An Education of Heroes

Remus had begun to watch for them almost involuntarily. From afar, they appeared ordinary—just another inscrutable Hogwarts clique. But on closer inspection, they became an alluring bouquet of personalities. To Remus, who had spent most of his life peering in through the windows of other people’s lives, they seemed impossibly vivid, curated. Three boys and two girls, each uniquely drawn yet unmistakably a matching set.

The tallest of the boys, a figure of near-mythic proportions—six-foot-five, by Remus’s rough estimate—was immediately conspicuous. He wore round, gold-rimmed spectacles that glinted beneath an unruly tangle of black curls. There was something statuary about him, a Hellenic god; his arrogant mouth sculpted by years of unbroken praise. His clothes alluded to wealth but not vulgarity—loose linen, dark trousers, garments meant to evoke ease while implying considerable cost. “James Potter,” someone had said when Remus pointed him out, lounging regally against a fountain in the courtyard.

He was never seen without the other two boys. The smaller of them was mousy and blond, nearly a foot shorter than James. He should have stood out like a sore thumb, but his unshakable, gum-chewing cheerfulness lent a needed levity to the otherwise sombre group. He wore the same slightly oversized tweed jacket every day and always had a benign smile stretched across his freckled face. His name was Peter, though Remus never heard anyone call him anything but Petie, in the same way one names a lapdog. His laugh, high and insistent, seemed always to follow James’ voice, like a prerecorded audience response.

The third boy was the most captivating—sinuous and feline, soaked in languid charm. His face was soft, almost feminine, with full lips and narrow grey eyes that flashed constant, mocking sarcasm at anyone who dared approach. Remus thought he resembled a fallen prince: long, dark curls tied back carelessly, white cotton shirts once expensive but now rumpled as though slept in, and a fine black leather jacket thrown lazily over a set of broad shoulders. He strutted through the halls in Italian leather boots, a figure seemingly lifted from the stage of The Troubadour or a catwalk in Milan. “Sirius Black,” people whispered when Remus asked, as though the name itself was too exquisite to pronounce without reverence.

Then there were the girls, a striking pair—physically, polar opposites. Marlene stood tall, her figure verging on boyish if not for the deliberate provocation in every hemline: dresses cut just a fraction too short. Pin-straight platinum hair curtained a face that hovered between angelic and disinterested, unreadable—until Sirius leaned in to whisper something in her ear. Then, the mask would fracture into a sudden, radiant smile, like sunlight breaking through heavy grey storm clouds—an augury meant only for him. That narrow strip of skin between stocking and skirt snagged Remus’s attention with maddening regularity, a flash of light he could never quite ignore.

Mary, the other girl, was small and curvy, though she concealed her figure beneath prim jackets and frilly high collars. Her dense black curls were pinned back with a velvet headband, and she carried heavy books like armour, always clutched tightly to her chest. Her face was pretty and birdlike, with large, innocent eyes framed by thick lashes. But her girlish appearance was a calculated misdirection—one that encouraged underestimation until she opened her small pink mouth and dismantled you with withering precision. Remus had never heard insults delivered so elegantly, or so fatally.

Remus observed them with an agonising sort of hunger. They were like characters in a film—perfectly cast, immaculately lit—and he, inevitably, relegated to the role of spectator. He catalogued their movements with quiet devotion, as though someday he might be asked to write their review: James careening into the car park in a sleek red sports car, Sirius windswept beside him; Peter leaning out a classroom window, calling to the girls in the quad below. James was, by all accounts, very wealthy—his family owned a rambling estate in the countryside. Sirius, too, came from money; he was considered a sort of modern aristocrat. His family lived in London and reportedly hosted the Minister of Magic for Sunday dinner at least once a month. Both he and James were regarded as prodigies, already published by the time they were freshmen. Marlene and Mary shared a luxury apartment off-campus, their parents both high up in the Ministry and able to afford their daughters an oasis from campus debauchery. Peter’s background was more obscure: his father worked for Gringotts in some overseas post no one could quite place. He made up for the vagueness with spectacle, regularly unveiling elaborate care packages filled with imported sweets and oddities, which he shared with the others in flashy lunchtime displays.