Imagine you and the Marauders having a compartment on the Hogwarts Express

Originally posted by manolosykes

“Um, excuse you?” Sirius said.

“Yeah, what do you think you’re doing?” James asked, crossing his arms.

“This is our compartment,” you added.

“Sorry. You’ll have to find somewhere else,” Remus said apologetically.

“We always sit here,” Peter said, and gestured to the hallway. “I’m sure there’s another place somewhere.”

The poor student scurried out of the compartment, and the five of you piled in. “It is our compartment,” you said, resting your feet on Sirius’s lap and pulling out a game of Exploding Snap.

“Everyone knows that.”



Based on the word “Innocence”

Y/N is eleven.

And the air is thick with anticipation as she presses her hands against the glass windows of the Hogwarts Express and blows a kiss to the wind; watches as it tangles, curls, disappears into a plume of smoke. There’s a finger dented letter tucked into her trunk. Emblazoned with a seal and a sign and a realization.

Magic prickles in the tips of her fingertips as she clutches her wand and sits beneath a tattered hat and learns where her home will be for the next seven years. No one had any idea, then.

It’s the first day and she’s catching sight of a boy shrouded by the haze of the potion’s classroom; butter blonde hair and a razor sharp jawline and edges that cut when she reaches out to touch. He’s a knife that her mother had warned her not to touch. A box of matches that had been locked away out of her reach. She strikes one, anyway.

And Draco Malfoy becomes a glitter-pink name written over pulsing blue lines of notebook paper, brushing hands and blushing cheeks. A candy sweet heart that might shatter, yes, but oh how good it would taste.

Y/N is twelve.

She’s the scabs on her knees and the paper butterflies charmed to flutter around her ribs. She’s the serenade that comes before the ballad, a lollipop that’s still red in a crinkling wrapper. She’s wilting rose petals weighed down with dew. She’s the lipstick kisses that she leaves every morning on the bathroom mirror.

She’s pure, when she first kisses Draco Malfoy.

When he twines their fingers together in the near empty corridor and presses his lips to hers and all she can think about is the cacophony that her heart makes when it cracks against her chest.

It’s Valentine’s Day and no one has an inkling of what Horcruxes are, yet.

Draco’s arm is bare and his family is in good graces and the world is whole, spinning, revolving through the stars and eclipsing the moon and glancing by the sun.

She’s innocent, before.


Y/N is fourteen.

And Draco is holding a finger against her lips. “Be quiet,” he tells her, palms sweaty and mouth pressed tight.

Potter had reappeared from the depths of the maze with a body in hand. Had screamed and cried and told everyone, everyone how You-Know-Who is back.

“Is he telling the truth?” Y/N asks, and Draco whirls around. Catches her cheeks between his fingers. There’s a freckle along the side of his jaw. It leaps as he swallows. Glances out the castle window and down, down to where Cedric’s body is being hurried away and Potter is being led far from the scene by Moody and –

“You can’t-” Draco shakes his head. Squares his jaw. Traces the lines of her cheekbones as though memorizing them might help him, somehow. “You can’t tell anyone.”

It’s not an answer. But Y/N thinks she knows anyway. Understands with a poignant clarity as she curls her fingers around the friendship bracelet on her wrist and bounces on her heels.

Draco had kissed her under the snowflake dusted sky the night of the Yule Ball, had told her love letters that night under the sheets and brushed his thumb against her ring finger like a pinky promise that she knows he won’t break.

“I love you,” he’d told her, and she hadn’t doubted him for a second.


Y/N is fifteen.

She’s not sure how she feels as Draco happily abuses his power, and Umbridge denies, denies, denies.

Potter’s telling the truth and everyone calls him a liar.

The sugar in her tea doesn’t taste so sweet, anymore. Not when the world is just a bit darker and the winter is a bit colder and there’s fear etched into the shallower parts of her mind as she watches students march off to detention and come back with scars.

“I’ll protect you,” Draco says. “She wouldn’t dare harm you.”

But there’s a slap and a threat and a news article at the tail end of the year announcing Lucius Malfoy’s imprisonment and she wonders how long that will remain true because the world is getting darker all of a sudden.

You-Know-Who is back.

Draco doesn’t seem too displeased.


Y/N is sixteen.

She’s ragged, ripped breaths as she curls her arms around herself in the wake of Draco’s revelation and wonders how everything will be okay. She’s Atlas, with the world on her shoulders. She cautionary tales and stories too dark to tell. Mirror, mirror on the wall and who’s the deadest of them all?  

She’s the tilt of the axis as Draco tells her the truth and they both avoid that stinging, niggling question of “Are we going to make it?”

There’s a war coming.

And love is a requiem as much as it is a daydream. A chain around her neck that she’s not sure isn’t made out of daisies. Because Draco lingers in the depths of her mind and the purer parts of her blood; a coin tossed into a wishing well, dandelion fluff drifting into the wind, what should have been.

He kisses her the night that he’s supposed to murder Dumbledore.

“Wait for me,” he says, and his voice cracks.

She’s the shining tip to the blade they use on a guillotine. The reign of terror and “off with their heads”. Only, only –

Is she the queen-of-hearts of the jack-of-all trades?

A Dark Mark is hanging in the sky and a body is laying on the ground when it’s all said and done.

Y/N cries with the rest as their headmaster is lowered into the ground. But she’s not quite sure what she’s crying for, anymore.


Y/N is seventeen.

And she’s fear. Smoke scratched lungs and bloody fingernails. The letters that Draco had sent her tucked under her pillow and the promises that she made to herself stashed under the capillaries siphoning blood to her heart.

She’s a teeth bitten tongue as Pansy says, “He’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!” because she’s not sure which side she’s on, isn’t sure who’s right and who’s wrong. Because the waters are muddied, lines bisected and secrets divulged.

It’s all on the table now.

She’s the disbelief lodged in her throat when Harry’s body is laid out before them all, when Draco clutches her fingers tight and doesn’t move to bridge the distance between him and them.

She’s the relief when it’s all over, when Draco holds her tight and doesn’t let go and tells her that it’s going to be okay even though neither of them can be sure of that anymore.

She’s a broken heart stitched back together with thread. The torn edges of love letters and hard candy that melts on your tongue.

She’s a white flag and an uncertainty, as Draco presses his mouth against hers and they’ve won, they’ve lost, she isn’t sure.

But he slides a ring onto her finger and makes her a promise that sounds like wind chimes and laughter and hands held close to the heart. “I love you,” he says, and those tattered things don’t seem quite so broken, anymore.

She’d been innocent, before.

But that doesn’t quite matter, now.