The common room had quieted, the embers in the fireplace glowing low. Most students had retreated to their dormitories, leaving Hadrian, Iris, and Dora nestled together on a couch, each lost in thought.
Dora had fallen asleep, a blanket draped over her shoulders, soft snores muffled by a cushion. Hadrian stared into the fire, a faint crease in his brow. Iris sat cross-legged beside him, hugging her knees and watching the flames flicker.
"Memories are strange, aren't they?" Hadrian said softly.
Iris turned to him. "Strange?"
He nodded, eyes distant. "We just... used magic to forget something we did. Temporarily. It was useful, yes, but it reminded me how fragile memories really are. How much they shape us, even when they're hidden."
Iris looked at him closely. "What are you thinking about?"
Hadrian hesitated, then said in half-truth, "How much we may not remember from our past even without the use of magic."
He thought now, almost dreamily. 'I've always been Iris's twin here. That's who I am now. And yet—I don't remember growing up with her. Or anyone. It's like I began here fully-formed.'
Something churned in his chest. His eyes drifted downward, and without fully thinking about it, he opened the book in his mind.
Change: After the effects of recent memory magic fade, the suppressed early childhood memories of both Hadrian and Iris return—years of love, laughter, hiding, and the last moments with their parents and friends.
The moment passed, and the book closed.
Hadrian blinked. His vision swam. He clutched his head.
Across from him, Iris gasped, her arms trembling as she clutched at her sleeves.
They stared at each other, eyes wide with dawning horror and awe.
"I remember," Hadrian whispered, voice cracking.
"Me too," Iris breathed. "The cottage. The trees. Sirius lifting us up like broomsticks. Mum's perfume. Dad's awful dancing."
Their words stumbled out, tumbling like long-lost toys shaken free from an attic chest.
"The rocking chair in the nursery—"
"The walls painted stars—"
"I remember Mum's voice... singing... and then..."
Silence. Tears fell freely.
Iris began to sob, curling into herself.
Hadrian's own throat closed tight as the sharp, unbearable moment came crashing down—the green light, the screaming, the feeling of warmth being torn away forever.
"She died for us," Iris choked. "She—she knew he was coming. And she still—"
Hadrian pulled her into a hug. "I remember now. She didn't hesitate. She loved us so much."
They clung to each other, shaking, not as the young pranksters Hogwarts knew, but as children who had been denied the simplest thing—memory. The pain was sharp, but the knowledge felt right. They had loved. And they had been loved.
After a long silence, Iris whispered, "Why now?"
Hadrian stared at the fire. "Maybe... it was time."
Dora stirred, eyes fluttering open. Her smile vanished as she saw the tears.
"What happened?"
Iris wiped her eyes. "We remembered."
Hadrian nodded slowly. "Everything."