The forest just outside Raventree Hall was calm that day. Sunlight poured through the canopy in gentle gold ribbons, and the smell of pine and fresh earth lingered in the air. Somewhere deeper in the trees, two boys—both pale, both about eleven years old—were locked in a clumsy, laughing scuffle on the forest floor.
The first, a dark-haired boy with sharp black eyes and a small scar along his jaw, wore simple but clearly expensive clothes—soft leather boots, a gray tunic trimmed with silver thread, the kind of "plain" that still whispered nobility. His opponent was leaner, freckled, his brown hair wild, his clothes patched and worn from the fields. They rolled over each other, sending leaves flying, laughter echoing through the woods.
Not far away, another boy—looking almost identical to the first but smaller, his expression calmer—sat with his back against a tree, quietly reading a weathered book. The pages were stained from age, but he turned them with careful, almost reverent fingers.
"Careful, Sirius," the younger one said without looking up. "You'll ruin your fancy sleeves again."
"Bah," the older boy grunted as he flipped the brown-haired boy onto his back. "Clothes are for boring people, Regulus!"
The brown-haired boy laughed breathlessly. "You just don't want to admit I almost had you that time."
"Almost," Sirius said, grinning, brushing leaves from his hair.
For a while, the forest was filled with the sound of boyish rivalry and the occasional rustle of Regulus turning a page. It was peaceful—pure in a way few moments in their divided world could be.
Then—snap.
The sound of a twig breaking.
The laughter stopped instantly. Sirius froze, his head jerking toward the trees. His hand darted to the short sword lying beside his pack, and in one swift motion he unsheathed it, holding the blade out toward the direction of the noise. The sunlight caught on the polished steel, flashing briefly.
The brown-haired boy, Remus, scrambled to his feet, clutching a rusted dagger that looked like it had seen better decades. Regulus quietly stood, closing his book and stepping closer to his brother, half-hiding behind him, his dark eyes scanning the trees.
"Who's there?" Sirius demanded, voice steady but laced with that instinctive edge he'd inherited from generations of Blackwoods. "Show yourself!"
A moment of silence. Then a voice—a boy's voice—called nervously from behind a tree, "Don't stab me! I—I'm unarmed!"
Out stepped another boy, their age, dressed in a neat cloak bearing a sigil none of them could miss: a red stallion rearing against a field of gold.
The sight hit Sirius like a slap. His grip on the sword tightened. "You're a Bracken," he spat, the name dripping with centuries of bitterness.
The boy froze, hands raised, eyes wide with fear. His brown hair was tidy, his boots far too clean for the forest floor. "I—I didn't mean to intrude," he stammered. "My horse ran off, and I—"
"Liar!" Sirius barked, taking a step forward. "Spying on us, are you? Tell me why a Bracken would ever wander into Blackwood lands—"
"Sirius," Regulus murmured, his voice low but firm. "He's just a boy."
Sirius didn't lower his sword. "He's a Bracken."
"And you're a Blackwood," Regulus replied evenly. "That doesn't make us enemies… not yet."
Remus, gripping his little dagger, looked between them all. "He looks harmless enough. Scared, even."
The brown-haired newcomer swallowed hard, then, in a gesture that caught them all off guard, dropped to his knees in the dirt. "Please," he said, voice shaking, "I don't want trouble. My name's James Bracken. I swear by the Seven, I didn't mean to cross your border."
The clearing fell silent. Even the birds seemed to hold their breath.
Sirius's jaw tightened. Slowly, he lowered the blade, though he didn't sheath it. His voice was still cold when he said, "Sirius Blackwood. My brother, Regulus. And this is Remus—a commoner we sometimes let tag along."
"Hey," Remus muttered, offended. "Sometimes?"
That earned the faintest smirk from Regulus, though he said nothing.
James Bracken looked between them, eyes wide with surprise. "Blackwoods…" he said softly. "I've heard stories. You hate us."
"Not wrong," Sirius said, crossing his arms.
James nodded slowly. "Maybe we could change that."
Regulus tilted his head. "Change… centuries of blood feuds? With what, an apology?"
"With friendship," James said simply, his voice small but sincere. "If we start now—if we stop hating each other—maybe our houses don't have to keep fighting forever."
It was such a naïve thing to say that even Sirius blinked, thrown off guard. The boy's honesty had disarmed him more effectively than any sword.
For a moment, no one spoke. The wind rustled through the trees. Somewhere, a bird chirped hesitantly.
Finally, Sirius sighed, lowering his weapon entirely. "You're either the bravest Bracken I've ever met… or the stupidest."
James grinned, relief flooding his face. "Probably both."
Remus chuckled, sliding his dull dagger back into its sheath. "Then it's settled. The feud ends here—between us, at least."
Sirius sheathed his sword and glanced at his brother. Regulus gave a small nod. "Fine," Sirius said, stepping forward and offering a hand. "But if my father finds out about this—"
James shook his hand quickly, grinning. "Then we'll both be in trouble."
For a brief, fleeting moment, three boys from feuding houses and one wandering commoner laughed together beneath the trees—unaware that history had paused to watch.
In that quiet patch of forest, the old hatred between Blackwood and Bracken faded for just a heartbeat, replaced by something fragile and rare.
Friendship.
The forest just outside Raventree Hall was calm that day. Sunlight poured through the canopy in gentle gold ribbons, and the smell of pine and fresh earth lingered in the air. Somewhere deeper in the trees, two boys—both pale, both about eleven years old—were locked in a clumsy, laughing scuffle on the forest floor.
The first, a dark-haired boy with sharp black eyes and a small scar along his jaw, wore simple but clearly expensive clothes—soft leather boots, a gray tunic trimmed with silver thread, the kind of "plain" that still whispered nobility. His opponent was leaner, freckled, his brown hair wild, his clothes patched and worn from the fields. They rolled over each other, sending leaves flying, laughter echoing through the woods.
Not far away, another boy—looking almost identical to the first but smaller, his expression calmer—sat with his back against a tree, quietly reading a weathered book. The pages were stained from age, but he turned them with careful, almost reverent fingers.
"Careful, Sirius," the younger one said without looking up. "You'll ruin your fancy sleeves again."
"Bah," the older boy grunted as he flipped the brown-haired boy onto his back. "Clothes are for boring people, Regulus!"
The brown-haired boy laughed breathlessly. "You just don't want to admit I almost had you that time."
"Almost," Sirius said, grinning, brushing leaves from his hair.
For a while, the forest was filled with the sound of boyish rivalry and the occasional rustle of Regulus turning a page. It was peaceful—pure in a way few moments in their divided world could be.
Then—snap.
The sound of a twig breaking.
The laughter stopped instantly. Sirius froze, his head jerking toward the trees. His hand darted to the short sword lying beside his pack, and in one swift motion he unsheathed it, holding the blade out toward the direction of the noise. The sunlight caught on the polished steel, flashing briefly.
The brown-haired boy, Remus, scrambled to his feet, clutching a rusted dagger that looked like it had seen better decades. Regulus quietly stood, closing his book and stepping closer to his brother, half-hiding behind him, his dark eyes scanning the trees.
"Who's there?" Sirius demanded, voice steady but laced with that instinctive edge he'd inherited from generations of Blackwoods. "Show yourself!"
A moment of silence. Then a voice—a boy's voice—called nervously from behind a tree, "Don't stab me! I—I'm unarmed!"
Out stepped another boy, their age, dressed in a neat cloak bearing a sigil none of them could miss: a red stallion rearing against a field of gold.
The sight hit Sirius like a slap. His grip on the sword tightened. "You're a Bracken," he spat, the name dripping with centuries of bitterness.
The boy froze, hands raised, eyes wide with fear. His brown hair was tidy, his boots far too clean for the forest floor. "I—I didn't mean to intrude," he stammered. "My horse ran off, and I—"
"Liar!" Sirius barked, taking a step forward. "Spying on us, are you? Tell me why a Bracken would ever wander into Blackwood lands—"
"Sirius," Regulus murmured, his voice low but firm. "He's just a boy."
Sirius didn't lower his sword. "He's a Bracken."
"And you're a Blackwood," Regulus replied evenly. "That doesn't make us enemies… not yet."
Remus, gripping his little dagger, looked between them all. "He looks harmless enough. Scared, even."
The brown-haired newcomer swallowed hard, then, in a gesture that caught them all off guard, dropped to his knees in the dirt. "Please," he said, voice shaking, "I don't want trouble. My name's James Bracken. I swear by the Seven, I didn't mean to cross your border."
The clearing fell silent. Even the birds seemed to hold their breath.
Sirius's jaw tightened. Slowly, he lowered the blade, though he didn't sheath it. His voice was still cold when he said, "Sirius Blackwood. My brother, Regulus. And this is Remus—a commoner we sometimes let tag along."
"Hey," Remus muttered, offended. "Sometimes?"
That earned the faintest smirk from Regulus, though he said nothing.
James Bracken looked between them, eyes wide with surprise. "Blackwoods…" he said softly. "I've heard stories. You hate us."
"Not wrong," Sirius said, crossing his arms.
James nodded slowly. "Maybe we could change that."
Regulus tilted his head. "Change… centuries of blood feuds? With what, an apology?"
"With friendship," James said simply, his voice small but sincere. "If we start now—if we stop hating each other—maybe our houses don't have to keep fighting forever."
It was such a naïve thing to say that even Sirius blinked, thrown off guard. The boy's honesty had disarmed him more effectively than any sword.
For a moment, no one spoke. The wind rustled through the trees. Somewhere, a bird chirped hesitantly.
Finally, Sirius sighed, lowering his weapon entirely. "You're either the bravest Bracken I've ever met… or the stupidest."
James grinned, relief flooding his face. "Probably both."
Remus chuckled, sliding his dull dagger back into its sheath. "Then it's settled. The feud ends here—between us, at least."
Sirius sheathed his sword and glanced at his brother. Regulus gave a small nod. "Fine," Sirius said, stepping forward and offering a hand. "But if my father finds out about this—"
James shook his hand quickly, grinning. "Then we'll both be in trouble."
For a brief, fleeting moment, three boys from feuding houses and one wandering commoner laughed together beneath the trees—unaware that history had paused to watch.
In that quiet patch of forest, the old hatred between Blackwood and Bracken faded for just a heartbeat, replaced by something fragile and rare.
Friendship.
A Week Later
The forest looked different after a week.
Autumn had crept in quietly, painting the canopy in faint gold and rust. The air was cooler now, carrying the smell of rain and the faint smoke of distant hearths. It was the kind of afternoon that felt alive — the sort of day that made even the crows seem less mournful.
Sirius Blackwood stood beneath a crooked oak, running his thumb along the edge of his short sword. The blade had been polished to perfection — his way of pretending he hadn't been waiting for this meeting all week. Beside him, Regulus leaned on a branch, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You're nervous," Regulus said quietly.
"I'm not nervous," Sirius muttered, though his voice betrayed him. "I just don't want him thinking I'm soft."
"He's a Bracken," Regulus replied. "He already thinks we're devils."
Before Sirius could retort, a familiar voice called from between the trees.
"Are you two going to fight every time you talk, or should I come back next week?"
James Bracken stepped into the clearing, his cloak cleaner this time, his hair combed back — though a twig still clung stubbornly to it. Behind him trailed Remus, the brown-haired commoner who somehow looked even scruffier than before. He carried a basket slung over his shoulder and grinned as he approached.
"I brought food this time," Remus said. "I figured if we're going to break centuries of hate, we might as well do it over lunch."
Sirius blinked. "You brought food?"
"Bread, cheese, and apples," Remus said proudly. "Not poisoned. Probably."
James laughed, dropping to sit cross-legged on a patch of moss. "That's already more generous than my father would be to a Blackwood."
"Your father doesn't seem like the type to share bread," Regulus said dryly, sitting down with his book still tucked under one arm.
"You're right," James admitted. "He'd share a sword first."
Sirius hesitated, then sighed and sat down across from him. "Then it's a good thing we left our fathers at home."
For a while, they simply ate — four boys from different worlds sharing bread beneath the trees. The conversation came slowly at first, awkward and uneven, like a truce held together by fragile trust.
But children have a way of finding laughter, even in the shadow of blood feuds.
Remus started telling stories about the village he grew up in — how his father once chased a goat through a wedding feast, or how he got caught stealing pies from the tavern. James bragged about how he'd once bested an older cousin in archery. Regulus, always quiet, surprised them by quoting an old northern poem word for word — something about ravens and the gods of the trees.
Even Sirius laughed, though he tried to hide it behind a mouthful of cheese.
When the laughter faded, James leaned back, looking up through the branches.
"It's strange," he said softly. "We're supposed to hate each other. But sitting here, I can't see a reason for it."
"There isn't one," Regulus said, his tone quiet but certain. "It's just a story our families keep retelling. Someone has to be brave enough to stop it."
James nodded. "Then let it be us."
Sirius arched a brow. "You think four boys can undo five hundred years of blood?"
"Why not?" James grinned. "Every peace starts somewhere."
Remus tore off another piece of bread and smirked. "And every war starts with someone calling someone else a name. So maybe this time, we just don't."
That made Sirius chuckle. "Fine. But if anyone calls me a tree worshipper again, I'll punch them."
"Deal," James said, holding out his hand again.
Sirius eyed it, then clasped it firmly. "Deal."
Regulus and Remus exchanged glances — then added their hands too, one on top of the other. Four hands stacked together, dark and pale, noble and common, trembling with the kind of innocent resolve that only children could believe in.
A pact was made — wordless but real.
For a while after that, they just talked. The sun dipped lower, and the forest began to glow with the warm orange of late afternoon. They planned their next meeting, arguing playfully over who would bring what — Remus insisted he'd bring more food, Regulus offered to bring a book of songs, James wanted to bring his bow, and Sirius swore he'd teach them all proper swordplay.
When the wind picked up, scattering the leaves around them, it almost felt as though the forest itself was listening — ancient trees bearing silent witness to something rare.
A Blackwood, a Bracken, a commoner, and a dream.
By the time they parted, none of them could have known that the forest would remember this day far longer than they would — and that someday, when war came again, the old oaks would still whisper of the four boys who once tried to end it.
A Month Later
A month had passed since the day in the forest, and the boys met again—this time in the bustling village of Cross Hollow, the narrow strip of land that rested uneasily between Raventree Hall and Stone Hedge. It was one of the few places where Blackwoods and Brackens dared to breathe the same air, though most did so with wary glances and hands never far from their daggers. But for four boys with too much curiosity and not enough fear, it was the perfect place to cause trouble.
They came disguised, of course. Sirius had wrapped himself in a tattered brown cloak that was two sizes too big, the hood hanging low enough to shadow his face. He insisted the disguise made him look like a mysterious wanderer. Regulus said he looked like a lost beggar. James, on the other hand, had rubbed river mud into his hair to dull the golden hue of his Bracken bloodline, though it mostly made him smell like dead fish. He wore a shepherd's coat that clearly used to belong to a much larger man, the sleeves rolled up so many times that they barely covered his forearms. Remus looked exactly the same as usual—mud-streaked, grinning, and wholly unbothered.
"Keep your heads down," Sirius muttered as they slipped into the crowd. "We're here to blend in, not draw attention."
"You're the only one talking like a thief," James said. "Relax, no one cares about a few boys buying bread."
"I'd rather they not recognize me as a Blackwood," Sirius grumbled. "Last time that happened, I got chased by a merchant's wife with a broom."
"You probably deserved it," Regulus replied, tucking his book into his satchel as they reached the market square. The air was thick with the smell of baked bread, roasted meat, and horse dung—a mix that somehow felt alive. Stalls lined the dirt streets, merchants shouting over each other, children darting through the gaps.
It didn't take long for their supposed "errand" to devolve into mischief. James tried haggling with a spice merchant and accidentally bought an entire pouch of pepper for the price of a silver stag. When the woman laughed at him, he turned red as a Weirwood leaf. Remus couldn't stop laughing until a gust of pepper dust hit him square in the nose, sending him into a sneezing fit that toppled over two jars and an unfortunate chicken.
"Run!" Sirius shouted, and the four of them bolted through the crowd, the furious vendor shrieking curses that would've made sailors blush.
They ducked behind a cart, panting and laughing. "You're a menace," Regulus wheezed, brushing pepper off his sleeves.
"You were laughing too," James grinned.
"Only because your face looked like a tomato," Regulus shot back, and even he couldn't help but smile.
From there, things only got worse—or better, depending on the point of view. Remus dared James to "borrow" a sausage from the butcher's stall. James, being both a Bracken and an idiot, grabbed an entire string of them. The butcher's massive hound immediately caught the scent, barking wildly before tearing after them. They sprinted down the street, half-laughing, half-screaming, sausages flapping behind them like a victory banner.
"Why did you take them all?!" Regulus shouted as they ran.
"I panicked!" James yelled back.
They turned into an alley and barely avoided colliding with a washerwoman, finally collapsing behind a pile of hay. The dog barked a few more times before losing interest. Sirius lay flat on his back, gasping for air, his hair full of straw.
"If my father saw me right now," he said between breaths, "he'd hang me from the castle gate."
"Mine would have the dog finish the job," James replied, still laughing.
"Worth it," Remus said around a mouthful of sausage, earning a groan from Regulus.
They wandered through the rest of the village after that, their laughter mingling with the sounds of trade and chatter. For a few fleeting hours, they weren't heirs, rivals, or pawns of ancient grudges—they were just boys. But trouble never stayed far from their shadows.
As the afternoon waned, they stumbled across a patrol of guards—half wearing Bracken red, half clad in Blackwood black. The two groups eyed one another suspiciously even as they walked side by side, proof that peace here was little more than a forced arrangement.
Sirius stiffened, recognizing one of his house's men, and James's face drained of color. "That's my father's captain," he hissed.
"Stay calm," Regulus murmured. "Follow my lead." He stepped forward, holding up a rolled parchment he'd taken from an abandoned stall. "Excuse me, good sirs," he said in a tone that carried just the right amount of educated arrogance. "Could you direct me to the septon? My master requires the cathedral's inventory for donation records."
The guards blinked, unsure what to make of the boy. One of them scratched his head and pointed down the road. "Uh… second left past the well."
"Excellent," Regulus said with a perfect bow before steering his friends the opposite direction. Only when they were out of sight did Sirius grab him by the shoulder.
"You're terrifying," Sirius said.
"They believed me, didn't they?" Regulus replied calmly. "Next time, you can do the talking."
"Never again," James muttered.
By the time dusk began to settle, they had escaped the village and made it back to the forest, their disguises half-torn, their laughter echoing through the trees. The sunlight bled orange through the branches, painting their faces in gold as they collapsed in the grass.
"That," Remus said, stretching his arms, "was the best day of my life."
James grinned. "Agreed. We should make this a regular thing."
Sirius leaned back, staring up at the canopy. "We'll need a name," he said after a pause. "Something only we know—something that makes us sound dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Regulus said dryly. "We stole sausages."
"Dangerously delicious," Remus added, and Sirius threw a twig at him.
James sat up, eyes bright with mischief. "What about… the Marauders?"
Regulus arched an eyebrow. "Sounds like a band of idiots."
"Exactly," James said with a grin. "Idiots with purpose."
Sirius chuckled. "The Marauders, then."
They clasped hands—four boys from rival bloodlines, bound not by oaths or history, but by the simple, unbreakable joy of being young and reckless. As the last light of day slipped behind the trees, the wind carried their laughter through the forest, and the name they chose that evening would one day echo in stories none of them could yet imagine.
Two months later, the forest between Raventree Hall and Stone Hedge had become the Marauders' second home. Every week, without fail, the four of them would sneak away under the guise of errands or lessons, slipping past guards and watchful eyes to meet beneath the whispering canopy. They knew every trail now—the crooked birch where Remus tripped the first time, the hollow log where Sirius hid stolen apples, the creek where James nearly drowned chasing a frog.
Their mischief had grown bolder with each passing week. They'd swapped signposts between villages, snuck into a mill and made it turn backward, and even replaced a septon's holy water with cider (an event that still had the townsfolk arguing about divine miracles). But as the laughter and chaos faded one lazy afternoon, they found themselves lying on the forest floor, looking up through the shifting leaves in content silence.
The air was warm, the sky clear, and for the first time since they'd met, there wasn't a trace of worry between them. James was tossing an apple in the air, Sirius was carving shapes into the dirt with a stick, Regulus was quietly sketching in his notebook, and Remus was pretending not to nap.
"You ever think about what happens if they catch us?" James asked suddenly, the apple hovering in midair. "I mean, your fathers—mine—anyone. If they find out who we are?"
Sirius snorted. "I'd rather not. Father would probably have me scrub the family crypts until my hands bled."
"Mine would probably have me whipped," James said with a shrug, though there was a flicker of worry beneath the grin.
Remus opened one eye. "Lucky you. I'd just get yelled at for keeping bad company."
Sirius leaned back on his elbows, his expression thoughtful now. "Maybe we should find somewhere no one could find us. A place that's ours alone."
Regulus looked up from his sketching. "You mean another tree stump to sit on?"
"No," Sirius said, sitting up. "I mean a real place. A hideout. Something we build ourselves. Somewhere secret."
Remus perked up. "An underground lair!"
James laughed. "Like villains?"
"Like legends," Sirius corrected, his eyes glinting. "A home for the Marauders."
Regulus tilted his head, considering. "It would have to be hidden. The forest patrols cover most of the main paths. And there are villagers who forage here."
"Then we build it underground," Sirius said, excitement spilling into his voice. "We dig deep, build walls from stone and timber, reinforce it, make it blend with the earth. No one would ever find it unless we showed them."
Remus sat up fully now. "You've thought about this before."
"Of course I have," Sirius said, smirking. "I can't spend every night plotting pranks. I need a kingdom."
James laughed and tossed him the apple, which Sirius caught without looking. "A kingdom, huh? What would you rule over, mud?"
Sirius tossed the apple back at him. "Better mud than a farm, Bracken."
"Touché," James said with a grin.
Regulus sighed but smiled faintly as he closed his book. "We'd need to do it smartly. We can't just start digging anywhere. The soil here is damp—it would flood in the first rain."
Remus pointed to a small rise near the creek. "What about up there? It's high ground, and the roots from those oaks could help support the roof."
Sirius nodded approvingly. "See? The commoner's got sense."
"I have to," Remus said, stretching. "Otherwise you three would be dead by now."
James stood, brushing leaves off his trousers. "Alright then, it's settled. We build the Marauders' hideout."
"Where?" Regulus asked, though he was already standing too.
Sirius pointed toward the rise, where the light slanted through the trees like molten gold. "Right there. Beneath those oaks. It'll look like part of the forest—roots above, stone below."
For the next hour, they walked the site, arguing and laughing, drawing crude plans in the dirt with sticks. Sirius wanted it big enough to hold a table and chairs. James wanted tunnels. Remus wanted a place to nap. Regulus wanted it not to collapse and kill them all.
By sunset, their hands were dirty, their boots caked with mud, and they had nothing but a few scratches in the soil to show for it. But their faces were alive with that spark—the kind only boys with impossible dreams could have.
Sirius stood at the center of the half-dug pit, hands on his hips, chest heaving with pride. "Gentlemen," he declared dramatically, "this is where history begins."
"More like where blisters begin," Regulus muttered, leaning on his shovel.
Remus wiped sweat from his brow. "You sure this isn't just an excuse to get us to do your chores?"
"Maybe," Sirius admitted with a grin. "But someday, when this place is finished, it'll be our secret fortress. Our mark on the world."
James dropped beside him, tossing his spade aside. "Then let's build it right. The Marauders deserve nothing less."
The last light of the sun filtered through the branches, painting the four of them in amber and shadow. The forest around them was silent except for the distant call of crows, as if the ancient trees themselves were listening. And though none of them could have known it, those first shovels of dirt would become more than just a hideout—they'd be the foundation of memories, of brotherhood, and of the last truly innocent days any of them would ever know.
The next few weeks unfolded like something from a memory—bright, messy, golden, and alive. The forest became their world, their laughter the soundtrack that carried through the leaves.
At dawn, mist would curl low along the ground as the boys snuck away from their homes, cloaks half-buttoned, pockets stuffed with stolen bread, jerky, and the odd bottle of ale swiped from a kitchen. They'd meet at the rise where the old oaks grew close together, their roots twisted like ancient guardians, and there they would work until the sun dipped low and the air smelled of wood and sweat and earth.
The first days were chaos. Sirius, self-proclaimed "architect of destiny," took charge immediately, waving his hands as if he could command the forest itself. "Here!" he'd shout, pointing dramatically. "The entrance shall go here!"
James would roll his eyes. "You've said that five times already. The last 'entrance' was a hole full of worms."
"It's called a foundation!" Sirius retorted, though his boot sank into it a moment later.
Remus laughed so hard he fell backward into the mud, dragging Regulus with him. Regulus' shout of indignation sent a flock of crows scattering from the trees.
By midday, their grand plans had become dirt, sweat, and blisters. Yet somehow, progress happened. Regulus, quiet and meticulous, drew out crude sketches on bark and mapped out the structure—two rooms at first, maybe three later. James hauled timber like a born builder, muscles burning but grinning through it all. Sirius and Remus competed to see who could dig faster, usually ending in one of them tumbling into the pit while the other cheered.
Every evening ended the same way: the four of them lying on their backs beneath the canopy, their shirts half-untucked, mud on their faces, laughing about nothing at all.
One afternoon, after rain had soaked the ground, they discovered that wet dirt and slippery roots were a recipe for disaster—and hilarity. Sirius tried to climb down into the pit with a shovel and slipped halfway, landing squarely on James. "Get off me, you oaf!" James wheezed, pinned beneath him.
"It's not my fault the ground betrayed me!" Sirius argued, though he was laughing too hard to sound sincere.
Remus was doubled over at the edge, tears in his eyes, while Regulus just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "If you two die down there, I'm not digging you back out."
Later, when they finally managed to get walls of timber and stone to stand upright, it became a running competition to see who could claim the most dangerous task. James insisted on carving the entryway beam himself, only to nearly lose a toe. Sirius tried his hand at roof supports and accidentally dropped a plank on his own head.
"Maybe we should let Regulus handle the important parts," Remus suggested dryly as Sirius stumbled around, dazed.
Regulus, hammer in hand, didn't even look up. "I already do."
Despite the constant chaos, something remarkable began to take shape. They built narrow steps that descended beneath a canopy of oak roots, leading into a chamber hidden beneath the earth. Inside, they raised wooden beams against stone walls, patched the gaps with clay, and lined the floor with smooth planks scavenged from an abandoned mill.
Sirius carved runes into the entry post—not for magic, just for mystery. James added a rack for their makeshift weapons: a few wooden swords, a dented shield, and a rusted helm Remus found by the river. Regulus, ever the perfectionist, built shelves for their trinkets—books, drawings, small things they found that felt too important to leave behind.
They worked to the rhythm of laughter. There were arguments too, of course—petty and stupid ones that ended as quickly as they began. James once stormed off when Sirius made fun of his lopsided wall, only for both of them to return minutes later with berries and apologies.
There were nights they stayed too long and the stars came out above the forest, shimmering through the cracks in the canopy. They'd sit around a small fire outside, sharing stolen food and stories. Sirius would talk about wanting to see the North someday—"where the air bites and the forests never end." James dreamed of taming a wild horse. Remus wanted to travel the Free Cities, though he'd never admit how much he loved home. And Regulus, when pressed, only said, "I just want to build something that lasts."
The others went quiet at that. Because, in their own way, they already were.
By the end of the second month, the hideout was finished—or as finished as a group of eleven-year-olds could make it. It wasn't grand, but it was theirs: a secret refuge hidden beneath the earth, disguised by roots and moss, with a narrow door camouflaged beneath a layer of ivy. The moment they stepped inside, the world outside vanished.
They had candles set in old bottles, shelves of half-finished ideas, and a small carved table at the center that James and Sirius had built together—though it leaned ever so slightly to the left. Above the table, carved into the wood, was a single word burned into place with a hot knife:
Marauders.
That evening, the forest was quiet except for their laughter echoing faintly beneath the ground. They sat around a candle, trading jokes and plans for the future, their faces flickering with warm light.
"Someday," Sirius said, holding up his mug of watered ale, "when we're all old and famous, they'll tell stories about this place."
James grinned. "They'll never find it."
"Good," Regulus murmured, his tone softer than usual. "Some things aren't meant to be found."
Remus raised his cup too. "To the Marauders—may our mischief never die."
Their cups clinked, their laughter filling the hidden chamber, and for a moment the world above—the wars, the families, the feuds—felt impossibly far away.
That night, the moon rose over the forest, silver light spilling through the leaves, and the old oaks swayed gently in the wind. Beneath them, four boys sat in the glow of candlelight, unaware that they were etching the kind of memory that would outlive them all.
The next morning began like any other—soft sunlight filtering through the shutters of their small chamber, the faint hum of birds outside, and the comfortable quiet that came with another day of harmless secrets. Sirius had barely stirred when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, shaking him awake.
"Up."
The voice was deep, cold, and unmistakable.
Sirius blinked the sleep from his eyes, heart skipping a beat. Standing at the foot of his bed was Lord Corvin Blackwood, their father—a tall, broad man with dark hair streaked with grey and eyes like polished obsidian. The air seemed to freeze around him, as if even the sunlight dared not fall too close.
Regulus, in the bed beside his, stirred groggily and sat up. "Father? Is something—"
"Dress," Corvin interrupted. "Now. Both of you."
The boys exchanged quick, worried glances but didn't argue. They dressed in silence—dark tunics bearing the raven crest of their house, boots clean, hair brushed. By the time they stepped outside, the morning air was crisp, and their father was already mounted, his black mare pawing impatiently at the dirt.
"Where are we going, Father?" Sirius asked, trying to keep his tone steady.
"Cross Hollow," Corvin said shortly. "Your uncle Orion wants me to handle something before it becomes a stain on our family's name."
Sirius's stomach sank. "A… stain?"
Corvin shot him a sharp look. "Don't play ignorant, boy. The village guard reported a pack of miscreants running about the countryside these past moons—thieves, pranksters, troublemakers. No one's seen them in a fortnight. Either they fled, or something caught them. In either case, I intend to find out."
Regulus froze in place, his blood running cold. He didn't dare look at Sirius, but he didn't have to—they were both thinking the same thing.
He's talking about us.
The ride to Cross Hollow felt like a funeral march. Every hoofbeat sounded heavier than the last, echoing against the stone road. The forest they had once filled with laughter now loomed silent around them, the oaks whispering secrets they dared not speak aloud.
Sirius tried to keep his expression neutral, but his mind was racing. He replayed every prank, every laugh, every night spent sneaking through the village—the cider, the sausages, the pepper fiasco, all of it—and with each memory, his gut twisted tighter.
When they finally rode into Cross Hollow, the village looked as lively as ever—merchants hawking goods, children darting between stalls, smoke curling from chimneys—but Sirius could feel the tension under it all. A few guards stood at the square, speaking to their father's men. One bowed quickly as they dismounted.
"My lord," the guard said, "we've heard nothing of them since the last sighting. The butcher swore they were just boys, but they vanished after the last rain. Some folks think they ran into the woods and got lost."
"Lost," Corvin muttered. "Fitting end for fools."
Regulus swallowed hard. Sirius looked away, pretending to adjust his gloves to hide how his hands were trembling.
"Any sign of where they stayed?" Corvin asked.
The guard hesitated. "None, my lord. But… there's talk. Woodsmen say they've seen lights at night—strange glows beneath the old oaks. Could be ghosts, could be rats, could be worse."
"Then we'll see for ourselves," Corvin said, mounting again. "My sons and I will search the forest. I want every trace of this nonsense erased."
Sirius's pulse roared in his ears. He forced a tight laugh. "Father, surely this is beneath us. Just a few missing children—"
"Silence," Corvin snapped. "When you lead a house, you don't ignore insult or chaos. If someone's making fools of Blackwoods or Brackens, we'll find out who. Now ride."
They rode in tense silence through the woods. The closer they got to the rise where the hideout lay hidden, the harder it became to breathe. The forest, once a place of laughter and freedom, now felt suffocating. Every fallen leaf sounded like betrayal.
Regulus risked a glance at his brother. Sirius's jaw was tight, his hand white-knuckled around the reins. Beneath that defiant face, Regulus could see the same panic he felt.
They were almost there. The faint slope of the hill, the familiar twist of oak roots—it was all coming into view.
Corvin slowed his horse, scanning the area. "This is where they were last seen. Spread out."
Sirius's breath hitched. "Father, maybe the stories were exaggerated. You know how smallfolk talk—"
Corvin turned sharply toward him. "I know the difference between rumor and truth, boy. I smell lies in this place."
He dismounted, stepping closer to the rise. His boots pressed into the dirt above their secret world—the very roof of the Marauders' hideout.
Regulus's heart pounded so loudly he thought it might give them away. His father's gloved hand brushed aside a patch of ivy, fingers tracing over the faint outline of a wooden seam.
He paused.
"What's this?"
Sirius's throat went dry.
Regulus's breath caught.
The silence stretched, unbearable. Then—
"Just roots," Corvin muttered finally, stepping back. "Overgrown ground. Nothing worth our time."
The brothers exhaled quietly, the world rushing back in.
"Mount up," Corvin ordered. "We'll question the guards again before returning to Raventree."
As their father turned away, Sirius caught Regulus's eye. A mix of relief and disbelief flickered between them. They had escaped—barely. But the weight of it hung heavy.
When they rode out of the forest, Sirius glanced back once, to where the ivy swayed gently in the breeze. Beneath it, hidden in the dark earth, the hideout waited—untouched, secret, alive.
He said nothing, but in that moment, a thought carved itself deep into his mind.
This is more than mischief now. This is survival.
And for the first time since the Marauders had begun, Sirius Blackwood truly understood what it meant to keep a secret worth dying for.
ChatGPT said:
The great hall of Raventree Hall was bathed in the pale light of morning, the sun filtering through the stained glass that told stories of old wars and blood feuds long past. The air was cool, scented faintly of smoke from the night's fire. Two men stood near the hearth — brothers bound by blood and duty, though the warmth between them was long dead.
Lord Corvin Blackwood stood rigid, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, cloak of black wool trailing like shadow across the floor. Across from him sat his older brother, Lord Orion Blackwood, the head of their house. Orion was broader, older, and far more tired-looking than the man before him, though his eyes — sharp and grey as steel — missed nothing.
"You said Cross Hollow," Orion began, swirling a cup of wine idly in one hand. "You found nothing?"
"Nothing worth naming," Corvin replied stiffly. "A few footprints, a discarded boot, and the usual peasant gossip. If there were troublemakers, they've either fled or starved by now."
Orion studied him for a moment, then set down his cup. "And you're certain these were just peasants? Not our men? Not Bracken spies?"
Corvin's jaw clenched. "They were children, from what I could tell. No older than my own sons."
That made Orion pause, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly. "Ah," he murmured. "Your sons. How are they, Corvin?"
Corvin frowned at the question, caught off guard by the tone — casual, but deliberate. "Sirius and Regulus are fine," he said curtly. "They've been training as expected."
"Training?" Orion leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the carved armrests of his chair. "The maester tells me they've been missing lessons for the past few moons. Both of them. Vanishing for hours — sometimes days."
Corvin's head snapped up. "What?"
"I didn't want to believe it either," Orion continued, voice smooth but heavy with meaning. "But the reports have been consistent. Your sons aren't where they're meant to be. And it isn't just them."
Corvin's eyes hardened. "What do you mean?"
"Bellatrix," Orion said quietly. "And Narcissa. My daughters have been… different. The maester says they've grown restless, distracted, even defiant." He gave a short, humorless chuckle. "I had hoped it was just adolescence. But now, hearing about your 'missing hooligans' in Cross Hollow…" He trailed off, the thought hanging between them like smoke.
Corvin stiffened. "You think my sons are behind this?"
Orion didn't answer immediately. He rose from his chair, the firelight glinting off the black raven pin at his breast. "I think," he said slowly, "that boys with too much curiosity and too little discipline are dangerous. Especially our blood. And if the sons of Blackwood are wandering off into the forest, stirring up trouble — perhaps dragging my own children into it — then yes, I'd say that gives me reason to suspect."
Corvin's temper flickered in his eyes. "Sirius and Regulus are loyal to their name. They wouldn't disgrace us with childish games."
Orion turned to face him fully, voice dropping to a low, calm threat. "Then prove it."
The hall fell silent. The only sound was the soft crackle of the fire and the distant caw of a raven outside.
Corvin's jaw worked silently, his pride and unease at war. He thought of Sirius' tired eyes that morning, the dirt on his boots, the faint smell of pine clinging to his cloak. He thought of Regulus' nervous glances during their ride. All those little things he had dismissed — suddenly, they seemed like clues he should have seen.
"Watch them," Orion said finally, his tone all command now. "Discreetly. If they're innocent, you'll have nothing to worry about. But if they're involved in these… disappearances, I want to know who else is with them. And where they've been going."
Corvin gave a short nod, masking the tightening in his chest. "As you wish, brother."
Orion regarded him for a moment longer. "They're good boys, Corvin. Too good for this world, perhaps. But we both know what happens when Blackwood blood runs wild. It never ends quietly."
As Corvin turned to leave, the fire popped sharply, throwing sparks into the air — fleeting, bright, and gone in an instant. He didn't look back.
But as he walked down the corridor, his thoughts were a storm.
Sirius' mud-stained boots. Regulus' lingering glances toward the forest. The way they'd both seemed tired lately — distracted, as if their minds were elsewhere.
And now Orion's words echoed in his skull, cold and heavy:
Watch them.
He intended to do more than that.
By the time he reached his chambers, Corvin had already decided — tomorrow, at first light, he'd follow his sons. He'd find out where they went, who they met, and what secret they were hiding in those woods.
And gods help them both if he didn't like what he found.