Black, White and Shades of Grey

Thousands of years ago, during an age when magic was raw and untamed, there lived a seer named Althea Morrigan. She was a witch of unparalleled talent, known across the wizarding world for her visions that pierced the veil of time and fate. But unlike many seers who were content to read the threads of destiny, Althea was driven by something deeper—a question that haunted her dreams; Do soulmates truly exist, or are they merely a comforting myth?

Born into an era rife with war and political alliances forged out of necessity rather than love, Althea had seen firsthand how hearts could be silenced, how people married for power and security but lived empty lives. Yet, in her scrying, she occasionally glimpsed radiant connections between certain souls—threads of light so powerful and binding they seemed unbreakable. She began to wonder if these connections were real. What if there was a way to prove, beyond all doubt, that there existed someone destined for each person—a perfect match of souls?

Obsessed with this idea, Althea dedicated her life to crafting the ultimate spell. It would be a spell that bypassed doubt, societal expectations, and human error. After decades of research, experimentation, and meditation in the deepest magical forests and the highest enchanted mountains, she created what she would call ‘The Morrigan Sight’—a curse and a blessing wrapped into one.

The spell was woven into the fabric of magical society itself. Upon birth, every witch and wizard would see the world drained of colour—black, white, and shades of grey. The only way to break the monochrome veil would be to fall in love with their soulmate. The moment they truly fall for the other, the spell would dissolve, and the world would burst into vibrant colour, as if the universe itself celebrated the recognition of their fated bond.

But there was more to the spell. It was said that the sight of colour wasn't just limited to the external world; it awakened something internal. Magic cast after finding one's soulmate was stronger, more harmonious, as if the soul had become whole and balanced. Over time, magical scholars noted that duels fought by bonded pairs were nearly impossible to win, that potions brewed together by soulmates shimmered brighter, and that the magical core of a witch or wizard thrummed differently when in the presence of their other half.

Althea herself passed away without ever finding her own soulmate. But her legacy endured. Over the centuries, some hailed the spell as a gift, proof that true love existed and would eventually find everyone. Others viewed it as a cruel curse, especially those who lived long lives seeing only in grey, never feeling the thrill of colour.

By the time the James Potter was born, ‘The Morrigan Sight’ had become almost an accepted, unquestioned fact of magical life. Some young witches and wizards eagerly anticipated the day their world would bloom into colour. Others feared they'd never experience it.

James' favourite bedtime story as a child had always been the tale of how his mother fell in love with his father and, at long last, saw the world in colour. He would lie in bed, eyes wide with wonder, as she described the moment the world transformed before her eyes. 

“The sky, James,” she would whisper, tucking the blankets around him. “It wasn’t just light or dark—it was blue. A shade so rich and endless it made my heart ache just to look at it. And the flowers! Some were deep, velvety red, others soft as butter in their yellow glow. The water wasn’t just water—it reflected the heavens, shimmering between blue and silver like liquid magic.” 

James would hang onto every word, his heart swelling with anticipation for the day he, too, would experience that miracle. He dreamed of it constantly—of waking up one morning to a world alive with colour, of turning his head at just the right moment and finding the one person who could bring light to the endless shades of grey. 

The first time he ever fell in love, he was fourteen. It was a crisp autumn evening in his fourth year when he realised the depth of his feelings for Lily Evans. She was like wildfire in human form—brilliant, untamed, her presence impossible to ignore. She had a way of speaking that made people listen, of standing her ground with unwavering conviction. She was kind, too, but not soft—no, Lily’s kindness had edges, sharp enough to cut through arrogance, strong enough to hold up those who needed it. 

James loved the way her laughter echoed in the corridors, how it crackled like embers in the Gryffindor common room, warm and bright in the otherwise dim castle. He loved the way she bit her lip when concentrating, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, oblivious to the way it made his stomach flip. And oh, how he wanted to know its colour. 

But when he looked at her—truly, deeply looked—nothing changed. The world remained cold and washed out, a never-ending portrait in shades of grey. His heart clenched painfully in his chest as the realisation settled in: Lily wasn’t his soulmate. 

He had been so sure. 

James Potter had always been full of love, so much that it spilled out of him in the form of laughter, teasing, and relentless affection. It was in the way he ruffled his friends’ hair, in the way he wrapped an arm around Sirius without a second thought, in the way he threw himself into the things he cared about with every fibre of his being. 

But loving Lily—loving her with all the reckless devotion in his heart, only to be met with indifference—was agony. 

The world remained as dull as it had always been, and for the first time in his life, James had wondered if it would stay that way forever.

The second time James fell in love was during the summer of his sixth year, while visiting his family in Spain. They spent most of their days at Playa de Ses Illetes, one of his favourite beaches. Even in his grayscale world, the place had a kind of magic to it. The sand was impossibly soft, fine as powdered sugar, sinking beneath his feet like he was walking on clouds. And the water—oh, the water—was still bright, even without colour, shimmering like liquid glass beneath the sun. 

That was where he met Fabian. 

The boy was lounging in the shallows when James first saw him, dark hair damp and curling at the edges, eyes gleaming with something mischievous as he lazily skimmed his fingers through the tide. He was around James' age, perhaps a year or two older, with the kind of easy confidence that made people take notice. They struck up a conversation, nothing extraordinary at first—complaints about the heat, remarks about the waves, a shared joke about the tourists struggling with their umbrellas in the wind. But there was something about the way Fabian spoke, the way he smiled, slow and knowing, that made James feel lighter, as though the weight he always carried had lessened, if only for a moment. 

James learned that Fabian was staying nearby, just a short walk from his family’s summer house. They started hanging out after that—exploring the cobbled streets, laughing over shared plates of tapas, floating side by side in the sea until their fingers wrinkled like prunes. And somewhere in between stolen afternoons and hushed conversations under the moonlight, James felt something shift. 

It scared him at first. 

He had never liked a boy in that way before, and the realisation hit like a rogue wave, knocking the breath from his lungs. But the fear didn’t last long—not when Fabian smiled at him like that, not when he caught his wrist to stop him from leaving one night, eyes flicking to James’ lips like he was debating something. 

The first time they kissed, it was beneath the stars, salt clinging to their skin, the ocean murmuring in the distance. And in that moment, James realised he didn’t care. It didn’t matter that Fabian was a boy. What mattered was the way his touch sent shivers up James' spine, the way his voice made the world feel a little less grey. 

But two weeks passed. 

And the world was still grey. 

It was as crushing as the first time—maybe even worse. Because James had let himself hope. He had let himself believe, just for a second, that maybe this time, it would be different. That maybe Fabian was the one who would break the curse and bring colour to his world. 

But Fabian, much like Lily, was not his soulmate.

When James started his seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he was the only one left in his year still living in a world of grey. 

He tried not to let it bother him. He told himself it wasn’t a race, that love wasn’t something you could force, but it was difficult not to feel left behind when nearly everyone around him had already found their match. 

Sirius had been seeing colour since fifth year, though he refused to say who had caused it. Remus had as well, though he was just as tight-lipped. Both of them were still supposedly single, yet their worlds had been painted in colour for years now. 

Dorcas and Marlene had found each other in sixth year, and James had never seen two people more inseparable, except perhaps himself and Sirius. There was something effortless about the way they moved together, like they had been made from the same stardust and had only been waiting to collide. Peter and Emmeline had fallen in love around the same time, and though they weren’t as flashy about it, James could see the quiet devotion in the way they spoke to each other, in the way Peter’s eyes always softened when Emmeline laughed. 

Lily had been seeing colour since fifth year, but she refused to say who had brought it to her. That stung in a way James couldn’t quite put into words. He had spent so long believing that he would be the one to bring colour into her world, only to realise he had never even been a contender. 

Dorcas had once mentioned, in a passing whisper, that Evan and Barty had both started seeing colour back in their fourth year. Regulus, however, had never confirmed nor denied whether his world had changed. He simply stared blankly when asked, lips pressed into a thin line, and refused to say a word on the matter. 

During the entire Start-of-Term speech, James found himself only half-listening to Dumbledore, his mind elsewhere. His eyes drifted across the Great Hall, scanning the sea of faces lost in flickering candlelight, his thoughts tangled in the same question that had haunted him for years. 

This was his final year at Hogwarts. Surely this was the year he would fall in love—truly fall in love. It had to be, right? 

He knew, logically, that his soulmate might not even be at Hogwarts. They could be anywhere—across the country, across the world. But deep down, he had this gut feeling, an unshakable certainty, that they were here, somewhere in this hall. Watching, waiting. 

His gaze wandered absently over the Gryffindor table, past familiar faces, then over Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. He barely registered them. It wasn’t until his eyes landed on the Slytherin table that he suddenly froze. 

Because someone was already looking at him. 

Regulus Black sat among his housemates, posture straight, hands neatly folded in his lap. But his colourless eyes were fixed directly on James, sharp with quiet curiosity. Unlike most people who got caught staring, Regulus didn’t look away immediately. 

James held his gaze, something unspoken passing between them, something he couldn’t quite put a name to. 

Regulus Black had been a mystery to James for most of his life—little more than a distant, silent figure on the opposite side of the war Sirius had waged with their family. All he had ever known of Regulus came from Sirius’ stories, usually spoken with a mixture of anger and sadness, followed by frustrated rants and, sometimes, panicked tears for his brother’s safety during the summers. 

James hadn’t properly spoken to Regulus until last year, shortly after the younger Black had finally reconnected with Sirius. 

Barty had been the one to help Regulus escape from the clutches of his parents, just as James had done for Sirius years before. It had taken time, but eventually, Regulus had found the courage to tell his brother the truth—that he was out, that he was free, that he had chosen a different path than the one expected of him. 

James could still remember the night Sirius had sat cross-legged on his bed, hands moving wildly as he spoke, grinning in a way James hadn’t seen in years. ‘He got out, Prongs. Reg actually got out.’ The relief had been overwhelming, the joy undeniable. 

And it wasn’t long after that night that Sirius had finally introduced Regulus to the Marauders and their friends—everyone except for Dorcas, as she and Regulus had already known each other. 

Now, a year later, James found himself holding Regulus Black’s gaze across the Great Hall, something unfamiliar curling in his chest.

James shot Regulus a kind smile before finally tearing his gaze away, turning his attention back to Dumbledore, who was just finishing his speech. With an extravagant wave of the old man’s hand, the once-empty plates on the tables suddenly filled with a dazzling array of food. Roasted meats, steaming vegetables, thick gravies, fresh-baked bread—it was a feast fit for kings. “Tuck in!” Dumbledore announced proudly before sweeping away to his seat at the staff table.

From somewhere down the table, he heard the first-years gasp in amazement, their wide eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. James couldn’t help but smile at their wonder before grabbing his fork and piling his plate high. 

Just as he was about to take a bite, he felt a nudge at his side. 

“James,” Remus murmured, his voice low enough that only James could hear. He sat beside him, casually loading an ungodly amount of food onto his plate. For someone who always looked so scrawny, Remus could eat, though James supposed it had something to do with his furry little problem. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Everything alright, mate?” 

“Yeah, all good. Just thinking.” James forced a smile before stuffing a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. 

Remus raised an eyebrow, an expression he had undoubtedly picked up from Sirius. “Sickle for your thoughts?” 

James chewed for a moment, hesitating before swallowing. “I was just wondering who my soulmate might be,” he admitted, twirling his fork absentmindedly between his fingers. “I mean, I’m sixteen, Remus, and I still haven’t met them.” He huffed, dropping his fork with a clatter. 

Remus, ever the voice of reason, simply shrugged. “It’s not about meeting them, James. You’ll see colour when you fall for them. You might already know them.” 

James frowned. He knew Remus was right, but it didn’t make him feel any better. “But everyone else already sees colour!” he groaned, throwing himself back dramatically against the bench. 

Remus let out a quiet chuckle before nudging him again. “Have you ever considered that maybe they already love you?” 

James froze. 

The thought had never even crossed his mind. 

He stared at Remus, gears in his brain suddenly turning at full speed. What if that was the case? What if his soulmate was someone who had already fallen for him, someone who had been seeing colour for years, just waiting for James to finally catch up? 

A slow grin spread across his face. 

“You are brilliant, Remus!” James beamed, excitement lighting up his features. 

Remus’ grey-toned cheeks darkened in what James assumed was a blush, and he quickly turned his attention back to his plate, muttering something under his breath that James didn’t quite catch. 

But James was already lost in thought again. 

Later that night, the Marauders were getting ready for the Start-of-Term party—a Gryffindor tradition held every year in the common room. It was mostly a Gryffindor affair, but a handful of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs always found their way in. And, of course, there was Dorcas and her ‘Skittles’, as she called them—a name James still didn’t quite understand. At least their group name made sense. 

The dorm was alive with the sounds of rustling clothes, laughter, and the occasional muttered curse as the boys got ready. 

Sirius was perched in front of the mirror, carefully smudging eyeliner beneath his eyes with the precision of someone who had done this a hundred times before. His rings glinted in the candlelight as he adjusted his already perfectly disheveled hair. From his bed, Remus watched him with an unreadable expression, idly twirling his wand between his fingers. 

James, meanwhile, was waging war against his hair. He ran his fingers through it, trying to flatten it into something remotely presentable, but it was useless. The moment he smoothed one bit down, another section would spring up defiantly. Eventually, he gave up with a dramatic sigh, muttering something about genetic betrayal. 

Peter, already dressed and ready, was lounging on his bed, stacking his chocolate frog cards into neat little piles. The only thing he had left to do was put on his shoes, which were currently tossed haphazardly near the door, waiting to be grabbed on the way out. 

“Wait, so who’s actually coming tonight?” Peter asked, not looking up from his cards. 

“Marlene, Mary, Lily, Dorcas, Reggie, The Rosier twins, Barty, Emmeline, all the sixth years in Gryffindor, about three Hufflepuffs, and I think maybe ten Ravenclaws? Not including Pandora and Barty.” He listed them off easily, like he had memorised the entire guest list. 

James hummed in acknowledgment, though his mind had momentarily snagged on one name in particular. 

Regulus. 

He hadn’t realised Regulus was coming. He supposed it made sense—Sirius and Dorcas had likely invited him. Still, he couldn’t help but be surprised. 

“I thought Regulus didn’t like parties?” Peter asked, glancing at Sirius through the mirror as he carefully arranged his chocolate frog cards. 

“He doesn’t,” Remus snorted, leaning back against the headboard with a knowing smirk. “Dorcas is making him go.” 

James chuckled. He knew that Remus and Regulus had formed an unlikely sort of friendship over the past year when they’d been paired together for prefect duties. It had been surprising at first—Remus, who spent his time with the loudest, most reckless group in Gryffindor, and Regulus, who had always seemed so closed-off, so sharp around the edges. But somehow, they had found common ground. James wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it was there. 

Sirius let out an amused chuckle. “I can just imagine the fit Reg is probably throwing right now—having to get ready instead of curling up with some dusty old book.” He rolled his eyes dramatically, finally satisfied with his liner as he leaned back to admire his handiwork. 

James could picture it too. Regulus, huffing in irritation as Dorcas nagged him to put on something nice, probably attempting to argue his way out of it while she ignored every single excuse he came up with. 

He grinned to himself.