Hello!
Some stuff you may need to know:
. This is a Marauder-era story.
. This is similar to my previous story on here. I wrote Make a wish… a very long time ago, and have since decided to…further it. This is not a re-write of that story, a repost, or anything of that sort. The themes, I guess, will be loosely similar, but it is an entirely new story, hence I have refrained from calling it a repost. So, if you have read Make a wish…or if you haven't, it's fine! It won't matter in the slightest. This is an entirely new story.
. Any characters you don't recognize belong to me, as does the plot and discourse. I do not own Hogwarts, or any HP characters. JK is god. The end.
. I've tried to keep this as canon as possible. However, if I do end up changing things, please, oh please refrain from exclaiming "BUT THTZNT WH WUZ MEANT 2 HAPZ IN TEH BOKZ!11" Take your net speak and go read Twilight instead.
. Genre, I here you say? I'd like to say I've tossed a bit of everything in there: drama, adventure, romance, and humor, fluff even?
. I appreciate constructive criticism, but please don't flame. I haven't got a BETA for this, so if the grammar and spelling is a little off, feel free to let me know. I do make a habit of fine-tooth-reading it, but of course, I will miss things.
. I ADORE reviews. Truly. Even if it is just one word, or a sentence – heck, even if you hate it – tell me. Review!
Just a few things about the story:
It starts at the beginning of seventh year.
As far as shipping goes, I'll say Lily/James and Sirius/OC.
The rating is PG – 13 – for later chapters.
Enjoy. Read. Review.
Chapter One
Whispers In The Dark
Crying doesn't indicate that you're weak.
Since birth, it has always been a sign that you're alive.
Darkness had swept over me, and at seventeen, I was no longer scared like a child. The exclusive portraits, paint, and artifacts that decorated the Potter mansion's walls were simple outlines in the sinister stairway that was illuminated only by dim moonlight. Nothing at all, including myself, was what it appeared to be. For the moments belonging to darkness, I was not myself, and I was not here. I was a shadow on a wall, a soul in the dark, and a sleepless child. I was anything; I wanted to be anything but what I was.
You could say the darkness was my friend. So, at two in the morning, when all else was quite, I danced down the grand stairs, the dim moonlight flicking through the various skylights in the ceiling. I dodged each beam of light as it came, a thief in the night not wanting exposure of any sort. Even though I had been here going on two weeks, I was still unsure where Mrs. Potter stood on the walking around after dark rule. I had a sickening feeling she was much like McGonagall in that area.
Once reaching a landing, I slowed, taking curious steps forward, making sure Mr. and Mrs. Potter were nowhere to be seen, and that the Potter house elves were as scheduled, cleaning the loos. I muttered lumos, and my wand sparked to life, and led the way down the passage.
It wasn't so much a passage as opposed to a grand hall that would not have been out of place in a roman cathedral. I failed to see its beauty in the dark, and as I passed a royal archway where the pillars met, I felt bullied by the hall, as if it were mocking me – laughing at me.
I clung to the walls, and silently cursed every time my feet crossed a squeaky plank of wood – which was far too often for my liking. It was bad enough walking the normal halls of my own house at night, but this…this was something else entirely. James Potter didn't live in a house – he lived in a cathedral – a manor of honor - A manor that honored him. I chucked to myself as I passed an extensive row of photographs of the Potter men over the ages.
I knew the kitchen was approaching. I could already see the outline of glistening gold of the doorway that the house elves had decorated last summer according to Remus Lupin, who had acted as my tour guide upon my arrival. The kitchen was one of the few rooms I remembered. It was, after all, an essential room; if I lived in my own cathedral like James Potter, I would be honoring food on my walls – not Potter men, who I noticed the other day weren't all as dashing as the youngest Mr. Potter.
I grinned of personal accomplishment as I neared the golden doors. I was almost sweating, and wiped my brow with the corner of my borrowed nightclothes. They were Lily's, and I was glad she was fast asleep and not here to witness me abusing her clothes with sweat. Although, to be fair, Lily deserved a bit of revenge from me. She is, after all, the reason I'm here at all.
While James and others alike had considered Lily's generosity as noble and exceptionally kind, I had taken another approach. When Lily asked me to accompany her to stay at James's house for the remaining two weeks of the holidays, I had laughed – then swore – and then asked for clarification with my most commonly used phrase of "you've got to be kidding me".
But, Lily wasn't kidding me at all. She was deadly serious, and if I recall correctly, a little scared about going to stay herself. I wasn't scared – I was mortified when she asked, no – told me I would be coming with her. She had said James and his parents were fine with it, that "the more the merrier", and that she needed me for moral support. Meeting the boyfriend's family was a nasty business – and intimidating when they have a hall from Rome.
It was for the last reason and the last reason alone, that I had agreed. Plus, she had received some excellent publicity for her "lovely thought and gesture" by James's parents. They think she's a sort of angel for inviting her friend along. I myself, after knowing my best friend for seven years, knew better than to consider her motives anything but sinful.
"You're just scared about meeting them," I had told her, laughing, "and you're scared about being alone with his friends for two weeks."
Lily had frowned, although agreed in what I had told her.
"Rach," she had practically pleaded, "I need you." She was nothing short of getting down on one knee.
I didn't say no to my pleading friend, so I guess it is partially my fault that I've endured two weeks of preliminary hell. It's been two weeks of watching James Potter smother Lily in sloppy kisses each morning at breakfast. Two horrible weeks of watching James's friends eat like farm animals every night at dinner. Two weeks spending time in the owlery, pretending to like looking at all the owls while Lily was out with James. Two weeks of being called, "Lily's Friend" instead of my own name by the likes of Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew.
Like I said: Hell.
Tonight was my last night here, and before I entered the kitchen, I bid a farewell to its lovely golden archway. As quietly as possible, I pulled open one of the royal doors, and jumped back in surprise at what I saw. The kitchen lanterns were lit. They illuminated the long single bench in the middle of the kitchen, and the hundreds of black cupboards on each side. Instantly, without even considering it, I took a step out of the room, not wanting to disturb whoever was in there. Confrontation with the likes of James Potter and Sirius Black had never been sought after.
I was, however, too late.
"Who's there? Is that you Lily?" Came a muffled voice belonging to James Potter himself.
Cringing slightly, I took a step back into the room, closing the door behind me. It just had to be him, didn't it? Just had to be.
"Hello?" I called out, ignorantly, pretending not know who it was. I took further steps inside, and leaned against one of the cupboards.
After a great deal of shuffling, muffling and clattering, four male figures slowly emerged from inside a cupboard. Their eyes glazed towards me, and I could feel the flustered red tinge emerging on my cheeks. While three of them wore identical blameless expressions, the third, who was smarter than the others put together, didn't bother looking blameless.
"Oh, Howell, hi," James Potter spoke again, his once gruff voice now soft and gentle. He took half a step out of the cupboard and stood in front of it, hiding whatever was in there, "I thought it was my mother – or worse, Lily."
James Potter's hair was messier than usual, and I figured they had at least tried to sleep. He had a shocking case of bed hair.
I half smiled, warmly, cautiously taking a few more steps towards the four boys that surrounded the cupboard, "morning," I replied.
I stumbled on my own two feet, doing a strange hoping motion out of anxiety. I looked around the kitchen, trying to find something to distract me for a few painful moments. I set my sights on a small kettle, pretended to be interested in the old thing, when really I was looking at the boys from out of the corner of my eyes, trying to make out their facial expressions.
"Why are you up so early?" Remus Lupin asked, his expression still unlike his friends. I slipped slightly, a little surprised. I turned towards the sandy haired boy; glad it was him who was speaking to me. I didn't care much for Black or Potter.
"Couldn't sleep, and I'm thirsty," I replied truthfully. The horror of waking up to one of the boy's pranks had kept me up for her entire visit to the mansion. I had heard the rumors – that it was Sirius Black that put those rats in Imogene's bed, and that Potter liked to change people's hair colors.
"What brings you to the kitchen?" Sirius Black asked, finally speaking, his misty grey eyes looking mysteriously at me. He looked like he was trying to find some sort of hidden meaning behind my visit – as if I was here on some sort of secret mission. Trust him and his roguish mind to come to such conclusions.
"I've heard water cures thirst," I muttered. I hadn't intended for it to come out so sarcastic, and instantly sought for something to make up for my rudeness, "…just, you know…itchy throat and all." I lied, feeling utterly stupid. Pettigrew and Black both had raised eyebrows. I gathered Potter was only refraining from doing so for Lily's sake.
I carried out my desire by fetching a cup and placing it under the tap, which magically turned on. I felt all four pairs of eyes on me.
"What are you doing here?" I asked in my most polite manner.
"Ever tried Fire Whisky, Howell?" Black asked. His eyes now gleamed with excitement. Normally, I'd be a fan of such a thrill. Put it this way, I was no stranger to the odd fire whisky, but the way Black's eyes literally sparkled, made me think twice about admitting my moderate liking for the alcohol. When I didn't nod, but rather stood limply and didn't say anything, Black drew up his own conclusion.
"Oh, Prongs, we have ourselves a fire whisky virgin," Black laughed lightly, amusing himself. I didn't bother asking what 'Prongs' meant. The name reminded me of a huge pair of tongs – as in the cooking utensils, and I wondered how this related to James.
I didn't bother correcting Black. He had never appeared to be the type that appreciated being corrected. Once again, I remained unusually silent, and let the boy's draw their own conclusion.
"I bet Howell's had her fair share of the stuff, Padfoot," chuckled Potter. I simply shrugged, glad not one of them remembered my actions at last years Christmas Party. I had been somewhat less than elegant, my actions being the result of alcohol mixing. I had to admit, Lily and I had deposed of the evidence (vomit-covered cushions and rug belonging to the Gryffindor common-room) before anyone had much of a chance to figure anything out.
Black's stare hardened. I could actually feel myself being judged. It was odd being fatally aware of the situation. Most of the time, people are judged behind their backs, or in the most subtlest of ways. But this, this was all wrong. His gaze wasn't just hard – it was deadly. I didn't consider myself special – Black does this to everyone. Everyone at Hogwarts -the ghosts, Mrs. Norris, boys, girls, and animals are all victims to Black's critical stare.
"Well, see you in the morning," I stumbled, wondering why on earth I hadn't made an exit for myself sooner.
"Good night!" Lupin practically bellowed. I was now aware why he had kept his mouth snapped shut – and why a half empty bottle of whisky sat on the bench by his hand. He reminded me very much of myself the last time I had been in the company of whisky.
I left – and not a moment too soon. Instead of heading straight back to my shared room with Lily, I stood outside the kitchen door, sipping my water. I didn't trust myself nearly enough to make it up two flights of stairs without dropping the cup and ruining Mrs. Potter's nice carpet. And, I was pretty sure the glass I had chosen was a sort of precious crystal, and surely, the most expensive thing I had ever held. Beside, I liked the view: the golden archway literally shone.
I could here the boy's talking – or howling from inside. There was a clatter of a bottle, followed by a lot of swearing. I laughed to myself. Even though their conversation came out in mutters and grunts, it was fun to listen.
"I should go find Lily," James was saying. By standing outside, and not in close proximity to the boys that made me critically nervous, I realized the full extent of how drunk James sounded.
"She's asleep, Prongs," Pettigrew reminded him. "Here, let me take that. You've had enough."
"Let me go, Wormtail! Or do you want Lily for yourself?" James roared, laughing at the same time. I shook her head in dismay from outside the door.
"Evans is awake! The whole village is awake thanks to us!" Lupin bellowed, letting out a few high-pitched laughs.
"It's thanks to you that everyone is awake. I bet that is what woke Howell up," Black corrected him.
"Was Rachel here?" Remus asked.
I chuckled.
"She's pretty hard to miss, Moony," replied Black, in a tone of mockery. He snorted, gruffly, while the others muffled a faint laugh. I did not need him to elaborate, but of course, he did, "not the most small of creatures, is she? Or really, come to think of it, the most attractive?"
My body did not respond. Like a man held at gunpoint, I remained still and surrendered every ounce of self-pity I had. If I didn't gasp – or moan, or god forbid, cry – then it wasn't real. The crystal class that both my hands were cupping carefully as if it were a child prevented me from burying my head in my hands. I did nothing as the feeling of utter ache entered me. It was gut-wrenching to hear a truth I had always sort of known, but had never really accepted, be verbally released – by someone I barely knew. Obviously, other people had noticed it as much as I had.
My thighs resembled those of tree stumps. While my facial features were what my mother always described as "beautiful artwork", my middle was evidence that I liked big breakfasts and chocolate on the weekends. It was an imperfection that had stuck, and unfortunately, I had never grown out of. Just like people associated red hair and random thoughts of kindness to Lily, I now knew that along with my knack for sarcasm and charming sense of humor, people knew me as the ugly comedian girl. The – dear I say it – fat girl, who, made people laugh. Or, rather, made me people laugh at her.
"Howell's a hoot!" came James Potter once again.
The amount of alcohol in his system was evident in his silly giggle as he tried to get out the words. The boy, in a state of immaturity and confusion, had confirmed my serious prediction about myself.
"She has the Potter sense-of-humor," James added. I could almost imagine him puffing out his chest. To anyone who knew anything about anyone, it was common knowledge that James Potter and I were distantly related. Our mothers have the same grandmother – I think. I, unlike some fifth year girls who have taken an abnormal interest in James Potter, haven't researched it to guarantee such a connection. My parents haven't really mentioned a relation with the Potters, so whatever the connection is, I have never acted on it.
"Yeah. And the looks of a Hippogriff."
Clearly Sirius Black did not speak in words of subtlety. Despite this recognition of his cruel ways, I was still surprised and hurt by his comment. It was the sort that you always knew were uttered, but never heard. It was a horrible form of backstabbing, but at least you weren't consciously aware of it. Sirius Black was the sort that mouthed off and got away with it.
He is a charmer - that is certain. He also has good hair, and very nice arms. With his hollow remarks, he is cold, cruel and heartless – so much so that it threatens to clouds over all good things about him.
I tend to see the best in people; even when they do something horrible. So, naturally, I was a little shocked at Sirius Black. He had always been so…charming. So sickly charming that it astounded me how he managed to get away with it – and how girls, teachers – heck, even ghosts – managed to fall for it time and time again. It was the perfect spell – or jinx – depending how you wanted to look at it. Just one look and a person could be captivated, and deadly allured.
I shivered, and had a semi-debate with myself as to if I wanted to hear anymore. My heart said no, but my ears were tuned in, and even if I wanted to, I doubted I would have been able to draw them away from the door.
"Hogwarts is full with average to semi-ugly girls these days anyway," James Potter was saying, "wit the exception of Evans – and all the quidditch girls – and that one Hufflepuff with the big bonkers – all potential talent left last year."
"So Howell is simply average," suggested Peter Pettigrew. My liking towards Peter Pettigrew increased ever-so slightly. Evidently, his mother had taught him some manners – quite a pleasant uplift in comparison to his stupid friend. Average wasn't exactly a synonym for beautiful, but it was – and I knew – as close as I was going to get.
There was nothing else said about me and my so-called "average" appearance. There was a faint clatter of glass, and the sound of footsteps ascending in volume. I gathered myself and my thoughts together, cupped the crystal class harder than ever, and trooped back upstairs.
I had learnt from my mistakes when coming down where the steps creaked and where they didn't, and had successfully managed to get into my room without making as much as a rasp. My quietness matched my current desire: to be so invisible, that I was barely there at all.
Fifteen minutes later, my bed engulfed me, and by four in the morning, after a lot of tossing, I was asleep. I did not register at the time, nor did I even stop to think, that what I heard could potentially change my life. My reasoning for such ignorance is simple: I would not allow someone else – someone I barely knew – someone I liked only on good days, and partially-detested on most – to have an impact on me.
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