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Chapter 1: Introductions
As these stories often go, they all appeared in a room. No sound of Apparition, no burst of light, no fanfare—simply there. This is where the story begins.
There were twelve of them in total. A small number, perhaps, but the air was already charged enough to make the space feel overcrowded. Their clothes, at first glance, made it seem as if they had been pulled from different centuries, though in truth the year was 1955. Just four years before the birth of Harry James Potter’s godfather, Sirius Black. A fact that would, in time, make this gathering all the more important.
Lyall Lupin was the first to stir. His eyes fluttered open against the dim glow of overhead lamps, their humming artificial light betraying that he was in the Muggle world. He wore Muggle clothes himself, a new experiment he had been proud of just hours ago: long pressed trousers, a crisp shirt pulled tight at the shoulders, and a brown tie that matched the hip-length coat buttoned neatly at his chest. His short brown hair was slicked back with more care than confidence, making him look younger than his twenty-six years, almost boyish, despite the slight furrow of his brow.
He blinked rapidly and sat up, a wave of dizziness making him press his palm against the carpet beneath him. The carpet was odd, woven in dizzying geometric patterns that felt too loud for the otherwise hushed room. Only then did he notice the hand beside his, pale and delicate, nails painted a soft blue. Hope.
His wife of three months and three days lay there as though asleep, her long sandy hair spilling across the floor in gentle waves instead of its usual styled curls. She looked achingly peaceful, and Lyall found it difficult to look away. The only thing that tore his eyes from her face was the sudden realization that the world around them was not their cottage in Wales.
He lifted his head, heart quickening. Other figures, many of them, were scattered across the floor. Some stirred, others remained still. The air seemed to press down on him, heavy with silence and expectation. His fingers tightened instinctively around Hope’s, even before he recognized the faces of others whose eyes were beginning to flutter open.
Orion Black was among them. His eyelids flicked upward to the sight of a black ceiling that was greeting his vision. He was immediately confused as to why he was on the floor and why exactly he was unconscious, if not in his bed. Honestly, was he nine years old again? He was glad to find that he was able to sit up on his own. His long black robe makes it difficult, but his young age makes it seem easy. There were four others surrounding him, all of which he recognized.
For a moment he was certain he was dreaming, surely only a dream could deposit him here, flat on his back, with his memory blank between moments? The confusion reminded him uncomfortably of being nine years old again, when nightmares had often pulled him from sleep in similar fashion. But this was no dream. He shifted, forcing himself to sit upright despite the cumbersome folds of his long black robe. The fabric pooled around him like shadows clinging to his skin. His gaze darted sharply to the four other figures nearest him, familiar faces, relatives—and for the briefest second, hesitant relief flickered. But it did not last long
He turned, his sharp features tightening as he took in the rest of the chamber, its unnatural mixture of strangers, relatives, and rivals. Something about it all was deeply wrong, and he found himself longing for confirmation that this was not simply a cruel enchantment. Fortunately, he thinks, the others around him began to stir, their murmurs and shifting movements a strange comfort in the thick, stale air. The other members of the Noble and Most Ancient began to open their eyes.
Not far away, Euphemia Potter awoke with discomfort prickling her back. She stretched instinctively, only to bump her hand against a warm body beside her. ‘Flea,’ she thought at once, with the ease of decades of shared life. When she turned her head, her suspicion proved correct, Fleamont’s back was inches away, his red robe pooled like blood beneath him.
Euphemia reached to steady herself, her palm brushing the floor. The surface was soft, carpeted, but firm—unfamiliar. Unease coiled in her stomach. She blinked against the white light glaring down from the ceiling fixtures, hiding the dark ceiling, far too bright for her liking, their glow drowning the shadows that lingered at the edges of the room. Adjusting her red spectacles, she pushed herself upright, curls of brown hair tumbling forward into her face.
Pain stabbed at her neck as she turned her head, but she forced her eyes wider, determined to take in the room. Strangers everywhere, shifting and blinking, the muffled sounds of confusion rising around her. The sight made her heart pound.
Eileen Prince woke with a sharp flinch, her body jolting upright as if escaping a nightmare she could not remember. Her breath came fast, shallow, her fingers twitching for something, for what and for whom? She did not know. For a moment her vision blurred, the shapes around her bending and twisting, before slowly settling.
She dragged in a slow breath, black hair slipping forward over her shoulders as she tried to ground herself. Her gaze landed first on two blond figures lying nearby, and her stomach tightened. Then her eyes darted across the room, to the others—so many others. An uneasy dread settled low in her chest, part human instinct, part something distinctly magical. She could feel the pulse of it against her ribcage, like a second heartbeat thrumming in rhythm with her own.
And then there was Tom Riddle.
Tom Riddle opened his eyes, but his thoughts are not clear to us yet, friends. But what we do know is that his eyes are open but he is still seeing darkness, as if his eyes were still closed. Even as he blinked, as though the darkness was reluctant to let him go. His hands pressed against the floor, fingers tracing the rough fibers of the carpet as he pushed himself to sit. His face betrayed nothing, but behind his carefully schooled expression, one thought stood firm and cold: this was not of his making. His fingers arched, grasping at the ground beneath him, looking for some form of familiarity, but alas, there was nothing.
Confusion was an unfamiliar emotion for him, and one he loathed.
The silence stretched thin, nearly breaking, until a new presence announced itself. From the air above, without wand or hand to summon it, a small square of parchment materialized. It drifted down gently, almost mockingly, until it landed face-down upon the carpet at the center of the room.
And this, truly, is when the story begins.