Chapter Text
The summer of 1971 burned with an unusual intensity in London. The heat clung to the streets like a curse, making the pavement sparkle and forcing Muggles to seek shade under any available awning. But at 12 Grimmauld Place, the temperature inside the Black mansion always felt several degrees cooler than outside, regardless of the season. It was as if the walls themselves repelled heat, light, anything that could be considered cozy.
Eleven-year-old Sirius Black was in the back garden with his younger brother, Regulus. The grass was perfectly trimmed to exactly two centimeters high. The hedges formed lines so precise they seemed drawn with a ruler and string. Not a single flower dared to grow outside its assigned spot in the geometric flowerbeds that flanked the gravel path.
Everything on the Black estate existed under absolute control.
Everything had its place, its purpose, its function. Even the children.
Especially the children.
“I don’t want you to leave,” Regulus said quietly, plucking blades of grass with nervous fingers despite knowing Kreacher would come along later to complain about the mess. He was ten years old, but at that moment, with his shoulders slumped and his gaze fixed on the ground, he looked much younger.
Sirius sat down beside him on the immaculate grass, aware of the weight of his own green summer robes, which Walburga had insisted he wear even in the garden. “A Black must always look presentable, even in his own home.” His gray eyes, similar to his brother’s down to the exact shape of the eyelashes, reflected the same complex combination of anxiety and resignation.
“It’ll only be a few months, Reg,” he said, trying to sound more convinced than he actually was. “I’ll be back for Christmas. And New Year’s. And then it’ll be summer again and we’ll be here again, and I’ll tell you all about Hogwarts and—”
“Whole months.” Regulus interrupted, but didn’t look up. His fingers continued methodically plucking blades of grass, one after another in an almost hypnotic rhythm. “And Mum’s going to… she’s going to be worse off when you’re not here.”
He didn’t need to say it out loud, or elaborate much further.
They both knew perfectly well what he meant.
Sirius had served as a lightning rod at Grimmauld Place for as long as he could remember.
He absorbed most of Walburga’s anger simply by existing, with every decision he made, every word he spoke, every expression that crossed his face when he thought no one was watching. He was the eldest son, the heir, the firstborn upon whom the highest expectations rested, and, inevitably, the bitterest disappointments when he failed to meet them. And Sirius failed constantly, without even truly trying.
It was as if he had been born programmed to disappoint.
Without him around for months, all that attention, all that fury, would fall upon Regulus like an avalanche.
Summer had been especially difficult.
Walburga had been preparing Sirius for Hogwarts with an intensity bordering on obsessive: daily lessons on the precise lineage of the most important pure-blood families, on the history of each marriage alliance, on the vital importance of blood purity in preserving true magic. Lessons on how to behave like an heir worthy of his name in every imaginable social situation. How to hold his wand, how to bow his head in recognition but never in submission, how to speak to different social ranks within the invisible but omnipresent hierarchy of the wizarding world.
Every mistake was punished. Every incorrect answer during her morning interrogations resulted in hours locked in his room without supper, or worse, with Walburga reciting the genealogies of the Sacred Twenty-Eight over and over until the words lost all meaning and became a tortuous drone.
And Regulus had watched everything from the shadows of the corridors, from behind half-open doors, learning exactly what not to do, what not to say, what expressions to keep from his face when Mother looked at them with those gray eyes so like his own but infinitely colder.
Sirius reached out and placed his hand on Regulus's shoulder, squeezing gently.
"Brothers forever, no matter what. Okay?" His voice was firm now, charged with the conviction of an eleven-year-old who still believed that pure will could change realities. "I'll never abandon you, Reg. I promise."
Regulus finally looked at him, tears welling in the corners of his eyes that he refused to let fall because crying was weakness, and weakness wasn't tolerated in this house. Sirius bent down and ruffled his younger brother's perfectly combed hair, messing up those black curls until they were in utter disarray.
For a moment, Regulus smiled. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it was there.
Neither of them could know then how much that promise would weigh in the years to come.
Across London, in a much more cheerful, though no less important house, Euphemia Potter watched her son from the kitchen window overlooking the back garden. Her wand guided three wooden spoons simultaneously mixing different bowls suspended in mid-air—batter for James's favorite cake, chocolate frosting, and a vanilla cream she had learned to make from her nonna in Florence.
With a distracted flick of her wrist, the flour sifted itself into the largest bowl as Euphemia focused on the garden scene.
James raced across the uneven, genuinely green lawn on an old training broom that had belonged to Euphemia in her own youth. He shouted imaginary Quidditch comments to himself with a passion that would have been comical if it weren't so utterly sincere.
"And Potter has the Quaffle!" Her high-pitched voice filled the evening air. "The Magpies don't stand a chance against the best Chaser in Puddlemere! Dodge, spin, and... GOOOAL!"
Euphemia smiled involuntarily.
The egg cracked itself over the bowl, the shell neatly disposing of itself in the bin.
James scored his imaginary goal with a somersault in the air that made Euphemia involuntarily gasp, even though she knew the protective spells she'd placed around the garden would catch him if he fell.
"The crowd goes WILD!" James continued, landing with a slight wobble but keeping his balance. "Potter, Potter, Potter! He's the youngest player to be signed by Puddlemere in FIFTY YEARS! The scouts are CRYING they didn't sign him sooner!"
Fleamont appeared beside her, shaking his head.
“He’s going to break something again.” But his voice was brimming with pride. “Remember his broken arm when he tried that spin move he saw in a match?”
Euphemia laughed, a warm, musical sound that still carried traces of her Italian accent even after almost two decades living in England.
—Lascialo stare.—Euphemia waved her free hand, and the bowls began pouring into molds already waiting in the oven. “I used to fly like this in Italy. It’s pure freedom, caro.”
(Let it be.)
The molds entered the oven with an elegant flick of her wand. The temperature adjusted itself—175 degrees Celsius, exactly as it should be. The floating timer activated, registering 35 minutes.
Fleamont looked at her with the accumulated affection of decades of marriage, those years that had included terrible losses—miscarriages, repeatedly shattered hopes, the quiet ache of a house too big and too empty—before James finally arrived, his belated miracle who had made every moment of pain worthwhile.
“I’ll never understand what you see in chasing balls on sticks,” he said, but his voice was full of affection. “Give me a good complex potion any day."
"I never expect you to understand, amore." Euphemia kissed him on the cheek, deliberately leaving a small mark of flour on her fingers—the only part of the cooking process she'd touched with her own hands. "But thank you for feigning interest all these years when James talks about Quidditch at every dinner party. You're a terrible liar, pessimo, truly the worst, but I love you for trying."
Fleamont chuckled, wiping the flour stain off his face with an embroidered handkerchief Euphemia had given him for their tenth anniversary, and returned to his basement laboratory, where he was perfecting the latest iteration of his Sleekeazy's Hair Potion.
The product was already a success—so successful that they had been able to buy this beautiful house in this respectable part of London, afford the best tutors for James, and never have to worry about money the way Fleamont had in his own youth. But Fleamont Potter wasn't a man to settle for success when perfection was technically possible, when there was room for improvement, when he could make the potion last two hours longer or work on more unruly hair types.
That evening, after a dinner where James didn't stop talking for a single second—the Sloth Grip Roll/Reverse Pass combination he'd been practicing, which he was convinced would revolutionize the sport and Puddlemere's offensive strategy, and that they should send a letter to Coach Joscelind Wadcock—Euphemia finally interrupted his monologue with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Tesoro, come upstairs with me. I have something to show you."
James followed her up the stairs, still going on about the tactical possibilities of his new play, how Puddlemere's chasers could use it to confuse the guards of inferior teams like the Chudley Cannons, until they reached Euphemia's private study on the second floor.
The room smelled of old parchment and the lavender candles Euphemia imported from Italy. Books in Italian and English filled the shelves—novels, a history of Quidditch, treatises on flight strategy, magical recipe books from five generations of Euphemia's family.
A long, narrow box rested on the polished mahogany desk that had once belonged to her, wrapped in gold paper that caught the light of the candles suspended in the air without the need for wands or candlesticks. A bright red ribbon encircled it, tied in an elaborate bow.
James stopped dead in the doorway, his copper eyes widening to saucers.
"What's that?" he asked, though his eyes already gleamed with a hopeful suspicion that made his voice tremble slightly, as if he were afraid that saying it aloud would break the spell.
Euphemia smiled, the kind of smile parents have when they're about to grant their child's wish.
"Open it, James. Open it and find out for yourself, caro."
James approached the box as if in a trance, as if his feet were moving on their own. His hands touched the red ribbon with reverence.
When he finally lifted the lid, moving it with exquisite care as if the contents might be shattered too roughly, the tissue paper rustled softly, that specific sound of an important gift being opened.
Not just any broom.
A Nimbus 1001, the latest model, fresh from the factory two weeks prior. The handle gleamed with freshly applied varnish that still carried a faint scent of magic lacquer. The tail bristles were perfectly balanced and tied with silver twine that had been enchanted to never fray or lose tension. Runic symbols for speed and maneuverability were discreetly engraved near the grip.
It was professional.
Real. Infinitely better than Euphemia's old training broom, which had seen its best days when Mussolini still ruled Italy.
This was a broom used by professional players. One that Puddlemere United scouts would instantly recognize. One worth more than most wizarding families earned in six months.
James pulled it from the box, his hands now trembling openly, unable to utter a word. His fingers—still with traces of garden soil under his nails—traced the handle gently, reverently, as if he were touching something sacred, as if this broom were a religious relic that demanded the utmost respect.
The weight was perfect. The balance was flawless. When he held it horizontally, it didn't tilt even a millimeter to either side.
"Mom..." His voice broke completely, but with pure emotion, not tears. "It's PERFECT! It's the Nimbus 1001! THE LATEST! The Puddlemere players use these!"
His eyes shone as if he'd received the greatest gift in the universe, which, in his eleven-year-old mind obsessed with Quidditch, it absolutely was.
"Did you see the silver string? And the speed runes? Mum, with these I'm going to be UNSTOPPABLE at Hogwarts! I'm going to make the Gryffindor team in my first year! NO ONE gets in my first year, but I will! I'm going to be the youngest Chaser in DECADES!"
Euphemia placed a hand on his shoulder, smiling at his absolute, unwavering confidence.
"Your father and I are incredibly proud of you, caro." Her voice was warm, with that slight Italian accent he'd never completely lost. "Hogwarts is the beginning of something extraordinary. We know it. We feel it every time we see you practice, every time you talk about your dreams. And this..." She touched the polished broom handle, "...this is our way of telling you that we believe in you completely." We know you'll do extraordinary things there and beyond.
"I'M GOING to be extraordinary!" James practically jumped up and down. "I'm going to be the BEST! With this broom, Mum, I'm going to be a LEGEND! They'll write about me in the Quidditch history books! James Potter, Puddlemere United's youngest Chaser!"
James carefully placed the broom on the desk, making sure it was stable, then hugged his mother so tightly she almost knocked him over.
Euphemia laughed—that warm, musical sound James would associate with home for the rest of his life—and returned the hug with equal intensity, feeling her son's vibrant excitement practically buzzing with pent-up energy.
"Ti amo James. I love you so much"
"I love you too, Mum! You're the BEST!" James spoke so fast his words tumbled over each other. I'm going to practice EVERY day! I'm going to be so good that Dumbledore WILL HAVE to let me on the team even though I'm a first-year! Rules are made to be broken!
Fleamont, who had been watching from the doorway throughout the exchange—appeared just as Euphemia began her speech, because he knew his wife and knew exactly when these moments would occur—felt a lump in his own throat that made it hard to breathe.
Her only son, her little James, who had taken so long to arrive, who had been so eagerly awaited after years of failed attempts and silent losses that never spoke but marked every empty room in their enormous house.
"You're going to be brilliant," Euphemia whispered in James's ear. "You already are. But Hogwarts... Hogwarts is going to polish you until you shine so brightly that no one will be able to ignore you."
James finally pulled away from the embrace, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand—not because he was crying, of course not, he just had something in his eye—and gripped the broom again as if afraid it might disappear.
"Can I try it now?" he asked, his voice still trembling with excitement but with that underlying energy that was impossible to contain. "Can I fly it? Even just for a little while?"
"Now, James? We just finished dinner."
"Please! Just half an hour." Fifteen minutes. Five minutes. Whatever. I just need to feel it fly. Please, please, please...
Euphemia glanced at Fleamont, who had now fully entered the room. He simply shrugged with a smile that clearly stated she was the one who would have to make this decision because he had already lost any battle before it even began.
"I suppose the neighbors are used to our eccentricities by now," Fleamont said with amused resignation.
James dashed out into the garden with his new broom before his parents could change their minds, bounding down the stairs two at a time with that boundless energy of childhood.
For the next hour—because of course Euphemia couldn't limit it to half an hour when she saw the pure joy on his face—the neighborhood was treated to the spectacle of a ten-year-old boy flying circles in the night sky.
From her bedroom window, Euphemia and Fleamont watched him, holding hands.
Fleamont's hand was warm and familiar after so many years. The wedding rings glowed faintly in the darkness.
"We're going to miss him terribly," Euphemia said softly.
"He'll be okay," Fleamont replied, though his voice was trembling too.
"I know." Euphemia squeezed his hand. "But that doesn't mean I won't cry every night for the first week."
"Then we'll cry together."
And so they stayed, watching their son fly free under the emerging stars, memorizing this moment because they knew, as all parents eventually know, that this was an ending as much as a beginning.
Farther north, where Yorkshire met the moors that seemed to stretch endlessly beneath skies that shifted moods every few minutes, a modest cottage clung to a hillside. It was the kind of place Muggles passed by without noticing, protected by Confundus Charms so subtle that one simply decided the journey there wasn't worth the effort.
Inside, in a room that smelled of herbal tea and old books, Albus Dumbledore sat before a teacup he hadn't touched in the last few minutes. His summer robes were a lavender purple with embroidered silver stars that occasionally twinkled. Facing him, Lyall Lupin wore an expression that swung violently between dangerous hope and protective horror, his hands clenched on the table so tightly his knuckles were white.
Hope Lupin, the only Muggle in the room but by no means the least powerful, kept a firm, protective hand on her son's shoulder. There was a determination in his stance that had been growing throughout the conversation, an absolute refusal to let fear dictate his family's future.
Eleven-year-old Remus Lupin, with scars no child should have crisscrossing his face and disappearing beneath his shirt collar, stared at the Hogwarts headmaster with a mixture of disbelief so profound it seemed physical and longing so intense it was painful to witness.
"It can't be true," Lyall said for the fourth time, his voice cracking slightly on the last words. "Remus can't go to Hogwarts. It's too dangerous. For him, for the other students. If someone finds out what he is... what I did to him..."
"You didn't do it on purpose, Dad," Remus murmured, but his voice was so low it was almost lost.
"I've taken extensive precautions," Dumbledore replied with a calmness that came from decades of navigating impossible conversations. We will plant a special tree on the Hogwarts grounds, a particularly vicious Whomping Willow. It will guard an underground passage leading directly to an abandoned house in Hogsmeade, the Shrieking Shack. Remus will be able to transform there in complete safety, far from any students or staff. Madam Pomfrey will be fully informed and will assist him before and after each transformation. He will be properly cared for, Mr. Lupin. I give you my word, and my magical promise if necessary.
"But the other students..." Lyall began, his voice rasping with despair. "They're children. If Remus loses control, if something goes wrong, if the passage isn't sufficient..."
"Stop!" Hope's voice sliced through the air like a whip.
Everyone turned to her, even Dumbledore seemed surprised by the sheer ferocity in her tone.
"Remus is going to Hogwarts," she said, and there was no room for debate in those words. Remus deserves to have friends his own age, to have normal experiences, to have a real life instead of being locked away in this cabin, hidden from the world. He deserves a future that is more than just waiting for the next full moon in terror.
“Hope, if someone finds out what he is, if the other parents find out…” Lyall tried again, his voice almost pleading.
“Then we’ll deal with it when and if it happens.” Hope looked directly at her husband, and there were years of pent-up frustration in that look. “But we’re not going to lock our son away in this house for the rest of his life out of fear of what might happen. I’m not going to let your guilt condemn him to an existence that isn’t really a life.”
“Mrs. Lupin, you are very wise,” Dumbledore said gently, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses. “And you are absolutely right. Remus deserves every chance to live a full life.”
Lyall seemed to want to argue further, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for arguments, but finally something inside him broke. He covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders trembled.
“I can’t lose him too,” he whispered. “I’ve already hurt him so much. If anything else happens to him because of me…”
Hope moved quickly, placing her other hand on her husband’s shoulder.
“You won’t lose him. And this isn’t your fault. Fenrir Greyback did this. He chose to attack an innocent child for revenge. You can’t carry that guilt forever, Lyall.”
Remus felt something loosen in his chest, something that had been tight since the night six years ago when Fenrir Greyback shattered his window and his life simultaneously. It was as if he had been holding his breath all that time and finally, finally, he could exhale.
“Can I really go?” he whispered, looking directly at Dumbledore. “Are you really going to accept me?”
Dumbledore smiled at him, and it was a genuine, warm smile, the kind of smile that made people trust him even when they probably shouldn't.
“My dear boy, your acceptance letter is in my pocket, waiting for this very moment.” He reached into his robes and pulled out a thick parchment envelope bearing the Hogwarts seal in red wax. “Of course you can come. Of course you are welcome. Hogwarts is a home for all young witches and wizards who need one, without exception.”
Remus took the letter with trembling hands. The envelope was heavy, real, tangible. He traced the letters of his name, written in emerald-green ink with elaborate calligraphy.
Mr. R. Lupin . Waste Hut. Yorkshire
Hope hugged her son tightly. Remus buried his face in his shoulder, and for the first time in years, the tears streaming down his cheeks weren't from pain or fear, but from something that almost felt like hope.
Dumbledore watched the scene for a moment before rising gently.
"There are a few logistical details we need to discuss before September 1st," he said. "But those can wait. For now, let me simply say this: Remus, I am personally very excited to have you as a student. I believe Hogwarts will be better with you."
In Diagon Alley, frenetic activity seethed in the last days of August. Magical families filled the cobblestone streets so completely that it was almost impossible to move without bumping into someone. The air vibrated with overlapping conversations, the laughter of excited children, the constant clinking of coins at Gringotts, and the occasional screech of a magical creature escaping from a cage at the Owl Emporium.
The midday sun reflected off the shop windows, making the pewter cauldrons at Potage's, the dragon-skin boots at the fashionable boutique, and the books with moving covers at Flourish and Blotts sparkle.
Everything was color, movement, magic manifesting in every corner.
Among the crowd, a slender woman with perfectly straight, tightly pulled-back black hair led two children toward Madam Malkin. Eileen Prince—now Snape—moved with a grace that years of marriage to an abusive Muggle hadn't entirely taken from her.
She wore her best dress, the only one without invisible mending or carefully concealed stains. She had been secretly saving for months, hiding every spare shilling in a tin buried in the back garden where Tobias would never think to look. Every pound diverted from the family budget without her husband noticing, every small sacrifice adding up until finally, finally, she had enough.
Severus deserved new robes, not secondhand hand-me-downs. He deserved books without dog-eared pages or other students' scribbles. He deserved to start Hogwarts with dignity, with his head held high, without anyone being able to immediately point him out as poor.
"Mother, it's too expensive," Severus murmured, scanning the prices in the shop window with black eyes that had already learned to calculate costs and consequences. "We can look in the secondhand shops." No one will really notice if…
“Absolute nonsense.” Eileen squeezed his hand tighter than necessary. “Your education is the most important thing in the world, Severus. And you’re going to start off properly.”
Beside them, Lily Evans was practically vibrating with barely contained excitement, her auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight like liquid fire. Her green eyes darted from shop window to shop window, absorbing every detail with the intensity of someone who had waited for this moment her entire life.
“Sev, look!” She pointed at Madame Malkin’s window. “Those robes have real silver embroidery! Do you think we’ll be able to wear them all the time?”
“They’re only for formal occasions,” Severus explained, but there was a glint in his own eyes that he couldn’t quite hide. “For balls and special ceremonies.”
“Are there balls at Hogwarts?”
Eileen smiled slightly.
“Occasionally. When there are tournaments or important anniversaries. I went to one during my years there."
"Really?" Lily looked at her wide-eyed. "And you danced? With whom? What did you wear?"
For a moment, something soft crossed Eileen's face, a memory of her youth before everything got complicated.
"With several young gentlemen who considered it an honor to dance with the Princess of Slytherin." The irony in her voice was subtle but present. "And I wore an emerald green dress that my mother had specially made for me. It was... beautiful."
Severus looked at her curiously. His mother rarely spoke of her time at Hogwarts, and when she did, it was usually in the context of lessons on how to behave.
This was different.
This was personal in a way he rarely witnessed.
Inside the shop, Madame Malkin—a plump witch dressed in a mauve gown that looked as if it were made of the softest material imaginable—greeted them effusively with open arms as if they were lifelong friends.
“Welcome, welcome! More first-years! How wonderful!” Her eyes sparkled at the sight of Lily. “Oh, what magnificent hair, my dear. Absolutely magnificent. You’ll look splendid in school gowns!”
As Lily was ushered to a measuring platform, practically bouncing with excitement with every step, Severus waited his turn beside Eileen. They didn’t notice the shaggy-black-haired boy rushing through the door as if chased by a pack of hippogriffs.
“James Fleamont Potter, get back here at once!”
Euphemia Potter appeared in the doorway, her usually perfectly styled hair now slightly disheveled, her elegant traveling gown askew. She'd been chasing her son through three stores already, and her patience was wearing thin.
"But Mom, I need to see the brooms!" James shouted over his shoulder, without slowing down.
"You already have a perfectly good broom we gave you three weeks ago!"
"But this one's different! It has a new shock-absorbing handle!"
James, completely focused on dodging his mother and explaining the vital importance of broom technology innovations, didn't see Lily on the platform until it was too late. He crashed straight into her, his hands instinctively grabbing to keep her from falling, their bodies colliding in a tangle of half-finished robes and arms scrambling for balance.
For a second that seemed to expand infinitely, frozen in time like amber capturing a moment for eternity, their eyes met.
Emerald green meeting warm copper.
James felt as if someone had cast a Petrification spell straight into his heart.
The world shrank to those green eyes, greener than anything he'd ever seen, including the most vibrant Quidditch pitches. Her hair smelled of flowers he couldn't name but which instantly became his favorite scent. And when she smiled—surprised but not annoyed, chuckling softly at the absurdity of the situation—something in his chest tightened in a way he couldn't name but instantly knew was important.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," James gasped, helping her regain her balance while his hands still supported her arms. "I'm such a mess. My mom always says I should watch where I'm going, but I never do, and I was running because the brooms and—"
"It's okay," Lily said, her laughter like chimes, clear and genuine and completely without malice. "Really. I'm not hurt at all."
James finally let go and took a step back, but he couldn't stop looking at her.
“James, apologize properly,” said Euphemia, now standing beside them, trying to sound stern but failing because her son was clearly completely charmed.
“I already did, Mum.” James couldn’t stop staring at Lily. “Are you going to Hogwarts?”
“Yes, first year.” Lily smiled more broadly. “Are you too?”
“Me too! First year as well. Maybe we’ll be in the same house. I’m definitely going to be in Gryffindor, like my dad and probably all the Potters forever, and Gryffindor is the best house, obviously, although my dad says all the houses have their merits, but Gryffindor really is—”
“James, breathe,” Euphemia said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Lily.” interrupted a voice as cold as ice.
Everyone turned to Severus, who had stepped down from his own measuring platform unnoticed. There was something about his black eyes, a dark intensity that seemed completely out of place in an eleven-year-old boy.
“Lily, we should go,” said Severus. “We still need to buy the books.”
“Oh, you’re right.” Lily looked at James once more. “It was nice meeting you, James Potter. Though perhaps next time you could watch where you’re going.”
James laughed, a genuine, warm laugh.
“I’ll try. But I’m not promising anything.” Then, with the impulsive boldness of eleven-year-olds no one knows better: “What’s your name?”
“Lily. Lily Evans.”
“Lily Evans,” James repeated, as if testing how the name sounded in his mouth. “It’s a pretty name. Perfect. Like… like lilies. The flowers. Which are pretty. Like you. Not that you’re a flower, but that you’re pretty the way flowers are pretty and…”
“James, darling, perhaps stop talking now,” Euphemia murmured, though she was smiling.
Lily laughed again, blushing slightly, before following Severus.
Well. Severus already had enough complications in his life.
"Oh, is he your brother?" James asked as Madame Malkin tried to guide him to a platform to finally measure him.
“I’m her best friend,” Severus replied, and there was something territorial in his tone that even James, with all his social density, noticed. “Severus Snape. Lily and I are going to Hogwarts together.”
There was a clear message in those words: She’s mine. I was here first. You have no right.
But James just smiled even wider.
“Great! Then we’ll definitely be seeing a lot of each other there. I can’t wait.”
As Eileen paid for the robes and they left the shop, Severus didn’t let go of Lily’s hand. Something had changed in those few minutes. He’d seen the way that Potter boy looked at Lily, and the way she’d laughed.
“I don’t like him,” Severus muttered when they were out of earshot.
“Who? He? He seemed nice.”
“Exactly. Too nice. Too… perfect.”
Lily looked at him in surprise but said nothing more.
That same night, in a modest house on the outskirts of Cokeworth, Lily Evans lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Beside her, in the other bed of the shared room, Petunia was also awake.
They had never been apart for more than two days. When Lily had pneumonia at seven and was in the hospital for three nights, Petunia cried so much that her parents had to take her to visit every afternoon. And when Petunia broke her arm at nine falling off the bars in the park, Lily refused to go to school until her sister could return as well.
But now Lily would be gone for months.
"Tuney?" Lily whispered.
"What?"
"Are you awake?"
"Obviously." There was a pause. "I can't stop thinking about everything you told me about Diagon Alley."
Lily propped herself up on her elbows, surprised. It had been three days since she'd returned from Diagon Alley, three days in which Petunia had been strangely quiet—not angry as she sometimes was when Lily's magic did something unexpected, but distant, as if she were processing something too big to put into words.
"I thought... I thought you were upset."
Petunia sat up, hugging her knees.
"I wasn't upset. It's just... you're going somewhere I can't follow you."
"That's not going to happen," Lily said firmly. "You're still going to be my sister, Tuney. Nothing's going to change that."
"Everything is going to change, Lils." Petunia looked out the window at Severus's house across the park. "You and Severus are going to that school. You're going to learn things I'll never understand. You're going to make magical friends. And I'm going to stay here, being... normal."
"Don't say it like that. As if being normal is a bad thing."
"It's not bad." Petunia looked at her. "It's just that sometimes I wish I could do what you do. The floating flowers, the lights, all of it. It looks... beautiful."
Lily didn't know what to say. She'd never heard Petunia talk about her magic like this, with something that sounded almost like longing rather than fear or resentment.
Petunia was the normal one. The one who fit right in. The popular one at Cokeworth Primary School, with friends who invited her to sleepovers and birthday parties. The pretty one, the normal one, the one the teachers pointed to as an example of good behavior.
And Lily was the weird one.
The one who made strange things happen when she got angry or scared. The one who once made all the classroom windows explode when a group of older kids cornered her in the bathroom, calling her a "freak".
The other children avoided her. Some looked at her with fear. Others with mockery. "Lily the weirdo," they called her. "Lily the freak." They whispered when she walked down the halls. They laughed when something strange happened near her.
Her only friend had been Severus, the strange boy across the park who lived in the house with the broken windows and the screams that echoed through the night. The boy who was also strange, who was also alone, who understood because he, too, was magical.
Severus and she against the world. The two oddballs together.
And now Petunia was telling him she wished she could do magic.
"I'm going to write to you," Lily said finally. "Every week. And I'm going to tell you everything that happens."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Petunia nodded, then lay back down and snuggled under her covers.
"Goodnight, Lils."
"Goodnight, Tuney."
Lily lay awake a little longer, staring out the window. The light in Severus's room across the park was still on. She knew he was awake too, probably reading one of the magic books her mother had bought him, or maybe just waiting for her father to stop making so much noise downstairs.
Without a second thought, Lily got up, threw a jacket over her pajamas, and quietly went downstairs. Her parents were watching television in the living room; they didn't hear her leave through the back door.
The night air was cool after the day's heat. Lily crossed the park barefoot, the grass still warm beneath her feet. She didn't have to knock; Severus was already waiting for her in the back garden, as if he'd known she was coming.
Severus didn't say anything for a moment. In the distance, a muffled shout came from inside his house, followed by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. They both tensed.
"Your dad's..." Lily began.
"Drunk." As always. Severus kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. “Mum can handle it.”
Lily knew that wasn’t entirely true, but she also knew that Severus hated talking about his father. So instead, she changed the subject.
An awkward silence fell between them. Lily broke it after a moment, her voice softer.
“Are you scared? Of going to Hogwarts, I mean.”
The honesty of the question seemed to disarm Severus.
“Aren’t you?”
“Terrified,” Lily admitted. “What if I don’t fit in? What if I’m terrible at magic? What if everyone notices I’m… different?”
“We are different.” Severus looked directly at her. “But I’m sure you’ll be the most talented witch in the world. You have been ever since you were nine and made flower petals float without even trying.”
Lily smiled despite her nervousness.
“You’re brilliant too, Sev.”
“Besides, we’ll be together.”
Lily held out her pinky.
“Best friends. No matter what.”
Severus intertwined his pinky with hers.
“Always.”
They stayed there, swinging on the old swings under the stars, two children on the edge of a new world, with no idea of all that was to come. For now, it was enough to have someone who understood, someone who was just as excited and scared.
When Lily finally got home, Petunia was still awake. From the window, she had seen her sister with Severus on the swings. She didn’t feel jealousy, or resentment, exactly. Just a small pang of sadness, because she knew something was beginning, something that would leave her behind.
But that would come later. For now, when Lily went upstairs and got into bed, Petunia pretended to be asleep and said nothing.
September 1st was approaching. In homes across the country, trunks were being closed, wands were being carefully packed, and owls were being restless in their cages. The eleven-year-olds—some excited, some terrified, some both—were preparing to board the Hogwarts Express and begin a story that none of them, nor even the author herself, could have anticipated.