Hocus Pocus

WEDNESDAY. SEPTEMBER 1, 1971.

Platform Nine and Three Quarters is practically a zoo. Families are bustling about, hauling large luggage trollies and just barely avoiding crashes. There are feathers in the air from all the restless owls locked up for the journey. Somebody somewhere has misplaced a toad. It's complete bedlam, really. And at the very center of all of it, eleven-year-old Peter Pettigrew squirms and wriggles in his mother’s grasp. “Mummy,” He cries, “stop it. You’re embarrassing me.”

Bernadette paints her son’s pudgy cheek with sticky pink kisses. His whinging is futile in the face of her affection.

At last, he wriggles free and begins rubbing at the stains with the back of his hand.

“James is letting his mother give him a proper farewell,” Bernadette says, hands on her hips.

It’s true. Peter's friend is putting up considerably less fight, even though it looks like Euphemia is hugging the poor boy tightly enough to leave bruises. 

“Send plenty of owls,” Effie says, her voice muffled as she buries her face in her son’s mop of wild hair. 

“We will, Mum!” James agrees brightly. He doesn’t seem the least bit put out by the display of affection. Peter shuffles back into the arms of his own mother. Perhaps one last hug wouldn’t be the end of the world. 

“I want to hear all about how you like the common room, boys.” James’ father, Fleamont, looks almost as excited as James. “Do they still have that lion head mounted above the fireplace? Pete, your father used to hide-”

Bernadette thwacks Fleamont on the arm. “Monty!” She chastises.

Peter would have rather liked to know the rest of that story. He has a significant number of questions about his father, but should he ever try to broach the topic with Bernadette, his mother was quick to burst into tears. He’d taken to keeping his questions to himself as of late rather than be subjected to the woman’s trembling bottom lip.

“Stop pressuring him, Mont.” Euphemia sniffs, thumbing away the last of her tears, “We’ll be very proud of you regardless of where you’re sorted, James.” 

Effie’s smile is sad as she steps away from her son, but it is clear that she is telling the truth. Euphemia can’t help but be proud of James. Peter doesn’t blame her. James, in his father’s old Gryffindor sweater and a new pair of trainers, is the bloody sun. His smile is much too big for his face, and yet, somehow he’s never looked awkward for it. Peter, on the other hand, feels that he’s never looked anything other than awkward, and he can’t help but wonder, briefly, if his mother would ever be proud of him. 

Bernadette loves her son, and she had placed no pressure on him to achieve great things to gain this love. But, sometimes, Peter feels as though he’d simply never had the makings of greatness, not like James. James was going to be somebody great someday. James was going to give his mother a reason to be proud of him… If Peter was lucky, they’d still be friends, and he’d be standing somewhere nearby when it happened. 

And Peter would be perfectly fine with that outcome. It had been enough so far, hadn’t it? When in doubt, just stand by James, and things will turn out.

Bernadette fumbles through her bag. “James, hang on to this. Will you?” She holds out her hand and makes to give James Peter’s wand.

Peter feels his face grow hot. “Mummy!” His voice is coming out far too high-pitched and warbly, but he can’t help it. “I can hold on to my own wand.”

“Peter Paul Pettigrew, you would lose your own hand were it not attached to your arm when you get nervous. Best to let James hold it until after the sorting ceremony.” 

“I’m fairly certain the phrase is head, Bernie,” Euphemia says, still fussing with her handkerchief. “Lose your own head.”

“Oh please, the boy’s not that scatterbrained. Hand suits him just fine. Doesn’t it, Pete?” Monty chortles.

Peter feels his throat constrict a bit. They didn’t mean anything by it. He knows that. Still, his skin is suddenly stuck on too tight and his eyes burn. He tries not to twitch. 

The Hogwarts Express, which had been lying dormant in the peripherals of Peter’s attention like some sort of sleeping volcano, screeches and billows smoke. 

And suddenly, in an episode of emotional whiplash, Peter Pettigrew is the most curious blend of terrified and thrilled. James grabs his arm and pulls him away from their folks. 

“Come on, Pete!” James is graceful enough that his luggage doesn’t impede him as he bounds toward the train, probably from all the Quidditch. Peter’s terrible motion sickness kept him from ever being very good at that game. He stumbles a few times in keeping up with his friend, but he doesn’t let it bother him. Nothing could bother him right then. 

He and James hop into the nearest carriage, and James turns to wave again at his parents.

“Don’t forget to write!” Euphemia calls. James just laughs in response.

“Be good, Petey!” Bernadette waves. Peter nods. 

Peter Pettigrew doubts, even at the age of eleven, that he will ever be great. So he decides that he will be good. Good enough to make up for it.

The train lurches into motion, and Peter’s breakfast churns in his stomach.

“James,” he gags. “James, we need to sit down.” 

+++

James ushers Peter towards the nearest cabin.

The door slides open to reveal a redheaded girl wiping furiously at her face.

Everybody freezes.  

Peter stares owlishly at the girl, then casts a frantic glance at James. James, for his part, is locked in a sort of spooked staring contest with the redhead. It’s clear she had been crying… crying rather hard, by the looks of it. Her nose is all red, and her pasty skin is all botchy. Her eyes, which still have not blinked, are bloodshot. 

“Erm… Hello.” James offers.

“Hello.” She sniffs politely. 

“I’m sorry,” James says, finally finding his voice. “Sorry. We didn’t realize there was anyone in here. We just-”

“I need to sit!” Peter throws himself onto the bench that isn’t occupied by the ginger and covers his face. Poor Pete. He makes a terrible horking noise. James pats his shoulder.

The girl stares both of them down for a moment more. Then her bottom lip quivers. She hunches herself over, making herself as small as possible, and presses her face to the window.

Peter gives James a wide-eyed helpless look. James feels much the same. It isn’t as though James has never interacted with girls before. He’s interacted with plenty of girls on his little league quidditch team, but those girls hadn’t cried in front of him. He feels absolutely unequipped to handle the situation. In all honesty, he’s on the verge of taking his friend and awkwardly relocating when the door slides open again. 

“Lily! There you are, I’ve been looking for you.” A spindly boy, already clad in his robes, enters the cabin. His face falls when he takes in the girl’s appearance. “Were you crying?” 

Lily does not respond. She doesn’t even turn to look at him. The boy gently grabs her hand. 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she says in a constricted voice, swatting him away.

“Why not?”

 “Tuney hates me because we saw that letter from Dumbledore.”

 “So what?”

 She throws him a look of deep dislike. “So she’s my sister!”

 “She’s only a –” He catches himself quickly; Lily, too busy trying to wipe her eyes without being noticed, does not hear him.

But James does.

“A what?” he asks. The question comes out with more bite than he intended. He nearly winces, nearly apologizes. He can almost hear his mother's voice in his head calling for him to mind his manners. But then the whole compartment turns to give James Fleamont Potter a strange look. And he has no choice but to double down.

James Potter has many admirable traits. He is kind— kinder than most eleven-year-old boys at the very least. He is intelligent— the easy sort of intelligence that Peter had always secretly assumed came from his good breeding. He is brave.

But James Potter is also a stubborn little bastard.

James knows right from wrong. At least when it comes to the important things, he does. He knows right from wrong and up from down, and if you dare to raise a brow at James Potter, the defenses go right up. Double down. Fists clenched. Teeth bared.

His face feels warm. He ignores it. “What were you going to say? She’s only a what?”

“It’s rude to listen in on private conversations.” The boy sneers. 

James feels himself sneer right back. “It’s rude to be nasty about muggles,” He spits. “You don’t need to be nasty just because you look it.” He tastes acid. He tastes lightning on his tongue. 

He hears Peter sigh. Mummy and Papa and Bernie all acted as though James was some sort of little angel. But Peter, who spends more time with the boy than anyone else, knows firsthand that James is a terror.

He’s a right terror, and Peter’s never been equipped to stop him. Never really wanted to be. They’re James-and-Peter. If James picks a fight, then Pete’s right there with him… even if he’d rather rest.

Peter opens his mouth, undoubtedly about to hurl an insult of his own, but Lily interrupts him. She jabs her finger at James, eyes blazing. “That’s not what he was going to say. He was not about to say that, you knob!” 

Her voice leaves no room for argument, and it only inflames the heat building in James’ chest. It’s rising up his neck; tendrils of fire reaching for his face. 

For the first time in all the years Peter Pettigrew has known him, James Potter bites his tongue.

Lily takes a deep breath. “You don’t even know Severus,” She puts her finger down. James feels relief and he has no idea why. It’s a finger, not a bloody wand. “Apologize,” She says primly.

“Excuse me?” James’ incredulous laugh comes out sounding like some sort of bark. 

“You were mean. You should apologize.” Plain as day. Easy math. Black and white.

“But I was-” 

Her finger is back in his face. Her eyes are narrowed. James feels something in his chest pop and deflate. Clearly, his heroic efforts were wasted on this woman. 

James does not apologize to Severus, the greasy boy watching the altercation with amusement in his stupid little beetle eyes. Instead, he stands abruptly and takes his luggage from the storage area. But, based on his smug little smirk, this is more than enough for Severus. Luggage in hand, James stomps out of the compartment, leaving Peter to scurry after him. 

In a beautiful show of solidarity—not because he really believes Severus had been about to disparage muggles, but because James did and it had upset him– Peter turns to the couple one last time before leaving.

“See ya, Snivellus!” He grins, positively swelling with pride over that stupid nickname, then slams the door shut.

*** 

It takes Peter all of two seconds to begin to look sick again, which sucks all the fight right out of James. 

“Sorry, Pete.” James slings Peter’s arm over his own shoulder, helping support a bit of his weight.

“’S alright. ‘M alright.” Peter groans. He looks whatever the opposite of alright is. 

 “He smelled funny anyway. You probably would’ve gotten sick regardless.” James says. The aisle is an endless tunnel of doors. He can hear students talking behind nearly all of them. It’s almost enough to give James vertigo himself. Poor Peter. 

Peter gives a pathetic laugh at James’ joke, then quickly realizes that was a mistake. He scrunches his eyes shut and covers his mouth with his fist. The horking sound is back. 

Oh please don’t be sick on my trainers. James thinks. Merlin, Pete, if you’re sick on my new trainers, I’ll have to toss you off the train. 

James quickly raps his knuckles on a nearby door, an empty gesture; he’s opening the door before anyone inside can react. He pops his head inside. “Can we sit? My friend’s trainsick, and everywhere else seems full.”

The cabin is empty save for a very small boy holding a very large book. He cranes his neck to see Peter behind James. Based on the way the heavy breathing behind him stops, James assumes Peter is doing his best impression of someone-who-is-not-about-to-be-sick-right-this-second. The boy in the cabin nods, gesturing at the seats opposite him.

Peter rushes in and sits down, tossing his head back against the cushions. He swallows a few gasping breaths before he speaks in a shaky voice, “Not trainsick.” 

His pouting face reminds James of skinned knees after degnoming the garden, and sniffles, and ‘Be brave, Peter, this is going to sting for a second.’ 

It makes James laugh.

“Sure,” He turns to the boy with the book, “I was sure I’d be saying goodbye to my new trainers!” 

The cabin’s original inhabitant says nothing. His eyes flit between James and Peter.

“Don’t worry about him.” James waves off the concerned gaze. “He’ll be fine in a few minutes,” James extends a hand to the boy opposite him. “I’m James, James Potter,”

“Remus,” the boy says. He has a weak handshake and an accent. Two things James had not grown accustomed to running into during his years of homeschooling. James is hooked already. 

James smiles, and his glasses slide down his nose. He jabs a thumb to his right. “This is Peter.”

Peter gives a pitiful wave. Remus nods politely, then returns to his book. 

A quiet lad. James muses. That simply won’t do.

 “What’re you reading?” He asks.

Remus scrunches up his face a bit as if this interaction is causing him physical pain. Then he angles the book so James can see the front cover of Hogwarts: A History. 

James perks up, smacking Peter’s arm excitedly. “My father says Hogwarts has loads of secret rooms and underground passageways and whatnot. We’re going to find them. Pete and I that is.”

This, in turn, cheers Peter up. After ages of being made to play Pirate-Adventurers with James, he’d finally get the chance to do some real exploring.

“Yeah!” He says, rubbing the spot James just smacked. “We’ll be there for seven years, that’s loads of time. By the end of it, we’ll be able to say we’ve seen everything there is to see in the whole castle!” 

Remus is still quiet. His face is still largely hidden behind the book. James almost thinks he’s not going to respond at all. 

“Well, how do you expect to know for sure when you’ve seen all of them? Hogwarts is unmappable.” He doesn’t put his book down or make direct eye contact, but it’s enough to make James split into a grin.

All teeth. A smile too big for his sweet little face. That’s what Mummy always said, which only ever made him smile harder.

“I suspect we’ll just know.” James shrugs.

“Maybe we could-” Peter suddenly squeaks, words dying on his tongue. The compartment door had slid open behind James. He turns to see what’s affected his friend so severely. He half expects to see Severus and Lily again, but he’s treated to a much more interesting sight.

Outside of their compartment stands The Heir to The House of Black.

And he’s staring at them as if they’ve all grown three heads.

+++

Sirius Black was decidedly pas pur, according to his parents. They hadn’t always felt that way about their eldest son. He’d been perfect for about a year. Then  Regulus came along and showed them what perfect really meant. 

Sirius shrieked like a banshee at the slightest of discomforts. Regulus never cried. Sirius asked so many questions. Stupid questions! Questions about the children he could see playing from his window— the filth he could see playing from his window. They were animals, really. Nothing more. Sirius’ interest in them was an insult to the people inside the house. 

It didn’t seem to matter to Walburga and Orion that Sirius quickly learned to stop asking so many questions after he’d been disciplined. Regulus had the sense to never ask them in the first place. 

Sirius is sharp. Not clever—though he is plenty clever— sharp. He had been from the first word he’d ever spoken: Ma’am. Sirius Black had called his mother Ma’am as his first words, and she took it as nothing less than an insult to her abilities as a mother. It felt, to him, as though she’d been giving him the side eye ever since.

He tried to dull his edges. Truly, he did. He never asked the same question twice. Never repeated an infraction after a punishment. Practiced piano. Practiced Latin. Practiced French. Art. Italian. Violin. Schooling. Quidditch. Whatever activity they tossed at him, he figured out. 

But it was no use. There was no use in trying to dull his edges when Regulus was two feet away, soft as cotton and sweet as sugar. Sirius would never be fairy floss. 

And yet, as perfect as Regulus is, he is not The Heir. Sirius is. So, it’s Sirius who marches behind his mother through Platform Nine and Three Quarters. The crowd parts for Walburga Black, whispering as she passes. Sirius does not allow himself to look at them. He keeps his back straight and his gaze high. 

He does allow himself one short glance at the train. The Hogwarts Express, in all its scarlet glory, sits proudly on the tracks. That is the train that will take him farther from home than he has ever been. The train seems to know it, too. The way it’s gleaming in the early morning light, it looks smug. Sirius’ mouth twitches as he bites back a smile. He looks away from the train.  

He’s never been around this many children his age in his entire life! Regulus would love this… 

Fairy Floss had been left at home. Walburga didn’t trust him not to cry. “Tears are unbecoming.” She’d said, patting his cheek. Sirius had worried– a jolt in the pit of his stomach– that without Sirius and his sharp edges around, Walburga and Orion might forget just how soft Regulus is.

“Narcissa was kind enough to tell me what cabin she’ll be riding in. You will go to compartment thirty-one and sit with your cousin,” Walburga says. A command. “Won’t you, darling?” A reward. Softness from an icy woman. An example. 

“Yes, Mother.” Sirius nods once. He forgot to smile.

She grabs his face, taking his jaw in one hand. His mother examines him, looking him up and down, tilting his head this way and that. She’s looking for an edge to sand down herself, tired of Sirius’ slow progress.

He smiles, and she releases him, patting his cheek affectionately.

“Do remember to write,” She said, all sugar again, “We’ll be eager to hear of your achievements.”

“Yes, Mother. Of course.”

The train whistles. Sirius does not look.

“Carriage O. Compartment thirty-one. Go.” 

“Yes, Mother.” He smiles at her once more. She doesn’t pretend to be impressed. Sirius turns, trying his best to not look too eager as he walks away. 

Once he’s on the train, though? There are no holds barred. As the Hogwarts Express pulls away from the station, he lets out a positively breathless laugh. He must look barmy, really, leaning over his luggage and laughing hysterically, but he can’t stop. 

He covers his face with his hands to muffle the laughter.

Sirius Black is leaving. He’s leaving Grimmauld Place and he’ll be gone for months. There will be no portraits of grandfathers spying on him and reporting back to Mother and Father. No. Mother and Father will only be receiving report cards and letters that Sirius sends. The only information they’d receive would be good: they’d hear about his perfect grades, they’d hear about him making the Slytherin Quidditch team, they’d hear about him becoming prefect. This is the perfect storm. Sirius Black, sharp edges and all, is finally about to make his family proud. 

And Regulus? Sirius stops laughing. And Regulus? What of Regulus?

Sweet Regulus. Regulus who always said ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you.’ Regulus was kind even to Kreature. Would Walburga and Orion be sweet in return? Sirius imagines his brother poised at the piano. He sees his feet dangling from the bench. He imagines his petite hands playing a song for Mother and Father. What if Regulus’ fingers, still chubby with baby-fat, were to stumble? How would they respond?

Sirius knows how they would respond were he the one on the bench. He knows it firsthand. 

But Regulus is not The Heir. Regulus is just a boy. Regulus is soft and sweet and Mother and Father must know that. They must know that there is no need to… 

Sirius is sharp. He deserved the treatment he received. Regulus is soft. Walburga and Orion are nothing if not fair. Regulus will be fine. 

Sirius pulls back his shoulders and tries to collect himself. He combs his fingers through his cropped hair, and straightens his tie, doing his best to make himself presentable after this emotional episode. 

There’s really no need to go through too much trouble. He’ll only be sitting with Cissa and her arsehole boyfriend. Maybe if he’s lucky, Andy will be there too, but it’s far more likely that she’ll be off somewhere with that Hufflepuff boy-toy of hers. 

Carriage O. Compartment thirty-one. 

Sirius twists his family ring as he walks. He can hear laughter coming from inside several compartments. Muffled chatter seeps out from under the doors. 

Carriage O. Compartment thirty-one.

Narcissa had been quite proud about becoming a prefect last time Sirius had seen her. It was all she talked about. He hopes he’s not marching towards more of that torture. Uncle Alphard always says it’s horrible luck to hope too hard. Sirius is not great at taking that advice.  

Carriage O. Compartment thirty-one.

Sirius takes a deep breath and opens the door. 

Carriage O, Compartment thirty-one, as it turns out, is not populated by his favorite cousin. Nor is it populated by Narcissa and her prick boyfriend. It’s populated by a trio of boys, all dressed in muggle clothing. On one side of the cabin, there is a tiny boy in a large jumper. On the other, there are two more boys, the one nearest Sirius has a pair of round glasses. The podgy one in the back squeaks at the sight of Sirius, which makes the other two boys turn to look.

The silence stretches far longer than it should.

Sirius clears his throat. “Forgive me,” He says, “I’m looking for Narcissa Black. I was told she’d be in this cabin.”

One of the boys, the bespectacled one, stands up. “You’re Sirius Black,” He says. 

That is not at all a response to what Sirius said. 

The boy in the back looks queasy at the mention of the Black family name. 

“I am.” Sirius agrees, giving a curt nod. “Now, back to the matter of Narcissa-”

“I’ve heard of your folks,” The boy interrupts, “Well, I actually don’t know much about them, but I know my parents have met them. I’ve heard them talking about it. James Potter,” He stuck out a hand.

Potter. Yes, Sirius has heard the name before. 

The Potters were Orion’s favorite punching bags. Over dinner, he’d grumble about what fools they were. Traitors, he’d say, traitors to their kind. Blood Traitors. 

Sirius wavers for a moment, his father’s voice ringing in his ears.

Then Sirius does something that is either incredibly brave or unbelievably foolish: he shakes the blood traitor’s hand. He doesn’t feel any dirtier for it, despite all his father’s warnings. With the way his parents spoke of mudbloods and half-breeds and blood traitors— the way they made it clear that they were other and wrong for it— he was sort of expecting the contact to feel different. But it doesn’t. This feels like a perfectly decent handshake. And that’s somehow worse.

 He’s got to bail. 

 “Charmed.” Sirius says politely. “However, I really do need to find Narcissa Black. Perhaps you could tell me where she went?”

“Oh. Haven’t the foggiest. We just got here. Right, Pete?” James Potter turns back to the portly boy on the far side of the cabin. He nods dutifully. James Potter turns to the boy with the book, “Did you see a bird in here?”

When the blood traitor calls Narcissa a bird, Sirius struggles not to pull a face. The other fellow, however, it seems, has no such qualms. He scrunches up his face as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. Then he shakes his head. 

Pete mumbles something and Sirius’ jaw twitches. 

“Forgive me?” Sirius steps closer to hear him better. He steps into the cabin, allowing the door to slide shut behind him. 

“I… I said that maybe she told you the wrong cabin number to ditch you.” Pete says. Potter elbows him. “But- But that’s okay! People used to ditch me all the time! It’s really not that bad; you just need to make your own fun.” He’s rambling. He hasn’t said that much, but it’s clear that he's rambling from the positively gormless look on his face.  

Sirius is thankful for it. It’s the only reason he didn’t flush at the realization that Narcissa had given his mother the incorrect cabin.

His cousin had ditched him. She made him go on a wild goose chase and embarrass himself for what? So that she could snog her prat boyfriend? Based on the few times Sirius had the displeasure of speaking with Lucius, he doubted the man was even capable of speech that didn’t involve purity politics. 

“There’s still room in here,” James Potter offers, smiling. Sirius blinks. 

James Potter didn’t feel dirty. Nevertheless, Sirius knows that he is. He’s wearing muggle clothes, for Merlin’s sake. No. No. This has been a lovely little excursion, but Sirius needs to find Narcissa. 

“That’s a kind offer, but I really should find my cousin.” His voice sounds ridiculously posh, even to him. Of course, it was always posh… but something about this situation has him trying too hard.

“Alright. Good luck then, mate.” If James Potter was at all affected by Sirius’ rejection, he didn’t show it. He just turned back to the other boys and clapped once. “Guess it’s just us then. The three musketeers.”

There were four musketeers. Sirius does not correct James Potter, though he’s certain his father would want him to. 

“Just like a Quidditch team.” The squishy boy in the back says. 

And, no, it was not at all like a quidditch team. Had he ever seen a quidditch team? Did Sirius need to explain Quidditch to them? 

“Three people would make for a pretty shite Quidditch team.” James Potter laughs.

“I’ll bet you they could still beat your Falmouth Falcons!” Pete says. 

“Oh, come off it!”

“They could! Your keeper is shite!”

“You’re shite!”

“Your mum is shite!”

“Oi! I’ll tell her you said so.”

“No! James, don’t you dare.”

“I always dare, Petey.”

“Over the Falcons?!”

“Anything for my Falcons.”

The boys in this cabin were discussing Quidditch and bickering… Wherever Narcissa was, she was most likely simpering at Lucius bloody Malfoy while he waxed poetic about The Knights of Walpurgis-- whatever the hell that was. Sirius had a vague idea, of course. It was some stupid exclusive boy’s-club that Sirius had never been interested in enough to pay much attention to. 

But James Potter? Sirius is struggling to tear his attention away from him in order to leave. 

I don’t want to go. Sirius realizes with a start. I want to stay here… with James Potter the blood traitor. 

His mother would kill him. She would maim him. She would flay him. 

She would never find out. 

He takes a seat across from Pete. “It’s a bad season to be a Falcons fan,” Sirius says companionably.

 James Potter looked positively affronted. “Et tu? Et tu?!” He puts a hand over his heart.

“Their keeper doesn’t know a quaffle from a quail.” 

“That’s what I’m saying!” Pete throws his hands up. Then he frowns. “Are you staying?” He asks.

“S’pose I am.” 

“Wait til my parents hear I sat with The Heir of The House of Black on the train!” James Potter is laughing at a joke only he himself understands.

Sirius raises a brow. He wonders if James Potter’s father has ever sat across from him at dinner and disparaged the Blacks.

James Potter looks to Peter. Does Peter know the answer? Was Peter present for these chats? Peter looks as though he’s about to puke.

“Pull that face about my family again, and I’ll sock you one.” Sirius bites. The words practically jump from his chest without much say-so from him. 

Sirius Black is sharp edges. He is jagged shards. He’s a reflection of the parents who made him cast in a broken mirror. 

“You…. you will?” Pete pales.

“Nah.” The boy reading the book says, without once looking up. “He won’t hit you. I’m sure he’d hate to get blood on that pretty ring.” 

That was the first thing he’s said since Sirius arrived… and it sounded like an insult. 

Sirius stops fiddling with The Black Family Ring wrapped around his middle finger. He hadn’t even realized he’d been doing that. “What did you say your name was?” 

The boy seated beside him is practically drowning in his jumper. He’s been holding his book like a shield this whole time. The sharpness of his tongue comes as quite a surprise. It’s a rather bold juxtaposition to his appearance. 

“Remus,” James Potter answers for him.

Remus has a sharp tongue. But his words have a certain… lilt to them. One that Sirius has never heard before. 

“You’ve an accent, Remus.” Sirius grins. “Where’d you get it?”

“My mam. It was a birthday present.” He still doesn’t look up.

“I actually had the same question.” Pete prompts softly.

“It’s Welsh,” Remus says, his voice clipped. 

“Ah!” Sirius says, pleased to have placed it. “I’ve never heard of any wizarding families from Wales, but-”

Remus slams his book shut. Sirius does not jump. 

The Welsh lad puts his book in a knapsack lying at his feet, then turns to look out the window. He turns his back on Sirius Black. 

Sirius feels a bit lost for a second. What had he said that was so upsetting?

Right then. He thinks haughtily. Remus can be a moody bint if he pleases.

After all, it’s not as if Sirius will be seeing much of him after this train ride anyhow. 

Sirius turns back to James Potter and Pete. “Now, the Wigtown Wanders. That’s a real quidditch team.”

“No! You’re bloody delusional, the both of you!” James-Potter-the-blood-traitor-who-Sirius-is-meant-to-be-staying-away-from pushes his glasses up his nose and launches into a defense of the Falmouth Falcons

+++

Gravel crunches underfoot as all the first year students trudge towards The Black Lake. Lily walks quickly to keep up with Sev’s long strides. She tries not to slow them down too much with all her gawking. Severus never seems affected by the sight of magical things, but Lily can hardly contain her wonder. 

For example, there is a positively enormous man gudining the crowd of children. He must be at least ten feet tall! Lily simply cannot tear her eyes away from him. Severus, on the other hand, couldn’t care less.

“It’s rude to stare, Lils.” Sev knocks their shoulders together. Her face heats up. She hopes her blush is not obvious in the dim light of the man’s lantern. A pit opens up in her stomach.

Lily Evans has no idea what she’s doing, and that terrifies her. Lily always knows what she’s doing. For eleven entire years, Lily Evans had been the brightest girl in Cokeworth. Sure, she’d been strange and awkward, but she’d also been capable and clever in Cokeworth. Here, Lily only feels like the former. It’s terribly disconcerting. 

The man with the lantern stops at the edge of the lake. He turns back to the crowd of kids. “Alright, you lot.” He says, waving his gargantuan hands. “Wotch yer step. Four to a boat.” 

Severus immediately starts off for the lake. Lily follows. There are dozens of small rowboats floating on the surface of the water. He stops in front of one, and holds out his arm for her. Lily grips it tightly as she steps in. The water is choppy, and the boat is rocking wildly. The very last thing she needs today is to take a tumble into The Black Lake. 

She’d already gotten into a fight with her sister and had to save Sev from those presumptuous boys on the train. Three strikes makes for a bad day, and she does not need her first day at Hogwarts to be a bad day. Sev slides into the boat next to her.

She looks around. Their guide has squashed himself into one of the ships and attached his lantern to the bow. The boat is much too small for him; his knees are huddled up to his chest. He cranes his neck to have a decent view of the first years as they climb into the creaky wooden things. “Wotch yer step.” He repeats. “Four to a boat.”

Lily grips the edge of the boat and stands a bit, stretching as high as it feels safe to go. Despite her best efforts, she can’t yet see the school from this far out. She plunks back down into the seat, making Sev cry out as the boat jolts. 

She wishes she could just get inside the school already. Get inside. Get sorted. Get to work. She’ll feel much better once she has a task. All this waiting is doing nothing but increase her anticipation, and all this anticipation is doing nothing but make her incredibly nervous. Lily doesn’t like doing nothing. Yet that’s all her life has consisted of ever since that letter had arrived: doing nothing. Waiting. 

It is Lily Evans’ humble opinion that waiting is torture designed by God as a punishment for man’s hubris.

As her eyes flit about, surveying her peers, she chews on her nails. In the thick of the crowd she can see the boys from earlier. They’ve changed into their robes, but she recognizes his unruly hair. The boy with glasses seems to have found someone else to heckle. 

He’s walking in quick strides and appears to be locked in a passionate debate. As he speaks, he often thwacks the boy beside him for emphasis. Lily doesn’t recognize the one on the receiving end of the bespectacled boy’s uncontained energy. He’s stiff, and though he’s responding to whatever Specs is saying, he clearly doesn’t appreciate all the roughhousing. 

The second boy Lily recognizes from the train is laughing. Laughing while Specs harasses another student.

Sev grabs her hand and gently pulls it away from her mouth. She frowns. 

“That’s a terrible habit, Lily.” He says. 

Normally Lily would respond in kind. Depending on her mood she’d either thank him or point out one of his nasty habits. But Lily’s attention was currently elsewhere. It was on Specs and that poor boy he was all over. 

“Excuse me,” She speaks up as they pass  her. “Is he bothering you?”

The group of young men all skid to a halt as they realize the question is directed at one of them.

Specs blinks a few times, then laughs. “Why are you watching us?”

Beside her, Severus scoffs. Lily elects to ignore Specs entirely. She turns her attention to the boy he’d been hitting. He’s pretty tall. Not as tall as Severus, but taller than any of the other boys in his group. Even as he’s poked and prodded by Specs, he stands with a sort of regality that Lily had always assumed was exclusive to the Queen. 

“You can sit with us, if you like.” She offers. 

“Alright, you lot, settle in. We’re off.” The large man with the lantern taps the side of his boat and it pulls away from the dock. It glides across the water propelled by nothing but sheer will. Lily marvels at it for a moment. Then the student’s boats begin pulling away from the dock. 

Issue being: Specs and the gang are still there. 

For a split second, she considers leaving them there. But that would be rather meanspirited and Lily’s had quite enough of meanspiritedness over the last few weeks. So, she clambers over Sev, ignoring his squawk of protest, and extends a hand to the boys on shore. “Hop in.” she says. 

The first boy to join her is Specs’ little buddy from the train. At her offer of help, he rushes to the front of the group and climbs aboard. The regal boy follows. A small boy– whose robes are far too long for him, honestly, they’re a safety hazard— is the only one to actually take Lily’s hand and let her help him into the boat.

Specs is the only one left, and now that the boat is full, it, like the others, is beginning to pull away from the dock.

“Jump!” Lily calls.

“Lily, no.” Severus says sternly. “The groundskeeper said four to a boat and we’re already at five.”

“We can’t just leave him there.” The other boy from the train looks affronted. 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Lily asks.

“We could capsize and drown!” Sev snaps.

Specs has taken a running start, he launches himself at the boat. He (mostly) makes it in.

The top half of his body is inside, while the bottom half dangles out. 

He crawls awkwardly into the cramped boat, squirming like an overgrown slug across the laps of the other boys.

“Nice one, James.” The regal boy spouts. Lily can’t tell if he’s being sincere or not. 

“I ruined my trainers,” Specs, James , pouts. His shoes are dripping with water. 

The boat is rocking precariously. While the other students are nimbly sailing across the surface of the lake, Lily’s ship is almost waddling. Maybe Sev was right. Maybe she should have left the extra boys on the shore and alerted the groundskeeper once she and Sev had arrived at the school. She lifts her hand to her mouth to chew her nail again. Sev blocks her. 

“There is no reason for you to be nervous.” He insists. “Stop that.”

“I can’t see how you aren’t nervous!” She hisses in a whisper. It’s not going to change the fact that James and his friends can hear her seeing as they’re barely two feet away, but she’d prefer to have even the pretense of privacy.

“How could you be nervous at a time like this?” James does not respect the sanctity of the whisper. 

“I dunno,” The pudgy boy squished into the corner of the boat says, “Pretty easily, to be honest.” 

James laughs. Sev sneers. That’s the second time today that Lily has seen that look on Severus’ face. She doesn’t like it. Not one bit. Severus Snape’s face was not built for all this sneering. She much prefers his face when he smiles. 

She lets her knee bump into Sev’s, drawing his attention back to her. He softens. 

In the dim light of the moon, Severus is almost beautiful. He’s not conventionally attractive. Lily knows that. Petunia wouldn’t let her forget it. But he’s got this sort of strength about him. A resilience. It seeps from his every pore, and Lily can’t help but recognize the beauty in it.

“You’ll be much less nervous once we both get sorted into Slytherin.” He says assuredly.

"Slytherin?" James says, lips pursed disapprovingly. "Who wants to be in Slytherin?" he turns to his friends, "I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

The regal boy is the first to respond. He doesn’t even turn to James as he speaks. "My whole family's been in Slytherin," he says, eyes locked on Severus.

“With my luck, I’ll wind up stuck in Hufflepuff,” The boy at the edge of the boat moans, flopping about and rocking the ship. 

“Now, come on Pete, don’t be like that…Hufflepuff’s cool too,” James reaches across the bodies of several boys to touch Pete.

Severus is frowning, eyes trained on the regal boy. He’s staring right back.  Lily glances between the boys, feeling a bit like a spectator at the world’s strangest boxing match. 

Then her eyes are drawn to a different sight. Their school begins to rise over the horizon. As the boat approaches, the castle stretches slowly up to its full height like a newly awoken giant. Lily finds she only has one thought: Hogwarts is incredible. 

The spires of the school stand silhouetted against the dark of the night. Candlelight’s glow seeps from the windows. Lily gapes unattractively as she takes in how truly colossal and lavish the building is. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she can hear Tuney telling her she’ll catch flies. For once, she doesn’t give a damn what her sister would say.  

"Where are you heading if you've got the choice?" The petite boy wedged in next to Pete asks. Lily, with great effort, turns to him. He’s hunched in on himself, making him seem even smaller than he already is. His eyes, just like Lily’s were a moment ago, are shining with wonder as he beholds the castle. 

"Gryffindor,” James has clearly decided the question was directed at him, “where dwell the brave at heart!" He lifts his wand into the air proudly. "Just like my dad."

Sev makes an ugly sound that is typically reserved for his father and Petunia.

In an instant, James’ smile drops. Lily sees his grip on his wand tighten.

"Got a problem with that?" James demands. 

"No," Sev says in a voice that implies the opposite. He was typically such a kind boy. His hostility towards James only confirmed to Lily that the bad feeling she had about the boy with the glasses was correct. Sev would never act this way if he didn’t have a reason. He starts speaking again, "Gryffindor’s fine, if you'd rather be brawny than brainy..."

"Where are you hoping to go, then, seeing as you're neither?" The regal boy asks stonily.

James roars with laughter. Pete’s in stitches. The posh boy’s mouth twitches. Lily’s nostrils flare. She grabs Sev’s hand. 

Thankfully, they’ve just arrived at the shore. She stands abruptly, pulling Sev up with her. “That’s quite enough out of you three!” She snips.

The boys stop laughing for a moment, taking in her glare and her heaving chest. They proceed to laugh even harder. 

Lily growls in frustration and climbs out of the boat. “Come on, Sev.” She says. 

Severus follows her. He always follows her. They’ve always got each other. One will always follow the other. She’s followed him here, hasn’t she? To Hogwarts. She’ll follow him to Slytherin, too. She’d follow him anywhere.

+++

“Adderforth, Adrian.” 

A gangly blonde boy, presumably Adrian Adderforth, pushes his way through the clump of students and joins Professor Slughorn at the stool. He takes a seat, and the professor lowers a moth-bitten old hat onto his head. 

Severus can’t be bothered to keep his eyes on Adderforth. Instead, they wander about the hall.  

Each row of tables is brightly decorated with house banners that match the uniform ties of the students seated beneath them. Red and gold. Yellow and black. Blue and bronze. Green and silver. 

His gaze lands there, on the Slytherin tables. On his destiny. He’s waited his entire life to sit at that very table. Now he finally could— He and Lily. 

Severus doesn’t even need to look at her in order to know Lily is biting her nails. He grabs her hand and pulls it from her lips. “You’re going to be fine.” He says, leaning close so she can hear him over the cheering Hufflepuffs.

“Aubrey, Betram.” Slughorn calls from beside The Sorting Hat.

Lily blinks up at Severus. She’s trembling. He laces their fingers together and gives her hand a squeeze. 

“I’m going to faint.” She whispers.

Severus rolls his eyes fondly, lips twitching. The Slytherin table cheers.

“Avery, Edmund.”

“You’re not going to faint.” He whispers back as the Avery boy pushes to the front. “You’re Lily Evans.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?!” She hisses, chewing a hangnail on her other hand.

“You once threw a bible at Spencer Roach.” He grasps her other wrist firmly with his free hand. 

The Slytherin table cheers again. Edmund hops off the stool grinning proudly.

“That was different… and it wasn’t a bible. It was a latin book.” Lily huffs.

“How was throwing a bible at a boy twice your size less intimidating than sitting on a stool? Honestly, Lily-”

“He was bothering you.” She says sullenly. Severus softens.

He feels like something inside of him melts a little– turns all soupy– as he remembers the image of newly turned ten-year-old Lily Evans, cheeks red with fury, digging through her knapsack and shouting warnings at his bully. His Avenging Angel. Her hair had been a halo of fire when she’d helped him off the ground that day. His awe hadn’t been dampened one bit when she’d burst into tears and made him promise not to tell anyone she’d resorted to violence.

“Black, Sirius.” 

The Slytherin table cheers a third time. The boy hasn’t even reached the stool yet, and they’re already celebrating. Whatever Lily had warmed inside of Severus turns to ice again. He presses his mouth flat. 

Severus had recognized Sirius on the boat. He may not have attended the galas, balls, and cottilions the rest of polite wizarding society had, but Severus Snape was well educated. He had Prince blood flowing through his veins. Of course Severus had recognized The Heir to The House of Black. He made a point not to even speak to the boy to avoid puting his foot in his mouth.  Yet, somehow, Severus had already offended the person in his year it was most vital that he impress. He must have offended, for the Black boy to speak to him that way. And Severus is not looking forward to the groveling he’ll likely have to do in order to get on The Heir’s good side.

The Black boy sits primly on the stool, back straight and chin up. The cheers die down as Slughorn lowers the hat unto his head. 

It’s quiet.

It’s quiet for much longer than it had been quiet while Adrian, Betram, or Edmund were being sorted. 

Gradually, every eye in the hall turns to The Heir. He closes his eyes.

Severus doesn’t miss the way The Heir’s pale fingers tighten around the edge of the stool, gripping it as if he’s frightened he’ll fall off.

What does The Heir to The House of Black have to be frightened about?

“Gryffindor!” The hat roars.

Sirius Black’s eyes shoot open.

The entirety of The Great Hall stares back at him, unmoving, unblinking and utterly silent.

Then, from the very back of the crowd of first-years, someone starts to cheer.

“Yeah, Sirius!” He whoops.

Severus knows that voice. He turns anyway.

The specky prat from the train is clapping fervently.

“Gryffindor!” He shouts, “Suck it, Slytherin!”

Sirius Black’s mouth gapes in an entirely uncivilized manner. 

The Gryffindor table comes alive at the notion of forcing Slytherin to, quote, “suck it.” Of course they do, the knobs. They begin hollering uproariously, several of them laughing and pointing at the youngest Slytherin prefect’s shocked face. She blinks furiously, brows furrowed, wrinkling her porcelain skin. 

Professor Slughorn removes the hat from Sirius’ head. He whispers something to Sirius that Severus doesn’t catch over the echoing chant coming from Gryffindor.

“Suck it, Slytherin! Suck it, Slytherin! Suck it, Slytherin!”

Sirius scrambles to the Gryffindor table, head down and shoulders hunched. 

The chanting continues. Beside Severus, Lily’s head is swivelling wildly. Her eyes widen as she does her best to drink in everything that’s happening.

“That’s quite enough, now!” Snaps the professor. A prefect stands to welcome the Black boy. He’s grinning widely as he offers Sirius Black his hand. The cheers die down under Slughorns’s glare.

She clears her throat. “Carden, Elizabeth.”

Sirius Black was just sorted into Gryffindor. He’d just sullied five hundred years of tradition. Severus can’t help the slimy grin that oozes onto his face. Good Riddance. He supposes he won’t be seeing much of Black anymore, let alone be doing much groveling. 

In all the commotion, Lily’s hands had gotten free. Of course, her nails were back in her mouth. Unladlylike. Entirely unladylike. He stops her once more.

“What if that happens to me?” She looks like she wants to wail. 

Severus chuckles. “It won’t.” he assures her, “That was…  a complete worst case scenario.” 

The Ravenclaw table claps.

“I can imagine worse.” She mutters.

“Darby, Reginald.”

“What could possibly be worse than that?” Severus shakes his head.

Lily doesn’t answer. She purses her lips.

Severus– not for the first time– wishes he had the ability to read her mind. He hates secrets. 

He’d never been allowed any secrets as a child. Not while his mother was such a skilled Legilimens. 

He used to barely even notice it: the slight tickle of his mother’s magic sliding across the surface of his mind, plucking the thoughts she fancied as one might pluck a bouquet. Of course, as he grew older and progressed in his homeschooling, he recognized it for what it was. 

Severus is certain that if he knew how to read Lily’s mind, she’d be much happier. 

Unfortunately, that is not a skill he possesses. So he settles for squeezing her hand again, instead. 

Ravenclaw cheers again.

“What if the hat doesn’t put me anywhere?” Lily’s voice is barely audible. Terror swims in her green eyes. Her hands shake violently in his own.

Severus scowls. “Don’t even think that.” He grips her hand tightly. “You’re one of the most incredible witches I’ve ever met.”

“You haven’t met many witches yet.” She points out humorlessly. 

He doesn’t need to. His chest burns with the desire to make her understand that. It doesn’t matter that Severus hasn’t met many witches yet. He knows Lily is going to be great. She’s already great. 

“Evans, Lily.”

She doesn’t move. Severus feels his chest constrict even more. “Lily,” He tries to sound reassuring, “go.”

“I’ll trip.” 

“I’ll carry you.” He says. He says it like its a joke. Like it’s a playful threat. But it’s not. He would. He would carry Lily if that’s what she needed. He’d put her on his back and haul her to the stool. He’d haul her to the Slytherin common room, to classes, back home to Cokeworth, if she asked him to. Severus Snape is willing. She’s his best friend– his only friend. He wants to give her whatever she needs.

His threat works. Lily lets go of his hand and treads up to the stool. She takes her seat, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

Severus catches her eyes once more before the hat flops over the top of her head and obscures her vision. He smiles at her. She doesn’t smile back. That’s okay. There will be plenty of time for Severus to make Lily smile. She’ll smile at him when he joins her at the Slytherin table. She’ll smile at him when he explains the artificial sunlight charm in the dorms. She’ll smile at him when he snags her some toast at breakfast tomorrow because she’ll probably want to sleep in after-

“Gryffindor!”

The Gryffindors erupt into cheers again. 

The ground falls out from beneath his feet.

He feels unmoored. Lily walks to the Gryffindor tables. Her hair blends in against the red and gold. She doesn’t shine the way she should. That’s not where she’s supposed to be. It’s wrong. It’s abhorrent.

It only gets worse as the list goes on. 

It only gets worse when the twit from the train, James Potter, gets sorted into Gryffindor as well. He gets exactly what he wanted. Potter. His family is famous for nothing more than making hair potions and being blood traitors. Why does he get lucky?

Why does James Potter get to be in the house he wanted? With all his stupid friends from the boat? With The Heir of The House of Black? With Lily? With Severus’ Lily?

Severus finds himself on the stool, stewing in anger. He feels like he’s broiling. He tries to catch Lily’s eye again, now that he’s at the front. But she’s not looking at him. She’s talking to Potter. 

The Sorting Hat is finally on his head and Severus finds that he can’t even bring himself to listen to it as it hems and haws over the contents of his head. 

This is wrong. This is all wrong.

The Slytherins are cheering. Lily finally turns to him. She smiles as Severus shakily steps off the stool.

He wants to walk towards her. He wants to join his only friend. Instead, he’s forced to walk away from her. 

He recognizes his prefect immediately. The white hair gives him away. Lucius Malfoy, son of Abraxas Malfoy, offers Severus a charming smile. “Severus Snape,” Lucius grasps Severus’ hand, giving the flimsy thing a firm shake, “Pleasure to meet you. Welcome to Slytherin. Have a seat.”

Severus wonders, momentarily, if Lucius Malfoy has any idea that Severus comes from the Prince family. But that thought feels foggy and far away. His ears are ringing as he sits.

Severus isn’t an idiot. Of course he’d always been aware that there was a chance Lily would be placed somewhere other than Slytherin. He knows that Slytherin isn’t exactly crawling with muggleborns.

He’d simply always been certain he would end up in Slytherin, and it was impossible for him to imagine a life at Hogwarts that didn’t contain Lily Evans.

They belong together. They’re better together. 

If that hat had placed her anywhere else, it might have been fine. But Gryffindor?  Gryffindor?

Lily is as good as gone to him now. The thought makes his eyes sting.

+++

Remus Lupin can’t eat. It’s not for lack of hunger, nor is it because the food doesn’t look appetizing. All around him, students have piled their plates high with mashed potatoes, and roasted chicken, and gravy, and stew, and–

His stomach growls. 

Remus Lupin can’t eat even though he’s hungry. Even though the food looks delicious. Even though Peter from the train has just about finished his second helping.

Remus can’t eat because he’s nervous. He’s so nervous he’s nearly sick with it.

He jabs his fork at his shepherd’s pie absently. The humor of his food choice is not lost on him. Perhaps he might have been able to stomach more than a few bites if he’d picked a less punny dinner.  A werewolf eating shepherd’s pie. Hilarious.

“All right, Lupin?” James says.

Remus nearly jumps out of his skin. 

James from the train and his friend, Peter, had been engaged in some sort of private celebration ever since James had taken a seat at the Gryffindor table.

The boys had forced Lily from the boat to budge over. Privately, Remus thought that was a tad bit rude, but he hadn’t said anything. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

That’s what Da said.  Don’t bring attention to yourself. 

Lyall Lupin had been even more nervous about this whole thing than Remus. A less observant son might not have recognized that, might have come to the easy conclusion that his father was being wretched. But Remus is a smart boy. He easily saw beyond Lyall’s stony facade. Saw the fear in his eyes.

Sending your werewolf son off to a boarding school chock-full of people who’d like to see him locked away because of their entirely rational fear that he might eat them can’t be easy. Remus knows that. 

He knows his father loves him. He knows that all the warnings to avoid attention, to focus on his studies, to try to remain invisible are all just the ways his father shows that love. Just like when he makes Remus chew on those bitter leaves the night before the full moon. Just like when Hope knits blanket after blanket to pad the floor of the basement, even though The Wolf always tears them to shreds.

His parents love him. His parents are the only people who aren’t afraid of him. 

His father is afraid for him. 

Hope– bless her– had tried her best to settle her lads’ nerves. She hummed silly little muggle tunes and cooked their favorite dishes. She helped Remus pack his records and even gave him the family record player. Lyall told them Remus wouldn’t be able to use it at Hogwarts because there’d be no elecktrycity. Hope had just tutted and waved him off. 

“You lot can figure out how to teleport, I’m sure our son can make a record spin.” She’d smiled. 

She’d tucked Remus in each night he spent upstairs, carding her fingers through his chocolate locks when he was too worried to sleep. 

“That Dumbledore fellow is meant to be some sort of genius, I hear.” She’d whispered one particularly restless night. “He wouldn’t have sent you a letter if you weren’t meant to be at school.”

Remus had remained silent, feigning sleep. There was no point in pretending though. Hope knew her son. 

“You  are  meant to be there, cyw.” She whispered. “Don’t listen to your father, he’s just…”

She’d been quiet for so long that Remus thought she might’ve fallen asleep beside him. 

She hadn’t. 

“You deserve to make friends, Remus. Please don’t let him make you think otherwise.” 

She placed a soft kiss on the top of his head. Then she left.

Remus had cried himself to sleep that night.

Friends are not exactly a luxury he can afford right now.  Remus is a smart boy. He’s smart enough to know that, at the very least. 

“Lupin?” James repeats. “Are you okay? You look sick.”

Remus nods wordlessly. 

James looks like he’s going to push the issue, but then Peter lets out an indignant squeak.

Remus’ pie has disappeared from his plate, and so, it seems, has Peter’s food. It vanished right off his fork. 

All the older students turn to the professors’ table at the far end of The Great Hall. 

Professor Dumbledore stands at a podium surveying the crowd. His lips are pressed together in a strange half-smile. “Hello again.” He greets. “I trust you all enjoyed the feast.” 

The students around Remus answer in the affirmative. Remus’ stomach growls again. 

“I understand you’ve all been on a very long journey today, and you’ve got a busy day of classes tomorrow, so I’ll be brief.” The Headmaster pushes up his crescent-moon glasses and smiles thinly. “I’d like you all to take a look at the students sitting at your table.” 

James and Peter from the train are sitting across from him. Lily from the boat is sitting as far away from James from the train as she possibly can without moving to a different bench altogether. 

There are two girls he doesn't know on Remus' left. To his right sits Sirius Black, staring silently down at his empty plate. 

“I understand many of you already know one another. I ask that you look regardless.”

Peter is practically plastered against James’ side. Lily keeps turning around to look at the Slytherin tables. Sirius is toying with that lush ring. 

“Hogwarts is home to a wide array of students.” The Headmaster says. “Each of you is an entirely unique individual. I’m sure you might agree that you are all quite different from one another.”

Remus wants to laugh. He wants to cry.  Different. Sure. That’s one word for it. 

“Yet you all have at least one thing in common.” Dumbledore continues. “You are here. You are all witches and wizards honing your skills at the greatest academic institution in Scotland.”

Remus shouldn’t be here. That's what makes him different. He's not meant to be here. 

“As the year begins, I implore you to remember to pause every now and again. Pause and simply look around at your peers. See beyond your differences. For, I assure you, the things that unite us are far stronger than anything that might divide us.” 

It’s a lovely thought. One Remus wants to believe. He’s just not sure he buys it. 

“Off to bed with you, now.” The Headmaster smiles, eyes twinkling as he steps down from his podium.

Older students clump into cliques and migrate out of The Great Hall. The first-years stand but quickly realize they’ve got no clue where they’re heading. 

While the other students in his year begin to chatter again, Remus looks up at the enchanted ceiling. It's beautiful. The half-moon hangs low in the cloudless sky. Stars glitter like crushed diamonds against the velvety night. The house banners that hung over the children during their meal suddenly snap up into nothingness like a triggered roller shade, disappearing with a faint crackle. 

The flock of Gryffindor first-years is herded toward one of their prefects, a girl called Annalena Murk. She’s a willowy blonde girl wearing a big polished silver badge. She stands with her chest puffed out like some sort of bird so that it catches in the candlelight. 

A buzz of excitement rushes through the crowd when they hear that upon arriving at the Gryffindor common room, Annalena will help them pick their rooms. Nobody gives a rat’s intestines about the rooms, obviously. They’re all excited because picking rooms means picking roommates. 

Remus hasn’t allowed himself to think about roommates much yet. They’d undoubtedly be the worst part of this entire experiment. Especially if his roommates were anything like James from the train, the bright boy who was so clearly willing to befriend Remus. Remus would want nothing more than to let them. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do that. That would only make it harder to come up with a lie once every month.  His roommates would never want to be his friends if they knew what he was.

Annalena leads the Gryffindors out of The Great Hall. No later than the moment he passes through the great big doors, Remus feels a slender hand on his shoulder. “Remus Lupin?” A warm voice floats from behind him. 

An older girl with honey-colored curls is smiling down at him. Remus feels like a blydi baby for the way it makes him want to cry. He misses his mam. He misses her something awful.

He sniffs. “Yes?”

“I’m Miriam,” Remus notes the silver badge on her robes. “I’m meant to take you to Madam Pomfrey.”

Remus blinks up at her. 

“The nurse.” Miriam clarifies.

Right. Of course. The full moon is in three days. Of course, the nurse would want to see him. 

Back at home, Lyall had been the one to stitch Remus up after The Wolf tore him apart. He’d bring Remus a dozen vile potions to drink first thing in the morning and do his best to seal his son’s larger wounds. Lyall wasn’t a healer, and he wasn’t a warm man. But he was Remus’ father, and the sting of his clumsy spells felt like a promise.  I love you.  It said.  I love you regardless. We can fix this. I’ll fix it. 

This nurse would be skilled, no doubt. But she wouldn’t provide the same salve. 

 “Come along, duck.” Miriam prompts, patting his shoulder once more before walking off. Remus follows.

The ceilings at this school, Remus is coming to realize, are ridiculously high. Walking down a simple hallway, Remus feels as though he's in one of those muggle cathedrals Hope always speaks of visiting someday. The castle is all archways and tapestries and stained glass windows. It's beautiful. It makes him feel small... smaller than he already is anyhow.

Lyall seemed to think Remus' diminutive stature had something to do with his lycanthropy. As if The Wolf somehow stole the nutrients from the food Remus ate. Da was of the opinion that once Remus was cured, the boy would grow as he should. Mam thought this was perfectly ridiculous. She assured Remus that he was a fine height for his age. She said her brothers had been late bloomers as well. 

Remus isn't sure who he believes. 

His stomach aches. It burns somehow, churning and angry despite the fact that it is empty. 

Miriam looks back at him. “Don’t be nervous.” She says, eyes soft. 

Does it show? Is it obvious?

“Madam Pomfrey only seems scary. She’s very kind really.” Miriam continues, completely misunderstanding the cause of his jitters. “She’ll be gentle… provided you behave.” She chuckles.

Remus supposes he should be glad to hear this, seeing as it’s entirely likely that this nurse– this  Madam Pomfrey – will be his only real companion for the next seven years.

“Here we are,” Miriam says, coming to a stop in front of a large set of double doors. 

She pushes them open and gestures for Remus to head inside. Remus does as he’s told. Inside, he's greeted with the sight of rows upon rows of white medical beds. A woman in a healer’s dress bustles about, placing empty vials on bedside tables and fluffing pillows. 

“Here he is, Madam.” Miriam places a thin hand back on Remus’ shoulder. 

“Ah! Miss Strout. Thank you.” Madam Pomfrey ceases her prepping to smile thinly at the prefect. 

“He’s a talkative one, miss,” Miriam says. She winks at Remus. 

Madam Pomfrey does not laugh. “That will be all, Miss Strout.” 

“ ’Course,” Miriam says. 

Remus hears the heavy doors shut behind him. 

Madame Pomfrey dusts off her hands and looks him up and down. Finally, she nods. “Right. Step into my office, Mister Lupin.”

Remus doesn't know where her office is precisely. But, unwilling to look as lost as he feels, he simply begins walking to the opposite side of the hospital wing. There's a closed door on the far end of the room, and he figures that's as good a bet as any.

When Remus pushes the door open he’s not surprised to see Professor Dumbledore. He is surprised to find The Headmaster isn't alone. He's speaking in hushed tones with another professor. The two are huddled close together over what Remus assumes must be Madam Pomfrey’s desk.

At the sound of the door opening, the pair cease their conversation. The Headmaster smiles at Remus, eyes all aglow. His white beard and rosy cheeks make the man look like some sort of underfed Father Christmas. “Mister Lupin!” His voice is kind and inviting. “Have a seat. It’s lovely to finally meet you face to face.”

Remus isn’t sure that lovely is the right word for it. Hogwarts is certainly lovely. It’s incredible. It’s like nothing Remus has ever seen. There are no moving staircases or enchanted ceilings in Hope’s cottage. Being here, being at Hogwarts, is more than Remus has ever hoped for since he was seven years old.  That's lovely. But being here, being in this office with these adults, presumably to discuss the fact that he is a monster who should not be here?  That’s not so lovely.

Remus sits in the empty seat.

“Allow me to introduce you to Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House.”

Professor McGonagall looks fairly young for a professor, about the same age as Madam Pomfrey. She’s got her hair all piled up on top of her head in a tight bun, and her eyes feel like they’re boring right into Remus’ soul. He can’t stand it. He looks away.

Under different circumstances, Remus might worry he was being rude. But he doubts anybody is expecting a beast to be particularly polite. So civility ought to suffice for now. 

Dumbledore chuckles. "You'll forgive me, of course, for letting Minerva in on our little secret." 

His pouting must be obvious. Remus feels his face heat up. He wishes he could disappear.

“I assure you, Mister Lupin, you needn’t worry about her.” The Headmaster seems amused. “As your Head of House, it was important that she be aware of your condition.”

Condition. That’s what his da always called it too. 

“She’ll see to it that your professors don’t dock your grades for your absences.” Madam Pomfrey says, noticing the terrible nauseous look on Remus’ face. “Merlin knows they won’t listen to me. Think I fuss too much.”

“Poppy…” Dumbledore sighs.

“I fuss the necessary amount.” She huffs.

“It was also important that I be aware of where you are when you’re out past curfew each month,” McGonagall says primly, putting an end to Madam Pomfrey’s fuss. The woman is looking at Remus, eyes filled with something closer to pity than fear.

Slowly Remus nods. It makes sense. The churning feeling in his gut at yet another person being aware of his condition tells him that he’s not happy about it. But it makes sense. 

“I’m sure Mister Lupin would like to see his dormitory at some point this evening, so let’s discuss the matter at hand, shall we?” Dumbledore says, quieting the ladies. He then stands and walks to the window behind Madam Pomfrey’s desk. 

McGonagall and Pomfrey look at Remus expectantly. Under their insistent gaze, he shuffles uncomfortably to the window as well.

“Do you see that tree, Mister Lupin?”

Privately, Remus thinks this question is a bit silly. He’s a werewolf, not blind. But he’s meant to be grateful. He is grateful. So he nods. “Yes, sir.”

The tree in question is a scraggly-looking thing. It's gnarled and already rather barren for this early into autumn. It's not terribly large yet, but given the towering nature of a few branches, Remus gets the idea that it will be soon.

“We planted that tree the moment the decision was made to invite you to join us at Hogwarts.”

“Cost us a pretty penny.” 

“Poppy!” Professor McGonagall chides.

“Why was it so expensive?" Remus asks. It really is an ugly tree. He feels lost. He hates feeling lost. 

“They're rather rare, Whomping Willows." Dumbledore smiles, almost proud. "And very protective.”

As if showing off, the tree suddenly springs to life, whacking at a low-flying bird with its aforementioned branches. 

“This particular Whomping Willow was planted to protect you and your peers from your transformation each month.”

Remus doesn't feel any less lost. The only explanation that springs to mind is that he's meant to climb the tree somehow. He knows that's foolish the moment it pops into his head. He would hope that the great Albus Dumbledore could devise a better idea than that nonsense. 

“It guards a passageway built to lead you to your safe house”

Admittedly, this is a much better idea. He should have known he'd be kept somewhere far from the castle on nights when he transformed. It was a liability allowing him inside the castle at all.

His safe house.  Whatever this place was, it was meant to be the equivalent of the basement back home. Remus wrings his hands, remembering the burns left by Da's silver padlocks. 

“On Sunday, please arrive here promptly an hour before sunset.” The Headmaster clasps his hands behind his back. “Madam Pomfrey will escort you.”

At least he wouldn’t be alone.  Remus knows he ought to get used to solitude, but he doesn’t think he could stomach being all alone on his first night.

“Do you have any questions?” McGonagall asks.

Remus shakes his head. He doesn’t want to ask questions. He wants to go to bed. He wants them to stop staring at him. He wants his mam. 

“If that’s everything,” says Dumbledore as he steps away from the window, “why don't you escort the boy back to his dormitory, Minerva? I’m certain he’s eager to unpack.”

Professor McGonagall nods once, then stands. Her green robes ripple as she gets up. “Come now, Mister Lupin.” She says.

Remus follows, trailing behind her as she exits the Hospital wing.

The walk to Gryffindor Tower is long and mostly silent. The echoes of their footsteps on stone tile fill Remus’ ears. He catches a glimpse of his distorted reflection in a suit of armor as they walk. He looks tired. 

“I hope you won’t think any less of me, Mister Lupin, if I seemed uncomfortable during our meeting.” Professor McGonagall eventually breaks the silence. 

The quiet hadn't bothered Remus; he was quite sad to see it go. In the quiet, he could gawk at the moving staircases without the threat of judgment. 

He scrunches his nose. “No. Of course not.” 

Her reaction seemed perfectly normal. Better than he’d hoped, honestly.

“I’d like you to know that I don’t think any less of you.” The professor turns to look at him. 

Despite her words, there’s that same pitying look in her eyes. Remus pretends not to see it. 

“Thank you, Professor.” He nods.

She seems just as distrusting of his response as he was of her declaration. 

Just like Dumbledore’s flowery speech at the feast: It’s a nice thought. But Remus knows better than to buy into it.

They continue the rest of the walk in silence. He's thankful.

Eventually, the pair come upon a large portrait of a sleeping woman. Professor McGonagall clears her throat, and the sleeping woman jumps. She blinks herself awake and looks about. “Hmm? What?” 

Remus is transfixed. He’d heard of moving portraits. He’d seen the pictures move on his father’s newspapers and on his own chocolate frog trading cards. But those had never reacted to him. This is fascinating! The woman in the portrait straightens her dress and peers down at the professor and the student. “Out for a late-night stroll, are we?” 

“Quite,” McGonagall replies. “It’d be best not to mention this again, yes?”

The woman laughs and makes a show of ‘sealing’ her lips before turning to Remus. “And who’s this?”

“This is Mister Lupin.” McGonagall answers, “He may wake you from time to time. He’s ill.”

The portrait pouts down at Remus. “Poor bird.” 

Panicking, Remus forces a few measly coughs. 

Professor McGonagall presses her lips together in an obvious attempt not to laugh.

“Let’s get you to bed.” The portrait croons.

“My thoughts exactly.” Says McGonagall. “Puffskein.” 

The portrait moves ever so slightly. Remus catches the slight squeak of a door on hinges. The painting is a door. Banging!

“Run along,” McGonagall says. “You’ve got a busy day ahead of you.”

Remus feels along the edge of the portrait, still marveling at it. He pushes it open some more and catches a glimpse of the firelight on the other side.

“Sleep well, Mister Lupin.” The Professor says kindly.

Remus slips through the circular entrance behind the painting. The portrait swings shut behind him. 

He steps into a cosy, round room. Cool moonlight streams in from the large windows. It fights momentarily with the warm light of the fireplace before the two mingle and dissipate into an incandescent glow. It’s still too dark for Remus to make out the depictions on the tapestries hanging from the walls. 

The fire crackles to his right, casting long shadows on the far wall. He turns to it. A lion's head is proudly mounted above a brick fireplace's mantle. It gazes out stoically into a garden of squashy red armchairs, snug sofas, coffee tables, and loveseats. 

Remus approaches the fireplace, drawn to the warmth. 

It’s at that moment that he realizes the common room isn’t as empty as he thought. Sitting on the floor, previously hidden by the couch, are James and Peter from the train. James is shuffling through a collection of chocolate frog trading cards. Peter is fast asleep on his shoulder.

Remus wants to slip away. He wants to run up the stairs to his bedroom. He takes a step back to do just that before realizing he’s not quite sure where his room is. 

“Erm,” Remus says intelligently. Brilliant.

James perks up, turning to Remus. “There you are!” 

Peter makes a muffled grunting sound as James hops to a standing position. He looks around blearily. “Wha?”

“He’s back,” James says, helping Peter up. “We were waiting for you.”

Remus blinks. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised.  Of course. Of course there's no escaping James from the train.  “...why?” 

“We saved you a bed,” James smiles.

Remus doesn’t know how to respond. He just stares. James shuffles his trainers on the rug. “Alright, in the interest of honesty, it was the only bed left.” He laughs awkwardly. “But we’d already wanted you to dorm with us before we realized that! Right, Pete?”

Peter nods, but he doesn’t say anything. The poor boy is clearly exhausted. Remus feels exhausted. 

“Come on! We’ll show you the room.” James’ face splits into a toothy grin. He takes off like a shot up the stairs to the left. 

James from the train feels like the fire the boys just left behind downstairs. He’s warm and bright and if Remus lets himself get too close he’s bound to be burnt to a crisp. 

James pushes the door nearest to the stairway open. He makes large, wild motions to usher the other boys inside. “Try to be quiet.” He says in a 'whisper' that is much too loud. “Sirius is probably asleep by now.”

The dorm room is just as beautiful as the rest of the castle. There are four red four-poster beds, each canopied with crimson curtains and flanked by large windows. Banners billow down from the ceiling. A stove is nestled in the corner of the room. 

Looking up at the impossibly high ceiling, Remus wonders if there are any rooms in this entire school that won't make him feel like some sort of dwarf.

Peter and James have already unpacked their school trunks. James’ bedside table is covered in quidditch memorabilia and pictures from home. Peter’s holds a wizard chess set, his wand, and a few scattered gobstones. 

Sirius has not unpacked. He’s also not asleep. He’s just sitting there on the edge of his bed, staring at his trunk. 

Remus turns to James. The other boy just shrugs, his bright grin faltering. 

Remus scrunches his nose.  None of his business. Whatever is going on with Sirius is none of his business.  He turns away from them both. 

Remus sees his da’s old trunk at the foot of the fourth bed. It soothes him slightly to know his records, and jumpers, and books, and the record player are all safe inside, even though he hasn’t laid eyes on them yet. 

Someone is snoring. Peter, no doubt.

“I think Pete’s got the right idea.” Remus hears James yawn behind him, confirming his suspicions. “Goodnight, lads.”

Neither Remus nor Sirius replies. James doesn’t seem offended. Shuffling sounds indicate that he’s gotten into bed. 

Remus opens his trunk, digging out his da’s old Ravenclaw jumper. 

Would Da be surprised that Remus was a Gryffindor? He’d never indicated that he had hopes Remus would be a Ravenclaw. Then again, he’d never indicated he had hopes Remus would go to Hogwarts at all. 

He clutches the jumper to his chest and dashes by Sirius. He’ll change in the bathroom. Remus is a smart boy.  He’ll give the other boys no opportunity to see his scars.