Hogwarts, 1976 | Sixth Year Corridors | Late October
The castle smelled like rain, wet stone, and trouble.
It’s sixth year for Gryffindor, fifth for Slytherin and Ravenclaw, and the corridor between Transfiguration and the dungeons was a powder keg.
James Potter had one foot on a suit of armor, wand out, trying to make it tap-dance while Sirius Black leaned against the wall cackling like a hyena. Remus Lupin was muttering “Don’t, James” under his breath, and Peter Pettigrew was glancing down the corridor every two seconds. Lily Evans had her arms crossed, glaring at James like she was one bad joke away from hexing him. Marlene McKinnon was draped over Mary Macdonald, dying of laughter, and Alice Fortescue was straightening Frank Longbottom’s tie again while he stood there, red-eared and fond.
The Gryffindors took up the whole hallway. They always did.
Coming the other way: Slytherin.
Regulus Black walked point, pale, perfect posture, eyes straight ahead like the Gryffindors didn’t exist. Evan Rosier and Barty Crouch Jr. flanked him, smirking at the noise. Dorcas Meadowes brought up the rear, arms folded, unimpressed and dangerous.
James clocked them immediately. “Look who it is. Little Black’s fan club.”
Sirius’s grin vanished. He went very still. “Regulus.”
Regulus didn’t look at him. Not once. His jaw tightened and he walked faster. The last year had done that to them. Brothers in name only now.
“Black,” Sirius said again, louder.
Regulus kept walking.
Evan caught Sirius’s eye and his smirk went mean. “Careful, Black. Wouldn’t want your brother to hex you in the corridor.”
“Shut it, Rosier,” Remus snapped, stepping between them.
That’s when Xenophilius Lovegood drifted past, fifth-year Ravenclaw, sketchbook in hand, muttering about Nargles on the ceiling. He didn’t even notice the standoff.
And by the window seat: you, Pandora Rosier.