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James bounced eagerly from foot to foot, craning his neck to see where his mother had run off to. Now that James knew he was going to Hogwarts, the summer seemed to go on for ages. Fortunately, time was dwindling and it was finally the day they would go to Diagon Alley to get his things. His mind buzzed with all the stuff he wanted to get, but his mother had quickly squashed the idea of him getting a broomstick and smuggling it into Hogwarts.

"This is your first year, James, you do not want to get in trouble!" Mrs. Potter said with a firm shake of her head. "No broomsticks!"

"But—"

"James, enough," Mrs. Potter said shortly, cutting him off and leaving no room for argument.

Now James was more than anticipating the day he would get to see Diagon Alley for himself. He had only been there one other time and it was so long ago, he hardly remembered any of it. James had gone to international Quidditch games, he had been forced to go to Wizarding galas, but nothing could surpass the feeling of excitement over Diagon Alley. It was, perhaps, because James knew he was going for himself this time.

James hopped over to the doorway where he could see his mother gathering her things and stuffing them all in her bag. It was quite a shock to see what could all fit in a small coin purse, but James knew his mother had used magic to help her.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Now I am," Mrs. Potter said and pointed to the pot of gray Floo powder, which she always left by the fireplace. "Now, remember, you must get off at a very specific gate—"

"I know which one!" James said hurriedly and raced over to the pot, grabbing an appropriate amount. He stepped into the fireplace, which roared to life.

The sight would have been alarming if one did not know what Floo was. James was engulfed in emerald flames but they were harmless, not even warm to the touch. The eleven year old boy waited for his mother's nod of approval, then threw down the powder at his feet.

"Diagon Alley!"

With a blaze of light and a crackling rumble of a fire, James had disappeared. He could feel himself spinning but travelling by Floo was nothing new to him. He always remembered to tuck in his elbows, keep his eyes on a fixed point, and focus in his departure. The gate came by quick but James was ready and stepped out with a stagger, nearly falling to the ground.

Almost instantly, his ears filled with the sounds of bustling witches and wizards, clambering to get their things for the start of school term. James looked up, dusted himself off, and felt his jaw drop in awe.

Whatever memory of Diagon Alley he had when he was younger could not do this cobblestone street justice. Stores and goods filled to the brim with animals flying above, people on broomsticks hovering above the crowds on foot, and there were just about every imaginable witch or wizard. Some were old while some were extremely young—others wore dazzling attire while some wore Muggle clothing!

"James?" Mrs. Potter said as she dusted the door from her shoulder. "Stick with me, please."

James looked around, still in slight shock, but managed to move his feet and follow his mother.

"I say we go to Ollivander's first," Mrs. Potter said as she consulted the list of equipment and supplies required by first years. "No—let's get your books first, dear."

James could not really decide what he wanted, so he followed his mother, trying to see everything at once. His neck began to ache with the amount of twisting and turning, but it was worth it for his eyes soaked up every little detail.

"Flourish and Blotts," Mrs. Potter said and veered rather sharply to the right. James nearly tripped over his feet trying to catch up to her.

The shop smelled exactly what James had imagined a bookstore to smell like. Even in the window display, the shelves we're just brimming to the edges with books of all kinds. How was he going to find his books in this hoard? But Mrs. Potter seemed to have read his mind for she put a consoling hand on his shoulder and gestured him forward.

"Ah, Mrs. Potter!" a man behind a desk (full of books) said in delight, arms moving with grandiose. "I was wondering when I would see your lovely self in Diagon Alley. How may I help you today?"

"James, dear, I'll grab your books but I need you to find me a book of my own. I wrote down the title here—" she handed him a piece of torn off parchment, "—which should be somewhere on the second floor."

James tilted his head in an attempt to read his mother's rather small and slanted handwriting. However, he took the page and split off, wanting to do the job right. He rushed upstairs, squeezing past a couple of witches, who stopped him in his tracks.

"Mr. Potter!" one witch said with a beaming grin. "Pleasure to meet you, do give my greetings to your mother!"

James, a bit startled, nodded awkwardly before slipping past them.

"He looks just like Fleamont, Maureen, doesn't he?" the second witch commented, thinking James was out of earshot or simply did not care. "But he has Euphemia's face!"

"Fleamont is shorter," the first witch corrected as if it were an obvious thing.

Did they think he could not hear them?

"That boy will be something! I cannot wait to see how he will continue his family's status."

James frowned as he stared at the spines and covers of random books while eavesdropping. Neither his mother or father ever mentioned anything about their blood status and while he knew his mother and father were respectable, he did not think it mattered to them in the least.

He shook his head and looked at the slightly crumpled piece of paper in his hands. House-Elf Care and Health: A Reference Guide by Hilda Moggins. James followed the sign that said "Elves" and started searching for his mother's desired book.

It took him ages to find it, but there it was! He just about snatched the book from the pile that wobbled dangerously and hurried back to the first floor, where he could see his mother stuffing the books in her coin purse. How she managed to pull such a feat (magic or not) boggled James.

"Mum," he called out, waving the book high above his head as he bounded over to her. "Here."

"Wonderful, James, thank you," Mrs. Potter said and turned to the man behind the desk once more, purchasing the book before giving him a farewell wave.

She instinctively grabbed James's hand and tried walking him out the door—but the boy cleared his throat pointedly and wriggled his hand free.

"Mum," he coughed, looking at her.

"Sorry," Mrs. Potter said and patted his hand instead. "Old habits do die hard. Thank you for finding my book. Poor Tia has been feeling under the weather. I was hoping to find a potion I could brew for the darling. She has taken such good care of our family, it only makes sense to return the favor, yes?"

That seemed to have sparked a new thought for James knit his eyebrows and tapped his mother's arm.

"Are you...er—how come you haven't talked our blood status more?"

Mrs. Potter looked at him lightly, a smile on her face.

"I have no need to worry about that, James. The trend is dying out and while it may have been popular when I was a girl, your father and I value things much greater."

It was such a straightforward answer, but why they were so lenient was still a mystery.

"Next we need to go to Ollivander's," Mrs. Potter said and tapped his lips thoughtfully. "The place will be crowded, but we will make do. Come along..."

James quickened his pace and soon found himself in front of another lopsided-looking building. Like his mother predicted, there was already a thronging crowd inside. However, an old man waved his hands impatiently.

"All right, all right! Clear out! I have customers!"

The crowd dispersed, taking their cameras and megaphones with them. James stuck close to his mother's side, but when he entered the shop, he could not help but race around in excitement.

"Mum!" he said, beckoning her over. "Look at this!"

"Yes, we're here to see Mr. Ollivander, James," Mrs. Potter said and dipped her head respectfully to the man who had shooed everyone out of his shop.

"Mrs. Potter, what a pleasure," the man, Ollivander, said to the youth. "You must be James Potter."

James, now having calmed himself down, nodded and dipped his head much like his mother had taught him.

"Aha, I see," Mr. Ollivander said and looked at him up and down. James felt a little awkward and shuffled his weight from foot to foot. "You have an eye for Transfiguration, I can tell, Mr. Potter."

James looked surprised—he was able to transform small, inanimate objects into other small, inanimate objects for as long as he could remember, but he did not think it was anything special. In fact, he had a hard time remembering a time when transfigurations were not a part of his natural magical abilities.

Mr. Ollivander disappeared into the back of his shop but emerged moments later with a sleek, wooden box.

"10 inches, dragon heartstring, and mahogony wood."

James hummed and cautiously reached out a hand to hold the wand, but the moment his fingers wrapped around the handle, he hissed and snatched it back, cradling it close to his chest.

The wand felt so hot, it was cold to the touch. He nursed his reddening hand and looked at the wand with such an affronted expression, one would think it had just personally offended him. He stepped a bit closer to his mother now, feeling less confident than he was about thirty seconds ago.

Mr. Ollivander picked up the wand and scrutinized it carefully, narrowing his eyes as he tilted this way and that.

"I don't suppose that was supposed to happen," James muttered as he watched his skin form giant, white blisters.

"James," Mrs. Potter scolded.

"No, it just means the wand was not meant for you," Mr. Ollivander said, completely unfazed by James's slight agitation and rudeness. He merely went into his back storage room, voice muffled by the distance. "We are definitely on the right track! Don't be discouraged."

James mumbled something else under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "Merlin's beard", but was quickly silenced by a sharp shake of his mother's head. Mr. Ollivander came back into view with a different wand in his hands, this one looking as innocent as the last one.

He was definitely more apprehensive this time and looked at his mother with slightly narrowed eyes. Mr. Ollivander pushed the wand into James's hands, who looked at it with a bit of a glare before reaching out ever so slowly. He tested the temperature a few times and once he deemed it safe, he lifted it up.

James's arm felt so light and suddenly the pain in his hand disappeared. He looked up at the wand, unable to keep a smile off his face; it felt natural in his grip and Mr. Ollivander smiled back, sensing the instant connection between wand and user. Mrs. Potter looked at Mr. Ollivander and lifted an eyebrow.

"That's the one," the wandmaker said with a single nod, never taking his eyes off James and the wand.

"11 inches, mahogany, and unicorn hair as the core."

Once the Potter exited his shop, Mr. Ollivander put away the wand that had singed the boy the first time and tapped his fingers. Unicorn hair was a much finer choice. It was no wonder why that wand with the dragon heartstring had rejected him. The Dark Arts was not meant for James Potter.

.oOo.

Sirius Black curled his hands into fists, clenching his jaw as he passed a boy and his mother coming out from Ollivander's on his way in. His mother gave that woman a short nod but offered nothing else. Sirius barely caught a glimpse of the kid, but all he really saw was black, tousled hair.

"Mrs. Black," Mr. Ollivander said, then gave him a respected nod. "Mr. Black I believe I have the perfect wand for you already picked out."

Sirius looked at his mother then looked at the older man, saying nothing out of fear of saying the wrong thing. He merely waited in silence.

"If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Black, I prefer to take him into my storage room where I can practice with him," Mr. Ollivander said and added more for his explanation. "I do believe he will excel in the Dark Arts and I wish to keep my shop in it's prime condition."

Mrs. Black visibly looked dismissive at the idea, but she eventually relented with the fact the wandmaker was what they would consider an expert. She nodded and gave Sirius a push on the shoulder. His feet, which seemed to be glued to the floor, stumbled ungracefully.

But, he did not have time to think for Mr. Ollivander was now herding him into the back of the wand shop. Despite his reservations, Sirius followed wordlessly, alert and tense.

"What's this wand?" the eleven-year-old asked though his tone was much more demanding.

"Dragon heartstring, 11 inches, and rowan wood," Mr. Ollivander said and looked at the wand as he unboxed it. He handed it to Sirius with great eagerness.

Yet, he did not take it.

"Why do you think this is it?" Sirius asked again, this time a bit harsher.

"I don't," Mr. Ollivander said and pushed the wand into the raven-haired boy's hand and took a step back, pulling out his own wand. "Only the wand knows."

Sirius grabbed the wand in a rather snatching way and looked at Mr. Ollivander, who sent a flash of white light at him. Instinctively, the ravenette threw up his hands to block his face from getting hit, but something had burst from the wand. It acted like a transparent barrier, protecting him from whatever spell was thrown at him.

Mr. Ollivander increased his power behind the spell, never breaking eye contact from Sirius, who was still holding his hands up to protect his face. He struggled to keep up, feeling drained of his energy.

By the sixth or seventh attempt, the barrier broke and he felt like he had been punched squarely in the chest with a hammer, having been taken right off his feet.

"That's the one," Mr. Ollivander said, voice hazy as Sirius fought to open his eyes. The wandmaker was bent over him, eyes inches away from his own.

"What was that?" he gasped, legs feeling like they were now water. "Oi, i-it threw me!"

"It protected you," Mr. Ollivander corrected and smiled victoriously, bolstering the aristocrat back up from the elbows. "It did exactly what I imagined."

"What?" Sirius asked, now more confused than ever.

"Only the wand knows," the old man said with a shrug of his shoulders. "But that's yours. It's chosen you as its rightful master."

Yet, something else was still nagging at the back of his mind. Sirius planted his feet firmly to the ground, but he had the sense to lower his voice so his mother would not overhear him asking.

"Why did you bring me back here?"

Mr. Ollivander did not seem put off or perplexed by the brazen inquiry. He merely smiled and pushed his glasses into place, eyes casting over the boy with scrunity.

"The relationship between a wand and its user is intimate and very much a secret even us wandlores will never fully understand. The wand, after all, is the beacon for magic."

Sirius merely stared, at a loss and wondering just where this was going and how this was answering his question in the slightest.

"Magic can, however, be quelled under the right circumstances," Mr. Ollivander continued with a faraway gaze, seeing something that Sirius could not. "Not even a wand would be able to draw out magic. The first bond is the most important and having impairments during such an intimate moment could tip the balance."

Sirius looked down the messy hallway and towards the front of the entrace where his mother stood and wondered. While he chalked it up to an overactive imagination, Mr. Ollivander's words made it easy for Sirius to assume the older wizard knew exactly what kind of witch his mother was...

"We best not keep her waiting," the wandkeeper said in a too-chipper voice and patted him on the shoulder. "Let's make haste."

The two had returned to the front of the shop, where Sirius's mother quickly paid for the wand and thanked him curtly. Mr. Ollivander merely nodded at Sirius, who cast his eyes downward at the wand he suddenly did not trust.

The eleven year old boy had left Ollivander's wand shop more conflicted than ever with a wand he was not sure of in his hand. His mother strode alongside him, offering him no comfort when he tried to voice his concern about said wand.

Why did it throw him back? Why did it not work for him? Why did Mr. Ollivander think it was the right wand for him? These questions and more rattled in Sirius's head, but he did not have long to linger on them.

"Lestrange."

Sirius jolted unceremoniously and came to an abrupt halt to prevent himself from crashing into his mother.

"Walburga," a witch said with a vaguely familiar face. His mother, however, did not look pleased to see the other. "Will you be at the gala this year?"

"Small talk?" Walburga asked, pursing her lips as she leered over the witch with squared shoulders and a tightened jaw. "I still do not support the marriage. You know this."

"What Leta did has nothing to do with my son," the witch snarled, now growing angry herself.

Sirius's mother took the aggression as a threat and raised a finger.

He knew it all too well. How many times had Sirius been on the receiving end of her wrath?

"She was a traitor," Walburga snarled dangerously, baring her teeth. "She aided in the downfall of Grindelwald, do you recall?"

"As well as you," the witch snapped heatedly. "Good day."

Walburga stuck her nose up in the air and brushed past the woman without another word. Sirius followed close behind, keeping his head down and his mouth shut because he knew better than to provoke another argument between them when he was already on the top of her dislike list.

Eventually, he found himself in Twilfitt and Tatting's, a robe shop where Sirius just knew his mother was going to shove him in Slytherin garb.

"Mum," he tried to say.

However, Walburga silenced him with a vice-like grip to his shoulder. She yanked the door open and stepped in, looking around immediately for the store owner. The owner stepped into view seconds later and broke out into a smile.

"This must be Sirius," said she, extending a hand.

Sirius, under his mother's watchful gaze, shook her hand and forced a smile. Walburga, who decided it was convincing enough, turned to the woman and gestured vaguely to her son with a wave of her hand.

"He is due for robes, Bogdana."

"This is his first year, yes?" Bogdana asked, humming as she pulled out her wand. With a wave, it spat out a measuring tape, which she held up next to Sirius. "Regulus is a year younger if I remember correctly."

"Yes," Walburga said quickly and tapped her lips thoughtfully. "Would you happen to have anything in emerald or silver?"

"Afraid not, Walburga, you know the rules," Bodgana said and chuckled slightly as she began to write down the measurements with a floating quill. "Dumbledore is not one to tolerate any bending of them either."

Walburga tried to disguise the disgusted look on her face. Sirius knew his mother was not a fan of Albus Dumbledore, whoever that may have been, for she held such a significiant hatred for the wizard. Sirius chalked it up to his mother's superiority complex.

"Yes, well," she said and folded her arms over her chest. "He will be in Slytherin, so I would prefer to purchase the robes as soon as I can."

"I cannot do that," Bodgana said again, waving her wand. Sewing tools such a needles and thread came out from behind her desk. They began to magically cut a line of fabric from the roller. "You have no guarantee your boy will be sorted there anyway. It would be a shame to waste money on that uncertainty."

"I beg your pardon?" Walburga said, taken aback. She pointed a finger at Sirius. "My family has only ever been in Slytherin, unless you are insinuating impurity?"

"Not at all," the witch said, keeping her composure underneath the angry woman's glare. "I am merely suggesting your greatness and extraordinary gifts are rooted deep within your family, Walburga. Perhaps your family is meant to conquer more than one Hogwarts house."

Walburga seemed to mull this over for she fell silent and deflated a bit. She seemed to like that answer for she did not press the matter. Instead, Bogdana was able to work in silence, weaving her wand this way and that to thread the needle through the fabric. First came the sleeves, then the shoulders, and then the torso. Sirius waited patiently, watching with suppressed interest.

The seamstress eventually was able to sew and attach the hood and pockets into the robes, which were brand new and custom made. She looked over her work, inspecting every slight and small detail, walking around it as she poked and prodded at it with her wand. The robes, suspended a foot off the ground, looked as acceptable, even by his mother's standards.

"I think this will work beautifully," Bogdana said and turned to face the eleven year old boy. "Will you try them on?"

Sirius nodded and slipped his arms into the sleeves. The rest of the robe came forth and put itself on him; the fabric was as soft as it looked and just as high-quality. He looked at the witch, whose face was screwed up in concentration.

"The hem is perfect but the sleeves may need work," she murmured to herself.

"I think they're fine," Walburga interjected and cleared her throat. "This should not be an all-day affair."

"Yes...well, of course...and because it's not my best work," Bogdana said but stopped when Walburga gave her a look. "It will be discounted."

The robes flew off Sirius, folded itself in mid-air, then folded itself neatly in a bag for Sirius to take with him. He had already purchased his books, wand, and robes. The only thing he knew his mother would want to visit would be Knockturn Alley.

As predicted, his mother turned into the darkened alley and led him straight into the shop called The Coffin House. The mere sight of its exterior sent shivers down Sirius's spine; he could only imagine what the inside looked like.

Just as horrible as the name suggested, the inside was even worse. It was horribly lit and the owner of the shop looked absolutely skeletal. Every bone was pronounced with tight, pale skin stretched over them. Their face was sunken in and their lips were an unusual shade of blue, almost as if there was no life. Sirius shrunk closer to his mother, feeling frightened and overwhelmed.

"Walburga," the corpse-like wizard said and raised a bony hand, which had long, silver fingernails. "How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for that cursed key we talked about last time," Walburga said and looked around as if would somehow magically appear.

"What would a nice witch like you do with that?" the wizard wheezed.

"You are simply meant to do your job," Walburga hissed, now advancing on the weaker wizard with her wand drawn. "You are in no position or right to ask questions and based on your ghastly attire, you haven't the status nor power to agitate me today. I suggest you get what I asked for and be done with it."

"Yes," the wizard said and held up his hands to appease the angry witch. "It's in the front corner, reserved for you."

"That's all," Walburga said and sent the wizard to his knees, forcing him into a begging position. She smiled as if she were enjoying it. "Now, that is where you belong...at my feet."

Sirius watched as his mother used her foot to kick the wizard the rest of the way to the ground. She gathered her robes and set off to the corner, where she was able to find her merchandise. She levitated it behind her and laid a single galleon on the man's dusty counter.

"Buy yourself a decent set of robes," she said loftily.

.oOo.

Peter tagged alongside his mother, who was moving at such a brisk pace that he had trouble keeping up. It was a short walk to Gringotts Wizarding Bank, but his mother was walking as if it would disappear within the hour. The crowds did not help matters and the constant weaving and stumbling apologies whenever he would bump shoulders with someone slowed them down...or rather it slowed him down.

Eventually, she came to a stop before a great, white building with pillars that towered over him. She put a hand on Peter's back and guided him forward, holding the door for him while he entered. The moment Peter took his first steps inside, his jaw dropped. It had to be one of the grandest places he had ever been in...where would he begin?

The chandeliers were divine, but one alone cost more than his entire lifestyle put together; his eyes could pick out each, individual, gleaming diamond and if he had to guess, there had be thousands of them attached to a single light. Just a handful of those diamons would set him and his family up quite nicely...

Peter shook his head and inwardly chided himself; greed was the one thing he prided himself in not having. He wanted to be nothing like his father and if there was one thing his father was, it was greedy. Mr. Pettigrew always wanted more because what he had was never enough...not enough food, money, house, or love within a family.

It was never enough.

He was never enough.

"Peter," Mrs. Pettigrew said softly and held out her hand for him to take as if he was a mere child again. "Stay close."

"I know, Mum," he had insisted, but just as he was about to step forward, he had to put on the brakes sharply to avoid a collision with a creature about a head shorter than him. Peter scrambled backward and nearly tripped over his own two feet in his haste to put some space between them. "Sorry!"

"Goblins," Mrs. Pettigrew explained, catching onto her son's confusion and anxiety. "Show them respect and you will have nothing to fear, dear. Come along. We need to make a withdrawal."

Peter, this time, stuck close to his mother's side and followed her all the way to the front (having learned his lesson now). The goblin did not spare them a second glance, eyes still trained solely on the parchment before him. Mrs. Pettigrew cleared her throat apologetically.

"I'm sorry," she said patiently. "I hope you wouldn't mind terribly if I could make a quick withdrawal."

The goblin seemed to have been taken by his mother's more timid and submissive nature for he set his quill down and finally looked at her. His lips parted, revealing two rows of sharp teeth and suddenly Peter found himself wondering whether goblins bite or not.

"If you have your key, you may follow me."

Mrs. Pettigrew pulled out the key and handed it to the goblin, who jumped from his desk and beckoned them forward. Peter scurried after her as the three made their way to a black, brass door.

The goblin touched and tapped the surface with certain fingers, which opened the door to reveal a strange, cart-like vehicle. Mrs. Pettigrew stepped forward first and sat in one of the available seats. Peter took the one next to her and scooted away from the edge as far as he could.

"Do not go bounding about the cart," the goblin warned as he lit a lantern nearly the size of him. "Unless you don't mind falling to your death."

Peter was itching to retort, but something his mother said about respect stuck in his head, so he kept it to himself. Instead, he tucked his arms a little closer to himself. Although, he was not prepared for the sudden, forward lurch. He had to grab on to the edge to steady himself but the cart was already moving swiftly down the tracks. They began to descend.

The walls became rocks, the light dimmed completely, and the air got cooler. Peter was, without a doubt, underground. He made the mistake of looking over the edge and instantly regretted it.

They were hundred of feet above the ground, which was not even visible from his standpoint, and they were moving at incredible speeds. Not to mention, there were no safety rails or guards or anything to protect him from falling should there be a malfunction.

"Vault 479," the goblin said and pulled a strange lever. "It will be on our right."

Peter, now alarmingly dizzy, struggled to get out of the cart with any sort of grace. He successfully freed one foot but knocked into the goblin while trying to wedge the other one out. The poor goblin looked enraged, but managed to keep a professional demeanor (he would just angrily glare at Peter every so often).

Still, the ride down was hardly what he would consider the worst feeling. The shorter boy had never seen his family vault in Gringotts before but now he understood why not.

He could count the number of galleons on two hands and the number knuts and sickles on one. It would be difficult for him to afford anything on the list with the meager savings, but somehow his mother was going to manage (or at least that what he had been told time and time again). He would have to trust her.

However, it was disheartening to see just how much his parents struggled just to get by. His mother seemed to have noticed his worried expression for she smiled and patted him on the cheek lovingly.

"We have much more, we just haven't exchanged our Muggle money."

Peter forced a smile, but his heart said otherwise; it was no surprise his family did not come from money. The first hint would have been his second-hand books or his second-hand robes, but the other hint was the clothes his parents wore, the kind of father he had, and the kind of house he lived in.

He stared hard at the pathetic pile of gold, cursing whatever deity decided to measure lifestlye by monetary value. He even remembered a time when he promised himself he would find a job as soon as he was old enough, but now he was beginning to wonder if he would ever earn enough to make up for being such a financial burden.

"Peter, dear."

The boy looked up at his mother with an apologetic look and rubbed his arm, a nervous tic he did whenever he wanted to keep himself in the present...to keep his mind from floating off to whatever ridiculous daydream he could conjure. Peter rode the cart back up in complete silence, the rubbing doing nothing to assuage his anxiety.

"I'm fine, Mum," he said reassuringly, but his smile never reached his eyes. Instead, he set his sights elsewhere, looking over the edge of the cart and wondering just how far the fall was before he would actually hit rock bottom...

According to his father, they were already at the end.

.oOo.

Remus kept his head bowed as he trailed miserably after his mother, wishing he could find it in himself to be happy. His fears of waking up and the acceptance letter was all a dream; he would be stuck living on the margins, watching from the window as everyone else lived the life he so desperately wanted a taste of.

His mother put a hand on his shoulder and though he appreciated the effort to comfort, the last thing he wanted was sympathy. Remus bit the inside of his cheek so hard, it drew blood, but he was no stranger to pain. The bustling crowds paid him hardly any attention, but if he were to be exposed, everyone was sure to attack what they easily perceived as a threat.

"Mum," he muttered under his breath, rubbing the soreness from his legs as if that would help alleviate the discomfort. "Can I take a break?"

Hope turned on her heel, gaze softening as she looked at her tired boy. With an extended hand, she grasped his tightly and gave him a reassuring smile. "We just need to go to Ollivander's."

"Mum," Remus pressed with a little more urgency to his tone, staring at her with more of a glare. "Please."

Hope sighed patiently and doubled back, pulling her son to the side to avoid the thronging crowds pushing them this way and that. Remus stiffened as his mother bent to get on eye-level with him, looking at him with such a solemn expression; he truly wondered if there was something he had done wrong.

"Pray, I taught you better than to hide from what you fear."

Remus, this time, did scowl heavily as he jerked away from his mother, teeth bared in agitation. He sniffed pointedly and crossed his arms over his chest. "Is that what you think I'm doing just because I wanted a break? I told you I was just tired."

"I have known you your whole life, Remus," Hope said with a soft smile, unperplexed by his abrasive tone. "You are many things and I have taught you even more, but a liar is not one of them. That is why you are so bad at it, Remus."

The young lycanthrope bit the inside of his cheek and turned his face away, annoyance flaring in his chest as he felt his hands curl into fists. He was ashamed to admit he was afraid and even more ashamed to admit why; his eyes travelled to the wand shop and his heart skipped a few beats.

He could picture the very day he would get his first wand...live life as a normal wizard the way he wanted to, but when it came, Remus found himself dreading it.