A/N: This is an earlier — Marauders Hogwarts Au . (N.N)

  The fresh breeze that swirled around was sharp and fresh.

  Reminding Raven about the day—it all started with a declined handshake. The long years of rivalry.

  From children to teens. From year one to seven. From unsure, houseless new students to prefects of their distinguished houses.

  And ‘ surely till adulthood to death,’ mused Raven.

  To be exact, it started the second Adrien Potter declined Raven Black, her generous advance to welcome him.

  Raven was a noble, a pure-blood of the noble House Black. She was the heiress of Slytherin.

  So how could he? How could a mere Gryffindor dare? How could he not shake her hand and rather sit with nobodies than her?

  How could he?

  The sheer audacity and courage of a Potter was astounding—rivaling that of a wild beast. A fact known in the old wizarding world.

  But like how Mother would like to say, while polishing her wand, dotted from head to toe in high-end silk and priceless ornaments, ushering their house-elves around:

  “The fallen noble House of Potter had nothing but useless pride and disrespect to give,” her eyes darkening at the mention of the house.

  And the young Black should have listened. Peasant and royalty didn’t mix well.

  An opinion a lot of pure-bloods shared.

  After all, the current patriarch of the house dared to sod his blood with a Muggle, creating a half-blood. Creating Adrien Potter.

  If Raven was honest, she didn’t care much about the blood. But she knew about honor and respect—and what she deserved.

  And Adrien had disgraced her by declining her offer of possible friendship. He dared not to shake her hand.

  Merlin, the way he looked at her, as if he had never seen something like that—it still made her skin crawl.

  She wanted to be nice. He had piqued her interest—the boy who lived, even though their world wished him death.

  Even so, her parents didn’t look favorably upon that. They sneered at her misplaced kindness, but nobody was there to tell them anyway.

  And he declined her offer.

  So, peasant and noble didn’t mix.

  All of this didn’t matter, though, on the Quidditch field. There was no Muggle blood or noble blood. No peasant and noble.

  And no lack of respect.

  Just houses. Victory and losing. Winner and loser.

  And Slytherins didn’t lose—not even against the foolishly brave Gryffindors.

  Moreover, Raven Black doesn’t lose against Adrien Potter.

  Others would like to say that it went both ways—and Potter also didn’t lose against her generally.

  But Raven knew better. Raven was better.

  Sure, were they on a tie—on the field and grades way, yeah—but this last game would finally prove to everyone she was the better one.

  Some would call this obsessive, but Raven called this determined.

  She felt someone slightly pulling on her black-green robe.

  Her eyes sharpened, her ears turning, the noises of the field and stands unfiltered, seeping in while a familiar distasteful taste spread on her tongue.

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  Potter stood before her, hand held in her direction, wanting to shake hers.

  Raven must have zoned out. The game was about to start, and they had to shake hands with their opponents.

  Raven silently glanced at the hand.

  ‘ I don’t want to touch it,’ she sighed as she took a hand off her broom. ‘ I want to win more though. ‘

  As she was about to let go, the hand around her tightened.

  In surprise, she looked up—blue-greyish met hazel brown.

  Raven gritted her teeth. “Lovely, but let my hand go before I hex you,” warned Raven, her voice sickeningly sweet.

  Adrien just laughed, breathless, into her face in response.

  “Sure, princess, sue me for caring.”

  He pulled her closer, his voice low, breathing down her ear as she struggled to get away. “Wanted these crystal orbs on me.”

  Raven stomped on his toe.

  “As loving as ever, Black,” his posture effortlessly calm, his words traced with amusement.

  “Gotta make sure you’re all in when you lose,” was the last thing he said before he let her go, not awaiting her answer, moving back to his team.

  Raven looked at his retreating form with a frozen, hard stare.

  If looks could kill, he would be ten feet under.

  ‘ He is so dead. How dare this mutt touch me.’

  A threat Raven was sure to fulfill—yet her ebony skin felt heated where his touch lingered, extremely sensitive to the harsh wind.

  It appeared like no one had seen their interaction—or it was more the fact no one found their behavior towards each other weird anymore.

  After all, their fight had been going for years.

  Nevertheless, this day was important.

  And he was right—she couldn’t afford to lose focus.

  Breathing in the fresh air that burned in her lungs—the smell of freshly trimmed lawn, the feeling of mud beneath her feet—

  She held tighter on her broom.

  “Today is the day,” exhaled Raven softly, “and I am gonna win today—finally.”

  With this in mind, Raven calmly strode to where the rest of her team was, who had mostly already moved to their box back while Raven had dealt with him.

  Raven didn’t get to sit long in her thoughts before the last pre-game rituals began.

  The two teams said their final chants in their huddle. The referee called the two captains. They threw the coin, exchanged pointed glares.

  The referee piped the first whistle signaling the beginning—and before Raven knew it, she was dancing in the air with her comrades, fighting for the win.

  The wind was merciless, and their opponents—even if it pained her—were wickedly good.

  It had been almost fifteen minutes and no one had scored even one goal.

  The small ball never stayed long enough in sight or grasp.

  Skin on skin. Scream on scream. Push on push.

  And still, after twenty minutes, no change.

  Then it happened.

  Raven was chasing the ball. She hadn’t noticed the change of air—and the charging comrade.

  She hadn’t noticed before it was too late. Her life got knocked out of her.

  Her gaze faltered. Her control was seeping out of her fingers. Her whole body ached.

  Too much was happening to locate what was exactly going on.

  Clawing on her broom tighter, she tried to roll some control back.

  Her gaze, still shaking, was slightly better.

  Raven noticed she was falling.

  Raven was falling—hard, fast, and not alone.

  There was a silhouette hidden in the heavy mist that had covered the whole field.

  Raven couldn’t even see the stands.

  “Fuck,” mumbled Raven.

  It was probably a player that had surely knocked into her and was falling with her.

  Raven tried harder, her vision blurred yet steady enough—she saw it.

  He was unconscious, and his broom wasn’t in his possession.

  “Fuck,” cursed Raven.

  Before screaming for help, trying to draw attention, she tried to fly closer to the falling body. She tried to hold him.

  Yet every time she came close enough, he slipped right through.

  At this rate, he would crash onto the ground.

  “Where the fuck is everyone else?” snarled Raven—the sound getting swallowed by the wind and rain that had started a few minutes into the game.

  ‘ Fuck, fuck, fuck, ‘ screamed Raven inside as dread started crawling up her; her eyes stung.

  She was tired and aching—but that boy would die if something didn’t happen fast.

  She didn’t know him, but she knew she was the only hope they had at this point.

  Most players and viewers couldn’t see them—or were too focused.

  The referee was nowhere to be seen—as anyone else.

  The rainy wind muffled her strangled sounds.

  Magic was banned in the stadium due to fear of cheating—so no one could hex.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  And he was falling too fast.

  At this time, either she held him, or he was dead.

  Slowly inhaling and exhaling, Raven felt as if she had swallowed shredded glass.

  With new resolution, she tried again.

  “Either we both die or live.”

  She dove in faster and sharper than she ever had.

  And she was so close—he almost slipped.

  “No way, gentleman, I ain’t ready to die yet.”

  She maneuvered and caught him, pulling him painfully onto her broom.

  But now they were both falling.

  The boy was too heavy for her broom, and her control was slipping faster again.

  Raven’s eyelids fluttered, her eyes red.

  ‘ I am so tired, ‘ ruminated she tenderly within herself.

  Just as Raven thought it was over, the mist dissolved gradually—yet Raven was sure it was magic.

  There was a high chance the automatic emergency protocol had started.

  The atmosphere was tense and tingling around her.

  “Merlin,” hissed Raven into the air, her eyes fighting to stay open, her hand still clutching onto the boy and broom.

  The last thing Raven saw was a silhouette coming closer—grounding brown staring at her, pulling her close, shouting her name.

  Not the name Black—but Raven.

  ———————————

  The next time Raven opened her eyes, she was welcomed by warmth.

  Her lenses and senses processed everything in a rather calmer pace.

  The air smelled clean and flowery—but not harsh or muddy like on the field.

  Her body felt heavy but gently healing, which Raven had to presumably thank potions for.

  The quiet moment was disrupted by a harsh new wind.

  And before she could register it, strong arms had wrapped themselves around her.

  A sound low, talked into her afro, “I thought you died on me, princess.”

  The arms shook slightly at the word “died,” clutching her tighter.

  “Don’t ever do this again, Raven—I fear I won’t survi—.”

  The last words were swallowed by his muttering.

  Her ears prickled again though.

  So it was him that saved her.

  It was Potter. The boy she thought hated her.

  Her skin heated.

  So Raven let herself be held.

  The embrace was too warm, and she was too tired to fight against it.

  Surprisingly even more—no bone in her wanted to.

  So she just chuckled softly.

  She felt safe and a little ridiculous being held so tight after such a long time.

  Her parents were never big or great huggers—but this felt right.

  After a long while, he let go.

  And Raven simply looked into his eyes.

  Steady brown and slightly reddened eyes looked innocently back.

  His cheeks lightly reddened too, hair ruffled.

  He was such Potterly and honestly Gryffindor.

  Raven had to laugh—which was followed by him, his hand finding hers and holding onto it.

  And for the first time since she saw him, she wanted to be close to him again.

  Maybe Slytherin and Gryffindor could mix.

  Maybe princess and peasant weren’t that bad.

  And maybe they could coexist in this world together.

  ———— ———————————

  A century later, somewhere in the magical wizarding world in England.

  A young boy with silver hair, pristine skin, and blue-greyish eyes held out his hand towards a boy similar in age—brown unruly hair, glasses, and a scar on his face mirroring his pure excitement.

  The brunette took his hand.

  “Hello, my name is Harry Potter. Let’s be friends.”