When Magic Walked
James Potter had never believed in fate.
He believed in talent, in trying hard, in flying fast and being faster. He believed in friendship, loyalty, maybe even destiny in that romantic sort of way — the way his mum said she met his dad, bumping into him at a Quidditch match and spilling butterbeer on his robes.
But fate?
No. That was for fairy tales.
Until she arrived.
Wren Elara Moore.
A transfer, McGonagall had said. From Beauxbatons, though there had been whispers she didn’t really speak French, and one odd rumor that she wasn’t even from this continent, though no one could say what continent that meant.
She had quiet magic. The kind that didn’t scream to be seen — but demanded to be noticed.
It started with the violin.
The first time James heard it was late — well past curfew. He and Sirius had been sneaking back from a prank involving Filch’s trousers and a sneezing jinx, when the notes floated through the hallway like mist and starlight.
High, silvered notes, wrapped in something ancient. Something aching.
Sirius had rolled his eyes. “Some Ravenclaw’s showing off.”
But James?
He had stopped walking entirely.
Because those notes weren’t just music. They were memory. They were feeling. They were the kind of sound that made you sit down in a hallway at 1:30 in the morning just to listen, breath held, like you were afraid to break it.
The next day, he saw her.
She wasn’t flashy. Didn’t talk much. Always reading — not normal books, but things like Warding Structures of the Ancient South or Rune Song Theory: A Practical Guide. She doodled staves in her margins and drew symbols on the backs of her hands.
And she had this habit of pausing before she cast a spell. Like she was measuring something invisible. Like she felt the magic deeper than anyone else.
James Potter didn’t believe in fate.
But he started sitting a little closer to the Ravenclaw table.