Chapter Text

For this corruptible
must put on incorruption
(1 Corinthians 15:53)

Severus

A Snake in the Garden

The entrance to Hell is hidden at the base of a large willow tree, a human-sized hollow tangled in its roots, ready to swallow you whole.

Down, down, down into the earth.

You find a low tunnel that the sun and moon have both abandoned, so that utter darkness is your only companion.

Down, down.

It is silent here, like the stillness of a windless night, like the smothering of a pillow. But you can hear your heartbeat and it hammers, louder and louder, as you progress through the dark, endless tunnel.

Your thunderous heart, louder and louder, resounding through the earth, pounding like a fist at a door, like paws across the floor. Louder and louder and louder and LOUDER until — Death arrives in the form of a wolf.

A low growl.

“RUN!”

Severus Snape jolted awake with a gasp, body frozen in terror. His bedsheets were tangled around his limbs like tree roots, dragging him down into the earth. The bed was damp with sweat beneath him, and when at last his muscles relaxed, he rolled onto his side, breathing as heavily as though he had indeed been running, running, running…

If he closed his eyes, he could still see it: the dark earthy tunnel, the maw of the beast, a froth of spittle hanging from its ghastly teeth. Severus was intimately familiar with every detail of that tunnel, of that dream. He visited it nearly every night.

The street lamps of Spinner’s End flickered as they always did, weak shafts of light that spilled through the naked windows of Severus’s bedroom in the dingy little two-up two-down he was forced to call home over the summer holiday. It was a tiny room, little more than a bed pushed up against the wall and a battered old dresser shoved in the corner. One drawer hung askew, half-open and abandoned.

A few shaky breaths later and the dream receded fully into the depths of his cruel unconscious. Severus reached for his watch. A sigh. It was only midnight and not a minute later. He’d gone to bed early out of sheer boredom, but now the thought of lying here sleeplessly reliving the same old terror was intolerable. With a groan, Severus swung his legs off the stiff little bed and stood up. He grabbed his Muggle trousers off the floor, frowning at yet another tear in the pocket as he pulled them on. Next, he located the plain black t-shirt he’d nicked from a charity shop a few weeks back and tugged that on too. At last, he knelt on the dusty carpet to pull on a pair of shabby old work boots.

They were hand-me-downs from his father. Severus’s own boots had a hole in the toe that had gradually grown too big to ignore. His mother had produced this beaten-up pair of his father’s, and she’d given them to him proudly, as though they were a gift he should cherish, and not merely a smelly old man’s smelly old boots. It was hard to be grateful when he knew his mother could easily have mended the other pair with a quick flick of her wand...but Eileen Snape had given up magic years ago, locked it all away in a trunk beneath her bed, in an effort to live in some semblance of peace with Severus’s filthy, magic-hating, Muggle father.

That was a choice Severus could never forgive.

His father’s boots were too big, and they rubbed blisters on his heels. If he were back at school, Severus would just shrink them himself, but he was still an underage wizard and magic was forbidden to him. Not for the first time this summer, Severus found himself thinking longingly of his seventeenth birthday. In five months he would be of age and the chains that shackled him to Spinner’s End would shatter at long last. He would be able to use magic as he pleased, to apparate, to leave behind this dirty little house in this dirty little town — and never, ever look back.

Five months.

The floorboards creaked as Severus crossed the room in his too-big boots. He opened his door as quietly as he could and stepped out into the narrow hall, checking that his parents’ bedroom door was firmly shut before creeping down the cramped stairwell that led to the kitchen. A few flies buzzed about the sink, dark specks in a dark room. He slunk towards the parlor, but froze as the low drone of the radio caught his ear.
Carefully, so carefully, he peered around the doorway into the parlor. His father was slumped in a chair by the window, spider legs sprawled out before him, one bare foot scuffing up the carpet. His sharp features — so similar to Severus’s own — were illuminated by the streetlights seeping through the window. He was asleep, one arm propped beneath his drooping head, the other flung across the side of the worn chair, fingers still tenuously grasping an empty bottle.

For a long, silent moment, Severus glowered through the gloom at the figure of his father. Then, holding his breath, he crept past to the front door, quietly unlatched the lock, and slipped out into the night.

Out on the streets of Spinner’s End, the mill loomed like a great, shadowy obelisk. That was fitting, thought Severus, pleased with his own metaphor — for the mill was as much a monument to death and memory as anything else in this dying town. Three months ago, the owner of the mill had abruptly shut its doors, citing financial losses and untenable prospects. He’d taken off happily for London and left the town of Cokeworth to rot.

Ever since, Cokeworth had been slowly hemorrhaging. Half the town had lost their jobs. Spinner’s End was as good as a cemetery plot. His father, never much one for sobriety in the first place, had descended even deeper into what felt to Severus like an endless, dangerous drunkenness.

Five more months and Severus would be seventeen.

And gone.

His boots flapped uncomfortably around his ankles as they carried him through the dingy, deserted streets of Cokeworth, along the dirty banks of the river where, after a brief moment’s consideration, he knelt to grab a handful of dusty pebbles and stuff them into his pocket. He continued on, a ghost in a ghost town, past the playground — once a holy site in his memory, now just another graveyard — through winding streets and narrow alleys, until he arrived almost unthinkingly at his destination. It was no surprise his feet had led him here. He visited it nearly every night.

Severus found his place among the bins in the shadows of the back alley of Bobbin Street, empty but for the occasional cat who sauntered by with wary eyes. The tight little terraced houses were all dark, their tenants undoubtedly asleep at this late hour. All except for one.

A patch of light shone like a beacon from the second-story window of the house behind which he stood. The parted curtains, fluttery pink paisley things, allowed him to see inside the little room as clearly as though he were watching a Muggle television screen.

And then Lily Evans appeared.

She didn’t see him. She wasn’t looking.

It had been well over a month since Severus had accidentally uttered the word that would ruin his life. Mudblood. He hadn’t meant it; he’d been provoked and outraged and…and…He shook his head roughly as though he might clear it. The events of the year prior and everything that led up to that one explosive moment by the lake fluttered around his normally-organized mind like glitter in a snow globe. He couldn’t calm it, he couldn’t arrange it logically and make sense of it all. He often felt that if he could just clear his head of all these troublesome thoughts, lay them out on a worktop and dissect them, slice them apart piece by piece, then he could figure out how to put it all back together and fix it. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know how. The endless swirling and simmering of his mind had once been his refuge, his place to turn when the world got a little too hard, a haven in which to disappear and distract. But now, this brilliant brain was a fog-filled prison.

From his angle in the alley below, Severus could just catch Lily’s reflection as she stood before the oval mirror hung on her wall. She was dressed in a pair of old Muggle shorts and a loose blouse, holding up a Muggle dress for consideration — a lurid, floral thing, the likes of which he’d never seen her wear before. She cocked her head to the side. Swept her beautiful red hair off her shoulders.

Severus ran his thumb over one of the pebbles in his pocket.

He’d come here the first week of summer, on another hot and sticky night like this one. After a week of misery locked alone in Spinner’s End, he couldn’t bear it anymore. He’d felt certain that things would be different here, away from Hogwarts, away from Potter and Black and the pet werewolf they'd sicced on him…away from Corin Mulciber and Adam Avery, even. Lily would see reason in Cokeworth. Here, where they had spent their childhood together, where they had discovered the magic in each other…here, she would listen. She would understand. She would forgive.

But that’s not what happened.

“What are you doing here, Severus?” she’d demanded that night so many weeks ago. He’d thrown a pebble at the window to get her attention, and it had taken a few tries but eventually she’d flung open the window and glowered down at him, like a princess in a tower.

“You have to hear me out,” Severus had pleaded from below, the lowly Prince come to beg for her hand.

“I already did. We’re not doing this again.”

“I didn’t mean to — it was an accident, Lily!”

“No, it wasn’t. We both know it wasn’t. You’ve made it perfectly clear where you stand.”

“What do you mean?”

“The people you hang around, Sev! The people you defend. All your little spells…”

“What do my spells have to do with anything?”

“They’re cruel. You hurt people.”

“I haven’t hurt anyone.”

“Oh, that’s bollocks,” she’d snarled. “Don’t try and tell me Levicorpus was just a laugh. You didn’t think it was so funny when Potter used it on you.”

The humiliation of that memory still stung, sharp and bitter. James Potter, his mortal enemy, had stolen Severus’s invented spells and used them against him before a crowd of jeering students, Lily among them. It had been this provocation that had caused him to utter the unforgivable word. It had been Potter’s fault. A moment’s mistake, and Severus was to be punished for it eternally while Potter got off scot free. Again.

“And I saw that gash you sliced on Potter’s cheek,” Lily had gone on, her voice a hiss on the wind. “The one that wouldn’t stop bleeding…?”

“Of course,” Severus had spat back bitterly. “It’s Potter you’re worried about, is it?”

“This has nothing to do with him! This is about you — and me. You and me? We are not friends anymore. Not ever. Get that through your head and leave me alone. I mean it, Severus, I never want to see you again.”

And she’d closed the window, closed the curtains, closed him out.

Forever.

For always.

Weeks passed and summer slumped by, hot and miserable, and still Lily did not relent. He’d tried the pebbles once or twice more, but with no better results. These days, he didn’t bother trying to get her attention, yet still his feet carried him to this dark little alley over and over again all the same. He didn’t know what he hoped to achieve by coming back here, standing alone in the dark, unknown and unseen. He supposed in a way he was simply holding vigil for the death of the most important relationship of his life, the death of his hopes and dreams — the death, in a way, of Sev, for no one else had ever called him that.

She may wish to never see him again, but Severus was not yet ready to quit seeing her.

He pulled the handful of pebbles from his pocket and gazed at them in deep contemplation. Perhaps he would try to get her attention again tonight, futile though he knew it would be. Even to have her yell at him would be better than this icy silence. To have those sharp, green eyes fix upon him in fury — to see him — as though her gaze alone could make him feel like a real, solid person in this decrepit ghost town…

But just as he was on the cusp of a decision, a loud, squawking laugh startled him from his reverie. He dropped the pebbles in surprise and dashed deeper into the shadows of the alley just as a gaggle of Muggle girls approached, giggling and carrying on like the foolish little tarts they so clearly were. He observed them with disdain and a shade of fury. They didn’t know it, but they had just interrupted something deeply important, something holy. A wave of spite rose up in his throat like bile.

To his increasing consternation, the band of tarts stopped outside Lily’s window.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel!” giggled one of the tartiest-looking girls. When this did not deliver the desired result, the girl leaned down — her tight little skirt straining over her arse — and picked up a pebble from the cobbles. One of his pebbles. She chucked it at the window, but missed. She tried again. Missed. Finally, the apparent leader of their little group stepped up. She was a great cow of a girl who had clearly been drinking, and she hollered up at the window: “OI! LILY!”

The window slid open and Lily’s head popped out, just like it had done for him that night all those weeks before. Her dark red hair spilled over her shoulders; her soft, pale skin gleamed in the moonlight, a dust of freckles like stars across her cheeks. She was otherworldly, like nothing that belonged in Cokeworth…

“Quiet!” Lily hissed, though with none of the venom she had spat at Severus. “I’ll be down in a minute.” And she shut the window and pulled the curtains closed.

“D’you think we’ll all go to hell for sneaking the vicar’s daughter out to the clubs?” said the tart, pulling a cigarette from her purse and lighting up.

“Aye,” said the cow, “but I say we’re doing the Lord’s work. Poor girl. Stuck in that Scottish boarding school all year long. I doubt she’s ever had fun in her life.”

“She does seem a tad depressed this summer,” said the third girl, a hungry-looking blonde in a low-cut top.

“Nothing some boys and booze won’t fix,” replied the tart with a giggle.

The window above them opened again and Lily reappeared, this time wearing the Muggle dress Severus had watched her consider. It was a tiny thing, barely covering her bum. She shimmied out the window and, with the well-earned skill of one who had done this many times, negotiated her way down the trellis, landing cat-like in the alley.

“All right?” she said brightly to the group of girls, smoothing her dress over her thighs.

“All clear with daddy dearest?” asked the tart.

“He’s asleep,” said Lily matter-of-factly. “He won’t even know I’m gone.”

“Brill. Fancy a fag?”

“Come on,” said the cow, as Lily accepted the cigarette and lit up. “We’ve got to hurry if we want to catch the bus. If we miss this one, we’re out of luck ’til morning.”

“You really think Paul can get us into Rotters?”

“Count on it.”

The girls began to disperse, Lily following along. She paused, however, as they passed the patch of darkness where Severus lurked. He held his breath and pressed himself deeper into the shadows as she glanced over her shoulder, the smoke from her cigarette curling into the starless night. She could feel him there, he knew it…One step forward and she would see him...

“You coming, Lily?” called the cow.

“Yeah,” said Lily, shaking her head as though she were being silly. “Let’s go.”

And she continued on, skipping a bit to catch up. A tawdry joke, a bray of laughter, and the girls disappeared down the alley.

And Lily — his Lily, his best friend, always — was gone.

Again.

Chapter Text

LILY

The Vicar's Daughter

Rotters was a loud, dark place, rich with the stench of sweat and smoke. The grotto of the dance hall, packed beneath an old theatre, was at present filled to capacity with late-night revelers. A band was playing; they weren’t very good, but it didn’t seem to matter. Lily stood alone at a high-table in the corner, a fag in her fingers, watching the rhythmic pulse of the dance floor, the twist of brightly-colored bodies, bare limbs, and short skirts.

She smoothed the hem of her own dress, not exactly self-consciously, but attentively. It clung to her thighs at a distance from her knees that would have elicited gasps from the more virtuous members of her father’s congregation. It was an indulgence, this dress — a splurge, a little pocket of joy she’d allowed herself, only to be crippled with guilt after the purchase; it had been expensive.

But Jenny and the other girls from the Railview Inn had been insisting on taking her out to the Manchester nightclubs for weeks now, and when she’d seen this dress in a gleaming shopwindow — with its bright green flowing pattern, its shockingly short hemline — it had been like her fairy godmother had beckoned her in. Go to the ball, she’d whispered. Have some damn fun.

This summer had not been fun. What little free time she found was usually spent helping her father around the house or with church business. The closure of Cokeworth’s last cotton mill had meant devastation for the community — and overtime for her father, its local vicar. The rest of her days she’d given to the Railview Inn, although she suspected even that job would be gone soon too; Cokeworth was in free-fall. It had been foolish, she chided herself for the umpteenth time, to spend her hard-earned money on a pretty Muggle dress that she couldn’t even wear at school. She still had to buy her school supplies, after all, and she didn’t know how many new books she would need.

Though her booklist had not yet arrived, she had received a letter from Hogwarts yesterday delivering her O.W.L. results. The moment had been bittersweet. She’d done very well, receiving nine O.W.L.s, including Outstandings in Potions, Charms, Astronomy, Herbology, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. She’d even scraped an Acceptable in Ancient Runes, which felt like a victory worth celebrating, since the only passion she’d ever felt for the subject was of the pure loathing variety.

But none of it mattered in the end. Or at least, political forces out of her control were working diligently to make sure that none of it mattered. All her hard work flushed down the toilet because people like Abraxas Malfoy thought she didn’t deserve to live.

Lily had taken out a subscription to the Daily Prophet over the summer. Another extravagance, but the Wizengamot was still debating whether or not Muggle-borns had any right to employment at Wizarding Institutions, and she wanted to stay up to date on the latest developments. If passed, the Wizard Protection Laws would mean that every Muggle-born would face endless inquiry and harassment, having to prove that they didn’t harbor extremist, anti-Wizard sentiments. The laws were quite simply a green light for discrimination. Though they’d been announced last spring, the proposal had proven encouragingly controversial, and implementation of the laws had been delayed again and again as the legislation was endlessly reworked and rewritten.

She had almost grown hopeful that the whole thing would be chucked in the bin where it belonged, but just last week the Daily Prophet reported the consideration of a so-called “Hogwarts Addendum” recalling the right of Muggle-born students to attend the school…for the protection of the vulnerable Wizarding youth, obviously. This had received a swift and brutal condemnation from the school’s Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, who had publicly declared that Hogwarts would never abide by such a law. But even so, the fact that it was being debated at all…

Lily had shown up to her job at the Railview Inn the next day completely miserable. So wretched had she appeared, red-eyed and blotchy-cheeked, that the other girls simply insisted on taking her out to have some fun.

“Some boy broke your heart, didn’t he?” demanded Jenny, the oldest girl and unspoken leader of their little group, during their afternoon smoke break.

And Lily had gazed off towards the twin tracks that skirted the Railview Inn, past the grime and dust of her hometown, worlds away from the magical castle where she spent most of the year. She thought of Anson Nott, her fun, handsome ex-boyfriend, who had seemed so sweet until she’d discovered he was just as bigoted as the rest of them, in his own way. She thought of James Potter, her one-time crush and eternal antagonist, who never failed to make her the butt of his bad jokes, who seemed to relish every opportunity to humiliate her. She thought of Severus Snape, her first true friend, her bridge between Cokeworth and castle, the boy who had betrayed her so publicly, so horribly, who had chosen a hate group over her, who had called her a “filthy little Mudblood” in front of half the school just a month ago…

“No,” Lily had replied, sucking on the cigarette like it was the only thing getting her through the day. “Not a boy. Just…the whole world.”

“Sweetheart,” Jenny had chided her, “you’re sixteen. You need to lighten the fuck up.”

And so here she was, lingering like a wallflower in a booming nightclub in Manchester that she ought to have been too young to get into, wearing a skimpy little dress that had cost her too much money, trying — and failing — to lighten the fuck up.

“You look like you need another drink.”

Lily pulled her gaze from the dance floor to see Mona and Rose stumbling over in their high heels. Rose, a voluptuous brunette and undoubtedly the most attractive (and aggressive) of their group, had looped arms with some bloke and was guiding him over to Lily’s table. Mona, a rather bony blonde, had two glasses of something pink and pungent in her hands. She shoved one at Lily.

“Drink up, love.”

Lily accepted the glass with a word of thanks. It was sticky, the contents having sloshed over the rim during the journey. She took a sip. Rose winked at her.

Mona, Rose, and Jenny were all a few years older than Lily — Petunia’s age, in fact, though these girls were nothing like her sister. Petunia would never be caught dead in a place like Rotters. Her sister had often stuck up her nose at Lily’s job at the Railview Inn anyway, indicating that she thought both the staff and clientele were low-class. Where Petunia got off feeling so high and mighty Lily did not know — their father was a lowly vicar in an undesirable parish, not the lord of some manor — but Petunia seemed to have decided that she was better than anything in dirty old Cokeworth. Two weeks ago, she’d proudly announced that she was moving to London to enroll in a typing course, and then she’d packed her bags and left. Just like that.

Not that Lily was bothered by her sister’s absence; it meant she had the bedroom they’d once shared all to herself, and that alone made summer far more tolerable. She never would’ve been able to sneak out to Manchester if Petunia had been snoring a few feet away.

No indeed, thought Lily as she sipped her drink, the older girls from the Railview Inn were nothing like Petunia, most particularly in that they seemed to like her — though Lily suspected this was partially because they found it amusing to corrupt the daughter of the local vicar.

This in turn amused Lily, for she was not nearly so innocent as they imagined. If only they knew the vicar’s daughter was a witch.

“Jenny’s certainly having a good time, isn’t she?” giggled Rose, nudging her current conquest, the bloke she’d brought over to the table. They all looked to the dance floor, where Jenny was wrapped in the arms of a boy named Paul who she’d been seeing for several weeks now. He was a student at the University of Manchester, and Jenny was convinced that he was going to sweep her away from miserable little Cokeworth into a sunny new life. Lily hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed.

“The girl can dance,” agreed the bloke.

“I taught her everything she knows,” said Rose with a wink. Then she turned her attention to Lily. “Lily, this is Tommy. He’s a friend.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Lily distractedly, eyes still on Jenny and Paul.

“Likewise,” said Tommy with a sideways grin. Lily turned to look at him. He was tall and a bit lanky, with a thatch of blonde hair that reminded Lily vaguely of a scarecrow. He was by no means unattractive, though it was hard to truly judge in this dimly lit club. She supposed that was the point.

“Tommy goes to uni with Paul,” explained Mona, giving Lily a pointed look as she said this, as though Lily was meant to infer some deeper meaning from this comment that she seemed to have missed.

“Oh. That’s nice. What do you study?”

“Civil engineering,” said Tommy, and at Lily’s blank expression he went off on a long-winded explanation to which she only half-attended but gathered had something to do with suspension bridges. She nodded along, feigning as much interest as she felt politeness required. She’d assumed that Tommy was Rose’s date, so she was a touch perplexed as to why the other two girls kept winking and grinning behind his back.

“Oh, I love this song,” exclaimed Rose, cutting off Tommy’s rather tired monologue on suspender cables. “I’m going to go find a dance partner of my own.” And with another heavy wink, she left.

Lily had at last begun to unravel the plot. She ventured an awkward sip of her drink that turned into a lengthy gulp and nearly emptied the glass. Mona grinned.

“I don’t know this song,” said Lily, because she didn’t know what else to say. “What is it?”

“Wow,” Tommy raised his eyebrows at Mona. “You weren’t kidding. The girl is sheltered.”

“Excuse me, I am not sheltered,” scoffed Lily, and she shot a reprimanding look at Mona, who gave her a none-too-apologetic shrug in return. Clearly, they’d been discussing her. Lily turned back to Tommy. “It’s just that at my school, I don’t have a lot of access to M—” she caught herself before she said ‘Muggle,’ but only just. “—Modern music. I have to catch up over the summers.”

“Scotland,” sighed Mona. “They ship her off to bumfuck-nowhere Scotland all year long. Cruel and unusual, that is.”

“Is this some sort of school for religious freaks?” said Tommy. “Is that why your dad sent you there?”

Lily winced at the word ‘freak.’

“No, it’s a perfectly normal school that I got a scholarship to, that’s all.”

“Ah, so you’re a clever girl are you?”

“What she is,” interrupted Mona with another one of her trademark pointed looks, this one directed at Tommy, “is a girl in desperate need of some fun. Maybe you can help with that, Tommy love?”

Tommy grinned down at Lily and held out his hand. “Oh, I can help with that.”

Lily considered him, and then herself, and her too-expensive dress, and the sickly sweet drink in her hand. She considered Mona, with her encouraging grin, and Jenny, with her lips locked to Paul’s on the dance floor. She considered Anson Nott and Bertram Aubrey and James Potter and you know what they say about Muggle girls. She considered all of this in only the slightest moment’s hesitation. Then she stubbed out what was left of her cigarette, took Tommy’s hand, and followed him out to the dance floor.

The whole club reverberated to the thump, thump, thump of the music…

And she danced with him for nearly an hour before he led her out to the back alley for an alleged cigarette, and she went willingly, not naively, and she let him kiss her, caress her, put his hands up her skirt…and she let him, and let him, and let him…because all she’d ever wanted to do was break out of her bubble and feel a part of the world…but that bubble had burst and what she’d found was a world that didn’t want her, where people disappointed her, betrayed her, lied to her, or left her empty — but here in this shadowy alley, while the music from inside Rotters went thump, thump, thump, Lily simply longed to be wanted.

Thump, thump, thump…

The sharp noise of someone knocking at her door woke Lily like a jackhammer to the skull.

“What?” she moaned into her pillow. She tried to reach for her alarm clock to check the time, only to tumble out of bed and into what was arguably a contender for the 1976 World’s Worst Hangover competition.

“Lily?” called her father from the other side of the door. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah, dad,” Lily lied, attempting to untangle herself from her bedsheets on the floor. She had snuck back into her bedroom a little after five o’clock in the morning, having caught the early bus back from Manchester with the other girls. The rest of the night — or morning, rather — hung hazy in her memory, and she did not care to interrogate it just yet.

“Lily?”

“I’m up.”

“It’s almost eleven, Lily.”

“It’s my day off, and I said I’m up.” Freed from her bedsheets, Lily pressed her throbbing head to the floor. “What d’you want?”

“You have a visitor. Your friend from school stopped by to see you.”

Lily sat bolt upright at this information, which made her throbbing head spin. Her friend from school…? Surely Severus wouldn’t have the nerve to show up here…

After briefly acknowledging that hurling herself from the window to be lashed upon the cobbles below was a far more appealing alternative to facing both Severus Snape and her father at once while nursing a raging hangover, Lily stood and threw on some proper clothes. Her head was still pounding and a dry, sticky film coated her throat. She desperately ran a comb through her tangled mass of hair and skidded down the stairs.

But when she arrived in the parlor, ready to tell Severus to get out and never come back, she was startled to see not Severus Snape but Marlene McKinnon sitting in a chair, appearing wildly out of place in her witch’s robes as she dubiously sipped a cup of tea.

She looked angry, but then Marlene usually looked angry. A severe girl under the best lighting, Marlene had the intensive personality of a scowly blonde thunderstorm. She set the teacup down and stood as Lily walked in.

“Did you just wake up?” said Marlene by way of greeting. “God, you smell like alc—”

Lily, highly conscious of the fact that her father was hovering curiously in the doorway, threw her arms around Marlene in a tight embrace. “It’s so good to see you!” she faked before hissing into Marlene’s ear: “Shut up!”

The shock of this greeting did indeed shut Marlene up. Though they shared a dormitory at school, Lily and Marlene had never been friends. Marlene was haughty, jealous, and hyper-competitive; she’d never forgiven Lily for being chosen as a prefect over her.

The only classmate Lily would be more surprised to find in her parlor was someone like Sirius Black, another pure-blood princeling who’d never be caught dead in dirty, dying Cokeworth.

Lily glanced back to her father. “Dad, this is Marlene. She’s one of my…friends. We’ve got so much to catch up on,” she told Marlene, still wearing that big, fake smile. “Why don’t we go up to my room?”

“You’re welcome to stay and use the parlor,” offered her father.

“No, no. Very important private girl talk. Come on, Marlene.” And she grabbed Marlene’s hand with a fierce tug and all but dragged her up the stairs, shoved her into the bedroom, and firmly shut the door. Then she rounded on her.

“Yes, I just woke up. Yes, I smell like alcohol. And yes, I am painfully hungover and completely baffled as to why you are in my house on a Saturday morning pointing all of this out to my father. What are you doing here, Marlene?”

Marlene was unfazed. “I want to see your exam results,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“My what?”

“Your O.W.L. scores. Why else would I be here?”

“You came all the way to Cokeworth to interrogate me about my exam results? Why not just send me an owl?”

“I assumed you would’ve ignored me.”

Lily massaged her temples. “Yeah,” she admitted. “I probably would have.” A sudden thought clawed its way out of the sludge of her brain. “How d’you even know where I live?”

Marlene scoffed. “My father is a high-ranking Ministry official, Lily. I can know where anyone lives.”

“Okay…well, I’m going to file that under Deeply Creepy, and we’ll address it later when I’m less hungover.”

“Are you going to show me your O.W.L. scores or not?”

Lily exhaled a deep huff of liquor-scented breath. Sometimes it was easier to just appease Marlene, and what did she really care if Marlene knew her exam results? So she crossed the room and tugged open the top drawer of her dresser. The envelope with her O.W.L. scores sat atop a mess of old Prophets, and Lily tossed it unceremoniously to the other girl. “Knock yourself out.”

Marlene unfolded the parchment and examined it thoroughly, eyes flitting across the page, her heavy brow deepening as she went.

“I knew it!”

“Knew what?”

“You got an Outstanding in Potions. Of course you did. You get everything I want!”

“You…wanted an Outstanding in Potions?” Lily’s head was beating like a bass drum, and she was having a hard time keeping up. She wished she’d thought to grab a glass of water on her way back upstairs.

Marlene shoved her hand into the pocket of her robes and retrieved her own exam results, which she thrust at Lily. “I got an Acceptable. Acceptable. I can never show my face at school again. I might as well quit now, move to Australia, and start farming Billywigs!”

“Well, sure. I hear there’s good money in Billywig farming,” said Lily vaguely as she perused the parchment. “Marlene, you got Outstandings in almost everything else. You did really well!”

“Don’t patronize me,” snapped Marlene. “Slughorn doesn’t accept students with less than an Exceeds Expectations for N.E.W.T.-level studies. My entire career is over!”

“How d’you figure that, exactly?”

“A N.E.W.T. in Potions is required for so many career paths, Lily. There’s so much I can’t do now!”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Marlene flailed for a moment. “I could never be a Healer!”

“You…want to be a Healer?” Lily tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice, but she could not quite picture Marlene McKinnon happily working with people all day long and listening to their problems.

“No,” Marlene reluctantly admitted after a moment, “but now I can’t!”

The girl was so distraught that Lily actually felt bad for her — but her sympathy stuttered as she recalled the legislation in process that would effectively bar people like Lily from so many career paths, despite their Outstanding O.W.L. scores, simply based on blood status alone. Pure-blood Marlene McKinnon would never have to worry about that.

“You’re being silly,” Lily told her bluntly. “One class isn’t going to ruin your life.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You have no idea — you don’t bear the same burden of expectation.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have no idea what it feels like not to live up to your family’s expectations!”

Lily actually laughed. “Right, because the first thing my mum said when I popped out of the womb was, ‘Gosh, sure hope this one grows up to be a witch.’”

“Exactly!” said Marlene. “Your parents would’ve been perfectly happy if you’d grown up to do nothing more than work in some greasy chip shop!”

There was a pause. Lily crossed her arms, but she did not say anything. She just let Marlene stand there and simmer in the silence of the room as her nasty words bounced around and came back to her. Marlene at least had the decency to look somewhat uncomfortable. The pause lengthened, until at last Marlene admitted: “That was mean.”

“Yeah,” agreed Lily, arms still knitted against her chest. “It was.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Okay.”

Marlene dropped down on Lily’s bed with a despondent flop. “It’s just…nothing is going the way it’s supposed to. I work so, so hard, but no matter what I do, it’s never good enough!”

Marlene looked so desperate that Lily’s sympathy stirred again. She sat down beside her classmate. “Good enough for who, Marlene? Your parents? Or you?”

“What difference does that make?”

“All the difference in the world. If you can’t distinguish what you want, you’ll never be happy.”

Lily thought this was rather good advice for someone whose hungover brain was currently the equivalent of a construction site in central London during rush hour, but Marlene scoffed. “I’m not trying to be happy. I’m trying to be successful.”

Lily let out a humorless laugh and fell back on the rumpled bedsheets. “Well, let me know how that works out for you.”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Be so…so damn perfect all the time?”

At this, Lily pushed herself up onto her elbows and stared at the other girl with sheer incredulity. “I am not perfect, Marlene.”

“Rubbish,” said Marlene. “You’re a prefect, you get top grades, Outstandings in everything, Slughorn adores you—”

“In case you need to be reminded, I am currently nursing a raging hangover, about which I am later going to lie to my father — which is basically like lying to God, by the way. I’m pretty sure my blouse is on inside-out, I did something last night that I don’t yet know how to feel about, and in a month and a half I am going to start my sixth year of school with a grand total of zero friends. So, yeah. I’m doing great, Marlene. Just perfect.”

Marlene stared at her knees for a moment, and the two girls sat in silence, each plumbing the depths of their own woes. Then Marlene muttered: “At least you got an Outstanding in Potions.”

Marlene did not stay long after that, though Lily forced her to wait in the bedroom while she brushed her teeth, so that her father would not smell the liquor on her breath as she returned downstairs to escort Marlene out.

“How did you get here, anyway?” Lily asked as they descended the stairs. “Did you take the Knight Bus?”

Marlene pulled a derisive grimace. “Merlin, no, I won’t travel on that horrid thing. My father’s the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation, Lily. I took a Portkey.” She said this as though it was the most natural thing, and then she withdrew a slightly bent, rusted spoon from the depths of her pocket. She looked up at Lily with a strange, almost defiant look on her face.

“Thanks for telling me the truth about your O.W.L.s,” she said, and then Marlene tapped the Portkey twice with her wand, and she was gone. Lily lingered in the entryway for a moment, reflecting on how different their lives were, that Marlene could simply produce a Portkey from her pocket without any hassle or consequence. She supposed when your father was the Head of the department you could do as you pleased, but Lily herself was barred from any magic at all until she turned seventeen. It was unfair, but add it to the list of the many inequities she faced compared to her pure-blood peers. She sighed and turned away from the stairs to see her father leaning against the jamb of the door that led to his study.

“Gone so soon?”

“Marlene is…direct,” said Lily. “She doesn’t waste time getting to the point.”

“I got that impression. She didn’t seem very happy.”

“She’s stressed about our exam results. Wanted to know how I did.” At the arch of her father’s inquisitive eyebrow, Lily reluctantly added: “The results came in the mail earlier this week.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” said her father, and though his tone was not accusatory, Lily felt a burst of guilt.

“Didn’t I?” she said lightly, not quite catching his eye. “Oh, I thought I did.” When did she start lying to her father so much? And why was it so easy?

“Well, how did you do?”

“I did well. Quite well, actually.”

“That’s wonderful news! We should celebrate. Susanne was going to come for dinner tonight, perhaps we should make something special in your honor.”

“Yeah,” murmured Lily, who at the moment would rather do just about anything else.

Her father eyed her shrewdly. “You don’t seem very happy either.”

“I’m just tired. Work has been busy lately. I’m going to make a pot of tea, would you like some?”

Without waiting for an answer, she strode past him towards the kitchen, put on the kettle, and collapsed into a chair at the scrubbed wooden table, pressing her forehead to her elbow. The hangover was indeed merciless, but it was by no means the only reason for her nagging discontent.

‘Susanne’ was Mrs. Colfield, a recently widowed congregant and avid pursuer of George Evans’ affections. Petunia had been the one to push the match. Mrs. Colfield this, Mrs. Colfield that. Hasn’t dear, sweet Mrs. Colfield been such a help these past few months? Isn’t her berry pavlova just divine?

Petunia couldn’t bear to see their father without a wife, as he had been since the untimely death of their mother two years prior. Lily knew she should be supportive, if it made her father happy, but she couldn’t quite manage it. Every casserole Mrs. Colfield brought by and heated up in their oven felt like an insult to the memory of Anthea Evans, Lily’s wonderful mother, who as far as Lily was concerned, still lived in these walls, was still loved here. Not to be replaced by some lascivious ‘Susanne’ from the back pew of the church.

“You can’t expect Dad to be alone forever, just because you don’t want to face reality,” Petunia had snapped at Lily one evening shortly before her departure to London for the typing course. “It’s all very well for you to go off to your freak school all year long and leave Dad alone, but I can’t stay here forever to take care of him. Mrs. Colfield is a good thing, and you’d see that if you weren’t so selfish.”

Though Lily chafed at the suggestion that a man must have a woman to look after him, it was true that their father was lonely and that Petunia possessed something resembling a point. So she kept her mouth shut whenever her father brought up sweet, kind ‘Susanne’, ate her shepherd’s pie with a polite, only-slightly-stiff smile, and whenever the other woman was around, Lily pretended like she went to a normal boarding school in Scotland for normal, non-freakish people. Some days it felt like all she did anymore was pretend, even in her own home. Maybe that’s why it was so easy to lie to her father. She’d had plenty of practice.

The kettle interrupted this lament with a vicious shriek. Lily groaned and stood to assemble the teapot. While it brewed, she poured herself a glass of water, chugged it, then rummaged around the pantry until she found a packet of slightly crumbled biscuits, a few of which she shoved unceremoniously into her mouth. Her monstrous hangover at least mildly appeased, she headed back down the hall, a tea-laden tray in hand.

Her father’s study was a cluttered little room, most of which was taken up by an enormous desk, piled to near capacity with haphazardly-opened books and crooked stacks of papers. Their little row house was owned by the church; the old vicarage had burned down some forty odd years ago and no one ever bothered to replace it. There wasn’t much money, so there wasn’t much house. George Evans never complained about the limits of the makeshift vicarage, nor the fact that his colleagues in other parishes likely had finer, roomier residences. That wasn’t his style. He filled the tiny study with books and photographs and memorabilia, and then he got to work.

Which was how she found him today as she lingered at the threshold, watching fondly. He was bent over his desk, no doubt working on tomorrow’s sermon. Her eyes fell upon the Bible open before him, its edges bristling with little notes and bookmarks like some strange, spiky animal. She used to run her hands over them as a child, laughing at the tickle of paper.

It was strange how disconnected she felt from something so fundamental to her father’s life. Lily did not consider herself religious, though she’d never dare admit it to her father. She hadn’t always felt that way, of course. Once upon a time, she too had taken comfort in the words her father spoke each Sunday, but they had lost their luster as the years went on, as Petunia hissed beside her in the pew that she was an abomination, that the vicar’s daughter being a witch was a disgrace…and then her mother’s illness snuck up on them all and stole her away, and Lily knew that if there was a God, he was no friend of hers…

Suddenly, Lily found herself thinking of Marlene’s laughable assertion that Lily had no idea what it felt like not to live up to her family’s expectations. She pushed aside a stack of books and set the tea tray down on the sole empty corner of the desk.

“Daddy,” she said, and her father looked up from his Bible, smiling. “Do you ever wish that I wasn’t…that I was different from the way I am?”

Her father frowned “The way you are?”

“You know. Magic.”

“Now why would I wish a thing like that?”

Lily sipped her tea and gazed around at the books that lined the walls, the desk, the floor. “It can’t be easy for you, having a witch for a daughter.”

“Nonsense,” said her father, busying himself with the teapot.

“And the Bible has some pretty choice words about witchcraft and the suffering of it. ‘Thou shalt not,’ I think it says.”

Her father poured a blossom of milk into his tea and gave it a little stir. “The Bible also suggests that shellfish is an abomination, but your mother used to make a very nice prawn cocktail of which I remain dearly fond.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “Daddy. I’m being serious.”

“As am I.” He took a sip of the tea and regarded his youngest daughter with a gentle gaze. His pastoral gaze, Lily would’ve called it in other circumstances. “The way I see it,” he said, “‘magic’ is just another word for miracle. And you, my darling daughter, have always been a miracle.” He patted her arm. “So no more of this sorrow. Remember your Romans 9:20.”

“Remind me.”

“'But who are you, O man, to answer back to God? Will what is molded say to its molder, ‘Why have you made me like this?’ You are a gift, my love, just the way you are. Never doubt it.”

A bubble of emotion caught in Lily’s throat, heavy and thick. She leaned down and kissed her father on the forehead. “Back to work with you,” she said softly, and she took the tray back to the kitchen, snatched the remaining biscuits, and headed upstairs to her bedroom, where she proceeded to devour every last crumb. But all the biscuits in the world couldn’t cure the gnawing sense of unease that harangued her and had nothing to do with the hangover.

The letter with her exam scores still sat abandoned on the bed where Marlene had left it. She glowered at it for a moment, the useless O’s glaring back at her like widened eyes. Lily snatched up the parchment and carried it over to the dresser heavily, as though it weighed far more than a mere slip of paper. She didn’t want to stare at it and all its depressing implications any longer. But as the parchment fluttered into the drawer, her gaze lingered over the mess of Daily Prophets, and her stomach sank further still. She kept them locked away in this drawer so that her father wouldn’t stumble upon them by mistake. She didn’t want him to know what was going on in the Wizarding world. How bad things had gotten.

For it was bad. Every new issue of the Prophet that arrived told the tale of some fresh calamity, a few of which actually made the Muggle news. Each night as Lily sat down to listen to the evening newscast with her father, she pricked her ears for tales of Muggle woe and wondered if it really had been a mine explosion, a car bomb, a freak storm in the south. She suspected not — and often, when the next issue of the Daily Prophet arrived, her suspicions were proven prescient.

But George Evans knew nothing of Death Eaters. He knew nothing of the discrimination Lily faced at school, of the relentless belittling and bullying, the slurs, the suggestions, the legislation in progress to strip away her rights. He knew nothing of Dark Magic, or Dark Lords, or the specter of You-Know-Who that haunted the edges of the Wizarding world’s hushed conversations…

He knew nothing because Lily kept it all from him. She didn’t want him to worry. He’d spent her whole childhood worrying about his strange daughter and her strange abilities. She remembered quite clearly the relief on her parents’ faces when they realized their freak daughter had a place in the world. That she belonged somewhere, even if it wasn’t with them. It would break her father’s heart to know how wrong they’d been.

She’d never tell him, no matter how much she sometimes wished to cry on his shoulder. She could take it. She was strong.

She went to close the drawer, but her fingers hesitated on the handle as she noticed Mary’s letter amidst the pile of papers. She’d read it a hundred times, but still she reached over almost automatically and unfolded the parchment.

Dearest Lily,

Well, I’ve made it to the good old U.S. of A. I was so hoping I’d get to see you before I left, but Dad had everything organized as soon as I got off the train. I was barely home for two days before he enacted his grand plan. He sent me and my mum ahead and he’s going to join once he tidies matters up in London. There was some issue with the bank, I don’t know the details.

Anyway, I’m in Boston, staying with my cousins for now. We flew on an actual plane and everything, it was wild. One more year at Hogwarts and I’d be able to apparate. Maybe I can find some way to get my license over here, I don’t know. I can’t worry about that now.

Mum wants me to enroll at University. Something to do, she says. A way to meet new people. I don’t want to meet new people. I want to go home. If I have to enroll, I think I’ll take an English course. I already speak the language, how hard can it be?

I had to send this via Muggle post, so hopefully it won’t take ages to get to you. Write back if you can. I miss you. Dad forbade me from getting the Daily Prophet or anything that might out me as a witch, so I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m worried. Please stay safe, and please write me.

Love,
Mary

Feeling unbearably sad, Lily dropped the letter back among the old newspapers and shut the drawer. Then she crawled under her tousled sheets and placed a pillow over her eyes, willing herself not to think about Mary, not to think about Marlene, and not to think about the details of the night before. She didn’t know how long she lay there like this, but eventually a faint tapping interrupted her not-quite-nap. She sat up with the groggy, disorienting sense of one who has briefly fallen out of space and time, then turned to the window to see an owl peering through the glass, a newspaper clutched in its beak. It looked faintly irritated, to the extent avian irritation can be expressed. No doubt it had attempted to deliver the newspaper earlier this morning, only to be thwarted by Lily’s coma-like slumber. She pried open the window and the owl promptly dropped the paper before her and gave its feathers an indignant ruffle before swooping off again.

“Good day to you too,” Lily muttered. It was a nice sunny afternoon, so she left the window open and settled back into bed with the latest edition of the Daily Prophet. But as she unfolded the newspaper and smoothed out the pages over her knees, her heart sank in familiar despair.

TERROR ON THE THAMES, shrieked the headline.

Below, the front page was dominated by a large photograph of the London skyline — and tattooed against the heavens of that photograph was a constellation of glittering green stars, hovering ghost-like above the city. They formed the shape of a skull, a snaking, serpent tongue emerging from its cadaverous mouth. Lily stared at it in sickly recognition, this symbol she'd only ever seen as graffiti on a wall, scratched in a toilet stall, or scrawled on a slip of parchment stuffed into her bag.

The Dark Mark.

Chapter Text

Regulus

Number Two

Fog clung to the trees like dew to grass across the vast, green grounds of Black Hall. It had stormed the night before, and all was awash with that damp softness that was particular to the English countryside after a good long rain. The house itself sat veiled behind a cloud of morning mist, the clean lines of its grand Palladian front lost in the haze, its many Venetian windows a mere glimmer in the murky distance. The forest that lined the great house’s grounds sagged with rain, and all was quiet save the faint chatter of birds and the gentle breeze that coaxed raindrops from trees.

Then — a thunder of hooves burst forth across this quiet scene, mud splattering the white hocks of the Aethonan to whom the hooves belonged. It was an enormous, elegant beast with a gleaming chestnut coat and two wide, wondrous wings that beat the air as it galloped across the dewy landscape. Atop this beast rode Regulus Black, his slight frame thrust forward in pursuit, a look of furious concentration, almost desperation upon his face. He jammed his heel into the side of his mount, urging the beast to go skyward, so that perhaps he would catch up…but the Aethonan denied him, thundering stubbornly on across the forest floor.

He couldn’t get the damned thing to fly. It was a winged horse, for the love of Merlin, it was supposed to fly.

A crup’s bark echoed in the distance; something stirred in the undergrowth, and then the Aethonan spooked. Its canter stuttered to an abrupt halt, its great wings flapped violently on either side — the beast reared up in terror — and Regulus was thrown from his mount, landing on his back in the soft, viscous mud. He lay there unmoving for a moment, heaving a deep, defeated groan as he gazed up through the canopy of leaves at the gray morning sky, wishing he was anywhere else, as he had done all morning long…

A gloved hand and a riding crop appeared before him.

“What-ho, number two!” said the plummy tenor of his Uncle Alphard. “I see Bucephalus has felled you.”

The stables at Black Hall were warm and gloomy in that faint dung-and-leather-scented way that horse people seemed to like. Regulus was not one such horse person. He would have been much happier inside, stowed away in the library perhaps, as he had spent all of last summer at Black Hall. But much had changed since last summer, and so here Regulus stood in the muck-filled stables, aching and muddy, struggling to unsaddle his horse.

Uncle Alphard insisted that a good horseman should be able to handle his own tack, rather than merely handing the beast off to the stable-elves. It was perhaps the only unpretentious thing about his uncle, and Regulus might have respected it had it not meant that he himself was currently burdened with the onerous task. As he endeavored fruitlessly to unstrap the girth amid Bucephalus’s occasional snorts and stomps, Regulus briefly considered abandoning the task and telling the Aethonan to go back to hell, where it so clearly belonged.

But he needed to make a good impression; his mother had been quite clear on that point. She had sent him here for the sole purpose of currying his uncle’s favor. Now that Sirius had been banished and Regulus was to be the rightful heir, it was important that he get Uncle Alphard on his side — or so his mother had insisted. Regulus suspected this was an uphill battle: Uncle Alphard had always been inexplicably fond of Sirius and thought very little of the younger brother, the spare.

“I was most surprised when your mother Flooed and said you wished to go hunting,” said Uncle Alphard conversationally, his own horse fully unsaddled. “It was your brother who was always the athletic one.”

“I’m on the Slytherin Quidditch team,” said Regulus, giving the girth another tug and narrowly avoiding being smacked in the face by a great feathery wing. Uncle Alphard peered at him; Regulus looked at the stable floor. 

“Yes,” said Alphard, “I did hear something about that. Which position?” 

“S-Seeker.”

Bucephalus gave a petulant little kick that Regulus barely skirted.

“Ah, that’s right,” nodded Alphard. “That’s where the small and skinny ones go.” He paused to take a healthy pinch of snuff, spluttering slightly as he inhaled. The noise seemed to spook the infernal Aethonan.

“Easy, Bucephalus, easy,” his uncle soothed, stroking the winged horse’s neck. Then he returned his attention to his nephew, who was now struggling under the weight of the saddle. After a moment’s consideration, Alphard gave his wand a lazy little flick, and the saddle soared across the stable to its stand. Somehow, this assistance made Regulus feel even worse.

Last summer, when he and Sirius had been exiled to Black Hall together (‘exiled’ being Sirius’s word, of course), his brother had spent all his spare time here, sulking in the hot gloom of the stable. Regulus was not sure why, really, and when he had asked, Sirius had mockingly replied that if he was going to be forced to spend all his time wading through shit, he’d rather do it among horses than people. Typical Sirius response, but Regulus did not think that was really it. He had seen Sirius quietly stroking the horses, talking to them, sneaking the beasts sugar cubes when the stable-elves weren’t looking. He liked the horses, that much was clear. For all his insistence otherwise, Sirius really did make a fine aristocrat.

But then Regulus had made the mistake of mentioning it to Narcissa, who had promptly told Uncle Alphard, who had been utterly charmed by the notion and insisted that Sirius go hunting with him. Sirius had done so, for lack of any real choice, and he hadn’t fallen off his mount. Nor had he ever forgiven Regulus for betraying his secret hideout.

Their horses successfully unsaddled, uncle and nephew began their trot back towards the house, a small pack of crups yapping and biting at their heels as they proceeded across the grounds. Black Hall loomed in the distance, stark and gleaming as sunlight pierced through the fading fog.

“How is Wally’s formidable first-born, the banished Black brother?” asked Uncle Alphard, chuckling heartily at his own alliteration.

“I wouldn’t know,” replied Regulus stiffly. “Mother has forbidden me — all of us — from c-c-com—”

Uncle Alphard gave an impatient wave of his riding crop. “Get your words out, boy.”

“C-communicating with him,” finished Regulus, furious with himself. His words always seemed to get stuck on the way out; they always had, but it was worse around his Uncle Alphard.

“Yes,” said Alphard in a bored voice. “That does sound like my sister. But if I know my nephew, a little thing like his mother’s forbidding won’t stand in his way.”

Regulus hesitated, unsure if the ‘nephew’ his uncle referred to was meant to be him or his brother. “You mean Sirius?”

“Naturally.”

Regulus felt his expression tighten. “I don’t think he has much interest in speaking to any of us, either.”

He wouldn’t have run away like that if he had, thought Regulus to himself.

Uncle Alphard let out a sigh. “Pity,” he said. “I do so enjoy his prattle. A frightful heretic, of course, but never dull. These days, everything around here is so bloody dull. All anyone talks about is sweet Cissy’s impending nuptials, looming over us all like some ghastly taffeta specter…ah, speak of the devil.”

Regulus looked up as they approached the west entrance of Black Hall to find Narcissa sitting prettily on a bench near the rose garden, her blonde hair shaded by a lacy parasol, which she twirled lightly in her hand as she stood to greet them.

“I hope you don’t mean me, dear Uncle,” she said sweetly. “I should hate to be anyone’s devil.”

“Lucifer was an angel, darling,” was Uncle Alphard’s acerbic retort.

“Beastly man,” said Narcissa, swatting her uncle’s arm with an indulgent smile on her face. “A good day’s hunt?”

Alphard let out a derisive snort. “I’m not sure I’d be quite so generous.”

Regulus’s cheeks burned pink. He noticed Narcissa’s eyes dart over to him, but she said nothing further on the subject.

“And where are you off to, Cissy darling?” drawled Alphard. “Don’t you have to go sit through another round of robe fittings or some other monstrous nuptial nonsense?”

“Actually, Uncle, I was hoping to have a little chat with dear Reggie.”

“Come now, Cissy, the boy doesn’t want to spend all his hours listening to women’s gossip.”

Narcissa let out a tinkling laugh. “Reggie is a good sport. I’m sure he can suffer a few moments with his cousin, woman though she may be.”

“Well, don’t talk his ear off about flowers and veils,” said Uncle Alphard with a careless twirl of his riding crop. “It’s not good for a young lad.”

Narcissa laughed again, but as their uncle sauntered off towards the house, Regulus noticed she watched him go with a sharp, calculating gaze. Then she looped her arm through his own and said brightly, “Shall we take a turn around the west garden? It’s oh so very pretty this time of year.”

Regulus agreed and the pair strolled off towards the tall, architectural hedges of the west garden. Once they were safely ensconced behind the walls of green boxwood, Narcissa said, “You mustn’t let Uncle upset you, darling. He’s always been a rather…difficult man. A slightly troublesome sense of humor.” She paused. “That’s why we love him, of course.”

She was the only who did that, thought Regulus. Every member of the Black family pretended to like Uncle Alphard to his face — he held the keys to the coffer, after all — but Narcissa was the only one who kept up the pretense in private. He wondered why she bothered. Perhaps it was easier that way.

Narcissa, heedless of Regulus’s private reflections, paused by a rosebush and leaned in to inhale its soft fragrance, the diamond on her finger glinting in the sun as she delicately clasped the rose’s stem, fingers pressed between thorns.

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a horseman,” offered Regulus, who realized he had not said much so far on their walk. Narcissa never chided him for his reticence, though. He appreciated that about her. He appreciated a lot about her, as a matter of fact.

“Nonsense,” said Narcissa, releasing the rose and turning back to face her youngest cousin. “You just need more practice, that’s all. Winged horses are a slightly different handle to a broomstick, but from what Rabastan tells me, you’re an absolutely phenomenal flier.” She was very good at that, at steering a conversation down a more pleasant avenue. “I’d so love to see you play,” she went on, giving his arm an affectionate squeeze. “Perhaps Lucius and I can make it to a match sometime this year. What do you think?”

Regulus thought about it and realized the idea made him feel rather nice. “I’d like that,” he said, and he meant it. 

Narcissa beamed. “Then it’s done.”

They strolled quietly past the sharply-edged flowerbeds filled with chrysanthemums and dahlias. As they reached the center of the garden where a large marble statue of a wizard holding a twisting serpent stood proudly at attention, Narcissa stopped.

“Actually, Reggie, this year is what I wanted to talk to you about, specifically.”

She paused, and Regulus simply waited. He was never one to inject needless chatter into a conversation.

Narcissa appeared to consider her words carefully, then went on. “Things will be different for you this year, Reggie, now that Sirius has been officially disinherited and you are the sole heir of the Black estate.”

This was true; Regulus remembered how his mother had needled Uncle Alphard to update his will as soon as possible, to completely strike Sirius from its pages, to tidy things up, eradicate the errant Black brother as thoroughly as her wand had burned him off the family tree.

“You may notice people treat you differently at school. You will be more visible, more…talked about. It can be a burden, darling. I know Sirius struggled with it at times.”

Regulus’s face hardened at yet another reference to his brother. It was hard enough being the second heir to the Black family without having to constantly live in the ever-lingering shadow of its first.

Narcissa was watching him closely. “I know it must be hard for you, Sirius just leaving like that.”

“It’s fine,” said Regulus tersely.

“It’s not fine. We both know it’s not. When Andy ran off with that Mudblood…” Her expression grew distant, sorrowful. She sighed. “It was a betrayal, and it hurt. You were too young to remember, perhaps, but—”

“I was ten years old,” interjected Regulus. “I was hardly an infant. I remember.” Then, almost defiantly, he added: “I loved Andy.”

“As did I,” said Narcissa. “And believe it or not, I loved your brother as well. I know you did too.”

Regulus kicked at the dirt, scuffing up the clean lines of the flowerbeds. “Joke’s on us then, isn’t it?” he said, glowering at the earth. “Because Sirius didn’t care about either of us at all. He made that c-crystal clear.” He could feel Narcissa’s eyes upon his burning cheeks, but he did not look up.

“Yes, I suppose he did,” Narcissa agreed sadly. “But you still have family who love you, Reggie. And there is nothing more important than family. Nothing. That’s what Sirius forgot, and that’s what I want you to remember this year — to remember always. Nothing is more important than family. Sometimes it requires…sacrifice, but it’s always worth it. Family is always worth the sacrifice.”

Then she squeezed his hand and led him out of the garden.

Regulus was relieved to learn that he was not obligated to stay for dinner. Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella were dining with the Rosiers and Narcissa had been invited to a party at Malfoy Manor, which meant his sole companion for a meal at Black Hall would be Uncle Alphard — and neither Regulus nor his uncle relished that idea.

Narcissa escorted him to the entrance chamber where two looming fireplaces flanked the doors, heavily watched over by a large portrait gallery. Every member of the Black family had their portrait done when they came of age so that a whole crowd of haughty, handsome faces peered down at him. It suddenly occurred to Regulus that Sirius would never have his portrait on this wall. He didn’t know why he thought of that. He didn’t know why he cared.

“One of these days we’ll get you over to Malfoy Manor for a little party,” Narcissa was saying. Regulus pulled his gaze from the portraits and turned back to his cousin, who seemed to be anxious that he was feeling slighted or lonely. This was very far from the case; if anything, the predominate emotion Regulus felt as he approached the fireplace was sheer relief. “I’d invite you tonight,” she went on, “but it’s all our old school friends, you wouldn’t have any fun.”

“That’s all right, Cissy.”

“We’ll plan a little soirée later in the summer, what do you think? We can invite some of your fellow Slytherins. I do so want you and Lucius to spend time together. I think you’ll be the greatest of friends.”

Regulus feigned enthusiasm for this plan and allowed his cousin to kiss him lightly on each cheek before he reached across to select a pinch of Floo powder from a polished silver urn on the mantel. “Grimmauld Place,” he said, and tongues of cool green flame flickered around his body as he stepped through the grate and went spinning back home.

He arrived in his own cavernous kitchen a few moments later on somewhat unsteady feet. He’d never been very good at Floo powder. Steadying himself and taking a quick moment to dust the ash from his robes, Regulus looked up to find that his sudden arrival had sent poor Kreacher into a tizzy.

“Kreacher is deeply sorry, sir,” the house elf croaked, wringing his wrinkled hands together in a fit of penitence. “Kreacher did not realize young master Regulus would be dining at Grimmauld Place this evening. Mister Black is dining out and Mistress Black has requested dinner sent up to her room so Kreacher has not yet set the dining room—”

“There’s no need, Kreacher,” Regulus interrupted, gently pushing past the anxious elf on his way to the stone stairs that led to the rest of the house. “I’ll just eat down here. Please don’t go to any great trouble, I’ll be quite happy with just an egg and my book.”

But of course, not a moment after Regulus had retrieved said book and returned to the kitchens, Kreacher was presenting him with a beautiful little fillet of fish with parsley sauce, a lovely assemblage of vegetables, fresh bread, and a single soft-boiled egg, “as Master Regulus requested.” The egg looked rather silly there, perched in its cup amongst the rest of the feast, but Regulus thanked the elf with a smile and settled down to his dinner at the end of the long, wooden table, relieved to be in his comfort zone at last. 

He ate his meal with the quiet content of one who knew he would not be interrupted. His father was dining out, which meant he would not return until late, if at all. His mother had requested her meal sent to her room (her lair, Sirius had always called it), which meant she had retired for the evening. The house was his, empty but for the industrious patter of elf feet.

And yet — it did not feel empty. It never did anymore, not properly, even though it absolutely should. It should feel emptier than it ever had, but Regulus was being haunted. Every corner of Grimmauld Place was crammed with memory. How strange that even now, even as he hadn’t spoken to his brother for over six months, Regulus could still hear Sirius’s voice, chastising him from the top of the stone stairs: “Why do you always hide down here in the kitchens, Reggie? It’s so dank and depressing.”

But Regulus didn’t find it depressing at all. In a way, it was his own personal refuge. He’d always preferred the kitchens to the rest of the house; it was safe down here. Everywhere else was fraught with danger. Dinner with his parents was a complicated ordeal of etiquette, of following the correct rules, of saying the correct things…and Regulus always seemed to fail the test. No matter how careful and exacting he was, a crystal goblet would slip from his small childish hands and his mother would rage. Over the years, Regulus had learned to navigate his mother’s moods like a turbulent sea, clinging to his own wrecked ship, bobbing at the hull. Sometimes one preferred to simply stay on dry land.

Down here it was quiet, so long as you ignored the clatter of pots and pans, which Regulus found easy enough to do. Few other members of the House of Black had much cause to venture down to the kitchens, except occasionally to use the Floo, so most of the time it was just him and Kreacher.

“And with that crotchety old elf hovering over you all the time…”

Sirius disdained their house elf, but Regulus had always found Kreacher to be fine company. Indeed, the elf doted on him, slipping him sweets between meals, never once berating him for talking too much or too little. Regulus did not merely tolerate Kreacher. He liked him. Sirius had always found this fondness rather pathetic, a quirk worthy of ridicule like his stutter.

“Really, Reggie, you’ve been at Hogwarts a whole year. Can’t you find some human friends that’ll take you?”

Regulus had never been able to make Sirius understand that Kreacher wasn’t his friend. He was more than that. He was family.

But then, Sirius had never understood about family. He’d made that clear.

In a way, Regulus felt it made sense that he was most comfortable down here in the kitchens below everyone else. Hadn’t that always been his place? The Black brothers had of course been raised to understand their station in life — they were at the top, and everyone else beneath them — but within the Black family itself, Regulus was fairly certain he ranked at the lowest rung.  

Indeed, most of Regulus’s life had been determined by his status as second son. The spare. Number two. He was an irrelevance. An insurance policy. Sirius had always been the important one, the heir to the Black family fortune, handsome and clever and talented. Everyone had always fallen all over themselves to tell their mother how brilliant Sirius was. Their mother had delighted in it, too. When his brother had been seven, a governess decided he showed remarkable musical talent, and thus an unending stream of tutors flowed through Grimmauld Place, each determined to train their stubborn little prodigy. 

Regulus had had a few exploratory lessons himself, but it was quickly determined that he lacked the natural talent of his older brother — and besides, he had other obligations. His mother had been determined to stamp out his infernal stutter, and so while Sirius labored over the violin, Regulus was subjected to specialist after specialist, charming and coaxing his tongue to speak more clearly, more confidently, more like a proper Black — but nothing worked. The more they poked and prodded him, the worse the stutter became, until Regulus felt the best solution was simply to stop talking, to just…disappear.

Once released from the clutches of the specialists, Regulus would descend to the safety of the kitchens, where he’d sit and practice reading poetry aloud to Kreacher. One of the specialists insisted this would help soothe his stubborn tongue. His mother had been dismissive of this overtly unmagical solution, but she’d ordered Regulus to try regardless. His stutter, she reminded him at every opportunity, was a disgrace to be destroyed, by any means necessary.

So he’d sit there at the long, wooden table, bent over his book, reciting sonnets as Kreacher scurried about, while the dulcet notes of The Warlock’s Revenge echoed from the piano several floors above. 

How strange to think he’d never hear Sirius play that song again.

His meal complete, Regulus thanked Kreacher and climbed the stairs to the main landing. Up here, the ghosts were louder still.

“Sirius, please…”

“I tried all right? I can’t stay here.”

How many times had Regulus replayed that fateful Christmas Eve over and over again, counting all the things he’d done wrong? If he hadn’t convinced Sirius to come home for the holiday, if he hadn’t let him get so drunk, if he hadn’t lead him over to Lucius Malfoy of all people…

It was no good. He couldn’t undo any of it. Sirius was gone.

And yet, the memory played on. He could close his eyes and replay it perfectly, scene by scene…

“BURN IN HELL, YOU EVIL TWAT!”

Silence rung like the shattering of glass through the shocked hall as Sirius was shoved through the fireplace by his mother. Regulus stood frozen amidst the stunned, gawking party-goers of Black Hall…and then, all at once, chatter broke out, nervous laughter, the musicians resumed their play, and the party went on. If anything, Regulus thought the party guests seemed ever more cheered by this interlude. Why shouldn’t they? Moments before they had simply been attending the social event of the season, but now they had front row seats to the social faux-pas of the century. Sirius Black, heir to the most important pure-blood family in Britain, had just punched Lucius Malfoy in the face and been forced out of the party, shrieking obscenities…what fun, what absolute delightful gossip…

Narcissa was still kneeling on the floor beside her fiancé, sobbing as she dabbed a handkerchief at his broken nose. The nose that Sirius had just broken. “Oh, my poor darling, my darling…”

“Dear Merlin,” exclaimed Abraxas Malfoy, his voice heavy with disgust. “That is your heir?”

“The one and only,” was Uncle Alphard’s cheerful reply. “Charming lad, isn’t he?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus saw his father extricate himself from Aunt Druella and storm across the room. His expression was dark and determined. Regulus knew what that look meant, and he knew he did not want to be in Grimmauld Place when his father arrived.

So Regulus did what he’d learned to do long ago: He disappeared. 

At first he found a corner in the main hall where he could loiter quietly and comfortably out of sight, watching the slow rotation of the enormous fir tree that had been levitated in the center of the hall. The twirl of its glittering garlands in the candlelight made Regulus feel slightly nauseous. All around him the cream of the pure-blood crop schmoozed and gossiped just as before — except now, he knew, they were all gossiping about his brother.

He slipped away deeper into the house until he found the library, a handsome room of dark wood and Dark books. He dropped himself onto the leather chesterfield couch and buried his face in his hands. What an absolute disaster. His mind churned over all the evening’s dramatic events. Sirius had vanished early on in the party, abandoning Regulus to face the overwhelming swells of conversation and social graces alone. When Regulus had at last found his brother again, Sirius had been shamefully drunk with something foul akin to vomit on the hem of his robes. Regulus had done his best to salvage the night, he’d tried to sober him up, tried to make a good show of it…but it had been no use. Sirius had been determined to cause a scene, and a scene he caused.

“Reggie?”

He looked up. The library door creaked open and there was Narcissa. Her eyes were still rimmed with pink but she was no longer crying. Her expression was gentle yet stoic.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” 

“How’s Lucius’s nose?” asked Regulus, guilt coloring his cheeks.

“All healed,” said Narcissa softly as she sat down beside him. “No harm done.” She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “And how are you, darling?”

Regulus stared at his hands. “I tried.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Everyone wanted me to get him to c-c-come home, to fix things, and I tried—”

“You did get him to come home, Reggie love. You did marvelously. None of this is your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have let him get so drunk, I shouldn’t have—”

“Look at me, Reggie,” said Narcissa firmly, tilting his chin up so he had no choice but to meet her gaze. “You are not responsible for your brother.”

Regulus was ashamed to feel his lip quiver. “But what happens now?”

Narcissa sighed and clasped his hand into her own. “I don’t know, my darling. I’m afraid your brother is very, very lost, and he does not want to be saved.”

“But we can’t give up on him!”

Narcissa said nothing for a long moment; she simply stroked his hand. Then: “I think you should be getting home now, Reggie love.”

“I don’t want to go home. Can I stay here tonight?”

“No, my darling. I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s Christmas, after all. Your parents will want you home.  Go get a good night’s sleep, and everything will feel better tomorrow, you’ll see.”

Regulus did not believe her, but there was nothing else to do so he let her guide him out through the sparkling party-lights to the entrance hall…and then he stepped through the fire to Grimmauld Place.

When he arrived off-kilter in the kitchen, Regulus knew at once that something was truly, irreparably wrong. He could hear muted shouting from above; Kreacher was hunched by the stairs, listening. His eyes widened when he saw Regulus. 

“Young master Regulus should not go up there,” croaked the elf, but Regulus pushed past him and climbed the stone stairs two at a time. 

What he found was pure chaos. His mother was screaming at his father, his father was screaming at his mother, and Sirius was cursing at them both. 

“YOU LIAR! YOU FOOL! YOU FOUL-FACED PHILANDERING—”

“Shut up, you stupid woman, shut up!”

“—HUMILATED AND DISGRACED—”

“Can’t you two work this out in couples therapy so I don’t have to fucking listen to it?”

And then his mother snatched a snuffbox from a nearby table and hurled it across the foyer. It smashed into Sirius’s head, carving a great gash that spilled a bright rivulet of blood down his brow. The room went quiet. No one had noticed Regulus yet.

Sirius touched a hand to his forehead and stared at the blood on his fingers. Only then did Regulus see the blossoming bruise along the line of his jaw.

“I’m done,” Sirius said, and he sounded almost surprised by this revelation. “I’ve had enough. I’m leaving.”

“You’re not going anywhere but to your room, you ungrateful little swine—”

But his brother sliced his wand through the air and both their parents looked up in astonishment as a small bundle came speeding down the stairs. It landed at Sirius’s feet. A knapsack. Regulus watched as his brother snatched it up and threw it over his shoulder.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I’m fucking done. I hate you all, and I’m leaving now.”

Their father whipped out his own wand, but Sirius was faster. He cast a broad, shimmering shield charm that blocked his parents from his path. Then he flung open the door.

“Sirius, don’t!”

The words were wrenched from Regulus’s throat like something strangled and panicked. The three Blacks all turned their gazes to him at once, as though seeing him for the first time. Regulus thought perhaps his mother said something, but he didn’t hear. He simply stared at his brother, eyes wide and pleading. “Please, don’t.”

Sirius hesitated, one foot over the threshold. The shield charm glimmered between them, an uncrossable barrier. “I tried, all right? I can’t stay here.”

He turned away.

“If you walk out that door,” their mother shrieked, “don’t you ever come back!”

Another step.

“Sirius, please…”

His brother looked back over his shoulder and caught Regulus’s gaze, one eye caked with blood from the dripping wound on his brow, and Regulus knew it was over.

“Take care of yourself, baby brother. And don’t — don’t be an idiot.”

And then he was gone.

Regulus had barely noticed that his feet had carried him up to the next landing, and he entered almost unthinkingly into the drawing room. Normally he would go straight to his bedroom, but he had the house to himself tonight, so it did not matter. The drawing room was dark and heavy with that undefinable air of having been long uninhabited. He suspected that his mother had remained in her bedroom all day long, curtains drawn, demanding her meals sent up to her bed. She had taken to doing that since Sirius left.

“She’s mourning,” said Narcissa.

“She’s sulking,” said Uncle Alphard.

Regulus peered around the drawing room, entreating the ghosts of memories to stay quiet. They mostly obliged, though they were there: the writing desk where his mother had composed all her furious letters to Sirius the first year he’d gone away and been sorted into Gryffindor; the glass cabinets by the mantelpiece that contained the music box Bellatrix had once convinced Regulus to open during a dinner party, so that all the guests fell asleep at the table…Sirius had taken the fall for that one, and oh he’d gotten into so much trouble…

And then the tapestry.

He crossed the room to the sprawling family tree that covered the wall floor to ceiling. He remembered how his mother had stormed up the stairs after Sirius had left, her quivering wand aimed at the spot just beside Regulus’s own name…the smell of soot and burned fabric…and then she had collapsed into a chair, sobbing.

Regulus stared at the golden threads that tied every Black to the other. His own name stood alone now. Regulus Arcturus Black. Sole heir of the Black family name and fortune. All of those glinting lines depended now on him and him alone.

Sometimes Regulus thought it would’ve been better if he’d been the one sorted into Gryffindor instead of Sirius. No one would’ve cared as much; in fact, no one would’ve even noticed. His mother wouldn’t weep for him the way she did over Sirius, locking herself up in her lair, bemoaning the loss of her beautiful, talented, brilliant son. And though the idea of being the family outcast brought him no real joy, Regulus thought perhaps he was better suited for it. Sirius was meant to be the heir, handsome and clever and…aristocratic. He didn’t fall off horses. He didn’t stutter. He was meant to be the standard-bearer for Black nobility. Regulus was the spare, the weak little boy with a stammer who no one ever noticed or cared about. How was he supposed to uphold the Black family honor? He already felt crushed under its weight.

Regulus touched a finger to the small burn mark at the end of what used to be the most important thread on that tapestry. He tried to imagine what his brother was doing right now, wherever he was. With the Potters no doubt. His chosen family. His chosen brother.

He looked away from the tapestry in frustration. This was futile, an exercise in painful pointlessness. No matter how loudly the ghosts howled, there was no changing the simple truth of the matter: Sirius was gone.

Chapter Text

JAMES

The Gift

The Quaffle whizzed past James Potter’s face, a crimson blur that strayed just a little too near the frames of his glasses. “Watch it!” he hollered across the field.

“You’re supposed to catch it, you prat,” the voice of his best friend Sirius Black called back across the wind. “How many games of Quidditch have you played?”

“I’m a little focused on keeping my balance right now.”

“Broom surfing was your idea, mate.”

“And I’m doing marvelously.”

Indeed, James was at present perched upright atop his broomstick, one foot tucked into the broom’s metal grip, the other balanced on the sleek handle of his Cleansweep Six. He hovered a few feet off the ground, arms held aloft to keep his balance.

Sirius, seated quite normally on his own broomstick, went off to retrieve the missed Quaffle then glided back over to observe his friend with a look of faintly critical amusement. “You’re putting too much weight on the tail,” he said. “Inch up your right foot a bit, and you won’t wobble so much.”

“I’m not wobbling at all,” replied James (with an indignant wobble). “Are you going to give it a go, or are you just going to loll about lobbing criticism?”

Sirius laughed and dismounted, tossing the Quaffle aside into the grass with a soft thud. While his friend was busy negotiating his way back aboard the broomstick in a vertical position, James shifted his foot about an inch away from the tail. 

“Got it,” said Sirius, annoyingly stable as he balanced on his broomstick.

“Git,” said James. “Race you?

“First one to the orchard?”

“You’re on.”

They took off. Steering a broomstick with only the weight of one’s foot was an admittedly tricky endeavor, and the boys zigzagged across the lawns of Potter House, skimming the grass, nudging the broom handle with a toe to tempt it higher. James got the hang of the thing about halfway to the grove and was picking up speed — when Sirius came careening from the right, barreling straight into him, and the two boys went tumbling off their brooms into the soft summer grass. They collapsed in a heap, laughing uproariously, the orchard still quite far away.

“I think I’m onto something with broom surfing,” said James, disentangling himself from Sirius and the twigs of his broom.

“As newly-appointed Quidditch Captain,” said Sirius, “you have the right — nay, the responsibility — to decree that all future matches be played thus.”

James snorted. They had recently received their letters from school containing their annual booklists and also, for James, the news that he had been selected as Quidditch Captain. This had softened the inevitable blow of learning that Sirius had outstripped him in O.W.L. scores.

“Well,” said James, pausing to spit out the bit of grass he’d nearly ingested, “that would be one way to set a school record. ‘Shortest run as Quidditch Captain before being ousted by his own teammates for gross irritation.’”

“It’s important to distinguish oneself.”

James laughed and lay back in the grass, arms folded beneath his neck, the hot summer sun heavy upon his skin. He listened contentedly for a moment to the drone of bees doting on the wildflowers around them, the trill of birdsong in the trees. After a moment, he said: “Hard to believe school starts next week. It’ll be good to be back in the castle.”

Sirius pulled up a fistful of grass and began to shred it. “I guess.”

“You disagree?” James turned to peer at him through the glare of sunlight on his glasses.

“Nah,” said Sirius. “I’m just not in a rush, that’s all. This summer has been…nice.”

James considered this, turning his gaze back up to a froth of clouds that drifted carelessly across the sky. He suspected he knew what Sirius was thinking. He would never have told Sirius this, for Sirius liked to think himself inscrutable, but as a matter of fact, James knew his friend rather well, like a book he’d read every day since childhood. Sirius had run away from home last Christmas, and this was the first school holiday he’d spent away from his family, completely free from their tyrannical control. And though he’d always had a bit more freedom at school, things were complicated there, as well.

Last term, a war between Gryffindor and Slytherin (a house which was mainly comprised of Sirius’s many cousins) had reached a boiling point — with disastrous fallout. As punishment for running away from home and being a so-called ‘blood traitor’, the cousins in question had used as bait Sirius’s remaining affection for his estranged younger brother and ambushed him in the dungeons. They’d hexed him half to death. Sirius in turn had taken out his rage on Severus Snape by ‘letting slip’ how to get past the Whomping Willow, an occasionally vicious tree that guarded the path to the Shrieking Shack, where their other friend Remus Lupin transformed into a werewolf once a month. It hadn’t been Sirius’s finest moment. Snape had predictably pursued the tip — on a full moon, no less — and had James not intervened, Remus would have undoubtedly killed him.

Yes, compared to the drama and despair of last term, this summer had been very nice indeed.

“Bloody shame, the full moon being the night before school starts,” said Sirius, confirming to James that they had both been traveling aboard the same train of thought. “I hate thinking of Moony alone, trapped in a cellar in Wales.”

“Yeah,” agreed James, who didn't like it either. “Won’t be long though. Then we can start implementing The Plan.”

The Plan was something James and Sirius had delighted in discussing all summer long. After years of studying and searching, trial and error — and error, and error, and a few more errors after that — James, Sirius, and even Peter had all successfully become secret Animagi last year. They’d undertaken this arduous task because their new animal forms allowed them to accompany Remus during his painful transformations each full moon. Werewolves couldn’t infect other animals, see. 

They now had four full moons under their belt as Animagi — if you didn’t count the last disastrous one (and both James and Sirius preferred to pretend it hadn’t happened, so they did not). The first two moons they’d spent trapped in the shack. It had been excruciating to watch their werewolf friend tear himself apart, and so Sirius had pushed them to break free from the confines of the shack and explore the forest. The following moons they’d spent racing through the grounds, unplanned, unmapped, merely following the whims of the wolf and doing their best to keep him in line.

This year, however, they’d mapped it out. They were going to be deliberate with their full moons, picking a different part of the Hogwarts grounds to explore each month. They’d had all summer to plot out their adventures, and the possibilities were as exciting as they were endless. James was determined to take advantage of each and every one.

All they had to do was convince Moony to go along with it once more.

Easy peasy.

After a few more calamitous attempts at broom surfing, the boys grew tired of their invented sport and made their way back to the house for lunch. James’s mum was out in the garden, pruning a spirea bush with great gusto; the cascade of white flowers fluttered in the light summer breeze. Euphemia Potter had always been quite passionate about her gardens, and though she needed their house elf’s help with some of the more arduous tasks — she wasn’t a young woman, his mum — she still preferred to spend all summer up to her elbows in mulch and muck.

“Ah, there you boys are,” said his mum as they approached, wiping the sweat from her brow with one dirt-streaked forearm. A wide-brimmed straw hat shaded the lines of her smile. “Your school books just arrived. I hope you don’t mind I went ahead and ordered them. Diagon Alley is so busy this time of year, I thought I’d save us a trip. I’ve put them in your rooms.”

“Thanks mum,” said James brightly. He knew she’d done this intentionally, so there could be no discussion or embarrassment about Sirius not being able to pay for his own supplies. When Sirius had run away from home last year, he’d also been cut off financially from his family; he had no money but the few coins he’d stuffed in his pocket before he’d left.

“Thanks, Mrs. Potter,” muttered Sirius.

“Not at all,” was his mum’s brisk reply. A quick snap of the pruners. “Pixie has sandwiches ready in the kitchen if you boys are hungry. And James — your father would like to see you.”

James blinked. “What, now?”

“After you’ve had lunch. Go on. But don’t dilly-dally around inside all day, it’s too beautiful out here to waste it.”

The boys trampled into the house and navigated their way to the kitchen, where a tray boasting a variety of sandwiches was indeed waiting for them as promised. With the kitchen’s windows flung open to make the most of the sweet summer air and a towering mound of bread, meat, and cheese before him, James brushed aside the whisper of unease his dad’s request provoked and instead happily gave himself over to a gourmand’s delight. 

“Wish he’d write back,” said Sirius about halfway through his second sandwich. James, whose thoughts had been somewhat diverted, took a moment to realize Sirius meant Remus, who had not responded to any of their letters this summer, a fact that caused Sirius increasing angst as the weeks crept on.

“He always does this,” said James bracingly, “disappears for the whole break. Personally, I think he secretly enjoys his annual stint as hermit.”

“You don’t think he’s still upset?”

“He said he wasn’t.”

Sirius made a disparaging noise and James sighed.

“Look, it’s Moony. This is what he does every summer. We’ll get one letter, maybe two if we’re lucky, and then he’ll show up in September like nothing happened.”

“Yeah, and then we have to spend the first month of school convincing him we still want to be his friend, the idiot.”

“Exactly.”

“Except this year,” muttered Sirius into his sandwich, “I think the roles may be reversed.”

James took a large bite of his own sandwich and indulged in a long, meditative chew to spare himself an answer. The truth was, he was just as worried about Remus’s silence as Sirius. Remus was not known for being a particularly reliable correspondent, but they’d never gone a whole summer without hearing from him. Over the last few weeks, James had on more than one occasion considered mounting his broomstick and simply flying to Remus’s house uninvited, Statute of Secrecy be damned. He pictured himself banging on the door until at last a bewildered Remus (barefoot and bearded, to fit his new hermit aesthetic) let him in and apologized profusely for the angst he’d caused his friends. It was a very satisfying image.

Two factors stopped James from living his dreams. The first was that he did not actually know where Remus lived. He had some notion that it was on the coast and a fuzzy recollection that the name was incomprehensible to a non-Celt such as himself, but the actual geographical location remained a mystery. This minor hindrance on its own was not enough to stop him — Wales wasn’t that big — but the second factor that held him back was somewhat more ominous. You see, he rather suspected Remus didn’t want to see him. And, loathe though he was to admit it, after the end of last term, James couldn’t entirely blame him.

He finished the crust of his sandwich, swallowed, then sighed. “It’ll be fine,” he told himself as much as Sirius. “It’s Moony.”

“Is that your professional diagnosis as a fresh new student of Muggle psychology?”

James rolled his eyes at this, as he was meant to. It was an ongoing joke that Sirius had adopted after he’d noticed James take an interest in some Muggle books he’d found in the library. Early on in the summer, you see, as their grand plan to canvas the castle grounds began to take shape, the boys had wandered into the library to see what they might find of use. The library at Potter house was as eclectic and varied as the Potters who had filled its shelves for generations. Though unfortunately no ancestor of James’s had ever possessed a passion for cartography, he did stumble upon a rather dusty section devoted to nineteenth century Muggle psychologists and philosophers. James did not know much about psychology — nor philosophy, for that matter — but he found the notion of understanding how other people’s minds worked to be a most appealing prospect indeed. He’d acquired plenty of evidence over the last year that he was particularly deficient in this department. So he’d picked up a few books for some casual reading and found it all interesting enough to carry on.

His attempts to explain this new interest to Sirius had not gone particularly well. Sirius had found it all quite amusing.

“If you’re trying to figure out girls, I can give you some much more efficient tips than psychoanalysis.”

“It has nothing to do with girls,” James had protested, and this was true, to a degree. If he were trying to understand someone of the female persuasion — which he was not — then it would most certainly be girl, singular — but as a matter of fact, he was trying really hard not to think about her this summer. And he was doing a damn good job of it, if he said so himself. He’d hardly given her even a moment's think. He had plenty of better things to occupy his mind than the inner workings of some girl who may or may not be the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen in his life, who was brilliant and witty and clever and perfect in just about every way, and who…loathed him.

Inexplicably, passionately loathed him.

Plenty of better things to occupy his mind. He had The Plan, after all, and that was so much more important. And if on occasion he slipped up and found himself obsessing over everything she’d ever said to him throughout the course of their five year acquaintance…well, that was just another thoroughly compelling reason to keep an interesting stack of books by his bed at all times. For purposes of the rare but occasionally necessary distraction. And if those obligingly distracting books happened to give him some insight into the mysteries of the human mind, well, that was just an added bonus that had absolutely nothing to do with any aspirations towards achieving the affections of any girl, singular or plural, hypothetical or…less so. 

“Are you going to psychoanalyze me?” Sirius had snarked another time, and though James had laughed this off too, secretly he didn’t think it was a terrible idea. Though he preferred not to dwell on such unpleasant matters, Sirius’s behavior at the end of last term had been…troubling. James still couldn’t fathom why he’d done what he’d done. 

The books didn’t help with that much either.

But he’d made a choice to put that all behind them, to forgive and forget and move on, and the Sirius of this summer was the boy he’d always known was there, the bright and brilliant friend who sometimes got lost under the crashing waves of his atrocious familial dramas. 

That was all a thing of the past though. This year, everything would go according to plan. 

When they finished their lunch, James padded off alone towards his father’s bedroom in the eastern wing of Potter House to hear whatever it was he wished to speak to him about. Fleamont Potter rarely left his bedroom these days. His health had always been dubious — at least so long as James had been alive — but James had been startled to discover upon arriving home for the summer holidays just how quickly his dad had declined. Now he remained mostly bedridden, save for the occasional dinners if he was feeling exceptionally well. These dinners had grown less and less frequent as the summer months chugged on.

As James climbed the narrow, carpeted stairs that led from the kitchen to the first floor, a bubble of dread expanded in his chest. He tried to suppress it, ashamed of himself, but there it was all the same. He did not like visiting his father’s bedroom. Really, it was more of a makeshift hospital room these days anyway, and being there felt…wrong. As though his presence in that room was tantamount to admitting a dangerous secret he preferred to suppress.

He reached the landing and progressed down the corridor, giving an unusual amount of time and attention to the many paintings that cluttered the walls. There was no real reason for this sudden interest in his home’s decor; he was simply stalling. Still, it amused him to pause and examine the little charcoal sketch of the folly behind the gardens, the oil painting of his great-grandfather with a really fetching monocle, the watercolor of a pretty little cottage that had belonged to some long-deceased relative James had forgotten…It was funny the way one could walk past something a hundred times and never really think about it, and yet this house and all its little details were the backdrop to the grand expanse of his childhood memories, and though he rarely paid it much attention, he knew all its pieces by heart, so that if one gilt-framed landscape disappeared from the corridor, he’d notice it, like a button missing from his cloak. 

He arrived at the door to his father’s bedroom at last. A deep breath.

It had been four years, almost to the day, that James had stood outside this very door and witnessed the moment he wasn’t meant to see. He shouldn’t have been there at all; his mother had told him to go play outside, but James could tell when adults were keeping secrets from him, and if there was one thing James Potter could not endure, it was a secret he wasn’t in on.

So he’d slipped away from Pixie’s supervision and crept back up the stairs. The bedroom door had been ajar, just enough that he could see the figures in the room. His father had been lying in bed looking frail and exhausted, his usual genial smile a hard line of resignation. The Healer, a woman in lime green robes who’d come all the way from St. Mungo’s, stood before him, a practiced, professional look of sympathy upon her face as she spoke, using words like “pain management” and “palliative care” and other complicated phrases that hadn’t meant anything to James at the time.

But James didn’t need to understand all the terminology to know what the Healer had meant. He understood his mother, seated in a chair by his father’s side, her face in her hands, sobbing.

That had been four years ago, and for a while it seemed as though his father had recovered from whatever doom had accompanied the Healer’s visit that summer day. He was generally tired, it was true, but he was old. Older than the other kids’ dads. James tried not to feel too sad or resentful about this fact — he loved this father, hero-worshipped him, even — but he couldn’t help but feel slightly cheated by the whole situation. 

For years following that day, James had never wanted anything to do with Healers or hospitals again. He’d disappear out to the back field to practice Quidditch on the days the Healer made house calls; he’d find excuses not to tag along for checkups at St. Mungo’s. He’d keep the worry at bay with the sheer force of distraction; he’d never see his mother sob like that again.

But he knew that wasn’t right. Dad always said when you fell off the broomstick, you got right back on. You faced your fears. You faced your fears straight-backed and proud — like a man.

And so James had faced them. He’d read book after book on Healing, forced himself to go to St. Mungo’s with his parents, spent hours and hours in the Hospital Wing with Remus, quite at ease. He wasn’t afraid of hospitals or Healers or any of it anymore. So why did his heart now hammer as he stood outside this door?

Another deep breath, and he put his knuckles to door and knocked. 

“Come in,” wheezed the voice of his dad.

The door swung open with the soft whine of creaking hinges to reveal the room he had for so long avoided. The very air felt still and heavy as James pressed into it, closing the door behind him. His dad was in bed, propped on a mountain of pillows, the mass of which made him look particularly small and frail. A clutter of potion bottles and various Healing accoutrements covered the table beside him. A cold cup of tea sat atop the thumbed pages of a well-worn novel. The brocade curtains were drawn tightly over the windows, presumably so the sunlight didn’t blare into his father’s eyes, but it made the whole room feel dark and claustrophobic. James didn’t like being here. It made him feel twelve again, helpless as he watched his mother weep. All at once, the walls seemed to close in on him, and for a shameful moment he had the urge to turn and flee — but of course, he did not do that.

You faced your fears.

Then his dad spoke, and the ridiculous wave of panic receded. It was just his dad. What was there to be afraid of?

“Ah, James, my dear boy. I was hoping it was you. Come, sit by me.”

James crossed the room and sat down in the chair beside his dad’s bed. “Mum said you wanted to see me.”

“Yes,” his dad wheezed. “Yes. You go back to school in just a few days’ time. Your fifth year…”

“Sixth year,” James corrected him.

“That’s right, sixth year. How time flies. It feels like only yesterday I was buying you your first wand and broomstick.”

“The latter of which got confiscated as soon as I arrived at school, as first years weren’t allowed broomsticks,” James reminded him with a grin.

“Ah well. Best intentions…” 

James winced as his father’s croaky laugh turned into a hacking cough. His whole body rattled with it as he groped at the mess atop the bedside table for a handkerchief, nearly upending the teacup in the process. When at last the coughing fit subsided and his dad removed the handkerchief from his mouth, James saw specks of dark red across the fabric. His stomach lurched.

His father tucked the handkerchief away as though nothing had happened and looked back up at his son. “I wanted to speak with you privately before you returned to school, as it may be my last chance.”

“Dad,” began James, who did not like where this little talk was going. “Don’t say—“

But his father merely raised a hand, wrinkled and stained with age spots like a map James had forgotten to memorize. “Please, my boy. Allow me this indulgence. It is very important to me.”

So James fell silent.

“Over there,” his father said, pointing at a dresser on the other side of the room, atop of which sat a small, lumpy package wrapped in brown paper and string. “That is for you. Go on, collect it.”

With a quick, curious glance at his dad, James stood and collected the package. It was very light. His fingers traced the twine as he sat back down in the chair by his dad’s bed.

“Don’t unwrap it here,” his dad warned. “Your mother doesn’t think I should give it to you yet. She says you’re still too young, but…” He spread his arms as if to say, what can be done?

James frowned at the package. “What is it?”

“A family heirloom,” replied his dad. “Passed down from father to son, mother to daughter, for generations and generations. It is your birthright, but I give it to you with a warning. No…not a warning. Some fatherly advice.” Here his dad was forced to stop for another coughing fit. He took a shaky breath and readjusted himself on the pillows. “Like so many before me, I too went chasing the mysteries of Death in my youth. I sought to understand it, to conquer it…but I’d like to spare you, my son, the trouble.”

James half-laughed, a sad, choked sound. “Why would I ever go chasing death?”

Why, indeed? When it seemed to arrive unbidden at his doorstep?

But his father merely smiled. “Two sides of the same coin, my boy. Those who quest to understand Death often seek the secrets of eternal life. But eternal life is not the secret.”

“What’s the secret, then?”

His father lifted himself off the pillows and leaned towards his son, his eyes deep and earnest behind his spectacles. “To live.”

James blinked. It suddenly dawned on him that perhaps his father was not entirely there these days. Mentally, and all that. “Yeah,” said James slowly. “Okay, Dad. That’s a good plan. You should take your own advice and keep doing that.”

“You misunderstand me,” his dad said, smiling sadly as he lowered himself back into the pillows. “I have already done just that. I have lived — a full life of adventure and love — and now my time is coming to a close.”

“Dad—“

“It is inevitable, James. I am old, I am ill, and I will die.”

The old panicky feeling rose in James’s chest. “You don’t know that.”

“On the contrary. It is the one truth we all know. The one fate we all share. But I do not fear Death, my boy.” His father’s thin, papery lips twisted into a wry smile, so achingly familiar and dear. “I shall greet Him like an old friend.”

The mattress beneath him sagged with long-suffering complaint as James dropped himself heavily upon it, having returned to his own bedroom on the other side of the house. The small parcel was still clutched in his hands, and though the package itself was quite light, it felt as heavy as an anchor in his arms, dragging him down to sea.

James stared blankly at the wall. The window was open and a breeze fluttered through, rich with the scent of grass and gardenias, sending the heavy, velvet curtains billowing into the room. As if grasping for a point upon which to focus, James counted the little pockmark scars across the fabric: singe marks from his youthful experimentation with underage magic. 

He couldn’t make sense of half of what his dad had just said, nor did he really try. His suspicion that his father’s mental faculties were in decline was reinforced as he went over the dialogue again and again. His dad had been forgetting things more frequently these days. Mixing up dates and names and once even staring blankly at James as though he didn’t know him. Everything his dad had said today sounded like nothing more than the jumbled up bits from one of his many stories.

Fleamont Potter was built of stories, the way other men were built of bones and flesh. His knobby knees creaked with tall tales, his wrinkled skin folded like creases in a page, his sly lips smirked a plot twist. Some stories were his own — tales of travel and adventure — and some belonged to others, borrowed with affection, but all of them loomed large in James’s childhood imagination, in his understanding of his father, of himself. He too was built by these stories, by the retellings of them, the smoky taste of them, like sitting around a fire, like the coils from a pipe.

That they might now be gone like the wisp of a blown-out candle was a horror he could hardly bear to consider. 

Someone knocked on the door.

“Yeah,” said James, hastily wiping any incriminating wetness from his eyes.

Sirius entered, hands in his pockets, a casual slouch to his shoulders as he asked, “You all right?”

“‘Course,” said James.

Sirius nodded and crossed the room to sit down in the winged armchair by the window, while James remained frozen on the bed, the package in his lap.

“What is it?”

“A family heirloom, apparently.”

He twisted the twine between two fingers and wondered why he was so hesitant to give the string a tug, to reveal this final gift from his father. Was it the finality that tripped him up? As though accepting the package was tantamount to conceding his father’s words: I am old, I am ill, and I will die…

“Are you going to open it?"

James looked up from the parcel to Sirius, whose expression was interested but nonintrusive. A wave of gratitude overwhelmed James just then as he considered how glad he was that Sirius was here — not just here in his room at this moment, but here, at Potter House. Perhaps it was selfish (though he didn’t really think so), but James was so glad that Sirius had run away from home last Christmas, even with all the fallout that had followed. He was glad that Sirius had got away from his horrible family; he was even more glad that Sirius was now his family. His brother. He was glad — and grateful, so unspeakably grateful — that he would not have to face opening this final gift — whatever it was — alone.

“Yeah,” James said, and he gave the twine on the parcel a quick tug. The paper tore open easily, and a silvery grey fabric slipped from its confines with a silky rustle. He lifted it up — it moved like liquid in his hands — and a book tumbled from its folds onto the floor.

Sirius reached to pick it up. 

“The Tales of Beedle the Bard,” he read aloud before handing it to James. “Your family heirloom is a children’s book?”

James took the book from him and examined it. It was a very old, very battered copy of the childhood classic, one that James recalled reading with his father many years ago. 

“I think Dad may be getting a tad dotty,” James admitted. “Wouldn’t be the first time he’s forgotten my age.” He flipped through the pages, a smile tugging at his lips. “I haven’t looked at this since I was a child…I always liked ‘The Wizard and the Hopping Pot.’”

“Never read it,” said Sirius dispassionately. “My mother said Beedle was an irredeemable Muggle-lover.”

Pausing to appreciate the nostalgia of familiar illustrations, James set the book aside and returned his attention to the silvery fabric. He lifted it curiously. “Looks like a cloak. Interesting sartorial choice here, Dad.”

“Hang on,” said Sirius. “Is that…?” 

James turned to look at him. “What?”

“Put it on.”

“Really? You want a fashion show?”

“Just do it.”

Feeling rather stupid, James stood and threw the cloak over his shoulders. Sirius’s eyes grew wide as Galleons. “Merlin,” he breathed. “I thought it looked like — but I can’t believe it’s actually—”

“What?”

“Look down.”

James did so and found himself staring at nothing. His body had vanished.

“That,” said Sirius triumphantly, “is an Invisibility Cloak.”

“You're kidding me.” James crossed the room hurriedly to his mirror and gaped at his floating head. “What the hell, Dad?”

“Okay,” said Sirius, “your inheritance is officially better than mine. You get to be invisible whenever you want; I get an ugly house full of severed elf heads. Or, I would have, if I hadn’t been disinherited and all. Good move on my part, really — oi! Put that hood back down. I can’t tell where you are, it’s freaking me out.”

For James had slipped the hood of the Cloak over his head and disappeared entirely. He watched in amusement as Sirius peered around at the empty space where James no longer stood.

“Prongs.”

James crept around behind his friend and smacked him on the back of the head.

“For fuck’s sake!” 

Sirius stuck out a hand to snatch the Cloak, but found only empty air. So James poked him in the rib.

“I’m going to hex you.”

“Not if you can’t catch me,” taunted James, which admittedly was a strategic error, for Sirius lunged at the empty space from which his voice came and tackled him to the ground, wrenching the hood from his head. 

“Well played,” groaned James from the floor.

“Git,” laughed Sirius.

James pushed himself up and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak. He allowed himself a moment to marvel at the shimmering fabric as he thought of all his dad’s wild stories, how improbable and fantastical they’d seemed. Then he looked over at Sirius. “Do you know what this means?”

“Your dad is really fucking cool?”

“Well, yeah. That. But also…” A grin crept over his previously somber face as the prospect of new adventures unfurled before his imagination. “The Plan just got bigger.”

Chapter Text

REMUS

Dear Mr. Moony

“I won’t do it, Lyall. I won’t keep my baby locked up his whole life because of something that isn’t even his fault.”

“Hope, listen—”

“No, you listen to me for once! He needs friends! He is a ten-year-old boy, not a monster.”

“I never said he was a monster. Don’t you put those words in my mouth.”

On the other side of the door, the ten-year-old monster in question plucked morosely at the strings of the guitar slung across his lap. A glum chord twanged in off-key response. The guitar was much too big for him, its wooden heft awkward in his small arms, and he didn’t really know how to play it anyway. His mam had found it in a charity shop a few weeks ago and brought it home with expressions of delight and excitement. She seemed to hope he’d be musical, like her, and though Remus Lupin longed to please, so far he hadn’t mastered much more than Row, Row, Row Your Boat on the piano. He didn’t like the guitar much. The strings rubbed blisters on his sore fingers and his already aching joints complained of being curled over the fretboard. He set the instrument aside. It wasn’t helping to block out the noise anyway.

The argument on the other side of the door had been going on for a while, and though his parents fought in the merest hiss of whispers down the hall, Remus could hear every word. He had unusually good hearing under normal circumstances, and it was always heightened this time of the month. Another so-called symptom of his so-called disease.

“He can’t enroll in Muggle school, Hope. It’s too dangerous. If he let something slip—”

“They’d think he was a fanciful child! No one would believe him if he told them he was a werewolf.”

Remus could almost feel his dad flinch from down the hall. Lycanthropy was the word his dad preferred to use. He didn’t like to say a dirty word like werewolf.

“What could he let slip?” his mam went on. “Worst case, they’ll think he’s playing make believe. And besides, he’s ten years old, not two. He knows better.”

“It’s not just that. He’s magic, Hope, like me.”

“I know that. You think I don’t know that?”

“He hasn’t learned to control it. You’ve seen the things he can do, the things he has done, accidentally. Normally, he’d go to Hogwarts next year. He’d get a wand and they’d teach him to control it. But he can’t do that.”

“So, what? We keep him locked up his whole life like some sort of —” She petered off, unable to finish the sentence.

“I’m going to teach him. At home. I’ll get him a wand — I don’t know how yet, but I’ll get one — and I’ll teach him. But until then, he has to stay away from others. It’s not just the lycanthropy, Hope. If he does unauthorized magic in front of Muggles, we’ll have the Ministry of Magic on us. And then they’ll ask why he’s not at Hogwarts, and then they’ll find out about the disease, and then —” This time it was his father’s voice that broke. “Hope, they could take him away from us. I will not let that happen.”

On the other side of the door, ten-year-old Remus buried his head under a pillow. He didn’t want to hear it anymore, he didn’t want to listen to them fight, fight, fight. Because it was all his fault. It was all because of him, because he wasn’t just a normal boy, not like the other children, because he was — because he was a monster.

“Are you excited to see your friends tomorrow?”

Remus started. Sixteen and an ever-growing gangle of limbs, he was curled up in an armchair in his parents’ sitting room, a book untouched in his lap, and before his mother’s interruption, he had been thoroughly engaged in studying the raindrops that slipped down the windowpane, absorbed in his own gloomy recollections. He felt annoyed to be interrupted from this very important business.

“I guess,” he muttered. He turned from the window to see his mother in the doorway, two cups of tea in her hands. She crossed the room and set one on the table beside him. 

Hope Lupin was a pretty woman with warm, gentle eyes and her son’s soft curls, prematurely streaked with grey. She smiled at him fondly, though not without that familiar touch of worry behind her gaze. “It’s a shame they couldn’t make it out here over the summer. It would’ve been fun to show them Wales.”

Remus said nothing. He wasn’t prepared to admit that he’d never extended the invitation as she’d pushed him to do several times. She wouldn’t understand, and he didn’t feel like explaining. Another night rent with bad dreams had left him in a surly mood. It didn’t help matters that he felt rotten; the full moon was only hours away. He ignored her comment about his friends, and looked back to the rain-streaked window to hide his scowl.

“Okay, I get it. You’re being a moody teenager. I’ve read the books, this is supposed to happen.”

“What books?” demanded Remus, turning to face his mother once more. “Why didn’t anyone tell me there was a book?”

“Well, I couldn’t, darling. You see, it’s all a vast conspiracy to make sure your teenage years are as miserable as possible. Can’t have you being all informed.” 

His mother’s lips twitched into a grin, but Remus was not in the mood to make light. He stood up. “Does your rubbish book have a chapter titled: What To Do When You’ve Raised a Murderous Beast?”

His mother’s grin wavered. “Darling…”

“Forget it.” And he marched past her towards the door.

“I’m trying, you know.”

Remus stopped. He glanced over his shoulder to see his mother seated on the edge of the sofa, her shoulders slumped, looking small and sad and exhausted. His gut clenched with guilt.

“I don’t know how to do this any more than you,” she said. “I’m way out of my depths here. I have been, since day one. I don’t know anything the magical world, about your world, and frankly — teenagers scare me far more than werewolves. But I’m trying.”

Remus relented, hugging his arms to his chest. “I know.”

“You used to talk to me. You still can, you know. Whatever it is that’s going on with you this summer. You can tell me. You can trust me.”

You can trust me…

Remus closed his eyes and a sudden flash of memories played before him like a film reel in reverse.

A massacre of chairs hurled by rage in an empty classroom…

Lily with her arm around his shoulder…

You can trust me…

The crisp sheets of the infirmary bed, hugging him like a straightjacket while Dumbledore spoke by his bedside…

The dark tunnel, the brick wall, the flash of light…

Moony? It’s me, it’s James…

The forest.

His friends.

Do you trust me?

“Remus?”

His eyes snapped open, wrenched from the tumultuous waters of memory, back gasping onto the dry land of the present. His mother watched him, lines of worry around her widened eyes. 

“Sweetheart, are you okay?”

He wanted to storm off, to take out his rage and heartbreak on his mother, the one person he knew would never abandon him…but he wouldn’t do that. She looked so sad — yet almost hopeful, eager for the intimacy they had once shared. There’d been a time in his life when she had been his only friend, when he had told her absolutely everything…but he couldn’t tell her what had happened last term. He could never tell anyone what had happened.

Nonetheless, he took a deep breath and walked back across the room to sit beside her on sofa. He stared at his hands, twisting his fingers around each other, trying to think of some other way to express the jumbled up knot of misery that was his mind this summer. 

“What if…” he began, almost tentatively, “what if no one ever really sees me as anything more than a werewolf?”

“I see you as more than that.”

Remus scoffed. “You’re my mam, you don’t count.”

“Well, thanks very much!” She gave him an indignant, playful swat that Remus ignored.

“I mean it. What’s the point of all this?”

“All what?”

“All of it! This pathetic charade at education…classes and exams and — and — and my house breaking, when at the end of the day, no matter what I do, I will never be anything more than a monster.”

“You’re not a monster, Remus,” said his mother, her voice quiet but sharp. “Don’t ever say that.”

“Mam!” cried Remus, his voice catching in frustration. “You have to lock me in your cellar in a few hours, and you and dad won’t get any sleep all night long because I’ll be down there clawing at the walls trying to get out and murder you. Sounds pretty monstrous to me.”

“That’s not you. That’s the disease. Your father and I both know that’s not you — and we love you. We love you so much, Remus.”

“I’ve got to finish packing," said Remus, standing up abruptly yet again. “Full moon tonight, first day of school tomorrow. Lots to do.” And he stormed out of the room all the same, trying not to look at the lines of his mother’s crestfallen face.

By the time Remus reached his bedroom at the end of the hall, he was already wracked with guilt over his outburst. It wasn’t his mother’s fault her son was a monster. 

He slumped onto his bed and buried his face into his hands. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to put with his bad attitude for much longer. Tomorrow morning, his father would take him to London, and Remus would board the Hogwarts Express and return to school. He ought to be excited, but all he felt was mounting dread.

His mam may go on about how much she missed him when he was at Hogwarts, but Remus knew his parents’ lives must be easier during the school year, without a werewolf prowling the house, howling from their cellar. They’d never say it, but they were probably relieved to see him go. Happy, even.

It was tempting to blame his bad mood on the tug of the full moon — and tug it did, for he felt in his bones, that deep, primordial ache that haunted the hours leading up to moonrise — but Remus knew he had been surly and unpleasant all summer long. Well. That was one way to ensure no one would miss you when you’re gone.

Remus sighed, and though in truth all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and go to sleep, he pushed himself up off the bed. He really did have to finish packing before the full moon. He’d be in no shape to do it tomorrow morning.

So he knelt down and dragged his trunk out from beneath his bed and threw it open. The detritus of previous years clung to the bottom, all the things he hadn’t bothered to unpack. He stared down at them dispassionately: old letters, photographs, mementos. Normally at the start of each summer he unpacked them all and tacked them up around the room — but this summer, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t want the reminders.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he bent down to pick up an old chocolate frog card. Circe. She gazed at him imperiously from the card, an ornate goblet in her hand, her hair blown by the wind of some unseen sea. Her face was as familiar as an old friend’s; he’d had this card for years, couldn’t bring himself to get it rid of it. The corners were all bent, but in its own way, it was precious. Sirius Black had given it to him back in first year. Remus had offhandedly mentioned that he collected chocolate frog cards — one of a hundred different hobbies he’d picked up over a lonely childhood — and so Sirius had given him the card from his own chocolate frog at Christmas. He knew it hadn’t meant all that much to Sirius, but Remus held on to it just the same. It was proof. Undeniable proof that he had friends.

His stomach lurched as it had every moment this summer he’d thought about Sirius. He was almost tempted to throw the card out, to make it some over-the-top metaphor for their ruined relationship and rip it in half. But he couldn’t do it. Perhaps that was the metaphor: He’d never be the one to end their friendship, even if it seemed to mean so little to the other boy. Remus would hold on. It was all he had.

The memory of their blowout fight on the last night of term still haunted him. After weeks and weeks of self-repression, Remus had finally lost his temper and said all the things that had been building up inside him since he’d woken up trapped and terrified in that tunnel following Sirius’s little joke on Snape. 

Well, no. Not all the things. Even in that moment of fury, he’d swallowed his worst thoughts, the bitter insults and cruel truths he knew he’d never be able to take back once they’d slipped his tongue. Still, he’d said enough to be getting on with. Some days, Remus couldn’t decide what made him feel more sick: the memory of Sirius’s betrayal or the thought that Remus’s own rage would inevitably turn his friends away from him.

But then, just as he’d begun to give himself over to despair, the memory of Sirius at King’s Cross came back to him, his friend’s usually haughty face temporarily transformed into an expression of earnestness as he said, “Just don’t give up on me, okay?”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Why was everything about Sirius Black so damn confusing?

With a grunt of frustration, Remus dropped the chocolate frog card back into the trunk and began instead to pile his robes and books and school supplies atop it, as though he might smother the memories beneath his many belongings. Once the essentials were packed, he peered around his room to see what else he’d bring along. His bedroom was still cluttered with all the books and knickknacks and accoutrements of the many hobbies he’d had as a child. His mother had constantly invented new games and activities to fill up his lonely days: chess, painting, pottery, model building, loads of Muggle fiction, a brief and unsuccessful flirtation with the guitar. Remus had once told his mother she should get rid of all of it when he left for school, but she never had. Secretly, Remus had been pleased, but today, standing in his cluttered room and feeling particularly oppressed by the memories attached to all this stuff — he just wanted it gone. A new, empty bedroom. A clean slate. A new life.

He crossed to his desk and opened the drawer. It was full of parchment, quills, and other bits and bobs. A few torn pages from the Daily Prophet were scattered about, the half-scratched daily crosswords that he’d taken up during some of the summer’s slower days. A handful of letters lay atop the mess, and Remus cringed as he remembered them. 

Remus had three best friends — James Potter, Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black — and all three of them had written him at least once over the course of the summer. Remus had never written a single letter in return. 

James had been the most persistent. Remus picked up one of his letters and reread it almost reluctantly.

To the Right Honorable Lord Moony of Somewhere-in-Wales-I-Can’t-Spell:

Well, it’s happened! The Catapults beat the Wasps to a bloody pulp and now all my dreams are coming true. They’ll be playing Puddlemere United for the League Cup on June 25th, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t gloat about it to your face when we absolutely clobber you. So you better be there. We’ve got tickets, it’s going to be brilliant. Write me back as soon as you can and we’ll make arrangements to meet up.

See you soon,
Mr. Prongs

James’s handwriting was quick and crammed and tripping over itself, as though his hand couldn’t keep up with all the words spilling out of his mouth — which, Remus reflected with a twinge of fondness, it probably couldn’t. If James Potter had one outwardly defining trait, it was that he talked too much. In the bottom corner of the letter was a little doodle of a Snitch with a hand grasping, just about to catch it. This was helpfully labeled: Puddlemere’s Seeker (obviously). 

The twinge of fondness twisted into a pang of guilt, and Remus shuffled through the pile to the next letter, which was from Sirius, dated about a week later.

Moony,

Need you to settle a disagreement. Goes like this: Prongs reckons it’d be possible to do a complete survey of the lake by simply using a bubblehead charm and going for a quick swim. I say he’s an absolute twit and he’d be offed by a mermaid, if he didn’t drown first. Prongs counters that he could take a mermaid. I reaffirm my previous assessment of ‘absolute twit.’

As the only reasonable member of this delegation, we require your input.

Please advise.

Padfoot

P.S. Any word on if you can make it to the match? Hope it’s yes.

So like Sirius to send such a blithe, indifferent little letter, as if they hadn’t had a shouting match just weeks before, as if Sirius hadn’t just stood in King’s Cross and confessed to being a piece of shit, as if he hadn’t made that solemn, heart-stuttering request — Just don’t give up on me, okay? — and then carried on with his perfect penmanship to pretend like nothing had happened at all.

But who was Remus to complain about that? Pretending everything was fine was Remus’s main form of communication.

He shifted the letters. 

To his Excellency, Mr. Moony, Sir:

I was right. Puddlemere positively destroyed the Catapults. I can only assume you predicted this and that is why you neglected to respond to my previous letter. We missed you, but I understand your position. It’s never easy to watch your team fail. Not that I’d know.

How are you holding up, you old hermit? You haven’t fallen into St. George’s Channel, have you? That would be very rude of you, I’ve waited years to gloat about clobbering you in Quidditch, and it would feel a bit tacky to carry on about it if you’d drowned. I’d still do it, mind you, but it would dull some of the shine.

We got our O.W.L. results today, so I’m assuming you did too. Glad that’s behind us. Anyway, guess who was just made Quidditch Captain? It’s me! This means I will no longer be cowed by your authoritarian prefect posturing. So, be ready for that. Also I get to use your secret prefect bathroom. Ha!

Seriously. Write me back. I’m getting worried.

Captain Prongs 

This letter was adorned with a rather crudely-drawn illustration of a person — identifiable as James himself only by the glasses and aggressive scribble of hair — waving his arms enthusiastically at a tombstone labeled R. J. Lupin: Lost at Sea. In case the image wasn’t clear enough, James had annotated: Me telling your grave about the AMAZING match.

The pang of guilt twisted like a knife in his gut. He hadn’t meant to blow James off for the match, really he hadn’t. It was just that he hadn’t known how to respond. He hadn’t been ready to respond. Anything he wrote to James, he knew, would be read by Sirius, now that they lived together, and Remus had simply needed some time to think. To breathe. So he’d put the letter in the drawer and vowed to write back the following week.

And then Sirius’s letter had arrived, just before a full moon, and Remus had felt too exhausted and angry and overwhelmed to deal with it just then. So he put that one in the drawer too and delayed writing his reply until after the moon.  And then he’d put it off, and put it off, and put it off, content to disappear a little longer into the quiet oblivion of the summer holiday…until the match had passed, and Remus’s shame had grown unmanageable, and now writing back felt too late, too awkward. The drawer full of letters sat like a reproach in his bedroom, slowly filling up as he retreated further into his own self-isolation.

Knowing what was coming, but feeling as though he deserved the sick stab of guilt, Remus pulled out one final letter.

Moony,

Well, it’s been all summer so I’m assuming you’re not going to write either of us back. Prongs says you’ve just reverted to your natural hermit ways and there’s nothing to be done for it, but I suspect you’re still angry with me. 

I’m just writing you because 

I wish you’d respond, but since I know you

Fuck

He’s probably already told you — I doubt there’s a set of ears left in Britain who hasn’t heard — but Prongs has been named Quidditch Captain, and he’s properly chuffed. I think this means we have to salute him now. I’m telling you this so you can prepare yourself for the inevitable lectures on broom velocity and the optimal morning workout routine to develop the most aerodynamic Beaters, etc., etc. Don’t ask me how I know.

Only a few weeks left before school, so I guess I’ll see you there.

Padfoot

Remus stared at this letter for far longer than it took to read it. His gaze honed in on the aborted, scratched-out lines, the words just barely legible beneath the ink, as though by sheer force of will he could make the rest of the sentence appear.

Then, as though snapping out of an unwilling hypnosis, he dropped the letters back into the desk drawer, crossed the room, and shut the lid of his trunk.

The rain had petered out into a dusky fog that hung heavy over the Lupins’ old farmhouse. Dressed in only his bathrobe and a well-worn pair of Wellington boots, Remus trudged across the wet lawn towards the cellar doors, following his father’s squelching footsteps.

His parents had moved to this house on the coast of Wales shortly before Remus had turned seven. It was a pretty place: old stone walls awash with soft splashes of lichen, a lovely garden that was his mother’s delight, and a view of the sea on clear days. 

But ultimately, the reason they had chosen this property in particular was the cellar. Among its many subterranean virtues, it had an exterior entrance and thick, stone walls that were consistently reinforced by his father’s spells. Buried below the earth, far, far away from any neighbors who might hear his shrieks and howls, it made the perfect little hidey-hole for the child werewolf. Evidently it had been used as an air raid shelter during World War II. Remus had always found this fitting: What was he if not a ticking bomb?

They reached the cellar doors and his father leaned forward to throw them open. A shiver ran down Remus’s spine as he faced the damp cave-like chamber below. He hated this place.

“Down we go,” said his dad, though they both knew only Remus would descend into the dark.

Remus cast a last, longing glance at the far-off sea, dark and wild with its ever-crashing waves. The fog was rolling in now; soon the water would be lost to a haze of grey. He turned back to his father and nodded stiffly.

Lyall Lupin was not an old man, but you wouldn’t know that from looking at his lined and weary face, his light brown hair and scruff of a beard faded with patches of premature grey. Sometimes Remus wondered who his parents would be, had they never been cursed with a werewolf for a son. But it didn’t do to linger on such questions. They only sent him down dark spirals into the damp cellar of his own mind, and he always found it hard to climb back out from there.

His dad clasped him on the shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “It’ll be over soon,” he said.

“I know,” said Remus. Then he slipped off his boots and his bathrobe and handed them to his dad. It was necessary, as anything he took with him into the cellar would be destroyed by the wolf, but Remus did not like standing there naked, so he turned quickly and descended the narrow stairs into the cellar, toes curling upon the cold, wet stone.

When he reached the bottom, he groped around for the light switch. The old farmhouse, including this shelter, had Muggle electricity. It didn’t always work, thanks to the erratic combination of magic and Muggle technology, but Remus was always grateful when it did. Tonight, a single bulb flickered on with that faint, electric whirr, and the cellar was illuminated with bright, artificial light. Remus looked around wearily, shoulders slumped in resignation.

When he was a child, his mother had painted the walls sky blue, and together they’d decorated every corner with bright, yellow suns and cheerful rainbows. In one corner lurked a childish, stick-figure representation of his family, painted by his own six-year-old-hand: Mam, Dad, Me. The paint was chipping now, undone by the indomitable damp of the cellar. He looked away.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” his dad called down to him, voice echoing into the stone prison. “It’ll be okay, Remus.”

“I know,” said Remus.

Then his dad swung shut the cellar doors, and Remus was alone.

“Should we wake him up?”

“Nah, let the poor sod get some sleep. Looks like he needs it.”

“Yeah, he looks awful.”

Remus lifted one heavy eyelid and the world around him swam into view. For a confused, blinking moment, he couldn’t figure out where he was or how he got there — until his bleary vision focused on James, then Peter, then Sirius, all seated around him in their compartment aboard the Hogwarts Express. Of course. 

Remus and his dad had arrived unusually early to King’s Cross that morning, hoping to board the train before the masses descended upon the platform. It had been a rough moon — they always were, when he was alone — and the wolf had left its brutal marks upon him, as it always did. The fewer people who saw him like this, the better, so Remus had climbed aboard early, dropped himself into the corner seat of their usual compartment, and promptly fell asleep.

Once his lagging brain caught up with the conversation that had woken him, Remus felt some comment was called for. “Thanks a lot,” he croaked. 

“Oh,” said Sirius. “Good morning, Moony.”

Remus glanced at him, then quickly shifted his gaze away. “Please tell me we’re already there.”

“Haven’t left the station yet, mate.”

“Fuck.”

“Go back to sleep,” suggested James. “You can tell us all about how much you missed us and how very sorry you are for ignoring our owls after a good long nap.”

Remus struggled for a moment to come up with something snarky to say in response, as was surely expected of him, but he was so completely knackered that, with a mere blink of the eye and flutter of lashes, he drifted off to sleep again.

When he woke, the train was chugging steadily onward and the landscape outside the windows had grown wilder, more dramatic. He realized with something like consternation that he was quite comfortable, and after a moment he attributed this to the fact that someone had draped a cloak over his shoulders and placed a pillow between his head and the window, which probably explained why he’d slept so long, despite the rattling of the train. He pushed himself up almost regretfully and peered around. The other boys were playing a quiet card game across from him.

“Welcome back,” said James, looking up at him from behind a thick hand of cards. He gave his glasses an expectant nudge up the bridge of his nose. “Did you have something you wanted to tell us?”

Remus blinked. “What?” 

James arched an eyebrow.

“Give him a minute,” said Peter, frowning at his own cards in concentration.

It clicked. “Oh. Right. I missed you very much and I’m very sorry for ignoring your owls,” Remus intoned dryly, hoping his voice didn’t give away just how much he meant it.

James nodded, as though this had been satisfactory. “There,” he said, turning to Sirius. “I told you that would work.”

“Hmm,” said Sirius. “It wasn’t very convincing, but I’ll allow it.” He lay a spread of cards down upon the seat. “Straight flush. Read ‘em and weep, boys.”

James and Peter groaned in unison. 

“I hate this game,” complained Peter.

“Don’t be a sore loser, Wormtail,” said Sirius cheerfully as he collected his winnings, which appeared to be a Galleon, a few Sickles, a chocolate frog, and three dungbombs.  

Remus rubbed his eyes, still clawing his way back from unconsciousness. “Did the food trolley already come by?”

“Yeah,” said Peter, gesturing towards a pile of sweets on the seat next to him. “We didn’t know what you’d want, so we got a few of each.”

“Oh,” said Remus. “Thanks.” He selected a chocolate frog from the haul and focused his attention wholly on unwrapping it. The cloak and the pillow and the pile of sweets and the thoughtfulness of the quiet card game were all working quite industriously to intensify his feelings of guilt. Though he didn’t collect the Famous Wizard Cards anymore — he was sixteen, after all — he still habitually went for the card first. He flipped it over and found himself face-to-face with Circe. 

Sometimes, Remus thought, the universe really liked to fuck with him.

He stared at the card, thoughts whirring through his still-sluggish mind, until the slight tingle of being watched made him look up. James was observing him from across the compartment with a strange expression Remus couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t anger — he had seen James angry before, though it was a rare occasion indeed, and this was certainly not that. It was more a sort of wariness, as though James did not understand the situation and wanted to dip a cautious toe into the waters before diving in.

Remus didn’t know what to do with this. He didn’t like it. So he stuffed the card away and took a bite of his frog.

“So how was your summer, hermit boy?” asked James after a short pause.

“Not great,” admitted Remus. After all, when he hadn’t been trapped in his parents’ cellar, he’d been trapped in his own head, tormenting himself, hating himself, convincing himself that his friends hated him… “Look,” he started, “I am sorry I didn’t write back, I was just…”

But James’s expression had suddenly grown distant and distracted, his attention tugged away from the flailing boy before him. Remus followed his gaze towards the compartment door just in time to see Lily Evans walk by. As her red hair disappeared from view, Remus turned back to James and, in the process, accidentally caught Sirius’s eye. The two shared a private, sardonic smirk of understanding — the likes of which had been rare since the incident last year.

Don’t think about that.

He looked quickly away.

“Chin up, Prongs,” said Sirius loudly. “Fresh new year, and all that.”

“What?” said James, his eyes unfocused, still aimed at the door.

“You know what they say,” said Peter. “Forty-fifth time’s a charm.”

James caught on. He pulled his gaze away from the door and straightened up ever-so-slightly. “Oh, please,” he said with a dismissive snort. “Evans is the last thing on my mind.”

“I thought you were in love with her,” needled Sirius, and Remus had the distinct impression he was doing it for Remus’s own benefit, eager perhaps to extend that shared grin. “Isn’t that what you said last year?”

“I,” said James delicately, “was under the influence of highly-potent pain potions. Moony, you of all people should know that it’s not fair to hold a man to something he said while drugged.”

In Remus’s experience, pain potions were far more likely to bring out the truth in a man than the other way around, but it felt uncharitable to say so.

“Anyway,” continued James, “I have since to come to my senses, and I’ll have you know that I’ve completely moved on from that embarrassing little episode. I have absolutely no interest in dating Lily Evans this year.”

“Really?” said Sirius. “Even if she showed up in the dormitory and cried, ‘Take me, Potter, you arrogant toerag, I’m yours!’?”

“As a matter of fact, I had this mad idea that this year I’d only ask out girls who don’t think I’m an arrogant toerag.”

Remus wiped away an imaginary tear. “Our little masochist, all grown up.”

“And who’s the lucky girl on that very short list?” snickered Sirius.

“Laugh all you like, but can I just point out,” said James, admonishing a finger at each of his friends in turn, “single, single, wanks off to photos of motorbikes, and also single.”

“It’s hardly fair to count me,” said Remus stoically. “Being a secret werewolf rather dries up the dating pool.”

“I have no shame about my relationship with motorbikes,” said Sirius.

“I have a girlfriend,” said Peter.

They all stared.

“No, you don’t,” said Sirius.

“Yes, I do!”

“Who? Moaning Myrtle?”

“No. Winnie Bones. We got together over the summer. Our mums are in a gobstone league together.”

Remus suddenly realized that Peter must have been bursting to share this information since the moment they’d boarded the train. He positively glowed.

“Well done, Wormtail,” said James, raising his hand for a high-five, which Peter returned, beaming.

“Oh, shit,” said Remus, and they all looked at him. He had just belatedly realized why Lily Evans had been walking down the train’s corridor at all. “I’ve slept through the prefects’ meeting.” 

It was too late to do anything about the prefects’ meeting, so Remus allowed himself to slump back into his seat as the train trundled on. Though he caught James giving him that same, strange look a few times throughout the remainder of the journey, none of his friends bothered him about his summertime absence again. Could it be that easy? Were they really going to let him stroll back in without a fuss? He felt rather foolish now, sitting here among them, trying to remember what he’d been so worried about.

Night descended slowly upon the rugged landscape and the carriage was soon illuminated by soft lamps and bright beams of moonlight. Remus drifted in and out of the conversation, too brutally tired to focus much on what was being said. At last, he felt someone give him a gentle shove, and he jolted up to realize he’d fallen asleep, and they had arrived.

The usual clamor of students debarking met them as the boys hopped off the train, Remus trudging a few steps behind. Elbows jostled, and owls hooted, and cats hissed, and Remus allowed himself to be shuffled on towards the horseless carriages that awaited them at the end of the road outside Hogsmeade station. It was all so familiar — the air was sharp with the scent of pine, the night cool and breezy against the skin, James and Sirius’s laughter louder than the chaos around them — that Remus was very nearly lulled into a sense of security by it all. But just as he was about to board one of the horseless carriages, his skin gave an unpleasant prickle. 

Remus turned: Severus Snape was standing by a carriage a few feet away, glaring at him with such a look of sheer, unadulterated loathing on his face that it stopped Remus in his tracks. 

A flood of memories that weren’t his own swept Remus away and into the dark. The creak of a trapdoor — the overwhelming scent of fresh prey — the scramble of padded feet across floorboards — the swipe of a claw — RUN! — the dark tunnel — the brick wall — the flash of light — Moony? It’s me, it’s James…

“Moony?” James’s head ducked out of the carriage’s window to see what was taking so long. “Are you all right?”

Remus blinked, willing himself back into his body and out of the wolf’s. With a shaky breath, he glanced back to where Severus Snape had stood…but he was gone. “Fine,” Remus lied, and he pulled himself up into the carriage and shut the door. He pressed his forehead to the window as the carriage clip-clopped its way down the road. He felt as though he couldn’t catch his breath. As though he never would.

Remus had not said a single word to Severus Snape since he’d very nearly murdered him in the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow last term. It wasn’t as though he could approach him in the corridor and offer his apologies. “Sorry about that time I almost ate you. I didn’t mean to.” Yeah, right. The closest thing to an interaction he’d had with the other boy was when James and Sirius had hexed him after O.W.L.s. Remus had sat silently by, too ashamed of himself and too terrified that if he’d stepped in, Snape would shout to all the school what he really was. So he’d done nothing. Remus could not blame Snape for loathing him, but it didn’t make it easier to bear.

The carriage rattled to a halt and the boys clambered out, swept into the flow of students pouring into the castle. But just as they reached the entrance hall, Professor McGonagall demanded Remus’s attention. 

“Lupin!” she called, waving him over.

Remus cut through the crowd as best he could; his friends followed behind. “Yes, Professor?”

Professor McGonagall peered down at him through her square spectacles, her expression both stern and caring at once. It was a peculiar, confusing mix. “Madam Pomfrey wants to see you in the hospital wing.”

A feeling of dread rose in his chest. “Already? Can’t it wait?”

“She was quite firm, Lupin.”

Remus sighed, resigned to the inevitable. He’d barely got a foot through the castle doors and already he was to be sent to the infirmary. Some things, it seemed, truly never changed.

“Want company?” offered Sirius.

“No,” said Remus quickly. “Go on to the feast. I’m sure this won’t take long.”

Chapter Text

JAMES

A Bit of Luck

“That was weird, right?”

“What?”

“The way Moony shut me down immediately when I offered to go to the hospital wing with him.”

“No,” said James as the boys pushed their way through the throng of students into the Great Hall. “That wasn’t weird. That was just Moony being Moony.”

They found their seats at the end of Gryffindor table, pausing to give the customary hellos and how-are-yous to their fellow housemates. James was pleased as always to see the cast of characters who kept his schooldays interesting. Overhead, the ceiling was dark as the night sky and strewn with stars.

“I think it was weird,” said Sirius, ignoring Davey Gudgeon as he tried to join their conversation. “He’s still angry. I told you he would be.”

“Mate,” sighed James as a disappointed Davey moved along, “it’s the day after the full moon, and we just got back. Give him some space.”

“Space? He just had a whole summer of space. How much space does he need?”

“It’s Moony. Always a few more feet than you’d think.”

“You don’t believe in space. You’ve never given anyone space in your life. The concept is anathema to you.”

“I’m just saying, don’t push him right now.”

“That’s it,” grumbled Sirius. “I’m taking away your psychology books.”

But when Remus slipped into his seat shortly after the feast began, he was perfectly cheerful, despite the exhaustion that was obvious as he began to fill his plate.

“What was that all about?” asked James.

“Oh, Pomfrey just wanted to confirm I still had all my limbs.”

“You know,” said Sirius, “it’s the high standard of care and attention to detail that really sets Hogwarts apart.”

Remus merely snorted in response and reached across the table for the Yorkshire pudding.

“Well?” said James. “Don’t keep us in suspense. What was the verdict?”

“All limbs accounted for.”

“Glad to hear it. I would’ve been very embarrassed if you’d lost an appendage and I hadn’t noticed. I’ll sleep well tonight knowing I can still count.”

“I’ll sleep well regardless,” said Remus. “I’m fucking knackered.”

“Language,” chided James. “Need I remind you that you’re a prefect, Mr. Lupin? An example for the masses of impressionable, corruptible youth?”

“I thought you weren’t going to be cowed by my authoritarian prefect posturing anymore?”

“Oh, so you did read my letters?”

Remus suppressed a yawn. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

James observed his friend for a moment. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Some forthright explanation for his behavior this summer? Unlikely. It was the most Moony thing in the world to simply carry on as though he hadn’t blatantly ignored them for nearly three months. For the duration of a rather chewy bite of roast beef, James wondered if Sirius was in fact correct, if Remus was still angry…but, swallowing, he decided not to dwell on it. Perhaps a few months of the hermit’s life was what Remus needed to move on from the events of last term. James couldn’t begrudge him that, even if he did miss the Puddlemere match.

“So when are you holding Quidditch trials, Captain?” asked Peter brightly.

“Why,” said Sirius, “are you thinking giving the old broom a whirl?”

“No.” Peter’s tone was a touch defensive. “I was just making conversation.”

“Earliest I can book the pitch,” said James through a mouthful of potatoes. “I’ll talk to McGonagall tomorrow. With any luck, we’ll get going this weekend. I’ve got three positions to fill. No time to waste.”

“Who plays the first match this year?”

“Hufflepuff vs. Ravenclaw.”

Sirius scratched his chin. “What d’you reckon the odds are?”

“Since when are you so interested?”

“Just gathering information. Never know when it might be useful.”

James cast him a skeptical glance. Sirius had never showed great interest Quidditch, much to James’s despair, but his suspicion was derailed by the arrival of pudding. As he filled his plate with mounds of treacle tart, a flash of red hair pulled his attention away.

All through the feast, James had made a concerted effort not to look at Lily Evans, lest his friends begin ribbing him again. Yet as the conversation turned down other avenues, he couldn’t help but let his gaze slide towards her. She was seated about halfway down the table with Aisha Collins and a few other seventh year girls. There was something off, but it took him a minute to place it. He glanced down the other end of the table where the rest of the sixth year girls were seated, then back to Lily.

“Where’s Macdonald?”

To his surprise, it was Peter who responded.

“Didn’t you hear? Her dad pulled her out last term.”

“What d’you mean, pulled her out?”

“I mean, he pulled her out of Hogwarts. After Mulciber cursed her.”

James winced. It didn’t take much to pull up the memory of Mary Macdonald shrieking in the hospital wing after being temporarily — and painfully — blinded by Corin Mulciber’s illegal curse.

“Her dad showed up shouting at Dumbledore about how the school wasn’t safe for Muggle-borns.”

“Is Mary Muggle-born?”

Peter shrugged. “Her dad is, and her mum’s a Muggle, so same thing, isn’t it? Anyway, I heard they sent her to live in the States.”

“The States?” said Sirius with a grimace. “Poor Macdonald.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Veronica Smethley told Winnie. You know, my girlfriend.”

“Right.”

James’s gaze drifted back towards Lily, and a strange, twisty feeling tugged at his gut that had nothing to do with the tonnage of sticky toffee pudding he’d just ingested. Mary Macdonald had been her best friend, apart from her inexplicable alliance with Severus Snape. No doubt Mary’s sudden departure would be hard on her.

“Bad luck for Evans,” Peter went on, apparently relishing his role as the source of all knowledge. “‘Specially now that she’s finally given Snivellus the boot.”

“They’re not friends anymore, then?” James said, trying to sound only mildly interested.

“Are you kidding? After what he called her?”

James did not need the reminder of the slur that Snape had spat at Lily that day by the lake…nor did James need a reminder of what Lily had said to him immediately after. That shameful moment was still burned in his memory, always simmering just beneath the surface…but he had no desire to discuss it over dinner, so he merely shrugged and changed the subject back to Quidditch.

As the feast wore on, Remus began to visibly fade, to the point that James at one interval had to nudge him to keep his head from drooping into his pudding. Frankly, James was impressed his friend was on his feet at all; the day after the full moon was always rough, and based on the still-healing gashes across his cheek and throat, last night had been a doozy. He was also surprised that Madam Pomfrey hadn’t forced the boy straight to bed — she was usually quite strict about that — but then he supposed even the indomitable school matron couldn’t bully a boy out of missing a school feast on his first night back. He made a mental note to stash an extra chocolate frog next moon for good ol' Poppy. He’d grown rather fond of her over the years.

By the time the Headmaster rose from his seat at the high table to make his usual start-of-term remarks, James himself was overcome by that sort of sticky, sleepy stupor that so often followed overindulgence, and he listened only vaguely as Professor Dumbledore spoke — not out of any lack of respect, but rather an excess of treacle.

The truth was James respected Albus Dumbledore deeply, more than any other professor in school. Perhaps more than any other adult, save his own parents. The man was part Headmaster, part legend, after all. James had grown up on bedtime stories of Dumbledore’s triumph over the Dark wizard Grindelwald, after all, and his father always said Dumbledore was the great wizard of his generation. For James, however, it was more than just the dramatic tales of heroism and bravery...it was the way he treated Remus. The way he accepted him to school when no other Headmaster would have done so. The way he’d protected the boy werewolf at the end of last term, when any other Headmaster would’ve expelled him. James had much for which to thank Albus Dumbledore.

“Oi,” muttered Sirius, elbowing James in the rib.

“Huh?”

“New Defense professor. Look.”

James refocused his attention and looked. “Professor Otto Carter-Myles,” Dumbledore was saying, “joins us following a recent post abroad with the Department of International Magical Cooperation and comes with the enthusiastic recommendations of the school governors.”

A rather bland, balding man who James hadn’t even noticed throughout the meal rose to accept his tepid welcome from the mass of students.

“That’s ominous,” muttered Sirius.

James glanced at his friend. “How so?”

“The school governors are the same group of tossers who all but gave Dearborn the boot last year, and he was the best teacher we ever had. Their ‘enthusiastic recommendation’ doesn’t mean much to me.”

James frowned. The resignation of Professor Dearborn, their young, charismatic, and occasionally shocking Defense teacher, had been ill-received by many students at the school. His pedagogical choices had perhaps been unusual — such as inviting his students to battle to the death in the middle of the classroom — but James had liked him rather a lot. Apart from the fact that he had learned more under Dearborn’s tutelage than he had in the combined four years prior, Dearborn had also given him the opportunity to witness Lily blasting Sirius across the room onto his backside during a duel, and such rare gifts were not to go unappreciated.

Without really meaning to, his glance slid down the table to Lily again. She was frowning at the new faculty member just as fiercely as Sirius. He wondered what she was thinking.

At last, Professor Dumbledore sent them off to bed, and the four boys followed the crowds of students out into the Entrance Hall and up the marble staircase, before diverting their path towards a secret stairwell they knew would deliver them to Gryffindor Tower in half the time.

It was still a long climb, mind you, and as they reached the seventh floor landing, Remus looked about ready to collapse.

“You gonna make it, Moony?” asked Sirius as Remus paused to rest heavily against a statue of Lachlan the Lanky.

“No,” said Remus, pale-faced and miserable. “Think I’ll just kip under old Lachlan here. You lot can pick me up on your way to breakfast tomorrow.”

Sirius snorted. “All right, come here.”

“What?”

“Hop on.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m giving you a piggyback ride, you ingrate.”

“Oh.”

Remus looked for a moment as though he were about to decline, but then he merely shrugged and allowed the other boy to hoist him on to his back, arms draped over Sirius’s rolled shoulders. He was too exhausted to even conjure up the sarcastic comment that James knew under normal circumstances would be fresh off his tongue.

And so it was that they finished the final stretch of their trek, bid the Fat Lady a cheerful goodnight as they climbed through the portrait hole (Sirius having cleverly thought ahead to get the password from a prefect other than Remus, who had slept through the meeting and was generally ill-informed on such matters regardless), and climbed the spiral stairs to their old, familiar dormitory at the top of Gryffindor Tower.

“Thanks for the ride,” said Remus vaguely as he slipped down from Sirius’s shoulders. He slumped immediately to his four-poster bed, kicked off his shoes, and climbed under the covers. “G’night.”

“Aren’t you going to change into your pajamas?”

“Nope,” murmured Remus into his pillow. “Sleep now. Unpack tomorrow.”

And he was out.

Sirius crossed the room and tugged the boy’s bed curtains shut, an odd, meditative look on his face.

James bent down to unlace his own trainers. “He doesn’t seem angry,” he observed.

Sirius said nothing for a moment, then he sighed and collapsed backwards onto his own bed. “You’re an incurable optimist, Prongs.”

James didn’t know what to make of that, but as he was rather sleepy and full of a truly unseemly amount of food, he let it go unanswered, changed into his pajamas, and folded himself comfortably beneath his duvet.

As he lay there in the dark of his drawn curtains, the image of Lily Evans’ solemn expression at the feast floated before him.

You make me SICK.

He rolled over onto his side, as though abrupt movement might dislodge the memory and, a few moments later, fell into the warm, welcome embrace of a good night’s sleep.

“Merlin, Wormtail, how’d you only scrape by in Transfiguration? You’re a bloody Animagus!”

It was a bright and sunny morning in the Great Hall; not a single cloud blotted the enchanted ceiling above. The four friends were seated at breakfast, comparing O.W.L. scores and their newly-assigned N.E.W.T.-level schedules, which Professor McGonagall had just rather laboriously distributed.

“I don’t test well,” said Peter defensively, snatching the parchment back from Sirius.

“You should’ve just transformed into a rat during the practical portion and claimed your rightful O,” said James, piling sausage onto his plate. The first day of classes always made him hungry.

“And then been carted off to Azkaban,” added Remus.

“Small price to pay for academic glory.”

Remus let out an amused snort. He was in much better form this morning, James noticed — no doubt a solid night’s sleep helped — and by the way he was acting, you’d never know he’d spent the last few months ignoring every attempt to reach him. Curious.

“Well, I’m not sorry to drop Transfiguration,” said Peter. “Professor McGonagall has it out for me.”

“You can’t drop Transfiguration,” argued Sirius. “You won’t have any classes left.”

“I do so. You’re just jealous because I have all these beautiful free periods and you don’t. Look.”

James looked. Peter’s schedule was indeed tantalizingly light compared to his own. He turned to Sirius. “Change your mind yet?”

“No.”

“C’mon, mate, please?”

“Absolutely not,” said Sirius. “The whole point of making it to N.E.W.T.-level is being able to drop the classes you loathe. If you honestly think I’m going to spend another minute trapped in the dungeons with Slughorn salivating over me, you have a nasty shock coming. I already had this argument with old McGee, don’t make me rehash it with you.”

James flopped his elbows onto the table and sighed. Neither Remus nor Peter had achieved the grade necessary to continue with Potions (and neither of them thought this a great loss). Sirius had scored an Exceeds Expectations but was stubbornly refusing to continue the subject all the same. This was highly inconvenient to James who had, in fact, signed up for the class.

“You won’t even do it for me, your best and dearest friend who would literally die for you?”

Sirius thought about it for a moment. “Nope.”

“You’re a cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch, Padfoot.”

“Correct,” laughed Sirius. “Why are you so dead-set on taking the class anyway? Dying for some quality time with Snivellus?”

“It’s an important skill, all right? And Potions was my dad’s subject, and…”

And it was a required course to get accepted into Healer Training at St. Mungo’s. James had not voiced this secret ambition to anyone, except briefly to Professor McGonagall during his Career Advice session last year. Her reaction had been surprise, which had been the wrong reaction, and subsequently James had kept the idea to himself. Apparently, James Potter was not supposed to be interested in so serious a vocation as Healing…and yet, once the idea had occurred to him, he couldn’t get it out of his head. You face your fears. Giving up Potions would be closing a door that he was not yet prepared to fully close.

“…and it’s required for a lot of careers,” he concluded, returning his attention to his sausage with a slightly defensive stab of the fork. “You don’t think it would be remotely useful in life to know how to brew your own potions?”

“Why would I ever need to? I have you, my own personal N.E.W.T.-level Potions scholar. Besides, you dropped Muggle Studies on me.”

“Because I couldn’t fit it all!”

“Well, neither could I.”

“Hmph.”

“Tell you what,” said Sirius, the amusement evident in his voice, “you have my unconditional support and I promise, as your best and dearest friend who would literally die for you, that I will listen attentively as you bitch about Slughorn and Snivellus every night if need be — but I am not signing up for that class.”

“All right, all right, I get it,” muttered James. “Wanker.”

And so, while the rest of his friends returned to the common room following breakfast for a glorious free period, James trudged down to the dungeons alone for double Potions. He’d taken his time at breakfast, enjoying a leisurely morning with his mates who had no pressing obligations afterwards, and thus while he was not technically late for the first class of term, he was by no means early.

The first thing he noticed upon arrival in the dungeons was that the classroom was set up with significantly fewer workstations than previous years. The second thing he noticed was that, to his dismay, all of them were filled except for one: Hers.

You’re as bad as he is…

Lily Evans was sitting at a table near the front of the classroom, carefully arranging her potion supplies before her, an empty seat beside her. James glanced around the dungeon, searching for an alternative. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why hadn’t he got here earlier?

Messing up your hair because you think it looks cool to look like you’ve just got off your broomstick…

Last year, James would’ve been beyond thrilled to find himself in this situation. A perfectly good excuse to spend two hours chatting up the girl he fancied! But a lot had happened since James’s unfortunate revelation regarding his feelings for Lily. A lot had changed. And today, James was not thrilled in the slightest.

The last time he had properly spoken to Lily Evans had been three months ago on that unfortunate occasion by the lake after O.W.L.s. She had just told him in no uncertain terms — and in front of a crowd, no less — exactly what she thought of him. As it turned out, she thought very little of him, and she told him so in thorough and excruciating detail. He’d promised her that he’d leave her alone, and it was a promise he had every intention to keep — except that single empty seat at the front of the classroom was putting a most definite wrinkle in his plan.

Showing off with that stupid Snitch, walking down corridors and hexing anyone who annoys you just because you can…

He stood frozen to the spot at the back of the dungeon, though he knew there was nothing for it. He’d have to take that seat, unless he wanted to ask someone else to move and in doing so make a scene. Lily, unaware of his predicament, swept her dark red hair over her shoulders, staring determinedly ahead. Her entire demeanor was rather tense, he noticed, and after a moment, James worked out why: Severus Snape was seated on the other side of the dungeon, a few rows behind her, and he was staring at her as though he hoped to force her to turn around by the sheer intensity of his gaze.

Dislike roiled in James’s gut at the sight of the greasy Slytherin boy. Snivellus, as James preferred to think of him, had long been the Marauders’ nemesis, but last year the slimebag had taken things too far and gone after Remus. He’d made it the sole purpose of his miserable little life to uncover Remus’s secret and expose his lycanthropy to the whole school. That snotty little shit had spent the whole year following the boys around the castle, eavesdropping on their conversations. Once, James and Sirius had even come across him watching the castle doors on a full moon with a pair of bloody Omnioculars, the nosy, good-for-nothing little—

Anyway, the greaseball figured it out. Or he came very close. James did not attribute this to any great investigative talent on Snape’s end, but rather their own carelessness. He’d literally overheard them talking about the full moon, for the love of Merlin. And then Sirius had gone and done something truly stupid, and it had only been luck and a bit of quick thinking that had kept everything from going to absolute hell.

In the end, Dumbledore had threatened Snape with expulsion if he breathed a word about Remus’s true condition, and they all went on with their lives. But it was evident from Remus’s reticence, from Sirius’s unspoken anxiety, from the bitter rage that boiled in his own blood as James stared down Snape…the wounds of last term had not yet healed.

For some reason, it was this burst of antipathy that gave James the fortitude to heave a dramatic sigh and stroll to the front of the classroom. He couldn’t quite stop himself from giving Snape a sarcastic little wave as he approached Lily. Snape’s scowl, at least, was deeply satisfying.

Lily, for her part, did not notice, as she continued to stare stonily ahead.

I’m surprised your broomstick can get off the ground with that fat head on it. You make me SICK!

“Hello, partner,” said James as he dropped himself into the empty seat next to Lily. She startled and turned towards him. He noticed her eyes scan the room. “Only seat left,” he assured her. “Trust me, I checked.”

Lily pursed her lips. “What are you doing here?”

“Believe it or not, I go to school here. Small world, eh?”

“I mean here. This is Advanced Potions.”

“That would explain all the pickled salamanders,” said James pleasantly. “Oh…you thought I’d fail my O.W.L., didn’t you?”

Her cheeks flushed pink and James almost grinned, but he caught himself before it went too far.

“No,” she said, twisting a lock of red hair around her thumb. Why did she have to do that? Didn’t she know how mad it drove him? “I just never thought you had much interest in Potions, given that you’ve spent the past five years of class merely trying to blow things up.”

“Never underestimate the importance of knowing how to blow things up,” advised James, and he leaned comfortably back in his seat and stretched his arms behind his neck. A quick glance over his shoulder: Snape was still glaring daggers at him. James returned the glare with a smirk of his own. If he had to endure this, he might as well get some fun out of it. Knowing that his proximity to Lily Evans was torturing Snivellus nearly as much as it was torturing him was at least a minor consolation.

“And for your information,” he added coolly, “I Exceeded Expectations.”

“Well, you certainly exceeded mine.”

He laughed and began to arrange his own supplies upon the worktop, focusing all of his attention on his scales, his knives, his mortar and pestle…just so he wouldn’t have to look at her, and the slight furrow of her brow, and the constellation of freckles across her cheeks, and the red hair twisting around her thumb…

“Anyway,” he said, when he could no longer pretend at occupation. “I’m so sorry you have to suffer my presence here, but I had this obnoxious notion that the class might be useful. Bummer, I know, but I certainly didn’t sign up for the cheery ambiance or the charming company.”

Lily opened her mouth, undoubtedly to deliver a cutting retort, but she was interrupted by Professor Slughorn, who had been busying himself with something at his desk. The Potions Master, a portly wizard with a shiny bald pate and walrus mustache, turned cheerily on his heel and clapped his hands together twice to get everyone’s attention. It worked, and so Lily merely shot James a dismissive glance before turning towards the front of the dungeon.

“Well, well, well,” said Professor Slughorn brightly, observing the class with a look of keen interest. “A small cohort this year, isn’t it? But never mind — we few, we happy few! Off we go!” He pointed his wand at the blackboard and with a quick flick, the words Advanced Potions: Year Six were looped across the top.

“Welcome to Advanced Potions,” announced their professor, looking rather like a ringmaster presenting an exciting new act at the circus. “What a grand adventure we have before us. Here, we leave behind the realm of the merely practical — and venture into the sublime. The potions we will study over the next two years are among the most beautiful — and dangerous — known to Wizardkind. Polyjuice Potion, Amortentia, Veritaserum. These are the potions that alter reality, tempt the fates, and change the course of history…and these are what we shall endeavor to create. And have a jolly good time doing it, too!”

He stepped away from the desk to reveal a small cauldron that his generous girth had previously obscured from view. It was splashing profusely; great gold droplets bounced along the surface in a hypnotic pattern that never seemed to spill over the edge. Slughorn cast a fond, almost smug look at the cauldron before carrying on.

“I like to start your N.E.W.T. studies with a bit of friendly competition — to really get you excited for the possibilities. Does anyone know the name of this pretty little potion I have brewing up here?”

Next to him, Lily leaned forward slightly in her seat to get a better look. Then she gasped and thrust her hand into the air.

Slughorn beamed. “Yes, Lily, m’dear?”

“Is it Felix Felicis, sir?”

“Very good, very good. It is indeed! Liquid luck,” Slughorn added for the benefit of the rest of the class. “Makes one unfailingly lucky for the duration of the brew. It’s an immensely tricky little potion to craft — and not one we will be attempting this year. Quite messy if it goes wrong, you see…but oh, when you get it right…”

He turned back to the cauldron and stroked his mustache with a rather rhapsodic expression on his face. The whole class peered at the glittering, bubbling pot with increased interest. Even James found himself taken in. He’d heard of Felix Felicis, though he wouldn’t have been able to identify it on sight, and he quite fancied the idea of getting a taste of that liquid luck.

“Now,” said Slughorn, “you must understand that use of this potion is highly-regulated as it must not be consumed with any frequency, nor used in any illegal manner. But,” he removed a small vial from the pocket of his waistcoat and held it up to the class, “when taken in moderation and very, very rarely, the results can be…extraordinary.” He tucked the vial back in his pocket and gave it a gentle pat. "Which, should you win my little competition, you will find out for yourself. One lucky potioneer will walk away from today’s class with exactly one day’s worth of liquid luck.”

He beamed at the group of students, all of whom, James was certain, were imagining what they would do with a whole day of flawless luck.

“We shall start with the Draught of Living Death, which you will find on page ten of your textbook. Whoever brews the best approximation of this very complicated potion will win my little prize. Off you go then!”

There followed a great clatter of scales and supplies as everyone hastened to begin their potion. James had no great confidence that he stood a chance of winning that vial of liquid luck, not with Lily Evans in the class, but he retrieved his textbook from his bag and set to work all the same. He hadn’t bothered to look too closely at his schoolbooks after his mother had ordered them for him, so it was with a faint sense of surprise and deja vu that he pulled out Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borge.

There was no reason to be surprised by a fairly standard potions textbook, except for the sharp whiff of memory it evoked — for James knew this textbook intimately. In fact, he had rather a lot for which to blame it. After all, it had been this book that Lily had been reading when he’d come across her nearly a year ago, that fateful day when he’d figured out he fancied her, when she’d slipped and fallen into the lake and he’d had to dive in after her to pull her out. It had been this book that she’d hurled at him, just moments before the grindylows pulled her under, and this book, water-logged and sopping, that he’d taken back to his dormitory in an attempt to fix it up and impress her. And it had been this book in which Severus Snape had scrawled all his little scribbles in the margins, a treasure trove of invented spells and curses of varying degrees of nastiness. James had spent a good long time peeling through those pages, determined to decode every last line so that Snape would never get the drop on him.

It hadn’t exactly worked out.

Of course, his own textbook was new and unsullied by his enemy’s scrawl, but as James flipped to page ten, he scratched almost absentmindedly at a faint white scar across his cheek. It was hardly visible — you’d only notice it if you knew it was there — but that scar had been caused by one of Snape’s inscrutable spells. A slicing hex, it seemed, but altered in a way that made it nearly impossible to stop bleeding. Snape had used it on James at the end of last term, and it had taken weeks — and bushels of dittany, not to mention a fair amount tut-tutting from his mum — for the gash to fully heal.

He shot another glance back at the Slytherin, who was now closely examining his own textbook — the one with all the evil scribbles, no doubt. His oily nose nearly touched the page. With a burst of bitterness, James turned back to his own cauldron and began to work.

He had just finished accounting for all the necessary ingredients when Professor Slughorn strolled by and gave him a jovial clap on the shoulder. “James, m’boy. Where is Sirius Black, your other half?”

James had been dreading this part. “He’s not continuing with Potions, sir.”

Professor Slughorn looked aghast. “Why ever not? I happen to know he had the requisite O.W.L. scores. I checked them myself!”

Next to him, James noticed Lily give a quick, almost involuntary roll of her eyes.

“Er — I think he had conflict. Don’t think he could fit it into his schedule.” James was momentarily inclined to roll his own eyes as he imagined Sirius’s ‘conflict’ of lounging in the Gryffindor common room.

“A conflict? With which class?” demanded Slughorn, as though the idea of any class taking precedence over his own was nigh unthinkable.

“You’d have to ask him, sir.”

James did not want to point out that Sirius had ditched Potions for Muggle Studies; he was highly aware of Lily’s presence beside him, and he rather suspected that Professor Slughorn might say something a touch offensive about the subject, however unintentional.

“What a pity,” said Slughorn, and he looked very disappointed indeed as he moved away through the class.

“Liar,” said Lily without looking up from her knife. James watched as she chopped her Valerian root with impressive speed and tidiness.

“Excuse me?”

She scooped up the diced root and tossed it lightly into her cauldron. “Black didn’t have a scheduling conflict. He just didn’t want Slughorn breathing down his neck all year.”

James arched an eyebrow. “Very astute.”

Lily let out a soft “pfft,” as she gave the potion a quick stir — in the wrong direction, he noted — then she grabbed a handful of sopophorous beans, and they did not speak again.

By the end of class, Lily’s potion was nearly perfect, simmering along in a pale, translucent pink. James couldn’t help but be impressed, having surreptitiously watched the way in which she consistently flouted the textbook’s instructions. His own potion remained a stubborn deep magenta.

Professor Slughorn had predictably swooned over her cauldron, and James was certain she’d be the winner of the Felix Felicis. He found himself musing idly over what Lily Evans’ lucky day would look like…until Slughorn stopped by another cauldron a few rows back.

“Oho! What do we have here? Looks like this is a competition after all!”

James and Lily both turned to see the Potions Master bent over the cauldron of Severus Snape, whose smug expression dripped all over his slimy little face. James scowled.

“Tell me, Severus,” said Slughorn, “how did you manage to get it so perfectly pale?”

“By crushing the sopophorous beans instead of slicing them,” oozed Snape. “It releases more juice that way.”

There was a sharp huff of breath from beside James. “I taught him that trick,” Lily muttered.

James glanced at her. Her friendship with Snape had always been a peculiarity to him. He had never been able to fathom what they had in common, what they could possibly talk about. He supposed it made sense that Potions was one interest they’d shared. He bit back a reply, however, as the reason she was no longer friends with Severus Snape was at least partially his fault, and any comment he might add felt akin to hopscotching across a minefield.

You’re as bad as he is!

In the end, Slughorn had both Lily and Snape bottle up a bit of their potion, and then he took the vials to the front of the class to analyze. James watched with rather more interest than he might’ve otherwise done; he very much wanted Lily to win. Apart from simply loathing everything about Severus Snape, he couldn’t help but feel that any good luck Snape may encounter could only mean bad luck for James and his friends.

Alas. After an excruciating five minutes during which Slughorn compared the two vials, Snape’s potion was declared ever-so-slightly superior, and after giving Lily a rueful pat on the shoulder, Slughorn crossed the dungeon merrily to deliver Snape’s prize: one tiny, glittering bottle of Felix Felicis. A sharp sense of foreboding prickled his thoughts as James watched the potion change hands.

Then the bell rang, and the dungeon echoed with the scrape of chairs and clatter of cauldrons as students cleared their workspaces. Lily worked quietly and quickly, cleaning her knives, packing up her scales, eyes firmly on her task. Her obvious disappointment was tempered only by that same tense apprehension he’d noticed when he first entered the classroom.

“For what it’s worth,” said James as she packed up her bag and stood to go, “I was rooting for you.”

Lily looked down at him, her brows slightly contracted, and for a moment she appeared about to speak…but then she simply shook her head and walked away. She was but a moment gone — and James purposefully lingering over his own cauldron to put a good distance between the two of them — when an unpleasant thought bullied its way into his distracted brain. A most unpleasant thought indeed.

Muttering curses under his breath, James hastily shoved his belongings into his bag and all but bolted out of the dungeon door — where he came face to oily face with Severus Snape.

“Stay away from her,” snarled Snape, his sallow skin and sharp nose inches from James’s own.

“I beg your greasy pardon?”

“You heard me, Potter. Stay away from her. She doesn’t want anything to do with scum like you.”

James considered his enemy, both tactically and philosophically. While Snape had perhaps grown a few inches over the summer, he clearly had not yet discovered the magic of shampoo, and he was still a scrawny, slimy gangle of limbs, glued together by spite and ill-intention, no doubt.

James scratched his chin in mock contemplation. “Have you heard of the psychological concept of projection?”

“What?”

“No, of course you haven’t. Freud was a Muggle. Anyway, what you’re doing right now? It’s called projection. Because in fact, you are the scum with whom she wants nothing to do. You are the one who should stay away from her. Frankly, I will never understand how you managed to fool her for so long as you did, but I’ll tell you something, Snivellus: You fucked up. The Death Eater doesn’t get the girl.”

Snape seethed. “You think you’re a big man around school, Potter, but the world is changing, and one day very soon you’re going to get what you deserve—”

James held up a hand. “Yeah…I’m going to stop you there, Snivellus, because I have things to do. I don’t have time to listen to your evil monologue, no matter how many hours you spent practicing it in front of the mirror. But good luck with the good luck. I’d try taking a swig before your next shower. Might help.”

“You and your pet werewolf better watch—”

“Seriously, shut up.”

And with a twitch of his wand, James thought Langlock, and then he walked on, Snape spluttering silently behind him.

Only when he reached the Entrance Hall and saw Lily joining the throngs of students headed to lunch did that nagging, unpleasant thought that had badgered him in the dungeons subside. He hadn’t liked that intense, obsessive look in Snape’s eye, and he didn’t trust any of the other Slytherins either.

The dungeons were Slytherin territory. James had not yet forgotten what they’d done to Sirius last year when they’d caught him unawares down there — beat him black and blue and bloody, they had. He didn’t like to imagine what one of them might do if they got their hands on a Muggle-born. He made a mental note to be more mindful of his departure from Potions class in the future, and then he joined the crowds for lunch.

“Oi, Potter!” called a familiar voice as he reached the Great Hall. James turned to see his fellow Chaser Aisha Collins walking towards him, accompanied by a blond girl who James thought he knew from the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, but whose name was currently escaping him.

“All right, Collins? Er —” he fumbled with the other girls’ name.

“Florence Fawley,” said the blond girl, looking amused by his struggle. “We met last year, in a manner of speaking.”

“Florence saved your arse, you prick,” laughed Aisha. “After you got knocked out by that Bludger in the final?”

“He doesn’t remember,” smiled Florence. “Head trauma will do that to you.”

“I remember,” James assured her, and indeed he did: He’d managed to win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup last year by diving directly in front of a speeding Bludger, which promptly knocked him unconscious — a dangerous state of being when hovering fifty feet in the air. As James had later been informed, his deathly plummet had been halted by the quick thinking of his own team’s Beater and the nearby Ravenclaw Keeper, Florence Fawley. He had not noticed at the time — mostly on account of his being unconscious — just how attractive she was.

“My arse appreciates your quick reflexes,” he told her, and Florence laughed. She had a rather pretty laugh. Sort of light and feathery.

“Where are you coming from?” asked Aisha. “You look all sweaty and bent out of sorts.”

“Thank you,” said James, running a hand through his hair. “That’s exactly the aesthetic I was going for when I woke up this morning.” Another laugh from Florence. “I just came from Potions,” he added.

“That’ll do it,” said Aisha.

“Let me guess,” said Florence. “You had to compete for a vial of Felix Felicis? Oh, he does that every year. Sluggy likes to make an impression.”

“An impression was made,” said James, thinking darkly of Snape’s smug expression as he accepted the prize.

Aisha snorted. “Remember when Carlus Howley got kicked off the Ravenclaw team for trying to use the potion to win a match?”

“Oh, yes, that was awful.”

“So don’t get any ideas, Potter.”

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” shrugged James. “I didn’t win the potion. And for the record, I’m offended you think I’d cheat! You know I think Quidditch is sacred, Collins.”

“That’s true. I’ve never met such a zealot. So have you booked the pitch yet for trials?”

“This weekend. You’ll need to be there, of course. I want to run all the Chaser trials together. It’ll be tough work finding someone who flies as well with the two of us as Montgomery did, but here’s hoping.”

Aisha looked pleased. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. See you later, Bludger Boy."

“That’s Captain Bludger Boy to you, Collins!” James called after them, feeling oddly cheered as the two girls took off.

Chapter Text

SEVERUS

Unforgivable

By the time he reached the Slytherin common room, feet plodding behind the bovine masses of studentry that clogged the dungeon corridors, Severus’s tongue had unstuck from the roof of his mouth. No one had noticed — no one had tried to speak to him — but the indignity of having his own spell used against him (by Potter, no less) left a bitter taste in his throat.

Severus had invented that hex last year after a group of third years wouldn’t shut up in the library while he was trying to study. It was one of the many spells he’d jotted into the margins of his battered old copy of Advanced Potion-Making, the book that Potter had somehow stolen and pilfered. Severus had never learned precisely how he’d done it, how his enemy had got his hands on the precious book, and the mystery itched like a half-healed wound. He’d moved on, mostly, but it had tormented him for ages, making him do and think foolish things. He’d even briefly suspected Lily of passing it onto Potter, but that moment of rage had passed. She would never knowingly commit such treachery; he knew this to be true.

Distance had sharpened all the bits of her he loved most, made clear what a treasure he had truly lost. The Lily he knew — the Lily he’d lost — was good and pure and perfect and…and small wonder she wants nothing to do with scum like you.

Severus pushed these thoughts aside as he stalked across the green-lit common room, past the tall-backed chairs, the imposing fireplaces, the dark grandeur of windows that peered out into the murky depths of the lake. The afternoon sun just barely pierced through the water’s gloom. He slumped into his dormitory and spat into a bin by the door. His tongue was still dry and fuzzy from Langlock. He hadn’t yet worked out a counter-curse to this particular hex — it wore off fairly quickly, so he’d never bothered — but that was beginning to feel like negligence, now that Potter knew his secrets. He’d have to revisit it later.

At the moment, however, Severus had other things on his mind. With a sharp glance over his shoulder to make sure none of his dorm-mates had followed him in, Severus pulled a small crystal phial from the pocket of his robes. It glittered as he twisted it between his fingers, the golden liquid inside sloshing up against the glass, smooth and molten in the candlelight. Felix Felicis.

His victory in Potions class felt like providence. Like the fates had at last decided to intervene in the cruel torment that was his life…but no, he chided himself, that wasn’t right. The fates hadn’t won him this potion. He had done that all on his own. It had been his cleverness, his skill. Fate didn’t factor in.

For Severus Snape no longer believed in fate. Once upon a time he had felt the tug of his own destiny, his own greatness. Its raging undercurrent had wrenched him away from dirty Cokeworth and delivered him to the halls of Hogwarts Castle, to the glamor of Slytherin House. Once upon a time, fate had delivered Lily to him. Lily, who was so beautiful and sweet and magic and good. His diamond in that dirty mill town. And then, like the snap of fingers into a fist, fate had taken her away.

If there was such a thing as fate, Severus thought, then she was indeed a nasty, fickle bitch.

But he didn’t believe in fate. No. As far as Severus was concerned, the closest thing to fate was the subtle brew of a potion. Isn’t that what Slughorn had said? The most powerful potions could alter reality, change the course of history…and now with this tiny phial between his fingers, Severus at last had the power to do just that. He’d have to be really careful about when he used it. There was no more than a day’s worth of luck at most; he’d have to choose the right moment. Luck was all he had left. All his hopes now rested on a single swallow…

But he did not have time to ruminate on this further. He had to leave now if wanted to get any lunch before his afternoon class of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Severus was actually looking forward to this one. Finally he was a N.E.W.T.-level student, which meant moving away from dull, repetitive defense and into the true mystery of the Dark Arts. He hoped this year’s instructor would prove worthy of the subject, though he wasn’t about to hold his breath.

He palmed the phial of Felix Felicis and knelt by the trunk at the foot of his bed to bury the treasure inside. After a moment’s consideration, he wrapped the tiny potion carefully in an old sock and placed a concealment charm atop it to boot. Then he locked the trunk and swept out of the dormitory.

After a hasty and unsatisfying lunch, Severus climbed the stairs to the third floor corridor alone. The din of students’ chatter and clamor echoed through the halls and bullied his senses, an indistinguishable roar of frivolous conversation…but as he rounded the corner towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, familiar voices pricked his ears. Severus slowed his pace, as caution had long ago taught him to do.

“Does it seem ironic to you that we have Defense Against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins this year?” came the nauseatingly pompous voice of James Potter.

“Well,” drawled Sirius Black, “it’ll give us plenty of practice, eh?”

Severus peered around the corner. Potter, Black and their little gang were loitering a few feet from the classroom, chatting and lolling about like the indolent thugs they were. He paused to listen. It was an old habit, eavesdropping on their conversations, and it was mostly pointless now. He already knew their deepest secret: The werewolf pet they kept close was currently slouching next to Potter and rummaging for something in its bag. Still, any opportunity to get the upper hand on his enemies could not be dismissed, so Severus lingered a moment, listening all the same.

“Defense Against the Slimy Bastards would be a better title,” said Potter. He probably thought that was a clever line. Imbecilic little toad.

“Pose it to the new professor,” said the werewolf idly, still searching in his bag. Then: “Damn, I forgot my quill.”

“I brought an extra,” said Black. “D’you think I’ve learned nothing about you in five years?”

“Must admit,” said Potter, “I’m curious about this Carter-Myles fellow.”

“Me too,” said Pettigrew, that stupid lump of a boy who always followed them around. Severus remembered Pettigrew in Dumbledore’s office following his friends’ failed homicide. The boy had looked like he was going to wet himself. “I wonder what sort of teacher he’ll—”

“Oi,” interrupted Black, and his voice was suddenly low. The skin on Severus’s neck prickled as he felt the focus of that hound-like glare. Black had noticed him. All four boys looked his way now: Potter scowled, Black sneered, Pettigrew blinked rapidly a few times, but the werewolf just stared, lips slightly parted as though it wished to say something. It said nothing. Coward.

How strange it was to have survived attempted murder and then be forced to attend class with not only the would-be murderers but the weapon itself. How twisted. How sick.

“All right, Snivellus?” called Black. “You do realize we can see you, right? Just because you don’t bathe doesn’t mean you blend in with the rest of the grime on the floor.”

Severus’s fist closed on his wand, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. There were enough teachers nearby that he didn’t think they’d outright hex him in the corridor — but he wasn’t about to risk it. He’d already been jinxed once on his first day back.

“Snake got your tongue?” said Black.

“Or is it still stuck to the roof of your mouth?” asked Potter with a smirk. “Tell me, is there a way to make Langlock permanent? I reckon the whole school would thank me.”

“Probably win an award,” said Black. “Special Services to the School, at least.”

“Hex me again,” hissed Severus before he could stop himself, whipping his wand from his robes, “and it won’t be your cheek I slice up next time.”

Potter arched an eyebrow and gazed at the wand coolly, unflappable in his arrogance. “That so? Been practicing, have you?”

Severus just glowered at him, his breath ragged and furious.

“Wow, Sniv,” drawled Black. “You really are a catch. Can’t imagine why Evans is playing keep-away.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“Come on,” said the werewolf sharply, and then it gave Black a little shove down the corridor, and the gang of idiots and beasts ambled off towards their classroom. Black could not resist turning and making a rude hand gesture over his shoulder.

Severus fell back, pressing his shoulder blades against the corridor’s stone wall, his adrenaline spiking. What he wouldn’t give to put them in their place, what he wouldn’t do…

A steadying breath, and Severus followed his enemies into the classroom. It was only about half full so far. Severus quickly searched for a glimpse of red hair but did not find it, so he crossed the room to a seat at the back, walking stonily past Potter and Black to get there. He found an empty corner as far away as he could and busied himself with his belongings so he wouldn’t have to look at his tormentors. Then, just as he pulled his textbook from his bag, she entered.

Lily Evans.

It must be magic, he thought, the way sunlight always seemed to fall upon her face wherever she was, as though the sun god himself was determined to illuminate her perfect features, the flame of her dark red hair. He would never tire of looking at her; he would never be satisfied with merely looking. She was a poem he could never utter, the words caught in his throat, choking and torturing him. He stared on. Her ever-startling green eyes cast a quick glance around the classroom and landed upon Severus. He froze as he always did in the beam of her gaze; she was Medusa, and he was delighted to turn to stone.

In the half-second her gaze lingered upon him, she appeared to be making a choice. There were plenty of seats around Severus, as the rest of the Slytherins had not yet arrived. On the other end of the classroom, the only remaining seat was next to Marlene McKinnon — and directly in front of Black and Potter. For a blissful moment, he was certain she’d come and sit by him instead — she hated those boys — but then she looked away and dropped herself primly into the seat before Black.

Severus stared at the back of her head. Potions had been one thing, Potter hadn’t been there when she’d arrived, she couldn’t have known he’d show up and bully his way into her space. But to make a conscious choice to sit by him again? On the same day? When there were plenty of empty seats around?

It had been torture, watching her sit there in the dungeons with Potter, knowing that every word that scuttled from his mouth was slime and treachery. Once upon a time, Lily had known that too. But now it seemed, in her mind, Severus was the greater of two evils. The realization stung.

“Hello, Evans,” said Black loudly as Lily sat down, and Severus couldn’t stop himself from continuing to watch intently from behind.

“Black,” said Lily, without turning to face him.

“Come on, I haven’t seen you in months and you can’t even say hello? Where’s the love?”

“Must’ve forgotten it at home,” said Lily, and she twisted in her chair to face the other boy. Severus wondered if Black too felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of her, but he didn’t appear too affected; he merely smirked. Next to Black, however, Potter had become deeply invested in his textbook. He did not look at her at all.

“What do you want, Black?” demanded Lily.

“Why, nothing more than a friendly catch-up with my favorite prefect!”

“Ouch. Has Remus been demoted?”

“Oh yeah.” Black cast a glance at the werewolf, who rolled its eyes. “I always forget you’re a prefect.”

“Me too,” said the werewolf. “Sorry I missed that meeting,” it added with a sheepish look at Lily, who gave an unbothered shrug in return.

“You didn’t miss much. Vance just handed out schedules for rounds this term. We’re on Tuesdays.”

“Right. Tuesdays.”

“Next meeting’s in a few weeks.”

“Got it.”

Lily smiled at the werewolf, and Severus wanted to scream. It didn’t deserve that sweet, kind smile that she no longer gave to him. Lily knew what Lupin was — Severus had told her himself, long before he’d been blackmailed into silence by their charlatan of a Headmaster. Quite possibly she even knew what that werewolf had tried to do to him last year — it had tried to kill him, and she didn’t even care! She’d rather sit over there, with murderers and beasts, than forgive him one tiny mistake…

“Merlin, Severus,” a sly voice interrupted his rapidly-spiraling thoughts. “Try to be a little less obvious about how much you want to fuck a Mudblood. It’s embarrassing.”

Severus’s cheeks burned as he jerked his gaze away from Lily to see Adam Avery dropping himself into the seat beside him, followed closely by Isolde Greengrass and Evan Rosier.

Adam, Isolde, and Evan were all students from his own house, and last year, at the behest of an older student, Corin Mulciber, they had tentatively accepted him into their group — some more willingly than others. Isolde in particular had never really warmed up to him. The feeling was mutual.

Severus opened his mouth to either deny the accusation or to deliver some riposte he had not yet constructed, but the entrance of Professor Carter-Myles derailed his retaliation, and Severus was forced to simmer alone in the failure of an unresolved retort.

“Everyone settle down, please,” said Carter-Myles unnecessarily; the whole class had already quieted at his arrival and was watching him expectantly. Severus cast a critical gaze over the new professor’s features. He was small and bland and balding, with the air of one who could disappear in any crowd — not through any great talent of espionage, but rather from a powerful boredom that bullied the onlooker’s eyes. His expression was both stern and sanctimonious; a frivolous little wisp of a mustache disgraced his upper lip. In other words, the perfect specimen of a Ministry bureaucrat. Severus’s expectations for N.E.W.T.-level studies plummeted as quickly as this assessment.

“My name,” announced the bureaucrat, “is Professor Carter-Myles, and I will be your instructor as you embark on your first year of N.E.W.T.-level Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“Whoop-de-fucking-doo,” said Evan under his breath.

“You begin this journey at a very peculiar time in our history. As you are no doubt aware, the Wizarding community has been under the assault of extremists who would use violence and Dark Magic to disrupt our way of life.”

“Only if you’re a filthy Mudblood lover,” muttered Adam, and Evan snorted.

“I expect you all followed the case of the Muggle-born Rights extremist Samuel Cornfoot last year, who is currently serving a life term in Azkaban for the assassination of a Ministry official. This horrific act was undoubtedly the most dramatic and newsworthy example of such violence, but—”

In the front row, Lily’s hand shot into the air.

“This should be good,” sneered Isolde.

Carter-Myles blinked at Lily, clearly perturbed by the interruption so early in his class. When Lily did not lower her hand, Carter-Myles cleared his throat and said, “Yes, Miss…?”

“Evans,” said Lily. “Lily Evans, and I think some might argue that the murder of an entire Muggle family in Leeds last year at the hands of Death Eaters was equally dramatic. Or that attack on Manchester that killed dozens. Or the assault on Westminster this summer that left the Dark Mark blaring over London. Is it just because the victims were Muggles that they are considered less…newsworthy?”

Professor Carter-Myles stared at her with his emotionless little glower. Even the Slytherin peanut gallery around Severus were quiet, waiting to see what he would do. Then Carter-Myles sniffed and smoothed his mustache.

“As I previously stated, the Wizarding community is under the assault of violent extremists. This violence comes from both sides of the political spectrum—”

“Both sides?” interrupted Lily. “How can you possibly compare the two? Death Eaters are blowing up cities left and right, while the Ministry and the Daily Prophet are obsessed with the alleged crimes of a few Muggle Rights supporters. How does that make any sense at all?”

“I do not recall opening this lecture to debate, Miss Evans,” snapped Carter-Myles, his bland persona somewhat ruffled with annoyance, “and I would advise you not to pursue a career in Magical Law Enforcement if a killer’s confession amounts to an ‘alleged’ crime in your mind.”

Adam snickered.

“The Ministry can’t ignore it anymore,” said Lily loudly, refusing to back down. “The Dark Mark was in the Daily Prophet. I saw it. And while the Ministry tries to distract the public with tales of Muggle Rights extremists, Voldemort is gaining power.”

The class gasped as one. Severus was not the only student shaken by her cavalier use the unspeakable name. Alodie Blunt let out a small shriek; Pettigrew knocked over his inkwell. Potter sat up a bit straighter, eyes flicking from the back of Lily’s head to their teacher. Carter-Myles had gone several shades paler — an impressive feat for his already wallpaper-paste hue — but his expression remained neutral. “You will not use that name in this classroom,” he said flatly. “Twenty points from Gryffindor.”

“Professor Parker-Biles?” called Black insolently from his seat, not bothering to raise his hand.

“It’s Carter-Myles,” the professor corrected him.

“Sorry,” said Black, though he was clearly not. “Hard to keep all these Defense teachers straight. We’ve had so many. Evans has a point though, doesn’t she? Harmonia Lufkin’s murder got a lot of press, but we haven’t heard too much from the so-called Muggle Rights extremists since then. Meanwhile, Death Eaters have been having a right old party all summer long.”

“And your name is?” demanded Carter-Myles.

“Black.”

Was Severus imagining it, or did their professor’s sneer temper ever so slightly at the name ‘Black’? Carter-Myles, it seemed, respected the power of the old pure-blood families. Never mind. He’d learn soon enough that Sirius Black was a rotting fungus on the root of his family tree.

“Well, Mr. Black, as I intended to say before I was interrupted, the Wizarding community is vulnerable to a great diversity of threats. From the so-called ‘Death Eaters’ to Muggle Rights extremists to…” his gaze flitted towards the werewolf and hovered a moment, “…Dark Creatures.”

The werewolf froze. Potter was gnashing his teeth and Black looked homicidal — more homicidal than usual, anyway. Severus was satisfied by the boys’ obvious discomfort. Carter-Myles had not impressed Severus on many fronts, but at least he seemed to have the proper sensibilities when it came to beasts.

“All of these threats are equally dangerous and destructive,” continued the professor. “The Ministry, with whom I have spent most of my career and for which I have the utmost respect, intends to crack down on illegal behavior — on both sides. Together in this class, we shall examine exactly how the Ministry intends to do that. It is important for you to understand the rules and regulations around the Dark Arts and what is and is not permitted by citizens in our society — as opposed to Ministry personnel.”

“This is a joke, right?” hissed Adam.

“So,” announced Carter-Myles, “I thought we’d begin with the most heavily punishable curses in Wizarding law." He tapped his wand against the blackboard, and three lines appeared in a tight, clipped hand:

Imperius
Cruciatus
Avada Kedavra

Severus leaned forward, and he felt the attention of Adam, Evan, and Isolde sharpen beside him. At last, they were getting to the good stuff.

“These three are considered the Unforgivable Curses. Who can tell me what the Imperius Curse does?”

Severus raised his hand, and so did Adam Avery.

“Yes, Mr. Avery?” said Carter-Myles.

“It lets you control another person. Completely. Like a little puppet.”

Lily glanced back towards the Slytherins’ corner, a slightly startled expression on her face. Her eyes skimmed Severus then returned hastily to the front.

“Correct,” said Carter-Myles dispassionately. “The Imperius Curse is a particularly complicated matter for our legal system, as anyone under its influence is in the thrall of their controller. How do you prosecute someone who is fundamentally incapable of making their own choices? How do you prove they weren’t acting on their own accord?”

He tapped his wand against the second curse on the board. “The Cruciatus Curse. Who can tell me what this does?”

“Pain,” said Sirius Black in a bored voice from the front of the classroom. This was annoying, as Severus had thrust his hand into the air, ready with the answer, but Black hadn’t even bothered to raise his own.

“Pain,” agreed Carter-Myles. “It is the most effective torture known to Wizardkind.” He pointed at the final curse. “And this one?”

This time, Severus didn’t wait to be called on. “Murder,” he said loudly into the quiet classroom. "One method, anyway."

Sirius Black turned to look at him, a disdainful sneer on his face. Severus held his gaze with purposeful fury.

“Indeed,” said Carter-Myles, unaware of the silent standoff happening under his nose. “Avada Kedavra, the Killing Curse. Brutally quick and unfailingly effective. No one has ever survived an encounter with this curse.”

The class was silent. Black at last turned his gaze away from Severus.

“Now,” continued Carter-Myles, “the use of any of these spells without Ministry approval is enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban, but—”

He stopped, his bland expression sullied by a scowl. Lily had raised her hand again.

“What now, Miss Evans?”

“What do you mean by Ministry approval? Surely any use of an Unforgivable is illegal?”

Carter-Myles eyed her with distaste. “The Ministry makes the laws, Miss Evans, thus the Ministry decides when it is and is not appropriate to use any particular spell. As a matter of fact, your interruption is a timely segue.”

He flicked his wand and an eraser blotted the three curses from the board.

“This very conundrum will be the subject of your first homework assignment for my class. You will all read chapter seven in your textbook on the history and regulation of curses in Wizarding Britain, and then you will complete an essay on the following subject.”

Another tap of the wand, and the words Practical Uses of the Unforgivable Curses appeared across the blackboard.

“But there can’t be any practical uses,” said James Potter, sounding appalled. “They’re unforgivable for a reason! The Ministry uses Dark Magic now?”

“The Ministry will use all resources necessary to fight growing extremism, Mr. Potter. If the Ministry deems any specific spell appropriate and legal, then it is appropriate and legal.”

“Another year, another pathetic charade of teaching the Dark Arts,” sighed Adam as the group of Slytherins filed out into the corridor following class. Severus trudged a few steps behind, feeling miserable. Lily had been the first on her feet when the bell rang, all but bolting from the classroom. No doubt to avoid him. It felt foolish to admit that he’d thought her fury would fade, that one day they would be able to have a calm and rational discussion about the events of last term…but Lily seemed determined to hold onto her silly little grudge forever.

Yet she sits by Potter, snarled the voice in his head. She forgives Potter…

“Who cares about bloody regulations?” Adam went on. “Tell us how the spells work.”

“At least the professor’s not a Mudblood this year,” said Isolde. Then: “Oops. Sorry, Severus. Did my language offend you? We all know how much you love Muggles.”

They all looked at him, eyebrows raised, lips quirked, waiting. It was another test. He’d learned to expect them. The other Slytherins put these little hurdles in his path sometimes, so he could prove himself. It was the price he paid for being a half-blood attempting to rub elbows with the elite. He knew how he was supposed to respond.

“Why should I care if you say the word Mudblood?” said Severus, and Isolde smiled, satisfied with this answer.

While the other students headed to dinner, Severus returned to the Slytherin common room and immediately headed for his dormitory. He wanted to make sure the Felix Felicis was still safe. It was all he could think about. Plenty of other students had seen him win the potion. They’d be jealous, want it for themselves. He didn’t trust his own housemates much more than he did his enemies.

The dormitory was mercifully empty, and he knelt at once by his trunk and rummaged around until he found the sock with the concealment spell. He unrolled it and withdrew the glittering gold phial from its depths.

It was safe.

It was his, his alone, and it was safe.

Severus’s focus derailed as he heard the dormitory door click open. He quickly palmed the phial and dropped it into his pocket just as Corin Mulciber stepped into the room. Mulciber was a tall, sleek seventh year boy with slick, dark hair and the sort of eyebrows that always suggested amusement at your expense.

“Severus,” he drawled. “I thought I saw you slink in here.”

“Just dropping off my books before dinner,” said Severus, although he was under no obligation to give justification for his movements to anyone, let alone Mulciber. Somehow, the older boy always seemed to have a way of inviting such deference.

“Convenient of you,” said Mulciber, “as I wanted a word alone. Haven’t had a chance to catch you since term started. Have a nice summer, by the way?” Severus’s silence curdled in the empty dormitory, and Mulciber snickered. “No, I suspect not. Never mind. I come bearing gifts.”

He reached down and unclasped the smooth, leather bag slung over his shoulder. It looked expensive. Everything Corin Mulciber owned was expensive. Severus was sure he’d never had to wear a hand-me-down pair of boots from his father; he’d never had to mend his own trousers without magic — or with magic, for that matter.

Mulciber, heedless of his companion’s bitter internal analysis, pulled out a stack of books, and Severus’s interest piqued at once. “What are those?”

A grin slid over Mulciber’s face at Severus’s furtive eagerness. “To further your education. The Hogwarts library is pathetically limited. Dumbledore purged all the good stuff decades ago, but lucky for you, I have my own sources.”

He held the the books out towards Severus, who reached for them at once with all the self-restraint of a child being offered a sugary treat. He couldn’t help himself; knowledge was addicting. But Mulciber withdrew his gift at the last moment, pulling the books back towards his chest.

“You remember our little talk last term? About your future?”

Of course he did. How could Severus forget? Mulciber had offered him an unforgettable opportunity, the sort of thing that could change a person’s life forever: a spot with the Death Eaters. Mulciber’s father was a Death Eater, or so the older boy claimed. It made sense: rich, powerful, pure-blood, perfect. Corin Mulciber, like his father, was a shoe-in for such an elite group of wizards. But Severus? A dirty half-blood from a shite-hole like Cokeworth? What could he possibly have to offer?

Talent, hissed the voice in his head. I have talent. You make your own destiny, your own choices, fate can go fuck herself.

Mulciber was still watching him.

“I remember,” said Severus.

“And?”

And somewhere quieter in the back of his mind, a memory: You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.

“And I want it.”

Mulciber grinned. “Good.”

Chapter Text

PETER

Cartography for Beginners

The dim glimmer of evening light was fading quickly as Peter strolled through the castle corridors alone, hands tucked into his pockets, whistling a tuneless little ditty with all the confidence his sixth year stature bestowed upon him. Though it had been been barely twenty-four hours since they’d returned to school, Peter found he liked being a sixth year. Statistically, the majority of his fellow students were younger and shorter than him, which was a novelty; he’d dropped his least favorite classes, which was a relief; and most importantly, he had a girlfriend, which was cool.

He was on his way back from a little early evening excursion with said girlfriend right now. Winnie didn’t like to break curfew, so it had been a relatively brief encounter, but never mind that — the whole thing had Peter feeling rather good about himself. Sure, she hadn’t let him do much more than kiss her (no tongue), and she’d been diligent about keeping his roaming hands firmly in check, but that was all right. 

They’d gotten together over the summer, after her mum had dragged her along to one too many Tuesday night gobstone practices at his mum’s house. They were in a league together, their mums. Winnie, clearly bored of watching middle-aged women get squirted in the face with pus, had ventured into the kitchen in search of distraction. She’d found Peter, slouched at the table, writing a letter to James and Sirius. Winnie had asked what he was doing, so Peter had told her. She’d seemed pleased about it.

At next Tuesday’s gobstone practice, she’d wasted no time in finding Peter and suggesting that he “show her the back garden.” Peter had been a bit baffled by this request as there really wasn’t much of anything in the back garden to show — not even much of a garden, really — but he’d obliged, and then she’d kissed him and informed him that she thought he should be her boyfriend. Peter didn’t have any objections to this, and so the issue had been settled.

He did have the faint impression that perhaps Winnie wished to date him due to his proximity to James and Sirius, the two coolest boys in school. He was not so daft as the others imagined him to be, and he’d noticed the way she kept hinting that she’d really like to sit with him “and his friends” at meals, but Peter shoved that thought aside for another day.

For his part, he did not much want Winnie joining them at meals, or anywhere else, really. He liked her as a concept, a reminder to his cooler, more popular friends that he had prospects and other places to be. He was not remotely interested in inviting their opinions or criticism. The important thing was that he, Peter Pettigrew, perpetual tag-along and professional afterthought, had a girlfriend. And James and Sirius did not.

The snogging was icing on the cake.

He’d been particularly pleased to have this little outing with Winnie planned tonight because he knew James and Sirius were up to something, and as usual, they’d taken Peter’s participation for granted. He knew this because of a conversation they’d had on their way to dinner, just after their Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Peter had paused to tie his shoelaces — they were always coming undone — while James and Sirius called Professor Carter-Myles every name under the sun. Remus had been very quiet throughout the whole diatribe. Of course, they had all noticed the way their new teacher’s gaze had lingered on Remus in class; they’d all sensed the venom behind those bland eyes…

“I know his type.” Sirius’s voice had been heavy with disgust; he’d stood slumped against an empty plinth, arms crossed, while Peter knotted his laces. “Smarmy little Ministry parchment-shuffler who licks the boots of every twenty-eighter who deigns to stomp on him. Pathetic.”

“Yeah, he’s clearly a bigot,” James agreed. “The way he went on about Muggle Rights, and that line about Dark Creatures…”

“Can we not talk about this here?” Remus snapped with surprising brusqueness. Peter looked up from his shoelaces to see the other boy heading off towards the Great Hall alone.

James frowned after him. “I guess we’re just supposed to pretend that little moment in class never happened?” 

“Add it to the list,” said Sirius, but as he’d started to follow Remus, James grabbed his arm. 

“Tonight, yeah?”

Sirius cast a quick glance down the corridor towards Remus’s retreating form. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”

“Nah,” said James. “Something to look forward to.”

“Always the optimist,” sighed Sirius. “All right, fine. Tonight, then.” 

And, having concluded this cryptic little talk, Sirius and James had strolled off, leaving Peter alone to finish tying his shoelaces, none the wiser to whatever they were planning. It annoyed him that no one had bothered to wait for him nearly as much as it annoyed him that he didn’t know what ‘tonight’ meant. It was tiresome, the way James and Sirius could have a conversation as though Peter wasn’t even there.

So he’d gone off to meet Winnie after dinner and delighted in not bothering to tell any of them. He had other things to do. He wasn’t always waiting around to do their bidding. They'd see.

When at last Peter arrived at Gryffindor Tower, he found his friends sprawled about their dormitory; James was on the floor with a bundle of parchment sheaves spread before him. He glanced up as Peter entered.

“You’re back late.” It was almost an accusation.

“Yeah,” agreed Peter, enjoying all the implications of his own brevity.

Sirius cocked an eyebrow from across the room. “Good time?”

“Not bad,” smirked Peter.

“Well, better late than never,” said James distractedly, pushing his glasses up with one finger while he examined the parchment on the floor before him. “We’re discussing important Marauder business.”

“Oh yeah?” Peter was irritated by James’s lack of interest in his romantic escapades. He’d wanted his friend to be impressed, not impatient. “What’s that, then?”

James looked up from the parchment, and a familiar grin spread across his face. “Mischief.”

“All right, men,” announced James. During the time that Peter changed into his pajamas and settled himself at the foot of his bed, James had tacked up four large swaths of parchment to the dormitory wall and now he paced before them like a general before battle, a slight smirk belying an otherwise solemn expression. 

Remus sat cross-legged on his own bed, listening politely, while Sirius was sprawled lazily on the sofa, feet kicked up on a trunk, watching the proceedings with a look of indulgent amusement, like a fond uncle letting his nephew play with a new toy. Or at least, Peter assumed that’s how an uncle would look in such a situation. He didn’t have any uncles. Or aunts. Or a dad, for that matter. It had always been just him and mum.

Peter, for his part, waited eagerly for whatever James was about to share, his initial irritation having given way to curiosity and excitement. You just never knew what would happen when James got that particular look in his eye.

James cleared his throat. “I have gathered you here today to unveil—”

“You haven’t gathered us anywhere,” interrupted Remus. “We live here.”

“Moony,” complained James, while Sirius snickered.

“I’m just saying.”

“Fine. I have come across you in your living quarters whether you like it or not to unveil to you a matter of the utmost importance and secrecy, the absolute—”

“Get on with it,” heckled Sirius.

James heaved a dramatic, long-suffering sigh. “I’m about to unveil to you: The Plan.”

“What’s the plan?” asked Peter.

“Glad you asked, Wormtail!” said James, clapping his hands together, eyes glittering with enthusiasm behind his glasses. “The Plan will be the pinnacle of our Marauding achievements, the stuff of Hogwarts legend. Last year, we made good strides in cementing our legacy by becoming undoubtedly the youngest illegal Animagi ever to grace these halls, but this year…this year, we’re getting organized.”

James tapped the parchment on the wall with his wand and inky lines threaded their way across the pages.

“The next full moon is a little under a month away. Now, last year we just ran willy-nilly through the forest, which was good fun and all that, but this year we’re going to be strategic.”

“What’s that?” asked Peter, pointing at the lines on the parchment, which appeared to be drawing some sort of structure of indeterminate shape.

“That’s the castle”

“That’s the castle? What’s the swirly bit next to it?”

“That’s the lake. See, there’s the Giant Squid.”

“Oh.”

“And those pointy bits are trees, I expect?” interjected an amused Sirius.

“All right,” said James, nettled. “I’m not the best artist, but use your imagination okay? That’s the castle, those are the grounds, and these —” he traced a series of gridlines over the crude drawings. “— are the different areas we’ll explore each full moon. Now—”

“You can’t really mean to keep sneaking me out, can you?”

Peter, James, and Sirius all turned as one. Remus was still sitting on his bed, but his previously amused expression had been swallowed up by a firmly furrowed brow. The other boys all seemed to realize at once that he hadn’t spoken in a while.

“Of course we are,” said James breezily. “We were so successful last year, why would we stop now?”

“Successful?” said Remus, his voice a faint huff of disbelief. “I nearly killed someone last year.”

James gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “That was different. That won’t happen again.”

“You’re out of your minds.”

Peter was rather inclined to agree: James and Sirius were pushing their luck. Peter had not forgotten what it had felt like sitting in the Headmaster’s office, silently waiting for Dumbledore to return and announce that the worst had happened: that Remus had killed Snape, killed James, that they were all to be expelled or sent to Azkaban. He could still feel the drip of sweat down his brow as he stared at the moon-glazed window, Sirius beside him, scowling at the floor. Waiting. Waiting.

To be honest, Peter still couldn’t believe they’d gotten away with it. That Sirius had gotten away with it. That Remus had actually forgiven him, after Sirius had betrayed the secret they’d all sworn an oath to protect. Apparently ‘solemnly swear’ didn’t apply to Sirius Black. The whole thing had been so dramatic and monstrous, and then they just…never spoke of it again. Just like that.

Or maybe they did, Peter realized with a sudden, stinging hurt. Maybe his friends had all gotten together and had long, involved discussions during which they’d hashed it all out, but no one ever bothered to tell Peter Pettigrew, because what did it matter what he thought about the whole mess? Never mind that he’d put his neck on the line, convincing Sirius they had to go to Dumbledore after James ran off after Snivellus. No…no one ever stopped to consider what Peter thought about anything at all—

“Look,” said James, pulling Peter from the spiral of his thoughts, “we didn’t spend four years becoming Animagi just to quit at the first hiccup.”

“My nearly murdering another student wasn’t a hiccup,” said Remus. “That can’t happen again, James. Not ever. There’s a reason they lock me up—”

This time, it was Sirius who interrupted. “Stop being a martyr, Moony. You’re not staying caged up in that shack every month. You know we won’t allow it, and I know you don’t actually want that.”

There was a pause. Peter glanced between Remus and Sirius, who were each staring at the other intently enough to suggest that some other conversation was happening below the surface of their stern expressions. Yet another conversation he wasn’t privy too. 

“No,” agreed Remus at last, with the air of someone giving up rather a lot in a negotiation. “I don’t want that. But after last year — if you get caught sneaking out of the castle on the full moon—”

“We won’t,” said James.

“You don’t know that!”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. I’ve got something else to show you.” James loped across the room to his trunk and rummaged around in it for a moment before pulling out a bundle of shimmering cloth. He held it up, and the fabric fell in glimmering silver waves to the floor. “My dad gave this to me over the summer. It’s an Invisibility Cloak. Watch.” 

James threw the Cloak over his shoulders, and then he was gone. Vanished into thin air. Peter couldn’t help it: He gasped.

“Never gets old,” said Sirius. 

“That is seriously cool,” said Peter, staring in awe at the empty air that once was James.

“And seriously useful,” said the empty air. James shrugged off the Cloak and tossed it to Remus, who caught it with a slightly dazed expression. “No one — not Filch, not Snivellus, not Dumbledore himself — will see us sneak out. Once we’re on the grounds, we’ll be Animagi, and who will spot us then? It’s about as foolproof as it gets, Moony. We’re literally invisible.”

Peter watched as Remus let the Cloak flow over his hands, apparently struck speechless by its reveal. James seemed to accept his silence as approval.

“Which brings us back to The Plan. The grounds we’ll explore as Animagi on the full moons, but the castle we can cover any old night under the Cloak.”

“The castle?” Remus pulled his gaze from the marvelous Cloak at last. “What’s the castle got to do with it?”

James’s grin broadened. “The castle is the whole point, Moony. We’re going to create something that no one in the history of Hogwarts has ever managed.”

“My twelfth stress ulcer?”

“A map.” 

There was a pause. Peter looked to James and Sirius who were both watching Remus — James intently and Sirius with a slight smirk on his face. They both seemed interested in gauging his reaction to their little idea. The whole scene felt familiar to Peter, like the moment last year when Remus had found out they’d become Animagi, or when they’d confronted him second year about being a werewolf. Except those times Peter had been in on the secret. Now he was a mere spectator, standing a few steps aside, watching. No one had bothered to tell him about any plan.

“A map,” repeated Remus after the pause had begun to itch.

“Yes.”

“Of the castle.”

“Correct.”

“…Why?”

James looked confused. “What d’you mean, why?”

“I’m just slightly hung up on the sudden passion for cartography, I suppose.”

“It’s not so sudden,” said Sirius with another smirk. “Remember last year when Prongs got all keen on charting out the castle’s plumbing? Really, Prongs, why you’re so unlucky with the ladies, I’ll never understand.”

“I dunno,” said Peter, who wanted to contribute something to this conversation. “I heard Florence Fawley was flirting with him today.”

James turned to Peter in astonishment, temporarily derailed from whatever retort he’d been about to deliver. “Where the hell d'you hear that?”

“Bertha Jorkins told Eloise Bones, who told Winnie. You know, my girlfriend?”

“Honestly," scoffed James, "this school is depraved. A fellow shares a friendly word with a member of the opposite sex and suddenly everyone's making assumptions.” But Peter thought he seemed rather pleased. A pause, then James added: “We were talking about Quidditch. Is that flirting?”

“A mystery for another day,” said Sirius dryly. “You were making a point about the map…?”

“Right. Yes. The point…the point is that it’s never been done before. If you were to go to the library right now, all you’d find are some crumbly old manuscripts and a few books on interior plumbing. An actual functioning map of the castle? It doesn’t exist.”

“Probably for a good reason,” said Remus. “It’s hard to chart out a floor plan of a place where the floors shuffle around every Tuesday.”

“Minor detail,” said James, waving a careless hand. It did not sound like a minor detail to Peter, but to James, ‘impossible’ had never been a concept to which he’d cozied up. “I’m sure we can figure that out.”

“And again, I ask why?” said Remus, although this time Peter noticed the amused twitch at the corner of his lips. He was winding them up for a laugh.

“Because we can,” said Sirius.

“Because we are uniquely suited to can,” said James.

“Questionable grammar,” observed Remus, “but go on.”

“Think about it, Moony! We are probably the only people who’ve ever walked these halls who are capable of creating such a thing.”

“You really think so?”

“I do, and I will tell you why: We already know most of the secrets passageways in the castle anyway, but beyond that, there are three unique and important factors working in our favor.”

“Number one,” drawled Sirius. “Sheer bloody-mindedness.”

“That’s one,” agreed James. “The second is our general brilliance. We did become Animagi at fifteen, after all.”

“Yes,” said Remus dryly, “and if I’d known the devastating effect it would have on your ego I would’ve advised against it.”

“But the third and most important factor,” continued James. “We have Wormtail.”

Peter, who had been fiddling with the hem of his pajamas, looked up, startled by his own nickname. “What, me?”

“‘Course you,” said James. “You found the Ravenclaw common room last year, didn’t you?”

Peter sat up a little straighter. “Yeah. I did do that.”

“Exactly. Think of the possibilities. Think of the pranks. With Wormtail’s Animagus, we have unfettered access to the castle. Padfoot and I are good out on the grounds, sure, but it’s hard to be stealthy as a stag in a corridor.”

“Fun image though,” said Sirius.

“No cartographer in the history of Hogwarts has ever had a rat Animagus on their team. We practically have a moral obligation to do this! For the sake of history and academia and the progress of humanity, and all that.”

“When you put it that way,” said Remus, “how can I resist?” 

And though Remus rolled his eyes, Peter could tell that he too was getting swept up by the tides of James’s imagination. It was all very skillfully done on the other boys' — James’s unbridled enthusiasm, Sirius’s smug cynicism — so perfectly crafted to the point where Peter couldn’t even tell if the manipulation was intentional. After all, James’s attitude could be infectious; it was practically impossible to say no to him.

“Good man, Moony,” said James cheerfully, clapping the boy on the shoulder. “I knew you’d come around.” He turned back to the parchment tacked to the wall and stroked his chin in contemplation. “I want to start with the dungeons. I want to know every inch of that floor better than all the snakes that slither down there. And then I want to get into the Slytherin dormitories.”

“You want to what?” spluttered Peter, who had no illusions about what would happen to a Gryffindor caught sneaking in the Slytherin dormitories. He had seen Sirius when he’d returned from his little dungeon ambush last year, after all: face bloodied, body black and blue.

“We already know where the entrance is,” James went on, heedless of Peter’s concerns, “but there has to be another way in, just like you slipped into the Ravenclaw common room. We didn’t find it last year, but I reckon we weren’t looking properly. We didn’t have strategy.”

“There are probably fewer ways in than with Ravenclaw,” said Sirius. “The Slytherin common room’s a bit of a fortress. The dungeons are solid stone, for one thing, and half the dormitory is submerged in the lake. Unless you want to go for a swim…”

“Well, there must be a way in, and we have to find it.”

“Why the urgency?” asked Remus. “So you can finally fill their dorms with marshmallows like you’ve always dreamed?”

“No,” said James. “So we can pull off a heist.”

“Felix Felicis?”

“Yep.”

“Snivellus has Felix Felicis?” 

“‘Fraid so.”

“Shit,” said Sirius.

“Shit,” said Remus.

“What’s Felix Felicis?” said Peter. 

James had just finished detailing the events of his first solo Potions class in which he’d failed to win this so-called Felix potion, but he’d left out the rather important detail of what the damn brew did, and now Peter was feeling rather foolish as he tried to keep up with the conversation.

“It’s liquid luck,” answered Sirius. “When you drink it, everything goes perfectly your way.”

“See? Like a pro. I can’t believe you dropped Potions on me.”

“Not now, Prongs.”

Remus rose abruptly from his bed and began to pace the dormitory in a spiral of nervous energy, fingers steepled before his face. “This is bad,” he said. “This is really, really bad.”

James sighed. “This is why I didn’t tell you at lunch. It’s going to be fine, Moony. He’s not going to get to use it.”

“He could use it tomorrow!”

“Yeah, but I don’t think—”

“Oh, come on, James. You know as well as I do that Snape wants me expelled. He wants all of you expelled! What if he uses it on a full moon? What if — what if his good luck leads him to bump into you in your Invisibility Cloak and expose the whole scheme?”

“The thought has occurred to me, but that’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t know that!”

James looked as though he thoroughly regretted bringing up the Felix Felicis at all. “True,” he admitted. “I’m no Seer, but…think about it: If Snape tells anyone anything about you, he’ll be expelled. Dumbledore made that clear last year. That wouldn’t be very lucky for old Sniv, now would it?”

Remus didn’t appear to have a good answer to that, so he spun on his heel and paced in the opposite direction.

“If you ask me,” interjected Sirius, “Snivellus is just as likely to try and use the potion to win back the heart of Evans. Did you notice the way he stared at her in class? Disgusting.”

“Yeah,” grumbled James. “I noticed.”

“So…what?” said Peter, who still didn’t quite understand this whole Felix Felicis thing. “He swallows a gulp of lucky potion and suddenly Evans falls in love with him?”

“No, it doesn’t work like that,” snapped James, seeming very nettled by the prospect. “It’s not a love potion, it can’t change reality. It just…”

“Rearranges scenarios to the most favorable outcome,” said Sirius.

“Yeah. That. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s not going to get to use it. He’s not. Remus, stop pacing and listen to me. Snivellus is a planner. He’s not just going to gulp down the potion on a whim and see what happens.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” said Remus. “He’s going to use his liquid luck to destroy our lives strategically! Great!”

“Yeah,” insisted James, “It is — because that buys us some time, I’m certain of it. He’s going to wait until he’s found the perfect moment to use it, until he’s figured out exactly what that perfect moment is. So we work on the map, we study the dungeons. Then we find a way into that dormitory and we take it before he has the chance.”

“You really think we can do this?”

“‘Course we can. Like I said: We have Wormtail.”

Peter swallowed.

Chapter Text

LILY

Friends Like These

Lily’s eyes were fixed determinedly, unwaveringly on her cauldron. This fierce attention was not out of any great concern for her potion’s progress — indeed, her Memoria Elixir was coming along nicely, soft aquamarine bubbles and pale arabesques of steam spiraling into the dungeon — but rather because looking anywhere else was dangerous. She could feel Severus’s gaze boring into the back of her head. She was so close to turning around and telling him off, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

An unfortunate reality of their new, smaller-sized N.E.W.T.-level classes was that she saw Severus on a daily basis now. Where previously the Gryffindors had only shared a few classes with the Slytherins, now nearly every course was a multi-house mix, and Severus was there, in the back of every classroom, eyes fixed upon her in reproach, reminding her of all the terrible things from last year that she didn’t want to remember.

But Lily wasn’t focusing on that. No, she was focusing on her potion. Doing her best to ignore the uncomfortable prickle on the back of her neck, she began to dice her mugwort.

Next to her, James Potter was silently doing the same. She’d been irritated when he’d shown up to their first Potions class without any of his mates in tow and took the seat beside her, condemning her to a full year of his company. Though she was self-aware enough to recognize this as vanity, it had almost felt as though he’d done it simply to annoy her. But as the weeks passed, he’d held true to the promise he’d made that horrible day by the lake: Don’t worry, he’d said. I’ll leave you alone.

And he had. He was polite to her in class, but that was it. No banter, no teasing, no cheeky back-and-forth. They hardly spoke at all unless they absolutely had to, both resolutely focused on the task at hand, both steadfastly ignoring the other. It was excruciating, though she couldn’t quite explain why it bothered her so much. It was all she’d ever wanted from him, and yet…

Her thoughts were pulled away from Potter by the sight of Severus crossing the dungeon to the supply closet. She couldn’t help but watch him out of the corner of her eye as he passed. He was taller than a few months ago, though it seemed less as though he’d grown up and more he’d simply been stretched out. Long limbs, slouched shoulders, that same spidery walk with which she used to have to skip to keep up. How strange that someone who had once been so dear to her was now so distant.

They hadn’t spoken since that night in Cokeworth when he’d come to the alley behind her house and attempted his redundant apologies once more. She’d been so furious then. Furious about what he’d said before, furious that he’d dared come to her house, furious that he’d woken up Petunia, who hadn’t yet left for London, so that Lily had had to explain to her sister that she and Severus were no longer friends. Furious over Petunia’s triumphant smirk, for she’d never liked the boy from Spinner’s End. Furious that, for once, Petunia had been right.

Furious.

All that fury had abated somewhat over the summer months, but it left behind a sorrow that now ached like old bones in the rain.

Abruptly, as though he could sense her thoughts, Severus turned and caught her with the full intensity of his gaze. Lily’s eyes darted away, her knife slipping in her haste.

“Ouch!”

She looked down to see that she’d missed the mugwort entirely and sliced open her finger. “Shit,” she hissed, as the blood started to stream down her hand, little rivulets that puddled in the creases of her palm. “Oh, shit.”

She grabbed a fistful of her robes and tried to staunch the flow of blood, hand hidden beneath the worktable. She didn’t want Slughorn to see; he’d send her to the hospital wing and she wouldn’t get to finish her potion.

“All right?” said James from beside her. She’d almost forgotten he was there. Almost.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she muttered, cheeks flushing with both pain and embarrassment. “I’m just — stupid.”

“Let me see.”

“What?”

“Let me see your hand,” James repeated patiently.

Caught off guard, she found herself offering it to him. He took it gently in his own and leaned forward to examine the cut, brow furrowed behind his square specs. He had quite nice hands, she couldn’t help but notice. Not nearly as calloused as you might expect a Quidditch player’s to be, yet firm and steady all the same as he cupped her fingers in his palm…wait, no. Stop that. Why was she noticing his hands? She had no business doing that. They were perfectly normal hands. Nothing remarkable about them whatsoever. And he had a little dirt under his fingernails anyway. So.

Perhaps the pain was making her hysterical.

To distract her treacherous mind, Lily glanced towards the back of the dungeon where Slughorn was attempting to aid Evan Rosier, whose cauldron was billowing angry plumes of magenta smoke. Severus had now returned to his own seat, and he was glaring so fiercely at James that it seemed plausible he might set fire to him using only his mind. The venom in his dark eyes was startling; she looked away. James didn’t seem to notice. His attention was focused wholly on her bleeding hand.

“It’s not very deep,” he said after a moment. “I can heal it, if you’d like.”

Lily looked up at him in surprise. “You know how to do that?”

“Sure.” He shrugged as though this were no great feat at all, but they’d never learned healing magic in any class she’d attended. Lily couldn’t help but feel a little impressed; though she herself had once spent many hours combing the library for books that might heal her mother’s illness, she didn’t know the first thing about healing a flesh wound.

She bit her lip. “Okay.”

Her hand still cradled in his own, James picked up his wand from the worktable and gently tapped it to her finger, murmuring a soft incantation she didn’t catch. She watched in amazement as the blood stopped flowing at once and the skin stitched back together as cleanly as though it had never been cut.

“There you go,” he said, and he let go of her hand. All at once, the room seemed louder — the hiss of steam, the clatter of knives, the chatter of students — all came whooshing back as she looked from her hand to James Potter.

But he’d gone back to dicing his own mugwort, eyes fixed firmly on the task, as though whatever had just happened had been entirely inconsequential.

Lily cleared her throat. “Thanks,” she said as she awkwardly wiped the blood from her palm.

“No problem,” said James.

And they did not speak again.

As class ended, Lily gathered her things and headed out into the corridor alone. As usual, James took his time with his own cauldron. She’d noticed how he did this: Every class, he somehow managed to take just long enough to tidy up that he inevitably left after her. She supposed it was to avoid the awkward chance of having to walk with her.

He was very good at it, too. One afternoon she’d deliberately taken as long as she could putting her supplies away, just to see what he’d do. James, unable to draw out his own process much longer, had crossed the classroom naturally as you please and engaged Professor Slughorn in some discussion about god-knows-what. Finally, giving up, Lily had grabbed her bag and left the dungeon, only to glance over her shoulder a few paces down the corridor to see James walking with his head down behind her.

She supposed she couldn’t blame him. After everything she’d said to him last year, she wouldn’t want to talk to her either.

I wasn’t wrong, she reminded herself stubbornly. Everything I said was entirely true.

Although truthfully she couldn’t even recall everything she’d said in that moment of rage, she knew her own temper well enough to know it must have been brutal — and honest, because Lily was never more honest than when she was angry. But brutal all the same. His face had said as much.

Don’t worry. I’ll leave you alone.

She cast a quick look over her shoulder, down the dungeon corridor; James had not yet left the classroom. She doubled her pace, as though if she could escape the dungeons without him following her like a shadow, like her own miserable little cloud of guilt, she might feel better. But just as she reached the stairs that led out of the dungeons, someone else stepped smoothly into her path.

“What’s the rush, Mudblood?” said the slippery voice of Corin Mulciber.

“Fuck off, Mulciber,” snarled Lily. Her eyes flitted down the corridor, half-expecting to see Severus trailing behind the older Slytherin. This was his new best friend, after all.

“Language, Mudblood,” said Mulciber. “Tell me, have you heard from that filthy little friend of yours? Macdonald, wasn’t it? The fat one with the ugly glasses?”

Lily tensed. It had been Mulciber’s curse that had nearly blinded Mary last year and caused her father to pull her out of school. Corin Mulciber was the reason Lily no longer had a best friend. On multiple counts.

“I heard she ran crying all the way to America,” sneered Mulciber. “Well, one down…”

Lily had her wand out now, her knuckles white as she tightened her fist. “I would advise you,” she said through gritted teeth, “to shut your mouth. Unless you’d like me to do it for you.”

Mulciber laughed. “Are you challenging me to a duel? It’s almost cute, but I don’t duel vermin, sweetheart.”

A few students passing by cast timid glances at the pair, but no one intervened. Lily just glared at him, lost in the flow of a familiar rage coursing through her veins. It would feel so good to let it loose…

Before she could settle on a spell, however, a cheerful voice called out: “Mulciber, old man. Just the fellow I was looking for.”

And James Potter came ambling around the corner. He threw a quick, calculating look at Lily’s wand and Mulciber’s sneer, then continued babbling on. “I’m writing an essay on inbreeding among the upper-class twits, you see, and I thought you might be able to give me the inside scoop. What d’you say? Be a pal? Help a scholar out?”

“Potter,” sneered Mulciber. “I should’ve known. You’re always hugging the hems of Hogwarts’ less desirable company.”

Lily hadn’t even noticed James draw his wand, but it was out in a flash and Mulciber no longer seemed able to speak.

“I’d keep that forked tongue of yours in check, Mulciber. You’ll get yourself in trouble. Or have you missed the taste of your own socks?”

This, Lily knew, was a reference to the revenge James and Sirius had wreaked upon Mulciber after he’d cursed Mary last term. They’d somehow managed to spellotape him up to the wall outside Gryffindor common room and left him there, wearing nothing but his pants and one sock, the other stuffed into his spellotaped mouth. Mulciber had clearly not forgotten the incident either, for his expression darkened to the point of danger.

Lily was growing increasingly frustrated with the situation, and James was only making it worse. She didn’t want him defending her honor, or whatever it was he thought he was doing. “Leave it,” she hissed to James, and he frowned, eyes flitting towards her only briefly so as not to stray from Mulciber’s wand. The Slytherin boy may not be able to speak at present, but he certainly new plenty of nonverbal curses.

But then the booming laugh of Professor Slughorn echoed through the dungeon and all three students looked up to see him strolling through the corridor with Emmeline Vance, the Head Girl. Mulciber didn’t seem keen to try his luck there, so he pushed past them with an air of absolute disdain and headed towards his own dormitory.

“Fucker,” breathed James as Mulciber departed.

“I had it under control,” said Lily, rather more sharply than was perhaps fair given the circumstances.

James merely shrugged. “Never doubted it,” he said breezily, “but you can’t expect me to pass up a perfectly good opportunity to mock Mulciber’s family tree. Well, I say ‘tree.’ It’s really more of a…decorative wreath.” At her expression of mild bewilderment, he explained: “All the branches just sort of go in a circle.”

At this, Lily was forced to stifle a snort of laughter behind her palm, which annoyed her. He was always making her laugh when she was not in the mood to be amused. It was rude. Regaining her composure, she straightened her expression back into one of cool disinterest and said, “Look, I don’t need you jumping to my defense.”

“Because I’m just as bad as he is, right?”

Lily blinked, her admonishments temporarily derailed by this out-of-the-blue comment. “What?”

James shook his head, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “Forget it,” he said. “Have a nice day, Evans.” And with another quick glance at Slughorn, who was very nearly upon them, he climbed the stairs and left her behind.

And so the days sped by into weeks, as they were always wont to do in September. Students and staff alike settled back into the rhythm of the castle, the daily routine of meals, classes, meals, and classes. Time became regimented, days carved out into hour-long blocks, spare moments swallowed up by the demands of academia.

Lily floated through it all, day by day, week by week, simultaneously comforted and oppressed by the endless repetition of obligations. In some ways it was an escape: She could lose herself in textbooks and timetables and ignore the loneliness that gnawed at her edges.

Corin Mulciber was no doubt the sort of villain who could look at a potential victim and know precisely the softest spot to wound. Mary Macdonald had been that spot for Lily. She understood why her friend’s father had insisted on pulling her out of school, she really did, but Lily felt her loss like a phantom limb. Sometimes at meals a snarky comment would occur to her and she’d turn unthinkingly to deliver it to the appreciative audience of her friend, only to remember that Mary was no longer at her side — and then the devastating waves of loneliness would crash around her.

Most days, the loneliness ebbed and flowed in a manageable sort of way. She had other friends, of course. Casual friends. Peripheral friends. She’d never been close with her dorm-mates, but there was Aisha Collins, a seventh-year Gryffindor who’d always made a point to be friendly, and Florence Fawley, a Ravenclaw girl and Slug Club ally who seemed to feel that she and Lily were destined to be great chums. Florence and Aisha themselves were close, as a matter of fact, so the Ravenclaw girl sometimes ate dinner at the Gryffindor table, and they always made a point to ask Lily to sit with them. It wasn’t the same as having Mary, of course, but Lily liked both girls, and most days it was enough to keep the loneliness at bay.

Other days, however, the loneliness was a great, yawning chasm that threatened to swallow her whole. Lily had never needed an endless parade of shallow friendships — she preferred the few and the deep — but last year she had lost both of her closest friends in one fell swoop. She missed Mary so much, but — though she was loathe to admit it — she missed Severus too.

That was, she missed the Severus she used to know, back before he’d started rubbing shoulders with people like Corin Mulciber. She missed the Severus who’d sat under the trees in Cokeworth and told her all about magic. The boy who introduced her to a new world and told her she belonged there. The boy who had been so enthusiastic, almost vibrating with excitement as they’d crossed the lake in that little boat together and glimpsed Hogwarts Castle for the very first time. The boy who’d always waited for her between classes, listened to her, commiserated with her, stood by her side and held her hand while she wept after her mother’s funeral…

But that wasn’t Severus anymore. This Severus was an angry, almost frightening boy who prowled the halls, glowering at her from the corner of every classroom, reminding her with his endless, unblinking stares of just how much she’d lost.

In a way she’d never truly understood until now, Severus had been her anchor. He’d been her anchor to magic when she was stuck in Cokeworth, her anchor to home when she was stuck at school. She’d never needed popularity or an extensive friend group because she’d had him, and she’d told herself for so long that that was enough...but now she found herself cut adrift, bobbing in the waves of casual acquaintances and half-hearted friendships, searching for harbor and finding only the insistent ache of loss.

Oh, enough. Lily shook her head at her own silliness. How easy it was to feel sorry for oneself. It wasn’t doing her any good to mope, so she tried her best to shrug off this gloomy mindset as though it were a heavy cloak underneath which she might uncover her old self. She needed to get a grip. She had places to be, things to do. The prefects had a monthly meeting, held in a classroom on the third floor, and as Lily descended the castle from Gryffindor Tower, she gave her thoughts a hearty tug away from Severus, allowing them instead to drift towards her fellow prefect Remus Lupin.

She’d lost much last term, it was true, but she’d gained at least one new friend. Or she thought she had. Before last year, Lily had never been particularly close nor interested in Remus Lupin. He was one of Potter and Black’s friends, a member of their obnoxious little gang, and that alone had been enough to keep her away. This had suited Remus just fine, it seemed, for he was not a boy who invited confidences, preferring to keep exclusively to himself and his tight-knit group of friends.

But over the previous year, thanks to the shiny new prefect badges that had forced them together, Lily had gotten to know Remus a bit better — far better than even he knew, perhaps — and she found she liked him a lot. He was funny and sarcastic and clever, and he knew about Muggle things, and he wasn’t nearly as cruel as those boys he called his friends, though he did seem to be fundamentally incapable of standing up to them. All in all, she was glad to know him, and she’d thought they were friends.

So far this year, she wasn’t sure.

She reached the classroom where the meeting was to be held and, telling herself off for being morose again, she pushed through the door. The meeting had not yet begun, so the prefects were clustered around in small groups chatting, while Emmeline Vance, the Head Girl, stood at the front of the classroom, deep in conversation with Head Boy Harvey Harris. Harris didn’t appear all too troubled by whatever Vance was saying; a disparate reaction to the intensity on the Head Girl’s face — but then, that was probably just a clash of personality. Lily didn’t know Vance all that well, but she’d always found her to be a fairly serious person. Lily also felt a twinge of distrust, as Vance was a Slytherin. This twinge of distrust plucked an equally resonant pang of guilt, as Lily had always insisted that one’s house shouldn’t define a person...but after the last year — and after Severus — she was finding it harder to hold this line.

Harris, in contrast, was as easy going as they came. All bright smiles and cheerful claps on the shoulder. He seemed clinically incapable of getting worked up, which was actually a rather nice fit with stern, solemn Vance. While Vance and Harris continued their one-sided debate, Lily peered around the classroom for Remus Lupin.

He wasn’t there.

She glanced at her watch. They still had a few minutes until the start of the meeting, so maybe he was just running late. She took a seat by a few Ravenclaws and waited…but by the time Vance gave an authoritative clap of her hands (and when that didn’t work, scowled while Harris let out a friendly whoop to get everyone’s attention), Remus was still a no show. Lily slumped into her seat as Vance began to relitigate the patrolling schedules. She wondered whether it was paranoia or vanity to suspect he was avoiding her. Possibly both.

But it wasn’t so far-fetched. Lately, things with Remus had just felt…off. They were supposed to patrol the castle every Tuesday evening, and though he was perfectly friendly (when he bothered to show up), his demeanor towards her felt different this year. Like he was intentionally keeping her at a distance. Like he was only being polite. Their patrol earlier this week had been every bit as unsatisfactory as the others, and she was this close to confronting him about it, but something always held her back. Perhaps she was afraid if given the opportunity, he’d confirm her worst fear — and then she’d have to truly face her friendlessness.

After all, it made sense: Remus Lupin’s best friend was James Potter, the boy Lily had publicly berated last term. Never mind that he'd deserved it; old friendships were built on loyalty and if Remus was forced to choose sides — if James forced him to choose sides — Lily had no doubt who would win. Remus and James had been friends since first year. Who was Lily, in the grand scheme of it all?

Her eyes scanned the room fruitlessly, in case she’d somehow missed him — and then she did a double take. For the briefest moment, she thought Remus had sent Sirius Black in his place as a joke, only to realize that the slight boy sitting stiff-backed in the corner was not Sirius, but rather his younger brother. She always forgot he had a brother. He never talked about him — not that she and Black were on chatty terms, but still. The boys went to the same school and you never saw them together.

Sifting through her own memory, Lily recalled the younger Black’s Sorting, back in her second year. She remembered the way Sirius had watched so closely as the Sorting Hat was lowered onto his brother’s head, the way he’d fidgeted as the hat seemed to take an unusual amount of time to decide, the way James Potter had leaned over to Sirius and muttered, “You don’t think…?” The way Sirius had slumped in his seat in obvious disappointment as the hat called out, “SLYTHERIN!”

She remembered all this because at the time she’d been deeply interested that Black’s brother had been sorted into Slytherin. She’d asked Severus about the younger boy the next day, and he’d merely scowled: “Just another rich, pure-blood toff, isn’t he?”

Still, Lily had thought that perhaps having a brother in Slytherin might make Black and Potter reconsider their habit of hexing every Slytherin in their path. Needless to say, it did not.

She felt a pang of pity for the boy. Being Sirius Black’s younger brother could not be easy.

“Any questions?” demanded Emmeline Vance from the front of the classroom. “No? Then dismissed.”

Lily jolted to attention as the prefects mobilized around her. She’d been so caught up in her own thoughts she’d missed the meeting entirely. With the vague embarrassment of one who has just been caught nodding off, Lily stood and shuffled off towards the door.

“Evans.”

She turned to see Vance beckoning her over. Quite certain that she was about to be told off for her inattention, Lily approached with caution.

“I couldn’t help but notice that we were short a prefect this meeting,” said Vance coolly. “And if I recall correctly, Lupin missed the first meeting on the train, as well.”

“Er —” said Lily.

“Is there are a problem? Gryffindor is supposed to have two prefects per year — not one overworked girl who can’t pay attention during meetings.”

Lily’s cheeks flushed, but she couldn’t think of a good reply.

“If Lupin is going to be a problem for you, I can go to Dumbledore about finding a new prefect.”

“No!” said Lily quickly. “There’s no need for that. I think he’s just…a bit ill tonight, that’s all. He’ll be at the next meeting.”

“See that he is,” said Vance. “Harris may not care about any of this,” she cast a disdainful glance at the Head Boy who was chatting amiably with some fifth years by the door, “but I happen to believe that we’re going to need good, committed prefects in this school more than ever. There’s no room for slackers.”

And with a brisk nod, she strode from the classroom. Lily slumped against a desk, feeling very hard done by. How was it her fault that another prefect didn’t show? And more importantly: Why hadn’t he shown? The meeting on the train she’d understood. She’d known full well it was the day after the full moon; she hadn’t really expected him to attend. But she’d gone out of her way to convince Vance and Harris to hold the monthly prefect meeting out of sync with the lunar calendar, which had been their unwitting original plan. It had been very tricky too because she could hardly say, “Well, you see, one of our prefects gets a bit tetchy at moonrise, so it would be highly inconvenient…” She’d had to invent a conflicting obligation of her own, which hadn’t exactly put her in Vance’s good graces…

“Hey-a, Lily.”

She blinked back to attention. Harvey Harris was strolling over, the last of the prefects having just dispersed. “Emmy read you the riot act over Lupin, I assume?”

“Something like that.”

“Don't worry about it. She means well.”

“Does she?”

Harvey nodded. “Yeah, I think so. She just takes this stuff very seriously, Emmy does. Not that I don’t, but…” He spread his arms into a wide shrug and gave her a cheerful grin that suggested he did not, in fact, take it very seriously.

Harvey Harris was a very good-looking Hufflepuff who, before his appointment as Head Boy, Lily knew primarily as one of the Hogwarts Gossip Mill’s favorite subjects. His on-again-off-again relationship with Sophie Price had long been a topic of much discussion in the castle’s halls — not to mention her own dormitory. Lily even had his relationship woes to thank for occasionally eclipsing her own bouts of schoolyard scandal. It somewhat embarrassed her, given her personal disdain for gossip, but as a matter of fact, Lily already knew that he and Sophie were definitely off at the moment, thanks to Bertha Jorkins happily detailing the whole matter over breakfast last week. Harvey, however, didn’t seem particularly despondent over whatever was or was not going on in his love life.

“You know, I could use a second opinion,” he said, leaning against the teacher’s podium and smiling down at her. “As Head Boy I’m responsible for putting together the schedule for Hogsmeade weekends. I was thinking of scheduling one the first weekend of October. Emmy says that’s too early, but I don’t see why. What do you think?”

“Oh.” Lily was surprised to be asked her opinion on the matter. “I don’t know,” she said, “it’s a bit earlier than usual, I suppose, but I could definitely use a little break from the castle myself.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Harvey. “No reason to wait until the weather gets all cold and miserable. My next question, then: Could I buy you a drink?”

There was no reason to turn Harvey Harris down, she told herself as she climbed the stairs back to Gryffindor tower. He was perfectly friendly, genuinely likable, and he was the Head Boy, for god’s sake. Though admittedly their interactions had been limited to the occasional prefect meeting, he’d never been anything but lovely to her in the past. He was attractive too, in that sort of sturdy, classic way: thickset but fit, with those ridiculously rosy cheeks that somewhere some grandmother was just itching to pinch.

There was no reason to turn him down at all.

Then again, blaring at the top of the con side of the list was his starring role in Hogwarts’ favorite relationship drama. The Harvey Harris and Sophie Price Show had cycled through several series by now, each concluding with the inevitable break up and dramatic reunion. Getting involved with Harvey Harris would do Lily no favors when it came to staying off the radar…but then again, so what? Perhaps this was a side effect of that yawning chasm of loneliness, but she found she didn’t really care if people talked about her. They were going to do it regardless; they always had. Why should she hide away? Why shouldn’t she have some frivolous, commitment-free fun?

Because that was the inevitability of the Harvey Harris and Sophie Price Show: They would get back together in the end. Lily had no doubt. But this, she found, was part of the appeal. She could say yes and go enjoy a silly, inconsequential date with a pretty boy without having to worry about it becoming anything more serious or complicated than that. Just a date. That’s all.

And so she’d found herself doing something that surprised her: She’d said yes.

She was still turning over and over the merits and ramifications of this decision as she climbed through the portrait hole into Gryffindor Tower and caught sight of something that derailed all thoughts of Harvey: Across the common room, seated in an armchair by the fire and surrounded by his laughing friends was Remus Lupin. Lily observed him for a moment. He looked perfectly fine, smiling along at whatever James Potter was prattling about.

A grimace, a scowl, and she made up her mind.

“Oh, look,” said Sirius brightly as she marched over. “It’s Penny Prefect, in the flesh. What a treat.”

“Black,” said Lily coolly. Remus turned his smile to her, that somewhat sheepish grin he always wore when his friends were being prats in her presence. His demeanor was not remotely guilty, as though he hadn’t just blown off their meeting for the second time in a row.

“You’ve got the look of a woman on a mission, Evans,” observed Sirius as he rummaged through the pocket of his robes. After a moment of this struggle, he withdrew a pack of cigarettes, which admittedly surprised her. Smoking was more of a Muggle habit, not something the pure-bloods around school had picked up yet. Sirius seemed to interpret her surprise as disapproval, and his lips curled into a grin as he removed a cigarette from the pack and lit up. “Which one of us miserable delinquents have you come to harass? Whatever it was, I’m sure I had nothing to do with it. I’m an honorable, upstanding citizen, I am.”

James, who up until this point had kept his attention focused solely on his Quidditch periodical, frowned at the cigarette. “Since when do you smoke those things?”

“Won a pack off Haverthorn in a game of poker the other night. Want one?”

“No,” said James shortly. “I’ve heard they’re rather dreadful for your lungs. I’ve got Quidditch to think of, I can’t go filling myself with toxic smoke.”

“Ah well, suit yourself.” Sirius took a drag on the cigarette and peered back up at Lily. He exhaled an insolent puff of smoke in her direction. “What about you, Evans? Fancy a cigarette?”

He was goading her, daring her to flash her prefect badge and hold him accountable. He knew as well as she did that smoking of any sort had been banned in the common room ever since Davey Gudgeon lit an ottoman on fire with an enchanted pipe and in the process permanently damaged the portrait of some esteemed alumni.

Lily, however, was in a mood. She recognized the challenge and rose to it.

“I’d love one,” she said, extending her hand. It was Sirius’s turn to look surprised. He cocked his head and smirked at her while he shook a cigarette from the pack. Perhaps he thought they were playing chicken. Lily accepted the cigarette and held it to her lips. “Got a light?”

Sirius obliged. Lily took a long, luxurious drag and let a smoke ring curl from her parted lips. Jenny from the Railview Inn had taught her how to do that. Boys lose their minds, she’d said. And indeed, all three boys watched with eyebrows raised as the smoke ring drifted into oblivion; James’s jaw hung slightly open. He shut it quickly as she lowered the cigarette and turned to Remus.

“Remus,” she said. “Could I have a word? Privately, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh,” said Remus. “Yeah, sure.”

“So Remus was the criminal reprobate among us this whole time!” crowed Sirius. “You just can’t trust a sweet, innocent face these days.” He reached over and patted his friend on the cheek.

“Shut up,” Remus advised him, shoving the other boy away as he stood.

Lily rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the cigarette, Black,” she said, and she strolled across the common room towards a more secluded spot by the window and perched on the ledge. She allowed herself another drag on the cigarette before regretfully conjuring an ashtray and stubbing it out. Remus caught up with her and, feeling his gaze on the stubbed-out cigarette, she added: “I was making a point.”

“Yeah,” nodded Remus. “Successfully, I might add. Very pointy. I think James is positively…perforated.”

Lily let out a snort of laughter and glanced back across the common room just in time to see James look quickly away. He’d picked up his jaw, anyway. She felt oddly pleased to have made an impression.

She returned her attention to Remus, who was now watching her with the same pleasant, guarded expression he’d worn on all their prefect rounds to date. Was she imagining it, or did he seem just the tiniest bit wary? Oh well. It was time to just face the music.

“Were you planning on going to the prefects meeting?”

Remus looked confused. “The prefects’ meeting is on Thursday.”

“Yeah.”

A beat — then Remus closed his eyes. “Today is Thursday.”

“Sure is.”

“Shit. Shit. I’m sorry, Lily. I just…I forgot.”

“Look, I don’t really care if you come to the meetings or not — I agree that they’re generally a waste of time — but Vance cares, and she’s on the warpath. So for both our sakes, I’d really appreciate it if you showed up next time.”

“I will,” said Remus, avoiding her gaze. “I promise. I’m really sorry.”

Lily frowned at him for a long moment, then she sighed. “Okay, Remus. I’m just going to ask you outright because you are so hard to read sometimes, and I can’t bear not knowing anymore.”

Remus looked up at this, his expression strained with anxiety.

Get it over with, she told herself. A deep breath. “Are you angry with me?”

Remus blinked. “W-what? Why would you think I’m angry with you?”

“I dunno, you’ve just…well, you’ve been really distant so far this year. Friendly enough but like…like only because you have to be.”

“No, that’s not —”

“And I know prefect duties are, well, duties — not exactly a cauldron full of fun — but you always seem like you’re dying to be anywhere else, and that’s when you even show up, so I just wondered if…because of what happened last year with Severus…”

Remus froze, his entire body tensing up at once, limbs taut, jaw clenched. When he spoke, it was through his teeth. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yeah, you do. By the lake? After O.W.L.s? My little screaming match with Potter?”

Another pause, and then Remus’s whole body relaxed just as dramatically. “Oh,” he breathed. “That.”

Lily plowed on. “I know Potter’s your best friend, I get it. I was — well, I admit I was rather nasty to him. I still think he deserved it, but…even so. I understand if you feel like you have to choose sides or something, and I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable situation, but I just wish you’d tell me—”

“No,” Remus interrupted hurriedly, and he appeared to be doing some quick catching up. After a few mental sprints and hurdles, he got there. “No, that’s not at all what — I’m not choosing sides. There are no sides to be chosen. This is a completely side-free situation.” He struggled for a moment, then went on: “Look, you’re right that James is my best friend, but he was being a prat that day. He’d be the first to admit it.”

Lily gave this comment the skeptical eyebrow it deserved. “Would he?”

“Well…maybe the fourth or fifth, but he’d admit it. Eventually. And I’m definitely not angry with you. You’re right, I probably have been distant, but it’s not because of anything you did, please don’t think that. I’ve just…well…I...honestly, I wasn’t sure you still wanted to be friends with me.”

It was Lily’s turn to be baffled. “What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t I want to be friends with you?”

“I — I’m not proud of what you saw last year,” he muttered to the floor.

“What?”

“In that classroom.”

“Oh, Remus,” said Lily. “Don’t you dare.”

“I was out of control—”

“You were hurting.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Remus hugged his arms to his chest, looking miserable. Lily, for her part, was feeling very stupid. What had she been thinking, bringing up Severus? She’d been so caught up in her own drama with Potter, she’d almost forgotten about…all of that.

Near the end of last term, Lily had witnessed Remus in a deeply vulnerable moment — and not by invitation. It had been an accident; she’d been wandering the halls during dinner one evening, looking for an unlocked classroom in which to eat, a habit she had when things were less than good at school. She’d been nearing a corridor that usually panned out when she heard a desperate howl, like the devastation of a wounded animal. A storm of stomps and thumps and thuds had followed. Alarmed, she’d rushed towards the commotion, only to find Remus in an otherwise empty classroom, toppling desks and hurling chairs, tears streaming down his cheeks as he sobbed and swore.

He’d been embarrassed, that much had been clear. Though he’d wept into her shoulder when she’d hugged him, he’d refused to tell her what had caused this outburst, and she was left wondering what could possibly have rendered this quiet, courteous boy so upset, so full of rage and hurt and heartbreak that he felt compelled to violently vandalize a classroom. She hadn’t pried — for that was the secret to maintaining a friendship with Remus Lupin. If you poked too hard, he’d curl up in his shell and never come out again.

But the thing was, Lily thought she understood what was going on, because the night before that day in the classroom, Lily knew that something else had happened: Severus had snuck down to the Whomping Willow — even though it was strictly forbidden — and he’d somehow gotten past the tree and down to the tunnel beneath it, and nearly been killed by…something.

What exactly that something was must remain a secret.

It had long been Severus’s pet theory that Remus Lupin was a werewolf. Lily had never admitted to him that she believed his theory to be true, but she did. As a matter of fact, she was very nearly certain of it.

Which put her in a complicated position. She wanted Remus to know that she knew, because she wanted him to know that she didn’t care. There was a lot of stigma around lycanthropy, and even people she’d previously considered a good, open-minded sort — like her ex-boyfriend, Anson Nott — were deeply prejudiced and considered werewolves to be the lowest of the low, not even human. But Lily certainly didn’t feel this way, and she wanted Remus to know it.

But from the way he’d reacted to her finding him in that classroom last term, the way he so carefully guarded his secret, so consistently constructed little lies and excuses for his absences and illnesses and scars, it was obvious that Remus did not want her to know. It hurt a little to think that he didn’t trust her — her, a Muggle-born girl who had front row seats to the bigotry of the Wizarding world — but she pushed those hurt feelings aside and reminded herself that no matter how much she cared, she did not and would never truly know what it meant to grow up as a werewolf in a world that hated you. She could relate, perhaps, but it wasn’t the same thing, and she wouldn’t blame him for his reticence, his wariness. After all, she’d trusted the wrong person before. For years, she’d trusted Severus Snape above all others, and he’d made a fool of her in the end. Sometimes it seemed you could never truly know what was in another person’s heart until they’d broken yours.

So she’d let him keep his secret. She wouldn’t pry or compel him to out himself to her, to force a confession just because she wanted to know. No. All she could do was be there and try to show him that he could trust her…and then maybe one day, he would. All she could do until then was be his friend. As long as he wanted to be hers.

“Listen,” she said at last, “we all have bad days.”

“I guess.” Remus did not sound convinced.

“I mean, look at me and my bloody temper. I’m not exactly the poster child for self-control.”

That got a smile. A genuine one, she thought. Her hopes rose.

“So we’re okay? We’re still friends?”

“Yeah, of course,” said Remus. Then: “I’m really sorry that I made you feel like—”

Lily cut him off. “One day,” she said, “we are going to have a conversation in which you don’t endlessly apologize to me.”

Remus opened his mouth, then shut it. Another small smile. “Dream big.”

After a quick catchup on what he’d missed at the meeting — exceptionally quick, because Lily had paid attention to exactly none of it — Remus returned to his friends and Lily climbed the stairs to her own dormitory. She felt immeasurably lighter now that she knew Remus wasn’t cutting her out. She still had at least one friend.

She did not have long to ruminate on this victory, however, for as soon as she crossed the threshold of her dormitory, one of her dorm-mates accosted her with a handful of shiny objects.

“Oh good,” said Wenyi Feng brightly. “I need some advice. What d’you think?” She held up two pairs of glittering earrings for Lily’s critique. “Sensible but classy, or flashy and exciting?”

“Personally, I’ve always felt bedtime required flashy and exciting apparel,” said Lily.

“Not bedtime,” laughed Wenyi, hooking one of the dangling, exciting earrings into her ear and examining her reflection in the mirror. “Hogsmeade. I’m trying to do decide what to wear on my date with Prateek.”

“Prateek Shirali?”

“That’s right,” beamed Wenyi. “He asked me out this morning.”

“How nice,” said Lily, who couldn’t think of much else to say. The only thing she knew about Prateek Shirali was that he was the Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. She glanced around the dormitory: Alodie Blunt was sprawled on the rug, idly flipping the pages of her magazine with a well-manicured nail, while Marlene McKinnon was sitting cross-legged on her bed, absorbed in a textbook. Neither seemed very interested in Wenyi’s news. Lily felt a burst of sympathy for the other girl. “I’d go with flashy and exciting, myself. Life’s short, wear the dangling earrings.”

“That’s what I thought!” said Wenyi.

“I’m so over Quidditch boys,” sighed Alodie. “All they ever talk about is Quaffles and Snitches. Boring.”

“That reminds me!” Wenyi darted to her trunk and pulled out a pair of golden studs shaped like little Snitches. “Too on the nose?”

Lily assured that the dangly ones were better, and Wenyi returned to the mirror, twisting her head from side to side to examine how the earrings glittered behind her sleek sheet of black hair. “I think you’re right. Thanks, Lily.”

“What can I say, I’m a full service prefect. Here for all your fashion advice and curfew enforcing needs.”

Lily crossed the room to her own four poster. Now that Mary was gone, there was one less bed in the dormitory, which meant that Marlene McKinnon now slept next to her. Marlene had all but ignored her since their return to school, never once even acknowledging that she had shown up uninvited at Lily’s house over the summer. She continued her ignoring as Lily rummaged through the dresser for her pajamas.

“Anyway,” Wenyi was saying from across the dormitory, “Prateek is into way more than just Quidditch. Did you know he’s an artist? He paints! I bet I could get him to do my portrait.”

Alodie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you can hang it on the wall so it’s the first thing we see when we come into the dormitory.”

“Don’t be jealous,” said Wenyi good-naturedly. “There’s still loads of time for someone to ask you. They haven’t even announced the date for the Hogsmeade weekend. Prateek’s just a planner.”

“It’s the first weekend of October, actually,” said Lily. “I just came from our prefect’s meeting.”

“There you go!” said Wenyi. “You’ve still got time!”

“I’m not jealous, Wen,” said Alodie. “I just don’t want you to get your heart broken. Boys can be complicated. They’re not always what they seem. Even the artsy ones.”

“Okay, mum.”

Alodie heaved a dramatic sigh. “Of course, I am cursed with an eternal attraction to the bad boys.”

At this, Wenyi turned from the mirror, a look of despair on her face. “Oh, Alodie, please tell me you’re not pining over Sirius Black again. I know he’s cruelly handsome and all, but he’s obviously not interested in monogamy. I mean, have you ever seen him with a girlfriend? He only ever hooks up with girls at parties and never the same one. You’re better than that.”

“Not to mention you dated his best friend last year, so that might be awkward,” commented Lily as she tugged on her pajamas — and she immediately regretted it. Alodie’s relationship with James Potter had been short and dramatic, ending with Alodie accusing him of cheating on her with Lily, which of course had absolutely not been true, but Alodie had never been convinced otherwise.

“For your information,” said Alodie coldly, “I have my eye on someone else.”

“Oooh,” cooed Wenyi. “Who?”

“Harvey Harris,” said Alodie, and Lily felt her stomach drop.

“Harris?” said Marlene, lowering her book for the first time in the conversation. “He hardly classifies as a ‘bad boy.’ He’s Head Boy after all.”

“And who’s taking you, Marlene?” said Alodie. “Since your track record with boys is exactly zero.”

“As if I’d waste my weekend batting my eyelashes at some idiot in the pub,” scoffed Marlene, then she rolled over and closed the bed curtains with a flick of her wand.

Alodie rolled her eyes, then returned her attention to Wenyi. “I have it on good authority that Harvey and Sophie are broken up for good this time.”

“You really think so?” said Wenyi. “They’ve gotten back together so many times. Are you sure you want to get involved in that?”

“Trust me, it’s over between them. Apparently she slept with some Muggle boy over the summer.”

“No!”

“Swear to Merlin. Bertha told me all about it. Poor Harvey. A relationship just doesn’t come back from something like that. I would know.” At this, Alodie shot a nasty look at Lily, who was thoroughly wishing she hadn’t involved herself in this conversation at all. She didn’t know why she had. Probably the loneliness flaring up again.

“What about you, Lily?” asked Wenyi, apparently oblivious to the bitterness of Alodie’s gaze. “Got a date for Hogsmeade yet?”

“Er…yeah, actually I do.”

“Well, no one likes a cliffhanger! Who?”

Lily bit her lip, wondering if she ought to lie, but ultimately deciding it would be worse if Alodie found out later and concluded Lily had done it on purpose. Steeling herself, she said: “Harvey Harris.”

She couldn’t be sure, but Lily thought she heard a faint snicker from behind the curtains of Marlene McKinnon’s bed.

Chapter Text

REMUS

The Wolf Again

“Okay, so you hold it between your fingers like this — good — and then just take a drag — but don’t inhale quite so much on your first go — oh.”

Remus was met by a cacophony of coughs as he returned to his friends across the common room. Upon arrival, he found James hacking over a cigarette while Sirius laughed uproariously beside him. Peter was off somewhere with his girlfriend, allegedly.

“Merlin,” spluttered James, “that is wretched. Muggles enjoy this?”

“It helps when you do it properly,” snickered Sirius, reclaiming the cigarette and taking a long, showboating drag. He blew a waft of smoke towards James who brushed it away impatiently.

“Are you corrupting our dear Prongs?” demanded Remus as he reacquainted himself with his favorite armchair.

“I’m trying, but I’m afraid the sweet lad is incorruptible. Smokes like a third year.”

“Oh, shut up,” grumbled James. “I don’t understand the appeal anyway.”

“Really?” said Sirius. “You didn’t find Evans remotely appealing just now?”

James ignored this. “What’d she want with you, Moony?”

“Prefect business,” was Remus’s vague reply. He didn’t feel inclined to admit he’d missed yet another prefect meeting, nor did he wish to detail the other contents of his conversation with Lily. He’d never told his friends about that moment with her in the classroom, and he never planned to.

Guilt gnawed at his edges. Remus really hadn’t meant to be distant with her; he was just being distant with everyone. It was how he kept it together, how he continued to play the part that was expected of him. Honestly, it hadn’t even occurred to him that she would notice or care — but she did care. And he’d hurt her. The crushing guilt was tempered only by the occasional burst of delight: She still likes me!

“Wonder where Evans learned to smoke like that,” mused Sirius. “You know, I think we’re a good influence on her.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Don’t give yourself too much credit. She’s been sneaking cigarettes behind the greenhouses since fourth year.”

Sirius looked impressed. “Well, what do you know, Penny Prefect was secretly naughty all along.” He shot an amused glance at James, but James had gone determinedly back to the latest issue of Quidditch Weekly and was resolutely ignoring him.

“Just because Muggle cigarettes are new and exciting to you…” scoffed Remus. Once again he found himself needlessly annoyed by Sirius. He’d had that problem so far this year. Every little thing the other boy did irritated him to no end. “Why do you always have to act like such a prick around her anyway?”

“Who’s acting like a prick?”

“You,” said James distractedly, flipping a page in his periodical.

“Tough crowd,” said Sirius. “You know—”

But his inevitable prickish retort was interrupted by a reverent moan from James. “Oh, sweet Merlin’s frumpiest underthings, look at that.” He held up his magazine and Remus and Sirius looked. It was an advertisement from the Comet Trading Company announcing their latest broomstick model. “The Comet 220,” breathed James. “Bloody beautiful broomstick, mahogany base, naught to sixty in ten seconds…” And he began a ramble that promised to go on for a good bit, describing the broom’s features in the sort of intricate detail that both Remus and Sirius had learned to tune out. Remus took this time to do a quick accounting of all the homework he had left. Their glorious free periods had quickly become cluttered by mountains of essays, and he was already starting to feel behind.

“…and look at the shine on that handle!”

“Shall I get you some tissues?” offered Sirius.

“For the record,” replied James, without looking up from the advertisement, “I am at present too deeply enraptured by this perfection of broom artistry to make the snide comment about you and your motorbikes that you deserve. However, you should consider yourself snided.”

“Not a word.”

“Snidden?”

“Nope.”

“Whatever. Naught to sixty in ten seconds! I have to have this broom.”

“Well,” said Remus, who had made good use of this conversational detour by organizing his homework in order of impending deadlines, “Lily just told me a Hogsmeade weekend’s coming up, so you won’t have to wait long if you want to make a stop by the Quidditch store.”

“It won’t be released until spring,” moaned James. “And I bet the waiting list is already miles long…I should’ve read this magazine as soon as I got it…damn, damn, damn.” And with that little burst of profanity, he dove into his bag for a quill, ripped the pre-order sheet from the magazine, and began filling it out with something akin to desperation.

Sirius caught Remus’s eye and smirked, but Remus pretended not to notice and went back to his homework, allowing himself the luxury of getting lost in his translation of the Volsunga Saga instead of facing whatever that was.

As he finished up a particularly trying passage on sea-runes, Remus became aware that James was talking again — about his new Quidditch team, apparently, and the difficulty he’d had in finding a decent Beater — but one of the many nice things about James Potter was that you didn’t always have to listen to whatever he was prattling on about. It was more a comfortable background noise, like the radio, to be tuned into and out of whenever one pleased, without any great offense or irritation. Growing bored with Brynhild, Remus tuned back in.

“Anyway, Burdacke Dunne is no Kingsley yet, but he’s had a year under his belt, so hopefully he can get the new recruit whipped into shape…”

“Mmm,” said Remus.

“What’s Kingsley doing, now that he’s graduated?” asked Sirius.

“He got accepted into Auror training. Isn’t that cool? It’s a three year program, apparently.”

“Wow,” said Sirius. “Good for him. Although, I reckon by the time I finish here, three more years of school is the last thing I’ll want to do. Moony, did you finish the Charms essay yet?”

“Yes,” said Remus, scribbling a few more lines of his translation. “And…” with one final edit, he looked up and smiled. “That’s Ancient Runes done too.”

“Bravo, Professor Lupin,” said Sirius. “You’re well ahead of the rest of us.”

“Well, I’ve got to catch up before the full moon hits, haven’t I?”

He sighed and looked down at the mountain of remaining homework before choosing his Defense Against the Dark Arts essay to tackle next. He could feel Sirius watching him as he unrolled a blank furl of parchment. He waited, expecting some comment about the full moon…but Sirius said nothing.

It was not the first time this year that Remus had the impression Sirius was being careful around him, always approaching him like a dog with his tail between his legs. Ever since they’d got back to school, Sirius seemed to go out of his way to be agreeable to Remus, like he was trying really hard to make up for what he did last term. As though a friendly demeanor could possibly make up for that. Remus, for his part, did not find this agreeable in the slightest. It annoyed him, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was nothing more than a constant reminder that things were not, in fact, fine.

If he were being quite honest, Remus preferred the old Sirius. The casually cruel Sirius, the indifferent-yet-amusing Sirius. That devil-may-care boy who was at once dismissive and delightful. That Sirius he understood. That Sirius made sense.

That Sirius had also turned out to be a homicidal shithead who put his own thirst for vengeance above the life and liberty of his friends, but that was an issue to unpack another time.

This Sirius was…different. Was this what a summer at the Potters’ did for him? Made him…happier? Softer? Smoothed over his jagged edges? James always said Sirius changed when he was around his family. Perhaps a whole summer away from them really did make a difference, transformed him from moody and morose to something lighter…more carefree…as though some great weight had been lifted from his shoulders since last term…

Lucky him, growled the beast that lived in Remus’s heart.

“Shush,” said Remus.

“Did you say something, Moony?”

Remus looked up to see both Sirius and James peering at him; he was embarrassed to realized he’d spoken aloud. “Er — no. Just…” he floundered for a moment. “Just trying to figure out how to start this Defense essay.”

“Ah yes,” said Sirius breezily. “Practical uses of the Unforgivable Curses. What, you haven’t thought of any?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“It’s outrageous,” interjected James. “What kind of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor teaches that the Dark Arts should be used?”

“One who’s lock-step with the Ministry,” said Sirius. “He’s not teaching us to use them, he’s teaching us not to make a fuss when the Ministry does.” Remus and James looked at him blankly and Sirius scoffed. “Come on, haven’t you been reading the Prophet? Crouch wants to authorize the use of Unforgivables on suspected extremists.”

“Crouch?”

“Barty Crouch?” repeated Sirius impatiently. “The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? He replaced Harmonia Lufkin after she was murdered last year.”

“Oh, right,” said Remus. He was always a little impressed — and surprised — by Sirius’s knowledge of politics and current events. Remus could hardly keep up with the happenings of his own life, let alone those whose names he occasionally glimpsed on the front page of the Prophet.

“It’s a mistake,” continued Sirius, “Crouch’s new laws. ‘Suspected extremist’ could be anyone the Ministry decides. There’s no accountability other than they say so. And you heard Carter-Myles. The Ministry opposes ‘extremists on both sides.’ Only a matter of time before it’s used on Muggle Rights activists, you watch.”

The boys considered this rather grim prediction in silence. Then James said: “I can’t understand why Dumbledore would hire someone like Carter-Myles. Someone so obviously bigoted. The way he went on! Both sides. What utter dross. What was Dumbledore thinking?”

James appeared genuinely troubled by this question, as though the hiring of someone like Carter-Myles tainted their headmaster — as though this flawed staffing choice might reveal something deeper and darker, some ugly truth about his hero that was consequently reflected in James himself, some truth to which he did not wish to face or admit.

There was something ever so slightly different about James this year — although if Remus really thought about it, he supposed it probably started at the end of last term. He seemed like someone on the edge of a precipice, not quite willing to look down, not quite willing to admit that the edge was crumbling and his feet were slowly sliding down the scree. James’s black and white view of the world was failing him yet again, and it was almost fascinating to watch it happen in real time. Professor Dumbledore was good. Professor Carter-Myles was bad. Professor Dumbledore hired Professor Carter-Myles therefore, in conclusion, quod erat demonstrandum, etcetera…

Remus decided to throw him a rope.

“He might not have had a choice. Remember, the school governors all but sacked Dearborn; they almost certainly had a hand in hiring Carter-Myles.”

“More like hand-picked,” scowled Sirius. “Professor Canker-Sore is here to teach us all to be good little lemmings who sit obediently by while our government commits atrocities.” He snorted. “Which brings us back to the essay in question. Come on, lads, what are some every day uses for unspeakable evil?”

“You could Imperius me into writing this essay,” offered Remus glumly.

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. “There you go.”

“And then use Avada Kedavra on me,” said James, “to put me out of my misery for ever thinking Potions was a good idea.”

“And of course, there’s a myriad of uses for the Cruciatus Curse,” said Sirius lightly, twirling his quill in one hand, “like when you need to discipline your good-for-nothing son for being a colossal blood traitor.”

There was a pause — a yawning gulf of silence, rather — as the meaning of Sirius’s words sunk in. Remus and James both stared horror-struck at their friend, who did not at first seem to realize he’d said anything startling.

“Your…your dad used the Cruciatus Curse on you?” said Remus before he could stop himself.

Sirius’s lighthearted expression vanished at once. “No, of course not. I was being facetious.”

“Mate…” began James, looking stricken.

“It was a joke,” said Sirius shortly. “Merlin.”

But it wasn’t a joke. Possibly an exaggeration, but by no means a joke. That was painfully obvious by the sudden rigidity of his friend’s posture, his wary expression, the familiar curtain of moody distance drawn quickly across his features, shutting them out.

Remus had known that Sirius’s family life had been unpleasant. Brutal, even. One didn’t run away from home at the age of sixteen because things were a tad uncomfortable…but Sirius had never told him any details. James had been tight-lipped about it all too, always muttering, “It’s Sirius’s business,” on the rare occasion the matter arose.

James, incidentally, seemed about to speak again, but Remus could tell that Sirius really did not want him to. So Remus did the one thing he always did best: He changed the subject.

“So, who does Gryffindor play in the first match again?”

And James was successfully deterred, off on another ramble about the potential of this year’s Ravenclaw team. Sirius shot Remus a quick, grateful look, and Remus went back to his essay.

And then, suddenly, the full moon was upon him.

Remus sat on the crisp edge of a familiar bed in the infirmary, a pair of hospital robes clutched to his chest, the privacy curtains drawn tightly around him. He took a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. He had that heightened, anxious feeling of a guilty man about to return to the scene of a crime.

In a sense, he was about to do just that.

He’d had three moons alone since the last time he’d sat on this hospital bed, and apart from Madam Pomfrey’s quick interrogation of his post-moon health on the first night back at school, Remus had avoided the infirmary entirely. Three moons since Remus had woken alone, battered and bleary and blinded by darkness in the bricked-up tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow. Three moons since Albus Dumbledore himself had retrieved him, then sat beside this very bed and told Remus what had happened: how he’d nearly mauled another student to death; how he almost certainly would have succeeded had it not been for the timely of intervention James; how Sirius had been the one to betray them all.

Those had not been the headmaster’s words, of course, but that’s what it all came down to.

Dumbledore had gone to great pains to convince Remus that none of this was his fault, but that was a kind and comfortable lie. Sure, Remus couldn’t control himself once the wolf had taken over, but everything before the transformation…that most certainly was Remus’s fault. He had been the one to tell his friends how to get past the Whomping Willow in the first place. He had been the one to trust Sirius Black with his secret…

Trust.

Dumbledore had put his trust in Remus. He’d allowed him to come to school when no one else would. He’d trusted Remus to follow his rules and keep everyone safe by doing so — and now Remus was going to betray that trust yet again.

“You are not responsible for the choices others make,” Dumbledore had told him, but Remus did not think this was true. He had a choice of his own, after all: He could tell his friends no. He could tell them not to come for the full moon ever again, to stay in their dormitories and leave the wolf alone. They’d fight it, of course. They’d complain, tell him he was being unreasonable, that they had it under control, that everything would be fine…but in the end, they’d listen to him. All he had to do was hold his ground. Do the right thing. Be brave.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t say no to his friends. He didn’t even want to.

“Remus? Are you ready?”

“Nearly, Madam Pomfrey.”

Remus stood with a creak of the mattress. He pulled off his school uniform and unfolded the paper-thin hospital robes. His pale skin was a topography of scars that he tried to avoid. He knew them all by heart, memorized like a map across his body, over a decade’s worth of marks carved by the full moon. The puffed, pink scratches along his arms, the ancient, angry gouge of claws across his chest, and the worst of them all, the one he most hated to see, the one he’d examined a hundred times all the same: The original bite from the first wolf. The one that turned him.

Sometimes Remus thought he could remember the sensation of teeth sinking into his thigh, the way the wolf had wrenched him out of bed, landing hard on the floor of his room, blood gurgling around him, his own screams indistinguishable from the snarls of the beast…but then other days, Remus thought that was more likely the memory of remembering: Half-invented, half-constructed of others’ recollections.

Remus gave himself an impatient shake. Now was not the time to wallow in such matters. So he tugged the hospital robes down over his head and smoothed them across his knees before pulling back the curtains. Madam Pomfrey was waiting with his cloak in hand. He accepted it silently and slipped it over his shoulders. The wind groaned outside the infirmary windows; a steady rain spluttered from a cloud-ridden sky.

Madam Pomfrey gave a brisk nod of approval as Remus fastened his cloak, and then she took him back into her office, where a small door led to a narrow, spiraled staircase, away from the main entrance to the hospital wing.

It was a path that Remus knew by heart; he could’ve followed it with his eyes closed. She’d led him this way once a month since he was eleven years old, after all. Down the spiral stairs that led from the hospital wing to the ground floor, take a left past the portrait of the four jousting knights, then through a side door that led out of the castle. Cross the grounds in a haze of sunset to the spot where the Whomping Willow stood guard over the tunnel that led down, down, down to the Shrieking Shack. Usually, unless Remus was in exceptionally poor form, this was where the matron left him.

“Thanks, Madam Pomfrey,” said Remus politely as the Whomping Willow froze above them.

“Your cloak?”

“Right.”

Remus unfastened the clasps and pulled off his cloak. He couldn’t take it with him lest he wanted it destroyed by the wolf. The usual rules.

The early October wind sliced through the thin hospital robes and the pinprick rain fell like knives against his skin, but Remus kept his composure. He handed the cloak to the matron, who folded it tidily and tucked it under her arm. Then he slipped off his shoes and handed those to her as well. The evening’s chill cut across his bare ankles.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Remus,” said Madam Pomfrey.

Remus nodded, then he slid down through the hollow at the base of the tree. He arrived in the tunnel with a slight thud — no matter how many times he’d done this, it was always a graceless landing. He forced himself up and brushed himself off, ignoring the complaint in his bones. They knew the moon was coming; they ached for it.

He continued through the tunnel. This part was always unpleasant; he had to leave his wand in the hospital wing so he had no light to guide him. Still, like the path from the infirmary out of the castle, Remus knew this tunnel by heart — every bump, every treacherous root, every duck of the head — he’d learned his way.

Even so, the darkness seemed to thicken around him as he pushed on. It felt almost solid, like a wall — a brick wall, entombing him here — no. Don’t think about that.

But of course, it was too late. He was thinking about it. It was all he could think about. How could he not, when it was so easy to imagine Severus Snape skulking through this tunnel, back bent and bumping his head on the low ceiling? How vividly he could see James rushing after him, shouting warnings — James, who couldn’t transform into Prongs in the tunnel. James, who had been in just as much danger of being slaughtered by the wolf as Snape himself.

Another step through the darkness.

And there was the Snape of his imagination throwing open the trapdoor with reckless abandon, not knowing the horror on the other side. Remus could hear his own growls, the scuffle and thud of his own paws…RUN!

He could feel the wolf pushing his way through the trap door into the tunnel…the scrape of his claws against the earth…

Moony. It’s me…It’s Prongs…

He could smell blood and flesh, blood and flesh, and he dove for it. A scramble, a clatter, a smash. His head pounded with the memory of the crack of his skull against a brick wall that had sprung up between him and his prey…his prey…his best friend…

Enough, he told himself furiously. He had stopped walking, slumped against the cold, earthen wall as the wolf’s memories overwhelmed him. There was no time for this.

A few deep breaths and Remus forced himself on.

Eventually, he reached the end of the tunnel and groped around for the latch of the trapdoor. There it was. He threw the door open and hauled himself into the Shrieking Shack. The dusky glimmer of sunset that crept through the boarded up windows was bright as a blaze to Remus’s tunnel-adjusted eyes, and it took him a moment to blink away the dazzle.

He peered around miserably. The house was as it ever was, dusty and destroyed, full of smashed furniture and ripped up floorboards. His own handiwork, the product of previous moons. As far as holiday accommodations went, the Shack was distinctly lacking in charm. Remus sighed. There was no real pleasant place to sit and wait for moonlight to strike him; the beaten-up bed was perhaps most comfortable, but Remus found he didn’t much fancy climbing the stairs. The hike from the hospital wing to the shack had thoroughly exhausted him, so he crossed into what he had mentally labeled “the piano room” — so named for the absurd and thoroughly-abused grand piano that sat slumped in the corner. A thin band of light fell across its dusty front, a glitter of dust in the haze.

“Hey, Moony.”

Remus nearly jumped out of his skin as Sirius appeared out of nowhere before him, one hand leaning casually against the piano, the other clutching the silvery heap of James’s Invisibility Cloak.

“Jesus Christ, Sirius,” breathed Remus. “You nearly gave me heart failure. What are you doing here so early?”

Sirius shrugged. “Didn’t seem much point in waiting.”

“What if Madam Pomfrey had come in with me?”

“You said she hardly ever does anymore.”

“’Hardly ever’ does not mean never.”

“Yeah, but…” Sirius gestured at the Cloak. “Invisibility?”

Remus couldn’t come up with a compelling argument against that — James’s Invisibility Cloak had become their latest trump card against all his defenses. He was too tired to bother with a retort, so instead Remus simply slid against the wall and sat heavily on the floor.

Sirius watched him from his perch by the piano. “You doing all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“So…that’s a no, then?”

“I said I’m fine,” Remus snapped.

He waited for the inevitable snark, the sarcastic comeback, the bitter retort…but Sirius simply sighed. “Okay, Moony,” he said, and then he slumped down at the piano and ran a hand over the dusty keys, his expression tired, resigned. Remus watched almost furtively as Sirius blew a gust of air from his cheeks and dust went spiraling in little eddies through the air.

“How long have we got?” asked Remus, mostly to fill the silence.

Sirius glanced at his watch. “’Bout thirty minutes.”

Thirty minutes. That was far longer than Remus would like. He was in no rush to transform into the wolf, but at the moment, it seemed a preferable alternative to sitting trapped in this room with Sirius Black. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the truth was Remus was afraid of what Sirius might say to him…of what Remus might say in return. This was the first time they’d been alone together since their blow-out fight in the dormitory at the end of last term, when Remus had told Sirius that he was a piece of shit.

Now, here in this dilapidated shack, Remus all but held his breath, expecting at any moment a confrontation, but Sirius said nothing further. Remus watched furtively as the other boy, seated on the mouldering bench at the beat-up piano, rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. Then he did something Remus did not expect: He began to play.

The notes were harsh and occasionally discordant on the out-of-tune piano, and yet to Remus the music seemed strangely perfect for the atmosphere. Dark and dreary music for this dark and dreary shack. He found himself enraptured as he watched Sirius’s fingers dance across the keys. As the music swelled, Remus’s gaze drifted up to Sirius’s face: His eyes were closed, eyebrows slightly lifted, his mouth a vague line — not a smile, but not quite a scowl. Then the music petered out like a drift of rain, and Sirius opened his eyes.

“That was beautiful,” said Remus quietly.

Sirius glanced at him, then let out a low pfft of air. “‘Beautiful’ is not the right word to describe Barkwith.”

Remus, whose musical education had been provided exclusively by his Muggle mother (and consequently consisted primarily of the Beach Boys and Elvis) did not have much to say about the pure-blood composer, Edwin Barkwith. So instead he said: “Why don’t you ever play?”

“What?”

“The piano, I mean. Or the violin or the…whatever else it is you said you play. You keep it all a secret, but I don’t see why. You love it.”

“Says who?”

“Says your face.”

Sirius let out a dismissive grunt, but Remus pressed on. He wasn’t sure why he’d chosen this line of attack; he knew Sirius did not like to talk about anything related to his family or childhood, but perhaps that was exactly the point. It was much better talking about the subjects Sirius liked to avoid than the ones from which he, Remus, desperately wished to stay away. “And you’re really good at it,” needled Remus.

“You’d be good at it too if your governess hexed you whenever you fucked up.” Sirius half-laughed at the frown on Remus’s face. “Mummy terrorized the governesses,” he explained, “so in turn, the governesses terrorized us. The bloody circle of life, isn’t it?”

“Did your mother know?”

This time, the laugh was genuine, full-throated and harsh as a tuneless piano. “Know? She encouraged it. She was as bad as any of them, the miserable old bitch. Once, when mummy dearest felt I wasn’t practicing enough, she jinxed my fingers to the keys so that I couldn’t stop playing until I mastered whatever song I was working on — The Goblin’s Sonata, I think it was. Fucking Barkwith. I was forced to play all through dinner. When she finally let me go to bed that night, I could hardly uncurl my fingers for the cramping.”

He flexed his fingers before him, as though marveling they were all still there.

“I might’ve loved the piano,” he said, his voice distant, almost wistful, “if I were a different person with a different life, but now…it’s hard for me to see it as much more than an instrument of torture.”

Torture. Remus recalled with a jolt that afternoon the other week when Sirius had made his horrible ‘joke’ about his father punishing him. He’d instantly shut down in that moment, closed himself off from interrogation, and yet here in the shack, he was practically inviting it. Now that he had the opportunity, Remus wasn’t sure what to ask.

A deep, bone-shaking shudder saved him the effort.

“Still got about twenty minutes,” said Sirius, glancing at his watch.

“Yay,” said Remus through gritted teeth. Another shiver. He hated this part, the way the moon tugged at him like waves on the shore.

Sirius stood from the piano bench and sat down next to him on the dusty floor. “We’ve got it all planned, you know,” he said. “You don’t have to worry.”

“Who says I’m worrying?”

Sirius took Remus’s hand and pressed two fingers to his wrist. “Well, you’ve still got a pulse, so…”

Sirius grinned, but Remus snatched his hand away. He’d kept his cool so far this year. He’d played the part, engaged in the friendly banter, constructed the sarcastic replies that were expected of him. He’d gone along with it all, but this — this sudden closeness was too much. He couldn’t bear it. Perhaps it was because he was still reeling from the wolf’s memories in the tunnel, but Remus was not ready to face that disarming smile again, that easy intimacy that Sirius always seemed to invoke. It was false, he’d learned that last year. No matter how close or comfortable their friendship seemed…there was a brick wall between them now. There always would be.

He found he almost relished the idea of ceding control to the wolf, lost in a lycanthropic oblivion. It was inevitable; why not embrace it?

Another shiver.

“You should transform,” Remus told Sirius without looking at him.

“We’ve still got loads of time.”

“Just do it,” Remus snapped. A pause. “Please.”

Sirius shrugged and stood up. Then, with something like an exhalation of breath, his body morphed into the big, black dog who had grown so familiar last year, the dog who Remus himself had once named: Padfoot.

The dog settled down on the scratched floorboards, chin to paws, and gazed up at Remus with something like penitence in those big, dark eyes. Then again, James would probably say Remus was just projecting.

Remus hugged his knees to his chest and looked away. They sat like that, a few feet apart, until a band of bleak moonlight pierced through the boarded up windows, a shimmer of dust across the piano. Remus felt his body tense, then convulse, then suddenly he was bent over, palms to floor, gasping.

Padfoot was on his feet now too, pacing a few steps away, ears forward, alert.

Remus felt his spine arch, muscles spasm. His fingers, splayed against the floor, curled into claws that gouged through wooden boards…and then there was the wolf, again.

He howled.

Chapter Text

SIRIUS

A Better Black

Hogwarts was asleep. Though the occasional glimmer of candlelight blinked in a few remote windows, high at the top of towers, the castle and its grounds were heavy with slumber as night blurred into day. The full moon hung low above the Forbidden Forest, pale and tinged by a pink dawn that was just beginning to spill across the horizon. The Whomping Willow swayed its placid boughs in a peaceful, nonexistent breeze, and only a person who was really looking would notice the slim shadow of a stag standing at attention along the edge of the trees.

Then — like a shot, a gray blur burst from the forest and dashed towards the castle, pursued by a big, black dog. The dog launched itself at the gray blur — a wolf — and tackled him to the ground. The wolf seemed to interpret this action as good fun, and it nipped playfully at the black dog’s muzzle. The stag hurried after them, a quick, loping sort of gait, followed by the scurry of a rat just barely visible through the dew-soaked grass.

The stag jabbed his antlers skyward towards the setting moon, and the dog voiced a low grunt of agreement. Then, in a display of inter-species coordination that, had it been noticed, would’ve fueled the theses of a hundred zoologists, the stag and the dog began to corral the joyful wolf closer to the Willow; the tree's boughs tensed with the promise of violence...until the rat dashed forward and pressed one tiny paw to a knot at the trunk’s base, and the Whomping Willow froze in silent salute.

The night was done.

It was no simple task to convince the wolf to slide down the hole at the base of the tree. Moony did not want to go. But time was fading like the night sky above, and Sirius had made a promise. 

A quick glance over to Prongs, who was using the bulk of his stag form to block Moony from taking off again, then Sirius — then Padfoot — locked his teeth on the scruff of the wolf's neck and dragged him down the hollow. He ignored Prongs’ indignant snuffle as he went; James never liked when Sirius was rough with Moony; he didn’t understand that sometimes that was exactly what the wolf needed. Sirius reckoned he understood Moony better than any of them — better than James, and certainly better than Remus. It was why the wolf always followed him when they were out on the grounds.

Still, as dog and wolf thudded to the earthen tunnel floor in a tangle — swipe of claws, slash of teeth, a yelp, a whimper — Sirius felt badly about it. He hadn’t hurt him, he knew that, but the joyful spark that had animated the wolf all night long was snuffed out, and suddenly Moony was terrified, panicked by his current location. He did not want to be in this tunnel. The wolf scrambled back towards the exit, claws scraping at the smooth dirt, but Sirius blocked his way. 

A snarl, a whine, and then Moony took off in the opposite direction, down, down, down through the winding tunnel beneath the tree. Sirius dashed after him, alone. Prongs was far too big to fit through the hollow, even without the antlers, and Wormtail was really only good for freezing the tree, so it had been agreed that Sirius would return the wolf alone. He was not sorry for this. He liked being the one to accompany Moony to and from the shack. It was as close as he felt to his friend anymore. 

Sirius slowed his pace as he progressed further down the tunnel. He wasn’t worried about Moony getting away — there was no where to go — and Merlin, he was tired. When at last he reached the end, he found the wolf cowering beneath the trapdoor, ears flattened, growling as Padfoot approached. Moony never liked being trapped.

It took considerable effort for Sirius to persuade the wolf to climb up through the trapdoor, but once out of the tunnel and into the shack, Moony seemed to calm down a fair bit. He trotted amiably from room to room, sniffing the floorboards, looking for Merlin knows what.

Sirius shut the trap door with one paw — he’d gotten rather dexterous with his dog paws — then settled down on the floor with a grateful yawn. There was nothing left to do. Moony needed no supervision in the Shrieking Shack, and Sirius was feeling properly pummeled. Running around the forest all night chasing a loose werewolf would do that to a dog. He rested his chin on a paw and watched with sleepy eyes as Moony concluded his investigation. Evidently the results were satisfactory, for the wolf plodded over and settled down beside him with a contented sigh. Then he curled into a ball and went to sleep.

Exhausted though he was, Sirius did not allow himself to follow suit. He couldn’t risk failing to wake in time and having Madam Pomfrey find him there, a dog in the Shrieking Shack, where a dog most certainly was not meant to be. Sirius wasn’t really too concerned; he figured he’d probably wake up with the sound of the trapdoor opening, which would give him time to transform back to human and throw James’s Invisibility Cloak over himself…but he wouldn’t risk it. Not this moon, anyway. 

He had promised that everything would go smoothly this moon, and it had to. The stakes were too high. It was the first full moon of their sixth year, the first time they’d all transformed together since…since Sirius’s big fuck up last year. 

With a faint grunt, he shoved that wave of guilt aside. All we can do when we fuck up, James had told him at the end of term and several times over the summer since, is choose to be better next time we have the chance.

Sirius was trying to do better. To be better. Hell, was he trying.

Of course, with all the world open before them, it had been tempting to run as fast and far as their legs would take them, to explore the vast corners of the castle grounds, and not give the faintest fuck about details or deadlines…and they would do that, eventually. But not this moon. This moon, everything had to go perfectly.

So they'd stuck close to the Willow, allowing themselves to explore only the forest in the near vicinity. They’d kept to the plan and got back to the shack with time to spare. It hadn’t been easy — there were so many tempting trails to take, and Moony had been the most enthusiastic of all of them — but this moon was not about adventure. This moon was about regaining trust. 

Moony’s trust.

Which had been easy. The wolf had been no trouble at all. He’d greeted Padfoot as an old friend, delighting in his company, following his lead without question or concern. 

It was Remus who was the problem.

Sirius had thought, perhaps naively, that some of the storm of their last fight would’ve petered out over the summer holiday. Instead, it seemed to have only been building, a great cumulonimbus hovering above them, refusing to rain but grumbling with endless thunder.

Over the summer, James had continuously insisted that being a hermit was part of Remus’s process, that the wound wasn’t festering, it was healing, and space was a critical ingredient for this metaphorical tincture. James reckoned he knew a lot about healing — he’d certainly read the books — but Sirius was skeptical. The wound hadn’t healed; Remus had just gotten better at covering it up. 

Some days it felt as though Sirius would never be allowed to move on from his fuck up. It haunted him — in Remus’s eternal reticence, in James’s constant efforts to understand. Some days Sirius wanted to curse at them both, to stalk off in a rage and shout that if they were so bloody perfect then what were they doing being friends with a shithead like him?

But he didn’t do that.

He was trying to be better.

“I can’t believe we got away with it,” Peter had murmured as he and Sirius climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower following their conference in Dumbledore’s office that fateful moon three months ago. “I can’t believe you got away with it.”

But Sirius didn’t feel like he’d gotten away with it. True, institutionally his punishment had been minor — thanks to Pete’s insistence that he lie and say Snape had been eavesdropping. It was difficult to claim that a careless tongue was a capital crime. But Sirius still felt that he was being punished. Remus had punished him all summer…and every day since they’d been back.

The walls of the shack creaked as wind curled through the village of Hogsmeade outside. Next to him, Moony slept on. Sirius watched the gentle rise and fall of gray fur, felt the wolf’s soft breath beside him, completely peaceful, trusting — and he hated himself. Soon, the moon would fade, and Remus would return, and the wall would go up, and they would no longer be Moony and Padfoot, but Remus and Sirius. 

Friends, but only just.

At last, dawn crept through the slats of boarded windows, and Sirius flinched as the wolf began to convulse and stretch…and then he became Remus. The boy gave a quick, violent shudder before curling tighter into himself, still sound asleep through the whole transformation.

That was his cue. 

Sirius pushed himself up, yawned, and transformed back from dog to man. He rolled his shoulders and gave his arms a quick stretch, then he pulled his wand from the pocket of his robes and conjured a heavy fleece blanket, which he placed over the sleeping boy’s body. Remus murmured something indistinguishable and slept on.

It did not take much to recall the first time Sirius had experienced one of Remus’s transformations. That night had been burned into his memory: the way the wolf had clawed at the walls, at himself, a constant howl of pain and desperation; the way Remus had transformed back, body all bloody and bruised; the way Sirius had been unable to do anything to make it better.

This was better, he thought as he sat down cross-legged on the dusty floor and watched his friend’s peaceful slumber. What had once been an excruciating transformation before, now hardly even woke him, and the only scars on his pale body were the ones that had been etched there for years. Remus may still be angry with Sirius, but there was no denying that Padfoot’s presence helped Moony. 

It was a good night, a successful night, and they would do it again.

The groan of the trapdoor delivered Sirius abruptly from his musings. He stood and, with a faint twinge of regret, removed the blanket from the sleeping boy and vanished it. Madam Pomfrey couldn’t know that someone else had been here, after all. Remus stirred slightly at the chill and blinked into the morning gloom.

“Padfoot…?” 

Sirius winked, then disappeared under the Cloak just as Madam Pomfrey arrived.

It did not take the matron long to conclude that Remus was in perfectly fine health. As she bustled him out towards the tunnel, Sirius heard her say: “This is a very good sign, Remus. I always suspected your transformations would grow worse with the onset of puberty, but it seems as though they’re mellowing now that you’re an adult.”

“Mmm,” was Remus’s noncommittal reply.

Beneath the Cloak, Sirius grinned.

He waited a good twenty minutes before heading back out the tunnel himself, making sure to give the matron a good head start. Sirius had the Invisibility Cloak, of course, but he’d have to freeze the Whomping Willow to escape unmaimed, and he didn’t want to draw attention to his invisible self. By the time he hauled himself out of the tunnel and pressed a fist to the tree’s knot, Madam Pomfrey and Remus were two dots in the distance, disappearing into the castle.

Sirius gave the frozen tree’s trunk an affectionate pat as he departed. “Thanks, mate,” he murmured. 

It was almost certainly his imagination, but he could’ve sworn the tree creaked in reply.

He wore the Invisibility Cloak all the way back to the dormitory, although strictly speaking he did not need to. It was morning, if offensively early, and he had every right to stroll the premises. Still, he kept the Cloak wrapped over his shoulders all the same. Part of it was caution — lest anyone notice him out and connect the dots — and part of it was simply the pleasure of skirting through the castle unseen, that familiar, particular thrill of breaking the rules.

He shed the Cloak as he reached the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, however, and hauled himself through the portrait hole. The common room was empty, save one or two early birds curled up with books and a mug of tea. James and Peter were not among them, so Sirius plodded heavily up the stairs to his dormitory.

As suspected, he found his friends there, utterly conked out. Peter was no doubt ensconced behind his closed curtains, but James’s bed hangings were wide open; his friend looked as though he had simply fallen face-first onto his bed, limbs dangling off the mattress, glasses knocked askew as his nose squashed into a pillow.

Sirius considered his peacefully sleeping friends for a moment. James had offered to loiter in the forest until Sirius was done in the shack, but Sirius had thought that seemed unnecessary. He’d told them to go on back and get some sleep. So it wasn’t any resentment over their current state of blissful slumber that inspired Sirius to do what he did next, but rather the sheer sport of it all. 

“OI! GET UP, YOU LAZY GITS!”

There followed the rustle of bedclothes, a grunt, a moan, and the dull thud of a head hitting a bedpost. Sirius snickered as James, having started rather violently at this wake-up call, reclaimed his glasses and hooked them over his ears.

“You,” said James blearily, “are a fucking twat.”

“Piss off,” moaned Peter, emerging from his four-poster.

“The hell was that for?”

“Payback for five years of living with an incorrigible morning person?” suggested Sirius as he dropped himself onto his own bed, smirking at his friends’ furious expressions. “I feel better for it. You can go back to sleep now.”

“Fuck you,” said James with a wide yawn. He mussed his bedhead unnecessarily. “I’m awake now. Everything go smoothly at the shack?”

“Smooth as the hair grease Snivellus undoubtedly uses as lube.”

James made a face. “Great, and now next time I do sleep, I’m going to have nightmares.” 

Sirius snickered. “Everything went perfectly. Moony slept through the transformation like a peaceful little pup, and now he’s on his way back to the hospital wing with Madam Pomfrey. I expect we’ll see him before too long, he was hardly banged up at all.”

“Good,” said James through another yawn. He glanced at the watch still strapped to his wrist. “So we’ve got about an hour until class…”

“You’ve got an hour until class,” said Sirius. “Pete and I have a free period, or as I like to call it: nap time.” He laughed at James's look of indignation. “Hey, you’re the one who insisted on taking Potions, mate.”

James had quite a lot to say about this, and most of it was profane.

Remus returned from the hospital wing sometime between the moment James grudgingly headed off to Potions alone and the moment he came plodding back. Sirius was fuzzy on the specifics, as he himself had been fast asleep the whole time.

Which was very much the state Remus currently inhabited, curled on his bed in a manner not unlike the way the wolf had curled up beside Padfoot. It almost annoyed Sirius to wake and find the other boy there, to know that Remus hadn’t bothered to wake him or alert him to his return. But then…why would he? To Remus, sleep was sacred; it would never occur to him to needlessly interrupt someone else’s.

“I come bearing gifts,” James announced, the dormitory door thudding shut behind him. 

“Should I be worried?” asked Sirius drowsily, anticipating vengeance for the rude awakening he’d imparted to his friends a few hours earlier.

“Ha. No, despite what you deserve, I’ve decided it’s my duty to be a positive role model in your life, you devilish little miscreant, you. I brought you all sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches?”

“You slept through lunch. We’ve got Defense in fifteen.”

“Fuck.”

“Are you sure we can’t just skive off?” moaned Peter into his pillow.

“No,” said Sirius, as much as he wished they could. He pushed himself off the bed regretfully and stretched his neck from side to side. They had agreed that everything must go perfectly this moon, and that included the aftermath. Tempting as it was to skip class, they couldn’t risk drawing attention to themselves.

“I’m coming too,” said a weary voice, and both Sirius and James turned at once to see Remus tugging on his trainers, blinking against his obvious exhaustion.

“You don’t have to,” said Sirius. “I can take notes for—”

“Shut up,” said Remus, so Sirius did.

“You can take notes for me,” suggested Peter, “and I’ll go back to bed.”

Sirius snorted. “Fat chance.”

“Personally, I don’t see what you’re all complaining about,” said James, cheerfully distributing the sandwiches. “I’ve had half the sleep you lot have, and I am a picture of peppiness.”

It was all going very well, until James began to snore.

Sirius was slumped in his seat, head lolling back to count the water stains on the ceiling as he had done throughout the entirety of Professor Crusty-Mole’s lecture on the legal implications of the Imperius Curse. He barely bothered to listen; it was such obvious shit. Sirius had no great respect for the Ministry, and he knew full well the ‘legal implications’ were whatever some bureaucrat decided they would be that day — likely dependent upon the class and blood status of the perpetrator. As such, it seemed a waste to give even an ounce of his attention to this tripe.

James sat beside him, his head occasionally nodding forward, only to jerk back to attention, upsetting his ink pot on more than one occasion. Peter sat behind them, almost certainly in the same near-catatonic state. Remus, for his part, was fast asleep, chin to elbows in the back row. Carter-Myles had cast him one withering glare at the start of class then carried on as though the boy werewolf did not exist.

And he likely would’ve continued to do so, had it not been for the snore. 

It came suddenly, loudly, a snuffling reverberation that cut through class. A few students giggled. Sirius gave James a surreptitious kick and James jerked awake, but too late: Carter-Myles loomed over their desks. 

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Potter?”

Sirius could actually see the gears begin to turn in James’s sleep-clogged brain, a bit like pouring molasses through the inner workings of a clock. “Er…” said James. “Chronic insomnia, sir.”

“I see,” said Carter-Myles. “And is Mr. Pettigrew suffering from the same condition?”

“It’s a contagion, sir,” mumbled Peter.

“And Mr. Black?”

“I’m just bored,” said Sirius. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, eying the professor with every bit of disdain he could muster.

Carter-Myles’ eyes narrowed, then flicked towards Remus, where they lingered for one malicious moment before returning to meet Sirius’s contemptuous gaze. “See me after class, Mr. Black,” the professor said blandly, and then he returned to his lecture.

Naturally, Sirius had no intention of doing any such a thing, and indeed as the bell rang, he headed towards the door with the rest of his classmates. But Carter-Myles was not going to let him get away so easily. “Mr. Black?”

Sirius heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll catch up with you at dinner,” he told James, and then he turned dramatically back to their professor. “You called?”

“Sit,” said Carter-Myles, indicating a seat in the front row of the class.

Sirius perched himself insolently atop the desk. Carter-Myles did not comment on this obvious perversion of his instructions but instead merely folded and unfolded his hands a few times before giving Sirius a very somber look. Sirius readied himself for a long and dull reprimand, but Carter-Myles took him by surprise. “I would like to offer you some friendly advice, Mr. Black.”

Sirius blinked. “Sorry?”

“You see,” continued the professor with an officious little nod, “I know your father. I’ve had the privilege of working with him on more than one initiative at the Ministry, and I flatter myself to call him a friend.”

Sirius did not believe his father was capable of friendship, and even if he were, he certainly would never be friends with a weaselly little Ministry parchment pusher like Carter-Myles.

“Given this close relationship with your father, I feel obligated to offer you some guidance on your choices here at school.”

“Lucky me.”

“I would advise you to think very carefully about with whom you associate, Mr. Black.”

“With whom I associate?” repeated Sirius, and if Carter-Myles actually knew any member of the Black family as well as he pretended, he’d recognize that particular arch of the eyebrow as a flashing sign of danger ahead.

“Quite,” said Carter-Myles, comfortably unaware of the impending eyebrow situation. “Don’t think I didn’t see right through what you were up to in class today. You, Potter, and Pettigrew. Your little pantomime of sleeplessness. You were covering for Lupin.”

Sirius froze. Of course, the teachers knew about Remus’s condition, but so far Dumbledore’s authority had been enough to keep even the skeptics quiet about the werewolf in their class. If Carter-Myles was comfortable referencing Remus’s lycanthropy so casually — if obliquely — to a mere student…this was — to quote Remus himself — very, very bad.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sirius replied at last.

“I think you do,” said Carter-Myles, “but even if you don’t, my advice still stands. You are a Black after all, a fact of which I am sure your father would want me to remind you.”

“Oh dear,” said Sirius.

Carter-Myles blinked. “Is there a problem?”

“Yeah. I hate to break your little heart, but I’m afraid you and my dear daddy aren’t as close as you think. There’ve been some recent developments of which you’re obviously ill-informed, as you seem to be belaboring under the delusion that I have the slightest bit of pride in my surname. Let me get you up to speed: I, Sirius Orion Black, am a disgrace to the name of my forefathers, the shame of my mother’s flesh, and a jolly old blood traitor to boot. You, on the other hand, are a crusty old bigot who has bitten off way more than he can chew.”

Carter-Myles let out a bluster of indignation, but Sirius talked over him.

“And as far as your advice — it’s good advice, but I’m a few steps ahead of you, as you’ll find I always will be. See, I have thought long and hard about with whom I associate, and I made that choice a long time ago.” Sirius stood up from his perch on the desk; He was rather taller than the professor, tall enough to see the few faint threads of hair wage their losing battle across the field of Carter-Myles’s balding pate. Sirius towered over him and mustered up every bit of the dignified Black persona he so despised. “And if you do anything — anything at all — to mess up the life of one of my friends…you’ll have me to answer to.”

“You dare threaten a professor?”

“Yeah. I dare. I do a lot of daring. Bit of daredevil, me.” 

There was a pause, and Sirius waited for Carter-Myles to speak, but the man merely spluttered. Sirius sighed; he was going to have to walk the idiot through this whole thing, wasn’t he? 

“If you’re going to give me a detention, this is the appropriate time.”

In the end, he didn’t get a detention, which was oddly disappointing. It wasn’t that Sirius secretly longed for some quality time scrubbing bedpans; rather, he’d hoped to goad Carter-Myles into a reaction despite the man's pathetic deference to an ancient bloodline. But the miserable old knob was precisely what Sirius pegged him to be, incapable of punishing the son of a twenty-eight, lest the deep pockets of Daddy Black had something to say about it.

Fool.

“What’d Professor Crumpet-Muffin want?” asked James through a tremulous yawn as Sirius joined them in the Great Hall for dinner. He cast a glance at Remus, who had his chin propped in one hand, trawling a spoon sleepily through his soup. 

Sirius shook his head. “Later,” he muttered to James.

It was a relief when at last the boys crashed into their dormitory that evening, quite happy to ignore their teetering piles of homework and crawl directly into bed. Sirius was halfway beneath his sheets, when Remus sat up abruptly in the bed next to his.

“It’s Tuesday,” Remus announced.

“Well done,” muttered James into the deep creases of his pillow.

“I can’t go to sleep, I have prefect duties at eight o’clock.”

“Oh, sod that,” said Sirius, but Remus was getting out of bed.

“I’m supposed to patrol with Lily. I can’t just stand her up!”

“She’s a big girl, she’ll be fine.”

But Remus was not to be put off. “She’ll be down there waiting for me. She already thinks I’m a shit prefect, and she’s not wrong…”

Sirius, who had been happily reacquainting himself with his duvet, groaned and sat up. He glanced over at James, who was either already asleep or pretending rather fiercely. Sirius suspected the latter. 

“If I go tell Evans you can’t make patrol tonight, will you please go to sleep?”

Remus bit his lip, and glanced down at his bed. His pillow beckoned. “Will you be nice about it?”

“I’m always nice,” said Sirius.

Remus arched an eyebrow.

Sirius sighed. “I will be even nicer than my normal, disgustingly nice self. Okay?”

“And tell her I’m really sorry?”

“I will weave the most touching tale of woe and penitence. She’ll weep.”

Remus gave in and collapsed back onto the mattress. “Okay. Fine.” A pause. “Thanks.”

And so Sirius, feeling very much a martyr, descended to the common room once more in search of Lily Evans. He found her seated alone at a table by the window, scribbling intently over a length of parchment. A small radio was perched on the table beside her, emitting a low drone of some music he didn’t recognize. Probably Muggle.

“Hello, Evans.”

She looked up and pursed her lips.

Sirius cocked his head. “Why is it that whenever I talk to you, you always look like you’re trying to decide whether or not you want to hex me?”

“You’re reading me wrong,” said Lily primly. “I already know I want to hex you. This is my ‘desperately trying not to’ face.”

Sirius laughed and dropped himself into the seat across from her. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I come in peace.”

Lily just rolled her eyes and went back to her homework.

“I’m here to convey a message, actually. From Remus.”

As this, she put her quill down and looked up at him, interested at last. “Oh?”

“Yeah. He’s — ah — not feeling very well, so he’s not going to be able to make it to patrol tonight.”

“Oh,” said Lily, her interest evaporating at once. “Yeah, I figured.”

Sirius frowned. “You did?”

“He looked dreadful in class today,” she said with a shrug. Then she glanced back up at him. “All of you did, actually. Potter nearly nodded off into his cauldron in Potions. Might’ve burned off his nose if I hadn’t given him a good shove.”

“Lucky you were there to save the day.”

Lily scoffed and unfurled a fresh sheet of parchment. 

“Yeah, well…” said Sirius, who thought some excuse was perhaps called for. “Must be something going around. Just that time of year for Pomfrey to start pushing Pepperup on everyone.”

“Mm. Feel free to stay six feet away from me at all times.”

“Afraid I’m contagious?”

“No,” said Lily sweetly. “I just don’t like you.”

Sirius found himself grinning again. Say what you would about Evans, but the girl knew how to joust. “Well, anyway, Remus said to tell you he’s really sorry. I promised to effectively convey the depths of his grief, but I’m tired so…use your imagination. He wanted to come — would’ve, actually, if I hadn’t bullied him back into bed, but—”

“It’s fine,” Lily cut him off. “Honestly. Patrolling is a bit of a chore, but you really don’t need two people. I’d much rather he get some rest and feel better.”

“It’s good of you,” said Sirius. “Thanks.”

Lily nodded then returned her attention to her homework once again. After a moment, when Sirius hadn’t moved, she looked up. “Was there something else?”

“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing at the little radio. He’d been caught up in the song, listening as the male vocalist implored him to “break on through to the other side.”

Lily looked confused. “What?”

“The song on the radio. Who’s that singing?”

Lily frowned for a moment; she looked as though she was engaged in a silent but heated argument with herself. Apparently she lost, because she said: “That would be Jim Morrison. It’s a band called The Doors.” She paused. “They’re Muggles.”

“Yeah, I worked that bit out for myself.”

He listened for a moment, fascinated. Sirius’s exposure to Muggle music had been limited over the years. He’d briefly kept a little Muggle radio under his bed in Grimmauld Place, until his mother found out and destroyed it. It had only worked sometimes — too much magic around, he supposed — but he’d picked up a few songs and kept them tucked away in his mind like a revolutionary pamphlet dropped in the town square. He’d even snuck out to a music shop in London once and bought a few records. That had been stupid, he’d realized, as he had no way to play them. They’d been lost to one of his mother’s purges too…

Lily cleared her throat. “If there’s nothing else…”

Sirius pulled himself from the trance of the music and considered the faint scowl of the prefect before him. He’d always considered Lily Evans to be little more than a boring goody-two-shoes with questionable taste in friendships…but that was before she’d bested him in a duel last year, taking him — and, he suspected, everyone else — by surprise. Her little trick with the cigarette had piqued his interest, too. Plus, Remus seemed to like her a lot, and James was absolutely gaga for her, even if he still insisted on pretending otherwise. Maybe there was something he’d been missing.

For some reason, he wasn’t quite ready to end the conversation. He gestured at the radio again. “So, that’s — ah — Kenny Whatsit, right?” 

“Kenny Kirk.” 

“Right.” Sirius was pleased he’d gotten at least half of it, and he was keen to show the rest of his Muggle savvy. “He does the Muggle music show.”

“It’s more than a show,” muttered Lily, apparently in spite of herself.

"What is it?"

“It’s a —" she hesitated. "It's a beacon.”

Sirius eyed her curiously. That was an interesting thing to say.

Lily, however, looked as though she thoroughly regretted speaking up. “It’s just…oh, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Try me.”

She gave him her fiercest scowl yet. He had the vague notion that he was being assessed. He smiled back pleasantly. Finally she said: “Where are you from, Black?”

He frowned. “What d’you mean, where am I from? England, obviously.”

“Where in England?”

“London.”

She looked surprised by this. “London?”

“What, you thought every pure-blood ponce owned their own country estate?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well…yeah, but that’s not the point.”

“You ever spend much time in Muggle London?”

“Here and there.” He wasn’t about to admit that every time he’d snuck out, he’d been properly punished for it.

“Well, imagine yourself at eleven years old, a pure-blood ponce as you say, and you hardly know Muggle London at all. Someone plucks you from your home and drops you in the middle of — oh, I don’t know, Piccadilly Circus. And you’re stranded there with absolutely no guidebook and told to ‘figure it out.’ And you do. You figure out, but you do it alone. Eleven years old. No one there to explain to you how to use the money, buy a bus pass, board the tube. Everything about your old life is gone; the references you make, the jokes you laugh at, the children’s stories you grew up reading — all of it in Piccadilly Circus is treated at best like a joke, at worst like it doesn’t even exist.

“Then one day you walk past a shop or something, and you hear a song. A song that reminds you of home, of your world. Where you came from. And it’s like a beacon calling out to you, telling you that you’re not the only one lost here in Piccadilly Circus, there are others like you, and they miss the same things you do, and you’re not alone. It’s bigger than a show. It’s a lifeline. It matters.”

Sirius thought of the little radio he’d kept under his bed. A beacon, indeed…calling out…the trill of a blackbird, singing in the dead of night…

“Well," said Sirius at last, "personally, I wouldn’t want to listen to any song that reminded me of home, but I get what you’re driving at.”

Lily had gone very pink. “I don’t know why I bothered saying any of that to you,” she muttered, and she dove back into her homework.

Sirius leaned back in his chair, watching her for a moment. “You don’t like me much, do you, Evans?” 

Lily glanced up. “Wow,” she said in tones dripping with sarcasm. “Good thing there wasn't an O.W.L. in Active Listening. You’d never know from talking to you that you were clever enough to earn so many O’s.”

Sirius laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You really shouldn’t.”

“Too late,” said Sirius cheerfully. “So let’s see…you don’t like me, you don’t like James, but you do like Remus.”

Lily’s green eyes flashed. “I’m allowed to be friends with him,” she snapped.

“Who said you weren’t? Just making an observation. It’s interesting, that’s all.”

“Remus is nothing like you.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” He sighed and stood up. “Well, it’s a pity, as I think I’ve grown rather fond of you since our little duel last year.”

Lily scoffed. “You mean when I kicked your arse across the room?”

“Don’t forget,” Sirius reminded her. “I got your wand.”

“I didn’t need it.”

He smiled. “True. Tell you what, if you ever get bored and want a rematch, you know where to find me. I won’t underestimate you next time.”

And with a mock salute, he left her, slogged his way up the stairs, and collapsed gratefully into bed.

Chapter Text

PETER

Five for Five

Shadow-cloaked corridors and the heavy, thick silence of a post-curfew corridor. Glitter of starlight through a blur of window-glass. The distant hoot of an owl. Then: “Ouch! That was my foot, Prongs.”

“Sorry, sorry…it’s harder to fit two of us under this cloak than I anticipated. What did you have to go and get so tall for? It’s damned inconvenient.”

“Your grumbling has been noted. Here, did you mark down this door?”

Peter sat nestled in James’s pocket as a rat, paws perched on the hem, watching their progression through the shimmer of the Invisibility Cloak. Sirius held his wand aloft for light while James made a note on the scroll of parchment he carried with them.

They’d spent every evening of the week prior down in the dungeons, trying and failing to find a secret path into the Slytherin dorms. When none revealed itself, they’d moved on to canvasing the castle, each night conquering a different floor, jotting down every door, window, and statue in their path. They had to take turns since only two of them could fit under the Cloak…plus Peter, of course. They were on the third floor tonight, and so far it had been uneventful. Still, James assured them this work was essential.

“Cartography 101,” he’d said. “Get a lay of the land.” 

James insisted that if there wasn’t a rat-sized way into the Slytherin dormitory from the dungeons, then surely there must be from above. Nowhere in the castle was impenetrable. Peter, however, was not so sure, and though he’d never dare voice this opinion, he rather thought James was overreacting to Snape having his little vial of Felix Felicis. So the git got one lucky day. What harm could he do with it, really? For reasons that Peter would never quite understand, Sirius Black seemed to be bulletproof; Dumbledore himself had made it clear that Remus was protected, so who was actually in danger here? 

Me, thought Peter glumly. He had very little desire to sneak into the Slytherin common room unaccompanied, disguised as a rat or not. No one seemed to be very concerned with what happened to him.

No, it seemed far more likely to Peter that this so-called heist was all an elaborate revenge scheme, wrapped up in the sort self-righteous heroism to which James was particularly prone. Peter paused a moment to nibble on that thought. He would never have thought such a thing a year ago — or at least he would never have found the words — but that was exactly what it was: James liked to play the hero. He was good at it, and it got him lots of attention, didn’t it? And if there was one thing James loved, it was attention…

“D’you think Evans knows?” said Sirius suddenly, pulling Peter from the depths of his thoughts.

“Knows what?” said James.

“About Moony.”

Peter lurched in the pocket as James stopped walking rather suddenly and turned towards Sirius. “What makes you think that? Did she say something?”

“No, it was just a vibe I got. She’s awfully forgiving of him skipping all his prefect duties, and, you know, she’s not stupid.”

James was quiet for a moment, then he started walking again, a slow shuffle as both regained their gait under the Cloak. “She just thinks he’s ill,” he muttered. “We — er — talked about it last year.”

“What? You never told me that.”

“I guess I forgot. It was right before I broke up with Alodie — minutes before, actually — so I was a little distracted…”

“What did she ask?”

“Alodie?”

“No, stupid. Evans. What did she ask about Moony?”

“What’s it matter?”

“It matters,” said Sirius.

James sighed and scratched his chin, making rather a show of remembering. “She asked if he was dying, to tell you the truth. Apparently that was a rumor that was going around for a while.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Sirius. “He had some rough moons last year. So what did you tell her?”

“I said he wasn’t dying, obviously, but that he was ill. I couldn’t exactly deny it, could I? She’d just seen him in the hospital wing, so I said he was ill, but he was really private about it, and I asked her not to tell anyone. And to her credit, she hasn’t.”

“D’you think she told Snape?”

“No,” said James shortly. “That’s not how he found out.”

There was a moment of strained silence. Peter said nothing of course, on account of the very real barrier being a rat — though he probably wouldn’t have been much more included in the conversation had he been human, either.

“Well,” said Sirius at last, “we should be extra careful around her going forward. She may not know the truth about his illness, but she knows something’s up, and she noticed we were all exhausted after the full moon too. Like I said, she’s not stupid.”

James grunted in agreement. He paused to mark down another door and a faded tapestry that showed a siren luring sailors to sea.

In the ensuing quiet of quill scratching parchment, Sirius added: “You really don’t like talking about her, do you?”

“That’s not — it’s not about —” James blustered. “Can we just focus?”

“All right,” sighed Sirius. “No more talk of Evans. She thinks he’s ill, and we’re all insomniacs. Though Carter-Myles thought we were faking exhaustion to cover up for Moony. Interesting how everyone fills in their own blanks, isn’t it?”

“So that’s what he wanted to talk to you about after class, is it?”

Sirius snorted. “Yeah. Wanted me to rethink ‘with whom I associate.’ Even name-dropped daddy dearest, as though that would win him any points, miserable old fuck.”

Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall, and James quickly shushed his friend. Peter watched with baited breath as Professor McGonagall strode briskly by. She did not so much as glance at them.

“That was close,” whispered James. “No more talking until we know we’re clear.”

So the next few corridors were carried out in near silence, until — 

“Oi,” whispered Sirius, lowering his wand towards the base of a rather malicious-looking statue. “There’s a gap back there, behind the plinth. Secret passage?”

They shuffled closer to the statue under the Cloak, James glancing this way and that to make sure no one was nearby. “I think we’re clear for a few minutes,” he said, and he pulled the cloak from his shoulders. 

Sirius pressed his palms to the statue and gave it a healthy shove. Nothing happened.

“Give me a hand.”

So James tried the same, and Peter tottered backwards in the pocket as both boys strained to move the heavy stone statue, to no avail.

“Damn,” muttered Sirius, kneeling on the floor and prodding the plinth with his wand. “There’s definitely space back there.”

“All right, Wormtail,” said James. “You’re up.”

And suddenly Peter was lifted from the pocket and placed onto the stone floor. He sniffed, his whiskers twitching as he processed all the information of his abrupt new surroundings. Time to shine. With a squeak up at James and Sirius, he scurried towards the gap at the base of the statue. It was just large enough for a rat to slip through…and sure enough, it opened into a decent-sized crawlspace. Big enough that a boy on hands and knees could continue on. He let out three squeaks — the agreed upon signal that there was something worth investigating — and continued on down the tunnel.

Peter had been relieved to find that the process of transforming into his Animagus still came easily enough. He’d had loads of trouble pulling it off last year, and he hadn’t been able to practice all summer long. He’d been afraid that he might get stuck as a rat again, and then what would he do? Dodge his mother’s broom and scurry halfway across England to ask James to unrat him? Not bloody likely. So he’d abstained and feared that when he got back to school, he’d be just as useless as he’d been a year ago.

Thankfully, none of these anxieties had come to pass, and he’d slipped right back into the swing of shrinking himself down to rat size. 

Now he scurried along through the crawlspace, glancing this way and that. It was pitch black in here, and he had to rely on the strange, quivering navigation of whiskers to make it through. Peter had always thought that rats could see in the dark, but it turned out that wasn’t exactly true — a revelation that had disappointed him rather a lot.

Still, the whiskers helped, and before too long he noticed a soft pool of light at the end of the crawlspace. He scampered towards it, careful to stay in the shadows, just in case. There weren’t likely to be any cats down here, but one could never be too careful. He’d had a run-in with Mrs. Norris before, and he had no desire to repeat it.

The crawlspace was a dead end. The tunnel didn’t go anywhere, and the pool of light only led to a small ventilation shaft cut into the stone, ribbed with iron bars. He might be able to squeeze through in his rat form, but it was the end of the road for any non-rodent-shaped traveler. He was about to write the tunnel off as a waste of time, when the sound of voices floated towards his periphery. 

“It’s disgusting, having one sitting there in my classroom like that, like it’s completely normal, not an — an abomination!”

Peter scuttled closer to the vent and carefully peered down into the room it overlooked. It appeared to be a teacher’s study: broad fireplace, two tall-backed leather chairs, rows and rows of bookshelves lining the walls — and sitting in one of those two chairs was Professor Carter-Myles. He clutched a large brandy in his hand, and he took a furious swig as he finished his diatribe.

Next to him sat Professor Babbling, who Peter knew taught Ancient Runes. Peter himself didn’t take the class, but he knew who Professor Babbling was, mostly because Remus had complained about her so much over the years.

“I would advise you,” said Professor Babbling, “to keep your opinions on the matter to yourself. The Headmaster does not take kindly to criticism on this front. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Has the Ministry been informed of this?”

“I doubt it,” said Babbling. “But even if they were, the Ministry knows better than to trod too heavily on the Headmaster’s toes.”

Carter-Myles let out a snort of disdain.

“Trust me, Otto. You don’t want Albus Dumbledore as your enemy. Let the werewolf be. The world will take care of it in time.”

A shiver ran down Peter’s rat spine as he realized they were talking about Remus. Of course, they’d all noticed the way their teacher’s gaze lingered on Remus in class. They knew Remus had noticed too, but Remus pointedly avoided the subject whenever it came up, so neither of the other boys wanted to shove it in his face. And so they just never spoke of it again. What a surprise.

Peter waited for Carter-Myles to respond, but when he did, the conversation moved towards the subject of third year curriculum, so Peter hurried back through the crawlspace, the word ‘abomination’ ringing in his ears.

For a moment after he slipped through the gap behind the plinth, Peter thought his friends had abandoned him there — until he remembered that they were, of course, invisible. Invisible. He’d never get used to that. He squeaked a few times until James pulled back the hood of the Cloak and whispered, “We’re here, Wormtail.”

So Peter squeaked again then took off purposefully down the corridor, whiskers twitching and alert. Satisfied that the other boys were following by the soft, invisible plod of feet behind him, Peter scurried along until he reached a tapestry behind which was hidden a small, secret alcove. He chittered intently in its direction until a hand appeared from nowhere, pulled back the tapestry, and pushed through the hidden wall. Once all three were safely inside, James and Sirius threw off the Cloak and Peter transformed back into boy.

Panting slightly from this excursion, he gazed up into the inquisitive faces of James and Sirius. They wouldn’t like this. They wouldn’t like this at all. 

He sighed. “We have a problem.”

“All right, men,” said James in a low, serious voice. They were back in their common room now, huddled around one of the fireplaces, somber expressions on each fire-lit face. James and Sirius had taken the news of Peter’s discovery about as well as he’d anticipated — which was to say not at all well. Both boys had that fiery look in their eyes that Peter had come to view with equal parts excitement and trepidation.

“We have a new mission,” continued James. “A secret mission, a can’t-tell-Moony mission.”

“What, another one?”

All three boys jumped at once, turning with almost comical synchronization to see Remus standing at the foot of the stairs. The other boy observed their furtive cabal with an expression that muddled amusement and irritation. They’d assumed he’d be fast asleep. The full moon was only a few days past, after all, and he was all groggy in its wake.

“Really?” said Remus flatly, when no one spoke up. “Becoming secret Animagi wasn’t enough? What are you up to now?”

“Oh, hey Moony…” James gave him a sheepish wave. “We thought you’d gone to sleep.”

Remus arched an eyebrow then strolled over and perched himself on the arm of a chair beside them. “What can’t you tell me?”

“Er…”

The increased slant of Remus’s brow applied further interrogative pressure. When that didn’t work, Remus said in exasperation: “James, honestly.”

It was Sirius who answered, all cavalier-like, arms crossed, long legs kicked up on an ottoman. “We’ve made a pact to ruin Professor Carter-Myles’ life and run him out of school.”

Remus blinked. “Oh.” He glanced around at the other boys. “Is that all?” said Remus unexpectedly. “Can’t I help?”

Peter fidgeted. James looked as though he couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or taken aback, but Sirius grinned — a slow, sliding sort of grin that took its time. For some reason, this appeared to annoy Remus further.

“I don’t know why you should be so surprised. I’m a Marauder too, aren’t I? Or have you really written me off as such a boring old stick-in-the-mud just because I have a few scruples?”

“Of course we haven’t,” said James immediately. Peter watched as he a ran a hand through his hair and knew James was struggling to find a suitable explanation without giving up the uncomfortable details. “It’s not that at all, Moony, it’s just…well…because…”

“Because old Farter-Biles is a bigoted anti-werewolf cunt,” Sirius concluded for him. 

James’s hand dropped to his side as he looked helplessly at Remus, who for his part seemed unmoved. “Ah,” he said blandly. “You noticed that too?”

“You know?”

“That he all but called me out as a Dark Creature in front of the class? That he flinches every time he accidentally looks at me? Yeah, I know.”

The other boys exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“What?” said Remus.

No one spoke.

“What?”

And so they told him what Peter had overheard in the crawlspace, that he had been the subject of Professor Carter-Myles’s conversation with Professor Babbling. That Carter-Myles had sounded far from convinced by Babbling’s insistence he leave Remus alone. The boys were sparse on the details in their retelling — Peter could tell James would rather not tell Remus any of it at all — but Remus got the gist.

“I don’t care,” he assured them, his tone so perfectly lighthearted that Peter knew he cared very, very much. “Carter-Myles would hardly be the first teacher to wish I weren’t in his classroom. You should’ve seen the look on Professor Babbling’s face when I showed up for N.E.W.T.-level Runes. I suspect she thought she’d seen the last of me after O.W.L.s, but there I was, the unrepentant wolf.”

“Why’d you even bother continuing her class?” asked Peter.

“Because believe it or not, I find the subject interesting. And besides, Professor Babbling is so scared of me that she never gives me any grief about sleeping in class. There are a few perks to being a creature of unspeakable evil.”

Sirius laughed at this, but James’s expression remained determinedly troubled. Peter noticed it, and so did Remus, who said with brusque segue: “Enough of all that. Tell me about your plan to ruin Carter-Myles’ life.”

At this, James and Sirius exchanged a quick grin. “We’re calling it ‘Operation Ousting Otto,” said James.

“Nice alliteration,” said Remus with a nod of approval. “And what exactly is the plan?”

Sirius's summary was succinct: “We’re going to prank the bastard until he breaks."

“Ah.”

“By the end of the year,” said James, “Otto Carter-Myles will have resigned. Every Marauder must do his bit to make this so. He has no place at Hogwarts.”

Peter at last piped up. “The odds are in our favor, at least.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well,” said Peter with grim satisfaction, “as far as Defense Against the Dark Arts professors go, we’re five for five.”

Chapter Text

LILY

Bad Blood

NEW ‘UNFORGIVABLE’ MEASURES BYPASS WIZENGAMOT

Minister for Magic Harold Minchum announced sweeping new measures this week aimed at combatting the rising tide of violence and extremism in Wizarding Britain. The new laws, architected by Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, will allow Aurors and other Magical Law Enforcement personnel to use any means necessary to target those deemed Death Eaters or Muggle Rights Extremists. 

“Typically, such legislation would be required to go through a long and arduous approval process in the Wizengamot,” said Crouch, “but given the ever-heightening emergency in this country, I am proud that Minister Minchum showed the necessary courage to enact the laws immediately.”

The new legislation sparked sharp backlash from those who claim the Minister for Magic is overstepping his power and that the laws are an infringement on citizens’ rights. Opponents expressed particular concern about the use of Unforgivables on suspected targets, a concern Crouch immediately dismissed.

“I don’t have time to quibble over the civil rights of the wizards who blew up half of Leeds this summer,” said Crouch. “The Ministry is committed to protecting our community and yes, we will use any means necessary to bring these wizards to justice.”

Meanwhile, a date has been set for the final Wizengamot vote on the Wizard Protection Laws, the controversial legislation that has been in limbo since last spring. 

“I am confident we have the votes necessary for the Wizengamot to do the right thing,” said Abraxas Malfoy, a longtime proponent of the legislation.

Wizengamot Elder Elphias Doge, however, has sworn to fight the bill tooth and nail. “It’s a big, heaping pile of dragon dung, that’s what it is, and nothing more.”

Someone cleared their throat. Lily looked up from her newspaper to see Veronica Smethley standing impatiently before her. Veronica was a fifth year girl who had been friends with Mary. She’d never liked Lily very much, on account of Lily’s prior friendship with Severus Snape. Lily had the impression that Veronica blamed her for what had happened to Mary last year, since it was Corin Mulciber, Severus’s new best friend, who’d done the cursing. Lily had still been in denial about Severus back then; she supposed she couldn’t blame Veronica for her ill will. 

Which is why she was somewhat surprised that Veronica had come over to talk to her. Before Lily could say much more than hello, however, Veronica thrust a scroll of parchment into Lily’s face. “I’m supposed to give you this.”

Lily eyed the scroll with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. It was tied with a little velvet ribbon, and Lily recognized it at once. “Ah,” she said. “Thanks. Have you heard from Mary—?”

But Veronica was already walking away.

Lily sighed and unfurled the scroll of parchment. It was as she’d expected: an invitation to dinner at Slughorn’s office. Last year, he’d started inviting her to his little get-togethers, colloquially and not always kindly referred to as the ‘Slug Club.’ For a while, Lily had enjoyed the parties — back when she’d been dating fellow Slug Club attendee Anson Nott, anyway. But they’d split and the dinners had lost their charm. Sure, the food was exquisite and the table decked with finery, but Lily always felt as out of place as a rusty spoon amongst the silver. 

She supposed she’d have to go; Slughorn was a very difficult person to say no to. She’d evaded him for most of last term in an effort to avoid Anson — but Anson had graduated now, so she wouldn’t have to see him or his friend Phineas Phillips, for that matter. Phineas had been the reason they’d broken up. He’d casually gone off on an anti-werewolf tirade, and Anson had taken his side. It had been disappointing, to say the least…but it had opened her eyes.

Florence would likely be at the dinner, but that was all right because Lily liked Florence. Mulciber would be there too. That was significantly less appealing.

“That’s from Slughorn, isn’t it?” Lily looked up from the invitation; this time it was Marlene McKinnon hovering above her like a scowly little storm cloud. “An invite to another Slug Club dinner?”

Lily admitted that it was.

“You said you’d get me in last year.”

“I said I’d try,” said Lily.

“Well, did you?”

Lily hesitated. She could not in good faith claim she had. “I had a lot going on last year, okay? Things with the Slug Club got complicated after—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, your big dramatic breakup with Anson Nott. I know, the entire school knows, half of Britain knows.”

“Did you want something, Marlene?”

Marlene plopped down in the chair across from her and eyed her keenly. “I’ve had a revelation.”

“Oh?”

“You get everything I want.”

Lily groaned. “I thought we already had this conversation over the summer?”

“The prefect badge, the Slug Club invite, the good grades and fawning professors,” Marlene carried on as though Lily had not spoken, “and for some reason that I can’t work out, everyone still seems to like you.”

“This is news to me,” muttered Lily, thinking of Veronica Smethley’s icy demeanor.

“Oh please,” scoffed Marlene. “All the boys are falling over themselves to ask you to Hogsmeade.”

“One boy asked me to Hogsmeade.”

“Only because the others gave up after Harris got there first.”

Lily wasn’t sure what to say to this. “Do you have a point, or are you just trying to make me uncomfortable?”

“I want you to teach me.”

Lily blinked. “What?”

“Teach me,” Marlene repeated, as though the very words pained her, “how to be like you. You’re obviously doing something right that I’m not, and I want to figure out what it is. So I’ve decided to shadow you and study everything you do until I get it right.”

“Oh god,” moaned Lily. “Please, don’t.”

“Why not?” said Marlene. “It’s not like you’ve got any other friends to hang around.”

Lily opened her mouth to retort, but Marlene wasn’t exactly wrong. Still, the comment stung. “Okay, you want some advice on what not to do? That.”

“What?”

“Being mean! Putting people down all the time!”

Marlene looked genuinely confused. “I wasn’t putting you down, it’s just a fact. You said so yourself. Mary ran off to America and Snape threw in his lot with the Death Eaters, so now you spend all your time alone listening to that little radio of yours. Am I wrong?”

Lily struggled for a moment to compose a compelling argument in which the other girl was, in fact, wrong. When none arrived, she let out an exasperated sigh and stood up. “I’ve got to go to class.”

“It’s all right, you know,” said Marlene, catching up as Lily crossed the common room. “I don’t have any friends either.”

Marlene was as good as her word. For the rest of the week, Lily hardly had a moment to herself; Marlene was always nearby: watching her like a hawk during classes, needling her with questions in the corridors, constantly poised with quill and parchment, lest Lily drop some world-shattering wisdom, of which Lily herself was quite certain she possessed none. 

She was driving her absolutely insane.

“Hmm. Bacon,” observed Marlene as she settled onto the bench next to Lily at breakfast one morning. “Interesting choice.”

Lily, who indeed had a hearty bite of bacon halfway to her mouth, lowered her fork in frustration. “Marlene, what are you doing?”

“I told you. I’m studying you.”

“Including my breakfast habits?!”

“Everyone knows that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It stands to reason that your choice of breakfast both reflects and influences other aspects of your life, aspects that I am trying to emulate.”

With a groan, Lily dropped her face into her hands. “Okay, Jane Goodall, you’ve got to stop this. I’m going to lose my mind, and then it will be of no use to you to study it.”

“Who’s Jane Goodall?”

Lily looked up from her palms and blew a strand of hair from her face. “She’s a Muggle anthropologist who studies chimpanzees by living among them. It was a joke.”

“Hm.”

“What — what are you writing down now? Give me that.”

She snatched the parchment from Marlene and read: Uses humor to deflect from serious discussion.

“Oh, for the love of —”

The only respite Lily now had from this constant, ridiculous scrutiny was Potions, the one class she and Marlene did not share. Although, Lily was not so sure she would call it a true ‘respite.’ It was fraught in its own way, the damp dungeon air heavy with a tense awkwardness as she avoided Severus’s gaze…as James avoided hers.

They were still dancing the same dance, she and Potter. He was perfectly, unsettlingly polite, and she hated it. But she couldn’t exactly call him out on good behavior, so she had no choice but to simply endure it, which made her frustrated, which made her needlessly snippy, which made him obnoxiously contrite, and the whole thing was just a perfect storm of insufferability. She wanted things to go back to the way they were before last year, back when he was infuriating but predictably so. Back when his ignoring her amounted to nothing more than a very good day, when she didn’t give the damndest whether he liked her or loathed her…

I still don’t, she told herself stubbornly as she settled into the rhythm of her potion brew. James worked silently beside her, and she cast a quick glance at him while she reached for her scales. He was examining his textbook with an apparently thorough diligence, for he did not spare her the faintest whiff of attention. 

She didn’t know why she did it. It was so stupid, so childish…but as she drew her bronze scales closer to her cauldron, she let her hand brush his vial of newt oil, so that it went careening against the table, spilling a mess of purple goo across the pages of his textbook.

“Sorry,” she said immediately, and in fact she was. Why had she done that? “God, I’m so clumsy.”

“No problem,” said James evenly. “My fault. Shouldn’t have cluttered your space.” And with a brisk flick of his wand, he mopped up the newt oil and turned his focus back to his cauldron.

Lily wanted to scream.

Don’t worry, he’d said. I’ll leave you alone. And so he did. It shouldn’t bother her so much. Why did it bother her so much? 

She spent the rest of class ruminating on precisely this question, but she reached no logical conclusion before the bell rang. She tidied up her things hastily, knowing that James would take his time with his own workspace to avoid leaving with her — and so he did. She stood without a word and headed to the door but hesitated before leaving. She glanced back to the front of class, where Professor Slughorn was organizing a stack of papers, humming a merry little tune to himself. 

She thought of Marlene, desperate for an invite to the party Lily herself had so little interest to join. Lily had promised she’d try and get Marlene in last year, and she had done nothing to follow up on that promise. She didn’t know why she cared, particularly — after all, Marlene had hardly made herself a sympathetic cause over the years — and yet, there was something about the abrasive girl that tugged at the strings of Lily’s heart. That desperate need to prove herself worthy. Lily understood it. She empathized. Sure, their audiences were a tad different: Marlene wanted to prove her worth to her pure-blood, politically-connected family, Lily to the whole Wizarding world…but in the end, didn’t it all amount to the same thing, more or less? Wasn’t it a truly dreadful feeling to think oneself undeserving? Less than? Like no matter what you did it would never be good enough?

Besides, it occurred to her that if she got Marlene what she truly wanted — a seat at the Slug Club table — then perhaps she’d back off a bit and stop analyzing her breakfast. 

Lily sighed, and after one more brief moment’s reflection, she crossed to the front of the dungeon again. James glanced up as she passed.

“Sir?”

“Lily, m’dear!” Slughorn greeted her jovially, looking up from his desk as she arrived. “Excellent work today, as always.”

“Thank you, sir. I —”

“I do hope you’ll be coming to my little dinner next week?”

“Er — yes,” said Lily. “That’s actually what I—”

“Good, good, good,” said Slughorn. “I’ve got some very exciting guests joining, you know. I won’t spoil the surprise, but it will be good fun…”

“Sir, I was wondering if I might bring a friend along.”

Slughorn’s expression slipped quickly into one of deep apology. “Ah, no,” he said, as though he truly regretted it. “I’m sorry, Lily m’dear, but I do have the guest list all knotted up very neatly, and you know how I like to keep this little gatherings cozy…Can’t have everyone bringing a date and mucking up the seating chart!”

“It’s not a date, it’s my friend M—”

“But I’ll let you in on a little secret,” continued Slughorn with a heavy wink, clearly not listening to a word she said. “I’m reviving a grand old holiday tradition this year, so you can certainly bring your boyfriend then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to finish up a quick inventory before the second years start piling in here for class.” He gave her a friendly little pat on the shoulder and strolled off, still humming.

Lily knew a lost cause when she saw one, but at least she’d tried. As she turned to leave, she noticed that James Potter was still there. Evidently he had not been expecting her impromptu conversation with Slughorn, for he had run out of things to tidy up. Caught you, she couldn’t help but think with a surge of vindication.

Just to irritate him, she walked back over to their table. “You took your time,” she observed.

He glanced up at her. Calculated his options. Realized he had no choice but to engage. So he stood and slung his bag over his shoulder. “I just like to be thorough,” he said easily. “A dirty cauldron is a deadly cauldron and all that — or whatever it was they taught us back in first year.”

“Well, you’re safe, I think. Your cauldron positively shines.” And she walked off towards the door. Having no other real option, James followed her, and the two of them began the trek out of the dungeons. A few steps into their journey, Lily understood quite clearly why James always went to such pains to avoid walking with her. This was excruciatingly awkward.

“So,” said James, who seemed to find the silence even less tolerable than she, “what’s this ‘grand old holiday tradition’ of Slughorn’s?”

He’d been listening. 

“I’m guessing he meant his Christmas party,” said Lily. “Apparently he holds a big party in the dungeons every year, invites a bunch of people from outside Hogwarts. He didn’t have one last year because he was visiting friends in Paris or something. That’s what Florence Fawley told me anyway.”

“The dungeons?” James appeared to perk up at that. “And how does one secure an invite to this party in the dungeons?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Lily, and indeed she did not. Why exactly Professor Slughorn had no interest in Marlene McKinnon, a pure-blood witch who had far better connections than Lily herself, she would never understand. 

“Seems like an odd venue for a party, the dungeons,” mused James. “Aesthetically I mean.”

“Apparently he does it up rather beautifully. Florence says it’s a bit of a spectacle, really.”

“Still,” shrugged James, looking around the dungeons as they walked on. “No amount of glitter can completely disguise the fact that it’s a rather grim atmosphere. Personally, I’m not too fond of this part of the castle. Bit damp.”

Look at that, they were almost having a normal conversation. 

“D’you know it’s a miracle of modern magical engineering that we’re not up to our elbows wading through sewage and lake water right now?” said James, who now that he’d started talking didn’t seem able to stop.

“What?”

“Yeah, the castle butts up right against the lake, the Slytherin dormitories are completely submerged, or so I’ve heard. Their windows look out into the water, with all the grindylows and other nasties. Good company for the little reptiles, I suppose.”

Lily, unsure if he was referring to the grindylows or the Slytherins, bit her tongue.

“But the castle didn’t have a proper plumbing system until the eighteenth century. It was a massive undertaking, retrofitting the castle with Muggle piping, and apparently there used to be floods of biblical proportions at least once a year. Still, an improvement overall. You don’t want to know what they did before…”

Lily regarded him with blatant skepticism. She had long ago learned to treat most new information with a healthy dose of disbelief; it would hardly be the first time one of her classmates used her Muggle-born ignorance for a laugh. “You’re making that up.”

“I am not,” said James indignantly. “It’s true. I read it in a book and everything.” He arched an eyebrow at her dubious expression. “There’s no need to look quite so suspicious. I may not whisper sweet nothings to the pages, but I do read.”

“What book?” 

“Er…” said James. “An Illustrated History of Hogwarts’ Interior Plumbing.”

It took a moment for the familiarity of this title to catch up with her. She knew she’d heard it before, but couldn’t possibly imagine where. It was hardly the sort of book one would pick up for casual reading…

The answer arrived a few seconds later, and with it the memory of James intruding on a private moment between Lily and her ex-boyfriend Anson. They’d been ensconced in one of the library’s forgotten corners, so chosen because the subject of its books was undoubtedly of little interest to any student. James had appeared and interrupted them mid-snog, insisting he needed a book on the shelf directly behind them. He’d retrieved it and waved the ridiculous tome in her face, just to be a prat about it. Hogwarts’ Interior Plumbing, indeed.

Evidently James remembered this moment too, for he rubbed his neck awkwardly, a sheepish expression on his face.

“You actually read that?” demanded Lily, who couldn’t decide if she was more amused or infuriated. She settled on incredulous. “I thought you were just being a prick.”

“I was,” admitted James. “But also, I was interested in the book. What? I like reading, I just…don’t always read what I’m supposed to.”

Lily considered him for a moment, trying to determine whether he was making fun of her or not. At last, she gave up and just shook her head. “You’re a very strange person, Potter.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

Lily was glad for the weekend when it arrived and not merely because she had a ready-made excuse for a Marlene-free day in Hogsmeade. She found she was rather looking forward to her date with Harvey Harris, more than she’d expected. 

(“The Head Boy,” Marlene had commented over breakfast that morning. “Bold move.”)

(She made a note.)

They’d agreed to meet at the pub that afternoon — Harvey had some last minute Head duties to sort out, and Lily wanted to run a few errands anyway — but she kept this detail to herself, waved a merry goodbye to her sullen Gryffindor compatriot, and joined the crowds headed to the village.

It was a blustery October day as Lily strolled through the swarms of students on high street in search of the Hogsmeade post office. She wanted to send a letter to Mary — and hopefully get one in return. Lily didn’t have her own owl, and as students were not allowed to use school owls for international mail, her options were limited. She’d never actually been to the Hogsmeade post office before — she’d never had any reason to — and as she pushed through the doors, she couldn’t help but feel that same sense of wonder that she’d felt when she’d first walked into Diagon Alley as a child. 

It was a bustling building with high ceilings and open windows at the top so the owls could come and go. At the front of the room was a wide marble counter behind which the post-wizard was efficiently stamping and flitting and fluttering letters about. An enormous set of scales sat beside him, weighing papered-up parcels. And above — the owls! Hundreds of them nested on high-rising shelves, color-coded quite painstakingly by distance and speed. She marveled at the birds just long enough to get jostled along by an impatient warlock behind her. She took her place in line behind an old, bent wizard with a stack of envelopes and a heavy-set witch carrying a thoroughly-secured box that emitted the occasional, unsettling growl. 

The line was long and slow-moving, but eventually the harried looking wizard behind the counter at last relieved the witch of her box of questionable grumbles (a good deal of paperwork had had to be filled out) and beckoned Lily forward to post her letter to the States. She decided to pay for a return owl as well, in hopes that Mary would have no barriers to writing a lengthy reply. Her purse didn’t like it very much, though. She hadn’t realized quite how expensive international postage would be. 

She thought again of that pretty Muggle dress she’d so foolishly purchased over the summer. Such a waste of money. She couldn’t even wear it for most of the year! Muggle clothes were completely non grata among the student population at Hogwarts, just like everything else Muggle. Even the simple act of listening to Kenny Kirk in the common room had earned her more than one judgmental glance. 

At last her letter was swept away by the talons of a great horned owl, and Lily made her way back out through the crowded post office and onto the streets of Hogsmeade. She glanced at her watch. She still had a bit of time before she was supposed to meet Harvey, and the idea of sitting by herself in the pub did not appeal, so she wandered rather aimlessly towards a little side street she’d never before had cause to venture down, figuring she’d indulge in a little window shopping — the only shopping she’d allow herself to do. 

The side street was less crowded than the rest of the town, filled with fewer Hogwarts students and more locals going about their day. She passed a greengrocer and watched a small mound of parsnips weigh and bag themselves; she peered through the glass of a music shop, where gleaming instruments levitated in the windows. Lily had just finished admiring a really outlandish display of wigs at the local salon — candy floss-colored things, with curls like corkscrews — when the reflection of a banner on the other side of the street caught her eye.

She turned and crossed the cobbles until she found herself standing outside a tiny bookstore, barely a hole in the wall. Its windows were filled to the brim with stacks of books, both used and new, by the look of it. On one side, however, hung a large banner that read: MUGGLE RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS. 

Beneath it sat a display of literature. Muggle literature: Pride and Prejudice, Valley of the Dolls, Nineteen Eighty-Four, The Bluest Eye, The Feminine Mystique, Frankenstein…

Lily stared, feeling as if she’d just stepped into another world. Another quick glance at the watch. She had a little time. She placed her hand on the door knob and pushed. 

Inside, the shop was just as crowded as the window display: books crammed onto shelves, books spread across tables, books piled up in tottering stacks along the floor. Some titles were Muggle, some very obviously magic. The air was musky with that scent particular to used books — and also the earthy spice of incense burning somewhere in the back. A sleek tortoiseshell cat looked up from its perch atop the counter as the door closed behind her; the cat yawned, gave her a quick look-over, then nestled its face back upon its paws and returned to the important business of its nap.

Lily glanced around for a shopkeeper but saw no one, so she pressed deeper into the stacks. A table near the counter drew her attention; it seemed to be a curation of books all about blood status, but not like the sort of books Lily had encountered before, not like Nature’s Nobility or any of the bigoted genealogy tomes she’d come across Severus reading in the past. Instead, it was piled with titles like: The Muggle-born Revolution by Oba Adeyemi, Bad Blood: The Politics of Purity by Ellen Daggert-Smith, and The Spirit of Squibs: Lessons Learned from the Squib Rights Marches of the 1960s and How to Move Forward Even Though the Pure-Bloods Are a Bunch of Insecure Little Toddlers Who Riot at the Drop of a Pointed Hat by Dorothy Humphrey.

A second cat — orange, a little shabby, quite large — wreathed her ankles as Lily stepped closer to the fascinating table. She was deeply absorbed in the dust jacket of Squib Rights, Squib Rage: The Power of Our Collective Fury by C.J. Victora when a voice called out, “Hullo there.”

Lily, who had grown quite comfortable in the shop’s apparent emptiness, jolted in surprise. A tall black woman stood before her; she looked to be in her mid-thirties, if Lily had to guess, with a cloud of curls and bright, clever eyes. She was dressed in a cobalt-blue kaftan, a cigarette in one hand, and she looked at Lily as though the sight of a customer in this shop was a most curious occurrence, indeed.

“Sorry,” said Lily, quickly lowering Squib Rights, Squib Rage. “I didn’t see anyone—”

“I was in the back,” said the woman, gesturing her cigarette at a beaded curtain that hid what was presumably the back office. “Mr. Mittens let me know you’d come in.” She nodded at the orange cat, who now sat cleaning its paws with a surprising amount of dignity for a creature so burdened with a name like ‘Mr. Mittens.’ The woman seemed to read Lily’s mind, for she grimaced and said, “I don’t name them.” Then she turned towards the counter where the tortie was still asleep. “And you,” she told the cat, who deigned to open one eye at this address, “are useless.”

The tortie yawned pleasurably and went back to sleep. 

“Disgraceful,” sighed the woman. “And Bel markets them as ‘guard cats.’ Honestly.” She turned back to Lily. “So…what can I do you for? I don’t get many Hogwarts students in my little shop. Can’t imagine why. Aren’t the youth these days just yearning for truth and knowledge?”

“Not the ones I’ve met,” admitted Lily. “I — er — saw your window display.”

“If you’ve come to make a complaint, I’ve set up a complaint box out back. It’s the rubbish bin.”

“No,” laughed Lily, who was liking this woman more and more by the moment. “I liked it, the display. For a second I thought I was hallucinating, to tell you the truth. I had to come inside.”

“Well, that’s refreshing. Few of the locals have felt the same. You’d think I was the Shrieking Shack for the wide berth they give me.” The woman eyed her approvingly for a moment then glanced down at the book in Lily’s hands. “Squib rights, eh? Interesting choice.”

“Oh…well, we don’t learn much about this sort of history at school.”

“Too true, that. I’m Dorcas, by the way.” The woman hopped up to sit on the counter and disturbed the sleeping tortie in the process. The cat cast her a disdainful look and strolled off to find quieter sleeping quarters elsewhere. “Dorcas Meadowes.”

“Are you —” Lily began, but then she stopped herself, feeling foolish for wanting to ask the question at all. But she couldn’t quite help herself. She’d never really known another Muggle-born adult besides Professor Dearborn last year. This woman perched on the counter before her in a blue kaftan and smoking a Woodbine was like no one she’d ever met in the Wizarding world. “Are you Muggle-born?”

“Half-blood,” said Dorcas. “My dad was a Muggle.”

“Oh.”

Dorcas cocked an eyebrow. “You sound disappointed.”

“No,” said Lily quickly. “It’s just—” she glanced around the store, down at the array of books on Muggle rights. “All this. I sort of assumed.”

“Yeah, well, growing up with a Muggle surname in the fifties is enough to radicalize anyone.”

“I don’t think it’s changed much,” muttered Lily.

“No,” agreed Dorcas with a thoughtful nod. “I doubt it has. What’s your name, then?”

“Evans — er, Lily Evans, I mean.”

“Muggle-born?”

“Yes.”

“I sort of assumed.”

Lily smiled and was about to ask more questions about the bookshop, when she suddenly remembered her date with Harvey. “I’ve got to get going, I’m afraid, but it was really nice to meet you.”

“Aren’t you going to buy any books?”

Lily’s cheeks went pink. “I’m really sorry, but I don’t think I can afford these.”

Dorcas considered this. Then she hopped off the counter. “Tell you what,” she said. “You can borrow them — don’t bother with Humphrey though, heart’s in the right place but she’s a bit incoherent at times. Start with Daggert-Smith, it’s a good primer. Then try Adeyemi. Bring them back when you’re done, and I’ll lend you some others.”

Lily stared at her. The offer seemed to good to be true. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Seems like a tough way to make money in a bookshop.”

Dorcas laughed. “I’m flattered you think this shop makes any money.”

“That’s the cats,” said a new voice, and Lily turned to see another woman enter from the beaded curtain in the back, carrying a tray with two cups of tea and being followed into the shop by a small battalion of felines. “You’ll get your dinner when I’m done,” the woman told them sternly, and the cats slunk off with resentful mewls. “Kneazles. Brilliant creatures, but won’t take no for an answer.”

“Bel breeds them,” explained Dorcas. “This is my partner, Arabella.”

And by the way she leaned over to give the other woman a kiss on the lips, Lily suspected she did not mean business partner.

Arabella appeared a bit older than Dorcas, perhaps in her forties, with wispy brown hair pulled back from a pale face. “Good money in Kneazles,” she said, placing the tea tray on the counter. “Radical politics? Not so much.”

“Which is sort of the point, Bel. If I was making money, I’d be doing it wrong.”

“Take the books, girl,” said Arabella with a smile. “Before she goes off on a rant about the capitalist hetero-patriarchy or whatever it is this week. Go on. It’s Dorcas’s life mission to radicalize as many young women as possible. You’re doing her a favor.”

Dorcas laughed affectionately. “It’s called consciousness-raising,” she said, pushing a stack of books into Lily’s hands before accepting her tea from Arabella, “and I’ll look forward to hearing what you think of them.”

The pub was packed with students and locals alike. Lily had dashed all the way here, certain her little detour would make her late, but as she stood on tiptoes, peering around for either Harvey or an empty table, she concluded that it was he who was late. She could hardly be cross with him, seeing as she’d been preparing her apologies the whole way here. Still, it was with a sense of resignation that she pushed through the crowds to find a seat at the bar to wait for him. She managed to claim the last stool available, which was next to a large, bearded warlock who was contentedly sipping a cherry fizz and reading the latest issue of Horklumps Today.

Trying to look simultaneously inconspicuous and unapproachable, Lily pulled out Bad Blood: The Politics of Purity and began to read — or at least, pretend to read, for she was very conscious of her neighbor. After a few pages, when it became clear that the bearded warlock was not going to bother her, she relaxed and disappeared into the fascinating text.

She was deep in a chapter on the political and social fallout from the witch burnings of the fourteenth century, when a familiar voice pierced through the clamor of the pub.

“Dunne, you can’t do this to me. You can’t do this to Gryffindor!”

Lily looked up from her book to see James Potter a few steps from the bar, locked in an impassioned argument with Burdacke Dunne, the fifth year Beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

“What do you want me to do?” complained Dunne. “My mother said I have to drop Quidditch this year to focus on my O.W.L.s, I don’t have a choice, mate.”

“Yeah, you do! You can choose to ignore her and play the match anyway.”

“You don’t know my mother. She’s…scary!”

“Dunne,” said James, clasping his hands together as if in prayer, “it’s two weeks until the first match. How am I supposed to find and train up another Beater in that time? MacFarlan doesn’t know a Bludger from a broomstick right now. I was counting on you. Gryffindor was counting on you!”

“I’m sorry, Potter. I don’t have a choice.” And Dunne pushed past him and disappeared into the crowd. 

James collapsed at the bar with a groan. He was blocked from Lily’s view by the bearded warlock finishing his cherry fizz beside her, but she saw Madam Rosmerta bustle over and heard James say miserably: “Four butterbeers and a dram of firewhiskey, please.”

“Try again,” was Rosmerta’s dry retort.

“You’re right,” sighed James. “Make it a brandy.”

“Four butterbeers, coming right up.” There was a tinkle of glass as Rosmerta collected the tankards from behind the counter.

“Aw, c’mon, Rosie. Just this once? I’m drinking away my woes.”

Butterbeer gurgled from the tap. 

“Girl trouble?” asked Rosmerta.

“Even worse,” said James. “Quidditch.”

“Well, getting drunk won’t make you fly better.”

“I fly perfectly fine, thank you very much. It’s my Beater who’s just abandoned us.”

“And in a year,” said Rosmerta above the clink of tankards being placed on a tray, “when you are of age, I will mourn with you in the appropriate fashion over a bottle of Ogden’s Old. Until then, enjoy your butterbeer, sweetheart.” And she strolled away across the bar.

“I’ll be seventeen in five months!” James called after her, and Lily could hear his grin.

The warlock beside her slurped up the last of his drink, set his glass down on the bar along with a smattering of Sickles, and shuffled away, just as James was collecting his tray of butterbeer. Lily looked quickly back to her book so as not to catch his eye, but no luck. He had spotted her.

There followed a brief pause as James seemed to debate how to proceed. Then he said: “Did you really come all the way to Hogsmeade to sit alone at the pub and read a book?”

“Maybe,” said Lily, lowering her book and giving him a single, haughty glance before turning to quickly survey the pub for Harvey.

“Always with the book sniffing,” said James with an easy grin. “How does that one smell?”

Lily narrowed her eyes. “Like roses.”

“You know, some people believe that the intimate relations between a girl and her literature should be kept to the bedroom. This is a family-friendly establishment, after all. There are third years here.”

“At least I’m not reading about plumbing. Anyway, sod off.”

But James did not sod off. Instead, he moved over to the vacated spot beside her, leaning an elbow onto the bar as he observed her in that infuriating way he had that always made her cheeks grow hot. “So what’s it about? Must be good if you’ve decided to swear off human company for its deliciously-scented pages.”

Lily shoved the book out of sight. “For your information, I’m meeting someone. He’s just running late.”

“Ah,” said James, leaning back slightly. “Who’s the lucky bloke?”

Lily considered him for a moment, then shrugged. “Harvey Harris.”

“No kidding,” said James, looking faintly surprised. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Your face is saying something.”

“No, it’s not. My face is as mute as a mime.” Then: “Just never thought he was your type.”

“What do you know about my type?” demanded Lily, feeling unreasonably nettled.

“Nothing, clearly.”

“Harvey is really nice.” She didn’t like the defensive tone in her voice, but there it was, lingering and wagging a finger at him.

“Absolutely,” agreed James. “No arguments here. You look up ‘nice’ in the dictionary, you find a picture of Harris. He’s like a big, friendly golden retriever.”

Lily wanted to refute this but found she couldn’t quite. It was an annoyingly apt description. Instead, she heard herself say rather stupidly: “Some people like golden retrievers.”

“What’s not to like?”

“Well, what about you? Who’s your hot date today?”

James smirked. “I’ll have you know, I’m here with the most attractive, desired person in this school.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “I’m sure. Who’s that supposed to be?”

James pointed across the pub, where Sirius Black was seated along with the rest of their gang. Sirius, catching his eye, threw up his arms impatiently as if to say, Where’s my butterbeer, you prick? James blew him a kiss.

Lily almost laughed, but she bit it back just in time. “Well, I can’t say I envy you.”

“You might not, but every other girl in school does. Feeds my ego.”

“Yeah, because your ego is starving.”

“Anyway, enjoy your date with Harris. If you get bored, I hear the hill by the Shrieking Shack is great for playing fetch.”

For some reason, it was this comment that made Lily’s temper flare. “I thought you said you were going to leave me alone. You’ve been doing such a good job, don’t spoil it now.”

James’s lighthearted expression stiffened ever so slightly at this. Before he could respond, however, someone cleared their throat above them. Both Lily and James looked up. Harvey had arrived.

“Potter,” said Harvey, his tone hovering somewhere between aggressive and uncertain.

James nodded at Lily. “That’s my cue.” 

“Sorry I’m late,” said Harvey earnestly as they found a little booth near the back. “Head duties ran long. Dumbledore’s around so infrequently these days, you can’t really say no when he calls a meeting…”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Lily. “I’m quite happy so long as I’ve got a book in my hand.”

For some reason, her attention kept drifting over to the other end of the pub where James had rejoined his friends. Why had she said that to him, about him leaving her alone? Why did he always seem to bring out the worst in her?

“Lily?”

She blinked back to attention. Harvey was looking at her expectantly. 

“I’m so sorry, I completely spaced. What?”

“I asked what you were reading.”

“Oh!” So Lily told him about the little bookstore, and Dorcas and Arabella, and the stack of lended books in her bag. “The one I’m reading right now is about the history of blood politics in the Wizarding world, going all the way back to the fourteenth century, and how the witch burnings affected relations between Muggles and wizards and seeded the distrust that still exists to this day, it’s utterly fascinating.”

Harvey’s rather bemused expression indicated she’d been talking rather a lot, perhaps a bit too much. She cleared her throat. “Do you — er — like to read?”

“Not if I can help it,” said Harvey affably. “I get enough reading through my N.E.W.T. studies.”

“Ha,” said Lily. “Yes, of course.”

Harvey, said an obnoxious little voice in her head, would never pick up a book on Hogwarts’ plumbing, just because. But she told that little voice to shove it, because Harvey Harris was attractive, and sweet, and nice, in a manner completely unlike a golden retriever.

“So,” said Harvey, “shall I fetch us some drinks?”

If Lily had a butterbeer, she would've choked on it.

All in all, it wasn’t exactly what one would classify a great date. Harvey had been perfectly sweet and charming, and they had had absolutely nothing to talk about. She ought to have shut it down when he’d asked for a second date, for both their sakes. But she hadn’t. For some inexplicable reason — or rather, a perfectly explicable reason that had everything to do with proving a certain someone wrong — Lily had said yes. 

Well, why shouldn’t she? What was one bad date, in the scheme of things? She liked him, and who was James Potter of all people to tell her who was or was not her type? What did he know? Absolutely nothing, that’s what.

Lily was grateful for Herbology Monday morning, because it meant that none of the other girls could interrogate her about her date with Harvey, which she knew at least a few of them were itching to do. She and Marlene were paired together to collect seed pods from their Snargaluff stump. It was not an activity that invited conversation: The Snargaluff stumps did not want to give up their pods, and they fought back viciously with thorny vines that ripped through fabric and flesh, flailing about the greenhouse, lashing out at whoever was nearby. Lily already had a few scrapes across her cheek from an ill-timed swipe that produced no pod.

Despite this rather drastic environment, Marlene was still on her case. She didn’t seem to give a damn about Harvey Harris, but instead was interrogating Lily about her childhood role models and examining for the thousandth time why exactly Lily thought she’d been invited to the Slug Club when Marlene had not. 

Lily was getting frustrated, and not only because a Snargaluff vine had wrapped itself vice-like around her wrist. She tugged herself free and turned sharply to the other girl. “Why do you care so much about stupid things like being a prefect or getting invited to Slughorn’s dinners, Marlene?”

“Because my brother was!” 

“Marlene,” said Lily firmly, ducking below a swinging vine. “Take it from someone with a sister who will never, ever approve of me: You have got to stop trying to be your brother. You need to find your own thing. Something that’s just yours. Something you actually enjoy.”

Marlene scoffed. “I’m not trying to be my brother. I’m trying to be better than my brother.”

And she gave the Snargaluff vine a thunderous WHACK with her secateurs, sending the seed pods skittering across the table with a frankly alarming force.

Quite suddenly, as though divine inspiration had struck her with the force of Marlene’s secateurs, Lily had an idea.

Chapter Text

JAMES

The Punchline

The shriek of a whistle rent the air.

“Okay, that’s enough! That’s good, that — that was all right, Gudgeon, just maybe next time try…try not to get concussed.”

With a weary sigh, James slumped on his broomstick, watching from above as Davey Gudgeon landed rather unsteadily on the grassy pitch and wobbled off towards the locker rooms. After a moment’s consideration, James flew over to Wallace MacFarlan, the fourth year boy he’d initially recruited to replace Kingsley Shacklebolt a few weeks ago. MacFarlan had shown a lot of promise at trials: Burly despite his age, he had the right form and fit for a Beater, and he flew really well. His aim, however, was abysmal. At the time, James had figured they’d have time to work on that. The boy clearly knew the sport, had a top-of-the-line broom, and he came from a pretty impressive Quidditch pedigree as well: His dad was Hamish MacFarlan, famed Captain of the Montrose Magpies and current Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. That wasn’t why James had chosen him, of course, but it couldn’t hurt.

The truth was, Beater trials had come down to a choice between MacFarlan or a seventh year named Bertram Aubrey. James had had his own personal reasons for not wanting to pick Aubrey, and he figured between himself and Burdacke Dunne, the Beater Kingsley had trained up last year, they’d be able to whip MacFarlan into shape. But now Dunne had abandoned him, and James had less than two weeks to find and train yet another brand new Beater.

It wasn’t exactly proceeding a manner James would describe as spectacularly well.

“What’s the call, Captain?” asked MacFarlan as James cruised over.

“Go make sure Gudgeon gets to the hospital wing, will you?”

MacFarlan frowned. “But we still have a few more hopefuls lined up.”

James glanced down at the pitch. ‘Hopeful’ did not seem like the appropriate word to use for this motley assemblage of first and second years. He shook his head. “We’ll pick up again tomorrow. I’m calling it for tonight. Go check on Gudgeon. You hit him pretty hard with that Bludger.”

“He was supposed to swerve,” said MacFarlan, a touch of defensiveness to his voice.

“Yeah, and that’s why he’s not on the team, but I’d still rather he not incur permanent brain damage as a result of this trial. Go check on him.”

“You got it, Captain.”

It wasn’t until MacFarlan had disappeared into the locker rooms and James had sent the disappointed gaggle of not-so-hopefuls on their way that he finally allowed himself to turn and face the other problem.

The other problem had arrived about halfway through the second trial — that of a third year named Patrick Boyes, who might as well have been hitting Bludgers with a teaspoon for all the good his Beater’s bat did him. James had turned away to hide his grimace as Boyes flubbed yet another simple play, and in the process of doing so he noticed that someone was watching him from the stands.

Lily Evans.

She’d been one of the few spectators to show up, and three pathetic trials later, she was still there, sitting with a book in her lap and a bulky Gryffindor scarf guarding her from the early-October chill. James stared across the pitch. He didn’t think he was reading too much into it to infer that she was clearly waiting for him to come over. And yet…

This was breaking all his rules: Do not engage more than strictly necessary. Be nice, be polite, but just so. Do not make jokes, do not give compliments, do not — for the love of Merlin — flirt. These were the ground rules he had set to guard his glass box of a heart. He left her alone, like he’d said he would, and in return she was supposed to do the same.

Okay, sure. He’d broken these rules more than a few times now, most recently in Hogsmeade (he cringed at that memory), or even down in the dungeons (plumbing…he’d talked to her about plumbing), but this was the Quidditch pitch. This was his turf, which somehow made it worse. He should just leave. Pretend he never saw her. Pretend he didn’t care.

But on the other hand…fuck it.

Curiosity got the best of him as curiosity always did, and so James mounted his broomstick and flew over to the stands. He landed softly and shouldered the broomstick.

“Are you lost?” he asked, making sure to keep his voice pleasant and casual. “This is the Quidditch pitch. The library is back in the castle. Fourth floor, take a right after the statue of Barnabas the Blubbery. I can see how you’d get confused.”

Lily looked up from her book — was he imagining the glint of satisfaction in her eye? — and smiled. “I have a proposition for you.”

James cocked an eyebrow. “Hang on,” he said, because he couldn’t help himself, because she’d already broken the rules, “I’ve had this fantasy before. It usually ends with you and me in the locker room.”

“Okay, if you’re going to be gross, I’ll just leave and not tell you my brilliant plan to solve all your problems.”

“You’re going to solve all my problems?”

“Well, not all your problems. I don’t have that much free time. Just one, really.”

“Hmm…and I expect you’re offering this out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Yes,” said Lily sweetly. “That, and the fact that I believe it will benefit me enormously.”

James stared at her; she merely smiled back.

“All right, fine,” said James. “You win. I’m intrigued.”

The Bludger barreled across the pitch at a speed James couldn’t quite fathom. He stared open-mouthed as the ball swept clean through the center goal then boomeranged back to its target, where Marlene McKinnon swung her Beater’s bat with an intense ferocity, the sort of which a desperate Quidditch captain could only dream.

“Holy hell,” breathed James, glancing down at the stopwatch in his hand.

“Told you,” said Lily from beside him. Her expression was immensely smug.

“How long has McKinnon been able to do…that?” he asked, gaping as Marlene smashed yet another Bludger across the pitch.

“I only learned about it yesterday,” said Lily. “I don't think even she knew. Makes sense though. Lots of pent up rage in there.”

He’d seen enough. James blew his whistle and motioned for Marlene to come back down.

“So she made it?” asked Lily eagerly as Marlene descended. “She’s on the team?”

“She bloody well better be,” said James. “Her flying needs some technical work, but that’s nothing a few devoted practices can’t clear up. You don’t see raw Beater talent like that every — watch out!”

He shoved Lily out of the way as one of the Bludgers zoomed towards them. James had been so wrapped up in the revelation of Marlene’s secret talent that he’d forgotten to summon the damn things. After a few strenuous moments, he wrestled the set of Bludgers back into their case, clasped the lock on the struggling lid, and looked up just as Marlene McKinnon landed on the grassy pitch before them. She shouldered her broomstick with a slightly hostile, defensive look on her face. He had the vague notion that this was how Marlene expressed nerves.

“Well?” she demanded.

“That was brilliant,” said James.

Marlene blinked in surprise. She looked as though she’d expected rejection or a telling-off. “Really?”

“Yeah, really! Practices are on Saturdays, nine a.m., but I’d like to have a few one-on-one sessions with you as well, just to get you up to speed before the match. Maybe Thursday evenings? Have you got your own broom?”

Marlene did not but said she could put in an order for one tomorrow. James promised to catch up with her in the common room to discuss the best model and sent her off to the locker rooms to change. Marlene left, looking about as pleased as he’d ever seen her — and to be frank, he’d never seen her looking particularly pleased.

Next to him, Lily was beaming. He gave her a sideways look. “Why are you so pleased about this, anyway?”

“I’m just a patriotic Gryffindor,” said Lily serenely, “who’s really looking forward to those lovely, quiet Saturday mornings.”

James did not understand this, but then he had given up on understanding anything about Lily Evans a long time ago.

“So, did you find a new Beater?”

James collapsed into an armchair in the common room, exhausted but exhilarated by the results of the day’s trial. He’d gone from feeling rather depressed about Gryffindor’s prospects to utterly thrilled, and he was feeling a bit of emotional whiplash. Or maybe that was just from all the Bludgers. He let out a long, satisfied yawn and ruffled a hand through his hair. Sirius, Remus, and Peter all gazed back at him with expectant expressions.

“As a matter-of-fact,” said James happily. “I did.”

“And?” said Remus. “Who is it?”

“The last person in Gryffindor you’d expect.”

Sirius turned to Peter, his expression alight with mock astonishment. “Peter?!”

“Fuck off,” said Peter.

James grinned. “Marlene McKinnon.”

No one spoke for a moment such that James thought perhaps they didn’t hear him, but then Sirius said: “…Is this a joke?”

“That was my first reaction too,” admitted James, “but no. She’s good. Really, really good. Like knock-a-man-unconscious good. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

“I guess I can see it,” said Sirius. “She always looks like she wants to hit something.”

“‘Lots of pent up rage,’” said James with a slight smile. “That’s what Evans said, anyway.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Evans?”

“It was her idea. Apparently McKinnon clobbered a Snargaluff vine in Herbology yesterday and got her thinking.”

“How helpful of her.”

James made a point not to catch Sirius’s eye. Whenever the subject of Lily Evans came up in his friends’ company, they tended to treat it as a bit of a joke. Like his humiliation and subsequent heartbreak last year had just been a silly little sideshow. He didn’t blame them for it — he wished he himself could write it off so easily — but they didn’t understand just how much his little ‘crush’ truly crushed him. They didn’t see the way her disdain devastated him, the way her merest glance could scrape away at his soul. Or worse: They could see it, and they found it funny.

He decided to change the subject. “So, are we going scouting tonight?”

“Can’t,” said Sirius gloomily.

“Why not?”

“I have detention.”

“You got a detention without me?” James felt rather offended. “For what?”

“For attempting to steal a Snargaluff stump to put in Professor Canker-Smiles’ classroom.”

“Really?”

“What?” shrugged Sirius. “You were at trials all day. I was bored.”

James glanced at Remus.

“Don’t look at me, I’m off babysitting duty,” said Remus.

Sirius gave him the finger.

“Fair enough,” sighed James. “You know, that’s not a bad idea, the Snargaluff stump. We should revisit that another time. Well, what d’you say, Moony? Up for some late night cartography this lovely evening?”

“It’s Tuesday,” said Remus. “I have to leave for prefect duties in a few minutes, and Lily’s got a Slug Club dinner, so I’m actually covering for her for once.”

“Damn. Pete?”

“Sorry,” said Peter, though he didn’t sound it. “I have plans with Winnie.”

“Well, fine,” said James, feeling very nettled indeed. “I guess I’ll go map the castle on my own.”

“Atta boy,” said Sirius.

James climbed the stairs to the dormitory for a quick bath to wash off the sweat of trials, pausing only to examine the map-in-progress. It hung in various scraps of parchment stuck up across their dormitory wall in a fairly haphazard way, a visual reminder of just how much they had left to do. They’d made good progress though; they'd been sneaking out under the Cloak most nights, and their latest full moon adventure had been a roaring success, even Moony couldn’t deny that, which opened the door for more daring feats in the future.

As he headed for the bath, James considered how tempting it was to simply crawl into bed and leave the map-making to another night…but it was a perfectly good evening, and he never liked to waste time. After all, they’d set an ambitious goal: to have a first draft of the map by the middle of Spring term. That gave them four full moons to explore the grounds and as many nights as they could squeeze in to complete the castle.

The bathwater rolled like the sea as James heaved his tired muscles into the tub. It had been a rough day, but all’s well that ends well. The discovery of Marlene McKinnon’s latent Quidditch talent had made it all worthwhile. In the gloomy days that followed Dunne’s surprise resignation, James had felt the Quidditch Cup slip from his grasp. Gryffindor had won it last year — one could make the argument that James had won it last year — and he didn’t want to be the captain that lost it again.

But there was no need for such melancholy ruminations. Marlene McKinnon and her ferocious right hook had returned his hope…and he supposed he had Lily to thank for that.

James sunk a little deeper into the tub at this thought.

He wished Marlene had wandered in on her own accord. He wished he had noticed her battling the Snargaluff stump in Herbology and drawn in his own conclusions. He was being ungrateful, he knew that, but he just didn’t want to associate Quidditch with Lily Evans.

Because anything associated with Lily Evans hurt.

He wanted to go back to the way things were before last year, before she’d tumbled into the lake and he’d tumbled headfirst into the realization that Lily Evans — swotty, snippy, nose-in-the-air Lily Evans — was actually rather lovely. Before he’d started paying attention and noticed the way she threw her head back when she laughed, the way she twisted a lock of that glorious red hair around her thumb when she was nervous or distracted, the way she was kind to everyone, even those who didn’t deserve it…

Except me, he thought with a touch of petulance.

He wished he could just let it go. Stop replaying her words in his head like one of those Muggle music player things they’d learned about in Muggle Studies, the device with the big round discs and the needle thingy — records. That’s what they were called. Her voice was a constant record playing in his head, the needle scratching, replaying the same few notes over and over and over again.

You make me SICK!

It wasn’t simply that she’d rejected him, nor even that she’d rejected him in front of a crowd of their peers — though that hadn’t been particularly fun. No, it was the way she’d spewed such a direct, specific stream of complaints — about his hair, his habits, his moral character — as though she’d had it all ready to go, as though she’d spent plenty of time thinking about it before. As though she hated him.

James did not think he’d ever been hated before, not properly, at least not by anyone who wasn’t a Slytherin, and they didn’t count. It wasn’t a nice feeling, being hated. He didn’t like it. And now, anytime he spoke to her, even when they were making a show of getting along, he couldn’t shake it. That feeling. That knowledge that beneath it all, she hated him.

And he didn’t know why.

But that was precisely why James Potter always needed a project. He liked having some place to direct his boundless enthusiasm, some exciting new goal to distract himself from any unpleasantness that might otherwise dampen his day. Last year it had been becoming Animagi. This year, it was the map.

Of course, the map was more than just a fun distraction; he hadn’t forgotten that Snape still had the Felix Felicis. The boys had made no progress towards finding an alternative entrance to the Slytherin dormitories, but neither had Snape exhibited any sign of marvelously good luck. They were, it seemed, at an impasse. Still, James hated knowing his nemesis had an ace up his sleeve. He’d even suggested to the others that he don the Invisibility Cloak himself and try tailing a few Slytherins through the front door, but both Remus and Sirius had shot down that idea.

“What will you do if someone bumps into you?” protested Remus. “You’ll get caught immediately.”

“I’ll be stealthy. Or Sirius will come with me.”

“You can’t be stealthy with two people under the Cloak,” countered Sirius. “Not with feet like yours, anyway — and there’s no way in hell you’re going in there by yourself.”

“I’ll take Peter in my pocket.”

“And what good is that going to do?”

The same amount of good it would do for Peter to find his own way in, James reckoned. The whole point was to get the rat inside. James had also suggested that Peter just slip in through the front door in his Animagus form — who’d notice a rat sneaking in? — but he’d met the same arguments from Sirius and Remus, both of whom seemed convinced Peter would get himself stomped on at best.

James rather thought that Sirius and Remus underestimated Peter — in fact, he sometimes suspected Peter underestimated himself — but James had complete faith in his friend. He knew that if they could just get the rat into the dormitories, they’d be able to pull off the heist, one way or another.

But Sirius wouldn’t budge — James suspected the memory of his own encounter with the Slytherins last year had something to do with that, but he didn't bring it up. Remus seemed inclined to be cautious as well. “The last thing we want is for Snape to know what you’re up to,” he’d told James with uncharacteristic bluntness. “You’ve got one shot at this, and if you’re sloppy it will just make everything worse.”

James couldn’t argue with that, so he did the only thing he could do: He put all his spare time and energy into the map.

Curfew coasted easily by as James strolled through the fourth floor corridor under his dad’s Invisibility Cloak. It was a strange sensation, invisibility. Damn useful for his all his Marauding adventures, for sure, but not a state to which he’d generally aspire. He always got a funny little shiver whenever someone looked right through him. He supposed that’s how ghosts felt. James didn’t think he’d like being a ghost very much, although admittedly walking through walls would be dead useful right now. It would certainly solve his Slytherin predicament. Better without the being dead though.

He hadn’t had many occasions to try out the Cloak on his own yet, mostly using it for shepherding his friends out of the castle on the full moons or sneaking around after curfew for the construction of the map. Like most things in life, he preferred doing it with another person — life was boring on your own — but at the same time, he almost felt…oh, it sounded stupid putting into words. He couldn’t help but think of his father and feel closer to him, under this Cloak. His final gift and all.

But it wasn’t his final gift. That had just been a bit of nonsense his dad had spouted on a bad day. After all, his mum had written just last week to say how well his dad was doing, and Christmas was only a few months away, and then they’d all be together again.

Which was good, because James had questions. All his life, his dad had told him wild stories of his youthful adventures, but he’d never once mentioned the Cloak. Now that James had the mysterious item in his own hands, he wanted to know everything, hear every story his dad could scrape up about him and his marvelous Cloak. James would make a point to ask him next time he saw him. And he would, because he would see him again. Never mind that rubbish about time running out and all that. James didn’t believe it. He refused to.

The glint of candlelight against a large, gilded mirror caught his eye and James allowed himself to be happily distracted from the occasionally troubling thoughts of his father. James had learned over the years to be suspicious of tapestries, doors, artwork and other items, as more often than not they hid the entrance to some delicious architectural secret. A mirror seemed as a good a place as any to hide a secret passageway, and so he approached it with interest, enjoying the slight thrill of looking at his reflection and seeing none there.

He glanced around to make sure no one was nearby then slipped a hand from beneath the cloak and ran his fingers over the gilded frame. He was just about to investigate further, when he was interrupted by voices echoing down the hall. He jerked his hand back under the Cloak and instinctively looked around for a hiding place, before he remembered that he was, in fact, invisible.

The voices drew closer.

“I’m so glad you decided to come tonight,” said a girl’s voice, preceded by the clack of heels, and after a moment Florence Fawley appeared around the corner. Walking beside her, an after-hours pass clutched in her hand, was Lily Evans.

Right. James recalled that Remus had said she had a Slug Club dinner tonight.

“They weren’t nearly as much fun after you stopped coming last year,” Florence went on. “And this year, since Anson and Phin both graduated, I was rather dreading the dinner, to be honest.”

“I can’t imagine why,” said Lily. “Between Mulciber and Avery, the conversation positively sparkles.”

Florence laughed, and James hastily pressed himself back against the mirror as they approached. His Invisibility Cloak was still secure, but it would’ve been very awkward if one of the girls walked into him.

Thankfully, they did not, and James waited patiently for them to pass, resisting the urge to follow and listen to more of their conversation — but as it turned out, he didn’t need to: They had stopped walking, and after a moment’s confusion over this, he realized that they had reached the spot where a Gryffindor and a Ravenclaw’s paths to their respective towers must diverge. The two girls lingered, however, chatting amiably.

“It’s not quite as fun a crowd at Sluggy’s as it was last year though, is it?” said Florence. “Admittedly I was spoiled, since I had half the Ravenclaw Quidditch team there with me…”

“Are you the only Quidditch player left?” asked Lily.

“For now. Sluggy usually keeps the first dinner or so with all the oldies and then invites some new faces as the year goes on, so who knows…but yes, the company has taken a decidedly nonathletic turn.”

Lily shot her a grin. “Poor you. Now you know how I felt surrounded by all you bloody sporties.”

“Speaking of sport,” said Florence, “I heard you got Marlene McKinnon on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.”

“Marlene got herself on the team,” Lily corrected her sternly. “I merely brought her to Potter’s attention.”

“Still, I’m going to hold you personally responsible if Gryffindor wins the cup again. Aisha said Potter was downright gleeful when he told her about Marlene.”

That was true; he’d been so excited about his new Beater that he’d caught up with Aisha first thing to tell her the news. Now he was wondering if he oughtn’t have told her to keep it a secret…

“Actually,” Florence went on, “Aisha says Potter has put together an even better team than last year.”

Then again, secrets were overrated. James grinned behind the Cloak, basking in the praise like a cat in sunshine.

“I wouldn’t know,” said Lily, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears with a decidedly disinterested expression. “I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to Quidditch. I just cheer when everyone else does.”

The conversation appeared to have reached its natural end, and James was sure the girls were about to say goodnight and move on, when Florence hesitated. “Lily,” she said, “can I ask you a really nosy question that I’ve got absolutely no right to ask?”

“How can I say no that?”

“It’s just…I was just wondering…what’s going on between you and James Potter?”

James blinked, taken aback. Lily looked as surprised as he felt.

“What? Nothing,” she said quickly. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Really?”

“Yes! Who told you there was something going on between me and Potter? Was it Bertha? Please tell me that rumor’s not making the rounds again, I don’t think I could bear it.”

“No one said anything specific,” said Florence, “but, you know…everyone knows he fancies you.”

Lily shook her head. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Oh, come on, Lily. He asked you out in front of half the school last term. It’s not like it’s a big secret.”

James was grateful for the Invisibility Cloak, for he could feel his cheeks burning in shame. Then, to make matters even worse: Lily laughed.

“Oh, Flor, please tell me you didn’t buy that too?”

“What do you mean?”

“It was just a laugh, that’s all.” Lily’s voice was flippant, airy, as though this was of absolutely no concern to her. “He’s asked me out a hundred times, but he doesn’t mean it. Potter likes his little joke.”

Florence looked confused. “I don’t get it. Joke? If it’s a joke, what’s the punchline?”

“Me,” said Lily flatly.

“I don’t get it,” repeated Florence, for which James was grateful because he also did not get it.

“That’s ‘cause you’re too nice, Flor.” Lily sighed. “It’s just — it’s ancient history, really. Actually, it’s rather heartening to hear there are some people in school who don’t know about it.” Lily paused, appearing to consider her words carefully, then she said rather quickly: “I had a very brief, very stupid, very quickly-snuffed-out crush on Potter when I was…what? Twelve? Thirteen, I think? I had just discovered that boys were fanciable and Potter was a boy and for some reason that I’ll never understand but that probably comes down to the universe mocking me, I fancied him. It literally lasted two weeks, but I made the mistake of writing about in my diary. Alodie Blunt found out, stole my diary…and showed it to Potter.”

“Oh, God,” said Florence with a sympathetic grimace.

“Yeah. Of course, Alodie claims she didn’t steal my diary, but someone sure did. To make matters worse, someone else — I suspect Sirius Black — wrote up fake diary entries that made me sound absolutely deranged and passed them around school. It became a bit of a house-wide joke.” She shook her head, as though she might shake off the memory like a persistent fly. “Most of the school moved on eventually, but Black and Potter have never really let it go. I suppose I can’t blame them. ‘Mad Muggle Lily Evans is obsessed with pure-blood Potter,’ is a rather amusing punchline, isn’t it?”

She did not sound amused in the slightest.

Florence frowned, looking deeply troubled by this. “And you think that’s why James asked you out last term? As a joke? Because…because you’re Muggle-born?”

James felt sick.

“I don’t think that’s why, Flor, I know it. Trust me, I’ve been playing this little game with him for years now.”

“But…” Florence struggled for a moment. “If that’s true, that’s all…well, that’s rather cruel. That doesn’t seem like James at all.”

Lily gave her an almost pitying look. Then she shrugged. “It’s just a joke,” Lily said. “Almost an inside joke at this point, really. I don’t think he means it to be cruel.”

But James could tell she was only saying this for Florence’s benefit. Lily, it seemed, had no doubt in her mind that James could be exactly that cruel.

You make me SICK!

“Anyway,” said Lily lightly, “it’s no big deal. You won’t find me weeping in the toilets about it. Like I said: ancient history.”

“So…there’s really nothing between you and James, then?”

“So much nothing it’s practically a black hole.”

“So…you wouldn’t be upset if I went out with him?”

Lily looked at Florence in surprise — and so did James.

“He asked you out?” said Lily.

“No, not yet,” admitted Florence. “But I thought I might nudge him the right direction, you know, if he was interested…but not if it bothers you,” she added hastily.

“Why would it bother me?” said Lily with a flippant little wave of her hand. “I just told you, Flor, there’s nothing between us. Never was, never will be. If you like him, go for it.”

And after the ritual exchange of smiles, giggles, and goodnights in which James knew from his studies all girls must participate before parting each other’s company, Lily and Florence went their separate ways.

James, however, remained frozen by the mirror, invisible, stunned. His internal monologue unfurled like a long scroll of parchment with rather too many scribblings in the margins. It looked something like this:

Florence fancied him!

Lily thought he’d only asked her out as a joke. Because of her blood status. No wonder she’d turned him down every time.

Florence Fawley, who by anyone’s standards was very pretty, clever, and popular, fancied him!

But he hadn’t meant it as a joke at all. And he’d never use her blood status as a punchline. Never! If Lily knew that, would she change her mind…?

No. Stop that. Don’t go down that road. After all, hadn’t Lily just said there was nothing between them? Joke or no joke, hadn’t she made perfectly, painfully clear what she thought of him that day by the lake?

You’re as bad as he is…

He had to accept it: There was nothing between them. Never was, never will be.

At least he finally knew why she hated him.

Chapter Text

SIRIUS

Glitter and Gold

The stone slab was cold against his cheek as Sirius Black lay prostrate on the dungeon floor, his body a useless mass of twitching muscle, a map of unexplored agonies. One arm was pinned beneath him, bent at an impossible angle. A rivulet of blood gushed hot and thick from the wreckage of his nose; it pooled on his split lip, the metallic taste like a burst of nausea. There was a ringing in his ear that seemed to swell and crescendo into all-encompassing nothing. His heartbeat stuttered, hammered, echoed about his battered ribcage.

He strained to make sense of what had happened, how he’d come down to the dungeons at Regulus’s request…only to find a gang of his Slytherin cousins waiting in ambush…

Consciousness blinked out, blinked in…

“That ought to do it,” said a voice, and Sirius cracked one swollen eyelid to see a pair of shiny black shoes step before him. “Pity his brother couldn’t make the show, don’t you think?”

“I’ve told you, Corin. Bellatrix didn’t want him here. Not yet.”

“Wittle Reggie can’t get his hands dirty. If the boy’s as fragile as everyone makes out, the House of Black has bigger problems than a runaway blood traitor.”

“I would advise you,” said the other voice, and after a thudding moment Sirius placed it as Rabastan Lestrange, “to be very careful to whom you disparage the House of Black.” His tone was icy.

“I only meant—”

“I don’t care. Come on, let’s get the bastard out in the corridor, no one will ever find him in this dungeon.”

Someone cast a spell that caught Sirius’s foot like a hook, and he let out a sharp gasp of pain as his body was dragged across the floor out into the corridor.

“D’you think he wet himself?” chuckled the other boy. Mulciber. That one was Mulciber.

Whoever was hauling him out into the corridor stopped, flicked his wand, and Sirius once again crumpled against stone. He wanted to fight back, to swing his fists and clobber every single Slytherin bastard who dared touch him — but he couldn’t even push himself up. His breath was harsh and shallow against cold stone as his assailants conversed casually around him, as though the bloodied mass of boy beneath them was nothing at all.

“All right, that’s that. Everyone head off in pairs like we said, don’t want to get caught in a pack…”

Sirius was no stranger to the vast and varied landscape of pain — he’d encountered it on many occasions growing up with a father who believed deeply in punishment — but this was the brink of an abyss he’d never yet explored. He felt consciousness slipping, and he fought it with an almost feral desperation. To pass out now would be to let the motherfuckers win.

“I don’t see why we can’t just kill him while we have the chance,” complained Mulciber. “We’re going to eventually, why squander the opportunity?”

“You’re not so foolish, Corin. We’re trying to make a statement, not invite a Ministry inquiry.”

“Murder is a statement.”

“Do you wish to get kicked out of school?”

“I don’t care, I’ve told you before that I’m ready. I’m ready to join Him.”

“And I’ve told you that your presence at Hogwarts is more important right now. Your time will come, Corin. And so will his.” Lestrange aimed a swift kick at Sirius’s stomach. A sharp inhalation of pain rattled his ribs.

“Let’s go.”

“Severus. Are you coming?”

Through his blood-swimming eyes, Sirius saw the jagged angles of Severus Snape stalk a few steps past him then stop. A wand was clutched in his greasy fist…my wand, Sirius realized. A flex of fingers, and the wand fell with a careless clatter to the stone floor…and then Snape walked on without so much as a glance back.

And Sirius was alone.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, listening to the silence of the dungeons, to his own ragged breath. He’d been so fucking stupid, coming down to the dungeons alone, all because of some stupid, fucking letter from his brother. It was so obvious that it was a trap, looking back at it now. Why hadn’t he been able to see that? Had he really been so desperate to believe his brother still needed him, that some family still cared about him? Pathetic. Well, this was what he got: the absolute shit beaten out of him.

Some family reunion.

But Reg wasn’t there, said an insistent part of his brain that couldn’t seem to let go, Reg wasn’t a part of this.

Bullshit, said his more logical side. It was his handwriting in the letter.

But that meant nothing. Lestrange had mentioned Bellatrix. It would be easy as anything for Bella to forge her cousin’s handwriting…

So. Fucking. Stupid.

He tried to push himself up again, his joints screaming in pain, but his elbows quickly buckled beneath him. 

How easy it would be to just give in, to lay here until morning, until some shrieking first year found him. But that’s what they wanted: to make an example of him. Look how we handled the blood traitor who dared to leave. 

No. Sirius wouldn’t let them. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. He just had to get back to the common room. Then no one would know.

His wand. He needed his wand. 

It lay a few feet away where Snape had dropped it (Snape would pay for this, he’d make sure of it). Sirius reached for it, but it was just out of grasp. With a grunt of pain, he dragged himself forward, inch by inch, towards the wand.

“You didn’t really think that you could just walk away from your bloodline without any consequences?”

Sirius was struggling to keep his head up. 

It wasn’t that Muggle Studies bored him — on the contrary, he’d been looking forward to today’s lecture on automobiles — but last night had been a full moon and none of the boys had gotten any sleep.

No regrets there. The moon had been brilliant. While last month they’d stayed close to the willow, not wanting to risk anything going wrong and scaring Moony off the prospect of future adventures, this moon they’d ventured farther than they ever had before: through the forest, into the outer bounds of Hogwarts’ borders, past the outskirts of Hogsmeade, following whichever path appeared to them under the bright moonlight, until at last they’d scaled the side of the imposing mountain that guarded Hogsmeade village. There, they’d discovered a massive cave hiding behind a narrow crevice in the mountain’s walls of stone. Three of the four were able to slip through with relative ease — though Moony needed a little persuasion, having exhibited a deep distrust of enclosed spaces — but James, or Prongs, rather, had been forced to remain outside due to his giant antlers and bulky body. He’d sulked about it a good bit too, stamping a hoof and, when that didn’t work, ramming his great antlers against the mountainside.

When at last the other boys — animals — emerged, they’d realized exactly why Prongs had been hurrying them along, jealousy aside. Sunrise was imminent and they needed to get back to the Shrieking Shack.

It was easy to get Moony to run. The easiest thing in the world. It was all he wanted to do, to run and snap and roll and play…and so they did, as speedily as possible, all the way back to the Whomping Willow.

As it was, one could not race the length of Hogsmeade and scale a small Scottish mountain without feeling it at least a little the next day, and Sirius was bloody knackered.

The boys had agreed to take turns with who could skive off class the day following a full moon. Peter had claimed the first go; Sirius thought this was rather stupid because all the boy had today was Muggle Studies which was easy enough to sleep through, if you wanted. But Peter had never exactly been a forward thinker. James had trudged off to Potions and Remus was in the hospital wing. It had been a rougher moon for him this month, not because of anything they did, but sometimes it was just like that, so Madam Pomfrey had insisted on keeping him from classes for a good sleep. Now Sirius sat alone in Muggle Studies, trying to focus on combustion engines while his thoughts drifted dreamily back through Forbidden Forest.

The bell rang, and Sirius followed his classmates out into the corridor, rubbing his eyes. He had a free period before dinner, they all did, so he figured he’d head back to the common room for a quick nap…but as he passed through the entrance hall, a figure caught his eye: Regulus was walking alone towards the dungeons, a letter clutched in his hands, absorbing his full attention.

It was hard to believe that it had been almost a year since Sirius had run away from home. Not quite, but close. Two months, roughly, until Christmas Eve marked that dark anniversary. James was already prattling on happily about his plans for their Christmas break — to James the only holidays more exciting than Christmas were birthdays — but to Sirius, the date marked something else entirely.  Almost a full year since he’d talked to his brother.

He never talked about him much either. 

James was meticulous about never bringing him up. Sirius wasn’t sure if this was because James was being considerate of Sirius’s feelings, because James himself loathed Regulus (he blamed him for the dungeon fiasco last year, even though Sirius had told him that hadn’t been Reg), or because James simply never thought of the younger Black at all. Sirius didn’t much care. Regulus was a tough subject he was happy to keep to himself.

But just because he never talked about his brother didn’t mean he never thought about him.

He did. All the damn time.

Sirius watched as Regulus paused and stowed the letter away. He briefly considered following his brother — he still had James’s Invisibility Cloak in his bag from this morning — although what good that would do, Sirius didn’t know…but before he could make up his mind, the stern voice of Professor McGonagall called his name from across the hall.

“Ugh, what now?” he muttered to himself as she approached.

“Black, I need to see you in my office. Now, please.”

“I didn’t do it, Professor,” was Sirius’s automatic reply. He wasn’t strictly-speaking certain this was accurate, but it was the appropriate script for these sort of interactions.

Professor McGonagall’s eyebrow lifted in a sharp arch over her spectacles. “While I highly doubt that is ever true, you’re not in trouble this time, Black. There’s someone here who needs to speak to you regarding…legal matters.”

“Legal matters? But I’m not in trouble?”

“Correct.”

Thoroughly bewildered, he followed Professor McGonagall back to her office. When they arrived, he found that it was already occupied: A thin, blustery man with a glinting pince-nez sat primly in the stiff-backed chair by McGonagall’s desk.

Sirius was feeling properly alarmed now — for, after a moment of misplaced context, he recognized this man as Nigel Whittingdale, the Black family’s lawyer. Sirius had mostly seen him looking cowed as he bustled in or out of Grimmauld Place on the occasions Walburga invited him there for the sole purpose of berating him. The man had a similarly nervous look about him today, but perhaps that was just how he looked.

At this burst of unpleasant recognition, Sirius instinctively sought escape, but as he turned to the door, McGonagall shut it with a soft click.

“What is this?” Sirius demanded at once, trying with all his might to suppress the note of panic creeping into his voice. But it was indeed panic he felt. His eyes darted around the room; he almost expected his mother to pop out from beneath the desk, her face a mask of fury, her finger pointed at him in condemnation, hand quivering from the built-up pressure of her eternal geyser of rage. 

There was no reason Nigel Whittingdale would be here, except as an emissary for his most prestigious client, Walburga Black, for the Black family estate. Had Walburga figured out a way to get her claws back in him at last? No. No, she couldn’t possibly have done. He was seventeen next week, surely there was nothing she could do before then…but then again, he wouldn’t put it past his mother to make some last minute attempt to ruin his life…

“Have a seat, Black,” said McGonagall, and there was a strange gentleness to her voice that she’d never used with him before. His uneasiness doubled. He briefly considered telling her to shove it and blasting his way out the door, but a small, exasperated voice in his head — a voice that sounded remarkably like Remus Lupin, as a matter of fact — told him to sit down and hear them out. 

So he did.

“This is Mr. Whittingdale,” said McGonagall. “He is the estate lawyer for your family.”

“We’ve met,” said Sirius shortly. 

McGonagall settled herself in a chair next to the finicky man. Even though Sirius was taller than both, the pair of adults seemed to loom down at him from their perch of authority, and he hated it. He wished he hadn’t sat down. He was just about to tell his inner-Remus to fuck all the way off and storm out of the office when McGonagall said: “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”

She allowed an excruciating pause — for the bloody dramatic effect, he supposed.

“Your Uncle Alphard has passed away.”

Whatever Sirius had anticipated his professor saying, it was not that. He blinked. 

“Oh,” he said, for he seemed to be expected to say something.

Another miserable pause followed during which both adults eyed him closely, searching no doubt for the inevitable signs of grief or distress. Sirius felt nothing of the sort. All he felt right now was fucking knackered.

He fidgeted in his seat. “Is that all?”

Mr. Whittingdale cleared his throat. “Your dear uncle — ah — had an accident with an Abraxan,” he said carefully, as though he’d been thrown off course by Sirius’s lack of emotion but was determined to get back to it. “The man had heart problems, you know…then he fell while out riding, and, well…”

“I always figured one of his horses would get him in the end,” said Sirius.

Professor McGonagall and Mr. Whittingdale stared at him. Sirius returned their gaze dispassionately. Perhaps they expected him to weep. Fat chance. He was far too tired to put on a show of grief, and he wouldn’t have bothered anyway.

“Sorry to shock you,” he said, “but I’m not exactly torn up. The man hated me.”

Mr. Whittingdale tweaked his pince-nez, a quick, jerky movement that annoyed Sirius for no good reason. “For someone who hated you,” said Mr. Whittingdale, “he left you a rather hefty inheritance.”

“He…what?”

The lawyer unfurled a long scroll of parchment and began to read. He seemed relieved to get to the gritty legal matters. This, after all, was where he shone. The will was heavily coded in that sort of impenetrable legal jargon that lawyers use as linguistic armor in protecting their own profession. The gist of it, however, was that Uncle Alphard had taken the beloved Black Family Traditions and set them ablaze. 

According to the new will, though he was still officially disinherited, Sirius would receive thirty percent of Alphard’s gold, to be placed in a trust within Gringotts until his seventeenth birthday. Which, incidentally, was next week. The rest of his uncle’s estate, including Grimmauld Place, Black Hall, and the horses that killed him, would continue down the usual line of inheritance — that was, to Uncle Cygnus and then, ultimately, to Regulus.

“Why would he do this?” demanded Sirius as Mr. Whittingdale wrapped up his monologue.

“That is not for me determine,” said the lawyer primly. “My job is to execute the will, not to interpret it.”

“Yeah, but the Black estate can’t be split up. It’s not possible. I mean, there are centuries of —”

“I assure you, your uncle knew what he was doing.” Mr. Whittingdale gave his pince-nez a contemplative tap. “I never took Alphard for much of a legal scholar, but he seems to have tidied matters up very nicely. It’s all quite black and white, if you’ll forgive the phrase.”

“It’s a trap.”

Sirius was back in the common room now, pacing by the fire. James and Peter watched him warily from their own seats. They’d descended from their brief pre-dinner nap to find Sirius treading precisely this same circle on the carpet, jittery and paranoid and still dangerously sleep-deprived. Sirius knew how he must look — wild, unhinged — but at the moment he lacked the capacity to care. 

James sat cross-legged and attentive in one of the squishy arm chairs, though his eyes were bleary behind the smudged glasses, and he rubbed at them discreetly when he thought Sirius wasn’t looking. “I don’t see how it could be a trap,” said James reasonably. 

“Neither do I,” said Sirius, “but that’s why it’s so bloody clever. It’s definitely a trap.” He stalked to the fireplace, stared into the embers for a long, brooding moment then turned sharply on his heel. The pamphlets on grief that McGonagall had forced him to take were discarded in a haphazard pile on a nearby ottoman. He scoffed at them and resumed his pacing.

“He can’t have left me the gold. He wouldn’t do that. I was disinherited. The entire Black estate is supposed to go down the line of inheritance, and it wouldn’t even be my turn yet, anyway. Not with Uncle Cygnus still alive and stinking. You don’t just upend centuries of tradition for a cheap laugh, even if you are my bloody Uncle Alphard.”

“What’s going on?”

Sirius turned jerkily to see Remus heading over to their group. He’d just come back from the hospital wing, no doubt. He looked somewhat better rested now, though still a bit pale and peaky. He also seemed to sense the palpable anxiety emanating from his friends and tensed at once. 

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

No doubt his head was full of imaginary terrors from a full moon gone wrong, thoughts of a wolf breaking loose and eating someone…Sirius didn’t have the energy to explain.

Thankfully, Peter stepped up with a succinct summary: “Sirius’s dead uncle left him a lot of gold, and he’s upset about it. The gold, not the dead uncle.”

“There’s a catch,” said Sirius, glowering at them all. “I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.”

“Maybe he just liked you and wanted you to have the gold,” said James.

“My uncle didn’t ‘like’ people. We were only ever pawns in his little game. That’s all life ever was to him: a sadistic little game of chess. Well, he won this round for sure. Walburga’s going to be livid. Checkmate, Alphard. Shit.”

At this, Sirius flounced down in an armchair and buried his face in his hands, fingernails scraping at his scalp.

“Okay, I’m confused,” said Remus. “Your uncle left you a lot of gold to specifically upset your mother, who you don’t like and don’t talk to anymore? Why is this a crisis?”

Sirius pulled his face from his palms. “You don’t understand,” he said, because how could they ever? “Uncle Alphard’s money, the Black inheritance — that’s what my mother has spent her entire life yearning towards. That’s the whole reason she even bothered to birth me. For Alphard to break up the estate, to just…give it away…to me, the banished blood traitor runaway…Wally’s going to be apoplectic. Unless…unless she’s in on it?”

The horror of this idea propelled him from his chair, and he began pacing the circle before the fireplace once more. He felt like a cornered animal, as though the ghosts of various Black family ancestors were bearing down on him from the shadows of the common room, wands and knives clutched in conniving hands, ready to drag him back to hell.

“Maybe she thinks that their money is enough to bring me back into the flock?” he mused, chewing a fingernail ragged, ignoring the worried glance between James and Remus. “If she thinks that, then she’s madder than I thought she was. Or maybe — maybe there’s some clause in the will that requires me to — that will force me to — I don’t know, I don’t care! I don’t want their money, I don’t care about any of it — I won’t — I’m not going back there!”

“Of course you’re not.” James stood from his chair and walked over. He placed his hands firmly on Sirius’s shoulders, putting a stop to his pacing. “Look at me,” he said. “Padfoot, look at me. They don’t have any power over you anymore, okay? Gold or no gold, they can’t touch you.”

Sirius stared at him, at those earnest hazel eyes behind the smudge of his specs. Sirius’s breaths still came in ragged bursts as he considered this. He wanted to believe what James said was true, but he knew his family far better than any of them. “But if the will —”

“You turn seventeen next week,” James reminded him. “Then you are legally an adult, and they have no hold over you. There’s nothing in any will that can change that. But look, if you’re so worried about it, maybe you should meet with this lawyer again. Go over any loopholes or clauses your uncle might’ve snuck in to trick you.”

“Whittingdale works for the family, he can’t be trusted.”

“Okay, then we’ll have someone else look at it. My parents’ lawyer. I’m sure she’s good with wills, she’s redone my parents’ loads of times. How about that?”

And so it was that Sirius found himself a few days later back in McGonagall’s office, sitting across from a thoroughly disgruntled Nigel Whittingdale. Except this time, he was not alone: The Potters’ lawyer, a smartly-dressed witch named Sonia Singh, sat to his left and James to his right.

James had orchestrated the whole thing: He’d written his mother, corresponded with the lawyer, spoken to McGonagall, and set up the whole legal parley. Sirius was grateful. Whenever he thought about the inheritance he got overwhelmed and shut down. It was a relief to let someone else take control.

“I don’t see why this is necessary,” huffed Mr. Whittingdale, who clearly felt his legal prowess had been impugned. “I laid it all out quite clearly for the boy.”

“We simply want to make sure the terms of the document are in the boy’s best interests,” said Ms. Singh in return, her pleasant, unflappable demeanor quite at odds with the other lawyer’s anxious, irritated manner.

“Best interests? It’s an outrageously generous bequest on his uncle’s behalf! I will remind you, Sonia, that I am the estate lawyer for the Black family—”

“In case you missed the memo, Sirius was disowned,” interrupted James. “He’s not a member of the Black family anymore, so he needs his own representation.”

Whittingdale chose a spluttering harrumph as a response to this. Then, with an exasperated little flourish, he placed his shiny black briefcase on the desk, unclasped the gilded lock, and spread upon the table once more the Last Will and Testament of Alphard Phineas Arcturus Black.

Sonia Singh was thorough, running a perfectly-manicured fingernail down each and every line of the will, interrogating Whittingdale on the precise legal intention of the words ‘endowment’ and ‘patrimony.’

But after roughly two hours of this, it became increasingly clear that Sirius’s paranoia had been unfounded. There was nothing in the will binding him back to the Black family, no constraints nor capitulations or even minor obligations to communicate with the family in any regard. The gold had already been moved into a new vault at Gringotts set up in Sirius’s name, where it would be held in a trust until Sirius’s seventeenth birthday…in three days time.

The will was rock solid, too. Alphard had undoubtedly foreseen the inevitable intrusion of the Black family and their lawyers. In fact, it occurred to Sirius that Alphard had probably been dead for a little while now and that he, Sirius, was the last to know. No doubt his mother got her greedy hands on the will the second she learned Alphard had croaked it, and when their brother’s legal treachery had been exposed, no doubt Cygnus and Walburga had put their heads together at once, assembled their team of legal experts, and done everything they possibly could to reclaim the small fortune Alphard had squandered on his no-good nephew.

But there was nothing they could do. Clearly, this had been no impetuous whim by Alphard in a moment of spite towards his siblings, as Sirius would have expected from him. No, he must have been planning this for a while. Sirius didn’t know what to make of that. He’d always assumed that Alphard had written him off just like the others when he’d ran away that night nearly a year ago…yet this will said otherwise. You didn’t leave a person thirty percent of your estate if you didn’t still consider them family.

Family.

But Sirius didn’t want to be Alphard’s family. He had no great love for his uncle. He knew what sort of man Alphard was, the things he condoned, the things he tolerated, the things he did. And though it was true his uncle had always seemed to loathe him slightly less than other family members, Sirius had found this attention to be tinged with condescension, as though his blood traitor nephew merely amused him — or rather, Walburga’s despair amused him. A jolly old sport.

Of course, it was still quite conceivable that Alphard had concocted this whole scheme for the sole purpose of pissing off Sirius’s mum — if anyone could carry a grudge past the grave, it was Alphard Black — but that didn’t change the reality of the situation: In three days’ time, Sirius would not only be completely and irrevocably emancipated from the Black family, he would be financially independent too, and quite comfortably so.

It was an unambiguous victory.

Which is why Sirius’s friends were somewhat bewildered to see the boy sulk in the common room all evening long, limbs jostled onto the nook of a window ledge, glaring out at the star-washed sky.

“I don’t get what he’s so upset about,” Sirius had heard Peter say. “I wish I had an estranged relative who’d die and leave me a pile of gold.”

“No you don’t, Wormtail,” James had replied. “You don’t wish you had Sirius’s family. Trust me.”

They left him alone for most of the evening, which was probably wise, but as the common room began to empty out, James came loping over to the window where Sirius still sulked.

“All right, what’s up?” said James, leaning against the stone wall and peering expectantly at his friend. “You know that cryptic, moody act you use to keep people away? It doesn’t work on me. So let’s hear it: What’s going on?”

Sirius looked up. James was a very practical person, and this pragmatism extended to his views on money matters — or rather, his view that money mattered very little. 

You see, James Potter had money, and that was the difference. He’d always had money, so he hardly gave it a thought at all. When he did think about money, it was from a purely mathematical standpoint: He needed this much gold to acquire this many butterbeers for his friends. He did not wonder where that gold came from nor worry that one day it may no longer be available. The gold in question had no emotional attachment, no burden nor baggage; it had left no deep, traumatic wound on his childhood psyche. It was not tied to his value as a son, as a man; it was not the essential purpose of his existence. James Potter simply had money, and, barring some unimaginable crisis at the banks, he always would.

So how could James Potter ever understand this?

But James was still looking at him expectantly, so Sirius heaved a sigh and searched for something to say. “It’s just — I hate it.”

“Hate what?”

“All of it. The gold, the inheritance, the fact that I’m still one of them. I hate taking his money because it means I’m still a Black. I can’t ever escape that. I’m still tied to this evil inheritance that has determined my whole damn life. I don’t want their blood money!”

James appeared puzzled by this. “You don’t have take it. If you really don’t want it, I’m sure you can turn it down.”

“Yeah, but I can’t,” said Sirius, and it stung to admit it. “Or at least, I won’t, and I hate that too. I’m not brave enough to throw it away, because what else am I going to do? I have nothing. Alphard knew it too, and now he still owns me. They still own me.”

“You don’t have nothing,” said James, and he paused for the briefest moment to frown at his double negative before barreling on. “You know what I mean. You’ve got me. What’s mine is yours, you know that, and my parents practically think of you as their second son now, so—”

“I’m turning seventeen in three days, James. I have to be able to stand on my own.”

James paused to clean his glasses on his sleeve, something Sirius knew he did when he wanted a moment to think. Then he placed the specs back on his nose, pushed them up with his forefinger, and said: “If you don’t mind me saying so, I think you’re coming at this from the wrong angle. I can see why you feel their gold is…contaminated or dirty in some manner, but if that’s the case, isn’t it better that you have it and not them? Thanks to your uncle’s will, whatever his motivation, that’s thirty percent less evil your family can now finance, right?”

“I suppose,” said Sirius, who hadn’t thought about it that way.

“So take their gold, laugh in their stupid, bigoted faces, and use the money to…I dunno…be the best bloody blood traitor you possibly can.”

Sirius found himself grinning in spite of himself. “I think I could probably give that a sporting go.”

“Good man.” James clapped him on the shoulder. “And chin up, Padfoot. It may not feel like it right now, but today was a good day.”

Chapter Text

REMUS

The Last Word

The wolf ran in circles, ecstatic, delighted. It hurtled through the forest, weaving with ease amongst the lichen-crusted trunks, bounding over fallen tree limbs, skidding to investigate the banquet of scents the forest had to offer: damp earth and soft fungus, fox scat and the rich compost of fallen leaves, all bathed in a gentle pool of moonlight…

“Moony.”

A large stag and a shaggy black dog stayed by his side, their warm presence a comfort, a pleasure, and he ran circles around them too, nipping joyfully at their heels, play-wrestling the dog until the stag gave them a little shove with his antlers and urged them on. And then they ran, they ran, they ran…

“Moony!”

A shove, and Remus opened his eyes. Blinking against the dazzling morning sun, it took him a moment to realize that he was not curled on the soft moss of the forest’s floor, but rather tucked in his own four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower. Sirius stood over him, haloed with pale light from the window, bed curtains pulled back and bunched in one hand.

Remus blinked away the last remnants of the forest from his dream and rubbed the crust from his eyes.

“Unghhh,” he said in a display of his usual morning eloquence.

Sirius was unimpressed by the argument. “Come on, get up. D’you want to miss breakfast?”

Remus groaned again and buried his face in his pillow. He almost expected it to smell of moss and dirt. “Since when are you a morning person?”

Sirius laughed. “I’m not, but Prongs and Wormtail already went down, and I’m afraid between the two of them there won’t be any bacon left.”

“Not my problem. I’m vegetarian.”

“Part-time,” corrected Sirius with a snort, and he cheerfully tossed Remus a set of robes. They landed gracelessly on his face. “Let’s go.”

“You’re in a good mood,” grumbled Remus as he dragged himself out of bed and pulled on the robes.

“It’s a good day.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s the day of my emancipation.”

“What?”

Sirius spread his arms wide, his grin wider. “I am officially seventeen. Legally and irrevocably free from Black family bullshit for the rest of my life.”

Remus flipped through the pages of his mental calendar and caught up. The third of November. “Your birthday,” he said. “Of course. Happy — er — emancipation.”

“And the sun is shining.”

It was curious to observe the pendulum of Sirius Black’s mercurial moods. Just a few days ago he’d been desolate and depressed, coiled like a tight spring of rage, ready to snap at the slightest provocation, and now here he was all…cheerful. Optimistic, even. He was in a better mood than Remus could recall seeing the boy in a very long time.

They arrived at breakfast to discover that James and Peter had not, as it turned out, eaten all the bacon. It was a Saturday and the morning of Gryffindor’s first match of the season: Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. James, for his part, seemed to be in good spirits and kept abandoning his toast to go greet various team members as they arrived for breakfast, no doubt to subject them to a traditional Potter Pep Talk. Having been on the receiving end of such attacks over the years, Remus knew firsthand that even the most belligerent bad mood or case of nerves was up against a formidable foe.

As the morning post was delivered by the swooping wings and hoots of owls, Remus turned his gaze expectantly towards the sky. Though he’d forgotten Sirius’s birthday in his morning drowse, he hadn’t forgotten it entirely, and in fact he’d enlisted his mother’s help in acquiring a birthday present for him — a rather last minute request on Remus’s part, but she’d promised to get it to him by the third of November. It had not yet arrived.

“Expecting something?” asked Sirius as Remus scanned the Great Hall for signs of the family owl.

“Your birthday present. It’s late.”

“Aw, Moony, you shouldn’t have. You know your growly, irascible presence is all the present I need.”

“Pity I bothered, then.”

“And besides,” Sirius continued, throwing an arm over James’s shoulder as he returned to his seat once more (having left fourth year Chaser Emma Prewett looking windswept and overwhelmed with positivity in his wake), “today I get the best gift of all: the chance to watch my best mate get knocked out by a Bludger.”

“Ha ha,” said James, shrugging off Sirius’s arm. “I’m not going to get knocked out by a Bludger this time. I’ve told you, McKinnon’s really come along—”

“Yeah, sure, but even the unholy wrath of Marlene McKinnon cannot stop an idiot like you from flying in front of a Beater’s bat if you think it’ll score you a point.”

There was a pause.

“…That’s fair,” agreed James. “Well, if that’s all it takes to make you happy, I’ll get hit by a Bludger, and you can give me back the birthday Scotch.”

“No, no. Birthday Scotch is mine. You just focus on making it Victory Scotch as well, and we’ll have a grand old time tonight.”

James grinned. “Deal.”

As the last of the owls were gliding through the rafters, Remus sighed and returned to his toast, only to be distracted again as a nearby third year gasped and pointed up towards the enchanted sky. Remus raised his eyes with the rest of the Gryffindors.

A large, regal eagle owl was gliding towards the Gryffindor table, a scarlet envelope clutched in its talons. It descended swiftly and dropped the envelope directly atop of Sirius’s fried eggs.

A Howler.

A hush fell over the Gryffindor table as everyone gazed breathlessly at Sirius, waiting to see what he would do, waiting for the inevitable explosion from the Howler. For there was nothing you could do once a Howler arrived. The longer it sat, the more it smoked and simmered, the louder it would be. The rage that had been bottled up in that little red envelope would be released, one way or another.

Sirius, for his part, regarded the letter with an expression of utter contempt. Remus had noticed that he’d gone several shades paler, but to everyone else it was an impressive display of disdain.

“What d’you want to bet it doesn’t sing happy birthday?” said Sirius dryly, picking up the envelope by one corner, as though it had been dipped in dung. “My mother always did have to get the last word.”

The envelope began to hiss.

“Just get on with it, mate,” muttered James. He was eyeing the envelope with a look of sheer loathing, the likes of which he usually reserved for someone like Severus Snape. “Get it over with.”

Sirius snorted. “What, you don’t think I should leave it to simmer a bit? Really build up the rage and let Wally reach her full potential? Shouting is what she does best, you know.”

He was playacting at nonchalance, a performance for the increasingly interested onlookers. Remus felt that he and James were perhaps the only ones who could sense how distressed Sirius really was.

A melodramatic sigh and Sirius said: “Well, all right then. Cover your ears, folks. This should be special.”

And with a flourish, he tore open the envelope. A woman’s voice, furious and shrieking, filled the hall at once.

“SO…” the voice boomed into the silence. “SO…IT’S NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU TO BESMIRCH THE NAME OF BLACK, TO SHAME YOUR ANCESTORS AND HUMILIATE YOUR POOR MOTHER? NO! YOU DARE CONSPIRE WITH MY WRETCHED BROTHER TO STEAL FROM ME! YOU TREACHEROUS LITTLE CRETIN! YOU FOUL, CONNIVING, LITTLE THIEF!”

Remus shot a glance at Sirius. He was picking at his teeth with a fingernail, apparently unaffected by his mother’s dramatics. “Get on with it, you old cow,” he muttered.

“YOU ARE WITHOUT A DOUBT THE GREATEST DISAPPOINTMENT OF MY ENTIRE LIFE! THE SHAME OF MY FLESH AND DESPAIR OF MY WOMB! I SHOULD HAVE DISOWNED YOU YEARS AGO! YOU HAVE CARVED OUT A GAPING WOUND IN MY HEART, AND I SHALL NEVER SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN.”

“Promise?” said Sirius.

It went on like this for a while: the Howler oscillating between insults and dramatic cries of martyrdom, while Sirius offered occasional commentary such as, “That’s colorful imagery,” or “She’s a poet, really.”

Finally, the Howler wailed, “AND I RUE THE DAY I EVER BIRTHED YOU, YOU CHANGELING, YOU BLOOD TRAITOR, YOU ABSOLUTE ABOMINATION!”

And then it burst into flames.

James quickly grabbed a silver tureen lid from the scrambled eggs and slammed it over the burning envelope. The fire extinguished with a hiss and curl of smoke.

Silence smothered the Great Hall like ash. Remus sat somewhat shell-shocked; he hadn’t expected it to be that bad. Peter stared in terrified awe, James looked murderous, but Sirius kept his cool, studied affect of disdain.

“It’s good to keep these things in the family,” he said, taking a sip of tea. Then, dusting a bit of ash off his sleeve, he added dryly: “Happy emancipation to me.”

The arrival of a Howler was always hot news, and the students of Hogwarts gossiped accordingly for the rest of breakfast. Sirius endured it placidly enough, banking on the force of his scowl and general reputation to keep curious questions at bay.

Thankfully, a distraction from sordid gossip was fresh on the horizon as breakfast came to a close and the Gryffindor Quidditch team departed the Great Hall to peals of applause, James leading the small phalanx of Quidditch players with a grin on his face.

As Sirius and Remus finished their breakfast and stood to follow the flow of students out to the pitch, Peter informed them that he would meet them there, as he had to first go collect his girlfriend from the Hufflepuff table. Winnie, it seemed, wanted to join them for the match.

“So we finally get to meet the elusive girlfriend?” said Sirius, raising his eyebrows. “I was beginning to think you’d invented her.”

Remus couldn’t help but notice that Peter did not seem overly pleased at the prospect of introducing his girlfriend to Sirius. “Just don’t be an arse, okay?” said Peter.

“What, you’re afraid I’m going to scare her off? If you haven’t done that yet, mate, there’s not much I can do.”

Peter scowled and slumped off towards the Hufflepuff table.

“Be nice,” Remus chastised Sirius, who merely snorted.

Remus had worried that the Howler incident would eradicate Sirius’s good cheer for the rest of the day, but by the time they reached the Quidditch pitch and began to climb the stands, his friend seemed to have forgotten the incident entirely. He was bombastic, laughing loudly at jokes that weren’t all that funny, calling out to the jostling crowd of students as they clambered over seats, trying to get them to partake in a friendly bout of betting.

“What d’you say, Gudgie? It’s a good odds on Gryffindor winning.”

Davey Gudgeon thought about it. “I don’t know, Slytherin’s Seeker put on a pretty strong show last year.”

“He got lucky,” said Sirius dismissively. “But bet on that if you like. I’ll put you down for a Galleon?”

“I’m not betting against my own house!”

“Gryffindor won the Cup last year but lost the Snitch,” Sirius pointed out.

Davey considered. “Yeah, all right. A Galleon on Slytherin catching the Snitch then. But don’t tell Potter, I don’t want to be hexed.”

“Excellent,” said Sirius, and he produced a small black book from his robes and scribbled a note in the columns.

Remus shook his head as they continued on towards the top of the stands. “Since when did you become a bookie?”

“Easy money,” said Sirius breezily. “And it’s fun.”

They found seats near the front, and Remus threw his scarf over the bench to save a spot for Peter and his girlfriend, who had not yet arrived.

It was a crisp, cold November day, though the weather seemed a tad confused about it: The sun burned gold above the pitch, bright and beating. The last traces of autumn brushed the grounds in broad strokes of color, while patches of ice lingered across the slope of the mountains beyond. This high up, one had an incredible view not only of the pitch but the whole surrounding grounds. He could see the smoke chugging merrily from the chimney of Hagrid’s hut and, slightly farther in the distance, the long, knotting tendrils of the Whomping Willow, swaying serenely in the breeze.

But it was the snow-kissed mountain behind Hogsmeade that drew his attention. He gazed at it, a curious feeling beginning to arise, that faint itch of the familiar. Something like memory.

“Did we…did we go over there the other night?”

Remus was careful not to say ‘on the full moon’, because though the crowds around them were loud with self-involved chatter, one had to be careful of these things all the same.

Sirius, who had just taken another round of bets from a nearby gaggle of fifth years, looked up from his book. “You remember?”

“I…” Remus struggled a moment, closing his eyes, letting the images wash over him. “I think so. We were in a cave?”

“Yeah!”

Remus opened his eyes. Sirius beamed back, bright and excited. “You and I slipped through to go explore, but Prongs couldn’t fit because of his stupid antlers, then he got all cross about it.”

“Right…” said Remus slowly. “Right, and then he started making a ruckus until we came out.”

“Turned out he had a point, the sun was coming up, but still. He was just pouting.”

“And then we raced back to the Willow.”

Remus returned his gaze across the grounds to where the Whomping Willow stood guard to his tunnel. Memories washed over him like this morning’s dream: running, nipping leaping…

“But this is brilliant, Moony,” said Sirius, still staring at him. “You’ve never remembered more than a few flashes before, right?”

“Right,” agreed Remus, although that was not entirely accurate. It was true that much of his transformations remained shrouded in mental fog, but he had had plenty of flashbacks over the years — teeth ripping at his own flesh, claws frantically tearing at the walls, the scent of prey, Moony, it’s me, it’s Prongs — but those images had come as though through the eyes of another being altogether: They belonged to the wolf.

That was important.

Sirius was frowning at him. “You all right?”

Remus nodded. He was not prepared to articulate the fresh anxiety these new, more pleasant memories evoked, but he was saved further interrogation by the huffing arrival of Peter Pettigrew and a cheerful-faced Hufflepuff who he introduced as Winnie Bones.

Sirius stood up to greet her. “Nice to meet you,” he said with what could only be described as a rakish grin. “Pete’s told us so much about you.”

“Really?” giggled Winnie, and she went beet red.

Peter scowled and made sure that Winnie was seated as far away from Sirius as possible, which Remus couldn’t help but notice Winnie didn’t seem especially pleased about. Remus shot Sirius a reproving look.

“I was being nice,” Sirius mouthed back. Then he pulled the black book from his pocket and leaned around Peter. “Say, Winnie, are you a gambling sort of gal?”

Her response was lost, however, as something else caught Sirius’s eye, and his expression grew suddenly dark. Remus followed his gaze to see an elegant couple climbing the Slytherin section of the stands with Professor Slughorn. They were quite clearly not students.

“What the hell are they doing here?” Sirius growled, his entire demeanor changing at once. Winnie, who had no doubt been about to make an unwise wager, shrunk away, and Remus didn’t blame her. Sirius looked genuinely frightening when he got like this, even Remus had to admit.

“Who?”

“My cousin Narcissa and her filthy fiancé Lucius Malfoy.”

Remus turned back to look at the couple with interest. Other than Sirius’s brother Regulus, Remus had never met any of Sirius’s family. The woman, Narcissa, was blonde and very attractive, dressed in an expensive-looking fur-trimmed cloak. She laughed at something Slughorn said, touching a gloved hand delicately to his arm as she did so. There didn’t seem to be much family resemblance between Sirius and his cousin, but perhaps Remus was too far away to tell.

The man, Lucius Malfoy, was every bit as blonde as his fiancé, and he held an intricately-carved cane with a serpent’s head in one hand. A rather stupid thing to bring to a Quidditch match, Remus thought. Malfoy gazed imperiously down over the Quidditch pitch as though it were land he’d just purchased, and he was debating whether it had been worth the sale.

“Fucking wanker,” muttered Sirius. He slumped back down onto the bench, ignoring Winnie and Peter entirely, his buoyant attitude effectively squashed at last.

“Aaaaand it’s Gryffindor in the lead, but barely! Potter passes to Collins, passes to Prewett — back to Potter and — nearly clobbered by that Bludger there — good save by McKinnon and an impressive dodge by Potter and — and — POTTER SCORES!”

The stands rattled as the Gryffindors applauded and stomped their support. Winnie, who had somehow migrated from Peter’s right to the seat closer to Sirius, jumped up and down with glee. Peter’s own enthusiasm seemed somewhat dampened.

Out on the pitch, James shared a celebratory high-five with Aisha Collins then sped back to the other side of the field for the next play. The match carried on like this for a while. According to the commentator, to whom Remus was only partially attending, it was a close game. Slytherin was putting up a good offense…or defense…or something like that. A fence was involved, he was fairly certain.

In truth, Remus was having trouble focusing on the finer details of the match. His gaze kept drifting like a magnet of memory towards that mountain beyond Hogsmeade and the cave system that hid in its depths. He remembered it: the damp, the dark, the way Padfoot had had to nudge him in, the drip of water down stalactites, the splash of puddle beneath wolf paws. He remembered it all.

Sirius may find this burst of recollection an exciting development, but to Remus it raised some troubling questions.

He’d never enjoyed his flashbacks. True, this was because they’d always been fairly traumatic and painful, unlike the other night’s joyous escapades, but at least he’d felt clear about to whom they belonged. The wolf, not him.

These memories of the cave, of racing through the trees…they felt different somehow, as though they were his own. Remus wasn’t sure what to make of that. He wasn’t sure he liked what it implied. He’d always separated the two of them in his mind: Remus was the boy and the wolf was the beast that stole his body once a month. It lived inside him, like a parasite, but it wasn’t him. When he transformed into the wolf, Remus was gone. That wasn’t him, those weren’t his memories.

These were the distinctions that kept him sane.

But here, in the fierce blaze of mid-morning, as memories of exploring the mountain came back to him, Remus was forced to admit — or at least consider — that that logic might not stand. That he and the wolf might be more intricately linked than he’d previously allowed. That on some shameful level, the wolf was him.

And following that logic, last year he had nearly murdered his best friend.

A great shriek from the crowd wrenched Remus out of this spiral, and he turned his attention back to the sky: The Slytherin Seeker — Sirius’s brother — had dipped into a steep dive. Prateek Shirali, his Gryffindor counterpart, dashed after him, but Regulus was closer…his hand extended, the Snitch just inches away…

Until Marlene McKinnon slammed her Beater’s bat into a Bludger and sent it barreling straight at him. Regulus was forced to roll out of the way, and Shirali edged forward, stretched out his arm…and closed a fist on the Golden Snitch.

A deafening roar went up from the stands. Gryffindor had won.

“Shit,” moaned Davey Gudgeon.

If there was one thing Gryffindor House was exceptionally good at, it was throwing victory parties. Such preparations were well underway that evening — Sirius emptying bottles of cheap firewhiskey into the punch and Peter putting out all the sweets they’d nicked from the kitchens. Remus took advantage of the pre-party activity to slip up to the dormitory for a moment of solitude.

It wasn’t that he did not like Quidditch (he did, theoretically), nor even that he did not like parties (he did, sometimes). However, he knew himself well enough to know that he need a little time to recharge before subjecting himself to the social drain of a party.

Shutting the door to the raucous pre-celebration below, Remus collapsed onto his bed, relishing the empty, quiet room — until a persistent tapping caught his attention. He rolled over to see two owls outside his window, struggling with a large, bulky package.

He rushed over to let them in and relieve the birds of their burden. After quickly digging through James’s dresser to find a bag of owl treats to thank the birds for their effort, Remus turned his attention to the package. A note was taped to the top, which read:

Sorry for the delay, but the gift was a bit bulky so we had to enlist the help of a second owl. Hopefully we’re not too late! Please give Sirius all our best and wish him a very happy birthday.

Love,

Mam

She’d even wrapped it up all nicely. He smiled and tucked the note in the drawer of his own dresser.

“What are you doing?” Remus looked up to see Sirius standing in the doorway, regarding him impatiently. “The party’s already started,” said Sirius. “Get down here.”

“Yeah.” Remus shoved the dresser drawer shut. “I’m coming.”

“What’s that?”

Sirius was looking at the bulky package. Remus glanced at it, then back up at Sirius. “Your birthday present,” he said.

Sirius blinked. “I thought you were joking earlier. I told you, I don’t need presents.”

“You don’t want it then? I can send it back.”

“I didn’t say that.” Sirius sat down on his bed and peered at the box with obvious interest.

Too late to change his mind now.

“You might hate it,” Remus told him honestly.

“Well, now I have to know what it is.”

So Remus nudged the box towards the other boy and sat down on his own bed to watch as Sirius peeled away the festive paper Remus’s mam had so kindly affixed. Remus bit his lip; he didn’t know why he should feel a sense of anticipation since he already knew what was inside, but all the same…

Sirius removed the last scrap of wrapping paper and opened the box. Inside was a rather scuffed-up black guitar case. Sirius glanced at Remus with a curious expression then unlatched the clasp and flipped the lid open to reveal a battered old Gallotone Champion acoustic guitar. Remus’s old instrument. The one his mam had bought him years ago that he’d never bothered learning to play.

Sirius blinked.

“I told you you might hate it,” said Remus, and he suddenly wished he’d never had this stupid idea. Why hadn’t he just got him a box of chocolate frogs or something normal like that?

“I don’t hate it,” said Sirius quickly. He gave the strings an almost reverent pluck. “I just…I don’t know how to play the guitar.”

“Bullshit,” scoffed Remus. “You play the piano, the violin, and the — what was it?”

“The lyre,” muttered Sirius, looking a touch embarrassed.

“Right. The bloody lyre. Plus you’re obnoxiously brilliant at everything you do anyway, I think you can figure out a guitar.”

Sirius shot him a grin, and then he pulled the guitar from its case almost shyly and slung it on his lap. Remus watched as he arranged his long fingers over the fretboard, the fading light of dusk dancing across the guitar as Sirius tried out a few chords then disappeared into a song. He wore that same slightly vague, far-away look Remus had noticed came over his friend whenever he played the piano in the shack. That sense of being lost, but quite contentedly so.

“See?” said Remus with satisfaction.

Sirius came back to himself, pressing a palm to the guitar strings to stop the reverberation. “What the fuck, Moony?” he said, and the words were spoken with a sort of wonder. “Where did this come from?”

“Wales,” said Remus.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Remus shrugged and played with the frayed edge of his bed curtain. “I don’t know. You’ve said you hated playing the piano growing up, but you always get this look on your face when you play, like…distant and peaceful. I reckon you like it more than you let on. And I figured a guitar wouldn’t have the same negative childhood connotations.”

Sirius was staring at him, his lips slightly parted, brows gently furrowed. He looked as though he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start.

Remus suddenly felt unbearably self-conscious. It hadn’t seemed like much of a gift when he’d had the idea, giving his friend a used birthday present, a cast-off from his days of youthful distraction — but here, now, watching his friend’s slender fingers trace the tuners along the guitar’s headstock, it felt like far too much. Far too intimate.

He realized with a jolt that this was probably the longest they’d been alone together since Sirius had confronted him in the dormitory at the end of last term and Remus had called him a ‘piece of shit.’ Well, if you didn’t count those quiet moments in the Shrieking Shack before and after the full moons, of course, but those always felt different, somehow.

His cheeks grew hot, and Remus stood rather abruptly. “It’s nothing special,” he said. “It’s used, and cheap, and a bit beat up. Anyway, time for the party. You can serenade us all later.”

And he hurried out of the room.

Remus didn’t wait for Sirius to catch up as he quickly descended the spiral staircase to the common room. He felt embarrassed and oddly flushed and eager to put some space between himself and the other boy.

Luckily, the party was indeed in full swing, and it was easy enough to disappear into the noisy crowd. In his absence, the usually cozy common room had been transformed into an all-out assault on the senses: Red and gold streamers were flung about the room, glittering as they caught the candlelight; students cheered and chattered in every corner, and the Hobgoblins blasted from a radio, augmented by an over-enthusiastic Sonorus charm. A gaggle of girls in the early stages of tipsiness had set up a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room, while Davey Gudgeon made himself the center of attention by producing a bottle of cheap vodka and offering shots all around. Given that he had just lost a Galleon to Sirius in his ill-advised bet on the match, Remus thought this was rather generous.

The only thing more awkward than hovering by oneself in the midst of a party was hovering by oneself in the midst of a party without a drink in hand…so Remus shouldered his way past a group of fifth years towards the refreshments table. This act solved both problems, as a matter of fact, for there he found Peter, ladling punch into his cup in a distinctly gloomy manner.

“Hey Moony,” said Peter, letting the ladle fall back against the punch bowl with a despondent clink.

“What’s wrong?” asked Remus.

Peter shrugged and took a swig of his drink. “Just broke up with Winnie.”

“Oh no. What happened?”

“Nothing, really. She just made it pretty obvious she was more interested in Sirius than me.”

Remus winced. “Ouch. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever. She was getting boring, anyway.” Peter gazed around the party, curating what seemed to Remus to be a rather intentional look of world-weariness. Remus followed his gaze to the makeshift dance floor, where the tipsy girls were swaying delightedly to whatever song the Hobgoblins were bleating out now.

Then something miraculous happened: Veronica Smethley appeared and smiled brightly at Peter. “Hi, Peter!”

“Er…hi,” said Peter.

“I wondered if you wanted to come dance with us. With me.”

Peter blinked in surprise. “Er — yeah. Sure. Sounds fun.” He drained his drink, shot Remus a grin, and took off following Veronica towards the dance floor.

And Remus was on his own again. He reached for the ladle and served himself some of the sickly-sweet smelling punch, careful to only fill his glass half-full, as he knew from experience how generous Sirius could be when tipping the whiskey bottle.

He took a sip and winced. Disgusting. Then, having achieved his quest and feeling only moderately less awkward for it, his eyes scanned the room for the next Holy Grail: an empty armchair.

He did not locate one, however, so he continued to linger by the refreshments table, sipping steadily at the nasty punch. It may not taste very nice, but the effects were undeniably advantageous for the hapless introvert who found himself alone at a post-match party. He was just ladling another glass — and deciding that it wasn’t altogether too strong — when a triumphant roar went up from the crowd, loud enough to shake the walls of the tower itself.

Remus turned to see that the portrait hole had opened and the Gryffindor Quidditch team was streaming into the common room, led by a grinning James Potter. The whooping, cheering throng seemed to swallow him up as everyone clapped him on the back, demanding play-by-plays and laughing outrageously in response to jokes Remus could not hear. He felt his lips tug into an indulgent smile. It would be a while before James resurfaced again.

Remus glanced around the common room once more, and this time he noticed someone he’d missed: Lily Evans was tucked away in a nook by a window, a safe distance from the hubbub. She was alone, leaning against the ledge of the window she’d cracked open, observing the victory parade with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Gratefully, he crossed the room to her.  “Having fun?”

She jumped a little, then gave him a sheepish grin as her eyes flitted towards her cigarette. “I was trying to sneak a quick ciggy, but you caught me.”

“Yes,” said Remus solemnly, “and as a prefect I feel obliged to remind you that Gryffindor is a proud and honorable house, renowned for our sense of moderation and deep respect for the rules.”

“STOMP THE SNAKES!” screamed Davey Gudgeon from across the room.

“STOMP THE SNAAAAAAKES!” roared the entirety of Gryffindor house in response.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Lily, and she took another pleasurable drag on her cigarette.

“Haven’t got a spare, have you?” asked Remus.

She looked up at him, surprised. “You smoke?”

Remus shrugged. He didn’t, really, but it seemed an appealing occupation at the moment. Something to do with his hands other than sip the vile punch whose effects, he had to admit, he was beginning to feel. Remus did not like to get drunk around anyone but his closest friends. It was a control thing, he supposed. He had to be sure to keep the beast in check.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Just don’t tell my mam.”

After half a beat, it occurred to him that perhaps she thought he shouldn’t smoke on account of the ‘mysterious illness’ from which she believed he suffered. Lily was always really good about not asking prying questions on this subject, but he knew she must wonder, even if she never voiced it, and he had admitted last year that he was ‘sick.’

“It doesn’t affect my — er — illness, if that’s what you mean.”

“No,” said Lily quickly. “I was just surprised. It’s more a Muggle habit.” She dug in the pocket of her robes and pulled out a pack of Benson & Hedges. “I’m happy to have the company,” she said, offering him the pack.

Remus thanked her, lit up, and took a long, meditative drag. “Do you ever think that as senior Gryffindor prefects we maybe ought to do something about…” he waved a hand vaguely at the ongoing revelry; across the room, Davey Gudgeon was attempting to line up a row of shots on a hovering broomstick. “…all this?”

Lily snorted. “I’ve kept my eye on the punchbowl, at least. You know, to make sure no one slips anything in.”

Remus raised his eyebrows and glanced down at his glass. He didn’t think anyone could drink this bile and not realize it was heavily spiked.

“Other than the requisite whiskey, of course,” she added with a slight laugh at his expression. “That’s a given.”

She tapped her cigarette over an ashtray he hadn’t noticed. It was a pretty little crystal thing, sitting on the windowsill and glittering in the weak moonlight; he supposed she’d conjured it herself.

“Personally,” continued Lily, “I’m glad we’ve all just collectively agreed not to enforce the rules during Quidditch celebrations. I like a good party as much as anyone else. It’s almost enough to make a girl care about sports.”

Remus raised his glass in a mock toast. “Go team.”

Lily laughed, took a drink, and wrinkled her nose. “This shit is awful, though. If we’re going to do it, I don’t see why we can’t have a proper bar.”

“I think the general feeling is that we should at least make an effort to pretend like we’re not breaking a hundred school rules. Plausible deniability, and all that. And respect for our esteemed Head of House, of course.”

“McGonagall hasn’t attempted to shut one of these down in years.”

“Ah, yes. Thanks to the Great Glitter Incident of 1973.”

“I heard you had something to do with that.”

“Slander,” said Remus.

Lily laughed again then emptied her glass in one long swig. She shuddered. “Well, it does the job anyway. Marlene looks like she’s having a good time, doesn’t she?”

Remus looked. Marlene McKinnon was standing with the rest of the team, surrounded by admirers. Aisha Collins had her arm around Marlene’s shoulders and was laughing loudly while Prateek Shirali appeared to be giving an expressive retelling of his winning catch — which, Remus recalled, had only been possible thanks to the swing of Marlene’s Beater bat.

“Looks like it,” agreed Remus. “I heard you got her on the team.”

“Marlene got herself on the team,” Lily corrected him. “That’s a very important distinction.” She paused to suck on her cigarette for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “She needed something of her own. To feel good about. She’s way too hard on herself.”

Remus had never got the impression that Marlene and Lily were particularly friendly, and he found himself in awe yet again at just how thoroughly kind she was. How thoughtful. He’d seen it before in the way she acted around him, never asking too many questions, never prying, but always treating him with kindness in a way that didn’t feel artificial or pitying. He’d seen it in her friendship with Snape, an oddball outcast even at eleven. It was a strange trait, this almost fierce kindness — admirable, but strange.

“And between you and me,” said Lily through a puff of smoke, unaware that she was the subject of Remus’s present musings, “I had an ulterior motive. She was driving me absolutely batty. A busy Marlene is a happy Marlene. Or a happy Lily, anyway.”

Remus was on the verge of some witty reply he hadn’t yet invented, when a booming voice interrupted: “Moony!”

And he looked up to see James, fresh from the noisy crowd, a nearly-empty glass in his hand as he pushed his way towards them. He was draped in a Gryffindor banner, his hair even more mussed than usual, and he had the air of one who had just escaped an overly attentive crowd of admirers — which Remus suspected he probably had.

“Been looking f’you everywhere, old man,” he said happily, and Remus could tell from his slightly slurred words that the drink in his hand was not his first. “S’when d’you smoke?”

Then James caught sight of Lily.

“Oh,” he said. “Hey, Evans.”

“Hey yourself,” said Lily. She touched the cigarette to her lips and returned his blatant stare.

Even sober, James Potter had never been particularly good at keeping his feelings to himself; now James was clearly a few drinks in, and Remus watched as a hundred different emotions danced a frantic conga line across his face. Abruptly, he turned back to Remus. “Have you seen Padfoot?”

“Lost him in the crowd,” lied Remus, “but I suspect he’s near the bar.”

“Right.” And with a faint grunt, James took off without another word.

Remus watched him go, feeling faintly troubled. “That was weird.”

“Not really,” said Lily. “He hates me.” She exhaled a cloud of smoke from her lips, the very picture of unaffected disdain — and yet, he couldn’t help but notice that the color in her cheeks had risen significantly.

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“It’s okay, Remus. You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”

“He doesn’t though,” Remus insisted. “I think he’s just…a little embarrassed.”

Lily looked skeptical. “About what?”

Remus sipped his drink and shrugged. “Well, you know, I think he’s still getting over the whole public rejection and heartbreak thing. Getting turned down by the girl you fancy is never easy.”

Remus allowed himself another gulp of the punch. It wasn’t too bad, actually, once you’d had enough to convince your tastebuds to take the night off. After a moment, he realized that Lily was staring at him, her lips slightly parted, the ash curling off the end of her cigarette, which she held aloft and forgotten in one hand.

“What?” said Remus, lowering his glass.

“Did you just say ‘fancy’?”

Remus blinked. He’d hardly thought that was news, but something about her expression suggested he had just slipped up. “…No?”

“Yes, you did.”

Remus did some quick thinking, which the punch was admittedly making difficult. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say he did some thinking. He thought she knew James fancied her. Everyone knew James fancied her. But if she didn’t know…did he just betray James’s big secret? But it couldn’t be a secret. The idiot had asked her out in front of half the school last year, for the love of Merlin! Lily had been standing right there! Lily had turned him down. But now Lily was staring at Remus as though he’d just revealed something deeply shocking. Panic rushed through his veins as his moderately-sloshed brain struggled with these calculations.

“I don’t know what I’m talking about,” he said wildly. “I’m…drunk!”

“Remus Lupin, you are not drunk. You said, ‘the girl you fancy.’”

“Did I?”

“Remus, does James…like me?” She looked thunderstruck at the very idea.

“‘Course he likes you. Everyone likes you.”

“I mean,” Lily scoffed, “does he like me like me?”

Remus eyed her warily for a long moment then groaned, dropping the pretenses. This was exhausting. “Come on, Lily. He only asked you out in front of half the school last year. What do you think?”

“Oh,” she said flatly. “That. That doesn’t count. He was just taking the piss.”

“…What?”

“It was a laugh. An on-going joke that everyone thinks is so funny because —” she stopped herself and shot Remus a guilty look as though she’d just remembered he was James’s friend and ought to watch her tongue. “Well, he didn’t mean it.”

Remus frowned, genuinely uncertain how to proceed. He knew for a fact that James did mean it, but it didn’t seem his place to explain that to Lily, and he wasn’t so sure James would even want him to, since his friend was, as he’d declared on the train and several times since, “completely over her.”

“He didn’t mean it,” repeated Lily, looking slightly unsettled by Remus’s silence. “Right?”

“You know,” mumbled Remus into his glass, “I really shouldn’t get involved in this.”

Lily was staring at him, her green eyes wide, vivid even in the dimming common room and fixed on him like the beam of a torch, as though she might illuminate everything once hidden in the dark if only she stared hard enough. Yet again Remus had the sense that he had just royally fucked up…but then, mercifully, her gaze flitted away across the common room.

“Oh, for the love of — !” She turned back to Remus, suddenly exasperated. “Hold that thought,” she said, and as she bustled off, he heard her call: “Davey, I really don’t want to play the prefect card tonight, but you cannot give shots to second years! Honestly!”

Remus did not hold that thought. He knew he was being a bit of a coward, and he chastised himself accordingly as he stubbed out his cigarette in Lily’s ashtray and slipped away through the crowd. He simultaneously offered a word of silent thanks to Davey Gudgeon’s poor life choices for allowing him an escape route from that increasingly uncomfortable conversation. He needed more time and less alcohol to figure out the right way to proceed — and how exactly to undo any damage he may or may not have just done.

He kept an eye out for his friends as he made his way through the party. Peter, he saw, was still dancing with Veronica Smethley, who had her arms around his neck and was giggling something into his ear. Shaking his head slightly, Remus pressed on until he reached the far end of the common room, by the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. There he spotted Sirius, sitting alone with one leg swung over the other, reclining elegantly in his chair as he observed the party with that faintly bored, aristocratic expression that Remus knew so well.

He was sitting alone, James nowhere in sight, and the other students were giving him a surprisingly wide berth. Remus supposed the incident with the Howler this morning had not yet left the collective consciousness of their classmates. An angry Sirius Black was not someone you wanted to cross. That, or they all owed him money from the match. All the same, Remus noticed a small gathering of girls nearby watching him with obvious expressions of longing.

It was interesting to Remus how different James and Sirius were — and how differently they were perceived. Both were considered among the coolest boys in school, but while James’s coolness seemed to draw others in, Sirius’s pushed them away. He suspected Sirius was just fine with this —  cultivated it, even — but still, seeing him sitting all alone plucked a guilty twinge at the guitar strings of Remus’s heart. He shouldn’t have just disappeared into the party like that. It was his friend’s birthday, after all.

Sirius’s expression brightened considerably as Remus approached, which made him feel even worse.

“Oh, good. There you are. I’ve just broken out the birthday Scotch Prongs gave me. I can’t drink that rotgut swill,” Sirius added with a nod at an abandoned glass of the sickly-sweet punch.

Remus settled himself onto the sofa across from Sirius. “You’re the one who spiked it.”

“As a favor to the masses,” said Sirius dismissively. “You and I? We’ll drink something a touch more refined.” He poured Remus a glass and handed it to him.

“Where’s Prongs?”

“Haven’t seen him. I assumed he was still attending his coronation.”

Remus snorted and took a sip of his Scotch, pausing to peer at the swirl of amber liquid as he lowered the glass. He considered telling Sirius about the awkward encounter between James and Lily that he’d just experienced, but he decided he’d rather not bring up that incident until he understood the consequences of his loose tongue.

“Bit of a dull party so far, if you ask me,” said Sirius.

“If you’re looking for something to do, there’s at least a dozen girls over there desperate for your attention.”

Sirius cast a dismissive glance at the girls watching him; he’d obviously already noticed their attentions. “Girls are boring,” he said. “Been there, shagged that.”

“Classy.”

Sirius laughed, and a mischievous look overtook his annoyingly handsome features. “Dare you to go pick one up.”

“Not going to happen,” said Remus shortly.

“Oh, come on. You won’t even try?”

“No.”

“You’re no fun.”

“You should dare Peter instead. He’s having great success tonight.” Remus pointed across the room to the dance floor where Peter and Veronica were still entangled in each other’s arms.

“Okay,” said Sirius. “What is going on? When did Wormtail become the school’s latest heartthrob?”

“Worried he’s stolen your title?”

Sirius snorted. “I’m just baffled, is all.”

“Do you want my honest opinion?”

“No, I want you to lie to me and spare my fragile feelings.”

Remus ignored this. “He’s the most approachable.”

“So?”

“So, I reckon the girls of this school who have been single-mindedly pursuing you for years have finally come to the conclusion that they’ve got a better chance getting at you by going through your friends, rather than a head on attack. James is rather obvious about the fact that his affections are tragically taken, and I’m…you know…”

“What?”

Remus gestured at his own face.

“What?”

“The scars tend to scare girls off.”

Sirius frowned. “Your face isn’t that scarred. Just…tell them it’s acne.”

“Yes,” said Remus dryly. “That makes it so much better.”

“Anyway, that sounds like a load of hippogriff shit to me. I don’t buy it for a second.”

“No, it’s true. Peter just broke up with Winnie because she really wanted to date you.”

“Fuck,” said Sirius. “Really?”

“Pete just told me.”

“Ouch.”

“That’s what I said.”

“She was a bit giggly towards me at the match, come to think of it,” said Sirius, scratching his chin.

Remus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and you encouraged her.”

“Did I?”

Remus nodded. Sirius’s brow furrowed at this, as though trying to recall their brief encounter. It did not seem to have left much of an impression, although in his defense, Sirius had been a bit distracted by the arrival of his cousin and her fiancé. It had been an eventful day.

Before they could further examine the question of whether Sirius had or had not instigated Peter’s breakup, James reappeared looking disheveled and distinctly unhappy. Not to mention drunk.

“‘Lo, Pa’foot,” he slurred, and with a tottering lurch, he dropped himself onto the couch next to Remus. “Oh. Hey. It’s Moon. Moony.”

Remus noticed him glance not-so-surreptitiously around, as though he expected Lily to pop out again. When it was clear she was not nearby, he visibly relaxed.

“How you holding up there, Captain Prongs?” asked Remus.

“Great,” said James, and he sunk a little deeper into the couch cushions. “S’great.”

“What’s wrong with you?” demanded Sirius, pouring him a glass of the Scotch, which Remus thought was perhaps not the best idea, given the current state of their friend’s sobriety. “Did I miss something, or did you not just win the first mach of the year?”

“Yeah,” said James, raking a hand through his hair. “It’s great. Great match.” Then he froze and withdrew the hand. He glowered at it. “Stupid hand.”

“Are you okay, Prongs?”

“Yeah, I’m—”

“Don’t tell me,” said Sirius dryly. “Great?”

James opened his mouth then shut it again. “Something like that,” he muttered into his Scotch.

Sirius eyed him for a moment then shrugged. “Well, I propose a toast.”

“What are we toasting?” asked Remus.

“Me, of course, and my bloody legal emancipation from the howling bitch who called herself my mother. And, you know,” he nodded at James, “Gryffindor’s stunning victory, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Hooray,” said James, and he knocked back the glass of Scotch in one extended gulp.

Sirius frowned, his own glass to his lips, eyes flicking from James to Remus. “Did something happen that I don’t know about?”

Remus offered an uncomfortable shrug. James didn’t respond at all.

“Prongs?”

But James was now staring despondently across the common room.

“Prongs.”

James jerked his attention back to Sirius. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just…fucking knackered. Think I’ll turn in early. Yeah. G’night.” And he pushed himself off the couch with an unsteady stagger and propelled himself towards the dormitory stairs.

Remus and Sirius watched him go in silent consternation. For James Potter to leave a party early was unusual enough. For him to leave his own victory party was nigh unheard of.

“Well,” said Sirius, “that was fucking weird.”

“We should go talk to him.”

“Right.”

And so they left the boisterous party behind and climbed the spiral stairs to the top-most dormitory, Sirius swinging the bottle of birthday Scotch in one hand all the while. They found James sitting cross-legged on his bed and looking slightly lost, as though he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there, nor what to do now that he was.

“All right, Prongs,” said Sirius, dropping himself onto the couch. “What’s going on?”

“I told you,” James mumbled. “Just tired. Not in the mood for a party.”

“You just won your first Quidditch match as Captain of the Gryffindor team, and you’re not in the mood for a party?”

James shrugged. “I was, but then I saw…” he drifted off. “Just got me thinking, that’s all.”

Sirius heaved a dramatic sigh. “What have I told you about thinking?”

“What were you thinking about?” inquired Remus, though he was fairly certain he knew. He remembered the way James had reacted to seeing Lily Evans, and he felt certain that this sudden depressive mood was related somehow. Remus felt another sharp twinge of guilt as he recalled his own conversation with Lily; he pushed that aside for now.

But, as always, James Potter was full of surprises.

“I have a theory on why Slytherins are so evil.”

“Inbreeding?” offered Sirius.

“Stairs,” said James.

There was a brief pause during which Remus scrunched his brow and Sirius scratched his chin. “You’re going to have to walk us through that one, champ,” said Sirius.

“Think about it!” said James with more passion than he’d displayed all evening long. “Think how many stairs we climb every damn day, going up and down, up and down, to and from Gryffindor Tower. The Slytherins, they just…slither in their dungeon and they’re done. No stairs.”

“Which contributes to their alleged evilness…how?”

“They have too much time on their hands. Too much time for evil mach — machi — what’s the word?”

“Machinations?” suggested Remus.

“That’s the ticket. Machinations. Plus,” James added, “climbing stairs is good exercise.”

“Which makes you less evil?”

“Exactly.”

“Are you saying the Slytherins are evil because they don’t get enough exercise?” said Sirius.

“What about the Hufflepuffs?” said Remus.

But James did not appear to be in any fit state to have his thesis so rigorously questioned. “What I’m saying,” he spluttered, “is that there is an unequal distribution of stairs in this castle and it is wrong.”

“…And that’s why you’re up here sulking during your victory party?”

“‘M’not sulking. I just want to be in my bed. I like my bed. It’s a good bed.” James patted the mattress vaguely. “This bed has never hurt me, or broken my heart, or called me an arrogant toerag in front of half the school.”

Sirius gave a loud groan. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said, leaning his head back against the couch and rubbing his eyes. “This is about Evans?”

“No.” James’s tone was defensive. “Well, yes. But also no.”

“You do understand that those words have the opposite meanings, right?” said Remus.

James grunted and tugged off his glasses, rolling onto his side away from them.

“No, no, no,” said Sirius hastily, pushing himself up off the couch and marching over. He turned James forcibly back towards them. “I know this drunk James trick. Just because you can’t see us, doesn’t mean we can’t see you. We’re still here, put the glasses back on and talk to us, mate.”

“Since when are you Mr. Talk About Your Feelings?” complained James.

“Since they’re your feelings, not mine.”

James scowled blindly at the ceiling of his four-poster bed.

“Prongs?”

A deep, existential sigh, and James hooked the glasses back over his ears. He pushed himself upright and peered from Sirius to Remus through what was clearly a heavy fog of intoxication. “Can I ask you both a question?”

“Of course,” said Remus.

“But I want an honest answer.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. Don’t sugarcoat it, or — or try to make me feel better just ‘cause you’re my friends. I need to know the truth.”

“Okay, Prongs,” said Sirius. “What is it?”

“Am I a bad person?”

Remus and Sirius looked at each other, utterly thrown.

“What?”

“Why would you think you’re a bad person?”

James gave an expansive shrug. “Some people do.”

Sirius scowled. “By ‘some people’ you mean Evans, don’t you?”

“I’ve just been thinking, that’s all. What if she was right?”

“About what?”

“About me. Evans thinks I’m a bad person, so maybe I am. She’s a good judge of character.”

“Really?” said Sirius flatly. “She was best mates with Snivellus for five years, I’m not about to call her up for a personal reference.”

James struggled for a moment to refute this. Evidently, he could not. “Yeah, all right, that’s true, but still…everything she said last year…”

Sirius let out an exasperated growl. “Oh, Merlin. You’ve got to stop obsessing over that.”

“I’m not obsessing.”

“Please! You’ve burned her words into your brain and you recite them to yourself every night as you fall asleep. It’s masochistic and, frankly, stupid. Who cares what Evans said? She was ticked off, that’s all. I bet you she doesn’t even remember her own words. Everyone knows she has the temper of an insulted hippogriff. You’ve got to let it go, Prongs.”

James did not seem convinced. “She may not remember, but I do. She said I was as bad as Snape. Snape! And she thinks I’m—”

He hesitated.

“Thinks you’re what?” prompted Remus.

“She thinks I’m a blood supremacist,” said James miserably, a look of utter despair painted across his features.

Sirius scoffed. “No, she doesn’t.”

“She does! I heard her. I was under the Cloak and she told Florence Fawley that I only ever asked her out as a cruel joke because — because she’s Muggle-born.”

Ah, thought Remus, and everything clicked into place. Quiet fell upon the boys as they all considered this. James stared despondently at the floor.

“Well she’s wrong,” said Sirius at last. “Come on, we all know you’re the farthest thing from a blood supremacist. If Evans is stupid enough to—”

“But I made her think that,” James interrupted. “I did something to make her think that. I just…I don’t want her to hate me.”

Remus was feeling a distinct sense of deja vu. “James,” he said, “if you’re so worried about it, why don’t you just talk to Lily?”

“What?”

“You know, stand in front of her and make noises with your mouth that resemble the English language?”

“I don’t know what I would even say.”

“You could start with ‘I’m sorry.’”

James scoffed. “That wouldn’t work.” He turned to Sirius. “Would that work?”

“Sure,” said Sirius, taking a healthy swig of Scotch straight from the bottle. “But try not to lead by asking her out.”

“I’m not — that’s not what the is about. How many times do I have to tell you that I’ve moved on?”

“Once more with feeling?”

James opened his mouth to refute this then gave up and slumped back against his pillows. “What’s the point in talking to her? She already told me exactly what she thinks of me — that day by the lake — and frankly she was pretty convincing. I’m a bad person.”

That day by the lake. It didn’t take much to pull it up in Remus’s memory. It wasn’t a nice scene. In fact, Remus had felt fairly disgusted with James and Sirius’s behavior himself. James was right to feel ashamed…but was it fair to call him a bad person because of one objectionable moment? One moment was not the sum of a whole life, after all, and when you untangled the mess of moments that led to that altercation by the lake, when you tallied up the good and the bad that James had done along the way…well, Remus knew where the math landed. Without James, Remus wouldn’t even be sitting in this dormitory today. By saving Snape’s life, he’d saved Remus’s life as well.

Of course, without Sirius, Remus’s life wouldn’t have needed saving. He cast a glance at the other boy, whose expression was troubled, as though he were trying to come up with a convincing argument or excuse on his and James’s behalf but was struggling.

What twisted arithmetic could Remus use to absolve Sirius of his crimes? If he tallied up the right and wrong of his friend’s life, what would the math say? Where would he land? But then again, maybe that was the wrong way of looking at it entirely. After all, one moment was not the sum of a whole life…and besides, who determines when you should stop counting?

“You’re not a bad person, James,” Remus said, because the silence had gone on for too long.

James peered up at him, a hopeful, almost desperate look on his face. Desperate for redemption that Remus had no real right to give. But he’d try all the same, because James needed it, and he was his best friend, and Remus owed James everything.

“Look,” he sighed. “What happened at the lake last term…I didn’t like it, and I think you’re better than that.”

James sunk lower into his pillows.

“But one mistake doesn’t make you a bad person, okay? Things with Snape…escalated last year. You were angry, you lashed out, and there were…consequences. That doesn’t make you an irredeemably bad person forever.”

Remus could see the liquor-sodden thoughts churning through James’s brain as he digested this. Remus could also feel Sirius watching him. He turned and caught the other boy’s eye, and by the look on Sirius’s face, that same hunger for redemption, Remus knew that Sirius thought — or perhaps hoped to think — that Remus was talking about him.

Perhaps he was.

“Talk to her,” repeated Remus, turning his attention back to James. “It can’t hurt.”

“Unless she hexes you,” added Sirius. “That does hurt, a bit.”

Chapter Text

Regulus

The Public Eye

“I heard he ran away from home.”

“With a mother like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I heard he had to live on the streets. Stealing food out of bins and that sort of thing.”

“Don’t be so sensational.”

“Can you imagine? Being the sole heir to all of that and just…giving it up?”

“Disowned is what the Howler said. You know he was a massive blood traitor even before this. I suspect the Blacks were cleaning house.”

“Hasn’t he got a brother?”

“Yeah, he’s in Slytherin. Reginald or something. A third year.”

“Fourth, I think.”

Regulus sat safely hidden behind one of the high-backed chairs of the Slytherin common room, glowering through a window into the murky depths of the lake as he listened to a group of older students dissect his family life. He did not correct them — about the circumstances of Sirius running away, about his own age (he was a fifth year, thank you very much), about his own name. Regulus had no interest in talking to them at all. Still, he couldn’t tune them out, and it was irritating.

“Well,” said one of the older Slytherins. “Guess who just became the most eligible young bachelor at Hogwarts?”

Regulus had heard plenty of talk about his brother since his mother’s explosive Howler yesterday morning, and most of it was completely uninformed. That was nothing new. People talked about Sirius a lot, even before the Howler. They talked about his cousins as well. No one mentioned Andy much anymore, but they loved to bring up Cissy or Bellatrix, invoking their names with a faint sense of awe or sometimes smugness, as though they were scoring a point in a game Regulus didn’t understand. It was just part of being in the public eye, Cissy had told him, part of being a staple of the Prophet’s society pages. People knew all about the Blacks, so they thought they knew them.

Regulus was used to this phenomenon, but he still didn’t like it when his own name came up. He preferred anonymity in all areas of life. No one called upon the quiet shadow to speak up in class, no one mocked his stammer. They left him alone, and that was how he liked it.

But he did not have that luxury anymore.

“Hang on…Reginald Black…isn’t he our Seeker?”

“That’s right. The one who just fumbled the Snitch.”

Narcissa had warned him that this might happen, this sudden flurry of interest in the new heir of the Blacks, but his mother’s Howler had all but ensured it. That it had happened the morning before the match — just in time to put Regulus on display in front of the entire school, just in time for him to lose the match to the house that stole his brother — was even worse.

Though he’d only joined the Quidditch team last year because Cissy had pushed him too, Regulus had been pleased to discover he was rather good at it. Being a Seeker meant staying out of the way, and that was a task at which Regulus had always excelled. And though he did not necessarily approach the sport with the same fervor as his teammates, he hated losing. He hated being the reason they had lost. He hated letting everyone down.

And in front Cissy and Lucius, no less.

“Er…excuse me?”

Regulus jerked his gaze from the window, startled at being spoken to rather than spoken about. A small, nervous-looking boy stood before him. He was slight and freckled with straw-colored hair that that fell across his brow in an untidy swoop, and he was holding in one hand a little scroll tied with velvet ribbon.

Regulus stared at the boy, waiting for him to speak. The boy stared back. After a moment of this, Regulus placed him: His name was Barty Crouch, and he was a fourth year. Regulus only knew who he was because the boy was another rather unfortunate subject of attention within Slytherin House, although for very different reasons than the ones with which Regulus now found himself saddled. Barty’s father was apparently some ministry bigwig who had recently pushed legislation to allow the use of the Unforgivable Curses on political extremists. This would not be so bad, except that Mr. Crouch had gone on a long tirade against the Death Eaters and those who worshipped Dark Magic. Called them all scourges of the magical community, or something like that. Given that the fathers of the most influential students within Slytherin House were Death Eaters (or so the rumors said), this was viewed as tantamount to treason, and the younger Crouch was treated as a social pariah.

“Sorry,” said Barty, flushing pink as Regulus continued to look at him. “Sorry — it’s just — er —Professor-Slughorn-asked-me-to-give-this-to-you.” He said all of this very quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth all at once, and then he thrust the little scroll towards Regulus with a jerky movement, not unlike a startled rabbit.

Regulus accepted the scroll without comment, gave the ribbon a little tug, and unfurled its contents. It was an invitation to a Slug Club party that evening. Cissy had mentioned that he’d probably get one of these this year, but the prospect brought him no pleasure. The idea of attending a dinner party filled him with dread. Everyone would be looking at him, expecting him to make witty, clever conversation, to act like the heir of the Blacks, to act like his brother.

When he looked up from the invitation, Barty Crouch was gone.

When Regulus arrived at Slughorn’s office that evening, he found it filled to the brim with party-goers, all crammed-up around each other holding glasses of wine and little golden plates of hors d’oeuvres. So it was not a dinner party, as Regulus had originally presumed, but instead a sort of cocktail social. He could not decide if this was better or worse. On the one hand, the freedom from sitting around a stuffy table meant that he was less likely to be stared at or awkwardly put on the spot in front of his peers. It was much easier to disappear into a crowd of many. On the other hand, it was loud.

Regulus didn’t like loud, chaotic environments such as the one in which he currently found himself. He much preferred the security of the walls of his bedroom at home, of his favorite tall-backed chair in the common room, of days spent quietly in the kitchen with Kreacher. These places were understood, quantifiable. Slughorn’s party, on the other hand, was a mess of competing noises, sounds, and scents, all of which quickly overwhelmed Regulus’s senses. He sought escape and hastened to the nearest patch of wall where he might fade into the shadows and simply observe.

It didn’t work though, because after only a few minutes he heard a girl’s voice say: “Isn’t that Sirius Black’s brother?”

“Yes, I believe so,” another girl responded.

Regulus hunched his shoulders in annoyance then instinctively corrected himself and stood up straighter. He would never escape his brother’s shadow, but now he could no longer even hide behind it.

“He looks so lonely and miserable,” said the first girl, her voice sodden with sympathy. “We should go talk to him.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea…”

“Oh, come on. I remember my first Slug Club party, I was terrified.”

“Yes, but…”

The first girl evidently did not wait to be dissuaded, because she appeared in front of Regulus quite suddenly, before he even had time to navigate an escape route.

“Hi!” said the girl brightly. Regulus stared at her. She had a mane of fiery red hair and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, both of which were fixed on him with an intense, friendly interest that made him want to flinch away.

He tagged her as a Mudblood almost instantly. No proper pure-blood or half-blood with half-a-brain would dare approach a member of the House of Black socially without an invitation — or barring that, with at least the appropriate level of deference. But this girl smiled at him warmly, openly, as though they were equals.

“I’m Lily,” said the girl. “And this is Florence.”

The other girl — tall, slender, and blonde — nodded at him warily, but did not speak. She at least seemed to know her place.

“You’re Sirius Black’s brother, aren’t you?” asked Lily.

“Yes,” said Regulus stiffly.

“Thought so. You look just like him, you know. I’m in Gryffindor as well. Same year as your brother.”

Regulus said nothing. That at least explained her inappropriate presumption. Sirius made a great show of mingling with half-breeds and Mudbloods, mostly to irritate their mother. No doubt his brother had encouraged such familiarity, to the detriment of them all.

To his great consternation, the girl did not seem put off by his refusal to engage in the conversation. If anything, she seemed even more inclined to try and get him to talk. “So, this is your first Slug Club party, is it?”

“Yes,” was all Regulus deigned to say.

“They can be a bit overwhelming.”

To his horror, he noticed a touch of sympathy in her voice. The Mudblood felt sorry for him. Regulus looked around the party somewhat desperately, praying that someone — anyone, really — might come and rescue him from this chatty, presumptuous girl.

His wish was granted quite miraculously when a familiar voice, an old safe haven, carried across the room. “Reggie, darling! There you are.”

Regulus blinked and turned to see Narcissa crossing the room towards him, a delighted smile on her beautiful face. The crowds seemed to part effortlessly for her, and her fiancé Lucius Malfoy followed in her wake, a few steps behind as he paused to collect two flutes of champagne from a house-elf.

Upon arrival, Narcissa pushed past the two girls, ignoring them entirely, and leaned forward to kiss Regulus on each cheek. “So glad we found you. Sluggy does know how to throw a party, but it’s rather crowded in here, don’t you think? Just a few too many people. If you ask me, Horace could stand to be a teeny bit more selective with the guest list, ha ha — oh, thank you, darling.”

Lucius had arrived with the champagne, a flute of which he handed to Narcissa. Regulus noticed his cousin had a talent for holding the stem of her glass in precisely the right light so that the enormous rock of her engagement ring glittered outrageously.

Only after a sip of champagne and an indulgent smile at Regulus did Narcissa turn her attention to the impudent girls. The blonde one was trying and failing to silently convince the redhead to leave. Regulus watched as Narcissa’s gaze swept over the girls and made the same mental calculations regarding their blood status that he himself had just completed. With a slightly taut smile, she turned back to Regulus.

“Won’t you introduce me to your friends?” she said, and the question sounded like an admonishment.

“They’re not my f-friends,” insisted Regulus at once, feeling his cheeks flush. “I don’t even know them.”

“Ah.” Narcissa looked relieved, as though this answer made the most sense and was quite acceptable. She turned to the girls. “Narcissa Black,” she said, “and this is my fiancé Lucius Malfoy. Now, my dear cousin Reggie and I have a lot to catch up on. I don’t know you.”

It wasn’t a question so much as a command — leave now, please — but the red-haired girl gazed back coolly. He had noticed the way her eyes narrowed at the name ‘Malfoy.’

“Lily Evans,” she said, “and this is Florence Fawley.”

“Fawley?” said Narcissa, her eyebrows darting up in a delicate arch. “Does your mother know the quality of the company you keep?”

Florence’s cheeks flushed and she grabbed the red-haired girl’s hand. “Come on, Lily.”

But Lily would not budge. “I’m sorry, were we not all invited to the same party?”

“No, sweetheart,” said Narcissa. “We were not. Your party is over there with the other social climbers, so do run along and stop bothering us with your…hovering.”

“The nerve of Mudbloods these days,” said Lucius, sipping his champagne in a bored, contemptuous manner.

Florence gasped. “How dare you!”

“It’s all right, Florence,” said Lily. “I couldn’t care less about the opinions of people like them. People so pathetically fearful of their own loss of status that they constantly feel the need to punch down. People like you,” she nearly spat at Lucius, “think you own the world because you know who your great-great-great-grandfather was, but one day you’re going to wake up and realize the world doesn’t care. The world is changing, has changed right beneath you, and you are no longer as important as you think you are. It terrifies you, doesn’t it?”

“How very tiresome you are,” sighed Narcissa.

“Well,” said Lucius, “the Mudblood got one thing right. “The world is changing — but I’m not so sure it’s in a direction that benefits scum like you. Enjoy these little parties while you can. I wouldn’t count on how many more you’ll be allowed to attend.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Lily, hackles rising like a cat.

“I’d suggest reading a newspaper,” replied Lucius silkily. “Perhaps tomorrow morning.”

“Come on, Lily.” The blond girl named Florence tugged at Lily’s arm yet again, and this time, with one last fierce glare at Lucius and Narcissa, the red-haired girl allowed herself to be dragged away.

“You want to be a tad more selective about with whom you associate, darling,” said Narcissa gently as the girls stalked off.

“She c-came up to me. She’s a friend of Sirius’s, apparently.”

Narcissa grimaced. “Even more so, then. You mustn’t let them get comfortable and take liberties.”

“I barely said a word to her,” complained Regulus, who felt he was unfairly chastised in this situation.

“I’m sure you didn’t, darling. It’s not your fault. I can’t imagine what Sluggy is thinking, inviting someone like that.”

“It will be a great relief when we can rid this school of such scum,” said Lucius.

“What are you doing here?” Regulus asked his cousin. “I thought you had to be in London.” He had been looking forward to Narcissa’s promised visit all year, but they’d only had a brief moment after the match to catch up, and now she was supposed to be in Diagon Alley for a wedding robe fitting.

“I rescheduled,” said Narcissa sweetly. “Sweet old Horace invited us to this little party, and I thought, oh, Madam Malkin can wait. The Quidditch match dragged on so long I barely got to see you at all…”

At the mention of the match, Regulus deflated slightly, the shame of his loss seeping through him once more.

“Now, you mustn’t let it get you down, darling,” said Narcissa, noticing this at once. She threaded her arm through his. “You were absolutely marvelous. It was your team’s useless Beater. He should’ve stopped that Bludger before it ever got in your way. I don’t know what he was doing—”

“Chasing butterflies,” sneered Lucius.

“And I don’t even know the boy’s name!”

“Freddie Wrayburn,” answered Regulus. Freddie was all right. A decent enough Beater, and he’d never given Regulus any reason to dislike him.

“A half-blood,” sighed Lucius. “What is Slytherin coming to? Half-bloods on the Quidditch team, Mudbloods in the Slug Club…”

“You know what you need?” Narcissa gave Regulus’s arm a little squeeze. “The Comet Trading Company announced their newest broomstick model, did you see? The Comet 220. Now, it’s not technically supposed to be released until spring, but I bet we could bump you up on the list. Oh, Lucius, won’t you be a dear and go speak to them next week? See if there are any little strings you can pull?”

“I’d be delighted, darling.”

“There you have it,” Narcissa beamed at Regulus. “It’s as good as done.”

Sometimes when he was with Narcissa and Lucius, Regulus felt as though he never managed to get a word in. This was okay, as he mostly preferred not to get words in, but he wasn’t altogether disappointed when Lucius spotted some Ministry official and excused himself.

Narcissa watched her fiancé go fondly then turned her attention back to her cousin as though it had been her intention all along that they’d have time just the two of them. “Now,” she said. “How are you, my darling? I know you said in your letter you were fine, but a death in the family is always hard, even if…” she hesitated. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, of course, but Alphard did do some awful things. Still, I know how fond you were of him.”

Sometimes Regulus wondered if Narcissa was intentionally obtuse when it came to their family. Fond of Uncle Alphard? The man had been nothing but cruel to him, mocking his stutter, constantly comparing him to his brother, putting him on the spot just to watch him squirm…

“I’m really fine, Cissy,” said Regulus.

“Good. Well, it’s been a nightmare at home, I’ll tell you. Bella even suggested we postpone the wedding! Of course we want to mourn Alphard properly, but I can’t think of any reason why we should have to postpone the wedding. No, we’ll have it over your spring holiday just like we always planned. Alphard would have wanted that. He was so excited for it, you know.”

“Mm,” said Regulus, who knew their uncle had been nothing but dismissive towards Narcissa’s impending nuptials.

“But let’s not dwell on such depressing matters. I want to hear all about your year so far. How are things going? Have you made any new friends?”

Cissy was always telling him he should make new friends. It was the main reason she’d pushed him towards joining the Quidditch team in the first place. She felt he must be lonely, but she didn’t understand that that was how he felt most comfortable.

“I’m fine, Cissy. Really.”

“Things haven’t been too…difficult this year? With your brother?”

Regulus clenched his jaw. “They’d be less difficult if mother would s-stay out of it.”

“What ever do you mean?” asked Narcissa, looking alarmed.

And so Regulus told her about the Howler his mother had sent yesterday morning to honor her eldest son’s birthday, and how all the students were now gossiping about Sirius in the common room and pointing out Regulus in the corridors and…

Narcissa pressed her perfectly-manicured nails to her forehead. “Oh, she didn’t. Oh, Aunt Wally. I don’t say this harshly, so please don’t think I’m criticizing your dear mother, but she really does lack a political mind. No thought at all for what such a display would mean for you…”

“Doubt she cared much what it would mean for me,” said Regulus before he thought to stop himself.

Narcissa looked horrified. “Oh, no, Reggie darling, you mustn’t say that. Of course she cares. She cares so much, you can’t even imagine. But her heart is hurting right now, you must understand. She’s not in her right mind. We can’t blame her. She’s had a truly monstrous year. Sirius running away was traumatizing enough, but that little trick he pulled with Alphard, stealing the estate out from under you, it was pure cruelty.”

Everyone seemed to think that Regulus should be more upset about Alphard leaving part of the estate to Sirius, but Regulus couldn’t bring himself to care all that much. It wasn’t as though he’d even notice the paltry sum Alphard had bequeathed his brother, and Regulus had his doubts that Sirius had been as conniving as Narcissa implied. Sirius would never ask anyone for help, certainly not anyone from his own family. But there didn’t seem any point in saying any of this to Narcissa, so he just stood quietly while she decried lawyers and their laws and brothers and their betrayals.

At last, she let out a pretty little sigh and stroked his hand. “It’ll pass,” she said. “All the whispering. People will move on, they’ll forget. They always do. So chin up, Reggie, love, and let’s enjoy the party.”

Chapter Text

LILY

The Abyss

“I tried to warn you,” said Florence miserably. She and Lily had retreated to a distant corner of Slughorn’s office, buffered from their nasty new acquaintances by the tinkling of glassware and the cheerful prattle of the privileged. Lily, however, still had a perfect view of Lucius Malfoy as he schmoozed with some wizard Slughorn had briefly introduced earlier as the Senior Undersecretary of Something Very Dull. She glared daggers at Malfoy, wishing she could make him feel the fiery heat of her disgust from afar. He did not seemly remotely concerned.

Florence, on the other hand, was visibly distraught, fretting with the hems of her sleeves, sending anxious, apologetic glances at Lily every few moments. “Are you okay?” she asked, for about the hundredth time.

Lily’s temper was on edge, and thus she was inclined to speak somewhat more bluntly to Florence than she might’ve otherwise done. “Why, because he called me a Mudblood?”

Florence flinched. “Please don’t say—”

“I’m fine, Flor. I’m used to it. It’s not even the first time I’ve heard it this week.”

That was true. Adam Avery and Evan Rosier made a point to hiss it in her presence every opportunity they found, and as they shared many classes, they found quite a few. She wasn’t entirely sure what they got out of this targeted harassment campaign, but it seemed to tickle them in all the right places.

It wasn’t that the M-word didn’t affect her anymore, but the shock of it had begun to wear off. After Sev had used it on her, nothing else could really be worse. No, what was troubling Lily wasn’t the M-word but rather the embarrassing sense that she had just been very stupid. After all, Florence had tried to warn her off talking to the younger Black brother, and Lily wasn’t entirely ignorant. She’d heard enough about the Black family over the years to know they were bigots, but there had just been something about the sight of the younger Black brother, clearly overwhelmed and all by himself…well, she’d always had a soft spot for the lonely ones.

“I just felt bad for the boy,” she said, a touch of defensiveness in her voice. Her gaze skirted away from the despicable Malfoy and back to his fiancé Narcissa and the younger boy who so resembled Sirius Black. “He looked so miserable.”

“And he may be,” said Florence, “but he’s also a Black, and they’re…well, it’s complicated.”

“Sirius Black is a Black, and I handle him just fine.”

“Yes, but he’s different. He’s not really one of them, after all. Didn’t you hear his mother’s Howler at breakfast yesterday?”

Lily blinked in surprise. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t. She’d allowed herself the luxury of sleeping in late, as she often did on Quidditch match weekends. The quiet solitude of an empty dormitory was a rare indulgence and well-worth missing the opening play of a sport she cared about very little. As a consequence, by the time she’d arrived at breakfast yesterday morning, almost everyone had already left for the pitch.

“I must’ve missed it. What happened?”

“Well,” Florence hedged, “I don’t have all the details, only what I caught from the Howler, and what I’ve heard other people say…I’m not gossiping about him or anything, but you know, people do talk…”

Lily, who was far too interested in the gossip in question to hold to her usual ascetic anti-gossiping stance, simply nodded so Florence would go on.

Florence lowered her voice so that Lily had to strain to hear it over the party’s vigorous chatter. “Apparently, he ran away from home last year.”

“What?”

“Yes, on Christmas Eve, or something like that. His family throws this enormous party every year, and it’s basically a Who’s Who of pure-blood society. My parents go sometimes — because of their business, you know,” she added hastily. “They have to network and such.”

Lily just nodded again, impatient for Florence to get on with the story.

“Well, I wasn’t at that party, but a cousin of mine was, and she told me that Sirius got in this huge, public fight with his family and Lucius Malfoy — that horrible man over there — and then he — well, he punched him the face,” concluded Florence with a slightly awed giggle.

“He what?” Lily felt a sudden appreciation for Sirius Black that she couldn’t have anticipated. She herself would very much like to punch Lucius Malfoy in the face, and it cheered her to think that someone had already done the honors.

Florence suppressed her giggles and returned a solemn nod. “Then his mother dragged him home, and apparently shortly after that, he ran away. Never went back.”

“God,” said Lily. “Where did he go?”

But she knew the answer before Florence even said it.

“James Potter’s house. That’s what I heard, anyway. Apparently he’s been living with them ever since. But anyway — the Howler. After he ran away from home, Sirius was disinherited. The Blacks are really wealthy, you know, and very touchy about their money. But then Alphard Black — there’s no reason you’d know him, but he’s been a very prominent figure in pure-blood society for decades — well, he died recently. I just saw the obituary the other day. He was Sirius’s uncle, and I guess he mucked around with the lawyers to leave Sirius some of his inheritance after all. Nothing all that much, from what I gather, but the way his mother went on, he might as well have robbed them blind.”

Florence seemed awfully well-informed for someone who emphatically was not gossiping, but Lily did not comment on this lest the other girl decide to stop sharing her wealth of knowledge on what to Lily had always been two very mysterious subjects: that of pure-blood society and her personal foe, Sirius Black.

“So his mother sends this truly horrible Howler — on his birthday, no less, the poor lamb — and accuses him of being a thief and just positively berates and insults him in front of everyone for nearly twenty minutes. It was so uncomfortable.”

“God,” said Lily again. She didn’t know what else to say.

“I just feel so terrible for him. I mean, can you imagine losing everything in one night? Your whole family? Because they disowned him, you know. That brother of his over there? He doesn’t even talk to him anymore.”

“I had no idea,” murmured Lily.

Florence shook her head sadly then shot a quick and nasty glance at the trio of pure-bloods across the room; Malfoy had rejoined his fiancé. “But it’s no great loss, I suppose,” said Florence with uncharacteristic bitterness, “because like I said, the Blacks are not nice people, and neither are the Malfoys. They’re both ancient pure-blood families that dip their toes into some really ugly stuff, Lily. Dark stuff. Everyone tolerates them because so filthy rich and well-connected, but…I don’t want to tell you what to do, but I’d really, really advise you to stay away from them in the future.”

“Got it,” said Lily. “Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. Blacks and Malfoys are persona non grata.”

Florence looked relieved by this declaration. Lily’s gaze, however, lingered on the vile blonde couple standing beside the younger Black. As disgusted as she was by them, she also found herself a tiny bit fascinated. She’d never had such a detailed glimpse into the world of the so-called pure-blood elite. For all its glitter and gold, it didn’t seem like a very nice place.

Lily turned back to Florence. “What about the Potters?” she asked, because she couldn’t quite stop herself. “Are they…like that?”

Florence looked shocked. “Merlin, no! No, of course not. They’re not even in the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Not that it matters, obviously,” she hastily amended, and Lily had to resist rolling her eyes. Florence herself was a member of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight but was always deeply concerned with reminding Lily that she wasn’t a bigot. “They’ve actually got a bit of a reputation for being quite progressive, the Potters,” Florence went on. “My dad did some work with Mr. Potter, back before he sold Sleekeazy’s — did you know his dad invented Sleekeazy’s?”

“I did, yeah,” Lily admitted, biting back a smile at the irony of James Potter’s father inventing a potion meant to tame wild hair.

“Wonderful stuff,” said Florence earnestly. “I use it all the time. Anyway, like I said, my dad worked with him for a bit, and he said James’s dad was outright political.” She gave a light little laugh, as though being ‘political’ was a sort of amusing, eccentric quirk. “Mr. Potter actually got in a bit of trouble a few years ago when he publicly called Abraxas Malfoy a ‘bigoted old buffoon,’ I think it was. It was all over the papers. No, they’re very pro-Muggle, the Potters. They’re known for it.”

This was all news to Lily, who had never known anything of the Potters beyond the fact that they were disgustingly rich and owned a big country house. She had always assumed, given how chummy Potter and Black had been since day one, that the two boys had grown up together, that their privileged, pure-blood upbringings must’ve been one in the same. What was it Severus had told her back in first year? People like Sirius Black don’t like people like us.

For no good reason, Lily found her thoughts pulled back to that horrible day by the lake last term, when Severus had called her the M-word. The shock on James’s face when she’d yelled at him for defending her.

“I’d NEVER call you a — you-know-what!”

She pushed this memory away impatiently. James Potter had infiltrated her thoughts far more times today than she found reasonable or fair. She blamed Remus for this. That little bombshell he’d dropped before disappearing into the party last night…

“That’s why I was so surprised by what you said about James before,” said Florence, watching her closely. “I just can’t imagine him making a cruel joke about…you know…”

Her blood status.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” said Lily shortly. She had regretted telling Florence about her fourth year drama the moment the tale had slipped from her lips. Even though it had been a very sanitized version — she’d admittedly cleaned up the story, omitting her own agency in admitting the humiliating crush in the first place — the retelling left her feeling just as vulnerable and shamed as the events had done back when she was thirteen years old. Florence’s insistence that James wasn’t like that only made it worse.

Florence seemed to sense that she’d misstepped and looked appropriately chagrined, so Lily made a point to change her tone to something lighter, indifferent. “Like I said, that’s all ancient history. Anyway, are you and Potter together yet, or…?”

There, she applauded herself, Well done. She almost managed to sound like she didn’t care. Which, of course, she didn’t.

Florence laughed. “You overestimate my charms. I ran into him in the library earlier today, actually, and made my intentions embarrassingly obvious, but he’s a bit oblivious, I think…”

Lily smiled, or at least she hoped that’s what her face was doing.

“And what about you?” asked Florence. “How are things going with Harvey?”

Harvey. Right. Her boy…thing. It didn’t feel right to call him her boyfriend. They’d only been on one proper date to Hogsmeade, after all. They’d shared a few little hookups around the castle since then, which had admittedly been fun, and then she’d met up with him yesterday to watch the match…and been bored out of her skull. She tried to convince herself that this was because of Quidditch, but it wasn’t. It was Harvey.

“I have to break up with him,” sighed Lily at last.

“Oh no! What happened?”

“Absolutely nothing, that’s the problem. There’s just no spark, you know? He’s very nice and pretty…and I should be head-over-heels, but I’m just…not.”

Her friend nodded sympathetically, and Lily found herself wondering whether Florence felt that spark whenever she spoke to James and whether he — oh for the love of Merlin, why did she keep thinking about stupid, bloody James Potter?!

As if to distract herself from these treacherous thoughts, Lily’s gaze flitted back over to the blonde couple and the smaller replication of Sirius Black just as Professor Slughorn strolled into view and greeted them with a simpering enthusiasm that made her skin crawl. She realized with abrupt clarity that she did not want to be at this party anymore.

“I think I’m going to head back to my dorm,” she told Florence. “Slughorn’s all distracted with the happy couple, he won’t miss me.”

“Oh, don’t leave just because of that horrible Malfoy man…”

“I’m not,” Lily said, and this was only half of a lie. “I’m just feeling a little partied out, that’s all. Stayed up too late last night.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve heard the Gryffindor Quidditch parties can be quite something. Do you want me to walk back with you?”

“No, that’s all right, Flor. I know you wanted to do some networking tonight. I’ll catch up with you another time, okay?”

It was easy to lie to Florence and easier still to slip out of the office unnoticed, such was the general hubbub of Slughorn’s cocktail parties. The quiet corridors were an instant relief. As soon as the door swung shut, she sunk into a sigh she didn’t even know she was holding.

Lily had been attending Slughorn’s parties for about a year now, and she’d gotten rather good at them on the whole. She’d learned how to mingle, how to hold a conversation with the most boring of guests, how to hold herself so she looked like she belonged. She’d even met some interesting people, made some useful contacts, played the game to perfection. God knows she’d need all the help she could get building a career if the so-called Wizard Protection Laws passed.

But it took a toll, the mingling, the pretending, the watching as Slughorn salivated over rich, connected pure-bloods who treated her with such blatant disdain. It was all a visceral reminder that Lily did not belong here. Not really. Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy were the perfect illustration of what awaited her outside these castle walls. At best, bigotry and condescension. At worst, well…

Of course, it was hardly a utopia of justice inside the castle. Lily had learned the hard way over the years just what being a Muggle-born at Hogwarts truly meant. It meant rolling your shoulders and pushing through the endless slog of slurs and contempt from your classmates. It meant living every day on guard for something worse than a cruel word, walking corridors constantly tense, waiting for the splash of mud in your face or a curse hurled from around the corner. It meant well-meaning pure-blood friends who had no idea of the reality of your life telling you to cheer up and not take it all so seriously.

The memory of Malfoy’s sneer still burned in her memory. “Enjoy these parties while you can,” he’d warned her. “I wouldn’t count on how many more you’ll be allowed to attend…”

With this daunting statement echoing in her brain, Lily reached the portrait of the Fat Lady that guarded Gryffindor Tower, muttered the password, and climbed through the portrait hole. The common room still had that air of post-party stupor that lingered like alcohol on breath, and as she sought out an empty armchair, she noticed Marlene sitting like a little planet orbited by a group of admirers, all talking enthusiastically about the match, or so Lily assumed. A smile tugged at her lips.

The admirers dispersed as Lily crossed the common room, and Lily took their place, dropping herself into the chair across from Marlene. “How’s it going, Quidditch Hero?”

Marlene looked up at her, frowning slightly as though she wasn’t sure how to respond to this. “I can’t tell if you’re patronizing me.”

“I’m not,” laughed Lily. “I’m really proud of you. You were amazing yesterday.”

Marlene considered this for a moment, and then a small smile inched its way across her face. “I was pretty good, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah, you were.”

“People keep coming over to tell me that,” said Marlene matter-of-factly. “It’s…nice, but very distracting. I’m trying to finish this Charms essay.” She shot another glance at Lily. “Missed you at the party last night.”

“Oh, yeah. I turned in shortly after ‘broomstick shots’ became a thing. A prefect needs plausible deniability, you know.” Of course, that wasn’t the whole reason she’d decided to call it a night, but she wasn’t about to delve into that now. “Did you have fun?”

“I don’t usually like parties,” said Marlene rather clinically. “They’re loud and distracting and pointless, but…yes. I think I did have fun.”

Lily grinned. “I’m glad.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at one of Slughorn’s parties?”

“I left early. It was miserable.”

She expected Marlene to interrogate her about the details of the party, to tell her off for being ungrateful, for squandering such an important networking opportunity, but to her surprise Marlene just shook her head. “I will never understand you. As a matter of fact, I’ve given up trying. Weeks of studying, and all I’ve learned is that one day you’re going to have a cholesterol problem.”

“Oh, good,” said Lily. “I do like to think myself inscrutable.”

Marlene fell silent for a moment, and Lily thought she’d returned her attention entirely to her Charms essay, until the other girl said very quietly: “Thank you.”

Lily blinked in surprise. “For what?”

“For getting me on the Quidditch team.”

“You got yourself on the team, Marlene. I just connected the dots, that’s all.”

“Not many people would have done so.”

Lily flashed her a grin. “What can I say? I’m inscrutable.”

Marlene did go back to her essay after that, and Lily pulled out her own book. She ought to work on her Charms essay as well, but she was nearly at the end of Bad Blood: The Politics of Purity, and she wanted to finish it before the next Hogsmeade weekend so she could return it to Dorcas. It was a fascinating, infuriating book that somehow put to words everything she’d always known was true about the Wizarding world’s bigotry but never had the language or research to articulate. In light of her little run-in with Lucius Malfoy this evening, it felt like particularly apt reading.

Her attention, however, would not hold. She rubbed her temples, fighting off the urge to just curl up in her armchair and take a nap. She hadn’t been lying to Florence when she’d told her she hadn’t had much sleep the night before. Though it was true she’d retreated to the comfortable solitude of her four-poster bed long before the party reached its unruly conclusion, sleep had eluded her all the same. She’d tossed and turned all night, trapped in a tangle of her own thoughts…and the reason for that was, at present, seated directly across the common room.

James Potter was bent over a desk with Remus Lupin. They appeared to be arguing over the spread of parchment laid before them — not angrily but vigorously, as though debating something with obvious enthusiasm. They were well out of earshot from her armchair across the room, but she couldn’t help but notice that James seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. Remus, for his part, responded to James’s questions calmly, studiously, eventually pulling out an enormous library book and rifling through its pages.

At one point, James stood up to get a better look at the book, both boys peering so intently at the text that their heads bumped together. Then Remus pointed a triumphant finger at the page, and James let out a loud whoop! that made several people look over. Unfazed by the attention and evidently quite pleased with whatever Remus had just discovered, James leaned over and tousled the other boy’s hair until Remus smacked him away, a reluctant grin on his face. Then, with an expression of utmost satisfaction, James returned to his seat and reclined, tipping the chair back as he stretched and folded his arms behind his head.

Lily hadn’t realized how intently she’d been observing the two of them until James seemed to feel her gaze and turned to look towards her. She snapped her head away so quickly she got a crick her neck; a hot flush burned her cheeks.

It doesn’t make any difference, what Remus said, she told herself for about the twelve hundredth time that day. He doesn’t fancy you, and even if he did, it doesn’t make any difference.

But apparently it did make a difference, at least a little, because that was the very question that had kept her up all night: Does he fancy me?

She wanted to dismiss the whole line of inquiry as trivial and unimportant, a frivolous distraction from the more hefty, life-and-death matters that Lucius Malfoy had so gleefully shoved in her face at Slughorn’s party…but despite her best efforts at disinterest, the words Remus had accidentally spilled at last night’s celebration had battered their way around her brain all day long.

“Getting turned down by the girl you fancy is never easy.”

Remus must be wrong. James Potter did not fancy her. He never had. Hadn’t he once declared that he wouldn’t date Lily if she were the last girl in school? And yes, all right, they’d only been about thirteen then, but hadn’t he striven to make his position painfully clear over the years that followed? All his endless, merciless little jokes and digs. Frogs down the back of her robes in Transfiguration, trip jinxes in the hallway, sly comments, constant teasing…

No, Remus had misunderstood, that was all. James asking her out last year had been nothing more than a cruel continuation of a longstanding joke in which she played the unenviable part of punchline. There was absolutely no evidence or reason to believe otherwise, except…

Except that Remus was one of James’s closest friends, and he had seemed genuinely surprised by her assertion that James hadn’t meant it when he’d asked her out. He’d know, wouldn’t he?

For the briefest of moments, Lily toyed with the idea that this was some new, elaborate ruse into which James had roped Remus, a way to trick Lily into admitting that she still fancied him, so that he could spread it around school and stoke the fires of an old, amusing scandal. She quickly discarded that idea, however. Remus would never do something so nasty and that seemed cruelly complex even for James Potter. His little pranks had never felt particularly Machiavellian, just an ongoing expression of amusement at the mere existence of her.

But the truth was that on some level she wanted to believe it was all a plot, she wanted to believe that Remus was in on the joke, however horrible it may be, because if that wasn’t the case…then all of this pointed her in the direction of a deeply uncomfortable reckoning. She would have to face the possibility that what Remus had suggested was in fact true: that James Potter fancied her — or at least he had last year; that his bombastic attempts at asking her out had been genuine, if ill-advised; that what she had taken for mockery had actually been been the outward displays of a boyish crush; that his coolness and distance this year was not merely a return to his usual disdain but the tending of a wounded ego and bruised heart.

Could all that be true? It seemed impossible. And yet…

She raked through her memory for the first time he’d asked her out. It had been in the common room — no, that wasn’t right — it had been in the corridor, the morning after a truly terrible day. Right. That day: the day Alodie Blunt had been telling everyone who’d listen that Lily had seduced James into cheating on her (which Lily most certainly had not); the day Isolde Greengrass had thrown mud in her face and Professor Dearborn — the only Muggle-born teacher Lily had ever known — had had his office vandalized with a Dark Mark; the day Lily and Mary had a blowout fight that seemed to be the ending of their friendship.

When James Potter had caught up with her the morning following that horrid day and suggested in his jokey, teasing way that she date him, Lily had been in no mood for banter, no mood to be the punchline in his favorite bit. She’d lost her temper and stormed off, leaving him behind before he could even utter a word in response. Looking back at it now, she could remember how bewildered he’d seemed. How disappointed.

Had that been genuine? Or was she just inventing that memory because she liked the idea of it?

If it had been genuine, it had also been remarkably bad timing on his part. But of course, James hadn’t known any of that was going on. Well, all right, he did know about the Alodie nonsense, so he really had no excuse for his arrogant tone-deafness there (but boys are daft, she thought). The other stuff though — the literal mudslinging and the Dark Marks — how could he have known what was on her mind that day?

What are you doing? she interrupted herself furiously. Why are you defending him? You loathe him.

She did. She loathed him. And he’d behaved abhorrently. Ignorant of her private struggles or not, if he’d had any decency at all, he would’ve left her alone after she’d blown up at him in the corridor that day, but he hadn’t. He’d kept at it and kept up his joking, smirking manner…all the way until she’d shouted at him for hexing Severus at the lake, until he’d asked her if that’s really what she thought of him, until he’d promised her he’d leave her alone.

Until he had, in fact, left her alone.

I think he’s still getting over the whole public rejection and heartbreak thing, repeated the voice of Remus Lupin in her mind.

She dared another glance across the common room. James was bent over the parchment once more, his quill moving in long, broad strokes as though he were drawing something, his attention utterly absorbed by the project before him. She turned quickly away lest he notice her staring again.

If Remus was not mistaken, and if it were all true, Lily would have to face the all too important question that inevitably followed: Did she fancy him?

No, she told herself firmly before the rest of herself could get a word in. She’d been down that road before years ago, and it had caused her nothing but heartache and humiliation. She wasn’t about to make the same mistake again just because Remus had said something that surprised her. The year that followed her admission of a crush on James Potter had been among the worst of her life. Why would she ever do that again?

You’re being unreasonable, said the contrarian who lived in her head and did not like being told what to do. All right, he acted like an idiot thirteen-year-old boy, but you can hardly blame mum’s death on him…

Well of course not, but that was besides the point. The point was…the point was…there was definitely point, she just had to dig around for it a bit…the point was simply that she did not fancy him, so none of the rest of this mattered. All of that was behind her — so far behind her — and…and it didn’t matter if he fancied her, it didn’t change anything, except that maybe, just maybe, it made the guilty twinge in her heart twang a little louder. Only because she’d been rather harsh with him. Not because she fancied him.

She exhaled in relief.

There. That was all right. She’d faced the abyss, asked the dreaded question, and come out stronger. She didn’t fancy him.

She didn’t.

When she finally braved another glance his way, James Potter was gone.

Chapter Text

JAMES

Prawnsaganza

When James awoke the morning after his first Quidditch victory and the house bacchanal that ensued, he was struck first and foremost by the fact that he felt like the human equivalent of sewer sludge. James had experienced a hangover before — having a bit too much to drink was a time-honored post-Quidditch tradition, after all — but never one quite like this. As his liquor-fogged brain reluctantly reintroduced him to consciousness, James became aware of two things. First, he felt like an absolute, fiery pile of shit, and second, there was a bit of parchment spellotaped to his forehead, obscuring his vision.

He raised a sluggish arm to remove the parchment, missed, then tried again. He peeled it off, rolled over, and squinted at the note scrawled on the other side: Talk to her.

It was written in Remus’s looping hand, and it took James precisely two-thirds of a moment to recall what the words meant.

Oh, Merlin.

He squeezed his eyes shut in shame and embarrassment as the details of the previous evening’s overindulgence waved at him merrily through the fog of his hangover. Merlin, he’d been pissed. He remembered talking to his mates — mostly, anyway — but…he hadn’t talked to Lily in that drunken state, had he? Please, for the love of everything that was magical and good, please say he hadn’t talked to Lily…

Motivated by this horrifying thought, James pushed himself up and pulled back the curtains of his bed. Sunlight greeted him like a slap in the face. He fumbled around for his glasses, which were mercifully nearby, then all but tumbled out of bed.

The dormitory was empty, and when James located his watch, he realized why: It was almost one o’clock in the afternoon. He considered what felt like the insurmountable effort of changing out of his pajamas and then realized he was not in his pajamas; he was still wearing his Quidditch robes from the day before. With a grunt, he shrugged and trudged towards the spiral stairs.

He regretted his descent as soon as he reached the common room, for it was filled with students who seemed desperate to talk as loudly as they could, their words like little nails being driven into his skull. He peered around blearily for his mates.

“Someone had a good night!” called a voice that might as well have been a blunt instrument to the brain. James turned to see Aisha Collins grinning at him. Apart from being in yesterday’s clothes, it occurred to James that he hadn’t made the slightest effort to tame his hair. He probably looked as hungover as he felt. Oh well. Those were problems for fully-sober James in a few hours. He suspected that James had quite a few problem with which to contend. What was one more?

“Talking, Collins,” groaned James. “Why with the noise-making of the mouth? Too. Loud.”

Aisha laughed (like the shattering of glass in the frontal lobe) and clapped him on the back. “Your mates are over there, and I think they have food. Go recover, my properly-sozzled Captain. You earned it.”

His mates were indeed over there, and they all grinned at him as he collapsed into an armchair.

“All right, cross that one off the bucket list, lads,” said Sirius cheerfully. “Wake up before Prongs. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Must you shout?” complained James.

“How are you feeling?” asked Remus. James shot him a pained look and didn’t deign to answer. Remus snickered.

“Here,” said Peter, and he tossed him a Cornish pasty they’d no doubt nicked from the kitchens, which was the first good thing to happen to James all morning.

After he’d devoured the pasty, then downed a large glass of water, and then attacked a second pasty, James began to feel like something resembling a human again. He was at least aware of all of his limbs. That was an improvement. He looked to Remus. “I got your note.”

“Oh, good. I was hoping it would get your attention.”

James took a bite of a third pasty and gave it a thoughtful chew. He decided to proceed delicately. “Am I to assume, by the contents of that note…that I did not, in fact, talk to her…last night?”

“You did, briefly,” said Remus, and James’s eyes widened in horror. Remus smiled. “No reason to throw yourself out of the tower though, literally all you said was hello, and then you took off.”

“Okay, open with that next time, please.”

“Do you remember our conversation?”

James rubbed his temples and admitted that he did, mostly, though the finer details were somewhat obscured in the boozy haze of his whiskey-soaked brain.

“You were very passionate about stair inequality,” Sirius told him.

“What? Stair inequality? What the hell does that mean?”

“Don’t ask me, but clearly it’s been weighing heavily on your mind.”

James glanced from Sirius to Remus to Peter; all three boys wore similar expressions of amusement. He sighed. “Can I ask a favor?”

The boys agreed that he could, in fact, ask.

“Can we just pretend last night never happened?”

“Mmm,” considered Sirius. “No.”

“Please? I don’t remember everything I said, but I know I was really pissed, so—”

“Can I make an observation?” interrupted Remus.

James cast him a suspicious side-eye. “Can you be stopped?”

“No.”

“You have the floor,” said James wearily.

“Thank you. Twice now you have confessed to us deep and troubling feelings regarding a certain Gryffindor prefect who is not me—”

“Aw, Moony, I have deep and troubling feelings about you too—”

“—and both times you’ve had to be either high or drunk to make this admission.”

“Do you have a point, or are you just drawing attention my less admirable moments?”

“My point,” said Remus patiently, “is that this is clearly something that’s been bothering you—”

“Even more than stair inequality,” interjected Sirius.

“—and suppressing it and pretending it’s not there isn’t going to fix things. You have to face this head on, or you’ll just continue to fester.”

“Fester?”

“Like an old, moldy cheese.”

“Does cheese fester?”

“You should listen to him, Prongs,” said Sirius. “He knows what he’s talking about. Moony here wrote the book on festering.”

“Do as I say, not as I do,” said Remus serenely.

James considered his friend’s words and realized there was some truth to them. The question of Lily Evans was indeed a festering wound on his psyche. Healing it, however, was much easier said than done. Talk to her might be good advice for someone else, but James had never managed to say two words to the girl without promptly shoving his foot directly in his mouth.

“Look, there she is.” Peter pointed a finger across the common room, and indeed, there she was: descending the stairs from the girls’ dormitory and tying back the cascade of her red hair with a casual grace as she headed towards the portrait hole. He'd seen her do this a hundred times, but it was a marvel the way she made even the most mundane actions seem like little miracles. “Go talk to her,” prodded Peter.

“What? No!” James protested, and he sunk quickly into his chair as Lily passed by. “I can’t talk to her like this,” he said with a defensive gesture at his visibly hungover state. “And besides, I haven’t worked out what I’m going to say yet.”

“Just speak from your heart.” Apparently Peter was full of suggestions today.

James scoffed. “My heart is notoriously inarticulate.”

“Yeah, I’m actually going to side with James on this one,” said Remus. “We should think this through properly.”

“Thank you,” said James with a terse nod. Lily disappeared out of the portrait hole, and he sat up a bit straighter. “In the meantime, we have more important matters to attend to.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It’s November. Snivellus has had that lucky potion for two months now. We have to act soon.”

Remus’s expression tightened somewhat at this. James knew that the specter of Snape using Felix Felicis to enact his revenge haunted his friend, even though Remus rarely brought it up. Snape, for his part, had kept his distance from the boys, and apart from the occasional snide comment in class, James had done his best to do the same. No point poking a sleeping dragon, and all that. But the clock was ticking, and James increasingly felt that if they were going to act, they had better do it soon.

“Maybe he’s already used it,” said Peter. “Maybe Snivellus had a really good day last month, and we just didn’t know.”

“We’d know,” said Sirius darkly. He turned to James: “So what’s the plan?”

James scratched his nose. “I have to have a plan? I still have half a bottle of firewhiskey sludging its way through my veins, I thought maybe you lot could come up with the plan.”

“We have a plan,” said Peter. “Just…not for the heist.”

“For what then?”

“Operation Ousting Otto,” said Sirius. “You haven’t forgotten, have you? ‘Every Marauder must do his bit.’ Those were your words.”

James shot him an offended look. “Of course I haven’t forgotten.” And he hadn’t, of course he hadn’t, but between Quidditch, late-night cartography excursions, and the emotional wobbles of his romantic woes, James’s commitment to ruining their professor’s life had admittedly been somewhat spotty. “What’s the plan?”

“Prawns,” said Sirius.

“Prawns?” said James.

“Prawns,” agreed Remus.

A pause.

“…I have follow up questions,” admitted James.

“We’re going to fill his office from floor to ceiling!” announced Peter, hardly able to contain his excitement at the prospect of so many shellfish. “So when he opens the door in the morning…SWOOP. Prawnsaganza.”

James thought about this. “I’m revolted but intrigued. How are you going to do this, though? I thought Professor Carpet-Muffles got a new lock on his door after the incident with the Snargaluff vine?”

“He did,” said Sirius proudly. “That’s what will make this feat all the more satisfying.”

“So…how?”

“Remember that little tunnel Wormtail found? Behind that statue of Mellfyd the Malicious on the third floor?”

“Yeah…” said James slowly, recalling the evening that had prompted this whole operation, when Peter had overheard Professor Carter-Myles saying horrible things about Remus’s lycanthropy. He turned to Peter. “But you said the way in was blocked by a vent.”

“It is,” said Peter, “but you know what’s small enough to fit through a vent?”

“Prawns?”

“Prawns.”

“You’re going to shove enough prawns to fill an office floor to ceiling one by one through a single vent?”

It was Remus who spoke this time. “Of course not,” he said with brisk practicality. “We’re going to use Geminio.”

A duplication spell. Of course. Good old Moony, thought James fondly. Ever the tactician.

“Peter will sneak into the tunnel as a rat,” continued Remus, not unlike a distinguished general plotting out his next attack, “and transform back into human once he’s far enough along down the crawlspace. Then he’ll shove a bag of prawns through the vent and cast Geminio—”

“I’ve been practicing and I’ve nearly got it—”

“The prawns will duplicate exponentially, and then—”

“Let me guess,” said James. “Prawnsaganza?”

“Precisely.”

James considered the plot. It was, as a matter of fact, rather brilliant, and he told them so. “I just have one more question.”

“Yes?”

“Why prawns?”

Sirius snickered. “Wormtail overheard dear old Cunty-Biles telling Professor Flitwick that he loathes them, so Remus suggested we gift him a lifetime supply.”

“Loathed?” said Remus innocently. “No, no, I specifically heard Peter say ‘loved’. He loves them. We’re helping.”

“Urgh,” James pulled a face. “Please don’t tell me Carter-Myles and I have something in common.”

“You don’t like prawns?”

“No.”

“Who doesn’t like prawns?”

“They’re revolting,” said James. “Horrible little sea-beasties with their beady eyes and their…squiggly little legs.” He shuddered.

“I take it you don’t want to go to the kitchens with us to steal some prawns?”

“I think I’m going to go soak off the rest of my hangover in the bath, but rest assured, I’m very supportive of your efforts of warfare via crustacean. Sally on.”

James rather overstayed his welcome in the bathtub, lingering until the water had cooled and all the frothy little bubbles had dissipated across the stretch of a soapy sea. By the time he emerged, a bit pruney but noticeably nicer-scented, his friends were still out on their prawn-hunting excursion. After a brief flirtation with the idea of crawling back into bed, James decided to go to the library.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly. He’d given up on coming across a book helpfully titled The Secret Backdoor Entrance to Slytherin Common Room and How to Get In Without Being Noticed, but the puzzle of the map and the heist were weighing on him — and both were a comfortable distraction from less palatable concerns.

The library was quiet and dusty as it always was, populated with the normal crowd of Sunday swotters. James made his way to one of the less-frequented corners, collected a stack of books on Hogwarts lore at random, and sat down to read. Perhaps inspiration would strike somewhere along the age-stained pages.

The map had grown exponentially the past two months, both in form — from the brief scribbled notes and lists of landmarks to the tacked up sketches that papered their dormitory wall — but also in James’s imagination. He itched to finish it. It would be very useful of course, but more than mere utility, the map itself had begun to feel like the goal. If they pulled it off — when they pulled it off — it would be the culmination of all the Marauders’ magic, might, and mischief. It would be a lasting document to prove that they were here, that they did something incredible together. It would be their legacy.

Perhaps sixteen was a little young to be plotting one’s own legacy, but it was on his mind all the same. After all, every letter from his mum these days kept the idea of endings in his mind.

Your dad is doing much better this week, she’d written last month. We went for a lovely turn around the garden today, which was the first time he’d been outside all month…

Then a few weeks later: I had sweet old Bathilda over for tea today, and she told me the most fascinating tales of the witches of pre-revolutionary France, you would’ve quite enjoyed it. Your dad couldn’t join unfortunately, as he took a bad turn last Tuesday and hasn’t been up and about much. Don’t worry though, darling, the Healers say it’s all quite normal…

And the most recent letter: Your dad and I are so looking forward to having you and Sirius home for Christmas. It will need to be a rather quiet holiday this year I’m afraid, but I’m sure you boys won’t mind…

James shook his head and turned the page of his book, as though he might clear these fragments of letters from his thoughts by stuffing his mind full of other words.

“Hi James,” said a voice, more effectively clearing his mind than any tower of texts. He looked up to see Florence Fawley standing before him, a soft smile on her very pretty face.

“Oh, hey Florence.”

She continued smiling at him, and James felt he ought to say something else, but he couldn’t think what. Though he’d like to blame the hangover for this mental torpidity, he knew — no, you know what? Forget that. He was just going to blame the hangover. Stupid hangover.

“Battling your N.E.W.T.s?” said Florence, nodding at the pile of books on his table.

“Yeah,” said James, hoping she wouldn’t read the titles too closely. He waved a hand vaguely at the mess of papers and texts around him. “Riotous fun, sixth year is.”

Florence laughed her pretty, tinkling sort of laugh. “Truly,” she said. “I just wanted to tell you congratulations. On your Quidditch victory. You’ve put together a really impressive team this year.”

“Thanks,” said James, who never quite tired of hearing that. “I’m pretty pleased with them myself.”

“I’m glad Ravenclaw doesn’t have to play you for a while,” said Florence. “And I mean that as a compliment.”

James grinned and brushed his fingers through his hair. “Well, the trepidation is mutual.”

Another laugh from Florence. He felt a faint flutter in his stomach when she laughed and made a point to examine that later. After all, Florence had told Lily that she wanted him to ask her out. He could do it. He could do it right now and have a date with a pretty, popular Quidditch player, who by any rights should have been exactly his type.

Do it! he told himself. Ask her out! Go on, you idiot. She’s right there, and she wants you to!

But he couldn’t bring himself to form the question.

“Well,” said Florence after a moment of this awkward silence. “I’ve got to get on. Slughorn’s having a little cocktail party this evening. Any chance you’re going?”

“‘Fraid not,” said James, still internally berating himself to get his act together and ask her out.

“Pity,” said Florence. “I’m sure it would be more fun if you did. Maybe next time. See you around, James.”

“Yeah,” said James miserably, hating himself. “See you.”

And she walked away. James groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. Why hadn’t he done it? Why hadn’t he asked her out? He liked her, and she clearly liked him! Was he such a masochist that that was a turnoff? Sure, talking to Florence was nothing like the punch-drunk sensation he felt whenever he was in the same room as Lily Evans, but wasn’t that a positive thing, really? Surely love shouldn’t have to leave you miserable and wretched in order to be any good?

Why couldn’t he just forget Lily? Why couldn’t what he’d told his mates a hundred times be true? Why couldn’t he just move on?

He decided it was because he and Lily still had unfinished business between them. He needed to clear the air with her, like Remus suggested, and then, once he was sure were there no more misunderstandings, no more misinterpretations of his intentions…then it would be over. Then he could move on.

He just had to talk to her.

The afternoon passed in a hungover blur until eventually James gave up on the library and trudged back to Gryffindor Tower. It had been a wholly unsuccessful trip to the library, though to be fair, he hadn’t really had a goal, so he wasn’t sure what would have qualified as ‘successful.’ Finding a book that would solve all his cartography problems? Or perhaps a pamphlet on how to get over a relationship that never happened? A handy guide to asking out the pretty girl who actually fancied him?

Alas.

He scanned the common room for his friends and spotted Remus sitting alone at a table by the window, surrounded by stacks of books and a spread of parchment. Homework, he assumed. It took James a good bit of time to make his way across the room, as all along the way, Gryffindors stopped to clap him on the back and congratulate him on a match well won. Eventually he arrived and dropped himself into an empty chair. “Hullo,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Where are the others?”

“Finishing up final preparations for this evening’s outing,” said Remus.

“Prawnsaganza is go?”

“Indeed. We thought it would be best to do it in the evening, so that our esteemed professor is greeted first thing in the morning with our — ah — gift.”

“A veritable landslide of uncooked prawns, in all their smelly, slimy, decapodal horror.” James shuddered. “I hope I never get on your bad side.”

“Some people like prawns,” said Remus. “Many people, in fact.”

“They’re salty cockroaches.”

“I’m sensing some unresolved prawn-related trauma here.”

“Yeah, I ate one once. Never recovered.”

Remus snorted.

“For the record,” added James, “I thoroughly approve of the plot. I’m just going to approve of it from several feet away.”

“Lucky for you, this one is all Wormtail. Although Sirius is insisting we get up early to see the results.”

James gave his chin a thoughtful scratch. “I would enjoy seeing Crusty-Muffin’s face post-prawnpocalypse.”

“Ooh, prawnpocalypse. That’s better than prawnsaganza.”

“Right?”

“You know,” observed Remus, “if you say ‘prawns’ enough times, it starts to sound like ‘Prongs.’”

“You take that back!” demanded James, aghast. While Remus snickered, James turned his attention to the spread of parchment on the table, what he had previously assumed to be homework. Closer inspection, however, showed rough sketches of castle floor plans: the beginnings of their map. “What are you working on here?”

“Just toying a bit,” said Remus. He wore that somewhat cagy look of his that usually meant he had a really good — or devious — idea. “As a matter of fact, your little stairs rant last night got me thinking.”

“Oh? Go on.”

“Well, the stairs in this castle — apart from being numerous, as you kindly pointed out — they move, don’t they?”

“Yeah, that’s a design challenge we haven’t resolved yet, I know…”

“Well, it got me thinking about how the castle is dynamic, constantly changing. The map must be too, or it’ll be useless. I think I’ve found a few spells that will help us with that, but then I thought…if we’re tracking the movements of staircases, what else could we track?”

James frowned. Maybe it was the hangover, but he wasn’t quite keeping up. “What else is there to track?”

“People,” said Remus. “Everyone in the castle.”

“Sorry? Everyone in the castle? Is that even possible?”

“That’s what I’m trying to work out.”

“Why though?”

“Think of it as a security a measure,” said Remus. “A failsafe, if you will. Imagine if I gave you the slip one night on a full moon. You’d need to be able to locate me — and fast. If the map tracked our locations, you could just pull it out and find me before I…did anything bad.”

James considered this. The idea had merit, he had to admit. They’d had more than one heart-stuttering moment when Moony got a little out of hand. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a backup plan…

“Okay,” James reasoned, “but why everyone? Wouldn’t it be easier to just track…you?”

“That was my thought originally,” admitted Remus, “but what good would it do us to only show where I am? You could look at the map and see me halfway across the school grounds but have no idea that there was another person nearby whose status as human was in dire jeopardy.”

“True.” James was quickly warming up to the idea, though for slightly different reasons than Remus. “And think of how useful it would be to always know where Filch is…or better yet: Snivellus. Moony,” he said excitedly, “this could completely change the game!”

Remus smiled. “I thought you’d say that.”

“Still…” James gestured at the bits of map spread before them. “That’s a lot of ground to cover, and a hell of a lot of people. How would we even do this?”

“The Homonculus Charm.”

“The who-what-now?”

“Homonculus,” repeated Remus, a paradigm of patience. He pulled out an enormous leather-bound book and placed it on the table. After a few moments flipping through the pages, he gestured for James’s attention, and James stood to get a better view.

“There,” said Remus triumphantly, and he pointed at a paragraph of cramped text that read: The Homonculus Charm is a tracking spell frequently used by Aurors when hunting Dark Wizards. The charm, when placed upon an unsuspecting quarry, can be linked back to a physical marker, such as a compass or map.

And all at once, James was hit with the brilliance of the idea, the incredible opportunities it sparked, the problems it would solve. He couldn’t help himself: He let out a great whoop! of joy.

“Moony, you’re a bloody genius, did you know that?” he said, leaning over to tousle the other boy’s hair. Remus swatted him away, but he was grinning.

“There’s still a lot to work out,” Remus admitted. “It’s just an idea.”

“A damn good one,” said James as he dropped himself back into his chair. He folded his arms behind his head while he happily considered the fresh new potential of the project. Pulling off a heist when you already knew where everyone was…?

His imaginings were interrupted, however, by the faint prickle of perception that told him someone was staring at him. He turned to look across the common room just in time to see Lily Evans look hastily away. His stomach lurched.

Talk to her.

Maybe he’d write a script. Better yet, maybe he’d get Moony to write a script for him. He could practice it, memorize it, get everything just right, and then…

Someone cleared his throat beside him. James pulled his gaze from Lily to see that Sirius and Peter had returned, pockets undoubtedly full of prawns.

Sirius grinned. “Go time.”

Chapter Text

LILY

Mudblood

Exhausted from the weekend’s indulgences and stresses, Lily allowed herself to sleep in until the last possible moment on Monday morning. This was pleasant, until of course the moment of reckoning when she realized if she didn’t get a move on, she wouldn’t get any breakfast before Potions. With this sobering thought, she hurled herself out of the dorm in her usual whirlwind of morning chaos. She was always doing this, and she chided herself appropriately as she dashed down the spiral stairs, tying up her hair in a careless ponytail as she went. She knew she must look a mess, but so be it.

It seemed a touch undignified to race through the corridors (even in pursuit of as noble a goal as toast), so she slowed her pace to a slightly-anxious trot and took a sharp turn on the third corridor for one of her handy shortcuts. And yes, she was moving a tad speedier than altogether advisable, and yes, she wasn’t exactly looking where she was going — the stone scowl of Mellfyd the Malicious always seemed to draw her gaze; it was so…scowly — and yes, she wasn’t altogether the most coordinated person even when fully rested — but none of those factors ought to have caused what happened next, which was that her foot slipped on some slick something, and she went careening to the floor with a surprised shriek and thunderous thud.

“All right, Evans?” called a voice, and she looked up to see James Potter jogging over to her. It was only because she was still twenty-five percent asleep that she thought he looked rather handsome in the morning’s dappled sunlight…

God, she needed a cup of tea.

“Need a hand? That wasn’t me, by the way,” he added, no doubt in reference to his trip jinx-happy days of yore. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d tripped in the corridor only to find that Potter was the culprit.

“No,” she said, shaking her head more out of sleepiness than refusal. “I slipped on…is that a prawn?” She looked down and found that the offending object that had caused her tumble was, in fact, decidedly prawn-shaped.

“Huh,” said James. “Wonder how that got there. Funny place for a prawn.”

Lily peered at a small crevice behind the base of Mellfyd the Malicious’s statute, from which a whole slew of prawns appeared to be steadily oozing.

“Why are there prawns spilling out from behind that statue?”

“Search me,” said James, and he offered her a hand up again despite her earlier refusal. She accepted this time, and if it weren’t for the fact that her attention was focused solely on the ever-growing mountain of prawns in the corridor, she might’ve noticed — and not for the first time — what exceptionally nice hands he had. But she didn’t. Nope. She absolutely did no such thing.

“Just as a matter of caution,” said James lightly. “I would suggest not lingering here for much longer. In fact, I’d avoid the whole third floor. Second, too.”

Lily narrowed her eyes. “What did you do?”

“Me? Not a thing. Just a concerned citizen, that’s all. You’ve got to watch out for prawns. Nasty little blighters, aren’t they?”

“I love prawns,” said Lily. “Just not…raw and on the floor.”

“Floor prawns,” shuddered James. “They’re the worst kind.” The prawn pile was steadily multiplying. James glanced at it with mild concern. “Right,” he said. “Full disclosure, there’s probably going to be a professor here soon, possibly more than one, and there might even be some shouting, so…were you headed to Potions?”

“Breakfast first,” said Lily, deciding she was too tired and too hungry to bother with this absurdity.

James glanced at his watch. “What, now?”

“I’ve still got ten minutes, and they don’t rip the toast from your hands if you’re a little late.”

“Good to know,” said James. Another glance down at the pile of prawns, which was now the height of a small dog. “Well, enjoy breakfast, see you in class…prawn for the road?”

“No, thank you.”

“Good choice.”

Despite her strange little detour, Lily did indeed make it to the Great Hall in time to snag the last few pieces of toast, which she buttered with great haste. The house-elves may not snatch the bread from her desperate clutches, but they might vanish the jam. Only once she had a cup of tea in hand did Lily at last relax just a little.

But not for long.

The Gryffindor table was mostly empty, save for a smattering of latecomers and dilly-dalliers who likely had a free period that morning. As she chewed her toast and tried to wake herself up, her sleepy gaze landed on an abandoned copy of the Daily Prophet, and Lucius Malfoy’s words made their slippery way back into her consciousness.

She set down her toast, appetite suddenly gone. She stared at the newspaper for a long moment, a wave of trepidation lapping at the shores of her mind, then she stood abruptly, collected the paper, and returned to her seat. Whoever had read the issue last had left it folded open to the society section, and it took her a frustrating moment to fumble back to the front page.

And there it was.

WIZARD PROTECTION LAWS PASSED IN LANDMARK VOTE

Lily stared, her breath catching in her throat. She couldn’t even bring herself to read the article, she just stared at the seven words of the headline, seven inky words that would change her life.

It had happened. It had finally, really, truly happened. Her inequality in this society had just essentially been written into law. She felt ill, as though the heavy dread she’d carried in her stomach all year long had sprung forth and spread through the rest of her body like poison.

She couldn’t quite believe it. She had known — logically, politically — that the legislation was likely to pass, that the Wizengamot was no longer the progressive force it had once been, that bigots like Abraxas Malfoy were pulling strings behind the scenes — yet even in her darkest moments of despair, she hadn’t truly believed it. Some final shred of innocence she’d clung to had insisted that justice would prevail, that good would triumph.

That shred of innocence was now gone.

It had happened.

“I suppose you’ve seen the good news,” said an oily voice from behind her. Lily lowered the newspaper and turned to see Corin Mulciber and a few of his creepy friends leering at her. Severus, she noted with the faintest glimmer of relief, was not among them. She turned determinedly away. She didn’t want to engage with the likes of Mulciber today. There was nothing to be gained from it, and she couldn’t trust her temper right now.

Mulciber, however, didn’t care what she wanted.

“Oh, come on, sweetheart,” he crooned, slipping onto the bench beside her and leaning uncomfortably close. The heady scent of his cologne was like a slap in the face. “Don’t be so glum. So you can’t work for the Ministry…or Gringotts…or St. Mungo’s…or any other institute of any repute. Never mind. There are plenty of other jobs for a pretty thing like you. From what I hear around school, you have other skills to offer…”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lily saw Evan Rosier miming a hand job. She stared ahead, stone-faced, jaw set.

“I, for one,” continued Mulciber, “happen to be in the market for a new — ah — maid. And you’re a sight prettier than a house-elf, aren’t you?”

He tweaked her chin with his thumb; Lily gave a violent jerk away. “Don’t fucking touch me, you creep,” she spat.

“Language,” chided Mulciber, clearly enjoying himself. “Tsk, tsk, you’ll need to be more respectful of your betters, Mudblood.” Then he reached across the table for an empty teacup and held it out to her with a grin that could only be described as lecherous. “Go on, love. Pour us a cup of tea. We’ll consider it a job interview.”

Lily felt a burning rage rising up like bile in her throat — a rage that wanted to curse, to scorch, to throttle — but she swallowed it, and after a moment’s shuddering pause to regain her composure, she reached for the teapot. An electric jolt of heat from her fingertips.

Mulciber’s jackal grin widened.

She gave him her sweetest smile then proceeded to pour the teapot’s scalding contents directly onto his lap. The older boy leapt backwards off the bench, spluttering and cursing in pain. “You Mudblood whore!” he shrieked.

Lily, satisfied by the high-pitched tone of his voice that the scalding tea really hurt, said nothing in return but looked coolly onward as he howled at her. Spectators were beginning to pay attention now, and out of the corner of her eye, Lily was keenly aware that the other Slytherins had their wands out. They seemed to be awaiting instruction — instruction that Mulciber could not give until he stopped yowling. A few nearby Gryffindors hurried over, but Lily didn’t look at them either. She merely sat stone still with as much as dignity as she could muster.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

She could feel the rage and magic pressing from within, crackling at her fingertips like the silent spell she’d just done to ensure the tea was indeed boiling. That had been foolish. Very, very foolish. And, if it had been anyone but Corin Mulciber, she would say it had been wrong. She felt like a ticking bomb, afraid that at any moment she would lose control and start hexing everyone.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Mulciber was still cursing and shouting, and after a moment of this, Lily realized he was speaking to someone: Professor Carter-Myles had arrived, looking unusually disheveled, and was demanding to know what had happened. Mulciber and his Slytherin friends were all too happy to explain their side. Lily was vaguely aware of Carter-Myles sending Mulciber off to the hospital wing...and then he addressed her.

“And what do you have to say for yourself, Miss Evans?”

Lily stared stonily ahead.

Deep breath in.

“Miss Evans! You will look at me when I address you.”

Deep breath out.

She turned towards him so abruptly, so suddenly, that for half a moment her professor appeared startled by the fire in her eyes.

“Well?” demanded Carter-Myles, recovering himself.

“Didn’t you hear what Mulciber called her?” demanded a new voice — a familiar voice. Lily turned in surprise. Marlene McKinnon was standing in the group of Gryffindors, looking outraged. “He provoked her, he called her a —”

“I don’t care what he called her,” snapped Carter-Myles. “Violence is never an acceptable response.”

At this, Lily let out a soft laugh and spoke at last. “Weren’t you the one who assigned us an essay on the practical uses of the Unforgivable Curses?”

Professor Carter-Myles’ eyes narrowed. “Detention, Evans.”

“Sir?” said Lily.

“Yes?”

“You have a prawn in your lapel.”

“That was completely unfair,” said Marlene breathlessly, catching up with Lily in the entrance hall after she'd abandoned her breakfast, her hunger replaced with a burning pit of nausea. 

“When has anything in this school ever been fair?” snapped Lily, and she stormed off, leaving the other girl behind.

She did not take the stone stairs down to the dungeons for Potions, however, but instead climbed the marble staircase back towards Gryffindor Tower. Lily never skipped classes, particularly not the ones she liked, but she simply didn’t want to be around other people right now. She couldn’t bear it.

When she reached the second floor, she remembered James telling her she might want to avoid it and immediately saw why: a swelling sea of prawns had overtaken the main corridor, and it appeared to be growing. Filch was rather fruitlessly attempting to sweep them into a bin, but they just kept multiplying. She watched for a moment, relishing the distraction, until she saw Carter-Myles approaching with Professor Flitwick in tow. The minute Charms professor still held a cup of tea in his hands, as though Carter-Myles had fetched him directly from the Great Hall.

And Lily realized with great satisfaction that the source of the sea of prawns appeared to be Professor Carter-Myles’ office. She bit back a smile. He deserved to have all his things smell of fish. She hoped it reeked for days.

But she thought she ought not to linger, Carter-Myles’ mood already being sour, so she headed for a distant staircase and continued her climb back to Gryffindor Tower.

By the time she returned to her common room, her brief respite of amusement over the prawn situation had dissipated into an all-consuming dread. She could think of nothing but the Wizard Protection Laws. She read the article through once, then twice, then a third time, until snatches of it stuck in her mind like sludge in a sieve.

The latest effort to root out extremism in the Ministry, the newly-passed Wizard Protection Laws require any witch or wizard of ‘questionable allegiance’ to submit him or herself to a Ministry investigation. Only those cleared of suspicion will be permitted to pursue employment at Wizarding institutions. A ministry official has confirmed these restrictions apply to both Muggle Rights Extremists and the mysterious group known only as Death Eaters...

How clinical, how convenient to ignore the fact that these laws would undoubtedly be used to discriminate against Muggle-borns. After all, her ‘questionable allegiance’ was simply a matter of birth. A Death Eater chose to be a Death Eater. Lily had no choice. She would always be Muggle-born no matter what, and now the fact was enough to have her investigated by the Ministry. To have a rubber stamp held over her name, her prospects, her future. To have all her choices taken away.

The Hogwarts Addendum, the controversial last-minute addition that would recall the right of Muggle-born students to attend the revered school, was not included in the final legislation. Proponents of the addendum insist that they will continue to fight for its passage in a future bill...

Yet another thing to stress over.

Evidently Lily was not alone in her focus on the news, for a group of seventh year students who’d set up at a nearby table had begun loudly discussing the laws amongst themselves. A boy Lily did not know lamented that his brother, who had married a Muggle-born, thought he’d have to go through an investigation now.

“He could lose his job,” said the boy.

“Just for being married to a Muggle-born?” said another.

“If they decide he has extremist ties, yeah.”

“But what do Muggle-borns have to do with extremism? They’re not the ones blowing up cities!”

“It’s all those Muggle rights activists upsetting everyone, innit?”

Yeah, thought Lily bitterly. It’s all the Muggle rights activists’ fault.

“Evans.”

Lily looked up to see Sirius Black sauntering over. Absurdly, he was holding a cup of prawn cocktail, and he wore the sort of amused expression that immediately put her on guard. God, what now?

“I just heard a rumor that Lily Evans, Miss Penny Prefect herself, got a detention this morning.” He dropped himself into the chair across from her, propped his elbows on the table, and placed his chin in his hands, gazing at her with an expression of wistful admiration. “Tell me everything.”

“Sod off, Black.”

“No, no, come on. Don’t be like that. This is a momentous occasion. I’m — dare I say it — proud. Indulge me: Who was it who finally brought you to justice? McGonagall? Flitwick? The Headmaster himself?” He dipped a prawn into the cocktail sauce and took a bite, grinning at her all the while.

Lily’s temper crackled. “You know,” she said testily, “you really ought to get your story straight. Either I’m ‘Penny Prefect’ who does no wrong, or I’m the school slut. I can’t be both Madonna and whore.”

“Whoa, hey,” said Sirius, discarding his teasing manner along with the prawn cocktail as he straightened up in his chair. He regarded her with something akin to concern as he said: “When have I ever called you that?”

“Everyone else does, haven’t you been paying any attention?”

“Guess not,” frowned Sirius.

“Well, ask around. I’m sure anyone would be glad to tell you. And for your information, it was Carter-Myles who gave me the detention.”

At this, Sirius’s expression darkened significantly. “Well, that rather spoils it. What’d he do you for? Laughing too loudly in the corridor? Missing a button on your cloak?”

“Pouring boiling tea onto Corin Mulciber’s crotch.”

Sirius gaped at her, eyebrows shooting up. “Well shit, Evans.”

“He was harassing me,” said Lily, though she didn’t know why she should explain herself to Sirius Black of all people. “Not that Carter-Myles cared.”

“Oh, I have no doubt Mulciber’s shriveled dick deserved it. But still…shit.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Want me to hex him?”

“Who, Mulciber or Carter-Myles?”

“I’m not picky.”

Lily almost smiled. “I’d rather you didn’t. I shouldn’t have done that, and as you so sweetly pointed out, I am Penny Prefect. I shouldn’t be encouraging other students to violence.”

“…She says after parboiling Corin Mulciber’s balls.”

Lily leaned back in her chair, arms crossed as she considered him. Even through her still-clearing haze of fury from this morning, she found herself reflecting on everything Florence had told her about the Blacks — and about Sirius Black in particular. “I met your brother yesterday,” she said, and the amused expression that had returned to Sirius’s face vanished once more.

“What?” he said sharply. “How—? Wait, don’t tell me. One of Sluggy’s little soirées?” His voice was dripping with such disdain that if Lily hadn’t currently felt the same way, she might’ve taken offense.

“Yes. I made the mistake of saying hello. Your cousin Narcissa and her charming fiancé quickly put me in my place.”

Sirius’s dark eyes flashed like the start of a storm. “Fuck,” he said, and for a moment Lily felt she’d made a mistake bringing them up at all; he looked more furious — and frightening — than she’d ever seen him…and Sirius Black was not exactly known for his cheery demeanor. Then it passed like a cloud overhead, and he said in a low voice: “Did those fuckers hurt you?”

Lily blinked in surprise at the genuine concern in his voice. “Only emotionally,” she said. “There was some implication of my being low class and the suggestion that I may not be allowed to stay at Hogwarts much longer — which, given today’s news feels damn near prophetic.”

“Today’s news…? What’s happened? I haven’t had a chance to read the paper yet. Bit of a busy morning.”

Lily grabbed the copy of the Prophet she’d taken from breakfast and tossed it to him. There followed an uncomfortable pause as Sirius read the front page, his brow furrowing dramatically.

“Fuck,” he said again when he’d finished. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but…fuck.” He looked up at her. “Are you okay?”

Lily actually laughed. What was she supposed to say to that?

“Stupid question,” muttered Sirius. He flipped the page and disappeared back into the article. Lily watched with a detached sort of interest at the way his brows knitted deeper and deeper into his scowl. Eventually, he resurfaced. “The Hogwarts Addendum won’t pass, you know.”

“That’s what they said about the Wizard Protection Laws.”

Sirius grimaced. “I know, but Dumbledore still has a lot of sway, particularly in matters related to the school, and I don’t really think they ever intended the addendum to pass. It was a bargaining chip to make the Wizard Protection Laws seem more tame, easier for political moderates to swallow.”

That hadn’t occurred to Lily, but it made sense. The only thing that surprised her more than this nuanced analysis was the messenger delivering it. Sirius Black had never struck her as someone who would take the time to be concerned with politics, particularly those that did not affect him personally.

Sirius sighed deeply and tossed the paper aside. “Look, Evans…don’t take this the wrong way, but do me a favor and stay away from my brother.”

“Excuse me?”

Sirius looked uncomfortable. “I’m not trying to be an arse, okay? But my brother…he’s a bit of an idiot, but the people he hangs around are…well, they’re dangerous. My cousin’s ‘charming fiancée’, Lucius Malfoy? I know him, and if he’s not a rank-and-file Death Eater, I’ll eat my wand. Any threats he might make, veiled or otherwise…they’re not idle. So just keep your distance. Trust me.”

Lily pursed her lips as she considered this. She knew he was right — Florence had told her as much — but she didn’t like being told what to do by anyone, let alone by Sirius Black. “You should talk,” she said at last. “I heard you punched Lucius Malfoy in the face.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Florence Fawley told me.”

“How the hell did she know that?”

Lily snorted. “You really have no concept of how gossip works in this school, do you?”

“Yeah,” said Sirius, and his voice was thick with sarcasm. “No one ever talks about me. I just fly under the radar, I do.”

With a slightly guilty jolt, Lily remembered the Howler he had received just days ago…not to mention every unpleasant thing she’d ever heard whispered about the Black family over the years. Of course he knew what it was like to be gossiped about; his face had graced the society pages of the Prophet for years.

“Well,” said Lily after this uncomfortable interlude had gone on a little too long, “I wanted to offer my congratulations.”

“Sorry?”

“For punching Lucius Malfoy in the face. He has an incredibly punchable face. Must’ve been satisfying.”

Sirius let out a loud, surprised laugh. “It was.” Then: “You know, I like this version of Evans. She’s fun. Bit violent, bit scary…but fun.”

“Lucky me. Please piss off now.”

“All right,” agreed Sirius, pushing himself up from his chair, “but only because you asked so nicely. And because I’m properly scared of you.”

She gave him the finger, albeit in an almost perfunctory way, and he blew her a sarcastic kiss. Lily rolled her eyes, but as he walked away, Sirius gave her shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze and muttered, “Chin up, Evans.”

She didn’t know what to make of that.

“You really should go to Professor McGonagall.”

It was Marlene again, back from her morning Divination class and continuing their conversation from the entrance hall as though Lily hadn’t stormed off in the middle of it. She dropped herself into the chair Sirius Black had vacated earlier and eyed Lily intently.

“Why?” sighed Lily.

“Because it was unfair! If you explain to Professor McGonagall what happened, I’m sure she’ll agree — Carter-Myles must not have heard what Mulciber was saying —”

Lily snorted. “He heard.”

“But surely if—”

“He doesn’t care, Marlene. Mulciber can do and say whatever he wants because to people like Carter-Myles, I’m nothing but a Mudblood.”

Whatever words Marlene had about to offer in protest died on her tongue, and her frown turned steely. “You shouldn’t call yourself—”

“MUDBLOOD!” shouted Lily, so loudly that the common room fell quiet around her. Marlene stared at her, as did the rest of the students. Once again, Lily’s fury seemed to boil in her veins, raging, screaming for release. “Mudblood,” she said again. “Everyone else gets to say it, so why shouldn’t I? I am not ashamed of who I am or where I come from, no matter what people like Corin Mulciber or Carter-Myles have to say.”

She stood up.

“I’ve had enough. I’m tired of it. I’m so — damn — tired of it! They want to call me Mudblood? Fine. I’ll show them just how big of a Mudblood I can be.”

Chapter Text

JAMES

The Professor v. Evans

Not for the first time in the last forty-five minutes, James glanced towards the empty seat at the worktable beside him. Lily had not arrived to their Potions class this morning, which concerned him for a few reasons: The first was that Lily Evans had never missed a Potions class for as long as he’d known her. The second was that he himself had seen her moments before said class, and she’d shown no intention of skiving off. At first, he’d thought maybe she’d just been hung up by some really excellent porridge at breakfast, but then ten minutes passed, then twenty, then thirty…and it became obvious that Lily would not be in attendance.

Immediately, he ran through a list of worst case scenarios. Had she been attacked in the corridor? Was she in the hospital wing? Things had calmed down somewhat since the hex-happy days of last term, but Lily was still a Muggle-born. She had a target on her back.

Or maybe, during their extremely brief encounter this morning, he’d managed to accidentally say something so offensive that she decided she’d rather skip her favorite class than sit next to him. He replayed the conversation in his mind. He’d admittedly been a little distracted by the rapidly-mounting prawn problem, but he didn’t think he’d said anything terribly wrong…

There was a third option, of course, and that was that it was all Snape’s fault.

James cast a dark glance back at the Slytherin boy who was seated a few rows behind. He was bent over his Incinerating Solution, sweat dripping off the hook of his nose as he analyzed the contents of his cauldron, which were annoyingly close to the precise shade of vermillion the textbook described.

James didn’t have any proof that Snape was the reason Lily had skipped class — nor really any working theories, for that matter — but if anyone could upset her enough to skip Potions, it was Snivellus. James continued to mull over this hypothesis as he returned his attention to his own potion, which was stuck in a sort of watery rose hue. He would never admit it, but James resented not being the best at something. Or at least not better than Snivellus. He didn’t mind when Lily ran laps around him in class, but for Snape to consistently outshine him stung more than he liked to admit.

A sigh. He reckoned he probably needed to stir in a few more tonka beans. Either that, or he’d added too much dragon’s blood. He’d had a sneaking suspicion he’d gotten a little heavy-handed with that vial. If Lily were here, she would’ve stopped him. She couldn’t help herself. That, or she’d spill it all over the desk. She was remarkably clumsy for someone so graceful.

It was adorable.

Damn it.

He stood, crossed the dungeons towards the supply cabinet, and rummaged around for a handful of tonka beans in hopes that they might restore his lackluster brew. He made his way through the glittering fumes of the dungeon back to his own desk, but as he approached Snape, he noticed the git examining a small glass jar of something that looked like cinnamon. That wasn’t on their ingredient list. Snape unscrewed the lid.

It was childish, but James did it anyway: As he passed, he gave the other boy a shove, the sort that would appear to anyone else to be an accidental bump but that was effective enough to cause Snape to spill a large quantity of the spice into the deep bowl of his cauldron.

“Sorry,” said James pleasantly as Snape began to splutter with rage. “It was an accident, really.” And, ignoring the boy’s dark and bitter grumblings, James returned to his seat. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Snape frantically scrambled to salvage his once-perfect potion. If Lily were here, she would’ve told him off for that, but she wasn’t here, and it was probably Snape’s fault that she wasn’t here anyway, so…so there.

He spent the remaining twenty minutes or so of class poking at his rather dismal potion without much hope. The tonka beans let him down. Eventually, Slughorn came around and gave him a rueful pat on the back and wished him better luck next time.

Then he strolled to Snape’s cauldron.

“Goodness me!” exclaimed Slughorn, and James turned to watch what was hopefully his rival’s downfall. “This has to be the best Incinerating Solution I’ve ever had the pleasure to see in class!” The Potions Master leaned over Snape’s cauldron and sniffed it. “Do I detect a generous dose of…cinnamon?”

“Yes, sir,” oozed Snape.

“Brilliant,” said Slughorn, clapping his hands together. “Most textbooks do not advise the addition of cinnamon to this brew, you know, as it’s quite difficult to get the measurement right…too much and the whole thing goes up in flames! Too little and it drains it of all power. But the right amount can utterly transform a potion — and you seemed to have measured it perfectly! Beautiful work, Severus, really.”

James scowled. What were the odds that James’s bumping Snape would cause him to spill the exact amount of spice needed to perfect his already-perfect potion? Lucky bastard, he thought.

And then he froze.

Lucky bastard.

“I say, Severus, my lad, you really ought to come to my little Christmas party this year. I’ve invited Vahid Shafiq — the renowned potioneer, inventor of the Oculus Potion, you know. I think you’d be very interested to chat with him…”

The bell rang, and James watched as Snape left the dungeons, the smugness practically seeping through his robes like sweat. Lily’s absence meant that for the first time this year, James had no reason to dilly-dally his cleanup, so he quickly vanished his disappointing potion and followed his Slytherin rival out into the dungeon corridors.

He spotted Snape a few steps down the hall, headed to the Slytherin dormitories in that jerky, infuriating gait of his, like a spider who’d been stepped on.

 Git.

Could Snape have swallowed the Felix Felicis this morning? It had undoubtedly been lucky that the excess cinnamon had perfected his potion, but had it been that lucky?

But it wasn’t a full moon, James thought. Though he’d downplayed the threat to Remus, James had been certain that Snape would use his good luck to try and get revenge on the boys for Sirius’s little slip-up last year. Had he been wrong? Had he misjudged his enemy so profoundly?

Sirius had thought Snape more likely to use the potion to win back Lily Evans, and this was perhaps an even more unpleasant theory. He did not like the idea of Lily being a pawn in Snape’s little Felix Felicis adventures. Did that have something to do with why she wasn’t in class? He couldn’t see how that was lucky per se, but it was unusual…and James wouldn’t have been able to predict that his moment of spite in shoving Snape would produce a great boon of luck for the slippery git. Who could predict the whims of fortune?

After a moment of fretful consideration, James stepped down an empty corridor and pulled the Invisibility Cloak from his bag. He still had it on him from this morning’s little prawn prank. Well, ‘little’ was perhaps not the correct word to use. It appeared that Peter had produced a far more powerful Gemino spell than any of them would have predicted. Instead of multiplying the prawns until they reached capacity within the confines of Carter-Myles’ office, he seemed to have charmed them to duplicate every time they touched another prawn. The results had been exponential — and absolutely fucking brilliant, if a bit unexpected.

By the time James had abandoned his post on the third floor, prawns were spilling out of the crack behind Mellfyd the Malicious at a truly alarming rate, piling up in the corridor like snowdrift in the arctic, spreading down the stairs like an avalanche of horrid crustaceans: Tens of thousands of wriggly little prawn legs, an endless squirming mass of black, beady little prawn eyes. A true horror that James would wish on very few enemies, though he was quite happy to bequeath it to one as worthy as Professor Carter-Myles.

Speaking of enemies, his was getting away. James threw the Cloak over his shoulders and followed Snape down through the dungeons. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to discover: Snape admitting to a passerby that he’d swallowed Felix Felicis? Unlikely. Yet James pursued him all the same, in hopes that something might reveal itself.

It didn’t.

James watched from an invisible afar as Snape arrived at the dismal stretch of wall that hid the Slytherin quarters, muttered the password, and disappeared into the depths of the Slytherin Common Room. James considered going in after him — if he hurried he could probably propel himself through just before the entrance shut — but before he could make the choice to do so, he heard a girl’s shriek coming from inside.

“There are prawns in our dormitory! Why are there prawns in our dormitory?!”

The wall slid shut.

“Every person in the castle?” said Sirius in disbelief. “You want to track every person in the castle?”

Remus, no doubt filling Sirius in on his brilliant idea for the map, agreed that that was exactly what he wanted to do. As Remus expounded on his plan, James took a seat on the bench beside him, having just arrived from his brief but fruitful bout of espionage in the dungeons. He was absolutely bursting with the news of what he’d just discovered — prawns! In the Slytherin dormitories! — but given the sensitivity of what surrounded the revelation — the possibility that Snape had used the Felix Felicis, that he might at this very moment be concocting some twisted revenge — James felt compelled to proceed with caution.

He cast a quick glance down the table in search of Lily Evans. She wasn’t there. He was feeling seriously worried now. Surely she wouldn’t skip lunch too unless something was really wrong?

As he turned his attention back to his friends, Sirius caught his eye, and his lips quirked. James knew that Sirius knew exactly for whom he was looking, but James chose not to acknowledge this and instead served himself a hearty pile of cottage pie.

Remus finished his lecture on the map, and Sirius shook his head, whether in disagreement or disbelief, James was unsure. “That’s…genuinely insane,” Sirius concluded.

“My initial reaction to a tee,” said James, taking a large bite of potatoes, “but I think it’s actually got quite a lot of merit.”

“Why, so you can stalk Evans?”

This comment caused James to choke on a bit of carrot. “I’m not going to use it to stalk Evans!” he spluttered.

“No one’s going to use it to stalk anyone,” said Remus calmly, giving James a helpful thump on the back, “but think about it: Imagine pulling off this morning’s prank and knowing the precise locations of Carter-Myles, Filch, McGonagall…”

“Oh,” said Sirius, visibly warming to the idea at once. “I do like that.”

It was clever, the way Remus avoided mentioning the full moon to Sirius. Sirius might take it as an affront to suggest that they weren’t capable of managing Moony on their own, that they might make a mistake…but appealing to his love of plotting chaos? Well, James always said Remus was far more devious than his sweet little angel face implied.

“But how would we do this?” said Sirius. “No offense, Moony, but it sounds like a pipe dream.”

“The best ideas usually do,” said Remus with a smile. “I was thinking of using the Homonculus Charm.”

James waited for Sirius to ask what this was, as he himself had done the night prior, but Sirius let out an ahhh of recognition. “The Homonculus Charm,” he repeated. “That…that might actually work.” James watched as his friend mulled it over, running the idea through that annoyingly brilliant mind of his, making it do all sorts of little jumps and twists. “Okay,” said Sirius, “but I’m assuming the charm has to be applied to a specific person, right?”

“Typically, yes,” agreed Remus.

“So you want to go around casting the Homonculus Charm on every teacher, student, staff in this castle?”

“No.” Remus shook his head. “Apart from the sheer impossibility of such a task, it wouldn’t work.”

“Why not?” asked Sirius, and James thought he seemed to be enjoying himself. Of course he was. Sirius always loved a puzzle.

“Because people come and go, don’t they? New students every year, visiting parents, governors, other guests…the map can’t be static. It has to adapt to sense and track every person who enters these walls.”

“And how do you propose we do that, Professor Moony?”

“Hell if I know,” shrugged Remus. “You’re the genius. Anyway, I reckon we can figure something out between the three of us — sorry, four of us,” he corrected himself politely as Peter sat down to join them.

“What are we talking about?” asked Peter, shrugging off his bag and pulling the dish of cottage pie towards him.

“Moony’s got a grand plan to the turn the map into a tracking device so Prongs can stalk Evans every time she goes out for a late night snog with someone who isn’t him.”

“For the last time,” complained James, who was starting to feel a teeny bit exasperated with his friend, “I am not going to use it to stalk Evans. I know I got a little drunk and morose the other night, but I meant it when I said I’m not trying to date her, I don’t fancy her anymore, and even if I did, I would never—”

He did not finish this sentence, however, for at that very moment, a wave of gasps and wolf-whistles flew through the hall. All four boys turned to see what the fuss was about, and all four jaws dropped at once.

Lily Evans was strutting down the center aisle of the Great Hall, her shoulders back and her head held high. She was dressed, notably, in Muggle clothes.

But not just any Muggle clothes. Not the sort of Muggle clothes James had seen students sport on the platform at King’s Cross, or even in Diagon Alley from time to time. No, she was wearing a bright green dress in a sort of flowy, floral pattern with an impossibly short hemline that — and this was what really caught his attention — hung tantalizingly high above her knee-high boots. Her red hair flowed in loose waves over her shoulders, a brilliant clash with the green of her dress. Her expression was guarded but determined as she marched past the wide-eyed onlookers.

“James?” said Remus’s voice from somewhere far away. “You’re drooling.”

“Huh?”

“What were you saying just now?” asked Sirius with a sly grin, “about you not fancying Lily Evans?”

“Well, that’s — that’s just not fair,” said James, helplessly gesturing at Lily, who had sat down at the end of the table and was doing her damndest to ignore the attention of her classmates. James was hardly the only member of the student population gawking at her. This realization did not please him, and he straightened up with as much dignity as he could muster, turning back to his lunch. Still, even as he refocused on his cottage pie, James couldn’t help but ask: “What is that she’s wearing?”

“Prongs, my dear boy,” said Sirius, with all the reverent solemnity of a father introducing his son to his very first broomstick, “that is what the Muggles call a mini-skirt.”

“A mini-skirt,” repeated James with another wistful glance down the table. “Why don’t witches wear mini-skirts?”

“Now you’re asking the real questions,” said Sirius, and he too shot another glance at Lily, not even trying to hide his smirk. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear what this is about.”

They wouldn’t have to wait long, for they had Defense Against the Dark Arts with Lily right after lunch. Whether out of respect for James’s feelings or, more likely, because he enjoyed watching his friend squirm, Sirius did not go interrogate Lily about her outfit at lunch, and James spent the remainder of the meal trying very hard to stare only at his cottage pie. When their lunch period ended, James dared a glance down the table; Lily was gone.

As the boys climbed the stairs towards their Defense Against the Darks classroom — the nauseating scent of shellfish still permeating the air — James at last filled his friends in on what had happened in the dungeons this morning.

“There were prawns in the Slytherin dormitory?” said Remus. “Inside the dormitory?”

“That’s what the girl said.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah, it does! Look, when I was keeping watch on the third floor this morning, the prawns filled that little crawlspace Peter used and started spilling out into the hall, didn’t they? They filled the office and pressed through the vent, and spilled out into the corridor.”

“So?”

“So, if there were prawns in the Slytherin dormitory, that means they were able to spread far and wide throughout the castle, and the most likely way they would’ve done that is via the ventilation system.”

“What’s a tenth century castle doing with a modern ventilation system anyway?” mused Sirius.

James waved an impatient hand. “What’s a tenth century castle doing with a complex nineteenth century plumbing network?”

“Good point.”

“Listen,” said James earnestly, “somewhere in Professor Carter-Myles’ office there’s a vent that leads to another vent that somehow leads to the Slytherin dormitories. And that means we have a way in. We just have to find it.”

“You mean I have to find it,” said Peter. “None of you can fit through the vents.”

James clapped him on the back. “We couldn’t do it without you, Wormtail.”

“Hmph.”

James glanced around at his friends. It was no good. He had to tell them. “But I’m concerned we’re too late.”

“What do you mean?” said Remus, and James explained about Snape’s bout of unusually good luck in class this morning.

Remus looked worried, but Sirius was dismissive. “So he got a potion right, big deal. That’s not that lucky. He’s good at potions.”

“Yeah, but the odds—”

“Look, there’s the little gremlin himself.” 

Indeed, there was Snape rounding the corner, his shoulders rolled in his usual slouch as he made his way towards the classroom. Sirius pulled out his wand and cast a quick trip jinx; the Slytherin went sprawling to the floor, books scattering everywhere. His ink pot shattered on the stone floor, spilling deep stains of black against what, judging by the agitation with which Snape tried to rescue it, was his homework.

“There you have it,” said Sirius with satisfaction. “Not that lucky.”

James was not convinced, however, so he made a note to keep an eye on Snape for the rest of the day. And indeed he had every intention of keeping an eye on Snape…except that the moment he arrived to Defense Against the Dark Arts and caught sight of Lily sitting there in her marvelous Muggle dress, both of his eyes were quite suddenly fully occupied, and he could not spare even one for the greasy git who slumped to his seat on the other side of the class, fretting over an ink-stained parchment.

“You’re staring again,” muttered Remus, and James quickly pulled himself together.

Sirius made a point to stroll over to Lily on their way to their own seats in the back of the class. She was sitting straight-backed and rather tense; her expression was just as guarded and determined as it had been when she’d made her dramatic entrance to the Great Hall earlier. Her eyes were steady on the book in front of her, though James noticed they were not moving.

“Evans,” said Sirius brightly. “Did I miss the memo? Is it dress like a Muggle day?”

“I’m mounting a protest,” said Lily simply, eyes still firmly on her book.

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Against school uniforms?”

Lily looked up at him. “Against pure-blood supremacy. I’m tired of being invisible one day, trying desperately to fit in, only to be singled out for my blood status the next. I decided that if everyone is going treat me like a Muggle no matter what I do, I might as well get to dress the part. Wizarding clothes are so boring. And if I make a few bigots uncomfortable in the process, all the better.”

“Amen,” said Sirius.

“I think it’s brilliant,” said Remus. “Really.”

Lily offered Remus a small, sweet smile in return.

“Yeah,” said James. “You look…brilliant. You should wear Muggle clothes all the time.”

To James, she merely offered a withering glance before turning her attention back to her book.

“Smooth,” whispered Peter in James’s ear as they continued towards their seats in the back. James gave the other boy a sharp jab with his elbow and flopped into his seat, feeling awkward and miserable.

The rest of the class filed in soon after, and nearly every eye — Slytherin or Gryffindor — flitted to Lily and her Muggle getup. For her part, Lily kept her eyes firmly on her book, only looking up briefly when Marlene entered and sat down next to her.

James couldn’t help but admire her bravery — not just for entering the Great Hall mid-meal wearing something so completely, outlandishly different from her peers — but for choosing this class to make her statement. A class taught by a well-known bigot and shared with the Slytherins, all of whom were currently whispering and snickering behind their hands across the room. Lily sat regal as ever, ignoring them entirely.

Eventually, Professor Carter-Myles entered from his study, and the class fell silent. James was pleased to note that their professor had that haggard, beaten-down air unique to a man who’d spent his morning battling an apocalypse of prawns. His mustache was slightly crooked. Good.

Carter-Myles did not immediately notice Lily, but he did notice the furtive looks the class was giving him as approached the podium at the front…and then his eyes landed on the red-haired girl in the Muggle dress who had at last put her book away. She gazed back at her teacher steadily, plainly, defiantly.

Magnificently.

“Miss Evans,” said Carter-Myles, his voice flat and hard. “Stand up.”

Lily stood, her Muggle clothes on full display to the whole class. Evan Rosier let out a low, insolent whistle.

“Have you lost your school uniform, Miss Evans?” demanded Carter-Myles, ignoring Rosier’s impudence.

“No, sir,” replied Lily.

“Did the house-elves forget to return your laundry?”

“No, sir.”

“Then would you please explain to me why you are flouting school regulations and wearing this…” His eyes scanned her from head to toe. “…vulgar ensemble in my classroom?”

“It’s a protest, sir,” said Lily, unflinching.

“What is she protesting?” hissed Isolde Greengrass in a carrying stage whisper. “Wearing clothes?”

A titter of laughter from the other Slytherin girls. James’s own fists had clenched in fury, and he could tell that Lily had heard; he was quite certain Carter-Myles had as well, but neither he nor Lily turned their attention from the other. It seemed almost like a game of chicken, a competition of who could outstare the other.

“A protest,” repeated Carter-Myles, his eyes boring into hers.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what, pray tell, are you protesting?”

“The Wizard Protection Laws and pure-blood hegemony in general, sir,” said Lily. “Specifically, the way that pure-bloods in this society violently oppress Muggle-borns through both legislation and outright terror — not to mention the forced assimilation of Muggle-born students to pure-blood standards and the active repression of any Muggle culture in this school whatsoever. As a Muggle-born student, I am expected to completely erase everything about myself, my heritage, and my identity in order to conform to your idea of what a witch should be, and even if I do that, even if somehow I manage it, it will never, ever be enough to be fully accepted into this bigoted, blood-obsessed society, and frankly I object. Sir.”

There was a stunned silence. James glanced around the classroom: Alodie Blunt looked skeptical, but Wenyi Feng was nodding along, and Marlene McKinnon was wearing that stern expression that James, having spent a few one-on-one practices with her, had learned meant not that she was angry, but rather that she was thinking hard about something.

The silence stretched.

At last, Carter-Myles spoke. “You are expected,” he said in a dangerously low voice, “to wear your uniform in class as this is a school, Miss Evans. Not a circus.”

Lily did not say anything in return but simply stared back at their professor, unwavering, waiting. This composure seemed to annoy Carter-Myles even further.

“That’s another detention you’ve earned yourself,” he snapped. He walked to his desk, scribbled a few lines on a piece of parchment, then held it out to Lily. “Take this note to your Head of House. You may return to my class when you’ve learned to show some respect and dress appropriately for an academic environment.”

Lily walked over to him, the heels of her boots clicking on the stone floor. She claimed the note, her head held high, expression regal and unbothered. Then she headed for the door.

“Now,” said Carter-Myles to the rest of the class as he flitted through his notes behind the podium. “We will begin our lecture on nonverbal spells. If you would please open your textbooks to page—”

“Sir?” James’s hand had found its way into the air. Professor Carter-Myles looked up from his notes to where James sat, appearing to all the world as the picture of a well-behaved scholar.

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” said Carter-Myles.

James allowed the briefest of pauses as he considered what he was about to do. Then, looking Professor Carter-Myles directly in the eye, he said quite politely: “Go fuck yourself.”

Amidst the shocked gasps of the rest of the class, the howling laughter from his mates, the unfurling fury across his professor’s face, James felt that any stretch of detention would surely be worth it, if only because Lily, her hand on the doorknob, ready to leave, turned back and gave him a small, sweet smile.

“You know,” said Lily, “you really didn’t have to do that.”

James rubbed his neck. “Would you believe me if I said I really wanted to?”

Lily laughed — a soft, rather sad laugh, but a laugh all the same — and tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. “Oddly enough, I think I would.”

The castle corridors were quiet as they made their way towards Professor McGonagall’s office. James had been predictably ousted from Carter-Myles’ class as well, and he clutched his own shiny, new note for his Head of House in one hand.

“Carter-Myles is an insufferable prick,” said James.

“Agreed,” said Lily.

They walked in silence for a few paces, rather slowly it seemed, as though by unspoken agreement. He suspected Lily was in no great hurry to give her note to McGonagall. For his part, James couldn’t decide if he was desperate to prolong this unanticipated alone time with Lily Evans — or if he was desperate to get away.

This was the most time he’d spent with her since he’d overheard her conversation with Florence Fawley, the one where she’d claimed he only ever asked her out as a cruel joke because she was Muggle-born. He’d mostly avoided her since then, and it had been easy to do, outside of classes. You couldn’t really talk in classes anyway, so they didn’t count. He’d had plenty going on, what with training up Marlene McKinnon and the rest of the Quidditch team, with Sirius’s unexpected legal kerfuffle, with the plotting of their map, their heist, with all the homework and hassle of N.E.W.T.-level studies…

He’d done his best to shove aside all his guilty feelings, his hurt feelings, his stupid, humiliating, lovesick feelings. He buried them under his endless enthusiasm for a project, any project, something for the mind to do, best to keep busy, don’t think about that, don’t think about her, don’t think about kissing her, don’t think — until he’d drunkenly stumbled across her at that post-match party and all of the feelings he’d pushed aside came barreling back at once. He’d made a bit of prat of himself — big surprise — and now here they were trekking the castle in awkward companionship on the path to inevitable detention. James knew what he had to do — talk to her — but he hadn’t figured out what to say.

He snuck a sidelong glance at Lily, careful not to let his eyes linger on her very short hemline, no matter how much they longed to. Lily’s face remained stony, impassive….defensive, even. Like a mask. Like something she’d put on at the same time she’d slipped into that wonderful Muggle dress.

She had known the moment she put on those Muggle clothes exactly what she was walking into — the judgement, the whispers, the sniggers, the detention — and she had done it anyway. Just to make a point. James was impressed.

But as it always did when he was around her these days, shame poked at his ego, and the needle scratched, and the words she’d spat at him played again in his mind.

You make me SICK!

He cleared his throat. “So,” he said, simply for something to fill the unbearable silence. “Carter-Myles said that was another detention you got yourself. What’d you do to get the first?”

“Didn’t Black tell you?”

“He did not,” said James, feeling quite annoyed by his friend’s apparent omission.

“Oh, I figured he’d have told everyone by now. Extra, extra, read all about it.” They had reached Professor McGonagall’s office. With a deep sigh, Lily knocked on the door, then she turned back to James and said almost defiantly: “I poured a pot of boiling tea over Corin Mulciber’s crotch.”

James stared at her for a moment then burst out laughing. “Merlin, Evans. Remind me to use a shield charm before pissing you off.”

“Just don’t celebrate the subjugation of Muggle-borns in front of me, and you should be safe,” said Lily coolly.

James stopped laughing at once. “I wouldn’t, you know,” he said seriously. “I would never—”

But before he was able to finish that sentence, the door opened, and Professor McGonagall appeared. She peered down at them in stern surprise.

“Potter? Evans? Why aren’t you in class?”

Her eyes scanned over Lily’s Muggle ensemble. In response, Lily simply held out Professor Carter-Myles’ note with an expression of defiant dignity. Professor McGonagall accepted it, unfolded the parchment, and read. The furrow of her brow deepened as she progressed down the lines. She glanced at James, who held out his own note. She read this one as well, frown deepening even further, and then she said: “Come inside.”

James and Lily both shuffled into the office. Professor McGonagall closed the door with a crisp click behind them and crossed to her desk, where she placed the two notes. She did not sit but rather stood behind the desk with palms pressed to wood, eying the two students before her with a severe expression, the likes of which, even after five years, James had not yet grown inured.

“Potter,” she began. “Is this note accurate?”

“I couldn’t say, Professor,” said James politely. “You’ll have to tell me what’s in it.”

Professor McGonagall’s expression darkened, and James knew he was pushing his luck, but he was not going to apologize, and he had no desire to appear penitent in front of Lily.

“It says,” continued McGonagall, “that you interrupted Professor Carter-Myles’ class to suggest he perform a sexual act upon himself.”

“In a manner of speaking,” admitted James. “Though I take issue with ‘interrupted.’ I did raise my hand.”

Next to him, Lily swallowed a surprised laugh, and James felt himself grow bolder.

McGonagall, however, was scowling. “Potter, you have no right to use such foul language in this school under any circumstance, let alone to a teacher!”

“He was being a bigot,” said James.

At this, Lily shot him a sideways glance, and James steeled his resolve. He knew he was walking into another week’s worth of detention, but he didn’t much care. He stood back and waited for McGonagall to start shouting.

But instead, his professor surprised him. She closed her eyes for a moment, still gripping the desk as though steadying herself. A deep breath, an exhalation through the nose, and she opened her eyes again. Her gaze flitted from James to Lily, who stood stone-still in her Muggle protest clothes.

When at last Professor McGonagall spoke, her voice was strained. “I understand that the current political situation is…volatile, and while I personally may not agree with Professor Carter-Myles on…much of anything…he is still a professor and must be treated with the according respect. As sixth years — and one of you a prefect to boot — I expect you to set an example for the younger students—”

“But that’s precisely what I’m doing, Professor,” interrupted Lily. “When I was younger, it would’ve meant the world to have someone stand up for me, to speak honestly about the sort of things that go on at this school, to say ‘I’m Muggle-born and proud.’ Well, I am, Professor. I am Muggle-born, and I am proud of it, and no one — professor or not — will compel me to say or act otherwise.”

Another strained pause. James glanced at Lily, who was staring determinedly at their Head of House. Again, a wave of shame washed over him.

When I was younger, it would’ve meant the world to have someone stand up for me.

Why hadn’t he?

At last, Professor McGonagall spoke in a weary voice. “I appreciate the spirit of your demonstration, Miss Evans. I do. But though I may disagree with him, Professor Carter-Myles has every right to assign you detention for breaking written school regulations. I’m afraid I cannot overrule him.”

“I wasn’t asking you to,” said Lily.

“Very well,” said McGonagall. She glanced down at the notes on her desk again. A sigh. “I will take twenty points from Gryffindor for Potter’s profanity, and you will both serve detention on Saturday night. Professor Carter-Myles will send more details closer to the time. Mr. Potter, you may go. I would like a private word with Miss Evans.”

James was disappointed. He’d hoped for an excuse to walk back to Gryffindor Tower with Lily, an opportunity to convince her once and for all that he was not, under any circumstances, a blood supremacist. But there was nothing to be done for it, so with a nod to Professor McGonagall and what he hoped was an encouraging smile to Lily, he left the office.

He loitered outside for a few moments, incase Professor McGonagall was quick about it, but eventually he decided it would be more awkward if Lily came out and found he’d been waiting for her this whole time, so he shoved his hands in his pockets with a sigh and sulked off towards Gryffindor Tower alone.

The common room was mostly empty, save the handful of sixth and seventh years on break. Feeling restless, he dropped himself onto a sofa. As he did so, he noticed a copy of the Daily Prophet crammed in between the cushions. James had never been an avid reader of the newspaper, despite having a subscription of his own. It mostly bored him, except for the Quidditch commentary, and he could generally rely on Sirius to keep him apprised of any important current events.

He was starting to wonder if maybe that wasn’t a mistake. It increasingly seemed as though the reality of the world he lived in was vastly different from the one he thought he knew. More than once now he’d been shocked by Lily’s words about her experience at school, about her perception of his own actions. How could he have been so wrong about so many things? What had he missed?

After a moment of morose reflection, James snatched the newspaper from between the cushions, and began to read.

“There he is. The hero of the hour.”

James looked up from the Daily Prophet to see Sirius, Peter, and Remus settling into seats around him. He’d been so immersed in his reading that he hadn’t even noticed the time fly by. The headlines of the newspaper had shocked him: The Wizard Protection Laws had passed. The thing James had once sworn was impossible had just happened. He’d missed all that this morning, having been fully absorbed in the prawn affair, which all felt rather silly now. No wonder Lily had skipped Potions. No wonder she was so upset.

“You know,” said Sirius, kicking his feet up on an ottoman, “next time you decide to tell a professor to go fuck himself, I’d appreciate it if you gave me a head’s up, so I could do it too. It’s not fair you getting all the glory.”

“It wasn’t really premeditated,” admitted James. “Just a sort of ‘go with the gut’ moment.”

“How’d McGonagall take it?” asked Peter.

“Like a champ, to tell you the truth. I have detention on Saturday, obviously, but she was pretty reasonable otherwise. I thought she’d be far angrier.”

“I’ve told you before that McGonagall favors you, mate. Probably didn’t hurt matters that you had Evans by your side, what with her big doe-eyes and that j’accuse stare.”

“Also that,” agreed James.

“Where is Lily?” asked Remus.

“She stayed after to talk to McGonagall privately. I didn’t see her come back in, but I was fairly absorbed in this drivel, so I may have missed her.” He gestured at the newspaper. “The Wizard Protection Laws passed. Did you see?”

Sirius and Remus exchanged a glance. Of course, they already knew.

“Yeah,” said Sirius. “I saw.”

James glowered at the newspaper. Then, in an unexpected burst of fury, he crumpled it up into a ball and hurled it across the common room. “What a load of prejudiced, bigoted, fascist excrement,” he snarled. Then he sighed and fell back into his seat as though he’d been hit with a deflating hex. He ran a hand through his hair. “I have to admit, I feel a bit stupid. I really didn’t think the laws would pass. I’m — I’m shocked they’ve passed.”

Another shared glance between Sirius and Remus.

“It is fairly shocking,” said Remus with a generosity that James did not feel he deserved.

“Not to you,” said James shortly. “You tried to warn me last year. Both of you. And I just…shrugged it off. Now look where we are.”

“It’s not your fault the laws were passed, Prongs,” said Sirius.

But James was not convinced. On some level, he recognized that Sirius was right — he alone could not have swayed the political tides — but he couldn’t help but feel as though if he’d only paid more attention, things might’ve turned out differently. Perhaps that was foolishness — or worse, narcissism — but…was it, really? Or had things gotten so bad so fast because so many people like him had looked the other way? Comfortable people. Happy people. People with lots of things to distract themselves from any unpleasant political schemes. People like him who had shrugged it all off, assumed that everything would work out in the end, the right people would win, good would inevitably conquer evil.

It would’ve meant the world for someone to stand up for me.

James glared at the newspaper long and hard; he could feel his friends’ eyes upon him. At last, he looked up and met their gaze.

“I have an idea.”

Chapter Text

LILY

A House United

The walls of Hogwarts castle held many secrets. Some secrets belonged to students, others to staff. Some were whispered in clandestine corners, others gossiped about loudly over breakfast. And some secrets belonged to no person at all, but rather to the castle itself: hidden tunnels and false doors, concealed stairwells and corridors that were only accessible on Tuesdays. The castle was full of secrets, and it was in one of these little secret spots — a small alcove behind a hidden door behind a tapestry — that Lily Evans currently sat.

The stone floor was icy beneath her thighs as she sat with knees hugged to chest, thin bands of light streaming through the stained glass window that dominated the small space. It cast a faint ornamentation of color across the green fabric of her Muggle dress, the one that had caused such an uproar.

James Potter had shown her this little hideaway last year. That particular occasion had led to an uproar of a different sort: Alodie had spotted them slipping from behind the tapestry and convinced herself — and everyone else in school — that James was cheating on her with Lily. The week that followed had been pure misery.

Still, Lily was grateful to know of the private little spot today, for she desperately needed a quiet place to catch her breath. She exhaled a deep, shoulder-slumping sigh and pressed her forehead to her bare knees. She’d known what she was doing when she’d put on this Muggle dress before lunch. She’d known exactly what she was walking into, the sort of vitriol she was inviting, the stares and the scorn. She’d do it again, too…but just now, she needed a break.

Her conference with McGonagall had been arduous, though not for the reasons one might expect. Her Head of House had been sympathetic but firm in her belief that, though Lily’s cause may be just, her methods were…undesirable.

“I know how disappointed you must be,” Professor McGonagall had said after James had been dismissed and it was just the two of them in the office alone.

It had taken nearly everything in Lily not to scoff outright. How could Professor McGonagall possibly know how disappointed Lily was? How could she understand just how deeply this wound cut? How everyone at every turn kept disappointing her again and again and again? Lily had never taken herself for a misanthropist, nor did she wish to be, but God, how many blows was she supposed to weather on her own? How many battles would she fight with no one by her side?

Disappointed. That was the understatement of the century.

“These laws are not finite, nor are they written in stone,” Professor McGonagall had gone on, heedless to her student’s internal spiral. “There are still many who plan to fight them, the Headmaster included. I understand why you are upset and why you feel the need to act out, but you still have a bright future, Miss Evans. I’d hate to see you jeopardize that for the sake of mere anger.”

And Lily had had to bite her tongue yet again. McGonagall really didn’t get it. Lily liked her Head of House, she respected her, but she did not think the woman understood the reality of this moment. That was the problem with adults. They always seemed to be living in the world a few decades behind.

And Professor McGonagall certainly did not understand Lily if she thought there was anything mere about her anger.

“Professor Dearborn told me my rage is a resource,” Lily had said, and Professor McGonagall’s lips stiffened to a straight line.

“Professor Dearborn is a good man, and I’m sure he was a fine teacher, but he was also a political radical who got himself in trouble with authority and lost his job. I’m not sure he’s the best role model for a young woman with her whole life ahead of her, such as yourself.”

“I respectfully disagree, Professor. And he quit his job. There’s a difference.”

McGonagall might’ve snapped at her, might’ve taken away points for her insolence, but she didn’t. The professor just sighed — a weary, worn-down sort of sigh — and said: “Yes, there is a difference. He could leave, you cannot. You still have nearly two more years at this school, Miss Evans, and you are a student. Not a soldier. For your own sake, I’d advise you to act like the former.”

And that was that.

Professor McGonagall informed her that she’d serve detention on Saturday for the next two weekends, and then she dismissed her. Lily had not gone back to her dormitory. She didn’t want to give herself the temptation to change back into the safety of school robes. Even though Professor McGonagall said that Lily had “made her point,” she did not yet feel that she had.

Still in the sun-washed little alcove, Lily waited a moment for tears to come, but none did. She’d always cried fairly easily in the past — Petunia had long mocked her for being so weepy — but she couldn’t help it. She felt everything so deeply — her emotions, everyone else’s — and her tears were simply a manifestation of that. But these days it seemed the world had finally sucked her dry. She hadn’t wept once since the night she’d ended her friendship with Severus.

Maybe she never would again.

Lily sat up and brushed her hair from her tearless face. Two detentions. She’d made it through five years at this infernal school without getting a single detention and now, in less than twenty-four hours, she’d acquired two. Her first was to be a shared detention with James Potter, thanks to his little stunt in class. Lily had asked Professor McGonagall what they’d be doing, but McGonagall had simply said it would be at the discretion of Professor Carter-Myles, a fact that was not remotely encouraging.

Potter. Once again, all her thoughts circled the drain back to bloody James Potter and that torturous question Remus had put in her head. She simply didn’t know what to make of Potter these days. For months, he’d oscillated between his usual arrogant babbling and flat-out ignoring her in class; he could barely bring himself to speak to her at that post-match party, and now he went and did…whatever that was? Why?

She shook her head and pushed herself up off the floor. That was one mystery too many at the moment, and it was nearly time for dinner. She smoothed her hair, rolled her shoulders, and composed her face into the expression of untouchable defiance she’d worn all day long. Then she pushed through the door, slipped out from behind the tapestry, and joined the throngs of students flowing towards the Great Hall. She heard every whisper behind her back, felt every stare upon her form. The lascivious lingering of male gazes on her arse and upper thighs; the prickling, judgmental scorn from her peers as she passed by.

Shoulders back, head held high. Never let them see you cry.

She ignored everyone until a bright and familiar voice called her name, and Lily turned to see Harvey Harris waving her over. Oh, shit. She still hadn’t properly broken up with him. She knew she needed to get on with it, it was well overdue, but every time she saw him he accosted her with that cute, cheerful earnestness that made it almost impossible to break his heart.

Like a bloody golden retriever, she thought irritably.

She crossed the corridor to where Harvey stood, looking at her with an oddly-mixed expression of both bewilderment and desire, as though he clearly wanted to shag her but was a bit confused about it.

“What’s with the costume?” he asked as she arrived.

“It’s not a costume, Harvey. I’m wearing Muggle clothes in protest.”

Harvey appeared bemused by the concept. “In protest of what?”

“Didn’t you read the newspaper this morning?”

“Haven’t had a chance yet,” said Harvey. “Bit of a busy day. Did you hear about the prawns in Carter-Myles’ office?”

“I did, yeah.” She waited for him to ask what had been in the newspapers, what had happened to prompt her protest, but Harvey just said: “Do Muggles really dress like this?”

“Yes,” said Lily impatiently.

“Wild,” said Harvey. “Well, you look really fit…but you should probably change back into your robes before you get a detention for not wearing your uniform, don’t you think?”

“Too late for that. Look, I’ve got to go, Harvey. I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

And she took off.

That was a bit cowardly. She should’ve just broken up with him there and be done with it, but she didn’t want to do it in the middle of a crowded corridor, surrounded by students who were already staring at her…and frankly, she just couldn’t be bothered today.

She reached the entrance hall and was met with a volley of catcalls from a group of Slytherins; Severus, she noticed out of the corner of her eye, was among them this time. She pointedly avoided his gaping gaze. She was beginning to regret not going back to the dormitory to change. What was she trying to prove, anyway? What point was she really making? They all thought she was a slag already, wasn’t she just giving them more ammunition to hurl at her in the corridors?

I don’t care, she thought fiercely, and she pushed through the doors into the Great Hall.

But as she strode across the Hall towards the Gryffindor table on the far side, she noticed something peculiar: The stares and snickers from the other tables continued, but they were no longer directed exclusively at her. Students kept glancing towards the Gryffindor table, giggling and whispering. As Lily drew closer, she followed their gazes to see something she did not expect: James Potter and Sirius Black were lounging at the end of the table, looking quite at ease and utterly unconcerned by all the attention they were garnering.

They were not wearing their school uniforms.

James was dressed in smart Muggle trousers and a sharp, collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal what were really rather nice arms, as far as arms went. Not that she was staring at his arms — she wasn’t — but they were right there in front of her, so it was perfectly reasonable to notice them. It wasn’t as though she was admiring them, or anything. She wasn’t. In fact, on closer inspection, they weren’t even that good of arms. Just your perfectly standard, run-of-the-mill arms. She didn’t know why she even noticed, really.

She pulled her gaze purposefully away from James Potter’s completely average arms and looked instead to Sirius Black, who was admittedly getting the most attention from the onlookers. He seemed to be enjoying it too: He sat straddling the bench, one elbow slumped gracefully on the table as he laughed at something James was saying. He was sporting a pair of tight denim jeans, a studded leather jacket, and — most improbably of all — what appeared to be a Bowie t-shirt.

A really cool Bowie t-shirt.

She gawked a moment longer and realized that Remus and Peter were also dressed in Muggle attire, though much less strikingly than the boys beside them. Pausing only to note that Remus looked rather adorable in corduroy, she marched over.

“What are you doing?” she demanded without preamble.

James looked up at her brightly. “Oh, hello. We’re mounting a protest.”

“Why?”

“You know,” James gave a vague wave of his hand. “The pure-blood hegemony, and all that.”

“Is this some sort of joke to you?”

Lily was aware that she sounded needlessly confrontational, but the sight of her house-mates in Muggle clothes had stirred up some complicated emotions that seemed to best present themselves as outright suspicion.

James straightened up and gave her a very earnest look. “No,” he said. “It’s solidarity.”

Lily blinked.

“See,” James went on, and he folded his utterly unremarkable arms on the table before him. “I’ve had a good think about these so-called Wizard Protection Laws, and what I think is that they’re a crock of shit. Everything you said in class today was completely true…and you shouldn’t be the only one to say so.”

Lily opened her mouth, found no words, and closed it again. She genuinely did not know how to respond.

“Plus,” said Sirius with a lazy grin. “This will really piss off old Canker-Smiles, which these days is my raison d’être. Are you going to eat dinner, or are you just going to stand there?”

So Lily sat, but as she did so, she glanced down the table and saw a smattering of color amongst the otherwise bland sea of black uniforms. In fact, the longer she looked, the clearer it became that more students were wearing Muggle clothes than were not.

“We weren’t the only ones who wanted to join in,” said Remus quietly beside her, and when she turned wide-eyed to look at him, he smiled and added, “You made quite an impression earlier.”

“I — I can’t believe how many people did it.”

“Well, it was a brilliant of you, Evans,” said James as he served himself a fillet of salmon. “‘Course everyone else wanted in.”

That was kind, but Lily rather suspected the protest’s sudden popularity had more to do with James and Sirius’s participation. After all, when Potter and Black did something, it became cool. They were among the most popular boys in the house — and pure-bloods to boot. They’d given their stamp of approval to her protest, and the rest of the house had followed suit.

But it wasn’t just Gryffindor: Charity Burbage, a round-faced and friendly Hufflepuff, arrived shortly after wearing a bright floral frock, while Cecil Stebbins, a Muggle-born Ravenclaw, was defiantly sporting a pair of suede flares. All across the Great Hall were pockets of students wearing denim and corduroy, paisley and gingham, all giggling and admiring each other’s outfits.

“Oi, look at Crusty-Muppet,” said Sirius. “Looks fit to burst, doesn’t he? The pasty little shit.”

Lily followed his gaze to survey the High Table, where all the teachers sat. The first thing she noticed was that, absurdly, Professor Flitwick appeared to be sporting a feather trilby in solidarity. He was talking quite spiritedly to Professor McGonagall, who looked bemused by the display throughout the Great Hall, though not upset by it. Professor Slughorn appeared highly-entertained by the whole ordeal — and indeed, Professor Carter-Myles’ expression was one of utmost, pasty fury.

As though sensing her attention, Carter-Myles turned and glared at her. Lily stared back coolly, refusing to break his gaze. Eventually, Slughorn said something that got the other teacher’s attention, and Carter-Myles looked away.

“Tosser,” said Sirius. “Think he’ll give every one of us a detention?”

“I suspect I was a special case,” said Lily, pulling her attention back from the High Table to the platter of salmon James had just offered her. “He seems to specifically hate me.”

“Because he’s a tosser,” said Sirius, and Lily actually smiled.

In a perverse sort of way, it was immensely comforting that he didn’t try to deny that Carter-Myles hated her. She’d spent so many years trying to convince people that the discrimination she faced based on her blood status was real, and Sirius’s tacit recognition of this simple fact meant far more than she could say.

What she did say was, “I like your shirt,” because she couldn’t find the words for all the rest of it. “You’re a Bowie fan?”

Sirius glanced down at his shirt. “No clue. Found it in a Muggle shop a few years ago. Thought it was cool.”

“It is cool,” Lily assured him. “Really cool.”

She glanced over at James, whose attention was now occupied by the roast potatoes, which seemed to be giving him an unusually hard time, slipping from the serving tongs at each attempt to corral them onto his plate. She felt she ought to say something to him…about how brilliant it was when he told Carter-Myles to go fuck himself in class, about how she suspected he’d been the one to orchestrate this whole affair, about how damn much it meant to have someone so publicly take her side for once…but she fumbled over the words like James’s tongs over the buttered potatoes, and just as she was about to open her mouth and give it a go, Marlene McKinnon slumped onto the bench beside her, looking out-of-breath and rather harried, as though she had just dashed up to the dormitory and back. After half a second, Lily noticed she was dressed in a jumper and a rather frumpy Muggle skirt.

“It’s all I had,” said Marlene with a twinge of defensiveness as she noticed Lily’s gaze.

“Marlene, I —”

“It wasn’t fair,” was all the other girl said. “It wasn’t fair how Carter-Myles treated you.”

And then Marlene busied herself with the salmon, and Peter passed Remus the parsnips, and James struggled with the tongs, and Sirius got impatient and speared a potato with his fork, and Lily gazed at them all in their Muggle clothes, grateful that all the hubbub and ritual of dinner gave her a spare moment to wipe away the fresh dampness from her eyes.

Chapter Text

JAMES

A Little Menial Labor

For all the fuss and fury it had sparked, chatter about Lily’s protest petered out fairly quickly over the rest of the week, fading into the cluttered oblivion of school day lore. James, however, would not forget it anytime soon — and not simply because miniskirts were marvelous (though indeed they were).

No. It was more than sheer sartorial delight: That moment at dinner when Lily arrived and he got to watch the realization unfurl upon her face as she saw how many other students had answered the call, had risen to the occasion, had stood up and metaphorically told Carter-Myles to go fuck himself — that had been the first time in rather a long time that James had felt truly triumphant. Better than winning a Quidditch match, even.

Or damn close, anyway.

Friday morning arrived with an owl from Professor Carter-Myles informing James that he and Lily would have the pleasure of polishing the entirety of the Trophy Room at seven o’clock that evening.

“I thought your detention was supposed to be on Saturday,” complained Sirius through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

James sighed. “It was.” He plucked a piece of toast from a nearby toast rack and lathered it up with butter. “I suspect Carter-Myles is playing mind games. You know, tells you one date so you make plans for the other, then reasserts his control over your life by rescheduling, and all that.”

“Prick,” said Sirius. “We did have plans. We were going to work on the map.”

Yes, that, and also James had planned to practice what he was going to say to Lily, to find in advance the elusive words to convey the troubled thoughts that had been gnawing at him for weeks — for months — and possibly to coerce an exasperated but ever-accommodating Remus Lupin into roleplaying with him until James got it exactly right.

Alas. He now had a mere ten hours to figure it all out — from what he’d say to how he’d convince Carter-Myles to leave them alone long enough to say it — and much of those ten hours were filled with the endless tedium of academics.

Bugger.

But time was indifferent to his plight, as time always was, and thus the hours marched steadily on. By the time James headed off for the Trophy Room at ten til seven, he had worked himself up into a proper state of both agitation and anticipation for the upcoming detention.

When he arrived to the Trophy Room, however, his heart and all his hopes immediately sunk: Professor Carter-Myles was not there. Rather it was Mr. Filch who greeted him with a bucket full of rags and a large tin of Madame Glossy’s Silver Polish.

After informing the captive student that he would be required to polish every plaque, plate, trophy, and medal in the collection by hand, no magic allowed, and that there would be absolutely no talking for the duration of the detention, Filch ushered a now-scowling James deeper into the Trophy Room. Lily was already seated on the floor with a pile of rags at her feet and a silver cup in her hand. She looked up as James arrived and gave him a commiserative grimace.

James dropped himself onto the floor with a heavy sigh.

Bugger, bugger, bugger.

Oh well. Best laid plans, and all that.

Not ten minutes later, however, his best laid plans rearranged themselves quite nicely.

“FILCH!”

The angry bellow of Professor Carter-Myles reverberated through the Trophy Room as he rounded the corner and stormed into view. James noticed with satisfaction that the hems of his professor’s robes were soaking wet.

“My office is flooding,” snarled Carter-Myles. “Again. I need you to come clean it up, immediately. I have important documents that are being damaged. Well, hurry up, man!”

And Filch scampered out of the Trophy Room, but not before pausing to point a crooked finger at James and Lily and warning them to stay put until his return.

“And no talking!”

And then he was gone. Carter-Myles lingered a moment longer, narrowed eyes glaring at his two problem pupils, and for an unpleasant moment James thought he was going to hang around in Filch’s stead, but then the professor evidently decided his rapidly flooding office was a more pressing concern, and he too bustled off.

James enjoyed a victorious snicker and leaned back against a glass cabinet as Carter-Myles’ angry footsteps faded into the distance. “Bit of luck, that,” he said lightly.

Lily arched an eyebrow. James, who considered himself fairly fluent in the language of eyebrows, translated this as: “You don’t really expect me to believe that was mere luck?”

“We can talk now, you know,” James added after another moment passed and Lily had said nothing more, either verbally or expressively.

A pause.

“Filch said not to.”

“Pfft. How’s he going to know?”

“He might’ve placed a surveillance charm…”

“Can’t have done. Filch is a Squib, remember? Can’t do magic.”

“Oh, right. I forgot,” said Lily. “Carter-Myles, then.”

“Filch was Carter-Myles’ surveillance spell. I doubt he had a back-up plan. He didn’t plan on his office flooding.”

Another quirk of Lily’s eyebrow. “I take it you did, though?”

James offered an innocent shrug in return. “I didn’t fancy having Carter-Myles breath down my neck all night long.”

“So it was you?”

“Nah,” said James. He couldn’t help but grin. “It was Sirius.”

Lily rolled her eyes and shook her head in what he chose to interpret as impressed amusement.

“This way,” said James, “both Filch and Carter-Myles are occupied, and we can be good little worker bees and polish in peace. Everyone’s happy.” He gave the plate in his hands an extra little buff and set it aside.

“I don’t think Carter-Myles is very happy,” observed Lily.

“True,” conceded James, “but Carter-Myles being unhappy makes me twice as happy, so it all evens out.”

Lily snorted. “If he wasn’t such an insufferable twat, I’d almost feel bad for him, having you as an enemy. What’d he do to get on your shit list?”

James stared at her. “You’re joking, right?” he said after a moment. Lily just blinked back at him, and his heart sunk a little further. “Similar reasons as to why he’s on yours, I suspect.” He sighed, reached for a particularly tarnished plate, and began to polish.

Silence settled over them regardless of Filch’s lack of enforcement. James, who had never been able to tolerate silence very well, gave conversation another go. “Polishing trophies without magic,” he mused. “A bit dull, but not the worst detention I’ve ever had. Have to admit, I expected worse out of old Farter-Biles.”

“I suspect there’s a message here,” said Lily. “Dress like a Muggle, work like a Muggle.”

“Ah,” said James. He hadn’t made that connection.

The awkward silence returned, until Lily asked almost shyly: “What was the worst detention you’ve ever had?”

James thought for a moment. “Fourth year, mucking dung out of one of Kettleburn’s paddocks. I ached for days. Smelled for weeks.”

Lily let out a soft laugh, and it reverberated into the large silver cup she had in hand.

“Personally,” James went on, feeling heartened by that laugh, “I find detention rather refreshing. A time to clear your head.”

“You’re so full of it,” laughed Lily.

“Nah, I mean it. I do some of my best thinking in detention. There’s nothing like a little menial labor to trigger a grand eureka moment. What about you? What’s the worst detention you’ve ever had?”

“This one,” said Lily.

“Okay, ouch,” said James.

Lily laughed again. “It’s my first, you idiot.”

James gawked at her. “You’re joking! You’ve never had a detention before?

Lily shook her head.

“Not even one?”

“No.”

“How is that possible? They give detentions around here for looking at someone the wrong way. I mean, I know you’re a prefect and all, but I have seen you partake in illicit contraband at post-match parties, so I know—”

“Post-match parties don’t count, everyone knows that,” Lily interrupted. “Besides, maybe I’m just cleverer than you, and I don’t get caught when I break the rules.”

“I’d believe that,” said James. “Well, I must say, I am honored to be here to witness your very first detention, you criminal reprobate, you.”

Lily gave him a wan smile and went back to polishing the silver cup in silence.

James, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to stop talking. “D’you think you get an award if you make it all seven years without getting a single detention?”

“Well, this would be the place to find out,” said Lily, peering around at the mass of trophies. “I hope you do. Marlene would be thrilled to pieces.”

“Why’s that?”

“She’s dying to beat me at something. She’s very competitive, Marlene.”

James grinned, reflecting with fondness on the unparalleled ferocity of his talented new Beater. “You don’t say.”

“Yeah, would you believe it, she actually showed up at my house over the summer, furious that I outscored her in O.W.L.s, and I don’t think she’s ever truly forgiven me for being made prefect over her—”

“She showed up at your house?”

Lily nodded, giggling at the memory. “Yeah. I came downstairs and Dad had invited her in for tea and everything. It was comically bad timing, to tell you the truth, because I’d been out the night before, and I was still brutally hungover, and…” she trailed off, apparently feeling that she’d said too much. A delightful pink tinge stained her cheeks, and James felt a familiar grin tug at the corners of his lips. He couldn’t help it: He loved when Lily Evans blushed.

“Forget I just said that,” said Lily.

“I emphatically will not,” said James, unable to suppress the grin.

Lily rolled her eyes again. “You and Black really think you have me pegged with that whole ‘Penny Prefect’ nonsense, but you don’t actually know me at all.”

“I’m beginning to get that impression,” admitted James.

Lily turned pointedly back to the silver cup, and James watched her for a moment, debating. He’d never wished he’d had his hands on Snape’s Felix Felicis more.

“Well,” he heard himself saying, “since we’ve got nothing to do but wile away the hours buffing up the achievements of Hogwarts’ most illustrious alumni, I propose we remedy that.”

“Remedy what?”

“My not actually knowing you at all. I’m very curious about this wild, hangover-having party prefect who somehow has never had detention in five and a half years, on account of how sneaky she is in her criminal ways.”

Lily didn’t respond. She carefully placed the silver cup back on its shelf and collected a pile of medals, which she placed on the floor beside her.

“Oh, come on,” needled James. “It’s detention. It’s boring. What else have we got to do?”

“I thought there was nothing like a little menial labor to trigger an eureka moment?”

“Maybe that’s what I’m hoping for.”

Lily went pink again, and James wondered if he’d somehow overstepped; then she looked up at him almost defiantly.

“All right,” she said. “Fine. You want to get to know Penny Prefect? Allow me to introduce myself: My name is Lily Evans. I’m sixteen years old. I go to a pretentious boarding school, full of pretentious pure-bloods, where I work my arse off to only ever be considered half as good at best. I also sneak the occasional cigarette behind the greenhouses, and sometimes, yes, I even dare get drunk, but I can’t let anyone know any of that, because if I do, it will be scorned and attributed to the fact that I’m a low-class Muggle-born.

“Yet if I do anything good around here like become a prefect or win an award, everyone will say ‘it’s only because she’s Muggle-born,’ and ‘the headmaster is just playing political games.’ Meanwhile, all the pretentious fucking pure-bloods want me dead for the sole crime of being Muggle-born. So yeah,” she concluded, “I keep some stuff to myself. Nice to meet you.”

There was a pause. James felt rather as though he’d opened a window to let in a light breeze and found a hurricane instead.

“Sorry,” said Lily after a moment as the full force of her outburst caught up with her. She buried her face in her hands, looking miserable. “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t meant to — I’m just having a shit week — sorry.”

“That’s okay,” said James quickly, because he couldn’t bear to see her so sad.

She looked up from her hands. “No, it’s not. I just — my stupid temper — but I’ve got no right to take it out on other people, even if it is you.”

James frowned at this. He took a moment to buff a bit of tarnish off a plate then said in what he hoped was a casual tone, “What’s that mean, even if if is me?”

“What?” said Lily, unconvincingly. “I didn’t — I don’t know. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“But you did. So what does it mean?”

“Just…” Lily struggled for a moment. “I don’t know why, but you always seem to bring out the worst in me.”

“Something about my face, I expect.”

Lily gave him a weak smile.

“All right.” James ran his fingertips through his hair and wished he hadn’t. “Well, let’s see. My turn? My name is James Potter. I am also sixteen, I think Quidditch is rather good fun, I am a pretentious fucking pure-blood, and I definitely don’t want you dead.”

Lily’s laugh was light and hollow. “That’s a relief. Could be a really awkward detention otherwise.”

They each went back to their own labors. James looked around at the endless pile of tarnished trophies, the faded, stained memories of long-forgotten glory. It was an infuriating amount of work to make them shine. James couldn’t help but glance back up at Lily. “I was being facetious just now, but honestly — I mean — not all pure-bloods in this school are like that.”

Lily didn’t respond, her focus pointedly on the medal in her hand. James watched as a frown furrowed her brow. Then, just when he thought she was going to ignore him completely, she said: “Maybe not all pure-bloods are like that, but every Muggle-born student in this school has to assume they are until proven otherwise. The stakes are too high for us if we’re wrong.”

James opened his mouth to reply and found he did not have one. He’d never thought about it like that before. The risk of trusting someone. The catastrophic results if you were wrong. “That…that makes sense,” he admitted.

Lily merely shrugged and set the medal she’d finished polishing back in its case before selecting another from the pile at her feet. James returned his attention to his own task, frowning as he chewed over these words. Until proven otherwise. Almost unwillingly, he recalled all the things he’d overheard her telling Florence, that he’d only ever asked her out as a laugh because she was Muggle-born. Clearly he hadn’t proven himself otherwise…

“Oh,” said Lily, interrupting his thoughts. “This one has your name on it.”

James looked up, expecting to see last year’s Quidditch Cup, but instead found that she was holding a small, bronze plaque. She rubbed it with the cloth to clear away the veil of tarnish.

“Special Services to the School…” she read aloud. “What did you get this for?”

Once again, James’s heart sunk — down, down, down into a tunnel beneath the earth. His memory was suddenly filled with the thunder of paws, a brick wall, and the horrible, howling whimper of a wounded werewolf.

“Potter?”

“Yeah, sorry,” said James, forcing his gaze away from the plaque. Dumbledore had awarded it to him last year, following that horrible night when Moony had nearly killed both Snape and himself, but James had never actually seen the plaque in person. He’d never wanted to. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I — er — I don’t really like to talk about that.”

“Oh.” Lily blinked in surprise. He expected her to follow up with a flurry of fresh questions for which he scrambled to invent evasions, but she simply said, “Okay,” and went back to polishing the plaque.

Once, upon returning from prefect duties looking utterly knackered, Remus had remarked to James that Lily was really good about not asking prying questions about his condition. Apparently this restraint was not limited to Remus and his ‘mysterious illness.’ James wondered why that was. Because she was unfailingly empathetic? Because she had things she didn’t really like to talk about either?

Possibly both.

He stared at the silver goblet in his hands, running the cloth over it mindlessly while his thoughts churned. He found himself thinking of that moment last year when she’d asked to speak to him privately, when she’d asked him about Remus’s health with such obvious care that James had felt compelled to admit that Remus was ‘sick’, though he’d begged her not to tell anyone about that conversation.

“I promise,” Lily had said, and it was a promise she’d kept, even when the subject of their private conversation had become fodder for a school-wide scandal, with Alodie Blunt and Bertha Jorkins telling everyone he and Lily had been snogging. It likely would’ve been easier for Lily to just admit the truth, to shift the attention to someone else. To Remus. But she hadn’t done that. She’d borne the whole ordeal with her shoulders back and head held high, just as she’d walked into the Great Hall last week in her Muggle clothes, just as she’d stared down Professor Carter-Myles in class.

James hadn’t realized in the immediate aftermath of their little scandal last year the severity of what she’d probably gone through. He’d found the whole thing with Alodie to be an annoyance, a bit of a laugh, not a big deal, you know how Hogwarts can be. But he’d learned a lot since then — about the way Muggle-borns were really treated, about the degrading stereotypes to which Muggle-born girls in particular were subjected — and he felt renewed awe for her determination…and, as always, that old tickle of shame.

Shame that he hadn’t stood up for her better at the time. Shame that after five and a half years of knowing her, he still hadn’t ‘proven himself otherwise.’ Shame that he had done something — or perhaps simply not done enough — to make her think that he was just as bad as Snape, just as bad as the very blood supremacists he so despised.

He took a deep breath. “For the record — just so you know — I’m not like that. Or at least, I don’t want to be.”

“What?”

“I’m not like the pure-bloods who — who want you dead, or the Death Eater wannabes, or…or Snape.”

Lily merely looked at him, blinking those astonishing green eyes.

“That’s what you said last year,” James reminded her. “By the lake? You said I was as bad as Snape, but I’m not.”

To his surprise, Lily looked a bit embarrassed. “You’re still stuck on that?” she muttered, eyes cast down on the plaque in her hand.

James let out a humorless laugh. “Well, when a girl calls you a terrible person in front of half the school, it tends to stick.”

“I didn’t call you a terrible person.”

“No, no, you were much more descriptive.”

Her nostrils flared slightly, and she looked back up at him, her expression fierce. “Well, in case you’ve forgotten the details, you and Black had Severus strung up by his ankle, and you wouldn’t stop hexing him. You were torturing him!”

“That wasn’t torture,” said James darkly, for never far from his memory was the image of the bruises and burns he’d healed on Sirius after he’d been attacked by his Slytherin cousins. An attack, he reminded himself, in which Snape had been an enthusiastic participant.

“No?” said Lily. “What would you call it then? Vigilante justice?”

James looked at her, surprised by this comment. He was about to argue — but then he stopped himself, sighed, and shook his head. “Look, I’m not trying to excuse my actions that day, okay? I was angry with Snape, and — well, I think I had rather good reasons to be, but — I don’t deny that I was out of line. I got carried away. And I’m sorry. Particularly for what happened…after.”

When he called you the M-word, thought James, though he did not say it. Lily was frowning, but she did not speak. His old enemy, that intolerable silence; James barreled on.

“But I just really need you to know that I’m not like him, I’m not like any of them, okay? I’d never call you…that. I’d never join up with the Death Eaters. I’m not a blood supremacist, Evans. I swear.”

“I know that,” said Lily, and she sounded like she meant it. She glanced down again at the the plaque in her hands, the Special Services to the School award with his name on it. She pondered it for a moment, then gave it a final wipe with the cloth and set it back in its case. She sighed, swept her hair from her face, and turned those earnest eyes upon him. “I know you’re not a blood supremacist, Potter. You don’t have to convince me of that. I don’t reckon a blood supremacist would’ve dressed up in Muggle clothes with me last week. Or told Carter-Myles to go fuck himself in class.”

Something akin to hope blossomed in James’s chest.

“I’m not going to apologize for standing up for Severus, I would’ve done that for anyone, but…I do wish I hadn’t lost my temper the way I did.” Another sigh from Lily. “Do you know that feeling when you’re arguing with someone, and you have the perfect line on the tip of your tongue, but you just can’t get it out?”

“Not really,” said James. “It’s usually keeping my mouth shut that’s the challenge.”

“Or worse,” Lily went on, ignoring him, “you think of the perfect comeback about thirty minutes after the argument has already ended, and then it just eats you alive? That’s how I always feel when I talk to you.”

The fresh blossom of hope shriveled like petals on a dried up rose. “Oh,” he said, rather stupidly.

“I always thought if I could just say it, just get the damn words out, I’d feel so much better. And then that day by the lake…I was so angry and so hurt that every nasty little jab I’d ever thought but never said…it all just came rushing out, all at once.”

“Yeah,” muttered James, eyes firmly on the trophy in his hands. “I was there for that part.”

“And the thing is, after I’d got it all out, after I actually said all the things I’d fantasized saying to you…I didn’t feel better at all. I felt so much worse.”

James looked up.

“I didn’t like myself in that moment,” concluded Lily in a small voice. Her cheeks had gone very pink indeed. For once, James did not have a quippy rejoinder. He just looked at her, unsure what to say.

Finally, what he said was: “Can I make an observation?”

Lily eyed him warily. “I suppose.”

He hadn’t rehearsed this part, which meant he was almost certainly going to fuck it up, but too bad. James had decided to just be honest. He took a deep breath. “You’re a really good person, Evans. You’re brilliant, and brave, and…immensely kind. To people other than me,” he added sardonically. “Or so I’ve heard. And I get why you hold people to such high standards, because you’re — perfect, but the rest of us mere mortals? We fuck up. Even the best of us. Merlin knows I have. I readily admit it. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last year, it’s that life’s too short not to be a little more forgiving when people fuck up.”

Lily digested this, a troubled frown on her face. “You think I think I’m perfect?” she said in a soft, almost hurt voice that instantly made James regret opening his mouth. “I know I’m not perfect, Potter. I don’t need you to tell me that. I’m so far from perfect that perfect is a tiny little dot on the horizon.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

But Lily spoke over him. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do need to be more forgiving. Maybe I do hold people to impossibly high standards. Lord knows I’ve heard that one before. But if I do, it’s because I am held to even higher ones.”

She shook her head. “You don’t get it, I have to be this…this model version of a Muggle-born every day. I have to be good and polite and well-behaved and academically strong but not in a threatening way, because when I fuck up — and I do, Potter, all the time — but when I fuck up, it is held not only against me, but against every other Muggle-born in this school. In the world! Some little first year I’ve never met will bear the burden of my inability to prove the stereotypes wrong. Because I was careless, or slutty, or…or I lost my temper. And it is so exhausting that some days I think I’m just going to snap from the pressure of it all, and…and…”

All at once, she seemed to deflate, looking just as exhausted as she described, as though the world had well and truly crushed her.

It broke his heart.

“And I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this,” she muttered.

“The magic of detention?” suggested James weakly.

Lily let out a faint huff of air that might’ve been a laugh if it tried harder.

James finished up with the trophy in his hands and set it aside. “Could be I’m way off the mark here, but…it seems to me that maybe the person you need to forgive is yourself. You’re human, Evans. You’re allowed to act like it. You don’t have to save the world alone.”

James thought that was a rather good line for not having rehearsed it. Lily, however, stared at him, green eyes wide. Then, to his utter astonishment, she pulled a rag from the pile beside her and threw it at his head.

“What the hell, Potter?” she said furiously.

“What?” spluttered James, completely baffled by this sudden outrage and temporarily overwhelmed by the smell of silver polish. “What did I do now?”

But when he tugged the rag from his face, he saw that Lily was laughing. A true, proper, head-thrown-back Lily Evans laugh, the sort he spent most of his days secretly courting.

He would never understand this girl.

“You’re not supposed to be all…wise!” she choked out, laughing so hard she knocked over a gilded cup.

“Hey,” complained James. “I have been known to have bursts of wisdom on more than one occasion. And everyone always seems so surprised,” he added in a faintly wounded voice that only made Lily laugh harder.

James felt that perhaps he ought to be offended by her burst of hilarity at his expense, but he couldn’t muster the the energy because her laughter was so completely charming. He felt a grin slide onto his face. Before he could say anything further, however, a voice called from the depths of his pocket: “Oi. You there?”

With half a glance at Lily, James pulled a small mirror from his robes, and Sirius Black peered back at him.

“Padfoot,” said James. “What’s up?”

“Crumpet-Muffin on the warpath. Coming your way any minute. Assume well-behaved scholar position.”

“Shit. Thanks, mate.”

“Blow Evans a kiss for me,” said Sirius.

“Fuck off,” said James, and he shoved the mirror back into his pocket. He glanced over at Lily, who was staring at him with her eyebrows raised.

“Were you just talking to…Black? Through a mirror?”

“I’ll explain later,” said James hurriedly, though he had no intention to. “But right now, we are silently serving our detention like the model students we are.”

Lily gave him a sarcastic salute and they both went back to polishing.

No more than a minute later, Professor Carter-Myles rounded the corner and burst into the Trophy Room. He was sopping wet and looked about as furious as James had ever seen him. He glared down at the detentioners on the floor. James and Lily, their hands full of trophies and polish, gazed innocently back up at him, a picture of obediently silent bafflement.

“This was you, wasn’t it, you little weasel?” the professor demanded, glowering at James.

“Don’t look at me,” said James with earnest confusion. “I’ve been here the whole time, polishing away.” He turned to Lily. “Haven’t I?”

Lily nodded.

“Don’t give me that innocent act,” snarled Carter-Myles. “I know you were behind this. And I know you had something to do with all the…prawns too.”

“Prawns?” said James. “You’ve got the wrong bloke. I’m allergic to shellfish. Face like an inflating hex.”

“I know it was you.”

James scratched his chin, giving this accusation the amount of thoughtful consideration it deserved. “But that wouldn’t exactly hold up in the Wizengamot, now would it, sir?”

He could almost see steam emitting from the man’s ears.

“I’m watching you, Potter,” growled the professor. “You and your little gang of miscreants. You may have the Headmaster fooled, but I can see clear as day that you are up to no good. So watch your step, because every move you make for the rest of your time here at this school, I will be on — your — heel.”

And with a great harrumph (followed by a bit of a squelch), Professor Carter-Myles turned on his own heel and stalked out of the Trophy Room.

“Merlin,” said James. “Some people really hate prawns.”

Filch returned about twenty minutes after Carter-Myles’ departure, looking windswept and quite damp. After a good bit more silent polishing and a thorough investigation to ensure that every last medallion was, in fact, gleaming, the caretaker at last relented and released them.

Heavy shadows cloaked the corridors as James and Lily made their way back to Gryffindor Tower, bones aching and creaking like the many suits of armor they passed. A few hours crouched on the floor polishing silver would do that to a person.

They walked quietly for the first few floors without much conversation, each tied up in their own thoughts. For once, James did not battle the silence. The evening had not been a total disaster, he decided. It hadn’t gone quite as well as he would have liked — some version of Lily flinging herself into his arms and declaring that she’d always loved him flitted endlessly across the pages of the fantasy novel in his mind — but he’d said what he came to say, or most of it, anyway. He hadn’t managed to get to the part about how his asking her out last year had been genuine, not a cruel joke, and this bothered him somewhat. He hadn’t found the proper moment. Or maybe he was too cowardly.

All the same, progress had been made. He felt he understood her at least a little better, and she said that she knew he wasn’t a blood supremacist, so that was something.

Lily was rubbing the joints of her fingers. “It makes you feel for Filch, doesn’t it?” she said. “Having to do it all without magic.”

James, who had never felt anything for Filch beyond amused contempt, looked at her in surprise. “I guess,” he said, because he’d never thought about it.

“I suppose that’s why my sister resents me so much,” said Lily. Her voice was thoughtful, distant, maybe even a little sad.

“You have a sister?”

She looked over at him as though she were almost surprised to find him there, as though she’d been talking to herself more than to him. She gave a small nod. “Petunia. She’s a Muggle, and she really hates magic.”

“Hates magic? How can you hate magic? That’s like hating…air.”

“To you,” said Lily, a touch of amusement in her voice. “But magic in my family is an abnormality, as am I. A fact of which Petunia constantly reminds me.”

James frowned. It had never occurred to him that anyone could hate magic, let alone someone whose sister was a witch. There was so much about Lily he didn’t know that it almost embarrassed him. He’d decided last year that he was in love with her and that had seemed like enough to get on with at the time. But the girl he’d gotten to know over the year that followed that rash decision was much different, much more complicated than the version he’d built up in his own head. It didn’t mean he liked her any less — if anything, he liked her more — but it was rather like when they had to repot Flitterblooms in Herbology: The plants seemed manageable enough, but when you dug down deeper into the dirt, their roots were a labyrinthine tangle, all knotted and looped and refusing to budge. It was slow, careful, occasionally frustrating work…but still, James couldn’t help but dig.

“Your parents,” he asked tentatively, “do they hate magic?”

Lily looked away, her gaze dipping into a far patch of shadow, and for a moment James worried he’d overstepped, that she was going to get angry with him again, or simply ignore him entirely. A moment passed, and then Lily spoke, her voice soft and sad.

“No,” she said. “My dad doesn’t really understand magic, but he does his best. My mum was different, though. She adored it. Once the shock wore off, anyway. Once she stopped being so scared that something was wrong with me. She was so excited to find out I was a witch. She wanted to know everything about Hogwarts, about magic. Another reason Petunia hates it all so much, I suspect.”

The use of the past tense was not lost on James. He found his memory flitting once again to that moment behind the tapestry last year when she’d asked about Remus. What was it she’d said? I know what an incurable illness looks like.

“Your mum, is she…?”

“She died,” said Lily simply. “A few years ago.”

“Merlin, Evans. I’m sorry. I — I never knew that.”

“Yeah, that was intentional,” said Lily, and she must’ve noticed his horrified expression, because she added: “Not you personally, it’s just…this all happened right around the time Black got his hands on my diary and that whole…fiasco.” Her cheeks flushed pink. “I’d had enough of my personal life being splashed around school. I found out she was ill shortly after that, so I kept it to myself, and the few people who knew were happy to let me keep it. Grief makes people uncomfortable.”

James felt slightly ill. He remembered that incident with her diary, though he’d never known quite how Sirius had got his hands on it. He’d never asked. He’d been too busy putting on a show of his own, trying to hide the flush of excitement he’d felt at the idea of her crush on him, trying to stifle the burn of mortification from his mates’ constant teasing and the giggling attentions of the school. He cringed to remember how he’d acted now. Like a petulant child.

“No wonder you hate me,” he muttered.

“I don’t hate you,” said Lily, and he must’ve looked skeptical because she added: “I don’t.”

They climbed the final staircase in a silent single file, Lily in front, James a few steps behind. When they reached the seventh floor landing, however, James stopped shortly before the portrait hole. “Evans?” he said, and she turned back to him. “For what it’s worth — and I doubt it’s worth very much, but all the same — I am sorry about what happened third year…with your diary and…everything else.”

She shifted uncomfortably, arms hugged to her chest.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, it wasn’t because —” he struggled for a moment, the words ‘because you’re Muggle-born’ refusing to leave his tongue. “I was an idiot, and I acted like a prat, and for whatever part I played in making life more difficult for you at this school, I really am sorry.”

Lily stared at him; her face was so hard to read, but something was definitely happening behind those green eyes. Then she said: “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

She turned back to the portrait hole, then paused and said over her shoulder: “And for the record, I really appreciate what you did last week, with the protest and everything. It meant a lot to me.”

“Yeah, sure,” mumbled James.

Lily nodded, more to herself than to him, then she walked to the portrait hole and gave the password. The Fat Lady swung open. Just as Lily was about to climb through, however, she hesitated and turned to face James one more time. “And…also for the record…all that stuff I said last year, by the lake? It’s not.”

“Not what?”

“It’s not what I think of you.”

James opened his mouth, then closed it again. He swallowed.

“Goodnight, James,” she said, and then she disappeared into the common room.

Chapter Text

SIRIUS

An Oath Renewed

“And that was ‘Playing with Fire’ by the Rolling Stones. Up next, we’ve got—“

Sirius clicked off the radio and reached for his guitar. He slung it over his lap and positioned his fingers along the fretboard. He closed his eyes and let the song he’d just heard visualize in his mind…the chords, the colors…then he began to play.

The dormitory was empty but for the music he made; James was still stuck in his detention with Evans, and Remus and Peter were down in the common room. Sirius might’ve otherwise joined them, but lately he’d taken to doing this: sitting alone in the dormitory and listening to the Kenny Kirk show before replicating the Muggle songs on his guitar. He’d bought this little radio by owl order the week prior. It felt like an indulgence, though it wasn’t really; he was just getting used to having money again. He’d tried practicing his guitar in the common room once or twice, but he always found himself with an audience, usually a few giggling girls, and he found that annoying. Music was one of the only activities for which he preferred the solitude.

His fingers slipped over the strings as he hummed a few lines. He’d gotten much better over the last week. Remus had been right: Learning the guitar was not much of a hurdle after his experience with so many other instruments. And he’d been right about something else too: Sirius loved it.

He loved the feeling of creating a song, a story, a whole world with only his hands, a world he could escape into, constructed entirely of notes and chords and keys. It cleared his head of all the other clutter. The only thing that compared was when he was in his Animagus form. It was hard to explain, but he thought better as a dog. Things were clearer. Simpler.

It felt like that too when he played guitar.

He finished up the song and pressed his palm to the strings so the music came to a clean stop. The world came crashing back.

Remus had given him this guitar, a fact that still fascinated and confused him. His other mates had given him for his birthday booze and sweets and an arsenal of pranking supplies, but Remus had given him a bloody guitar. That had to mean something, right?

Of course, they hadn’t discussed the guitar, nor the drunken conversation with Prongs that had occurred that same evening, during which Remus had offered the absolution Sirius so desperately craved. Offered it to Prongs, that was.

“One mistake…doesn’t make you an irredeemably bad person forever.”

Remus had said those words to James, but he’d looked at Sirius. Surely that had to mean something too.

For about the hundredth time since last term, Sirius found himself reflecting on the oath he’d taken as a second year. The oath to keep Remus’s secret. James had set up such a silly amount of ceremony for the whole thing, and Sirius had teased him about it at the time, but…it must have worked, because Sirius could not stop thinking of the words he’d spoken at the mere age of twelve. The promise he’d made. The promise he’d broken.

“I solemnly swear,” he’d said.

Could you put an oath back together once it had been broken? Or would the cracks always be visible, letting faith and trust and friendship slip through like sand...?

A grunt of frustration, and Sirius set the guitar aside. He stared instead at the map-in-progress, a welcome distraction. They’d covered nearly the entire wall of their dormitory with bits of parchment, notes, and ideas, a grandly-scaled replication of the castle and all its many moving pieces. The plan was that once they had solidified their blueprint they’d transfer it to a smaller, foldable, portable piece of parchment, but for now it hung on their dormitory wall, directly across from Sirius’s bed.

All week, Sirius had been ruminating over Remus’s idea to use the Homonculus Charm to track everyone in the castle. It was big and ambitious and…well, he hadn’t worked it out yet, but Sirius enjoyed the puzzle. That was probably why he liked the map so much in the first place. All the plotting and charting, the uncovering of secrets, the discovery and subtle understanding…It was one giant puzzle, enormous and unwieldy, perhaps, but at the same time contained to a very clear set of boundaries…

Boundaries.

Sirius was struck by a sudden idea. He withdrew his wand, summoned a book from Remus’s bedside table, and flipped through the pages to the dog-eared section on Homonculus Charms. His eyes scanned the pages with rapt comprehension, words darting before him like notes on a scale. Then he stood abruptly, still clutching the textbook open in one hand, and grabbed a nearby quill. Dipping it into a pot of ink, he moved to the map wall and began to work, marking a series of locations along the boundaries of the map.

At last, he took a step back and examined his work.

“Merlin’s balls,” he muttered, gazing up at the wall. “I think that’s it.”

Now it was just a matter of making the magic work. He crossed the room to Remus’s cluttered bedside table, upon which was stacked a tottering pile of books, his own personal cartographer’s library. Scanning the titles, Sirius grabbed a few, settled back onto his bed, and began to read, pausing occasionally to scratch out notes on a spare bit of parchment. He was so deeply absorbed in a chapter on spell bonding that he didn’t even hear the dormitory door open.

“My little scholar,” said an affectionate voice, and Sirius looked up to see James leaning against the jamb of the doorway, an amused expression on his face.

“Fuck off,” said Sirius, and he flipped the other boy off in a good-natured sort of way. James snickered as Sirius stoppered the ink bottle and straightened up, sweeping his hair from his brow with ink-stained fingers. “So you made it out unscathed? Cranky-Muppet sounded like he wanted to skin someone.”

James grinned as he shut the dormitory door behind him. “Yeah, thanks for the head’s up. You know, I don’t think he’s over the prawns yet. But what could he do? I was already in detention.”

“Right…how’d it go?”

James dropped himself onto the couch with a weary sigh. “Fine.”

Sirius watched him for a moment, waiting for more, for the inevitable flood of longing and despair that usually spilled from his friend’s lips at the merest mention of Lily Evans...but James just sat on the couch, staring at the wall of map with a slight furrow in his brow.

“That’s it?” said Sirius, annoyed. “Did you and Evans get a chance to hash things out?”

“Er — yeah, a bit.”

“And…? Come on, mate, don’t keep me in suspense. I just flooded a bloody professor’s office so you could have that little chat.”

“Your noble sacrifice has been noted.”

“And I know it went somewhat decently because I heard her laughing through the mirror.”

The faintest twitch of a smile on James’s lips. Then he sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “It went okay, I guess. She said she doesn’t hate me…and also that she didn’t mean what she said by the lake last term.”

Sirius punched a triumphant fist into the air. “There you go! What’d I tell you? Now, a little careful plotting, a bit of Marauder magic, some subtle courting — note the emphasis on subtle — and you’re back in the game!”

James, whose attention had once again strayed to the map, turned back to Sirius. “What are you talking about?”

“What d’you mean, what am I talking about? I’m talking about the only thing you ever talk about: you and Evans.”

James shook his head. “No, that’s not — that’s done. Tonight wasn’t about ‘courting’ her, it was about clearing the air. I told her I’d leave her alone, and I intend to honor that promise.”

“But you just said she didn’t mean—”

“I told you, it’s done.”

Sirius eyed him incredulously for a long moment, then he shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what she wants,” muttered James.

Sirius was not altogether convinced on this front, but James’s romantic woes were his own, and if he wanted to be stupid about a girl, that wasn’t Sirius’s problem.

Of course, that was naive thinking. James made it his problem. He made it his problem at three o’clock in the bloody morning.

“Mate,” hissed a voice through the dark. “Mate!”

“What the fuck,” groaned Sirius. Wrenched from an otherwise pleasant slumber, he rolled over to see James lying on his side in his own bed, curtains open, eyes wide awake and staring at him.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” said James, as though he wasn’t the whole reason for this infuriating state of affairs.

“What,” repeated Sirius, “the fuck.”

“She called me James.”

“What?”

“Evans. Last night, after our detention. She called me James.”

“So?”

“So she’s never called me James before.”

“What, never?”

“Never. It’s always ‘Potter’ or ‘You prat’ or ‘Get the hell out of my way before I hex you.’ ‘James’ is new. That has to mean something, right?”

“Yeah, it means she knows your name. Congratulations.”

“I think it means something.”

Sirius glowered at him. “Mate, it’s three o’clock in the bloody morning. Nothing means anything at three o’clock in the bloody morning.”

“She said it right after she told me she didn’t mean what she said by the lake last year. She said: ‘Goodnight, James.’”

“Goodnight, James.”

“Yeah, just like that!”

Sirius wrenched the bed curtains shut.

“Oh,” he heard James say from the other side. Sirius rolled his eyes, rolled onto his side, then rolled steadily back into sleep.

James was unusually quiet at breakfast the next morning, and Sirius decided to attribute this to contrition over waking his friend up at such an ungodly hour to discuss the last gasps of his love life. After Sirius had had enough breakfast to make the prospect more palatable, however, he decided to take pity on the lad.

“All right,” said Sirius in what he felt was a very magnanimous gesture. “I’ve had my morning cup of tea. You may begin.”

James blinked at him from behind a spoonful of porridge. “Begin what?”

“Your desperate pining. Your over-analyzation of every grammatical quirk Evans has ever stumbled into. Go on. You have the floor. Speak.”

But James shook his head. “There’s nothing to say. Nothing to analyze. There’s nothing between us. Never was, never will be.”

“Are you kidding me? You woke me up at three o’clock in the bloody morning to tell me she knows your first name, mate.”

“Yeah, but I thought about it some more, and it doesn’t mean anything. And even if it did — I told you, I’m done. I’m moving on.”

“For fuck’s sake,” said Sirius.

Sirius was fairly convinced that the only moving on James was doing was from the breakfast table to the Quidditch pitch, but move he did, and soon Sirius was left alone in the Great Hall with naught but his toast for company as James headed to practice. Remus was having a lie-in and Peter was off with Veronica Smethley, who apparently he’d been dating ever since things had blown up between him and Winnie Bones at the Quidditch match. Sirius was vague on the details.

He lingered a little longer to read the Prophet, which featured a bunch of drivel about ongoing investigations into Muggle extremists at the Ministry, then he wrapped a stack of toast in a napkin and headed back to Gryffindor Tower to work on the map.

When he reached the dormitory, he was surprised to find Remus already stirring. Even out of the moon cycle, the boy was always exhausted, so he usually used every Saturday morning as an opportunity to catch up on sleep. Presently, however, he was in the very groggy process of putting on a pair of socks. It looked like hard work.

“You’re up earlier than I’d expected,” observed Sirius.

“Mmmngh,” said Remus, tugging a sock over his heel. He hadn’t managed a matching set, but Sirius didn’t feel the need to call him out on it.

“Though you don’t look particularly well rested. Prongs didn’t wake you up at the arse-crack of dawn to talk about his feelings, did he?”

“What?” said Remus. “Why would he do that?”

“Did to me. Apparently he’s ‘moving on’ from Evans.”

“What, again?”

“Yep.”

“Merlin,” muttered Remus. “Detention went that poorly, did it?”

Sirius set the napkin of toast on Remus’s bedside table. “That’s the thing,” he said, dropping himself on the couch. “It sounds like it went great. Prongs has just decided to be a martyr or something.”

Remus chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast. “Well, maybe he’s right. Maybe he should move on.”

Sirius looked at the other boy in surprise. “Really? I thought you’d be Team Evans all the way. She’s your friend, after all. Hang on — you don’t fancy her, do you?”

Remus choked on a bit of crust. “What? No!” he said quickly. “No, no — we’re just friends. I don’t fancy anyone. I don’t fancy.”

“Well, all right, don’t go join a nunnery on me, I was just asking.”

“We’re just friends,” repeated Remus, but across his pale cheeks spread a faint tinge of pink that might’ve been attributed to the lack of oxygen from choking, or might’ve been something else entirely. He brushed the crumbs from his pajamas then looked up at Sirius. “It’s just…James has been fairly miserable lately — you’ve noticed it too, I know you have — and Lily is my friend, but…well, to be perfectly honest, she has some pretty good reasons not to want to date him, so maybe he’s right to respect that. You know, give her some space.”

“Space,” repeated Sirius. It was advice he’d heard before — from Prongs himself, no less. “Right.” He slumped back into the cushions of the couch, suddenly wishing he hadn’t brought up the stupid Evans issue at all. “Well, Prongs’ disaster of a love life aside, I did have something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?”

He gestured at the wall. “The map. I’ve been thinking about your idea, with the Homonculus Charm, and I reckon I’ve worked out how to do it.”

“You’re kidding. Already?”

“Well, I haven’t done it yet. But listen: We’ve been going about it the wrong way. We’ve been trying to figure out how to apply the charm to people — that’s how it’s been traditionally used in the past, and all — but like you pointed out, that won’t work. What we’ve got to do is apply it not to the individual people but rather to a set of coordinates — so that everyone within those coordinates is tracked by default.”

“Yeah, but…how would we do that?”

Sirius stood and pointed at the locations he’d marked on the map the night before. “We’d cast the charm separately at different markers around the boundaries of the grounds — here, here, here, etcetera — and then we’d use a spell bonding technique to link all the coordinates to each other, like a great grid system. Then we link that back to the map, and presto. Perfect tracking of everyone who comes within those coordinates.”

Remus looked impressed. “So…we’d be putting the spell on Hogwarts itself, not the map, per se?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“That has to be pretty illegal.”

Sirius snorted. “Moony, I’m an unregistered Animagus and you’re a rogue werewolf. That ship has sailed.”

“Good point,” muttered Remus. Then he too stood and walked over to the map on the wall. He traced the boundaries with one finger as he ran through the theory in his own mind. At last, he looked up at Sirius, something like excitement in his eyes. “You know, it might actually work.”

“I was going to take a little walk this morning. Check out some of these spots.” He nodded at the markings on the map. “Want to come?”

For a moment, he was sure Remus would say no, that he’d find an excuse to stay in the castle, to avoid prolonged time with Sirius like he always did…

But then Remus nodded. “Let’s go.”

They only made it to one or two of the coordinates before exhaustion set in, of course. The grounds were vast and tough to navigate by human foot. This would be a task for Padfoot and Prongs, no doubt, but Remus was excited about the prospect all the same and kept chattering on about Charm theory and spell bonding, which oddly made Sirius feel more cheerful than he had in weeks.

“If we pull this off,” Remus said as they climbed through the portrait hole, “we will have created something…something eternal. This is huge, Sirius.”

Something eternal. Sirius liked that.

When they reached the dormitory, they found James back from Quidditch practice giving Peter a play-by-play of his detention. “And then Farter-Biles comes back, and he’s dripping from head to toe, and he goes, ‘I can see clear as day that you are up to no good.’ All dramatic like. ‘So watch your step —’ Oh, hello!” James looked up brightly as they entered. “I was just telling Peter about Carter-Myles’ little swim yesterday. Thanks to Padfoot, of course.”

“I live to serve,” said Sirius breezily.

“Where’ve you two been?”

They told him. About the Homonculus Charm, and the coordinates, and spell bonding, and the whole complicated plot. James was predictably enthralled and wanted to throw himself into the project immediately. Of course, Sirius’s plan was still just a theory, and there was quite a bit of magic to work out, so that was how they spent the rest of their Saturday and almost every spare moment of the weeks that followed: holed up in the dormitory, huddled around the map on the wall, hunched over books, working out puzzles.

“No, you’ve got that bit wrong,” said Sirius as they toiled over their project late one evening. He leaned over James’s shoulder to peer at the map. “The tapestry of the dancing trolls is on the seventh floor.”

“Are you sure?” said James. “I could’ve sworn it was on the sixth.”

“No, check the notes. It’s on the seventh floor, across from a big, long stretch of empty wall. I remember, because I got caught staring at it under the Invisibility Cloak one night when Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout decided to stop for a late night catch-up and blocked my way. Nothing to look at in that stupid corridor except a bunch of trolls in tutus bludgeoning each other.”

“Huh,” said James, who was indeed consulting their notes. “Could’ve sworn it was on the sixth floor.” He moved the scrap of parchment indicating the tapestry up one floor.

“Little to the left,” said Sirius, and James shot him an annoyed look over his shoulder.

“D’you want to do it?”

Sirius snickered. “No, I just like annoying you.” They’d been at this for hours, and though Sirius was as enthusiastic about the map as the others, he was beginning to grow bored. He reached for his radio and tuned it to the Kenny Kirk show, listened for a few moments, then picked up his guitar and began to strum along.

“I’m trying to read,” complained Remus from the next bed over. He had made himself a little nest between the pillows and stacks of books. The full moon was next week, and the usual symptoms of edginess and exhaustion had begun to creep in.

“Too bad,” said Sirius, pausing to tune the instrument. “You shouldn’t have given me a guitar. It’s your fault, really.”

“Yeah, thanks Remus,” grumbled Peter from the couch where he was mucking through his Charms homework with considerable difficulty and dark muttering.

“I still can’t get over the fact that you play guitar and you never told me,” said James.

“I don’t play guitar, I’m learning,” countered Sirius. This wasn’t exactly a lie, as he’d never even held a guitar before Remus had gifted him this one. However, he’d never told James about the piano, or the violin, or the bloody lyre…he didn’t know why, exactly. It had just always felt like a dirty secret, a stain from the upbringing he’d worked so hard to bring down. Before Remus, he’d never told anyone about the endless practice and recitals of his youth. He glanced over at the boy to see if he’d betray this confidence, but Remus had given up on his books and had instead closed his eyes, head lolling back against the pillows.

“Play on, Achilles,” sighed Remus.

Sirius smirked, finished tuning the guitar, and began to play. James watched him for a moment with baffled interest. “I must say, I rather enjoy having my own personal troubadour. Will you write songs of my greatest triumphs and sing them around the castle?”

“In your dreams.”

“The only thing that’s rather annoying about it,” continued James, “is that you’re so bloody good already. Just once I’d like you to be dreadful at something.”

“Play him in chess,” suggested Remus, eyes still firmly shut.

“Yes, but I’m dreadful at chess,” said James. “So that doesn’t help. Something else.”

“Human relations?” said Remus.

Sirius chucked a pillow at him, which Remus returned with impressive velocity despite his somnolent posture, but Sirius quickly dodged out of the way. The pillow sped past him and hit the wall, sending bits of parchment fluttering.

“Oi, watch the map!” complained James while Sirius snickered.

James picked up the fluttering parchments and returned them to their proper locations on the map. Then he frowned. “Oh, I forgot about this one.”

“What is it?”

“There was a mirror on the fourth floor that I meant to investigate, but I — er — got distracted. It looked suspicious, though.”

“Suspicious how?”

“Well, it was…big.”

This did not sound especially promising to Sirius, but he was bored of sitting around the dormitory. He glanced at his watch. It was past curfew, which meant the castle’s corridors would be obligingly empty for a little adventuring. “Want to go check it out now?”

James grinned. “Definitely. You up for it, lads?”

“I’m going to bed,” murmured Remus, who had already disappeared deeper into this pillows. “But please give the suspicious mirror a good poke on my behalf.”

James sighed dramatically. “Wormtail?”

“I can’t,” moaned Peter. “This essay is due tomorrow.” He looked up hopefully as though James might offer to finish it for him, but James’s attention had been drawn in by the map once more.

“That’s all right,” said James, running a contemplative finger along the fourth floor corridor of the map. “We don’t need all four of us to investigate a mirror.”

They were no more than a few steps down the spiral stairs to the common room, however, when Peter came huffing down after them. “Wait for me!” he called. “I’m coming too.”

“What about Charms?”

“I’ll finish it in the morning, who cares. Besides,” Peter added, a touch of pride in his voice, “you might need me.”

James grinned. “Good man. Well, rat. Good rat.”

Sirius said nothing. He would’ve been perfectly happy if Peter had stayed behind and it was just him and James for once; he had no great expectations of this little expedition other than a bit of a laugh and a stretch of the legs, and he highly doubted the suspicious mirror would yield results as to need the services of a rat, but he did not voice this opinion. Instead, he merely gave an impatient shrug as Peter transformed into a rat and was placed in James’s pocket. Then they continued down to the common room.

It was late enough that even the most industrious students had turned in; the fires were low embers in their grates, casting soft, hazy shadows across the abandoned sofas and ottomans. The boys crossed the common room confidently — until they noticed the soft glow of candlelight and the figure of a girl curled in an armchair, reading a book. It was Lily Evans.

“Shit,” muttered James, fumbling in his pocket for the Invisibility Cloak.

“Don’t bother,” said Sirius. “She’s directly in front of the portrait hole, she’ll notice it open regardless.”

“Then what d’you want to — oh, Merlin’s tits," complained James, for Sirius was already strolling across the room towards the prefect.

“Evening, Evans.”

Lily looked up from her book…and then looked as though she rather wished she hadn’t. She had warmed somewhat to him — to all of them — since that whole Muggle clothing escapade, but there was a still wariness in her eyes, a deep-seated distrust that was all too evident as she said, “Black.”

As Sirius moved closer, he realized that though the book was in her lap, it had been a letter she’d been reading. She noticed his gaze and stuffed the letter quickly out of sight.

James approached, though Sirius had the impression he’d have rather walked barefoot across hot coals. “Hey, Evans,” he muttered with an awkward little wave. “Sorry to interrupt, we’re just — ah —”

“We’re going out,” announced Sirius.

Lily’s gaze flickered from Sirius to James, then back to Sirius. “That’s nice,” she said, and she returned her attention to her book.

With the air of one who had just been pardoned at the gallows, James nodded and took a step towards the portrait hole. Sirius, however, stood still. He frowned down at his classmate, feeling faintly troubled by her lack of response. This was Penny Prefect, after all: enforcer of useless rules, eternal thorn in his side. And even more troubling still: She looked sad.

“Don’t you want to stop us?”

“Not particularly, no,” said Lily. She flipped a page of her book.

“But you’re a prefect!” protested Sirius. “Or did that detention go to your head and make you forget? It’s past curfew. We’re breaking the rules. If you don’t wag your finger at us, the whole system will break down. It’ll be anarchy in the corridors. Anarchy, I say!”

Lily sighed and looked back up at him. “Stop,” she said in a dry monotone. “Please. I beg you. Think of the House points. Oh, the humanity. Will that do?”

Sirius leaned down and pressed his hand to her forehead. She swatted it away with a glare.

“You don’t feel ill.”

“You overestimate how much I care about what you boys get up to. Look, try not to get caught, don’t lose any more points than strictly necessary, and if anyone asks, I was asleep. Deal?”

“You drive a hard bargain, but I accept.”

Sirius turned to leave, but this time James lingered. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Piss off, or I will call McGonagall,” said Lily, though Sirius noted that there was none of her usual venom behind the threat.

James raised his hands in mock surrender and retreated to the portrait hole. “Do you enjoy torturing me?” he muttered to Sirius as they climbed through into the quiet corridor.

Sirius thought about it. “Yes,” he said.

“Oh, good. So long as one of us is having fun.”

Hidden by James’s Invisibility Cloak, Peter securely stowed away in James’s pocket, the boys crept down the stairs until they reached the fourth floor corridor where the suspicious mirror hung.

“All clear?” whispered James, peering around. Sirius took a moment to confirm, and then they threw the Cloak off their shoulders.

Wands lit, they began to investigate the mirror, which really didn’t involve much more than, as Remus said, poking it. James tapped it a few times with his wand and tried all sorts of spells, but nothing happened. Probably because it was just another mirror, as Sirius had suspected. But just for good measure, while James fussed over some complicated, futile spellwork, Sirius leaned over and hooked his fingers beneath the gilt frame. He gave it a tug.

The mirror swung open with an easy creak as though on hinges.

James turned to him, mouth gaping. “How’d you do that?”

Sirius shrugged. “I just pulled.”

The mirror had opened to reveal such a large expanse of darkness that the only way Sirius knew it wasn’t simply solid black wall was the soft whoosh of air that ruffled his hair as the mirror swung open. James leaned forward with his wand, sending a weak beam of light across what appeared to be a large stone chamber, deep and dark and utterly lightless. He turned back to Sirius, his face lit up by wandlight and sheer excitement. “I told you it was suspicious.”

“That you did,” agreed Sirius. “Shall we?”

He climbed through the mirror hole first; the stone was cold and damp beneath him. James followed and, once through, went to pull the mirror closed behind him, but Sirius stopped him before it clicked all the way shut.

“Careful,” he warned. “We don’t know if it’ll open again from this side. Leave it cracked for now.”

James did so, and the merest sliver of torchlight from the corridor beyond remained. Sirius thought of Ariadne’s string as he followed the golden thread of light across the stone chamber — which, he was quickly realizing, was not simply a chamber, but a long gallery, extending far past the beam of his wand.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a new passageway,” whispered Sirius.

James was practically bouncing with excitement. A squeak emitted from his pocket; he reached in and set Wormtail down on the stone floor. Then, a moment later, Peter stood before them, gaping around the gallery.

“Cool,” said Peter.

They spent a fair amount of time exploring the gallery, poking wandlight into dark corners until they found a small, narrow staircase. This they followed down what felt like several floors, careful not to trip in the pitch black, until eventually they reached a low passageway. The moment they set foot in this passageway, the darkness vanished. Torchlights lit up with a fiery whoosh, illuminating the damp stone walls. The torchlights extended as far as the eye could see, disappearing into little orange dots as the tunnel turned.

“Cool,” said Peter.

James turned to Sirius, the glare of torchlight bright across his glasses. “What d’you want to bet this goes to Hogsmeade?”

“One way to find out.”

They carried on. It was a far more pleasant tunnel to traverse than the one that led to the Shrieking Shack, or even the one that led to Honeydukes, though the way the torchlights illuminated a fresh patch of tunnel when you turned a corner was just a tiny bit disconcerting. He felt as though they were being watched, and he supposed in a way they were: It was not the first time Sirius had had a sense that the castle was sentient.

“What do you think they used this tunnel for?” mused James as they carried on. “D’you think Hogwarts ever had smugglers?”

“What would they need to smuggle?”

“Oh, come on, all sorts of contraband.”

“You think someone built an elaborate stone tunnel to sneak in Zonko’s products?”

“Hogwarts is a thousand years old, right? Maybe they went through a prohibition.”

“It’s a school, Prongs. It’s always prohibition.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Maybe it’s an escape route,” mused Peter. “You know, like a backdoor. If they ever needed to evacuate the castle quickly or secretly. It’s a lot bigger than the other tunnels.”

“And more accessible,” agreed James. “No crawling through statues or sliding beneath violent trees.”

“D’you reckon the teachers know about it?” asked Sirius.

“Surely not,” said James. “If this does lead to Hogsmeade — and if it doesn’t, my sense of direction is rubbish — then there’s no way they’d leave it open.”

“All the same,” said Sirius, “let’s make sure we have the Cloak on when we come back out. McGee has been giving me detentions for so much as sneezing lately. She’s always had a stick up her arse but this year I think it’s grown into a whole fucking tree.”

“She’s probably making up for last year,” said Peter mildly, pausing to examine a rivulet of water that was streaming down the tunnel wall.

Both Sirius and James stopped to look at him, surprised. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” said Sirius.

Peter went rather pink beneath the orange torchlight. He seemed to shrink slightly under Sirius’s attention. “Only that you — I mean, we all got off rather easily after that whole incident last year.”

Sirius felt an involuntary chill that had nothing to do with the damp tunnel. “And you reckon she felt on further reflection I did deserve detention after all?” His voice was heavy with disdain, his natural defense. He’d thought they had an unspoken agreement not to discuss the ‘incident,’ yet here they were, spoiling the night with the memory of Sirius’s greatest fuck up. Thanks, Wormtail.

Peter fidgeted. “I don’t know.” Then he looked up at Sirius with something like defiance, which surprised him. “Maybe.”

“I was surprised we didn’t get detention,” said James. “I was sure we were all going to be expelled.”

“Not you,” said Peter. “McGonagall was practically weeping during your story.”

“She was not.”

“By her standards, yeah. Her favorite student, eaten up by a werewolf?”

“I hope you’re referring to me and not Snape.”

“Hey, look,” said Sirius loudly. “There’s a ladder up ahead.”

This had the desired effect of changing the subject. The three boys hurried forward, and indeed, the tunnel seemed to have reached an end. A rather rickety looking wooden ladder led up to the ceiling. Sirius pushed ahead and began to climb. When he reached the top, he found himself confronted with a metal grate and the distinct waft of stables. A glimmer of moonlight above. He gave the grate a rattle, then noticed a padlock with a heavy chain snaked around the grate. Steadying himself on the ladder with one hand, he pulled out his wand and muttered, “Alohomora.”

The padlock sprung open and after a rather noisy struggle, he pulled the chain off, pushed the grate open, and climbed through.

As his nose had suspected, they were indeed in stables. All around him were empty stalls. He supposed these were the invisible horses that pulled the carriages to school every year. It was eery, the emptiness of invisibility.

James clambered through the grate after him, followed by Peter.

“Weird,” said James, peering around the stables. “We must be near Hogsmeade Station.”

“Maybe they used to bring students in through the tunnel, instead of driving around to the front,” suggested Peter with a sideways glance at the empty stalls.

“Want to see if the Hogshead will serve us a drink?” asked James with a mischievous grin. They all agreed.

It was late, so the streets were mostly empty. The only windows that glowed warm with life and activity were those belonging to the Three Broomsticks at the end of High Street. Knowing that was a lost cause, the boys turned instead down a side path headed for the Hogshead Inn. They’d bought a fair amount of liquor from the Hogshead over the years. The innkeeper didn’t seem to harbor many scruples about serving minors, which suited them marvelously.

As they headed towards the inn, however, they heard a familiar voice drift down the street.

“Quick,” hissed James. “Under the Cloak.” They threw it over their shoulders, and Peter quickly disappeared into his rat Animagus just as Professor McGonagall rounded the corner, walking through the street with an older man that Sirius did not recognize. “I don’t see what that has to do with me,” she said.

“It’s just a bit odd, multiple Ministry employees spotting cats wandering through their offices.”

“Are you suggesting that I would spy against my own government simply because I’m an Animagus?” Professor McGonagall’s voice was icier than the night’s wind. “When you invited me on this little stroll, Elphinstone, I did not expect to be accused of treason.”

“I have not accused you of anything,” said the man named Elphinstone. “I simply commented on the coincidence. You know Dumbledore very well, don’t you?”

“We’ve worked closely for many years, yes.”

“The Ministry is concerned that he may be…taking matters into his own hands. Regarding the Death Eater threat.”

“I know nothing about that,” said McGonagall stiffly. “And I would not spy against my own Headmaster, either.”

“All right, all right. Retract your claws, Minnie.”

Professor McGonagall huffed; beneath the cloak, Sirius and James exchanged a grin. “Minnie?” mouthed Sirius, and James had to shove his fist into his mouth to stop from laughing.

 “So am I to assume that the Minister for Magic’s opinion on the Headmaster has not changed?”

“Who’s prying for information now?” said Elphinstone, though he sounded amused.

“You brought it up,” replied McGonagall tartly.

“Minchum is a law and order sort of man — and lately it’s been nothing but disorder. If Dumbledore is indeed organizing his own resistance, as the rumors suggest…that will not play well in the halls of the Ministry of Magic.”

“And as I said, I know nothing about that. But I cannot see how antagonizing Dumbledore will help the Minister’s cause.”

“The Minister feels that Dumbledore antagonized him first.”

“I’ve fielded arguments with first years more mature than that,” said McGonagall, and Elphinstone laughed.

“I never said I agreed with him, I’m merely describing the mood. Things in my department have taken a definite turn for the authoritarian since Crouch got the top job — and he and Minchum get on like bread and butter. I can’t say I like it, but here we are. Jenkins didn’t take the Death Eater threat seriously enough. That’s not a mistake the new Minister for Magic is willing to make.”

“And yet,” said McGonagall, her voice brittle, “he seems confused as to who the real enemy is.”

“You’re upset about the Wizard Protection Laws.”

“Of course I am, Elphinstone! Aren’t you?”

Elphinstone sighed deeply. “Yes, and if it were up to me, they’d be scratched. But alas, it is not up to me.”

“If I were in your shoes, I think I’d resign.”

“And let Crouch and Minchum fill my post with another extremist? Come now, Minerva, you’re more sensible than that.”

“It’s disgraceful.”

“I don’t disagree. But it’s popular. Good politics, bad policy. A Ministry official died — my boss died — and they’re out for blood.”

Sirius and James, fascinated by this conversation, had been following quietly behind, but they nearly walked into the adults when Elphinstone stopped suddenly and turned to face Professor McGonagall.

“This seems like an inopportune moment to ask you to marry me, but I’m afraid we are due our quarterly proposal.”

“Oh, Elphinstone, really.”

“I promised you I’d only trouble you by begging matrimony a few times a year, and I’ve kept my word. But I am a Ministry man through and through, and I never let a deadline pass, so I have to ask: Your position has not changed?”

“It has not,” said McGonagall, “and neither has my affection, but you know where I stand.”

Elphinstone considered this. “No,” he said at last, shaking his head. “I don’t, but I suspect the day I figure it out, life will grow expeditiously more dull. Come now, Minnie, why don’t we finish this charming walk with a nightcap at the Three Broomsticks?”

And the pair strolled off towards the warm embrace of the pub.

James looked at Sirius. “Woah,” he said. “Professors are people.”

“Creepy,” agreed Sirius.

“So let me get this straight,” said James. “Tonight we’ve learned that there’s a massive tunnel leading from the fourth floor corridor to the Hogsmeade stables, Professor Dumbledore is forming some sort of resistance force, and Professor McGonagall has a spurned lover who proposes to her a few times a year?”

“A wildly productive evening,” agreed Sirius. They were back in the stone passageway under the glow of torchlight, rehashing their adventure as they made their way back to the castle. In the end, they did not get drinks at the Hogshead Inn, on account of how it was very firmly shut up when they arrived. Still, none of them felt too cheated.

“You and this Elphinstone fellow have a lot in common,” Sirius told James. “Maybe that should be your new model: Ask Evans out on a quarterly basis, that way you don’t annoy her in the interim.”

James ignored this comment. “What sort of ‘resistance’ do you think Dumbledore’s organizing? And who are they resisting? Death Eaters or the Ministry?”

“Could be both, by the sounds of it,” said Peter, who kept slipping behind in evident exhaustion.

“How d’you think you join?” said James.

“I’m sure there will be a signup sheet on the common room notice board any day now,” said Sirius dryly. “I wouldn’t take it too seriously, mate. Factions of the Ministry have always been paranoid about Dumbledore and his popularity. My father spent many a dinner party frothing at the mouth about how Dumbledore was planning a coup.”

“Maybe,” said James pensively. “Just reminded me of something Dearborn said last year.”

“Oh?”

“I was in the forest — as a stag, you know — and he was talking to Hagrid about how he wanted to get back out and fight, but Dumbledore wouldn’t let him…and he said Voldemort was out there, building an army…”

Peter, who was not currently a rat, let out a most rat-like squeak. “Don’t do that!”

“Do what?”

“Say the — the V-word.”

It really was rather remarkable that for all the talk of Death Eaters around the castle, almost no one ever talked about their leader. Sirius himself had repressed the smallest start at the name, but he just scoffed and said, “Come on, Wormtail, it’s just a word.”

“So is ‘Avada Kedavra’, but that doesn’t mean the word won’t kill you.”

“Fair point,” conceded Sirius. “But I like 'Voldemort' a lot better than ‘Dark Lord’, which is what all my filthy cousins call him.”

“Dumbledore calls him Voldemort,” said James firmly. “So I will too.”

Peter didn’t look convinced, but nor did he argue.

By the time they climbed all those bloody stairs to Gryffindor Tower, all three boys were properly knackered. Sirius was beginning to sympathize with Drunk James’s anti-stair stance. They all slumped into the dormitory, ready to crash into their beds. Sirius had expected Remus would be asleep, but instead they found him sitting cross-legged on the floor before the map, a contemplative look on his face. He turned to face them as they entered.

“You were gone quite a while.”

Something like jealously slipped onto the boy’s face as Sirius, James and Peter detailed their grand adventure through the tunnel. James went over to the wall and immediately added the tunnel’s location to the map.

“Why are you still up?” Sirius asked Remus.

Remus shrugged. “I was just thinking about the map, that’s all.”

“What were you thinking?”

“That we probably shouldn’t keep this up so visibly. Anyone could walk in and see what we’re up to.”

It was a good point. “What do you suggest?” said James. “A curtain?”

“I was thinking more like a password. Tap it with your wand and say the secret code, and the map is revealed.”

“Oh, I like that,” said Sirius. “What would the password be?”

This question launched a good fifteen minutes of debate.

“James Potter is My Hero,” suggested James.

“James Potter is a Twat,” suggested Remus.

“Merlin’s balls,” suggested Peter.

Sirius gazed up at the map, at everything they’d accomplished this term. Then he let his eyes flicker back over to James, to Peter, to Remus. “I solemnly swear,” he said.

“What?” said Remus.

“The password. It should be ‘I solemnly swear.’”

“…that I am up to no good,” added James with a wide grin.

“I solemnly swear,” repeated Remus, “that I am up to no good. Hm. Has a nice a ring.”

Chapter Text

LILY

Forest for the Trees

Lily waited until the portrait hole swung shut after Black and Potter’s departure before she withdrew the letter from her pocket and resumed her obsessive contemplation. It was an old habit, this knee-jerk need for privacy. Though both boys had risen somewhat in her estimation over the past few weeks, a deep-seated mistrust still lingered and moved her hand before her mind even had a chance to catch up, guided by a vigilant little voice that advised: Don’t give them any ammunition.

She chided that voice as she once more unfolded the letter. Troublesome though they may from time to time be, Black and Potter were no Corin Mulciber. They would not use this moment of weakness — of selfishness — against her. All the same, she was grateful for the empty common room as she began to read the letter from her exiled friend for about the hundredth time.

Dear Lily,

It’s so good to hear from you! Sorry it took me so long to write back, life has been a bit of a whirlwind over here. I couldn’t reply to your letter when the owl came — I was with some Muggle friends, and I had a hard enough time explaining to them why an owl was pecking at our window in mid-afternoon — and then I had rather a hellish time finding an owl that could fly all the way Scotland. Dad still doesn’t want me going near any Wizarding shops, but I snuck in. There are quite a few in Boston, actually. Anyway, hopefully you are in fact reading this, and it’s not lost somewhere in the Atlantic…

Remember how I said my mum wanted me to enroll in university? Well, I did. I had to lie about my age by a few years, but just add it to the list of things I’m lying about, right? It was hard at first, pretending not to be magic, but I hardly think about it most days now. Isn’t that weird? I do miss magic — and I still do it, don’t tell dad — but, I don’t know, I’ve adapted here. Turns out all those years feeling like an outcast at Hogwarts, I should’ve just come to the University of Boston. I’ve made so many friends here, and I’m even doing surprisingly well in class. To be honest, I think it’s because the Americans just assume I’m clever when they hear my accent, but that is an advantage I’m willing to exploit.

I have a boyfriend, too. His name is Carl. He’s a drummer. (A drummer!!!!) His band is going on tour next summer, and I’m going along with them. Dad wasn’t very happy about it, but I think he still feels guilty about yanking me out of Hogwarts to send me to America (yank, get it?), so he just kind of grunted into his tea when I told him. I’m going whether he ‘lets’ me or not. A real tour! Didn’t I tell you I was going to become a super groupie?? If they ever get a record deal (and they should, they’re SO good), I will mail you a record. Maybe one day they’ll even do an international tour and I can see you in London! Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself as so far the biggest venue on the tour is Carl’s buddy’s basement in Milwaukee, but baby steps!!!

Anyway, how is everything with you? I’ve been living the Muggle life so I really haven’t been able to keep up with the news. And on the rare occasion dad lets a magical newspaper into the house (he can’t help himself), there hasn’t been anything about England. I want to believe that that’s because everything is fine over there and there’s no news to be had, but I don’t know. America can be a bit insular. I told one of Carl’s friends that I went to school in Scotland before moving here, and he asked me if I could see Buckingham Palace from my dorm. I don’t even think he was joking. Granted, he was very stoned that night, but honestly. Then again, I had no idea ‘Milwaukee’ was a place until a few weeks ago so I suppose it goes both ways.

God, it would be so fun to have you here. Hopefully you are safe and happy and learning to apparate internationally so you can come on tour with me!!!

All my love,

Mary

Lily stared at the letter, as she had all night, as she had since she’d received it at breakfast that morning. Mary sounded…happy. Really happy. Lily should be happy for her. A good friend would be happy for her, but…

She shook her head in a silent argument with herself. She’d never admit it to anyone but the dying coals in the common room fires, but maybe she’d secretly hoped that Mary would miss her a little more. That they might both be miserable together, if on other sides of the Atlantic. They’d always had each other to commiserate their woes before, but now…now Mary went on tours with her American boyfriend’s band while Lily faced that yawning chasm of loneliness…alone.

Enough. She was being selfish. So bloody selfish, just like Petunia always said she was.

The crackle of an ember in the grates, a sigh, and Lily retreated to bed.

She awoke the next morning determined to be a better friend, even from across the ocean. She’d write Mary back, a long and detailed letter of her own, and she’d tell her friend how happy she was for her, even if it meant lying through her teeth. But when Lily sat down to write the letter at breakfast, no words came. There wasn’t much about her life right now she wanted to share — let alone relive by putting it down on parchment. Should she tell Mary about the Wizard Protection Laws? About Professor Carter-Myles and his detentions? About Corin Mulciber and his vulgar insinuations? She didn’t want to. She wanted to pretend her life was as light and fun as the one Mary had described in America. Full of nothing more than music and school and boyfriends…not bigotry and politics and war…

She could write about Harvey Harris. Mary would find that fascinating; she’d always kept up with the gossip about Harvey and Sophie, even if she pretended to be disdainful of it. But if Lily told her about her hopeless little fling with Harvey the Head Boy, she’d inevitably have to include their conversation from a few nights ago, when Lily had finally built up the fortitude to break up with him properly.

It happened at the weekly prefect meeting. Vance had been engaged in a long diatribe about how prefects needed to stay on alert during the upcoming Hogsmeade trip and watch out particularly for the younger students, etcetera, etcetera — when Harvey caught Lily’s eye, and she knew it was time. She would have to talk to him. To break things off, officially.

But as the meeting progressed, Lily’s resolve faltered. Maybe she shouldn’t break up with him. Maybe she should just allow herself to enjoy the distraction of a pretty boy who wanted to date her. Maybe she was being too hard on him. Maybe, in the words of one James Potter, she should be a little more forgiving. So Harvey wasn’t the deepest of souls, or interested in the same things as her, or intellectually curious at all, or…much of anything she looked for in a boy. But he was nice. And pretty. And what was so wrong with just having fun? Who said a relationship had to be something deep? Why couldn’t they just enjoy fooling around and let that be enough?

By the time the meeting ended, Lily had talked herself out of it. She’d go to Hogsmeade with Harvey again when he asked, why not? Was he a bit silly at times? Sure. Did they have anything to talk about? No. Was her refusal to end things merely a symptom of the crushing loneliness that had plagued her all term? Who cared? He was a good snog.

As the classroom emptied out, Harvey had waited for her at the front, elbow slung over the podium, all cavalier-like. She’d sauntered over, expecting him to make a silly joke that didn’t quite land and then ask her to the Hogsmeade weekend they’d just spent an hour discussing in their meeting.

What she hadn’t expected was what he’d said next: “I think we should break up.”

“…What?”

“Yeah,” Harvey had said, puppy-dog eyes full of apology. “I’m sorry, but I’ve thought a lot about it, and don’t get me wrong, you’re great. Really great. You’re funny, and clever, and fit as hell, but…really, it’s not you, it’s me.”

Oh, god.

“I just don’t think we have much in common.”

She could hardly disagree with that.

“I’m fairly low-key bloke, and to tell you the truth, all the politics and protests…you’re great, you’re just…a little too much for me.”

“Oh,” had been Lily’s articulate reply.

“But we can still be friends?”

“Friends. Yeah. Great.”

And just like that, he’d dumped her.

Lily glanced towards the Hufflepuff table. Harvey and Sophie had gotten back together the next morning, to the surprise of absolutely no-one, including Lily herself. She had no reason to feel upset, she told herself firmly. After all, she’d been about to break up with him, and she’d gone into the fling in the first place knowing that it would end exactly like this, with Harvey and Sophie canoodling over their toast.

Still, there was a difference to being the dumper versus the dumpee, and Lily couldn’t help but feel rather rotten about it all. Too much. It didn’t help that she’d overheard a group of girls gossiping about it in the toilets yesterday.

“I can’t believe they’re back together, after Sophie cheated with that Muggle over the summer!”

“Well, now he’s shagged a Muggle too, so I guess they’re even.”

Lily had not shagged Harvey, but details never seemed to matter much to the endless churn of the Hogwarts gossip mill. The narrative had been chosen, and once again she was the slutty Muggle temptress, getting in the way of True Love.

Yeah, she didn’t want to write Mary about any of that.

When at last her porridge had gone cold and her parchment remained blank, Lily gave up on the letter and left for Potions. The finale of November had swept across the grounds with icy winds that seemed to hold the castle hostage. The dungeons were the worst, and no amount of woolen scarves or fuzzy earmuffs made the descent to its quarters more appealing.

But all the cold wind in the world had nothing to do with the unpleasant prickle on the back of her neck as she strode through the dungeon to her seat at the front of the classroom. That was all thanks to Severus Snape.

The last time she’d actually spoken to him had been over the summer when he’d come to her window and begged her forgiveness. She’d told him to leave her alone, that she never wanted to see him again. Mostly, he seemed to have accepted that. He kept his distance at school — not an overly generous distance, but distance all the same. Yet he hadn’t stopped staring at her. Every day in every class she could feel his eyes on the back of her head. Reproachful. Accusing.

She kept her gaze firmly ahead as she unpacked her supplies and set up her cauldron. She had nearly finished when James dropped into the spot beside her, yawning hugely as he mussed his hair.

“Late night?” she asked him dryly, raising an eyebrow.

James gave her a somewhat sheepish grin in return. “Er…yeah, a bit,” he said. Then: “Listen, sorry about Sirius last night. He likes to take the piss…”

“Really? I’d never noticed that.”

James laughed, and Lily considered him for a lingering moment. She couldn’t help but think of Severus last year and his belligerent insistence that the boys were sneaking out of the castle.  Severus had connected all their late-night excursions to Remus’s lycanthropy, but last night was not a full moon. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where you went sneaking off to?”

It was James’s turn to arch an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t care what we got up to?”

“Caught me. I’m curious.”

James ran a hand through his hair. “Just Hogsmeade. Needed some supplies.”

“So urgently you couldn’t wait until the scheduled trip next week?”

“Well, don’t turn me in, but as of a matter of fact, it’s much easier to convince a slightly disreputable barkeep to sell you booze when you’re not surrounded by a hoard of other underage students.”

She had the impression he wasn’t being entirely truthful, but she let the subject drop as Professor Slughorn entered and began his lecture. Lily, however, hardly listened as the Potions Master expounded on the complexities of a perfect dreamless sleep potion, a subject that might’ve otherwise fascinated her. Today, her attention kept drifting away…to Mary, to Harvey, to Severus…to the boy beside her and the apology he'd finally offered up. It had been a pretty good one, all things considered.

Things with James felt different since their little tête-à-tête in detention — and all the dramatic events of the week before. It was as though she was now looking at a clearer version of him, as though that detention had buffed away some of the tarnish that had sullied her image of him, polished up her perspective, rendered some long-obscured truth legible at last.

She wondered if he felt the same. He wasn’t ignoring her anymore, and indeed he seemed somewhat more relaxed, though still with that slight air of being careful. She wished she knew what he was thinking. She hadn’t meant to be so honest with him, and it haunted her. Even once he’d started prying, she hadn’t meant to tell him quite so much. In fact, the moment she’d climbed through the portrait hole after their walk back from the Trophy Room, she’d immediately regretted telling him about her mum. Why on earth had she done that? She’d hardly told anyone about that, and suddenly she was telling James Potter? But there was something about him that drew you in, that invited confidences — it was a trap she’d always had to fight against in the past. Opening up to him, once she’d started, had been surprisingly easy, even with the little voice in the back of her head that hissed: Don’t give them any ammunition.

She’d given him plenty, but James hadn’t taken a single shot. Had he changed? Or had she so greatly misjudged him the first place?

Professor Slughorn finished his lecture, and the dungeon was filled with the clatter of cauldrons as they dove into the practical portion of class. Lily began to dice a bundle of sagewort, her thoughts far from the task at hand.

Not for the first time since that evening in the Trophy Room, Lily found herself reflecting on James’s assertion that she should be more forgiving of people. She didn’t like to admit that the accusation had merit, and yet…what was it her ex-boyfriend Anson had said last year? It must get awfully lonely up there on your high horse.

Maybe forgiveness was her whole problem. Maybe that was why she was so lonely. She hadn’t forgiven Anson. He’d been her boyfriend, and she’d cut him off over a single fight. A fight that she was absolutely right about, but still. And — though she was quite sure this was the last person James had been thinking of when he’d suggested she be more forgiving — she hadn’t forgiven Severus, either. He’d begged her to, time and again, and she’d refused.

Lily shot a surreptitious glance back across the dungeons. Severus appeared to be several steps ahead of them all, scooping a gelatinous mass of chopped slugs into his cauldron. Adam Avery leaned over and muttered something into Severus’s ear; the other boy smiled.

With the sting of something between hurt and shame, Lily turned back to her own cauldron. No, she had not been forgiving of Severus. At the time, it had felt like the right thing to do. A clear boundary, a frank refutal of the choices he was making. But wasn’t she the one who’d been hurt by it most? After all, he was surrounded by all his new Death Eater friends, and she was alone as she’d ever been. It felt shameful to a admit that she missed him, that she missed his friendship, that she felt abandoned and rejected even though she was the one who refused to speak to him…who refused to forgive him…

Lily gave herself a little shake and forced her focus back to her potion. A pile of horned slugs sat on the worktable between her and James; she reluctantly selected the least slimy specimens she could identify and placed them beneath her knife. She grimaced down at the horrible little creatures, unable to convince herself to make the first slice. This was the only part of potions she hated. Slugs. She’d always despised them, to a slightly irrational degree. One time in third year, James had slipped a big fat one down the back of her robes, all slippery and slimy and oozing…She’d sworn she’d never forgive him for that…

After a moment, she realized that James was watching her, an amused expression on his face.

“What?” she demanded, annoyed.

“Sorry,” snickered James. “It will just never cease to be hilarious to me that brilliant potioneer Lily Evans is afraid of slugs.”

“I’m not afraid of them, I just don’t like them. They’re…squishy and gross, and — stop laughing at me.”

“Here,” grinned James, scooping up his freshly-chopped slugs and depositing them in a slimy pile before Lily.

“What are you doing?”

“Saving you the anguish. You can have mine.” James plucked the two intact slugs from her spot on the worktable and placed them onto his own.

“That’s cheating.”

“No, it’s teamwork.”

Lily hesitated. She didn’t want to accept his help, but she also really didn’t want to slice up those slugs. After a long moment of internal struggle that James seemed to notice but did not comment upon, Lily conceded. “Thanks,” she said, and he simply smirked in response.

Another thing that was different since their detention was that James no longer avoided walking with her out of the dungeons. In fact, he waited for her. He’d finished cleaning his supplies much quicker than Lily — proof, she noted, that he’d been dawdling on purpose to avoid her before — and now he leaned casually against the worktable, watching good-naturedly as she wiped off the last bit of slime. Their cauldrons remained simmering; dreamless sleep potion took several weeks to brew correctly.

James sniffed at the cauldron. “You’d hardly even know there were slugs in there, simmering away.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Lily, feeling slightly nauseous. “Who d’you think came up with that anyway? What sort of wizard saw a slug and thought ‘Hmm, think I’ll chop this up and brew it.’”

“Someone very bored, I suspect. Or so desperate for dreamless sleep they’d try anything, even slugs.”

“I don’t think I’d ever be desperate enough to willingly consume a slug.”

James laughed, and they headed out into the dungeon corridor. “Speaking of Hogsmeade,” he said, though it had been a good two hours since they’d done any such thing. “Any big plans?”

“Not particularly.”

“You and Harvey aren’t — ah — going for a nice walk?”

Lily stiffened slightly at the mention of Harvey. “We broke up.”

“Oh, shit.” James’s voice lost its teasing manner at once. “Sorry, Evans. I didn’t realize.” A pause. “What happened?”

There he went again, inviting confidences. Lily just shrugged. “It didn’t work out. He…wasn’t my type.”

“Imagine that,” murmured James.

She glared at him. “Don’t look so smug.”

“Who’s smug?”

“You.”

“Lies. I’ve never been smug once in my whole life. I don’t even know how to smug.”

To her own surprise, Lily found herself laughing. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Idiot, sure. I’ll cop to that. But smug? Never.” He slipped his hands into his pockets as they strolled down the corridor. She shot a glance at him; he seemed in a particularly good mood, for some reason. “I do have to say though, can’t quite help myself, but he never struck me as your perfect match.”

“So you’ve said before. And why’s that, exactly?”

“Well, he’s just so…empty-headed. In a nice, cheerful, good-natured way and all, but still…empty.”

This was, in fact, a fair and accurate reading of her now ex-boything, but possibly because it was James Potter saying it, it rubbed her the wrong way. “And what does that make me?” she demanded as they climbed the stairs out of the dungeons. “If I’m not cheerful and good-natured, what am I? Dour? Bitter?”

James replied with a snort of laughter. “Every conversation with you is like dodging a hail of hexes, you know that?” Harvey’s words echoed in her head: Too much. But James did not sound displeased by this. If anything, he seemed to relish the sport. “I was going to go with…what’s the opposite of shallow?” He thought for a moment. “You’re an ocean, Evans. And Harris doesn’t even know how to swim.”

Lily blinked.

“Or, you know, doggy-paddle,” amended James.

Lily felt some comment was called for, but she couldn’t think of what to say. As they reached the entrance hall, however, James spotted Sirius, Remus, and Peter on the other side, and she was spared the need to come up with a response.

“Well, I’ve got to catch up with those idiots, but hey — if you’re bored in Hogsmeade, the lads and I have big plans. We thought we’d head to this new little spot, a real hole in the wall, very obscure, you’ve probably never heard of it — the Three Broomsticks?”

Lily laughed again. “Very original of you.”

“Yeah, well, best butterbeer in town, and all that. You’d be welcome to join us for a drink, if you want.”

“Thanks,” said Lily. “Maybe.”

And with a cheerful salute, James headed off towards his friends.

A few nights later found Lily curled again on a sofa in the common room, a quill between her fingers, Mary’s letter unfolded on the coffee table before her. It was late, and Lily was the only student left in the common room. She’d begun to make a habit of these night-owlish ways. She thought better in the quiet of a sleeping castle, but it did not seem to be doing her much good tonight, for the blank bit of parchment still sat before her, utterly devoid of a reply. Why was this so hard?

She rubbed her eyes, exhaustion settling in like a sudden snowstorm. Maybe she should just go to bed, give it another go tomorrow. She slipped on her shoes, and tidied up her parchment, and was just about to coerce herself out of the sofa’s cozy embrace when the portrait hole swung open, and a familiar pair of voices floated through the otherwise empty common room.

“I just want to get the draft done,” James Potter said to Sirius Black. Lily quickly closed her eyes, tucked her feet up on the sofa, and pretended to be asleep. Old habits. “We can update it later, but we have to have a proper draft before we can try out the—”

“Shh!” Sirius hushed him abruptly. “Prefect alert.” Their footsteps drew nearer, and Lily tensed ever so slightly. Then Sirius said: “Oh, good. She’s asleep. You know, Evans ought to be careful, falling asleep down here. That’s like asking for someone to prank you.”

“Leave her alone,” warned James.

“I’m not going to do anything,” said Sirius in a wounded whisper. “I’m just saying, other people aren’t as nice as me, and she’s still wearing her shoes, look. There are rules, you know.”

A moment later, Lily felt the soft weight of a blanket settle over her. “There,” said James. “You can’t see her shoes now.” A yawn. “I’m knackered.”

“Well, hiking halfway across the grounds and back will do that to a person.”

Their footsteps disappeared up the stairs, and Lily lay under the warm embrace of the blanket, ignoring the strange feeling in her chest that she told herself she was too tired to interrogate.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the sofa — she never liked sleeping in the common room; she always woke up with a sore neck and, as Sirius pointed out, it was asking for trouble — but after the boys had left, as she lay curled under the weight of the blanket and her own oppressive exhaustion, Lily slipped into sleep like a shoe into mud.

She dreamed she was in Cokeworth, wandering the streets under the shadow of the mill. It spewed plumes of ash into the sky. She had to find her mother. She had something important to tell her, and there wasn’t any time.

She moved dreamlike through the terraced houses until she came to the town square, where she found Petunia supervising the construction of a massive pyre. Her sister stood impassively as Lily approached, an unlit match in her hand. After a moment, Lily realized that Severus was there too, methodically stacking bundles of twigs along the pyre’s base.

“They burn witches, you know,” said Petunia. “It’s for our own protection.”

“I’m your sister,” said Lily.

“And he was your friend.”

Severus placed another bundle of twigs on the pyre. He did not look at her.

Petunia lit the match, and Lily turned and ran. Her feet were heavy and sluggish as she searched for her house. She had to find her mother. She had to tell her.

In that strange way that dreams worked, she was suddenly in her house, though she did not remember getting there. She pushed through the heavy front door. “Mum?” she called, but when she went into the kitchen, she found not her mother, but Marlene McKinnon and Mary MacDonald. A big bouquet of lilies sat in a vase on the table. Marlene sniffed them.

“These smell like death,” she said. “Ugh. Funeral flowers.”

“I have to find my mum. I have to tell her.”

“Tell her what?”

“I —” Lily hesitated. She couldn’t remember, but she knew it was important.

Mary was staring out the window. “There are no trees in your forest,” she said. “It makes me sad.”

Lily didn’t have a good response to that, so she left the kitchen and tried the parlor instead, where she found Sirius Black and Harvey Harris playing strip poker with the girls from the Railview Inn. She left them to it and climbed the stairs, up and up and up…they just kept going. Finally, she reached the landing and all but launched herself at the door to her mother and father’s bedroom. It was locked. She jiggled the handle; she shoved her shoulder against the door. It wouldn’t budge.

“That door stays closed,” said Marlene, who was standing behind her.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Try over there.” Marlene pointed down the hall to Lily and Petunia’s bedroom. It seemed very far away, but once Lily started walking, it took her no time at all to cross the great expanse of carpet. A mere heartbeat and she was standing at her bedroom door. She clasped a hand to the doorknob and pushed. The door swung open, and Lily stepped through into the girl’s dormitory in Gryffindor Tower.

She blinked.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

James Potter was lounging on her four-poster bed reading Bad Blood: The Politics of Purity. He was dressed in his Muggle clothes; sleeves rolled up to his elbows and collar unbuttoned to his chest. “No,” he agreed. “But you want me to be.”

“I never said that.”

“Prawn cocktail?” offered James, with a solicitous gesture to a tray on the bedside table that was loaded with little cups.

“No, thank you.”

“Weren’t you looking for something?”

Lily frowned, then she crossed the room and sat down on the bed next to him. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” said James. “Sometimes we lose things. I lost a Snitch once. Flew right out of my hands, damned little bugger. Never did find it again.”

“Why are you in my dormitory?”

“I told you. Because you want me to be.” He laid a hand on her thigh, and Lily suddenly realized she was wearing her little green dress again. “I really am sorry,” James said. “Do you forgive me?”

“I don’t know,” muttered Lily as James traced a finger along the hem of her skirt. “I haven’t decided.”

“Might I make a compelling argument for yes?”

“Okay.”

He leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands, hazel eyes soft and amused…and then he kissed her, and it was lovely. He kissed her again, and then again, and when they both fell back against the pillows, she found that they were no longer in her four-poster bed, but lying in the grass among the copse of trees by the river that snaked through Cokeworth — no, that wasn’t right — they were in the forbidden forest, lying on a bed of moss, the light dappled and soft through the canopy overhead.

“You should be more forgiving of people,” said James, and he kissed her forehead, and he kissed her nose, and he kissed her lips, and he kissed her neck, and he —

Lily’s eyes snapped open, struggling for a moment against the gloom. She pushed herself upright on the sofa, the blanket falling from her shoulders. She peered around, breath caught in her throat. The common room was empty and dark. The details of the dream were fading quickly from her recollection — all but that last bit, which seemed burned upon her mind, upon her skin. She brushed her fingers across her lips.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

REMUS

Davey Schmavey

The Shrieking Shack sat lonely on its hill as sunrise crept across the mountains. It was a howling night — or it should have been — but the night had come and gone and not a single cry had disturbed the village’s slumber.

The residents of Hogsmeade had noticed that their haunted house had grown quieter over the past year…but not silent. Though it was true you were less likely to hear the howls and horrors that had plagued it for ages, these days, if you listened very closely at the cock crow of morning, you might just hear a few melodic bars of piano, soft as snowfall — a sound which many felt was far more unsettling. 

The music drifted in upon the wind just at the moment toes flexed under sheets and eyes blinked open to a fresh day. Some mornings the music was wispy and funereal — exactly the sort of tune you’d expect a ghost to play — but other dawns were disconcerting in their enthusiasm, a ragtime trill of syncopated notes and — if the wind was just right — laughter.

This morning was a quiet one, the cold wind of November’s end stuttering against windows and sneaking through cracks. It curled its way across high street, past the pub and the post office, until it whistled through the boarded-up windows of the Shrieking Shack, sending dust eddies swirling and ruffling the hair of the ghost who played the piano.

He was no ghost, of course, but a teenage boy, who sat straight-backed and proud at the piano, as though he were performing in a grand concert hall, and not a derelict shack. His cheeks blossomed pink from the cold, but his expression was dreamy and distant as his fingers coaxed soft notes from the keys. Quiet, soothing, almost a lullaby.

For not far from his feet, another boy was sleeping, curled into himself under someone else’s cloak, cheek pressed to the crook of his chapped elbow. Dawn cut through the slats of wood in golden shafts, one of which fell inconveniently across the sleeping boy’s face. He stirred, groaned, scrunched up his face in displeasure — and then Remus Lupin opened his eyes.

He had woken here once a month for five-and-a-half years, and yet every morning after a full moon felt like the first time as his eyes in took in the gloom of the shack: the blood-stained wooden floors, the claw-gouged walls, the broken furniture, the glitter of dust in cold beams of light. And more recently: the soft stream of piano notes that danced around the room.

He lifted his head and pushed himself up onto his elbow. The music stopped.

“Good morning,” said Sirius, turning on the bench to face him. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” croaked Remus, which was almost true, despite the rasp of his voice. He always rasped after a full moon. He supposed a night of howling would do that to a person. But he had none of the brutal pain and stinging wounds that used to haunt him on these mornings, though the tug of the moon still lingered and left behind a certain nausea and soreness in its stead. A few fortifying breaths, and he steeled himself to ask the question for which he always dreaded the wrong answer: “Everything go okay last night?”

“‘Course it did,” said Sirius, and he produced, improbably, a thermos of tea. He handed it to Remus, who blinked in surprise as he accepted it, then took a grateful swig. Sirius must have charmed it to stay hot, for the liquid coursed down his raw throat like honey, warm and soothing.

Sirius was watching him closely. “Do you remember anything?”

Remus thought about it, closing his eyes and knitting his brow. Flashes of Padfoot and Prongs…the glimmer of moonlight on the lake, the splash of water…

“Were we at the lake?”

“Yeah!” said Sirius, leaning forward in his enthusiasm. “What else?”

Remus tried again, reaching into his memory like a hand grasping at the edge of a cliff…but it was fog, all fog. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I can’t remember anything else.”

“That’s all right,” said Sirius. “That’s more than you’ve ever remembered this early on. I think it’s really making a difference, Moony.”

Sirius had a theory that it was the stress of isolation that made Remus ‘lose his mind’ as a werewolf. That when he was in a ‘proper pack’ with Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail, he could learn to keep a better grip on his mind and his memory. Remus was not so sure he liked this theory. He didn’t want the wolf’s mind to be his to control. Yes, the idea of a parasite that lived inside him and took over his body once a month was disturbing to say the least, but it was better than the alternative: that the bloodlust was Remus’s own, that the violence was his fault.

He voiced none of these concerns, however, as he knew Sirius would dismiss them. The other boy didn’t understand what it was to live with violence in your bones, in your blood. How could he? So Remus merely sipped his thermos of tea and said, “Anything else I should know?”

Sirius thought about it. “Nah. Pretty uneventful, all things considered.”

Some moons were harder than others. He’d always known this, but in the past it had been difficult to distinguish between the different flavors of pain. The aftermath of a bad moon might be bad because the wolf had gouged great lacerations across his own chest, or it might be bad because of some deeper lunar pull, some astrological quirk in which all the planets aligned perfectly to spell out: “Fuck you, Remus Lupin.”

Though his physical injuries were now minor, thanks to the help of his friends, Remus still had to contend with the stark reality of — for lack of a better word — his illness. In the days leading up to and following the full moon, his body betrayed him in a hundred ways: the ache in his bones that throbbed all the way down to his marrow; the exhaustion that seemed to suck the life from him and left him weak on his feet for days; the way his immune system seemed to give up entirely, so that he caught every sniffle that spread through the castle. Things were better than before — much, much better — but he couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t still struggling. In a way, he liked to imagine that this suffering was his body fighting off the wolf like a cruel virus. An illness, indeed. This notion made him feel a little less disgusting.

But only a little.

The Tuesday after the full moon found Remus still in a rather derelict condition, but he went to prefect duties with Lily all the same. He must’ve looked like shit though, because upon his arrival she immediately said: “You know, you don’t have to patrol tonight. I can cover rounds this week.”

“No,” said Remus at once, because he was tired of feeling like dead weight. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” said Lily, though she looked unconvinced. “We have the fourth floor tonight.”

There was not much to do on the fourth floor beyond warning the occasional student to get back to their dormitory before curfew. Normally, this made for a nice evening as he and Lily always had interesting conversations. She was unusually quiet today though. All evening he felt her eyes upon him, and several times she seemed on the verge of speech, but she always swallowed whatever it was she wanted to say. He wasn’t sorry. He didn’t feel like lying tonight.

“Can you believe it’s December?” said Lily as they turned down a new corridor. “Doesn’t feel like it at all. I mean, it hasn’t even snowed yet. Isn’t that strange?”

So she’d decided to take pity on him and offer up an easy conversation. He accepted the gift, and he was grateful.

“No complaints here,” said Remus. “I hate snow.”

“Hate snow? How can you hate snow?”

“It’s cold and wet and makes walking harder.”

Lily laughed. “Oh, but I love snow. Snow means hot chocolate and sitting all cozily around fires and Christmas. I haven’t done any of my Christmas shopping, though.”

“Neither have I,” admitted Remus. “Good thing it’s a Hogsmeade weekend coming up.”

“Oh, yes.”

Then she fell quiet again.

Just as he was wondering what he’d said to kill the conversation so quickly, Remus moved past a large, gilded mirror and something prickled in his memory. This must be the mirror behind which hid the tunnel his friends had found. Remus stopped walking without realizing he’d done it and peered at the ornate frame. He’d listened jealously the other night as they’d regaled him with all the details of their discovery and subsequent adventure to Hogsmeade. An adventure he’d skipped because he’d been too worn out from the approaching full moon. It frustrated him, how much he missed out on due to his condition. Even the adventures in which he partook during the full moon were kept from him, locked behind a shroud of misplaced memory so that more often than not he had to rely on others’ details of what had happened.

He sighed and suppressed the urge to hook his fingers behind the mirror’s frame and give it a tug. As he made to turn away, his attention snagged on his own reflection in the glass; he understood now why Lily had seemed so worried about him before. He looked like death on a bad day.

Behind him, Lily caught his eye in the mirror. Her expression was gentle, worried. “I know you don’t like to talk about your illness,” she said, “and I don’t want to pry, but…isn’t there anything they can do?”

Remus looked away from the mirror, ashamed of his appearance, of the pity it invoked. Better pity than loathing, he supposed. “No,” he muttered. “There’s no cure.”

“I meant…so you don’t have to suffer so much.”

Remus hesitated. Maybe it was because he’d grown so comfortable around Lily, her presence so warm and unthreatening and…nonjudgemental — or maybe it was because he liked seeing his lycanthropy through the eyes of her ignorance, as though it was simply a normal illness to be treated like any other — but for whatever reason found that he actually wanted to talk to her about it, rather than simply brushing the subject aside as he would’ve done last year.

“When I was younger,” he began, choosing his words with great care, “my parents tried all sorts of experimental potions. They were desperate, you know, but ultimately the side effects were…worse.”

“Worse?”

“One of the potions made me lose my appetite to the point where I barely ate. Another just…turned me into a zombie. Metaphorically. I didn’t hurt so much, but I also didn’t think. Or move. I would just lay in bed for weeks on end. I’d rather have a few unpleasant days than live like that.”

“Yeah,” Lily nodded. “I get that. Back when my mum was sick, we tried all sorts of alternative treatments, and sometimes it wasn’t worth it.”

Remus, whose gaze had been focused firmly on the scuff marks on his shoes throughout this conversation, looked up, surprised. “I didn’t know your mum was sick.”

“Oh, right.” Lily went a bit pink as she fidgeted with the sleeve of her robes. “Yeah, I guess that never came up. Sorry.”

“Is she…better now?”

“No.” A pause. “Well, my dad would say yes, of course she is, she’s in heaven, whatever the hell that means.” A light, unconvincing laugh. “But no — she died a few years ago.”

Remus’s stomach lurched. “A few years ago? As in…what, third year?”

“Summer before fourth, actually.”

“I had no idea. I — I’m sorry.”

“No,” said Lily quickly. She hugged her arms to her chest, looking as though she regretted bringing it up. “Please, it’s fine. I wasn’t trying to — I only mentioned it because — well, it’s just…I’d always assumed that magic would’ve saved her, if I’d only known the right spell, or been able to get her the right help. I guess I’m just surprised that they don’t have more potions that would help you. Doesn’t the Ministry have a whole experimental potions task force? And St. Mungo’s…why aren’t they researching your illness? Why aren’t they trying to find something to help?”

“Well, they don’t care,” said Remus without thinking. It was the truth, but then he caught sight of Lily’s eyes, wide and sorrowful, and he immediately backtracked. “I mean — it’s just — it’s really rare, my illness. So it’s not a priority for them.”

“That’s shit,” said Lily simply.

Remus shrugged and grasped for a different thread to follow out of this conversation. “Madam Pomfrey does give me some dreamless sleep potion from time to time though. That helps a lot, but she won’t let me take it regularly because apparently it’s really addicting. Suppose I can see why.”

“Dreamless sleep? You have nightmares?”

Shit. He’d dug himself too deep into this conversational hole and he couldn’t seem to climb out. “Sometimes. Not really. It’s not a big deal or anything.”

Perhaps Lily noticed his discomfort, or perhaps she’d simply been tugged in the direction of her own recollections, because she said rather vaguely: “I wouldn’t mind some dreamless sleep myself.”

“You have bad dreams?”

“I have…weird dreams.”

“Hate those.”

“Yeah.” Another pause, then Lily added: “We’re brewing it in Potions, you know. Dreamless sleep potion. Maybe I can nick you some. Unless of course Potter already plans to.”

“He hadn’t mentioned it.”

Her expression grew distant again, and for a moment she seemed on the verge of speech, as though there was something she wanted to ask but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. At last she simply said: “It has slugs in it though.”

“What?”

“Dreamless sleep potion. It has slugs in the brew.”

Remus gave her a reproachful look. “I didn’t need to know that.”

Lily snickered. “Sorry.”

The last half of patrol was as uneventful as the first. It was nearly curfew, and as the pair of prefects finished up their sweep of the fourth floor, Remus’s body began to protest all the effort. He did his best to hide his exhaustion, but oh, he really wanted to be in bed.

“Davey?” called Lily, and Remus was pulled away from his wistful imaginings of the softness of pillows. “What are you doing?”

Remus followed her gaze and indeed saw Davey Gudgeon slinking around the corner. Davey had that shifty look about him that immediately suggested misdeeds. Amateur. If you were going to break any rules at all, you had to act like you were doing absolutely nothing wrong.  Remus knew from years of experience than any semblance of guilt was a fast pass to detention. An innocent expression was everything.

“Heeeeey, Lily,” said Davey, hands stuffed in his pockets. Guilty. Remus didn’t know his crimes yet, but he was definitely guilty.

Lily eyed him with a look of equal parts suspicion and exasperation. “You’re not trying to sneak out are you?”

Davey’s response was emphatic: “Hell no,” he said, casting a glance towards the window. “I’ve had my fill of that. There’s weird shit out there.”

“What’s that mean?”

Davey hesitated. “There’s a statute of limitations on detention, right?”

Lily rolled her eyes. “Sure.”

“Well,” said Davey, seeming pleased to launch into his story without the threat of punishment, “I was down by the greenhouses a few nights ago — just, you know, some…recreational Herbology — don’t look at me like that, Lily, the moon does things to plants, it was all academic…”

Remus froze. The moon. The idiot had gone out to the greenhouses on the full moon.

The water lapping against the shore of the lake…the glint of moonlight against the glass panes of greenhouses in the distance…a whiff of prey…

“Anyway, I was was coming out of greenhouse six when this giant dog came running at me! I mean, the teeth on that thing! Brutal! It could’ve swallowed me in one bite, swear to Merlin. I barricaded myself back in the greenhouse and hid under a potting table until dawn.”

Lily regarded him skeptically. “A giant dog, Davey?”

“Yeah! I thought I was done for. I could hear it pacing out there all night…”

“I’ve never heard of wild dogs on the grounds.”

“Neither had I, or I bloody well wouldn’t have gone out, would I? All I’m saying is watch yourself, it’s out there. He believes me, don’t you, Lupin?” Davey nodded at Remus. “I can see it on your face.”

Remus quickly checked himself. An innocent expression was everything. “There have always been rumors about various beasts living in the forest,” said Remus as dismissively as he could. “Mostly just to scare the first years. Aren’t you a bit old for this, Davey?”

“Hey, I know what I saw.”

Remus sighed and glanced at his watch. “It’s curfew. Get back to the dorms, or we’ll have to dock points. Mind you don’t get eaten by any wild dogs on the way.” And Remus strolled away as carelessly as he could, feeling an inordinate amount of relief as Lily followed along with him.

“I know what I saw!” Davey called after them. “It’s out there!”

Remus made it all the way back to Gryffindor Tower with his innocent expression firmly in check. If Lily noticed a change in his demeanor following their encounter with Davey, she did not comment on it, and on the whole, Remus thought he played his part rather well.

“So are you going to Hogsmeade, then?” Lily asked as they approached the entrance to their common room.

“What?” said Remus, whose mind was lurking around the greenhouses…sniffing the wind for the scent of memory…

“Hogsmeade,” repeated Lily. “This weekend?”

“Oh, right. I suppose I will.” In all honesty, the prospect did not invoke much enthusiasm in Remus. He was exhausted; he’d much rather spend his Saturday enjoying the blissful quiet of an empty common room. “Are you?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a few errands to run. Well, maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Sure,” said Remus.

They parted ways as they climbed through the portrait hole, Lily heading towards her dormitory, Remus to a familiar corner at the other end of the common room where his friends were all lounging around the fire. They were discussing the map, no surprise there, as that was all they ever discussed these days. Apparently Peter had been spending all his spare time in the plumbing, trying to figure out how the humble prawn had journeyed all the way to the Slytherin dormitories, but as yet he’d had no luck.

“We could flood it again,” Sirius was suggesting as Remus approached. “If nothing else, it would be hilar—oh, hey Moony.”

Remus allowed a simple grunt to be his greeting as he dropped himself in an armchair.

“We were just discussing—”

“The map,” finished Remus, who at the moment felt tired of it all. “Yeah.”

Sirius frowned at him. “What’s with you?”

Before Remus could respond, however, a younger student, probably a third year, stumbled over and cleared his throat anxiously. He stood wide-eyed before the sixth years, looking utterly petrified by his current task. They all stared at him.

“Yeah?”

“Er —” said the third year. “Excuse me, sorry, excuse me, Mr. Black, Professor Slughorn asked me t-to give this to you?” He held out a tightly-bound scroll.

Sirius looked at the boy in disgust. “Did you just call me Mr. Black?”

“No?” squeaked the third year. “Er — well, yes. I mean, no! Sorry, what’s the right answer here?”

“Oh, for the love of fuck,” muttered Sirius, and he snatched the scroll out of the terrified student’s hand. As the poor messenger scurried off, Sirius unfurled the parchment. “Yep, just what I thought. Sluggy’s bloody Christmas party.”

And without even bothering to read it the whole way through, Sirius began to fold the parchment into a complicated origami bird, which he then chucked at the fire. It missed and landed by the hearth. “When is the old goat going to give it a rest?” Sirius complained, leaning back in his armchair and kicking up his feet in annoyance.

“Poor you,” said Peter. “Must be awful being invited to so many parties.”

Sirius snorted. “You want to go?”

“I wouldn’t mind being invited, that’s all.”

“Some people enjoy parties, Padfoot,” said James breezily. He leaned down to collect the folded-up invitation, holding it up as though admiring the craftsmanship.

“I enjoy parties,” was Sirius’s flat reply. “Those aren’t parties, they’re pure-blood circle jerks. What about you, Moony? Want to go rub shoulders with all the Slug Club bellends? …Moony?”

Remus’s attention had drifted to the window; his thoughts floating far below, down to the greenhouses, where Davey Gudgeon had hid for his life beneath a potting table…while Remus lurked outside, waiting to kill him…

“Moony?”

Remus jerked his head back from the window to see all three boys looking at him. His eyes landed first on Sirius. “We need to talk.”

Sirius blinked. “All right. What’s up?”

“Not here. In the dormitory.”

“Fine. Let’s go.”

Sirius stood and strode to the dormitory stairs. James casually slipped the origami invitation into his pocket then followed, Peter trailing a few steps behind. Okay. So it was going to be a full committee meeting then. Remus sighed and climbed the stairs in his friends’ wake.

“What’s up?” Sirius repeated as Remus shut the dormitory door carefully behind him.

“Tell me what happened on the full moon.”

Sirius’s brow furrowed in some approximation of confusion. “I thought you remembered? We went down by the lake.”

“Tell me what I did at the greenhouses.”

“You didn’t do anything at the greenhouses.”

“You’re lying!” The accusation came out more sharply than he’d meant it, and all three boys looked at Remus in surprise. He hadn’t lost his temper with Sirius since that night before the end of summer term. He didn’t want to do it again — not now, not here in front of everyone. He took a wavering breath. “I know about Davey Gudgeon, so tell me the truth. I want to hear it from you.”

“What does Davey Gudgeon matter?”

Remus gaped at him. “What d’you mean what does he matter? I attacked him!”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Davey said so himself! He said that a giant dog came running at him!”

Sirius scoffed. “That was me, genius.”

“W-what?”

“Me. I’m a dog, remember? I ran after Davey to get him to go into the greenhouses. Big deal.”

Remus hesitated, trawling through the fog his memory. “I — I don’t believe you. I remember — I could smell him.”

“Look, I’m telling you the truth. This is what happened: We were down by the lake, and Peter spotted Gudgeon skulking around the greenhouses. You got his scent, yeah, but Prongs held you off, and I went after Gudgeon. I just wanted to scare him back into the greenhouses until we’d gotten you to the Whomping Willow. And it worked, didn’t it? He never even saw you.”

Remus closed his eyes, trying to remember. The whiff of human flesh…a stag in his path…

“That was too close,” he murmured, shaking head. “I could’ve bit him—”

“You didn’t,” said Sirius.

“But I could have!”

“But you didn’t, because we were there, which is the whole bloody point. Everything went exactly as planned. I didn’t mention it because it didn’t seem like a big deal.”

“Didn’t seem like a — how can you say that? Davey—”

“Davey Schmavey,” said Sirius with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “He’s a wanker. Don’t worry about him.”

“What the hell was he doing down by the greenhouses on a full moon, anyway?” said James.

“Recreational Herbology, apparently,” muttered Remus.

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. “So the idiot goes blazing some magical plants at midnight then hallucinates a giant dog attacking him. That’s perfect. We’re golden.”

“It’s not funny, Sirius.”

“It’s a little funny. Lighten up, Moony. No one got hurt. Davey’s fine, he even got a good story out of it! Though no one will believe him.”

“All the better for us,” said James.

“Exactly,” agreed Sirius. “Relax, Moony. It’s fine. Trust me.”

The wolf raced along the shore, moonlight reflecting bright as a bauble on the lake’s glassy, black surface. The night lay wide open, teeming with potential, the chitter of insects, the hoot of an owl…but then: the wind shifted and the sharp scent of human flesh tickled his nostrils, enticing, delicious…

He dashed off towards the new smell, the burst of bloodlust…

Rip…strike…destroy…kill…

The stag stepped into his path, but the wolf slipped beneath him, and he ran, he ran, he ran…

There. By the glass buildings that glittered beneath the moonlight: a boy.

The wolf lunged, pinning his prey to the cold, hard earth. The boy’s shriek only made the bloodlust more delicious. A slash of claws, a spill of guts. The boy squirmed beneath him, a half-dead thing. With a snap of jaws, the wolf ripped out the boy’s throat, and —

“Moony!”

Remus jerked awake. Immediately, his hands leapt to his chest, his cheek, his throat…no blood. Nothing.

“Come on,” said the voice that had woken him. “Get up! Get up, get up, get up!”

“What’s happening?” Remus looked frantically around, the remnants of his nightmare still lingering like a bad taste on the tongue…the taste of blood. That one was just a dream, he told himself. That didn’t happen. That didn’t happen because you saw Davey just the other day.

He repeated it like a mantra in his head: That didn’t happen. That didn’t happen.

Throughout this desperate plea, and to his considerable consternation, James was excitedly tugging Remus out of bed. Behind him, Sirius and Peter were both on their feet, though admittedly rather groggily so. Sirius looked faintly homicidal in sleepy sort of way, and Peter too was rubbing at his eyes.

“What’s going on?” mumbled Remus, thoroughly confused by the whole situation.

“First snow!” announced James, tossing a pair of mittens at Remus’s head.

“What?”

“First snow! Took forever this year, thought it’d never happen. Anyway, get up!”

“W-what time is it?”

“Too fucking early,” yawned Sirius. “I’m going back to bed, Prongs.”

“But…snow!”

“Fuck off.”

But the thing about James Potter was that he had absolutely no comprehension of the concept of fucking off. That, coupled with the fact that not one of the boys possessed the ability to say no to him, meant that roughly twenty minutes later, a very grumpy Remus, Sirius, and Peter found themselves bustled out onto the grounds by an enthusiastic and offensively awake James.

The grounds were indeed swept up in what someone in a better mood might deem a winter wonderland. Snow stretched in clean, unsullied sheets across the lawns, resting like little pillows along the stone parapets. As the morning sun began to rise (for it was that fucking early), daylight glistened through the icy boughs of trees, and beneath the whole glittering spectacle stood James Potter. “I love snow,” he delighted as he claimed the first footsteps on the blank, white expanse and peered around proudly as though the whole concept of winter had been his invention.

“I thought you hated snow,” grumbled Remus, his voice muffled beneath his scarf. “No Quidditch in snow.”

“No,” James corrected him. “I hate February snow. This is December snow. Best snow of the year.” He scooped up a mound of the stuff and tossed it into the air; a cloud of glitter rained upon them all.

Remus turned to Sirius. “So we murder him now, right?”

Sirius snorted. “Yeah,” he agreed, eyes on the other boy who was as delighted as a child on Christmas morning. “But let him have a minute. It’s almost sweet.”

Remus glared at his wrist in order to time this minute of winter joy to the second, only to remember he’d been shuffled out of the castle in his pajamas and he was not wearing his watch. Just as Remus readied himself to complain to Sirius about this state of affairs, an icy snowball hit Sirius in the face. Remus watched mildly as Sirius cursed and spluttered.

“Okay,” agreed Sirius, shaking his head (in a decidedly dog-like manner) and brushing the snow from his brow. “Now we murder him. Pete?”

“On it,” said Peter, who was already packing a sizable snowball in his mittened hands.

Sirius glanced towards James, still blissfully ignorant of their plan, then back to Remus. “Count of three?”

Remus agreed.

“One — two — THREE!”

They tackled him.

After Sirius, Remus, and Peter all ganged up on James and thoroughly pummeled him with snowballs, the boys headed back to Gryffindor Tower to dry off by the roaring common room fire. James had accepted his punishment with considerably more cheer than Remus might’ve done. Indeed, his friend’s good mood seemed even more indomitable than ever.

“You know,” said James, distributing freshly-brewed mugs of tea while the other boys peeled off their wet socks and toasted their toes before the hearth. “These are the shining moments of youth that you will remember when you are old and decrepit. You’re welcome.”

It was Saturday morning and still early enough that the common room was mostly empty. Snow continued to fall steadily, ticking against the windowpanes, and it was such a cozy scene that Remus had nearly forgotten his nightmare of that morning.

Nearly.

The week had passed uneventfully, and if Davey had shared his tale with the rest of the school, it hadn’t gotten very far. Perhaps Davey had been disheartened by Remus and Lily’s dismissive response, or perhaps Sirius had been right, and no one had believed him. Regardless, the incident of the dog at the greenhouse seemed to be a thing of the past.

Remus stole a glance at Sirius, who yawned hugely as he endeavored to skewer a crumpet on a toasting fork. Trust me, his friend had said, but Remus didn’t, and that was the whole problem of it. Things had a changed a lot between them over the course of the past term, ever since that post-match party where, in a roundabout sort of way, they’d finally discussed what happened last year. All right, they hadn’t actually discussed it at all, but both boys seemed to have interpreted the non-conversation the same way and allowed their friendship to proceed in an according manner. Sirius seemed to have relaxed around him somewhat, to have accepted the forgiveness that Remus was not entirely sure he’d given.

But Remus liked this version of Sirius better. He liked this version of himself better. Couldn’t he choose this? Couldn’t he just choose to forget what had happened last year? Move on? Shove it aside and pretend it didn’t exist? What harm could that do, really?

In the dark corners of his mind, the wolf of this morning’s nightmare licked the blood from his maw. Remus shivered, and it had nothing to do with his snow-soaked pajamas.

James was still babbling happily. “It’s good luck, the first snow. And it’s Hogsmeade today. What time did you all want to head out?”

“I wasn’t going to bother,” said Sirius.

“What? Why not?”

“Figured we could use the day out on the grounds to work on the map.”

“But — it’s a Hogsmeade weekend! We have to go get a drink at the Three Broomsticks.”

“We can go to Hogsmeade whenever we want,” said Sirius. “You’re the one who’s so anxious to finish up the draft.”

“Yeah, but—” James stopped, looking troubled. “Well, you’re coming, right Moony?”

“I’m going back to bed,” grumbled Remus.

“Oh, come on. Pete?”

“I’m going with Veronica,” yawned Peter. “I promised I’d take her to Madam Puddifoot’s.”

James looked distraught. “But you have to come with me. I can’t go alone!”

“Why are you so obsessed with having a drink at the Three Broomsticks?” demanded Sirius. “We’ve done it a thousand times, and we’ll do it a thousand more, just not today.”

James struggled for a moment before apparently deciding on the truth: “I told Evans that she should join us for a drink at the Three Broomsticks this weekend, and if you lot don’t show and it’s just me, it’s going to look like I was trying to trick her into a date.”

“Oh, that’s pretty smooth, actually,” said Peter.

“No! It’s not smooth! It’s bad, and not what I’m trying to do!”

“Hang on,” said Remus. “You asked Lily to Hogsmeade, and she didn’t immediately say no?”

“No, because I did not ask her to Hogsmeade. I merely pointed out that I — that we — would be in Hogsmeade, if she wanted to join us for a drink. That’s it.”

“And she said yes?”

“No.”

“What did she say?”

“I don’t remember exactly—”

“Yes, you do,” snorted Sirius.

James sighed. “She said maybe.”

Sirius took a contemplative bite of his crumpet. “‘Maybe.’ That’s progress.”

“No, it’s not,” said James irritably. “I’m not trying to ‘make progress,’ I’m just trying to be her friend, and if you don’t come, you’re going to mess it all up, so please, just do this for me and I’ll — what do you want? I’ll do your Defense homework for a week?”

Sirius considered it. “I want an IOU. No expiration and redeemable at the time and place of my choosing.”

James raked a hand through his hair, still damp with snow. “Fine. I owe you. You’ll come?”

“And I want you to do my Defense homework for a week.”

“Fine,” groaned James. “Moony? What about you, what do you want?”

“I want to go back to sleep,” said Remus, “but since I’m obviously not going to get that…sure, whatever. I’ll come be a buffer in your awkward attempts to befriend Lily.”

“You’re the best, Moony.”

“You can do my Defense homework too, though.”

“…Fine.”

Chapter Text

LILY

A Fool's Errand

Snow fell from the rafters of the Great Hall in soft, threading flutters that vanished before they could settle upon the breakfasters below. Lily stared up at the endless swirl, her cup of tea gone cold in her hand. It was the first snow of the year, rather late in the game as it was, and the weather seemed to be making up for lost time with intensity. What had started as a light snow had grown into a blustery storm in mere hours. Outside the castle, the grounds had been swallowed up by white; wind hurled snowdrifts against doors and rattled at windowpanes — but from her seat at Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, Lily was free to merely admire the glitter of it all.

Lily loved snow. She always had. There was a magical quality to it, the way it appeared from nowhere, utterly transforming the landscape from dreary and familiar to sparkling and bright. Of course, in Cokeworth the snow had always turned gray with city grime, quick and dirty, but here at Hogwarts, it was like living in the glossy shine of a snow globe, a perfection of winter fantasy.

Fitting, she couldn’t help but think, for fantasy had been almost exclusively the landscape in which she’d lived lately.

Getting a bit dizzy, she lowered her eyes from the enchanted ceiling and looked instead to her breakfast — or she’d meant to, but somehow her gaze got a bit lost on the way, and suddenly she found herself staring at James bloody Potter.

He was seated at his usual spot near the end of the table along with his friends. The other three looked sleepy, slumped over their bowls or rubbing at crusted eyes, but James was bright and alert, speaking with obvious enthusiasm about whatever subject had captured his imagination this morning. She was too far away to hear, and it was impossible to guess. You simply never knew with him. It might be Quidditch, it might be the intricacies of a magical castle’s antiquated plumbing system. This thought caused a quick tug at the corner of her lips, but she straightened it out and hastily forced her attention away, turning instead to the depths of her porridge, pale and lumpy, a scatter of cinnamon sinking into the oats.

A flush of heat spread across her cheeks. Too many times had her treacherous gaze betrayed her over the last week, ever since that stupid dream. She was being ridiculous. It was just a dream, after all, merely a cruel trick of her subconscious. It didn’t mean anything. It was a fool’s errand to take dreams literally. It wasn’t as though she expected Petunia to burn her at the stake over the holidays. Then again…

“What’s with you?”

Lily nearly upset her porridge as she jolted to attention. Marlene had taken the seat across from her and was observing her with a critical expression.

“Nothing,” said Lily. “Just tired. Didn’t sleep well.” She took a moment to pour a fresh cup of tea then glanced back up at Marlene. “Are you going to Hogsmeade today?”

Marlene shot a dark look at the enchanted ceiling. “In this weather?”

“It’s just a little snow.”

“It’s a blizzard, Lily. No, thank you.”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. It’s gorgeous out there. A proper winter wonderland!”

“It’s wet and freezing, and I have way too much schoolwork to do anyway. I still have three feet to write for my Divination essay.”

Lily spooned a generous helping of sugar into her tea. “I still can’t believe you continued with Divination.”

Marlene looked at her blankly. “Why?”

“It’s just such a silly subject, and you seem so…rational. Serious.”

“Divination has a bad reputation,” said Marlene, reaching for the marmalade jar and unscrewing the lid. “It’s true it’s absolutely not a science, but it’s ancient and it still has merit. I won’t claim to have the Inner Eye, but even a rudimentary understanding of auguries is so valuable. You have no idea how desirable a N.E.W.T. in Divination is in the finance industry.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” agreed Lily. She gave her tea a pensive sip. “Have you done much — er — dream interpretation at N.E.W.T. level?”

“No, we’ve been focused mostly on omens, though we started Aeromancy this week.” Another glance skyward. “Figures.”

“Mmm,” said Lily, who didn’t know what that meant.

Marlene’s expression grew shrewd. “Why? Do you need a dream interpreted?”

“No, I was just curious.”

“What was in the dream?”

“Nothing. I just…I have vivid dreams sometimes, so I was curious on your take, that’s all.”

“Well, there’s plenty of overlap between omens and dream symbolism. Omens often appear in dreams, after all. If you told me what —”

“Forget it, Marlene. I don’t even remember the dream.”

Marlene returned to her toast looking a little disappointed, and Lily trawled a spoon through her porridge feeling a little guilty about that, but she’d been stupid to bring it up in the first place. She could hardly tell Marlene about the details of the dream, and it wasn’t as though she could interrogate her about it without giving the whole thing away. What would she even ask? Does finding an ex-enemy in your bed count as a bad omen? What are the precise psychosexual implications of prawn cocktail? Shagging in the forest…that’s a metaphor, right?

Instead, she said: “Are you sure you don’t want to come to Hogsmeade with me? We    can get a drink at the Three Broomsticks. It’ll be fun.”

“I like having all my toes,” said Marlene. “I anticipate at least one would freeze off if I walked all the way there.”

“What about your Christmas shopping? It’s the last trip before the holidays…”

“I do everything by owl order. It takes so much less time. You should too.”

“Oh,” said Lily. “Okay. Never mind then.”

A pause.

“Is this one of those friendship things?” asked Marlene.

“What?”

“You know, that thing where I don’t really want to do something, but you want me to, so I’m supposed to do the thing even though I really don’t want to? Because we’re friends?”

Lily couldn’t help but smile at that. “No. It’s fine, Marlene.”

Marlene thought about this for a moment. “I would, you know. It’s freezing, I hate snow, and I think Hogsmeade is a big waste of time, I don’t understand why everyone gets so excited to go drink syrupy-sweet butterbeer in the same pub they’ve been going to since they were thirteen, but I’d go. If you wanted me to.”

Lily was oddly touched by the offer, and for a moment she considered taking the other girl up on it, but then she remembered that the main reason she wanted to go to Hogsmeade was to visit Dorcas’s bookshop, and she couldn’t quite imagine Marlene among all those radical tomes. “That’s okay,” she said. “But thanks, Marlene. Stay warm, finish your essay, and do keep me apprised if any omens stumble into my life.”

By the time she was halfway to Hogsmeade, however, Lily had to admit that Marlene had a point. Her mittened fingers were numb and her cheeks raw as she battled the blustery snow that swirled about her. When she at last reached the village, she turned immediately down the little side street that she now knew led to Dorcas and Arabella’s bookshop, but as she approached, she noticed a small sign on the door that read: Temporarily closed — come back later.

Lily stared at the sign for a long, shivering moment, feeling slightly betrayed — which of course was nonsense, but all the same. She’d only trekked all the way to Hogsmeade to return the books Dorcas had lent her, and now that she was here, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. She headed back to High Street feeling rather glum, and even the fairytale snow upon gabled roofs did little to lift her spirits. Lately, Lily had noticed she seemed prone to these quick slumps of sorrow, but she didn’t know what to do about it.

There was something distinctly sad about wandering Hogsmeade by yourself, but it was her own fault and she knew it. More than one boy had asked her to Hogsmeade this weekend, once the news of Harvey and Sophie’s reunion had made the rounds. Lance Haverthorn had cornered her on her way to Transfiguration last week, and Julian Ewart-Jones had hinted rather heavily that he’d like very much to be her date to Slughorn’s Christmas party.

Lily turned them both down. She didn’t really know why.

The Three Broomsticks glowed like the warmth of a fireplace at the end of High Street, and Lily decided that she would find a cozy corner, finish the letter to Mary she still hadn’t written, and call it a day. She adjusted her scarf to better cover her face and pushed onwards. As she made her way towards the pub, she found herself thinking once again of James. He’d told her he and his friends would be at the Three Broomsticks. He’d invited her to join them for a drink. Well, perhaps that was a generous interpretation. He’d probably just felt sorry for her, since she’d just been dumped and all.

No. That was burst of sorrow speaking, not her rational mind. He was being friendly. Nothing wrong with that. And Remus would be there too. She was friends with Remus. So why shouldn’t she join them for a drink? If it hadn’t been for that stupid dream, she wouldn’t have even thought twice about it.

At last she reached the pub, pushed through the door, and looked around. Apparently everyone else had had the same idea; the Three Broomsticks was packed to capacity. She swept the snow from the folds of her scarf and stood on tiptoe, searching for James — no, for Remus. She spotted neither of them. She did however find Harvey and Sophie cuddling by one of the roaring fires. A brief stab in the gut. But no, it didn’t bother her. She wouldn’t let it bother her. She didn’t care.

She made her way towards the bar and managed to elbow her way close enough to order a butterbeer. As she waited for her order, she turned to skim the crowd for a seat once again and spotted a group of elderly witches abandoning their table near the back, no doubt having decided the crowds of Hogwarts students were not the most enjoyable company. Lily grabbed her butterbeer and made a bee-line for the table, collapsing triumphantly into a seat just before a disappointed group of fourth years arrived. She made rather an ordeal out of peeling off her cloak and hat and scarf and mittens, then draped them over the back of her chair. The table had four chairs, and she felt a bit conspicuous taking up so much space to sit by herself, but never mind. She took an awkward sip of her butterbeer, then reached into her bag to pull out her letter to Mary.

She didn’t know why she was having so much trouble composing her reply, but all her lighthearted attempts at correspondence just felt…empty. Dishonest, even. So she’d tried being honest, and that wasn’t much better. After groping around the bottom of her bag until she found a rather crumpled quill, Lily reread what she’d managed so far.

Dear Mary,

It was so good to hear from you, and I’m so happy that you seem to be doing so well in Boston. I’m jealous, to tell you the truth. If I could apparate internationally, you know I would be there in a minute. Carl sounds wonderful, and I hope you have so much fun on tour.

Things at Hogwarts are about the same as they were last year. We do have a new Defense teacher, and he’s a nightmare. Professor Carter-Myles — though Black and Potter have a bunch of different names for him. Rather less polite. (‘Farter-Biles’ comes to mind…) Professor Dearborn is dearly missed by nearly every student, I think. Or those in Gryffindor do. At least, I miss him.

I miss you, too. More than I can put into words. Hogwarts just isn’t the same without you, Mary. So much has happened this year, but none of it seems very interesting, since you weren’t there to share it with me. I’m getting sappy, I know. But it’s been hard without you. This year has been really hard.

Lily sighed, feeling frustrated with herself. Her reply was coming off exactly how she didn’t want it to. Mopey and pathetic. She took another sip of her butterbeer than dove back in.

It’s not all doom and gloom though. Would you believe it, but Marlene and I have almost become friends?  Or, whatever her version of friendship is. Wild, right? I know, you probably think I’ve lost my mind, but I’ve grown fond of her, in a weird way. Black and Potter too have been…

She bit her lip as she struggled for the right word then scribbled:

…nicer this year. I’m not really sure what to make of it, but it’s better than the alternative, I suppose. Anyway, it’s a snowy day in Hogsmeade and I’ve got to get this letter in the post. I’ll write again soon, and hopefully I’ll have more interesting things to say. Until then, I shall live vicariously through you and your rock band.

Lots of love,

Lily

It wasn’t much of a letter, but it would have to do. She wondered if Mary would understand just how unhappy Lily really was. Mary had always been able to see right through her…

“Evans!” said a voice, interrupting these morose musings. “You’re looking…seasonally depressed.” Lily glanced up from her letter to see Sirius Black looming above her, a dust of fresh snow melting upon his robes in the warmth of the pub’s many fires. Evidently, he’d just arrived. “Merlin, please tell me you didn’t bring homework to Hogsmeade.”

“No,” said Lily, trying to ignore the slight flutter in her chest as she noticed James making his way towards them through the thickets of elbows that crowded the pub; Remus plowed along a few steps behind. “I’m writing a letter to Mary.”

“Old Macdonald!” said Sirius happily. “How’s she doing in her exile?”

“Quite well by the sound of it. She’s going on tour with a rock band.” This was a slight exaggeration, but Lily felt she owed it to her friend to make her sound as cool as possible to Sirius Black.

“No kidding,” said Sirius, looking suitably impressed. “Maybe we should all go to America. Tell her I say hi.”

“I will,” said Lily. Mary would get a kick out that for she, like every other girl in school, carried a torch for Hogwarts’ heartthrob. At the bottom of the letter, Lily scrawled: P.S. Sirius Black says hi. Then she folded up the parchment and stuffed the letter away, just as James and Remus caught up. Sirius dropped himself into one of the chairs at Lily’s table. “Mind if we join you? Awfully crowded in here. Or — were you saving these seats for someone?”

“No,” said Lily quickly. “I just popped in to warm up a bit.”

“Brutal out there, isn’t it?” said James cheerfully. Lily cast him a quick smile before looking hastily away to the safety of Remus, who was tugging off his hat with a rather sullen expression, cheeks pink and raw from the swirling storm outside.

“Brutal,” snorted Remus, unwinding the scarf from his neck. “So says the boy who just forced me to trek all the way here in a bloody blizzard. ‘It’ll be fun,’ he says. ‘The wind’s barely blowing,’ he says.”

Lily glanced over at the soft patterns of snow that glistened across the pub’s windowpanes. “I think it’s all rather pretty.”

“Oh, that’s right,” said Remus, evidently unimpressed by the sparkle of winter. “I forgot. You're another snow apologist, just like James.”

James shrugged off his snow-dampened cloak and draped it over the back of his chair before settling in. “One day, Remus, you’re going to get bored of being so grumpy.”

“I doubt that. I quite enjoy it.”

“Well, at least take off your cloak, stay a while.”

“I’m still frozen,” complained Remus. “Let me thaw first.”

“I’ll go order us a round, shall I?” said Sirius, who also had not yet bothered to remove his cloak.

“I’ll get ‘em,” offered James at once, rising from his seat, but Sirius pushed him back down by the shoulders.

“No,” he said. “I am luxuriating in being fiscally irresponsible again. Drinks are on me. Moony, give me a hand?”

And then the other boys were gone, leaving James at the table with Lily. Alone.

“Nice day for a blizzard,” said James conversationally as he pulled the gloves from his fingers and stuffed them in the pockets of his cloak.

“It’s beautiful from in here,” said Lily. “Though far more crowded than I expected.”

“The weather’s got everyone in the holiday spirit.”

“That, or they’ve put off their shopping to the last minute, like me.”

“Also an option. I don’t doubt a good, fortifying drink is necessary before facing the hordes of holiday shoppers.”

He seemed perfectly relaxed, which annoyed her. Her own heart was hammering against her ribcage, her insides fluttering about as though a snowstorm had sprung up in there too and was blowing everything about. And there was no reason for it, she chastised herself. There was no reason for this sudden awkwardness around him. It wasn’t as though they’d never been alone together. Christ, they had Potions together twice a week. Just because she’d had one slightly explicit dream didn’t mean she had to go all…all…all silly around him.

“—though I for one am quite ready for all the hustle and bustle of the holidays,” James was still prattling on. “Nothing compares, Christmas. Most magical time of the year, and all that. I’ll never understand people who don’t like it.”

“Who doesn’t like it?”

“Sirius, for one. I suppose he has his reasons, but even so. D’you know he threatened to hex me this morning for singing carols? Granted, it was a bit early in the morning, but come on. Snow! The occasion called for it. Besides, Remus says I have a lovely singing voice if you don’t mind the sound of sheep bleating…”

Lily grinned. “Which carol? That will determine the severity of your crime.”

“God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs,” said James proudly.

“God Rest Ye…what?”

“Merry Hippogriffs.”

“I…don’t think that’s how the song goes.”

“It is when you’re eight and obsessed with hippogriffs so your dad puts together a whole hippogriff-themed Christmas that year.”

“That is adorable.”

“Thank you. I’m glad someone appreciates the creativity. Unlike Sirius, who threatened to give me scales.”

“So, are you going to Slughorn’s Christmas party?” She didn’t know why she asked. It just sort of slipped out.

“As a matter of fact,” said James pleasantly, “I wasn’t invited.”

“Oh. I just assumed…”

That someone would ask you, was the rest of that sentence, but James finished it for her: “…that I’d be invited because I’m a pure-blood knob?”

“I didn’t say that.”

James laughed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m teasing, Evans. No, it’s Sirius old Sluggy is after, stubborn bastard.”

“Which one is the stubborn bastard, Sirius or Slughorn?”

Another laugh. Why did his laughter suddenly seem to cause the blizzard in her stomach to swirl ever more tempestuously?

“Both, to tell you the truth,” said James. “But Sirius will win. He’s the stubbornest, bastardest of them all.” He said this with such obvious fondness that Lily couldn’t help but smile. James glanced towards the bar. “Taking them rather a long time.”

“It is very busy.”

“Yeah.” James craned his neck another moment, searching for his friends, then he returned his attention to Lily. “So, what are your holiday plans? Going home?”

Before Lily could answer, they were interrupted by the landlady, a very attractive woman named Madam Rosmerta, who Lily knew all the boys at school affectionately (and occasionally lasciviously) called ‘Rosie’. She stood before them holding a tray upon which two foaming tankards were balanced. “Here we are, loves,” she said brightly, setting the tankards down on the table before James and Lily. “Two butterbeers.”

“Er — sorry,” said James. “We didn’t order these.”

“Your friends did,” said Rosmerta.

James froze. “What?”

“Black and…” Rosmerta twirled a finger as she sought a name. “The grumpy one? They said they had to leave but asked me to send over two butterbeers along with their compliments. So!” She gestured at the table. “Two butterbeers. I tend to avoid Black’s compliments, so you can collect those on your own time.” And with a wink, she bustled off towards another group of warlocks flagging her down.

Lily and James both sat stock-still, the easy camaraderie of a few moments ago lost to the awkward display of two accusatory butterbeers sitting untouched on the table before them. At last, James muttered, more to himself than to Lily: “Those bastards.”

He looked absolutely mortified. It took Lily a moment to catch up with what had just happened — what was happening — but once she did, mortification found her as well. Black had set them up, making a show of finding Lily in the pub, of pretending like he wanted to sit with her, then ditching them so James would be left alone with her in a decidedly date-like environment. He’d done it as some sort of…some sort of prank on his mate. A laugh. He likes to take the piss, James had said last week.

Which meant that the idea of a date with Lily was enough of an in-joke between the boys that Sirius would’ve anticipated how embarrassed James would be. Oh, god. She would never stop being the butt of their jokes.

But Remus wouldn’t do that, she thought, grappling at the idea like fingers over the edge of a cliff. But he had. He had done exactly that. She felt a sharp stab of betrayal at the thought. No doubt Black had bullied him into it, but surely Remus would’ve recognized what an uncomfortable position it put Lily in. Surely he would’ve cared a little.

But Remus said James fancied me, argued a petulant little voice in the back of her head. So maybe the butt of joke isn’t me, exactly. Maybe — no. She stopped herself before she could get lost again down that rabbit hole. Don’t even go there. He didn’t fancy her. He certainly didn’t look like he fancied her right now. He looked nauseated by the whole situation. Remus had been wrong, when he’d said James fancied her. He’d been wrong, or — or drunk, or Lily had simply misunderstood and he hadn’t really said it at all — and none of that mattered, because what it all came down to was that once again, she was thirteen and humiliated, listening to the boy she fancied announce that he wouldn’t date her if she were the last girl in school.

“Look,” said James uncomfortably from across the table. “I’m really sorry about this. I didn’t know they were — I wasn’t trying to — I’m going to kill Sirius.”

“It’s fine,” said Lily with a light little laugh, and she was pleased to hear how cool and unconcerned she came across. “Like I said, I only came in to warm up a bit. Don’t feel like you have to stick around on my behalf. I’ve got to run some errands anyway.”

James looked like he wanted to say something but stopped himself. After a moment of apparent self-repression, he settled on: “Shame to let a perfectly good butterbeer go to waste.”

“I’ve already had one,” said Lily, gesturing at the nearly-empty tankard she’d acquired before the boys’ arrival. There was little more than froth left inside, but she took an indifferent sip all the same — which she promptly regretted because she had to wipe the foam from her lips, which was impossible to do surreptitiously when James was staring at her like that.

He looked miserable. “This really wasn’t—” he began again, but before he could finish, Lily glimpsed across the pub two familiar girls seeking out seats, and her heart lifted at the sight of these saviors.

“Aisha!” she called as brightly as she could manage. “Florence! Over here.”

The two girls spotted her and crossed the pub to join. “You have seats,” said Aisha. “A miracle!”

“Are you two…here together?” asked Florence with a sideways glance at Lily.

“No,” said James quickly, before Lily could reply the same. A little too quickly.

“Black and Lupin went to get more drinks,” said Lily. Technically, this was true. “I think they got lost on the way. I was just getting ready to leave, but you should join us. They can find their own chairs when they get back.”

Aisha and Florence settled in, happy to find a spot to sit, and Lily relaxed at least a little with the buffer of company. James, however, still looked troubled. She could feel the flicker of his gaze upon her, but she ignored it steadily.

“We were just talking about Slughorn’s Christmas party,” said Florence. This time, her sideways glance went to James.

“What a coincidence. We were too.” Lily’s voice was almost abrasively bright. She wondered if James noticed.

“Florence is trying to convince me it’s actually fun,” said Aisha.

“It is! Tell her, Lily.”

Lily had never actually been to a Slug Club Christmas party, as Professor Slughorn hadn’t held one last year, and she told them as much.

“Yes, but you’ve been to other parties, and they’re fun.”

“Depends on the guest list,” said Lily, thinking of Lucius Malfoy.

If Florence followed that train of thought, she did not show it. Instead she rolled her eyes in a good-natured sort of way and said, “You’re no help. Are you going, James?”

Though Lily had been pointedly avoiding looking at James since Florence and Aisha’s timely arrival, she could not help but sneak a glance at this. The next few moments played out before her like a film reel she couldn’t pause: James admitting he hadn’t been invited, Florence insisting he go with her, James and Florence at the party, enthralled with each other, fitting in oh-so-perfectly among their pure-blood peers, a dance in slow motion, a tender kiss, a wedding, a big house in the country, two kids and a dog…

God. She was unhinged.

“I didn’t have any grand plans to,” began James, but before he could finish and Lily’s nightmare reel could unfurl, they were interrupted yet again — this time, by a drawling voice from a previous life.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

“Phin!”

The thud of a tankard, the scrape of a chair, and Florence was on her feet, arms thrown around the neck of one Phineas Phillips, last year’s Captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team and close friend of Florence and — briefly — Lily.

“Good to see you, Lily,” said Phineas, without a trace of resentment or acknowledgement that the last time they’d spoken had been during the argument that ultimately led to Lily breaking up with —

“And Anson’s here too!” cried Florence. “Oh, how lovely!”

And indeed, he was. Lovely. Lily’s ex-boyfriend came loping over to the table with a firewhiskey in hand, possibly even more fit than he’d been when she’d dated him last year. For a moment, all Lily could do was stare. He’d always been handsome, with those blue eyes and that swoop of barley hair, but now he seemed…older. More mature. More…muscly.

“Hey, Lily,” said Anson with a warm smile that would melt any snow.

“Hey yourself,” said Lily.

From across the table, Florence cast a quick, calculating look between Lily and Anson, and Lily knew at once what she was up to. Florence had always wanted the two of them to overcome their differences and get back together. “Well don’t just hover over us, come on, let’s find you some chairs. I’m sure we can beg some from—”

“Don’t bother,” said Phineas, and with a graceful swish of his wand, he produced two wooden chairs which they shuffled into the mix. Lily wasn’t quite sure how Florence had managed it, but somehow Phineas had been wedged between Aisha and Florence and Anson had been seated directly beside Lily. Across the table, Florence inched her chair a little closer to James who — was Lily imagining it? — looked distinctly unhappy with the new arrivals.

A strange sense of nostalgia settled over Lily as her gaze flickered between Anson and Phineas. When Lily had dated Anson, she’d also been absorbed into his social group, and in a sense, it had been one of the happiest times of her life. She missed those days, laughing with Florence and Phin at Slug Club parties, whispering with Anson at dinners, always being on the right side of the inside jokes. Yes, she missed it. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming to Hogsmeade!” Florence complained. Both Anson and Phineas had graduated last year, and Lily knew that Florence missed them dreadfully.

“Thought it’d be a fun surprise,” said Phineas. “First time in a long time Anson and I have both had the same weekend off, so we thought we’d grab a drink at one of the old haunts. See what the Hogwarts youth are up to these days.”

“And nothing’s changed, clearly,” laughed Florence.

“That’s part of the charm,” said Anson.

“You remember Aisha Collins, of course — and James Potter?”

“Our Gryffindor Quidditch adversaries,” said Phineas. “How could I ever forget? We lost the House Cup thanks to these two. You’re fraternizing with the enemy, Flor.” He said this without even a shade of unpleasantness, as though the world in which school Quidditch matches mattered at all was very far off, and rather sweet in its recollection.

Florence swatted at Phineas’s shoulder. “Oh, stop. I have missed your beastliness.”

“It was an impressive win,” said Anson with a gracious nod towards James. She wondered if he remembered that James had once rudely interrupted them snogging in the library. She rather doubted that he did. “Nearly cost me my contract with Puddlemere, losing the final, but I’ve forgiven you.”

James, who’d been rather quiet and sulky since the older boys’ arrival, sat up a bit straighter at this. “Puddlemere?” he demanded. “You got recruited to Puddlemere United?”

“Just as a reserve Seeker for now,” said Anson, “but I’m hoping in a few years, I’ll actually get to play.”

Florence beamed. “And Phin’s joined the Wasps, isn’t that right?”

The conversation moved in a decidedly sport-related direction after that. Neither James nor Aisha seemed able to help themselves from asking questions about the professional Quidditch team experience, and both Anson and Phineas seemed to enjoy having an audience.

Lily’s attention drifted from the details of the conversation, to the murky fog of what might have been. Would she and Anson have stayed together, if they hadn’t had that one fight? Would he be meeting her on the weekends, swooping in and kissing her in the pub like something from a romance novel? Would she still be the cool girl, the one with all the friends, with the professional Quidditch player boyfriend that all the other girls envied? It was shallow, perhaps, but it was an enticing fantasy all the same.

Probably they would have found another reason to break up. Probably long distance would’ve been too difficult once he graduated and she remained interred in the castle. But now she’d never know, because she hadn’t been forgiving. She’d never even given him the chance to learn or grow…

“How have you been, Lily?” said Anson quietly from beside her. “It’s been a while.”

“I’m good,” Lily lied. “Really good. Keeping busy. You know, N.E.W.T.s.”

“I don’t miss those,” smiled Anson. For half a delirious moment, she imagined that he’d just been wondering the same thing. Had time and distance softened the jagged edges that had separated them?

“And you?” said Lily. “How have you been? I mean, obviously you’ve been busy with Quidditch…”

“Yeah, life’s good. Exhausting, but good.”

“Good.”

“You know,” said Anson, leaning in closer. “I’d love to have a chance to catch up properly sometime.”

“Definitely,” breathed Lily.

Anson smiled again, and for a moment, she thought he would kiss her, or stroke her cheek like he used to do. His breath was warm against her skin…but then Phineas called across the table. “Oi, Nott. Is it true Puddlemere got an order for new Comet 220s for the whole team?”

“I can’t disclose that,” said Anson amiably, and he leaned back in his chair. Lily took what she hoped was an inconspicuous, shuddering breath. She stared at her hands for a moment to compose herself, but when she looked up, James’s eyes were upon her. He looked quickly away.

“I’m trying to get my hands on one,” complained Phineas, “but it’s practically impossible.”

“They’re not supposed to be released until spring, right?’ asked Aisha.

“Yeah, but I’ve heard some teams are getting early orders, for publicity purposes, you know. Like Puddlemere, you poncy bastards.”

“No comment,” smiled Anson.

“I’m on the bloody waitlist,” moaned James. “For all the good that’ll do me.”

“Yeah, you’ll be waiting a while,” said Phineas. “Worth it though. Naught to sixty in ten seconds…”

And once again the conversation swerved in a direction Lily had little interest to follow. She knew nothing about broomsticks so she just sat quietly and listened. Florence and James, however, had a good long debate on the aerodynamics of different handles or something. Aisha argued with Phineas about whether or not Cleansweeps would ever be relevant again. Anson had a surprising amount to say about turbulence.

Time was a funny thing. Once upon a time, these people — Anson, Phineas, Florence — had felt like home. She’d felt part of the inner circle, sitting among them. But now Lily once again felt like an outsider. She had nothing to contribute to the conversation. Nothing to say.

“Well, I’ve got to get going,” she announced a little too suddenly. “It was really nice to see you, Phin. Anson.” And hardly pausing for goodbyes, she grabbed her cloak off the back of her chair and bustled back out into the cold. Shivering, she pulled on the cloak, tugged on her knitted hat, wrapped a scarf around her neck. She gave one last lingering look at the boisterous pub before turning to leave. The snow had slowed from a tempestuous billow to a gentle but steady fall. She was only a few steps away, when —

“Hey.”

Lily turned. James was standing there, his cloak thrown over one arm, the door to the pub swinging shut after him.

“What?” she said, rather more harshly than she meant to.

“I  wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

James rubbed his neck, shivering slightly as he stood cloakless in the cold. “Well, you left in a bit of a hurry—”

Lily gave a flippant shrug. “Like I said, I have errands to run, and homework to do. I don’t want to be stuck in Hogsmeade all day.”

“—and I figured seeing your ex-boyfriend out of the blue probably wasn’t fun.”

That stopped her. Lily bit her lip. “Yeah. I could’ve done without that.”

James gave into the cold and shrugged on his cloak. “Well,” he said while fastening the buttons, “for what it’s worth, I thought he looked awful. Just — old and depressed and ugly. And, you know, so what if he’s a professional Quidditch player now? I mean, Puddlemere…it isn’t…I mean…it’s not that good of a team…”

Lily considered the boy before her with a critical eye. “That was physically painful for you to say, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” admitted James immediately. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

And Lily started laughing. He always, always did that. He always made her laugh in exactly the moments she was convinced laughing was the last thing she wanted to do. The sound of her laughter seemed to allow James to relax for the first time since Sirius and Remus had pulled their little vanishing act, and a grin slid across his face.

“That’s sweet,” said Lily, “but you needn’t pain yourself on my behalf. I’m fine.”

“Well, good. Because like I said: old and ugly.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Yeah.”

Lily glanced back at the pub. Florence would be missing him, she was sure. “Well, I — I’ve got to go run my errands.”

“Right.” Neither of them moved. “Want some company?” offered James, and Lily stared at him. He shrugged. “My friends ditched me, remember?”

“Wouldn’t you rather stay warm inside the pub?”

“Nah,” said James. “I like the snow.” He pulled a hat down over his ears, slipped on his gloves, threw a scarf around his neck, and Lily realized he really did not have any intention of returning to the the Three Broomsticks. He’d rather be cold and miserable out here. With her.

Some light, happy bubble inside her expanded so quickly she thought she might float away, and though perhaps she ought to have felt ashamed of herself — Florence would be so sad — she couldn’t muster it. There, for a moment in the glistening snowfall, she felt almost giddy.

They were about halfway down High Street, feet plodding through drifts of snow, when James said: “Oi. Look who it is. Everyone’s favorite professor.”

Lily looked: Professor Carter-Myles was stalking his way down the street, far ahead of them, a bundle of packages under one arm. When she looked back to James, she found him packing a snowball in one gloved hand. “Dare me to hit him?”

“No way can you hit him all the way from here,” scoffed Lily.

“I will take that as a dare,” said James. “I may not play for Puddlemere — yet — but I am a House Cup-winning Chaser, thank you very much.”

“Let’s see it then.”

James flashed her a grin, gave the snowball an extra pat, then sent it hurling down High Street. The snowball exploded with a glittering thlump against Carter-Myles’ back. Bullseye. The professor started and turned on his heel, spluttering with fury as he searched for his assailant.

“Get down, get down!” hissed Lily through her laughter, and she grabbed James by the arm and dragged him into one of the alleys between shops so that Carter-Myles wouldn’t see them. James was also laughing, and he looked delighted with himself — or perhaps with Lily. She couldn’t quite say.

He leaned down and packed another snowball. “Your turn,” he said, tossing it to her.

Lily caught the snowball and considered it; the ice seeped through her mittens. It was playing with fire, this, but she inexplicably found that she wanted to impress James, so she took a careful step forward and peered around the edge of the wall that shielded them from their professor’s wrath. Carter-Myles had given up the search and continued on his path.

Lily shook her head. “There’s no way I can throw it that far.”

“You’ve got to try, Evans.”

She glanced back at James, at the faint quirk at the corner of his lips. Then, after half a second’s consideration, she pulled out her wand, tossed the snowball into the air as though playing a game of catch, cast a quick duplication spell as it fell, and with a purposeful thrust of her wand, she sent three snowballs plummeting towards Professor Carter-Myles. They struck him on the back in quick succession; their professor’s furious oath echoed across the soft snowfall.

James was howling with barely-muffled laughter in the alley. “It was a good shot,” he told her when at last he composed himself. “Though you cheated.”

Lily rolled her eyes and stowed away her wand. “We can’t all have Quidditch arms,” she told him sternly. Oh, god. Why had she said that? She didn’t give him a chance to respond, but rather pushed past him through the alley. “Come on. Through here, before he tries to track us down.”

The alleyway lead them out to one of the little side streets lined by crammed-together shops with glittering windows. Once they were convinced Carter-Myles wasn’t following them, the pair slowed their pace.

“So, what are these errands you keep fussing over?” asked James.

“Well, I’ve got to stop at the post office so I can mail this letter to Mary.”

James frowned. “Why not just post it from the Owlery back at school?”

“You can’t use school owls for international post. I don’t have my own owl,” she added with a faint touch of embarrassment. Plenty of people didn’t have their own owls, but James Potter would never know the inconvenience of not having everything at his fingertips, and his look of bafflement stung ever so slightly.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re welcome to use my owl whenever you want. That way you don’t have to schedule your correspondence with Mary around Hogsmeade weekends.”

Lily blinked. “It’s a really long flight, Hogwarts to America…”

“Poor Homer probably gets bored only ever flying from school to home. He’d enjoy it. A chance to stretch the wings. If you want, we can stop by the Owlery on the way back, and I’ll show you which owl’s mine. It’d save you the postage anyway.”

That was a difficult offer to refuse. International postage was expensive. “Thanks,” muttered Lily. “That’s…really kind of you.”

“It’s nothing,” shrugged James.

“I do have some Christmas shopping to do too,” she said, because she did in fact need to do some shopping, and because she felt she needed another errand to excuse her rushing out of the pub like that, and because…maybe just a little…she wanted a reason not to rush back to the castle. “I can’t for the life of me figure out what to get my sister.”

“The sister who hates magic?”

“Correct.”

“I see the issue.” James thought for a moment. “Trick flowers from Zonko’s?”

Lily snorted. “Yeah, that’d go well.”

“Oh, you wanted her to like the gift? Sorry, read the room wrong. But who doesn’t want a bouquet of daisies that turns into a budgerigar? Gift for the whole family, that.”

“She would murder me. And then she’d overcome all her qualms with magic just to learn necromancy so she could murder me again.”

“She sounds like a treat, your sister.”

“You have no idea.”

They strolled on. James walked with his hands in his pockets, peering happily into various shopfronts and offering inane gift ideas that made her laugh at the absurdity. She couldn’t help herself. It was remarkably easy to talk to him out here, away from the judgmental eyes of everyone else, away from the pressure of facing what they were or weren’t.

“Oh, here we go,” said James, pausing to examine the window display of the salon, all lit up with twinkly fairy lights. “Does your sister enjoy shellacking her hair to her skull? Because if so, have I got the gift idea for you.”

Lily followed his gaze to see an elaborate display: Fresh garlands hung around a stack of Sleekeazy tins, arranged in the conical shape of a Christmas tree. A banner hung above with sparkling letters that read: Have Yourself a Hairy Little Christmas!

“If you’d reconsider giving your sister a gift she’ll like, I can personally vouch for Sleekeazy’s as a wonderful torture device,” said James. “Half my childhood was spent dodging my mum with a tin of that stuff in her hand.”

“It was your dad’s invention, right?”

“Yeah. He sold the company long ago, but it was his patent. Family trait, the hair.” He paused, and turned away from the window to look at her, a faint line of surprise etched in his brow. “How’d you know that?”

Lily felt a faint flush across her cheeks. “All anyone talks about in the Slug Club is everyone else’s fathers.”

“Charming.”

“Yeah. Mine never seems to come up much, oddly enough.”

“What’s your dad do?”

“Well, he’s a Muggle.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize that was a career. Must’ve missed the pamphlet on that one.”

“I just meant—” Lily hesitated. No one had ever bothered to ask about her family, once they’d realized she was Muggle-born. The fact that her parents were Muggles was everything they needed to know. But James was looking at her with an expression of such genuine curiosity that she found herself answering. “He’s a vicar, actually. In the church.”

“No kidding,” said James. “What’s that like?”

“I dunno. Normal to me, I’ve never known anything else. There was always a lot of God in the Evans household. Christmas is actually a very busy time at home, all the services…”

And as she detailed the very boring role of growing up as a vicar’s daughter, James listened with rapt attention, as though her Muggle father was the most interesting thing he’d heard about all week. All of a sudden, she felt exposed. Naked, almost. She never talked about home or family at school. Not with anyone except Mary…and Severus, back when they’d still been talking. But now she’d told James about her mum, her sister, and her dad. It felt like too much.

“Anyway,” she said quickly. “I wanted to see if that bookstore over there was open yet. It was closed earlier.”

“Let’s do it,” said James.

Another hesitation from Lily. “You don’t have to come in, if you don’t want to.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to?”

“I don’t know…you might get bored…”

He gave her a sardonic look. “This will shock you, but I do know how to read, Evans.”

“I just meant…” she petered off. As they crossed the snow-covered cobbles, she saw his gaze land on the banner in the window that read: MUGGLE RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS. The ‘temporarily closed’ sign on the door was gone.

“Oh, it’s a Muggle bookstore,” he said. “I didn’t know we had one of those here.”

“It’s new,” Lily mumbled.

“Cool,” said James. Lily waited for some further comment, but James just held open the door for her then followed her in, peering around the shop with the same interested expression he’d worn as he’d asked about her father.

The shop was as empty as the first time Lily had entered it, the air heavy and quiet in that peculiar way that bookstores often had. The tortoiseshell cat was asleep in the window which, unlike the rest of the windows in Hogsmeade, had not been decked out in Christmas swag. A fluffy gray cat came strolling from the stacks to greet them.

“Cats!” said James happily, bending down to scratch the obliging feline’s ear. “I love cats.”

Lily left him to it, muttering an excuse and heading towards the back of the stacks, pausing only to look around the shelves for Dorcas or Arabella, but neither of them appeared to be in the shop. They must be somewhere though, since they’d taken down the sign.

“Hello?” she called, and when no reply came, she headed towards the beaded curtain that led to what she assumed was the back room. “Excuse me?” she tried again.

No response.

After a moment’s hesitation, she pushed through the beaded curtain and found herself in a rather cramped kitchen. A large fireplace sat beside what appeared to be an antique cooker. A narrow staircase led up to a closed door, and across from the fireplace an armchair was pushed into the corner, rather worn and scratched, undoubtedly from all the cats. Slumped in the armchair, still dressed in a traveling cloak, her head lolling back against the cushion, was Dorcas. She was fast asleep.

Feeling like an intruder, Lily was about to back away when Mr. Mittens, the orange cat she’d met before, slunk between her heels and leapt upon the woman’s lap. Dorcas awoke with a start.

“Sorry,” said Lily at once. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to — I just wanted to return your books, but I didn’t know—”

Dorcas blinked at her; recognition seemed to take a few moments to arrive. “Right,” she said. “Lily, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” said Dorcas, her voice still somewhat gravely with sleep. “I’m the one who fell asleep on the job. Bel’s run to the apothecary for me, I gather she’s not back yet.” She winced as she pushed herself up.

“Are you all right?” asked Lily.

“Oh, perfectly fine. Just had a bit of a late night last night, that’s all.” Dorcas flicked her wand and sent a kettle onto the fire. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you, that’s okay. My friend is out in the shop…I shouldn’t stay long.”

“Two customers at once!” said Dorcas. “That must be some sort of record.”

Lily laughed. “I just wanted to return your books, and say thank you.”

“What did you think of Daggert-Smith and Adeyemi?”

“I’ve never read anything like it,” Lily admitted. “I enjoyed the history lesson from Daggert-Smith, but with Adeyemi — The Muggle-born Revolution — it was amazing. It all felt so…so obvious, even though I’d never heard it before. Because no one ever talks about these things. About…about the Muggle-born experience. I’ve never seen anyone put it to words before.”

“And that’s power,” nodded Dorcas. “There’s power in words, Lily. There’s power in naming things.”

The kettle whistled. Dorcas made a move as though to pour the tea, but groaned slightly and fell back in her seat. “Would you mind…?”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Lily hurried over to the kettle.

“There’s tea in that pot there.”

As Lily assembled the teapot, she cast a surreptitious glance back at Dorcas. She moved as though she’d just been beaten up. She wondered if it had anything to with the shop being closed this morning, or Bel running to the apothecary. She wanted to ask, but she didn’t even know the woman, and it wasn’t any of her business, anyway. So instead she stood quietly as the tea brewed, gazing with interest at the photos on the fire’s mantel. Most of them were of Dorcas and Arabella, along with friends or possibly family.

One photo in particular caught her eye: It showed a swarm of protestors marching through the streets of Diagon Alley, carrying signs and posters. The only legible sign read: SQUIB RIGHTS, RIGHT NOW! At the front of the throng, four friends walked with arms linked. On the far right was clearly a much younger Dorcas, dressed in a mini-skirt and platform boots. Arabella marched to her left, a fierce look on her face. Beside her stood a young man with reddish-brown curls whose bright smile seemed aimed directly for the camera. And next to him was another man, somewhat taller, very handsome, with an elegant sweep of brown hair. He looked not at the camera but at the man with whose arm he was linked. Still, Lily recognized him immediately.

“Is that Professor Dearborn?” she demanded, shocked.

Dorcas looked up at her in surprise. “Professor…?” Then she laughed. “I always forget that idiot was a professor.”

“So it is him!” said Lily excitedly. “You know him?”

“Caradoc? Yes, we were at school together. He was a few years behind me. Also in Ravenclaw. Tell me, what sort of teacher was he? I cannot imagine it.”

“He was the best teacher I ever had.”

“High praise,” said Dorcas, raising her eyebrows. Clearly, that wasn’t what she expected to hear.

“He gave me a pack of cigarettes once,” Lily added, smiling at the memory.

Dorcas laughed. “That sounds more like Caradoc. He always had trouble with authority. I reckon that’s why he was fired?”

“He quit.”

“Mmm.”

Lily remembered the tea and poured a generous portion into one of the mugs from a nearby shelf. She handed it to Dorcas who accepted the drink gratefully. Lily turned back to the photo, fascinated. “This was during the Squib Rights protests of the sixties?”

“Yes, that’s when I really got to know Caradoc. Him and…” she trailed off and took a sip of tea to cover.

“Samuel Cornfoot,” Lily answered for her, for she had now recognized the bright smile of the man with the reddish-brown curls. She’d seen him once before, giving a speech in Diagon Alley. That had been mere months before he’d been tried and convicted for assassinating a ministry official. “That’s him in the photo, right?”

Dorcas’s expression dimmed at once. “Was,” she said darkly. “He died. In Azkaban.” She muttered the next bit almost to herself: “Bel says I should take the photo down, but…”

“But he was innocent,” said Lily softly.

Dorcas seemed to come back from wherever she’d gone, and she stared at Lily as though she’d never seen anything quite like her. “How could you possibly know that?”

“I don’t know it, but Professor Dearborn believed it, and I believe him.”

“Well, for once I suspect Caradoc was right about something. Sam could never have hurt a fly. Bright young idealist, he was. Pure sunshine. Caradoc was always angry at everyone and everything, but Sam…” Dorcas shook her head. “That’s ancient history, and Bel’s probably right. It’s not wise keeping photos of convicted murderers on your mantle.”

She looked unbearably sad for a moment, but then she stood with a wince and a groan, walked to the fireplace, and placed the framed photo of Samuel Cornfoot and Caradoc Dearborn face down on the mantle.

Lily did not stay long after that. Despite Dorcas’s insistence that she was perfectly fine, it was clear she was exhausted and Lily felt guilty for waking her up. Besides, she had not forgotten that James Potter (of all people!) was still out in the shop, and all the cats in the world would not entertain him forever. Or perhaps he’d already gotten bored and left.

But when she slipped through the beaded curtain, she spotted him perched on a chair near the front of the shop, flipping through Bad Blood: The Politics of Purity. She watched him for a moment, heat rising in her cheeks as she realized what was so familiar about the scene. That stupid, stupid dream. It wasn’t a premonition. It wasn’t an omen. It was just a stupid coincidence, that was all. It didn’t mean anything.

“Oh, there you are,” said James brightly, setting the book aside as he noticed her arrival. “I was beginning to think you’d ditched me too.”

The walk back from Hogsmeade was much more pleasant than the way there. For one thing, the wind had slowed to a gentle hum, and the snowy landscape, though frigid, was breathtaking to behold. For another thing, she had company. She and James chatted the whole way back, and it was easy. It was lovely.

“Still want to pop by the Owlery?” he offered as they approached the castle gates. Lily had nearly forgotten her letter to Mary, but agreed that yes, she would like that very much, and so they began the trek up the many stairs.

“Evans,” said James, about half way there. “Can I ask you a question? A nosy, personal question I’ve got not right to ask?”

Lily was reminded of Florence asking her about James in just the same way. “How can I say no to that?”

“What happened between you and Nott?”

Lily blinked. Whatever she’d expected him to ask, it hadn’t been that. “What?”

“I know it’s none of my business, it’s just…he still seemed pretty into you today.”

“I doubt that.”

“Are you kidding? He stared at you the whole time we were in there, Evans. I — forget it. Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“We had a fight last year, that’s all. He said something I deemed unforgivable, and I…didn’t forgive him. Kind of my M.O.”

James frowned. “What did he say?”

Lily raised an eyebrow.

“Right, sorry. Nosy and none of my business. I just want to make sure I don’t say the same thing.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’ve said some impressively stupid things in my time, so…”

Lily considered telling him everything — something about his stupid face made her want to tell him everything — but she and Anson had broken up because he’d said he didn’t believe werewolves were people worthy of basic human rights. Admitting that would be as good as admitting that she knew about Remus — or thought she knew — and for some reason it felt like a betrayal to tell James before she’d told Remus himself.

So she just said: “You wouldn’t say this.”

“Hmm.” James seemed unconvinced. “Well, I’ll take your word for it.”

They reached the Owlery, and a handsome eagle owl flew down to greet them at once. “Hello, Homer,” said James happily. “Having a nice nap? Fancy some flying? Bit of sightseeing in the states?”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” asked Lily, pulling the letter from her pocket.

“Of course not. Like I said, the poor bird gets bored.”

“Okay. Thanks again. I’m just going to take a moment to finish up my letter. No need to wait on me.”

“Right,” said James. “See you around, Evans.”

And he was gone.

Lily took a deep breath and read through her letter to Mary once, then twice. Finally, before she could change her mind, she pulled out a quill and scribbled a confession at the bottom: P.P.S: I think I fancy James Potter again. Help???

Then she stuffed the letter into an envelope, fastened it to the obliging Homer’s talon, and watched as the owl took off into the snowy sky.

Oh, god.

A long exhale. She turned back from the window — and found herself face to face with James Potter once more.

“God,” she gasped.

“Sorry,” he said at once. “Didn’t meant to startle you. I just — there was one more thing I wanted to say.”

Lily stared at him. He stood before her, pink-cheeked and a bit out of breath, as though he’d changed his mind halfway down the stairs and jogged back up. Outside the Owlery, the wind had picked up again, and it blew swirls of snow through the open windows of the stone tower.

It had been a whimsical impulse, jotting that little P.P.S. at the end of her letter and sending it off into the ether. The truth was that Mary felt so far from her, America barely a real place, her life unimaginable, that in the moment admitting her crush seemed like almost nothing. A whisper to no one. But writing down her confession had made it real, and she was forced to face the unvarnished truth: She fancied James Potter. She likely had for a while now. Perhaps she’d never even stopped. She had to face the facts…she just hadn’t expected to face him so soon. “Er…” she said, a model of eloquence as always. “Okay?”

James shuffled his feet, suddenly awkward. Or perhaps he was just cold in the blustering wind, and she was the awkward one. “Look, I — my friends and I can be gits sometimes. You know that, obviously, but — I really wasn’t trying to put you in an uncomfortable situation today.”

“No,” said Lily. “I know.”

“The thing is…”

He went to run his hand through his hair, only to be impeded by the hat he’d apparently forgotten he was wearing. He lowered the hand with an air of mild self-consciousness that she suddenly found completely adorable. She bit her lip. She could kiss him. Just a few steps and she’d be close enough. She could…she could…make a compelling argument…

“The thing is…I’d really like if we could be friends, you and I.”

Friends.

He wanted to be…friends.

“Friends?” Lily repeated, nearly a whisper, softer than the bellow of wind.

“Is that so hard to imagine?” said James. “I mean, we have a lot in common.”

“Like what?”

“Well, we both think I’m an idiot, so that’s a good start.”

She nearly laughed. She did laugh. He was always making her laugh exactly when she didn’t want to laugh…

James took a step forward, his expression earnest. “Let’s say we just met today. Last year never happened. I never asked you out. You never called me an arrogant toerag. I never —”

“Pushed me in the lake?”

That stopped him. “I didn’t push you, you slipped. And I thought I wasn’t allowed to bring that up ever again?”

“You’re not. Never…invented embarrassing poems and said I wrote them about you?”

“Okay, that wasn’t me.”

“Never stole my diary and spread its contents around school?”

“Again, technically — not me.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “No, just your best friend.”

“And I’m sure he’s really sorry about all that.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said with a faintly derisive snort. She hated the way she sounded all of the sudden — harsh and…and unforgiving — but it was easier to slip back behind the icy wall that had kept her safe for all these years.

James, however, immediately melted her defenses. Bastard. He looked as though he was regretting diving into this conversation at all. “So…is that a no on the friend thing?”

Lily lowered her eyes to the floor of the Owlery, dusted with snow and owl droppings. He wanted to be friends. She had no right to be disappointed. No right at all. And who was she to turn away a friend? She wanted friends. She needed friends.

She looked back up at him. “No,” she said at last. “That’s not a no. I’d like to be friends. I’d like that very much.”

James shoved his hands in his pockets. “Cool,” he said.

“Cool,” said Lily.

Chapter Text

SIRIUS

Something Eternal

“So let me get this straight,” Remus shouted over a hurl of wind that bellowed out his cloak and sent the fringe of his scarf skyward. “First Prongs drags me to Hogsmeade in a blizzard, now you want me to hike a fucking mountain?”

Behind the shield of the scarf wound tightly across his lower face, Sirius smirked at Remus’s indignant fury. It always made him laugh when Remus swore. Moony had the foulest mouth of all of them, but he didn’t look the part. It was like watching a puppy curse. “We’re almost there, stop your whinging.”

Remus’s grumbled reply was lost in another harsh gale of wind, and Sirius shivered as he pressed on, one careful foot after the other on the sloping path that wound its way up the side of the mountain at the edge of Hogsmeade. Snow was piling in mounting drifts that, distantly, Sirius recognized might make this excursion somewhat dangerous, but never mind that — they were nearly there.

He paused, squinting through the glitter of snow to find his way. He’d only ever done this as a dog before, and it was somewhat more difficult on two feet. He was just debating how annoyed Remus would be if he transformed into Padfoot, when he spotted it, carved into the side of the mountain like a great gash of a wound: the crevice that led to the cave they’d found a few full moons ago.

“Duck in here a minute,” Sirius hollered, though Remus was standing right beside him. They slipped through the rock, gloved fingers snagging on rough stone, and stepped deeper into the hollow cavern, grateful for the relief from the wind. Inside the cave, the world felt quieter, more remote. Snowmelt dripped off enormous icicles that clung to stalactites near the front. Sirius set to work at once, kneeling down upon the cold rock and conjuring a fire.

“We’ve been here before, haven’t we?” said Remus, shivering as he took in the scene.

“That’s right.” Sirius glanced up at his friend; he wondered what he was remembering of that past moon. He wondered what those memories were like. Remus was always so cagy on the subject, and he didn’t really understand why. But understanding Remus Lupin was an art Sirius supposed he may never master, so he didn’t pry. Instead, the two boys sat huddled by the flames, rubbing their numbed fingers together, begging their bones to thaw.

“Okay,” said Remus after the blaze had warmed the cave to a tolerable degree. He rubbed his palms together and pressed them to his pink cheeks. “Are you going to tell me why you just tried to murder me via mountaineering?”

Sirius snorted. “And here I was thinking a nice, bracing walk with my delightful company was exactly your cup of tea.”

“Padfoot.”

“I told you this morning. I wanted to use the weekend to work on the map — and Prongs’s little romantic diversion delivered us right where I was heading: to the edge of Hogsmeade.”

“Again I ask why?”

“It’s the last spot.”

“What?”

“The last coordinate, Moony. Right here, on this mountain.”

It had taken Sirius the better part of the month, but over the past few weeks, he had traveled to the farthest stretches of the grounds and cast the Homonculus Charm at each location he and Remus had mapped out, just like they’d planned. Now there was only one thing left to do.

“Once we cast the Homonculus Charm here, we can use spell bonding to link all the other coordinates together — and, in theory, back to the map.”

“You’ve done all of them?” asked Remus in disbelief. “When? I only did one or two.”

Sirius shrugged. “Mostly at night. Slipped out after curfew.”

“By yourself?”

“Prongs came along most nights.”

Remus was quiet for a moment. Sirius watched him closely from across the flames, trying to work out what exactly that silence meant. “I didn’t think you’d want to come,” he said carefully. “Since it was so late, and you were sleeping.”

“I would’ve come,” muttered Remus.

“Well, good. That’s why I dragged you up a ‘fucking mountain.’ I saved this spot for last. It’s the highest vantage point on the grounds, right at the edge of where Hogsmeade meets Hogwarts. The perfect place to cast the spell bonding charm.”

“That so? I just assumed it was because you’re a psychopath.”

Sirius grinned as he withdrew his wand from the pocket of his cloak. “Cheer up, Moony. We’re about to create something eternal.”

Sirius had cast the Homonculus Charm many times now, so he was reasonably certain that this most recent attempt had been successful. Spell bonding, however, was a new technique, and not one with which he’d had much practice. He didn’t know what he had expected when at last he’d cast the final charm — some sort of intricately spun spiderwebbing network lighting up over the landscape below? — but the actual impact was profoundly anticlimactic. Nothing but the howl of wind and sweeping drifts of snow.

“I guess we’ll find out if it worked when we get back to the dorm and have a go at the map,” said Remus.

Sirius agreed, and the two began their perilous descent. It was slow-going and tough work as the snow had piled up even more dramatically during their brief interlude in the cave. By the time they reached the base of the mountain, both boys were numb and thoroughly sore. Sirius suggested they take the hidden tunnel by the stables that he and James had discovered a few weeks ago, rather than face the wind the whole way back. It took a little longer than the normal walk to the castle, sure, but it was significantly warmer. Besides, Remus had missed that particular outing, and Sirius got the impression he was feeling a little left out.

Remus was suitably impressed as they dropped down the ladder into the tunnel and watched the torches light up down the dark corridor beyond. “Why didn’t we take this on the way here?” he demanded.

“Hadn’t thought of it,” admitted Sirius.

“What,” grumbled Remus, “is the point of learning the deepest secrets of the castle if we don’t use them for my personal comfort?”

Sirius snickered, and they pressed on.

By the time they crept out from behind the mirror on the fourth floor, dusk had cloaked the castle in shades of deep winter blue. A pale moonlight glistened through the windowpanes, frozen with traceries of ice.

“I suppose James and Lily will be back by now,” mused Remus as they climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower.

“With any luck, they’ll be snogging in the common room, and I can finally get a good night’s sleep.”

“Somehow I doubt that will be the outcome.”

“Your tone, Moony. It suggests concern.”

“I’m just not sure disappearing like that was the best move.”

“It was your idea!”

“I was joking,” said Remus. “All I said ‘It would serve him right if…’ and then you were ordering the drinks and dragging me out the door.”

“Oh, please.”

“I just think he’s going to be angry.”

“Prongs doesn’t get angry. And what’s he got to be angry over, anyway? We just gave him a date with his dream girl. He’s fine.”

James was not, in fact, fine.

They found him in the common room, seated in one of the overstuffed armchairs closest to the portrait hole, clearly waiting for their return. He stood up as they approached.

“I’m really angry with you,” James announced, and he sounded as though the words were rather difficult for him, like fumbling over a foreign language he’d studied but never had cause to actually use. Remus shot Sirius an annoying ‘I told you so’ look.

“What for?” said Sirius, ignoring Remus. James had only been truly angry with Sirius once — last year, after the incident — and surely this little transgression did not compare.

“Are you kidding?” said James. “That little trick you pulled in the Three Broomsticks today? It wasn’t funny.”

“Did it work?”

“Padfoot!” James’s tone was exasperated and slightly troubled. “Can’t you tell I’m upset?”

Sirius frowned. “Really?”

“Yes, really!”

“Oh.” Sirius hadn’t actually expected that. “Look, I’m sorry, mate. I thought it would help.”

“No, you didn’t. You thought it would be funny.”

“Well…it was a little funny.”

“No, it wasn’t! It was exactly what I said I didn’t want to have happen. I’m just trying to be her friend, okay, and you made it seem like — you made her think that I —”

“Was Lily upset?” interjected Remus, a fresh wave of concern spilling across his face. For some reason, this annoyed Sirius.

“What d’you think, Moony?” said James. “She’d rather go out with the giant squid than me, remember?”

“Oh come off it,” said Sirius, who was beyond tired of hearing Evans’ tirade reiterated over and over and over. “It went that poorly?”

There was a long pause. “No,” admitted James at last, and after another moment, he grudgingly added: “We had a lovely time.”

“I see. And you’re upset because…?”

“Because you embarrassed me. On purpose. In front of her.”

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. I just—”

“You know what?” James spoke over him. “Your IOU is null and void.”

“All right,” said Sirius.

“And — and I’m not doing your Defense homework. Either of you.”

“That’s fair,” agreed Remus.

Another pause.

“So…we’re good?” said Sirius.

James considered. He shook his head. “No. That’s not good enough.”

“What d’you want, Prongs?”

“An IOU. Redeemable at the time and place of my choosing. No restrictions.”

“Fine,” said Sirius. “I owe you.”

“Good.” James pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a stern, determined expression on his face. “I’m cashing in.”

“What?”

James pulled a crumpled bit of parchment from his pocket. He pressed it into Sirius’s hands, and Sirius looked down with increasing consternation to see that it was his invitation to —

“Slughorn’s Christmas party. You’re going.”

“What? No, I’m bloody well not!”

“No restrictions, mate. Redeemable at the time and place of my choosing, remember?”

“Prongs —”

“You’re going, get over it.”

“Do I at least get to ask why?”

“Because it’s the perfect cover.”

“For…?”

“The heist.”

“He’s out of his mind,” said Sirius, pacing the dormitory as Remus sat on his bed, peeling through the pages of a thick tome on Homonculus Charms. James had gone off to take a bath, promising them he’d fill them in on the details of his master plan as soon as Peter returned from wherever the hell he was off to. “I can’t tell if he was actually upset, or if I just got played.”

“Both, I think,” said Remus distractedly, frowning as he a ran a finger over the text. “No, that’s not it,” he mumbled. Then he looked up at Sirius. “You know, you could’ve told him it was my idea.”

“You were joking, remember?”

“Even so.”

“Nah, I still think it was a good idea. And when those idiots figure it out, I want all the credit. But in the meantime, he’s out of his bloody mind.”

“I thought you were game for the heist.”

“I was, but I’m not an idiot. Pete hasn’t found another entrance yet. If James thinks we’re waltzing in through the front door…”

He stopped his pacing in front of the map on the wall and stared at the dungeons sketched out near the bottom. The truth was, Sirius had thought James had moved on from this little heist plot. Sure, he didn’t like the idea of Snape getting his greasy paws on Felix Felicis more than anyone else, but Sirius also thought the threat was a bit overblown. It had been months, after all, and nothing horrible had happened. And what could the bastard do with a bit of good luck, anyway? Was it really worth throwing Peter into the snake pit unprepared? Sirius knew first hand what happened to someone who got caught unawares in the dungeons. It wasn’t pretty.

“It’s risky, that’s all,” said Sirius.

“The risk is what makes it fun, Padfoot,” said James, sauntering through the door as he toweled off his hair. “When did you get boring?”

Sirius did not deign to give this a response. “Did you find it yet, Moony?”

“Patience is a virtue,” said Remus.

“Not one of mine.”

“What are you two up to?” asked James. “And where the hell is Peter?”

As if summoned by this exclamation, Peter strolled into the dormitory. “You called?”

“Aha!” said Remus from across the dorm. “Found it.” He passed the book to Sirius. “That’s the spell to link the Homonculus Charms all to one place. Since you’ve already done the spell bonding, you should only have to do it once.”

“Hang on,” said James. “You already did the spell bonding?”

“Yeah, while you were off having a ‘lovely time’ with Evans, Moony and I trekked to the last coordinate. The map’s ready to go.”

“But this is brilliant!” cried James, practically bouncing with anticipation. “The timing couldn’t be better—!”

“If it works,” said Remus. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“It’ll work,” said Sirius. He held the book out to Remus. “Want to do the honors?”

“You probably should do it,” said Remus, suddenly bashful. “I might mess it up.”

“Oh, rubbish. Go on.”

So Remus took the book and approached the wall. He glanced over his shoulder at James, Peter, and Sirius, then pointed his wand steadily at the map and muttered: “Homonculus colligo.”

Nothing happened.

“I told you I’d mess it up,” muttered Remus.

“Wait!” said Peter. “Look!”

They all looked: Little dots were appearing all over the map on every floor, like an army of ants laying siege to the castle. Sirius leaned closer and saw that each dot was labeled with a different name, all roaming around the inked lines of corridors: Morris Finchley, April Wallace, Lewis Karkosky…

Excitedly, he located Gryffindor Tower and their dormitory at the top — and there they were: James Potter, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, Sirius Black…

“Holy hell,” he breathed, turning back to look at his friends. “It worked.”

“It’s fate,” concluded James. “We were meant to finish the map, and we’re meant to pull off this heist.”

Sirius thought this was rather presumptuous. They’d finished the map because he’d climbed halfway up a bloody mountain to do so, but he was technically still vying for forgiveness for the Hogsmeade trip, so he bit back the tart statement on his tongue.

James had just unveiled the details of his plot, and they were all staring at him as though he were absolutely mad. Which, as a matter of fact, he was.

“I still don’t see why I have to be at the party,” said Sirius.

“We’ve been over this. It’s the perfect cover. Slughorn holds the party in the dungeons, so we’ll be nearby, and half of Slytherin House will be at the party anyway, emptying out the dorms. Snape himself will be there, so we can keep an eye on him.”

“Yes, but why do I have to go to the party? Can’t I do the robbery? You and Wormtail can slum it with the Slug Club.”

“You’re the one with the invitation, mate.”

“And you’re what, my date? Can’t you seduce a Slug Club socialite and leave me out of it?”

James appeared to consider it. “Well, I could, but I wouldn’t feel good about it.”

“Your bloody moral compass is going to ruin my life, you know that?”

“Cheer up, mate. You’re going to the party, and you’re going to have fun. Besides, you and I need an alibi. No one will suspect Peter or Remus of robbing Snape, but you and I are prime suspects.”

“I’d rather have a month of detentions than go to this stupid party.”

James ignored this. “Besides, the alibi will be spectacular. And if all goes well, you will never be invited to another Slug Club party again.”

“…I’m listening.”

James grinned. “See, in preparation for the heist, I thought we ought to revive a time-honored Marauder tradition that we’ve neglected in recent years. You know, to really get people in the holiday spirit. And to create a few convenient distractions.”

“Holiday spirit…” murmured Remus. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

James’s grin widened to something teetering on the edge of maniacal. “I am indeed, Moony. I am indeed. It’s time. The Twelve Days of Christmas Pranking.”

Chapter Text

LILY

Apologies, Apologies

Monday morning found Lily alone at the breakfast table rather earlier than usual, as she had forced herself out of bed at an ungodly hour to labor over a grueling Transfiguration essay she’d neglected in the weekend’s excitement. Splitting her attention between fretful bites of toast and her brick-like textbook, Lily scratched her quill across the parchment, fumbling over equations that just barely made sense to her. She wasn’t bad at Transfiguration by any means, but she certainly was no star pupil in the subject.

Though the weekend’s blizzard had calmed, snow still tumbled steadily from the rafters of the enchanted ceiling above. She was agonizing over a really miserable passage on conjuring spells when suddenly a slim shadow overtook her book and a hesitant voice announced: “I think I owe you an apology.”

Lily looked up: Florence Fawley was standing on the other side of the table, her graceful fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of her robes, an anxious look wrought upon her pale, pretty face. “May I sit down?”

Lily agreed that she could, and Florence settled herself gratefully on the bench, taking rather more care to smooth her robes than was strictly-speaking necessary; she appeared to be avoiding the apology she came to deliver. Lily grew impatient. “Apology for what, Florence?”

Florence bit her lip. “For what happened at the Three Broomsticks this weekend. With Anson?”

Lily blinked. Sure, it had not been a fun situation, running into her ex-boyfriend minutes after being humiliated by Sirius Black and left alone in the exceedingly awkward company of her past and current crush (Was she doing that? Was she really calling James Potter her crush?), but she didn’t see what fault it was of Florence’s.

Luckily, Florence offered a prompt explanation: “I shouldn’t have pushed him on you like that, seating you next to each other…I didn’t know Phin and Anson were coming, honestly I didn’t, but I got so excited when I saw them, and I just — you and Anson were always so — well, I wasn’t being thoughtful of your feelings. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d get so upset.”

“I didn’t get upset.”

“You ran out of there like your house was on fire.”

At the time, Lily had thought she’d played the whole thing rather cool, particularly given the circumstances of what she’d been asked to endure, but evidently, she’d been wrong.

“I don’t blame you,” Florence added quickly. “Like I said, I wasn’t being thoughtful. I caught up with James yesterday, and he said you were all right, you weren’t upset, but I just thought I ought to apologize all the same.”

Lily felt her cheeks flush. The thought of Florence and James having an intimate little chat about whether Lily had or had not been upset by the surprise appearance of her ex-boyfriend was a thought that teetered on the edge of intolerable. Her defenses rose at once. Out came the fake little laugh, the cheery bravado that insisted: “Honestly, Flor, you’ve been worrying over nothing. I’m fine. I had a lot on my mind on Saturday, that’s all.”

Well, that much was true.

“So, things with you and Anson are...?”

“Over,” said Lily firmly. She’d thought about this a lot over the last two nights. It had been so easy to be drawn back into his friendly, attractive presence. When he’d suggested they catch up sometime, she hadn’t even hesitated to agree. She’d even considered what it would be like, to meet up for a cozy cup of tea some weekend, all snug in Madam Puddifoot’s, giggling over shared reminisces, smiling at the burst of warmth as his hand clutched hers…but she’d changed since those happy days they’d spent huddled around the piano at Sluggy’s parties, and it all felt futile: She would disappoint him again, stuck up on her high horse, and he, no doubt, would disappoint her.

Florence too looked disappointed.

“We’re just not right for each other,” said Lily.

“You’re perfect for each other!” countered Florence, evidently in spite of herself. She looked slightly abashed but went on all the same: “The way he looks at you, Lily. I’d give anything for someone to look at me like that. And — don’t get angry — but I saw the way you looked at him too.”

“Well, he’s very nice to look at,” Lily admitted, though grudgingly. “But that’s not enough. We’re incompatible in the ways that matter most.”

Florence looked as though she didn’t agree — or at least didn’t understand — but she seemed to decide that it was not her place to argue on Anson’s behalf. “Well, I just wanted to let you know, so you’re not blindsided again, Phin and Anson will be at Sluggy’s party. He’s invited them both.”

“Oh,” was all Lily could think to say.

“You’ll still come, won’t you?”

She couldn’t very well insist that she wasn’t bothered at all by Anson’s appearance in Hogsmeade then refuse to attend a party due to his presence, so Lily found herself assuring Florence she would indeed still come.

Then Florence asked the dreaded question of whether or not Lily was bringing a date, and Lily was forced to reckon with the issue that had dogged her all week. As it turned out, there were plenty of boys who would like very much to be Lily’s date, and quite a few of those boys had made this abundantly clear to her — but for some insufferable reason, the only boy Lily wanted to ask was the one she absolutely could not.

The one who just wanted to be friends.

“I’m taking a break from dating, I think,” said Lily at last. “It all gets a bit tiresome, don’t you think? What about you? Are you bringing…someone?”

Florence shook her head sadly. “No. I’ve dropped my heaviest hints but someone remains completely oblivious. Or uninterested. Or possibly both.”

Lily knew to whom ‘someone’ referred, and she struggled for a moment with the worst part of herself, the part that wanted to celebrate this gloomy pronouncement of failure from Florence. But Florence was her friend — and for that matter, so was James, although that sentence was taking some getting used to. Just because she couldn’t have James didn’t mean no one else should. She had no right to be so selfish, and all for a silly crush upon which she had no intention of acting. Lily took a deep breath and made a conscious choice to be the better version of herself, to be a better friend.

“Why don’t you just ask him?”

Florence looked confused. “What?”

“Ask James to the party.”

“That…seems a little desperate, doesn’t it?”

Lily rolled her eyes. “It’s 1976, Flor. If you want a boy to take you to a party, just tell him.”

Florence laughed. “I’m not sure I’m as brave as you, but we’ll see. I did ask Aisha to come along, but she said no. I don’t think she liked Phin very much.”

“He can be a touch abrasive.”

“Do you think so? Well, never mind. We’ll still have so much fun. Do you know what you’re wearing?”

“Just my dress robes, I expect.”

“Yes, but which color?”

“I only have the one set,” Lily admitted with another twinge of heat across her cheeks as she thought of the rather tired dress robes hanging in her wardrobe. But dress robes were expensive, after all, and she had so few occasions to wear them as to merit multiples.

“Oh,” said Florence, as though she couldn’t imagine the poverty of only having one set of dress robes. “You must borrow a set of mine!”

“No, that’s okay, Flor, really—”

“Oh, please, you must. Sluggy’s Christmas party is a special occasion, and I have this absolutely stunning set of blue robes that will look just gorgeous on you, trust me. Oh, you must.”

Florence wouldn’t listen to any of Lily’s admittedly feeble protestations — she was rather tired of wearing the same old dress robes every time — and so after insisting that she would have the robes in question sent over to Lily’s dorm, Florence headed off to her own breakfast table, looking significantly more cheery than when she had arrived. No doubt she felt the gift of the robes absolved whatever guilt she’d felt over Anson.

Lily returned to her Transfiguration essay, though now her thoughts were muddled with the party, with Florence, with James. Ever since she’d scribbled that little admission on her letter to Mary — I think I fancy James Potter again — she’d been unable to get him out of her head. It was so stupid, so foolish. She’d done this before, and it had nearly ruined her life…or so it had felt at the time, in all the dramatics of being thirteen. She had no business fancying him again, particularly when it was overwhelmingly evident that he did not — could not — no matter what nonsense Remus had drunkenly uttered — fancy her in return. And yet she couldn’t shake it. Fancying James Potter was like a disease that wouldn’t go away, a virus that kept mutating and coming back to infect her, again and again…it was like herpes. Fancying James Potter was like herpes.

“Good morning, Evans,” said a voice, and Lily glanced up to see Sirius Black and the other Gryffindor boys settle into seats around her. For all her protestations to Florence about being completely fine, Lily was still rather peeved with the boys for their little trick at the Three Broomsticks, so her greeting was perhaps a touch icier than it might otherwise have been.

“Morning,” she grumbled, and as she returned her gaze to her book, she accidentally caught James’s eye. He smiled at her, a perfectly innocent, sweet smile, and Lily felt a burst of fury for the faint flutter in her chest. Ignore it, she admonished herself.

Herpes.

Then, after a brief pause during which she smothered any enterprising butterflies, Lily looked back up. The boys’ grins were suspiciously wide. “What are you so happy about?”

“’Tis the season, Evans,” said Sirius, gesturing at the snow. “I’m feeling merry.”

“Why does that fill me with a sense of dread?”

“Because you’ve got no Christmas spirit,” said James mournfully. “C’mon Evans,” he added, and she could hardly bring herself to look at him. “Cheer up. It’s the Twelve Days of Christmas.”

“What?” said Lily.

“Hm?” said James.

“Did you just say…the twelve days of…oh God.”

The Twelve Days of Christmas Pranking was invented by the Gryffindor boys back in first year and had been repeated on several occasions since — to calamitous effect. The event — for it was indeed an event — had little to do with the actual holiday or the song or anything approximating the correct calendar dates. What it was was twelve days of absolute bedlam as the boys pulled off increasingly absurd holiday-themed pranks.

They’d only managed it in its entirety twice — once second year and once fourth — but the experience had been memorable enough that the words ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ were all it took to spark fear or delight in the hearts of the Hogwarts population, depending on your point of view.

Next to James, Remus was buttering his toast with great focus. Lily glowered at him. “Et tu, Remus?”

“I’m an innocent bystander in all this,” said Remus, reaching for the marmalade.

“I highly doubt that,” said Lily.

“Evans,” said James, and why oh why did her heart catch in her throat ever-so-slightly when he said her name? “Remus is a prefect. It is his solemn duty to ensure that others are following the rules to a tee. He even has his own copy of The Complete Hogwarts Policies and Procedures.”

“That’s true,” said Peter from a few seats down. “He does.”

“What are you planning?” demanded Lily.

James winked. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

“Potter…”

But Sirius held up a hand. “Hang on…”

What happened next was quite mundane: Owls began to flock into the Great Hall to deliver the post, as they did every morning without fail. After a moment, however, Lily noticed that a startling number of the birds clutched scarlet envelopes in their talons. Howlers.

She was not alone in this revelation. Students gasped and pointed as the owls delivered their ominous quarry seemingly at random along the four house tables. One of the envelopes was dropped directly in front of Lily. She glared at the boys.

“I’d open it, if I were you,” said Sirius helpfully.

“I hate you.”

“Three — two — one…”

All across the hall, the Howlers began to sing at volumes that ached against ears: “ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS, THE MARAUDERS GAVE TO ME…”

Lily cast an exasperated look at the boys, all of whom were barely able to conceal their sniggering. Only Remus kept a straight face as he spread a generous swath of marmalade upon his toast.

“TWELVE HOWLERS HOWLING…” sang the Howlers.

“Potter! Black!”

They all turned to see Professor McGonagall storming towards them across the calamitous hall. Sirius grinned, as though he’d been rather looking forward to this part. “Morning, Professor,” he said pleasantly.

Professor McGonagall did not smile. “I gather you boys are responsible for this disturbance?”

“However did you guess?” said Sirius.

“…EIGHT SNOWBALLS FLYING…”

“Er — excuse me, Professor?” interrupted Remus, and his voice was barely audible over the din. McGonagall turned to him, her brow drawn into a tight-knit line. “It’s just—” Remus began politely, almost apologetically, “it’s not technically against the rules for students to send Howlers during normal post hours. I did check.”

“…SEVEN SNAPES A-SNAPING…”

“And you can’t punish us for something that’s not against the rules,” said James. “The entire system would fall apart.”

McGonagall glared at him, though for the merest sliver of a moment Lily thought she saw her professor’s lips twitch.

“FIIIIIVE NOBLE STAAAAAAAAAGS.”

McGonagall rubbed her temples. “I’m going to have to revise the entire rulebook because of you four, aren’t I?”

“Well,” said James with every appearance of benevolent concern, “if your rulebook is so riddled with holes that any old ne’er-do-well with a wand could wreak havoc on a technicality, wouldn’t you rather know?”

Sirius gave a solemn nod of agreement. “We’re providing a valuable service, Professor.”

“…THREE BOUGHS OF HOLLY…”

“Please make it stop,” moaned Lily, dropping her head into her arms. She was hardly the only one with her hands over her ears as the Howlers continued their onslaught of caroling violence against the students’ breakfast.

“…TWO CHRISTMAS CRACKERS…”

“I’m going to schedule you four a preemptive detention next weekend all the same,” said McGonagall blandly. “I feel certain you will earn it.” And then she turned on the heel of her boot and strode away with an officious sweep.

“I do so enjoy our little talks,” said James cheerfully.

“…AND CARTER-MYLES RETIRING EARLY.”

She had to hand it to them: It was an impressive display. The Howlers were the big show of day one, but day two found the castle plagued with enchanted snowballs that seemed to appear from nowhere to pelt students and teachers alike as they hurried through the corridors between classes. The snowballs seemed possessed of a particular vengeance for Professor Carter-Myles, to the point that by the end of the day, he was allegedly refusing to leave his office — which was all very well until great drifts of snow inexplicably began to sweep in from the ceiling.

Wednesday morning (day three) found the castle bedecked with endless boughs of mistletoe, dangling over every door, colonizing every nook and cranny the castle could offer up. The school’s more amorous population seemed to take this as a call to arms, and couples were found locked in passionate snogs in every corridor. No matter how many times Filch pulled down the offending greenery, the mistletoe reappeared, sometimes twice as much. Indeed, by the end of the day, a little bundle of mistletoe had been charmed to hover over a fuming Filch’s head.

Day four, on the other hand, started out ominously quiet. Remnants of yesterday’s mistletoe lingered on, scattered here and there throughout the corridors as Lily made her way towards the Great Hall for breakfast. Lily had to admit she’d be happy to see the rest of the mistletoe swept up and discarded. Yesterday had been a constant reminder of her own singleness, a state of affairs with which she told herself she was perfectly fine. And she was, for the most part. She’d told Florence she was taking a break from dating, and she’d meant it. But still, having every happy couple in Hogwarts thrust in her face in the name of Christmas spirit had done little but dampen her own. And even worse, it forced her to confront the increasingly pressing issue of whom she would bring as a date to Slughorn’s party.

In the short stretch of time it took Lily to cross from the marble staircase (a bedraggled swag of mistletoe still clinging stubbornly to the bannister) to the doors of the Great Hall, the answer appeared to her so suddenly that she felt stupid for not seeing it immediately. Enlivened by this burst of wisdom, Lily pushed the doors to the Great Hall open…and immediately felt her jaw drop.

“Oh, my God…”

It looked as though a Christmas tree had thrown up. The entirety of the Great Hall — every table, every bench, every plate, knife, and fork — had been encased in Christmas wrapping paper. She couldn’t help but be impressed by the attention to detail: Ravenclaw in a glossy midnight blue, Hufflepuff festooned with glittering yellow stars, Gryffindor in festive red, and Slytherin wrapped in deep green and sprinkled with what appeared to be little bits of coal.

The entire hall rustled as students unwrapped their cutlery and shifted on their paper-encased benches. One Ravenclaw student had had the bright idea to vanish the wrapping paper altogether, only to find that the pranksters had apparently planned for this. No sooner had the spell been cast than had the offending actor found himself wrapped tightly in a binding of shimmery, crinkling paper with a bow topped on his head.

Marlene was seated at the end of Gryffindor table, far from this commotion, evidently unconcerned by the unusual activity around her as she flipped through Quintessence: A Quest, their latest assigned reading for Charms. The wrapping paper slipped beneath her as she settled onto the bench.

“I have a present for you,” Lily announced, and Marlene looked up from her book, a frown furrowing her brow.

 “It’s not Christmas yet.” A pause. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s okay.” Lily plunged a hand into the depths of her bag and groped around for the invitation that, for reasons more to do with neglect than care, she still carried with her. She handed the rather crumpled scroll to Marlene. “Merry Christmas.”

Marlene eyed it suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

So Marlene unfurled the scroll. Her eyes narrowed as she read the text, then widened dramatically as she processed the meaning. She looked up at Lily, who grinned.

“Slughorn’s Christmas party,” said Marlene.

“You’re my date,” said Lily.

“Do you mean it? You’re not…teasing?”

“No, of course I’m not teasing. It’ll be fun.” And to her surprise, Lily found that she really meant it. “I can’t wait to see you bully a politician.”

In an entirely unexpected display of emotion that was admittedly somewhat undercut by the rustle and rip of wrapping paper, Marlene threw her arms around Lily’s neck. “This is the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten in my entire life, and that includes the year I was nine and my dad gave me the Complete Lexicon of Gobbledegook.”

“Okay.” Lily patted her friend vaguely on the back.

“It had an index of neologisms and everything!” sobbed Marlene.

“Cool,” said Lily.

On Friday (day five), things grew even more chaotic as the boys had somehow managed to release an enormous stag into the castle, upon which they’d affixed a glowing red nose. No one could work out where it was coming from or where it was going, for it seemed to only appear between classes, dashing through the corridors with a mad, frenetic energy, sending students squealing out of the way. No one ever managed to catch it, and as soon as the bell rang, it disappeared entirely. Lily overheard Cecil Stebbins insisting to a group of fifth years that it was all an illusion, but Davey Gudgeon told him rather sourly that it most certainly was not, as it had knocked him into a suit of armor, and he had the bruises to prove it.

The weekend was a touch calmer: Saturday morning found the breakfast table serving, in addition to its usual fare, a hearty portion of gumdrops and humbugs and peppermint toads. On Sunday, Professor Carter-Myles’ office was inexplicably filled with a froth of marshmallow goo. No one knew precisely how this prank related to Christmas, per se, but neither did anyone complain. (Except for Professor Carter-Myles, of course. He complained quite loudly.)

By Monday (day eight), the novelty had worn off entirely, and Lily felt that any student who was stupid enough to pick up one of the many Christmas crackers strewn across the tables in the Great Hall deserved whatever he got. (And what he got, generally speaking, was a face full of glitter as the Christmas cracker exploded in a symphony of rude farting noises.)

“Are you really going to do all twelve this year?” Lily demanded of Remus one evening as they finished up their Tuesday night prefect rounds. Today’s prank had been to charm the castle’s suits of armor into singing naughty carols, and though it was evening and the spell had long begun to wear off, a few noble helmets still gurgled drunkenly as they passed by.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Remus serenely.

“Oh, come off it, Remus. You put the word ‘Marauders’ in your opening song. Everyone knows it’s you.”

“Tragically, we have many enemies who would love to slander our good name.”

Lily snorted. “Well, I admire your commitment to the bit, anyway. But then, if there’s one thing you lot have always been good at, it’s pulling a prank.”

This came out rather harsher than she’d meant it, but the truth was, she had not quite forgiven Remus for his part in that little Hogsmeade trick, no matter how pleasantly the day had ultimately turned out. The intentions, she felt certain, had not been pleasant. Sirius Black’s part in the matter she could understand. He was an arse, certifiably. But Remus? She’d expected better of him.

Remus seemed to follow this train of thought quite clearly. Perhaps it had been bothering him too. “Listen,” he said, “I know I — well, I think I need to apologize to you.”

Lily was struck with a distinct sense of déjà vu. “For what?” she said as lightly she could manage.

“You know. The Three Broomsticks? James said you were upset.”

A very distinct sense of déjà vu.

“Oh, for the love of — if everyone could please get their story straight on whether I am or am not upset, that would be great. I’m not upset.”

“Yeah,” said Remus dryly. “That was very convincing.”

She glowered at him. “I don’t see what you’re apologizing to me for, anyway. Potter is the one you ditched. You were under no obligation to spend time with me.”

“Yeah, but…I know leaving you alone with James like that was…an awkward situation.”

“Not really,” said Lily cooly. “Why would it be?” She wasn’t making it easy on him, but the usual sympathy she had for those woeful eyes had been tempered by the sting of betrayal. Let him explain it to her. Let him tell her why she was the joke. So what if it made him uncomfortable? It should.

Remus scuffed his feet on the stone floor, eyes on the ground. “Oh, come on,” he muttered. “You know why. You’re really going to make me say it again?”

“Apparently.”

Remus sighed, a long, resigned sort of sigh, then said as though reciting something very obvious: “Because James fancies you, everyone knows he fancies you, and you don’t fancy him, so leaving you both in a date-like situation against your will was a shit thing to do. I’m sorry.”

Lily stopped walking. “What?”

Remus looked up at her, confused by the sharpness of her reply. “What d’you mean, what?”

“He doesn’t fancy me.”

“He — what? No, hang on — why are you doing the surprised thing again?” An edge of panic had crept into his voice. “You’re not surprised. You already know this. We’ve talked about this before.”

“We’ve never talked about this. You made one cryptic comment at a party and then took off!”

“What part of ‘he fancies you’ is cryptic?” Remus looked absolutely bewildered, and more than a little distressed. Evidently, he had been laboring under the belief that their little conversation at the Quidditch party had cleared everything up for her. It was almost comical how very, very wrong he was.

Lily shook her head. “Potter doesn’t — we’re just friends. He only wants to be friends. He told me that.”

“Yes, exactly!” said Remus, grasping at this statement like a sailor to the mast on a turbulent sea. “He wants to be friends, so he’s trying really hard to be respectful of that. And a stupid prank by Sirius — and me — shouldn’t…shouldn’t get in the way of that.”

Remus continued to babble, but Lily had stopped listening. She was still trying to process ‘he fancies you.’ Saying it once in a slightly tipsy stupor could have been a mistake, but this — this was deliberate. Remus, at least, truly believed that James fancied her — that he still fancied her — and that the only reason he wanted to ‘be friends’ was because he believed that Lily did not fancy him in return. He’s trying really hard to be respectful of that.

“Lily?”

She pulled her attention back to Remus. He had apparently just said something and was looking at her with the miserable expression of one who had dug himself a rather deep hole and now couldn’t manage to climb out.

“Hm?” said Lily.

“Did I just majorly fuck up right now? Mentioning…all that?”

Lily blinked, then shook her head as though to clear it. “No,” she said after a moment. “No, it’s fine.”

“Can…we just forget that I said any of that?”

“No.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“Look, Remus,” Lily began, and after a moment of internal struggle, she put the James issue back on the shelf. The truth was, that was only half of her heartache about that weekend, and since apparently they were being honest, she decided to tell Remus as much. “At the Three Broomsticks…I was upset, but it wasn’t just because — I mean, it was because…well, I just want friends right now.”

“I know,” said Remus quickly. “That’s why James—”

“No.” Lily cut him off. “I’m not talking about James. I’m talking about you. All I wanted that weekend was to hang out with some friends in Hogsmeade, and that’s why it was shit that you ditched me. Not because of James, but because of you. Because I just wanted to hang out with a friend. You.”

Remus stared at her, apparently at a loss for words.

“We only ever talk on prefect duties,” continued Lily. “And I know you’re busy with your friends and all your pranks and everything, but sometimes, I could use a friend too, you know.”

“I’m…I’m really sorry,” said Remus, and he looked it. “It didn’t occur to me that you would…I didn’t realize.”

Lily hugged her arms to her chest as she considered this. There were people who thought themselves the center of every drama, the most important part of every story. Remus was not one of those people. He seemed to assign himself the role of onlooker, a side character to the main actors of every play, so that the very thought that he himself might matter to someone else — that he might be the cause of pain or joy or any emotion at all — was an entirely foreign and uncomfortable concept. It hadn’t occurred to him that Lily might want to spend time with him in Hogsmeade. It was pitiable, sure, but it was also really annoying.

She sighed. “I’ll forgive you if you tell me what tomorrow’s prank is going to be.”

On Remus’s advice, Lily avoided the second floor corridor the next day and thus missed the impromptu winter storm that encased much of the floor (in particular, Professor Carter-Myles’s office) in thick walls of ice. Apparently, it had required considerable amounts of magic to defrost, causing Carter-Myles to spend most of the morning trapped in his study.

She barely even registered the caroling dwarves that haunted the halls all day on Thursday (day eleven), and though normally she would’ve spent a good deal of time wondering how the boys had managed to sneak in a small army of dwarves, let alone how they’d convinced the surly creatures to sing Christmas carols, Lily couldn’t find any focus to spare. Instead, she spent the next few days  endlessly relitigating the impossible case of James Potter. The argument went something like this:

James fancied her!

No, he didn’t.

But Remus said he did! Twice!

Remus didn’t know what he was talking about. James said he wanted to be friends.

Because he believed that she didn’t fancy him back! He was trying to be respectful of that!

Herpes!!!

“Evans? You in there?”

Lily pulled herself quickly to attention. She’d been going through another round of this same debate at a most inconvenient time: in the middle of their Potions class. James was watching her expectantly from his seat at their shared worktable, a rather bemused expression on his face. His stupid, stupid face.

“Sorry,” said Lily automatically, giving her head a little shake as she returned to reality. “What?”

“I asked if you wanted to try Pepperup Potion.”

As it was their last class before the holidays, Slughorn had decided to let them work in pairs and choose ‘something festive’ to brew. Before she’d slipped away to argue endlessly in her own mental courtroom, they’d been trying to locate a suitably festive potion in their textbooks.

Lily arched an eyebrow. “Because nothing says holidays like a head cold?”

“Well, you know,” said James with a good-natured shrug, “pepper…mint?”

“Good enough,” snorted Lily, and so they began. It was a fairly easy potion, all things considered, and they worked steadily on, James prattling comfortably all the while.

“So,” said Lily about halfway through the class as their potion simmered a bright cherry red,  “tomorrow is day twelve.”

“Is it?”

“It is,” said Lily. “It’s also Slughorn’s Christmas party.”

“What an interesting coincidence.”

“What are you planning?”

James clucked his tongue. “Evans, I’m disappointed. You really think I would prank the biggest event of the Hogwarts social calendar?”

“Yes,” said Lily without hesitation. “What are you planning?”

“Should I give the potion a clockwise stir, or counter-clockwise?”

“Counter-clockwise, and don’t evade my question.”

James ignored the second part of this command and leaned over their steaming cauldron to give it a good counter-clockwise stir. His glasses fogged up at once, and he sighed, resigned to this age-old struggle. “It occurs to me,” he said with a stoic grimace from behind the fogged lenses, “that this could be why I’m rubbish at Potions.”

Lily bit back a laugh as he tugged off the glasses and rubbed them dry on his robes. For a moment, she was glad for his poor eyesight, glad that he couldn’t see the pink flush that surely stained her cheeks. She hurriedly pulled herself together, and when he returned the lenses to his face, she regarded him with a studied coolness. “You’re not rubbish at Potions though,” she told him. “Not when you actually try.”

“Who says I haven’t tried in the past?”

“Oh, you’ve tried. You’ve tried to blow things up.”

James grinned at her, and she thought she might die. “As I said before, never underestimate the importance of knowing how to blow things up. And you know,” he added, giving his chin a thoughtful scratch, “if you listened really hard, there was a compliment hidden in there.”

Lily rolled her eyes and busied herself with the cauldron, ready to excuse her flushed cheeks on the Pepperup fumes. “Or maybe your hearing’s as bad as your eyesight.”

“Okay, I’ve mapped it all out. If I average six-and-a-half minutes of conversation per person, I should be able to connect with every guest in the first half of the party, then I’ll have time to circle back to all the really interesting ones in the second.”

With all the drama and distraction of the past week, the evening of the party had rather snuck up on Lily, but Marlene, apparently, had plans. She briefed Lily on her strategy as they descended from Gryffindor Tower to the dungeons, where Slughorn’s Christmas party was to be held.

“I heard Slughorn’s good friends with the Head of the International Magical Office of Law. I wonder if he’ll be there?”

“One way to find out.”

“You know,” said Marlene, “my brother got his first internship from a contact he made at one of Slughorn’s Christmas parties. This could be the most important night of our lives.”

Lily felt that this was rather a lot of pressure to put on the groaning shoulders of one little party, but as they crossed the entrance hall and turned down the stone stairs that led to the dungeons, she realized she may have underestimated the littleness of this particular party.

The corridor leading to the largest dungeon where Slughorn had set up shop was lined with fairy lights and tinsel and charmed with a glistening of snow that perpetually fell but never settled. The tinkle of laughter and string music echoed enticingly down the corridor. The entrance to the dungeon was flanked by two enormous firs, flocked with snow and dripping with tinsel. A house elf stood at attention, checking the invitations of each guest that entered. Exclusivity, Lily supposed, was its own sort of decoration.

Inside, the dungeon was unrecognizable. The dreary stone walls had been draped in fabric of soft blue and white, like the gradation of a snowy landscape at dusk. Actual birch trees, their trunks paper white, had been placed around the room, fairy lights tangled in their branches, so that the whole party felt as though it had sprung up out of nowhere in some wintry, enchanted wood. The effect was compounded by the same enchanted snow from the corridor that fell cheerily above a large dance floor where, much to Lily’s surprise, quite a few guests appeared to be involved in some sort of waltz.

“Wow,” said Lily, who couldn’t decide if she had just stepped into a winter wonderland or stepped about a hundred years into the past. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone waltz, let alone a dungeon full of her contemporaries. Absurdly, she found herself thinking of Rotters, the club her Muggle friends had dragged her to in Manchester. She tried to imagine Jenny, Mona, and Rose here, at this grand ball in the dungeon of a castle. Waltzing. Every so often, Lily was forcibly reminded of how foreign the Wizarding world truly was to her — the real her, the Muggle-born girl from Cokeworth. How little she truly belonged here.

Still, it was very pretty.

“Well?” said Marlene.

“Lead on,” said Lily.

They pressed on into the crowds of party guests, all dressed in their finest robes. Shimmer of pearls, rustle of taffeta. Lily was profoundly grateful that Florence had indeed lent her the dress robes, as she would’ve felt distinctly shabby in her own well-worn set. The robes Florence had picked out for her were a deep midnight blue, with intricate silver embroidery along the hems and sleeves, glittering in the candlelight like constellations across a night sky. They were undoubtedly the most expensive thing Lily had ever worn, and she made a note to thank Florence when she saw her.

“Shall we get a drink?” suggested Lily. “Slughorn’s quite lenient about underage drinking, I don’t know how he gets away with it…”

But Marlene did not seem overly interested in free liquor, nor much enchanted with the sparkling lights or towering trays of cakes and sugary sweets. Her eyes were keenly scanning the crowd, undoubtedly seeking out notable faces. “You find the bar,” she told Lily happily. “I’ll find the barristers.” And she promptly headed off to accost some poor, unsuspecting warlock across the room.

Lily did not resent Marlene for leaving her on her own; she had suspected this would happen, and she knew just how much Marlene had been looking forward to her grand tour of Slug Club networking, so she could hardly begrudge her making the most of it. Still, being on one’s own at a party, particularly a party as grand and impressive as this one, was never ideal. After a quick and unsuccessful scan for Florence, She quickly acquired a flute of champagne and took a few fortifying sips before finding a quiet patch of wall from which to observe the dance floor. Perhaps Florence was already out there. Lily could quite imagine her friend doing a graceful waltz. She’d fit in perfectly.

Unfortunately, Lily had forgotten that standing alone with a drink near a dance floor was a universal signal for “Please ask me to dance, I’m so very desperate,” and more than one partygoer had attempted to persuade her to take a turn. She’d turned them all down, not eager to advertise via her stumbling feet just how little she belonged here, but one would-be dance partner, a Hufflepuff boy who introduced himself as Clarence Smith, son of Humboldt Smith (apparently Lily was supposed to know who this was), would not be put off. Indeed, the more she insisted, however politely, that she did not want to dance, the more belligerent he became that dancing was the only thing to do.

She cast a quick look around the party, eager for some exit or excuse to evade the increasingly suffocating presence of Clarence Smith, who effectively had her cornered, when all of a sudden a familiar voice said, “There you are,” and Lily felt a hand slip around her waist. Alarmed, she turned sharply to see none other than Sirius Black smiling down at her with a fond expression, which would’ve been strange enough if he hadn’t next said: “I’ve been looking all over for you. Was beginning to think you’d given me the slip, ha ha.” At her baffled look, he arched an eyebrow and jutted his chin towards Clarence. “Making new friends?”

And then she realized: Sirius Black was coming to her rescue.

“Clarence Smith,” said Clarence, thrusting a hand at the other boy’s face.

Sirius, who still had one arm possessively around Lily’s waist while the other hand clutched a flute of champagne, ignored the proposed handshake entirely. He took a sip from his glass. “Charmed,” he said, by way of dismissal.

But Clarence wasn’t going to be put off quite so easily. He cast a pugnacious look at Sirius, then turned his attention back to Lily. “Is he your boyfriend then?” he demanded in a tone that suggested she had somehow cheated him.

“He’s a boy who’s going to hex you if you keep asking stupid questions,” said Sirius. Clarence appeared to consider this threat, and subsequently consider everything he’d ever heard about Sirius Black; then, with all the eloquence of a mountain troll, he grunted an excuse and strode purposefully away. Sirius watched him go, a disdainful look on his face. “Forgive the improv,” he said, turning back to Lily and withdrawing his arm from her waist, “but you looked like you could use a lifeline.”

“Thanks,” said Lily, and she meant it. “Some of these Slug Club pricks act like they’ve never heard the word ‘no’ before in their lives.”

“Yeah,” said Sirius grimly. “I’m familiar with that particular breed of tosser.” He cast a dark look around the party, haughty and bored. As dismissive as he apparently was of his surroundings, he certainly looked the part: crisp black dress robes, hair that fell in a perfectly elegant swoop across his handsome brow. Lily had no doubt that more than one girl nearby was eying him with hope teetering on desperation.

“I hate to tell you,” said Lily, “but you’ve probably just given life to a brand new rumor. Any bloke spotted within two yards of me is accused of being my latest conquest, you know.”

“Oh, no,” was Sirius’s dry response. “How ever will my virginal reputation withstand the blow?”

Lily couldn’t help it; she let out a most undignified snort of laughter into her champagne flute. Sirius seemed pleased. Gathering herself, Lily eyed him with suspicion. “What are you doing here? I thought you hated the Slug Club.”

“I do,” Sirius sighed. “I really, really do.” Another swig of champagne. “But alas, I am doing my penitence.”

“Your…penitence? For what, exactly?”

“You, as a matter of fact.” Lily did not know what that meant, but before she could inquire, he added: “Incidentally, I’m told I owe you an apology.”

“Christ,” muttered Lily. “Was everyone in this castle visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past and now feels compelled to atone for their sins?”

“Dickens,” said Sirius smoothly. “We read that in Muggle Studies. I get the reference.”

“Good for you,” said Lily, and though her tone was sarcastic, she was actually rather pleased. No one but Mary had ever understood her Muggle references. “And what precisely are you apologizing for?”

“I’d have to check my notes, but I think it was something to do with forcing you to endure the unimaginable agony of one-on-one company with my dear friend James, or something like that. Very careless of me. I suppose fondness for the poor idiot has blinded me to reality, and I forget what an intolerable prospect that must be for the general masses.”

“Oh, do shut up,” said Lily, furious with herself for the sudden burst of heat across her cheeks, a detail Sirius would no doubt have noticed and mocked, had he not been conveniently distracted by something across the party.

“Shit,” he said, eyes narrowed and alert. Then, with sudden urgency, he downed the last of his champagne in one quick swig. “All right, come on. We’re dancing.”

“What?” choked Lily, who had been halfway through a sip of her own drink. “No!”

“Fair’s fair. I save you, you save me.”

“Save you from what?”

He nodded towards one of the refreshment tables, where Professor Slughorn was talking emphatically with some esteemed colleague, no doubt. His gaze flickered unmistakably over towards Sirius.

“You won’t be able to avoid him all night, you know.”

“You underestimate me, Evans.”

“No, I just know how keen he is.”

“No time to argue,” said Sirius, and in one swift movement, he plucked the champagne flute from her hand, deposited it on the tray of a passing elf, and swept her off to the dance floor. The music was upbeat, more of a polka than a waltz, and Lily could hardly keep up with him as they dashed a haphazard path onto the floor.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, half-gasping, half-laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“Dancing,” replied Sirius, giving her a dip.

“Well, stop! I don’t dance.”

“A deeply unconvincing statement on account of how you are, at present, dancing.”

“I am not dancing, I am being forcibly steered against my will around a ballroom in a dungeon by a madman.”

“Or, as other cultures refer to it: Dancing.” Sirius laughed at her apparent discomfort. “You’re doing great, just follow my lead.” With one hand on her waist, the other clutching her own reluctant grip, he steered her in quick, fluid spirals until they were quite lost amid the flurry of other twirling couples, and Professor Slughorn was left disappointed in their wake.

At last the music slowed, and so did the dancing, much to Lily’s relief.

“I don’t believe you,” said Sirius, as they glided across the floor at a far more reasonable speed.

“What?”

“I don’t believe you don’t dance. You’re rather good at this.”

“I’ve never waltzed in my life.”

“Technically, that wasn’t a waltz.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “Oh, sorry, my mistake. You know, ‘accomplished dancer’ was not an accolade I ever expected to apply to you.”

“Come now, Evans. I thought you’d written me off long ago as a pure-blood ponce. I learned to waltz before I learned to skip.”

“Poor you.”

“Precisely. Normally, I come down firmly against ballroom dancing in any civilized situation, but as a means of escaping ‘old Sluggy’, I will admit it remains unparalleled in its effectiveness.”

“I still don’t understand why you bothered to come, if all you’re going to do is hide from Slughorn all night. Wait…” A sudden, obvious thought struck her over the head in a most unpleasant way. “Is this part of a prank? Oh, God, it is, isn’t it? If you’re going to prank the party, you better not doing anything that will ruin my robes because I borrowed these from Florence and I —”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Sirius breezily. “You look lovely, by the way.”

Lily just glowered at him, and he laughed. The truth was she felt a bit like a little girl playing dress up in someone else’s finery, and she was sure Sirius could see right through her, and so, embarrassed, she said nothing.

Now that the music had slowed to a reasonable pace and she was less focused on not tripping, Lily became aware of the sensation of being watched. Indeed, the prickle on her neck directed her gaze to a gaggle of girls along the wall, all of whom were glaring at her and Sirius with open hostility.

“What did I tell you?” said Lily, nodding at the girls. “The rumor mill works fast.”

Sirius followed her gaze, then snorted. “Phryne Flint,” he said. “She’s here husband shopping, I suppose. She’ll recover. I suspect I was scratched from her shortlist long ago.”

“Husband shopping?”

“Well, come on, you and I both know she wasn’t invited for her brains. This whole thing is a marriage mart, after all. You scoff, but I’m right. Sure, Sluggy may make the occasional business connection or line his favorite pupils up with a prestigious internship, but the rest of his lot are focused on one thing: the stud book.”

“The stud book?”

“You know, genealogy, all that garbage. Here, you want the tour?” He led her towards the outer ring of dancers so they could get a better view of the crowd. “Georgiana Greengrass, older sister of our sweet Isolde. She married Zacchaeus Selwyn, about twenty years her senior, if I recall. Ah, yes, there he is, that old bugger over by the buffet. Guess where they met? A Slug Club party, while she was still a student.”

Lily’s gaze fell on the older Greengrass sister; she couldn’t have been more than twenty-four.

“And over there,” said Sirius, pointing at a distant corner where a pinch-nosed woman was laughing rather tinnily. “That’s Bianca Burke, née Bulstrode, of course. Slughorn personally set her up with Burke. He was at their wedding and everything.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I was at their wedding. Horrid affair. Worse than this, even. At least here, there’s a smattering of good company to be found.” He nodded at Lily, and though it was hardly the compliment of the century, she felt oddly flattered. “Now,” said Sirius, “as charming a dance partner as you’ve been, I’m afraid I do have business to attend to. Here, dance with him.”

And before she could even protest, Sirius spun her away towards the edge of the dance floor. Two steady hands caught her, and in a daze of dizziness and confusion, Lily looked up into the amused face of James Potter.

“All right, Evans?” he said, smiling down at her.

Oh, shit.

Chapter Text

SIRIUS

One for the Money

Sirius was still snickering over James’s expression as he slipped out of the party and into the dungeon corridor. It was all a rather funny show: the initial shock and confusion on James’s face when he spotted with whom Sirius was dancing, the slight widening of the eyes as he realized what Sirius was about to do, the terror at the sight of Lily Evans twirling towards him, and the hasty approximation of something akin to suaveness as he caught the dizzy redhead in his arms.

You’re welcome, you bloody idiot, thought Sirius with a snort. He’d probably pay for it later. James would come up with some reason why dancing with the girl of his dreams had all been a horrible calamity. The lad was a masochist when it came to Evans. He could almost hear James’s complaint: Padfoot, if I interact with Lily Evans for longer than thirty seconds without immediately flaying myself for my sins, I will DIE.

Ah well, you could lead a hippogriff to water…

The party had gone rather well so far, all things considered. Sirius had done his bit — that was, making himself as conspicuous as possible while fervently avoiding any engagement with Professor Slughorn. That last part was Sirius’s own addition to James’s instructions.

“We’ve got to make sure people know and remember that we were at the party from the beginning,” James had told him. “So they don’t think we slipped in after the fact.”

Well, fine. But that didn’t mean Sirius had to gab about his great-great-grandfather with ‘old Sluggy’ all night. Dancing with Evans had been a much more enjoyable alternative. It hadn’t exactly been a calculated move — Sirius Black’s moves seldom were — but it certainly did the trick. People had noticed them, and they’d remember.

He’d even been enjoying himself, too. Evans was funny and surprisingly good company — though the bar was admittedly low in a hellhole like that. But then James had showed up and flagged him down from the edge of the dance floor, and the message was clear: You’re up.

Party time was over.

So Sirius passed an unsuspecting Lily off to an unwitting James, surreptitiously made his escape out a side door, and headed towards dungeon seven for phase two. He almost regretted that he wouldn’t get to watch the aftermath of that little spin, but he wasn’t sorry to leave the parade of pure-blood politesse. Fucking wankers, everywhere.

As he headed deeper into the dungeons, Sirius’s fist tightened automatically around his wand. It was an instinctive response; the last time he’d been down here alone…well, he preferred not to think about that.

He reached dungeon seven and pushed through the door, checking rather more thoroughly than he might otherwise have done for any lurking assailants. Of course, there was no one. Why would there be? With an impatient sigh, Sirius pulled a small, compact mirror from his pocket and flipped it open. He’d look a right prat if anyone caught him checking his own reflection, but happily there was no one around.

“Moony,” he said into the mirror. “How’s it looking?”

It took a moment, a slight, stuttering delay, but eventually Remus’s voice came through, albeit rather garbled and faraway, like a badly-tuned radio: “Wormtail’s on his way to you now. Should be about ten more minutes, I’d guess.”

“Cheers.”

The makeshift compact mirrors had been James’s idea. The originals, the nice, sturdy, square ones that he and James used regularly in detention, had been charmed by Sirius years ago. They’d been reading about radio transmitters in Muggle studies at the time, and Sirius had become rather taken with the concept of ‘walkie-talkies.’ In a fit of creative invention, he’d linked the two mirrors together with a complicated spell that he had not been able to replicate since.

“We’ll need two more,” James had told him in that annoyingly matter-of-fact manner of his last week.

“What d’you mean, two more?”

“Well, we’ll all be in different locations during the heist — you in the dungeons, me at the party, Remus in the dormitory watching the map, and Peter…pulling off the whole damn thing. We need to be able to communicate, and we’ve only got two mirrors. So we need two more.”

“I made those years ago,” Sirius had protested, “and they’re magically tied together. I don’t know how to just add two more. They might not sync up. It’s complicated magic, you know.”

James had clapped him on the shoulder. “And you’ve got a week to figure it out, you bloody genius, you.”

The resulting product was a bit of a ding to Sirius’s pride. The little compact mirrors were imperfect and spotty, occasionally going on the fritz, sounding too faraway, too jumbled up to understand. If he’d had longer, they would’ve been better, but…oh, it didn’t bloody matter. They worked, more or less, and they fit inconspicuously in the pocket of a smart set of dress robes. They’d have to do.

He’d given the originals to Remus and Peter. Remus would be watching the map, so he needed to have clear communication at all times, and Peter was the one going into the snake pit, so Sirius didn’t want his only line of communication to fizzle out halfway through. He and James were stuck with the makeshift mirrors, but so far, they’d managed.

“All right?” said a voice, and Sirius nearly leapt out of his skin.

“Fuck,” he said as Peter pulled off the Invisibility Cloak. “Proper invisibility etiquette, Pete: Remove Cloak first, then announce yourself.”

“Sorry,” said Peter. “You’re jumpy.”

If Sirius was jumpy, he thought he had a right to be. He didn’t like being down here. But Sirius Black didn’t get jumpy, and he’d never admit to any lingering dread he felt down in this part of the castle. Never in a hundred years would he admit that.

“Everything go okay upstairs?” he asked by way of changing the subject.

“And bingo was his name-o,” said Peter proudly.

“I don’t think that phrase means — oh, whatever. Ready to make the switch?”

Peter handed him the Invisibility Cloak and Sirius threw it over his own shoulders, a floating head in the dungeon. Before the other boy could transform into his Animagus, however, Sirius said: “You sure you don’t want me to go in under the Cloak instead?”

“You need to be out in the corridor in case I need to get the door open fast, remember? I can’t do it as a rat.”

“Yeah, but…”

Peter scowled. “I can do this, Sirius.”

“Fine.” Sirius wasn’t comfortable with this whole plot. Sending Peter of all people into the Slytherin dormitory…but everyone else seemed fine with it, including Peter himself, so who was Sirius to stop him? He sucked his teeth, trying to think of what to say. “Just don’t fuck it up.”

Then Peter transformed into Wormtail, Sirius pulled the hood of the Cloak over his head, and the invisible boy and the rat headed out of dungeon seven and towards the Slytherin dormitory.

“Dungbombs,” James had announced the other week as he articulated the finer details of his scheme. “An old classic. While we’re at the party, Pete will head to the third floor corridor and sneak a bag of them through that vent into Carter-Myles’ office, just like with the prawns, yeah? A quick Geminio charm, and then he’s on his way. Now, we know from the prawns that with a strong enough charm, they’ll eventually make it through the vents to the Slytherin dormitory. We should run another test — we can use one of the days of Christmas pranks to time it, perhaps — but if I recall from the prawns, I reckon it’ll take a little over an hour for the dungbombs to make their way down to the dungeons. That gives Peter plenty of time to get down there himself, meet up with Sirius, and off we go.”

It was a decent plan, Sirius thought as he followed the scurrying rat towards the dank wall that hid Slytherin House, but it relied on a fair amount of chance. A few nights ago, Sirius had staked out the dormitory’s entrance himself (under the Cloak, of course), so he knew the current password and could get in there if he had to. That was at least some consolation. But James insisted it was better if the door opened from someone on the inside, so nothing peculiar would be noticed. You never knew who was watching, after all.

So Sirius found a patch of wall by which to wait, and Wormtail scurried up against the would-be entrance to the Slytherin common room, and they waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Then, all of a sudden, the concealed stone door slid open, and a foul, horrid smell wafted out as hordes of students — some coughing, some covering their noses with their robes — spilled into the corridor to escape the brutal olfactory onslaught that was a rapidly multiplying supply of dungbombs. Sirius pressed himself up against the wall to avoid bumping into any of the fleeing students.

In their desperate rush towards clean air, no one noticed the rat slipping underfoot just as the stone door slide shut.

And bingo was his name-o.

Chapter Text

JAMES

Two for the Show

He was going to kill Sirius Black.

This was not the first time James Potter had had this thought in the last few weeks, nor, he suspected, would it be the last. It was not even a particularly prolonged sort of thought, a fleeting thing, really, as the notion had only as long to linger as it took to spin a very pretty girl across a dance floor — until suddenly James’s resentment burst like a soap bubble caught in a careless hand, and thoughts of Sirius Black and his impending assassination evaporated entirely from his mind as the most beautiful girl James had ever seen in his silly, little life gazed up at him, breathless, her perfect lips slightly parted, green eyes wide in surprise, red hair tousled from the spin.

“All right, Evans?” he said, which he felt was a rather good thing to say as the words he actually wanted to use were less appropriate and more along the lines of: “Holy fuck.”

“Your friend,” gasped Lily, “is a madman.”

James grinned. “But a devil on the dance floor.” He glanced over her shoulder to the spot where Sirius no longer stood, having disappeared off to the dungeons for phase two, no doubt.

Phase one had gone swimmingly; James and Sirius had made their entrance to the party early on  as planned and proceeded to strategically mingle — for the alibi, of course. And also for the salmon puffs, which were being distributed throughout the crowds by house-elves bearing large silver platters piled with decadent hors d’oeuvres, the majority of which James did not hesitate to sample. It was all part of his cover, you see. Sacrifices had to be made, and all that.

Now, thanks to Sirius ‘Not Quite Murdered But on Extremely Thin Ice’ Black, James’s cover apparently required him to dance with Lily Evans.

This was a problem, as James was not a skillful dancer. Not like Sirius ‘I’m Bloody Brilliant at Everything I Try’ Black. Sirius ‘Girls Swoon at the Sight of Me’ Black. Sirius ‘My Best Mate Literally Just Told Me Off Last Week for Doing This Very Thing and Now I’ve Gone and Done It Again’ Black.

Bastard.

They were at the edge of the dance floor, he and Lily, straddling that liminal line between dancer and observer; James had only come over to get Sirius’s attention and let him know that it was time to go meet Pete, after all, and he had not expected to have a dance partner thrust upon him. Let alone for that dance partner to be the girl with whom he was trying really hard not to be in love.

Before he could decide what to do, Lily gave a breathless little laugh: “I feel like I just got off the merry-go-round from hell.”

“What’s a merry-go-round?” asked James, temporarily diverted from his internal panic.

“It’s — a Muggle thing, never mind.”

Her cheeks, he couldn’t help but notice, were quite flushed.

“You seem a bit dizzy.”

“Well, being flung across the room by a madman will do that to a person.”

James laughed. “Want a break?” he offered, praying the answer was yes.

“Please.”

“Come on, then.” He took her hand and led her off the dance floor, away from the spiraling twirls of some waltz to which he did not know the steps, away from the swish and sweep of expensive fabric. Thank bloody Merlin for that. It was only when they’d retreated to the shade of the decorative birch forest, branches all tangled up with twinkling lights that glittered over the high tables draped in creamy white fabric and placed at comfortable intervals for optimal mingling, that James felt the faintest squeeze of her palm, and he realized what he’d done; he dropped her hand rather abruptly.

Mercifully, Lily made no comment about any of this. Instead, she said: “I thought you said you weren’t coming.”

“No,” James corrected her. “I said I wasn’t invited. That changed.”

“Oh.” Some emotion he didn’t recognize flickered across her face. “Of course. You’re here with Florence?”

James blinked. “Florence? No, I — ah — bribed Sirius to get me in on his invitation. Well, I say bribed. Really more blackmailed. Bullied? One of those b-words…”

This time he did recognize the emotion on her face; it announced itself quite clearly as overt suspicion. “Why bother coming at all? I thought mocking the Slug Club was a professional sport with you lot. Second only to Quidditch.”

“Third, actually,” said James as a tray-laden house-elf roamed by. He selected two flutes of champagne, one of which he handed to Lily, then leaned over to investigate the other offerings, examining with some misgivings a wobbly sort of flan thing. “Exploding Snap second, Slug Club Mocking third.” He selected a trusty classic from the tray and looked up at Lily, laughing at her frown. “Come on, I like a good party as much as the next bloke. Where else would I get such excellent salmon puffs?”

Lily’s eyes narrowed. “You’re up to something.”

James popped a salmon puff into his mouth. “No good, one might say,” he mumbled through a mouthful of pastry.

“What?”

“Nothing. Salmon puff?”

She ignored him and selected a prosciutto roll instead, nibbling at it with vague interest as she peered around the party. While her attention was otherwise occupied, James allowed himself one painful moment to drink in her presence. Sleek, midnight blue robes with delicate embroidery that glittered in the party’s candlelight, dark red hair left loose to tumble over the elegant curve of her shoulders…Merlin, she looked gorgeous. More gorgeous than usual, which if you had asked him yesterday, he would’ve told you was impossible…

Actually, he wouldn’t have told you that because he was actively and purposefully repressing any feelings towards Lily Evans that ventured outside the strictly-enforced Friend Containment Field, but perhaps if you’d slipped him a shot of Veritaserum, then he might’ve uttered the belief that she couldn’t possibly be any more gorgeous than she was as he knew her in Potions class, the steam from the cauldron making her hair curl at the temples; nor could she ever be more adorable than he sometimes found her at breakfast, a book propped against the teapot, a slightly wistful look on her face as her eyes devoured whatever it was she was reading, and her distracted mouth went to take a bite of eggs and missed; nor was it possible in any corner of any universe that she be more lovely than she was in the snow, cheeks pink and head thrown back in vigorous laughter as a snowball swept through the sky…

He would’ve told you all that under magical duress, and he would’ve been wrong, so very wrong, because Merlin’s fanciest fuck, did she look good in blue.

“So,” he said, as casually as he could, not really wanting to know the answer, “who’d you bring as your date?”

“Marlene,” said Lily.

“McKinnon?”

“Yes…oh, look, there she is.”

Lily pointed across the party where Marlene McKinnon was crossing the room in pursuit of a harried-looking man who James thought might’ve been familiar from the pages of the Prophet. He turned back to see Lily snickering into her drink.

“Poor bloke,” she said. “Marlene’s been dying to come to one of these parties for ages, so I invited her along. I’ve sworn off dating,” she added, by way of an explanation.

“Have you?”

“Yes. I have grown weary of boys. They are far too tiresome. Er — no offense.”

James gave a good-natured shrug. “None taken. I tire myself daily.”

Lily smiled and let her gaze drift back to the dance floor. “I suppose you studied ballroom dancing as a child too?”

James couldn’t help but let out a snort of laughter at this. “Woe betide the governess who tried.”

“…Governess?”

“Penelope, I think her name was. Wretched woman,” he added with a cheerful swig of champagne. “She didn’t last long.”

“Governess,” Lily repeated, murmuring into her champagne flute so quietly that James almost did not catch it. There was something odd in her expression, and he felt slightly wrong-footed, though he didn’t know why.

“Er — yeah. Anyway, at that age I was far more interested in causing mayhem than I was in learning the old one-two-three, so I’m afraid Sirius is a far better dance partner than I’ll ever be. Though I do know the basics,” the competitive side of him felt compelled to add.

“That’s more than I do,” said Lily, and she gave the champagne in her glass a little swish. “The waltz wasn’t exactly part of my childhood curriculum.”

“You seemed to handle yourself out there just fine.”

“Only because Black was steering me like a carriage.”

“Nonsense. You are the epitome of grace. You were born for the ballroom.”

It was Lily’s turn to snort. “Shut up.”

Looking back, he couldn’t say what made him do it — probably the drink — but he found himself placing his flute of champagne on a nearby table and saying: “All right. Give me your hand.”

“Why…? What are you doing?”

“Proving to you that you are better than you think you are by exposing myself for the dancing disaster that I am. Come on.” He took her glass and set it aside as well, then reached for her hand.

She pulled away, though not entirely convincingly. “I’ve had quite enough of the dance floor, thank you.”

“Who needs a dance floor? Right here. Those friendly chaps won’t mind,” he added, nodding at a group of older wizards gathered around one of the nearby by high tables who were giving them rather peculiar looks. James thought perhaps he’d been introduced to them earlier, though he couldn’t recall their names or occupations. Probably the Supreme Mugwump of Something Stuffy and his extremely dull colleagues.

He said as much to Lily, and this made her laugh — a more intoxicating substance than any amount of champagne — and this time when he wove his fingers through her own and placed a hand on the small of her back, he was delighted and astonished that she did not protest, but rather placed her own hand on his shoulder and said, “Well, go on.”

He went on.

One, two, three…one, two, three…They moved in a slightly clunky spiral, out of sync with the music, each step carefully — and rather poorly — placed.

“Oops, that was your foot, wasn’t it? Never mind, mercifully you have two. One to spare…”

Lily was laughing, her head dipped back, the loose locks of dark red hair dancing around her shoulders as they went round and round.

One, two, three…one, two, three…

“Oh, god, watch out—!”

“I did tell you I was terrible at this,” said James as they nearly trampled a house-elf and toppled a whole mess of puddings.

“You did,” agreed Lily, through another enchanting burst of laughter, “and I appreciate your honesty.”

“I’m going to twirl you now.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Ah, Evans, you said the word. Now I have to.”

“What word?”

“Dare.”

“James—!”

He twirled her. It was a most inelegant twirl, and the pair crashed back together, snorting with laughter at their own lack of grace, and James thought he could spin like this forever, and he might’ve done so, if they hadn’t at that moment gone careening directly into another pair of partygoers.

“God, sorry!” giggled Lily to the unlucky guests. Then: “Oh! Florence! Phin! Hi!” She pulled away from James, a furtive, almost guilty look on her face. His hands were still warm with the clutch of hers, and he stuffed them in his pockets as though he were giving himself away.

“You know,” said Phineas Phillips in a dry monotone as he brushed a bit of slopped champagne from his robes, “they do have a designated space for this sort of rousing activity.”

“James was just giving me a quick lesson on how to make an arse of myself on the dance floor.”

“What can I say?” shrugged James. “I’m a professional.”

Lily caught his eye and swallowed a laugh, then she looked away rather quickly, a faint flush across her cheeks.

Florence broke the awkward moment. “Lily, you look divine,” she said, sweeping over and clutching Lily’s hand. “That color suits you perfectly. I knew it would.”

What followed was a brief interlude in which both girls informed the other of exactly how astonishingly good-looking she was, which, James had to agree, was rather true for both parties. In contrast to Lily’s midnight blue, Florence was dressed in pale silver robes, sleek and silky, and he noticed little jeweled snowflakes pinned into her hair, which had been pulled back into an elaborate bun at the nape of her neck. She looked quite at home in the wintry glamour of the party, like some sort of snow princess who’d wandered out of the forest.

“Yes, yes, everyone looks lovely,” interrupted the bloke called Phillips. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Nott around, have you?”

No one had.

“The bastard’s always late,” Phillips sighed. “Well, I’m going to go scout out another glass of champagne. Might as well. Flor?”

“Better not,” giggled Florence. “I’ve already had two. Any more and I’ll be crashing into people.”

So Phillips took off and Florence stayed behind. “I didn’t know you were coming, James,” she said.

“He gate-crashed with Black,” said Lily.

“Excuse me,” said James, “I did not gate-crash. I had a perfectly valid invitation, thank you very much.”

“Lucky us.” Florence’s smile was bright as the glitter of snow. James watched as she caught Lily’s eye and some complicated psychic correspondence occurred between the two that James could not begin to decipher; then she and Lily started talking about the people they knew at the party, and did you see so-and-so’s robes, etcetera, and James remembered with somewhat sheepish self-reproach that he had a job to do, and he’d been neglecting it.

As if to drive this point home, his pocket gave an unintelligible little grumble. James excused himself with some vague reference to finding the loo and began to search for a private spot to consult the mirror. As he did so, his eyes roamed the party for Severus Snape. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on him, after all, and he’d been doing a fine job of it until Sirius had distracted him with Lily Evans. He’d spotted Snape early on, hunched against a wall by the dance floor, watching his classmates with a dark storm cloud of a scowl. But now, as James scanned the crowd, he could not find his Slytherin mark.

He began to a feel a little nervous. Remus was tracking them all through the map, of course (and probably having a good laugh about James and Lily, he realized with a faint twinge of embarrassment), but if the mirror was malfunctioning and James missed something important…

He quickened his pace.

There wasn’t really anywhere within the boundaries of the party where one could flip open a compact mirror and have a nice little chat with one’s own reflection without garnering a certain amount of ill-desired attention, so James headed towards the exit and turned down a few of the damp dungeon corridors until he found a secluded spot.

When he’d told Sirius they needed two more mirrors in a week’s time for the heist, he hadn’t really expected him to follow through. You’d think James would’ve learned by now that Sirius could accomplish pretty much anything to which he set his considerable mind. Still, James was slightly awed by his friend, even if the compact mirrors were a bit spotty. It was jolly good work, on the whole. Typical Padfoot.

Now, he pulled the mirror from his pocket and said: “Status update, Moony?”

Nothing.

“Helloooo? Anyone?”

“Tssttts — in the — tsssfffttt — trying th —” said the mirror.

“Shit,” said James. He spent another fifteen minutes or so fiddling with the mirror, casting amplification charms and whatnot in hopes that his friend’s voices would come through. He was unsuccessful, and eventually, in frustration, he gave it a sharp little smack, which accomplished absolutely nothing except causing the mirror to go silent. After a moment’s fretful consideration, James shoved the thing into his pocket and headed back towards the party. He consoled himself on the way that it sounded as though the others were able to talk, even if he couldn’t tell what they were saying, and both Remus and Peter had the original mirrors on hand, so they at least should be fine.

As he neared the main dungeon, a flash of red down a distant corridor caught his eye. He turned for a closer look: Lily Evans was standing alone, shoulders slumped against the stone wall, a cigarette in one hand. James frowned, wondering what could’ve happened to have made her leave the party. He hadn’t been gone that long.

He decided to go find out.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, and she jumped slightly as she turned towards him.

“Oh, hello. I just needed some air.”

“Yeah, nothing says ‘fresh air’ like a dank and musty dungeon.”

She smiled. “Okay, fair. A little quiet then, perhaps.” She gestured at the cigarette. “Want one?”

“Er — no, thanks,” said James.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. You don’t approve of smoking.”

“It’s got nothing to do with approval, I just…”

“I’m teasing.”

“Right.”

An awkward pause.

“Are you —  okay? I mean, did something happen?”

“No,” said Lily. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.” Another pause, another drag on the cigarette. “After you left, Anson finally showed up.”

“Oh,” said James, not liking where this was going.

“Yeah. With his girlfriend.”

“Oh,” said James again. “Shit.”

“Yeah. He didn’t mention that part in Hogsmeade, did he? Paulina Macmillan. D’you remember her? Apparently she was a few years ahead of us.”

James did remember her, as a matter of fact. He recalled that she was memorably good-looking and most of the younger boys had a crush on her. He did not admit that, however. Instead he said: “Do you still —”

“No,” Lily interrupted. “I don’t fancy him. I’m well past that, I just…Florence kept going on about how he still fancied me, and I — well, after Hogsmeade, I believed it. I guess it was good for my ego.” Her tone was bitter, sharp in its self-deprecation.

“You weren’t the only one,” said James, who remembered quite clearly how Anson had looked at her, the intimate little gestures and asides that had made James cringe with jealousy.

“It’s not like I expected him to still be pining over me. It’s been a year, for god’s sake. I assumed he’d moved on. I’ve moved on. Not…particularly far or anywhere good, but there’s been movement. But it’s never fun to see your ex, is it? Particularly not when he’s a professional Quidditch player with a gorgeous, Sacred Twenty-Eight girlfriend who probably never gets up on her high horse.”

James wasn’t sure what this last line meant, so he just said: “He’s a git.”

Lily let out a humorless laugh. “Yes, what an absolute git for finding himself a nice girlfriend who’s prettier, cleverer, and funnier than me. The gall.”

“She’s not prettier, cleverer, or funnier than you.”

“You didn’t even meet her.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not possible. There’s no such girl.”

Lily didn’t seem to know quite what to say to this, which was fair because James also did not know what to say. He almost regretted the words that had tumbled out of his mouth, except they were true, and she ought to hear it from someone — even if that someone was a boy she wouldn’t date if the choice were between him and the giant squid.

Lily was gazing up at him with a small, pensive frown on her lips. Merlin, those perfect lips. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to lean down and kiss those perfect lips…and was it pure fantasy to think that maybe, just maybe, she wanted it too? But then Lily looked away to tap the ash off the end of her cigarette. “Thank you,” she muttered, looking at the floor, “for being so nice to me.”

James opened his mouth, then shut it. I’m not being nice, he wanted to say, I mean every word of it. I’m bloody in love with you. Instead, he cleared his throat, ran a hand awkwardly through his hair, and said, “Hey. What are friends for?”

A soft, almost sad smile.

James shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes. “Did you want to go back to the party? There are at least twelve different varieties of hors d’oeuvres I haven’t sampled yet, so…no time to waste, and all that.”

Lily exhaled a light laugh. She pushed herself off the wall and stubbed out her cigarette. “Yeah. Probably should. Professor Slughorn was making such a big deal about introducing me to Vahid Shafiq, so it would be a bit rude to leave before I let him do that.”

“He’s some famous potioneer, right? Inventor of the — er — Oculus Potion?”

Lily looked impressed; James did not feel the need to tell her he only knew this because he’d once tried to sabotage Snape’s potion and got the git invited to this very Slug Club party for his efforts.

“Yes, he’s quite famous,” Lily said, and as they began the walk back towards the snow-glistening corridors of the party, a bit of enthusiasm crept back into her voice. “His work on restorative serums in the fifties was absolutely revolutionary. And you know, he’s one of the few commercial potioneers licensed to brew Amortentia.”

James raised a skeptical brow. “The…love potion? You need a license for that?”

“Oh, absolutely. It’s very restricted, which is why we have to wait until advanced N.E.W.T. studies to even attempt it, and even then it’s only allowed under classroom supervision. It’s a technical marvel of a potion, you know. I can’t wait to have a go at it.”

“Seems a bit dodgy to me,” said James.

“What d’you mean?”

“Just…love potions in general.”

“The boy who plastered the school with mistletoe thinks love potions are dodgy?”

“First of all, allegedly. My in-house counsel informs me that word is important.”

“Is your in-house counsel Remus?”

“No comment. Second of all, it wasn’t enchanted mistletoe. It didn’t force anyone to do anything, it’s just a little bit of encouragement for the shy-but-otherwise-amorously-inclined.”

Lily snorted. “Fair enough.”

“But love potions…I dunno. If I’m going to be with someone, I’d want them to actually want to be with me. Otherwise, what’s the point, you know?”

Lily considered this, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Yeah, definitely. The actual use of the potion — deeply creepy. I was thinking more of the technical aspects of it. It’s one of the most complicated brews, you know. And it smells different for every person. Isn’t that incredible? How two people can sit right next to each other, give the same potion a sniff, and have a completely different experience?” A pause. “What? Why are you looking at me like that? Is it because I’m being too keen on potions again?”

James hadn’t realized he’d been looking at her in any sort of way, but he very quickly endeavored to stop immediately. “No. It’s interesting, that’s all. Have you ever smelled it?”

“Once,” said Lily dreamily. “Slughorn brought a little vial of it to a dinner last year and passed it around.”

“And what did it smell like?”

Lily went slightly pink. “I’m not telling you that!”

“Why not?”

“Because! It’s extremely personal.”

“Oh come on, it’s just a scent. I want to know!”

“No.”

“It’s cause it smelled like me, didn’t it?” James grinned, a teasing sort of grin to make it clear he was joking.

She rolled her eyes and gave him a shove. “No, you prat. But I’m not telling you. You’ll only make fun of me.”

“I promise I won’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I swear on my Quaffle that I won’t make fun of you.”

She gave him a suspicious glare for a moment, then shrugged. “Oh, fine. It smelled like…well, it smelled like a lot of different things, but the predominant scent was…new books.”

“Ah,” said James.

“I knew it,” said Lily.

“What? I just said ‘ah.’”

“No, you said ‘ah’, which is precisely the noise you make when you’re about to take the piss.”

“I am not!”

“You are. Look at you! Your face is practically twitching, you can hardly stand it right now.”

“This is just my face. This is what my face does when it hears something utterly delightful.”

“I hate you.”

“No, it’s just that everything suddenly makes sense. All those years of book sniffing…I just never realized it was romantic.”

“Piss off,” said Lily, but she was laughing, and James was sure that the sound of her laughter made all the party lights sparkle just a little bit brighter. “You can tell me all about how your potion smells like dirty Quidditch gear when we brew it next term.”

They had only just reached the entrance to the party after shuffling their way through the queue to get inside (“He’s with me,” Lily told the house-elf who asked for James’s invitation, and Merlin, how James wished that were true), when Professor Slughorn appeared as predicted and swept Lily off towards the far end of the party where the famous Vahid Shafiq was apparently waiting. James had assumed this meant he was dismissed, except that Professor Slughorn then said: “James, m’boy, aren’t you coming?” and he found himself trotting alongside the Potions Master and his favorite pupil.

As they pressed through the crowds, James’s eyes scanned the dungeon once again for Severus Snape. Even if he couldn’t get the mirror to work, he’d feel better if he could just lay eyes on him…but no luck. At last, they approached an older man with a silvery goatee and thick, dark eyebrows, looking rather bored while engaged in conversation with someone obscured from view by a circle of witches.

“Ah, here we are,” said Professor Slughorn as he navigated his considerable girth around the chatting witches. The women, getting the message, moved out of the way, and James realized with a jolt that the person with which Vahid Shafiq was conversing was none other than his missing mark: Severus Snape.

Lily froze. For an unbearably tense moment that James was fairly certain neither of the adults noticed, she and Snape stared at each other — until Snape’s eyes flickered to James and his lip curled with disgust. James, for his part, decided to take a more enjoyably passive aggressive route and simply offered a pleasant smile to his arch-nemesis, before leaning down and whispering in Lily’s ear: “You all right?”

She nodded and straightened up ever-so-slightly, adopting a demeanor he had come to think of as ‘Evans On Guard.’ Neither Professor Slughorn nor Vahid Shafiq had noticed this little exchange between James and Lily, but Snape certainly had, and the color in his deathly pale cheeks deepened just a shade.

“Vahid,” said Slughorn cozily. “May I introduce to you my star pupil, Lily Evans?”

“Ah yes,” said Shafiq. “The brilliant Muggle-born. Horace has told me much about you.”

Next to him, James felt Lily tense at these words, but again, he did not think anyone else noticed. “A pleasure to meet you,” was all she said.

“And this is her Potions partner, James Potter.”

There was something deeply satisfying about the way Snape full-body flinched at the words Potions partner, James Potter.

“I expect you know his father…” said Slughorn, and Shafiq’s eyes lit up at once.

“Yes, of course!” he said with more enthusiasm than James would’ve expected from the dry, bored old man who’d initially greeted them. “I thought you looked familiar. Spitting image of your father at a younger age. Tell me, how are dear old Ephie and Flea?”

“Very dear and very old,” said James amiably. “Though I expect dad could still duel you for calling him that.”

Shafiq gave a merry laugh. “Just like Fleamont. I did some work with old Monty back when I was first starting my career. I daresay I thought of him as a mentor. Wonderful man.” He took a delicate sip of his drink and turned to Lily. “Potions partner! Jolly good luck for you. Did you know that your partner was the son of a veritable potions prodigy?”

“I did not,” said Lily.

James, who had been subtly enjoying the slow-burning fury on Snape’s face, suddenly felt a bit embarrassed by Shafiq’s over-the-top pronouncement. “I’m afraid I inherited very little of dad’s talent in potions,” he said quickly. “Poor Lily has to put up with rather a lot from me, bumbling around the cauldron as I do.”

“Nonsense,” said Lily. “He’s being modest.”

“A crime of which I suspect Potter has rarely been accused,” hissed Snape. Lily’s eyes flickered to the scowling boy, but no one else even registered the comment.

“What is your preferred area of study, then?” asked Shafiq, his attention still keenly focused on James.

“Transfiguration,” said James, and the conversation flowed on from there. James tried a few times to direct the discussion back to Lily and her exceptional potion brewing, but Shafiq seemed much more interested in reminiscing about the good old days with Fleamont Potter. About halfway through a retelling of an occasion in which James’s father had stopped Shafiq from blowing up his cauldron in the nick of time (“Dragon spleen, what was I thinking!”), Snape turned on his heel and left their little circle. He’d practically been pushed out, anyway. Shafiq had shown him zero interest since Lily and James — mostly James — had arrived.

While he certainly felt no pang of guilt for Snape’s failed networking attempt, James did regret his departure. As long as the greasy git was standing over there scowling, James could keep an eye on him. He tapped a nervous finger against the mirror in his pocket, but it remained silent.

At last, he could bear it no more. “Would you excuse me just a moment?” he said, and he slipped away into the crowd.

He found Snape just a few steps away, clinging to the wall like fungus on a rotting log. James observed his enemy for a moment from afar, enjoying the familiar tingle of intense, righteous dislike. Snape was dressed in someone’s castoff robes, stiff and black and a bit too long around the hems; clearly borrowed from one of his Death Eater housemates for the occasion. It did not appear he’d bothered to shower for the event though: His hair hung in lanky sheets around his face, a perfect frame for the sort of nose that, in an emergency, might be used as a sundial. His expression, as he caught James’s gaze across the party, almost suggested he’d been waiting for him.

James didn’t think he’d ever loathed anyone quite the way he loathed Severus Snape. He sauntered over. “All right, Snivellus?”

“Bet you enjoyed that, didn’t you, Potter?”

“Well, you know, Mr. Shafiq is a charming man, and the food here really is excellent.” He plucked a salmon puff from the tray of a nearby elf. “So yeah, I think it’s fair to say I’m having an enjoyable evening. You?”

Snape sneered. “One day, you’ll have to stand on your own instead of hiding behind your father’s robes.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning some of us actually have talent instead of rich fathers.”

“And some of us, it seems, have neither.” James popped the salmon puff into his mouth and chewed. Snape’s scowl deepened.

“I told you to stay away from her.”

“And I ignored you. Did you really think I was going to listen? Come on, Sniv, you’ve stared at the back of her head in enough classes to figure it out by now. We’re friends, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Friends.” Snape’s snort was a masterclass in disdain. “Tell me, Potter, is it torture for you?”

“What?”

“Being so obviously and embarrassingly in love with her and knowing that she wants nothing to do with you? That she’d never, ever have an arrogant toerag like you.”

“Shut up,” snapped James.

“What were her words? She wouldn’t date you if it were a choice between you and the giant squid, right?”

“I told you to shut up.”

“And I ignored you.”

“Well, what about you?” said James, and his voice was far more heated than he’d like. He was rising to the bait, and he knew it was a mistake, but that smarmy little smirk made him want to blast Snape across the room. “You, with your Death Eater friends, and your Dark little spells, and your puss-filled face. Why don’t you do us all a favor and take your dingy, borrowed dress robes and slither on back to whatever grimy, little hole of a town you crawled out of and leave the rest of us civilized folk in peace?”

Snape’s features twisted into a look of utter triumph. James did not understand why until he turned and followed the other boy’s gaze across his shoulder. Lily Evans was standing there, stopped in mid-motion as though she’d just arrived at the end of his little tirade; her green eyes were wide, lips slightly parted, her expression one of outright hurt.

He didn’t understand why.

“Evans —” he began, but Lily turned on her heel and fled.

“You were saying?” said Snape silkily, examining his fingernail.

He ought to have stayed with Snape. He ought to have surveilled him, tailed him, kept him in his sights…but the look on Lily’s face had been haunting, and he couldn’t just leave it like that, not when he didn’t understand why.

He caught up with her in the corridor. “Evans!” he called after her, and to his relief, she stopped. The relief was short-lived, however, because when she turned back to him, he could see she’d been crying. A sharp pang struck his chest. “What’s—?”

“Why can’t you leave him alone?”

“Snape?”

“You’re so awful to him,” said Lily, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “And I get it, he’s done awful things to you too, but — you could just leave him alone. You’ve got friends, you’ve got money, you’ve got talent, you’ve got a name people know. It would cost you nothing to just leave him alone.”

“I didn’t — I didn’t think you were still friends with him.”

“What’s that got to do with it? You should be decent because you’re a decent person, not because of who I am or am not friends with.” She looked as though she wanted to say more, but then she just shook her head and walked away.

“Evans…” he called again.

“Cokeworth,” she spat, rounding on him.

“What?”

“Cokeworth is the name of the grimy, little hole of a town that Severus crawled out of. D’you know how I know? Because I’m from there too. We’re from the same town, Severus and I. We grew up together. So if you think he’s scum because of where he was born, you think the same of me.”

“No,” said James hurriedly, the sharp pang replaced with the swirling nausea of comprehension. “That’s not what—”

“And you know what else? My dress robes are borrowed too. Not all of us have money, and connections, and manor houses, and…and…and governesses.”

“I wasn’t — I didn’t mean anything by — I didn’t know you and Snape were from the same town.”

“That shouldn’t matter! You shouldn’t disparage anyone based on where they come from and I shouldn’t have to tell you that! And if you think like that, and you’re only being decent to me because we’re friends or — or whatever the hell we are — then you are doing the exact thing that Severus did to me about my blood status, and I — I want nothing to do with it!

“Evans, that’s not what I —”

But just then, a voice like a badly-tuned radio grumbled from his pocket: “Serpent on the move, I repeat, serpent on the move.”

Lily let out a short, humorless laugh. “Just here for the salmon puffs, huh?”

“Evans…”

“Forget it, Potter. Go pull your little prank.”

And she was gone.

Chapter Text

PETER

Go, Rat, Go

Did you know that a rat’s sense of smell is about two hundred times greater than a human’s? Or that, under the right conditions, a rat could follow a scent trail from miles away? James Potter obviously did not know these things, or he would’ve thought of a better distraction than bloody dungbombs.

As the stone door to the Slytherin common room slid shut behind him — Sirius invisible on the other side — Peter was struck by a thick wall of stink. Great dirty clouds of the stuff wafted down the concealed passageway, hardly an alluring invitation. But there was nothing to be done for it. Don’t fuck it it up. Peter gave his whiskers a stoic little twitch and headed directly for the cloud of stink.

It wasn’t that the smell bothered him all that much — he didn’t like it, but things like that were more manageable as a rat. He spent a lot of his recreational time these days skittering through the plumbing system, after all; one got used to that sort of thing. No, the reason he was annoyed was that the stink of dungbombs was distracting.

Over the last year, Peter had gotten rather good at tracing scent trails. It was how he kept up on the full moons when his long-legged friends sometimes got a bit carried away and took off without him. He’d been practicing around the castle too, getting a whiff of something and tracking it all the way from Gryffindor Tower. He hadn’t told his friends about this useful little Animagus quirk because he hadn’t mastered it yet, and when he revealed it, he wanted them to be properly impressed. Sirius probably wouldn’t be. Dogs could smell pretty well too, after all.

All the same, he’d been counting on that powerful sense of smell for this particular excursion, and finding himself faced with little more than a great wobbly mass of untraceable stench…it was a disheartening setback.

No time to feel sorry for himself though. The clock was ticking. Soon the inconvenient smelly cloud would dissipate, and the Slytherin students would come swarming back to their common room, making Peter’s job that much harder.

And what a common room it was. He allowed himself the briefest of moments to marvel at the tall windows that looked out into the lake, the carved mantels over stone fireplaces, the cold, green light that bathed the whole space in a sort of spooky gloom. Peter thought of his own common room, warm and inviting, and was grateful yet again that he’d been sorted into Gryffindor and not Slytherin.

Still, there was a sort of glamour to the place, he thought as he scurried along the stone floor of the common room, past the clawed foot of an ornate wooden chair. If you sat in a throne like that every day, no wonder you began to grow convinced of your own greatness.

He sniffed around a bit, trying to the find a thread of smell that would lead him to the boys’ dormitory, Snape’s in particular, but eventually, he just decided he’d have to go by trial and error. There were two dimly-lit corridors on either side of the common room, leading away to what he could only assume were the dormitories. Left or right.

He chose left.

As he hurried along, he wondered how things were going back at the party. Sure, there was the tiniest bit of satisfaction in being the only one of his friends who could do this part of the job, but Peter still thought he’d rather be schmoozing at a party like James, eating fancy food and watching pretty girls dance.

Veronica had been rather put out that Peter hadn’t been invited to Slughorn’s party. He supposed she, like Winnie, had assumed Peter’s proximity to the privileged and powerful would open doors for her. Well, good luck with that. It hadn’t even opened any doors for Peter.

But then, the whole point of Peter these days was not to open doors, but to get around them.

The door to the first dormitory he came across was conveniently left ajar, no doubt carelessly abandoned in the hasty flee from a dung cloud. He slipped through, sniffing around, skittering under the beds and dressers. It was a boys’ dorm all right, thank Merlin for that, but then he caught sight of The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 1 on a bedside table and realized this could not possibly be the right place.

So he tried a few others rooms, squeezing under the cracks of doors, detecting every detail he could — until eventually in a room near the very end of the corridor, he noticed a letter that had fluttered beneath a bed addressed to none other than Adam Avery.

Bingo.

The nosy side of him wanted to pick up the letter and read it, but there was no time for that. One last quick sweep of the room to make sure no one was hiding, and Peter transformed back into his human self. He whipped out his wand and quickly cast upon the door the strongest Colloportus charm he could muster, so that he would at least have time to transform back should anyone attempt to barge in. Then he pulled from his pocket the little square mirror and gave himself half-a-second to catch his breath, before looking directly into the glass and announcing: “I’m in.”

“Good work, Wormtail,” said Remus’s voice from the mirror at once.

“You’re sure it’s the right dorm?” said Sirius, half-whispered, half-garbled from the make-do mirror.

“Yes, thank you,” said Peter, annoyed. “I know I’m in the sixth year’s dorm. I’m trying their stuff now.”

He shoved the mirror back into his pocket and got to work, moving systematically from bed to bed, trying to find confirmation of whose belongings belonged to whom. It was surprisingly slow work, which stressed him, but he was determined to be thorough, not to miss anything, and eventually, he’d crossed off four of the six beds from his list; they couldn’t possibly belong to Snape. He headed to the fifth. There were only two left. One of them had to be Snape’s. But there was nothing on the bedside table of either bed, which was why he’d saved them for last. He threw open the drawer of the table closest, only to find a mess of quills, ink pots, parchment, and what appeared to be the scattered bits of dried batwings. Well, that would be in character, at least.

He headed to the trunk at the foot of the same bed and set the little square mirror down beside it so he’d have use of both his hands. It took him a good bit of time to undo the locking charm Snape had apparently put on it, if it was indeed Snape’s. No simple Alohamora would do. When the first spell Peter tried hadn’t worked, Remus had had to walk him through a few alternatives via the mirror, but eventually, the lock clicked open, and Peter lifted the lid and peered inside. It was mostly full of books, some bags of beetle eyes, a few shriveled things that Peter supposed were for Potions but really didn’t want to investigate. He picked up one of the books: The Dream of the Dark Arts.

Ominous.

He shuffled through the others. A few more compendiums on Dark spells, some weird little Herbology field guides, and then your typical textbooks: A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration, Quintessence: A Quest, Advanced Potion-Making. That could be anyone’s course load, he supposed, but it certainly seemed like Snape. He picked up the copy of Advanced Potion-Making, a thoroughly battered old text, and rifled through its pages. It was covered from margin to margin in tiny, cramped handwriting, scratches, and scribbles. Barely even legible.

And then he saw it, scrawled at the very bottom of the back cover: This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood Prince.

A shiver went down Peter’s spine, and he didn’t initially know why — but then it hit him: There was only one sixth year half-blood in Slytherin.

Severus Snape.

This was it.

“Wormtail? How’s it going?”

“I’ve found his stuff,” said Peter breathlessly. “Give me a minute.”

“Hurry up,” Sirius’s voice crackled from faraway. “One of the older students has gone to get Slughorn. You haven’t got too much longer.”

“Hopefully they’ll have a hard time finding him in the party,” said Remus.

“Can everyone shut up for a minute?” said Peter.

He dug deeper into the trunk, throwing books out left and right. At last, under a copy of Magick and Might: The Fate of Wizardry, he found a green knitted scarf, the stitches coming undone in fat, puckering waves, tangled around something small and hard. He lifted it carefully, his heart in his throat, and unwound the scarf, sure that he was about to find a small, golden vial…

But inside were merely the shattered pieces of a broken pair of Omnioculars. That was all.

Peter swore in disappointment.

He kept going. Moving on from the trunk to the dresser, flinging open drawers with utter disregard as he emptied them onto the floor. He dug through poorly-patched socks and graying pants and all sorts of things belonging to Snivellus that Peter would rather not dig through. He tried all the anti-concealment spells Sirius had taught him, too. He tried them again, and again. He tried a summoning charm, everything. He wrenched pillows off the bed and groped around inside the pocket of the duvet. Nothing. No bloody luck.

“Oh no,” said Remus suddenly. The mirror was still on the floor by the trunk, and Peter shot it a dark look. “Serpent on the move. I repeat, serpent on the move.”

“How much time have I got?”

“Not long. He’s headed straight for the common room. You need to get that potion and get out of there.”

“It’s not here,” said Peter, a wave of despair washing over him. He wanted to win this. He wanted to win this so badly.

“What do you mean it’s not there?” demanded Sirius.

“There’s nothing here, I’ve gone through everything.”

“You’ve tried all the anti-concealment spells?”

“Yes! I’ve tried everything! It’s not bloody here!”

“Revelio?”

“Of course I tried bloody Revelio.”

“Invenirio?”

“Inv— fuck, no. I didn’t try that one.”

“Well, do it now.”

Feeling very stupid, Peter pulled out his wand and pointed it the trunk. He muttered the spell, but nothing happened.

“Maybe I did it wrong.”

“He’s just entered the common room,” announced Remus.

“Get out of there, Wormtail,” said Sirius urgently.

“Hang on,” said Peter, “let me try—”

“Get the FUCK out of there!”

Just then, the door rattled. Peter jerked his head towards it. The Colloportus charm had held, but it wouldn’t for long. He threw the books back into the trunk and slammed the dresser drawers shut with his wand as quickly as he could until —

BANG.

The door flew open just as Peter transformed into his rat Animagus and scurried under the bed.

“Wormtail?” hissed Sirius from the mirror.

Oh, Merlin. He’d left the mirror on the floor by the trunk.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

There was nothing he could do about it now but stay hidden and hope that Remus and Sirius would have the sense not to keep talking. He waited beneath the bed, whiskers shivering in the dark, barely breathing as footsteps echoed across the stone floor.

Then, a pair of dingy beat-up boots filled his vision, and a hand reached down and clasped the square mirror.

Chapter Text

SEVERUS

My Old Friend, Felix

The mirror was small, square, unassuming, unremarkable…and not where it was meant to be. Severus turned the curious object in his hand, watching the glint of candlelight flicker against the glass. He had seen this little mirror before, and there was no good reason it should be lying on the floor by his trunk. He held it up and peered at the reflection. His own thin face glared back. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But something was out of the ordinary. Something was wrong — deeply, troublingly wrong — for  as he’d stood on the other side of the locked door, struggling against the spell that sealed it shut, Severus was certain he’d heard the voice of Sirius Black.

How could Sirius Black be in his dormitory?

And more importantly, how could he be gone?

Fingers still tightly clutching the mysterious mirror, Severus turned on his heel to scrutinize the rest of the room. There was no one else here; all of his dorm-mates were either out stuffing their faces at Slughorn’s party, or they’d fled following the eruption of dungbombs that had evidently plagued the common room shortly before Severus’s return. Also suspicious. The whole dungeon still reeked of excrement, though the cloud was now dissipating, enough to be breathable, at least.

His eyes darted around the room until something else snagged his gaze: a single, threadbare sock lay abandoned in the shadow of his dresser. Severus walked over to it. The bottom drawer of the dresser was slightly ajar, like the crooked smirk of an enemy, as though someone had slammed it shut in a hurry. He glanced back at the dormitory door, still gaping open as he’d flung it.

Someone had definitely been in here. Sirius Black had been in here. But where had he gone? And how?

Unless…unless he was still here…?

Severus gripped his wand so tightly his fingernails pressed crescents to his palm. “Reveal yourself!”

Nothing.

“I’m warning you, Black!”

Silence.

“Homenum revelio,” he spat into the empty space.

A soft swoosh of air encircled him, then breezed out the dormitory door. Down the stone corridor, he could hear the oafish stumbles of his housemates returning to their rooms, muddling up his detection spell, no doubt.

No matter. There was no one here. Black was gone.

Severus crossed the room again to his bed and knelt down beside his trunk, where he’d found the mirror lying abandoned. Tentatively, he tried the lid. It was unlocked. A faint shiver skated down his spine as he dug through his sparse belongings, but nothing seemed missing. He knew what they were after. He had so little worth stealing, but Severus was not so foolish as to leave his most precious treasure unattended.

With another suspicious glare at the door, Severus stuffed the mirror in his pocket — his trunk was no longer secure, and he wanted to examine it thoroughly later. Then he slid a hand into the inner pocket of his robes to withdraw his sacred phial of Felix Felicis. The crystal phial glittered between his fingers, the line of the liquid lingering just halfway full. Over the past few months, he’d taken to carrying it on his person at all times, and evidently his paranoia had been warranted. He knew others would be jealous of his prize…and he also liked carrying it so close to his heart, an old friend, a little weapon.

He’d tasted it twice now, and each swallow had left him yearning for more. Highly addictive, all the textbooks warned, and he could see how that would be true. The burst of euphoria at knowing you can do no wrong, the intoxicating certainty in every action…He twisted the phial between his fingers, tempted — so very, very tempted — to uncork the lid and swallow the rest...

But no…no, he had to restrain himself. He was not so weak as that; he was no foolhardy addict, desperate for another hit at all costs. He would not stumble along blindly under the comfortable control of a manufactured substance, begging the universe for scraps of good fortune. He was the architect of his destiny. Felix Felicis was merely a tool.

And it was tool he’d used to great effect so far. The first time he’d taken it — just a swallow, just to test it — he’d brewed an Incinerating Solution so impressive Professor Slughorn, who last year barely knew his name, had insisted Severus attend his exclusive Christmas party.

The second swallow he’d taken this evening. It had been tempting — as the night began and Severus pulled on the too-long dress robes Mulciber had deigned to let him borrow — to simply down the rest of the potion and let fate do what she would…but he had this unshakeable notion that he would need it later. He didn’t know for what, precisely, but the certainty was nearly as strong as the pull of the potion itself, so he’d simply tucked the phial into the pocket of his robes, and left for the party, luckless.

That all changed when he saw Lily Evans.

He’d been looking for her — of course, he had — but even if he hadn’t, he couldn’t have missed her, the way she spun on the dance floor with Sirius Black. Sirius Black! She hadn’t looked Severus in the eye for months because of his one little fuck up, but she’d dance in the arms of Sirius Black, the boy who had tortured her for years, who spread her diary around school, who had made her days hellish, who had made Severus’s days hellish. She’d forgive him?

And then he’d watched in disgust as she traded partners, Black for Potter, and his stomach churned with loathing. She’d danced with Potter too, though not properly, not on the dance floor. No, they’d careened around the party, Potter an oaf-footed idiot, Lily with her head thrown back, laughing like Severus hadn’t seen her laugh since…since they were children.

For her to give up her precious laugh like that for Potter — James fucking Potter…It was more than Severus could bear. He’d slipped out of the party to a quiet corner of the dungeons and allowed himself a single gulp of the sacred potion. Just an hour. Just enough to show her, to make Lily see what sort of swine Potter really was.

Felix worked fast. By the time Severus returned to the party, Potter had vanished, and Lily stood in the company of some Ravenclaw girl whose name escaped him. He’d longed to go interrupt them, to force Lily to hear him out, but Felix told him to wait, so wait he did.

He watched silently as another boy arrived, along with another a couple, and then Lily left alone, a troubled look on her lovely face as she left the party for the dungeons. Surely now he could follow…

No, said Felix. You’re thirsty. Wouldn’t you like a drink?

So Severus had gone to get a glass of champagne, and no sooner had the bubbles touched his tongue than had Professor Slughorn taken his arm and led him off to meet Vahid Shafiq, the renowned potioneer. They’d discussed a great many topics around brewing and Shafiq had even hinted at an internship, until they were interrupted…by Lily Evans and James Potter.

Just as Felix Felicis had planned.

It was torturous to watch them together — the possessive way Potter hovered beside her, the false little act of intimacy as he leaned down and whispered in her ear. The only thing that made it tolerable was the knowledge that he, Severus, had all the luck, and Potter’s night would soon be ruined. He didn’t know how yet, but it would happen.

As Potter monopolized the conversation by name-dropping daddy, Severus realized — Felix realized — that if he walked away, Potter would follow. And so he did, and so did Potter. And Severus goaded him in exactly the right way to expose the bastard for what he really was, and as fate — or Felix — would have it, Lily heard it all.

And then, as Potter chased after a furious Lily, Severus had been struck by the undeniable realization that he must return to his dormitory. Immediately.

But as he hurried through the dungeons, he began to feel the Felix Felicis fade from his veins. His hour was running out, and the entrance to the common room was clogged with a knot of students all lurking about.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” some third year dunderhead advised as Severus tried to bully his way past. Severus ignored him, of course. He had more imminent concerns than rotten smells. The luck was nearly gone, the intoxicating assuredness that had led him here dissipating with it.

When at last he’d barged through the crowd and dashed through the common room, robes pressed to his nose, Severus found his dormitory door locked, heard the voice on the other side, and when he’d broken the spell and pushed through, he found nothing but that mysterious mirror on the floor.

Felix had wanted Severus to have it, but he did not yet know why.

He turned the phial in his fingers, admiring the golden liquid inside. There was an easy way to find out. He could take another sip. Just a taste. Just a little bit more…

No.

He was not so weak. He’d save it for later, until he was sure it was the right moment. He’d need it later. Felix Felicis had got him this far, he could do the rest on his own.

You make your own damn destiny.

He pocketed the potion and headed out of the dormitory.

It was a strange come down, the moments after Felix Felicis left the system. That giddy sense of rightness with the world, of pure confidence in all one’s choices lingered on, even as the luck diminished. And yet — whether it was the last drops of Felix Felicis or whether it was simple, honest luck — a flash of red hair caught his eye as he stalked through the dungeons, just in time to see Lily reenter the party. He followed her, careful to keep his distance, to stay out of sight. Surely she wasn’t returning to Potter? Not after he’d shown her what Potter really thought…?

It was not Potter she sought out, but another Gryffindor girl, that bitch McKinnon. Severus loitered near a chattering gaggle of witches so he could listen in without being spotted.

“Look how many business cards I’ve collected!” said McKinnon by way of greeting as Lily joined her. She splayed a massive deck of cards in her hand.

“So…you’re having fun?” asked Lily.

“Fun? This is so much more than fun. This is the best night of my life.”

“Okay. Good. Listen…d’you mind if I leave a little early?”

“Why?”

“It’s just…” Lily sighed. “My ex-boyfriend, ex-best friend, and ex-bully are all here, and I simply can’t cope with it tonight.”

“Do you…want me to come with you?”

“No!” said Lily quickly. “Not at all. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t mind if I left.”

“Are you sure? Because that’s what you and Mary always did. One of you would leave, and the other would take off immediately, like a pair of bonded ducklings.”

Lily half-smiled and gave the other girl’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “You don’t have to be Mary, Marlene. Anyway, I’m fine. I want you to stay and have fun. Please, make a politician cry. For me?”

Marlene shuffled through her deck and withdrew a solemn, stocky card. She held it up proudly. “Check!”

Lily left the party alone, which was more good luck for Severus. He was beginning to wonder whether he even needed Felix Felicis at all. Perhaps the stars had simply aligned all on their own; perhaps he was finally receiving his due.

But then, as he went to follow her, Professor Slughorn came bumbling over, cheeks ruddy with drink. “Severus, my good lad! You haven’t seen Lily about, have you?”

Severus lied and said he had not. Disappointment clouded Slughorn’s features, but he rallied and decided Severus would do, sweeping him into an introduction with some Potions bigwig who, from what Severus could tell, had more gold than brains. It took him ten whole minutes to extricate himself rather rudely, by which time he was sure that Lily would be long gone, back to the impenetrable prison of Gryffindor Tower.

As he skirted out of the party and huffed his way up the stairs out of the dungeons, following the path he assumed Lily would take, he ran a hand over the phial in his pocket. He could take just another sip…

But when he reached the entrance hall, empty and quiet in the evening’s abandon, he stopped as quick as a gasp. For there sat Lily: perched alone at the base of the grand marble staircase, arms wrapped around her knees, gazing off into nothing. She hadn’t noticed him yet, and he relished the private moment to observe her in peace. The dark blue of her robes pooling at her feet like the tides at shore; the pale porcelain of her skin; the soft curls of red hair that tumbled past her shoulders; the perfect pucker of her lips; the wistful gaze of those brilliant green eyes…

One sip, and he could solve it all.

Just as he was about to give in, to double back and down the rest of the lucky potion, she turned that gaze upon him and he froze. There was an almost resigned, tired look on her face as she took in his presence.

“I wondered if I’d be seeing you.”

He stood very still, like a naturalist afraid of startling a skittish animal. No chance to sneak the potion now with those eyes fixed upon him, but never mind. He didn’t need it. This was Lily, his Lily. They were one in the same, she and he, made from the same stuff, forged in the same fire. He’d reminded her of that tonight. She remembered now, he could tell.

He took a step forward. “Hi.”

Lily looked away, her gaze falling back to the enormous oak doors that dominated the entrance hall directly across the stairs. For the tick of one torturous minute, Severus thought she was going to ignore him entirely, as she’d done for so many months now…but then, without looking at him, she said: “D’you remember the first time we walked through those doors?”

He did. How could he ever forget? It was the most consequential day of his life, the day he finally caught up with destiny. He remembered everything about it. The train ride from London with Lily, the little boats they took across the lake, the riotous stars glittering in their galaxies above…Severus had never seen such stars. The skies over Cokeworth had long been blotted out by industry. He’d thrown his head back as they sailed across the lake, smooth and glassy as obsidian, marveling at the constellations above, as though he might read this day, his destiny, written in the heavens alongside the tales of other great legends and heroes.

He remembered the way Lily had squeezed his hand as they reached the oak doors at the front of the castle, large and looming, and he knew that whatever waited on the other side of those doors, she would be there with him, by his side…

But he didn’t say any of that. All he said was: “Yes. I do.”

Lily nodded. “I was so scared on the way here. I mean, that whole train ride, I was just terrified. I doubt you remember, but Petunia made me cry on the platform, and then that run-in with Black and…by the time we crossed the lake and got to the castle, I was just sick to my stomach and wanted to go home. And then you squeezed my hand, and Hagrid knocked on those doors, and they swung open…and I — I just had this overwhelming feeling like…finally. Somewhere I belong.”

He watched her closely, intimately, hungrily. Her eyes were bright with moisture as she stared at the doors, but then she scoffed and shook her head. “What a joke,” she muttered, lowering her gaze to her knees. “I’ve never belonged anywhere less.”

Because you don’t belong with them, he wanted to shout. You belong with me. Not them, me! Forget their parties, and their clubs, and their Quidditch heroes. Me! Me, me, me!

But he didn’t say that. Instead, he took another tentative step towards her and said, “Can I sit?”

She glanced at him, then looked quickly away again. After a long moment of consideration, she gave a little one-shouldered shrug. “I suppose.”

He all but rushed forward before she changed her mind, and with a jerky, inelegant movement, he folded himself onto the marble step beside her. Still, she stared at her knees. It was intoxicating, this closeness. For so many months, he’d been forced to watch from afar, an invisible wall between them. And now she was beside him, and he could feel the heat from her skin.

Still, he hesitated to speak. He wished he had the Felix Felicis coursing through his veins; he hated himself for that weakness.

Finally, he said: “He’s a bastard.”

The faintest furrow of her brow. “What?”

“Potter. He’s a smug, self-obsessed bastard.”

“Don’t.”

“You heard what he said. What he thinks about — about people like us.”

Her temper flared, head snapping up and eyes locking on him like a vise. “And what, you came to rub it in my face? Thanks a lot.”

“No, I—”

“What d’you want, Severus?”

That was the million Galleon question, wasn’t it? What did he want? I want you, he thought. I want us. I want the world.

“I miss you,” was all he said. Lily looked down again, smoothing the folds of her robes. “And I think —” he began carefully, so carefully, “I think you’ve missed me too.”

The silence was excruciating.

Lily ran her finger along the silver embroidery of her robes, little constellations across a midnight sky. “So what if I have?” she said without looking at him. “I’m well-acquainted with grief, Severus. I know it’s not always rational.”

Severus frowned. “I’m not dead.”

Abruptly, she looked up at him, and he was as startled as ever to find himself in the beam of those green eyes. “You really don’t understand how much you hurt me, do you?”

“I never meant to hurt you, Lily. I’ve told you — I’m sorry. I know you don’t believe me, but — but I care about you. I care about you more than anyone in this whole school does, more than Potter does, you know that’s true…”

Some strange, indescribable emotion passed over her features, and then, to his great surprise, she laughed — a hollow, humorless laugh. “You know, I’d almost find that line convincing, if you hadn’t just joined a hate group whose sole purpose is to stamp out people like me.”

Severus winced. He’d hoped to avoid this topic. “That’s not their sole purpose.”

Another laugh. “Just a fun bonus, then?”

“No, I mean —” Severus struggled, he always got tongue-twisted when he tried to talk about this. “They’re not a hate group. That’s how it’s all being portrayed in the news, but it’s bigger than that. It’s not about — you don’t understand—”

“I really don’t, Sev.”

Despite the danger of her tone, a pleasurable tingle coursed down his spine at Sev. How he missed that name.

“So why don’t you explain it to me? Go on, you’ve obviously been dying to. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you lurking around all the time.”

He gaped at her, suddenly desperately wishing he had taken the Felix Felicis because he knew there was a correct answer here, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of what it was.

“Go on,” goaded Lily. “Explain to me how joining a band of murderers to promote blood supremacy is a great idea.”

“It’s not about blood supremacy.”

A derisive little laugh.

“It’s not,” he insisted. “If it were, would I be allowed in?”

“I suppose if you showed them your mother’s family tree, yeah. Isn’t that why you were looking it up last year? Scraping up every drop of pure blood you could find so you could join their little club?”

He shook his head, tried again, tried to find the words that Mulciber had spoken to him. They’d all sounded so convincing when Mulciber said them… “It’s not about that. It’s about — it’s about overthrowing the statute of secrecy! The whole reason you and I grew up miserable in Cokeworth — not belonging!”

“Don’t you dare,” said Lily, and her voice had gone very sharp. “Don’t you dare use that against me.”

“The Dark Lord wants to fix it, to make things better for —”

“God!” said Lily, and there was definite disgust in her voice. “Listen to you. ‘The Dark Lord.’ You’re really in it, aren’t you? You really think he’s going to make the world better? Better for who, Severus? Certainly not me. And shouldn’t ‘Dark Lord’ be your tip off that this is maybe not such a good idea? Dark Lord, Dark Magic, Dark plans?”

“You’ve never understood that,” muttered Severus. “Dark is just another branch of magic, doesn’t make it automatically evil—”

“No, murdering people makes it evil. Murdering Muggles, like my family. Your family. Come on, Sev, you’re not this stupid. Or maybe you are and I never actually knew you.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You know, I’ve been over here flaying myself for not forgiving you. Torturing myself, wondering what I did to make you turn out this way. There’s a part of me that wants so badly to forgive you, but you — you’re not even sorry.”

“I told you I was, a hundred times! I never meant to call you—”

“I’m not talking about that. Forget calling me a slur, forget your precious Dark Lord. Still pals with Corin Mulciber?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Everything, Sev. If you cared about me at all like you claim to, you’d never speak to him again.”

“That’s not fair. You talk to Potter—”

“Oh, for the love of God, if I have to hear you say his name one more time!” She stood up, the train of her robes rippling like the turbulent waves of an angry sea. “We’re not doing this. I’m done. Leave me alone, Severus, I’m begging you. Stop staring at me in class, stop following me around, just stay away.”

And she stormed up the stairs, away from him, leaving him behind.

He scrambled up, panic coursing through the veins that once boasted pure luck. “Lily!” he called after her, desperate, pleading. “Wait!”

She paused. “You know,” she said, without turning back, “Potter may be a prejudiced arse sometimes, but he’s not a Death Eater. Wish I could say the same for you.” She kept walking.

It was too much, listening to her defend Potter after what he’d done tonight. She was supposed to hate him! To see him for what he was!

“He’s making a fool of you!” The words were wrenched from Severus’s throat, raw and honest and unplanned.

Lily stopped and turned slowly back towards him. “Excuse me?”

“He’s making a fool of you. He did it before, and he’s doing it again. Do you think I haven’t noticed the way you carry on in class, the way you trail after him in the corridors, the way you made a spectacle of yourself with him tonight—”

“How dare you —”

“I thought you’d learned your lesson about him before. When he plastered your diary all over school!”

“That wasn’t Potter.”

“Of course it was! He loved it! The whole thing! The moment Black found your diary in his bag, he and Potter went to town, giggling as they dragged your name through the mud! And now you’re going to prance around with him at parties, pretending like that never happened?!”

“What did you just say?”

“He’s just going to humiliate you again, and don’t come running to me when—”

“What d’you mean, Black found my diary in his bag?”

Severus froze. He hadn’t meant to say that.

“Severus?” Her voice was ice. “How do you know that?”

“I — I saw —” he struggled to articulate a lie. The truth would hurt her, but he’d done it for her. He’d done everything for her. She wouldn’t listen back then, when he told her what Potter really was, just like she wouldn’t listen now. He’d had to show her, she had to understand, for her own good! And now yet again, she was taking Potter’s side…even after all that…

Lily’s hand covered her mouth, a silent gasp. “That was you.” Her voice was barely a whisper through her fingers. “Wasn’t it? That’s how Black got my diary. You gave it to him.”

“No.”

“You did. You put my diary in his bag, and then you watched what they did to me, what the whole school did to me, and you said nothing.”

“I was — they were — you had to see! What they are! You wouldn’t listen!” He hated the way his voice sounded like a beggar, desperate and wretched. Why did she always make him feel so pathetic?

Lily lowered her hand from her mouth, her lips drawn to a stern line. From her position several steps above, she appeared as a goddess glaring down at him from the heavens, cold, furious, unforgiving.

“Severus,” she said, her voice as brittle as all the things between them that were now broken. “We’re through.”

He should chase after her; he should swallow what little good luck he had left and follow her…force her to see reason…to understand…but he simply stood frozen at the foot of the stairs, the echoes of past mistakes rattling around his skull…taunting him…tormenting him…

Until a voice interrupted: “Hulloooo?”

Potter’s voice.

Severus whirled about at once, wrenching his wand from his robes, ready to duel — but no one was there.

“Does this thing even work?”

The slow dawn of realization, and Severus pulled the little square mirror from his pocket.

“Can you hear me? Anyone? Honestly…”

Chapter Text

JAMES

The Twelfth Day of Christmas

“Hulloooo?” said James, tapping the little compact mirror with his wand in frustration. He stood alone in twinkling lights of a dungeon corridor just outside the party. The snow still glistened overhead as it fell endlessly but never touched the floor. Lily was gone, long gone, and there was no point chasing after her. To distract himself from this miserable reality, James focused on the useless, stupid, little mirror.

“Does this thing even work? Can you hear me? Anyone? Honestly…”

But then a hand burst from behind and smacked the mirror from his grip. It fell to the floor with a clatter and a foot stomped firmly upon it. The crunch and shatter of glass.

James jerked his startled gaze up to see Sirius. “What the hell, Padfoot?”

“The mirrors are compromised,” said Sirius.

“What d’you mean, compromised?”

“You’ve missed a lot. Moony’s gone radio silent, and Pete’s missing.”

“What?”

“I think Snape has the mirror, Pete’s mirror.”

“Again with the what?! How?”

And Sirius told him about the failed heist attempt, how Peter could not find the Felix Felicis among Snape’s things, how Remus had spotted the snake slithering his way towards the dorm, how Peter had suddenly gone silent, and that was the last that Sirius knew.

“He was probably transforming back into a rat,” reasoned James.

“Sure,” said Sirius. “But then Remus clammed up too. Which he wouldn’t have done unless he saw something in the mirror."

James swore. “Snivellus.”

“We’ve got to find Pete,” said Sirius, a sharp urgency to his voice. “Remus can track him, but it’s not much good if he can’t communicate with us. I was about two minutes from breaking into the Slytherin dorms under the Cloak myself, but I figured I ought to find you first, in case your mirror started working and tipped old Sniv off.”

“We don’t know for sure he has it.”

 “He has it,” said a new voice, and both James and Sirius turned to see Peter slumping towards them, out of breath.