The Daily Prophet Article
On this warm August day, Regulus was striding through Muggle London with the kind of confidence that only came from finally being let out of the house. After what felt like an eternity trapped in Grimmauld Place, he had been granted permission to meet his friends in Diagon Alley. It was a momentous occasion. Freedom at last! Well, sort of. The only reason his mother had relented was that he needed to get fitted for yet another set of robes for yet another pureblood wedding.
This time, the lucky bride was his cousin, the eldest of the Black girls, who was set to marry Rodolphus Lestrange. The wedding promised to be extravagant, dramatic, and most likely a bit terrifying, considering who was involved.
Regulus arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, dodging an army of overexcited first-years waving their Hogwarts letters. Spotting his friends gathered at a table, he made his way over. Evan Rosier and Rabastan Lestrange sat hunched over a copy of the Daily Prophet, while Demeter Mulciber and Victor Avery were smirking as they leaned in closer.
“Ah, Regulus, perfect timing,” Avery said, waving the newspaper like a flag. “We were just reading some quality journalism.”
“What now?” Regulus asked, sliding into a seat. He should have known it was bad when Rabastan looked like he was about to set the newspaper on fire with his bare hands.
“Listen to this,” Avery said, clearing his throat dramatically. “‘Heiress or Veela? The youngest heiress of the Lestrange family has been spotted at the prestigious Magical Dance Academy in Paris, where she has reportedly been selected to perform in Felix Blaska’s modern ballet—an avant-garde reinterpretation of classical magical dance.’”
There was a loud thud as Rabastan slammed his fist onto the table. A nearby waitress jumped.
“THE BLOODY NERVE OF THEM!” he roared.
Avery, undeterred by Rabastan’s impending aneurysm, continued reading. “‘Our sources indicate that young Miss Lestrange’s extraordinary talent and ethereal beauty have led some to speculate that she may possess Veela ancestry. Could this mean that—’”
“GIVE ME THAT!” Rabastan snatched the newspaper so violently that the pages ripped. His face had turned a shade of red that clashed spectacularly with his dark robes. “HOW DARE THEY! Veela ancestry?! Are they insane?! We have family records dating back centuries! Veela?! What’s next?! Are they going to claim my grandfather was a flobberworm?!”
“Calm down, Rab,” Evan Rosier said, barely suppressing a grin. “They do say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
“Oh, shut up, Rosier!” Rabastan snapped. “This is an outrage! It’s an insult to my family’s bloodline! And my father—Merlin’s beard, he’s going to go spare! He’ll probably demand a full retraction and duel the editor by sunrise!”
“Well, I think it’s a great article,” Mulciber interjected, smirking. “I mean, I’ve always wondered what your sister would look like now, and I must say—she’s certainly grown up.” He tapped the moving picture in the article, which depicted a slender, dark-haired girl executing a flawless pirouette. Her expression was serene, but there was something wild in the way she moved, as if she could break free from the page at any moment.
Rabastan’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Mulciber, I swear to Salazar, if you ever say another word about my sister, I will personally ensure you don’t live to see your next birthday.”
“All right, all right, no need to get violent,” Mulciber said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I was just appreciating the art, that’s all.”
Rabastan exhaled through his nose like an angry dragon, then turned back to the article. “This was deliberate,” he muttered. “They barely mention the wedding, and yet they write an entire piece about Selena’s dancing?! Bella is going to explode when she sees this.”
Evan snickered. “Oh, she’s going to be livid. She had the Prophet lined up for an exclusive on the wedding, and now it’s been overshadowed by this.”
“Bella’s fury aside, I’d be more worried about what this means for Selena,” Rabastan muttered, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “My parents will probably pull her out of France and make me keep an eye on her.”
“Wait, does that mean she’s coming to Hogwarts?” Regulus asked, perking up.
Rabastan groaned. “Probably. Our mother won’t want her prancing around in Paris unsupervised. And given that she’s fifteen now, I wouldn’t be surprised if they send her straight to Slytherin.”
“Well then, that’s fantastic news!” Mulciber said, grinning. “Fresh meat for the Slytherins!”
Rabastan turned his deadly glare onto him. “I know we’re supposed to keep our numbers up, but one less pureblood won’t be noticed if I make sure it’s you.”
Mulciber held up his hands again. “All right, all right! I’ll keep my thoughts to myself. But let’s be honest, Rab—if we’re reading this article, imagine what the rest of the Hogwarts boys are going to think when they see her.”
Rabastan’s eye twitched. The newspaper crumpled further in his grip. “I am going to kill whoever wrote this,” he said, voice deadly calm.
Evan smirked. “I’d love to see that duel. Maybe the Prophet will write about that next.”
As Rabastan plotted the destruction of the entire press industry, Regulus leaned back in his chair, watching his friends bicker. One thing was certain—this year at Hogwarts was going to be very interesting.
A few days later, Selena strolled past Flourish and Blotts with her older brother, Rodolphus. He walked beside her with his usual composed air, his dark robes impeccable, his expression severe. The looming wedding, the pressures of the family name, and his obligations to the Dark Lord all weighed heavily on him. Still, as much as he tried to keep his demeanor cold and unyielding, Selena had always been his weakness.
Looking down at his younger sister, he sighed, his voice tinged with warning. "Lena, just for an hour. Books only. Got it?"
Selena turned to him, eyes wide and shimmering with exaggerated sorrow, the picture of innocent pleading. "Two hours, Rod, please?"
"Two hours?" he echoed incredulously, stopping in his tracks. "What could you possibly need two hours for in a bookshop when you’ve already got your schoolbooks?"
She clasped her hands dramatically, tilting her head in an earnest appeal. "You know how time flies when you're lost in the pages of a good book. And I’ll be stuck at home for the rest of the summer! Please, please, please? I swear, I’ll be completely invisible at your wedding. I’ll even do whatever Bella asks without a word."
Rodolphus exhaled, shaking his head. At twenty-five, he was the family’s heir, and with that came a burden of responsibility that he carried with rigid discipline. But Selena had always been different—too spirited, too free. It was why their father watched her like a hawk, why their mother tightened the reins. The girl had spent too much time in France, in the company of their eccentric Aunt Berenice, and it showed.
"S’il te plaît, Rod chéri adoré de mon cœur?" she added sweetly, switching to French with a coy smile.
Rodolphus groaned. Her secret weapon. The sugary flattery, the dramatic endearments. The rest of the family had adopted the British stiffness of their pureblood heritage, but Selena clung to her French roots with disarming ease. He knew this charm wouldn’t work forever. One day, when she was older, she wouldn’t be able to get away with it.
"Fine. Two hours. Not a word to anyone except the bookseller."
She squealed in victory and planted a kiss on his cheek before darting inside. Rodolphus stood for a moment, watching her disappear into the shelves, then turned away, his mind already shifting back to the tasks at hand. He had business in Knockturn Alley—a package to retrieve, a task to fulfill. His position within the Dark Lord’s circle demanded constant proof of loyalty.
Selena, meanwhile, took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of parchment and ink. Finally, alone! Two whole hours of unchaperoned bliss. The bookshop, vast and winding, spanned three levels, its towering shelves stacked with tomes bound in deep emeralds, regal blues, and rich maroons. Chandeliers bathed the space in a warm, golden glow, and every so often, a floating book would glide past to return itself to its rightful place.
The shop was nearly empty that afternoon, perfect for uninterrupted browsing. She wasted no time finding the book of enchantments required for her fifth year, but her true mission lay elsewhere. Lowering her voice, she approached the bookseller.
"Excuse me, sir? Do you have any Muggle literature?"
The elderly wizard peered at her over his spectacles, then smiled knowingly. "Ah, a young lady of fine taste! Muggle literature is on the third level, far corner. Take your time."
She ascended the spiral staircase, arriving at a quiet alcove lined with books of all sizes. A balcony wrapped around the level, offering a view of the entrance below. It was peaceful, a world of its own. She skimmed the spines with reverence, delighted to find Frankenstein and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. But her true treasures—Dracula and The Picture of Dorian Gray—were what she sought most.
When her eyes landed on Dracula, she barely resisted the urge to twirl in excitement. But when she searched for Dorian Gray, her heart sank. The only copy was on the highest shelf—directly above the boy who sat cross-legged on the floor, engrossed in a book.
She tilted her head, curious. Pride and Prejudice? A boy reading Jane Austen? That was rare. Intriguing, even.
Glancing at the clock, she realized time was slipping away. She spotted a stool nearby and climbed onto it, reaching for the book. The stool, however, was wobbly. As she stretched higher, it gave a sudden, treacherous lurch.
She yelped as the ground rushed toward her.
Strong hands caught her just in time, gripping her waist before she could crash into a display rack. Stunned, she found herself inches from hazel eyes, warm yet sharp, framed by light brown hair that fell in a casual mess over his forehead. Two scars marred his cheek, giving his face a quiet, rugged charm.
Selena’s breath hitched. For a second, she forgot everything—the book, the time, even where she was.
The boy swallowed, equally flustered. "Are you all right? Did you feel unwell?"
"No, I just—" she quickly straightened, brushing imaginary dust off her robes. "I slipped. I was trying to reach a book."
He hesitated, then followed her gaze. "Which one?"
"The Picture of Dorian Gray," she admitted, embarrassed.
Without a word, he plucked the book from the shelf and held it out to her. Their fingers brushed, sending a small, unexpected jolt through her.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He gave a small nod, still watching her, but she turned swiftly, retreating to the other end of the aisle. Heart pounding, she focused on her Gothic novels, pretending nothing had happened.
But as she flipped absentmindedly through the pages of Dracula, she realized something else—
She had forgotten to breathe.
For the next half hour, the boy kept sneaking glances at the girl. She couldn’t have been much older than him—perhaps his age or a year younger. She had a delicate beauty, all fine lines and sharp definition, with curly hair styled in a Muggle fashion, reminiscent of a French film star from the 1960s. But what truly caught his attention were her eyes—amber, almost golden. When their gazes briefly met, he had the distinct impression of locking eyes with a feline, one that might decide at any moment whether to purr or pounce.
Fortunately for Remus, the dark-haired stranger was too engrossed in the Muggle literature section to notice the absolutely not-at-all suspicious wizard stealing glances at her.
His quiet admiration was abruptly interrupted by a loud, theatrical voice. "Ah-ha! There you are, Moony! I've been searching the shelves, fearing you had been kidnapped by some rogue textbook. Pads is waiting for us at the Leaky Cauldron. Did you find what you were looking for, or shall I fetch you a librarian to help?"
Remus nearly jumped out of his skin. "Yes—yes, it’s good! I mean, I have the book. The book I needed. For studying. That’s what I’m doing. Studying." He was speaking far too fast, which James noticed immediately.
James' eyes followed Remus' nervous gaze, and a slow, knowing grin spread across his face. "Well, well, well," he whispered, elbowing his friend. "Turns out you can find more than just books in a bookshop, eh, Moony?" He waggled his eyebrows dramatically.
"Hmm," Remus replied, his face heating up. He was desperately trying to look interested in anything else—a shelf, a floorboard, the meaning of life.
James, of course, was having none of it. "Do you know her?"
Remus shook his head so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.
"Well, that’s just unacceptable," James declared. "What if she’s your soulmate? Your one true love? What if you’re meant to save the world together, but you miss your chance because you were too busy staring at the floor? It would be really rude not to introduce ourselves, wouldn’t it?"
Before Remus could protest, James started striding toward the girl with all the confidence of a man who had never once doubted himself in his entire life.
Just as they reached her aisle, however, another voice cut through the air. A gruff, slightly older wizard with an air of practiced authority called down to her, "Selena, it's time. Let's go."
The girl—Selena—nodded and gracefully descended the stairs, her movements so smooth she might as well have been floating. James and Remus, now peering over the balcony of the bookshop like two overly invested gossips, followed her path with interest.
When their eyes landed on the wizard waiting for her below, their expressions changed instantly.
"Oh, fantastic," James muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Of course. Of course it’s bloody Rodolphus Lestrange. Why wouldn’t it be?"
Remus exhaled in defeat. "Naturally. I finally take an interest in a girl, and she turns out to be escorted by a man who would happily hex us into next Tuesday."
James clapped him on the shoulder. "At least we know you have excellent taste in mysterious, possibly-dangerous women. It’s very on-brand for you."
Remus groaned. "Let’s just get to the Leaky Cauldron before you decide to introduce yourself anyway and get us both murdered."
James smirked. "Tempting. But alright, fine. Only because Pads will get cranky if we keep him waiting. But Moony?"
"What?"
James shot him a mischievous look. "Next time, try saying hello before you write poetry about a girl in your head for thirty minutes. Might improve your chances."
Remus shoved him. James cackled all the way out of the shop.
┏━━━━━━━•| ⊱✿⊰ |•━━━━━━━┓
If you'd like to talk about our shared obsession with marauders, I'm here on INSTAGRAM