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 along its border. It should have cracked with age, withering away like most things to do, but alas, it had not. All it had to show of its past was the black, freckle-like spots doting certain corners of the glass. Otherwise, it was perfect.

Dark eyes stared back into its reflection. A hand mindlessly brushed through limp, equally dark hair. The image was still: staring and being stared at.

She had just turned 14, yet the severity carved into her face was too much for a young girl.

But what could she do?

Agony.

Lots of it.

Torture.

Plenty of it.

An ache began to form behind the small of her ear. An indescribable pressure— as if the entire house was plummeting through the core of the Earth.

The hand in her hair stopped, returning the silver comb nestled within its fingers to the dark-stained vanity. Those same fingers then reached to apply pressure behind her ears. Small circles, one after another— and yet, nothing. No relief. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the pain, on the radiation that beamed from it.

The pain was a sound.

And not just a sound— but sounds?

An indecipherable language that sounded like static radio waves.

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

What are you? She tried asking it. Her eyes clenched tight. Her body hunched over. Her forehead rested on the vanity's edge.

Everything happened in an instant.

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 resounding POP! Suddenly, the young witch was thrust forward from her seat. The vanity vanished with a violent quiver; the silver comb tumbled to the floor, clanging and clinking and making every kind of racket it could.

She would only know it had fallen after.

Because she no longer knew where she had been.

Her eyes were wide open, bubbles escaping from her mouth as she did the only thing she believed she could: scream.

And scream.

And scream.

A part of her wanted to choke herself to end it sooner, and another desperately looked 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 as her mind grew dark, she could hear them in the depths of the sea. The static was no longer static.

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

"Mistress must not scream," said Dipsy, the aged house elf. With arms no thicker than twigs, she dragged the young witch from 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 offered little comfort as she coughed up entire pools of water. Eve turned on her side, breaking the stare with Dipsy. The water continued to come up, her drenched hair sweeping and picking up sand, eyes bloodshot from the sting of the sea.

"What's happened?"

Her chest heaved, yet she remained sprawled out on the beach. It was by no means warm. The wind was harsh on the Hook, whipping one way and then changed its mind to run back, sending chills through every corner of her body. Dipsy noticed the goosebumps that had erupted along the young girl's skin and snapped her fingers. Almost instantly, the witch could feel the water evaporating, leaving behind soft silk and salty strands.

"The Kavanagh Curse," Dipsy whispered.

"What curse?" Eve echoed on purple lips.

"Come, Mistress Eve must return," the house-elf said, gripping the witch by her wrist. Eve barely had time to stand, let alone protest, before a damp, dark warmth replaced the chilly, cold wind. The house-elf hurried around the room, collecting blankets from a dresser as Eve remained fixed on 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..." She looked 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

"Over here," someone summoned, followed by a sharp, short whistle. "This one's empty." Peter's eyes shot up to the compartment's 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. Without so much as noticing the solitary occupancy, he unlocked the door's clasp and slid it open.

Eyes 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 grumble, releasing his hand from the sliding door. But before it could completely close, another jutted out to hold it open.

"There's nowhere else to sit— there's plenty of 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 deep brown eyes met his own. Though, they were unlike the iciness of the first. No, these were firm and proud, unyielding like stone.

He turned away from Peter to refocus his attention on his friend.

"Just sit," he said, gesturing to the rest of the empty seats with a quick tilt of his chin. 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. She had hair that came to her waist, covering her profile, so he could not classify her eyes as ice or stone, but it wouldn't have mattered, for it was not her features that caught his attention but her robes. These were nothing like the ones assigned. They were better, much better— made of silk, gold thread, and any other fine material a person with enough money could want. On her breast, there was a delicate gold pin in the shape of some sort of lion that kept the robes from unfolding.

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

"I'm Nott, Edmund," introduced the boy sitting across from Peter. Peter jolted as if someone had come up from behind to scare him. They both looked at 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 fell to his lap. "And you?"

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

"Leave him, Evan," Edmund Nott instructed, moving his attention from Peter to the girl next to him.

"Why? What's wrong with him?" asked Evan, the glacier.

"Maybe he doesn't want to talk to us," Edmund said, shrugging. Evan exchanged a look with the witch across from him. Peter hunched further into the corner, unable to gather anything besides his own heartbeat. He could not even count his breaths anymore, 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 continued, taunting him, his eyes ablaze as they bore down on Peter. "Why? Too good for me, are you?"

"Ow!" 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 loudly, clapping his hands together as he watched the boy scramble to slide the door open. Eventually, Peter yanked the door open and evacuated himself out of there. An entire circus of laughter seemingly followed him down the passageway 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, and his chest was heaving. He could barely manage 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 all 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 possible 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 him to his feet.

"One, one second," he stuttered, looking around the floor to ensure he had everything. He unlocked the door and scurried out, an older student with a yellow tie stepping to the side to let him pass. "Sorry," he murmured, rushing down the corridor to find where he was going next. He looked desperately into 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, and a thin, lanky boy with long legs, sandy blonde hair, and hazel eyes looked up at him. Peter unlocked the door and slid it open, gulping as he stood at the entrance, 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, his cheeks heating up again, "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," Remus eventually said with a toothy smile.

"Peter."

"Nice to meet you, Peter."

Moments Before Peter

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. Pubs, crooked houses, broken windows that were shoddily patched up with newspapers and cardboard. Both wonderful and wretched at the same time. Alone, thus not yet jittery with the anxiety that novel encounters so often brought, he could delve deep through those streets that faded all too quickly before him.

"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 readily 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. Instead, he had not responded and 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, and 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 or 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 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.

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

Little did he know, though, that the next chapter would come as swiftly as it had.

At that moment, a single tap lifted his attention to the compartment's window.

"Kavanagh, Eve."

A low whistle emerged from the Gryffindor table. Remus' vision followed its trail, landing on Sirius Black — as he recalled him saying — who was squinting as the young witch waltzed 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 come straight out of a mold.

"Who's that?" One student seated at the Ravenclaw table asked.

"Daughter of Ireland's Master of Coin," another answered. Diagonally from where he sat, another boy looked at him 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," one of them 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."

"SLYTHERIN!" The Sorting Hat shouted 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?" Money-man asked, but no one answered him as they awaited the next victim.

"Lupin, Remus." Remus nearly choked on the air he was breathing. A whole second passed before he realized that, indeed, it had been his name. Peter placed a hand on his arm, lightly urging him forward. 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. His breath halted, coming to a standstill as it scavenged his memories.

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," a red-haired witch who had been sorted not long before him called. Remus nodded to convey his gratitude, sitting next to her. "I'm Lily— Lily Evans, by the way." He looked into her green eyes and 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 there had been something unsavory of his Sorting. To an extent, Remus revered the young wizard. His Sorting had been particularly odd, particularly rough. Sirius, however, had grinned and winked his way through it. Chin held high, 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. At the end of the day, he was only 11 years old. Words like bunghole made 11-year-olds giggle and snicker.

A theatrical bunch, definitely.

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