Christmas.

     It had always been an enjoyable holiday, in Gwen's fine opinion, but that was back when she had a family to spend it with. Before the summer of 1977, when she'd lost both her mother and her father in the span of three months.

     Now, Gwen decided Christmas had to have been invented by a loving family who never lost each other and intended to spend every December twenty-fifth together for the rest of their earthly lives, for it was a foolish and selfish holiday that only made the happiest people feel good.

     The list of people staying at Hogwarts for the break was exponentially smaller than it had been in years past. Many, Gwen knew, wanted to return to their families as much as they possibly could, all knowing the Wizarding World was sat delicately on the brink of a war and was inextricably in high risk. Still, Gwen didn't mean to resent the hundreds who were going home, but she couldn't help the ball of heat that blossomed inside her chest as she stood on the platform, the Hogwarts Express pumping steam into the snowy air.

     White flecks piled up on her hair. She didn't notice; her eyes were on James. He wasn't looking at her—and was it her imagination, or was he making it a point to ignore her?

     "Gwen." Walker's voice drew her back, and she had entirely forgotten he'd been in front of her the whole time. "Merlin, let a bloke say goodbye for once."

     She twisted her lips and sniffed against the cold. "Sorry. I just.. I don't want you to leave me here, Walker. Can't I just come with you?"

     He frowned again. This was not the first time the idea had been brought up, and somehow, he figured it would not be the last. "I'm sorry, Gwen. I wish there was something I could do. But you know my dad; crazy paranoid about everything. He doesn't mean to offend you, it's just—"

     "I'm bad luck," Gwen managed, dully. "It's fine. I understand. Thanks for trying, anyway. I'll see you in a few weeks, Walker; happy Christmas."

     "Happy Christmas," he agreed, and offered her a kiss on the cheek before he gathered up his trunk and his bookbag and headed off to board the train. Four minutes to spare.

     "Ahem."

     Gwen turned. She'd taken her eyes off James for two measly seconds and he'd already managed to weasel his way back over to her in the split second—his cheeks were painted pink from the cold, his lips chapped and split, his glasses fogged from the heating charm he'd no doubt had Peter cast on them.

     He was fiddling with a small velvet box, rolling it between his fingers. He was nervous. But James Potter never got nervous.

     "What's this?" Gwen asked, and she couldn't hide the careful tone that crept its way into the words. She wasn't sure what he was doing, and it could have ended horribly for either of them. For both of them.

     "Present," he said. Then, realizing this did not explain anything at all, he popped the velvet box open. Inside was a thin silver band, adorned with a silver gem shaped like an oval, glistening in the snow, reflecting the candles flickering from above the train station.

     When Gwen did not say anything, James went on, "It's for you."

     But she couldn't find the words. She wanted to touch it, to make sure it was real, but for some reason, she could not imagine that this could possibly be for her. That he had gone out of his way to get her such a beautiful, delicate thing...

     "James," she breathed, her awe momentarily displacing her trepidation. "It's lovely."

     "Promise ring," he said, however awkwardly. "You can try it on, if you like.." He fumbled around with it, careful—very careful not to drop it in the snow at their feet—and held it out to her between his fingers. "I enchanted it. New charm I taught m'self."

     "Enchanted?" she repeated, cautiously, her reach for the ring hesitating.

     "Not in a bad way," he was quick to amend, shaking his head. "I just taught myself how to—Well, first I practiced on a pear, then when I got that down I figured the gem'd be a lot easier on account of how much smaller it is—Anyway, I charmed it to start to glow whenever—Oh."

     She had carefully slipped the ring onto her middlemost finger, stretching her forearm out to regard how it looked, when the once-neutral gem began to exude a bright, ambient light.

     James looked right bug-eyed.

     "You alright?" she asked, slowly, still unsure of any ulterior motives he may have had. She bit her lip. "Well.. what does it mean when it glows, then?"

     But he only shook his head, and it seemed very much as though words had abandoned him. He watched the ring with wide eyes, which then flickered back up to Gwen, unreadable by the witch.

     "James?"

     He shook his head again, swallowing. "Doesn't matter. D'you like it?"

     She twisted her lips to the side. "I... I do, James. Thank you, really."

     He rolled onto the balls of his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets, suddenly trying and failing to hide a smile.

     "Oh, what?" she asked.

     "Nothing," he assured her with false innocence, "just that I think this won't be the only time you say those words to me with a ring on your finger."

     Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down, her hair falling in a curtain over her face to hide the blush. "James, stop."

     "Right, right," he said, and though he sounded resolute, Gwen knew he wasn't done trying to win her back, for whatever reason. "Ah, well. I'd better go before the train leaves without me."

     She fought back a fond smile. "G'bye, Potter."

     "Oh, not goodbye," he said, frowning. "It'll only be a few hours. See you, Graham."

But he was off before she could ask what he could possibly have meant.

Sixteen people.

     Not even enough to fill her Advanced Charms class.

Sixteen pathetic people who, like herself, hadn't had a home to return to for the merry holiday. Or, on the other hand, didn't want to go. If Gwen had the choice, though, she rather would have fallen in the small percentage of the latter option, like Pandora or Xenophelius. (They'd elected to spend the holiday together at the castle, which they could not do away since Pandora's family disapproved greatly of her boyfriend.)

     The first feast of break was, of course, entirely delicious—nevertheless pitiful, in the way that the students didn't even fill the large table Dumbledore had Transfigured in the stead of the four House tables; and they sat spread out anyway, all taking the closest seats to where their usual tables would have been.

There were three Ravenclaws, including Gwen, that had stayed behind—Paris Pranchett, a first year who'd never much said any words to Gwen on account of, Gwen assumed, fear; and August Blinker, second year, the new Chaser that had overtaken Jackie's place on the Quidditch team, which was probably the only reason he offered Gwen a smile and sat only four spots away from her.

Two Gryffindors, five Hufflepuffs, and six Slytherins. None older than fifth year. Even most of the faculty had left on the train; of all the teachers that usually occupied their spots at the High Table, only Dumbledore, of course, Merrythought, and Mcgonagall were left.

"In honour of our bravest students staying behind for this bitterly cold holiday," the headmaster began, stood behind his podium at the head of the hall—and Gwen thought he looked a tad silly with such a big voice for such a small crowd. "I will only share a few words over you all, and here they are: Piddywiggen, Wattlesworth, Plecksigarden! Enjoy your feast."

The smattering of applause was light, like rain, and consistent mostly with the younger students. Gwen had barely even listened and only picked up her fork because August had.

With so few bodies to fill the halls, Hogwarts felt colder than usual, the corridors bitter with wind and entirely lifeless. Gwen didn't even want to imagine what the dungeons must've felt like—even the Ravenclaw common room was freezing her tits off. She couldn't escape the cold unless she was practically on fire.

     Still, she sat on the plush blue couch, though the book in her lap had long ago lost her attention. She watched the flames dancing along inside the brick fireplace instead.

     She wondered, only to herself, what—beyond the wards—was stopping her from Apparating off to some blazing beach—or better yet a pub where she could find a stiff drink to warm her from the inside out. Surely, she could find a spell to counteract the anti-Apparation enchantments over the castle, right?

     She didn't have much time to ponder on her escape plans any more when a short, rather fat owl perched itself on the outside of the window, hooting indignantly to be let in. Gwen only deliberated dealing with the cold versus with an angry owl for a short moment before she let it in, and with it, a furious gust of bitter wind.

     The letter attached to the owl's foot was short and simple: Another summons from Dumbledore.

     Surely, he had finally come to his senses and was going to expel her. Or perhaps he'd wanted there to be maximum privacy, so as to keep things under wraps, and waited until the majority of the school was gone for her to pack her things? In any case, she was glad that she could at least keep a shred of her dignity...

The Headmaster must have charmed his office with the same warming spell Aberforth had always used on his own pub, for it was the cosiest room of the school Gwen had entered in the past few weeks. His pet phoenix was in its final stage of its cycle, looking a bit like an old bat, wrinkled and fading and falling into ashes. Still, Dumbledore looked spritely as ever—Gwen supposed he dealt with the death of his pet every few months, and at some point, you get used to it.

     "Ms. Graham," he welcomed, spreading his hands and smiling down to her. The old man had changed out of his formal attire for the feast and was now in what Gwen could assume was his "casual wear."

     It consisted of an odd mixture of a maroon over-robe, flecked with silver gems along the neckline and all sorts of tassels down the sleeves, and an emerald green hat with yellow and blue embellishments. It looked as though he had been trying to represent all of the Hogwarts Houses at once when he'd chosen his outfit.

     "Professor Dumbledore," she said, the pit of dread in her stomach ever-present as she took the seat across from his desk (that was becoming most familiar to her). "Have I... Is something wrong?"

     "Not at all," he said, hopping up—rather spryly for a man of his age—from behind the desk and circling it. "Come, now, no time for sitting around. You've been requested."

     Rather confused, Gwen slowly stood, and she felt the inclination to unsheathe her wand. Perhaps Dumbledore had been cursed, or something...

     "Requested?"

     "Your presence," Dumbledore clarified, though it didn't do much to explain anything. He bustled over to his grandiose fireplace and picked up a clay pot hanging from a hook to its right. "I've been told to tell you to Floo."

     Her eyebrows shot up, and she clutched her wand. "Floo?"

     Dumbledore nodded. "Floo."

     "Floo... where?"

     "You're going to Peverell's Peak," he told her, "range thirty-two. Not thirty-one, or thirty-two-and-a-half. It must be thirty-two, otherwise you could end up terribly wrong and it would take us years to find you. Peverell's Peak, range thirty-two." He shook the pot, and she realized it was filled with the familiar soot-coloured Floo Powder. "Come, Ms. Graham. We mustn't waste time."

     "Peverell's Peak," Gwen repeated, after a beat—she had debated running out of the Headmaster's office and never listening to the old nutter again, but he didn't look like he'd gone crazy, and he seemed insistent that she go. Besides, she thought, would Dumbledore ever put her in any real danger?

     "Range thirty-two," he confirmed.

     So Gwen ducked into the fireplace, called for Peverell's Peak, range thirty-two, and was sucked away in a lick of green flames.

     But when they died away—a thing Gwen never really understood, the whole transportation bit of Flooing, but she'd always chalked it up to magic—she wasn't in Dumbledore's office anymore. She knew she should've been expecting this, but again, Floo? Not her specialty.

    Based on the view she was welcomed with, she figured she might've done it wrong, anyway.

     The house—or room, more rather—was a sorry, empty old thing, almost like the adjective "shabby" had taken shape into this room. It was grey and almost rotted and Gwen smelled strongly the scent of dust. It looked as though it hadn't been inhabited in decades, perhaps even centuries.

     She sneezed, suddenly, and when she reemerged from the crook of her arm, she realized why her presence had been requested by this sordid old place.

     Four wands were in her face at once.

     "Identify yourself." The leftmost one spoke, and though Gwen knew it was silly to assume wands could talk, she couldn't see the face of her surveyor.

     "G–Gwendolyn Graham," she managed, and suddenly felt quite foolish, her wand hanging limply by her side. "Dumbledore told me to—"

     "Not like that," came another, gruff voice, and a few shuffling noises later, the wands were lowered so Gwen could finally see who had stuffed them into her face.

     The original one who'd spoken was a tall, lean, Black man, with muscles not well-hidden beneath his robes that made Gwen think perhaps he didn't need to use the wand to threaten her. Next to him was a short—in comparison—young man, whose tan skin was practically the same shade as the dark blond mess on top of his worried face. Not as anxious, though, was his next in line, a man Gwen had trouble calling "man" and more thought "giant" was an apropos description; he had a rough brown beard and long hair that covered practically his entire face—and Gwen realized the wand he was holding was in fact not a wand but a short, pink umbrella. Finally, the furthest right assailant was an easily recogniseable face, to Gwen, and she nearly exhaled a sigh of relief.

     "Longbottom," she said, though she'd never once spoken to Frank—their time together at Hogwarts was brief and they'd never crossed paths, but at least, Gwen knew he wouldn't be killing her. "What is this?"

     Another man shoved his way between the giant and the tan young man—whose face was itching to be familiar, like Gwen had seen him once in a dream. This newcomer, even beside the man who was easily nine feet tall, was no doubt the most frightening of them all; he had some sort of device tied 'round his head that sat atop one of his eyes and acted as a magical one, which whirled around with quiet buzzes and hums. He had a rough scowl on his scarred face; his non-magical eye narrowed in on Gwen, and she got the feeling that the magical one was doing the same, in its own odd way. She felt entirely too scrutinized and suddenly wished she could Floo back to Dumbledore.

     "We're enacting identity questions," he said to the others, without taking his eye(s) off Gwen. "Remember?"

     "Right," came the voice of the tan, worried man, and he turned back to Gwen. "What was your father called?"

     "No," huffed the scarier one, "that's probably the stupidest one to ask. We need something—"

     "It's her," came, finally, a familiar voice, and all five men before her turned over their shoulders. Between the heads of the two on the end, Gwen saw him: James, looking quite breathless and shaken, but she had possibly never been more relieved to see an ex-boyfriend than she was then.

     "And you just know that," accused the magic-eyed man, "do you, Potter? Could be Polyjuice—"

     "It's not," James insisted, moving up between the row of intimidating men. His eyes were glued to her hand, which was fixing around in front of her torso, itching to grab her wand from her pocket. "Look, I gave her this ring not even four hours ago. It's her."

     Gwen's gaze flickered down to the new piece of jewelry sitting delicately on her finger, and she was once again befuddled to find it glowing, pulsing and irregular, much like a heartbeat.

     The gruff man looked reluctant, and he glared at Gwen like he didn't want to accept it, but he nodded shortly. "Fine. It's her. Wands down, men."

     "Gwen," breathed James, and he smiled at her, the gesture shooting fireworks down her chest. "Glad you made it. C'mre, you almost missed it..."

And he took her by the arm, leading her through the row of men—whom had not two minutes ago had their wands thrown in her face as though she were a threat—almost like James owned the bloody place.

"James," she whispered, as he led her further down a dingy hallway, "where are we? What is this?"

He smiled, though didn't look at her. "Tell me you still love me and I'll say."

Her cheeks burned and she fought the urge to roll her eyes, but she did not open her mouth again, even as he opened a door with too many holes to do much good and took Gwen into what looked like it had been a dining room, long ago. There was a long table, seats taken sporadically by possibly the most random collection of familiar faces Gwen had ever seen all at once.

She took account of the Prewett twins, sending matching grins her way and ignoring a stout woman to their left with the same red hair as theirs, who was lecturing them sternly over something, though she couldn't have been any older than them. At her side was another redheaded man—Merlin, the Prewetts were duplicating faster than anyone could handle, Gwen thought—then she recognised him to be Arthur Weasley. He was holding the hand of the ginger woman and looking quite docile.

On the other end of the table was where all the noise had been coming from, Gwen noticed—all the rest of the Marauders, Lily, Marlene, and Mary. There were two open seats next to Peter, as though they had been expecting Gwen, somehow.

"James." Gwen's voice was quiet. "Seriously, what is this?"

"I believe you should know," came the gravelly voice from the short and, Gwen just noticed, peg-legged man, and he hobbled in behind the other four men from before. "Seeing as I tried to write you a few weeks ago, Graham. Pretty damn rude to leave a man with no reply."

For a moment, Gwen was lost—but then she remembered that odd letter she'd received on the bank of the Black Lake.

"This..." She found herself glancing to James for stability, and exhaled a short breath, almost a scoff of surprise. "This is the Order?"

Her response came from Arthur Weasley, with a warm smile. "Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Gwendolyn."

via speaks
oh friends the story's just begun :3