-CHAPTER ONE-

In the Beginning

The scarlet steam engine roared into life and started billowing smoke with the enthusiasm of a chimney shaft. A scramble broke out across the wide stone platform. There was a general rush towards the train as each and every student, an odd match of those in muggle jumpers and those that had already changed into their sweeping black robes, began muttering rushed farewells to their families and launching themselves towards compartment doors, ready to settle right back into the familiar rhythm of school life.

There was one boy, however, who did not seem eager for his feet to leave the steady ground of the station floor. He tugged nervously at the unravelling threads of his grey pullover, and absent-mindedly scratched at one of the pale scars running along his cheek and jawline. Underneath a shock of sandy hair, his soft brown eyes sought anxiously his father's familiar face.

'Do I have to go?' he breathed, so that nobody else could hear.

Lyall Lupin smiled warmly at his son, and bent down to give him what might have passed for a reassuring hug, if there hadn't been the faint shine of tears on his thin cheeks.

'It's going to be fine, Remus,' he sighed, although Remus could tell that he was desperately trying to reassure himself.

The boy's mother put up a rather better show: she grinned widely and squeezed her son's hand with slender fingers. She was pretty, in a plain sort of way, with smooth dark hair and slender shoulders, and although her clothes were old and faded, there was not a tear or stain on them.

'You've got to try, darling,' she said gently, 'You owe it to yourself to try. You've dreamed about this for years, I know you have. Just make sure that you come back home every holiday and tell me all about it, won't you?'

'But what if I-'

Hope pushed back her son's hair form his eyes, and kissed his forehead before clutching him tightly to her small frame as though there was nothing else in the world that mattered.

'So long as you take care, nothing is going to happen, Remus. This is your chance to just be a boy for once, and darling, no one deserves that more than you do.'

Remus nodded, but as he did so the train whistled loudly, and his father jumped as he looked for the first time at the enormous clock hanging on the platform wall.

'Great Scott - the time! It's almost eleven! Remus you'd better get going!'

Remus didn't hear him; he had buried himself in his mother's arms and was trying to focus on memorising the exact smell of her perfume: the soft scent of cheap lavender.

'Remus! You're going to miss the train.'

Hope Lupin stroked her son's hair affectionately, and prised him away from her. She kissed him again, then stepped back as Remus grabbed his trunk with both hands and helped his father manoeuvre it through the wide train doors. The second that he was inside, he turned around to look back at his parents. He wanted to say one final goodbye before he was swept away from them, but before he could even open his mouth the doors of the train slammed shut, and Remus could only watch as the steam engine pulled out of the station. His mother and father's tear streaked faces were lost in the sea of happy families crowded onto the platform.

The small boy named Peter sniffed nervously. He turned to look at the train around him, and was almost surprised to see that it was filled with people laughing raucously and greeting each other after a summer spent apart. He had hardly noticed them he wasn't alone, he was so caught up in watching his mother's sombre face as she disappeared from view.

It was impossible not to notice them now, though: the students with cages of owls and packets of exploding snap and Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans all colours of the rainbow. So loud was the volume in the corridor that he wanted to cover his ears - it seemed that every single student on the train was making some sort of ear-splitting noise.

It also seemed that every single one of them was ignoring him. He had expected that they might. His height and unremarkable mouse-brown hair had been part of what made Peter Pettigrew invisible his whole life. He usually told himself that he didn't mind. Peter's life was a simple one. He lived alone with his mother, or his paternal aunt when his mother was working, only occasionally spending time with some of the muggle children in his village. He didn't like it when he was with muggles. He felt like he was constantly having to keep some sort of awful secret, and it made him nervous. It would have been better if he had been able to play with other wizarding children, but there weren't any near where he lived. Besides, he doubted very much if they'd want to have anything to do with him if there were. Peter wasn't exactly what you'd call a natural at making friends.

Peter screwed up his eyes and thought as hard as he could, trying to fix the image of his mother, waving goodbye behind her flowered handkerchief and bleached-blonde curls in his mind. He wasn't sure when he would see her again. She had promised him that she'd be home for Christmas, but he wasn't sure that he believed her. He loved his mother very much, but it made him sad when she had to work at the last minute and she left him with his aunt. Although it was undoubtedly his aunt's house that he enjoyed being in more, because it was far larger than his mother's and Peter had far more books and games there, he liked it very much when his mother came home at weekends. She'd take him out to Diagon Alley and they'd have ice cream or she'd buy him Chocolate Frogs for his collection. This Christmas, though, with all of the extra hours that his mother was spending at the Daily Prophet, Peter was almost certain that it would be just him and his aunt.

After a wistful glance at a group of students tucking into a pile of pumpkin pasties, Peter began hefting his trunk down the train in search of somewhere quiet. It was a difficult task. The trunk was almost as tall as he was, and definitely twice as heavy. He couldn't stop himself from hoping as he puffed and panted his way past large groups of people, bickering happily, that one of them might offer to lend a hand. They didn't - of course they didn't. Why should they?

'Excuse me,' came a voice. Peter almost dropped his trunk in shock and stared wide-eyed over his shoulder to see who had spoken. It was a small girl with pale brown hair and tiny square glasses that looked as though they needed a good clean. She had not yet had time to change in to her Hogwarts robes, and so like him was dressed in an ordinary jumper and a pair of shabby dungarees.

'Hello,' Peter breathed, looking at the girl and feeling a flicker of excitement in the pit of his stomach. She was talking to him!

'Hi,' she girl mumbled, and pointed at the compartment door that Peter had dropped his trunk in front of, 'I don't suppose that I could get through?'

'Sure,' Peter agreed blindly, then blinked a few times while he let what she had said sink in, 'Oh, right.' He set about moving his trunk, and the girl stood awkwardly watching him, pulling at a thread on her sleeves.

'Are you a first-year?' Peter panted, dragging trunk inch by inch, too relived that someone had noticed him to be annoyed that she was watching him struggle rather than offering a hand. The girl nodded, and was about to say something in return when the compartment door opened and out stepped another girl. Peter couldn't help but notice that she was very pretty, with shiny blonde hair that tumbled past her shoulders.

'You all right Lauren?' she asked the girl in dungarees, 'where did you go? I saved you a seat, you know.'

'Thanks,' the girl named Lauren grinned, relaxing at the sight of her friend, and darted into the compartment without a second look at Peter. He stood there, gawping at the girl with the blonde hair and trying desperately to think of something to say. Maybe if he could make her like him then the girls would let him share their compartment. He looked through the glass and saw a pile of them, a few clearly older than first year, and wearing large yellow scarves, pouring over the pages of glossy magazines and whispering animatedly. The girl outside narrowed her eyes and looked at him curiously.

'What did you say your name was?'

'Peter,' Peter said at once, 'Peter Pettigrew.'

'Nice to meet you Peter,' the blonde girl smiled, and then slid back into the compartment, closing the door behind her. She hadn't been cruel, but somehow Peter got the message as though she had shouted it. He wasn't wanted there.

Sirius Black regretted not saying goodbye to his family the second that they slid out of view, but he hadn't been able to stomach listening to his father rant at him for a second longer. All summer he had been unusually unpleasant, constantly making wry remarks about how perhaps at school Sirius might finally make a name for himself outside of that of Black. His mother had hardly been better. She had spent the summer fussing over Regulus, who had been gutted that his older brother was going to Hogwarts without him.

It was tugging at Sirius' mind that he should probably have said something to Regulus other than a garbled line about seeing him at Christmas, but he honestly couldn't find anything to say to his brother, the family's golden boy, that wouldn't end with one or both of them feeling overly envious at the other's good fortune.

Sirius bit his lip, swallowed his frustration with overwhelming difficulty, and dragged his trunk behind him as he searched for a compartment. His father had instructed him that the second that he was on the train he should seek out Lucius Malfoy - his cousin Narcissa's boyfriend and, the rest of the family hoped, future husband. Orion had described him as an intelligent and respectable young man, exactly the sort of boy that he would want looking out for his son at school. Sirius had even met Lucius once before, but despite his father's insistence he had no desire to repeat the experience. Lucius Malfoy was, in the eyes of Orion and Walburga Black, perfect, which was precisely why Sirius loathed him. He did not want any more reminders of how much of a failure his family found him, not now that he was, free of them.

Oddly, however, there did not seem to be a single free compartment. The train was barely two minutes out of the station and already it seemed that every single student had found a place to sit. Sirius scowled as he passed a compartment of Hufflepuff girls giggling intently over an article in the latest Witch Weekly; he bit his lip as he lugged his trunk through a group of Ravenclaws happily bickering over chocolate frog cards; he turned his head to one side and practically ran past a carriage of sixth year Slytherins in case one of them recognised him and called him over.

If all else failed, Sirius decided, it wouldn't be the end of the world to find his cousin Dromeda and sit with her. He liked Andromeda Black a lot. She was by far his favourite relative, but it wouldn't be ideal for him to spend his first train journey to Hogwarts hanging around with a bunch of seventh year Slytherin girls. He didn't want it to look like he didn't know how to fit in.

'Oi, Potter!'

James spun around rather quicker than intended at the sound of his own name, and his face split into a grin as he realised who it was that had shouted it.

'Jorkins!' he sighed, relieved to see a familiar face at last. Bertha Jorkins, a third year girl with wavy red-brown hair and wide, watery blue eyes was running towards him down the train corridor, her thick black and yellow school scarf trailing behind her.

'How are you?' Bertha beamed at him, 'I had no idea that you were coming to Hogwarts this year! Are you excited?'

James smiled back and nervously ran a hand through his jet-black hair, trying in vain to smooth it down.

'You bet,' he admitted, 'Hey, Bertha, I don't suppose you've come across any empty compartments, have you? It just seems like everywhere else is full...'

'Sure,' Bertha shrugged, grabbing his enormous trunk and yanking it after her, 'there's one right at the end that was empty the last time I looked. If you wanted somewhere to hang, though, there's room in our compartment,' she pointed towards a group of Hufflepuff third years pouring over magazines and having what looked like an intense discussion. Somehow, James didn't think that they were talking about Quidditch.

His heart sank a little. It wasn't that he didn't like Bertha - she was pleasant enough, if a little dim. No, what was bothering James was that if he sat with the Hufflepuffs, he wouldn't get the chance to make new friends until after the Sorting Ceremony, which was still hours away.

Up until now, James had met surprisingly few wizarding children. Even though the Potters were one of the oldest magical families, Fleamont and Euphemia had always kept their son James apart from the rest of the wizarding world. To James' disappointment the only magical children he had ever spent any time with were those, like Bertha, who were related to his parents' friends. James felt this sort of defeated the novelty of being friends, seeing as he had been given no choice but to get along with them. He could scarcely contain his excitement when he had walked onto platform nine and three-quarters for the first time and been met with the sight of hundreds of other students. Who were they all? What were their names, and more importantly, what were their Quidditch teams?

'Thanks,' he said, quickly, 'but I think I'll go down the end of the train.' He saw Bertha's hurt expression and added quickly, 'Just for somewhere to put my trunk. I might join you later though...'

Mercifully, Bertha nodded and headed back to her friends with a thin smirk.

'Well, if you're sure. Catch you later, Potter! Can't wait for the Sorting!'

'Yeah,' James mumbled, 'I can't wait either.'

He pushed his fringe out of his eyes, shoved his free hand in his pocket and made his way down to the end carriage. His trunk was very large and difficult to move around, but luckily it was not at all heavy. James' father had charmed it with an extension spell, so even with the great stack of Martin Miggs comic books and all of the sweets that his mother had packed, it was as light as a feather. This had made it considerably easier to carry it down the length of the train, but it hadn't done much in the way of impressing his mother, who had tutted loudly about rule-breaking while her husband grinned, oblivious. James opened the doors of the empty compartment and lifted his trunk easily onto the seats.

'Excuse me?'

James looked up. Standing in the open compartment doorway was, to James' horror, another girl. She too had long wavy hair, but unlike Bertha's it was flame red, and her eyes were the colour of spring grass. She was younger than Bertha, too - perhaps the same age as James, although he wasn't sure. He was never sure when it came to girls.

'Um, hello?' he said, tugging at his hair and pushing his glasses further up his nose, unsure of what else to say, 'Can I help you?'

'I was wondering if that seat was taken,' she said shortly, nodding at the window, and James realised with a jolt that her green eyes were rimmed with red and there were tears shining on her cheeks. Great, he thought bitterly, the only thing worse than a girl was a crying girl.

'Go ahead,' he shrugged, privately wishing that she would go away because now he would have to talk to her.

The girl sniffed, pulled her trunk in after her, and curled up in a corner, staring with rapt interest at the trees and neat hedgerows flicking past the window.

'I'm James, by the way,' he said in a rather hopeless attempt at conversation.

His companion's only acknowledgement was the wiping of her nose on her cardigan sleeve.

'What's your name?' he tried again, looking at her and attempting in vain to figure out why she might be crying.

'Lily,' she mumbled, without turning to look at him.

'Lily,' James repeated, 'nice name.' That was what you were supposed to say to girls, wasn't it?

There was a stagnant pause in which the only sounds were the soft rumble of the train and the sound of happy chatter outside the compartment doors. James couldn't bear it. He would try one last valiant attempt at engaging the girl in conversation before he left in search of better company, He'd be damned if he spent the entirety of his first journey to Hogwarts shut in a compartment with a crying little girl.

'I don't suppose you want to tell me what's wrong?'

'No,' the girl named Lily said.

Oh well, thought James, it was worth a try. He was just about to get to his feet when there was a knocking on the glass panes of the door. Thankful for the distraction, he turned to see if it was Bertha again, but it wasn't. It was, thankfully, a boy this time, with smooth black hair that hung in his eyes and fine, pale features. James jerked his head to invite him in, and the boy grinned. Relieved at the warm welcome, he popped his head around the door.

'Not wanting to interrupt anything important,' he smirked, gesturing at the red headed girl who was still avoiding looking anywhere near James, 'but I don't suppose that there's room for one more? Everywhere else is packed to the roof.'

'Be my guest,' James shrugged, 'although be careful of this one,' he nodded at Lily, 'she's quite the talker.'

His teasing rewarded him with a sharp glare, which lasted almost a full five seconds before the girl turned her attention back to the window. He supposed that he should be flattered.

The long-haired boy frowned at James, his good humour diminishing slightly.

'Can't you see that she's upset?'

'Yeah,' said James, 'I've asked her what's up, but apparently it's private.'

'It's not very gentlemanly to pry into a girl's private business,' the boy sighed. He dropped his trunk on the floor with a crash and sank back onto the seat with almost exaggerated grace.

'Gentlemanly?' James raised his eyebrow disbelievingly, 'I bet you get all the girls.'

To his relief, the other boy's smirk returned.

'My mother wishes.'

Lily gave a little sniff that might have been a snort of laughter in her corner, but said nothing.

'Bit soon to be thinking about that, isn't it?' James sniggered, looking the boy up and down in his sharp black trousers and shirt, 'It's not as if you're any older than I am. You're a first year too, right?'

The boy nodded, shrugged, and kicked off his shoes. He shot James a strange look as though he expected him to object, which James found rather odd.

'James Potter,' he said, belatedly realising that he hadn't introduced himself, 'I'm James Potter.'

'Sirius,' the other boy grinned, 'I'd shake your hand, except I've never been one for the formalities.'

James was confused. He was about to ask why on earth Sirius would want to do such a silly, grown-up thing as shaking hands, when a far more pressing question sprang to mind.

'What's your Quidditch team?' he asked suddenly, realising that he had been sharing a compartment with the boy for nearly a few minutes now without asking the crucial question.

Sirius blinked, then chuckled a little.

'Blimey, you cut straight to the important things, don't you?'

James caught his eyes and grinned widely. The other boy leaned back, folded his arms and tossed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes with a single flick of his head. He didn't seem in any rush to give an answer.

'I've never really followed Quidditch,' he said at last, 'I mean, it's great and all that, but it's my brother that's really keen on it. It's sort of his thing. I never wanted to get in his way, you know?'

James didn't know. He was about to say as much when the compartment door slid open once again. A short boy with a very flushed face appeared into view, dragging behind him a trunk that was almost the same size as he was. Sirius stared at him for a second and was about to say something, but closed his mouth quickly as though he had thought better of it.

'Before you ask my permission,' James rolled his eyes, 'no, these seats aren't taken, and yes, you can sit down. I don't bite.'

The boy's shoulders relaxed as though a huge weight had been taken off of them.

'Thanks,' he muttered, his pink face turning pinker, 'all the other carriages were filled up.'

'Don't mention it,' James slid his trunk down from the seats to make room for him, 'I've just discovered that this one,' he grinned at Sirius 'doesn't follow Quidditch - imagine!'

The new boy's face lit up, revealing deep dimples in his plump cheeks.

'My aunt takes me to see the Caerphilly Catapults every summer,' he squeaked, his nerves forgotten, 'We were so happy when they got to the final last season. I tried to convince Mum to let me have one of those new Cleansweeps. She's never let me on a broom before.'

James winced, trying to imagine growing up without ever being allowed on a broomstick. He soon decided that it wasn't worth his effort. Flying was what James Potter was made for. Without it, he didn't think that his life would be worth living.

'Hard luck, mate,' he sighed wistfully, thinking longingly of his brand new Cleansweep Six tucked safely underneath his bed at home, 'It's a shame about that final, too. Your side had some decent players this time around, although,' and as he spoke his smirk filled his whole face, 'I think we can all agree that the best team won.'

Sirius stirred and narrowed his eyes at James.

'Why? Who won?'

'The Montrose Magpies,' James went all misty-eyed as he spoke, 'The best in the League.'

'Isn't that the team that's won more games than any of the others?' asked Sirius, mildly interested. James indulged himself with a look of triumphant glee as he realised that he was beginning to convert the other boy to his way of thinking. Before he could answer however, the pink-faced boy spoke up.

'I heard they've been struggling these past few years,' he babbled, too caught up in the wonder of Quidditch to notice that James' mood was quickly turning, 'everyone's saying that their glory days are over. My aunt-'

'Did you just insult my Quidditch team?' James asked, glaring at the pink-faced boy.

The pink-faced boy realised his mistake, and made hurried attempts to rectify the situation, but it was too late.

'No, not at all, I just-'

'Excuse me,' said a quiet voice.

Sirius almost jumped out of his seat in alarm, causing Lily in her corner to let out another little snort of laughter. James turned to see who had interrupted them. There was another boy of about his age standing awkwardly in the doorway, his hand resting gently on the sliding glass door. He was only a little taller than the pink-faced boy, but his hair was a fine curtain so pale that it was almost grey. His trunk was battered and peeling, held tightly together with finely knotted rope, and his thin jumper was threadbare, with patches neatly sewn on at the elbows. It seemed to James as though all of the colour had been wrung out of the boy, but then his hair shifted, and he caught a glimpse of his eyes underneath. They were a soft, nutty brown that shone in the same way as the handle of James' brand new Cleansweep.

'Er... hello,' the newcomer said timidly, 'I don't suppose that I could sit down?'