The First Order Series

Mostly for my own benefit, I've decided to set up a side-blog that deals with all the posts from The First Order series.

And we are not going to forget about Peter, are we? Two weeks left until chapter posting time <3

The tombstone had only been installed the previous week. It was the first time Peter saw it in person, though his mother had apparated over the first day to inspect it. The stone appeared unremarkable, grey and identical to those on either side. Yet, it filled Peter with an indescribable sorrow and longing. 

Archie P. Pettigrew28.03.1935 – 20.02.1971

It had neither been unexpected nor entirely expected. A year previously, his father had suffered a heart attack. He’d recovered, only to suffer one more. The third had killed him. 

Peter had seen how much weaker his father had been over Christmas, but had he known then that his father would not live to see him start Hogwarts? No, the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. 

“That’s what you get for marrying a muggle.”

The line was burned into Peter’s memory. It had been penned by his maternal grandmother in a rather cold and short letter to his mum, declining the invitation to attend the funeral. His mother had found him, bent over the private note. Instead of reprimanding him, she’d snatched the letter, thrown it into the fire and said: ‘Make sure to stay away from Slytherins.’

This had been such a strange thing for his mother to say: ‘But you were a Slytherin?’

‘Biggest mistake of my life.’ 

Now, standing there in the small churchyard, on a rainy summer’s day, Peter asked a question he’d been turning over in his head plenty of times already.

‘What house d’you think dad would have been sorted into?’

His mother put her arms around him, kissed his head before resting her chin on it. He was a short boy, but she was a short woman. 

After five minutes of silence, he freed himself, turning to face her.

‘Mum?’

Had she heard his question?

‘It’s hard to tell, as I only got to know him in the summer between my sixth and seventh year. But from everything I saw, I think he’d have made an excellent Gryffindor.’

‘He was very brave,’ agreed Peter, thinking about the final year of his father’s life. Nearly dying twice—the operation—he’d seemed so unfazed by it all. It made Peter very proud to know that man had been his father. Yet, there was also an indescribable hollowness to knowing that he’d never be able to talk to his father again. Ever. 

No hugs. No playing together at the neighbourhood playground. No hot cocoa before bedtime. No funny voices reading him goodnight stories. 

‘I am not sure what I think of this Hopping Pot story,’ his father observed one evening. ‘If the boy hadn’t inherited the Hopping Pot, then he’d never experience how the burdens of those around him become his own. It’s very externally driven, don’t you think?’

The question was, naturally, aimed at his mother. 

‘Does it matter?’

‘It feels like it’s not really teaching children that what goes around comes around, the way many normal fairytales successfully do. The take-away could just as well be: Don’t own a Hopping Pot.’

Peter received a kiss from his mother as she tucked the duvet snugly around him.

‘What do you think, Pete?’ 

His father looked at him.

‘Erm…’ Peter wasn’t sure what to say to that. 

‘Would you like to own that Hopping Pot?’

Peter grimaced, shaking his head. No, thank you. It felt like a lot of trouble. Besides, unlike the son in the story, Peter was not talented enough to help anyone.

‘Really, Archie, leave the poor boy alone.’

‘I guess the story is trying to teach empathy,’ muttered his father to his mother—or possibly to himself—as they both left Peter’s bedroom. ‘And empathy is not contingent on whether something could ever befall you. Yeah… maybe it’s less, not more, relying on external motivators—or fear of consequences befalling oneself—than regular fairy—.’

‘Archie..!’ his mother laughed, and the bedroom door closed behind them, leaving Peter alone in the darkness.

We're skipping ahead to Remus. It's not that long until the chapter will be posted in it's entirety, which I am very excited about :)

They’d moved to the small town in Yorkshire a few months after Dumbledore’s visit, once it became clear that new rumours were in circulation about him, yet again. However, now that it had been decided that he was to attend Hogwarts, after all, there was an optimism associated with this latest relocation, which Remus could not remember from any previous moves. With him safely out of the way, these villagers might never have any cause to suspect him of being anything other than a Hogwarts student.

Which helped explain why, although unable to remove all traces of apprehension, his parents looked unusually relaxed as their neighbours, Marlene and Matthew McKinnon, talked to Remus about his new wand.

‘What magical core does it have?’ Matthew asked now.

‘Erm…’

Remus didn’t know. 

‘Surely Olivander told you?’

‘It’s my grandfather’s,’ explained Remus weakly, glancing over at his parents. ‘I think it’s Dragon Heartstring.’

‘It is,’ agreed Lyall Lupin with a kind smile. 

‘Forgive me, Remus,’ said Matthew, exchanging a look with his wife. ‘Mar and I had to buy our first wands, as there was no one to inherit them from, so it’s easy to forget it’s not the only model for wand ownership.’

‘It’s weird to think how different this little one’s childhood will be from ours,’ agreed Marlene, resting a hand over a very pregnant stomach. ‘I can’t imagine what it’s like to grow up and know about Hogwarts and Quidditch and magic from birth.’

‘I guess that must have been strange for you too? Raising a child in a magical family without having any yourself?’ Matthew looked over at Hope. 

Remus’ mother seemed to consider the matter, though he saw the pain which flickered but for an instant. That was certainly not the odd thing about raising her son.

‘I think,’ offered Hope after a pause, cradling her mug of tea, ‘that raising a child is always strange… always full of the unexpected and things you’ve never experienced before. Magic is just one example. And I have Lyall, after all, to help explain all of that.’

And a whole lot of other things, thought Remus ruefully, like what a werewolf was. And why their son would always be a feared and hated outcast to those who knew.

‘You must be excited about Hogwarts?’ enquired Marlene after another silence. 

Remus nodded. Thrilled. Terrified. It was the dream of his life to meet other children his age. To have friends and playmates. However, it was hard to believe the reality of it all. That he would be allowed to attend school; that arrangements were being made—had potentially by now been made—for a safe place for him to transform. In Hogsmeade. 

Once a month, Professor Dumbledore had explained, Remus would leave for a secure and comfortable house in the village near the school, guarded by many complicated and powerful spells, and reached only by an underground passage from the Hogwarts grounds. There he could transform in peace. He would be far away from the students at the castle, and unable to hurt them or the Hogsmeade residents or, maybe most important of all, his parents.

‘Do you know any of your fellow students already?’ 

Remus hadn’t even considered the possibility that Marlene was raising. Naturally, there would be children who already knew each other. Shaking his head, he added another concern to his growing list of trepidations. Though the list he kept of everything he was looking forward to was, thankfully, much longer.

‘That’s nothing to worry about,’ Marlene smiled kindly when Remus shook his head. ‘Matty and I didn’t either. How could we when our parents are all muggles?’ 

‘Indeed,’ agreed Matthew, ‘But I found that most people started anew at Hogwarts. Sure, some people knew each other beforehand, but even then “knowing” and “enjoying the company of” isn’t necessarily the same.’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Marlene, ‘take my best friend, Molly Weasley… —well, she was a Prewett back then. Pureblood to the core, but the only other children she knew were her brother's friends, who are much younger than us.’

‘It’s a special kind of magic,’ Lyall nodded, ‘coming to Hogwarts and being with children your own age.’

Professor Dumbledore had said something similar. About Remus being with his peers. Though Remus noticed Lyall was careful not to use that word. Because Remus didn’t have peers. Other children were whole, and he was so very broken.

I am going to Hogwarts, though, he reminded himself. So maybe everything wasn’t ruined beyond repair, even if parts of him were.

(…) ‘Are you lost, Potter?’ asked Severus, dragging Lily back from her thoughts.

Potter stared at him for a moment.

‘No…’ he said slowly, ‘I think I am in the library, unless I am very much mistaken. Sirius?’

‘Books,’ said Black, pointing at them. ‘Bookshelves. Ugly librarian. Desks, chairs.’

‘Library,’ repeated Potter firmly.

‘Quite,’ said Severus, ‘only, you have to be able to read to make use of this space.’

‘Evidently not,’ drawled Black, ‘since you are here.’

At this, Potter snorted.

Lily looked down, concentrating on her essay. Though Black’s comment was cruel, she couldn’t help the feeling that this time it was her friend who had started it.

Even with her gaze fixed on her parchment, however, she could practically feel Severus’ flushed cheeks.

‘Right, Jim, we’ve got better things to do than talk to slime.’

‘Like catching up on school work,’ said Severus, and Lily noticed how his voice had gone silky smooth.

Both boys snorted. She, however, sensed danger.

‘What’s that —’ Black began.

‘You missed nearly a week of school, didn’t you Potter? Tell me, do blood traitors’ funerals differ from—’

Lily looked up, appalled.

The amusement vanished from Black’s face. His wand was in his hand so fast Lily barely had time to notice him drawing it, and he stepped threateningly towards Severus. Potter had frozen behind him.

‘Finish that sentence,’ snarled Black.

‘This one’s for you, love.’ 

Euphemia Potter held out a thick envelope with his name written in green ink on the front with a meaningful look. James snatched it from her. Then, catching himself, he asked: ‘Which owl?’

There were currently three owls sitting at the kitchen counter. He recognised the paper-owl by the small leather pouch, and knew that one was there to deliver the daily prophet to his parents. To its right sat a long-eared owl, it’s fierce orange eyes surveying the kitchen sternly, and to its left was a barn owl, it’s dark eyes and heart-shaped face making it look more curious than its two colleagues.

His mother pointed to the long-eared owl.

‘Thank you,’ James addressed the Hogwarts delivery owl solemnly.

It gave him a short, approving stare before ruffling its feathers importantly. A moment after, it took off through the window, followed by the two others. 

But James’ attention was already on the two thick, heavy, yellowish pieces of parchment inside the envelope, his heart hammering in his chest. This was it! This was his Hogwarts letter. He could barely believe his own eyes. 

I was in the mood for a little bit of mischief, so I thought I'd share this random scene from chapter 11: secrets and hidden treasures, since I've already shared an extract from it ages back. Baby!Marauders on their first ever adventure <3

Peter couldn’t believe he and Remus had been invited to explore a secret passageway with no other than James Potter and Sirius Black. Watching Sirius and James work was awe-inspiring. Somehow, they had figured out that there was a passageway behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy in the corridor of the East wing on the fifth floor. 

‘Why, Mr Smarmy,’ said James with an exaggerated pompous tone as he bowed before the statue, ‘you look simply exquisite this morning.’

‘Your invention of the Unctuous Unction is still the most groundbreaking within potions, and may it continue to be so,’ drawled Sirius.

The statue smirked, as though flattered, before it stepped aside, revealing a narrow spiral staircase. 

‘We’ve done this first part already,’ explained James as they started descending the stairs. ‘But the tunnel goes on for ages, so we figured it leads somewhere outside of the school grounds.’

Standing with the red and gold Head Boy badge in hand, Frank Longbottom was trying to decide whether he was surprised at the appointment—or not. As a Prefect, the chances had always been higher than for a regular student, but both Richard Bones and Ralph Davies had been diligent in their Prefect duties. Even Magnus Bulstrode hadn’t been too awful, for a Slytherin. 

No, he really had to stop that way of thinking. It was bad enough for a Prefect to hold onto house grudges, but as Head Boy, it was downright destructive. 

‘Is that the school list, dear?’ 

Frank startled. Turning around, his mother was already standing by the kettle. He’d not even heard her enter. She could be unnerving that way.

‘Tea?’

There was something expectant in her eyes.

‘Yes, erm…’ 

‘Yes, please,’ his mother corrected, as if he were five.

‘I am Head Boy.’

The words left him almost against his will, breathless and uncertain. 

‘Naturally.’

There wasn’t a trace of surprise to be found in the face of his formidable mother. 

‘Augusta, my darling wife, you could try to act a bit surprised—or if that’s too much to ask, a fraction of pride wouldn’t go amiss?’

His father was standing in the doorway, beaming. He was not much taller than his wife, with large protruding ears, thinning hair, “and a winning smile” as his uncle Algie sometimes said. Always with a rather mocking undertone, but Jack always chose to ignore his brother. 

‘I am plenty proud,’ huffed Augusta as she passed Frank a mug of steaming tea. She placed her hands on his shoulders and guided him to a chair. ‘But I am not surprised. A man like Albus Dumbledore would never have failed to recognise how brilliant our son is.’

Now Frank wanted to disappear. He never knew what was worse: his mother’s praise or the lack of it.

‘Still,’ his father took a seat across from him, ‘plenty of work has gone into earning that badge. I say a large congratulations… and perhaps a small celebration… is in order.’ 

‘We can celebrate when he’s got his N.E.W.Ts and his job at the Auror office.’ Augusta put a second mug of tea in front of her husband, before she took her own porcelain cup and headed for the door. ‘Excuse me, I have some letters to write.’

‘To brag about our most extraordinary son,’ suggested Jack with a wink, but only after Augusta had left them. ‘We’re both so very proud of you.’

Frank decided to focus on his tea and his new list of school supplies for this year. His final year. 

As there wasn’t much to keep his attention in the letter, however, he turned his thoughts back to the note from Dumbledore, which he had skimmed earlier. It seemed Sandra Morgan—a Ravenclaw muggle-born Prefect—was to be his partner as the newly appointed Head Girl. He felt rather good about that. Sandra was kind, clever and diligent. 

‘Tell you what, Frankie.’ His father’s voice cut through his thoughts. ‘Why don’t we buy you an owl? It’s about time you got your own.’

An owl. One that was his alone. So far, his parents… well, his mother, really… had rejected the idea. What was the point, she’d argued, when they had a perfectly healthy family owl, and a whole army of free school ones, should Fay be unavailable? 

‘That would be great,’ he said, his mouth dry. ‘Thank you, dad.’

‘Nonsense,’ Jack waved his hand, ‘this is all you, son. It’s your work that’s earned you that badge. And don’t you forget it.’ 

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added quietly: ‘Fran was Head Girl in her time, she’d be so very proud too.’