Author's Note: This is my first-ever published fic, and I've worked extremely hard on it! I want to credit some parts of the story to my RP partner-she knows who she is, and she's helped me with this story more than she knows! I hope you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. xo, A

War settled in on the wizarding world like a blanket of soot. It settled in the nooks and crannies of Diagon Alley, in the teacups of the small villages, in the folds of the Ministry's clothes. The fear was ever-present, constantly lingering on the edges of everyone's vision. Every week, there was a new story in The Daily Prophet about Lord Voldemort's most recent attack or leaked plans. The stories and fear seemed to be the same every day—the terror was now just there, just like the moon.

Remus Lupin contemplated this on the 30th of August, sitting cross-legged on his friend's bed as he scanned The Daily Prophet. It was starting to become a game: how many pages of wasted ink before he could find something lighthearted? He flipped past pictures of the minister, a freshly blown-up house, a weeping family, before stumbling across some Quidditch news. Four, he thought indignantly, swallowing a mouthful of a scone.

The Potter house was full of animated noises, as usual. James was standing in the bathroom, the sink running as he attempted to comb his unruly hair. Sirius was downstairs, chatting with Mrs. Potter, who was getting ready for work, while Mr. Potter was loudly slurping his coffee. Peter never came to James' house early for the school year but, rather, spent the entire summer at his mother's side. She was quickly withering, along with the rest of the world, so Peter took every chance he could to be with her.

"Moony," James called from the bathroom, poking his head out to look at his friend. Remus glanced up, his mouth full of scone, the paper splayed in front of him.

"Huh?"

"How does it look?"

James looked desperately at Remus, who examined his friend's hair. All he could think was that it looked… interesting. He had tried to comb the back down and the front to the back, very 1960s. Yet, the cowlicks still stuck up, making him look a bit like a peacock.

"Put it back," Remus said sternly, shaking his head. James immediately groaned, returning to the bathroom. Remus couldn't help but grin, looking back down at his paper.

Downstairs, Sirius could be heard grabbing a pan and telling Mrs. Potter "don't worry" over and over. Which, in any case, was a cause for worry. Yet, Mr. and Mrs. Potter responded with "okay, okay" and then a mix of "have a good day" and "see you tonight." There was the unmistakable sound of flame erupting, crackling and licking up the chimney, and then silence.

"It won't stay down," James whined, walking out of the bathroom and flopping down on his bed in front of Remus, who eyed him. Remus always wondered what their classmates thought when they saw James. Was it him in his Quidditch robes? Him in a jumper and jeans, chatting with Lily Evans who looked as if she'd rather shove his head through a wall than talk to him? This James, the one in a paint-stained shirt and plaid pajama pants, was what Remus always saw. Dejected, hair dripping, pouting like a little kid as he stared at the ceiling. "Doesn't matter how much water I use, and Merlin forbid I try to use some magic on it. Either way, it's just up in the back. Have you noticed?"

"Why do you care?" Remus asked casually, looking back at the paper. There was a photo of the headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, with the headline CHANGES AT HOGWARTS? Remus wrinkled his nose, quickly flicking the page.

"I'm growing up," James sighed, his hazel eyes dropping onto Remus. The moon was waxing and, with it, Remus' healthy complexion was waning. "I can't just have this crazy hair, you know? I'm 16. We've got two years left of school. How can I fight you-know-who when I look like a child?"

"You're not going to fight you-know-who," Remus said matter-of-fact. There was a column on tricky cooking recipes made easy with one simple spell! He flicked the page. "You're right. You're 16. You can't expect to just waltz out into the world like, Hey, I'm James Potter, and I'm here to singlehandedly fight you-know-who!"

James' expression was very clearly disappointment as he stared at Remus, who refused to look up and meet his eye. The two butted heads with the very subject of the war constantly. James wanted to do exactly that—to waltz out into the world and give the Death Eaters a piece of his mind. Or, better yet, a few spells to chew on if they still had teeth when he was done with them. It was conversations like this that made Remus really question, deep down, if this was just another sign of him not being a good Gryffindor. He glanced up, but James had looked away by then, staring back up at the ceiling. From downstairs, they could faintly hear Sirius belting out a song. The smell of bacon and pancakes wafted from the kitchen and Remus couldn't help but smile.

"Moony," James said quietly, and Remus folded the paper, sensing the serious tone in his voice. "We've only got two years of school left. It's a bit terrifying, yeah?"

Remus forced a reassuring smile.

"It's just sixth year, Prongs," he said gently. "No need to get your panties in a bunch."

It was this very thought, however, that was causing Narelle Atterberry to panic in the heart of London.

There seemed to be so much noise going on—the rowdiness of her neighbors getting ready for Notting Hill, her cat meowing loudly, her best friend snoring in bed beside her. All of the noise felt like it was too much, like it was caving in on her. As carefully as she could, she crawled out of bed and tip-toed out the door and down the stairs, bee-lining to the kitchen.

The beginning of school was always stressful. There was always money to get from her mom, always more things to pack, always books to buy. Luckily, she and her friend Aria Kilburne had purchased everything they needed from Diagon Alley the previous day. Her books were still piled on the round kitchen table, taunting her with the upcoming decisions she would have to make. It felt as though she was grasping onto golden thread with an ever-spinning spool, something completely out of her control, as it unraveled and fell to her feet.

Dahlia meowed again, rubbed against Narelle's leg, but she barely even noticed. She was too busy rummaging around her fridge for eggs and butter. Cooking was a self-defense mechanism. It was something that she could control, something she could focus all of her attention on.

As she whisked eggs and cinnamon together, she glanced at The Daily Prophet that had been dropped onto her counter. On the front page, the Minister of Magic looked ashamed and turned away from the cameras, the headline crying PLANS FOR YOU-KNOW-WHO. Every day, it was just war. Narelle searched the photo to see if she could find a familiar face in the group of ministry workers—wavy dark hair, her nose, dark brown eyes. Her eyes lingered on the paper a moment longer before turning away, pouring the French toast mixture onto a deep plate. As she began to busy herself with cutting slices of bread off of a baguette, the stairs creaked as Aria tiredly walked down the stairs.

"Are you making breakfast?" Aria yawned from behind Narelle, who began dipping the bread into the plate.

"Mmhm. Can you make some coffee?"

Aria walked into the kitchen while Narelle readied a pan, spreading butter onto it as it heated up. They worked silently beside each other—Aria grabbing the French press, Narelle plopping a slice of bread onto the pan. It had been like this for a few days, just the two of them inside Narelle's house. Her mother was always away, always on some strange marijuana-fueled adventure. She sent Narelle money on a regular basis by use of her "talents", which Narelle bitterly referred to as "scams." Aria learned to not ask about it after their 4th year. Instead, she stood by her friend's side, making coffee and urging her to eat.

"Are you okay?" Aria asked gently, glancing at Narelle from the corner of her eye. The French toast sizzled pleasantly, the entire kitchen now smelling of coffee and vanilla.

"As okay as I am every year," Narelle said simply, flashing her friend a small smile.

"It's just 6th year," Aria said softly, pushing down on the press. Narelle snorted a bit, a noise she let out quite often, flipping the piece of toast over.

"I know," she said quietly. "That's why it's terrifying. We're going into N.E.W.T-level classes this year. Sure, I did okay on my O. , but I don't even know what I want to do. And here they are, telling us that we need to figure out what we're doing as well as deal with all of the random deaths brought by some big-headed dark wizard."

"That's why I'm becoming an auror," Aria declared proudly, pouring Narelle a cup of coffee, who was staring at her friend in horror. An auror? She could barely imagine Aria trying to be stealthy and fighting dark wizards. The next words out of Aria's mouth shocked Narelle even more: "I think you should, too."

Narelle stared at her friend. Aria still looked so much like a teenager—her mess of curls was dyed a fire-red color, erupting around her like a mane. It looked so bright against her espresso skin, her dark eyes wide and glittering. She had the arrogance of a 16-year-old, as well as the feeling of invincibility. Narelle was sure that, deep down, she was the same, but she was so much tamer compared to her best friend. Ideas like this, like diving head-first into a war, were what got people killed.

She held her breath for a moment, trying to pick the correct words. Exhaled.

"Can you grab the syrup for me?" was all Narelle said, her voice soft, as she opened a cupboard to pull out some plates.