FicWad

As we apparated just before dawn, the world around us was cloaked in the soft grey of early morning, with streetlights still flickering against the fading night. Though we had hoped to arrive unnoticed and blend seamlessly into the mundane muggle village, the universe had other plans for our stealthy entrance.
Bundled against the cool, damp air, a teenage girl knelt in her front yard, dirt-stained hands gripping a small shovel as she dug holes for her newly purchased flowers. Their colourful pots stood neatly beside her, vibrant even in the muted dawn light. Suddenly, a dog's bark from the neighbouring house startled her, yanking her focus from the task.
At that moment, she looked up and locked eyes with the black-cloaked figures standing in the middle of the road. My heart raced; something about us startled her—perhaps it was our attire, wholly inappropriate for such a sleepy, serene place. Or maybe my dishevelled hair, wild and free, sent shivers down her spine. Whatever the reason, fear flashed across her face, and before we could even muster a greeting, she scrambled to her feet, eyes wide with alarm, before turning on her heel and fleeing inside her house.
The girl’s scream, though muffled by the distance, echoed in my ears. It wasn’t a scream of terror, not exactly. More a startled yelp, a quick intake of breath, followed by the slam of a door. Even so, it had shattered the fragile illusion of our inconspicuous arrival. We were far from subtle. Two figures in black, appearing seemingly from thin air in a quiet village at dawn—hardly the picture of unassuming tourists.
I envisioned the girl rushing into the house, her mouth wide open, breathlessly recounting to her stunned parents the sight of the strangers who had materialised from nowhere. I imagined her mother brushing the hair from her daughter's forehead, both concerned and doubtful, as her father, still groggy from sleep, muttered something about dreams playing tricks on the mind.
Remus Lupin, ever pragmatic, merely shrugged. “Perhaps we should’ve apparated further out,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of awakening Ottery St. Catchpole.
I, on the other hand, was grinning. “Dramatic entrance, wouldn’t you say? Sets the tone, you know.” But I wouldn’t deny that the girl’s wide, frightened eyes haunted me.
The village itself was a balm to my troubled conscience. Despite the less-than-ideal entry, Ottery St. Catchpole possessed a certain charm, a quiet beauty that seeped into your bones. It wasn’t grand; it wasn’t flashy. It was simply… homely. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with the damp earth, a comforting blend. Laundry flapped gently on clotheslines strung between flower-filled window boxes, a symphony of muted colours against the pale morning sky. Children’s laughter drifted from a nearby garden, a stark contrast to the image of the terrified girl I'd left behind. The way the houses nestled together, the cobblestone paths that wound whimsically around them—all of it felt anchored in something distant yet familiar.
Reaching the top of the hill, the sight of "Lupin" took my breath away. It wasn't a grand manor, nothing like the imposing structures of the wizarding world. It was a simple, two-story cottage, sturdy and understated, with a small, well-tended garden. The copper plaque, gleaming faintly in the weak sunlight, felt like a promise. A promise of sanctuary, of peace, of a new beginning. Perhaps, even a chance to make amends for our less-than-graceful arrival. Dominating the yard was a stately elm, its branches reaching out as if to embrace us, wrapped in a tangled mess of ivy.
I inspected the vibrant flowerbeds along the side, their petals quivering lightly, dew still clinging to them, shimmering like tiny diamonds in the soft morning sun. I liked the house—it appeared resilient, as if built to endure any tempest that life tossed its way, much like me.
Remus muttered, "Alohomora!" while pointing his wand at the front door. The old lock clicked, and the door creaked open, a sound like a sigh of relief. We stepped inside, the scent of woodsmoke and old paper faint but present, a comforting familiarity despite the uncertainty hanging in the air. We both felt it: the exhilaration of a new beginning, tangled with the apprehension of another uprooted life.
The house radiated an airy, luminous quality. Lofty ceilings, their white paint glowing like the interior of a conch shell, allowed the rooms to flow into one another with a graceful openness that beckoned exploration. To the right, a living room filled with eclectic furnishings—a mismatched collection of armchairs, a worn Persian rug, a grandfather clock that seemed to hold its breath—each piece brimming with untold stories, whispering of lives lived within those walls. Farther on, a study opened onto a paved courtyard where vines of vibrant wildflowers curled around sun-weathered stones, their colours vivid even in the misting rain that had begun to fall, a gentle curtain drawn over our tour.
At the back of the cottage, a spacious den with plush sofas and cosy rugs flowed seamlessly from the kitchen, inviting one to sink into its comforts while sipping tea and watching the rain streak the windowpanes. Upstairs, two bedrooms, small but well-proportioned, and a main bathroom awaited. As I explored the house, its timber floors creaked as if greeting me, welcoming me, despite my inherent reluctance.
“How do you like it, Harry?” Remus suddenly asked, his voice softer than the falling rain.
I only gave a small shrug, the same meagre gesture I always offered when we moved, another fleeting stop on our nomadic journey. It was my way of saying, "It's okay—for now.". The words felt hollow even to my own ears.
"It's… a house," I finally managed, the words tasting like dust. The truth was more complicated. This house, unlike the others, felt… different. It felt like a place that might, just might, hold onto us for a little while longer. But hope, like the fragile petals of the morning dew, was a dangerous thing to cling to. And I, like the house itself, had learnt to brace for the inevitable storm.
During those initial weeks, we hibernated and acclimated to our new surroundings. Ottery St. Catchpole, a sleepy hamlet where time seemed to stand still, provided a welcome respite. We delighted in the tranquillity, often strolling the rolling hills when the Muggle residents were occupied indoors.
One crisp evening, with the sky painted in hues of twilight, we wandered farther than usual, finally reaching the river that stretched like a silver ribbon down the valley. The water glimmered under the last blushes of daylight, and the gentle gurgle was like a lullaby. But what caught our attention was not the river itself, but rather the lone girl sitting serenely upon its bank.
She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Dressed in a plain, comfortable sweater and dark, casual jeans, she calmly dipped her bare feet into the cool water, her serene presence seemingly commanding the surrounding environment.
We froze in our steps as an unsettling sensation overcame me—an instinct to withdraw, borne of uncertainty. But before we could retreat, she had already spotted us. Her head didn’t snap up in alarm; instead, she slowly turned, her gaze calm and unnervingly direct.
“Hi,” she greeted, her voice melodic against the backdrop of the rippling river. Her smile was warm and inviting against the encroaching dusk. “Nice night for a walk.”
Remus only nodded in response and remained still. Feeling it would be impolite not to respond, I stepped forward, my heart already hammering a rhythm against my ribs.
"Yes, it is," I replied, surprised by the ease with which her words flowed over me. The space between us seemed to create a realm where anything could happen. "Aren't you cold?" I gestured toward her feet, half-submerged in the water, as the chill of the autumn evening hung in the air.
“No,” she said lightly, her gaze unwavering. “I come out here to relax.”
Ignoring Remus’s warning glance—a barely perceptible twitch of his eyebrow—I found myself drawn closer, my curiosity overriding any sense of caution. The girl’s long, fiery red hair cascaded over her shoulders, shimmering in the fading light. Her almond-shaped eyes were a captivating brown, deep and curious; I had to resist the urge to become lost in their depths. However, it was her smile that truly mesmerised me—a warmth that felt like the ember of a flame against the cool night.
“Want to try?” she asked, tilting her head toward the river, her expression playful. The invitation hung in the air, both alluring and terrifying.
While I struggled to think of an appropriate response, Remus answered for me.
“Come away now, Harry,” he interjected. “We have to get home.” A soft but firm command.
Even as he said it, I felt the gravity of my reality pulling against me. I longed to step closer, to learn her name. Her expression shifted to one of understanding, a hint of sadness beneath her playful exterior.
“Maybe next time,” her voice floated like a feather on the breeze, barely breaking the stillness as I turned away. I could see the shimmer of evening stars reflecting on the water, like tiny hopes scattered across a vast expanse, and in that moment, I felt a strange ache at the thought of leaving her behind.
My frustration boiled over, not just at Remus’s interruption but at the suffocating weight of my reality. I was no ordinary teenager; I was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, a target, a symbol. A simple evening stroll could turn deadly. The girl in the river, with her effortless grace and mysterious allure, represented everything I couldn’t have—a normal life, a simple connection, a future free from the ever-present threat of Voldemort.
“What’s wrong with you?” I said to Remus, once we had put enough distance between us and the girl, my tone was sharp against the gentle hum of the evening.
Remus’s unwavering gaze, usually filled with warmth and understanding, now seemed heavy with unspoken burdens. He knew what I was feeling, understood the silent yearning in my frustrated outburst. But the caution in his eyes was unyielding. He’d seen too much, lost too much, to allow me the luxury of simple, carefree moments.
“That was so rude,” I said again but with a softer edge—a plea now hidden in my frustration.
“We have to be careful, Harry,” he replied, his voice steady, like a rock amidst the waves of my emotions. Each word felt draped in age-old caution.
I whipped around, determined to take one last glimpse of her. She was still there—silent, contemplative, a fading silhouette against the twilight. The simplicity of her smile reached out, illuminating the darkening air, and I felt a jolt of recognition deep within me. It was the smile of someone who understood, someone who perhaps shared a similar burden, a similar mark.
"Why can't I just be normal?" The words were a choked whisper lost on the sighing wind. It wasn't a question for Remus, but a lament for the life I could never have, the girl I could never know.
Remus's hand rested on my shoulder, a comforting weight against the trembling in my limbs. "Because normal wouldn't be you, Harry," he said softly. “You’ve been marked. There are Death Eaters who can kill you if you’re not careful. Remember what we’ve talked about. The night isn’t safe. We should get home.”
Home. The word sat heavily between us, a tether binding me to the warmth of familiarity, yet its seams stretched thin and fragile. I thought of the girl. She didn’t know who I really was, the potential I carried, nor the burdens that weighed me down. And yet, she had looked at me as if I were more than just Harry.