The Last Enemy: Dark Marks

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/31661573.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M, Gen
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter
Pettigrew & James Potter, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin, Remus Lupin &
Lily Evans Potter
Character: Lily Evans Potter, James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter
Pettigrew, Severus Snape, Marlene McKinnon, Regulus Black
Additional Tags: Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter),
Marauders, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Prequel, First
War with Voldemort, POV Multiple, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Minor
Violence, References to Illness, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Parent
Death, Grief/Mourning, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Wizarding
Politics (Harry Potter), Sexism, Angst, Angst and Humor, jily, Slow Burn,
Pining, minor wolfstar later in series, but reaaaal slow, alcohol and drug
use
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of The Last Enemy
Collections: Jily Awards 2021, Jily Awards 2022
Stats: Published: 2021-06-01 Updated: 2023-08-26 Words: 336,726 Chapters:
58/68

The Last Enemy: Dark Marks

by CH_Darling

Summary

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...

It’s 1976 and the events of the past term at Hogwarts have left their mark on all involved.
But it’s a new school year now, with new teachers, new rules, and new regrets. Yet as the
war clamoring outside the castle walls grows ever louder, the students inside will learn that
some marks are impossible to wash away.

Dark Marks is the second book of The Last Enemy series, which follows the lives of the
heroes and villains of the First Wizarding War from 1975-1981.

Watch the trailer!

 A Snake in the Garden
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

For this corruptible

must put on incorruption
(1 Corinthians 15:53)

The line it is drawn, the curse it is cast

The slow one now will later be fast
As the present now will later be past
(The Times They Are A Changin', Bob Dylan)

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 End Notes

Welcome to Book Two of The Last Enemy. We made it!!

A couple of quick notes before we move forward…

1. If you are just stumbling upon this fic now…welcome! I’d highly recommend you
read book one The Howling Nights first. It’ll make a whole lot more sense that way.

2. As of now, I am planning to post one chapter a week on Tuesdays. I know with

TLE1 I posted twice weekly, but I had that whole book pretty much finished before
posting and also had so much time due to Lockdown 1.0. This is very much no longer
the case, boo hiss. Though I do have much of TLE2 written, it is still quite rough so I
will have quite a lot of work to do before posting each chapter. I’m hoping I can stick
to a consistent posting schedule...I’ll do my best!! ;)

3. If you’ve read The Howling Nights, you’ll already know this, but just in case: This
is a Marauders-centric Jily fic. It’s told through multiple POVs, including Severus
Snape (as seen here). I do try to treat all characters with care and nuance. That said,
this is not a story that portrays Snape as an innocent victim or hero. (Though hopefully
not exclusively as a villain, either!) Please don’t go into this expecting a Pro-Snape
story and get mad at me later. :)

4. The M rating is for strong language and slightly darker themes. There will not
however be any explicit smut or gory violence. I will always try to use content
warnings for any questionable content, but if there's something you're specifically
concerned about, please don't hesitate to reach out to me. I'm nice, I promise. :)

5. Enjoy!!! And find me on tumblr if you wanna! (chdarling)

 The Vicar's Daughter
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 End Notes

 Number Two
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 End Notes

Don't worry, James will make his appearance very soon ;)

 The Gift

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.”
 Dear Mr. Moony
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 begin 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 End Notes

hey what up, surprise bonus chapter this week because I decided in retrospect the
beginning summer chapters are meant to be read more or less together and spreading it
out over five weeks was getting exhausting and I just wanted to finish up Sad Girl
Summer 1976 and move along to Autumnal Pining. So here’s chapter 5, just cause.

Also, I made mock ups of the boys' letters a few months ago for fun...you can see them
here. :)
 A Bit of Luck

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 he 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 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 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 a 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 Chaser, 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.
 Unforgivable
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 End Notes

Just a quick note to say that I have been horribly delayed in replying to comments, but
please know that I read and appreciate them all so so much, and once I catch up on my
life I will catch up here, haha.

I love you!!
 Cartography for Beginners
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 End Notes

why yes James IS judging all y'all for your Flormes nonsense ;)

also, I PROMISE those coveted Lily & Sirius & Remus chapters are coming up next.
Nice and long too. <3
 Friends Like These
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 prefects 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 time 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 End Notes

idk it felt like a good week for a bonus chapter.

for the record, I'm planning to stick with chapters weekly on Tuesdays, but every so
often as I'm able, I may drop an extra in here and there. ;)
 The Wolf Again

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 this 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.
 A Better Black

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 somnolence 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.
 Five for Five
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 End Notes

A shortish chapter this week, and I'm posting a little early because I probably won't
have time tomorrow! Thanks so much to everyone for reading and leaving such
wonderful comments. I continue to be shamefully late at my replies but please know
how much I appreciate you!!

There's a slight chance I may be late on next week's chapter due to some boring old
IRL obligations...I'll keep you posted on tumblr but just a head's up. <3

Edit 8/17/21: Next chapter is coming very soon, I promise. Hopefully tonight although
maybe tomorrow. I've been very swamped with work the past few weeks, but I haven't
abandoned you!
 Bad Blood
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 End Notes

Thanks for your patience with me on this one, folks. Life has been a bit crazy the past
few weeks, but hopefully things will calm down a little in the future! I should at least
be back on track for next week, because that chapter's completely finished. :)
 The Punchline

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 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 Phinn 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
James 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 paying 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.

 Glitter and Gold
Chapter Notes

Content note: The first scene of this chapter describes the aftermath of a violent attack.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

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 stopped. 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…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 End Notes

If anyone needs me, I'll be in full Victorian mourning for my one true love, Alphard
Black.

p.s. next chapter is one of my personal faves.

 The Last Word
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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. November third. “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 a 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 the 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 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 your 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 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 End Notes

I'm going to hate myself when I fall behind schedule but I have no chill and I wanted
to share this chapter asap...so enjoy this 10k bonus chapter on a Thursday night ;)
 The Public Eye
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 End Notes

Chapter End Notes

we interrupt your jily drama for a brief moment for Regulus to scowl at everyone...

ok back to jily drama

 The Abyss
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 End Notes

ok! so! this chapter was originally much longer but I decided to split it into two
sections and add an alternate POV chapter in between, so if you're wondering why one
of the snippets I posted on tumblr isn't here...it's coming up soon ;)

However despair not, I am planning (hoping) to have another chapter out later this
week. Can't 100% promise, but aiming for Friday. ;)
bet you can guess whose POV lollll
 Prawnsaganza
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 End Notes

hi my name is CH and i detest prawns. (not prongs)

 Mudblood
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 End Notes

Hello my loves! A quick little update on my posting schedule for the next few
weeks…

So, the next few chapters are very closely linked (but separated due to switching
POVs), so I’ve decided that I am going to try to post two chapters this week and next.
They’re meant to be read together, so I don’t want a full week between each chapter.

However, after that I am going to take a wee little break, probably just a week or two,
to work on future chapters and also catch up on some very important IRL stuff that
unfortunately needs my attention. :)

As always, thank you thank you THANK YOU for all your love and support for this
story. Your comments and kudos bring so much joy to my life, and I truly appreciate
you. ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Next few chapters are pure jily, so enjoy, and then I’ll see you soon ;)
 The Professor v. Evans

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.”
 A House United
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 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 End Notes

sajgdsalg what is an update schedule idk.

posting this early because it's short and sweet and I no longer have any semblance of
patience at all, apparently. Anyway, Chapter 23 might not be out on right on Tuesday,
since this was supposed to be Tuesday's chapter, but it'll definitely land some time this
week. :)

Then we'll conclude this little jily spree (for now), and I'm going to take a 2 week
break, and then onward to Christmas!!!
 A Little Menial Labor
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 End Notes

Hello my loves!! Here we are! Thank you so much for all your incredible
comments/messages over the past few chapters. Sorry I'm behind as always at
replying, but please know how much I appreciate you!!! I have been so excited to get
to this point and share these last few chapters with you, so thank you so much for
reading and for following this little jily journey with me. It means the world. ❤️❤️❤️

As noted previously, I am going to take a 2 week break following this chapter. The
next chapter will be posted on Tuesday, October 19th.

Lots of love!!!
 An Oath Renewed
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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, feeling slightly 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.

“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 End Notes

And we're back!! Thanks for being so patient with me, loves <3
 Forest for the Trees
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 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 told her. “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 End Notes

Made it on Tuesday by the skin of my teeth!!

Thanks for the patience, life has been a lot this week, but I was very excited to get this
weird little chapter to you.

p.s This chapter is dedicated to the tumblr anon with the Sight who had a dream about
Lily having a dream about James and prawns. I could not adequately respond to your
ask at the time due to spoilers, but please understand how maniacally I was giggling.
Classic CH_Darling, indeed.
 Davey Schmavey
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 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 End Notes

Hello my loves! Thank you so much for reading as always!! <3

Just a heads up that I likely will not be posting a chapter next Tuesday as I'm going to
be traveling.

Lots of love!!
 A Fool's Errand
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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, however. 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 so 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 butter beers 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 of for you.”

Lily followed his gaze to see an elaborate display: Fresh garlands hung around a stack of Sleekazy
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 Sleekazy’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 the 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 End Notes

Chapter End Notes

Three things!

1. I love you!

2. I love you, and here's my quarterly apology for being so completely behind on
replying to comments. I just want to make sure you know that I read and cherish every
single one and I appreciate you SO much. Honestly, you bring so much joy to my life,
motivate me when I feel like quitting, and just make this whole projects such a
pleasure. I'm just a mess who can barely keep up with my life right now.

3. Probably going forward I will be posting on TLE Tuesdays in the evening Eastern
Standard Time. I'm just too busy during the day now, tragically. But...yay for Tuesday
evenings? lmao.
 Something Eternal

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 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.”
 Apologies, Apologies
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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’s 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 End Notes

Hello! I am not dead! Sorry for the little disappearing act last week, life has been a
little wild lately. I so appreciate everyone's patience and understanding. <3

We are going to be hopping POV quite a lot over the next few chapters, and I am still
finishing them up, so I have no idea what an update schedule will look like in the
coming weeks. But my goal is to get all the Christmas-time chapters (of which there
are quite a few) out before Christmas. After which we will be taking a "mid season
break" so I can get ahead on the second half, and also just rest/deal with my real life
because hoo boy I'm a little tired.

Anyway! Very excited to be starting this Christmas romp, and much more to come
soon!!
 One for the Money
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 End Notes

Yes, I did that, I made you sit through another POV after that cliffhanger. But James's
chapter is coming very, very soon...and a few other people too ;)
 Two for the Show

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.

 Go, Rat, Go
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

PETER

Go, Rat, Go
Did you know that a rat’s sense of smell was 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 End Notes

aaaaaaaaaaaay
 My Old Friend, Felix
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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 brand 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 End Notes

 The Twelfth Day of Christmas
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

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.

“Wormtail!” said Sirius, and James thought that perhaps only he noticed the faint unclenching of
Sirius’s hands, the relief that spread across his whole demeanor. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Peter scowled. “Escaping, wasn’t I? I only just got away before Snape cast his revealing spell. I
made a break for the door while he was distracted. It was all I could do.”

“Does Homenum revelio work on Animagi?” asked James curiously. He’d never considered it
before.

“Fuck if I know,” said Peter. “But I wasn’t about to wait around and find out. Anyway,” he added
miserably. “He has the mirror. I — well, I transformed right as he got the door open. He didn’t see
me! But…I forgot the mirror when I transformed. I didn’t have much time, okay? And then…then
Snape picked it up. I saw him.”

“Fucking hell,” said Sirius. He turn sharply away and gave a vicious kick at the air. James knew
that the loss of the mirror was personal to Sirius. He’d invented them, after all, but more
importantly, they had been his lifeline for many a summer stuck in Hell. The loss would sting. He
waited on edge, expecting Sirius to start shouting, but Sirius just rolled his shoulders and let out a
long exhale. Then he turned back to face them.

“Right,” he said. “Wormtail, you head back to Gryffindor Tower right away. We need to make sure
Remus knows not to use the mirror. He seems to have figured that out, but all the same. Prongs,
your mirror’s out of commission — didn’t work anyway, bloody thing — and I’ve put a Silencing
Charm on mine. That’ll do for now. The heist was a bust, but we might as well finish off the rest of
the plan.”

And so Peter scurried away and James and Sirius returned to the party, heading in opposite
directions, as planned. James got himself a glass of champagne and found a nice stretch of wall
against which to perch while he waited for Sirius’s signal. Unfortunately, there was not much to do
until then, which meant that his brain was free to ruminate on all the rotten things he did not want it
to.

Tell me, Potter, is it torture for you? Knowing she wants nothing to do with you?

James sipped his champagne and watched as the dancers moved in wide, elegant circles. He tried
not to think of Lily and the way she’d thrown her head back in laughter as they awkwardly
mimicked the same dance.

You are doing the exact thing that Severus did to me about my blood status, and I — I want nothing
to do with it!

It pained him to admit, even privately, even secretly, that Snape was right: She wanted nothing to
do with him.

It was torture.

“James.” He looked up to see Florence Fawley approaching, looking very pretty with the silver
snowflakes pinned in her hair. “Have you seen Lily?” she asked.

“Not in a while,” said James, in what he hoped was a careless sort of way, as though the question
meant nothing to him.

“She took off after Anson arrived, and I haven’t seen her since.” Florence fretted with the clasp of a
delicate silver bracelet that graced her wrist. “I didn’t know,” she added abruptly, glancing at
James with an agonized expression.

“Know what?”

“That Anson had a girlfriend. I had no idea. He never told me. I can’t believe he didn’t. I mean, we
haven’t exactly stayed in touch since he went off and joined Puddlemere, but you’d think he
would’ve told me. Anyway, I just feel awful. Lily’s probably furious with me.”

“No,” said James quickly, because Florence looked so sad, and after all, he knew that it was not
Florence with whom Lily was furious. “I ran into her shortly after that. She’s not cross with you at
all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Florence exhaled a sigh of relief. “Good. Okay.” She cast him a sideways glance. “Can I ask you a
rather gossipy question?”

James arched an ironic eyebrow in response. “Go on.”

“Are Lily and Sirius dating?”

At this, James nearly choked on his champagne. “W-what?”

“I heard some people talking about it just now. Apparently Sirius told Clarence Smith that he was
her boyfriend, but I thought…well, I don’t know.”

“That’s not — no,” said James. “If Sirius said that, he must’ve been joking. Not that Lily’s a joke,”
he added hastily. “Just — they’re not dating. Or if they are, this party has been quite eventful in a
very short period of time.”

Florence laughed. “I thought it seemed a bit far-fetched,” she admitted. “I figured she would’ve
told me. Although apparently no one else does.” A slight laugh, a tiny shake of the head. “And of
course, the gossip in this school has never been the most reliable. More quantity than quality. After
all, half the school thinks that you and Lily are dating…”

“Which we’re definitely not,” he confirmed at once, lest that rumor start circulating again and
make matters even worse. “We’re just friends.”

Barely, he thought with just the faintest touch of bitterness.

Florence looked pleased, and James was not so daft as to not recognize why. He hadn’t forgotten
that she’d once expressed a desire to date him. That had been months ago; she’d done nothing
about it, and neither had he, and that had been that. But all the same, he’d carried that knowledge
around in his back pocket, a balm to his battered ego.

He sometimes wondered why he hadn’t acted on it. He liked Florence. She was pretty and pleasant
and sweet, and she loved Quidditch and…and well, there were a hundred reasons he should date
her. But something had always tripped him up.

Lily. Things with Lily had always tripped him up.

“I want nothing to do with it,” she’d shouted as she’d stormed away from the party. Away from
him. And she meant him. She wanted nothing to do with him.

Nothing.

He couldn’t keep doing this. Over and over and over again. Giving himself just enough hope to
keep going, then fucking it all up in the end. Rinse, repeat.

There was nothing between them. Never was, never will be.

He opened his mouth to say something to Florence — precisely what he had not yet worked out,
but often he just let his tongue lead the way — but before he could speak, Sirius caught his eye
from across the dungeon and waved him over.

“Will you excuse me just a moment?” he said to Florence, and he strolled over to Sirius as
innocently as he could. “All right?”

“Five minutes and go,” said Sirius under his breadth.

“Roger that.”

And when he turned back to the space where Florence had stood, she was gone.

The night may have been a disaster, but the boys’ final spectacle, the Twelfth Day of Christmas,
was a roaring success. The ‘roar,’ of course, came mostly from the gasps and shouts as partygoers
slid and stumbled across the slick floor. For no one had expected the dance floor to suddenly
transform into a massive ice-skating rink — certainly not the dancers, a few of whom took their
twirling to new, acrobatic heights. Nor did anyone expect the ice to continue to spread all across
the dungeon, until there was not an inch of stone that wasn’t covered, all the guests slipping and
sliding about — shrieks of laughter, shouts of fury. The Supreme Mugwump of Something Stuffy
fell face-first into a tiered cake, which was rather wonderful to behold. Lily would’ve laughed if
she’d been there.

James, however, watched the chaotic scene unfold from his vantage against the wall with hardly a
smirk across his face. He could not help but look at the night as little more than a crushing defeat
 — on just about every front: They did not get the Felix Felicis. Snape had their mirror. Lily
thought James was just as bad as Snape. She wanted nothing to do with him.

“I take it this is your handiwork?”

James pulled himself out of the mire of self-pity and looked up to see Florence gliding prettily
towards him. She appeared to have transfigured her heels into ice skates. Clever.

“Allegedly,” said James, and Florence laughed her light, musical little laugh.

“Well, allegedly, you’ve certainly made this week much more interesting.”

“I’m here to serve. Allegedly.”

She laughed again. “Listen, James…this is really forward of me, but for Merlin’s sake, it’s 1976,
isn’t it? I don’t see why I shouldn’t make the first move. Would you want to grab a drink with me
sometime? Whenever the next Hogsmeade weekend is, perhaps?”

James stared at her. He opened his mouth but couldn’t seem to form any words.

Florence suddenly looked incredibly embarrassed. “It’s okay if you don’t, of course. I totally
understand—”

“No,” James quickly interjected, furious with himself. “No, hang on — I do, I just —” He took a
deep breath and gathered himself. “Sorry. I’ve never been asked out before. Usually, I’m on the
other end…and getting turned down. But — yes. I would like to do that. With you.”

Florence beamed. “Okay, then. It’s a date.”

“Yeah,” agreed James. “It’s a date.”

Chapter End Notes

brb changing my name and joining witness protection. It’s been fun, folks!

…actually there are three more Christmas-time chapters to come. Due to the fact that
tomorrow I am getting on a plane to go herd toddlers, I do not think I will get them all
out before Christmas at this point, but maybe New Years or a little later.

But I swear I’m not leaving you on a Flormes note before my break, so don’t burn my
crops yet ;)

ALSO! One more thing!! I was utterly overwhelmed today by the Jily Awards results.
Dark Marks won Favorite Canon, Favorite James Characterization, and Favorite Lily
Characterization, while The Howling Nights won Favorite Fic of the Year (wtf?!). I
am beyond floored, and just so, so grateful to all of you for sharing this story with me
and for making this such a lovely, joyful part of my life. Thank you. I truly love you.
<3

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate! I wish you all a safe, healthy, and happy
holiday. Much love.
- CH
 Memento Malfoy

Regulus

Memento Malfoy
Regulus Black stood stiff-backed before the oval mirror that hung on the wall of his bedroom at
Grimmauld Place, staring at his own reflection as though he expected the image in the glass to
surprise him. It did not. It was just him: dark hair, gray eyes, pale face. All his life, people had told
Regulus how much he resembled his older brother, but he didn’t see it. They were, in his mind, as
distinct as two entirely different species.

He straightened the collar of his dress robes. They were a new set, different from the deep emerald
green he’d worn to Slughorn’s party just last week. These new robes were purple, so dark they
were almost black, like the moment dusk dipped into night. They were handsome, high quality, and
very, very expensive. Sometimes Regulus felt a bit like one of the silver punch bowls Kreacher
kept high on the shelves of the kitchen pantry: occasionally pulled out and polished, but rarely of
much use to anyone. Tonight, however, Regulus had a use, and so polished he must be.

It was Christmas Eve, and even though the earth had fundamentally shifted — cracked, even —
beneath the feet of the family this time last year, tradition changed for no one, and the annual
Christmas party at Black Hall required Regulus’s attendance. It would be his first proper social
event as the heir of the Blacks. There would be photographers. There would be talk.

He readjusted his cravat, smoothed his hair, and raised his chin in a manner of which his mother
would approve. Appearances were important. Appearances were everything.

Satisfied with his work, Regulus turned on his heel to leave his bedroom, but as he did so, his gaze
caught momentarily on the Black family crest centered above his bed. Toujours Pur. Regulus had
painted it himself years ago, and it had taken him hours to complete. He’d been quite proud of the
finished product, but Sirius had mocked him rather viciously for it. Of course, by that point in time,
Sirius had decided he hated everything about their family; he had chosen to reject the traditions,
values, and beliefs under which he’d been raised, and he disdained Regulus for not following the
same crooked path he carved.

Below the crest, a smattering of newspaper clippings still hung where Regulus had pinned them up
last year. He’d collected them over the summer prior, snippets and headlines from the Prophet,
tiny glimpses into the glamorous mystery of the wizards who called themselves Death Eaters.
Regulus knew only a little about the Death Eaters, only what he’d read in the papers, what he’d
heard whispered in awed tones from the corners of the Slytherin common room. Or what he’d
heard Lucius say, of course. He was fairly certain Narcissa’s fiancé was himself a proper Death
Eater, although no official confirmation had ever been offered beyond a sly smile or a wink at a
party. But it had been Lucius who’d brought the subject up at many a dinner party or tea, who
insisted that Death Eaters were the solution to all of Wizarding Britain’s problems, who assured
Aunt Druella that they were fighting for the honor of the ancient pure-blood families, that they
were protecting Black family traditions in a way that the cowards in government refused to do.

Regulus’s eyes lingered on the newspaper clippings a moment longer as he recalled how angry
Sirius had been last year when he’d found them.

“What the hell is this, Reg? Some sort of shrine? What are you, a Death Eater groupie?”

But what did Sirius know about anything? Sirius dismissed Regulus as being trapped under
Narcissa’s thumb, but wasn’t his older brother merely parroting the views of his precious Potter?
Following him around like a whipped dog, doing everything the other boy said, believing all his
lies…Regulus had grown to hate James Potter over the years, even more so in the last twelve
months. Why shouldn’t he? That blood traitor had stolen his brother. All of Sirius’s problems
began when he’d met Potter at school. The boy had corrupted him. Brainwashed him. Convinced
him to throw away his own family like they were nothing. Sirius had once had the gall to call
Regulus weak-willed, but what was weaker than turning your back on your family?

Nothing, that’s what.

So why should Regulus listen to Sirius about anything at all?

With a quick tug of his gaze away from the family crest, Regulus shut his bedroom door with a
crisp click and descended the many stairs of Grimmauld Place to the kitchen, where his mother and
father would undoubtedly be waiting to Floo to Black Hall for the party.

Upon arrival in the kitchen, however, Regulus found no one but Kreacher, who was fussing over a
cumbersome pile of gifts before the hearth.

“Have they gone through already?” he asked the elf. Kreacher assured him that his parents had not,
so Regulus took a seat at the wooden table and waited, wishing he’d brought a book down. A copy
of the Evening Prophet sat folded at the other end of the table; Regulus retrieved it and began to
read.

The front page showed a photograph of a harried politician under the headline: PROTESTER
ARRESTED AFTER BAT-BOGEY ATTACK.

Regulus skimmed the article with mild interest. The gist of it was that some foolish person decided
to express his displeasure with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement by hitting their Junior
Assistant with a rather severe Bat-Bogey Hex. Given the fate of the last Head of the department,
however, the current Head, Bartemius Crouch, had decided to treat this little hex as an
assassination attempt and promptly threw the man in Azkaban to ‘await trial.’

“Where’s your mother?” snapped a voice, and Regulus jolted back to attention. His father was
standing at the foot of the stairs, glowering around the kitchen in which Walburga Black was
conspicuously absent.

“I h-haven’t seen her.”

“Ridiculous woman,” muttered his father. “Absolutely childish. Well, go on, go collect her.” This
last line was directed at Regulus. “We’ll be late.”

His mother’s bedroom was on the third floor of the house, locked away behind an imposing door
of dark wood. Her lair, Sirius had always called it with a sneer, and though Regulus resented his
brother’s constant need to needle, even he had to admit there was some truth to the comparison.
Walburga and Orion Black kept their own rooms on separate floors of the house — these days,
most of their interactions were strictly for the public’s consumption — and Walburga would often
retreat to the sanctity of her bedroom whenever she felt she had been wronged.

Ever since Sirius had run away, she hardly ever left.

Regulus took a deep breath and rapped a fist upon the door. Silence greeted him in a long stretch,
but then a voice croaked: “Kreacher? Is that you?”

“No, mother,” said Regulus, and he dared to push the door open just a crack. “It’s me.”

When no response came, he pushed the door open further still; the carpet scuffed beneath the heavy
wood. Inside, the room was dark. Thick emerald curtains were drawn over the windows,
smothering the streetlights outside. His mother was lying in bed, a small platoon of pillows
propped behind her. She was clothed not for a party but in her dressing gown, and she wore a silk
sleep mask over her eyes, evidently to block out any sliver of light that dared creep through. In the
shadows of the looming canopy bed, she looked small, which was a word one rarely used to
describe Walburga Black.

“Mummy?” he tried again.

Walburga fumbled with the silk mask, lifting it above one eye and peering at Regulus as though
dazzled and pained by the burst of light from the hallway behind him. She pushed herself up
slightly, one visible eye widening in shock. “Sirius…?

“No, it’s me. Regulus.”

“Oh.” His mother sunk back into the embrace of pillows, her disappointment palpable through the
gloom. “Of course. Of course. I’m not well.”

“We’re leaving for the party now.”

“I’m not going.”

“But—”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m not well.” She tugged the mask from her face and hurled it across the
room. “Orion won’t miss me. He can go cavort with that Rosier whore of his as he pleases. What
does it matter to him that he disgraces the family name? No one cares about the Black family
honor but me. Like father, like son, I suppose…”

As her tirade continued, Regulus noticed on the bedside table a crystal decanter in which the last
dregs of some amber liquid lurked at the bottom, an empty glass glistening in its shadow.

“My poor heart,” whispered his mother. “Beaten, broken, trodden upon, shamed and disgraced. I do
not deserve what they have done to me. Fools and cowards, twisting the knife…”

“Mother…”

Walburga’s glazed eyes snapped back to focus as she glowered at her second son. “Tell your father
I’m not coming, and he can field awkward questions as he sees fit.”

Regulus’s father did not take the news exceptionally well. “Dratted, despicable woman,” he spat.
Then he downed the rest of his brandy and walked through the fireplace without another word,
leaving Regulus in the kitchen, alone but for the spark of green flames.

Briefly, he flirted with the idea of following his mother’s example and simply returning to his
bedroom to spend the evening in peace, but he knew that would not be tolerated. Besides, Cissy
would be disappointed. So he selected a small fistful of Floo powder, tossed it into the flames, and
stepped through the grate to Black Hall.

The glamour of these sort of gatherings had long since worn off on Regulus. His cousins did a
remarkable job in making every inch of the house glitter, but it was nothing he hadn’t seen before.
The food was top of the line, the drinks bubbly and expensive, and he supposed the guests were
having a good time, but to Regulus it was all about duty. He had to make an appearance, talk to the
correct people, and then he could go home. It was not fun, perhaps, but it was manageable. He had
just done the same thing at Slughorn’s Christmas party last week, and that had been an even less
desirable evening, as here at least he was on home turf. He knew the secret places to which he
could escape. At Hogwarts, he’d been surrounded by his fellow students, all whispering and
gossiping about his brother…

Then again, he supposed he should expect much of the same here tonight.

“Regulus, darling! I didn’t see you come in!” He turned to see Narcissa hurrying over to him. She
looked lovely as usual, dressed in robes of green velvet that draped delicately off her shoulders.
Her pretty face was pinched in concern. “Why are you all alone? Where are your mother and
father?”

“Father is…somewhere,” said Regulus, waving a hand vaguely at the partygoers. He did not think
that Narcissa knew — or allowed herself to know — about what was now an open secret in the
Black household: Orion’s affair with Aunt Druella, Narcissa’s mother. Regulus certainly wasn’t
going to be the one to tell her. “Mummy isn’t coming.”

“Oh, dear,” said Narcissa.

“She’s not feeling well,” he added quickly, almost defensively.

“No,” agreed Narcissa. “Poor darling Aunt Walburga. She’s had such a difficult time recently…”
A soft, sad, little sigh, then: “Well, do come along! There are so many people I want to introduce
you to!”

She led him deeper into the depths of the party, and he listened in a somewhat detached way to the
abrasive laughter, chatter, and chumminess that surrounded them. Regulus had wondered whether
the recent death of Uncle Alphard might put something of a damper on the holiday celebrations —
it was technically, until very recently, his uncle’s house, after all, his uncle’s party — but no one
seemed particularly troubled to be drinking a dead man’s wine. Regulus recognized quite a few of
the guests from the funeral. He’d been pulled out of school to attend, allowed to take a portkey to
Black Hall for purposes of standing stone-faced beside a hole in the ground while women who’d
never truly known his beast of an uncle sobbed around him. No one had sobbed harder than
Narcissa, her face buried in Lucius’s robes as her fiancé_ stroked her hair, his expression one of
solemn stability.

Narcissa seemed to have recovered fully in time for the party, however, for now she was in
perfectly elevated spirits, leading him by the elbow as she pointed out important guests throughout
the room. Of course, all the guests Narcissa deemed important held very little charm for Regulus.
They were mostly comprised of a young women, all of whom eyed Regulus with an attention that
made him uncomfortable.

Mercifully, they did not linger for too long in any of these little gatherings. He had the impression
that Narcissa was showing him off, and he did not much like it. He was about to gently tell her off
when she swept him towards a circle of women who immediately enveloped them into their chat.

“Ah, Cissy, how wonderful to see you!” cried one of the women. After a moment, Regulus placed
her as Georgiana Selwyn, one of Narcissa’s contemporaries, a twenty-something woman who had
married a man twice her age. Well, sometimes remaining Toujours Pur was logistically
complicated.

“Georgie, sweetheart, it’s been too long!” cooed Narcissa in return. “You remember my cousin,
Regulus?”

“Of course, of course. Bunny and I were just chatting about Sluggy’s Christmas party.”

Narcissa sighed. “Sadly, Lucius and I couldn’t make it this year, but I’m sure it was lovely. Dear
old Horace always puts on quite the spectacle.”

“Not nearly as much spectacle as that brother of yours,” Georgiana said in a cozy aside to Regulus,
a sly glint in her eye.

Regulus froze, but Narcissa answered for him. “I’m sure we have no idea what you mean,” she
said, her voice suddenly cold.

Georgiana missed the warning signal and continued on, her laugh light and gleeful as she detailed
Sirius’s disgraceful behavior at Slughorn’s party. “He was dancing with a Mudblood. In front of
everyone. Quite provocatively too.”

Regulus kept his face as cold and expressionless as Narcissa’s, but inside he was squirming. Of
course, he’d seen Sirius dancing with that chatty Mudblood at Slughorn’s party. Everyone had.
He’d had to endure the whispers of his classmates, the snide comments, the disgusted stares. He’d
had to watch from the sideline as his brother flaunted his disregard for his family, his ancestry, his
class. He’d had to watch all this, knowing that Sirius had chosen that over his own brother. It had
been awful.

“Really, Georgiana,” said Narcissa at last. “I’m surprised at you. Of course, we all know you were
never blessed with brains or beauty, but I had thought you possessed at least a tiny bit of tact.”

Georgiana opened her mouth in shock, but no words came out. Her companions tittered, hands
pressed lightly to their lips.

“Come on, Reggie darling, I see some more suitable companions across the room.” She threaded
her arm through his elbow and they left the slighted Georgiana behind. “Silver lining,” said
Narcissa when they were out of earshot. “We’ll know not to waste the parchment on that invitation
next year.”

Regulus smirked. For all her prettiness and propriety, Narcissa’s wrath once invoked was swift and
brutal. It was one of the things he admired about her. Georgiana would not be invited to another
Black family gathering ever again. Indeed, she would be lucky to scrape an invitation to some
common half-blood’s birthday tea. Word would get around of the pitiful woman’s social disgrace,
and no one would dare speak of Sirius Black within earshot of Narcissa or Regulus again.

“Pity, though,” said Narcissa. “Her younger sister Isolde is rather lovely. I had thought she might
be a good match for you.”

Regulus nearly choked. “Isolde Greengrass? She’s been dating Adam Avery for years.”

Narcissa laughed. “They’re hardly betrothed, Reggie dear. Isolde’s a clever girl, she’d ditch him in
a minute if she thought she had a chance with you.”

“Well…she doesn’t.” Regulus had about as much interest in dating Isolde Greengrass as he did his
Great-Aunt Elladora.

“It’s all right to be picky, you have time, but you will have to marry someone eventually, my
darling. Now is the time to shop around a bit, you know.” And with this rather horrifying statement
delivered with utmost cheeriness, she gave his hand an affectionate pat. “Now, I see some of your
friends over there. I’m afraid I must go greet the other guests. Do have fun, won’t you?”

Of course, they were not his friends. They were just other pure-bloods of the same approximate
age, and Regulus had very little to say to them. As soon as Narcissa vanished into the crowd, he did
just the same, though in the other direction. He wandered rather aimlessly through the party,
nodding at the occasional guest who merited his respect, until he found a spot by the stairs where
he could linger without attracting too much attention. It was also, he realized a moment later, a
prime location to eavesdrop on those descending from the upper floors.

“Yes, I daresay our nuptials are a most welcome event for the Black family.” Regulus glanced up
to see Lucius Malfoy walking alongside Xavier Travers, a man Regulus had only met a few times
before. “First Andromeda, now Sirius…they’ve had nothing but scandal since Bellatrix’s
uninspiring-but-respectable marriage to Lestrange.”

“I am sure the Malfoy name is most welcome,” said Travers.

“I should think so. I flatter myself that I have been a safe harbor for dear Narcissa through these
trying years. She remains unsullied, of course. I would never dream of holding the sins of her sister
and her cousin against her…but one does worry for the boy.”

Regulus felt his cheeks grow hot, and he prayed that Lucius would not turn and see him loitering
there.

“Not to change the subject,” said Travers, “but can you believe they invited Crouch? After
everything that man is trying to do?”
“It was my idea,” said Lucius smoothly.

“Yours? Surely you loathe the man as much as I do.”

“I think it is wise to keep a close eye on one’s enemies, and not to make a show of loathing popular
politicians.”

“Popular with who?” sneered Travers. “The pure-bloods hate him, the Mudbloods hate him. I
don’t see much of a political future for the chap.”

“I disagree.”

“Didn’t you read about his aid getting hit with a Bat-Bogey Hex at a press conference?”

“Oh, he’s controversial now, but he’ll be popular in the years to come. Mark my words, Xavier. It
will be wise to keep on Mr. Crouch’s good side.”

The two men disappeared into the crowd; Regulus remained still, chewing on that conversation as
he might a tough bit of meat. He didn’t like Lucius Malfoy very much. He felt he ought to — he
wanted to — but something about the man grated on him. He would never say as much to Cissy, of
course, for she was absolutely besotted by him, but it ruffled Regulus’s proverbial feathers to hear
a mere Malfoy speak as though his name were a boon to the House of Black. He was the lucky
one! Had Andromeda and Sirius really brought the name of Black so low?

There, in the shadow of Black Hall’s grand staircase, the truth of his burden bore down upon him
with spectacular clarity. Though Regulus may occasionally buckle under the weight of the
responsibility, he understood the severity of his task. It was up to him now: to restore it all, to keep
the name of Black above all others, to preserve the dignity of his family and his ancestral line.

It was his burden, and his alone.

Eventually, the desire for a moment of solitude outweighed the burden of duty, and Regulus
slipped away from the festivities down a familiar corridor that led to Black Hall’s library. The
library was far enough away from the main rooms that he suspected it would be empty of even the
more adventurous partygoers, and indeed as he pushed through the heavy oak door into that
muffled quiet that books seemed to breed, it appeared suitably so.

It was an arresting room, a long gallery sort of space with double-height shelves stocked from floor
to ceiling. The tall, arched windows looked out over the swimming pond, and far in the distance,
under a spill of moonlight, the columns of the east garden’s folly could be spotted on a hill. There
were more books here than Regulus felt a person could ever in their life read, though inexplicably
Sirius had attempted such a task the summer before last, holed away in here, flipping through tome
after tome, in search of what Regulus still didn’t know.

“What are you looking for?”

“None of your business.”

“It’s a secret?”
“No, it’s just none of your business, Reg. Go away. Ergh, that’s repulsive. Who would want a spell
that did that?”

Regulus shook his head. It was too easy to be swept away by memory. There was no point to it, no
point at all to lingering in the past. It was the future that was in jeopardy now.

The abbreviated thud of a heavy book hitting the floor interrupted these thoughts, and Regulus
turned sharply to see the hunched figure of a boy step out from behind one of the shelves, looking
deeply chagrined. After a moment, Regulus recognized the scrawny, straw-haired boy as Barty
Crouch, son of the increasingly infamous politician. He was a year younger than Regulus, and the
last time Regulus had seen him, Barty had looked equally flustered, delivering to Regulus an
invitation to one of Slughorn’s parties.

“Sorry,” said Barty, scrambling to collect the book he’d dropped. “I didn’t mean to — I wasn’t
snooping or anything — I just wanted to get away for a minute, and I didn’t think anyone would —
sorry.”

Regulus observed him silently for a moment. Regulus often found his silence was interpreted as
haughtiness, which suited him fine, and it gave him time to think. Barty Crouch was not a popular
boy at school; his father’s anti-Dark magic rhetoric had made his son a prime target in Slytherin
House, and clearly Barty expected the worst from Regulus. He was practically wincing in
anticipation of the telling-off.

“I was just trying to get away from my father,” Barty muttered.

That was something Regulus could understand. Perhaps it was recognition of a shared experience,
or perhaps it was because this fretful boy was clearly no threat, but Regulus decided to be
magnanimous. It was Christmas, after all.

“It’s no matter,” he said. “The library isn’t off limits to guests.”

“Oh.” The other boy looked deeply relieved as he shoved the book back onto the shelf. “Thanks.”
He hugged his arms to his chest and looked around the grand space before allowing his eyes to dart
back to Regulus. “I never know what to do at parties like these. I don’t know why my parents insist
on dragging me along. Or why they even bother coming. Everyone here hates our guts anyway.”

Regulus laughed at this unexpected bout of self-awareness. It was true, they all did, but he
wouldn’t have suspected Barty Crouch to admit it. “Political reasons, I expect.”

“I hate politics,” said Barty with a petulant little grimace. “It’s all so fake and stupid. It’s all…
pretending at power. But it’s not real power.”

“What’s real power?” asked Regulus, oddly intrigued by this sudden vehemence from an otherwise
reticent boy.

Barty gestured at the books.

“Knowledge?” said Regulus with a sardonic lift of the brow.

“Dark Magic,” said Barty.

“Oh.”

That was interesting. The son of the most outspoken anti-Dark Magic politician had a curious little
hobby of his own?
But before Regulus could ask any additional questions, the door to the library burst open, and
Lucius and Narcissa stormed into the room. Regulus grabbed Barty by the shoulder and pulled him
behind a bookshelf before they were spotted. He didn’t know why he should hide, he had every
right to be here, but it was just instinct: When someone was angry, you hid, and Narcissa was
clearly angry.

“You can’t leave in the middle of the party, Lucius, what will it look like? It’s bad enough Aunt
Walburga didn’t come, and now my own fiancé is going to abandon me before the toast?”

“I told you, I don’t have a choice, Cissy…”

“Of course you have a choice! You can choose your fiancé who is standing in front of you asking
you to stay!”

Abruptly, Lucius thrust his arm out before her, and for a horrible moment, Regulus thought he was
going to hit her — but instead, most unexpectedly, he wrenched the sleeve of his robes up to his
elbow.

Narcissa gasped. There, on his forearm, black as ink and burning like a brand, was a skull with a
writhing snake slithering from its mouth.

A Dark Mark.

“He called, Cissy. We’ve discussed this. I cannot ignore him. You will just have to host the party
without me.”

And he turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving Narcissa alone. She stood frozen for a
moment, until a sob escaped her throat and she buried her face in her hands. Regulus was just
considering if he ought to go comfort her when she shook her head with brisk purpose, dried her
eyes with the back of her hand, and walked out of the library as though nothing had happened.

“Lavinia!” he heard her call from the corridor. “How absolutely charming to see you!”

Regulus suddenly recalled the younger Crouch boy beside him. He turned to look at him: Barty
was gazing wide-eyed at the space where Narcissa and Lucius had stood moments before. A sick
feeling roiled Regulus’s stomach. Barty Crouch, the son of the most prominent anti-Death Eater
politician in the country, had just seen Lucius Malfoy’s Dark Mark.

“Cool,” said Barty.

 Father Christmas
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

SIRIUS

Father Christmas
“If you walk out that door, don’t you ever come back!”

The Shield Charm he’d cast between himself and his parents moments before was still glittering as
Sirius stormed out into the night and slammed shut the heavy door to 12 Grimmauld Place. Silence
enveloped him, an uncanny quiet for central London, but it was Christmas Eve, after all, and it was
getting late.

Sirius stared at the door in astonishment for half a second longer before pragmatism kicked in. The
Shield Charm wouldn’t last much longer. Any moment now his mother could come bursting out
that door, wand raised, ready to drag him back. Or perhaps she’d send his father instead.

There wasn’t any time to waste.

Hitching his knapsack up on his shoulder, Sirius began to walk — then run — out of the little
square where 12 Grimmauld Place hid. It wasn’t until he was a few blocks away on a far busier
street in Muggle London that he slowed his pace back to a brisk walk. Snowflakes glittered in the
pooling light of street lamps above, and in the distance, he could hear a few drunken carolers
warbling on about the birth of Christ. Sirius was still wearing only his dress robes, and he shivered
against the bite of winter air.

He paused by the window of a closed-up shop to search through his knapsack. There hadn’t been
time to run upstairs and properly collect his things, not with that Shield Charm being the only thing
keeping his father from cursing him, so Sirius had cast a quick little packing spell from all the way
downstairs and hoped for the best. He wasn’t sure how much he’d managed to get, and as he rifled
through the haphazard collection of belongings stuffed into the knapsack — several sets of robes,
three mismatched socks, a few pairs of pants — he was disappointed to find his winter cloak had
been left behind. No great loss, he had another one at school, except right now, it was fucking
cold.

“The fuck happened to you, mate?”

Sirius looked up from his knapsack to see three men stalking towards him, their size exaggerated
by bulky winter coats and knit caps that clung to their skulls. They looked to be several years older
than him. Early twenties, perhaps.

“Someone beat ‘im up for dressing like a poofter, that’s my guess,” said the smallest one, a gangly
sort of idiot with a twist of cruel amusement on his rodent-like face.

“Fair enough,” said one of the larger men. “The fuck kind of man wears a dress?”

“Fuck off,” snarled Sirius. His wand was in his pocket, but he’d be in more trouble than it was
worth if he used it on Muggles. He sized up the other men. He could probably take one or two of
them in a fistfight. The third made things trickier.

“Oi,” said the third. “It’s Christmas. Leave the fucking poofter alone.”

And cackling, they left him.

Sirius fought against the temptation to follow and start the fight two of those arseholes clearly
craved. It would feel so good to punch something. But he exhaled a steadying breath through his
nose and stayed put. He touched a finger to his brow where the snuffbox his mother had thrown left
a jagged gash, still wet with blood. His entire face throbbed. It hurt to move his jaw, tender from
where his father’s fist had struck him. No wonder those pricks had thought he’d been beaten up.
He supposed he had.

He couldn’t just wander Muggle London like this, wearing his finest dress robes and nothing else,
face black and blue and bloody. He ran through the options in his mind. As he was underage, he
technically couldn’t do magic, although if it came to it, he would. He hadn’t learned to apparate
yet, though he’d read a bit of theory and reckoned he could pull it off if necessary; still, now was
not the time to splinch himself halfway across England.

And none of that mattered anyway until he answered the biggest question: Where to go? He could
spend the night at the Leaky Cauldron, put it on the family account, but if his parents decided to
follow him, that would be the first place they’d look. No landlord would stop a pair of well-
respected pure-blood parents from dragging home their wayward son, particularly when they were
footing the bill…

Panic began to settle upon Sirius like the steady fall of snow. He had nowhere to go. He was
stranded in Muggle London in a stupid set of dress robes, with nothing but a few mismatched socks
to his name. He had nowhere to go, no money, no family, no…

Friends.

He had friends. Or at least, he hoped he still did. He cringed as he remembered how he’d shouted
at James about Regulus before the holiday: “Like it or not, he’s my brother — not you.”

Yeah, brilliant move, Padfoot. Why did he always seem to fuck up everything decent in his life?

But he didn’t know where else to go. James may hate him now — he wouldn’t blame him — but
Potter House was the only place he could think of that would take in a miserable fuck up like Sirius
Black. Only for a few days, he told himself. He’d only bother them for a few days, then he’d figure
it out. He could stand on his own. Somehow. He could do it. He had to.

He just needed to get out of the cold first. He dug a little deeper in the knapsack, and after a
moment, his grateful fingers grasped a few coins of gold. An exhale of breath, then Sirius held out
his wand hand and hailed the Knight Bus.
The conductor was a nosy bastard who kept asking questions: Why’s your head all bloody? Who
conked you in the jaw? Fancy robes, you come from a party or summat? He almost regretted
taking the Knight Bus. It was such an obvious (if seedy) solution, and if Walburga was trying to
find him, no doubt she’d send Kreacher to interrogate the chatty conductor. But he couldn’t walk
all the way from London, so Sirius told the conductor to drop him in Chipping Sodbury, just to
throw the old bitch off his scent. It would be a hike from there to Potter House, but he could
manage.

He transformed into Padfoot as soon as the Knight Bus had vanished from the quiet, snow-covered
streets of Chipping Sodbury. It took him a little while to figure out his way, but eventually he
found the main road and followed it in the direction he hoped led to Potter House.

Nearly two hours later, Potter House rose up before him, and he limped towards it, paws freezing
in the snow. He transformed back into his human self and stared up at the dark windows of the
house, panic rising. What if James turned him away? What if he told him to go back to his real
brother? What if the Potters didn’t want him there? What if they’d rather not bring a fuck up like
Sirius into their lives?

He knocked on the door.

The Potter’s house-elf answered, and she tried to get him to come inside, but Sirius refused. He
wouldn’t force himself on the Potters if they didn’t want him there. If James didn’t want him there.
So the elf scurried off.

Out in the freezing cold night, Sirius hugged his arms to his chest as he stared up at the snow that
swirled around him. He didn’t know what he’d do if James turned him away. He didn’t have
anywhere else to go.

“Sirius?”

Sirius jolted to attention. There was James, standing on the threshold of Potter House in his
bathrobe, staring at his friend with wide, horror-struck eyes.

“I didn’t…” Sirius began, words stuttering with cold and uncertainty. “…know…where else to go.”
He stared at James, desperate for forgiveness, for redemption, for understanding.

Please don’t hate me. I fucked up. I’m sorry.

Then James stepped out into the snowy night and pulled his fuck up of a friend into an embrace.

“I fucked up, Padfoot.”

James Potter lay on his back in a despondent flop on the rug of Sirius’s bedroom in Potter House,
his bespectacled gaze directed upwards, vague and pensive and miserable, as though he were
staring into the unknowable depths of the heavens and not merely the faint cracks that lined the old
ceiling.

It was Christmas Eve (how had a year passed already?) and James had just finished detailing to
Sirius everything that had gone wrong the night of their calamitous heist. James had been
uncharacteristically tight-lipped about it all in the aftermath of the debacle, even as the other boys
had been eager to decide their next move.

“So I go back,” Peter had insisted, once they’d all reconvened in the dormitory and properly
assessed the damage. “We’ll plan another heist, I’ll get the mirror back.”

“No,” was all James had said, sulking on his four-poster in a tangled knot of knees and elbows.

“It will be easier this time. I already know my way around the Slytherin dorms, I know which trunk
belongs to Snivellus, so it won’t—”

“I said no!” James hardly ever snapped at his friends, so this unsettling aberration had quieted them
all at once. “It’s over, okay? We lost. Snape’s probably already used the Felix Felicis anyway — in
fact, the more I think about it, the more I suspect he used it tonight. Every time we go after him,
things end up worse, so let’s just…leave him alone.”

“Leave him alone…?”

“Yes. Let’s just drop it, and move on.”

Sirius had dropped it, though he was not particularly keen to move on, not while Snivellus still had
his greasy fingers all over Sirius’s mirror. And despite his previous assertion, neither did James
seem able to move on, for he made it barely a week into their holiday before unloading all his
angst upon Sirius, who listened with more patience than he felt as James explained how, once
again, he’d made an unmitigable arse out of himself in front of Lily Evans.

“I fucked up. Again. All that effort to try and be friends, to try and show her I’m not like Snape, and
I did it again. Dunno. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I really am as bad as Snape.”

“No,” said Sirius sternly, straightening up from his slumped position in a nearby armchair. “No
way, we’re not doing that again.”

“But I didn’t even think twice about it. All those things I said about Snape, they weren’t even
about him. They were about his…his…his money. I don’t care about that. Do I? Am I a person
who cares about other people’s money?”

Sirius observed his friend’s state of horizontal despair, then he exhaled sharply from his nostrils
and shook his head. “Do you know what your problem is?”

James pulled his eyes away from the ceiling at last. “What?”

“This is all new to you.”

“This…?”

“This feeling of shame mingled with confusion? Frustration? A tiny bit of defensiveness? You’ve
never done this before. Lucky for you, I’ve got loads of experience.”

James frowned, pushing himself into an upright position on the floor. “What d’you mean?”

“Question for you: Am I as bad as Mulciber? Lestrange?”

“What? No, obviously not.”

“Why not? We had the same upbringing. Same social circle. Until I was about eleven, we held the
same beliefs that our pure-blood parents stuffed down our throats.”
“That’s not remotely — you’ve never been anything like them.”

“Do you remember back in first year when I called Cecil Stebbins the M-word?”

James blinked. “No,” he admitted, and Sirius was oddly affected by this, that James did not
remember one of his friend’s more shameful moments, a moment that had replayed again and
again in the corners of Sirius’s cringing mind. That James had perhaps purposely forgotten, chosen
to put it behind them. Sirius almost didn’t want to bring it back up, to place the disgraceful
recollection in the forefront of James’s mind once again, but the pages of the fairytale story Sirius
had once told himself about his life had long since crumbled to dust — the Lone Gryffindor, the
black sheep of the Blacks. All he had left was brutal honesty, and if he couldn’t face himself and
own his fuck ups, he was lost.

“Well, I did. I didn’t even think about it. The M-word didn’t mean much to me, it was just
something that was said in my house all the time. Stebbins had annoyed me in Herbology, and I
grabbed the first insult in my arsenal, and you got so angry with me, I thought we wouldn’t be
friends anymore.

James looked astonished. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I don’t remember this at all.”

“Yeah, well. I do. I was humiliated — and more importantly, ashamed. And I never called anyone
else the M-word after that. So again I ask you: Am I as bad as Mulciber? Snivellus, even?”

“Don’t be stupid. You know, you’re not.”

“Why not? I used the M-word, just like them.”

“Yeah, but you made a mistake, and afterwards, you — ohhhh, I see what you’re doing. Hang on…
Have you been reading my psychology books?”

“No. I’m just cleverer than you.”

“Twat.”

Sirius smirked then leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “A wise idiot once told me that
all we can do when we fuck up is choose to be better the next time we have a chance.”

“Was that wise idiot me?”

“Yeah.”

“Thought so.”

“So you fucked up,” said Sirius. “You’ve done it before, you’ll probably do it again. And again,
and again.”

“Okay,” said James. “This pep-talk is veering down a rather uncomfortable alley.”

“And probably again after that.”

“You can wrap it up anytime now.”

“And again after that. But you want to do better, right?”

“Yeah. ‘Course I do.”

“Then you’ll do better.”

James digested this, a thoughtful look on his face. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll do better.”

“And,” concluded Sirius, “fair warning: The next time you berate yourself for being a bad person,
I’m going to hex you, because you’re my best friend and it’s bloody annoying.”

James seemed about to return some snarky quip of his own — an altogether encouraging sign —
when Pixie, the Potter’s house-elf, ducked into the room to request that James go see his mother.

“Hold that thought,” said James, and he followed the elf out.

Sirius settled himself back in his chair, pensive. James had been a bit morose all holiday, and
though it was a relief to uncover that (not at all shockingly) some remark of Evans’ was at least
partially to blame, Sirius knew the reasons were more severe than simple schoolboy heartache.

Mr. Potter was unwell. ‘Dying’ would be the correct medical term, perhaps. Sirius had known over
the summer that matters with Mr. Potter’s health weren’t exactly good, but he’d been shocked to
learn how quickly things had devolved once the boys had left for school. James had never said.
Since returning to Potter House for the holiday, Sirius had hardly seen Mr. Potter at all, as the old
man spent all his time on bed rest in his suite on the other side of the house. James visited him
every day, and each time he returned a slightly deeper shade of melancholy than he’d left.

Sirius shook his head as though to dislodge these thoughts from his mind. He didn’t like lingering
on Mr. Potter’s inevitable death. It made him feel helpless; he didn’t know what he could do to
help James in this situation. He certainly couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Assuming James would be gone for at least a little while, Sirius flicked his wand, and a small,
square mirror zoomed towards him from across the room. All right, so he may have told James
he’d let it go, and it hadn’t been a complete lie. He’d agreed not to attempt another heist, not to go
after Snape — but he wasn’t about to throw his own creation in the rubbish. These mirrors meant
something to him. They’d been the only thing keeping him sane during summers at Black Hall or
Grimmauld Place. They’d been one of his first inventions, pre-dating the map by several years.
They were important.

And the idea that Snivellus had half the set was excruciating.

He was trying to reverse-engineer the spell he’d placed on the original set of mirrors nearly three
years ago now. He hadn’t known what he was doing at the time, he’d just been experimenting, and
the result was such that he had no idea how to do it again. In the aftermath of the heist, Remus had
rather cleverly put a sound barrier charm on the remaining mirror, which would prevent Snape
from listening in on their conversations in the dormitory. Sirius was not convinced that Snape was
clever enough to figure out what the mirror did, nor even that it belonged to the Marauders, but all
the same it was wise to be cautious. Still, this little charm prevented him from properly
deconstructing his previous work, which was annoying.

He stared into the mirror, rummaging around his mind for a solution. His own face stared back at
him, solemn and thoughtful. An unexpected pang hit his heart. Everyone always said that Sirius
and his brother looked alike, and Sirius had always denied it. “He’s small, scrawny, and an idiot.”
But there, when the candlelight hit just right, and the shadows danced across the sharp cheekbones
and stormy eyes, there was Reggie, peering back at him.

Please, don’t.

Sirius looked away. It was Christmas Eve: a year to the day since Sirius had run away from home.
A whole year since he had spoken to his brother. It was easy to imagine what Regulus was doing
right now. Getting ready for the annual party at Black Hall, no doubt. Prepping for a night of idle
chatter among the pure-blood elite, of champagne and hors d’oeuvres, of pomposity, of plotting, of
praying that one did not spill any wine on anyone else’s robes, that mother would keep her temper,
that father would keep his drink…

The door clicked open again, and Sirius shoved the mirror out of sight.

“Just spoke with mum,” said James. “We’re going to go ahead and do Christmas dinner and
presents now, since Dad is relatively with it at the moment…can’t say what tomorrow will bring.”

“Okay,” said Sirius.

He waited a moment for James to say something more, something about the state of his dad’s
health, and for a moment, he really thought he might — but then James simply nodded and said,
“Great. Pixie’s already whipped up dinner, so…”

So.

So Sirius followed James downstairs, feeling troubled. James, irrepressibly chatty on just about
every other subject, did not seem to be able to talk about the situation with his father. Sirius didn’t
pry though, for even if James had wanted to talk, Sirius was not sure he’d know the right thing to
say.

His friend’s reticence, however, lasted only as long as the trek to the dining room, for James’s
spirits visibly lifted as soon as they entered and saw the merry spread across the table: a fat, golden
turkey decked out on a silver platter with herbs and stuffing, piles of potatoes, parsnips, and
Brussel sprouts, a glimmering tureen of gravy, and a grand Yorkshire pudding that made Sirius’s
stomach growl to behold. But perhaps most importantly for James was the sight at the head of the
table, where Mr. Potter sat in a wheelchair, a bright smile crinkling his face as he beckoned them
in.

“Merry Christmas, my boys,” he said in a cheery croak of a voice, and just like that, James was
James again — all banter and babble — making jokes as he took the seat closest to his dad,
laughing merrily as he helped his mum carve the turkey, egging his dad on as he told stories they’d
all heard before (“Tell the one about the flying carpet, Dad!”). If it had been anyone else, Sirius
might’ve suspected this sudden display of delight was an act, but not James. James Potter always
wore his heart on his sleeve, and tonight that heart was undeniably joyful.

No one would suspect that death skirted the walls of this house, slunk in shadows past the door.
Not here, not in this room, with the cheerful flicker of Christmas candles, the seductive aroma of
evergreen and spice and roast turkey, the glorious pop of the crackers and the rustle of paper
crowns. The sly jests and the laughter and the “Oh, you are wicked!”

Not here.

And then, when the Christmas pudding was but crumbs on the plate, it was off to the sitting room
for presents, where an enormous Norwegian spruce crowded the corner by the hearth. It was a
lovely if rather lopsided tree, decorated in an almost haphazard way, giddy with memory, all
mismatched baubles and fistfuls of tinsel. Criss-crossed paper chains looped through sagging
branches, and homemade ornaments were hung in places of honor (James Potter, Christmas 1964,
read the back of a painted paper star). Sirius thought of Narcissa’s painstaking direction of the
Christmas decorations at Black Hall; she and Andy used to have such spats over it. Never would
Narcissa allow such a messy and delightful display as the Potters’ tree.

As Mrs. Potter wheeled Mr. Potter’s chair to a cozy spot by the fire, James doled out the gifts, still
donning his ridiculous violet paper crown from the Christmas crackers (“I think it makes me look
rather noble, don’t you?”).

Sirius had enjoyed buying gifts this year. The novelty of having his own money had not yet worn
off, and he’d taken great pleasure in picking out an expensive pair of gardening gloves for Mrs.
Potter and a state of the art broom compass for James. “To assist with your already impeccable
sense of direction,” he told his friend, who gave a good-natured snigger in reply to this dig at the
number of times James had gotten them all lost deep in the forest. “You just say a location and the
compass will guide you to it.”

“I can imagine how this will come in handy,” grinned James as he admired the little brass
contraption.

James’s parents had given him a small hoard of Puddlemere-related paraphernalia along with a
handsome leather-bound set of books on Advanced Defensive Charms, over which James
appropriately enthused. “My little scholar,” said Mrs. Potter affectionately, ruffling her son’s hair,
and Sirius made a note to tease James about that later. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. After all,
what was so comical about being loved by one’s mother?

If you walk out that door, don’t you ever come back!

“And this one’s for Sirius.”

Sirius looked up, startled. Mrs. Potter was holding out a small square parcel, wrapped in shiny
paper. “You didn’t have to…” mumbled Sirius, suddenly embarrassed.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Potter. “Go on, darling, open it.”

Sirius accepted the parcel and tugged at the paper. Inside was a plush black box which, upon
opening, revealed a handsome silver watch with astronomical markings all around its face and little
stars that ticked in perfect precision. It was a work of art.

“It’s tradition, of course,” said Mrs. Potter. “A watch when a wizard comes of age.”

Sirius turned the watch over in his hands to see the engraving on the back:

Audaces fortuna iuvat

With Love, the Potters

“I did so want to get it to you in time for your birthday,” Mrs. Potter went on, “but things were a bit
hectic here, and I didn’t place the order in time, but there you are.”

“A good watch,” said Mr. Potter, “will get you through life.”
“It’s wonderful,” said Sirius. “Thank you.”

He wished he knew how to be more effusive, more like James, but Mrs. Potter seemed to
understand, and she smiled at him warmly from across the room. He hoped no one could sense the
faint lump in his throat as he reread the words: With Love, the Potters.

“Oh, this is brilliant,” said James, who was flipping through his new books. Not for the first time,
Sirius found himself grateful for James’s enduring and ever-present babble. “We haven’t covered
hardly any of these in Defense. Have I mentioned that our professor this year is absolutely
worthless? Oh, cool — the Patronus Charm. I’ve heard of that one…don’t you have a story about
that, Dad?…Dad?”

Sirius looked up from his watch. Mr. Potter had slumped in his wheelchair, eyes wide, a strange,
slack expression on his face.

“Monty!” gasped Mrs. Potter, leaping to her feet. She rushed over to him. “Monty…can you hear
me?”

There was no reply.

“James, go Floo St. Mungo’s. Now!”

James dashed off towards the kitchen; a few moments later, Sirius heard a crisp voice announce:
“St. Mungo’s Emergency Services, please state your emergency.”

“Come on, Monty, my love, stay with us,” murmured Mrs. Potter. “Monty?”

And it seemed hours but was in fact only moments before a team of Healers appeared in the sitting
room, their garish green robes offensive against the soft twinkle of the Christmas Tree. And then
Mr. Potter was levitated onto a stretcher and a Portkey was produced, and two Healers each
claimed an end of the stretcher, and Mr. Potter vanished from the house.

Sirius looked across the room to James, who stood ashen-faced, staring at the spot where moments
before his father had laughed. The book on Defensive Charms had tumbled to the floor in all the
commotion, and it lay abandoned, pages curled beneath the cover, face down on the carpet.

The reception area at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was stark, both in
the white walls that surrounded them and in the quiet that stifled them. Every so often some witch
or wizard would enter, complaining of some magical malady (“Cursed Christmas crackers, you
know. My brother-in-law has a dreadful sense of humor…”), but for the most part, there was little
to distract from the waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Mrs. Potter, James, and Sirius had arrived at St. Mungo’s roughly forty minutes ago, shortly after
Mr. Potter had been taken away by Emergency Services. Mrs. Potter sat quite stiffly in her chair, a
stoic expression guarding her face. James didn’t seem able to speak. They were waiting for news.
They were waiting to be allowed to see him.
The grumpy-looking witch who manned the reception desk had set up a small Christmas tree with
glittering, gaudy baubles. Sirius watched as they twinkled in the glaring hospital lights. It was hard
to believe that an hour ago they were all still seated around the Potters’ own tree, laughing and
smiling and enjoying the holiday…

“Fleamont Potter?”

All three jumped to attention. A woman in lime-green robes stood before the double doors behind
the reception desk, looking at them expectantly.

Mrs. Potter rose at once. “Yes, that’s us. Is he all right?”

“He’s stable,” said the Healer crisply.

“So he’s going to be okay?” said James.

“I’ll let the Healer-in-Charge give you the update. This way, please.”

Mrs. Potter took a steadying breath and pushed through the doors, James just a few steps behind.
As Sirius approached, the Healer said: “Family only, I’m afraid.”

James glanced distractedly back over his shoulder, halfway through the door. “He is family.”

“It’s all right, Prongs,” said Sirius. “Think I’ll get some air. I’ll meet you out here.”

The icy wind of December felt surprisingly refreshing against his face after nearly an hour trapped
in the oppressive hospital. Sirius leaned against the red brick of the abandoned department store
that hid St. Mungo’s and dug around in the pocket of his cloak for a cigarette. He lit up and took a
shaky drag, watching as the smoke curled into the night. The street was quiet, though not entirely
empty. The Muggles who passed by paid him no mind. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and it was
getting late.

How odd that he should find himself in Muggle London again, exactly a year to the date since he’d
last walked these streets, face bruised, brow bloody…homeless.

For reasons he did not understand — he should be thinking of Mr. Potter, of James — Sirius’s
thoughts circled back to Regulus. He must be at the party now. No doubt he was with Cissy and
Lucius…listening to their bile…swallowing their lies…

Guilt carved its way through his gut. Sirius had been saved because he had James. He had the
Potters. He had somewhere to go. Who did Regulus have?

He had me, Sirius thought darkly. And I abandoned him.

In an effort to distract from these thoughts, Sirius picked up a Muggle newspaper that lay discarded
on the pavement. Cigarette jammed between his teeth, he flipped through its crumpled pages,
looking for something to command his attention. There was an opinion piece deriding the current
Prime Minister, several reviews of Muggle ‘films,’ a concept that fascinated Sirius, and a whole
page of advertisements for London real estate. One in particular caught his eye: A terraced house in
Camden Town. He’d have to do the math on the conversion, but the Muggle price seemed
surprisingly affordable.

“Oooh, look at that!”

Sirius glanced over at a pair of Muggles who had stopped in their tracks and were pointing
skyward.

“What is that?”

“Some sort of Christmas prank?”

“It’s ghastly!”

Sirius looked up, and his stomach dropped. There, blaring against the night sky, was a fiery green
skull with a serpent’s tongue writhing between its teeth.

The Dark Mark.

He stared at it a moment longer, a sick feeling twisting through his stomach. Then, abruptly, he
ripped the advertisement from the Muggle paper, stuffed it into his pocket, stomped out his
cigarette, and dashed back into the hospital.

The scene that greeted him was a nightmare. The reception area, previously quiet and sedate, now
resembled a war zone. The space was crammed with people, patients and Healers alike, and Sirius
could only suspect they’d been brought in by Emergency Services, for he’d seen no one enter
through the front door. Some people were dressed in robes, others in Muggle attire. Some were
screaming, shrieking, crying out in pain. Broken limbs, bloody faces. The stench of gore and
viscera permeated the space. Healers hurried to and fro, levitating stretchers, doing their best to
triage the wounded. The grumpy receptionist was sobbing quietly into her palm.

“Padfoot!” Sirius jerked around to see James pushing towards him through the masses. “There you
are.”

“What the hell happened here?” breathed Sirius, still staring in horror at the violent chaos.

“Big attack in London, apparently. Wizards and Muggles alike.”

“What, they bought them here?”

“Had to. Quickest way. They’ll wipe their memories, of course.”

“Death Eaters?”

“I’d bet my broomstick, yeah.”

“Fuck. On Christmas Eve.”

“Where were you?”

“I just stepped out for a smoke.”

“Right,” said James. “Well, we’re taking Dad home.”

“Already?”

“Yeah. It’s all hands on deck here, and there’s not much else they can do for him, anyway. Come
 on. They want us out. They’ve got a Portkey for us upstairs.”

And not long after that, Sirius was back in his bedroom at Potter House. The blue room, with the
soft wallpaper and the satin curtains. The room he’d come to think of as his own. James was
helping his mum get his dad settled back into bed. Sirius had offered to help, but they didn’t need
him. Mrs. Potter kindly told him to get some rest.

Yeah, right.

It was a stroke, apparently, or something like that. Some complication from the disease that Sirius
didn’t know enough about to discuss. All he knew was that Mr. Potter had looked worse than he’d
ever seen him and that James’s voice had shaken when he’d spoken about it.

The door creaked open, and Sirius looked up to see James hovering at the threshold. “I need a
favor.”

“Of course,” said Sirius immediately. “Anything.”

“If mum comes looking for me, can you cover for me? Tell her I’m sleeping or…I don’t know,
something.”

Sirius blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve got to go for a fly.”

“What, now?”

James nodded. He had a look Sirius recognized in himself but that he had never before seen in
James: the look that said he needed to run, to get as far away as possible, to get out, out, out.

“I can’t — I can’t think here. I just need to clear my head, and I can only ever do that in the
clouds.”

“All right,” agreed Sirius. “Do you want company?”

James shook his head. “I just need to fly,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Sirius. “I’ll feel
better if I can just fly.”

Chapter End Notes

sorry :(
 The End of the World
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

LILY

The End of the World

“I just can’t figure out how he got it,” Lily sobbed. They were in the library, she and Sev, tucked
away in the far stacks where no one would bother them. Their usual spot. “I always lock my diary
in my trunk, unless I have it on me. I didn’t think Black even knew I kept a diary. And the boys
can’t get into the girls’ dormitory anyway…It must’ve been Alodie. She swears she didn’t, but I
don’t believe her. I’m never speaking to her again.”

Severus listened to her tirade with a look of anguish on his face. She’d been crying most of the
week, barely keeping it together in classes, and she knew that he’d noticed. This was the first
opportunity they’d had to speak privately since her own personal apocalypse had unfurled, since
Sirius Black stole her diary and read it aloud at dinner, since someone else plastered pages of it in
the girls’ toilet, since James Potter announced to the entire Gryffindor common room that he
wouldn’t date Lily Evans if she were the last girl in school.

“They’re scum,” Severus managed at last. “Black and Potter. I — I told you they were scum…”

“And Bertha Jorkins is telling everyone that I stole his sweaty Quidditch towel and sleep with it
under my pillow, which I do not, that’s disgusting, and I don’t even like Quidditch! God.” She
buried her face in her hands. “My life is over. I wish I were dead.”

“No,” said Severus hastily. “Listen, they’re idiots. They don’t matter. This is all stupid, it doesn’t
matter…”

Lily looked up from her hands, indignant. “It matters to me.”

“I just meant—”

“It’s hard enough being one of the only Muggle-borns in our year. Now everyone in school thinks
I’m a giant freak.”

And Severus watched helplessly as she dissolved into tears again. He opened his mouth a few
times as though on the verge speech, but ultimately gave up and remained silent.
Eventually, Lily sniffed and pulled herself together. “At least I still have you,” she said. “I mean,
you’ll still be my friend even if I’m the biggest freak in school, won’t you?”

Severus gazed at her, dark eyes agonized as tears slid down Lily’s cheeks. At last, he said:
“‘Course. Always.”

The door to her father’s study gaped open just a crack, and Lily stood in the cramped little hall,
debating whether or not to knock. She would not normally interrupt her father while he was
preparing so important a sermon as Christmas Eve. George Evans had always considered this to be
the most pivotal service of the year, for their rather decrepit little church saw its congregation swell
to twice its size at the holidays. Every year, her father was convinced that if he could find just the
right message, the artful string of words, the perfect selection of scripture, he would convince at
least a few to stick around past January. But every year the crowds thinned after the holidays, and
every year George Evans tried again.

Lily wouldn’t have thought to bother him, except that something had been bothering her. She
knocked on the door.

“Come in,” said her father in the vague, distracted voice that meant he was lost deep in the pages of
scripture, and indeed as Lily pushed through the door, she found a familiar scene: her father
hunched over his desk with a pile of books surrounding him, his thoroughly-annotated Bible
propped open to one side, a pen in his hand as he scribbled intently over an already densely-
covered page of a notebook. Rewriting his sermon, no doubt.

“Daddy,” said Lily, and her father looked up from his books. “Can I interrupt you for some
spiritual guidance?”

“That depends, are you paying me? I’m off the clock.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “A vicar is never off the clock.”

“It’s a fair cop. I advise you not to follow in my footsteps. Choose a more sensible vocation. The
hours are horrendous.”

“Daddy.”

Her father leaned back in his chair with a good-natured smile. “What’s troubling you, my love?”

Lily sat down in a little chair cramped in the corner, though she had to remove a pile of books in
order to do so. At last she looked up at her father, took a deep and purposeful breath, and said,
“Forgiveness.”

“Yes?”

“I seem to be very bad it.”

“Hmm. Well, it is among the most difficult duties with which God charges us. A lifelong
endeavor, no doubt.”

“I’m not sure I see the point of it.”

“No? Remember Mark 6:14: ‘For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will
also forgive you.’ Forgiveness is as much for the sake of your soul as it is theirs.”

“Yes,” said Lily, and she couldn’t quite keep the frustration from her voice, “but my soul is tired of
being trod upon. I know you’re supposed to ‘turn the other cheek’ and everything, but eventually
doesn’t that just become a sort of exercise in masochism? Why should I let someone keep hurting
me? Why would…why would God want that?”

Her father was quiet for a moment as he considered this. He did not pry into the specific details of
her situation, which Lily appreciated as she did not wish to divulge them. Though he may be her
father, he always treated these talks with the same pastoral care he delivered to his flock, and
included in that service was an unflappable sense of discretion.

At last, he spoke: “It is a common misunderstanding, I think, that forgiveness is about allowing
someone to continue to hurt you. That is not the case, and I do not believe that is what God wants.
Forgiveness is about acknowledging that we are all hurting, that we all sin, that we are all flawed
creatures worthy of grace. Understanding that, embracing that — it does not mean you must allow
that person to hurt you again. Turn the other cheek, yes, but though you can forgive a man for
cutting you, you are not required to return the knife to his hand.”

“I hate when you speak in metaphors.”

Her father chuckled. “Then let me speak clearly: Whoever it was that hurt you, forgive them in
your heart, wish them well, but keep your distance, if that’s what you need to do.”

This was well-intended but unsatisfactory advice, Lily reflected as she climbed the stairs back to
her childhood bedroom. Ever since she’d been smacked in the face with the revelation that Severus
had been the one to pass her diary off to Sirius Black back in third year, precipitating a school-wide
harassment campaign from which she’d never quite recovered, Lily had found herself stuck in a
spiral of negative emotions: bitterness, vindictiveness, and most inexplicably, guilt.

The funny thing was if he had told her the truth, she would’ve forgiven him. Maybe not right away,
but eventually, she would’ve. After all, she could almost understand why he did it. It must’ve hurt
to see his best friend fancy the boy who tormented him daily. She hadn’t understood at the time
how bad the bullying was — or perhaps she was just too selfish; she hadn’t appreciated how bad it
was until it happened to her. She knew Severus well enough to suspect that it hadn’t been a
premeditated plan to make her miserable, but rather a burst of spite, which he no doubt regretted in
the weeks that followed, witnessing first-hand the fruits of his deceit…

No, stop. She was doing it again. She was writing his apologies for him, laying the groundwork to
forgive him for something for which he wasn’t even sorry. It was too late. This was just one more
thing he’d done to hurt her. Add it to the bloody list.

Her father spoke of forgiving in one’s heart as though it was an easy thing to do, as though she need
only mutter a spell and find her soul healed. But Lily wasn’t sure she even wanted to forgive. After
all, bitterness was a sort of armor, and an armored heart did not get hurt.

Lily dropped herself onto her bed with a sigh. There was some comfort in knowing that Severus
would not appear, throwing pebbles at her window like he’d done all summer. He’d stayed at
school for the holiday, she was sure of it. Nothing could ever entice Severus to return to
Cokeworth if he didn’t have to. She had hoped that being home would give her a chance to clear
her head, to put all the recent unpleasantness behind her and move on…but so far, all she’d done
was stew in bad memories and bitter thoughts.

God, she wanted a smoke. Her father was vehemently against the practice, so Lily never smoked at
home, but she rather felt she deserved to. She stood and went to rummage around in the top drawer
of her dresser for the pack of Park Drives she’d bummed off Mona from the Railview Inn when
they’d met up earlier in the week. Mona had been keen to share all the gossip Lily had missed
while stuck in Scotland (Jenny had moved to Manchester to be with Paul, they’d gotten married
and everything — well, they’d had to, hadn’t they, since Paul had gone and knocked her up! Rose
was shagging Tommy Bunter, yes that Tommy, and had Lily heard they were closing the Inn
altogether? For ‘renovations,’ so they said, but now they were all out of a job and Mona didn’t
know what she was going to do!), and Lily had been keen to get away from her house.

She ought to have felt relief to be in Cokeworth again. She ought to have felt comforted by that
sense of belonging that only home could bestow. After all, this grimy little hole was her own; she’d
grown up here, she belonged here far more than she ever had among the glitzy pure-bloods of
Slughorn’s parties.

Except she didn’t belong here either, and that was the whole problem.

Petunia had stayed in London for Christmas. Apparently she had a new job and a new boyfriend
and had gone to meet his family. Lily hadn’t been particularly sorry to hear this, for she thought
that meant she would have a nice, quiet Christmas alone, just her and Dad.

But that was not to be.

Mrs. Colfield — Susanne — came by almost every day, cooking dinner, bringing sweets,
commanding the kitchen like it belonged to her, like she lived there. Once, she’d even tried to rope
Lily into baking Christmas biscuits with her, but Lily had invented plans to go see Mona from the
Railview Inn and taken off, leaving the woman standing alone and disappointed in the kitchen, a
rolling pin held in her defeated hands.

If it had been anyone else, Lily might’ve felt sorry for her, but Mrs. Colfield had no right to be
there, she had no right to try and take over Christmas. Christmas belonged to Lily’s mother. Her
favorite holiday. Preserving her mother’s traditions was a sort of vigil, something Lily took very
seriously.

And now there was some other woman here, mucking it all up. She was trying so hard, too. It was
so obvious how much she wanted Lily to like her, and that just made Lily hate her all the more.
She could hear Petunia’s voice in her head: Don’t be so selfish! But why wasn’t Lily ever allowed
to be selfish? She was always trying to make things better, easier, more comfortable for other
people. Why couldn’t she for once get what she wanted? Why couldn’t she for once get her way?

Her father had gently chastised her when she’d returned that evening, the pack of Park Drives
hidden away in her pocket.

“I wish you’d spend some time with Susanne,” he’d said.

“I spend plenty of time with her. I didn’t know she wanted to bake biscuits today, I already had
plans. Besides, doesn’t she have her own kitchen?”

Her father had frowned: “She wants to get to know you.”

And Lily had flared: “Well, that’s a bit complicated, isn’t it? Since I can’t tell her anything true
about myself!”

For that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? It was bad enough this woman was trying to take
her mother’s place, but to make matters even more insufferable, whenever she was around, Lily
was forced to pretend to be ‘normal.’

She was so tired of pretending.

She shook a cigarette from the pack, nearly lit up, then changed her mind and tossed it aside.

Mrs. Colfield came for dinner before midnight mass. Or rather, she brought dinner. She made a
fish pie, which Lily had been planning to do because that had always been her mum’s tradition, but
Mrs. Colfield had insisted on making her own. As they sat around the scrubbed wood table in the
kitchen, Lily’s father raved over the pie, but Lily merely poked at it sullenly. It wasn’t anything
like her mum’s. It wasn’t half as good.

Her father and Mrs. Colfield carried the conversation, chatting about this and that with an intimacy
that Lily found unsettling. Apparently, Mrs. Colfield had a son in London. Wouldn’t it be fun if
they drove down together sometime in the spring? They could visit Petunia, meet this new
boyfriend of hers…

Lily let her attention wander. Mrs. Colfield had left the radio on; God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
droned in the background. This made her think of James and his hippogriffs, and a smile nearly
tugged at her lips, until it was corrupted by more recent memories…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?

“Lily? Are you listening to me?”

“What?”

Her father and Mrs. Colfield were both looking at her expectantly from across the table.

“I said, there’s something Susanne and I want to talk to you about.”

Lily blinked. “Okay?”

Her father glanced at Mrs. Colfield, who smiled encouragingly. Then: “We’ve decided to get
married.”

Lily was certain that her heart stopped. “What?”

“We’d like to have the wedding this summer, when you’re home from school—”

“You can’t get married,” she blurted out. “What about m—” She stopped herself, unable to say the
word.

“Lily,” said her father gently. “I loved your mother very much, and I always will. But she’s been
gone for several years now. We have to move on with our lives. It’s what your mother would
want.”
And then Mrs. Colfield started talking, going on about how she knew this was hard for Lily, how
she knew she could never replace Lily’s mother, and of course she’d never try…

“I can’t listen to this,” Lily snapped, nearly toppling her chair in her haste to get away.

“Lily!”

She dashed up the stairs, locked her bedroom door, and hurled herself onto her bed. This couldn’t
be happening. She knew it was unreasonable to wish that everything remain the same at home
while she was away at school, only dipping her toes back into Cokeworth over the holidays. Her
father had his own life, he’d moved on. If she wasn’t so selfish, she’d be glad.

But she wasn’t glad. She was devastated.

She lay in bed until her father knocked on the door. “Lily. It’s time to leave for church.”

“I’m not going!”

“Lily…”

“Give her some space, George. We knew this would be hard,” Lily heard Mrs. Colfield say gently
from the hall, and Lily almost threw her pillow at the door. How dare she be understanding? How
dare she act like she understood, like she had any right to understand? She understood nothing, the
stupid woman…

And then the footsteps retreated, and Lily’s father and Mrs. Fucking Colfield left for church.

Lily found the pack of Park Drives she’d bummed from Mona and with fumbling fingers, she
pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

A sharp inhale.

A wavering exhale.

It’s what your mother would want.

But Lily hadn’t been about to say ‘mother.’ She’d been about to say: What about me? Had her
father even thought this through at all? Was he going to tell Susanne that his daughter was a witch?
Or was Lily just supposed to go on pretending, forever? A secret, a freak in her own house? Or
perhaps he figured it didn’t matter much, since she was away for most of the year. It wasn’t really
her house anymore…she didn’t matter. She didn’t belong here.

And so she lay on her bed, smoking cigarette after cigarette, a violation of every childhood rule
she’d ever considered inviolable — it wasn’t her home, what did it matter? — until eventually, a
sharp ping against glass pulled her thoughts from the spiral of pity and self-loathing.

She sat up, startled.

There it was again. Like a pebble against the window. Surely Severus hadn’t come back to
Cokeworth after all? Surely he wouldn’t dare show up here on Christmas Eve…

With a burst of fury, she threw open the window, barely flinching at the gust of winter air that
greeted her. “For the last time, I meant it when I said we’re through. Go away — Oh!” She froze
— for the face peering up at her did not belong to Severus Snape. “…Potter?”

“All right, Evans?”

She gaped down at him, trying to make sense of the impossible: James Potter — James bloody
Potter — was standing in the alley behind her house. On Christmas Eve. In Cokeworth.

He rubbed his neck awkwardly, evidently thrown by her belligerent salutation. “Sorry. I didn’t
mean to — no one answered the front door, but I saw your light on, so…awfully rude of me…”

“I thought you were someone else,” she explained hastily.

Though he was too far away and it was too dark to see, she could perfectly imagine the ironic arch
of his eyebrow as he said, “You get a lot of blokes throwing pebbles at your window?”

“You’d be surprised. Hang on.”

She retreated from the window and tugged on a pair of shoes; her Muggle coat was downstairs, but
after a moment’s consideration she retrieved her cloak from under her bed, stuffed away with all
the rest of her school things so no one — meaning Mrs. Colfield — would see. She threw it over
her shoulders and returned to the window. James was still standing there, hands stuffed into his
pockets as he peered around the alley.

“Oh, this is mental,” she muttered to herself. Then she heaved a deep breath and climbed out the
window, carefully placing her feet on the trellis like a ladder, as she had done many times before.

“Impressive,” said James, as she landed before him.

“Years of experience,” said Lily. For a moment, she just stared at him, as though she’d expected
him to vanish like a mirage as soon as her feet hit the ground, and now that he was still here, still
gazing at her insolently in the alley behind her house, she wasn’t sure what to do next. So she did
the only thing she could think to do: She rounded on him.

“What the hell are you doing here? How do you even know where I live? Hang on, did Marlene tell
you? Or is my personal address public information among all pure-bloods?”

“You told me, remember?”

“No, I didn’t, I —” But she did remember. She remembered quite clearly spitting the word
‘Cokeworth’ at him before storming away through the dungeons the night of Slughorn’s party. Her
cheeks reddened at this recollection. “I told you the name of the town. How did you know which
house was mine?”

James shrugged. “I just asked a friendly stranger where the vicar lives. Turns out there’s only one.”

Lily had forgotten she’d told him that, too. She was suddenly faced with the uncomfortable
realization that James Potter actually knew rather a lot about her — at least far more than anyone
else at school. And now, as they stood among the bins and the bricks of the alley behind her house,
he knew even more. She found herself thinking of the moment in the library last year when she’d
stumbled across a lithograph of Potter House, a lovely country home fit for the pure-blood elite —
worlds away from the dingy milltown Lily inhabited. The sharp sting of embarrassment struck her
like a gale of icy wind.

“Come to see the grimy little hole in person, have you?”

James shook his head, a look of anguish flickering across his features. “No,” he said quickly.
“That’s not at all what I —” he struggled a moment, then he sighed, defeated. “Look, I’m sorry.
This was a mistake, I shouldn’t have come.”
It was then, like a cloud drifting past the moon, that Lily saw what she’d missed in the dreary
lamplight moments before: how deeply sad he was. In all the years that she had known him, Lily
had never before seen James Potter look so sad.

She relented, just a little, hugging her arms to her chest as she asked, “How did you get here,
anyway?”

He nodded at a broomstick leaning against the brick wall.

“You flew? It’s freezing out here! What if someone saw you?”

He shrugged. “It’s dark enough. Besides, best day of the year to get spotted flying, right? Just tell
‘em Santa got a new ride.”

Lily couldn’t help but laugh, and the anguished expression on James’s face lightened ever so
slightly.

“Look,” he said. “I didn’t really think this through. I guess I just — I wanted to apologize.” He
hesitated. “May I?”

“All right.”

James exhaled a huff of breath swirling into the cold night. “D’you remember our detention
together?”

Lily blinked. That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. “Yes.”

“You said that I bring out the worst in you. Well, Snape brings out the worst in me. That’s not an
excuse — just a fact. I’m not proud of it. I don’t like the person I become around him, the things I
say — the things I said. That’s not who I am. Or at least, that’s not who I want to be.” He shifted
his feet and stuffed his hands a little deeper into his pockets. “Your friendship and — and your
respect are important to me. I know I haven’t earned it yet, but I want to do better. I will do better.
If you’ll allow me the chance.”

Lily said nothing, but only because she had no idea what to say. Instead, she watched as James
pulled his hands from his pockets, cupped them to his face and exhaled hot breath against cold
skin. “That’s it, really,” he said at last, rubbing his fingers together to warm up. “That’s all I have.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll — ah — leave you alone now. Let you get back inside where it’s warm.” He glanced up at the
trellis. “Do you need a boost?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m a pro.”

“Right.”

“Do you want the tour?”

The words tumbled out before she could properly consider them, and James, who had turned to
collect his broomstick from the wall, looked back at her, confused. “Tour?”

“Of Cokeworth. It’s a small town, won’t take long.”

James looked wary. She supposed she didn’t blame him; everything about her tone and demeanor
suggested quite loudly: This is a trap! She still wore the combative attitude she’d donned like
armor at her father’s announcement, and she took a moment to consciously push it aside. It wasn’t
James’s fault her father had decided to marry again, and in a strange way, she wasn’t quite ready to
let him leave.

Masochistic, she thought, and then she pushed that aside too.

“You flew all the way out here,” she said, “and frankly, I’m happy for a reason to get out of my
house.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” said James, as though he’d just remembered. “Don’t you want to be with your
family?”

“They’re at church,” she said shortly. She waited for James to ask why she wasn’t at church too,
but he did not, so she grabbed his arm and pulled him down the alley. “Come on,” she said. “It’ll
be good for you. Broaden your horizons.”

It was surprisingly fun showing James around Cokeworth. All the embarrassment she might have
had for the grungy, beat up, little town was utterly eradicated by the other boy’s profound
curiosity. He was interested in everything, listening with rapt attention as she explained the concept
of bus stops, asking questions about what they sold in the corner store. There wasn’t much to
show, really. All the shops were closed up, of course — some for Christmas Eve, some for good.
Still, the heaviness in her heart had somehow lightened since his (rather good) apology, and
walking side-by-side with James Potter through the cobbled streets, it almost seemed as though the
twinkle of Christmas lights shined just a little bit brighter than before.

They passed the church, stained glassed windows warm and bright against the night; carols drifted
out into the street, and Lily felt a guilty twinge. She’d never missed her father’s Christmas Eve
sermon before. Not once.

But she turned away and carried on with the tour. It occurred to her, as they turned down towards
the train tracks that led to the station, that they must look rather funny: James with his broomstick
propped over his shoulder, the pair of them in Wizarding cloaks. She supposed if anyone said
anything she’d just pretend they were taking part in the local pantomime.

“And that is the Railview Inn. Or was, I suppose. It just shut down. I used to work there over the
summers.”

“What, like a…job?”

“Yeah, some people have those, you know.”

“Huh. What’s that down there?” James pointed at the great chimney of the mill that marred the
townscape, dark and unused against the night sky.

Lily hesitated. “That’s Spinner’s End. We’re not going that way. Come on, one last stop.”
The playground sat on a slight hill above the rest of the town, the chimney of Spinner’s End still
visible in the distance. It wasn’t much of a playground, all things considered, just some rusty, old
equipment and a set of swings, and Lily wasn’t entirely sure why she’d decided to bring James
here — until she watched his ever-curious gaze take in the funny Muggle contraptions before him,
and his eyes lit up like a kid at, well, Christmas.

“What is that?” he asked, pointing at the rusted metal roundabout.

“That is a roundabout. Stuff of nightmares, that is.”

“What’s it for?”

“Spinning. Hurling. Breaking bones. Want to try?”

James did, so Lily showed him how to get a running start, gripping the freezing metal handles
before jumping onto the spinning base. The wind was bitter and miserable as they whipped about,
but neither of them minded much, heads thrown back in laughter as they went round and round and
round.

“Merlin, I’m going to vomit,” said James, as the roundabout slowed to a halt.

“Then I’ve given you the true playground experience,” said Lily, staggering off the devil’s
contraption and taking a seat on one of the swings nearby. “You’re welcome.”

James grinned and dropped himself into the swing next to hers. “Did you come here a lot as a
kid?”

“All the time,” said Lily. “Mum used to send me and Tuney — Petunia, my sister — out to play
whenever Dad was meeting with parishioners or working on his sermons. Spent a lot of time here.
This is where I learned to fly.”

James shot her a look from his swing. “What?”

Lily laughed. “Not on a broomstick, like you. Here, I’ll show you.” She wrapped her arms around
the swing’s chains and kicked off, pumping her legs until she swung back and forth, back and
forth. James watched with baffled interest. “Back before I knew about magic,” said Lily as she
swung higher and higher, “I used to do things like this all the time. I’d swing as high as I could and
then —”

She let go of the chains and leapt from the swing in a graceful arc, landing on the asphalt much less
nimbly than she had as a child. She turned back to see James grinning at her.

“I used to go much higher,” she explained, dusting herself off. “Unnaturally high, actually. But I
don’t want to get expelled so…”

“Expelled?”

“For doing magic outside school. They’ve already threatened me once.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Oh, come on, you can’t tell me you’ve never broken the rules and done a little illicit underage
magic?”

“No, I have, but…”

Then Lily understood. “…but they’ve never sent you a letter threatening to chuck you out of
school?”

James shook his head.

“Guess that makes sense. Easier to track the Muggles.” She rolled her eyes. “Typical.” She sighed
and leaned against the pole of the swing-set. The swing she’d just vacated was still swaying in her
absence. “I haven’t done that in a long time,” she told James. “Tuney used to get so mad at me for
it.”

“Why?”

“I wasn’t supposed to do things like that. My parents were afraid someone would see. They didn’t
understand about magic. They thought something was wrong with me, and I think they were
afraid…I dunno, that the government would experiment on me or something horrible like that.
That someone would see and then come take me away.”

James was peering up at her from his seat on the swing with an expression she found difficult to
qualify. It was equal parts curiosity, sorrow, and…something else.

“I suppose someone did come take me away, in the end. Just…to magic school, not to a
laboratory.”

She could still perfectly recall the look of utter relief on her parents’ faces as Professor McGonagall
told them their daughter was ‘perfectly normal.’

“Not normal,” Severus had corrected her when she’d relayed the meeting to him after.
“Extraordinary.”

“You’re a freak,” Petunia had snarled.

“Anyway.” Lily straightened up and looked over at James. “Are you ready to tell me yet why you
really flew all the way out here on Christmas Eve?”

James’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, then he looked down at his hands. “What, my apology
wasn’t convincing?”

“No, it was. But I’m pretty good at reading people, and I sense that something else is bothering
you too. Something big.”

A small half-smile tugged at his lips. “Nothing gets past Penny Prefect.”

She waited.

He scuffed his shoe on the asphalt, twisted the swing from side to side. “Dunno,” he said at last.
“Like I said, I didn’t really think this through. I just needed to fly. It’s what I always do when I’m
stressed. It helps clear my mind. Flying always helps. Up in the clouds…you can get a birds’-eye
view of the situation, and all that.”

“I like that,” said Lily softly.

He glanced up at her, smiled, then looked down again. “I didn’t, y’know, mount that broomstick
with a plan to come here or anything…I just…I dunno…I guess I just wanted to be around
someone who…understood.”
“Understood?”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause, but Lily left the silence alone, allowed it to fill itself back
up.

Finally, James said: “My dad’s dying.”

“Oh, James.”

“He had a stroke tonight. Not his first, apparently. He had his first shortly after school started, but
no one told me that. They think it’s a side effect of the potion regiment he’s on to…to help with
everything else. It’s been like this a while. About half my life, really. Now it’s at the point where
it’s all just…mitigation. There’s no cure or anything. And the potions that they’re giving him to
make him suffer less will ultimately kill him.”

Lily closed her eyes.

“They don’t know how long it will take. The Healer said it could be anywhere from two weeks to
two years. And it’s just hard to believe, because…some days he’ll be doing fine. He’ll be doing
great. Laughing and telling stories…and it’s good old Dad…and then all of a sudden it’s…it’s…”

“The end of the world,” said Lily simply.

James looked up at her, hazel eyes bright with moisture he refused to let fall. “Yeah. The end of the
world.”

There is something inherently powerful about finding the words to express solidarity, to say: I
understand, me too, I know exactly what you mean. It’s a kind of magic you’d never find in any
book but that could change the course of history far more than a mere spell.

But Lily Evans was sixteen years old, and she did not yet know those words. She only knew that
boy before her was hurting in just the way she herself had hurt. So she did the only thing she could
think to do: She let go of the swing-set pole and walked over behind him, wrapped her arms around
his shoulders, pressed her cheek to the back of his head, and hugged him. James sat still and
startled for half a moment, then his shoulders shuddered ever so slightly, and he sunk into the
embrace, touching a cold hand gently to her own.

They stayed like that for an unknowable stretch of time, until Lily felt a soft dampness tick against
her skin. She glanced up; the yellow light from the street lamps was swirling with faint flutters of
white.

“Look,” she said softly to James. “Snow.”

The snow continued to fall as they made their way back to Lily’s house on Bobbin Street, just
enough to dust the ground, to make things a little more pretty. Lily led him to the front of the house
this time; no one was home, so no need to sneak up the trellis.

“D’you want to come in for some hot chocolate or something?” she offered as they reached the
door.
James shook his head. “Thanks, but I should head home. I don’t want my mum to notice I’m gone
and worry.”

“Okay. Well…fly safe?”

“Yeah. Think I’ll turn down that alley to take off, so I’m not mounting a broomstick in front of
your whole town.”

“Good idea.”

“Listen, Evans…thanks for…you know…”

“Of course,” said Lily. “What are friends for?”

He smiled, then with a final nod, he turned and walked away. After a few paces, however, he
stopped and turned back. “Actually, since I’m here, there’s one more thing I want to get off my
chest. This is probably going to sound silly after everything else, but…well, it’s been bothering
me.”

Lily eyed his return with some trepidation. “Okay…?”

“Earlier this year, you told Florence Fawley that I only ever asked you out as a cruel joke, because
you’re — because you’re Muggle-born.”

“She told you that?”

“No,” said James. “She didn’t. I — well, I overheard.”

“I can’t believe she told you that.”

“The point is,” said James hurriedly, “that’s not true. I know I acted like a prat last year, and I
should’ve let it go after you turned me down the first time, but it had nothing to do with you being
Muggle-born. I swear. I’d never make fun of you for that. Not ever. And if it was ever a laugh…I
thought the joke was on me. Not you.”

Lily stared at him, at the earnest look in his hazel eyes, at the snowflakes melting into his messy
hair. It took her a moment to find her voice. “So why did you?”

James blinked. “What?”

“If it wasn’t a joke, why did you keep asking me out like that?”

“Because…” James appeared puzzled, stopping to consider his response. Lily waited, breath
caught in her throat. “Because I’m an idiot,” he said at last. “And sometimes my brain and my
mouth don’t work together.”

“Oh,” said Lily, hoping her disappointment didn’t show on her face.

“I know I’ve been really stupid, and this is yet another apology that is long overdue, but…I’m
sorry. And…it won’t happen again. Promise.”

“Right.”

“Right. Well…G’night, Evans. And Happy Christmas.”

Lily watched as he turned and walked away down the street yet again, this time disappearing into
 the alley. She didn’t know what made her do it. An explosion of Christmas spirit, perhaps? A
momentary blip of sanity? Whatever it was, one minute she was standing on her doorstep, watching
him walk away, and the next, she was dashing down the alley after him. She caught up and clasped
her hand gently around his wrist. “James.”

He turned in surprise, and his eyes widened slightly at the sight of her. They were standing much,
much too close.

“Yeah?”

Lily searched for something to say. She hadn’t thought this through at all. Disaster. So she did the
only thing she could think to do: She stood on tiptoes and kissed him softly on the cheek.

“Happy Christmas, James,” she said, and then she turned swiftly on her heel and dashed back down
the alley, before he could note how thoroughly her cheeks were stained with red.

Ten points for the ears, she thought as she rounded the corner back towards her house, and she had
to stifle her laughter in the palm of her hand.

She sat on her doorstep until she was fairly certain she saw something shaped like a broomstick
disappear into the clouds. Then, and only then, she stood. She did not go inside, however, but
rather walked down the street towards the little church at the end, with its stained glass windows
all warm and bright against the night sky. Midnight mass was almost over, but not quite.

She pulled off her Wizarding cloak and tucked it under her arm. Then she slipped through the
church doors and made her way as unobtrusively as she could manage towards the front pew
where Mrs. Colfield was seated, an empty spot beside her. Lily sat down, and Mrs. Colfield gave
her the biggest, warmest smile and reached across to squeeze her hand tight. Lily did not return the
smile, but nor did she pull her hand away. Instead, she looked up at her father, who was finishing
his sermon from the altar.

“And as the Apostle Peter said unto us: ‘Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers
over a multitude of sins.’”

Chapter End Notes

See! I gave him a hug! AND a kiss. Am I forgiven?

This chapter serves as the "mid season finale" of this book. As previously mentioned, I
will be taking a break from posting to focus on some important stuff in my 'real' life
(boo hiss), as well as fixing up the second half of TLE2. I don't know precisely how
long a break this will be yet, but I'll keep you posted. <3

Thanks so much for all your love and support through 2021 and the whole wild
journey that is this fanfic. I'm very excited to share the rest with you in 2022...and
happy (belated) Christmas. ;)
 A Gentle Breeze
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

JAMES

A Gentle Breeze
The start of spring term was always an exciting time as far as James was concerned. Fresh new
year and all that. Nineteen seventy-seven. “That’s a lucky number,” he’d told Sirius on New Year’s
Eve. The boys had stayed up to watch the clock hand tick past twelve, making quick work of the
bottle of Ogden’s Old that James had nicked from his parents’ stash, pretending for one evening
out of what was undeniably the worst holiday of his life that everything was normal. Everything
was fine. “Seventy-seven. I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”

If he said it out loud, maybe he could make it true.

But try as he might to uphold the enthusiasm he typically provided for their return to Hogwarts and
all the excitement that entailed — the post-holiday reunion with his friends on the train, the fast-
approaching Quidditch season, the promise of spring blooms just a breeze away — James couldn’t
quite maintain the facade.

For instance, more than once on the train ride back to the castle, conversation in their compartment
momentarily fizzled, and James, who historically had always been ready with a clever quip, an
interesting change of subject, a thousand-and-one things he never had enough time to say…well,
the James of nineteen seventy-seven didn’t even notice the lull, for he’d been staring out the
window throughout the whole chat, eyes locked on the gray, winter-struck landscape while his
mind drifted far away to a hospital bed in a city he’d just left behind.

The problem with all this was that James Potter was not particularly adept at gloom. As a matter of
fact, he considered himself quite unskilled in the department of despair. He was familiar with its
symptoms, of course, having studied with scholarly rigor for years its manifestation in the form of
his friends. Sirius and Remus both had different flavors of depression, and James was well-trained
in how to circumvent their emotional walls — or if all else failed, to simply bulldoze on through —
but the presence of a lasting sorrow under his own skin was alien and unpleasant. It itched.

So he bounced back. He rallied. He put on a great show at dinner and told rowdy jokes all the way
back to the dormitory. He kept a good grin going until just the moment he pulled his bed curtains
shut and pressed his cheek to the cool cotton of his pillow. This was the moment when he was
supposed to close his eyes, to give up on the day and merrily stroll off towards a pleasant and
thoughtless slumber. So he did just that and waited for sleep to come.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Any moment now, sleep would come a-knocking.

Mmhm. Any moment.

Perhaps if he rolled onto his other side.

Yes, that was better.

Come on, sleep. He didn’t have all night. Get to it.

Come on.

Please?

But sleep stood him up, the flaky bastard.

James sighed and flopped onto his back once more, gazing up into the canopy of his four-poster
bed while the memories he wished to suppress danced around the shadowy corners of his mind. It
did not take much to recall in perfect detail the image of his father being carried off on a stretcher,
the solemn look on the Healer’s face as she led to them through the blindingly sterile corridors of
St. Mungo’s…and all the carnage that had followed at the hospital that night. James was not sure
he’d even properly processed that bit yet. He’d moved through the whole event like a sleepwalker,
vague and numb in the face of absolute horror. The whole evening had felt designed to make a
mockery of his uselessness, his helplessness against brutal, inevitable death.

On the rare occasion that James had given the concept much thought, he’d always imagined death
to be as quick as a snap, the snuff of a candle. One moment there, the next inexplicably gone. It
wasn’t exactly a comforting thought, but it was clean. Efficient.

He’d been wrong, though. Death was not quick. Death was long, and slow, and drawn out, and
awful. His dad had been lingering in the doorway of death for years now, but he kept clinging
stubbornly to the doorknob, unable to let go. James did not want him to let go. He wanted him to
step back over the threshold into his old life, to shut that miserable door and pretend the other side
did not exist. But that wasn’t going to happen, and this lingering was possibly worse.

“I’ll see you at Easter hols, yeah?” James had told his father before he’d left once more for school.
He wasn’t even sure if the old man had heard him.

But he didn’t want to think about that. He’d never fall asleep if he kept thinking about that, so very
consciously he redirected his thoughts to the other memory that had been haunting him since
Christmas Eve, albeit in quite a different way.

Happy Christmas, James.

James didn’t know what he’d expected when he’d impulsively directed his broom’s compass to
Cokeworth — he wasn’t sure he’d thought far enough ahead to expect anything at all — but Lily’s
kiss had certainly been a surprise. He still felt an electric jolt pulse through his body as he recalled
the spontaneity of it: her hand clutching his wrist in the alley, the tickle of her hair as she leaned in
to press her lips to his cheek, the surprising scent of her shampoo — earthy yet with a hint of
citrus? — and the gentle, steady tick of snow across the frozen town. He’d replayed the memory a
hundred times, turning it this way and that, squinting at it, holding it up to the light, desperate to
understand why the kiss had happened…so that maybe he could make it happen again.

But the more he analyzed, the less confident he felt. After all, only moments before that surprising
kiss, he’d promised her that he wouldn’t ask her out again, and she’d seemed perfectly content with
that. It was a promise he intended to keep, by the way. James was nothing if not a man of his
word…but now he was a man of his word who was deeply confused by all the different letters.

“If it wasn’t a joke, why did you keep asking me out like that?”

He’d been flummoxed by this question at the time, a thousand thoughts whirling like a hurricane in
his mind. It was easy now, in hindsight, to pull up everything he’d wanted to say: Because I wanted
to go out with you, simple as that. Because I wanted to hold your hand in the corridors and kiss you
in the secret corners of the castle. Because I wanted to walk the streets of Hogsmeade with you, to
put my arm around your shoulder and listen as you tell me stories from your childhood, and I tell
you mine. Because I want to watch the way you blush when I say your name, and twirl your hair
around your finger, and bite your lip like you’re trying not to laugh when I say something a little
funny but really rather stupid. Because I wanted to watch you actually laugh, the way you throw
your head back and just completely give in to the hilarity of it all. Because I’m bloody in love with
you, and nothing I do seems to make it go away, and it’s killing me.

But he hadn’t said any of that, of course. Instead, he’d offered a more abbreviated version of the
truth: Because I’m an idiot.

A hurricane was indeed an apt metaphor for being in love with Lily Evans, James decided as he
rolled over and buried his face into his pillow. Everything was swirling chaos, toppled trees, and
violent gales of wind that whipped his emotions to and fro — except when he was beside her, her
hand gently upon his wrist, lips to cheek. Being with Lily was like standing in the eye of the
hurricane itself, all calm and quiet and perfect, ignoring the storm that awaited him as soon as she
stepped away.

He wanted to convince himself that she’d kissed him like that because she too felt the whipping
winds of the hurricane, but he knew better. She’d felt sorry for him, that’s all. He’d nearly cried in
front of her on that Muggle playground, of course she felt sorry for him. It didn’t mean anything.
Or at least, it didn’t mean anything romantic. They were friends, and that in itself was miraculous.
That was enough. It had to be.

Even so, it was to the memory of the faint scent of citrus and the soft brush of lips against his
cheek that James Potter finally fell asleep.

The next morning arrived far too soon, as mornings that follow sleepless nights always seemed
wont to do. Though James had awoken somewhat later than usual, he felt groggy and ill-rested. Of
course, James’s idea of “later than usual” was still considerably earlier than his friends, who all
preferred to sleep until the last possible minute before tumbling out of bed and down to breakfast.
James was awake, however, and having spent the night tossing and turning in bed, he had no wish
to pass this morning in the same torment, so he pushed himself up, pulled on his school robes, and
headed down to the common room to await his friends.
He was nearly at the foot of the spiral stairs when he saw her: Lily Evans was standing across the
common room, evidently reading the notice board. Though her back was to him, she was as always
immediately recognizable by her wonderful red hair, which today she wore in a loose braid that
tumbled down her back. His breath caught in his throat and he stopped, frozen on the final step, as
their last encounter in Cokeworth came swirling back like the dizzying spin of a roundabout.

Happy Christmas, James.

“Oi, Potter. You’re blocking the stairs.”

The spell broken, James glanced over his shoulder to see Davey Gudgeon attempting to push past
him.

“Sorry, Gudgie, I — er — thought I’d forgotten…” he trailed off as he peered theatrically into his
bag, a pantomime of absent-minded concern. “No, there it is. All set.” He gave the bag a little pat,
but he needn’t have bothered with the show, for Davey did not care. He’d already moved on.

Feeling rather foolish, James continued into the common room. He had to get a grip. He’d wanted
so badly to make things right with Lily, to fix their fledgling friendship after he’d fucked it up at
Slughorn’s party, and — a Christmas miracle — somehow he’d done that. He couldn’t muck it all
up again by being so obviously, embarrassingly in love with her, not when he’d explicitly promised
to stop doing exactly that. After giving himself a brief but stern talking to, he rolled his shoulders
and headed over to Lily.

“All right, Evans?”

She turned and — was he imagining it, or did her smile brighten ever-so-slightly? “Oh, Potter. Hi.
How was…” The faintest pause. “How was the rest of your holiday?”

James was about to say “Great,” until he remembered Lily’s arms around his shoulders as he sat on
a swing and tried desperately not to cry, and then the fib sounded rather stupid. So instead he
hedged: “‘Bout the same.” Then, because that sounded too gloomy, he added, “No worse,
anyway.”

Lily nodded. “I’m glad to hear that, at least.”

Desperate for a change of subject, James turned to the notice board she’d been examining moments
before. A large sign dominated the varied detritus of last term’s announcements, obscuring the
ancient club sign-ups and Quidditch schedules and desperate pleas for missing scarves. “Hullo,”
said James, taking a closer look at the sign, “what have we got here?”

What they’d got, he read, was a sign-up sheet for a twelve-week course of apparition lessons,
provided by the Ministry to any witch or wizard who would be of age by August 31st, 1977, all for
the paltry fee of twelve galleons. He noticed that Lily had already added her name to the list.

“Bloody expensive, aren’t they?” sighed Lily. “But I’ve been dying to learn to apparate for years,
so that’s all the complaining you’ll hear from me. I do wish we’d started earlier though. I turn
seventeen this month, it seems a shame to have to wait until the end of term to take my test. I can’t
wait to come of age.”

“You’re awfully keen to start zipping around the country,” said James distractedly as he examined
the lesson schedule to see how badly it conflicted with Quidditch.

“Are you kidding?” laughed Lily. “Do you know what a pain it is to get from Cokeworth to
London the Muggle way, multiple times a year? Anyway, it’s not just apparition. I’m dying to do
magic outside of school. And not just so I can annoy my sister, either. I really need to get some
protection wards up, stop people from showing up at my house, that sort of thing.”

“That unhappy to see me at Christmas, were you?”

“It’s not you I don’t want showing up.”

It took James a moment to process the meaning of this, but once he did, the reality of it hit him like
a Bludger. “Hang on,” he said, turning abruptly back from the notice board. “You don’t have any
wards on your house?”

“How would I? I’m not allowed to do magic. I transfigured a teacup once and they nearly expelled
me.”

“Yeah, but surely the Ministry would’ve thought to…” The end of that sentence was ‘put wards on
Muggle-born homes,’ but before he got there, he realized he was being embarrassingly naive again.
Lily didn’t call him out on it, which was kind. She just sort of shrugged, as though she’d had the
same thought before, but was well used to being disappointed by wizards.

James frowned as he shuffled through an upsetting array of thoughts. “My mum could do it,” he
said at last.

“What?”

“She’s great at wards, did all the ones on our house. I’ll write her — today — she could pop over
to Cokeworth and do it in an afternoon. No one would even have to know.”

Lily shifted uncomfortably. “No, that’s all right…you don’t need to bother her. Really, it’s only a
few months until spring holiday, and I’ll be back to do it myself.”

But James shook his head. Images of that horrible night at St. Mungo’s still lurked in the periphery
of his memory, threatening at the slightest jolt to come careening into view: a man whose face was
a blur of blood, head cradled in his hands; a woman who wouldn’t stop shrieking; the sobs and
screams and curses and cries of the wounded…

He hadn’t told Lily about what he’d seen at St. Mungo’s. It had all been too much, that night. But
he could still see it. He could still hear it.

“You need wards on your house, Evans,” he said sternly. Then, slightly softer: “Please. Let me
write my mum.”

Lily stared at him, and she seemed to have some idea of what he was thinking, because she went a
few shades paler. No doubt she’d read about the Christmas Eve attack on London, seen all the gory
details printed in black and white. It had been the only thing in the papers all week.

“Okay,” she agreed at last. “Thanks.”

James just nodded, and before he could come up with some lighthearted quip to change the
uncomfortably heavy subject, he was spared the effort by the arrival of Marlene McKinnon.

“Found it,” she told Lily, holding up a very dull-looking book in one triumphant hand. “At the very
bottom of my trunk. Honestly, that’s the last time I let my mother pack for me, what a mess…oh,
hello Potter.”

“All right, McKinnon?”

Marlene glanced at the noticeboard with a hopeful expression. “Putting up the training schedule for
Quidditch, are you?”

James grinned at her keenness. “Not for a few more months, tragically. I’ve told McGonagall that
she really takes far too hard a line against frostbite, but alas.”

“Hard to catch a Quaffle without all your fingers,” said Lily.

“Pah, I don’t see all the fuss,” said James, waggling his fingers. “I’ve got ten. Loads to spare.”

Lily laughed and turned to Marlene. “We were just discussing apparition lessons. See?”

Marlene’s expression darkened as she took in the notice board. “Oh, great.”

James observed the other girl curiously. Marlene McKinnon was always full of surprises, a truly
fascinating sort of specimen. Sometimes James felt that he wanted to take notes and study her.
Other times, he simply wanted to sit back and be amused. “What, you don’t want to learn to
apparate?”

“What for? I’m quite happy with Portkeys, thank you very much.”

Lily rolled her eyes, although not without a shade of affection. “Not all of us can keep Portkeys in
our pockets, Marlene.”

“All I’m saying is if you’d heard the stories I’ve heard from my father, you wouldn’t be so eager to
apparate either.”

“Marlene’s dad is the Head of Magical Transportation,” said Lily helpfully to James.

James grinned. “I see. C’mon, McKinnon. What’s a little splinching in the scheme of things?
We’ve already established a person doesn’t need all their digits to play Quidditch.”

Marlene eyed him sardonically. “Would you like to hear about some of the other appendages men
have splinched?”

“Aha,” James cleared his throat. “You know what? I’m all set, thanks, McKinnon.” He leaned over
to sign his name upon the sheet. “On that note, I’ll be sure to take lessons very seriously…”

Lily appeared to be trying to suppress a snort of laughter, but then she caught James’s eye and
couldn’t help it. She dissolved into giggles.

Marlene rolled her eyes. “Lily. Breakfast?”

“Oh, right.” Lily looked at James. “Are you coming…?”

“Er — still waiting on my mates. Lazy sods,” he added for good measure, and Lily laughed again,
tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He watched the way her fingertip traced her cheek as
she did so, and found himself thinking of a similar soft touch, the brush of lips against his own
cheek on a snowy Christmas Eve…

He cleared his throat. “I’ll see you in class?”

“Yeah,” she said. “See you later, James.”

And with a final smile, she turned and followed Marlene out of the portrait hole. James watched
her go, then gave himself a little shake, as though he might shrug off the strange fog that always
seemed to come over him whenever she was near.

“What the hell was that?”

James turned to see Sirius, Remus, and Peter sanding at the base of the dormitory stairs, watching
him with expressions that ranged from amused to expectant.

“What was what?” said James.

“You and Evans just now.”

“What? We were just talking.”

“There was a tone,” said Peter.

“There was no tone,” said James.

“There was a definite tone,” said Sirius.

“Sod off, she literally said, ‘See you later.’ That’s it.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “No, she said—“ He flipped his hair and put on a high-pitched voice, a
terrible imitation of any girl, let alone Lily: “See you later, James. ”

“Oh, shut it.”

“You could practically hear her knickers drop,” said Peter.

“Shut it,” said James again, rather more firmly this time. He generally considered himself a good
sport, give it as good as you get and all that, but he was in no mood to be teased about Lily today.
Not with his heart still hammering at the hem of his sleeve.

“Moony,” said Sirius. “Want to back us up on this?”

“I emphatically do not,” yawned Remus. “I do, however, want breakfast. Shall we?”

“The thing is,” continued Sirius once the four boys were settled around their bacon and eggs at
breakfast, “the last time you brought up Evans, you were weeping on the floor about much she
hated you.”

“I was not weeping!” A bit of scrambled egg sailed across the table as James spluttered in
indignation. “And besides, that was before—“ he stopped himself. He’d been about to say ‘before
she kissed me,’ but he caught himself just in time. “That was before we talked.”

“You talked? When? We just got back last night, and Moony didn’t sleep that late.”

“No thanks to you lot,” grumbled a thoroughly groggy Remus as he went to spread marmalade over
his toast and missed.

James hesitated. He hadn’t told Sirius — or any of his friends — about his little sojourn to
Cokeworth on Christmas Eve. When he’d returned to Potter House that night, Sirius hadn’t pressed
for details. No doubt he’d simply assumed James had done what he’d said — gone for a fly — and
James had discovered that, most unusually, he didn’t want to talk about it. But it was no good.
James was dreadful at keeping secrets — at least the ones that were his own.

“Christmas Eve,” he said at last.

“What?”

“That’s when we talked.”

Sirius lowered his fork. “Hang on — that’s where you went?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did he go?” asked Peter.

“That’s why it took so bloody long,” said Sirius, ignoring Peter. “And there I was pacing your
room, thinking you got hit by a Muggle plane or something stupid. Wasn’t sure how I was going to
explain that one to your mum. But you were with Evans the whole time. Merlin, I should’ve
known.”

James suddenly felt rather defensive. “It wasn’t planned or anything. I just — you gave me the
compass. It works, by the way.”

“Glad to hear it,” snorted Sirius with a stab at his bacon.

James waited for the ribbing to continue, but Sirius, it seemed, had nothing more to say. In fact, he
let the subject drop entirely, which was in itself disconcerting. Normally, when Sirius sniffed out an
opportunity to take the piss, he pursued it like a crup after a rabbit.

James worried over this all through their morning classes and on his climb up to the Owlery during
afternoon break. He wondered if Sirius had taken it personally, that James had sought out Lily’s
company that night instead of his. But it wasn’t like that at all, it just…happened. Or maybe Sirius
was peeved that James had waited so long to tell him, but it wasn’t that he didn’t trust his best mate
or wish to confide him, it was just that…well…that moment with Lily in the alley with the snow
and the kiss and everything…it existed as a sort of perfect, gleaming, fragile memory, and any
amount of interrogation threatened to burst it like a finger to a soap bubble. Gone forever. So he’d
kept it to himself, hoarded all the details for his own sleepless nights.

And the rest of it — his dad and St. Mungo’s and everything — he’d just wanted to put all that
away.

By the time James had finished scrawling the note to his mum, affixed it to the talon of one of the
more obliging school owls (he’d forgotten Homer was still off on his cross-continental journey to
America), and headed back to the common room, James had made up his mind that he and Sirius
needed to talk.

He found his friends in standard form: Remus dozing in an armchair, Pete fretting over a spellbook,
and Sirius looking sourly at the newspaper.

“Padfoot,” said James as he approached. “Could I have a word?” He nodded towards an empty
corner of the common room to indicate that he wanted to speak privately. Peter glanced up but did
not comment; Remus merely snored.

“Sure,” said Sirius, tossing the Prophet aside as he stood to follow. Once they were several steps
away, he asked, “What’s up, Prongs? You’ve got your ‘I have something important to say’ face
on.”

“Do you keep a catalogue or something?”

Sirius snorted. “I should. One Thousand and One Expressions James Potter is Shit at Hiding. ”

James almost grinned, but it faded rather rapidly as he ran a hand through his hair. “Well, you’re
right. I do have something important to say. About Christmas Eve —“

“Mate, you don’t have to —“

“No, I — listen, I don’t want you to think — I didn’t go to Evans because — it wasn’t that I didn’t
want to talk to you about it.”

“I know.”

“It’s just…I don’t know how to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I do though. That’s the problem. I do have to talk about it. You know me, I blabber on about
everything, it’s how I process, and not being able to talk about something makes it so much worse,
but I don’t know how to do this. All of this is so far beyond my ken, and I don’t know to deal with
it, but…Evans does. She’s got some experience in this department.”

Sirius frowned. “What d’you mean?”

James hesitated. “She’s…been through it. Losing a parent, I mean.”

“Evans?”

“Yeah. Her mum. Back sometime around third year, I think it was. But don’t say anything, okay?
She’s rather private about it, and no offense, but you’re probably not someone she wants knowing
her personal business on account of…you know, history.”

“Okay, ouch — but fair,” agreed Sirius. “Third year…?” His frown deepened, dark brows
furrowing as he digested this new information. “Well, shit. I feel like the biggest prick on the
planet.”

“No bigger than me.”

“Pfft. You wish.”

James laughed. “So…we’re all right?”

Sirius rolled his eyes and gave James’s shoulder an affectionate knock. “You prat. We’re always all
right.”

Classes. Scratch of quill, drone of lecture. James had hoped the tedium of academia might provide
some escape from his whirling mind, but instead the drifting hours spent in class seemed little
more than a blank canvas of time, a wide empty space upon which to project all his troubles, to
sketch them out and line them up and worry over them, uninterrupted by the vague humming of
Charms theory in the background.

“James?” murmured Remus, giving his elbow a gentle prod. “Are you all right?”

“Mmph,” said James, pulling himself back from the corridors of St. Mungo’s. “Yeah. Sure.”

His mother’s reply arrived only a few days later. She expressed similar shock that the Ministry was
not already providing extra security to underage Muggle-borns ( It’s not as if they don’t know
where every one of them lives!), and she assured James that she’d completed his request the very
same day. ( I had a little time before the Healers came back, so I just popped on over. Funny little
town, isn’t it? Took me no time at all. Truly appalling that the government hasn’t done as much,
they could finish it off in a day. Utter negligence, if you ask me. I’m going to write Dottie, I know
she still has the ear of dear old Urquart.)

He was grateful for her efficiency, because the morning the letter arrived so too did the news of a
slew of Muggle killings in Bristol. There was a time, James noted darkly as he scowled at the
Prophet’s front page, that such an event would’ve been relegated to the back of the paper, if
reported at all. The editors had not been overly concerned about the murder of Muggles in the past,
but ever since the attack on Christmas Eve, with its Dark Mark blaring over London for all to see,
journalists were clamoring to report on anything related to Death Eaters.

Yet not one of them dared print the name Voldemort .

The letter and its assurance that Lily’s home now had some protection relieved one worry from
James’s mind, but in its place planted another: I had a little time before the Healers came back.

She hadn’t gone into any detail there. Came back for what? What was going on? Was the fact that
the Healers were bothering to show up a sign that things were improving? That there was hope? Or
had things grown worse? Was his father once again on the edge of that cursed threshold, and James
wouldn’t even know until it was too late to turn back?

It annoyed him, this obvious attempt to protect him from reality, and yet, at the same time, he
wished to be protected. Let the adults handle the crisis. But he was nearly an adult himself. He
turned seventeen in just a few months, and regardless of what the calendar said, he felt older —
years, decades, centuries older — than he had before the Christmas holiday.

And he did not like it. He didn’t want to spend his class periods chewing the end of his quill,
rehashing old conversations and snatches of dialogue from the Healers, worrying over timelines to
which only fate was privy. He wanted to go back to worrying about schoolboy nonsense, pranks
and heists and dates in Hogsmeade, all the bric-a-brac of adolescence that he’d never recognized as
quite so silly as he now understood it all to be. He missed the frivolity; he craved inconsequence.

“I think your cauldron’s clean, Potter.”

James looked up into the murky gloom of the dungeon. He was in Potions, and he’d been
moderately aware of this fact up until a few moments ago when he’d set about to tidy up his
workstation after an uninspiring afternoon of antidote brewing. But he’d got lost in his thoughts
again, and now Lily stood before him with a worried look on her face as James stared blankly at
his spotless cauldron.

“Right-o,” he said, giving a falsely cheerful shake of his head, pushing back his chair with an
echoing scrape.

For once, it was Lily who made conversation on their walk out of the dungeons, chatting somewhat
listlessly about the day’s lesson. James tried to contribute, but he was still trudging his way
through his own interior landscape, which these days was as stark and barren as the snow-covered
grounds that smothered the castle.

James shook himself out of it just in time to catch Lily as they parted ways at the top of the stairs.
“Hang on—“ he said, vaguely aware she’d made some comment about heading to the library. “I
meant to tell you…”

Already half-turned away, she paused and looked back at him. “Yes?”

“I heard back from my mum this morning.”

Lily blinked, uncomprehending.

“It’s done — she’s done it. Put the wards up around your house, I mean. Pretty much every
protection spell she could think of, so I suspect it’s among the safest places in Britain, to tell you
the truth. She also put some up around your neighbors’, and the church too, so —“

He didn’t finish that sentence, however, for Lily had flung her arms around him in a tight hug. He
stood in a surprised daze — overwhelmed by the heat of her and that faint scent of citrus — until
she let go, looking rather flustered as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair was
always so delightfully wispy after Potions, all frazzled and curly from the steam.

“Thank you,” she said, rather formerly.

“It’s nothing,” said James.

“It’s not. It’s everything.”

James raked his fingers through his own hair and frowned. “I just wish I’d thought of it sooner.”

“Doesn’t matter. You thought of it now, and I will sleep well tonight for the first time since I don’t
know when.”

“I’m glad.”

A torturous pause. Lily looked as though she wanted to say something else but thought better of it
at the last minute, so instead she squeezed his hand, then took off towards the library.

He watched her go, unmoored by the wave of longing and sorrow he suddenly felt. So this was
being friends with Lily Evans. It was better than thinking she hated him, though only marginally.
He’d never realized before how all of his interactions with her had been so tinged with hope. Hope
for the impossible.

“Tell me, Potter, is it torture for you?” Snape’s words from the party came oozing back. James
would never admit it out loud, certainly not to Snape, but yes, it was. It was absolute torture.

“So what lie did you feed her this time?”

James froze, convinced for a moment that he’d pulled the slimy voice from his own imaginings.
But there, as he turned slowly on his heel, he saw Severus Snape several steps away. They had not
spoken since their last disastrous interaction at Slughorn’s party, when James had said all those
rotten things, and Lily had overheard. Now the Slytherin glowered at him, a look of fury upon his
face.

“Sorry?” said James as jovially as he could manage. “Could you repeat that? I don’t speak
Parseltongue.”

“It doesn’t make any logical sense,” snarled Snape. “I can’t understand how she keeps being fooled
by a swine like you.”

“I suspect there’s many things in life you don’t understand, Sniv.”

“If I didn’t know you to be a talentless oaf around a cauldron, I’d suspect you—“

“What? Slipped her a forgetfulness potion? Or something stronger? Is that what you would do?”

“You insulted her to her face. You disparaged the place she came from, the core of who she is.
And yet she forgives you ? She hugs you ?” A spasm of disgust flitted across the sallow face.
“Why?”

There was almost a note of desperation to the question, and James was not entirely proud to
recognize that he savored it ever so slightly. A gluttonous buffet of snide remarks appeared before
him; James need only pluck one from the proverbial platter to deal his adversary a cutting blow…
but before he could make his selection, the memory of Lily’s voice interrupted: It would cost you
nothing to just leave him alone.

James exhaled and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his robes. “You want to know what I
said to make her forgive me? What I did?”

Snape said nothing, but there was a hungry intensity to his gaze that gave him away. He so clearly
did want to know.

“All right, you don’t have to beg. I’ll tell you. It wasn’t Dark Magic though, so I doubt you’ll take
it very seriously.”

James took a step closer to the other boy. There had been a time early on in their rivalry when
Snape had had the height advantage — stringy, scrawny youth that he’d been — but James had
caught up and kept going, so that now he stood about a head taller than his enemy, peering down
at him with a disdain that was matched glare for glare from the black pits of eyes glowering from
Snape’s skull.

“I apologized.”

“What?”

“A-pol-o-gized,” annunciated James. “I said I was sorry — and I meant it. Those things I said at
Slughorn’s party were rubbish, and I felt badly about it.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering if
he had it in him to apologize to Snape directly. After some consideration, he reconciled himself to
the fact that he did not. A man had limits, after all, even if he was trying to improve himself. “Any
other questions?”

Snape gawked at him for a moment, then his eyes narrowed. “It won’t last. She’ll see you for what
you are, Potter. She’ll unearth the truth and remember that she wants nothing to do with scum like
you.”
“So you’ve said.” James told himself not to rise to the bait, to just leave it alone, and yet he
couldn’t quite resist getting in one final jab: “Tell me, Snape, is it torture for you?”

Snape went as pale as though he’d been hit with a blood-draining hex.

“Yeah,” said James softly, eyes flickering over the twist and snarl of this hated face. “I bet it is.” In
the depths of his pocket, James’s fist gripped his wand. It was so tempting to hex him properly. He
deserved it. If anyone deserved it — “Right.” James flexed his fingers as he released the wand. “I
don’t have time for this.” He turned to walk away, but he was just seconds gone when he felt the
hairs on the back of neck rise.

“OI!” shouted a voice, and James spun on his heel in time to see a a glittering Shield Charm burst
between him and Snape as the sparks of a deflected curse scattered into the ether; the Slytherin
scurried bat-like back down towards the dungeons.

“Coward!” called the same voice as before, and James realized after a blinking moment that it was
Sirius who’d cast the Shield Charm between them.

“Thanks,” James said as Sirius strode over, Remus and Peter close behind.

Sirius scowled. “What the hell are you doing, turning your back on that prick? You might as well
have handed him your wand, too.”

James just shrugged.

“Look,” said Sirius. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, but you can’t let your guard down like
that. You’re going to get yourself hexed, or worse.”

“Nah,” said James, knocking his shoulder against his friend’s. “Not with you watching my back.”

Sirius did not smile. “I mean it, Prongs. Get it together.”

James did, in fact, make a concerted effort to ‘get it together.’ He sensed his friends’ concern like a
fifth presence among them, trailing along a few steps behind in the corridors, crowding them at
meals. It unsettled him, being the object of worry, so he made an effort. He rallied. By dinner, he
was at least outwardly good old Prongs again, and as they headed out of the Great Hall following
their meal, arguing enthusiastically about how many Fizzing Whizzbees it would take to levitate a
dragon, he almost felt like good old Prongs again.

“Why would you need to levitate a dragon?” complained Remus, after about twenty minutes of
this. “They can fly.”

“Maybe the dragon’s asleep,” suggested Peter.

“You’re feeding sweets to a sleeping dragon? How’s that work?”

“It’s not about the specific circumstances, Moony,” said Sirius. “It’s about science.”

“Yes, the thrill of discovery and all that,” said James. “Anyway, you’re all making it needlessly
complex. You’ve just got to calculate the mass of the dragon and multiply that by — oh.”
He stopped walking; Florence Fawley had just caught his eye and was hurrying across the
Entrance Hall to catch up. “Hi James,” she said, beaming at him.

“Florence. Hi.”

James was very aware of his friends’ presence around him and was grateful they had momentarily
stopped talking about dragon mathematics.

“Did you have a good holiday?”

“Er — yeah,” James lied. “It was great. You?”

“Really nice, yeah.” There was a pause during which Florence smoothed her hair over her shoulder.
“I just heard from one of my well-connected prefect friends that the next Hogsmeade weekend
won’t be until February.”

James glanced at Remus, who shrugged. Remus was without a doubt the least-well-connected
prefect friend a bloke could have, on account of how he rarely went to any of the meetings, and
when he did, he never paid much attention.

“Oh,” said James. “Bummer.”

“They probably want to have it on Valentine’s Day weekend,” said Florence.

“That makes sense.”

“Yeah.” Florence shifted slightly. “Well…I just wanted to let you know.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Another pause. “I guess I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She offered him a rather faltering smile, then took off. James watched her go, feeling as though he
was supposed to have said or done something else, but not knowing what that was. His thoughts
were interrupted, however, by a great sniff beside him.

He turned to Sirius. “Did you just sniff me?”

“Yes.”

“Dare I ask why?”

“I’m searching for evidence.”

“Of...?”

“Peppermint. Rose petals. The guilty stench of a surreptitious brewer of love potions. You must
have done something to make all the girls in Hogwarts suddenly swoon over you.”

“Oh, sod off.”

James realized that in all of the kerfuffle following Slughorn’s Christmas party and everything else
that had happened over the holiday, he had never told his friends that Florence had asked him to
Hogsmeade. Dragon levitation long forgotten, he corrected this oversight as they climbed the stairs
back to the dormitory.

“But I guess we’ll have to wait until February now,” he concluded as they ducked through the
passageway that led to one of their frequent shortcuts.

All three boys groaned.

“What?” said James.

Sirius sighed deeply and looked at Remus. “How much do we care?”

Remus considered it. “Medium.”

“Fine.” Sirius turned back to James: “You can’t wait until February to take her out.”

“Why not?”

Sirius shot another aggrieved look at Remus.

“Medium rare,” amended Remus.

“Because,” said Sirius, as though he was talking to someone very stupid, “if you wait until
February, she will think you’re not interested, and then, if/when you actually do take her out, she
will be passive aggressive and bitchy the whole time.”

“What Sirius is trying to say,” interrupted Remus, “in between being horribly sexist and projecting
his negative experiences with women via his mother onto the entirety of the female sex—“

“That’s fair,” said Sirius.

“—is that if you like Florence, you need to show her. Now. Do you like her?”

“Er,” said James. They were all looking at him, and it made him nervous. “Yeah. Course I like
her.”

“More than Evans?” said Peter.

“Okay, I’m going to hex the next person who brings up Evans. And yes. I like Florence. More
importantly: She likes me.”

“An admirable quality in a girlfriend,” nodded Remus.

“Pah,” said Sirius. “Overrated. Right, Pete?”

“Fuck off,” said Peter.

“What’s going on with you and what’s-her-name anyway?” asked James.

“Veronica,” said Peter sourly, “and we broke up. Right after Slughorn’s party.”

James felt a guilty twinge. He’d been so wrapped up in his own post-party troubles that he hadn’t
even noticed his friend was going through a breakup. “Ah, no. What happened?”

Peter shrugged. “Got boring. Anyway, you’re changing the subject. Are you going to ask Florence
out, or not?”

“I mean, I would, but there’s no Hogsmeade weekend until February. What am I supposed to do?”
Sirius and Remus exchanged another look.

“Rapidly approaching rare,” said Remus.

“Prongs, Prongs, Prongs,” sighed Sirius. “My dear, sweet, idiot lad. You really can’t think of
anything to do with a girl that doesn’t involve sitting in a crowded pub?”

“Oh.”

In the end, he suggested a walk. It was perhaps not the most inspired idea for a date, but Florence
had accepted enthusiastically, and so the two met up during the Thursday free period they shared to
slip out of the castle onto the snow-gleaming grounds. It was not long after, however, that James
had to admit that perhaps the outing had been ill-planned. It had seemed a nice idea in his head —
fresh snow and all that — but in reality, it was a bitterly cold day, and the snow was that heavy,
wet sort of precipitation that was difficult to walk through. They both trudged on regardless,
pretending like it was lovely, but James was beginning to suspect that the whole affair was a
disaster. They should call it off and head back inside.

“What do you say we duck in here for a minute?” said Florence as they approached the
greenhouses, glass panes glittering in the winter daze. “Warm up a bit?”

Inside the greenhouse, it may as well have been summer. The air was heavy, thick with the smell
of humus and the pervasive fragrance of the many flowers that filled the space. James’s glasses
fogged up immediately; once he wiped them dry and returned them to their perch on his nose, he
saw that this particular greenhouse seemed to be used not for classes but for storage, as it was
crammed to capacity with a great variety of plants: funny-looking cacti in clay pots, delicate
orchids all lined up on shelves, plush ferns that hung from the ceiling with wild, grasping tendrils.

“Much better,” said Florence happily as she tugged off her hat, blonde hair tumbling down past her
shoulders. She offered him a bright smile, which he returned. She really was undeniably pretty,
particularly in here among all the flowers. “I’ve always been more of a warm weather girl myself.
Can’t wait for spring. Oh, look — how pretty . I’ve always thought it such a pity I had to drop
Herbology. It was never my best subject, and I simply couldn’t fit it in, not with Arithmancy,
Astronomy, and Ancient Runes, but gosh, I do love all the flowers.”

They spent a fair amount of time looking at all the plants, sniffing each orchid which, apparently,
had been bred to smell like different sorts of sweets, joking about precisely which fern it was that
had allegedly tried to strangle Harvey Harris during his O.W.L. practical exam (“It’s not funny!”
laughed Florence. “It really was awful!”). It was, James reckoned, a perfect sort of moment, if one
was in the business of crafting moments. He could see that as though he were watching from afar:
Florence, admiring the bright pink petals of some ornamental tree, her cheeks still flushed from the
cold...and then suddenly she was stepping closer to him, taking his hand. “I’m really glad you
asked me on this walk, James,” she said softly.

“Er — yeah. Me too,” said James. “Really glad.”

“I’ve liked you for a long time. I wish I’d had the nerve to say something sooner.”

James already knew this, but that did not seem the right thing to say. He struggled for a moment,
trying to think of what was the right thing to say (he always seemed to get these things wrong),
 when it occurred to him that he wasn’t supposed to say anything at all.

He leaned towards her. She closed the gap.

And as he moved his lips towards hers, a gentle breeze fluttered through the greenhouse.

Chapter End Notes

hi hello it's been a minute. :)

Thanks for your patience with me over this extended break. I didn't actually expect it
to last quite so long, but then a lot of things have happened so far in 2022 that I did not
expect, so add it to the list I guess!!

Anyway, as a welcome back I thought I'd greet you with some Sad James™ and then
set everything on fire. Ok bye see you in three months!!! (I'm kidding please don't
murder me.)

As far as posting future chapters goes, I'm going to try for Tuesdays again (not this
Tuesday though), but I'm going to be honest with you: my life is bananas right now, so
we may be flying by the seat of our pants over here for a little while. I'll do my best
though!

Love you!
CH
 Oderint Dum Metuant
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

SEVERUS

Oderint Dum Metuant

Tick, tick, tick.

Upon the carved mantel that adorned the grandest fireplace in the Slytherin common room sat an
ornate portico clock. Two marble columns held aloft its polished black casing, inlaid with delicate
silver ornamentation that glinted in the green-tinged light from the lanterns strung above. A heavy
pendulum swung back and forth, back and forth, but it was the clock face itself that had always
attracted Severus’s attention: fading roman numerals encircled by the silver form of a serpent with
its tail between its teeth. An ouroboros.

Severus had spent many minutes of his life watching the intricate hands of this clock follow the
snake from head to tail, a steady slither through the endless tick of time. Indeed, it felt as though
he’d spent most of his life watching the clock — waiting, waiting, waiting — for this very
moment.

It was half-past eleven. January 8, 1977. In thirty minutes, Severus Snape would be seventeen
years old. Officially of age. His own man. Free from the constraints of the Ministry’s fickle
underage laws, free from the clutches of his dirty Muggle father.

Free.

He’d been looking forward to this moment his whole life, and yet — he felt almost nothing. It
wasn’t that he expected anything from his birthday. No party, no presents. He never had. When he
was very little, his mother would sometimes descend into the depths of her forbidden trunk and
pull out something magic to show him, some marvelous artefact from her past life to tide him over
as the torturous clock ticked minute by minute to the moment he could leave Cokeworth for his
fairytale castle. She’d stopped bothering with all that years ago, and Severus doubted his father
even knew when his son’s birthday was.

No. The only person who had ever remembered his birthday was Lily Evans.

He closed his eyes as though the thought pained him.

In fact, it did.

What good did it do to remember the cupcakes she’d baked him each birthday, or the way she’d
delighted in spearing a candle into the cake for his every year, so that the when she presented it to
him, giggling all the while, the whole thing appeared as a lopsided, frosted porcupine? What was
the purpose in replaying each “Happy birthday, Sev!” or “ Don’t boast, you’re only a tiny bit older
than me! ” in his head, an endless reel of torture? Why must he think now of the card she’d given
him back in third year, the one with the sloppy little drawing of a lion and a snake wearing party
hats? It was as though she were a missing tooth, and he couldn’t help himself but worry endlessly
over the ragged gum.

Their last encounter had been disastrous. Catastrophic. World-ending. Felix had failed him. He
might as well have poured the potion down the drain for all the good it had done him. At last
Severus was forced to confront what he had long refused to accept: It was over. They were
through.

Well, fuck her, he thought furiously. If she wanted to go around hugging slimebags like Potter,
then…then she wasn’t the girl he’d thought she was. So she’d thrown in her lot with the bullies and
beasts? Fuck. Her. She thought she didn’t need him any more? Big fucking deal. He didn’t need
her!

Severus buried his face in his hands.

Tick, tick.

Felix had gifted him one thing at least. Straightening up, he pulled from his pocket the small mirror
he’d found on the floor of his dormitory the night of Slughorn’s Christmas party. He’d kept it on
him all holiday, pulling it out in any spare moment to try and uncover whatever secret the glassy
little square concealed. He had heard Black’s voice coming from it, and Potter’s too. It wasn’t hard
to work out what that meant— it was obviously some sort of homemade communication device —
but Severus couldn’t seem to get the damn thing to work. He would though. He’d figure out, and
then he’d have them. Somehow, he would get his revenge. He must. He had nothing else.

His desperate plotting was interrupted by a burst of raucous laughter, echoing down the stone
corridor that led out the common room. Severus was as good as hidden behind the tall back of the
chair in which he sat, and angling the mirror just so, he watched as Avery, Rosier, and Mulciber all
stumbled in, clearly drunk. Well, Avery and Rosier stumbled; Mulciber seemed unaffected.

“All right,” said Mulciber to Rosier, upon whom Avery was slumped. “Get the bastard to bed.”

“Oderint dum metuant!” cried Avery, with all the drama of a Shakespearean actor.

“Yes, yes,” said Mulciber. “Go on, you embarrassing heap of a boy.”

Rosier snickered, and Severus watched through the mirror as the two shuffled off towards the
dormitory.

“Ah, Severus,” came Mulciber’s voice from behind him, and Severus quickly stuffed the mirror
out of sight as the older boy crossed the room and propped himself on the arm of a Chesterfield
sofa. “You’re up late.”

“So?”

“So I’m glad. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you.”
“About what?” Severus hated the note of hope in his voice. Mulciber and his posh pure-blood
friends had shown such interest in Severus and his spells last year, but so far this year, Severus felt
his once-meteoric social climb had been languishing.

Mulciber’s expression was sardonic. “Your wandering gaze,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t beg, Severus, it’s beneath you. But yes: your gaze. It betrays you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do. And so does every other idiot in this school who bothers to pay attention. It’s obvious
and, frankly, embarrassing. You can’t stop staring at that Mudblood.”

Severus flushed. It was true; he couldn’t stop watching her. Laughing with the werewolf in classes,
hugging Potter in the corridors…she haunted his every moment, real and imagined…

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” he muttered at last.

“It’s my business because I put the weight of my name behind yours, so what you do with it
matters to me.”

“You knew I was friends with her.”

“‘Was’ being the key word. Didn’t she cast you aside? I’d expected you to come come to your
senses by now.”

Severus was silent.

“She’s attractive,” said Mulciber with a dismissive shrug. “I mean, I’d fuck her. In a brothel. If she
were cheap. Oh dear, am I making you angry?”

He was, as a matter of fact. The blood had drained from Severus face, and he was gripping the arm
of his chair so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

“You need to learn to control your emotions, Severus. They give you away, just like that gaze of
yours. And if you want to be a Death Eater, you will need to be rather more judicious in your
associations.”

“You said it wasn’t about blood supremacy.”

Mulciber sighed. “You’re cleverer than this. It’s not, but we need people like Avery on our side,
Severus. The old families. It’s all political. And that’s what gets them off, isn’t it? We need them.
It’s a means to an end. Surely you can understand that. And in the meantime, I’d hate to see you
fuck up your chance over some Muggle girl who doesn’t care about you at all. Not when we’re so
close.”

“To what?”

“Power.” A smile sliced across Mulciber’s face as he pulled a rolled-up newspaper from under his
cloak. “Have a look at this. The Evening Prophet,” and he tossed it to Severus. The headline blared
from the front page: THE DEATH EATER DILEMMA: WHAT DO THEY WANT?

“ We have their attention,” said Mulciber. “Now we just have to keep it.” Then he stood and
clasped a hand on Severus’s shoulder. “Goodnight, Severus. Oderint dum metuant.”
 He left.

Tick.

Severus stared at the newspaper for a long, pensive moment. Always, always, there was the echo of
Lily haunting him: What d'you want, Severus?

He glanced back at the clock on the mantle — and was struck by a shock of realization. 12:07 a.m.
His birthday had slipped by, and he hadn’t even noticed.

Nor, of course, had anyone else.

The clock ticked on.

Chapter End Notes

Short little chapter this week, but much more to come! >:)
 The Hidden Room
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

LILY

The Hidden Room

“And then in 1969 there was a wizard who attempted to Apparate while drunk and split himself
clean down the middle. He died, of course, and in the process convinced a whole slew of Muggles
that their village was cursed. A real mess for the Improper Use of Magic Office. In the end I think
they invented some legend about a haunting, or something like that. Funny how Muggles don’t
believe in magic, but they do believe in curses and hauntings?”

“Some of them do, I suppose.”

“And then there was the case of the Sheffield Splincher, who—“

“Marlene.” Lily put down her spoon, feeling rather put off her breakfast. It was a rainy January
morning, the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling overhead a fresco of tumultuous grey. “As much as I
appreciate the depths of your…deeply disturbing research, I really don’t think anyone is going to
slice themselves in half during our first lesson today.”

“I don’t see why you’re so confident.” Marlene took a hearty bite of sausage, evidently unperturbed
by the grisly nature of their conversation. “A room full of inexperienced juveniles who don’t
follow instructions trying to bend the very nature of reality? It’s a recipe for disaster. You know,
Bertha Jorkins splinched both her ears clean off last year.”

“Pity they replaced them, then,” said Lily uncharitably. Despite all her efforts to be a nice person,
this commitment never extended far enough to reach the likes of Bertha Jorkins.

“She has to take the course again this term, I heard. And she wasn’t the only one who failed.
Clarence Smith —“

“You don’t have to do it, you know,” Lily interrupted, lest Marlene embark on another lengthy
explanation of some other horrible splinching. “Apparition lessons are optional. Not required.”

Marlene scoffed. “My father is the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation. I can’t not
get my license.”
Lily had long since learned that most of Marlene’s bluster was actually cover for deep-seated
insecurity, so she groped into the foggier recesses of her morning-addled mind for something
encouraging to say, but before she could manage it, Sirius Black dropped himself casually into the
seat next to her.

“Morning McKinnon. Evans.”

The first thing Lily noticed (with something resembling a pang of disappointment) was that Sirius
was alone. No, not alone — Peter Pettigrew clambered onto the bench beside him, and Remus was
a few sleepy steps behind — but James was not there. Her eyes swept almost unconsciously across
the Great Hall — perhaps he had stopped to chat with some member of the Quidditch team on his
way over? — but no. James was decidedly absent.

The second thing she noticed, as her treacherous gaze returned to the breakfast table, was that
Sirius was regarding her with an attentive, amused sort of expression. She’d seen that look before, a
million times. It was the same look he gave whatever poor creature they’d been assigned to
transfigure in class, just before he went on to toy with it all period. It was a look he’d given her on
many an occasion, a look that generally preceded a merciless bout of mockery. It was the look of a
predator who was amused by its prey.

Her hackles rose at once, and there was a definite coldness to her voice as she said, “Black,” and
turned back to Marlene.

“Ouch,” said Sirius, reaching across her for a piece of toast. “And here I thought you and I were
finally becoming friends.”

“Dream big,” was all Lily said.

Sirius chuckled. “You’re an ice queen, Lily Evans.”

The truth was, she had been warming up to Sirius Black last term, improbable as it seemed. His
leather jacket worn in solidarity during her protest, his acerbic commentary at Slughorn’s party, his
surprising political awareness…all of it suggested someone she’d actually rather like, in another
life. Perhaps even this one, but…

But.

But the night of Slughorn’s party — with James’s cruel words and Severus’s shocking revelation
about her diary — it had all stirred up a muck of memories from the past. She’d forgiven James for
his part in the evening’s unpleasantness — and all the unpleasantness of the years before — but
Sirius Black had never apologized, not once. For anything. Severus may have been the one to slip
her diary into the other boy’s bag, but Sirius had chosen to read it aloud to the whole house. No
one had made him do that. He had chosen to make her a laughing stock, to torment her endlessly,
to never let the joke die out. For years. That hadn’t been the fault of Severus, or even James. That
had all been the doing of Sirius bloody Black. He’d ruined her life. And all for the crime of
fancying his best mate.

And now here she was again. Fancying his best mate.

Shit.

Because she did fancy James Potter. It was an undeniable fact, and she’d finally accepted it. She’d
had no other choice. After all, she’d thought of little else since Christmas Eve but that kiss they’d
shared in the alley: the warmth of his cheek beneath her lips, the quick blink of dark lashes dusted
with snow as his eyes widened in surprise, the faint woodsy scent of him, so out of place in the
industrial gloom of Cokeworth. She’d replayed the kiss over and over and over again, delighting in
it, despairing in it, wishing she’d had the courage to give him a proper one…

“He’s not here yet, Homer,” said Sirius’s voice, tugging Lily from her reverie. She looked up from
her porridge; she’d been so caught up in her memory — her fantasy — that she hadn’t even noticed
the swoop of owls as the post arrived. A handsome eagle owl had landed between Lily and Sirius
and was peering around impatiently, the morning’s Prophet bundled tightly by a bit of twine and
tied to its talon. “Here, I’ll take it, mate,” offered Sirius, and he busied himself with unburdening
the bird of its delivery. Her attention drifted again, until: “Oi, Evans, there’s something for you
tucked in here too. Letter from Macdonald, looks like.”

Lily froze, spoon of porridge halfway to her mouth — then she whipped around to see Sirius
holding a small, rather weather-worn envelope in one hand. The memory of her last letter to Mary
smacked her in the face: the one sent just before the holidays, the one upon which she’d
impulsively scribbled: P.P.S.: I think I fancy James Potter again. Help???

And here was Mary’s reply, clutched in the hand of the last person in school she’d ever want to
read it.

Lily snatched the envelope from his grasp so quickly that Sirius was not the only one who raised
his eyebrows; Marlene, Remus, and Peter were all watching her with curious expressions. She felt
her cheeks grow hot. “Er…” said Lily, “I’m just excited to hear from her, that’s all.” She stared
down at the envelope as though it were a Howler about to burst.

“Are you…going to open it?” asked Sirius, his eyebrows a quizzical arch.

Lily pulled herself together and stuffed the letter into her pocket. “Later,” she said briskly. “I’ll
read it later.”

‘Later’ led her to the library, a familiar refuge of quiet, musty corners. Mary’s letter sat snug in her
pocket all the way there, guarded like yet another secret she didn’t want to share. It wasn’t until
she’d found a table tucked away in the back that she dared withdraw the letter. Heavy raindrops
purled down the library’s lancet windows as she carefully opened the battered envelope and began
to read.

LILY EVANS. Have you been kidnapped? Are you being held against your will and forced to write
this letter to me to misdirect attention from your hostage situation, and so desperate are you that
the only method you have to alert me to your dire circumstances is by writing something a Lily
Evans who was not under duress would never, ever say? Blink twice if — oh, wait. I suppose that
doesn’t work here, does it? I suppose if you are kidnapped, this letter will arrive far too late.
Bloody international owl post.

Okay, I’ll just have to assume you are not kidnapped, so let’s tackle the first issue. Marlene
McKinnon? You’re mates with McKinnon? I know you miss me (and rightly so), but that’s no
reason to self-destruct. Surely there are less miserable people with whom to replace my
irreplaceable presence? Someone who hasn’t been a raging bitch since first year? Okay, okay, I
know. If you were here in person, you’d be scowling at me with that ‘be nice’ frown of yours, but…
Marlene?? I need more information, I am baffled and concerned.

The letter went on like this for a few more paragraphs. Lily rolled her eyes. Mary had always
disliked Marlene most out of the other girls in their year. She had her reasons, Lily supposed, but
this was not the pressing issue on which she’d wanted her friend’s take. She skimmed the rest of
Mary’s admonishment rather quickly, until finally, near the end:

All right. Got that off my chest. So, in regards to that TINY LITTLE P.P.S. YOU JUST DECIDED
TO TACK ON WITH ZERO CONTEXT WHATSOEVER…

(Here we go, thought Lily.)

…am I supposed to be surprised? Lily, darling, love of my life and keeper of all my secrets, I know
you fancy James Potter. The ‘again’ is a little disingenuous, don’t you think? Did you ever stop?
Don’t be cross, I’m just being honest with you because I love you and there’s an ocean between us
so you can’t hex me. I know you didn’t stop fancying him in third year (and so does everyone else,
that’s why Alodie hates you so much). I think you’re the only one who didn’t realize it. So…
congratulations on waking up???

Please update me immediately with what you do with this newfound revelation. I mean, Potter may
have been a git back in third year, but that boy so clearly fancied you last year, and since he’s
been, as you say, ‘nicer’ this year, I can only assume he is still worshipping the ground you walk
on. Do me a favor and ask the idiot out already? It was truly painful to watch last year, and I know
I’m not the only one who thought so.

Lily was starting to feel a little indignant at her friend’s response, when a shadow crossed the letter
and a voice interrupted: “Lily Evans, right?”

Lily jolted, shoving the incriminating letter out of sight. She looked up: The shadow belonged to a
boy, rather lean and wiry. He had a mop of shaggy brown hair and the collar of his robes was
disheveled, though with an air of intentionality.

“Yes,” said Lily cautiously. “That’s right.”

“You’re the girl with the Muggle dress,” said the boy matter-of-factly in a strong Brummie accent.
“The one that started the whole protest last term.”

“So?” Her defenses sprang up at once, and perhaps he could actually see her hackles rise, because
he added quickly: “I’m Muggle-born too.”

Lily’s relief must have been palpable, for the boy eyed her shrewdly. “You thought I was a creep,
didn’t you?”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Lily muttered. In truth, parading through the Great Hall in a short
Muggle skirt had only exacerbated her rather sullied reputation as the school slag. She didn’t care
— she didn’t care — she’d expected that when she’d made the choice to do it, and she didn’t regret
it. Still, she was tired of the leers and snide comments from her classmates, the endless pestering of
the Bertram Aubreys and Bertha Jorkins of the castle. Her shoulders were heavy with the
exhausting burden of a stereotype she’d never asked to bear.

The boy was still observing her curiously, expectantly, as though he were trying to figure
something out. Lily found this quite annoying. “Sorry,” she said. “Who are you?”

“Right, yeah, getting ahead of myself. I’m Graham. Graham Garrett. Can I sit?” And without
waiting for an answer, he pulled over an empty chair and dropped himself into it. He leaned an
elbow on the table and eyed her with an expression that could only be termed earnest . “I thought it
was brilliant, that whole protest. Inspired, even. Exactly what this school needed to remind them
how many of us there are, and that we’re not going anywhere.”

“Er…thanks?”

He smiled at her, a sideways sort of smile, and once again she had the impression that she was
being assessed. Then he said: “I’m here to pass on an invitation.”

“An invitation?”

“Yeah. The Muggle-born Student Coalition. We meet ‘bout once a month, generally. I’m the
president.”

Lily blinked. “The Muggle-born…what?”

“Student Coalition,” repeated Graham patiently. “It’s invitation only, for security reasons, you
know. Anyway, everyone was impressed by your Muggle clothes protest, and we thought you
might be interested in joining. We’re about fifteen strong now, all different years, all different
houses — I’m in Hufflepuff, by the way. Seventh year. You’re a sixth year? Gryffindor?”

“You’ve done your homework.”

Another smile. “Like I said, invitation only. Anyway, not to put you on the spot, but if you’re
interested, our next meeting is tonight. Six o’clock.”

“During dinner?”

“Don’t worry, we have food.” He winked. “Hufflepuff secret.”

“And…what exactly do you do at these meetings?”

“Right now we mostly just talk, though I’ve got bigger plans for the future. But honestly,” he
folded his hands on the table, leaning forward in enthusiasm, “it’s a place for Muggle-born
students to breathe. This school can be hell, I don’t have to tell you that. We wanted to create a
space where we could just be ourselves without the pressures of pure-blood bigotry or parents who
don’t understand…a space to talk about the real issues that affect us. Issues that this school is more
than happy to ignore. So,” he straightened up. “What do you think?”

“I think…I think that sounds really nice.”

“Brilliant,” said Graham. “Then we’ll see you tonight?”

“Okay,” Lily agreed. “Sure. Why not? Where do you meet?”

“Ah. It’s a little hard to explain. Just meet me at the top of the seventh floor stairwell at ten till, and
I’ll show you.” He stood and clapped a hand to her shoulder. “I think you’re really going to like
it.”

Caught up both in Mary’s letter and the new mystery of the so-called Muggle-born Student
Coalition, Lily was very nearly late for their first Apparition lesson. By the time she arrived, the
Great Hall was crammed with students — mostly sixth years along with a few seventh years who’d
failed the test last term as well. The long wooden tables that usually dominated the space had been
shunted to the side, and the Heads of Houses were gathered at the front, directing students into
orderly lines, each student taking a spot before a wooden hoop on the floor. Lily made her way
through the jostling crowd until she found Marlene, looking sulky a few feet away from Alodie,
Wenyi, and Bertha.

“Well, let’s get this over with,” Marlene said by way of greeting as Lily took the hoop beside her.
Her eyes were glued to the front of the Hall where the instructor from the Ministry, a wispy sort of
fellow in a very bland set of robes, was in discussion with Professor Flitwick. It took rather a long
time to get everyone settled, however, and even Marlene’s extreme focus wavered as the last
gaggle of the Hufflepuffs were directed to their hoops. She turned to Lily. “Why didn’t you want to
open Mary’s letter at breakfast?”

“What?” said Lily, though of course she had heard the other girl perfectly clearly. “It’s just — it’s
private, that’s all.”

Marlene considered this, a sullen expression drawn across her face. Then, unexpectedly, she said:
“Mary never liked me.”

“That’s not true.” She felt a faint tickle of guilt at this lie as she thought of Mary’s letter. “Well…
you were never very nice to her. Or me, for that matter.”

Marlene scoffed. “Nice is overrated.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Please, nice is just what they tell girls they have to be to make other people more comfortable, to
keep them quiet and out of the way. No one has ever told my brother that he needs to work on
being more pleasant at dinner parties. He’s judged on his achievements alone.”

“That may be true,” Lily hedged, “but I still think being nice to people is important.”

“Why? You’re not nice.”

Lily was startled by the matter-of-factness in Marlene’s voice. “What?” she said, struck suddenly
by the horrible idea that all the worst things she’d ever thought about herself might in fact be true.
You’re an ice queen, Lily Evans.

“You’re not nice,” repeated Marlene. “You’re kind. There’s a difference.”

“Which is…?”

“Kind has substance. Nice is just fluff.”

 Lily was prepared to interrogate this odd thesis further, but before she could figure out how to go
about it, she was distracted as Professor McGonagall directed James Potter and his mates to take
the spots next to Alodie, Wenyi, and Bertha — at the remaining hoops directly in front of Lily.
James caught her eye as he lined up and gave a friendly little wave, which Lily returned, praying
that her cheeks weren’t as flaming red as they felt. She could almost hear Mary’s voice: Do me a
favor and ask the idiot out already?

Whatever hope she’d had of paying attention to the instructor’s admittedly dull lecture had been
utterly sabotaged by the arrival of the back of James’s head. She did try not to be so obvious in her
staring, but she couldn’t help it. His hair stuck up in the back. It was adorable the way his hair
stuck up in the back.

Though the Ministry man droned on and on about the Three D’s of Apparition — Destination,
Determination, and….something else — all Lily could think of was desire. It was nearly neurotic
the way her thoughts flickered once more to that snowy night in Cokeworth. That night had meant
something to her — that kiss had meant something to her, but James seemed to be acting as though
it had never happened. He was friendly and funny…and sweet, and kind, and wonderful…but he
never mentioned the kiss. Never acted on it. Of course, he had told her that he wouldn’t ask her out
again, but that had been before the kiss, when he’d thought that was what she’d wanted. But she’d
kissed him, damn it. She’d chased after him and kissed him. On the cheek, okay, but still! Surely
she didn’t need to make herself any clearer than that?

Apparently, she did. The Quaffle, it seemed, was firmly in her court…or whatever the appropriate
metaphor would be in Quidditch terms.

Eventually the lecture wrapped up (Lily still didn’t know what the third ‘D’ stood for), and it was
time to begin the practical portion, which as far as she could tell involved staring into the hoop
before her, giving a little spin, and hoping something might happen.

Nothing happened.

A few students lost their balance and toppled over, but that was it for the first round. By the third
go, Lily decided she really ought to focus on the task at hand and not the artfully disheveled hair of
the boy before her (or the jocular way he gave Remus a shove into the hoop, or his joyful laugh
when Remus in return gave him the finger). She glanced sideways at Marlene, who staring into her
hoop with such intensity she looked as though she might explode. Lily shook her head in faint
amusement then turned her attention back to her own hoop. She rattled through what she could
remember from the lecture, focused on the Destination, did something with Determination, maybe,
then she gave a small spin on her heel and —

CRACK!

She jumped slightly, startled by the noise. A hasty glance down at herself — she was still in the
same spot, still in possession of all her limbs — but when she looked back up, she realized the
noise had come from beside her: Marlene was positioned unsteadily in the center of her hoop, her
face very pale and brow beaded with sweat. She had just Apparated.

“Well done!” said the Ministry instructor, bustling over. “Very well done indeed!”

Marlene turned shakily towards him…and promptly vomited on his shoes.

“On the bright side, she still has all her fingers.”

Somehow, in the crush of students funneling out of the Great Hall, Lily’s path had converged with
that of James and his mates. She was fairly certain she hadn’t done this on purpose, and yet — how
natural it felt, to fall in step with him, how easy to slide into familiar conversation…If only Sirius
hadn’t been right there on his other side, it would’ve been an excellent opportunity to give that
Quaffle a toss, so to speak. But Sirius was there — and Remus and Peter too, for that matter — and
so they all stood milling about in the entrance hall by the grand marble staircase with that
adolescent lethargy induced by having nowhere else to go. The rain had continued all afternoon,
turning the snowy grounds into a miserable, sloshing mess.

“Poor Marlene,” sighed Lily. “She was already dreading Apparition as it was, and now this…”

Following her unfortunate post-Apparition reaction (“Quite normal,” said the Ministry instructor
blandly, vanishing the sick from his shoes.), Marlene had been escorted to the hospital wing
looking agonized, a trail of giggles and whispers following in her wake. Little else of consequence
had happened during the lesson after her departure, so Lily had no doubt everyone was still talking
about poor Marlene.

“But again, fingers,” said James, waggling his own. “All ten of them. That’s a victory, that is.”

“If you ask me, she’s a bloody hero to the cause,” said Sirius. “Spewing all over the Ministry’s
shoes? Wish I’d thought of that. Though,” he added, giving Lily a stern look, “I would’ve
appreciated a head’s up about her weak stomach. Would’ve changed the odds. Ah, there’s Bishop.
He reckoned Stebbins would splinch himself on the first go. Owes me a galleon.” And,
withdrawing a small notebook from the pocket of his robes, he strode purposefully across the entry
hall.

Lily raised her eyebrows at the other boys. “Do I even want to ask?”

“Probably not,” said Remus, his expression sheepish. “Anyway, mild regurgitation episode aside
—“

“Oooh, wasn’t that mortifying?” interjected a new voice, and Lily turned to see Bertha Jorkins
approaching their little group, her expression giddy. Alodie and Wenyi were still accompanying
her, but as Alodie’s eyes landed on Lily and James, she stuck her nose in the air and marched past
them up the stairs. Wenyi shot Lily a faintly apologetic look as she followed. Bertha, however, did
not seem in any hurry to disperse. “And the worst part is, that man is her father’s employee.
Marlene isn’t going to be able to live this one down for a looong time.”

“At least she managed to Apparate without splinching herself, and in her first lesson, too!” snapped
Lily. Bertha’s gleeful tone had grated on her nerves. “I think that’s pretty impressive, myself. It’s
certainly more than you’ve managed.”

“Someone’s in a bad mood,” said Bertha happily. “Is it because Clarence Smith turned you down
again?”

Lily blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“That’s what Bertram Aubrey said. Of course, he also said you were shagging —“

But Lily didn’t find out who she was supposed to be shagging, because James cut her off. “Aubrey
is a swine and a liar,” he said bluntly. “You really need to find better sources if you’re going to be a
journalist, Jorkins.”

“Oooh, you heard about my summer internship at the Prophet, did you?”

“I did, and it’s a comfort to know you of all people will be upholding the journalistic integrity of
that fine, respectable rag. And by comfort I mean teeth-grinding terror.”

“Well, I’ve got a pretty good source on you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Snogged in any greenhouses lately?”

Lily had expected James to roll his eyes or make some sarcastic quip about Bertha getting it wrong
yet again…but instead his expression had suddenly grown very still. “How do you know about
that?”

“Because I saw you with Florence on Thursday. Snogging in the greenhouse. Snogging behind the
greenhouse. Snogging all the way back to the castle. Couldn’t keep your hands off her, could
you?”

Lily felt her insides go cold.

“If you’re trying to keep it a secret, you should probably be a teensy bit more discreet, you know,”
Bertha babbled on, seemingly enjoying herself. “Then again, discretion has never really been your
strong suit, has it? Shagging behind tapestries while you have a girlfriend?” She gave Lily a hearty
wink that made Lily want to smack her.

“Shut up, Bertha,” said James.

“Oooh, did I strike a nerve? I’m just saying, girls talk. Hang on, you two aren’t hooking up again,
are you? Because that would get messy. After all, Lily, you’re friends with Florence, aren’t you?
Were you friends were Alodie too?”

James’s eyes flickered to Lily’s own, and her horrified expression must have given her away, for
something indefinable in his demeanor abruptly changed, and when once more he snapped —
“Shut up, Bertha!” — Bertha did indeed shut up. It took Lily half a second to realize what had
happened — Bertha’s tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof her mouth — until Lily remembered
she’d seen James use this nonverbal hex before. Bertha, eyes widening in panic, began to make
strange squawking noises. She may not have been able to form any words, but that wouldn’t stop
her from making a scene.

“Fuck,” she heard James mutter. “I didn’t mean to—“

Bertha started to wail, an odd, strangled noise that echoed through the entrance hall. Heads turned
like a hundred spotlights, and it felt as though they were all aimed at Lily. Blinding light and sweat
of heat. And all the while her mind was reeling: He was snogging Florence? Florence? How long
had this been going on? Oh, god.

James was now trying to undo the hex, but he didn’t seem to know the counter curse, and all the
while Bertha sobbed, and Lily suddenly couldn’t bear it anymore. She turned on her heel and
strode up the marble staircase, taking the steps two at a time as she all but fled the scene.

He was snogging Florence Fawley. Had Lily really been so foolish to think that he had liked her?
She’d obviously misjudged things…just like she had with Harvey Harris, just like she had with
Anson Nott.

Typical Lily Evans, sneered a nasty voice in her head. So self-obsessed, so selfish that she thinks
everyone is in love with her.

But James did not fancy her. Probably he never had. Or worse — he had fancied her, but then he’d
gotten to know her and realized the truth that every boy eventually figured out, that she wasn’t
actually very fanciable, that she was — as Harvey had told her — a little too much.

Her distress had carried her a good distance down the first floor corridor before someone called her
name. She stopped and turned to see not James but Remus hurrying after her.

“Hey,” he said, out of breath as he caught up. “Listen, don’t let Bertha Jorkins get to you, we all
know you never—“

But Lily rounded on him. “You said he liked me.”

“What?”

“Potter. You said he liked me.”

“Oh, that,” blinked Remus. “He does.”

You said he liked me liked me.”

“He…does?”

“If he likes me likes me, then why is he fooling around with Florence Fawley?”

Remus appeared to struggle for a moment, fighting a losing battle against utter bafflement.
“Because…alliteration is fun?”

“Remus!”

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Sorry, I’m just — I’m struggling to keep up here. Lily…do you like
James?”

“What? No. Of course not.”

“Then why do you care if he’s dating Florence?”

“Dating? He’s dating her? I thought they were just snogging!”

Remus raised his eyebrows, and Lily felt herself go pink.

“I don’t care,” she quickly amended. “In fact, I think it’s great. They’re a great couple. I was just
confused because of all those things you said before, and…and how Potter was acting, and…well,
I just wanted to know what was going on, and now I know. He’s dating Florence, and that’s…
great.”

“Great,” said Remus uncertainly.

“Great,” agreed Lily. “Well, I’ve got to go, I’ve got a thing, but…” she hesitated. “I don’t like him
you know. I mean — I don’t dislike him, but I don’t like him like him.”
“Okay.”

“And — don’t tell him I said that.”

“That you don’t like him?”

“No! That I — you know what? Just don’t tell him anything. Don’t even talk to him!”

“Yeah…” said Remus, a skeptical slant to his brow. “See, he’s my best friend, so that might be a
wee bit inconvenient.”

“You know what I mean. Just…don’t tell him anything we discussed in this conversation.” And,
giving him a brisk a nod as though this settled matters, she took off.

“Doubt I could manage it even if I wanted to,” she heard Remus mutter in her wake.

The ‘thing’ she’d used as an excuse to run away from Remus and his annoyingly on-the-nose
questions did not actually begin until six o’clock, and so Lily spent most of her afternoon avoiding
the common room and any other area of the castle where she might run into James. It was silly, she
was being silly, but she couldn’t face him yet. The fact that the Muggle-born Student Coalition
meeting took place during dinner — an hour when facing James would’ve been inescapable —
made the meeting all the more alluring.

And so Lily found herself waiting alone at the top of the seventh floor stairwell at ten till six, just
as Graham had instructed. The sun had set, and the corridor was awash in shadows cast by the
flicker of torchlight. She scuffed her shoe impatiently on the stone floor, listening to the steady
batter of rain. Six o’clock had come and gone, and still Graham Garrett did not appear. The fact
that he hadn’t even told her the exact location made her worry that she was being set up. She’d so
easily believed him, but she had no proof he was even Muggle-born. He could be anyone at all…

She was just about to leave when she saw Dirk Cresswell approaching her from the other end of
the corridor, and she finally relaxed. Dirk was a fifth year Ravenclaw, a rather sulky-looking boy
who never seemed to be having a good time. But more importantly: He was Muggle-born.

“Graham’s still setting up,” said Dirk by way of greeting. “I’m supposed to show you how to get
in. Come on.”

She followed him down the corridor, feeling relieved but also faintly offended. She had known
Dirk for years, and though they’d never been friends, exactly — most of their interactions had been
her helping him after he’d been hexed — she would’ve thought that if there was some secret
Muggle-born club, her name might’ve come up for invitation before now. After all, she had not
suddenly become Muggle-born just because she’d put on a Muggle dress and flounced through the
Great Hall.

“How long has this been going on?” she asked as they walked down the corridor — their
destination still unknown.

“‘Bout two years,” said Dirk.

“Two years! Why am I only hearing about it now?”

Dirk shrugged. “Probably because we all thought you were a faux-blood.”

“A what?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard that one? It means a Muggle-born who pretends to be pure-blood. Brody
Pepper called me that for years after I decided to start studying Gobbledegook. Git,” he added
dispassionately.

“That’s horrible.” Lily was definitely feeling offended now. “Why would you think that about
me?”

Dirk was unfazed. “Well, you’re best mates with that Slytherin git Snape, you go to Slughorn’s
parties, and you dated all those pure-blood ponces like Nott and Potter.

Now she was properly annoyed. “Severus and I are not friends anymore, Anson Nott is half-blood,
and — and I never dated Potter!”

“No?” Dirk did not seem overly interested. “Huh. Well, guess you can’t believe everything you
hear.”

“No, you can’t!”

“Anyway, here we are.”

They stopped walking in front of a large expanse of barren wall. Lily did not immediately
comment, as she’d learned that barren walls in Hogwarts were not always what they seemed, but
after Dirk began to pace back and forth, Lily felt that perhaps a comment was required.

“Er…Dirk?”

“Gimme a moment, I’m concentrating.”

“Are you winding me up?”

Then, so suddenly that Lily let out a startled gasp, a door appeared, bright and gleaming with a
heavy brass handle. Dirk gripped the handle and pulled the door open. “After you.”

Lily crossed over the threshold of the impossible door with the same sense of wonder she always
felt when encountering new magic for the first time. The room she stepped into was a wood-
paneled chamber lit by a heavy iron chandelier hung from the rafters above. An assortment of
mismatched chairs sat in a circle near the center of the room, and a banquet table with a dinner
spread was set up on the right. About twelve people were milling about, chatting in small groups
and filling plates by the buffet. Just as Graham had said, they seemed to be spread across house and
age groups alike. All houses but Slytherin, that was.

“Ah, there’s Lily,” said a voice, and Lily turned to see Graham striding towards her. “Sorry I
couldn’t come meet you myself, we had a bit of a delay with the food.” He waved a hand at the
table. “The Hufflepuff common room is down by the kitchens, see, but it still takes a few of us to
haul it all the way up here. Did Dirk give you the rundown on this place?”

“No,” said Lily. Dirk had gone off to fix himself a plate without much ceremony. “He was just
explaining to me why I’m only finding out now about a Muggle-born student group that’s been
meeting for two years.”

Graham gave her an apologetic smile. “Yeah, sorry. I won’t lie, your friendship with that Snape
fellow made some people wary. We’ve had to be really careful. Some Slytherins got wind early on
that a group of Muggle-borns were meeting and — ah — tried to break us up.

“Pure terrorism,” said a seventh year girl that Lily recognized as April Wallace.

“We’ve had to move locations a few times —“

“We used to meet in the library but that was a disaster —“

“— until eventually we found this place,” concluded Graham, gazing around the room fondly.

“How did you find this place?” asked Lily, thinking of Dirk pacing before a door that didn’t exist.

“Luck,” said Graham. “And the castle wanted us to.”

“Here he goes again,” said April, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, come on,” said Graham. “It’s a castle with talking portraits and moving staircases. Is it really
so outlandish to think it may be semi-sentient?”

April laughed and patted his arm as she moved towards the chairs. The other students, having
collected their food, were beginning to settle down.

Graham gave Lily a good-natured grin. “We’ve had this argument before. I’m right, but no one
wants to admit it. This room only appears to people who really need it. That’s why you have to
walk past it a few times, thinking about what you need. Otherwise, you won’t find the door. No
door, no secret room. April can laugh all she likes, but some of us really needed this group, and the
castle knew. Anyway, looks like we’re getting started. Grab some food, then come have a seat.”

Lily joined the final stragglers at the banquet table, filled up a plate with a meat pie and some
chips, then followed Graham over to the circle of chairs and took the empty seat next to him. When
everyone had settled, Graham cleared his throat. “All right, welcome all. We’ve got a good group
tonight. Thanks for being here. As most of you know already, we have a new guest with us.” He
nodded at Lily. “Why don’t you go ahead and introduce yourself?”

“Oh,” said Lily, slightly startled with a chip halfway to her mouth. She hadn’t expected to be put
on the spot right away. “Okay…er…I’m Lily Evans. I’m a sixth year Gryffindor, and…er…
Muggle-born, obviously…”

“And a total badass,” said a third year Hufflepuff Lily didn’t know.

There was a smattering of amused agreement around the circle. Lily felt her cheeks grow hot. “I
don’t know about that.”

“No, it was so incredible, what you did,” the Hufflepuff girl went on. “Walking into the Great Hall
dressed in Muggle clothes! Were you scared? I can’t imagine how scared I would’ve been.”

“I was mostly just angry,” admitted Lily.

“Is it true you poured boiling water on Corin Mulciber’s balls?” asked a Ravenclaw boy, looking
up at her with an expression of intermixed awe and terror.

“Well…”

“I heard you beat Sirius Black in a duel — wandless!”

 “Okay, that’s enough,” said Graham, and everyone quieted. They all seemed to respect his
authority as leader of the group. “Sorry,” he said to Lily. “Here’s how this usually works: We all
go around the circle and take turns sharing something that’s been weighing on us this week. Could
be some anti-Muggle sentiment you faced, or could be something lighter, like —

“Like the new David Bowie album,” interrupted April Wallace. “None of my friends even know
who David Bowie is.”

More laughter around the circle.

“Or you can talk about David Bowie,” conceded Graham with a smile. “The floor is yours, you can
talk about whatever you want. I suspect quite a few us will have something to say about those
attacks over the holiday —“

“I’m still going to talk about David Bowie.”

“— except for April. Before we get started, why don’t we do some introductions for Lily?
Everyone can go around the circle, state your name, year, house, that sort of thing. Valmai, why
don’t you start?”

“Sure,” said the girl who had called Lily a badass. “I’m Valmai Morgan, I’m a third year
Hufflepuff.”

“Lewis Karkosky,” muttered a shy-looking boy next to her. “Third year. Ravenclaw.”

“Cecil Stebbins. Sixth year Ravenclaw.”

“Veronica Smethley. Fifth year Gryffindor. We’ve met.”

Lily blinked in surprise. They had, of course — Veronica had been one of Mary’s friends — but
Lily had never known she too was Muggle-born. She thought of Dirk’s words, how ‘they’d all
thought’ she was a pure-blood wannabe because of her friendship with Severus, because of the
boys she’d dated. Was that why Veronica disliked her so much?

“Rose Peters,” said the girl next to Veronica before Lily could respond. “Fifth year Hufflepuff.”

And so it went around the circle until they landed back at Graham, who smiled and said, “And I’m
Graham, of course. Seventh year Hufflepuff. Right, onto the main show. Who wants to go first?”

Chapter End Notes

Sorry this one is a little late, folks. It's been a hell of a week. -_-

Just a head's up that there won't be a new chapter this coming Tuesday as I've got some
stuff going on this weekend and won't have any time to work on TLE, boo hiss. But I
should be back the next week! >:)

Update: Hey loves - updates are temporarily on hold due to some things going on
IRL. The fic is NOT abandoned and is under no threat of being abandoned, but I
unfortunately I need a little time. Sorry!!

Btw - I usually post status updates on my tumblr when chapters are going to be late.
Just fyi! :)
 The List
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

JAMES

The List
“So,” said Sirius. “You hexed Bertha Jorkins.”

“Yeah.”

“The biggest tattletale in school.”

“Also yeah.”

“And you’re surprised you got a detention, why?”

James sighed and stabbed moodily at his potatoes. They were at dinner, and more than once his
gaze had swept the Great Hall in search of Lily Evans…but she had not yet appeared. “I’m not
surprised I got a detention, I’m just surprised Bertha took it all the way to Dumbledore. The
Headmaster? Really? I mean — okay, I shouldn’t have hexed her, but all I did was momentarily
shut her up.”

“It was practically a public service,” agreed Peter with a sympathetic grimace.

“It’s Bertha,” said Sirius. “If she had the option to go directly to the Headmaster to complain every
time someone sneezed, she would. Though frankly, I’m more surprised Dumbledore was around to
hear it. Your bad luck, I suppose.”

“Yeah. My bad luck.”

Bad luck, James couldn’t help but feel, was all he had these days, and it was bad luck indeed that
though the Headmaster had been conspicuously absent from the castle for weeks on end, he just so
happened to be passing through the entrance hall at precisely the moment Bertha’s tongue unstuck
from the roof of her mouth. The wretched girl had barely waited the length of a swallow of spit to
storm off and make her weepy complaint.

“He put a hex on me, Professor Dumbledore,” she’d whinged so loudly that anyone in the vicinity
could easily overhear, “and I was only teasing him, sir, I only said I’d seen him kissing Florence
behind the greenhouses last Thursday, and then he put a hex on me! Nearly choked me, he did!”

That, James had felt, was an unfair characterization, and he’d told the Headmaster as much — but
of course there were plenty of students in the overhearing vicinity who had seen the kerfuffle
firsthand and were more than happy to corroborate Bertha’s story. Professor Dumbledore had
listened politely, agreed that James had been out of line and that a detention was in order, sent
Bertha off to the hospital wing (she was complaining that she couldn’t breathe, which James knew
was a load of tosh, just a ploy for more attention), and then, at last, the Headmaster had directed
James to a small antechamber off the entrance hall for “a little chat.”

Albus Dumbledore was undoubtedly a man of many talents — defeater of the Dark Wizard
Grindelwald and all that — but James was fairly certain his most remarkable skill was the ability to
make a student feel ashamed of himself, even before he’d uttered a peep. The piercing blue of his
gaze, the furrowed lines of his brow, the weary disappointment of his frown — all of it fixed on
the unfortunate reprobate in stark solemnity.

“You are a sixth year, James,” his Headmaster had said. “You are Captain of the Gryffindor
Quidditch team and a role model at this school. Whether you recognize it or not — and I suspect
you do — you wield powerful influence among your peers. Other students look up to you, and so
when they see you use Dark Magic in the corridors, they believe it is okay for them to do so as
well.”

“Dark Magic?” James had protested at once, appalled by the implication. “It wasn’t Dark Magic, it
was just a —“

But he hadn’t finished that sentence. He’d wanted to say it was just a stupid hex, but that wasn’t
exactly true, was it? It wasn’t just a hex — it was one of Snape’s hexes, found in the treasure trove
of his enemy’s Potions book last year when it had felicitously ended up in James’s possession.
He’d pilfered plenty of little spells from its pages, stole them away to use for his own purposes, and
he was hardly the only one who used them — Levicorpus had become a bit of a fad in its own right
— but he was perhaps one of the few who knew the spells’ true origin. He hadn’t given this all that
much thought before now. Generally speaking, the spells were mild, their effects negligible.
Muffliato was useful enough to keep in his arsenal and Langlock a harmless but effective strike
against his foes. Before Bertha, he’d only ever used the hex on Slytherins, and after all, they really
deserved it.

Just a stupid hex.

But then, what of Snape’s other hexes, like the one that had sliced a gash across James’s own face
by the lake last year, the one that had taken ages to properly heal, the one that might’ve done
irreversible damage had Snape’s aim been slightly more true? Was that ‘just a hex?’ No. It was
indisputable Dark Magic.

Same as all of Snape’s other spells.

When James had finally brought himself to look back into the glitter of his Headmaster’s gaze, his
guilt had grown tenfold. “I’m sorry, sir,” he’d said, and he’d meant it.

Back in the Great Hall, James pulled himself from his melancholy contemplation of the buttered
potatoes to take another swift inventory of the Gryffindor table. No Lily. He did, however, spot
Remus lumbering wearily towards them.

“Where have you been all afternoon?” demanded Sirius as Remus slumped into an empty spot on
the bench.
“Hmm? Oh, the library.”

“What, did you get lost in the stacks again? Do we have to start sending you in there with James’s
compass, so you can find your way back out?”

“Ha ha.” Remus began to busy himself with the parsnips. “Just had some things to do, that’s all.”

James watched as Remus moved on from the parsnips to the potatoes. He seemed intensely focused
on this task…and intent on avoiding James’s eye. James grew impatient. “So was she upset?”

Remus went still. “What?” he said unconvincingly, his tone just a touch too high. “Who?”

“Come on, I saw you go after Evans. She was upset, wasn’t she?”

“Mmph?” Remus had apparently decided this was the correct moment to shove a large forkful of
potato into his mouth.

“Moony.”

Remus swallowed. “I mean, upset is such a complicated word…layers of nuance…nah…I wouldn’t

say upset …”

“You’re a terrible liar, Moony.”

“Mmph,” agreed Remus, taking refuge once more in the potatoes.

James groaned, pushing his own plate aside and dropping his face into his hands. “Of course she
was upset, the last thing she wants is for those rumors to go around again. Merlin, I could kill
Bertha.”

“That would probably get you another detention,” said Peter helpfully.

“I mean, why bring Evans into it at all? She had nothing to do with it. And for the record, Bertha is
lying. Evans and I never shagged behind that tapestry — or anywhere else for that matter.”

“You don’t have to convince us, mate,” said Sirius. “We share a dorm with you. We have intimate
knowledge of exactly how many girls you haven’t shagged.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Is there a particular reason you are quite so peeved about this? Did Florence take it badly or
something?”

“What?” said James, whose eyes had been scouring the Great Hall once again for that flash of red.

“Florence,” repeated Sirius. “You know, the girl who might actually shag you?”

“I —“ James returned his gaze to his friends, all of whom were watching him with raised eyebrows
— except Remus, who was watching the parsnips as though convinced they might sprout wings
and fly away. “I haven’t talked to her yet.” He glanced over at the Ravenclaw table; Florence was
not immediately visible from his vantage point. “I will,” he said, “I just…haven’t yet.”

“For fuck’s sake,” muttered Sirius. “You really are hopeless. Word of advice, Prongs? If you ever
want to get into a girl’s pants, you’re going to have to stop obsessing over Evans. Just for a
minute.”
“I’m not—“

“Yeah,” agreed Peter. “Since we’ve thoroughly established Evans does not want to shag you and
never will — you okay, Moony?”

Remus appeared to be choking on a mouthful of potato. After a few moments of hacking and
spluttering, he gave a watery-eyed thumbs up and busied himself with the peas.

His friends had a point, James privately admitted to himself as they climbed the stairs back to
Gryffindor Tower. He was obsessing. He told himself his concern was simply for Lily’s feelings
— as a friend — but one could only lie to oneself for so long. The fact of the matter was that he felt
sick with guilt at the memory of Lily’s expression following Bertha’s gleeful goading, but why
should he? He hadn’t done anything wrong, and it was silly that his brain — or perhaps, his heart
— kept insisting that by kissing Florence he had somehow betrayed Lily, when of course he
hadn’t. He and Lily were friends, nothing more. It was the height of foolishness to commit yourself
to a girl who wanted nothing to do with you. He’d told himself a hundred thousand times that he
had to get over Lily, to let that ship sail and move on, but now that he actually had the opportunity
to do so, here he was, all but roping himself to the mast.

It was worse than foolish. It was masochistic.

Nonetheless, as he settled himself onto one of the sofas with the most convenient view of the
portrait hole, he continued to obsess right up until the moment the other boys decided to go to
bed.

“I’ll be up later, I’ve got a bit more work to do on that Transfiguration essay,” he’d lied,
rummaging around in his bag for an essay he knew he’d already completed. The truth was, Lily
had never shown up to dinner, and he hadn’t spotted her in the common room all evening, either. It
occurred to him that perhaps she was at one of Slughorn’s little parties. That would make sense.
Was he obsessing? Yes. But he wanted to talk to her. To clear the air, that was all.

But the evening ticked on, and Lily still did not appear. It was paranoia to assume she was avoiding
him, wasn’t it? Probably, she’d already turned in before he’d even returned to the common room,
and she was fast asleep in her own dormitory, blithely unaware of the way his insides squirmed as
he relived the unpleasant afternoon again and again.

Still, he reasoned as he repositioned himself in a more horizontal manner on the sofa, he’d stay up
a little later. Just in case. Those Slug Club dinners could run rather late, after all. And it was harder
to steal a private word in the middle of class, and she certainly wouldn’t want to talk about any of
this in front of their peers, and if she was still out, she’d surely be returning any moment now…
Slug Club or not, she still had curfew like the rest of them…and it wouldn’t hurt anything to just
stay here a little longer, and shut his eyes just for a moment, and…
He woke with a jolt. Jangle of limbs, confusing scatter of sunlight across the common room. James
blinked — the sleepy, blurred blink of a boy who was fairly certain he’d been wearing glasses mere
moments ago.

“Sorry,” said a soft voice, and through his blinking he noticed the indistinct outline of a face
swimming before him; the features were vague and fuzzy but surrounded by a recognizable halo of
red. “I didn’t mean to wake you, it’s just your glasses were on the floor, and I was afraid someone
might step on them.”

James realized that something resembling a hand was outstretched to him, offering him his glasses.
Groggily, he retrieved the specs and shoved them back onto his nose where they belonged. The
world came rushing back into focus, and there was Lily Evans, kneeling beside him. She stood,
and then she did something wonderful: She smiled at him, a bright, forgiving smile that sent his
shoulders slack with relief — and set off an annoying flutter of Snitches in his stomach, like she
always did.

“Did you sleep here all night?”

“Must’ve done,” murmured James, pushing himself upright and rubbing the heel of his hand
against his tired eyes. “Er —“ he cast another glance up at Lily. “I don’t have anything drawn on
my face, do I?”

(It was never a particularly good idea to fall asleep unsupervised in the common room; doubly so if
one’s best mate was Sirius Black.)

Lily smirked. “No, not this time.”

“Cool.” James yawned and mussed his hair, willing his brain to catch up with the fact that he was
awake — and that Lily Evans was standing before him.

“Well,” she said, “I’ll see you later, I suppose.”

“Hang on,” said James hurriedly. “Are you headed to breakfast? I’ll walk with you.”

Lily hesitated. “Er — no. I’m running to the library first.”

“I’ll walk with you part of the way, then.”

She did not seem overly enthusiastic about this, but James knew that if he didn’t take this
felicitously-offered opportunity now, it would be ages before he had the chance to speak to her
privately again. So, ignoring the fact that he was still dressed in yesterday’s robes (and hoping she
did too), James pushed himself off the sofa and followed her out of the portrait hole.

It was quite early, he realized; his mates were probably still sleeping. He urged his sleep-clogged
mind to get to the business of generating words — an activity at which it usually excelled — but
this morning, his thoughts were sluggish and dull, and all he could manage as the Fat Lady swung
shut behind them was to sneak another quick, not-so-sneaky look at Lily.

Those infernal, fluttering Snitches.

They were several steps down the corridor (and James still battling his useless brain) when Lily
said: “So…Florence Fawley, huh?”

“Er — yeah.”
“And here I thought inter-Quidditch dating was forbidden.”

James frowned at this odd comment, until the ghost of his own words caught up and smacked him
in the face. It had been at a Quidditch victory party last year: James had just discovered Lily was
dating Anson Nott, that annoyingly handsome seventh year Seeker on the Ravenclaw team, and
he'd been more than a little jealous, not to mention tipsy. He cringed at the memory. “Okay, I
deserved that.”

But Lily merely laughed. “I’m just teasing. I like Florence. She’s…really nice.”

“Yeah,” agreed James. “She is. Really nice.”

A brief, itchy pause.

“Although,” Lily continued lightly, “it’s going to be a tad awkward when we destroy Ravenclaw in
the Quidditch final this year, isn’t it?”

“Ha. Yeah, we — ah — we’re not thinking about that yet. Cross that bridge when we get there, and
all that.”

“Don’t worry. Florence is a good sport. I’m sure she’ll completely forgive you for crushing all her
athletic hopes and dreams in her final year at Hogwarts.”

James opened his mouth, then shut it again. “Are you trying to stress me out, or is that just a fun
side effect of conversations with you?”

“Is it working?”

“A bit, yeah.”

Lily snickered. “Sorry. It’s just a nice change, being able to torment you for once, instead of the
other way around.”

“Fair enough.” James took an exaggerated breath, then exhaled. “All right, I’m ready. Go on, get it
out of your system.”

“No, no. I’m done.” She cast him a sideways glance, her expression sly, amused. “For now.”

James allowed himself a silent moment to give the Snitches in his stomach a very stern talking to.

They carried on a few steps more. He could leave it at this, he realized. Lighthearted banter,
friendly teasing. She wasn’t angry — or at least, she was acting like she wasn’t. But James had
learned — from Lily, from Remus — that things left unspoken tended to fester. He braced himself.

“Listen, Evans…about what happened with Bertha…”

“Ah.” A funny little twist at the corner of her lips. “I gather her tongue unstuck, as she’s been
blabbering about nothing else ever since.”

“Yeah, and — I know. I’m not supposed to hex people just because they annoy me.”

“True. Even when they are being so very annoying.”

Her lighthearted tone was almost an invitation to leave it alone, but he plowed on. “The thing is —
it’s just — Remus said you were upset.”
Lily’s head jerked towards him. “He what?”

“Well, technically he said you weren’t upset, but Remus is a certifiably atrocious liar, so I assumed
that meant you were, in fact, upset."

“I wasn’t upset. Why would you think I’d be upset?”

“Well…” James began uncertainly. He hadn’t expected that he’d have to explain this part. “Bertha
was being rather horrible, wasn’t she? And I hate that you found out about me and Florence like
that — it wasn’t like I was keeping it a secret, it only just happened — and Bertha was completely
out of line — if she wants to give me a hard time, that’s one thing, but she had no business
dragging you into it, and — and I hate that that old rumor is still floating about, and I’m really
sorry, I hate that you have to deal with all that, and that I always seem to make it worse, even when
I’m not trying to—“

“James.”

He stopped. The flow of his ramble effectively stemmed, he couldn’t think of what else to do
besides stand there and gaze at her rather helplessly.

“I’m not upset with you,” said Lily. “It’s not your fault Bertha Jorkins is a cow. If anything, I’m
just sorry you and Florence are getting the full Bertha experience. But I don’t care what people like
her say about me. God knows if I did, I never would’ve survived to sixth year. I have thick skin.”

“But I hate that. You shouldn’t have to.”

Lily just shrugged.

“You’re not upset?”

“No.”

James was not sure he believed it. “It’s just — yesterday, after Bertha — you took off.”

Lily hesitated, twisting a lock of red hair around her thumb. “Well, all right. Bertha has a unique
talent for getting under my very thick skin. But I wasn’t upset with you . And I’m certainly not
upset about you and Florence.” A light, little laugh. “Why would I be? After all, I’m the one who
told her to get over herself and ask you to Slughorn’s party in the first place.”

“You…what? You did?”

"Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. Please, don’t tell her I said that.”

“I —“ James struggled for a moment. He didn’t know why this information should sting. He gave
himself a little shake. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “So…we’re okay?”

“Of course,” Lily beamed. “Better than okay. We’re great.”

“…Great.”
He left Lily at the library and headed towards breakfast alone, feeling rather rotten about the whole
morning. There was no reason for it. He’d gotten exactly what he’d wanted. He and Lily had talked
things through, and she wasn’t upset with him. And yet — he felt oddly disappointed. Had he
wanted her to be upset? Had he secretly hoped that her storming off they way she’d done had been
because she’d been upset about his kissing Florence, rather than Bertha’s nasty words? Had he
been clinging this whole time to one last thread of wishful thinking? And now that it had been
effectively cut — I’m the one who told her to get over herself and ask you to Slughorn’s party in
the first place — his hopes lay in a tattered, unravelled pile on the floor.

The height of foolishness.

He wandered helplessly through this labyrinth of mental anguish all the way to the entrance hall —
berating himself for his selfishness, his foolishness, his masochism — but before he could find a
way out of these miserable thoughts, a gentle hand touched his arm, and James turned to see
Florence by his side, looking very pretty with a pale blue Alice band in her hair. A matching set of
pale blue eyes blinked up at him.

“Did you really hex Bertha Jorkins for telling everyone we kissed?”

“Er —“ James ran an awkward hand through his hair. “Yeah. I did. Sorry. Not my finest moment.”

He waited for her to reprimand him, but instead Florence giggled. “Well, I think it’s rather sweet,
you defending my honor and all. Although, cat’s out of the bag now, I suppose?”

And as she stood on tiptoes and leaned in to kiss him again — right there, in the middle of the
entrance hall — James could come up with no reason not to kiss her back.

And that was that.

It never ceased to impress him — if that was the right word — just how quickly the flow of
information gushed through the castle’s arteries. By lunch that very day, everyone James
encountered seemed to know all about his kissing Florence by the greenhouses, and by the end of
the week, no less than three people — none of whom was Florence herself — informed James that
Florence was his girlfriend. Which he supposed she was, but it was startling all the same.

On Friday, Aisha Collins caught up with him in the common room during his afternoon break,
calling his name just as he slumped into his favorite armchair.

“Oi, Potter!”

“Two more weeks, Collins,” called James in return, settling deeper into the cushions. “I made
McGonagall swear on it. Two more weeks, then we’re back on the pitch for the spring season.”

“‘Bout bloody time,” agreed Aisha. McGonagall’s war against frostbitten Quidditch players was a
common complaint between the two. “Listen, can I have a word? As a friend, not my Captain?”

“Of course.” James sat up a little straighter and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Right. It’s about Florence.”

“Ah.”

“I’ll keep it short and sweet,” said Aisha with a broad grin. “You break her heart? I’ll break your
face.”

James blinked. “I — er — I mean — I have no intention of breaking her heart.”

“Excellent. I have no intention of breaking your face.”

And with a cheerful clap on the shoulder, she left him, not quite certain if she was joking or not.

The truth was, he didn’t intend to break Florence’s heart. Though the realization that Florence was
his girlfriend now had certainly taken him by surprise, it wasn’t as though he was against the idea.
It was just that it had all happened without much effort on his part, which he found mildly baffling.
James had always interpreted romance as a sort of challenge, an agonizing struggle, a battle to be
won — or simply survived — the champion all bruised and bloody and battered, but things with
Florence weren’t like that at all. They were…easy.

Somehow, as the weeks progressed, she became an unquestioned fixture in his life; she ate her
meals at the Gryffindor table, he walked her to class, hand in hand, they stole moments together in
the evenings before curfew. His friends even seemed to tolerate her, which they had never much
done with Alodie. And sure, okay, sometimes James felt a bit as though he were playing a part in
some well-rehearsed show, but…it was nice. Uncomplicated. Straightforward. She liked him, and
that was that.

And the truth of the matter was, he liked her too. Her presence was light and easy and fun and
occasionally almost ethereal, with her breathy laughter like a cool breeze, the way she touched his
wrist whenever he said something she found particularly amusing, her fingertips soft as spring rain.
Unlike his relationship with Alodie, which had been predominately about the spectacle, he enjoyed
his time with Florence, even beyond the snogging. Though not to discount that: Kissing Florence, it
turned out, was a very effective distraction from all sorts of unpleasantness. When he was with her,
the weight of the world seemed to melt away like the last of the February snow, and he could
ignore the endless battering of the world, the anxiety of owl post, of illness, the shadow of
newspaper headlines, the poison of politics. For a moment, life was simple: He was sixteen, he had
a very pretty girlfriend who liked him, and that was that.

And all right, maybe it wasn’t quite the same intensity of feeling as the gut-twisting nausea, the
tingle of skin, the fluttering of a thousand stomach-Snitches that he had come to associate with love
— but maybe that was just growing up, something he seemed to be doing a lot of lately?

After all, James was learning that the art of growing up was about letting go — of all sorts of
things: of boyhood fantasies, of infatuations, of long-held beliefs that were painfully untrue, of
people, of parents. Why not add a childish interpretation of love to the list? Florence liked him, and
he liked her back. That was enough. That was more than enough. That was…really nice.

And as for the instigator of the accursed stomach-Snitches, well, she wasn’t remotely concerned
about his new relationship with Florence. If anything, Lily seemed pleased by this development.
Well, of course she was. It was her idea. James suppressed the little spout of disappointment this
thought always sprung forth and reminded himself about foolishness, and the height of it.
There were additional advantages to having a girlfriend in a different house from one’s own, James
soon discovered, the main one being that he didn’t have to lie to her about sneaking out on the full
moon. Unlike Alodie, Florence would not accuse him of cheating should he slip from the common
room after curfew; she’d never even know. And if, after this weekend’s full moon, he should sleep
in and miss breakfast or a class or two, he would just blame it on staying up rather too late with the
lads — which was not strictly a lie, after all.

James was feeling rather good about all this as he returned to the common room after an enjoyable
after-dinner dalliance with Florence at the Astronomy Tower. He still bore the telltale signs of an
evening well-spent: the rumpled collar of his robes, the slightly-more-mussed-than-usual hair, the
vague expression of a boy not yet returned to reality. He spotted his friends across the room, all
huddled around something in their usual spot by the fire. As he approached, Remus quickly
muttered something James didn’t catch, then looked up. “Oh, it’s just you.”

“What a warm welcome,” said James in mock reproof. Remus, he noticed, seemed in remarkably
good form for the day before the full moon. It was funny how all that lunar nonsense worked.
Years of studying it and James still didn’t quite have a grasp on what precise astronomical havoc
would cause a miserable moon versus one that hit like a minor head cold. Pushing this mystery
aside for another day, James peered over his friends’ shoulders to see a large piece of blank
parchment spread on the table before them, the clean expanse marred by a grid of creases as though
it had recently been folded. “What are you up to?”

What they were up to, it turned out, was working on the map. Remus explained (rather proudly)
how they’d transferred the giant mess of map that had long dominated their dormitory wall onto
this smaller, condensed bit of parchment. A proper bit of cartography, to be folded up and carried
around and used at their whim.

“And it was rather a tricky bit of magic, to tell you the truth. We’d been puzzling over it for ages,
how to make it portable without messing up the spell bonding—“

“It’ll be dead useful. This way, we won’t need those stupid little knockoff mirrors to coordinate.
We can just pull the map out of our pockets and know exactly where old Snivelly is —“

“And we’ve tested it out, the smaller version definitely works—“

“When did you do all that?” demanded James.

“While you were out snogging your girlfriend,” said Sirius.

James felt a pang at having missed this pivotal moment in the map’s history, but he pushed that
feeling aside and leaned closer over the parchment. “It’s blank.”

“Only temporarily,” grinned Sirius. “Watch this.” Then he pointed his wand at the parchment and
said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” James watched with immense satisfaction as the
intricate lines of their map began to cover the parchment until, in an elaborate script that could only
come from Sirius’s practiced hand, the following words appeared at the very top:

Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers

 are proud to present

THE MARAUDER'S MAP

James let out a hoot of delight.

“Rather good, isn’t it?” said Sirius smugly.

“It’s brilliant,” said James, taking the map from the table and examining it closely, all the little
dots running around the castle corridors like ants on a picnic… “But who are these Magical
Mischief-Makers to whom we are allegedly purveying aids?”

“Us, mostly.”

“It was Moony’s idea. Lends it a certain gravitas, don’t you think?”

Remus shrugged. “Well, like you said: This map will outlast us.”

“And it’s important to corrupt the youth of tomorrow.”

“Show him the next bit!” insisted Peter.

Sirius reclaimed the map from James, pointed his wand at the parchment once more, and
announced, “Mischief managed!” At once, the map went as blank as an unused scrap.

“So no one else can see what it actually is,” explained Remus. “Like we discussed before.”

“Lest old Filch gets his hands on it.”

“Or Carter-Myles.”

“Or Snivellus.”

“I’ve got a few more ideas on that front…”

The promise of their map, freshly-liberated from the dormitory wall, was exciting enough to
dominate all discussion for the rest of the evening, and indeed, when the boys woke the following
morning, they picked the subject right back up. Remus was not so lucky the morning of the full
moon as he’d been the night before, and so they headed to hospital wing before breakfast,
delighting all the way there in all the many devious ideas of what to do with their shiny new
Marauder's Map.

They kept at the plotting even after Remus had been deposited into Madam Pomfrey’s care, but
their conversation was rather abruptly derailed at top of the marble stairs that led to the entry hall,
for Florence caught up with them. She wove her arm through James’s own and leaned up for a
kiss. He obliged.
 “Good morning,” she said brightly, not seeming to notice that the boys’ chatter had petered off at
her arrival. It wasn’t as though they could tell her about the map, after all. “I’m looking forward to
tonight,” she told James.

All three boys stared at her.

“Er,” said James. “Tonight?”

“Slughorn’s dinner.” A pause. “Oh, James, you didn’t forget, did you?”

“No,” James lied. “I didn’t forget exactly. I just…got the date wrong.”

“We just talked about it last night!”

James did not remember much talking from last night, but he didn’t say so. “I guess I forgot. I can’t
go tonight. I’ve — got a detention.”

“Another one?”

“Carter-Myles hates me, what can I say?”

He didn’t feel good about lying to her, but what was he supposed to do? He could hardly explain
that he couldn’t go to Slughorn’s dinner because he had prior plans of sneaking out of the castle to
go cavort as an illegal Animagi with a werewolf.

So what he said was: “I’m really sorry, Flor. But hey, we’re on for next weekend, right?
Valentine’s Day? I’ve got big plans.”

She softened. “Of course,” she said, and she kissed him again.

Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Sirius mouth the words: “Good save.”

As they descended the marble stairs, James tried rather desperately to think of what his big plans
were in fact to be (he hadn’t actually gotten that far yet). So engrossed was he in this deliberation
that he did not notice right away that the entrance hall was rather more crowded than usual, nor that
the air was filled less with the standard aural battery of students’ morning chatter, and more with
the hushed hiss of shocked whispers.

“What the fuck is going on?” said Sirius.

James blinked back to attention and looked around. The entrance hall was a mess. It took him a
moment to realize what he was seeing: Flyers were scattered everywhere, pasted up on the walls,
stacked on the stairs, fluttering across the flagged-stone floor.

“Oh, Merlin…” said Florence, her fingers trailing across her lips, her expression horrified.

James leaned down to pick up one of the flyers and his stomach twisted. In harsh black ink, the text
blared: MUDBLOODS AMONG US. And beneath it, in three tight columns, was a list of what
appeared to be every Muggle-born student in Hogwarts.

Chapter End Notes

Hello! Sorry for my impromptu departure. I feel like I say this in every chapter note,
but life has had rather a lot going on lately. Didn't intend to fall off the planet for quite
as long as I did, but phew. I made it.

A note on future updates: I am not going to be sticking to an aggressive weekly

schedule for the foreseeable future. That's not to say I won't end up updating regularly
(or even weekly), but just that I'm not forcing myself to keep a deadline for a little
while. I've just got too much going on IRL to manage at the moment.

But! I'm still working on the story and am excited to get going again. We've got a lot
of drama to come yet. :)

<3
 Love is in the Hair
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

LILY

Love is in the Hair

James Potter was in love.

At least, that’s what everyone else said. It was obvious, they insisted, by the way he looked at
Florence Fawley as they walked hand in hand through the corridors, the winks and whispered
asides they shared at meals, the tender kisses goodbye as they parted ways before class. James
Potter was in love, and it was big news around the castle.

Not in the scandalous way that had always plagued Lily’s own dalliances, but rather in the
interested, almost affectionate manner bestowed upon the popular students, the pretty students, the
pure-blood students. James Potter and Florence Fawley. What a perfect pair, everyone gushed, how
sweet they were, how good-looking, how much sense they made together. Indeed, the students of
Hogwarts had plenty to say about the handsome couple; after all, Valentine’s Day was fast
approaching, and love was in the air.

Not for Lily Evans, however. She had no interest in love; indeed, she was was doing everything she
could to shoo love far, far away. She had sprayed a hefty blast of metaphorical air freshener to
cover up the stench of love. She had opened a window, turned on a fan, and stood pinching her
nose against the onslaught of l’odeur d’amour . Love could waft in on the breeze as sweet and
tempting as roses in a garden, as fresh biscuits in the oven — it made no difference. She had no
interest in even the vaguest sniff.

And as far as any of the intimate details pertaining to Hogwarts’ favorite new couple, she hadn’t
even noticed. She certainly didn’t care. It wasn’t as though she spent her mornings purposefully
dilly-dallying in the common room or slipping off to the library until the last possible moment
simply to minimize the amount of time she’d have to spend at breakfast watching James and
Florence all snug on a bench. Nor did she re-strategize all her routes through the castle in order to
ensure the least amount of contact with the couple. That would be the unhinged behavior of
someone who cared — and Lily Evans most certainly did not care.

It had been roughly a month since Bertha Jorkins had brought the budding new romance to light,
and Lily was fine. She was fine . Fancying James Potter was just something that flared up every so
often, and while it was annoying — like a bad bout of hiccups — she’d simply have to stay on her
guard and stamp it out. Which she’d done, and now she was fine.

And if all that was a bald-faced lie, well, she’d decided to allow herself the comfort of a few
delusions.

“Lily!”

The urgent call of her name pulled Lily from this comfortable ritual of self-deception as she headed
to breakfast. She was admittedly rather late — for reasons that were absolutely not related to James
Potter and Florence Fawley and any potential cuddling across the porridge. Irritated with herself for
putting that thought in her mind, Lily turned towards the source of the call to see a girl jogging
across the corridor, and after a moment, she recognized her as Valmai Morgan, the third year
Hufflepuff from the Muggle-born Student Coalition who had called Lily a badass.

“Emergency M.B.S.C. meeting tonight,” said Valmai breathlessly. “Tell anyone you can find.”

“Emergency — what? Why?”

“You haven’t seen?”

“Seen what?”

And, looking rather ill, Valmai pulled a crumpled up flyer from her pocket.

“It’s a direct attack.”

“It’s a hit list.”

“It’s just a scare tactic.”

“Well, it’s working. I’m pretty scared!”

The hidden room that housed the Muggle-born Student Coalition felt smaller this evening,
crammed not only with every member who’d gotten the message, but also all the anxiety they’d
brought along with them. ‘The List,’ as they’d taken to calling it (for no one wanted to use the
horrible title scrawled across the top of that hateful flyer) had shaken many students to their core.
Lily just felt rather numb about it all, to be honest.

Professor McGonagall, white-faced and livid, had informed them all at breakfast that the school
would find whoever had distributed the “disgusting material” and that the perpetrators would be
severely punished.

“I won’t hold my breath,” Lily had muttered, thinking of Mulciber hexing Mary, of Carter-Myles
ignoring the M-word, of every slur that slipped through the halls that no one did a damn thing
about. She was used to empty promises from figures of authority. Yet the warning was repeated
again at dinner, this time by the Headmaster himself. Not to mention James and Sirius, who caught
up with Lily at lunch to assure her that even if the school did not find and punish the list-makers,
they would.

That old vigilante justice, again.

“No one needs to be scared,” Graham spoke up at last, his voice calm but commanding. Lily was
impressed by the way he navigated everyone’s conflicting emotions without being overly
authoritative. It was gentle, but skillful. “That list — it was unsettling, no doubt, seeing our names
there, but it hasn’t really changed anything, has it? We’ve always had a target on our back —“

“Tell that to Catrin Jones,” interrupted Veronica Smethley. “She’s been sobbing to anyone who
will listen that it’s all a lie, that she’s not really Muggle-born.”

“Bullshit,” snorted Cecil Stebbins. “She’s as Muggle-born as the rest of us, only she worked out
back in first year that ‘Jones’ is a common Wizarding surname, and she’s been milking it ever
since.”

A discontented grumble spread through the crowd.

“Lucky her.”

“Must be nice.”

“I mean, can you really blame her?”

“ I can. I think it’s pathetic, pretending to be pure-blood.”

“I heard Elliot Duncan dumped her when he found out she was lying.”

“That’s awful.”

“Serves her right.”

“Hold on now,” interrupted Graham again. “Catrin Jones is not our enemy. Everyone deals
differently with the stress of being Muggle-born in this school, and we may not always agree, but
after this list, she’s going to need our support—“

“Our support? What, so we’re inviting more people?” This was from Dirk, who sat on the other
side of the circle, arms crossed and scowling. “We didn’t have problems like this last year. This is
exactly why I voted to keep the group small and private.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” retorted April Wallace. “Catrin Jones wasn’t in the
M.B.S.C. Plenty of people aren’t, and they all still got outed with the rest of us.”

“How did they get this list?” fretted Valmai.

“What’s it matter? They could’ve got it anywhere. Or compiled it themselves. It’s not like it’s
secret information.”

“Yes, but Catrin…”

“What I’m saying,” said Dirk, slightly louder, “is that when we make a spectacle, when we draw
undue attention to ourselves — prancing around the corridors in mini-skirts—“

“Hang on,” said Lily. It was the first time she’d spoken throughout the tumult, her own numbness
leading her to listen passively from the sidelines. These words, however, caused her to sit up a little
straighter. The accusation was plain as day, and Lily felt somewhat blindsided. “You think this is
my fault?”

“No one is saying that,” said Graham.

“Sounds like Dirk is saying that.”

Dirk crossed his arms tighter. “I’m just saying it was stupid not to expect retaliation.”

“So, what?” said April, raising her voice over Graham’s imminent interjection. “You just want to
stay quiet and let the pure-bloods walk all over you?”

“If that means I can go to class without getting strung up by my ankle — or worse — yes! That’s
exactly what I want!” Dirk’s voice had risen to reach April’s in both volume and pitch. “I’m not
trying to be a bloody political activist, I’m just trying to survive school!”

There was a grumble of agreement at this — or possibly disagreement — but it was quickly quelled
by Graham: “And what about after school, Dirk?”

His voice was calm, his tone steady — yet there was a sudden, unfamiliar darkness to it, an
urgency that made everyone else fall quiet.

“You think things are bad here? What’s going to help you survive once the pretense of school rules
and the Headmaster’s protection no longer applies? When the threat isn’t just getting strung up by
your ankle for a laugh? I may not be in Ravenclaw, but I read — every day I read about more
deaths and disappearances. You’ve got a few more years left at Hogwarts, but me? I graduate this
term, and I’m staring down the wand at a world that looks an awful lot like the one that made this
list. You think the Ministry isn’t compiling their own lists right now, as we speak, in the name of
Minchum’s Wizard Protection Laws? You think they don’t already have a list of every Muggle-
born student? Of course they do. You think obeying the rules will help you get a job? You think
behaving and staying quiet will stop them from attacking you? No. They’ll murder you anyway,
and no one will give a damn, because everyone else is too busy behaving to put up a fuss.”

One of the second years whimpered, and Graham seemed to clock that he’d gone a touch too far.
The darkness in him dimmed, and he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Look,” he said, and his voice
was mild again. “It’s getting close to curfew, we can’t risk being caught out late. I don’t want this
—“ he held up the list, “—to tear us apart. We’ll meet again next week to discuss where we go
from here. We should probably start meeting more frequently anyway, but in the meantime, we
have to have each other’s backs, all right? No one else will.”

There was a muttering of agreement, a scuffing of shoes, and the students began to disperse. Lily
lingered in her seat, watching the others leave, Graham at the door making sure everyone headed
back to their respective dormitories in pairs, the younger students with the older. He held up a hand
as Lily approached the exit.

“Lily — could you hang on a moment? I want a word.”

She waited as Graham directed third year Lewis Karkosky to head back to Ravenclaw Tower with
Dirk, who pointedly avoided Lily’s eye. As the last of the younger students were escorted out,
Graham turned back to Lily.

“Thanks for sticking around,” he said. “I just wanted to — hang on, sorry. Cecil? You’re not
headed back alone, are you?”

“What?” Cecil blinked. Up close, Lily noticed that his eyes were rimmed with red.

“I don’t want anyone wandering the castle alone right now, it’s — wait. Are you high again?”

“…No.”
“You reek of weed. Where did you get weed?”

Cecil opened his mouth, then shrugged. “Some fifth year got his hands on a stash, he’s been
selling it. Decent stuff, and pretty cheap, actually. Don’t think he really knows what he’s got.”

“Who?”

“Can’t remember his name. Something like a bird. Like a…budgerigar…Did you know budgies’
bones are hollow? Well, most birds’ bones are. Helps with flight. But dragon bones are solid as
stone. How does that make sense? Magic makes no damn sense.”

Graham scrubbed a hand over his face. “Christ.”

“Don’t worry,” said April, clasping an arm around Cecil’s shoulder. “I’ll get him back to bed all
safe and sound.”

“You’re high too, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” agreed April. “But I’m so much better at it.”

“Christ…fine. Just — don’t get caught by any teachers on the way back, okay? Especially not
Carter-Myles. He’s been on the warpath ever since some students glued the furniture to the ceiling
of his office.”

“Roger that,” said April, and with a wink at Lily, she departed with the thoroughly-stoned Cecil in
tow.

“Christ,” muttered Graham again. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d love to be high right now too,
but honestly, there’s a time and a place…” He shook his head, then turned back to Lily. They were
the only two left in the room. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he said. “Thanks for waiting, I just — well, I just
wanted to say don’t worry about Dirk. He’s scared, that’s all.”

“I get it. I used to play that game too. Trying so hard to be likable…or at least invisible. But it
never works. Sooner or later, your blood status always catches up to you.”

“Yeah,” agreed Graham. He sighed and perched himself against the table that would normally hold
their refreshments. They hadn’t had time to gather any today. This meeting was all business.
“Dirk…he’s had a rough go of it over the years. Awkward kid, bit of a swot. Made him an easy
target for bullies. Add being Muggle-born to that…”

Lily remembered Dirk stating matter-of-factly that the other students called him a “faux-blood” for
studying Gobbledegook. Her sympathy stirred.

“It’s not personal against you, is what I’m saying. Dirk just…needs time. But we all want you here.
I’m glad you’re here, in particular.”

“In particular?”

“Yeah. I want your advice. I empathize with Dirk, I do, but I think his approach is wrong. We’re
past the point of blending in and skating by. If anything, this list just shows that we need to be
louder.”

“And you want my advice because I’m…loud?”

Graham smiled. “You know how to get people’s attention.”

Lily snorted. She let her gaze drift around the small room, the clutter of chairs that filled the space.
There was so much potential here. It was in many ways the community she’d always longed for at
Hogwarts, and while it was painful at times, to listen to all the other Muggle-born students’ fears
and heartache, it was wonderful just the same. To feel seen, known, understood.

And all of that was locked away behind the door of a hidden room that no one else knew about.

She bit her lip. “Have you thought about making it more public? The M.B.S.C., I mean? I get why
you all felt you had to be really careful to start, but now — I mean, it’s like you said. People like
Catrin Jones are going to need support more than ever, now that that list has gone around. I know
everyone’s cross with her for hiding her blood status, but I can’t blame her. I’m the only Gryffindor
Muggle-born in my year, and it’s been…hard. Sometimes I’ve been so lonely, I…” She shook her
head. “I just can’t help but think…maybe if Catrin had had support from the start, she wouldn’t
have felt the need to pretend not to be Muggle-born.”

Graham nodded, his expression solemn. “I hear you, and I agree. We just have to proceed with
caution. I think everyone’s pretty spooked right now.”

“Yeah.” Lily thought for a long moment. “What we need is some consciousness raising. I was
given this book on Muggle-born rights a few months ago that changed my whole outlook. The
Muggle-born Revolution. I had to return it, but — oh!”

For she had just noticed that very book sitting on the table against which Graham perched. She
crossed the room and picked it up. “You’ve read it, then?”

“No. I’ve never seen that before.”

“One of the other students', I suppose?”

“No,” said Graham, and his voice was awed, reverent almost. “I think it was the room.”

“What?”

“I told you. This room knows what you need. I didn’t know it could do that, but…”

Lily recalled Graham’s theory that the castle was sentient, but she thought it far more likely that a
student accidentally left the book behind. “If the room gives you what you need, why do we have
to bring our own food?”

“Well, food is one of the exceptions to the Laws of Elemental Transfiguration, isn’t it?”

“Okay, Einstein.”

Graham laughed. “Cecil likes to spew random facts. You might’ve noticed.”

“So you think I could just ask the room for…anything I need? Anything except food?”

“And money. And…whatever the third exception is, I can’t remember.” He shrugged. “Might as
well try.”

Lily thought about it. On the off-chance that the room actually was sentient, she somehow doubted
that it operated like a wishing well or vending machine. The need in question would have to be
genuine, otherwise the silly room would be overflowing with whatever little whim passed through
the minds of those who stood within its walls. Cecil could wish into existence all the cannabis his
heart desired. No, it had to be a true need…
She closed her eyes. She didn’t know why, it just felt right. I need a way to bring people together…
to lift their spirits and make them less afraid…

“No way,” said Graham.

Lily opened her eyes. There, as though it had always sat tucked in that corner of the room, was a
Muggle record player and a pile of records. She hurried over, Graham at her heel, and together they
began flipping through the collection. It was an impressive array of artists and genres: Fleetwood
Mac, The Runaways, Ramones, James Taylor, Blue Oyster Cult, Queen…Gleefully, she selected
David Bowie’s Station to Station from the stack and removed the record from its sleeve.

“But will it work…?” murmured Graham.

Lily examined the record player. There was no evident electricity of any kind. This hiccup had
always thwarted any student’s attempt to bring their own record player to school in the past.
Electricity and magic didn’t mesh, so the Muggle-born population with discerning taste in music
had been forced to survive on scraps from Kenny Kirk’s radio show, but even he was somewhat
unreliable these days, going off air for weeks at a time. Not to mention the fact that lately he
seemed to be stuck in the sixties.

Carefully, doubtfully, as though preparing for disappointment, Lily placed the record onto the
turntable and set the stylus. The faint crackle of needle to vinyl…a simple two-chord guitar riff…
and then the intoxicating percussion of Golden Years filled the room.

“No way,” said Graham.

Lily slumped against the wall in delight as Bowie crooned, “ Angel… ”

“No fucking way.”

And Lily began to laugh, a little hysterically. “I love magic.”

There was a definite spring in her step as Lily made her way back to her dormitory following the
Muggle-born Student Coalition’s emergency meeting. She and Graham had lingered in the hidden
room for nearly an hour, trying out different albums, making plans, testing the constraints of the
room’s magic. Lily’s ‘not-a-wishing-well’ theory proved true, as Graham tried very hard to get the
room to produce the latest record of some band called The Damned, to no avail. It was with regret
that they finally realized it was well past curfew, and they’d better head back to their respective
dormitories with haste.

“I’ll walk you back to Gryffindor Tower,” Graham told her matter-of-factly. “It’s late.”

“No need,” Lily protested. “I’m a prefect, I can get away with it.”

“Still, like I told the others, it’s not wise to be walking the castle alone right now.”

“Sure, but if you walk with me, then you’ll have to walk back alone, and farther.”

“Yes, but you’re—“

At this, Lily had crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow. She knew perfectly well that the end of
this sentence was intended to be a girl — and judging by the way Graham faltered, he knew
perfectly well that this would not go over nicely with the girl in question.

“—younger,” he concluded.

“Nice save,” said Lily dryly. “I’ll be fine. My dorm isn’t far, and I can handle myself.”

“That’s right, I almost forgot. You are a badass.”

Lily laughed and gave him a shove. “Shut it.”

But despite the spring in her step, the beat of Bowie still drumming in her ears, despite the fact that
the Gryffindor common room truly wasn’t far from the hidden room, Lily couldn’t help but glance
over her shoulder as she made her way back. Graham was right: The list didn’t change anything,
exactly — she’d always had a target on her back — but it certainly made her a tad jumpier than
usual.

Which was why when someone from behind tapped her on the shoulder, she whirled about with
her wand out, ready to hex the assumed assailant to next Tuesday.

“Merlin!” gasped Florence Fawley.

Lily lowered her wand at once. “Florence! God. Sorry. I didn’t mean to — sorry. I’m just a little on
edge.”

“No, of course…of course you are. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snuck up on you. I wasn’t thinking.”
A pause. “How are you doing…with…you know, everything?”

“I’m fine.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw. So completely vile. I can’t imagine who would do such a thing.
James says it was probably a bunch of Slytherins, and I suppose he’s right. You know, I’ve never
seen him so angry as he was when he saw that flyer.”

“What are you doing out so late?” interrupted Lily, who didn’t want to talk about any of this.

“On my way back from Sluggy’s dinner.” Another pause. “You didn’t come.”

“Ah.” Lily had totally forgotten about the dinner. She’d blown it off for the emergency M.B.S.C.
meeting, but if she were being honest, she probably would’ve skipped it regardless. “Something
came up…sorry.”

“No matter. You were missed, though. It was very boring without you. James couldn’t make it
either. Apparently he had another detention.”

Why was it that every time she said his name, it was like a tiny stab to the heart?

“That’s what you get for dating a troublemaker, Flor.”

“I suppose so,” Florence laughed. Then, abruptly: “Are you angry with me?”

Lily blinked. “What? Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“It just feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re never at meals, you skip every Slug Club dinner, and you’ve hardly said a word to me
since Christmas. If I did something to upset you…”

A cringe of guilt twisted Lily’s gut, but she landed on a half-lie and an empty promise: “You
didn’t, Flor. I’ve just been really busy, that’s all. There’s…a lot going on. But we’ll catch up
sometime soon, yeah?”

Of course, everything Florence said was entirely true. Lily had been avoiding her — and rather
expertly so, truth be told. But avoiding Florence was easy. Such were the circumstances of being in
different houses and different years. Unless one party made a concerted effort to see the other, it
was quite simple to let a friendship simply slip through the cracks of the castle. And when one
party was actively avoiding the other…well, it was a big castle.

Not big enough though. James, by contrast, was impossible to avoid. Apart from the fact that they
shared every class, that in Potions they worked side by side for the entire period…they also all but
lived together in Gryffindor Tower. She saw him in the mornings, coming down from the boys’
dormitory, running a hand through his mussed hair as a yawn slid into a grin. She saw him in the
evenings, gathered ‘round the fireplace with his friends, laughing uproariously over god knows
what. She crossed paths with him on shortcuts up to the tower, she bumped into him as she climbed
through the portrait hole as he departed. He was, in a word, inescapable.

And the worst part — the really, truly, turn-you-inside-out terrible part — was that she didn’t want
to escape him. Not really. After all, they were friends now. Somehow, over the course of that
eventful Christmas holiday, they had navigated through the treacherous waters of uncertainty and
distrust into full-fledged friendship. Far-fetched though it may have once seemed, they were
friends. Friends. And the annoying thing — the really, truly, tug-your-hair-out infuriating thing —
was that he was a really good friend. But that was the thing about James Potter: If you were on his
bad side, he could be an absolute nightmare of an enemy, but once he decided he was your friend,
by god, he was going to be the best friend you had, whether you liked it or not.

Lily couldn’t decide whether she liked it or not.

Take, for example, the birthday cake incident. Lily had turned seventeen a few weeks ago, and
despite how anxiously she’d awaited this important birthday, her legal coming of age in the
Wizarding world, the actual day was rather anti-climactic. It had been a Sunday, and Lily had spent
most of the day wandering around the quieter corners of the castle on her own, chain-smoking her
last pack of cigarettes and feeling sorry for herself…while knowing full well she was being stupid
about it. When at last she’d returned to the common room around tea time, she’d been startled by a
thunderous greeting of kazoos and cheers.

It did not take long to identify the source: James Potter drew people to him like moths to a flame,
and there he was, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, surrounded by their housemates, and
holding a flaming birthday cake, crammed with candles that, if she’d paused to count, she
suspected would add up to seventeen.

“What’s all this?” she'd said, because she hadn’t known what else to say.
“Your birthday, Evans! Seventeen! Good of you to show, by the way, we’ve been waiting for ages.
We almost ate the cake without you.”

The cake, incidentally, was a mouth-watering chocolate ordeal upon which the words Happy
Birthday Penny Prefect were piped in pale blue icing.

“We, ah, put Sirius in charge of decorating it. He’s got the best penmanship.” A pause as James
glanced down at the elegantly-iced Penny Prefect . “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“It’s affectionate,” said Sirius carelessly. “Plus, I got you this.” And then he’d tossed her a pack of
Park Drive cigarettes which, though she wasn’t about to admit it, was perhaps the best gift anyone
could have given her.

And suddenly, the birthday about which she had fully intended to mope turned into a bit of a party,
hanging around the common room, eating cake, and lighting cigarettes off the birthday candles,
making an impossible wish as she blew them out. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d
enjoyed her birthday so much. And this, of course, was all because of James.

“James takes his friends’ birthdays very seriously,” Remus had told her matter-of-factly at one
point through a mouthful of cake. “He can’t be stopped.”

His friends. They were friends. It should be enough, but it wasn’t. Oh, god, it wasn’t. And with that
realization, the whole atmosphere of the impromptu party became tinged with the desperate ache of
want.

It would be easier to push him away, to find a reason to be angry with him — that old, familiar
armor — but she couldn’t manage it. He hadn’t done anything wrong. And the terrible truth of it
was — when he sidled up beside her with a sly joke in class, when he caught her eye at breakfast,
when he ran a hand through his stupid, stupid hair — Lily knew she wouldn’t have it any other
way. To be in his presence was like basking in the sunlight. Warm and cozy and perfect — and
occasionally, if you weren’t careful, blisteringly painful.

The Muggle-born list was still a hot topic as Lily descended the dormitory the following morning.
Groups of students hushed as she walked by; clearly, they’d been discussing it. She thought of
Catrin Jones telling everyone it was a lie, that she wasn’t a Muggle-born, and Lily decided to forgo
her usual breakfast-avoidance routine. She didn’t want anyone to think that she was hiding, that she
was ashamed. She could suffer the exposure to James and Florence for that.

But James was not at breakfast, nor was he seated at their worktable in Potions when she arrived.
As the class filled up around her, Lily began to feel a touch nervous. She recalled his promise
yesterday of more vigilante justice in retaliation for the list…what if he’d bitten off more than he
could chew and got himself in trouble?

But then, just as Slughorn was preparing to start his lecture, James dropped himself into the seat
next to Lily with a worn-out huff. “Made it,” he said with a triumphant grin. He looked exhausted
and a bit like he’d run there, which, judging by his disheveled appearance, he might’ve done.

“Late night?” she said.

Another sheepish grin. “‘Fraid so.”

“So what’d you get it for?”

“What?”

“Florence said you had detention last night.”

“Oh...” Comprehension dawned. “Right, yeah. Y’know, just…general mischief and mayhem.” He
said these last words through the thick fog of a yawn, and Lily found herself doubting this story. It
was a full moon last night, and this would hardly be the first time James had shown up exhausted
the morning after. She wondered. Did he wait up for Remus? Did he get no sleep all night,
worrying about his friend? The idea was oddly touching, if a tad upsetting. She wanted to ask him,
but she’d promised herself she wouldn’t tell anyone she knew until she’d told Remus — and she
hadn’t told Remus yet because she didn’t want to upset him, but now it had been too long and it
was awkward, and so she just sat there, wondering.

James cocked his head slightly, and Lily realized with a jolt of horror that she’d been staring.

“All right?” he said, and then he ran a hand through his hair, and Lily thought she might die.

Mercifully, Professor Slughorn came to her rescue and began his lecture. Except that it very
quickly became apparent that the lecture was no rescue mission, but was in fact part of what she
was beginning to view as a vast and horrible conspiracy to ruin her life. You see, they were finally
going to start brewing Amortentia. Just in time for Valentine’s Day. Because of-bloody-course
they were.

She did her best to keep her expression neutral as Professor Slughorn cheerfully explained that they
would be spending most the remaining term on this project, because “Amortentia, much like true
love, takes time to brew.”

“I thought you were looking forward to Amortentia,” said James as they started to work. Quite a
few of the supplies required for the potion were rare and expensive and so the students had been
instructed to brew in pairs, one cauldron between the two.

“I was,” said Lily. “I mean, I am.”

“Mmm. You have a dreadful poker face.”

“Excuse me, I have an excellent poker face.”

“Nah,” said James. “I used to think so, but you’ve got some very obvious tells. The eye rolling
gives you away, for one.”

Lily laughed, in spite of herself. “So you’ve got me all figured out then?”

“Evans, I would never dare to presume such a thing.”

Feeling the threat of flushed cheeks, Lily focused her attention on carefully measuring out the
ingredients for the base of their potion. “I suppose you’re in a festive mood for this sort of thing, at
least,” she said, without looking up.

“You’re going to have to elaborate on that one.”

“I just mean for Valentine’s Day, what with the Hogsmeade weekend coming up and all.”

“Oh, right.”
She glanced up. Was she imagining it, or did the curve of his smile falter ever so slightly? No, she
was absolutely imagining it. But then he said: “You know, I’ve been wanting to ask you about
that,” and Lily’s hand slipped, sending the cup of ground moonstone dust she’d been carefully
leveling skittering across the table.

“Oh?” Her voice was slightly too high-pitched, her eyes focused on the mess before her, not daring
to look at him.

His shoulder bumped hers as he leaned over to help sweep up the shimmery crystals. “Yeah…I
may have done something stupid. I — well, I might’ve told Florence that I had something big
planned for Valentine’s Day, and…I don’t.”

“Oh.”

“I know, I know,” said James miserably. “I had good intentions, but I just…can’t think of anything.
That’s why I need your help. You’re a girl. You know things about…girls. What do girls like?”

Lily stared at him, the moonstone dust forgotten. They were friends. They could talk about this. It
wasn’t at all like a knife twisting through gut. She exhaled. “God,” she said at last. “You know,
sometimes you’re so thoughtful and, dare I say it, insightful that I forget what a massive idiot you
are.”

“Lucky you. I’m reminded of it daily. Er…why in this specific instance?”

“Girls are not some monolith group to which you have to crack a single code and suddenly you
understand all of them. It’s like Amortentia…the smell is different for everyone.”

“Okay, fair. But…you’re friends with Florence, so what does Florence like? What would be her
ideal date?”

“You’re the one dating her!”

“Yes, but I’m an idiot, remember?”

“Truly,” said Lily, feeling increasingly annoyed. “I don’t know.”

“Well, what would your ideal date be?”

Lily made rather a show of adjusting the heat beneath her cauldron before casting the cup of
shimmering moonstone dust into the basin. It fell to the bottom of the cauldron like the glitter of
snow…and she found herself thinking of a weekend in Hogsmeade not so long ago, hurling
snowballs in the alleys…

“You’re dating Florence, not me,” she said bluntly. “Now I have to concentrate. The base is the
most important part of the potion.”

Perhaps James sensed that he had annoyed her, because he was oddly quiet the rest of the class,
content to act as a sort of sous chef, chopping ingredients at her instruction, stirring the cauldron
until she told him to stop. As the bell rang and they began to clear up their station — the
moonstone dust would need to simmer for thirteen days — Lily began to feel guilty for being so
snappish, and she was fully prepared to apologize, when a new voice interrupted her thoughts with
fresh, new problems.

“Ah, Evans,” said Adam Avery, who had stopped by her cauldron. “What a disappointment to see
you decided to wear clothes today. I thought for sure after yesterday’s excitement, you’d show up
flashing your knickers in protest.”

Before Lily could respond, there was a loud scrape of wood as James shoved back his chair. He
was on his feet in seconds, standing over Avery with a look of fury on his face, his wand clutched
threateningly in one clenched fist.

“Shut your fucking mouth, Avery, unless you want me to shut it for you.”

“Touchy. Are you feeling left out? Don’t worry, blood traitor. They’ll be drawing up lists of your
kind soon enough.”

Lily glanced towards the back of the dungeon where Slughorn, oblivious as ever, was helping
Isolde Greengrass with her potion, which seemed to be spewing a thick cloud of smoke. While
Slughorn had taken no notice of the growing conflict simmering at the other end of the dungeon,
Severus was seated nearby and was watching with narrowed eyes. Lily lifted her chin and defiantly
turned away.

She stood and gently touched James’s arm, the one clutching his wand like it was very soon to be a
weapon. He looked down at her, and she shook her head very slightly. Then she turned to Avery. “I
can understand your disappointment,” she said sweetly, “as I expect it would be the first and last
time you’ve ever had the privilege of seeing a girl’s knickers…but unfortunately, I’m not that
charitable.” She paused and glanced theatrically over his shoulder. “Oh, hello Professor Slughorn.”
Avery turned, as she’d intended, only to see that Slughorn was still fully engaged with Isolde’s
disaster. Lily took the opportunity to stamp on his foot, hard. “Or nice.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” James said once she’d dragged him out of the dungeons, Avery red-
faced and hopping in their wake. “I don’t know how you keep your cool with these pricks…”

“Lots of practice.”

“Evans…” James stopped her as they reached the entrance hall, his expression earnest. “I meant
what I said yesterday. We’re going to find who made that list.”

Lily sighed. “You do realize the Ministry must have a list just like that already? Hopefully with a
different title, but….”

“So you’re saying it was probably someone with connections to the Ministry? That does narrow it
down a bit.”

“I’m saying it doesn’t make much difference which of these pricks did it, now that it’s done. It’s
what happens next that worries me. Oh, I can stand up for myself,” she said, because James looked
like he was about to console her. “It’s the younger Muggle-borns I worry about. The first and
second years, the ones who haven’t learned how to cope with it all, and now they’ve got a giant,
flaming target on their backs. They don’t know how to stand up for themselves yet, and who’s
going to do it for them?”

“Me,” said James simply.

Lily stared at him — the glint of light against his glasses did not obscure the sincerity in those
hazel eyes; the smirk that so often curved his (wonderful) lips was now a resolute line — and Lily
realized something dreadful: This was no mere flare-up of an old, uncrushable crush. This was
something far more dangerous, something deadly, something ruinous.

Something that smelled a lot like love.

“Right,” she said, pulling herself together. “Well. I’ve got to get going…”

“Aren’t you coming to lunch?”

“No — not yet. I…” she fumbled for a lie. “I promised Marlene I’d meet her at the library.”

“McKinnon? She’s right there.”

Lily turned. There was Marlene, marching steadily towards the Great Hall, damn her.

“Ah, great. Well, I’ll see you later!” And she scampered off towards Marlene, grabbed her arm,
and dragged her back towards the marble stairs.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re going to the library.”

“No, I just came from the library. I’m going to lunch.”

“You can’t. You have to come to the library with me first.”

“Why?”

Lily struggled for a moment. “It’s one of those friendship things.”

Marlene considered this. “Well, all right, but you have to help me look for Henry Wensleydale’s
Complete Guide to Tyromancy .”

“…Why?”

“Madam Pince won’t talk to me anymore.”

Valentine’s Day, Lily felt, was not only the worst holiday, but it also took place during the worst
month. The winter snow that had shrouded the castle for months had at last begun to melt away,
but not in a pretty way — in a wet, haphazard sort of way, with patches of yellowed grass peeking
out across the lawn, while the cruel February winds still terrorized those who dared to go outside.
Indeed, the weather was so unpleasant that Lily found herself regretting leaving the cozy common
room for the shivering streets of Hogsmeade.
All of this was made infinitely worse by the fact that every shopfront she passed was decorated
with paper hearts and revolting little cupids. She paused by the salon across from Dorcas’s
bookshop to scowl at the window display. Love is in the Hair! read the pink banner above the
towering tins of Sleekeazy’s.

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped. Then, feeling very stupid, she turned away and briskly crossed the
street to the bookshop.

When she entered the shop, she was surprised to find that the chime of the door’s bell barely
registered over the music. Etta James was playing loudly from a radio on the counter, and even
more surprisingly, there was a man there, singing along.

“Fire…fire…ohhh, I’m on fire….”

He was quite handsome: A tall black man likely in his late thirties, dressed in a traveling cloak and
Muggle denim. He looked up as the door clicked shut behind her.

“Dorcas,” he called towards the back. “Don’t look now, but there’s a customer in your shop.”

Dorcas emerged a moment later from behind the beaded curtain. Her smiled widened as she
recognized Lily. “Oh, that’s not a customer. That’s Lily. I lend her books.”

“You’re a dreadful capitalist, you know that?”

“That’s why you love me. This is Benjy,” she added for Lily’s benefit. “He’s a friend.”

“Pah. ‘Friend!’ You never give me free books,” said Benjy.

“Lend,” corrected Lily. “I always return them.”

“Oh, well, in that case.” Benjy winked. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Lily. You’re a student, I take
it?”

Lily agreed that she was.

He tapped the radio. “Tell me, do you listen to the Kenny Kirk show?”

“Yes, when he’s actually on.” More often than not these days when Lily tuned in it was just static.

“Fair enough. I hear the poor bloke’s a bit busy lately.”

“Do you know him?”

“Not in the biblical sense, but yeah, we’ve met.”

This was very exciting information. “Really? Does he take requests? God, I’d love it if he’d play
something more recent than the sixties.”

“Benjy,” said Dorcas, sounding deeply amused. “I think she just called you old.”

“Ugh!” Benjy mimed a dagger to the heart. “This is why I don’t have children. The sixties had soul
, girl.”

Lily shrugged. ”The seventies have Bowie.”

“Can’t argue with that, I suppose,” laughed Benjy. “Well, now that my ego has been firmly dented,
I’m afraid I best be off. The old man wants a chit-chat.” He kissed Dorcas on the cheek before
heading for the door. “Nice to meet you, Lily-Who-Always-Returns-Her-Books.”

“Bye bye, Benjy,” said Dorcas. “Bring me better news next time.”

“You got it. Next time, nothing but the sweetest lies for you, baby.”

Dorcas was enthusiastic when Lily told her about the Muggle-born Student Coalition and her
intention to engage in some consciousness raising among her peers.

“I told Bel the first time you visited that you were a proper revolutionary,” she said happily as she
hunted for a few books off the shelves. Finally, she pressed the stack into Lily’s hands. “Start with
these. You can keep them. Pass them around.”

Lily would’ve been content to stay there all afternoon, reading books and not thinking about what
went on in the more private corners of Madam Puddifoot’s, but unfortunately Dorcas had to close
the shop to run some errands, and so Lily chose to return to the castle, rather than risk running into
any happy couples.

She was only a few minutes back in the warm embrace of the common room, the stack of books
from Dorcas placed promisingly on the table next to her, when a cup of tea was thrust before her
face. Startled, Lily looked up to see Marlene, arm outstretched with the proffered cup.

“What’s this for?” asked Lily, accepting the tea lest it slosh into her lap.

“You’re moping,” said Marlene.

“What? I’m not moping. Why would I be moping?”

Marlene sat down in the seat across from Lily and rolled her eyes, as though this were a very stupid
and boring question. “Because it’s Valentine’s Day and Potter is undoubtedly in Hogsmeade with
Florence Fawley.”

Lily slowly lowered the cup of tea, staring at Marlene with wide eyes. There are times in life when
the feeling of being seen and understand by a friend is the greatest balm, the most comforting
feeling in the world. This was not one of those times. “You know?”

“Psh. I studied you, remember?”

“I thought I was inscrutable.”

“Only your eating habits and career ambitions.”

“Well, at least I have that going for me. How long have you known?”

“Since you started hiding in the library every time Potter so much as looked at you.”

Lily groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Have you told anyone?”

Marlene scoffed. “Why would I do that?’

 “It’s just a stupid infatuation,” said Lily into her hands. An old lie, a comfortable one. “I’ll get over
it soon. I’m close.”

“Or we could break them up.”

Lily looked up. “What? No, we can’t do that.”

“Why not? It would be easy.”

“Because! They’re happy!”

“Pfft.”

“What do you mean ‘pfft’?”

“It’ll never last.”

“You don’t know that. She’s exactly his type.”

Marlene gave a dismissive snort. “Daddy’s little princess?”

“That’s not fair.”

“She is not his type.”

“How would you know?”

“I play Quidditch with him every week. I know Potter well enough to know that Florence Fawley
is not his type.”

Lily wasn’t sure why she felt the need to argue this so stubbornly, but she carried on. “She’s a
Quidditch player. And…and they’re both pure-bloods, and…she’s blonde.”

“Blonde? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“He always dates blondes,” muttered Lily.

“Well Merlin, Lily, if that’s the standard then I guess I should date Potter. I still say we break them
up.”

“We are not breaking them up!”

“So you’re determined to be miserable?”

“No, I’m determined not to ruin my friends’ happiness for my own selfish reasons.” After all, if
James was going to go out of his way to be such a good friend to her, the least she could do was try
to be a decent one in return.

Marlene sighed. “Fine. That’s very boring of you, though.”

Chapter End Notes

Crawling my way back from an unexpectedly bad bout of burnout one TLE chapter at
a time…

I promise we’ll be hanging with some other POVs next, just had to tidy up some jily
drama
 Stalking Miss Evans

SIRIUS

Stalking Miss Evans

Sirius Black was bored.

This was becoming an annoyingly regular state of affairs these days, ever since James had started
dating Florence Fawley. Yes, all right, Sirius had encouraged James to date Florence, but to be
honest, he hadn’t expected them to last past Valentine’s Day. James had spent the lead up to that
weekend panicking about the big date he hadn’t yet planned, and when James had finally told
Sirius the details of his ‘brilliant plan’ — he’d convinced the owner of Spintwitches (who was
apparently an old pal of his dad’s) to give them a private viewing of the new Comet 220
broomstick, which had just arrived the weekend before but was being kept under lock and key due
to high demand — Sirius had expected disaster. A new broomstick model was not exactly the
height of romance, but apparently Florence had loved it. Sirius suspected she was being a good
sport, but then again, who knew? Quidditch people were weird.

And so the weeks sped by, and Florence stuck around. It wasn’t that Sirius disliked her exactly.
She was…fine. Perfectly nice. And she didn’t get in his way too often, seeing as she was in a
different house and year. And she seemed to make James happy, which after this Christmas was
worth a lot. So Sirius played nice, kept his mouth shut, didn’t complain.

But bloody hell, he was bored.

It didn’t help matters that the Quidditch season had picked up again, so when James wasn’t with
his girlfriend, he was down at the pitch — which, Sirius supposed, was where he was now.

His other friends were being equally dull. Remus had fallen asleep on the sofa, and Peter was
elbow deep in a Charms essay that Sirius had finished days ago.

Bored, bored, bloody bored.

“There’s a problem with the map.”

Sirius looked up with a jolt to see that James had returned at last.

“What?” said Peter, pulling himself from his Charms homework, looking inky and beleaguered.
“The map,” repeated James as he flopped down onto the sofa next to Remus, who didn’t stir. “It
doesn’t work.”

“What d’you mean it doesn’t work?” demanded Sirius. “Of course it works.” They’d been testing
the map around the castle for nearly a month now, and it worked beautifully every time.

James, however, was shaking his head. “I think the coordinates must be off, because according to
this—“ he jabbed at the map with his finger, “Evans just walked straight through a wall.”

Sirius groaned. “Were you using the map to stalk Evans?”

Peter sniggered.

“No!” James was the picture of indignation. “Of course I wasn’t. I was just checking the map on
my way back from Quidditch, and I happened to glance at the seventh floor and saw her going off
with some bloke named Graham Garrett, and I was just making sure—“

“—that they weren’t passionately snogging in some snug little nook?” Sirius shot a mournful
glance at Remus, who had woken up and was now attending the conversation, albeit groggily. “It’s
our fault, really. We gave the boy Pandora’s box.”

“Oh shut it,” huffed James. “I wasn’t stalking Evans. And anyway, even if I was — which I wasn’t
— it’s a broken box you gave me, because she’s not even on the map anymore.”

“What?” Remus sat up, suddenly far more interested and awake than he’d been a moment ago.

“I told you. She walked into the wall, and now she’s gone.”

“That’s impossible,” said Remus, leaning over to snatch the map out of James’s hands.

“Right there, mate.” James pointed at the spot where Lily Evans allegedly vanished, and Sirius too
leaned forward to take a look.

“Maybe we missed an antechamber or something while sketching it out?” suggested Peter.

“We didn’t,” said James. “I went and checked on the way back. There’s nothing there but blank
wall. I knew there would be, we went over that corridor a hundred times. Padfoot, you remember.”

“Yeah,” said Sirius slowly, for indeed he did. “Let me see that.” Remus handed him the map,
brow furrowed with frustration at the unsolved problem. Sirius felt that frustration himself as he
spread the map on the coffee table before them and glared at the project he’d spent so much time
designing to perfection. “Okay, walk me through this. Where exactly was Evans when she
disappeared into the solid stone wall?”

James prodded the map. “There.”

“And how long had you been stalking her before this happened?” asked Peter.

“For Merlin’s sake,” James scrubbed a hand over his face, annoyed. “I wasn’t stalking her, okay? I
was just — I was making sure she wasn’t about to get jumped by a bunch of Slytherins, all right?
There’ve been a lot of hexings lately.”

This was unfortunately true. Ever since that foul list went around last month, a certain green-clad
segment of the Hogwarts population seemed to have declared open season on Muggle-born
students. The school faculty had consequently cracked down on any and all illicit magic in the
corridors — Sirius himself got detention for a week for a simple trip jinx — but there was only so
much you could do in a castle with so many hidden nooks and crannies and misplaced corridors.
He supposed it made sense that James had been using the map to keep an eye on things. Sirius felt
a faint twist of guilt that it hadn’t occurred to him first.

“Oi!” said Peter, interrupting Sirius’s thoughts. All three boys turned to look at him, and he pointed
at the parchment. “She’s back on the map.”

There, right at the spot that James had indicated before, against a stretch of solid wall, a little dot
labeled Lily Evans had reappeared, this time with two new names in tow: Valmai Morgan and Rose
Peters .

“Valmai Morgan,” mused Sirius. “Why have I heard that name recently?”

“Maybe you snogged her,” said Peter.

“She’s Muggle-born,” said James. “And so’s the other one, look.” He pulled out a heavily-creased
piece of parchment, and after a moment of crumpled confusion, he smoothed it over the armchair
and handed it to Sirius. It was the list of every Muggle-born student that had been circulated around
the school last month. James, he noticed, had violently scratched out the profane heading.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been carrying this around?”

“Just keeping an eye on the map, that’s all. Like I said, there’ve been a lot of hexings. But look,
they’re both on there. Valmai Morgan and Rose Peters.”

“Interesting,” agreed Sirius, returning the list to James, “but that doesn’t explain how they all just
strolled through a solid stone wall.”

“There’s more!” Peter jabbed a finger at the map so excitedly he nearly put a hole in it. Sirius was
about to tell him off for carelessness, when he noticed the cluster of dots that had appeared in
precisely the location Lily, Valmai, and Rose had occupied moments before. Graham Garrett,
Cecil Stebbins, Dirk Cresswell…

“Well,” said Peter, “if they were shagging, that’s one hell of an orgy.”

“All on the list,” muttered James.

Sirius looked up from the map and met the bewildered expressions of his friends. “What,” he said
solemnly, “the fuck?”

There was nothing else to be done: He had to stalk Lily Evans.

She obviously knew some secret about the castle that he, Sirius Black, did not — and that couldn’t
stand. If there was some sort of secret passageway or chamber hidden behind that stretch of wall,
he was certain she’d go back to it. It wasn’t as though all those students had just stumbled upon the
secret together at once on some sort of afternoon amble. She’d go back at some point, and so Sirius
would watch the map and catch her in the act.

Remus didn’t like this idea. “Why don’t you just ask her about it?”
“Yeah,” said Sirius sarcastically. “That’s a great idea, Moony. ‘Hey Evans, my friends and I saw
you walk through a wall on our super illegal map of the castle that we absolutely do not want a
prefect to confiscate, won’t you tell me all your secrets?’”

Remus mumbled something.

“What’s that?” Usually when Remus was indistinct it meant that Sirius had won the argument.

“I said, I just don’t want you to harass her,” repeated Remus, somewhat louder.

“Who said anything about harassing? There will be no harassing. I just want to see where she’s
going and how she gets there. That’s not harassment, that’s—“

“Stalking.”

Sirius had been about to make a very good point, he was certain of it, but he faltered under the
weight of Remus’s entirely and annoyingly correct logic. “Fine. It’s a little bit like stalking,” he
conceded. “But — it’s stalking for a good cause, Moony!”

“I don’t think compiling a super illegal map of the castle is going to get you nominated for the
peace prize.”

“Not with that attitude. Look, I’m not going to bother her, but we need to know what’s behind that
wall. And we both know we can’t let Prongs do it. He’d be rubbish at it for one thing, get all
distracted by the gleam of her hair in the sunlight and lose track of her.”

“I’m sitting right here,” complained James, looking up from the newspaper he’d been reading
while Sirius and Remus argued. “And as a reminder, I am dating Florence , and I am very happy
about it.” He tossed the paper aside and pushed himself off the couch. “Speaking of which, I’m off
to meet her now, but I agree with Moony. We’ll figure it out another way. Don’t stalk Evans.”

Sirius waited until James had left and the portrait swung shut behind him before he turned back to
Remus and Peter. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to stalk Evans.”

It was not altogether a very difficult task. For one thing, they had nearly all their classes together,
which made keeping an eye on her easy. The only time during the school day he really had to be on
alert was during Muggle Studies, when she had a free period, but it was no great burden to keep the
map open in his lap and glance down at her little dot intermittently throughout lecture. It was also
highly convenient that the corridor in question was not far from the Gryffindor common room, so
as long as he remained there, he’d never be too far from the action.

The only really troublesome times were in between classes, when she was on the move, and meals,
as she always seemed to be darting to and from the library, showing up late to the Great Hall to
shove a few forkfuls of lunch into her mouth before taking off again. He wondered vaguely if all
this supposed research had something to do with the seventh floor’s secret, but that, unfortunately,
was not an answer the map could give him.

One evening, after a week of fruitless map-watching, Sirius sat down to dinner with his friends,
feeling rather hopeless about the whole endeavor. Lily had not gone anywhere near the corridor
since the first time they’d spotted her disappearing into it, and Sirius was getting rather bored of
following her dot around the castle. Still, as James and Florence were in the midst of a deeply
involved discussion about Puddlemere’s prospects or some other boring Quidditch nonsense, Sirius
stole a moment at dinner to cast a quick glance at the map — and immediately noticed that Lily’s
dot was several stories above, headed in the opposite direction, back upstairs…

He shoved the map into his pocket and stood up at once. “Er —“ he said, as the others all looked
up at him expectantly. “Got to run. Enjoy the shepherd’s pie.”

“Where are you going?” demanded James, but Sirius just shot him a double thumbs up and took
off, ignoring Remus’s glare as he went.

All right, so he hadn’t exactly told James that he was moving forward with the whole Operation
Stalking Miss Evans thing (though even if he had, it wasn’t as though Sirius could exactly
announce it at dinner in front of Florence). It wasn’t that he was lying — James knew he was
watching the map to try and figure out what was going on with the seventh floor corridor, but he
had left the bit about tailing Evans unspoken. James would just get all weird about it. Normally,
Remus was the one whose scruples got in Sirius’s way, but when it came to girls — and Evans in
particular — James was inconveniently chivalrous.

Of course, Remus’s scruples were still giving Sirius a persistent nudge whenever they could — but
Sirius was pretty sure he could count on Moony to keep his mouth shut around James. For some
reason, Remus always got all tightlipped these days whenever the subject of Evans came up, which
it did with significantly less frequency, Sirius noticed. He supposed Peter might give him away, but
Peter too had other things on his mind. He’d apparently gotten back together with that girl he’d
dated last term — what was her name? Oh, right, Winnie Bones. Sirius only knew this because
Peter had told him so, very pointedly and with a significant degree of glaring.

When he reached the entrance hall, Sirius tugged the map out once more and, after a momentary
scramble, located Lily’s dot on the map; she was on the seventh floor now, and she appeared to be
headed directly for the corridor in question.

Sirius Black knew a lot of secrets around the castle. He knew about hidden tapestries and tunnels
that snuck off the grounds. He knew which step to jump on the stairs, which doorknob you had to
turn twice, and which door was actually just faking. He knew how to break into the kitchens, how
to break out of detention, and how to get all the way from the fifth floor to the second without ever
being spotted by teachers. What he didn’t know, however, even with all his little shortcuts and
secrets, was how to climb seven flights of stairs in the amount of time it took one teenage girl to
cross a corridor.

He tried anyway. Taking the stairs two at a time, he dashed up to the first floor, the second, the
third…until at last he paused to check the map, just as Lily’s dot disappeared into the stretch of
empty wall.

“Fuck!” he said to no one.

“Language!” chided an oil painting of a scandalized-looking monk. Sirius flipped him off and
continued his climb, albeit at a more leisurely pace. Well, never mind. She’d have to come out
again, so he’d just set up surveillance and wait.

He found a spot on an empty plinth at the far end of the corridor (whatever statue had once resided
here had long been lost to the castle’s collective memory). Excitement roiled in his gut — he was
close, so close — but then again, that might’ve been hunger. He wished he’d thought to grab a
dinner roll on the way out; he didn’t know how long Lily would take to reappear.
For lack of anything better to do, he pulled out the map again and pored over the parchment. It was
impossible to look at his map and not feel a shiny glimmer of pride. It really was a work of art —
despite the tiny little hiccup of the wall, but he was so close to fixing that. Any minute now…

A quarter of an hour passed, and then another. Sirius grew bored. His eyes scanned the map again,
just in case he’d missed something, but there was still no Lily Evans upon its page. Instead, his
eyes drifted down to the Great Hall, where James, Peter, Remus, and Florence all still sat, eating
the shepherd’s pie that, had he not been such a devoted cartographer, Sirius too should be enjoying.
Alas.

He amused himself for a few moments analyzing the seating arrangements of the various Hogwarts
diners, until his eyes landed on the Slytherin table and the little dot that read Regulus Black.
Regulus was seated alone at the far end of the table. Sirius could picture him perfectly: straight-
backed, head down, reading a book or something. Not talking to anyone lest his stammer slip out…
but then another dot approached and settled into the spot next to Sirius’s brother. A dot labeled
Bartemius Crouch.

Sirius stared in bafflement for a moment, until he recalled that the autocratic politician had a son.
That was a curious alliance for his brother to make. Sirius had no respect for Mr. Crouch, but the
man was an avowed opponent to Dark Magic and last Sirius knew, his brother was the Death
Eaters’ biggest fan. What was Reg playing at?

“Black,” said a harsh voice, pulling Sirius out of the Great Hall and back to the seventh floor
corridor in which he lurked. He turned to see Professor Carter-Myles storming towards him. He
racked his brain quickly to recall if he’d pulled any pranks on the man today, but he didn’t think
so. Still, Carter-Myles hardly needed a specific reason to be angry these days. Thanks to the hard
work of Sirius and his fellow Marauders, the dear professor had so many varied reasons from
which to choose.

“Mischief managed,” Sirius muttered to the map as Carter-Myles drew closer.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” demanded the professor.

“This?” said Sirius, giving the now-blank parchment an innocent wave. “A love letter. My first
real heartbreak.” He offered an exaggerated pout. “I’m distraught.”

“Why aren’t you at dinner?”

“Because…” Sirius took care to ensure that his tone appropriately suggested precisely how stupid
he found his teacher to be, “I’m distraught .”

Carter-Myles’ eyes narrowed. “Dinner,” he snapped. “Now.”

“I’m not actually looking for a rebound, thanks.”

Unfortunately, Carter-Myles would not take no for an answer and insisted on marching Sirius back
down to the Great Hall. No doubt he suspected that if Sirius Black were left to loiter the castle
unsupervised, unpleasant happenings might occur in a certain professor’s office. This was not
altogether bad logic, but it was annoying and severely hampered Sirius ’s current plans.

He managed to give the old bastard the slip around the third floor when Professor Kettleburn
popped out of his office to ask Carter-Myles a question about hinkypunks, but by the time Sirius
darted back up the stairs and found a spot to safely examine the map, Lily Evans’ dot had
reappeared, moving steadily away from the seventh floor corridor, descending the stairs to the
sixth floor. He groaned audibly, then cursed a bit for good measure, hating Carter-Myles more than
he ever had before, which really said a lot.

He turned his gaze back to the damned corridor — only to see that more students were appearing
intermittently out of the blank stretch of wall. There was still hope. Lily Evans might be well on
her way, but if he hurried, Sirius might catch another student in the act, might see precisely how it
was done…but then something else caught his eye: As Lily progressed to the fifth floor and turned
down a side corridor, likely as a shortcut, Sirius noticed the dot of Evan Rosier lurking nearby. He
watched for a moment with increasing concern as Lily passed and, several moments later, Rosier
followed in her wake.

That did not bode well. He supposed it could just be coincidence, but it was like James said: There
had been a lot of hexings lately, and Sirius knew what happened when the Slytherins decided they
wanted to make an example of someone.

With one last frustrated glance at the seventh floor corridor on the map, Sirius turned on his heel
and headed instead towards one of his oft-used shortcuts, a narrow little stairwell behind a tapestry.
He emerged into the corridor through which Lily walked just as Rosier appeared at the other end.
Sirius strode purposefully towards Lily and threw an arm over her shoulder.

“Hello, Evans.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Rosier veer down a different course, and his suspicions
were all but confirmed. Slimy bastard.

Lily, however, seemed oblivious to any nefarious plotting or potential hexing that may or may not
have been happening several feet away. “What?” she demanded, shrugging off his arm.

“Can’t a bloke say hello without an ulterior motive?”

“Not if that bloke’s you.”

“You know, your lack of trust in me is hurtful.”

“Can’t imagine where I got it from.”

“But you’re right. I did have an ulterior motive. I wanted to ask you about something.”

“Go on.”

“I wanted to ask you about…” He hesitated. He considered Remus's idea of flat out asking Lily
about the wall in the seventh floor corridor and her surprising talent at walking through it, but as he
peered down at her pursed lips, he lost his nerve. If he put all his cards on the table and she
decided not to tell him, it would be even harder to get the information from her in the future.
“About motorbikes,” he said instead.

She gave him a skeptical look. “Motorbikes?”

“Yeah. You know, those machines Muggles fly around on?”

“I know what they are. Why d’you want to know about motorbikes?”

“They’re cool,” shrugged Sirius. “Forget broomsticks, I’d much rather fly on one of those.”

“You do realize they don’t technically fly, right?”

“Don’t they?”

“No. Generally the wheels stay firmly planted on the pavement, or you’ve got bigger problems.”

“Huh. Minor detail. Anyway, how do I build one?”

Her expression grew incredulous. “Why are you asking me? I’m not a mechanic.”

“Yeah, but you’re Muggle-born, you know about Muggle things.” This was perhaps a careless
thing to say, though he only realized it as her expression clouded over.

“Do you know how to brew an antidote for a potion using only its source ingredients?”

“Er…no?”

“But you’re a wizard.”

“…Point taken.”

“You can piss off now,” she advised him sweetly. Sirius glanced around; they had reached a more
populated corridor, and Rosier was nowhere in sight. He debated heading back up to the seventh
floor, but whoever else had been making use of the secret wall was undoubtedly long gone.

He sighed, resigning himself to a defeat tempered by the consolation of shepherd’s pie. “With
pleasure, Penny Prefect.”

He didn’t have much luck for the next few days after that, and matters were further complicated by
James requiring use of the map for his own purposes. Romantic, no doubt. Sirius half-considered
asking James to borrow his Invisibility Cloak, but judging by the daggers Remus glared in his
direction whenever Sirius so much as veered towards the subject, he felt that might be pushing his
luck a little too far. This did not lessen his resolve, however. Sirius was determined to figure out
what was going on with that wall, and as far as he could tell, Lily Evans was the key. He would
just have to rely on less magical methods.

And so it was that he found himself hanging around the common room on a rather dull Sunday
evening. James was off with Florence (annoying) and had taken the map with him (doubly
annoying). Peter was similarly engaged elsewhere with Winnie, and Remus was in one of his pre-
moon homework hurricanes, in which he tried to get as much done as he possibly could, and
somehow lost the ability to construct full sentences in the process.

So Sirius amused himself with his guitar. Normally he preferred to play in the dormitory, but Lily
was situated in the common room, and as James had the map, Sirius had to keep an eye on her the
old-fashioned way. With, you know, his eyes. It was very dull, though, as all she appeared to be
doing was homework.

Half-way through his botched attempt to recreate a Muggle song he’d heard once a few years ago,
Sirius noticed a flash of red out of the corner of his well-trained eye. Evans was on the move. His
fingers skidded to a halt over the strings and he tossed the guitar onto the sofa beside Remus.
“Hold on to this for me, will you?”
Remus looked up from beneath a flurry of parchment, frazzled. “No stalking!”

“You got it, mate,” lied Sirius. He waited for Lily to make her exit, then proceeded as casually as
he could out of the portrait hole — but almost immediately after he’d clambered out into the
corridor and the Fat Lady swung shut after him, a small, red-haired and thoroughly furious prefect
rounded on him.

“Why are you following me?”

Sirius shoved his hands into his pockets with a cagey shrug. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not.”

“Oh really? Where are you going?”

“For…a walk.”

Lily gave him a disdainful roll of her eyes. “Bit of advice? Don’t go into espionage, you’re shit at
it. You’ve been tailing me all week. Why? I’m not stupid, I know it’s not to ask me about
motorbikes or whatever nonsense you’ll come up with next. Is this because of that list that went
around? You think I can’t take care of myself? I’ll remind you that I kicked your arse when we
dueled. Or — if you’re trying to prank me, Black, I will hex you.”

“Bit of advice?” said Sirius with a wry smile. “Don’t go into interrogation, you’re shit at it. I can’t
answer your questions if you don’t let me get a word in.”

She glowered at him. “Well?”

He considered the situation. The whole espionage thing was not, in fact, going particularly well,
and frankly he was tired of it. He supposed the jig was up. He sighed. “You have information I
need.”

“What?”

He chose his next words carefully. They weren’t exactly a lie, but nor were they entirely true…and
if he got it wrong, well, that would mess everything up. “I want to know how to get into the secret
room in the seventh floor corridor. I saw you go in, but there’s no door when I go by. It’s just a
wall.”

“Well, that’s because the door only appears when you need it,” said Lily, as though this were a
perfectly logical statement in need of no further explanation.

“So there is a secret room!”

“I thought you just said —“ she stopped and narrowed her eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

“I have an insatiably curious mind, Evans. What d’you mean it only appears ‘when you need it’?
I’ve walked up and down that corridor a hundred times and it’s never appeared.”

“You must not have needed it then.”

“Well, what do you need it for?”

“That’s none of your business.” And with a rather haughty little turn on her heel, she walked
away.

Sirius strode after her easily. “Come on, Evans. The mystery is killing me.”
“It’s not a big mystery. It’s just a place for people to meet. Average-sized room, some chairs, some
tables. Is this why you’ve been following me everywhere? Trying to find out about the club?”

“So you’ve got a club?”

“Why do you care? ”

“Like I said, insatiable curiousity. So, you’ve got some sort of Muggle-born student club?”

Lily’s hackles rose even higher, and Sirius realized a moment too late that there was no reason he
should’ve known that specific detail. Oops.

“Maybe, but I’m still confused about how this is any of your business,” said Lily.

“Is it a political thing?”

“No — or if it is, it’s only because our very existence is deemed political. It’s just a place for
people to talk, okay?”

“What, like a support group?”

“Yes,” said Lily, exasperation in every note of her voice. “Exactly like that. Believe it or not, being
Muggle-born in this school is hard. And lonely. We needed a place where we could meet privately
without being harassed and the castle provided. But people are…sensitive about it, and if you tell
everyone—“

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” said Sirius. He frowned, considering this new hurdle to his quest.
He had to get into that room — the integrity the map depended on it! — but he felt just a little bit
iffy about his next tactic. Oh, what the hell. “Can I come to a meeting?”

“What? No!”

“Why not?”

“You’re not Muggle-born.”

“So?”

“So not everything is for you.”

“No,” agreed Sirius, “but it’s like you said: I don’t understand what it’s like to be Muggle-born in
this school…but maybe I want to learn, you know? And isn’t that part of the problem, anyway? A
lack of understanding?” A pause. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

For Lily had stopped walking and was frowning at him rather severely. He was beginning to
suspect he’d somehow fucked it all up, when she said: “I’m trying to decide if I can trust you.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Okay, well, frankly it’s a little hurtful it’s taking so long.”

Lily ignored this. “I don’t hate the idea, to tell you the truth. I’ve been saying to Graham that we
should be more open and out there and…I don’t know, do more outreach. And not just with
Muggle-born students, but with everyone who’s on our side…but that’s not a popular opinion. And
I can’t just bring you along. It’s invitation only.”

“So invite me.”

“That’s not how it works. Everyone has to be okay with you coming — or at least the majority —
and I’m not so sure they will be.”

“Why not?”

“Because pure-bloods make some Muggle-borns uncomfortable, and you’re practically king of the
—“ she cut herself off, looking slightly abashed, but it didn’t a take genius to figure out where that
sentence ended up.

“Ouch.”

“Look, just let me check first. You did have that whole leather jacket thing. People haven’t
forgotten that, and it might work in your favor.” She bit her lip and eyed him closely. “I need to
know that you’re serious about this. That it’s not a joke or a game. It’s really important to a lot of
people — myself included. So…are you?”

The Remus Lupin that lurked in Sirius’s conscience gave him a metaphorical-but-painful kick in
the shin. Sirius ignored him. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m serious about it.”

“This is a new low, even for you,” said Remus, whose glares were pointier than ever before.

“Why?”

“Pretending like you care about Muggle-born issues?”

“I do care!”

“I thought we agreed to leave Evans out of this?” said James.

They were at dinner; Sirius had just finished detailing his conversation with Lily about the secret
room, and both Remus and James were predictably displeased. James kept glancing over his
shoulder, no doubt to check for Florence. She had not yet joined them, but she always bloody did,
so the conversation had a fast approaching expiration date. It was possible that Sirius chose his
timing for precisely this reason.

“I never agreed to anything,” said Sirius, delicately skewering a Brussel sprout on his fork.

“Mate…”

“You’re not doing this because you care about Muggle-born issues,” said Remus. “You just want to
get into that room so you can figure out how to add it to the map.”

“Why can’t it be both?”

“I’m having no part in this,” grumbled Remus.

“Well, good, you weren’t invited.”

James’s expression was thoughtful. “I want to come. When’s the meeting?”

“Well, technically I haven’t been invited yet either,” said Sirius sheepishly, “so I don’t know. It’s
all very hush-hush. Evans said she’d plead my case and let me know if I’ve been accepted or not.
So I suppose we just have to wait and see.”

Then Florence arrived, and so did a grudging change of subject.

As a matter of fact, he only had to wait until Thursday afternoon, when Lily caught up to him as he
departed Muggle Studies.

“Well, it wasn’t unanimous,” she told him, “but enough people agreed. Graham thinks it’s a good
idea.”

“Great! Who’s Graham?”

“He’s the president of the M.B.S.C. — the Muggle-born Student Coalition, I mean. He founded the
whole thing. He says we need more pure-bloods willing to speak out about Muggle-born issues,
and education is the best place to start. Or — I said that, and he agreed.” She cast a skeptical look
at Sirius, as though she was not quite convinced that he was the best choice for this role. “Look, I
went to the mat for you, all right? Don’t embarrass me.”

“Why would you think I’d embarrass you?”

“Because it’s your favorite pastime?”

Sirius snorted. “I’ll be on best behavior, Evans. Promise.”

Another lingering look of mistrust, and then she said, “Okay, fine. Our next meeting is Saturday at
seven o’clock. Meet me by the seventh floor stairwell, and I’ll show you how to get in.”

“Brilliant,” said Sirius, who couldn’t quite believe how well this had all worked out. “So, should I
wear my leather jacket, or…?”

“Black!”

“I’m joking. Best behavior.”

“So…what exactly do they do at these meetings?” asked James. It was Saturday evening and they
had arrived at the seventh floor stairwell, but Lily had not yet appeared.

“Haven’t the faintest idea,” admitted Sirius. “Evans said it was like a…support group.”
“Oh.”

“Evans said the room only appears when you need it. I’m not sure how we’d identify it, if it’s not
there all the time, but we managed it with the moving staircases, so…”

James blinked, apparently confused. “What…? Oh. The map.”

“The map,” agreed Sirius. “But…that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

Before James could respond, Lily appeared…and she did not look pleased. “What are you doing
here?” she asked James, not unkindly but hardly welcoming. Then to Sirius: “I only asked everyone
about you . I didn’t say you could bring a guest!”

“Sorry, Evans,” shrugged Sirius. “Package deal. I thought that was understood.”

“We’re basically one person,” said James with a good-natured grin.

Lily looked miserable. “Just…please don’t make me regret this more than I already am.”

After assuring her that they would be a paradigm of the well-behaved guest, the two boys followed
Lily towards the stretch of blank wall that had tormented Sirius for weeks. He was almost
foolishly excited as they approached. “So how does the door work?” he asked.

“Stop talking,” said Lily.

“I just—“

“I have to concentrate.”

And indeed, she began to pace back and forth, her expression one of utmost focus. Just as Sirius
was beginning to suspect she was having a laugh, a door with a heavy brass handle appeared.

“Amazing,” murmured Sirius. It was with great difficulty that he restrained himself from asking
too many questions, but he couldn’t help get at least one more in as they followed Lily through the
incredible door. “Does it always show up in the same place?”

“Yeah,” said Lily distractedly, glancing around the crowded room they had just walked into. It was
as Lily described: an averaged-sized room, some chairs, some tables. Nothing particularly exciting
on the inside. It was not a large space, so it was pretty crowded with all the students inside. He
noticed that most of the Muggle-borns had forgone their school uniforms and were instead wearing
Muggle clothes.

“I’m going to go let Graham know that you’re here,” said Lily. “And that there’s two of you
now…erm, help yourself to some food, I guess.” And she took off.

“Warm welcome,” observed Sirius.

“I probably shouldn’t have come,” said James, frowning after Lily.

“Wild though, isn’t it?” said Sirius, peering around the room. “I mean, there’s not much here, but it
makes you wonder how many other spots we’ve missed on the map…”

“Will you drop the map for a minute?”

“What?”
“Ah, you must be Lily’s friends,” said a new voice with a strong northern accent. ( Friends, eh?
Sirius couldn’t help but think with an internal smirk. Guess I got a promotion. ) A brown-haired
seventh year accompanied the Brummie accent, and he smiled at them with an earnestness that
Sirius, in all his jaded glory, found suspect. “I’m Graham.”

“Right. Heard a lot about you,” said Sirius.

“Have you?”

“Well…I heard your name. I’m Sirius, and this is —“

“James Potter,” said James. Earnestly. Everyone was so damn earnest today. “Listen, I’m sorry for
crashing. I didn’t realize it would be a problem.”

“It’s no problem,” said Graham. “Really, the more the merrier. We’re happy to have you. After all,
that’s what this is all about, right? It’s so important that we build these bridges between our
different communities.”

“I am here to learn,” said Sirius, gazing around the room.

James, however, looked slightly perplexed. “I didn’t realize we were in different communities, per
se.”

“You’d be amazed,” said Graham with another overly-sincere smile. “Listen, we’re going to get
started in just a few minutes, so help yourself to some food and find a seat.”

As they made their way through the funny assemblage of foodstuffs at the buffet, Sirius noticed
that a lot of people were staring at him, but in such a way that whenever he turned to catch their
eye, they had already look away. “You ever feel like you’re being watched?” he muttered to James
as he piled a handful of crisps onto his plate.

They found two empty seats on the opposite side of the circle from Lily, who shot them a nervous
smile. Although on second thought, that might’ve been too generous an interpretation. It was more
like a grimace with a twitch.

“Loved the leather jacket,” said a girl as she passed Sirius by. She looked vaguely familiar, but he
couldn’t quite place her name. Sirius was still puzzling over this as she took a seat next to a
Ravenclaw boy who was glaring daggers at them. Really, Remus could pick up tips from this
bloke.

“All right,” said Graham, taking the empty seat next to Lily. “Welcome everyone. As you know,
we have two guests today, and I know there were a lot of mixed feelings about this, but like we
discussed last week, I think it’s really important that we get outside of our bubble and start to
connect with—“

“I’m sorry, but this is a joke,” said the Ravenclaw boy who’d been staring them down. “No,
someone has to say it. You want to spread the gospel of Muggle-born rights, fight the good fight,
fine, whatever. But Black and Potter? Everyone knows they’re the biggest pure-blood ponces in
this school.”

“Oi!” said Sirius, offended.

“That’s enough, Dirk,” said Graham. “We talked about this last week—“

But the boy ignored him and turned aggressively towards James. “You don’t even know who I am,
do you?”

“Er…Dirk, according to the nice man,” said James.

“Dirk Cresswell, you prat. You hexed me last year, in the middle of the corridor, in front of
everyone. It took two weeks for my skin to turn back to normal.”

“Oh,” said James, rubbing his neck uncomfortably, apparently struggling to recall the incident.
“Er…sorry about that. I don’t really do that anymore…”

“Really? What about Bertha Jorkins?”

A few students snickered.

“Well, that was—“

“Just because you tried on some Muggle clothes once doesn’t make you a hero to the bloody
cause,” snarled Dirk.

“May I make a suggestion?” interrupted Lily, for Dirk had opened his mouth again, and so had
James.

“Please,” said Graham.

“Black and Potter came here because they want to listen and learn, right?” This appeared to be
addressed to them.

“Right,” said James immediately.

“Then I think they should stay — on the condition that they listen, only. No talking. No offense.”

There was a pause as all the students shifted their gazes to Sirius and James. “I’m comfortable with
that,” said Sirius easily. “Like I said, just here to learn.”

“Yeah,” agreed James, who still seemed somewhat troubled by Dirk’s outburst. “Of course.”

That matter at least temporarily settled, Graham went on to explain that at the start of each meeting
they had what he called a venting session, where everyone could go around the circle and share
something on their mind from the last week.

“So, who wants to go first?”

No one did. Silence settled upon the circle. Apparently, the two pure-blood guests made everyone
a little shy. The silence grew longer and more awkward as the moments ticked by, until finally —
looking as though she’d rather do anything else — Lily said: “I’ll go.” She fidgeted for a moment,
smoothing her skirt over her knees. “Let’s see…not much new happened this week, although on
Wednesday I bumped into Isolde Greengrass in the corridor and she called me a ‘filthy Mudblood
whore.’”

“She what? ” yelped James. Lily shot him a quelling look, and he raked a hand through his hair.
“Right, sorry,” he muttered. “Just listening.”

“I wouldn’t have even cared,” Lily went on in a steely voice, “except that she said it in front of this
little first year girl — a Muggle-born — and the look on that girl’s face was just…crushed. And I
had no idea what to say to her.”
“What did you say to Isolde?” squeaked a freckled third-year.

“I told her to do us all a favor and go get fucked.”

A swell of appreciative laughter spread through the room. Even the sullen Dirk Cresswell
smirked.

“Of course,” continued Lily, “Professor Carter-Myles decided to walk by just then and took twenty
points from Gryffindor because I’m the one with the the foul mouth. Like I said, nothing new.”

James seemed about to open his own mouth again, but Sirius elbowed him in the side, and he
slumped back into his seat, looking miserable.

And so it went — on and on. A litany of small horrors and endless indignities. Sirius had the
distinct impression that fewer students were speaking up than usual — and those who were brave
enough were likely still censoring themselves to a degree — but all the same, it was a bevy of
information. A Hufflepuff boy got detention for fighting back when a group of Slytherins jumped
him. A fifth year Ravenclaw admitted that she’d started having nightmares of being pulled out of
class by Professor Flitwick to be told her mother was missing, “Just like they did to Lois Perkins.”
Another girl felt sick to her stomach every time the post arrived, because she was so scared of what
the newspapers would say. The freckled third-year, whose name Sirius learned was Valmai
Morgan, was told not to bother trying out for Quidditch next year because “everyone knows
Muggles can’t fly.”

Finally, a Gryffindor that Sirius recognized with a jolt as Peter’s ex-girlfriend, Veronica Smethley,
declared that she was tired of always looking over her shoulder in the corridors, that ever since that
stupid list came out, it felt like she was walking around with a big, red target on her back, and did
you hear what they did to Rose Peters last week?

Sirius had not heard, but he did now, and he felt about as sick as James looked.

“She’s still in the hospital wing,” said Veronica. “And of course, she can’t prove it was Mulciber
who did it, so he gets away with it all, again. ”

A heavy silence fell upon the group. Graham, who was seated next to Veronica, leaned over and
put an arm around her shoulder. He seemed about to speak, but the girl who had commented on
Sirius’s leather jacket spoke up instead.

“All right, enough of this depressing shit. Time for music!”

And just like a spell had been cast, everyone lightened up at once. All the students stood up,
shuffling chairs off to the side and revealing, back in the corner, a Muggle record player that Sirius
hadn’t spotted before.

“No, it’s my turn to choose the album, Graham, you promised!” chided Leather Jacket Girl. “No
more sad punk nonsense. I want to dance. ”

“Fine, April, but you better not pick ABBA. I cannot listen to Dancing Queen again.”

“It’s not my fault you hate fun. Anyway, I’m choosing something on theme for tonight.
Something…aspirational.”

She rummaged through the stack of records, and Sirius watched jealously; he’d love to get his
hands on those. Then she placed a record on the turntable, and a roar of laughter went up as the
music started playing its upbeat tempo. Sirius didn’t get the joke until the falsetto voices began to
sing: “ Feel the city breakin’ and everybody shakin’ and we’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive…”

He watched in utter fascination as nearly all the Muggle-born students began dancing. But not
dancing like Sirius knew how to dance, in a ballroom with some prissy pure-blood on his arm. This
was far more spontaneous…intimate…wild. Narcissa would have had a goddamn stroke.

“Ah, ah, ah, ah…stayin’ alive…”

“We like dark humor here,” said Lily, who had sidled up beside them. “Thanks for sticking it out,
and sorry about Dirk. He’s…kind of an arse, to be honest. Although,” she added with a slightly
more stern look at James. “You did hex him last year, so you deserved that a little.”

“Yeah…sorry,” said James.

But Lily just laughed. The music seemed to have lightened her mood too.

There was a scratch and a pause as someone switched the record, then: “YOU CAN DANCE! YOU
CAN JIVE! HAVING THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE!”

“Damn it, April!”

“Where did you get a record player?” asked Sirius. “I thought they wouldn’t work around magic.”

“They don’t. It only works in this room. Don’t ask me how, I don’t understand it, but we started
having these little dance parties at the end of each meeting to lift everyone’s spirits. It gets a bit
heavy, as I’m sure you noticed. Anyway…want to dance?”

“Er,” said James, his eyes flitting back to the gyrating couples. “You know me, not much of a
dancer. Think I’ll just watch.”

“Black?”

He actually rather did want to, but he somehow felt that to do so would be a betrayal of James.
“Next time,” said Sirius.

“Suit yourself. Well, thanks again for coming. Sorry I was kind of…worked up at the start. But I
do appreciate it. Means a lot.”

And with a smile, she slipped back into the crowd of dancing students. Sirius and James both
watched as she threw her arms around Graham who, despite his apparent objections to the song,
lifted her into the air and gave her an enthusiastic twirl all the same.

“YOU ARE THE DANCING QUEEN! YOUNG AND SWEET! ONLY SEVENTEEN!”

“I think we’ve been dismissed,” said James.

 The Werewolf Registry
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

REMUS

The Werewolf Registry

The Gryffindor boys’ dormitory was quiet. Three of the four beds sat empty, sheets tucked tight
and undisturbed. The fourth, however, was occupied by a folded-up bundle of gloom in the shape
of a teenage boy. Remus Lupin was alone and in a very bad mood about it.

Sirius and James were off infiltrating the so-called Muggle-born club, an activity of which Remus
had made very clear he did not approve. Not that he didn’t approve of the club itself, mind you,
just Sirius’s duplicitous methods of discovering the room’s secrets. Of course, Remus was plenty
curious about the room himself, but surely there were less morally-dubious methods to acquire that
information. Not that anyone ever listened to good ol’ Moony’s conscience.

No, Sirius and James had embarked on their spy mission despite Remus’s complaints, and Peter
had gone off to snog Winnie Bones (their once short-lived fling being determinedly flung again).
This had come as somewhat of a surprise to Remus, who’d never had the impression that either
Peter or Winnie particularly liked the other very much, but Remus supposed there were other
reasons to pursue romantic relationships. Regardless of the motivations, they were indeed back
together and apparently snogging at every possible opportunity.

Remus tried not to feel too bitter about this, though it was a rather half-hearted effort. Now that
James was dating Florence and Peter was back with Winnie, that just left Remus on his own. Well,
and Sirius, he supposed, but everyone knew that Sirius need only point at a girl and he’d have
himself a girlfriend. Sirius didn’t seem all too interested, and Remus was grateful for that, but he
couldn’t escape the inevitable reality that one day all his friends would couple off, and then only
Remus would be left — alone.

Perhaps it was a foolish thing to be upset about. It wasn’t as though Remus was in love — or even
fancied anyone. He supposed, if he looked at it clinically, he might’ve fancied Lily Evans just a
little last year, but even then, that had been nothing like the overwhelming waves of yearning that
James had once displayed in her presence. Remus had never felt that way for a girl. He couldn’t
really fathom it. Sometimes he thought that perhaps something was wrong with him. Even Sirius,
who generally expressed little interest in romance, had snogged half the girls in their house at
various parties. But perhaps it was better that Remus remain uninvolved in the realm of romance. It
wasn’t as though he could date, anyway. Not with his condition.

His condition. Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe it all came back to the wolf. Maybe he was just a
little bit less human than his peers.

Remus did not like this thought, and he shoved himself out of bed as though he might scare it off
with abrupt movement. He wished the other boys would get back so that he’d have a distraction
from the mire of his own mind.

A hopeful glance at the door; it remained shut.

Strangely, he craved a cigarette. He wasn’t much of a smoker, really, although now that Sirius had
picked up the habit (mostly for show, Remus was fairly sure), Remus found himself with a fag in
hand more often than not, and he didn’t dislike it. He crossed the room and dug around in Sirius’s
drawer until he found a crumpled pack. There was only one cigarette remaining, and he debated
leaving it, out of consideration for his friend, but at the last minute he changed his mind. Lately, he
found himself in a sort of perverse mirror of the way things used to be: This time round, Remus
was the one trying to provoke Sirius, and Sirius was annoyingly conciliatory.

He decided Sirius would have no problem buying more on the thriving Hogwarts black market, so
Remus tipped the cigarette out of the pack, jammed it between his teeth, and crossed the room to
the window. He cracked it open as far as it would go. The night’s breeze was bracing, but if he
didn’t, James would complain. James was puritanical about smoking, something about keeping his
body in perfect condition for Quidditch or some other sporty bullshit. Remus didn’t much care. His
body would never be in perfect condition, so why bother?

He folded himself onto the windowsill and lit the cigarette, watching the smoke drift against the
star-scattered night. A curl of moonlight kissed his ankles. A deep inhale of nicotine.

Remus was in a foul mood, but not just because he disapproved of Sirius’s ploy, nor simply
because he was jealous of his friends’ romantic escapades — though both were factors. No, his
more pressing concern was that his seventeenth birthday was fast approaching. Remus had never
been overly enthusiastic about his own birthday. There was something darkly ironic about
celebrating your birth when your life was a literal curse. That was the sort of pathetic,
melodramatic thought he would never voice, but in which he allowed himself to indulge during his
darker moods.

James, of course, was fanatical about birthdays. He never let a single friend’s birthday pass
uncelebrated. There were always gifts, and a cake, and a rousing chorus of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good
Fellow’ after dinner, and god help you if you tried to cut him off; he was like some sort of birthday
Hydra, coming back stronger each time with candles, and games, and — god forbid — festive hats.
It was best to just silently endure the affair with as much dignity as one could muster, and then
never speak of it again for the rest of the year.

This year, however, there were added stressors to Remus’s birthday proceedings beyond the mere
prospect of forced joviality. For one thing, as though the gods had planned some sort of celestial
prank just for him, his seventeenth birthday fell on the full moon. This astronomical fact had
caused James a fair amount of angst — it was decidedly difficult to convince a werewolf to blow
out candles, after all — but in the end, he resigned himself to promising Remus that they’d
celebrate properly the day after and insisting it would be the best full moon they’d had yet. Remus
had long since given up trying to convince James that he did not want to celebrate his birthday, so
he’d simply sighed and said thank you.
There was something almost poetic — in those melodramatic moods he never allowed himself to
voice — about the fact that he would come of age not as man but beast.

Pushing up the sleeves of his pajamas, he traced his finger over one of the pale, purplish bruises
that sometimes peppered his arms and legs in the lead up to the full moon. Something something
vitamin C deficiency. Madam Pomfrey had explained it to him once. He supposed he ought to pay
more attention, to try to understand these things, to learn how to navigate the battlefield of his
body…but when the moon crept closer to the crescendo of its cycle, what Remus was really
deficient in were fucks left to give.

Another drag on the cigarette. Tang of smoke against his tongue. He closed his eyes and let the
memory of an old argument waft over him like spirals from his fag. He’d overheard his mam and
dad fighting during the Christmas holiday, when they’d thought he was asleep. They’d been
fighting about him. About his seventeenth birthday, and whether or not he should voluntarily
register himself with the Werewolf Registry once he came of age. His mother was against it —
she’d developed a healthy mistrust of the Ministry ever since she’d learned they might take her son
away from her — but his father fretted that the consequences of not registering could be worse, if
he were to be discovered later.

Shortly before the end of the holiday, his father had taken Remus aside and told him that, legally,
all werewolves were required to register themselves with the Ministry. They’d gotten away with
avoiding it so far because the rules were somewhat fuzzy about werewolf children, simply because
the Ministry rarely took into account that there were werewolf children (the general belief being
that only the strongest, most brutal of humans could survive a lycanthropic bite, and consequently
all infected children perished young). The Lupins had embraced this loophole, but now that he was
coming of age, Remus would have to make a decision. The decision was his alone, his father had
insisted, but he should consider the serious consequences of being an unregistered werewolf,
should he ever get caught.

Consequences. Remus had considered these consequences his whole life. He’d looked them starkly
in the face last year, after Sirius’s little joke had nearly caused Remus to kill another student. In the
weeks leading up to the full moon, all he thought about was what would happen if something went
wrong on the fun little adventures his friends planned each month. He knew the laws, he knew
about the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, he knew that his government
wouldn’t hesitate to dispose of him.

And yet…

Somehow, registering himself seemed like the worse option. If he did as he was supposed to and
voluntarily put his name to the Werewolf Registry…then anyone could look him up! Anyone at all
could find out that he was, in fact, a disgusting, soulless werewolf. There’d be nowhere to hide. He
could get kicked out of school. Dumbledore may try to protect him, but if the school governors
found out, if the other parents knew that a beast prowled the halls of the castle…no one wanted
their children to be around a werewolf…

The thump of footsteps followed by the heavy clatter of a door interrupted this downward spiral,
and Remus opened his eyes to see that Sirius and James had returned at last. He stared at them
blankly for a moment, struggling to claw his way out of his own mind. Then, catching up, he said:
“How’d your spy mission go?”

His tone was perhaps rather more snide than it might have been if he’d been in a better mood, and
Sirius cast him a disparaging look in return.

“It wasn’t a spy mission, Moony. It was a fact finding expedition. On multiple fronts.”
Remus was about to retort with a snarky comeback of his own, but then he caught sight of James,
who slumped into the dormitory after Sirius. James had never been good at keeping his emotions
off his face — he was as easy to read as The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 — and just now, he
looked devastated. He didn’t even comment on the open window or the cigarette in Remus’s hand.
Remus watched him for a moment, then looked back to Sirius and gave a faint jerk of his head in
James’s direction, as if to say, What’s with him?

“The facts weren’t pretty,” said Sirius by way of explanation.

James said nothing, but dropped to his knees by his trunk and rummaged around for a moment until
he pulled out a battered old copy of some Quidditch magazine. Then he flopped onto his bed and
began to flip through the pages with a pointed sort of urgency, as though he were searching for
something.

“Is Lily okay?” asked Remus.

“Of course she’s okay,” said Sirius testily. “What, d’you think we burned the place down? It was
just a support group for some Muggle-borns talking about what they deal with at school, and some
of it was…hard to hear. That’s all.” Then, in a slightly lower voice, he added: “You know Prongs:
Every wrong he can’t right is a personal failure.”

“Ah,” said Remus. For he did know Prongs, and he knew that though his friend’s worldview had
broadened significantly in the last year, he still operated under the assumption that he lived in a just
world. Remus often thought that the world would be a much simpler place if it resembled the
version James Potter inhabited, but the real world didn’t work that way. It was messy and
complicated and uncomfortable. Remus had known this his whole life. He’d never had a choice
otherwise.

“Did you at least figure out the room?”

Sirius swept a lock of dark hair out of his eyes and dropped himself onto his own bed. “I’m going
back to investigate later this week. See if I can work out how to mark it on the map. Didn’t feel like
the right moment, tonight.” A pause as he tugged off his shoe. “It’s cool though. You should come
this time.”

“I might.”

Sirius watched him for a moment. “Any particular reason you’ve got your brooding werewolf face
on tonight?”

Remus scowled in return. “I hate when you call it that.”

“Sorry,” said Sirius, though his lips twitched into a smirk.

“I’m just tired,” Remus muttered. “And…dreading my birthday a little.”

James emerged from behind the rustle of a magazine. “Dreading your birthday?” he asked, as
though this were the most unfathomable of ideas. “No, no, no. I know it’s a bummer, it falling on
the full moon and all, but we’ll still celebrate! And we’ve got big plans for this moon! We were
going to go find that waterfall, remember? it’s going to be loads of fun, just wait —“

“It’s not that, James.” Remus wished he’d kept his mouth shut. How could he possibly explain to
his friends that he dreaded growing older? That it felt as though his life had an expiration date and
seventeen was the beginning of the end. He couldn’t even begin to fathom graduation; he felt sick
at the thought of it. Soon all of his friends would go off, have careers and families and lives, while
he, Remus, would stay stuck…half man, half beast…forever.

“Forget it,” he mumbled. Then he stubbed out his cigarette, shut the window, crossed the room,
and went to bed.

Sleep did not last long. It never did as the full moon crept closer. He woke with a gasp into the
darkness of his closed four-poster bed, terrors still clawing at the corners of his mind. He lay there
for a minute, listening to the sound of his friends sleeping, then he fumbled with his watch to see
that it was shortly after four in the morning. Struck with a sudden restlessness, he pushed off his
covers and slipped out of bed.

A chill whistle from the window where he hadn’t properly latched it. Stab of moonlight through
the glass. Creak of floorboards as he crept towards the door.

The common room was unsurprisingly empty. Remus found a spot by one of the fireplaces and
prodded the smoldering coals with a poker. Scatter of sparks, rustle of heat.

You’d think he’d be used to this routine by now…the way the moon tugged at him like the ocean’s
tides…except that metaphor was growing rather stale, wasn’t it? For he was not the waves, but the
rock against which they crashed. How long before the moon and tides battered him into
unrecognizable grit and sand? How long before the wolf won?

“Hey.”

Remus jolted, then turned to see Sirius standing behind him at the base of the spiral stairs, barefoot
in rumpled pajamas, eyes bleary with sleep.

“I heard you come down.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” mumbled Remus.

“Bad dreams again?”

“Nothing new.”

Sirius strode over and dropped himself into an armchair across from Remus. He yawned, then
glanced at the stuttering fire and pointed his wand at the coals. The flames leapt to life, spreading
warmth across their little corner. Sirius turned back to Remus.

“So let’s hear it. What are you worried about this time?”

“What?”

“You do this before every full moon. You find some new detail to panic about. So tell me what it
is, so I can tell you that you’re being stupid.”

For a moment, lost in the glimmer of firelight, Remus considered telling him everything: about the
Werewolf Registry, about how scared he was to turn seventeen…but he couldn’t quite manage it.
After all, when Sirius Black turned seventeen, he got a vault full of gold and complete freedom.
Remus’s inheritance was somewhat different.
Finally, he settled on: “I just don’t like birthdays much.”

“Yeah, bloody cake, bloody presents. Dreadful business, the lot of it.”

Remus snorted. “Nothing like celebrating another year of life when you’re still pretty bitter you
were born in the first place.”

This came out harsher than he’d intended; Remus rarely let slip the words that colored these
melodramatic moods.

“Moony…”

“Sorry,” said Remus gruffly. “Birthdays bring out the worst in me.”

A long pause.

“Well,” said Sirius at last, “for what it’s worth, my life would be significantly shittier if you hadn’t
been born.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, it fucking would.”

“You wouldn’t miss me that much. You wouldn’t know the difference.”

“Maybe not, but my life would still be shittier. A world without the Marauders? No, thank you.”

“You’d be fine. You’d still have James and Peter.”

“Okay, but we wouldn’t be the Marauders.”

“Sure you would.”

“Are you kidding? We couldn’t be the Marauders without you. None of this would exist without
you. The map, the Animagi, the name…”

“You got the name because Filch caught you sneaking into the kitchens to steal food. I wasn’t even
there. I was in bed, sick from the full moon.”

“Who d’you think we were stealing food for, you prat?”

Remus opened his mouth, then shut it. He didn’t have a good retort to that. The moment stretched
between them; the fire crackled. Finally, Remus said: “You’re different this year.”

Sirius blinked. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“I don’t know. Just…different.”

Sirius frowned at this, apparently thinking it over. “I feel different. I guess…I’m trying to be
different. Last year…last year was rough. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I didn’t like the person I
was becoming.”

“Yeah,” said Remus. “I didn’t like him much either.”

Another pause.

“What do you think of this year’s version?”

“I’m still trying to figure him out.”

Sirius nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

The thing about the full moon was that the more he dreaded it, the faster it arrived…until at last
Remus awoke the morning before his seventeenth birthday in misery — bones aching, skin damp
and clammy, beaded with sweat. The old routine. James, who was already up and showered,
accompanied him to the hospital wing, and Remus gratefully accepted from Madam Pomfrey one
of her brews that made his bones ache less. It also made him extremely sleepy, and as he allowed
himself to slip back into oblivion, he heard James talking to the matron:

“Won’t it ever get easier on him? I thought perhaps his symptoms might ease off as we got older.”

“We really don’t know, I’m afraid. There’s very little research on the subject of childhood
lycanthropy,” said Madam Pomfrey, “but it’s remarkable enough that his transformations have
gotten so much less painful as it is…”

The night’s revelry would only ever be a flash and blur of scent and color, wisps of memory and
jabs of recollection…When Remus woke, it was with that strange, discomfiting sense of being out
of place and time. This was not an altogether unreasonable reaction to spending the night cavorting
in a different beast’s body, but it never got less unsettling. It took him a few panicked moments to
recall that it must be the morning after a full moon, and he was in the Shrieking Shack. He rolled
his aching bones onto his side, and the bedsprings of an ancient mattress groaned beneath him.
Even as they poked at his ribs, he was grateful. He always hurt less on the mornings he woke up on
the bed, rather than curled on the hard floorboards of the beat-up shack.

The faintest strokes of morning light eked through the boarded up windows, and Remus blinked
through the haze, looking instinctively for Padfoot. He was not there; Remus was alone. This was
unusual enough to spike his anxiety. Padfoot was always there. A quick assessment of his own
body showed no wounds beyond the normal wear and tear, and so, wincing, Remus swung his legs
off the bed and shakily pushed himself up. That was when he heard it: piano notes, drifting up
from below.

Of course.

The music grew louder as he crept down the creaking stairs, and after a few more notes, he realized
with a medley of amusement and exasperation that the song Sirius played was ‘For He’s a Jolly
Good Fellow.’

When he reached the piano room, much to his surprise, Remus found not just Sirius, but James and
Peter in there too. Peter had a kazoo in his mouth, which he gave a celebratory blow as Remus
entered. Sirius was seated at the piano, looking as always as though he were playing at some famed
concert hall, rather than a decrepit shack. And before them all stood James, proudly holding up a
rather squashed cake with seventeen candles glimmering through the gloom.

“Happy birthday, Moony,” said James, an enormous grin on his face.

And Remus could not help it: He laughed.

Following the usual parade of check-ups and potions from Madam Pomfrey, Remus woke up
around seven o’clock that evening in the hospital wing, pulling himself once again from that heavy
post-moon stupor that swept him out to a sea of unconsciousness. He usually tried to get up and get
going the day following a full moon — he spent too much of his life hampered by his condition —
but today, he’d decided to just let the exhaustion overtake him, and so it wasn’t until after dinner
that Remus made his way back to Gryffindor Tower.

“We wondered if we were ever going to see you again,” said James happily upon his arrival,
leaning over to give Remus’s hair an affectionate tousle as Remus collapsed onto the sofa in their
dormitory, utterly exhausted from climbing the stairs. “We stopped by at lunch, and then again
before dinner, but Pomfrey said you were still asleep.”

“Tired this moon,” yawned Remus, and even now, the lids of his eyes dragged down, beckoning
him to give in.

He was pulled back from the precipice of sleep by Sirius, who gave him a quick prod. “Oi, Prongs
is going to have a conniption if he can’t give you your birthday presents, so stick with us a few
minutes, okay?”

In the post-moon fog that clouded his mind, Remus had entirely forgotten it was his birthday. The
weight of it all came crashing back down onto him in that moment, like a deluge from a dam.

“Presents, Moony,” said James, frowning at the look of despair that must’ve overtaken Remus’s
features. “It’s a good thing.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…I forgot I was seventeen for a minute, that’s all.”

“Ah,” said Sirius. “I can see how the realization of this fact would cause you to look at us as though
Peter killed your puppy.”

“You’ve been doom and gloom all week,” said Peter. “I’m dying to turn seventeen. I have to wait
until July before I can apparate.”

James was watching him intently, a small furrow in his brow. Remus knew he owed his friends an
explanation for his moodiness, especially after all the trouble they’d gone to. “It’s just…I don’t
know what to do.”

“About what?”

He struggled for a moment. The urge to shut down and close himself off was as alluring as the call
of sleep, but the bright notes of a piano still echoed in his mind as he replayed the memory of
eating birthday cake surrounded by his friends while the sun crept up and the moon receded…
“Turning seventeen means I have to decide whether or not to register myself,” he said at last.

James looked confused. “Register yourself…?”

“With the Ministry. You know, as a werewolf.” And Remus explained about the Werewolf
Registry, the loophole that had kept him off the list, and the conversation with his father about the
impossible choice he had to make.

Sirius was incredulous. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Because it’s the law.”

Sirius let out a disparaging huff of breath.

“And if I ever got caught,” persisted Remus, irritated by the other boy’s lackadaisical attitude, “I’d
be in loads of trouble.”

“You’re not going to get caught,” said Sirius. “How would you get caught?”

Remus avoided his gaze as he muttered, “If I bit someone…”

“If you bit someone, do you really think they’re going to go easy on you just because you’re on
some bloody list? You’re just handing them a weapon to use against you. It’s stupid.”

Remus secretly thought so too, but he didn’t have the courage to say so himself. He stared at the
arm of the sofa, tracing one of the worn spots with his thumb.

Sirius exhaled a frustrated sigh. “What do you think, Prongs? It’s stupid, right?”

Remus glanced up at James. He was frowning, thinking hard. “I have to agree with Padfoot on this
one,” James said after a long moment. “I’m sure your dad means well, but…I don’t think the
Ministry can be trusted. Not about this.”

Last year, James had been so certain that the Wizengamot would do the right thing, that the Wizard
Protection Laws would never pass. James, for all his chaotic, trouble-making ways, had always
had an innate trust in the authority of his world; it had never failed him. Remus was curious to note
that that trust seemed to be a thing of the past.

“Besides,” said James brightly, “we’re all Animagi illegally. None of us registered with the
Ministry. We can all be outlaws together.”

Remus blinked. He had never thought about it like that. He felt a strange lightening in his chest,
like a fist unclenching. They would all be unregistered together.

“Now,” said James, with all the impatience of a child on Christmas morning, “will you please open
your presents?”

It was impressive the way James Potter could bully anyone into a better mood. By the end of his
birthday, Remus was practically cheerful. Of course, the hoard of gifts didn’t hurt either. Peter had
supplied a hefty pile of sweets, while James provided his standard but much appreciated bottle of
birthday Scotch. Sirius’s gift, however, stood out: a beautiful set of antique cartography
instruments, glinting brass and steel, encased in a slim mahogany box lined with plush blue velvet.
Engraved on the inside of the lid were the words:

Property of Mr. Moony

Master Cartographer

“That one’s charmed,” said Sirius, pointing at one of the thin steel instruments, “to always draw a
straight line.”

“Cool,” said Remus, ignoring the faint, squiggly feeling in his stomach. Then he allowed himself a
generous swig of Scotch.

He was still tired and achey the next morning, but his anxiety over whether or not to register had all
but dissipated. It was strange the way a simple word from a friend could have such power.
Together. They would all be outlaws together. So long as he had his friends, he’d be okay.

As they headed to breakfast, Sirius and Remus discussed the map, all the improvements they
wished to make, and when they would go examine the secret door in the seventh floor corridor.
(Remus’s grumpiness about that subject had faded as well.)

At breakfast, such conversation had to cease, however, for Florence joined them, as she always
seemed to do. Remus kept it to himself, of course, but he felt a certain coldness to her. It wasn’t
really fair; she was perfectly friendly, a fact that invoked just a twinge of guilt. He wanted to
attribute his dislike to loyalty to Lily — which was silly, because Lily was adamantly insisting she
did not fancy James, and anyway, Florence was her friend first — but the truth was that Remus was
resentful of Florence and the threat she represented to his friends’ dynamic. He kept his mouth shut
though. He’d gotten very good at that, and Lily had made it crystal clear that he was not to say
anything about whatever it was he wasn’t supposed to say. He was admittedly a bit foggy on the
details, which made keeping his mouth shut an all the more compelling proposition. So he simply
buttered his toast and listened to James and Florence talk about some dinner of Slughorn’s she
wanted him to attend that evening.

“You haven’t forgotten this time, have you?”

“Of course not,” said James. “Got it in my diary and everything.”

“You don’t keep a diary,” said Sirius.

“I do in my head.”

Remus caught Sirius’s eye and the two shared a private smirk. No doubt the boys would get to take
the piss out of James later for being a proper Slug Clubber. Still amused by this prospect, Remus
hid his smile behind his tea as the post arrived. He watched as Sirius collected the Daily Prophet
from the delivery owl and lazily unfolded it. But then Sirius’s expression froze as he took in the
front page.

“What is it?” said Remus.

“Nothing,” muttered Sirius, and he shoved the paper aside, front page down. Remus knew when he
was being lied to though, so he flicked his wand and the paper went sailing into his own hands.
Sirius looked pained as he watched Remus smooth the newspaper on the table.

WEREWOLF ATTACK IN LONDON! shouted the headline.

Despite the hot cup of tea in his hands, Remus felt as though every inch of him had turned to ice.
He didn’t know what his face was doing, but he hoped his expression had remained neutral. Barely
breathing, he read through the article: Three were dead and one ‘infected’ following the full moon.
The Ministry had given no official comment, but anonymous insiders suggested that the
werewolves were working in collaboration with Death Eater activity. A Dark Mark was found
above the targeted home.

“Oh shit,” breathed Peter, leaning over Remus’s shoulder to read.

“What happened?” asked James through a mouthful of porridge. He swallowed and looked
expectantly at Remus, but Remus could not seem to speak. All the lightness he’d felt unburdening
himself to his friends about his birthday fears had vanished, and he felt as though a fist had seized
his heart and squeezed. He simply handed the paper to James, certain his stuttering heartbeat was
echoing all throughout the Great Hall.

Though in all likelihood James could not hear his heartbeat, he certainly seemed to sense Remus’s
anxiety for he took the paper with a faint air of trepidation. Remus watched his expression grow
ashen as he read.

“Oh, how horrible,” said Florence. “Oh, those poor people.”

James shot her a sidelong look, and Remus knew they were all waiting to see if she would say
something anti-werewolf. Or at least, Remus was. She did not, however. She simply sat with one
hand on James’s arm, the other propped under her chin, a troubled look on her face as she read the
article. James looked back at Remus, who looked away. They couldn’t talk about it, not here, not
with Florence listening, but even if they could, what was there to say?

He busied himself buttering another piece of toast he had no intention of eating.

“Are you okay?” James muttered as they made their way to class. Florence had headed off to her
own lecture, so they were able to speak somewhat more freely, but only just. Remus was keenly
aware of the many ears that swarmed the halls.

“Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Moony.”

But they had arrived at their Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, so further discussion was
curtailed, much to Remus’s relief.

The boys settled into their usual seats in the row behind Lily and Marlene. Lily offered Remus a
smile and wished him a belated happy birthday. He noticed with a gut punch that the corner of the
Daily Prophet was peeking out of her bag. It’s got nothing to do with you, he told himself. You
didn’t bite anyone. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt…of disgust…

Three dead, one infected. Another human life ruined, trapped in this perpetual cycle of lunar
torture. No respite, no relief, until the end of days. And yet, all Remus could think about was the
wolf who’d perpetuated the attack. Working in collaboration with Death Eater activity…what did
that mean? Remus knew all too well what it felt like to transform, to lose control of yourself. A
werewolf on the full moon worked ‘in collaboration’ with no one. There was a Dark Mark, that
meant there must have been a wizard there. Did they force the wolf, perhaps? Hold the man
hostage until the untamable beast took over, then sicced him on their victims? This was a new
horror Remus had never before considered. To be used as a weapon…like a rabid dog let loose…

Three dead, one infected…but from where Remus stood, five lives had been ruined. For how could
a werewolf live with himself, knowing he had doomed another to this cursed life?

Unless, of course, the werewolf had done it on purpose…

“Moony,” muttered Sirius, but then Professor Carter-Myles entered the classroom, and whatever
comment his friend had hoped to make was cut off.

“Good morning class,” said Carter-Myles, pausing for his students to half-heartedly return the
salutation. Remus sunk a little lower in his seat, staring at the years of graffiti that graced his desk.
Carter-Myles loathed him, Remus knew that. It bothered him, of course, but he accepted it as
inevitable. Carter-Myles knew what he was. If the rest of the class knew a werewolf sat among
them, they’d hate him too. How couldn’t they, after reading the newspaper this morning?

“Now, we’ve spent much of the year so far discussing curse regulation, but in light of recent news,
we’re going to change course a bit for today’s lecture.”

Remus looked up, his heart sinking like a stone thrown to sea.

“The purpose of this class has always been to prepare you for the reality of the world, and the rules
and regulations that apply to that reality. Many of you may have read the papers this morning. The
threat of Dark Magic continues to menace our society in a multitude of ways — beyond simple
spellwork and curses. Dark creatures walk among us, and it is important to understand this and
learn how to fight them.”

Next to him, Remus heard Sirius breathe, “Fucking cunt.”

“Werewolves,” said Carter-Myles, “are Dark creatures subject to extensive regulation by the
Ministry, and yet many of them slip through the cracks, living on the edges of society and only
emerging to commit acts of unspeakable violence and evil. No, Miss Evans —“ he said, for Lily’s
hand had shot up into the air, “I am quite certain I do not need your opinion on this subject. If you
have questions, you may ask them at the end of class.”

It went on.

Next to him, Remus could feel James and Sirius seething. He could sense Severus Snape’s gloating
from across the room. But Remus just sat there, stiff as a statue, unmoving except for his hand,
which mechanically took notes while his professor droned on about the statistics of werewolf
attacks in the 20th century.

“Due to a number of factors — health, criminality, magiphysiology — the lifespan of the average
werewolf is relatively short. Few bitten young live past thirty, but even so, when a werewolf goes
rogue, Aurors have their work cut out for them. As such, I am assigning an essay on the
identification and elimination of werewolves, to be completed by the next full moon.”

Remus finally worked up the courage to cast a sidelong glance at his friends. Peter looked rather
 ill, Sirius appeared to be considering the best way to disembowel Carter-Myles right then and
there, and James was shaking with rage. The feather of his quill shivered in his hand. He seemed to
be on the verge of action.

“Don’t,” Remus whispered urgently, and James’s gaze jerked away from Carter-Myles to lock on
Remus’s own. “Please, don’t.”

Chapter End Notes

I know, I know. Petition to let Remus Lupin have one nice day: DENIED. ☹️

He got a cake though?

 A Furry Little Problem
Chapter Notes

Content note: This chapter contains a brief reference to (the concept of) suicide.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

JAMES

A Furry Little Problem

The rough sea of students parted as James stormed through the castle corridors, elbowing his way
upstream against the crowds, not particularly caring that he was being wildly rude. Professor
Carter-Myles’ lecture — if you could dignify it with such a word — was still buzzing in his brain,
and James was absolutely fuming, frothing, furious.

He and Remus had quarreled after class. Remus wanted to keep his head down, to write the essay,
to not draw attention to himself — and he wanted his friends to do the same.

James wanted to pick a fight.

“You can’t,” Remus had insisted. “No, listen to me, James, you can’t. What’s it going to look like
if you start fighting with Carter-Myles about werewolf rights?”

“It’ll look like I’m a decent human being, that’s what!”

“No, it’ll look like you have a vested interest. Like you’re protecting something — and that
something is sitting next to you in class, very obviously ill around the full moon. I’m only safe
because I’m invisible, James. No one pays attention to me, and I like it that way. As soon as they
start paying attention…I would’ve thought that business with Snape last year had opened your eyes
to the potential consequences.”

Remus almost never brought up the incident last year, and it was the shock of this alone that
finally shut James up. He agreed to keep quiet in class (though this agreement was grudging, and
he made no promises about grinding his teeth), but his compromise for repressing the urge to
rampage at Carter-Myles (which Remus probably did not realize he’d agreed to as James hadn’t
exactly articulated it out loud) was that James was taking his fury to the top. In this case, ‘the top’
meant a large stone gargoyle that sulked in the third floor corridor.

“Peppermint humbug,” James all but spat as he approached. The gargoyle ignored him. “Oh, come
on!”

James had only ever been to the Headmaster’s office once on that horrible full moon last year when
he’d pulled Snape out of Moony’s path. ‘Peppermint humbug’ had been the password then, but he
supposed it was wishful thinking that Dumbledore wouldn’t change it from time to time. “Er…
Fizzing Whizbee,” he tried, rummaging around his mind for words of the same genre. James had
puzzled out the passwords of some of the castle’s most stubborn doors over his many years of
mischief-making, and he’d learned that even when the passwords changed, they tended not to
wander far. “Sugar quill. Treacle tart? Fuck!”

He glanced hopefully at the immobile gargoyle, but the profanity had no more impact on its stony
demeanor than the incorrect passwords. He exhaled a frustrated sigh, then turned on his heel and
marched in the direction of a new goal. He reached his destination and rapped sharply on the door.

“Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, for it was her office he’d sought out. “Why aren’t you at
lunch?”

“I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore,” said James without preamble. “Do you know where I
can find him?”

Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows arched upwards. “I’m afraid the Headmaster is away on
business, Potter.”

“Again?” James could not keep the frustration out of his voice. It had not escaped his notice that
Dumbledore was absent from the high table at dinner more evenings than not. “He’s never here!”

Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows climbed farther still. “The Headmaster has many demands on
his time and a great deal of important duties that frequently call him away—“

“He has important duties here, too!” said James hotly, and for a moment he was sure Professor
McGonagall was going to tell him off, but then she simply held the door open wider and beckoned
him inside.

“Something is evidently distressing you,” she said, closing the door behind him. “Any issue you
would wish to raise with Professor Dumbledore, I assure you, you may bring to me.”

“Fine,” said James after a short pause. “It’s Professor Carter-Myles. He has to go.”

“Go?” said McGonagall, confused. “Go where?”

“Hell, preferably, but I’m not picky of the particulars.”

“Language, Potter!” Professor McGonagall looked genuinely shocked; James stared sullenly back.
He was in no mood for penitence, and his professor seemed to sense this. James had a reputation as
a troublemaker, certainly, but he was not usually so argumentative or unpleasant. Her nostrils flared
ever so slightly as she demanded: “Explain yourself.”

So James did. He explained all about Carter-Myles’ lecture, and the essay assignment, and the
abject cruelty of it all. When he finished, Professor McGonagall’s expression was stony, impossible
to read; her voice was clipped. “You can rest assured the Headmaster will hear about this, Potter.”

But James had no intention of resting, assured or otherwise. “I don’t want him to hear about it,
Professor, I want him to do something. Carter-Myles has no business being a teacher here. He has
no right to give a lecture on werewolves—“

“Unfortunately, Potter, he does.”

James gawked at his Head of House and the tightrope line of her pursed lips. “How can you say
that?”

Professor McGonagall glowered back at him for a long moment, then she sat down behind her desk
with a weary sigh and motioned for James to do the same. Grudgingly, he did.

“I understand why you are upset, and I commend you for wanting to stand up for your friend. But
while you and I may adamantly disagree with Professor Carter-Myles’ decision to give such a
lecture, the subject of werewolves is indeed in the Hogwarts curriculum, and as such, he is within
his rights to teach it—“

“Then take it out of the curriculum! Or — change it. Teach everyone that werewolves are people.
That they’re just people with — I don’t know — a problem! Don’t tell everyone that they’re evil
and subhuman…”

“I assure you, Potter, the Headmaster will be involved, but…it is a delicate situation. Hogwarts has
never had a lycanthropic student before. The school governors do not know, nor for that matter
does the Ministry. Protecting Mr. Lupin’s secret is of utmost importance here. Far more than
revenge. If word got out that Hogwarts was educating a werewolf…it would not be popular, to put
it mildly. Now, upon Mr. Lupin’s arrival six years ago, the staff were all required to sign a
magically-binding confidentiality agreement, to protect him from exposure. Professor Carter-Myles
has signed it the same as everyone else. He will not expose Mr. Lupin’s secret.”

“Sure seems like he’s trying.”

“Perhaps. But creating an outrage will only help in that endeavor. I agree that his lecture was out of
line, and I expect the Headmaster will agree as well — but I am telling you for your own benefit —
and more importantly, for Mr. Lupin’s — that the best way to handle this situation is quietly. I
know this is not what you want to hear, but unfortunately, there are certain things we have to
tolerate—“

“You didn’t see his face,” interrupted James, and he was as surprised as Professor McGonagall to
hear his voice catch in his throat. “You didn’t have to sit there and watch your friend’s face as his
teacher — his teacher — told him that he was going to die young and that he deserved it. So with
all due respect, Professor, don’t tell me what I have to tolerate.”

The fact that he did not get a detention or even points docked for his insolence suggested to James
that Professor McGonagall was on his side, even as she allowed herself to be hampered by such
silly things as school rules and curriculum requirements. She sounded just like Remus, James
thought irritably as he paced the corridors, hands balled into fists in his pockets. Be quiet, stay
under the radar, do nothing.

But James did not want to do nothing. He wanted to fix things. Everything was wrong, wrong,
bloody wrong. And not just with Remus, but with…well, everything. The Wizengamot was
approving anti-Muggle legislation that would’ve made James’s grandfather roll over in his grave,
the Prophet was reporting new attacks on an almost weekly basis, and James had just learned that a
not-insignificant portion of the Muggle-born student population thought he was someone to be
wary of, untrustworthy, another pure-blood who didn’t give a damn. It was as though he’d flipped
a page and the heroes of his storybook had turned out to be the villains. It was disorienting and
exhausting, and he wanted to do something about it.

Knowing that he was still too angry to put on the sort of stoic cheerfulness that Remus would
require, James decided to skip lunch and head out to the Quidditch pitch, rather than joining his
friends for the afternoon break. He’d go for a quick fly. That would help.

The Quidditch pitch was not overly crowded; it was open practice during break periods, and there
were a few students running drills or mucking about at the far end, but otherwise it was fairly
empty. That suited James just fine. After a quick break to eat the sandwich he’d nicked from the
kitchens on the way, James mounted his broomstick and kicked off; a sense of calm overtook him
as the wind embraced him, ruffling his hair and whipping the hems of his robes. He could breathe
up here. He could think up here. Flying always helped.

He did a few speed speed runs, zipping from end to end of the field, timing himself between each
post. After that, he decided to practice some dives, nosing his broom up so high that the pitch
looked like a plaything, then plunging back to the earth, only to pull up at the last minute, the toe
of his shoes skimming the grass.

After about thirty minutes of this, he noticed he had an audience. Over in the stands, a younger
student was watching him with rapt attention, her elbows propped on her knees, her chin in her
hands. A Quaffle sat on the bench beside her. James wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except
for the faint itch of recognition. It took him a moment, but then he placed her: She was the girl
from Lily’s club. The Muggle-born student who’d been told she shouldn’t try out for Quidditch
because “Muggles can’t fly.” What was her name…? Valmai. That was it.

He did another lap, ruminating on what she’d said during that unpleasant meeting, about how she
thought the prat who’d told her that was probably right. That even if she worked up the courage to
try out for the team, she wouldn’t stand a chance. That all the rich pure-bloods had advantages she
never would, like having top-notch brooms and getting to practice over the summer hols.

It had stuck with him, like a splinter in the skin. It wasn’t right. Quidditch wasn’t supposed to be
about blood status. Quidditch was about skill and hard work and determination and maybe a little
talent — and none of that had anything to do with blood. And yet…it shamed him to admit this, but
there wasn’t a single Muggle-born student on his own team. All three of his new acquisitions this
year — Wallace MacFarlan, Emma Prewett, and Marlene McKinnon — they were all pure-bloods.
It hadn’t been an intentional choice, it had just…happened that way.

He stewed on this for another lap, then he made up his mind and flew over to the stands.

“Valmai, right?” he called, hovering before her on his broomstick.

The freckled girl stared up at him, eyes widening in surprise. “You…know my name?”

“Yeah, we met the other week. At the Muggle-born…club?”

“Muggle-born Student Coalition,” said Valmai.

“Right, yeah. Bit of a mouthful, that.”

Valmai grinned. “We all call it the M.B.S.C., but Graham doesn’t like that because he thinks it
intentionally hides the Muggle-born part.” Then she went very pink, as though she’d said too
much.

“Remind me, which house are you in?”

“Hufflepuff.”

“Ah,” nodded James. “Big match coming up.” Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were up against each
other in the first match of the spring term. “Which position do you play?”

“I don’t play any position. I’m not on the team.”

“Okay, but which position do you want to play?”

Valmai glanced down at the Quaffle, bashful. “Chaser,” she muttered.

“Good choice,” grinned James. “Best position on the pitch, if you ask me. D’you play much? On
your own, I mean.”

“Only when I can get my hands on a broom…and when the pitch isn’t booked…so, no. Not much.”

“How come you’re not out on the pitch now? It’s open practice time, you don’t need a
reservation.”

“No broom,” said Valmai gloomily. “I’d hoped to use one of the school brooms, but they were all
signed out by the time I got here. She cast a covetous glance at the far end of the pitch, where a
group of students were lolling about, not doing much with the brooms they’d evidently snatched
up. James had had his own broomstick since he was a second year and had been allowed to bring
one to school. He’d never even thought about having to jockey for access to a borrowed school
broom.

“Bad luck.” He thought for a moment. “Want to have a go on mine?”

She gaped at him. “What?”

James glanced at his watch. “Still got about twenty minutes before dinner. That’s time enough to
get a few drills in.”

“You mean it?”

“Sure.”

But then Valmai shook her head. “I can’t fly your broom.”

“Why not?”

“It’s worth more than everything I own!”

James laughed. “So just don’t fly it into a tree, and we’ll be fine. Come on, meet me down on the
pitch.”

And without waiting for a response, he nudged his broom into a descent and landed on the grass.
Valmai showed up a few moments later, Quaffle tucked under her arm, out of breath as though
she’d dashed down the stairs, as though she thought he might get bored and leave if she didn’t
hurry.
One thing James had learned since becoming Captain was that he really rather enjoyed coaching —
and not just because he got to tell everyone else what to do. There was something uniquely
satisfying about working one on one with the members of his team, about designing plays and
putting together drills so that by the end of the practice everyone had noticeably improved. He’d
seen MacFarlan grow from a Beater who was not unlikely to knock out his own teammate to a
proper force to be reckoned with in the sky, and it felt good.

Seeing Valmai improve felt even better. He walked her through a few basic runs, watching closely
as she took her first tentative ascent on the broomstick. (“Don’t grip it so tightly. Loosen up your
elbows a bit. It feels counterintuitive, I know, but you’ll have more control.”) By the time he
started tossing the Quaffle for diving practice, he knew he was seeing something special.

She was good — and she had the potential to be very good. A bit green right now, perhaps, but the
talent was there, no doubt, and her aim was excellent. With practice and proper training…she’d be
a formidable foe on the pitch.

They stayed until the pitched had emptied out; eventually, James waved her down.

“Pity you’re not in Gryffindor,” he told her as she landed. “I’m going to need a new Chaser next
year.”

She grinned as she handed him back his broomstick. “Thank you,” she said. “That was amazing.”

“So you’re going to try out next year, right?”

Valmai shrugged, suddenly shy. “Dunno,” she muttered. “Doesn’t seem like there’s much point,
really.”

“Why’s that?”

“Just…being Muggle-born and all.”

James took a moment to shoulder his broomstick as he gathered his thoughts. “You know,” he said
at last, “I thought a lot about what you said at the, ah, M.B.S.C.”

Valmai blinked. “You did?”

“Yeah. I’ll be honest, it bothered me. I’ve never thought of Quidditch like that. To me, the sport
was always a meritocracy. The sky’s the great equalizer, and all that. Up there, your name doesn’t
matter, your blood doesn’t matter, it’s all about what you can do. If you work hard, train hard, play
hard — you win the match.”

Valmai shifted her gaze to her feet, arms tucked defensively against her chest.

“I was wrong,” said James.

She looked back up at him, eyes wide.

“I see that now,” he went on. “You’re right. There are very clear barriers to entry that I’d never
considered because I’ve never faced them. And it’s rubbish. Those barriers shouldn’t be there,
anyone who wants to play Quidditch should have a shot. Your blood status has nothing to do with
your ability to play the sport. Nothing. Don’t you know Tommy George of Puddlemere United is
Muggle-born? Finest Chaser Britain’s ever seen, in my opinion.”

“Really?”
“Yeah, and so’s Francis Foley, who played for Britain in the World Cup a few years ago. Neither
of them had ever so much as seen a match until they got to Hogwarts.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do. So don’t ever let anyone tell you Muggle-borns can’t play Quidditch, because they
clearly have no idea what the hell they’re talking about.” He glanced at his watch. He’d stayed a
lot longer than he’d planned, and he was going to be late for dinner. “Right, I’ve got to head in, but
I’ll tell you what: I’ve got the pitch double-booked for practice this weekend, but we won’t need
the whole time. Come by after, and we can run a few plays. Get you some real experience. Say
around three o’clock?”

“O-okay.”

“Cool.” He tossed the Quaffle and turned to leave.

“Why would you do that?” Valmai called after him.

James turned back. She was still holding the Quaffle as she’d caught it, staring at him with her
brows knitted together.

“What?”

“Why would you give me lessons?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re Captain of the Gryffindor team. I’m just some Hufflepuff third year.”

James laughed. “And the whole sport suffers without healthy competition on both sides. Bring a
few friends, and we can do a two-aside match. House neutral.” He paused, then said as much to
himself as to Valmai: “Everyone should get a chance to learn Quidditch.”

As it turned out, James was already late for dinner, a fact that was made quite clear when he found
Florence waiting for him in the entrance hall, looking rather flustered.

“There you are!” she said, hurrying over to him. “We’re going to be late.”

“For what?”

He regretted these words immediately, for Florence’s face fell. “Slughorn’s dinner, remember?
James, we talked about it this morning.”

“Right, yeah. Sorry — it’s been a bit of a day.”

“We don’t have to go,” said Florence, biting her lip. “If you don’t want to, I understand.”

“No,” said James quickly, taking her hand. As a matter of fact, he didn’t particularly want to go,
but he’d told Florence he would, and she looked so sad at the prospect of missing it. “Of course I
do, Flor. Been looking forward to it, even. I’ve just had a lot on my mind today, that’s all, and then
I got held up at the pitch…”
“Quidditch practice during your breaks?” Florence laughed, leaning up to kiss him. “You really are
a fanatic, you know.”

“That’s me.”

“Well, all right, we’ve missed most of the cocktail hour, but if we hurry we’ll get there before
Sluggy seats everyone for dinner.” She squeezed his hand and led him up the stairs. “I know
you’re just doing this to humor me, and I do appreciate it, but Slughorn really can be so helpful.
Have you thought at all about what you want to do for your summer internship?”

“Er — can’t say that I have.”

“Well, you should! The summer between sixth and seventh year is absolutely crucial for your
career. I did my internship at Gringotts, and it was a wonderful experience. Turns out finance isn’t
quite my cup of tea, but I never would’ve known that without giving it a try. And Sluggy has loads
of contacts, you know. He’s gotten students positions at the Ministry, the Daily Prophet, St.
Mungo’s…”

James’s ears pricked at ‘St. Mungo’s.’ His secret ambition to become a Healer was still, well, a
secret, though not for any real reason other than the fact that he felt a bit silly admitting it. He
hadn’t mentioned it to anyone except Professor McGonagall at last year’s career advice session,
and he’d rather got the impression she’d found the prospect unlikely. It was a very serious
vocation, after all, and no one had ever accused James Potter of being serious.

And yet, the idea had stuck with him, burrowing a little deeper into his brain with every Healer’s
house call for his dad, every horrible visit to St. Mungo’s. He didn’t think he’d be able to properly
explain it to anyone, but…Healers fixed things. And these days, everything so desperately needed
fixing.

“James?”

He blinked. Florence was looking up at him expectantly. “Huh?”

“I asked if you had any plans for your career?”

“Oh…” James ran a hand through his hair. “You know, I’m going to play Quidditch for England.”

Florence laughed. “Fanatic,” she said fondly. “But you can’t play Quidditch forever.”

“Well, maybe I’ll coach.”

“You’d be marvelous, I’m sure.” She wove her arm through his and they continued down the
corridor. “You know, Sluggy is the one who put Anson in touch with the recruiters from
Puddlemere.”

When they reached Slughorn’s office, cocktail hour was indeed in full swing. A large mahogany
table was set in an elaborate display for dinner but was still empty as students milled about the
room, chatting and sipping whatever libations Professor Slughorn had deemed appropriate to
provide. James barely had a moment to take in the scene before Professor Slughorn swooped down
on them, dressed in a violet velvet waistcoat and bearing a bottle of Pol Roger and two glasses,
which he filled with a flick of his wand before banishing the bottle back to the bar.

“Ah, Florence, m’dear!” he boomed. “And James made it this time! Wonderful, wonderful. Come
in! Champagne? You’re both of age, aren’t you? Or close enough!” He pressed the glasses into
their hands and tapped the side of his nose with a wink. Florence took a sip of her champagne and
gave James’s hand an encouraging squeeze as Slughorn led them deeper into the room, towards
the tall arched window that dominated the back wall. A boy was standing alone there, his back to
the party, and Slughorn stopped, as though this was his destination.

“Ah, here we are!” said Slughorn. The boy turned, and James realized with an unpleasant twinge
of recognition, that he looked an awfully lot like his best friend.

“James, you must know Regulus, of course? Really, you’ll have to convince dear Sirius to come to
one of my little dinners, neither his brother nor I have had any luck!”

James and Regulus stared at each other, cold and silent, as though in secret competition to display
the most disdain to the other. It was remarkable, really, how little he had interacted with Sirius’s
younger brother during their time at school, but Sirius had made it clear from day one that he
wanted to James to stay away from anyone in his family, including his brother. This suited James
perfectly fine, because he loathed the other boy. He may look like Sirius, but he was one of them.

“Really, Sluggy,” interceded Florence, her voice all honey and consolation, “it was hard enough
getting James here! I had to wrench him away from Quidditch practice just to get an evening free.”

Slughorn laughed. “Well, that dedication will serve you well, I have no doubt! Regulus here is on
the Quidditch team too, although I am sure you both know that quite well! Quidditch rivals!” He
beamed at them all, oblivious to the ongoing staring contest from hell. “Well, I’ll leave you to
catch up. We’ll be starting dinner shortly, just waiting for one of our guests of honor to arrive; he
sent an owl saying he’d be late, but he’d get here even if he had to ride a hippogriff, ha ha!”

And Slughorn left. James and Regulus continued to stare the other down, Florence hovering
awkwardly, as though trying to figure out what to say to make the situation disappear. Then,
abruptly, Regulus did the job for her, turning on his heel and stalking away.

James watched him go, seething, then he turned in disgust and looked instead to the grand window;
it was well past sundown and the glimmer of the party behind him reflected in its dark glass like an
otherworldly mosaic. Slughorn’s office had a view of the forest, the cresting sea of pine visible
beneath the gleam of a bright moon above. It was hard to believe, standing in this stuffy office full
of people he didn’t much like, a glass of champagne in hand, that a few nights ago he’d been out in
those very woods, racing beneath the trees with a dog, a rat, and a werewolf…

His stomach lurched at this thought. He still hadn’t had a chance to talk to Remus after their
argument. He should’ve gone back to the dormitory before dinner. He should’ve…

A light touch to his arm. “James?” He turned to see Florence looking up at him, concerned.
“You’re regretting coming, aren’t you?”

James collected himself. He knew she wanted this evening to go well; he wasn’t going to spoil it
for her. “Don’t be silly,” he said, as lightly as he could.

“I had no idea he was taking us to Regulus Black, of all people…”

“It doesn’t matter. Regulus…he’s just a twat, that’s all.”

“Oh, I know. He’s dreadful. I mean, he’s really very quiet, actually, I can probably count on one
hand the number of times he’s spoken up at these dinners, but still…if they didn’t look so much
alike you’d never know he and Sirius were related…”

“They’re not, as far as I’m concerned.”

He turned back to the party, peering around at the other students, until his eyes landed on a small
group by the sofas, and James realized with a jolt that Lily Evans was among them. He didn’t
know why this should surprise him; he knew she was a frequent favorite of Slughorn’s, but all the
same, he hadn’t expected to see her there, perched on the arm of a leather Chesterfield, a coupe of
champagne in her hand. She was talking to Emmeline Vance, the Head Girl, and some older man
who James didn’t know but assumed must be one of Slughorn’s guests. He was a tidy looking man,
if admittedly rather oily in appearance, with heavily slicked-back hair and a trim mustache. James
recognized the handiwork of Sleekeazy’s when he saw it.

“Oh!” said Florence, a note of relief in her voice. “There’s Lily and Emmeline.”

Perhaps Lily heard this (unlikely) or perhaps she simply felt his gaze, for she looked up and
spotted them across the room. For half a second, James thought she seemed rather startled by the
sight of him, but she recovered quickly. Then she murmured something to Emmeline and headed
their way.

“Word of advice,” she said to Florence as she arrived. “Don’t ever date the Head Boy. It’s so
awkward when you break up.” She shot a weary glance back at Emmeline. “I have to go to her for
everything prefect-related now.”

Florence laughed and cast an affectionate look at James. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You should be safe on that front,” James assured her.

Lily smiled, then cast her eyes down upon the drink in her hand and gave it a little swirl before
looking back up at James. “So,” she said, “Florence finally dragged you to one of these things, did
she?”

“Kicking and screaming,” said Florence, patting James’s arm cozily as though she thought he
might run away.

“That is a very unfair characterization,” protested James. “I kicked no one, and really, the scream
was more of a guttural howl.”

Both Florence and Lily laughed, although James couldn’t help but notice that Lily’s laugh was
rather clipped, and she seemed to have perfected the art of not looking directly at him. He
wondered if she was angry at him about the whole Muggle-born club thing. He shouldn’t have just
shown up like that, without asking first…

“So, what’s the lineup for tonight?” asked Florence.

“Two Ministry blokes, as I understand it,” said Lily. “Old students of Slughorn’s, of course.
They’re friends, apparently, but as far as I can tell that’s all they have in common. I can’t remember
where the other one works, haven’t met him yet, he’s late apparently, but that bloke—“ she nodded
back at the Sleekeazy’s advertisement talking to Emmeline, “is Damocles Belby, the Chairman of
the Experimental Potions Committee.”

“Right up your alley,” said Florence.

Lily smiled, though it looked a touch strained. “I only talked to him briefly, but to tell you the
truth, he seems like a bit of a tosser, and I’m certain Slughorn is going to make me sit next to him
all dinner.”

“Well, maybe you’ll get an internship out of it.”

“Lucky me.”

Indeed, when the pre-dinner drinks concluded and Slughorn motioned them all towards the dining
table, the professor placed Lily directly beside the Potioneer, across from James and Florence. Lily
caught Florence’s eye and made a little “I told you so” face; Florence smothered a laugh into her
napkin, and James couldn’t help but let slip a grin as well.

The other guest of honor arrived just as they were all sitting down, doffing a heavy traveling cloak,
damp with the mizzling rain that had begun to tick against the castle windows. He was a heavily-
whiskered man with a loud, booming voice that rivaled even Slughorn’s own.

“Not at all, not at all,” James heard him saying as Slughorn took his cloak. “Wouldn’t have missed
it for the world! Of course, everything’s a right mess at the Ministry, but they can do without me
for a few hours, I say.”

It wasn’t until they were all seated that Slughorn properly introduced the man as Leonides Flint,
the Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. James’s stomach
twisted; he was beginning to feel as though this entire evening was an elaborate practical joke at
his expense, and it wasn’t very funny.

James peered around Florence to see who Slughorn had chosen as Flint’s dinner companion;
Regulus Black and Corin Mulciber were seated on either side of the man. Mulciber caught James’s
eye. James cocked his head and gave him the most arrogantly dismissive smile he could manage.
Mulciber walked around with far too much self-regard for a bastard who’d once been spellotaped
to the wall in his pants by yours truly, James rather thought. Perhaps following this train of
thought, Mulciber’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly and his lip curled.

“Ignore them,” whispered Florence, giving his hand a little squeeze under the table.

James was not sure he was capable of such a feat. In fact, he was beginning to find the whole
dinner highly unpleasant, and he felt increasingly certain he would not be making the Slug Club a
part of his usual routine. He could not particularly see the appeal of the event — though the food
was admittedly decent: Perdrix au choux and a handsome platter of potatoes made its way around
the table. That and the glass of Bordeaux that Slughorn did not seem to mind James drinking were
the extent of the dinner’s charm, so far as James could tell.

Apparently Slughorn liked to invite previous students to talk about their illustrious careers, and
that’s precisely what he'd invited both Belby and Flint to do. Belby went first, droning on in a very
oily way about the importance of experimentation in Potions and all the many exciting
developments they’d seen over the last century. It ought to have been interesting, really, but
somehow Belby made it sound rather dull.

Then it was Flint’s turn, but before the man could even dive in to the details of a day in the life of
regulating magical creatures, Mulciber spoke up.

“I suppose your department has been in uproar today,” he said. “What with the recent werewolf
attacks?”

“Bad business, that,” said Flint, shaking his whiskered head. “Bad, bad business.”
Mulciber fixed the man with a pointed sort of stare. “Do you think the werewolves are, in fact,
working with the Death Eaters, sir?”

“Well, now—“ Slughorn attempted to intervene, no doubt to steer the conversation back to more
palatable subjects, but Flint’s booming voice overtook him.

“Tough to say, tough to say. We’re interrogating every werewolf on the registry, of course, but it’s
doubtful any of them were responsible for the attack. The registry serves primarily to keep those
wolves in check. They know they’re being watched, so they behave. The rogues, however…”

“Surely something must be done about the werewolf problem,” interjected Adam Avery. “I mean,
we can’t just let them run amok through society, murdering as they please?”

“That’s hardly the case today,” said Flint. “We keep a very tight leash on werewolves in Britain—“

“But why give them any leash at all?” said Avery. “It seems to me that’s just asking for trouble.”

“Quite,” agreed Mulciber. “I don’t see why we don’t just exterminate the lot of them.”

“That’s quite extreme, Corin,” dithered Slughorn. “And not an entirely appropriate conversation
for dinner…”

“But not an altogether unpopular opinion,” conceded Flint. There was a look in his eye that
suggested to James he agreed with Mulciber. “Still, there are political considerations, as there
always are, ha ha…”

James suddenly realized that he was gripping his fork as though he were about to use it as a
weapon, and indeed the idea of hurling his cutlery directly at this despicable man’s brain was
entirely appealing. He thought of Professor McGonagall’s proclamation: “There are certain things
we must tolerate…” But this…this was beyond intolerable.

He was inches away from losing his temper, he could feel it, he desperately wanted to shout…but
Remus’s agonized voice echoed in his head: “You can’t, James.”

He bit his tongue, and he hated every second of it.

But then someone else spoke up.

“It would seem to me,” said Lily from across the table, her tone mild, her voice unflinchingly
polite, “that this is more a matter for your division, Mr. Belby.”

Belby blinked in surprise. “My division? I’m afraid I can’t see how—“

“Isn’t that the whole point of the Experimental Potions Committee? To find cures for magical
ailments and diseases? Surely, if the Ministry actually cared enough to mitigate the effects of
lycanthropy, something could be done.”

James was not the only person at the table to stare at her.

“It’s an interesting academic question…” said Belby with the air of someone making an indulgent
concession.

But Lily did not seem prepared to concede anything at all. “But it’s not simply academic, is it?
These are people’s lives at stake. People — fellow citizens — not beasts to be exterminated,” she
added with a fearsome look at Mulciber.
Mulciber’s smirk twitched.

“Did you know,” she went on, turning back to Belby, “that a Ministry commissioned study
determined that the average lifespan of a werewolf bitten as a child was thirty years. Thirty years.
Do you know what the average lifespan of a pure-blood wizard is?”

“I can’t say that I do.”

“Well, I do. I looked it up: Ninety-eight. More than three times the life of a person infected with
lycanthropy. And do you know what is the leading cause of death for those infected with
lycanthropy?”

“Being mauled by another mutt?” offered Avery.

“Suicide,” said Lily. There was an uncomfortable shifting in seats around the table. “And yet, no
government funded research is dedicated to solving that problem. I looked that up too. It’s just
independent experimentalists. Not a Knut from your committee, Mr. Belby. Meanwhile, people are
suffering and — and dying. And you want to call it academic.”

James’s stomach twisted miserably. Next to him, Florence was anxiously pleating her napkin in her
lap and glancing between Lily and Slughorn, the latter of whom seemed positively baffled by this
turn of conversation.

“Certainly everyone would like to solve the werewolf problem,” said Belby, whose tone had grown
less indulgent and rather more hostile. “But if it were as easy as simply curing lycanthropy, I assure
you, we would’ve done it yesterday…”

“Of course,” said Lily. “Because if you can’t have a perfect solution, why try at all? The cure for
Dragon Pox didn’t actually eradicate the disease, so was it a waste of time? What about the
hundreds of potions your committee has developed to lessen the pain and suffering of various
magical ailments? Why is lycanthropy not afforded the same dignity? I mean, one of the most
shockingly neglected areas of Potioneering is, in my opinion, menstrual pain, and it has a genuine
plethora of options compared to what lycanthropy is offered.”

At this, Belby choked on a bite of partridge, and James thought he’d possibly never adored Lily
Evans more.

But then a sly voice on the other side of Florence pulled his attention away: “Personally,” the boy
said, quietly enough that only those next to him could hear, “I think Sluggy just invites her for the
entertainment factor.”

Before James could respond, Florence hissed: “Shut it, Clarence. We both know you’d sell your
kidney for half her talent in Potions.”

And James smiled at Florence, warm feelings appropriately redirected.

“Look at that,” said Florence. “You survived your first Slug Club dinner.”

“And I feel posher already. I’m thinking of buying something large and imposing. Possibly a
hippogriff.”
“Don’t be beastly,” laughed Florence.

They were milling about by the entrance to the office as the dinner party broke up. Slughorn had
eventually regained control of the conversation, though Belby had seemed rather flustered for the
rest of the meal. Flint had not stuck around past pudding, claiming he had to get back to the
Ministry to put out some more fires.

James and Florence were now waiting for Lily, who was still being monopolized by Slughorn as
he said his farewells to Belby. Perhaps Slughorn thought he could still salvage the situation with
enough charm. As they watched Slughorn drone on, Florence suggested that perhaps Lily shouldn’t
walk back alone, and James agreed. He hadn’t liked the look that Mulciber was giving her by the
end.

“Well?” said Florence after a moment. “You hated it, didn’t you?”

James considered lying for the sake of her feelings, but he couldn’t quite muster the effort. “Yeah.
Sorry.”

Florence sighed. “They’re not always so contentious. I’m quite sure that’s not what Professor
Slughorn had in mind when he invited Mr. Belby, but…well, you know Lily.”

“A force to be reckoned with,” agreed James, unable to hide his smirk.

“She certainly has very firm convictions. I admire her for it terribly, of course, but she does get
herself in trouble. I knew the moment the subject of werewolves came up…”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just…she’s always been very passionate about this specific issue, apparently.”

“Has she?”

“Oh, yes. I mean, if she was willing to ditch Anson over it, Merlin only knows what she’d say to
poor Mr. Belby.”

James froze. “Sorry…what? She broke up with Nott because of…werewolf rights?”

Florence hesitated, looking as though she sensed treacherous waters ahead and did not want to
misstep. “That’s just what Phinn told me after the fact. Apparently he made some flippant
comment about werewolves, and Lily lost her temper, and then she and Anson got in a huge fight
about it. But…I don’t know the full details, so please don’t quote me.”

About a hundred different thoughts were racing through James’s brain, all battling for attention.
Lily’s tirade at dinner tonight…Sirius’s once uttered suspicion that Lily was a little too lenient with
her fellow frequently-absent prefect…the way she’d cornered James last year and asked about
Remus’s health…the way she’d kept that conversation a secret, even at great personal expense…
the way her hand had immediately shot up in class today when Professor Carter-Myles brought up
werewolves…and her answer to James’s question months ago, when he’d asked why she broke up
with Nott: “He said something I deemed unforgivable.”

And when he’d inquired what Nott had said so that he, James, wouldn’t make the same mistake:
“You wouldn’t say this.”

Did she…did she know?

“Well, that was excruciating,” came Lily’s voice, and James was wrenched from his reverie. “You
didn’t have to wait for me, you know.”

“Oh, we thought we’d all walk back together,” said Florence lightly. “Seeing as we’re headed more
or less the same way. And it wasn’t that bad.”

“Liar,” said Lily.

They were joined on their walk back by another Ravenclaw, a girl named Portia Savage, who
James did not know at all. She, Lily, and Florence chatted comfortably in a way that required little
input from James, which suited him just fine as for once he did not wish to keep up the
conversation. His head was still spinning with the implications of what Florence had just told him.

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t that bad,” said Florence.

“Oh, please. It was a disaster from start to finish.”

“Bringing up menstruation was a bold move,” said Portia.

“I hate a taboo,” said Lily. “Besides, am I wrong? The potions Pomfrey gives out are utter shit. We
have five hundred brews to change your appearance, to make your skin better, to make your hair
silkier, but no one’s figured out cramps yet? Honestly.”

“I keep telling you, you need to go into business and start selling that little potion of yours. It’s a
miracle worker, really. But…perhaps we should change the subject?” said Florence, with a glance
at James.

“James,” said Lily loudly, a slightly evil look in her eye, “does the concept of women menstruating
make you uncomfortable?”

James opened his mouth, then faltered. “This is a trap, right?”

All three girls laughed.

“Can we stop torturing my boyfriend?” said Florence, weaving her arm through James’s. “He’s had
a very hard day. He just sat through an entire miserable dinner on my behalf. Look at him, he’s
been so serious all night.”

“I think that’s the first I’ve ever been accused of being too serious,” said James.

“That’s because you hide it so well, darling…but every so often,” she added in a conspiratorial
aside to Lily and Portia, “he gets this distant, somber look on his face, and that’s how you know.”

“Well, anyway,” said James, feeling rather embarrassed.

Eventually they reached the point where the paths to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tower diverged.

“Well, I’ll see you all later,” said Lily, turning to leave.

“Hang on,” said James. “I’ll walk back with you.”

She looked at him as though he had just grown a second head. “Aren’t you going to walk Florence
back…?”

“Er…” He looked to Florence. She didn’t look terribly happy about it, but he knew she agreed with
him: It wasn’t safe for Lily to stroll the halls alone after dark.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” said Florence. “It’s awfully late, and we didn’t get after hours
passes, so by the time you walked all the way to Ravenclaw Tower and back…there’s just no
point.” She leaned up and kissed him. “See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow.”

Lily, who had looked pointedly away during the goodnight kiss, seemed to understand precisely
what they were up to, and she didn’t much like it — but nor did she argue as Florence and Portia
strolled away, and indeed she didn’t say much of anything until they had progressed a few
corridors.

Then: “I’m not an idiot, you know.”

James looked at her, taken aback. “What?”

“I know you walking back with me has nothing to do with after hours passes, and for the record: I
don’t need a bodyguard just because I’m Muggle-born. I am perfectly capable of walking myself
back to the dormitory.”

“Oh, I know that,” said James. “I’ve seen you in action. It’s the baby Death Eaters I’m worried
about. Who’s going to protect the little snakes from Lily Evans?”

Lily’s lips twitched; she looked as though she were trying not to smile. Or perhaps it was the other
way around. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not,” said James, dropping his flippant air. “Look, it wasn’t a slight or anything. It’s just
that…well, ever since that list, things have been a little dicey. I know I don’t need to tell you —
and I know you can handle yourself, but…your friends worry. That’s all.”

Lily was silent for a long, awkward moment as she chewed on this. “Okay,” she said at last. “So
does this mean you’re going to be a regular at old Sluggy's now?”

“Merlin, I hope not,” said James. “Er — no offense.”

Lily laughed. “None taken. Although honestly, they’re not always this prickly. They used to be
fun.”

“Back when you and Nott were dating.”

Lily cast him a sidelong glance. “Yeah. Back then.”

James desperately wanted to ask her if what Florence said was true, if they’d really split up over an
argument about werewolves…but he couldn’t think of the right way to phrase it. If he was wrong,
and she didn’t know…

“So, things are going well with Florence?” said Lily, interrupting his agonized calculations.

“Oh, yeah. Things are great. She’s great.”

“Great.”
 “How about you? Are you and that bloke from the M.B.S.C….?

“Graham?”

“That’s the one, Graham.”

“We’re just friends.”

James couldn’t help but raise a skeptical eyebrow. He remembered quite clearly the way she’d
thrown her arms around his neck on the dance floor, the way he’d twirled her through the air.

“Men and women can be just friends, you know,” said Lily.

“Yeah,” muttered James. “I’m counting on it.”

An awkward pause yawned between them as they continued down the dim corridor. The rain that
had dripped all dinner had picked up now, a steady percussion against the windowpanes.

“Listen,” said James. “Just so you know…prickly or not…I agree with you. Everything you said to
that Belby fellow tonight. You’re one hundred percent right.”

Lily glanced at him, her expression thoughtful. Perhaps he was reading too much into it — he
always did, when it came to Lily — but she looked as though she really wanted to say something
but couldn’t quite manage it. At last, she let out a small huff of air that fluttered the stray strands of
red hair around her face and said, “Somehow doubt he’s going to give me an internship though.”

James laughed. “Probably not.”

As they climbed the final set of stairs to the seventh floor, James continued to agonize silently. If
she knew that Remus was a werewolf, he needed to know for sure, but there was no good way to
pose the question. He toyed with increasingly ridiculous options in his mind: Excuse me, Evans,
but do you happen to be aware of certain classmate’s furry little problem? No? Never mind then…

“What on earth?” said Lily, for they had turned down the corridor leading to the portrait of the Fat
Lady to find it congested with students.

“What do you want to bet that Remus made the password Welsh again?” joked James.

Lily smiled, but it didn’t last long, for as they pushed through the crowd they noticed that everyone
seemed rather upset.

“Excuse me,” said Lily loudly. “I’m a prefect. What’s going on here?”

She did not need a response, however, for as they stepped closer, the answer became obvious:
There, in dripping black paint, spread across the stretched canvas and gilded frame of the now-fled
Fat Lady, was a giant graffitied skull with a snake slithering out of its teeth.

A Dark Mark.

Chapter End Notes

Just a head's up that I started fall classes this week, so updates may be a little bumpy
for the next bit of time. Going to do my best though! :)
 Dark Marks

LILY

Dark Marks
The drip of black paint down a gilded frame. The stretched canvas, desolate, empty, abandoned by
its subject, stained with a graffiti of hate. The slick lines of a skull, the cruel curve of a painted
snake. And there, beneath the emblem, was scrawled a word Lily had not immediately noticed:
SCUM.

Despite the pandemonium surrounding the portrait hole, despite the steadily-increasing decibel of
hysteria as students sussed out just what was going on, despite the hisses and gasps and sobs — the
world to Lily had gone deathly quiet, save for a faint, high-pitched hum like the ringing in ears
after a bomb.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen it before, the Dark Mark. She had, several times now. She’d seen it
printed in the Prophet, she’d seen it scratched crudely on the stall of the girls’ toilet. On one
occasion, she’d seen it graffitied just like this, in Professor Dearborn’s office last year,
accompanied by the words: GO HOME MUDBLOOD.

But seeing it splashed across the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, defiling a landmark as sturdy and
secure as the Fat Lady…it felt different, somehow.

A puddle of black paint was pooling at the bottom corner of the portrait’s frame, like a blossoming
spill of ink, like a gash of blackened blood…she watched as it dripped, dripped, dripped…

“Evans,” murmured a voice beside her, and the hum stopped; the world came roaring back. Lily
jerked her gaze away from the portrait to see James at her side. While she had stared at the dripping
paint, she realized, his gaze had been on her, brow knitted, jaw clenched.

The knot of students around them grew ever more tangled; it was nearly curfew, and stragglers like
themselves were arriving to find the way blocked. Something had to be done. Lily glanced around
for someone to take charge, but then she noticed a first year girl staring at her, and she remembered
that she was supposed to be in charge. She was a prefect, after all, a senior prefect. She was
supposed to be the one to keep it together. She couldn’t panic, she couldn’t fall apart. Everyone
was looking to her. She had to be strong.

“Okay, everyone,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as wavering as it felt. “Everyone —
calm down, please!”
This, of course, achieved exactly nothing.

“Excuse me!” she called, louder this time. “Can everyone please just—“

“OI!” bellowed James from beside her. “EVERYONE SHUT IT!”

Everyone did, in fact, shut it. James looked back to Lily and nodded.

“Erm, thanks,” she said. Then she turned back to the crowd. “What happened here? Did anyone see
— how long as this been here?”

“We’ve been stuck about twenty minutes now,” said a boy from a gaggle of third years nearby.

“The Fat Lady was already gone, we couldn’t get in,” volunteered another.

“Has anyone informed Professor McGonagall?” demanded Lily.

The students looked around themselves. Silence.

“Well, get to it,” said James. “You there — go fetch McGonagall. And the Headmaster, if you can
muster him.”

The designated student scurried off, a few of his friends following behind.

“Is anyone hurt?” asked Lily. At James’s look, she added in a lower voice: “The Dark Mark
typically indicates an attack…”

James muttered something under his breath that might’ve been a swear. Then: “Well? You heard
her. Was anyone hurt?”

“Not that we know of!” piped up the same helpful third year.

“Just the Fat Lady,” said the other student. “She’s run off, hasn’t she?”

“I don’t like it,” James muttered to Lily. “We shouldn’t all congregate here like this, it’s too
crowded. If someone’s —“ he broke off that sentence, glancing at the students around him, but Lily
knew what he was thinking. If someone wanted to attack, they’d be sitting ducks. How strange to
think such a thing about a place that yesterday had felt perfectly safe.

“What can we do?” she muttered back. “We can’t get in until the Fat Lady returns.”

“There’s an old classroom just down the hall. Third door on the left. Rarely used but usually
unlocked. Why don’t you take everyone down there, and I’ll stay here to meet McGonagall and
direct any stragglers your way.”

“Okay,” Lily agreed. It was a good plan — or at least as good as they would get, given the
circumstances.

James nodded, then turned back to the crowd. “All right, everyone,” he announced, his voice as
cheerful and steady as though he were giving instructions for Quidditch practice. “We’re going to
play a game of Follow the Prefect. Evans here is going to lead you all to a classroom down the
corridor, and we’re going to hang out there for a bit, okay?”

“Why?” demanded an anxious voice from the crowd.

“We need to clear the area, so the professors can get through.”
“How are we going to get back into our dorms?”

“Are we going to be stuck out here all night?”

“Are we under attack?” This came from the first year Lily had noticed staring at her before. The
girl’s eyes were wide, terrified. If Lily had a spare Galleon, she wouldn’t hesitate to bet it that that
girl was Muggle-born.

“Of course we’re not under attack,” said James breezily. “I don’t see any jinxes flying about, do
you?”

“But that’s the D-Dark Mark,” squeaked the first year. “That means there’s an attack…”

“That,” said James, glancing at the defaced portrait with disdain, “is just a foul bit of graffiti. A
tasteless prank. It’s not even very good, is it? I mean, you call that a skull? Where are the poor
bastard’s teeth? When you sign up for the Dark Arts, d’you reckon you have to swear off dentistry
as well as decency?”

The girl laughed, as much out of surprise as anything else.

“I can draw better than that,” continued James, “and I’ve been told by no less than two of my mates
that I have the artistic talent of an inebriated troll. Bit rude of them, really. Not sure what trolls ever
did to deserve that comparison. Anyway, come on. Off you go.”

He gave the first year a gentle shove towards Lily, who put an arm around the girl’s shoulder
before casting a small, quick smile of gratitude up at James and his tireless ability to cheer people
up. He winked in return, then went back to the crowd of students, hustling them along.

The girl’s name was Maggie, and she was indeed Muggle-born. While the other students milled
about the classroom, gossiping and rehashing the evening’s events, Maggie sat by Lily, all but
silent, startling at the scraping of chairs, the grumble of thunder overhead. The light rain of early
evening had progressed into a proper storm now; rain strafed the windows, and every so often
lightning flashed through the classroom. Lily made a few attempts to draw the clearly anxious
Maggie into a distracting conversation but without much success. The most progress she made was
when she brought up Top of the Pops, and Maggie’s eyes briefly lit up as she gushed about this
year’s Christmas special and her personal favorite performance, Elton John and Kiki Dee — but
then a crack of thunder boomed like artillery, and the girl quickly fell silent again, chewing her
nails. The clock ticked on.

Every once in a while a student would come up to Lily and ask how long they were going to have
to wait, and what would they do if they couldn’t get back to their dorms? She told them matter-of-
factly that the teachers were handling it and they just had to be patient, but the truth of it was she
didn’t have any more answers than the rest of them, despite the prefect badge pinned to her robes.

“Why do they hate us so much?”

Lily jumped; Maggie had been silent for so long, Lily had almost forgotten she was there. She
looked down at the girl — her fingers knotted anxiously together, her eyes wide with worry and
confusion — and Lily fought the urge to lie to her. To tell her that of course no one hated her, that
everything was and would be just fine. But she remembered being that age; she remembered
navigating an entirely new society in which half her classmates inexplicably hated her for
something she couldn’t control, and the other half pretended like it wasn’t even real. Like it didn’t
matter. It was isolating and infuriating, and she wouldn’t do that to anyone else.

Still, she chose her words carefully. “They fear us. That’s all hate is, really. Fear.”

“Fear of what? I’m not very scary.”

“Oh, but you’re terrifying,” said Lily, smiling slightly at the girl’s look of incredulity. “Because
you represent change, and the future, and a threat to the power these people have been clinging to
for years. But they’re not the only ones with power. You and me? We have so much power. We
have the power to create a world in which their hate is…inconsequential. And that’s what they’re
so afraid of.”

“I don’t feel very powerful,” muttered Maggie.

“I know. Most days I don’t either. But if they weren’t so scared, they wouldn’t pull stunts like
this.”

Maggie nodded, then drifted back into a slightly softer silence.

At last, the Headmaster arrived, along with Professor McGonagall, who immediately began to
corral the students back towards the dormitory. Professor Dumbledore, however, motioned for Lily
and James to join him.

“I want to thank you both for taking charge of the situation,” he told them. “I’m happy to say the
Fat Lady has been located and the portrait restored.”

“Already?” said Lily, surprised.

“Most fortunately, the assailant used regular paint, which is quite easy to remove with magic. No
permanent damage done.”

“Did she see who it was, sir?” asked James.

Dumbledore sighed. He always struck an impressive, commanding figure far away, but now that
Lily stood beside him up close, she rather thought he looked tired…weary. “I’m afraid not. She
believes it was a student but said they had covered their face and rather cleverly blinded her with a
stroke of paint before she could make further inquiries. She fled shortly after.”

Lily bit back a frustrated comment. The Death Eater wannabes were waging guerrilla warfare on
the Muggle-born population, and they kept getting away with it.

“In the meantime,” continued the Headmaster. “I have asked Sir Nicholas and some of the other
ghosts to attend to the entrance of Gryffindor Tower in the evenings for added security, and he has
graciously agreed. I will of course rely on prefects to assist throughout the day.”

“Of course, sir.”

He thanked them and suggested they join the rest of their classmates and head to bed.
But as the rest of the students filed out, Lily lingered, perched atop the desk and peering out the
window at the storm. She just needed a moment to herself, a moment where no one was watching
her, expecting her to have answers or solutions, to keep it together, to be strong. She closed her eyes
and took a deep breath, listening to the patter of rain, trying to steady her thoroughly rattled
interior.

“Hey.”

She opened her eyes. The classroom was empty now, except for James, who stood in the doorway,
watching her.

“Are you okay?”

The words ‘I’m fine’ were already marching towards the tip of her tongue, an old and automatic
response, and she very nearly said them, but then she stopped herself. She found, strangely, that she
wanted to be honest with him.

“No,” she said at last. “That was…I’ve seen Dark Marks before, of course, but that was far more
viscerally upsetting than I would have expected it to be.”

It felt silly admitting this, childish even, and she cringed, expecting James’s reply to be pitying or
condescending, but instead he offered a solemn nod of agreement.

“Yeah, I thought so too.”

Then he walked over and sat atop the desk across from her.

“I don’t know why,” Lily mumbled, hugging her arms to her chest.

“Because they went after our home,” said James simply.

That was it, exactly. Lily didn’t have anything further to say to that, and neither it seemed did
James, so they just sat for a moment, silent but for the mutter of thunder. Then Lily said: “Things
are escalating, aren’t they? First that damned list, then all those attacks and hexings…and now this.
It really does feel like an act of war, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what it is. War. But it’s a war we’re going to win.”

The we hit her.

“How can you be sure?”

James let out a little huff of breath as he pushed his glasses up the arch of nose. “Because we have
to. And…all right, maybe this is going to make me sound naive. Maybe I am naive, but…I still
believe that if good people who care put in the work…things can change. Good can conquer evil.
It has to.”

It was striking, just how much she wanted to believe this was true. How much she needed to
believe it…

“Besides,” continued James, “if the whole moral high ground thing doesn’t work out, there’s
always the fact that the enemy is extremely inbred.”

Lily let out a surprised snort of laughter. “Shut it.”

“No, it’s true. You marry your cousin enough times, you get the likes of Mulciber and Avery. And
I mean, you’ve met Evan Rosier, right? Personally, I think one of his two braincells got tired of
being so overworked and went on strike.”

“Generous of you to assume he ever had two.”

“Well, you know me. I like to think the best of people.”

Lily laughed — a genuine laugh — then glowered at him with a mixture of frustration and
admiration. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always make me laugh at exactly the moment when I’m certain that laughing is the last thing
I want to do.”

“…Is that a bad thing?”

“No. It’s…really nice, actually.”

“Well, all right then.”

In the same way they always did whenever excitement of any flavor occurred within the castle’s
boundaries, the students of Hogwarts discussed the incident at Gryffindor Tower endlessly over the
following days. Indeed, by the end of the week, they had not merely flogged the proverbial horse
to death, they had dragged it from its paddock, paraded it around the castle, and beat it a few more
times just for sport.

Only a handful of Gryffindors had actually been at the scene, of course, and yet the whole castle
seemed to have an opinion on the matter, as well as highly-specific details, shocking in both their
vividness and blatant incorrectness. Lily was tired of hearing about it — and being asked about it,
since word had gotten around that she’d been there. She didn’t have much more to say, and
besides, she had other concerns far more pressing to occupy her time than feeding the ever-hungry
Hogwarts Gossip Mill.

One of these concerns was for the students who were most impacted by the egregious act of hate.
Lily found first year Maggie in the common room a few days later and invited her to the M.B.S.C.,
though she somewhat regretted this as the next meeting was particularly heavy. It had been a rough
week. In addition to the Dark Mark at Gryffindor Tower, there had been an article in the newspaper
about Death Eaters targeting the families of so-called Muggle-born extremists. (“‘Extremist’ just
means someone who dares have an opinion while Muggle-born,” Graham had said.)

“No one told me that becoming a witch meant people would want to kill my family,” sobbed a
Ravenclaw fourth year. “I didn’t ask for any of this. No one even gave me a choice.”

The mood was decidedly bleak, and not even ABBA could lift everyone’s spirits.

Her other concern was less existential, but in its own way, infinitely torturous: James.

She had tried to tell herself that the ever-increasing intensity of her feelings for him were merely
exacerbated by the simple fact that, well, she hadn’t snogged anyone in a while. This wasn’t for
lack of options, really. There were certainly boys around the castle who would snog her, if offered
the opportunity. That wasn’t vanity, that was just a fact. Bertram Aubrey had hit on her in the
library last week, but Lily was not so desperate as to pursue that again. Florence had previously
offered to set her up with some bloke from Ravenclaw, and though Lily had declined at the time,
she was starting to rethink it. The fact of the matter was that she was seventeen years old, and she
wanted to be touched. What was so wrong about that?

Perhaps, she thought, if she could just get it out of her system, then…what, exactly? She’d stop
fancying James? Not bloody likely. Potions would be less excruciating? Yeah, sure…as though
there were any situation in which brewing a months-long love potion with the boy she’d fancied
since age thirteen was going to be anything less than torturous.

But perhaps it would be a distraction, something she desperately needed. She had to be careful,
after all. She was afraid she was being far too obvious. Every class, every meal, every free moment
in the common room, she caught herself glancing his way. She had to stop. It was bad enough that
Marlene knew, but what if Sirius Black figured it out? She didn’t think she’d be able to bear it.

Not that bearing it was a walk in the park right now. Slughorn’s dinner had been awful. Watching
James and Florence together…how comfortable they were, how soft and sweet. She ought to just
cut them both out of her social life and start over, but apart from the logistical impossibility of that
idea, she didn’t want to.

She’d been terribly embarrassed when James had insisted on walking her back to Gryffindor
Tower, mortified by the look of understanding that had passed between him and Florence. Clearly
they had discussed it previously, her vulnerability. She’d wanted to be furious with him for that,
and for about two paces she’d managed it. But then he’d won her over, as he always did, and in the
end — when they came across the Dark Mark — she was truly glad that it had been him there by
her side, and no one else.

She was a mess.

And so she distracted herself from both of these concerns with a third, final concern: Remus.

She had long since shed any uncertainty she’d had as to the true nature of Remus Lupin’s ‘illness,’
but if any lingering doubts remained, they would’ve been banished after the events of the past
week. She hadn’t dared turn around to look at the boys during Carter-Myles’s repugnant lecture,
but she had seen their faces as they’d left the classroom. She had also noticed the way James had
tensed up immediately when the issue of werewolves was raised at Slughorn’s dinner. And she had
watched miserably as Remus retreated further and further into himself as the week went on.

Lily was angry. She was angry at Carter-Myles for his horrible, hateful, bigoted behavior; she was
angry at Damocles Belby for his useless waffling; she was angry with the Ministry for its utter lack
of compassion or care; and she was angry at the world for being so needlessly cruel.

Carter-Myles’ lecture and Slughorn’s dinner had got her thinking, though. She’d found herself
reflecting on a conversation with Remus from many months ago, when he’d told her that he’d tried
some experimental potions as a child and they’d made things worse. It was as close as they’d ever
come to talking about the truth of his situation. Lily had questioned why the Ministry or St.
Mungo’s wasn’t doing anything to make the disease more manageable. Remus’s answer had been
stark in its honesty: “They don’t care.”

Well, she cared! And all right, maybe she wasn’t a renowned experimental Potioneer — yet — but
she brewed a far better potion for cramps than anything else on the market. Why couldn’t she come
up with something that might help Remus?
And so she’d thrown herself into the project, checking out book after book on lycanthropy, on
Healing potions, on pain. It made her feel like she was doing something, which was its own balm
to the endless onslaught of helplessness she felt these days, and it kept her brain busy so that she
focused less on the previously mentioned concerns.

Although, she bitterly mused as she settled into a seat in the common room, bag laden with library
books, no distraction in the universe was strong enough to stop her gaze from flickering to James
across the room. He was seated in armchair across from Remus, so that Lily could only see the
back of his messy hair. He appeared to be speaking earnestly, leaning forward, elbows to knees.
Remus was curled in a knot of limbs, looking miserable, as he had almost every day since Carter-
Myles’ terrible class. She watched as James stood and dropped himself on the sofa next to Remus,
chatting ever more cheerily until finally Remus relented and started to laugh.

She thought of what James had said in that classroom the other evening: “If good people who care
put in the work…things can change.”

She pulled the library books from her bag.

Some of the Healing books she’d actually read before, back in third year when she’d been on a
desperate hunt for anything that might help her mother, so she started instead with a demanding-
looking tome on blood curses. Chapter twelve: Lycanthropy.

Someone cleared their throat above her. Lily, who was about halfway through the rather densely-
written chapter at this point, looked up to see Sirius Black observing her, as though he’d been
passing by and something caught his eye to make him pause. By the way he glanced down at her
book, she knew what that something was.

Her cheeks reddened. “Yes?”

“Working on Carter-Myles’ essay, are you?”

“Something like that.”

Sirius chewed his tongue for a moment, brow furrowed. Then he gave her a brisk nod of
acknowledgement and took off towards Remus and James.

None of the books were particularly helpful, but she hadn’t really expected them to be. After all,
the whole idea behind experimental potions was inventing something that didn’t exist yet, so her
reading was really more about gathering inspiration. In the end, she decided to start by brewing a
few standard pain potions and making some minor changes, just to see how it worked out.

It was with this goal in mind that she headed to the greenhouses on Sunday morning. Professor
Sprout had given her permission to harvest some various medicinal plants from Greenhouse Six for
what Lily referred to as an independent study project.

March had brought about an uncertain spring, drifting between squalls of rain and brief reprieves of
sunshine. But the softness of spring was breathtaking — the buds of wildflowers, the gentle
encroachment of color — and as she approached the greenhouses, Lily happily let her gaze wander
off towards the forest, where morning mist hung over a profusion of green. As she was admiring
this scene, a flash of movement along the forest line caught her eye, and she turned to see a large,
black dog sniffing a tree trunk with evident interest.

She stared at the dog, an odd feeling of familiarity overcoming her, as though she’d seen it before,
but couldn’t quite place where. The dog seemed to sense her gaze, and it looked up from the trunk
to return her stare. The memory was on the tip of her tongue, she almost had it…when the clatter of
a greenhouse door pulled her attention away, and when she glanced back, the dog was gone.

The door-clattering culprit, however, remained: Lily watched as Davey Gudgeon sneaked into
Greenhouse Seven, looking rather shifty as he did so. Greenhouse Seven, Lily knew, was not in
regular use. Curiously, she followed Davey in.

Upon first entry, the greenhouse appeared to be nothing but storage: Boxes and crates were piled
up to the rafters, abandoned packets of seed were scattered across the concrete floor, towers of
unused terracotta growing pots wobbled like the skyline of an abandoned ancient city. An earthy,
slightly skunky scent filled the air. Had she not just seen Davey enter, she might’ve left — but
towards the back of all this mess there was a slight gap between the crates, through which a person
might potentially squeeze.

She squeezed — then gasped.

“Oh my god.”

She had just walked into what could only be described as a jungle of weed. Rows and rows of
cannabis plants filled the space, tall stems arching towards the glass-paned ceiling, fanned leaves
reaching out and tickling as Lily pressed through. There, at the back, was Davey Gudgeon, a joint
in hand, the smoke of it adding to the already oppressive fug of cannabis. He hadn’t noticed her
yet. She watched as he took another hit, then placed the joint on a worktable near the back and
continued with whatever task he’d been attending.

Lily suddenly recalled Cecil at the M.B.S.C. meeting, high as a kite, talking about “some fifth
year” who’d been selling weed. Name like a budgerigar…

“Hi Gudgie,” she said loudly.

Davey nearly jumped out of his skin. “Christ! Oh. Lily. Hi.”

“What are you doing?”

“Er…” Davey glanced around the greenhouse, as though looking for an excuse, or possibly an exit.
He edged the joint out of view. “Some extracurricular Herbology homework?”

“You’re growing weed for Herbology?”

“Huh?” Davey feigned confusion. “Weed? What’s weed?”

“Davey.”

“Oh, you mean this stuff? This is…er…just some Muggle herb I learned about this summer.
Professor Sprout said I could use one of the empty greenhouses.”

“For your pot empire?”

“For…experimental Muggle herbs.”

Lily couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve got balls, Davey. I’ll give you that.” She leaned over to sniff
the bud of a plant. “I know you’ve been dealing around school.”

Davey shifted nervously. “So? It’s not dangerous.”

“I know that.”

“And it’s not technically illegal in the Wizarding world.”

“No?”

“Nope. They don’t use it for much, to tell you the truth, which blows my mind. Leave it to wizards
to ignore something wonderful just because Muggles like it, eh? Apparently cannabis gets all
mucked up when you try to mix it with magic, but on it’s own…”

Lily’s mind was racing. Perhaps she’d been searching for a magical cure when something Muggle
would do the trick just as well. Sometimes revelations require lots of work and planning and trial
and error. Sometimes you simply stumble into them. Either way, Lily had an idea.

“Still,” she interrupted Davey’s poetic tribute to the wonderful plant, “I don’t think Professor
McGonagall would be very happy about this, do you?”

Davey paled. “Oh, come on, Lily. I thought you were cool.”

“I am extremely cool,” said Lily, coolly. “I am so cool, in fact, that I am going to make a deal with
you. You give me weed, and I won’t tell anyone about your little operation.”

“You won’t? What’s the catch?”

“I just told you the catch, Davey. You have to give me the weed.”

“Oh, right.”

“And, now that I think of it, you have to swear you’ll only deal to sixth years and older.”

“Sixth years?” cried Davey, aghast. “That wipes out nearly half my clients!”

“It’ll wipe out all of them if I go to McGonagall.”

“I’m not even a sixth year. Fourth, and we have a deal.”

“Fifth, final offer.”

Davey looked pained, weighing his options. “Yeah, all right.”

“And I want access to all this,” added Lily, who was making this up on the fly. “You give me all
the weed I may or may not need in the future, and in return, I’ll keep your secret.”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

Lily thought about it. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Bloody hell. That is really sexy.”

“Don’t push your luck, Davey.”

Perhaps equally valuable to the bag full of cannabis flower in her pocket was all the information
Davey had given her. He didn’t seem to begrudge her blackmailing him. In fact, he was just excited
to get to talk about his favorite pastime — and talk he did, sharing all sorts of useful tips and
methods that Lily intended to put to use, although doing so would take some careful plotting.

With the added security of the Hogwarts ghosts in the evenings, the Fat Lady had been persuaded
to return to her post outside of Gryffindor Tower, but rumor had it she had not fully recovered from
her ordeal. Now, as Lily returned to the common room, she sat austerely in her frame, sending the
occasional nervous glance over her shoulder at the sound of unfamiliar footsteps.

“Well, don’t dilly-dally around,” the Fat Lady scolded her, flinging the portrait hole open at once
as Lily uttered the password. “Go on, get inside quickly now.”

Lily obliged, feeling rather sorry for the anxious portrait. She spotted Marlene across the common
room and went to join her.

“Have you ever had a butterfly land on your cheek?” asked Marlene by way of greeting.

“Sorry?”

“A butterfly.”

“Can’t say that I have,” said Lily as she dropped herself into a chair. She had learned to just roll
with conversations with Marlene.

“Neither have I,” grumbled Marlene. “I have to write an essay for Divination on my experience
with omens and none of these have ever happened to me. Why do the Forces of Mysticism and
Clairvoyance hate me?”

“Let me see that,” said Lily, reaching for the book. She flipped through the pages with mild
interest. Black cats crossing your path…the spilling of salt…Lily had dropped Divination for a
reason. Apart from not being very good at the subject, she found the notion of altering your life
plans just because you got pooed on by a bird to be terribly silly.

However, as she turned the page, one illustration in particular caught her attention: A large black
dog prowling a cemetery, its gleaming eyes staring directly out the page.

“What is it?” demanded Marlene.

“Hm?” Lily pulled her gaze away from the dog and looked up at Marlene.

“Your face just did a thing. You’ve seen an omen, haven’t you? Tell me about it, maybe I can use
it for my essay.”

“No, it’s nothing,” laughed Lily. “I was just down at the greenhouses this morning and I saw a dog
at the edge of the forest. This made me think of that.”

“A dog?” Marlene grabbed the book from Lily’s hands and studied the illustration. “It looked like
this?”

“A bit. It was, you know, big and black. And…dog-like.”

“Lily,” Marlene’s voice was unusually hushed. “Lily, that’s really bad.”
“What?”

“This is a Grim.”

“So?”

“It’s an omen of…of death.”

“Oh, please. So you’re saying because I saw a dog in the forest, I’m going to die? That sounds like
make-believe.”

“I’m not saying what it means, but the Grim is not make-believe. When people see it…death is not
far away.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Marlene. It was just a dog. Not a death omen. I thought you were
more sensible than that.”

She did not bring up the dog again, though it prowled the corners of her consciousness. She still
felt as though she’d seen it before, though she couldn’t recall where. If she had seen it, it certainly
hadn’t killed her. Anyway, she didn’t believe in death omens. She didn’t.

Still, there was no denying death seemed to be coming to Hogwarts more frequently these days,
flying in on the wings of owls bringing newspapers bedecked with devastation, interrupting class
when a student’s head of house came to fetch them in the middle of lecture to deliver horrible
news.

This had only happened once, when Professor Sprout had to retrieve fifth year Lois Perkins from
History of Magic to tell her that her mother, a Muggle-born witch, had gone missing. No one had
seen Lois since then. Rumor had it she had left England with her father, but that was probably just
because of what happened to Mary.

It was easy, in the endless swirl of life and academics, to get swept away by trivial concerns, by
homework and essays and deadlines and dinner and heartbreak and boys who didn’t fancy you
back — but then the real world inevitably came crashing down by the news of some fresh violence,
by a Dark Mark grafitied across a common room door.

It wasn’t a Grim, she told herself for about the hundredth time. Lily was no more immune to the
terror than any other Muggle-born student. She scanned every issue of the Daily Prophet for
mentions of her hometown; she anxiously waited for quick replies to the letters she wrote home.
When she was at school, “home” as a concept — Cokeworth, the church, Spinner’s End — always
seemed so far away, as fantastical as a magical castle in Scotland once had. When she was at
Hogwarts, it didn’t feel real. When she was home, the magical world became the myth. The idea of
the two colliding felt impossible…and yet she scanned the newspapers along with everyone else.

But she didn’t like to think about this for too long. Fortunately, she had important matters to
distract her from these endless ruminations, and so one quiet evening a few days later, Lily headed
towards the kitchens to enact her plan.

Or she meant to. She’d only made it about halfway there when someone threw an arm around her
shoulder. Startled, she looked up to see Sirius Black.

“Evans. Need a word. Walk with me.”

“No, thank you,” said Lily, and she tried to shrug off his arm, but Sirius held firm, steering her into
a nearby classroom.

“Afraid I really must insist. In here.”

“I’m sort of busy at the moment, Black.”

“We only need a minute of your time,” said James, who was apparently already in the classroom.
He closed the door, looking apologetic. “Won’t take long, promise.”

Lily stared. “Were you lying in wait for me?”

“Please,” said James, and he gestured towards one of the desks, as though inviting her to sit. “We
just want to talk.”

The scene was ridiculous, and Lily couldn’t help but laugh. “What is this, some sort of good
cop/bad cop routine?” She raised her eyebrows in James’s direction. “Are you the good cop?”

James glanced at Sirius, who shrugged. “I don’t know what that means,” admitted James.

Lily rolled her eyes. “Figures.”

When it became apparent Lily was not going to sit, James perched himself atop one of the desks,
hands gripping the edges. He looked nervous, almost. Which was…a little concerning, to tell the
truth, but mostly adorable. God, why was he so adorable?

She forced her attention away and turned to Sirius instead. “Well? What is it? Why the need for all
the secrecy and manhandling?”

“I did not manhandle you.”

“I feel manhandled.”

“Well, that’s your prerogative.” Sirius glanced back to the door and, as though a second thought, he
shot a quick muting spell at the door. Then he turned back to Lily, who was starting to feel nervous
herself. “Right,” said Sirius. “We know you’ve been keeping something secret. About…” he
glanced at James, who grimaced.

Lily felt her stomach drop. “What? No, I haven’t.”

“Evans,” said James, and there was something placating about his tone. “I appreciate the
discretion, but it was pretty obvious after Slughorn’s dinner. And Florence told me…” he petered
off. Neither of them seemed to want to name precisely what secret she’d been keeping, but Lily
was rapidly putting two and two together, her mortification growing with every line of mental
arithmetic.

Oh, god. They knew she fancied James. That had to be what this was. “Florence told me…” Had
she really been that obvious? She’d tried to keep her staring to a minimum. Honestly, it felt like
she’d hardly looked at him the whole dinner, but apparently she’d been obvious about it, and
Florence had noticed, just like Marlene had noticed, and Florence said something to James, and
now he was here to let her down gently. Which was thoroughly humiliating. But why the hell was
Sirius Black a part of this conversation?

She voiced this question.

“Because,” said Sirius, looking vaguely offended, “if something concerns one of my friends, it
concerns me.”

“You two have a very odd relationship, you know that right?”

“You’re dodging the question.”

“I don’t recall a ‘question’ being asked.”

“Look,” said James, “I know you’re friends with…”

He retreated into ellipses again, but Lily filled in the blank for him. Florence. She was friends with
Florence. She was friends with Florence, and she fancied Florence's boyfriend, and she was so
stupidly obvious about it that everyone knew…

“For fucks sake,” Sirius interrupted her spiral. “Will you just tell us what you think you know
about him?”

“Him?” Lily blinked. That didn’t line up at all…unless they weren’t talking about… oh. “Hang
on…are you talking about Remus?”

James frowned. “Who did you think we were talking about?”

“Never mind,” said Lily quickly, almost giddy with relief. She sobered as she caught sight of the
other boys’ somber faces. “I — yes, all right. I know about Remus.”

Sirius swore under his breath; James was looking at her intently, his expression difficult to
interpret.

“What do you know?” he asked. “You have to say it first. We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if we’re wrong about what we think you know, we need to know that too.”

“So if I’m wrong, you’re not going to tell me what I’m wrong about?”

“Correct.”

Lily half-laughed, looking down at her shoes. “You’re a good friend.” She dropped into the seat at
one of the desks at last and peered up at the two boys who were watching her so closely. Now that
she’d figured out what they were on about, it was actually rather sweet, their concern. But she
hadn’t wanted it come about this way; she’d wanted Remus to tell her in his own time, when he
was comfortable, when he’d finally realized he could trust her. She hadn’t planned on being
confronted like this, as though she’d done something wrong, as though she were keeping a
dangerous secret.

Oh well.
She took a deep breath. “Remus is a werewolf.”

A moment of stunned silence as the words hung between them. Then James asked in a slightly
hushed voice: “How long have you known?”

“Since last year.”

Sirius swore again, more emphatically this time. Then he rounded on her: “Have you told anyone
else?”

“Mate—“ protested James.

“Have you?”

“No,” said Lily, indignant. “I haven’t told a soul and I don’t plan to.”

“I told you,” muttered James. “I told you she wouldn’t—“

Sirius ignored him. “Did someone tell you?”

“What?”

“I’ll be clear: Did Snape tell you?”

Lily blinked, taken aback. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“A lot. Did he tell you?”

“No! Well — not exactly.”

“What does that mean, ‘not exactly’?”

Lily hesitated. “He — he was suspicious,” she admitted. “He told me that he thought Remus might
be a, you know, werewolf, but that he didn’t have any proof. And I told him he was being
ridiculous and that he should mind his own business anyway. He didn’t like that much.”

“I bet he didn’t,” said James bitterly. “Minding his own business has never been one of Snivellus’s
virtues.”

Lily shot him a sharp look. She may not be on good terms with Severus anymore, but she still
hated that nickname.

Sirius was pacing back and forth before the blackboard. “When was that? When Snape told you he
had suspicions?”

“Er…” Lily thought. “Shortly before Christmas, I think? Yes, that’s right, because I stewed about
it all break, and then when I got back to school I did my own research, and, well…it was rather
obvious.”

“And Snape never brought it up again?”

Lily was getting a little tired of being interrogated. “Why does it matter so much?”

Sirius and James exchanged a significant look. “Because,” said James, “we need to know if
Snape’s going around telling people that Remus is a werewolf.”
“If he does,” said Sirius, a slightly vicious note to his voice, “he’ll be expelled.”

At Lily’s look of confusion, James added quietly: “Snape got his proof. He knows, but he’s been
forbidden to tell anyone. On pain of expulsion.”

A lot of things were suddenly making sense. Lily thought of Severus last year, the way he’d been
spitting with rage after whatever had happened at the Whomping Willow…after James had saved
him…the way he’d tried to insinuate to Lily that Remus was a werewolf but wouldn’t actually say
the words…

“He didn’t tell me,” she said again, more firmly this time now that she understood the true
parameters of what they were asking. “And he won’t tell anyone else. Severus would never risk
expulsion. Hogwarts is the most important thing in the world to him.”

James looked satisfied; Sirius less so.

“Anyway,” said Lily, who was not enjoying this little trip down memory lane, peering through the
shattered windows that housed the demise of her longest friendship. She stood up. “If that’s all…?”

“One more thing,” said James. “Why haven’t you told him that you know?”

Lily blinked in confusion. “Severus?”

“No — Remus.”

“Oh…I just…got the impression he didn’t want me to know. He’s so private, you know?”

“Understatement of the year.”

“I figured I’d wait for him to tell me when he was ready.”

Sirius snorted. “You’ll be waiting a while.”

“You have to tell him,” said James gently. “He deserves to know.”

“And if you don’t tell him, we will,” said Sirius. At Lily’s alarmed look, he added: “Because now
we know you know, and we don’t keep secrets from our mates. So —“

“I want to tell him myself,” said Lily quickly. “I just — I need a little time.”

Sirius chewed on this. “You’ve got a week. I’d rather not drag this out with everything else going
on.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Old Crampy-Bowel’s essay? It’s got Remus in a right state. He’s convinced everyone’s going to
go to the library and suddenly realize their classmate has a slight full moon allergy.”

Lily thought of how miserable Remus had seemed over the past week, the way he’d appeared to
retreat inside himself. Hiding.

“Well,” said Lily slowly, “any student who goes to the library for werewolf research will have a
tough time of it.”

“How do you mean?”

She bit her lip. “Since Carter-Myles announced his awful essay, I’ve been going to the library each
day and checking out every book on lycanthropy I could find. There’s not technically a limit on
how many books a student can check out, you know — though Madam Pince has been giving me
some funny looks. But the loan period just happens to end several days after the essay is due.”

James and Sirius both stared at her with outright astonishment. Then Sirius burst out laughing.
“You’re a mad genius, Evans,” he said, shaking his head. “Glad you’re on our side.”

“I’m on Remus’s side.”

“Same thing.”
 Flying High
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

REMUS

Flying High
The average werewolf can be identified by physical traits, such as the length of the snout, the pupil
of the eyes, the tufted tail — but also behavioral. A werewolf exhibits significantly more aggressive
behavior than the typical wolf. Depending on the circumstances, a normal wolf may choose to flee
rather than fight…

Remus paused, quill hovering over the parchment.

…but a werewolf will always go for the kill.

“It’s Unplottable.”

Startled, Remus looked up from his essay to see Sirius flop into the armchair across from him with
a weary groan. The common room around them was fairly empty, draped in the soft light of late
afternoon sun. Remus hadn’t realized how much time had passed, trapped as he was in a dizzying
spiral of trying to get all his homework done. It was nearly time for dinner. Not that that meant
much to him; he hadn’t been properly hungry for weeks.

“All that work,” Sirius moaned, “and it’s bloody Unplottable.”

“What’s Unplottable?” asked Remus.

“That secret room. You know, the one Evans showed me.”

“Ah, right. How’s your Muggle Rights crusade coming along?”

Sirius ignored this. “Moony, don’t you care about the integrity of the map? I’m telling you that the
room is Unplottable. I can’t put it on the map.”

Remus set down his quill and considered this. “I suppose that makes sense. Wouldn’t be very
secret if you could mark it on a map.”

Sirius raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “It’s hardly the most exciting place in the castle,
just a small, boring room, but it’s annoying.”

“Well, you know it’s there. Isn’t that enough?”

“No, it’s not. It’s going to drive me mad, like an itch I can’t scratch.”

Remus snorted. “You’ll live. Anyway, I thought you were sneaking off to Hogsmeade to get
supplies for tomorrow night.”

Tomorrow was the Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff Quidditch match, and conveniently the day before
James’s seventeenth birthday. They’d decided to hold a sort of dual celebration: Quidditch
Victory/Captain’s Birthday Extravaganza. Remus was the only one who hadn’t thought this a great
idea.

“It’s a ready-made party,” Sirius had said breezily when Remus voiced this opinion. “What’s not to
like?”

“What if we lose? It would sour the whole thing.”

But this sentiment was generally considered blasphemy — of course Gryffindor wasn’t going to
lose! — and so it wasn’t considered for very long at all.

Anyway, Remus had enough worries of his own to keep him busy — he was caught in one of his
endless cycles of both catching up with homework from the last moon and trying to get ahead for
the next — so he didn’t fuss too much.

“Already done,” said Sirius. “Pete and I slipped to Hogsmeade and back in no time. He was
supposed to drop off the supplies in the dormitory. Where is he?”

“Haven’t seen him. Probably off with his girlfriend.”

“And Prongs?”

“Probably doing the same.”

Remus turned back to his essay. He’d tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, but he wasn’t sure
he’d succeeded. Sirius didn’t seem phased, however — possibly because everything Remus said
lately was tinged with the faint flavor of bitterness. Anyway, the other boy was still fixated on the
map, wondering aloud if there were any secret workarounds to plot the Unplottable. Remus
listened half-attentively, his quill scratching steadily at the essay before him.

“Oi, what are you working on that’s so much more important than our map?” complained Sirius,
and he snatched the parchment out of Remus’s hands. A flash of irritation — but Remus stamped it
down.

“Homework,” he said simply.

He watched as Sirius skimmed the essay, noted the darkening of his gaze, the furrowing of his
brow. When he spoke, it was in a low, furious voice: “You’re not actually writing this, are you?”

“Yes.” Remus flipped through his textbook as though his friend hadn’t just wrenched his essay
from his hands. “It’s due next week, and I’ve got tons of other homework, so I figured I’d get it out
of the way…”

“Moony.”
Remus looked up. “Yes?”

“You don’t have to write this bullshit.”

“Of course I do. I want to pass the class.”

“The class is a joke. Who cares?”

“Exactly. Who cares? Besides, who knows more about the subject matter than me?”

“Me,” said Sirius. “And this is rubbish.”

Remus sighed. “May I have my essay back, please?”

Looking back, Remus supposed that he shouldn’t have been surprised upon returning to the
dormitory to find placed on his pillow a neatly-written essay, across the top of which was scrawled
in Sirius’s elegant hand: The British Werewolf and Me by Sirius Black. Incredulity rising with
every line, Remus skimmed the essay:

The typical British werewolf is a mysterious creature, about which little is

scientifically known. This is because he bottles up all his emotions and buries them
deep down inside. Fortunately, there are those of us in the field who have had the
opportunity to study the werewolf intimately, and thus can offer a much more
thorough and accurate assessment than the standard drivel produced in Defense
Against the Dark Arts textbooks.

The first thing you need to know about the British werewolf is that he is most
assuredly not a cuddly creature. This has been confirmed by multiple peer-reviewed
studies, and at great personal expense. When confronted with aggressive affection, the
werewolf is prone to both profanity and excessive eye-rolling. In extreme scenarios, he
may even engage with sarcasm. When these weapons prove futile, the werewolf may
grow violent. One must never, on pain of death, plant a sloppy kiss on the werewolf’s
forehead. The creature will not be able to bear such an indignity and will undoubtedly
retaliate by, say, charming one’s pants to grow tighter and tighter throughout the day.
Werewolves are cunning and clever creatures and not to be underestimated no matter
how prim and proper they act.

Little is known about the British werewolf’s mating habits, as he is an exceptionally

cagy creature, prone to blushing beet red and telling one to ‘piss off’ when faced with
inquiry into the subject.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, it is crucial to note that werewolves take at
least two sugars in their tea, the monster.

“Ah, I see you’ve found my essay.”

Remus turned. Sirius was slouching against his own four-poster, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
Remus scowled at him. “You’re not handing this in.”

“‘Course I am. It’s due next week.” Sirius cocked his head to the side. “What, you didn’t like it?
But I’ve put so much work into it. Years and years of research.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“So’s the essay prompt.”

“Sirius—“

“If Carter-Myles wants to play games, I’ll play games.”

“This isn’t your fight!”

Sirius’s amused expression dropped at once, and his features grew fierce. “Like hell it isn’t.”

Remus stared at him; Sirius glowered back. They seemed doomed to stand there like that for an
eternity, each refusing to cede any ground — until the door opened and, a moment later, Peter
shrugged off James’s Invisibility Cloak, grunting beneath the weight of a large box filled with
assorted bottles of liquor. He placed the box on the ground with a huff, then looked between
Remus and Sirius, as though sensing the discord at last. “All right…?”

“Where’ve you been?” demanded Sirius. “I thought you’d have that stuff back here ages ago.”

“Had to make a pit stop,” shrugged Peter.

Remus crumpled up the essay and tossed it at Sirius’s feet. “You’re not handing this in.”

Sirius may have thought it all a laugh, but the knowledge that their classmates were writing essays
designed explicitly to expose his deepest, darkest, most shameful secret was not funny to Remus. It
kept him up at night, tossing and turning as he analyzed all the worst case scenarios. He didn’t
think his friends knew how upset he actually was; he did his best to play it cool, and on the whole,
Remus thought he did a pretty good job of keeping his temperament steady. But the implications of
Carter-Myles’ essay haunted him every moment of every day; the sight of one of his classmates
studying in the common room was enough to make him retreat in shame to the dormitory. What
were they reading about beasts like him?

Fortunately, Saturday soon arrived, and he had the day off from that particular worry. It was a
Quidditch match, and no one was going to be doing any homework at all. In fact, by the time they
arrived in the Great Hall for lunch before the match, Remus was enjoying the first properly good
mood he’d had for some time now. James was in excellent form, as he usually was before a big
match and, as always, his mood was infectious. In fact, Remus’s spirits only slightly dipped when
Florence sat down to join them, which was an impressive feat, as lately Remus had found
everything about her to be irritating.

It wasn’t fair, the way he disliked her. He knew this. She’d done nothing to deserve it. It was more
the fact that when she was around, the dynamic changed. Remus had to pretend. It got exhausting,
all the pretending. He preferred it when it was just him and his mates, and he could just…be.
But, apparently, Florence was going to sit with them during the match. “After all,” she’d said
brightly, “my boyfriend and my best friend are on the Gryffindor team! I might as well wear red
and gold.” Indeed, she had wrapped James’s scarf around her neck in place of her usual Ravenclaw
colors.

Remus said nothing and instead poked at his lunch. He had no appetite again — whether this was
anxiety or a moon-related symptom, he wasn’t sure, but his sandwich had absolutely no appeal.

“You’re not eating?”

Remus glanced at Sirius, who was frowning at him. He’d noticed that his friend had been careful
with him all day, ever since the essay incident. He hated that.

“I’m just not very hungry.”

“You should still eat something. Merlin knows how long the match will be.”

“Thanks, mum.”

Sirius snorted. “Yeah, well, James is a bit busy at the moment. Someone’s got to nag.”

As an act of conciliation for their spat yesterday, Remus took a small bite of his sandwich. That
was about all he could manage.

Before long, it was time to head out to the pitch, and Sirius, Remus, Peter and Florence joined the
throng of students streaming out of the castle, James and the rest of the team having taken off
earlier. Florence was chatting happily with Sirius and Peter, but Remus wasn’t paying much
attention, instead letting his mind wander aimlessly as they crossed the grounds.

“Hang on,” said Sirius suddenly, and Remus blinked back to attention. “Isn’t that Winnie?”

They all turned. Winnie Bones — Peter’s always-absent girlfriend — was walking arm-in-arm
with some Hufflepuff boy Remus didn’t recognize. Her giggly manner made their relationship
quite clear.

Sirius turned to Peter. “I didn’t know you two broke up again.”

Peter went very pink and mumbled something incomprehensible. Then, a little clearer: “We
didn’t.”

Sirius’s expression darkened in a way that Remus knew quite well. “She’s cheating on you?” he
said, scowling at Winnie. “Absolutely not.”

“No!” squeaked Peter, grabbing Sirius’s arm, for the other boy had been about to march over to
interrupt the happy couple. “She’s not cheating. We — er — well, if you must know, we’ve
decided to have an open relationship.”

They all stared. “You what?”

“We’re seeing other people.”

“Who else are you seeing?”

“I —“ Peter stood up a little straighter. “Well, I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well,” said Florence after an awkward pause, “that’s…that’s very modern of you, Pete.”

It wasn’t rational how much it annoyed Remus that she called him Pete, but there you were.

They were very nearly at the pitch when a voice called from behind, “Wait up!” and Remus turned
to see Lily Evans jogging towards them. “Hi,” she said, slightly breathless as she caught up.

“Evans,” said Sirius, eying her with approval. “You’re looking festive.”

Indeed, she was: Beyond the standard Gryffindor jumper, which she wore with (Remus couldn’t
help but admire her daring) a pair of flared Muggle jeans, she appeared to have braided bits of gold
tinsel into her deep red hair; it glittered in the sunlight. On top of all this, she had the words GO
LIONS! painted in bright Gryffindor red across her cheeks.

“Oh, well, you know…” Lily shrugged, then raised a fist in mock enthusiasm: “Go lions.”

Sirius snorted.

“You look super!” gushed Florence. “Gosh, you’re like a walking Gryffindor banner, aren’t you?”

“…That’s me.”

“I’m glad you made it,” said Remus, for he’d had a sneaking suspicion she might ditch the match
altogether. It hadn’t escaped his notice that she tended to pull a disappearing act whenever
Florence was around these days. “You’re…sitting with us, right?” he added, for as the others began
to climb the stairs to the stands, Lily hesitated, stepping aside.

“Actually…I was hoping to have a quick word with you, Remus. In private.”

“Oh,” Remus blinked. “Okay. Sure.”

“What, now?” Sirius stopped a few steps ahead and turned back, looking distinctly disgruntled.

“It won’t take long,” said Lily.

“You really think this is the best time?”

“The match hasn’t even started yet, Sirius,” said Remus. “I’ll catch up with you lot later. It’s not a
big deal.”

Sirius’s piercing glare lingered for a moment longer, then he huffed, shrugged, and continued up
the stairs.

“Don’t mind him,” said Remus, stepping out of the crowd along with Lily. “Sirius is just…well, I
have no idea what goes on his head half the time, to tell you the truth. Though in this case, he’s
probably annoyed that I’ve left him to babysit Florence alone.”
Lily shot him a quick look, and Remus realized too late that he’d said those words out loud.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Sorry. That was…not very nice.”

“You don’t like Florence?”

“I like her just fine.”

“She means well,” said Lily. “She really can be very sweet.”

“Sure,” said Remus. “It’s just…you know. Hanging out with your best mate’s girlfriend without
your best mate…it’s a little awkward, that’s all. We have nothing to say to each other.”

Lily was silent for a moment, then she said, “They’re good for each other though, aren’t they?
James and Florence. I mean, she makes him really happy. I’ve seen it.”

“I guess,” said Remus with an indifferent shrug. He wasn’t altogether convinced that Florence
made James any happier than any other girl who’d be willing to snog him in the corridors, but he’d
already been a prick once during this conversation, so he bit his tongue. “Anyway, what did you
want to talk to me about?”

“Erm…” Lily glanced around. They were a decent distance from the milling crowds, but regardless
she said, “Maybe we could go somewhere a little more private. I don’t want to be overheard.”

“Oh,” said Remus, taken aback. “Okay. Er…lead the way.”

And so she did, leading him away from the crowds towards the far end of the pitch. Remus
followed, wondering what on earth she wanted to talk to him about that was so private. He wracked
his brain, trying to think if there was anything important he’d forgotten. There usually was, but he
couldn’t come up with anything.

At last, they slipped into the shadows beneath one of the tall stands. Down here, under the stairs, it
was all criss-crossed lines and angled silhouettes. And then it occurred to Remus, in that blunt
‘bludgeoned-by-a-mountain-troll’ way that very obvious ideas sometimes do, that this was about
James. Of course, that’s what it was. What else would inspire all this secrecy? That was why she’d
shot him that look when he’d brought up Florence; that was why she didn’t want to say anything in
front of the others. Was she finally going to admit that she fancied him? Ask for help in setting
things right? Or was she afraid that Remus had said something to James after all, and she’d brought
him here to tell him off? He hadn’t. He was far too anxious about saying the wrong thing to say
anything at all, but if she were to properly fess up at last…

Lily was looking very nervous, standing in the shadows, which fit his pet theory rather nicely.
Perhaps this also explained why she was currently dressed as Gryffindor’s number one Quidditch
fan, when he’d never known her to show such enthusiasm in the past. James would no doubt be
charmed by the gold tinsel in her hair. Though, Remus noticed, it was a bit odd that she’d brought
her school bag with her. Not something one usually carried along to a match, but then again, now
that he thought about it, he did recall James complaining once that Lily brought books to
Quidditch. This was during one of his friend’s many Lily-centric rambles last year. James would
absolutely deny such a conversation ever took place, but Remus sometimes suspected James wasn’t
always even aware he was talking. His constant babbling was just one of those unstoppable forces
of nature, like the pull of gravity or the tug of the moon. If there was silence, James would fill it —
and often, last year, he’d filled it with talk of Lily Evans.

“Er…nice place you’ve got down here,” said Remus, in a rather sad attempt at a light-hearted joke.
Lily smiled and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s hard to find somewhere private
in this castle.”

Remus nodded amiably and waited for her to continue. When she did not, he said, “I didn’t know
you were such a big Quidditch fan.”

Lily looked confused, then touched her cheek, laughing. “Oh, this. Wenyi was painting everyone’s
faces in the girls’ dorm this morning and asked if I wanted to join, so…” She shrugged. “I’m trying
this new thing where I stop pushing everyone away.”

“How’s that going for you?”

“Well, I’m currently covered head-to-toe in body glitter, so…middling.”

Remus laughed.

“But, you know, I wanted to be supportive. For Marlene. Quidditch means so much to her.”

“And James?” he said before he could stop himself.

“Sure. James too. And Aisha. I’m here to support all my friends on the team via my outrageously
clashing clothes and hair. Anyway…” she twirled a lock of tinsel-woven hair around her finger. “I
am sorry to pounce on you right before the match, I promise I won’t keep you too long, it’s just…
well, I did want to discuss something fairly personal —”

“I haven’t told him,” said Remus quickly.

Lily stopped, blinking in confusion. “What?”

“James. I haven’t told him anything.”

“Anything about what?”

“About — you know — the thing I wasn’t supposed to say anything about?”

Lily’s cheeks flushed, and she looked at her feet, scuffing the earth with the toe of her shoe. “Oh,
that.”

“Are…you going to tell him?”

Lily looked up sharply. “What? No! Of course not. First of all, there’s nothing to tell, and second of
all, he’s dating Florence. You just told me how happy she makes him.”

Remus was fairly certain he’d said nothing of the sort, but this did not seem to be the subject she’d
brought him here to discuss, and so he retreated into a baffled silence.

“Right,” said Lily, and she shook herself slightly as though revving herself up. “Okay. This is way
more nerve-wracking than I thought it would be.” She took a deep breath and looked at him
directly. “I have to tell you something, but before I do, I need you to make me a promise. Well, two
promises, actually.”

“All right…?”

“And you have to promise that you won’t break them, no matter what.”

“Is that one of the two promises?”

“No. Okay, I guess there are three promises. There’s promise one and promise two, and then the
third promise is that you have to promise not to break the first two promises.”

“Do I get to know what the first two promises are before I promise not to break them?”

Lily let out a light, nervous laugh. “Yes, that would probably be helpful wouldn’t it? Okay, the
first one is that you have to hear me out. You can’t just shut down and take off in the middle of this
conversation.”

Remus was starting to feel a bit anxious. “And the second one?”

“The second one…the second one is that you have to promise you’ll still be my friend.”

“What on earth…? Why would I stop being your friend…?”

“Do you promise?”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Remus. Do you promise?”

“Yeah, of course I do, but Lily—”

“I know that you’re a werewolf.”

Time seemed to stop. The words hung between them in the shadowy space beneath the stands, and
Remus stood frozen to the spot, every thought in his brain short-circuiting as his worst fear
materialized before him.

“God. I didn’t mean to just blurt it out like that.”

So Carter-Myles’ essay had worked. Just as Remus had feared, all their classmates were figuring it
out. Figuring him out. Lily had been the first — of course, she’d always been clever — but soon
the rest would follow, falling like dominos, like the flimsy house of cards he’d built for himself,
tricking himself into thinking he could live a normal life, that the rug wouldn’t one day get
wrenched from beneath him…he wanted to leave, to run away, to be anywhere but here…he could
feel an old panic rising, threatening to overtake him, and he turned sharply away.

“Remus, you promised!”

Lily sounded agonized, and it was this alone that kept his feet rooted firmly to the spot. A
thousand questions were running through his mind as fast as his feet wanted to. What gave me
away? How long have you known? Who else knows? And most perplexingly, Why on earth would I
not want to be friends with you?

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, but after a shaky moment of silence, he managed: “When
did you work it out?”

“Last year.”

“Last…last year?” Remus jerked back around and gaped at her. “You’ve known for a whole year?”

“A little over a year, I think. I worked it out around last Christmas. We were spending a lot of time
together, and you always missed prefect meetings on the full moon, and…”

“You knew,” he half-whispered. He was having a hard time processing this. “Why didn’t you tell
me you knew?”

“I don’t know,” said Lily miserably. “You were so private about it, and I thought you didn’t want
me to know, so I didn’t want to pry.”

“Why are you telling me all this now?”

Lily shifted uncomfortably. “Black and Potter worked out that I knew, and they said that if I didn’t
tell you, they would. But I wanted to be the one to tell you. I don’t want you to think I was keeping
this from you or hiding anything, I just — I dunno…our friendship was still pretty young, and I
guess I was afraid that if I pushed too hard, you would push me away — permanently. And,
selfishly perhaps, I wanted you to keep being my friend. I didn’t want you to disappear on me.”

“What?”

“It’s what you do, Remus. You are a pushing-people-away pro.” She pointed a finger at herself.
“Takes one to know one.”

He attempted a smile, but he didn’t think it stuck. He was experiencing a discomfiting feeling as
though the world had shifted on its axis and everything he’d always thought was straight was
actually slightly skewed, the world a distinctly differently place than the one he’d thought he’d
inhabited.

Remus had stood on this shifted plane before, back in second year, when James, Sirius, and Peter
had confronted him about his secret. Rather than recoiling in horror or racing to the Headmaster to
insist he be expelled, they’d done something utterly remarkable: They’d rallied behind him. It had
been unthinkable to Remus, a perversion of everything he’d been taught to expect out of life. His
father had made it very clear that if anyone at Hogwarts found out he was a werewolf, he’d have to
leave — they’d chase him out — and yet here stood three boys insisting the impossible: that they
wanted him to stay; that they were still his friends; that they still liked him.

“Cool,” Sirius had said.

Remus had known, in that moment and every moment since, just how lucky he was to have such
friends open their arms to him, to offer him such incredible acceptance and loyalty. And yet,
Remus had been a child then, and he’d still had much to learn about the cruelty of the world to
which he both did and did not belong. As the years went on, he’d learned in greater details the
depth of disgust the world held for creatures like him. He understood how remarkable his friends’
acceptance truly was. How rare. He learned not to look for it elsewhere, to expect no more from
them or anyone else in the world.

And yet here was Lily Evans, standing before him, worrying that he would stop being friends with
her. She was watching him closely; she seemed to be just barely restraining herself. Finally, she
gave up, crossed the space between them, and threw her arms around him in a tight hug. “Listen,”
she said sternly as she stepped back, Remus slightly shell-shocked in her wake. “I don’t care. It
doesn’t change anything to me. You understand that, right? I don’t care that you’re a werewolf. It
doesn’t make any difference.”

“But you — you read that Daily Prophet article. You heard everything Carter-Myles said.”

“Do you honestly think I care what that bigoted old fool says about anything at all?”

“But it’s true. The stuff he said about werewolves, Lily, it’s all true.”

“Says who? Really, who? The Daily Prophet? Carter-bloody-Myles? How many werewolves have
you met that have matched his hideous descriptions?”

This wasn’t exactly a fair question, as Remus hadn’t met any other werewolves, but…

“Exactly,” said Lily, misreading his hesitation for agreement. “It only serves the people in power if
we believe the lies they tell us about ourselves.”

Remus blinked, taken aback by the way she said we. Did she…did she think being a werewolf was
something comparable to being Muggle-born? However misguided this notion may be, he felt a
burst of warmth at the idea of it, that he wasn’t fully alone in his lycanthropic isolation, that in
some tiny way, there was someone else who understood at least something about his life.

Remus wanted to articulate the enormity of this realization, but words felt like sludge in his throat.
At last, he resorted to the lifeline he’d clutched throughout this baffling conversation: Questions.

“You said James and Sirius worked out that you knew. How?”

“Oh.” Lily looked somewhat sheepish. “I lost my temper a bit at a Slug Club dinner — shocking, I
know — and I guess that gave it away…I didn’t mention you or anything like that,” she added
quickly. “Just, they put two and two together, I suppose.” She fidgeted, shifting the strap of her bag
over her shoulder. “Actually,” she went on after a moment, “that’s an excellent segue into the
second thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“There’s more?”

Lily smiled. “A little. See, at the Slug Club dinner, one of the guests was the Chairman of the
Ministry’s Experimental Potions Committee. Insufferable fellow in my rather biased opinion, but…
it got me thinking. Do you remember that conversation we had, quite a few months ago now, about
treatment for…well, for your illness?”

“Lily,” Remus shook his head, “there’s no—“

“— cure, I know. I’m not talking about a cure. I’m talking about care. You told me that you tried a
lot of experimental potions and they just made your life miserable. So I got to thinking, I’m a
decent potioneer, what if I could brew something better?”

Remus shook his head again. He knew she meant well, and he was touched by her desire to help
him, but he’d strayed down this road of optimism before, and it always, always led to a
disappointing dead-end. “Pain potions are addictive,” he muttered. “And you build up a tolerance
over time, so—“

“And then it occurred to me,” Lily continued, ignoring his nay-saying mumbles, “that wizards
could be really rather silly, always searching for some complicated potion or mysterious spell when
in fact a solution could be something simple. Something Muggles have used for millennia.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small bundle which she unwrapped and handed to him.
He peered down at the contents and frowned.

“…Baked goods?”

For the bundle was filled with what appeared to be…fudge. Remus never said no to fudge, as a
rule, but he didn’t see how it would alleviate the incessant agonies of lycanthropy.

“Special baked goods,” corrected Lily.

Remus looked back down at the fudge, blinked, then redirected his raised eyebrows to Lily. “Are
these…?”

“You know, it’s not technically illegal in the Wizarding world,” said Lily quickly. “And there’s no
school rule against ingesting cannabis. I checked. I’m guessing this is probably an oversight —
they did ban smoking, after all — but you know, wizards tend to overlook the plant altogether, it
seems, since it’s not particularly effective in potions and the like. I saw one book refer to it as
‘Muggle magic’, and I think they meant it derisively, but…if it works…I mean, it might not. This
might be a terrible idea…but it’s supposed to have loads of medicinal effects. But obviously if you
don’t want to…”

“I want to,” said Remus quickly, half-laughing. “I’m just…a little surprised, that’s all.”

“That Penny Prefect brought you drugs?”

“That Penny Prefect even has drugs. Where did you get weed?”

“Can’t tell you that. I promised not to disclose my source. See? I can keep a secret.”

“Have you tried it before?”

“Just once,” said Lily. “A few summers ago, with some of my Muggle friends. It was nice. I’ve
only ever smoked it, but I thought this might be somewhat more discreet,” she added, indicating
the fudge.

“Can I try it?”

“Of course. It’s for you. It’s just my first batch though, so I have no idea how strong they are. I
figure I’ll need to experiment a few times to get it right, so I made a small batch this time.”

Remus took a careful nibble of fudge, then offered the bundle to Lily. She hesitated, smiled, then
selected a piece of fudge.

“Oh, why not?”

“I don’t see them anywhere,” said Lily as she and Remus climbed the crowded stands in search of
Sirius, Peter, and Florence. “D’you think we missed them?”

Remus peered around. They were at the very top of the stands, several rows past the nosebleed
seats, so to speak. They had lingered down beneath the stands for a while, waiting for the fudge to
kick in (“Maybe I didn’t make them strong enough,” suggested Lily after about twenty minutes.
“Should we try another?”), then at last began the dizzying climb all the way to the tiptop, searching
for their friends as they went, to no avail. Up here, the wind whistled past their ears. Remus was
feeling rather heavy, as though gravity was grasping at him.

“I don’t see them either. Let’s just find a seat, they’ll find us.”
“Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“Quidditch, last I checked.”

Lily giggled. “I meant with the match. Are we winning?”

Remus squinted at the scoreboard. “Seems like a tie,” he said, though not very confidently, as he
didn’t seem entirely able to focus on anything. “I think I’m starting to feel this fudge.”

“Me too,” said Lily. “Oh! Look, I think we scored! Wait…” The crowd around them began to boo.
“Okay, maybe I was wrong. Gosh, you’d think by now I’d understand this stupid game.”

“Everything I know about Quidditch I learned unwillingly from James.”

“You must know rather a lot, then.”

“Well…you don’t actually have to listen when he talks about Quidditch. He won’t notice.”

Lily laughed.

“But a certain amount does tend to seep through,” Remus admitted. “Did you know there are seven
hundred different fouls in Quidditch? Sometimes if James feels like being annoying he’ll just start
reciting them.”

“I don’t know how you haven’t hexed him yet.”

“I absolutely have. You know, I bet if you told James—“

“Oh!” cried Lily, and a commiserative groan went through the crowd as the Hufflepuff Chaser
made the somewhat brutal acquaintance of a Bludger. “Okay,” she said “I know enough about
Quidditch to know that that hurt.”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” said Lily, her chin propped in her hands as she gazed dreamily at the
pitch, “how absolutely bonkers it is that second and third years can be on the same team with
seventh years?”

“James joined the team third year,” said Remus.

“I mean, who looked at a school of children and thought: ‘Ah, yes, let’s arm the eldest with big
bats to aim speeding projectiles at the babies.”

“Well, clearly it was an intentional pedaga—pedogic — what’s the word? Pedagogical choice.
Important lesson for the babies.”

“Life comes at you fast?”

Both Remus and Lily dissolved into giggles.

“I reckon,” mused Remus, “it was the same people who decided that the best way to convince
students not to explore the forest was to give it the coolest name ever. I mean, what teenager hears
‘Forbidden Forest’ and doesn’t immediately want to explore it?”
“True,” said Lily. “They should’ve named it something unassuming like…’Perfectly Innocuous
Forest.’”

“‘The Really Rather Dull Forest.’”

“‘Spider-Filled Forest.’”

“There are spiders in there, you know,” said Remus. “Big ones. Size of an automobile.”

Lily’s eyes grew wide. “You’ve seen one?”

“Er…” Remus had, actually, on a rather eventful full moon. Or rather, the wolf had seen it, and his
friends had told him all about it the next morning (Peter insisting they never ever go to that corner
of the forest ever again), and eventually, Remus had seen it to, as the wolf’s memories came back
to him in dreams. However, this all seemed rather unwieldy to explain to Lily, especially since she
didn’t know about the Animagi bit, and he was pretty sure he shouldn’t tell her. “I’ve read about
it,” he said instead.

“Cool. Now I never want to go in the forest again.”

“Well, good, Lily, it’s forbidden.”

Lily laughed, and kept laughing for a bit.

“They’re really deep in though,” added Remus after a moment’s consideration.

“What are?”

“The spiders. You wouldn’t run into them on the outskirts.”

“Oh.”

Around them, the rest of the students were on their feet, cheering. Lily and Remus had both long
since given up on paying attention to the details of the match. The swirling shapes the broomsticks
made in the sky were rather compelling though.

“D’you think the forest had a name of its own, before it was forbidden?”

Remus frowned. He’d never considered this before. “I dunno.”

“What if the forest remembers its name, but no one else does? It’s not a very good name,
‘Forbidden.’ Pushes people away. D’you think the trees get lonely?”

“I dunno.”

“I think I’d be lonely if I were a tree.”

“But you’d have lots of other trees around you.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t get lonely. Oh look, the Snitch!”

“I think that was a bee.”

 “Oh,” said Remus, an unknowable amount of time later. “I think we’ve won.”

“No one looks very happy about it though, do they?” observed Lily, nodding at the other students,
who were all filing out of the stands looking deeply dejected.

Remus blinked as he took in the sea of yellow around them. He blinked again. “Lily,” he
whispered, tugging at her sleeve. “Lily, I think we sat in the Hufflepuff section.”

And then they both collapsed into peals of laughter.

Chapter End Notes

If you follow me on tumblr you will have already seen this, but just a head's up that I
will be taking a short hiatus after chapter 49. I hope to get Chapters 48 and 49 up
relatively soon after this one. Lots happening!!! More to come ❤️
 The Loophole
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

JAMES

The Loophole
James Potter was very nearly seventeen years old. He had played many games of Quidditch in his
life so far — won most and lost a few — and if he had learned one thing in those nearly seventeen
years, it was this: Nothing in life compared to this moment.

This perfect moment — the referee blowing the whistle, his teammates landing triumphant on the
lawn, jumping up and down, shouting, cheeks rosy, fists pumping, the roar of the crowd, hysteric
in victory, rivers of red and gold as spectators streamed from the stands down onto the pitch, a
confusion of arms encasing him, lifting him, carrying him off on their shoulders. There was no
better high; nothing compared to it, nothing ever would.

“Well, hello Quidditch heroes!”

James and his teammates had been swept along with the flow of celebrating Gryffindors off the
pitch and out to the locker rooms, where he found Florence, Sirius, and Peter waiting for him.
Florence dashed over to give Aisha a quick hug, then threw her arms around James’s neck and
kissed him. “Well done, Captain.”

“Two down, one to go,” grinned James.

“You do realize,” said Aisha flatly, “that the ‘one to go’ is Flor’s team? Better not let that get in
your head.”

“Oh, please,” said Florence, untangling herself from James with a light flip of her flaxen hair.
“We’re all adults here, we can manage a little healthy rivalry.”

“Technically,” said Sirius, “Prongs here isn’t an adult until midnight.”

“That’s true,” James agreed with a solemn nod, “and I intend to be wildly immature for every last
second of it.”

“Good thing we bought lots of booze, then,” said Peter.

“Where’s Remus?” asked James, suddenly noting his other friend’s absence.

Sirius and Peter exchanged a significant look. “He took off with Evans shortly before the match.
Haven’t seen him since.”

Though Sirius kept his tone light, his words were imbued with a deeper meaning that wasn’t lost
on James. He shot a sideways glance at the girls, then said as flippantly as he could: “Missing a
match? How very unpatriotic of him. I’ll have to give him hell later.”

“Yeah,” said Sirius. “I had a similar thought.”

But just then, as a maudlin-looking group of Hufflepuffs slumped past with the laggard pace
common to fans of a recently-defeated team, James heard a familiar laugh — loud and bright and
wildly out of place amidst the mourning mass of yellow and black — and all three boys turned as
one to see Remus strolling past, arm in arm with Lily Evans; he looked almost uncharacteristically
carefree, bent over laughing at something Lily was saying, clutching at his chest like he was being
murdered by his own mirth. Lily too was laughing, hand on Remus’s arm, quick wipe of tears from
eyes then back again. He couldn’t help but notice she’d painted her face for Gryffindor, her dark
red hair oddly glittering as she threw her head back in a fresh fit of giggles. Neither of them seemed
to notice their audience as they followed the flow towards the castle.

James, Sirius, and Peter all looked to each other, a perfect portrait of collective bafflement.
Whatever each of them had expected from Remus following Lily’s revelation — depression,
denial, a fresh commitment to the life of the hermit — none of them had anticipated…whatever
that was.

Peter was the first to speak: “What,” he said slowly, “the fuck?”

“They seem to be having fun,” said Florence.

“Right.” Sirius waved a hand at the retreating forms of Remus and Lily, shrinking off into the
distance. “I’m going to go see exactly what the fuck.”

“I’ll come too,” said Peter. “Got to finish setting up the party, anyway. Meet you back in the
common room, Prongs?”

James agreed. Sirius and Peter departed, Aisha headed into the locker room with the rest of the
team, and then it was just James and Florence, smiling at each other under the early evening’s
dimming sun.

“Why do they call you that?”

“What?”

“Your friends. They always call you ‘Prongs.’”

“Oh,” James shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just an old inside joke. Not worth
explaining, really.”

“You and your secrets,” Florence laughed, but she didn’t pry further. Instead she said, “Funny
about Remus and Lily. Do you think they’re hooking up?”

“What?” laughed James, slightly startled by the idea. “No.”

“Are you sure? Because they did slip off together before the match, and they looked awfully cozy
just now. Oh, I hope they are. They’d be a sweet couple. I want her to find someone. I think she
took that Anson thing really hard.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, she’s absolutely refused to date anyone since Christmas. I’ve tried setting her up with some
friends, but she won’t have it. I think she’s wallowing.”

“Over Nott? I doubt it.” For about the thousandth time since Florence first spilled that secret,
James stewed over the detail that Lily had dumped Anson Nott because of an argument about
werewolves. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to her about it properly yet. Perhaps he shouldn’t talk
to her about it, but…

“They were really close once, you know,” said Florence.

“Yeah, well over a year ago.”

“Sometimes it takes people a long time to get over someone.”

James shrugged. “I guess. Anyway,” he quickly changed the subject. “You’re coming, right?”

Florence blinked. “To what?”

“To the party, obviously.”

“The…one in your common room?”

“Yeah! It’s a combination Quidditch/birthday party.”

“James,” she bit her lip. “You know I’m not allowed in the Gryffindor common room…”

“No one’s going to stop you.”

“It’s against the rules.”

“You know, that rulebook is horribly outdated. And technically the rules only say students are not
permitted to ‘cross the threshold’ of another house’s common room. We could fly you up to the
dorms on a broomstick. Sneak in the back. You know me, I always love a loophole.”

Florence laughed, but she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come on. It’s my birthday.”

“Tomorrow’s your birthday,” corrected Florence.

“Yeah, but…don’t you want to, you know, kiss me at midnight?”

“That’s for New Year’s.”

“It’s for birthdays too, I’ve just decided. Come on, you’d be my first kiss of seventeen.”

Florence cocked her head. “Are you planning on kissing many other girls at seventeen?”

“No,” James hastily backtracked. “I’m just saying, it would be romantic.”

He thought she looked tempted for a moment — but then they were interrupted when a voice
called out from a passing crowd of Hufflepuffs, “Good match, Potter. We almost had you though!”
and James turned to see Valmai Morgan waving at him.

He grinned. “I’m just lucky you’re not on the team — yet,” he called back. “See you at practice
tomorrow, yeah?”

Valmai gave him a delighted thumbs up. When James turned back to Florence, she was watching
him with a rather peculiar expression. “Who’s that?”

“Oh, that’s Valmai. She’s a third year Hufflepuff I’ve been giving some Quidditch lessons to.”

“You’re training up the competition?”

“Well, it’s not just her. It’s for kids who — I mean, it’s grown into a whole group of younger
students who, you know, didn’t have Quidditch growing up. Level the playing field, and all that.”

“That’s adorable,” said Florence.

“Ha ha,” said James.

“No, I mean it, it’s really sweet.”

James shrugged. “Yeah, well…Anyway, how about that midnight kiss?”

“Oh, James…” Florence sighed. “I promise I will kiss you first thing in the morning on your
birthday.”

“As in…12:01 a.m.?”

“As in at breakfast.”

James feigned a dramatic pout. “You mean I have to wait eight whole hours as a fully of age
wizard before I get properly kissed? Cruel woman.”

Florence laughed and rolled her eyes. “Let’s say I do come and kiss you at midnight, how am I
supposed to get back to my own dormitory so late? Or — what, are you expecting me to stay
over?”

“That’s not what I’m trying to — I mean, you could, if you wanted — I’d walk you back.”

“We’d get caught!”

“I don’t get caught.”

“Cocky.”

“Confident. I have some experience in this department.”

Florence raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

“That’s not what I meant. Look…why don’t you want to come, really?”

“James…” Florence hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s the Gryffindor victory party. Nobody
wants the Chaser from Ravenclaw there.”

“I do. I want you there.”

“You’re sweet.” She leaned up and kissed him, a quick peck on the lips. “That’s for tonight, and
you’ll get another first thing tomorrow morning.”

By the time James entered the locker room, the rest of the team were filing out.

“Hurry up, Potter!” McFarlan called good-naturedly as they passed. “We’re going to start the party
without you. Don’t think we’ll save you a drink just ‘cause it’s your bloody birthday.”

“Sod off,” laughed James. “I’ve got loads of time. I’ll catch up soon.”

He busied himself with his Chaser’s gear, tugging off his gloves, trying to ignore the growing itch
of discontent that was nagging at him; when he glanced up again, he noticed Marlene McKinnon
lingering by the door. “All right, McKinnon? Great flying out there today. Brilliant knockout with
that Bludger. Probably won us the match, that.”

“You look sad,” said Marlene in the only way James suspected she knew how: bluntly.

“What?”

“We just won the match, and you look sad.”

James hiked a foot up onto the bench and began unstrapping his shin pads. “I’m not sad,” he said,
adding a laugh for good measure. “I’m thrilled to bloody bits. Quidditch Cup here we come!”

“Did you break up with Fawley?”

James’s finger slipped on the clasp of his shin pad. “No…? Why d’you — did she say something to
you — about me?”

Marlene shrugged. “No. Just a vibe. I’m probably reading too much into it. Lily says I’ve been
doing that ever since I started N.E.W.T.-level Divination, but she also ignored me when I did her
tarot reading last week and said she’d have an accident. I pulled both the Tower and the Chariot
Reversed and she still didn’t listen to me, and then she tripped down the stairs almost immediately
after on our way to Charms. Granted, she does that a lot, but still. Anyway. Forget it. I’ll see you
back in the common room.”

Then she left, and James was alone in the locker room. He’d spent a lot of time here over the years,
amongst the chipped-paint lockers and scuffed up benches. It was a familiar space, comforting, yet
almost liminal — fug of sweat, drip of faucet — a place of waiting for bigger things to happen, a
spot somewhere between victory and defeat. Now, he stood still as a statue for a moment, one knee
bent, foot upon the bench, shin pad half unbuckled, clasps dangling helplessly as he abandoned the
task to wade through the muck of murky thoughts.

He felt unfairly nettled that Florence didn’t want to come to his birthday party. He understood why
— she’d never been much of a rule-breaker — but it still stung. She wouldn’t get in trouble, and it
was his birthday. But more importantly, more profoundly, he couldn’t shake the feeling that things
hadn’t been quite right between them lately, nor could he put his finger on a precisely why.

He finished up removing the shin pads and turned his attention to his broomstick, tipping down a
broom servicing kit from the top of the locker. He always found a bit of menial labor helpful to
clear his thoughts, and polishing up a broomstick was the perfect task.
At first, having a girlfriend in a different house had been ideal. The perfect scenario. It gave him
the space he needed to work on the map and various Marauding excursions with his mates, to sneak
out on the full moons as he pleased without having to explain himself. Not that he had to do a lot of
explaining with Florence anyway. She wasn’t anything like Alodie had been. She didn’t keep track
of him or nag him to spend more time with her. Sure, she wanted him to show up when he’d said he
would, but that was perfectly reasonable and not much to ask. On the whole, though, she didn’t
seem to mind if he had other plans. She had stuff of her own to do too.

And that had all seemed absolutely perfect at first, but lately…lately…well, he was almost getting
the impression that she only wanted to trot him out for big events — to Slughorn’s parties and the
like — and she didn’t particularly want to spend that much time with him beyond that. Even their
once-frequent evening rendezvous had been cut short of late. He’d thought it had all been in his
head, but if McKinnon had noticed…

No. She was reading too much into it, and he was probably overreacting. He was definitely
overreacting — and besides, now wasn’t the time for this. He had a victory party to attend.

He finished buffing up the broomstick, locked it safely away, and headed out.

When James finally arrived to Gryffindor Tower, the party was well underway. Indeed, he could
hear the commotion from outside the common room. The Fat Lady was hunched peevishly in her
frame, sporting a pair of fluffy earmuffs and attempting to read what looked like a rather raunchy
novel. He had to shout the password a few times before she noticed him (hastily concealing the
novel in the voluminous folds of her skirt) and swung open her frame.

A deafening roar greeted him. High fives and claps on the shoulder and calls of “BURY THE
BADGERS!” enveloped him as he crossed the threshold into the common room, but James was on
a mission to find his mates first and foremost, so he elbowed his way through the crowd as
graciously as he could until someone threw an arm over his shoulder, and James turned to see
Sirius grinning at him, a glass of something that was probably whiskey in hand. “There you are,”
he said. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to ditch me today too.”

“I’ve been looking for you lot. Did you — ah — find Moony?”

“Yeah.”

“And Evans told him?”

“She did indeed. Just before the match as I understand it. I was pretty peeved when I realized what
she was up to, to tell you the truth. I mean, he was finally in a decent mood for once.”

James remembered the pair of them laughing their heads off. “But it went okay, obviously.”

“Apparently.”

“I don’t — I thought for sure he’d — how did she manage that?”

“Drugs,” said Sirius.

“What?”
Sirius looked amused. “Come and see.” He led James towards the back of the common room.
Remus was sprawled horizontal on a sofa, one arm dangling off the side, fingers skimming the
carpet. His expression was dazed, but contentedly so.

“Is he…okay?”

“He’s high as a fucking broomstick. Can you believe this? Penny Prefect got sweet, innocent
Moony high? At a school function? I feel like the responsible student right now, and let me tell
you, I don’t like it.”

James patted him consolingly on the shoulder. “Drink your whiskey. You’ll get through this.” He
glanced around the packed common room. “Where is Evans, incidentally?”

“I’ve lost track of her. Been too busy keeping an eye on this delinquent. Oi, Moony. Look who
showed up.”

It seemed to take a moment for his words to register, then Remus twisted his neck their way.
“Jaaaames!” he said. “Hey, it’s James. It’s your birthday.”

“Almost,” agreed James, and he propped himself on the arm of the sofa. “How’s it going, mate?”

“Lily made me fudge. And I ate…” Remus held up a finger, then two, then considered his whole
hand, looking puzzled. “I don’t remember.”

“Fudge? As in…chocolate?”

Remus leaned forward and said in a loud whisper: “There was weed in it.” Then he fell back
against the sofa cushions, giggling.

James looked up at Sirius, lost. “There was what in it? Weeds?”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “It’s a Muggle drug, James. She put it in the fudge.”

“Why?”

“Apparently, it’s medicinal. Helps with pain and the like. In small doses, that is.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t take a small dose?”

“She gave Moony fudge. What do you think happened?” This was Peter, who arrived with two
bottles in hand, one of which he handed to James.

“Cheers, mate.”

“Oh, but we’re not supposed to go around telling people Evans gave him weed,” said Peter. “He’s
told us that about fifty times. Where’s Florence? I thought you were going to try and sneak her in
for the party.”

“She couldn’t make it.”

“Couldn’t?”

“Didn’t want to.”

“Ouch,” said Peter.

“Yeah,” agreed James.

“Wait,” said Remus suddenly. “I’ve just remembered.” It looked like hard work, but after a bit of
flailing, Remus scrambled upright. Digging in his pocket, he withdrew a rather squashed parcel,
which he handed to James, who carefully unfolded it. Inside were three pieces of fudge. “I saved
them for you,” giggled Remus. “Haaaappy birthday.”

James looked down at the fudge, then glanced between Sirius and Peter. “What d’you reckon?”

“Well, it’s like the boy said,” Sirius plucked a piece of fudge from the parcel and grinned. “Happy
fucking birthday.”

Peter followed suit, and so James, never one to be left out, did the same.

“But,” said Remus in an urgent whisper as they all swallowed, “but — but you can’t tell anyone
Lily gave us weed.”

“See?” said Peter.

It was easy to get lost in the swell and swagger of a post-match party. After all, James was Captain
of this ship, and right now, he was the one they all wanted to celebrate. Arms around shoulders,
claps on the back, drinks thrust into his hands, have a shot, oh go on, chin up, head back, shiver as
it goes down, big grin, big cheer, another!

Regarding the fudge, his initial thought was that it didn’t do much of anything. Remus must have
eaten an awful a lot of it to get like that. But never mind, he didn’t need fudge; there was plenty of
alcohol at this party, and even more people who were eager to give it to him.

He passed the next hour in a pleasant, boozy fog, chatting with all the various characters of
Gryffindor House that somehow never seemed to command much of his attention previously, but
who he knew in this moment with unflinching certainty were deeply, profoundly interesting
people.

He realized, after some indistinguishable passage of time, that he hadn’t seen his mates in a while,
and also he’d really rather like to sit down, so he wandered off in search of Moony’s couch. The
common room was soft with candlelight and it all seemed to swirl together rather marvelously, he
thought as he pushed through thickets of elbows towards his destination.

“Sorry!” he said, after shoving a little too hard against a set of elbows that were rather intimately
entangled. He noticed it was his Seeker, Prateek Shirali, engaged in a very public snog with Wenyi
Feng. “As you were,” James said, which was unnecessary because there was no point in that
encounter in which they were not.

The sight of the lovers snogging made James think of Florence, and disappointment washed anew
upon the shore of his mind. Why didn’t she want to be here? It would be so fun if she were here.
Then he could be in a corner snogging someone. Not that he wasn’t having fun. He was. But. What
if she didn’t want to be his girlfriend anymore?

The thought hit him surprisingly hard. Although why that should be surprising, he didn’t know. Of
course he’d be bummed if she didn’t want to be his girlfriend anymore. She was his girlfriend. But
still. He’d grown very comfortable with their relationship. He liked it. It was…it was the armor
he’d used to protect his heart at a time when everything felt like it was falling to pieces. He didn’t
want to lose that.

Blink of light, haze of liquor.

It occurred to him that he ought to find Aisha and ask her why Florence didn’t want to come to the
party, really. They were close friends, if anyone would know, Aisha would. And she’d tell him that
he was being stupid, and that Florence just didn’t like breaking rules, and that was fine.

But he couldn’t find Aisha anywhere. Eventually he spotted Marlene, who appeared to be doing
tarot readings for her fellow classmates. She probably considered that studying. When he asked her
if she knew where Aisha was, she told him that Aisha had gone to bed with a headache. Then she
told him to choose a card. He did. Three of Cups, Reversed.

“Interesting,” said Marlene. “Very interesting.”

“Oh, wow, look at that,” someone said, and after a moment James realized it was him. And look he
did, for there was Lily Evans just across the room, dancing to what sounded like one of the
Hobgoblins’ old songs. Her hands were raised above her head, eyes closed as she swayed slowly to
the music. She appeared to have woven sunshine into her hair. It shimmered in the candlelight, as
though she had bottled up daylight from the match and brought it to the party with her. He didn’t
know she could do such a thing, but if anyone could, it was Lily Evans.

He was on the floor with his friends. He didn’t remember getting here, but they were all lying on
the carpet, laughing, laughing, laughing.

“If we made Sirius drink a reverse aging potion,” said Peter, eyes shut, “and he transformed into
Padfoot…would he be a puppy?”

“We should try it,” said James. “I’ve always wanted a puppy.”

“I’ll still bite your ankles,” said Sirius, and they all laughed, laughed, laughed as though it were the
funniest thing anyone had ever said.

“I’m going to go get another drink,” said James.

“Yeah, but listen to me. Listen, listen, listen. Hufflepuff is not the enemy, mate. No, no, I get it.
We just trampled the badgers into a bloody mess and that’s fantastic, and we should celebrate,
fantastic, but Gryffindor-Hufflepuff relations go way back, mate, all the way to the founders, mate.
No, it’s true. Everyone always goes on about that big falling out between Gryffindor and Slytherin,
but no one ever talks about how Helga and Godric were best mates. They were. You know why?
Because she was cool. Helga Hufflepuff was cool.”

James had somehow ended up on the other side of the common room, where Davey Gudgeon was
holding court.

“I mean think about it, mate. Think about the Sorting. Hufflepuff is the real hero of the Sorting.
You’ve got Gryffindor who’s all ’Blahhh, you’ve got to be brave and bold to hang in my house,’
and then you’ve got Ravenclaw who’s, you know, discriminating against the less intellectual
eleven-year-olds, and you’ve got Slytherin, who only wants…bigoted pricks or whatever the fuck.
But then you’ve got Helga Hufflepuff who takes one look at those little shits and says, ‘Hey, kid,
are you cool?’ and if the kid says, ‘Yeah, I’m cool,’ then she says, ‘Okay, cool, you can hang.’
And that’s equality, mate, that is justice, and you know, you know she and Gryffindor toked weed
all the time.”

“They did?”

“Oh yeah. All the fucking time, mate. Where d’you think he got the idea for the Sorting Hat?”

There followed an assorted mumbling of agreement.

“Okay,” piped up another fifth year, “Helga may be cool, but we still beat those bastard badgers to
a bloody pulp.”

“That’s true,” said Davey, scratching his chin philosophically. “That’s very true.” Then, abruptly,
he bellowed: “BURY THE BADGERS!”

And the entire common room replied: “BURY THE BADGERS!!!”

“Hey, Potter, they want you over there.”

It was nearing midnight, James realized with a jolt as he made his way through the common room
in the direction he’d been pointed. He was nearly seventeen. Though still comfortably sloshed, he
thought the fudge was starting to wear off. Bloody hell, if Remus ate more than one of those, no
wonder he was all but comatose.

There appeared to be a crowd gathering towards the back, and as James approached, someone (he
was still a little too sozzled to identify who) gave him a friendly shove and called, “Here he is!”
and James was pushed through the crowd towards a table that was laden with piles of gifts and a
beautiful cake in the shape of a Quaffle. Above the whole tableau hung a banner that blared,
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY CAPT’N POTTER” and scrawled beneath this, in a script that looked
suspiciously like Sirius’s: “You wanker.”

And then there was cake to be eaten and another round of drinks to be shared and songs to be sung
and jokes to be had, and gifts to be opened, but —

“You can’t open them yet,” said Peter, glancing at his wristwatch. “You’ve still got…”

“Ten,” said Sirius loudly. “Nine…”

The lingering partiers looked around, catching on.

“Eight!” called the crowd. “Seven!”

Remus, who always turned in early at post-match parties even when he wasn’t stoned out of his
mind, was napping on a nearby sofa. Sirius elbowed him, and Remus jerked awake. “Six,” he
dozily joined the countdown, and James in his inebriated state felt touched that his chronically
sleepy friend had stayed up just for this.

“Five…four…three…two…one…HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

A roar that would put any lion to shame went up throughout the Gryffindor common room, and
James was once again engulfed in backslaps and high fives. Someone threw a fistful of confetti in
his face, and shots were passed about, and James sat laughing at the center of it all, thrilled by the
orbit of this galaxy around him.

“Gifts!” shouted Sirius, shoving the hoard towards him, and James, giddy from the last round of
celebratory shots, began to unwrap the pile of gifts from his friends and classmates — among them
heaps of sweets, devious wares from Zonko’s, a bottle of birthday Scotch, a Puddlemere hat, and,
obscurely, a small bottle of Madam Glossy’s Silver Polish. James blinked at this one, baffled for a
moment, until he noticed a small note attached. It read:

For keeping your inevitable Quidditch Cup spick and span.

(I know you know how to use it.)

~ Lily

p.s. I nicked this from Filch’s stash, so if he asks, you got it from Black.

James felt his face split into a grin, the memory of their shared detention wafting over him, as
unforgettable as the somewhat caustic scent of silver polish. He looked up, quickly scanning the
crowd for a flash of red hair, but he didn’t see her. This hardly dampened his spirits, though,
because she had got him a birthday gift — and not just any birthday gift, but a gag gift, which
everyone knew was far more intimate. That was something only real friends did.

He felt giddy. A dizzying, warm feeling that should probably be attributed to the excess of alcohol
he’d consumed buzzed through his blood, and he felt overwhelmingly fond of every Gryffindor
that crammed in around him. Before he could translate this feeling into inebriated poetics, however,
an enormous box was shoved into his lap.

“Last one,” said Peter.

James looked down at the box, taken aback. He’d already opened gifts from just about every
person he’d have guessed would give him one, and then some. “Who’s this from?” he asked.

“Read the bloody card, you dolt,” said Sirius cheerfully, pouring himself a glass of birthday
Scotch. And then James noticed an enveloped tucked under a smaller box that was tied to the
whole package by a bright red ribbon. He slid the card from beneath the smaller box and read it.

Thought you might need something extra special to cheer you up this year. Don’t fly too fast.
Love,
Mum

James stared at the note, understanding sloshing through his brain like a bottle of firewhiskey. He
looked to Sirius. “How did you…?”

“I told your mum we were having a bit of a party. She thought it might be fun to open with the rest
of your gifts.”

“Oh, really? You told my mum about all this?” He motioned at the common room. Over by the
bar, Davey Gudgeon was showing off some strange new pipe. Muggle, probably.

“Well…I told her there would be cake.”

James snorted. “Should I worry that you write my mum behind my back?”

“Absolutely,” said Sirius.

James returned his attention to the box, then shot an almost nervous glance back at Sirius. “Is
this…?”

“Just open it!” complained Peter, bouncing on the heels of his feet.

James did. He gave the ribbon a quick tug, setting aside the smaller box for investigation after, and
ripped the paper from the long box with almost frenetic enthusiasm. As he gave the paper one final
tear, the gilded words COMET 220 shimmered in the party light. James let out a low moan of
longing.

Considerable interest had arisen from his audience, and the group gathered tighter now to peer over
his shoulder as he lifted the lid of the box to reveal the most gorgeous broomstick James had ever
seen in his entire life: Sleek mahogany handle, gleaming, polished to perfection…the twigs of the
tail each trimmed with impeccable precision…It was a work of art.

He ran a reverential hand over the handle, then lifted it carefully from the box. The entire crowd
oohed and ahhed.

“The Cup is ours for sure now!” howled McFarlan, beside himself with glee.

This went on for a while, until James remembered the smaller box and collected it. He expected it
would have some useful broom accessory, but when he unwrapped it, he found instead small
wooden box. Curiously, he opened it — and his heart stopped.

It was a watch — a traditional gift for one’s seventeenth birthday — but not just any watch. Sleek
silver, slightly dinged on one side, intricate little hands sweeping around a constellation clock
face…This was his dad’s watch. He’d recognize it anywhere. He’d seen it on his father’s wrist
every day for his entire life.

There was a little note folded up inside the box. James smoothed it out.

Happy 17. Love, Dad.

The note was written in an incredibly shaky scrawl, as though it had taken all his dad’s energy to
get those simple letters onto a piece of parchment. He stared down at the note, at the watch, at the
hands that ticked, ticked, ticked, on and on — and yet, time seemed still, as though the party
around him had suddenly frozen, a grotesquerie of celebration: Glitter and confetti hung in midair,
faces rigid in a rictus of laughter, trapped in this moment, this once perfect moment.

Then someone bumped him, a slosh of liquid, and distantly — as though from a different room,
even though he was right next to him — James heard Peter shout, “Watch the broomstick, Gudgie,
you prat!”

James looked up, and the party roared on, just as it must have done all the while, though time for
him had briefly stopped. Sirius caught his eye, a question in the arch of his brow. James shook his
head, then plastered a big grin on his face.

“Think I’ll take this up to the dormitory for safekeeping,” he said brightly, indicating the
broomstick.

The dormitory was empty, unsurprisingly, and James quickly deposited the broomstick into the
safety of his trunk. Then, before he could change his mind and get lost in the ominous tick yet
again, he shoved his dad’s watch underneath his pillow and hurried out of the dorm and down the
stairs. He didn’t want to look at it. He didn’t want to think about it right now. The tick of time was
dizzying, and he felt nauseated, as though the world was twirling, twisting, ticking…Oh, Merlin,
he really was going to vomit.

He stumbled out of the stairwell and into one of the other dorms’ toilets, ignoring the call of “Hey,
Potter! Happy birthday, mate!” as he staggered into a stall and all but collapsed against the basin of
a toilet. He dry heaved for a few intolerable moments, expecting a torrential wave of bile, but
nothing came. He sat there for a moment on the cold tile, breathing heavily, trying to make the
room stop spinning.

Distantly, he was aware of the boys he’d passed chatting in the background.

“I’m telling you, it’ll be easy tonight. They’re practically giving it away.”

“A little booze always makes things easier.”

“That’s the trick. You don’t even ask if they want another drink, just make sure there’s always one
in her hand, if you know what I mean.”

Okay…okay. The stall was slowly ceasing to spin. His attempts to vomit had failed, but sitting
down had done him good. At last, he pushed himself up and teetered out to a sink with as much
dignity as he could muster.

“Attaboy,” said Morris Finchley.

“Excellent coordination,” said Bertram Aubrey. “I finally see why they made you Captain.”

“Piss off,” said James without much enthusiasm, and he splashed some water on his face before
heading back down to the common room.
After finding an empty glass, filling it with water, chugging it, then shoving another piece of cake
in his face, James felt markedly better. He made a firm decision not to accept any more shots, no
matter how enthusiastic the benefactor. He didn’t want to spend his entire birthday on the floor,
hungover and retching in the loo. Besides, the party was starting to die down a bit, anyway. Soon
everyone would be headed up to bed, but James wasn’t ready to go to sleep. He didn’t want to face
the watch beneath his pillow, to lie awake obsessing over what that meant, imagining his father’s
wrist without the old, familiar band.

So he went in search of his friends to cheer himself up. This had never failed him before, and he
knew it never would — but as he passed the refreshment table, a flash of red caught his eye at last.
He stopped. Lily Evans was leaning against the wall by the boys’ stairwell, a drink in her hand,
looking slightly unfocused and annoyed as Bertram Aubrey towered over her, one hand placed
obnoxiously on her waist.

Before he realized what he was doing, James marched over to them.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot last year,” Bertram was saying, all sugar and sleaze.

“Funny,” said Lily, and James noted a distinct slur in her voice. “If I recall, it wasn’t your foot I
objected to.”

Bertram grinned. “You’re sassy. I like that.”

“You’re a shriveled-up prick. I don’t like that,” said Lily.

“Everything all right here?” said James loudly.

Bertram glanced his way, a look of obvious annoyance flashing across his face. He shifted his
body slightly, as though guarding Lily from James’s view. “Fine, Potter. Move along.”

“I was asking Lily, actually.”

“She’s fine,” said Bertram again. “Aren’t you, Lily?”

Lily half-scoffed, half-laughed. “I’m bored,” she said.

“Come on,” muttered James, and he reached for Lily’s hand. He almost expected her to shove him
away, but she accepted it and followed him without hesitation.

“Oi,” said Bertram angrily, stepping in front of James. “Get your own.”

“Fuck off, Aubrey,” snarled James, and there must’ve been something in James’s expression that
suggested this really was a rather good idea, because Bertram did, in fact, fuck off.

“I really am fine,” slurred Lily, once they were several wobbly steps away. “I don’t need a nanny.”

James looked at her, noting the smeared face paint on her cheeks and the golden tinsel braided into
her hair that in his fudge-inebriated state he’d taken for sunshine. She was both adorable and
indisputably drunk. “Normally, I’d agree with you,” said James as diplomatically as he could, “but
at the moment, I’m less convinced.”
“Fuck you,” Lily laughed, giving him a shove and nearly missing. “I could hex Aubrey’s hair clean
off his head, sober or not.”

“What were you even talking to him for?”

Lily snorted, then finished off the last gulp of her drink. “I was bored. What d’you care who I talk
to?”

“I just do. He was an absolute prick to you last year.”

“You’re the one who said I should be more forgiving of people.”

James blinked, trying to remember when exactly he’d said such a thing. “Look, even if I did say
that, I am quite sure that I meant…you know, me. More forgiving of me. Not pricks like Bertram
Aubrey.”

“Okay, fine,” said Lily lightly. “I forgive you. D’you forgive me?” She swayed a bit as she said
this, the empty glass in her hand wavering dangerously.

“You are very drunk,” said James, carefully removing the glass from her grasp and setting it aside.
“Can I get you some water?”

“You can get me another beer.”

“Yeah, I’m going to get you some water instead.”

“I told you, I don’t need a nanny. But…just out of curiosity, is the room spinning for you too?”

“Come on,” said James, taking her hand again. This seemed to work well. For some reason, she
wasn’t so obstinate whenever he held her hand. He led her through the increasingly empty
common room until, with a sense of great relief, he spotted Sirius and Peter over by the windows.
Remus, he knew, had wisely gone to bed. Sirius was sprawled on a sofa, a cigarette between his
teeth and an ashtray balanced on his stomach, while Peter sat slumped in an armchair, nursing a
bottle of firewhiskey and looking as though he were about to imminently conk out.

“Oh hey, it’s the fudge pusher,” said Sirius, as James approached with Lily in tow.

“Budge up,” James told him. Sirius obliged, and James directed Lily to the empty seat. She
slumped into the cushions, head lolling ever-so-slightly.

Sirius observed her, eyebrows raised. He looked up at James, a slight smirk on his face. “Drunk
Evans?”

“Drunk Evans.”

“Nice.”

“Don’t be an arse,” James warned him.

“Who’s being an arse?"

“Probably you,” said Lily, rolling her head against the back cushion to look at him. “You’re…
mean…and…very attractive. I forgive you.”

“Er…thanks?”
“She’s on a forgiveness kick,” said James. “Don’t ask. Look, I’m going to get her some water and
something to eat. Just — watch her a minute, will you?”

“Sure.”

But when James returned a few minutes later, Lily was happily sipping a glass of birthday Scotch.

“What the hell, mate?”

“What? You said watch her, I’m watching her.”

“You’re watching her drink Scotch. The subtext of my request was ‘don’t let her drink more.’”

“…that was unclear.”

James reached over to take the glass from Lily’s hand, but she hugged it to her chest. “No,” she
complained. “This is mine.”

“You’re going to feel like shit tomorrow.”

“That is a problem for Tomorrow Lily. Today Lily wants Scotch.”

James didn’t know what to say to this, so he just sighed, set the glass of water and the handful of
pumpkin pasties he’d retrieved from the dwindling refreshments supply upon the coffee table, then
dragged another chair over and collapsed into it himself. “Fine,” he said, “but when you finish it,
you’ve got to drink that whole glass of water and eat a pastie, all right?”

Lily looked at Sirius and Peter and pulled a face. “Does he nag you this much?”

“Yes,” said Peter and Sirius in unison.

James rolled his eyes while Sirius snickered. “I like Drunk Evans. Can we keep her?”

“So let me get this straight. You got weed from Gudg— I mean, your secret source that no one can
possibly divine — stole some ingredients from the kitchens, and whipped up a batch of edibles
right in your cauldron?”

Lily exhaled a plume of smoke, watching closely as it curled into the atmosphere. Then she said,
“Yes.”

Sirius let out a loud, genuine laugh. “Merlin’s pants, James. Penny Prefect is downright criminal. I
think I’m in love with her.”

“Shut up,” James advised him, taking a sip of birthday Scotch, even though he’d sworn he was
done drinking for the night.

“Yeah,” said Lily sleepily. “Shut up.”

“No, I mean it. Evans, I’m going to marry you, and you can make me weed fudge every day.”

“You wish, Black.”

“Desperately. In fact, I’ll do it right now.” He got off the sofa and bent down on one knee. “Lily
Evans, will you marry me and make me the highest man alive?”

She blew a mouthful of smoke in his face. “Prick.”

Sirius collapsed back onto the sofa laughing and motioned for the cigarette, which she handed over.
He took a long drag, then handed it back. James sat slumped in the armchair Peter had recently
vacated for bed, watching with curiosity this strange intimacy from two of his friends who had
historically never gotten along. Sirius seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly, and Lily seemed
about to fall asleep.

Then, out of the blue, she asked: “Were you really going to have an arranged marriage?”

Sirius coughed, whether from surprise or smoke from the cigarette, James wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry,
what?”

“That’s what all the girls used to say. That your parents were going to make you have an arranged
marriage, and that’s why you wouldn’t date any of them.”

Sirius let out a snort of laughter. “Whatever helps them sleep at night.”

James shot a glance at his friend. Obviously, he knew Sirius was never going to have an arranged
marriage, no matter what his horrible mother believed, but it did strike him as a bit odd that Sirius
showed almost no interest in dating girls, particularly since he could have his pick of the lot. He
had plenty of, you know, experience — James knew that, Sirius had told him all about it — but he
seemed completely unconcerned with getting a girlfriend. Florence had asked James several times
who Sirius was going with, and the answer had always been the same. No one. Not that it mattered,
but it was…curious, that’s all.

“I think I’m going to have to be in a wedding soon,” said Lily, following that stream of
consciousness conversational style for which the inebriated are known.

“That so?”

“My sister. She’s got herself a new boyfriend, and she’s obsessed with him by the sounds of it.”

“Bit early to hear wedding bells, don’t you think?” said James.

“No, my dad’s going to visit them in London. She wouldn’t do that if she wasn’t conspiring for an
engagement ring. And she scheduled it over our spring hols, which I know she did on purpose so I
wouldn’t go home for break. Just to be a bitch. Tuney can be very calculated.”

“Tuney?” said Sirius with an amused arch of the brow. “As in…the fish?”

“Petunia,” sighed Lily, tucking her feet up on the sofa beneath her and snuggling underneath a
blanket she’d requested they transfigure for her not long ago. “She’ll have to fight Suzanne for the
date though," she murmured obscurely. “I'm so mad at her…” and then her eyes drooped shut with
an obvious finality.

“And…we’ve lost her,” said Sirius. “Damn. I really liked Drunk Evans.” Carefully, he reclaimed
the cigarette from her dangling hand and stubbed it out in the ashtray. “So, mate, how’s it feel
being a grown man?”

“Exhausting,” said James with a yawn. He peered around the common room, at the mess and
detritus of the party. They were the only ones left; the rest of their peers had long since turned in.
“Yeah,” agreed Sirius, standing up and stretching. “I think Evans has the right idea. Time to head
up?”

James hesitated. “What about her?”

“Oh, right.” Sirius leaned down and gave Lily a gentle shove. “Oi, Evans. Wake up.”

Lily mumbled something incomprehensible but did not wake up.

“Come on, Evans. Time for bed. Up you get.”

Nothing.

“Well, I tried,” Sirius shrugged, and he turned towards the dorm.

But James shook his head. “We can’t just leave her down here.”

Sirius glanced down at the sleeping girl, then back to James. “Why not? She’s got a blanket.”

“Because…she’s drunk, and…and Bertram Aubrey was definitely trying to shag her earlier. What’s
to say he or some other bloke won’t come down and…you know…take advantage?”

Sirius frowned. “I see your point, but what do you want to do? You know we can’t go up to the
girl’s dormitory without triggering the Founders’ Ancient Booby Trap of Doom. Oooh, unless you
want to try the broomstick theory? We’ve always wanted to try that—“

“Shut up, mate,” said James, stifling yet another yawn. He leaned down and scooped Lily off the
sofa into his arms, blanket falling to the floor. She moaned slightly and nestled her head against his
chest. For a delirious half-second he thought his heartbeat might wake her up. “She can have my
bed. I’ll take the sofa.”

There was a glimmer of amusement in Sirius’s eye that James chose to ignore. “How very gallant
of you.”

The dormitory was silent but for the occasional snuffle from his sleeping dorm-mates as James
tugged back the curtains of his four-poster and gently lay Lily onto the bed. Carefully, he unlaced
her shoes and pulled the covers over her shoulders. She curled like a cat beneath them. Keenly
aware of Sirius’s gaze, James reached for a spare pillow from his bed and tossed it onto the sofa
they’d shoved in the dormitory all those years ago. Then he dropped himself onto the cushions and
kicked his feet up. It was a little short for him. He wouldn’t be sleeping well tonight.

“It must be exhausting being so chivalrous all the time,” observed Sirius.

“Fuck off,” laughed James, and Sirius raised his arms in mock defeat as he headed out to the
toilets. James lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling as his Scotch-sloshed mind ran through
what had truly been a fairly eventful twenty-four hours.

And then he remembered the watch, shoved beneath his pillow.

The pillow on which Lily Evans was currently sleeping.

For reasons that later he would not be able to articulate, it seemed very important that he reclaim
his father’s watch, and so he pushed himself up and treaded across the dormitory as quietly as he
could. She was still fast asleep, so he leaned down and reached to collect the watch, his arm
snaking awkwardly beneath her head as though he were about to embrace her. Come on, where was
it? He knew it was under there…

Lily’s eyes flickered open just as his grasping fingers found the watch’s band.

“James,” she murmured, and he froze. She was clearly still out of it, but a small smile played at her
lips. He was just about to slip his arm from beneath the pillow and retreat to the safety of the sofa,
when she did something wholly unexpected: She rolled sideways onto his arm and leaned forward,
just a little, just enough that the space between them was all but nonexistent. He could feel her soft
breath against his cheek, smell the unmistakable waft of too much whiskey, mingled with that
sweet, slightly earthy scent of citrus he’d come to associate with her presence.

They were far, far too close.

He was so taken aback by this sudden proximity that, for a moment, he did nothing at all; he just
crouched there stupidly, one arm tucked ridiculously beneath her head as her green eyes, somewhat
glassy with sleep and liquor, roamed across his face. He was doing everything he could not to look
at her lips…her beautiful lips, whose touch had once briefly brushed his cheek on a snowy
Christmas Eve and haunted his dreams for weeks to follow. Merlin, they were….inarguably perfect
lips. Then — so suddenly, so slowly — those perfect lips pressed against his own. Her hand had
found its way to the back of his head, fingers tangling through his mess of hair, and she pulled him
closer towards her, and he obeyed. As if they belonged to her and not to him, he felt his own lips
part, felt the slip of her tongue, felt the launch of a thousand Snitches inside his stomach, felt the
turn of the world upside-down and right-side-up again.

He leaned forward into the kiss, tasted its urgency, and he was overwhelmed with a dreamy yet
certain sense that time was precious and ticking by too fast, don’t stop, don’t think, there was only
this moment, this perfect moment, nothing compared to this now, now, now —

And then the realization of what he was doing hit him like a Bludger to the face, and he jerked
backwards, away from the kiss.

“Shit,” he gasped, and he glanced frantically at the door to check if Sirius had returned. He had not,
thank Merlin. But when James looked back to Lily, she was already asleep, her cheek pressed to
the pillow, eyes shut, the softest smile curving the corner of those damned lips as though the whole
thing had merely been a pleasant dream.

In his haste to get away, he’d left the watch beneath the pillow, and now he abandoned it to its fate,
stumbling backwards to the sofa. He crashed against the cushions like a wave against the shore,
clutching the sofa’s arm as though he were about to be swept away by the ocean of her.

Shit, shit, shit.

He hadn’t just done that. Please, Merlin, someone tell him he hadn’t just done that.

She kissed you first, his subconscious reminded him, helpfully.

But I kissed her back, he countered. I kissed her back, and she’s drunk and barely conscious…

You’re a little drunk too, mate.

Not that drunk, thought James, hating himself. And I — I have a girlfriend!
Yeah, his subconscious scratched its metaphorical chin. Can’t help you with that one. You’re kind
of a shithead, aren’t you?

Shit!

“Cheer up,” said a voice that definitely didn’t belong to his inner monologue. James turned to see
Sirius enter. “This is as close as you’ll ever get to bedding Lily Evans. Savor the moment.”

“Fuck off,” said James, without humor. He felt unnecessarily nettled by this comment. “Need I
remind you yet again that I have a girlfriend? Who I’ve been dating for several months now and
who I…genuinely care about very much?”

“Mate,” said Sirius, raising his eyebrows. “It was just a joke. Relax. I know you’re not trying to
make a move on Evans.”

James chewed his tongue for a miserable moment, and he considered letting it all spill out,
confessing his sins and seeking absolution, but something held him back, and he just grumbled:
“Toss me your spare blanket.”

Sirius obliged, then glanced back at the sleeping girl in James’s bed. “Tomorrow will be fun,” he
said lightly. Then he tugged the bed curtains shut, hiding Lily from view. He nodded at James.
“Sleep well on your couch of chivalry.”

James flipped him off, though without venom this time, and settled into the couch.

But lying cramped against the cushions, his back to the rest of the dormitory as though he could
block it out, James could not fall asleep. He kept replaying the kiss over and over, hating himself,
agonizing over every detail. The taste of her lips…the touch of her fingers in his hair…

He felt himself grow angry. What right did she have to do that? He had spent nearly a year getting
over her. It had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but he’d done it. He was over her.
He was over her! He was with Florence now. He liked Florence. And Lily — they were friends,
good friends. He valued that friendship, and then she goes and does…that? What was he supposed
to do with that?

But the anger dissipated just as quickly as it arrived. She’d been off her face drunk, barely
conscious, she hadn’t meant anything by it. She probably would’ve kissed anyone, he just
happened to be there at the wrong time —

Suddenly, James’s mind flickered back to Bertram Aubrey, his arm around Lily’s waist in the
common room, plying her with drinks. He thought of those same boys in the loo, laughing about
how easy it was if you got the girls drunk. He’d been distracted at the time, he hadn’t fully
processed what they were talking about…

The anger returned.

Wide awake and brimming with fury that was desperate to find release, James shoved the blanket
to the floor, swung his legs off the sofa, and marched out of the dormitory and down several flights
of stairs until he arrived at the seventh year boys’ door.
 He knocked.

No one answered.

He knocked again, louder. “Oi, Aubrey.” He banged on the door. “Come on, I need a word.”

Finally, it creaked open, and a bleary-eyed and supremely pissed-off Bertram Aubrey greeted him.
“The fuck do you want?”

James peered over his shoulder into the dormitory. There did not appear to be any girls in there,
incapacitated or otherwise. That was a relief, because he wasn’t really sure what he would’ve done
had there been. He hadn’t actually thought this far.

“Can we have a little chat?” James said. “Conference? Kerfuffle, maybe?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Bertram went to close the door, but James stopped it with his foot. “Yeah, see, here’s the thing: If
you ever try that on Lily again — or any other girl in this castle for that matter —

“Try what? What are you on about? I didn’t do anything.”

“Come off it,” snarled James. “You were plying her drinks, we both know what you were after.”

“So let me get this straight. On the authority of the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, I’m not allowed
to have a drink with a girl anymore? Or — let me make sure I understand — is it just the ones you
fancy? Does your girlfriend know about this?”

“I swear to Merlin, Aubrey, I’ll—“

“You’ll what? Evans may be a prick tease, but she wasn’t complaining, so I don’t see why you are.
Grow up, Potter. Your knight in shining armor act is embarrassingly transparent, and frankly, this
conversation is getting boring.”

“Well, good thing I’m almost done. See, per the instructions of the very kind and infinitely
forgiving girl you tried to take advantage of tonight, I’m not supposed to hex people just because
they annoy me.”

“Good for you,” scoffed Bertram.

“Yeah,” agreed James and, rolling his shoulders ever so slightly, he drew back his arm, squeezed
his fingers into a tight fist, and punched Bertram Aubrey in the face. “But I’ve always loved a
loophole. Goodnight.”

Chapter End Notes

Evil CH would go on her hiatus after this chapter, but because I am Good, Kind,
Worthy-of-Forgiveness CH, I'm gonna try to get you one more before I vanish for a
month or so. <3
 The Villain
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

LILY

The Villain
The earth was soft as a sigh as Lily’s toes touched each step upon the moss-furred ground — and
all around her, trees: Tall spindly ones and thick, lichen-crusted trunks, their branches tangling, the
canopy of leaves a gentle hiss overhead. She wandered contentedly through this forest, listening to
the whisper of trees, gazing with fondness at the ferns and fungi that covered the space between
them. She was unconcerned that she was barefoot, that she was alone, that the shadows were
growing longer and more crooked. She had the feeling she’d been here before, but it had been a
very long time, and she could not remember.

Slowly, as a school of fish fluttered by, she became aware that she was underwater. This wasn’t a
cause for alarm — she was not drowning — but more a curiosity. She took another tentative step
and realized she could float, that she was walking as though she were that American astronaut
who’d landed on the moon. She’d watched the coverage of that on the telly as a little girl, with her
mum, dad, and Petunia all crammed together side-by-side on the sofa. “A miracle,” her dad had
said, and she heard him say it now, booming amongst the trees.

She amused herself with her moon walk for a few moments more, until she noticed something out
of place, tucked between a spiral of fungi — or possibly coral — at the base of a particularly large
tree. She crossed the distance in a single bound, then leaned down and collected the object. It was a
tarot card, water-logged and illegible. Probably one of Marlene’s. She stared at it, trying to make
out the text, to decipher the image, but it blurred before her blinking eyes. She tossed it aside and
turned, for a dark shadow had caught her eye in the far-distant trees. A whale, perhaps.

She turned back; the tarot card had floated away.

“All right, Evans?” said a voice, and she turned to see James Potter swimming towards her, a
perfect breaststroke as he swept through the ocean forest.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Came to see you. Figured I’d find you here. Rather pretty, isn’t it? If you like fish.”
“Yes…I think I just saw a whale.”

James nodded. She noticed that while she stood firmly on the ground, he floated beside her,
treading water. “There’s something coming, you know.”

“The whale?”

James shook his head.

“What, then?”

“I don’t know…but I’d better get going.”

“Wait!” cried Lily, suddenly panicked. She hadn’t minded being alone in this forest before, but
now that he was here, she did not want him to leave. “Don’t go.”

He swum closer to her, then reached out a hand and stroked her cheek. “You’ll be all right,” he
said. “You know how to swim.” And then he kissed her, soft and glorious, and it was perfect, a
perfect moment…until the tight grip of Grindylow fingers clasped her ankle and wrenched her
down into the forest’s darkest depths.

Lily woke with a jolt, heart hammering as she reacquainted herself with consciousness. She lay still
for a moment, cheek pressed to pillow. The dream was fading fast, like sea foam on ebbing waves,
but it had felt so real, in that disconcerting way that dreams sometimes do. She could almost smell
the woodsy scent of the forest, all earth and pine and alder…

But the details of the dream were dizzying, disappearing — all but the lingering touch of a kiss
she’d dreamt of many times before — and instead she found herself greeted by the inhospitable
bludgeon of a hangover. It felt as though one of the trees from her dream forest had fallen over and
smacked her on the head.

She groaned, her arm slinking beneath the pillow as she stretched out her thoroughly-dehydrated
limbs. Then she froze as her hand came into contact with something that wasn’t supposed to be
there. She pulled the mysterious object from beneath the pillow and peered at it in utter bafflement.

It was a watch. A man’s watch, and not one she’d ever seen before.

She pushed herself upright — a feat for which she rather felt she was due an award — and turned
the watch over in her hand. It was old…and expensive looking. She blinked at it,
uncomprehending, her sluggish mind incapable of recalling how on earth it had ended up beneath
her pillow. Perhaps it belonged to one of the other girls…?

A beam of morning sun snuck through a crack in the bed curtains; the light felt wrong, as though
perhaps it were being filtered through the trees of her dream. Wincing against the intolerable
brightness, Lily reached out a groggy hand and pulled back the bed curtains.

“Morning, sunshine,” said a distinctly male voice.

She scrambled up, dropping the watch amongst the sheets as she gathered the covers around her.
Her head was pounding, but not nearly as brutally as her heart. For there, lounging casually on the
bed beside hers, reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of tea, was —

“Black? What are you doing in my d—“

But she broke off, because her bleary eyes had focused on the rest of the dormitory, and something
was distinctly off. She’d been right, the light was wrong, and everything was slightly out of place,
and there were only four beds, and…

“Wee bit hungover?” said Sirius, giving her a sympathetic grimace that did not mask the
amusement in his voice.

…and she was still in yesterday’s clothes.

“Oh—“

“Wait for it…”

“—my god. I’m in the boy’s dormitory!”

“…there it is.”

“Oh no,” whispered Lily, pressing her fingertips to her temple. “Oh, no, no, no, no, no…”

“Breathe, Evans.”

“Oh, god. Oh, god.” She felt as though she were going to vomit. She looked urgently back up at
Sirius. “We didn’t…? I mean, I didn’t, you know…? Sirius Black, I swear to god, stop laughing
and answer me!”

Sirius folded up the newspaper and tossed it aside, not even pretending to hide his grin. “Relax,
Evans. Nothing happened. You, ah, overindulged a little last night, that’s all.”

That part was obvious, but it did not seem like a suitable answer for why she was waking up the
next morning in the boys’ dormitory. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember the events of
the night prior. She remembered getting high at the match with Remus — that part had been fun —
and she remembered most of the party…up until around midnight, when the sight of James looking
so sweet opening his birthday presents had been too much for her heart, and she’d gone off looking
for another drink. She’d found one, and another one after that…and then things started to blur a bit.
She vaguely remembered calling Bertram Aubrey a prick, but after that…the rest of the night was
as empty as an abyss.

“And you’re sure,” she said, her voice shaking just a note, “you’re sure that I didn’t hook up with
— I mean, that no one…”

“What, that none of us shagged you while you were unconscious?” snorted Sirius. “Come on,
Evans, you don’t really think any of us are big enough creeps to do something like that, do you?”

She bit her lip. There was an ominous stinging at the corners of her eyes, and she was terrified she
was going to start crying. She always cried at the worst moments, but crying in front of Sirius
Black would absolutely top them all.

Sirius seemed to sense this; his brow furrowed, and his amused demeanor vanished at once. He
looked genuinely troubled. “Hang on, you don’t think that, right? Shit, Evans. That didn’t even
occur to me.” He sat up straighter and turned to face her directly, legs swinging off the bed.
“Look,” he said, “you had a little too much to drink last night, all right? You passed out in the
common room, and we couldn’t get you up to your own dorm, and we didn’t want to just leave you
down there on your own. There are unwritten rules about these things, you know. Bad things
happen to prefects who fall asleep with their shoes on, and such.”

Lily glanced down to see that her unlaced shoes were indeed set tidily by the foot of the bed.
Somehow, despite her fully-clothed status, this detail made her feel even more naked.

“Oh,” she said in a small voice.

“I swear to Merlin, Evans, nothing happened.”

He seemed sincere — and positively horrified at the idea that she might think otherwise. She
didn’t, not really, but what else was a girl supposed to think upon waking up in a boys’ dormitory
with no recollection of how she’d got there and her once sworn enemy smirking at her from the
other side of the room?

“Right,” she said. God, her head was pounding. “Well — er — thanks, I guess. Erm…” she
hesitated. There was a question she had to ask, only she really didn’t want to. She swallowed.
“Whose bed am I in?”

Sirius’s smirk made a momentary reappearance. “That would be James’s.”

“Oh, god.” Lily pulled the blankets all the way over her head, as though she might disappear
beneath them forever.

“Don’t worry, Evans. He was a perfect gentleman and slept on the sofa.”

Curiosity momentarily distracting her from smothering herself in humiliation, Lily peeked over the
blanket’s edge. “You have a sofa in your dorm? We don’t have a sofa.”

“We stole it from the common room a few years ago.”

“Of course you did.”

She peered around the dormitory, taking in the subtle differences from her own. It was a bit more
messy, for one thing, and the boys had tacked a mass of blank parchment up on the wall. Some sort
of inside joke, she suspected. Across the room, a squashy sofa was shoved against the stretch of
space that, in Lily’s dormitory, would’ve been occupied by a fifth bed. A rumpled blanket and
pillow were strewn at one end.

There was one other important detail about the dormitory that had caught her attention: Other than
Sirius Black, it was completely empty.

“Where is everyone else?” she asked, hoping Sirius didn’t immediately translate this to what she
actually meant, which was: Where is James?

“Oh, they went to grab some breakfast. I figured I’d stick around and make sure you didn’t hurl
yourself out the tower window upon waking.”

“That was…thoughtful of you.”

“Yeah, well. Mostly I just didn’t want to miss the look on your face when you realized you’d slept
in James’s bed.”

“And there’s the Sirius Black I know and loathe,” said Lily flatly as she fell back against the
pillows, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight streaming through the window. Each ray was
like a needle poking her through the brain. “Will you close those bloody curtains?”

Smirking, Sirius obliged with a flick of his wand.

“Thank you. God, I feel like shit.”

“Oh, yeah, since we’re mates now —“

“We are not mates.”

“We got pissed together, Evans. Legally, yes, we are — and since we’re mates, I feel obligated to
tell you that you have a hearty ‘I told you so’ coming.”

“What? From who?”

“James. He tried to take your drink last night, but you wouldn’t let him, and he told you that you
would feel like shit today. Lo and behold —“ he gestured at Lily, crumpled beneath the covers like
a discarded bit of parchment. “— shit.”

“You’re enjoying this too much,” grumbled Lily.

“Just nice to see someone else in his cross hairs. No one does an ‘I told you so’ quite like James
Potter. He’s a professional. Anyway, here.” Sirius stood, collected two glasses from his bedside
table, and handed them both to Lily.

“What’s this?”

“One is water, and you should drink all of that, and the other is — ah — a little hair of the dog.”

“Sorry?”

“A homemade hangover remedy.”

She eyed it dubiously. The glass was filled with a sludge-like liquid that did not look remotely
appealing to her nauseated stomach.

“It’ll help,” he said impatiently. “Just drink it. Trust me.”

She almost laughed. Sirius Black was the last person on the planet she’d ever trust, and yet…oh,
what the hell. It wasn’t as though her day could get much worse. She quaffed the potion. It went
down like ice, if ice had similar characteristics to mud. “God, that’s awful.”

“Give it a minute.”

She did, and slowly her headache dulled. It was not gone by any means — but it felt less like a troll
was presently bashing in her skull with a club, and more like the memory of having previously
been bashed, which sadly was a vast improvement.

“What was in that?” Lily muttered, sipping the water with a grimace.

“You really don’t want to know.”

She briefly debated arguing with him, but ultimately decided against it. Some things were better
left in the past, that drink evidently being one of them. She chugged the glass of water then set it
on James’s bedside table, using this small action as an excuse to let her eyes roam the space. Along
with a plethora of Puddlemere United paraphernalia, he had photographs of his friends tacked up
beside his bed, a detail that struck her as really rather sweet. But Sirius was still watching her
closely, that amused smirk slipping back, so she tore her attention away.

“All right,” she sighed. “Go on, let’s get this over with.”

“What’s that?”
“Tell me all of the humiliating things I did last night.”

Sirius arched an eyebrow. “What, all of them?” Lily must have looked horrified because he
laughed. “I’m teasing, Evans, it wasn’t that bad. I can only think of…twelve incidents.”

“God!” Lily buried herself under the blankets once more.

Sirius was laughing. “Get back up here, I’m just fucking with you. It’s not like you were the only
one off your face at the party. You were fine. You were actually…adorable.”

The indignity of this statement brought her briefly out of hiding. “Shut up.”

“Sorry, it’s true. Drunk Evans is possibly my new favorite person.”

Lily groaned, dragging the heel of her hand across her face. “Just…tell me what I did, okay?”

“Well, let’s see…there was a decent amount of dancing — fudge-induced, I think. Er….I’m trying
to remember…You did a round of broomstick shots with the Quidditch team after McKinnon
bowed out, that was eventful…Oh, and you agreed to marry me.”

“I did not! You’re fucking with me again.”

“A little,” admitted Sirius with a grin. “I did propose though.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did so. And you blew cigarette smoke in my face, which was hurtful. Although, now that I think
of it, it was a ring, so technically I think we are betrothed.”

“I’ll be the most hated girl in school. Half the castle will go into mourning.”

“Ha. Let’s see, what else…oh yeah, you told me I was mean — and very attractive — and that you
forgave me.”

“I forgave you…? For being mean or for being attractive?”

“Unclear.”

“God, this is mortifying. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” said Sirius brightly. “See what I did there?”

Lily rolled over, burying her face in the pillow (James’s pillow, an insistent voice in the back of her
brain reminded her). She hadn’t meant to get so drunk. She usually kept her guard up at house
parties, but…God, what a nightmare. Sirius’s hangover remedy had dulled the worst of the
headache, but she still felt nauseous and miserable. Her stomach was roiling with alcohol; she
needed food.

“I suppose I ought to get up if I want any breakfast,” she mumbled into the creases of the pillow
(James’s pillow!!!).

“A fine plan,” agreed Sirius, “but severely hampered by the fact that it’s nearly one o’clock in the
afternoon.”

“What?” She flailed for a moment until she found James’s watch and peered bleary-eyed at its
face. It was indeed nearly one o’clock.
“Yeah, even Remus woke up before you, and that’s an accomplishment, so brava.”

“I thought you said they went to get breakfast.”

“They did.” Then, glancing down at a piece of parchment in his lap, Sirius said: “Ah, speak of the
devil. They’re back.”

“Wh—“ Lily began, but then she heard the doorknob turn, and in a moment of panic and
mortification, she dove once more beneath the covers. She could hear Sirius sniggering beside her,
followed by the echo of footsteps on floorboards and the banter of boys.

“Is she still asleep?” said Peter.

“No,” said Sirius. “She’s hiding.”

Damn him.

The idea of facing them — of facing James — when she undoubtedly looked like a sloppy,
hungover mess was too much to bear. However, every second she stayed quiet only heightened her
humiliation, so she made a half-hearted attempt at humor. “I’m trying to suffocate myself,” she
announced from beneath the blankets.

She felt the mattress creak as someone sat down on the edge of her bed — well, not her bed.
James’s bed — and every muscle in her body tensed up. What if it was — ?

“Lily.” It was Remus. “Please don’t suffocate yourself. We both know I am not equipped to be
Gryffindor’s sole senior prefect.”

“You underestimate yourself,” came her muffled reply.

“Okay, well, if you die by asphyxiation, who is going to make me weed fudge for the full moon?”

Lying huddled beneath the blankets, it struck her booze-battered brain that Remus bringing up his
lycanthropy in front of her like that, in front of the others too — so casually, so comfortably — was
nothing short of miraculous. It was the clearest sign he’d ever given her that he saw her as as close
a friend as she did him. That she was accepted into his inner circle. It was perhaps the only thing in
that moment that could tempt her to tug the covers down to her nose, which she did now, peeking
up at him from beneath James’s blanket.

Remus smiled down at her. “Hi.”

“I’m never drinking again,” moaned Lily.

“That would be a colossal tragedy for me, personally,” interrupted Sirius, “because as I previously
mentioned, Drunk Evans is my new favorite person. Bacon?”

Lily, still tucked as tightly under the covers as she could manage, turned in surprise to see Sirius
holding out a gilded plate stacked with thick, sizzling rashers of bacon. She blinked, then forced
herself upright and looked around the room. There, on the floor of the boys’ dormitory, was a
massive spread of what appeared to be a full Scottish breakfast: plates topped with piles of
sausages, eggs, baked beans, fried tomatoes…She watched wide-eyed as Peter and James continued
to unwrap bundles of food. James, who was deeply involved in setting up a whole brigade of
butters and jams, did not look up at her.

Lily glanced between Remus (who was looking amused, though kindly so) and Sirius (who was
gnawing rather indecorously on his bacon). “What is all this?”

“I told you they went to get breakfast.”

“But it’s one o’clock…”

“We have long since decided we prefer not to be tied to the tyranny of the castle’s timetables,” said
Remus.

“Except James, who was up and showered before the rest of us so much as yawned,” said Peter.
“This is his second breakfast, the freak.”

“I’m a morning person,” said James.

“You’re a menace to society, that’s what you are,” said Remus.

Lily was still gawking at the platters of food. “But how did you…?”

“We’ve fostered a strong working relationship with the castle’s house elves over the years,” said
Sirius. “I’m sure you were very convincing on your fudge heist, but you don’t actually have to steal
food from the kitchens. They’ll just give it to you.”

“Noted,” said Lily faintly.

“We figured you’d need a good solid breakfast to sop up all the alcohol in your stomach,” offered
Peter, and internally, Lily squirmed with embarrassment (and unsopped alcohol, no doubt).

“Right,” she said. “About that. I really am sorry for being such a mess last night. Rest assured, I am
thoroughly humiliated.”

She waited for James’s ‘I told you so.’ It didn’t come.

“Relax, Evans,” said Sirius. “Everyone in this dormitory has gotten completely black-out smashed
at least once.”

“It’s practically a rite of passage,” said Remus.

“Congratulations,” Sirius clapped her on the shoulder. “Today, you become a man.”

Lily laughed in spite of herself. “Still, I’m so embarrassed…and the worst part is, I can’t even
remember what I’m embarrassed about.”

James, who had been intently assembling a rack of toast, looked up at last. “You don’t remember
anything?”

“Erm…” Lily rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she thought hard, reaching a desperate hand into
the dark abyss of drunkeness. “Did I…did I challenge you to a duel?”

James exhaled a burst of breath that might’ve been surprise, or amusement, or perhaps even
relief…He was impossible to read this morning. “Yes,” he said in mock solemnity. “You did. It’s a
fight to the death, I’m afraid. We duel at dawn. Or — er — as we’ve missed dawn, dusk I
suppose.”

“God.” Lily buried her face in her hands with a mortified half-laugh, sneaking a glance at James
through her fingers as she did so. A grin crept across his face, but then he quickly rearranged it and
went back to fussing over breakfast. “I’m so embarrassed,” Lily repeated stupidly, wishing he’d
look at her again.

“Yes,” said Remus dryly. “You were the only one in this room who was remotely embarrassing
last night.”

All four boys laughed at this and began recounting the various stupid things the others had said or
done the evening prior. At last, bolstered by this mutual sharing of embarrassing stories, Lily
slipped out from beneath the covers and slid to the floor, leaning against James’s bed and hugging
her knees to her chest as she giggled along with the rest of them.

“Here,” said James, handing her a fully-stocked plate. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

After a significant amount of face stuffing, she did, in fact, feel better — although not remotely less
inclined to be horizontal for the rest of the day.

“Sounds reasonable,” said Remus when she expressed this desire. He was lounging on his bed and
nibbling a tattie scone. “What else have we got to do?”

“Homework,” said Peter miserably.

“That’s what Monday mornings are for,” said Sirius. “Sundays are for sloth.”

“Not me,” said James, pushing his empty plate away. “I’ve got to head to the pitch for Quidditch.”

They all gaped at him. “What kind of psychopathic masochist schedules Quidditch practice the day
after a big match?”

James shrugged. “The pitch was open, so I booked it.” He glanced at his watch. “I actually should
get going.”

“Oh,” said Lily suddenly. “That reminds me.” Leaning over towards the bed, she rummaged
amongst the tangle of sheets and found James’s watch. She held it out to him. “This was under
your pillow.”

James looked taken aback — then abashed. “Ah. Sorry about that.”

“I just didn’t want it to get lost in the laundry.”

“Thanks.” James accepted the watch, crossed the dormitory, and stuffed it in his dresser drawer
without hardly looking at it — or her.

She was beginning to feel slightly concerned. James was being unusually standoffish, and she
didn’t know why. From what the others had told her, she hadn’t done anything too terrible the
night before, but based on the way James was acting…she had the distinct impression that there
was something they weren’t telling her. Perhaps she’d said something awful. Perhaps, in her
drunken stupor, she’d undone all the stitching that had been holding together their fledgling
friendship. The thought made her feel slightly sick in a way that had nothing to do with the
hangover.

“Well,” she said, pushing herself up and only wobbling a little, “I should get going too —“ But
then she froze, eyes widening in horror at a sudden realization.
“What?” said Remus. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t go down there.”

“Why not?”

“It’s midday. The common room will be packed. I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes, I’m blatantly
hungover…if anyone finds out I spent the night in a boy’s dormitory — in your dormitory…I will
never live this down for the rest of my life.”

There was a heavy pause as this sunk in.

“Ah,” said James. Then he turned to Sirius, who arched an eyebrow. In return, James scratched his
nose and gave a little half shrug.

“Stop it,” said Lily. They both looked at her in simultaneous surprise. “You’re doing that thing you
do where you talk without talking, and it’s unsettling. Use words.”

Sirius laughed. “It’s up to you, mate,” he said to James. “It’s your secret.”

James thought for a moment, frowning. Then he turned back to Lily, hands in his pockets. “All
right, look,” he said, his gaze fixated somewhere slightly to the left of her face, “we can get you out
of here without anyone seeing.”

“How?”

“I can only tell you if you swear to keep it a secret.”

“Fine,” said Lily impatiently. “I swear.”

“Does she solemnly swear, do you think?” asked Sirius, a note of amusement in his voice.

James shot him a quelling look, then went over to his trunk and pulled something from its depths.
He unfolded it to reveal a shimmering cloak. “This is an Invisibility Cloak,” he said.

“A what?”

“An Invisibility Cloak. When you put it on, you’re invisible.”

Lily glanced between him and Sirius. “Are you fucking with me again? Because if you are, now is
really not the time—“

“I’m not,” said James. “Watch.” And he threw the Cloak over his shoulders. Lily gasped as he
vanished into thin air.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. “So you just — what, you just wander around the castle invisible all
the time?”

“Not all the time…” said invisible James.

“This explains so much.”

James pulled off the Cloak looking slightly sheepish. “It’s a family heirloom,” he said, almost
defensively. “It was my dad’s, but if anyone at school finds out about it, they’ll probably
confiscate it, so you can’t tell —“
“I won’t,” said Lily. “Haven’t I proven I can keep a secret?”

The tiniest of smiles. “Yeah, you have.”

The plan was this: James would lead the way down the stairs of the boys’ dormitory, with Lily
following close behind beneath the Cloak. (“Don’t bump into anyone,” James had warned her.
“The Cloak will make you invisible, but you’ll still be corporeal.”) He would wait in the common
room while Lily dashed up to her own dorm to grab a spare set of robes, then once she’d returned,
he would open the portrait hole so she could slip out unseen and retreat to the privacy of the
prefects’ bath.

Her escape of the boys’ dormitory went surprisingly well — though there was a close call when a
supremely hungover Davey Gudgeon lurched out of his dorm towards the toilet and nearly barreled
into her. Her own dorm was somewhat trickier, but she managed it, and made her way back down
to the common room, a bundle of clothes clutched beneath the Invisibility Cloak. It was a strange
feeling, walking around knowing no one could see you. God, if she had one of these, she’d wear it
all the time.

When she reached the common room, she noticed Marlene, all set up behind a stack of books in the
corner, toiling away at homework no doubt. That was strange. Hadn’t James said they had
Quidditch practice? Wasn’t that precisely where he was going? Marlene did not look as though she
were headed anywhere anytime soon…Had he made that up just to get away from her?

James was chatting nonchalantly with some seventh years by the portrait hole. It was impressive
the way he did it, so casually and comfortably, no one would ever guess he was purposefully
killing time, waiting for Lily to tap him on the shoulder, which she did now. Just as skillfully, he
wrapped up the conversation and headed for the portrait hole, taking his time as he opened it so
Lily could slip through.

Thankfully, the corridor outside was empty. James walked a few paces down the hall out of the Fat
Lady’s hearing, then muttered, “Still there?”

“Yes,” said Lily.

“Right. Well, I’ll see you later then. Not that I can see you now, obviously.” And with a somewhat
awkward nod in the wrong direction of where she stood, he took off. She ought to let him go, to let
him keep whatever was bothering him a secret, to disappear with what little dignity she had left, to
keep it all tidy and invisible wrapped up beneath this Cloak.

But she couldn’t bear it.

“James,” she said, and he stopped. A moment’s hesitation, then he turned back.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have just a moment? Could we…talk?”

An inscrutable flitter of emotions across his face. Then: “Yeah, all right. Not here though. Er…the
classroom at the end of the corridor?”
She agreed, and he lead the way once again. It wasn’t until he had closed the door and cast a
silencing charm upon it that Lily pulled off the Cloak. In truth, she would’ve liked to have kept it
on. She wished she wasn’t wearing her ridiculous Gryffindor Quidditch fan getup, her hair all
tangled with tinsel. She probably still had the desperate vestiges of face paint smeared across her
cheeks. And of course, James just stood there looking…perfect. Up and at ‘em, bright and early.
Not hungover at all, off to go play a bloody sport, no less. All clean and showered and smelling
strangely of…of…spice…?

“Are you wearing cologne?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He looked startled, then he laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, yeah. Florence gave it
to me for my birthday this morning.”

“It’s nice,” Lily lied. It wasn’t nice. It smelled…wrong. James Potter was supposed to smell of
earth and wood and pine…not cloves and vanilla. Not that she had spent any time thinking about
this at all. James smirked, apparently despite his best efforts to keep a straight face. She got the
impression that he agreed with her unspoken sentiment with regards to the cologne. “Nicer
smelling than what I got you,” she added.

God, that stupid little bottle of silver polish. It had seemed funny at the time, but he’d probably
thought it was idiotic…

“I better not mix them up,” said James. It wasn’t fair, the way his smile slid up one side of his face,
all crooked and adorable. And then it seemed intentional, the way he straightened it back out again.
“So — er — what did you want to talk about?”

“Right. I…I guess I just wanted to say thank you for being so nice to me last night, and, erm, to
apologize again.”

“There’s no need.”

“It’s just — I don’t really remember much of what happened, but I know I have a rotten temper, so
if I said anything rude or awful—“

“You didn’t.”

“Are you sure? Because I told Sirius he was mean.”

“And very attractive. I was there for that part.”

Lily briefly closed her eyes. “Great.”

James grinned. “Hey, can’t argue with the truth. He’s a good-looking lad.”

“Drunk Lily is a truth-teller, apparently.”

“And big on forgiveness.”

Lily bit her lip. “So you’re sure there’s nothing…? I just get the sense that something’s bothering
you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.” He sniffed his wrist and winced. “Except a slight clove allergy, maybe.
Do you think she’ll notice if I never wear this again?”

Lily felt her heart sink. He was blowing her off. There was nothing to do but play along. “I’d give
it a week at least,” she said as lightly as she could. “Then you can accidentally tip it down the
drain. Whoops-a-daisy.”

James smiled. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

“‘Course not. Well, all right, I’ll let you get to…ah…Quidditch practice.”

She turned away to pull the Cloak back over her shoulders, feeling supremely disappointed by their
lack of a real conversation, but before she could properly vanish, James said in a low voice:
“Evans, wait.”

She stopped. Turned back to him. He had his eyes closed, as if whatever he was about to say he
knew he would regret.

“Yes?”

“There is something. I don’t want to upset you, and it’s really not a big deal, but…” James
scrubbed a hand over his face. “You kissed me last night.”

Lily felt as though someone had just poured a jug of ice water over her head. “I — what?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything about it, because honestly, it wasn’t a big deal, but I didn’t want
you to remember after the fact and misinterpret it, or think that I was keeping it from you, or that I
took advantage in any way, because I didn’t, Evans, I swear, I’d never do that. And I know you
were drunk, and it didn’t mean anything…and it was quick, and I pulled away, so we can just
pretend it never happened and never mention it again, okay? It’s really fine. Not a big deal.
Evans?” he sounded agonized. “Say something.”

It took Lily a moment to find her voice. When she did, it was tiny. “I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to—“

“I am absolutely…vile.”

“No.”

“I am. Vile. You have a girlfriend. A girlfriend who is my friend. Florence is my friend. You’re my
friend, and I —“ She turned away abruptly, her hands a steeple before her mouth, as though she
might block the words from coming out. “God,” she whispered. “I am exactly what they’ve always
said about me.”

“Evans,” said James. “Stop. It was just a stupid thing, all right? You were drunk—“

“That’s not an excuse.”

She heard James sigh behind her. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. A sudden wave of
realization — not unlike a wave of nausea — overtook her, and she felt unmoored, adrift in her
own sea of angst. “Oh my god. It’s going to happen again, isn’t it? Just like last year with Alodie.
Everyone’s going to find out about this, and I’ll be the villain again. Except this time it’s true, and I
deserve it.”

“No.”
She spun on her heel to face him again. “You don’t understand—“

“I do, Evans. I understand. Okay? But it’s not going to be like last year. No one’s going to find
out.”

“That’s not how Hogwarts works.”

“It is this time,” said James firmly. “No one saw you go up to the dorm, no one saw you come
down. There wasn’t anyone else in the room when you — when we — well, there wasn’t anyone
there, anyone conscious anyway, and I haven’t told a soul. And I’m not going to.”

“Not even Black?”

“No.”

They gazed at each other for a moment; distantly, she realized it was the first time all day they had
both looked each other directly in the eye.

“What about Florence?”

James tread a few anxious paces before the smudged blackboard, his eyes back on the floor.
“Look,” he said, in what sounded like an attempt at an even, reasonable tone. “I just…I don’t see
why we need to make this a whole big ordeal. I’m not trying to lie or deceive anyone, but if it gets
out, you know it will blow up out of proportion, and there’s just no need for it. You were barely
conscious — you don’t even remember! And I pulled away. So…when it comes down to it, did it
even happen? It’s not as though — I mean, we both know — it didn’t mean anything…”

A long, unbearable pause.

“…right?”

How could she explain to him that it had meant everything? She’d been drunk, yes, but what had
she just said a few moments ago? Drunk Lily was a truth-teller. She may not remember it, but she
knew that in that moment, she’d wanted to kiss him with all her heart. Hell, she wanted to kiss him
right now. God. Here he was, offering her a way out, offering to protect her from the worst this
school had to offer — and she was thinking about kissing him again. She was vile, vile, vile.

“…Evans?”

She forced herself to look up at him at last. “It didn’t mean anything,” she said, so softly she
thought the words might disappear like wisps of smoke in the air.

A pause.

“Right,” said James. “Good. Then we’re all set. It didn’t happen.”

It was entirely unfair, Lily mused as she pruned herself in the prefects’ bath, to have fancied a boy
since she was thirteen years old and to finally kiss him when she was seventeen…only to not be
able to remember a moment of it. She didn’t even have the details of the kiss to console her. What
if she’d been terrible? Drunk and sloppy and repulsive. He said he’d pulled away. What if it hadn’t
just been because he had a girlfriend? What if he’d actually been disgusted by her, but he’d been
too nice to say it? Smothering herself under the covers had been a joke, but drowning herself in the
prefects’ bath was starting to have a certain appeal.

She spent far too long in the bath, untangling tinsel from her hair, scrubbing paint off her face,
soaking away as much of the party as she possibly could — until at last she dragged her exhausted
body from the soapy water, wrapped herself in a towel, and plopped down on the floor before one
of the silvery mirrors that decorated the room.

She stared at her reflection. Her hair was wet and heavy, clinging to her face and dripping down her
back. Her cheeks were pink from the scrubbing, her eyes puffy and pathetic. She looked like a
drowned rat. She wanted to flinch away, but she forced herself to keep critiquing. Her nose was
funny-shaped and her teeth were slightly crooked. Her freckles were in all the wrong places and
looked stupid. Petunia used to call them a mud splatter.

It was a bad habit, perhaps, but in the moment, this masochistic exercise of hating her exterior felt
good. Freeing, almost. It stopped her from getting too hung up on the inside. But that wasn’t
helpful, was it? Hating her nose or her teeth was a distraction. If she didn’t look at herself — truly
look at herself — unflinching and raw, and face the nastiness of what she found, how could she
ever move forward? How could she ever stop making the same bloody mistake over, and over, and
over again, the same mistake she’d made since she was thirteen years old? She couldn’t keep doing
this. It wasn’t just her life she was ruining anymore.

She scowled at all her flaws in the mirror, heaving a heavy sigh. Somewhere in the slow,
methodical process of scouring herself away, she had come to a decision, and it presented itself to
her now: She would keep her guard up, keep her selfishness at bay, keep her distance, if she had to.
She refused to be the villain in his story.

Not this time.

By the time Lily left the prefects’ bath, no one would ever know she’d slunk in there looking like
the hangover from hell. She was dressed in fresh clothes, her hair dried and carefully curled, her
makeup just so. “Battle armor,” her mum used to call it, as she dipped a finger into a pot of creamy
foundation and spread it beneath her eyes. In that sense, Lily supposed she was ready for battle,
although the only enemy she was fighting at the moment was herself.

“Where have you been all day?” demanded Marlene when Lily returned to the common room. She
was in the same spot she’d been when Lily had crept by under James’s Cloak earlier that
afternoon. The stacks of parchment around her had grown, but it did not seem as though she’d
moved at all.

“You know, just around. Things to do.”

“You never came to the dorm last night.”

“Yes, I did,” Lily hastily lied.

“I tried to get you to come up near the end of the party but you insisted you were fine. I came back
down a few hours later to check on you and you were gone.”

“You must’ve missed me.”

Marlene frowned for a moment, looking puzzled. Then, as though with a burst of clarity, she said,
“Oh, I see. You’re lying to me. Okay,” and went back to her essay.

There didn’t seem to be any strong condemnation in this statement; it was more as though Marlene
was computing a simple fact. Lily felt guilty for not telling her the truth — she suspected she
probably could tell Marlene without fear of fallout — but if James had sworn not to say a word to
even Sirius Black, his closest friend and confidant, well, Lily could bite her tongue too.

“You didn’t have Quidditch practice today, did you?” she asked after a moment.

“Of course not,” said Marlene, quill scribbling across her parchment. “We had a match yesterday,
remember?”

“Right. It’s just — I thought Potter said something about having practice today, that’s all.”

“None that I know of.”

“I must’ve misunderstood.”

“…and that’s Arithmancy done.” Marlene set down her quill. “Shall we head to dinner?”

Lily jumped slightly. She hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. She still had yesterday’s clothes
bundled up like a crime scene in James’s Invisibility Cloak, tucked beneath her arm, and she
obviously didn’t want to carry that all the way to the Great Hall, so she told Marlene to go on
ahead, saying she had some things to do up in the dorm first.

“I can wait,” offered Marlene.

“No, go on. I’ll catch up.”

The ‘things she had to do’ were mostly comprised of flopping on her bed and feeling sorry for
herself for a good fifteen minutes. Then, heaving a sigh, she began the trek down to the Great Hall.
No one stopped her on the way, or wolf-whistled in the corridors, or said anything to suggest they
knew she’d spent the night in James Potter’s bed. In fact, everything seemed entirely normal until
she reached the entrance hall, and Sirius Black descended on her, wrapping an arm around her
waist, and pulling her out of the crowd.

“Lily, love of my life, girl of my dreams, got a moment?”

He tugged her towards him and gave her a little spin to press her up against the wall. To the
impartial girl, it was an undeniably sexy move, but Lily Evans had never been impartial when it
came to Sirius Black.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, furious. People were looking at them.

“Giving you cover,” whispered Sirius. “Just go with it.”

“Black, I swear to god, my wand can be pointed at your privates in less than a second.”

“Please don’t hex my privates. Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you.”
“How on earth is you cornering me in public ‘helping’ me?”

“Play along for a minute, and I’ll explain.”

“No thank you,” she said, shoving him away.

“If you won’t do it for your sake, do it for James’s.”

This stopped her. “What are you talking about?”

“You know, because of what happened last night…?”

Lily’s eyes widened. “He told you?”

“About punching Bertram Aubrey? Yeah, though he didn’t need to because Aubrey has been
telling everyone in school all about how James clobbered him for hitting on you.”

This was news to Lily. James had punched Bertram Aubrey for hitting on her? If she’d been there
for that part, she certainly didn’t remember. She had a fuzzy recollection of Betram handing her a
drink, but that was around the time everything started to go hazy…

“Anyway,” said Sirius, “you can imagine how these rumors might spiral, given the history of your
and James’s relationship.”

“A relationship that is entirely fictional, as you very well know,” Lily hissed.

“As is this one,” said Sirius, and he stroked her cheek. Then, snickering at her expression, he said,
“Relax, Evans. I’m not going to snog you. But you could sell it a little, you know. Here I am doing
all the work.”

It wasn’t that she wanted to snog him — she absolutely did not — but the way he said ‘I’m not
going to snog you,’ as thought it was a relief was a tad insulting.

“I’m not sure I understand how this helps anyone,” said Lily, “and I am greatly reconsidering the
whole ‘not hexing your privates’ bit.”

“Well, let me explain it as succinctly as I can, for the sake of my privates.” He thought for a
moment. “Seventeen years ago, a certain Mrs. Aubrey had the grave misfortune of squeezing out
an absolute shitstain of a child, who would later go on to make a move on a very drunk girl at a
party. As a consequence, James Potter, a good lad with an overeager sense of justice and a truly
shocking deficit of common sense, decides to punch said shitstain in the face. In retaliation,
shitstain decides to tell everyone that James did it because he was jealous and in love with you.

“Here we reach the fork in the road, and two paths lie ahead of us. To the left, we do nothing and
let the rumors carry on unhindered. They gain traction, and because this is Hogwarts, they mutate
into new and exciting varieties the likes of which you and I can only speculate. You go through
social torment, James’s relationship, which — for reasons that are mysterious to me but that I have
accepted nonetheless — makes him happy, is ground into the dirt, like a Hufflepuff banner after
yesterday’s match.

“To the right, we change the narrative. You are not the temptress, luring a good lad towards a path
of violence and despair, but rather my darling new girlfriend, thanks to a whirlwind romance at the
post-match party — it works, plenty of people saw us cozy on the couch last night, and I did
propose, after all — and James is not a jealous ex-lover, lashing out from the pain of a still-burning
flame, but rather an overprotective best mate, who just wants his friends to be happy…which of
course we will be — terribly, deliriously happy — until our dramatic breakup next week.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Lily faintly.

“Hogwarts loves a story,” Sirius shrugged. “Your choice which one we give them.”

“Why you? Why can’t I pretend to date…Remus? I actually like him!”

“That was the original idea, but come on. Remus can’t lie to save his life, you know that.”

“Does James know about your little plot?”

“‘Course he does,” scoffed Sirius. “It was his idea.” For reasons she refused to articulate, this came
as a particular gut punch, and perhaps some of it showed up on her face, because Sirius added
almost apologetically: “He doesn’t want you to have to go through hell again just because he got
drunk and did something stupid, okay?”

She almost laughed at the irony of this. Almost. James was trying to protect her, when really she
was the one who ought to be protecting his relationship — the very relationship her drunk alter ego
had attempted to sabotage just last night. It was absurd, the whole farce. Pretend to date Sirius
Black for a week in order to safeguard James’s relationship with a girl she desperately wished he
wasn’t dating? But…hadn’t she just made a promise to herself? She wasn’t going to be the villain.
Not this time.

She owed him that, at least.

“Hey,” said Sirius, “if nothing else, it’ll be funny.”

“Fine,” Lily agreed at last. “But I’m setting some ground rules. No kissing, minimal touching—“

“Wow, Evans, you know how to make a bloke feel special.”

“And just so we’re clear, I get to break up with you.”

Sirius grinned. “Can’t wait.”

“Sorry we’re late,” said Sirius brightly. “We got a little carried away.”

Sirius had insisted on walking into the Great Hall holding Lily’s hand (“There’s no point if we
don’t put on a bit of a show.”), and as they settled into seats at the Gryffindor table surrounded by
Remus, Peter, Marlene, James, and Florence, she noticed James shoot Sirius a quick glare as if to
say, You better not get carried away now.

Lily reached for a dinner roll and began to butter it with far more intensity than was required.
Remus caught her eye and offered a commiserative grimace, which she appreciated.

“So you two really are together?” said Florence, glancing between them. “That’s a plot twist!”

“Hmmm,” said Marlene. Lily avoided her gaze.

“The heart wants it wants,” sighed Sirius. “Isn’t that right, love?”
She was going to murder him with this butterknife, right here in the Great Hall, and she wasn’t
even going to be sorry.

“What can I say?” said Lily, trying to keep her teeth-grinding to a minimum. “Sometimes hate is
really just love buried deep, deep, deep down.”

“Very convincing, darling,” said Sirius. “Shepherd’s pie?”

Dinner was excruciating. Sirius was clearly having a good time, but Lily spent most of the meal
doing everything she could not to look at James. She knew he’d been trying to help her by
constructing this whole facade. They all had, even Sirius Bloody Black, bane of her existence and
boyfriend from hell.

She also knew that it probably did help, in some weird twisted way. She knew that when Bertram
Aubrey came loping into the Great Hall (a purplish halo still shadowing his right eye) and saw her
sitting with Sirius’s arm around her shoulders, that it would knock some of the wind out of the
sails of his old story. And she knew that when Sirius chose that precise moment to lean in and
whisper apparent sweet nothings in her ear (“What a fucking wanker, isn’t he?” is what he actually
said), that the story would get around and both she and James would be spared the worst of the
Hogwarts Gossip Mill. Oh, she wasn’t entirely off the hook. No one could snog Sirius Black — or
pretend to — without getting talked about at least a little, but that was nothing, in the scheme of
what might’ve been.

She knew all this, and yet it was torture to sit here in this joke of a relationship, when James was
right there with his perfect girlfriend who made him happy, and Lily had kissed him, she’d kissed
him, and she couldn’t even remember it, and she could never, ever do it again.

She found herself wishing she had anywhere else to be — until she remembered that she did.

“Oh, damn,” she said suddenly, dropping her fork upon her plate. “I forgot I was supposed to go to
an M.B.S.C. meeting tonight. I’ve got to run, sorry.”

“What, now?” said Sirius.

“Yes, now,” she all but snarled in return. Then, at his arched eyebrow, she added, “Darling.”

Sirius smirked. “Well, all right then, but don’t stay out too late. I’ll miss you.”

It took everything in her not to flip him off.

“What’s M.B.S.C.?” she heard Florence ask as she hurried off.

Students were spilling out of the hidden room as Lily approached, and she realized with
disappointment that she’d missed the meeting. She stood off to the side as they cleared out,
listening to snatches of conversation. “A real Comet 220, can you believe it?” said Valmai. “And
he let me touch it and everything! Oh, hi Lily! You missed the meeting.”

“I know, I forgot,” Lily lamented. “See you next week, I suppose.”

Valmai waved as she and her friends took off.

Lily may have missed the meeting, but the door to the hidden room had not yet disappeared, and it
occurred to her that she’d really rather like to listen to some proper Muggle music, so she crossed
the corridor and pushed through.

“Oh! Sorry,” she said, because Graham was still there, thumbing through records. He looked up at
her in surprise.

“Lily,” he said, “I didn’t think you’d make it tonight.”

“I forgot. Too bad, as I could’ve used the venting session.”

Graham frowned. “Everything all right?”

“Just a long day. I didn’t mean to interrupt you, sorry.”

“Not at all. I was just tidying up.” Then he laughed slightly. “That’s a lie. I just wanted to listen to
music that wasn’t ABBA. What do you think: The Runaways or the Ramones?”

“The Runaways, definitely.”

“Ladies choice,” nodded Graham as he placed the record on the turntable. The growl of Joan Jett
soon filled the space. Accepting this as an invitation to join him, Lily walked further into the room
and leaned against the wall.

“So,” said Graham, “do you want to vent to me? The meeting may be over, but I’m still here.”

She smiled at him. “Nah, it’s okay.”

“I mean it,” said Graham. He crossed the room and stood next to her against the wall. “I’m here.
Not just for the Muggle-born Student Coalition, but…you know, if you ever need anything.”

Lily considered this, then him, then the Muggle music filling these walls, then everything that had
happened last night, and everything that had happened today, and everything that would never
happen in the future. Finally, she said: “Would you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Would you kiss me?”

Graham’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“God, sorry,” said Lily quickly, coming back to reality. “Forget I said that, I’ve just had really
weird day, and I’m—“

But she didn’t finish that sentence, because Graham had closed the space between them and
pressed his lips to hers, firm and sure. She closed her eyes, and he kissed her, and she kissed him
back, and it wasn’t electricity exactly, but it was nice, it was really, really nice. God, she missed
being kissed.

“Like that?” asked Graham, pulling back.

“Thank you,” said Lily stupidly. “Erm…how would you rate that?”

“Sorry?”

“Good, bad, repulsive-never-want-to-touch-me-again?”

Graham laughed. “Good. Definitely good.”

“Okay. Good. That’s good to hear.” She exhaled. Graham was still watching her closely, as though
she fascinated him. That was rather nice too. “Would you — erm — would you mind terribly…”
she twirled a lock of hair around finger then tucked it behind her ear. “Would you mind doing that
again?”

“I think I could manage that.”

He took her face in his hands, pushing his fingers into her hair. Then he leaned forward and kissed
her. Slowly at first, then fiercely, urgently, hands sliding down her waist, slipping past her skirt.
She wrapped her arms around him, and he twirled her gently until her back was against the wall,
pressing his weight against her as he kissed her neck.

“Just so you know,” he said, his lips hot against her skin. “I’m not really looking for a relationship
right now…”

“Perfect,” breathed Lily.

“…and I don’t actually believe in monogamy anyway…”

“Okay.”

“I think it’s a patriarchal construct designed to keep—“

“I don’t care.”

“Oh, cool. Wait…about monogamy or the patriarchy?”

“Just kiss me.”

“Wow,” said Graham. “Are we still rating things? Because if we are, that was definitely good.”

Lily had her back to him as she buttoned up her blouse and smoothed the pleats of her skirt. She
didn’t say anything, because she couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Lily,” said Graham after a moment. “Are you…? Jesus, that wasn’t your first…?”

“No,” said Lily quickly. “No, of course not…well, sort of…it doesn’t matter.”

Graham shifted uncomfortably. “Look, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea…”

“No need for that,” Lily assured him. “You were perfectly clear. Monogamy, patriarchy, not
looking for a relationship. Neither am I, so…that’s perfect.”

“All right.”

“This was fun,” she said, hating how bright and chipper her voice sounded. “Can you do me a
favor?”

“Another one?” said Graham with a sardonic lift of his brow.

 “Just one more. Can you please not tell anyone about this?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” said Lily. “I’ll see you next week.”

And then, because she couldn’t think of what else to do, she leaned up and kissed him awkwardly
on the cheek. She crossed the room quickly after that and slipped out the door of the hidden room.
It closed with a soft click of finality. She leaned against the stone wall of the castle and shut her
eyes.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Then she stood up straighter, gave herself a little shake, and walked away.

Chapter End Notes

The Last Enemy: Dark Marks will return early 2023.

Just an FYI: I will be hanging on tumblr for a few days, and then I will be going on a
full social media break for at least a month. :)

(p.s. please don't be too mad at me, it could've been a much worse cliffhanger.)

Status update 1/16/23

Status update #2 (march)

hi guys, TLE is not abandoned, but I have a lot of stuff going on in my life at the
moment, and tragically fanfic isn’t and can’t be my #1 priority. I’m hoping to update
sooner than later, but some of it is out of my control. Please be patient with me. Or
don’t, I guess, but it won’t make chapters appear faster. Thanks so much to everyone
who has been so kind ❤️
 What Tangled Webs
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

PETER

What Tangled Webs

“It was your idea, mate.”

“It bloody well was not!”

Peter sidled into the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory to find James and Sirius in a heated debate. Well,
James was heated; Sirius’s temper for once was perfectly neutral as he donned an expression of
unbothered amusement. This apparently was infuriating James. Interesting. Remus was watching
from the sidelines, perched on the edge of his bed. He caught Peter’s eye as the other boy entered
and offered the slightest grimace of warning.

Peter had taken a little detour on the way back from the Great Hall — mumbled excuse, no follow-
up questions — and thus he’d missed whatever discussion had led to this confrontation, but it
wasn’t exactly difficult to catch up. Sirius’s performance at dinner with Lily Evans had no doubt
ruffled a few feathers — most notably: James’s.

James had been undeniably out of sorts since his birthday party. Peter reckoned it had something to
do with Florence blowing him off, but even so, it had been surprising to learn that James had
inexplicably punched Bertram Aubrey after they’d all gone to bed, something James only admitted
after being confronted with the rumor — at first grudgingly, and then with increasing panic as the
implications of his misdeed danced before him.

“You’re the one who said it was a good plan,” said Sirius.

“I never!” spluttered James with a bristle of metaphorical feathers.

“Wormtail?” Sirius had noticed Peter’s entrance at last. “You were there, back me up?”

Peter, who had just begun the process of changing into his pajamas, cleared his throat with a
dutiful ahem and began in monotone recitation: “James said, ‘I don’t see why my punching Aubrey
is such a big deal, there are a million reasons to clobber that git.’ Then Remus said, ‘Yes, but you
clobbered him for hitting on Lily.’ Then James said, ‘Okay, but that doesn’t mean I fancy her.
Maybe I clobbered him for hitting on her because she’s my friend, or hey, maybe I clobbered him
for hitting on my friend’s friend. Flor thought she was dating Moony, after all.’”

“What are you, the court scribe?” grumbled James.

Peter ignored this. “Then Remus said: ‘Please leave me out of this.’”

“A sentiment I stand by,” said Remus.

“And James said, ‘Well, you two were very giggly at the match.’”

“How is it,” interrupted Sirius, shaking his head in disbelief, “that you can’t remember the
incantation for a single charm to save your life, but you can recall every word from our
conversations?”

Peter felt a slight twinge of annoyance. Sirius had always thought Peter was stupid just because he
didn’t test well, and Peter himself had long believed this too…but the truth was he was far cleverer
than they gave him credit for. After all, he’d become an Animagus just like them, hadn’t he? And
they didn’t even know what he was up to now…

“I listen,” he said shortly. “Do you want me to finish or not?”

Sirius swept an arm before him in a gracious arc, as if to say, you may proceed.

“Right. James said the bit about the Remus and Lily being giggly, then Sirius said, ‘Hey, that’s an
idea, maybe Remus should tell everyone they’re snogging. That would deter attention.’ And James
said, ‘Yeah, right, Moony can’t lie to save his life,’ then Remus said, ‘That’s hurtful’—“

“I stand by that too.”

“—and Sirius said, ‘Guess I’ll have to do it then,’ and James said, ‘Ha ha. Good plan.’”

Sirius turned triumphantly to James. “See?”

“It was a hypothetical, not marching orders!”

“Relax, mate.” Sirius dropped himself back onto the pile of pillows upon his bed, kicking his feet
out on the mattress. “I’ve told you, it’s a win-win situation.”

“Really?” scowled James. “I don’t see any winners. Who exactly is winning here?”

“Well, me, first of all — this is going to be hilarious — and also Evans. You said yourself you
didn’t want her to go through hell again because of you. Oh, and speaking of you, the final winner:
You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you, you ungrateful idiot. Remember your whole whinge about not wanting your girlfriend
to hear how you punched a bloke for hitting on the other girl you fancy who isn’t said girlfriend?”

“I don’t fancy — that wasn’t why I—“

“Not the point, mate. You’re so tangled in the details, you’re failing to see the big picture. This is
the perfect buffer. No one will be talking about you and Evans when they could be talking about
me and Evans. This is the part where you thank me for my noble sacrifice.”
James just glowered at him, arms crossed.

“No? Raincheck then.”

“And Evans agreed to this? You didn’t bully her into it?”

“She took a little convincing,” Sirius admitted, “but once I explained the situation, she was on
board. I got the impression she was concerned with mucking up your relationship with Florence.”

Peter watched as James chewed on this idea. He didn’t seem to like the taste.

“Is that what you told her? That this was about my relationship with Flor? That this was my bloody
idea?”

“I told her the truth,” groaned Sirius, who at last seemed to be growing bored by the bickering. “I
told her that you didn’t want to see her eaten alive by the gossips again, and that this would provide
cover for both of you.”

“That would explain why she went along with it, I suppose.”

“That, and I told her she could break up with me publicly. She seems to be looking forward to it,
which might hurt my feelings if it wasn’t so damn funny.”

James sat down on his bed with a huff and raked a hand through his hair. “Still…it’s not very
convincing, is it? You and Evans?”

Peter noticed that James said this almost hopefully, as though waiting for vigorous agreement from
all his friends; he looked somewhat disheartened when none arrived.

“I’ve seen stranger things,” said Sirius cavalierly. “Like Pete’s polyamory. How’s that working out,
Wormtail? Find a new partner yet?”

“Piss off,” said Peter, feeling a flush burn against his cheeks. He deeply regretted that little
disclosure at the Quidditch match. Stupid Winnie and her stupid new boyfriend…

Sirius just snickered. “Anyway, this is good. It’ll give me and Penny Prefect a chance to get to
know one another better. If she’s going to be plying our innocent Moony with Muggle drugs and
sneaking sleepovers in Prongs’ bed, it is my responsibility as the newly-instated Responsible
Marauder to properly suss her out.”

James sighed, defeated. “Just…don’t be an arse, okay?”

“I second that,” said Remus.

Sirius laughed and pushed himself off his bed. “I’m going to go brush my teeth and pretend you
didn’t just suggest I’m ever anything but a ray of bloody sunshine.”

And he strolled out of the dormitory.

“I don’t like it,” said James for about the hundredth time as they made their way down to the Great
Hall for breakfast. Sirius had insisted on waiting in the common room for his one true love, Lily
Evans, Remus had insisted on waiting with Sirius so as not to subject Lily to Sirius unsupervised,
and James had insisted on waiting for absolutely no one and getting the hell out of there as fast as
his feet could carry him — so it was just the two of them, James and Peter, briskly descending the
stairs of one of their many shortcuts. Peter was actually rather pleased by the arrangement. He
didn’t get much one-on-one time with James these days, not that he ever got much before, but still.
It was nice — even if James spent the whole walk complaining about Sirius’s scheme.

“I don’t like it. I don’t like lying. I’m no good at it. I haven’t the constitution for it.”

Peter, who recalled quite clearly watching James easily lie his face off to the Headmaster last year
about Sirius’s would-be homicide, felt this was a bit rich. “You lie all the time.”

James looked properly offended. “I do not! Who am I lying to?”

“Teachers, Madam Pomfrey, you know…Marauder stuff.”

“Oh, that doesn’t count. I mean really lying. To my friends. To my girlfriend. Merlin, I hate this. I
hate lying to Florence, and now I have yet another thing I have to lie about!”

“What else are you lying to her about?” asked Peter curiously.

“Nothing.” Was it his imagination, or did James go slightly pink? “Just — you know. Marauder
stuff. Sneaking out on the full moons, skipping Slug Club dinners and saying it’s for detentions,
that sort of thing.” A deep sigh, a heave of shoulders. “Why is everything so bloody difficult?”

“By everything, do you mean girls?”

“Yeah.”

“Search me.”

James cast him a sidelong look. “You and Winnie. How’s that going? Flor mentioned you were in
a — er — ‘open relationship’ now.”

“That’s right,” said Peter, though internally he was cringing.

“What is that, exactly?”

“It’s where you can snog multiple girls at the same time.”

James appeared taken aback. “You can do that?”

“Sure.”

“And…are you? Snogging multiple girls?”

The secret to lying, Peter had learned over the years, was not to follow a lie too far. “I might,” he
said with a noncommittal shrug. “If I feel like it.”

James considered this for the pace of seven stairs. “I don’t think I’d like that,” he muttered, more to
himself than to Peter, it seemed.

Normally it might annoy him, the way James’s interest swept so quickly back to his own flock of
woes, but Peter was glad to drop the subject of Winnie. He’d never meant for his friends to find out
about her in the first place — that they’d broken up, that was. Although the truth, technically
speaking, was that he and Winnie had never even gotten back together at all. It was all a sham. A
lie.

She’d been a convenient excuse, the perfect cover. No one questioned where he was when he had a
girlfriend. No one doubted his little excursions between classes or interrogated the way he arrived
late to the dormitory more evenings than not. He had a free pass — and then stupid Winnie had
had to show up to the stupid Quidditch match with stupid Brody Pepper and ruin everything. Sirius
confronting Winnie over cheating on Peter would’ve been unbearable — exposing Peter’s lie to
both his friends and the rest of the school — and so the ‘open relationship’ thing had just sort of…
slipped out. It was a rather good lie, Peter thought, given the circumstances and the short amount
of time under which he’d been pressured to produce it, but now things were getting complicated.

No matter. He was so close. He was so close to his goal that all of this would be irrelevant in just a
few weeks time. Because Peter had a plan. He was going to solve the puzzle that neither James nor
Remus nor Sirius had been able to: He was going to find a way into the Slytherin dormitories all on
his own and steal back their mirror.

James had insisted they all drop it, forget the mirror and move on — but Peter didn’t see why he
got to decide. It wasn’t his honor on the line. Remus had assured Peter that it hadn’t been his fault
the heist had gone south, but that was easy for him to say; Sirius wasn’t making snide comments to
him whenever they skirted the subject of the lost mirror. No, as far as Sirius was concerned, the
whole screwup was because of Peter — even though it had been a stupid plan in the first place, and
he’d been lucky to make it out at all. He was always the one putting his neck on the line, always
the one taking the blame…

But that was all right, because it would just make the look on Sirius’s face all the more delicious
when Peter showed up with the mirror in hand, having single-handedly pulled off a far more
impressive heist than any of them could ever dream up.

And okay, sure, he was aware that all of this sounded a bit like the sort of fantasy a person invents
while drooling out the window from boredom during lecture — and okay, yes, that was in fact how
this all began — and it might’ve stayed that way except that Peter had found something.

Something that might just change the game.

You see, deep in the bowels of the castle, unreachable surely by anyone who wasn’t of the rodent
persuasion, there was a tangle of pipes — a strange snarl of plumbing that made no logical sense
and was no doubt a result of the unnatural merging of magic and Muggle technology back when
the castle had been retrofitted with a Muggle plumbing system. He knew about all that from James,
who’d taken a shine to the subject last year during their initial attempts to make use of Peter’s
Animagus. James’s interest had quickly flitted on to other concerns — most notably, girls — but
Peter had stayed focused, and after a year of exploration, he knew rather a lot about the castle’s
plumbing.

“Well, there you go,” Sirius had once told him. “If you fail all your O.W.L.s, you at least know
you’ll be a shoe-in for Magical Maintenance.”

Prick.

Anyway. The pipes.

Given the location of this tangle of pipes — it was in close proximity to Professor Carter-Myles’
office, once ground zero for Prawnsaganza — and the way said pipes seemed to divert to every
direction of the castle, Peter believed that one of these paths must lead to the Slytherin dormitories
— probably the toilet. This was an unpleasant thought, but he’d worry about that later. It was
exactly what they’d been looking for, back before James had gotten all hasty at Christmas and
rushed the heist.

Never mind. Peter would discover it all on his own.

They’d be so impressed.

It wasn’t exactly fun, mucking through miles of plumbing, but Peter was determined, and so this
was how he’d spent most of his ‘evenings with Winnie.’ He’d eliminated a few of the pipes for
sure, but there was still an annoying amount to go, and it was hard to keep track. Once, he’d wasted
a whole evening trekking through a pipe he’d gone down twice before. Another time, he’d gotten
so lost that it took him hours to find his way back, and he’d missed the entirety of afternoon
lectures.

“Winnie had a free period,” he’d told his mates, and they’d just nodded along, unquestioning.

And yet, despite stupid Winnie’s near destruction of his perfect alibi, his friends did not seem
overly interested in the nature of his disappearances. It had occurred to him once, as he scampered
through a particularly nasty bit of plumbing, that all his efforts for stealth would be worthless if
one of his friends bothered to look for him on the map….but no one seemed particularly troubled
by his absences. They were all wrapped up in their own silly dramas at the moment.

Peter and James arrived at the Great Hall to find that Florence was already seated at the end of
Gryffindor table, chatting with Aisha Collins, who stood, half-leaning against the table, ready to
take off. She did so shortly after they arrived, and James slid into the vacant spot on the bench next
to Florence. “You’re early,” said James, eying her half-empty bowl of porridge.

Florence laughed. “What is it you’re always telling me? About birds and worms? I got up early to
finish an essay, so I figured I’d get a head start on breakfast. All right, Pete?”

Peter agreed that he was, in fact, all right, and settled into his own breakfast. He liked Florence. He
liked how she called him Pete, like they were old pals, and he liked the way she always made a
point to include him in the conversation. Unlike James’s last girlfriend, who had treated him like
he was a piece of furniture. And an ugly one at that.

He also liked the way she didn’t make any comment at all when Winnie passed directly in their
line of sight, Brody Pepper’s stupid hand all but caressing her arse.

“Anything good in there?” asked Florence as James peeled through a copy of the Daily Prophet
that had just been delivered.

“Nothing,” said James. “Same old drivel.”

“Mind if I have a look? A cousin of mine just got engaged. The announcement is supposed to be in
the society pages. I’m curious to see what she decided to wear, she made such a fuss over it.”

James tossed her the newspaper and busied himself with his breakfast, his gaze occasionally
flitting towards the doors of the Great Hall. He ate quickly, as though trying to catch up with
Florence, or perhaps he was trying to get away before Sirius and Lily arrived.
No luck, for they entered the Hall shortly after Florence murmured: “Oh, she went with the blue.
Pity, it’s really not her color…”

Sirius was clutching Lily’s hand as they arrived, and Remus walked awkwardly alongside the pair,
wearing an expression torn between apologetic and amused. James shoveled eggs into his mouth
with increasing velocity.

Florence seemed oblivious to all this, greeting them cheerfully, and somehow they all fell into easy
conversation about their next Apparition lesson, which was to be the weekend following Easter
hols. Sirius felt he’d mastered the trick after a few lessons, but the rest of them still had some work
to do.

“Oh, lessons are a bore,” agreed Florence, “but it’s so nice once you have your license and can just
go where you please.”

“The test is in Hogsmeade, right?” asked Lily.

“Yep,” said Sirius. “Not the next Hogsmeade weekend, but the one after that.”

Peter kept his grumbling internal, but he felt rather put out by this conversation. As the youngest of
his friends, he wouldn’t be of age in time and would have to wait until half way through the
summer to take his exam.

“Can you believe there are just a few Hogsmeade weekends left this year?” exclaimed Florence.
“Gosh, time really does fly. You know, Lily, we really should go on a double date. Me and James,
you and Sirius. Oh, it would be such fun.”

James looked as though he’d swallowed something deeply unpleasant, and Lily’s smile was a little
tense. Sirius, however, beamed. “That’s a great idea. Don’t you think so, Prongs?”

“Brilliant,” said James, glowering at Sirius.

“Such fun,” said Sirius, grinning back. He turned to Lily. “Don’t you think so, darling?”

Lily smiled, but she looked like she wanted to disappear.

“It’s a date,” said Florence happily. She placed her spoon carefully across her empty bowl. “Well,
I’ve got to run up to the Owlery to post a letter to my father…”

“I’ll come with you,” said James at once.

“Oh, there’s no need to rush your breakfast on my account.”

“No.” James brushed the crumbs from his lap and stood up. “I want to.”

Florence blinked. “Well, all right then. See you all later,” she told the group.

And James and Florence left.

A lingering moment of awkward silence hovered over the remaining breakfasters, until at last Peter
turned to Sirius and Lily: “You two are really bad at this.”

“Well,” huffed Lily, “it’s not exactly easy to lie about being in a relationship. Particularly a
relationship with the most obnoxious boy in school.”

“The most obnoxious?” said Sirius through a mouthful of bacon. “That’s a high bar, Penny. I’m
honored.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“It’s a term of endearment.”

“I hate you.”

Sirius draped his arm over her shoulder and leaned in close. “Attitude adjustment, love,” he
murmured, and for a moment Lily appeared about to protest — or perhaps hex him — but then she
glanced down the table and caught sight of what Peter himself had just spotted: Bertha Jorkins was
watching them beadily from behind a copy of the Daily Prophet.

Lily let out a sigh of resignation, tilted her gaze up to Sirius, and deliberately readjusted her
expression into what could only be described as doe eyes. “I hate you,” she repeated sweetly.

Sirius laughed and withdrew his arm. “You’re doing great. Cheer up, you’ve only got to make it six
more days, then you can ditch me and get all the glory of breaking my poor heart. I promise, I’ll
mope for days.”

“This is so stupid,” hissed Lily. “I don’t know why I ever let you talk me into this. It’s a complete
mess, and now we have to go on a double date?”

“You’re going to break up with me before then, remember? Maybe I’ll spoil their date by being
depressed and needy about it.”

“Great, you do that, and then I have to explain to Florence why I ruined her weekend.”

“O, what tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive…” said Remus with an oracular
nod.

They all stared at him.

“It’s a quote,” said Remus. “Sir Walter Scott…? Never mind.”

“I got the reference,” said Lily darkly. “I just didn’t like it.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway,” she sighed, flipping her red hair off her shoulders as she began to angrily poke at her
scrambled eggs, “I don’t see how this is helping, and I don’t think anyone’s actually buying it—“

“I dunno,” said Sirius. “Aubrey found me in the dorms this morning to apologize.”

Lily’s fork fell with an angry clatter. “To you? He apologized to you? What, like his behavior was
just fine when I was single, but now that I belong to a man he feels compelled to apologize?”

All three boys glanced at each other warily. There was a wrong answer here, certainly — but Peter
also wasn’t sure there was a right one either.

“Er—“ said Peter.

“He’s probably just afraid Sirius will curse him,” offered Remus.

“Yeah, getting walloped by James was enough for that prat,” agreed Sirius with a serene sip of tea.
“God!” exclaimed Lily with a burst of vehemence. “I hate men. I never thought I’d be the girl to
say this, but I do. I hate them. They’re all pigs. You’re all pigs!”

“Hey!” said Remus, looking mildly offended.

“Well, not you, Remus…but all the rest!”

“What did I do?” complained Peter.

“I don’t know, but you’re a man, so something, I’m sure!” Then, bristling like a cat, she stood up
to leave.

“Where are you going?” demanded Sirius.

Lily thought for a moment. “The library. You’re allergic to books, right? So you won’t stalk me
there, too?”

“For you, I would suffer all the libraries in the world. Library of Alexandria, even!”

“Could you burn to the ground like that one, too?”

Sirius took her hand and kissed it. “Darling, I burn for you every night.”

“Oh, give it a rest.”

Sirius snickered. “Got to make it convincing. You could put in a little effort.”

“Piss off.”

“Don’t leave angry now, love,” said Sirius with a warning glance at Bertha, whose attention had
once again focused their way.

Lily stopped, composed herself, then leaned down as though to kiss him on the cheek, whispering
so only they could hear: “I can’t wait to pretend to rip your heart out and stomp on it in the middle
of the corridor.”

“I love you too,” said Sirius solemnly.

“Six days,” said Lily.

Sirius blew her a kiss. “It’s a date.”

“I’d be careful,” said Peter as Lily stalked off. “She’s going to hex you before this is over.”

Sirius laughed and returned to his breakfast, unbothered. “She’s not going to hex me.”

“No, Peter’s right,” said Remus, frowning after Lily. “She seems…on edge.”

“It’s Evans,” Sirius rolled his eyes. “She’s always on edge.”

“This is different.”

“You lot worry too much. It’s all just a laugh. Evans knows that.”
Peter remained unconvinced on this point, but he had more important matters to worry about than
Sirius getting himself hexed by a girl, so he finished his breakfast, made up an excuse that did not
include Winnie, found an empty corridor, transformed into Wormtail, and slipped off into the
plumbing.

He found the now-familiar tangle of pipes with ease, and after a moment of nose-twitching
deliberation, chose a path he was almost certain he hadn’t pursued before. It was dark and damp
and smelly down here, but there was a certain thrill to it, and he skittered on, hopeful that this
would be the day he solved the whole thing.

Except soon the pipe started going upwards, which was in the opposite direction of his goal. He
followed it anyway — since nothing in this castle made any sense, and there was no point turning
back now.

It went on a bit longer than he anticipated. And longer after that. He really hoped he hadn’t been
down this one already. It was so hard to tell. He found himself thinking of breadcrumbs and scent
trails…if only he had their map. Though of course it was a bit tough to use as a rat…and it
wouldn’t show the pipes because they hadn’t marked those down…but it would show the general
part of the castle he was in, thanks to Remus’s handy tracking spell…

Tracking.

Huh.

There was an idea.

What if there were a way to track what he was looking for using some sort of spell to guide him?
Like the scent trails he’d taught himself to follow as a rat…but for magic? All magic left behind a
trace, right? Sirius’s mirror used a lot of magic, so it must be traceable. There had to be a spell.
There was a spell for everything. What if he could find a way to track the mirror and follow a sort
of…a sort of magic scent trail through the pipes straight into the Slytherin dormitories?

Feeling rather giddy with his own brilliance, Peter was pleased to spot a crack of light ahead; he
squeezed through to find himself entangled in the dank maze of what lurked behind castle walls.
He knew he must be far from the dungeons, so he scampered along until he found a crack in the
floorboard. As he peeked his whiskers out into the corridor, however, a familiar voice stopped him.
It belonged to James, prattling on about something Peter couldn’t make out. Must be on his way
back from the Owlery. Peter skittered back into the wall; he may be a rat, but James of all people
would almost certainly recognize him.

As they drew closer, Peter heard Florence’s voice pipe up: “Well, I have some exciting news.”

“What’s that?”

“I got a job!”

“Wow. Already?”

“It’s not official yet, technically. I suppose if I failed all my N.E.W.T.s they might take it back…
but an old colleague of my father’s is rather high up in the Department of Magical Commerce and
said they’d love to have me as a Junior Officer. Daddy wanted me to work for his business for a
few years, but I rather stuck my nose up at that, to tell you the truth. He means well, but honestly, I
think he just wanted to keep an eye on me for a few years before he could make sure I settled
down. And I am not interested in that, thank you very much.”

“No?”

“No! I didn’t do all this work for seven years just to ‘settle down.’ I want to strike out on my own,
and a career at the Ministry could be terribly interesting.” A pause, and Florence stopped walking.
From his vantage at the crack of the floorboard, Peter marveled at how shiny her shoes were. They
glittered in the castle’s scant sunlight. “Well, go on. Tell me how proud of me you are.”

It took James half a beat too long to respond, but then he said softly, “So proud of you,” and he
leaned forward to kiss her.

“You seem rather distracted today,” observed Florence.

“Do I?” James looked anxious. “I’m not. You have my full attention. I’m all yours.”

“It’s just —“ She tapped the toe of her shiny shoes. “I can’t help but wonder if you’re still cross
with me.”

“Cross with you?”

“For not coming to your party. I am sorry, it was just—“

“No,” James cut her off quickly. “No, Flor, please — please don’t apologize to me. I’m not cross
at all, I’ve just — if I’ve been distracted it’s just that — well, I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

James hesitated. “Well, it’s…stuff with my friends. Their personal stuff. I’m not really at liberty to
say.”

This seemed rather far-fetched to Peter. He wondered what personal stuff James was talking about.
Apart from Remus’s furry little problem (which was nothing new) and Sirius’s whirlwind romance
(which was entirely fake), he couldn’t think of what secrets James would feel compelled to keep
from Florence.

Unless, of course, they were secrets that Peter didn’t know. That thought itched.

“You’re so devoted,” laughed Florence, squeezing his arm. “I’ve never known someone so loyal.”

From this angle, Peter could just make out James’s expression enough to see an anguished look flit
across it — replaced quickly by alarm when Florence added: “It’s about Lily, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Lily and Sirius…dating? Seems a bit like putting a lit wand to a powder keg, doesn’t it? I’m not
judging,” she said quickly. “I’m just a teensy bit worried it’s going to backfire on one of them.”

“I — er — I don’t think it will last long, to tell you the truth.”

“I hope he doesn’t hurt her.”

“I hope she doesn’t hurt him. I mean physically. I’ve seen them duel.”

A flutter of laughter, and then Florence sighed. “Relationships are tricky, aren’t they? It seems like
it should all be so straight forward. Boy meets girl, girl fancies boy, boy asks girl out, boy and girl
live happily ever after…but it never seems to go that way, does it?”

A long pause.

“Flor?”

“Hm?”

“Are you…?”

“What?”

A longer pause.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

Peter wanted to ask James about that exchange, but there was no real way to do it without
admitting he’d been lurking in the wall as Wormtail, so he swallowed his curiosity. It would
probably come up eventually. Anyway, Peter had become infatuated with his magic tracking
theory. James could handle his own romantic woes.

Research was admittedly not Peter’s strongest suit — that was the realm of Remus and sometimes
James — but he couldn’t ask for their help with this project, so rather than exploring the plumbing,
Peter had started spending his Winnie-less time in the library, hunched in a hidden corner, hunting
for anything that might accomplish his far-fetched plot.

He didn’t think it was so far-fetched though. Logically, it checked out. The magic made sense. He
wished he remembered the book Remus had used when they were working on the map…but
Madam Pince had at least pointed him to a deserted aisle in the back of the library and over the
past few days, Peter had been systematically working his way through every tome. He was bored,
but determined.

Finally, near the end of the week, he found what he was looking for. Or at least, he thought so. A
spell to trace magic. He just needed the original magical object first…that was a slight issue as the
magical object in question was currently in Snape’s possession. What sort of bloody useless spell
was that? Except…

Except they had two mirrors. One was in Snape’s hands, sure, but the other was stowed in Sirius’s
trunk.

“Lily,” said a voice, interrupting Peter’s thoughts, and he jerked his attention out of the book,
scrabbling backwards into the shadows of the shelves. If Lily were here, that meant Sirius might be
here too, and Peter did not want him stumbling on his plan…not when he was so close…

But after the initial surprise, Peter realized the voice definitely didn’t belong to Sirius, and so he
mustered both his courage and curiosity to inch towards the shelf and peer through a gap in the
books. He could just make out a sliver of Lily’s red hair…she appeared to be alone, except for the
boy who’d just said her name.

“Graham,” said Lily. “Hi.”

The scrape of a chair.

“Mind if I join you?” said the boy called Graham. He had a heavy accent. Birmingham, Peter
thought.

“All right.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Fine. Busy. N.E.W.T.s, you know. You?”

“N.E.W.T.s,” agreed the boy.

“Endless fun.”

Peter had endured his fair share of awkward conversations in life, enough to be able identify that
though very little had yet been said in this one, it ranked near the top of the uncomfortable scores.

“Listen…” said Graham. “I wanted to…can I ask you a question?”

“All right.”

“Are you really dating Sirius Black?”

“God,” exhaled Lily.

A pause. A shuffle of feet. The creak of a chair as she leaned closer. “If I tell you something,” she
said in a whisper that Peter could just barely make out, “will you promise not to tell anyone?”

“I’ll add it to the list,” said Graham.

“It’s all nonsense. A sham. I’m definitely not dating him.”

“Then why would you pretend to?”

Lily hesitated. “To help a friend. It’s…complicated. And messy. Please don’t make me explain it,
I’ll have a migraine, but trust me, there’s nothing between Black and me but a sense of disdain that
is….slightly thawing at best. He thinks the whole thing’s a big joke, and I…well, I just didn’t want
to make things worse.”

“I have no idea what any of that means, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” said Lily. “Sorry. But please, you can’t tell anyone—“

“I said I wouldn’t. About this, or…the other thing.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“I am glad to hear you aren’t with him, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because. You’re better than him. Oh, don’t make that face, you know you are. You’re better than
all those poncy pure-bloods strutting around like they own the rest of us, and you know it.”

“Whatever happened to building bridges between our communities?”

“Right, I forgot. Sirius Black, the great Muggle Rights activist. Tell me, has he done much for the
cause since his little foray into the lower classes?”

“All right, I know why I don’t like him, why don’t you?”

“Maybe I just don’t like seeing him parade through the halls with his arm around you, like he owns
you…”

“Owns me?” There was an edge to Lily’s voice that Peter immediately identified as dangerous.
“You’re kidding, right? Hang on…Graham, are you…jealous?”

“No.” A pause. “Well, all right. Maybe a little.”

“God, Graham. I already told you I’m not dating him. And even if I were — you were very clear
about not wanting a relationship right now. Well, neither do I. And I took you at your word—“

“I know, it’s just —“

“Just what?” hissed Lily. “Just that I’m not supposed to ever look at another bloke because I
shagged you once?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then what?”

“I like you, all right! Look, I know I said didn’t want a relationship, and I meant it. I still don’t, but
not because…” Graham let out an exasperated sigh, and stood up, pacing the narrow space between
the shelves. “I’m about to graduate, all right? I’ve got a handful of months left in this castle before
they kick me out on my Muggle arse into a world that hates that I exist. I don’t have a job lined up.
I don’t even have the hope of a job lined up. ‘Old Sluggy’ didn’t get me a cozy internship, or even
so much as a handshake. Seven years of schooling, and I can’t even get anyone to look at me long
enough to do me the honor of rejecting me. And on top of all that, there’s a fuckin’ war going on,
right? Every day, people like me are being murdered, but at least my head of house gave me some
fuckin’ pamphlets on my fuckin’ career prospects.”

“Graham,” said Lily, and she stood now too. They were dangerously close to Peter’s makeshift
peephole, so he carefully backed away, lest he be caught spying.

“Sorry,” said Graham gruffly. “I’m just — a bit worked up. The thing is — I can’t imagine what
happens after I graduate, Lily. I can’t think longterm about anything, let alone a girlfriend.”

“I never asked you to,” said Lily firmly, though her tone was somewhat gentler this time. “I
thought you understood that—“

“I know,” said Graham. “But — I don’t want you to think — just ‘cause I can’t, doesn’t mean I
wouldn’t like to…you know…”

A long pause. An intake of breath. A rustle of fabric against shelves.

Then: “Graham. Not here. Later.”

An exhale.

“Right. I guess you wouldn’t want your fake pure-blood boyfriend to find out you’re hooking up
with someone else.”
“No,” said Lily darkly. “I really wouldn’t.”

Feeling exceedingly awkward, Peter shoved the spellbook under his arm, and crept out of the
library.

Getting a hold of Sirius’ mirror would prove to be even trickier than finding the right spellbook.
For someone who often felt on his own, Peter was quickly confronted with the reality that within
the confines of Gryffindor Tower, he rarely had a moment without one his friends on his heel. It
wasn’t as though he could just rifle around Sirius’s belongings while his mates watched on.

An opportunity arose on Thursday morning, however, as Sirius announced he was going scouting
in the woods in preparation for the upcoming full moon. It was going to be over the Easter hols;
James had appeared in the dormitory one evening, looking anxious, and told Remus that he thought
he had to go home for the holiday. Because of his dad. He’d looked anguished and apologized
profusely, explaining that he and Sirius had talked it through, and Remus would be totally fine with
just Padfoot for the full moon. They’d stick to familiar paths, stay deep in the forest away from any
risky encounters. But if Remus wanted him to stay, James insisted, he would.

“James,” Remus had interrupted him. “Of course you have to go. We’ll be fine.”

No one had talked to Peter about this, which was a tad annoying, since he’d quietly arranged to
stay at the castle for the break, assuming it was Marauder business as usual. But that was all right.
It gave him more time to work on his plot.

Thursday morning arrived. Sirius took off for the woods, and James had Potions class. Remus
would probably be napping in the dormitory, but Peter could work around that. He headed back
towards the Gryffindor Tower after breakfast, feeling confident about his plan all the way until he
pushed open the door to the dormitory, and saw James sprawled on his bed, reading a Quidditch
magazine.

“What are you doing here?”

“Er…skiving off.”

“Why?”

James gave a sheepish shrug. “Just wasn’t in the mood for Potions today.”

Peter suspected this had something to do with Lily. He wondered whether James actually bought
that Sirius had enacted this ridiculous plan in an effort to help him. James always assumed the best
of Sirius, but it was so obvious he was just needling James for sport. That’s what he did. He poked
at your sore spots.

For a moment, Peter considered telling James that Sirius’s fake girlfriend was snogging some other
boy in the library, but in the end, he decided not to. James was clearly struggling through
something with Florence, and he always got weird when it came to Lily. It was probably best for
everyone involved if Peter kept this bit of gossip to himself for now. Besides, unlike some people,
Peter knew how to keep a secret.

So he just heaved a sigh, sat down on his own bed — Sirius’s trunk tantalizingly nearby — and let
James begin to prattle about Puddlemere United.

He tried again that night, pretending to be asleep until he was assured that all his friends were
similarly unconscious. Then, carefully, he tiptoed out of bed and crept towards the trunk at the end
of Sirius’s four-poster.

It was easy. He hadn’t even locked it.

Peter felt the faintest twinge of guilt as he rifled through his friend’s belongings, but it wasn’t
really stealing. He was just borrowing the mirror. And they’d all be thankful in the end, when he
had the other mirror back.

Carefully, carefully — he dug around the trunk until he found the silenced mirror tucked at the
bottom, lonely without its match. Peter lifted it from the trunk; the smooth glass glimmered in the
moonlight.

“Bingo,” he whispered.

The next morning was spent in a state of anxiety. Peter had woken up early, checked to make sure
the mirror was still stuffed beneath his mattress where he’d hid it, then descended to the common
room alone where he waited fitfully for his friends to discover his theft, to come down and accuse
him of what he had indeed done.

They did not.

He decided he’d work on it properly over the holiday. It would be easier without James there. He’d
done a bit more digging in the spellbook and reckoned he’d have to remove all the silencing and
protective charms that Remus had put on the compromised mirror all those months ago. This made
Peter a little nervous — he’d put those charms there for a reason — but it would only be for short
period of time. And then he’d have both mirrors back, and the problem would be solved.

But first: homework.

He spent most of his anxious morning hours scribbling frantically at his werewolf essay for
Defense Against the Dark Arts, which was due this afternoon, their last class before Easter hols.
James and Sirius had written deliberately stupid essays in protest, Peter knew, but Peter couldn’t
afford the bad grade, so he spent the morning quickly listing the various aspects of identification,
chewing his tongue as he tried to recall the finer details.

“How thick are you, Wormtail? You run round with a werewolf once a month…”

Yes, all right, but when running round with a werewolf, he had rather more pressing matters on
which to focus over whether or not Moony’s tail was tufted.

Never mind. He was keeping the essay as vague and brief as possible anyway, out of loyalty to
Remus. He couldn’t afford to get a T, but he didn’t need an E.

They’d expected the worst from Professor Carter-Myles — another horrible lecture about
werewolves, perhaps — but he seemed oddly subdued as he collected their essays and moved
quickly onto the subject of Charm Law. Perhaps James was right, and Dumbledore had given
Carter-Myles an earful.

Remus had skipped class. Peter didn’t blame him, as the last had been so awful. This one was just
boring. There was nothing to do except watch as James got ever more annoyed at Sirius — who
had insisted on Lily taking the seat next to his, much to James’s chagrin. So James sat behind
them, next to Peter, glaring at their back of their heads. He was hardly the only one. Snape was
scowling daggers from across the room.

Peter wondered if he bought it. Snape and Lily had been mates, after all, weird as that was. Surely
he saw through the sham…but the color of Snivellus's flushed cheeks suspected otherwise.

Soon, thought Peter. Soon, I’ll have our mirror back from your slimy hands.

“Free at last,” said Sirius brightly as they filed out of the class. “Don’t know ‘bout you lot, but I for
one am ready for a good holiday.”

“I’m ready for a holiday from you,” said Lily sweetly.

“Tough luck,” said Sirius. “I’m staying here the whole break.”

James looked as though he wanted to say something, but then he spotted Florence at the other end
of the corridor and quickly excused himself. Peter watched as Lily’s gaze trailed after him.

“So Lily, love of my life, when are we doing the deed?”

Lily jerked her attention back to Sirius, cheeks going pink. “Excuse me?”

“You know, you ripping my heart out and stomping on it in the corridor? Technically it hasn’t been
a full week, but with the holiday coming up…might as well do it when there’s an audience, eh?
Besides, you’ve been a real trooper. You deserve a treat.”

Lily punched him in the arm, not particularly affectionately.

“Ow,” complained Sirius. “Do you hit all your boyfriends?”

“Only the ones who are pricks.”

“That explains the high turnover.”

“Oh, fuck off. God, you’re such a — hang on, are you trying to goad me into breaking up with
you?”

“Is it working?”

Lily’s gaze flitted back towards James at the other end of the corridor, who had his arms around
Florence and was kissing her.
 “No,” she said, and then she did something that none of them could have anticipated: She spun on
her heel, grabbed the front of Sirius robes, pulled him towards her — and kissed him, dramatically
and ostentatiously, in the middle of the crowded corridor.

Someone nearby wolf-whistled. Peter saw James staring from across the corridor.

Sirius stumbled away, gawking at Lily in obvious horror. “What the hell, Evans?”

“You’re the one who keeps telling me to make it convincing. Don’t worry,” she said, patting him
on the cheek. Half a glance towards James and Florence. “It didn’t mean anything.”

Then she strolled away through giggling crowds.

“What the fuck was that?” demanded Sirius.

Peter wasn’t sure, but it was certainly interesting.

Chapter End Notes

hi :)

March is still early 2023, yeah?

(updates will continue to be sporadic for a while on account of irl nonsense. love you!)
 The Whisper of Trees

SIRIUS

The Whisper of Trees

“What the fuck was that?”

Sirius stood frozen amidst the milling crowds as Lily Evans — one-time foe, part-time pretend
girlfriend, and, apparently, full-time psycho bitch — strolled away, heedless of the inevitable
shitshow she’d left in her wake.

“Well, I’m no expert,” said Peter from beside him, his voice glinting with sarcasm, “but it looked
like Lily Evans just snogged your face off.”

“Yeah, thanks, Wormtail. I worked that bit out myself. Come on.”

Sirius pushed through the tangle of jutted elbows and bulky bags that clogged the corridor as their
peers spilled out of classrooms, feeling rather like he was macheteing his way through the jungle in
search of his game. For James had already vanished into the throng along with Florence, a fact that
both annoyed and troubled Sirius.

It wasn’t like James not to wait for his friends.

“You might not want to look so ticked off about her snogging you,” advised Peter as he scurried to
catch up with Sirius’s determined strides. “She is supposed to be your girlfriend, remember?”

This was prudent advice, but Sirius wasn’t sure he was capable of following it at the moment.
Because he was ticked off. In the stumbling aftermath of Lily’s kiss, it had taken him a moment to
work out precisely why he was quite so irritated, but the answer, when it arrived, was simple: It
had been the look on James’s face, glimpsed from across the corridor as Sirius tugged himself back
from Lily’s ambush. It had only lasted a moment, that worrying expression on his friend’s face —
for James had turned quickly away then vanished into the crowd — but Sirius had seen it all the
same, and now it lingered, needling at him, admonishing him.

James had looked…hurt.

Sirius had still been processing this when he noticed Lily do something even worse: She’d had the
nerve to glance cheekily over James’s way before she’d stalked off from Sirius. Like she’d been
mocking James’s evident distress. Like she knew exactly what she was doing with that kiss, the
conniving bitch. Clearly, she knew James still fancied the pants off her; she knew that the sight of
her snogging anyone would drive him mad, but the sight of her snogging Sirius—it was one thing
to try and mess with him, but if she was actively trying to hurt James —

“We had a deal,” complained Sirius as he and Peter descended the stairs and crossed the entrance
hall. “She was the one who’d insisted on ‘no kissing’ in the first place.”

“I didn’t realize you hated kissing girls so much.”

“It’s not about the kissing. It’s that she did it in front of Prongs. On purpose.”

“So?”

“What d’you mean, so? So she knows he fancies her. She did it specifically to fuck with him.”

“Yeah,” agreed Peter, “but how is that any different from what you’ve been doing all week?”

Sirius stopped walking abruptly. “What?” he demanded, ignoring the grunting complaints of his
fellow students whose path he now blocked. He made an impatient gesture as if to say, go around,
damn you, and, grumbling, the students obliged.

“You’ve been shoving your ‘relationship’ in James’s face all week, for a laugh,” said Peter matter-
of-factly. “Admit it, you enjoy tormenting him. You orchestrated this whole thing just to get a rise
out of him.”

“No, I did not. Aubrey—”

Peter snorted. “Right, yeah, because there was no possible other way for that situation to be
handled. I’m just saying, you can’t blame Evans for doing the same thing you’ve been doing.”

“That was different. There was a line, and she crossed it—”

“Don’t worry,” said Peter. "Prongs will get over it. He’s had practice. Evans snogs lots of blokes.
I’m sure it won’t make too much difference that this time it was his best friend. By the way,
you’ve got some lipstick on your face.”

And then, with the world’s least reassuring clap on the back, Peter pressed forward with the surge
into the Great Hall, leaving Sirius standing like a rock amidst the stream of students, the miserable
twist of something like guilt in his gut.

Following a brief detour to the toilet to remove any offending lipstick from his face, Sirius was
eager to find James and set the record straight — but then he caught sight of a flash of red hair, and
he turned on his heel, accepting the distraction. Lily Evans would be a convenient outlet for the
swirling emotions he didn’t particularly care to parse. She appeared to be headed in the opposite
direction of the Great Hall; he strode after her.

“Oi. Evans.”

She stopped. The briefest of pauses, the slightest tensing of her shoulders — then she spun about to
face him. “Oh, hello, lover,” she said, and he had to hand it to her: Only Lily Evans could make
batting her eyelashes look like a masterclass in sarcasm.

But Sirius wasn’t in the mood for more games. “All right, that’s enough.”

“What, bored of me so soon? Gosh, I guess what all the girls say is true. You really are a love ‘em
and leave ‘em type.”

Before he could rummage up an appropriate retort, someone else interrupted.

“Photo for the school paper?” said the bright, grating voice that belonged to Bertha Jorkins. She’d
appeared, improbably, from around the corner, and she beamed at them from behind the lens of a
camera, finger at the ready, like the trigger of one of those Muggle weapons he’d read about for
Muggle Studies.

“No,” was Sirius’s terse response.

“We don’t have a school paper,” said Lily.

“We used to,” replied Bertha, happily fiddling with the lens of her camera. “I want to revive it.”

Lily grimaced. “What a dreadful thought.”

“Don’t you graduate in a few months?” said Sirius. “Or were you planning to stick around another
year? Expect your N.E.W.T.s to go as well as your Apparition exam, do you?”

Bertha just smiled sweetly, raised the camera and — flash. Both Sirius and Lily winced as spots of
blinding light danced before their vision.

“Piss off, Jorkins,” snarled Sirius.

“The camera loves you,” cooed Bertha, and she trotted merrily off towards the Great Hall.

Lily scowled after her. “She better graduate. I’m really looking forward to not missing her at all.”

“Forget her,” said Sirius impatiently, and he cast a quick muffling charm, lest Bertha be lingering,
trying to listen in. “Are you going to tell me what all that was about just now?”

“What what was all about?”

“You know. Snogging me like that. In front of — everyone.”

Lily laughed. “I was just playing the role you crafted for me, darling.”

“No, you were getting payback.”

“Payback? Against who, exactly?”

“You know who.”

A pause.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m fairly certain Lord Voldemort is not going to be
emotionally crippled by the knowledge that I snogged you.”

A few things happened rather quickly: Sirius jolted at the utterance of the name (an embarrassing
habit he really needed to stomp out), then he blinked as the pieces of her joke puzzled into place in
his mind, and then he let out a short, involuntary laugh, as much from surprise as humor. Merlin,
she may be a conniving bitch sometimes, but the girl was fearless.

For half a second, Lily looked pleased by his laughter, but then she carefully smoothed her
expression back into one of bored disdain. Sirius did the same, and the two glared at each other. An
impasse.

“Don’t make me laugh when I’m furious at you,” he all but growled.

“What right do you have to be furious with me?” she demanded. “This whole bloody mess was
your idea. You’ve been riding high all week on your little prank. What, was it only fun for you so
long as I was abjectly miserable? If I act like I’m in on the joke too, it’s no good?”

“That’s not—”

“God,” Lily threw back her head in humorless laughter. “You are so predictable, you know that?
You’d think after six years you’d grow up and find a new joke. Well, your punchline is punching
back, Black. I’m sick of it, and I’m sick of you.”

“Then break up with me already!”

Lily considered it, cocking her head to the side. “No,” she said after a moment. “I don’t think I
will.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s infuriating you, and I find that amusing.” Then she turned and began to walk away.

“Maybe I’ll break up with you, then!” he called after her.

She glanced back over her shoulder and scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

The annoying thing was that she was right. He wouldn’t dare. In truth, Sirius hadn’t thought too
deeply of his motives at the time, but this whole charade was constructed ostensibly for the
purpose of helping Lily avoid the worst of the school gossip, and if he were the one to break things
off prematurely — well, Sirius would have to worry about more than just the expression on
James’s face; Remus had been giving him particularly scowly looks all week. The fact that Lily
knew this too made his annoyance with her grow even more.

When he finally arrived at dinner, Sirius expected to find James miserable and moping — but in
fact, his friend was in top form. He seemed to be involved in a very elaborate and spirited story
about some Quidditch match of yore. The thing about James was that when he got to telling one of
his stories, he could go on for ages. He was a lot like his dad that way.

He kept up the performance all dinner, then took off to walk Florence back to Ravenclaw tower,
allegedly, leaving Sirius to head back to the dormitory to sulk while Peter explained to Remus what
exactly had happened.

Sirius found himself disconcerted by the way everyone seemed to have an opinion about his
motives but him. Peter thought he’d concocted the whole ‘dating Lily’ scheme to get a rise out of
James, and Lily thought he’d done it to get a rise out of her. The truth was, Sirius wasn’t sure he’d
even thought about it enough to articulate a motive. It had just seemed…funny. And all right,
maybe he wanted to shake James out of his comfort zone, just a little, because all his friend seemed
to do lately was mope about girls and it was boring, and maybe he also wanted to keep a closer eye
on Lily, just a little, if she was going to suddenly be in on all their secrets…He felt like an
archaeologist, excavating his own intentions. It was uncomfortable, messy work. He didn’t like it.

James did not return to the dorm until just after curfew, and when he arrived it was in a flurry of
cheerful activity, tossing things into his trunk and bemoaning his habit of not promptly packing for
the holidays as he did so.

“Prongs,” Sirius attempted to interrupt at one point. “Can we talk?”

“‘Bout what?” replied James, who was presently engaged in a careful of deliberation of two
individual socks that most certainly did not match. “Pete, is this one of yours?”

“About earlier,” said Sirius.

“No, it’s Moony’s.”

“Can’t think of what we need to talk about from earlier.” James balled the sock up and tossed it to
Remus. “I don’t think I will take all these textbooks. It’s not much of a holiday if you spend the
whole thing doing homework, is it? I mean, our N.E.W.T.s aren’t even until next year, so what’s
the big rush, right?”

“Mate—”

“Merlin, I’m knackered. Think I’ll turn in soon. Got to get up early to catch the train tomorrow and
all that.”

“James!”

James stopped and looked at Sirius in surprise. “What?”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Okay. I’m listening. What’s up?”

Now that he finally had his friend’s attention, Sirius struggled. “About what happened earlier—”

“What happened earlier?” said James, infuriatingly.

“You know. With Evans.”

“Ohhh, right.” James knelt down to fiddle with the clasp of his trunk, which didn’t seem to want to
close. “You mean the part where she kissed you? Yes, that was a bit funny, wasn’t it? How was it,
by the way?”

“What?”

“The kiss. Scale of one to ten? I’m curious.”

“Look, mate, I’m sorry, but I didn’t—”

“Oh,” said James, as though with sudden clarity, and he straightened up, abandoning the trunk as a
bad job and blinking at Sirius from behind his smudged glasses. “Oh, hang on, I see. You think I’m
upset.”

“You’re not?”

“No,” laughed James. “Of course I’m not. It was just a laugh, right? Anyway, why would I be
upset? Evans and I are just friends, and I have a girlfriend. She can snog whoever she wants. Now,
I’ve got to brush my teeth.” And with a cheerful clap on Sirius’s increasingly slumped shoulders,
James strode out of the dormitory.

“That went well,” said Peter.

Sirius awoke the next morning to the sound of a clatter and, “Shit. Ow.” In the manner of one
trudging through a very deep snow, Sirius pulled himself out of sleep and tugged back the curtain
of his four-poster. James was there, hopping on one foot and cursing. He looked up sheepishly as
Sirius’s sleepy face appeared.

“Stubbed my toe,” he said.

“Are you headed out already?” asked Sirius.

“Got to,” said James, glancing at his watch. “The carriages are waiting.”

“You were just going to leave? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Well, you seemed to be sleeping so peacefully.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“What can I say? I’m growing.” A pause. “Well, there’s no need to look so morose about it. You
can come along to the carriages if you like, but you’ll have to hurry up and get dressed.”

Sirius did exactly that, throwing on his robes and not bothering to glance in the mirror as he
followed his friend out of the dormitory. James, in true form, prattled the whole way there. His
subject du jour was the full moon, and all the details about it James wanted to make sure Sirius
remembered in his absence, particularly about keeping an eye on Peter during the escapade. “It’s
hard for him to keep up, you know, with only those little rat feet to carry him. Don’t want him
getting lost or snatched by an owl or anything like that.”

Sirius made noises of accordance, though privately he had told Peter that he didn’t need to come
along this moon if he didn’t want to. Peter had looked momentarily annoyed by the suggestion, but
then he’d thought about it and agreed. After all, he had to understand that Sirius would have his
hands full with Moony. He wouldn’t be able to watch out for Peter too.

They reached the entrance of the castle where the fleet of carriages awaited to ferry holiday-bound
students off to Hogsmeade Station. Though there was a certain bustle of activity, Sirius rather had
the impression he and James had arrived on the unnecessarily early side. The thought that James
might’ve been trying to sneak off to avoid him made Sirius’s stomach sink, but he quashed any
unpleasant words that crept towards his tongue. After all, he knew James had a lot on his mind
regarding this particular school holiday, and Sirius had something important to say.
“Listen, Prongs,” he began. “If something happens…with your dad —”

James shook his head. “Mum said he’s stable—”

“I know, but all the same. If it does, you let me know, okay? Just reach out through the mirr—” He
stopped, struck once again with the pang of loss when he remembered that the other half of their
two-way mirror was lost to Snape’s grimy grasp. It occurred to him, uncomfortably, that this
holiday would be the first time in so many years that he and James had actually been apart. The
mirrors had always kept them tethered together, at least to some degree.

James seemed to follow this thread of thought. He opened his mouth — but Sirius spoke over him.
“If something happens, you floo me. I’ll be in the common room every night, except the full moon,
of course. Worst case, you owl me…but you let me know, okay?”

James swallowed. Nodded. “I’ll let you know.”

“Right,” said Sirius. “Good.”

“You too, you know.”

“What?”

“Let me know how the full moon goes.”

Sirius scoffed. “This again. You’re as bad as Moony. Aren’t you the one always telling him not to
worry?”

“I’m not worried. I just —”

“As bad as Moony’s mum.”

“Oh shut it,” laughed James. “I’m not worried. I know you can handle this. I just wish I was going
to be there. That’s all.”

“It’ll be fine, mummy. Promise.”

“Well, good. And don’t forget to eat your vegetables and wash behind your ears and all that.”

“How will we survive ten whole days without you?”

“I bloody don’t know, to tell you the truth. You lot wouldn’t get out of bed if it weren’t for me. Ah
— there’s Flor.”

Sirius turned to look: Florence stood by a carriage, her blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight. She
spotted them and raised a hand to wave them down.

“Right,” said James, turning back to Sirius. “See you, then.”

“Yeah. See you,” agreed Sirius. Then — because that look of hurt on James’s face still lingered in
his mind the way a flash of light stained closed eyelids — he called after his friend: “Prongs?”

James stopped and turned back. “Yeah?”

“It didn’t mean anything.”

“What?”
“Evans. Kissing me. She was just taking the piss, that’s all. She was trying to irritate me.”

“Yeah, it looked really…irritating.”

“Mate, I swear, it wasn’t anything—”

“I don’t care, Sirius. It doesn’t matter—”

Sirius cut him off. “You’re a terrible liar, Prongs. If you want to lie to yourself, that’s fine, that’s
your business, but you don’t lie to me. That’s not a thing we do.”

James stared at him for a long moment, then he glanced back towards the carriage into which
Florence had just climbed. Finally, he sighed, dragged a hand through his hair, and said in a low
voice: “Fine. It just…took me by surprise, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“You and me both,” said Sirius. “She sprung it on me, Prongs. It wasn’t planned. I wasn’t…” he
hesitated, Peter’s words buzzing annoyingly around his brain. “I wasn’t trying to — to torment
you, or anything.”

James looked utterly surprised by the very suggestion. “I know that.”

“Yeah?”

“‘Course. I never thought — it’s just…” He fidgeted, chewed his lip, pushed his glasses up the
bridge of his nose. “What if she fancies you?”

The question came out half-sheepish, half-agonized, and Sirius nearly laughed out loud. “She
doesn’t.”

“She might!”

“I’m not her type.”

James gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “You’re everyone’s type.”

“Well, that’s very sweet of you.”

“I mean it. Every girl in this school…why should Evans be any diff— it would just be bloody
awkward, that’s all, her fancying you when you don’t fancy her back…you don’t fancy her, right?”

“Of course I don’t,” snorted Sirius. “She’s not my type.”

“What is your type, incidentally?”

Sirius ignored this. “And yeah, it would be awkward, but she doesn’t fancy me. That kiss — I’m
telling you, it didn’t mean anything. She said so herself. Those were her words.”

James blinked. “What…’It didn’t mean anything?’”

“Exactly.”

“She said that? To you?”

“Yes! Because it didn’t! Sometimes a kiss is nothing more than a kiss. It doesn’t have any deeper
meaning or secret romantic intention, it’s just…a bloody snog, that’s all.”
James’s expression was like a curtain pulled abruptly shut. Normally Sirius knew exactly what was
going on in his friend’s brain, his face a complex topographical map that Sirius could read to
perfection — but for a moment, the look behind his eyes was opaque, hidden. Private. Then James
gave his head a little shake. “Okay,” he said. “Right. That’s that, then.”

“Right,” repeated Sirius, troubled. “So…we’re all right then?”

“We’re always all right,” said James brightly. He nodded at the carriages. “Best be off, else I’ll
have to chase the damned things down on foot. Not easy to catch an invisible horse you know.”
And with an overly cheery wave, he took off towards the carriages at a quick trot, though students
were still spilling out of the castle and as far as Sirius could tell, no one was in any imminent
danger of missing the carriages’ departure.

Sirius stood there, feeling slightly wrong-footed and with the strange sensation of having
concluded a conversation about a topic he hadn’t realized he’d been discussing, and he still didn’t
know exactly what that topic was. It irked him.

Then, like the glimpse of his own reflection in a mirror, something else caught his eye.

“Reg.”

His brother was walking alone through the crowds, intent on his destination, but at Sirius’s call, he
stopped and turned. His eyes widened slightly before returning to the impassive mask that both
Black brothers had long ago perfected. For a moment, Sirius thought Regulus would simply stalk
away. That was the rule, after all — total banishment — and Regulus never liked to break rules.
But then he stepped aside, out of the sea of students, into the shadow of a nearby carriage on the
edge of the cavalcade. Sirius took this as an invitation and followed.

“What do you want?” Regulus demanded stiffly, once they were both safely out of the general line
of sight.

“Hello to you too, baby brother.”

“Don’t call me that. What do you want?”

“Headed home for Cissy’s wedding, are you?”

“What do you c-care about Cissy’s wedding?”

“I don’t. Just…wishing you luck, I suppose.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only I know how wretched these affairs can be, that’s all.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” lied Regulus, and he looked slightly affronted by Sirius’s snort. “What
do you want? I really shouldn’t be seen talking to you.”

“You know, if you’re going to sit on the throne, you’ve got to stop acting like the spare. What are
they going to do? Banish the last remaining heir of Noble and Most Ancient House of Black? I
don’t think so. You’ve got more job security than I ever did, baby brother.”

“Hardly,” grumbled Regulus, and his tone was a shade more bitter than Sirius could recall having
heard it before. “I’m the insurance policy, that’s all. They’d take you back in a heartbeat if you’d
just behave.”
“Never was very good at that, was I?”

“You think it’s all a laugh, but you have no idea how things have been since you left.”

“Tell me.”

Regulus hesitated, pausing to glance around them as though merely standing in Sirius’s presence
was akin to committing a crime. “Mummy’s completely devastated. It’s been over a year, and she
still barely leaves her bed.”

“Sulking in her lair. Mummy always was one for histrionics.”

“You broke her heart!”

“What heart?”

The two boys glared at each other — then Sirius prodded: “And father?”

“He’s…father.”

“Is he giving you trouble?”

Regulus chewed his tongue. “He mostly just ignores me.”

“Well, lucky you then.”

“Why are you suddenly pretending like you care about them?”

“I don’t care about them, I—”

“You left, Sirius. You made your choice. Now just…stop making my life more difficult, will you?
I have to go.”

And his brother turned hastily to walk away. This action was starting feel like a recurring theme in
his relationships these days. An insecure person might start to read into it. Sirius watched his
brother go, troubled over something he hadn’t yet managed to articulate.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

The words fell out of Sirius’s mouth before he’d even had time to consider them. Granted, that was
how most of his words entered the world, but all the same, he wasn’t entirely prepared for the
sharp look and furrowed brow Regulus shot his way.

“Do what?”

“Any of it. The whole bloody circus. You’re not trapped there, no matter what Cissy says. You can
just walk out. I did.”

“Yes,” said Regulus slowly. “You certainly did. And you think I should follow in your footsteps?
Where will I go, hm? Shall I kip on the Potters’ couch? Bunk up with you and your beloved
James?”

“You know, I’m not going to live with the Potters forever. Old Alphard left me some gold, I expect
you know that. I’m going to get my own place, one day. I’m just saying — if you ever need to get
away—”
When his brother spoke, it was in a low, dark voice: “If you really think that I would do that, if you
really think that I would abandon my family, my responsibility…like you…then you really don’t
know me at all, big brother.”

And with a disdainful look that would’ve made their mother proud, Regulus strode off towards a
carriage in the distance, empty save the presence of a younger boy, a wispy, pale sort of lad, who
— Sirius suddenly realized — had been watching their whole conversation with rapt attention.

The beginning of the holiday was rather subdued. The days went by, and despite her promise not to
break up with him, Lily was doing an impressive job of avoiding them all — remarkably so,
considering how few people remained in the castle. Although he supposed that was part of the
reason: no need to perform without an audience. Not that Sirius particularly minded, he was still
furious with her, but Remus was annoyed about it. This was not altogether surprising — as the full
moon drew closer, the boy’s spirits and health always declined in equal measure — but he’d been
significantly grumpier towards Sirius since the whole Lily affair.

“She was finally starting to warm up to you,” Remus complained at breakfast one morning, after
Lily had gathered her toast and quickly scurried off before the rest of them so much as found a seat
at the table. “Why’d you have to go and muck it all up again?”

Sirius thought this was a bit unfair — he hadn’t punched Bertram Aubrey, he hadn’t been the one
to instigate that stupid kiss — but he merely grunted and shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

Evenings he spent in the common room, just as he’d promised James, but James did not floo. He
supposed that was good news, it meant everything with Mr. Potter was fine, but Sirius couldn’t
help but a feel a bit blue about it. He’d never say it out loud, because it felt remarkably clingy and
pathetic, but it felt as though every day he and James were apart the distance between them grew
wider. And not just physically. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t like the way they’d parted, James all
pretend-cheery and Sirius confused and wrong-footed.

One evening as he was alone in the common room — Remus was sleeping in the dorm and Peter
was Merlin knows where — Sirius considered this for a bit too long and started getting morose, as
he often did when left with nought but the company of his own thoughts. These thoughts turned
instead to the mirror, that once-unbreakable link between him and James, and he felt the urge once
again to try and recreate it anew.

So he briefly abandoned his post by the fire and climbed the stairs to the dormitory, a plan
percolating in his mind. He’d just pull the mirror out for an evening, that’s all. He’d undo the
silencing spell for a minute, fiddle with the thing a bit. What harm could it do? He unlatched the
lid of his trunk and began to dig around for it. He hadn’t touched the thing since Christmas, so it
must’ve gotten lodged in the bottom…

But before he could locate it, he stumbled across something else instead: a slightly crumpled bit of
newsprint, the kind Muggles used for their papers. He unfolded it, and memory flooded back. It
was the advertisement he’d seen in a Muggle paper, for that flat in London, back on that horrible
evening at St. Mungo’s when Sirius had slipped outside for a smoke. Slowly, he closed the lid of
his trunk and returned to the common room, newspaper clipping in hand, mirror forgotten.

He stared at the advertisement for far longer than was reasonable for the brief amount of words it
contained, then he located a bit of parchment and a quill, and began to write a letter.

The following morning, Sirius woke to a heavy sort of thumping noisy, and after a moment of
groggy confusion, he realized someone was knocking on the door. He waited for James to get it —
he was always up and going in the morning — but then he remembered James was home for the
holiday and, cursing slightly, he dragged himself out of bed. He paused to glance at his watch as he
did so (The one the Potters had given him, he thought with a slight lurch), and realized that without
James to wake him up, he’d slept abominably late — just as James had predicted. Remus too was
still sleeping, though Peter’s bed appeared empty, sheets all mussed about.

Sirius sighed, trudged across the dorm, and threw open the door. He was startled to see Lily Evans
standing there. Her expression, already a bit guarded, turned stony at the sight of Sirius.

“What do you want?” he said, with more surprise than aggression, though he wasn’t sure it came
across that way.

“You’re still in your pajamas? It’s nearly lunchtime.”

“It’s spring hols,” said Sirius. “Anyway, what do you want? If you came for a quick roll in the
sack, you’re out of luck. A snog’s all you get, sweetheart, I’m not going to shag you too.”

Lily’s stony expression turned, if possible, even stonier. Truly, the castle’s gargoyles had nothing
on this girl. “Oh, my fragile heart,” she said blandly. “How ever will I recover?” Then, with a
spiteful flip of her hair, she said, “I’m here to see Remus.”

“He’s sleeping, but he’s not going to shag you either.”

“Fuck off,” snarled Lily, and Sirius sensed a not insignificant amount of bite to her bark. A wiser
person would’ve backed off, particularly if said person had once seen first hand the fury that wand
could wreck, but Sirius enjoyed riling her up. It distracted him from his own swirling mess of guilt
and resentment.

But before he could take another jab, Lily thrust a hand into her bag. “Here,” she all but spat, and
she shoved a little parcel into his hands. “Just give him this, will you? It’s a new batch of fudge.
For the full moon. It’s not as strong this time, but he should still only have one, okay?”

“Right,” said Sirius, and he felt slightly abashed…though not enough to apologize. “Thanks,” he
added grudgingly.

Lily just rolled her eyes and turned to descend the stairs back to the dormitory.

“What, no goodbye kiss?” Sirius called after her before he could stop himself.

She didn’t look back.

For reasons he either couldn’t or wouldn’t parse, Sirius felt rather rotten about that exchange. He
decided what he needed to cheer himself up was a good walk in the woods — as Padfoot, of
course. Besides, he wanted one last bit reconnaissance before the full moon, to chart out the path
they’d take, as it would be just him and Moony this time. He wasn’t worried, but for Remus’s sake,
he didn’t want any surprises.

So, leaving the parcel of fudge on Remus’s bedside table with a very firm note advising him to
only eat one, Sirius left the dormitory and strolled the grounds until he found a good spot to
transform into Padfoot and begin a pleasant afternoon of cavorting in the Forbidden Forest.

He quickly located the area he intended to take Moony and followed his nose on a path deep into
the woods and back, sniffing all the while. It was easy sometimes to get caught up in his senses as
a dog, to lose track of his actual goal in the midst of such a riotous buffet of scent, and more than
once he’d had to stop and force himself back on track. It was during one of these little olfactory
detours that Sirius headed off down a different path, back towards the lake — when a soft, high-
pitched noise caught his attention.

He stood still for a moment, ear cocked to the west, listening. All was quiet except the whisper of
trees…until…yes — there it was, like a whistle on the wind. He sniffed the earth again, then
scampered off towards the noise, cutting through the brush — the tickle of ferns, the snag of
bramble — and then he stopped dead in his tracks.

There, curled at the gnarled base of a tree at the edge of the forest, as knotted up as the roots
around her, was Lily Evans.

And she was crying.

She hadn’t noticed him yet. He ought to turn back, to slink away behind the trees — but the
horrible, howling noise kept him frozen in place. What if she was hurt? What was she doing out
here? It wasn’t safe — not for a Muggle-born, wandering off on her own like this…

He took an unthinking step forward — quick snap of twig — and her head jerked up.

Shit.

She stared at him, wide eyes brimming with tears and shock, and for a stupid moment, Sirius felt as
though he ought to say something, to apologize for intruding, to ask if she was okay — but then he
remembered that he was, in fact, a dog.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, still staring at him, her expression some strange amalgamation of
surprise, awe, and…fear?

The funny thing about being an Animagus was that one never really got a good sense for how
one’s form appeared to other people. Sirius knew he was a dog, obviously, and he’d preened in
front of the mirror a time or two…but when he transformed, he typically did so in the company of a
werewolf and a giant stag. It was easy to forget that he himself was, well, rather intimidating. Lily
was staring at him as though she thought he might attack. As though she were afraid of him. He
found he didn’t like that feeling very much, so he did something that later he would look back on as
very, very stupid: He wagged his tail.

She blinked.

He whined.

Then, very slowly, as though afraid she might startle him into a burst of canine violence, she
reached into her bag. By the time it occurred to him that she might be going for her wand and he
might want to skedaddle, she had produced instead a small paper bag, from which she withdrew a
sandwich — roast beef, by the smell of it. She took half the sandwich in her hand and extended it
towards him.

“Good dog…” she said softly, a faint sniffle trailing the ellipsis as she wiped her eyes with her free
hand.

Sirius paused, considering this offering. On the one hand, this situation was undeniably weird, and
he should probably turn on his heel and head back into the forest before he allowed things to get
even weirder. On the other hand, he was rather hungry, and more importantly: She’d stopped
crying.

So he approached, sniffed the sandwich, and took it in one gulp.

Lily continued to stare at him, her fearful expression fading to one of wonderment. “Davey
Gudgeon once told me he saw a giant dog on the grounds, but I’d just assumed he was high.”

If Sirius hadn’t been a dog, he would’ve laughed out loud at this.

“I glimpsed you myself a few weeks ago, y’know. Marlene said you were an omen of death…and
the way Davey described it, you’re a ferocious, student-eating menace. But everyone always has an
opinion, don’t they? You seem like a nice dog.” She took a bite of her half of the sandwich, then
eyed him warily. “You’re not going to eat me, are you?”

Sirius finished swallowing the sandwich, then swept his tail in an enthusiastic arc across the forest
floor. Lily seemed to take this as reassurance.

“Well, good,” she said. “Thanks for that. Although, you’d probably be doing me a favor if you did.
Me and the rest of the school. I’m poison, you see. Everything I touch turns to shit.” She wiped the
back of her hand across her wet, reddened eyes before she peered back at him. “Do you live here?
In the forest?” Then: “God, listen to me. Asking you questions like you can possibly answer.
Talking to a dog. This is what my life has become.”

Sirius cocked his head to the side, curious and a little confused.

“Well, of course I’m talking to a dog,” Lily went on, though it really seemed she was talking more
to herself. “Who else am I supposed to talk to? I’ve ruined every friendship I’ve ever had. I pushed
Mary away even before she was dragged off to the States, Sev all but signed up for a hate group in
my honor, and now I’ve absolutely ruined things with James forever…I’m so stupid.”

And to Sirius’s increasing horror, she began to cry again: full body sobs that doubled her over, her
forehead pressed into her palms, fingers scraping at her scalp. It was horrible to watch. Again, he
had the niggling sense that he should not be here, witness to her private angst, that she’d be beyond
horrified if she knew who the dog really was. But at the same time, he couldn’t just trot away like
none of this was happening and leave her alone, sobbing on the forest floor.

Again, he didn’t really think it through — thought and action sort of flowed as one when he was a
dog — but he moved closer, nudging her arm with his muzzle. She jolted at the touch, taken aback.
Then she let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob and reached out to scratch him
behind the ear.

“You are a nice dog,” she said, rather wetly. “No matter what people say. And I’m being silly.”
She sat up and wiped her eyes again, the sobs ebbing away, much to Sirius’s relief. She slumped
back against the tree. “I just can’t stop thinking about it. I mean, I kissed him. I kissed him. D’you
know how long I’ve wanted to do that?”

Sirius froze. Was she…talking about him? No. She couldn’t be. She didn’t fancy him. She didn’t.
That was one of the things he actually liked about her…

“And now he hates me.”

Hate was a strong word. Really, it was more along the lines of recreational loathing…of the mutual
variety, he’d thought…

“He can barely look at me. He skipped Potions last week just so he didn’t have to sit next to me all
class.”

Wait…what?

“And I can’t tell a soul about it, which is oddly enough the worst part. Can you even imagine the
uproar? Lily Evans gets drunk and snogs James Potter, who happens to currently be one half of the
school’s sweetest couple.”

WHAT?

“…and all this nonsense with Black is just salt in the wound, and I can’t tell anyone the truth.
Marlene thinks he’s blackmailing me. She offered to hire a hit wizard to take care of it, and I’m
only half-certain she was joking. Actually, I’m not certain at all, because I didn’t think she knew
how to joke. At least James promised not to tell him about the kiss. Black would have an absolute
field day. I don’t know why he seems to get such a kick out of making me miserable, but it’s like a
sport for him. Always has been.”

She buried her face in her hands.

“I’m just so sick of it. I’m so bloody sick of watching James and Florence be perfect together and
pretending like I’m happy for them when I’m absolutely not, but I can’t tell anyone about that
either, and I feel like my head is going to explode from all these secrets, so here I am, crying my
eyes out in the forest like total freak, bearing my a soul to a bloody dog. Well, feelings have to go
somewhere, that’s what my mum always said. This is why I used to keep a diary, but I can’t do that
anymore, thanks again to Sirius bloody Black, bane of my existence.”

Sirius gawked at her — or whatever the canine version of that looked like.

She sniffled and scrubbed a hand over her pink-splotched cheeks. “God,” she mumbled. “I’m being
ridiculous. Bet I’m all puffy-eyed and tragic-looking now too. Did I bring…?” She rummaged
around in her bag for a moment. “Ah, thank god.” And she withdrew a small powder compact,
which she proceeded to blot across her face.

“Rule number one,” she said into the mirror. “Never let them see you cry.” She shoved the
compact back into her bag, then reached out and scratched the dog behind the ears once again.
“But you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Finally, she pushed herself up off the ground and brushed the dirt from her robes. “Right,” she said
in an exhalation of breath. “Better get back.” But she didn’t move. Instead, she gazed despondently
across the lake towards the castle, as though she could think of few things she’d like to do less than
return to its walls.

A quick shake of her head. A glance back to where Sirius still sat.
“Thanks for not eating me,” she said with half a smile, before she turned and walked away, hands
shoved in pockets, slumped shoulders straightening up the closer she got to the castle.

Sirius, for his part, sat stunned amongst the silent trees. He waited long enough to make sure she
wasn’t returning, then he transformed back into himself. Some thoughts were too complicated to
process as a dog, and presently, he was drowning in complications.

He paced the forest floor.

Lily kissed James, and James didn’t tell him. James promised Lily specifically that he wouldn’t tell
him. Lily kissed James, and James was somehow still with Florence. Lily fancied James and now
she was convinced that James hated her. Lily kissed James, and so she’d kissed Sirius as…revenge
for James still being with Florence?

His head was spinning, and on top of all that, he couldn’t get the image out of his mind of Lily
curled up against the tree trunk, alone and sobbing. He was fairly certain he’d never seen Lily
Evans cry before. She was tough as nails. That was part of what had always made teasing her so
fun. She got angry with him, not…weepy.

But then, he realized rather belatedly, feeling like an absolute arse, he’d always just watched her
get angry and storm off. Leaving so soon? Aw, c’mon Penny Prefect, take a joke. There she goes,
ten points for the ears…He’d never actually seen the aftermath.

What was it she had just said? Rule number one: Never let them see you cry.

He suddenly felt rather sick. He hadn’t meant anything by the teasing, he didn’t ‘get a kick out of
making her miserable’, he just —

But the memory of his argument with Remus last year interrupted his thoughts like an old haunting:

YOU NEVER THINK, SIRIUS! You never stop to think about the people you’re hurting, and what I
can’t work out is if you’re incapable of it, or if you just don’t give a damn.

“I give a damn,” he muttered to the trees. “I do.”

The trees said nothing.

Sirius wrestled with the implications of this accidental eavesdropping the whole way back to the
castle. He was at a loss about what to do next. It wasn’t as though he could go up to Lily and say,
‘Oh, hello, by the way, accidentally overheard a few things while I was gallivanting through the
forest as a dog…’ But at the same time, it felt dishonest not to tell her…something.

And then there was the matter of everything he now knew. Lily had kissed James, and James had
kept it a secret — from all of them. And then there was the fact that Lily would emphatically not
want Sirius to know any of this. She’d said as much to the dog.

What a bloody mess.

But he couldn’t not say something to someone, could he? He now knew that the girl his idiot mate
had been obsessively in love with for years was — to the shock of absolutely no one — also
obsessively in love with him. But James must know this too, if she’d snogged him and he’d
decided he’d rather be with Florence.

Sirius didn’t really know what to think of the whole Florence thing. He had no issue with her, and
he’d encouraged their relationship at the start. Hell, he’d continued to encourage it up until about
an hour ago. It had seemed to make his friend happy, and James had not been happy ever since the
Christmas hols. A girlfriend seemed like an acceptable distraction, since James seemed to care a lot
about having one.

James in general had always seemed preoccupied with the female sex to a degree Sirius didn’t quite
understand. He couldn’t help but think that if his friend just got on with it and and shagged
someone, he’d…well, get over it. Sirius himself had found sex to be fairly underwhelming. At first
he’d thought he’d done it wrong, so he’d given it a few more gos with a few more girls, but — no.
That’s just how it was. People were stupid about it.

He should’ve known better though, he thought as trudged across the grounds. Encouraging James
to date a prissy pure-blood girl who doubtlessly protected her chastity as conscientiously as her
bloodline…He ought to have pushed a dalliance with one of the Muggle-born or half-blood girls,
who always had a rather freer attitude toward sex…and then Sirius thought of Lily at the M.B.S.C.,
opining Isolde Greengrass calling her a ‘Mudblood whore,’ of Bertram Aubrey’s snide insinuations
that had once caused James to viciously hex him, of the broken-down girl he’d just come across in
the forest, sobbing alone to the trees — and he felt properly disgusted with himself. He carried on
with that for a little while, but at the end of the day this endless cycle of rumination and self-
flagellation did absolutely nothing to inform the urgent question of what the hell was he supposed
to do next?

This turbulent tide of thoughts carried him all the way back to the common room. He glanced
around upon his entrance; Lily was not there, but Remus sat alone before one of the fireplaces,
slumped comfortably in an armchair and gazing into the flames as though it was the most
fascinating thing he’d seen in his life.

Sirius grinned and strolled over to his friend. “How’s the fudge feeling, Moony?”

“Nice,” said Remus without looking up from the fire. Then, obscurely, “I’m very aware of my
teeth.”

“Okay,” said Sirius. “You only ate one piece, right?”

Remus roused himself from the flames and agreed that he did, in fact, only eat one piece of fudge,
that he was a paradigm of restraint and abstemiousness, and, by the way, why did Sirius look so
nervy and distressed?

Sirius had not been aware that he looked nervy and distressed, but he sighed, dropped himself into
the armchair opposite his friend, and decided to tell at least the beginning of the truth.

“I’m wrestling with a moral conundrum.”

“Oh?” said Remus. “Who’s winning?”

“The moral conundrum has been throwing some very effective punches.”

“I see. Need back up?”

“Definitely, but I can’t tell you what it’s about.”

“That complicates matters.”

“Hence the conundrum.” He thought for a moment. “All right, what if I get your take on an
entirely hypothetical situation, and we go from there?”

“You have my undivided attention,” said Remus, in a manner that was not remotely convincing,
but Sirius decided to plow on anyway.

“Right. Let’s say someone — accidentally and through no fault of their own — overheard
something —”

“Were you eavesdropping as a dog again?”

“I was not eavesdropping, and anyway, this is hypothetical, remember?”

Remus gestured graciously for Sirius to continue.

“Thank you. Say someone overheard something from someone who definitely would not have
wanted to be overheard. And say the something that this someone overheard happened to be of
great interest to, well, everyone, and potentially it would greatly improve matters if the someone
who heard the something told someone else—”

“Well, don’t tell me,” said Remus quickly. “I don’t want to know. I have enough secrets of my
own. Do you know how exhausting it is to keep up with the two hundred and twenty-six lies I tell
just to get through the day?”

“Hang on, two hundred and twenty six? That’s four more than I knew of. What are you lying to me
about? Your middle name isn’t really John, is it? I knew that was too generic.”

“Yes, that’s my deep dark secret.”

Sirius snickered, then remembered the task at hand. “I guess my question is — if it’s in all
concerned parties’ general best interest to share this information —”

“I would’ve thought,” interrupted Remus, in the vague half-distracted manner of man under the
gentle sway of fudge, “that my views on keeping other people’s secrets were already crystal clear.”

Sirius sat back slightly. He felt this statement bodily, as though Remus had just hit him. “Right,” he
said. “Forget I said anything.”

“I only meant—”

“No, you’re right. Not a word from me.”

Before either of them could assemble another thought to share on this subject, the two boys were
interrupted by Peter, who had appeared in the space between their armchairs, slightly out of breath,
a copy of the Daily Prophet, tucked beneath his arm. “Oh good,” he said. “You’re here.”

“What’s up, Wormtail?”

Peter held out the newspaper, folded over to a specific section. “You’re going to want to read this.”

Sirius took the paper and looked down at the article Peter indicated. He stared at the headline, at
the accompanying photos, at the lines and lines of militant text beneath. He flipped to the next
page, and then the next.
Finally, he looked up. Peter was watching him warily, fingers fidgeting at the sleeve of his robes.
Don’t hex the messenger, he was probably thinking.

“Well,” said Sirius at last, tossing the newspaper back to his friend. “Fuck.”
 The Swan

Regulus

The Swan
“Okay, Reggie, you stand here.” Two hands landed firmly on Regulus’s shoulders as Cissy
directed him a few steps to the right until he stood centered before the nursery windows. Bright,
afternoon sunlight sloped into the room. “And Sirius, you stand there.”

They’d been dropped here at Black Hall for two weeks over the summer while their parents went
off to France, and though Regulus had always founds his cousins’ home to be a daunting labyrinth
of discomfort and confusion, he liked the nursery all right. He understood its rules.

Bella and Andy were home for the summer holiday, but they seemed to have better things to do
than play nanny to Sirius and Regulus. Cissy, however, hadn’t hesitated to quickly integrate the
two boys into all her favorite games of make-believe, most of which usually involved some form of
dress-up.

“Why do I have to marry you?” complained Sirius, fists shoved into his pockets as he glowered at
his cousin.

“Because,” Cissy’s reply was sharp, impatient, as though this were a completely stupid question,
“Reggie’s too little.”

“This game is stupid.”

“That shows what you know,” said Cissy loftily. “A girl’s wedding is the most important day of
her life. Now stand there, and I’ll get my veil and walk down the aisle.”

She did as she promised, affixing a large waterfall of silk tulle to her crown (“It was mama’s.”)
and, with the poise of a much older girl, she began a slow and purposeful strut across the nursery as
she hummed a wedding march and clutched a fistful of chrysanthemums she’d plucked from the
garden.

This spectacle seemed to be the whole point of the game: Cissy walking down the ‘aisle.’ The rest
of it — Reggie the officiant, Sirius the grudging groom — was just set dressing, necessary
ornamentation for the stage of Cissy’s girlish fantasies. It was a relief, really, to be obliged only to
stand there and not required to do much more than that.
Or so he thought, until she reached the windows and gave him a pointed look that suggested —
demanded — action. Regulus blinked, unsure what he was meant to do.

“The vows,” hissed Cissy.

“Oh.” Dread flooded his gut as he tried to remember the words she’d recited to him before, the
words he knew wouldn’t come.

She gave him a hint. “Dearly beloved.”

“D-d-dearly b-b-b—”

“Oh, for the love of Merlin,” came a new voice, high and harsh. They all turned to see their eldest
cousin leaning against the door jamb, her dark hair twisted into schoolgirl plaits, a look of amused
contempt across her porcelain face. “Cissy, you made the mentally-deficient stutterer your
officiant? We’ll be here until you’re actually of age to marry.”

Regulus’s cheeks grew hot with shame.

“Shut up, Bella!” snapped Sirius.

“Oh, don’t listen to her.” This was from Andy, who peeked her head into the nursery from behind
Bella. “You’re doing marvelously, Reggie. But we were sent to tell you it’s time for tea, anyway,
so do hurry up, Cissy.”

“We’re almost done. We’ll skip the vows. Sirius, you have to put the ring on my finger.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Just do it!”

With a foul-tempered huff, Sirius plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out the jewelry box
Cissy had provided him at the beginning of the game. He turned towards her and snapped open the
box — but instead of the glimmering ring Cissy expected to find, she was splat in the face with an
explosion of stinksap. The reek of it flooded the room, stinging all of their eyes and assaulting their
nostrils.

Sirius howled with laughter as Cissy shrieked.

“That’s not fair!” their cousin sobbed, frantically wiping the stinksap from her eyes. “You ruined
the game! It’s not fair! You’re ruining everything! I’m telling mama.” And, ripping the veil from
her head, she sped out of the nursery, wails echoing in her wake. “Mama! Mama, Sirius is ruining
everything!”

“He’s ruining everything!”

The scene at the breakfast table of Black Hall on the day before Narcissa’s wedding likely
deserved to be described in words evocative of some great calamity — for indeed, that’s how the
family viewed the situation. No doubt it was familial duty to treat such matters with the gravity
they merited…and yet, Regulus couldn’t help but feel, if one were able to remove oneself from the
emotional impact of Narcissa across the table, knuckles pressed against her forehead in despair,
agonized tears pooling at her lashes — if one could ignore the disconcerting implications of the
twist of pure venom on Bellatrix’s lips, the angry flush on Uncle Cygnus’s cheeks, the terrifying
impassivity in Aunt Druella’s eyes — if one could separate oneself from all that — by, say, sitting
at the far end of the table and being completely ignored — one might assess that the image was not
at all unlike some of those grand, formidable paintings in the Black family collection of which his
Uncle Alphard had once been so proud.

They hung high throughout the vaulted corridors of Black Hall, those priceless works of the great
old masters, curated by generations of Blacks. Uncle Alphard had made a point to educate his
nephews on the history of all the different artwork in the collection…though this lectures typically
veered off into a less academic tirade about how wizards were no longer capable of creating true
masterpieces these days, ever since the Muggles infiltrated the bloodlines and diluted their magic,
they just don’t make paintings like they used to, hmmm, hmph, etcetera, etcetera. Regulus always
found these digressions rather disappointing, not because he disagreed that something really ought
to be done about the Muggles, but more because he was fascinated by the history of the art, by the
grandeur of their past. He’d spent much of his childhood summers quietly roaming the halls,
staying out of the way and staring up into the souls of all those artists from long ago who were so
obsessed with capturing misery in careful, colorful strokes.

But here, today, right before Regulus’s own eyes was a brand new masterpiece on display: The
beam of sunlight from the window behind Narcissa that illuminated her golden hair like a halo, the
harsh angle of Aunt Druella’s shoulders as she arched towards her distraught daughter, the curl of
Uncle Cygnus’s finger as he clawed the page of the offensive newspaper, the perfect symmetry of
the two hopeful noses belonging to the labradors who never left his uncle’s side, edging ever
closer to his toast. All of it ached to be captured on canvas in minute detail, hung in the halls for
future generations to ponder.

Sirius would’ve found this very funny. Regulus probably shouldn’t.

“It’s a disgrace,” said Uncle Cygnus. “Down, Xanthus, Balius.” This was directed to the dogs who
each let out a disappointed whine as they settled back to the floor. They were quickly assuaged,
however, by a careless toss of the toast they so coveted.

“At the breakfast table? Really, Cygnus,” said Aunt Druella coldly. Uncle Cygnus ignored her.
Sirius always said their uncle liked to keep his dogs nearby at all times because it flattered him to
be in the company of an intelligent species. Regulus probably shouldn’t find that funny either.

“It’s worse than a disgrace,” sobbed Narcissa. “It’s — it’s a hit job!”

“Now, darling, let’s not get hysterical.”

“Hysterical!” Cissy snatched the newspaper from her father’s clutches. “Did you not read this
headline? Booze, Brawls, and Muggle Girls: How the Black Family’s Heir is Tearing Down This
Once Illustrious House.’”

“He’s not even the heir anymore,” said Bellatrix with a disdainful sip of her tea, and Regulus sunk
a little deeper into his chair.

He was increasingly regretting that he’d accepted Cissy’s invitation to stay at Black Hall in the
days leading up to the wedding. He suspected she’d made this offer due to his mother’s notable
absence from the Christmas party and a subsequent concern that she might somehow sabotage
Regulus’s attendance of the wedding (he was a usher, you see). Nonetheless, he’d been pleased to
accept, relieved to escape Grimmauld Place and his mother’s moods for a few days. Now,
however, he would give almost anything to be holed up in the kitchens with Kreacher, rather than
stuck here at this breakfast table, listening to a thorough exposé in the Daily Prophet about how
Sirius was shaming them all.

“How dare they!” Cissy went on. “And the day before my wedding — now this is all anyone will
be talking about! Sirius did this on purpose, you know he did! He always, always ruins everything!
And oh, look, oh, they’ve got the photo of him punching Lucius last Christmas…oh, my hair looks
awful in that photo. Why are they doing this? Lucius spoke to the editor about burying this story
back when it happened over a year ago! They sat on this for ages. Why publish it now? Who is this
writer, anyway?”

“Rita Skeeter,” said Aunt Druella, pulling the paper away from Narcissa and peering at the byline
with a curl of disgust upon her painted lips.

“I’ve never even heard of her,” sniffed Narcissa.

“Half-blood, I presume?”

“Skeeter?” said Bellatrix. “I know her, she was in my year. Nasty little bitch, if I recall.”

“Doesn’t she know the rules?” wailed Cissy.

“Evidently not.”

Regulus knew the rules, for Narcissa had explained them many times before. There was an
understanding between the press and the Black family — and other similarly-situated pure-blood
houses. The family would provide access to their glittering parties and social events, offer up
perfectly-poised photos and insider updates on engagements, weddings, and other occasions to
quell the curiosity of — and sell papers to — the less privileged contingent of the Daily Prophet’s
readership. (Or as Regulus’s mother referred to them: the rabble.)

In return for these inside scoops, the journalists provided glowing commentary — generally pre-
approved — that served only to buff up the reputations of those pure-bloods who played ball. A
scathing article like this was nearly unheard of.

“Sirius is dating a Mudblood?” said Aunt Druella, flipping a page of the exposé. She looked over
to Regulus. “Did you know about this?”

“N-no,” said Regulus quickly, although that wasn’t entirely true. Sirius had made such a scene at
school, nearly everyone knew. It had been deeply uncomfortable for Regulus, listening to the
gossip and jokes about his brother’s love life in the Slytherin common room. You think he’d be
used to this by now, but he wasn’t.

“And they’ve got a photo of the little slut too,” said Bellatrix. “A hit job indeed.”

“Oh!” sobbed Cissy. “It’s that wretched girl from Slughorn’s party. The presumptuous Mudblood
who wouldn’t leave Reggie alone. I told Lucius, I told him, I said someone really needs to speak
with Sluggy about inviting such riffraff to his parties, it was only a matter of time before it had
catastrophe consequences!”

“Though school friends insist that the romance is recent, Georgiana Selwyn, 23, confirmed that the
pair were inseparable at Professor Horace Slughorn’s glitzy Christmas party,” recited Bellatrix.

“Georgiana? That conniving cow!”

“Calm down, now, Cissy,” said Uncle Cygnus, buttering a fresh piece of toast for his dogs.
“Calm down? Papa, this is defamation. Can’t we sue them? For slander?”

“Libel,” said Bellatrix.

“That too!”

“I don’t see what good that would do,” said Uncle Cygnus.

“Can’t you make them take it out?”

“It’s already been printed, sweet.”

“So make them unprint it!”

“Cissy, darling, be reasonable…”

Narcissa pushed back her chair with a sudden scrape and leapt to her feet.“Why does no one in this
family love me? If you won’t help me, I’m going to go Floo my fiancé!”

And she flounced out of the room.

“I don’t think Lucius’s greasy palms will help with this one,” mused Bellatrix as her sister’s sobs
faded down the corridor. Though of course the article was her shame too — it was the whole
family’s shame — Bellatrix seemed unable to banish a glint of dark amusement at her sister’s
despair. She looked like Sirius, just then. A hound that caught a whiff of game.

Aunt Druella sighed. “I better go stop her crying. She’ll have puffy eyes for the ceremony
tomorrow, little fool.”

Bellatrix followed her mother, and Uncle Cygnus went back to his toast.

After a moment of tortured consideration, Regulus leaned across the table and collected the Daily
Prophet. At home, he never would’ve dared to claim the newspaper with his own father still at the
table, but Uncle Cygnus was significantly less frightening than Orion Black. Regulus thumbed the
discarded paper back to the society section, and yes — there it was. The blaring headline, the
obscene photos, the columns and columns of condemnation.

The Skeeter woman had opted to lead with the photo of Sirius punching Lucius, and it wasn’t hard
to understand why. No one could see that photo on the front page of the Prophet’s society section
and not read the article in its entirety. Regulus proceeded to do so now.

It was not particularly well researched, he thought. Rather sloppy, in fact. It barely made mention
of Regulus, which was all right by him, but it also failed to explain that Sirius was no longer the
heir of the Black family fortune, that after the mess with Alphard he’d been thoroughly scrubbed
from will and disowned by the family he had disgraced. Perhaps this truth wouldn’t have been as
thoroughly salacious for Skeeter’s readers. It was far more delicious for them to imagine Sirius still
held the keys to the castle while he tore it down.

What the article did offer, however, was a thorough inventory of every humiliation the Black
family had ever suffered at the hands of their wayward heir, from schoolboy duels and detentions
to dalliances with seemingly every Muggle or half-blood in school. Regulus suspected some of this
was exaggerated, but then it was hard to know precisely what his brother got up to at school. It
wasn’t as though they talked.

He flipped the page and came to the next photo that had so upset his cousin, the one with the chatty
Mudblood from Slughorn’s party. Underneath, it read:

PLAYBOY NO MORE?

Friends of Black’s insist that this romance is different from the others.

“He’s absolutely smitten with her,” says classmate Bertha Jorkins, 18. “Follows her
around everywhere, carries her books, that sort of thing. Of course, she’s had loads of
boyfriends, and she doesn’t seem nearly as interested in him. She’ll probably break his
heart.”

The Muggle-born bombshell in question, Gryffindor student Lily Evans, 17, is

described by classmates as “loads of fun” but also “very political” and “a little
scary.”

“She’s really into Muggle Rights activism,” explained Jorkins. “She’s always in
detention for it.”

At a time when Wizarding and Muggle tensions are so high, such an alliance between
a fiery Muggle Rights activist and the heir of one of the oldest and most esteemed
pure-blood houses is bound to turn heads throughout the castle and beyond. No doubt
the young Black heir has not considered the political ramifications of his philandering,
but he may yet be forced to deal with more fallout than a broken heart.

Well, Cissy was certainly right about one thing: This was the only subject anyone would be
whispering about at the wedding tomorrow.

Distantly, Regulus found himself wondering if Sirius would find this funny too.

He did not sleep well that night. The rest of the day had been cluttered with various pre-wedding
obligations — last minute robe fittings and the like. Cissy had vanished into the sanctum of her
boudoir, only to be attended to by a stream of women who appeared at the house at odd intervals,
some invited, some doubtlessly hoping to get the inside scoop on all the drama. This second class
of woman, as far as Regulus could tell, was generally turned away. He had plenty of obligations of
his own, and by the evening he was so exhausted that he fell asleep nearly as soon as his head hit
the pillow. It did not last, though, for the night was plagued by bad dreams.

Regulus often dreamt of drowning. The scenery changed dream to dream — sometimes he was
alone in the deep black of the sea, sometimes he was in a shallow pool, sometimes a bathtub — but
always, always he would awake gasping for the air his dream had denied him.

Bellatrix had once told him that when they were little Sirius had tried to drown him in the tub in a
fit of brotherly jealousy. Regulus didn’t actually believe this — you couldn’t believe anything
Bella said, not really — but sometimes the image came to him all the same: choking, gurgling,
lungs bursting — and Sirius’s face swimming above.
He felt as though Sirius were peering down at him now, while Regulus squirmed beneath the
sheets in this dark room. It was remarkable, really, how his brother still haunted them all.

Suddenly restless, he pushed himself out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown. The green silk
shimmered faintly in the sliver of moonlight that slunk through the curtains as he looped the sash.
Perhaps it was the scene at breakfast that morning that had put it in his mind, but he found himself
inexplicably drawn to the idea of a late-night walk through the galleries where all the paintings
hung. The floor creaked beneath his feet as he crept towards the door.

He hesitated. He ought not to wander around the house alone at two o’clock in the morning. It was
strange behavior, and someone might ask uncomfortable questions. He might get in trouble.

But Sirius continued his haunting, and the words he’d spoken to Regulus by the carriages hummed
in his head: You know, if you’re going to sit on the throne, you’ve got to stop acting like the spare.

He turned the doorknob. About this, at least, Sirius was right. He had to stop acting like the spare.
It was his house, after all, or would be one day. No matter what the Daily Prophet reported, no
matter what trickery Uncle Alphard had attempted to pull, Regulus was the heir of it all. He could
walk when and where he pleased. He could admire his art, whenever he wanted.

And so he did. Soft, padding steps through the hall as he paused to examine all the paintings that
had awed him his whole life. He was particularly taken with a handful of still lives. “The Dutch,”
Uncle Alphard had once told him, “love painting death.” And so it was: Skulls with dripping
candles, rotting grapes spilling off a table, flower petals wrinkled up as their prime ticked by.
Memento mori, Uncle Alphard had called these. Remember you must die.

He’d walked past these paintings a hundred times before, but it was a still life of dead game on a
country estate that caught his eye tonight. A fox, a hare, and a swan were slumped together in the
foreground under a stormy sky. He stood for a long moment, entranced by the swan, its wings set
at the impossible, graceless angle of death. It looked different in the dark, the white of its feathers
almost gleaming, the rest of it — haunted.

It was as he was pondering this ineffable change in the once familiar painting that he heard a low
sob. He froze. The night was otherwise silent and for a moment he thought he’d imagined it, but
then he heard it again. He crept towards the noise until he found himself at the door of the music
room. One more moment of hesitation — stop acting like the spare — and he pushed the door
open.

Narcissa sat slumped alone in the middle of the room on a velvet chaise, a white dressing gown
wrapped around her like a shroud, her normally coifed hair cascading in loose, tumultuous curls
down her back. Her face was buried in her hands as she sobbed and sobbed, and Regulus felt the
sharp crack of his heart.

“C-Cissy?”

She jumped as though he’d hit her with a shocking hex. “Oh! Reggie, darling, you startled me.
What are you doing up so late?”

“I couldn’t sleep. You?”

A weak smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Why did you come all the way down here?”

“I didn’t want mama to hear me. She thinks I’m being foolish. Well, if I’m a fool, I’m the fool she
made me.”

She seemed to be speaking more to herself than to him. He took a tentative step closer, and when
she didn’t protest, he sat down on the chaise beside her. “You’re not still upset about my s-stupid
brother are you? He doesn’t matter, Cissy, don’t—”

“It’s not that,” said Cissy softly. “Or at least, it’s not only that.”

“Then what…?”

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell a soul?”

“Okay.”

“You promise?”

She seemed less like her usual self, poised and controlled, and more like the little girl he’d known
growing up who got so upset, so angry when things went wrong. It was silly, perhaps, since she
was so much older than him, but this fact made him feel oddly protective.

“Of course, Cissy. I promise.”

Cissy sniffed and pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, whisking away tears with a brisk little
gesture. Then she said: “I’m scared.”

Regulus blinked. “Of what?”

“Of what happens next.”

“I don’t understand.”

“All my life I’ve been waiting for this day. The most important day of my life. Everything I did,
everything mama told me to do, was in service of getting me here. My wedding day. To the perfect
man. But…I don’t know what happens next. And I’m scared.”

Regulus did not know what to say, so he said nothing. That seemed to be the right move, for Cissy
carried on: “I don’t want my life — my marriage — to look like my mother’s. Or your mother’s,
for that matter.”

Regulus looked at her in surprise. He had not thought Narcissa knew about their parents’ infidelity.

“I can’t decide which is worse,“ she said, “to be the wife of an unfaithful man, or to be the
unfaithful one yourself.”

“Has Lucius—?”

“No, of course not. He’s perfect. But all the same, thinking of mama…it scares me. What if he
changes? What if I change?”

“I didn’t know you knew. About…”

She nodded, and he was grateful she didn’t make him finish the sentence. “Everyone assumes I
don’t know, but I was the very first to know. Mama told me not to speak a word, and so I didn’t.”

She thrust a hand into the pocket of her dressing gown. He expected her to withdraw a
handkerchief and begin to cry again, but instead she pulled out a long stretch of golden ribbon,
which she proceed to weave around her wrists, almost unconsciously, as though she didn’t notice
she was doing it.

“Do you know, in traditional Wizarding wedding ceremonies, the bride used to take an
Unbreakable Vow of fidelity to her husband?”

“Not a true Unbreakable Vow, surely?”

“Mmhm. It was something to do with protecting the bloodline, I’m sure.”

“Just the bride, then?”

“Well, of course, Reggie darling, that’s just how things were. Are. Always have been.”

“It seems a bit…barbaric.”

“Yes,” said Cissy almost dreamily, tracing the ribbon along her wrist. “But I think it’s romantic
too. To swear yourself to another person so profoundly. To give your very life over to a cause
greater than yourself.”

“But if you break an Unbreakable Vow…you die.”

“Then I guess you’d better not break it.” She looked up from her ribbon and smiled at his
consternation. “Don’t fret, darling. I’m not having the real thing in our ceremony. Mama wouldn’t
hear of it. I just think it’s a nice metaphor.”

Regulus watched her play with the ribbon and felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he
couldn’t quite define. At last, he heard himself say: “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to go through with it, if you don’t want to.”

She blinked, taken aback. “Of course I do. This is the one thing in the whole world I’m meant to
do. It’s the most important day of my life.”

“But will you be happy?”

The question when it came out sounded childish, foolish and silly. The sort of thing that belonged
in the realm of nursery games and make-believe. He knew as well as anyone else that marriage was
not about happiness. It was about duty. And yet, gazing at his cousin who he loved so much, he
couldn’t help but want more for her than that. More than what their parents had.

Cissy, for her part, simply laughed as though this was indeed a sweet but silly question. “Lucius is
perfect,” she said. “He’s the perfect husband for me.” Then, she added sadly: “I just wanted the
wedding to be perfect too.”

“It still can be,” said Regulus. “It will be. Forget about S-Sirius and that article and what everyone
else will say. Tomorrow is about you and…and family. Our family and your new family. And
that’s what’s matters, right?”

She gazed at him for a long moment then reached out and softly stroked his cheek. “When did you
get so grown up?”

“Around the time Sirius ran away, I expect.”

“Quite.” She pressed her palm to the side of his face before gently withdrawing it and clasping his
hand instead. Her fingers were icy. “Don’t let’s tell anyone about this little talk, shall we?“

Regulus kissed the back of her hand and returned a solemn nod. “Of course, Cissy.”

Perhaps it was the fretful sleep of the night prior, but the actual wedding passed in a mere blur of
noise and color. Unfamiliar faces and finery swooped by on parade. Regulus shook hands, endured
the blinding flash of cameras, and did his best to ignore Lucius’s best man, Xavier Travers, who
seemed to feel that any moment during which he was not making a raunchy comment on Lucius’s
upcoming wedding night was a moment wasted.

He’d avoided as much of the gossip as he could, though he still caught snatches here and there
(“The way they allow that boy to carry on is truly disgraceful. They claim he’s been disinherited,
but his shameful lifestyle is funded by the Black family estate. Can you imagine?”). He’d dodged
the kisses and commentary of a dotty aunt or three (“Where’s the other one?” one great-aunt had
loudly demanded of Regulus. “The handsome one?”). He was, frankly, exhausted.

The only thing he’d really remember, he suspected, in the months and years and decades ahead,
was the moment when Cissy walked down the aisle. Everyone would remember that, he was
certain. There had never been a more stunning bride. All the chatter and whispers and gossip came
to a screeching halt as his cousin glided towards the alter. She was a vision. Her hair was pinned in
an elegant coif, crowned with a glittering goblin-wrought tiara, bedecked with diamonds. Her robes
were of the most delicate, intricate white lace, and her veil trailed behind her so smoothly it looked
as though she were floating.

Obscurely, Regulus found himself thinking of something his Uncle Alphard had said to him last
summer, after one of many failed and miserable hunts. They’d been returning from the stables, and
the route took them past the pond, where swans skimmed the water as they passed by like a soft
breeze of summer air.

“You know,” Uncle Alphard had said in his pompous way, interrupting the lovely scene, “swans
are thought to be the image of perfect grace. But underneath the surface of the placid water,
beneath those smooth, graceful movements, their little swan legs must paddle with an exhaustive
fury. It’s a dreadful lot of work to look so serene.”

And then they were speaking their vows.

“Do you, Lucius Abraxas, take this woman to be your wife, to have and to hold from this day
forward, forsaking all others, to love, cherish, and worship, until the end of days?”

Lucius’s expression was one of smug victory, as if to say: Look at that. That’s mine.

“I do,” said Lucius.

“And do you, Narcissa Violetta, take this man to be your husband, to have and to hold from this
day forward, forsaking all others, to love, cherish, and obey, until the end of days?”

As she clasped Lucius’s hand there before the alter, Regulus could almost imagine a golden ribbon
of magic wrapped around those delicate wrists, binding her to this man, to her decision, to her duty.
“I do,” said Narcissa.

“Well, this party could not possibly get any more dull.”

Startled from his distant reveries, Regulus turned to see Barty Crouch, Jr. slump into place beside
him, a glass of champagne in his hand. Regulus been lurking alone on the outskirts of the
reception. It was an intentional choice, as he’d grown weary of performing his role in the public
eye. He felt he’d done his part at the ceremony, and now he was ready for a bit of solitude as the
ballroom of Black Hall filled with ever more people.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming to the wedding,” said Regulus to Barty in surprise. His tone
was slightly accusatory, but not entirely unwelcoming. He was not exactly sorry to see him.

“I didn’t know,” said Barty in a bored voice. He gave his champagne coupe a swirl before taking a
sip.

“Should you be drinking that?”

Barty snorted. “You’re such a rule follower. Do you think they’re going to kick me out?”

“Maybe,” and Regulus shot a glance across the room, where the boy’s father was talking to
Abraxas Malfoy. The other guests seemed to be giving him a wide berth.

“Well, you’d better have one too, then. They won’t kick me out if the heir of the Blacks is also
smashed.” He snapped his fingers at a house elf, and a moment later Regulus had a coupe of his
own. He eyed the champagne dubiously. Regulus did not much like alcohol. It made his thought
fuzzy, imprecise. It made him careless. And it didn’t even taste good. Nonetheless, he gave it a sip
and thought of the photo of Sirius, drunk on the stuff, punching Lucius in the face.

As if reading his mind, Barty said: “Everyone here is talking about your brother.”

“So what?”

“Does your family know you still talk to him?”

Regulus jerked his head towards the other boy, sloshing a bit of champagne. “Who told you that?”

“No one. I saw you, by the carriages.”

Regulus relaxed slightly. Barely. “Oh. That was the first time I’ve spoken to him in over a year. He
stopped me.”

“What did he want to talk about?”

“I don’t see what business it is of yours.”

“No need to get snippy with me,” said Barty. “It’s not like I don’t what it’s like to be ashamed of
your family.” He glowered off in the direction of his father.

Regulus supposed that was fair. Barty had unloaded a lot about his father over the past months —
what a disappointment he was, how embarrassing it was to have a father in politics — and Regulus
agreed that it really must be difficult for him, particularly since all the other students in Slytherin
also hated Barty’s father.

He hadn’t really meant to spend so much time with the younger boy. It had just sort of happened
after Christmas, after he and Barty had overheard that conversation between Lucius and Narcissa,
when Barty had seen irrefutable proof that Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater. Regulus had fretted
over this fact for the rest of the holiday, planning on (and absolutely dreading) confronting the boy
when they returned to school. But before he could work up the courage for such a confrontation,
Barty had started sitting with him at meals. He’d wanted to talk about Death Eaters and Dark
Magic and all sorts of things that the son of Bartemius Crouch Sr. should not want to talk about.

Regulus had been a little annoyed at first. He wasn’t used to sharing his meals with a chatterbox.
But it seemed important to keep Barty happy, to make sure he wasn’t going to spill to anyone else
what he’d seen. Because the responsibility of it was on Regulus’s shoulders. He was the one who
had told them to hide, he was the one who had, effectively, spied on a private conversation
between Cissy and Lucius. If Barty ran his mouth to his father and Lucius got arrested for being a
Death Eater…it would be Regulus’s fault.

Barty seemed to know this. Enjoy it, even, like a cat batting at a mouse that can’t get away. And
yet, it soon became clear that the boy had no intention of telling his father about Lucius and that
this manipulation was in some twisted manner his way of making friends.

Was Barty Crouch Jr. his friend?

It certainly seemed like it. Once, in the school library, Regulus had made the mistake of asking
whether Barty’s father knew that he was so interested in the Dark Arts. Barty had gotten very
defensive, rude even, asking whether Regulus needed his father’s approval for everything he did,
and then he left. He’d stopped eating meals with Regulus for three days after that, and Regulus had
been surprised to find that he missed him. He’d grown so used to the chatter. But then Barty
showed up at dinner a few days later, perfectly cheerful, eager to show off some book on Dark
Magic he’d convinced Slughorn to let him get out of the Restriction Section. (“I told him I was
studying it to understand the current political situation,” he’d snickered.) He never addressed his
three-day absence, and the two continued on as they had been, the spat apparently forgotten.

“So how many people here d’you reckon are Death Eaters?” asked Barty suddenly, and Regulus
nearly choked on his champagne.

“K-keep your voice down!”

“What?”

“You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not? Afraid my daddy’s going to hear?”

“Among other people, yes,” muttered Regulus.

“I wonder what you’d have to do, to get that mark on your arm. To get His attention. I bet it would
have to be pretty impressive. They don’t just let anyone become a Death Eater. What do you
think?”

“Now why,” interrupted by a sweet voice, “would the son Dark Magic’s most stalwart political foe
be asking a question like that?”

Regulus jolted slightly as Bellatrix sauntered up from behind him. Barty went shrimp-pink and
silent at the sight of her.

“Well?” asked Bellatrix.

“We were just t-talking, Bella,” said Regulus.

“Talk can be a dangerous thing. Run along now,” she said to Barty. “I need a word with my
cousin.”

Regulus wouldn’t have thought he’d ever use the word ‘skedaddle,’ but it was perhaps the only
accurate description of what Barty just did.

Bellatrix wove her arm through Regulus’s and guided him back into the depths of the party. Unlike
when Cissy did this, the gesture lacked warmth and coziness, and he felt instead as though he were
being steered like a horse.

“B-Barty’s not like his father,” said Regulus, in an odd burst of loyalty to the other boy.

“How very interesting,” cooed Bellatrix. “I’ll remember that. But first, I want to introduce you to
some friends. She led him through the thickets of party guests to a small gathering of mostly men
in the back. As they approached, he caught a few snatches of conversation.

“Isn’t a good thing to scare the Mudbloods? What difference does it make if I don’t know precisely
who did it? It was just a scrap of parchment and a bit of graffiti. Why does it matter so much?”

“Because it makes you look weak, Corin. You are my eyes and ears at the school, and you’re
supposed to be in control — ah. Bellatrix…and Regulus. Lovely.”

This was from Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix’s husband. Beside him stood his brother, Rabastan,
as well a seventh year boy Regulus recognized from the Slug Club as Corin Mulciber. He looked
sulky, irritated.

Regulus had not interacted with Mulciber much more than the occasional dinner. Mulciber scared a
lot of people at school, Regulus knew, but he himself had a hard time seeing the seventh year as
anything beyond the boy his brother had once spello-taped to a wall in naught but his pants. That
Mulciber had regained his dignity and dangerous reputation was commendable and perhaps a hint
that there was, in fact, something to be afraid of, but Regulus didn’t see why he should be
concerned with him. Mulciber wasn’t even a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Regulus’s
house-mates and even his family might give Barty grief for his unpopular politician father, but at
least their bloodline was pure.

“Regulus was just talking to Barty Crouch’s son about what it takes to become a Death Eater,” said
Bellatrix, and all eyes turned to him. Regulus felt himself wilt slightly, but he forced his shoulders
back, chin held high. Stop acting like the spare.

“So what?” said Regulus, in his best impersonation of Sirius’s disdain. “We’re not allowed to
speculate?”

Rodolphus Lestrange seemed to find this amusing. “You want to know more about how to become
a Death Eater, do you?”

There are moments in life so deeply significant that one can practically feel history pause and take
account. The whole world inhales a quick gasp of air and holds it for a blink of time, as if to mark
this moment as important, memorable, a bud about to birth a new branch of one’s life. The sort of
moment one looks back on in years to come and says, Aha, yes, that was it.
This ought to have been such a moment to Regulus.

But it wasn’t.

“Yes,” he said. Stop acting like the spare. “I do.”

 Smoke and Mirrors

SEVERUS

Smoke and Mirrors

It wasn’t real. Severus knew that much. What it actually was he hadn’t yet discerned, but he knew
enough — he knew Lily enough — to know that whatever the strange, perverted, horrifying
arrangement going on between her and Sirius Black may be, it was not real.

He had theories, of course, ranging from the absurd to the insufferable. At times, he felt certain it
was all an elaborate scheme to punish him personally, a machiavellian burst of vengeance in
response to the issue of the diary that had flared up again at Christmas. What better way for her to
twist the knife directly into Severus’s gut than to parade around with the very boy who had truly
caused all that misery third year — misery for which she now blamed exclusively Severus.

He had heeded the demands she’d shouted at him during their last disastrous encounter following
Slughorn’s Christmas party. She’d been hysterical and unreasonable, refusing to let him tell his
side of the story — but she’d asked him to stay away from her, and he’d done it, and apparently it
wasn’t enough to assuage her spite because now she was putting on this shameless, revolting
display exclusively to torment him.

As horrible a thought as this was, it was addicting in a way, and he stewed on it endlessly, seething
as Black slung an arm over her shoulder in class, as Lily walked hand in hand with him throughout
the halls, as she degraded herself by snogging him (him!) in the middle of the corridor. His hatred
had been soothing, medicinal, keeping his limbs moving while the rest of him screamed and
writhed and raged.

But his hatred towards her had been short lived, because as soon as he saw that article in the Daily
Prophet, he knew the truth: This was Sirius Black’s fault exclusively.

Severus would never admit that he read the Daily Prophet’s society pages, just as he’d never admit
that he felt ill-at-ease among the grandeur of the Slytherin common room, or that he coveted the
many material pleasures his housemates had on careless display. It infuriated him that his default
mode of being seemed to be a constant, shameful state of striving, and yet…what else was there?
He had never known another way. He was not born into the privilege of the Blacks or Averys of
the world, sucking on their silver spoons in gilded cradles. He, Severus, had never had enough —
food, money, power, sex — and increasingly, he felt he never, ever would. He was born hungry
and this hunger would consume him, impossible, insatiable. The world could be his and his alone,
and he would still want and want and want.

But as of today, nothing in the world was his and his alone, and the wanting was both mundane
and endless. So, in the privacy of his four-poster bed, a pack of Embassy Regals on the duvet, a fag
in his fingers, he perused the society pages of the Daily Prophet, cataloguing the pure-bloods with
their gilt and glamour, analyzing the language that belonged to a world he longed to inhabit.
Another shameful truth he would never admit.

By the time he’d finished the article about Black, he’d only had one cigarette left in the pack. This
was his last pack, too. He could probably get some more from that fifth year who, if you believed
what the Hufflepuff dunderheads said, could also get you hash. But the Hogwarts Black Market
wasn’t cheap and Severus was about as short on gold as he was cigarettes. A few weeks ago,
Rosier had offered him a handful of galleons for a slightly-altered Bewildering Brew. Severus
hadn’t asked what for. He’d blown him off at the time, claiming he’d been too busy, but perhaps he
ought to revisit that offer. He couldn’t sell his mother’s rubbish forever, and he wasn’t going to
make it the rest of the school year with only one smoke.

The issue of the cigarettes could wait, however, for Lily was his more pressing concern. For the
briefest, bitterest of moments — as he’d stared at the photo of her and Black in the Prophet, as he
imagined all the things their classmates would say about her when they returned to the castle after
the holidays, teeming like rodents through the halls — he’d thought to himself: She’s made her
bed. Let her lie in it.

But the bitterness didn’t last. He couldn’t abandon her like that. She needed him. She’d never admit
it, but she still needed him.

He found her in the library the next day. He’d noticed she’d been spending a lot of time alone there
over the holidays, far too much time, in fact, for someone who was allegedly having a passionate
affair with one of her house-mates.

She was seated at a table near the back, framed by the tall lancet windows through which the sun
snuck in upon the dusty stacks. He watched her from afar for a long, torturous moment. It was
painful to be so separate from her, to exist only on the outskirts of her life, when once he’d been the
center. Once, he’d known exactly what she was thinking. He wouldn’t have had to devour the
Prophet for scraps of intel on her life; she would’ve told him exactly what was going on right to his
face. She would’ve asked his advice, and he would’ve told her that Black was a pig, the grimiest of
grime, that he was using her, that he was making of a fool of her, and she would’ve listened, and
she would’ve agreed.

Severus was just about to approach her when he heard the heavy slump of someone else’s feet. He
froze. He knew that indolent gait. Quickly, he ducked into the shadow of a nearby shelf and
watched through a gap in the books as the abominable bastard himself, Sirius Black, strolled over
to the table at which Lily sat.

“Evans,” he said by way of announcing himself, his tone practically oozing arrogance and disdain.

Lily glanced up at him, then looked resolutely back to her book as though the very sight of him
bored her. “You know how dementors suck all the joy and happiness from a room whenever they
enter?” she said, flipping the page.
“Er,” said Black stupidly. “Yeah?”

“Just a fleeting thought. Can’t imagine why it popped into my head just now.”

Black’s lips quirked as he dragged a chair out from the table, twirled it around and draped himself
over the back with languid repose, arms crossed atop the rail. “Got a minute?”

“I’m not going to shag you,” said Lily. There was a viciousness to her voice that Severus found
reassuring, but all the same, he did not like the implication that that was ever on the table.

Black, for his part, winced. “Look, I was a git yesterday. You’d just woken me up, and I can be a
bit of prick in the morning, so…”

“Oh, is there a difference to the sort of prick you are in the afternoon? I hadn’t noticed. What do
you want?”

“You didn’t come to dinner last night, and I didn’t see you in the common room, so…figured I’d
find you here. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Well, that’s very sweet,” said Lily in a tone that suggested she found it anything but. “Why
wouldn’t I be all right?”

“Because of…you know…” Black appeared somewhat discomfited by her blank expression, then
his eyes widened. “Oh, shit. You haven’t seen it yet.”

“Seen what?”

“The society section of yesterday’s Daily Prophet?”

“Gosh, you know, I normally catch up on it while I polish my tiaras, but I was a bit distracted
today.” Lily paused. “Why, what’s in it?”

Black appeared to hesitate. Then, with a hearty curse under his breath, he rummaged in his bag and
withdrew a rumpled newspaper. He smoothed it out, folded it over to the appropriate page, and
handed it to her with a trepidation not unlike one handling an especially volatile erumpent horn.

Lily took the newspaper from him, and a little crease furrowed her brow as she scanned the
headline. She glanced up at Black. He said nothing, just waited, so she went back to reading. As
she proceeded through the columns of text, Black watched her expression almost as closely as
Severus was doing himself…but she gave away nothing, simply turning page after page until the
article was complete. Then she folded the newspaper back up, pushed it across the table towards
Black, and just…sat there.

“Evans?”

Lily didn’t respond, but her shoulders started to tremble slightly. Severus was overwhelmed with a
fresh and sudden burst of absolute loathing towards Sirius Black…he was sure had never hated the
bastard as much as he did just now, stuck here behind this stupid shelf as Lily inevitably began to
cry…not even tafter Black had tried to murder him had he hated him so…

“Evans,” Black said again, and he sounded somewhere between annoyed and agonized.

But then an entirely jarring noise interrupted the quiet that couched this scene of imminent despair:
Lily started laughing. Quietly at first, then in quick staccato bursts, peals of sharp, bright laughter
that echoed through the silent library as she thrust her head back, red hair spilling over her
shoulders. At last, she collapsed forward into giggles upon the table before her, head buried in her
arms.

Black looked as baffled as Severus felt. “You…think this is funny, do you?”

Lily lifted her head from her arms. “Funny?” she cackled. “It’s hilarious. The whole point of this
— this — this inane charade was to avoid scandal, and now the Daily Prophet is calling me a
whore.” She dissolved into giggles again.

“No one called you a whore,” muttered Black.

“No, I’m — what was it?” She wiped tears of apparent mirth from her eyes as she reached for the
newspaper again. “Oh, right. Loads of fun. They did call you a whore though, rather explicitly, so…
how are you? Are you all right?”

“Actually, I’m having a rather shit day, now that you mention it. But you’re taking this much better
than I expected.”

“Yes, well, I get to be the big bad Muggle-born bombshell who’s ruining a pure-blood dynasty with
her sexual wiles, so you can imagine how proud I am. Big day for me.” She eyed him sardonically.
“What, did you think I was going to burst into tears? Sob my eyes out and spill my heart to you?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, let me ease your troubled mind. I don’t give a damn what any of your lot think of me.” She
stood now, gathering her belongings and shoving them unceremoniously into her bag. “But don’t
worry, I won’t draw this out for you. We’ll just tell everyone we had a big fight over spring hols,
and then we can both move on from this ridiculous mess.”

“That wasn’t what I was —”

“Our fledgling, forbidden romance couldn’t stand up to the scrutiny of the press, or some
nonsense,” she spoke over him. “They’ll eat it up. Bertha will love it.”

“Evans, will you just—”

“Just what?”

“Just let me get a bloody word in?”

She considered him, arms crossed. “No need,” she said. “I’m giving you exactly what you wanted.
I’m breaking up with you. Congratulations.”

And she strolled away.

For a moment, Black appeared to consider going after her, but then he merely sighed and slumped
in his chair. He sat there like that for a long while, much to Severus’s irritation. He wanted to go
after Lily himself, but there was no way to pursue her without exposing his location to Black, his
accidental espionage, so he simply lurked and watched as the other boy lazily stuffed the
newspaper back into his bag. Then, almost as an afterthought, Black pulled out a bit of parchment
and examined it closely. His eyes narrowed slightly as he read whatever was written upon it…and
then, at last, he stood and sauntered off.

Severus lingered, giving Black a moment to get ahead so he wouldn’t run into him on the way out,
but he was impatient. If he hurried, Severus might catch up with Lily before she vanished into the
impenetrable fortress of Gryffindor Tower. Finally, unable to wait any longer, he turned on his heel
— and found himself face to face with Sirius Black.

“Well, well, well,” said Black, and he leaned with cavalier malevolence against the end of the
shelf, conspicuously blocking Severus’s only exit. “If it isn’t my very own stalker. I would’ve
thought after last year, you’d learned your lesson about snooping. Or — hang on, it’s not me
you’re spying on these days, is it? Does Evans know you follow her around the castle?”

Severus scowled. “I’m not stalking anyone. It’s the library. I’m allowed to be here.”

“Are you, really? I rather thought they would’ve made a rule against that by now. For the sake of
the books, you know. It’s not good for the preservation of the pages, all that grease. A bit careless
of old Pince. I’ll have to have a word with her later.”

“Fuck off,” spat Severus.

“Ever a paradigm of eloquence,” sneered Black.

Severus glared at the other boy, his most hated of enemies. They had generally stayed off each
other’s path this year, apart from the occasional hexing and, of course, their pathetic, failed attempt
to steal his Felix Felicis. He still had their mysterious mirror from that encounter, he noted with a
burst of spiteful triumph. Though (less triumphantly) he had not yet unveiled its secrets. He’d
mostly given it up as a bad job, even briefly entertaining the notion that they’d planted the mirror
exclusively to drive him to madness…but if it had been a prank, there’d been no punchline, no
follow up at all. They had, by their miserable standards at least, left him alone. Severus got the
impression that the werewolf was keeping his friends in check this year. Perhaps it was afraid that
Severus would expose its secret. Well, good. They should fear him. Still, he was struck by the
sudden image of Black as a mad hound straining against a leash: held back by others, perhaps, but
always at the ready for violence and gore.

This metaphor brought forth another image from the dark corners of his mind: a froth-flecked maw,
yellow eyes, a low growl…RUN!

“What?” said Black in a bored voice, interrupting the scene that had unfurled in Severus’s mind.
“You look constipated, that usually means you’re trying to tackle a difficult bout of thinking. Don’t
strain yourself too much, Snivvy. Nothing happening in there is worth it.”

“You think you’re so clever—”

“That does seem to be the general consensus, yes.”

“— just because you got away with nearly murdering me last year—”

Black sighed deeply. “You know, I wouldn’t expect you to understand this, given that most of your
vocabulary appears to be some variation of grunts and spitting, but language matters, Snivellus. I
didn’t ‘nearly murder’ you. You ‘nearly got yourself killed,’ because you’re a fucking idiot. A
little accountability, is that too much to ask?”

Black was smirking; he was amused by this exchange. The whole thing — Severus’s near death —
was still funny to him. He chewed his tongue, hatred rising up in his throat like bile, choking out
any words that might otherwise spill free.

When no response from Severus came, Black scratched his chin thoughtfully. “You know, I think I
have a problem with you stalking my girlfriend.”
“She’s not your girlfriend,” Severus snapped at once.

“No? What makes you think that? Because you eavesdropped on a little lovers’ spat?”

“She was never your girlfriend. I don’t know how you convinced her to play along with it, but—”

“But what?”

“But if you do anything to hurt her, I’ll—I’ll—”

“You’ll what, Sniv? Get your words out.”

“I’ll fucking kill you.”

Black laughed his humorless laugh, like an echo down a tunnel. “I’d like to see you try. I mean it.
Go on, curse me. Then we’ll really get you banned from the library. It’ll certainly improve the
smell.”

Severus glared at him, his fingers itching for his wand…

“No?” said Black. “Well, next time maybe. Now, I’ve got more pressing things to do today, so I’ll
be on my way, but first — back to the important subject: My girlfriend and your spying on her.”

“She’s not your girlfriend!”

Black smiled. “You know, I’m not really one for big, dramatic acts of chivalry — that’s more of
James’s thing — but for once, I’m going to enjoy this.” Black clapped a hand on Severus’s
shoulder, so hard that he staggered under the weight. His enemy leaned down close, his despicable
face inches from Severus’s own, and said in a low, dangerous voice: “Stay the fuck away from my
girlfriend.”

And he shoved him roughly away.

As Severus lurched into a bookshelf, struggling to regain his balance, Black eyed the palm of his
own hand with a look of disgust. “Blast,” he said. “Now I’ve got to go wash.”

Severus was halfway back to the Slytherin common room, sulking through the dungeons, thoughts
swirling in incoherent spirals of bitterness and vengeance, when his forgotten friend fate gave him
a second chance.

A flash of red coming out of the kitchens.

It was Lily. She held two carefully-wrapped sandwiches in her hand and was in the process of
putting them in her bag when he called out her name, loudly, automatically.

Her expression went steely.

“I need to talk to you,” Severus said, hurrying over.

“I’m busy.”
“It’s important.”

“So is what I’m doing,” said Lily, and she stuffed the sandwiches into her bag.

“What are you doing?”

A slight pause. “I’m going for a picnic.”

“By yourself?”

She lifted her chin in haughty defiance. “Yes.”

“Why d’you have two sandwiches then?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Well, I’ll come with you.”

She scoffed, annoyed. “I didn’t invite you.”

But as she took off towards the entrance hall, as she slipped through the enormous oak doors and
out onto the grounds, Severus followed and she didn’t stop him. It thrilled him, just a little, the way
she always seemed to give in to talking to him, even though she swore she never would again. She
still wanted to.

“You didn’t go home for the holiday,” he said as they marched on. He didn’t ask where they were
going, just followed her across the grounds.

“My dad’s gone to visit Petunia in London, and I didn’t feel like tagging along.” Her tone was
brisk, business-like. She stared straight ahead, towards the forest.

“Can’t blame you there,” said Severus, and Lily shot him a look. It was a delicate line, he had long
ago learned, talking about Petunia. Lily was allowed to complain and berate and disdain her sister,
but Severus could not speak so much as a word against her, lest he unleash Lily’s defensive wrath.
The double standard had always irritated him.

But she let this comment slide and continued walking with purposeful strides. He scurried after her,
and she ignored him mostly, her eyes skirting the forest line as they walked, almost as though she
were looking for someone. Finally, they stopped in the shade of a crooked alder, and Lily said
grudgingly: “Have you got a fag?”

Severus withdrew the nearly-empty pack of Embassy Regals from his pocket with such haste that
he almost dropped it as he offered it to her.

She eyed the pack dubiously. “I won’t take your last one.”

“I can get more. Go on.”

“Well…all right.” She accepted the cigarette, and Severus made to light it for her — feeling giddy
at the intimacy of this old, familiar act — but by the time he got his wand, she had already lit it
herself. She took a deep, life-giving drag and exhaled a plume of smoke that coiled into the air,
twisting like the spring-laden boughs of trees that seethed overhead. “God, I needed that,” she
murmured, more to herself than to him. “What a fucking day.”

She looked tired, Severus thought. Crumpled at her edges. The show of laughter she’d put on for
Black was long gone. But of course, that was all pretend for him. With Severus, she could be
herself, her true self.

“You’re not dating Black,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out before he’d meant them to.

She exhaled another stream of smoke. “Is that an observation or a command? Either way, piss off.”

“It’s an observation,” said Severus quickly. Lily always bristled at being told what to do, even if it
was in her best interests. In fact, telling her what to do was the most effective way to get her to do
the exact opposite, something Severus had forgotten before to his own detriment. “Because I know
you—”

“You don’t know me.”

“I do,” he insisted. “You know I do, I know you better than anyone at this school, and I know
you’re not stupid enough to be seduced by that — that swine. After everything — you’d never date
him.”

“Why? ‘Cause he spread around the contents of my diary?” Her tone was vicious and Severus
flinched.

“If you’d let me explain—”

“How may ways can I say ‘I’m not interested’? Shall I try it in Latin?”

He waited for her to try.

“That was rhetorical. I don’t actually know how to say it in Latin.”

“It’s—“

“I don’t care. Anyway, what’s it to you if I’m dating him?”

“Is he blackmailing you?”

“Have you been talking to Marlene?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Not that it’s any of your business, but no. He’s not blackmailing me.”

“Then why would you —” He stopped, thrown as Lily’s distracted gaze returned to the forest once
more. “What do you keep looking for?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, and she turned back towards him, her expression almost sheepish
before hardening again as she remembered their conversation. “Is this why you followed me out
here? To berate me about Black?”

“I don’t understand why you’re lying about him.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so convinced I’m lying.”

“Because I know you, and despite what everyone says, you’re not a slag who drops her knickers
just because some prick is pure-blood and rich.”

There was a pause.

“Well, thanks so much, I guess,” she said icily.

“He’s using you,” Severus insisted, “and I don’t know why you’re going along with it, but it’s only
going to get you in trouble. That article in the Prophet…he’s made you a—”

“I don’t know why I keep doing this,” said Lily suddenly, a little crack in her voice.

“Doing what?”

“Talking to you!”

“Why shouldn’t you talk to me?”

“Because!” cried Lily, and Severus was taken aback by the rawness of her tone. “You make me
feel horrible! You say horrible things to me!”

Severus blinked rapidly, genuinely bewildered by this turn in the conversation, by the tears welling
in the corners of Lily’s eyes. “What did I say? I didn’t say anything horrible.”

“You called me a slag!”

“No, I said I knew you weren’t a slag.”

“Oh, wow, never mind.” Lily gave a sarcastic wave of her cigarette. “You just said that everyone
else thinks I’m a slag. I feel so much better now.”

“Well, snogging Black in public like that—”

“Oh, fuck off, will you?” She took a shaky drag on the cigarette and glowered at him, her green
eyes alight with a startling fury. “Maybe I am shagging him. Maybe I came out here to shag him in
the woods, since I’m such a slag. Maybe this extra sandwich is for him. Ever think about that?”

Severus had thought about it, in nauseating detail. He decided to try a different tactic. “Lily, I’m
worried about you.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed.

“I mean it! Black — he’s not what everyone thinks — he’s dangerous.”

“So are you.”

“I’m not dangerous.” Then, he added a quick correction: “Not to you.” Lily rolled her eyes, but
Severus barreled on. “But Black — you can’t trust him. He doesn’t care who he hurts, so long as he
gets what he wants.”

“Gosh, Sev, looked in a mirror lately?” She shook her head. “I’m done. I’m done with this
conversation.”

And then she dropped the half-smoked cigarette, ground it into the earth with the heel of her shoe,
and stormed off back towards the castle, leaving naught behind her but a single fag, crumpled and
alone in the dirt.
Severus didn’t go after her. There didn’t seem any point. Instead, he returned to his dormitory, to
the dank shadows of his four-poster bed, an empty pack of Embassy Royals on the duvet.

He replayed their conversation in his head a hundred times, then a hundred and one, a hundred and
two…as if somehow he could uncover the key to what exactly he’d done wrong, how he could fix
it it…a hundred and three…it all came back to Black, really…a hundred and four…it was all his
damn fault…a hundred and five…what he needed was to bring Black down once and for all…a
hundred and six…he needed revenge…a hundred and seven….he needed the revenge he’d been
starved of last year…

In his hundredth and eighth replaying, one phrase of Lily’s snagged in his mind: Gosh, Sev, looked
in a mirror lately?

No, he hadn’t looked in a mirror lately…but perhaps it was time he tried again.
 The Problem with Prongs

REMUS

The Problem with Prongs

“So? Did you talk to her?”

The hospital wing was at present empty, save for the habitual monthly residency of the castle’s
local lycanthrope — and now, of course, for Sirius Black, who dropped himself heavily into the
chair beside Remus’s bed. His expression was weary and vaguely pugilistic, which usually meant
he was troubled by something.

“Well?” Remus prodded. “Did you?”

Sirius kicked his feet up onto the pristine sheets of the hospital bed and sighed deeply. Madam
Pomfrey would likely make a comment about dirty shoes next time she bustled by, but thankfully
she’d been somewhat scarce since dropping off his lunch shortly before Sirius’s arrival: a tomato
and cheese sandwich, a bag of crisps, and a little cup of rice pudding.

“Words were exchanged,” said Sirius flatly. “D’you think Poppy will kick me out if I have a
smoke?”

“Yes,” said Remus. “Anyway, was at least one of those words ‘sorry’?”

“You know, she didn’t really let me get that far.”

Remus’s stomach twisted into a slightly tighter knot than its usual tangle. He’d been worried about
Lily all day; he’d wanted to go talk to her himself, but tonight was the full moon, and he was stuck
in the hospital wing. Useless and waiting for oblivion to claim him, as usual.

“She was that upset?”

“No,” said Sirius. “She laughed. Can I have a crisp?”

Remus pushed the bag towards him impatiently. “She…laughed?”

“Yep. She thought the whole thing was bloody hilarious. Or so she said.”

“But you don’t believe her?”

Sirius scoffed and shoved a handful of crisps into his mouth, spraying little crumbs across the
sheets as he said: “Do you?”

Remus did not. While he knew Lily Evans to have an excellent sense of humor, he also knew that
she was like him: a compulsive liar, when it came to feelings. She was really very good at
convincing everyone that she didn’t care what they thought of her, that she was, in a word, ‘fine.’
Remus, however, spoke that language with far more fluency than any of his friends and probably
the rest of his classmates, and he knew that ‘I’m fine’ usually translated into something along the
lines of ‘I’m internally debating the merits of drowning myself in the lake but really that’s rather a
lot of effort and I’m tired so I’ll just tell you I’m fine so you’ll shut up and go away.’

Works every time.

“Anyway,” continued Sirius, swiping another crisp, “then she broke up with me, so…guess she
didn’t think it was that funny after all.” He paused to scowl out the window. “Or maybe I’m just
shit at apologies.”

“Well, we already knew that.”

Remus had said this lightly, with the intention of humor, but Sirius just sank a little lower in his
chair, his scowl deepening. He’d been surly like this all holiday, but the gloominess had grown
tenfold since Peter had shown them that dreadful article yesterday. Remus couldn’t blame him.
Sirius was also rather adept at pretending not to care what people said about him, particularly with
regards to his family, but…Merlin, no one was that impervious. And it would only get worse in a
few days, once the rest of their classmates returned to the castle and Sirius had to deal with all the
gossip and whispering in person…

But at least then James would be back. Remus couldn’t help but feel that his absence — or rather,
his silence — was exacerbating Sirius’s bad mood.

“Half-expected Prongs to Floo just to say I told you so,” Sirius had grumbled the night before when
at last he’d abandoned his post by the fire and crawled into bed. But James had not Flooed. They
hadn’t heard from him at all since he’d gone home for the holiday, a most unusual state of affairs.
Remus felt another uncomfortable twist in his gut.

“Look,” he said, as stoically as he could manage, “Lily will be all right. I’ll talk to her after…” he
gestured at himself in the hospital bed, “all this.”

“Yeah,” muttered Sirius. Then: “I just wish she’d bloody say what she was thinking, instead of
bullshitting me by pretending it’s all a laugh. She’s as bad as you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. ‘It’s fine.’ As though I couldn’t see through that from a mile away — with Prongs’
eyesight to boot. Do you two get together and compare notes? Or subscribe to some niche
periodical: How To Put Up Walls and Keep Out Your Friends?”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Whatever.”

Remus frowned, feeling faintly annoyed. He was about to point out that, from Lily’s perspective,
Sirius was not her friend, and it was perfectly reasonable to keep him out — but something stopped
him from voicing this opinion. Perhaps it was the look on Sirius’s face, the way he seemed so
deeply bothered by Lily’s reaction. Remus didn’t think he would’ve cared so much a year ago. Or
perhaps he wasn’t giving him enough credit.

And then, on top of this curiosity, Remus felt an uncomfortable prickle of recognition in his
friend’s words. Was Sirius so annoyed by Lily’s behavior because…well, because it mirrored
Remus’s own? After all, what she’d been doing to them all this holiday — avoiding them,
pretending she was ‘fine’, making jokes as a way to put up walls — well, if Remus was being
honest, that was exactly what he’d been doing to Sirius for nearly a year now.

And, now that he was on the receiving end of it, he had to admit: It felt rotten.

Well, he deserved it, growled the beast inside him, but Remus told it to shush and instead picked up
his spoon and began to tackle the rice pudding. He made it through about half the cup before—

“You’re eating,” said Sirius suddenly.

Remus glanced down at his pudding. “Oh. Yeah. I’m actually somewhat hungry for once.”

“Good,” said Sirius. “Seems like I’ve spent half my life trying to convince you to eat before a full
moon.”

“I think it’s the fudge,” said Remus absently through another bite of pudding. “Don’t worry, I only
had a nibble.” Peter had stopped by earlier and brought him a piece, but Remus thought he’d best
not get too loopy in the hospital wing. He didn’t want Madam Pomfrey to find out about his newest
coping mechanism lest she disapprove and turn him in.

Peter had lingered for a little while, chattering in the way he often did when neither James nor
Sirius were around to dominate the dialogue. He wasn’t joining for the full moon excursion.
Tonight, it would be just Sirius and Remus. He could tell that Peter had been annoyed by Sirius’s
suggestion that Peter stay behind — particularly since it had not been in the slightest bit a
suggestion — but Remus didn’t say anything, because he thought that Sirius was probably right.
Without Prongs, Sirius needed to put all his focus on controlling the werewolf, not keeping track of
Wormtail. So he let Peter chatter on, pretending like the whole thing was his magnanimous idea,
like he had other plans but could change them if Remus really, really wanted him to. All Remus
had to do was say so. He hid his hurt well when Remus did not.

As though reading his mind, Sirius turned the conversation to the plan for the full moon
(following, at Remus’s insistence, a quick muffling charm).

“It’s a short one tonight,” Sirius explained, pulling out the map, “so we won’t go far.” And he
proceeded to outline the path they’d take into the forest, how far they’d go, when exactly they’d
get back. He seemed to be countering all the points of an argument Remus had not actually voiced.

“Well?” said Sirius at last.

“Looks good,” said Remus, scraping up the last bit of pudding on his spoon.

“That’s it?”

“Am I…supposed to have more of an opinion? I’m not really conscious for most of this, I’ll follow
your lead.”

“You’re not panicking because Prongs isn’t here for backup?”

“No.”
Sirius eyed him skeptically. “How high are you?”

Remus snorted. “Hardly at all. I’m not worried.”

“Why not?”

Sirius looked as though he had expected Remus to object, but Remus had no objections. Over the
course of the school year, his friends had effectively worn down his every protest. It was true that
if he thought about the implications of all their outings for too long — of breaking Dumbledore’s
trust, of getting his friends expelled, of Padfoot chasing Davey Gudgeon into the greenhouses, of
the thud of a trapdoor, a brick wall, RUN! — he did start to feel nauseous with guilt and
shame….but he had accepted by now that he would not stop his friends. He would not stop
himself. Perhaps it was selfishness. Perhaps it was weakness. Perhaps it was, in its worst possible
incarnation, love.

Perhaps it didn’t matter. He licked the spoon clean of pudding, deposited it back in the empty cup,
and looked up at the eternal enigma that was Sirius Black. The boy who had once broken him. The
boy who had once done so much to heal him. His friend, despite it all.

“I trust you.”

Sirius stared, lips slightly parted in surprise. “Well…good,” he said, sounding slightly wrong-
footed, as though he wasn’t sure how to proceed if not on the defensive. “Because I know what I’m
doing, you know.”

“I know.”

A pause.

“Good.”

Remus wasn’t sure if it was true — I trust you — but it sounded true, and he wanted it to be true,
and that was enough for now.

The shack creaked and moaned in the wind like a ship at sea as Remus closed the trapdoor and
treaded across the scratched-up floorboards towards the piano room. It had become their habit, his
and Sirius’s, waiting out the final minutes until moonrise in this specific room…but as he entered
he noticed it was conspicuously empty. He groaned like the shack itself, feeling slightly seasick as
he lowered himself onto the floor, exhaustion agitating his bones as it always did this close to
moonrise. He wished he had more fudge.

He peered around the empty room, impatient. “You can come out now.”

And then there was Sirius, kicking off the cloak from his perch on the moldering piano bench,
where he lay on his back, head lolling off one end so that he gazed upside down at Remus. “Took
you long enough.”

“I didn’t take any longer than normal.”

“I’ve been here ages.”

“That sounds like your own problem.”

Sirius blew a strand of dark hair from his face. “I’ve been ruminating.”

“On what?”

“Other people’s stupidity.”

“Sounds like a lovely time,” said Remus. “Whose, specifically?”

“Oh, you know…” Sirius waved a careless hand at the cobwebbed ceiling. “The whole of
humanity. Wizardkind. Prongs, mostly.”

“Ah.”

He sat up, pivoting on the bench so he faced Remus properly. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Well,” said Remus, “you’ve got about twenty more minutes before my conversational skills are
severely curtailed for the night, so…get on with it.”

“What do you think Prongs’ problem is?”

“With regard to…what, exactly?”

“Girls.”

Remus blinked. “I wasn’t aware he had a problem with girls.”

“Well, let’s see, he’s been in love with one girl exclusively for an embarrassingly long time, a girl
who is not, incidentally, the girl he’s dating, and the girl he is dating, he is not shagging.”

“You don’t know that.”

Sirius snorted. “Please. The day Prongs finally has sex he’ll likely throw a bloody parade to
announce it. Hell, I’ll throw it for him.”

“I think you’re being a touch unfair.”

“The lad’s seventeen, mate. Even Peter gets more action than him.”

“Ah, yes,” said Remus, noting — and hating — the faint hint bitterness that seeped into his tone.
“Pete the bigamist.”

Sirius looked amused. “I don’t think that’s the correct term.”

“Whatever. I still think you’re being unfair. We can’t all lose our virginity at fourteen.”

“Thirteen,” said Sirius.

“Merlin.”

“What? I was bored.”

“Well, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with waiting for the right person—”

“Is that your plan, then?”

“We’re not talking about me,” said Remus sharply. He felt a sudden hunted feeling — the familiar
panicky sense of being nearly found out — but he didn’t know why.

“Sorry,” sniggered Sirius. “Didn’t realize you were such a prude.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Touchy.”

“Well, it’s not like I can just go around and date freely, can I? So yeah, maybe I’m a little touchy
on the subject.”

Sirius observed him for a moment in the Shrieking Shack’s gloom. Then: “You know what I think?
I think you use it as an excuse.”

“What?”

“Your lycanthropy. “

“I do not! Or — well, if I do, it’s a damn good excuse.”

“You’re only a werewolf once a month. Nothing stopping you from being the castle’s Casanova the
rest of the lunar cycle.”

“Why are we still talking about me? I thought it was James’s sex life that was keeping you up at
night.”

Sirius laughed. “Well, if it does, it’s only because he wakes me up at three o’clock in the bloody
morning to complain about it.”

“Touché.”

“Anyway, you were saying: It’s perfectly fine to wait for the right person.”

“Yes.” Remus raised his chin, a touch of defiance.

“So you agree: Florence isn’t the right person.”

Remus opened his mouth, then closed it again, feeling as though he’d somehow just walked into a
trap. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you don’t like her.”

“I like her fine. Did James tell you I don’t like her?”

“No, but come on, Moony. It’s obvious.”

“I don’t dislike her,” he insisted, feeling ashamed of himself. “I just…I don’t feel comfortable
around her, that’s all.”

“But you feel comfortable around Evans?”

“Well, sure…but that’s completely different. I mean, she knows about all this, for one thing.” He
waved a hand, indicating the shack. “Well, not all this,” he amended after a moment’s reflection.
“But you know, enough. It’s different.”
“Then we’re in agreement: It would be better for everyone involved if Prongs were dating Evans
instead.”

Remus eyed his friend suspiciously. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” said Sirius innocently. “Just building castles in clouds.” A pause. “I just think it’s
stupid that Prongs is so obviously in love with Evans, and Evans is…you know…”

“What?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t. Say it.”

Sirius regarded him with an expression somewhere between amusement and annoyance. “Fine.
Evans still fancies the pants off of Prongs.”

Remus gasped, ignoring the aching in his bones as he sat up straighter. “You know?”

“Ha. I knew you knew.”

“Of course I knew, but—”

“Oh, come on, those two are about as subtle as a steam train. What am I, an idiot?” He considered
this for a moment. “No, they’re the idiots, both of them, that’s the problem.”

“But this is great!” said Remus, high on the relief of loosening his grip on a tightly held secret.
“Someone else knows! I was losing my mind for a while there. But — wait.” The high was
replaced with a rapid sinking feeling. “You can’t know. Of all people, you cannot know. Lily will
freak.”

“I know,” said Sirius. “That’s why you have to be the one to tell Prongs.”

Remus froze. “I can’t do that.”

“You have to. He’s your best friend. You owe him the truth!”

“Yes,” fretted Remus, “but Lily is my friend too, and I swore I wouldn’t say anything!”

“But this is James. Don’t you feel guilty?”

“I always feel guilty. I wake up each morning, and before I even remember what day it is, I feel
guilty!”

“Well, that’s…deeply sad. But you know what would help with that? Telling Prongs about Evans.”

“I can’t, Sirius! I—”

But this sentence was cut off by a sudden cramp that caused him to keel over, fingernails to the
floor.

The wolf was coming.

“Not now,” said Sirius impatiently. This was directed towards the sky. “We’re in the middle of
something!”
But the wolf didn’t listen.

It never did.

Blur of grass and rush of air…whip of boughs and splash of rain…the images from the night would
fade as quickly as the moon changed, lost in the shift of phases. What Remus would remember
upon waking, if he remembered anything at all, were the emotions Moony felt: Wild excitement,
unfettered joy, blind trust…and an overwhelming, world-shaking sense of belonging…of love.

And then the clouds shifted, the moon waned, and something deep and fundamental inside him
changed.

Waking.

Whenever Remus’s senses came back to him after a full moon — when they became his own again
— they did so with a ferocious intensity, as though making up for lost time. His limbs felt heavy
under the blanket. His cheek was pressed against a spring in the mattress, the musty scent of it
overwhelming his nostrils. A chill morning breeze whistled through the boards of one of the
Shrieking Shack’s windows, tousling his hair, while the heat of warm breath tickled the back of his
neck.

Something in him tightened. Remus snapped open his eyes.

After a moment of startled assessment, he recognized that the heaviness he felt was an arm draped
over his shoulder. Sirius’s arm. Remus turned sharply, wincing as he did so — and there was
Sirius, fast asleep beside him on the bed. Unsure what else to do, Remus lay there for a moment
and just observed the other boy: His hair fell in a graceful swoop against the mattress, like the
stroke of an artist’s brush, looking as though it had never even heard of the concept of bedhead; his
pale skin was perfect, even in the shadowy gloom of the shack; his dark brows were ever so
slightly furrowed, even in sleep. And he was notably in human form, not Padfoot, which meant that
he must’ve brought Remus up here after he’d transformed back into human, then made the
conscious decision to crawl onto the bed beside him and go to sleep.

Why did this thought make his skin tingle?

He quickly chastised himself and whatever silliness this was: So what? Sirius was knackered, no
doubt. There was nowhere else comfortable to sleep in this broken down shack, and he was
exhausted, and he was…he was…

Fucking beautiful.

Where the hell did that come from?

Remus was starting to feel a touch of panic. He never liked the sense that his emotions had more
control over him than he did them — particularly when they were making absolutely no sense.
That same hunted feeling was rising inside him…but before he could think what to do to neutralize
this situation, a new problem presented itself: The creak of a trapdoor.

“Sirius,” he hissed at once. “Get up!”

“Unnghhhuh?” said Sirius.

“Get up! Pomfrey!”

Sirius’s eyes flickered open, and then he sat bolt upright. “Shit!” he whispered. “I must’ve fallen
asleep.”

“Get the Cloak — go!”

Sirius staggered out of the bed, groping around under the mattress for the spot where he’d stowed
the Invisibility Cloak.

Remus’s heart was hammering in his chest, and he told himself it was because of the footsteps
creaking closer and closer up the stairs.

Sirius threw the Cloak over his shoulders and —

Remus sat up and smiled at the matron. “Good morning, Madam Pomfrey.”

Sleep was a respite. Remus slept at the hospital wing until Madam Pomfrey sent him back to the
dorms, and then he slept there for as long as he possibly could — through dinner, and then through
the night. He told himself this was because he was exhausted, the full moon always drained him, it
had absolutely nothing to do with avoiding Sirius and, by association, whatever weird thoughts had
snuck up on him upon waking in the shack.

Well, there was some truth to that. He was fucking knackered. Every month, it surprised him just
how exhausted he could truly be following a full moon. He probably would’ve slept through the
entire next day, if the door to his dormitory hadn’t flung open at an ungodly hour (seven a.m.), and
a bright, cheerful voice hadn’t loudly announced: “And what hour do you call this?”

Remus dragged himself back to consciousness as the curtains were thrust open, drenching the
dormitory in sunlight. He blinked against the bright rays, lifting a hand to cover his eyes, and saw
that Sirius was staring half-asleep, half-astonished at the door.

Remus followed his gaze: James Potter was standing there looking very pleased with himself.

“What are you doing here?” said Sirius, his voice still haggard with sleep.

“Did we sleep through the entire spring holiday?” mumbled Remus. It seemed feasible.

“Ha,” said James. “You know, I considered trying to convince you of that, for a laugh, but no. I’m
back early.”

“Why?” said Sirius. “Is everything okay?”

“Tip-top,” said James. “As a matter of fact, turns out the life of the hermit isn’t really for me. So
mum pulled out a quill and wrote a friendly line to old McGonagall, told her all about how she was
awfully tired of me and would they mind terribly taking me back a few days early, etcetera,
etcetera — there might’ve been some bribery, I’m not sure — and then mum dropped me back in
Hogsmeade like a stray cat, and off I trotted to the castle.”

They stared at him. There was more going on here, Remus was sure, but he was too tired to
untangle it.

“Well?” said James impatiently. “Go on. Tell me how much you missed me.”
 The One
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

JAMES

The One
It was a glorious sort of spring day, the day that James Potter decided he’d had enough of the
hermit life. He’d spent the afternoon on one those charming country walks that his mother had
been so adamant he try. She’d noticed her sons’s restlessness early in holiday, and as by day three
he had already played seven games of one-sided Quidditch (not very fun), paced endless circles
around the confines of his bedroom (dizzying), and made himself a nuisance to the stray cat that
occasionally wandered through the gardens (disappointing, as the creature had little interest in
making new friends), he’d decided to finally give the whole country walk thing a go.

It had become a bit of a daily habit. He made the best of it: He reveled in the glories of the English
countryside, all twisting lanes and hedges freckled with honeysuckle. He took the time to listen to
the birds sing, that sort of thing. He’d even found a rather nice walking stick on one day’s detour
into the woods. A knotted old branch, it made the sort of staff that suggested its carrier was a wise
old man, wandering the wilderness — which was a fun role to playact, perhaps, but a far cry from
the truth. James did not feel particularly wise at all.

Perhaps he ought to try and grow a beard. That might help.

There were a number of matters in his life that could use a little burst of wisdom, and as it turned
out, stomping around one’s old — well — stomping grounds was a surprisingly effective method
for resorting the shuffled up parchments of the mind. His mind had gotten awfully jumbled over
the last term. Perhaps there was something to the life of the hermit. He made a note to mention this
revelation to Remus when he returned to the castle.

On this particular afternoon walk, as he ambled down a hedge-lined lane besotted with pink dog
roses, James lined up his problems before him, as though they were flowers he could simply pluck
and toss away.

First, there was his relationship with Florence. Things had felt strained between them before
leaving for spring hols, and he knew it was his fault. He’d been lying to her, after all. And lying to
himself…about the second thing.
It didn’t mean anything.

It shouldn’t have hurt so much, when Lily confirmed what he himself had first posited: that a
drunken kiss she didn’t even remember meant absolutely nothing. Of course it didn’t. Any sane,
reasonable human would simply put all that nonsense behind them and move on. So why was
James constantly replaying the kiss in his mind, the feeling of her hands in his hair, the soft touch
of her lips, the taste of —

“Oh, bloody fucking hell.”

Oops. He’d said that last bit aloud, causing a rook perched on a nearby hedge to give what James
could only imagine in bird linguistics amounted to the most withering cronk.

James apologized to the rook for his rudeness and carried on down the lane.

He’d acted like an idiot this year. He could see that now. He’d spent so much time trying to
convince himself that he and Lily could be just friends — that he could be just friends with her —
that he failed to investigate the more important question of whether they even should.

No. He didn’t really mean that. He wanted to be her friend. He cared about her. But at the same
time…

She had once told him that he brought out the worst in her. It was an unpleasant revelation that had
needled its way into the back of his brain, stewing there, stinging like a splinter. He didn’t like it
— but perhaps there was some truth to it. Perhaps the opposite was true. Perhaps she brought out
the worst in him. He didn’t like who he was these days: sneaking around kissing drunk girls and
then lying to his mates about it. Lying to his girlfriend. That wasn’t the sort of man he wanted to
be. And yet, whenever he was around Lily, it was as though his brain went on a sudden and
unannounced vacation, and he was left fumbling about like a proper idiot, making everything ten
times worse simply by speaking.

Maybe they brought out the worst in each other. Maybe it would be better for both of them if he
just…kept his distance from her.

James and his wise old wizard staff ruminated miserably on this subject all the way back to Potter
House. It wasn’t a pretty topic, perhaps, but at least it kept him from focusing on the third thing:
The thing that he wouldn’t — or couldn’t — talk about.

One perk of being a part-time hermit was that once he had tired of his hermit ways, his rambling
walks and self-flagellating introspection, he could simply return home, and his mum would be
waiting for him with a pot of tea and a plate of scones, which usually distracted from the deep
existential sufferings in which he had just indulged.

Not so much today, however.

“Mum,” said James, having buttered a scone and poured himself a cup of tea and found himself
still plagued by uncomfortable musings. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, darling,” said his mother. She was sitting across from him at their kitchen table, her
own cup of tea in hand, flipping casually through the latest Daily Prophet with the vague sort of
disinterest that suggested she’d rather be out in the garden. He was glad she wasn’t, though,
because he needed a little parental advice.

“You and dad…you’ve been together a long time.”

“Some days it feels like an eternity,” said his mum, turning the page. “Other days, like no time at
all.”

“Right. Well…I’m just wondering…how did you know?”

“Know?”

“That dad was, you know, the right one for you?”

His mum looked up from the newspaper, her expression keen and a tiny bit calculating. “Is this
about that girlfriend of yours? What was her name, Flora…?”

“Florence, and no.”

“No?”

“Well, no — I mean, yes,” James corrected himself, flustered. “It’s about — it’s not about anyone
in particular, it’s just — how do you know when a girl is…” he struggled for a moment, flailing
and failing to find a different word for the mysterious emotion he was trying to articulate, “…the
one?”

“You’re awfully young to find ‘the one,’ darling. Or — oh dear,” his mum placed her cup of tea
back in its saucer and regarded him seriously. “Have I been a horribly negligent mother?”

“What?”

“Have we not had this talk…? About how when two people — who are far older and more mature
than you — really, really care about each other —”

“Oh, Merlin, mum! Stop. That’s not — I know plenty about —”

“Plenty, do you?”

“That’s not —” James stopped, glowering at his mother. “Do you enjoy torturing your only son?”

His mother grinned. “Well, I’m very old, darling. My life is quite dull. I have to find my fun where
I can get it.”

“I’m glad one of us is having fun,” grumbled James. He sighed deeply. “I was only wondering…
how do you know — theoretically — when someone’s right for you? Or — I suppose — how do
you know when someone’s wrong?”

“Well, that, darling, is a very different question.” James took a bite of his scone and waited while
his mother considered. “I suppose,” she mused after a moment, “you know someone is wrong for
you when you don’t like the way they make you feel about yourself.”

Check, thought James miserably.

“Or you don’t like who you are as a person when you’re around them.”

Double check.
“Or perhaps…” but before she could finish this thought, a fateful spring breeze swept through the
open kitchen window and sent his mother’s copy of the Daily Prophet fluttering to the floor. She
leaned down to reclaim it, its pages all rumpled and blown about — and then her eyes widened
ever so slightly. “Oh,” she said. “Oh dear.”

“I rather thought,” said James, roughly twenty-four hours later as he stood with his arms crossed in
the threshold of his dormitory, regarding his slumberous friends with as stern an expression as he
could muster, “that your exclamations of delight upon my arrival would be rather more emphatic. I
assumed you were all in shambles without me. Where’s Pete?”

“Dunno,” grumbled Sirius. “Just woke up, didn’t I?”

“Pete the early bird,” mused James. “That’s new.”

He considered the situation briefly, then flung himself onto the bed next to Remus with a joyful
galumph, crossing his legs and foldings his arms behind his head. Remus, looking sleepy and
haggard and ill-used, gave James a shove, and he tumbled off the mattress in a tangle of limbs.

“Ow,” said James cheerfully. “Lucky for you, I speak fluent Moony, and I happen to know that
expressions of erratic violence mean you’re absolutely delighted to see me. Shall we head to the
Great Hall and break the fast? No…?”

For Remus had pulled the covers over his head and moaned something that sounded remarkably
like: “Sod off.”

This was as expected — orchestrated, even. James turned instead to Sirius and arched an eyebrow.
Sirius scratched his nose in agreement. James offered in response an almost imperceptible jerk of
his head towards the door. Then — following a brief struggle with the concept of sleeves — Sirius
sleepily tugged on his robes, and the two boys filed out.

“So you saw it, did you?” said Sirius flatly once they were settled into the breakfast table in the
Great Hall.

James was happily engaged with an assemblage of butters and jams as he doctored up his toast. “Of
course I saw it,” he said, without looking up from his task, torn as he was between the impossible
choice of marmalade and black currant. “Why do you think I came back early?”

“You didn’t have to,” muttered Sirius. “Your dad—”

“—isn’t going to miraculously heal because I stayed home a few more days. Besides…it’s not as
though it made any difference, me being there.”

“What d’you mean?”

James looked down, frowning at the table. His gaze fixated on a groove in the wood, as though he
might keep memory at bay if only he focused hard enough on something in the present.

“Monty, guess who’s come home to see you!”

A low groan, a rustle of bedsheets, a squint through the darkened room. “Who…?”

“Hi, dad.”

“Who is this? Who are you?”

“Mate…?” said Sirius.

James shook his head briskly. He didn’t want to talk about this. He couldn’t talk about this.

“Things just are the way they are,” he said. He returned his attention to the jam, made a painful
decision and pursued the marmalade, then looked back at Sirius. “You on the other hand might just
do something impulsive and stupid…” Sirius’s expression was solemn, with just the faintest tinge
of shame, which James knew to the rest of the world presented as surliness. “And should that be
the case,” he continued lightly, “I wanted to be here to aid and abet.”

Sirius did not smile. “I haven’t done anything impulsive or stupid.” He paused. “Well…except for
all of the impulsive and stupid things I did leading up to this, but since then, nothing.”

James offered a good-natured shrug. “There’s still time.”

Sirius took a solemn bite of scrambled egg. After a contemplative chew, he said: “I’m an idiot,
Prongs.”

“Well, yes,” agreed James, “but at least you’re pretty.”

“I mean it. I should’ve anticipated this. I should’ve known — I keep making the same bloody
mistake, again and again, thinking I’m free of them—”

“You are free of them. No, don’t give me that look, you are. If the worst your family can do to you
is some poison-pen article in the Daily Prophet’s society pages, that’s a pretty weak show of
power, don’t you think?”

“They weren’t behind the article,” said Sirius, shaking his head. “They’ll absolutely hate it. And
the day before Cissy’s wedding too…I bet she was in a right state. Stole her lovely limelight. I’d
almost laugh, if it wasn’t for…” he trailed off.

“Wasn’t for what?”

Sirius glanced at him, then shoveled more eggs in his mouth. “Evans,” he said, with a slight eggy
spray.

“Ah. Right. How’s she handling it?”

“I really couldn’t tell you. She’s avoiding me. Oh — and she broke up with me.”

“So, not altogether the best spring hols,” observed James.

“You can just say it, you know.”

“Say what?”
“’I told you so.’”

James considered this. The prospect did not elicit much satisfaction. He sighed. “I’m not in a
position to tell anyone ‘so’ about much of anything these days. But…it is damn unfortunate she got
dragged into this.”

“I know.”

“Don’t tell her I said so, because she’d be furious, but you’ll have to watch out for her more now.
You and Moony.”

“Me and Moony? What about you?”

“Well, me too, sure, but…you two are in a better position for all that.”

Sirius looked skeptical. “Because…?”

“Well, because you’re both friends with her, for one thing.”

Sirius snorted. “I don’t think Evans would call me a friend.”

“Moony, then. They’re friends.”

“And you’re not?”

James, who’d been about to take a bite of his toast, considered it for a long moment instead, until a
glob of marmalade dripped off the crust and onto his robes. “I don’t know what we are,” he said at
last, reaching for his napkin to clean up the mess.

“Prongs?”

James looked up. Sirius was regarding him from across the table in a manner that was somewhat
unsettling in its intensity. “…Yeah?”

“You know how you and I always tell each other the truth?”

“Of course.”

“We never lie to each other.”

“Never,” agreed James.

“Even if that lie is simply…by omission.”

“Er…yeah?”

Sirius continued to stare him down…then he sighed. “That cologne makes you smell like a rancid
apothecary.”

James frowned in surprise and sniffed his wrist. “Really? I thought it was rather growing on me.”
He’d decided, on one of his many hermit walks, that he would wear the cologne Florence gave him
for his birthday more frequently upon returning to school. For Florence’s sake. He’d get used to it
eventually.

“It’s foul,” said Sirius.

“Well, don’t tell Flor that. I’ve told her I love it. Feel like a new man, and all that.”

Another sigh. Sirius stabbed at his eggs with his fork. “Whatever you say, mate.”

After breakfast, he and Sirius meandered back towards Gryffindor Tower, where they were rather
surprised to run into Peter, who was looking very sleepy indeed as he clambered through the
portrait hole.

“What are you doing here?” said Peter as he caught sight of James. He looked slightly alarmed by
James’s sudden presence.

“You know,” said James in a wounded voice, “not one of you has sounded nearly happy enough to
see me. All that effort to get back and all I get is interrogation!”

“Just surprised,” said Peter, fidgeting with his hands in his pockets. “Wasn’t expecting to see you
for a few days.”

“He came back to make sure I didn’t commit a murder, I suspect,” said Sirius.

“Well, that wasn’t the exact intention, but yes, I would generally advise against homicide. Azkaban
isn’t exactly known for its homey comforts. Our Padfoot’s a sensitive lad,” James added in aside to
Peter. “He wouldn’t last a week.”

“Fuck off,” yawned Sirius. “I’m glad to see you, mate, I am, but it’s the last days of the holiday…
and I’m going back to sleep until at least noon, all right?”

“Me too,” said Peter.

“Why are you so tired?” said Sirius. “And where were you this morning?”

“I didn’t sleep well. Got up for…a walk. What’s it to you?”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” complained James as his friends headed back to the dormitory.

“I’d suggest a nap, but I think you’re allergic.” Sirius clapped him on the back. “You’ll figure
something out.”

He decided to go for a fly. Best thing in the world, flying. He didn’t particularly want to be alone
with his thoughts right now, but if he had to be, then he might as well do it in the company of birds
and clouds and sunshine.

Besides, his new Comet 220 was so deliciously speedy, he thought he could probably out-fly
thought and memory itself.

He was wrong.
“Dad, it’s me. James. Your son…?”

“I don’t have a son. Ephie, who is this?”

“Oh, dear. James, darling, come on, we’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Dad—”

“Ephie?”

“Come along now, James. It’s just not a good day, that’s all.”

His feet landed with a thud on the pitch. He shouldered his broomstick and stalked off towards the
castle, feeling sick and miserable and inexplicably angry. He glanced at his watch as he reached
Gryffindor Tower — his own watch, not his dad’s, which he kept safely locked away in a dresser
drawer. It was nearly eleven o’clock. That was close enough to noon. He’d wake up his mates now.
That would help.

But as he climbed through the portrait hole, his plan was derailed by a glimpse of red hair across
the room.

Lily.

She hadn’t noticed him. She was sitting with her back to him, cross-legged on the floor, a tumbling
pile of something that looked like letters beside her. He watched as she methodically fed them to
the fire.

He tried to remember his resolve. He was going to be friendly, but keep his distance. She was
wrong for him, and he was wrong for her, and both of them would be far happier if they just —

But curiosity got the better of him, as it always did.

“Aha,” he said lightly, strolling over, “so that’s why you didn’t write me back.”

Lily turned, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of him. “James,” she said, and she sounded
startled. “What are you — hang on…you wrote me?”

“No.” James wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “I was just joking. Er…what are you doing?”

“Burning my fan mail," she said, tossing another letter to the flames as if this was a perfectly
normal mid-morning activity. “What you doing? Here? I thought you went home for the holiday?”

“Decided to come back a little early.”

“Why?” She eyed him shrewdly. “Because of Black? How’s he doing? I’m afraid I was a bit mean
to him.”

“Were you? He didn’t mention it.”

He should walk away. A friendly hello, farewell, must be off, etcetera. The interpersonal relations
equivalent of pressing one’s hands to one’s ears and shouting, la la la, I can’t hear you!

But curiosity continued to prod him, and he perched himself on an ottoman by the fire and leaned
down to pluck a letter from the pile. “Fan mail?”

“Oh, you know, just a lot of weirdos who read that article and care about a teenage girl’s love life,
for some reason. No — don’t open them. They’re not worth reading. They’re all the same sort of
rubbish, calling me a ‘thoughtless hussy determined to bring down wizardkind’ and that sort of
thing. Actually, I might frame that one. But the rest — one of them started hissing at me, so I think
there might be curses in there. Best just to burn them.”

“People are mailing you curses?” James felt slightly sick. “Merlin. I’m sorry you have to deal with
this. What a bloody mess.”

But Lily just shrugged. “You have to just sort of laugh at it after a while. And at least I get to be
the ‘Muggle-born bombshell’ who’s ‘lots of fun.’”

“And a little scary,” added James with a smile he couldn’t quite quell.

“Don’t you forget it,” said Lily sternly, and they both laughed. At once, he felt himself lighten. It
felt so good, laughing with her. Why did it have to feel so good laughing with her? “Anyway,”
continued Lily, “it’s not nearly as bad as it might’ve been. Hogwarts banned Howlers for the rest of
the year thanks to your little Christmas carol prank, so…thanks for that.”

“Happy to help,” said James. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

And he tossed a letter into the fire. They both watched as the parchment curled in the flames, then
Lily said: “You didn’t answer my question before.”

“Which question?”

“About why you came back early.”

“Oh.” James selected another letter from the pile and fed it to the flames. “Well, you nailed it on
the head. I saw the article and thought my mates might need me, so I scurried on back, and er —
they didn’t. They’re perfectly fine. Everyone’s just wondering why I bothered, and frankly now, so
am I…”

“Well, I for one am thrilled you came back early,” said Lily.

James looked up at her in surprise. “Are you?”

“Yes. I was afraid I might not get a chance to talk to you properly. You know, before the inevitable
drama from all this starts,” she waved a disparaging hand at the dwindling pile of letters.

“Oh,” said James again, feeling both wary and slightly exhilarated. “Erm…what did you want to
talk about?”

Lily appeared to be steeling her resolve; he watched the process nervously, until at last she said:
“I’m sorry.”

James blinked in surprise. “For what?”

“A lot of things, really, but mostly that one thing we agreed not to talk about.”

Ah. That thing.

“Well, I’ve already told you, you have nothing to—”

“Please, James, just let me apologize.”

“You already did the first time, and it was equally unnecessary then.”

But Lily shook her head. “No, the first time I panicked and made it all about me and my fear of
gossip and retribution. I’ve thought about it a lot since then, and that wasn’t a proper apology.”

James wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just shifted uncomfortably on his ottoman and waited.

“The thing is,” Lily went on, “I know I haven’t exactly been at my best lately, and I know I
behaved abhorrently—”

“Evans, you really don’t have to—”

“No, please, just — let me finish.”

So James bit his tongue.

“The thing is…the thing is your friendship — and your respect — are important to me, and I never
want to do anything that would compromise…what?”

James couldn’t help it; he’d started to grin. “You stole that line from me.”

“What?”

“‘Your friendship and your respect are important to me.’ You stole that from me. I know, because I
practiced it the whole way to Cokeworth.”

Lily looked embarrassed for a moment, but then she laughed, twisting a lock of hair around her
finger before tucking it behind her ear. “All right, I did,” she admitted with a sheepish half-smile.
“But—“

James clucked his tongue. “You, Lily Evans, are an apology plagiarist.”

“Well, it was a good one, all right? And I do mean it. I’m sorry.”

“And I meant it when I said you had nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I still am.”

A pause.

“Then it appears we’re at an impasse,” said James.

“Afraid so,” agreed Lily.

The pause grew longer still.

“What if I swerved around this impasse by simply drastically changing the subject?”

“That sounds great.”

“Cool.” (The pause paused.) “I will do that then.”

The pause spawned into multiple little baby pauses that threatened to overtake the entire
conversation, until James scared them off by clearing his throat and saying: “Erm…well, how was
your holiday? Good, I hope?”

“Absolutely rotten,” said Lily cheerfully. “I had a very messy breakup, you see.”
“Ah, right. I did hear about that. Well, you know what they say…chin up, plenty of fish in the sea,
and all that.”

Lily smiled, fiddling with an envelope before tossing it into the fire. “And how was yours?”

“My…breakup?”

“Your holiday.”

“Oh, right,” laughed James. “Of course. It was…”

He hesitated. He could hear the words ready to spill out of his mouth: Oh, yes, it was absolutely
lovely. Always nice to get out of the castle and clear one’s head for a bit. I feel rather like one of
those sickly Victorians, gone away to the shore for my health, returning in a triumphant glow of
wellness. I see you haven’t commented on my rosy complexion and rejuvenated vitality, but I’m
willing to overlook it…

But instead what came out was: “Absolutely rotten, to tell you the truth.”

“Oh no,” said Lily. She pushed the letters aside and scooted closer to him. He wished she wouldn’t
do that. “Was it…your dad? Unless you don’t want to talk about it, of course,” she added hastily.
“God, just ignore me—”

“No, it’s fine,” said James. “I don’t mind talking about it…” The end of that sentence was with
you, but that felt too intimate, too dangerous to speak aloud. “Yeah. It was because of my dad.”

“Are things…worse?”

“No. And yes. He’s just…he’s not altogether there. He comes and goes. He was gone most of the
holiday. The one time we actually spoke…he didn’t even know who I was.”

Dad, it’s me.

“Oh, James.” Lily moved closer still to where he sat, hunched on the ottoman, his hands clasped
together, fingers laced in an tight knot. He stared at his hands. Now that he’d started talking about
it, he didn’t seem able to stop.

“Mum says he’s been like that a while. Losing touch with reality. Forgetting things. But…it’s
like…it’s like he’s already died, but no one will admit it, so we all just go on pretending, and I’m
not allowed to grieve him yet, even though he’s not there anymore. He’s just not.” He glanced up
from his hands; Lily was gazing up at him from her spot on the floor, her eyes soft and sad. He
suddenly felt very embarrassed. So much for keeping his distance. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. “That
was stupid.”

“No,” said Lily. “No, it’s not stupid at all.”

They sat there quietly for a long moment, the fire crackling behind them, until finally another truth
slipped out of James’s lips: “I lied.”

“What?”

“When I said I came back just to check on my mates…I lied. I came back because I couldn’t bear
being at home anymore. Does that make me a coward?”

“No,” said Lily. Her voice was earnest, urgent. She leaned over and took his hands in her own, the
warmth of her palms sheltering his tightly-wound fingers. “God, James, no. It makes you…
human.”

James exhaled a shuddering breath. Lily kept looking at him with those big eyes, and he was afraid
he might say or do something stupid if he returned her gaze for too long, so instead he redirected
his attention to the pile of letters on the floor — and was surprised to recognize a name.

“Look,” he said, carefully extracting his hands from the gentle clasp of hers and plucking the letter
from the pile. “This one’s from McKinnon.”

“Marlene?” said Lily. “Let me see.”

James watched with interest as she opened the enveloped and scanned the letter before stifling a
laugh in her palm.

“What?” said James.

“She’s — er — just reminding of her offer to pay for a hit wizard to take out Black for me. She
thinks he’s blackmailing me,” she added at James’s perplexed expression.

“I see. Er…please don’t assassinate my best mate.”

Lily laughed, stuffing the letter back into the envelope and tossing it aside. “Don’t worry. I’ll call
her off. Still, it’s probably a good thing you came back early. You’ll need to watch out for him.
Marlene’s gotten very protective of me. No idea where that came from, but it’s rather sweet.”

“Well, you have that effect on people,” said James, and it was Lily’s turn to look perplexed. James
cleared his throat, lest the army of pauses threaten to overtake them again, and said: “Anyway, I’ve
seen McKinnon on the pitch, I know better than to underestimate her wrath. I’ll make sure Sirius
behaves.”

Lily laughed.

“Right, well, I should get going,” said James, though he didn’t particularly know why. “See you
later, then.”

“See you later, James.”

But he didn’t see her later. Sirius’s assertion that Lily was avoiding them appeared to hold true, and
for the next few days, she seemed to be in the opposite location of wherever he and his mates were.
More than once he wondered if he had hallucinated their conversation by the fire, the warmth of
her hands, the truths he spoke to no one else.

And then the holidays were over, and all the other students came bustling back into the castle, and
James was afloat in a sea of comfortable distractions.

Florence caught up to him on their way into the Great Hall for dinner that night, and James was
fully prepared to be the best boyfriend possible this term, starting exactly now — except she
informed him that she’d promised to sit with the Ravenclaw Quidditch team at dinner tonight, but
would he mind terribly waiting for her afterwards?
He agreed and went off to find his own mates. Sirius was sulking because Marlene McKinnon had
evidently threatened him with bodily harm if he came anywhere near Lily.

“Well, you wanted to give everyone a show, remember?” said Remus. “This is the dramatic
breakup.”

Sirius scowled. Then: “Prongs, Moony wants to tell you something.”

James looked over at Remus, whose expression had migrated somewhere between panic and
annoyance.

“What? No I don’t,” said Remus.

“Yes, you do,” said Sirius. “Remember that thing we talked about?”

“What thing? I don’t remember a thing.”

“Are you two all right?” said James. “Did something happen on the moon?”

“No,” said Remus. “It was perfectly normal. I don’t know what Sirius is on about. If Sirius has
something he wants to share, he’s more than welcome to.”

Sirius just scowled.

“Sorry about dinner,” said Florence as they strolled through the castle towards Ravenclaw Tower
after dinner. “With the Quidditch season and all…”

“I get it,” said James easily. “No problem.”

“I also didn’t want to give the impression that I was choosing sides,” she said carefully. “These
things can be so political.”

James frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Lily and Sirius breaking up. I heard about it.”

“That was fast.”

“Well, neither of us thought they were going to last, did we?”

“I meant you hearing about it.”

“Oh, well. You know how this school is. Gossip, gossip, gossip.”

“Yeah.”

“So, how was your holiday?”

“Oh,” said James. “It was good. Really good. I feel rather like one of those sickly Victorians, gone
away to the shore for my health, returning in a triumphant glow of wellness.”

Florence laughed.
“Bit quiet,” continued James. “But it gave me lots of time to think.”

“Yes,” said Florence. “I did a lot of thinking too…Actually, I wanted to talk to you about—”

“Oh, before I forget.” James pulled from his bag a carefully wrapped orchid blossom and presented
it to her.

Florence looked taken aback. “What’s this?”

“I was at the greenhouses, just for a change of scenery, you know, and I saw these. Remember,
from our first date? You liked the one that smelled like candyfloss.”

Florence stared at him for a moment, then she carefully sniffed the orchid. “That’s so sweet.
You’re so sweet.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Oh. Nothing important. Ah…here we are. Ravenclaw Tower.”

And she kissed him goodnight.

James was actually relieved when classes started up. They kept him busy, kept his brain from
circling back to the unpleasant matters about which he did not want to think. In fact, he got through
most of the week without thinking about such things hardly at all. He was almost dreading the
weekend, but at least then he had Quidditch practice, both with his team and with the Muggle-born
students. That was another thing to give his attention to. Busy, busy, busy. Busy was good.

But first, they had to get through Defense Against the Dark Arts, an unpleasant enough prospect by
normal standards, made all the more so when Professor Carter-Myles announced at the beginning
of class that he was finally returning their graded essays on the identification and elimination of
werewolves.

“So, Remus,” muttered Sirius from beside James, watching wit narrowed eyes as their professor
paced the classroom, handing out essays. “Remember yesterday when you were telling me I
shouldn’t have Padfoot take a shit in Cranky-Piles’ office?”

“I stand corrected,” said Remus.

“Good. Glad we’re in agreement.”

“Miss Evans,” Carter-Myles’s voice suddenly rung sharp and clear through the classroom. The
whole class looked up.

“Yes, sir?” said Lily politely from a few seats ahead.

“What is this?” Carter-Myles thrust an essay before her.

“Well,” said Lily, “it looks like my essay on the stigmatization of lycanthropy and the unethical
treatment of werewolves by the Ministry of Magic. Sir.”

“Precisely,” said Carter-Myles. “That was not the assignment.”

 “I disagreed with the premise of the assignment.”

“It is not your place to disagree, you arrogant little—” Carter-Myles stopped himself. “That’s a
zero you’ve just earned. I’m willing to let you make up half the points if you turn in the
appropriate essay to me by tomorrow—”

“No, thank you,” said Lily.

A slightly shocked silence landed over the classroom at this exchange. James and Sirius exchanged
a grin.

“That’s my girl,” muttered Sirius.

Carter-Myles continued to glare at Lily. “I don’t think you understand the precarity of your
position. If you have any hope of passing this class, then I suggest you take my advice and—”

“I’m not particularly concerned with passing this class,” said Lily. “It’s not as though you’re
teaching us anything worthwhile.”

“How dare—”

But his inevitable tirade was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Professor McGonagall
entered.

“What?” snapped Carter-Myles, his focus still on the obstinate girl before him.

Over the years, James had curated a careful collection of all of Professor McGonagall’s
expressions. It was important to understand the precise meaning of each, ranging from “I secretly
think you are very amusing,” to “I’m reconsidering corporal punishment.” James fancied himself a
connoisseur in the realm of Professor McGonagall’s expressions, and so he felt deeply unsettled by
the realization that the look she was currently sporting was one he had never before seen her wear.

“I need to speak with Miss Evans, please.”

Chapter End Notes

don't be mad at me :(
 The End of the World, Part Two
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

LILY

The End of the World, Part Two

“There are loved ones in the glory…whose dear forms you often miss…”

Anthea Evans’ voice wafted through the kitchen like soap bubbles in the air. She always sang when
she did the dishes, which is what she was doing now, and Lily loved to listen to her. As far as she
was concerned, her mummy had the most beautiful voice in the world…and she knew this was
true, because plenty of others agreed. Her mother was often asked to sing at church — all right, she
was mostly asked by Lily’s father, who happened to be the vicar, but still: Everyone loved when
Lily’s mummy sang, and Lily loved it most of all.

“When you close your earthly story…will you join them in their bliss…”

She often sang this song — one of her favorite hymns, she said — and Lily hummed along from
her perch at the kitchen table, where she sat hunched over her diary, a pile of trusty colored pencils
at her side, intent on finishing her drawing. It was a castle: a beautiful castle filled with magic, just
like Sev told her.

“Will the circle be unbroken…by and by…by and by…”

The kitchen door swung open, interrupting her mother’s song, and Lily looked up to see Tuney
enter. Petunia — as she preferred to be called now that she was so grown up — was thirteen and
ganglier than she’d ever been. She loped over to the kitchen table, glanced at Lily’s drawing, and
scoffed. Petunia didn’t like when Lily talked about the castle. She thought it was all silly and
made-up.

“Ah, Petunia,” said their mother. “Good, help me dry these, won’t you?”

Petunia groaned loudly. “Why don’t you ever ask Lily to help with the dishes? Oh, wait, let me
guess, it’s because you know she’d break everything.”

“I would not!”
“Petunia, love, don’t antagonize your sister. You’re older, that’s why I ask you to help.”

Petunia rolled her eyes and plodded over to the sink, snatching up a towel and beginning to dry the
plates in a manner that suggested it was the stupidest thing she’d ever been asked to do. Their
mother went back to the dishes.

Lily watched as tiny little bubbles of soap drifted from the water. Then, with a mischievous glance
at her sister, she focused all her attention on one bubble in particular, willing the tiny orb to float
away from the sink and over to Petunia. She felt a familiar, intoxicating thrill as the bubble obeyed.
Then — slowly, magically — the bubble began to grow larger and larger and larger — it was the
size of a golf ball — then a tennis ball — until finally Petunia noticed something odd was
happening in the periphery; her eyes widened in shock. Her gaze dashed from the monstrous soap
bubble to Lily, and she was about to open her mouth to complain to their mother — when the
bubble burst, spraying her with tiny flecks of soapy suds.

Lily stifled a giggle into her palm and went back to her drawing. Petunia glared.

“Lily’s been running off with that Snape boy again,” her sister announced, suddenly and spitefully.

It was Lily’s turn to glare. “So what?” she said, twisting in her chair to scowl at her sister. “Am I
not allowed to have any friends?”

“Darling,” said her mother patiently, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn spot on the pan, “you
know that you have to be more careful than other—”

“But he’s like me, mummy! I told you. He can do things just like me!”

“You haven’t been doing it in public, have you?” Her mother’s voice was suddenly sharp with
worry.

“She has,” said Petunia, a smug look of triumph spoiling across her face. “I saw her.”

“I haven’t!”

“Lily.” Her mother turned away from the sink to face her now, wiping her soapy hands on her
apron. “We’ve talked about this. It’s dangerous.”

“It’s not dangerous, and I haven’t done anything, anyway. Tuney’s lying!”

“I am not. I saw you—”

But before Petunia could finish her accusation, the doorbell rang.

“Oh, honestly,” muttered Anthea. “I expect that’s Mr. Colfield from the church council. He always
has he worst timing. George!” she called down the hall. “The door!”

A pause, and then the doorbell chimed again. Her mother sighed deeply. “Oh, George.” Lily’s
father was working on one of his sermons, and he was always lost to the world whenever he was in
his study. “Lily, go answer the door for your father, please.”

Lily obliged, skipping out of the kitchen and down the narrow corridor that led to the front door.
When she flung the door open, she found herself looking up at a stranger: a tall, rather severe-
looking woman with dark hair pulled back in a tight bun and square glasses that perched on her
nose as she peered down at the child before her.
“Hello,” the woman said in a heavy Scottish accent. “I’m here to see Mr. and Mrs. Evans, may I
come in?”

Lily gaped at her. She was dressed rather fantastically for Cokeworth, with a great tartan cloak
slung over her shoulders and boots that laced all the way up to the hem of her skirt. Lily wasn’t
sure how she knew — perhaps it was simply because she wished it so much — but as she stared at
this woman, all she could think was: She’s magic too.

The woman, for her part, was eying Lily with equal interest — and a little bit of impatience at the
child’s wide-eyed gawking.

Fortunately, Lily’s mother called out, “Lily? Who is it?” and Lily came to her senses and ushered
the woman into the cramped little foyer.

“Did I hear the doorbell?”

Her father wandered out of his study, looking rather rumpled and vague, as he usually did when he
emerged from one of his deep dives into scripture. “Oh,” he said, spotting Lily. Then he noticed
the strange, tartan-cloaked woman, and his eyes grew slightly wider. “Oh. Hello.”

Not long after this, Lily found herself seated in the parlor with both her parents, listening as the
extraordinary woman who called herself Professor McGonagall explained that she was a witch and
that Lily was a witch too.

“Your daughter,” she said, “is perfectly normal.”

Then she told them all about a castle, a beautiful, magical castle filled with children just like Lily
— perfectly normal children — a castle called Hogwarts. And Lily would go to this castle to study
magic.

Lily looked over at Petunia, who was sulking in the doorway, one foot over the threshold. Though
she was a picture of disdainful boredom, she clearly couldn’t quite convince herself to leave.

“I told you it was real,” Lily whispered.

Petunia looked away.

The woman named Professor McGonagall was still speaking, but Lily couldn’t focus on her words
— they disappeared like soap bubbles to skin — she was too excited, too enthralled. In her mind, a
single drumbeat of a thought played again and again, an endless percussion: It’s real, it’s real, it’s
real, it’s real…!

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

Lily knew that Professor McGonagall was still speaking to her — she could see her lips moving,
she could feel the intensity of the Deputy Headmistress’s gaze — but the words seemed to vanish
in the air before they reached Lily’s ears, swallowed up by the treacherous roar of unreality.

There’s been accident. Your father—

What? What sort of accident? But he’s okay? Are — are they taking him to St. Mungo’s? Can I go
see him?

I’m so sorry, Lily, but your father’s been in a car crash.

What?

I understand he was driving to London, and there was an incident with a lorry. There were no
wizards on site and unfortunately, he did not survive.

What?

Your sister wrote to the Headmaster, and she’s included a letter for you. All the details are in
there, but in the meantime —

“And you’re sure,” Lily heard herself ask, “you’re sure it was just a car accident? You’re sure?”

Professor McGonagall was certain.

And that was when Lily stopped listening. That was when words stopped having any meaning. She
simply sat there and let her teacher speak soundlessly at her, while her brain played an endless
loop:

There’s been an accident. Your father—

What? What sort of accident? But he’s okay? Are — are they taking to him to St. Mungo’s? Can I
go see him?

I’m so sorry, Lily, but your father’s been in a car crash.

What?

“What am I supposed to do now?” she heard herself say.

“I understand your sister has made arrangements for the summer holiday,” was Professor
McGonagall’s gentle reply. “It’s all in her letter.”

This was not what Lily had meant — she hadn’t even begun to process the practicalities her
father’s alleged death — but she allowed Professor McGonagall to press a thin envelope into her
hand, as well as a pamphlet on Grief and Loss. There were other words among all the rest of these
too. She was fairly certain her teacher said something that rhymed with ‘not alone’ or ‘stay strong’
or some other platitude that meant absolutely nothing, but Lily didn’t hear it. Her ears just kept
ringing with the same rhythm: It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

“I don’t want to go. I want to stay with you and Tuney.”

Lily stood amidst the bustling bedlam of Platform 9 3/4 alongside her father. Petunia, for her part,
was sulking on a bench on the other side of the barrier, because she refused to come onto the
platform “with all the freaks.”

“I don’t want to go back.” Lily stared up at her father with imploring eyes, as though if she just
fixed her gaze on him with enough intensity, he’d bend to her will, he’d have to change his mind
and drive her home to Cokeworth. This had always worked when she was little — Tuney used to
get so annoyed at how Lily always got her way — but Lily was fourteen now, and perhaps some of
her childish charm had worn off, for her father simply said: “You don’t mean that.”

“I do mean it! I hate school, and I hate magic.”

“You don’t hate magic. You love magic.”

Lily just shook her head. She’d loved magic once, perhaps, but magic had failed her. What was the
point of any of it — of charms and spells, plants and potions — if it couldn’t manage the one thing
in life that really mattered…if it couldn’t save her mum?

But before she could find the words to articulate any of these shadowy thoughts, a quite literal
shadow came looming towards her, followed by a loud shout: “WATCH OUT!” and Lily jumped
out of the way with a squeak as a Quaffle came barreling towards them. Her father caught it in one
hand with far more athleticism than one might expect of a vicar.

A boy was jogging towards them.

“Nice catch, sir,” said James Potter. “Sorry ‘bout that. My mate’s got lousy aim.”

Lily’s father looked amused, and he examined the ball with obvious curiosity before tossing it
back. “What kind of ball is that?” he asked. Lily felt her cheeks burn. She had never told her father
that most wizards considered having Muggle parents something to be embarrassed about, and she
never would. In fact, Lily refused on principle to be embarrassed about it…but that didn’t change
the fact that parents, Muggle or otherwise, were innately embarrassing, and having her father talk
to James Potter — to James bloody Potter!!! — was possibly more humiliating than her fourteen-
year-old heart could bear at this moment.

“You’ve never seen a Quaffle?” said James, sounding somewhere between stunned and appalled.
Then he spotted Lily and did a double take. “Oh,” he said, half-laughing, as though coming to a
realization. “All right, Evans?” and, flashing the most infuriatingly charming grin, he thanked
Lily’s dad for the Quaffle and dashed back to his mates on the other side of the platform. She
wondered if they threw the Quaffle her way on purpose, just to torment her. It seemed like the sort
of thing Sirius Black would put Potter up to.

“Friend of yours?” asked her father, smiling after James.

“No,” said Lily flatly. “I hate him.”

“Like you hate magic?”

“Yes. No — because I actually hate him.”

“Aha. So you don’t hate magic.”

She glared, but then that glare faltered into something more dangerously akin to tears. “Daddy,”
she said, keeping her voice low enough that none of her peers could overhear, “don’t make me go
back. Please. I don’t want to.”

Her father sighed. Then he leaned down and pulled her into an embrace. “I know it’s hard,” he
said, his words muffled into her hair. “It’s hard for me too, and I wish it wasn’t so soon after—” his
voice shook. He pulled back and looked at her directly, hands on her shoulders. “But right now,
you have to be brave. You have to be strong. It’s what your mother would want. She’d want you to
go back to school and learn magic and be happy.”
“I’m never going to be happy again.”

“You will,” said her father, smoothing her hair. “I promise you will.”

“When?”

Perhaps because he did not have an answer, he simply leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.
“Write to me?”

Lily sniffed. “I will.”

Steam was roiling through the station now; the train was gearing up to depart. George Evans
helped his daughter climb aboard, then he stood back and waved as the scarlet train trundled away.
Lily watched from the door as her father grew smaller and smaller in the distance. This platform
was as close as he ever got to her world: just enough to see her safely over the threshold, to send
her off to an unfathomable future.

When at last King’s Cross was a pinprick in the distance, Lily turned away from the train’s door
and moved numbly down the aisles, looking for Sev and feeling irritated with herself. Grief and
homesickness had already overtaken her, and the train hadn’t even left London. Everything seemed
too bright and too loud — the shriek of children’s laughter, the thunder of locomotion as the train
carried her farther and farther away…

“Oi! Evans!” someone called through all this din, and she turned to see Sirius Black leaning out of a
compartment door, a wicked grin on his face. Sirius Black was the only person at school she hated
possibly more than James Potter. “Want to come sit with us?” he drawled. “I bet if you ask very
nicely we can convince James to take off his shirt.”

“Get back in here, you twat!” she heard James call, laughing in the compartment behind him. “I’m
going to hex you!”

“I’m just saying,” continued Sirius, snickering as someone — presumably James — tried to drag
him back through the sliding door. “Maybe he’ll even let you touch his hair. One time offer. Take
it or leave it. What’s it gonna be?”

Lily glared at him, at this boy who had caused her so much misery, and she found with some
surprise that she didn’t feel much of anything at the moment. “Go to hell,” she said without much
emotion, and then she continued on down the train, Black’s laughter fading as he withdrew to his
compartment.

How silly it all seemed now, all the hours she had cried over their endless teasing. How foolish, the
tears she’d shed for a boy who didn’t fancy her back, who wouldn’t date her if she were the last
girl in school. How nonsensical, to think that any of it mattered at all…when all that time, back
home, the end of the world was waiting.

Dear Lily,

By now your headmaster will have given you the news, as I have written him separately. I had to. I
remembered that he at least can receive mail the normal way, and I have no other way to get in
touch with you while you’re at that place. I don’t know how long it takes to get a letter to you
people through the post, and the Church wanted to get on with things, so I’m afraid we had no
choice but to go ahead and have the funeral. It was a nice service. 1 Corinthians 15:53-55. Dad
would’ve approved.

It happened as he and Mrs. Colfield were driving to London. They were hit head-on by a lorry.
Probably a drunk, Vernon says. Dad never made it to London. He never got to meet Vernon. It’s
all terribly cruel and unfair, and things have been very difficult here.

Vernon has taken care of everything with the estate. He’s truly been my rock through this. I’m so
grateful to him, and you should be too. As I’m sure you already understand, Dad had very little
money, and the house belonged to the Church, so there was not much to bequest in the will
anyway. I have used what little money there was to secure a deposit on a flat in Earl’s Court. As I
am now technically your legal guardian until you turn eighteen, the plan is that you will stay with
me for your summer holiday. Dad would’ve wanted that.

I will meet you at Platform 10 of King’s Cross Station at the end of term. Please do not send post
unless you can do so the normal way. I simply can’t have birds flapping around the flat. I’m sure
you understand.

Your sister,

Petunia

“Evans?”

She was in the corridor outside of Professor McGonagall’s office. She didn’t really remember
leaving, but there she stood all the same, shell-shocked, Petunia’s letter and the pamphlet on Grief
and Loss still clutched impotently in her hand. At the sound of her name, she turned to see Sirius
Black walking towards her.

“Evans,” he said again. “There you are. We were all wondering what…” Something in her
expression seemed to give him pause, for he stopped. “Are you…?” His eyes shifted down to the
pamphlet in her hand. Feeling raw and exposed, she shoved it into her bag — but too late. He saw.
Wide eyes and low voice: “Shit, Evans.”

“Don’t,” said Lily sharply. Sirius made as though to touch her arm, and she jerked away violently.
“I said, don’t!”

Sirius blinked. “What—“

Something about the sight of him helped snap her back into the reality of her life. She knew how
this scene played out, how the two of them interacted. It was comforting, in a strange way, to fall
back into old habits.

“God, just stop, all right? I cannot deal with you and this pathetic charade right now.”
“Evans…”

“You’re not my boyfriend. You’re not my ex-boyfriend. You’re not even myfriend, so just—” she
shoved her palms against his chest, pushing him away. “Just leave me alone!”

He stepped back — she hadn’t managed to push him hard enough to move him on her own — and
she shouldered her way past him, ignoring the distressed expression on his face that might
otherwise have given her pause. It felt good, yelling at him like that, pushing him away, embracing
the physicality of her fury — and she stormed the whole way back to Gryffindor Tower, relishing
this hot wave of anger, the freedom of it, the way it burned through the rest of her gnawing,
agonizing thoughts, replacing them with simple, comprehensible rage.

When she reached her dormitory, she found she’d quite like to rage some more…but there was no
one else there. The girls’ dormitory was empty. Silent. Everyone was at dinner, of course they
were. The gnawing thoughts began to gnaw once more, so she stomped around the room, trying to
ignore the flood of things she didn’t want to think about — a car crash. Your father’s been in a car
crash — and when that didn’t work, she reached up and yanked down her bed curtains in a wave of
violent fury. They fluttered to the floor like shredded wings, their Gryffindor red like a spill of
blood upon the floor.

She stared at them, shaking. Then, as though all the fury had drained out of her with that last
outrageous act, she settled onto the barren, curtainless bed and waited for tears to arrive.

They didn’t come.

Finally, with a slow, burdensome sweep of her wand, she repaired the curtains, closed them up
tight, and curled into a ball underneath her covers.

Days passed. Professor McGonagall had told her to take all the time she needed, and so she did,
though she didn’t know exactly what she needed it for. Was she supposed to wake up one day and
suddenly feel fine? If she was, it hadn’t happened yet. So she took more time, and kept her bed
curtains shut. Marlene brought her food from the Great Hall and left it on her bedside table, but
Lily didn’t eat much of it.

Word got around, as it always did, and soon girls from other dorms in Gryffindor Tower started
stopping by to see how she was doing…perhaps to find out what was going on.

Whispers from the corridor.

“Yes, her dad, that’s what I heard.”

“She won’t talk about it. She’s not even crying. Just…lying there.”

“Bertha said it was Death Eaters, but I don’t know how she’d know.”

“Then maybe,” came Marlene’s voice loudly from the other side of the dormitory, “Bertha and the
lot of you should keep your mouths shut before I hex them that way.”

The whispers stopped.

They meant well, probably. Just because it felt like a crowd of onlookers gawking at a car crash
didn’t mean that was the intention…

A car crash.

Your father’s been in a car crash.

Some of the girls brought sweets or little gifts. Wenyi arrived one afternoon with a folded-up
napkin full of freshly-baked scones from the kitchens, and even Alodie had tried to make her a cup
of tea. Graham had sent (by way of Veronica Smethley) a bouquet of lilies that Veronica had left
on her bedside table. It felt unkind to admit that she hated lilies, but she did. Funeral flowers.

Despite all these gestures, Lily kept her curtains shut. She didn’t want to see anyone. She didn’t
want to talk, to cry, to commiserate, to share her grief. She wasn’t even sure if it was grief that she
was feeling. In fact, if she stopped to think about the things that she was feeling — the things that
her brain was thinking when she wasn’t paying attention — she started to hate herself.

She felt strangely lost. Confused. She’d wandered these labyrinthine halls of grief before; she
thought she knew her way around, but like the moving staircases of the castle, the path had
changed, doors had shifted, and she stood blinking in the shadows, lost and baffled, unable to find
her way through to the next room.

Lily already knew grief on intimate terms, and she knew it didn’t do what you thought it was
supposed to. It didn’t show up the way you expected it to. Sometimes the grief just waited. Some
things were too much to feel all at once. But this seemed different, somehow. It was as though with
one simple sentence — your father’s been in a car crash — she had closed a door to both her
parents, and with it all her emotion. She couldn’t risk opening it even a crack.

The smell of the lilies was too much. Shortly after midnight, she crawled of bed, grabbed the vase
by its neck, and descended to the common room. She threw the lilies upon the dying fire, then
dropped herself into a chair in the empty common room.

“Glad I didn’t bring you flowers.”

She turned. James was standing at the foot of the stairs in his pajamas, watching the blackened
lilies curl on the coals.

“How did you know I was down here?” said Lily.

James shrugged. “Call it intuition.”

“I don’t like the smell of lilies,” she explained.

“Noted,” said James. He crossed the space between them and hovered by the sofa across from her.
“May I…?”

Lily nodded.

James sat down, then stared at his hands for a moment before looking up at her. He leaned
forward. Hesitated. “I just wanted to…well, I just wanted to say how sorry I am.”
“It wasn’t what everyone is saying, you know.”

“What’s that?”

“It wasn’t Death Eaters,” said Lily.

“Oh,” said James. “Yeah, I know.”

Lily didn’t bother to ask how he knew. Word always got around this school. “A car crash,” she
said, more to herself, than to him.

“It’s not fair,” said James.

The fire crackled in the lingering silence.

“We’ve all been really worried about you. Marlene said you wanted to be left alone.”

Lily shifted uncomfortably, not quite meeting his gaze. “I just haven’t been ready to face everyone
yet.”

“I get it,” said James, though she could tell he didn’t. James Potter was someone who always
sought out company in his best and worst times. She wondered what he made of her, locking
herself away in her dormitory, hiding behind her bed curtains…

“Listen, Evans…I know it’s not the same thing. Not remotely the same thing. And I won’t say that
I know what you’re going through, because I don’t, of course I don’t, but…”

But he did know, at least a little. She thought of the conversation they’d had just a week ago before
this very fire, when he’d asked if he was a coward for not wanting to be home, trapped alone with
all his grief. She thought of a snowy night in Cokeworth…a boy on a swing-set…eyes gleaming
with tears he refused to let fall…the end of the world…

She remembered her arms wrapped around his shoulders that night, his hand, cold as the winter’s
wind, gently pressed against her own. That felt like years ago — but as she gazed at that same boy
who now sat on the sofa across from her, it felt like just yesterday too. She imagined herself now,
clambering out of this chair and running to him like a child for comfort; she imagined herself
pressing her face into his chest and coaxing out the tears that wouldn’t come; she imagined herself
curling up beside him and letting him stroke her hair and tell her that everything was going to be all
right…soft, pretty lies meant to soothe…and the thing was — the horrible, wonderful, heart-
achingly true thing was — she thought he’d probably let her. No — she knew he would. Even after
everything that had happened between them, after everything she’d done wrong, he’d let her. He’d
let her curl up in his arms. He’d stroke her hair. He’d tell her everything would be all right.

Soft, pretty lies.

“…but I guess I’m just saying if you ever, you know, want to talk about—”

“I don’t,” said Lily abruptly, interrupting his soft, pretty lies.

James’s face fell, just a little. “Right. No, of course not. I didn’t think you would, I just wanted to
offer—”

“No,” said Lily hastily, hating herself. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out. It’s not that I don’t
want to talk to you about it, it’s just…I…I can’t. I can’t talk about it. I’m barely holding it together
right now, and if I start to talk about it, I will fall apart, and I don’t know how long it will take me
to put the pieces back together, or if I even can, so I can’t — I can’t afford to fall apart right now. I
have to keep it together. I have to…I have to be strong.”

A long pause.

“You don’t, you know.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to be strong right now. No one is expecting that of you.”

Lily opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally, she said: “I am.”

James observed her for a moment, a slant of concern in his brow, hazel eyes sorrowful behind his
specs. Then he nodded and swept a hand through his hair. “Well, all right. But if you ever change
your mind…I’m here, that’s all I’m saying.”

Here…and yet so very, very far.

“Thank you.”

“I mean it,” said James.

“I know,” said Lily.

“Are you coming to Potions tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry, just so you know. About our Amortentia brew, I mean. I’m taking
care of it, it’s all going fine. So, don’t worry.”

Lily, who had not thought about any of her homework since that dreadful conversation with
Professor McGonagall, just nodded. “Thanks.”

James hesitated, as though there was something else he wanted to say, but then he pushed himself
up off the sofa. For a worrisome moment, he had that look — that tight sort of expression that
premeditated a platitude. She tensed in anticipation, in dread of it, but then he simply put his hand
on her shoulder and gave a gentle, reassuring with squeeze. Without meaning to, she let her cheek
fall against the back of his hand. A burst of warmth against the ice that encased her.

“Goodnight, Lily.”

In the cemetery behind the church in Cokeworth, there stood a massive yew tree. Lily had spent
much of her childhood playing beneath this tree, making daisy chains from the little flowers that
grew in summertime bursts all throughout the grass. She used to spend hours doing just this as a
little girl, but now she was fifteen, seated beneath the shade of the yew tree, its gnarled branches
weaving a vivid tapestry of green below. Even at fifteen, she enjoyed the process. It was repetitive.
Soothing.

Finally, when her daisy garland was as long as she felt it ought to be, she stood and draped it over a
tombstone. This stone was not as old as the others in the cemetery, all those ancient slabs, crooked
and scabbed with lichen. This one was new:

Anthea Evans
Beloved wife and mother
September 21, 1937 - August 12, 1974

For this corruptible must put on incorruption

“I thought I’d find you here.”

She looked up, startled by the sudden intrusion, but relaxed when she saw Sev slinking towards her
through the tombstones.

“Did you?”

He shrugged. “You weren’t at home, and you weren’t at the Railview. Figured you’d be here.”

Lily looked back down at the grave and gently rearranged the daisy chain. “I guess I have been
spending a lot of time here this summer. It’s just hard to believe it’s been a whole year, you
know?”

Sev nodded somberly. He was really good at that, at listening when she wanted to talk about how
sad she was. But Lily was tired of being sad, so she stood up, brushed the dirt from her trousers,
and collected the small looping crowns of daisies she’d made before the garland, a quick little
study to get the hang of this childhood art form once again.

“Here,” she said to Severus. “I have a present for you.” And she laid one of the daisy crowns atop
his head.

He regarded her with sardonic impassivity. “Thank you,” he said with the sort of deadpan humor
that always got her. “I’m finally pretty.”

And Lily laughed. It did feel good to laugh. She wanted this school year, her fifth year, to be one in
which she laughed a lot. She wanted to be happy. She deserved that, she thought.

“D’you work tomorrow?” asked Sev, leaving the daisy crown where she had placed it in a stoic act
of friendship.

“No.”

“Good. Want to go to London with me? I’ve got some more things to sell.”

Lily eyed him curiously. “What sort of things?”

“You know, just some of my mother’s stuff — erm. Sorry.”

Lily smiled. “It’s okay, Sev. I’m aware that other people still have mothers. You don’t have to
tiptoe around me.”

“I know.” There was a pause as he glanced down at the tombstone. “Does it help? Coming here?”
Lily thought about it. “I think it helps to remind me that it’s real. That it really happened. Being
away at Hogwarts all year…it’s easy to forget sometimes, but then it hurts more when I remember
so…yeah. It helps.” She glanced down again at the tombstone. “And…sometimes I do feel like I
can sense her here, with me…but then again, I feel that everywhere, so…” she shrugged, then
shook her head. “Never mind. Yes. Let’s go to London tomorrow.”

“D’you have enough gold for two tickets on the Knight Bus? I’ll pay you back as soon as I sell
these things, but—”

“Of course,” Lily cut him off. “No problem. Just don’t tell my dad though.”

“Why?”

Lily looked down at her hands and twisted the petals off a daisy. Sometimes she hated having to
explain everything about her world to her father. The smallest details became hour long
conversations as she covered the logistics of a bus that could traverse the country in mere seconds.
To her father, a trip to London meant hours in the car, a torturous crawl down the M6. He would
not understand the Knight Bus, and she couldn’t be bothered to explain.

“It’s just easier,” she said, tossing the daisy aside.

She couldn’t face potions the next morning. She felt a little guilty, leaving James to tend to the
complicated brew of Amortentia all on his own, but he’d said it was going fine, so she decided to
take him at his word. Sooner rather than later she would need to begin going to classes again.
Professor McGonagall had already scheduled a check-in meeting for next week. She would need to
catch up on her schoolwork and start pretending like any of this mattered.

But it could wait one more day, she thought, so she lingered in bed until everyone else had gone to
classes, then snuck down to the Great Hall to snatch the last pieces of toast from breakfast, and
headed out for a walk across the grounds.

It felt good to stretch her legs and get out from the depressing shadows of her dormitory. It was a
bit of a gloomy day, the air heavy with rain that hadn’t yet fallen, but it was still fresh air and she
drank it in as she strolled along the edge of the lake. At last she found a spot along the rocky edge
and sat down to nibble at her toast, listening to the gently lapping waters of the lake and willing her
mind to emptiness.

It did not obey.

The problem, she decided, was that she didn’t really believe it was true. She didn’t believe that the
world was actually this cruel — and what proof did she have that it was true? A letter from
Petunia? Maybe her sister was wrong, or lying — maybe it was all a horrible joke, maybe her
father was home right now, locked up in his study, bent over a book, oblivious to the anguish his
daughter was suffering, maybe—

A soft rustling made her turn around, and when she did she let out a little gasp of surprise. It was
the big, black dog she’d run into a few weeks ago.

“You,” she said, and the dog trotted over. She found herself thinking of the first time she’d seen
him out by the greenhouses, and how Marlene had been so sure it was an omen…
Lily scowled at the dog. “You’re not an omen of death, are you? You’re just a stupid dog.”

The dog looked offended.

“Sorry. You’re not a stupid dog. You’re a lovely dog. I’m just in a foul mood.” And, as an apology,
she offered him her remaining piece of toast.

The dog considered her for a moment, accepted the toast, then settled down beside her, chin to
paws. Mindlessly, she reached out and scratched him behind the ears. They sat like that for a
while, just watching the faint rippling of the lake.

“Thanks,” she muttered after a bit. “You’re better company than most people. Everyone…tries so
hard. They mean well, but it’s like they want me to act a certain way, and I just can’t. You know I
haven’t even cried? And I cry about everything. Last time I saw you, I was crying my eyes out over
a stupid boy…God.”

The dog said nothing. Obviously. It was a dog. Still, the animal had such an intelligent, almost
empathetic look in its eyes that it was very easy to keep talking to it as though it could understand
her. That, coupled with the alluring knowledge that of course it couldn’t, made it quite compelling
to continue.

“I’m trying to be strong, dad would want me to be strong, but…I don’t think I am. I think I’m just
broken. What kind of person finds out her dad died and doesn’t shed a single tear?”

She pressed her palms to her eyelids as though she might coax the tears out at last. None came.

“And d’you want to know what the worst thing is? It’s so awful, it’s the kind of thing you’re not
even supposed to think, let alone say…but you won’t tell. The worst thing is…for the tiniest,
infinitesimal moment…when Professor McGonagall told me it was a car crash…I almost…I
almost felt relieved. I’ve spent so long worrying about my family being attacked or — or tortured
by Death Eaters…at least this way, it wasn’t my fault.”

She let these horrible words hang before her for a moment while the lake lapped in and out…then
she exhaled a little gasp. “God. I’m the most repulsive, selfish, horrible person that ever was,
aren’t I? No wonder Tuney hates me. I hate me.”

The dog whined.

Lily curled into herself, knees to chin, and buried her face in her elbows. She sat like that for a long
time, the dog by her side, until a splatter of raindrops landed on her cheek and she looked up to see
a dark cloud brewing across the water.

“Damn,” she muttered, and she pushed herself back up. “Thank you,” she said to the dog. “I think it
actually does help to talk to someone. Even if that someone is a dog.”

But as she dashed back to the castle, the rain really picking up now, coming down in sheets that
soaked her robes, she realized with some surprise that it was not the dog she wished to see, but
rather one Sirius Black.

He was not in the common room when she arrived, much to her disappointment, so instead she
found a spot by the fire to dry off, grateful that Gryffindor Tower was mostly empty, since all but a
few N.E.W.T. students were confined to morning classes. She stayed there until the portrait hole
swung open and Sirius Black sauntered through.

“Black,” she said at once, standing up and walking over to him. She didn’t even care that her robes
were still damp and that her hair had gone all curly from the rain. Let him think what he wanted.

“Oh, Evans. Hey.” He looked surprised to see her. Almost guilty, or perhaps wary. She recalled
that the last time they’d spoken, she’d bitten his head off in the corridor.

“Listen,” she said, “I’m sorry about the other day—”

Sirius shook his head. “Don’t even think about apologizing to me right now.”

“I just…I think I need to be angry at someone, and you were…convenient.”

“Happy to help, then.”

She bit her lip. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your help. Would you — er —
help me with something?”

“Yeah. ‘Course. What is it?”

“Hogsmeade,” said Lily.

Sirius blinked.

“You sneak out there a lot, don’t you?” she pressed on. “I know you do. I need you to tell me
how.”

“Why…?”

“Why do you think? Because I need to go to Hogsmeade.”

He eyed her curiously. “What’s so urgent it can’t wait until the next scheduled weekend?”

“That’s none of your business, frankly, and anyway, the next scheduled weekend isn’t until May,
and I need to go now, so…are you going to tell me or not?”

Sirius thought about it. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you.”

Lily scoffed. “Fine. Forget you. I don’t know why I thought you’d help me anyway.” She turned
on her heel to storm off — but then Sirius grabbed her arm.

“I’ll show you,” he said. “You want to sneak out, fine. I’ll show you how. But I’m coming along.”

“No. I don’t want you to come. I don’t need you to come. I don’t want company, I just—”

“That’s the deal, Evans. Take it or leave it.”

Lily chewed on this, considering her options. “Fine,” she said at last. “But I have to go tonight.”

She expected him to protest, to claim he was busy, or simply make things difficult for no reason,
but Sirius just nodded. “That works. James has some obnoxious dinner party tonight with Florence,
so I can snag the Cloak.”
“He won’t mind?”

“He’d be more irritated if I didn’t, I think. I’ll meet you outside the portrait hole before dinner,
yeah?”

Lily had also been invited to the obnoxious dinner party, but she had no intention of going. She
didn’t think Slughorn or anyone else really expected her to either, which was a relief. So, as the rest
of her house-mates headed down to the Great Hall for dinner, Lily loitered outside the portrait
hole, waiting.

She was beginning to think that maybe Sirius was going to stand her up, maybe he never intended
to help her sneak out at all — when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned; no one was there.

Then, a sheath of invisible fabric lifted, and Sirius’s face peeked out at her. “Under here,” he said.
“Come on, quickly. Don’t want to be seen.”

He led her down to the fourth floor and stopped before a large, gilt-framed mirror.

“Always a bit funny looking at yourself with no reflection, isn’t it?” he mused. “Makes me feel like
a bloody vampire.”

“Right,” muttered Lily. “Can we get a move on?”

“It’s here.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. Coast clear?”

Lily glanced up and down the corridor. It was empty. “Yes.”

So Sirius shrugged off the Cloak and hooked his fingers beneath the mirror’s frame…then pulled it
open to reveal large, dark expanse before them. Lily stared. She’d walked past this mirror every
day for years and never known there was a whole room back there…

“Best not to linger,” said Sirius, tapping her on the shoulder. They both clambered through the
mirror-space into the darkness, and Sirius carefully closed the mirror behind them, lighting his
wand as darkness swallowed them up.

Lily did the same, gazing around in wonder at the vast chamber in which she now stood. “How did
you find this?”

Sirius shrugged. “Trial and error.”

“What, you just went around the castle tugging at frames on the wall?”

“Basically.”

“You boys have too much time on your hands.”

Sirius smirked. “Come on, this way.”

She followed him down a narrow staircase that led into a low passageway, illuminated by torches
that burst into flame as they progressed. It was an impressive sight. She couldn’t help but gawk.

Sirius wore an expression of faint pride, as though he felt some ownership of the castle’s marvelous
secrets. “There’s another tunnel through that statue of the one-eyed witch,” he said. “Leads directly
to Honeydukes, but this one’s a bit roomier. Better for the casual stroll and pleasant conversation.”

“Right,” said Lily. “Let’s go.” And she took off down tunnel without waiting for him. Sirius kept
pace beside her with long, easy strides.

“Almost forgot, I grabbed some sandwiches for dinner.” He handed her a bundled up package.
“Roast beef?”

But Lily shook her head. “I’m not very hungry, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Sirius shrugged and unwrapped the sandwich himself. “So,” he said after a few
moments of chewing. “Are you going to tell me what prompted this urgent escape of the castle?”

“No.”

“All right.” They walked past a few more torches in silence. “Are you…going to talk to me at all?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“It’s a long tunnel.”

“You’re the one who insisted on coming. I told you I didn’t want company.”

“You did,” agreed Sirius. They walked on, and for the length of two torchlights she thought he was
going to leave her in peace, but then he said: “Thing is…I’m a good listener.”

“What?”

“I’m a good listener. If you ever want to talk to…you know…another person.”

Lily just stared at him.

“I hear it can be helpful. Talking to someone. About…stuff.”

“Stuff,” repeated Lily, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, you know: thoughts, feelings, secrets. That sort of thing.”

Lily almost laughed, but it came out more like a scoff. “Black,” she said. “I appreciate you helping
me tonight, so please don’t take this the wrong way…but out of all the people in this school to
whom I would tell my ‘stuff’, you’re at the bottom of the list. There is no imaginable scenario in
which I spill to you all my thoughts and feelings and…secrets.”

A pause.

“Got it,” said Sirius. “Awkward silence it is then.”

The silence delivered and was indeed as awkward as the tunnel was long. Lily felt a little guilty for
being so short with him — he was helping her, after all — but did he really think that after all the
years of torment and teasing, that she would open up to him? To him? Honestly…

“Almost there,” said Sirius when finally, mercifully, they approached the end of the tunnel. “This
leads to the stables in Hogsmeade,” he said, pointing at a narrow ladder against the wall. Lily
followed as Sirius climbed up and out through a grate. He leaned down to give her a hand — which
she didn’t need, but as an apology of sorts for her earlier rudeness, she accepted it — and she
clambered out into the thick, smothering scent of stables. She glanced around, blinking against the
darkness, then jumped back in fright at the sight of gleaming white eyes peering at her from
straight ahead.

“Christ,” she exclaimed.

“What is it?” said Sirius, looking both concerned and confused.

Lily’s eyes were adjusting to the dark now, and she took in the skeletal forms of the horse-like
creatures that pulled the carriages from Hogsmeade Station to the castle. She remembered the first
time she saw them, coming off the train at the start of fourth year. She’d been terrified…but
thankfully Sev had known what they were, even if he couldn’t see them.

“Just Thestrals,” she murmured, more to herself than to Sirius.

Sirius’s expression faltered. “You can see…oh fuck, I didn’t even think—”

“It’s fine. I’ve been able to see them for years, I just wasn’t expecting to see one right now.”

She let herself catch her breath, gazing at the spooky creatures. She’d always thought it was a cruel
trick of magic, to create a creature that existed to haunt only those already haunted by grief. A
living embodiment of how loss makes you different. Nobody else she knew at school could see
them. She used to hate those moments when she’d spot one out on the grounds…

But then she felt sad for the Thestrals. It wasn’t their fault they served as an eternally painful
reminder. They were just living their lives, like all creatures do. Gently, she reached out and let one
of the Thestrals sniff her hand. “Haven’t got anything for you, sorry,” she murmured. The Thestral
let out a little whiffle air against her palm. She laughed softly. “That tickles.”

Sirius was watching; he looked slightly uncomfortable.

“Right,” said Lily. “Where are we?”

“Just a little east of High Street. That way — that’ll take us to the main part of town.”

“But we’re off the school grounds here, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sirius pointed towards the forest. “Hogwarts ends at those trees.”

“Great. Okay. Thanks. No need to wait for me, I can find my own way back now.”

“Sorry, what? I’m not going back without you.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Lily impatiently. “I know the way now, and I’ve got things to do, so—”

“Absolutely not. No way. That wasn’t the deal.”

“The deal was that you’d show me, rather than tell me, how to sneak out. You did that. Thank you.
Mission accomplished.”

Sirius folded his arms. “I’m not leaving.”

“Fine!” said Lily, throwing her arms up in irritation. “You can wait for me here then. I don’t care!”

“Wait for you…?” Sirius took a step towards her. “Where are you even going?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Evans, come on. Where are you going?”

“Home!” The word was wrenched from her, and it hung in the air like an accusation. “I’m going
home, okay?”

Sirius just stared.

“Look,” she said, trying to compose herself. “Not that this is any of your business, but…they
already had the funeral. Without me. All I have is a letter from my sister telling me that it
happened. And on some level — on the sane, rational level — I know that she’s not lying to me, I
know that — I know it really did happen, but I am not going to believe until I see the grave. So I’m
going home to say goodbye to my dad. Okay?”

Sirius was quiet for a long moment. “How are you going to get there?”

“I’m going to apparate, of course,” muttered Lily.

“You don’t have a license yet.”

“So what? I’m of age, they’re not tracking me anymore, and I looked it up — apparating without a
license, it’s just a fine. And besides, I probably won’t get caught anyway. The Ministry has far
bigger issues on their hands than a few unlicensed apparaters. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I
know that you and Potter do illegal magic all the time and you never get caught.”

“Let me do it,” said Sirius.

“What?”

“I’ll apparate us both there.”

“You don’t have a license either.”

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“I’m so sick of you acting like I don’t know how to do anything,” said Lily abruptly. He had a
remarkable way of always poking directly at the tender parts of her temper. “I am perfectly capable
—”

“It’s not about your capability, it’s about your blood status!”

That shut her up. “Excuse me?”

Sirius sighed. He paced a few steps away, then turned back to her, brushing his hair out of his eyes
in frustration as he did so. “Look, I’m sorry. I hate that this is true, but it is: You’re Muggle-born,
and I’m — what was it your friend at the club said? The biggest pure-blood ponce in school? You
know as well as I do that if either of us gets caught doing unlicensed magic, I’m going to get in a
lot less trouble than you. It’s shit, but it’s true.”

Lily frowned, hugging her arms to her chest as she considered the reality of his words.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” insisted Sirius. “I won’t talk, I won’t bother you, I’ll let you do
whatever it is you need to do. Just…let me help.”

Finally, Lily nodded.

Side-along apparition was a lot of faith to put in someone else, Lily thought as Sirius threaded his
arm through hers, but while she may not trust Sirius Black to keep her secrets, she did trust him to
be a damn good wizard. She only felt the faintest bit of panic at the sudden compressing sensation
she’d learned meant imminent apparition — and then blackness came like a blink — and the world
around them changed.

They were standing in the center of the playground. It was empty, mercifully, and the night’s
shadows cloaked them from view. A swing creaked lonely in the wind. Lily turned to look at it, a
rush of memories clawing at her edges…

Tuney! Watch what I can do!

“Is this right?” said Sirius, glancing around. “Are we…here?”

“Yes,” said Lily, turning away from the swing. The playground was perched on a hill, the great,
ugly chimney of Spinner’s End far off in the distance like an affront. Lily stared down at
Cokeworth, her home, an indescribable sense of anxiety and dizziness swirling in her stomach —
although that might have been an after-effect of the apparition, she supposed.

She glanced at Sirius. She half-expected him to make some snide comment about the dirty mill
town, but he didn’t. He was as quiet as he’d promised he’d be, following her lead as she descended
the hill towards the church.

When she reached the church, she considered for a fleeting moment going inside and doing
something silly like saying a prayer or whatever people did at times like this. But the thought of
being in those walls, knowing that her father wasn’t there, that he would never be again…it was
intolerable. So instead she headed towards the graveyard in the back. She paused by the little gate
that led inside.

“D’you mind staying here?” she said to Sirius. “I…I’d rather be alone for this part.”

Sirius agreed.

The gate whined as she pushed through into the cemetery. She walked purposefully through the
jumble of tombstones; she didn’t have to look for him, she knew exactly where he would be. Over
by the great yew tree…next to her mother.

A few more steps. And there was her answer.

 George Evans
Devoted Father, Husband, Servant of God
May 14, 1934 - April 4, 1977

And this mortal must put on immortality

It was real.

The lights on the Christmas tree glittered like stars in the sky as Lily stared at them, letting her
sleepy eyes focus and unfocus, so the splotches of light grew wider, brighter. In the background,
the radio was turned low, playing an endless stream of Christmas carols. Judy Garland advised her
in warbling notes that next year, all her troubles would be miles away…

“Here we are,” said George Evans, pushing through the door. “Two mugs of hot cocoa.”

“With marshmallows?”

A solemn nod. “With marshmallows.”

She accepted the mug and scooted over on the sofa to make room for her dad. He heaved a tired
sigh as he lowered himself into the seat.

It was late. Far later than either of them would normally stay up on Christmas Eve — or rather,
Christmas Day, now — but both father and daughter sensed that a conversation needed to be had.
Mrs. Colfield had gone home following the church service, and now it was just Lily and her dad.
She supposed she would to have to apologize to the woman who would one day be her step-mother,
but that could wait for another day.

She looked up at her father. “I’m sorry I was so rude to Mrs. Colfield.”

Her father sipped his cocoa. “I probably should’ve told you one-on-one. I know change is hard,
especially since you’re only here a few months each year, you don’t see the way things change
until they’re smacking you in the face…but sometimes change is necessary, my darling.”

“Why?”

She was embarrassed at how childish and stubborn she sounded, but her dad just smiled. “Because
life is change. It is inevitable, and to stay stagnant, to refuse that change is to condemn oneself to a
life of loneliness and grief. I want to be happy.”

Lily felt the hot sting of tears against her cheeks. “And I want you to be happy, Daddy, I do, it’s
just — it feels like everyone’s leaving me. Mum, and then my best friend moved to the States, and
then my other friend—” she cut herself off. She didn’t want to think of Sev right now. “And now
you’re leaving me too.”

“Lily, my darling,” her father said, setting his hot cocoa aside and turning to her. “You will always,
always be the love of my life. You have been, since the moment you were born. My little miracle.
I’m not leaving you. I will never leave you.”
“You don’t know that.” The tears were streaming freely now; she brushed them away in
impatience. “Everyone always leaves. Why do the people we love always have to leave? Why —
why did mummy have to die?”

Her father was quiet for a long moment. Then, at last, he said: “To love is to invite loss into your
life.”

“Then love is stupid,” said Lily, really leaning into her bratty child performance of the night. “I
don’t want to love anything.”

“Ah,” said her father softly, “but think of all you’d miss out on. We all die, Lily, my darling. It’s
the one truth no one can change, the one fate no one escapes. Ultimately, all stories have the same
ending. What matters is how you fill the pages, and from all I’ve learned in life, love is the only
story worth writing.”

At this, Lily too abandoned her hot cocoa and laid her head against her father’s chest, not even
bothering to stem the tears that flowed. He put his arm around her and stroked her hair.

“And then of course, there’s always faith.”

“Faith?” said Lily, unable to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

“Yes, my love. That thing I spend rather a good amount of my life talking about. Faith. That death
is not the end. Just another door on our journey to salvation. Faith that your mother is only gone in
the way that I am gone from you when you are at school. Just waiting out of sight to greet you one
day.”

“What if you’re wrong?” Lily sniffed. “What if there’s nothing…after?”

“Well, unfortunately, my dear, I am a vicar. I am contractually obligated to believe in the afterlife.

They make you sign a little form before they give you the collar.”

“You’re lying,” said Lily, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

Her father kissed her forehead. “I am. If only faith were that easy. The truth is, I don’t know what
lies beyond any more than you do. But I know what I believe. And what I believe is that those we
love stay with us. Even if there is nothing beyond this earthly life, your mother still isn’t gone.
She’s with me every day, in all the things she taught me, in all the little ways she used to make me
laugh that sneak up on me still — and in you. Sometimes when I come out of my study, I could
swear I still hear her singing. And sometimes when I go into the kitchen…she is. Because there
you are. Singing. You sound so much like her when you sing.”

Her father’s voice broke, and Lily looked up in surprise to see tears pooling in his eyes too.

“I love you,” he said, “and I love Petunia, and I loved Anthea, and that will never, ever change. But
sometimes, we have to let new people into our hearts. It doesn’t mean we love anyone any less.”

Dampness upon her skin. Lily glanced up at the heavens lest it start raining again, only to realize
the wetness was from her own eyes.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whispered into the night. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve come home.
I should’ve written you more, I should’ve—”

She stopped herself, shoulders shuddering. He wouldn’t want her to come here and flay herself
before his grave. She tried to think of what he would want. Then she withdrew her wand and
conjured two bouquets of flowers: lavender for mother, and lilies for her father, because even
though she hated them, her dad always thought they were beautiful.

Those we love stay with us.

She knelt down and placed the flowers upon each tombstone. Then she closed her eyes. It felt as
though she could almost hear her mummy singing.

You remember songs of heaven…which you sang in childish voice.

Do you love the hymns they taught you…or are songs of earth your choice?

Eyes still squeezed shut, Lily finished the song for her: “Will the circle be unbroken…by and by…
by and by…Is a better home awaiting…in the sky, Lord, in the sky?”

Then she pushed herself up off her knees and turned away from the graves. For a moment, her
gazed drifted off in the direction of her house. She was suddenly hit with an impulsive urge to go
see it, to stand in its familiar shadow, to creep around the back alley that defined so much of her
life…almost as though she might climb the trellis and curl up in her bed…but the thought of seeing
the windows darkened and empty — or worse, lit up with the lives of someone else — the new
vicar — was too painful to even consider bearing.

So instead, she turned and walked back to the gate where Sirius was waiting, slumped against the
low stone wall of the church. He straightened up when she approached, and she saw his eyes take
in the streaks of tears down her face.

“I’d like to go back now,” said Lily.

Pop!

They landed back in Hogsmeade.

“Overshot it a little,” said Sirius glancing around their location from beneath the veil of the
Invisibility Cloak. They were on a street of shops, and Lily, still slightly dizzy from the apparition,
took a moment to get her bearings. She felt overwhelmed by the sudden change from Cokeworth to
Hogsmeade, the dizzying abruptness of loss.

She stumbled slightly away from Sirius, slipping out from beneath the Cloak.

“Evans?”

“I just need a minute,” she mumbled, taking a few more steps away. Her breaths were coming in
sharp, panicked bursts, and she felt as though she was going to throw up — but then a door flung
open, and Lily’s wand flew out of her hands.

She gasped in alarm as a woman’s voice shouted: “HANDS IN THE AIR, NOW!”
Chapter End Notes

sorry :(

ok but if you made it this far, you have reached peak angst of this angst fic! To quote
Shania Twain's aptly titled "Up" (2002): "Up, up, up, can only go up from
heeeeeeeeeere."

p.s. if anyone is interested, this is the full hymn Lily/Anthea sings in this chapter.
(yeah, sure Johnny Cash also does a fairly famous rendition of this song, but I actually
prefer the original hymn lyrics and I really like the bioshock version okay? )
 Schoolboys and Their Secrets

SIRIUS

Schoolboys and Their Secrets

“HANDS IN THE AIR, NOW!”

Beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Sirius froze — but only for a second. Wand gripped in one knuckle-
clenched fist, he turned rapidly from Lily — who stood wide-eyed and wandless with her hands
raised to her shoulders — to the door behind her that had sprung open so suddenly. In the sparse
pool of light from the gaping door, Sirius took in the form of a tall black woman in what appeared
to be pajamas, her hair wrapped up in a scarf, a furious expression on her face. One hand held
Lily’s disarmed wand, while the other pointed the woman’s own wand directly at Lily, whose
back was to her still.

“Put your hands on your head,” directed the woman, “and turn around slowly.”

Lily began to do so, and Sirius saw his opportunity. Flinging the Cloak from his shoulders and
stuffing it into his pocket in one swift motion, he sent an aggressive disarming spell towards the
woman. It should’ve taken her by surprise, and it was strong enough that it would’ve knocked most
wizards off their feet, but the woman reacted with preternatural reflexes, as though she had already
been anticipating an attack from all sides, and launched a shield charm so powerful it knocked
Sirius back against the glass window of the shop. He recovered himself and quickly pointed his
wand back at the woman. “Leave her alone!”

“Put that wand down,” demanded the woman in a harsh voice.

“You first,” snarled Sirius.

They appeared to be at an impasse, each glaring at the other’s wand…the next obvious step was to
begin a duel…Sirius readied himself, considering his next move…but then Lily said: “Dorcas?”
and the woman’s gaze darted from Sirius to Lily, who had turned around to face her assailant at
last.

The woman’s eyes widened in surprise. “What are you doing out here?”

Sirius took advantage of this moment of distraction to lodge another hex, which the woman —
Dorcas — readily blocked.
“I said wand down!”

“Sirius, don’t! It’s okay. I know her. Lower your wand, I mean it!”

Sirius hesitated.

“Do it!” shouted Lily.

Grudgingly, Sirius lowered his wand…but Dorcas did not. “Prove you are who you appear to be,”
she said to Lily, her wand still pointed readily at Sirius.

Lily blinked. “What…?”

“What was the book I lent you when you first came into my shop?”

“Erm,” said Lily, clearly flustered. “Well, you lent me two. The first was The Muggle-born
Revolution by…Adeyemi, and the other was — erm — Bad Blood: The Politics of Purity, by…oh,
what was her name…”

“That’ll do,” said Dorcas, glancing hastily down the street. “Come on, it’s not safe out here. Get
inside, quickly.” She ushered them in through the front door of the shop.

Sirius cast Lily an eyebrow-raised look that he hoped appropriately conveyed his skepticism, but
Lily just grabbed his arm and dragged him inside.

“Through here,” said Dorcas, and she led them through the shadowy gloom — walls lined with
shelves, tables stacked with books — to the back of shop, where a beaded curtain hung in the
doorway.

Before they could pass, however, the barrel of a shotgun nosed through the clacking beads. Sirius
was rather pleased with himself for knowing what a shotgun was, as they hadn’t explicitly covered
them in Muggle Studies, but he’d read the textbook in full one afternoon when he’d been bored and
there’d been a chapter on — what did they call them? — firearms. The shotgun didn’t look
particularly fiery. At least, he thought it was a shotgun. He turned to Lily. “Is that a…?”

“Shut up,” Lily advised him in a low hiss.

“When and where did you and I first meet?” demanded a voice from behind the curtain (and,
presumably, the shotgun).

“1963, in the basement of the Hogshead, during a meeting for the Squib Equality Brigade,” said
Dorcas calmly.

The shotgun withdrew, and then a hand with ringed fingers pulled aside the beaded curtain to
reveal a middle-aged woman with flyaway brown hair and a floral dressing gown. She stepped
aside and let them pass into the back room, which appeared to be some sort of makeshift kitchen,
cramped with a giant fireplace, an ancient cooker, and a frayed armchair shoved into the corner. He
noted a narrow staircase that, judging by the presence of pajamas, presumably led to a flat above
the shop.

“Well?” said Floral Dressing Gown.

“False alarm,” said Dorcas. “Or so it seems. These two triggered the security spells.”

The woman with the shotgun squinted at them through the dark. “Students? Hang on, isn’t that
your little revolutionary?”

Dorcas’s lips twitched. “Yes.”

“Hi,” said Lily awkwardly.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, Bel. I’ve checked her already. It’s her.”

“And him?” Floral Dressing Gown — or rather, Bel — nudged the shotgun towards Sirius.

“This is Sirius Black,” said Lily hastily. “He’s—”

“A friend,” Sirius finished for her — or rather, cut her off. Lily cast him a swift, searching glance,
then turned her attention back to the older women.

“I’m really sorry,” she said. “We didn’t mean to intrude or upset anyone, we were just trying to get
back to the castle, that’s all, I promise.”

“Why were you out of the castle at all?” demanded Dorcas. “Do you have any idea how dangerous
it is?”

“We were perfectly fine until you attacked us,” said Sirius coolly.

“I didn’t attack you.”

“You disarmed her. That’s an attack.”

“You were lurking around my property at night. You’re lucky I only disarmed you.”

“Bit jumpy, are you?” Sirius ignored the painful jab of Lily’s elbow into his side.

Dorcas glared at him for a moment, then she scoffed. “I have a perimeter spell set up. Anyone
apparates too closely or crosses the boundary past a certain time of night, it goes off. We’ve had
some trouble lately.”

“More and more every week, it seems,” muttered Bel, propping her shotgun against the mantle of
the large fireplace.

“And after the owner of that salon across the street was found murdered in his own shop, propped
in a styling chair with the words blood traitor carved into his chest — yes, we’re a bit jumpy.”

“Dorcas,” chided Bel, her eyes on Lily, who had gone very pale. “Do you really need to—”

“Yes, Bel, I do. If they’re going to take late night jaunts off school grounds, they should know
what they’re walking into. Lord knows the papers won’t print it, and I suppose Minchum and
Crouch have got their hit wizard goons lining the streets for student weekends so everyone can
pretend everything’s jolly and fine, but it bloody well isn’t.”

“I didn’t know,” said Lily in a small voice.

“I should Floo the Headmaster right now,” continued Dorcas. “Have someone come collect you—”

“Please don’t do that,” begged Lily at once. “Oh, please, Dorcas. I know you’re right, we shouldn’t
have come, but—”
“It was my fault,” said Sirius. “I pushed her into coming. If anyone’s going to get in trouble, it
should be me.”

Another swift glance from Lily.

“At least let’s make the kids a cuppa and give ‘em a chance to catch their breath,” said Bel. “Look
at the poor girl, she’s shaking like a leaf.”

“I’m fine,” said Lily, unconvincingly.

Dorcas frowned for a long moment, then she sighed. “Fine. Bel, take Lily up to the flat and put the
kettle on. I’m going to check the perimeter spells, then I’ll be up. You—” she addressed this to
Sirius, who had made to follow Lily. “You come with me.”

Sirius was about to protest, but Lily caught his eye, gave a little nod, and mouthed: Go. He didn’t
like to leave her alone, but Lily seemed to know these women and to trust them, so he just shoved
his hands in his pockets and said, “Fine.”

The stairs creaked as Bel and Lily ascended to the flat above. Dorcas went to rummage in the
drawer of a slightly crooked dresser behind the armchair. “Almost out of sage,” she muttered under
her breath. “Rue…mugwort…that’ll do.”

While she was occupied with this endeavor, Sirius went to investigate the shotgun, which
fascinated him, but found himself distracted instead by the photographs on the mantle. They
showed a group of young witches and wizards in what was presumably the 1960s, judging by the
clothes, marching in various protests through Diagon Alley.

“All these protests…” he said. “Are you some sort of Muggle Rights activist?”

“Some sort,” said Dorcas, a definite coldness to her voice.

“What’s with the shotgun?”

Dorcas glanced over her shoulder at the firearm. “Arabella is non-magical.”

“A Squib?”

“Yes.” Dorcas straightened up and shut the dresser drawer. She collected a mortar and pestle from
the mantle and began to grind up the herbs. “That gun won’t do much against a properly trained
wizard intent on murder, but it’s better than nothing.” She poured the ground herbs into a small
satchel, muttered something Sirius didn’t catch with her wand, then headed for the back door.
“Right,” she said. “Come on, then.”

Sirius followed her out into the alley. The night was as quiet as it was dark. He’d wandered these
streets — on his own or with his mates — more times than he could count. It was hard to believe
Dorcas’s claim that it was unsafe, that just across the street a man had been brutally murdered…

“What do you want me to do?” asked Sirius, following as the woman spread the charmed herbs in a
thin trail along the outer perimeter of the shop.

“Nothing,” said Dorcas.

“Then why did you want me to come along…?”

Having finished her task, she pulled out her wand and muttered an incantation. The herb
concoction briefly turned bright blue, like the hottest part of a flame, then vanished.

“Because I wanted a chat. Back inside.”

As the door latch clicked shut, Sirius had the impression he was about to be told off, and it
annoyed him. Indeed, Dorcas rounded on him at once.

“Right,” she said. “You may think it’s a lark, convincing girls to sneak out of the castle on
romantic excursions with you—”

“That’s not what we—”

“You may even feel protected by your name and your status, but that girl is Muggle-born, and she
is far more vulnerable than you—”

“You think I don’t know that?” interrupted Sirius, properly annoyed now. “She’s my friend, thanks
very much.”

“Then you’re not being a very good friend, are you, putting her at risk like this?”

This struck Sirius as entirely unfair. “Look, I came here to make sure she got back safely, okay?
That’s all.”

Dorcas raised her eyebrows. “I thought you pushed her into coming?”

Sirius shut his mouth as the echo of his own words came back to him. He glared at the woman.
“Should I get a lawyer?”

She returned half a smile. “Look, I remember being your age. I was reckless too. I imagine it’s
exciting for you, sneaking out of the castle, rebelling against your family by dating a Muggle-born
girl, but your actions have real world consequences, and you have no right to put that girl in danger
like this.”

Something in Sirius’s mind clicked into place. “Aha,” he said. “I suppose you know all about me.
You read that Skeeter woman’s article about me, didn’t you?”

Dorcas cocked her head slightly. “I saw it, yeah. Do you understand what a target you put on that
girl’s back?”

“Do you understand that it’s all a load of crock? We’re not dating. We never were. You read the
Daily Prophet’s society pages a lot, do you? Funny, you don’t strike me as the type.”

“Well, you know what they say: Know thy enemy.”

“I’m your enemy, am I?”

“I’m not sure. Are you?”

Sirius chewed his tongue for a moment, feeling unreasonably stung. He was no stranger to other
people’s preconceived notions about him based on his name, his family, and he made a show of
shrugging it off with hereditary disdain…but that didn’t mean he liked it. Finally, he said: “I don’t
reckon I am your enemy, but I’m definitely not Lily’s, okay? I don’t want her getting in trouble for
this. If you need to turn someone into the Headmaster, if you need someone to blame, blame me,
that’s fine, but leave her out of it. She’s got enough on her plate.”

Dorcas considered this, considered him, as though she found this statement uniquely interesting.
Then she asked, “Why did you sneak out here tonight?”

“Why don’t you ask Lily?” said Sirius with what he knew was entirely unhelpful stubbornness.
“Since you two are such great mates?”

Dorcas intimated that she would do as much, and the two climbed the stairs up to the flat, Sirius
trudging grumpily behind like the delinquent youth she thought him to be. Upon entering, they
found Lily, sitting on a squashed-looking sofa with Bel’s arm around her shoulder, an orange cat
curled in her lap, a mug of something steaming in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. He
felt his chest tighten in much same way it had when he’d been Padfoot, stumbling upon her crying
in the forest. He hated to see her cry.

Before he could speak, however, Lily looked up at him and said, “I told her the truth. About why I
really snuck out. Where we went. All of it.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” said Sirius, who had claimed the spot next to her that Bel had
vacated. The two women had stepped into the other room to discuss, no doubt, what to do with the
runaway teenagers. “You should’ve let them think this was my idea.”

“What was the point in lying?” said Lily. She looked almost shipwrecked, sitting there amid the
squashy cushions. Her gaze was vague and distracted, her hair mussed as though by a great wind,
her cheeks still shiny with tears. She stroked the cat in her lap mindlessly for a few moments.
Then, in a tiny voice: “Do you think they’ll expel me?”

“Of course not,” said Sirius gruffly. “Don’t be stupid. I’ve done loads worse stuff, and they haven’t
given me the boot yet.”

“But it’s like you said. I’m Muggle-born.”

“Yeah, and Dumbledore is still Headmaster. He doesn’t give a fuck about that nonsense.” He
thought for a moment. “We’ve still got the Invisibility Cloak, and we’re not far from the tunnel.
We could just make a break for it.”

But Lily shook her head.

“Why?” said Sirius. “Because these women are your friends?”

“I barely know them. Only met them a few times. They’re nice, though.”

“Yeah, Dorcas is real nice, when she doesn’t have a wand at your throat.”

Lily looked at him, her gaze focusing for the first time. “She and Bel are a half-blood and a Squib
running a pro-Muggle bookshop in a Wizarding village. Can you blame her?”

“I guess not,” agreed Sirius. “She doesn’t like me much.”

“Well, pulling your wand on her probably didn’t help.”

“She pulled hers on you first. And no, that wasn’t it. It was after you told her my name.”

“What?”
Sirius considered telling her about Dorcas bringing up the article, but decided against it. “She
knows my family,” he said instead. “Or of them, more likely. I can usually tell.”

“How?”

“Oh, you know, a slight tightening around the eyes, the unmistakable air of concern…” He
laughed at her expression. “I’m used to it. The Black family legacy casts a long shadow.”

Lily looked thoughtful for a moment, then looked down at her hands. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“That wasn’t an appeal for sympathy. Just an observation. You know, it’s interesting…I’ve never
actually met a Muggle Rights activist before. Isn’t that funny? The Prophet’s favorite Boogeyman,
and yet…”

“Met loads of Death Eaters though, have you?”

He could tell she meant this lightly, but Sirius’s expression darkened as he thought of Lucius
Malfoy, of his own brother with his Death Eater shrine pinned up to his bedroom wall…

“Unfortunately, yeah, I probably have.”

Feeling restless, he stood and walked over to a bookshelf behind the sofa, perusing the titles with
mild interest, while a calico kitten who had slipped in from another room wreathed his ankles. He
pulled out a book called The Blood Status Trap: How Wizarding Society’s Obsession with Blood
Holds Us All Back, flipped through the pages, then placed it back alongside its peers and turned his
attention to the framed photographs that cluttered the shelves. More marches, more meetings, more
smiling witches and wizards holding political signs.

He picked up one — a Squib Rights protest, by the look of it — and turned back towards Lily.
“This is what we need. People taking to the streets. Why don’t people do this anymore?”

“Probably,” said Dorcas, “because Minchum has deemed any assembly of more than three radicals
to be a riot and Crouch has now made it legal to torture them with Unforgivables for the crime of
having an opinion.”

Sirius looked over his shoulder to see Dorcas in the doorway, observing him with that same curious
look she’d worn at the end of their little tête-à-tête. He set the frame back on the shelf and returned
to the sofa where he stood behind Lily, his stance not unlike that of a guard dog. The thought
amused him at first — and then made him feel guilty, like he did whenever he thought of running
into her as Padfoot. The first time had been an accident, he could claim as much, but the second…
the second had been fully intentional. He’d seen her on the map, he’d transformed, he’d followed
her. He knew it was wrong, but…what was he supposed to do? Ignore her? It was all right if she
didn’t want to talk to him, but she wasn’t talking to anyone. And he didn’t love her wandering off
on her own these days either. Dorcas may take him for a careless, privileged schoolboy, insulated
by his blood and class, clueless to the cruel realities of the world, but in fact Sirius knew better than
anyone the dangers and ugliness that lurked beneath the surface of pure-blood society. He knew
what would happen to Lily if the wrong people caught her off guard. He wasn’t going to let it
happen.

“Right,” said Dorcas, interrupting his internal agonizing and settling into a chair across from Lily.
She leaned forward, her expression sympathetic but frustrated. “Lily…why didn’t you just ask a
teacher to go with you?”

Lily blinked. “I didn’t…I mean, it didn’t occur to me. I didn’t think they’d let me.”
“You would’ve done the same thing when you were her age, Dor," said Bel from the doorway.
“You always were an impulsive thing.”

“Yes,” agreed Dorcas, closing her eyes as though steadying herself. “But I wasn’t growing up in the
middle of a war zone.” She shook her head slightly, then returned her attention to Lily. “It’s not
fair,” she said softly. “Any of it. And I’m so sorry. I know that doesn’t help.” Another sigh. “Right
now, we have to figure out what to do with you. You’re my responsibility now, I can’t just let you
wander off into the night. As far as I can tell, I have two choices. I can Floo the Headmaster, and
have him send a teacher to collect you, or I can take you back to the castle myself. Either way —”

“Actually, there’s a third option,” Sirius interrupted, and they all turned to look at him.

“What’s that?” said Dorcas.

“You take us as far as the stables by Hogsmeade Station, and we make our own way back from
there.”

“And how on earth is that a solution?”

“Because,” said Sirius, though he was reluctant to give up this secret, “there’s a hidden passageway
that leads directly into the castle. It’s secret. Safe. No one knows about it.”

Dorcas looked skeptical. “Where is the entrance to this…hidden passageway?”

“You know, I’d rather not say. What with the whole thing about it being hidden.”

Dorcas glared at him for the tick of a few seconds, then she scoffed. Or perhaps it was almost a
laugh. “Schoolboys and their secrets,” she muttered, shaking her head. Then she turned back to
Lily. “He’s telling the truth? This passageway is safe?”

“Yes,” said Lily, nodding fervently. “It’s how we snuck out. It goes all the way back to school. No
one would ever know we were gone. Please, Dorcas.”

Dorcas considered them for a long moment. “I’m a fool,” she said at last, “but Bel is right. You’re
a lot like me at that age. Fine. I won’t give you up, on two conditions: One, I’m escorting you to
this passageway, secrets be damned; and two, you don’t ever pull a stunt like this again.”

“I promise,” said Lily.

It all felt very stupid to Sirius, as Dorcas threw on her cloak and hustled them out into the night. If
she weren’t there, they could simply slip under the Cloak and be far safer…but that was one secret
he was not willing to give up, and so he let Dorcas guide them back through the silent shadows of
Hogsmeade to the stables where the invisible Thestrals guarded the entrance to the tunnel. Well,
they were invisible to him. Both Lily and Dorcas could see them, apparently.

“I always thought it was a bit twisted, having these pull the carriages to school,” mused Dorcas,
stroking the empty space in the air that, theoretically, was a Thestral.

“Downright creepy,” said Lily, and she gave the older woman the first real smile Sirius had seen
all night.
“Right,” said Sirius. “Well, we’re here, so…” He trailed off, hoping the woman would take a hint
and leave without him revealing the exact location of the tunnel.

“Still protecting that secret are you?” said Dorcas, though she looked more amused than irritated
this time. “Fine.” She turned to Lily and pulled her into a tight embrace. “It’s not fair,” she said
again as she let go, “but you have to be more careful, okay?”

“I will.”

“And if you need anything — anything at all — Bel and I are right here. Not that you should sneak
out to see us, mind — but an owl will do.” She took Lily’s chin in her hand. “You have people in
your corner, kid. Including this one, I reckon,” she nodded at Sirius and offered him a half smile.
An apology, almost. “You’re not on your own.”

Lily was silent, thoughtful…then she nodded. “Thank you.”

The walk back through the tunnel was about as quiet as the way there, though perhaps slightly less
awkward. Only slightly though. Sirius didn’t know what to say. He was good when there was a
problem to solve, a hex to cast, a predicament to escape — emotional support? Not so much. That
easy camaraderie that Padfoot seemed to evoke did not come so easily to Sirius. What could he
possibly say? Hey, remember that time we snuck out of the castle to go see your dead dad’s
tombstone, and then nearly got our heads hexed off by a Muggle Rights Activist who was just a wee
bit on edge on account of all the Death Eaters doing all that murdering, some of whom are
probably my cousins? Ha ha, what a lark.

Or perhaps: So, you know that dog you keep running into in the forest? Funny thing about that…

Yeah, right.

As they reached the end of the tunnel, however, Lily spoke up first. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
“For helping me. And…for watching my back, back there. Literally.”

“‘Course,” was Sirius’s gruff response, because he couldn’t think of what else to say.

They climbed the stairs up to the large chamber behind the mirror, and Sirius pulled out the
Invisibility Cloak. As he made to push the mirror open, however, he paused.

“Listen, Evans,” he said, and she looked up at him. “I know you don’t trust me. And I know
you’ve got more than one pretty good reason not to, but…I meant what I said back there.”

She blinked, confused. “Which part?”

“When I said I was a friend.”

She stared at him, and he waited for the inevitable snarky comment, the eye roll, the shrug…but
finally, she simply returned a solemn nod.

“All right?” he said.

“All right,” she said.

 Common Scents
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

JAMES

Common Scents
“Monty, guess who’s come home to see you!”

A low groan, a rustle of bedsheets, a squint through the darkened room. “Who…?”

“Hi, dad.”

“Who is this? Who are you?”

“Dad, it’s me. James. Your son…?”

“I don’t have a son. Ephie, who is this?”

“Oh, dear. James, darling, come on, we’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Dad—”

“James,” hissed a voice, followed by the sharp nudge of an elbow to his ribcage, and James blinked
back to attention. He was seated at the grand dining table in Professor Slughorn’s office, along with
about eleven other students and a few guests Slughorn had brought in, all of whom were staring at
him over the towering blancmange a house-elf had just delivered.

“Er…” said James awkwardly. “Sorry, spaced out a little. What was that?”

“My dear boy,” laughed Slughorn. “What were you thinking about?”

“Er…” said James again, desperately rooting around his brain for a more suitable answer than the
truth. “Quidditch.”

“That’s all he ever thinks about,” said Florence, patting his arm in an affectionate-but-long-
suffering sort of way.

“Well, you know,” said James with an attempt at good-natured joviality, “the final’s coming up,
isn’t it? And I have to face off against my girlfriend, so…best be ready and all that.”

“That’s right,” said Slughorn. “It’s Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor for the Cup, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” sighed Florence, “but Ravenclaw’s only really got a shot at it if we beat Hufflepuff in the
match this weekend.”

“So, not a great shot then,” said Clarence Smith, who played Beater on the Hufflepuff team and
who was, as far as James was concerned, a prize git.

“I don’t know,” said Portia Savage. “I heard Theo Ruddle got kicked off the team last week. Last I
heard, the Hufflepuffs were scrambling to find a replacement.”

James perked up at this. “Ruddle? He was a Chaser, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Anyway,” Florence interrupted, turning to James, “before you left us briefly, Sluggy was telling
us all about an internship at the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and I said it sounded
right up your alley.”

“Oh,” James blinked, taken aback. “Right, yes. Absolutely. Just my sort of thing.”

He answered a few more perfunctory questions on the subject until Slughorn, perhaps picking up
on his student’s complete lack of interest, moved steadily on to a different subject, and James was
allowed once again to disappear into the fuzzy realm of thought. He did not particularly want to be
at this dinner party tonight, and he was afraid it was painfully obvious to everyone around the
table, most notably Florence, but he didn’t seem to be able to rally to his normal gregarious
standard, so he merely picked at his blancmange, and let his mind wander once more.

“And so I told him, you can lead a goblin to gold, but you can’t force him to forge a tiara.”

James realized that everyone else around the table was laughing rather tinnily.

“Ha,” said James.

“You know, if you didn’t want to come, you didn’t have to,” Florence muttered as the dinner party
drew to a close and students began to disperse. “I told you that you didn’t have to.”

It was true, she had. James had been the one to insist he join her, still clinging to the notion that by
being the best possible boyfriend, he could somehow eradicate the miserable twist of guilt that had
been haunting his gut since his birthday, the night Lily had kissed him. It was the same reason he’d
stopped by the greenhouses to collect that orchid for her, the same reason he dutifully misted
himself with the cologne she’d gifted him, even though the smell made him wrinkle his nose just a
little each morning. He felt certain that if he tried hard enough, if he did the exact right things, he
could reclaim that feeling of comfort and correctness that Florence had once given him.

It wasn’t working.

“I wanted to come,” said James, unconvincingly.

Before Florence could respond, Professor Slughorn interrupted them. “James m’boy,” he said,
stopping them as they reached the office door. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Lily at all, have you?”

“Only briefly, sir,” said James, and a different sort of twist wrenched his stomach as he thought of
his conversation with Lily the night before.

“I guess I’m just saying if you ever, you know, want to talk about—”

“I don’t,” she’d said.

“Terrible thing,” said Slughorn, shaking his head sadly. “A car crash. Just dreadful. Why Muggles
insist on getting in those infernal machines, I’ll never understand…”

James said something perfunctory and followed the rest of the students out of the office.

“How is she doing?” Florence asked softly once they were out of earshot of Professor Slughorn. “I
haven’t seen her at all.”

“Yeah, she’s stayed holed up in Gryffindor Tower. I only ran into her briefly. She’s…you know,
she’s tough. She’s hanging in there.”

“If I start to talk about it, I will fall apart, and I don’t know how long it will take me to put the
pieces back together, or if I even can…”

“Poor Lily,” sighed Florence. “It’s just too awful for words. A car crash.”

“There’s an efficiency to it, really,” said a smug voice, and James turned to see Corin Mulciber a
few steps behind them, along with Adam Avery and Isolde Greengrass. “You don’t even have to
exterminate these Muggle roaches, they do it for themselves.”

Later, when asked to explain precisely what happened next, James would not be able to tell you in
any great detail. He might recall Florence shouting his name in shock, or perhaps even the scuffle
of other students’ feet as they scurried out the way — but all he truly remembered was one moment
he was glaring at Mulciber’s slimy face, and the next Adam Avery and Clarence Smith were
dragging him off, and Mulciber’s slimy face had a bloody nose to boot.

“I’d get a leash for that boyfriend of yours,” Mulciber snarled at Florence, before he scampered off
down the hall. “For more reasons than one.”

“Do you need me to stuff your socks down your throat again, Mulciber?” James shouted after him.
“Because I’ll fucking do it!”

“James,” hissed Florence, and she glanced anxiously back towards the office. They were far
enough away from Slughorn’s office that the professor seemed to have missed the kerfuffle, but
Florence dragged him on down the corridor, lest that situation change. “What has gotten into you?”

“I don’t like to listen to bigoted old knobheads like that prick call my friend’s dead dad a roach,”
retorted James. “I’m funny that way.”

“Look, I agree that what he said was abhorrent, but is punching him really going to fix anything? I
mean, honestly—”

“I don’t know,” said James bitterly. “Seems better than not punching him and letting him just walk
around thinking everyone’s okay with him saying things like that.” His heart was still hammering
against his ribcage, his blood pumping furiously through his veins. He rounded on her. “How can
you stand it, sipping champagne with the likes of him?”

“Well, I don’t like him either, but—”

“But you’ll sit there quietly so long as it gets you a cozy internship.”

Florence looked at him, completely stung. “That’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not fair,” snapped James. “None of this is bloody fair!” He turned away, his chest heaving
with a fury that had nowhere to go. When he turned back, Florence was staring at him, her
expression a mixture of surprise, confusion, and…hurt. “Sorry,” he said, feeling terrible at once.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I wasn’t — I don’t want to fight. It’s just been rough
week, that’s all.”

“Maybe you need a break from Slug Club dinners,” said Florence, rather stiffly.

“Yeah,” said James. “Maybe I do.”

By the time he made it back to Gryffindor Tower, James felt even worse about his outburst at
Florence. He trudged across the common room, feeling miserable, and spotted Peter over by the
fire, bent over something in his lap. As James approached, Peter stuffed the whatever-it-was into
his bag and out of sight.

“Hello,” said Peter.

“What are you working on?” asked James as he dropped himself into a chair.

“Just homework,” said Peter. “Boring.”

“Where are the others?”

“Moony went to bed. Padfoot went…somewhere. Didn’t tell me where. You know how he is.”

James glanced at his watch and frowned. “It’s rather late.”

Peter shrugged. “Typical Padfoot. How was your party?”

“Veni, Vidi, Vici,” sighed James.

“What?”

“I came, I saw, I conquered. Though, admittedly, I didn’t do much conquering.” He slumped back
into his chair and peered miserably into the fire, watching the crackle of flames. “How do you
know when a relationship is over?”

“In my experience, the part where she breaks up with you is a pretty good clue,” said Peter. A
pause. “You think your relationship with Florence is over?”

“I don’t know.” James sunk even deeper into his chair. “I don’t really want it to be…I think…? But
at the same time…I don’t know. I feel like I’ve been trying so hard to be a good boyfriend for so
long, trying so hard to make things right, but it just…”
“Well,” said Peter evenly, “when did things go wrong?”

James thought about it. The immediate answer was his forbidden, drunken kiss with Lily — but in
fact, that wasn’t true. Things had been wrong before then, to some degree, back when Florence
hadn’t wanted to come to the party, and he’d sensed that things were off. He’d forgotten about that
feeling in the wake of his crushing guilt over the events that followed the party. For the first time
since he’d kissed Lily and fell into a state of anguished atonement, of constant, self-flagellating
misery, it occured to him that maybe the way things were between him and Florence wasn’t
entirely his fault. Or rather, maybe they weren’t anyone’s fault at all.

He expressed all of this to Peter, minus the bit about kissing Lily (which admittedly was most of
it). Peter listened attentively, considered somberly, then gave his wand a thoughtful tap against his
chin. “Sometimes,” he said at along last, “two people just aren’t right for each other. It’s no one’s
fault. It’s just the way it is.”

James ruminated on this for a rather long time, until a pop in the fire pulled him out of his thoughts
and back to the present. He glanced again at his watch. “Where is Sirius? You sure he didn’t tell
you where he was off to?”

Peter assured him that no, Sirius did not deign to share the details of his evening plans, but,
“Haven’t you got the map?”

“Oh,” said James, rather stupidly. “Good point.”

He dug around in his pocket to pull out the folded bit of parchment, muttered the requisite code,
and watched as the castle unfurled before him. He and Peter spent quite a good amount of time
poring over the various nooks and crannies of the castle, before—

“He’s not on here.”

“He has to be.”

“He’s not.” James felt a faint jolt of panic as he greeted a distinct sense of deja vu. It was roughly
this time last year that he’d waited for Sirius to return from some unknown excursion, only for his
friend to tumble through the portrait hole, beat up and bloodied by those Slytherin bastards.
“D’you think something’s happened?”

Peter was unbothered. “He probably took off for a jaunt in the forest and got carried away. Passed
the borders of the map. He does that all the time.”

Another swift glance at his watch. “I suppose…”

Peter insisted James was worrying over nothing and went up to bed, but James decided to stay up
and wait for Sirius to return, which was all fine and dandy except that it gave him a little too much
time to think. Eventually, as a result of the mind’s natural defense against complicated feelings —
or perhaps, the heavy roast pheasant Slughorn had served at dinner — James fell asleep.

He woke an unknowable amount of time later to a finger poking him in the side. He jolted up,
glasses tipping off his nose in surprise. Shoving them back over his ears, he blinked to focus his
bleary eyes…and saw Sirius.
“I’m assuming you didn’t mean to fall asleep down here. Seeing as it’s nearly one o’clock in the
morning.”

“I was waiting for you, you prat,” said James sleepily. “You weren’t on the map. I was worried.”

“How sweet,” said Sirius, patting him on the cheek.

James swatted him away. “Where were you?”

“Had an errand to run. It’s a long story.”

“Well, it’s only one o’clock in the morning. Tell me.”

So Sirius did. He told him about how Lily had approached him, asking how to sneak out to
Hogsmeade. How he’d insisted on going with her, much to her displeasure. How they’d apparated
to Cokeworth so Lily could see her dad’s grave. How, on the way back, they’d been accosted by a
Muggle Rights activist who owned a funny Muggle bookshop.

“I’ve been there,” James interrupted. “The one with all the cats?”

How the owner of that shop — Dorcas — had threatened to call Dumbledore on them, but Sirius
convinced her to let them go back through the tunnel. How they’d only just got back and he was
bloody well knackered, thanks.

“And Lily?” asked James, shooting a furtive look around the common room as though she might be
lurking just out of sight. “Where is she now?”

“Gone up to bed. She’s the one who noticed you were asleep over here. Asked me very sweetly not
to decorate your face.”

James touched a wary finger to his cheek. “You didn’t, did you?”

Sirius snorted. “I’m not fifteen anymore, mate.”

“How is she?”

Sirius sighed, sweeping his hair out of his eyes. “Pretty shaken, I think. Tonight was…a lot.”

James tugged off his glasses to rub at his tired eyes. He felt slightly seasick. He was glad Sirius had
gone with her, glad Sirius had thought to take the Cloak, and yet…as he listened to his friend’s
story, he could only really think one thing: It should’ve been me. I should’ve been there with her.

But Lily hadn’t wanted him there. If she had, she would’ve asked him, not Sirius, and she hadn’t
done that. She had, in fact, made it pretty clear the last time they spoke that she did not want to talk
to him about any of it.

“I hate this,” James muttered to himself, not knowing precisely which part he meant.

Given the events Sirius had detailed from the previous night, James did not expect to see Lily in
classes the next day, which is why he was rather surprised to find her seated at the breakfast table,
Marlene at her side. Though there was no Beater’s bat in the girl’s hand, James had the distinct
impression that Marlene was ready to beat away any metaphorical Bludgers that came near Lily —
and by Bludgers, he meant people. She sat there, firmly scowling away everyone’s good intentions
while Lily quietly buttered a slice of toast.

James glanced over at the Ravenclaw table to see that Florence was already seated with the rest of
the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. He wondered if he was supposed to go over there, to apologize
again for his rudeness last night, to beg forgiveness…but he found he did not want to. So instead,
he ignored Marlene’s scowl and settled down across from Lily, his mates filling in the seats around
them.

“All right, Evans?” said James softly.

Lily looked up at him. “Hi,” she said, and she went back to her toast.

“She doesn’t want to talk about it,” Marlene warned.

“It’s okay, Marlene,” said Lily. Then, to the others: “I just sort of want to go back to normal.”

“Of course,” said James, even though privately he felt that nothing these days felt normal, and
perhaps it never would again. But because it was what he did best, and all he really had to
contribute to this moment, James changed the subject and began to ramble on about Gryffindor’s
chances for the Quidditch Cup. Lily cast him a quick, grateful look, and retreated to her breakfast.

This subject carried them steadily on through breakfast until the post arrived, and Homer dropped
off a copy of the Daily Prophet. James, more interested in his conversation with Marlene over
Beater tactics, tossed it to Sirius, who he knew always liked to read the news first thing. James was
midway through a homily on the most common fouls against Beaters, when—

“Fuck,” muttered Sirius, and the charade of careless conversation fell away at once. They all
looked at him.

“What now?” asked Remus warily.

Sirius glanced at Lily, then pushed the newspaper towards James and Remus so they could read.

SIX ARRESTED DURING RIOTS INSIDE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

The Ministry was rocked last night by protests, following the death of Peregrine
‘Perry’ Tarkwell, 29, who died this week in Ministry custody during interrogation for
extremist activity. Tarkwell, a Muggle-born wizard, was arrested in December for
attacking Alasdair Smith, Junior Assistant to Bartemius Crouch, Head of the
Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

“It was only a bat-bogey hex,” complained one of the protesters, who refused to give
her name. “Should a man go to Azkaban for bogies? Should a man be tortured to
death for that?”

Crouch insisted that his department was responding to all threats against its personnel
with the utmost severity. “An assassination attempt is an assassination attempt,
regardless of the method or degree of success,” said Crouch. “Have we all forgotten
Harmonia Lufkin so soon?” he added, referring to his predecessor, who was
murdered in 1975 by Muggle Rights extremist Samuel Cornfoot.
 The protesters entered the Ministry shortly before five o’clock in the evening last
night, and refused to leave the atrium, even after “several reasonable demands” from
Ministry Hit Wizards.

The accused rioters claim they were completely peaceful until the Hit Wizards showed
up, but at least one Hit Wizard spent the night in St. Mungo’s, recovering from the
severe condition of being a Budgerigar.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

James stopped reading and looked up to see Lily gazing at them intently. “Erm,” said James, not
wanting to burden her with more bad news. Sirius, however, tossed the newspaper her way, and
Lily and Marlene both leaned over the article, reading with ever-furrowing brows.

“These fucking fascist fuckheads,” said Lily at last.

“Brava,” said Sirius.

“It’s just like Dorcas said, isn’t it?”

Sirius nodded gravely. “To a tee.”

“Who’s Dorcas?” asked Marlene.

“And not a word in here about the man murdered in Hogsmeade, I bet,” said Lily, flipping through
the pages furiously.

“The what?” said Remus.

“Someone was murdered?” said James.

So Sirius caught them all up on the previous evening’s events, about their trip to Hogsmeade, the
bookshop, and the bit he’d apparently left out in his first retelling to James — about the owner of
that hair salon in Hogsmeade who’d allegedly been murdered by Death Eaters for the crime of
being a blood traitor. James remembered the salon. Its windows were always stocked with a
display of Sleakeazy’s, along with some terrible pun his dad would’ve loved. James felt properly
sick as Sirius shared the grisly details.

“They…carved it into his chest?” said Peter, going very pale.

“And the Ministry’s covering it all up because they don’t want people to panic, but they have no
problem making an example out of a few Muggle-borns just to put on a false show of strength…it’s
pathetic,” spat Lily.

“There ought to be riots at the Ministry every day,” said Sirius, looking equally disgusted.

James glanced between the two of them. He wanted to say something thoughtful, or useful, or
reassuring…but once again, all he could think was: I should’ve been there. It should’ve been me
there with her.
James could not feasibly claim that he had no opportunity to speak to Florence for the rest of the
day, and yet no opportunity naturally presented itself, and nor did Florence seem to be seeking him
out. He knew he needed to apologize. He wasn’t sorry he’d lashed out at Mulciber, even as on
some level he recognized he really shouldn’t make a habit of punching people he disagreed with
(though Death Eaters, he felt, ought to be a reasonable exception). He was sorry he’d snapped at
Florence, however.

Still, perhaps it was best to let things cool down a bit first, before trying to talk to her about it all.
Perhaps a little time apart wasn’t the worst thing.

Fortunately, he had plenty to occupy his time. In fact, he’d started filling every spare moment with
some sort of activity, whether it was Quidditch practice with his team, his own personal training
regiment (nothing like a brisk jog around the lake at sunrise to start the day), or this morning’s
endeavor: Quidditch lessons for younger (predominantly Muggle-born) students.

This had become his favorite part of the week. The lessons had grown from just Valmai Morgan
and a handful of her friends to a whole slew of first, second, and third years, ranging across house
lines and blood status. Everyone was welcome, he made a point of that, and everyone got their turn
in the air. He’d started bringing his old Cleansweep Six along to the pitch for practice. Most of the
Muggle-born students didn’t have their own broom, and they always ran out of school brooms, and
anyway, ever since he’d gotten his new Comet 220, the Cleansweep had spent most of its days
propped up in his dormitory, gathering dust. It made him sad to see it there, grounded and
pointless. A broom was meant to fly, after all. And he loved that broom. His dad had given it to
him years ago. He’d won the Quidditch Cup on that broom. Brilliant as the Comet 220 was, he
wasn’t quite ready to let the Cleansweep Six go.

The lessons were progressing very well, too. Everyone was improving, but none more so than
Valmai, who was without a doubt the best of the lot. He approached her after practice to tell her as
much, and something else: “I heard a rumor Theo Ruddle got booted off the Hufflepuff team. Do
you know about that?”

“Oh,” Valmai said. “Yes. He’s failing Potions and Herbology, so Professor Sprout pulled him off
the team until he gets his grades back up.”

“So who’s taking his spot?”

Valmai went rather pink as she mumbled something incomprehensible.

“What was that?” James asked cheerfully.

“They’re having emergency trials on Friday after dinner,” Valmai muttered, fidgeting with the
Quaffle in her hands.

James, of course, already knew this, but he feigned surprise, and asked her if she was trying out.

Valmai looked stricken. “I don’t — I’m not sure I — I don’t think I’m ready, do you?”

“Yeah, I do. I’d put you on my team if you weren’t a bloody Badger. Ever consider switching
houses?”

“But I’m just a third year…”

“I joined the Gryffindor team when I was in third year.”

“I’d have to borrow a school broom, and everyone else will certainly have top-of-the-line
models…”

“You keep coming up with reasons why you shouldn’t try,” James told her, “and you’ll never get
on that pitch.”

Valmai went pinker still, and promised him that she would try.

Satisfied with her response, James hurried off to breakfast, making it just in time to cram a few
bites of bacon into his mouth, butter a slice of toast, and pocket a napkin-wrapped muffin before he
had to leave for Potions.

As he made his way out of the Great Hall, finishing up the crust of his toast, he found himself
wondering if Lily would come to class today. She’d made it through classes after her surprise
appearance at breakfast yesterday, which was definitely a good sign. He hoped she would, because
he’d come to dread the long hours in that miserable old dungeon without her there to brighten up
the place…

But as he crossed the entrance hall, he stopped walking rather suddenly, for there was the object of
his musing directly before him: Lily was standing on the marble staircase, a few steps from the
bottom, as though she’d simply forgotten to finish her descent. Her gaze was locked on the
enormous oak doors, her expression distant, dreamy. He followed her gaze; there was nothing
particularly interesting about the doors. Just…doors.

He crossed the space to her. “Lily?”

She jolted slightly, blinked, then refocused her gaze upon him. “Oh, hi,” she said, tucking a long
strand of red hair behind her ear.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded vaguely. “Lost myself for a minute.”

“Are you — er — coming to Potions today?

“I suppose I better.”

“Did you want to get some breakfast first?”

She shook her head. “We’ll be late.”

He fished the muffin out of his pocket. “Well, here.”

She looked slightly startled, then softened as she unwrapped the napkin. “Thank you,” she said,
beginning to nibble on the muffin as they headed to class.

James rambled on in a cheerful sort of drone the rest of the way to the dungeons, mostly about their
Amortentia brew and how he was very pleased with himself that he hadn’t blown it up yet,
etcetera, etcetera. Despite his cavalier attitude, the truth was he’d agonized over it, staying late
after classes, asking Slughorn loads of detailed questions. He just hadn’t wanted Lily to come back
and find that all of their — all of her — hard work had been spoiled by his mistakes. He was thus
duly relieved when she assessed their cauldron and nodded in approval.
“It looks good,” she said. “You know, you’re way better at this than you give yourself credit for.
Must be those Potions prodigy genes coming through.”

James laughed. “Nah, I learned it all from you.”

She almost smiled at this, then they settled down around their cauldron and got to work.

Professor Slughorn was effusive in his delight at seeing Lily back in the classroom, to the point
that Lily began to look somewhat uncomfortable and James was really rather pleased when Evan
Rosier’s cauldron started sputtering, pulling the professor’s attention away.

“Now there’s a nightmare scenario,” said James idly.

“What’s that?”

“Rosier’s cauldron explodes and we’re all doused in Amortentia and fall madly in love with him. I
can see the headlines now: Mass Tragedy in the Potions Dungeon as Scores of Students Recover
From Accidental Amortentia Exposure and Promptly Off Themselves Rather Than Live With the
Memory of Fancying That Git.”

Lily smiled. He felt a twinge of disappointment. He’d been gunning for a laugh, but he supposed a
smile would do.

“Quite a long headline,” she said. “Maybe you’re not cut out for journalism.”

“Alas,” sighed James. “Brevity has never been my strong suit.”

A chuckle! He got a chuckle.

Lily leaned over the cauldron, examining the potion closely. It was a funny looking brew, all
pearly and gleaming. “We should be nearly done,” she said, glancing back at the textbook in her
hand.

“Thank Merlin. Took for-bloody-ever, didn’t it?”

“It looks just about right…and see how steam rises in perfect spirals?”

“Sniff it,” advised James. “Does it smell like a love affair in a library? That’s the tell.”

She gave him a playful shove. “Shut it.” She leaned in and sniffed. “I think it needs to simmer a
little longer. I can almost smell…something, but it’s very faint. The textbook does say the aroma
only arrives when the potion is fully complete. Do you smell anything?”

He leaned in. “I smell…the faint scent of smoke?”

“I think that’s Evan Rosier.”

“Excuse me, I am not in love with Evan Rosier.”

“No,” laughed Lily. “Look.”

And James turned to see smoke billowing from a flustered Evan Rosier’s cauldron. “Oops,” said
James, grinning. “Well, simmer on then,” he advised their cauldron. “We’ll wait.”

And wait they did. He wished they had something more concrete they were required to do, for he
suddenly felt awkward in her presence. For all he’d longed for her to return to class, he now didn’t
know what to say. He wanted to tell her he was sorry that he hadn’t been in Hogsmeade with her
the other night, but that was a stupid thing to say, as she hadn’t asked him to be. She hadn’t wanted
him there.

He cleared this throat. “So, this potion…” he started, simply to fill the silence. “It’s supposed to
smell like…what we most fancy?”

“Yes,” said Lily vaguely, flipping through the textbook. “It’s different for everyone, of course,
that’s what’s so fascinating about it. The brain interprets the magical elements of the brew
differently based on whatever you find most attractive.”

“Right,” said James. “Like your deep attraction to those sexy, sexy books.”

She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t have to be quite so literal, you know. I once read the diary of this
nineteenth century German potioneer — I can’t remember his name, Ludwig von something—”

He loved when she got all swotty about potions. He loved that she cared so much. She’d once
teased him about reading books on plumbing for sport, but here she was, analyzing the diaries of
some dead old potioneer…

“Anyway, he tried brewing Amortentia for years, but he was convinced he got it wrong every time,
because it only ever smelled like stewed apples. He didn’t even like stewed apples. And he kept
trying and trying, until one day his sister was visiting and started reminiscing about when they
were children and they’d go visit their grandmother and she’d make them stewed apples.”

“So…this bloke wanted to shag his grandmum?"

She swatted his arm. “Not everything is about sex, you prat. It’s about love. The thing about
Amortentia is that it can’t create real love, so it pulls from our memories. See, it’s all about scent
memory. There are few things more powerful than that, even the most common scent can carry you
away. The potion draws on the scent memory of what you, if only subconsciously, think of as
love.”

He sat back and let her prattle on a bit more, throwing in questions every so often when she seemed
to be slowing down. It was really nice, seeing her so engaged in something again, even if he still
thought love potions were dodgy as hell.

“Well, well, well!” Professor Slughorn had arrived at their cauldron, abandoning Rosier to his
smokey fate. Slughorn beamed at Lily. “Only a day back in the classroom and already you have a
nearly perfect potion to show for it.”

“James did all the work on this one, sir,” said Lily.

“You only missed a few classes,” James reminded her. “I just kept your good work going.”

“Teamwork, then,” chuckled Slughorn. “Either way, your Amortentia looks delectable. And nearly
finished, I think?”

“It doesn’t smell yet, though,” said Lily.

“Ah,” said Slughorn, his belly rocking the cauldron ever so slightly as he leaned down to inhale
the delicately spiraling fumes. A contented expression melted across his face. “It’ll grow stronger
with another thirty minutes or so of stewing, but I can just eke out a scent. Go on, Lily, m’dear,
have a whiff.”
Lily shot a sideways glance at James, then leaned forward to inhale deeply. Her eyes closed gently
as she took in the scent.

“Well?” prompted Slughorn happily. “What do you smell?”

“Erm…” Lily shot another glance back at James, a warning look this time. “Don’t laugh,” she told
him. He crossed his heart. “It smells like…like old books…and something sort of woodsy, like
pine trees, and…” She took another deep breath. “And…and…”

And the blood drained from her face. She looked like she was going to be sick.

“Excuse me,” she gasped, nearly knocking the cauldron from the flame as she scraped her stool
backwards and scrambled up, snatching her bag from the table, and all but running out of the
dungeon.

“Lily!” called Slughorn, looking alarmed. “What in heaven’s name…?”

James was already on his feet. He made a quick excuse to Professor Slughorn, then strode out of
the classroom, ignoring the whispers of his classmates. Out in the dungeons, he quickly scanned
the corridor for her…but Lily was gone. She wouldn’t have been able to make it all the way up to
the entrance hall so fast, which meant she was still somewhere in the dungeons — a thought that
concerned him deeply, for he had never quite forgotten what had happened to Sirius down here.
Not to mention the fact that she’d looked like she was about to burst into tears as she’d fled their
cauldron.

He glanced helplessly up and down the corridor. Internally, he kicked himself for leaving the map
back in the dormitory…but as he progressed through the dungeons, he heard a faint, plaintive
whimper and noticed one of the heavy doors to an unused classroom cracked open. He pushed
through — and found Lily curled into herself upon the dais at the front of the room, framed
beneath the stone arches of the dungeons.

“Lily,” he said. She looked up at him; her eyes were puffy and red, tears streaming down her
cheeks. The tears she’d kept locked up all this time. I can’t, she’d said. I can’t talk about it…If I
start to talk about it, I will fall apart…

He hurried over, kneeling on the dais beside her. “Hey, hey, hey…what is it? What’s happened?”

“What did I tell you?” she whimpered.

“What?”

“Scent memory.” A gulp of tears. “Nothing stronger.”

“I don’t understand,” said James. “Was it the Amortentia? It — er — didn’t smell like books this
time?”

“It did. It smelled like books…like stacks of books locked up in a study…and lavender, bushels of
lavender…and…and roast chicken.” She dissolved into tears again.

“I don’t understand,” whispered James. He gazed at her with desperation, utterly baffled.

“It smelled like home,” said Lily, her voice breaking in a way that broke him.

James didn’t think about what he did next. He just put his arms around her and pulled her in. She
collapsed into him, burying her face into his chest as she sobbed — harsh, raking sobs that
convulsed her whole body. He stroked her back; he smoothed her hair; he whispered, “It’s all right.
It’ll be all right,” even though he knew the words meant nothing. She sobbed harder; he held her
tighter.

“I c-can’t—” she choked out, pulling back from his chest and gazing up at him with a heart-
wrenching desperation carved into her tear-streaked face.

“Shhh,” he said, and he kissed her on the top of her head, his nostrils filling with that citrusy scent
of her shampoo as her hair tickled his cheek. “It’s all right,” he said again. “It’s all right.”

“They’re g-gone. I’ve lost them. I’ve lost—”

“Shhh.”

And he cupped her face in his hands, and he kissed her on the forehead, and he kissed her on the
nose, and he — stopped. She gazed up at him, her bright green eyes glistening with tears, her
perfect lips parted just so, just enough to tempt him…he wanted desperately to kiss those perfect
lips, those lips that had haunted him…

No, he told himself firmly. No farther. Her lips were a line he would not cross.

He felt perhaps he ought to apologize for those first three kisses — innocent as they’d been — but
he found he did not want to, because he wasn’t sorry. Not even a little. He just gazed at her,
waiting. If ever she kissed him again, he’d never stop.

Lily broke the spell first. She turned so they were sitting side by side rather than facing each other,
and hugged her knees to her chest. He kept his arm around her. He never wanted to let go.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she mumbled into her knees. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t
know how to survive this. Life is just…it’s too much. I can’t do it.”

“You can. You will.”

“It’s like the ocean just keeps rising, the water just keeps on coming, and everything’s flooding,
and I — I can’t—”

He rubbed circles on her back, something his mum always did when he was a child, frightened by
bad dreams. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. So it’s storming. A lot. And — and the water keeps rising,
but hey — you know how to swim, right?”

Lily looked up at him, her brow suddenly furrowed as she considered this rather stupid statement
of his.

“Sorry,” said James, a little embarrassed. “That was a weird thing to say, I don’t really know what
that means, sometimes I just…open my mouth and the words come out and I catch up with them
later.”

“No,” Lily shook her head. “It’s just…I just had a weird deja vu, that’s all.”

“Hate those.”

Lily frowned, thoughtful. “Yeah.”

“But hey, if we want to continue that rather botched metaphor of mine, if you ever get tired of
swimming, you’ve got loads of friends who are desperate to throw you a lifebuoy or two. If only
you’d let us.”

Lily appeared to consider this, a wrinkle in her brow. “Thank you,” she said at last, “for being such
a good friend.” Then, as though this statement protected them from any blurry boundaries, she
nestled her head against his shoulder, and they just sat there like that for the span of several
breaths, until Lily looked up at him, a quizzical look in her eyes. “You’re not wearing her cologne.”

“What?”

“That cologne Florence gave you. You’re not wearing it anymore.”

“Oh,” said James, rather taken aback at first, and then sheepish. It was true; for the first day since
he’d returned from spring hols, he’d opted not to wear the pungent cologne. “Er — well, Sirius told
me it made me smell like a rotten apothecary, so I thought perhaps it didn’t quite suit me.”

Lily almost smiled. Then she groaned, sat up, and pressed her palms to her eyes. “God, what a
mess,” she muttered. “You should get back. Our potion will boil over.”

“Let it,” said James.

But Lily shook her head. “We worked so hard on it.”

“All right,” he agreed, but only because it mattered to her. “I’ll go back and finish it. What about
you?”

“I think I might go for a walk. Get some air. Catch my breath a little.”

“Do you want company?”

“No. Thank you. I just want to be alone for a little, I think.”

James nodded. “All right, but I’m walking you out of the dungeons, at least.”

“There’s no need.”

“Yes,” said James firmly. “There is.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Because…the dungeons are Slytherin territory.”

“What is this, West Side Story?”

“I —” James hesitated. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Never mind. Hang on…” Her expression was suddenly shrewd. “Is this why you always insisted
on leaving Potions after me and following me out of the dungeons?”

“Er…” James rubbed his neck. “Maybe? It’s not that I don’t think that you can handle yourself,” he
added hastily. “It’s just…”

“I’d thought you were just avoiding me because you didn’t like me.”

James opened his mouth. He closed it. He was quiet for a long, thoughtful moment before he spoke
again. “I want to preface this by saying how much I admire your talent and intellect and general
cleverness, but…you’re very stupid sometimes, Lily Evans.”
And then Lily did something that he hadn’t seen her do in weeks: She laughed.

Their potion did not boil over, but as he returned to the classroom he noticed that his and Lily’s
brew was one of the few that appeared to be successful — except for Snape and Avery’s, of course.
Snape sat by his cauldron, steam coiling upwards from the brew in annoyingly perfect spirals,
looking utterly miserable. Good. Slimy git.

James fielded Slughorn’s many worried questions about Lily — lying and saying she was just
feeling ill so she’d gone off to the hospital wing — then returned to his own cauldron to bottle up a
bit of the brew for grading.

He soon realized that their professor had been right: The Amortentia’s aroma had grown stronger
while it simmered, so that it was nearly inescapable as he settled back down onto his stool beside
the cauldron. He breathed deeply, the intoxicating scent rooting him to his seat like vines that bind
a tree.

There were other notes in there, he was sure — hints of grass, the warm leather of a Quaffle,
perhaps, and still that faint waft of smoke — but all James could sense, as he sat there inhaling and
exhaling like the tides of the ocean, was the overwhelming scent of an earthy citrus shampoo.

James tread the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, his mind reeling. He’d recognized the scent, of course.
He knew what it meant. He was no fool — or perhaps, he was only half a fool, because the truth
was he now understood how incredibly, pathetically foolish he’d been to ever convince himself
that he did not love Lily Evans.

This realization added even more tempestuous swirling to the pot. He knew what he had to do with
regards to Florence, even though he didn’t want to do it. He had to. It was unfair to her. He’d been
so unfair to her. The thought made his insides twist with guilt and shame. The thought of ending
things with her filled him with an indescribable dread, but it had to be done — eventually. He’d
have to find the right time. He couldn’t break up with her right before the big match against
Hufflepuff, that would be awful. And he couldn’t do it immediately after, because that would be
cruel, regardless of whether they won or lost…

And it wasn’t, he reminded himself, with any expectation that by breaking things off with Florence
he would somehow miraculously start dating Lily. That wasn’t what it was about at all. He
understood that she meant more to him than he did to her. She’d told him as much. (It didn’t mean
anything.) And he wasn’t about to use her grief as a way to get closer to her. Only a real bastard
would do that.

It was just…it was better to be alone than to be a liar. That was all.

That was a problem for another day, however, because as of right now, as he climbed through the
portrait hole, the thought that bullied the rest out of his brain was Lily, curled in his arms, sobbing
over her father, over her last remaining shred of home, an artificial scent manufactured by a
potion…
And he couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t do a thing to fix it.

He glanced around the common room; his mates weren’t there, so he headed up to the dormitory,
where he found Sirius and Remus in their usual repose: Remus mid-nap on his bed, Sirius sprawled
on the sofa, doing the daily crossword.

“It’s not fair,” said James, as soon as he entered he room.

“Well, hello to you too,” said Sirius, raising his eyebrows at this blunt greeting.

“What’s not fair?” asked Remus sleepily, sitting up.

“Life,” said James.

“That does seem to be the general consensus on the matter,” said Sirius.

“And — and death. It’s not fair. Why’d this have to happen to Evans? She already lost her mum.
She doesn’t deserve this.”

Sirius and Remus exchanged a glance.

“What brought this on?” asked Remus.

“Potions. Slughorn had us brewing Amortentia. That stupid, stupid old man,” he spat, with far
more venom than usually spilled from his lips. The others looked up at him, startled. “Telling her
to go on and take a deep whiff. He should’ve known, he should’ve realized—”

“Realized what?”

“Amortentia smells like what you love, and everything Lily smelled made her think of home. Her
home that’s now gone.”

“Fuck,” muttered Sirius.

“So she runs out of the dungeon and I go after her, and I don’t know what to say, so I’m just
blithering on like a fool. What do you even say about something like that? It’s not fair. Her dad
wasn’t even old or sick or anything. It’s not supposed to happen like that.”

“It’s not supposed to,” said Remus quietly. “But sometimes it does.”

But James was deep in his ranting now, and he couldn’t stop. “And then suddenly he’s gone. He’s
just gone. Everything you know is gone, and there’s nothing you can do, you’ll never see him
again, never talk to him again, and all you have left is a familiar smell and — and — and a stupid
Cloak—”

“Mate,” said Sirius, rising from the sofa, looking alarmed.

“And it’s not fair,” said James, his voice catching in throat. “It’s not fair, and I’m not — I’m not
ready for my dad to die.”

These final words came out as a whisper, a shameful secret that hung in the air for only a second,
before Sirius threw his arms around James and pulled him into an embrace. All the ache he’d been
hiding since his father’s decline, all the hurt and grief he had not yet felt he was allowed to feel, all
of it came came bubbling to the surface. He felt his shoulders shudder, felt a sob escape his throat.

Finally, he pulled away. “Merlin,” he muttered, tugging off his glasses and wiping his eyes.
“It’s shit,” said Sirius solemnly. “All of it. It’s absolute shit.”

“Yeah,” sniffed James, replacing his glasses and feeling rather foolish. “It’s shit.”

A long pause.

“Want to go throw Dungbombs off the Astronomy Tower?”

James took a shaky breath, then nodded. “Yeah.”

That night found James awake in his four-poster bed while his friends slept, listening to their faint
snores and snufflings on the other side of his closed curtains, watching the tiny, intricate hands of
his father’s watch tick around the constellation of its face.

He had kept this watch in his dresser drawer ever since his dad had given it to him for his
seventeenth birthday. He didn’t like to look at it, didn’t like to think about what it signified, but the
watch didn’t care. It ticked on regardless.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Finally, he slipped his father’s watch over his wrist, pulled back his bed curtains, and stepped
softly onto the dormitory floorboards. Careful not to wake his friends, he knelt at the foot of his
bed and flipped open his trunk. His father’s Invisibility Cloak was folded carefully on the top. He
picked it up, marveling briefly at the way the silvery fabric slipped over his hands. Then he stood
and walked over to his dresser, where two broomsticks were propped side by side: his beautiful
new Comet 220…and his reliable old Cleansweep Six. The broom his dad had given him years
ago. The broom with which he’d won the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor. He gazed at them both for
a moment, then selected the sleek handle of his old Cleansweep Six, and crept out of his dormitory.

Even with the Invisibility Cloak fastened carefully over his shoulders, it was perhaps pushing his
luck to take a joy ride at midnight across the grounds. But it helped, flying. Flying always cleared
his head. He soared over the castle, did a loop around the Quidditch pitch, and floated dreamily
over the silent forest below, until he found a spot atop the castle where the sloping rooftop evened
out to a flat expanse. He landed and lay atop the roof, staring up at the stars all riotous in their
glory, a vast and winking eternity unfurling above him.

The glimmer of constellations made him think of his father’s watch, and he examined it on his
wrist once more. Up here, high above the petty dramas of academic lives that played out down
below, time seemed an endless thing — all still, quiet, infinite. But nonetheless, the watch ticked
on. He could shove it under a pillow, shove it in his dresser drawer — it wouldn’t change things.
The watch would still tick; his dad would still die. Nothing could stop the relentless turn of time.
Each minute he breathed was a fading ephemera. Clinging to the past, hiding from the future —
none of it did a thing to stop the inevitable barrage of change.

Tick. Tick.
 He thought of Florence, and how desperately he’d been clinging to their relationship. Scared to end
it, scared to admit that things could end. He thought of Lily and all the ways their relationship had
changed over the past year — and how, in many ways, his feelings had not. He thought of the Slug
Club; he thought of Quidditch. He thought of Corin Mulciber; he thought of Valmai Morgan. He
thought of the boy he was, and he thought of the man he wanted to be.

Finally, he made up his mind and flew to the Owlery. A battalion of gleaming eyes blinked down
at him from the rafters, until a soft weight landed upon his shoulder, and he turned smiling to see
his own owl, Homer.

“Hullo, mate,” he said softly. “Give me just a minute, will you?”

Homer hooted obligingly, and James took a moment to run his fingers over the handle of the
Cleansweep Six, remembering each scratch that even the best broom polish couldn’t buff away,
like the time fourth year he’d swerved to miss a Bludger and nearly splintered his broom to bits…it
had a taken a lot of work to fix that, but he’d done it. Good old broom.

A broom wasn’t meant to sit in a closet, gathering dust. A broom was meant to fly. Change would
come whether you hid from it or not. Sometimes, you had to let things go.

He dug around in his pocket for a scrap of parchment and a quill. Then he scribbled a quick note
and affixed it to the boomstick. It read:

Valmai,

Give ‘em hell.

J.P.

Chapter End Notes

OK I LIED YOU GET ONE MORE

NOW I'M ON VACATION
BYEEEEE

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