The Hufflepuff common room was quiet that evening, lit only by the soft flicker of enchanted lanterns and the gentle crackle of the fireplace. Most students had gone to bed or were studying in corners, but the trio had claimed the wide circular sofa nearest the hearth.
Hadrian and Iris sat close, shoulders touching, her head resting lightly against his. A small stack of books lay between them—one bound in warm brown leather with elegant handwriting, the other in battered red, its pages dog-eared and stained with ink, burn marks, and faint glitter.
They weren't speaking much.
They didn't need to.
Hadrian turned another page of James Potter's old transfiguration journal, eyes scanning his father's spiky, confident script. It was filled with scattered diagrams, snarky comments in the margins ("Definitely not trying this again unless I want to lose eyebrows"), and charm modifications that blended transfiguration and illusion magic in wild, unexpected ways.
Beside him, Iris cradled Lily's potion book in her lap as though it were made of crystal and gold. The light shimmered off the neat lines of her mother's handwriting—elegant, clean, annotated with careful intent. A small, barely noticeable smile touched Iris's lips as she turned to a page marked "Feather-Light Concoction: Variant III – Effects of Phoenix Ash + Wingwort blend on feline musculature."
She traced a line with her finger. "She was working on a potion to give wings to a tiger," she whispered with a tone of awed delight.
Hadrian glanced over. "Sounds like something you'd do."
Iris beamed softly. "I think I found the greatest treasure in the castle."
Dora was sprawled upside down on the armrest, legs hanging over the back, Marauders' prank journal in hand. Every so often she let out a snort or a giggle as she flipped through the chaotic legacy of James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter.
"Oh no," she said, still giggling. "They actually filled the Ravenclaw tower with miniature clouds that drizzled ink rain. For a full day."
Hadrian groaned. "Please don't get ideas."
Dora flipped to another page. "Too late. Listen to this—'Phase 3: The Roaming Gargoyle Choir.' There are diagrams, music sheets, and everything. They enchanted a bunch of courtyard statues to harmonize every time Filch passed by."
"I need to see that happen," Iris said, eyes glittering.
"We could make it better," Dora said smugly.
Hadrian rubbed his temples, but his smile betrayed him. "We're supposed to be studying Animagus transformation, not starting a second Marauder Era."
Dora gave him a sly look. "We can do both."
They all laughed.
In that moment, surrounded by the voices of their pasts, bound by the warmth of friendship, and the shared weight of legacy, the three of them felt something bloom between the pages and the firelight. Not just knowledge, not just history—inheritance.
Roots, planted decades ago by two parents who had loved fiercely and fought bravely.
Wings, still unfurling, daring to stretch toward a new future.
They were first-years, yes.
But something in the air whispered that greatness—and mischief—was never far behind when two Potters and a Tonks sat plotting by the fire.