November 2nd 1971
Lily loved Hogwarts. Or more specifically, she loved magic.
It was everything she'd hoped for when she'd gotten her letter—everything she'd dreamed about during those long weeks after meeting Severus Snape in the playground, after he'd finally admitted he was a wizard too and magic was real and she wasn't strange or broken or wrong. Magic just worked for her. The way a wand felt in her hand was right. When Professor Flitwick showed them the swish-and-flick for Wingardium Leviosa, she just got it. Made sense in a way maths homework never had.
Well. Maybe not everything was wonderful.
The fact that she was what they called a Muggleborn made things harder.
She'd noticed it early—the way some of the Slytherins sneered when she answered questions in class, even when she was right. Especially when she was right. The whispers behind hands when she walked past groups of pure-blood girls in their perfectly pressed robes with family crests embroidered on the hems. The way Professor Slughorn had praised her effusively for brewing a perfect Cure for Boils, his delight tinged with surprise: "And a Muggleborn! Quite remarkable, Miss Evans. Quite remarkable indeed."
As if she shouldn't be able to do it properly. As if being Muggleborn meant she'd be rubbish at magic.
She didn't know much about how the wizarding government worked—she was eleven, and she'd only been magical for a few months—but when she'd looked it up in the library and asked Sev, he'd said there weren't any Muggleborns in charge of anything important at the Ministry. No department heads. No seats on the Wizengamot, whatever that was. No school governors.
That worried her. Made her stomach feel funny when she thought about it too much.
Which was why she was following Mary MacDonald up from the greenhouses after Herbology, her dragon-hide gloves still dusted with soil, her mind still turning over the question she'd asked and Mary's careful, quiet response.
Mary was a second-year Gryffindor—a year older—but more importantly, she was Muggleborn too. Lily had talked to her after dinner two nights ago, catching her in the common room when most people had gone to bed. She'd asked about what she'd found in the library, about Muggleborns not being in charge of things, about whether that was normal or if she was reading it wrong.
Mary had glanced around the common room—checking for eavesdroppers, Lily realized now—before leaning in close.
"Lils, you have to be careful where you say things like that," she'd whispered, her dark eyes serious. "Not all pure-bloods are in Slytherin, yeah? Some of them are in Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, even Ravenclaw. And they don't like Muggleborns making trouble." She'd looked around again, as if the portrait of the Fat Lady might be listening. "Look, come with me after Herbology on Thursday. There's someone I think you should meet."
And that was all she'd said before changing the subject to the Transfiguration essay due Monday.
Now it was Thursday, and Lily felt like she might burst from curiosity.
They climbed one of the many staircases—Lily had learned to check if they were moving before stepping on them—then turned down another of Hogwarts' endless corridors. This one was on the fifth floor, she thought, though it was hard to keep track. The castle seemed to shift when you weren't looking.
Mary stopped at a large empty bit of wall, no moving paintings or anything. Just blank stone, grey and boring. Lily almost asked if they were lost, but Mary was already pulling out her wand.
She tapped on the wall three times—sharp, deliberate raps that echoed slightly in the empty corridor.
Lily's breath caught.
Just like Diagon Alley. Just like when Professor McGonagall had tapped the brick wall behind the Leaky Cauldron and the bricks had shifted and rearranged themselves into an archway.
The stone rippled. Shifted. Bricks sliding aside and reforming until they revealed a large set of black doors, dark wood polished shiny, with brass handles shaped like wands.
The doors swung open on their own, silent and smooth.
"Come on," Mary said quietly, and walked through.
Lily followed, her heart hammering. The door closed behind them with a soft thump.
The room beyond was enormous—way too big to fit in the space the corridor should have allowed. Magic, Lily reminded herself. Space could be bigger on the inside. She'd read about Extension Charms in Hogwarts: A History.
The space was divided into different areas, each one looking like it had a purpose.
To the left, a sitting area that looked like something from a posh house in London: deep red armchairs and a long sofa arranged around a low table, all facing a massive fireplace where flames crackled cheerfully. Bookshelves lined the walls floor to ceiling, packed with books—some new with pristine spines, others ancient and leather-bound. Lily's fingers itched to look at them. The books at home—her Muggle home—were mostly Petunia's fashion magazines and Dad's newspapers. These looked important.
Straight ahead sat a large table, dark wood polished smooth, surrounded by mismatched chairs. The table was scattered with parchment, books, quills, and ink pots—someone had been using it recently. A meeting space, Lily thought. Or maybe for studying together.
But it was the right side of the room that made her breath catch.
A large open area with the floor marked out in chalk lines and symbols she didn't recognize. Scorch marks darkened one section of the stone. Another area had what looked like targets—people-shapes drawn on the wall, some with holes blasted through them. Wand racks stood against the far wall, holding practice wands—she could tell by their plain appearance.
A practice area. For spells. For dueling, maybe.
This place was amazing!
"What is this place?" Lily breathed.
A voice rang out from across the room, warm and welcoming: "This is our Muggleborn home away from home."
Lily's head snapped toward the sitting area. A boy was getting up from one of the red armchairs, closing a book in his hands—something thick and old-looking, the kind that belonged in the Restricted Section. He set it carefully on the side table and stood.
He wore Gryffindor robes, the red and gold visible at his collar and cuffs, but everything else about him looked careful. His robes actually fit properly, hanging right from his shoulders instead of bunching awkwardly the way Lily's still did. His dark hair was trimmed neatly, not quite short but tidy, pushed back from his face. He was tall and skinny in a way that made it look like he'd recently got tall and was still getting used to it.
But it was his face that she noticed most. Sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, a jaw that would probably look quite grown-up in a few years. And his eyes: dark grey, almost like slate, watching and intense. They looked right at her with attention that made her feel noticed in a way that was both nice and slightly weird.
David Price.
She'd seen him before in the common room, though always far away. Usually bent over a book in the corner, or having quiet serious conversations with older students. First-years didn't really talk to fourth-years much—different classes, different friends, different everything really.
But she'd heard about him. James Potter and Sirius Black had mentioned him once in the common room, their voices carrying that particular tone boys got when talking about someone they thought was impressive but didn't want to admit it.
"Price? Brilliant, yeah," James had said, sprawled in an armchair. "One of the smartest in the school even though he's only in fourth year. Real prodigy type."
"Gets special lessons with Dumbledore," Sirius had added, sounding impressed despite himself. "Advanced magic, theory stuff. Flitwick loves him."
Lily hadn't been sure if she believed all that—boys exaggerated, and Sirius Black especially seemed to like drama. But looking at David Price now, at the way he stood, the confidence in how he moved...
She'd thought he was a pure-blood.
He held himself like he was supposed to be here. Like he'd grown up with magic, grown up knowing about Hogwarts and the wizarding world and exactly where he fit. There was no uncertainty in how he moved, no hesitation. Not like her, still getting lost in corridors and not knowing which fork to use at dinner. He didn't look like someone who'd joined the wizarding world at the same age she had, stumbling through Diagon Alley with wide eyes and a list of supplies his mum could barely afford.
Mary moved toward David, and Lily noticed the change in her friend—straightening up a bit, her voice taking on a different quality. Respectful. Almost like... like when Lily asked her dad for permission to do something?
"David, Lily has some questions about being Muggleborn," Mary said, her tone surprised Lily. "I hope it's okay that I brought her?"
David's serious expression softened immediately. A smile crossed his face—real and warm, reaching his eyes and making his sharp features look almost gentle. "Of course," he said, and his voice matched his smile: welcoming, not judging. "Everyone is welcome here, especially those who have questions." He gestured toward the sitting area with one hand, the movement easy and natural. "Please, come and sit with me."
Lily felt relief wash through her. She didn't want to get Mary in trouble for bringing her here. "Thank you," she said, and winced internally at how shy she sounded. She normally wasn't shy—Petunia called her pushy, said she always had to know everything, always had to ask questions. But something about this boy, this room, this moment made her feel really, really young.
They moved to the sitting area, Lily's shoes quiet on the stone floor. Up close, she could see some of the book titles on the shelves: A History of the Muggleborn Struggle, The International Statute of Secrecy: Origins and Implications, Magical Theory and Practical Applications. Serious topics. Nothing like the textbooks they used in class.
David settled back into his armchair like he was completely comfortable. Mary took the other end of the sofa, leaving the middle bit for Lily. She sat carefully, right on the edge of the cushion, her school bag still clutched in her lap.
David leaned forward slightly, his grey eyes focused on her with that same intense attention. Not mean. Just... there. Like she was the only person in the room, the only thing that mattered right now.
She felt stumped for a moment, her mind suddenly blank even though questions had been churning through her head for weeks. What did she want to ask? She wanted to know everything—why things were the way they were, how it all worked, whether anyone else had noticed the same things she had.
"I... I suppose why aren't there any Muggleborns in the Ministry?"
David gave a nod, leaning back in his armchair. He looked relaxed, but his eyes stayed sharp, focused. "That isn't quite accurate," he said, his tone not mean but not talking-down to her either. "There are several Muggleborns in the Ministry. All are assistants or in jobs that won't lead anywhere—places where they don't get to decide anything important." He paused, seeming to think. "The why of it is both simple and complicated."
He made a small motion with his hand—barely a movement, just his fingers shifting slightly—and one of the books from the nearby shelf floated through the air toward him. The Struggles of Muggleborns in Britain, the spine read in faded gold lettering.
Lily's eyes went huge. Her breath caught.
Wandless magic. Silent magic. Both at once.
The textbook—The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1—said that wandless magic was really, really advanced, took years and years of practice. Silent casting wasn't even mentioned in first-year books; Professor Flitwick had said they'd start learning it in sixth year, maybe fifth if they were really talented.
Not something a fourth-year should be able to do. Not something you did like it was nothing, like summoning a book was as easy as breathing.
Maybe the stories about him were true after all.
The book settled into David's hand with a soft thump. He held it out to her, and Lily took it automatically, feeling how heavy it was in her lap. The leather cover was worn smooth, the pages thick.
"This is a book that I wrote myself," David said, and Lily's eyes snapped back to his face. He'd written a book? At fourteen? "It's everything I was able to find out about why Muggleborns are the way they are in the wizarding world." He gestured at it with one hand. "Please, take it with you to read later. But I'll give you the short version now."
He reached into his sleeve—a smooth, practiced movement—and pulled out his wand.
Lily leaned forward a bit, curious despite herself. She'd learned quickly that wands were personal, that you could tell things about a wizard by their wand.
David's wand was striking: dark wood, almost black, with a faint purple shine when the firelight caught it. Blackthorn, maybe? She'd read about different wand woods in A History of Wandlore, trying to understand why her own wand—willow and unicorn hair—had chosen her. The wand was long—at least thirteen inches—and looked hard and unbending. There was something almost scary about it, like it had been carved from shadow.
He gave it a single, precise flick.
In the middle of the low table in front of them, the air shimmered. A dome appeared—see-through and faintly glowing, about two feet across—and pictures began forming inside it like moving photographs, but sharper, clearer, more real somehow.
Lily's breath caught again. What was that spell? She'd never seen anything like it in class.
"Many years ago," David began, his voice taking on the sound of a teacher giving a lesson, "before Hogwarts, before the Ministry had reorganized from its old Wizard Council roots, the Sacred Twenty-Eight were the leaders of the magical world in Britain."
The pictures in the dome shifted: twenty-eight family crests appearing in a circle, each one fancy and old-looking. Lions, serpents, eagles, badgers—creatures and symbols Lily didn't recognize. Some looked noble. Others looked mean.
"Twenty-eight pure-blood families that controlled different parts of the country," David continued, "not unlike a feudal system. More tribal in nature, but still feudal in its function. Each family held territory, commanded loyalty, wielded power over those beneath them."
Lily didn't know what "feudal" meant, but she got the idea: powerful families in charge of everything.
The crests expanded, spreading across a map of Britain that appeared beneath them. Lines connected them, showing territories and who was allied with who, a web of power.
"In those days, religion was everywhere in Muggle communities." The image shifted: villages, churches with tall pointy bits, people in old-fashioned clothing. "And when children were born with magic—when strange things happened around them that couldn't be explained—they were killed by their own communities more often than not. Burned at the stake, drowned, beaten to death. People thought they were children of Satan."
Lily felt sick. The pictures showed it: small figures, flames, angry mobs. She wanted to look away but couldn't.
"The few that survived long enough to escape were found by the Twenty-Eight," David said, and the pictures shifted again: children being taken in, brought to magical estates. "Their policy on Muggleborns was different between families, but everyone agreed on one thing." He paused, his grey eyes finding hers. "They were lesser."
The word hung in the air.
"Those divisions still exist," he continued. "The modern Wizengamot—still hanging onto the old ways. Traditionalists, Conservatives, and Progressives." The dome showed a grand chamber, witches and wizards in formal robes arguing, gesturing, their faces twisted with anger. "They'd say that their politics now have nothing to do with the old Muggleborn policies. But that would be a lie."
He shook his head, something like disgust flickering across his face before it smoothed away. "The darker families saw Muggleborns as no better than Muggles themselves, and in those days, Muggles could be treated like sport. Hunted. Used for entertainment or experimentation."
Lily felt properly sick now. Mary, sitting beside her, reached over and squeezed her hand briefly. We're not alone.
"The lighter families," David continued, his voice gentler now, "brought Muggleborns into the fold. But never as equals." The pictures showed it: Muggleborn children being taught magic, but always in the background, always less important. "They taught them enough magic to be considered witches and wizards, but never enough to challenge them. Never enough to rise above their place."
The dome shifted again: a grand building rising from the ground, official-looking, imposing.
"When the Ministry was formed by the International Confederation of Wizards, when the Statute of Secrecy was established in 1689 and formalised in 1692, very little changed in Britain." David's voice got harder. "If anything, it got worse. Muggleborns were now legally required to hide their magic from their own families, isolated from both worlds, dependent on pure-blood families for guidance and jobs."
"Until Hogwarts."
The image changed: four figures appearing in the dome, standing together. A wizard in red robes with a lion at his side. A wizard in green with a serpent coiled around his staff. A witch in blue surrounded by ravens. A witch in yellow with a badger at her feet.
"Four powerful witches and wizards decided that if we as a society were to evolve, then education needed to be formalised. That the hidden knowledge that each family kept locked away needed to be shared." David's voice held something like respect now. "The Founders. Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and Salazar Slytherin."
Lily leaned forward, fascinated. She'd learned about the Founders in History of Magic—though Professor Binns had made it impossibly boring—but this felt different. Real.
"In the beginning, they agreed," David said. "Muggleborns would learn alongside everyone else as equals. That worked for a time, before Salazar Slytherin changed his mind and left the school."
The image showed it: Slytherin turning away from the other three, walking into darkness.
"It's said that he hunted Muggleborns before they could come to Hogwarts, killed them to keep magical blood 'pure.'" David's voice was flat, just stating facts. "I don't know if that's true. But what I do know is that Muggleborns' education got better after Hogwarts was established, but not their standing. Not their power. Not their voice."
Lily took this in, her mind racing. A thousand years of being taught magic but kept in lower positions. A thousand years of being useful but never equal.
"It changed when Grindelwald came to power."
Lily had heard of him. Everyone had. Grindelwald was the dark wizard that Dumbledore had defeated decades ago—back in 1945, before her parents were even born. The worst dark wizard in recent history.
"It got worse?" Lily asked quietly, dreading the answer.
"No." David shook his head, and something complicated flickered across his face. "If anything, it got better."
That surprised her. Her eyebrows shot up. "Better? I thought he was a dark wizard."
He nodded slowly, holding her gaze. "He was. Definitely. He killed thousands, started a war that devastated Europe, built prison camps for people who opposed him." A pause. "But he believed in magical supremacy over those who lacked magic. Over the Muggles."
The way he said it was deliberate, and Lily understood: not pure-blood supremacy. Magical supremacy.
"Grindelwald didn't care if you were pure-blood or Muggleborn," David continued. "He cared if you had magic. He saw all magical people—no matter their blood status—as superior to non-magical humans. As evolved. As having a responsibility to guide and, ultimately, to rule."
The dome showed pictures Lily recognized from history books: Grindelwald's symbol, his rallies, his army. But these pictures showed something she hadn't seen before: Muggleborns fighting alongside pure-bloods under his banner. Fighting for him.
"For the first time in centuries," David said quietly, "Muggleborns were treated as equals—if you joined his cause, You weren't a second-class citizen. You were a witch or wizard, full stop. Powerful. Valued. Given positions of authority."
The pictures in the dome shifted again: Muggleborns standing beside pure-bloods in positions of command, wearing the same uniforms, wielding the same power. Not servants. Not assistants. Leaders.
"This was one of the reasons so many flocked to his cause," David continued, his voice thoughtful. "Those who'd been looked down on their entire lives—told they were lesser, kept from power, limited in what they could achieve—suddenly had a place. They had purpose." He paused, his grey eyes distant for a moment. "They'd all be under Grindelwald, yes. His vision, his leadership, his war. But within that, they'd be equals with the pure-bloods who'd spent centuries looking down on them."
Lily tried to imagine it: being told your whole life that you weren't good enough, that you didn't really belong—and then someone powerful saying no, you're just as good, come with me.
It would feel amazing.
It would be dangerous.
"When he fell," David said, and his voice got harder, "when our own Headmaster defeated him in single combat in 1945, things went back to how they were."
The dome showed it: Dumbledore standing over a defeated Grindelwald, wand raised. Victory. The end of the war. And then—the pictures shifting—the old families taking control again, the Ministry restructuring back to the way it had been, Muggleborns quietly pushed back into their lesser positions.
"Headmaster Dumbledore took more control in our society—he's Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, holds more titles than anyone else alive." David's tone was carefully neutral, but Lily heard something underneath it. Disappointment? Frustration? "But he was afraid to bring real change. Afraid of what that change might cost, perhaps. Or afraid of becoming what he'd defeated."
He leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, his hands together. The gesture made him seem older somehow, more tired.
"There are rumors," he said quietly, almost reluctantly, "that he and Grindelwald grew up together. That they were friends—close friends. That Grindelwald's cause began with them both, with shared ideals and shared dreams before something broke between them." A pause. "There's no proof if that's true. Dumbledore has never talked about it, and Grindelwald is locked away in Nurmengard, his own prison, with no visitors allowed."
Lily's mind reeled. Dumbledore and Grindelwald? The greatest wizard alive and the darkest wizard in history, friends? Working together?
"Nevertheless," David continued, his voice returning to that matter-of-fact tone, "Muggleborns became second-class citizens once again. The brief window of equality—even if it came at a terrible price—closed. We went back to being assistants, clerks, useful but never powerful. Educated but never equal."
He met her eyes directly, and Lily felt the full weight of his attention.
"That, Lily, is why Muggleborns have no real power in the Ministry."
Her mind felt overwhelmed. Completely swamped. A thousand years of being treated as lesser, a brief moment of terrible equality, then back to being treated as lesser again—all of it was too much, too big, too hopeless.
It made everything seem impossible. Unchangeable. If this was how things had been for a thousand years, what chance did she have? What chance did any of them have?
She tried to argue, grasping for something—anything—that would make it less awful.
"What about people like James and Sirius?" The words came out more defensive than she meant them to. "They don't treat me different because I'm Muggleborn. James is always nice to me, and Sirius—he doesn't care about blood status at all. He talks about running away from his family because they're so obsessed with pure-blood rubbish."
Mary shifted beside her, but didn't say anything. Lily glanced at her friend and saw something in her expression—sympathy? Understanding? A kind of gentle oh, you'll see that made Lily's stomach clench.
David's expression didn't change. He didn't look mean or dismissive. If anything, he looked... sad? Understanding?
"You're right," he said gently. "James Potter and Sirius Black are good people. They genuinely don't care about your blood status. They're brave, loyal, they stand up to bullies, they'd hex anyone who called you—" he hesitated delicately, "—lesser. I don't doubt that for a moment."
He paused, letting that sink in before continuing.
"But ask yourself this, Lily: do they question the system? Do they wonder why there are no Muggleborn heads of department? Why house-elves serve our food and clean our dormitories without pay, without choice? Why the Wizengamot is filled with old pure-blood families and no one like you or me?"
Lily opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. She didn't know. She'd never heard James or Sirius talk about any of that. They talked about Quidditch and pranks and which spells were best for turning Slytherins' robes pink.
"They're kind to you," David said softly, "because they're good people. But being kind isn't the same as making things fair. Being nice to Muggleborns one at a time isn't the same as changing a system that keeps all Muggleborns down."
He leaned back again, his hands spreading in a gesture that took in the room—the books, the practice area, the meeting table.
"James and Sirius will leave Hogwarts and step into good positions because of their family names. Potter, Black—those names open doors. They'll get good jobs at the Ministry, or play professional Quidditch, or live comfortable lives doing whatever they choose." His grey eyes held hers. "They won't have to fight for respect. They won't have to prove they deserve to be there. They won't wonder if they only got the position because the Ministry needed to look like they employed Muggleborns."
Lily felt something tight in her chest. Because he was right, wasn't he? James and Sirius were lovely, but they'd never had to think about any of this. Never had to wonder if people were judging them for their blood. Never had to work twice as hard to be considered half as good.
"They're your friends," David said gently. "Keep them as friends. But don't mistake their personal kindness for systemic change. The two aren't the same thing."
She had to admit—if only to herself—that she didn't really understand everything. Not fully.
She was smart, she knew that. Top of her year in Charms, second only to Severus in Potions, always had her hand up first in Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall had told her mum when they had their first meeting that Lily seemed "exceptionally bright, a natural talent." Mum had been so proud.
But right now, sitting in this hidden room with its practice area and its serious books and this fourth-year boy who'd written an actual book, she felt like a little kid. Small. Like she didn't know anything. Like she was standing in a fenced-off play area, watching the real world happen on the other side of the fence, waiting for her parents to come and let her out so she could join in properly.
Except her parents couldn't let her out. No one could.
She couldn't change what she was. She'd always be Muggleborn. Always have that mark, that thing that made pure-bloods look at her differently, that made her have to work twice as hard to prove she deserved to be here.
"So that's just it, then?" she said, and her voice came out barely above a whisper. The words felt heavy. Defeated. "That's just... how it is?"
She'd had such hopes when she'd gotten her Hogwarts letter. When magic had turned out to be real, when she'd walked through Diagon Alley for the first time and seen witches and wizards and wondered, when she'd sat on the stool in the Great Hall and the Sorting Hat had placed her in Gryffindor. She'd thought it would get better. That the sneers and whispers would disappear once she showed she was willing to learn, willing to work, willing to be part of this world. To be a proper witch.
But if what David was saying was true—and she believed him, believed it with a sinking feeling that made her stomach hurt—then what was she supposed to do? Just... accept it? Spend the rest of her life being someone's assistant, being patted on the head for doing well "for a Muggleborn," being grateful for scraps?
The thought made her want to scream. Or cry. Or both.
"No."
David's voice cut through her thoughts like a knife, sharp and certain and sure.
Lily's head snapped up. "No?" she asked, confusion mixing with something that might have been hope. "What do you mean, no?"
He waved around the room—at the bookshelves crammed with books, at the practice area with its scorch marks and chalk diagrams, at the meeting table covered in parchment and ink. "That's what all this is for," he said, and there was passion in his voice now, warming it, making it vibrate. "This is a place for people like us who want to find a new path together. Who need to. Who feel a fire in their chest at how unfair it all is."
His grey eyes found hers, intense and unwavering.
"Mary's not the only one who noticed that you're like us," he said quietly. "I've seen it too. I've watched you in the Great Hall, seen the way your face changes when Slytherins sneer at Muggleborns. Seen how angry you get when people are given special treatment just because of their surname." He paused. "Seen the way you bite your tongue when you want to argue, because you're still learning how this world works and you don't want to make trouble. Not yet."
Lily felt exposed. Seen. Like he'd been reading her diary, watching her private thoughts.
"It only gets worse the older you get," David continued, and now there was something almost sad in his voice. "The unfairness becomes clearer. The patterns more obvious. The anger harder to swallow." He glanced at Mary, who nodded slightly. "Ask Mary. Ask any of us. That fire doesn't go away. It grows."
He stood, and the movement was smooth, deliberate, commanding.
And in that moment, he felt bigger than he was to Lily. It was like he filled the entire room just by standing there—not because of his size, but because of how sure he was. How convinced. The firelight caught his dark hair, cast shadows across his sharp features, made his grey eyes seem to burn.
This was what a leader looked like, Lily realized. Not someone who yelled and demanded, but someone who made you want to follow. Someone who made you believe that things could actually change.
"We will change things," David said, and it wasn't a hope or a wish—it was a promise. "One step at a time. One person at a time. One unfairness challenged, one mind changed, one barrier broken." He paused, his voice dropping to something quieter but no less intense. "It won't be easy. It won't be fast. But it will happen."
He reached out a hand toward her—long fingers, pale skin, calluses on his palm from wand work. An offered bridge. An invitation.
"Would you join us, Lily?" he asked, and his voice was gentle now, almost tender. "Would you help us make a world where there are no divisions between pure-blood, half-blood, Muggleborn, or magical creatures? Where we're all valued for our magic, our abilities, what we can do—not our parents? Where we're all, truly, equal?"
Lily felt it in her chest. The fire he talked about.
The burning need to make things fair. To not let people treat her like she was less just because her parents couldn't do magic. The burning refusal to accept being looked down on, to bow her head and be grateful for scraps. The burning certainty that this wasn't how things should be, that the world could be better, that someone had to stand up and fight to make it better.
She was eleven years old. She'd been a witch for four months. She didn't understand everything David had told her about history and politics and systems.
But she understood this: she was angry. She was tired of feeling small. And she wanted to do something about it.
Lily reached out and took his hand.
His grip was warm, firm, steady. Grounding.
"I will," she said, and her voice didn't shake.
David smiled—that warm, real smile that transformed his sharp features into something almost beautiful. "Welcome," he said quietly, "to the beginning. Welcome to The Circle"
Mary squeezed her shoulder, grinning. "Knew you were one of us."
And Lily felt, for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, like she'd found where she truly belonged.
o–o–o–o