The New Marauders

September 9, 1995

Blaise

Tonight will be my first full moon as a werewolf. The first of many. An endless string of nights to endure alone, locked away, cut off from everyone. The thought twists my stomach into knots.

My mother wrote to Dumbledore, and thankfully, he allowed me to return to school. Maybe because she didn’t want me at home. Maybe because the sight of me terrified her as much as it terrifies me. Maybe because looking at me was a constant reminder that I am no longer her son. But I chose not to dwell on that part of the conversation.

Dumbledore told me to hide in the Shrieking Shack, an abandoned, isolated place where I won’t be able to hurt anyone. But he said nothing about the damage I’ll do to myself. He warned me about what’s coming—the pain will be unbearable, the transformation will rip through my body, tear my skin from the inside, shatter my bones, reshape me into something monstrous. He said I might hurt myself trying to fight it, that by morning, if I still have a shred of my own mind left, I’ll have to drag myself to the infirmary to be stitched back together.

I’ve been pacing my dormitory for the past two hours, trying to steady my breathing, to push back the panic clawing at my chest. I need to come up with a story for Malfoy and Nott, something believable to explain my absence tonight—and every night after this.

If they found out the truth, I’d be expelled on the spot. Or worse.
And there is a worse. I know that all too well.

I don’t want to believe they’d go that far, but I can’t afford to be naive. Maybe if I offered myself as Malfoy’s servant for life, he’d let me live.
The thought makes my skin crawl. Pathetic. I disgust myself.

But I do need protection. Now that I have no family left, I don’t know what I’d do if they turned on me. I still remember what happened when people found out about Lupin. They humiliated him, spat insults in his face, treated him like a monster. And I laughed. I never once stopped them.

A wave of nausea hits me.

I can feel it now—the moon. It’s rising. Something inside me stirs, restless, hungry. Time is slipping away too fast. I have to move.

I leave the dormitory, breath coming in short gasps, and slip into the passage beneath the Whomping Willow, just as Dumbledore showed me. The tunnel is narrow, the air thick, the walls pressing in with every step. But I already know—this is nothing. The worst is still ahead.

I reach the Shrieking Shack and climb the stairs to the second floor. A canopy bed waits for me, as if it knows what’s coming. I seal the door with every spell we practiced.
But will they be enough?
Will anything ever be enough?

I sit on the bed, burying my head in my hands. I can’t fall apart. I won’t. I just need to stop my hands from shaking.

Why have I been reduced to this pathetic state? My family never followed those twisted, deranged ideals. We’re not part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Sure, we belong to that social circle, where everything is dictated by hierarchy. But if it weren’t for my mother’s seven marriages, I would have remained just another nameless face, unnoticed. And yet, here I am, forced to play lapdog to Malfoy and Nott.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

A faint rustling sound breaks the silence in the room, so soft it could almost be nothing. Yet it freezes the blood in my veins. I don’t dare look up. There’s no one here—there can’t be. It’s just my nerves, my paranoia messing with me before the transformation.

But then, someone clears their throat. And the coldest, most paralyzing fear takes hold of me. My feet feel rooted to the floor as I slowly, cautiously lift my gaze—afraid of what I’ll see.

Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott.

No, no, no, no. No.

My breath catches, and I jump to my feet, wand raised with trembling hands. I know exactly what they’re capable of. I know what they could do to me now that I’m an animal in their eyes. Is this how it ends? Is this how they get rid of me? Am I to be condemned for the monster I’ve become?

“Zabini, calm down. Lower your wand,” Malfoy orders, his voice flat, cold, devoid of anything remotely human.

“No—no! You’re not killing me, Malfoy. Not a fucking chance,” I gasp, my voice betraying the sheer panic clawing at my insides.

Theodore takes a step forward, hands raised ever so slightly. If it were anyone else, I’d think he was trying to soothe me. But I know him. I know what he’s like. He wants to trap me, pin me down so Malfoy can have his fun.

I press myself against the wall, searching desperately for an escape. I don’t want to die. This can’t be how it ends. I don’t want to die. It’s not my fault I was bitten. It’s not my fault I became a werewolf.

“Blaise, we know what happened to you, okay?” Nott says, stepping even closer, until his chest almost touches the tip of my wand.

When his hand reaches for the wood, I already know how this will play out. To hell with rules. To hell with decorum. They’re going to kill me anyway. Anger flares up inside me, hot and blinding. I step back, trying to keep my hands steady. “So what is this? After spending the summer training with Death Eaters, you thought you’d start by finishing me off? I never wanted this! I wasn’t raised like you—I don’t believe in that bullshit! My family is good, I don’t deserve this!” I shout, my voice cracking under the weight of it all.

Even if they don’t kill me tonight, I won’t walk out of this room whole. I’ll have to leave Hogwarts. Hide. Find somewhere to survive.

“Blaise Zabini, please—lower your wand and just talk to us.”

The voice is calm. Too calm. I turn, my stomach twisting. Hermione Granger. She’s here. For a second, hope flares in my chest. If she’s here, maybe they won’t hurt me. But then she moves to stand beside Malfoy. And the hope dies as quickly as it came.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Granger?” My voice is hoarse, my wand flicking between Nott and the strange alliance forming by the window.

“You have no reason to trust me, I know. But let me explain,” she says, steady and composed. Malfoy doesn’t even react to her presence, and that unnerves me more than anything.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“We know you were bitten. The three of us found out together.”

Together? Why were they together? Why is Malfoy just standing there? Why haven’t any of them drawn their wands?

“Malfoy and Nott have agreed to become Animagi,” Granger continues. “So they can stay with you during the full moon. And I… I decided to join them.”

No. No, that’s not real. That’s not possible. For a moment, my grip on my wand falters. Just a fraction. My throat tightens as I watch her take a careful step toward me. She reaches out, gently lowering my wand.

“We’re here,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “So you don’t have to be alone.”

My gaze flicks back and forth between Draco and Theodore, searching for a crack in this impossible reality. But what else do I have left to hold on to? Hope. Hope is the only thing I have left. And right now, I have no choice but to believe her.

“You… for me? But how? Don’t you hate me now?”

My voice is barely more than a whisper, so small that it surprises even me.

Don’t they see me as inferior? Don’t they want to crush me, humiliate me, use this against me? Aren’t they going to blackmail me, treat me like nothing more than an animal? Don’t they think I’m unworthy of existing?

Draco and Theo step forward slowly, careful not to startle me. They’re here. They’re real. They stand at my side, and my knees nearly buckle beneath me.

In an instant, the sheer terror I felt in their presence is replaced by something else—something steady, something almost safe. Their humanity has shattered every preconception I ever had about them.

“What happened to you is absolute shit,” Theo mutters, forcing a small, crooked smile. “But you’re not different. We just… wanted to be there for you.”

Draco’s voice follows, firm and unwavering. “You’re a good person, Blaise. We don’t want to hurt you. This changes nothing.” His words are measured, sincere. He doesn’t just say they won’t hurt me—he emphasizes it.

And fuck—before I can stop myself, my eyes burn with unshed tears.

I was seven years old when my mother first explained that some wizards were more important than others. Seven when, with her fourth marriage, she dragged me into a world where names carried more weight than people, where unspoken rules dictated everything, where I was expected to obey—submit—to Nott and Malfoy without question. Seven when I stood before them for the first time… and lowered my head.

But Salazar, who the hell cares now? Who cares about hierarchies, etiquette, rules, and respect? They’ve shown me more humanity tonight than the woman who gave birth to me ever has. Before I can second-guess myself, I lunge forward, throwing my arms around both of them at once. I brace myself for rejection—for hesitation, for a scoff, for them to shove me off. But the impact never comes. Instead, their arms tighten around me.

For the first time since I’ve known them, I let myself be vulnerable.

“Thank you,” I murmur, holding on even tighter, trying to pour every ounce of gratitude into this embrace. But even if I had a lifetime, it wouldn’t be enough to repay them. Not for this. Not for letting me live. “I’m scared,” I confess, voice breaking as tears finally slip down my cheeks.

“Remus said it’ll hurt,” Draco tells me, his voice—for the first time—holding the barest trace of gentleness. “The transformation, I mean. And after, you’ll be starving and exhausted. But we’ll be here for you.”

It’s unreal. Draco Malfoy, of all people, trying to comfort me.

“Fuck, Malfoy,” I huff out a shaky, half-nervous laugh, desperate to lighten the mood. “Remus—as in Remus Lupin? The professor?” I shake my head, still struggling to wrap my mind around it. “Between this and Granger, you lot owe me some explanations.” My voice wavers somewhere between skepticism and fragile hope. I’m asking questions I have no right to ask. I’m seeking a conversation on equal ground, as if—for the first time—I’m allowed to.

A small, unexpected smile tugs at Draco’s lips, catching me completely off guard. “I promise,” he says, “we’ll tell you everything in the morning.”

I nod, letting my gratitude show in my gaze. Then, gathering a bit of courage, I look between the three of them. “How did you even get in here? I cast protective spells on this room—you shouldn’t have been able to enter.”

Hermione, feigning innocence, lifts the corner of a dark piece of fabric and lets it slip between her fingers. “I borrowed Harry’s Invisibility Cloak,” she explains as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “He thinks I’m sneaking into the library after curfew.”

I press a hand to my chest, adopting an overly dramatic expression. “The Gryffindor lying for me? Miss Granger, I’m honored.” I pointedly ignore the way her cheeks flush crimson. Instead, I look at all of them, heart impossibly full. But then Malfoy pulls me back to reality.

“We’re sorry we couldn’t finish the process before tonight,” he says, voice steady, serious—final.

The weight of his words settles over me. I’ll be alone tonight.

“But,” he continues, “storms permitting, we swear—next time, we’ll be with you. Always.”

They tell me they’ll wait outside, all night. That they’ll be the first to see me in the morning. That they’ll bring me food. That I won’t be alone. And then, the door clicks shut behind them. I barely have time to recast my protective spells before a sharp, searing pain shoots down my spine. The agony is instant, overwhelming—inhuman. A scream lodges itself in my throat.

It’s starting.

September 10, 1995

Theodore

"You ate enough food for ten people."

My voice comes out tired, rough around the edges, as I finally collapse onto my bed. Every muscle in my body is screaming for mercy. I'm exhausted. Between brewing the potion, hiding it, and making sure Blaise ate, we’ve been up all night.

He only mutters a vague “Yeah” in response, standing in front of the mirror, inspecting his back. Fortunately, everything seems intact. A miracle, really, considering just hours ago, he was in the throes of a potentially lethal transformation.

"Remus just replied," I say, breaking the silence as Draco stretches on his bed, already half-asleep. "He thinks it was because of what happened before… Knowing he wasn’t alone helped him accept the transformation without hurting himself."

I set my journal down on the desk and curl up under the covers, pulling them tightly around my chin.

Blaise’s eyes widen slightly. And in that moment, I see it—the gears turning in his head, piecing together everything that happened tonight. The potion. The food. The terror. The fact that, somehow, everything turned out okay. He steps between my bed and Draco’s, then bends forward in a ridiculously formal bow.

“Thank you. Thank you for not killing me. Thank you for doing all of this for me.”

Draco, who was a breath away from slipping into unconsciousness, suddenly sits up. And while Blaise is still frozen in that absurd bow, Draco plants himself right in front of him. “Zabini, look at me.”

Blaise straightens immediately.

“Cut the crap. No more bowing, no more formal respect. We’re friends. Equals. Got it?”

Silence. Blaise stares at him like he’s grown a second head. No—a third head, given the sheer disbelief in his expression. And that’s when it hits me. Shit. Did I look like that when Malfoy said it to me? That same stunned expression, that feeling of being yanked into an alternate universe where Draco Malfoy isn’t just an arrogant prick, but someone who actually sees you as his equal?

I see the disbelief written all over Blaise’s face. And I do the only logical thing to help him process this revelation. With all the grace and maturity in the world, I reach out and pinch Malfoy’s cheek.

Blaise’s eyes go even wider.

"Before we get into everything, how about we start with the full story, Draco?"

Malfoy bursts into laughter before settling back onto his bed, crossing his legs with ease. Without a second thought, I throw myself down beside him.

Blaise watches us for a moment, hesitant. Then he glances at me, a silent question in his eyes—waiting, it seems, for permission to sit on my bed. But it's only when he gathers the courage to do it on his own—without needing a nod of approval—that I realize he's already starting to believe it.

And that’s when Draco begins to speak.

He tells everything, from the beginning, with no filters and no hesitation. He speaks of us, of our choices, of everything that has led us to this moment. He talks about Hermione, about our relationship with her, about prejudice, about his aunt and cousin, about the Muggle things we've discovered together. With every word, he shows Blaise the Draco Malfoy I know. The real one.

Blaise listens, captivated, hanging onto every word. And in his eyes, I see something shift. Maybe it's relief—the realization that he's not alone. Maybe it's something deeper, the understanding that this room is no longer an unfamiliar, hostile place.

When the story finally comes to an end, Blaise sits in silence, absorbing it all.

I feel like a coward. I didn’t have the guts to talk about my relationship with Diggory. Malfoy, on the other hand, was braver—more mature. He laid everything bare.

"So... you're not really like them," Blaise murmurs at last, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

I know exactly what he's feeling, because I’ve felt it too. That sudden weight lifting from your shoulders. The quiet relief of realizing you don’t have to keep your guard up, that you won’t be scrutinized for every word you say. The simple, startling truth that, for the first time in five years, we can actually call this place home.

And judging by the looks on their faces, it’s the first time for them, too.

Blaise exhales, his posture loosening, and then—just like that—he’s a flood of questions.

We talk until exhaustion wins out, until the sky outside is pale with morning light. It’s nearly lunchtime when we finally surrender to sleep.

Just as I’m about to drift off, Blaise’s voice cuts through the silence.

"Could you ask Andromeda if I can stay with her too?" His words are careful, almost fragile. "My mother has made it clear—more than once—that she wants nothing to do with me."

So the perfect Zabini family, the charming and elegant Mrs. Zabini, aren’t quite what I’d always imagined. Andromeda was right.

Draco, eyes already closed, responds with the kind of certainty that makes it clear he had already considered this—had already planned for it.

"She’s already prepared a room for you."

"Right between mine and his," I add, adjusting my pillow.

Silence. Then, at last, sleep.