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Chapter Text

It was dark outside when Professor Dumbledore decided it was time to travel. He folded the newspaper, where the year 1943 was printed. He looked at the imposing castle, then Disapparated.

A few seconds later, he apparated and regained his balance at the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. He had to walk a bit since the large cottage was well protected. As he progressed, more owls with wide round eyes watched him pass; their eyes which were like crystal balls, used as a means to see the intruders.

The entrance was guarded by peacocks, who served as sentries. With their hundred eyes, they could see in all directions, watching for any intruder as they circled. Each corner was constantly monitored. They didn’t say anything as he knocked, then entered as the opened the door.

Big old books were piled up, useless objects were gathering in every corner Cassandra Trelawney was sitting on a couch. She had many wrinkles, a face that had lived for over a century, her eyes worn, having seen many things, and now, blind. She had her animals, the owls and peacocks, but she seemed tired in this messy house.

“Good evening, Mrs. Trelawney.”

“Oh, Albus! How are you? I’ve awaited your visit for many weeks.”

“Times are rough.”

She nodded.

“May I sit?”

“Of course, Albus. Do you want lemon biscuits? I still have some left.”

“How could I refuse my favorite flavor?”

He smiled as the plate rose by itself, guided by her wand, to rest on the small table already full of trinkets. Dumbledore intended to talk about everything and nothing, but a silence fell, and he knew that when the conversation resumed, it would not be to talk about merry things or to tell some anecdotes.
“I will go soon. I know my time is almost up”, she said gravely.

“Cassandra, I need to ask you something. I fear I’ve made a mistake, the biggest mistake of all. I didn’t judge correctly. And because of that, I know there will be terrible consequences. I welcomed a student into Hogwarts. I trusted him. Wrongly. I kept track of him, but I’ve learned that he’s gone now. To learn new kinds of magic. I fear it’s dark magic indeed, and he can’t be stopped now.”

“There is some sense of a new era, for better or for worse.”

“What have you foreseen? What have you predicted?”

“I fear I only feel a sense of dread.”

“Didn’t you have any prophecies lately? Any visions?”

“I fear none of them concern the young man you’re talking about. I put them in the box so you can bring them safely to the Ministry.”

“Thank you, Cassandra,” he said.

He sighed. He wouldn’t have any answers. He took the box in the corner.

“Wait… I think I see something.”

He turned to her. She was shaking slightly but seemed focused. Her voice became more serious and deeper as she said:
Of the three friends bound by the same mark,
The first one shall know the red screaming light of torments,
The second shall face the green sentence of death,
The third shall have his mind shackled by another’s will.
By them, the rules of the new world shall be engraved.

Dumbledore looked at her. He thought it would be important; useful. But he didn’t learn anything about Tom Riddle. He thanked her and placed the new crystal ball in the box. The new crystal ball was soon forgotten on a shelf in the Ministry, in the Department of Mysteries.

It was the last prophecy of Cassandra Trelawney.

Chapter Text

Peter was always alone in Godric's Hollow. This village of black stones, like coal, was not even softened by the snow. It was cold here. Only the smell of the bread his sister baked seemed warm, as it would envelop him like a big coat. She wanted to open a bakery, which he found ridiculous, but whatever—she was funny, his sister.

He always stayed by himself and was often bored. So he had played chess for a while and was quite good at winning against himself. Then he had read some books, but he never finished any of them. He had invented imaginary friends and played with them. It was entertaining for a while. They seemed almost real during winter, when streets were desolate, when only ghosts inhabited them—those imaginary friends with whom he ran, like ghosts—not even dead, but ghosts that would never exist.

But despite all of his activities to keep himself busy, something was missing. Something was aching. A long loneliness stretched within him; the empty seat next to him on the bench in the park felt so big. Every night he fell asleep without exciting plans for the next day, the kind of plans that kept people awake; he had nobody waiting for him. It was as if he was missing every nostalgic part of childhood. But that was okay, really. It was okay. He had himself, and he tried to be okay with that—with the fact that he would always have only himself.

Now he was onto something else: stupid pranks. He had decided to piss people off. In his neighborhood, there was a married couple, who had a lot of trouble getting the baby to sleep; when he passed by their house, he always heard the baby crying. He had decided to wake him up every time he no longer heard him cry. He never got caught. It wasn’t hard. Peter always saw how events would unfold: the consequences, the repercussions. He saw them as clearly as when dominoes fell to the ground. That was why he never did foolish things. He could see right from the beginning what would happen. And he was always right.

But he never saw this boy before, the one who was looking at him from the other side of the street. Peter was executing his plan, releasing balloons into the air to make them explode under the windows where the baby slept. He always checked at least three times before doing anything. He wanted to make sure nobody was around. Sometimes he wished he had a thousand eyes, so nothing could surprise or embarrass him. He didn’t expect to see anyone, so he jumped when he saw a young boy his age watching him. The boy was smiling genuinely, and Peter had never seen a smile so sincere and so proud. It didn’t seem to fit together.

“Hey!” the boy called out, loud and clear.

Peter jumped. Why would he shout like that?

“Hey,” Peter said hesitantly.

The boy waved at him as if they had known each other for years and then crossed the street with a calm air as if he were meeting an old friend.

“I’ve been watching your pranks for a while now. They’re nice. I love them. They look fun. I do some too. Do you want to do them with me?”

Peter looked at him puzzled. Was this a joke?

“But… I don’t… Who are you?”

“Come on, you don’t know me?”

“Well… no?”

Peter never knew much about people. He just watched them from afar.

“I’m James!” the boy exclaimed, as if it were obvious, as if he were the hero of some kind of epic story. “And you?”

“I’m… Peter. Just Peter.”

“Nice. So, we’re friends?”

“Well… but I don’t…”

I don’t know you. But he looked into James’s eyes. And they seemed so warm in this cold winter. Peter was covered with his hat, his gloves, and his big coat that tangled him—his sister always insisted that he cover himself well. But he was still cold, and for the first time, he didn’t feel the cold. For the first time, he felt seen—more than seen: he felt recognized.

“Okay, why not! Yeah, sure!”

They shook hands.

They played together every afternoon: hide-and-seek, tag, games of knights and pirate, and of course, their favorite activity—pulling pranks. All of those children’s games, all this childhood he never believed he would have. They ran in the woods, climbed trees—there were no more ghosts in those woods. James was like a fire in winter. Then they ran to Peter’s house and stole the cakes his sister baked to practice for her bakery, as she screamed: “Hey, no, come back here!” They ate the delicious cakes down the road to James’s parents’ house. They stayed there in the living room while the fire in the fireplace burned, drinking chocolate milk that James’s mother had made. They saw each other every afternoon. And every morning, they just waited for the afternoon. They never said it to each other, of course—how the afternoon was always something to look forward to, a promise of happiness, no matter what sorrow had come.

And James was… well, he was James. He had this huge room Peter loved so much. A big bed, trophies on the shelf, and Gryffindor flags already hanging everywhere. He always repeated the same things:

“I will be the first boy to play Quidditch in first year, you’ll see!”

“I will hold the sword of Godric Gryffindor!”

“I will cast a Patronus so powerful!”

“They’ll organize the World Cup again, and I’ll be the champion of the wizard’s cup!”

“I’ll found the best organization of all time!”

And Peter listened and nodded. Peter didn’t understand how James made so much time for him. He must have other friends. Surely. Yet he never mentioned them.

Peter always thought that the most important thing was being popular and having tons of friends. He had always dreamed of it at night, in his bed: being acclaimed and praised. But now he realized he just wanted people to wait for him when he laced his shoes, or to not interrupt him when he spoke. And now that he had James, he never dreamed of glory anymore. It was enough and bewildering, how James came faster than a shooting star.

One time, he interrogated him. They were strolling near the woods, when Peter asked:

“James, why don’t you hang out with your other friends? Maybe I could meet them, if you want.”

Peter didn’t really want to meet James’s other friends.

“Oh. Well…”

James laughed a bit and looked at his feet. It was the first time Peter saw him turn red like that, almost embarrassed.

“Promise you won’t tell anyone else?”

“Yeah, I promise. Cross my heart.”

“There aren’t others.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t have other friends. Do you want to play with fake dragons?”

Peter nodded, and it was forgotten. Because James was James. Things were big for him. A little adventure was an epic story; a branch was a sword; a stone was a mountain. James didn’t lie when he told their stories to his parents or to Peter. He just saw little things as big things and made Peter feel invincible, like he was doing glorious things himself. He rebuilt the world by transforming the small village into a prophecy, using big words like fate. He used them all. And Peter was with him in his epic stories.

James had searched all his childhood for a friend. It’s not that he didn’t have friends. Not really. Not at all. It was just that when his parents asked him enthusiastically:

“What did you do today with your friends?”

He talked about his day without mentioning he did all of that without a friend. And it was okay. He carried all those dreams of wanting to be a beloved hero, and he was loved by himself—cheers! But it broke his dreams a little when he went out into the street and nobody was waiting for him, applauding him. He made friends. Well, rather pals. Or rather acquaintances. But then they all said:

“Dude, can you stop being the center of attention for one second? You’re boring.”

Or:

“Can you stop taking all the space?”

Or they just stopped talking to him.

He had no idea why. He didn’t take all the space! He just screamed the loudest. He was great, his parents said so, so what? But it’s tiring to be the most of yourself when everyone gets bored of it, to have so many ideas of games with no one by your side. Peter participated in his crazy ideas, he never said no, and that was the best thing. Peter was the best thing.

He had seen him a long time ago: Peter played all alone in winter. He fought with an invisible enemy with a big stick and was running without anyone, but it was as if he really believed there was an army with him. James remembered how impressed he was to see someone who wasn’t ashamed of being alone: Peter talked loudly and even shouted against these invisible people. James couldn’t have done that; he didn’t even know it was possible to do that. Peter seemed to him so confident, wearing loneliness like the crown of imagination. Sure, Peter didn’t know it—how James admired him, from the first time he saw him. He wasn’t even sure Peter would accept being friends with him, he seemed to bask so well with himself only. But they had become friends. James knew he wasn’t too much, that he didn’t take all the space; but it felt nice, having someone to prove him that.

They received their letters for Hogwarts in July. James was so excited since the beginning of June, talking about those letters all day. He couldn’t stop talking about it more and more as they walked on the outskirts of the village.

“We should mark the event,” said James. “What do you think? Hogwarts will be a real place to have fun, much better than here. We deserve this place for sure. Even if… yeah, we had fun here, right?”

Peter nodded. The best time.

“What should we do? What prank?” asked Peter.

“I thought we could do something special. Come.”

Peter followed him. He excepted to go to town, but James took him to a house near the cemetery. It had been abandoned for a long time. In winter the snow dressed the climbing plants in white. But it was summer: the ivy had covered the house and kept the windows frozen, the shutters always half-open. The vines seemed to have preserved the house like a sad painting. An evergreen painting. Flowers had sprouted, it sounded false, all this life around an abandoned house.

“This house is really unique, don’t you think?” James asked.

Peter gazed at it.

“Yeah, it's a nice house.”

“I think we should carve our names on this tree,” James said. “So we’ll never be forgotten.”

Peter beamed.

“Yeah, sure.”

James smiled and carved the initial of Peter’s name, then handed the knife to Peter, who carved James’s name. Then James took it again and added “FF.”
“What does that mean?” Peter asked.

“Friends forever, of course.”

Peter shook his head. Big words like always and forever—typical of James. He didn’t believe in them. It sounded like an oath. A promise. An important thing on a weak tree, which would probably be cut in some years; a house that would become monotonous again in winter, the illusion of an evergreen summer. But he wanted to believe and he nodded smiling.

So Hogwarts was the next adventure.
The night before the first day of school, Peter thought very hard: Please, don’t make things change. Please, make everything stay the same.
James couldn’t sleep at all; eyes wide open in his bed, he thought very hard: This year everything will change. This year will be my consecration. This year, I will have friends.