The Fifth Marauder

William's eyes snapped open before his alarm charm could sound. Pale dawn light filtered through the dormitory windows, casting long shadows across his trunk. His stomach churned with a mix of anticipation and nerves as he lay there, listening to the soft snores of his dormmates.

Fragments of his old life drifted through his mind— memories of university lectures and mathematical theorems mixing strangely with what he had read about the Dark Arts the night before. It struck him, not for the first time, that there might be fascinating connections between his old studies and arithmancy. Perhaps during his free period he could visit the library, see if there were any texts that explored that relationship. It wasn't exactly normal reading for a first-year, but then again, he wasn't exactly a normal first-year.

Rolling out of bed, William grabbed his toiletries and uniform. The stone floor felt cold under his feet as he padded to the bathroom. He needed to establish a proper study routine early— perhaps morning reviews before breakfast? The material might be designed for eleven-year-olds, but he refused to take anything for granted. Magic was an entirely new field, after all.

When he returned to the dormitory, James was already up, wrestling with his perpetually messy hair in front of the mirror.

"Morning," James yawned, giving up on his appearance. "Ready for Defense?"

"As I'll ever be." William tucked his Defense textbook into his bag, along with extra parchment for notes.

Remus emerged from behind his curtains, already dressed and looking slightly ill. Right - the full moon must be approaching. William felt a pang of sympathy but kept his expression neutral.

"Oi, Sirius!" James lobbed a pillow through Sirius's curtains. "Up you get!"

A muffled groan answered him. "Five more minutes..."

"Breakfast stops in forty-five minutes," Remus pointed out mildly.

That got Sirius moving. He stumbled out of bed, hair somehow still falling perfectly despite his disheveled state. William felt a twinge of envy at the effortless grace, then immediately felt foolish for it. He was mentally twenty-one, surely he was past caring about such things?

The Great Hall buzzed with excitement when they arrived. William loaded his plate with eggs and toast, half-listening to James and Sirius debate Quidditch teams. Remus occasionally interjected with dry commentary that made them all laugh.

William found himself smiling along, drawn into their easy camaraderie despite his internal reminder that he was different— older inside, carrying knowledge he couldn't share. These boys would become legends in the wizarding world, heroes and martyrs in a war that hadn't yet begun. But right now, they were just eleven-year-olds excited about their first day of school.

"Earth to William!" James waved a hand in front of his face. "You're miles away, mate."

"Sorry," William forced himself to focus. "Just nervous about classes."

"You'll be fine," Sirius said around a mouthful of sausage. "Can't be worse than me— my mother's probably cursed all the professors to fail me on sight."

"That's not funny," Remus frowned.

Sirius shrugged, but William caught the flash of genuine worry in his eyes before it was masked with his usual casual confidence.

"We should head to Defense," William suggested, checking his watch. "Don't want to be late on the first day."

William and his dormmates climbed the stairs to the Defense classroom, joining the crowd of first-years gathered outside. His heart raced despite his attempts to stay calm. This was it - his first real magical lesson.

The door swung open on its own, revealing a stark classroom lined with diagrams of defensive stances and magical creatures. Professor Hawthorne stood at the front, her silver-streaked hair pulled back severely, her dark robes pristine. Her sharp eyes tracked each student as they filed in.

William chose a seat near the middle, not wanting to appear too eager by sitting in front. James and Sirius predictably headed for the back row, while Remus settled in next to him.

"Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts." Professor Hawthorne's voice carried effortlessly. "I am Professor Hawthorne. Some of you may know me from my work during the Grindelwald War, where I served as a tactical specialist for the British resistance."

A ripple of whispers passed through the room. William noticed several pureblooded subtly nodding, clearly recognizing her reputation.

"Before we begin, a demonstration." She gestured to an innocent-looking desk in the corner. "Mr. Potter, would you retrieve that quill for me?"

William was surprised she knew his name. Class had just started, but he supposed the Potter family was hard to miss, given their relatively similar appearances.

James strutted forward confidently. The moment his hand touched the desk, purple sparks erupted, forcing him to leap back with a yelp. Several students gasped.

"A simple hex," Professor Hawthorne explained, dispelling it with a casual wave. "Harmless, but unexpected. Dark magic rarely announces itself, children. It waits in mundane objects, familiar places, even friendly faces."

She paced the front of the room, her boots clicking against the stone floor. "Defense Against the Dark Arts is not just a subject; it is a survival skill. The dark arts are insidious and relentless, lurking in shadows, twisting minds, and attacking when you least expect it. This year, you will learn to recognize danger, master your nerves, and wield magic to protect yourself and others. Remember, a prepared wizard is a living wizard. Today, we begin with the most important lesson of all: vigilance. Never underestimate what magic—dark or otherwise—might lie ahead."

William found himself leaning forward, absorbed. This wasn't the sanitized version from his textbook - this was real experience speaking. He could see why she'd left such an impression on the young Marauders.

"Now," she continued, her stern expression softening slightly, "I know many of you are excited to learn flashy spells and dramatic countercurses. Those will come. But first, we master the basics. Proper stance, wand grip, and above all, awareness of your surroundings. These fundamentals may seem boring, but they will save your life when seconds count."

She demonstrated a defensive stance, correcting several students' attempts to mirror her. When she reached William, she adjusted his elbow slightly. "Good instincts, Mr. Keating, but keep your arm closer to your body. A wider target is an easier target."

Her guidance, though strict, carried an underlying warmth that put William at ease. She clearly cared about preparing them properly, not just following a curriculum.

Professor Hawthorne directed them to spread out around the classroom. "The Wand-Lighting Charm is fundamental. Simple, yet vital. Watch closely."

She demonstrated the wand movement - a small spiral followed by a gentle upward flick. "Lumos."

Light bloomed at her wandtip, steady and bright. William gripped his elm wand, the unfamiliar wood smooth against his palm. This was different from solving equations or proving theorems. There were no clear steps to follow, no logical progression to work through.

"Your turn," she instructed. "Remember— intention matters as much as movement."

"Lumos!" James's confident voice rang out. His wand lit immediately, casting a warm glow across his triumphant grin.

Sirius followed suit seconds later, his light equally strong. Around the room, other students began succeeding - some with bright flares, others with softer glows. Even Remus, despite his worn appearance, produced a steady light on his second try.

William took a deep breath. "Lumos." His wand remained stubbornly dark.

He tried again, focusing harder on the spiral motion. Still nothing. His face grew warm as he noticed others watching. Mathematics had always come naturally to him— in his previous life, he'd breezed through his courses while his classmates struggled. But this...this was entirely different.

"You're tensing up," Remus whispered beside him. "Try loosening your grip a bit."

William nodded gratefully, forcing his fingers to relax. "Lumos." A faint flicker this time, but it died immediately.

His ears burned. He'd read about this spell last night— the theory seemed straightforward enough. But theory wasn't practice, and his adult mind seemed to be working against him, overthinking each movement.

"Don't worry," Remus added. "Everyone learns differently."

But William couldn't help noticing he was one of the few still struggling. Even Peter had managed a weak but consistent light. He tried again, growing increasingly frustrated as his wand movements became more rigid instead of fluid.

"Mr. Keating." Professor Hawthorne appeared beside him. "Less precision, more feeling. Magic isn't precise— it flows from intent more than exact angles."

William blinked, surprised by her insight. He'd been treating the spiral like a geometric figure, trying to calculate the perfect curve. Taking another breath, he pushed aside thoughts of variables and precision, focusing instead on the simple desire for light.

"Lumos."

His wandtip flickered weakly, then steadied into a dim glow. Not nearly as bright as James's or Sirius's, but light nonetheless. Relief flooded through him, though his cheeks still burned from the effort it had taken.

"Well done," Professor Hawthorne nodded. "Practice will strengthen it. Remember, everyone— mastery comes from understanding your own approach to magic, not copying others."

As they filed out of Defense class, William's mind whirled with thoughts about his magical performance. His dim Lumos still bothered him, but he had no time to dwell on it - they needed to head down to the dungeons for Potions.

"That was brilliant," James declared as they descended the stone steps. "Did you see how Professor Hawthorne hexed that desk? Wonder if she'll teach us stuff like that."

"Probably not until we can manage a proper Lumos," Sirius teased, nudging William.

William felt his face heat up, but Remus intervened. "We all struggle with different things. I bet there'll be plenty of spells you find difficult, Sirius."

The temperature dropped noticeably as they reached the dungeons. Their footsteps echoed off the damp stone walls, and William caught whiffs of strange, pungent odors wafting from the Potions classroom.

The door stood open, revealing rows of wooden tables with brass scales and cauldrons. A large cauldron bubbled at the front, emitting spirals of silver steam that smelled simultaneously like fresh parchment, old books, and something metallic that William couldn't quite identify.

The dungeon classroom was already half-full with a mix of Gryffindor and Slytherin students. William noticed Lily Evans settling in next to Severus Snape near the front, their heads already bent together over an open textbook. James made a beeline for a table behind them, dragging Sirius along, while Remus chose a spot nearby.

William hesitated, scanning the room, when he spotted Clara Bennett sitting alone at a table in the middle row, carefully arranging her supplies with precise movements. Something about her methodical nature appealed to him, and without overthinking it, he made his way over.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked quietly.

Clara looked up, her dark curls neatly restrained by her signature blue ribbon, and gave a small nod. "As long as you don't mess up my ingredient organization system," she said, but there was a hint of warmth beneath her tone. He laughed.

Professor Slughorn swept into the room, his emerald-green robes swishing dramatically. His walrus mustache twitched as he beamed at the class. "Welcome, welcome to the world of Potions!" His voice carried the warmth of mulled wine. "Here, we learn more than just how to brew concoctions; we learn control. A true wizard knows that even the smallest mistake can turn a healing draught into a disaster. Precision, focus, and timing are everything."

William leaned forward, intrigued. This, at least, sounded more like the methodical approach he was used to. Slughorn moved to the bubbling cauldron, stirring it with practiced motions.

"Today, I'll demonstrate the creation of a simple Wiggenweld potion." He gestured to various ingredients laid out before him. "Observe carefully how each component must be added in precise order."

William watched, fascinated, as Slughorn added ingredients with theatrical flourishes, explaining each step. The potion changed colors - from murky brown to vibrant green to a shimmering purple. The professor's enthusiasm was infectious, though William noticed his eyes occasionally scanning the classroom, likely searching for potentially valuable connections among his new students.

"Notice the swirls, the balance of the components," Slughorn continued, stirring counterclockwise. "It is not just a science, but an art. Any questions?"

Several hands shot up, and Slughorn called on students with obvious delight, particularly those whose surnames he seemed to recognize.

"How are you finding the castle?" William whispered to Clara as Slughorn launched into an elaborate explanation about flobberworm mucus.

Clara wrinkled her nose delicately. "The dormitory's rather... cozy. Certainly smaller than what I'm used to. And sharing a bathroom with three other girls is taking some adjustment." She carefully realigned her quill with the edge of her parchment. "Though I suppose it could be worse. The grounds are lovely, at least."

"Getting on with your dormmates?" William asked, thinking of how she and Marlene had been chattering away at dinner the previous night.

"That McKinnon girl wouldn't stop talking," Clara said, but her lips twitched slightly. "Though... I will admit, she did make me laugh when she turned her pudding into a hat. Completely ruined it, of course, but it was rather amusing." She paused, arranging her ingredients with careful precision. "She's not quite as overwhelming as I first thought."

William nodded, remembering how Marlene had managed to draw a genuine smile from Clara during dessert. "Sometimes the best of friends come from unexpected places."

"I suppose," Clara conceded quietly, though her usual posh demeanor softened slightly. "Though if she keeps leaving her shoes everywhere, we might have words."

When the lesson ended, William said his goodbyes to Clara, his head buzzing with information about ingredient interactions and brewing techniques.

As they packed up their supplies, James turned to William and Remus. "Hey, want to explore the grounds during free period? Sirius reckons he spotted a good spot by the lake."

William shifted his bag on his shoulder. "Thanks, but I think I'll head to the library. Need to catch up on some reading."

"I'll join you," Remus said, perking up. "Been wanting to check it out."

Sirius draped an arm dramatically across James's shoulders. "James, mate! Our roommates are absolutely boring, aren't they?" He threw an exaggerated glance at Remus and William, clutching his chest in mock despair. "What are we going to do with them? Studying? In the library? How utterly mundane!"

James played along, adjusting his glasses with a solemn nod. "Tragic, really. And on our first proper day too."

"I think we're stuck with the worst roommates ever." Sirius stage-whispered, his grey eyes dancing with mischief. "Next thing you know, they'll be starting a knitting circle and discussing proper quill maintenance techniques."

"Don't forget color-coding their notes," James added with a grin.

William couldn't help but roll his eyes at their theatrical performance. Remus chuckled, shaking his head as they headed for the library.

The library doors creaked open to reveal towering shelves that seemed to stretch endlessly upward. The air smelled of aged parchment and leather bindings, reminding William of late nights in university libraries from his past life. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, dust motes dancing in the golden beams.

"What are you planning to study?" Remus asked as they found an empty table near the Magical Theory section.

"Wand lore," William replied, keeping his tone casual. He didn't want to explain his growing suspicion that his adult mind might be interfering with his spell casting. Let Remus assume it was just about his struggle with Lumos.

Sure enough, Remus's expression softened with understanding. "Everyone learns differently. My dad says some of the most powerful wizards took ages to master basic spells."

"What about you?"

"Going to get ahead on Transfiguration." Remus pulled out his textbook. "I heard Professor McGonagall is particularly strict about theory work. Better to be prepared."

***

William approached the imposing desk where Madam Pince sat, her sharp eyes tracking his movement like a hawk. The smell of old books and dust filled his nostrils, bringing back memories of university study sessions that felt both recent and impossibly distant.

"Excuse me," he kept his voice low, mindful of the library's silence. "Could you direct me to any books about wand lore? For beginners?"

Madam Pince's eyes narrowed, assessing him with the practiced scrutiny of someone who'd caught countless students up to mischief. "First year, are you?" She didn't wait for his response, rising from her desk with fluid grace. "Follow me."

Her shoes made no sound on the wooden floor as she led him through towering shelves. William's neck craned upward, taking in the vast collection. Some books were chained to their shelves, others seemed to shuffle themselves when no one was looking.

"Here." She pulled out a leather-bound volume titled Magical Wands: The Art of Conduits. "Mind you return it in pristine condition. No folded corners, no ink stains, no food marks."

William accepted the book carefully. "Thank you, Madam."

He found a secluded corner, settling into a worn armchair beside a narrow window. Sunlight streamed across the pages as he opened the book, its leather cover creaking softly.

William turned the book to the first chapter, eyes scanning the text intently. The book explained the fundamental role of a wand in magic: "A wand does not create magic; it shapes it, refines it, and channels the raw energy of a wizard's innate power. The wand provides a conduit for this power, allowing even the least experienced wizards to cast spells with precision."

His fingers traced a diagram of magical flow patterns, illustrating how a wand acted as a funnel for a wizard's magical intent. The book detailed how a wizard's will directed the energy, but it was the wand that categorized and refined it into a specific, controlled output. "The wand," the book said, "is a tool that simplifies the act of casting magic by organizing the wizard's raw magical input. It turns a forceful, unorganized burst of energy into a controlled, deliberate spell."

William's gaze lingered on the words. The text made it sound almost too easy—like the wand should make every spell effortless. But when he focused on the simple motion for Lumos, his magic still flickered weakly, like an uncertain spark. He pulled out his notebook again, quill hovering as he examined his morning's attempts. "The wand," he thought, "categorizes and focuses the energy—so why does it still feel like something is missing?"

As he read on, he came across a line that made him pause: "A wand allows a wizard to cast magic with ease, but the true strength of a spell comes from the wizard's focus and intent." Perhaps the key wasn't just in the wand's power, but in his own ability to focus that power correctly. He supposed he was being too stubborn thinking his first attempts at magic would go perfectly. He knew wizards like James and Sirius had years of practice with magic, even if it was disallowed by the Ministry.

As he flipped through the pages, his eyes caught another passage that seemed almost incidental to the broader topic at hand. The book briefly noted: "Before the First Crusade, it is speculated that handcasting was the dominant form of wizardry. Though far more difficult and requiring intense precision, it allowed for a greater output of magical power in the hands of the most skilled practitioners."

The line was tucked away among other, more complex theories, with no further elaboration, but it piqued William's curiosity. Handcasting? He frowned, wondering how it compared to the wandwork he was struggling with now. The idea that wizards once cast spells directly, without a wand to refine their magic, seemed nearly impossible. The book offered no further details—nothing to clarify how or why it had faded from use—but the thought lingered in his mind.

He glanced out the window, the sunlight flickering through the branches of the trees outside. Perhaps, in time, he would understand more about this forgotten form of magic. For now, he would focus on the task at hand: understanding his wand and its mysterious role in shaping his own magic.

William pulled out his wand, the elm wood smooth against his palm. Positioning himself behind a tall bookshelf where he wouldn't disturb anyone, he practiced the wand movement described in the text.

"Lumos," he whispered, focusing on the desire for light. Nothing happened.

He adjusted his grip, trying to relax his fingers as Remus had suggested. "Lumos." Still nothing.

Frustration bubbled up inside him. The theory made perfect sense - the wand was supposed to channel and refine his magic. So why couldn't he make it work? He closed his eyes, pushing away his analytical thoughts, and tried to simply feel the magic flowing through him.

"Lumos." A faint flicker, gone as quickly as it appeared.

One more time. William took a deep breath, picturing light blooming from his wandtip. "Lumos."

A weak glow emerged, barely bright enough to read by. It wasn't impressive, but it was progress. As he studied the dim light, movement caught his eye. Elliot Parker stood at the end of the aisle, peering curiously at the towering shelves.

William waved him over, glad for the distraction. "Hey, Elliot!"

"Hi William." Elliot approached, his eyes darting around the library with barely contained wonder. "This place is massive!"

"Pull up a chair," William offered, extinguishing his weak Lumos. "How's Hufflepuff treating you?"

Elliot settled into the adjacent armchair. "It's brilliant, actually. My roommates - there's three of them - they're all really nice. The whole house is nice." He smiled, looking more relaxed than William had seen him on the train. "I was worried about being picked on, you know? But there are so many people in the dormitory, it's easy to just... exist quietly. No pressure to be the center of attention."

"Is Hufflepuff the largest house?" William asked, genuinely curious.

"From what I've heard, yeah." Elliot straightened in his chair. "Quite a bit bigger than Gryffindor, and Gryffindor's the second largest. Slytherin's the smallest." His expression shifted slightly. "Probably because of their... questionable personalities," Elliot said with a small smirk. "How's Gryffindor treating you?"

William noticed the slight edge in Elliot's tone regarding Slytherins - a prejudice that hadn't been there during their first meeting. Just one day in the castle, and house rivalries were already taking root. It was fascinating how quickly these biases could form, even in someone as thoughtful as Elliot.

"Quite good. I'm happy with everything so far, but there's definitely a lot of studying to do."

William watched as Elliot glanced at his watch and jumped slightly.

"Oh! Speaking of studying, I need to go— I'm supposed to meet Malcolm and Henry to work on our Herbology assignment." Elliot gathered his things quickly. "Thanks for letting me sit with you. Good luck with... whatever you're working on."

As Elliot disappeared between the towering shelves, William turned back to his wand practice. The quiet of the library settled around him once more, broken only by the occasional rustling of pages or scratch of quills from distant tables.

"Lumos," he whispered, trying to channel that same feeling from before. The wandtip flickered weakly, then steadied into a dim glow. Still not perfect, but consistent now at least.

"There you are."

William looked up to find Remus standing nearby, his worn bag slung over one shoulder. The dim light from William's wand cast shadows across his tired face.

"James and Sirius are probably waiting for us in the Great Hall. It's lunch time."

William shook his head, already turning back to his practice. "Think I'll skip lunch today. Want to get ahead on some work."

"William..." Remus's voice took on a concerned tone that made William look up again. "You're not skipping cause of earlier, right? You shouldn't be scared, no one's going to be making fun of you."

The earnest worry in Remus's expression— like a parent fretting over a troubled child - struck William as so absurd that he couldn't help but laugh. The sound echoed through the library, earning him a sharp look from Madam Pince.

"Sorry," William managed, trying to stifle his amusement. "But woah mate, you've completely jumped the gun there! I'm not avoiding lunch because of Defense— I'm just not hungry right now. Honestly," he says more seriously, "I just want to get ahead on some reading while it's quiet."

"Oh." Remus's cheeks flushed pink. "I... right. Sorry. I shouldn't have assumed..."

"It's fine." William was still grinning. "But maybe save the concerned dad routine for when someone's actually struggling?"

Remus's blush deepened. "Right. Well. Good luck with your studying then." He shifted his bag awkwardly. "I'll just... go."

William watched, still chuckling as Remus hurried away. The whole interaction had been oddly endearing— here was eleven-year-old Remus, already showing signs of the protective professor he would become.

Well, if there was one thing he knew, it was hard work. He was going to need plenty of it if he hoped to catch up with his pureblood peers. And, though he would never admit it, William was competitive.