At the Dorm Room
Peter was fast asleep.
The other three weren't even close.
James sat on his bed with his Charms textbook open on his lap, quill moving—but not progressing. He kept writing the same line, over and over, only to strike it out again. Ink stained the margins like evidence of a mind stuck in a loop.
Remus stood by the window, staring at the moon as if sheer will might force it to answer him. His reflection in the glass looked wrong somehow—too still, too alert.
And Sirius—
Sirius sat on the floor, the stolen tapes from the Room of Requirement laid out before him. He arranged them carefully, chronologically, hands steady, movements precise.
Too precise.
The calmness didn't suit him. It felt rehearsed. Controlled.
"You know," James said finally, dropping his quill, "Dumbledore approached me today."
Remus didn't turn around. Instead, he raised his wand and murmured a spell under his breath. A faint shimmer settled around the room—subtle, invisible to anyone not looking for it.
A silencing and warding charm.
The only one inside the shield besides them was Peter.
Sirius paused mid-motion, eyebrow lifting slightly.
A year ago, Sirius would've snapped—would've accused Remus of paranoia, of treating them like suspects.
But this Sirius understood something now.
Truths shattered fast.And liabilities were dangerous.
Peter had been acting strange for weeks—and Peter was a terrible actor. If he had something to say, he'd usually blurt it out.
The fact that he hadn't was worrying.
"What did he want?" Remus asked quietly.
Of all of them, he owed Dumbledore the most. Admission to Hogwarts. Protection. A chance at a life that didn't end in isolation.
Still—his father had never trusted the man.
The Lupins had once belonged to the Dark faction before retreating into neutrality. Dumbledore, meanwhile, was the shining face of the Light—and Light had a habit of calling itself righteous while being deeply biased.
"He's started an organisation," James said. "Called the Order of the Phoenix."
That made Sirius look up sharply.
"Phoenix?" he repeated. "Since when does something like that just… exist? If Dumbledore had formed an organisation, it would be everywhere. Rumours, whispers—something."
"It's secret," James said.
"How secret?" Remus asked immediately. "And more importantly—is it legal?"
James hesitated. "I don't think so."
Sirius leaned back on his hands. "So what—did he want funding?"
"No," James said. "He wanted me to join to fight against Voldemort."
Silence.
Then Sirius exploded.
"What do you mean he wanted you to join?" Sirius snapped. "Has that old man finally gone senile? You're sixteen well—nearly seventeen—with no combat experience. He wants to recruit you into an illegal organisation to fight Voldemort? You're the heir to one of the most ancient and noble Light-aligned houses. Does he want you dead?"
Remus cut in before Sirius could spiral further.
"That's exactly why he wants James," he said calmly.
Both of them looked at him.
"He's a pureblood heir. Rich. Influential. Politically valuable. Even if the Potters sit neutral, they present Light. Dumbledore wouldn't touch Sirius—too risky. Dark family, volatile reputation, and Lord Black would tear the Wizengamot apart if his heir were dragged into this."
Sirius went quiet.
"And the rest of us?" Remus continued. "Either not influential enough, not wealthy enough, or not fitting his idea of a saviour."
James stared at him, stunned—not by the words, but by the certainty behind them.
"Since when," James said slowly, "do you know this much about politics?"
Remus finally turned away from the window.
"My father hates Professor Dumbledore," he said plainly. "He didn't even want me coming to Hogwarts. He analyses every move Dumbledore makes, picks it apart."
A pause.
"And most of the time," Remus added softly, "he's right."
*******
At the Astronomy Tower
Regulus stood leaning against the cold stone wall, the Hogwarts grounds spread out far below him. Above, the stars burned quietly—distant, constant, uncaring.
For once, his mind was blank.
Or perhaps too full.
He wondered—dangerously—whether Lucius Malfoy knew the truth about his mother. Whether Lucius knew who she really was. And if he did… whether that knowledge might be a door. A way for Regulus to learn more about his own mother.
Because his mother had never been spoken of as dead.
Nor alive.
Orion Black spoke of her as though she had simply been misplaced—lost somewhere between moments, like an object set down and never retrieved. The rest of the world behaved as if Walburga Black had always been his mother, as if no other woman had ever existed.
And for the longest time, Regulus had believed it too.
Until he didn't.
Now, when he thought hard enough, he realised something deeply wrong: he remembered nothing from before the age of ten. Everything before that was blank—smooth, featureless, like a wiped slate.
And yet—
If he pushed.If he strained.
Something stirred.
Pain followed immediately—sharp, splitting, both physical and mental, like a blade pressed behind his eyes. Whatever those memories were, they did not want to be found.
His father wasn't in any condition to explain. Every attempt ended in silence, or anger, or a look of such raw hurt that Regulus learned quickly to stop asking.
Still—he wanted to know.
He couldn't wait for Sirius to stumble onto the truth and decide when—or if—to share it. This was his mother.
He needed answers.
Footsteps echoed up the stairs, pulling him from his thoughts.
Lucius Malfoy emerged into view.
He looked like a living echo of his father—sharp features, pale hair, aristocratic bearing—though his skin was a shade darker, a contrast that had made him notoriously popular among the noble witches. He moved with effortless grace, not even winded despite the climb, as if his body obeyed him as naturally as his magic did.
Another talent, Regulus noted absently.
Lucius offered a polite smile in greeting.
Regulus straightened slightly. In his mind, Sirius was leagues above this blonde peacock—always had been—but Lucius was to be his future brother-in-law. Courtesy, at least, was required.
Not that Regulus had ever openly shown distaste. He was far too well-trained for that.
His fingers brushed the inside of his robes, where the photographs were hidden.
He had found them in Slughorn's old cabinets. It had taken nothing more than his surname, a carefully measured smile, and a touch of charm for Slughorn to grant him access. The man had been suspiciously accommodating—clearly angling for favour from Lord Black—but Regulus had played along.
The reward had been worth it.
Photographs of his mother.
Of his father.
Of Lord Malfoy.
And another woman—her name still unknown—captured during what looked like a Yule Ball.
They were his now.
He knew that if his father or Sirius discovered them, they would descend on him instantly—take them away.
He wasn't in the mood to be bullied by his own family.
So he waited.
Under the stars.With questions burning quietly behind his eyes.
And Lucius Malfoy standing beside him—perhaps unknowingly closer to the truth than anyone else.