Chapter Text
March 1971 – Remus
Remus didn’t really give it much thought when he saw the old man approaching their house. He was used to weird-looking strangers coming to visit his dad. It always went the same way: they would sit in the living room talking in hushed voices about boggarts, or trolls, or pixies, or other boring things adults liked to talk about. Remus didn’t listen at the door anymore. He used to when he was little, but now he was 10 (11 tomorrow!) and too old to care about that sort of thing. Anyway, his dad was teaching him all that stuff in their lessons.
Sometimes when people showed up like this his dad would go away with them for a few days. Those were Remus’ favourite times. He didn’t have any lessons so his mum would let him help in the garden, or they’d go into the village to do the shopping, or maybe they’d have a picnic down by the river. A few years ago, they had even collected some tadpoles and raised them in a pond in the garden until they turned into frogs and all hopped away. That was in the last house, though. This one didn’t have a pond.
Remus turned back to his book as he heard the old man knock on the front door somewhere below him. He was just starting on the next section, about Grindylows, when there was a loud crash downstairs that jolted him back to attention. He could faintly hear his mum and dad talking downstairs, in that quiet, muttery way that meant he wasn’t supposed to listen. They did that sometimes, especially around the full moon. But that wasn’t for a few days yet, and there was a note of panic in his mum’s voice that wasn’t usually there.
Unnerved, Remus got up and padded softly out to the landing. Standing at the top of the stairs, he could hear them clearly.
“…doing here?” Hope Lupin was saying. “How did he even find us?”
Lyall didn’t respond, wand pointed resolutely at the door, though his hand shook ever so slightly. Remus studied his dad’s face, pale and drawn. Last time he had looked this worried they’d had to move house.
“Dad?” he said quietly. Then slightly louder, having realised his dad couldn’t hear him, “Dad? What’s going—?”
“Remus!” Lyall said, looking up at him sharply. “Go back to your—”
But his concentration had been broken and the damage was done. The air was split by a loud crack, and the old man was standing in the hallway.
Remus drew in his breath and took several steps back, shrouding himself in the shadows of the landing. He watched as the old man looked around slowly, ignoring Lyall’s wand, which was now pointed at him. Up close, he was taller and thinner than he had seemed from the window, with a beard so long he could have tucked it into his trousers. The thought might have made Remus laugh if he hadn’t been frozen in fear.
“What a lovely home,” the old man said mildly, after a moment. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion. I assure you, I mean no harm.”
As he finished his sentence, his eyes found Remus, and he winked. Remus wasn’t sure if this should put him at ease or freak him out even more. Before he could figure it out, the old man had swept away towards the kitchen in a cloud of sapphire blue robes, leaving the Lupins in stunned silence.
Hope was the first to follow him, with Remus creeping curiously behind her and Lyall, tense but mute, bringing up the rear. The old man had made himself at home and was humming softly, while a rose-patterned tea set and a plate of crumpets swirled around him and settled on the kitchen table. Without turning around, the old man flicked his wand, and the tea began to pour itself. Remus watched in awe, settling down beside the fire. His dad never helped with the housework, so he hadn’t seen magic used like this before.
He glanced up at his mum, to see if she was just as impressed, and was surprised to see her glaring at the old man, jaw set and arms crossed.
“Mr Dumbledore,” she began, a faint tremor in her voice, “what exactly is—?”
“Oh!” Mr Dumbledore exclaimed, and Remus, looking up, was alarmed to see the old man sweeping towards him. “Gobstones!”
Remus followed his gaze down to the set of dull glass gobstones at his feet. They had belonged to his granddad and were a little worse for wear, but something about the old man told Remus that he didn’t need to be embarrassed about that.
“Do you mind?” Mr Dumbledore asked, gesturing at Remus but looking at his mum.
Remus watched her deflate, the wind well and truly taken out of her sails.
“I…” she said, glancing helplessly at her husband, “no… um, no, of course.”
Before Remus knew what was happening, Mr Dumbledore was sitting cross-legged across from him, with a cup of tea he had levitated over from the table.
“You must forgive me, Remus,” he said, looking gravely at Remus over the top of his half-moon glasses, “but it has been rather a while since I last played, and I may be a bit rusty.”
“’s okay,” Remus mumbled, splitting the gobstones into two groups of 15.
“Professor Dumbledore,” his dad began, watching them from his seat at the table, “not to interrupt, but I have to ask…”
(Mr? Professor?) Dumbledore smiled patiently up at him.
“My apologies Lyall,” he said pleasantly. “Of course, I realise my appearance has startled you. Understandably so.”
He rolled his first gobstone, missing Remus’ entirely, and smiled to himself, seemingly delighted with his abysmal performance.
“I am here,” he continued, gesturing for Remus to take his turn, “to discuss Remus’ education.”
“I see,” said Lyall, puffing his chest up slightly. “Well, I’m educating him here at home, of course. If you’ve come to ask about why we haven’t signed him up for Hogwarts, then—”
Dumbledore held up a hand to silence Lyall, but he did it so politely that Remus thought his dad seemed more bemused than offended.
“I am perfectly aware that you do not think Remus can attend Hogwarts, Lyall,” Dumbledore said softly. “However, I believe, and somehow I imagine you might agree, that your son should not be denied an education just because he is a werewolf.”
In the silence that followed, Remus was sure that his lungs had collapsed. His body simply refused to take a breath.
He heard them talking – his parents and Dumbledore – his dad shaking his head, saying something about the current climate, but Remus couldn’t bring himself to understand the words. His mind whirled in a blind panic, incapable of a single logical thought. Somewhere, a distant alarm was blaring.
He was never supposed to let anyone find out! How had he slipped up? How had the old man figured it out? What was going to happen to him now?
“…the werewolf registry?” his dad said, the word ‘werewolf’ managing to catch Remus’ attention for a brief moment.
“I think not,” Dumbledore said. “Given, as you put it, the current climate, I don’t think it would be a good idea to…”
They would lock him up. He would never see his mum and dad again. He would—
“But perhaps we ought to ask what Remus thinks?”
He looked up. Dumbledore was watching him, smiling benignly. Remus just stared at him, eyes wide.
“What do you think, Remus?” Dumbledore said.
Remus’ blood was still pumping as though he’d been running. He glanced at his mum, who was chewing on her lip worriedly, and his dad, whose brow was furrowed.
“Uh…” Remus said dully, “about… about what?”
The old man was looking at him shrewdly, as if he could hear every panicked thought bounding wildly around inside Remus’ head.
“Would you like to attend Hogwarts?” he asked patiently. “If you didn’t have to worry about the full moon?”
Remus stared at him blankly for a moment. What kind of question was that? The answer was simple.
Unable to speak, he simply nodded.
“Excellent,” Dumbledore exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “This calls for celebration! Would anyone like a crumpet?”
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June 1971 – Sirius
The Black house was gloomy, even in summer. Sirius sometimes thought that even if you tore down the whole thing and replaced it with something vibrant and colourful, the damp chill would somehow remain, like a ghost haunting the space where his home had once stood. He lay fully clothed on top of his bedsheets, staring at the spot on the ceiling where a sunbeam was shining through the crack in the curtains, splitting the darkness in two.
Downstairs, he could hear his mother yelling at Kreacher, her shrill voice echoing in the empty halls. Sometimes he felt bad for Kreacher, but still – better him than Sirius. At least Sirius would be able to leave one day. Kreacher would probably die in this house and have his head hung up on the wall. The thought gave Sirius the chills, despite the warm day.
He shifted his head on the pillow a bit, just enough to hear the crinkle of paper underneath it. He had hidden the letter shortly after it arrived, half worried it might somehow be taken away. He had read the first lines so many times he could see them if he closed his eyes:
Dear Mr. Black,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...
Thinking of it, Sirius grinned to himself. Hogwarts. He would be there in just a couple of months: out from under his mother’s thumb, away from his father’s watchful gaze, no longer burdened with Reg’s—
Sirius groaned aloud, sitting up. That was the issue, wasn’t it? At the end of the day, Sirius could never be truly happy to have received his letter, because it meant leaving his little brother behind.
Not that Regulus cared. It might have made it… well, not easier, if he was sad to Sirius go, but at least it would have felt like someone would miss him. But no, if anything, Reg seemed positively relieved at the idea of his brother being gone for the next year. Sirius had been trying not to let that sting as much as it did.
He didn’t kid himself, though. As much as Sirius didn’t want to admit it, Regulus belonged here. He was happy to oblige their parents, obeying their every whim as they doted on him. He always knew the right thing to say about muggles and mudbloods. He got on well with Bella and Cissy. He even suited green more than Sirius did.
Ugh.
Sirius got up and started to pace, running his hands through his hair. He didn’t like to think about Slytherin, if possible. He was sure, absolutely sure, that the sorting hat wasn’t going to put him in Slytherin, and what would he do then? Everyone in his family had been in Slytherin for decades. For centuries! Sirius didn’t even want to imagine what his parents would say if he was the one to break that tradition. On the other hand, even the tiniest possibility that he might actually be put in Slytherin was enough to make him feel as though he were being slowly strangled by Devil’s Snare.
He leaned his elbows on the windowsill, peeking out through the narrow slit in the curtains at the muggle square in front of the house. There was an old woman feeding the pigeons while a young boy – her grandson, maybe – kicked a ball around in the grass beside her. What would it be like, Sirius wondered, to not have to worry about any of this? To just be a muggle kid, with nothing more to worry about than sports, or what shirt to put on that day, or whatever muggle kids thought about?
He caught himself quickly, straightening up and tearing his eyes away from them. Regulus would never think things like that, so why did Sirius? What was wrong with him? He’d be put in Hufflepuff at this rate, like Andromeda’s mudblood boyfriend. Sirius snorted, then immediately felt guilty. There was nothing wrong with Hufflepuff, he knew. There was nothing wrong with Hufflepuff and there was nothing wrong with mudbloods, or even muggles for that matter.
Back before she had told her parents about the mudblood (Ted, Sirius reminded himself sternly, and don’t call him that) and when Sirius had still been allowed to talk to her, Andromeda had told him all about muggles. Said they were just as smart as wizards, but they just couldn’t do magic. Like a whole society of squibs but not embarrassing. She had explained it all: why his parents said the things they did and why they were wrong.
Sirius had hoped she was wrong, at first. Biased or tricked or something. She wasn’t. Although why his parents would lie about—
There was a timid knock on the door, rousing him from his thoughts. Stifling a momentary flare of annoyance, Sirius turned his back to the window and leaned against it in what he hoped was a ‘cool-older-brother’ kind of pose.
“Yeah, come in,” he said, his voice somewhat hoarse from lack of use. He’d been trying to avoid talking as much as possible in the fear that his parents would see sense and decide to homeschool him to prevent something like the ‘Andromeda situation’ from happening again. No one had seemed to notice his sudden silence. Although perhaps they were enjoying it.
Sirius’ bedroom door creaked open to reveal Regulus standing awkwardly in the doorway, their late uncle Alphard’s heavy chess set clutched in his arms.
“Fancy a game?” he said, trying to raise an eyebrow coolly. Sirius could see the apprehension in his eyes.
He decided to take pity on his little brother.
“Sure,” he said, slowly sinking down to sit on the carpeted floor under the window, back against the cold wall.
Regulus approached, closing the door softly behind him. Sirius sometimes got the distinct impression that Reg would rather not be seen with him if he could avoid it. Still, his brother settled down across from him and began arranging pieces on the board.
Sirius helped him, placing the white pieces in front of himself. Reg had always been good at chess. He had the patience to sit quietly, pondering moves and strategising, playing the long game. Sirius got bored too fast, grew impatient, and eventually started playing recklessly just to get some action going.
This time, Regulus didn’t give him a chance to get bored. With only a handful of Sirius’ pieces taken, he drew in a small breath, then hesitated. Sirius moved his bishop away from Reg’s knight, waiting for his brother to form the words. They weren’t what he was expecting.
“I’ll miss you,” Regulus said simply, not looking up from the board.
Sirius felt his heart crack a little within his chest, but he brushed it off, huffing out a pained laugh.
“No, you won’t” he said wryly.
Regulus, to his credit, managed a half smile at that and shrugged.
“No,” he admitted. “I won’t miss you and mother yelling at each other, or you and father glaring at each other across the table.”
He paused, frowning at the chess board, then moved his rook to take Sirius’ bishop.
“I won’t miss you arguing with Kreacher over whether he’s allowed to clean your room,” Reg continued, sitting back on his hands and finally meeting Sirius’ eyes.
Sirius looked back down at the board quickly, feeling suddenly childish as he muttered, “Don’t like him going through my stuff…”
“And,” Regulus ploughed on, ignoring him, “I won’t miss you giving me the silent treatment when you’re in trouble. Like it’s my fault you always break the rules and upset mother.”
Sirius felt himself bristle in annoyance and put his queen down a little too hard when he moved it out of the way of Reg’s approaching knight. Ashamed, he didn’t look up, instead picking at a loose thread in the carpet at his feet.
Regulus watched him quietly for a moment, then leaned to the side – chin on hand, elbow on knee – and studied the board again. When he spoke next, it was even quieter, as though he wasn’t sure whether he wanted Sirius to hear him.
“I will miss you, though.”
Sirius swallowed the lump in his throat. Regulus wasn’t just talking about the school year. There was an air of finality in his voice that made his statement feel more permanent than that. A goodbye. Regulus, too, was sure that Sirius was destined to break the family tradition and was making it clear that he wouldn’t go down with him. Things would never be the same again.
Regulus’ knight had been a distraction. With the queen out of the way he now moved his rook into position to attack Sirius’ king, then sat back on his hands proudly, unaware or uncaring that he was slowly shattering Sirius’s heart, piece by tiny piece.
“Check!”
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July 1971 – James
James couldn’t contain himself. He was going to Hogwarts. Hogwarts!
The letter had arrived a few months ago, when he turned eleven. He had known it was coming, of course. He had been waiting for it for just about his whole life! His dad had told him all about it. James had seen all the pictures from his time there and he knew exactly what it would be like. The great hall (!), the quidditch pitch (!!), the Halloween feast (!!!). He was going to be in Gryffindor, just like his dad, and he couldn’t wait.
The morning after the Potters went to Diagon Alley to get his school supplies, James flew down the stairs two at a time.
“Careful,” his mum laughed, ruffling his hair as he slipped under her arm to grab a piece of toast. “You don’t want to show up to school with a broken arm, do you?”
“Exactly,” his dad boomed, looking up from his newspaper. “Especially if you want to make the team!”
“Daaaad,” James groaned through a mouthful of toast, “you said I can’t in first year!”
Fleamont Potter just laughed, shaking his head.
“What are we going to do with you?” James’ mum sighed fondly, trying to smooth down his flyaway hair as he wriggled out of her grasp, bounding over to the table to ask his dad to tell him more about the quidditch team.
James kept his parents occupied with a steady stream of quidditch-related chatter all through breakfast, but by the time he was helping to clear the table he was on a different track altogether.
“What if they put me in Ravenclaw instead?” he asked his dad, trying to stack a plate on top of a bowl in his distraction.
“Then you’ll be the smartest Ravenclaw in your whole year!” his mum said, and winked as she took the wobbly stack of dishes from his hands.
“Okay…” James took this on board, just as he had done every other time that he had asked this exact question since he got his letter. “But what if I’m in Hufflepuff?”
“Well, I’ve always said you suit yellow,” she smiled down at him, tugging on his Wasps jersey playfully.
Blushing, James batted her hand away and she turned her attention to the sink, where the dishes were now washing themselves.
“Okay! Well, what if I’m in Slytherin?” James asked triumphantly.
This time it was his dad who responded, barking out a laugh, “Ha! Then you’ll probably be the Minister for Magic, son!”
James grinned sheepishly, a little embarrassed by the incessant praise, even if he liked it.
“So, what’s the plan today?” he asked quickly. “Fancy a game of quidditch, dad?”
Fleamont grimaced. “Sorry, son, I have to head into the ministry. Have a meeting with Tiberius Ogden.”
James pouted. “But it’s Sunday! I thought you were meant to be retired, anyway.”
His dad chuckled. “I am, James, don’t worry. This isn’t for work!”
James shrugged and turned to his mum hopefully.
“Quidditch?” Euphemia sighed, “I don’t know, Jamie. You know I don’t like heights.”
James nodded mournfully. He was never going to make the team at this rate.
“Yeah, of course. No worries, mum,” he said. “I might just go out on my own then. Get a bit of practice in.”
As James stood up from the table, his parents glanced at each other. His mum gave gave his dad a funny sort of nod.
“Wait a moment, James,” Fleamont said, getting to his feet. “Give me a minute to get my things and I’ll walk out with you.”
Now out in the summer air, James’ disappointment was evaporating rapidly. It was looking like a beautiful day: sunny and warm with a slight breeze, perfect for quidditch. So what if he didn’t have anyone to play against? He’d do his best! Maybe later his mum would even agree to throw some tennis balls around for him to catch.
He turned, hearing the front door close as his dad left the house. He had a small bundle under one arm and smiled when he saw James glance at it.
“Walk me to the gate?” he asked, already setting off. James trotted after him curiously, broom over his shoulder. In his experience, this meant they were about to have a Big Conversation.
“I remember when I got my letter, you know,” his dad said, looking off into the trees. “I was so excited. Nervous too.”
James huffed a laugh at that. He couldn’t imagine his dad nervous.
“I was!” Fleamont smiled. “Not that I wasn’t looking forward to it, but I was worried about a lot of things. Which house I’d be put in, for one thing…”
He glanced down shrewdly at James, who looked away. He wasn’t worried about that. He was going to be in Gryffindor, no doubt about it.
“Anyway,” his dad continued, “the point is, I know it can all be a bit overwhelming. I was an only child too, and I… struggled, suddenly stuck being around people all the time. It can be hard to find time for yourself when you’re sharing a dorm with a few other people.”
James frowned. He hadn’t really given it much thought, but he thought being around friends all the time sounded pretty great. He’d never get bored or lonely!
His dad saw his expression and laughed. “You might be fine, of course, but I have something for you. Something that will help you… hide away, for a little bit, if that’s ever something you want.”
He had stopped walking now, and turned to James, looking very serious all of a sudden. James looked up at him, waiting.
“Now, James,” Fleamont said, “I know what you’re like, and this is not to be used for mischief. Is that understood?”
Unlike himself, James didn’t protest. He tried his best at a sombre nod.
“Very well.” His dad unravelled the bundle under his arm to reveal a silvery cloak.
James stared at it, eyes widening in awe as his dad draped the cloak over his arm and it simply… vanished.
“What.” James said blankly, stunned.
Fleamont grinned down at him, suddenly looking far too much like an excited child to be anyone’s father, despite his grey hair. James had the feeling his dad had been looking forward to this moment for a long time.
“My own father gave it to me when I was only a little older than you are now,” he told James, bundling the cloak up again, “and his mother gave it to him. I’m not sure how old it is, actually, so you’d better look after it.”
He held the cloak out to James, who took it gingerly after a moment. Looking down at it, thinking of all the hands that had touched it before, he felt strangely emotional. Before he could think to be embarrassed about it, he stepped forward and hugged his dad tightly.
If Fleamont was surprised, he didn’t show it, immediately hugging James back. They stood like that for a moment, before James stepped away, eyes still a little prickly.
“Right,” he said quietly, “er, thanks, dad. Have a good meeting.”
“See you later, James,” his dad ruffled his hair. James had to stuff his new invisibility cloak under his arm so he could fix it.
He watched as his dad walked the few remaining steps to the gate and disapparated, then turned back towards the house, still feeling a bit funny. As he walked, he smiled to himself. An invisibility cloak. Cool. He would put it away and then – quidditch. Forget playing for the Wimbourne Wasps, he wouldn’t even make the Gryffindor team if he didn’t keep practicing!
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August 1971 – Peter
Peter was sure he had forgotten something. He sat on his bed, staring down at his open trunk, trying desperately to think what it could be.
Outside, he could hear the faint sound of music and people talking. The last days of August had brought a sticky heat with them, and the neighbours had taken advantage and were holding a back-to-school party in their garden. Peter was supposed to go down and join them when he was finished packing.
He was dreading it. He knew what to expect. His mother, already having drunk too much wine and laughing too loudly. The glances he got from the other kids: filled with a mix of distain and pity for the half-blood abandoned by his muggle father. He wasn’t sure which he hated more.
Peter fell back on his covers, staring up at the ceiling glumly. He had been hoping to reinvent himself at Hogwarts, but that seemed like it wasn’t going to happen. At the start of the summer, the Zabini family had moved to Mould-on-the-Wold. They had a daughter who would be starting at Hogwarts with Peter. He had only met her once, but she had looked at him with such contempt that Peter had no doubt she would tell everyone at Hogwarts what a pathetic, half-blood loser he was.
Fighting back tears, Peter clenched his fists hard, until his fingernails began to sting his palms. The other kids here had never liked him. They all thought they were too good for him and his mum. Hogwarts was going to be exactly the same, he just knew it. He would probably be in Hufflepuff, too.
He didn’t know what was wrong with Hufflepuff, exactly, except that Ingrid Wilkes had sneered nastily when Peter told her what house his mum had been in. It had made him feel very small. Since then, he occasionally woke up from dreams where he was sorted into Hufflepuff, the afterimage of Ingrid’s horrible smirk still playing behind his eyes.
“Petey!”
Peter grimaced. He wished she wouldn’t call him that. It made him feel like a baby.
“Petey!” his mother called again. She was definitely drunk.
“Coming now, mum!” he yelled back, before she could shout again.
Peter sighed, getting to his feet. There was no putting it off any longer. If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t forgotten anything: he had always had a good memory.
Leaving his trunk open on the floor, Peter made his way downstairs, following the sounds of the party. At the bottom of the stairs, his mother stood looking up at him. Enid Pettigrew was a small, mousy witch with wispy blond hair and pale blue eyes. She stopped chewing on her fingernails when she saw Peter and beckoned him frantically.
“Quickly, Peter, quickly! The Malfoys were asking for you. We don’t want to keep them waiting!”
Peter sighed, but he didn’t speak his mind as he followed his mother reluctantly into the kitchen. He hated her tendency to cower and bend to the whims of the richer, more powerful wizards in the neighbourhood. He knew his mum to be a genuinely clever witch, shrewd and witty, but for some reason she lost her composure around the likes of the Malfoys and the Zabinis. He often saw the other children exchanging glances when she spoke or laughed too loudly that made him want to shrivel up and disappear.
Waiting in the kitchen was a tall, thin man with white-blond hair and his almost identical son. Abraxas and Lucius Malfoy. They both turned their cold, grey eyes on Peter and his mother as they entered, and he had to exert a concentrated effort not to shrink before their sharklike gazes.
“Found him!” Enid chirped happily, apparently oblivious to Peter’s discomfort. “He’s been packing and unpacking all day!”
Heat rose instantly in Peter’s face. Abraxas Malfoy’s face twisted into an unpleasant smirk he looked him slowly up and down.
“First day nerves, I’m sure,” he drawled.
Lucius gave a barely disguised snicker, which Peter’s mother didn’t seem to hear.
“Well, weren’t we all the same,” she said fondly, flicking her wand and causing a tray of glasses to lift delicately from the table and float towards her.
“Petey,” she continued, “grab those salads while Abraxas and Lucius bring over the table and chairs, will you? There’s more than expected next door.”
With that she had vanished out the door, Abraxas behind her, levitating the Pettigrew’s kitchen chairs in a neat line behind him. Now alone with Lucius, Peter careful avoided making eye contact with him as he hurried to the table to collect the three salad bowls his mother had prepared. They were slightly too big to be carried easily all at once, making Peter feel as though he was too small, his arms too short. He watched in barely disguised envy as Lucius whipped out his wand and levitated the tiny kitchen table easily out of the door and into the garden. The two boys followed it out.
“You’re not 17 yet, are you?” Peter asked, frowning.
Lucius smirked. “Not for a few months, no. But you know father.”
He didn’t need to say more. Abraxas was well-connected at the Ministry.
They walked in silence for a moment, watching their parents talk ahead of them. Peter fumbled with the salad bowls and Lucius glanced at him, amused.
“So,” he said, a smile in his voice that made Peter’s blood curdle, “nervous, are you… Petey?”
Peter felt like he was going to be sick.
“Shut up,” he mumbled, but there was no heart in it.
“Kidding, kidding…” Lucius sneered. “So, you know what house you’ll be in?”
Peter shrugged. Lucius was in Slytherin, like most of the other wizards in Mould-on-the-Wold. He would never understand why his mother had chosen to live in a notoriously pure-blood area where they would always be looked down upon.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll end up somewhere… reasonable,” Lucius said knowingly. “My parents think very highly of your mother.”
Peter didn't even bother to hide his expression of incredulity.
“Sure, maybe,” he said noncommittally as they made their way through the side gate into the Rosiers’ garden.
Peter left Lucius with his table and hurried into the house behind the levitating tray of glasses, which had proceeded confidently on their own while his mother stopped to talk to Loretta Rosier about the decorations.
Once alone in the kitchen, the salad bowls set safely down, Peter took a moment to breathe. The Rosiers’ house was always much cleaner than his mother's. The Rosiers had a house elf, of course. Peter would love a house elf. He had asked his mother about it once and she had just laughed, asking why they would bother with that when they could use magic. He supposed that was her being muggleborn and too easily pleased.
Peter stared out at the other partygoers through the window. There was Alia Zabini, already beautiful at eleven (at least according to his mum, although Peter couldn’t see past her icy glare). She was talking to the Rosiers’ son, a weedy boy with deep-set eyes and what seemed to be a near-permanent scowl. He would be starting in Hogwarts a year after them, Peter remembered. Lucius Malfoy was now seated, his arm around a haughty-looking blonde girl who Peter supposed must be his girlfriend. She lived in London and Peter had never met her, although his mother talked about what a good match it was.
Speaking of his mother… he saw her pause in her conversation with Mrs Rosier and glance around the garden. Probably looking for him. Peter sighed, moving away from the window. He’d better get back outside before she had a chance to call him “Petey” in front of anyone else and ruin any chance he would ever have of making a single friend.