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Chapter Text

To say that the news of the great Lord Titus Prince's daughter's miraculous pregnancy was nothing short of outstanding would be an understatement. It seemed that for the past two months, all magical news outlets had been reporting on the sudden scandal involving Eileen Prince.

Articles detailed how the Hogwarts graduate was seen in the early stages of pregnancy and how her own father had cast her out of the House of Prince in a desperate attempt to save face

Pregnancies out of wedlock were not unheard of in the wizarding world, but they were certainly frowned upon and viewed by those of noble status as a stain on their name. Eileen Prince was struck off the family roster and left to reside in the small, dingy residence of Knockturn Alley, where she found work in a small potions shop. She was fortunate to have a kind employer in Mr. Hudson, who allowed the young pregnant witch to stay atop his small shop and provided her with emotional support.

And on the eve of January 9th, 1960, the inevitable occurred, and the discarded heiress of House Prince gave birth to a small, feeble boy with a shock of jet-black hair, who soon rested in the arms of Eileen.

A boy who shared so much with his father, a man whom Eileen had all but forgotten until this point. But in a brief moment, she wondered if she should have returned to the small Muggle town of Cokeworth and to the man she had met many moons ago.

However, her thoughts were cut short when she realized that returning would provide her with nothing. And while she may live in Knockturn Alley and be a disowned member of an old pureblood house, she had her passion for potions to keep her grounded.

"You caused a lot of trouble, mister," she muttered down to the infant in her arms, her eyes drifting over his features. He shared a lot of his face with his father, Tobias, if Eileen recalled correctly, but his dark pools were unmistakably a Prince trait.

"Eileen," the voice of Mr. Hudson broke Eileen's musing, and she watched as the elderly wizard walked into the small bedroom that had once been used as a storage space for potions but was now enchanted to be big enough to house Eileen and her child. Mr. Hudson slowly waddled towards Eileen, his grey eyes moving from the exhausted witch to the small bundle in her hands.

"Are you alright?" the elderly wizard asked with a concerned tone; his concern seemed more directed towards the baby that Eileen held in her arms than Eileen herself.

"I'm fine," Eileen quickly answered, smiling at the elderly wizard. "And he's fine."

"I see," Mr. Hudson retorted, his small frame coming to a stop at the foot of the bed where Eileen lay. He watched the mother and child before pulling out his wand. Eileen did not hesitate, allowing the elderly wizard to run his wand in a means of examining the infant's health.

Several minutes passed, and the aura around the infant slowly faded. Mr. Hudson placed his wand back into his dusty old robe before nodding.

"He is indeed fine," he confirmed before meeting Eileen's eye. "Have…have you thought of naming him yet?"

"I…don't know," she answered, and Mr. Hudson responded with a half-smile.

"If I could make a suggestion," he said softly, "I think the boy deserves a name that complements his status. He is a prince, regardless of what your father or other purebloods state, and should be given a strong name to match it."

Eileen nodded, peering down once again at the infant, their black eyes meeting and her heart jumping in her chest. This child would not live the life she had; he would not be accepted by the family that had loved her at one point, and he would be shunned for simply being born out of wedlock. But those were all barriers he would face later. Right now, he was a nameless infant who knew nothing of his blood and status.

"S... Severus was the name of my grandfather. He was kind to me no matter what I did," Eileen began, her eyes not leaving the infant. "I had always planned to one day honor his memory."

"Severus would be a fine name, dear," Mr. Hudson replied, a smile upon his lips and a twinkle in his eyes. He slowly turned and began to waddle back out, choosing to give the mother some time alone with her son. But as he reached the door, he turned slightly and muttered, "Severus Prince, the prince of Knockturn Alley. It has a fine ring to it."

Chapter Text

-11 years later-

"Come now, Severus," Eileen called out as she made her way off the bus and onto the busy London streets. Behind her was her son. A tall boy, he wore oversized clothes, had long, messy hair, and a pair of black orbs accompanied by a long, hooked nose. He dragged his old trunk into the sea of people heading towards King's Cross station. The duo had commuted for an hour, and with the current time being ten-thirty, Eileen noted that they had to be at the station by eleven. But why, on Merlin's name, did it feel like all of London was out today?

Eileen pushed past a collective of tourists as she led her son down towards the designated platform. Behind her, Severus's eyes darted around in interest.

Severus had dreamed of this moment for as long as he could remember; he felt more excitement for Hogwarts than most kids did for Christmas, Halloween, and all other holidays combined. But the excitement didn't seem to top it as he slowly followed his mother through the crowd. For him, it was a chance—a chance to finally develop his magical knowledge, become someone he had always thought he could be, and show his skill in potions.

In Severus's eyes, potions were his way out of Knockturn Alley. If he were able to develop his skills, then maybe he could enroll in one of the high-end potion academies that ran overseas, or perhaps be part of the Ministry's task force for potion development.

The fact that his mother had taken over the potion shop after Mr. Hudson's retirement aided the young wizard; it gave him a place to develop skills and became a more savory pastime than the petty theft that Severus was known for. Severus slithered through the crowd with eagerness, and his mother slowly trudged ahead of him. Finally, he had reached it: platform nine and three-quarters stood right in front of him, and Severus stared in wonder.

"Enough gawking," Eileen said sternly as she knelt down to meet her son. "Listen to me, Severus, I can't stay to see you off. But I want you to know that I'm proud of you and that I expect you to give your work everything." Eileen pulled her son in for a tight hug before releasing him and extending her hand.

Severus gave a lopsided smile as he placed his hand deep into his pockets before pulling out an old brown leather wallet and handing it over to his mother. "I swear, I found it," he muttered as his mother took the wallet and frowned.

"Stay out of trouble," Eileen muttered as she rose. Severus gave his mother a final smile before trudging towards the platform. Nine pillars, each step causing Severus to speed up before finally phasing through the pillar and stepping foot upon the platform beyond. A mesmerizing sight greeted the boy as he stepped onto the platform; his dark eyes were met with the sight of a red steam engine that blew out clouds of smoke. Along with the red engine, there was a sea of witches and wizards, children, and parents.

All bidding each other goodbye, but as Severus gathered himself and pulled his trunk, he noticed a small girl standing not too far from him. Her hair was red and pulled back into a ponytail, her face was filled with freckles, and her eyes were a bright shade of green. She was alone, and Severus realized that she was probably a muggle-born girl and wondered if she would be alright. He shook his head; it was not his problem, Severus thought before boarding the train.

Within the train, a thin corridor was lined with compartments. Taking a few minutes to compose himself, Severus moved down the compartments before finding an empty one near the rear of the train. He placed his trunk in the storage compartment above before taking a seat beside the window. Severus lay in wait as the final students waved their parents goodbye. He decided to take out a small potions book that he had nabbed from his mother and used it as a means to pass the time. However, his reading was disturbed when the compartment door slid open. Standing at the threshold was the red-haired girl that Severus had spotted on the platform; her lips formed an uneasy smile.

"Hey..." she began.

"Hey," Severus answered, his brow lifted at the girl.

"Is anyone sitting there?" she asked as she pointed to the seat facing Severus. The boy shrugged in response before muttering that she could sit there if she wished. The girl thanked him before placing her trunk away and sitting down. An awkward silence settled between the two while Severus occupied himself with his mother's book, and the red-haired girl fidgeted in her seat. Several minutes passed, and the layer of awkwardness thickened; it was almost maddening, and Severus finally attempted to end it.

"You got a name, Red?" Severus asked from behind his book. He noticed the girl shift in her seat; whether it was caused by the surprise of his voice or the manner of his question, Severus was not sure.

"Lily," the girl said. "Lily Evans."

"Pretty bland," Severus muttered, causing a confused look to appear on the girl's face.

"What's bland?"

Severus shut his book. "Your name," he answered, his eyes fixated on the girl's face. He sized her up, something taught to him by old Jenkins during his time on the streets. The girl kept her confused look, but her brows furrowed.

"Yeah?" she hissed. "Well… I bet it's better than your name."

Severus smiled. "Maybe it is," he retorted as he reopened his book, though his eyes stayed fixated on the girl's face a little longer. He enjoyed the mix of confusion and annoyance on the girl's face; she had obviously expected him to retort or be offended when, in truth, Severus didn't really care. He had long come to disregard his name, a name that held so much for his mother, but one that held so little for her son.

"What's your name?" the girl named Lily finally said. "Elvendork?"

"I like that," Severus said, chuckling.

But the conversation was cut short as the doors of the compartment slid open to reveal two boys. The first was a thin boy with glasses and odd hair; beside him was a curly-haired boy in black. The boy with the glasses was the first to speak.

"Hey, is it okay if we join you?" a boy with glasses asked as he and another boy entered the compartment. The entrance of the duo caused Severus to lose track of what he was going to say. He quickly composed himself before turning back to the potion book in his lap. "I'm James, by the way, James Potter," the boy with glasses said. "He's Sirius Black."

"Lily Evans," the redhead answered before quickly turning to Severus. Something told the young wizard that this girl was still too eager to know his name. He smiled at her before turning to the boys.

"Severus Prince," he muttered from behind his book. The answer caused the boy named Sirius to frown.

"Are you part of the House of Prince?" Sirius asked in a sour tone.

"Something like that," Severus answered, his attention remaining on the pages of the book. The two boys had settled themselves, and Severus heard the faint sounds of a wrapper as one of the boys pulled out a bag of Every Flavour Beans. He proceeded to offer everyone a bean, but Severus turned down the offer.

"So, which houses do you think you'll be in?" James asked as he shoved some sweets into his mouth. "I hope I get put into Gryffindor, just like my dad. The house of the brave."

Lily smiled at this before shrugging. "I'm not so sure; I'll be happy in whatever house, really." Severus doubted that; from their short time together, he envisioned her as either a Hufflepuff or Gryffindor.

"Slytherin," Severus said from behind his book.

"Slytherin?" James said in disgust. "Who would want to be in that house? If I were placed there, I would leave,"

It was at that moment that Sirius decided to speak. "My whole family was in Slytherin," he said in a tone that was dead, and the boy with glasses raised his brows in shock.

"Shame, I thought you were alright," the boy with the glasses muttered, and Severus watched as the other boy shrugged his shoulders and muttered something about breaking tradition. An hour seemed to pass a lot quicker with the addition of the two boys as Severus listened to their stories. He shared no insight into his own life, instead choosing to listen to Sirius vent his frustration with his family, or James discussing Quidditch, or Lily asking questions.

As time passed, Severus found himself staring out into the darkness as the train grew ever closer to Hogwarts. After what felt like forever, the train finally came to a halt. The children were instructed by older students who wore a "P" badge to leave their trunks on the train and ensure that they were wearing their uniforms before stepping out onto the platform. The boys decided to change in a different compartment and soon came across one that held a thin, sandy-haired boy named Remus and his friend Peter.

Severus found himself enjoying the company of Remus, as he did not talk as much as the other boys. Peter seemed to latch onto James and Sirius at an alarming speed, laughing at their terrible jokes and agreeing with them on everything. A few minutes later, Severus walked out of the compartment with his normal clothes folded in his arms. Being in the uniform meant that he had finally made it; he was no longer simply Severus of Knockturn Alley, but Severus, the boy with a brighter future.

"You'll be a future Minister of Magic," Mr. Hudson had once proclaimed. He smiled at the memory of the old man.

The fresh air was a blessing after being on the train for so long. Severus hopped off the train and onto the platform before taking in the sights around him. A horde of first years had formed on one side of the station; in the middle stood a giant of a man with a lamp. The man was wearing a long brown coat, and his face sported a large beard and a pleasant smile. He cried out for the first years to follow, and Severus slowly found himself walking in the direction of the giant. Several minutes of walking resulted in the first years coming across a large lake with a cluster of boats docked at the edge.

Severus found himself being shuffled into one of these many boats with two other boys. One was a dark-haired boy with gray eyes, while his friend was a brown-haired boy with hazel eyes. They introduced themselves as Bruce Mulciber and Evan Rosier, and Severus introduced himself simply as Severus, choosing to keep his affiliation with the princes to a minimum and not draw attention to his status. The boats made their way across the dark lake on their own, and once on the other side, the students were shuffled onto a pathway that led to a gate. Passing through the large gate, they went on foot into a large hallway, where they waited to enter the Great Hall. The sounds of students could be heard from the other side.

They were met by a tall witch wearing a dark dress with what seemed to be the Gryffindor crest sewn onto it; atop her head sat a large hat. "Welcome, first years," the witch began. "I am Professor McGonagall, and soon I will be leading you to the castle, where you will be entering the Great Hall for your sorting. So, if you all get into a neat line, I shall lead you."

A small moment of commotion passed as the children shuffled themselves into a line. Severus found himself shoved between a short blond-haired girl and Mulciber. Professor McGonagall quickly scanned the students before ordering them to follow her into the hall. Everyone did as they were told and filled the large hall that held four long tables filled with students. The ceiling was decorated to look like the night sky, and candles were charmed to float among the tables.

The students made a stop at the table filled with professors. In the middle sat a stool with an old patched hat. Severus watched out of curiosity as the professor made her way toward the hat before calling out to the first years.

"I shall call your names out; once called, you will come and sit on the stool where you will be sorted," McGonagall explained before pulling out a long piece of parchment. Her sharp eyes drifted down the parchment before calling out the first name. "Abbott, Anthony!"

A boy with black hair walked up and took a seat on the stool, the hat being placed upon him soon after. Severus watched in surprise as the hat came to life and yelled,

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

A table to the far right gave a loud cheer, and the boy made his way over as the next few names were called. As Severus watched more students being sorted, they took their seats in their designated houses soon after.

"Black, Sirius!" Professor McGonagall called out, and Severus watched as Sirius Black made his way up to the stool. The hat was soon placed upon his head, and the sense of tension grew. Severus had already figured out that the boy would not go to Slytherin, but it was satisfying to be proven right anyway as he watched the hat yell.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The boy grinned, and Severus took note of how the Slytherin table deflated at the announcement. It seemed that they had expected the boy to join, even leaving a space next to a blonde-haired girl. This amused Severus a little.

Time passed, and Severus watched as Lily was placed into Gryffindor along with the rest of the boys he had met on the train. Finally, after several minutes, the inevitable happened.

"Prince, Severus,"

A loud whispering was heard among the houses as Severus made his way up. He had no doubt that the students of pureblood status were telling those around them about the boy, the bastard child of the noble and ancient house of Prince. Sitting on the stool, he eyed the tables but stopped at Slytherin; most of the table was split into sections. Those closest to the professors were from the pureblood families, those with lower status sat in the middle of the table, and those who were outcast sat at the far end.

The hat on Severus seemed to be talking, but he ignored it until it finally yelled out, "SLYTHERIN!" Severus let out a sigh before hurrying towards the table, where he took a seat at the far end, placing himself with a few first years who greeted him with small smiles.

"Hey," a small boy to Severus's right muttered. "I'm Marcus Adams,"

Marcus was a short, blond-haired boy with pale blue eyes. He appeared friendly enough, which made him stand out among the table of Slytherins.

"Severus"

"It's good to meet you," Marcus replied, producing an awkward smile. The boy next to Marcus was sitting silently, eagerly looking at all of them. He was tall and thin, with small dark eyes and jet-black hair. At first glance, Severus did not think much of him, but Marcus noticed him staring and decided to introduce the other boy.

"This is Thomas Reed," Marcus introduced. "We met at the station; he's a pretty solid guy."

Thomas responded to the introduction by giving a small nod. "Hey," he said before turning away. The last few names on the list were called up to be sorted. Before the students settled, Severus caught the eye of a large boy further down the table. The older boy sneered at him, no doubt knowing who Severus was. Looking away, Severus frowned. It was going to be a tough first year.

Chapter Text

"God, does he ever shut it?" Marcus grunted as he leaned back in his chair. Severus watched him closely, debating whether the boy would lose his balance and fall. Unfortunately, he never did, and Severus lost interest.

"Do you?" Thomas chimed in, his eyes fixed on the History of Magic text beside him as Professor Binns floated by the group of boys.

It had been a week since the sorting, and the boys still had difficulties adjusting to Hogwarts, and more importantly, Slytherin. The addition of Severus to the house had caused a ruckus among the pit of snakes; it was one thing to have mudbloods like Marcus and filthy half-bloods like Thomas, but the addition of a filthy half-blood born out of wedlock seemed to throw the house off.

"But it's not my fault; I just expected more," Marcus argued, his pale eyes narrowing at the boy sitting to his left before looking to his right to face Severus. "Back me up here, Sev."

Severus frowned at the boy beside him. He hated that stupid nickname and attempted to correct Marcus every time he used it, but the boy never listened to Severus. While the class had been instructed to take notes from the blackboard, Severus could not deny that Professor Binns could make an interesting subject sound boring. Professor Binns' lessons were not helped by the fact that he often spun into odd tangents that sometimes did not relate to the topic of the goblin wars.

"Keep me out of your arguments, Adams," Severus muttered. Marcus's face fell at Severus's words.

"How did I end up with you two?" Marcus muttered to himself before turning back to the front of the class, where the professor seemed to float in circles.

The fact that Severus had found himself with two companions was something he questioned; he was far from approachable and had neither the mannerisms nor the attitude of someone friendly. But it seemed that Adams and Reed had glued themselves to him, despite how much Severus disliked it.

Though the fact that the trio was formed out of need rather than want was evident to Severus. On their first night in the castle, Severus had been hassled by Mulciber and his group, which led to a small scuffle and a round of house point reduction. But Severus was sure that had that fight not occurred, then Adams and Reed would not be willing to side with him.

"You lads looking forward to the Quidditch trials?" Marcus asked as he doodled on his parchment.

"First years can't get into trials," Thomas replied, rolling his eyes. "How many times have we discussed this?"

"If we put on a good show, we'll make it," Marcus argued. "We can be the first of our kind."

"An optimistic Slytherin," Severus smirked. "Are you sure you're not some secret Hufflepuff, Adams?"

"I wouldn't doubt it," Thomas added without looking up from his textbook.

"Sod off," Marcus said as he frowned.

Severus gave another snicker before taking his quill and copying the words written on the blackboard. He was sure he did not need any of these notes; he had flown through all his classes with ease due to his intelligence.

Though taking notes often aided in the event of forgetting, or if Marcus required extra assistance with assignments or essays. Professor Binns finished his lecture and finally allowed the tortured first-years to leave, but not without a new assignment that caused the majority of the class to let out a collective groan. Gathering his belongings, Severus made his way to join Marcus and Thomas in the hallway, the trio making their way to their next class.

Potions had been Severus's specialty since the age of four; his earliest memory was of Mr. Hudson gifting him a mini potion master kit for his birthday. Severus's skills in the art of potions were further developed through the experience of running an apothecary, something that Severus hoped to open later in his life. Potions at Hogwarts, however, were different. Severus had already mastered everything up to the sixth year, not that he told anyone. Entering the potions classroom, the boys found it filled with a mix of Slytherins and Gryffindors.

"Ah, gentlemen," Professor Slughorn bellowed. "Do join the rest of us,"

"Great, Gryffindorks," Marcus muttered as the trio wandered to the collective students who stood at the front of the class. It seemed that Slughorn had gathered the students at the front in order to dictate the seating arrangement, something that caused dread and skittishness at the idea of being placed with someone. Slughorn explained the reasoning behind the set seating before beginning the calling of student names to form partners.

Severus allowed his eyes to drift around him; he was not impressed by those who surrounded him, but soon dark eyes met green. Severus peered at the small red-haired Gryffindor girl, and she peered back. Several seconds of awkward staring ended when Severus broke the gaze and whipped his head back towards Slughorn and the pairing.

"Adams and MacDonald," Slughorn called out.

Marcus let out a groan beside Severus before dragging himself to the desk where a short blond Gryffindor girl waited for him. Severus found some amusement in Marcus's frustration, as it meant that he could not rely on either of his two companions to do his work—a real predicament for the boy.

"Black and Blackwood,"

Severus watched as a Gryffindor boy swaggered to his seat beside a small Slytherin girl. The girl seemed to have the sourest face and chose to stay as far away as possible. Severus's eyes scanned the sea of students; he was sure he would end up with one of the Gryffindor students, an idea that unnerved the young Slytherin. The rivalry between both houses had often been bad, to the point where it became a key aspect of Hogwarts. If you were a Slytherin, you didn't like a Gryffindor. Simple fact.

"Reed and McKinnon"

The numbers were dwindling quickly; more students made their way to the workstations, some happier with their partners than others, but soon only a handful of students were left. Severus took one last scan of the group of students before turning back to Slughorn.

"Cartwright and Evans,"

Severus watched the short redhead make her way to the workstation with a larger Slytherin boy. Turning back, Severus noticed the sudden lack of students left—only four remained.

"Lupin and Pettigrew," Slughorn called out. "And Potter, please join Mr. Prince."

The color drained from the other boy's face as he looked at the professor before slowly shuffling towards the last workstation. Severus had not left too happy at the thought of working with the likes of Potter; a part of him was expecting to be placed with the redhead, but it seemed fate took delight in Severus Snape's misery.

Taking his seat beside the boy, Severus focused on Professor Slughorn and his explanation of potions. He would much rather listen to something uninteresting than engage with the boy beside him. Finally declaring the task for the day, Professor Slughorn took his seat at the front desk, stating that they would be graded upon the quality of their potions.

The task was simple, something Severus could do in his sleep. Unfortunately, that was a smaller handicap compared to the one that sat beside him. Potter had opted to collect the equipment while Severus took a moment to cut the herbs into pieces. By the time Potter returned, Severus had prepared the key aspects of the potion in order of importance.

"What are you doing?" Potter asked as he watched Severus place the herbs in.

"Listen, Potter, I don't care for you," Severus hissed. "But you best not ruin the potion."

"Says a Slytherin," Potter barked back, and Severus narrowed his eyes.

"Just follow my lead,"

Severus ignored him for the rest of the process and continued to work on the potion. It went on like this for several minutes, and Severus almost found himself enjoying it—almost.

As Severus set down one of the pieces of equipment, he felt a hard nudge on his right shoulder. Turning, he was not surprised to see Mulciber. The large boy had taken pushing Severus around as a sport, not that anyone tried to stop him.

"Watch it, bastard," the larger boy grunted before walking back to his station.

Severus narrowed his eyes at the boy before peering back at Potter. The other boy had been staring off into space when Severus snapped him back to reality. Severus told him to keep an eye on their potion before pulling out his wand, focusing on Mulciber and Avery before shooting a small spell that tossed some of the herbs into the cauldron. The explosion caused by the excess ingredients was amusing; it covered the two boys in the potions they had been brewing, causing most of the class to laugh at them.

"Nice," Potter muttered as he smirked.

"Shut up, Potter,"

The incident within the potion class had spread around the school quickly, and while Severus had gotten away with it, he doubted that it would last. He was, after all, suspect number one in all Slytherin incidents—the common tactic of placing blame upon those lower than yourself. Within the Slytherin hierarchy, he was definitely at the bottom.

Thus, when lunch rolled around, Severus decided to be in the open, avoiding any potential attacks by being somewhere exposed and having his companions with him. As they made their way through the grounds of Hogwarts, Marcus took a moment to complain about Mary MacDonald. He complained that she was bossy, had an annoying voice, and a sour temper.

"At least she kept you in line," Thomas said, smiling. He had a mild experience with his partner, describing McKinnon as competent and an asset that Gryffindor did not appreciate.

"Potter's a twat," Severus muttered. "To be fair, all Purebloods are twats."

"Broad statement there, mate," Marcus replied as the trio made their way down towards the Great Lake. The lake was calm, and the talk about a monster living within it almost seemed stupid now. Severus picked up a small white pebble that lay at his feet before tossing it into the lake; the pebble skipped across the surface before sinking into the darkness below.

"Trust me, I've been around many where I'm from," Severus muttered. "I've seen the greed in their eyes; all of them have it, as if everything is owed to them."

"And that's why you don't like Potter?" Thomas questioned as he tossed a pebble of his own into the lake.

"I don't like him because he's a prick," Severus replied. "But he too shows that same look, no matter how much he acts better."

"He's not worse than Mulciber," Marcus argued. "I would pay good money to be locked in a room with him for five minutes—no wands."

"Big words, Mudblood," a voice called out.

Spinning around, the trio was met with Mulciber, Avery, and Rosier. All three boys were making their way toward the trio, sour-faced and wands on display. Tension rose, and the trio pulled out their own wands in response.

"If it isn't the half-blood, the mudblood, and the bastard," Rosier called out as the boys came to a halt.

Rosier was just as large as Mulciber, but unlike the other boy, he had a quick mind that assisted his imposing figure. Severus had noticed that Rosier always seemed to lead the group of pure-blooded Slytherin boys; he displayed everything perfect about blood purity and had many aspects that his thug friends lacked.

"Get lost, Rosier, you big cunt," Marcus bit back.

"Or what, mudblood?" Avery grunted.

"I challenge you," Severus declared, causing all eyes to fall upon him. "Rosier, I challenge you to a duel."

There were several minutes of pure silence as the boys processed what had been said. Severus knew that appealing to Rosier's pride would be the best way to leave the situation unharmed. Slytherin pride was both an asset and a huge flaw; no Slytherin would pass up the opportunity to defeat and humiliate an enemy. Finally, when the situation seemed to sink in, Rosier let out a howl of laughter and was soon joined by Mulciber and Avery.

"You?" Rosier chuckled as he pointed at Severus. "Against me?"

"What's wrong?" Marcus added. "Scared?"

That seemed to stop Rosier's amusement at the situation as the large boy glared at Marcus before turning back to Severus. He swiftly closed the gap between the two of them and peered down at the thinner boy. The looming presence of Rosier would have made any other first-year piss themselves, but Severus had been in his fair share of fights growing up. He would bet that Rosier had never really been in a fight in his life, rather using his size to defeat his enemies.

"When and where?"

"Midnight, the seventh floor," Severus said. "We'll walk up there together if you're scared,"

Rosier didn't take kindly to the mocking of his bravery as he grabbed Severus by the collar, causing the white shirt to rip slightly due to the sudden force from the bigger boy. Rosier held Severus close, his hot breath rushing over Severus's face as his blue eyes peered down. Finally, after several seconds of intimidation, Rosier pushed Severus and grunted.

"I'll enjoy breaking you."

Rosier didn't wait for a reply as he swiveled on his heels and swiftly made his way back towards the castle. Severus watched as the boys left, his mind reeling with the plan that was coming together. He peered over at his companions. Thomas gave a concerned look, while Marcus seemed all too willing to take part in whatever would accrue.

"You sure about this?" Thomas finally asked, and Severus gave him a small smile.

"If everything works out, then this could be very beneficial for the three of us," Severus replied before picking up a pebble and tossing it towards the lake.

Flying classes were not something Severus looked forward to. He was as skilled on a broom as a Hippogriff, while he struggled; it seemed that Marcus took flying as easily as walking, and Thomas was not far behind him. Severus attempted to listen to the professor, but each attempt provided nothing but failure, while most of the class had experienced moderate success. This was what irritated Severus most; he hated the idea of being left behind by those he could easily surpass if only he had some more practice and time.

"Maybe there's something holding you back," Marcus muttered as he floated beside Severus.

"Like what?

"You might be afraid," Marcus stated, and Severus glared in response.

"I am not," Severus retorted, though this was not helped by the fact that he was grasping his broom way too tightly and stood uneasily upon it. Marcus seemed to notice this and smiled; it was partly smug and partly playful. Severus went back to focusing, sure that if he simply put enough time into concentrating, he could at the very least float. But alas, the class went on and soon came to an end, all without Severus lifting off the ground, though he planned to give it a try when he could. The lack of a broom would not stop him.

---------------

Darkness had surrounded him that night; the light noises of his roommates had kept Severus awake. After five minutes of listening, he felt comfortable assuming that he was safe to leave.

He was excited and on edge about what he was about to do. If he was caught, he would be in serious trouble, but more importantly, Rosier would win. During dinner, Severus had told Marcus and Thomas that they should leave the common room at different times but meet up on the second floor before making their way up to the seventh. He planned on leading, but Thomas stated it would be better for either him or Marcus to go first, as that would ensure the area was clear for him.

Leaving the dorms and sneaking through the common room was the fairly easy part of the mission, but once Severus entered the hallway, tension grew. Severus shuffled his way through the floors before hitting the second floor, where he was met with Marcus and Thomas beside a suit of armor.

"You ready?" Marcus whispered.

"As ever," Severus replied, and the trio made their way up the floors.

The seventh floor had been the perfect stage; it was the most isolated and would allow the boys the advantage of Filch being unable to run upstairs as fast as they could. Severus and the crew sneaked around the corner of one of the corridors on the seventh floor when they heard the muttered whispers of familiar voices. Turning the corner slowly, they noticed Rosier and his gang. Severus was slightly surprised that they had turned up and took a minute to eavesdrop.

"He's five minutes late," Rosier muttered.

"Maybe he backed out like the coward he is," Avery added, but Rosier responded with an annoyed grunt.

"The bastard will get what's coming to him," Mulciber said. "His kind are no better than Mudbloods, even if he has the Prince name."

"Prince by name, dirt by blood," Avery snickered, and Mulciber chuckled.

Severus took this moment to run through the plan in his head before taking a step out. Rosier was the first to notice him and his group; he smirked as they moved closer and whipped his wand out when they were close. There were no words, no taunts, no insults. Simply a moment of silence before both wands flew up and jets of light shot out, Rosier's missing Severus, while Severus's spell hit its target and caused him to fly through the air before being slammed into the ground. The shock caused Mulciber and Avery to freeze, allowing two more spells to be shot, each hitting their target. Severus knew he had limited time.

"Now," Severus said, and the trio shot to stick. Rosier and his gang were pinned and left without leaving a scratch on Severus.

Severus made his way over to the group and knelt down to face Rosier, a small smile upon his lips as he pointed his wand at the other boy.

"Not so high and mighty now, oh pure-blooded one?" Severus mocked. "Have a nice night here, Rosier. I'll see you in the morning when that spell wears off, though it'll take longer for your pride to recover."

Chapter Text

"May I leave nows, sir?"

Albus watched the boy; his eyes attempted to read whatever emotion lay on the surface. But none were displayed; he was stone-faced and stiff. His eyes never left the headmaster, and Albus felt a slight unease.

Mr. Prince had been caught hiding within a classroom after curfew. Albus had taken him to his office, where he expected to gain the truth. But unlike most first-years, Mr. Prince kept himself composed and refused to reveal anything, even at the cost of 50 house points and a month's worth of detention.

Albus knew of Mr. Prince's background; he remembered the outrage at the boy's mother and the tabloid that soon followed. Albus suspected that living in the narrow streets of Knockturn Alley had made the boy tough; he acted more composed than many criminals. But that was not what unnerved Albus.

"You may, Mr.Prince," Albus finally answered.

Albus watched the boy rise and walk out of the room. Once Mr. Prince had left, Albus was able to relax and allow his thoughts to gather. The dull tone of Mr. Prince's voice rang in his ears; the calm composure with which he acted also flashed through the headmaster's mind. It brought Albus back to years long ago.

The boy, with his shadowed eyes and unnervingly quick mind, was proving to be a frustratingly familiar echo.

Tom Riddle had shared the same mannerisms, and while Albus was hard-pressed to believe that Mr. Prince would become like Tom, the thoughts still left him uneasy. He had shared some mannerisms with Tom, but the overall picture was different.

He had no power to his name, he had no following, and Albus was sure that many in Slytherin considered him as nothing. But that did not stop the small piece of unease from wallowing in Albus's mind.

Rising from his chair, the headmaster made his way over to the cabinet filled with small vials of memories collected. Each memory contained a detailed piece of information—key moments that Albus wished to store away for later use. Albus opened the cabinet and quickly plucked out the vial that held the memory of Tom, his pale eyes examining it before placing it back.

He shared similar traits in character and even background as Tom; while this unnerved the headmaster, it intrested him. For years, Albus had attempted to reach out to Slytherin House, hoping to sway them to his cause, so when the time came, he would be more solid on the ground than Tom. But try as he might, the headmaster could not appeal to the House of Snakes.

"I may have need for the boy," Albus muttered to himself.

He knew the dangers; if he did not play this right, he would only end up creating another Voldemort. But the war that sat on the horizon edged closer; soon the fighting would begin. Albus slowly made his way back to his seat; he affirmed that he would keep an eye on him in hopes of swaying him, but if he failed, then he would no doubt create something far worse.

"For the greater good," Albus muttered softly. A mantra that he had clung onto in these dark times.

"There's no way the headmaster caught you," Marcus said as the boys made their way down to the great hall for breakfast.

The events of the night before had been a grande talking point among the house of snakes; the prefect had spoken to Rosier's gang in an attempt to get a better idea of what happened. The boys had kept their mouths shut, but the blame still fell upon Severus. The loss of fifty house points painted a clear target on his back.

"He was there," Severus reaffirmed as the trio walked into the hall and towards their house table.

Severus took a seat on the far end, away from most of the other Slytherins. Thomas sat to his right while Marcus was on the left; the latter had already begun to fill up his plate with everything in sight.

"But what was the headmaster doing out of his office?" Thomas questioned as he slowly filled up his plate and began to eat.

"Night walk?" Marcus said between bites, and Severus rolled his eyes.

"I doubt that the headmaster was taking a night walk," Severus argued as he slowly munched on a piece of toast. Thoughts about why the headmaster was walking through the corridors had crossed his mind. It could have been pure coincidence, but the manner of the occurrence suggested otherwise.

You never know," Thomas said. "Maybe he has a track on us

"But he only caught me," Severus pointed out.

"You were simply the nearest to him at the time," Thomas suggested with a shrug.

Severus considered Thomas's point to be logical; if the headmaster had placed a tracker on all students, then he would be able to locate Severus easily, but he would be unable to appear in two places at once. Whatever the matter, Severus was sure he got off lightly. His eyes fell on the rest of Slytherin House; their glares made Severus second-guess his thoughts for a split second, but he simply pushed the thoughts out of his mind.

"What lesson do we have first?" Severus asked as he turned back to the other boys.

"Charms," Thomas answered.

"Sounds lame," Marcus added as he finished his food.

Severus shrugged as he finìshed the last of his breakfast quickly and joined his friends in their walk out. Severus's eyes glided through the hall as they walked before coming to a stop at emerald eyes.

Among the cluster of Gryffindors sat the odd red-haired girl; she was surrounded by other girls, all talking about something that didn't interest her. Instead, her attention was on Severus, and for a second, he swore that she gave him a shy smile, but he pushed away from the thought as he turned away and followed his friends out.

Charms had been a dull lesson for the Slytherin trio. They had sat far from the rest of their house to avoid any confrontation, though that did not stop the hisses of insults and death glares.

Once the lesson was finished, the boys darted out of the class; the next lesson flew by as fast as the first, and the trio soon found themselves in the library, regardless of Marcus's complaints.

Severus pulled out the small notebook that his mother had passed down to him. He was busy flipping through pages of potion modifications and spell ideas when he noticed a small cluster of Gryffindors. Severus noted Sirius Black and James Potter, his dark eyes watching the two boys as they led two other boys through the rows. Severus took the moment to assess the boys before slowly rising from his seat and marching over to the group, leaving a confused Thomas and Marcus behind.

"Enjoying Gryffindor, Black," Severus snapped as he approached. The tone of Severus's voice caused the two boys to react with hostility; wands were soon whipped out and eyes narrowed.

"What do you want, snake?" Black barked back, and Severus smiled.

"Just wanted to show you this neat trick," Severus retorted as he pointed his own wand at the shelf behind the boys and muttered, "Wingardium Leviosa."

Several large books shuffled off the shelf and slowly began to rise through the air before stopping above the heads of Black and Potter. Severus flicked his wrist and allowed the wonders of gravity to do the rest.

The thud, as well as the cries of pain, had caused attention; Severus didn't wait around to taunt the boys anymore and quickly made his way back to his desk. Sitting down, he was congratulated by Marcus on the display, and Thomas added that it was a great demonstration of charms, but the best was saved for when Madam Pince caught the group of Gryffindors. There was something warming about seeing pure-bloods, the highest folk of wizarding society, being brought down a peg or two.

"You planning on being on the bad side with everyone?" Marcus asked with a chuckle.

"I did make a promise to my mother to stay out of trouble, but then again, I was crossing my fingers," Severus answered with a grin.

"You should be more careful; too many people will be after you at this rate," Thomas scolded, though the smile on his face obviously displayed his enjoyment.

"I'm the black sheep regardless of any other factors," Severus said, shrugging. "I don't really want to be Mr. Popular."

Severus was content with what he had; Thomas and Marcus had been the first friends he had made at his age. His childhood had felt lonely, and living with shady individuals had also caused him to develop issues with those around him. But since he had arrived at Hogwarts, he began to feel more like a child. He was allowed to interact with others outside of business, and a part of Severus was happy with that.

"Hey, let's head out," Marcus said as he slammed the textbook shut. "This stuff is giving me a headache."

"Yeah," Severus said, stuffing his book back into his bag and grinning. "I heard word of some secret rooms in the school."

Lucius Malfoy was not pleased; he was as far from pleased as one could get at this point. Not only had fifty points been taken from his house, but he had been reprimanded by Slughorn over the act of filthy first years. The fat slob had the nerve to declare that Lucius was careless and was giving Slytherin a bad reputation, just as much as the first years.

The fifth-year peered at the crackling fire within the Slytherin common room, his eyes watching the flames dance as his brow furrowed at the thoughts bouncing within his head. Lucius had attempted to speak to Rosier, but the foolish boy allowed his pride to get in the way and would not name those responsible. Not that Lucius didn't already put two and two together like many others in Slytherin.

Lucius could vaguely remember when he first saw Severus Prince.

His father had taken him shopping for supplies and had chosen to go to Knockturn Alley to gather some key ingredients for his potion collection. The shop that the filthy half-blood bastard owned was tiny, and the display within the shop was even worse. Nothing within the shop indicated that it was owned by one of the noble Italian pure-blood families, a family that had resided in Britain since the time of Caesar but one that held onto its Italian and pure-blood heritage. A family destroyed when filth had been born.

Lucius had seen the filthy little boy sitting behind the counter. The boy was scruffy, with horrid hair and oversized clothes.

Nothing had changed over the years, Lucius sneered before rising from his seat. Prefects were expected to patrol the corridors, and a quick check on the time indicated that curfew was only a few minutes away. But as Lucius left the common room, he was met with the scruffy long hair of the boy he hated, along with his companions. It seemed that filth had a tendency to stick together.

"Prince, I hope you are planning on going to your detentions this weekend," Lucius sneered.

The only enjoyment left was the fact that Prince had been given detentions for the term and would be unable to cause any more trouble until after the Christmas holidays.

"Sod off, Malfoy," the boy grunted as he pushed past Lucius, his companions snickering behind him.

"I will not have you stain the great image of Slytherin with your attitude," Lucius snapped as his long arms caught the boy and tossed him to the ground. Heads turned, and soon a small crowd formed.

"The image of Slytherin?" Severus muttered as he got back onto his feet. "The image of a long-dead man whose words you cling to because you have no personality."

"Watch your tongue, Prince, or—"

"Or what?" Severus cut in with a smirk. "You'll take house points?"

Lucius could not take it; how dare this piece of filth speak to him like this, and how dare he think he could get away with it? The first spell launched the boy into the air before tossing him down; the second pinned him to the ground and allowed Lucius to get close without being attacked. Lucius felt the anger within come forth as he landed a punch into the boy's face; it felt wonderful, and Lucius let out a little chuckle.

"Any wise words, Mr. Prince?" Lucius mocked.

To Lucius's horror, the boy gave a small smile before launching spit into Lucius's face. The shock caused the older boy to scramble back. Lucius wiped his face and heard chuckles from behind him. This was not going as originally planned; Lucius was supposed to take the runt down a peg, but instead, he had given him an audience.

"You hit like a girl," Severus muttered as he rose, the spell finally coming undone. "But then again, I didn't expect anything from you, Malfoy."

Lucius glared at the boy before dashing out of the common room. He had never been enraged by a single person as much as he was now.

Prince had the nerve to act as if he were better than others, as if he were beyond Lucius's grasp, but in reality, the boy was filth. However, something deep within Lucius shifted—a sense of dread for the future of Slytherin House.

Lucius would not be here for long, and if Prince was allowed to run wild, it would spell disaster for his beloved house; he could not have that. Lucius reminded himself to speak with third-year William Wilkes; he had to ensure those good pureblood lads were in power. Rosier would also be a good individual to speak to.

"For Slytherin," Lucius chanted as he paced down the dark corridor. "For the greater good,"

Chapter Text

"Can't wait for Quidditch this year," Marcus said as he took his seat beside the window within the compartment. Outside the windows, the boys were greeted with flashes of the English countryside.

"Gryffindor lost Longbottom last year; we should have a better chance this year,"

Severus smiled at his friends; both had been discussing their tactics throughout the summer, and after the events of the fourth year, he could not blame them.

Slytherin had lost to Ravenclaw at the last minute, the Quidditch cup slipping through the grasp of the house, and the denial of their fourth year of winning had caused outrage among Slytherins.

Severus's eyes drifted through the compartment; nothing about the train had changed, but the same could not be said about those within the compartment. Severus had noticed the stark differences within himself and his friends.

Every year, he had shot up in height; he was soon one of the tallest among his year and looked more like a seventh-year than a fifth-year student. His body had become more sculpted, light scars running up his forehand from potions and spell crafting, and stubble began to decorate his face.

"Tad shame, really; they stand no chance now," Thomas added as he stretched out his long legs onto the other seat, his own height rivaling Severus. His dark hair was pulled back, unlike Severus, who liked his hair falling messily across his face. Then again, Thomas was conventionally handsome compared to Severus.

"Aye, Gryffindorks are definitely going to be at the bottom of the table."

"I have no doubt, especially since I'm sure I'll be captain soon," Marcus said, nodding.

"Doubt that, but don't let my skepticism stop you," Severus muttered as he pulled out his potion book. He flipped through the pages as he heard Marcus protest how he would be the best captain and how Wilkes was taking Slytherin down the wrong path.

Severus had missed spending time within the walls of Hogwarts and with his friends. He had not seen them throughout the holidays due to the busy time spent working.

Severus enjoyed making money, and he was sure that he had made enough to buy a boatload of sweets from the trolley lady, but having to deal with the shady folk that walked into the store had become tiring.

Though spending time within the store had developed Severus's skill in managing a business, he developed quickly and soon found himself becoming more confident, no longer the troublemaker of the first year but now a full-fledged potion master in his own mind. Though his status in Slytherin wasn't something that changed, popularity was not something Severus longed for, but becoming infamous was just as bad. A tall, dark Slytherin oddball to everyone else and the bastard runt within his own house.

"I agree with Sev," Thomas finally cut in, causing Marcus to stop his ranting. "If you don't focus on your grades just as much as Quidditch, then Slughorn will never place you as captain."

"Some friends you are," Marcus muttered. "Well, if I don't get it, at least Pace will get it."

Severus understood Marcus's frustrations; it had been tough for him to even be part of the team as a Muggle-born.

The Slytherin team had been made up of a majority of Purebloods, with the only two Muggle-borns being Marcus and Jane Pace.

Jane Pace was a short Slytherin girl with short dark hair and grey eyes. She had been part of a small Slytherin group of girls and was an aspiring student in Quidditch and studies. Severus had only met her a handful of times; both hardly said a word to each other, though he did enjoy her presence and her input on certain matters. Severus would also be lying if he said he did not find her attractive, though he would blame his hormones for that before he admitted to it.

"Heard Pace made prefect," Thomas stated as he peered over at Severus, a smile on his face. "Who would want to be a prefect?"

"Probably an uppity prat," Marcus stated, chuckling.

Severus muttered for both of them to shut up and cursed himself for telling them about his appointment as a prefect. Severus had no interest in being a prefect; instead, he hated the prestigious position and planned on handing in his badge after the first term ended. Severus's eyes drifted down to his tattered wristwatch, choosing to ignore the jabs from his friends at his expense.

He was expected to join a meeting of prefects in ten minutes and placed his book away as he rose to his feet.

"Stay out of trouble," he quickly muttered, smiling.

"Sure thing, Professor's pet," Marcus said, chuckling, and Thomas howled with laughter.

The compartment door quickly slammed shut after that.

Severus made his way through the train, peering into the compartments as he walked by. Soon, he stood outside a larger compartment that held a collective of students from different houses. Severus exhaled before walking in. He was met with a sea of eyes, all displaying shock as they looked him up and down to ensure that it was really him. After several minutes, a large Hufflepuff boy shuffled forward.

"Can we help you?" he asked, and in response, Severus pulled out the badge.

"Oh, welcome."

Severus didn't bother replying and took his seat next to Jane, the girl nodding to greet him as he sat down. The head boy, a lanky boy in Ravenclaw, stood up and addressed those within the compartment, greeting all the new faces entering the duty of prefect. The meeting went on for another twenty minutes, with the head boy and head girl detailing patrol routes and setting partnerships among the prefects. Each male prefect would have a female prefect from another house as a partner. Severus scoffed at this but said nothing during the assignment of partners.

"Prince, you'll be with Evans," the head boy said as he pointed over to the red-haired girl.

Lily Evans had been a classmate of Severus, one with minimal contact with the boy, and she often kept interactions short; he liked her for that. Over the years, they had worked together in Potions after the events of second year and the confrontation with Sirius Black that led to his potion exploding. Professor Slughorn ensured that he worked far from the likes of Black, Potter, and other prats that seemed to set him off. Thus, Evans aided in Potions; he considered her fairly skilled and at least well-versed in the subject.

The meeting continued before concluding with the head boy speaking on the importance of upholding the title. Severus rolled his eyes. He was surrounded by self-righteous dorks, and as the meeting ended, he reassured himself that he would quit at the first chance he got. Severus stuffed the shining prefect badge into his front pocket as he darted out of the compartment and back towards his own. Upon entering, he was met with cheeky smirks.

"How's the meeting?" Thomas asked as he munched on a sweet. Severus made his way back to his seat, but not before taking a handful of sweets from the pile that the boys were eating from.

"We can give detention and take house points," Severus muttered as he tossed a piece of chocolate into his mouth.

"Brilliant," Marcus exclaimed as he clapped. "Remember to take all points from Gryffindorks!"

"Yeah, I doubt I can do that," Severus retorted, but quickly reassured his friend that he would not give up on the idea.

Severus took a moment to consider the situation; by all means, he had gained power that he previously lacked, and as long as he remained level-headed, he could wield it how he saw fit. The conversation switched to the upcoming year, with a discussion about their classes and a brief mention of the tension among Slytherin.

"Wilkes seems to be the one to watch for," Thomas muttered, frowning.

In their third year, the boys had gotten into an altercation with William Wilkes that left Thomas with a broken arm, Severus with a black eye, and Marcus with two cracked ribs.

"No need to sweat it," Marcus muttered before pointing towards Severus. "Sevs has the power now."

"My powers are limited," Severus pointed out, and Marcus nodded.

"Yeah, but it's still more than Wilkes," Marcus explained. "We have a better standing right now than ever before. We could become Slytherin royalty."

Thomas shut the boy down by pointing out that despite their power, their house did not see them in a favorable light, outside of the handful of Muggleborns and non-pure fanatics. Severus added that the three of them alone could not take over Slytherin; the political structure of the house was too rigid, and those within the top rank, calling themselves Knights of Walpurgis, had connections.

"Maybe things will change," Marcus said with shrug and Severus responded by shaking his head.

"Nothing has changed."

The morning after was cold; Severus found himself enjoying being back within Hogwarts' walls. It felt like home after a long holiday, and he missed the castle's beauty. He had settled back into his dorm the night before and was anticipating the start of classes. The feast last night had been the same as every year, with the students suffering through the choir and sorting only to receive food like starving dogs. Severus cringed at the speech Dumbledore gave; it had been the same for over four years, and he wondered how many other people were as bored as he was during the previous night.

"Waiting for me, lads?" Severus asked as he spotted his friends loitering in the corridors.

Thomas turned around; in his arms was a large dark arts book, and he seemed invested in reading. Marcus, on the other hand, had a wide smile on his face; his eyes were watching people before Severus appeared.

"Nah, we've got better things to do," Marcus muttered. "We're helping first years."

"Helping first years?"

"Marcus is giving them the wrong directions," Thomas clarified as he slammed the book he was reading shut. "Stupid, really."

"Neither of you two knows how to have fun," Marcus pointed out as he fell into step with the boys. "It's great to be back; I've been itching to use magic all summer."

The boys got up to the first floor, passing by the Bloody Baron on their way. They muttered a small greeting to their house ghost but quickly shuffled past the specter. Ghosts had become a normal aspect of Hogwarts, no different from the staff or students. Though Severus found himself uneasy at the thought of them—a being trapped in the world of the living for God knows how long—he had always considered being a ghost far worse than simply dying, and seeing the Baron had reaffirmed that thought.

The boys entered the Great Hall, making their way toward the Slytherin table and directly to their spot. The seating arrangement had not changed since their first year; those with stark Slytherin beliefs sat as far as possible from the pariahs. Severus peered down the table and noted the usual faces: Rosier's gang, which included Mulciber, Avery, and Regulus Black. The younger Black had been the tagalong in the crew. Severus disliked him as much as his brother, but he admitted he knew how to keep his mouth shut.

The thought of Sirius Black made Severus's eyebrows furrow. His eyes drifted towards the Gryffindor table, where a group of boys sat hunched over what seemed to be a piece of parchment. A year ago, the Gryffindors had begun to call themselves the Marauders, a name that sounded like a silly band. Much like a silly band, they began to go by nicknames. Severus rolled his eyes at the thought but kept his gaze on the odd parchment.

"What are they up to?" Severus hissed as he eyed each boy. Marcus turned from the piece of bacon he was munching on to peer over at the group.

"Who cares?" he finally added before turning back to his breakfast. "We have more important things to worry about,"

"He's right; we have our O.W.L.S. and our classes," Thomas said, looking over at the book on his lap. O.W.L.S. had been the advanced classes that would determine a witch's or wizard's capability. They would open the door to the more advanced N.E.W.T.S., which would dictate the future of a witch or wizard.

"Can't say I'm sweating it much," Marcus said as he continued to munch on his food. A boy sitting not too far away gave him a disgusted look and shuffled away.

Severus casually ate in silence. He had done great in classes in previous years. He was second to none in Potions, and his Defense Against the Dark Arts was outstanding. However, his Charms and Transfiguration work were average, which was basically a failure in his mind.

Severus made a mental note to brush up on those subjects, along with the reassurance that he would keep himself in line, before taking his timetable out of his robe. He had back-to-back Charms and let out a small groan; he had hoped for Defense.

Breakfast coming to an end, Severus grabbed his bag and made his way out of the Great Hall and towards the third floor.

The hallway had become a buzz of students, with a mix of new faces and old. Severus had noticed that a group of Gryffindors was also heading down the same path; among them were the Marauders.

Potter looked as stuck-up as usual. His messy hair sat atop his head and was a replacement for a personality, but it seemed to catch the eye of brain-dead girls. Severus wondered why Potter was popular; he supposed it was due to the fact that he fit Gryffindor's dull-headed heroic template. Severus heard Marcus snicker beside him and turned to notice the boy had pulled out his wand.

"Levicorpus," he muttered before flicking his wand.

Potter was launched into the air and tossed around like a rag doll before being dropped. Those around Potter were in shock at the sight, and Severus chuckled as he watched the boy scramble back to his feet.

It seemed that through the years, Severus's urge to take Potter down a peg or two had grown; this came to a head after the events of the fourth year, where he had hung the boy upside down before tossing him into the Black Lake. Potter let out a groan as he got back to his feet, and Sirius Black turned his attention to Severus. Black marched over before howling at Severus that he knew it was him. In response, Severus shrugged.

"I have no idea where you're coming from, Black," Severus muttered as he turned away from the boy before stopping. "Oh, and ten points from Gryffindor for disrespect."

Severus left the scene; he muttered praise to Marcus, which caused Thomas to frown and warn them that Black would be looking for payback.

Severus pointed out that he wasn't helpless; he had been delving into spell crafting since his first year and had a book containing multiple spells. Some of them were light, used to aid in potions or simply improve upon previously existing spells. Others were darker in nature, used to fight back against those who would harm Severus or his friends.

Though this did not mean that he would not question the use of such spells, if they were to fall into the wrong hands, like Potter's or Black's, then they could cause serious trouble.

"Come on, we'll be late," Thomas exclaimed as he began to walk at a faster pace. As they walked into the classroom, they were met with the small Charms professor, his wand clutched in his hand and his eyes watching the students eagerly.

"Welcome, students, to your first O.W.L.S. Charms class," he exclaimed as he peered at the students in the room. "Now, if you would get out your equipment, we can begin by learning..."

Severus sat at the back of the class and peered at the door as the Marauders strolled in. Severus grinned as the professor lectured the boys before taking ten points each. Severus heard the collective groans of Gryffindors in the class and nudged Marcus in celebration.

"Forty points on the first day," Marcus snickered under his breath. "Not a bad start."

"What do you mean you're not coming?" Severus asked Marcus as he pulled on his green hoodie and laced up his black boots. The dorm had been empty for hours, and the only people within it were the three boys.

Marcus sat upon his bed; he was wearing his Quidditch robe and fiddling with the buttons of it. His eyes narrowed at the button as his numb fingers failed to undo it for the fifth time in a row.

"Sorry, mate, but I just got back from early Quidditch practice," he muttered as he finally got the button undone. "And I'm knackered."

This was the first weekend since the boys had returned to Hogwarts. They had planned a trip to Hogsmeade every first weekend since their third year. The trip had been the same since third year; they would visit the sweet shop before getting butterbeer and causing trouble with either Potter's or Rosier's gang.

"Come on, mate, it's no fun when you're missing," Thomas said, but Marcus simply waved him off as he pulled off his Quidditch uniform.

"You'll be fine," Marcus stated. He quickly kicked off his shoes and lay back on his bed. Severus peered at the other boy; he could see the light bruising from Quidditch practice and the way Marcus was fighting off the urge to collapse. He decided it would be for the best and told the boy to relax. Marcus chuckled, saying that he could handle it and that they should have fun.

Severus bid Marcus farewell before walking out and toward the first floor. The duo made their way to the entrance of the school, passing by Filch as he howled at Peeves, the school poltergeist and undead troublemaker.

The caretaker had declared war on the poltergeist and had been battling it for as long as Severus could remember. Severus wondered if Filch died, whether he would become a ghost, forever cursed to chase after Peeves and misbehaving students.

Hogsmeade was one of the few wizard settlements within Britain; it was an old-fashioned village with thatched houses and small shops.

The duo had made their way into the local sweet shop, and after collecting a handful of sweets, they left. On their way to the Three Broomsticks, the boys decided to check out the Shrieking Shack, a small house sitting alone at the end of Hogsmeade. The tales told about the place were far more impressive; in person, the shack was nothing too impressive.

"Haunted, huh?" Severus muttered on their way back. "Rubbish."

"Never understood the fear," Thomas added. "Ghosts roam Hogwarts."

Entering the Three Broomsticks, the duo found it packed with students, with seats being filled by large groups from several houses. Thomas muttered that he would find them a seat; Severus agreed and went to get some drinks. After finally receiving the drinks, Severus located Thomas sitting alongside Jane Pace and some other Slytherin girls.

"Sev, I believe you've met Pace, Richards, and Blackwell," Thomas said as he pointed out each girl. Richards was a blonde-haired girl with pale blue eyes, while Blackwell was dark-skinned with dark hair and equally dark eyes.

"Nice to see you, Prince," Pace said as Severus took his seat beside Thomas, her grey eyes never leaving Severus as she spoke. "How have you been?"

"Good, thanks for asking, Pace," Severus retorted before taking a sip of his drink.

Severus felt his hands get sweaty and his calm mind cloud up. He was not bad in social situations, but that was only among other boys. Girls were different; they were not easy to read like other boys and hardly expressed their true opinions outwardly.

The most female interaction Severus had was with his mother, and she was hardly a social individual, often choosing work over spending time with Severus. In turn, Severus allowed his eyes to drift across the inn, darting through the crowd of students as he listened to the conversation around him.

"So, you two do anything fun?" Pace asked as she peered at the boys. Thomas explained that they had popped by the Shrieking Shack, which caused the girls to perk up.

"No big deal," Thomas muttered as he smirked. "But I'm sure we can handle it."

"A lot of confidence there, Reed," Richards said as she raised her brow, but Thomas simply shrugged and winked at the girl.

"It's not that hard to be brave," Severus chipped in, and Pace seemed to smile at that.

"Want to prove your statement, Prince?" she asked as she peered at Severus.

"How?"

"Oh, a little display of bravery," she added. "Maybe a display of magical skill."

"And I ask again, how?"

Pace peered over at her friends, and there was a collective giggle among the girls. Severus raised his brow; he knew that walking into challenges was dumb, but he saw how Pace looked at him. It was as if she had been judging him. A part of him hated it, but a much more vocal part of him wanted to display strength in hopes of impressing her. Stupid hormones.

"How about getting us a ratty banner?" Pace stated, and Severus frowned.

"A banner?"

"Yup, an old Gryffindor banner that was used to celebrate when Gryffindor wins," Pace stated. "I'm guessing it's hanging in their common room."

Severus frowned.

"What do I get in return?"

"Whatever you want, handsome," Pace said, smirking playfully. Severus felt his heart pump a little faster, and his mind drift off to somewhere embarrassing. He quickly attempted to shake off the thoughts before they could do any more embarrassing harm. He thought for a moment before coming up with a good idea.

"You know Wilkes," Severus stated, and Pace frowned.

"I'm his teammate; why?"

"If I do your task, then I want you to keep an eye on him," Severus stated. "I'm his biggest threat, and it would be nice to know whatever he's planning."

"Seems mutually beneficial for both of us," Thomas added. "If we do this silly little challenge, then we can keep tabs on Wilkes, and if he does anything."

"Why would you want to keep tabs on Wilkes?" Blackwell asked, raising her brows.

"It's no secret that he's got no love for us," Thomas said. "Sev and I would just like to know if he's got any nasty surprises for us coming up."

Pace muttered that the boys seemed relaxed at the notion, and Severus shrugged. Severus had already developed something of a game plan; the only problem was how he planned on smuggling the banner out once he was in the Gryffindor den. He would have to be fast—no more than five minutes—and a quick shrinking charm should be enough. Though Severus needed to think of a backup plan, he was sure it would not go as easily as plan A, and so he slowly worked on plan B.

Severus had snuck around Hogwarts many times since his first year, but for the first time ever, he was able to freely walk the halls of Hogwarts without trouble. Prefect duty meant that each prefect had to patrol the halls once a week, with each student being matched up with another from a different house. Severus had been lucky; he was placed with a Gryffindor. He had patrolled with Lily Evans for a while, discussing potions as they passed the time walking down the dark and empty halls of the school. Once their patrol had come to an end, Severus had offered to walk Lily back, which she accepted and thanked him for.

"Can I be honest?" Lily finally said as they walked up the flight of stairs leading towards Gryffindor Tower. "I used to think you were a jerk, but I guess you're not too bad."

"I'm touched," Severus said, smiling, and the girl seemed to look away.

"I'm serious," she muttered. "You're nothing like that Avery and Mulciber."

"That might be the best thing anyone has said to me," Severus said, smiling, and Lily laughed.

"It's just nice to, you know, be able to talk with a Slytherin and not be called that horrid word," Lily said softly. Severus peered down at the red-haired girl. Throughout the years, he had noticed that Muggle-borns had been getting targeted more. No doubt she had faced her fair share of hexes and curses flung her way just for existing.

"Blood purity is a bunch of bull crap," Severus stated. "Be proud that your family tree doesn't look like a family circle like these purebloods."

Evans let out another laugh, and Severus found himself enjoying the sound of her laughter. They switched topics, and he asked about Charms, and she offered to give him some pointers.

The conversation died out as they reached the portrait. Severus bid Lily goodnight before slowly walking back, his ears perking up as he heard the girl mumble the password. Severus didn't go far; walking down the stairs and turning the corner, he sat there for twenty minutes to ensure that Lily would not be in the common room when he entered. Severus knew the limited time he had, so he darted towards the portrait and mumbled the password to the Fat Lady. The portrait awoke before questioning who was there. Severus only replied with the password, and the Fat Lady glared before swinging open the entrance to the tunnel into Gryffindor.

The common room was everything Severus expected: flashy, with the house colors splashed on every conceivable inch of the room. Severus suppressed the urge to roll his eyes as he peered at the common room, his gaze falling upon a large Gryffindor banner that hung above the fireplace. It looked old but well-kept; it was made of red and gold fabric that matched the house, though it was slightly worn out. Severus pulled out his wand and aimed it at the banner; it shrank and fell to Severus's feet. Severus quickly picked it up but noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a piece of parchment.

The parchment was old, and on it was odd writing. Severus snatched the parchment and peered at the strange names. Opening it up, he found that it was a map of what seemed to be Hogwarts. Names were outlined on the map; the names of Filch and his cat appeared, drifting down the hall. Severus quickly folded the parchment and stuffed it into his robe pocket; he was sure that they would realize it was missing soon after they noticed the banner.

The walk back was as quiet as ever. A quick run-in with Filch had caused Severus some issues, but after explaining that he was indeed a prefect, Filch allowed him to make his way back to the dungeons with a simple warning. Severus entered the Slytherin common room with a wide smirk. He made his way back to his bed, where he stuffed the parchment under his pillow along with the shrunk banner.

"I can't believe you did it," Marcus muttered as the trio walked to breakfast the next morning, passing a group of Ravenclaws muttering as they made their way down to the Great Hall. Severus smirked as he walked into the hall, his eyes on the Gryffindor table and the distressed faces of the students. Sitting at their table, Severus nodded to Pace, and the girl responded with a smile. He had handed her the banner earlier in the morning before ensuring that she would keep her end of the bargain.

"Forget the ruddy banner. I can't believe you stole that map," Thomas said as they began to eat breakfast.

"I can't believe they had a map like this," Severus retorted. He didn't think those fools had it in them. The map was a genius idea, giving its user an outline of the school along with where everyone was.

"Explains a lot, though," Marcus added. "Like how they can always appear from nowhere; those little creeps were tracking everyone."

Severus had displayed the map earlier. They had run a quick test on its accuracy before determining whether they should destroy it. In the end, Severus had decided to keep hold of the map, a vital piece of information that could come in useful later. Thomas had warned that it could fall into the wrong hands, and Severus agreed but tucked the shrunk map between the pages of his potions book.

The boys switched topics quickly in order to prevent others from listening in; they began to discuss their upcoming Divinations class. Marcus joked that they might get caught if someone sees a vision in class, but Thomas only chuckled and muttered that Divination was a load of crap.

"I'll tell you what, lads. I think I see something in my tea leaves," Marcus muttered as he peered down at his cup.

"What is it?" Severus asked with an amused smirk and a raised brow.

"It says that this year will be our year."

Severus chuckled and shook his head before slowly rising from his seat. His eyes quickly drifted towards the Gryffindor table, where he met Evans's green eyes once more. Severus gave the girl a playful wink, and she smiled back.

"Nah," Severus said, turning back to his friends. "Nothing really changes."

Chapter Text

Severus listened to the seconds tick by on the large wall clock. His head was down on the desk, and he did not think he would be able to keep his eyes open much longer.

He sat at the back of the small History of Magic class, as Professor Binns had decided to give a lecture on his life... once again. Thomas yawned next to him; he had fallen asleep and just woken up. Sitting to Severus's left, Marcus had his hand in the air, which caused Severus to frown. He had forgotten what day it was.

"Yes, Mr. Adams?" Professor Binns said once he noticed Marcus's hand.

"Please, sir, may I be excused for Quidditch?" Marcus asked, and Severus watched as those within the class sat up. Professor Binns seemed to frown at the request, quickly peering at the clock before turning back to the eager Slytherin.

"Very well, Mr. Adams. But I expect three parchments' worth on the development of legislation in the Ministry next week," Professor Binns' words were muffled as the class took this as a chance to leave. Students had all begun to pack their bags before hurrying out. Today was the big game: Slytherin vs. their bitter rivals, Gryffindor.

Severus shook Thomas, and the boy jolted awake once again.

"Quidditch?" he muttered as he rubbed his eyes.

"Quidditch," Severus reaffirmed, glad to see that he was not the only one to forget.

"Tad early," Thomas muttered as he peered over at the large clock while getting to his feet. Severus soon joined him, tossing his bag over his shoulder and following the boys out.

"Don't really know the rush; it's only Gryffindorks," Severus muttered, and Thomas nodded before smirking.

"Though if we're early, we can shove Potter into a locker," Thomas added, and Severus chuckled.

During their third year, the boys had ensured Slytherin's victory by shoving James Potter into a locker. The Gryffindors were a man down, and they struggled with their backup chaser. Severus enjoyed the disappointment on the Gryffindors' faces and the sore looks given to Potter after the match.

Marcus left for the locker room while Severus and Thomas made their way down to the dungeons.

The entrance to Slytherin was nothing too special; it even blended into the surroundings and made it difficult for non-Slytherins to locate it. Thomas mumbled the password to the small snake carved in the wall; the snake's gemstone eye gleamed before the wall opened to reveal the tunnel into the common room.

Slytherin's common room had not changed since the first year. The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and a ceiling from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several Slytherins were silhouetted around it in carved chairs. Rosier sat along with a group of other Slytherins.

Quidditch seemed like the only thing that brought students together. The inner-house tension seemed small next to the will to defeat and utterly crush the other houses. Severus gave Rosier a nod, and the boy responded with a small nod of his own.

The weather outside was nice. The hint of the cold winter just around the corner was felt but eclipsed by the warm glow of the sun. Severus found himself among the Slytherin stand, where he sat beside a large boy named Doyle.

Quidditch had been the most popular sport in the wizarding world, with a young wizard wishing to be a Quidditch star at least once in their life. Marcus had entered the Slytherin team in his third year after fighting for a spot. He offered Severus a place, but Severus declined, stating he was not all that good on a broom.

Severus watched as the announcer called out the match. Slytherin flew in first, with Wilkes leading them. Behind him were Regulus, a keeper that Severus didn't know, Pace, and Marcus. After the Slytherins flew around a bit, they were showered in cheers from their supporters and boos from the Gryffindors. The roles were reversed as Gryffindor flew in.

"Well, would you look at that," Thomas muttered beside Severus as they watched the Gryffindor team fly in.

Severus was surprised to see Potter leading the team. The idiots had placed him as captain over Rothwell—a foolish move. The Gryffindors flew around the stadium before finally settling into their positions. Madam Hooch had been appointed as the moderator, and the match soon began with the release of the balls.

Severus spent the next thirty minutes watching people dart through the air, his eyes trying to keep up with the constant action on the pitch. The task was harder as the announcer screamed in one ear while the crowd roared in the other.

"ANOTHER GOAL SCORED BY ADAMS!"

A wave of cheers ran through Slytherin, and Severus let out a light cheer. The Gryffindor team responded soon after with a goal of their own. The back-and-forth went on; each minute caused the game to become tenser. The snitch was soon spotted, and the mad dash began as Regulus chased after it, followed closely by the Gryffindor Seeker.

"I... I DON'T BELIEVE IT!" the announcer shouted. "IT SEEMS THAT REGULUS BLACK HAS CAUGHT THE GOLDEN SNITCH!"

Slytherin responded by letting out a roar. A student declared a party within the common room, and the large collective seemed to agree as the crowd made their way off the stands. Severus had decided to congratulate Marcus and, along with Thomas, made his way towards the locker rooms. The vibe within the locker room was just as lively as the rest of Slytherin, with Regulus hoisted on the shoulders of two teammates.

"That took the wind out of the Gryffindorks sails," Marcus cheered as he strutted over to his friends and wrapped his arms around each one. "What do you lads say we celebrate with some butterbeer?"

"Aye, sounds like a plan, mate," Thomas said, grinning. "But you ought to think about showering first."

Lily Evans sat quietly among her group of friends, listening as they rattled on about the same subjects as always: boys and gossip. There were times Lily questioned if she belonged in Gryffindor. She wasn't particularly brave or anything; she was often smarter than most in her house, choosing to plan her actions out before carrying them out. It was no wonder the Sorting Hat muttered about Ravenclaw.

"What do you think, Lily?" Mary asked.

Lily snapped back to reality, only to stare blindly at the round face of her friend. She quickly composed herself, hiding her lack of interest in the subject at hand before requesting the question again. Mary rolled her pale blue eyes and let out a sigh.

"We were asking you if you found James hotter than Sirius."

Lily's brow furrowed, and she wished she had not been dragged into such a conversation. James Potter had been a thorn in Lily's side since third year, never leaving her alone and often requesting that she go on a date with him. Lily declined, like any sane individual would when faced with such a situation. That didn't work, and Potter only took that as a sign to try harder.

"Neither; both are horrid," Lily responded.

It seemed as though Lily was the only girl to share such views, as she was met with frowns from her friends. Who could blame her, though? They had been lucky not to deal with James every minute. It came as no surprise to Lily when she found herself enjoying Potter's humiliations throughout their school life, from when he was forced to puke up slugs in the fourth year to the time he was dunked into the Black Lake.

Lily's friends muttered something about her being weird and turned back to their conversation. Lily listened but soon found herself wandering off in thought. She was ripped from her thoughts when the entrance flew open and a crowd of Gryffindors rushed in with sour faces. Lily suddenly remembered that today was their first Quidditch game. Judging by the expressions on the faces of those who went, it did not end so well.

"Can this week get any worse?" Lily heard Sirius groan as he walked into the common room. "First our banner, then our parchment, and now the Quidditch match?"

Lily remembered the shock among Gryffindors at the sight of their missing banner. It was something of a talking point, with theories on who stole it popping up every day. But while most of the house worried about the missing banner, the Marauders had become frantic at the loss of a piece of parchment. Lily had asked them why it was so important, but Potter simply avoided the topic.

"We'll get them next time, Padfoot," James grunted as he took a seat beside his friends. His eyes quickly spotted Lily, and like usual, his hand ruffled his hair. "You alright, Evans?"

Lily frowned and muttered to her friends that she needed fresh air. She quickly got up and darted out of the common room, ignoring the cries of Potter as he attempted to get her attention. The walk outside was quiet, and she soon found herself in the school courtyard. She took a seat on the bench and proceeded to pull out her charms book.

"Fancy seeing you here," a voice called out. Lily turned to see Severus. He silently took a seat beside her, and Lily smiled.

"I was just trying to escape..."

"The madness of your house," Severus cut in. "I know. Too bad you guys lost."

Lily retorted that Gryffindor would bounce back, and Severus simply chuckled. The duo sat there exchanging words on a multitude of subjects, most relating to their upcoming O.W.L.S exams and how confident they were.

"I was always good at exams, even back in my Muggle school," Lily said, and Severus tilted his head in interest.

"Do you miss it?" he asked in a somber tone, and Lily frowned.

"Miss what?"

"The Muggle world, all that you've left behind," he muttered as he stared at her. Lily felt an odd sensation under his stare, as if she were comfortable being as honest as possible.

"I guess. I mean, most of my family are Muggles, and it can be annoying explaining everything," Lily muttered, peering down at her feet. "But this is where I belong, right? I can't really change it."

A silence fell, and Lily continued to feel Severus peer at her. She wondered if she sounded crazy. She hardly spoke to anyone about such things, but here she was with a boy she hardly knew. Severus didn't seem like the type to care or even listen. Hell, her own friends hardly did. But a part of her felt at ease with him, like he would not judge her for whatever she said.

"My dad's a muggle," he finally said, turning his gaze away from the girl and towards some birds skipping in the courtyard. He had a melancholy tone to his voice that caused Lily to feel sympathetic. She doubted he would want sympathy.

"Oh, I thought you were..."

"Pureblood?" he cut in. "Nope. To them, I'm simply tainted meat. My mum had me and ruined her chances with the purebloods."

Severus seemed to grow angry at the thought, clenching his hand into a fist as his eyes narrowed. "But who needs them?" he muttered, and Lily was sure he was measuring himself rather than talking to her.

"Do you know your dad?" Lily asked, and the boy simply shook his head.

"My mum hardly speaks about him, but I'm sure he's out there," Severus muttered. "I'll find him one day, just to see him."

Lily watched as the boy beside her seemed to fall into his thoughts, his dark eyes refusing to meet hers. She awkwardly placed her hand on his shoulder, and the boy turned. Several minutes of silence passed, and Severus finally let out a small chuckle. He apologized for getting soppy, and Lily simply told him that she didn't mind. Inside, she enjoyed the fact that someone was willing to have a meaningful talk with her and listen to her.

"You ain't half bad at listening, Red," Severus joked, and Lily raised a brow.

"Can't help it when you spill your personal issues on me," she quipped back, and Severus chuckled before getting to his feet.

"Best keep it to yourself, or else," he said, smiling, and Lily shrugged.

"You'll have to throw in an incentive."

Severus smirked and bent down towards her. Her face went red when he got close, and Severus simply let out a small chuckle before placing his hands into his pockets and walking off. She watched him leave, and despite his talk with her, Lily still couldn't get her head around Severus Prince.

Jane strolled around the messy common room. It was late into the night, and most people had passed out from excessive celebrating. Some had collapsed by a tower of empty firewhisky bottles, while others were asleep on the couches. She looked towards the entrance and noticed Wilkes slip out of the room. Curious about where he was heading at this time, Jane followed him out. The hallway was already empty. He couldn't have gotten far, she thought as she followed behind him. She kept a good distance, but the darkness made following the boy harder.

Jane followed Wilkes as he swiftly made his way past the library. He went up towards the isolated halls of the first floor, where he came to a stop beside a large cabinet. Jane hid around the corner. Peeking, she saw Wilkes pull out what seemed to be a mirror. She listened closely as she heard the light whispers of Wilkes's voice ring through the empty hall.

"It's me," Jane heard him say, and there was a response from the mirror. The voice was low and unrecognizable to Jane.

"Hogsmeade, in two months' time?" Jane heard. It seemed like Wilkes was surprised, but that feeling soon faded as he listened to the voice on the other side and responded that he understood.

"What about Prince?" Jane felt her heartbeat in her ears at the mention of Severus. When she first promised to keep an eye on Wilkes, she thought it was nothing. But it seemed that there were bigger forces at play. The voice in the mirror responded, and Wilkes hissed in anger.

"That's not possible. Why would our master be interested in the runt?"

The voice seemed to respond harshly. Wilkes immediately apologized in response, muttering something under his breath.

"I understand. I will gather the other Knights to discuss this," Jane heard him mutter before he pulled out a rusty old key from his pocket and placed it into the cabinet. Muttering a spell that Jane could not hear, he opened the cabinet to find it empty.

"It works,"Jane heard him mutter to the mirror.

Jane didn't take her chance, choosing to sneak off before Wilkes finished his secret meeting. The walk back was just as quiet. She slipped back into the common room, muttering that she had gone to the toilet when asked where she had been. Wilkes soon walked in. Jane watched as he walked over to those who were in the Knights and muttered something. The boys he talked to nodded in response, and Wilkes walked towards the boys' dorm.

Jane felt a sense of unease stir inside her. She silently watched those around her; the odd glance between the boys Wilkes spoke to made her frown. They were planning something. It seemed at first that Wilkes was in charge, but she had found out there was someone beyond that—someone lurking in the shadows, someone aiming for Severus.

Chapter Text

He was acting strangely—twitching in his seat, refusing to make eye contact, and often muttering under his breath. Severus watched him, his eyes scanning him, and his ears attempting to catch whatever he was muttering. Finally, he observed as Marcus slapped down two cards, his expression shifting into confidence within seconds. Severus had suspected this. He noticed the edge of Marcus's mouth twitching earlier and had already made plans for this exact moment. Wasting no time, Severus slapped down his set of cards. Marcus's face fell, and Severus found great pleasure in sweeping the small bag of Galleons out of the other boy's hands.

"Ah, crap," Marcus muttered as he placed his head in his hands. "I should've seen that coming."

Severus tallied another win in his long line of victories. The boys had been spending their downtime in the library, where they often played cards to pass the time after studying. Severus had been unbeatable; his ability to read people while concealing himself was an unmatched skill that often ensured he could handle any situation that either of his friends threw at him during their card matches.

"Better luck next time, Adams," Severus chuckled as he pocketed his reward. The other boy sneered at him before shuffling the cards in his hands. The boys had begun to turn back to their textbooks when Thomas joined them. Severus peered at the boy, noticing that his usually neat uniform was a mess. His tie was done loosely, and his shirt was missing a couple of buttons.

"Where were you then?" Severus muttered, and Thomas shone a cheesy grin as he fixed his hair. In the days following Slytherin's victory over the Gryffindors, the snakes found themselves in an unusually rowdy mood. Thomas had found himself stuck in an odd situation.

"Uh... with Vance," Thomas muttered, and Marcus leaned over to the boy next to him.

"The Ravenclaw?" Severus asked with raised brows.

"Yup."

"Did you do... it?" he asked, and Thomas went red. The act of sex was nothing new at Hogwarts. Severus had noticed that by the time students reached their age, they'd sought it out. Among Slytherins, subtlety was the name of the game. The boys often bragged among themselves while ensuring information didn't travel far, though there were exceptions. During late fourth year, Anthony Avery proclaimed he had deflowered an innocent Hufflepuff girl. The news spread, and it was soon found out that the boy had lied; a disgraced Avery still suffers to this day.

"No, it was only snogging," Thomas started, and Marcus frowned.

"Lucky git," Marcus muttered. "I'm on the Quidditch team, yet girls seem to flock to you."

"It's 'cause you have no charisma," Severus added as he pulled out his old potions book.

"I have charisma," Marcus argued. "I have more charisma than you."

"Sev definitely has more charisma than you," Thomas said, causing Severus to nod and Marcus to glare.

"Great mates you are," Marcus grunted, and the other boys chuckled.

In all honesty, Severus was hopeless when it came to women. He lacked any of the natural social skills needed to court any girl within the walls of Hogwarts. During the third year, he had been invited to the Slug Club. He spent most of the week attempting to find a girl to take as his plus one, but in the end, he was forced to drag Marcus along.

"Look alive, lads! Looks like we have visitors," Thomas suddenly said as he peered past Severus. Marcus seemed to lighten up, and Severus turned to see why. A group of girls came walking into the library, and Severus noticed that among them was Jane.

Jane had spoken to Severus the day after their win. She muttered something about Wilkes and a very odd cabinet. Since then, Severus had avoided contact with Wilkes but always kept tabs on him using the odd piece of parchment he had stolen. Severus caught Jane's eye, and both nodded; he noticed the flash of concern in her dark eyes as she turned away. While Severus mused about greater issues, Marcus had taken the chance to approach the group of girls, and in a matter of minutes, he was back in his seat.

"You didn't actually do that, did you?" Thomas asked, amused, but the other boy grunted as he slouched in his chair.

"I don't want to talk about, "

James was stressed. Not only had Gryffindor lost to the filthy snakes a few days ago, but the Marauders had been robbed. At first, the boys thought they simply missed their map; Peter was the last user, and he was a known airhead among the group. But as days went by and the search became more frantic, it was evident that the map had been stolen. To make matters worse, Gryffindor had been disgraced once again when they found their house banner hanging, decorated in front of the Great Hall. The old banner that had hung in their common room for generations was found vandalized.

James groaned at his lunch. Beside him, Sirius was speaking to Remus and Peter about who he thought stole their map. James only partially listened but kept his eyes on the contents of his plate, but that changed once he heard her voice. Despite how bad things could get, James found warmth in seeing Lily. His musings about the red-haired girl obviously caught the attention of his friend, and Sirius nudged his arm.

"No time for that, Romeo," Sirius muttered.

James muttered an apology before forcing his eyes off the girl down the table. The discussion among the Marauders was about outlining suspects, a hard task since the constant pranks over the years had caused many enemies, both from within and outside their house. Sirius was sure that it was no one from Gryffindor, but Remus muttered that it did not narrow the list down. Potions had been the lesson after lunch, and James suggested that they could discuss the matter on the way, his eyes drifting to Lily as she rose to leave.

The boys had made their way towards the dungeons slowly, with Sirius and Remus discussing the issue while Peter eagerly listened in. They had been walking through the halls of the castle when a spell flew at them, hitting Peter's laces and causing them to become entangled, making the small boy fall. James turned to the snickers of Marcus Adams; behind him, Thomas Reed hid his smile, and Prince kept his nose firmly in his book.

"Careful there, mate," Marcus said in a mocking tone.

Prince's group continued walking. James glared as he watched them walk off, his jaw tightening at the thought of Adam's smug face. Throughout their school life, the Marauders had made many foes, but Prince's group seemed to focus on them the most. As if a cat playing with its prey, the Slytherin group seemed to enjoy messing specifically with the Marauders.

"That's it," James muttered as his jaw widened.

"That's what?" Remus asked as he helped Peter undo the jinx and get back onto his feet.

"It's them," James said, frowning. "If anyone would want to fuck with us, it would be those freaks,"

"I second that," Sirius grunted. He had been pacing after the attack, his hand clutching his wand tightly and his eyes flashing dangerously. Remus, on the other hand, gave a skeptical look, and while he didn't doubt the Slytherins being prime suspects, he shook his head.

"We have no proof," he muttered as they headed towards Potions.

"I'll get us proof and then punch Prince's smug face in," James muttered as the boys made their way through the cold, dingy dungeons.

Entering the potions classroom, the marauders were met by Slughorn, who ushered the class to settle down. The boys took their seats, and James's eyes fell upon her. She was sitting next to that filthy snake, and James clenched his fists when he saw her chuckle at something he had muttered.

Lily laughed at Severus's snarky comment about the topic of today's lesson. They were brewing a potion that aimed to suppress one's appetite. Severus muttered that Slughorn ought to take some to curb his desire for cakes. It was jovial, but it got her going, and once she started laughing, she couldn't stop.

"Oh, dear. Ms. Evans, are you alright?" Slughorn asked as he waddled towards their desk. The sight of the professor seemed to strengthen her laughing fits, and she began to go red.

"Forgive her, Professor," Severus said. "I told her a joke."

Slughorn nodded and went back to explaining the potion. In any other case, there might have been cause for him to deduct points, but the professor had a soft spot for his two best students.

"You alright?" Severus asked as she finally calmed down.

Whipping a tear from her eye, she nodded, and the duo set to work. They had gotten used to working alongside each other, and there was a pattern to their potion lesson. Lily would get the ingredients while Severus set up the equipment. They then began sorting through the process and while Lily peered down at her book, Severus seemed to dance to his own tune. Ignoring the text book, Severus began quickly crushing some black beans with the handle of his knife.

"Uh... what are you doing?" Lily muttered as she watched him then place the crushed beans into the simmering cauldron.

"The textbook suggests we place them in whole, but if you break them down, you can cut the brewing time by half while not impacting the quality."

Lily nodded. It made perfect sense, and she wondered why no one had come up with it before. She began stirring the cauldron while Severus turned to scribble notes in a tattered old notebook. As he had said, their potion was done much quicker than she expected, and Slughorn showered both of them with praise before awarding them twenty points each.

The remainder of the time in class was spent waiting for their classmates to finish. Lily spoke to Severus about her schedule and how she was looking forward to the Care of Magical Creatures class later.

"I've opted not to take that," Severus mentioned as he looked up from his notebook.

"Aw, how come?"

"Not too keen on getting kicked by a Hippogriff," Severus said, shrugging. "Besides, I'm taking Muggle Studies instead."

"Muggle Studies? You?" Lily's lips twitched up at the thought of Severus in the class.

"Yes. Me."

"You're probably the only Slytherin who's opted to take the lesson."

"Nah, there's a handful of us taking it," Severus mentioned. "Heard Slughorn was keen to get us involved, no doubt at the behest of Dumbledore."

Lily supposed that it made sense since Slytherin's dislike for all things non-magical was a fact. There were times Lily wondered why the headmaster tolerated the house. Would it not be simpler to abolish a house based on blood purity? Then again, she supposed doing so would cause a whole slew of new problems. So what could be done?

"Speaking of which," Severus snapped Lily out of her own head by nudging her. "I was wondering..."

"Yes?"

"Well...if...I mean if it's okay with you." Severus peered down. "Could you assist me with any assignments for Muggle Studies?"

"Of course," Lily beamed. "As long as you help me by showing me more neat potion techniques."

"Deal."

Rosier sat nervously at the back of potions class. His eyes darted through the room, and his palms felt sweaty. Beside him sat Avery, who was equally on edge as Rosier. Wilkes had summoned them on the night of Slytherin's victory, stating that it was an urgent Knights issue and that he expected them to appear.

Contrary to many beliefs about Rosier and Avery's darkness, the duo were novices within the ranks of the Knights and had only been inducted at the end of their fourth year. The Knights had been a very prestigious collective of pure-blood heirs, founded during their lord's time within the castle.

The Knights had always been led by an elected leader, an heir who was chosen by the previous leader to continue the work of their lord within the walls of Hogwarts. Lucius Malfoy had passed the role onto Wilkes during their second year, stating that the boy showed the most promise within Slytherin and that he would keep in contact. And keep in contact he did.

The moment the boys entered the dark classroom on the night of Slytherin's victory, they were informed of Wilkes' contact with Lucius and their lord. Wilkes maintained a blank expression as he relayed the orders given to him, though his unease was evident in his eyes. Rosier glanced over at Prince and observed the boy working alongside the Mudblood, with Wilkes' voice echoing in the back of his mind.

"Lucius said that our Lord wants us to sway the bastard."

Severus Prince had nothing to his name. While he was a talented wizard with stunning grades and a cunning mind that would make Slytherin proud, there was no getting over the fact that he was tainted—the disgusting product of a pureblood heiress not knowing her role. Rosier had known the boy for years, and while growing a mild sense of respect for his skills, he could not see the appeal that his Lord could.

Rosier kept his eyes on Severus throughout the potion lesson, watching as Slughorn wrapped the lesson up and congratulated Prince and the mudblood on their potion once again. The fat wizard seemed to take a strong liking towards the bastard. In fact, it seemed most of the authority within Hogwarts were fairly friendly with the Slytherin. He was a model student, after all.

Post-lesson, Rosier and Avery made their way down towards their common room. Entering the fairly quiet halls of the dungeon, the duo was met with a cluster of Slytherin students loitering.

The faces were all too familiar to Rosier; the group was the younger filth that had ended up within the house of Slytherin. It seemed that as the years passed, more and more filth seeped into the house, and much like filth, they seemed to gather together to cause a greater issue.

Slytherin was, by all means, a divided house since Rosier's first year. With more mudbloods and half-bloods came the dwindling of pureblood power within the house. Rosier peered over at the loiterers and noticed a second-year with dirty blond hair muttering something about a Muggle sport, and Rosier felt his skin crawl as the mudblood laughed among his group.

Entering the common room provided some refuge; the filth had yet to dominate the space, and Rosier felt a sense of ease when he relaxed among his kind. Wilkes had been reading a book on dark arts when the boys entered and placed the book down when Rosier disturbed him.

"Rosier," Wilkes said coldly, "please refrain from making noise. This is a common room and not a zoo."

"From the looks of it, it will be soon," Rosier muttered, and Wilkes frowned but chose not to inquire further, instead tilting his head and narrowing his eyes at the boy.

"Tell me, Rosier, have you seen Prince?" Wilkes asked, and Rosier shrugged.

"We saw him in the lesson, but we didn't follow him or anything," Rosier said. "Thought it would be better if he came to us. I mean, he has to come down sooner or later."

Wilkes did not seem all that reassured by the comment. The boy leaned back in his chair as he ran his hands through his slick black hair. Rosier watched as Wilkes seemed to compose himself before turning back to him.

"Listen, Rosier, I want you to keep an eye on Prince," Wilkes said. "Analyze his every move and report any vital piece of information back to me."

"You want me to collect information on him to aid in the task," Rosier pointed out, and Wilkes gave a small nod.

"Information is key. We know some key things about him, but if we had a little more, we could use it as a weapon," Wilkes added.

"Blackmail?" Avery finally chimed in, his eyes peering at Wilkes with an uneasy gaze.

"No, that would not work on the likes of Prince," Wilkes said. "More like an incentive; make him believe that what he is doing is for his benefit."

Rosier sat back in his chair and fell silent. His eyes peered over the flames within the Slytherin fireplace, watching as the flames danced while his mind processed Wilkes' words.

The boy certainly had a key point. It would be easy to sway an individual onto a system if they thought it was beneficial to themselves and those they held dear.

Rosier had no doubt that Prince was a sentimental fool; he saw how he looked at the filthy half-blood and mudblood he called friends, as well as how hostile he would get toward those who insulted his mother.

Rosier rubbed his nose, remembering a moment in third year when the bastard had broken his nose after Rosier called his mother a "Muggle fucking whore." Rosier muttered that he would carry out the task for Wilkes as he frowned. Avery seemed to shift beside him before finally muttering that he would aid him.

Cokeworth was as grim as she remembered. The dark clouds swirled around the small industrial town, and the sky matched the grim house that sat upon the dingy streets. However, time had changed key aspects of the town.

The town center, which was home to many local businesses, was now filled with the common Muggle stores Eileen would see in London. There also seemed to be a shift in the people living within the small town, with more individuals being left out of work due to the state of business, and thus Eileen had noted twice as many homeless people since the last time she was here. Eileen peered out of the coffee shop window and watched the people of Cokeworth trudging through the streets. She found some amusement in how similar they were to the miserable people in Knockturn Alley. Maybe she was just drawn to dingy places.

"A refill, madam?" a voice called out, and Eileen turned to see a lanky boy with shaggy, messy brown hair smile down at her.

The boy wore a green apron over a white shirt; his jeans were black, and his shoes were scruffy trainers. Hanging off his apron was a small name tag that read "Simeon."

"Sure. Thank you," Eileen muttered, and the boy refilled her cup of coffee before smiling and walking off. Eileen watched him walk away before peering out the window once again. She wondered why she had come to this town. She had not been sure what made her come to the town, and at first, she chalked it up to wanting to find something she had lost. She sipped her coffee as she thought back to her youth.

By all standards, Eileen had a good childhood.

Her mother had been clingy to her precious daughter, while her father was more distant but would not shy away from displaying his love. Eileen was spoiled rotten growing up within the walls of Prince Manor, with whatever she wanted at her feet within seconds. Eileen was sure that if she met her younger self, she would despise the bratty child, but she could not blame her.

Eileen Ulpia Prince was an only child from a very old Italian pureblood family, a family that, despite having immigrated to the British Isles with the Romans, had chosen to uphold their ancient blood. The house refused to be placed alongside the 28, often stating that their line was far beyond that of either the Blacks or the Malfoys. Eileen had been born into a proud house and thus became much like her parents.

Hogwarts didn't change that. Slytherin was simply another playground for a young Eileen. She had most people wrapped around her finger with her charm and wit.

Though it seemed Eileen had everything within her reach, the girl soon found herself growing bored, and thus the seeds of rebellion were sown within the walls of Hogwarts.

Eileen had been set to marry a member of the Black family in a matrilineal marriage, all for the sake of ensuring the continued existence of House Prince.

Eileen took a sip as she remembered the day she ran away from home, having had a severe argument with her father about the issue and declaring that she would not commit to his plans. Eileen peered up as the dark clouds began to break, a small ray seeming to shine down upon the small town, and Eileen mused on the summer that she spent in Cokeworth.

Eileen had snatched enough money from her parents to live and soon found herself in Cokeworth.

Ironically, she sat in the same coffee shop at this very moment. She spent the summer living in a Muggle hotel, her days spent wandering the streets while her nights were spent observing the small town light up. It had been on one of those many summer nights that she met him.

Severus shared much with his father: his height, facial structure, and most notably, his nose. But Eileen could only remember a blurry image of the man in her mind, and the harder she tried to remember him or his name, the harder it became. She sighed as she peered down into her cup of coffee. Maybe she was here to find a sense of closure, to at least know the man who fathered her child. So when the time came, she could tell her little boy something—anything—about his father.

Eileen finished off her drink and walked over to the counter, where she handed some money to an old lady. The lady thanked her before turning and calling out.

"Snape!"

Eileen watched as the boy who refilled her cup came running in. She peered at him; he seemed young, no older than her Severus. She watched the boy with keen interest for a minute before turning on her heels and walking out of the small coffee shop. She looked up into the sky once more and watched as more clouds began to part. Eileen smiled before quickly making her way toward an alleyway, where she disapparated with a small crack.

Chapter Text

Weeks fell by like the leaves off trees, and soon the castle was buzzing about Halloween. Severus's routine hadn't changed all too much; he was still hanging around his friends during free time, though he would spend Friday afternoons in the library with Lily Evans. Their study sessions had been going well, and he found the girl to be a fountain of knowledge when it came to key aspects of Muggle history.

"So the Reichstag fire was an inside operation," Severus muttered as he peered down at a Muggle history book.

"Yes, the culprits pinned it all on another group and used their power to install their own ruthless dictator," Lily explained.

"But I don't understand," Severus's face screwed up as he continued to peer down at the text. "The president disliked the chancellor, yet he signed away all power to him."

"Fear," Lily muttered. "It is, unfortunately, a great motivation. The chancellor played into everyone's fear and gained all the power."

"And when he gained power, there was no one there to stop him."

Lily nodded. "My dad told me that all it takes for evil to triumph in the world is for good men to do nothing."

Severus felt unnerved. He had always thought that the Muggle world was more tame than their own; after all, they did not need to deal with the volatile elements of magic and all that came with it. However, since learning about this World War, he wasn't too sure. They were insane enough to have two devastating wars, and Lily had recounted stories she had heard from her grandparents and other family members about that time.

Severus decided it was best to call it a night and shut his textbook. Letting out a sigh and rubbing his eyes, he wasn't sure if he would be able to pass this class.

"So, want to compare potion notes?" Severus said, watching as Lily smiled back at him.

"I thought you'd never ask."

The duo spent the next hour going over key potions and suggestions for new dynamic methods of producing them. Severus pointed out techniques he had picked up from experimenting, all the while making snarky remarks about how outdated the school textbooks were. As they finished their session, Lily brought up the upcoming Slug Club Halloween party, and Severus let out a groan.

The Slug Club was an out-of-hours dining and social club made up of Professor Slughorn's most well-liked and sometimes famous students at Hogwarts. His own skill at potions had landed him a spot during his third year, and he would never forget how he had stuffed himself with sweet treats that night, after which he was sick on Professor Slughorn's shoes soon after. The tale amused Marcus and Thomas to no end, but it caused Severus to dread every Slug Club get-together.

"God. Why'd you remind me?"

"What? Severus Prince is not a party guy?" Lily mockingly said.

"Oh, I'm glad you find amusement in this," Severus muttered.

"Come on, it can't be that bad," Lily said. She had joined the club last year and seemed to fit in well.

"It's just so... tedious," Severus rolled his eyes. "Listening to this idiot boast about this or that idiot boast about that."

"And you don't boast?"

"Ah, you see, that's the thing," Severus smirked. "I'm not an idiot, though."

Lily chuckled and shook her head. They would pack up their stuff and make their way out of the library. Severus offered to walk Lily back, but she declined. Severus acted offended, which only garnered a light-hearted laugh. He bid Lily goodnight before turning on his heels and marching toward the dungeons.

He didn't get far. Severus came to a quick stop when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He peered around the empty, dark hallway; he couldn't shake the unnerving feeling that he was being watched. His hand reached into his pocket and grasped his wand as he began to speed-walk back to the dungeons.

As he was heading down a flight of stairs, he was suddenly hit with a stunning spell out of nowhere. He felt his muscles tense, and then he fell. Mercifully, he had been closer to the bottom of the stairs, and his fall was short-lived. Cursing, he attempted to move any part of his body but failed.

"Good shot, Prongs," came a voice.

Severus couldn't see anyone; it was too dark, and he could only move his eyes. He knew that voice, though; it was Black, and that meant Potter wasn't far. But where were they?

Severus was ripped from his thoughts when he was suddenly launched into the air. He hung upside down and peered into the darkness.

"Where is it, Price?" he heard the voice of Potter hiss. Severus frowned.

"What the fuck do you want, Potter?"

There was shuffling, and suddenly Potter, Black, and their weasel sidekick Pettigrew appeared. Severus frowned; it had been no spell that hid their presence from him. How had these three idiots appeared out of thin air?

"You know what I want, you snake," Potter closed the gap and was now peering at the floating boy. His jaw was clenched, and his brown eyes narrowed into deadly slits.

"Frankly, I have no fucking clue what you're talking about," Severus retorted. "I have to say, three against one— is this the legendary Gryffindor bravery I've heard about?"

"Shut up, Prince," Black barked, and Severus smirked in return.

"Or what, Black?" Severus hissed.

Smack.

It was the shock that Severus registered first, followed by a sharp pain that started in his left cheek and soon spread. The second punch landed squarely on his right jaw and caused his head to snap back before swaying. Potter's fist didn't give him time to rest, landing a third and then a fourth. Severus tasted blood in his mouth and watched his vision blur as tears welled up in his eyes.

"Where the fuck is my map?" Potter hissed. "I know you have it, you thief."

"Fuck off, Potter," Severus was damned if he was giving this smug bastard anything. He pooled the blood that was in his mouth and launched it at Potter's face.

Splat.

The spit hit Potter's face, covering his cheek and staining his glasses. Severus took some pleasure in seeing the pompous prick scramble back. His joy was short-lived; however, as Black flicked his wand and sent him flying.

"You filthy bastard," Black sneered as he marched over to where Severus lay.

"Who goes there?" A sudden voice came down from the far end of the hallway, and Severus watched Black's eyes widen.

The boy peered down at Severus before looking at his friends. Planting a swift kick into Severus's side, he rushed back and hissed to Potter that it was time for them to leave. Potter sneered at where Severus lay before turning and running off with the other two boys.

"Prince?"

Severus slowly turned, and his eyes met Jane's. Alongside her was a Ravenclaw prefect, Clifton or something. Severus did his best to rise to his feet, but a sharp rise of pain in his side caused him to slump into a sitting position. He peered up at his fellow Slytherin prefects as a look of concern formed on her face.

"What the hell happened to you?" Jane's eyes didn't once leave Severus.

"Nothing," Severus muttered. The last thing Severus needed was for everyone to find out about his incident with Potter's gang.

"I see," Jane didn't look all too convinced, but she knew when to drop a topic. "Let's get you to the hospital wing then, and get you sorted out."

"I'll help you up," the Ravenclaw went to reach for Severus's arm, only to be swatted away.

"I don't need your help," Severus hissed as he slowly rose, wincing and clutching his side.

"Right... well, we should get going," the Ravenclaw said before marching off.

There was a moment of silence where Jane's eyes stayed glued on Severus before she too disappeared into the darkness. Severus followed the duo as they led him to the hospital wing.

Despite all the best efforts of Severus, the news of his attack spread through the school like wildfire. After a discussion with Slughorn, in which he reaffirmed that he didn't see his attackers, it was agreed that the matter would be dropped. Severus was to remain in the hospital wing, where he would be treated and was given a pass for missing lessons until he was fully recovered. His friends had come to visit soon after word first spread, and despite his best efforts, they were able to squeeze the truth of the matter out of him.

"Man, this wouldn't have happened if we were there," Marcus said as he slouched in a chair beside Severus's bed.

"Well, you weren't, so there's nothing you can do about it," Severus said in a flat tone.

Severus hadn't really been in the best mood since the attack. He was angry at the fact that word got out. He was angry at how little of a fight he put up, but mostly he was angry that he was even in this situation. He had been careless, and next time he might not be lucky enough to have Jane come to his rescue.

"So you mentioned that they appeared out of nowhere," Thomas said as he stood on the other side of Severus's bed.

"Yeah, there was no incantation," Severus said. "I doubt they were using a spell."

"Maybe they figured out our wordless spellcraft," Marcus added, but Severus shook his head.

"This is Potter's gang we're talking about here. The smartest among them is Lupin, and I doubt he's figured that out."

"Maybe another thing, like an item, like how they made the map," Thomas suggested. "If they enchanted some object to conceal them, then they can easily sneak around."

"They weren't concealed; they were invisible," Severus pointed out, and then it clicked. "Fuck."

"What?" Marcus leaned forward.

"The bastard has an invincibility cloak," Severus said, annoyed he didn't figure it out sooner.

"You sure?" Thomas asked, seeming not all too convinced. "They're fairly rare objects."

"But if anyone could have one, it'd be Black or Potter," Marcus jumped in. Pettigrew was disqualified from the conversation; his family was nowhere near as old as his friends'.

"We've taken one of their precious items they use to sneak around," Thomas pointed out. "No doubt it was vital in dodging Filch and the prefects."

Severus fell silent. They wouldn't stop until they got that map back, and they all knew it. Peering at the other two boys, there was a silent agreement to be on the lookout; they were not to walk the halls alone. The good thing was that with the map, they could see Potter and his gang of hooligans coming a mile away. Perhaps they could repay the Gryffindors in their own bloody coin. The idea made Severus smile.

"You alright, Pace?" Marcus called out, and Severus's eyes shot up to see the girl marching towards his bed.

"Not too bad," she muttered as she stood at the foot of Severus's bed. "How are you, Prince?"

"Ribs are healing, and my face wasn't too bad," Severus muttered, and Marcus snickered.

"Honestly, I didn't notice your face was injured," he chuckled, and Thomas joined in.

"Get fucked," Severus retorted, but a smile graced his lips.

Even Jane seemed amused, a smile of her own now slowly spreading as she shook her head. She turned to dig through her school bag before pulling out several scrolls and thrusting them into Severus's face.

"These are for you," she quickly said, and Severus frowned as he peered at the pieces of parchment.

"You made notes for me?"

"Well, I know you're technically exempt from classes until you're better, but I thought you'd ought to have some idea of what you missed," Jane said as she shrugged her shoulders.

"I appreciate this, Pace," Severus muttered as he peered at the girl, and she seemed to shrink under his gaze.

"You utter buzzkill," Marcus grunted as he shook his head. "The man is out of commission, and you come not with chocolate, but with homework?"

"Excuse me for caring about my... housemate's education, Adams," Jane hissed. "Why would I bring chocolates anyway? You'll probably end up stuffing yourself with them."

"True, true," came Thomas's voice, and Marcus frowned over at him. Thomas simply threw up his hands and Severus smiled as he began reading through the study notes.

Despite his current situation and his own annoyance at how he had gotten here, Severus found some respite in the group of friends who surrounded him.

Lily was not smiling. Her friends had been chuckling about how Marlene had caught two fourth-year Hufflepuffs in the broom cupboard after Quidditch practice. The girl had been doing a mocking recreation of the fourth years and their time making out while Mary chuckled at the display. Lily, however, was peering down the common room where Potter's gang was sitting in a corner.

The news of what had happened to Severus had spread, and there was a buzz among the Gryffindors. Severus Prince was never a popular guy among the house of lions; his rivalry with Potter meant that most Gryffindors were obligated to dislike him out of house loyalty.

"Lils, you alright?" Marlene's voice cut through her thoughts, and Lily peered back at her friend.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine."

"Really? 'Cause you were staring daggers at Potter just now," Mary added, and Lily frowned.

"I...I was just thinking," Lily's voice wavered, but she cleared her throat. "Odd, isn't it, that they got back so late last night?"

"What are you saying?" Marlene frowned, and Lily shuffled in her seat.

"Just odd that Severus gets attacked and they came back late on the same night it happened."

"So? I don't get why you care about that snake," Mary said rolling her eyes.

"Well, because he's..."

Lily hesitated. What was Severus to her exactly? A study partner? Lily had other study partners, and she was sure whatever was between them was more. Perhaps friends, but they had not once called each other friends. She didn't know if he would call her a friend; she certainly hoped so.

"Besides, you don't have any proof," Marlene mentioned. "Prince could've easily been in a fight with one of his housemates, like in the past."

Marlene was right. Severus had a tendency to get into altercations with some of the more dark pure-blood Slytherins. Lily supposed Mulciber, Avery, or even Wilkes could've attacked Severus.

It was at that moment she heard the roaring laughter of Sirius Black, and her eyes snapped back to the group of boys. James joined in with Sirius and threw his head back to laugh while Peter tittered alongside the larger boys. The only one not laughing was Remus. He had the resigned look on his face—the one he wore every time his friends did something that he didn't approve of.

Lily had a gut feeling, but like Marlene said, she had no turned back to the potions book left open on her lap. She had agreed to help Marlene and Mary with their potions assignments, but she made a mental note to visit Severus as soon as she had the chance.

Madam Pomfrey sought to make sure Severus was fully fit to leave. So they spent the early morning of Sunday running some tests, much to Severus's annoyance. His friends had come to visit once again, and he would spend some time listening to Marcus talk about the upcoming game against Ravenclaw while Thomas read a book titled 'Wizards Most Foul'.

Madam Pomfrey would declare that he was fit to leave, though she would give Severus a lengthy statement on how to look after himself better. Severus thanked the kindly matron for all she had done for him and began to leave alongside his friends.

They had decided to head towards the main hall for breakfast before returning to the common room. Sundays had always been a quiet day in the castle. Most students chose to sleep in and come down in the early afternoon. That made the hallways oddly quiet, and Severus found himself enjoying this brief period of peace.

The trio would join a handful of students who had been having breakfast that morning.A variety of foods were laid out on the long table, ranging from eggs, sausage, toast, and porridge. Severus felt his stomach growl as he began loading up his plate; Marcus was still rattling on about his upcoming match and how he was going to do.

"Check this out," Thomas cut in as he continued to peer down at his book while eating. "Herpo pioneered two of the darkest magical techniques known to wizardkind, being the first known wizard to successfully breed the Basilisk and successfully create a Horcrux."

"Wow... That's so...intresting," Marcus added, clearly not interested. "Anyway, Pace thinks we have a solid chance if we get a few more days of practice."

Breakfast proceeded as usual, and Severus traded the typical level of banter with his friends. His eyes scanned the hall; Slytherin had a small group of students scattered across the table. At the far end, his gaze landed on Wilkes. The older boy was talking to Rosier and seemed to notice that he was being watched. Severus frowned as Wilkes peered over at him and produced a small smile. Rosier, noting where his superior was staring, gave Severus a nod.

Severus peeled his eyes away from the boys, but that seemed to encourage them. Severus noticed the two head down the table before coming to a stop at where Severus sat.

"I was saddened to hear what happened to you, Prince," Wilkes's smooth voice came. "Nasty work; no doubt it was those fools in Gryffindor."

"I would appreciate it if you stayed out of my business, Wilkes," Severus muttered before taking a sip of water. The older boy's jaw clenched, but he maintained a smirk.

"Oh, but this is my business as well," Wilkes said. "You see, a Slytherin being attacked in our own territory by Gryffindors doesn't look good."

Severus couldn't argue with that.

"That's why I suggest we put all this animosity behind us," Wilkes added. "We need a united front, and that means looking out for all snakes."

To everyone's surprise, the older boy reached out a hand towards Severus, the same smirk plastered across his lips. Severus raised his brows. Wilkes was not known for displays of kindness; the boy had all but hated Severus since day one, and now here he stood, wanting to put it all behind them? Severus's lips curled, and his eyes narrowed into deadly slits.

"You want to be friends? Is that it?" Severus sneered. "How about you get lost, Wilkes? I don't need or want your help."

"Listen, Prince—"

"You heard him, Wilkes." Thomas slammed shut his book and pulled out his wand from his robe.

"Yeah, kick rocks and take your pet with you." Marcus peered over at the brooding Rosier.

Wilkes appeared to want to continue but snapped his mouth shut and clenched his jaw. The older boy then sped past the trio and out of the Great Hall, his younger minion following after and shooting Marcus a deadly glare.

Severus watched them leave before finishing his breakfast. The lads were making their way, all the while discussing the odd proposal from Wilkes, when a flash of red and gold came barreling at them. Four sets of cries erupted, and Severus felt anger rise as he slowly got to his feet.

"Watch where you're going, you damn fo—" Severus stopped as he peered down at Lily Evans, of all people.

"Aw, shit, I'm so sorry," she muttered as she rubbed her head before looking up. "Oh! Severus, hello."

"Uh, hello," Severus replied as he stared at her before offering a hand. She took it, and he dragged her up.

"Yeah, hello, Evans," Marcus hissed as he rose. "What's got you in a bloody rush?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Lilly sheepishly said. "It's just that I came from the hospital wing looking for Severus, and Madam Pomfrey said you were let go. So I assumed you went to have an early breakfast."

"Aw, that's sweet," Thomas said in a mocking tone as he began to walk off, dragging Marcus along with him. "We'll give you two some space."

The space in question wasn't that far; the two boys could clearly keep their ears on whatever was being said between Severus and Lily. Severus let out a sigh as he shook his head.

"So, are you alright?" Lily's voice was soft, and her eyes were fixated on him, as if looking for injuries. Perhaps she could one day run the hospital wing when Madam Pomfrey was gone, the thought occurred to Severus.

"I am. Thank you for asking," Severus stated. "Try as they might, they cannot keep Severus Prince down."

Lily smiled at that, and a moment passed where they both peered at each other. Severus had never noticed how green Evans's eyes were. They shone when the light hit them at the right angle, and he found himself becoming entranced. He would quickly peer away, and a rush of shame came over him.

"Uh, so I suppose I'll be seeing you on our next patrol," Severus said.

"Yeah, I suppose so," Lily replied, the same gentle smile upon her lips though she looked away. "I'm glad you're okay, Severus."

The red-haired girl swiftly made her way past Severus and into the Great Hall. Severus spent some time watching her, and he didn't know what to make of her. She was one of the few in this blasted castle that he seemed to like. A small smile crept across his face: a snake and a lion, friends?

Chapter Text

The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was different, just like last year and the year before that. Severus heard rumors that the position had long been cursed, but he paid them no mind. This year's professor was a pasty-skinned man with assessing brown eyes, small lips, a square face, and thin eyebrows. He had wavy, medium black hair that was peppered with grey.

"Now, class, I want you to turn to page 456," Professor Cyrus said. "Today, we shall be discussing something that some may find most distressing. Know that if you need to, you may step out of class."

There was a wave of muttering as the students flipped through their large leather-bound textbooks. Reaching page 456, Severus's brows shot up, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

The Unforgivable Curses.

"Quiet," commanded the professor, and the muttering faded into whispers and then into silence. "Most of you are aware that such a subject isn't commonly found in textbooks. However, Madam Pince was so kind as to lend us some from the restricted section, and I expected each one back."

Severus heard Thomas sigh; peering to his left, he watched him deflate, clearly disappointed.

"Now, can anyone tell me one of the Unforgivable Curses?" Professor Cyrus said as his eyes drifted through the class.

Most students avoided the professor's gaze and chose to keep their eyes firmly fixed on the textbooks. Severus was in no doubt that a good majority of his own housemates were well aware of the Unforgivables, but they knew better than to display the extent of their knowledge. Severus also remained quiet.

"How about it, Mr. Black?" The professor's eyes shot towards where Sirius Black was sitting. The boy seemed to shrink a little as eveyone stared at him.

"The... the Cruciatus Curse," the boy answered in a soft tone, and Professor Cyrus nodded.

"Yes, also known as the torture curse," the professor said, nodding at the Gryffindor boy. "Five points to Gryffindor."

"When applied, the curse inflicts intense, excruciating physical pain on the victim," the professor continued. "With the ultimate outcome of prolonged exposure being insanity."

The class remained silent apart from the soft scratching of quills on parchment, which indicated that notes were being taken. Severus didn't bother with taking notes; this was common knowledge.

"Mr. Adams, can you name another?" The professor's eyes drifted towards Marcus.

"The Imperius Curse, sir," Marcus exclaimed, and Professor Cyrus nodded.

"When used, the spell will place the victim completely under the caster's control, making the victim unquestionably obedient to the caster," Professor Cyrus explained.

"Sir?" Thomas's hand shot up and hung there, demanding the professor's attention.

"Yes, Mr. Reed?"

"Forgive me, but I've read that there can be cases where the cure cannot bind someone to the will of the caster," Thomas pointed out. There was a defining silence that followed as all eyes were drawn to the boy sitting to Severus's left.

"Fucking freak," Potter muttered, and Severus glared over at the bespectacled boy.

"Ah, I believe you are referring to the art of mind magic," Professor Cyrus's lip curled upwards. "You are correct that there are cases where one's mind can resist the curse. However, that can only occur if the individual is especially gifted in that art."

Occlumency. Severus had read a book on the subject: a counter to Legilimency, a method of defending against the invasion of one's mind by another. Severus had made a mental note to delve further into the topic.

"And the last is the killing curse," the professor turned his attention back to the class. "The spell speaks for itself, designed to kill anything it comes into contact with. None may withstand it."

A round of note-taking and mutters followed as students peered at the dusty textbooks and turned to discuss the topic with their friends. Professor Cyrus silently watched before raising his hand to silence the class.

"I teach you these spells because it is vital for you to understand the true darkness in magic," the professor said smoothly. "The evil and devastation of magic."

Severus frowned. "But, sir... magic has no morality."

All heads immediately turned towards Severus.

"Care to elaborate, Mr. Prince?" The professor's eyes were fixed on him, and Severus felt unnerved.

"What I mean is that these spells... these Unforgivables did not simply come into existence," Severus muttered. "Magic cannot be light or dark. It's magic, but those that wield it can."

A person does not grow up in one of the most prolific sources of dark magic knowledge and not have a complex relationship with the topic. When children were scared by their parents about the dark arts, Severus had been nose-deep in tomes about the subject. Some would call it an obsession, but Severus liked to think of it as a healthy curiosity in a matter not fully explored.

"Of course you'd say that," Black sneered, and Severus's eyes narrowed.

"What was that, Black?"

"You heard me, you greasy fuc—" Black didn't finish his sentence since Severus took the opportunity to blast a hex at him that caused his tongue to swell up.

"MR. PRINCE! MR. BLACK! ENOUGH!" Professor Cyrus roared. "I will not have foolish wand-waving in my class. Mr. Prince, you will see me after class."

Professor Cyrus's eyes were glued to Severus until he was sure the boy would not continue to disrupt his class. Severus felt his face grow hot as he peered over to see Potter's gang of hooligans having a chuckle. Severus flexed his wand hand, and the urge to fire three more hexes was only tempered by the reminder that Professor Cyrus silently watched him. It had been three days since the incident in the corridors, and he had yet to find a way to pay them back.

The lesson seemed to drag on, but finally, it came to an end. Professor Cyrus commanded that all students place their textbooks on his desk as they made their way out. Severus hadn't bothered to get up from his seat.

"We'll see you out there," Marcus said as he and Thomas marched to the front of the class to hand in their books before leaving.

Soon, there was no one but Severus and the professor. A lengthy silence lasted for what felt like forever, all the while Professor Cyrus counted the dusty old books piled up on his desk. Once confident that he had the right amount, his eyes darted toward Severus. Severus flexed his wand hand, and the urge to fire three more hexes was only tempered by the reminder that Professor Cyrus silently watched him. It had been three days since the incident in the corridors, and he had yet to find a way to pay them back.

"Mr. Prince, if only you were as silent as you are now while I was teaching you," Professor Cyrus said, his lip curled into a thin-lipped smile.

"Sir, I apologize for my outburst, but Black—" Professor Cyrus silenced him by raising his hand.

"I am well aware of your long rivalry with Mr. Black and Mr. Potter," the professor pointed out. "However, that doesn't excuse your brash reaction. You are a bright lad, Mr. Prince, but it seems you lack any control over your emotions."

Severus clenched his jaw. He was hard-pressed to deny the professor's statement. He had always been rash, quick to anger, and had gotten himself into fights. He had tried to curb those urges, but it was easier said than done.

"You have the makings of a great wizard, Mr. Prince," Professor Cyrus said. "I have been taken aback by how complex your essays have been since I got here. A fifth-year student working at a near seventh-year student level."

Severus felt a bit shocked. He was sure that when the professor had asked him to stay behind, it would mean that he was to be yelled at. He never considered that he would receive a compliment on his work.

"Thank you, sir," Severus muttered.

"Of course, that begs the question: what's there to teach you?" Professor Cyrus said. "That's why I believe it's best that I give you a special assignment."

"A special assignment?"

Severus frowned as the professor made his way toward his desk, where he would begin digging through his briefcase. Pieces of parchment toppled out as the professor continued to dig further into the bag. Finally, he pulled out a small leather-bound textbook that read "The Light Arts: Collection of Defenses against the Dark."

"Are you familiar with the book?" the professor asked as he made his way over to where Severus was sitting.

"I read some of it back in second year," Severus admitted. The text was fairly simple, and Severus didn't bother finishing the book.

"Well, your assignment is to complete this,"

The professor lightly tapped the book with his wand, and it flipped through the pages before coming to a stop. He presented the page to Severus, who scowled.

"The Patronus Charm?" Severus asked. He peered up at his professor in utter confusion, but the man simply smiled back.

"Yes, Mr. Prince," the professor said as he placed the book down in front of Severus. "You will give me a comprehensive guide to the Patronus Charm, its usage, and..."

"And?"

"By the end of the school year, you will demonstrate a full Patronus," the manner in which the professor had said that made Severus think he had been planning this little special assignment.

"Sir, I don't understand," Severus muttered. "Why the Patronus?"

"It is a famously difficult defensive charm, only a few are able to ever properly produce," the professor's eyes seemed to have a playful glint in them. "I think it shall be a wonderful experience for you, Mr. Prince."

Was he mocking Severus? Did he think Severus could not achieve this task? He who had been developing spells since his third year? Clenching his jaw, Severus grabbed the book and stuffed it into his bag. Professor Cyrus would dismiss him, and Severus would make his way out of the classroom and into the hallways. Meeting up with his friends, Severus mentioned the assignment, which caused Thomas to be intrigued, while Marcus bemoaned the idea of extra work.

Work on top of work. That was Lily Evans's week so far, and she was all but losing her mind. After a rather tiresome day that included Astronomy, Herbology, and listening to Mary's endless chatter about who was dating whom, she was about ready to beat herself upside the head. To make matters worse, she was now sitting in the rain, in the stands watching Marlene's Quidditch practice. Mary had run off earlier to start an essay that was due tomorrow. She initially asked for Lily's help but was turned down. She had promised she'd be there for Marlene.

As she watched her friend save shot after shot, she had to admit it was amazing how skilled she was. Marlene had thrown herself into Quidditch this year, determined to make it a Gryffindor year, as she put it.

"Oi, Evans!"

Lily rolled her eyes as James Potter shot past, a cheesy grin plastered on his face as he soared higher into the sky. She wondered if he really needed to do all that. The boy was always over the top and loud, always looking to be the center of attention. Lily had always been the opposite. The last four years of schooling involved not dragging herself into the spotlight outside of classes. She was more keen on letting her work do the talking.

Lily was snapped out of her thoughts when she noticed the Gryffindor team begin to descend. Thrilled that she could head back inside, she made her way out of the stands and down onto the pitch to meet Marlene.

"Thanks for coming, Lils," Marlene huffed as she wiped sweat from her brow.

"You're welcome," Lily replied, grinning. "You looked bloody fantastic up there."

"You think?"

"Yeah, of course!"

"Good, 'cause we're gonna need to be at our best," Marlene said. "We've already lost to those slimy snakes, and we can kiss our chances of making this a Gryffindor year if we lose to Hufflepuff."

"Hufflepuff doesn't stand a chance," Potter laughed. "They've been at the bottom of the table for the past three years. We just need to focus on knocking those damn snakes down."

As if casting a summoning charm, Lily and the rest of the Gryffindor team noticed a group of nine Slytherins marching toward the pitch. The Slytherin team had booked practice right after Gryffindor, a recipe for disaster. Wilkes, the tall seventh-year boy, led the pack. To his right was Crabbe, thick as a bull and as bright as one too. Wilkes's left was occupied by Black. He looked like a smaller version of his elder brother but more sullen.

"Ah, look here, it's the Gryffindors," Wilkes hissed. "How about you stick around and see how a real team flies?"

"Get fucked, Wilkes," Marlene spat.

The older boy seemed to regard Marlene the same way one would regard dog poo on the bottom of their shoe. His lips curled, and his eyes narrowed into deadly slits.

"You allow your women to do all the talking, Potter?" he said, turning to James.

"Watch how you speak about my teammates, Wilks, or I'll—"

"You'll what exactly?" Wilkes cut in. "Cowardly attack me in the halls like you did, Prince? So much for Gryffindor bravery, eh?"

Wilkes stepped toward James and was now looming over the younger boy. Lily could sense violence, and she'd be damned if she let it get to that. She opened her mouth to chastise the older Slytherin but was cut off.

"Enough, Wilkes. Let's get to work." Pace's voice came, and she sounded unimpressed. "We're not here for a wand-measuring competition."

Pace pushed past the Gryffindors and made her way up into the sky. She was soon joined by several other members of her team. Finally, after several tense minutes, Wilke stepped over his broom and shot up into the air. Lily breathed a sigh of relief that could've gone a lot worse.

The walk back to the changing rooms was filled with members of the Gryffindor team claiming they could've taken Wilkes and those sneaky snakes out then and there. The walk back to the Gryffindor common room was more of the same. Unfortunately, Potter had decided to tag along, and it seemed that he and Marlene were in a competition to see who could insult Slytherin the most.

"So, how's that potions essay coming along?" Lily said, taking the opportunity to change the topic.

"Oh shit!" Potter's eyes bulged. "I knew I forgot something."

"Good thing I have a Lily," Marlene mentioned, smiling. "I suggest you get started now, James, while you still can."

"Right, yeah, thanks." Potter then spun on his heels and dashed down the hall. No doubt he'd find Remus and beg the poor boy to help him.

Lily shook her head and continued on.

She was dead tired. Slowly guiding her broom down, she made sure not to stumble as she dismounted. Ravenclaw was up next, and she was sure that today's practice was necessary to push them to win. Whipping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, she let out a sigh before slowly walking towards the castle.

"Pace!" Marcus's voice called out, and she turned to see the boy running after her.

"Adams, good job up there," Jane muttered, and Marcus grinned.

"Well, what can I say? I'm just that good," Marcus puffed out his chest, and Jane rolled her eyes.

She wouldn't say it, but Marcus was possibly one of the best players they had. Like her, he was a chaser, and like her, he forced himself into a team that didn't want his kind through sheer talent.

"Mudbloods!" A cry came from above, and the duo watched Wilkes come down. "Who said we're done?"

"It's clear we've all reached our limits, Wilkes," Jane said in a matter-of-fact tone. "We need to recuperate."

"You're not the one who decides that, mudblood," Wilkes hissed, and Jane frowned.

Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood. She was more bored of hearing that God-forsaken word than offended at this point. Four years in the house of Slytherin, and she had learned that people like Wilkes resorted to bringing up blood status when they had nothing else to stand on.

"Back off, Wilkes," Marcus hissed, his fist balling up as he stepped closer to the older boy.

"Why should I?" Wilkes sneered. "If you haven't noticed, I am the captain of this team, not either of you Mudbloods."

"For how long? Wilkes," Jane said, smirking. "You'll be gone before you know it, and the position of Quidditch captain will be awarded to the most skilled person remaining on the team."

Wilkes appeared to want nothing more than to hex her; his nose flared, and his eyes flashed with malice. A moment passed during which the three were joined by the rest of the Slytherin team, and the question of where authority lay hung in the air.

"Everyone back to the castle," grunted Wilkes before barging past Jane and Marcus.

The rest of the team seemed to hesitate for a second, some watching Jane with curiosity before following Wilkes. Jane watched them go.

"Well... that went well," Marcus exclaimed as he grinned down at Jane.

"He didn't hex us or anything, so I think that talk went swimmingly," Jane added as they slowly started to make their way back to the castle.

"Expecto Patronum," Severus hissed.

Nothing. Not even the white mist.

He had been at this spell for hours. After his final class, he made his way to an abandoned classroom. Thomas had joined him while Marcus mentioned he had Quidditch practice. The duo had spent time attempting to cast the spell, and while Thomas had achieved some white mist, Severus had nothing.

"What memory did you use?" Thomas asked.

"First year, when we won the House Cup," Severus muttered, and Thomas nodded.

"Good times."

"But not good enough," Severus spat. He was seconds away from tossing his wand across the classroom out of annoyance.

How hard was it to think of a happy memory? He had a good enough childhood, but anytime he pulled from those times, he'd get the same disappointing results.

"Maybe it has to be something personal," Thomas stated. "A memory that is deeply connected to you."

A memory deeply connected to him. Severus frowned as he shifted through old and somewhat fading memories. He never expected the spell to be this hard; Severus wasn't a dour person, and he had plenty of good memories. It just wasn't enough.

Seconds passed into minutes as Severus stewed in thought.

It was a hot summer day, and eight-year-old Severus Prince was cooped up in Mr. Hudson's potion store. His mother was out buying new supplies for the store, and Mr. Hudson was busy auditing the stock. That left young Severus in a situation that he was all too familiar with. It was up to him to entertain himself. There were no other children in Knockturn Alley, and the lanes were never a safe place, though Severus had learned them well enough to avoid trouble. In previous years, he would spend time on Diagon Alley, but the people there had always peered at him with suspicion.

However, today was different. Today, he had set himself the task of completing his first unassisted brew. So Severus was in the cellar where his mother and Mr. Hudson worked on a large cauldron. The task was simple. Severus would brew a Pepperup Potion. He had watched his mother do it a dozen times and was confident in his ability. However, when he peered at the book he was using, it didn't make sense. It told him to slice when his mother had crushed. It instructed him to stir clockwise when his mother had stirred counterclockwise. Frowning, Severus forged on with nothing but the knowledge he had absorbed while watching his mother brew.

His mother was a wonderful witch but prone to becoming sick. She would tell him to think nothing of it, but Severus wanted to help. A half hour went by, and Severus watched in wonder as the color of the potion began to turn red.

"Wow," Severus whispered.

At that moment, the door to the cellar flew open, and in marched Eileen Prince. She did not look happy, not happy at all.

"Severus Augustus Prince!" Eileen shouted as she raced to where Severus stood and pulled away from the cauldron. "What have I told you about playing in there?"

"But ma..."

Eileen was not having it as she began to pull her son out of the room, all the while admonishing him for not following her orders. Mr. Hudson, who had slipped into the room, was now examining the cauldron. His eyes were wide as he pulled out a vial to take a sample. He sniffed the contents.

"Eileen."

"Not now, Robert. I'm disciplining my son."

"Eileen, you ought to see this," Mr. Hudson's voice was firm, and Severus's mother raised her brows.

"What? What could possibly be so important?" Eileen quickly fell silent when she reached the cauldron. Severus watched as Mr. Hudson handed the vial to his mother, and she took a sniff. Her eyes widened, and her brows shot up. She stared at Mr. Hudson, then the cauldron, and finally at her son.

"It's pepper-up," she muttered.

"Not just pepper-up, but your version," Mr. Hudson pointed out, smiling. "Copied to near perfection by a boy of eight."

"God," was all his mother could say as she peered at the vial in her hand.

"I... I made it for you," Severus's voice was soft, and he didn't look at his mother. She was mad at him, and he felt ashamed that he had disobeyed her.

"Severus... Oh, you sweet boy," his mother's voice came, and soon Severus found that she had pulled him into a hug.

Severus was in shock, but he tightened his grip on his mother. He took in her smell, the scent of herbs mixed with her perfume, a soothing and familiar aroma.

"I'm still mad," his mother muttered. "But I'm also proud of you."

"Really?"

"Of course, so very proud,"

Severus opened his eyes.

"Expecto Patronum"

Chapter Text

Halloween had arrived, and along with it came a sudden buzz throughout the castle. Severus frowned. He never understood the hubbub around Halloween. They lived in a castle and were part of a secret world that had ghosts, vampires, goblins, and other various mythological monsters. Marcus called him a spoiled sport, and Thomas agreed. The truth was that Severus wasn't too keen on taking part in the Slug Club this evening. He would have much rather spent his time practicing his Patronus charm.

It had been a few days since he had been able to finally summon white mist from his wand. Though he had not produced anything corporeal, he was sure he'd be able to by Christmas. In the meantime, lessons dragged on, and Severus watched as the workload piled up. Luckily for everyone, today was a half day due to festivities and the fact that the big Quidditch games were happening. They only had Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies, and History of Magic. The afternoon was designated as study periods, though most students used it as time to hang out with their friends.

Severus supposed he was in no state to judge. After all, he had spent the precious time he could’ve been using for studying sneaking through the castle halls alongside his friends. The trio had agreed that it was high time they got Potter and his goons back for their attack on Severus. Using the map to track their movements all around the castle, they were able to plan a course of action.

Three against four were not the best odds, even if the fourth was Pettigrew. As such, it was agreed that they would pick off the Gryffindors one by one, starting with Pettigrew.

They had found the chubby boy in the hall leading to the kitchen. He had snuck off alone to get some snacks for himself and his friends. Though from what Severus could see, he had eaten the majority of it.

"You alright, Petie?" Marcus called out as they came around the corner and came face to face with the boy. "What ya got there?"

"Uh...uh, snacks," Pettigrew's watery eyes darted at each Slytherin in front of him.

"Snacks...mmm," Marcus snickered. "I have to say, I think you've had more than enough snacks. What do you think, Thomas?"

"I do believe you're right, my friend," Thomas said as he pointed his wand at Pettigrew.

The pies, cakes, and various other sweet treats that were held in Pettigrew's arms exploded and covered the boy in a mess. Severus threw his head back and let out a deep laugh. Despite years of joining in on his friends' bid to torment Severus, it appeared that when the shoe was on the other foot, Pettigrew was not able to take it.

"You fucking wait till I get James and Sirius," he hissed as his face turned red.

"Oh no, whatever shall we do?" Severus muttered as he wiped away a tear.

"I am terrified," Marcus stated in a deadpan tone.

"Quaking in my boots," Thomas muttered as he mockingly shook his knees.

"You snakes are only tough when you're in groups. You fuc—" Pettigrew was cut off when Severus hit him with Langlock.

Pettigrew appeared in shock when he could not pry his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Severus had to admit that out of all the spells he had developed, Langlock was probably one of his favorites. Marcus hit Pettigrew with a stunning spell that caused the chubby boy to soar across the hallway before crashing back down.

Satisfied with their work on Pettigrew, the trio peered down at the map and noted that the other three members of the Gryffindor gang were hanging around on the third floor. Severus spied the names MacDonald, McKinnon, and Evans alongside the boys.

Severus groaned. Of course, they'd be with a group of girls. No doubt Potter was harassing Evans while Black attempted a move on either McKinnon or MacDonald. They made their way to where the Gryffindors were congregated and hid behind the corner.

Severus listened in as Potter prattled on about his Quidditch skills and how he was ready to whop Hufflepuff. His main lapdog was spending his time split between arse-kissing Potter and what Severus assumed was an attempt to woo the other two girls.

Lupin, on the other hand, had been silent. Severus had never known what to make of Remus Lupin. He was clearly far more impressive academically than his friends. However, he seemed stuck to dunderheads like Potter and Black, and he initially suspected that Lupin kept them around for his own amusement, much like Malfoy and Wilkes had their own cronies. But that wasn't it.

The boy didn't act as the leader of his group; rather, he was as subservient to the wills of Potter and Black as Pettigrew had been. And then there was the odd fact that Lupin disappeared once a month. It was said that he was visiting his very sick mother, but he often returned extremely haggard and disheveled. That boy was an oddity.

"You'll see those Hufflepuffs don't stand a chance," exclaimed Potter, and Severus watched as Lily stared off into space.

Clearly, she had long ago left the conversation and was now in her own world. Severus smirked as an idea crept into his mind. Striding out from where the trio hid, he began to make his way to the group of Gryffindors. He heard his friends trying to get his attention, but he paid them no mind.

"Evans!" Severus shouted. "Just the person I've been looking for."

Heads turned, and there was a collage of different emotions: anger from Black, disgust from Potter and MacDonald, while Lupin and McKinnon shared a look of distrust. Lily's eyes suddenly shot to him, and he could see that she was in shock. Was she that deep in thought?

"What do you want, Sniv-?"

Severus cut Potter off. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Evans, but I was wondering if we could go over some notes."

"I... uh," Lily seemed still dazed, and Severus smirked.

All the while, he ignored Lupin, Potter, and Black, which seemed to infuriate the latter two.

"If this isn't a good time, I could—"

"No," Lily cut in. "I mean, I was just heading to the library to get some work done. I'd be happy to help."

"Ah, excellent," Severus held back a smile as he watched Potter gape at Lily.

"Evans, you can't be seriously thinking about being around this greasy git," Potter hissed, and Lily frowned.

"Who I spend time with is none of your concern," she snapped, and Severus watched as Potter's gaze fell to the floor. This was going better than he expected.

"Will your friends be joining us?" Severus's dark eyes drifted over to the two girls who stood next to Lily. MacDonald seemed to shrink under his gaze, but McKinnon held it, uncertainty flickering through her eyes.

"Appreciate the invite, Prince," McKinnon muttered, not looking the least bit appreciative. "But I've had my fill of textbooks today; I need to prepare for the match later."

"Yeah, I can't either. Sorry," MacDonald said softly.

Severus shrugged. He was well aware of the outcome before he asked, but he supposed it couldn't hurt to ask. Continuing to ignore the death glares from Potter and Black, Severus turned and peered down the hall to see the confused look on his face.

He supposed it was a disappointing result. They didn't get to hex the arrogant prats, but they'll get other opportunities. Severus contented himself with stealing the attention that the boys seemed to crave so much. Severus flashed Potter a little smile as he walked past the pack of Gryffindors and joined Lily.

The bespectacled boy's eyes flashed with malice, and for a split second, as Severus passed by, he thought Potter was about to go for his wand. But his hands didn't move; instead, they balled up into a tight fist.

Severus wanted to laugh but held it in. Storing the whole scenario in his mind, he amusingly thought that the joy from terrorizing Potter could help with his Patronus.

"Thank you," Lily whispered, and Severus frowned.

"For what?"

"Saving me from bashing my head against the wall to avoid having to listen to any more of James's drivel," Lily said, and Severus smirked.

"I couldn't refuse a woman in distress," he said softly. "Besides, it would be awful to lose such a talented witch on account of Potter's ego."

Lily burst into laughter, her voice ringing like a melody in the quiet library. She peered around to make sure Madam Pince wasn't nearby to reprimand her for making noise. Luckily, the small corner table they usually sat at was often abandoned. The scent of old paper and leather bindings filled the air, creating an atmosphere of calm and concentration. Lily flipped through a thick book titled "Muggle History: An Overview." Severus had mentioned that they were assigned a paper on Muggle inventions.

Severus peered down at his parchment and then towards his book. His dark brows knotted together as he read.

"Did you know that Muggles invented a machine to transform sound into waves in the 19th century?" Severus asked, raising his brows. Lily smiled.

"A telephone," she pointed out. "I know all about that since my older sister, Petunia, is always on it."

"Petunia? Lily? Were your parents botanists or something?" Severus asked, a playful smirk spreading across his face.

"Do you, of all people, want to make fun of other people's names?" Lily mockingly raised her auburn brow, and Severus threw up his hands in mock surrender.

"You got me," he scoffed as he shook his head before tilting it. "Your sister, what's she like?"

"It's a bit complicated," Lily sighed. "She thinks I'm too caught up in my freak school."

"Sounds like a git if you ask me," Severus muttered, and Lily frowned.

"Don't call her that," she snapped, annoyance bubbling up, and Severus glanced at her.

"Sorry," he muttered half-heartedly. She wasn't too sure he meant it, but she let it go.

She knew he meant well and was probably just trying to support her. But her sister, no matter how mean-spirited and foul, was still her sister. The same Petunia who gifted her the doll she held so dear when she was four. The same Petunia who would push her on the swings when they went to the local playground and would kiss her grazed knees after she fell. The same Petunia who now wanted little to nothing to do with her.

"Family is... complicated," Severus muttered. His dark eyes met hers, and she felt that he was sincere. He was trying to connect, and she smiled softly at him.

"Enough about me; let's get back to work," Lily said, pushing her thoughts of her sister out of her mind and peering at the work before her.

"Ah, yes. The contraption that allows you to hear someone's voice without being in the same room," Severus muttered. "What a revolutionary way to avoid actual conversations. I like it."

Lily giggled and shook her head before turning back to her work.

A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of pages or the soft scratching of quills on parchment. Lily, despite the quiet, felt a sense of contentment. She enjoyed the company, the shared space, and the quiet hum of the library around them. She found Severus's presence calming, his quiet intensity a welcoming addition to her day. They had only started to get to know each other outside of a classroom setting fairly recently.

At first, Lily was admittedly hesitant. Severus seemed aloof, his gaze often piercing, as if he could see into the crevices of your soul. She heard how her friends spoke of him and his group of Slytherins, and while she knew not to take heed of idle chatter, Lily would be lying if she said she didn't have her own reservations about the Slytherin boy.

But as they worked on assignments and projects in class together, she began to see a different side to him. He was curious, insightful, and surprisingly funny.

Lily couldn't help but smile as she snuck a glance at Severus, who was writing some notes on parchment. There was a budding friendship forming between them, a connection that felt effortless and natural. She wasn't sure where it would lead, but for now, she was content to simply enjoy the quiet moments shared with Severus, surrounded by the comforting silence of the library.

The crisp air of the Scottish Highlands whipped at his face, carrying the faint scent of pine and the roar of the crowd. His heart was a frantic drum solo in his chest, and his clammy hand clutched his broom tightly, the sleek mahogany broom a comforting weight in his hand.

Marcus glanced to his right at a sixth-year named Braxton Winchester, who stood beside him, his face a mask of icy calm. Braxton, with his platinum blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, was a naturally talented player. Marcus peered to his left and found Jane; her eyes looked into his, and she gave him a curt nod.

A whistle blew, and the Slytherin team surged onto the field, their emerald green robes a blur against the backdrop of the grey autumn sky. Soaring into the air, the wind whistling past his ears. He felt the thrill of flight, the world shrinking beneath him as he ascended, the pitch a green carpet unfurling below. He was free, a hawk soaring above everything, his focus laser-sharp on the game ahead.

The Ravenclaw team was already weaving through the air, their broomsticks a blur of blue and bronze. Marcus, with his keen eyesight and lightning-fast reflexes, could see the glint of the Quaffle in their hands. He was ready. Marcus felt the familiar thrum of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He'd been practicing for this moment, and he would be damned if they lost today. The second whistle blew, and the game was on.

He darted toward the nearest rival chaser, a small brunette girl whose eyes widened at his rapid approach. In any other situation, Marcus would have had strong reservations about hurting a girl. But Quidditch was one of the few exceptions, and he found himself smashing into the Ravenclaw girl. She, in turn, let out a scream, and her grip on the Quaffle loosened. Marcus ripped it from her and darted away. Marcus, with his lean build and lightning-fast reflexes, was a blur on the field. He weaved through Ravenclaw players, their blue and bronze robes a blur in his peripheral vision.

He knew this was his chance. He faked left, then right, the Ravenclaw chaser scrambling to keep up. Just as he was about to shoot, a Ravenclaw beater, a fierce boy with a wicked grin, sent a Bludger hurtling towards him. Marcus barely dodged it, the wind whistling past his ear.

He had to act fast. He saw a gap in the Ravenclaw defense, a sliver of opportunity. With a powerful flick of his wrist, he sent the Quaffle soaring towards the goalposts. It was a perfect shot, a clean goal. The Slytherin stands erupted in cheers, their green and silver banners waving wildly. Marcus smirked and raised his fist in victory.

Jane had tossed in several goals, making Slytherin take the lead. Every pass, every dodge, every dive felt perfect. Marcus passed the Quaffle to Braxton and watched as the older boy was hit by a Bludger. The Quaffle was soon in that Ravenclaw girl's hands, and she darted past.

Once. Twice. A third time.

Before Marcus realized, the scores were tied. Marcus caught the Quaffle mid-air, his heart pounding in his chest. The Ravenclaw Keeper, a tall, lanky boy with a determined spark in his eyes, was ready. Marcus knew he had to be quick. Time was his enemy. He faked a shot to the left, then whipped the Quaffle around, aiming for the right goalpost.

The lanky boy dove, but it was too late. The Quaffle whizzed past his outstretched arm, a perfect arc of orange against the darkening sky, and landed squarely in the goal.

The whistle blew soon after, and Marcus was beyond exhausted. The Slytherin crowd erupted in cheers, a wave of green and silver washing over the stands. As Marcus walked off the pitch, his teammates swarmed him, their faces beaming with pride.

"Fucking brilliant work, Addams!" To Marcus's surprise, Regulus Black was the one to exclaim his praise.

Severus and Thomas had come down to see him, and he gave them his best grin.

"What'd I say?" he muttered as he reached them. "This is our year."

Across the castle, Slytherin reveled in its own victory. Its green and silver banners hung with an air of quiet confidence in the dungeon halls, and their victory over Ravenclaw was a testament to their cunning and skill. The Slytherin common room hummed with a more subdued energy, a sense of quiet satisfaction radiating from the students.

Not even the news of Gryffindor's victory against Hufflepuff could dampen the spirit of Slytherin. They were at the top of the table, and across the castle, the house of the serpent reveled in their victory.

A little later, after Severus had his fill of merriment and Marcus's boasting about his game-winning shot, Severus found himself fixing his tie in the mirror, the silk a stark contrast to the grimy, dusty surface of his dorm room. He was dreading Slughorn's dinner party. The man's obsession with "promising young witches and wizards" was suffocating, and Severus preferred the company of his books to the grim, self-important charm of the potions master's circle.

Severus ran a hand through his hair. It was pulled back into a ponytail, and he was pleased to see that the shampoo Marcus had given him had done wonders.

"Well, well, well, lookie here,"

Severus spun and saw Rosier slide in, with Avery following behind, sneering.

"May I help you, Rosier?" Severus hissed as his hand crept into his robe pocket. His finger wrapped around his wand, and a spell was all but on his lips.

"Relax, Prince," Rosier threw his hands in the air. "We mean no harm. I'm just surprised at how well you can dress. And we want to talk."

"Planning on sweeping me off my feet or something?" Severus sneered. "What is it that you want, exactly?"

"We know we haven't always seen eye to eye, Prince," Avery said, and Severus scoffed.

"That's putting it lightly."

"But we have come to... respect you," Rosier said with a glint in his dark eyes. "Despite your pedigree, you have shown yourself to be a stronger wizard than anyone could expect."

"Get to the fucking point, Rosier," Severus snapped. He was tired of hearing the boy's voice.

"We're in a little group, something a bit more…exclusive than the Slug Club," Avery said, and Severus rolled his eyes.

"Not interested."

He knew what they were trying to do. They were trying to recruit him to bring him into their little circle of power. He had seen what they were capable of, the ruthlessness they wielded with such casual ease. He didn't want any part of it.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Rosier's face. "You're sure about that? We could offer you a lot, Prince: power, influence, connections..."

Power, influence, and connections. The words lingered in Severus's mind, and he felt his muscles tense. Had those things not been what he desired? He peered at Rosier, and the boy's smirk widened.

"Are you deaf, Rosier?" Severus snapped. "I'm not interested in your little Knights of Walpurgis. Now excuse me."

Severus barged past the two and walked toward the door, leaving them standing there, their faces a mixture of surprise and anger. He could feel their eyes on his back, burning with a silent threat. He knew that they wouldn't let this go. They would be back.

Severus walked out of the Slytherin common room and into the cold dungeon hallway. His mind raced as he strode down towards the agreed-upon site for Slug Club. The gang of pureblood boys that had so often spent their days belittling or harassing him had recently changed to a cordial demeanor. His mind fell back to when he had asked Pace to keep an eye out for Wilkes.

"I don't know what you've got yourself into, Prince, but I'd be wary of Wilkes and his goons," Pace's warning came back, and Severus remembered smirking playfully and reassuring her that it would be fine.

Wilkes was working for someone. Severus wasn't sure who this "master" that he served was, but he suspected that his antics had gotten him noticed.

"Damn," he muttered.

"Damn, what?" A voice came, and Severus almost had a heart attack.

A flurry of curses left Severus's mouth as he spun around. He blinked, surprised to see Jane in the hallway, even more surprised by what she was wearing.

She was in a sleek black dress; a silver necklace hung around her neck. Her athletic body, usually clad in Quidditch robes, was on full display, and Severus felt his mouth go dry. He couldn't help but notice the way the fabric clung to her curves. He looked away, his mind flooded with thoughts he did not need right now.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Severus hissed, and Jane rolled her eyes.

"A dress," she answered blankly, and Severus felt his face heat up.

"Yes, I am aware," he said softly. "The question is, why are you wearing it?"

Jane sighed. "Because I'll be joining you."

"Slug Club?" he asked. "I didn't know you were invited."

"Yeah, well, I was," she said, her voice a little strained. "Apparently, all the Slytherin Quidditch team got last-minute invites after our game, but I'm the only one going." She shrugged, a hint of defiance in her posture.

"Oh, I didn't think this was your type of gathering," Severus muttered, and she smiled.

"It isn't, but it is a great chance to get good favor with old Slughorn," she pointed out. "Getting that captain spot next year is worth listening to an hour of drivel, that's for sure."

"I see," Severus retorts. "If the drab conventions get too much, you know where to find me."

Jane smiled. "Oh yeah. Where's that?"

"In the hallway, having a smoke and wondering where I went wrong," Severus muttered, and the duo chuckled.

As they walked down the hallway together, Severus couldn't help but feel that he might enjoy himself tonight.

Chapter Text

The first snowflakes of the season drifted down like tiny, silent stars, blanketing Hogwarts in a pristine white. October had given way to November, the crisp air carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the promise of winter. The once vibrant greens of the grounds were now muted, replaced by a stark, ethereal beauty.

The wind howled like a banshee, whipping snow against the grimy windows of the Owlery Tower. Thomas, wrapped in his Slytherin scarf, watched the swirling flakes with a melancholic smile. The familiar warmth of the cigarette between his fingers is a comforting weight. He enjoys the solitude of the Owlery Tower, the silence broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl and the crackling of the fire from the hearth. His friends had other matters to attend to this morning but agreed to meet up to study later in the afternoon.

The door creaked open, and Thomas turned to see Emmeline stepping inside, her face flushed from the cold. Her eyes met his, and she smiled.

"I knew you'd be up here," she muttered, and Thomas raised a brow.

"You're speaking to me again?" Thomas asked as he peered at the Ravenclaw girl.

"Oh, stop it, you know I didn't mean anything by it," Emmeline said. "I just had to stay loyal to my house; I don't think they'd be too thrilled about me canoodling with a Slytherin."

"Canoodling, eh?" Thomas chuckled, taking another drag from his cigarette. "We played well, I'll give you that. But you know, a little friendly rivalry never hurt anyone."

"Friendly rivalry?" Emmeline scoffed. "Your house was practically gloating for weeks, Thomas."

Thomas shrugged. "Slytherin is not known as the house of humbleness. If you're looking for that, you'll have to go to the Hufflepuffs."

Emmeline rolled her eyes, but a flicker of a smile danced on her lips. She moved closer to the fire, warming her hands.

Thomas took a step closer to her, the warmth from the fire radiating around them. He could smell the faint scent of her lavender perfume, and he felt a surge of longing.

When did he start feeling like this? Second, yeah, when he was paired up with Emmeline for Care of Magical Creatures, and she would lecture him on unicorns, he was fixated on how her hazel-brown eyes lit up in the summer sun. Perhaps it was third year when he helped her when Mulciber was harassing her; he'd been beaten badly, but she had been there for him every day when he was in the hospital wing. He didn't know, and frankly, he didn't care.

"Emmeline," he whispered, leaning in to kiss her.

But she pulled back, her nose wrinkling. "Thomas, you smell like a chimney."

He froze, the kiss forgotten. "Oh," he mumbled, his cheeks burning. "Right."

He quickly stubbed out his cigarette, the acrid smell lingering in the air. He knew he should have known better. He should have known that Emmeline, with her delicate sensibilities, wouldn't tolerate the smell of smoke.

"I apologize," he said, his voice subdued. "I didn't realize."

Emmeline shook her head, her eyes twinkling and a smile on her lips. "You're hopeless," she said, but there was a hint of fondness in her voice. "Maybe next time."

She then got on her tiptoes and planted a delicate kiss on his right cheek before spinning on her heels and marching out of the tower. Thomas watched her go, a smile on his face as he reached into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes.

Severus stifled a yawn, the words of the Head Boy droning on about the schedule for Hogsmeade weekend. His voice a monotonous drone that did little to alleviate the tedium.

"This is worse than listening to Professor Flitwick's lectures on Charms," he muttered under his breath, earning a snort from Jane beside him.

"At least Flitwick's lectures are occasionally punctuated by a flying teacup," Jane whispered back, her gray eyes flashing.

Severus smirked. "True, true. And I suppose it's a blessing that he doesn't talk about the same dull talking points for the hundredth time." His dark eyes fluttered through the room, where they landed on a mane of red hair. Lily, with her fiery red hair and bright green eyes, caught his eye and flashed a cheesy grin. He smiled back before nearly jumping out of his seat as he felt a bony elbow hit his side. He spun to see Jane's judging glare.

"Don't even think about it, Severus," she said, her voice laced with warning. "Evans is a Gryffindor. You know what that means."

Of course he knew what she meant. The fucking Marauders. Potter and his gang wouldn't be too thrilled at the prospect of one of their own housemates being friends with him. No doubt the issue would be made worse since it was the girl that Potter wanted. Severus's lips curled upward at the idea of angering that fool.

"You know what happened last month," Jane said, and Severus frowned.

"I can take them," he hissed, and Jane rolled her eyes.

"You're not invincible, you know," she muttered. "And if it has escaped your notice, they outnumbered you last time."

"Marcus and Thomas—"

"Aren't always gonna be there," she cut in. "Potter's crafty; he'll strike when you're unaware, and he'll strike hard."

Jane's grey eyes drifted from Severus to Lily, and she frowned. "Now imagine how hard he'll hit if you're messing with his queen bee, Gryffindor princess over there."

"I know, I know," he hissed, his gaze returning to the droning Head Boy. "But Evans is just... different. She's not like the others."

Jane snorted. "Don't be a fool, Severus. You know how this works. Gryffindors and Slytherins are rivals. It's not like we're going to be friends."

The prefect meeting had finally ended, leaving Severus feeling drained, and his thoughts were still on Jane's words. As everyone was making their way out, Jane placed a hand on his forearm and mentioned that she'd be meeting with her girls. Severus only nodded and watched her dart out of the room. He was about to make his escape when he bumped into Lily, who was also looking a bit weary.

"You alright, Severus?" Lily asked, her voice laced with concern.

"Just a bit fried," Severus admitted, rubbing his eyes. "These last few weeks have been intense, haven't they?"

Lily nodded in agreement. "Tell me about it. Between all the prefect duties and the mountain of essays, I feel like I haven't had a moment to breathe."

Severus chuckled. "I know what you mean. Especially in Muggle Studies. I wouldn't have gotten through it without your help, honestly."

Lily grinned. "No problem, Severus. I'm happy to help. You're a natural at Potions, so it's only fair that I return the favor."

Severus smiled at that.

"Speaking of breaks," Lily said, her eyes twinkling, "My friends and I are planning a trip to Hogsmead this weekend. You know since we're not on duty. Fancy joining us?"

Severus hesitated. He was tempted, but Jane's voice echoed in his mind. Perhaps getting too close to Lily would cause him trouble. "I don't know, Lily. I've got a ton of other work to do."

His excuse was a lame one, but it was something he supposed. It was not entirely a lie either since he still had his special assignment from Professor Cyrus.

"Come on, Severus," Lily insisted, "It'll be fun. We can grab some Butterbeer and just relax for a bit. You deserve it."

"Alright, I'll think about it."

That seemed to satisfy Lily for now, but Severus had no doubt that she would bring it up the next time they ran into each other.

Saying their goodbyes, Severus watched Lily walk away, a smile playing on his lips. A part of him might just be persuaded to join her in Hogsmeade. After all, a little break wouldn't hurt, and maybe a little fun was just what he needed.

Severus hurried down the hallway, his robes billowing behind him. Coming towards the library, he spotted his friends. Marcus was leaning against the wall near the library entrance. Thomas, on the other hand, had his arms crossed. Both turned their heads as he approached.

"Gentlemen," Severus said, nodding at the two boys. "Ready for some DADA?"

"Let's get this over with," Marcus replied, pushing off the wall and heading towards the library. He was not too thrilled about writing a 5,000-word essay. They entered the library, the air thick with the familiar scent of old parchment and dust. They found a comfortable corner and began pulling out their textbooks, parchments, and quills. Time seemed to crawl as the trio spent time working and chatting.

The topic of the ongoing Patronus issue seemed to pop up, and Severus groaned. He was nowhere near making a full Patronus, and neither was Thomas. Marcus was in a worse state since he had joined later and was still attempting to summon white mist.

"How hard is it to summon good memories?" Thomas muttered, frowning.

"Maybe we just...haven't made a memory strong enough," Severus pointed out, and Marcus seemed to lighten up at that.

"Sev, you genius," Marcus snickered under his breath. His face lit up as he hopped out of his seat. "We need to make new memories for it to work. We can't rely on old dust, worn-out happy memories. We need new ones."

Thomas raised an eyebrow, suspicion flickering in his eyes. "You just want to get out of studying."

"Maybe," Marcus grinned, "but it's not like we're getting anywhere in here. Come on, let's go have some fun."

Severus, ever willing to try new methods to help him achieve his goals, chimed in. "I think Marcus has a point. Plus a change of scenery might do us good."

The trio left the library, their steps echoing through the silent halls. As they reached the grand entrance, Marcus suddenly bolted out into the Hogwarts courtyard, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Snowball fight!" he yelled, grabbing a handful of snow and hurling it at Severus.

A surprised gasp escaped Severus's lips, but before he could retort, a snowball landed squarely on his chest. He retaliated with a fierce throw.

"You know this means war," Severus hissed, though his lips curled upwards into a mischievous smile. Soon, the courtyard erupted in a flurry of laughter and flying snowballs.

Thomas, initially hesitant, joined in with gusto, his aim surprisingly accurate. Marcus was hit square in the face and squealed as he fell.

"I'm hit! I'm hit!" he yelled, and Severus chuckled.

Severus's laughter was cut short when he got hit square on the forehead. Thomas followed up with two other snowballs that Severus dodged.

"Have to do better than that, Tommy," Severus said as he launched a snowball that hit the boy in the chest.

The three friends, lost in the joy of the moment, forgot all about their Patronus woes, their laughter ringing through the crisp winter air. They even ignored the odd looks of all the passersby. For a brief moment, they were just three boys enjoying the simple pleasure of a snowball fight, their worries melting away like the snow in their hands.

"I wonder if James will be there," Mary mused, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's so cute."

Lily rolled her eyes. "Mary, you're way too good for him."

"Oh, come on, Lily," Marlene teased, nudging her friend playfully. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed how he's been looking at you."

Lily ignored her friend's teasing.

The crisp winter air nipped at Lily's cheeks as she walked alongside Mary and Marlene, their laughter echoing down the Hogwarts corridor. The castle, draped in a blanket of snow, was a picture of festive beauty, but for Lily, the real magic lay in the company of her two best friends.

"Hogsmead this weekend, can you believe it?" Mary exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "I can't wait to get my hands on some Honeydukes sweets."

"Don't forget to stock up on some cauldron cakes," Marlene chimed in, her voice laced with a mischievous grin. "They're the best."

They continued their walk, their conversation drifting from Hogsmeade to the upcoming exams and the latest gossip circulating the castle. As they reached the grand entrance, Lily's eyes caught a glimpse of a familiar figure in the distance.

It was a distinctly odd sight that caused her to come to a sudden stop.

Severus, covered near head to toe in snow, was engaged in a playful snowball fight with Marcus and Thomas, two of his Slytherin housemates. He was laughing, his face flushed from the cold and the exertion, and Lily felt a warmth spread through her chest.

"Look," Mary whispered, her voice tight with disdain. "It's that slimy snake."

Marlene nodded in agreement. "He's trouble, Lily. You know that, right?"

Lily sighed, her gaze lingering on Severus. He was laughing, his face flushed from the cold, and his eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. "He's not that bad," she defended, her voice softer than usual. "He's just…different."

"Different how?" Mary scoffed. "He's a Slytherin, for Merlin's sake! They're all sneaky and ambitious. You can't trust them."

Lily frowned. "He's not like the other Slytherins. He's actually really nice, and he's got a good heart."

"Easy for you to say," Mary countered, her tone sharp. "You've only known him for a few weeks. You don't really know him."

"I do," Lily insisted. "He's different. He's kind, and he's funny, and he's..."

"Trouble," Marlene finished, her voice soft but firm. "He's got a dark side, Lily. You can't ignore that."

"He's got a reputation, Lily. Even among the Slytherins, how bad do you have to be to have that?" Mary added. "You need to be careful around him."

Lily felt a lump forming in her throat. She knew her friends were only trying to protect her, but their words stung. She couldn't help but feel a flicker of anger towards them. Why couldn't they see that Severus was different? Why couldn't they give him a chance?

But she knew why.

He was a Slytherin, and Slytherins were known for their ambition and their cunning. But Lily couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to him than that. She saw a vulnerability in his eyes, a longing for something more. It was because of that that she was willing to speak with him more openly. He was different, yes, but he was also kind, intelligent, and funny. She was determined to prove that to everyone, even if it took a lifetime.

She hoped that he would accept her invitation to go to Hogsmeade. She could spend time getting Butterbeer or going shopping, all the while showing her friends that he wasn't all that bad.

The snow crunched softly beneath Marcus as he lay sprawled on the ground, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. He stared up at the grey sky, a thin layer of snow clinging to his eyelashes. Severus and Thomas, his accomplices in the epic snowball fight, were sprawled beside him, their laughter echoing through the crisp air.

"I've never been happier," Marcus declared, his voice muffled by the snow. "Never."

Severus rolled his eyes and chuckled, "You're a drama queen, you know that?"

"It's true!" Marcus insisted, propping himself up on his elbows. "You two are the brothers I never had."

Thomas snorted, "Except you do have a brother. Cain."

"Cain? Firstly he's my stepbrother" Marcus rolled his eyes. "Secondly. He doesn't count. He's a… well, he's Cain. We don't exactly get along."

Severus, ever the voice of reason, pointed towards the castle. "We should probably head in before we freeze solid."

"Yeah, yeah," Marcus grumbled, but a smile tugged at his lips. "Maybe I'll just stay here and get sick. That way, I can skip Potions."

"You're not fooling anyone with that," Thomas said, already pushing himself to his feet. "And besides, you wouldn't last five minutes out here without a fire."

Marcus let out a dramatic groan, but he was already getting to his feet, his friends' laughter echoing behind him. As they trudged towards the castle, the warmth of friendship and shared laughter chased away the winter chill. They were brothers, bound by their shared laughter, their snowball fights, and the magic of Hogwarts. And that, Marcus knew, was a feeling worth more than any potion or spell.

Marcus came to a stop just as he reached the castle's main entrance. His friends, noticing, also came to a halt. He reached for his wand in his right coat pocket and pulled it out, all the while holding onto that burning feeling—that joy in his heart.

Clenching his jaw, he let out a small breath before swinging his wand in the manner he had seen Severus and Thomas do.

"Expecto Patronum," he said softly.

A silver mist began to form in front of him, swirling around him. He let out a laugh as his friends stared on.

Chapter Text

Monday 10th November 1975

Rookwood Appointed Head of Department of Mysteries Amidst Ministry Shake-Up

In a surprising turn of events following a significant shake-up within the Ministry of Magic, the enigmatic Augustus Rookwood has been appointed as the new Head of the Department of Mysteries. This decision comes on the heels of a series of high-profile appointments and resignations that have left the Ministry in a state of flux.

Rookwood, who has long been associated with the Department of Mysteries, is no stranger to controversy. His previous role as an Unspeakable has raised eyebrows, particularly given the department's secretive nature and the sensitive work conducted behind its closed doors. Many in the wizarding community are left wondering what this appointment means for the future of the Department and the Ministry as a whole.

In a statement released shortly after the announcement, Minister for Magic, Harold Minchum, expressed his confidence in Rookwood's abilities. "Augustus Rookwood has demonstrated exceptional skill and dedication throughout his career. His deep understanding of the mysteries that lie within our world makes him uniquely qualified to lead this vital department during these challenging times."

However, not all are convinced. Critics have raised questions about Rookwood's loyalty and the potential for conflicts of interest, given his previous connections to certain factions within the wizarding community. Some fear that his leadership could lead to a further entrenchment of secrecy and a lack of transparency in the Department's dealings.

"What do you think about this?" Thomas mused, tearing a piece from his buttered toast and glancing at Severus, whose brow furrowed in thought.

The enigmatic Rookwood had been appointed as the new head of the Department of Mysteries. The news seemed to cause the most buzz at the Slytherin table. Severus remembered Rookwood. He had been a classmate of Malfoy, a lanky, sullen, dark-haired boy who had always peered down his nose at him.

He remembered Rookwood's icy gaze, the barely veiled contempt aimed at him and his friends, mere peripheral figures in the grand Slytherin scheme. Severus surreptitiously glanced down the Slytherin table. Mulciber, Avery, and Rosier, all steeped in the same pureblood ideology, were practically radiating smug satisfaction as they peered at their copy of the daily prophet. The news clearly suited them.

"I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him. He's probably in someone's pocket." Marcus interjected. "Probably that prick Malfoy's."

"It's the Ministry," Severus grumbled as he took a bite of his toast. "Someone is always in someone's pocket."

The Ministry of Magic, a labyrinthine mess of corruption and bureaucracy, reeked of the same elitism. It was a system designed to elevate purebloods while pushing those like Severus and his mother deeper into the shadows. Growing up in Knockturn Alley, they scraped by on scraps made from their potions. He remembered more than one occasion when he witnessed Aurors harassing his mother about her potions.

He clenched his jaw, pushing the bitter thoughts aside. Dwelling on past injustice wouldn't help him succeed, not when he was fighting an uphill battle just to be taken seriously at Hogwarts.

Pushing all thoughts of politics out of his head, Severus turned the conversation around and discussed their lessons for the day. They spoke about the upcoming Charms essay and the difficulty of Arithmancy and Transfiguration.

Soon, breakfast came to an end, and the trio began packing up before heading out of the Great Hall alongside the wave of chattering students.

The usual discussions of Quidditch, potions, and their Patronus came up as they marched toward Transfiguration. Their peace was short-lived; as they turned the corner, they ran into Potter's gang. It seemed the four Gryffindors noticed them before they could find another path to class.

"Oi! Sniv! I want a word," Potter's voice echoed as he, alongside his friends, made his way toward Severus.

"What can I do for you, Potter?" Severus hissed as his eyes narrowed. He didn't need this right now. Why couldn't he simply get to class without these idiots appearing and causing him problems?

"It was real foul what you did to our mate, Peter," Potter spat. "You Slytherin rejects have no spines."

"Kettle calling the cauldron black," Thomas muttered as he peered at the group of Gryffindors.

"Shut your mouth, Reed," Black barked.

"Or what? You'll hex us?" Marcus scoffed, his hand clasped around his wand as he stepped towards the other boy. "I'd love to see you try."

Wands were out. How long they had been drawn was anyone's guess. Perhaps they were all so used to this dance that the sight of each other caused their hands to shoot for their wands and hexes to tickle the tips of their tongues.

But just as the confrontation was about to erupt into a full-fledged brawl, Minerva McGonagall's stern voice rang out. "What on earth is going on here?"

The group turned abruptly, paled at the sight of their Transfiguration professor. McGonagall stood tall, her posture impeccably rigid, a force of nature in her billowing robe.

"Boys, I cannot believe what I'm witnessing. This type of behavior is unacceptable," she snapped, her green eyes scanning the hostile faces.

Before any of them could retort, the air grew heavier with her gaze. "Slytherins—ten points deducted for your insubordination. And Gryffindors—another ten for your blatant provocation."

The boys momentarily swayed under the weight of her disappointment. She turned and gestured down the hall. "All of you, follow me to Transfiguration. I see no need for you to ruin any more of the day."

Reluctantly, the boys fell in line, their recent conflict fractured by the professor's scolding. As they walked, Severus couldn't help but feel resentment surge within him. The Gryffindors never failed to exploit every opportunity to embarrass them, and today was no exception. Marcus mumbled under his breath, oblivious to the weight of the moment, while Thomas quietly strategized their next move.

Time trickled by, and soon the final chime of the bell echoed through the classroom. Severus, shouldering his bag, fell into step with his friends.

"Finally," Marcus groaned, stretching his arms. "That was dreadful. Professor McGonagall really expects us to conjure a perfect emerald hue on our beetle? I swear mine ended up looking like a sickly lime."

Thomas chuckled. "Mine wasn't much better. At least it still had its legs."

Their chatter was cut short as a bright voice called out.

"Severus! Wait up!"

Severus turned to see Lily, her red hair a vibrant flame against the stone walls of the corridor, hurrying towards them. He felt a knot of apprehension tighten in his stomach.

"So, have you thought about it?" she asked, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. "Hogsmeade this weekend? Are you in?"

Thomas and Marcus exchanged curious glances. Severus had remained tight-lipped about the invitation, knowing their reaction would be a mixture of disbelief and mocking derision. He tipped his head forward, allowing his hair to shield him.

"Lily, I'm not sure..." he began, his voice hesitant.

"Come on, Severus! Don't tell me you're still on the fence about this," she pleaded, her green eyes imploring. "It's Hogsmeade! It wouldn't hurt you to have some fun."

The truth of the matter was that he did want to go. The idea of spending a day exploring Hogsmeade with Lily was incredibly appealing. But Jane's stern words from the other day were still ringing in his ears: "Don't be a fool, Severus. You know how this works. Gryffindors and Slytherins are rivals. It's not like we're going to be friends." He sighed inwardly.

"It's just..." he stammered, searching for a plausible excuse, "I might have some studying to catch up on."

Lily frowned. "Are you serious? You're going to spend a Hogsmeade weekend buried in books?"

What was he thinking? Of course, she'll see through that poor excuse. Severus's eyes wandered as his mind raced to form a more solid reason not to go. Drifting down the hall, his eyes were suddenly pulled into the hazel eyes of James Potter. The boy stood leaning next to a suit of armor, his companions at his side as he glared at Severus.

He couldn't quite decipher the expression, but it felt like a challenge, an unspoken threat. Severus straightened his shoulders and pushed hair out of his face. He refused to be intimidated, especially not by Potter's unwavering animosity.

A surge of defiance coursed through him. Let Jane, Potter, and the rest of them be damned. He was no coward.

He took a deep breath and met Lily's expectant gaze. "Alright, Lily. Count me in."

Lily's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Really? Severus, that's brilliant! I knew you'd come around. We're meeting in the Three Broomsticks at ten on Saturday, yeah?"

"Sounds good," Severus replied, a genuine smile finally gracing his lips.

"Great! I'll see you then!" Lily squealed, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. She spun around and hurried off, her red hair trailing behind her.

Marcus, who had been silent until now, scowled. "Going to Hogsmeade with Evans?

"If you're going to give me a speech about house loyalty, save your breath," Severus hissed, and the other boy frowned.

"To hell with that! I thought we were all going together," Marcus bristled, his blue eyes darting from Severus to Thomas. "At least I'll have Tommy, eh?" He clapped Thomas on the back, trying to force a jovial tone.

Thomas cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. "About that, Marcus… I'm actually going with Emmeline this weekend."

Marcus's jaw dropped. "You're both ditching me? Just like that? I can't believe it! Traitors! Both of you! Completely abandoning me to hang out with…with girls," he spat the last word out like a curse. He whirled around, his robes billowing dramatically before marching off.

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Drama queen," he muttered under his breath as he made to chase after the other boy.

"Let him go," Severus said as he grabbed Thomas. "He'll get over it."

"It's not that," Thomas said, an amused tone to his voice. "We should probably tell him he's heading the wrong way to Potions."

Severus shrugged. "He'll figure it out. Besides, I have a feeling Potions is the last thing on Marcus's mind right now. Now, about this Hogsmeade trip…"

The week at Hogwarts often felt like a whirlwind—a dizzying rush of classes, homework, and increasingly complex spells. For Jane, the memories lingered most vividly in Defense Against the Dark Arts. She recalled with a thrill the practice duels, the crackling energy in the air, and the distinct satisfaction of watching Sirius Black being sent sprawling from a well-aimed Stunner by her. The rest of the week, however, had been disappointingly uneventful.

Now, the weekend had arrived, promising a trip to Hogsmeade for most. But for Jane, it meant prefect duty. Assigned to supervise the first Hogsmeade weekend in November, she found herself pacing the snowy village streets, a stark contrast to the warmth and laughter she imagined her friends, Maria Blackwell and Anna Richards, were enjoying without her.

"Damn them," Jane muttered through gritted teeth.

Her situation was made more annoying by the relentless muttering of her Ravenclaw partner, a boy whose name constantly eluded her. Clifford or something? She really couldn't care less what it was, truthfully.

He droned on about obscure potion ingredients and some equally obscure Arithmancy theorem. Jane barely registered his words, her gaze sweeping across the bustling village. The crisp air carried the scent of butterbeer and roasting chestnuts, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of boredom coating her tongue.

Just when she thought she couldn't bear another minute of it, she spotted Marcus Addams in the distance. This was her chance.

"I'm so sorry. I need to go talk to my teammate... uh...about something important," she said quickly before dashing off.

"But we're supposed to stick together," came the distant argument of her patrol partner. But Jane was already gone.

"Addams," she cried out, and the blonde-haired boy spun as she came to a stop beside him.

"You alright Pace?" Marcus grinned, his breath puffing out in white clouds in the crisp air.

Strolling through the snowy village, their conversation drifted through the humdrum details of their week. Marcus sourly revealed that he had been abandoned by his usual companions.

"Can you believe those two?" he growled as his brows knotted together. "The one time I'm free to come down, and they've made plans."

"Plans?" Jane inquired with a raised brow, and Marcus let out a groan.

"Tommy went out with that Vance girl."

"The Ravenclaw?" Jane asked. "I wasn't aware they were together."

"She's his girlfriend in all but name," Marcus muttered. "Or at least he likes snogging her more than spending quality time with his friend."

Jane rolled her eyes. Marcus really did know how to make his problems a bigger deal than they actually were.

"What about Prince?" she asked, and that seemed to cause Marcus's face to grow darker.

"That idiot has agreed to meet up with Evans and her lot," Marcus spat.

Jane stopped dead in her tracks at that. "Has the boy completely lost his mind? Did he not hear a single word I said about the importance of maintaining inter-house harmony? Or is he deliberately trying to provoke a Gryffindor riot?"

Marcus, ever the loyal friend, frowned and begrudgingly came to Severus's defense. "Maybe they're discussing potion recipes. I'm sure Sev knows what he's doing."

"I would certainly hope so," hissed Jane.

Marcus, sensing her sour mood, changed the subject.

Their conversations drifted to lighter topics: the Transfiguration assignment that had baffled half the fifth years and the upcoming Quidditch season that would start after the Christmas holiday.

"I presume you are planning to stand in my way for the captain position?" Jane asked with raised brows.

"As if you need to ask. I'm just as worthy as you are, Jane. My skills on a broom are nothing to scoff at," Marcus said, puffing out his chest.

"Oh, I'm well aware of your... skills," Jane retorted, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice. "However, being captain requires more than just a good backhand pass, Marcus."

Marcus frowned. "Are you questioning my leadership abilities? I possess all the qualities necessary for a captain."

"Oh yeah? such as?" Jane smirked.

"Strategic genius," Marcus declared, his blue eyes glinting. "Not to mention, unyielding determination."

Jane scoffed playfully. "Strategic genius? You once flew directly into the Whomping Willow during practice."

Their playful argument continued as Marcus led Jane towards Honeydukes. "Come on," he said, "all this responsibility is making you cranky. Some Sugar Quills should fix that right up."

Inside the shop, the air was thick with the sugary scent of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans and Chocolate Frogs. They emerged a few minutes later, each clutching a bag of treats. As they strolled along the snowy street, they passed the infamous Shrieking Shack.

"Remember when we were convinced during first year that it was haunted by tortured souls?" Jane chuckled, pointing towards the dilapidated building perched on a hill overlooking the village.

"Or that it was a secret passage to a dragon's lair beneath Hogwarts," Marcus added, shaking his head in amusement.

They continued to trade silly rumors they had heard about the shack, but their laughter stopped when Jane noticed a familiar figure slinking along the edge of the village.

"Wilkes," she hissed, grabbing Marcus's arm. "What's he up to?"

Wilkes, his usual smirk replaced with a furtive expression, pulled his winter cloak closer. They watched as he slithered into the Hog's Head Inn, a dingy establishment with a reputation for attracting a less savory clientele. Jane's mind began racing.

She hadn't forgotten what she had heard at the start of the term: how she had witnessed the older boy conversing with someone and how they were to meet up at Hogsmeade.

"I don't trust that weasel as far as I can throw him." Jane said, her voice hardening.

"So? Let him have his firewhisky in peace," Marcus said, pulling against her grip. "Why do you always have to stick your nose into everything?"

"Because," Jane retorted, "sometimes, sticking your nose in is the only way to stop things from going terribly wrong. Come on, Marcus. This feels… wrong."

She tugged him towards the Hog's Head, ignoring his grumbling protests. The interior of the inn was dimly lit and reeked of stale ale. They found a secluded booth, partially hidden by a grimy curtain, not far from where Wilkes was sitting.

Moments later, the door creaked open again, and Lucius Malfoy entered, his platinum hair gleaming even in the dim light. He joined Wilkes at a table in the back corner. Jane leaned closer, straining to hear their hushed conversation.

"...everything is in order..." Wilkes was saying, his voice barely a whisper.

"...Dark Lord..." Malfoy replied, his tone equally low. "...soon..."

Jane felt a chill run down her spine, colder than the November air. She exchanged a wide-eyed look with Marcus. Dark Lord? What was going on? She felt her heart pound in her chest as she tried to make out the words that were being spoken.

Before they could gather more information, a hulking figure loomed over their table. The innkeeper, his face etched with suspicion and annoyance.

"You two," he growled, "I don't like the look of you. Out. Now!"

Marcus attempted to use a subtle charm to dissuade the innkeeper, but the man was surprisingly resistant. They were unceremoniously tossed out into the snow, the door slamming shut behind them.

Back on the main street, Jane felt a tremor of fear. "Did you hear that, Marcus? 'Dark Lord'..."

Marcus's face was pale, his usual bravado momentarily absent. "I heard. What do we do?"

Jane hesitated. What should they do? Tell Dumbledore? But who would believe them? They had no proof, only overheard snippets of a clandestine conversation.

As they continued up the snowy street, Jane stopped. "Marcus, you can't tell anyone about this. Promise me. Not a soul."

Marcus looked at her questioningly. "Why not? We should tell someone, Jane!"

"Because," Jane said, her voice low and urgent, "we don't know who we can trust. Promise me, Marcus. Please."

Marcus studied her face, his expression troubled. He knew Jane. She wouldn't ask this without a good reason.

"Alright," he said, reluctantly. "I promise. But Jane, we can't just ignore this."

Jane nodded. They would have to find out what Wilkes and Malfoy were up to. She muttered that she'd see Marcus later before heading off to find her patrol partner. Her mind was a swirl of speculation and theories, all of which troubled her.

He watched with detached amusement as two rowdy students were unceremoniously ejected from the pub, their protests quickly swallowed by the general din before being silenced by the door slamming. He barely registered the commotion before turning back to his companion, the patrician features of Lucius Malfoy illuminated by the flickering candlelight on their table.

"Unruly lot," Wilkes commented, his voice low and laced with disdain. "A waste of perfectly good magic."

Malfoy merely offered a tight smile. "They lack direction. The Dark Lord provides that." His gaze swept the room, assessing and judging. "Have you had any progress recruiting Prince?"

Wilkes sighed, swirling his drink. "He's proving… resistant. I've approached him several times, laid out the advantages and the power he could wield. He's a brilliant potion-maker, no doubt. But he remains stubborn."

Malfoy's nostrils flared. "The Dark Lord sees potential in him. A half-blood, yes, but one with a sharp mind."

"I still don't understand why," Wilkes muttered, unable to quite suppress his skepticism. "A half-blood bastard like Prince? There are purebloods clamoring for a place at the Dark Lord's side…"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "It is not for you to question our master and his grand vision, Wilkes. You will follow orders. You will cultivate a relationship with Prince. Understand?"

Wilkes flinched, humbled by the reprimand. "Of course. My apologies, Lucius."

Malfoy softened his tone, though the underlying threat remained palpable. "Maintain a cordial relationship with Prince. Continue to subtly influence him, paint a persuasive picture of our future. Perhaps…a little empathy might work. Find out what motivates him, what he desires. Exploit it."

"And if persuasion fails?" Wilkes asked, the question hanging heavy in the air.

"If he cannot be made to bend," Malfoy continued, his voice low and dangerous, "then he must be broken."

The words hung heavy in the air, the implied violence sending a shiver down Wilkes' spine, and he smirked. He nodded, his ambition overriding his hesitation. "I understand. I will do what is necessary."

The conversation shifted, lightening slightly as they discussed more immediate matters. "And your Christmas party, Lucius?" Wilkes asked, a hint of eagerness in his voice. "I hear the Dark Lord himself will be in attendance."

Malfoy permitted himself a small, self-satisfied smirk. "Indeed, it will be a significant gathering. Narcissa has done a marvelous job planning it."

Wilkes' heart pounded. His chance to finally prove his worth, to receive the mark, to become a true servant of the Dark Lord, seemed tantalizingly close. "I dream of the day I am marked," he confessed, his voice hushed with awe.

Malfoy chuckled softly, the sound devoid of genuine warmth. "Patience, Wilkes. All in due time. Your dedication will be recognized."

Malfoy rose to his feet, a fleeting, cold smile gracing his lips. "I must take my leave. Urgent matters require my attention." He paused at the door, his gaze sharp and assessing. "Stay in touch, Wilkes."

With a final nod, Lucius Malfoy disappeared into the gloom of the village outside, leaving Wilkes alone with his thoughts and his ambition, the weight of his impending task pressing heavily on his shoulders. The ale suddenly tasted bitter, the atmosphere in the grimy pub even more suffocating than before. He peered at his left forearm and a smile spread across his lips.

"Soon," he hissed to himself.

"Soon," he mumbled to himself as he peered at his watch. "Just a bit longer."

Severus shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench, the rough grain digging into his trousers. The Three Broomsticks was bustling with the usual Saturday afternoon crowd, a cacophony of laughter and chatter swirling around him. He found himself wedged between Lily, whose animated conversation he was attempting to engage in, and the palpable wall of disapproval emanating from her friends, Mary and Marlene.

He had only agreed to join them with Lily's insistent, albeit slightly overly enthusiastic, invitation. Now, though, he was beginning to question his judgment. Was a stolen hour with Lily worth the uncomfortable atmosphere and the feeling that he was being dissected by two pairs of scrutinizing eyes?

"So Severus." Lily began as her green eyes fixated on the lanky Slytherin boy. "I wanted to ask you about that modification you made to the Wiggenweld Potion the other day. It was brilliant! Did you really manage to accelerate the healing process by that much?"

"Oh," Severus felt heat rise in his cheeks. "It was just a small adjustment, really. I just thought that adding a touch more powdered unicorn horn would help speed up the process."

"It's fascinating, isn't it?" Lily said, her green eyes sparkling in the dim light of the pub. "The way even the smallest ingredient can completely alter the outcome of a potion. Honestly Severus, you should teach potions."

"I have nether the patience nor the desire to," Severus muttered.

The thought alone was ridiculous. A version of himself stood in front of a classroom of first-years trying to impart some of his wisdom but failing. It honestly made him cringe.

"Anyway. I'm going to grab us some drinks. What can I get you, Severus?" Lily said as she pushed a strand of fiery red hair behind her ear.

"Oh, I'm fine, thanks," he replied quickly, hoping to avoid the inevitable debate about what he wanted.

"Nonsense," Lily said, already halfway out of her seat. "You must be thirsty. Butterbeer, then?"

Severus grimaced inwardly. He wasn't particularly fond of Butterbeer, finding it excessively sweet and cloying. But refusing Lily, especially with the watchful eyes of Mary and Marlene boring into him, seemed like a tactical error.

"Alright," he conceded, forcing a smile. "Butterbeer sounds...perfect."

As Lily navigated her way through the crowded pub towards the bar, Severus attempted to engage Mary and Marlene in conversation. "So, are you two looking forward to sitting your O.W.L.S?"

"I can't wait," Mary quipped, her tone dry. She was meticulously cleaning her nails with a small silver file, offering Severus a fleeting glance that held all the warmth of a winter wind.

Marlene simply shrugged, her attention never leaving the window as she watched the snow gently cascade silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Severus felt like a trapped animal, desperately searching for an escape route.

His reprieve, however, came in the form of a less-than-desirable intervention. A familiar, arrogant voice cut through the pub's din.

"Well, well, well! Look what we have here."

Severus groaned inwardly. He knew that voice anywhere.

Potter, flanked by Black and Lupin, swaggered towards their table, their eyes fixed on him with undisguised amusement.

"Snivellus," Potter drawled, his lip curling into a sneer. "What are you doing slumming it with the Gryffindor princesses?"

Sirius snorted. "Probably trying to weasel his way into their good graces."

Severus clenched his fists, his jaw tight. "Leave me alone, Potter."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," Potter said, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Just curious to know what you're plotting, lurking in the shadows as always."

"I'm not plotting anything," Severus hissed, his voice rising in anger. "Just trying to enjoy a peaceful afternoon."

"With them?" Sirius chuckled, gesturing towards Mary and Marlene. "I find that hard to believe."

"Get lost, Black," Severus snapped.

"Ooh, feisty, isn't he?" Potter mocked, turning to Lupin. "What do you think, Remus?"

Lupin, looking uncomfortable, shifted his gaze. "Let it go, James."

Potter ignored him. "So, Prince, what exactly are you doing with Evans and her… entourage? Trying to weasel your way into her good graces?"

"It's none of your business, Potter," Severus said, his patience wearing thin. "Just leave us alone."

"Oh, but it is my business," Potter declared, puffing out his chest. "Lily is a friend, and I want to know what kind of snakes are slithering around her."

Sirius stepped closer, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Watch yourself, Prince. You're treading on dangerous ground."

Just then, Lily returned, carrying a tray laden with butterbeers. Her smile faltered as she took in the scene.

"What's going on here?" she demanded, her voice sharp.

Potter turned to her, his expression softening slightly. "Just having a friendly chat, Lily."

"It doesn't look very friendly," she countered, placing the tray on the table "You should leave."

Potter turned to Lily, his expression softening slightly. "C'mon, Lily-flower, we're just looking out for you."

"I don't need you to look out for me!" Lily snapped. "I can choose my own friends, and if I want to spend time with Severus, I will. So, go away!"

Potter and Lily continued to argue, their voices rising above the general din of the pub. Severus, feeling increasingly uncomfortable and unwanted, knew he had to extricate himself.

"Lily," he interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. "It's alright. I'm going to go."

Lily turned to him, her green eyes filled with disappointment. "Severus, you don't have to-"

"No, it's fine. I… I have to help Marcus with his potions assignment," he knew it was a weak excuse, but he needed to escape. He grabbed his bag and stood up, his face burning with embarrassment. "Thanks for the Butterbeer," he mumbled to Lily, avoiding her gaze.

As he turned to leave, he caught the triumphant smirk on Potter's face. He clenched his jaw and suppressed the urge to punch him. He pushed his way through the crowded pub, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

Outside, the crisp Hogsmeade air was a welcome relief. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart.

The sight of the snow-covered village seemed to soothe Severus as he trudged towards the castle. His mind was still reeling from the events when he ran into a tall, dark figure. Staggering back, Severus attempted to apologize before stopping and staring.

"Severus," a familiar, cold voice drawled. It was Lucius Malfoy, his pale blond hair gleaming and his pale eyes flashing. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Malfoy," Severus hissed as he peered at the former Slytherin. "What are you doing here?"

"I just wrapped up some vital business, but that doesn't concern you," Lucius said, his voice dripping with disdain. "I must say, I am rather disappointed in you. I had thought you had put this rebellious act behind you. You are no longer a first year; is it not time for you to understand your place in Slytherin house?"

Severus glared. He didn't need this right now.

"The Knights of Walpurgis would welcome you. Your talents are wasted on those Mudbloods that follow you around," Lucius continued, taking a step towards Severus.

"I want nothing to do with you or your bloody Knights," Severus spat, his voice laced with venom.

Malfoy's expression hardened. "You're being foolish, Severus. Loyalty is rewarded. Join us, and you will be powerful. You will be feared." He held out a small pouch, jingling with galleons. "A token of our…esteem."

Severus stared at the offered gold, then met Malfoy's icy gaze. "I'm not for sale, Malfoy."

"I suppose not," Lucius hissed smirking. "Of course you're not the whore of the family. Your mother on the other hand."

The words hit Severus like a physical blow. His hand flew to his wand, his temper flaring.

"Take that back!" he bellowed.

But Lucius was faster. With a flick of his wrist, Severus's wand flew from his grasp, landing with a clatter on the cobblestones.

"You insolent little half-blood bastard," Lucius hissed, his face contorted with rage. "You think you can defy us? Those who do not stand with us will be crushed. Remember that, Severus. Remember that."

Severus watched Malfoy retreat, his pale blond hair swaying as he marched through the village. Severus spent a while standing there, his fist clenched and his jaw clamped shut. The rage was still bubbling. Turning on his heels, he began walking towards the castle, the threat from Malfoy hanging in the air like a suffocating cloud. The bitter taste of butterbeer was nothing compared to the bitter realization that no matter where he went, trouble seemed to find him.

Chapter Text

With an unnervingly loud clang, the bell affixed over the apothecary's door signaled her entrance. Eileen Prince did not find this bell ringing pleasant – it was associated with angry and rude customers who had come to disturb her peace. It was the middle of a calm Sunday and the tranquil day made her feel a blend of excitement, worry and calmness.

Eileen, perched on a rickety stool behind the counter, was meticulously wiping down a row of glass phials filled with shimmering, iridescent liquids.

The room smelled amalgamated from multiple different things with known and unknown origins. Dried herbs, broken dragon scales and boiling potions filled the atmosphere with their team and setting smell which when combined felt a bit overwhelming. While illuminated with a sole lamp, the room seemed filled with dancing shadows and was contained with shelves stocked full of strange materials. While the dim light flickeled, the layers of dust on the shelves was exposed alongside the strange but captivating ingredients.

The figure silhouetted in the doorway was unmistakable. Tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating an aura of barely restrained power, Carver filled the entrance. His arms, thick as tree trunks, were canvases of intricate tattoos, swirling patterns of dragons, rune symbols, and serpentine creatures that told a silent story of battles fought and victories claimed.

He would have been considered handsome, perhaps even strikingly so, if not for the jagged scar that slashed diagonally across his left cheek, a permanent reminder of the brutal realities of Knockturn Alley.

"Eileen," he said in a low rumble that reverberated throughout the tiny store. The air seemed to change and get thicker as he entered. "I see you're keeping yourself busy."

A glimmer of a smile played on Eileen's lips as she straightened. "Carver. Always enjoyable. Or, in any case, how much fun it can be to do business with people like you."

He laughed and walked over to the counter. "Careful, Eileen," he said. His eyes, a striking shade of grey, were sparkling with laughter as he rested his weight on the scarred wood. "You'll hurt my sensitive feelings."

Their relationship, as good as it was, thrived on a deep understanding between them.

For years, Eileen had been crafting and supplying Carver with some seriously addictive potions for his more… selective clientele. In exchange, Carver, one of the five notorious leaders of Knockturn Alley's criminal scene, had ensured her shop was under his protection. No petty thief, disgruntled customer, or rival gang member would dare step foot in Eileen's shop, fully aware that the repercussions would be swift and merciless.

"Sensitive?" Eileen chuckled, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "You? That's a good one. I'd sooner believe a Dementor could whip up a Patronus."

"Ouch, Eileen, that stings," Carver replied, feigning a dramatic wince. "I'm truly hurt. But I'll push through. I'm here for my usual, you know. The… midnight brew."

"You're talking about the Draught of Living Death," Eileen said, her voice a bit gentler. "It's still brewing. Give it a few more days. The valerian root I got wasn't great. It needed extra work."

Carver gave a nod, his face blank. "I see. Quality matters most for that specific brew. My customers are... picky."

He stopped, his large hand moving across the counter's top and brushed off some dust. "You know, Eileen, you could've been living it up, with gold and jewels all around you. But here you are, working hard in this small dusty shop in the middle of dark place."

"It's like I had a choice," Eileen shot back, a touch of anger in her voice. "And this small dusty shop in the middle of nowhere as you put it. Well, it's mine. I made it. Anyway," she added, her eyes lighting up a bit, "who else would keep you stocked with the things you need?"

"You're right," Carver admitted, his lips curling into a slight grin. "Besides. I'd be clueless without your special kind of magic Eileen."

"Flattery? Really? That won't work on me, Carver," she shot back, but her tone gave away her enjoyment. "Still, I can't deny it feels good to hear someone recognize my skills even if it's coming from a fancy thug."

"Thug? That's just harsh," Carver objected pretending to be hurt. "I'd rather call myself a 'business-minded wizard' if you don't mind."

Their back-and-forth, a well-known routine of teasing jabs and hidden praise, came to a sudden halt. Eileen bent over without warning, a harsh cough bursting from her lungs. It made a loud rattling noise that seemed to shake her thin body.

"Eileen, you okay?" Carver moved closer, his usual self-assured attitude giving way to real worry. He tried to help her stay upright, his big hand wavering near her arm.

"No!" Eileen wheezed shoving him away. She dug in her pocket taking out a tiny corked bottle. The Potion of Soothing Draught was a must-have in her toolkit, a quick remedy for the annoying fumes and unstable chemicals she always worked with. She swallowed it in one go, the sweet liquid scorching its way down her throat.

The coughing slowed, leaving her breathless and faint. She leaned against a nearby the counter, her chest heaving in air. Sweat had formed on her brow.

"What was that?" Carver asked, his brow furrowed with worry. "Are you ill?"

Eileen forced a weak smile. "Just a touch of the Knockturn Flu," she lied. "Nothing you need to worry about."

Her dark eyes peered down at the hand she had coughed into. It was speckled with tiny droplets of crimson. Blood against the pale skin. Her heart dropped. She quickly pushed the feeling aside and swiftly wiped her hand with a handkerchief, crumpling the fabric in her fist tightly. She hoped Carver hadn't noticed, but she knew better. His eyes saw everything.

He stepped closer, his gaze steady and unyielding. "Don't lie to me, Eileen. Please. "

Dark eyes met grey and she saw the look of worry flicker. Realizing there was no way to keep it from him, not after he saw one of her bad coughing fits. Carver had always had a knack for noticing things, always so perceptive but even a blind man could tell there was something wrong.

"It's… nothing you need to worry about," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just… a cough. I've had it for a while now."

"A cough that brings up blood?" Carver pressed, his grey eyes narrowing in concern. "That doesn't sound like just a cough, Eileen."

She let out a sigh, feeling the fight leave her. "It's… a bit more complicated than that."

"Complicated how?"

Eileen sighed again, her shoulders drooping. "It's… it's been going on for a while. I've seen a healer, but…" she trailed off, unable to voice the grim reality.

Carver stayed quiet, allowing her the space to find the right words. He knew she wouldn't share more than she was ready to.

"He said it's… some sort of lung issue. Not curable, but manageable," she finally admitted, her voice barely audible. She didn't mention that the healer had used terms like "unstable magic" and "deteriorating condition." She kept to herself the fear that the rare magical ingredients she used in her potions might be slowly poisoning her.

He reached toward her again, this time ignoring her initial resistance. He gently took her hand in his, his large fingers enveloping hers. His touch, surprisingly gentle, was grounding, a stark contrast to the chaos swirling within her.

"Does Severus know?" he asked, his voice soft.

She recoiled and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"Oh, gods," she whispered, her voice muffled. "I don't know what to do. How am I supposed to tell him? He's… he has so much on his plate already. He has OWLs to think about...I...I can't...I just can't."

Carver watched her, his face etched with concern. He knew how much Severus meant to her, how fiercely protective she was of her only child. The thought of him losing his mother, especially at such a young age and without a father. It was unbearable.

He stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on her back. "You'll tell him when you're ready," he said, his voice low and soothing. ""He'll understand."

Eileen scoffed, a brittle, humorless sound. "Understand? Children his age barely understand advanced potion-making, let alone the complexities of life and death. And what kind of life is he going to have if... when I'm gone?"

Carver was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on her. "He'll be alright, Eileen. He's got your strength in him. And… and he's got me. I will continue to look out for him, you have my word,"

"I hope you haven't corrupted my boy too much already," she retorted, a faint smile gracing her lips.

Carver chuckled. "Corrupted? I've merely instilled in him a few… survival skills."

"Survival skills? Like knowing how to throw a punch?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Hey, you never know when that might come in handy, especially around here," Carver defended himself. "Besides, he's a bright lad, quick on his feet. He'll do just fine."

A silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken emotions. Carver moved closer, until their shoulders almost touched. Eileen could feel the heat radiating from his body, a strange comfort in the chill of the shop. Her heart beat faster in her ears, a frantic rhythm against the quiet hum of the magical artifacts surrounding them.

"Thank you, Carver," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "For… for everything."

He simply nodded, his gaze steady and unwavering.

Eileen forced herself to break the spell. She straightened up, taking a deep breath. "Right," she said, her voice regaining some of its former strength. "Business. The Draught of Living Death. It will be ready on time, as always."

She quickly wrapped up the arrangements with Carver, finalizing the details of the transaction with a forced professionalism that barely concealed the turmoil within her.

As he turned to leave, he paused at the door, glancing back at her. "Eileen," he said, his voice low and serious. "Take care of yourself."

"I will," she replied, offering him a weak smile.

She watched him disappear into the shadows of Knockturn Alley, his imposing figure swallowed by the darkness.

As the bell above the door jingled again, signaling his departure, Eileen let out a shaky sigh. Then, she turned back to her work.

Chapter Text

Remus Lyall Lupin paced the small, cluttered space between his bed and the door, his fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on his already threadbare school robe.

Agitation swirled in his stomach, a knot that tightened with every passing hour. It had been two days since their trip to Hogsmeade, a fleeting moment of normalcy punctured by the confrontation with Prince. Since then, a darkness had crept back in, a familiar shadow lengthening with the approach of the full moon.

Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, the transformation would rip through him, leaving him raw and exhausted. His body, ever the treacherous informant, had already begun its agonizing countdown. He was pale, a sickly yellow clinging to his skin, and the mere thought of food sent waves of nausea crashing over him.

The laughter and camaraderie he usually cherished felt like a distant echo, unreachable in his current state.

"Alright, Moony?" James's voice broke through his internal turmoil.

Remus turned to see his three friends, James, Sirius, and Peter, standing in the doorway. James was leaning on the door frame, a grin spread across his face. Sirius was at his side, bouncing on his heels. Finally, Peter stood behind them, indulging in a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

"Yeah...just tired," Remus said, his voice raspy.

Sirius gave him a skeptical eyebrow. "Just tired? You look as white as a ghost, mate. Lighten up, come on. We're heading to Charms. Maybe Flitwick can cast a spring in your step."

James slapped his shoulder, a little harder that Remus expected and he fought to stay up right. "Padfoot's right. Plus we got some great ideas for pranks to pull on old Filch. You'd not miss this, would you?"

Peter extended the bag of beans. "A vomit-flavored one to match your mood."

Remus gifted them a chuckle and a tired smile. "Thanks guys, but I'm not in the mood." He hated to dismiss them when they tried to cheer him up, but the relentless cheerfulness was crushing.

The three of them regarded one another with worried expressions. The happy atmosphere was dampened somewhat.

"Okay, Mooney," James said softly. "We get it. Just... dont push yourself too har. Alright, mate?"

They began the walk to the first lesson of the day. Charms. The only noise as they walked was the rustle of their robes. Remus trailed behind, his head was spinning. He tried desperately to keep his eyes focused on the cobbles in front of him, anything to distract his mind from the growing horror.

As they made their way into class, Remus noticed Lily, Mary, and Marlene already seated near the front. He offered them a weak, weary smile, which they returned with genuine concern etched on their faces. He knew they could sense that he was upset; they knew something was wrong. Hell, anyone with eyes could see that.

He and his friends sat in their usual seats, near the back but far enough from the front to appear to be paying attention. Slowly students crept in, the room soon filling with the typical hum of gossip and murmuring.

Remus watched as the Slytherins, who were last to arrive, made their way in. He noticed Rosier and his group of followers strode through the doorway, their gazes glinting with unscrupulous delight as they shared some snicker that escaped his notice. A group of girls followed chatting amongst themselves. The last to show up were Severus Prince and his friends, sitting as far from theirs as they could. Remus inwardly sighed in frustration. The memory of their Hogsmeade encounter flash before his eyes and he looked away.

Professor Flitwick rushed in, his small frame humming with boundless energy. He ushered everyone to their seat and began the lesson. The high, reedy voice of Professor Flitwick echoed through the Charms classroom, barely audible above the rustle of parchment and the occasional whispered conversation between students.

"…and therefore, class, Arresto Momentum, when properly executed, will effectively halt the momentum of a falling object." The professor said as he shut a dusty old tome he was reading from.

He tried to focus on the words Flitwick was saying, on the fine wavings of the wand, on anything but the throbbing ache in his bones. But his gaze kept drifting, drawn almost against his will across the room.

"Next lesson," Flitwick chirped, beaming at the class, "we will be demonstrating this charm as part of your mock practical exam. I expect to see some impressive displays of controlled deceleration, yes?"

A collective groan rose from the student body. Remus sighed, his stomach twisting into a familiar knot of anxiety. Not only would he have to navigate the torturous transformation, but he'd have to ensure he was recovered enough for his mock exam. He wanted to sink into the ground.

He scribbled the last line of his notes just as the bell rang, signaling the end of class. A wave of students surged toward the door, eager for the next lesson. Remus gathered his belongings slowly, feeling the weight of the upcoming week pressing down on him.

"Free period next, thank Merlin," he muttered to Sirius Black, who was slouched in his chair, a bored expression etched on his handsome face. "I think I'll head to the library and get a head start on this Arresto Momentum stuff."

Sirius groaned dramatically. "The library? Mooney, you're killing me! I'm going to catch up on some serious napping." Peter nodded beside him.

James, who had been polishing his glasses with his shirt, spoke. "I'll go with you, mate. I need to look over Transfiguration anyway." He offered Remus a small, almost hesitant smile.

Remus peered at James, a brow raised. James wasn't the most keen of students, he wasn't as bad Sirius but he did tend to leave school work till the last was a certain look in James's hazel eyes, a concerned, almost watchful glint, that made Remus suspect his friend was coming along not for Transfiguration, but to keep an eye on him.

"Alright," Remus said, forcing a casual tone. "That'd be good."

Saying goodbye to Sirius, who was already halfway out the door with Peter trailing behind him, Remus turned and headed towards the library, James at his side. The corridor was bustling with students, a kaleidoscope of robes and chatter. The duo slipped between waves of students of all different years as they marched through the corridor.

"So, how's Transfiguration going?" Remus asked as they overtook a group of Hufflepuff girls.

James chuckled nervously, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "You know how it is. McGonagall's been on my back about applying myself. She's always mentioning how Padfoot's dragging me down."

Remus smiled at that. They walked in silence for a moment, the rhythmic footsteps of students echoing around them.

"Are you alright, Remus? I know you're probably going to say yes, but really, are you okay?" James asked suddenly, stopping him in the middle of the corridor. The question, simple as it was, hung in the air.

"I...I don't know," Remus muttered softly and James frowned.

"Is it...your furry little problem?"

Remus looked away, his ears burning. "Partly," he admitted quietly. "But also… all these exams and prefect duty. I just… I don't want to fall behind."

James placed a hand on Remus's shoulder, a gesture of quiet support. "You won't. We'll be here for you. We'll get through it, Remus. We always do."

Remus met his friend's gaze, a wave of gratitude washing over him. He knew James couldn't possibly understand the full extent of his struggles, but his unwavering support meant the world. Perhaps, with James, Sirius and Peter by his side, he could face everything. He thanked God everyday that he met them he couldn't think how things would've been without them.

The library loomed ahead, beckoning them towards dusty tomes and the promise of at least temporary respite from the anxieties that gnawed at Remus's mind.

Lily Evans' jangled nerves were soothed by the peacefulness of the library. It had been two days since their ill-fated visit to Hogsmeade - which began innocently enough as a day out with friends before swiftly devolving into a cauldron of smoldering resentment and unchecked bile. James Potter, in his typically obnoxious manner, had almost reignited all unwarranted hostilities with Severus Prince, whom Lily had graciously invited into the group, along with her other best friends, Mary and Marlene.

Now, surrounded by the comforting scent of aged parchment and ink, Lily was determined to bury herself in her studies. Lily's attention was completely on her Charms practical mock exam, and she was glad to be distracted from the nonsense her social life had turned into.

"Honestly, Lily, you're becoming a bit of a blotter," Mary teased gently, nudging her with her elbow. "You haven't looked up from that text this whole morning."

Marlene agreed, nodding along. "We know you're still upset about... well, everything. But it can't eat you alive."

Lily sighed and tucked a loose strand of her fiery hair behind her ear. "It's just... it was supposed to be a fun day. A special chance for everyone to take a break from everything else. But he had to come along and try to pick a fight with Severus."

Mary sighed. "Honestly, Lily, you're making a mountain out of a molehill. It was just one afternoon. And frankly, I don't see why you're so interested in associating with someone like Prince anyway."

Lily's emerald eyes flashed with a hint of annoyance. "He's Severus, Mary! He's my friend."

"Friend?" Mary asked with an eyebrow raised. "Since when? I thought he mostly hovered in the shadows and muttered hexes under his breath."

Marlene interjected. "Well, now, Mary, that's not fair. Prince wasn't be that bad. He just… takes things seriously. A little reserved, possibly."

"Reserved? He didn't say more than two words the entire time!" Mary countered. "When he did, they were some of the most boring things I've heard. Merlin, I almost fell asleep."

Lily chimed in defensively. "He's shy, Mary! He's just not as… as outgoing as… as you or I."

Marlene caught the look of annoyance on Lily's face and put her hand on Lily's arm to be comforting.

"Listen Lily, I get that you're upset. But you have to admit, he's not exactly the most exciting person to hang out with, either. He's a boring bookworm, if you ask me. Who wants to talk about obscure potion ingredients and ancient spells…"

Lily distanced herself briefly. "He's bright, Marlene! His mind is sharp. He just processes things differently."

"Differently?" Mary rolled her eyes. "More like dreary. He is always mumbling about the Dark Arts, isn't he? Really, Lily, you deserve better than that. You should have friends who are… lighthearted and friendly, not people who look like they've never emerged from the dungeons."

Lily slammed her book shut and the bang rang out in the quiet library. Marlene could tell the conversation was getting out of hand, so she reined in the topic of the conversation. "Enough about Severus. Let's talk about something a little less… suspect. Like this deceleration charm. Honestly, I find this to be harder than anything in Transfiguration."

Lily wanted to lash out at Mary, to spit venom, but she bit her tounge. The topic of discussion changed, and for a moment, the heaviness of personal drama was lifted by a topic of intellectual argument.

The trio engaged in a discussion about the particulars of charm-making, discussing the theory behind the practice of slowing objects.

"It is more complicated than just slowing the object," Lily said, her annoyance being washed away by her love for charms. "It's about how you adjust the object's energy while moving it into a different state that slows it down."

"So does that mean you are controlling its deceleration?" Mary was chewing on a quill again. "But once you have the thing slowed down... How does it know when to just stop and not break?"

"That's the weird part," said Marlene. "You're not just slowing the object down; you're changing the object momentum. You are taking those forces and diffusing them; maybe into the air gives off tiny vibrations surrounding the object, or you take them in temporarily in the object and slowly release it."

Lily stepped in with excitement. "Yes! Exactly! It's a complicated but skillful spell! Think of the scope-Think of application. Quidditch! Rescues! Think of every day life. Think of a world with less accidental falls. Less broken things..." Lily trailed off, as her enthusiasm departed into the vision and vision of a different world with the help of magic.

She looked around the library, internally preoccupied while doing so. Her vision wandered beyond the ranges of high shelves and abruptly halted near the Transfiguration area.

And there, in amongst all the tall books, stood James Potter and Remus Lupin. Even at a distance, Lily could sense the distance between them. James, as usual, was animated and was throwing his hands up wildly while talking to Remus. Remus, though... was different. His face was pale, and his eyes appeared dark with the droop of exhaustion in his posture.

As if sensing he was being watched, James suddenly turned and his gaze landed on Lily. A wide, infuriatingly charming grin spread across his face. He winked, a gesture that only served to fuel Lily's simmering annoyance. She responded with a withering sneer, turning her head away in disgust.

Lily closed her book tightly, saying, "I can't concentrate anymore." She began gathering her belongings. "Let's go to the Great Hall. I really need to eat."

Mary and Marlene, concerned about Lily, exchanged glances and followed her out of the library and out into the Great Hall was incredibly loud and busy, much more so than the nearly serene state of the library. The Gryffindor table was loaded with steaming platters of enough food to feed an army. Lily loaded her plate with roast chicken, potatoes, and a generous serving of treacle tart.

Always loyal to the latest gossip, Mary animatedly launched into an enthusiastic retelling of the most recent romantic escapades of two sixth year Hufflepuffs. Lily listened with a faint smile on her lips. She found the silly dramas at Hogwarts oddly fascinating and a pleasant distraction from the decidedly less thrilling issues occupying her mind.

As Mary reached the climax of her story, Lily's eyes shifted over to the Slytherin table. A boy caught her eye, even amongst the green and silver: he was tall, very pale, and had raven black hair, with a recognizable Roman nose. He was chatting quietly with his friends, looking quite at ease.

They locked eyes. Green met black, a fleeting, nearly undetectable encounter that caused Lily to embrace the moment that sent a chill down her spine. Severus Prince bestowed upon her a tiny, uncertain little smile, a spontaneous greeting.

She smiled back before quickly looking away. Severus sighed. He tore his gaze away and rejoined Marcus and Thomas at their table, the clatter of silverware and the murmur of conversation washing over him.

"You spoken to her?" Marcus asked, his brow furrowed with concern as he peered at Severus.

Severus made a grunting sound, and pushed the leftover pieces of his lunch with the fork. "I have not said a word to her since... Hogsmeade."

Thomas, pragmatist as always, added, "Potter's a prick. What he did was bang out of order."

The memory of that disastrous Hogsmeade outing resurfaced with painful clarity: Potter's cruel taunts, Lily's hurt expression as he left, and his own impotent rage. Since then, he has been driving himself to insanity, thinking about what he could have done or said.

"It doesn't matter," Severus muttered.

"Yes, it does. It matters to you," Marcus pointed out, nudging him playfully. "And to us. We hate seeing you so glum."

"You should speak to her," Thomas added. "I'm sure things are not as bad as you think."

Before Severus could respond, Marcus's expression turned serious. "Speaking of bad, remember what I told you about Sunday?"

Severus nodded, a familiar chill laced with growing uncertainty. "Wilkes and Malfoy… and the 'Dark Lord' rubbish?"

Marcus lowered his voice, looking around nervously. "Exactly. I can't shake the feeling that it's something bigger. It's something really bad."

"It's just usual Slytherin posturing. They always talk about dark magic and power. It doesn't really mean anything." Thomas said, still his eyes scanning the hall now with slight concern.

"Maybe." Marcus leaned back. "But I don't like it. Wilkes seemed honestly… enthusiastic. And Malfoy… is always a slimy bastard."

Severus shared their concerns. He hadn't dismissed Marcus's story. The casual mention of a "Dark Lord" was chilling, especially given the increasingly tense atmosphere surrounding them. He had felt a growing sense of unease, a premonition that something sinister was brewing just beneath the surface of Hogwarts and the wizarding world at large. Since that conversation, they had been living on a knife's edge, constantly vigilant. They had made a pact: never be alone with Wilkes, Rosier, Mulciber, or Avery. These were Malfoy's acolytes, the ones most likely to be privy to his schemes.

"Luckily, Potter's little map has been a godsend," Thomas admitted, a hint of reluctant gratitude in his voice.

Severus nodded. The Marauder's Map, stolen during one of their more daring escapades, had become an invaluable tool. It allowed them to track the movements of their potential adversaries and, more importantly, avoid unwanted encounters.

"It's absurd that we have to rely on a piece of parchment pilfered from Potter to protect ourselves," Severus muttered, a flicker of resentment in his voice.

"Hey, it works," Marcus shrugged. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, mate. Besides, it's not like we're exactly on friendly terms with anyone in authority who'd listen to us anyway."

The unfortunate truth was that they were Slytherins, and Slytherins were rarely believed when they spoke of wrongdoing within their own ranks.

Despite their efforts, they couldn't completely avoid their unwanted company. Their common room was a shared space, a constant reminder of the brewing tension.

The incident in this morning in the common room had been a chilling reminder of the growing tensions. Avery and Mulciber, their faces contorted with barely concealed animosity, had almost provoked a physical confrontation. It was Marcus who had defused the situation, ordering them to back down with a surprising display of authority. But the most unsettling part was Wilkes's reaction. He had actually apologized to Marcus, a gesture so out of character that it had sent shivers down Severus's spine.

Something was definitely going on, something bigger than petty Slytherin rivalries.

The constant vigilance was exhausting. Combining it with the relentless demands of their OWLs year was pushing them to their limits. They were juggling upcoming mock exams, mountains of homework, and their increasingly frustrating Patronus project, all while trying to decipher the meaning behind Wilkes and Malfoy's whispered conversations.

"Merlin, I'm exhausted," Marcus sighed, running a hand through his short brown hair. "I just want to sleep for a week."

"Tell me about it," Thomas groaned. "I haven't had a decent night's rest in ages."

Severus felt the exhaustion too, a bone-deep weariness that seemed to settle deeper with each passing day. But he knew they couldn't afford to let their guard down, not even for a moment.

Finishing his now-cold lunch, Thomas glanced at the clock. "We have Defense Against the Dark Arts next. Let's get going."

They cleared their plates and made their way out of the Great Hall, the weight of their situation a heavy burden on their young shoulders. As they walked, Marcus, always prone to theorizing, continued to speculate about the plans Lucius had been discussing. He walked backwards, gesticulating wildly as he spoke, his enthusiasm momentarily eclipsing his anxiety.

Suddenly, his backwards progress was halted abruptly as he collided with a solid mass.

"Oof!" Marcus grunted, stumbling forward.

He spun around, his face reddening with embarrassment and anger. Standing before him, a sneer twisting his features, was Mulciber. He was a hulking figure, with a cruel glint in his eyes and a reputation for brutality.

Severus felt a surge of adrenaline. He had been dreading this, another confrontation with one of Malfoy's cronies. He had to defuse the situation quickly.

Stepping forward, his voice cold and authoritative, Severus addressed Mulciber. "Move along, Mulciber. You're obstructing the hallway."

Mulciber scoffed, a sneering smile spreading across his face. "And what are you going to do about it, Bastard?"

Severus understood that Mulciber was attempting to instigate him, antagonizing him into a confrontation. He took a breath, reminding himself that he was supposed to enforce rules, even if it irked him at that moment.

"I would suggest you think twice about what you are saying," Severus said in a dangerously low voice. "As a Prefect, I am well within my right to deduct points for your inappropriate behavior."

Mulciber guffawed in a harsh, abrasive way that resonated in the corridor. "You wouldn't dare."

"Five points from Slytherin," Severus said, and he was shaking a bit. "And another five for being disrespectful to a prefect."

Mulciber's face blushed crimson with rage. "You think you can just strut around taking points away, Bastard? You're worthless!"

"Five points more," Severus said, and his voice was gaining strength. "That's fifteen points in total. Now, are you going to move on, or do you want me to add more to it?"

Mulciber paused, glancing furtively from Severus to the spread-out crowd gathered to witness what was happening. He clearly wanted to retaliate. He wanted to hurt Severus. But he understood that if he drew more attention to himself, that would only worsen whatever it was he was a final and contemptuous admonishment, he spat on the ground, turning to leave.

"This isn't over, Prince," Mulciber said quietly under his breath, "I guarantee you will regret this."

Severus watched the large boy retreat, his heart racing. He had dodged the fight, but he knew he had only earned a delay. The tension between them hung in the air, a ticking time bomb ready to explode. They continued on their way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, the altercation with Mulciber weighing heavily on their minds.

When they entered the classroom, they noted the tall imposing figure of Professor Cyrus with his sharply focused expression already waiting for them. He signaled for everyone to sit down.

"Good afternoon, class," Professor Cyrus boomed. "The topic today will be dark creatures. We will cover their habits, their weaknesses, and how to defend yourself against them."

He launched into a detailed discussion, ranging from the innocent Puffskein to the terrifying Dementor. Severus, Marcus, and Thomas took notes, capturing every detail. The conversation eventually moved toward Werewolves.

Thomas, being himself asked a question. "Professor," he enquired, "what is the Ministry's policy with regard to werewolves? I heard they're supposed to keep track of all the registered werewolves so the Ministry can… you know… keep an eye on them."

Professor Cyrus nodded, a grim expression plastered on his face. "Indeed, Mr. Reed. The Werewolf Registry is a vital tool in maintaining the safety of the wizarding community. Werewolves are required by law to register themselves with the Ministry, allowing them to be monitored and, in some cases, provided with accommodations to minimize the risk to themselves and others."

"That's rubbish!" Potter exclaimed, his face flushed with anger. "The Ministry treats werewolves unfairly! They're prejudiced against them! Not all werewolves are evil!"

A wave of murmurs rippled through the classroom. Potter's outburst was unexpected, especially given his usual lack of interest in academic matters. Severus, however, couldn't help but notice Lupin, who seemed to shrink further into his chair, his face pale and drawn.

Professor Cyrus sighed, his expression a mixture of weariness and understanding. "Mr. Potter, I appreciate your concern for the well-being of werewolves, but you must understand the inherent dangers involved. It is not a matter of prejudice, but of public safety."

"But the Ministry treats them terribly!" Potter retorted, his voice rising in indignation. "They're denied jobs, housing, everything! How are they supposed to live decent lives?"

The debate continued, Potter arguing his case with surprising conviction, while Professor Cyrus defended the Ministry's stance. Severus found himself begrudgingly agreeing with Potter. He was by no means an advocate for werewolves, but he recognized the injustice of their systematic discrimination.

The Ministry's policies had driven many victims of lycanthropy into the shadows, forcing them into the underbelly of the wizarding world. Forced into places like Knockturn Alley. Some whispered that certain sections of Knockturn Alley were controlled by gangs of werewolves, though Severus dismissed it as mere rumour.

The bell finally rang, signaling the end of class and bringing the tense debate to an abrupt halt. The students began to file out of the classroom, their chatter filled with opinions about the werewolf debate. As Severus prepared to leave, Professor Cyrus called him back.

"Severus, could I have a word with you?"

Severus nodded and waited as the other students dispersed, until he and Professor Cyrus were alone in the classroom.

"I wanted to ask about the Patronus project," Professor Cyrus began, his voice gentle. "How are you progressing?"

Severus sighed, running a hand through his greasy hair. "Not well, sir. I'm hitting a roadblock. I can produce a wisp of silver, but I haven't been able to conjure a corporeal Patronus."

Cyrus chuckled, a warm, reassuring sound. "Don't be discouraged, Severus. You're far more advanced than most students your age. The Patronus Charm is one of the most difficult spells to master."

He paused, his gaze becoming more serious. "I understand you're working on this with your friends?"

Severus was surprised. "Yes, sir. Marcus and Thomas are helping me. How did you know?"

Cyrus smiled knowingly. "Let's just say a good teacher pays attention. It's commendable that you're supporting each other. Teamwork and camaraderie are essential, especially in these uncertain times."

He clapped Severus on the shoulder. "Keep practicing, Severus. Don't give up. You have the potential to achieve great things."

Severus, feeling a flicker of hope, thanked the professor and left the classroom. He found Marcus and Thomas waiting for him outside, their faces etched with concern.

"What did he want?" Marcus asked. "Did you get in trouble for deducting points from Mulciber?"

Severus shook his head. "It was about the Patronus project. He said I was doing well, considering."

They fell into step, walking towards their next lesson, their conversation revolving around their endless workload and the ever-present pressure to succeed.

But beneath the surface of their mundane complaints, a deeper unease lingered.

Chapter Text

Sirius Black chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast, the crumbs cascading down and landing on his black jumper. Excitement thrummed beneath his skin, a restless energy that threatened to bubble over. He knew he shouldn't be feeling this way. He knew how much Remus, his dear Moony, loathed this time of the month. But he couldn't help himself. Ever since they had achieved the near-impossible feat of becoming Animagi, at such a young age mind you. Sirius had found himself increasingly drawn to his dog form, craving the uninhibited freedom and primal instincts that came with it.

The school day trudged along, a slow march towards the inevitable. Their first class was Care of Magical Creatures with the eccentric, if slightly unhinged, Professor Kettleburn. Today, the lesson revolved around the baffling anatomy of the Flitterby Bush – a creature resembling a sentient shrub with a penchant for nibbling on unsuspecting ankles.

“Now, as you can see,” Professor Kettleburn boomed, gesticulating wildly with a heavily bandaged hand towards the rustling bush, “the Flitterby Bush possesses a unique digestive system. It primarily absorbs nutrients through its… well, let’s just call them ‘root-like appendages,’ which are highly sensitive to… OW!”

The professor yelped, hopping back as the Flitterby Bush snapped at his trousers. The class erupted in nervous laughter.

Sirius, however, was preoccupied. He leaned closer to James, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, “Tonight, eh? Think Prongs can outrun me this time?”

James, engrossed in sketching a particularly unflattering caricature of Professor Kettleburn, chuckled. “In your dreams, Padfoot. My antlers are practically aerodynamic.”

He then nudged Remus, who was sitting between them, looking decidedly unwell. Pale skin stretched taut over his already angular features, and dark circles underscored his eyes. "Almost time again, Remus," Sirius muttered, a playful nudge laced with a genuine concern he struggled to articulate.

Remus flinched at the mention of the upcoming night. He seemed to shrink in on himself, his face growing even paler. “Sirius,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above Professor Kettleburn’s continuing struggles with the Flitterby Bush, “please, just… just stop.”

James, noticing Remus’s distress, shot Sirius a sharp glare. “Padfoot, shut it, will you? You’re not helping.” He turned to Remus, softening his tone. “You okay, Moony? Need anything?”

Remus shook his head, forcing a weak smile. “Just… a bit tired. It’ll pass.”

Sirius, annoyed by the reprimand and the palpable tension in the air, glanced over to Peter, hoping for some support. But Peter, ever the follower, simply shrugged, his large, watery eyes darting nervously between Sirius and Remus. The air hung thick with unspoken worries, a familiar discomfort that always seemed to resurface as the full moon approached.

Lunchtime arrived, and the Great Hall buzzed with the usual cacophony of voices, clattering cutlery, and the aroma of roasted meats and freshly baked bread.

The jovial atmosphere in the hall gave a moment of respite to the boys. Sirius was engaged in a spirited debate with James, their voices rising and falling as they dissected the past week's Quidditch matches, arguing over questionable fouls and daring maneuvers.

"C'mon, Padfoot," James said, launching into a spirited monologue. "I was just telling Remus about the Chudley Cannons' abysmal performance last week. Honestly, they couldn't hit a Bludger if it were the size of a bloody Hippogriff!"

Sirius laughed, easily drawn into the familiar banter. "They've always been rubbish, James. You need to face facts, mate. Your beloved Cannons are never going to win the Quidditch Cup."

"Never say never, Sirius!" James retorted, his eyes flashing with playful indignation. "This could be their year! They've got a new Seeker..."

As James passionately defended the Cannons, Sirius's attention wandered, landing on a familiar face across the hall. It was a slender boy with dark hair, gray eyes, and a small mole beneath his left eye. Regulus. His brother. Just seeing him felt like a cold hand wrapping around his heart.

The good mood he had been in moments ago vanished, replaced by a bitter resentment that had become all too familiar over the years. Regulus had changed. Hogwarts had changed him. It wasn't just that he had been sorted into Slytherin—Sirius could have overlooked that at first. He was known for his disdain for Slytherins, and while that reputation was mostly true, it hadn’t clouded his feelings for his younger brother.

No, the real rift had formed when Regulus began hanging out with those obsessed with blood purity. Thorfinn Rowle and Walden Macnair were in his year, but he also idolized older, far more dangerous figures like Mulciber and Avery. Just thinking about it made Sirius's blood boil.

"…and then he dives! Right in front of the Keeper! Absolutely bloody spectacular!" James exclaimed, completely unaware of the shift in Sirius's mood.

Sirius hardly heard the words. The image of Regulus, his face twisted with a chilling fanaticism, was burned into his mind. The shy admiration that used to light up his younger brother's eyes had vanished, replaced by a carefully crafted mask of distrust and disdain. In response, all Sirius could muster was a deep-seated anger, a simmering rage that felt like it could explode at any moment.

He forced himself to take a breath, to shove the thoughts of Regulus aside. He refused to let his brother ruin his day, not today. He tried to refocus on the conversation, tuning back into James's enthusiastic Quidditch chatter.

Then his eyes caught a glimpse of a vibrant splash of red hair across the table. Lily Evans. A playful grin spread across his face as he saw a chance to bring some much-needed lightness to the moment.

He sneaked up quietly behind her, his footsteps barely audible over the chatter in the hall. In one quick motion, he snatched the book she was so engrossed in right out of her hands.

Lily gasped and spun around to confront him, her bright green eyes blazing with fury. "Sirius Black! Give that back!"

He held the book high above her reach, a smug grin plastered on his face. "Now, now, Evans. What’s the magic word?"

"You’re such an insufferable toerag, Black!" she shot back, her cheeks turning a deep shade of red.

Sirius chuckled, tossing the book to Peter, who caught it effortlessly with a grin. "Alright, Wormtail! Show us what you’ve got!"

Peter threw the book back, the move so practiced from years of similar shenanigans. A brief game of keep-away broke out, with Lily and her friends protesting loudly, while James and Remus watched with varying levels of disapproval.

"Sirius, knock it off!" James urged, his forehead creased with concern. "Leave her alone!"

"Prongs, come on! It’s just a bit of fun!" Sirius shot back, dodging another attempt from Lily to grab the book.

At last, James managed to catch the book as Peter tossed it back. He handed it to Lily, looking apologetic. He was halfway through a mumbled apology when Lily, still fuming, snapped, "Unruly toerag!" and stormed out of the Great Hall, her friends hurrying after her.

James watched her leave, his expression a mix of confusion and surprise. He turned to Sirius, his eyes wide with curiosity. "What was that all about?"

Sirius shrugged, putting on an act of innocence. "Hey, don’t look at me. I was just trying to have a little fun. Besides, she’s been either ignoring you or throwing insults your way ever since that Hogsmeade trip. Maybe you'll finally come to the realization that she's not as incredible as you think."

Deep down, he knew his words were a bit harsh, meant to steer James away from thinking about his own part in all this. But he couldn’t help it. He just didn’t get why James was so fixated on Lily Evans. She was always putting him down, turning down his advances, and treating him like dirt. Why on earth would James put up with that?

James began spewing a multitude of reasons why Evans was not that bad, but Sirius didn't care. Sirius shrugged, feeling indifferent. He genuinely didn't understand his friends at times.

Finishing their lunch in a strained silence, Sirius, James and Peter left the Great Hall, heading towards their next class. Remus trailed behind them, his silent presence a constant reminder of the full moon that loomed ever closer, a burden Sirius couldn't quite manage to feel the weight of, not yet. He tried to push the thought out, trying instead to concentrate on the thrill and freedom that awaited him in the wild, untamed form of Padfoot.

The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall swung open with a bang, the sound echoing Lily Evans' furious emotions. Her cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, but from a deep, unfiltered rage. The humiliation still lingered, a raw, aching wound inflicted by the infuriatingly arrogant Sirius Black.

"Lily! Wait!"

The distant calls of her friends, Mary and Marlene, floated on the draft into the vast hall, but Lily didn’t slow down. She strode forward, her boots thumping against the stone floor, tuning out the increasingly frantic pleas from her friends. The familiar sting of tears threatened to spill over, but she blinked them back with determination. She wouldn’t give Black the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

She knew exactly where she needed to go.

Back in her first year, feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of Hogwarts, the strange magic that flowed through its walls, and the unsettling sense of being both utterly insignificant and profoundly different, Lily had stumbled upon it. A small, forgotten classroom on the seventh floor, tucked away from the chaos of Hogwarts life and left behind by time.

It had turned into her little haven. A spot where she could catch her breath, reset her mind, and face the creeping shadows of doubt, fear, and anger that sometimes threatened to swallow her whole.

She made her way up the twisting staircase, her breath coming in quick, uneven bursts by the time she hit the seventh floor. The hallway was empty, and the silence only made her heart race louder. With a push, she opened the door to the long-abandoned classroom, the hinges creaking as if they hadn’t been disturbed in ages.

Dust particles floated in the beams of sunlight pouring through the stained-glass windows, casting a beautiful array of colors across the room. The air was thick with the musty smell of old paper and forgotten lessons. She settled onto one of the worn wooden desks, its surface smoothed out by countless students’ worries and daydreams over the years.

The view from up here was absolutely stunning. Hogwarts Castle stood tall and proud against the snowy Highlands, a true guardian of the landscape. The Forbidden Forest, with its mix of evergreens and frosted branches, stretched endlessly toward the horizon. The Great Lake, now a frozen expanse shimmering in the winter sunlight, mirrored the pale blue sky like a massive glass.

The stained-glass window was nothing short of a masterpiece, its bright colors splashing the snow-covered scene with shades of amber, ruby, and sapphire. As the sun moved, the colors twirled and danced, creating a constantly shifting display of beauty.

Lily lingered there for a while, lost in her thoughts. The vivid hues of the glass and the peaceful quiet of the room helped ease the sharp edges of her anger.

But her mind wouldn’t settle down. It flitted from the immediate sting of Black's humiliation to the larger worries that weighed on her.

Exams were looming, a huge challenge that she felt increasingly unready for. The pressure to succeed, to meet her own high standards, was overwhelming. She was a top student, a possible future Head Girl, a shining example of academic achievement. Yet lately, those honors felt less like a badge of pride and more like a heavy burden.

Then there were the fights with her friends. Recently, their bond felt a bit off; the laughter that used to come so easily was now replaced by awkward silences and unspoken tensions. Mary seemed to be more wrapped up in boys and the latest gossip, while Marlene appeared distant, her mind focused solely on Quidditch. Lily knew she couldn’t pin all the problems on them, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that things just weren’t the same as they used to be.

Beneath the surface of those everyday worries, there was a deeper, more troubling fear lurking. After spending the past four years at Hogwarts, surrounded by incredibly talented witches and wizards, Lily still felt like a fraud.

A fake.

As a Muggle-born, she was just a girl from the ordinary world suddenly thrown into a realm of magic and wonder. She had poured her heart and soul into mastering spells, excelling in her classes, and proving her worth. Yet, sometimes, in the stillness of the night when the castle was quiet and shadows loomed large, those nagging doubts would creep in.

Was she really good enough? Did she truly belong here? Would she ever be more than just a Muggle-born trying to find her place?

She could still hear the whispers, feel the sideways glances, and remember the subtle prejudices she faced during her first year. The unspoken belief that she was somehow less deserving, that she hadn’t truly earned her spot at Hogwarts.

"Can you believe a Muggle-born got into Gryffindor?" she recalled overhearing a group of Slytherin girls sneering as she walked by them in the corridor. "She must have cheated her way in."

Even now, that memory stung. She had tried to brush it off, to rise above the negativity, but the seed of doubt had been planted, and it continued to grow and fester inside her.

"You're being ridiculous, Lily," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. "You're one of the top witches in your year. You've worked hard for everything you have."

Yet, those words felt empty, lacking conviction. The nagging feeling of impostor syndrome clung to her like a persistent shadow, refusing to let go.

She let out a sigh, running her fingers through her messy red hair. The weight of her worries felt like a heavy blanket, suffocating her. She yearned for someone to confide in, someone who could grasp the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside her. But she hesitated. She didn’t want to burden her friends with her doubts. She didn’t want to seem weak or vulnerable.

Lily had always taken pride in her strength, her independence, and her ability to tackle whatever life threw her way. But in this moment, she felt anything but strong. She felt lost, overwhelmed, and completely alone.

The distant sound of the bell echoed through the castle, marking the end of lunch and the beginning of afternoon classes. Lily stirred, reluctantly pulling herself from her thoughts. The peaceful solitude of the empty classroom felt like a comforting embrace, but she knew she couldn’t stay there forever.

She stood up, stretching her stiff muscles. The sun, now higher in the sky, cast long, playful shadows across the room. She took one last glance at the snow-covered landscape outside the window, trying to soak in the calmness of the scene.

As she made her way to the door, she paused, looking back at the dusty room. It was a sanctuary, a refuge, a place where she could truly be herself, away from the pressures and expectations of the outside world.

But it was also a temporary escape. She couldn’t hide here forever. She had to confront her fears, tackle her doubts, and find a way to navigate the challenges that awaited her.

With a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped back into the bustling corridor.

The final bell of the day rang out through the ancient stone halls of Hogwarts, marking the end of Arithmancy and the conclusion of classes.

Severus carefully packed his satchel, but he wasn't off to relax. Instead, a pile of half finished assignments awaited him, a reminder of the relentless pursuit of academic excellence, even for someone as naturally talented as he was. The library called to him.

"Library?" Thomas asked as he flung his own bag over one shoulder.

"Library," Severus confirmed. He would hear Marcus's groan soon after but chose to ignore him.

The trio quietly made their way to the serene haven of the Hogwarts library. The air was thick with the musty aroma of old parchment and the soft murmur of secrets waiting to be uncovered. They found a cozy table, its surface marked by the wear and tear of countless years of study, and settled in, the stillness only interrupted by the scratch of quills and the occasional flutter of pages.

As the late afternoon sun streamed in, casting long shadows across the shelves, they immersed themselves in their work, exploring the details of Potions ingredients, the intricate transformations of Transfiguration, and the careful art of Charms.

Later, their small group expanded. Jane arrived with her friends, Anna and Maria. A brief exchange of greetings, and the augmented study group fell into a collaborative rhythm, sharing insights, debating interpretations, and generally easing the burden of their academic workload.

"This Charms essay is a nightmare," Anna groaned, running a hand through her hair. "I can't seem to grasp the concept of the Deceleration Charm."

"Perhaps I can assist you," Thomas offered, his eyes scanning her work. "You seem to be neglecting the proper wand movement."

With Thomas's support Anna soon grasped the concept, and the group continued their work in a spirit of camaraderie. As the evening drew to a close, Severus glanced at his watch, noting with a start that it was nearing curfew.

"We should probably start heading back to our common rooms," he announced, gathering his belongings. "It wouldn't do to be caught out of bounds."

"Aren't you on patrol?" Marcus asked. "Surley we wouldn't have to worry about getting into trouble."

"Mr.Adams are you suggesting that you are above the rules because you are my friend?" Severus said raising his brows and Marcus grinned.

"It is important to have friends in high places," he answered and Severus shook his head, but he couldn't help smiling a little.

They quickly gathered their belongings, the air momentarily charged with a sense of urgency.

As they walked back towards the dungeons, Severus found himself beside Jane. The others gradually fell behind, allowing a pocket of privacy to form. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but rather a pregnant pause, filled with unspoken thoughts.

Jane finally broke the quiet, her voice low and serious. "Marcus told you, didn't he?"

Severus' brow furrowed. "Told me what?" he asked, though he already suspected he knew the answer.

"About the meeting we saw between Wilkes and Malfoy during the Hogsmeade weekend." Her expression was troubled, her usually bright eyes clouded with concern.

"He mentioned it," Severus admitted, his tone carefully neutral.

"It's… unsettling, isn't it?" Jane continued, her gaze fixed on the cobblestones beneath their feet. "The things we overheard… I can't quite wrap my head around it."

"Nor can I," Severus agreed, his voice barely a whisper.

"It's all so… vague. Talk of alliances, promises, and something about a 'Dark Lord'."Jane shuddered. "It sounds like something out of a bad novel."

"Unfortunately, bad novels sometimes become reality," Severus replied, a hint of cynicism lacing his voice.

"I want to find out what's going on," Jane declared, her voice gaining strength. "I can't just ignore it. I have to know."

"And what exactly do you propose to do?" Severus asked, skeptical.

"I was hoping you'd help me," she said, looking at him directly.

Severus stopped walking, a frown etched on his face. "Why me? There are others…"

"Because you're smart," Jane countered, "and you're observant. And you're not blind to the… undercurrents… that flow beneath the surface of this school. Besides," she added, her voice softening, "an unknown enemy is far worse than one you know, right?"

Severus considered her words. He hated feeling clueless, vulnerable to forces he couldn't comprehend. He hated the feeling of being manipulated, of pieces being moved around him without his knowledge. He also knew Jane was right, he'd rather face the devil himself than an unknown enemy.

The familiar gloom offered a strange sense of comfort as they walked into the Slytherin common room. Severus glared at Rosier and Avery, who were leaning against the back wall, looking bored. He muttered goodbye to Jane and her friends before they went up ino the girl's dorms.

He joined Thomas and Marcus in their dorm room, the familiar surroundings offering a brief respite from the day's events. He rummaged under his mattress, his fingers brushing against the familiar, aged paper of the map.

"Right," Severus muttered. "I'm off; don't stay up late, children."

"Yes, Dad," Marcus replied mockingly, and Thomas chuckled.

He left the dorm, the map safely tucked away, and made his way toward the Great Hall, where he was to meet Lily.

He found her waiting near the entrance, her fiery red hair a beacon in the dim light. She greeted him with a shy smile, a tentative gesture that momentarily disarmed him.

"Hello, Severus," she said softly.

"Lily," he replied, his voice equally subdued.

"How was your day?" she asked, her eyes searching his.

"Uneventful," he answered, carefully avoiding any mention of Jane or the unsettling conversation they had just had. "And yours?"

"Tiresoms," she replied with a sigh. "The work is really piling up."

They fell into step, the silence between them thick with unspoken feelings. They walked in comfortable silence, until she broke the ice, talking about random topics

Awkwardness hung heavy in the air. Lily squirmed, desperate to find a way to bridge the chasm that had grown between them.

Finally, she blurted out, "I'm sorry."

Severus stopped walking, his brow furrowed. "Sorry? For what?"

"For not speaking to you since Hogsmeade," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I… I feel awful."

Severus dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. "There's nothing to apologize for, Lily. It wasn't your fault."

But Lily wouldn't let it go. "But still," she said softly. "I was so embarrassed after you left. After what Potter did… I just didn't know what to say."

She paused, taking a deep breath. "I was in a foul mood the next day. I even argued with my friends."

"Argued with your friends?" Severus asked, a strange curiosity creeping into his voice.

Lily blushed, her cheeks turning a shade that almost rivaled her hair. "Yes. It was… about you."

A surge of heat rushed to Severus's face. He felt a confusing mixture of embarrassment, annoyance, and a strange, unbidden thrill.

"I don't need you to defend me, Lily," he muttered, his voice sharper than intended. He hated the idea of her fighting his battles, of anyone fighting his battles.

Lily's head snapped up, her emerald eyes flashing with defiance. "That's what friends do, Severus," she retorted, her voice firm.

The word "friends" hung in the air, a fragile promise. A small, hesitant smile touched his lips. "I suppose," he conceded, his voice softer now.

The tension seemed to ease, the air lighter. They began their patrol, walking side by side down the dimly lit corridors. The silence, though still present, was less charged now, less fraught with unspoken grievances.

Their conversation shifted to more mundane topics. They discussed their upcoming OWLs, the daunting prospect of N.E.W.T.s looming large on the horizon. They commiserated over Professor Slughorn's notoriously demanding potions assignments, sharing tips and tricks for brewing the perfect Draught of Peace. They even touched upon the upcoming Christmas season, exchanging tentative plans for the holidays.

"I'm hoping to go home for Christmas," Lily said, her voice filled with a longing. "I miss my sister."

"Petunia?" Severus asked, remembering Lily mentioning her once before.

Lily's smile faltered slightly. "Yes, Petunia. We don't always see eye to eye, but she's still my sister."

Severus nodded, understanding her familial loyalty, even if he couldn't quite comprehend it. He had no siblings, no brothers or sisters. But he understood her, he felt that strong love for his mother.

They continued their patrol, the silence between them now comfortable and companionable. Severus found himself relaxing, the weight on his shoulders easing with each step. He hadn't felt this happy, this at peace, in months.

Suddenly, a deafening noise echoed through the corridors, shattering the tranquility. It sounded like something had exploded, the force of it reverberating through the stone walls.

Both Severus and Lily stopped dead in their tracks, their eyes wide with alarm. Without a word, they turned and raced towards the direction of the sound. As they rounded a corner, they found themselves in a long, empty corridor. Nothing. No sign of the source of the noise, no indication of what had caused it.

Lily frowned, her hand resting on her wand. "What was that?"

Severus's eyes narrowed. He didn't like this. It felt too deliberate, too planned. He instinctively reached into his robe and pulled out the map. He unfurled it, his eyes scanning the intricate web of hallways and secret passages. His breath caught in his throat.

"Potter," he hissed, his voice laced with venom. "Black. Pettigrew."

Lily looked at him, confused. "What are you talking about, Severus?"

Severus ignored her question, his attention riveted to the map. He watched as the three names – James Potter, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew – moved swiftly down the corridor to their left, their movements furtive and desperate.

He quickly tucked the map back into his robe. He couldn't explain the map to Lily, not yet. She wouldn't understand, not unless he revealed how he came into possession of it, a secret he guarded jealously.

"Come on," he said, his voice urgent. "We need to go this way."

He started running, his long legs eating up the ground. Lily, still bewildered, hurried after him.

"Severus, what's going on? Where are we going?"

He didn't answer, his focus solely on catching up to the three marauders. He knew this corridor, knew its twists and turns like the back of his hand. He predicted their movements, anticipating their next turn.

He stopped abruptly at the entrance to the corridor he had seen them enter on the map, his wand already out. He suspected they were hiding, likely under an Invisibility Cloak.

"Accio Cloak!" he barked, casting the summoning charm into the empty air.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sudden whoosh, the air shimmered, and three figures materialized out of thin air, stumbling and gasping in surprise. It was indeed Potter, Black, and Pettigrew, their faces a mixture of confusion and shock. The Invisibility Cloak lay discarded on the floor.

They didn't waste any time. With a collective yell, they turned and bolted down the corridor, their footsteps echoing in the sudden silence.

"Stop!" Lily yelled, her voice echoing through the stone halls.

Severus swore under his breath. He had hoped to catch them off guard, but they were too quick, too agile. He watched as Lily took off after them, her red hair flying behind her like a fiery banner. He cursed again, his lungs already burning from the exertion. He knew he had to follow her, protect her from whatever foolish prank Potter and his cronies were planning.

He launched himself forward, his legs pounding against the stone floor as he chased after her, who was chasing after them.

They rounded corners, dodged portraits, and leaped over suits of armor, their pursuit fueled by a mixture of duty and righteous indignation. The sounds of their chase echoed through the castle, alerting anyone who happened to be nearby.

The chase led them outside, into the crisp night air. The full moon cast long, eerie shadows across the grounds, adding to the surreal atmosphere. They raced across the snow covered lawn, their breath misting in the cold air.

The three Gryffindors were heading towards the Whomping Willow, its gnarled branches thrashing wildly in the wind. Severus felt a growing sense of dread. The Whomping Willow was a dangerous, unpredictable tree, and he knew that whatever Potter and his friends were planning, it couldn't possibly be good.

He watched in disbelief as the three boys miraculously dove into a small hole at the base of the tree, disappearing from sight. The Whomping Willow roared its displeasure, its branches lashing out with renewed ferocity.

Lily didn't slow down. Without hesitation, she ducked under the swinging branches and slid into the hole. The air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and danger. Severus felt fear grip him.

Severus let out a string of curses, his lungs burning and his legs aching. The thought of Lily being inside the Whomping Willow's territory made him push even harder, the adrenaline coursing through his veins turning pain off.

He launched himself forward, dodging a branch that missed him by a hair's breadth. He then crawled forward, ignoring the stinging scratches accumulating all over his body. Finally he slid into the hole; The entrance was now covered in dirt and was well hidden. Inside the hole there was a long narrow corridor and Severus could hear Lily's footsteps.

He ran after her. The corridor felt unending but he refused to slow down. It was his responsibility, he felt, to make sure Lily was safe and not doing anything too reckless- as reckless as joining Potter in the Whomping Willow would be.

The tunnel was muddy and the air was thick, but finally he saw her, just ahead of him. She had finally reached her limit and was doubled over catching her breath.

Severus stopped beside her and asked where Potter, Black and Pettigrew had gotten to.

Lily shook her head and mentioned that they got away. "They're gone. I don't know where they went."

Severus suppressed a surge of frustration. He had been so close, so determined to catch them. But they had slipped through his fingers, their mischief unchecked.

"Let's head back," Severus suggested, his voice weary. "There's no point in chasing them further."

Lily nodded, her face pale and drawn. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. This night had taken a toll on her.

As they turned to retrace their steps, a low, monstrous growl echoed through the tunnel, sending a shiver down their spines. They froze, their eyes wide with terror. Something was down there with them and it sounded hungry.

Chapter Text

The air in the cramped tunnel felt thick and heavy, a damp, earthy scent clinging to Severus's robes. The echoing growls sent a shiver racing down his spine, each one like a cold finger tracing its way across his nerves.

At first, he had brushed off the noise as just Potter and his friends up to their usual antics. But this… this was different. This wasn't the loud, arrogant laughter of James Potter or the rough barks of Sirius Black. No, this was something primal, something deeply unsettling.

"Get behind me, Lily," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. He could feel her tense up next to him, the warmth of her presence offering a small comfort against the growing fear.

Lily, her face pale in the dim light seeping in from the tunnel entrance, simply nodded, her usually vibrant green eyes wide with worry. It seemed like words had abandoned her.

Severus felt his blood run cold, each heartbeat echoing in his ears like a frantic drum. His heart pounded against his ribs, a trapped bird desperate to break free. He swallowed hard, but it did little to ease the dryness in his throat.

"We need to get out," he rasped, the words barely cutting through the increasingly urgent growls.

They shuffled backward, the tunnel walls closing in on them, claustrophobic and suffocating. The growls grew louder, closer, more demanding. Then came another sound, a guttural bark that was unmistakably a dog's, followed by the sharp, rhythmic clatter of hooves against wood. It sounded like… a fight? What in Merlin's name was down here?

Suddenly, a high-pitched yelp sliced through the air, a sound of pain and terror that made Severus's stomach twist. Then, a sickening crack echoed, like bone snapping under immense pressure.

"RUN, LILY!" Severus shouted, the command tearing from his throat.

The growling had turned into a cacophony, a roaring wave of sound propelling him forward. Hesitation meant death.

They took off, their feet thudding against the uneven floor of the tunnel. The low ceiling forced them to hunch over, their muscles protesting with every movement. The air, already stale, thickened with the smell of damp earth and something else—something metallic… blood.

At last, a glimmer of light appeared. The tunnel's entrance. Freedom was so close.

Severus shoved Lily ahead of him, yelling, "Get out! Go!"

He pulled out his wand, his hand trembling. In the distance, he spotted it—a shadow lurking in the darkness, a massive figure of muscle and fur.

A wolf. But not just any wolf he had read about in textbooks or heard whispered about in fearful tones. This creature was enormous, bigger than a bear, its fur as dark as midnight. Its eyes, glowing with a sinister intelligence, shone like molten gold. Its lips curled back in a silent snarl, exposing rows of razor-sharp teeth.

His heart sank.

Lily scrambled out of the tunnel, collapsing onto the snow-covered ground with a gasp. The wolf, its powerful legs churning, was gaining on him.

He lunged through the narrow opening, forcing his way through, limbs flailing, ignoring the sharp rocks that scraped and tore at his skin.

For a fleeting moment, a wave of relief washed over him. Maybe the beast couldn't get through. The opening was too small.

But then he heard it. The frantic scratching, the tearing of earth and wood. The beast's snout, dripping with saliva and mud, burst through the opening. It was digging, tearing, forcing its way through with savage determination.

"Lily, run!" Severus screamed, his voice hoarse with terror. "Get to the castle!"

They ran. Across the snow-covered grounds, towards the distant silhouette of Hogwarts. Their breath came in ragged gasps, their muscles burning with exhaustion. The run had taken its toll, and they were losing ground.

Severus risked a glance behind him. The wolf had burst through the tunnel, its immense form now fully visible in the fading light. It was gaining on them, its powerful strides eating up the distance with terrifying speed.

He cursed under his breath. He spun around, desperation fueling his movements, and flung a barrage of spells at the pursuing beast.

"Stupefy! Impedimenta!" He shouted and roared, trying to draw its attention, to buy Lily time.

The beast took the bait, its fiery gaze locking onto him as its snarl morphed into a deep, guttural roar that reverberated across the grounds.

Severus cursed again, this time louder and with more venom.

He made a sharp turn, racing toward the forbidden forest, where the towering trees loomed ominously in the distance. He cursed himself for his foolishness. What had he been thinking, chasing after Potter and his crew? What had he been thinking, allowing Lily to dive into that hole? And what was he thinking now, leading this… creature into the forest?

A fleeting, unwelcome thought crossed his mind. Were Potter, Black, and Pettigrew… dead? He quickly shoved the thought aside, a wave of nauseating guilt washing over him. He needed to concentrate, to survive.

He dashed between the trees, the snow crunching beneath his feet. The wolf was still hot on his heels, its heavy breathing a constant, terrifying reminder of the peril he faced. He hurled spells behind him, hoping to slow it down, to buy himself a moment of respite. But the beast seemed unfazed, shaking off the minor spells as if they were nothing.

His muscles were screaming now, and his lungs felt like they were about to burst. He wasn't going to make it. Merlin help him, he wasn't going to make it.

He tripped on a gnarled root, sending him sprawling onto the snow-covered ground. He scrambled to his feet, but a sharp, searing pain shot through his right ankle. He cried out, his leg buckling beneath him. He was hobbling now, limping pathetically through the snow.

Who would tell his mother? Who would be there for her? She'd be alone, completely alone. He didn't want her to be alone.

He could hear the wolf closing in, its growls growing louder, more menacing. This was it. This was how it ended.

Suddenly, the sound of hooves. Rhythmic, powerful hooves. And dark figures, moving swiftly through the trees.

To his utter shock, they were centaurs. Four of them, their muscular torsos gleaming in the dim moon light, their bows strung. They dashed towards the beast, circling it, their hooves drumming against the frozen ground.

The beast stopped, its yellow eyes narrowed, its snarl replaced by a low, menacing growl. It pawed at the ground, its powerful legs tense, ready to spring. The centaurs, their faces grim, kicked their legs at the beast, a clear warning.

Severus, his ankle throbbing, his body aching, thanked every god he knew for this unbelievable stroke of luck. He trudged away, towards what he hoped was the edge of the forest. He had to get back to Hogwarts, to Lily.

But his leg gave way beneath him, and he collapsed, too tired, too injured, to go on.

The last thing he remembered was the distant sounds of cries. Of the wolf's growls and the centaurs' shouts. He felt the cold snow beneath him seep into him.

Then darkness took him.

He looked down at the hurt, whimpering creature in front of him. It was a scruffy black dog, its fur tangled with dirt and something darker that made James feel sick to his stomach. But this wasn't just any dog; this was Sirius, his brother in every way that mattered, and the injuries… they were caused by Remus.

James had never seen Remus like this. He'd witnessed countless transformations, been there for the agonizing changes, the bone-snapping contortions. He knew the beast that lurked within his friend, the wolf that emerged under the full moon. But he hadneverseen Remus, in his werewolf form, attack them. He'd never seen him hurt one of his pack.

Disbelief warred with a rising tide of panic. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Merlin, this wasn't supposed to happen at all. How had Prince, that greasy git, found them so easily? The map, he must have had their stolen map.

Why did Lily risk everything and chase after them? Everything was wrong, twisted into a nightmare he couldn't wake from.

He could still feel the panic as he raced down the passage from the Shrieking Shack. They had been so careless, almost too confident, convinced that their little secret and their grand plan to help Remus was foolproof. He had naively thought they were untouchable.

When they burst into the room, the air was thick with the smell of fear and animal musk. Remus had already transformed into a snarling, massive creature, his eyes glowing an eerie yellow. Instinct kicked in. James, Peter and Sirius quickly shifted into their animagus forms, Prongs, Wormtail and Padfoot, their bodies blending into the dim light, their minds laser-focused on one goal: containing the beast.

They fought with a desperation that came from deep within. They nipped and darted around, avoiding snapping jaws and razor-sharp claws. They were determined to keep him away from the tunnel, knowing that Lily and, unfortunately, Prince, were down there somewhere. But Remus, driven by the primal fury of the wolf, was too powerful, too relentless. He must have sensed them, the scent of human fear drawing his attention and turning it deadly.

Now, standing amidst the dusty room, James watched as Sirius, the magnificent Padfoot, slowly, painfully, shifted back into his human form. He cringed, clutching his left shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers, staining his pure white shirt a ghastly red.

"Sirius," James said, his voice laced with concern. "Are you okay?"

Sirius, always the performer, managed a faint smile. "It'll take more than a little scratch to take me down, Prongs," he quipped, though it was clear that even joking hurt him.

James returned a shaky smile. That familiar bravado, even if it came through gritted teeth, lightened the heavy burden in his chest, if only a bit.

He turned to Peter, who was visibly shaking, his face pale and smeared with dirt. "Peter," James commanded, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Get Sirius back to the castle. Take him to Madam Pomfrey. Now."

Peter nodded, his eyes wide with fear. He hurried forward, extending a trembling arm to support Sirius.

"Where are you going, James?" Sirius asked, his voice strained as he leaned heavily on Peter for support.

James locked eyes with Sirius, his own gaze filled with a fierce determination. "I need to check on Remus. I have to make sure he's alright… and that he doesn't hurt anyone else."

Sirius stared back, his expression a mix of concern and understanding. He could sense the turmoil in James's mind—the heavy burden of responsibility and the gnawing guilt that came with it. James felt like he was to blame for everything that had gone wrong, for dragging them all into this chaos.

He nodded slowly, his voice barely rising above the howling wind. "Just be careful, Prongs," he said softly. "And… bring him back."

James didn't respond. He couldn't make that promise. Instead, he gave Sirius's good shoulder a quick squeeze before turning away.

With a familiar rush, he transformed. His bones shifted, muscles contorted, and in an instant, he became Prongs, the majestic stag, his antlers stretching toward the stormy sky. He bolted forward, hooves thundering against the wooden floor as he dashed out of the shack.

He raced across the snow-covered grounds, his powerful legs pounding against the frozen earth. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and beneath it, the lingering trace of werewolf. He followed the scent, his senses heightened, listening for any sign of his friend.

Then he heard it: a low, guttural growl that sent a shiver down his spine. He veered towards the sound, heading towards the imposing shadow of the Forbidden Forest.

He burst through the treeline, his antlers catching on low-hanging branches. The scene that greeted him made his blood run cold. A troupe of centaurs, their bows drawn, surrounded a snarling werewolf, its eyes glowing with a feral intensity. Remus.

Without hesitation, James charged forward, a defiant roar erupting from his chest. The centaurs, startled by his sudden appearance, shifted out of his way. He caught Remus's attention, and the werewolf, its eyes fixed on him, lunged.

And then they ran.

The ancient stones of Hogwarts castle swirled into a dizzying blur as Lily raced through the corridors. Each step echoed the frantic beat of her heart, a wild drum against the stillness of the late hour. She dared to glance back, her breath hitching in her throat. The relief she longed for didn't come. Severus was gone. Just like that.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at her insides. Was he…dead? The thought hit her like a Bludger, stealing the breath from her lungs. Oh God, she was trembling, a shiver that started in her hands and quickly spread throughout her body. Her head throbbed, a relentless pulse that threatened to drown her. The floor felt like it was tilting beneath her, and she sank to her knees, the weight of her fear too much to handle. Tears streamed down her cheeks, blurring her vision and soaking her face.

Then, a sudden noise jolted her from her despair. A twig snapping? A whisper of movement? Adrenaline surged through her, momentarily pushing back the terror. She sprang to her feet, wand gripped tightly in her hand, her eyes wide with a fear she had never experienced before.

Standing before her, beneath the flickering torchlight, was Argus Filch. His jowls were red with exertion, his perpetually grumpy face etched with a familiar scowl. He held his hands up in a placating gesture, his brow furrowed.

"What in Merlin's name is going on here, Evans?" he snapped, his voice a low growl.

But the harsh words dissolved as he took in her appearance. The trembling limbs, the tear-streaked face, the sheer terror radiating from her. Concern, a rare and almost alien expression, softened his features. He approached her slowly, cautiously, like one might approach a wounded animal.

"Miss Evans? Are you alright?"

The floodgates opened wide. Words poured out of her in a chaotic rush, filled with fear and urgency. She shared everything, her story tumbling from her lips in uneven breaths. She described how she and Severus, driven by their desire to confront James Potter and his gang—Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew—had followed them out of the castle. They had watched as the trio vanished into the forbidden grounds, heading toward the ominous, thrashing branches of the Whomping Willow.

"We saw them… Potter, Black, Pettigrew… they went into that tree," she stuttered, her voice heavy with emotion. "There's a tunnel, Mister Filch, I saw it! And… there was something down there. Something… terrifying. It chased us out. Severus… he was right behind me, but… but now he's gone. I have no idea what happened to him!"

She choked on a sob, burying her face in her hands. Filch, his eyes widening with each word, stood frozen, his usual bluster completely absent. He awkwardly patted her shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle.

"There, there, Miss Evans. Calm yourself. Let's just… let's just get you somewhere safe."

He fumbled in his pocket, producing a small, silver whistle.

He blew on it, his face contorted in effort, but no sound emerged. Lily stared, confused.

"It's not… it's a special whistle," Filch mumbled, embarrassed. "Only works for those who know to listen."

A few agonizing minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity of torment. Then, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor. Figures emerged, their faces marked by concern. Professor McGonagall stood there, her jaw clenched in a tight line. Professor Slughorn, usually so cheerful, looked pale and drawn. Professor Sprout, her kind eyes filled with confusion. And leading the group was Albus Dumbledore, his eyes serious and his expression unreadable.

"Filch, what's going on here?" McGonagall demanded, her voice cutting through the tension.

Filch, clearly intimidated by her commanding presence, pointed towards Lily. "Miss Evans was found here, Professor. She… she mentioned something about Potter and Black, the Whomping Willow, and… and Prince. She says Prince is missing."

The words hung in the air, heavy and ominous. The color drained from Slughorn's face, and McGonagall's lips thinned, becoming almost invisible. But it was Dumbledore's reaction that truly unsettled Lily. The twinkle, the ever-present spark of amusement in his eyes, had vanished, replaced by a deep and unsettling stillness.

He stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Lily. "Miss Evans, can you tell us exactly what happened?"

Lily, her voice still trembling, repeated her story, her words gaining a little more coherence this time. As she spoke of the creature in the tunnel, she saw a flicker of recognition in Dumbledore's eyes, a fleeting glimpse of something she couldn't quite decipher.

When she finished, a heavy silence descended upon the group. Dumbledore cleared his throat, his voice low and serious.

"Professor Sprout, I want you to take Miss Evans to the Hospital Wing immediately. She needs rest and a calming draught. Minerva, Horace, you will accompany me. We must locate Severus at once."

Lily felt a surge of protest rising within her, a desperate urge to insist on joining them in the search for Severus. Yet, the weight of exhaustion and lingering fear had sapped her of all her strength. She swayed a bit, her legs wobbling as if they might give out at any moment.

Professor Sprout, her expression filled with concern, gently took hold of Lily's arm. "Come on, dear," she said in a soothing voice. "You've been through such a shock. Let's get you to a safe place."

Lily let herself be led away, her gaze locked on Dumbledore as he walked further away. She longed to call out, to beg him to find Severus, but the words just wouldn't come. All she could do was stand there, watching the professors vanish down the corridor, a growing sense of dread settling in her chest.

The Hospital Wing felt like a peaceful refuge, filled with the sharp scent of antiseptic and various potions. Madam Pomfrey, her face lined with genuine concern, moved about with purpose, fussing over Lily like a mother hen.

"My dear girl, what on earth happened to you?" she exclaimed, her hands gentle as she checked Lily for any injuries. "You look as pale as a ghost."

She handed Lily a vial containing a murky green liquid. "Drink this right away. It'll help settle your nerves."

Lily complied, downing the potion in one swift gulp. It had a hint of chamomile mixed with something earthy and strange. Almost instantly, she felt her muscles loosen, the tremors starting to fade.

Madam Pomfrey guided her to a bed, her tone calming. "Now, lie down and try to rest. You've been through quite an ordeal."

Lily sank into the soft mattress, the room still spinning a bit. The Calming Draught was doing its job, easing the physical signs of her fear, but it couldn't touch the storm brewing in her mind. Thoughts of Severus, trapped and alone in the dark beneath the Whomping Willow, tormented her. What if he was hurt? What if… what if he was already gone?

She shut her eyes, trying to drift off to sleep, but the images wouldn't leave her. The thrashing branches of the Whomping Willow, the dark, gaping mouth of the tunnel, the fear etched in Severus's eyes… The monstrous creature charging toward them.

They played on repeat in her mind, a never-ending cycle of terror.

Finally, exhaustion took over. She slipped into a restless sleep, interrupted by nightmares filled with teeth and claws, and a distant, desperate voice calling her name.

The tranquility of Hagrid's cozy hut was shattered by a sudden cacophony of noises that pierced through the night. A sense of unease settled upon Hagrid as he strained his ears, trying to decipher the source of the disturbance.

"Wha' in the name of Merlin is going on out there?" Hagrid muttered to himself, worry etched on his face.

Without a moment's pause, Hagrid tossed aside his thick, woolen blankets and lumbered out of bed. He slipped into his heavy, brown coat, its many pockets stuffed with all sorts of oddities he had gathered over the years. With a sense of urgency, he pushed open the door of his hut and stepped out into the biting cold of the night.

The wind howled through the towering trees of the Forbidden Forest, bringing with it the fresh scent of pine and damp earth. A soft blanket of snow covered the ground, its untouched surface glimmering under the faint moonlight that peeked through the clouds. Hagrid's large figure cast a long shadow as he ventured into the wintry scene.

"Hello? Is anyone out there?" he called out, his voice echoing through the stillness of the night.

Only the wind responded, its mournful wail sending chills down his spine. Hagrid pressed on, his eyes scanning the dark surroundings, searching for any hint of what had interrupted his sleep. He trudged through the snow, his boots leaving deep impressions in the pristine surface.

Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in disbelief. Not far from the edge of the Forbidden Forest, lying motionless in the snow, was a figure. Hagrid's heart skipped a beat as he recognized the lanky frame and long, dark hair of the boy.

"Blimey! What's a lad doin' out here in this weather?" he exclaimed, his voice filled with concern.

Without a second thought, Hagrid broke into a run, his large strides quickly closing the distance between him and the boy. He knelt beside the figure, his face etched with worry as he peered down at the unconscious form.

"Laddie, can you hear me?" he asked, gently shaking the boy's shoulder.

There was no response. Hagrid carefully turned the boy over, his large hands supporting the fragile body. He placed his ear close to the boy's mouth, listening for the faintest sign of life. Relief washed over him as he detected the shallow but steady rhythm of breath.

"Thank goodness, he's still breathing," Hagrid sighed, relief washing over him. "But wha' on earth happened to you, lad?"

Without a moment's pause, Hagrid scooped the boy up into his arms, his massive strength making it look like a piece of cake. He held the boy close to his chest, protecting him from the biting wind. With careful, measured steps, Hagrid trudged back to his hut, his mind racing with worry and questions.

Once inside the cozy warmth of his hut, Hagrid gently laid the boy down in his own bed. He took off the boy's snow-covered cloak and boots, his brow knitted with concern as he noticed how pale the boy looked. Then, he wrapped the boy in a large, furry blanket, tucking him in snugly to keep the chill at bay.

"There you go, you'll be right as rain in no time," he whispered, his voice soothing and full of comfort.

Hagrid turned his attention to the fireplace, tossing in several large logs to stoke the flames. The fire crackled and roared, casting a warm glow throughout the hut. With the fire blazing, Hagrid set about making a pot of tea, hoping that its warmth would help revive the boy.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, Hagrid sat in his rocking chair, his eyes fixed on the unconscious boy. He wondered how the lad had ended up alone in the Forbidden Forest, and what had caused him to collapse in the snow.

Time seemed to stretch on, each moment filled with anticipation. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a knock came at the door. Hagrid, startled by the sudden intrusion, cautiously approached the entrance. He opened the door to find none other than Albus Dumbledore, standing on his doorstep.

"Headmaster Dumbledore! Wha' a surprise," Hagrid exclaimed, his voice filled with astonishment. "Wha' brings you out here in this weather?"

Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of concern and curiosity, stepped inside Hagrid's hut.

"Hagrid, I was wondering if you had seen a young student by the name of Severus," Dumbledore asked, his voice calm and measured. "He seems to be missing."

Hagrid's eyes widened as he realized the identity of the boy he had found in the snow.

"Headmaster, I found a boy out in the snow by the forest," Hagrid said, his voice heavy with worry. "He's unconscious, but he's breathing. It's Severus, isn't it?"

Dumbledore's face brightened with relief. "Yes, it is Severus," he replied, his tone warm with gratitude. "Thank you, Hagrid, for bringing him back."

Hagrid smiled proudly. "He's in my bed, getting warmed up," he said, pointing toward the back of the hut. "Come in, Headmaster, take a look at him."

Dumbledore followed Hagrid to the bedside, his gaze locked on the unconscious boy. He carefully checked on Severus, his expression turning serious with concern.

"He appears to be suffering from exposure and exhaustion," Dumbledore remarked, his voice laced with worry. "We need to get him back to the castle right away."

Dumbledore turned to Hagrid, his eyes brimming with gratitude. "Hagrid, I can't thank you enough for finding Severus and looking after him," he said, his voice genuinely warm. "You've really done a tremendous service."

Hagrid beamed, his heart swelling with pride. "Ah, it was nothin', Professor," he replied, his tone humble. "I'm just happy I could lend a hand."

Dumbledore nodded, clearly in agreement. "I need to get him back to the castle so Madam Pomfrey can check on him," the headmaster explained. "She'll know how to take care of him."

Hagrid nodded, concern etched on his face. "Of course, Professor," he said, his voice tinged with worry. "I really hope he'll be alright."

Dumbledore offered a reassuring smile. "I'm sure he'll make a full recovery," he said, his voice filled with optimism. "All thanks to you, Hagrid."

Before Dumbledore left, Hagrid offered him a cup of tea, but the old wizard politely turned it down.

"Thank you, Hagrid, but I really need to get Severus back to the castle as quickly as I can," Dumbledore said, urgency in his voice. "Maybe another time."

Hagrid nodded, understanding the situation. Dumbledore gently scooped the unconscious Severus into his arms, moving with care and precision. With one last grateful nod to Hagrid, Dumbledore stepped out of the hut. There was a soft Pop, and just like that, both the headmaster and the unconscious boy disappeared into thin air, leaving Hagrid alone once again in his cozy little hut.

Hagrid stood in the doorway, watching as the swirling snow filled the space where Dumbledore and Severus had once stood. He sighed contentedly, knowing that he had done his part to help a young student in need.

The whistle of the kettle called him, and he retreated back into his hut to make some tea.

Chapter Text

Philip Boyle slumped in his cramped cubicle, the dim touch lights casting a sickly pallor on his face. The air was thick with the stale scent of parchment and regret. The day’s news, crinkled and stacked high, spoke of another tragedy: “Knightsbridge Bombing Claims Wizard Life: Ministry Under Fire.” But instead of chasing the truth behind that grim headline, here he was, in cubicle 4B, stuck with the gossip pages.

Philip winced. That was a story. A real story. One that called for investigation, understanding, and a voice—one that could cut through the noise and speak truth to the wizarding world. But no. Philip Boyle, aspiring journalist extraordinaire, was not digging into the terrorist attack. No, he was stuck compiling the "Witch Weekly" equivalent for the Daily Prophet, a soul-crushing task filled with vapid gossip and manufactured drama that would have made Rita Skeeter blush.

The injustice of it gnawed at him. Ever since he was a kid, poring over yellowed copies of the Prophet, Philip had dreamed of a career dedicated to uncovering and reporting on the wonders and dangers of the wizarding world. He envisioned chronicling groundbreaking magical discoveries, interviewing the most influential figures, and exposing the shadowy forces that threatened their society. Instead, he was stuck writing frivolous pieces like "101 Ways to Make the Wizard of Your Dreams Fall for You."

"God, this is pathetic," he muttered, pushing back from his desk with a force that rattled the flimsy partitions of his cubicle. Approaching thirty felt more like a tombstone marking the death of his ambitions than a milestone. He wasn't supposed to be a cog in the tabloid machine. He was supposed to be... more.

He sat there for another agonizing minute, the weight of his frustration building until it threatened to suffocate him. Finally, fueled by a potent cocktail of desperation and righteous indignation, he pushed back his chair with a screech and stood.

He needed to speak to Cuffe.

Barnabas Cuffe, Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Prophet, was a legend in his own lifetime. A man of impeccable taste, ruthless ambition, and a nose for news sharper than a goblin's dagger. He was also, Philip suspected, a colossal prat.

Philip navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the Daily Prophet, his footsteps echoing on the polished stone floors. He passed bustling reporters, harried editors, and the occasional disgruntled intern, each absorbed in their own little world of deadlines and scoops. He felt like an outsider, a stranger in his own workplace.

He paused outside Cuffe's office, a corner suite that dwarfed his own cubicle. The heavy oak door was embossed with a golden "BC," a symbol of Cuffe's power and authority. He took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and knocked.

Philip pushed open the door and stepped into Cuffe's domain. The office was a testament to Cuffe's success, a lavish space filled with antique furniture, rare books, and magical artifacts. Cuffe himself sat behind a massive mahogany desk, the size of which made Philip's own desk look pitiful. Cuffe peering up from his work and down at Philip through half-moon spectacles.

"Bayley," Cuffe called out in his flat tone.

"Boyle, sir," Philip corrected, though it was clear that Cuffe wasn't listening.

"What is it?" Cuffe hissed, his eyes narrowing as he watched Philip take a seat opposite him.

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Cuffe was a man of few words, and he expected his subordinates to be equally concise. Philip’s throat suddenly felt dry, as if he'd swallowed a handful of sand. He suddenly felt smaller, less confident than he had only moments before.

But he had come this far. He couldn't back down now.

Philip swallowed hard. "Sir, I... I'd like to request a reassignment."

Cuffe's eyebrows shot up, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Reassignment? And what precisely would you be reassigned to, Boyle? More scintillating exposes on pixie infestations?"

Philip pressed on, determined to be heard. "I'd like to work on the London attack, sir. The one that was just reported."

Cuffe emitted a short, derisive bark of laughter. "You? On a case of that magnitude? Boyle, you're a tabloid writer, not an investigative reporter."

Philip's face flushed. He had expected resistance, but Cuffe's outright dismissal stung. "I know it's a challenging assignment, sir," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "but I believe I'm capable. I've been here for seven years. I’ve covered a variety of stories. I think I've earned the opportunity to tackle something more substantial."

Cuffe leaned back in his chair, his gaze unwavering. "Seven years, you say? And what exactly have you achieved in those seven years, Boyle? A knack for writing catchy headlines and uncovering celebrity scandals? That hardly qualifies you for serious investigative journalism."

"I've paid my dues sir," Philip insisted. "I've developed my research skills, honed my writing, and cultivated sources within the community. I'm ready for a challenge. I'm ready to prove myself."

"Proof is in the pudding, Boyle," Cuffe said, his tone dismissive. "And frankly, your pudding has been rather bland so far."

Philip gritted his teeth. He knew that Cuffe was a difficult man to impress, but he hadn't expected such blatant contempt. He needed to find a way to break through, to make Cuffe see his potential.

"Sir," he said, taking a deep breath. "With all due respect, I believe I'm being overlooked. Rita Skeeter, for example, has been given numerous front-page assignments, and she's only been here for a year."

Cuffe's eyes narrowed. "Skeeter is a talented writer, Boyle. She has a knack for getting to the heart of a story."

Philip scoffed, unable to contain his frustration. "A great writer, or a great… lover?"

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Cuffe's face paled, a flicker of fear crossing his features. He knew exactly what Philip was implying.

"What are you talking about, Boyle?" Cuffe said, his voice dangerously low.

Philip leaned forward, his gaze locked on Cuffe's. "I'm talking about the fact that Rita Skeeter's 'talent' seems to be directly proportional to her… proximity to you, sir." He paused, letting the words sink in. "I'm talking about the fact that I uncovered your little… entanglement… a few months ago. I’ve been waiting for the right moment."

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Cuffe's fury was palpable, radiating from him like heat from a furnace.

"You wouldn't dare," Cuffe hissed, his voice trembling with rage.

"Wouldn't I?" Philip countered, a grim smile playing on his lips. "Think about the scandal, sir. The editor leveraging his position for personal gain, the star reporter sleeping her way to the top... It would be quite the story, wouldn't it? Perfect for the front page, in fact."

Cuffe stared at him, speechless, his face a mask of fury and fear.

"However," Philip continued, his voice softening slightly, "I'm not interested in destroying your career, sir. I just want an opportunity. All I'm asking for is a chance to work on the London attack. Specifically, I want to investigate the one wizard fatality that was reported as 'unknown.'"

Cuffe remained silent for a long moment, weighing his options. The silence stretched, thick with tension. Finally, he sighed, the defeat evident in his slumped shoulders.

"Fine," he conceded, his voice grudging. "You can have the assignment. But be warned, Boyle. If you screw this up, if you breathe a word of this to anyone... you'll regret it."

Philip stood up, a surge of triumph coursing through him. "You won't regret this, sir. Thank you for the opportunity."

He turned and left the office, feeling a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had done it. He had finally broken free from the tabloid shackles.

As he walked down the corridor, he bumped into a familiar figure. Andrew Winters, a short, nervous man with watery eyes and a permanent stutter, worked in the editing department. He always seemed to be shrinking into himself, perfectly content in his small, organized cubicle.

"Philip! H-hello," Andrew stammered, adjusting his spectacles.

"Andy! Just the man I wanted to see," Philip said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I've just been assigned to the London attack investigation."

Andrew's eyes widened. "R-really? That's… that's a big story."

"It is," Philip agreed. "And I need a lead editor. Someone I can trust, someone with a sharp eye for detail. Someone like you, Andrew."

Andrew hesitated, his brow furrowed with concern. "I… I don't know, Philip. I'm not sure I'm the r-right person for the job. I'm happy where I am, you know? In my cubicle, with my… my parchments…"

Philip chuckled. "Come on, Andrew. This is our chance. Our big break. We can finally show them what we're capable of. Don't you want more than just… this?"

"I… I don't know, Philip," he stammered again. "It's a big risk."

"Everything worthwhile is a risk, Andy," Philip said, his voice persuasive. "Trust me. We can do this. Together."

Andrew looked down at his feet, his face etched with uncertainty. He chewed on his lip for a moment, then finally looked up, a flicker of determination in his eyes.

 "O-okay, Philip," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I'll do it. I'll be your l-lead editor."

Philip grinned, relief flooding through him. "That's great, Andy. You won't regret this."

He clapped Andrew on the shoulder again, then turned and headed back to his cubicle, his mind already racing with possibilities. He had a story to uncover, a truth to reveal. And with Andrew by his side, he was confident that he could do it. The tabloid shackles were gone. Now, the real work began.

Chapter Text

Darkness enveloped Severus, a thick, suffocating shroud that felt like a heavy weight pressing down on him. He was lost, adrift in a void where light was nothing but a distant memory. Suddenly, a sound shattered the silence – a low, guttural growl that resonated deep within his bones. Panic surged through him, a cold wave that washed over his entire being. He spun around, frantic to find the source, but the growling seemed to come from all directions, a haunting chorus of impending doom.

Driven by sheer instinct, he took off running. He had no idea where he was headed, only that he needed to escape the looming threat. His legs pounded against the unseen ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He pushed himself to the limit, running until his lungs burned and his muscles screamed in protest, but the growling only grew louder, closing in on him.

Out of nowhere, his foot snagged on something, and he went crashing to the ground. Pain shot through his body as he landed hard, but the growling urged him back to his feet. He glanced down at what had tripped him, and his heart sank in horror.

Scattered at his feet were the bodies of James Potter, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew. Their forms were grotesquely mangled, limbs torn apart, throats slashed open in a horrifying display of violence. Blood pooled around them, a dark, sickening stain that mirrored the terror in his eyes.

A wave of nausea surged in his throat. He wanted to scream, to cry, to fight against the nightmare unfolding before him. But the growling was getting closer, a constant reminder of the danger that stalked him, pushing aside any feelings of grief or despair. He forced himself to move, to leave the gruesome scene behind and continue his desperate flight.

Time lost all meaning as he ran. Each step felt like a battle against exhaustion, each breath a small victory over the encroaching despair. It felt like he had been running forever, his body pushed to its absolute limit. He knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer, but the relentless growling drove him onward, a constant prod that kept him from collapsing.

Then, through the oppressive darkness, he caught a glimpse of something...

Lily.

She lay sprawled before him, her red hair splayed across the ground like a macabre halo. Her throat was ripped open, a gaping wound that revealed the delicate structures beneath. Her entrails were exposed, a horrifying violation of the life that had once resided within. And in her eyes, a vacant, unseeing stare that spoke of unimaginable terror and finality.

The world spun wildly around him, and before he knew it, his legs gave way, sending him crashing to his knees beside her lifeless body. A choked sob tore from his throat. He had failed her. He hadn’t been able to protect her. He had let her slip away.

A bone-deep cold, unlike anything he had ever felt, began to seep into his very core, a chilling void that coursed through his veins. He reached out with a shaking hand, desperate to touch her, to somehow bring her back, but he couldn’t muster the courage to cross the unforgiving line of death that lay between them.

The growling was upon him now, a deafening roar that reverberated through the air he breathed.

It surrounded him, a tightening circle of menace. He looked up, his eyes wide with fear, and finally spotted the source of the sound. Beasts. Monstrous creatures with glowing eyes and razor-sharp teeth were closing in, their forms shadowy and indistinct in the darkness.

Panic gripped him. He frantically searched for his wand, the only weapon he had, but it was gone, lost in the chaos of the nightmare. He was completely defenseless.

Then, with a collective snarl, the beasts lunged. They surged forward, a wave of teeth and claws aimed straight at him.

And then Severus Prince jolted awake, screaming.

He bolted upright in bed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He gasped for breath, his lungs burning, his body drenched in a cold sweat. He was shaking uncontrollably, every muscle tense with residual fear.

It took a long, agonizing moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Slowly, the blurred shapes around him began to resolve into familiar forms. He was in the hospital wing. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air, a stark contrast to the stench of blood and death that had permeated his dream. It was morning, the first rays of sunlight filtering through the windows.

A handful of students occupied the other beds, all of them staring at him, their faces etched with surprise and concern. His scream had startled them awake, shattering the fragile tranquility of the morning.

Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse, rushed to his side, her face etched with worry.

"Severus, dear, are you okay?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine concern. "You really scared us all."

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his quivering voice.

"Yes," he managed to whisper, the word barely escaping his lips.

He gave a weak nod, hoping to reassure her that he was alright, that it had just been a bad dream. But the haunting images of the nightmare lingered in his mind, wrapping around him like a heavy cloak.

"What happened?" he managed to ask, his voice barely a whisper.

"You were… discovered near the Forbidden Forest by Hagrid, quite injured. We brought you here, and I've been tending to you ever since."

"Injured?" He attempted to sit up, a sharp pain lancing through his ankle.

"A sprain, nothing serious. Though I must say, you must have been through quite an ordeal," Madam Pomfrey tutted, shaking her head. "Now, lie back down. You need to rest."

He reluctantly obeyed, sinking back into the soft pillows. He was alive, a single, stubborn thought echoing through the chaos in his head: alive. The relief was almost overwhelming, a deluge after a long drought.

Madam Pomfrey fussed over him for a few more minutes, administering a calming draught. "There, that should help. Try to get some more rest. I'll be back to check on you shortly." She gave him a reassuring smile and moved towards her office, her footsteps echoing softly through the ward.

Severus reclined, his gaze fixed on the immaculate white ceiling above. His thoughts wandered back to the last moment he could truly remember. The unyielding chase through the snow-blanketed forest.

He could still feel the frantic, desperate struggle as he tried to flee from the monstrous figure that had leaped from the shadows. The sharp pain in his ankle as he stumbled, coupled with the gut-wrenching realization that he was on the brink of death, all alone and forgotten in the icy darkness.

And then, a stroke of fortune. The thunderous sound of hooves, the fierce shouts, the clash of metal against fur and bone. The Centaurs. They had come to his rescue, driving the beast away and granting him a chance to escape, to limp toward safety.

He had come so close to death that it sent a shiver down his spine as he faced the reality of it all. Surviving hadn’t even seemed like an option.

It was a werewolf. He was absolutely sure of it now. The creature's massive size, its wild ferocity, and those unmistakable wolf-like features all led to one terrifying conclusion. But what on earth was a werewolf doing lurking beneath the Whomping Willow? That was the real mystery.

He felt a strange urge to laugh, a mix of hysteria and tears bubbling up at the sheer absurdity of everything. Here he was, Severus Prince, the outcast of Hogwarts, the one everyone loved to mistrust and scorn, yet he had faced death head-on and, against all odds, managed to come out alive. It was almost overwhelming; he wanted to cry, to let go of the fear that still held him tightly in its grip.

Instead, he took a deep breath and forced himself to sit up. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cool stone floor. The throbbing in his ankle was gone. Madam Pomfrey's healing magic was truly remarkable.

He peered at the bedside table. A folded copy of the Daily Prophet sat next to a half-drunk cup of coffee, the steam long since dissipated. Someone had visited him while he was unconscious.

Thomas and Marcus, probably. No doubt they came looking for him when he didn't appear at the Slytherin table. They would have been worried sick when they heard he was in the hospital wing. The thought brought a flicker of warmth to his otherwise bleak mood. They were good lads, loyal and surprisingly tolerant of his… eccentricities.

He reached for the newspaper, his fingers trembling slightly. He unfolded it carefully, his eyes scanning the headlines. And then, his breath caught in his throat.

Knightsbridge Bombing Claims Wizard Life: Ministry Under Fire

His eyebrows shot up in surprise and concern. He began to read, his eyes darting over the words with growing apprehension.

Wednesday 19th November 1975

By Barnaby Quill, Daily Prophet Staff Writer.

A scene of unimaginable horror unfolded in the heart of London yesterday, as Walton’s Restaurant on Walton Street, Knightsbridge, became the target of a brutal attack. Reports indicate that the devastating incident was the work of the Irish Republican Army (IRA), claiming the lives of three innocent civilians and leaving twenty-three others injured.

While the Muggle world grapples with the aftermath of this tragedy, a chilling revelation has emerged from the rubble. Auror Corban Yaxley, first on the scene from the Ministry’s Magical Law Enforcement Squad, has confirmed reports that one of the deceased was, in fact, a member of our own community.

“The signs were unmistakable,” Auror Yaxley stated grimly to the Daily Prophet. “The nature of the blast… the residual magic. There’s no doubt that a wizard fell victim to this senseless act of violence.”

This horrific incident marks just the latest in a string of similar attacks plaguing the last five years, fostering a growing sense of unrest within certain segments of wizarding Britain. Many are questioning whether the Ministry of Magic is doing enough to safeguard our community against the dangers lurking within the Muggle world.

“How many more must die before they take this seriously?” exclaimed a prominent pure-blood, speaking on condition of anonymity. “This is precisely why we must remain separate, protect our own! The Muggles are inherently dangerous, and their violence will inevitably spill over into our world.”

While such sentiments echo the concerns of some, they are also fueling the flames of prejudice and fear, potentially exacerbating the already delicate relationship between the wizarding and Muggle societies.

The Ministry of Magic, under increasing pressure, has released a statement assuring the public that it is working closely with Muggle authorities to ensure the safety and security of all citizens, both magical and Muggle alike.

“The Ministry is deeply saddened by the tragic events in Knightsbridge,” the statement read. “We extend our condolences to the families of the victims and pledge our unwavering commitment to working in conjunction with the Muggle police and security forces to bring those responsible to justice and prevent future atrocities.”

However, the statement has done little to quell the growing anxieties and criticisms. Many feel that more proactive measures are needed, beyond simple cooperation with the Muggle police. Whispers can be heard in Diagon Alley, from calls for heightened magical security in Muggle-populated areas to demands for increased Ministry surveillance of known extremist groups.

The bombing of Walton’s Restaurant serves as a stark reminder of the fragile peace we strive to maintain and the ever-present dangers that lurk in the shadows. The Ministry faces an uphill battle in reassuring a shaken public and demonstrating that it is truly capable of protecting its citizens in an increasingly volatile world. The questions remain: will they rise to the challenge?

And at what cost?

Severus swallowed hard, feeling a bitter taste settle in his mouth. He could already picture the smug, self-righteous declarations that would be spilling out from the pure-blood fanatics in Slytherin. To them, every casualty or death of a witch or wizard at the hands of Muggles was a twisted kind of victory, rather than a heartbreaking loss.

He shook his head, frustration washing over him like a cold wave. This was a nightmare for the few Muggle-borns and anyone in Slytherin who didn’t buy into the pure-blood nonsense. They were about to face a storm of scrutiny, suspicion, and outright hostility. Just thinking about it made his head throb.

Some time passed, and he was soon joined by Madam Pomfrey. He watched her guide her wand over him, her eyes searching as if she could see right through him. Satisfied, she placed her wand away and smiled.

"Excellent," she declared, her voice laced with relief. "The bone has mended beautifully. Avoid strenuous activity for a few days, but you should be perfectly fine. You're dismissed, Severus."

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," he replied, his voice clipped but sincere. He owed the woman a debt of gratitude, even if he would rather be anywhere else. He gathered his belongings: his robe, wand, and the old map, and prepared to leave.

"Oh, Severus," Madam Pomfrey called out as he reached the door. He paused, his hand on the handle. "Headmaster Dumbledore asked to see you in his office… once you are recovered, of course."

Severus felt a knot tighten in his stomach. A summons from Dumbledore was never a light matter. He offered another, even more perfunctory, "Right," before gathering his things and hurrying out of the hospital wing.

The walk to Dumbledore's office felt like an eternity, heavy with silence and tension. The stone corridors of Hogwarts echoed his unease, each step sounding like a drumbeat that only heightened the worries swirling in his mind.

Did Dumbledore know about the beast? Could he have sensed its lurking presence in the shadows of the forbidden forest? Had he already sent Aurors to track it down, using his vast wisdom? The mere thought sent a chill racing down Severus's spine.

And then there was the most horrifying possibility, a gruesome scenario that played out vividly in his mind: Had they found them? The twisted remains of Potter, Black, and Pettigrew, their young bodies ravaged by the creature? Guilt gnawed at him, a relentless ache in his chest, threatening to consume him. They had foolishly chased them into that tunnel. He may have despised those arrogant fools, but he never wished for them to meet such a fate.

As Severus approached the gargoyle that stood guard at the entrance to the Headmaster's office, he felt a lump in his throat, suddenly parched. He whispered the password, a phrase that all prefects knew, a precautionary measure to grant access to the headmaster during emergencies. It struck him as bitterly ironic. He wasn’t really facing an emergency, but rather a summons, perhaps a reckoning.

The gargoyle shifted, its stone face groaning as it swung open, revealing a narrow, twisting staircase that spiraled upward. Severus took a deep breath and started to climb, each step feeling heavier on his chest. The air thinned with every turn, the silence only broken by the sound of his shoes scraping against the stone.

At last, he found himself in front of the grand oak door. It was larger than necessary, almost theatrical in its presence. Severus's hand shook slightly as he reached out to knock, the sound echoing loudly in the heavy silence.

A moment of excruciating suspense hung in the air, and then, a familiar voice, almost too cheerful, called out from the other side.

"Enter!"

Dumbledore sat behind his large, cluttered desk, a familiar sight that usually radiated warmth. But today, the Headmaster seemed a bit off, his usual twinkle in those cornflower blue eyes replaced by a serious demeanor that felt unsettling.

“Severus,” he said, his voice softer than normal. “Please, have a seat.”

Severus, still just fifteen, carried himself with a dignity that seemed beyond his years. He glanced at the plush armchair in front of the desk but chose to sit on the edge, alert and ready. Dumbledore offered him a plate of Honeyduke's sweets.

“Lemon drop?”

“No, thank you, Headmaster,” Snape replied, his tone sharp and to the point. He wasn’t here for small talk. “May I ask why I was summoned?”

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his gaze steady. “It’s about what happened last night, Severus. Could you… share your account with me?”

Severus's jaw clenched tightly. He really didn’t want to revisit the nightmare of the previous night, the chilling realization of what was hiding beneath the Whomping Willow. But he had no other option. He started speaking, his voice low and measured.

"Lily and I were on patrol, like we always did. We stumbled upon Potter, Black, and Pettigrew… lurking in the hallways."

He paused for a moment, a flash of resentment flickering across his face. Even in the midst of the night’s terror, seeing his rivals, the Marauders, ignited a familiar anger within him.

"Lily chased after them, and I followed. They… they vanished into a secret tunnel, one I didn’t even know existed. Right under the Whomping Willow."

Dumbledore listened closely, his expression unreadable. He didn’t interrupt as Severus pressed on, the words spilling out, raw and heavy with lingering fear.

"We found ourselves in the Shrieking Shack. And then… then we encountered it." Severus ’s voice dropped to a whisper. "A beast. I… I now know it was a werewolf."

He swallowed hard, the memory of the creature's snarling fangs and glowing eyes still vivid in his mind. He described how he had led the werewolf away from Lily, his heart pounding against his ribs with terror, and how, just as the beast had lunged, the centaurs of the Forbidden Forest had intervened, their arrows driving it back. He remembered the searing pain, the disorienting darkness, and then nothing.

"I… I passed out. I woke up in the hospital wing this morning." He finished, his voice barely audible.

Dumbledore remained silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Severus ’s face, dissecting every word, every nuance. "And this… this is precisely what occurred?"

"Yes," Severus affirmed, meeting the Headmaster's gaze. "It is."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, the silence stretching, heavy with unspoken questions. Finally, Severus broke it.

"What about Potter, Black, and Pettigrew? Are they… are they alive?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, Severus. They are all unharmed, though considerably shaken."

A wave of relief washed over Severus, surprising him with its intensity. He hadn't realized how much he had feared the worst. His face softened momentarily, then hardened again.

"How did they escape? And what were they doing down there in the first place?"

He paused, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. A dreadful realization dawned on him, a chilling premonition that sent a shiver down his spine. He met Dumbledore’s gaze, his eyes narrowing.

“Where was Lupin last night?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, laced with a growing dread. "Where was Remus Lupin during the full moon?"

Dumbledore let out a heavy sigh, one that carried the weight of exhaustion. He leaned in closer, his face serious. “Severus, how much do you really know about… the condition that affects certain people? Those who struggle with lycanthropy?”

Severus’s face went pale, the color draining away. He shot up from his chair, sending it crashing to the floor with a loud bang.

"Lupin… Remus Lupin is a werewolf," he whispered, the words barely escaping his lips.

Dumbledore didn’t argue. He simply nodded, his face reflecting deep sorrow. "It’s not his choice, Severus. He was bitten as a child. He has endured so much every full moon."

Anger began to bubble up beneath Severus’s initial shock. "And you knew? You knew this all along?" he exclaimed, his voice rising in intensity.

Dumbledore sighed once more, a sound that seemed to age him even more. "Yes, Severus. I have always known."

The shock that had gripped Severus slowly transformed into a fierce rage. He began to pace the room, his fists clenched tightly.

"You put all the students at risk! You let a werewolf roam this castle for years!" he yelled, his voice bouncing off the walls. "What were you thinking?"

Dumbledore kept his composure, his tone steady. "No incidents have occurred, Severus. We had a system in place to ensure the students' safety."

Severus let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "A system? A system that nearly got me killed last night? A system that let three reckless idiots wander into a werewolf's den! A system that completely failed!" He jabbed a shaking finger at Dumbledore. "It only takes one mistake, sir. One mistake, and someone's life is over!"

Dumbledore stood up, his eyes pleading for understanding. "Severus, please, try to see it from my perspective. Mr. Lupin deserves an education, no matter his condition. To deny him that would be… cruel."

Severus's lip curled in disdain, but he stayed quiet, wrestling with his anger. He knew what it felt like to be an outcast, to be seen as different. A flicker of pity for Lupin crossed his mind, but it was quickly snuffed out by his overwhelming fear and rage.

Dumbledore pressed on, his voice softer now. "Think about the consequences if Mr. Lupin's secret were to come out. He would have to register with the Ministry, branded as a dangerous creature. He would face discrimination, struggle to find work… and in the worst-case scenario, Severus, he could be hunted down and killed."

Severus turned away, unable to meet Dumbledore's gaze. He didn't want to contemplate Lupin's possible fate. He wanted to focus on his own fear, his own anger, his own brush with death.

Dumbledore leaned in closer, his voice gentle. "I’m thankful that no one was seriously hurt, Severus. And I must commend you for your bravery last night. You acted selflessly, protecting Miss Evans from harm. You would have made a fine Gryffindor," he added with a hint of a smile.

Severus scoffed, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. "Don't be absurd."

Dumbledore's expression turned serious again. "However, this issue must remain between those involved. It is of paramount importance that this secret is kept. I have spoken to Miss Evans already, and I will be speaking with Mr. Potter, Mr. Black, and Mr. Pettigrew. This must not be uttered to others, Severus. The consequences for all of you would be… dire." His eyes, usually so full of warmth, now held a chilling intensity. "Do you understand?"

Severus remained silent for a long moment, the weight of the secret pressing down on him. He thought of the danger he had faced, the trust that had been violated, the potential ramifications of revealing the truth. He thought of Lupin, the quiet, unassuming boy who was hiding a terrible secret. He thought of Lily, and the relief he had felt at her safety.

Finally, he nodded slowly. "I understand," he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Dumbledore nodded in return. He contemplated the wisdom of delving deeper, of using Legilimency to ensure Severus understanding and compliance. But he hesitated. Severus Prince had proven himself to be both brave and resourceful, despite his flaws. He had acted with courage and selflessness, even at great personal risk. Dumbledore owed him a measure of trust.

"May I leave now, sir?" Severus muttered, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Yes, Severus," Dumbledore replied, gesturing towards the door. "You are dismissed."

He watched as the boy marched out of the office, his posture still rigid, his shoulders squared as if carrying a heavy burden. A secret burden, now shared.

Dumbledore sighed, sinking back into his chair. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that the secret he now held, the secret he had forced upon these young students, would have far-reaching consequences. But it was all for the greater good.

Remus Lupin jolted awake, gasping for breath, feeling cold and disoriented. The damp earth pressed against his bare skin, leaving him completely exposed to the chilly pre-dawn air of the Forbidden Forest. His memories were a jumbled mess, swirling around in his mind like a murky potion. He grasped at the fading echoes of the previous night—a frantic chase through shadowy woods, the primal roar that seemed to come from deep within him.

Every muscle in his body protested as he slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, each movement a reminder of the transformation he had just experienced. A throbbing pain pulsed in his head, making him wince as he squeezed his eyes shut against the discomfort.

He took a moment to gather himself, forcing his mind to focus on his surroundings. Even in the soft light of dawn, the Forbidden Forest had a serene beauty about it. The towering trees, their branches entwined like ancient lovers, cast long, dancing shadows on the ground. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a smell that was both familiar and unsettling. For Remus, this forest was a strange mix of prison and sanctuary.

Suddenly, a twig snapped nearby.

He spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Standing a few feet away, bathed in the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy, was James.

But this wasn’t the usual James. The confident grin and playful glint in his eyes were nowhere to be found. Instead, he looked… haunted. His hair was even more disheveled than usual, and his face was pale and drawn. He seemed just as terrible as Remus felt, maybe even worse.

James slowly made his way toward him, his steps unsteady. "Remus," he said, his voice rough. "How… how are you holding up?"

Remus grunted, instinctively pulling his knees to his chest. "Fine," he muttered, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. "Relatively. What... what happened last night?" He needed answers, to piece together the fragmented memories that were clawing at the edges of his mind.

James hesitated, a flicker of pain crossing his face. "It's… it's a long story," he said, his gaze shifting awkwardly. He took off his own cloak, the one with the Gryffindor crest, and draped it over Remus's trembling shoulders.

"Thanks," Remus mumbled, feeling grateful for the warmth. He struggled to his feet, with James offering a steadying hand. The movement sent a jolt of pain through his body, and he winced, biting back a groan.

"Easy there, mate," James said, his voice filled with concern.

"Where are Sirius and Peter?" Remus asked, the question gnawing at him. They were usually around, a steady presence after the full moon. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he hadn’t seen them last night. Their absence felt wrong.

James’ lips pressed together. “I’ll explain everything,” he said, his voice tight. “But first, let’s get you back to the castle. We need to take care of you.” He didn’t offer any more details, and Remus, picking up on the heavy silence, chose not to push for more.

The two of them made their way back to the castle slowly, each step a struggle against Remus’s sore muscles and the rising anxiety that felt like it might choke him.

The sight of Hogwarts, glowing in the morning light, did little to calm his frayed nerves. As they shuffled through the entrance hall, Madam Pomfrey was already there, her expression filled with worry.

"Mr. Lupin! Goodness, you look absolutely awful!" she exclaimed, guiding him toward a bed in the Hospital Wing. "You must have had a truly dreadful night." She hurried around, mumbling about how crucial rest and recovery were while she got a tray of healing potions ready.

Remus frowned. Madam Pomfrey’s words only amplified the growing unease inside him. A dreadful night? What on earth had happened?

He settled back against the pillows, trying to piece together a clearer memory of the night before. Blurred images floated in his mind: racing through the hidden tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow, the exhilarating rush of breaking free into the night. He recalled sprinting through the forest, the pounding of hooves, the instinctive drive to hunt. Then, a brief moment of running alongside a magnificent stag—Prongs, his friend in his transformed state, strong and unrestrained. And then… nothing but darkness.

But he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was overlooking something important, those crucial pieces of the puzzle that just wouldn’t fit. He replayed the jumbled memories in his mind, desperately searching for the missing connections. Why hadn’t Sirius and Peter shown up this morning? They’d never skipped a full moon. And what was up with James? He looked so worn out, so on edge. And why had Madam Pomfrey whispered something about a terrible night?

Madam Pomfrey came back, her arms full of potions. She started handing them out with quick efficiency, the strong mixtures swiftly dulling the pain. She insisted he stay in the Hospital Wing for the whole day until he was completely better.

"Rest now, Mr. Lupin," she said with a firm tone. "And no visitors until I give the green light." Then, her expression shifted to something serious as she turned to James. "Mr. Potter, the Headmaster wants to see you right away."

Remus frowned, feeling his unease grow. James? In trouble? That was unheard of, especially not before breakfast and definitely not the day after a full moon. He was the epitome of Gryffindor bravery, the golden boy. What on earth could Dumbledore want with him?

James shot Remus a small, forced smile, trying to reassure him but failing. "I’ll catch you later, Moony," he said, his voice revealing his concern.

Remus watched him go, his heart heavy with foreboding. A profound sense of dread enveloped him, a suffocating blanket of fear and uncertainty. The echoes of the forest, once a distant murmur, now roared in his ears, a symphony of unanswered questions and the chilling premonition that something terrible had happened, something that would irrevocably change their lives.

Chapter Text

The whispers hadn't died down. A week had passed since the infamous incident involving Severus Prince, Lily Evans, and the Marauders, and Hogwarts was still a breeding ground for speculation. Marcus Adams, a shadow of frustration clinging to him, found himself no closer to deciphering the truth behind the veiled incident. The school, usually a cacophony of youthful exuberance, now hummed with a relentless undercurrent of speculation, each rumor more outlandish than the last.

One version, probably the most convincing, described a scene where Severus found himself cornered by Potter's crew and was chased into the forbidden forest. According to this story, Lily Evans heroically stepped in, putting herself between the two sides in a desperate bid to stop things from getting worse.

"Can you believe it?" a Gryffindor girl whispered to her friend as they walked past Marcus in the corridor. "Lily actually stood up to Potter, yelled at him like he was a first-year! She called him a bully and said Severus hadn’t done anything wrong."

On the flip side, there was a darker version of events, favored by some Slytherins, that painted Lily in a much less flattering light. This rumor claimed that Lily, with her so-called "mudblood magic," had cunningly trapped Severus. Blinded by his lust, Severus had unknowingly walked right into a setup orchestrated by her and Potter's gang, leading to a vicious ambush.

This narrative played into the prejudices festering within the Slytherin common room for the past week after the terror attack in London. Anything Muggle or Muggle-born was seen with distrust at best and outright hatred at worst.

It was all so tiresome.

Severus himself was an impenetrable fortress of silence. He deflected every inquiry with a curt, "It's nothing, Marcus," or a dismissive shrug. The lack of information was maddening, but it was Severus's behavior that truly worried Marcus.

He was on edge, constantly twitching, his usual pallor replaced with a sickly grey. Dark, heavy bags perpetually shadowed his eyes, a testament to sleepless nights filled with… what? Fear?

Marcus couldn't decipher the emotions swirling behind those guarded, obsidian eyes.

They had a free period after a very tense Muggle Studies, and Severus, after shuffling his feet and avoiding eye contact, had mumbled something about needing to return to the dorms for some rest. This had become a pattern. He’d retreat to the dorms, claiming exhaustion, yet he seemed to emerge looking even more drained than before.

Marcus suspected he wasn’t actually sleeping at all.

Now, Marcus found himself in the library alongside Thomas, supposedly focused on the potions assignment given by Professor Slughorn. But in truth, he was just staring blankly at the parchment, his thoughts tangled up in the enigma of Severus's strange behavior. He picked up his quill, ready to jot down the next step in the potion-making process, yet his mind kept drifting back to the quiet Slytherin and the incident that had clearly rattled him.

Across the table, Thomas, his other closest friend, seemed remarkably unperturbed by the unfolding drama. He was engrossed in a rather weighty tome on advanced Transfiguration, occasionally making notes with meticulous precision.

Thomas, sensing Marcus's distraction, sighed audibly. With a flick of his wand, he cast a Muffliato, a spell of Severus’s own creation, around their table.

"Hey, Marcus," Thomas said, glancing up with a worried look. "You seem…off. Is everything okay?"

"Okay? No, Thomas, nothing is okay," Marcus shot back, but then a wave of guilt washed over him. He softened his tone. "He’s hiding something from us. From me. And it’s clearly tearing him apart."

Frustrated, Marcus pressed on, "Seriously, how can you be so calm about this? Aren't you curious about what's bothering Severus? Don’t you think we have a right to know?"

Thomas carefully set a bookmark in his Transfiguration book before meeting Marcus's gaze, his brow slightly knitted. "Sure, it frustrates me that Severus is keeping secrets. We’re his friends, after all. But I trust him. If he’s not sharing, there’s probably a good reason for it."

"A good reason?" Marcus scoffed. "What possible reason could he have for keeping a secret from his oldest friends? We've been through everything together. Remember that time he almost blew up the Potions classroom trying to remaster a potion? We helped him clean up the mess!"

Thomas considered this for a moment, tapping a finger against his chin. "Perhaps…perhaps he's under some kind of vow. Sworn to silence."

Marcus's eyebrows shot up. "An Unbreakable Vow? Surely not!"

Thomas shook his head. "No, no, that's far too extreme. Something less…permanent. More likely, he was simply instructed not to speak of it. Maybe by Slughorn."

Marcus considered this. "Slughorn? Why would Slughorn be involved?"

"I don't know," Thomas admitted, "but Slughorn does have a way of…collecting secrets. And he clearly favors Severus. Perhaps he witnessed something and asked Severus to keep it quiet."

"But still," Marcus argued, the frustration building again, "it feels wrong. Like we're being deliberately shut out. We should be helping him, not speculating from the sidelines."

Thomas leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Look at Severus, Marcus. He's stressed, exhausted, practically vibrating with anxiety. Bombarding him with questions now won't help. It'll probably make things worse. We need to give him space."
He paused, then added gently, "Sometimes, the best way to help a friend is to simply be there, without demanding explanations."

Marcus let out a sigh, feeling his anger start to fade a bit. Thomas had a valid point. He understood Severus well enough to know that if he pushed too hard, it would only make him retreat even more.

"Fine," Marcus said, a bit reluctantly. "I'll give him a few days. Let him have some space. Maybe after that… maybe then he’ll be ready to open up."

Yet, as he said those words, a sense of unease crept in. What if "whatever happened" was too overwhelming, too risky, for Severus to face on his own? Marcus shook his head, forcing the thought out of his mind. He peered down at his blank piece of parchment and signed before forcing himself to begin the assignment. 

Evan Rosier sank into the soft, emerald green sofa, feeling a dull ache in his hand after wrapping up his writing. He had just completed Slughorn's latest potions assignment, which was a real slog—mixing unicorn hair with pickled gnomes. Now, he had to put up with the endless chatter of Avery and Mulciber, who were, as always, grumbling about Muggle Studies.

"Honestly," Avery whined, his voice nasal and grating, "Why do we even need to learn about Muggles? They're utterly pathetic."

Mulciber, a hulking figure with a perpetual scowl etched onto his face, grunted in agreement. "My father says it's all Dumbledore's fault. Trying to 'integrate' us with Muggles. Disgusting."

Evan let out a quiet sigh. Their endless griping was wearing him down, but honestly, it was a welcome distraction from the turmoil swirling in his mind. The last week had been… unsettling, to say the least. The attack in London, where a wizard lost his life in the chaos of Muggle violence, lingered like a dark cloud. It had ignited a fierce passion among the more extreme pure-blood groups, and the Knights of Walpurgis—a name that sent shivers down spines—were starting to gain some serious momentum.

Rosier watched the shift unfold with a curious detachment. While he didn’t mind the idea of pure-blood supremacy, he preferred a more nuanced strategy—one that leaned on influence and manipulation instead of sheer force. The blunt statements from Avery and Mulciber bored him; they lacked the sophistication he valued.

The vibe in the common room had definitely shifted. The few Muggle-born students who dared to call Slytherin their home now moved with an unmistakable sense of fear, their heads down and voices barely above a whisper. It felt like the natural order was being reestablished, with pure-bloods once again at the top of the hierarchy.

Rosier remembered a recent incident that illustrated this change. A third-year Muggle-born girl, still just a child, had the audacity to mutter an insult after Mulciber made a particularly harsh comment about her family. Without a second thought, Rosier had silenced her with a quick Horn Tongue Hex. She had run off, tears streaming down her cheeks, and he felt a flicker of satisfaction. After all, he thought, discipline was essential.

"Did you hear about Prince?" Mulciber asked, his tone dripping with disapproval. "The rumors?"

Rosier frowned, thinking about Severus Prince, the quiet and mysterious student who had been acting a bit off lately. He’d always been a bit of an oddball, but now his behavior was starting to feel downright unsettling. There were whispers going around about an attack in the Forbidden Forest, and it made the air feel heavy.

"He's always been a peculiar one," Rosier said quietly. "But something's definitely not right this time."

Suddenly, the hidden entrance to the common room, a seemingly blank stone wall, slid open with a low rumble. Evan glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he saw Jane Pace stride in, surrounded by her usual entourage of friends, including Richards and Blackwell, and a handful of other girls. They were laughing and chattering, Anna Richards telling a story that seemed to amuse Pace.

Evan watched them, his expression carefully neutral. Pace was a conundrum. A Muggle-born, yes, but a particularly defiant and talented one. She was a star player on the Slytherin Quidditch team, a fact that seemed to grant her a degree of immunity from the usual harassment.

Avery, however, wasn't so restrained. He sneered openly at the sight of Pace, muttering loud enough for everyone to hear, "Look at her. The arrogant Mudblood thinks she's something just because she's on the Quidditch team."

Pace's laughter caught in her throat, and she quickly turned, her grey eyes narrowing with a fierce glare. "Did you just say something, Avery?" she shot back, her voice cutting through the tension. "Is there something you want to say to my face?"

Avery, despite his earlier bravado, shrank back under her intense stare. He muttered something barely audible and sank deeper into his chair. But Mulciber, on the other hand, puffed out his chest, a predatory glint in his eyes as he stood tall over Pace.

"We said you're a Mudblood," Mulciber sneered, his voice laced with malice. "And Mudbloods like you have had way too much freedom for the last four years. But things are about to change, Pace. Just wait and see."

Jane laughed, a short, humorless sound. "You think you're intimidating me, Mulciber? I'm not one of those scared first and second years you and your cronies like to bully."

Blackwell placed a hand on Pace's shoulder, her expression anxious. "Jane, it's not worth it. Just ignore them."

But Pace shook off her friend's restraining hand. She stepped closer to Mulciber, her eyes blazing. "I know it was you," she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "You're the ones who put Lauren O'Reilly in the hospital wing. One of our own Slytherins and you hurt her."

Mulciber let out a laugh, sharp and mocking. "O'Reilly? She's just like those Muggles who attacked London. She got what was coming to her."

"You're such an idiot, Mulciber," Pace shot back, her voice getting louder. "Lauren has nothing to do with the fight between the IRA and the British government. She's just a kid!"

Feeling encouraged by Mulciber's presence, Avery finally spoke up. "Mudbloods can't be trusted," he squeaked, his voice high-pitched. "When it really matters, they'll always turn their backs on the wizarding world to save themselves."

Pace's face flushed red with fury. In a flash, her wand was in her hand, pointed directly at Mulciber. Evan Rosier's throat went dry. Avery and Mulciber, not to be outdone, drew their own wands. Pace's friends, Richards and Blackwell, followed suit, their faces grim. The other girls in their group, their eyes wide with fear, instinctively stepped back, creating a small circle of tension in the common room.

Rosier weighed his options. He could stand back and let the situation escalate, potentially resulting in disciplinary action from the professors. Or he could intervene, attempting to defuse the situation. He knew Mulciber and Avery were itching for a fight, eager to prove their dominance. Ultimately, he decided on the latter. Not out of any particular sympathy for Pace, but because he recognized the inherent stupidity of the situation.

"Avery, Mulciber, back off," he hissed, his voice low and filled with warning.

Both boys stared at him, surprise etched on their faces as they tried to figure out what he was up to. But Rosier held their gaze steady, the unspoken threat in his eyes clear as day.

"Magic is wasted on someone like Jane Pace," he muttered, his tone dripping with contempt. "Don’t stoop to her level."

Avery and Mulciber, picking up on the change in the atmosphere, let out a snicker. Slowly, though with obvious reluctance, they lowered their wands, their eyes still locked on Jane, brimming with hostility.

Mulciber, never one to let an insult slide, couldn’t help but throw in a parting jab. His eyes roamed over Jane’s figure, a predatory gleam in his gaze. "She could’ve been a real good fuck," he sneered, "if it weren’t for her dirty blood."

The words hung heavy in the air, thick with malice. Then, everything unfolded in a flash. In a split second too quick for Evan to fully grasp, Jane’s fist connected with Mulciber’s face. The bigger boy's nose made a sickening snapping noise as Pace's fist dug into it.

Evan's eyes widened. He saw blood trickling from the big boy's nose, down his face. Mulciber’s eyes narrowed, a red haze of fury descending over him. He raised his wand, but Richards was faster. A muttered Flipendo, and Mulciber was sent flying backwards, crashing into a table with a resounding thud.

"Shit!" Evan muttered under his breath, feeling the tension rise. Things were getting out of hand fast. With a quick flick of his wand, he disarmed Richards using Expelliarmus.

Avery, spotting his chance, lunged at Pace. But Blackwell was on the ball. A perfectly aimed Stupefy struck Avery right in the chest, knocking him down to the ground.

Realizing it was now two against one, Evan couldn't help but mentally scold Mulciber and Avery for their foolishness. He raised his hands, palms facing out, signaling his surrender. "I'm not here to fight," he said quietly, hoping his words would help calm things down.

Jane glared at him, her chest heaving. Blackwell, her voice tight with suspicion, demanded, "Give Anna her wand back if you mean what you're saying."

Reluctantly, Evan handed over the wand. For a long moment, the girls seemed poised to attack, their wands still held at the ready. But just as quickly as the violence had erupted, it subsided. They lowered their wands, their faces etched with a mixture of anger and apprehension. Without another word, they turned and retreated towards the girl's dorms, the other girls who had watched on in shocked silence scurrying after them.

Evan let out a deep sigh, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. He helped Avery to his feet, the smaller boy letting out a groan of pain. But when Evan reached out to assist Mulciber, he slapped his hand away. Mulciber stood up, his face twisted in barely contained anger. He marched over to one of the chairs and dropped into it with an exasperated thud. Rosier and Avery followed him a moment later, the air thick with unspoken accusations.

It was Mulciber who finally broke the silence, his voice dripping with disappointment. "Just look at this place," he said, his tone sharp. "Look at what Slytherin has turned into. My father always told me that Slytherin was the last stronghold of wizarding pride in this wretched school. But now… just look at it."

Avery nodded, his expression twisted in disgust. "The number of filthy half-bloods and mudbloods in Slytherin keeps increasing every year. It’s absolutely disgraceful."

Mulciber slammed a fist into the table, causing Avery to jump. "I'll get that filthy mudblood bitch back for this disrespect," he vowed, his eyes burning with vengeance. "She'll pay."

Evan seized the opportunity to try and calm the situation. "This humiliation will pass," he said, his voice measured and deliberately soothing. "Things are changing. In a few years' time, the order of the wizarding world will be restored. We'll be living in a world ruled by pure-bloods. Just wait and see, this is just a temporary setback."

He understood that those words were just hollow reassurances, meant to soothe Mulciber's bruised ego. Yet, he also recognized that they were exactly what Mulciber craved to hear—words that echoed the deepest fears and hopes of countless pure-blood Slytherins. The serpent's grip was growing tighter, and Evan Rosier sensed that it wouldn't be long before it was poised to strike.

Severus lay stiff in his four-poster bed, the thin sheets coiling around his legs like eerie tendrils. What used to be a refuge in sleep had turned into a battlefield. For seven long days, he had been robbed of genuine rest, each night plunging him into a haunting nightmare. The image of snarling teeth, glistening fur, and the disturbingly familiar eyes of Remus Lupin, twisted and monstrous, replayed in his mind over and over. He’d wake up drenched in sweat, his heart pounding a frantic beat against his ribs, the ghostly scent of damp fur lingering in his nostrils.

His days were no better. A heavy expectation loomed in the air – an unspoken pressure to act as if nothing had happened. As if being hunted by a bloodthirsty werewolf was just another ordinary Tuesday. The worst part was the constant, subtle probing. He felt like a pariah, a spectacle, bombarded with thinly veiled questions about the "incident."

And then there was Dumbledore. That infuriatingly enigmatic wizard, with his twinkling eyes and infuriatingly calm demeanor. As if a perfectly calculated punishment would smooth everything over. Ten points deducted from Slytherin, ten from Gryffindor. A pathetic attempt at balanced justice. No detentions for Potter and his marauding band of miscreants.

Severus wasn't sure if he should feel insulted or if he should laugh at how ridiculous it all was. Ten points, that was what it all amounted to. He shook his head.

He'd deliberately avoided the Gryffindor lot, particularly Lupin. He made a point of choosing seats as far away as humanly possible in the few classes they shared. The first day after the… event… Lupin had looked dreadful, pale and drawn, his eyes haunted. But with each passing day, the color had returned to his cheeks, his posture straightened, and his usual easygoing demeanor gradually resurfaced. Severus suspected Potter and Black had gotten to him first, feeding him a sanitized, watered-down version of the truth. 

No doubt casting Severus as the instigator, the one who’d gotten himself into trouble.

Unable to find any comfort in sleep, Severus begrudgingly sat up. The chilly morning air bit at his skin. He grabbed his old schoolbag and pulled out the finished potions assignment. Carefully, he went over his work, making sure every detail was just right, every ingredient measured accurately, and every reaction noted. He craved control, and perfecting his potions was one of the few things he felt he could still manage.

Satisfied, he replaced the assignment and retrieved his potions book. It was a tattered, beloved relic, inherited from his mother. The once-rigid spine was now fraying, threatening to unravel. It needed another repairing charm, a task he’d been putting off, loathing the reminder of its delicate, fragile state.

But the book's true value lay not in its physical integrity, but in its contents. The margins were filled with his own meticulous notes, corrections derived from countless late-night experiments. He'd documented alternative brewing methods, tweaked ingredients, and recorded the results of his tireless research.

Beyond the realm of potions, the book also contained a section dedicated to Severus's burgeoning interest in spell creation. It was a repository of ideas, half-formed concepts, and lists of ingredients for potential new potions.

In his third year, Severus was driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a simmering resentment towards his enemies. He had already conjured a handful of spells. His first creation, the toenail-growing hex, was a minor annoyance but a satisfying start to his journey into spellcraft. Not long after, he developed Langlock, a spell that glued the tongue to the roof of the mouth—perfect for silencing any unwanted chatter. Muffliato emerged out of necessity, a desperate effort to create a bubble of privacy for those quiet conversations with his friends.

Levicorpus and Liberacorpus were quite distinct from one another. They sprang from a place of anger, a deep-seated wish to humiliate those he saw as foes: Mulciber, Avery, and, naturally, Potter and Black. The beauty of these spells lay in their simplicity, yet their impact was nothing short of devastating.

Crafting each spell demanded hours of meticulous research, numerous failed trials, and an unwavering commitment to detail. But despite the challenges, he felt a genuine sense of pride in what he had achieved.

He gazed at the list, a new idea starting to form in his mind. Memories of last week flooded back, bringing with them the sheer terror he had felt. The raw, unfiltered fear that had gripped him and Lily as they were chased through the grounds, the menacing jaws of the werewolf closing in on them. He recalled how ineffective the spells he had cast at Lupin had been—just simple stunning spells that barely managed to slow him down.

He knew he had to figure out how to defend himself, to keep his friends safe, and to develop spells that were stronger and more effective against creatures like werewolves. He had to be prepared for whatever came next.

Not deadly enough to be considered Unforgivable, of course. He wasn't a murderer. But something that could bring down even a charging werewolf, something that could offer a real chance of survival.

Severus chuckled softly, a humorless sound that echoed in the silent dormitory. The image of a powerful, defensive spell, capable of incapacitating a werewolf, danced in his mind. The bell rang, its strident tone shattering his concentration.

He gathered his things, his thoughts already buzzing with what-ifs. Sure, he could have pretended to be sick, said he was still reeling from the… incident… But he knew he couldn’t let himself get lost in that trauma. He had to stay active, to keep his mind off the overwhelming sense of helplessness that loomed over him.

First up, the lesson, then off to the library. He was determined to find a book on advanced spellcraft, particularly combat spells meant for tackling dark creatures. He craved knowledge, and he needed it fast.

As he headed to class, he navigated the throng of students heading in the opposite direction. His gaze caught on a familiar shock of red, and his heart lurched. Lily Evans was among the crowd, flanked by Mary and Marlene. She looked as exhausted as he felt, her eyes barely open, dark shadows underlining them.

A powerful urge surged through him, a desperate need to reach out, to offer comfort, to simply acknowledge the shared trauma. But he hesitated, the memory of their last, strained conversation still fresh in his mind. He watched her friends gently guide her forward, their faces etched with concern. He saw her disappear into the crowd, and a profound sense of loneliness settled over him.

They hadn’t really talked about what had happened. He wanted to, more than anything, but he felt stuck in a whirlwind of uncertainty. How do you even bring up the topic of nearly being killed by a werewolf? What words could capture the sheer terror, the feeling of helplessness, and that nagging fear that just wouldn’t go away?

With a deep breath, he allowed himself to be swept away by the tide of students. Next time, he vowed, he would find the right words, the right way to connect with her again. After all she was the only one he could speak to about this. 

Chapter Text

Lily Evans felt like a puppet whose strings were being pulled by exhaustion. Another sleepless night had bled into a gray morning, stealing the color from her world and leaving her feeling utterly drained. She knew she should visit Madam Pomfrey, plead for a few dreamless sleep potions to grant her some semblance of rest, but even that felt like an insurmountable task.

She sat at the Gryffindor table, flanked by her ever-present friends, Mary Macdonald and Marlene McKinnon. Breakfast was in full swing, the usual cacophony of chatter and clatter filling the Great Hall, but Lily felt no appetite. She listlessly poked at her scrambled eggs, the yellow globs mocking her lack of energy.

Finally, she pushed the plate away, a wave of nausea washing over her.

Mary, who had been muttering something under her breath that Lily hadn’t been processing, paused and turned towards her, her brow furrowed with concern. "Lily, are you alright? You look awful."

Lily wanted to scream. She wanted to lash out at the next person who dared to ask her that question.

She muttered a terse "I'm fine" back to Mary, but even she could hear the lack of conviction in her own voice.

Both Mary and Marlene exchanged worried glances. Marlene interjected, her voice laced with gentle insistence, "Lils, you really should eat something. You haven't touched a thing all morning."

A flicker of annoyance ignited in Lily, driven by her lack of sleep and that nagging sensation of being constantly observed. She snapped, her tone sharper than she meant it to be, "I'm not hungry!"

Regret instantly followed her outburst. She mumbled a quick apology, "Sorry, I just…" She trailed off, unable to find the words to explain the turmoil churning within her.

Marlene, ever the understanding one, didn't seem offended by her outburst, just more concerned. "It's alright, Lily. We're just worried about you. You've been like this ever since you got back from the hospital wing."

They had been like this, treading carefully, ever since that night. And that was exactly the problem. She couldn’t tell them anything about the harrowing chase through the grounds, the frantic sprint after Potter, Black, and Pettigrew. She couldn't tell them about the hidden tunnel beneath the gnarled branches of the Whomping Willow or the monstrous werewolf it concealed.

She couldn't share the terror she felt as it had chased her and Severus, its ragged breath hot on their heels. She certainly couldn't describe the chilling bravery Severus had displayed, risking everything to draw the creature away from her, distracting it long enough for her to escape.

But most of all, she couldn't tell them the horrifying truth that gnawed at her insides: they shared their common room, their lives, with that werewolf.

Lily's gaze drifted down the Gryffindor table, almost involuntarily. Her eyes, heavy with fatigue and apprehension, lingered on Remus Lupin. It had taken her a day or so for the pieces of the puzzle to finally fall into place, for the sickening truth to coalesce in her mind.

She remembered how she had seen the sickly Remus shuffle into the common room two days after the incident, his face gaunt and pale, his movements sluggish and labored.

She remembered the look in his eyes, a haunted, exhausted expression that suggested he had run miles nonstop, pushing his body to its absolute limit.

Questions had flooded her mind, questions she had initially dismissed as remnants of the lingering shock. Where was he that night? Why was he so utterly drained? And then, with a chilling clarity, it had all clicked.

She understood it now. Remus Lupin, her classmate, her peer, was the creature that had chased them through the grounds. Remus Lupin was the werewolf.

The weight of that realization still threatened to suffocate her. She had consciously avoided being around him, crafting elaborate excuses to steer clear of his presence.

Some small, rational part of her felt a pang of guilt. It wasn't his fault, not entirely. It was a curse, a burden he carried every month. But despite the empathy she knew she should feel, she couldn't help the instinctive aversion that gripped her.

She excused her actions by telling herself she was simply avoiding Potter, a half-truth that eased her conscience. She was indeed avoiding that bespectacled idiot, still simmering with resentment over his role in the entire debacle.

But the truth was, she didn't want to be near Remus Lupin at the moment. The thought of being in the same room with him, knowing what he was, sent shivers down her spine.

The bell, a jarring intrusion on her troubled thoughts, finally rang, signaling the start of the first class. She stood up, a wave of dizziness threatening to overwhelm her, and headed out with her friends, their footsteps echoing as they delved deep into the cold, damp dungeons.

Potions was their first class of the day, a particularly dreary prospect given her current state.

They entered the classroom, the familiar stench of bubbling concoctions assaulting their nostrils. The Slytherins were already there, lounging at their workstations, their faces etched with smug satisfaction. A sneer was planted on some of their faces, no doubt fueled by their twisted version of the rumors that were undoubtedly circulating the school. Lily ignored them, focusing on navigating to her assigned station.

Despite the presence of the Slytherins and even his friends, Severus was not at their workstation. A frown creased Lily's brow. 

She had hoped he would be there, waiting for her, a silent acknowledgment of the shared trauma they had endured. She wanted to thank him, truly thank him, for his bravery, for putting himself in harm's way to save her.

Professor Slughorn, his belly preceding him like a proud galleon, came marching into the classroom, a jovial smile plastered on his face. Just as the lesson was about to begin, the door burst open and Severus rushed through, his face ashen.

He looked worse than she’d ever seen him, even worse than her. His face was gaunt and ashen, his tie was crooked and askew, and the dark bags under his eyes seemed to have deepened overnight. He mumbled a rushed apology for being late, his voice hoarse and strained. 

Slughorn, ever the indulgent mentor, simply chuckled and beckoned him to take his place.

"No harm done, Severus, my boy," Slughorn boomed, his jovial voice filling the dungeon. "Just glad you could make it. Now, settle in, everyone, and let's begin!"

Lily watched Severus as he shuffled towards their workstation, his movements lacking their usual grace. He avoided her gaze, his shoulders hunched as if carrying a tremendous burden. He was clearly struggling, and she desperately wanted to reach out, to offer him some form of comfort or support.

The lesson proceeded in a haze. Lily found it difficult to concentrate, her mind replaying the events of that night again and again. When the bell rang, signaling the end of class, it felt like she had been jolted awake from a disturbing dream.

Looking over to Severus, she watched him pack his books and ingredients with a slow, deliberate movements. Her throat felt dry, her heart pounding in her chest. She had to speak to him. She needed to understand what he was thinking, what he was feeling.

Taking a deep breath, she reached out and grasped his sleeve, the rough fabric scratching against her fingertips. He jumped, startled by her touch. "Severus," she said softly, "can we talk?"

Lily apologized for startling him, but Severus just mumbled, "It's fine." He avoided her gaze, his dark eyes darting nervously around the room.

She pressed on, her voice barely a whisper. "Can we talk… privately? We have a free study period after lunch."

Severus fidgeted, his hands clenching and unclenching around his bag. He seemed on the verge of declining, his body language screaming for escape. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Alright," he mumbled.

Lily felt an invisible weight lift from her shoulders, a small victory in the face of the overwhelming turmoil. "I know a private place," she said quickly, relief flooding through her. "Meet me outside the library after lunch. I'll take you there."

Severus nodded, his expression unreadable. He picked up his bag and hurried out of the classroom, leaving Lily standing alone amidst the lingering smells of potion ingredients.

Lily watched him leave, her heart aching with a mixture of worry and guilt. Then, shaking off her daze, she rushed out to join Mary and Marlene, knowing she had to find a way to explain her absence without revealing the dark secrets that threatened to consume them all. 

"You can't be serious," Marcus muttered, his brow furrowed into a deep V. He pushed his half-eaten plate of treacle tart away, the clatter of porcelain barely audible in the bustling Great Hall.

Severus was already slinging his worn leather bag over his shoulder. He had just dropped the news on Marcus and Thomas, that he was skipping their planned Patronus charm session. A session they had been rigorously preparing for, fuelled by a shared desire to master the complex magic and a growing unease about the… things lurking in the shadows of Hogwarts.

Marcus glanced from Severus’s stern expression to Thomas, a silent request for understanding written all over his face. Thomas, ever the practical one, simply shrugged and raised an eyebrow in response.

Severus let out a heavy sigh, a sound that mirrored the frustration bubbling inside him. “I’m going to see Lily,” he said, his words short and lacking any further context.

Marcus's frown deepened, a furrow forming between his brows. "What do you mean?" he shot back, his voice tinged with accusation.

Severus clenched his jaw. "That's…personal," he replied, avoiding Marcus's eyes.

Frustration flared in Marcus's gaze. "Can't we come along?" Thomas interjected, trying to ease the growing tension.

Severus shook his head, his dark hair falling over his forehead. "It's something private. Just between Lily and me."

Marcus let out a scoff, dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, I see. Are you finally getting it on with Lily?"

The words hung in the air, crude and jarring. Severus's head snapped up, his pale face flushing with a sudden surge of anger. He glared at Marcus, his eyes narrowed into dark slits.

"It's not like that!" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous.

Severus's uncharacteristic outburst seemed to fuel Marcus's own simmering resentment.

"What is it like, then?" he snapped, his voice rising. "You haven't said a damn word to us about whatever the hell happened that night. We’re your friends, Severus. Friends share, right?"

Severus flinched, his complexion draining of color once again. He turned his back, muttering, "I can't," his voice barely rising above a whisper.

Marcus rolled his eyes, his patience finally reaching its limit. "Oh, that's a good one! 'I can't' never stopped you before. You've always done whatever you wanted, consequences be damned."

Just as Severus was about to fire back with a sharp comeback, Thomas, sensing the tension building, stepped in. "

Alright, you two, cool it," he said, his tone steady yet authoritative. "People are starting to notice."

He subtly pointed to the other students, their heads turned toward the commotion, straining to catch bits of the argument. Severus let out a heavy sigh, the air whistling past his clenched teeth. 

He grunted a curt, "I have to go," and without waiting for a reply from either of his friends, he spun around and marched out of the Great Hall, his robes billowing behind him like a dark, ominous storm cloud.

The chilly air nipped at his cheeks as he stepped outside, with the late afternoon sun stretching long shadows over the snow-blanketed grounds. There stood Lily Evans, waiting for him by the entrance, her vibrant red hair standing out against the grayish landscape. She was all alone, a lone figure set against the grand backdrop of Hogwarts.

She appeared tired, a mere shadow of her usual vibrant self, but her emerald green eyes flickered with a hint of brightness when she spotted him coming closer. However, that spark seemed to dim as he approached. Concern etched itself on her face, her brow knitting together as he neared.

"Are you alright, Severus?" she asked, her voice soft and laced with worry.

He mumbled a terse, "Everything's fine," his gaze fixed on the path ahead.

Lily seemed to assess him for a second longer, her green eyes, normally so bright and full of life, now clouded with concern. Then, she simply turned and started walking down the corridor, her silence a gentle invitation for him to follow.

They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. Occasionally, they exchanged a few words, dry, stilted, almost formal in their politeness. The easy camaraderie that had once flowed so freely between them had been replaced by an awkward tension, a chasm widened by unspoken fears and unresolved trauma.

Lily led him up to the seventh floor, a rarely visited part of the castle. Severus had rarely ventured this far up, usually preferring the darker, more secluded corners of the dungeons.

The seventh floor felt like a long-lost maze, filled with dusty, unused classrooms and forgotten broom cupboards. Severus figured it was the ideal spot for a tough conversation, a place where they could be alone, away from curious eyes and judgmental ears. His heart raced at the thought of finally discussing that night.

Was he more afraid of reliving the horrors of what had happened, or of the daunting task of actually putting it into words, of expressing the fear and guilt that had been eating away at him ever since? He realized that both options were equally terrifying.

They rounded a corner, and Severus felt his heart race. He knew he had to act. He needed to tell Lily the truth. He had to let her know that the monster that had chased them that night, the very creature that had almost taken their lives, was also lurking in the boys' dorms of her house. It shared her common room, sat at the same table, and attended all her classes. He had to figure out how to break the news to her that she wasn't safe with Remus Lupin.

But the words caught in his throat, choking him with a sense of dread. He couldn't bear the thought of shattering her trust, of seeing the light in her eyes extinguish with the weight of the truth.

Severus frowned, pulling himself out of his spiraling thoughts. Hadn’t they just passed this hallway twice already? The walls seemed to be shifting, the corridors twisting in an impossible geometry. Where had this door come from? He didn't remember seeing it before.

Lily stepped into the room, her fingers brushing against the worn brass handle. As she pushed the door open, it revealed an abandoned classroom, a long-forgotten piece of Hogwarts' history. Cobweb-covered furniture huddled in the corners, cloaked in shadows. Desks were scattered in haphazard rows, each one blanketed in a thick layer of dust. At the far end, a stained-glass window, showcasing a phoenix soaring through the sky, looked out over the snow-blanketed grounds, casting a soft, colorful glow throughout the room.

With a sigh that carried a mix of exhaustion and relief, Lily said, "I often come here to escape." Her voice was barely louder than the whistling wind outside. She glanced at Severus, a small, nostalgic smile tugging at her lips. "After a particularly rough day in my first year, when I got hopelessly lost, I stumbled upon this very classroom."

She settled onto one of the desks, swinging her legs gently as her gaze drifted to the swirling snowflakes outside. "I’m pretty sure this room wasn’t here when I first found it, but it felt like it appeared just when I needed a place to hide away."

Severus stood silently in the doorway, listening to her words, trying to decipher the deeper meaning behind them. He felt a strange sense of unease, a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. The room felt… different, somehow. Alive in a way that inanimate objects shouldn't be.

Lily let out a soft chuckle, though it didn’t carry her usual brightness. "It probably sounds a bit silly, doesn’t it? Believing in a magical classroom that just disappears."

Severus frowned, setting aside his worries. He knew Lily well; she wasn’t one to get lost in daydreams or wild ideas. If she claimed the room just popped up, he had no reason not to believe her. "We live in a castle full of ghosts, Lily," he replied, his tone gentle and comforting. "We ride on cleaning devices, and there’s a talking hat that sorts people into houses. Honestly, a classroom that vanishes is the least ridiculous thing I’ve heard all week."

He made his way over to her slowly, brushing off a layer of dust before settling onto the same desk, being careful not to touch her. His feet dangled, gently kicking the wooden floor beneath him. The rhythmic tapping felt oddly soothing.

"A vanishing classroom doesn’t sound silly at all," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, lost in his own thoughts.

Lily smiled at that, a genuine smile that lit up her eyes and chased away some of the darkness that had been hanging around them. It was a small gesture, but it was enough to ease the tension in the room, creating a fragile oasis of calm amidst the storm of their emotions.

Silence fell over them again, thick and heavy, but this time, it wasn't uncomfortable. Severus watched the snow cascading down outside, each snowflake a tiny, unique masterpiece drifting silently to the ground. He was waiting, bracing himself for what he knew was coming.

Finally, Lily spoke, her voice barely a whisper, almost as fragile as the snowflakes dancing outside the window.

"Thank you," she said softly. "Thank you for saving me." Her voice was gentle, almost fragile, and her gaze was fixed on her hands, which she nervously twisted together in a tight knot.

Severus felt a jolt in his chest, his heart racing. He wanted to brush it off, to make light of what he had done. "It was nothing," he muttered, his voice rough around the edges. "Anyone would have done the same."

But Lily shook her head, her eyes locking onto his with a fierce intensity.

"It wasn't nothing, Severus," she insisted, her voice gaining strength, a hint of steel replacing the earlier fragility. "You almost died. We almost died. And that’s definitely not nothing." A humorless laugh escaped her, a bitter sound that lingered in the stillness of the room.

Severus felt a dryness creep into his throat, tightening around his windpipe. He swallowed hard, trying to push away the lump that had settled there. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, making him acutely aware of his anxiety.

Lily's voice wavered as she continued, "I was so scared," she whispered, the memory of that night flooding back. "When we were in the tunnel, I thought I wouldn’t make it. Once we got out, I just ran. I couldn’t focus on anything else, just… running."

Her small frame began to shake, trembling uncontrollably. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision as she spoke.

She cried as she recounted how her life flashed before her eyes while she ran, the images sharp and terrifying.

"I saw my parents," she sobbed. "I saw my friends. I saw… my sister." She paused, her voice catching in her throat. "I wondered…"

"Who would tell them," Severus finished for her, his voice barely a whisper. He couldn't bear to hear her say the words, to acknowledge the possibility that they might have died.

Lily gazed up at him, her eyes searching his face for some kind of comfort. In her tear-filled gaze, he could see his own fears mirrored back at him.

Severus took a moment to ponder her words before he spoke again, his voice soft and steady. He shared his thoughts about his mother, reflecting on how she would react to the news, how she would cope with the heartache of losing her only child.

"I thought the same thing about my mum. It would break her," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "She would be so alone."

He looked into those tear-filled green eyes, mesmerized by their depth and vulnerability. Merlin, those eyes pulled him in, drew him closer. He felt a desperate urge to reach out and wipe away her tears, to hold her close and protect her from the pain.

Severus let out a scoff, attempting to hide his true feelings behind a mask of cynicism. Deep down, he couldn't shake the thought that by the end of it all, there might not be anything left for his mother to bury.

"Probably just a pile of shredded clothes and a few stray bones," he said, his voice laced with bitterness.

A shaky laughter escaped his lips when he mentioned the idea of being buried in a shoebox. "I hope they'd get me a new box," he said, his voice laced with dark humour, "or one that doesn't smell like old socks."

Lily let out a soft, watery laugh, the sound a welcome break from the heavy atmosphere. It was a small sound, but it was enough to break the tension, to allow them both to breathe a little easier.

They fell silent once again, the tension between them easing slightly. After a moment Lily snickered and said, "I can't believe we're laughing at the idea of dying."

Severus shrugged, a wry smile playing on his lips. "What else can we do?"

She smiled softly at him, her eyes filled with gratitude. "It's actually nice to speak to someone about this," she muttered, looking away, her brow furrowing. "Headmaster Dumbledore asked me to keep silent."

Severus mumbled that he had a similar talk with the headmaster.

Lily nodded, her expression troubled. "It's so frustrating to keep secrets from my friends," she said. "Mary and Marlene keep exchanging worried glances around me, asking if I'm alright. The speculations and rumors don't help either."

Severus muttered that he understood. He felt the weight of the secret pressing down on him, suffocating him. He longed to tell Thomas and Marcus everything, to unburden himself, but he knew he couldn't. Dumbledore's words echoed in his mind, warning him of the potential consequences.

He shifted awkwardly on the desk, his jaw clenched tight as he fought to keep his anxiety in check. Deep down, he knew he couldn’t hide the truth from her any longer—not the whole truth, but at least the most significant part of it.

Finally, Severus broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "Lily, do you remember what chased us that night?"

Without missing a beat, she replied, "It was a werewolf. I pieced it together the next day when I had a moment to reflect on everything. The way it moved, the sounds it made… it all clicked."

Severus nodded, feeling a lump form in his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to wet his dry mouth.

He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, "Have you… have you ever wondered how a werewolf got into the school grounds? How it got past the protection wards that are supposed to keep such creatures out?"

Lily's eyes widened, her gaze fixed on him, her expression a mixture of fear and dawning realization. She softly whispered, "You know, don't you?"

Severus frowned, his confusion evident. "What do you mean?"

Lily's voice trembled as she whispered, "Remus Lupin… he's a werewolf."

Severus's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You… you knew?"

Had she always known? But if that were the case, why would she have agreed to go down into the tunnels in the first place? It made no sense.

Lily seemed to read his thoughts, her expression hardening. "I didn't know for sure," she said, her voice gaining strength. "But I figured it out a couple of days after. The Potter gang was out there for a reason, Lupin had looked sickly the day before, and he always grows sickly near the full moon. It all added up."

Severus nodded slowly, absorbing the information.

"Merlin," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "How is possible no one put it together before now? How can he sit so casually in the class and not a single person figured it out?"

Lily shrugged, a touch of resignation creeping into her voice. "Remus keeps to himself. He’s always been the quiet type, never one to seek the spotlight. If anything, he actively avoids it."

Severus let out a bitter scoff. “The undercover werewolf. What a laugh.”

Lily offered a sad smile but shook her head. "Even with everything that's happened, I don’t think it’s his fault," she said gently. "He didn’t ask to be a werewolf. But…” She sighed, her eyes wandering back to the window. "I just can’t bring myself to be around him. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to reconcile the sweet, shy boy I know with that… that monster who nearly killed us."

Severus shrugged, indifferent. He didn’t see much "sweetness" in Lupin. To him, he was more timid and a pushover than anything else, but he kept those thoughts to himself, aware that Lily saw something in the boy that he couldn’t.

Severus muttered, choosing his words with care, "It’s perfectly okay to feel uneasy, Lily. You went through something no one should ever have to endure—being hunted."

Lily nodded slowly, her features unreadable.

The two of them sat there together, bathed in the soft glow of the stained-glass window. For the first time since that horrific night, Severus felt himself relax, the tension slowly ebbing away from his body. It was as if an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. A collective one, they were sharing. He felt lighter, more at peace. Lily seemed to be in a similar state, her features softening, the haunted look in her eyes diminishing.

She thanked him for the talk, her voice soft and sincere, but he stopped her.

"You don't need to thank me," he mumbled, his face flushing with embarrassment.

Lily hopped off the desk and made her way toward him, her movements a bit unsure and cautious. She paused for a moment, as if weighing her next step, and then, out of the blue, she wrapped her arms around him in a warm hug. Severus was taken aback by this unexpected show of affection, feeling the comforting warmth of her embrace. It was a soothing surprise, a gentle remedy for his troubled heart.

She softly muttered, her voice muffled against his shoulder, "You're too boney."

He mumbled back, his voice tinged with a hint of affection, "Shut up, Evans."

They laughed together, a genuine, heartfelt sound that echoed through the empty classroom.

Chapter Text

Eileen felt that familiar tightness in her chest as she locked up her apothecary shop for the night. The day had been unusually quiet, almost unsettlingly so. Just a few customers had wandered in, looking for her special Pepper-Up Potion, and the stillness only heightened the unease that was creeping in.

She bent over, a harsh cough erupting from deep within her. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she tried to muffle the sound, wishing it would just go away. These coughing fits were becoming all too common, a relentless reminder of the unwelcome presence inside her.

She fought to ignore it, to shove the fear down, but it felt like a battle she was losing.

Recently, Carver had been stopping by more often, his large frame a stark contrast to the delicate vials and bubbling cauldrons that filled her shop. But it wasn’t his size that made her uneasy; it was the look in his eyes. A mix of pity and concern, as if he expected her to fall apart right in front of him.

"He looks at me like I might just drop dead any moment," she thought, a wry smile creeping onto her lips. But she wouldn’t—at least not yet. She still had some time left.

Still, that didn’t stop the notorious Crime Lord of Knockturn Alley from checking in on her, his usual grim demeanor softened by an unsettling gentleness. For a man who thrived in darkness, who built his empire on fear and intimidation, Carver was surprisingly gentle with her. It brought her a strange comfort amidst her grim reality, a flicker of warmth in the cold.

With a sigh, Eileen returned the last of the ingredients to the storage room, carefully locking the door behind her. She needed to safeguard everything, to ensure her legacy lived on, even if she wouldn’t be there to see it.

As she stepped out into the chilly, damp streets of Knockturn Alley, the cold seemed to seep into her very bones, echoing the dread that had taken root in her heart. Ever since Carver had learned about her condition, it felt like her time was slipping away even faster.

She shuddered, pulling her worn cloak tighter around her. The alley was a maze of shadows and secrets, a place where the desperate and the depraved sought solace. She turned a corner, passing a group of scantily clad witches beckoning a group of wizards over to a dimly lit doorway. The air was thick with smoke and the promise of illicit pleasures.

Eileen averted her gaze, quickening her pace. She took a right, then a left, navigating the labyrinthine streets with practiced ease. Finally, she found herself in front of a small, unassuming store. The crooked sign above the door, barely clinging to its hinges, read "Odovacar's Magical Wonders of the World."

The name was ridiculous, she thought, as she pushed open the creaking door. The stench of aged parchment and exotic herbs filled her nostrils - a comforting aroma that masked the darker, more unsettling smells that permeated Knockturn Alley.

The interior of the shop was far larger than the exterior suggested, a testament to the wonders of magical expansion. The walls were lined with a chaotic mismatch of odd items, each one whispering a story of forgotten lore and arcane power. Eileen peered at jars containing floating eyeballs that seemed to stare back at her with morbid curiosity. A dagger with intricate runic etchings glinted ominously in the dim light. A large, ornately decorated carpet hung suspended from the ceiling, no doubt a flying carpet waiting to whisk its owner away on a fantastical journey.

From the back of the store, a tall, gaunt man emerged. He was balding, with wisps of greasy hair clinging to his scalp, and his eyes were deep-set and sunken, giving him a perpetually weary appearance. He exuded an air of quiet desperation, a man worn down by years of dealing in the strange and the unusual.

"Good evening, madam," the man said, his voice raspy. "How may I be of service?"

Eileen straightened her back, forcing a note of confidence into her voice. "I'm looking for a Pensieve," she said, her gaze unwavering.

The man's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He nodded slowly, muttering, "A Pensieve, you say? A discerning choice. Do you wish to purchase one, madam?"

Eileen nodded. "Yes, I do."

The man beckoned her to follow him, his long, spindly fingers leading the way through the cluttered aisles. They walked past more oddities: books bound in human skin, written in languages long dead; cursed jewelry that pulsed with dark energy; a flask labeled "Unicorn Blood," its contents shimmering with an unnatural luminescence.

Finally, they came to a row of basins, tucked away in a dimly lit corner of the store. The basins were all different sizes and shapes, some made of polished silver, others of rough-hewn stone, but all were etched with the same intricate runic script and decorated with various magical stones, each pulsating with a faint, ethereal light.

The man launched into a lengthy explanation of the Pensieve's history, his voice taking on a reverent tone. He spoke of its origins in ancient times, of its use by the most advanced wizards and witches, and of its rarity in the modern world. "Only the most skilled and disciplined minds can truly master the Pensieve," he intoned, "and because the majority of wizardkind is afraid of delving too deep into their own memories, it remains a rare and coveted item."

Eileen nodded along, feigning interest as she carefully examined the selection. She knew the history of the Pensieve, its power and its potential dangers. She didn't need a lecture. She needed the device itself.

Finally, her hand landed on an older, metal basin. It was tarnished and worn, its surface scratched and dented, but there was a certain solidity to it, a sense of ancient power that resonated with her. She picked it up, its weight surprisingly heavy in her hands.

"How much for this one?" she asked, her voice crisp.

The man snapped back to attention, his eyes gleaming with avarice. "Eighty galleons," he said quickly, his voice dripping with false enthusiasm.

Eileen frowned. "Forty galleons," she countered, her voice firm.

The man sputtered, his face reddening. "Madam, this is a Pensieve! It's a rare and powerful artifact! I can't possibly let it go for such a paltry sum!"

"Fifty galleons," Eileen said, raising an eyebrow.

The man groaned, his shoulders slumping. "Seventy," he pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation.

Eileen remained silent, her gaze unwavering. She knew she had him cornered.

The man grunted, his face contorted in a grimace. "Sixty-five galleons," he grumbled, "My final offer."

Eileen nodded, a flicker of triumph in her eyes. "Agreed."

She reached into a small pouch hidden beneath her cloak and counted out the money, the heavy gold coins clinking in her hand. She handed the pouch to the man, who snatched it with a greedy grin.

With the Pensieve securely tucked under her arm, Eileen took her leave, her footsteps echoing in the silent store. As she walked back into the alley, she passed a drunk who stumbled and fell into a shadowed alcove, his slurred curses fading into the darkness. Knockturn Alley was a place of extremes, where beauty and depravity coexisted in a constant, uneasy balance.

Returning to her shop, Eileen unlocked the door and stepped inside, the familiar scent of potions and herbs washing over her. She headed upstairs to her living quarters, a small, cramped space that served as both her home and her sanctuary.

There were four rooms: her own bedroom, a small room that had once belonged to Severus, a cramped toilet, and an equally small kitchen area. The rooms were sparsely furnished, but they were clean and tidy, a reflection of Eileen's meticulous nature.

She took the Pensieve into her room and placed it on the floor. It looked even more worn and battered in the dim light, but she didn't care. It was the key to unlocking the truth, to finding the answers she desperately sought.

Pointing her wand at the basin, she murmured, "Aguamenti." A stream of water gushed forth, filling the basin to the brim.

With the Pensieve filled, Eileen braced herself for what was to come. She knew what she had to do, and the thought filled her with a mixture of dread and determination. Her memories were fragmented, unreliable, like pieces of a shattered mirror. She had hoped that her recent trip to Cokeworth, the town where she had runaway to, would provide the missing pieces, but it had been in vain.

In desperation, she had turned to her books, spending hours poring over ancient texts, searching for a way to unlock the secrets of her mind. She had found a clue in "Hamilcar's The Art of the Mind," a treatise on memory alteration and manipulation. The book spoke of the ability to isolate specific memories, to extract them from the tangled web of the mind and view them in their purest, most unfiltered form.

"If I could isolate the memory," she thought, "then I could view it unrestricted."

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. If she were to leave her son, to abandon him to the fate that awaited him, she at least owed it to him to know the truth, to know that he wasn't alone, that he had a father out there, somewhere.

Of course, Severus knew this, knew that he had a father. She had made sure to tell him when he was old enough to understand. But she could never give him a name, never provide him with any details about the man who had fathered him. Her memory seemed to fail her whenever she attempted to think back to that fateful night, to that brief and passionate encounter that had changed her life forever.

Gathering her courage, Eileen focused her mind, pushing past the fear and the doubt. She may not be able to remember his name, but she could remember the pub where they had met, the smoky atmosphere, the thumping music, the intoxicating mix of freedom and recklessness.

Slowly, she raised her wand to her temple and whispered the incantation, "Extractum Memoriam." A shimmering, silver light began to emerge from her head, like a strand of liquid moonlight. It pulsed with energy, reflecting the turmoil within her.

She carefully flicked the silvery thread into the basin, the clear water immediately turning murky, swirling with colors and emotions that she couldn't quite decipher. She sucked in a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come.

Then, with a surge of courage and a silent prayer, she dove in.

The world around her dissolved, the small, cramped room fading away into nothingness. Instead, she found herself standing in the middle of a bustling pub, the air thick with smoke and the smell of stale beer. It was a Friday night, and the pub was packed with people, their voices rising in a cacophony of chatter and laughter. A song was playing on the jukebox, a catchy tune that she vaguely recognized. "It Doesn't Matter Anymore" by Buddy Holly.

Eileen looked around, her senses overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the Muggle world. Then, she saw herself, standing in a corner booth, lost in her own thoughts.

"Merlin," she thought, "I was so young."

Her younger self was almost unrecognizable, her face pale and gaunt, her dark hair hanging loose around her shoulders, obscuring her features. She was dressed in a simple black dress, a stark contrast to the colorful clothes worn by the other patrons. She sat alone, watching the Muggles with a keen interest, fascinated by their every move, their every gesture.

Eileen moved forward, drawn to her younger self like a moth to a flame. She found herself sitting opposite her, in the same booth, as if no time had passed at all. She watched as her younger self took out a potions book, its pages dog-eared and stained with various concoctions, and began to read, her brow furrowed in concentration.

She hadn't made it too far into the book when she was approached by a large, red-faced man with a bushy walrus mustache. He lumbered over, his eyes glazed with drink, and began mumbling something about how he had been watching her from across the pub, how she was mighty pretty, and how he'd like to take her home.

Eileen felt a surge of anger rise within her, a protective instinct kicking in. She was ready to leap from her booth and defend her younger self, but she stopped herself, realizing that she was merely an observer, a ghost in her own memory.

She watched as her younger self politely declined the man's offer, her voice soft but firm.

The man, obviously not accustomed to the idea of rejection, scowled, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. He loomed over her younger self, his voice rising in anger.

"You think you're better than me, do you?" he hissed, his breath reeking of stale beer.

Younger Eileen simply stated that she thought no such thing, her voice calm and even.

Just then, a young man came by, his voice cutting through the tension. He called for the man, Terry, to leave younger Eileen alone.

The mustache man spat, his eyes narrowing. "Stay out of this, Toby," he snarled.

A sudden rise in tension filled the air as the young man, Toby, stepped closer to Terry. Eileen looked at him, really looked at him for the first time. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with wavy brown hair and a square jaw. His eyes were a warm, hazel color, full of mischief and intelligence. But what caught Eileen's eye was his nose, the distinctive, hooked shape that she had seen so many times before.

It was him.

Toby pushed Terry, the man stumbled back, knocking over a nearby table and sending glasses crashing to the floor. Toby hissed again, his voice low and menacing. The pub owner, a fat, bald man with a greasy apron, bellowed for them to take it outside.

Terry righted himself, his face contorted in a glare. He seemed to weigh the idea of attacking, but dismissed it, intimidated by Toby's size and the presence of the other pub patrons. He spat on the floor, muttering that Toby was lucky this dingy little pub was on his side of town.

Toby taunted Terry as he lumbered away, calling him a "posh twat" as he disappeared through the doorway.

Toby then turned and smirked at Eileen's younger self. She had gone back to reading her potions book, seemingly unfazed by the altercation. Toby's smirk faltered, a hint of disappointment in his eyes.

He slid into the booth opposite Eileen's younger self, now sitting next to Eileen.

Toby asked if younger Eileen was alright, and younger Eileen muttered that she was doing fine without him.

Toby joked that it didn't look like it, and Eileen hissed that she had ways of dealing with men like that.

Toby frowned and asked if she knew Kung fu.

Younger Eileen looked at him baffled, and Toby demonstrated by chopping at the air, making exaggerated karate noises.

Younger Eileen rolled her eyes and muttered that she did not know Kung fu, her voice laced with amusement.

Toby asked how she'd have taken Terry down, if not with martial arts.

Eileen watched her younger self grow silent, her gaze drifting towards the window, before muttering a single word: "Magic."

Toby roared with laughter, asking if she'd pull a rabbit out of Terry's ass or something, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

Younger Eileen glared at him, her cheeks flushed with anger, but a faint smile played on her lips. Eileen watched amusement flicker across her younger self's face, a rare and precious sight. She let out a small chuckle, a sound that echoed down through the years.

Their laughter died down, and Toby muttered that he should get her a drink, a gesture of apology and reconciliation.

Younger Eileen hesitated, her eyes darting around the pub, as if searching for an escape. But Toby was already up and heading to the bar, his long strides carrying him through the crowd. He returned soon after with two cups, placing one in front of Eileen's younger self. He muttered that he wasn't too sure what she liked, so he got her some Coke, a safe and familiar choice.

Eileen's younger self smiled, a genuine smile that lit up her face, and took a hesitant sip. She cringed, her nose wrinkling in disgust. Toby chuckled, his eyes full of warmth and amusement.

He asked if she had had Coke before, and her younger self shook her head, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. He seemed surprised, muttering that everyone had had Coke before, it was a staple of modern life.

Eileen's younger self hissed, her voice sharp and defensive. "Clearly not everyone."

Toby nodded, his expression softening. He said he supposed fancy folk like her didn't partake in such mundane pleasures, his tone dismissive.

Eileen's younger self frowned, her eyes flashing with anger. She grunted that he didn't know anything about her, that he was making assumptions based on nothing.

Toby nodded, admitting that he didn't. But he added that he would like to, that he was curious to know more about the mysterious girl who read potions books in a Muggle pub. He suggested that they start with their names, a simple and unassuming gesture that held the promise of something more.

A grin spread across his face, a warm and inviting smile that melted away her defenses.

Eileen's younger self hesitated, her eyes fixed on the Muggle in front of her. He was dressed in blue jeans and a white shirt, his clothes simple and unassuming. Everything about him was so very Muggle, so very ordinary.

Her father would've gone mad, had he seen her conversing with such "common filth," as he would undoubtedly call him. The thought made her smirk, a rebellious flicker in her eyes.

Eileen answered, her voice soft but clear, "Eileen Prince."

The young man nodded, repeating her name as if savoring the sound of it. He then introduced himself, a grin spreading across his face. "I'm Tobias Snape, but you can call me Toby."

Chapter Text

He slouched in the hard, unforgiving chair, his gaze drifting across the bustling hallway outside Auror Corban Yaxley’s office. Beside him, Andrew Winters, his friend and colleague, tapped his foot impatiently, the rhythmic sound a nervous counterpoint to the hushed whispers and hurried footsteps that echoed through the corridor.

"Bloody ridiculous, this is," Philip muttered, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Jumped through more hoops than a bloody circus act just to get this interview."

Andrew sighed, "Well, you did promise the editor a front-page exclusive. And Yaxley is head of the investigation. It was never going to be easy."

Philip grunted in agreement. The London attack, a brutal and senseless act of violence, had shaken the wizarding world to its core. The Daily Prophet was desperate for answers, for someone to hold accountable, and Philip, desperate to escape the purgatory that was the tabloid section, was now tasked with finding answers regarding the wizard fatality. For the past week he had navigated a labyrinth of bureaucratic red tape, spoken to countless Ministry representatives, and endured endless delays. Finally, after weeks of persistent badgering, he had secured an audience with Auror Yaxley.

They sat there, watching as a steady stream of Aurors and Hit Wizards, all dressed in their long, imposing black robes, marched by. The expressions on their faces, marked by grim determination and the heavy burden of responsibility, served as a stark reminder of the dangers lurking in the shadows. A trio of Aurors passed by, catching Philip's attention. The first, a young man, was undeniably handsome, his broad shoulders filling out his robes. He exuded an air of confidence, a natural leader in the making. Beside him walked a girl, small in stature with short, cropped hair and a round, friendly face. Trailing slightly behind was a tall man, his red hair a vibrant beacon against the dark robes, a beard  decorated much of his lower face. He looked like a seasoned veteran, an instructor shepherding his young charges.

"Fabian!" Philip exclaimed, standing up abruptly. He hadn't seen Fabian Prewett in years. 

The tall man stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing in confusion. He squinted at Philip, recognition slowly dawning. A broad smile spread across his face as he marched towards Philip, his lanky figure radiating genuine warmth.

"Philip Boyle! Well, I'll be! What brings you to this dusty corner of the Ministry?" Fabian said as he slapped Philip roughly on the back, nearly sending him stumbling.

Philip chuckled, regaining his balance. "Good to see you too, Fab! Didn't think I'd run into you here. How's Gid?"

"Oh he's doing well thanks," Fabian beamed at Philip before turning and beckoning the two younger Aurors forward. "Frank, Alice, come meet an old friend of mine." He turned back to Philip, his eyes twinkling. "These are my trainees. Frank Longbottom, and Alice Fortescue."

Frank and Alice stepped up, exchanging polite nods and friendly greetings. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Boyle," Frank said, his voice surprisingly deep for someone his age. Alice added to the warmth of the moment with a bright smile, echoing his sentiment.

"The pleasure's all mine," Philip replied, gesturing to Andrew. "This is my colleague, Andrew Winters."

Andrew offered a handshake to each of them, his professional demeanor slightly easing the tension in his shoulders.

Fabian beamed. "Philip and I were teammates on the Quidditch pitch back in Hogwarts. He was a nippy little Chaser, always getting into trouble."

"Hey! I was a strategic chaser, thank you very much," Philip retorted playfully. "And you were the terrorizing Beater everyone feared. We were three years apart, though, so our time on the team was short."

They spent a few minutes reminiscing, the awkward formality of the Ministry fading into the background. Philip explaining that they were there to interview Auror Yaxley about the recent London attack.

The smile melted from Fabian's face at the mention of Yaxley, replaced by a grimace. "Yaxley, eh? He's a cold one, that's for sure. Good luck with that." He shook his head, his jovial mood noticeably dampened.

"Do you know anything about the victim? They're saying he was a wizard," Philip asked, leaning in slightly.

Fabian shook his head, his expression tight. "I'm shut out of that investigation, I'm afraid. Yaxley said I'd only muck about with Gid. He put me on training recruits. Can you believe that?" He turned to the two younger Aurors and muttered a "no offense" to them quickly.

Philip scoffed, his lips curling as he shook his head in mock outrage. "That's bang out of order."

"Yes! It is but there's nothing we can do now," Fabian said. "Well, I should get back to it. Frank, Alice, come on, let's get you two back to curse practice."

Just as Fabian finished speaking, the door to Yaxley's office swung open with a sharp click. A short, sour-faced man stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowed in a perpetual scowl. His gaze swept over Philip and Andrew, lingering for a moment before turning to Fabian, Frank and Alice.

Corban Yaxley's voice was a low, rasping growl. "Prewett, are you not needed somewhere? I would hate to think you were wasting Ministry time with idle chatter."

Fabian grumbled under his breath, a barely audible sound. "Right, right. Just heading off now." He nodded curtly to Philip. "Good luck with Yaxley, lads. You'll need it." With a final nod, he led Frank and Alice away, their black robes swirling around them as they disappeared down the corridor.

Yaxley watched them go, his eyes filled with thinly veiled disdain. He turned back to Philip and Andrew, his expression unchanging. "Boyle, Winters, is it? I trust you haven't been wasting my time. Come in."

The interior of Yaxley's office stood in stark contrast to the cozy vibe of the waiting area. It felt cold and dark, lacking any personal touches. A large, imposing desk took center stage, its surface meticulously organized with neat stacks of papers. Yaxley settled into his chair with precise, economical movements. There were no chairs for Philip and Andrew, leaving them to stand awkwardly in front of him.

Swallowing his nerves, Philip took a deep breath and began, "Auror Yaxley, we appreciate you meeting with us. We're here to ask about the recent attack in London."

Yaxley’s lips twisted into a slight, disdainful sneer. "That attack was executed by Muggles, tied to the ongoing issues in their world. Case closed."

"Yes, but," Philip pressed on, "we’ve heard there was one wizard who lost their life. We’d like to know more about that."

Yaxley’s eyes sparked with a sudden, unsettling intensity. "What exactly do you hope to achieve with this, Boyle?"

Philip felt his throat go dry. He hadn’t expected such overt hostility. Andrew, always the practical one, jumped in to break the tension. "We’re journalists, Auror Yaxley. Our goal is to identify the deceased wizard and write a front-page piece to honor their memory. They deserve that respect."

Yaxley completely ignored Andrew, his gaze locked onto Philip, scrutinizing him as if he were a specimen under a microscope.

Leaning in closer, his voice dropped to a low, venomous hiss. "Boyle… That’s not a wizarding name, is it?"

Philip frowned, feeling both confused and insulted. "What do you mean by that?"

Yaxley waved the question away dismissively, as if it were just an annoying fly.

"The victim's family has been informed," Yaxley stated flatly, his tone lacking any emotion. "If you want any more information, you’ll need to get their permission first. Got it?"

"Of course," Philip replied, though frustration bubbled up inside him. He felt like he was hitting a brick wall.

Yaxley seemed to consider this for a moment, then grudgingly relented. "The victim's last name was Abernathy."

Andrew, ever diligent, scribbled the name down in his notepad. "Abernathy. Thank you, Auror Yaxley."

Philip, sensing an opportunity, pushed further. "Can you tell us anything more about Mr. Abernathy? His age, his profession, anything that might give us some insight?"

Yaxley slammed his hand on the desk, the sudden noise jarring them both. "Enough! I have work to do. I will not discuss this matter further until you have obtained permission from the family. Now, get out."

He rose from his chair, his face a mask of icy displeasure, and ushered them towards the door. Philip and Andrew, realizing they had pushed their luck as far as it would go, retreated quickly.

Standing in the hallway, Philip felt a surge of frustration. It was hardly an interview. He was certain Yaxley knew more than he was letting on. "Well," he said to Andrew, "it wasn't much, but at least we got a name. Abernathy."

"Now we just have to locate the family." Andrew retorted.

Philip fell into thought, his brow furrowed. Then, a faint smirk appeared on his face. "I know an Auror who might be able to help us. with that."

Days later, Philip and Andrew found themselves standing outside a quiet, unassuming house on a quiet street in Cardiff. The air was crisp and clean, a welcome change from the smog and grime of London.

They had located the Abernathy home thanks to the somewhat clandestine assistance of Fabian Prewett. Fabian, always eager to stick it to authority figures like Yaxley, had relished the opportunity to help Philip and Andrew, seeing it as a way to circumvent Yaxley's order that he is not to be involved.

Philip walked up to the front door and gave it a knock, the sound resonating in the quiet air. After a brief pause, the door slowly opened, revealing an elderly woman with warm eyes and a fragile frame. She looked out at them, her face showing a blend of curiosity and concern.

Philip took a step closer, speaking softly. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Abernathy? I'm Philip Boyle, and this is my colleague, Andrew Winters. We're journalists, and we were hoping to chat with you about your son, Michael."

The woman's eyes widened a bit, but a faint smile appeared at the corners of her lips. "Michael… yes, please come in. It's chilly out there." She gestured for them to enter, her voice quivering just a little.

The house was modest and well-kept, filled with the comforting scent of lavender and old books. The walls were adorned with floral wallpaper and framed pictures of a young man with brown hair and a warm, inviting smile. He was clearly the center of Mrs. Abernathy's world.

Mrs. Abernathy ushered them into the living room and gestured them to sit on a worn but comfortable sofa. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. I'll put on some tea."

Philip requested tea with two sugars and milk, while Andrew said no milk or sugar.

The old woman left the room, and returned a few minutes later with a tray bearing three delicate china cups and a steaming teapot. She handed Andrew and Philip their tea before settling into a well-worn armchair opposite them.

"So," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "What do you want to know about my Michael?"

Andrew took a sip of his tea, savoring the warmth, before gently setting the cup down on the small table next to the sofa. He opened his notebook, ready to jot down some notes.

Philip began cautiously, his voice respectful "Mrs Abernathy, we wanted to express our deepest condolences for your loss. We were hoping you could shed some light on the recent attack in London."

Mrs. Abernathy frowned, her brow furrowing with confusion. "The attack? I only know what everyone else does. That Muggles are… are fighting amongst themselves. Day after day, poor magical folk are caught in their nonsense." Suddenly, her voice cracked with emotion, and tears welled up in her eyes. "And my poor Michael… he was unfortunate enough to be caught up in their nonsense." 

She began to sob, her frail body shaking with grief. Philip felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t meant to cause her such distress.

Andrew, ever the more composed one, stepped in, offering soothing words of comfort. He spoke of Michael's life, the importance of remembering him, and the intention to honor his memory through their writing.

The woman cried for several minutes, her grief raw and overwhelming. Philip felt helpless, unsure how to proceed.
Finally, Mrs. Abernathy calmed down, wiping her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. 

 "I'm sorry," she choked out, her voice hoarse. "It's just… it's all so sudden. I can't believe he's gone."

Philip apologized again, then cautiously steered the conversation back to the events surrounding Michael's death. "Mrs. Abernathy, did you speak with the Aurors about the case?"

Mrs. Abernathy shook her head, her expression confused. "No, dear. I haven't spoken with any Aurors in months. They just sent me a letter, informing me of Michael's… death. That's all."

Philip's eyebrows shot up. "Months? But… why would you have spoken with them before?"

Mrs. Abernathy sniffed and dabbed at her eyes again. "Michael… he came home one night, looking terrible. Haggard, you know? He collected some things from his old bedroom and then he just… disappeared. I didn't see him for weeks. My Michael always keeps in touch with me, he does. So, after a month of silence, I contacted the Aurors. I was worried sick."

Philip's interest was piqued. "Did he say anything about where he was going? Or what he was involved in?"

Mrs. Abernathy shook her head vehemently, her eyes flashing with a hint of anger. "My son was a good boy! A kind and gentle soul. He was an aspiring Potions Master, apprenticing under a very prestigious Master."

Philip quickly apologized, realizing he had inadvertently cast a shadow of suspicion on Michael's character. "I meant no offense, Mrs. Abernathy. I was just trying to understand what might have happened."

Mrs. Abernathy burst into a fresh round of tears, bemoaning her cruel fate and the injustice of losing her son.

Andrew, sensing Philip's struggle, interjected again. "Mrs. Abernathy, we understand this is a difficult time. We simply wish to learn more about Michael, to write a fitting tribute to his life. You mentioned he was apprenticing under a Potions Master? Could you tell us who that was?"

Mrs. Abernathy shook her head, her brow furrowed in concentration. "I… I can't quite remember. It was a difficult name, I think. Something… long."

Philip saw an opportunity to explore a different avenue. "Mrs. Abernathy, would it be possible for us to see Michael's room? Perhaps it could give us a better understanding of who he was."

Mrs. Abernathy looked hesitant, her eyes darting around the room as if seeking an escape. But after a moment, she slowly nodded.

"Alright," she said quietly. "But I can't go in there. I just… can't."

She led them to the foot of the stairs. Then she pointed and sadly stated that she couldn't go back there.
They followed her up the stairs and to a small room at the end of the hallway, The door stood open and Philip and Andrew entered. Michael's bedroom.

A bookshelf lined one wall, filled with worn volumes. A bed lay near the window, covered with a faded quilt. A desk stood nearby, its surface cluttered with papers and vials. Dust lay on every surface, a testament to the fact that Mrs. Abernathy hadn't entered the room since Michael's disappearance. Neither had Aurors apparently. 

Slowly stepping into the room, Philip took note of the books on the bookshelf. A large collection of potions texts, as expected, but also several volumes on more esoteric subjects, including a few with distinctly dark arts titles. The books were not ones you could find in your average bookstore. It appeared that Michael Abernathy had gone to some dark places to retrieve such texts.

He turned his attention to the desk, where several loose papers lay scattered across the surface.

Picking one up, Philip began to read. It was a letter, addressed to Michael Abernathy and signed simply with the initials "L.M."

The letter opened with the standard niceties, inquiring about Michael's health and well-being, as well as that of his mother. But the tone quickly shifted, becoming more demanding and ominous. The letter spoke of a "project," and a "Master" who expected results.

“The Master is growing impatient, Michael,” the letter read. “He expects to see progress. I visited your store on Tuesday, as planned, but you were nowhere to be found. This is unacceptable. We must discuss this matter immediately. Meet me at our spot, Sunday evening at dusk. Do not be late. Our Master's patience is wearing thin."

Philip frowned, a chill running down his spine. This was far beyond anything he had anticipated. He had come here expecting to find a simple, aspiring Potions Master, but this letter suggested something far more complex and sinister.

He carefully folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket, ignoring the disapproving glance from Andrew. 

"We shouldn't be stealing things, Phil," Andrew muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Philip ignored him and headed back down the stairs, Andrew trailing behind. They found Mrs. Abernathy sitting in the living room, staring blankly into the fire.
Philip thanked her for her time and promised to be in contact if they had any further questions.

They left the house, the quiet Cardiff street suddenly feeling oppressive. Once they were a safe distance away, Philip turned to Andrew and handed him the letter.

Andrew hesitated, then took it, his fingers trembling slightly as he unfolded the parchment and began to read. His eyes grew wide with each line, his face paling.

"We need to drop it, Philip," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "This is bigger than we thought. Way bigger."

Philip snatched the letter, his brow furrowed in concentration as he re-read the cryptic message scrawled across the faded parchment.

 "Drop it? Are you kidding me, Andrew? This is what we've been waiting for! A real story, something that will actually matter." Philip said as he tucked the letter securely into his coat pocket.

"Abernathy was just supposed to be our hook, remember? A front-page piece on the magical victim of that London attack," Andrew reminded him, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. "Innocent bystander caught in the crossfire, a tragic tale about the life lost. That's what we came in for."

"Yes but we found more," Philip replied, his eyes flashing.

Andrew’s shoulders slumped. He knew that tone, that glint in Philip’s eye. "We could at least contact Auror Yaxley," he suggested, a desperate attempt to inject some sanity into the situation. "Give him the letter. Let the professionals handle it."

Philip scoffed, a harsh, biting sound in the crisp air. "Yaxley? You want to trust him? He deliberately hid the fact that Abernathy had gone missing months before the bombing. Made no effort to investigate his disappearance. And now, suddenly, Abernathy's conveniently blown up in London, and Yaxley couldn't seem less bothered? He's either incompetent or complicit, Andrew. Either way, relying on him is suicide."

"No, we need to find our own way. We need to unravel this ourselves." He stopped, his gaze fixed on some distant point only he could see. “First things first, we need to figure out who this ‘master’ Abernathy was serving. Who was pulling his strings?"

Andrew stared at him, a growing knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach. He knew Philip wouldn’t be deterred. He also knew, deep down, that he couldn't just walk away. The course was set.

Chapter Text

The biting November winds had yielded to the crisp, festive breath of December. Hogwarts Castle, usually a stoic guardian of secrets and knowledge, now thrummed with the joyful anticipation of Christmas. Garlands of holly and mistletoe draped over the stone archways, casting dancing shadows in the flickering candlelight.

More snow blanketed the grounds, lending an ethereal beauty to the ancient structure. The echoes of carols, practiced with varying degrees of enthusiasm by the students, bounced off the high ceilings, a constant reminder that the holidays were almost upon them.

But beneath the veneer of Yuletide cheer, the undercurrents of unease still lingered. The chilling whispers about the recent incident in the Forbidden Forest, though fading, hadn’t completely vanished. The incident had left its mark, a stain on the otherwise pristine tapestry of Hogwarts life. While the student body, ever resilient, seemed to slip back into a semblance of normalcy, for some, the shadows were harder to shake.

Severus Prince was one of those.

Sleep had become a luxury he could scarcely afford. Night after night, the same horrifying scene played out behind his eyelids, a relentless tormentor revisiting him in the form of vivid, agonizing nightmares. He was trapped, reliving the perilous moments in the Forbidden Forest, the chilling dread, the palpable darkness. The exhaustion was bone-deep, etching deeper lines around his already severe features.

At least, Marcus had finally, albeit reluctantly, ceased his incessant questioning about that fateful night. The relief was immense. Severus wasn’t sure how much longer he could have endured the persistent probing. He feared the consequences of revealing the truth, the whispers, the judgment, the burden of an unspoken pact.

His sanity clung to a fragile thread, but there was a glimmer of hope, a lifeline in the form of stolen moments with Lily. In the sanctuary of a vanishing classroom, a space unclaimed and unnoticed by the castle's inhabitants, they found solace and understanding. After classes, they would meet, speaking for hours, sharing secrets and dreams. They had even begun studying together, the shared pursuit of knowledge a comforting balm against the anxieties that gnawed at them both.

But this evening, he was in a different classroom. Severus was joined by his two closest friends, Thomas  and Marcus. The air crackled with a mixture of nervous energy and eager anticipation. Their conversation revolved around the Patronus Charm, a notoriously difficult spell that had consumed their last week.

"Mine definitely had horns," Marcus declared, pulling his textbook closer to the flickering candlelight. "Backward curving horns, like a bison or a particularly aggressive ram. It's still just a shimmering cloud, but the shape is unmistakable."

Thomas peered at him skeptically. "I wouldn't be so sure, Marcus. Mine had something of a long snout, definitely saw paws, it was like some kind of canine, not too sure of the breed yet."

Severus, leaning against the worn oak desk, was lost in his own thoughts. He was still reeling from the surprise of his own Patronus's development. The swirling mist, which had previously been nothing more than a formless wisp, was slowly coalescing into the shape of a winged creature. A bird, perhaps, or something more exotic? He dared not let himself hope for a creature as majestic as a griffin or a phoenix.

The potential had ignited a spark within the boys. They devoured every text they could find on corporeal Patronuses, poring over descriptions of the animals they could manifest and the corresponding personality traits associated with each. They dreamt of the day they could conjure their Patronuses with unwavering clarity, a beacon of hope and positive energy.

Marcus, with a dramatic flourish, looked up from his well-worn copy of "Animals of the Soul" by Leilani Rubis. He cleared his throat and then began to recite, " 'Rhinos, creatures of immense strength and unparalleled power, the spirit animal of those who possess endurance, resilience, and an indomitable will.' "

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Let me guess, you think you're a rhino, Marcus?"

Marcus bristled defensively. "What? I'm just saying, it fits. Strength, power..."

"Hardly," Severus interjected, a sly smirk playing on his lips. "When have you ever displayed power, Marcus? Other than bellowing at the Quidditch pitch, of course."

Thomas chimed in, adding fuel to the fire. "Or endurance? Honestly, you're winded after a single lap around the grounds."

Severus finished the jab, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. "And resilience? You whine for days after a bad game."

Thomas chuckled, nudging Severus with his elbow. "Outside the Quidditch pitch, you're just a blustering windbag."

Marcus grunted, his face flushed with indignation. "Shut up, you two. I was just... speculating. Besides, it's backward curving horns. Which means, it's more like a bison."

"And what characteristics are bison known for?" Severus challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Marcus hesitated. "Well... they're... strong. And... they graze a lot."

Thomas burst out laughing. "Grazing doesn't exactly scream 'powerful wizard,' Marcus."

"Alright, alright," Marcus conceded, his good humor returning. "Maybe I'm not exactly a bison. But I do have the potential for greatness!"

"Oh, we have no doubt," Severus said dryly. "You have the potential to trip over your own feet and land face-first in a cauldron of dungbombs."

They laughed together. Severus almost felt good. That building tension between Marcus and him had died. Leaving that familiar brotherly friendship. But the good was tinged with the sour truth that he had to lie to him and Thomas. That they couldn’t know what happened with the werewolf.

They turned back to work. Each taking turns to summon their semi corporeal Patronuses.

"Alright, let's see if we can get them to hold their form a little longer," Marcus said, grabbing his wand. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, focusing on the happiest memory he could conjure: the exhilaration of scoring the winning goal in their last Quidditch match.

"Expecto Patronum!" he cried, his voice ringing with determination.

A cloud of silvery mist erupted from the tip of his wand, coalescing into a vaguely animalistic shape. For a fleeting moment, the silhouette of a horned creature appeared, its backward-curving horns glinting in the dim light of the classroom. Then, just as quickly, the mist dissipated, leaving only a lingering shimmer in the air.

“Damn it,” Marcus muttered, frustration evident in his voice. “It’s still not fully corporeal. Maybe I need a stronger memory.”

Thomas stepped forward, his face etched with concentration. He closed his eyes, delving into the depths of his mind, searching for a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. He remembered the first time he had successfully brewed a complex potion, the feeling of triumph that had washed over him as he held the shimmering, perfectly concocted elixir.

“Expecto Patronum!” he exclaimed, his voice clear and confident.

A similar cloud of silvery mist flowed from his wand, swirling and dancing in the air before taking on a distinct form. Thomas gasped as he saw the elongated snout and powerful paws of a large, canine creature, its eyes glowing with an ethereal light.

“It’s… so close!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with awe. “it must be a dog, or something? I definitely saw paws and a long snout!”

Severus watched them, his own wand feeling heavy in his hand. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure a happy memory, but the darkness of the Forbidden Forest kept intruding, its chilling presence and the snarling werewolf were a constant obstruction.

He tried to push the images away, focusing instead on something happy. His mind emptied before memories came swirling: a bell-like laughter, a dimpled smile, a warm glow of green eyes.

"Expecto Patronum," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Anna’s voice was barely audible above the cacophony in the Great Hall. The lunchtime rush had transformed the hall into a swirling vortex of students, a sea of chattering voices and the clatter of cutlery. Maria was excitedly recounting a particularly tricky Transfiguration lesson, but Jane’s attention drifted. Weeks had passed since the devastating report on the London attack, yet a palpable tension still hung heavy in the Slytherin ranks.

She scanned the long table, her gaze settling on Rosier and his usual retinue of sycophants, stuffing their faces with an almost aggressive gluttony. Their newfound boldness grated on her nerves; it was a blatant display of power, a flexing of muscles in the wake of the recent events.

Suppressing a sigh, Jane refocused on her friends’ conversation. They were debating their predictions for the upcoming OWL Transfiguration exams.

“I think the practical will definitely include the vanishing spell,” Anna declared, her voice brimming with confidence. She rattled off a list of spells she considered likely candidates.

Jane groaned inwardly. Transfiguration was her weakest subject, and the thought of performing complex spells under the scrutinizing gaze of a Ministry official filled her with dread.

“I’m not too worried about the practical,” Maria chimed in, her brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s the theoretical that’s got me stressed. All those laws of transformation…”

Jane groaned again, a more audible sound this time. If there was anything she dreaded more than botching a Transfiguration spell, it was reciting lengthy, arcane treatises.

The lunch bell’s shrill ring sliced through the chatter, signaling the end of their break. Jane joined Anna and Maria, their steps echoing along the stone corridor as they headed to their next class: Potions.

The classroom was only half-full when they arrived. Finding their assigned stations, Jane settled beside Kyle Cartwright. The tall, brown-haired Gryffindor had become her lab partner after Professor Slughorn’s much-needed reshuffle of seating arrangements, a necessary measure prompted by the escalating feud between Prince and Potter that threatened to blow up the classroom.

Jane didn’t mind working with Kyle. His quiet demeanor, a rarity amongst Gryffindors, was something she surprisingly found appealing.

“How was your lunch?” Kyle inquired, his voice soft and pleasant.

“Fine,” Jane mumbled, her gaze fixed on her cauldron. “Just fine.”

As the remaining students trickled in, Professor Slughorn began the lesson. The time flew by, surprisingly quickly, and soon Jane was packing her bag, a satisfied smile playing on her lips after receiving an “Exceeds Expectations” on her and Kyle's potion.

She rejoined Anna and Maria in the corridor, where she found them deep in conversation with Marcus and Thomas. “Where have you two been hiding?” she asked, giving the boys a friendly wave.

“Study session,” Thomas replied, a grin spreading across his face.

Just then, Severus joined them, looking as worn out as he had all week. Jane sensed that something significant had happened last month, but she hesitated to ask.

“Hello, Jane, Anna, Maria,” he greeted them, his voice lacking its usual sharpness.

“How are you?” Jane inquired, her concern showing.

Severus paused, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “Fine,” he murmured, the word barely escaping his lips. It was clear he wasn’t fine, but Jane decided not to press him.

“We have a double free period!” Anna exclaimed excitedly. “Shall we study together?”

The boys quickly agreed, and the group of Slytherins made their way to the library, their footsteps creating a steady rhythm that blended with the soft whispers echoing through the castle.

Jane fell into step next to Severus, trailing just a bit behind the others. She really needed to talk to him. A few weeks back, she had asked for Severus' help to dig into Wilkes’ suspicious behavior in Hogsmeade. But that was before whatever happened in the Forbidden Forest, before she noticed a change in Severus' attitude. She had thought that giving him some space would help, but he seemed even more weighed down now.

She was uncertain if he was ready for this now. Honestly, she wouldn’t hold it against him if he decided to back out.

A flicker of hesitation crossed her face, and Severus caught it.

“Just say what you’re thinking, Jane,” he encouraged softly, his gaze steady on hers.

Jane nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… I’m not sure what happened to you, and maybe I shouldn’t pry, but…”

Severus gently interrupted her. “You’re right. I’d rather not discuss it.”

Jane inhaled deeply. “Then I won’t push." They fell silent for a moment, listening to the chatter of their friends ahead of them.

Finally Jane sighed. "Things are looking pretty grim in Slytherin.” She hesitated, carefully selecting her words. “Since the London attack… Muggle-born students in their first, second, and third years… they’ve been targeted.”

Severus let out a low grunt. “Not surprising.”

Jane frowned. She knew he was right, but there was something in his tone that felt dismissive, almost heartless.

“People need an excuse, Jane,” Severus continued, his voice barely louder than a sigh. “And that Daily Prophet article… it was just that. An excuse.”

Jane nodded. She understood the sentiment, the underlying currents of prejudice, but it didn't alleviate her concern. “It plays right into Wilkes’ and his cronies’ hands,” she whispered.

They entered the library, the scent of old parchment and leather filling the air. Finding a secluded corner, they settled into a small alcove, the hushed whispers of other students a distant murmur.

They began to study, exchanging notes on Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions. But Severus remained apart, absorbed in a thick volume on spellcraft and dueling.

"What are you researching?" Maria asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Combat spells," Severus mumbled, his gaze fixed on the ancient text. He seemed lost in a world of his own making.

Jane watched him, fascinated and troubled by his intense focus. He seemed almost in a trance, muttering to himself as he meticulously copied passages into his notebook. She looked away, back to her own study notes.

An hour and a half passed before Severus abruptly rose from his chair. "Apologies," he muttered, "I have… some business to attend to."

Jane quickly stood, chasing after him as he left the library. Catching up with him, she spoke quickly. "I meant what I said weeks ago, Severus. I want to find out what Wilkes is up to, and I'd appreciate your help."

Severus turned, his tired eyes meeting hers. He grunted, a low sound of reluctant agreement. "I'll help… as much as I can. But I have other… obligations."

Jane nodded, a wave of relief washing over her. "Thank you," she whispered. She watched him go, then rejoined the others, a knot of both hope and anxiety tightening in her stomach.

The door appeared before him, materializing from the stone wall bit by bit, the rough grey yielding to smooth, polished oak. It wasn't a dramatic unveiling, no burst of light or fanfare, just a steady, silent conjuring until it stood solid and real, a doorway where moments before there had been only cold, unforgiving stone. The door to the Vanishing Classroom was, in its essence, unremarkable. Simply an oak door, the kind that could be found scattered throughout Hogwarts, distinguished only by its silver doorknob, polished smooth by years of countless hands.

Yet, Severus still found himself staring at it in wonder. Each time he saw it appear, the sheer impossibility of its creation never failed to stir something within him. A flicker of awe, perhaps, or maybe simply a desperate clinging to the magic that insulated him from the harsh realities of the world outside. He knew the secrets of the castle, the hidden passages, the enchanted portraits, but this room, this fleeting sanctuary, felt different. It felt… personal.

He reached out, his fingers gliding over the cool, smooth curve of the silver knob. Taking a deep breath, he gripped it tightly and turned. The familiar click resonated in the quiet corridor, a small yet defiant sound. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The classroom looked just as it always did, a sanctuary of forgotten knowledge. It appeared abandoned and dust-laden, a space seemingly frozen in time. Sunlight trickled softly through the stained-glass windows at the far end, casting light on the motes of dust that danced in the air. The scenes depicted in the stained glass shifted with each visit—sometimes rolling hills, sometimes portraits of long-gone wizards, and today… a dragon. A magnificent, serpentine creature exhaling fire in a dazzling array of colors. Severus paused for a moment, entranced by the image, before redirecting his focus to the room itself.

The room was simply decorated, featuring a few battered wooden tables and an assortment of mismatched chairs scattered across the weathered stone floor. Bookshelves hugged the walls, crammed with volumes wrapped in cracked leather and fragile parchment. The air was thick with the musty scent of old paper and forgotten spells. It felt like a sanctuary, a quiet escape from the constant scrutiny and murmurs of Hogwarts.

And in that sanctuary, she sat.

At one of the tables, bathed in the gentle glow from the dragon window, was Lily. An open potions book lay in front of her, its pages filled with a tangle of notes and diagrams. Her fiery red hair, usually a striking sight, was pulled back into a loose ponytail, showcasing the graceful curve of her neck. She glanced up as he entered, her emerald eyes widening slightly in recognition. Despite the subtle shadows of fatigue under her eyes, she greeted him with a warm smile.

It was a small, hesitant smile, but it was enough. It was a signal, a reassurance.

He found himself smiling back, a genuine, unguarded smile that rarely graced his features. The simple act of seeing her, safe and sound in this hidden space, eased the knot of anxiety that had been tightening in his chest all day.

"You're late," she muttered, her voice soft and melodic.

Severus felt a pang of guilt. The classes he had to keep up with, the endless assignments, the suffocating pressure from his own house… it all seemed trivial compared to the quiet solace he found here.

"Sorry," he mumbled, taking a seat beside her, the wooden chair scraping against the stone floor.

She nudged him playfully with her elbow, her smile widening slightly. "Don't be. I was just starting to think you'd decided to abandon me to the terrors of the Draught of Living Death."

It was good to be back. The Vanishing Classroom felt like the only place in this massive castle where he could truly breathe, where he could shed the layers of cautiousness and defensiveness that he wore like armour. It was a sanctuary, a haven built on shared secrets and whispered hopes.

Severus leaned closer, peering at Lily's parchment. He noted the meticulous annotations surrounding a particularly complex diagram. "Draught of Living Death, eh? Ambitious."

Lily nodded, her brow knitted in thought. "I’m just… really intrigued by it. The way it can create a state that feels so convincingly like death. It’s… a bit creepy, but also incredibly intricate."

"Creepy is putting it mildly," Severus replied with a hint of sarcasm. "Just think about being buried alive, convinced you’re dead."

Lily shivered. "Please don’t. I’m trying to concentrate on the potion itself, not the terrifying possibilities of messing it up." She tapped her finger against the page. "I want to grasp exactly how it works. What’s the key ingredient that triggers that death-like state?"

Severus paused, drawing on his extensive potion knowledge. "You might first think it’s the wormwood. It’s a strong sedative, after all."

Lily frowned, shaking her head slightly. "I don’t think that’s it. Well, not completely. While wormwood is crucial for its calming effects, I believe it’s the valerian root that primarily causes the deep sleep. It’s what pushes the body into that almost imperceptible state."

Severus mulled over her point, his mind retracing the complex steps of the potion’s preparation. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the subtle interactions between the ingredients. Then it clicked—the way the valerian root enhanced the sedative properties of the wormwood, pushing the body beyond mere slumber and into a state that mimicked death.

He nodded slowly, recognizing her insight. "You’re right. The valerian root works with the wormwood to create that state. I was too focused on the obvious." He frowned at himself, a familiar gesture of self-reproach. He despised missing something, especially when someone else pointed it out first.

Lily beamed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Hey, don’t be too hard on yourself, Sev. This potion is a tough one. It’s all about finding that perfect balance of ingredients."

He couldn’t help but return a small, appreciative smile. It was moments like this—sharing insights and playful banter—that reminded him just how much he cherished their friendship.

He pushed aside his own nagging doubts and focused on his work. It had been a week, maybe a bit longer, since he’d started on his little project, his secret creation. It was a risky venture, one he couldn’t share with anyone, but the urge to create, to innovate, and to protect burned fiercely within him.

As he flipped through the fragile pages of his Advanced Potions textbook, the ancient knowledge seemed to whisper secrets beneath his fingertips. This time, he wasn’t searching for a potion. No, this was something different—something more… personal.

He paused at a page filled with old runes and forgotten spells. The incantation would take time—lots of it—before he could even think about practicing. It was a gamble, but the potential payoff made it all worthwhile. He traced his quill over the words, his lips moving silently as he whispered the ancient syllables: "Sĕco." To cut. Simple Latin. The idea had struck him like lightning one afternoon during Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

A slicing spell, one powerful enough to slice through even the toughest hide, or, more specifically, a werewolf.

He had also started exploring other spells, branching out beyond potions. One that manipulated air, building on the concept he had previously used for Muffliato, but with the potential for much more complex and powerful effects. He turned the page, his gaze landing on the defensive spells he was developing. This was turning out to be twice as challenging as crafting offensive spells, demanding a delicate balance of strength and precision.

He was lost in his thoughts, his mind wrestling with complex equations and arcane formulas, when Lily's voice broke him out of his musing.

"Do you think… do you think things will ever go back to normal?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and unspoken, a dark cloud casting a shadow over their sanctuary. It was a question that had been on both their minds, a constant, gnawing worry that refused to be ignored.

He thought for a long moment before answering, his voice low and hesitant. "I… I don't know. I honestly don't know if things can ever be the same."

Lily nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the open pages of her potions book. "I didn't have a nightmare last time we spoke about… what happened. Or at least, it wasn't as vivid. But slowly… slowly they've crept back. The screaming, the darkness…" She trailed off, her voice barely a whisper.

She shrunk a little, drawing her arms around herself as if trying to ward off the encroaching darkness. "I thought… I thought things were getting back to normal. Just for a moment."

Severus shut his book with a soft thud, the sound echoing in the silent classroom. He turned to face her, his dark eyes searching hers. He understood. He knew exactly what she meant. The fleeting moments of peace, the desperate clinging to normalcy, only to have it ripped away by the brutal reality of their situation.

"I still find sleeping hard," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "The dreams… they're always there, lurking just beneath the surface. But I suppose… I suppose we just have to keep trying. Keep pushing until we get back to something… something resembling normal."

Lily looked up at him, her green eyes filled with a mixture of hope and despair. "What if we never get back to normal, Sev? What if this is it? What if this is how it's always going to be?"

Severus peered at her, stared into her troubled green eyes. He understood her like no other could and she understood him in equal measures. He knew it wasn't easy but he felt gratitude for having someone who understood.

“Then so be it,” he said, his words laced with conviction. “We’ll make a new normal. Together.”

Chapter Text

The last few weeks had been a blur of frantic studying, exam jitters, and the ever-present hum of pre-holiday excitement that buzzed through the halls of Hogwarts. But for Sirius Black, the anticipation was laced with a growing unease. Christmas was fast approaching, a fact that sent a shiver of dread down his spine considerably colder than the December wind howling outside.

Christmas had never been his favorite holiday. It paled in comparison to the freedom and endless possibilities of the long summer break. Summer meant escape, adventure, and a temporary reprieve from the stifling atmosphere of Grimmauld Place. Christmas, on the other hand, was an enforced period of confinement with his parents, Orion and Walburga Black, individuals he found increasingly difficult to tolerate.

He peered around the Gryffindor common room, a familiar space usually filled with boisterous laughter and the comforting crackle of the fire. He was desperately searching for a distraction, something to push the looming specter of Christmas from his mind. It was a Saturday morning, the last weekend before the train home, and the room was already abuzz with activity. James, ever the optimist, was making yet another attempt, however futile, to capture the elusive Lily Evans' attention.

James, perched precariously on the arm of the sofa, was reciting a particularly dreadful limerick involving a mandrake and a particularly unfortunate potion. "Lily, my dear, your beauty shines brighter than even the finest of gold…," James crooned, his voice dripping with theatrics.

Lily, buried deep within the pages of her Charms textbook, didn’t even bother to lift her head. "Potter, please, for the love of Merlin, leave me alone," she muttered, her voice weary.

Her emerald eyes flickered briefly towards Remus, who sat quietly on the couch between James and Sirius. A flicker of discomfort, almost pain, flashed across her features before she slammed her book shut and retreated towards the girls' dormitories, her shoulders rigid.

Remus, ever observant, must have noticed her unease. Sirius felt him sag slightly beside him, the weight of his unspoken guilt palpable. For the past month, ever since "the incident" - as they had all come to refer to it – Remus had been consumed by a desperate need to apologize to Lily. He'd attempted to approach her countless times, only to be met with a cold shoulder or a mumbled excuse.

Sirius couldn't, for the life of him, understand why Remus felt the need to apologize. It wasn't his fault that Lily and Prince had followed them on that fateful night. It wasn't his fault that Prince and Evans had been subjected to the full fury of a transformed werewolf. It was, in Sirius's honest opinion, their own bloody fault for being a nosy gits.

Sirius grunted, a sound of frustration rumbling in his chest. He couldn't stand to see Remus perpetually downcast. He needed to shake things up, inject some much-needed levity into their lives before they were all swallowed whole by the looming holiday dread.

He sprang to his feet, startling Peter, who sat to Sirius's right and was catching up on whatever subject he was behind in. Knowing Peter, it could be any one of them.

"Right, that's it! We need to do something!" Sirius announced, his voice cutting through the quiet murmur of the common room. "It's our last weekend at Hogwarts before Christmas. We can't just sit around moping."

James, his rejection by Lily momentarily forgotten, perked up. "Do something? Like what? Transfigure all the portraits into Dobby? Brilliant idea, Padfoot!"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "No, not that kind of 'do something'. I have a wonderful idea for some fun. A... rather chilly idea." He paused, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Anyone know how to ice skate?"

Remus looked up, intrigued. "Ice skate? There's nowhere to ice skate at Hogwarts, Sirius."

"Ah, but there is, Moony," Sirius countered, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "The Black Lake usually freezes over enough in the winter. I've seen older students do it. It's perfectly safe... mostly."

James was already on board. "Ice skating? Blimey, that sounds brilliant! I've never actually tried it before."

Peter, ever the cautious one, frowned. "Are you sure it's safe, Sirius? And where are we going to get skates?"

"Don't worry your pretty little head, Wormtail," Sirius retorted, winking. "I'll handle the skates. As for safety... well, a little bit of risk is part of the fun, isn't it? Besides," he added, his voice softening slightly, "we all need a bit of fun right now."

He slumped deeper into a plush, emerald green armchair, the worn leather cool against his skin. A heavy tome titled “Defensive Strategies Against Advanced Dark Arts” lay open in his lap, the arcane symbols and complex incantations blurring before his eyes. He couldn't concentrate. His thoughts, as they often did this time of year, were consumed by the upcoming Christmas break.

Despite the less-than-harmonious atmosphere that often permeated Grimmauld Place, Regulus harbored a genuine fondness for Christmas. The chaotic energy, fueled by his volatile mother, the ever-present tension between his parents, and, of course, the disruptive antics of his elder brother Sirius, somehow coalesced into a unique, albeit slightly unhinged, celebration. Even Kreacher, the ancient house-elf, seemed to possess a flicker of something resembling Christmas spirit, expressing it through slightly less singed mince pies than usual.

His gaze drifted towards the chessboard where McNair, a hulking boy with a cruel smirk permanently etched on his face, was systematically dismantling Rowle’s defenses. Rowle, whose pale face was flushed with frustration, gnawed nervously on his lip. The clatter of the carved stone pieces was a monotonous counterpoint to Regulus's inner turmoil.

"Honestly, you two are insufferable," Regulus groaned, tossing the book carelessly to the side. "Can't you find something more… stimulating to do?"

Walden McNair, without looking up from the board, let out a booming laugh. "And what would you suggest, Black? Reciting poetry? I'm quite content demoralizing Rowle for the morning. It's good practice."

Thorfinn Rowle glared at McNair, his shoulders slumping. "It's not practice, it's slaughter! You're cheating, McNair, I swear it!"

"Accuse all you like, Rowle," McNair retorted, his heavy hand sweeping forward to capture Rowle’s queen. "The board speaks for itself."

Regulus watched them, a faint amusement flickering in his eyes. It was a familiar scene, McNair’s brute force often triumphing over Rowle’s more cunning, but ultimately less effective, strategies. He closed his textbook with a snap and tossed it onto a nearby table. He was too restless to concentrate on defensive spells.

Just then, Rosier, a tall, impeccably dressed Slytherin with slicked-back dark hair, sauntered into the common room, accompanied by one of his equally aloof friends, Avery. Regulus perked up slightly. He knew Rosier was well-connected and always privy to the latest gossip.

“Rosier!” Regulus called out, his voice carrying a hint of anticipation. “Got any exciting plans for the break?”

Rosier paused, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He glanced at his companion, then back at Regulus. "As a matter of fact, I do. I received an invitation to the Malfoys' Christmas party."

"The Malfoys?" Regulus echoed, his interest piqued. "Naturally, I'll be there. Cissy is my cousin, after all." He couldn't imagine missing it. Lucius Malfoy, his cousin Narcissa's husband, always threw extravagant parties, and this year's was sure to be the event of the season.

Rosier nodded, his smirk widening. “Yes, well… it’s rumored that the Malfoys are expecting a… special guest.” He emphasized the word "special" with a knowing look, then turned and continued toward the dormitories, leaving Regulus with a chilling premonition. “See you there, Black.”

Regulus felt a shiver crawl down his spine, despite the warmth of the fireplace. He knew exactly what Rosier was implying. "A special guest." The phrase hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. It was no secret that many, including his own parents, had met the Dark Lord. They were among his staunchest supporters, constantly praising his vision and his aims. The Dark Lord was, in their eyes, the future of the wizarding world, a force of unparalleled power and brilliance.

Regulus had heard tales of the Dark Lord's prowess and his promise to restore the rightful place of pure-blood wizards. He longed to meet him, to pledge his allegiance, to prove himself worthy of being among his followers. He yearned to be more than just a student, more than just a Black. He wanted to be a knight, a champion, a respected member of the Dark Lord's inner circle.

“Knight,” he muttered softly to himself. The ambition burned within him, fueling his desire for recognition and power.

But until then, he was stuck here, in the Slytherin common room, watching McNair humiliate Rowle at wizards' chess. He groaned inwardly. He felt stifled, trapped by the mundane routine of school life.

“I need some fresh air,” he declared abruptly, pushing himself to his feet. “Anyone care to join me?”

Thorfinn, clearly desperate to escape his losing streak against McNair, jumped at the opportunity. “I’m in! I could use some fresh air myself.”

Walden McNair protested vehemently. "Hey! You can't just abandon the game when you're about to lose! Have some backbone, Rowle!"

Thorfinn, however, was beyond reason. With a defiant glare at McNair, he swept a hand across the chessboard, sending the meticulously arranged pieces tumbling onto the floor.

"Finished!" he declared, his voice laced with a nervous energy. "Consider it a… tactical forfeit." He mumbled something about needing to “sharpen his strategies” and hurried after Regulus.

Walden cursed under his breath, his large frame trembling with suppressed rage. He took a deep breath, attempting to regain his composure. After a moment, he shrugged, a grudging acceptance settling over his features.

"Fine, whatever," he grumbled, rising to his feet. "Might as well join them. Anything's better than stewing in here with the ghost of Rowle's shattered chess career."

And so, the three of them – Regulus, Thorfinn, and Walden – left the relative warmth and comfort of the common room and headed out into the cold, stone corridors of Hogwarts. As they walked, Regulus found himself increasingly preoccupied with thoughts of the Malfoy party and the possibility of meeting the Dark Lord. He imagined himself standing before him, offering his unwavering loyalty, proving his worth. He pictured the Dark Lord's approval, his acknowledgment, the promise of a future filled with purpose and power.

"What do you think this special guest Rosier was talking about?" Walden asked, his voice drawing Regulus back to reality.

Regulus hesitated, glancing at Thorfinn. He didn't want to reveal too much, not to boys he barely trusted. "Probably just some important Ministry official," he said dismissively. "The Malfoys always associate with influential people."

Thorfinn snorted. "Maybe. Or maybe it's something more interesting." He winked knowingly.

Regulus bit his lip. He knew Thorfinn suspected something, but he couldn't bring himself to confirm it. The thought of the Dark Lord attending the party was both exhilarating and terrifying. He wanted to meet him, to impress him, but he also felt a sense of unease, a nagging feeling that perhaps he wasn't ready.

As they continued their walk, the corridors grew colder and darker, mirroring the growing unease in Regulus’s heart. The anticipation of Christmas, which had initially filled him with joy, was now tinged with a sense of foreboding. He was on the cusp of something significant, something that could change the course of his life forever.

They emerged from the castle's imposing entrance and stepped into the snow-covered courtyard. The pristine white landscape stretched before them, a stark contrast to the dimly lit corridors they had just left. The air was crisp and biting, stinging their faces with its icy breath.

Their conversation, initially light and inconsequential, was suddenly interrupted by a burst of raucous laughter and shouts. Curious, they turned towards the source of the commotion, their boots crunching in the fresh snow.

The sounds led them to the edge of the Black Lake, which was partially frozen over, a treacherous sheet of ice shimmering under the pale winter sun. To Regulus's surprise, he saw a group of students skating on the ice, their figures moving with a reckless abandon that bordered on foolishness.

And there, in the centre of the frozen lake, his dark hair a whirlwind in the frosty air, was Sirius.

Regulus felt a surge of conflicting emotions wash over him. Disgust, certainly. Sirius was fraternizing with Gryffindors, blatant blood traitors, flaunting his disregard for their family's values.

But then, for a fleeting, almost unbearable moment, he saw something else. He saw Sirius laughing. Not the sardonic, bitter laughter he'd heard so often in recent years, but the deep, unrestrained laughter that Regulus remembered from their childhood. The laughter he used to hear when Sirius would rope him into ridiculous schemes, like the time they tried to draw moustaches on the portraits in the family tapestry.

Regulus watched, transfixed, as Sirius spun around with effortless grace, James Potter clinging to his arm, his face split in a wide, goofy grin. Lupin was helping Pettigrew to his feet after a clumsy fall, only for Pettigrew to slip again, eliciting another round of laughter.

For a moment, the bitterness that had hardened around Regulus's heart seemed to thaw, just a little. He remembered when Sirius had been his, when they had been inseparable, bound by a shared understanding that transcended the rigid expectations of their family. He remembered the tenderness in Sirius's eyes when he looked at him, the protective arm he would throw around his shoulders.

But that was gone. All that remained was the icy chasm that had opened between them, a chasm filled with unspoken accusations, unbridgeable differences, and the crushing weight of their family's expectations. The warmth in Sirius's eyes had been replaced by a look of disappointment, sometimes even disgust.

"Let's go back inside," Regulus grunted, his voice laced with disdain. "I can't stand watching those Gryffindor buffoons make a spectacle of themselves."

Walden and Thorfinn, sensing Regulus’s darkening mood, readily agreed.

"Bloody Gryffindors," Walden muttered, echoing Regulus’s sentiment. "Wish they'd all do everyone a favor and fall through the ice."

As they turned away from the Black Lake and headed back towards the warmth of the castle, Regulus couldn't shake the image of Sirius from his mind. The icy divide between them seemed to widen with each step, a chilling reminder that he had made his choice and Sirius had made his. 

Sirius swooped past Remus and Peter, a whoop of laughter escaping his lips. The cold air stung his face, but he barely noticed it, too caught up in the sheer exhilaration of the moment. The laughter subsided as he spotted three Slytherins trudging away from the lake.

He recognized the middle figure immediately. It was Regulus. He was wearing that long black fur coat their mother had bought him last Christmas, a coat that Sirius knew Regulus secretly adored.

A wave of unease washed over him. It suddenly dawned on him that he would be spending the entire Christmas holiday with Regulus, under the same roof. What would they even talk about? Regulus would most likely start by lecturing him about his duty to the "noble and ancient House of Black," about how he should choose better friends and cultivate a better relationship with their parents.

His lip curled in distaste. His brother had become a real nagging Nancy, a paragon of rigid tradition and suffocating expectations. Sirius would have to find a way to sneak out, to escape the oppressive atmosphere of Grimmauld Place and spend at least some of the holidays somewhere… anywhere… else.

A sudden cry startled him out of his gloomy thoughts. He turned just in time to see Peter hurtling towards him, waving his arms frantically. The portly boy slammed into him with the force of a runaway troll, knocking the wind out of his lungs. They tumbled across the ice, a chaotic whirlwind of limbs and flailing.

James, caught completely off guard, was the next victim, thrown into the air as they slammed into him. Remus, more agile than his friends, managed to avoid the disastrous collision and quickly hurried over to check on them. He didn’t bother checking on Sirius; he knew his friend was indestructible. And indeed, Sirius threw his head back and roared with laughter, the sound echoing across the frozen lake.

Chapter Text

The rhythmic clatter of the Hogwarts Express wheels on the tracks was a familiar lullaby, one that Lily Evans usually found comforting. It was the sound of leaving the castle, yes, but also the sound of returning to a different world, a different rhythm. Today, however, the sound grated on her nerves, a frantic drumming that mirrored the anxious pulse beneath her ribs.

Laughter echoed down the carriage corridor, punctuated by the occasional burst of magic or the clatter of a dropped trunk. Outside the window, the lush green of the Scottish Highlands had long since bled into the softer, more domesticated hues of the English countryside – rolling hills, patchwork fields, sleepy villages huddled around church spires. The air inside the compartment was thick with the smell of damp wool, slightly stale pumpkin pasties, and the underlying metallic scent of the ancient train.

Each year, the gap widened. Boarding the train in September felt like stepping into her real life, a world where she understood the unspoken rules, where the language was her own, where her abilities weren't a strange, alarming anomaly, but simply... her. Leaving Hogwarts felt increasingly like returning to a foreign country, one she had once called home, but where she no longer spoke the language fluently.

She sat nestled in the corner of a compartment, the worn velvet of the seat scratchy against her back. Across from her, Mary and Marlene were a picture of holiday cheer, their conversation a bright, bubbly stream about ice-skating plans, potential parties, and the sheer joy of two weeks free from Potions essays and Transfiguration homework. Their excitement was palpable, a vibrant force filling the air, and Lily felt a pang of guilt for her inability to fully share it.

Mary, perched on the edge of her seat, was animatedly detailing her Christmas plans. "We're going skiing in France! Mum says it'll be absolutely freezing, but she's packing about ten jumpers for me. And guess what? My cousin, the one who's two years older? He's bringing his friend, who's apparently really good looking..."

Marlene, ever practical, was already listing the presents she needed to buy. "Got Mum's scarf sorted, obviously. Dad wants Quidditch tickets, which is always a nightmare to get last minute. And I need something for little Timmy, he's obsessed with those Muggle racing cars this year..."

Lily murmured vague assents, nodding occasionally, but her thoughts were miles, and sometimes seemingly worlds, away. The closer the train got to London, the heavier the knot in her stomach tightened.

It wasn't that she didn't love her parents; she did, fiercely. But the gap between her two lives had become a chasm, wide and difficult to bridge. Trying to explain the simplest things from her magical world felt like speaking a foreign language she hadn't quite mastered, finding awkward Muggle equivalents that never quite captured the essence of it all.

Describing a Charms class felt like explaining advanced physics to someone who thought electricity was controlled by tiny gnomes. Her parents, trying their best, would nod, their eyes holding an almost imperceptible confusion, and the conversation would inevitably veer back to mundane, like what she wanted for Christmas.

"Something sensible this year, please, Lily," her farther would jokingly say. "Now that you know unicorns exist, it doesn't mean we can get you one like you wanted when you were little." 

However this year's set of worries were vastly different. The incident still lingered in the air and while it was one thing to not tell her friends, it was a different story when it came to her parents.

Not like she could tell them even if she wished. Headmaster Dumbledore had made it clear when he first spoke to her about what happened that she keep it to herself, less there be consequences for all involved.

How do you bring up the fact that you almost got eaten by a werewolf, a werewolf who happened to be a classmate, to your parents anyway?

The thought was so utterly ludicrous, so impossible to translate into their reality, that it just stayed locked away, another brick in the wall growing between her and her old life. The fear she'd felt that night, the sheer animal terror, was a visceral memory she still sometimes woke up from in a cold sweat.

She couldn't share that burden, not with them. She certainly couldn't share it with Petunia.

The thought of her sister sent a familiar, cold chill down Lily's spine, sharper than the December air outside. Petunia, her older sister, who had once been her best friend, her shadow, her partner in childish games on the swings down the lane. The magic, or rather, Lily's possession of it, had shattered that bond irreparably. Petunia's initial fear had curdled into bitter resentment, a simmering jealousy that manifested as icy silence or sudden, vicious barbs.

Freak. Abnormal. What do you even do there? Prance around like you're special?

She rarely acknowledged Lily's existence, treating her like a contaminant in their perfectly ordinary, perfectly normal world. When she did speak, it was usually to deliver a cutting remark, a reminder that Lily didn't fit. The house felt smaller, tighter, whenever Petunia was in it, filled with unspoken tension and the ghost of a friendship that had died a painful, unnatural death.

Lily sighed inwardly, the sound lost in the train’s rumble. She was nervous, yes, but it was more than just the annual awkwardness of bridging the two worlds. It was the dread of Petunia's cold eyes, the inevitable feeling of being an intruder in her own childhood home.

The train rattled over a bridge, the grey landscape briefly giving way to a glimpse of a muddy river below. Her mind, seeking refuge from the anxieties of home, drifted back to the day before, to the quiet, forgotten corner of the castle where she’d spent her final hours before leaving.

She saw him clearly in her mind's eye: his dark, lank hair falling over his face, his pale skin stark against the dark robes, the intensity in his dark eyes when he was focused on something. They shouldn't have been friends, not really. A Gryffindor and a Slytherin. A Muggle-born and... well, Severus was complicated. His quiet intensity, his sharp mind, his unusual background... he didn't fit neatly into any box, and perhaps that was why she felt comfortable with him. In the Vanishing Classroom, away from the prying eyes and ingrained prejudices of the school, they were just Lily and Severus.

Yesterday had been different. The usual quiet focus on shared potions knowledge or discussing tricky spells had given way to something softer, more personal. They had talked about the Christmas holidays, about going home.

"My mother has a small shop," he'd said, his voice low, tracing an invisible pattern on a dusty desk. "In Knockturn Alley."

The name sent a slight shiver down Lily's spine. Knockturn Alley. It was synonymous with dark magic, shady dealings, things best left undiscovered. Not a place one associated with a quiet potions shop, or with Severus.

He rarely spoke about his family. He mentioned his mother occasionally, usually in reference to her knowledge of potions, which was apparently extensive. But his father was a blank space. Hearing about the shop, and in Knockturn Alley, felt like getting a tiny glimpse behind a heavily guarded curtain.

"You work there with her?" Lily had asked, surprised.

He nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable for a moment. "Sometimes. It's... educational." He'd given a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "We prepare ingredients. Some... specialised things."

He hadn't elaborated, and Lily hadn't pushed. Instead, she'd asked about the area. He'd started describing it then, hesitantly at first, then with a strange sort of detached fascination.

The gloom that seemed to cling to the narrow street even on a sunny day, the weird shops selling shrunken heads or potent, questionable brews, the hushed conversations, the distinct odour of decay and powerful, sometimes unsettling, magic.

He described the people too – cloaked figures, haggard faces, witches and wizards who didn't quite fit in anywhere else. It wasn't a tourist guide, but a portrait painted with the muted colours of a life lived on the fringes, a life that ran parallel to the bustling normalcy of Diagon Alley.

"But it's not all bad," he said softly. "Most people there… they live there because they have nowhere else. They're just trying to survive."

Lily nodded and brief silence fell between them. Severus shuffled in his seat, gathering courage, before peering up.

"What's Cockworth like?" He asked and Lily chuckled which caused him to frown in confusion. "What?" 

"Cokeworth," Lily corrected as her laughter died down.

Lily had found herself talking about Cokeworth. Her hometown. An industrial town in the Midlands. Grey. That was the colour she associated most with it. Grey skies, grey streets, the grey dust from the nearby factories that seemed to settle on everything. She talked about the rows of identical houses, the small garden her mother tended with fierce pride, the constant distant hum of machinery from the works.

"There's this big, grey lake that separates the poorer North side from the more affluent South side." Lily explained. "A sort of invisible line, you know? Dividing the haves and the have-nots."

She traced patterns on the dusty desk with her finger. "I lived in the North side, of course. But I went to school in the South. It always felt... strange, crossing that invisible line every day. Like stepping into a different world."

Severus listened intently, captivated by her descriptions. He could almost see the grimy lake, the bleak industrial landscape, the invisible line that separated the two sides of her town.

"So," he said, a mischievous glint appearing in his dark eyes, "that's why you're such a proper lady, then, isn't it? All that time spent in the South side rubbing off on you."

Lily's eyes widened in mock outrage. "Oh, you!" she exclaimed, playfully punching him on the arm.

Severus laughed, a genuine, unburdened laugh that rarely escaped his lips. The sound echoed in the empty classroom, filling the space with a warmth that had nothing to do with the dying sunlight.

It felt... nice. Confiding in him. Sharing these pieces of their lives outside the castle walls. It was rare for Lily to feel truly seen in both her worlds.

At Hogwarts, she was the bright Muggle-born witch. At home, she was the strange daughter who went away to a mysterious school.

With Severus, somehow, she felt less like an anomaly. He understood the feeling of being an outsider, of navigating different, sometimes clashing, realities. There was a quiet comfort in that shared understanding, a sense that they weren't entirely alone in their oddness.

Now, watching the fleeting landscape, a sudden, sharp regret pierced through her pleasant recollection. Knockturn Alley. He'd said Knockturn Alley. He hadn't mentioned a shop name. He hadn't mentioned a street number.

She cursed inwardly, a silent, frustrated whisper. An address. Why hadn't she asked for an address? She could have written. A short letter, just to say hello, to ask how he was doing during the holiday. Anything to bridge the gap of the next few weeks. The distance suddenly felt vast and uncrossable.

A gentle nudge disturbed her reverie. Mary was looking at her, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.

"Earth to Lily? Anyone in there?"

Lily blinked, shaking her head slightly as she refocused on the bright colours of Mary's scarf and the familiar, friendly faces of her friends. "Oh, sorry," she mumbled, feeling a blush creep up her neck. "Didn't quite catch that."

Mary's smirk widened. "Clearly not. Lost in thought, you were. Deep thought." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Thinking about him?"

Lily frowned, her internal warmth evaporating, replaced by a sudden prickle of defensiveness. "Him? Who... who are you talking about?"

"Mary thinks you were mooning over a boy." Marlene said with an amused look. Lily gaped at her and then back at Mary.

Lily felt a flush creep up her neck. A boy? Severus? The idea felt... wrong. Or maybe just unexpected. She frowned more deeply. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Mary's smirk didn't falter. She leaned back, crossing her arms. "Oh, I don't know, Lily-flower. You've been sneaking off for weeks, haven't you? Disappearing after classes, or late in the evenings. And you always come back looking... softer. Happier, even. Something's been going on."

Lily's frown hardened into a glare. "There's no boy."

Mary tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with playful accusation, and raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"No!" Lily snapped at her but the flush on her neck deepened.

Mary threw her hands up in mock surrender, a laugh bubbling in her throat. "Alright, alright! Merlin, touchy! Didn't mean any offence by it."

Marlene gave Lily an apologetic look, a silent acknowledgment of Mary's sometimes blunt curiosity. But Lily couldn't meet her gaze. 

The warmth of the Vanishing Classroom, the quiet comfort of her conversation with Severus, had evaporated, replaced by irritation and a renewed wave of anxiety about the two weeks stretching ahead of her, a different kind of isolation awaiting her at home.

She turned away abruptly, pressing her forehead lightly against the cool glass of the window, peering back out at the world speeding by. The idyllic countryside was giving way now. Villages clumped together, their houses growing more uniform, chimney smoke rising in thicker plumes.

These gave way to towns, the landscape becoming more cluttered with buildings, roads, the occasional towering structure that wasn't a castle or a mountain.

Finally, the towns began to merge, sprawling outwards until they became one continuous urban sprawl, the grey sky above pressing down on a world of brick and concrete.

The late afternoon had bled into an early twilight, the overcast sky offering little light. Outside, the grey grew dark, the fading light making the difference between day and night negligible. Lily, who had changed out of her Hogwarts robes into Muggle clothes – jeans and a warm jumper – long before the train had even pulled out of the station, watched with a detached gaze. 

The familiar flood of Hogwarts uniforms began to crowd the hallway outside their compartment as more students realised how late it was and headed towards the lavatories to change before arrival. The train compartment felt suddenly smaller, the outside world pressing in.

As the train slowed, the familiar, industrial smell of London wafted faintly through the cracks around the windows.

King's Cross. The portal between her two worlds. The thought sent a fresh wave of nervousness through her.

She took a deep breath, trying to dislodge the knot of anxiety in her stomach. Mary and Marlene were gathering their things, their earlier conversation forgotten in the practical rush to prepare. Lily reached down for her own bag, her fingers brushing against the smooth, worn wood of her wand handle tucked inside. A small, secret comfort.

The train slowed and then crept before finally coming to a stop at a packed platform. Home awaited. 

Lily sighed and gave her friends tight hugs, mutteri that shd would write to them before stepping out of the compartment. She'd push past fellow students till she finally found herself on the platform.

Severus Prince stepped off the train and into the throng, his worn trunk bumping against his leg as he navigated the sea of bodies. Parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles engulfed their children in warm embraces, the air thick with joyous cries and tearful reunions. 

He had said his goodbyes to Thomas Reed and Marcus Adams on the train, promises of owl-post correspondence exchanged like precious secrets. Now, pushing past a portly wizard and his equally portly son, he deftly sidestepped an elderly witch pinching the rosy cheeks of a wide-eyed first-year girl. His sharp eyes, honed by years of navigating the crowded streets of Knockturn Alley, constantly scanned the crowd, anticipating the next obstacle.

She usually stood near the exit pillar, a silent sentinel amidst the bustling chaos. And there she was. Eileen Prince.

His mother was clad in her usual attire – a simple black robe that seemed to absorb the light around her. Her dark hair, usually swept back in a severe bun, was pulled even tighter today, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face. He felt a pang of unexpected emotion. She looked smaller than he remembered, almost fragile. The realization struck him: he was taller now, significantly taller than he had been the previous year.

As he drew closer, she noticed him, a flicker of something that might have been relief crossing her expression. They met in a brief, awkward hug. "Severus," she said softly, her voice a low murmur that barely carried over the din. "How was the journey?"

"Fine," he muttered, breaking the embrace perhaps a little too quickly. He frowned, his gaze lingering on her face. Her pale complexion was nothing new; they both possessed the pallor of those who spent their lives indoors, away from the sun's harsh glare. But today, she seemed paler, almost translucent.

"You look pale," he blurted out, the concern in his voice sharper than he intended.

Eileen Prince brushed off his observation with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I am always pale, Severus. Don't concern yourself with it. It's not your place to worry about me." Her voice was firm, laced with the familiar, almost protective, brusqueness that he had come to expect.

She quickly changed the subject, her eyes searching his. "How was the term? How did you manage, being a prefect? I see you didn't quit the first chance you got, like you threatened to in your letter." There was a hint of amusement in her tone.

Severus grunted, unpinning his prefect badge from his robes and shoving it irritably into his pocket. "It was… tolerable."

He had, in fact, considered relinquishing the unwanted responsibility multiple times throughout the year, burdened as he was by the knowledge of Slytherin's internal conflict and later the incident in the Forbidden Forest. 

His mother seemed genuinely amused by his curt response. "I was a prefect during my time at Hogwarts," she said, a touch of pride coloring her voice. "It's a responsibility, but it can be a privilege."

He remained unconvinced.

"Shall we make our way back, then?" she asked, her eyes already drifting towards the exit.

Severus nodded, falling into step beside her. The journey back to the Leaky Cauldron was short, but for Severus, it felt drawn out. He found himself dragging his feet, his eyes captivated by the bustling streets of London. This sprawling metropolis was a world apart from anything he knew from the wizarding world.

A cacophony of sounds, sights, and smells assaulted his senses. The rhythmic rumble of buses, the hurried footsteps of pedestrians, the aroma of street food mingled with the exhaust fumes – it was a sensory overload that both overwhelmed and intrigued him.

He had thought he would have grown tired of walking through this place, had dismissed it as mundane, but apparently, he hadn't. There was a strange, invigorating anonymity in being just another face in the crowd. It was something he never experienced in the close-knit, judgmental world of the wizarding community.

They made their way through the familiar, slightly grimy, atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron, then into the vibrant, bustling heart of Diagon Alley. From there, they veered off the beaten path, slipping into the shadows that led to the cobblestone streets of Knockturn Alley.

Severus peered around as they walked. Knockturn Alley was as he remembered it: perpetually dingy, a haven for those who preferred to remain unseen, those who dealt in secrets and shadows. A handful of witches and wizards hurried past, their faces obscured by hoods and averted gazes, each desperately trying to avoid unwanted attention.

Their apothecary shop sat nestled between a boarded-up tailor's shop and a discreet money-lending establishment. It was a small shop, barely wider than a hallway, and seemed even smaller now that Severus was hitting his growth spurt. His mother fumbled with the key, the metallic click echoing in the oppressive silence of the alley, before she pushed open the front door.

The moment they stepped inside, Severus was greeted by the comforting, familiar scents of dried herbs, exotic spices, and strange, unidentifiable ingredients. It was a complex, earthy aroma that he had known since he was a child, a scent that spoke of home, of potion-making, of secrets whispered in low voices.

A faint smile touched his lips as he pulled his heavy trunk up the narrow, creaking stairs towards his small room. His bedroom had once been shared by him and his mother, back when Mr. Hudson, the previous owner, had lived above the shop. Since Mr. Hudson's retirement, Severus had been blessed with his own sliver of privacy.

The room was spartan, furnished with only the bare essentials: a narrow bed, a rickety bedside table, and a set of drawers that threatened to collapse at any moment. A single window at the far end faced south, offering a view of an endless sea of tiled roofs, a dull, monotonous landscape that mirrored the often-monotonous reality of his life.

Severus shoved his trunk underneath the bed with a grunt and then lay down on the worn mattress, staring up at the peeling paint of the ceiling. He was home.

Home.

He had deliberately pushed thoughts of home to the periphery of his mind for weeks. He had buried himself in schoolwork, in potion-making, in the endless pursuit of knowledge, deliberately avoiding any introspection, any lingering thoughts of the place he was returning to. He had successfully managed to keep the emotions at bay until the day before they were due to leave Hogwarts.

As the years at Hogwarts passed, the sensation of coming home, the giddy excitement he had once felt, had gradually dulled. Now, it felt more like a formality, an obligation. He came back for his mother, to help with the shop, to contribute to their meager existence. His free time would be divided between working in the apothecary and desperately trying to keep up with his ever-increasing academic workload.

It wasn't as if Severus didn't want to be home. He genuinely enjoyed the quiet focus of working in the shop, the intellectual challenge of brewing potions, and he liked catching up with his mother, however guarded her silences might be. But things changed. He had changed.

He wondered if she had noticed the shift in him. No doubt. Eileen Prince missed very little. He would have to think of something to say when she finally confronted him about it. Some explanation for the growing distance, the increasing reticence. He couldn't very well tell her the truth, not the whole truth. He couldn't tell her about being nearly killed by a werewolf, about the agonizing pain, the sheer terror of being chased through the forbidden forest.

The bell above the shop door jingled downstairs, pulling him from his morbid thoughts. Severus reluctantly dragged himself up from the bed, the springs groaning in protest.

He slowly changed out of his Hogwarts robes and into a simple black robe over black jeans and a white shirt, the uniform of his other life. He straightened his robes, smoothed back his greasy hair, and headed downstairs, steeling himself for the conversation to come.

There, on the shop floor, stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick arms and a weathered face. He turned as Severus descended the stairs, a wide, genuine smile breaking across his face.

"Severus!" Carver bellowed, his voice echoing through the small shop. Before Severus could react, he found himself swept up in a bone-crushing hug.

"Carver," he gasped, trying to dislodge himself from the man's powerful embrace.

Carver finally released him, stepping back and looking him up and down with a critical eye. "Merlin's beard, boy, you've grown! You're practically a giant now."

Severus muttered, "That's what teenagers tend to do," a hint of his usual sarcasm creeping into his voice.

Carver chuckled, his booming laugh filling the small shop. "Always the wit, eh, Severus?"

The predictable formalities ensued: Carver asked about Severus's health, his time at school, his classes, whether he was staying out of trouble. He peppered him with questions, his enthusiasm overwhelming.

Severus answered them all, his tone measured and controlled, carefully revealing only what he wanted Carver to know. He spoke of his classes, his grades, his duties as a prefect. He glossed over the more difficult aspects of his year, the near-death experiences, the rift threatening to engulf Slytherin house. 

The formalities commenced. Carver asked about Severus's health, his time at school, his classes, and whether he had stayed out of trouble. He peppered his questions with anecdotes about his own youthful misadventures, tales of bar brawls and potion-related explosions that always ended with a hearty laugh and a wink.

Severus answered them all, his responses concise and guarded, but punctuated with small, almost imperceptible, smiles. In Carver's presence, the weight on his shoulders seemed to lessen, the darkness that clung to him momentarily retreating. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, coming home wasn't so bad after all.

"It wasn't so bad after all," he thought as dabbed at his nose with the sleeve of his blazer, the harsh wool scratching against his skin. 

A dozen figures, silhouettes against the grey December sky, slowly retreated from the snow-dusted field. Blackthron Secondary, bruised and battered, had once again emerged victorious against the pristine boys of Saint Michael's.

He extended a hand to Jack Mallory, pulling him ungently to his feet. "Come on, Mallory. Don't want them seein' you on the ground like that."

Jack, a burly lad with a perpetually rosy face, grinned sheepishly. "Cheers, Sim. Reckon I took one for the team there."

They dusted off the snow, the dozen or so boys moving as a unit, a pack bound by this strange, unspoken tradition.

Every year, around the lead-up to Christmas, the boys from Blackthorn, the rough-and-tumble comprehensive on the wrong side of the tracks, would meet the privileged Southern boys from Saint Michael's for a no-holds-barred brawl. No referees, no rules save the unwritten ones of honour and fair play (mostly), and a tacit agreement to leave it all on the field.

Simeon wasn’t sure exactly how it started, this ritual. He’d heard stories, whispered legends of territorial disputes escalating into annual clashes. All he knew was that it was a fixture, a brutal punctuation mark in the countdown to the festive season.

Christmas. Simeon wiped his nose again. It wasn't exactly his favourite time of year. Too much forced cheer, too much expectation.

But he had to admit, he found a certain grim satisfaction in this odd pre-Christmas rite. It was a release, a way to let off steam before the forced familial bonhomie descended. And, let's be honest, seeing the smug faces of the Saint Michael's boys contorted in pain was undeniably gratifying.

The boys ambled towards Mrs. Higgins' sweet shop, a beacon of warmth and sugar on the edge of the field. Martin O'Hara and some of the older lads from their school were already there, waiting with a crate of lukewarm Coca-Cola.

"Victory drinks!" he roared, tossing cans to the arriving boys.

They stood around in a loose circle, the air thick with the smell of snow, sweat, and cheap cola. Laughter erupted, stories were recounted, exaggerations embellished. The posh boys, the mud, the tackles. They stood there for a while, a temporary brotherhood forged in the crucible of violence, laughing about the "posh boys running off" while they drank their celebratory cans.

"Did you see Keighley's face when I clocked him?" Jack roared, slapping Simeon on the back. "Thought he was going to cry."

Simeon grinned. "He probably did. Probably ran straight back to his daddy's mansion."

The laughter subsided as the boys began to disperse, drawn back to the responsibilities and realities of their lives. Simeon clapped Jack on the shoulder. "See you Sunday for the game, yeah?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Jack replied, heading off in the opposite direction.

Simeon watched them go, the sound of their chatter fading into the grey hum of the afternoon. He turned then, and began the slow trudge home.

Home.

The word felt heavy, a lead weight in his chest. Spinner's End. It wasn't a place that evoked warmth or nostalgia. The narrow streets were choked with identical, grey houses, their brick faces stained with grime and neglect. Christmas lights, the garish beacons of festive cheer, were conspicuously absent. No wreaths adorned the doors, no inflatable snowmen stood guard on the lawns. Spinner's End was as un-festive as it was unforgiving.

He cut through Crestwood, the street that bordered Spinner's End, a stark contrast to his own neighbourhood. The houses were similar in structure, but a perceptible difference hung in the air. Lights twinkled behind drawn curtains, promising warmth and laughter. Children, bundled in brightly coloured coats, chased each other on the sidewalks. Even the air seemed less stagnant, less burdened with the weight of poverty and disillusionment.

Simeon quickened his pace, wanting to escape the unsettling feeling of yearning that Crestwood always evoked. He passed a house with a particularly elaborate display – a life-sized Santa Claus perched on the roof, reindeer illuminated with flashing lights, and a projected image of falling snow dancing across the front lawn. He averted his gaze, a knot tightening in his stomach. Envy.

He finally crossed the invisible boundary into Spinner's End, the cheerful glow of Crestwood fading behind him. The houses loomed darker here, their windows like vacant eyes staring out into the gathering gloom. He walked further down the street, his boots crunching on the frozen pavement, until he reached his destination: a two-story house made of dark brown bricks, its paint peeling in places. The number 13, wrought in tarnished brass, was affixed to the center of the front door.

Simeon sighed, the sound lost in the cold air. He fumbled in his blazer pocket, pulling out the worn house key. He inserted it into the lock, the mechanism groaning in protest as he turned it. The door creaked open, and he stepped inside, immediately engulfed in a whirlwind of youthful energy.

"Simeon!"

Before he could react, a small figure launched itself at him, wrapping its arms tightly around his legs. It was Isabella, his six-year-old sister.

"Bella!" Simeon chuckled, bending down to hug her back. "What are you doing, running me over like that?"

Isabella giggled, her bright eyes sparkling with excitement. "You're home! Mama and I were waiting. I was helping make dinner today!"

"That's wonderful Bella," Simeon said, ruffling her hair. "I can't wait to try your cooking, I'm sure it yummy."

The commotion had attracted the attention of their mother. Elizabeth Snape emerged from the kitchen, her face etched with concern. She was a small woman, but possessed a fierce spirit that belied her size. Her medium-length, curly, black hair framed a face that was both worn and beautiful, and her blue eyes, the same shade as Simeon's, narrowed in suspicion.

"What happened to your nose?" she demanded, marching towards him.

Simeon mumbled, "Nothing, Mum. Just got hit by a football."

Elizabeth wasn't buying it. "A football did that to your nose? Don't lie to me, Simeon."

Isabella, who had released her hold on Simeon's legs, peered up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Are you hurt, Simeon?"

Simeon grinned and patted her head. "I'm fine, Bella. Just a scratch."

His little sister was far easier to placate than his mother. Elizabeth glared at him. "We'll talk about this later. Go upstairs and get cleaned up."

Simeon muttered a "Yes, Ma'am" and trudged up the stairs. His room was a disaster zone, a testament to the chaos of teenage life.

Clothes lay scattered across the floor, spilling out from overflowing drawers. His bass guitar leaned precariously against the wall, its case gathering dust in the corner. A faded Led Zeppelin poster hung on the wall, one corner peeling away, threatening to liberate itself entirely.

He offered a weak smile, throwing his schoolbag onto the floor without ceremony. He collapsed onto his bed, picking up his guitar and strumming a few chords, the familiar sound a temporary escape from the outside world. He knew he was procrastinating, and that his mother’s inevitable shouts of reprimand were looming, but he couldn't resist the pull of the music.

He tossed a few articles of clothing back into the drawers, a half-hearted attempt at tidying, and returned the bass guitar to its case.

Suddenly, the front door opened and closed with a resounding slam. Isabella's high-pitched voice echoed through the house. "Daddy!"

Simeon frowned. He thought he had more time. He grabbed his coat and hurried downstairs, but before he could slip out the front door, his mother called out, stepping from the living room.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.

Simeon mumbled, "Just going to the coffee shop, see if Mrs. Matthews needs any help." A lie, and a poor one at that. He knew Mrs. Matthews had hired two new people, meaning she had all the help she needed.

Elizabeth frowned, unconvinced. A sudden voice boomed from the living room. His father, Tobias Snape, lumbered out, his face flushed.

"I can drop you off if you like, son," he offered, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Simeon shook his head, his voice tight. "I'm fine. I can walk."

Tobias insisted, his voice laced with concern. "It's getting dark, Simeon. And it's cold out there."

Simeon cut him off, his voice hardening. "I said I'm fine!"

Tobias fell silent, his shoulders slumping slightly. He muttered a barely audible, "Understood."

Simeon didn't give him a chance to say anything more. He darted out the door, leaving his parents standing in the hallway, their expressions a mixture of sadness and resignation.

Tobias was right. It was dark and cold. But Simeon would rather brave the unforgiving elements than accept a ride from his father. He’d walk.

He'd be damned if he'd let that former drunk take him anywhere. He'd take a lengthy walk, clear his head, and put off returning home for as long as possible.

Walking aimlessly around the area, Simeon watched as the streetlights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows across the snow-covered ground. He sighed, the weight of his life pressing down on him. He headed home, on the way saying hello to Mr. Evans, his football coach, who was struggling to help his daughter with her ridiculously large suitcase. 

Entering the house, Simeon made his way to the living room, bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation with his parents. But instead, he found his sister sitting on the sofa, her small legs dangling over the edge. She was playing with her knitted doll, Polly, a ragtag creation of mismatched yarn and button eyes, that she treated like her best friend.

Simeon walked in and sat beside her, the springs of the old sofa groaning under his weight. Isabella immediately launched into a detailed explanation of Polly's latest adventures.

"Polly can fly!" Isabella claimed, her eyes wide with wonder.

Simeon chuckled, his heart softening at her innocent enthusiasm. He pointed out, with a teasing smile, "Bella, you were just throwing Polly. That's not flying."

Isabella was adamant, her small chin jutting out stubbornly. "No, Simmy! Polly can really fly! Watch!"

Simeon rolled his eyes, preparing to indulge his sister's fantastical imagination. He was about to relent, to agree with her just to see her smile, when something extraordinary happened.

To his utter surprise, the ratty old doll began to float out of his sister's hands. It rose slowly, as if suspended by an invisible thread, its woollen limbs dangling limply. As Isabella squealed with delight, Polly continued to float higher and higher, defying gravity, defying logic.

Simeon watched in stunned silence, his mouth agape. Polly's woollen head touched the ceiling, a gentle tap against the plaster. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Polly dropped, falling back towards the earth, and Simeon instinctively reached out and caught it.

He stared at the doll in his hand, feeling the rough texture of the yarn, the coldness of the buttons. He looked at his laughing sister, her eyes shining with unadulterated joy. He looked back at the doll. 

Chapter Text

The needle scratched against the vinyl, a hiss of static cutting through the air just before the opening chords of "Angie" filled the room. Marcus Adams was sprawled out on his childhood bed, the familiar melody offering a small comfort against the awkward tension radiating from downstairs.

Goats Head Soup was one of the few constants in his life. His room was a haven of teenage rebellion, with posters of rock legends plastered over the faded floral wallpaper, a stark contrast to the pristine "stylish country" décor his mother preferred for the rest of the house.

He knew he should head downstairs. It was Christmas Eve, after all. But the thought of another forced conversation with Barry, his mother’s latest interest, made his stomach twist. Barry, with his overly cheerful demeanor and endless questions about Marcus’s life, always seemed to miss the mark completely.

It wasn’t really Barry’s fault; he was just trying to connect, to build a relationship with the son of the woman he was trying to impress. But how could Marcus possibly bridge the gap between Barry's world of spreadsheets and quarterly targets and his own world of transfiguration and charms?

The last attempt at connection had been painfully awkward. "So, Marcus, how's school? Enjoying your studies?" Barry had asked, leaning back in his chair with an expectant smile plastered on his face.

Marcus had mumbled something about "doing alright," desperately avoiding eye contact. How could he explain that he’d spent the last term mastering the art of turning a toad into a goblet? Or that his biggest academic challenge was keeping up with the ever-evolving potions curriculum?

His mother, bless her heart, had jumped in to save him. "Marcus’s school is… a little different, Barry. They focus on… extracurricular activities," she’d said, her strained smile revealing her discomfort. He knew she hated discussing magic around potential partners. It always seemed to scare them off. He didn’t understand why. Surely someone could believe in magic? He did.

So, here he was, barricaded in his room, the mournful croon of Mick Jagger a far more appealing prospect than another conversation about "activities." The familiar lyrics washed over him, a melancholy counterpoint to the strained cheerfulness emanating from downstairs. He closed his eyes, picturing his friends, wondering what they were doing. He could hear his mother calling him down but he merely turned the volume up, losing himself to the sound.

Thomas Reed carefully folded the parchment, making sure the creases lined up just right. Another letter to Emmaline Vance. He had already written three that day, and the stack on his desk was a clear sign of how much he relied on their letters. Dipping his quill back into the inkwell, he let his elegant handwriting flow across the page.

His parents were… busy. His mother, a well-respected healer at St. Mungo’s, was always on call, her presence a whirlwind of quiet phone calls and rushed exits. His father, a Muggle corporate lawyer, was just as absorbed in his work, his briefcase always by his side and his brow furrowed in deep thought. The large, beautifully decorated house in Surrey felt strangely empty, the silence only interrupted by the rustling of parchment and the occasional hoot from Nero, his tawny owl, who looked at Thomas with a mix of boredom and disdain.

To put it mildly, Nero was not impressed with the amount of mail his master received. He sat on his perch, preening his feathers with an air of royal indifference. When another letter was sealed and addressed, he shot Thomas a particularly annoyed glare.

"Don't look at me like that, Nero," Thomas muttered, tying the letter securely to the owl's leg. "Emmaline is in dire need of my support."

It was only partially true. Emmaline was venting about the usual chaos that came with the Vance family. Her many cousins were busy pulling off a series of increasingly elaborate pranks, her aunt was hell-bent on marrying off one of the younger nephews to a French witch she’d been chatting with, and her grandmother had gone so far as to declare that the Christmas pudding was alive and deserved to be treated with respect.

Thomas couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy. At least Emmaline had a family, even if it was a bit of a circus, that filled her days with life.

His own Christmas was a far cry from that—just polite exchanges over breakfast, followed by hours spent alone.

He had tried to get his father to play a game of chess, but that plan fell apart when his dad got a call from work and vanished into his study, grumbling about mergers and acquisitions.

His mother’s presence was even more fleeting, just a quick hug and a promise to be back for Christmas dinner, a promise Thomas knew was unlikely to be fulfilled.

He let Nero fly into the chilly air, watching as the owl vanished into the dusk. The silence in the house felt heavier, the grand rooms almost swallowing him whole.

He picked up a book, an old, worn copy of Bewitched Bestiary, filled with fantastical creatures and magical tales. He tried to immerse himself in the story, but his thoughts kept wandering back to Emmaline, her clever letters and contagious laughter. He wondered if she was thinking of him.

The battered Volkswagen van rattled along the winding country road, its suspension groaning under the weight of its cargo. Remus Lupin stared out the window, his gaze fixed on the passing landscape, a collection of bare trees, muddy fields, and grey skies. Another move. Another fresh start. The cycle was becoming achingly familiar.

He knew his parents were trying their best. They had loved the small village they had settled in. They had been happy there, for a time. But the whispers had started, as they always did. Strange noises in the night. Missing livestock. A palpable sense of unease among the villagers. He knew that the villagers were suspicious. He knew they had heard him, one month after the other.

His father, with his usual blend of pragmatism and optimism, had taken the initiative. He had found a new place, a small magical village with a mixed population of witches, wizards, and muggles. He was promising his mother that the muggles there were tolerant, understanding. That they wouldn't be afraid.

Remus wanted to believe him, but his own experiences had taught him otherwise. Fear was a powerful thing, easily stoked by ignorance and prejudice. He glanced at his mother, her face etched with worry as she stared blankly ahead. He knew she carried the weight of their secret, the burden of his lycanthropy, like a physical ache. She had tried so hard to keep him secure, to keep him safe. She had been as happy as Remus has ever seen.

He reached out and squeezed her hand, offering a silent reassurance. She managed a warm smile in return. His father was humming along to the radio, oblivious to the tension in the air. He always tried to stay positive, to shield them from the harsh realities of their situation. Remus had always admired him for that.

The van turned onto a narrow lane, lined with quaint cottages and snow-dusted hedges. Remus caught a glimpse of a brightly lit shop window, filled with whimsical toys and glittering decorations. The village seemed… welcoming. He allowed himself a sliver of hope. Perhaps this time, things would be different.

As they pulled into the driveway of a small, charming cottage, his father declared, "Well, here we are! Christmas in a new home!" He hopped out of the van, his enthusiasm undimmed by years of upheaval.

Remus followed, his heart a knot of apprehension and cautious optimism. He looked at his mother who looked back at him, a silent understanding between them. He gave her a smile and then began to unpack

The biting wind whipped through James Potter's hair as he soared above the expansive Potter estate. The vast expanse of snow-dusted grounds stretched out beneath him, a pristine canvas broken only by the bare skeletal branches of the ancient oak trees. The wind roared in his ears, drowning out the distant sounds of Christmas carols drifting from the village below. This was his sanctuary, his escape. The Quaffle nestled securely in his hand, urging him to play.

The new Quidditch season was fast approaching, and James was determined to lead Gryffindor to victory. His first year as captain. He wanted that gold cup more than anything. Daily practice, drills, new moves. He would be the best captain Hogwarts had ever seen.

His parents, bless them, worried constantly.

"James, you'll catch your death out there!" his mother would cry, a steaming mug of hot chocolate hovering precariously in her hand. "Come inside, darling. You need to rest. You'll hurt yourself."

His father, equally concerned, would try a more pragmatic approach. "James, lad, you'll exhaust yourself before the season even starts! A bit of moderation, eh?"

He would listen, of course. He would come inside, drink the hot chocolate, and feign relaxation in front of the crackling fire. But the itch to fly, to feel the wind beneath him, to perfect that new Wronski Feint, would always return.

He streaked across the sky, weaving between the trees, dodging imaginary Bludgers, his heart pounding with exhilaration. The cold didn’t bother him; the sting on his skin a reassurance that he was alive, that he was pushing himself, that he was ready. After a solid two hours, his fingers numb with cold, his muscles aching, he conceded defeat to the elements and reluctantly steered his broom towards the house.

The scent of roasting turkey and cinnamon wafted from the kitchen windows as he landed, a fragrant promise of warmth and a feast prepared by Nippy, their house elf. James grinned, brushing the snow from his hair. His mother loved cooking for Christmas and although she did a great job, Nippy was the only one who could make a perfect turkey. He imagined a roaring fire, a pile of presents, and the familiar bickering of his parents over the Christmas pudding recipe. It was a comforting image, a reminder of the unwavering love and support that surrounded him.

He headed inside, peeling off his gloves and unwinding his scarf. He was halfway up the grand staircase when a sudden, insistent knock echoed through the house. Frowning slightly, he hurried down, wondering who could be visiting so close to dinner. He found his father already at the door, a look of stunned surprise on his face.

James pushed past him and his jaw dropped. Standing on the doorstep, dusted with snow and radiating a weary kind of joy, was Sirius Black. Sirius, with his usually impeccable hair tousled, his face thinner, his eyes holding a depth of something new and unsettling but above all, smiling, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached all the way to his eyes. At his feet were several battered bags, crammed haphazardly with clothes and belongings.

"James," Sirius said, his voice slightly hoarse. "Fancy a bit of Christmas cheer?"

Chapter Text

The oppressive gloom of Grimmauld Place had sunk its claws deeper into Sirius Black during the Christmas holidays. Every shadow seemed to whisper of disappointment, every creak of the ancient house a lament for the son who had strayed. He was trapped, an island of sanity in a turbulent sea of blood purists, and the relentless crashing of the waves was starting to wear him down.

Confined largely to his bedroom, Sirius sought refuge in the glossy pages of a Muggle motorcycle magazine, a forbidden treasure smuggled in under the noses of his vigilant parents. He lost himself in the chrome gleam of engines and the promise of open roads, a world away from the suffocating atmosphere of his ancestral home. But even these fleeting escapes were constantly disrupted by the ever-present reminders of his family's displeasure.

Walburga Black, his mother, had wasted no time in unleashing her venomous disapproval. Her pronouncements echoed through the echoing halls, each word a carefully aimed barb designed to chip away at his spirit. He was a disgrace, she hissed, a stain on the proud tapestry of the ancient and noble House of Black. He brought shame upon them all with his rebellious tendencies, his association with… those people.

His father, Orion, was no better. He had long ago relinquished any hope for Sirius, treating him with a detached indifference that was, in its own way, more painful than his mother's outright hostility. Orion only acknowledged his eldest son when absolutely necessary, his gaze often sliding right through Sirius as if he were a particularly unpleasant ghost.

Even Regulus, his younger brother, was a source of strained civility rather than genuine connection. Regulus, ever the dutiful son, attempted idle conversation, but it felt forced, like a carefully rehearsed performance meant to appease their parents. Sirius, for his part, tried to maintain the fragile peace, but the effort was becoming increasingly exhausting. Every polite word felt like a lie, every shared glance an unspoken accusation.

The absence of Andromeda, his favorite cousin, only amplified his isolation. Before her disownment, Andromeda had been a beacon of warmth and understanding, a fellow rebel who dared to question the rigid doctrines of their family. Now, she was just another name whispered in hushed tones, a cautionary tale of what happened to those who defied the Black legacy. Her absence left a gaping hole in Sirius’s life, a constant reminder of the price of freedom.

A groan escaped his lips as the heavy oak door creaked open, interrupting his reverie. He peered up from his magazine to see Regulus standing in the doorway, his pale face etched with a familiar mix of apprehension and annoyance.

"Mother and Father want you in the dining room," Regulus muttered, his voice barely audible above the rustle of the magazine pages.

Sirius grunted, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. "Tell them I'm busy."

Regulus's expression tightened. "They said now, Sirius."

Another groan, this one louder and more exasperated. He closed his eyes, feigning sleep. "I'm resting. Tell them I have a terrible headache."

Regulus remained rooted to the spot, his silence thick with disapproval. Minutes ticked by, the tension in the room growing palpable. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, Regulus spun on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Sirius smirked, a small victory in the face of overwhelming defeat. He remained in his room for a few more hours, lost in daydreams of roaring engines and windswept escapes. The image of a sleek, black motorcycle, leaving Grimmauld Place in its dust, flickered in his mind's eye.

But even rebellious fantasies couldn't stave off the gnawing hunger that began to tighten its grip around his stomach. With a sigh, Sirius leaned over the edge of his bed and fished out a battered shoebox hidden beneath. He opened it with a flicker of hope, only to find it contained nothing but a collection of sweet wrappers, remnants of forgotten cravings.

He cursed under his breath, the words barely audible, and tossed the box aside. With a reluctant groan, he pushed himself out of bed and trudged towards the door. As he made his way downstairs, the thought occurred to him that he could summon Kreacher, the family's ancient and deeply unpleasant house-elf, to fetch him some food. But the idea was immediately discarded. Kreacher, with his fanatical loyalty to the Black family's darkest traditions, would likely poison anything he served Sirius, all in the name of "proper" behavior.

He pushed open the kitchen door, bracing himself for another confrontation. His suspicions were immediately confirmed. His mother, Walburga, stood rigidly by the stove, her back ramrod straight, her face a mask of cold fury. Kneeling at her feet, quivering with terror, was Kreacher, his large, bat-like ears twitching nervously. It appeared that Walburga had been reprimanding the elf, her voice sharp and cutting as she spat out accusations of disobedience. She had ordered Kreacher, not Regulus, to summon her disrespectful elder son, and the elf had failed.

Sirius watched the scene with a flicker of satisfaction. He loathed Kreacher, not just for his unpleasant demeanor, but for his unwavering devotion to the twisted ideals of the Black family. Seeing him cower before his mother's wrath was a rare and fleeting moment of amusement.

But his glee was short-lived. As if sensing the presence of a third party, Walburga turned slowly, her eyes narrowing into dead slits. Kreacher remained hunched on the floor, whimpering softly.

"Sirius," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "Where have you been? You were summoned two hours ago."

Sirius knew that anything he said would only make the situation worse. Any attempt at explanation, any hint of defiance, would be met with a torrent of abuse. So, he chose silence. He simply shrugged, a gesture of indifference that he knew would infuriate her even further.

Walburga's grip tightened on her ebony wand. In a swift, unexpected movement, she grabbed Sirius by the arm, her fingers digging into his flesh like icy claws. Without a word, she dragged him out of the kitchen and down the hall, towards the imposing double doors of the dining room. Sirius could have easily resisted. He was stronger, faster, and more than capable of overpowering his mother. But he saw no point. The fight would only be more exhausting, the outcome inevitable. He simply allowed himself to be pulled along, his boots dragging against the polished floor.

Once inside the dining room, Walburga flicked her wand, and the heavy oak doors slammed shut with a resounding thud, echoing the finality of his situation. She shoved Sirius towards a chair, and he slumped into it, his shoulders slumping, his spirit weary.

The tirade began. Walburga launched into her usual litany of complaints, dissecting his flaws and shortcomings with surgical precision. He was a disappointment, she declared, a failure to live up to the Black legacy. He was unruly, disobedient, and utterly lacking in the qualities that defined a true member of their family.

Sirius supposed that these words would have been devastating for anyone else to hear, but he had long ago grown numb to his parents' disapproval. He had heard it all before, countless times, until the insults had lost their sting. He had built a wall around his heart, a shield against their constant barrage of negativity.

His mother continued, her voice rising in pitch. She informed him that, due to his "rowdy nature" and "unpredictable behavior," they had decided it would be best not to have him accompany them to the Malfoy's Christmas party.

Sirius allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. He would rather be kicked in the head by a hippogriff than spend an evening in the company of Lucius Malfoy and his gaggle of pretentious, pure-blood sycophants. The Malfoy's were pompous, arrogant, and obsessed with maintaining their "superior" bloodline. The thought of enduring their insufferable company filled him with a profound sense of boredom and disgust.

But his fleeting moment of joy was quickly extinguished. Walburga's lip twitched, a barely perceptible ghost of a smirk, as she muttered that the recent marriage of his cousin Narcissa to Lucius Malfoy had given her and his father… ideas.

A cold knot of dread tightened in Sirius's stomach. He didn't like where this was going. He had a feeling that his brief reprieve from the Malfoy's party was about to be overshadowed by something far more unpleasant.

Walburga's eyes gleamed with a chilling intensity. "It has come to our attention," she began, her voice dangerously soft, "that it is high time you were betrothed."

The words hit Sirius like a physical blow. He leaped from his chair, his fists clenching at his sides. "You can't do that!" he roared, his voice echoing through the silent dining room.

Walburga glared at him, her face hardening with a fury that sent shivers down his spine. "I am your mother," she hissed, "and it is my right. Your own father was your age when he was betrothed to me. Your uncle Alphard was even younger when he was betrothed."

Sirius couldn't help but inject a dark humor into the situation. "And how did that turn out for them?" he asked dryly. "Absolutely fantastically, I'm sure."

Walburga's nostrils flared. "Watch your tongue, boy!" she snapped. "You will not speak to me with such disrespect."

She continued, ignoring his outburst, explaining that she and his father had found a suitable match for him. A younger daughter of the esteemed House of Nott. A girl by the name of Valerie, who was thirteen years old and currently in Slytherin.

Sirius's eyes widened in disbelief. Not only were they selling him off like a prize stallion, they were fixing him up with a child! A girl barely out of her infancy! The realization made his stomach churn with disgust.

"I won't do it!" he spat, his voice trembling with rage. "I refuse."

Walburga's voice rose to a shout, drowning out his protests. "You will do as you are told!" she screamed. "Despite your deplorable behavior, you are still the heir to the House of Black. And you will fulfill your duty to this family."

Sirius gritted his teeth, his jaw aching with the force of his clenching. "I didn't ask to be the heir!" he hissed, his voice barely audible above the pounding of his heart.

His mother's expression changed. The anger seemed to fade, replaced by a mask of cold indifference, a carefully constructed facade that hid whatever emotions lay beneath.

"No one gets what they ask for, Sirius," she murmured, her voice devoid of warmth. "Life is not about getting what you want. It is about doing what is expected of you."

Sirius peered at his mother, searching for some sign of humanity in her cold, dark eyes. For a split second, he thought he saw a flicker of something akin to sadness, a fleeting glimpse of the woman she might have been, before the rigid dogma of the Black family had consumed her completely. But the moment was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the familiar, impenetrable wall of icy detachment.

Walburga continued, her voice a monotone drone as she laid out the details of the betrothal. She explained that she and Orion had already spoken with the Head of the Nott family, and they had come to an agreement. He would spend three years betrothed to Valerie, learning to be a proper husband and head of house, before the marriage was formally consummated.

Sirius listened in stunned silence, the words washing over him like a tidal wave of despair. He felt as though he were trapped in a nightmare, a twisted parody of a fairytale where he was the damsel in distress, being sold off to the highest bidder.

Finally, Walburga finished, smoothing out the folds of her exquisite black dress. She concluded her pronouncements with a chillingly delivered platitude. "This is all for your own good, Sirius," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "It is time to put your boyish behavior behind you and embrace your responsibilities."

Sirius sat in silence, numb with shock. What could he say? What could he do? A part of him had always known that this was a possibility. Arranged marriages were common in pure-blood society, a way to maintain bloodlines and consolidate power. However, he had somehow never imagined that it would come for him so soon. He had always held onto a naive hope that he would be different, that he could escape the predetermined path that his family had laid out for him.

He couldn't… no, he wouldn't stay here. He wouldn't allow them to control his life, to dictate his future. He wouldn't become another pawn in their twisted game.

Without a word, he bolted from the chair and rushed out of the dining room, ignoring his mother's sharp cries of protest. He stormed down the hallway and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattled the ancient windows.

He found Regulus sitting on his bed, engrossed in a book.

Startled by Sirius's sudden and violent entrance, Regulus jumped up from the bed, his eyes wide with alarm. "Sirius, what's wrong? What's happening?" he stammered, his voice trembling slightly.

Sirius ignored his brother's questions. He rushed to his trunk, pulling it from beneath the bed and throwing it open. He began frantically stuffing clothes into the trunk, grabbing whatever he could find without regard for order or neatness. He tossed in his toiletries, his schoolbooks, and the tattered remains of his motorcycle magazines, the glossy pages now crinkled and torn.

Finally, Regulus managed to grab hold of Sirius's arm, stopping him in his frantic packing. "Sirius, stop! What are you doing? Why are you packing?" he demanded, his voice laced with a mixture of fear and frustration.

Sirius spun to face his brother, his eyes blazing with fury. "They're selling me off, Regulus!" he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "They're arranging a marriage. Some Nott girl from your year."

Regulus frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Valerie Nott?" he muttered, as if trying to place the name. He paused for a moment, then added, "That's… not too bad."

Sirius stared at him in disbelief, his mouth agape. "Not too bad?" he echoed, his voice incredulous. "You think being forced to marry someone you don't even know is not too bad?"

Regulus continued, oblivious to Sirius's outrage. "Valerie's a nice person," he said, his voice taking on a lecturing tone. "She comes from a good house. A marriage with another member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight would do good for the House of Black. It would strengthen our position, solidify our alliances."

Sirius simply stared at his brother, his face a mask of disbelief. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Regulus, the brother he had once shared secrets and whispered jokes with, was spouting the same cold, calculating rhetoric as their parents.

He shook his head in dazed disappointment before softly muttering that Regulus sounded just like their mother.

Regulus frowned, his face clouding with anger. Sirius turned back to his packing, his movements becoming more frantic. The need to escape, to get away from the suffocating atmosphere of Grimmauld Place, was overwhelming.

Regulus continued, demanding to know what Sirius was planning to do. "Where are you going? What do you think you're accomplishing by running away?"

Regulus chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that sent a chill down Sirius's spine. "You're not planning on doing an Andromeda, are you?" he sneered. "Surely you're not as foolish as she was."

That got him. The mention of Andromeda, the implication that she was somehow something to demean, it ignited a firestorm of rage within Sirius. He spun around quickly, his fist clenched, and brought it crashing down onto his brother's nose.

There was a sickening pop as Regulus stumbled backward, his hands flying to his face. Blood poured down his face, staining his top lip and splattering onto his green jumper.

The sight of his brother's blood, the sudden, brutal violence of his actions, momentarily shocked Sirius into stillness. He hadn't meant to hit him so hard, hadn't intended to cause so much damage.

But the way Regulus had spoken, the tone in his voice that sounded so eerily like their mother, had pushed him over the edge.

a flash of purple light, and a deafening roar. The air shimmered and distorted, and a monstrous vehicle materialized before him, blocking the street.

It was a triple-decker bus, painted a garish shade of purple that clashed horribly with the grey winter sky. It looked as if it had been cobbled together from spare parts, and it wobbled precariously on its enormous wheels.

Standing at the entrance, resplendent in a purple uniform, was a smartly dressed man with a perpetually surprised expression.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus!" the man declared, his voice booming. "Emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard! Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we'll take you anywhere you want to go!" He peered down at Sirius, his eyebrows rising slightly. "Name?"

Sirius hesitated for a moment. He knew he was being foolish, reckless even. But he had no other options. He had to get away, to find somewhere safe, somewhere he could think.

"Sirius Black," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

The man's eyebrows shot up even further, disappearing beneath the brim of his purple cap. "Sirius Black, eh?" he said, his eyes widening. He didn't say anything else, but Sirius could sense his surprise, his curiosity.

"Barnaby Grimsby, pleasure to meet you," he said, recovering quickly. "Hop on, Mr. Black! We'll get you where you need to go."

Barnaby helped Sirius load his rucksack and trunk onto the bus, stowing them haphazardly on one of the many beds that lined the interior. The bus was even more chaotic inside than it was outside, with beds bolted to the floor at odd angles, and brass luggage racks that seemed to defy gravity.

Once his belongings were secured, Sirius sank down onto one of the beds, his body aching with exhaustion. Barnaby perched on the edge of the bed opposite him, his eyes still glinting with curiosity.

"So, Mr. Black," he said, his voice carefully neutral, "where are you headed?"

Sirius looked up at the man, his face drawn and pale. He hesitated, unsure of who he could trust. But he had to tell someone, had to get somewhere safe.

"I need to get to a friend's," he said, his voice muffled. "To a town in Oxfordshire. Uffington."

Barnaby nodded, his expression unreadable. "Uffington, eh?" he said, tapping on the driver's door. "Ernie! We're heading to Oxfordshire! Uffington, if you please!"

The driver's door swung open, revealing a middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache and a perpetually grumpy expression. "Oxfordshire, is it?" Ernie grumbled. "Hold on tight, then."

The Knight Bus lurched forward with a violent jolt, throwing Sirius against the side of the bed. He braced himself, his stomach churning, as the bus careened through the narrow streets of London, weaving between parked cars, narrowly missing pedestrians, and causing general mayhem wherever it went.

As they sped away, leaving the familiar streets of London behind, Sirius leaned back against the lumpy mattress and closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

The pervasive gloom of Knockturn Alley felt particularly heavy that Christmas morning. Even the whispers that usually snaked through the cobblestone streets seemed muted, as if the very air held its breath. The Apothecary was, for once, still. The usual cacophony of bubbling potions and the dry rustle of ingredients was replaced by a silence broken only by the gentle crackle of the fire in the back parlor.

Upstairs, in a room that was more crammed than comfortable, Severus Prince was awake before dawn. He had abandoned the notion of a peaceful holiday long ago. Christmas, like any other day, was an opportunity for study, for improvement, for sinking his teeth into the intricate tapestry of magic that lay dormant beneath the surface of the world.

He sat at his battered desk, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the pages of a particularly dog-eared volume. He’d been dedicating his scarce free time to spell crafting, driven by an ambition that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. He’d even braved his mother’s disapproving glares to carry volumes of ancient incantations down to the shop floor, their dusty pages promising secrets that could elevate him beyond the drudgery and decay of Knockturn Alley.

He flicked his wand, a simple, unassuming piece of hawthorn, in the almost familiar, almost ritualistic routine he had developed for testing his new creations. He muttered the enchantment for his slicing curse under his breath, ensuring every syllable was crisp, sharp, precise. This was no mere parlor trick; it was a spell forged in the depths of his own ambition, fueled by the nightmares that visited him ever so often. The images of the snarling jaws of a beast hellbent on his death and the fear that came with it.

"Sectumsempra," he murmured, practicing the pronunciation. The ancient Latin syllables felt heavy on his tongue, laden with power and potential.

Finally, he shut the book, the leather cover groaning in protest. He peered around, his black eyes, usually so sharp and focused, were momentarily unfocused due to exhaustion. His gaze landed on a pair of old, moth-eaten socks peeking out of his open drawer. They were a sorry sight, a testament to his neglect of the mundane details of life. But they would serve his purpose today.

He scrambled up and tucked the socks into each other, making a crude, lumpy ball. It wasn't a perfect target, but it would do. Satisfied, he placed the sock ball gently on the worn floorboards, stepping back to assess the situation.

Severus steadied himself, drawing a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the path his wand had to take, a sharp, diagonal slashing motion, a whirlwind of controlled aggression. He focused on the sensation, the tingling in his fingertips, the subtle pressure building in his core.

Breathing in sharply through his nose, he raised his wand, his arm poised like a coiled viper. His voice, barely a whisper, rose in intensity as the curse left him.

"SECTUMSEMPRA!" he cried out, his arm slashing down with a swift, decisive motion.

A crack, sharp and sudden, echoed through the room. A wave of raw magic pulsed outwards, causing the candle flames to flicker wildly.

And then, silence.

Severus opened his eyes, his heart hammering against his ribs. The sock ball lay in two pieces, torn neatly in half. A chuckle, low and almost involuntary, escaped his lips. It had worked. He’d finally managed to conjure the curse, to breathe life into his dark imagination.

He hurried forward, picking up the bisected socks, his fingers tracing the clean, almost effortless cut. His eyes widened, however, as he looked down at the floor. His eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing under his perpetually greasy hair.

The floorboards beneath where the socks had been placed now displayed a matching slash, severed into two with the same brutal efficiency. The chuckle came again, louder this time, laced with a heady mix of triumph and disbelief. It was one thing to cut through old socks, but another entirely to slice through solid wood as if it were paper.

This proved he had truly done it. The curse had found it's target and dealt damage equal to the original design. A violent curse that was now at his disposal. 

His excitement was short-lived. A sudden, insistent knocking came from the other side of the door. He cursed under his breath, his elation evaporating like mist in the morning sun. He'd forgotten to put up a silencing charm. Amateur.

He peered down at the broken floorboard, his mind racing. He'd have to come up with a good explanation for the sudden, inexplicable destruction of his floor. Especially one that didn't involve dark magic and forbidden curses.

His mother’s voice, laced with concern, filtered through the door. "Severus? Are you alright?"

He swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. "Yes, Mother, I'm fine," he called back, his voice a strained imitation of normalcy.

"Are you sure? I heard a rather loud noise." Her voice was soft but held a warning tone

He cut her off, his voice sharper this time. "Everything is perfectly fine, Mother. Nothing to worry about."

Eileen went silent for a moment, the silence thick with unspoken questions. Then, her voice, a little softer now, floated back. "Well, since we're both awake, perhaps we could start breakfast."

Severus hesitated. His stomach rumbled in agreement, but the sight of the splintered floorboard filled him with a nagging anxiety. "I'll be out soon," he said, hoping to buy himself some time.

Silence followed, punctuated only by the faint creak of the floorboards as his mother's footsteps faded away.

Severus frowned. Time was of the essence. He had to conceal the damage before his mother came upstairs and started asking questions he couldn't answer.

Acting quickly, he shoved his heavy trunk over the damaged floorboard, concealing the evidence beneath its bulk. He tossed the severed socks back into his drawers, burying them under a pile of old parchment and forgotten potions ingredients.

He dusted himself off, trying to remove the lingering scent of magic that clung to his clothes. He threw on a faded blue jumper he had lying around, hoping to appear as if he had just woken up, yawning theatrically as he headed towards the door.

He found his mother in the tiny kitchen, a space perpetually filled with the smells of herbs and simmering concoctions. She was hunched over the stove, cooking sausages and beans, her movements slow and deliberate.

She peered up as he entered, her dark eyes, usually so sharp and critical, softened with a hint of warmth. "Good morning, Severus," she greeted him with a soft smile.

His mother had been awfully pale since he got back for the holidays. He'd noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands. But today, she seemed marginally better. Her complexion could not be called healthy, but at least it was better than what it had been for the past week.

She served him a plate of breakfast, the beans glistening with grease, the sausages emitting a savory aroma. The two Princes ate in comfortable silence, a silence born of years of shared hardship and unspoken understanding.

Once done, Severus rose and collected his own and his mother's plate. He began washing up at the small sink, his mind still racing with the events of the morning.

His mother, leaning against the doorway, watched him with a wistful expression. "We ought to exchange gifts," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Severus agreed, his movements arrested for a moment. He hadn't given much thought to Christmas, too absorbed in his studies to indulge in the usual holiday festivities. He turned to acknowledge her and placed the dishes on the rack to dry before heading back to his room and opening his trunk to find a box wrapped in red wrapping paper. He tucked it away into his pocked before rushing back to the kitchen, eager to see what his mother had prepared for him.

His mother was waiting for him, seated at the table, her hands clasped in front of her. In her hands were two gifts. He easily identified one wrapped in brown paper as a book. But the other was a curious small box, wrapped in green wrapping paper and tied with a silver ribbon.

Eileen began by stating, her voice soft and laced with a hint of melancholy, "My, how you've grown, Severus. You're shaping up to be a fine young wizard."

Severus smirked, a flicker of amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

His mother cocked an eyebrow, a silent reprimand. She continued, her tone more firm, "You still have a long way to go, mind you. Arrogance is a dangerous flaw, Severus. Don’t let your ambition blind you."

She handed him the first gift, the one wrapped in brown paper. Severus took it with a sense of anticipation, his fingers tracing the familiar shape of a book. He carefully unwrapped it, his breath catching in his throat as he revealed the title emblazoned on the worn leather cover: "The Alchemical Codex," a grimoire written by none other than the legendary Nicholas Flamel.

Severus eyes widened, pupils dilated, and he gaped at the ancient tome before him, his mind struggling to comprehend the reality of what he held in his hands. It was a book he had only dreamed of possessing, a treasure beyond measure. After a long moment, he peered up at his mother, his voice a barely audible whisper.

"Mother… how…?" He simply could not find the words to express his gratitude, his awe.

He muttered a quick, heartfelt "Thank you," followed by the hesitant question, "How did you manage to get such a rare book? This is… This is incredible!"

Eileen smiled, a genuine, warm smile that transformed her usually careworn face. "Well," she said, her voice laced with a hint of pride, "Carver helped me. I mentioned to him that I was running out of ideas for your Christmas present, that you seemed to have read everything in the Mica's bookshop, and he… Well, he pulled a few strings."

Severus chuckled, a genuine, unforced laugh that was rarely heard in the tiny apothecary. He was truly touched by his mother's effort, by her willingness to indulge his passion for magic, even when it took him down paths she didn't fully understand.

He thanked her again, his voice sincere. He placed the book softly to his right before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his present.

Severus muttered, his cheeks flushing slightly, "I cannot hope to top your gift to me, of course. But I hope you'll like what I got you." His voice was low, hesitant, betraying a vulnerability he rarely allowed to surface.

Eileen took hold of the small red box, her fingers trembling slightly. But before she could open it, she was seized by a violent coughing fit.

She bent over, her body wracked with spasms, her face turning a mottled shade of red. Severus rose to his feet, his face etched with concern, but she raised a hand, motioning for him to sit back down.

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes fixed on his mother's struggling figure, before reluctantly obeying. Soon, the coughing subsided, leaving her breathless and weak. She straightened up, her face still pale, and offered a weak apology.

"I'm so sorry, Severus. It seems the air in this alley is particularly foul today."

Severus asked, his voice filled with worry, "Are you alright, Mother?"

Eileen simply smiled, a wan, reassuring smile, before ripping open the box, her movements surprisingly swift and decisive.

Her eyes lit up, a spark of genuine delight igniting within them. She held up a small, circular vial. In it, a liquid shimmered, the colour of molten gold, catching the light and throwing it back in a dazzling display.

"Felix Felicis…" Eileen murmured, her voice filled with wonder. "So this is what you've been working on in the basement all summer."

Severus nodded, relief flooding through him. "It was a long process," he admitted. "I didn't want to tell you until I was sure I could get it right. And thank you," he added, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, "for not going into the basement. It was… rather chaotic."

Eileen smiled at the vial of Felix Felicis, her eyes seeming to sparkle with joy. "What a wonderful boy you are, Severus," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

Severus felt the tips of his ears burn, a familiar sensation that he never quite managed to suppress. He didn't resist as his mother rose from her chair and gave him a hug, a rare display of affection that always left him feeling strangely vulnerable.

A sudden, loud knocking at the front door startled them, causing them to quickly untangle themselves. Eileen tucked the second present, the small green box, into the pocket of her robe, her hand lingering protectively over it.

Frowning, they slowly made their way downstairs, Severus leading the way, his wand held discreetly in his hand. Tension eased when Severus saw the figure standing on the doorstep – a short, grey-haired man who was stooped over a gnarled walking stick.

Severus unlocked the shop’s front door and flung it open, a genuine smile spreading across his face. He enveloped the old man in a hug, a rare display of affection that surprised even himself.

The old man almost toppled over, but managed to keep his balance, all the while chuckling warmly. "Severus! It's been a long time, lad. A long time indeed." 

Robert Hudson peered up at Severus as they pulled back, his frail hand reaching up and lightly tapping Severus’s cheek. "Look at you, grown so big! No longer the little scamp running around the alleys, despite your mother's warnings."

Severus laughed, the sound surprisingly light and carefree. "I seem to recall you always being there to intervene when I did get caught."

Eileen cut in, her voice laced with mock exasperation. "He usually came to your defense, spoiled you rotten."

Mr. Hudson turned his kind, brown eyes towards Eileen, his smile widening. "And why not? He was a good lad, full of mischief, but with a good heart."

Eileen ushered them inside, closing the door firmly behind them. Once inside, she pulled the old wizard into her own hug, her embrace warm and lingering. "You've been missed, Robert," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

Mr. Hudson patted her back gently. "And I've deeply missed you both, my dear."

He peered around the shop in amazement, his eyes taking in every detail. "You've changed the layout! I hardly recognize the place."

Eileen shrugged, a hint of pride in her voice. "It's easier to have our bestsellers closer to the front. And it opens up the back a bit."

She gestured towards the stairs. "Robert, come join us. We were just exchanging gifts. I'm sure Severus would love to hear about your travels."

The older wizard brightened at the suggestion. “Gifts, you say? Oh, I wouldn’t miss that for the world!” He reached into his small, seemingly bottomless black bag and pulled out four brightly wrapped packages. The bag was undoubtedly enhanced by magic, as some of the packages were significantly larger than the bag itself.

The three slowly headed back upstairs, Severus leading the way, his arm lightly supporting Mr. Hudson as they climbed the narrow, creaking stairs. All the while, Severus peppered the older wizard with questions about his travels.

Mr. Hudson regaled him with tales of the indigenous tribes he’d met in the Amazon, who practiced a form of magic that was as old as the rainforest itself. He spoke about his visit to the ruins of ancient Greek temples, mentioning that magic still flowed in the old, weathered pillars, a tangible energy that resonated deep within him. He described the vibrant colours and exotic scents of the markets in Marrakech, the hushed reverence he felt walking the streets of Alexandria.

Once back in the small kitchen, Mr. Hudson slowly lowered himself into a chair, his joints creaking in protest. He beamed at them both, his eyes twinkling with warmth.

"So, tell me," he said, his voice filled with anticipation, "what treasures has Father Christmas brought you this year?"

The stench of stale beer and something vaguely resembling pickled onions, a scent unique to Knockturn Alley, assaulted Carver’s nostrils as he pushed open the heavy, grime-coated door of The Fox Tail tavern. The flickering candlelight barely pierced the gloom, casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the damp walls.

This was neutral ground. Hallowed, or rather, unhallowed ground. For generations, the five families – reduced from the original ten by betrayal, bad business, and the occasional unfortunate accident – had used this dive to discuss...well, "discuss" was a generous term. More often than not, it was a thinly veiled power play punctuated by threats and the clinking of tankards.

To Carver's right loomed Caleb O'More, a mountain of a man with a belly that threatened to spill over his waistband. Caleb's nickname, "the Brute," was a cruel misnomer. He was the gentlest soul Carver knew, a surprising contrast to his intimidating physique.

On Carver's left, Alexia Foster stalked with the grace of a predator. Tall and lean, she possessed a sharp, angular face and a perpetual frown that seemed permanently etched onto her forehead. She was known as "Angel Eyes," a darkly ironic name that stemmed from her striking mismatched eyes, one a glacial blue, the other a leafy green, both narrowed in suspicion. Alexia was an enforcer, and a particularly ruthless one at that. If Caleb was a gentle giant, Alexia was a viper in silk, striking swiftly and without remorse.

The pub was sparsely populated, a testament to the grim realities of their world. Even the dregs and drunks that usually littered the place seemed to have sought refuge from the gloom, in some twisted version of festive cheer, no doubt. A stout woman with greying black hair bustled towards them, her face etched with weary resignation.

"Upstairs," she grunted, gesturing towards a narrow staircase tucked away in a dark corner. "They're waiting."

"Thank you, Agnes," Carver said politely. "Merry Christmas. Though, I expect you've heard that one too many times today."

Agnes only grunted again, turning back to her duties with a sigh. Carver led the way up the creaking stairs, Caleb lumbering behind and Alexia clicking her heels on the wood.

The upper floor was a maze of small, dimly lit rooms, the sounds of drunken revelry filtering through the thin walls. The last door on the left, however, was always locked, reserved for the Families. Agnes had opened it upon their arrival without a word, a silent acknowledgement of their status.

Inside, a large, round oaken table dominated the room. Around it sat the key figures of the remaining families, their faces a mixture of impatience, suspicion, and outright hostility. Carver scanned the room, taking in the familiar faces, each one a testament to the darkness that festered within the wizarding world.

He smirked, the tension in the room momentarily deflated by his arrival. "Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice laced with mock enthusiasm. "What did Father Christmas bring everyone this year? A lump of coal, perhaps?"

A large, hairy man shot to his feet, his eyes blazing with barely controlled rage. Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf leader, snarled, his fangs bared. "You're late, Carver."

"Relax, Fenrir," Carver said, unfazed. "Wouldn't want to ruin your festive spirit by being early, would I?"

He, Caleb, and Alexia took their seats at the table. Alexia muttered under her breath, loud enough for those around her to hear, "I had hoped Father Christmas had gifted Fenrir some perfume. If not for his sake, then for the rest of us."

Fenrir snarled, the two other werewolves at his side, a balding man and a gaunt blonde, mirroring his hostility.

Before the spat could escalate, a beautiful woman raised a gloved hand. “Enough,” she commanded, her voice smooth and commanding.

Carver turned to Angélique Boudon. Her dark skin complimented by the long, flowing mane of dark curls that cascaded down her shoulders and onto white dress. She was undeniably striking, her beauty amplified by the dangerous glint in her crimson red eyes.

Fenrir, visibly irritated by Angélique's interruption, spat, "I don't take orders from a filthy vampire."

Angélique's companion, a pale man with slick black hair and the same crimson eyes, rose swiftly, his hand twitching towards his wand. "Hold your tongue, mongrel, or you will find yourself muzzled like the dog you are."

Angélique, however, simply placed a delicate hand on her companion's arm. "Sit, Jean-Luc," she said softly, her voice laced with an undercurrent of steel. Her gaze shifted back to Fenrir, and for a fleeting moment, Carver saw a flicker of unease in the werewolf's yellow eyes before he reluctantly lowered himself back into his seat.

The tension in the room remained thick and suffocating. A final trio sat watching the spectacle in silence. Carver turned to see Warren Talpin, a man whose very presence seemed to exude slime, displaying his signature thin-lipped smile, clearly enjoying the simmering conflict. He noticed Carver's gaze and inclined his head, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. Carver responded with a sneer.

Talpin was a weasel, plain and simple. Infamous for betraying his own boss to the Ministry after being passed over for a promotion, and then driving out his rival, a disreputable character named Mundungus Fletcher. Carver had always loathed him, finding him a perfect example of everything that was wrong with their world.

Talpin bared a row of yellowish teeth as he smiled. "Carver, how lovely to see you. How are you, my friend?"

"I'll be fine," Carver hissed, "once I know why we've all been summoned here. I doubt any of you are exactly overflowing with festive cheer."

Talpin's smile faltered, replaced by a look of genuine confusion. "Summoned? I wasn't the one who sent the message."

Carver glanced at Angélique and Fenrir, but both shook their heads, muttering that the summons had not been theirs.

That left only one person.

Just then, the door swung open, revealing an elderly man with silver hair and a face etched with the stories of a lifetime. Despite his age, he radiated an undeniable aura of power and authority. Beside him stood a regal-looking woman and a man, their expressions impassive. Bringing up the rear was a man dressed entirely in black, his cold blue eyes like chips of ice, his long black hair lending him an ominous air.

Fenrir was the first to break the silence. "What is the meaning of this, Vadimovich? Why have you summoned us here?"

Artem Vadimovich, the old man, lowered himself into a chair with a practiced grace. He snapped his fingers, and the woman to his left wordlessly summoned a crystal goblet. The man to his right filled it with deep red wine. Vadimovich took a sip, savoring the taste before carefully placing the goblet back on the table.

He surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on each face in turn. "I have gathered you here," he began, his voice deep and resonant, "to offer a gift in this joyous time. For Christmas, my friends, is the season of giving."

Angélique scoffed, her crimson eyes flashing with impatience. "We all have better things to do than listen to your platitudes, Vadimovich."

Vadimovich took another sip of his wine, seemingly unperturbed. "Patience, Angélique, patience. I will get to the point," he said, placing the goblet down with a soft thud. "I have brought my companions to introduce you to the man, Antonin Dolohov. Dolohov has come to me with a request: to speak with the heads of the Families."

Carver snorted derisively. "So we're here to listen to some outsider?"

Talpin chimed in, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I wasn't aware that you were one for taking requests, Vadimovich."

Vadimovich's lips curled into a thin, almost imperceptible smile. "Under normal circumstances, I would have killed anyone who dared to approach me with such a proposition. But Dolohov has revealed things to me, things that could… change everything." He paused, his gaze hardening. "I do not wish to be here either, but Dolohov is required by his master to speak to all of the Five Families. So listen, and listen well. This affects all of you."

All eyes turned to Dolohov. He was an unremarkable figure, almost bland, save for the unnerving intensity of his cold blue eyes. He wore a plain black robe, his left hand clenched tightly around his wand.

Dolohov finally spoke, his voice low and measured. "Thank you for your time," he said, his gaze sweeping across the assembled faces. "I come as a herald."

"A herald of whom?" Carver demanded, suspicion lacing his voice.

Dolohov smiled, a smile that did not reach his eyes. "The man I serve is a great man. He seeks to right a great wrong. Make this world a better place."

Alexia scoffed, rolling her mismatched eyes. "Oh, not another one."

Caleb, ever the pragmatist, asked, "And what might that 'great wrong' be?"

Dolohov's voice hardened, his gaze intensifying. "The natural order of the world has been uprooted. The magical world is dying, suffocated by the Muggle world. This must come to an end."

Angélique narrowed her crimson eyes. "Vadimovich, you brought us here to listen to the ramblings of a blood purist?"

Dolohov chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "This cause, my master's cause, is far more than blood. It is about restoring the magical world to its rightful place. Our rightful place."

Talpin frowned, momentarily abandoning his pose of amused detachment. "Why is any of this of concern to anyone in this room? We're hardly champions of the pureblood cause, are we?"

Dolohov turned his gaze upon Talpin, and the slimy man seemed to shrink under its intensity. "This concerns all magical creatures," Dolohov said, his eyes lingering on Fenrir and Angélique. "There is a great change coming. A reshaping of the world as you know it. And such change is rarely… smooth."

Carver narrowed his eyes, his mind racing. "This is about a coming conflict," he muttered. "A war."

Dolohov smiled, the smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You are perceptive, Mr. Carver. There will be a… regime change. And if matters proceed as we anticipate, it will be swift and… relatively bloodless."

Carver grunted, unimpressed. "And what happens if it doesn't? If things go… sideways?"

Dolohov's smile widened, revealing a hint of teeth. "Then… actions will be taken. Necessary actions. But regardless of the means, the change is inevitable."

Dolohov turned, his cold eyes sweeping across each member of the room, lingering for a moment on each face, assessing, calculating. His voice, smooth as oiled silk, painted a picture of the Ministry of Magic in stark, unflattering colours. "The Ministry, as it stands, is a failure. It does not serve all witches and wizards equally. It is weak, riddled with corruption, and utterly incapable of protecting the magical world from the encroaching influence of the Muggles. It needs reform. Drastic reform."

Talpin, visibly unnerved, squeaked, "I… I don't understand. What are you… proposing?" He dabbed frantically at his forehead with a silk handkerchief, leaving damp patches of anxiety on the fine fabric.

Dolohov's voice dropped again, becoming almost conspiratorial. "If the time comes…when my master requires… assistance…in acquiring the Ministry… he will reward those who aid in ushering in this new order… generously."

Angélique narrowed her eyes, her expression considering. "You're offering us the Ministry?"

Dolohov inclined his head in a slow, deliberate bow. "My master is offering you all seats at the table… when he seizes control. He recognizes your… unique talents and resources. But he requires your support to achieve his… ambitions."

Talpin's eyes widened, practically popping from their sockets. A flush of greed crept up his neck. Fenrir Greyback grinned, a savage, predatory gleam in his eyes. Vadimovich's lips curled in a slow, knowing smile. But Carver and Angélique remained silent, their faces unreadable. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

Carver watched Dolohov, his gaze unwavering. He didn't like this man. He resonated an unnatural aura, something cold and calculating. He felt as though he were looking at a creature wearing human skin, a puppet animated by some dark and unseen force. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, but he kept his expression carefully neutral, refusing to allow Dolohov to see how profoundly he was disturbed.

Angélique was the first to break the silence. She rose from her chair, her movements fluid and graceful, like a serpent uncoiling. She paused, her gaze sweeping around the room, taking in each face in turn. Her voice, silky smooth and tinged with a barely perceptible aristocratic drawl, cut through the tension. "Vampires have ruled themselves for centuries. We have our own… ways of doing things. The politics of the Ministry have never interested us. The petty squabbles and wars of witches and wizards? Even less so."

With that, she swept out of the room, her companion, a tall, gaunt vampire with eyes as black as night, following silently in her wake. Dolohov's expression remained unchanged. No anger, no disappointment registered. Instead, his smile seemed to grow ever so slightly, a chillingly subtle indication of something only he could see.

Carver rose quickly, his movements sharp and decisive. "I am… honoured… by the offer. I will, of course, require time to… consider it." He kept his voice carefully neutral, revealing nothing of his true thoughts. It was best to keep his cards close to his chest, at least for now.

Dolohov inclined his head, his smile widening. "I shall be hearing from you soon, Mr. Carver. I have no doubt."

Carver muttered a noncommittal reply, spun on his heel, and marched towards the door. He was joined outside by Alexia and Caleb, both of whom looked thoroughly bewildered.

Alexia hissed, her voice barely above a whisper, "We can't get involved in this, Carver. It's madness! A full-blown war? We barely survived the last one."

Carver muttered, his hand clenched into a fist, "I know, Alexia, I know."

Caleb, his twitching eyes darting nervously between Carver and Alexia, voiced his own concerns. "We…we provide potions to Muggles just as much as magical folk. This…war…this conflict…it would be disastrous for business. Absolutely disastrous!"

Carver hissed, his voice barely a whisper, "I know, Caleb! Stop stating the obvious!"

Alexia shuddered, her sharp features pinched with distaste. "That man…Dolohov…he gave me the creeps. Something about him…it just felt wrong."

Carver grunted his agreement before placing a heavy hand on Alexia’s shoulder. He muttered, his voice low and warning, “We need to keep this between us. All of us. This conversation…this meeting…never happened. Understand?”

Alexia opened her mouth to argue, to protest, but Carver cut her off with a sharp, unwavering glare. "I'm not asking, Alexia. I'm telling you."

She snapped her mouth shut, her eyes narrowing, and nodded curtly.

Carver turned to Caleb, his gaze equally intense. The large man nodded quickly, his face pale. He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation.

"I simply need time to think. Time to consider all the…ramifications." Carver grunted. "But for now…we should return to our families. To the…celebrations…that we are all supposed to be attending. It's Christmas, after all."

Caleb, always eager to please, asked, "What do you plan to do, Carver? Do you have something in mind?"

Carver looked off in the distance before saying "I need to go see someone."

Alexia’s lips formed something that was not quite a smile, but a thin smile of acknowledgement as she couldn’t help taking a dig at him. "Is it Eileen you’re off to see?"

Carver frowned, his oak-like face darkening. "I don't have time for this, Alexia. This is hardly appropriate."

With a curt nod, Carver wished both Alexia and Caleb a hasty "Happy Christmas" and marched off down the quiet winding lanes of Knockturn Alley, his heavy footsteps echoing in the pre-dawn stillness. All the while, his mind was consumed by the offer from Dolohov. It was madness, utter madness. And yet…he couldn’t shake the memory of the looks in the eyes of Vadimovich, Talpin, and Greyback. A mixture of anticipation, greed, and a chillingly unwavering conviction.

Coming to a stop before a small, unassuming apothecary tucked away in a shadowed corner of the alley, Carver pulled a shrunken parcel from his pocket. He tapped it with his wand, muttering the growth charm under his breath, and the parcel expanded to its normal size. He knocked firmly on the shop door. Footsteps echoed from within, followed by the distinct sound of bolts being drawn. The door creaked open and Carver smiled a smile.

"Happy Christmas, Eileen," he said softly.

Chapter Text

Lily woke up with a groan that seemed to echo from her toes all the way to the tips of her fiery red hair. The past few days had turned into a fuzzy blur of Christmas joy and way too much chocolate, leaving her in a state of blissful, yet unproductive, hibernation. She stretched, scratching an itch just above her ankle, and stumbled out of bed, her feet softly padding on the well-worn carpet.

Christmas, she had to admit, had been surprisingly... tolerable. A lot of that was thanks to the unexpected visit from her Aunt Layla and her cousin Gregory. Gregory, with his curious nature, had been utterly captivated by her stories of Hogwarts, drawing comparisons to his own experiences at Cambridge. He’d chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound, about how they both found themselves in old, dusty schools. Of course, she had conveniently left out the little detail that her school had staircases that could think for themselves.

As expected, Petunia hadn’t taken kindly to any mention of Hogwarts. To avoid the inevitable snarky comments, Lily had skillfully redirected conversations away from that topic. It was a minefield she preferred to steer clear of.

But now, the cozy peace of Christmas was fading, giving way to the familiar routine of Cokeworth.

Lily groaned again as she approached the bathroom door. It was locked. From inside, she could hear a faint but enthusiastic rendition of "The Sound of Music," which meant Petunia was in there. And she would likely be for a while.

Feeling defeated, Lily shuffled downstairs, where the strains of Greg Lake’s "I Believe In Father Christmas" crackled from the radio. The kitchen was warm and filled with the inviting aroma of cinnamon and butter. Her mother, a practical woman with kind eyes and hands dusted with flour, was busy at the stove, a growing stack of golden pancakes beside her.

Her father sat at the table, hidden behind a copy of the Cokeworth Chronicle, his dark auburn hair slightly tousled. He wore his cherished Cokeworth Ravens coat, a badge of his unwavering loyalty to the local football team. A steaming mug of coffee teetered on the edge of the table, and he took occasional sips, his gaze glued to the newspaper.

Lily settled into the chair across from him. As if he could sense her arrival, her father lowered the paper, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he greeted her with a cheerful tone.

"Morning, Dad," Lily mumbled, her stomach growling at the thought of pancakes. She also managed a soft "Morning, Mum" as her mother placed a generous stack of pancakes in front of her, drizzled with golden syrup.

Lily dove in, her eyelids fluttering shut in pure bliss. Her father tossed the newspaper aside with a sigh, muttering something about local politicians.

“Honestly, Rose,” he grumbled, “that Roy Perry is an absolute menace. Can you believe he’s trying to shut down the community center?”

“Now, Harold,” her mother said gently, flipping another pancake with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Don’t get yourself all worked up so early in the day. Besides, you know Lily isn’t interested in all that political nonsense.”

With her mouth full of pancake, Lily nodded vigorously in agreement. Local politics were a confusing, and frankly boring, jumble of names and broken promises. She had a vague idea about Roy Perry; her father had labeled him a "self-centered Tory prick" during the local elections last May.

Sensing that her father was about to launch into a full-blown rant about Perry's alleged crimes against Cokeworth, her mother wisely shifted the conversation.

“So, Lily-flower,” she asked, turning to her with a smile. “Any plans for today?”

Lily swallowed, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. "Uh, no, not really," she mumbled, hoping she could spend the day curled up with a good book.

Her father clapped his hands together, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Perfect! Because I could use a bit of help this morning.”

Lily’s heart sank. “Help with what?”

“Football training down at the park,” her father said, waving his coffee mug like it was a magic wand. “I need someone to haul the cones and the first-aid kit. Think of it as… quality father-daughter bonding time.”

Lily frowned, jabbing a stray blueberry with her fork. “Do I really have a say in this ‘quality bonding time’?”

Her father grinned, that cheeky sparkle in his eye growing brighter. “Not a chance, my dear. It’s your civic duty. Plus, you could use some fresh air after all that holiday feasting.”

Lily groaned, but her complaints were drowned out by the satisfying sound of her finishing the last of her pancakes. She washed it down with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, the sweetness doing little to lift her mood.

"Alright, alright," she grumbled, pushing her chair back from the table. "But you owe me, Dad. Big time."

She trudged back upstairs, dreading the thought of spending her Sunday morning running around a muddy park, trying to shake off her growing bad mood.

Petunia was still in the shower. Lily let out a dramatic sigh, grabbed her towel, and marched purposefully toward the bathroom door. She knocked sharply on the peeling paint.

The singing abruptly stopped. The sound of rushing water ceased. Rapid footsteps approached, and the door swung open to reveal Petunia, a purple towel precariously wrapped around her dripping wet body. She scowled, her perfectly shaped eyebrows knitted together in annoyance.

"What?" she snapped, her tone sharp and impatient.

Lily bristled. "You’ve been in there forever!" she hissed, gesturing toward the steaming bathroom. "I need to shower!"

Petunia, completely unaware of Lily’s growing frustration, simply pushed past her, muttering, "Honestly, I can’t get a moment of peace in this house."

Lily watched, fuming, as her older sister slammed her bedroom door with a loud thud. Rolling her eyes, she muttered, "Peace? She calls that peace? Singing The Sound of Music?"

She pushed open the bathroom door, the lingering scent of cheap hairspray and lukewarm shampoo filling the air. As she stepped into the shower, feeling the hot water flow over her skin, she couldn’t shake the thought that even a muddy football field might be better than another hour listening to her sister’s relentless quest for domestic perfection. At least on the football field, she wouldn’t have to endure The Sound of Music.

The lingering chill of a late winter morning nipped at Simeon’s skin as he bounded out of the shower. Steam still clung to him as he hurried back to his small bedroom, the linoleum cold beneath his bare feet. He dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of worn-out shorts and tugging long, thick socks up to his knees for warmth.

Finally, he reached for his prized possession: a black and red Cokeworth Ravens shirt. It felt good against his skin, a symbol of belonging, of teamwork, of the sport he loved. Today was training for the under-sixteen team, and Simeon couldn't wait.

He tossed his scuffed boots into his black backpack, grabbed an old, faded coat from the hook by the door, and headed downstairs, his stomach rumbling in anticipation. The aroma of cooked breakfast, rich and inviting, guided him towards the kitchen.

He found his mother, Elizabeth, standing at the stove, expertly arranging four plates piled high with eggs, crispy bacon, plump sausages, and a generous serving of baked beans. The sight brought a smile to Simeon’s face.

"Simeon!" His younger sister, Isabella, chirped, her voice filled with an infectious enthusiasm. She swung her legs, perched on one of the kitchen stools, her bright eyes sparkling. Despite the… odd incident she'd been through recently, she seemed, thankfully, back to her usual self, a whirlwind of cheerful energy.

“Morning, Bella,” Simeon replied, unable to resist mirroring her grin. He took the seat between her and their father, Tobias.

His father sat at the head of the table, already sipping his tea. He muttered a "Good morning," which Simeon grunted in response, a reluctant "Good morning" back.

His mother served them breakfast, carefully placing a plate in front of each of them. Isabella cried out, "Thank you, Mommy!" before quickly diving into her breakfast, her tiny hands gripping her fork with surprising strength.

Simeon chuckled, watching her devour her meal with gusto. "Slow down, munchkin" he said gently. "You'll make yourself sick if you eat that fast."

Isabella's eyes widened, and she visibly forced herself to slow down, chewing each bite thoughtfully. A few moments later, she was back up to speed.

Tobias, setting down his teacup, glanced at Simeon. "Looking forward to training this morning, son?" he asked.

Simeon shrugged, picking at his eggs. The question felt loaded, and he wasn't sure how to answer. Silence fell over the table, broken only by the clinking of cutlery and Isabella's enthusiastic chewing.

Isabella, who had now gone back to quickly scoffing down her food despite her elder brother's warning, peered up at Simeon. "Can I come along?" she asked, her voice muffled by a mouthful of sausage.

Simeon glanced at his mother, a silent question in his eyes. Elizabeth smiled and nodded. "Sure, why not? It'll be good for her to get some fresh air."

"Sounds like fun," Simeon muttered, a small smile tugging at his lips. Having his sister there to cheer him on couldn't hurt.

Tobias cleared his throat. "I could drop Simeon off," he offered.

Simeon's mood soured instantly. He grunted a curt, "I'm fine," but his mother cut in before he could elaborate.

"The snow's slowly melting, dear," she said gently, her voice carefully neutral, "but there's still ice on the ground. And the park is quite a walk away… a bit far for your sister in this weather."

Isabella chimed in, ever eager to assert her independence. "It's not far! I'm a big girl now!"

Tobias chuckled, reaching across the table to ruffle her hair. "You are a big girl, sweetheart, but sometimes even big girls need a little help."

Isabella thought for a moment, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Okay," she conceded, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "But I want to sit in the front!"

Simeon inwardly groaned. The matter seemed settled. He knew arguing would be futile.

Tobias and Isabella finished up their breakfast and headed upstairs to get ready, leaving Simeon to help his mother with the cleaning. He would wash the dishes as she dried them, the rhythmic clatter filling the silence.

While he was scrubbing a particularly stubborn bit of egg yolk from a plate, his mother quietly said, "He's trying, you know."

Elizabeth noticed Simeon's jaw clench, the muscles in his face tightening. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring.

She spoke softly, her voice filled with a quiet understanding. "I know it's hard, Simeon. I know what you feel. It was hard for me at first too. But after a while... I felt he deserved a chance. We all did."

Simeon whispered, barely audible, "Even after the crash?"

Elizabeth's smile was sad, her eyes seemed  tinged with a lingering pain. Their conversation was cut short as Tobias and Isabella appeared in the hallway, ready to leave. "Simeon! Let's go!" Tobias called out.

His mum squeezed his arm one last time before the pair headed out. "You better win," she muttered playfully, a glint in her eye.

The ride to the park was filled mainly by Isabella's cheerful chatter. She would launch full force into her favourite songs – most of which Simeon didn't recognise – before playing a relentless game of I Spy. There was hardly a moment of silence.

Finally, they pulled up to the park, the winter sun reflecting brightly off the remnants of snow. Simeon hopped out of the car when his father stopped on the side of the road, carefully putting on his boots. He made his way towards the gathering of young boys, his heart rate quickening with anticipation.

Off to the far right was an equally large cluster of adults, the parents no doubt, braving the cold to watch their sons train. But Simeon soon noticed the red-haired girl, Mr. Evans' daughter, Lily, standing beside a collection of bags filled with equipment.  She didn't looked all too thrilled to be out watching her father coach a bunch of lads.

Simeon took his place beside Jack, his best friend on the team, who playfully nudged him. Mr. Evans, the team coach, was standing with Mr. Peterson, the assistant coach. Together, they were outlining the plan for the morning. The team would start with thirty minutes of warm-up exercises before moving into dribbling, passing, and shooting drills. The session would conclude with a friendly game amongst the boys. The boys cheered, eager to get started, and began their routine stretches.

Time blurred as Simeon practiced his skills, his mind momentarily quietened by the rhythmic movement and the camaraderie of the team. However, the passing drill proved to be problematic.

He had been paired with Edmund Phillips, a Saint Michael's boy. Phillips was known for his arrogance and inflated sense of self-importance. The posh twit seemed to hog the ball, refusing to pass, and, as a result, frustrating Simeon and his team mates beyond belief.

"Phillips! Pass the bloody ball!" Simeon finally screamed, his voice raw with frustration. Edmund sneered in response, dribbling away from the direction of goal.

The biting wind whipped across the amateur football field, tugging at Lily’s coat and sending shivers down her spine. She huddled closer to the sideline, a silent observer to the chaotic scene unfolding before her. What had started as a friendly game was rapidly devolving into something far less amicable. A skinny boy with messy brown hair was gesticulating wildly at a stocky blonde, his voice rising in a furious tirade about a missed pass.

“Pass the bloody ball, you useless oaf! I was wide open!” the brunette shrieked, his face flushed with anger.

The blonde retorted, his voice thick with indignation, “I didn’t see you! Besides, maybe if you weren’t so busy whining, you’d actually be in position!”

The argument escalated quickly, the tension palpable in the air. Shoves were exchanged, and a small crowd of onlookers began to gather, drawn by the promise of a fight. Lily’s father, who was no doubt regretting volunteering as head coach, recognized the situation was spiraling out of control. He marched over, pushing past the boys who gathering around the bickering duo, and pulled the fiery brunette away from the blonde before punches could be thrown.

Lily watched her father steer the boy towards the sidelines, his calm voice a stark contrast to the boy’s sputtering rage. She sighed, a familiar mix of concern and pride welling within her. Her father always tried to do what was right, even when faced with the unruly passions of others.

Lost in thought, Lily almost missed the soft, tentative voice that broke through her reverie. "Hello?"

She jumped, startled, and spun around, expecting to see another parent or perhaps one of the players. But there was no one there. Confused, she glanced downwards, her gaze finally settling on a pair of dark, intelligent eyes peering up at her. Something about their depth and intensity sparked a flicker of recognition within her.

Lily smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through her despite the chill in the air. "Hello," she replied softly, crouching down to meet the child's gaze.

The little girl was bundled up against the cold in a faded red scarf that seemed several sizes too large and a dark, oversized coat. Her small face was framed by tangled dark hair, and her eyes held a mischievous twinkle.

"I didn't think there'd be another girl here," the little girl mumbled, her voice barely audible above the wind.

Lily laughed, a light, airy sound that momentarily chased away the grey mood of the day.

"Well, here I am. My dad's the coach," she explained, pointing towards her father, who was still attempting to calm the agitated brunette. "I'm here to help him out, you know, fetch the water bottles and make sure everyone behaves... mostly."

The little girl’s lips curved into a shy smile. "I help my dad sometimes too," she said proudly. "He brings me along when he fixes things. I help him hold the tools."

Lily nodded, impressed. "That's very kind of you," she said. "Teamwork makes the dream work, right?"

A brief silence hung in the air, punctuated only by the distant shouts of the remaining players. Then, with a sudden burst of boldness, the little girl blurted out, "My name is Isabelle."

Lily smiled warmly. "It's lovely to meet you, Isabelle. I'm Lily."

Isabella grinned, her eyes sparkling with delight. "Lily! Like the flower!" she exclaimed, her gaze drifting towards the muddy ground.

"That's right," Lily replied, a hint of sadness creeping into her voice. "My older sister is named after a flower, too. Petunia."

Isabelle's smile faltered, her gaze hardening as she stared at the slick, grey mud that coated the field. “I wish there were flowers here now,” she muttered, her voice laced with longing. "Everything is so… grey."

Lily, sensing the girl's disappointment, quickly reassured her, "It won't be long until spring, Isabelle. Then the flowers will bloom again. Just you wait."

But before Isabella could respond, a fresh wave of shouting erupted from the other side of the field, drawing Lily's attention away. She turned to see a large, imposing man stomping purposefully towards her father, his face contorted with rage. He appeared to be shouting about the way his son had been handled, his voice booming across the field.

Lily frowned, a protective instinct flaring within her. She considered marching over there to defend her father, but she knew that Harold Evans could handle himself. He possessed a remarkable ability to diffuse even the most volatile situations with his calm demeanor and soothing words.

Indeed, as Lily watched, her father remained unfazed, speaking softly and evenly to the irate man. The man’s son, however, the very same brunette who had started the fight, glared daggers at his father, hissing something Lily couldn't make out before storming off in the opposite direction.

Lily sighed, a mixture of relief and frustration washing over her. These games were often more trouble than they were worth. She turned back to continue her conversation with Isabelle, only to find that the little girl had wandered off. She was further down the field, crouched low to the ground, peering intently at something in the mud.

Frowning slightly, Lily trudged towards her, the cold seeping into her boots with each step. "Isabelle? What are you looking at?"

Isabella remained motionless, completely engrossed in whatever had captured her attention. Lily approached cautiously, her curiosity piqued. As she drew closer, she saw that Isabella was staring at a patch of bare earth, a small, barren space that seemed devoid of life. But then, Lily’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Nestled in the mud were several withered stems, remnants of flowers that had long since faded and gone dormant. But something was happening to them.

Right before her eyes, she watched in astonishment as the stems began to stir, slowly rising from the earth. Colour seemed to seep back into them, like paint filling a canvas, and gradually, delicate green leaves unfurled, followed by the emergence of pristine white petals.

In a matter of seconds, a cluster of bright white daisies bloomed in front of the smiling girl, their cheerful faces a stark contrast to the surrounding gloom.

Lily gasped, the sound escaping her lips almost involuntarily. The sudden noise startled Isabelle, who spun around, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and fear. Lily, however, was transfixed, unable to tear her gaze away from the girl and the miraculous display of nature she had seemingly conjured.

She stared at Isabelle, her mind racing to comprehend the impossible. The wind seemed to still, and the distant shouts of the football players faded into a muted hum. The only sound was the frantic beating of her own heart.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Lily managed to stammer out a single, incredulous sentence, her voice barely a whisper.

"You… you're a witch."

Isabelle's initial fear swiftly morphed into anger. She glared up at the red-haired girl, who only moments ago she had considered friendly.

"That's mean!" she hissed, the word sharp and laced with indignation. Without another word, she pushed past Lily and began to run back towards the football match.

"Isabella, wait!" Lily called after her, but the girl kept running, her small figure disappearing into the crowd.

As she ran, the anger began to dissipate, replaced by a creeping sense of dread. She had done it. She had broken her promise. She had promised Simeon she wouldn't show anyone. That it was their little secret. But now Lily knew.

Would Simeon be angry? The thought caused her to slow down, her earlier rush faltering. A knot of unease tightened in her stomach. Would her older brother be disappointed that she had accidentally revealed her… her thing to someone else?

She desperately hoped not.

Simeon had made her promise not to tell anyone when she had first shown him. He had said it would be their special secret, and Isabella had loved that. She loved secrets. But now, she had broken it.

To make matters worse, the person she had accidentally shown had called her a witch. She didn't like that. It sounded scary, and… and wrong.

Slowly trudging towards her father, Isabella felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Her vision blurred, and she sniffed as snot began to run down her nose.

Her father, Tobias, noticed her distress immediately. His normally stern face softened with concern as he knelt down beside her. "Bella, what's wrong, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice gentle.

Isabella couldn't tell him. She had already broken her secret once; she couldn't risk doing it again. So, she lied. She sobbed that she was sad about Simeon getting into a fight.

Her father wrapped her in his strong arms, shushing her gently as he stroked her hair. His deep voice was soothing. "It'll be alright, Bella," he murmured. "Simeon wouldn't want you to be upset."

The tears slowly dried up, and her father wiped the snot from her nose with a tissue. He smiled at her, and she managed a weak smile in return.

A shrill whistle pierced the air, signaling the end of the football match. Isabella watched as the boys, muddy and exhausted, trudged towards their families. Simeon, covered in dirt and scowling, lumbered over to them.

The tears slowly dried up, and her father wiped the snot from her nose with a tissue. He smiled at her, and she managed a weak smile in return.

A shrill whistle pierced the air, signaling the end of the football match. Isabella watched as the boys, muddy and exhausted, trudged towards their families. Simeon, covered in dirt and scowling, lumbered over to them.

Isabella felt herself shrink a little at his dour expression. He grunted a greeting before announcing he was heading into town with his friends.

Her father frowned. "Shouldn't you have a shower and something to eat first?" he muttered, his voice laced with a hint of disapproval.

Simeon simply grunted in response.

It was always like this. Her father and older brother rarely communicated effectively. Their interactions were often terse, filled with unspoken tension, as if one or both of them were desperate to escape the conversation. Simeon, in particular, always seemed to want to get away.

They trudged back to their aging Volvo, the journey made in silence. On the way, Isabella noticed Lily helping her father with some bags. Their eyes briefly met, but Isabella scowled and quickly looked away. She didn't want to think about what Lily had said, or the secret she had revealed.

The ride home was not as cheerful as the ride to the park. There was no music, her father pointing out that Simeon seemed tired and didn't need a headache. Simeon grunted that he was fine, and her father fell silent.

Once back at the house, Simeon darted for the stairs, disappearing into the depths of the house. Tobias sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. Isabella's mother, Elizabeth, was in the lounge and greeted her warmly.

She frowned, sensing her daughter's distress. "What's wrong, love?" she asked, her voice soft and concerned.

Isabella mumbled that she was fine, avoiding her mother's gaze. Elizabeth patted the blanket-covered sofa beside her, inviting her to sit down.

Isabella snuggled in beside her mother, feeling the familiar warmth of her presence. Elizabeth tossed the blanket over the two of them, cocooning them in a world of comfort. Her father took a seat in a nearby armchair, sighing heavily as he settled in.

They sat there, watching television together. They watched something called Star Trek, a show filled with strange aliens and spaceships. Her father, a lifelong fan, spent time explaining the intricate plot and the nuances of the characters to her. Her mother would shush him playfully, reminding him that it was just a show.

The slamming of the front door was the only indication of Simeon's departure. Her father sighed again, his shoulders slumping. Her mother smiled sadly and reached out to squeeze his hand, a silent gesture of support. "It'll take time, love," she murmured.

The afternoon passed by in a blur of simple pleasures. Isabella spent some time playing with her toys, creating elaborate worlds and fantastical adventures for her dolls. Later, she helped her mother bake a batch of chocolate chip cookies, carefully measuring out the ingredients and stirring the batter with meticulous care.

As time went on, the worries of the morning began to shrivel away, replaced by the comforting rhythm of family life. Soon, she was laughing as her father sneakily swiped a taste of the cookie batter, her earlier anxieties momentarily forgotten.

Chapter Text

The death of December had ushered in January, a month reborn in a flurry of renewed activity. Diagon Alley, once hushed and somber, now throbbed with life. A restless, surging tide of witches and wizards, swept along by the undercurrent of a new year, re-established their routines with a fervor that bordered on frenzy. Parents, their faces tight with the familiar stress of impending school terms, dragged reluctant children in and out of shops, desperate for last-minute supplies.

Philip, a shadow against the vibrant backdrop, felt the familiar prickle of unease crawl up his spine. A month. A month since that chilling meeting with Mrs. Abernathy, a month of whispers and paranoia that clung to him like a Dementor's chill. He peered around, his eyes darting nervously, trying to pierce the illusion of normalcy that Diagon Alley so desperately tried to project. The jostle of bodies, the cacophony of voices, the bright displays in shop windows – all seemed to conspire to mask the dread that had taken root within him.

Every sudden sound, every furtive glance, sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. He found himself jumping at the rustle of robes, the clatter of wands, the echoing footsteps on the cobblestones. He’d become a phantom limb, reacting to sensations that weren't quite there. Andrew, already consumed by paranoia long before Philip, had retreated into his shell, barricading himself within his flat. They communicated only through hurried, frantic letters, each one a desperate plea for Philip to abandon his dangerous obsession with the Abernathy disappearance and the vanishing potion apprentices.

He slipped past a stout woman, her face contorted with fury as she berated her son about a missing ingredient. Philip's pace quickened, his eyes scanning the unending flow of faces, each a potential threat lurking within the anonymity of the crowd. He was a fugitive in his own mind, perpetually on the run from an unseen pursuer.

Suddenly, an impact sent him sprawling. He tripped, his satchel flying from his grasp and landing with a dull thud on the unforgiving cobblestones. He’d collided with a young girl, her face a mask of startled surprise.

No time for apologies. Adrenaline surged through him, snapping him back to his feet. “Sorry!” he blurted, his voice barely audible above the din.

He snatched his satchel, its contents feeling loose and vulnerable, and pushed past her, ignoring her indignant cry as he plunged back into the throng. He couldn't afford to be late. He couldn't afford to be seen. He couldn't afford to waste a single second.

A sharp left, then a quick right, and he found himself standing before Master Lotho's Tea House. The building was a precarious structure, tall, narrow, and leaning at a disconcerting angle, as if weary of holding itself upright. Despite its eccentric appearance, it was bustling with patrons, their murmured conversations a gentle hum against the backdrop of the city.

He pushed open the door, the delicate chime of a bell announcing his arrival. Almost instantly, a house-elf materialized before him, clad in a green apron that strained against its sackcloth clothes.

“Welcome to Master Lotho’s, Master,” the elf chirped, her voice high-pitched and eager. “Would Master like a table?”

Philip’s gaze swept across the crowded room, searching for any sign of unwanted attention. "A secluded place, if possible," he muttered, his voice low and guarded.

The elf nodded, her eagerness undeterred by his terse response. "Misty will lead Master."

She led him through a maze of tables, each crammed with chattering witches and wizards, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of enchanted candles. They passed shelves stacked high with jars of exotic teas and fragrant herbs, the aroma a comforting blanket against the anxieties that plagued him. Finally, they arrived at a small, almost claustrophobic cubicle, shielded from the rest of the tea house by heavy, velvet curtains.

"Here you are, Master," Misty squeaked, her voice muffled by the thick fabric.

"Thank you," Philip mumbled, offering a fleeting, almost apologetic smile. "Black tea, no sugar, please."

The elf nodded and vanished, leaving Philip alone in the confines of the cubicle. For a brief, fleeting moment, the tension seemed to loosen its grip. He allowed himself a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of his heart.

He needed to focus. He needed to review the tangled web of thoughts that had consumed him for the past month.

Michael Abernathy had become entangled in something dangerous, something far beyond the simple pursuit of potion-making. His patrons, whoever they were, had demanded results, and Philip suspected that poor Michael had failed to deliver. They had silenced him, snuffed out his life and conveniently planted his body at the site of the London attack, a macabre and carefully orchestrated deception. What was worse, Yaxley, the Ministry official supposedly investigating the attack, was either too incompetent to see the truth, or far more likely, complicit in the scheme.

Philip had spent weeks combing through old Ministry records, poring over archived articles about the deaths of witches and wizards attributed to Muggle attacks. He had meticulously noted the names, and with the clandestine assistance of Fabian, who he’d been communicating with through coded owl post, he’d uncovered a chilling pattern. Nearly half of those supposedly killed in Muggle-related incidents had, at one point or another, worked as potion apprentices.

He'd even risked visiting the families of the deceased, those left behind to mourn their loved ones. The stories were eerily similar: all had been employed by some unknown master, cloaked in secrecy, before their untimely deaths.

The chime of the bell above the door startled him. He instinctively tensed, his hand reaching for his wand.

Two figures strolled towards the cubicle. Philip peered up, recognizing the familiar, freckled face of Fabian Prewett. Beside him stood a tall, young, dark-skinned woman, her expression unreadable, her eyes holding a sharp, almost predatory glint.

"Fabian, thanks for coming," Philip muttered, his voice tight with suppressed anxiety.

The ginger-haired man frowned, a hint of confusion flickering across his features. "It's Gideon, actually."

Philip's brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could utter a word, the other man erupted in a boisterous laugh.

"Only kidding!" Fabian chuckled, clapping Philip on the shoulder with a force that made him wince.

As Fabian’s laughter subsided, he extended a hand towards his companion. "Philip, this is Dorcas Meadows. Dorcas, this is Philip."

The duo took the seats opposite Philip in the cramped cubicle, the air suddenly thick with unspoken tension.

Before anyone could speak, Misty reappeared, her tiny hands trembling as she placed a steaming cup of tea before Philip. He thanked the elf with a curt nod, barely registering her presence before she scurried away, disappearing as silently as she had arrived.

Fabian, his jovial mood a stark contrast to Dorcas’s serious demeanor, broke the silence. “So, how are you holding up, mate?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern.

Philip offered a noncommittal grunt. "Fine."

Fabian's frown deepened. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Seriously, Philip, are you alright? You look like you haven't slept in days."

Philip bristled. "That's not why I asked you here."

Fabian sighed. "I know, I know. But it's my obligation to look out for my mates, isn't it?"

Philip offered a grudging nod. "Thanks, Fabian. But we have more important things to discuss than my sleeping habits." He reached for his satchel, pulling it closer. He needed to show them the evidence, to lay out the facts that had been driving him to the brink of madness.

He reached inside, his fingers groping for the familiar weight of his journal. The journal. The one he carried everywhere, the one he’d poured his heart and soul into, filled with meticulous notes, sketches, and timelines detailing the deaths, the disappearances, the Abernathy connection.

It wasn't there.

A cold dread washed over him, freezing him from the inside out. His heart lurched in his chest, and a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He began frantically searching, his fingers scrambling through the contents of the satchel, desperation clawing at his throat.

He cursed under his breath, his hands shaking as he turned the satchel upside down. Ink pots, quills, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes spilled out onto the table, a pathetic collection of everyday items mocking the monumental loss he had just suffered.

Fabian and Dorcas watched in silence, their expressions a mixture of concern and apprehension.

Defeated, Philip slumped back in his seat, resisting the urge to scream. He closed his eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath, and forced himself to regain control. He looked up at the two aurors across the table, their gazes unwavering.

He began. He laid out the evidence, the names he'd gathered, the pattern he'd painstakingly uncovered: that all the victims had been potion apprentices, toiling in the shadows for unknown masters. He spoke of Abernathy, his frantic letter, the undeniable sign that he'd been involved in something far bigger and more sinister than anyone had imagined. He culminated with his conviction that Yaxley was not only aware of the conspiracy, but actively complicit in it.

Fabian and Dorcas listened in silence, their faces betraying nothing. When Philip finally finished, his voice hoarse and his hands trembling, Fabian nodded slowly.

Dorcas spoke, her voice low and measured. “He’s good,” she muttered, her gaze fixed on Philip.

Fabian chuckled softly. “Told you he was.”

Philip frowned, his confusion battling with the rising panic within him. "What are you talking about?"

Fabian leaned forward, his expression turning serious. "You weren't the only one who came to the conclusion that there was something bigger going on."

Dorcas added, "Some of us in the Aurors’ office have long suspected Yaxley was involved in something… shady. But no one could risk reporting it. He's a senior officer."

Fabian continued, his eyes locked on Philip’s. "That's why we needed you to gather information."

Philip’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. "You were giving me those names… you wanted me to investigate Yaxley."

Fabian nodded. "Yaxley heads up the task force responsible for investigating the deaths of magical folk in Muggle-related incidents. He’s been burying evidence, covering up the truth for years."

Philip sat in stunned silence, his mind reeling. All of this, he realized, had started with his desire to escape the gossip columns, to finally make a name for himself. He had unwittingly stumbled into something far bigger, far more dangerous.

Dorcas brought him back to the present. "You mentioned a letter from Abernathy," she prompted.

Philip nodded, his voice barely audible. "The sender signed it 'L.M.'"

Fabian nodded, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "I have a clue who that might be."

Dorcas, ever practical, added, "Still, it would be good to have the letter in hand."

Philip cursed, a wave of despair washing over him. The letter was at his house, vulnerable. "I'll get it for you," he stammered.

Dorcas nodded, a hint of encouragement in her eyes. Fabian grinned, a reassuring, albeit slightly unsettling, smile. But Philip was consumed by a growing dread, his eyes darting around the room, searching for an unseen threat.

He leaned forward, his voice barely a whisper. "What is this really about?"

Fabian's grin faded, replaced by a grim determination. He leaned closer, his voice low and serious. "We're not entirely sure," he confessed. "But Moody mentioned a war."

Dorcas scoffed at that, dismissing it as Moody's usual paranoia. "This is about corrupt Aurors, possibly taking bribes from high-ranking Ministry officials to cover up their failings."

Fabian grunted. "It doesn't matter what it's about. We just know it has to be stopped before it gets out of hand."

Philip, however, felt a chilling certainty. "I'm afraid it's already gotten out of hand."

His throat dry, his eyes darted around the tea house, finally settling on a couple seated across the room. They were kissing, a deep, passionate embrace. But despite the outward display of affection, Philip noticed something unsettling in the woman's eyes. They were locked on him, cold and calculating.

He shot to his feet, the sudden movement jarring. "I'll owl you," he muttered to Fabian, thanking him for coming and offering a curt nod to Dorcas. He rushed to the front desk, paid quickly, and hurried out of the tea house, plunging back into the teeming throng of Diagon Alley.

He continued to scan the faces around him, his paranoia reaching fever pitch. A shop owner seemed to be watching him, a father stared as his daughter tugged on his arm. Philip quickened his pace, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached the Leaky Cauldron, pushed through the smoky haze, and Apparated.

First, a disorienting swirl of colors and he found himself on a quiet street corner in a sleepy village in Cambridge. Then, another jarring jolt, and he materialized inside his small, unassuming house.

He examined the small strip of tape he had placed on his door frame, a rudimentary security measure. It was undisturbed. No one had been here. He let out a shaky sigh of relief as he hurried inside, making his way to his study.

The room was a chaotic mess. A small desk stood buried under a mountain of old Daily Prophet newspapers, each scribbled with Philip's frantic notes and half-formed theories. He tossed them aside, sending them fluttering to the floor, pushing through the paper avalanche until he found what he was searching for: the letter from "L.M." He carefully tucked it into his pocket, his hand trembling against the parchment. 

Then, a knock.

Startled, Philip whirled around, his wand raised, his senses on high alert. He crept slowly downstairs, his heart pounding in his ears. He peered through the peephole, his eyes widening in disbelief. It was Andrew, his face pale and drawn, his eyes darting nervously from side to side.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He yanked the door open and snatched Andrew inside, slamming it shut behind him. He pinned Andrew against the wall, the tip of his wand digging into his throat.

"If you're who you appear to be," Philip hissed, his voice barely above a whisper, "then you'll know what my favorite sweet is."

Andrew squeaked, his eyes wide with terror. "Philip, calm down! What are you doing?"

Philip pressed the wand harder against his throat. "Answer the question!"

Andrew stammered, his voice trembling. "It's… it's a trick question! You hate sweets! You hate anything overly sugary! You told me that on my first day at the office, when I offered you a… a sugared plum."

Philip sighed, the tension draining out of him, leaving him weak and trembling. He released Andrew, lowering his wand. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "I had to be sure."

"It's fine," Andrew mumbled.

Philip rubbed his eyes. "Why are you here, Andrew? I thought you were done, cooped up at home with your family."

Andrew hissed, "I have every right to stop if I suspect my family is in danger."

Philip let out a long sigh, placing his wand on a nearby table. He looked back at his friend, seeing the same exhaustion in Andrew's eyes. Andrew understood what he was going through.

"I'm going to make some coffee," Philip said, "Want some?"

Andrew didn't protest. They slowly drifted towards the kitchen. Philip flicked on the kettle. Most of Philip's home was ordinary, filled with Muggle appliances. He liked it that way, a connection to his Muggle heritage.

He rubbed his eyes again and glanced out the window, the sleepy village bathed in the soft glow of dusk. "Why are you here, Andrew? Why didn't you send an owl?"

Andrew's voice quivered. "My owl... my owl went missing two days ago."

Philip turned, studying Andrew's crestfallen face. He made two cups of coffee, the silence thick with unspoken fears. He sat down at the table, pushing one cup towards Andrew.

"Thanks," Andrew murmured, taking a tentative sip. The two men sat in silence for a long moment, the quiet punctuated only by the soft clinking of mugs.

Finally, Andrew spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "Is it worth it, Philip? Is all this... worth it?"

Philip stared into his coffee, the dark liquid reflecting his own uncertainty. "I don't know," he muttered. "But I intend to find out."

Andrew scoffed, a hollow sound. "We'll end up like that Abernathy boy," he muttered, referring to a casualty of their shared, dangerous pursuit.

Philip didn't argue. He was aware of the risks, had even, in a strange way, come to terms with them. He finished his coffee, rose, and began washing his cup. He splashed water on his face, trying to fight off the encroaching weariness.

Andrew's chair scraped against the floor. He was muttering something under his breath, and Philip was about to ask what he was saying when a searing pain ripped through his back.

He spun around, his eyes widening in disbelief. Andrew stood there, watery eyes bulging, his lip trembling. In his hand, a kitchen knife, its tip stained crimson.

Philip wheezed, "Andrew... what are you doing?"

Andrew lunged forward, and they both crashed to the floor.

They grappled, a desperate struggle fueled by panic and desperation. In any other day, Philip would have easily overpowered Andrew, but his body was already pushed to its limit. Andrew, driven by a force Philip couldn't comprehend, landed several blows that knocked the fight out of him.

Andrew stabbed him. Again, and again, and again.

Tears streamed down Andrew's face, pathetic sobs escaping his lips. "I have to do this," he blubbered. "They have my wife. I'm so sorry, Philip. I'm so sorry."

The knife sank deeper, Philip's blood spurting out, staining Andrew's clothes.

After what felt like an eternity, Andrew stopped. He was covered in blood, his face distorted with grief and horror. He stared down at Philip, at what was once Philip. Now no more than a bloody mess.

Finally, Andrew stopped, fighting the bile that rose in his throat. He stumbled to his feet, the knife slipping from his trembling hand and clattering onto the floor. He fled the kitchen, the house, and out the front door.

And there he saw him.

A tall, slender man with pale skin and cold blue eyes. A smile played on his lips, but it never reached his eyes. Beside him stood Yaxley, in his Auror uniform, surrounded by a small group of Aurors, all sneering at Andrew.

"It's done," Andrew blubbered.

The man with cold eyes nodded. "Good."

Yaxley nodded to his team, and they surged towards the house, breaking windows, destroying the lock, ransacking the home of the man Andrew had just murdered.

Andrew spun to Yaxley. "What do you think you're doing?!"

Yaxley's voice was cold. "Creating a believable crime scene."

The man with the cold eyes added, "The story will be a robbery gone wrong, perpetrated by a Muggle vagrant."

Andrew's throat felt dry. He had done this. To his friend. For Sarah.

He stumbled over himself, begging for news of his wife.

The man with the cold eyes offered his hollow smile. "She's safe. And you'll be with her soon."

Andrew's eyes darted frantically between the men. Was this it? Would they kill him now? Instead, Yaxley grabbed his arm and disapparated them to a small farmhouse.

He nodded towards the building. "They kept her in there. They knew you'd do it." With that, Yaxley vanished. Andrew nodded, his heart pounding, and approached the farmhouse, dread and a sliver of hope warring within him. He had traded his friend's life for his wife's safety. He could only hope it was worth the price.