Disclaimer:
I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.
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"...right then, first years! Stick with me! And try not to get lost, the staircases like to move."
The prefect's voice cut through the chaos of the entrance hall as hundreds of students scattered in every direction, older years heading off with the casual confidence of people who knew exactly where they were going. James Potter straightened his shoulders and grinned as the cluster of nervous first-years huddled closer together, looking like sheep who'd just realized they were being herded by a particularly unreliable shepherd.
This was it. This was the moment he'd been waiting for his entire life.
The prefect—a sixth-year with a badge that caught the torchlight—started up the marble staircase, and James fell into step behind him with Arthur and Fred flanking him like wingmen. The moving staircases that had the other first-years gasping and clutching at the bannisters were old news to James. He'd been hearing about them since he could walk, had dreamed about riding them since he was old enough to understand what Hogwarts meant.
"Bloody hell," Arthur muttered as a staircase swung away from the wall just as they were about to step onto it, leaving them stranded on a landing with a portrait of a medieval knight who was busy picking his nose with his gauntlet. "Do they always do that?"
"Only when they're feeling particularly vindictive," James said with the sort of casual authority that came from a lifetime of Hogwarts stories. "Wait for it..."
The staircase swung back into place with a grinding of stone on stone, and the prefect stepped onto it like nothing had happened. James followed without hesitation, Arthur and Fred close behind.
They climbed for what felt like hours, past portraits that whispered and pointed, past suits of armor that clanked ominously as they passed, past doorways that led to corridors James had heard about but never seen. His dad had walked these same stairs twenty years ago, had probably stood on this exact landing, had definitely gotten into trouble somewhere along this route.
The thought made James's chest tight with something between pride and pressure. This wasn't just a school. This was his inheritance.
"Nearly there now," the prefect called back to them as they climbed past a portrait of a fat monk who was trying to teach a group of cherubs how to juggle. "Just a few more flights."
James caught Arthur looking around with the same wide-eyed wonder he'd shown in the Great Hall, and felt a surge of satisfaction. It was brilliant, watching someone see all of this for the first time. Someone who appreciated it properly, instead of just taking it for granted the way some of the pureblood kids did.
"Mental, isn't it?" James said as they passed a portrait of a witch who was attempting to charm her hat into dancing. "Dad says the portraits remember everything. Every conversation, every student who's walked past. That one there"—he pointed to a severe-looking wizard in black robes—"apparently caught my dad sneaking back from the kitchens at two in the morning when he was in fourth year."
"Your dad got caught sneaking around?" Fred asked with obvious delight.
"All the time," James said proudly. "Reckons he spent more time in detention than in class some terms."
They reached the seventh floor, and James felt his pulse quicken as the prefect led them down a corridor lined with portraits of Gryffindor lions in various heroic poses. At the end of the corridor hung a portrait that James recognized from a dozen stories—the Fat Lady, resplendent in her pink silk dress, a goblet of wine in her hand.
"Password?" she asked the prefect, her voice melodious and slightly slurred.
The prefect opened his mouth to respond, but James stepped forward before he could speak.
"Grata Domum," James said clearly, his voice carrying the sort of confidence that suggested he'd been saying Hogwarts passwords his entire life.
The Fat Lady's eyebrows climbed towards her elaborate hairline, and she gave James a knowing smirk. "Well, well. Another Potter, is it? You've got the look of your father about you."
"So I've been told," James said with a grin that was pure cheek.
"In you go then, dear. Welcome home."
The portrait swung forward like a door, revealing a circular opening just large enough for a person to climb through. James went first, of course, scrambling through the portal and emerging into—
It was exactly like the stories. It wasn't just a room; it was a promise. And it was his.
The Gryffindor common room stretched out before them, all warm scarlet and gold, with a fire crackling merrily in an enormous stone fireplace. Squashy armchairs and sofas were scattered around the room, their red velvet worn smooth by generations of students. Tapestries hung from the walls showing Gryffindor's greatest moments, and the windows looked out over the dark grounds, where James could just make out the glimmer of the lake in the moonlight.
The room was buzzing with activity—older students sprawled in chairs, comparing timetables and catching up on summer gossip. A group of seventh-years had commandeered the best spots near the fire, and someone had produced a deck of Exploding Snap cards that kept going off with tiny bangs and puffs of smoke.
"First years!" called a voice from across the room, and James turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered boy making his way towards them. His hair was a brilliant turquoise tonight, and the Head Boy badge on his robes caught the firelight.
James's grin widened as Teddy Lupin reached them, clasping him on the shoulder with the sort of easy familiarity that came from years of family gatherings.
"Welcome home, James," Teddy said, his voice warm but carrying an undertone of authority that suggested he was already anticipating trouble. "Try not to set anything on fire before morning, alright? McGonagall's already got you pegged."
"I haven't set anything on fire," James protested, though his grin suggested he wasn't entirely opposed to the idea.
"Yet," Teddy said dryly. "The night's still young." He turned to Arthur and Fred, his expression shifting into something more formally welcoming. "Holding up alright?"
Arthur nodded, looking slightly bewildered by the easy family dynamic he'd just witnessed. "Arthur Aalto. And this is Fred Weasley."
"This is Fred Weasley, is it?" Teddy laughed. "Of course I know Fred—we're all basically family. Welcome to Gryffindor, all of you. Try to keep James out of trouble, will you?"
"That's Teddy," James said as the Head Boy moved off to greet the other first-years. "He's basically my brother."
"Basically?" Arthur asked.
"Dad's godson," James explained with a shrug. "Family dinner every Sunday, holidays together, the whole thing. He's alright, for someone who takes his prefect duties seriously."
Fred was looking around the common room with obvious appreciation, his gaze lingering on a particularly impressive tapestry showing a Gryffindor knight battling what looked like a small dragon. "This is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."
James felt that familiar surge of proprietary pride as he watched his friends take in the common room. This was his world, his heritage, and they were impressed by it. As they should be.
"Come on," he said, weaving between the occupied chairs towards the fire. "Let me show you the best bits."
He led them past a group of third-years arguing over a Transfiguration spell and stopped in front of a particularly squashy armchair positioned at the perfect angle to catch both the warmth of the fire and the view out the windows.
"My dad said this is the best armchair, right by the fire," James said, running his hand along the worn velvet arm. "Reckons he planned half his adventures from that spot."
Arthur reached out to touch the chair as well, his expression thoughtful. "It's mad, isn't it? All the people who've sat here. All the things they've planned."
"The Marauders probably used this chair," James said, the words coming out with more reverence than he'd intended. "Gramps and his friends, I mean. They had their own group, their own name. Teddy's dad was one of them. Did all sorts of mad things."
"What sort of mad things?" Fred asked, his eyes lighting up with interest.
James launched into the stories he'd grown up with—the ones his dad had told him when Mum wasn't listening. The Animagus transformations, the secret passages, the legendary pranks that were still talked about in hushed tones thirty years later. Arthur and Fred listened with the sort of rapt attention that made James feel ten feet tall.
"Mental," Arthur said when James finished describing the time his grandad and his friends had turned the Great Hall into a swamp. "Absolutely mental."
"They were legends," James said simply. "Real legends."
The prefect reappeared then, herding the first-years towards a narrow spiral staircase that led up from the common room. "Right, boys this way. Time to find your dormitory."
They climbed the winding stone steps, past several doors marked with different years, until they reached one labeled "First Years." The prefect pushed it open to reveal a circular room with five four-poster beds, each hung with deep red curtains and fitted with thick, warm-looking blankets.
"Your trunks should already be here," the prefect said, and sure enough, James could see his familiar trunk at the foot of one of the beds. "Lights out in an hour. Try to get some sleep—you'll need it for tomorrow."
James claimed the bed nearest the window, Arthur took the one next to him, and Fred settled on Arthur's other side. The other two beds were claimed by a nervous-looking boy called Nigel and someone named Marcus who immediately buried himself in a book and didn't seem inclined to talk.
They unpacked in comfortable silence, hanging robes in the wardrobe and arranging their belongings in the small bedside tables. James kept catching glimpses of the grounds through the window—the dark bulk of the Forbidden Forest, the glimmer of the lake, the lights of Hagrid's hut in the distance.
When the prefect returned an hour later to check on them, James was lying in bed with his curtains drawn, listening to the sounds of his dormmates settling in for the night. Arthur was shifting restlessly in the bed next to him, and he could hear Fred's quiet breathing already evening out into sleep.
But James wasn't planning on sleeping. Not yet.
He waited until he was certain Nigel and Marcus were both breathing deeply, until the sounds from the common room below had died down to the occasional crackle from the fire. Then he leaned over and prodded Arthur through the gap in his bed curtains.
"You're not actually going to sleep, are you?" he whispered.
Arthur's curtains opened to reveal a grin that matched James's own. "Hadn't planned on it."
James reached across Arthur to prod Fred, who opened one eye and looked at them with mild curiosity. "Something more interesting than sleep on offer?"
"Always," James said. "First night at Hogwarts. We can't waste it lying in bed."
A silent agreement passed between them, the sort of wordless communication that James recognized from watching his parents with their friends. This was how it started. This was how legends were made.
They slipped out of bed and padded barefoot across the cold stone floor, James leading the way back down the spiral staircase. The common room was nearly empty now, just a few seventh-years huddled around the dying fire and lost in conversation about NEWTs and career prospects.
James guided Arthur and Fred to the far side of the room, where the shadows were deeper and they were less likely to be noticed by anyone who might object to first-years wandering around after lights out.
"Right," he whispered as they huddled behind a particularly large sofa. "What do you want to see first? I know where some of the secret passages are, and Dad mentioned there's a room somewhere that's full of things people have lost over the centuries..."
But Fred was already distracted, his attention caught by something across the room. He was staring at a large tapestry depicting a wizard battling a kraken, his head tilted slightly as if he was trying to work out a puzzle.
"That tapestry," he said quietly. "Does something look off about it to you?"
James and Arthur followed his gaze. The tapestry looked normal enough to James—old, certainly, and a bit faded, but nothing particularly unusual about it.
Fred stood up and crossed to the wall, running his hands along the bottom edge of the tapestry. "Here," he said. "It's not quite flush with the wall. There's a gap."
James felt his pulse quicken. Secret passages were one thing, but discovering something new on their very first night? That would be proper legendary.
The three of them gathered around the tapestry, and Fred was right—there was definitely a gap at the bottom, just wide enough for fingers to slip underneath the heavy fabric. Together, they lifted the tapestry away from the wall, revealing a small wooden door set into the stone.
"No handle," Arthur observed, running his hands over the smooth wood. "And no keyhole."
James was about to suggest they find something to pry it open with when Arthur stepped closer to the door, his expression shifting into something focused and intent. He placed his palm flat against the wood and closed his eyes.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then James heard the soft click of a lock disengaging, and the door swung open on silent hinges.
"How did you—" James started, but Arthur just grinned and gestured towards the opening.
"After you, Potter."
The space beyond the door was small and cramped, clearly some sort of storage room that had been forgotten by successive generations of students. Dust motes danced in the beam of light from James's wand, revealing old Quidditch banners, a broken Beater's bat, and scrolls of parchment that looked like they might crumble if touched.
It was perfect.
"This is it," James said, his voice hushed with something approaching reverence. "This is ours."
They settled themselves on the dusty floor, the single beam of light from James's wand casting long shadows on the stone walls. The space felt secret and private and completely separate from the rest of the castle, like they'd found their own little corner of Hogwarts that belonged to no one but them.
"We need a name," James said suddenly. The words had been building in his chest since the moment they'd sat down on the train together, since the moment he'd realized he'd found his crew. "The Marauders had one. We need one."
Arthur was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. "All I know is I can't wait to get on a broom. I miss chasing that feeling, you know? The speed, the adrenaline. Everything else just falls away."
"And you'll be chasing the Quaffle," Fred said with a grin, "James will be chasing the Snitch..." He paused, his grin widening. "I'll be chasing after you two with a Dungbomb."
The word hung in the air between them, and James felt something click into place. It was perfect. Simple and perfect and exactly right.
"Chasers," Arthur said, his voice soft but certain. "We're the Chasers."
James looked around at the dusty walls of their newly claimed headquarters, at the broken Quidditch equipment and forgotten banners. This was it. This was the beginning of everything. His dad had started his legend in the dormitory above them, plotting with his friends by wandlight. Now James was doing the same thing, in his own way, with his own crew.
He looked at the grinning faces of his two new best friends, the dust motes dancing in the single beam of light from his wand, and knew, with absolute certainty, that this was the beginning of their story.
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