Chapter Text
Zenith
Ms. and Mr. Lupin, of the small cottage in the woods, were proud to say that they had never been normal, thank you very fucking much.
Mr. Lupin was always bouncing from one job to the next, desperately trying to support his daughter. He was a tall, handsome man, carrying an air of melancholy wherever he went. A part of him would always be lost in the halls of his beloved old school, laughing at nothing in particular with his deceased best friends and pining after someone he had always known to be too good to be true. Ms. Lupin had dark olive skin inherited from her father, but the sharp features of an ancient and noble family could be seen showing through, not that she was aware of this. In fact, Ms. Lupin was oblivious to most of the history intertwined with her origins.
Their living space could tell you most everything about the duo. From the calendar indicating when the next full moon would be, to the shelves surrounding the rooms, which were always filled with books read over and over again on quiet rainy nights, to the empty mugs in the kitchen counter, one with dregs of black coffee and the other with remnants of tea with spoonfuls of honey.
It was in that house that Zenith awoke to her most awaited eleventh birthday with the arrival of her grandfather, Lyall Lupin. She was still drowsy with sleep, as she had stayed up looking at old photo albums, filled with pictures of her father and his friends. Most of them were of four bright young people smiling with an obliviousness to the brutality of the world, but unlike them, Zenith had learned of it at a very young age.
She had noticed how her father barely talked of his years at Hogwarts, how her grandfather would always leave specific names out of his stories, and how Remus’s face donned the telltale red eyes of someone forever-grieving. Halloween was ignored like it was a pesky salesman at their door, a little too intentionally to be a mistake. There were no decorations, no trick or treating, no costumes, no giggling children.
Remus was already sipping his usual bitter coffee at the kitchen table and reading Little Women, one of his classic rereads, when Lyall got her out of bed. Zenith didn’t bother getting dressed, for she was a strong believer in the supremacy of pajamas. The sight of her father already up puzzled her, for neither of them were morning people and often made fun of Lyall for getting up so early—the psychopath!
“ Hello? Have you slept at all? ” Zenith inquired, though she knew he hadn’t, and not only due the dark bags under his eyes that seemed to carry the memories and the grief for him. Zenith would deny it to any soul who questioned her about it, but most nights when she couldn’t sleep or when the heavy weight of loneliness hit her, she would tiptoe to Remus’s bedroom and—though he would nod every time, with a fond smile adorning his usual nostalgic expression—quietly ask whether she could stay for “just this time”. However, last night, she had been awake until the late hours of the morning—the ones where it was so quiet it seemed the world had stopped and every breath she took seemed an intrusion—and had eventually fallen asleep alone in a room that wasn’t truly hers.
Her father, however, disregarded her question, “Look, Zee, I’ve been thinking about school-” But he was interrupted by the scratch of an owl at the window, making Zenith sigh in relief. She knew what he was going to say. In fact, she had already heard it all a million times as her eleventh birthday began to creep closer and closer. Her father thought it would be best to homeschool her, but she would have none of it. For as long as she could remember it had been just her and Remus (with the occasional visit to her grandad’s place when the moon shined the brightest each month), and although she loved him more than she could put in words—for she had always been bad with those—Zenith longed to make friends of her own, to have the kind of companionship four brilliant young boys once had.
She ran to the window and picked up what would be the key to the door of the adventures awaiting her.
Sirius Orion Black’s daughter was going to Hogwarts.
Rigelle
Malfoy Manor, England
5th of June, 1991
Ma très chère Rigelle,
Mum says I need to practice my french so I added that part. I just got my Hogwarts letter after having to endure your gloating about having you yours (even though you’re from France! As in… not the UK!) for 5 whole months. But anyway, I am writing this as fast as I possibly can before Draco can steal Faye (my owl!) to talk to his friends. So apologies for the grammar. My parents say we’re only going shopping in July though, which made Draco upset, which made Father upset, which in turn made Mummy upset too. So currently my brother refuses to speak to anyone, basically his typical birthday routine of being ungrateful and the favorite child. Now I can’t remember what it was I wanted to tell you. Probably that I got my letter, which I already told you about. And Now I can’t erase this.. Alright, say hi to Tante Hélène and your grandmère Célinne from me and Mummy. Hopefully we see each other at King’s Cross. I just remembered that’s why I was writing to you. Can we sit together on the train? I don’t know anyone besides Draco and his friends, who are kind of mean to me to be honest. That is if your mother is letting you go. If you study at Beasbatons Beauxbatons I will be miserable, please let Tante Hélène know that.
Miss you lots hopefully see you soon,
Chandra Druella Malfoy
P. S. I wish I had cool initials to sign my letters like you do. C.D.M. doesn't look as nice as R.A.B., does it? Draco just came in gotta go bye
Rigelle looked up from her cousin’s (equal parts confusing and entertaining) letter as her mother announced the dreaded arrival of Walburga Black. Her grandmother’s high heeled shoes echoed down the marble halls of the de Brûle Manor, matching Rigelle’s quickly beating heart.
Walburga was a slim, tall woman with sharp features that sported a pompously rigid look, one which always made Rigelle shake with fright. It had become a routine, and although Rigelle was typically terribly fond of these, this was one she dreaded. The chill of her grandmother's expression froze her very soul, her hands shook uncontrollably, lightheadedness kicking in, and the essence of breathing evaded her. Her hair went from the lightest of blondes, like her mother’s and Grandmère Célinne's, to the infamous ink-black of her father’s family. It always did when she got nervous, scared, sad, or angry, with the blond saved for happy moments. That was by far her least favorite part of being metamorphmagus: her emotions were showcased to the world around her like she were a zoo animal of some sort. It was a vulnerability she had no choice in. Although, it did prove to be useful in hiding her family’s ugly secrets.
A cold-sharp voice clashed with a melodic one in a heated argument, English and French words mixing together in phrases aimed to cut deep and puncture wounds that had never quite healed. Every time they argued, which was pretty much every time they saw each other, the topic of Rigelle’s father was brought up, specifically his death.
“Rigelle should go to her father’s school, Hélène. Every member of the Black family has studied there for hundreds of years!” But her mother interrupted Walburga in a now-familiar way. They had been having this argument since that unexpected letter came, from Minerva McGonagall of all people, on the very first day of January.
Hélène wanted her daughter to go to school closer to home, at Beauxbatons, where the de Brûles were known to be regular alumni. However, Walburga insisted that her granddaughter, the last living heir of the Black family, attend Hogwarts instead, where the Blacks were known to be regular alumni.
Until now, Rigelle had been taught at home by an endless list of tutors. Astronomy, mathematics, history, science, potions, grammar, calligraphy, piano, classical ballet…the list went on.
Now, as Rigelle observed from the doorway, with cold hands and an empty heart, they finally came to a long-overdue agreement: in less than two month’s time, Rigelle would be attending her late father’s school, with the compromise that she would go to finishing school at Beauxbatons in the summers. Walburga had emerged victorious, as usual.
Regulus Arcturus Black’s daughter was going to Hogwarts.
Chandra
Chandra’s skin was crawling as Madame Malkin adjusted her shiny new robes. She and her brother, Draco, were being fitted for their Hogwarts robes. She didn’t like being touched, a fact which her father had always made her feel guilty for, but that was a common occurrence in the Malfoy household. Her family, especially her father, tended to be unhappy with many of her behaviors—she had always thought, and reacted, to things differently than those around her. In fact, they always treated her like a faulty machine they would be forced to deal with for the next 17 years.
The arrival of a messy haired boy broke Chandra out of her thoughts, startling her into going through the normal social protocols her mother had taught her. Smile, but not too wide. Make eye contact, but not for too long. Say something, but not too much. Be polite, but don’t be a bore. Her head was already spinning with anxiety.
“Hello,” her brother saved her from having to think of something to say, making her almost scream with joy, “Hogwarts, too?”
“Yes,” answered the boy. He looked skinny, almost malnourished, and his bright green eyes were framed by lopsided glasses, which looked to have been taped back together on several occasions. His hair was unfixably messy, sticking up to every angle possible, while also managing to cover his whole forehead.
Chandra hadn’t realized she had dissociated from the conversation until she heard the boy with the messy hair—now it was covering his lashes too which made Chandra's skin start itching again—reply to a question, which she assumed Draco had just made, “No.” The boy looked very uncomfortable, which she found she could relate to in this moment, or in any moment really.
“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” Chandra audibly swallowed at Draco's comment, and wiped her now-sweaty palms on her thighs. The pressure of being sorted into the Slytherin house had loomed over her shoulder for as long as she could remember. It wrapped around her like a miserable shawl. It clawed at her ankles, and gleefully watched as she bled under its cruel, sharp talons.
“Do you?” Draco said, sneering as if the boy had just said something truly repulsive. She mentally slapped herself for zoning out yet again. “Why is he with you? Where are your parents?”
“Dead,” there was a visible shift in the boy now. He squared his shoulders, and stood up straighter, while also cringing his face a bit at the strand of hair that just poked his eye—she was very close to yelling of rage at this point. Certainly it couldn't be that hard to comb one's hair every once in a while. It seemed as though he was preparing himself for a challenge.
Chandra decided to stop listening as her brother started going on about pureblood ideals, inquiring about the boy’s blood status. Soon enough, though, Madame Malkin sauntered back in, “That’s you done, my dear,” she announced to the boy. His messy hair was momentarily shifted out of his forehead for the first time in that encounter as he hopped down from his footstool. He proceeded to walk to the door as if he could not get out of there fast enough. But in that brief second, Chandra could have sworn she saw a lightning-shaped scar. And that could only mean one thing:
Harry James Potter was going to Hogwarts.