be removing herself from the family home. As their young daughter went off to pack her belongings and get everything arranged for the relocation, her parents paced their bedrooms. "Urr(Are) ye sure tis(its) wise tae(to) let her leav'(leave) th' estate?" Mrs. McKinney questioned her own decision, having given permission to Nathaira just a few hours earlier. "She's a freish(new) mither(mother) 'n' doesn't ken(know) how tae survive oot(out) in that world."

Understanding of his wife's concern, Mr. McKinney assured her with a firm embrace. She collapsed against him, seeking support from her husband. "She's stronger than we gie(give) her credit fur(for)." Mr. McKinney dropped a few kisses to his wife's forehead, the scruff of his chin causing her to giggle quietly. "Ah(I) ken(know) ye worry ower(over) her, bit(but) she kin(can) handle herself 'n' we mist(must) be supportive."

Listening to her husband's words, even if she wasn't entirely in agreement with his view, Mrs. McKinney accepted them. After all, Nathaira's personality is strongly influenced by her father. She inherited a majority of his traits, including the desire for freedom and self expression. A troublesome inheritance at times, but Mrs. McKinney can't deny that she's also thankful for this development.

* * *

Observing his mother's actions, scurrying around and organizing large suitcases, the young boy began to question the situation. "Mommy?" Unfortunately, for him, she wasn't able to hear his voice. Inner thoughts of her own cast a silence among the world. Nathaira continued her tasks, wasting not a second. Upset by his mother's distractions, the little boy huffed with crossed arms and sat himself down on the hardwood floor. It wasn't until his grandmother came walking by the opened doorway, that he perked his attitude. At the first sight of seeing his grandmother, the boy immediately jumped up and ran towards her with a wide set grin.

"Granny!" He exclaimed, happily, propelling himself into her arms.

Mrs. McKinney struggled, adjusting her arms around the overly zealous boy. "Child, whit's wrong?" Clearly something had him upset. She knew that without a doubt to be the truth. His tiny, perfectly pouted lips gave no indication otherwise. Always very expressive, Mrs. McKinney tried to read the boy's distraught eyes. Watching him for a just a moment, his bottom lip quivering slightly and the dejected slump of both shoulders, Mrs. McKinney received her answer.

"Mommy," the boy whined loudly, arms tightening around his grandmother's slender neck. "She's ignoring me."

"Darlin'," Mrs. McKinney gasped audibly. "That's nae(not) her intention."

Her assurance did little to sooth the boy's anger. Nathaira may be acting innocently, but she has upset her son in the process of packing for their new adventure. Setting the boy down to his feet, giving him a quick kiss to the forehead, Mrs. McKinney asked him to run along. He obeyed, never one to act defiant.

She called for her daughter, "Nathaira?"

The younger woman didn't respond, continuing with organizing her belongings neatly into a suitcase. Beginning to succumb to frustration, Mrs. McKinney suddenly reached with a slightly curled hand. The physical contact jolted Nathaira from her thoughts, causing her eyes to widen and mouth hung agape.

"Something wrong, mum?" Nathaira questioned, setting down the last few items in her suitcase. She didn't see the frustration on the elder's face.

Mrs. McKinney frowned, the lines of her brow wrinkling. "Dear, yer son is lonely." She gestured to the writhing boy in her arms. Nathaira offered a kindly smile, reaching for her precious boy and smothered him with affectionate kisses.

* * *

A few hours later, Nathaira and Olyson found themselves standing before a small estate. A mediocre apartment just within the countryside of Scotland. Nathaira swelled with happiness and grinned wide in excitement. "Wanna go ben 'n' stairt unpacking?"

Olyson nodded, clutching her hand nervously.

* * *

[I'll add Draco in the next post because this got to be so long. xD You can have your OC run into him on the street or something, if you'd like.]