Author's Note: Well, hello, and welcome to the story. A little background on this: I was cleaning out an old hard drive and found this story, well over 10 years old, which I had forgotten. I re-read it and found it decently entertaining, and decided I was going to upload it, so that all of you can cringe at my past writing skills. I discovered that my grammar was pretty good in the olden days, and that my humor was just as dark and twisted as it is today, except I lacked appropriate filters to make it unknown to the rest of the world. There will be some trigger warnings in future chapters, so be aware (I was en edgy little blighter). Obviously, I do not own anything from the HP universe. All I can claim is my OC. This disclaimer extends to all following chapters.

The second day of the new school term at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry dragged along with a familiar enthusiasm. The term had been a Thursday, rainy and dreary, nut the first official day of school, Friday, had opened with a clear, sterling sky and fair winds. Most of the Quidditch-enthusiasts wanted nothing more than to zoom around the pitch while a handful sat around the lake and soaked up the sun, or watched the others fly around the pitch. Remus Lupin was one of these on-lookers. Now in his seventh year, he and his friends had developed a sort of ritual for the first Friday of the new term. As usual, he had stridden onto the Quidditch pitch with a casual pace, a book clutched in his hand in case the game dragged on a little longer than he was willing to entertain.

Tossing his book down, he plopped onto the cool, damp grass, opting to recline back with his robes folded as a pillow under his head, unruly sandy blond curls fanning out around his head. The benches at the pitch were terribly uncomfortable, and the position he was in made it feel like he was participating in the action. It wasn't that Remus was a bad flyer, or even a bad player (James still rants about the pick-up game of '75, and how Remus single-handedly turned the game around when they were down nearly a hundred points before the snitch was caught), he guessed he just appreciated his friends' enthusiasm and skill and endeavored to commit it to memory. It was a matter of time, however, until the first squabble between players erupted, and the screaming matches began.

I wonder what it is this time, he thought, rolling his eyes at their absurdity, before sitting up and squinting his eyes at the figures 15m above. Right before he pinpointed the exact location of the voices, there was a flash of blinding light, the sensation of falling into a void and then, darkness.

A gentle shake rocked his body over and over and the young wizard wondered if that was what death felt like. "Remus!" The voice sounded distant, as if underwater or in a dream. A sudden urge to open his eyes overcame him, and he slowly lifted the long-lashed, seemingly heavy veils that covered honey-colored eyes. Warm, white light flooded his vision. He knew he had died; he was certain he was in heaven, for the musical voice he was hearing must have been an angel, and it was speaking in tongues. He could only make out the silhouette of a delicate body, drowning in a navy and bronze robe, its wings carefully folded behind them. Yes, this was heaven. A flash of darkness haunted him for a second, and along with it, a whirlpool of sensations he identified as pain. Death wasn't supposed to hurt, was it?

"Heaven isn't supposed to be painful," he grumbled. "I knew all that cussing would get me landed in Hell."

It took him a moment to realize that he was, a) not dead and, b) not in any sort of afterlife. The warm, bright, inviting light was the sun overhead, his head was throbbing in pain from both looking at the sun and another unknown condition. He was still at the pitch, he recognized. His eyes moved slowly over to the figure, the angel. The angel was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Raven black hair, brilliant jade green eyes, alabaster skin, perfect, chiseled features. For some reason he felt he knew those eyes; they seemed so familiar. His own eyes noted something further –angels didn't have black wings. Neither did people, for that matter.

A moment of realization came over him as the thick, groggy veil lifted from his mind. The figure was doubled over on their knees not far from him, tears leaving tracks upon porcelain cheeks. The mystic tongues he thought he had heard were no more than plain English, strangled by sobs; the angelic robes were Ravenclaw house Quidditch gear. This was no angel. Then, what was it?

"Oi, Lively! I thought you were trying to lay low. Killing Moony isn't exactly the way to do it, now, is it?" Remus recognized Sirius' velvety voice as it drew nearer.

"Shut up, Black! It's your fault that bludger hit him and not you, wanker!" The angel spat back, quite colorfully. The werewolf would have laughed if he didn't think it would aggravate his concussion.

"It's not my fault the Ravenclaw Quidditch team has to count with so little talent on your part," he replied, with a boyish grin.

"Lively?" Remus asked dazedly, a little slow on the conversation. He stared blankly as the angel looked up to meet his gaze. The eyes were the same, but the rest of her was so foreign to him. So different. "Gabs?"

The young woman was shaking like a leaf in her Quidditch gear, broomstick abandoned a few meters away as she had rushed to his side after the incident. She was hugging herself tightly, seemingly confused as to what she was meant to do at the moment. Before Remus had the presence of mind to ask a follow up question, she stood and ran, leaving her broom abandoned, back to the castle. His warm gaze struggled to follow her as James and Sirius sunk down on one knee at either side of him.

He winced and groaned as James expertly poked and prodded at his friend, effectively becoming a mother hen. "Are you all right, mate?" The concern was clearly etched in his voice.

Remus nodded blankly, staring at the space that Gabriela used to occupy a second before. "What happened?"

"Well, you know Padfoot can't keep his mouth shut to save his life and Gabs has a short temper. He was having a laugh about the new accessories, she knocked a bludger at him, but the wanker ducked, and it completely mangled you."

"I meant, with Gabriela. I haven't just oblivious for the last six years and missed a rudding great pair of wings on her back, have I?" His tone was more clipped than he would have liked, but the pounding in his head was growing stronger by the second.

James glanced up at Sirius, who had fallen uncharacteristically quiet, seemingly guilty about the whole ordeal. He had only meant it as a light-hearted joke to make the girl feel better. It had tragically backfired (which, coincidentally, should be the name of Sirius' autobiography). The bespectacled boy faltered for a moment. He had known the Ravenclaw since her family had moved in next door when they were about two years old. They'd been friends ever since. He struggled to find words that didn't sound like they were ripped out of a fantasy novel. "Well, it happened on her birthday," he finally started. "We woke up because she was screaming bloody murder, and we went to see what was wrong, Pads, Mum, and I. She just woke up like that. Her dad hoped it wouldn't happen. Her mum had been cursed when she was still in the womb, something about paying for her wrongdoings by condemning her child to the existence of a demon. Padfoot and I weren't allowed to stay for the rest of the conversation."

The injured Gryffindor hesitated. "Aren't demons supposed to be, y'know, ugly?" His cheeks reddened at the question. He would willingly admit that he had never thought that Gabriela Lively was anything but a bombshell, but there was something about the ethereal glow that was actually invading his thoughts.

Sirius snorted. "That's your question? Really?"

James quickly interjected. "She wasn't screaming because she suddenly woke up with dark hair and wings. She was screaming because she set her room on fire turning off her alarm clock."