"Accio."

Through the window, she watched the mailbox rattle. A long silver thing, more decorative than most, perched precariously atop an iron rod bent strangely in different directions, like some kind of animal spent it's free time bashing its head against it. She felt herself smile. True, her little boy spent most of his time zooming around on his toy broomstick, and, yes, most of the time, he found himself smashing into the rusting rod more than he would like.

She was proud, of course, very proud of her son. Her only child. For a very long time, she feared that she wouldn't be able to bear children, but, sooner than she expected, her and her husband's wishes came true.

She remembered the day he was born. A Thursday. A drizzly March evening. She didn't remember much, besides distant claps of thunder and a baby crying. Her baby.

Her husband had burst through the double doors leading to the bedroom, delayed by the gaggle of midwives attempting to hold him back. But she had dismissed them with a weak but thankful smile. Her husband had pushed his way forward anxiously. He was worried, frightened, even. She could tell. But she watched his gaze fall on the bundle wrapped tightly in her arms, and all the age and worry seemed to melt from his face. He had looked younger than he ever had.

She felt herself grin wider at the memory of passing the baby to her husband's arms. A tiny thing. Chubby arms, bright hazel eyes. Like his father's. She recalled gently stroking the baby's head. Delicate, thin hair grew there. Black. Like his mother's.

Her husband smiled with delight and excitement, watching the baby stare up at him, cooing softly. Then looked up at his wife, crying silent tears of joy.

She met his gaze, crying too. "We have a son, Fleamont," she remembered whispered. Then he had kissed her, whispering her name in her ear, "Euphemia darling, thank you, thank you, Euphemia…" She had returned the kiss, for she was equally grateful. For a moment, they just sat there, embracing, sobbing into each other's shoulders. The rain pattered lightly on the windowpanes, while the baby let out a cry, seeking some kind of attention.

Finally, Fleamont had pulled away, and glanced down at the child in his arms, who was waving his fat fists frantically. "He's an energetic little fellow, isn't he?" he had said.

She remembered smirking at him. "Just like his father," she replied fondly.

He looked up at her again, eyes sparkling with the tears that shone there. "You're so beautiful," he had murmured, reaching out to stroke her face. The baby wailed again, clawing at Fleamont's jacket, who glanced down at the baby in surprise. "You won't give us a moment's peace, will you?" The baby howled again.

Grinning slightly, Euphemia had eased the child back into her lap. "Not for a while, he won't." She watched affectionately as the baby yawned, stirring a bit in the blankets. "What shall we name him?" Her gaze had flickered up to her husband's. "After your father?"

"Henry? No," Fleamont had said immediately. Then he chuckled. "To be honest, I've never really liked the name." He paused for a moment, keeping his eyes fixed on the child in her lap. His son. "What about your father…"

"James?" She had been startled for a second, then relaxed. Almost relieved. "James," she had said again, in a light whisper. She reached out and grasped her husband's hand. James. Their son had a name.

James Potter.

She felt something warm and wet slipping down her cheek. A tear. She was crying.

Quickly, she wiped it away. Their son. It was a miracle, of course. They had almost given up hope on ever having children. They had been prepared to accept that the mansion Fleamont had inherited from his father would almost always be empty. No longer.

James grew quickly. He was a skilled little boy, quite gangly, but fast, both on his legs and on a broomstick. Neither his eyes nor his hair changed color; his eyes remained as bright as ever, while his hair seemed to grow alarmingly fast in different directions. She had difficulty making it lie flat.

But he was their son. Their only son. With hazel eyes behind thin glasses, a big smile, and very untidy jet-black hair. James Potter.

The mailbox shuddered again, this time, spitting out a series of envelopes that zoomed flew towards her in a great cluster of parchment, each letter attempting to reach Euphemia first.

Sighing, she hurried towards the window and threw the window open. "Alright, one at a time, one at a time!" she shouted. Promptly, the letters halted, rearranged themselves according to when they had been delivered and continued towards the window in a floaty, dreamy fashion as if nothing had ever happened.

"That's better," she muttered, seizing the first letter and tearing it open. A magazine, for Sleekeazy's hair potion. She rolled her eyes. Henry Potter, Fleamont's father, had invented the stuff, and they received ads and notifications about the potion almost daily, despite the fact that Henry had sold the company almost ten years ago.

She tossed the magazine aside, and ripped the next one open. From her sister. Euphemia felt herself smile as she scanned the letter. Then sealed it again and stuffed it into her pocket. She would reply later.

Two more Sleekeazy magazines. A letter from the Ministry for Fleamont. A large mysterious envelope addressed in green ink…

Addressed to James Potter.

She felt her breathing quicken as she flipped the envelope over, her heart practically in her throat. Could it be…?

The Hogwarts crest stared back up at her. A swooping feeling in her stomach made her swell with pride and glee. In all her eagerness, she was filled with a desire to open the envelope and read it herself, but she instead stowed the letter in her pocket. They would read it together, as a family, once Fleamont got home from work. But she couldn't stop smiling as she turned away from the window. Her little boy… going to Hogwarts at last.

Further north, a similar situation was occurring. But not nearly as pleasant.

"Your Hogwarts letter arrived today," Orion Black said stoically, glancing over at his son from across the table. The boy didn't even look up as he pushed the vegetables around and around on his plate. He seemed extremely disinterested.

Orion cleared his throat, and exchanged a dark look with his wife, Walburga, who just rolled her eyes. "Your Hogwarts letter arrived today," he said again, a bit louder.

The boy sat upright, so fast his elbow sent his pumpkin juice flying, staining the drab wallpaper a deep orange. Shaking his long dark hair out of his eyes, he shouted, "Let me guess. You've burnt it. Or you're going to send Regulus to Hogwarts pretending it's me. I expect you will."

Regulus, the boy's younger brother, flushed a deep maroon and picked at his sprouts, pretending he had heard nothing. His mother, however, practically swelled with fury. "How dare you speak to your father that way!" she screamed, raising her hand as to slap the boy across the face. Orion spoke quickly.

"No!" he boomed; Walburga caught his gaze and lowered her arm, her face still contorted with anger. Orion turned once again towards the boy. "No, we haven't burnt it - and we are not going to send Regulus to Hogwarts a year early." His tone suggested otherwise. "You're going to Hogwarts this year."

The boy's eyes widened, then narrowed with suspicion. Something wasn't right.

"Here is the letter," Orion said quickly, reaching inside his robes, and pulling out a slightly wrinkled envelope addressed in green ink. The boy took it and read in wonder.

Sirius Orion Black

12 Grimmauld Place...

He wasted no time. Hastily, he flipped over the envelope and tore open the seal, which, surprisingly, hadn't been broken yet. He unfolded the letter as fast as he could and eagerly read aloud.

Dear Mr. Black,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all the necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl no later than July 31st.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Sirius didn't even bother to hide a shout of excitement. Finally! Off to school, off to Hogwarts, off to a magical place where his despicable parents could torment him no longer. If he shut his eyes, he could just imagine it... he could spent Christmas and Easter there, away from his family... perhaps the headmaster would even let Sirius stay for the holidays! He could only dream of it. Seven blissful, uninterrupted years away from the disgusting monstrosity his parents called home...

"Sirius," Orion muttered impatiently. Then shouted. "SIRIUS!"

Sirius nearly fell out of his chair, still grasping his Hogwarts letter like it was a lifeline. "Yes, father?" Cool, collected. He might've never been startled.

"Now, before we head to Diagon Alley and buy your things," Orion started. "I want to set a few things straight."

Sirius tensed, rigid in his seat. Something was wrong. Very wrong. It tended to be that way when his parents were so nice. Especially to him.

He watched his father twirl his fork between his fingers. "First of all, you shall not accommodate or associate yourself with blood traitors, half-breeds, Mudbloods, or anything of the sort," Orion began.

"Especially Mudbloods," Walburga hissed, shuddering obviously.

Sirius's mouth was a thin line. He bit his tongue, but said nothing. His parents had gone on about this for ages, it seemed, perhaps their whole lives. They were, the whole Black family, in fact, purebloods, which meant they didn't have a single drop of Muggle (non-magical) blood in their veins. And they wanted to keep it that way. For some reason, they seemed to think that having even the tiniest bit of non-magical blood was a disgrace to wizard kind. "Half-bloods are to be avoided," his mother always said. "And Mudbloods should be ignored entirely." Perhaps, if his mother had his way, she would have all the half-bloods tortured, the Mudbloods killed, and all the Muggles utterly destroyed. And he couldn't even imagine what she would do to the Squibs. God knows.

The pureblood tradition had been passed down through generations of Blacks, and not once had a single person broken the wizard line. Not once had a single half-blood, Mudblood, or Muggle entered the Black family tree.

His mother and father were determined to carry on this tradition.

And Sirius was determined to desecrate it.

All this ran through his mind as he turned to face his parents. "Yes, father," he agreed solemnly.

"You are to treat the Hogwarts teachers and staff with the utmost respect, unless their blood-status proves otherwise," his father ordered, staring down at his son.

Sirius stared right back. Fat chance. He had an eye for pranks, a talent for trouble, as it was often called. He would treat the Hogwarts professors the way he thought they deserved to be treated. And, by God, if any of the teachers were anything like his parents, he would make sure that they would retire in less than six months.

He smiled sweetly at his father. "Alright."

At that moment, his mother jumped in. "And you must be sorted into Slytherin," she demanded, an almost evil smile forming on her lips. Sirius felt the smile melt from his face; he saw his mother sneer distastefully. "Oh, yes," she snarled. "Every single person in the Black family has been sorted into the Slytherin for the past one hundred years. You will not break this tradition, do you understand me?"

Sirius's mind raced. Of course he would break it, along with every other Black tradition that ever existed. What could he say? It was practically his destiny. But.. perhaps this would be something that he couldn't change. His family's house. Slytherin. Every single person in the Black family. Slytherin. One hundred years. How could that be something he could change? He was just a kid. A kid whose parents hated him and whose whole family despised him.

Sirius felt himself grin, and he shoved some potatoes into his mouth. It was perfect. But what house to be sorted into? What house would embarrass his parents the most...?

His grin widened as he swallowed. If he could just convince the Sorting Hat to put him in Gryffindor...

Another letter was received just south of London.

"Peter! PETER!" A crash and a bang as a short, round woman with pale blonde hair ascended the steps of her cottage. It was a fairly-sized cottage by normal standards, with too many rooms and not enough windows. It seemed large, sometimes, especially during the holidays, since there was just Peter and his mother to occupy it. Peter's father had abandoned the family some time ago, but they had done well ever since. Better than they thought they would.

"PETER!" His mother shouted again. Furtively, Peter dashed out of his room towards the stairwell, smashing into almost everything as he went. Peter was clumsy, and both walked and ran heavily, due most likely to his size and statue. He was plump for his age, not fat, with small watery eyes and mousy brown hair. Peter often stated that he was unhappy with his appearance. His mother often replied that she thought he looked adorable.

Finally, he slammed up against the railing, panting hard. "What is it, mum?"

"There's a letter for you!"

"A what?"

"A letter!"

"A WHAT?"

"A - oh, for goodness's sake-" He saw her yank something out of her pocket - her wand, he guessed - and point it at the flat, white object she was holding in her opposite hand. Abruptly, it zoomed upward with the speed of a bullet and smacked Peter hard in the nose.

"Ouch!" he hollered, stumbling backwards and landing hard on his backside. The white thing (an envelope) however, fluttered gracefully to the floor beside him.

Swearing under his breath, he picked it up. Addressed to him. Curious. He almost never got letters. He turned it over. A strange seal was stamped there, a large "H" surrounded by four animals: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake. Peter frowned at it, and racked his brains. Nothing there. But he swore he had seen that seal before...!

Eventually, he gave up. With a loud snap, he broke the seal and tugged out the letter.

Dear Mr. Pettigrew...

With every word, his eyes grew wider and wider, until finally, he couldn't contain himself any longer. He let out a scream of mirth and sprinted downstairs to celebrate with his mother.

The final letter was to be delivered out west, to a tiny little cottage on the outskirts of one of the largest forests in Great Britain. Unlike the Pettigrew's cottage, this cottage was practically a shack. There were only six rooms, and a small basement dug out below the house. From the outside, it looked about ready to fall apart. Made of wood and bits of metal, it gave the impression of a very tired and very exhausted man that was ready to give up. Just like the man who was living there. Lyall Lupin.

Lyall sat outside the door on the dewed grass, not bothered by the wetness of it. As long as there was no one around him. No one at all. He just wanted to be alone.

He tugged his pipe out of his jacket pocket, and, instinctively, reached for his wand in order to light it. Then stopped himself. No. He and his family were using Muggle things now. Muggle devices. Uneasily, he brought himself to bring out a pack of matches instead. He struck one against his boot and lit his pipe, watching the flame flicker before his eyes.

"Fascinating," Lyall heard himself say, as he gazed at the fire, watching it dance. Almost like it was taunting him.

Monster, monster, monster, monster-

With one breath, he extinguished the flame. But he knew it was right. He was a monster. Along with his son.

Forcefully, he brought the pipe to his mouth, inhaling the thick fumes of tobacco. His life was ruined. His son's life was ruined. Only because he had tried to do the right thing. He exhaled; smoke furled from him lips into the colourless sky. He watched it dissipate, angry with himself. He had tried everything, but there was no cure. No spell, no potion that could rid his son of that... disease. It had contaminated him. It would drag him down, stay with him. Forever.

Lyall puffed on his pipe again. He felt cursed. His only son could never be fully healthy. He could never go to school, he could never make any friends, real ones, anyway. And with every year, his son's condition worsened. Now, at age eleven, he couldn't even leave the house. No one could see him. Then they might suspect, and Lyall, his wife, and his child would have to pack their things and move away, for the fifth time in three months.

He hates you, Lyall told himself, watching the smoke vanish again, blending in with the clouds hanging over him. He doesn't know, a voice in his head told him nastily. Lyall shook his head, trying to clear his mind of these thoughts. He couldn't argue with himself, not now, not with everything going on-

At that moment, he noticed something white hovering near the edge of the forest. He squinted. A figure. A person. How long had they been standing there? Was it a Muggle? Or, worse, a wizard, who knew of his son, Remus's condition? Had he come to drive them away?

Remus! Lyall thought. Hastily, he pushed himself to his feet and sped into the house, shutting the door firmly behind him. With a wave of his wand, a series of complicated locks locked themselves.

"Lyall?" His wife, Hope. At his side in seconds. He would've thought she would be in tears by now what with everything that had happened, but her face was surprisingly set. "What is it?"

"Dad?" His son called from the other room. "What's going on?"

Lyall grabbed his wife's arm. "Get Remus to the basement."

"What's happening?" Hope was bewildered.

"Someone - outside - watching us - get Remus to the basement," Lyall panted, all in one breath. He was suddenly exhausted.

Hope protested. "Lyall, it was only yesterday... he's very weak-"

"Get him to the basement NOW!" Lyall roared. White-faced and worried, Hope obeyed. Lyall watched his wife rush away. He knew she would've argued more, but they didn't have the time; he often didn't always have enough explanations. She was a Muggle, after all, and sometimes didn't understand all the things that went on in the Wizarding World... but he loved her with all his heart...

Through the window, he could see the figure advancing. With the glass dirty and cracked as it was, Lyall could make out only so much. Pale clothes. White hair and beard. Brandishing a wand.

A wizard! From the Ministry, perhaps. Coming to take his son away from him. Lyall's grip tightened on his wand. He couldn't. He wouldn't let him.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Pounding at the door. Lyall stayed where he was, pointing his wand one-handed at the center of the door. "Leave!" he shouted with as much bravery as he could muster; his voice cracked.

"Just go, and you won't be harmed. I say this for your own-"

Crack. Startled, Lyall almost dropped his wand. Then listened. Silence. Furtively, he hurried towards the window to glimpse the wizard standing outside his door.

No one. Nobody there.

Remus's voice drifted in from what Lyall guessed was the sitting room. "Would you like a crumpet, sir?"

Reading aloud again. Damn the boy! Won't he listen to his father for once and just do as he's told? Didn't he realize that he endangered everyone around him, every second, every minute, every day-

A different voice, unfamiliar to Lyall. "Why yes, Remus, thank you."

Lyall's heart pounded so heart, bruises must've been forming on his chest. Someone else in the house! How? There was no back door. All of the windows were locked and barred; he had heard no sound of breaking glass anyway. Not to mention that the whole cottage was surrounded by powerful protective enchantments! Lyall advanced cautiously, carefully peering into the sitting room. Horrified, he saw a tall, white-haired stranger in a pale traveling cloak sitting on the floor with his back to Lyall. Nearby sat a plate of half-eaten crumpets, the ones Hope had just finished making that morning. And facing the stranger was Lyall's son, Remus, lying on his stomach and staring at the space a couple inches in from of him. Anxiously, Lyall shifted a few feet... in order to see what he was looking at...

Gobstones. Lyall's mouth fell open. A stranger and Lyall's son were on the floor of the sitting room, eating crumpets and playing Gobstones.

Lyall let out a squeak of surprise; Remus's head was up in a flash. "Dad!" he exclaimed, both in relief and surprise.

The stranger turned round. Lyall's heart leapt up into his throat...

"Dumbledore?" he thundered, nearly falling over from surprise and suspense. The stranger just smiled, his eyes twinkling cheerfully behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Lyall!" he said, taking a step towards him with his hand outstretched. "Long time, no see..." He paused. "I believe that is the Muggle phrase; am I right?" He looked questioningly over at Hope, who was sitting straight-backed in a rickety armchair, grinning painfully. Lyall could read the bewiderment written all over her face.

Lyall stared down at Dumbledore's hand, but didn't shake it. "Er," he said.

"And this time, the phrase shall be taken literally," Dumbledore said airly, taking Lyall's hand and shaking it gently. "It has been a long time, in which I have not seen you."

Lyall did not reply.

Dumbledore frowned vaguely at him. "Are you aware that the Hogwarts start-of-term is drawing nearer?"

Lyall gave a start. What was he doing, Dumbledore, here? And where were Lyall's manners? "I am," Lyall murmured, wringing his hands nervously behind his back. "Please, sit down."

"Thank you," Dumbledore replied, taking back his seat on the floor. Lyall stared down at him.

"Er - will you be wanting a chair?"

"Very soon, perhaps, but not now, thank you," Dumbledore twittered brightly, almost like a bird. Then his expression turned stony. "And you are aware that you have requested that young Remus here not be enrolled in Hogwarts this year?"

Remus leapt to his feet, looking utterly betrayed. "Dad!" he almost yelled. "Dad, is that true?"

Lyall felt his cheeks flush red with shame. He found himself unable to speak properly. "I-it..." He hesitated, wearily running a hand through his own hair. "It was... for your own good. To preserve - the safety of the other... other students..."

Remus's face fell, but Lyall could see that he understood. And even if the other students and staff didn't discover his secret at the beginning of the term, they would more than likely guess it by the end. It was like fate. They would be constantly on the move, constantly on the run. Remus would never get a proper magical education. In the armchair across the room, Lyall saw Hope's face whiten. She had realized it too. For a while, she had refused to give up, always telling Remus that it would be alright, that a time would come where he could go to school, make some real friends. But now… everything was revealed to her. He watched as her gaze sank towards the hands in her lap. With a start, he realized that he hadn't told her that he had forbidden Remus to attend Hogwarts. He wished he had. Lyall and his wife were drifting further and further apart. And Remus stood in the midst of it.

"Now, now," Dumbledore chided softly, clearly aware of the tension between Lyall and his family. Despite this, his eyes still sparkled like two stars behind his half-moon spectacles. "Things aren't as dark as they seem." He turned towards Lyall, his face completely unreadable. "Remus will be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Lyall's gut wrenched. He felt his breakfast threaten to make a reappearance. "Wha- no… n- he can't…" His words faded as his gaze fell upon Remus, who was sitting there on the floor, staring wide-eyed at his father, clutching a Gobstone in one hand and a crumpet in the other.

He might've been good-looking once, perhaps even handsome. Hope always said that he was the spitting image of his father. Wavy gold hair, huge gray eyes that seemed to absorb everything they saw. But ever since the accident, his features seemed more… sunken. His hair looked like it had gone through a blender, and his eyes were now lifeless, but moved constantly, up and down, side to side, over his shoulder again and again. Always anxious, always nervous. Always fiddling with the hem of his baggy T-shirt that hung too loosely on his tiny frame. Remus had been small ever since he was born, but his condition made his body seem smaller than it actually was. And the scars. Cuts, bruises, and scratches covered Remus's body. Hundreds of them. Cursed wounds. They would never fully heal.

Lyall actually had to turn away from his son. It saddened him.

But Dumbledore, to Lyall's astonishment, just chuckled. "I assure you, we have taken all the necessary precautions."

Lyall noticed his wife perk up in her armchair. "Really? What would-"

He was quick to shoot her down. "No!" he yelled; Hope shrank back; Dumbledore's frown deepened.

"Lyall, please refrain from shouting at your wife," he requested, giving Lyall a dark glance. "I am doing this for Remus."

Everything was happening so fast. Lyall collapsed clumsily onto a stool, hiding his face in his hands. Hot and wet tears were streaming down his face. He couldn't tell if he was sobbing with fear or joy.

"Dad?" Remus took a few hesitant steps towards his father. Lyall opened his eyes, revealing his son's white heart-shaped face, framed by shredded golden hair. His eyes were pale, almost transparent, but somehow, still full of feeling. Remus was worried. Worried about his father.

Lyall felt Dumbledore's warm hand on his shoulder. "Do it for the boy, Lyall," he whispered softly, so that only the two of them could hear. Lyall's heart was beating so fast. Had Dumbledore found a place? A place where his son could live in peace…?

He nearly choked. "W-what about the other students?" Lyall muttered, his chin pressed into his cloak. "The teaching staff?"

"All the precautions have been made," Dumbledore repeated calmly, patting his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. "And the staff shall be informed."

Remus was looking from Dumbledore to his father in bewilderment. Hope, however, understood almost immediately. She let out a cry of relief and covered his mouth with her hands, not bothering to hide her grateful tears.

"What's going on?" Remus cried, still aware of the whole situation. Dumbledore just smiled, and tugged something out of his traveling cloak and handed it to Remus. He took it, examining it thoroughly. A slightly worn, yellowed envelope. Addressed in green ink.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Dumbledore proclaimed cheerfully. Then turned once again towards Lyall. "I believe a 'thank you,' would be in order…"

"Thank you," Lyall whispered shakily, slowly getting to his feet.

"Don't mention it," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "Do you have any more of those crumpets, Hope? They're absolutely marvellous…"