She sat at the very edge of their large friendship group, nursing the same Butterbeer that she'd had since arriving almost two hours ago. This was the last Hogsmeade weekend they were ever going to have, and they had decided to spend their time together in the Three Broomsticks. She wasn't sure why; they would still be seeing each other at Hogwarts for the next couple of weeks, and most of them didn't normally hang out with each other all that often anyway.
She was only here because Frank had dragged her along and promised her that Lily, Mary and Marlene would all be there. He hadn't been wrong, but none of them seemed overly inclined to keep her company. Lily was kissing James Potter with all the passion that had defined their relationship over the last seven years.
James and Lily; Evans and Potter; they were the Golden Couple; they had the kind of relationship that every teenage girl dreamed of. It was like a fairy tale, with the prince pursuing the princess relentlessly until she finally gave in to his advances and they lived happily ever after. It hadn't been like that with her and Frank, and in some ways she was slightly jealous. She wanted that same fiery passion to be so prevalent in her own relationship, but she loved the steady devotion that she and Frank both had for each other. It was something that wouldn't burn out over time.
She looked across the crowded table to Peter and Mary, seemingly mirroring Lily and Potter's every move. She hates to admit it – even to herself – but sometimes she thinks that the only reason Mary's with him is so that she can be in a relationship. It's not something she would ever talk about with anyone, but she feels bad for Pettigrew. She doesn't know much about him – they've only really spoken to each other a few times in the past seven years – but he seems really sweet, and he definitely deserves better than that.
She's shocked out of her reverie by someone pulling up a chair next to her and sitting down heavily.
"You're thinking too much," Black says cheerfully, giving her a mock salute with his bottle, before downing the rest of the sweet drink.
"No, I was just..."
"What were you thinking about?" He interrupts her, and she's equal parts annoyed and grateful. She didn't know where she was going with that, but that doesn't mean she wants him interrupting her when she's talking.
"Just, you know, stuff. Like... uh... school" she glares and the way he screws up his face in disgust before continuing, "and... us? Like, all of us... over the last seven years. And, uh... the past, I guess. I was just... uh... remembering... stuff."
"Ahhh, nostalgia. How sweet you are," He intones, and she can't help but hate him slightly for always being so eloquent. There must have been some sign of what she was thinking on her face because he flashes her a cocky grin, leaning his chair back on two legs and steals the rest of her Butterbeer. She offers up a token protest, but doesn't really mind; she wasn't going to finish it anyway. "Anything specific?" he adds after a few minutes of companionable silence, sipping her beer.
"Uh... Mary and Pettigrew, I guess," She mumbles, wishing everything she said didn't always come out sounding so awkward.
"I give it two weeks," he grins.
"You said that two weeks ago," Lupin calls out from somewhere to her right; she thinks he might be talking to Frank, but she can't really see either of them behind whatever it is Marlene is trying to fashion out of the empty beer bottles scattered across the table.
"Come on, Alice, talk to me," he almost whines, flipping the finger in the general direction Remus' voice came from; judging by the laughter, he can see them better than she can see him.
"I... uh... I don't..." She manages to stutter out before he takes pity on her.
"What is going on in the world of Alice," he lets his chair fall loudly back onto all four legs and rests his chin in his palm, like he's just asked the most important question there is.
"Um... well... we're graduating in about two weeks..." she says slowly, somehow managing to make it sound more like a question, "and I'm going to be training to become an Auror," she adds with more confidence.
"Yeah, that's cool," he grins, draining the last of her Butterbeer regardless of the fact that it's definitely warm by now and probably a little stale, adding it to the growing pile that Marlene has created. "You going to join the Order?"
"The what?" It's not something she's ever heard of before, but she doesn't talk to that many people and has very limited ways of finding out about the world outside of Hogwarts.
"The Order," he repeats. "The Order of the Phoenix. It's this secret organisation run by Dumbledore to fight the Death Eaters. Everyone knows about it."
"It can't be that much of a secret if everyone knows about it," she retorts, gaining more confidence as the conversation progresses.
"Well, okay. Not everyone. Obviously. But a lot of people know about it – mainly Gryffindors and people whose parents are involved. It's kind of like being an Auror, but you only fight Voldemort and you don't get paid."
"Are you going to join?"
"Obviously. I've got to make up for my family somehow. I figure it's a start. James and Evans are, too. And Remus. Maybe Peter. I don't know; we haven't been talking that much recently. I think Marly is, too. You and Frank should join. It'll be fun." She's not sure how fighting Death Eaters is supposed to be fun – dangerous and scary, maybe – but she finds herself nodding along to his words and actually considering everything he's saying.
"Maybe – I'll have to think about it; talk to Frank. It can't be any more dangerous than becoming an Auror, right?"
"Yeah, exactly! And we'll get a chance to fight, and we could actually win this war!"
"If we don't end war, war will end us," she recites.
"Hey, that's good. Did you come up with that?"
"H.G Wells," she waves away his confused frown, "never mind; it's not important."
Later that year, as she watches her friends and family die at the hands of Death Eaters, she will think back on their conversation; only then does she realise how true that statement was.