Starman

9th of August 1972

"Mum!"

No answer. Typical. Why was it that whenever she called her mum, there was silence, but the second her mum called her, she was expected to respond immediately? And even then, when she did call back, half the time her mum wouldn’t bother answering.

"Mum!"

Still nothing.

With a huff, Amalia ran downstairs, toothbrush still in her mouth. "Mum," she mumbled around the foam.

She found her in the kitchen, calmly flicking her wand as sandwiches and bottles of water floated neatly into a bag on the counter. Five apples soared through the air and landed inside as if they’d been gently placed there by an invisible hand. Her mother barely glanced at her.

"Yes, darling?"

Amalia stared in disbelief. "I’ve been calling you for ages!"

Her mother carried on as though Amalia hadn’t just spent the past five minutes shouting her name at full volume.

"looks like someone’s in a bit of a mood," she chuckled.

Amalia rolled her eyes, trying not to let her irritation show too much. Normally, she wouldn’t care, but she was running late. She’d spent the entire morning tearing around, trying to pack everything she’d need for a week in London, and she still wasn’t dressed. And now she didn’t even have time to be standing here arguing.

"I am in a mood," she admitted, exasperated. "I can’t find my hairbrush! I bet anything Brandy’s nicked it again. I swear, I’m going to—"

"Alright, alright, don’t panic," her mother interrupted, laughing slightly. She flicked her wand. "Accio hairbrush!"

A moment later, the missing brush soared through the air and landed neatly in her outstretched hand.

"That came from upstairs!" Amalia accused. "It must have been in Brandy’s room!"

"Or," her mother countered, arching an eyebrow, "it could have been in your own room. Or the bathroom. Or on the hallway table."

Amalia huffed, grabbed the brush, and stormed off.

•••

Despite all her stressing, the family arrived at the Potters’ house at exactly eleven o’clock on the dot. Not a minute late. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop her mother from recounting the whole morning’s chaos to Euphemia the second they arrived.

"Oh, sweetheart, we would have waited for you," Euphemia said warmly, brushing a strand of hair from Amalia’s face with a smile. "It’s Floo Powder—it doesn’t have a time limit."

Amalia knew that. Of course she did. But she hated being the one to make people wait. Even if it wasn’t a big deal, it made her feel insanely guilty—especially if she thought people were standing around, twiddling their thumbs while she wasn’t ready. But the worst feeling of all was when no one had bothered to tell her they were leaving. Instead, they’d just shouted from the door to hurry up, like she was an afterthought. That was so much worse. It made her feel left behind, like she wasn’t important enough to be included properly—especially when everyone else had been told, even if she knew logically that it was only because they happened to be nearby when they were leaving.

"Alright, everyone ready?" Fleamont asked.

There was a general murmur of agreement.

"Brandy, why don’t you go first?"

Brandy stepped forward, took a handful of Floo Powder, and stepped into the fireplace. She threw the powder at her feet and said clearly, "Diagon Alley!"

With a whoosh, she disappeared in a burst of green flames.

One by one, the others followed—Amalia’s dad, Peter and his parents, then the rest of her family.

James was next. He stepped into the fireplace, caught Amalia’s eye, and smirked slightly before winking at her.

What’s he up to now? Amalia thought suspiciously.

"Knockturn Alley."

He disappeared.

Amalia’s mouth fell open, eyes wide.

Euphemia and Fleamont looked at each other in horror.

"What on earth is he thinking?" Euphemia burst out, anger and worry flashing in her eyes.

"It’s alright, I’ll go get him, he’ll be alri—" Fleamont started, but before he could finish, Amalia had already grabbed a handful of Floo Powder, jumped into the fireplace, and thrown it down at her feet.

"Knockturn Alley!"

•••

At first, there was that familiar ticklish sensation as the flames licked around her. She tried to keep her eyes open, but the swirling green vortex made her stomach churn. Fireplaces blurred past, fleeting glimpses of shadowy rooms and indistinct figures beyond the grates.

Her stomach twisted.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it to stop—

And then it did.

She was spat out onto the cold stone floor of a shop. A very dodgy-looking shop.

Everything was coated in dust, the shelves lined with eerie but interesting trinkets, cobwebs clinging to the corners.

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

"Oi!"

Amalia’s heart leapt into her throat.

A man stood just a few feet away, his long, pale face gleaming as though it had been polished with grease. His hair—just as oily—hung in limp strands around his sharp features. For all Amalia knew, it could have been blonde once, and it was layers of filth that made it look an unwashed, murky black.

"Who are you?" he demanded, stepping closer. "You with that boy?"

Amalia instinctively took a step back.

"Well?" he barked. "Answer. are you deaf?"

Before she could respond, another whoosh of green flames spat someone else onto the shop floor.

Fleamont.

"Amalia!" He looked utterly exasperated. "What on earth were you thinking? You could have ended up anywhere!"

"I— I didn’t think," she admitted, cheeks burning. "I just wanted to make sure—"

"Yes, I know," Fleamont cut her off. "It’s alright. You’re safe, that’s what matters."

He turned sharply to the greasy man, who looked slightly panicked.

"Borgin. Where is my son?"

Borgin hesitated. "Your son? I— I had no idea, really, I—"

"Yes, my son. Now, where is he?"

"I kicked him out, Mr Potter, sir," Borgin said quickly.

Fleamont simply nodded, grabbed Amalia’s hand, and pulled her out of the shop.

“How do you—” Amalia started.

“Know Borgin?” Fleamont finished.

She nodded.

“He has an affinity for latching onto ‘friends’ with power,” Fleamont explained, making it very clear he used the word friends lightly. “Well, ‘friends’ with money, really. And our name carries a fair bit of wealth.” He gave her a small smile, reassuring.

Amalia blinked. It always shocked her how rich the Potters were. Very rich. Fleamont had grown up on an estate, his ancestors had made their fortune in medicinal potions, and he himself had invented Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion—one of the most popular hair products in the wizarding world.

•••

They found James almost instantly. He was standing in front of a shop window, peering at hexed Muggle items with great interest.

After a proper telling-off from Fleamont, they followed him to Diagon Alley, where Euphemia and Amalias’ mother Astoria were waiting.

“There you are! What were you thinking it’s dangerous in knockturn alley-“ Euphemia scolded, exasperated.

Before Amalia’s mother could even start on her, a mane of red hair suddenly filled Amalia’s vision as Lily pulled her into a hug.

“Ams! What on earth were you thinking? It was James, wasn’t it? Ugh, I can’t believe him—”

Amalia sighed. It was going to be a long week.

Hey, I’m right here, Evans! If you’ve got something to say, say it to my face,” James interrupted, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

Lily whirled on him, clearly ready to do exactly that.

Amalia, however, had no interest in listening to yet another one of their arguments. She turned back to her mother, fully expecting a scolding—but before the first word could even leave her lips, Lily grabbed her arm and yanked her away.

“Come on,” she muttered, dragging Amalia towards the Leaky Cauldron before she could protest. “I swear, if I have to deal with him for one more second, I’ll hex him.”

Behind them, Euphemia sighed turning to her husband “For Merlin’s sake, they argue like an old married couple.”

Lily made a horrified noise.

Amalia didn’t even look back at James—she already knew the smug grin he’d be wearing.

•••

Once they reached the Leaky Cauldron, they were shown to their rooms—Lily was staying with the Stirlings for the week. And on Sunday, Mary and Marlene would be arriving so they could all go shopping for school in Diagon Alley as a group.

After lunch, Amalia and Lily spent the rest of the afternoon walking up and down the cobbled streets, arms linked, window shopping and pointing out the best places to take Mary and Marlene when they arrived.

"Do not let me forget to stop at the apothecary," Lily said firmly. "I refuse to get stuck in Slughorn’s class without the proper ingredients ever again."

Amalia grinned. "It was quite funny watching you try to borrow powdered root of asphodel off Mulciber of all people."

Lily groaned dramatically. “Don’t remind me. I was desperate. And he actually tried to haggle with me—like I was going to owe him a favour for a handful of powdered plant.”

“You should’ve just asked me,” Amalia pointed out. “I had loads left over.”

Lily gave her a deeply unimpressed look. “And when, exactly, were you planning on telling me that?”

Amalia burst out laughing.

The rest of the evening passed in much the same way—easy, comfortable, and, most importantly, peaceful.

No Knockturn Alley. No greasy old men. And no James Potter-Lily Evans spats.

For now, at least.