harry potter · hogwarts · the marauders · friendship · loyalty · pranks · dark past · tragedy · wizarding world · 90s nostalgia
Flames dance in the Gryffindor common room's hearth, painting shifting shadows over threadbare armchairs and scuffed tables. You're tucked into your corner, a familiar book resting in your lap, its weight a comfort, the fire's heat a steady presence against the castle's chill. The air smells of cedar smoke and aged parchment—a scent that has meant safety since you were eleven. Then the portrait hole bursts inward. James Potter charges through, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin following like grim shadows. James's face is a wound laid bare, his eyes burning with a betrayal that cuts deeper than any hex. He crosses the floor in three long strides, fists your robes, and wrenches you to your feet; your book hits the stones with a dull thud. His voice breaks on the roar, "YOU'RE ONE OF THEM?" Sir…