Andromeda
Andromeda
(The Chained Maiden)
Sixteen visible stars bordering the constellation Perseus.
Symbolizes fate and sacrifice.
Sacrificed to the sea, bound by fate; freedom comes to those who wait for their savior.
Lily took a deep breath.
In and out. In and out.
She clenched her eyes tightly, focusing best she could on its rapid rhythm. Pleading her racing heart to slow itself. It was to no avail, as it continued to thrum wildly beneath her ribs. It felt as if the only thing keeping it inside of her body was the cool, soothing weight of gold resting beneath her robes.
Carefully, she picked up her trembling hand, twining her fingers through the delicate chain. She tangled herself in it, tightly, enough to just barely stop the shaking.
In and out. In and out.
Lifting her other hand from where it lay limply at her side, she raised it to shift her collar, smoothing the invisible wrinkles to keep her mind busy, anchoring her thoughts in the simple motions.
When that became too tedious and the terrible thoughts began to race in sync with her galloping heart, she redirected her attention to the ribbon laid on the dresser in front of her.
Gently loosening her grip from the thin chain, she grabbed the silk and laid it across her palms. She took a minute to revel in its soft caress, a whisper of softness against her palm. Focusing her eyes on the starkness of the red against her pale skin. But it was red, sored, too—
In and out. In and out.
Through her deep breaths, she reached to gather a section of her hair, lopping the ribbon around it—once, twice—before letting it fall listlessly with the rest of her hair. She brought her fingers to her scalp, tugging a few wispy strands down rougher than necessary, to frame her gaunt face. She shivered at the tingles dancing up her spine, peering at her palm to find thin strands of auburn and crimson caught beneath her nails.
It’s something she’s done a thousand times before, so why did it suddenly feel so different?
Before she could answer her own question, a soft tap sounded on the door, making her jump out of her skin. This time she was sure her heart leapt from her chest. She placed her palm flat against it, applying pressure to will it back where it belonged.
“C—come in.” Lily choked out, hoping her voice didn’t sound nearly as shaken as she felt.
When she met the eyes of the woman stepping in, her heart finally steadied—just a bit.
Her eyes were the closest thing she’s felt home, warmth— family—in a while.
“Everything tucked into your trunk, dear?” Minerva McGonagall asked the young girl, as she eyed the wooden chest in the middle of the room.
Lily looked at the thing, all dark lacquer, polished wood and brass. Her books, her clothes, a few photos, all locked tightly into one small box.
Her throat began to tighten against her will.
Her entire life was in there now.
Her wholeentirelife sealed and tucked away into one measly trunk.
In and out. In and out.
She nods as strongly as she can through the sting of tears, her teeth digging into her trembling lip.
Sensing her unease, Minerva stepped forward, reaching out to straighten the edges of her cardigan, wiping away invisible specks of lint off the warm wool.
“Everything is going to be okay.” She whispers, meeting the young girls terrified, green eyes.
It makes her want to cry even more.
The older woman grasps her shoulders, “you can do this.” She adds with a sense of refined determination Lily doesn’t have within herself.
And she wants to nod. Wants to agree. Repeat it. Speak it into the world—anything.
Perhaps an old version of herself would have.
But she has not been the same for sometime.
Cursed, she thinks.
Truly cursed.
So instead, she speaks just as she feels, “I have nothing else to lose.” Her voice is strangled, raspy.
McGonagall's face softens, the wrinkles smoothing themselves down as her face drops. It was not the reassurance she wanted to hear, but she supplied a small nod, anyway.
It was enough—it had to be.
Stepping back, she turns to the door, handling Lily’s trunk—Lily’s life—and with a tilt of her head, beckons the girl toward the door.
In and out. In and out.
With a final breath Lily tightens the crimson ribbon in her hair, straightens her red-and-gold striped tie around her neck and picks up her wand from atop the old dresser, its weight still foreign in her palm.
‘This is your life now,’ the old wandmaker told her. ‘Willow,’ he called it, ‘rare and precious, with links to healing and powerful magic.’
The irony is a knife to her gut.
“Lily!” McGonagall calls impatiently from nearby, the woman’s voice pulling her back to reality.
In and out. In and out.
With one last look at the now empty room, she shuts the door reluctantly, letting one thought ground her, as it has for the past five months: What else is there to lose?
James wakes slowly, taking the time to savor the warmth of his blankets and the quiet behind his curtains. Keeping his eyes closed tightly as he pulls the fabric under his chin. He stays there, lingering in the soft haze—the uncommon stillness.
Soon enough, a rustling from somewhere within the room forces him to force open his heavy lids and blink the morning sun into his eyes.
His body works before his brain can catch up, his hand already firm on his night stand, grasping for his thick glasses. He slides them up his nose, the world coming into focus. He sits up slowly, tangling his fingers through his tousled hair—another action engraved into him.
Through the gap of his heavy velvet fabric, he spots Remus, one knee pressed to the carpet, the other foot flat as he tugs the laces into knots.
“It’s Saturday, mate.” James mumbles as he peels back the curtains, mindful to keep his voice low as to not rouse a sleep-deprived Sirius.
Remus stands up, a small smile tugging at his lips, his scars softening as the corners of his mouth crease. “Is it now?” He teases, cocking his brow as he swipes his tie from where it lay at the edge of his bed.
James rolls his eyes at the response, before he can come up with a smart retort, a small nasally voice chimes in from beside him.
“Head duties.” Peter says helpfully, eyes meeting James’ over his muggle comic.
He smiles at his blonde friend gratefully, “why thank you, Pete,” he says primly, performing a mock bow from where he sits against his headboard. After, he turns to Remus, “now was that so hard?”
Remus chuckles, shaking his head, “you tell me, smart arse.”
“Eh, what can I say, can’t resist it.” He shrugs, reaching for the snitch on his nightstand, tossing it carelessly as he speaks, “Now, what could the Head Boy be up to on this fine Saturday morning?” James asks.
The lanky boy shrugs, tucking his tie beneath his jumper, “beats me, I woke up to a tap on the window and what do you know—an urgent notice from Dumbledore.”
Instantly, James’ grin slips from his face, the air in the room shifting into something more tense—suffocating. Within the past few months a lot had changed, sometimes it felt like everything had changed.
It was as if each day brought a new whisper of something terrible. A dark looming cloud hung over them and each day it seemed to swirl closer and closer into a storm.
Whether it be through headlines in The Prophet, rumors from the Slytherin’s or talk down in Hogsmeade, there was an undeniably truth: it was no longer safe for Muggle-borns.
While James was born a pureblood wizard, he still feels the weight of it all, the heaviness that sits on his chest when he thinks of his friends, his peers, of anyone viewed as any less of a wizard—of a person—then him just because of the blood running through their veins.
It’s something horrible growing into something much worse—something he can’t quite fathom.
The thought alone makes his stomach churn—him, a pureblood wizard.
Remus seems to sense his unease and is quick to reassure him, “nothing serious, just mentioned helping out another student.” He clarifies, trying to remain casual.
The unknown tension wound into James’ shoulders drop at his friend’s words, as he slinks back against his headboard, expelling a breath as he relaxes.
“You reckon you’ll be long?” Peter asks as he flips through the pages of his comic book—something bold with a masked red boy swinging from webs on the front.
Remus shrugs, “not sure. I’ll catch up with you lot as soon as I’m through. You think you’ll still be here? Maybe the Great Hall? Common room? Or maybe—”
“Oh, just take the damn map!” Sirius grumbles crankily, voice muffled from where his face is squashed into his pillow.
At his predictability, the boys burst into laughter, lifting their moods instantly, all while Sirius continues murmuring swears into his sheets, tugging his blanket over his head.
“Now will you all shut it so I can sleep?” He bites out after the laughter began to soften, though his lips twitched into a half-smile, betraying him.
Remus shakes his head in silent delight, stepping into Sirius’ space as he pulls open his bed-side drawer, swiping at the weathered parchment.
Leaning down closer to Sirius, he taps the map against his tousled hair with a soft smile. “Brilliant when you’ve just woken up, not fair to the rest of us, eh Pads?” Remus teases.
“Take the damn thing, Moony, just take the damn thing and shut up so I can sleep.” Sirius grumbles, though a wide grin peeked out from beneath his covers.
“Alright, alright.” Remus surrendered, biting his lip thoughtfully as he stepped to the door. “See you, mates, don’t get into too much trouble without me. Padfoot, catch up on that beauty sleep, will you?”
Sirius’ middle finger materializes through his curtains.
James shakes his head at their antics, “see you, don’t work too hard now, it is Saturday, afterall.”
Remus gives him a mock salute and small wave before disappearing into the stairwell.
As soon as the door clicked shut, James turned to ask the pair what their plans were today. Before he could so much as get a syllable out, a loud snore from Sirius cut him off, prompting Peter to snicker quietly before settling back into his comic.
James flops back onto his bed, he supposed they wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.
It’s not like there was anything interesting going on, anyway.
“Lemon drops.” Remus murmurs to the statue.
The stone begins to break with a loud groan, spiraling itself into a swirl of steps. He climbs it slowly, ignoring the babbling of the portraits lining the walls, until he reaches the office—as always in a state of disarray. Through the mess, he makes out the pile of jewel toned robes and streaks of silver hair dancing in the candlelight.
“Headmaster,” Remus called gently, as to not startle him, “you sent for me?”
Slowly, the older man turns to face him, a look of warmth crossing his features, “now, now, Mr. Lupin, in all my years of knowing you, when have you ever called me Headmaster?” He teases.
Remus flushes pink, shaking his head in embarrassment. Ever since becoming Head Boy he’s done his best to maintain a more professional demeanor around his professors. However, it seems no title could shake the years of being associated with the biggest mischief-makers to ever roam Hogwarts’ halls.
“Right—sorry, Dumbledore.” He corrects shyly.
A jovial grin breaks out on the old man’s face as he flicks his wand to float some papers off a nearby chair. “That’s more like it, my boy, now come join me, would you?”
Remus settled himself into the old wooden thing, ignoring the loud creak as he did so. Leaning forward, he snags a Bertie Botts Bean from the crystal dish, popping it in his mouth.
“Odette not joining us?” He asks, doing his best not to pull a face as the taste of mown grass danced along his tongue.
Odette Harkness was a seventh year Ravenclaw and was named Head alongside him. Their partnership was a bit untraditional compared to past ones.
When Remus was named Head Boy, while all his friends were happy for him, they were a bit put out to think they wouldn’t all be spending their final year in the same dorm. And honestly—he had been upset about it too. Sirius had insisted he write to Dumbledore asking to make an exception, Remus refused not wanting to come off as ungrateful.
And Sirius—tactless and wonderful, Sirius—wrote to the old man himself, a surprise to no one.
He insisted it was for the betterment of his friend, in relation to what he had so affectionately dubbed his, ‘furry problem.’
To his relief and Sirius’ elation, Dumbledore agreed, seeing how his friends had gotten him through dozens of full moons over the years.
When he told Odette he would remain in Gryffindor Tower, he was worried she would be upset—ask questions he could not adequately answer. However, she did not seem put out by the revelation—not in the slightest. She seemed to care so little, it was almost offensive.
He supposes he shouldn’t have been too shocked, they barely spoke as is and he reckons that even if he lived in the Heads dorm, things would be relatively the same.
To put it mildly: Odette Harkness was a control freak.
Even when Remus tried to do things—outline meeting agendas, organize the prefects rota, even something as simple as tallying house points—she refused him.
And on the rare, and he means, rare, occasion she accepts his help, she would ‘politely correct,’ just about everything he wrote down.
“Just you today.” Dumbledore began, tone shifting, “I need your help with a delicate situation.”
Remus straightened his shoulders, his brow lifting with curiosity as he leaned over the desk, beckoning the man on.
Casually, the Headmaster glances at the large clock on his wall, “within the next few minutes Professor McGonagall will be arriving in her office with a new student, whom I wish for you to escort on a tour of the grounds.”
Remus blinked dumbly at the Headmaster, slack jawed and confused. Both at his words and his seemingly nonchalantness about their implications.
While it was rare, it was not unheard of for Hogwarts to get a transfer student every now and again. Traditionally, lower-year wizards or witches from Beauxbatons or Ilvermorny or some place or another. Though Remus cannot recall an instance of this in his seven years of schooling—he knows it to happen on occasion.
What he has not heard of is a transfer student after the term has begun.
Being late into September—practically October, may not seem like a lot, only a few weeks, really. But as a first-year student, it is within those precious first weeks you get sorted into your house, become acquainted with the grounds—each other, with magic as a whole—he can not imagine him at eleven years old being thrust into such a world, a month behind everyone else.
Dumbledore just sits patiently, watching Remus work out the confusion on his own as he scrunches and re-scrunches his brow several times, mouth continuously flopping like a fish.
“I—I,” he starts before expelling a deep breath as a way to collect his thoughts. “What about the train? Or the Sorting Ceremony? Or the Welcome Feast?”
Though it’s not what he wished to say, it’s all he could come up with. Surely a man as smart as Dumbledore understands the implications behind his words: Howcould a child be robbed of such fundamental magical experiences?
And a man as smart as Dumbledore, hears exactly that.
Yet he chooses to ignore it.
“A private Sorting Ceremony was held, a Gryffindor, if you can imagine.” He tells Remus, eyes twinkling with something he can’t quite place.
And he can’t imagine it—not really, anyway.
A quiet room, nothing but that old babbling hat sitting on your head, filling the silence.
No cheers to follow the announcement of your house placement.
No corner of the room to run to and meet your new housemates.
He remembers his Sorting Ceremony like it was yesterday. The nerves, the adrenaline—the excitement to follow.
He remembers Marlene—older, brighter, warm—welcoming him with open arms.
He’ll never forget ending up squished between Sirius and James, offering Peter a spot not long after.
It’s a moment ingrained in him—a moment that altered the entire course of his life.
He shakes his head, as if to tuck the memory back, he supposed there’s no use dwelling on what this kid will never have. He knows better than most, wanting what you can’t have just makes things harder.
“I suppose it may beneficial to pull a first-year from lessons to join, make things more comfortable, perhaps Tommy Robbins, or—”
Dumbledore abruptly cuts off his rambling, “the student is not a first-year nor is she a transfer, Remus.”
And—What the fuck.
What in the bloody fuck is this man going on about? He’s finally lost it, hasn’t he?
Transfer student—unusual.
Transfer student month into term—unheard of.
Transfer student a month into term and not a first-year—Impossible.
“I don’t understand.” It’s all he can manage—all he can bloody think of.
“The student enrolling will be a seventh-year, just as you are. Previously having undergone a Muggle education.”
It’s a test, Remus deduces.
Some ruddy test the old man has cooked up because he knows he’s been skeeving off duties.
Okay—not skeeving off, per-se, just not as hands-on as he should be.
“This is not a trick, Remus.” Dumbledore says softly, as if he’s reading his mind.
Probably is.
“I will admit the situation is most unusual for me as well, but the young lady is a witch, of that I am sure. Received a letter just as you and all your classmates did. Just a bit…” he pauses thoughtfully, as he scratches at his beard, “delayed.” He decides.
“Delayed? ” Remus repeats incredulously, “did the owl get bloody lost for seven years? Seven years without magic—seven years of not knowing?” He cannot even find it in himself to care about swearing in-front of the most esteemed wizard in the world right now.
“Remus,” he says seriously, leaning forward, palms flat on the desk, “I understand you are confused, I admit I was as well, but just imagine how she is feeling right now.” He points out gently.
And honestly, Remus can’t—he really and truly cannot begin to fathom what might be going through her head.
He feels his heart tighten a little at the thought. Tries to imagine himself, growing up, changing into a wolf every month alone. No Peter, no James—no, Sirius.
He clenches his eyes shut, the idea too painful to conceive.
“How?” He says instead, “how does something like this even happen?”
Dumbledore takes a large breath, leaning back to place his hands in his lap, “a horrible miscommunication. A lot of ministry jargon, an investigation into its owlery, the kind of thing both you and I do not know enough about.” He sighs, “an invitation left unseen. Magic left unchecked.”
And Remus finds his answer odd—well, he finds this whole situation odd.
But something Dumbledore doesn’t know?
Odd.
“Seven years of miscommunication? Seven years of untapped magic? Of confusion—of loss?”
He thinks of his first show of magic. It manifested during a nasty cold when he was barely four years old. Every time young Remus sneezed, the lights in his house would spark.
Even today, thirteen years later, he can remember his confusion, but even more so, he remembers his parent’s excitement. The beaming smiles on their faces. The tearful pride in their eyes.
Having prior knowledge within the magical world they knew instantly—their son was a wizard.
And after that, everything suddenly became clearer. He grew up, his magic with him, part of him. He remembers how it synced up with his body, changed alongside him.
How Hogwarts helped him hone those feelings—understand them.
He can’t begin to imagine what this girl felt growing up.
Alone. Confused. Ostracized. Different. Misunderstood.
He supposes he knows a thing or two about that.
Dumbledore looks saddened by his words, as if he hears its undertones, “when a student receives their Hogwarts invitation, while it is addressed to them, the owl is sent to their place of residence. The magic in the envelopes has links to whomever may be on the deed where that child resides.” He starts to explain, “though unusual, sometimes parents will dismiss the letter or leave it until a later date. However, for unseen reasons that we did not become aware of until recently—Miss Evans nor her parents ever saw this letter. It wasn’t until at the end of last term did a change in her family home's deed re-trigger the invitation. An unusual manner the Ministry is investigating.”
Remus hears him, trying to process what he’s saying. Trying to imagine how one ruddy mistake done by one owl or one Ministry official could alter the course of someone’s entire life.
And a seventh-year—six years gone, for what, one year back?
“A seventh-year,” he whispers to himself, “how can you even catch up?”
“Miss Evans is a most exceptional young lady, studied all summer under Professor McGonagall and myself. Took her OWLs in July, passed with flying colors. All Outstandings. She is very proficient in charms and potions, dare I say she’d perform circles around this year’s class.” There’s pride laced in his tone, Remus would be a fool not to be impressed himself.
He continues wistfully, “She is constantly looking to learn who she is— what she can be —I thought it only fair to give her the chance every other student at Hogwarts gets. No matter how late it may be.” His voice drops, nearly a whisper, “There is something about her, captivating, really, you’ll see once you meet her.”
And he could stay here all day—all week, probably—and think about this situation.
About how unusual and unfair and confusing it all is, but like the old man said, if he’s confused, well, Remus cannot begin to fathom how she feels.
“Alright.” He breathes, voice eerily calm, contradicting the storm in his head.
He expects them to get up, to make way to McGonagall’s office in relative silence.
But Dumbledore remains seated.
Slowly, he places his palms back on his desk, leaning forward thoughtfully, peering at Remus with gentle eyes through the lenses of his small glasses.
“Miss Evans has not been dealt the easiest cards in life,” he begins, voice low and serious, “neither have you.” He says, voice softening, “I did not just ask this of you because you’re Head Boy or because you’re a Gryffindor, Remus. I ask this of you, because you know just as well as anyone how it feels to be different and how to overcome adversity in face of those differences.”
He thinks of the full moon. The way his bones snap under it. How he grows into something gruesome and terrible in its light.
He thinks of his friends.
James, Peter, Sirius.
Prongs, Wormtail, Padfoot.
He’s reminded of the support McGonagall gave him. He remembers Dumbledore swearing Snape to secrecy.
He thinks that despite it all, he still fits. His edges may be jagged and disfigured, but Hogwarts has helped carve a place for him.
He reckons, everyone deserves to feel that, so yeah, he’ll try his damned hardest to do the same for this girl.
It’s the very least the world owes to her, anyway.
“I understand, Headmaster.” He says, deadly serious, a spark of something twinging under the surface—determination, perhaps.
Seemingly satisfied, Dumbledore stands from his desk, beckoning Remus up with a wave of his hand.
“Come, Professor McGonagall should be arriving with Miss Evans at any moment.”
Lily stumbled to find her footing in the gaping fireplace. Magical travel felt strange—like being pulled and stretched through a narrow tunnel.
Stepping from its mouth, she begins to frantically wipe at the floo powder clinging to her new robes before it all vanishes in an instant.
She looks up to find a wand pointed her way, McGonagall's kind blue eyes peeking from its other end.
“Oh right.” Lily sighs, feeling stupid for forgetting that she can do things like cleaning charms now.
She’s read an entire library worth charms alone but doing them in practice is a completely different thing.
Impostor syndrome, she can practically hear Petunia sneering at her, as if she’s right next to her. Echos of freak ringing in her ears and gnawing at her brain, too.
Thankfully, her discomfort does not seem to have manifested outwardly, as McGonagall turns to the door.
“Come now, dear, the Headmaster has arranged for our Head Boy—a Gryffindor, like yourself—to give you a tour of the grounds.”
And suddenly, all her nerves, all the anxiety, the feeling of being someone she’s not, comes bubbling back tenfold. It coils in her stomach, wrapping itself around her insides and clenches—tight.
Because now it’s real. She’s here and there is no going back.
Nowhere to go back to.
‘A Gryffindor, like yourself.’
It still feels surreal, even after all these weeks.
She remembers that day in Minerva’s living room as if it happened only moments ago.
A brown tattered—talking—hat slipped over her red hair as it contemplated where she belonged.
The ancient thing whispered, muttered and mused, weighing who she was, what she could be. It went on babbling for eight painful minutes, warranting concerned looks from both Dumbledore and Minerva. Whisperings about logic, loyalty and goals. Mutterings about her importance. Notes of the strangeness of the entire situation, until the old thing yelled one word.
‘Gryffindor!’
Before shutting its eyes and being plucked off her head in silence.
She feels just as confused about it right now, as she did then—probably even more so.
And it’s ironic really, of this whole experience—this whole impossible, otherworldly ordeal—the thing she has the most trouble with is not being told she’s a witch.
No—it’s being told she is brave.
She remembers the descriptions in Hogwarts: A History , a book she’s already skimmed a dozen times.
Slytherin: Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends.
Hufflepuff: Where they are just and loyal.
Ravenclaw: Those of wit and learning.
Gryffindor: Where dwell the brave at heart.
Brave —She is anything but.
She remembers protesting, asking for the hat back, but was dismissed by the proud and knowing smiles of the two adults. Like they knew something she did not.
And right now, she is feeling like everything, but a Gryffindor.
What would this Head Boy see when he looks at her?—a girl too Muggle to be a witch? Too witchy to be a Muggle?
She can’t remember ever fitting in anywhere. Maybe at some point with Petunia, long before they really grew up. Long before her bouts of magic truly came out.
Any nice memories with her sister seem to be forgotten now. Any moment they’ve ever had together will forever be tarnished by the last time she saw her. The last time they spoke—the last time they’ll ever speak.
She can still feel the wetness and rush of tears running down her cheeks. The numbness weighing down her limbs. The shake of her hands. The black inky ribbon, a dark contrast woven into her vibrant strands.
‘Cursed,’ Petunia spat at her, sharp and accusing. ‘I always knew you were cursed.’
“Professor,” Lily says abruptly, stopping in her tracks and causing the woman to turn to her.
Her face softens at the evident hesitation and fear crossing the girl's features. “I told you, Lily, you have no need to be so formal with me when we are alone. After all, you are the first student to have met my cats.” She says in an attempt to coax a smile from her—this young, resilient, woman whom she’s grown so fond of.
Lily tries her best to return it, but it feels impossible through the wobble of her lips, “this boy—the Head Boy,” she corrects, “how much does he know about me? About what’s happened?” She asks, voice a wavering whisper.
“Lily,” the older woman begins softly, stepping forward to adjust the crimson ribbon in her hair with a gentle caress, “it is what you choose. Neither of us are naive enough to ignore the fact that they will see that you are new, they will have questions, but beyond that, the rest is yours to reveal.”
Her weathered hands work their way down the younger girl's waves as she straightens a few unruly pieces with her fingers. The action calms Lily considerably, as she nods beneath her palms.
“Remus is a kind young man. I promise you, there is no one better to help you settle in.”
With another nod, Lily takes a deep breath, calming herself, but seemingly still avoiding Minerva’s eyes. Suddenly, she feels her two hands pressed to her cheeks, lifting her chin so their eyes meet.
“Nothing to lose?” The old woman whispers gently.
Lily looks at the softness in her eyes, the true tenderness behind them. Slowly, it warms parts of her she never thought she would feel again.
“Nothing to lose.” She repeats, more sure, her glittering eyes betraying her confidence.
A bright smile crosses the other woman’s face as she gives Lily one last squeeze before opening the door to the corridor.
And nothing could prepare Lily for what she sees next.
Flagstone stretching beneath her shoes. The intricately carved arches lining the halls. The delicately woven tapestries. The bustling portraits, alive with activity. Through the stained glass windows, endless rolling hills of green, a lake catching the sun in all the right places. The shifting of colors in the leaves.
No books with illustrations or descriptions of the castle can truly capture the feeling, it is just simply—magical.
Her gut pangs a little at the thought of being robbed of such a place for so long, but it is soon quelled down by the pure wonder she feels at the sight. She’s practically bouncing with anticipation of what else there is—feeling a glimmer of excitement for the first time in months.
The brief elation is soon squashed by the sound of shoes clacking against the stones. She turns swiftly, met with the sight of Dumbledore accompanied by an unknown figure—the Head Boy, Remus—she assumes.
Crossing her arms around her chest, she shrinks her shoulders, becoming as small as possible.
As they come closer, she takes a look at the boy, he’s dressed in the same vein as her, crimson and gold tie, collared shirt tucked beneath the sweater—though he wears it more comfortably, proudly.
He’s tall—lanky, if she’s being honest. His hair is light brown, almost blonde as it reflects shades of gold beneath the winks of sunlight. He has scars faded and sunken across his face, but he’s still handsome, with a long nose, eyes a mix of greens and browns.
His hands are shoved in his pockets, but something about him is still inviting—unlike how Lily stands, folded into herself. As he comes closer, she can see a smile slip onto his face. It’s warm. Genuine.
Before she can even realize, her body uncoils a bit, shoulders easing ever so slightly.
And Remus—well, he thinks he knows what Dumbledore meant, there’s something about her. Something he can’t quite place, but there’s something there.
Beneath the protectiveness of the way her arms are wound around her middle, past the sadness evident in her emerald eyes, he sees something—something clawing its way to the surface, but something she has not quite found yet.
“Miss Evans,” Dumbledore says first with a warm expression, “I trust your travel was good?” He asks.
Her lips pull into a thin line, a weak attempt at a smile, as she bobs her head to the older man.
“Lily,” McGonagall begins.
Lily, Remus thinks.
And he can’t place why, but it fits her—it really does.
“This is our head boy, Remus Lupin,” McGonagall introduces, “Mr. Lupin, this is Miss Lily Evans.”
Remus makes the first move, stepping forward and extending his hand to her, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Lily.” He says sincerely.
Slowly, Lily lifts her own hand to grasp his palm, giving it a gentle shake.
“You too.” Is all she manages, voice quieter than usual, before pulling it away and returning it to its nook in her other elbow, pulled taught across her abdomen.
Sensing Lily’s discomfort, McGonagall steps in, “Mr. Lupin is most capable of giving you your tour. You two best be on the way now,” she begins, placing her hand on Remus’ back, turning him to the opposite end of the corridor, “bring Miss Evans back to my office when you’re done, yes?”
Though it was posed as a question, it doesn’t sound as much, nevertheless, Remus responds dutifully, “sure thing.”
“All right then,” McGonagall now grabs at Lily beckoning her in the same direction with a gentle hand pressed to her spine, “off the two of you go.”
Slowly and hesitantly, Lily falls into step behind him, just as he is about to suggest taking her to the classroom's corridor, Dumbledore’s voice echoes off the walls.
“Lily,” he calls after them gently.
Both she and Lupin turn to the older man, a smile striking his face. One of those ones they’ve both come to expect from him.
The kind of expression he gives when he knows something you don’t—not quite smug, but something else.
Something sacred.
His eyes dance knowingly under the shifting colors of the stained glass windows.
“Welcome to Hogwarts.”
And just like that, he’s gone in a flurry of robes.
Remus thinks—hopes—the tour is going well.
Lily is quiet which he would be more concerned about had he not noticed the absolute awe in her eyes. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone look so enchanted at the sight of the bathroom in his life.
Luckily, still being early on a Saturday morning, the halls are mostly empty. The occasional student trekking to the library, a few younger Hufflepuff’s passing swiftly in their Quidditch robes.
No one spares them a second glance, no Slytherin’s either—a relief for both his and Lily’s sake.
He can’t help but wonder if she knows about what’s lurking outside Hogwarts. All the unexplained deaths, the prejudice against Muggle-borns.
It makes his stomach turnover, his gut clenching at the thought. A part of him—deep and hidden away—curses Dumbledore for so selfishly bringing her here at a time like this, but he knows not doing anything at all would have been even worse.
The thought is awful, the worst he’s had all day, he thinks—quickly, he shakes his head, willing it from his brain. Instead, he asks her what her lessons schedule is and tries to stamp down the surprise at the amount of NEWTs she’s taking. The fact was indisputable, Dumbledore really was not playing up how brilliant she was.
He shows her each classroom, allowing her the time to revel in each space. Letting her glance at the leftover chalk on the boards or marvel at the discarded ingredients in the potions lab.
He takes her to the library—listens to her audibly gasp as the books float by and tuck themselves into the shelf. He teaches her the password to the common room, introduces her to the fat-lady, both of them ignoring her invasive questions. Remus is quick to assure that she’s like that with everyone—which is the absolute truth.
Afterwards, he brings her outside. Shows her the Quidditch pitch, lets her stare in wonder at the brooms whizzing by. He guides her toward Black Lake, spouting tales about the giant squid when she gets too close to its edge. He points out Hagrid’s Hut, boasting about the gentle giant. Before going back inside, he uncomfortably warns her about the forbidden forest, knowing all too well the danger that lurks inside of it.
She asks a few questions every now and again, simple things like, which lessons he’s taking, which are his favorites.
He answers enthusiastically, she never supplies more than a nod or one word response, but he can see the sincerity behind her eyes—hidden beneath sadness, cloaked by amazement.
“Over here, this is the Great Hall,” he says, stopping in front of the pair of grand doors, “here’s where you’ll eat all your meals, where we have all the feasts, too” He points out.
“Feasts?” She inquires, intrigued. The idea was odd to her—she was, after all, a poor girl from Cokeworth. The closest they got to a feast was a small turkey at Christmas.
He nods, “sure, all the holiday feasts. Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter.” He counts off on his fingers, “and of course the Welcome Feast, Sorting Ceremony and all that, the End of Term Feast.” He says without much thought.
Suddenly, her seemingly impassive face drops, she works quickly to tug her lip between her teeth anxiously.
Remus grimaces—catching his mistake.
Welcome Feast. Sorting Ceremony.
He isn’t particularly sure how to address it, does he apologize? Pretend it never happened?
He’s not sure which is worse. Maybe if he—
She decides for him, voice breaking the tense silence.
“How long does the Sorting Ceremony normally take?” She asks in a rush, tone octaves higher than it’s been the entire morning.
“Sorry?” He asks, caught off guard.
She flushes a deep pink, eyes trained on her shoes as she speaks, the most she’s said since arriving, “it’s just—” she begins quietly, “my Sorting Ceremony, it took nearly ten minutes, is that—is that normal?” At her question, she peers up at him through her curtain of hair. Her arms begin to tighten around her stomach. She looks almost scared.
He sighs, heart pulling at her question. He hears what she’s asking, even though she won’t say it.
Do I deserve to be here?
“It’s different for everyone.” He tells her, deciding to spare her the details that he’s never once seen the hat on someone’s head for more than four minutes.
Almost ten minutes is surely not normal, but nothing about any of this is.
Lily’s eyes shift back to the stone, brilliant as she is, she must understand what he means.
“Look,” he begins, dropping the indifference, “it really is different for everyone. Sat on one of my mates head for no more than ten seconds before he was named Gryffindor.” he begins, remembering young James Potter, all those years ago, “another one of my mates—the hat could barely touch him before he was sorted into Gryffindor. Even though he was the first from centuries of Slytherin’s.”
This seems to grab her attention. The unusualness of it all. Something for her to grasp—to help justify her own experience.
“For me and my mate Peter, it went back and forth. Tried to sort me into Hufflepuff for a good two minutes. Tried to put Pete into Slytherin before switching at the last moment.”
She stares at him for a moment, contemplating what she really wants to say—not knowing if she’s ready for those answers.
“Does it ever get it wrong?” She whispers.
Remus has to strain his ears to hear her, tilting his head toward her.
“The hat—does it ever get it wrong?” Lily asks louder, voice shaking under the weight of the question.
“Lily,” he sighs softly, stepping closer to get her attention.
And he won’t answer that—can’t answer that—because he doesn’t know for sure.
But he does know one thing.
“If you’re thinking you shouldn’t be in Gryffindor, you’re wrong. The sorting hat got it right for you.” He says with finality.
Her head snaps up at his words, endless waves of red hair bobbing at the movement. Her crimson ribbon swishing behind her head like it’s suddenly got a mind of its own.
“How can you be so sure?” She asks, eyes slanted, a spark of something behind her expression.
Lily may be a lot of things—lost, alone—but she will not be placated.
How can this boy be so sure after just an hour together?
“Because coming here, after all this time—I think that’s just about the bravest thing I’ve ever heard.” He says with complete sincerity.
And for the first time in what feels like forever—she feels a smile stretch across her face. It’s not something forced or shaken.
It’s real. Small—but so real.
Remus watches as her green eyes soften considerably with gratitude.
“Thank you, Remus.” She says quietly.
He shakes his head at her, smiling back.
“Now come on,” he beckons with a tilt of his head, “let me show you the inside.”
He moves to open the door, holding the heavy thing for her to pass through. As soon as she steps inside, the loud chatter hits her, causing her to recoil. In her efforts, she stumbles clumsily into Remus’ chest, his shoes skidding loudly on the stone.
Heads begin to turn their way from all directions. Lily moves back, shrinking behind Remus. His six feet easily shielding her five-foot-two figure from prying eyes, though her vibrant hair is poorly concealed as he makes a move toward the Gryffindor table.
“Moony!” A voice familiar to Remus booms from across the hall.
He cringes on Lily’s behalf as any eyes not previously on the pair seem to find them.
“Sorry,” he winces sincerely, “I thought my mates would still be in our room.” He explains.
She shakes her head but edges closer to the door, whispering, “It’s okay.”
Remus glares at Sirius from across the way, causing his friend to throw his hands up in mock indignation, before waving a hand for him to come over.
And Remus knows Sirius—knows him well enough that if they don’t make their way over there within the next thirty seconds it will be wayworse for Lily later.
“Come meet my mates?” He pleads with her gently.
Her eyes flash with uncertainty, “come on,” he encourages, “I promise they’re nice, plus they’re all Gryffindor’s too. You’re bound to meet them sooner or later.”
She peers from around Remus, only able to make out two figures. A round-faced boy with blonde hair, shoveling food down his throat and the boy with dark chin length hair—the one who waved them over, looking as if he’s ready to leap from the bench and drag them over there himself.
That would certainly gather way more attention than Lily would like.
Weighing her options, she hesitantly nods to Remus. He expels a breath of relief, visibly relaxing at her choice—reaffirming her decision.
They make their way down the row of tables, Lily’s eyes fixed on Remus’ feet, trailing after him. And if her red hair alone hadn’t drawn enough attention—her clothing made her stick out like a sore thumb. She silently cursed McGonagall for making her wear this uniform whereas everyone else was dressed casually in jeans and sweaters.
Instinctively, one of her hands reaches to the center of her chest, clutching at the gold chain through the fabric of her blouse.
As they near, the figures become more clear. The one excitedly waving on Remus with wavy black hair and piercing gray eyes—handsome, in a sort of rugged way. The other boy has small, watery eyes and a pointed nose, a stark contrast to his round features.
She looks away abruptly when the gray eyes catch her own, as a grin splits his face.
Remus stops behind a third figure, his back facing her. Affectionately, he claps a hand on his shoulder—broadshoulder, she can’t help but note.
“Prongs.” She hears Remus greet one of them—which one, she isn’t sure—affectionately.
The familiarity makes her recoil further—solidifying how out of place she is. Slowly, she tucks herself more securely behind Remus’ back.
“Moony!” the one with the gray eyes exclaims with mischief, “and company.” He adds.
Despite being concealed by Remus’ frame, guarded by her curtain of red hair—she could feel his gaze piercing her, sharp and unrelenting.
Unbeknownst to her, Remus is mouthing something to Sirius, fixing him with a glare.
And Sirius—doesn’t care. Instead, he stands from his seat, opening his arms with an exaggerated flourish, silently beckoning Remus to introduce her before he takes matters into his own hands.
They stare at each other for a few moments, having a silent conversation with their eyes. And Remus knows Sirius well enough to know when to give in. With a shake of his head and a deep breath, he complies—though the tilt of his lips betrays his thinly veiled annoyance.
Smiling smugly to himself, Sirius proudly plops back down. James chuckles quietly at their antics, unable to draw his gaze from Sirius’ ridiculousness to whatever's got him so worked up.
Remus takes a final breath, before stepping aside and revealing Lily.
“These are my mates,” he begins.
At this, James finally swivels around to catch sight of what’s got Remus out of bed so early and Sirius so interested.
And he feels the room go still.
The chatter becomes a dull monotonous hum, his fork clatters to his plate, his breath leaves his body.
He remembers his Dad telling him about the first time he saw his Mum. About how it was one of the moments you only read about in stories.
To which James would snarkily retort—I don’t read romances.
His father would always tut at him and go on to explain how it was one of those moments you get once in your lifetime. The kind of thing that when it happens—you just know, your whole life is about to change.
His Mum always blushed like mad at his Dad’s words. James would roll his eyes, vehemently thinking such moments don’t exist.
Until right now.
Behind him has got to be the most breathtaking girl he’s ever seen. Endless waves of copper and auburn flowing down her back, hanging just above her waist. A crimson ribbon tied into a loopy bow, falling neatly in place with the rest of her hair.
She’s small—he reckons if he stood up right now, he’d have an entire foot and them some on her. But she’s even smaller with the way she’s curled into herself, like she’s unsure. Out of place.
Through her veil of hair he makes out her porcelain skin, pale and smooth. Her cheeks, though a little sunken, are tinged the prettiest shade of pink. Her nose is upturned, pert, buttonish—it’s a little adorable.
And he had no bloody idea he could even think so much about a nose.
But her eyes—Merlin, her eyes—framed by dark wispy lashes. And well, he thinks it’s the first time he can ever remember finding the color green beautiful.
Not just green—emerald, rimmed with the color of the pine trees—hunter green—like the ones in the forbidden forest. Just barely, he makes out flecks of sea foam shining as she shifts under the morning sun.
And when the fuck did he learn so many shades of green?
But it’s not her outward beauty—no, it’s something else too. Something he can’t quite place.
There’s a sadness behind her eyes, a sallow beneath her blush, but he sees past it. He sees something deeper.
A flicker of something bubbling beneath the surface. The fanning of flames waiting to be sparked within her. Something stagnant waiting to be awakened.
He feels drawn to her.
He doesn’t understand it.
But Merlin, he wants to.
He watches as she slowly lifts her head, the curve of her jaw—somehow both soft and delicate—as she faces Sirius and Peter.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Remus’ mouth moving, but is unable to make out a word he’s saying. In his periphery, he sees Sirius batting his hand at her wildly. He watches intently as she slowly lifts her much smaller one up in a hesitant greeting.
All the sudden all eyes shift to his—her eyes shift to his.
And he stares into them and he’s so fucked. Merlin, he knows he’s in so much—
“—Trouble.” He breathes out before he can help himself.
Remus looks a bit perplexed, as does the girl beside him, or maybe she doesn’t. He has no idea. His brain is really not functioning properly because she’s staring right at him and—
Thankfully, Sirius jumps in, “yes, Prongs, you’re trouble, but his real name is James.”
“Right,” Remus says, looking worriedly between James and Lily. The latter who seemingly can't break the gaze either.
Lily wanted to look away—she really, really did. But for whatever reason she couldn’t.
James—as Sirius corrected, was undeniably handsome. Broad shoulders, muscles poorly concealed by his worn burgundy jumper.
Even sitting, she could tell he was tall, nearly eye-level with her upright. He had a strong jaw too, a thin face and thin nose to match. His hair was unruly, yet tousled in a way that almost feels intentional. It seemed an endless twist of dark curls, one lying purposefully across his forehead, skimming his neat eyebrows.
His eyes—a brilliant mix of golds, browns and greens—are framed by wiry glasses resting at the end of his nose.
But it wasn’t just his eyes—but how they were looking at her.
She felt naked, under his gaze. Like he was looking past what she presented. Like he could see past her act of pretending to be okay and saw something much deeper, something she barely understood herself.
She wanted to shy away, to shrink back into herself like she had so many times before, but for whatever reason she can’t.
“Like I was saying, these are my mates, Peter Pettigrew, Sirius Black—”
Her head snaps back at this, the one word grabbing her attention.
“Black?” She repeats before she can help it, having to will herself not to slap her hands over her mouth at the outburst.
She feels her throat tighten a bit and her hand begins to shake from where it's clutched at her chest.
She recognizes the name. She remembers it from when she read about the Sacred Twenty-Eight Wizarding family—families of ‘true and untainted pureblooded descent.’
The implications weren’t lost on her when she learned about it. Lily wonders what Sirius Black will think when he discovers she’s a sham of a witch.
“That’s right, dear, like the color.” He winks at her.
Remus ignores him, turning straight back to James, “and James Potter.” He finishes.
Even Remus speaking his name doesn’t break whatever spell she’s got on him.
“This is Lily Evans,”
Lily—James thinks, mulling it over in his head. Imagining the syllables on his tongue. It suits her, he decides quickly. A pretty name for a pretty girl
“She’s new.” Remus adds.
At the latter part of the sentence, Lily snaps her gaze back to her shoes in embarrassment.
Unbeknownst to her, Sirius smiles and goes to say something before Remus cuts him off with a firm no-nonsense look.
“Well take a seat, won’t you Evans?”
Remus mouths a ‘stop,’ to Sirius.
Sirius rolls his eyes, “no need to flash your badge there, Head Boy.”
Remus ignores his quip, a well mastered art. “We really should be meeting McGonagall—”
Surprising both Remus and herself, Lily shakes her head, “sure.” She responds quietly.
Like Remus said—this was bound to happen eventually.
Remus doesn’t move, surprised at her agreeableness, until Sirius smiles victoriously.
“Budge over, Prongs.” Sirius instructs a dazed James, who listlessly slides down.
Lily delicately folds into the bench, long hair brushing James’ arm as she settles.
It makes him shiver, causing him to inhale shakily.
He catches her scent—Lavender. Lemon. Parchment.
A sweet kind of torture.
“So, Evans,” Sirius starts, leaning forward with a wolfish grin, “Hogwarts, eh? And a month into term no less.”
Lilly’s hands curl into themselves, fingers pressing moon shaped indents into her palms harshly. Her eyes fix on a particularly interestingly swirled pattern of grained wood on the tabletop.
And, Remus—Remus is going to kill Sirius.
“Tell me, where was your last school?” He asks next.
“Abington.” She says tightly, though James is entranced, finds her voice sweet, melodic. As lovely as the rest of her.
He wonders if she’s part Veela—yes, that must be it. Yet, Sirius, Peter, and Remus seem unaffected.
What in the bloody hell is happening?
“Abington,” Sirius repeats curiously, tearing a piece of bacon with his teeth, “never heard of it.” He says through bites.
And James never has either, he thinks. He honestly can’t be too sure, he isn’t even sure his brain is working properly at the moment.
Confundus charm—yeah, that makes much more sense.
“Close your mouth.” Remus chides, breaking the heavy silence.
Sirius cocks his brow and before Remus can control it, a smile tugs at his lips.
Soon, he tears his gaze from his friend, returning his gray-eyes to Lily. “Where abouts is it?” He asks next.
She shifts uncomfortably. “Dudley, the Midlands, just outside of Cokeworth—”
“Mr. Lupin!” The shrill voice of Minerva McGonagall rings loudly from across the hall.
Lily’s shoulders unfurl. Remus grimaces. Sirius smiles—glad it’s not his name being called, for once.
“Oh, Merlin.” Peter mutters under his breath, ducking his head in fear.
“Professor McGonagall.” He says, putting on his best Head Boy voice, eliciting chuckles from the pair seated across him.
“Did I or did I not instruct you to return to my office?” She asks, brow cocked, eyes narrowed to slits beneath her lenses.
“Yes, but—”
“It’s my fault really, Professor,” Lily steps in, sensing Remus’ discomfort, turning to face her.
James watches the exchange closely. Lily seems more at ease since she came in. He also does not fail to notice Minnie’s eyes softening considerably as they land on Lily’s.
Okay, cheers—she’s clearly affected, too. Maybe I’m not barmy.
“Remus was showing me the Great Hall, his friends waved him over. They asked if we wanted to sit down and I accepted.” She explains hurriedly.
“Oh.” Is all McGonagall says, “alright then.”
Sirius balks at her conceding so easily—how did this girl manage to wear the old bat down in one day, when he’s been at it for years?
“Why don’t you go ahead to my office?” She directs to Lily, “We have some matters to discuss. I just need to speak with Dumbledore first. Do you remember how to get there?” She asks softly.
Lily goes to agree but thinks better of it. She’d rather be embarrassed now than lost in the castle later. Bashfully she shakes her head.
James—whose brain seems to have finally done some catching up to his body, thinks to offer to show her the way, when McGonagall beats him to it.
“Wait for me outside. I’ll just be a moment.” She says first, causing James to silently scowl.
Lily nods, standing from the bench, head drawn down.
“I’ll catch up with you later, yeah Lily?” Remus asks softly.
“Sure, thank you for the tour, Remus.” She responds in kind, “bye.” She whispers before scampering off.
James’ eyes follow her form all the way until she disappears through the door. “Bye, Trouble.” He whispers lowly.
Remus eyes James suspiciously, whilst Sirius eyes McGonagall in much of the same vein.
“Don't you need to catch up with Dumbles?” Sirius questions the old woman, as he leans back casually onto the bench.
“You boys listen to me and you listen to me good,” McGonagall begins, tone deadly, wiping the grin from Sirius’ face instantly.
Peter gulps as Sirius tries to remember if they’ve done anything wrong this past week she’d know about. James’ eyes go wide at her shift in demeanor and Remus—Remus anticipated this.
“You leave that girl alone. No pranks. No games. No tricks. Things are different for her. Do not make this any harder for her than it already is.” Her sternness leaves no room for argument, an impressive feat given her crowd.
And in all the years at Hogwarts, through all the pranks and jokes—even after the incident, fifth year—James doesn’t think he’s ever been as frightened of her as he is in this moment.
“Do I make myself clear?” She asks, leaning forward, taking the time to stare at each of them through her small glasses.
They all nod, instantly.
“Very well then.” She says straightening up, glad her tone had its desired effect. “Mr. Lupin, come see me later.”
And with a swish of her velvet green robes, she’s gone.
As soon as disappears through the doors, Sirius loosens considerably, “oh what is she on about now? We haven’t even done anything! All I said—”
“She’s right.” Remus cuts him off, tone just as serious as McGonagall's rattling his friends to their core. Remus only gets like this when it’s about his furry problem, “things are different for Lily, she doesn’t need us making things any worse.” He tells Sirius with a pointed look.
“How do you mean?” James can’t help but jump in, desperate to learn anything about her.
Remus sighs, raising a hand to scratch at the back of his neck, a nervous habit, “there’s a reason you didn’t recognize the name of her last school.” He says, eyes still trained on Sirius.
James leaned in curiously, trying to follow where this would go.
“Because I don’t spend my free time learning the names of every bloody magical school in Europe?” Sirius retorts, crossing his arms.
Remus rolls his eyes, then fixes them into a glare, “because it wasn't the name of a magic school.”
Sirius’ face drops. James is in disbelief. Peter is confused.
“So she lied?” Peter asked partially uncertain, the other half desperate to break the tense silence.
“No.” James is quick to defend, despite not knowing the truth himself, the action feels natural.
Thankfully, Remus doesn’t comment on his outburst, just assuming he deduced it on his own.
“She was raised a muggle.” Remus confirms.
His first thought is—fucking brilliant, she is, but the swell of pride is short lived and soon transforms into something else entirely.
Something constricts inside James. A stifling pang in his chest at the thought. He has no issues with Muggles—the opposite, honestly. But the thought of himself, any of his friends or classmates—of Lily—navigating being magical alone, he can’t begin to even fathom such a thing.
Even as a pureblood growing up in a magical family, he remembers how even both of his parents—Hogwarts alumni—struggled dealing with his earliest manifestations of magic.
He remembers learning true magic, how Hogwarts and his friends helped shape the wizard he is. How the past six years have shaped who he will become.
He can’t remember the last time he felt alone.
But thinking about Lily—he wonders if she can even remember a time she wasn’t.
“But, h—how?” Peter asks in disbelief.
Remus sighs, shrugging lamely, “She didn’t mention anything to me about it but it was obvious I knew. Dumbledore was dodgy about the whole thing, said it was a—”
“When is he not?” Sirius scoffs, convinced that man only knows how to speak in riddles.
“—a Ministry mix-up. Something about a lost owl six years ago. An investigation on the owlery and post. A change of deed on the property.” He offers as much as he understands, which isn’t a lot.
“So she never got her letter because of a lost fucking owl?” James growled.
No one even questions his anger—all feeling the same. The hot rage at how one careless mistake robbed Lily of what they’ve come to learn is the best years of their lives palpates in each of their chests.
Remus nods lamely, the feelings from when he first learned the truth this morning washing over him again.
James was angry—he wonders if his father knows anyone at the Ministry who could answer for this.
Peter was confused—still trying to sit with such a stifling realization.
And Sirius—Sirius is uncharacteristically quiet.
He thinks of Lily and the brief interaction they had. The way her head snapped up when she learned his last name.
He was born a wizard.
Black’s are only born wizards.
He was raised a wizard.
Raised with talking portraits, house elves, moving staircases. Raised with an endless mass of magical relatives.
The fond memories he has of being a Black grow more distant by the day. The thoughts grow further as the Dark Lord looms closer. But he remembers a time—before he was ostracized for being a Gryffindor, before his little brother valued his blood status. Before Rodolphus Lestrange dug his way deeper into Bella’s head. Before Bella got into Cissy’s—causing Andi to run off.
He remembers a younger, softer, version of Cissy grabbing his small shaking hands on his first train ride to Hogwarts. He remembers her leading him into a compartment with Bella and Andi as they told how trulymagical Hogwarts was, assuring him this would be the best day of his life.
And though it all went to shite—he remembers that day, one of the few precious memories he associates with his estranged family.
He’ll never forget notfeeling so alone.
“So, you understand now?” Remus breaks his thoughts, voice soft as he nudges his foot beneath the table to gently tap Sirius’ shoe.
Though Sirius’ nod is grim, he nudges Remus back in apology.
Peter awkwardly forks his eggs around.
James impatiently bobs his leg up and down, itching to get up and find her—let her know that he’s here forwhatever she needs to help make things easier.
To tell her that she’s not anything less than the rest of them.
He makes it all of about ninety seconds of tense silence before abruptly standing from the bench.
“Prongs?” Sirius asks, confused.
“I just remembered something—Quidditch play, yeah. Back in the dorm. Uh, I’ll—I’ll catch up.” He excuses lamely.
None of them question it, as James rushes from the Great Hall with just one thought—
Lily.
They all watch James go, tracing his hurried steps all the way out the grand doors. As soon as he’s gone, Peter returns his attention back to his plate. Remus’ eyes linger curiously on where James once was.
Sirius—still a bit lost in his woes—slowly drags his gaze back to the table. As he scans the room, he spots someone from nearby watching them intently.
He can’t help but scowl at the sight of his long hooked nose, mop of greasy hair and cold black eyes—staring right at them.
“Something interesting, Snivellus?” Sirius calls out with a sneer.
Snape rolls his eyes, as if he’d ever answer to one of them. He stands quickly, rushing from the Great Hall in a heap of darkness.
The remaining Marauders ignore him, chalking up his behavior to typical Snape discourtesy—as if they’d complain about his absence, anyway.
They return to their meal in silence, though they all seem to have lost their appetite, too preoccupied on the startling events of the morning.
Unbeknownst to them, they weren’t the only students fixated on the situation.
Like James, Severus Snape took off to the corridors with a single thought consuming him—
Lily.