Black Swan Effect

History, as it was often said, was written by powerful families.

Some written in ink, some in blood. The Borgias. The Habsburgs. The Medicis. 

To Wizarding Britain — the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

The Ollivanders, hermetic and masterful, an ancient lineage of wandmakers that had spanned for two millennia. The Malfoys, exiled pilgrims from mediaeval France, whose power and elusion of capture fuelled by the depth of their vaults. The Lestranges, fanatical and ruthless, prowling for blood and feasting on battlefields with the hunger of predators.

But the gods decided to create the Blacks. 

Only one wizarding family in Britain earned the title The Noble and Most Ancient . A  bloodline that began centuries before the founding of Hogwarts. Whose name was credited for all the inconceivable crimes.

Toujours Pur, they prided themselves.

The Blacks were a turbulent mix of traits, none of which bordered an inch on normalcy — brilliance and bigotry, derangement and cold blood, psychopathic brutality, and an unsettling good look. Dwelling within their house walls were the undead ghosts of their twisted, scandalous histories, whispering about all those incestuous affairs of a lineage cursed with endogamy, about a legacy of Dark Arts steeped in blood, or the flagrant violations of civilised society’s laws which they thought they were well above, from Muggles hunt to house-elves decapitation. 

Yet, even with the expanse of their power and tightness of their claws, the Blacks weren't immune to catastrophic black swans.

A black swan emerged every one or a few generations in the House of Black. They could be of any gender, at any age, from any family line. No one had dared to forget Iola Black back in the 19th century, who had run away and married a Muggle in a rambunctious fin-de-siècle fiasco. Neither did they dare to mention Phineas Black, who had put a taint on the family name with all those Muggle rights championing in the early 20th century. Or Marius Black a few decades later, whose mother had killed herself in the shame of giving birth to a Squib, only for the child to suffer a mysterious death shortly after. Any deviation from the family's belief, any disobedience, any abnormality that the House deemed weak, would inevitably result in disownment. Being burnt off from the family tree. Outcasted.

By the late 20th century, the Blacks held their breath.

On a cold winter night, November 3rd, 1959, a boy was born — not an ordinary boy, but first son to Orion, the patriarch of House Black. Winter had come early that year, and that fateful night was an abnormally cold one with all the raging snow storm, as if to predict the fate of the new-born child.

An astrologer from the Far East was invited upon the delivery, looking for “Fate” in those dove-grey eyes. Well mansion, whispered the messenger of the sky. Patroned by the Vermillion Bird, an elegant and fierce spirit. Burns passionately; soon there will be no embers left…

Growing up in the cold and dark cradle of Grimmauld Place, the boy was as well-bred and well-educated as the purest-blooded could be. He became fluent in Latin and Ancient Runes — the noblest of wizarding languages that had woven into the family's archaic history. He was nurtured in his family’s knowledge of the Dark Arts, which was the finest of all wizarding clans in Britain. His first magical outburst, occurring when he was six, shattered every window glass in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place and set the grand chandelier on fire.

As a son of the House of Black, he was taught that he sat above everyone else. That his life was an exchange for his services to the family, that Muggles were scums and half-bloods were filths and anyone less rich, less powerful, less pure than him was to be trodden on. The cold-blooded prince atop a high tower –– that was what he was meant to be.

Nevertheless, as time passed, the Blacks began to sense something wrong.

Maybe it was the stashes of Muggle trinkets hidden under his bed. Maybe it was his careless manners that led him to speak with Muggle beggars on the street, his steadfast belief that he was made of flesh and blood just like anyone else, or his fierce resistance against the noble Dark Arts that had made the Black name.

At first, his family had hoped it was just a little phase that their heir would soon grow out of. But in the long term, they cannot unsee the glaring evidence of something deviant –– something pulsing red and hot in his veins and ceaselessly shaking, like the lava of Mount Vesuvius that had brought destruction to Pompeii.

The irregularities only grew over time. When Walburga Black took her firstborn to Ollivander’s, it was to her deepest dismay to find that his chosen wand — the strength and pride of a wizard  — slipped and strayed from the family tradition. It was not made of the powerful yew or the noble elm wood, nor the core of dragon heartstring that intertwined the owner's fate with the Dark Arts — his wand was made of blackthorn wood, which was shared by some of the most formidable wizards from the family, but with the core of a phoenix feather .

The distant words of that Chinese magician once again echoed through the mist of time. Patroned bythe Vermillion Bird…

The Blacks believed deeply in symbols. And this, they feared, must have foretold the undesired outcome.

The moment the Sorting Hat touched his head and declared him a Gryffindor —  a fatal blow to their whole-Slytherin lineage — they knew their premonition had come true.

Long ago, in the 18th century, there had been a prophecy. It predicted that two hundred years later, a black swan would appear, bringing sixteen glorious centuries of the House of Black down to dust.

Now the time had come, they must take action.

o0o

It was a cold, damp evening in London. The rainfall had been restless for almost three days and showed no signs of stopping. In this unusual gloom of mid-July, there was not much people could do other than to hurry home, kick off their wet shoes and kiss their children, lie on the sofa with snacks on their lap while watching heated debates on TV about some war in Southeast Asia. Restaurants closed sooner than usual; no one wanted to lurk around in this weather for a dine out, even in a posh district like Islington.

If there was anything a certain residence in Islington were known for, other than the notable Victorian façade, then it had to be the perfect nonchalance of its inhabitants. We value our own privacy and mind our own business, thank you very much. Nobody cared if a neighbour suddenly died from a heart attack. Nobody batted an eye if the wealthy socialite next door went bankrupt overnight. Nobody minded about dozens of ghost stories that surrounded the ancient building in Grimmauld Place, which had been rotten there since none remembered when.

And, of course, absolutely nobody gave a damn if every two minutes some suspicious figures appeared in front of the said building, only to mysteriously vanish into the darkness of that very cold, very damp evening of London.

“Bloody weather,” someone muttered irritably over the mud stains on the threshold he left as he stepped inside. With a wave of his wand, the stains disappeared and his shoes were dried.

“Any news, Rookwood?”

“Nothing particular,” the man named Rookwood replied dryly. “The same news they've been rhapsodising over for months… About the long awaited reunion between two lines from The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, ” he mimicked in a high, sarcastic tone before turning to beckon his house-elf. “Fetch me a cup of hot tea, Pippy, and some madeleines as well, if dear old Walburga hasn't forgotten she's hosting over twenty guests tonight. See you later there, Yaxley.”

The presence of the house-elf, as it turned out, was hardly necessary. For such a grand meeting as this, professional maids were hired to serve the noble guests from the Sacred Twenty-Eights. Maids could be not as talented as house elves in pulling out a perfect Plimpy Stew from scratch, but they had handsome robes, graceful manners, and young good looks. Some of them were even expected to offer a different kind of service — a behind-the-closed-door kind. 

“Is the rumour true, Debby?”

In the shadow of the kitchen hall, one of the two maids learned towards the other, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. In the gathering of so many important figures, the temptation to let the secrets slip was irresistible. One should not ever underestimate the maids; when it came to the politics among noble houses, they were the most meticulous chroniclers of scandals. They could recount, with a precision that could humble historians, which young master had found his way into his father’s mistress’s bed, or how many pawns had been sacrificed for a battle of inheritance –– all spoken with wistfulness towards the madness of them all.

“Come on, you know what rumour I’m talking about. The one in which Young Master is getting engaged!”

“Shhh… Quiet down, silly girl, or they might hear us!”

A house elf named Kreacher stalked past them, balancing a silver tray of tea and madeleines on his head. The moment he was gone, the other maid exhaled a half-relieved, half-nervous sigh.

“Yeah, I heard, Lizzy… Apparently it’s all been decided by Master Orion and Mistress Walburga. But how the hell do you know that? It was supposed to be very internal.”

“Kitty from the Lestrange Manor told me. Overheard it from their family dinner, when Madam Lestrange complained about it. And guess what? I even know who the intended bride is!”

“You must be kidding!”

“Not at all, my dear. I'm not hiding anything from you — you've been feeding me with so many interesting stories.”

“Then who? Who will be Young Master Sirius's future damsel?”

There was a pause of anticipation. Then, the maid named Lizzy breathed out in a scandalous tone.

“Miss Narcissa Black.”

“ Miss Narcissa? HIS COUSI-”

“Shhhh, please, Debby, now who's the silly girl?” Lizzy's hand shot up to cover her friend's gaped mouth. “They’d have our heads on the plaques like those bloody house-elves if they heard!”

“But—but— isn't Miss Narcissa two years older than Young Master Sirius? And they are too closely related—” 

“So what? You think the pure-blood families care about that? Mistress Walburga didn’t have to change her surname when she married Master Orion, in case you gracefully forgot.”

“But wasn’t Miss Narcissa seeing another man — Abraxas Malfoy’s son? I thought it was Valerie Rosier who would be the new mistress.”

“Tut-tut, you’re a little behind, Debby. The Malfoys have taken a firm grip on the Greengrass daughter. The Notts and the Rosiers have already had their daughters betrothed. Selwyn's daughter is a Squib and the Parkinson girl is infertile. The Yaxleys clearly wanted to be an in-law, though. But… ” 

Lizzy's voice suddenly lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.

“... rumours had it that their only daughter was born out of wedlock, whose mother was suspectedly a halfblood. You know, Mistress Walburga fucking hates adultery — almost as much as she despises blood impurity. She would never accept an illegitimate girl on her doorstep, let alone being her mother-in-law.”

“What about the Carrows? I had an impression their daughter is quite fond of Young Master. Always watching him from behind in dinner parties and all that—”

“Alecto Carrow? Don't make me laugh; she is as ugly as a troll, how can she be a match for someone as handsome as Young Master?” Lizzy said seethingly, a tint of defiance in her voice. “And she is thick-headed, too — I heard our Mistress describe her as ‘no brighter than a filthy Mudblood’. Standards held by this family are higher than the Tower of Babylon, Debby. They have gone really conservative about protecting blood purity these days…”

“As if they’d never been conservative for one day in centuries,” Debby screwed her face in a small sarcasm.

“You know they’re even more severe now, especially after the Andromeda tragedy. Young Master Sirius was so fond of her. Losing her was a terrible blow to him.” 

Lizzy turned her head around nervously as if she was afraid they could get caught. Rest assured there was no one around, she continued. 

“So, yes, they want to marry him off to someone close. Someone in the family — someone around his age, unmarried, and a perfect Slytherin — they don’t really have many choices, do they? After Young Master's Sorting, Mistress has been harbouring a burning hope that her grandchildren will be at least raised by a Slytherin mother. She's been really, really miserable about the Sorting… about how he resolved to go down that path so frivolously, rubbing shoulders with whom she deems Mudbloods and blood traitors. She’s always been trying to gain control over him. I wouldn’t be surprised if the sole purpose of the marital arrangement between him and his own cousin was to keep him in line, binding him to this house forever.” Lizzy pulled a dead-serious face. “The House of Black is closing their ranks.”

Debby smiled sadly. “I feel bad for Young Master. His parents don’t even see him as their son, but only as a puppet in their hand, incapable of feeling.”

Lizzy snorted. “Incapable of feeling? If there is one problem with Young Master, Debby, then it must be that he has too many feelings. He and his mother clash like two Hungarian Horntails each time they go berserk — it's like this whole house isn't big enough to hold both of them together. What a nightmare… Mistress screams like a banshee and is often on the verge of breathing Fiendfyre. She's not very emotionally stable, poor Mistress, it's something passed down in the family. I wonder if Young Master will end up like that when he grows up.”

“No way,” Debby countered, “He's been rebellious enough to prove otherwise. His opinions about the family's ideology have always been made very clear.” Then she added thoughtfully, “Young Master Regulus, on the other hand, is rather quiet…”

“Both of them are wickedly handsome,” Lizzy grinned. “Though I must admit the sight of Master Sirius hurts like a weapon. His eyes, sweet Salazar––”

Debby flicked on Lizzy’s forehead. “What the hell are you thinking? He's just an innocent fourteen-year-old!”

“So what? He'll soon have to fuck his pretty cousin. Miss Narcissa Black, the icy queen. Still has to be the centre of the world, doesn’t she?” Lizzy let out a mean cackle. “Besides, he's not so innocent. Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Lizzy licked her dry lips, “Remember Dorothy, the former maid? Last year she let Young Master… touch her, if you get what I mean. Don’t know who started it first, but I doubt it was her — the way she behaved around him had always been an oddity. Of course she was sacked afterwards, but Young Master was no longer innocent––”

“What are you scurrying here for?” 

A third voice interrupted them, slicing through the air.

“Mis—Mistress Druella,” both maids halted their secret conversation in utter horror. Their heads bowed low, their faces as pale as ash.

Druella Rosier Black’s presence swept over them like a midwinter storm. With wavy blonde hair and slim stature, her beauty was only bested by her cruelty and cunningness. Born in Versailles, she still kept the habit of speaking French in the morning, her mannerisms still retaining some vestiges of the French aristocracy — an era bygone and dusted. It was said, with or without some fabrications, that the Treaty of Versailles in 1919 could have occurred a day earlier if it hadn’t overlapped with her great-grandfather’s 89th birthday ceremony. 

As a Rosier married into the House of Black, Druella understood the art of self-preservation. Among the domineering Black people, she had crafted for herself a quiet, low profile. Those who’d seen her true colour — often those whom she deemed lesser than her — suffered the full unleashed power of her terrible oppression.

After a suffocating silence, Druella’s voice cut through, cold and commanding.

“You are lucky my sister in law didn’t find you slacking,” an unpleasant smile curved her thin red lips. “Lord Malfoy wants his bouillabaisse recooked, served with Superior Red. You know what to do. Fifteen minutes, no more.”

“As you wish, my Mistress,” the maids bowed their heads even lower, eyes downturned. They dared not to even wonder why Mistress Druella reserved such a favour for Abraxas Malfoy, by coming down to the kitchen herself to deliver his order; wasn’t he the father of Lucius Malfoy, her daughter’s former lover?

Druella Black casted one final glare over the maids before sweeping out of the kitchen, leaving a palpable dread in the air. The murmur of voices and the faint clinking of goblets echoed down from the dining room above — a reminder of pureblood nobilities and the weight of their silver-plated world that pressed down on those who dwelled under its shadow.

The maids returned to their work in silence. No one spoke for a long while, except for the sigh of wavering flames under the marble mantelpiece. Fire was a scarce thing at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, as if their inhabitants harboured an unspoken hatred to it, perpetuating a tomb-like coldness which not even the heat of July could dispel. Under the effect of old-fashioned gas lamps, which exuded grey light instead of warmer colours, shadows of both maids danced on the wall — flickering like some strange specters freed from the decaying crypt beneath the house.

Behind the closed door stood up the third shadow. Hands trembling, he lingered for a brief moment before disappearing into the darkness without a single sound.

o0o

Yes it's gonna be a cold, lonely summer

But I'll fill the emptiness

I send you all my love everyday in a letter

Sealed with a kiss.

 Jason Donovan | “Sealed With A Kiss"

Remus Lupin was sleeping like a dead man. Two nights ago was a full moon, which always ended up like this: a lycanthropy-worn school boy determined to sleep for only three hours, only to find himself awake eight hours later, aching and sweating and not having a whit of clues what universe he'd fallen into. In an attempt to belittle this inconvenience, Remus told himself it was not so much different from the daily state of a burnt-out clerk.

Take a look around, one might have a little trouble in giving Remus Lupin's bedroom a concrete impression. A study in contrast — evidence of the clash between the Muggle and the Wizarding world. Hogwarts textbooks were stuffed unevenly in the same shelves with the dog-eared Maugham collection along with rolls of bandage and a bottle of Murtlap Essence. An old record player had earlier screamed Killer Queen to a very distressed brown owl, who was now clicking his beak in impatience to the sudden silence. Infographics of Dark magical creatures were cluttered on a bulletin board on the wall. A battered movie poster of La Dolce Vita was pinned up next to a photo of four school boys, all waving and grinning animatedly beside the stationary Italian movie stars. On the opposite wall, a collection of vinyl records were hung in a rather aesthetic disorder, most of which were hand-me-down and not without some scratches. A samurai figurine, taken after an Akira Kurosawa hero, was staring blankly down at an opened trunk at the very middle of the room –– a jumble of threadbare robes and scruffy Muggle clothes. They all were the consequences of the owner’s multiple identities –– a Muggle’s son, a wizard, a werewolf, musing between layers and layers of superimposed shells, just like a Matryoshka doll. 

Next to the La Dolce Vita poster, sat precariously on the shelves, was a blackened statuette of Lupa Capitolina . The mythical wolf and the twins, Romulus and Remus –– an ancient story of the foundation of Rome. Remus Lupin had wondered, for countless times, why he was named Remus and not Romulus, who succeeded over his brother and became the first ruler of the Roman Kingdom. But the only person who could answer it, father Lupin, had long gone before he got the chance to ask.

Outside the window, a loud thunder cracked through the sky, startling the brown owl who squawked out of distress. Remus stirred slightly but didn't wake up, only turning to the other side. His hand unconsciously fell on the corner of a letter above a jumble of envelopes and books on his bed. The letter, scrawled in bold, unpolished handwriting, read:

Hey Remus,

I can't wait to tell you this- DAD AND MUM SAID YES!

My family is more than happy to welcome you to our house. Right before the school year starts! This is bloody brilliant — I never had a friend staying overnight other than Peter. No worries about the logistics; my parents already know your mum is a Muggle and they don’t expect her to manage Wizard travel very swiftly (not that they are any better at Muggle travel either). Anyway, let's forget about the Floor network — they will Apparate right to your place and fetch you with a side-along. Honestly, if I could have it my way, I would pick you up myself with my new Nimbus 1900 broomstick — Statute of Secrecy be damned. 

As for Sirius… It's so unfair that his bonkers parents just won't let him come. I’ve only received one letter from him this summer — he'd had to sneak out during the night to send it from some devils-know-where owlery. I'd kidnap him if I could, but Dad said it wasn't the greatest idea since that family is a whole lot of crazy Dark wizards who think the sun is shining out of Voldemort's arse.

Please send my hello to Mrs. Lupin.

James Potter, your Best Seeker.

There was another letter, lying right next to Remus's pillow. This letter had the worst handwriting, like a 19th-century script. Making out those intricate, elongated letters felt less like reading and more like unravelling a riddle:

Dear Remus, 

Let's start with some proper etiquette that us Marauders toss away most of the time: How are you doing? Nothing exciting on my end, though. Kreacher has whipped up a new recipe for onion soup. The stray cat living on the street of Grimmauld Place has been adopted. A Muggle girl tried to kiss me after I’d snuck out of Mother’s tedious pureblood banquet. And it's been five days since I last saw the sunlight. 

Mother has closed all the doors of Grimmauld Place before I could sabotage one of her little dinner parties so prolifically again. She would have swallowed the key if I didn’t have to return to Hogwarts. So no James, no you, no Peter for this summer. I would almost be glad to see Snivellus again to make sure Hogwarts is a real thing and not a figment of my imagination, laugh at me all you like. Are you real, too? If you’re not replying to me soon, Moony, I’ll be convinced you’re a fictional bloke that I invented out of the dank, cold summer days.

This letter sounds mental when I read it twice; I have so much to tell you, but once I pick up the quill, I don’t know where to start and how to end, and here we have a parchment full of nonsense. Your letters are always more exciting, anyway, and I'm really looking forward to it. Fill me up with storíes about your Muggle London escapades, will you? And your summer transformation — I really want to know if the Muggle remedies Mrs. Lupin uses on you are any better than our potions.

Your friend, Sirius.

After all, it wasn’t the pre-rain thunder but the faint clatter of his mother in the kitchen that woke Remus up. Still sore from the full-moon, he pulled himself together, mumbled something about the bodily numbness and got up. The full-moon always left the itching deep in his joints, both before and after his transformation. He began to pace the room, and only halted when he heard a sharp thunk of something striking –– someone had just thrown a pebble into his window pane.

“Tell your mum she still owes me ten quid!” he heard a voice from below.

Remus pushed the window open and shouted down. “And who are you, mister?”

“Let’s just say I’m a friend of Gil, her ex-boyfriend.”

“Then go tell her yourself. I’m not her errant messenger.”

“Like mother, like son,” the man grumbled, snapped open his umbrella and walked away.

Again! Remus could almost hear it –– when he told his mother about a “friend” of her former boyfriend, she would most definitely ask “Which one?” Sometimes he held no opinion of her various male acquaintances, but most of the time he just wanted to sock them in the face. As he paced the room again, one might catch Remus’s reflection on the window glass once or twice. A girl one year younger at Hogwarts, who’d developed a little crush on Remus Lupin, had once pictured him by words in her diary like this: 

Impression: quite tall. 

General air: often colder than warm. 

Face: serene and well-balanced, save a thin grey scar cut through the left eyebrow. 

Hair: chestnut brown, occasionally dishevelled. 

Eyes: hazel-brown, almost green under the sunlight. Have mismatched colours, with a lighter tinge in the left eye and a darker one in the right –– which one to look at? 

It was like a peculiar metaphor of the two worlds Remus travelled between, depending on who was the interpreter. His friends at Hogwarts saw the Wizarding world in the brighter eye and the mysterious Muggle world in the darker, while Muggles only saw their own world in the brighter –– the rest of the unknowns were hidden in the dark.  

After a moment, his pacing was interrupted by a sharp crash of broken glass echoing from the kitchen.

“Fuck,” a high female voice hissed. “Stupid vase.”

As eloquent as ever, the Woman Who Has A Knack For Breaking Things. That, in essence, was the story of their life together — patching up and mending the broken pieces, finding a strange comfort in the imperfection of the tireless cycle of repair. And yet, it was her vibrant presence that made this cramped and creaking place a home. Somehow with every hurried footstep she left behind, the shattered shards started to piece themselves back together –– a quiet testament to patience and love.

When the commotion finally settled, he turned to find Hope Lupin standing at the bedroom door with a warm dinner tray on her arms. It could have been a picture-perfect moment, something plucked out of a TV commercial: the sweetly smiling house-wife in a polka-dot apron –– the essence of dreamlike domesticity. But the picture of Hope now was a far cry from such clichés. 

In her early thirties, Hope looked small and young — her curly bob and heart-shaped face had lent her a pixie-like quality that felt more girlish than motherly. She exuded the energy of a little sparrow; her bones too were as small and delicate as birds. Since long ago Remus’s height had surpassed his mother’s, and now strangers often mistook them for a petite big sister and her towering younger brother. The comparison did nothing but highlight an awkward truth: that Lyall Lupin had somehow charmed an insurance office worker in Cardiff twelve years junior into marrying him –– Remus suspected his father’s wizard-being had done much of the deed. 

Hope Lupin’s life afterwards, however, was like a sped-up film. When Lyall married her, she had been barely older than Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s . When the Full Moon tragedy had turned her entire world upside-down, she’d been only twenty-five, hugging her five-year-old son so tightly as if holding onto her dear life (in every way possible, he was). After all, Lyall had given her exactly ten years of their turbulent marriage to familiarise with both the wonders and horrors of the magical world, before he suddenly passed away, leaving her alone to raise their werewolf son, who was another member of the world she wasn't a part of.  

“Careful,” Remus strode towards his mother and lifted the tray from her wobbly hands. She greeted him with a bright smile.

“Take care of that for me, Rem, before I drop it again,” she laughed, reaching up to rub his shoulders. “How are you feeling now? Does it still hurt?”

Remus gently put his mother’s hands away. “My ego will hurt if you ask me that again. You don’t have to baby me, you know.”

“Oooh, so snarky,” Hope chuckled despite her tiredness, her voice as brisk as a summer breeze. How he loved his mother, to the point that it gnawed at him from the inside to see the blood-shot webs in her eyes — the look that she was always fraught with after each full moon. She peered over his bed, spotting the letters as she entered his room and started clearing the table. “Any news from your friends, Rem?” 

“Next week James's parents will fetch me to their house in the Godric Hollow.”

“Isn’t that amazing?” Hope smiled an innocent smile that often left Remus with a turmoil of affection and guilt for leaving her behind. “You and James will have a capital time together at an all-wizard household! How about your other friend, Sirius?” she asked, absent-mindedly toying the samurai figurine with her fingers before she stubbed it back on the shelves. 

“He's not coming to James's,” Remus kept his voice even. “His parents won't let him.”

“Even though he's already fourteen years old?” Hope collected his parchments of summer homework and cleared them from the table. “Why don't parents just let kids have some fun — hey, Rem, catch this.”

Something flew across the room and he instinctively caught it with one hand: his own sketchbook, flipped open to reveal an unfinished portrait. Remus felt the heat quickly creeping to his cheeks. “ Mum. ”

Hope chuckled. “Sorry. I didn't mean to pry, but nice sketches. Who is this girl?”

“This guy , mum. Last time I checked, he was still a guy.” His gaze suddenly fell on Sirius’s letter without thinking, which he immediately regretted, because a mirthful light flickered across Hope's eyes.

“Aw, I bet Sirius would be thrilled lest he saw this,” she crooned, and he very much didn't like the sudden glint in her eyes, or the teasing tone when she started caroling a Bowie’s song. “ All because of what you are, the prettiest star–– ”

“Dinner!” He announced more firmly than necessary, and practically shoved the food tray on the empty table. Hope laughed at his reaction, ruffling his hair, “Oh, you’re blushing!”

Luckily she dropped the topic after that, which spared him from a great hassle of explaining the portrait was just an anatomy sketching practice, because, good Godric, it wasn't his fault that his friend did have a perfect facial bone structure. He spent the dinner with his mum in the small bedroom, all while listening to her whimsical stories about different customers at the bookshop where she worked as a cashier. As she was laughing about a young couple who named their sons Marc and Bolan, his mind wandered to Sirius's letter still on his bed, and he suddenly felt no matter how clumsy and imperfect Hope was, no matter her inexperience in the way of the world sometimes didn't quite fit for a parental figure, he was extremely grateful that he had her as his mother.

o0o

The Potters arrived the following week, Apparating in front of them with a loud “CRACK" . Looking at their handsome attires, Remus reminded himself this was exactly the reason why he had asked them to pick him up on the street instead of his family's dingey flat. 

“Magical,” Hope watched the Potters with sparkling eyes, “I haven't seen people appear out of thin air like that in years .”

Remus noticed the way James's parents regarded his mother in surprise. He didn’t blame them: in the eyes of many people, she looked way too young to have a son of his age, while both Mr. and Mrs. Potter were much older with all the wrinkles etching their faces and the grey streak in their hair. In fact, they were both old enough to be Hope’s parents.

Despite all this, Mr. and Mrs. Potter looked surprisingly fashionable, their attire and manners breathing wizard old-money. Mr. Potter had with him a distinctly businessman look, with a long nose that protruded from a pair of thick black glasses. Mrs. Potter was straight-haired and slender, a colourful scarf wrapping her shoulders. 

“Alright, Remus?” Mr. Potter boomed, striding forward graciously to shake Remus's hand. The fact that this man was the owner of the Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion company was so well-known in the Wizarding Britain that, even though this was not the first time Remus met the man, he still half expected something like “Two drops tame the most bothersome barnet!" when Mr. Potter began to speak. As soon as Remus greeted them with “It's a pleasure seeing you again, sir. You, too, ma'am,” Mr. Potter broke the ice with his sharp, business-like tone: “We don't do ‘sir' or ‘ma’am' here, young man; such a courtesy is flattering but impractical in the fast-paced world nowadays. Just Fleamont and Euphemia is perfect.”

Apparently that rule didn't apply to their own son, because James still addressed Remus's mother with a respectful “ma'am" when he greeted her. There were many things from James's parents that didn't seem to successfully apply to their son — hair potion, for example, judging by the tousled bird nest on James's head. It was quite a spectacle, seeing Hogwarts’ infamous troublemaker to be so harmonious and polite around parents. James shook Hope’s hand with both of his, but there was a troubled look settling around his unfocused eyes that made Remus frown — James didn't exhibit the same eager bravado he had seen in his last letter.

Leaving their parents to the rest of the greetings, he and James simply goggled at each other. “Alright, James?” He couldn't help but wonder what didn't sit quite right on James's otherwise thoughtless smile.

But in a blurred moment, all of it was pushed aside, and James grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him into a tight, breathless hug.

“Tosser,” Remus laughed into James' ears, all awkwardness evaporated. “This man just had a full moon. Don’t break his bones before the wolf does.”

“Sorry!” James loosened his grip but still held on his friend’s shoulders affectionately. “Been practising Quidditch the whole summer. Prepare to lose the bet, Moony, my chance of being made Captain next year is higher than your Divination grades.” He swiftly jumped back to avoid Remus's light kick, yelping with laughter.

“You should get him back for that, James!” Hope cheerfully called after them, winking, and James's mouth was turned into an “O" shape, as he suddenly noticed her now. He pushed his round glasses up on his forehead, dark brown eyes blinking at Hope with awe, mumbling something about “your mum" and “Witch Weekly model" . 

A jolly, upfront, boastful rogue that people couldn't help liking, this James Potter (although Lily Evans and Severus Snape might have to disagree). With that truculent cocky grin and sunburnt skin, James looked every bit like a doted-on boy who had just spent his holiday somewhere sunny and glamorous, perhaps the Côte d'Azur or Majorca. Keeping it up like this and the bastard could go audition for a tourist postcard.

“How was growing up, wolfman?” The tip of James’s oxford nudged against Remus’s shin –– Remus was aware he’d grown quite tall over the summer. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been stretching yourself out to join the Slytherin Quidditch troupe.”

“Don't be so gross, Potter. At least I know basic hygiene and don’t smell like Kappa vomits. Speaking of which, you smell like one sometimes.”

“Well, a man can’t have everything, can he?”

James gave him a toothy grin in response, looking like he was ready to dive in an hours-long ramble of Quidditch talks. For a moment, Remus considered dropping the question in his head, and he probably would — hadn't he always secretly been a stubborn bastard.

He quickly glanced at his mother and the Potters, who were all in the middle of an enthusiastic conversation, where Hope was enchanting them with her bright smile and wicked stories, making Mr. Potter throw his head back with laughter. Rest-assured the parents had completely forgotten their sons existed, Remus lowered his voice. 

“You’ve been off, James. What’s going on?”

And there it was again –– the shadow in James’s expression, a crack in his usual carefree façade.

“Always so observant, Lupin,” James muttered, sighing. “Have you heard the news?”

“What news? You know I don't waste my time on the Daily Prophet , seeing how corrupt it gets these days.” 

“It’s definitely not on the Prophet ,” returned James, his tone unusually grave. That alone was startling –– James Potter ignored the chance to mock the Daily Prophet for its corruption — a leisure activity that he hardly ever missed. “No, I know this from my Great Aunt Dorea, because the Blacks aren’t stupid enough to announce their internal affairs in the biggest press in Britain.”

Remus frowned. “Sirius's family? What now, have some of them finally dropped dead?” 

James’s snort quickly turned into a cough; then, he spoke with a strange solemnity in his voice. “It’s about Sirius himself, Moony.” His dark brown eyes carefully watched Remus as he let the words fall. “Our old sport is getting engaged.”