Ren stayed back in the Gryffindor common room long after everyone else had disappeared for the night. The room was dim except for the flickering light of the fireplace, the orange glow painting restless shadows across her face. She crouched beside the couch, arms resting on her knees, staring into the fire like it might give her answers. The flames hissed and crackled as the wood burned down into glowing embers, and her mind burned with it.
Those red eyes.
She could still see them, bright, unnatural, cutting through the darkness like twin embers of rage. Every time she closed her eyes, they flashed again, haunting the edges of her sleep until she woke up drenched in cold sweat.
The night in the Forbidden Forest played on a loop in her head, fragmented and disjointed. She remembered the trees whispering above her, the heavy fog, the low growl that didn't sound quite human. And then… those eyes. Everything after that was a blur, the impact, the suffocating weight pinning her down, the pain that wasn't quite pain but still knocked her unconscious.
She pulled her knees closer, feeling the warmth of the fire on her skin but not in her bones. In front of her lay two crumpled parchments, both with similar handwriting. She had been comparing them for hours, tracing each stroke of ink like it might reveal a secret. Whoever had written them was tied to what happened that night, she could feel it.
Ren pressed her lips together, the frustration simmering in her chest. She hated this uncertainty. She hated being vulnerable. Even though she was used to not knowing. Maybe, she thought bitterly, she'd have to talk to Sirius after all. He'd been there that night. He'd seen the creature, if it was even that. Hagrid had sworn it was a werewolf, but Sirius didn't seem convinced. Ren wasn't either. She'd grown up reading about werewolves in every dusty, half-burnt book she could find, they didn't have eyes like that.
No. It was something else. Something older.
Her fingers brushed the parchment again. Maybe the thing in the forest and the writer of these notes were connected. Maybe those red eyes belonged to whoever—or whatever—was behind it all. But how was she supposed to find out?
The fire popped loudly, snapping her from her thoughts. She stared at the flames again, unfocused, letting her mind wander. For once, she didn't notice when someone approached.
"Um… hey," came a small, nervous voice.
Peter Pettigrew stood awkwardly by the couch, clutching something in his hands. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, but forced himself to stay put. His steps were hesitant, as if he was approaching a dangerous being. Which, to be fair, he sort of was.
He sat down on the couch beside her, shifting uncomfortably before blurting out, "I'm sorry."
Ren didn't move, didn't even glance his way. The apology floated in the air like smoke, thin and pointless.
Peter swallowed, his words tumbling over themselves. "I didn't mean to bump into you all the time, and—and about the chocolates, I swear it wasn't what it looked like." He scratched the back of his neck, his face red. "They were laced with a love potion. Meant for Snape, as a prank from James and Sirius. I just didn't want you to eat one by mistake."
He held out a small paper bag. "Licorice wands," he said lamely. "As an apology."
Ren's expression didn't change. Her patience was already frayed, and the last thing she needed was an anxious Gryffindor pest explaining pranks like she cared. Her voice came out low, clipped, and cold. "I don't care."
Peter hesitated. "I… I really am sorry," he said again, setting the bag beside her. "I insist. I don't want to be on your bad side, you see." He forced a nervous chuckle, as if joking might soften her.
Ren ignored him completely, turning her gaze back to the fireplace. The flames were easier to deal with than people.
Peter shifted again, clearly uncomfortable. He fiddled with his fingers, then cleared his throat, hoping for a reaction. "Can you please accept my apology?"
Ren finally turned her head, her eyes sharp as knives. "Don't you understand?" she snapped, rising to her feet so suddenly Peter flinched. "Get out of my face, you ugly maggot."
The words sliced through the quiet common room like a whip.
At that exact moment, Lily Evans stepped through the portrait hole, returning from the library. She froze in the doorway, her eyes wide. She'd walked in just in time to hear Ren's voice echo through the room.
"Ren!" she exclaimed, rushing forward. Her face was tight with shock and something else. Frustration. Anger. Guilt she didn't know where to put.
"You can't talk to him like that!" Lily snapped, her voice trembling more from emotion than volume. "What's wrong with you?"
Ren stared at her, stunned by the sudden intrusion. Of all people, Lily was the last she expected to jump to Peter Pettigrew's defense.
"You think you're better than him?" Lily continued, stepping closer, her red hair almost glowing in the firelight. "You're not."
The words came out sharper than she intended, the weight of her own bottled-up anger spilling over. The moment with Severus earlier that day, his slur, her guilt—it all burned behind her eyes. Ren was just the nearest outlet.
Peter looked between them, panic written all over his face. "I—I don't deserve this," he stammered, voice breaking. "I just wanted to apologize!"
Ren didn't reply. She just stood there, tense, her face unreadable. The crackling of the fire filled the silence that followed.
Peter's eyes glistened with frustrated tears as he turned away and hurried toward the boys' dormitory. His footsteps echoed up the stairs until they faded completely.
For a long second, the two girls just stared at each other. Lily's chest heaved with anger she didn't fully understand. Ren's expression hardened like ice.
Then, without another word, Lily turned sharply and stormed toward the girls' dormitory.
Ren exhaled slowly, the only sound left in the common room being the soft hiss of dying embers. She sank back down beside the couch, staring into the fire once more. The light danced across her face, but she didn't feel its warmth.
Everyone kept telling her what she should feel, how she should act, who she should be. Lily with her righteous anger, Peter with his guilt. She picked up the bag of licorice wands Peter had left and set it on the low table, unopened. The fire cracked, sparks leaping up and fading into smoke.
Ren leaned back against the couch, her thoughts circling the same question that had haunted her since that night in the forest.
Who or what had looked back at her with those crimson eyes?
And more importantly, why did she feel like it wasn't done with her yet?