Chapter 1: Chapter One
Chapter Text
All The Quiet Things
Chapter One:
London, England
14 March, 1965
In a modest house in the middle of Wizarding London, a small boy stared out an upstairs window, resting his elbows on the sill. As he watched the rain trickle down the glass, he wondered what his parents were discussing downstairs. They had shut him in his room, telling him not to come down until they were finished.
He pressed his face against the window, peering down at the grass below, studying the brooms which were leaned haphazardly against the porch railing. He didn't quite understand why the visitors had come in such a hurry, zooming right up to the door and abandoning their transportation the second the door had opened.
He'd been playing in the parlor, while his father sat nearby reading the Daily Prophet, and his mother made a large clatter while washing the dishes. They'd been perfectly content until a persistent knock sounded at the front door.
His father had put his paper down and gone to answer the door, returning a few moments later with an urgent expression on his face. "Hope," he'd said, his voice tight and unusually demanding. "I need you out here."
The boy had tugged on his mother's hand when she finally came out, her pretty face pale. "What's going on?" But she wasn't looking at her husband, but beyond him. Three men and a woman stood in the entryway, rain dripping off their clothes onto the freshly vacuumed carpet. The tallest man wore a brown trench coat and appeared to be in charge. He clenched a reddish wand in his right hand.
A shiny silver badge caught the boy's attention. This man was an auror. He felt a rush of excitement. He'd never met an auror before. "Mommy," he tugged on his mother's hand again. "Why are they here?"
"Go upstairs, sugar." She had bent down to his level, her eyes darting between him and the strange visitors. "Daddy and I have some business to attend to. I'll put you to be once we're finished."
"What's going on?" He was scared now, gripping his mother's hand tighter. "Why—"
"We'll explain later." She shushed him hurriedly, practically dragging him to the base of the stairs. "Now go."
"But mommy—"
"Honey, listen to me," Hope had cupped his face in her hands. "I know you're confused, maybe even a little scared, but it will be fine. Just listen to me and you will be okay. Everything will be alright." She sounded as if she was trying to convince herself.
Sensing the urgency in her voice, he had reluctantly started up the stairs. "Wait." He turned at the sound of his mother's voice. "Stay away from any windows." She stared at him from the bottom of the stairs, a concerned expression plastered onto her face.
He'd nodded, and ducked into his room, shutting the door behind him. Of course, the first thing he did was go to the window, and stare out, pondering the unusual visit. He sat there for several minutes, watching the rain fall.
A sudden shout from downstairs brought him back to the present, stirring his curiosity yet again. Creeping to the door, he slowly opened it, peering into the dark corridor. Being as silent as possible, he approached the top of the stairs, watching for any sign that he'd been spotted. He stood at the top, listening to the buzz of conversation drifting up from the parlor. It was no good; he couldn't make out a single word.
He cautiously placed a socked foot down on the top step, keeping an ear out for a creak. Luckily he was light and didn't strain the rather weathered wood. Hardly daring to breathe, he took a seat in the middle of the staircase, his small hands wrapped around the railing.
"You can't be serious!" His father's voice startled him, nearly sending him down the stairs. "Why aren't you out there?!"
"Sir—"
"Someone could be killed!" His mother interjected. "You could have sent letters! Going to every house is a waste of time!"
"We have dozens already searching; we have the situation under control." A woman's voice spoke up, her even tone emitting an air of power.
"If you had it under control, you wouldn't have to warn us!" He had never heard his father sound so put out.
A sudden crash startled him, causing him to lose grip on the railing. He just managed to keep from falling by grabbing the edge of the step above him. He ran back to his room as he heard footsteps approach the stairs. He didn't want to be caught eavesdropping.
As he rounded the corner to his room, his breath caught in his chest. His heart leaping to his throat, he stared in horror at his room. It was wrecked. Shattered glass covering the floor near the window, clothes hanging out of the wardrobe, books scattered around the room, pages torn out and still fluttering through the air.
He was about to take a step forward when he felt hot breath on the back of his neck. Turning around slowly, as if in a horror movie, he came face to face with a horrible creature. He let out an ear piercing scream as he felt a searing pain erupt in his right shoulder.
Red liquid spurted everywhere, drenching his white shirt in what he now realized was hot blood. He felt faint as he collapsed to the floor, a strange feeling spreading throughout his body as the looming figure of the werewolf cast a shadow over his eyes. He tried to scream again, but he couldn't make a sound.
He was vaguely aware of the familiar sound of magic, and then his mother's voice.
"Remy!"
The last thing Remus Lupin saw was his mother bending over him.
"Remus…"
Chapter 2: Chapter Two
Notes:
Author's Note: I forgot to mention in the previous chapter, but this is being co-written with my sister, who does not have an account. I thought I'd let you know because the writing style might differ a little. -FanficFanatic
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Chapter Text
Chapter Two:
Pettigrew Manor
London, England
13 February, 1968
Peter Pettigrew stood beside his mother, clutching her hand so tightly his small fingers hurt. At seven years old, he knew other boys might have tried to look braver, to stand apart and pretend they weren’t frightened—but Peter felt no shame in his clinginess. He’d just gone through the worst night of his life, and if there was ever a time to cling to the only parent he had left, it was now.
Before him lay the ruins of Pettigrew Manor, or what used to be. A skeletal framework of scorched beams jutted from the rubble like blackened ribs, the smell of burnt wood and wet ash thick in the cold February air. The grand, imposing house where he’d lived all his life—its sweeping staircases, glittering chandeliers, and warm, echoing halls—was nothing more than smoldering wreckage. Peter’s cheeks were wet, his tears leaving cold tracks in the grime that clung to his face.
To his left, a cluster of aurors crouched around something on the ground. Peter didn’t have to see to know what it was. His father’s body. The men spoke in low voices, the kind adults used when they didn’t want a child to hear, but Peter caught fragments: attack… blood loss… too late. They kept glancing over at him, their eyes full of pity. He wished they wouldn’t look at him at all.
One of the aurors—a tall man with a thick brown mustache—broke away from the group. His boots crunched on the frost-hardened grass as he approached. He stopped in front of Peter’s mother, removing his hat in a slow, respectful motion.
“Mrs. Pettigrew?” His deep voice carried a weight that made Peter’s stomach twist.
“Yes?” Edwina Pettigrew’s voice was hoarse, her pale face streaked with tears. Her hair—usually perfectly arranged—was wild from the night’s chaos. Even so, she tried to stand tall, as if sheer posture could keep her from falling apart.
“Could I speak to you? Privately?” The auror’s eyes flicked downward to Peter, his expression softening with a kind of helpless sympathy Peter already hated.
“Of course.” Edwina squeezed her son’s hand once, briefly, before letting go. She straightened her shoulders, masking her grief with the pureblood dignity she’d been raised to show in public, and followed the man toward a quieter corner of the lawn.
Peter was left alone.
He lowered himself to the ground, tucking his knees against his chest. The cold earth seeped into him, but he barely noticed. His mind kept circling back to how quickly it had all happened. Dinner had been nearly ready; the fire in the dining room hearth had been crackling. His mother had been telling him about some Gamp family story, and they’d both been waiting for his father to come home.
Peter had been excited—his father often brought him small gifts from work, But when the front door had opened, Martin Pettigrew hadn’t been carrying a package. He’d collapsed in the doorway, blood soaking him from head to toe, a horrible crimson mask across his once-kind face. His mother had screamed and run to him, shouting his name. Peter, startled and panicking, had dropped the candle he’d been holding to light the table. The thin flicker hit the drapes, and in a breath, the fabric went up in flames. The fire leapt hungrily from curtain to rug, rug to chair.
His mother hadn’t even noticed. She was clutching her husband’s shoulders, shaking him, begging him to open his eyes, So Peter had acted. He’d grabbed her sleeve and tugged, shouting at her to move. The smoke was choking him, hot and bitter in his lungs. He’d half-pushed, half-dragged her toward the door, struggling to haul his father’s dead weight across the floor. By the time they’d stumbled into the winter night, his arms ached, his chest was burning, and he’d begun to cry.
The world around him blurred into a haze of noise—shouts, crackling flames, the pounding of boots on gravel. He didn’t feel the singe of heat on his skin, didn’t even notice when a chunk of burning wood arced through the air and struck his shoulder. His shirt had caught fire before someone—he still didn’t know who—doused him with a bucket of water. He remembered shivering from the shock, and then the cool hands of a medi-witch wrapping his blistered arm in bandages.
None of it mattered. His father was dead, his home was gone, and his mother had walked away with a stranger, leaving him alone in the ruins.
*Time Skip*
Months later, Peter sat on the edge of a bed that wasn’t his, in a room that didn’t feel like his, staring out at a street of identical houses in a neighborhood where no one knew his name. The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent instead of smoke and polish, the wallpaper was a bland cream instead of deep burgundy, and the wardrobe held nothing but simple Muggle clothing. It should have felt safe, but instead it felt like he’d been emptied out and left behind.
After the fire, his mother had made her decision quickly. Grief had swallowed her whole, but it wasn’t just grief. Edwina Pettigrew had never been fond of magic; she’d grown up partly with her squib aunt in the countryside, and had always said she found the Muggle world “simpler, cleaner.” Now, with her husband gone and her home destroyed, she’d declared that the wizarding world had given her nothing but pain. And since Peter had never shown a single sign of magic—no floating toys, no accidental spells—she saw no reason to keep him in it.
They’d left without telling anyone. No goodbyes, no forwarding address. Edwina had even taken steps to ensure no one would come looking. A staged report in the Daily Prophet declared that all three Pettigrews had died in the fire, their bodies unrecoverable. She’d kept the clipping, not as a memento, but as a warning—proof of the lie they were living.
Peter still had it. The thin paper was folded neatly in his hands now, the ink smudged in one corner. He read the words again and again, his own name printed among the dead. He thought it should make him feel something—fear, sadness, maybe even relief—but all he felt was a hollow ache.
His name wasn’t Peter Pettigrew anymore. It was Peter Gamp, after his mother’s maiden name. They lived in a modest two-story house in London, surrounded by Muggles who believed they were nothing more than an ordinary mother and son. There were no portraits that moved, no enchanted clocks, no owls swooping in with letters. Just schoolbooks, bicycles, and the sound of passing cars.
Peter told himself he liked it that way. There was no danger here, no shadow of the world that had taken his father and burned his home to ash. Everyone who had known them thought they were gone, and if his mother had her way, it would stay that way forever.
He looked out the window at the gray sky, the bare trees swaying in the wind. Somewhere beyond the rows of brick houses was the world he’d left behind—the one with magic and danger and fire.
He closed his eyes and decided he never wanted to see it again.
Chapter 3: Chapter Three
Notes:
Author's Note: Sorry for the delay! Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Chapter Text
Chapter Three:
Potter Estate
London, England
23 July, 1971
James Potter sat on the edge of the bed, his knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, staring at the crinkled and tearstained photograph clenched in his hands. The edges were soft and curling, worn from too much touching, too much looking. His entire body trembled—not from cold, but from a storm of emotions he couldn’t name. Sadness, anger, confusion—they all tangled together in a knot that sat heavy in his chest.
Downstairs, grim voices drifted up through the floorboards. His parents’ voices were low, strained, mixing with the deeper, unfamiliar tones of the aurors they’d let into the house. Every now and then, a chair scraped the floor or there was a pause long enough to make him strain to listen harder.
James didn’t understand why his father wasn’t allowed to take the case. He was one of the best aurors in the Department—everyone said so. It wasn’t like he was inexperienced, or too busy, or…
His throat tightened. This wasn’t like other cases, not even close. This wasn’t about a stranger in the paper, or a name whispered at the Ministry. This was about Ari.
James blinked rapidly, his vision blurring until the photograph became a haze of colors. He sniffed, wiping his eyes with the corner of his shirt. The fabric came away damp. If he cried much more, he’d ruin the picture completely. The protective charm his mother had put on it was already weakening. He could see where the ink had begun to run, the colors smudging ever so slightly at the edges. Mum’s magic always faltered when she was upset, and she had been upset ever since the moment Ari vanished.
The thought made his hands curl into fists around the photo. A sudden flare of anger shot through him. He crumpled the picture in his hands and threw it as hard as he could at the wall. It hit with a dull thud and slid to the carpet.
Why did he even care where Ari was? She was the one who decided to disappear without a word, without so much as an owl to let him know she was alive. The anger kept growing, swelling inside him until it had nowhere to go.
James screamed, a sound that ripped out of him raw and desperate. Before he knew it, he was charging at the bedroom wall, fists clenched, eyes stinging with tears. His magic, always unpredictable when his emotions ran high, chose that exact moment to burst free. Instead of slamming into the plaster, he crashed straight through it.
The sound was deafening—splintering wood, snapping plaster, crumbling drywall. He landed hard on the floor of the hallway, stunned, dust drifting lazily down through the air. A thin, sharp pain bloomed just under his right eyebrow, followed by the warm trickle of blood running into his eye. He swiped at it, the salt sting making his vision swim, and then he broke.
He curled in on himself right there on the floor, sobbing so hard his chest hurt. Somewhere in the distance, he registered the thunder of footsteps on the stairs. His parents’ voices grew louder, panicked. A door banged open. His father called his name, and his mother gasped, But none of it mattered. None of it was Ari.
His gaze drifted sideways and landed on the crumpled photograph lying abandoned on the floor a few feet away. He reached for it without thinking, smoothing it out with trembling hands.
It had been taken on his eleventh birthday just two months ago. He and Ari, sitting side by side on the garden wall, leaning into each other and grinning like fools at the camera. He could almost hear their laughter when he looked at it. They’d been thinking the same thing in that moment.
Hogwarts.
They had been counting down to their eleventh birthday for, well, eleven years.
James had dreamed about magic lessons and spellbooks and learning how to duel properly. Ari had dreamed about sneaking into forbidden corridors and trying to see if she could make the suits of armor sing.
They were twins, but they couldn’t have been more different.
Ari was all noise and motion—loud, boisterous, with a laugh that filled whatever room she was in. She thrived on chaos, loved pulling pranks on anyone unlucky enough to be nearby, and somehow always roped James into helping. She had long, unruly red hair that tangled in the wind, bright green eyes that always looked like they were up to something, and a face scattered with freckles she swore multiplied in the summer. Dresses were her sworn enemy; she preferred trousers, boots, and shirts she could climb trees in.
James was quieter. He liked to read. He liked to think. He was careful in the way Ari never was. His hair was jet-black and hopelessly messy, his eyes hazel behind a pair of round glasses. His skin stayed pale no matter how many afternoons Ari dragged him outside.
Somehow, despite being polar opposites, they fit together perfectly.
He remembered the way she’d grin at him just before doing something absolutely mad, like sneaking into Dad’s study to see if they could make his wand light up without permission. He remembered how she’d laugh when he protested, even though she always managed to talk him into it anyway.
He remembered, too, how she had hugged him tightly the night before she disappeared. No warning, no hint that something was wrong. Just that hug, harder than usual, lingering for a second longer, and then she was gone.
Now the bed felt too big without her taking up half of it during late-night whisper conversations. The house felt too quiet without her laughter echoing off the walls.
Hours later, James sat propped up in bed again, the repaired wall behind him still faintly smelling of fresh plaster. His cut had been cleaned and bandaged by Mum, who’d kissed his forehead like she used to when he was small. The photograph sat on the blanket in front of him, its creases smoothed but still visible.
Ari would not be coming to Hogwarts with him.
That thought was like swallowing something sharp, but maybe he could make it feel like she was there.
James grinned faintly to himself, a small, stubborn spark of mischief stirring. He was clever. He could learn. He could think of plenty of tricks to keep himself busy. Maybe if he acted like her—pulled pranks, stirred trouble, made people laugh—it would be almost like having her at his side.
Only until she came home, of course, and when she did, he’d make sure she never left again.