Hello, everyone! It has really been three years since I last been active with this story. I have never once forgotten it.

In the last three years, I have done a lot of growing up and learning.

I have always wanted to finish this story since it was very important to me- so I finally decided that now was the time.

I tried to rewrite last year, but life got the best of me.

Now, I am firm. I am completely committed to rewrite it, for a lot of the original was a) badly written and b) not exactly what I wanted for my story. Again, I've also learned and experienced a lot in my own life which has completely warped my way of thinking, so I hope that is reflected in this story. I have decided to make this much deeper as a storyline, much more complex with Eve (who used to be Eva, for those of you who have been following for the last 3-4 years) becoming more three-dimensional. In addition, it will be shorter as I do believe there were a lot of filler chapters in the original.

It is a story that talks about the struggles we face as humans in a metaphorical way. Again, I will be updating the blog as well. I would love to hear your thoughts and opinions. For those of you who liked the original better, it should tell be up on Ao3 and I will have the link in my bio.

Much thanks, everyone. I hope you enjoy the ride!

Summer '74, Some Point in the Middle of the Night

It was a mirror meant for a museum. An antique embellished in gold, curved with deep spirals running all along its border. It should have cracked with age, withering away like most things to do, but all it had to show of its past was the black, freckle-like spots doting certain corners of the glass. Otherwise, it was perfect.

Light brown eyes stared back at her in its reflection. A petite hand mindlessly brushed through limp, dark hair. The young girl's eyes were still, staring and being stared at.

She had just turned 14, and yet the severity carved into her face was much too much for a girl her age. But what could she do? Smile? How? How could she smile when her eyes burned?

Agony.

Lots of it.

An ache had begun to build behind the small of her ear. A sort of indescribable compression— as if the whole house was free falling through the center of the Earth.

The hand in her hair stopped, returning the silver comb laced within its fingers back to the dark-stained vanity. Those same fingers then reached to place pressure behind her ears. Small circles, one after the other after another— and yet, nothing. No relief. She closed her eyes, focusing on the pain, on the sound that radiated from it.

Because the pain was a sound.

And not just a sound— but sounds.

An indecipherable language that sounded like static radio waves.

And it was absolutely relentless, growing stronger and louder by the second.

What're you saying? She tried asking it. Her eyes clenched tight. Her body bent over. Her forehead was placed on the edge of the vanity as she tried to hone in on them.

The pressure was growing and, with it, her desperation to understand.

It all happened faster than she could grasp. One moment— a dull ache. The next— a rattling, ground-shaking rush of blood to the head.

As her mouth opened, a figure in the shadows made a loud pop! Suddenly, the young witch was shot forward from her seat. The vanity disappeared with a violent quiver; the silver comb crashed to the floor, clinging and clanging, and making every kind of racket it could.

But she would only know it had fallen after.

Because she no longer knew where she was.

Her eyes were wide open, bubbles coming out of her mouth as she did the only thing she thought she could: scream.

And scream.

And scream.

Only she could hear it.

A part of her wanted to choke herself to end it sooner, another desperately looked up to the water's surface for salvation— gasping for air and screaming at the same time while her lungs filled with salted water. She tried to keep herself afloat despite the burn in her lungs and eyes, despite the weight pulling her down to the seafloor as currents from St. George's Channel ripped at her, swaying the flimsy nightgown from side to side.

The scream was a piercing sound, the ugliest shriek she had ever heard— but in the depths of the sea, as her mind began to grow dark, she could hear them. The static was no longer static, but words of a language long forgotten.

And as soon as she began to listen— everything turned black.

"Mistress must not scream," said Dipsy, the aged house-elf. With arms not much larger than sticks, she dragged the young witch out of the sea and onto the beach. She stared down at her mistress with innocent eyes as round and glassy as a rose window, filled with a concocted, simulated love that gave the young witch little reassurance as she coughed up entire pools of water.

Eve turned on her side, breaking the stare with her house-elf. The water continued to come up, her drenched hair sweeping and picking up sand, her eyes bloodshot from the sting of the sea.

"What's wrong with me?" She asked as her chest heaved up and down, not moving from the sprawled-out position she had taken on the beach. It was by no means warm, the wind was rough on the Hook. It whipped one way and then changed its mind to run back, sending chills to every corner of her body. Dipsy observed the goosebumps that had erupted along the young girl's skin and snapped her fingers. Almost immediately, the witch could feel the water evaporate— leaving behind soft silk and salted locks.

"The Kavanagh Curse," Dipsy whispered, clasping her hands together.

"The Kavanagh curse?" Eve repeated on purple lips.

"Come, Mistress Eve must return," the house-elf said, grabbing the witch by her wrist. Eve didn't even have time to get up, much less protest, by the time Dipsy had snapped her fingers and the damp, cold wind was replaced by a damp, dark warmth. The house-elf rushed around the room, grabbing blankets out of a dresser as Eve stood there, staring into the same mirror she had been staring into for hours.

How long had it been?

"Mistress must go before Mistress screams. Mistress mustn't scream," Dipsy continued to mutter as she wrapped the young witch in a blanket.

"But I could hear—"

"Mistress Eve must not scream," Dipsy repeated.

"But they want to tell me something," she asserted, turning to look down at the house-elf.

"Mistress Eve mustn't scream," Dipsy whispered, bending down to pick up the fallen comb. "Mistress Eve mustn't scream."

1 September 1971

For anyone who had been looking, although none were — or could — they would find hoards of students with tanned skin and bright smiles embracing and greeting one another after a summer away. They did their best to crowd into too-small compartments, some taking to the floor, others sitting on the laps of those they secretly admired, brushing away the blush that crept up their necks and onto their cheeks as they were held in place by their hips.

At the same time, one would also find nearly empty compartments, holding only a student or two as they sat far away from the rest. Books pressed to their noses as they pretended to read, hoping that no one intruded, and those that did— that they would not notice.

Remus, with his forehead pressed against the cool glass, stared in awe at the colossal brick factories that passed into the blue-collar neighborhoods of Greater London. Alone, thus not yet jittery with the anxiety that novel encounters so often brought, he was able to delve deep through those streets that faded all too quickly before him. Pubs, crooked houses, broken windows that were shoddily patched up with newspapers and cardboard. Both wonderful and wretched at the same time.

"Filthy city," his father had scowled as soon as they had stepped outside the wizard's pub sitting across the bustling train station. Sure, the boy had easily agreed with him, but a gradual fondness of the graffiti-stained surfaces and still-chained bikes with missing wheels matured within him; a liking to the things that had been long abandoned by their once-owners.

"Are they wizards?" the boy had whispered to his father as two men with emerald green hair and leather jackets with the word 'punk' written in white paint across their backs passed them. He had not responded and, instead, pulled his son faster through the crowds as they hurried into the train station.

If chaos had a name, it was King's Cross Station. Hundreds of people exited and entered at the same time, their eyes glossed over and peering over into a far distance, barely stepping away from the boy's path as he almost went tumbling into their chests and briefcases.

"You're gonna hit something or someone if you keep lookin' up like that," his father had told him. The young wizard didn't listen— how could he? It was like Christmas morning. Everything was new to him. He had never seen such massive structures: walls that reached the sky, pillars as thick as a centennial oak tree. He'd engrained the images into his head, to be etched into his memory forever.

Later, when he sat in the empty train compartment, he decided that he didn't care one bit— it could be dirty and filthy, the streets could be filled with rubble, and it'd still be one of the nine wonders of the world to him. The messier— the better. The more chaotic— the better. Because what it gave him, what it made him feel was an indescribable sentiment that made his heart burst and his mind turn faster than it ever had before.

For a child that had grown up alone, with only his parents to keep him company, this was the universe— vast, mysterious, transcendental. There seemed to be enough space for everyone. No one looked twice, no one turned around, no one cared.

But the young boy would eventually have to come to terms with his reality: he was not staying in London. Where he was going, there were no busy streets where walking over the beggar child was the status quo. It would be an unknown place where he didn't know a name, where he didn't know a face. Thinking about it made his stomach turn.

He had left the security that only a home and a family could provide. Though he had no friends, no company, he had never known anything else. He loved the summer picnics in the backyard, birds chirping as he and his father munched away on their lunch. He loved the fireplace that crackled during the winter, the pine of the Christmas tree mixing with his mother's cigarette even as she attempted to blow the smoke out the window.

"Can we go tomorrow?" he had begged his father as soon as his eager eyes had looked over the supply list.

"Tomorrow," Lyall Lupin had agreed, and immediately, the boy had thrown his arms around his father's seated body.

Once he had returned home from Holyhead, the humble Wizarding Welsh Capital, the boy had thrown himself onto his bed, laying out all the new books and spending every waking hour reading, studying, memorizing the lines. There were demonstrations galore in his Defense Against the Dark Arts book, and perplexing equations that made his mind spin in the Transfiguration one.

And, of course, the wand.

"Ten and a quarter inch, pliable Cypress with a Unicorn Tail core," a wizard with a hennaed-orange beard and deep bronze skin had announced, holding it out to him.

"Mammy, look! I have a wand now!" He had cheered and jumped as he presented the wooden stick to his mother who, despite being a muggle, could barely keep the excitement to herself.

And though he had counted down the days fervently, spending most nights awake as he read his new books— the day had arrived quicker than he had expected. Now, he found himself alone with just his books, his wand, and one of his father's owls. A lump grew in his throat, making it harder and harder to swallow; a sense of despair settling deep in his stomach.

But he knew he couldn't turn back.

He had made a promise.

"Think of it as an adventure, hm, darling," his mother had cried while holding him close to her chest the night before.

He thought that his adventure had begun as soon as he had stepped out of that pub on Pancras Road, but little did he know that it most certainly hadn't.

"Over here," someone exclaimed, followed by a sharp, short whistle. "This one's empty." Peter's eyes shot up to the window. A boy that he assumed had to be about his age stood right outside. He had hair the color of snow, his skin just as pale with two bright, rose-tinted cheeks. He unlocked the door's clasp and slid it open.

Eyes the color of frost locked with Peter's, sending a shiver down his spine.

If a glacier could be a person— he swore this boy was it.

"Never mind," Peter heard him mutter, releasing his hand from the sliding door. But before it could completely close, another reached out to hold it open.

"There's nowhere else to sit— there's room here," argued another boy, who shoved past the first boy to enter the compartment. Peter's eyes followed him as he plopped down into the seat directly opposite him.

A set of light blue eyes met his own— not the same iciness as the first, though. No, these were hard as rocks.

He looked away from Peter and back up to his friend.

"Just sit," he said, gesturing to the rest of the empty seats with a quick tilt of the head. The other boy huffed but obliged, taking the second seat across from Peter.

And just when he thought the nightmare was over, Peter looked back up to watch a third person enter. This time, a girl.

It wasn't her eyes that caught his attention but the robes. Not the ones assigned, these were better, much better— made out of, silk, gold thread, and any other fine material a person with enough money could want.

He pulled at his own sleeves, the sweat from his palms staining the cheap, donation-box material.

"I'm Avery, Cedric," said the boy sitting across from Peter. Peter jolted as if someone had come up from behind to scare him. They both looked to one another: his stare curious, his own startled. And though it was more innocent than it wasn't, the sudden attention from the two wizards sitting across from him made his neck redden and his gaze fall to his lap. "And you?"

"What's wrong with you?… Bloody hell, you mute, boy?"

"Whatever," Cedric Avery said, moving his attention from Peter to the girl next to him.

"Why? What's wrong with him?" asked, who Peter would soon enough find out to be, Evan Rosier— the glacier.

"Maybe he doesn't want to talk to us," Cedric said, the two boys now exchanging a look with one another. Peter hunched over in the corner, unable to gather anything besides his own heartbeat. He could not even count his breaths any longer, the ground becoming unsteady as he pulled his sleeves over his fists even further.

"Why? Why doesn't he want to speak to me?" Evan Rosier asked, taunting him, his eyes ablaze as they bore down onto Peter. "Why? Too good for me, are you?"

"Ouch, watch it!" The witch yelped as Peter jumped up from his seat. He tripped over their legs, kicking the young girl's ankle as he tried to make his escape. Evan Rosier laughed out loud, clapping his hands together as he watched the boy scramble to slide the door open. Eventually, Peter got the door open and him out of there. A full circus of laughter seemingly followed him down the hall as he sped off to find cover.

As soon as he did, he shut the bathroom door behind him and bent over the toilet. His breath was heavy, panting, his chest heaving. He could barely get a gasp of air in before it was out again. In the dark, he relieved himself of the knot in his stomach. One, two, three. He stared into the toilet, losing any sense of where he was. When he no longer felt like he was going to die, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the locked door.

He wanted to kick himself.

Why did he react like that?

What was wrong with him?

As Peter tried to make himself as comfortable as he could in the train bathroom, pulling out a lollipop from deep within his pockets, it hit him— his toad and his luggage. The realization made him throw his head back against the wall and groan. But before his stomach could de-settle again, a knock came at the door, forcing the boy to his feet.

"One, one second," he stuttered, looking around the floor to make sure he had everything. He unlocked the door and walked out, an older student with a yellow tie stepping to the side to let him pass. "Sorry," he murmured, rushing off down the corridor to find where he was going next. He looked desperately at each compartment, growing more frantic as each one seemed more packed than the next. Eventually, he happened upon one that seemed to have enough space for him to huddle into.

He tapped on the window, a thin, lanky boy with long legs, sandy blonde hair, and hazel green eyes looked up at him. Peter unlocked the door and slid it open, gulping as he stood at the doorway, twiddling the unfinished lollipop between his fingers.

"Hello," he greeted. "D'you mind if I sit here? I got kick," he looked to his feet, "I got kicked out."

"Sure, okay," the boy replied.

"Thanks."

He took a seat in the farthest corner from the other occupant, both boys watching one another out of the corner of their eyes.

"I'm Remus."

"Peter."

"Nice to meet you, Peter."

"Kavanagh, Eve."

A low whistle emerged from the Gryffindor table. Remus' gaze followed its trail, landing on Sirius Black — as he recalled him saying — who was squinting as the girl walked up to the Sorting Hat. Remus turned to look forward, his chin tilted upwards as he tried to get a better look at the lengthy, straight dark hair that swung back and forth against the girl's robes. Her back was as straight as a pole, her eyes shined impishly, and she sat on that stool like it was her coronation— as if she had been born for that exact moment.

"Who's that?"

"Daughter of Ireland's Master of Coin," Remus heard two students seated at the table to his left whisper to one another. Diagonally from where they sat, another boy looked to them with a smirk, repeatedly rubbing his thumb over the tip of his index and middle finger to indicate money.

"She'll place Slytherin, I'll bet a galleon on it," Sirius commented to the witch sitting next to him.

"I'll bet 10," added the boy who had made the finger gesture.

"She's as Slytherin as it comes… You know, her mother was Slytherin Head Girl a hundred years ago? Reckon they've got her portrait up in there and all." Sirius turned to the crowd of first years that he, himself, had just been a part of, but his eyes landed on a particular redhead that had her back turned to Remus. "Oh," he blurted out, "fancy seeing you here— in Gryffindor. How's your friend Snivellus doing?"

"Severus," the young witch corrected with a scowl, grimacing as she turned back to the Sorting Ceremony.

"SLYTHERIN!" shouted the Sorting Hat after a full, silent yet seemingly quick two minutes.

Students in green stood up for the ovation; hooting and whistling as the young witch left her place to gain a new one by their side.

"See? What'd I say?" Sirius asked. No one answered him.

"Lupin, Remus." Remus nearly choked on the air he was breathing. A whole second passed before he realized that that had been his name. Somehow, he managed one foot in front of the other until he found his way to the stool. He held his breath as he turned around, trying his best to avoid the hundreds of eyes he knew were on him at that very moment.

The Sorting Hat was placed onto his head and the hall fell silent, waiting for the verdict.

For a second— there was nothing, and then, a voice in his head began to mumble.

Hm, I see here love for scholarship— indeed, Ravenclaw would do you well, wouldn't it? But, let's see, oh, what a tragedy, indeed, and yet— here you are… Curious, very curious, hmm… Already making friends, are we? Very well…

And then came the shouting: "GRYFFINDOR!"

His eyes widened as the burgundy table stood up and cheered, clapping for him— for him of all people. Mimicking their own outburst, a grin spread across his starstruck face. He hopped off the stool and walked towards the table that gestured and welcomed him over.

"Here, next to me," the red-haired witch from before called out to him. Remus nodded to convey his gratitude, sitting next to her. "I'm Lily— Lily Evans, by the way." He looked into her green eyes then surveyed the freckle-stained hand that she held out to him.

"Remus, Remus Lupin," he replied, returning her shy smile and taking her hand into his own.

"Where're you from, Re—"

"And I'm Sirius, Sirius Black." But Remus had already known his name because every time someone new had been sorted into Gryffindor— Sirius had made it a point of introducing himself.

He wasn't annoyed, though. And maybe he should have been but, in a way, Remus had to admire the boy. His sorting had been particularly odd, particularly rough. But Sirius had grinned and winked his way through it, his chin held high, his chest puffed out as he dared anyone to say anything, anything at all as the Hat screamed out Gryffindor. Unlike every other person that had come before and after him, the entire Hall had fallen silent. Crickets. There had been no standing ovation for Sirius Black. "By the way, Lupin, you don't want to be friends with her." Remus' eyes shot up to his. "She's got a wand stuck so far up her bunghole—"

Lily gasped, her chin jutting forward as she stared, open-mouthed, at her new housemate.

Despite himself, Remus curled his lips inwards, biting down on the lower flesh as his eyes darted between the two.

A theatrical bunch— he had to admit.

Remus turned back to the ceremony, watching as one by one the group he had just come from dwindled. He didn't know what to expect, and all he had really planned was to get through the year as best as he could. Would he even finish all seven years? He highly doubted it. But, of course, no one, no matter how much they tried, could be certain of what the end would look like, who would be there, what would remain. Only one thing was for sure— this was going to be one hell of a ride.