Rebel Rebel

Cokeworth , Midlands , Christmas day, 1977

The winter air bit at her cheeks as she hurried down the quiet street of Cokeworth. Snow blanketed the rooftops and gathered in soft mounds along the cobblestone paths. Strings of twinkling lights draped from one lamppost to the next, casting a warm golden glow over the frost-covered windows of the small, crooked houses. 

She was halfway past the shop when she heard him.

"Lily."

Her heart sank. She kept walking.

"Lily, please. Wait."

She should’ve kept going, should’ve ignored him, but something in his voice—something desperate—made her stop. She turned slowly to face him. His hair hung lank as ever, his robes slightly frayed at the edges. His dark eyes, once so familiar, now felt like an intrusion.

"What do you want, Severus?" Her voice was colder than the wind between them.

He shifted, stuffing his hands into his pockets as though he were suddenly unsure of what to do with them. "Have you—have you spoken to Mary?"

Lily’s jaw tightened. "Yes."

His gaze flickered with something like hope. "And?"

"And she told me you're sorry," Lily said flatly. "If that's what you wanted to hear."

"I am," Severus said, stepping closer. "I miss you, Lily. I miss both of you."

Her stomach twisted. There was a time when she would have softened at those words. Now, they felt hollow.

"I can't do this," she said, voice shaking more from anger than cold. "I can't forgive you."

"Lily—"

"No," she cut him off. "You still hang around with Mulciber and the rest of them. The one who attacked Mary, remember? Or have you conveniently forgotten?"

Snape's expression darkened. "They're in my house," he muttered. "I don't really have much of a choice."

Her green eyes blazed. "You always have a choice, Sev. Always. But you never once checked in on Mary—not once. All you care about is using her as an excuse to get to me."

"That's not—"

"Don't," she snapped. "Just don't."

He opened his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to apologize again—but she didn’t wait to find out. She turned on her heel, each step away from him feeling both like a relief and a fresh wound.

"Lily, please!"

"Fuck off, Severus."

She didn't look back.

By the time she reached home, her mother was fussing over ornaments and her father was untangling a string of lights, as Petunia smoothed the edge of a ribbon with precise fingers, carefully hanging each bauble in perfect symmetry. The normalcy of it all felt jarring. They greeted her, Petunia even smiling for once although she could sense that something was amiss.

Lily rushed inside to the kitchen. A small pile of letters sat on the counter—some familiar, some not. James' latest letter lay on top, bold and impossible to miss, but there were others too: one from from Dorcas, hurried and slanting off the page, a surprised one from Merrick McKinnon,  and yet another from Mary, unopened. Opening James’ latest letter on the kitchen counter, far from their eyes like a secret she only knew. She smiled at his messy scrawl, the way his words practically leapt off the page with a boyish excitement. 

Hey Evans, Hope your holidays are going well. Sirius and I turned the house elf’s pudding into a hopping frog. Mum’s furious, Dad’s amused.

How’s your Muggle Christmas? Any odd traditions besides tree decorating and setting puddings on fire? Surviving Petunia?

—James

P.S. Got you something. You’ll love it. Probably.

She grabbed a quill and replied instantly:

Potter, Chaos follows you everywhere. My Christmas is quieter, though Petunia threw a fit about the tree. No fires—yet. I’ll take my gift at school. If it’s Quidditch-related, there will be consequences.

—Lily

**

Christmas at home was quiet. Too quiet.

It wasn’t just the absence of noise—it was the missing warmth, the laughter that should have been there, the presence that used to fill every room.

Last Christmas had already felt hollow, just months after his father died. But this year was worse. The reality had settled in, solid and immovable. There was no pretending he might still walk through the door, no half-formed expectation of hearing his voice. Just the ache of knowing this was how it would always be now.

The ghost of Lyall lingered in the air. His dad should have been at the kitchen table, teasing his mum about burning the biscuits, pretending to be scandalized by the amount of cinnamon she put in the cider. He should have been humming some old folk song as he carved the roast, nudging Remus with his elbow, asking him if he was “too grown-up” now to pull crackers with them.

Instead, there was only stillness.

His mum had tried her best. She always did. She’d made all his favorites—the chocolate biscuits with orange zest, the stew that took hours to simmer just right—but the effort only seemed to highlight what was missing. Some things couldn’t be fixed, no matter how much love you poured into them.

It has been more than a year and yet, despite how much time had passed, the grief hadn’t faded. It still sat in Remus’s chest, raw and aching, like a wound that refused to heal. Some days, it felt dull, distant, like an old scar. Other days, like today, it tore open all over again.

He thought about his dad as he once was—patient, steady, the only one who never looked afraid when Remus struggled with his transformations.

Breathe, Remus. One step at a time. You’re stronger than you think.

His father had never spoken about his condition with pity. He had never flinched, never recoiled. Even when Remus had been younger, afraid of what he was, afraid of what he could do, his father had simply held him close and whispered, You’re my son. And that is enough.

It had always been enough. Until suddenly, he was gone.

Remus tried to shake off the thoughts, tried to focus on the present—on the warmth of the fire, the scent of pine and cinnamon filling the small house, the way his mum sat beside him, her smile tired but still there.

And then she handed him a gift.

The wrapping paper was bright, festive. His fingers hesitated before he tore it open, revealing polished wood and steel strings. A guitar. A new one.

He stared. “Mum, I already have—” His fingers curled instinctively, remembering the weight of his dad’s guitar, the familiar worn wood beneath his hands.

“I know,” Hope said softly. “You don’t have to stop using the old one. But you needed this.”

Remus swallowed, running his thumb over the strings.

“It still feels wrong,” he admitted. “Missing him this much. Like I should be... moving on.”

Hope exhaled, her smile tinged with sadness. “Oh, love. It doesn’t go away. I miss him every single day.” She reached over, tucking a stray piece of hair behind his ear like she used to when he was small. “But we keep going. Because we have to. Because he’d want us to.”

Remus looked down at the guitar, his throat tight. 

The words sat heavy in his chest, a truth he had been avoiding for months.

He hesitated before confessing, “I didn’t apply to King’s College of Enchantment.”

Hope’s brows knit together. “Why not?”

His stomach twisted. “Because I don’t think they would take me. Not with what I am.” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “And I didn’t have the heart to tell you.”

Hope was quiet for a long moment. Then she sighed, shaking her head. “I suspected as much.”

Remus’s breath hitched. “You—?”

“I just want you to try," She said her voice firm, steady. “I know you have a lot to bear, but you have to try, love. For me, for dad.”

For so long, Remus had carried the weight of secrets—his condition, his fears, his desires that he barely dared to name. He had been scared to tell her about the rejection, not wanting to add to her burden. But now, as she looked at him with nothing but love in her eyes, he realized she had always known. She would always love him. 

He set the guitar aside and pulled her into a hug. She held him tightly, the way she always had, as if nothing in the world could make her let go.

**

The Potter house in Godric's Hollow hummed with noise and warmth, a mix of traditions swirling together like the scent of cinnamon and pine that clung to the air. It was a blend of solstice and Christmas—the Potters' own chaotic version of a holiday, rooted in old wizarding customs and sprinkled with Muggle influences like the twinkling fairy lights that James insisted were 'aesthetic.'

Christmas at the Potters was loud. Of course it was loud—James was loud. He tore through the house like a hurricane, wrapping tinsel around the stair banister while singing a truly horrifying rendition of "God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs." Mrs. Potter, Effy as she insisted she calls him,  cooked in the kitchen, humming softly as her silver bracelets clinked with each flick of her wand. A dozen dishes hovered in midair, stews stirring themselves, and a roasted goose slowly turning golden brown in the enchanted oven. She seemed to exist in a realm of serene control, even as chaos unfolded around her.

And Monty—James’s father— told stories.

Sirius found himself seated in the sitting room, by the fire, a half-empty glass of mulled wine in his hand as Monty held court with his usual charm. He spoke about his days as a young Gryffindor, full of life and more recklessness than wisdom, about how he once tried to sneak a bottle of Firewhisky into the Gryffindor common room and ended up charming it so poorly that the bottle sang Celestina Warbeck songs for a week. He wove in tales of the Wizengamot too, somehow making politics sound like a grand adventure rather than the tedious, suffocating duty Sirius had always imagined it to be.

James only half-listened, fiddling with a sugar quill, clearly having heard these stories a thousand times before. Effy popped her head in now and then with a smile, but her attention was mostly on the feast. But Sirius? Sirius listened like the words were spells themselves, pulling him into another world—a world where being a Gryffindor meant freedom, where being a Potter meant love.

Monty had taken Sirius. It was obvious in the way his gaze softened when he spoke to him, the way he kept tossing him bits of old family wisdom, the way he seemed to notice when Sirius got too quiet.

Too quiet, like now.

Sirius's thoughts had wandered, spiraling into the familiar tangle of feelings he couldn't quite sort through. Marlene. He had just as James ordered to break things up with the girl, though it left an awkwardness hanging between them now. James pretended everything was fine, laughing too loud, clapping him on the back too hard, but Sirius could feel the strain beneath it. He kept thinking of the way Marlene had looked at him when he had told her, like the coward he always suspected he was. 

And then there was Remus.

Remus, who had casually mentioned he'd hooked up with a bloke the other week, as though it were nothing—as though it didn’t send a sharp, inexplicable pang through Sirius's chest. He didn’t understand why he felt jealous, why the thought of Remus with someone else made him want to hurl his glass of wine into the fire.

"Sirius," Monty's voice cut through the noise in his head.

Sirius blinked, realizing he'd been staring into the fire for Merlin knows how long.

"You alright, lad?" Monty asked, his voice gentle but probing.

"Yeah," Sirius said quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Monty didn't look convinced. He studied Sirius for a moment, then asked softly, "Do you miss them?"

Sirius didn't have to ask who he meant.

He thought about Grimmauld Place, the coldness of it, the stifling silence, the way the house itself seemed to despise him just as much as his mother did. But there were other memories too—Regulus, when they were younger, before everything had gone so wrong; the Solstice mornings when Kreacher would present them with small, grim gifts and his mother would sit stiffly by the fire, reading letters from relatives.

"Yes and no," Sirius answered honestly, his voice quieter now. "It was never like this, never like you. But... they were still my family."

Monty nodded, his expression softening further. "That's alright," he said simply. "It’s alright to miss them."

Sirius's throat felt tight, but he nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah."

Monty didn’t press him, didn’t offer empty reassurances or platitudes. He just sat there for a moment longer, letting the crackle of the fire fill the silence between them.

And then James crashed into the room, a string of tinsel wrapped around his head like a crown, demanding Sirius come help him charm the fairy lights in the kitchen. 

**

The air in the house felt heavier than Mary remembered. It wasn't just the familiar scent of Sunday roast lingering from lunch or the soft hum of the radio playing in the kitchen. It was the silence. The kind that hung between words unsaid. Normally, Mary liked being back in Bristol, surrounded by her family, by people like her, but not today.

Her father stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the narrow street. His dark brown skin was illuminated by the grey light filtering through the glass. Mary could see the tension in his shoulders, a tightness that hadn't eased since she'd stepped through the front door.

Her mother hovered by the armchair, fussing over nothing—plumping a cushion, smoothing the lace doily on the side table—anything to keep her hands busy. She was a striking woman, with short blonde hair curled softly at the ends.

Mary's sisters, Eleanor and Ruth, had been sent upstairs, their giggles and whispers long since quieted. Now, there was just the three of them.

"You're not going back," her dad said at last, his voice firm but quiet. "I won't allow it."

Mary's stomach twisted. "Dad—"

"No, Mary. You think I'm going to send my daughter back to a place where they attack you because your parents are not wizards?" He turned to face her, his dark eyes fierce and wide with fear. "Because you're our daughter? Because of me?"

Her heart ached at his words, but she found herself shrinking back, her voice small. "It's not like that."

"Not like that?" He laughed—short, bitter. "Then what is it like, Mary? Because from what you've told us, it sounds a lot like hate."

"It is hate," her mum said softly. "But, she’s got to finish her schooling, so she can build a life for herself." Her mother’s voice cracked at the end, but she swallowed it down, pressing a hand to her mouth.

Mary's vision blurred for a moment, and she blinked rapidly, pushing back the tears threatening to fall. She opened her mouth but hesitated. The words felt too big, too heavy. She gripped the hem of her jumper, twisting the fabric between her fingers.

"I... I want to go back," she finally whispered.

Her dad let out a sharp breath. "Why? Why would you put yourself through that?" His voice broke, and Mary felt like she'd been punched in the chest.

"Because I worked hard for this," she said, the words quiet at first, but gaining strength with each syllable. "I worked hard to get this far. To learn. To be the best of my year despite everything they say."

Her dad's jaw tightened. "Help people? The same people who hurt you?"

"No," Mary said, her voice trembling but steady. "Help people like me. People who are scared. People who don’t have anyone standing up for them. I want to be a Healer. I always have." 

“Would you have given up on becoming a doctor, dad ?” She added. “On your dreams?”

Her mum's hand faltered mid-reach for a cushion, and she finally sank into the armchair, staring at Mary with a mixture of pride and fear.

Her dad was silent for a long moment, his fingers tapping restlessly against the windowsill. "I just... I’m scared for you, babygirl" he whispered. “We don’t want to lose you”.

Mary stepped closer, her voice gentle now, kissing her dad’s forehead. "You won't. I promise. But I can't stop being who I am."

**

The McKinnon's made their way to Rosier Manor to visit their uncle, Aster, his wife, and her cousins. Rosier Manor was as grand as she remembered, though smaller and less wild than their Scottish estate. By midday, Marlene and Merrick had managed to slip away with Eda and Evan, into the quiet refuge of the old library.

The four of them had nicked some elf wine from the cellar and were now hidden behind shelves, laughter spilling into the cozy space. They teased each other and swapped tales of old mischief, reminiscing about childhood pranks and the freedom of summer's past. 

“Remember when we ‘borrowed’ father’s broomsticks and tried to fly to the village?” Evan said, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

Marlene snorted, nearly choking on her sip of wine. “Borrowed? You convinced me we’d get to Paris on those things! Only to end up flat on our faces in the garden, covered in mud.”

Evan laughed, his shoulders shaking. “Ah, well, it was a solid plan—right up until we actually tried it,” he replied with a smirk. “You were the one who insisted we bring our family’s cat along for the journey, remember?”

“You can’t leave Gingersnap behind!” Marlene protested, feigning a pout. “He was part of the crew.”

“Poor Gingersnap,” Evan said, chuckling. “The thing nearly clawed my eyes out.” He took a sip of wine, his gaze softening as he glanced at Marlene. “Not that you were any less trouble. I seem to recall a certain someone letting off a dungbomb in Aunt Azalea’s luggage the week after.”

“That was all you, Evan,” Marlene shot back, but the memory had her laughing just as hard. “I only helped cover your tracks. It was you who said, ‘If we’re going to cause chaos, might as well be proper chaos.’”

“Did I say that?” Evan asked with mock incredulity, leaning in closer, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Blimey, sounds like the sort of nonsense I’d come up with.” He paused, studying her thoughtfully. “Seems I was right about a few things, at least.”

Marlene watched Evan, catching glimpses of the boy he’d once been—the boy who’d climbed trees with her and raced across gardens without a care in the world. Their eyes met briefly, and Marlene found herself smiling, looking away. For a moment, it felt like they were still children.

It was Merrick who broke the silence, his voice low as he leaned back against the shelves. “I’m working at McKinnon Publishing now,” he said casually, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

Marlene blinked in surprise. “Since when are you interested in journalism?” she asked, confusion lacing her voice.

Merrick gave her a tight smile, but there was an icy edge to his eyes. “I’m not…But I’m the heir. I need to learn business.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. For a moment, Marlene’s heart stuttered. She’d never heard him speak of being the heir before, and the weight of it settled uncomfortably in her chest. “The heir?” she echoed, her voice tinged with accusation. “Sounds like something Father put you up to. Why do you always listen to him?”

“We can’t all do whatever we want,” Merrick replied, his voice sharp with annoyance.

Before Marlene could respond, Eda spoke up, her voice calm but firm. “Merrick’s right, Marlene,” she said, her gaze steady. “We all have responsibilities. You’re being unfair.”

Marlene’s temper flared. “Unfair? You’re just going to accept that we have no choice, that we’re trapped in this mess with all the expectations they heap on us?” She stood abruptly. “I’m not going to sit by.”

Without another word, she stormed out of the library.

Evan, of course, was right behind her. He always seemed to show up when she didn’t need him.

"Careful, Marlene," he said, his voice dripping with mock concern as he caught up with her in the hallway. "Don’t trip over that rage of yours."

She spun around, eyes flashing. "Leave me alone, Evan."

“Merrick’s stuck,” Evan said, his tone suddenly more serious. “Like the rest of us. You can’t blame him for being born first..”

“He doesn’t have to do everything Father says,” Marlene shot back, frustration creeping into her voice. “He should stand up for himself.”

Evan’s playful grin faded, his gaze softening. “You think he wants this?”

“He could walk away,” she retorted, her voice tight. 

“And cast aside every responsibility he has always been bred to bear." Evan countered, his brow furrowing. “Leave it all for his younger brother to fix? Do you know what that did to Regulus? Black left that house and Regulus in it to rot. Thank Merlin, your brother is nothing like him.”

Marlene opened her mouth to argue, but the truth was she had not taught much of what Sirius leaving had meant for Regulus. 

Evan’s expression softened further, his eyes heavy with understanding. “I’m not saying it’s right. I’m not saying it’s fair. But, none of us get to choose. The cards were already dealt when we were born.”

“Spare me with the pureblood guilt,” Marlene replied. They fell silent for a moment.

"I didn’t have anything to do with Mary’s attack," Evan said suddenly, his voice more earnest than Marlene had ever heard. "I swear it."

Her heart lurched. She froze, unsure how to respond. "I didn’t say anything," she murmured, trying to brush it off, but a knot tightened in her stomach.

Evan’s gaze didn’t waver. "You didn’t have to," he said softly. "I see it—the way you look at me." He stepped closer, his usual cocky smirk nowhere to be found. "But I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with it."

He hesitated, like the next words cost him something. "There’s more going on than you realize. Bigger things. Things we can’t control."

A cold shiver ran down Marlene’s spine. "What are you on about?"

Evan’s expression hardened. For the first time, there was a weight in his words that felt dangerous. "This Dark Lord—the one they keep talking about in the papers — he’s recruiting. Mary’s attack... it wasn’t random. It was an initiation. A test to join his inner circle."

Marlene’s breath caught in her chest. Her mind spun. "I guess Mulciber passed with flying colors," she said bitterly.

Silence.

Her voice broke when she finally asked, "Is that what happened in Hogsmeade? They wanted you to join?"

Evan’s jaw clenched. "Yes," he admitted, his eyes darkening. "They’re not just building an army—they’re planting roots. It’s about infiltration."

"Infiltration?" The word felt foreign in her mouth.

He nodded grimly. "The Ministry," he murmured. "He has people on the inside—officials, spies, even the Wizengamot."

"Have you joined them?" Marlene interrupted, the words escaping before she could stop them — a raw, quiet accusation.

"No," he said at last, his voice low.

But the silence that followed said something else entirely.

Not yet.

Marlene heard it — louder than the word he’d spoken.

And it terrified her.