A/N: This is an imagining of the First Wizarding War. Since we don't know all that much about this war and the people who contributed to it, I've taken certain creative liberties (aka made up my own events, characters, and conflicts to fill in the missing spaces). This is what I imagine the war to have been like, and I hope my interpretation of characters and the Wizarding World agree with you. The book is canon compliant, so do whatever you want with that information.

Seeing as I've pre-written a considerable portion of this book, regular updates seem a strong possibility. The book is also currently cross posted on Wattpad; there's a cast list and all in the chapters on there so if you're interested in taking a look, do check it out! My Wattpad username is: evangingtherealm

Lastly, thank you for giving my book a go! If you have any thoughts, comments, suggestions, do leave a review. It seems like a small thing but your reviews do endless wonders for writers like myself. Happy reading! (tip: keep a box of tissues ready because it's a war-time fic and things do get dark and angsty soon enough. I won't say I'm a cheerful writer, because I'm not. Realistic? I hope I am.)

PROLOGUE
❛ a shadow from the past. ❜

August, 1994
Paris, France.

The cafe stood peacefully disregarded along the narrow, cobblestone street of Rue Cler, quaint but quiet as it had been for decades. From the outside, with its oak paneled doors and the pots of geranium and carnations dotting the perimeter, it seemed indifferent from the dozens of other restaurants, cafés, and taverns which lined the street. Perhaps the inside too was not entirely unique, but those that did stumble into the place often fell for its quirky charm.

Golden beams of summer light streamed in through the mullioned windows of Café de Madeline to cast a checkered pattern over the dark wooden floor of the vibrant cafe. In contrast to its pale, minty walls, dark wood furniture had been placed around the room. At each table, a lace tablecloth in the color of eggshells had been draped; each morning someone placed atop it a vase of fresh peonies in varying shades of pink. Upon inspection, one would find the chairs upholstered in a variety of fabrics and patterns - from velvet and silk, to viscose and leather - and no two chairs or settees matched one another. Frames of beaten bronze and gold hung along all the walls, depicting France and its many glorious sights, as well as writings from its most notable writers and poets.

But half hidden in the shadows of greater stores - a new boutique and an old pub famous for its rich fare and beer - the café was rarely busy. Though people often stopped by to pick up a coffee or a macaron on their way to wherever life in Paris pulled them. Today seemed to be another day of toiling about the place, poring over inventories, and listening to the cello that the manager was so fond of. So far, only three customers had come in, all frequent visitors whose preference Inés knew by heart.

As she did most days, Inés had spent the greater half of the morning watching people from the window beside the counter, taking in their outfits and making notes in the hopes of improving her own wardrobe. She had been admiring the scarf of a woman sitting at a table just across the cobblestoned street, when the bell chimed. A tall, lanky man appeared before her, his face half shadowed by the sunlight striking his flat cap. Even so, she could still see the scars littering this face.

"Bonjour," the man began, tugging a loose thread from the lapel of his coat as he continued, "uh, je suis... ici... por, uh, pour voir, Madame Dumont?"

The waitress eyed the man curiously. Had he not struggled with French, it would still have been clear that he came from elsewhere. In a city that brimmed with people parading their best attire, he was dressed in a long, shabby overcoat that was more fitting for a decade or two ago, while his hair, a mess of brown, windswept strands that were graying at the corners, looked in desperate need of a fresh cut.

"Mademoiselle?" His eyes, tired yet alert, peered over the counter, and the waitress quickly looked away.

"Oui, monsieur. Um, Madame Dumont, c'est exact?"

"Hmm? Oui."

"Elle est dans le coin, à l'arrière. Par ici s'il-vous-plait." Once she had gathered a menu from under the desk, and a fresh set of cutlery, she turned back to the man, finding him staring back at her in what she knew was confusion. She had seen the look on several others after all, though often they were better dressed than he. Inés sighed.

"Madame Dumont," she pointed a finger behind her, "'zere. Follow moi?"

The man nodded, offering her a smile. "Yes, yes, thank you."

Anglais, Inés decided as she led him to a table near the windows in the back. His accent was easy to recognize and left little doubt that he had come from across the channel. Madame Dumont quickly got to her feet when she saw them approaching, pushing her dark hair over her shoulder as she did so.

"I hope it wasn't too difficult to find this place."

"Not at all," the man supplied easily, returning Madame Dumont's hug.

Inés laid out menu cards for the two, careful not to seem as interested in the two as she really was. Over the years, Madame Dumont had frequented the cafe more times than Inés could count, but seldom had she ever seen the older woman with a friend.

"I almost thought you wouldn't recognize me, Mrs. Dumont."

"How could I not? And please, you don't need to be so formal," she insisted, her smile faltering. "Call me Vianne."

"Vianne?" There was doubt in his voice, and something else which Inés could not place. Clearing a table a few paces from the pair, Inés glanced back to see that neither had made a move to peruse the menu.

"Vianne." Mrs. Dumont gave a small nod. "Is that okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" The man was, Inés realized, rather handsome when he smiled, despite the sunlight making his scars stand out. "I'm glad we're still able to call each other by our first names."

Madame Dumont offered him another smile, the frail, polite kind one often wears when there's nothing much to say in return. Instead, "Inés?"

She sauntered over to their table, pulling out a small notepad as she did so. "Oui madame? Monsieur?"

Vianne glanced at the man who shrugged, saying: "I have very little knowledge where French food is concerned, I'm afraid."

"Let's hope I know what I'm doing." She turned to Inés and said, in fluent French, "une quiche au fromage et au jambon, deux cafés au lait, deux éclairs. Merci, Inés."

"Bien sûr," Inés nodded, jotting it all down.

"Did you arrive in Paris okay?" Vianne asked the man.

The last thing Inés heard as she retreated to the kitchens was as peculiar as they seemed ordinary.

"There were a few hiccups with the portkey, actually," the man was saying, "something about it being at the same time as a muggle parade in the area, so I used the floo instead. Suppose it took longer, but no worries. Here I am."

When Inés later returned with a freshly baked cheese and ham quiche, eclairs, and two steaming cups of coffees, Madame Dumont and her friend sat rather quietly. Not speaking a word until Inés had served and returned back to her position near the front of the cafe. For the next two hours that they sat, Inés could hear nothing of their whispers, no matter how closely she listened when walking past them. But they seemed to talk a lot. And argue, judging by the way Mrs. Dumont once angrily got to her feet before the man persuaded her to sit down again.

It was simultaneously amusing and miserable how Mrs. Dumont, the most ordinary, boring person Inés had ever met, was suddenly the most interesting person in Café de Madeline.

"The waitress seemed terribly interested in our conversation," Remus whispered once Inés had disappeared from sight.

Vianne laughed, a mellow, soft tone that was often lost amongst the raucous of others. "Yes, she wasn't being very subtle about it either, was she? I suppose she's just intrigued by the fact that I'm here with someone else for once."

"Oh?"

"I've been here once or twice with a friend from work. She's the principal of the school I work at," Vianne explained.

"And most other times?" Remus prompted her to continue.

Vianne smiled again before sighing and shaking her head. "Mostly, I come here by myself. To grade papers, read, get some coffee, have a macaron or two. Sometimes I even knit. It's a peaceful place to be, you know?"

Remus nodded. Then, with his brow furrowed, he asked, "You know how to knit now?"

"Well, I know how to mess up knitting," Vianne laughed, "but yes. I sometimes knit. Try to, at least. It keeps me busy."

"I'm glad."

The two fell into silence then. Comfortable or not, neither could be sure. Vianne slowly chewed a mouthful of the quiche she had ordered, but found it didn't taste like much. Odd, she mused, the cafe is known for its quiche, after all. Across her, Remus wasn't doing better with his slice either, shifting the morsels around with his fork.

The din of footsteps and chatter raging just beyond the walls of the cafe vibrated against the paned windows, its dull echo passing through and into the sparsely occupied cafe. In the two weeks since she'd first heard from him again, Vianne had spent hours mulling over her words. What did one even say to friends you had not laid eyes upon in years? Friends who invariably brought with them a shadow of the past you had tried so hard to forget? There were no right words after all, Vianne realized with a dull pang. There never could be. Not anymore.

"It's nice to see you again," she said finally, and not entirely because she could no longer stand the silence between them. There was truth in her words, a small but strong sliver of it, and she supposed it would have to do for now. Her voice was a soft whisper as she spoke, nearly lost to the sound of the cello playing overhead and the hustle and bustle that was the sound of Paris, but he heard it nevertheless.

"Is it?"

"It is," Vianne frowned, twirling the fine gold bracelet on her wrist as she continued, "I for one was happy when I got your letter. Surprised, yes, but I was happy at the thought of seeing you again."

Remus shook his head but said nothing more. She had craved silence all her life, yet his always made her exceedingly uncomfortable. "Say something."

"Do..." he hesitated, playing with his food. "I didn't ever think you'd like Paris, not enough to stay... Do you like it here, then?"

"Surprisingly, yes," Vianne answered easily. "Paris is so pretty. Crowded and huge, but beautiful and small at the same time. It's hard not to fall in love with this city."

"Yes, I suppose Paris has been good to you," Remus agreed, nodding distractedly as though several thoughts were running through his mind, and he could not decide which to focus on. "Better than England, certainly."

It was a tiny thing, a small slip of tongue which should have amounted to nothing. But Mrs. Dumont, quiet as she was, was known to be observant, and the small slip on Remus' behalf may have gone unnoticed by him but not her. Suddenly, as though a veil had lifted from her eyes, it became clear why the man sat opposite her had requested to visit in the first place.

"Why are you here?" Gone was the warmth from her mellow voice, replaced instead by the steel she'd wound around her heart years ago.

He looked surprised for a moment, but only just, and then he smiled sadly. "I think you've guessed." Pushing away his plate, he dropped all pretense of being interested in anything besides what he had come to talk about. "Took you slightly longer than I expected. I was certain you were going to refuse from even seeing me."

"No," Vianne shook her head. Foolish. She would always be foolish. You never learn, do you? She pushed away her own plate and got to her feet, hastily pulling a black trench coat around her with trembling fingers she hoped Remus wouldn't notice. "I wouldn't have refused to see you, Remus, but I'm afraid I can't stay any longer if the purpose of your visit involves England."

There it was. England. They never spoke of England, not in letters and never in person. In fact, Vianne was certain she had not said the word in years, not once in the nearly thirteen years since she'd fled the country.

"I think it's about time we talk about what happened, don't you?" He tried to reason with her.

"The time to talk about... any of it... has long since passed. I don't need to hear anything."

"Perhaps it is too late," Remus agreed, "but better late than never. You deserve to know the truth, even if it comes late."

"I don't need to know your truths, Remus, nor anyone else'."

"It's imperative that you do."

"Oh, now it's imperative, is it?" Vianne laughed a hollow laugh. "Forgive me, but I must leave. It was good seeing you, Remus. I doubt we'll meet again anytime soon, so do take care of yourself. Goodbye."

"Listen to me." Remus' grip was light as he curled his hand around her wrist, stopping her in her path to the door, but she could hear the firmness in his tone as he continued, "I know you don't wish to speak of it, but we must. I know it's been too long, and yet it still hurts to even think about it. But you have to hear what I have come to say. For my sake, or James and Lily's. Your sister's..." He hesitated a second before adding quietly, "If for no one else then for the woman whose name you've hidden behind all these years..."

"I..."

"You owe me as much, Vianne." He let go of her hand, never looking away. "Sit. Please."

For a moment, he looked as though he was sure she wouldn't. But with a small sigh, Vianne sat back in her chair, her face void of all color now. Despite the new lines on her face, she looked much like the girl he'd known during the war: pale and stony, and dreading what he knew she could sense was about to happen.

"When James and Lily..." He began speaking the words he'd so carefully chosen ahead of time, but stopped himself before he could get any further. Inhaling sharply, it dawned upon him that the speech he'd rehearsed seemed was rather pointless. The woman opposite him had always been shrewd; she would always be a step ahead of everyone else. There was no point in eluding the matter any longer, and so he cut to the chase: "Sirius is innocent."

Vianne blinked but offered nothing more. Instead, she reached for her now tepid cup of coffee. The silence stretched between them, and Remus stared at her, waiting, perhaps, for some emotion to break through the stoical mask she'd slipped under. Surprise, probably. Anger, even. Guilt, sadness, regret... He will have to be disappointed, thought Vianne.

"And? What of it?"

Remus looked even more aghast at her words.

"Did you not hear what I just said?" he finally asked, not bothering to hide his confusion. "He never, Sirius didn't..." He trailed off, unable to see why she, Vianne, was not surprised.

"I know." The woman tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear as she leaned back in her chair, staring plainly as she revealed, "I've always known Remus. All these years... I know he is innocent."