Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ The Best of Me ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

As the first hints of dawn broke the night, we apparated into a world blanketed in the soft, grey hues of the early morning. Streetlights still flickered, clinging to the last vestiges of the fading darkness. Though we had hoped to arrive unnoticed, blending seamlessly into the mundane Muggle village, the universe had other plans for our stealthy entrance.

Huddled against the chilly, damp breeze, a teenage girl knelt in her front yard, dirt-stained hands tightly gripping a small shovel as she carefully dug holes for her newly purchased flowers. The colourful pots stood neatly beside her, their vibrant hues standing out even in the muted dawn light. Suddenly, a sharp bark from the neighbouring house jolted her, abruptly yanking her focus away from the task at hand.

Startled, she glanced up and locked eyes with the cloaked figures standing in the middle of the road. Her heart raced as she took in our unusual attire, wholly out of place in this sleepy, serene village. Perhaps my dishevelled hair, wild and free, sent a shiver down her spine. Whatever the reason, fear flashed across her face. Before we could even greet her, she scrambled to her feet, eyes wide with alarm, and fled inside her house.

The girl’s muffled scream pierced the stillness, echoing in my ears. It was not a cry of pure terror, but rather a startled yelp—a sharp intake of breath, followed by the resounding slam of a door. Even so, that brief sound had shattered the fragile illusion of our stealthy arrival. We were far from the picture of inconspicuous tourists—two shadowy figures materialising out of the dawn haze in a quiet village, hardly blending into the serene surroundings.

I envisioned the girl rushing into the house, her mouth wide open, breathlessly recounting to her stunned parents the sight of the strangers who had materialised from nowhere. I imagined her mother brushing the hair from her daughter’s forehead, both concerned and doubtful, as her father, still groggy from sleep, muttered something about dreams playing tricks on the mind.

Remus Lupin, ever the practical one, merely shrugged. “Perhaps we should’ve apparated further out,” he murmured, his voice barely audible against the stirrings of the sleepy village of Ottery St. Catchpole.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t hide my grin. “A dramatic entrance, wouldn’t you say? It sets the tone, you know.” But I couldn’t shake the unsettling image of the girl’s wide, frightened eyes.

The village itself was a soothing balm to my troubled conscience. Despite the less-than-ideal entry, Ottery St. Catchpole possessed a certain rustic charm, a quiet beauty that seeped into your very bones. It wasn’t grand or flashy; rather, it exuded a simple, homely appeal. The comforting blend of woodsmoke and damp earth filled the air, while laundry flapped gently on clotheslines strung between flower-filled window boxes. Children’s laughter drifted from a nearby garden, a stark contrast to the haunting image of the terrified girl I had left behind. The way the quaint houses nestled together, the cobblestone paths winding whimsically around them—all of it felt anchored in something distant yet familiar.

As I crested the hilltop, the sight of “Lupin” took my breath away. This was no grand manor, no imposing wizarding structure. Instead, a simple, two-storey cottage stood before me—sturdy and understated, with a small, well-tended garden. A copper plaque, gleaming faintly in the weak sunlight, felt like a promise of sanctuary, of peace, of a new beginning. Perhaps even a chance to make amends for our less-than-graceful arrival. Dominating the yard was a stately elm, its branches reaching out as if to embrace us, wrapped in a tangled mess of ivy.

Captivated, I admired the lush, colourful flowerbeds lining the path. Their delicate petals trembled gently, each bejewelled with glistening dewdrops that sparkled like precious gems in the tender morning light. The sturdy house stood before me, an embodiment of resilience—built to withstand any storm, much like my own steadfast spirit.

Remus muttered, “Alohomora!” while pointing his wand at the front door. With a soft click, the old lock gave way, and the door creaked open with a weary sigh of relief. As we stepped inside, the familiar scents of woodsmoke and aged parchment enveloped us—a comforting familiarity that did little to ease the uncertainty lingering in the air. We both felt it—the exhilaration of a fresh start, tangled with the apprehension of another uprooted life.

The house radiated an airy, luminous quality. Lofty ceilings, their white paint glowing like the interior of a conch shell, allowed the rooms to flow into one another with a graceful openness that beckoned exploration. To the right, a living room brimmed with eclectic furnishings—a mismatched collection of well-worn armchairs, a threadbare Persian rug, and a grandfather clock that seemed to hold its breath, each piece whispering of lives lived within those walls. Farther on, a study opened onto a paved courtyard where vibrant wildflowers curled around sun-weathered stones, their colours vivid even in the misting rain that had begun to fall.

The cottage’s cosy den beckoned from the kitchen, its plush sofas and warm rugs tempting me to sink in with a soothing cup of tea and watch the rain dance across the windowpanes. Upstairs, two modest but well-appointed bedrooms and a main bath awaited. As I ventured through the house, the creaking of its aged timber floors felt almost like a gentle greeting, welcoming me in despite my initial hesitation.

“How do you like it, Harry?” Remus’ voice was soft, barely audible above the patter of the falling rain.

I gave a small, half-hearted shrug – the same meagre gesture I always offered when we moved to another temporary stop on our nomadic journey. The words “It’s okay—for now” felt hollow even as they passed my lips.

“It’s... a house,” I finally managed, the words tasting like dust in my mouth. The truth was more complicated. This house, unlike the others, felt different somehow—a place that might, just might, hold onto us for a little while longer. But hope, fragile as the morning dew, was a dangerous thing to cling to. I, like the house itself, had learnt to brace for the inevitable storm.

During those initial weeks, we hibernated and acclimated to our new surroundings. Ottery St. Catchpole, a sleepy hamlet where time seemed to stand still, provided a welcome respite. We delighted in the tranquillity, often strolling the rolling hills when the Muggle residents were occupied indoors.

The crisp evening air was painted in hues of twilight as we wandered farther than usual, finally reaching the river that stretched like a silver ribbon down the valley. The water glimmered under the last blushes of daylight, its gentle gurgle like a soothing lullaby. But our attention was drawn not to the river itself but to the lone girl sitting serenely upon its bank.

Couldn’t have been more than sixteen; she was dressed in a plain, comfortable sweater and dark, casual jeans. Calmly dipping her bare feet into the cool water, her serene presence seemed to command the surrounding environment, radiating a sense of tranquillity.

We halted mid-stride, paralysed by a creeping unease that seized me—an instinctive urge to flee, born of apprehension. But before we could retreat, she had already noticed our presence. Rather than jerking her head up in alarm, she turned gradually, her gaze tranquil yet unsettlingly direct.

“Hi,” she greeted, her melodic voice cutting through the backdrop of the rippling river. Her warm, inviting smile persisted against the encroaching dusk. “Nice night for a walk.”

“Yes, it is,” I replied, surprised by how effortlessly her words seemed to flow over me. The space between us felt charged, as if anything could happen in this secluded realm. “Aren’t you cold?” I gestured toward her feet, partially submerged in the chilly autumn waters.

“No,” she said lightly, her unwavering gaze meeting mine. “I come out here to find peace and relaxation.”

The girl’s long, fiery red hair cascaded over her shoulders, shimmering in the fading light. Her almond-shaped eyes were a captivating brown, deep and curious, drawing me in. But it was her smile that truly mesmerised me—a warm, glowing ember against the cool night, radiating a welcoming charm that I found impossible to resist. Despite Remus’s subtle warning glance, my curiosity overpowered any sense of caution, and I found myself inching closer, unable to tear my gaze away from this enchanting stranger.

“Want to try?” she asked. A mischievous glint danced in her eyes as she tilted her head towards the river, her playful expression issuing a silent invitation.

The offer hung in the air, both tempting and unsettling. I hesitated, unsure how to respond, when Remus interjected with a soft yet authoritative tone. “Come away now, Harry. We must return home.” His words carried a gentle command, brooking no argument.

The gravity of my reality weighed heavily upon me as Remus spoke those words. A deep longing pulled me towards her, to learn her name, to know her. Her expression shifted, a flicker of understanding and a hint of sadness behind her playful demeanour.

“Maybe next time,” her voice whispered, carried on the gentle breeze, barely disturbing the tranquil silence as I turned to leave. The evening stars danced on the water’s surface, like tiny glimmers of hope scattered across the vast expanse. In that moment, a strange ache blossomed within me at the thought of departing from her side.

My frustration boiled over, not merely at Remus’s interruption but at the suffocating burden of my reality. I was no ordinary teenager; I was Harry Potter, the famed Boy Who Lived, a target, a symbol. A casual evening stroll could turn deadly. The girl in the river, with her effortless grace and enigmatic allure, embodied everything I craved—a normal life, a simple connection, a future free from Voldemort’s ever-looming threat.

Once we had distanced ourselves from the girl, I sharply addressed Remus, my tone cutting through the gentle evening hum. “What’s wrong with you?”

Remus’s piercing eyes, normally alight with empathy and compassion, now bore a weighty sorrow. He could see right through me, sensing the unspoken anguish behind my outburst. Yet the guarded caution in his gaze remained steadfast. Having endured so much pain and loss, he would not permit me the simple, carefree moments I so desperately craved.

“That was so rude,” I said with a sigh,my voice softening to a pleading tone, though my frustration still simmered beneath the surface.

“We have to be careful, Harry,” he responded with a steady, measured tone.His words were weighted with age-old caution, like a rock standing firm against the turbulent waves of my emotions.

Whirling around, I was gripped by a desperate need to catch one final glimpse of her. There she remained—silent, pensive, a fading outline against the dusky horizon. Her smile, simple yet profound, radiated outward, piercing the encroaching darkness and stirring a deep, visceral recognition within me. It was the smile of one who understood, who perhaps carried a kindred weight, a kindred scar.

“Why can’t I just be normal?” The words were a choked, anguished whisper, lost to the sighing wind. It wasn’t a question for Remus, but a lament for the life I could never have, the girl I could never know. A deep longing for normalcy ached within me.

Remus’s hand came to rest on my shoulder, a comforting weight against the trembling in my limbs. “Because normal wouldn’t be you, Harry,” he said softly, his voice tinged with empathy. “You’ve been marked. There are Death Eaters who can kill you if you’re not vigilant. Remember what we’ve discussed—the night is never safe. We should return home, where you’ll be protected.”

The word “home” hung in the air, a weighted anchor tying me to the comforting familiarity I knew, yet its hold felt tenuous and delicate. My mind drifted to the girl—she was unaware of my true self, the untapped promise within me, and the heavy load I carried. Still, in her eyes, I saw a reflection of something more than just Harry.