Chapter 1
REGULUS BLACK
( 22.09.1997 )
London is exactly as Regulus remembers it. A bit grim, overly crowded, dirty, and overwhelming in its rawness. They pass by a few street musicians, some homeless people, a yelling newspaper vendor, and a young girl painting graffiti on the wall of an abandoned building. Even though the city pulses with life, it feels as though everyone is fighting for their own space, their five minutes of attention. The gray sky reflects in puddles on the pavement, while mist rises above the rooftops, mingling with smoke and dust.
London is a patchwork of contrasts: luxurious shop windows full of opulence almost neighbor rundown tenement houses where life unfolds in the shadows. The smell of fried food from a nearby stall blends with the dampness that seems to seep into everything. The Thames flows lazily, reflecting the pale light of the street lamps, serving as the heart of the entire city.
Regulus pauses for a moment, glancing at the people passing by — each seems to be rushing somewhere, lost in their own thoughts. This city feels like a living organism, beautiful and harsh at the same time, full of history but also heavy with complex emotions. Perhaps that’s why it seems so magnetic. It’s like a mirror of human nature.
“Old, good London, huh?” asks Remus, setting Regulus’ suitcase down on the sidewalk and pulling his friend out of his thoughts. Regulus nods and smiles faintly, because no matter what city he finds himself in, what truly matters is that he’s far from home and can at least pretend to believe he’ll taste a bit of freedom. Only the crumpled slip of paper with an address shoved into his coat pocket reminds him that no matter how far he goes, it’s only an illusion because his parents will always hold the reins of his life.
“I don’t understand why I can’t just live with you. Ruth would come around eventually,” he grumbles, frowning like a sulking child, while Remus laughs loudly in response.
“Don’t be so dramatic, you won’t be far. We’ll literally be able to see each other from our windows,” Remus teases, giving him a playful nudge before turning to examine the new building where his friend will be living.
“Just admit you don’t want monthly visits from Walburga,” Regulus shoots back, and Remus rolls his eyes, a carefree gesture that somehow seems to mirror his own relief that Regulus is far from Paris.
For now, Lupin is the only close person in Regulus’s life, and he wouldn’t want that to change. Remus is always there for him, and even though Walburga despises her son’s friend, she tolerates their bond because she believes that after her own son, Remus was the most sensible and intelligent child at the school where she once taught.
In theory, Remus could have left a year ago, right after finishing high school, but he stayed to wait for Regulus, a silent testament to his care for his best friend.
The friendship between Regulus and Remus is more than mere camaraderie. It’s an unspoken alliance, a quiet promise that they will never abandon each other, even if the world around them falls apart. They understand one another without words, and their conversations — endless discussions about literature, music, and the complexities of human nature — fill long hours, making everything else seem less important.
Regulus loves the way Remus approaches every problem with a calm that is anything but obvious, as though he could solve anything given enough time. His sharp wit and ironic sense of humor draw people to him, but it’s Regulus with whom he spends the most time. A fact Regulus treasures more than he’d ever admit.
And yet, there are moments when Regulus wonders if he values their friendship a little too much. Like when Remus smiles faintly, revealing the slight misalignment of teeth he’s usually so keen to hide. Or when their shoulders accidentally brush in a crowd, and Regulus feels the touch linger longer than it should. It’s something fleeting, something he buries deep inside, fearing that a single careless word could destroy what they have.
It’s hard not to feel this way when Remus is the first person to whom Regulus has bared his entire soul. Not just fragments or crumbs. Remus has it all, with all the struggles, darkest problems, and secrets that only he and the stars know. It works both ways, though, because Remus has opened up too, speaking about his illness, the struggles with his youngest sister, and his father, who still can’t look him in the eye after an incident years ago.
There is only one subject they avoid. The one time it came up, they had a terrible fight, and Remus left Regulus’ family home, slamming the door. A gesture so unlike his usual calm and patient demeanor.
Regulus, in turn, cried quietly in his room, thinking he’d been abandoned again. Remus returned a month later and apologized, and Regulus fell into his arms, sobbing like a child and saying he thought Remus had left him for good because, in the end, that’s what everyone important in his life always does.
“Time to meet your new roommates, huh?” Remus murmurs with a teasing grin, referencing how Regulus had complained throughout the entire train ride that he couldn’t live with him and his sister or at least on his own. “Don’t sulk. Your mother wants you to make more friends.”
“I don’t need them. I have you,” Regulus replies stubbornly, gripping the handle of his suitcase tighter as if it could shield him from an unwanted reality.
“I know, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have other friends,” Remus says, his tone a gentle reprimand. “Besides, you never know. You might meet someone who surprises you.”
Regulus rolls his eyes but remains silent, not wanting to get into another discussion. He looks up at the building in front of him — tall, slightly worn, with balconies overflowing with flowers that seem to be trying to mask its imperfections. There’s something melancholic about the tenement, something that reminds him of Paris, though it’s entirely different at the same time.
“It looks… decent,” he finally says, trying to sound more convincing than he feels. Remus snorts with laughter.
“That’s the best compliment you can come up with?”
“Let’s just say I’m not in the mood for poetry,” Regulus retorts dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitches in a faint smile.
“Come on, let’s see if your new roommates have more enthusiasm,” Remus says, grabbing one of the suitcases and heading toward the entrance.
Regulus follows him, feeling the tension in his shoulders slowly ease. He doesn’t want to admit it, but knowing Remus is right there helps him face the new place.
The door is opened by a girl with straight, light blond, almost white hair styled to perfection. She’s wearing a black dress, and her gaze is as cold and distant as possible.
“Regulus Black, right?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s right,” he answers, instinctively straightening under her scrutiny. Regulus has a knack for making others feel inferior with his icy demeanor, but he despises people who manage to make him feel that way.
Well, we’re all a bit hypocritical, aren’t we?
“I’m Pandora. And this is Evan,” she gestures to the boy standing behind her, who looks like her carbon copy. The only difference is that his hair is shorter and messier, and he’s not quite as elegantly dressed. Regulus assumes they must be siblings.
“Nice to meet you,” says Regulus, trying to make it sound natural, though in reality, he feels like a fish out of water.
“All right, I’ll leave you in good hands,” Remus cuts in, patting him on the shoulder and setting down the suitcase he had carried. “I’ll see you later.” Regulus glances at him with slight unease, but before he can say anything, Remus disappears through the door.
“Where are you from?” the girl asks, still fixing him with that same piercing gaze. Bad luck for her, she’s met her match. Regulus tilts his chin up and straightens as he steps into the apartment that will be his home for the foreseeable future.
“France,” he replies, raising an eyebrow and refusing to break eye contact.
“D’où viens-tu ?” Pandora presses with a slight smirk, as if testing whether he’s telling the truth.
“Pandora, arrête. Ce n’est pas un test,” Evan interjects, clearly trying to stop his sister from further interrogation. Regulus snorts mockingly, unable to hold it back. In his entire life, he’s never met anyone as irritating as her, and they’ve only been talking for a few minutes.
“De Paris,” he responds smoothly in French, with an accent that leaves no doubt he’s being truthful.
Pandora stares at him for a moment, as if deciding whether to smile or provoke him further. Finally, the corners of her mouth curl into a mischievous but less hostile smile, as though he’s earned her approval.
“All right, monsieur Paris. Your room is at the end of the hallway, on the right,” she says, nodding in the direction. “It’s not bad in this dump, but sometimes the heating doesn’t work, and the neighbors argue non-stop,” she adds, grimacing, probably at the memory of their quarrels.
Regulus nods and grabs his suitcases, walking past her with cool composure—a mask for the relief that his first impression didn’t go as badly as it could have.
As Regulus closes the door behind him, he hears Pandora say to Evan, “See? I told you, he’s just as crazy as we are.”
DORCAS MEADOWES
( 12.06.1993 )
She hates nothing more than her job. A tiny bar on one of the streets infamous for its filthiest happenings is not a good place for a woman to work, let alone a black woman.
It’s not like she has many other options. At sixteen, she was kicked out of her home, and if it hadn’t been for Minerva, she probably would have starved to death in some park or, if she’d been smarter, overdosed on something cheap to shorten her suffering.
When she ran out of her family home one stifling summer night, trembling and frantic, she had no hope and was certain it was the end for her. She still doesn’t understand how, in her wretched life, she managed to run into Minnie that night. Dorcas is convinced that if the woman hadn’t rescheduled her students’ extra classes that week, she’d be dead by now.
McGonagall likes to say that everything happens for a reason, that fate had long planned their encounter.
Dorcas prefers the version where it was all a coincidence.
“What’ll it be for you, sir?” she asks the next mustached man who approaches the bar, slipping off his wedding ring the moment a woman catches his eye as she walks in.
To Dorcas, they’re all the same. They blur together into one type of person, and she’s taught herself to ignore their disgusted or lecherous stares and to never respond to their comments. It was hard, but even River, the most nervous person she’s ever met, advised her to just pretend she wasn’t aware of their behavior.
“Go back to Africa,” he says, and she nearly chokes on air. Sure, she’s used to the disdainful stares she encounters daily, but no one has ever said something like that to her face before.
“You fucking racist—” she doesn’t even get the chance to respond because the guy sitting on the stool next to her steps in. He’s vastly different from the usual clientele of this place. For one, he’s younger, with sharp features, tattooed arms, and an aura of mystery. “Fuck off,” he snaps harshly before his fist collides with the mustached man’s jaw. The punch lands with a loud crack, and moments later, the bar descends into chaos. A girl screams, a few people rush for the door, and Dorcas bolts to the back room to fetch River.
“You little maniac!” The mustached man, stunned by the blow, stumbles backward and knocks over a chair. He doesn’t hold back, though, and throws a punch at the younger guy, hitting him square in the nose. Blood begins to pour immediately, and Dorcas inhales sharply, her heart pounding.
“I’ve got this. Don’t worry,” River says, emerging from behind the bar. He’s smaller than the belligerent man, but there’s something commanding in his movements. Grabbing the man by the arm, he begins to usher him out of the establishment, ignoring his yells. “You’re done for tonigh. Don’t come back.”
Meanwhile, Dorcas turns her attention to the brunet clutching his nose. When her coworker returns, she doesn’t think twice before dragging the stranger into the back room. He’s too dazed to resist and lets her guide him.
“What were you thinking?” she hisses, pulling a first-aid kit from under the sink. “Do you always have to get yourself into trouble?” The guy shrugs, though the pain on his face is obvious as he winces at the movement.
“I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. You heard what he said.” Dorcas rolls her eyes, but there’s a flicker of gratitude in her gaze. She soaks a cotton pad with hydrogen peroxide and carefully begins cleaning his wound.
“Next time, think before you start punching people in a bar, okay?” she says, trying to sound stern, though her tone is softer than she intends. The guy gives her a crooked smile, which looks almost comical given the swelling on his face.
“Only if you promise not to just stand there and take it,” he replies. Dorcas raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she focuses on stopping the bleeding, the silence between them strangely calming after the earlier commotion.
“Thank you,” she finally whispers, and he shrugs, as if it’s something anyone would have done.
“What’s your name?” he asks. Dorcas pauses for a moment, mid-motion, a small smile creeping onto her lips.
“I’m a lesbian,” she states immediately. She’s no longer ashamed of her orientation. After years of hiding, she now feels free, even if the world around her doesn’t always accept it. She says it plainly, without hesitation, as if sharing a simple fact.
The guy raises an eyebrow, but instead of any negative reaction, his lips curve into a faint smile.
“You’re gorgeous, but no offense, I’d much rather take your coworker home.” Dorcas lets out a surprised laugh at his response.
“Dorcas. And now sit still, or you’ll mess up your nose even more.”
“Barty,” he says, extending a hand to her, though the motion is a bit awkward with all the bandages and tissues surrounding them. “Nice to meet you, Dorcas.”
“Yeah, sure,” she replies, ignoring his hand and returning to tending his wound. “Next time you decide to play hero, try not to do it in the bar where I work, okay?”
“I promise that if you ever need a knight, I’ll be around,” he says with mock seriousness, though amusement glints in his eyes.
Dorcas rolls hers, but for the first time in a long while, she feels like someone her age is seeing her as a person — not her appearance, not her background, just her.
( 24.09.1997 )
“We’re so screwed,” Barty says with a theatrical sigh, blowing out a cloud of smoke. The cigarette dangles from his hand as his gaze drifts over the rooftops of London. Dorcas rolls her eyes but still takes the cigarette from him.
“Minnie’s going to be back any second, and if she catches us with this, we’ll get the lecture of a lifetime,” she says, taking a small drag before handing it back, trying not to look fazed.
That night in the bar, it turned out Barty was so distracted because he, too, had been kicked out of his home. Ironically, for a reason very similar to Dorcas’s. She might come across as cold, rarely showing her emotions, and no one would ever peg her as empathetic, but that’s just a mask, one all girls like her learn to wear. In that moment, though, she felt something close to sympathy. Or maybe understanding? It hit her then that she wasn’t the only one, and that was enough to make her reach out to him.
So she brought him to Minerva’s flat, where he was welcomed with the same openness Dorcas had been shown a year earlier. Minerva is an extraordinary woman, and Dorcas loves her more than her own mother, who had only ever fed her harsh remarks and cold indifference.
When Minerva took her in, she didn’t ask too many questions or push for details Dorcas wasn’t ready to share. Instead, she offered her a cup of tea, a steady gaze, and one simple sentence: “Whatever happened, don’t let yourself think that nothing good is waiting for you.”
Minnie was right. Something good did come into Dorcas’s life — Minerva herself. Her presence was like a balm for all the wounds inflicted by her mother, who never accepted Dorcas for who she truly was.
And later, Minerva welcomed Barty too, with all his sharp wit, restless energy, and unspoken need for belonging.
They are a family.
“She’ll be mad for a bit, but Minnie loves us,” Barty says as Dorcas slips through the window back into her room. He finishes his cigarette and joins her just as they hear the sound of the front door unlocking.
“Shit, do you think she saw us?” he asks, suddenly serious, and Dorcas snorts with laughter, amused at how quickly his confidence evaporates.
“We’ll find out,” she replies.
They step out into the hallway, where the air is heavy with the scent of dampness. The rain, now pouring over London, spills into its streets, making life difficult for the city’s residents. Minerva walks into the apartment, completely drenched, her coat hanging off her like a broken promise of protection against the weather.
“You’ll catch a cold, Minnie,” Dorcas says with a frown, noticing how thin the coat is for such weather. “I’ll make you some tea.” Despite her usual stern demeanor, there’s a tenderness in her tone, a quiet kind of love reserved only for Minerva and Barty.
Minerva raises an eyebrow at her, but the smile on her face remains.
“Don’t think for a second that I didn’t see you two,” she says, though there’s no anger in her voice. Instead, it’s filled with the warmth she brings into every situation, even after a long day of teaching.
“Are you mad at us?” Barty asks, and Dorcas nearly bursts out laughing. Only Minerva seems capable of reining in his wild nature.
Minerva looks at them for a moment, then starts laughing. A sound that fills the quiet, cool space like it doesn’t belong in the gloomy rain waging its war outside.
“No. You’re young. I did the same kind of things at your age,” she says, slipping off her coat and gesturing toward the kitchen. Her smile is full of warmth, wholly accepting, asking for nothing more. “I feel like having apple pie. Will you help me?”
Barty and Dorcas exchange a look, then both head into the kitchen. In that simple moment, in the everyday, ordinary care, there’s something that gives them a sense of safety.
It’s a kind of light that only Minerva brings: warm, understanding, and always ready to accept them as they are. And in that moment, with a cup of hot tea in her hands, Dorcas feels that here, with these people, she has found something she’s needed for so long.
Sometimes, family isn’t about blood ties. It’s about the people you choose for yourself.
JAMES POTTER
( 24.09.1997 )
Sometimes, he feels like this sensation has always been there. Something tearing him apart sits in his chest, making it impossible for him to be normal.
Normality is for others, people who don’t have to fight their own minds every day, who don’t have to question every thought, every feeling. For James, life is a constant rollercoaster. It’s either too much or too little. Either he feels everything too intensely, or he feels nothing at all.
There are days when it seems like everything is fine. The sun shines brighter, his laughter is louder, and the world feels full of dreams just waiting to be fulfilled. But those moments are treacherous. They come like summer storms — sudden, violent, without warning.
Everything can shift in a second. The anger or sadness is so overwhelming that he loses control. He destroys objects, hurts his loved ones, or, in the best-case scenario, himself. It’s a pit he can’t climb out of. He hates himself for it, for always having to hide the monster he truly is.
More often than not, he thinks about his friends. About how they must see him as unbearable. Always needing attention, too attached, too loud, too annoying, just too much of everything. Sometimes, he fears that one day they’ll leave him. That he’ll become a burden they can’t bear any longer.
“Thank you so much. We’ll be in touch,” says Peter with a polite smile. He’s the most patient one in the group, something James has always admired about him. He envies that calmness, something James has to fight for every moment.
Pettigrew nods appreciatively, though the tiredness on his face is obvious. The blond guy (whose name James didn’t even register) leaves the McKinnon family’s basement looking pleased, as if he’s already secured his spot in their band.
“This is hopeless. We’ll never find someone good enough,” Marlene groans, dramatically collapsing onto the couch. Her head hits the pillow with a loud sigh, her hair spreading around her like a storm.
“The ads have only been up for two days. Don’t worry, Marls,” he reassures her. She looks at him unconvinced, but that’s just how she is — forever impatient.
“You always find a reason to be optimistic, don’t you?” she says, but there’s no malice in her voice. It’s more like a warm accusation.
James wishes his problem was being too happy.
“Someone has to, since you’re already planning for disaster,” he replies with a smile, even though his own thoughts are anything but light. He knows he’s lying and manipulating his friends so naturally that it’s become second nature. None of them suspect that their perpetually cheerful James isn’t a ray of sunshine at all. That inside, he’s rotting, his thoughts corrupted.
In the corner of the basement, Peter starts flipping through more applications. Marlene grabs a newspaper, pretending to read it, though James notices her glancing at her phone every so often, as if willing someone to magically respond to their ad.
Suddenly, James feels that familiar pang in his chest. That irrational fear that it could all fall apart. That what they have, the music, the band, their friendship, won’t last. There’s always been something in him whispering that he’s the one who will ruin everything. That’s just how it goes with anything that gets too close to him.
The silence between them is filled with the sound of Sirius drumming his fingers on some papers. James lets himself get lost for a moment, looking at the old band posters covering the basement walls. As far back as he can remember, they’ve dreamed of playing together, one day becoming famous and cementing their place in music history. There’s something beautiful about their dream but also fragile.
James is convinced they won’t make it. He believes his friends have immense potential, but he’s certain that sooner or later, he’ll be the one responsible for their band’s downfall.
“James is right; we can’t give up,” Mary says, reaching out to fix her girlfriend’s now-messy hair.
“I’ll ask around at uni,” offers Lily, who’s more connected to music through dance but never lets them forget that she’s their biggest fan, loving every song they’ve created in this basement.
James watches Lily, who leans confidently against the old piano, as if to remind everyone she’s here not just to cheer them on but to support them at every step. Her presence is always like an anchor, something stable in his perpetually stormy world.
“Thanks, Lils,” he says softly, though warmth lingers in his voice. Sirius stops drumming his fingers and turns to them, raising an eyebrow.
“Maybe we should listen to Mary and James,” Padfoot says with his usual touch of sarcasm, more a way to defuse tension than actual snark. “If we’re going to fall apart, it might as well be after auditioning someone even worse than today’s guy.” Marlene throws a pillow at him.
“You’re impossible.”
“Impossible but not wrong,” he adds with a grin that always makes everyone roll their eyes, even though it’s hard to resist his charm.
James finally allows himself a small smile. No one notices that it’s forced.
He’s always been selfish because if he weren’t, he would’ve distanced himself from the band, and even his friends, a long time ago. But he can’t bring himself to do it because he cares about these people. He worries about them and looks after them, even though he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve their care in return.
At first, it was just him, Marlene, and Peter. Three kids mesmerized by Marlene’s older brother, Brian, and his friends, who played at pubs on Friday nights. After pleading, begging, and even Marlene’s mom stepping in, Brian and his bandmates agreed to teach them how to play their chosen instruments. Peter found his place behind the drums, Marlene in front of the keyboard, and James was captivated by the electric guitar.
Later, in elementary school, they met Mary and Sirius, who shared their passion for music. Since then, they’ve been loudly dreaming about becoming famous one day. At first, James believed in it too. Music was the one thing he couldn’t ruin, and he thought it was his destiny. That was until he grew up and realized what foolish, childish dreams were. He doesn’t want to be the one to spoil the mood, so he nods along when his friends talk about playing in different countries or decide to change the key of their newest song.
In reality, the band has become just another obligation to him, and the rehearsals (more frequently forgotten) are just something to tick off his list. He’s losing not only his passion but also the desire for anything that once gave his life meaning. Music, which used to be his escape, has now become a burden. Another place where he feels like he’s bound to fail.
When he steps into the basement where they rehearse, his heart beats faster but not from excitement. It’s more guilt, shame, and fear that his lack of commitment is becoming obvious.
But the voice in his head, the one that always tells him he’s not enough, is sometimes drowned out by memories. The ones that remind him of their first time playing together. How Sirius laughed so hard he missed his notes, how Mary tried to hit high notes, and how Marlene threw a pillow at him to make him stop laughing.
It was theirs, it was real. And though now he feels like it’s no longer his, deep down, he’s terrified that if he loses it, he’ll have nothing left.
And it’ll all be because of that gaping hole in his chest, pulling him in. He doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to fight it.
RUTH LUPIN
( 22.09.1997 )
She pours tea into two mugs, humming softly to the melody of When You’re Gone by The Cranberries, which fills the apartment through the old gramophone Ruth received from their father for her birthday. Remus has finally returned from Paris, and she won’t have to live alone anymore. She isn’t sure yet whether that’s a good thing. On one hand, the loneliness has been suffocating; on the other, she’s afraid that being so close to her brother again will make it impossible to hide the demons she’s been battling.
“We should move to Poland. The PRL is long gone, and I’ve never even been to my homeland,” she complains, and her brother laughs, thinking she’s joking.
But Ruth isn’t joking.
“I’m not moving to Poland. And neither are you. I have Regulus here, and I can’t leave him, and you have ballet,” he says, taking the mug she hands him and sipping the tea, missing the way she rolls her eyes.
“Sure, Regulus this, Regulus that. Why don’t you just marry him and spend the rest of your lives talking about art and books,” she grumbles, and Remus laughs again. It isn’t the first time she’s teased him about his friendship with Regulus. He doesn’t notice, however, that she doesn’t respond at all to the mention of ballet.
No one ever notices.
Ruth is the eldest sibling. She’s perfected the art of pretending everything is fine as flawlessly as she executes her fouetté turns.
Their childhood was mostly happy, even though they were the children of immigrants. Lyall and Hope tried their best, but sometimes they got too lost in their work. Remus and Rebekah probably never even noticed the lack of a familial atmosphere the way she did.
Because it was Ruth, who had grown up far too quickly, who was always there when her siblings needed her. She came up with games for them to play and cooked dinner when she got home from school earlier than their parents.
She’s still the one taking care of everyone, but who’s going to take care of her?
It wasn’t until she was an adult that she realized her siblings were never supposed to be her responsibility and that her parents had, perhaps unknowingly, stolen part of her childhood from her. Now it feels like none of that matters, because the accident a few years ago changed the dynamics of their family anyway.
She tries to understand both Remus and Rebekah, but she can’t choose between them. That choice was made for her by her younger sister, who declared she wouldn’t see Ruth as long as Ruth kept in touch with Remus.
Ruth hates these silent wars. The unspoken grudges hidden in every conversation, every decision. She knows that no matter what she does, someone will always hold it against her. And the worst part is that she feels torn between loyalty to her siblings and the need for the peace she so desperately craves.
Rebekah is her baby sister, the one she used to carry on her back when they were kids. Ruth remembers Becky’s warm hands gripping her shoulders and the way they used to laugh until their stomachs hurt. But ever since their family started falling apart, Rebekah has replaced that warm little girl with someone distant and closed off.
And Remus? He’s lost, though he’d never admit it. He always tries to act stronger and more independent than he really is. Ruth sees it in his eyes when he comes home late, exhausted and quiet. She knows his jokes and laughter are just a mask to hide his guilt.
And then there’s her, stuck in the middle of it all.
“Exactly. I’d rather talk about art than get lectures from my older sister,” he teases again, and this time she rolls her eyes so dramatically that Remus notices.
“What are your plans? I know you’ve got school, but are you thinking about getting a job?” she asks more seriously, wincing slightly, aware she sounds exactly like their mother.
“Probably. I want to be independent from dad as soon as possible.” The brunette nods, setting her now-cold tea down on the table. She rifles through the stack of newspapers piled on it until she finds what she was looking for. “We’re looking for a bassist,” the headline reads.
“I found this posted at the theater the other day. Maybe you should give it a shot?” She can’t help but smile at the rare spark of excitement that lights up her brother’s eyes.
She thinks she’ll call Becky tomorrow, even though she knows deep down it’ll be just as difficult as all the other calls before it. But she has to try.
Because if not her, then who?
PETER PETTIGREW
( 30.09.1997 )
Peter considers himself a perfectly normal person. This year, he started university, works odd jobs in the meantime, and maybe, by the time he graduates, he’ll find a girl he loves and start a family.
He has no idea how, at some point in his life, he ended up surrounded by people as maniac as his friends.
First, there’s Sirius, carrying the heavy baggage of family trauma. Though he’s trying to break the cycle, Peter knows all too well how Sirius’s father talks about him in various interviews. It’s not for the weak. Then there are Marlene and Mary, who can’t have a “normal” relationship because they’re too scared of people’s opinions. Lily claims the only person in her family who truly loves her is her alcoholic father. Sometimes, Peter thinks that girl is in a constant battle — with herself, with the world, with the past and the future. Her determination fascinates him, but it also terrifies him. How can someone live with so much fire inside them? And then there’s James, the one Peter still hasn’t figured out, though he’s convinced something is off. Lately, he’s noticed that James is often quiet. Sure, he laughs and jokes, but his eyes seem hollow. What once was confidence now feels more like desperation. Peter’s worried James might be the one struggling the most.
And in the middle of all this chaos is Peter. Practical, grounded, someone who finds comfort in routine and the dull predictability that brings him peace. Of course, he wants the band to succeed, but he’s also a realist. They’re all only twenty years old and, for now, they’re playing in small local pubs. That’s not going to provide the stable future he’ll need to support a wife and children someday.
Unlike the Potters, his family hasn’t run a business for generations. His dad isn’t a politician like Mr. McKinnon; he’s just a factory worker. Peter has to think about the future. He doesn’t live in the moment, not like the rest of his friends. He has a plan for his life, and he has to learn to accept it because it doesn’t matter what he wants or doesn’t want.
He loves his friends, he really does. But sometimes, he feels like a spectator in a theater, sitting in the front row, watching a never-ending play filled with chaos.
“I’ll drop the sheet music in your mailbox when I’m coming back from class tomorrow,” he says to Sirius, who nods, shaking his head of curls.
“Sure. See you, Pete,” Sirius replies, and they say their goodbyes. Peter steps onto the sidewalk.
Autumn in London is steeped in gray, wrapped in a fog that lingers between the buildings like ghosts of times past. The streets glisten with rain, and the lamplights reflect in puddles, creating golden paths amidst the darkness. The city pulses with a quiet rhythm, the tap of footsteps, the hum of tires, the distant murmur of conversations, as though it’s alive, breathing with its own cadence.
Peter comes from the eastern, poorer side of the city, so he quickens his pace, heading for the barbershop where his brother works. He plans to hitch a ride with Percy in his car, though Percy doesn’t know this yet, so Peter needs to catch him before his shift ends.
He seems entirely focused, undistracted despite the number of people out on the streets at this hour. That is, until he catches sight of a girl out of the corner of his eye, crouched over a cardboard box. Normally, he’d assume she was homeless, but her elegant coat says otherwise. He’s about to walk past, but at the last moment, he notices that inside the box are a few kittens.
And Peter, well, he’s studying veterinary medicine.
“Are they yours?” he asks. The blonde girl startles slightly at first. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he adds. She looks up, and oh. She gives him a smile, and a few curls fall loose from behind her ear.
“No, I found them,” she says softly, picking up one of the kittens, which lets out a tiny meow in her hands. “They were out here alone in the rain. I couldn’t just leave them.”
Peter studies her, unsure of what draws his attention more: the way she gently cradles the tiny kitten or how her smile seems to brighten the grayness around them. She’s nothing like the girls he sees in the clubs where he plays with his friends. Those girls are bold, loud, commanding attention with their presence. She seems quiet, full of warmth, as though everything she does comes from an instinctive kindness.
“What are you planning to do with them?” he asks, glancing at the kittens huddled together in the box.
“I’m not sure yet,” she admits with a hint of hesitation, lifting her gaze to meet his. “I guess I’ll take them home for the night, and tomorrow I’ll bring them to a vet.”
There’s something so endearing about her that Peter can’t help but smile. For a moment, he forgets about Percy, the barbershop, and his carefully laid-out plans for the day. Instead, he feels something quietly shift inside him.
“I’m studying veterinary medicine,” Peter says before he even thinks about it. It’s not really his style, but something about her presence makes him feel less awkward. “I could help you, if you’d like.” The girl blinks, as though something just occurred to her.
“Wait…” she begins slowly, narrowing her eyes like she’s trying to place him. “Haven’t we met before?” Peter frowns, certain it’s impossible.
“I doubt it,” he replies.
“No, really!” she interrupts, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You play drums, don’t you? In that pub… what’s it called…?”
Peter freezes. Something clicks in his mind. She knows him? The drummer who usually stays in the background while Sirius, Marlene, or James soak up all the attention? No one ever seems to notice him.
“I play here and there,” he admits, surprised and slightly embarrassed.
“I knew it!” The girl’s smile widens. “I was in that pub a few weeks ago with some friends. You guys are really good.”
Warmth spreads through Peter’s chest. He never imagined someone would notice him – the guy in the back keeping the rhythm.
“Thanks,” he says, surprised that his voice sounds so normal. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“It’s true,” she says, glancing at the box of kittens. Peter feels a small, shy smile creeping across his face. “Caroline,” she says softly but with a touch of confidence. She extends her hand toward him. Peter raises his eyebrows and shakes it lightly.
“Peter,” he replies shortly, trying not to show the slight awkwardness creeping in.
“Nice to meet you, Peter,” Caroline says with one of those effortless, natural smiles. “Listen, I live nearby. Maybe… maybe we could take them there? And you could take a look to make sure they’re okay?”
Peter hesitates for a moment. Something about the hopeful tone in her voice – or maybe the glint of uncertainty in her eyes – makes him agree, forgetting all about his brother waiting at the barbershop.
“Sure,” he says with a shrug. “Lead the way.”
Caroline picks up the box of kittens, and Peter instinctively reaches out to help her. Together they walk a few blocks, passing more gray, drab facades until they reach a street lined with homes that clearly belong to the wealthy. A grand house with a white facade and a meticulously maintained garden looms ahead, looking like a mansion from another world.
“This is it?” Peter asks, glancing at her with slight disbelief.
“Yes,” Caroline answers, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. She leads him through the gate and onto a gravel driveway.
Inside, the house is just as impressive – marble staircases, antique furniture, and paintings in gilded frames. Everything screams that Caroline’s family has no financial troubles.
“Caroline?” A deep male voice echoes as they pass through the foyer. “What is the meaning of this?”
Peter turns to see a tall, distinguished man in a perfectly tailored suit standing at the foot of the staircase. He must be her father.
“Dad, I found these kittens on the street,” Caroline says with natural grace. “This is Peter; he helped me bring them here.” The man studies Peter – not with hostility but with mild curiosity.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice calm and polite.
Suddenly, two more people appear on the stairs, both bearing a striking resemblance to Caroline.
“That’s Micah and Grace,” she whispers to Peter, and he quickly guesses that they’re her siblings. Grace moves with a self-assured air, her gaze sharp and commanding, while Micah, dressed in an elegant sweater, seems more reserved.
“What do you have there, Caro?” Grace asks, glancing at the box.
“Kittens,” Caroline replies with a soft sigh, and Micah leans closer to peek inside.
“Oh my gosh, they’re adorable!” Micah exclaims, his eyes lighting up with excitement.
“Kittens?” the girl mutters with feigned indifference, but Peter notices the curious glint in her eye as she glances at the box.
“Will you help me take care of them?” Caroline asks, looking at her siblings.
“Of course,” Micah says enthusiastically, while Grace shrugs.
“All right, why not.”
Peter stands to the side, feeling out of place but oddly charmed by the family dynamic – even in this luxurious setting, there’s something endearingly ordinary about them.
“This is Peter. He’s studying veterinary medicine,” Caroline says, introducing him. Grace examines him with interest, while Micah offers a warm smile.
Peter sets the box down on the oak table in the large, bright kitchen. Caroline brings over a warm blanket, then carefully takes out one of the kittens and gently places it on her lap. Peter leans over, instinctively inspecting the kitten. It lets out a soft meow, its tiny body trembling slightly, which stirs both tenderness and concern in him.
“This one here…” Peter begins, focusing on a kitten whose fur looks duller than the others. “Something’s not right. It’s breathing a bit harder than the rest. Could be a respiratory infection.”
Caroline stops arranging the blanket and looks at him with worry.
“Is it serious?” she asks, her voice full of concern.
“It might be, or it might not,” Peter replies, carefully setting the kitten back in the box. He meets her gaze. “You should take it to a vet as soon as possible. They can check the others too, just to be safe.”
Caroline bites her lip, her eyes briefly wandering as if she’s already organizing her plans for tomorrow.
“I’ll take them first thing in the morning. Thank you, Peter,” she says, her voice full of gratitude. Peter shrugs, trying to hide the warmth spreading through his chest.
“No problem.”
Caroline walks him to the door, their footsteps echoing softly on the marble floor. They stop in the foyer, where Peter shifts awkwardly before deciding to speak.
“Hey, Caroline…” he begins, his voice a little uncertain.
“Yes?” she asks, raising her eyebrows with curious interest.
“On Friday night, my band is playing at The Rusty Lantern,” he says, the pub’s name sounding out of place in this grand home. “It’s nothing big, but… maybe you’d like to come? Bring your friends, if you want. We usually hang out there after the gig.”
Caroline looks surprised for a moment, but then her smile returns, now softer, almost shy.
“I’ll come. Thanks for inviting me,” she says.
“See you then,” Peter says, heading for the door as Caroline waves goodbye.
Walking toward the barbershop, Peter can’t stop smiling. He replays the moment he invited her to the concert in his mind. He doesn’t know what will come of it, but for the first time in a long while, he feels like tonight wasn’t just another predictable day in his orderly life.