#peter petigrew

The Great Hall is a roar of sound that makes your head throb. Candles hover overhead, dripping wax into the void, but all you can feel is the suffocating weight of the red-and-gold tie Dumbledore practically forced around your neck.

Twice. Sorted into this house of loud-mouthed idiots twice. It was an insult to your bloodline, an insult to your intelligence, and quite frankly, an insult to your wardrobe.

"Keep moving," you hiss under your breath, nudging Harry. He’s walking like he’s in a trance, his boots dragging on the stone floor.

As you approach the long Gryffindor table, the sea of red robes feels like an eyesore. Then, a boy with sleek, shoulder-length raven hair and a smirk that screams 'trouble' leans back on his bench, waving a hand lazily in your direction.

"New faces!" he calls out, his grey eyes sparking with a dangerous, cool arrogance. "And look at that—a fresh lioness who looks like she’s ready to bite someone’s head off. I like the fire."

Your blood runs cold. Sirius Black.

He looks nothing like the haunted, ragged man from the posters. He looks young, untouchable, and utterly insufferable. Beside him, a girl with dark skin and a sharp smile—Mary Macdonald—whispers something in his ear, making him bark out a laugh that echoes too loudly for your liking.

You don't wave back. You stare at him with the cold, aristocratic disdain you’ve perfected since you were five, but Harry doesn't notice the tension. He’s come up behind you, nearly tripping over your heels.

"Harry, move," you snap, turning to glare at him.

But Harry isn't looking at you. He isn't looking at Sirius. He’s staring further down the table, his face draining of every drop of colour until he truly does look like a ghost.

You follow his line of sight, and the air leaves your lungs.

Sitting there, mid-laugh with a piece of toast in his hand, is a boy who is a literal clone of the one standing next to you. The same messy hair, the same knobby shoulders, the same reckless tilt of the head. James Potter. He’s leaning far too close to a girl with hair the colour of a sunset and eyes that you recognize instantly.

Lily Evans.

She’s rolling her eyes at something James just said, a small, fond smile playing on her lips. Beside her, Marlene McKinnon is loudly cheering about a Quidditch play, her voice cutting through your nerves like a dull saw.

They’re all there. The "Golden" generation. The Marauders and their shadows. To everyone else, they’re the heroes of the school. To you, they’re a collection of the most obnoxious, self-important Gryffindors to ever draw breath, and you're currently wearing their colours.

"Potter," you whisper, your voice low and sharp as you grab Harry’s arm to keep him from collapsing. "Stop staring. You’re making it weird."

"It's them," Harry chokes out, his voice cracking. "It’s actually them."

"I can see that," you retort, your Malfoy pride bristling as Lily looks up and catches your eye, offering a welcoming, "prefect-perfect" smile that makes you want to gag. "And they’re already exhausting. Now sit down before you faint and embarrass us both."

James Potter looks up then, his hazel eyes landing on Harry, then shifting to you. He nudges Sirius, a grin spreading across his face—that infamous, cocky Potter grin.

"Oi, Sirius," James calls out, his voice carryng over the din. "Looks like we’ve got company. You reckon they’re lost, or did they just hear this is the table where the fun happens?"

The girls giggle. Sirius winks. You feel a headache forming behind your eyes.

You and Harry end up squeezed onto the bench right beside them—of course there’s nowhere else to sit. Just great, you think bitterly, the red-and-gold tie around your neck feeling heavier than ever.

James’ voice cuts through the chatter, deep and amused: “Merlin, he’s got Lily’s eyes… and looks exactly like me.”

The table erupts in laughter—Sirius barking, Marlene cheering, Lily rolling her eyes with that fond smile. You roll yours in return, aristocratic disdain firmly in place. To them, it’s just a joke, another Marauder moment. But beside you, Harry looks like he’s on the verge of breaking, his face tight, eyes glassy.

Something in you softens—just a fraction. You lean in, lowering your voice so only he can hear. “Breathe, Potter. They don’t know. You’re fine.”

The words are sharp but steady, a lifeline disguised as a sneer. Harry swallows hard, shoulders stiffening, and you can feel him pulling himself back from the edge.

Before either of you can say more, a tall, lanky boy across the table shifts toward you. His face is marked with scars, his expression curious but kind. “So,” he says, voice calm and even, “what are your names?”

The question hangs in the air, the laughter fading just enough for the group to turn their attention to you both.

Harry clears his throat, voice shaky but determined. “Harry…” he begins, and you feel the panic spike in your chest. His lips are already parting to say Potter when you squeeze his thigh hard under the table, a sharp reminder. His eyes flick to you, wide, and then he stumbles over the word.

“…Rivers,” he finishes, forcing it out with a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Harry Rivers.”

You nod smoothly, picking up the thread without hesitation. “And I’m [Name] Willow.”

The tall, scarred boy—Remus Lupin, though younger, less weary than the man you’ll one day know—regards you both with quiet curiosity. His gaze lingers, thoughtful but not suspicious, before he offers a small smile.

“Well then,” he says, voice calm and steady, “welcome to Gryffindor.”

Mary Macdonald, ever the ecstatic one, leans forward with a mischievous grin, her voice carrying over the chatter. “So… are you two together?”

The question lands like a spark in dry grass. Sirius perks up immediately, grey eyes gleaming with mischief. James’ grin widens, Lily raises her brows in quiet amusement, and even Remus tilts his head, curiosity flickering behind his calm expression. The whole table seems to lean in, suddenly invested.

You and Harry both freeze, then immediately recoil in perfect sync.

“Absolutely not,” you snap, disgust dripping from every syllable.

Harry shakes his head so hard his glasses nearly slip off. “No. No way. Not even close.” His voice cracks with urgency, his cheeks flushed with mortification.

The Marauders erupt—Sirius barking with laughter, James grinning like he’s just been handed the best joke of the evening, Marlene giggling, Lily hiding a smile behind her hand. Even Remus’ lips twitch, though he’s clearly trying to stay neutral.

You roll your eyes, aristocratic disdain firmly in place. “Merlin, you Gryffindors see two people breathing in the same vicinity and assume romance. Disgusting.”

Harry mutters under his breath, “I’d rather kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”

That earns another round of laughter, Sirius nearly choking on his pumpkin juice. James leans forward, hazel eyes gleaming with mischief. “Alright, alright, we believe you. But you’ve got to admit—you two bicker like an old married couple.”

You glare at him, sharp enough to cut glass. “Or maybe we just hate each other.”

The table roars again, but beneath the noise, Harry’s shoulders ease just a little. The disgust you both showed was so genuine, so sharp, that it killed the suspicion before it could take root.

Breakfast ends in a blur of noise and laughter, the Marauders still buzzing with energy as the hall empties. You push yourself up from the bench with a sharp flick of your robes, determined to put as much distance between yourself and that table as possible.

Potions. At least it’s a class where you can disappear into the shadows, where the smell of crushed herbs and simmering cauldrons might drown out the memory of Sirius’ barking laugh and James’ smug grin. You might be stuck here—trapped in this era, tangled in history—but you don’t have to be disgusted all the time.

Harry lingers behind, still pale but steadier, his eyes flicking once more toward Lily and James before he forces himself to follow. You don’t wait for him. You stride ahead, chin high, already plotting the seat furthest from the Marauders, furthest from Potter, furthest from the suffocating red-and-gold circus you’ve been shoved into.

At least in the dungeon classroom, you think, you can breathe without choking on Gryffindor pride.

The dungeon air is cool and damp, heavy with the scent of crushed herbs and simmering cauldrons. You slip into the Potions classroom early, deliberately choosing a seat at the far edge—away from the Marauders, away from Harry, away from the suffocating Gryffindor noise. At least here, in the shadows, you can breathe without gagging on their arrogance.

The benches fill quickly. Sirius and James swagger in, loud as ever, Harry trailing behind them with a tight jaw. You keep your gaze fixed on your parchment, refusing to acknowledge their presence. You might be stuck here, you think, but at least you don’t have to be disgusted all the time.

And then the door opens again.

Two figures step inside, their robes neat, their posture sharp. Lucius Malfoy—your father, though younger, unscarred, his pale hair tied back with immaculate precision. Beside him, Narcissa Black—your mother, elegant and composed, her laughter soft as she murmurs something to him.

Your chest tightens. Seeing them like this feels wrong, like staring at a photograph before the edges have yellowed. They are students here, just like you, but untouched by the years you know will carve them into something harder.

Lucius takes his seat with effortless grace, Narcissa beside him, their presence commanding the room without a word. For a moment, you forget to breathe.

You force your eyes back to your cauldron, fingers digging into the wood of the bench. You can’t afford to stare. You can’t afford to slip. But the knowledge burns in your chest: your parents are here, alive, young, and you are sitting in their time.

You steel yourself, spine straight, chin high. If you’re going to be stuck in this era, you refuse to cower in the shadows. So instead of hiding at the edge of the classroom, you make your way across the dungeon, robes swishing, and slide onto the bench right beside Narcissa Black.

Her pale eyes flick toward you, sharp and assessing, but not unkind. Lucius glances up too, posture immaculate, his expression cool and curious. For a heartbeat, the weight of their presence presses down on you—your parents, young and unscarred, sitting here as classmates.

You force your features into calm neutrality, the aristocratic mask you’ve worn since childhood. “Willow,” you say smoothly, introducing yourself as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Narcissa tilts her head, lips curving faintly. “You’ve got a spine,” she murmurs, approval hidden in the softness of her tone. Lucius studies you a moment longer, then nods once, as if silently acknowledging your boldness.

Slughorn sweeps into the dungeon with his usual jovial energy, robes billowing, his round face lighting up as he takes in the class. His eyes catch on you immediately—new faces always draw his attention.

“Well, well!” he booms, clapping his hands together. “Two new Gryffindors, I see. How marvelous. Why don’t you introduce yourselves to the class?”

You glance at Harry, who looks like he’d rather sink into the flagstones. He starts, voice tight but steady: “Harry Rivers. I… transferred here from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.”

Slughorn beams, delighted. “Beauxbatons! Splendid institution, splendid. Fine dueling program, if I recall.”

You lift your chin, meeting Slughorn’s gaze without flinching. “I’m [Name] Willow. Also from Beauxbatons.” Your voice is smooth, confident, the lie sliding off your tongue like it was rehearsed.

“Excellent, excellent,” Slughorn says, clearly pleased. “We’ll have to see what talents you bring to my little club, eh? For now, let’s get to work. Today we’ll be brewing a simple Sleeping Draught—though simple, mind you, does not mean easy.”

The class stirs to life, cauldrons clattering, ingredients passed around. The Marauders are loud at their bench, Sirius already cracking jokes, James nudging Lily, Harry caught in their orbit despite himself. But you sit tall beside Narcissa, her presence steady and sharp, Lucius on her other side, both of them working with quiet precision.

Class ends with the lingering scent of herbs and smoke clinging to your robes. You gather your things quickly, eager to escape the dungeon’s heavy air, but pause when you catch sight of Lucius leaning toward Narcissa.

His voice is low, smooth, threaded with amusement as he says something only she can hear. Narcissa laughs softly, her eyes bright, her posture relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before. There’s warmth there—love, happiness, a tenderness that feels almost alien compared to the cold, sharp figures you know they’ll become.

You freeze, watching them. Are these really my parents? The thought claws at your chest. They look so young, so untouched by the years that will harden them. Their smiles are genuine, their laughter unscarred.

What happened to them? What twisted this light into the shadows you grew up with?

The question burns in your mind as you turn away, heart pounding. You might be stuck here, but seeing them like this—seeing what they once were—feels heavier than any broken Time-Turner.