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Chapter Text

On November 11th, 1979, James Potter and his soon-to-be wife, Lily Evans, were blessed with a beautiful baby girl. They were overjoyed — though deep down, Lily felt she was too young to be a mother. She still had dreams she longed to chase, and James, ever understanding, took on the care of their daughter.

They named her Siria, after James’s best friend, Sirius Black.

As the months passed, James began to notice that Lily was gone for long stretches of time. Siria, too, noticed her mother’s absence; she would cry endlessly for her “mama.” It was only when her godfather and namesake, Sirius, would swoop in on his flying motorbike and take her up to see the stars that the little girl would finally calm down.

James tried to be patient. He didn’t mind Lily going out — she deserved a life beyond motherhood — but it pained him to see their daughter waiting by the window for her to return from her lessons.

One night, unable to hold back any longer, James confronted Lily. The argument that followed was fierce and heartbreaking.

Lily’s voice trembled with frustration as she called him “an arrogant toerag,” just as she once had back at school. James stood silent, heart heavy, as she packed her bag.

She left that night.

Days turned into weeks, and Lily never called — not even on the fellytone (as James’s friend Remus tried to explain to Sirius, who laughed and said, “They’ll get the difference, Moony”). Siria would giggle and clap at the sound of their voices, unaware of what her father had lost.

By the spring of 1980, it was official. Lily had filed for divorce, and James reluctantly agreed. The court granted him full custody of Siria — a decision that hurt and comforted him in equal measure.

Lily didn’t look back.
James and Siria carried on.

Of course, Siria noticed her mother’s absence. By November 1980, she was almost one year old, and James, not wanting to break his little girl’s heart, told her that her mama had gone on a “secret mission” and would be back soon.

Sirius and Remus stayed by their friend’s side, taking turns caring for Siria whenever James had to go to the Ministry or run errands. It almost worked — until little Siria noticed James missing. Tears would start to flow, and in those moments, Sirius would transform into his Animagus form, the Grim, letting her play while Remus sent messages to James. Amidst all this, the Order of the Phoenix moved quietly in the background, burdened by prophecies and threats, particularly one that hovered over the Longbottoms.

What James, the Order, Dumbledore, and even Voldemort didn’t know was that a soothsayer in the mountains of Tibet had made a prophecy: a “child of dark and light” would guide the Chosen One to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. No one could be sure it referred to Siria — or if it referred to anyone at all.

Then, in October 1981, the unpredictable happened. Frank and Alice Longbottom died protecting their son, Neville, from Voldemort. Miraculously, baby Neville survived the Killing Curse — and against all odds, Voldemort’s defeat seemed complete… or so the wizarding world thought.

Voldemort’s loyal Death Eaters, determined to find their fallen master, began hunting anyone connected to him. On November 3rd, 1981, James Potter’s home was attacked. James fought bravely to protect his one-and-a-half-year-old daughter — and died in the process. Before Bellatrix Lestrange could harm little Siria, Aurors arrived and shipped the child to a relative on James Potter’s mother’s side, the Crouches.

Sirius could not take her — his flat had been attacked, and he was missing, presumed dead. Remus was unable to care for her, and her mother, Lily, had long since severed ties, remarried Severus Snape, and could not take her either.

By the time little Siria turned two, on November 11th, 1981, she had almost lost everyone she loved — and the tragic part was, she could not even understand why.

Chapter Text

Siria Reemy Claire Potter 

Chapter Text

 The Crouch’s themselves were far from ideal guardians. Their household was in chaos, still reeling from the revelation that their son, Barty Crouch Jr., had been a Death Eater. Mrs. Crouch cried every night, unable to find peace, while Barty Crouch Sr. wore a permanent, blank expression, simmering with fury — furious not only at losing his shot at becoming Minister of Magic, but also at the shame of having a son who had betrayed the wizarding world.

Meanwhile, little Siria sat alone in a small room tucked away in a corner of the house. She clutched the stuffed bunny her father had gifted her, its ear drooping as sadly as her own spirit. She didn’t understand why she was here, or where her daddy had gone. The world around her was loud and troubled, but she only knew the emptiness left by the absence of the one person she loved most.

Siria Reemy Claire Potter, now four and a half years old, sat anxiously in the carriage, pressed tightly into the corner of the seat as she waited for her Uncle Barty and Aunt Lucinda to return. Her aunt had never been well for as long as Siria could remember — she was often pale, trembling, and always crying or calling for “Barty.” Her uncle, on the other hand, had grown grouchier than ever. He rarely spoke to Siria, but she didn’t mind; silence felt safer.

Winky, their loyal house-elf, was the only one who showed her kindness. The elf would bring her food and, on good days, take her out to the small garden to play for a while. But even that didn’t make things feel right again. Siria had learned to prefer her own company.

Her uncle made it clear that she was to “focus on her studies rather than waste time playing.” Sometimes he’d snap, “You earn your keep, girl. I won’t have you turning out like that brattish son of mine. Now study.”

If Siria dared to hum while reading or practice her letters aloud, a sharp whack would follow. Her aunt, though quiet and fragile, would try to comfort her afterward — but even her touch felt faint, ghostlike.

Siria didn’t know why her uncle and aunt had brought her here today. They had spoken in hushed tones about “seeing Barty,” and Uncle Barty had been stern: she was not to leave the carriage under any circumstances.

Through the small window, she watched her uncle half-carry her trembling aunt inside the towering prison. The sky above was gray and cold, and a strange, heavy sadness pressed down on her chest. Even at four years old, Siria could feel it — this place was dark. It seemed like happiness couldn’t live here.

When her uncle finally returned, Aunt Lucinda was with him, though she looked… different. Her skin was ashen, her eyes empty of light — as if something inside her had vanished. Uncle Barty set her beside Siria, silent as ever, and with a sharp flick of the reins, they rode away from the prison.

Siria didn’t understand what had happened. She only knew that, somehow, her aunt didn’t feel like auntie anymore.

Chapter Text

Siria Potter was now eleven and a half years old, and she knew her Hogwarts letter would be arriving soon. Since that dreadful visit to Azkaban, much had changed within the Crouch manor. Siria had learned that the prison had many names, but more importantly, she began to understand the twisted games her uncle played.

Years ago, Uncle Barty had returned from Azkaban — but not alone. Barty Crouch Jr. came back home, looking disturbingly like Aunt Lucinda, while her real aunt had been held in the prison, somehow swapped in appearance. Siria sometimes heard Uncle mutter bitterly, “Bloody plan…”

She remembered vividly the days following Barty Jr.’s return. One morning, her uncle had drawn his wand, and a sharp red light shot out of it. Siria could never forget the expression on Barty’s face — vacant, trance-like, his body moving against his will. No matter how hard he tried to resist, he had no control.

From that day forward, Uncle Barty confined his son to his room. Winky, loyal as ever, took care of him when her master wasn’t present. Occasionally, when her uncle’s attention was elsewhere, Siria would sneak into Barty’s room and hand him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It wasn’t much, but it was something — a small connection in a house full of cruelty and silence.

Barty often looked like a zombie, chewing mechanically, his eyes dull. Sometimes, fleeting moments of clarity would flash across his face, and he would even speak to Siria. But those moments were short-lived. The instant Uncle returned, whatever control he had regained would vanish again.

Since then, Siria and Winky had become silent spectators — trapped in a home where cruelty was routine, helpless witnesses to the horrors within the walls of the Crouch manor.

Siria had a head of curly, light-red hair that caught the sunlight like copper threads. Her big, almond-shaped hazel eyes always seemed to hold more questions than answers — curious, cautious, and a little sad. She had a delicate, heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, and knobbly knees that gave her an awkward sort of charm.

The day Siria Potter received her Hogwarts letter was surprisingly calm. Sunlight streamed through the windows of Crouch Manor, but the house itself felt as cold and heavy as ever.

Her uncle hardly seemed to care about anything these days. He spent most of his time locked in his study, scribbling furious letters and muttering under his breath about that insufferable Ludo Bagman — a man Siria had met once, when he’d come to visit. Mr. Bagman had been friendly and loud, fond of talking about his Quidditch glory days to Uncle Barty, who clearly couldn’t have been less interested in sports.

When Uncle wasn’t railing about Bagman, he complained about his Ministry interns or some woman named Bertha Jorkins.

Today was no different. His study door was half-shut, and the scratching of his quill filled the corridor. Siria hesitated outside for a long moment, clutching the parchment envelope to her chest. Then she knocked softly and entered.

Her uncle didn’t even look up.
“Yes?” he said sharply.

“I— I got my letter,” Siria said in a small voice. “From Hogwarts.”

For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her. Then he simply nodded, his face unreadable.
“You can go with Winky to Diagon Alley and fetch your things,” he said flatly. His expression darkened as his eyes finally met hers. “And, Siria… you will not speak a word to anyone about anything that happens in this house. Do I make myself clear?”

Siria swallowed and nodded quickly.

That night, she crept quietly through the halls, a small sandwich in hand — chocolate sauce spread thick between two slices of bread. She pushed open the door to Barty’s room. He was sitting exactly as always, his eyes glazed, his face pale and empty. A silent puppet.

Siria placed the sandwich on a scrap of parchment and held it out to him. He took it slowly, his movements stiff, and began to chew, staring blankly into space.

Siria watched him for a moment, her heart aching in her small chest. She didn’t know what her uncle had done to him — only that whatever spell he was under, it had stolen something precious from him. And though she didn’t understand it fully, she knew that something dark had taken root in the house long before her letter ever arrived.

Chapter Text

The weekend dawned bright and clear, and for the first time in years, Siria Potter left the shadowed walls of Crouch Manor. Clutching Winky’s thin arm, she felt the pull and twist of Apparition—and in a blink, they stood among the bustling cobblestones of Diagon Alley.

The noise, colour, and magic of the place nearly took her breath away. Siria turned in a slow circle, wide-eyed, drinking in every shopfront and sign.

Their first stop was Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

But as they reached the narrow doorway, Winky froze. Her large brown eyes went even wider.
“Winky, what’s wrong? Aren’t you coming in?” Siria asked.

The elf shook her head so hard her ears flapped. “No, Miss Siria. Winky’s magic would meddle with the wands. You must go alone.”

Siria nodded and pushed open the door. A little bell tinkled overhead.

The shop was long and narrow, filled floor to ceiling with thousands of slender boxes. It smelled faintly of dust and varnish. For a moment there was silence, then a soft voice came from the shadows.

“Ah,” it said. “Miss Potter, at last.”

A pale-eyed man stepped forward, his silver hair catching the light. Siria nearly jumped; she hadn’t heard a single footstep.

“Good morning, sir,” she said politely.

“Good morning,” he replied, already studying her face with keen interest. “Let me see… yes, I thought I recognised those eyes. Your father’s were the very same shade. Dominant arm?”

“Left.”

“Very good.”

A tape measure leapt into the air and began darting about her, measuring everything from fingertip to shoulder. Meanwhile, boxes began stacking themselves on the counter. Siria tried wand after wand—elm, cherry, birch, ash—but nothing seemed to work.

Mr Ollivander grew ever more animated, while Siria’s heart sank.

At last, he frowned thoughtfully and disappeared into the back room. When he returned, he carried several battered boxes. “Old stock,” he explained softly. “Wands that have waited far too long for the right witch or wizard.”

Siria reached for the first—nothing. The second—still nothing.

But the third…

A warmth spread through her hand, up her arm, and she heard the faintest hum, like music heard from far away. The tip of the wand glowed softly, gold light spilling over her fingers.

Mr Ollivander’s eyes lit up. “Ahh! Marvelous—marvelous indeed! Hawthorn wood, dragon heartstring core, eleven inches, quite flexible. A curious combination… Hawthorn is a strange wood, capable of both healing and hexing—rather like its new mistress, I daresay.”

He turned the wand over reverently. “Your father’s wand was eleven inches as well—mahogany, pliable. Fine wand for Transfiguration. You have his smile, Miss Potter.”

Siria smiled faintly. Her uncle never spoke of her father; the laughter she remembered was growing dimmer every year. Her mother’s face she couldn’t remember at all.

But as she held the wand, feeling its gentle pulse of warmth, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time—connection, and the whisper of belonging.

From Ollivanders, Siria and Winky made their way along the busy street toward Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. Bright bolts of fabric floated in the window display, hemming themselves neatly with threads of golden light.

But as they reached the doorway, Winky stopped again. She fidgeted with the edge of her pillowcase dress, eyes darting toward the crowd.
“Winky… aren’t you coming in?” Siria asked gently.

The elf shook her head quickly. “No, Miss Siria. Winky will wait outside. Winky is not meant to be seen by fine witches and wizards.”

Siria’s heart tightened, but she didn’t argue. “Alright. I won’t be long.”

Inside, the shop smelled of new cloth and warm tea. An older witch in mauve robes approached her with a kind smile.
“Hogwarts?” she asked pleasantly.

“Yes,” Siria said. “First year.”

“Wonderful,” Madam Malkin said, her smile widening. “There’s another young customer getting fitted just now—shouldn’t be a moment. You can step up next, dear.”

Siria nodded and glanced toward the fitting platform. A tall boy stood there as a tape measure danced around him. He had sleek, platinum-blond hair, pale skin, and sharp grey eyes that flicked toward her the moment she entered.

Their gazes met for a second. He looked her up and down with quiet curiosity—perhaps even a trace of arrogance—before turning back to the mirror.

Siria shifted uncomfortably, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. It was strange, standing in a bright shop filled with laughter and chatter after years of silence. Yet, as she watched the boy’s reflection smirk faintly at something Madam Malkin said, she couldn’t help feeling that this—this little moment—was the beginning of something new.

“Hogwarts?” the boy asked as Siria stepped up onto the stool beside him.

“Yes,” she replied, adjusting the sleeve Madam Malkin had just pinned.

He tilted his head, his grey eyes sharp and assessing. “What house do you think you’ll be in? Imagine if I got stuck in Hufflepuff.” He gave a short, dismissive laugh.

Siria shrugged lightly. “Not sure… maybe Gryffindor. Or Ravenclaw.”

The boy’s mouth twisted. “Gryffindor? The house of Mudbloods?”

Siria’s head snapped up. “Don’t,” she said quietly but firmly, shaking her head.

He blinked, apparently surprised by her tone, then changed the subject as if nothing had happened. “I do wonder why they made that ridiculous rule about first-years not being allowed their own brooms. I might have Father sneak one in anyway.”

“I’m not interested in Quidditch,” Siria lied, wanting to end the conversation.

The boy gave her a look of faint amusement. “Quite bold of you to admit that. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” Siria said evenly. “What’s yours?”

He straightened his shoulders a little, clearly enjoying the moment. “Draco. Draco Malfoy.”

Siria tilted her head. “Draco… like the constellation?”

That caught him off guard. His pale eyebrows lifted. “Yes—quite right, actually.” Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “Are your parents of our sort?”

Siria’s expression hardened. “Does it matter? For your information, yes—they were a witch and a wizard. And human.”

Draco smirked faintly. “It matters to some of us. Can’t let the wrong sort in, you know.”

Before he could continue, Madam Malkin’s cheerful voice broke the tension.
“All done, dear,” she said to Draco.

He stepped down from the stool, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “See you at Hogwarts,” he said coolly as he turned to leave.

Siria exhaled a quiet breath of relief. “You came just in time, ma’am,” she murmured to Madam Malkin, smiling. “Another minute and it would’ve turned into a quiz contest.”

Madam Malkin chuckled softly. “You handled yourself well, dear. You’ll do just fine at Hogwarts.”

Siria stepped out of Madam Malkin’s, her new robes folded neatly in a brown paper parcel, and joined Winky on the busy cobbled street. Their next stop was Flourish and Blotts.

Inside, the shop smelled faintly of parchment, dust, and ink. Siria kept close to Winky, trailing her fingers along the spines of spellbooks and potion guides, deliberately turning away from the shelves marked The Wizarding War: Accounts and Analysis. She didn’t need a reminder of that night.

Uncle Barty hardly ever spoke of her father, but when he did, it was always the same: James Potter, standing his ground against Death Eaters, refusing to back down even as his home in Godric’s Hollow burned around him. Siria could picture flashes — light, shouting, a distant laugh she might have imagined — but no real memories remained. Only the ache of wanting to know.

As Winky paid for the books, Siria noticed a sudden commotion near the front of the shop. A cluster of Daily Prophet reporters crowded around someone, quills scratching furiously. Siria tried to peer through the shifting sea of robes but saw only flashes of bright light and heard excited chatter — “a miracle, really—survived the curse itself—”

“Come, Miss Siria,” Winky whispered urgently, tugging her sleeve. Siria turned away, and the moment passed.

Once their shopping was finished, the pair faced the harder task: collecting potions. They needed replenishment draughts, minor healing elixirs — simple enough, but they couldn’t buy them legally. Not anymore.

Once, Barty Crouch had held the authority to sign such licenses himself, back when he’d been Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But after his fall from grace, he’d

been quietly reassigned to the Department of Magical Games and Sports — a humiliation he still hadn’t recovered from.

Now, without a valid license or a healer’s certificate, there was only one option left.

Knockturn Alley.

Siria had been there before — the first time with Uncle Barty and Winky, and later, when her uncle could no longer be bothered, with Winky alone… and sometimes, alone entirely.

The air grew colder as they turned off Diagon Alley. The light dimmed, and the cheerful chatter faded into whispers. The cobblestones were damp, and the windows were smeared with grime, filled with objects that seemed to breathe when you looked away.

But the residents of Knockturn Alley were used to her by now — the small red-haired girl with wary hazel eyes, always clutching a list and a house-elf’s hand. They didn’t bother her. They barely looked at her.

Siria exhaled, steadying herself. “Let’s make it quick, Winky,” she murmured.

“Yes, Miss Siria,” said Winky softly. Her ears drooped as they stepped deeper into the shadows.

The little brass bell above the door gave a half-hearted jingle as Siria and Winky stepped inside the cramped shop. It smelled of damp parchment and something sharp — like burnt metal. Shelves leaned under the weight of bottles filled with shimmering liquids, each one glowing faintly in the dim light.

Mr. Burke looked up from behind the counter, his long, pale fingers curled around a ledger. He squinted. “Ah. Potter girl,” he rasped. “Back again.”

“Yes, sir,” Siria said politely, stepping up on her toes to see over the counter. “We need three vials of replenishment potion and one mid-healing draught.”

Burke grunted, reaching under the counter to retrieve a small pouch of clinking glass vials. “Seven Galleons.”

Siria frowned. “Seven? But last month it was six.”

“The price went up,” he said shortly, his watery eyes narrowing.

“That’s… that’s quite a jump for one month,” she said, trying to sound braver than she felt. “Six was already fair.”

Burke snorted. “A price is a price, girl.”

Siria hesitated, then crossed her arms — something she’d seen Uncle Barty do when making a point. “Five,” she said, lifting her chin.

He gave a dry chuckle. “Seven.”

Siria bit her lip. “Six, and I won’t tell Madam Spindle across the alley you’re still selling Stinksap under the counter.”

Burke froze for a second, then gave a low growl. “Cheeky little witch.” But after a moment, he shoved the pouch toward her. “Six Galleons, and you keep your mouth shut.”

Siria grinned and carefully counted out the coins from her small purse. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Burke.”

He only grumbled something under his breath as Winky ushered Siria out, clutching the potions close.

Outside, in the crooked alleyway, Winky whispered, “Miss Siria should not be so bold with bad wizards.”

Siria smiled faintly. “Maybe not. But sometimes, Winky, it’s the only way they listen.”

The pair quickly made their way out of the alley and into diagon Alley. “do you think anyone would have noticed us going inside the alley ?” asked Siria as she bit her lip “no miss Siria Winky doesn’t think so said Winky “okay” said Siria gulping “let’s head towards the mansion” and Winky nodded and pop they were off and once they popped back in they were only met with silence uncle must be running late today 

Chapter Text

The days that followed were nothing out of the ordinary. Uncle Barty kept to his study, emerging only to remind Siria — again and again — that she was not to speak a single word of what had happened inside the manor over the years.

“I understand, Uncle,” she would say quietly. And she did. She had learned long ago that silence was safer.

Her secret visits to Barty Jr.’s room continued as always. She’d bring him his nightly sandwich — peanut butter, or sometimes chocolate if she could manage it — and sit with him while he ate in silence. Sometimes he spoke, his voice distant and hollow, telling her things about himself: that he’d been a Ravenclaw, top of his year, that he’d loved Potions and been made a prefect in his fifth year. For a moment, his eyes would brighten — as though remembering who he used to be — but then that flicker would turn dark, and the room would feel colder.

And always, as if by instinct, Uncle would appear at the door soon after. One swish of his wand, one flash of red light — and the spark in Barty’s eyes would vanish again.

Before long, September arrived. The morning of the first came grey and damp, the sky heavy with mist. Siria packed her things carefully — her books, robes, the worn stuffed bunny that her father had gifted her.

Winky stood by the door, wringing her hands, her great brown eyes wet. “The manor won’t be the same without you, Miss Siria,” she whimpered.

Siria smiled and wrapped her arms around the elf’s small shoulders. “I won’t be gone for long, Winky. Promise.”

The little elf sniffled. “When Miss Siria was just a baby — two years old — she used to pull Winky’s ears and cry when Winky told her not to. Oh, such a noisy little thing she was.”

Siria laughed softly. “Guess I haven’t changed much.”

Then she went to say goodbye to Barty. He sat in the same chair as always, staring at the window. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Goodbye, Barty. I’ll write to you.”

He didn’t answer. His eyes didn’t move.

Finally, she turned to her uncle. “Goodbye, Uncle.”

He only nodded once, stiffly. “Remember what I told you, girl. Not a word.”

“I know,” she said. And with that, she stepped out of Crouch Manor, her trunk bumping along behind her, the mist curling around her feet. For the first time in her life, she was leaving the manor — and she didn’t know whether to feel free or afraid.

With a loud pop, Winky set Siria down beside the barrier leading to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The moment Siria stepped through, steam billowed around her, carrying the sharp scent of metal and magic. The crimson engine of the Hogwarts Express gleamed under the cloudy sky.

Siria smiled — wide and genuine — for perhaps the first time in a long while. She clutched the handle of her trunk and climbed aboard, heart fluttering with excitement.

After wandering past several crowded compartments, she finally found one that was empty and slipped inside. She tugged at her trunk, trying to lift it onto the luggage rack, but it refused to cooperate. It slipped from her grasp twice, landing squarely on her shin.

“Ow!” she hissed, rubbing her leg. Defeated, she pushed it aside and sat down with a sigh, pulling a small chocolate frog from her pocket. She’d just unwrapped it when—

Bang! The compartment door flew open, and she jumped so hard that the chocolate flew from her hand and landed on the floor.

Siria stared at it in dismay. “You just made me drop my chocolate.”

The boy in the doorway looked about her age — tall for his years, with long, wavy dark-brown hair and piercing grey-blue eyes. He raised an eyebrow. “So? Buy another one.”

Siria blinked, then crossed her arms. “Just look at you! You were the one who made me drop it, so you’re the one who’ll be buying me a new one.”

The boy looked taken aback. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” she said firmly. “And since you’re already here, you might as well be useful. Help me get my trunk up.”

Colour rose in his cheeks. “I will not. Do you even know who I am?”

Siria tilted her head, her hazel eyes flashing. “Yes — my chocolate murderer. Now help.”

The boy let out a sharp huff, looking both insulted and impressed. “Lorenzo Berkshire,” he said finally, with a little bow that came off more dramatic than polite.

Siria smirked. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, Lorenzo Berkshire… but you murdered my chocolate. So it’s not.”

For a heartbeat, Lorenzo just stared — and then, despite himself, he laughed.

Siria frowned. “What are you laughing for?”

Lorenzo grinned, still catching his breath. “Gosh, you’re the most interesting witch I’ve ever met.” He paused, tilting his head. “Are you a pure-blood?”

Siria’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I… don’t know.”

He blinked, as though she’d spoken a foreign language. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I’m new here,” she said quickly — a lie that came out shakier than she meant it to.

Lorenzo’s grin faded, his lips twisting instead. “Ah. A Mudblood, then.”

Siria’s chest tightened. She bit her lip hard and said quietly but firmly, “Don’t use that word.”

Lorenzo just gave a soft, derisive laugh and turned for the door. “You’ll learn soon enough how things work around here,” he said over his shoulder, and then he was gone.

Siria stared at the empty doorway for a long moment, then muttered under her breath, “Eejit.”

With a sigh, she bent down to pick up the fallen chocolate frog — but it had already hopped away.

Siria was still fuming, her cheeks hot with embarrassment and anger after what Berkshire had said. She was muttering to herself — something about “arrogant eejits” — when the compartment door slid open again.

A tall boy with a mane of flaming-red hair and freckled, pale skin pushed open the compartment door. He was already in his Hogwarts uniform, tie slightly askew, and his grey eyes widened the moment they landed on Siria. “Um—do you mind?” he said, face flushing a little. “I’ve kind of lost my way. Strange, I know.”

Siria hesitated a heartbeat, then nodded and gestured to the opposite seat. He grinned in relief and dropped down opposite her. “I’m Atlas,” he said, holding out a hand. “Atlas Weasley.”

“Siria Potter,” she replied, taking his hand. She gave a faint, polite smile.

Atlas’s grey eyes flicked over her face again, something like recognition crossing them. He swallowed and his cheeks went pinker. “Oh—right. I’m sorry. It’s just… your family name was very famous in the first war. You know—your father—” He stopped, embarrassed, and hurried on, “I’ll shut up.”

Siria studied him for a moment. Then, forcing a small, teasing smile, she said, “It’s fine. You apologised. But—if you murder my chocolate , I will personally end you.”

Atlas laughed, genuinely relieved. “Deal.”

There was a warmth in the compartment now, small and reassuring, and for the first time that morning Siria felt a little less alone.

Chapter Text

There was a warmth in the compartment now, small and reassuring, and for the first time that morning Siria felt a little less alone.

The train rocked gently as the countryside blurred past outside the window. Siria and Atlas had been talking for a while, laughter and chatter flowing easily between them. Eventually, the topic turned to Hogwarts houses.

Atlas huffed and leaned back in his seat, running a hand through his fiery hair. “My whole family… generations of Weasleys… they’ve all been Gryffindors. My older brothers—well, they’re amazing at something or another. Bill, the oldest, works as a Curse-Breaker in Egypt.

When he was at Hogwarts, he was prefect… then Head Boy. Twelve NEWTs, can you believe that?”

Siria’s eyes widened. “Twelve?”

He shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. “And Charlie—dragon expert in Romania. Gryffindor Quidditch captain, naturally. Percy… well, he’s the academic type, ministry-bound, research-minded. And then Fred and George… pranksters extraordinaire, but still brilliant in school. And me?” He let out a long sigh. “I’m… I don’t know. Not charismatic like Bill, not athletic like Charlie, not studious like Percy, and not charming like Fred and George. And Ginny… well, she’s the baby, everyone dotes on her.”

He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, looking suddenly small. “I’m the odd one out.”

Siria studied him quietly for a moment, then smiled softly. “That was… surprisingly clear. But Atlas, no one’s perfect. Many of the greatest witches and wizards we know started out exactly where we are now—children trying to figure out the world. Give it time. You’ll find your place.”

Atlas’s cheeks went pink. “Thanks… I guess. But what about you? Which house do you think you’ll be in?”

“Any house is fine,” Siria said, shrugging. “But Slytherin is a big no. My guardian… well, let’s just say he’s a bit anti-Slytherin.”

Atlas chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Fair enough. I can understand that.”

The compartment fell into a comfortable silence as the train sped onward, the sun slipping low in the sky, painting the fields gold. For the first time that morning, Siria felt like maybe Hogwarts wouldn’t be quite so lonely after all.

As Atlas and Siria stepped off the Hogwarts Express, a cool breeze swept through the crowd of wide-eyed first-years gathering by the lakeshore. Most of them huddled together, shivering in the cold evening air, their breath coming out in pale puffs of mist.

“First years! Over here!” a booming voice called, and the two followed the group down to the edge of the black lake where a fleet of small boats waited, bobbing gently on the water.

Siria climbed into one, Atlas settling beside her. Just as she pulled her cloak tighter around herself, another figure dropped into the seat opposite — and her heart sank.

Oh no, she thought. It’s him.

Lorenzo Berkshire sat smirking across from her, his wavy dark hair ruffled by the wind. “Small world, isn’t it, shortie?” he drawled.

Siria rolled her eyes. “Right. Chocolate murderer,” she muttered back.

Atlas blinked between them, clearly trying not to laugh, while the boy beside Lorenzo — a quiet, sandy-haired lad — stared determinedly at the water, pretending not to hear.

The boats lurched forward all at once, gliding smoothly over the inky surface. The chatter died down as the castle came into view — towering spires and glittering windows reflecting the starlight.

Siria leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Wow,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

The cold, the bickering, even the memory of the Crouch Manor — all of it seemed to fade as she stared up at Hogwarts, her new home.

As they entered the Great Hall, Siria’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t take her eyes off the enchanted ceiling — it shimmered with starlight and drifting clouds, so realistic she half-expected to feel the night breeze on her face.

“It’s even more beautiful than how it was described in Hogwarts: A History,” she whispered to herself, craning her neck.

Somewhere behind her, a girl’s voice rang out, loud and proud, “The ceiling is said to be enchanted! I’ve read it in Hogwarts: A History!”

Beside her, Atlas groaned under his breath. “Will she stop ruining the fun?” he muttered, earning a quick, muffled laugh from Siria.

The line of first-years shuffled forward, the candles floating overhead casting a warm golden glow on their nervous faces. The hum of chatter from the older students filled the hall, but for Siria, everything felt distant — all she could think was that she was finally here.

Soon, the Sorting began, and every first-year looked anxious — even the ones trying very hard to look cool. To distract herself from the growing knot in her stomach, Siria reached over and rubbed at a smudge of something black on Atlas’s nose.

“When did this happen?” Atlas whispered, horrified.

“No idea,” Siria murmured, though her lips twitched.

One by one, names were called. Some students sat under the hat for ages, shifting nervously as it considered. Others, like Draco Malfoy, barely brushed the brim before—

“SLYTHERIN!”

The hat had practically shouted before it even settled on his hair. Malfoy strutted away looking unbearably smug.

A few more names passed, and then—

“Potter, Siria!”

Siria’s stomach dropped. She gulped and stepped forward, suddenly finding the marble floor more fascinating than anything else. And then—to her absolute horror—her foot slipped.

She slipped. In front of the entire school.

A wave of snickers swept the room. Siria scrambled upright, cheeks burning scarlet, and practically dove onto the stool. The hat dropped over her eyes, plunging her into darkness.

“Well now…” murmured a voice in her ear. “Interesting. Very interesting indeed. You’d fit in almost any house, my dear. Cunning, clever, loyal when it is earned — and courageous, undeniably.”

Siria’s thoughts whirled. Not Slytherin, please. Uncle Barty will have me out of the house before I can say Hogwarts.

The hat chuckled. “No Slytherin? Very well. But you underestimate yourself, child. You fear being a pariah… yet I think you might find quite the opposite.”

Siria blinked. Opposite? What does that even—

“Better be… RAVENCLAW!”

The hat shouted the last word, echoing off the enchanted ceiling. Siria let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She lifted the hat off, offered Professor McGonagall a tiny, embarrassed smile, and hurried to the table draped in blue and bronze.

She didn’t notice the trail of shocked stares following her — whispers rippling through the hall.

A Potter? In Ravenclaw?

But Siria kept her gaze straight ahead, trying to ignore her racing heartbeat, telling herself that maybe… just maybe… the hat hadn’t made a mistake.

The Sorting resumed, name after name echoing through the Great Hall. Siria felt her heartbeat settle — only to jump again when she heard, loud and clear:

“Weasley, Atlas!”

Atlas froze for half a second, then shot Siria a wide-eyed look. She grinned and gave him a firm thumbs-up. After a deep breath, he walked toward the four-legged stool, straightening his already-straight robes as if that would help.

He sat, stiff as a board.

Siria slid both hands under the Ravenclaw table and crossed her fingers so tightly they hurt.

The hat touched Atlas’s head—

“RAVENCLAW!”

You could’ve heard a pin drop.

A Weasley… in Ravenclaw?

Even the ghosts looked startled.

Atlas’s ears turned as red as his hair. He pulled the Sorting Hat off with trembling hands, gave Professor McGonagall a quick nod, and hurried — almost ran — to the Ravenclaw table. Siria immediately clapped, bright and proud.

Atlas sank into the seat beside her, still pink-faced. “Well,” he muttered, trying for a grin, “didn’t see that coming.”

Siria nudged his shoulder. “Told you you’d find your way.”

Meanwhile, whispers fluttered across the Great Hall like startled owls.

First a Potter… now a Weasley? In Ravenclaw?

Chapter Text

Even the ghosts looked startled.

Atlas’s ears turned as red as his hair. He pulled the Sorting Hat off with trembling hands, gave Professor McGonagall a quick nod, and hurried — almost ran — to the Ravenclaw table. Siria immediately clapped, bright and proud.

Atlas sank into the seat beside her, still pink-faced. “Well,” he muttered, trying for a grin, “didn’t see that coming.”

Siria nudged his shoulder. “Told you you’d find your way.”

Meanwhile, whispers fluttered across the Great Hall like startled owls.

First a Potter… now a Weasley? In Ravenclaw?

The Sorting concluded at last with “Zabini, Blaise,” who slid coolly onto the stool and was declared a Slytherin within seconds. The applause faded, and then—

Food appeared.

The entire table gasped as platters materialised: roast chicken, shepherd’s pie, jugs of pumpkin juice, mountains of potatoes. Atlas let out a strangled, reverent sound.

“Merlin,” he breathed, already piling food on his plate. “This is… well, unexpected. A Potter and a Weasley in Ravenclaw. We’re like the first in our families to do so.”

Siria grinned, poking at her mashed potatoes.

“First for everything, I suppose. But I’m pretty sure I’ll be the social pariah in no time. I mean—come on. I slipped. Slipped. In front of the entire school.”

Atlas snorted. “Well, it’s not like Ravenclaw is full of… I don’t know. Prim, polished aristocrats. Half the people at this table look like they tripped on their robes ten minutes ago.”

Siria shot him a look that said I don’t believe you but thank you anyway, and Atlas only grinned harder.

What neither of them noticed — what almost no one noticed — was the woman sitting beside Professor Snape at the staff table.

A woman with dark red hair caught in a loose twist.
Striking, unmistakable green eyes.
A face that looked as though it had been drained of its colour.

Lily Evans–Snape stared at the young girl with the curly light-red hair and hazel eyes, her hands trembling where they rested in her lap. Her breath hitched. She raised one hand to her mouth as tears glistened in her eyes, catching the candlelight.

Severus leaned slightly toward her, whispering something she didn’t seem to hear.

Because Lily’s gaze was fixed — unblinking, desperate — on Siria Potter.

Her daughter.

As Siria and Atlas chatted, something prickled at the back of her neck. A strange, uneasy warmth — like someone was staring holes through her. She tried to ignore it at first, but the feeling only grew sharper.

Finally, as discreetly as she could, she turned her head.

A woman at the staff table was watching her.

Dark red hair, swept back elegantly.
Striking green eyes — so bright they seemed almost luminous in the candlelight.
And an expression Siria couldn’t read at all.

But the moment their eyes met — truly met — the woman jerked her gaze away, almost guiltily. Siria blinked. The woman sat beside a tall man with sallow skin, shoulder-length black hair, and the most severe, crooked nose she’d ever seen. His expression seemed permanently fixed in a scowl.

Siria swallowed and turned quickly back to Atlas, whispering, “Atlas… is someone staring at me from the staff table?”

Atlas raised an eyebrow, casually peeking over. Then he nodded.
“Mm-hmm. A lady with red hair sitting next to Professor Snape. That’s his wife, I think.”

“Snape?” Siria echoed.

“Uh-huh,” Atlas said, stabbing a roast potato. “My brothers told me about him. Bit… complicated. But apparently a bloody genius at Potions. His wife—she’s the assistant Potions professor. Helps with OWL and NEWT classes. Word is she’s a lot nicer than he is.”

Siria snorted softly. “That’s not saying much.”

Atlas grinned, but Siria wasn’t smiling anymore.

She didn’t know why — she couldn’t explain it even to herself — but something about that woman tugged at her. A strange, hollow familiarity settling beneath her ribs, like hearing a half-forgotten lullaby.

Where have I seen her…?

The thought wouldn’t let go.

Chapter Text

The feast finally ended after Dumbledore’s usual blend of warmth and baffling danger warnings — something about the third-floor corridor being strictly forbidden and the Forbidden Forest being, well, forbidden. Siria exchanged a look with Atlas.

“Does he… always do that?” she whispered.

“Apparently,” Atlas muttered back.

“Ravenclaws, this way!” Prefect Penelope Clearwater called, waving her blue-and-bronze badge like a flag.

Siria followed the crowd, her eyes darting everywhere. Portraits waved, some calling out, “Welcome to Hogwarts!” One kindly-looking witch even gave Siria a wink.

And, of course, because fate had a sense of humour—

Siria tripped.

Again.

Atlas somehow caught her by the elbow before she smashed face-first into the stone floor. “You’re really committed to this tripping thing today,” he whispered.

“I swear something is wrong with the castle,” Siria muttered back.

They continued through winding corridors until they reached a tall wooden door guarded by a massive bronze eagle. Suddenly, the eagle’s beak opened.

“What can run but never walks,” it asked in a calm, echoing voice, “has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, and has a bed but never sleeps?”

Penelope cleared her throat. “Ravenclaws must answer a riddle to enter. Sometimes it’s simple, sometimes it’s maddening. If you can’t answer it, you wait until someone else can.”

A nervous first-year squeaked, “What if no one can?”

“Then,” Penelope said matter-of-factly, “you sleep in the corridor.”

Several kids went pale.

A boy with tidy hair raised his hand. Siria thought his name was Anthony Goldstein. “A river,” he said confidently.

“Correct,” the eagle replied, swinging open.

They filed inside — and jaws dropped. Siria felt her whole body light up with awe. The circular common room was painted in midnight blues and silvers, shelves stacked with books lining every wall. Star charts glimmered in frames, enchanted plants glowed softly in corners, and tall arched windows revealed the moonlit sky.

It was perfect.

Or it was, until Penelope tugged Siria aside.

“Potter,” she said in a careful, too-bright voice that immediately spelled trouble. “There’s been a… logistical oversight.”

Siria blinked. “What kind of oversight?”

“We, ah… miscounted the beds in the girls’ dormitory.”

A pit formed in Siria’s stomach.

“And,” Penelope continued, wincing, “there isn’t one left for you.”

Siria’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“But!” Penelope rushed on, “we have an alternative arrangement if — and only if — you’re comfortable with it. You can stay in the boys’ dormitory. The protective wards will still be in place to ensure privacy, and we can—”

“WHAT? NO!” Siria burst, her voice echoing off the dome ceiling.

Half the common room turned to stare.

Her face went beet-red. “H–How could you even think I’d be comfortable being the only girl in there?! I—I—”

Penelope blanched. “Right! Yes! Completely fair reaction. Absolutely valid. But we don’t have another bed and—”

Siria wanted to sink into the floor.

Siria let out a breath, trying not to panic. “Is there really nothing else you can do, Penelope?”

Penelope hesitated, then straightened. “Stay here. Do not panic. I’m going to find Professor Flitwick — he’ll know what to do. He always knows what to do.”

“Please,” Siria muttered, more desperate than she meant to sound.

Penelope hurried off, her robes swishing behind her.

Siria slowly lowered herself onto the nearest couch, feeling like her bones had suddenly turned to jelly. She stared into the crackling blue-flamed fireplace, hoping it would swallow her whole.

Then she noticed it.

The stares.

Upper-year Ravenclaws were scattered around the room — studying, reading, polishing prefect badges — and all of them, every single one, were sneaking glances at her.

Some whispered behind hands.
Some looked confused.
A few looked genuinely intrigued.

Siria immediately buried her face in her palms.

“Great,” she groaned. “It’s day one and I’m already a misfit.”

Atlas plopped down beside her, awkwardly patting her shoulder. “Siria… nobody thinks you're a misfit.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “Atlas. A prefect just announced that the entire girls’ dorm has a bed for everyone except me. I don’t even belong in my own tower.”

Atlas opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then nodded. “Okay, yeah, when you put it like that… bit unfortunate.”

Siria let her head fall back against the couch with a dramatic thunk.
Perfect. Just perfect.

Siria sat alone in the Ravenclaw common room, exhaustion sinking into her bones. Atlas had insisted — absolutely insisted — on staying with her until Penelope returned, but Siria had seen the way his eyes kept drooping. It took several assurances, three promises, and one shove toward the stairs before he finally trudged off to the boys’ dormitory, still glancing back like a worried mother hen.

Now, with the fire crackling softly and the tower quiet, Siria found her own eyelids growing heavy. She was halfway to dozing upright when the portrait door creaked open and Penelope Clearwater stepped in, looking every bit as tired as Siria felt.

A pang of guilt stabbed through her.

Penelope offered a weary smile. “Potter — good, you’re still awake. I spoke with Professor Flitwick.”

Siria straightened. “I’m really sorry for all the trouble—”

“No, no, none of that,” Penelope said quickly. “It’s our mistake for miscounting. Professor Flitwick understands, but… as I warned you, it can’t be fixed overnight.”

Siria nodded, bracing herself.

“So,” Penelope continued, “you’ll have an individual room in the boys’ quarters. It used to be a storage space — so there may be a little dust — but it’s private. Tomorrow, while you’re in classes, the elves will clean everything thoroughly.”

Siria blinked. “A whole room… for me?”

Penelope nodded. “Yes. And of course, full protection wards will be placed on your door. No boy can enter unless you personally invite him.”

Siria let out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding. “It’s fine. Really. Thank you so much. And… sorry for making you run around on my first night.”

Penelope stared at her for a long second — almost startled. Pure-blood girls, in her experience, usually pitched a fit at the idea of anything less than perfection. But Siria… seemed nothing like that.

Penelope shook her head lightly and signalled to someone behind her. “Henry will take you up.”

Henry Grant, the Ravenclaw male prefect, stepped forward with a polite nod. “This way, Potter.”

They climbed flight after flight of stairs, higher than Siria expected, until they reached a door tucked beneath the slanted beams of the tower’s highest floor. Henry pushed it open.

The room was small — but cozy in potential. Dusty trunks, old textbooks, and rolled maps filled the corners. Two mismatched lanterns flickered weakly.

Siria peeked inside. “How long has this been a storage room?”

Henry rubbed the back of his neck. “Since ’80, when the boys who lived here graduated. So… about eleven years.”

She stepped in, toes brushing a dusty rug. It smelled like parchment and old wood — honestly, not the worst.

Henry cleared his throat. “Oh — and Potter? Some boys complained about hearing noises from this room. We think it’s haunted, so… just be careful.”

Siria blinked once. Twice.
“Haunted.”

“Possibly,” Henry said, a little too cheerfully for her liking. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she echoed.

He disappeared down the stairs, leaving Siria alone in the dim, dusty little room.

She shut the door behind her and whispered to herself,

“If Uncle Barty ever finds out about this, he’ll have an aneurysm…
…I won’t tell him.”

She set her trunk down, dusted a spot on the bed, and smiled faintly.

It wasn’t perfect.
But it was hers.

And for tonight — that was enough.