"Sweetheart! It's time to go!"
Imogen Waters looked up at the sound of her mother's voice, and then at the red clock that hung over her door, and abruptly burst into a stream of rather creative cursewords. Some of which included the words 'canoe', 'dick' and a large helping of 'fuck'.
"Shiiiiiiiiiiiit," she hissed eloquently, tossing her creased paperback novel into her trunk. It landed with a thud amongst all the other, similarly-bound books of the trashy romantic nature that were crammed within the small space.
The suitcase was already fit to bursting: Imogen wasn't a very efficient packer, and her mum (the only other magical being in the family) refused to help, always mumbling something about learning independence and whatnot. Rubbish, fuelled by laziness, she thought.
She unfolded her stockings-clad legs from underneath her and tried to cram the trunk closed, forcing it down with one foot while she contorted herself into unnatural positions and reaching for the zip.
"Imogen?" her dad asked, appearing at her doorway, frowning at her as he munched on some toast. She darted a quick glance at him, before returning to be nose-to-nose with the voluptuous witch on the cover of Cavorting with Centaurs.
It was obvious as to who she got her organisation skills from, considering he was still in his pyjamas. His blonde hair, usually combed back, was sticking up in several cowlicks she knew he'd spend at least half an hour flattening later.
"Hi dad," she grunted ungracefully, "'sup?"
"Don't 'sup me." He replied. "You know all that teenage lingo confuses my brain." He waved his toast in emphasis, and a particularly jam-laden bit of it broke off and fell onto his toes.
"Yo, daddyo, what's the groovy?" Imogen strained out in between grunts, raising an eyebrow at the absolute horror that graced her dad's expression when he surveyed the remnants of his breakfast. She puffed and sucked in a breath through her nostrils, her fingers straining for the zip.
"You're making that up." He moaned pitifully, crouching to rescue the piece of toast.
"Probably."
"Alas," Imogen's dad cried, holding out the toast for her to inspect, "it seems to be covered in your stupid cat's hair."
Indeed, clinging to the piece of bread was several long strands of cat fur.
"Genghis Khan is not stupid," she retorted, grinning in triumph as her fingers closed round the elusive zip.
"You're only saying that out of fear."
"Dad."
"Yes?"
"Gengy is a precious, fluffy, white kitten named after a very ruthless historical figure. She's not scary."
"She's different when you're around." He mumbled, placing the toast back on the floor, presumably for Genghis Khan to eat later. Despite his (loudly-proclaimed) misgivings about the feline, not a day goes by without her dad 'accidentally' dropping food for her to find.
Imogen straightened as the zip finally slid into place, securing her trunk.
"Are you excited to go back to Pigboils?" He peered into the mirror mounted on her dresser, and frowned at his crumb-and-jam caked reflection. He patted his hair frantically to try and flatten it, but to no avail.
"Hogwarts, Dad."
"Pigboils is funnier." Her father said dismally, wiping jam from his chin.
"I think you're alone in that opinion."
"Ivy laughed."
"Ivy laughed when she was five years old and thought you were the funniest thing in the world, Dad."
He cast her an injured look. "I am the funniest thing in the world."
She smiled indulgently. "I know, Dad."
"I'll miss you, love." He came away from the mirror and set his hands upon her shoulders. His expression was, as it tended to be in regards to his oldest child, soft.
"I'll write, don't worry."
He nodded. "Make sure those Mirandas –"
"Marauders."
"Right. Make sure those Marauders look after you, alright?"
Imogen almost snorted at the idea of the four boys looking after her. Images of Sirius and James feeding her firewhiskey from a large jug flooded her vision, but she - wisely - decided not to share that particular piece of information with her overprotective father. In fact, her whole career at Hogwarts suddenly became a montage of general miscreancy in her mind's eye at that moment: memories of detentions, of letters to her parents disrupted mid-flight, of too much alcohol - Imogen tried not to giggle nervously.
The Marauders, looking after her. It was probably the other way round, but her father still saw her as the tiny eleven-year-old in robes too big for her, waving from a train window.
"'Course they will, Dad. You know James always looks out for me."
Which was sort of true, anyway. At least, he always - weirdly - insisted she put on a beanie when it was cold outside. Or, he jammed one over her head and pushed her through the portrait hole, anyway. Always had a good laugh when she tumbled through.
Her dad nodded, looking satisfied. "Good. Your mum's ready to go, she's waiting downstairs. She's done some diddly to the car so it'll go faster."
"Dad, just call it magic."
"Shan't."
"Dad."
Imogen rolled her eyes as her father, a man of forty-six years and the headmaster of a prestigious boys' school in London, stuck his fingers in his ears and began a loud chorus of "Happy Birthday".
It wasn't her birthday.
She sighed as he waltzed out of her room, stopping to shriek girlishly as Genghis Khan meowed innocently at him on her way to Imogen. He cast the kitten a suspicious glare as he walked down the stairs, continuing on his ridiculous singing.
Imogen bent to pick Gengy up around the middle, depositing the little ball of fluff in her coat pocket. From there, she peeped out over the dark material, her cute little nose doing the cute little wrinkly thing. Imogen cooed, stroking her head. "Who'd be scared of you?" she asked.
Gengy meowed in agreement. Or hunger. One couldn't be sure, with cats.
"IMOGEN," Ivy, her younger sister bellowed, "MUM'S GOING TO HAVE A FIT IF YOU DON'T HURRY."
"Merlin," Imogen muttered, grabbing her trunk and hurrying out the door.
Ivy was standing at the bottom of the stairs, twisting her riotous blonde curls, similar to Imogen's, into a sloppy bun. At fourteen, she was already taller than her older sister, was graced with the kind of curves that made her dad threaten to buy a gun, in order to shoot any 'gentlemen callers' that dared to pursue the younger Water lady.
She wore pink leggings cut off at the knee, and an oversized t-shirt. A purple yoga mat was tucked under her arm. "Make sure you fit some yoga in at Hogwarts," she reminded Imogen, "it's great for your bum."
What Ivy had in curves, Imogen lacked, being small in the tits and arse area. Apparently, yoga built up muscle in the legs and pushed up your bum, but she'd been doing it all summer, coupled with her running, and she hadn't seen any improvements yet. Still, she was flexible as hell now.
As proven by the tea fiasco last week, for which her dad was still stroppy about.
Imogen, charmed by her newly-found flexibility, had tried to put her dad's tea-bag in boiling hot water with only her toes and had subsequently tipped said boiling hot water onto her dad's shoes. He wasn't in them, of course, but the shoes were ruined and so was his mood.
Imogen had also inherited her dad's clumsiness.
"Will do," she assured her sister, frowning as she tugged the trunk down another step. She briefly became horrified at the prospect of it bursting open at King's Cross, and all her trashy novels spilling out for everyone to see.
"Make sure you write me, cow."
"Of course, bint."
They smiled fondly at each other.
"SWEETHEART." Their mother roared, from the front door. "HURRY OR WE'LL MISS THE TRAIN."
Ivy shared her mother's penchant for being loud.
"'Bye, love you both!" Imogen called, waving as she hurried towards her mum.
Ivy and her dad yelled back mumbled 'byes, the family having said their proper farewells the night before.
Mrs Waters was a medi-witch, tall and curvy as Ivy, with high cheekbones and a pretty smile. She was intelligent, resourceful, and completely bemused by her husband's antics. She wore a red coat and matching lipstick, her curly dark hair (Ivy and Imogen had gotten their blonde locks from their dad) pulled back into a ponytail.
"Come on!" she ushered Imogen out the door with flappy-hand gestures, tapping the trunk with her wand to make it feather-light.
"Oh, now you help," Imogen remarked.
"Don't sass me, sweetheart." Her mum replied, hoisting the trunk into the car's boot. It made worryingly loud rattling noises, swayed, and then was still.
"I wasn't sassing-"
"Sass."
"Mum."
"Ssh, too much sass." Mrs Waters hummed as she slid into the drivers' seat. She started the engine, and flipped open her handy little notebook of directions on muggle life, presumably checking her husband's instructions on how to drive to King's Cross.
Imogen rolled her eyes, and settled back in her seat. Gengy poked her head from her pocket, mewling.
"Another school year begins, Gengy."
*.*
"'Bye, sweetheart!" Mrs Waters called as she made her way back to platform 9 and ¾. "Make sure you write!"
"'Bye, mum!" Imogen called back, peering through the thick throng of relatives and students to wave at her mother.
Soon, Mrs Waters had disappeared, and Imogen turned back to face the massive crimson body of the Hogwarts Express.
It never failed to strike her with a sense of awe, did the train. It was a beautiful piece of machinery, all glowing metal and vivacious with magic. It didn't hurt that she associated many good memories with it, either. Five years (not counting this one) of travelling to and from her cherished Hogwarts' School for Witchcraft and Wizardry with her friends and peers made it one of her favourite places to be.
Imogen grunted, vastly attractively, as she pushed her trunk into one of the carrier compartments. The spell making it weightless had worn off, leaving her with what seemed like a suitcase full of bricks. She had a feeling her mum had done that on purpose. Somehow, she managed, and the trunk remained intact.
She had just lugged it into the storage space, her forehead red and sweaty, when someone coughed behind her. She turned, coming face-to-face with the one-and-only (in his opinion) James Potter.
"James!" Imogen cried, grinning widely.
"Immy!" he cried back, pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose. His hair was perfectly unkempt, sticking up in wild clumps, and he smiled at her with a sort of cocky ease that seemed to be common amongst the Marauders. Perhaps they all took a course. How to be a likeable rogue in ten easy steps, or something of the sort.
He'd grown over the summer, she noticed. He seemed sharper; that childhood roundness now completely gone from his features. Taller, too, and broader in the shoulders. His clothes were rumpled, the crisp white shirt he wore under his coat untucked, and his shoelaces untied. All of it, she suspected, had been carefully done so that the leader of the infamous Marauders looked as close to a scoundrel as possible without appearing unattractive.
The small gaggle of third-year girls standing a little way off behind him, each with adoring expressions, were a testament to the fact that he had succeeded.
She dropped the grin. "Immy?" she asked.
He pouted. "Evans gets to call you Immy."
"Lily has called me Immy since we were eleven. You've only ever called me Imogen, Gen, or Waters. Stick to that."
"Not fair." He grumbled, running his hands through his hair. "Not fair at all."
Imogen laughed. "Help me find a compartment?"
"No."
"Why not?" she whined.
"You're mean."
"I'm really not."
James opened his mouth to argue, then closed it abruptly. He squinted at her face, then peered at her legs. His expression was critical. The group of girls sighed enviously at the attention he paid to her stockinged calves. Imogen rolled her eyes at his antics. James was one of her closest friends, had been since she'd accidentally spilled pumpkin juice on Remus in her first year and James had dumped an entire goblet-full on her head in revenge, sparking a food fight that lasted two hours, resulted in a months' worth of detention and a solid friendship. However, he could be a right idiot sometimes. Many a telling-off from McGonagall had resulted from various schemes that James had managed to involve her in, somehow.
"Oi," she said indignantly, "eyes up, mate."
"You've done something." He replied, still eyeing her knees.
She looked down at herself. What she was wearing- stockings, boots, warm coat- was no different to her usual outfit. Her boots were relatively new, though, a gift for her sixteenth birthday. Maybe that was it.
"My boots are new." She informed him, proudly, and he shook his head.
"That's not it."
"My knees look like little faces are trying to get out of my skin?"
"No, something new."
Imogen punched him on the shoulder. "I was joking!"
He looked up from his deliberation to give her a cursory frown. "Ow, you're so violent."
"You think my knees look like little faces!"
"Well, yeah! They do!" James cried, rubbing his shoulder.
"They do not."
"They do. The left one looks angry and the right one looks upset about something. Dunno about what, though." He wrinkled his brow and pouted, apparently deep in thought.
"Maybe," Imogen said darkly, "someone told them that their knees looked like faces!"
James scoffed. "Don't be daft," he chortled, "knees don't have knees."
"I'm going to curse off your manly bits –"
"Wahey there," Sirius Black said, pushing past a few fifth year boys to join them, "what's this I hear about manly bits?"
As always, the only member of the Black family in Gryffindor looked effortlessly handsome. He wore mostly muggle clothing, like James, only he wore scuffed jeans and a white shirt under a leather jacket, his dark hair falling messily into his eyes, and a roguish grin. Merlin, he'd grown over the summer, too. Was that another secret boy thing she wasn't privy to? Or was she the only one who had to remain stunted?
"I'm about to hex off James'." Imogen informed him, bumping her shoulder with his in a way of greeting. Or as near to his shoulder as she could, considering she was about a foot shorter than him. As it was, she kind of bumped his bicep.
"Why?" he asked, bumping back.
Sirius had become her friend by association around the same time James had, dropping into the seat next to her during Transfiguration the day after the food-fight, grinning his lopsided grin and offering her some Honeydukes chocolate. Apparently, she'd been labelled as 'a groovy kind of chick' by James (who had been keeping up with the muggle lingo), and thus worthy as a friend. Of course, he hadn't really needed to say much after she'd whipped the chocolate from his grasp and wolfed it down in one bite.
"He said my knees looked like little faces." she cried indignantly, but he only grinned.
"Ah, yes, the knee theory."
"What the bloody hell is the knee theory?" Imogen demanded, her voice rising. She folded her arms and glared at him in a way that had been dubbed the look by James.
Disappointingly, Sirius didn't look scared. At all. If anything, his expression was amused. "Well, James here reckons that your knees look… what was it?" he turned to his best friend.
"Angry and upset."
"That's the one. Angry and upset. Or two," he added, "if you want to get technical."
"You absolute bastards." Imogen shrieked, causing James to wince. He, at least, was not immune to the look. "Who else knows about this?"
"Nobody!" Sirius replied, perhaps a little too quickly. "Nobody at all."
She narrowed her eyes at them. "Really." She said flatly.
"Yup."
"Mhm."
Imogen sighed, and reached out to pull them towards the train. They didn't protest, being used to her habit of sort of nudging people to where she wanted them to be. Imogen was of tiny stature, and using the two six-foot-something boys as human shields to get through crowds was something of a tradition, anyway.
She hooked her fingers in their sleeves, steering them up the stairs and onto the Hogwarts Express. It was five to eleven, and they still had to find their other friends – plus, a compartment to house all of them.
"Can you see the others?" she asked, standing on her tiptoes to try and see past the boys' shoulders.
"Noooo," James replied, peering unashamedly into other students' compartments. They stared back, astonished, as he pressed his nose to the glass. He gave each of them a demented smile, crossing his eyes.
"James." Imogen nudged him, and he craned his neck to look at her. "What are you doing?"
"Scaring the first-years."
"That's not scary, that's just odd."
"Like you could do any better."
"I could!"
"Yeah," Sirius chuckled, "if I lifted you up to see over the ledge."
"I'm not that small." Imogen huffed.
Sirius raised an eyebrow at her.
"I can still hex you into Christmas." She muttered, as he reached down to pat her head.
"So cute," he said to James, who nodded sagely.
"Adorable."
"I hate you both," she hissed, and pushed them forwards.
As they moved down the long corridor in search of their friends, Imogen had time to survey the mix of students (she could see over the window ledge, thank you very much Sirius Black) that sat in their compartments or filtered through the doors and into their path.
Slytherins sat together, huddled in small groups but always sparing them a mocking glance, identifiable by their hostile expressions and expensive clothes. They sent the two Marauders a scathing look, especially Severus Snape (whom James and Sirius sneered at in return, uncharacteristically malicious), then returned to their discussions.
Imogen glared back, holding the gaze of Mulciber in particular – they'd formed a highly potent animosity ever since third year, often culminating in nasty hexes and quick-muttered curses. Snape ignored her, for the most part, as he did with the majority of Lily's friends. She twisted her mouth in a grimace; she was conflicted about that boy. He was Lily's best childhood friend, her confidante, but ever since that moment the previous year - I don't need help from a filthy little mudblood like her - she knew she couldn't trust him. Still, the beginnings of pity stirred in her gut when she regarded his miserable expression, his deep-sunken eyes.
"Bastards." Sirius remarked, waving mockingly at the Slytherin sixth-years.
"Arseholes." James agreed.
Imogen pushed them on, her tangled mane of hair falling into her eyes every few seconds. She blew a puff of air, trying to move it out the way. As they walked, she asked the boys about their summers – although there wasn't much to tell, considering she'd written to them almost every week.
James' letters were always brilliant, full of funny stories and his familiar scrawled hand-writing. He didn't really follow any kind of format: the margins were often covered in side-notes and little doodles of Quidditch paraphernalia, and sometimes he would stop mid-sentence to recount a fond memory. Mostly, he whined about Lily Evans and how little attention she paid to him, which was endlessly amusing.
His last letter before Imogen had seen him had been particularly entertaining:
Dear Waters, it had read.
I hope you're well. Same goes for your family- say hi to your dad for me, tell him that the Cannons lost another match, the bastards. All my love to your beautiful mother, of course, and tell your sister to drop me a note when she's sixteen.
Joking, Waters, don't give me the look. My heart belongs to Evans.
Speaking of the minx herself – has she mentioned me at all?
And that set the tone for the rest of his letter.
Sirius, however, tended to keep with their tradition they'd begun the summer after first year. Not knowing what to talk about, and after a few letters of rather boring scribblings about their day, Sirius had decided to play a Muggle game he'd heard about called twenty questions. She suspected it had been more of a rebellion in the face of his parents than anything - a proverbial fuck you to the fascist figures he lived with.
His letters often went like this:
Waters –
What would you do if money wasn't a problem?
Favourite music?
Favourite movie?
Why do you wear clothes that are too big for you?
Et cetera, et cetera.
It was an odd friendship, really. They only ever talked about anything important, or personal, through pen and ink. Where James and Imogen could talk for hours about anything (a bizarre example would be when they had idly wondered how much noise a duck would make falling from one hundred feet onto grass), Sirius seemed to avoid heavy subjects with her. Despite the fact they had been friends for almost five years, they had never engaged in in-depth conversations – at least not face-to-face. Even then, Imogen never dared to ask him questions that went beyond his favourite pastime.
But, it wasn't as if she didn't trust him. She did, with her life. The other Marauders, too. In fact, all her friends had earned her trust over the years. She knew that, if the moment arose, they would trust her with their lives too. But it was a kind of faith in them that was borne from years spent going through the same motions, the same sense of camaraderie one received from being sorted into the same house. You didn't have to know your family to have their back.
"Oi! Waters!" Augustus King, a fellow sixth-year Gryffindor with whom she'd been best friends with since the train ride in first year, stuck his head out from two compartments ahead and grinned at her.
"Gus!" she waved, and steered Sirius and James towards his beckoning hand.
"We've been waiting for you lot," he scolded as they entered.
Tall and lanky as all buggery, Augustus often teased Imogen for her height, albeit good-naturedly. That was perhaps what best described him: good-natured. He was incredibly easy-going, gifted with social graces that ensured he got along with almost everybody, even the Professors. He had smatterings of freckles across both cheeks and the bridge of his nose, big blue eyes, and a wide mouth.
"Sorry, Gus. These two held me up." Imogen replied, to the mock outrage of James and Sirius.
Inside the compartment sat Remus Lupin, tired-looking but kind as always, nervously waving Peter Pettigrew, and Ravenclaw sixth-year Samantha Jones.
Samantha, or Sammy as she was more often referred to as, was as popular as Gus was in terms of friendliness. She was closer to Remus than any of the other Marauders, being a bit too timid for their liking, with a fondness for hiding behind books and her dark hair. Imogen and she had met in second-year DADA, and had been good friends ever since. She wasn't especially outgoing, but possessed a gentle kindness that put many people she encountered at ease.
"Hullo, lads and ladies," Sirius crowed, plopping down in the seat next to Remus, "you've all had good summers, I hope?"
A chorus of yeah, s'alrights and not too bads erupted at this, with the lot of them animatedly waving their arms about and quizzing each other. As was custom, they all started chatting at the same time, interjecting into different conversations left and right, or simply spouting a monologue, without paying any mind as to the noise they were making.
"Padfoot 'n me went to a muggle pub, it was great."
"Yeah, my mum's a bit better, thanks for asking. Still on the peaky side, mind."
"D'you reckon the trolley lady'll give me a few sickles off on a chocolate frog? I've got my eye on Bathilda Bagshot, I haven't got her yet."
"My knees don't look like little faces, do they?"
"Is that a cat in your pocket?"
"I read Jane Eyre over the summer, you're right, it was brilliant."
"Met this blonde bird, from Australia. Her accent, mate, it was gorgeous."
"We got bloody wankered, I woke up in a dress!"
"My cousin loves that book, she made me read it last year."
"I only have eleven sickles…"
"Maybe if I just stand with my knees slightly bent… Ha! Brilliant."
"It is, it's a bloody cat!"
"So… you don't like it?"
"She had a wicked sense of humour, and a bloody tan. Golden brown skin…"
" – and there was lipstick all over my –"
" – no, it's a great book, a bit long –"
" – she's always liked me –"
" – oh, nope. They still look like faces –"
" – when did you get a cat? –"
" – but the descriptions –"
" – she's going to write to me –"
" – Pads here, ever the ladies' man –"
" – too many ejaculations –"
" – and I wanted a pumpkin pasty, too –"
" – has anyone else heard about the knee theory –"
" – I can't believe you didn't tell me you had a cat –"
" – I am no bird, and no net ensnares me –"
" – and we'll have little bush ranger children and they'll go to school via kangaroo –"
" – three dwarves, a transvestite and her pet goat challenged us to a game of charades –"
" – Mister Rochester's a bit of a twat, though –"
" – I'm bloody broke, could you lend us some money –"
" – I'll ask old Sluggie, he'll tell me –"
" – it's staring at me, Waters –"
" – the whole fortune-teller business was a tad strange –"
" – Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda –"
"Immy, are you – oh." Lily Evans slid open the compartment door, interrupting the cacophony and causing James to practically leap out of his seat.
"Evans!" he proclaimed, grinning and running his hands through his hair. "Good summer?"
"Yes, thank you." she replied tersely, pressing her lips together.
Lily looked pretty as always, her thick red hair brushed and falling into perfect waves over her shoulder. She wore high-waisted jeans that clung to her curves, showing off her long legs, and a knitted jumper, the sleeves of which she'd pushed up to her elbows in the warmth of the Hogwarts Express. The outfit, although simple, looked like something out of a fashion magazine when it was on her petite frame. She surveyed James coolly, her emerald eyes critical and her eyebrow raised.
There was a beat of silence.
James gave a gasp of mock injury. "Aren't you going to ask me about my summer, Evans?"
"No." she replied rudely.
He clasped his hand to his heart, leaning against the window for support. "Why?"
Imogen rolled her eyes as his bum invaded the space around her head, wiggling dramatically. She cringed and leaned away from it, much to the others' amusement. Peter, who was seated next to her, put a pudgy hand over her eyes, murmuring something about protecting her virtue. She scoffed at him and he gave her a timid smile.
Lily sighed. "Because, Potter, you sent me about a hundred letters telling me all about it."
"I like to keep my future-girlfriends informed."
Lily ignored this, instead folding her arms and fixing him with a dark frown. "How did you even get my address, Potter?"
James grinned loftily. "I have my sources," he said, with a shifty sort of air.
Lily cast her sharp glare onto Imogen, who smiled sheepishly. "It was Immy, wasn't it?"
James deflated. "How do you do that?"
"Immy!" The red-haired girl exclaimed, betrayal written over her pretty features.
"He threatened to steal my knickers again!" Imogen exclaimed.
Remus choked on the chocolate he always seemed to have in steady supply, sputtering out a shaky "What?" Out of all the Marauders, he was the most prudish, and tended to not respond kindly to description of his friends' underwear.
"I wasn't being serious." James said defensively. "I wouldn't touch your knickers –"
"You already have! Fourth year, hanging from the Astronomy Tower. Hence, the again."
"Those were yours?" Sammy exclaimed. "Huh."
"Yeah, but that was back when they were pink and normal."
Imogen raised her eyebrows, mouth open. "As opposed to what?"
He fidgeted. "L… lacy."
Gus burst into laughter. "Lacy? Ooh, Waters, you slag."
"Shut up, King!"
"And black. Lacy and black."
"JAMES."
"Double whammy!" Gus crowed. "Black and lacy! The ultimate slag-fest."
"At least there's no thongs." Sirius commented dryly, flashing a wolfish grin.
"How would you know?" Imogen replied archly.
He merely grinned wider, interlacing his fingers and placing them behind his head.
"ANYWAY," Lily interrupted, just as Imogen was ready to draw her wand and perform a rather vicious hex (she was quite well-known for her penchant for the Nostril Sticker, a curse that sealed the nasal passages closed with mucous for a minimum of four hours), "I was just popping in to ask Immy about her summer."
"It was lovely, thanks." she replied, taking her hand away from her wand, much to Sirius' relief.
"How's Gengy?"
"Oh!" Imogen pulled the kitten from her pocket, much to the surprise of everyone – for magical beings, they were amazingly unused to animals being pulled out of various items of clothing – except for Sirius (who had spotted it earlier), and deposited her on her lap. "She's good."
"Ohhh," Sammy breathed, leaning forward from her seat on the other side of Remus, "she's adorable."
Gengy mewled smugly as the dark-haired girl petted her carefully with one finger.
"Gengy?" Peter queried.
"Short for Genghis Khan."
At this, Lily let loose a tiny giggle that sounded like wind-chimes. James looked as if he was about to fall over, his eyes glazed. Smitten, that one.
"Genghis… Khan." Remus muttered, his brow creased. "I've heard that before."
"He's a muggle, isn't he?" Sammy asked.
"Dunno," Sirius replied, and reached forward to give the cat a stroke.
Immediately, she hissed and made a swipe at him, and he pulled his hand back abruptly.
"Bloody hell," he blurted, cradling his injured fingers, "she's exactly like you, Waters."
"Oi!" Imogen retorted, gathering poor Gengy back into the depths of her coat, where she purred contentedly.
Sammy slid back into her seat, disappearing behind another thick book. Peter giggled nervously.
Lily emitted another gusty sigh at their antics, and beckoned to Remus. "We've got Prefect duty, Lupin. Come on. Oh, and Potter?"
"Yes, dearest?" he replied, smiling in a way he probably thought was winning, but only served to make him look a tad demented.
"I really don't care about your Quidditch escapades. Please stop writing to me."
James only sat back down after they had left, collapsing down next to Imogen. Or, partly on top of her, as he with his gangly limbs was wont to do. She shifted, uncomfortable underneath one of his arms. He sighed, his expression wistful. "She will love me."
"How'd you reckon that, mate?" Gus asked wryly, brushing his reddish-brown hair back from his forehead.
"I wrote about my Quidditch in my second-last letter."
"And…?" Peter pressed.
"That means she read at least one! Last year – last year – she sent them all back! I, my friends," he declared, brandishing one finger in the air, "am in with a chance!"
"Sure mate," Sirius said, reaching over to pat James' shoulder, "even if it's a slim one."
*.*
Imogen sat in between Remus and James, opposite Sirius, and chugged down a goblet-full of pumpkin juice to the rhythmic thuds of their fists hitting the table.
"Scull! Scull! Scull!" They chanted, as she downed the last of it.
She set down the cup with a bang, throwing her arms in the air as the Marauders and several other sixth-year Gryffindors cheered. "How long?" she asked Peter, breathlessly.
He frowned at the small pocket-watch Remus had transfigured for him, having bagsed being the time-keeper. "Twenty-two seconds. Four down from last year!"
She cheered again, high-fiving James and wiping away the remnants of juice that had escaped the goblet from her mouth.
The Chugging, as Peter had dubbed it, was something of a tradition at every Sorting Feast that had sparked from the infamous food fight between her and James. So far, her personal best had been exactly twenty seconds in her third year- but there was always time for improvement.
"Gentlemen," Imogen began grandly, waving her goblet in the air, "today, I have chugged, and it was beautiful."
The air was filled with resounding hear hears, and the sound of glasses clinking. James slung an arm over her shoulders, wiping away a fake tear. "Gen, I am so proud," he gasped, biting his lip.
"Thanks, dearest." She patted his cheek, giving an exaggerated hair-flick. "I do try."
Peter giggled hysterically, covering his face with both hands at their capers.
The only person not smiling was Sirius, who was eyeing her sleeve suspiciously. She sighed.
"Gengy's upstairs with my other things, Black. Don't worry about it."
"Your cat is evil." He said venomously. "It… stares."
"Oh, she stares, does she? How awful. I'll get rid of her right now." Imogen said flatly, rolling her eyes.
"Turn the sass down a notch, Waters. Wouldn't want to strain yourself," he shot back, frowning at her lack of concern for his well-being.
"I am not –"
"Say, Immy," James asked, cutting her off, "is Genghis Khan… enamoured to animals of the, ah, canine persuasion?" He propped his chin on his fist, batting his eyelashes at her.
She leaned away from him, frowning. "Uh, no. She isn't. Hates them."
Remus snorted into his glass of water, slopping the liquid down his front.
"What?" she asked.
He shook his head, taking the napkin that Peter offered him and trying his best to mop up the wetness of his shirt. "Nothing, Imogen."
She narrowed her eyes. Remus had a habit of switching back to full names when he was nervous. "Lupin," she warned, and gave him the look. "Please tell me this isn't going to somehow land me in detention."
He laughed, albeit nervously. "Seriously, Gen," he reassured, "'s nothing."
"Right." Imogen said, and left it.
Judging from the expression on her friend's face – the fading smile – it was nothing to do with her. She was no stranger to the fact that Remus had secrets, awful ones, none of which she was privy to. She wasn't stupid, for Merlin's sake. She'd seen the scars that littered his body, the kind of dependency with which he clung to his friends, particularly the Marauders. She knew his problems ran far deeper than his mother's health.
However, she also saw the way he lit up as soon as he was with them, as if all his worries had simply vanished in their wake, and it was enough for her. She didn't need to know, wasn't even sure if she wanted to, and seeing one of her closest friends find solace was satisfactory enough.
Imogen and Remus hadn't actually become friends when she'd accidentally spilled that pumpkin juice on him almost five years ago. In fact, it was only halfway through the first year, after many awkward encounters when Sirius and James had waltzed off, leaving her and the timid boy to make conversation, that they had decided to get to know each other.
After that, they realised that they'd had their love for books in common (despite the fact that Imogen was able to devour almost anything, while Remus had very refined taste), and their unhealthy respect for chocolate. It was a wonder they both weren't rolling around the castle, actually, with the amount of sweets they both put away.
"Oi, arseholes," Gus stage-whispered from a little way down the table, "Dumbledore's speeching, shut your faces."
Imogen went to roll her eyes, but they were too sore from all the eye-rolling she was subjected to by this stage so she stuck her tongue out at him instead.
"Welcome!" Dumbledore began, his magically magnified voice echoing throughout the Great Hall. "Welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts!"
He was dressed in finery, his robes a brilliant shade of periwinkle and his matching hat standing straight and tall. His long, silvery-white hair was long and luxuriant, his half-moon spectacles twinkling merrily in the candlelight. He clasped his hands together, a wide grin stretched across his mouth, almost from ear-to-ear.
All at once, Imogen felt a sense of calm and serenity settle amongst her fellow peers, almost as tangible and as much a physical presence as James sitting beside her.
"I am glad to see that you are all well as can be. Congratulations to all the first-years who are sorted and fed, I wish you a wonderful good luck on your journey through this marvellous school!"
A cough from McGonagall diverted his attention for a moment. "Ah," he said, "if I do say so myself. Now, for announcements, a new Muggle Studies teacher will also be embarking upon a journey with us. I hope his fresh approach and contagious zeal will be a lovely influence upon us all. Please give a warm welcome to Professor Cumberstone!"
Murmurs from the Slytherin table came in place from applause. None of them wanted to welcome the new Professor for Muggle Studies. Or at least, none of them wanted to in front of the Junior Death Eaters: Bellatrix Black, Narcissa Black and her fiancée (ugh) Lucius Malfoy, Mulciber and Avery. Not to forget Regulus Black, in the younger years – Sirius' brother – but everyone seemed to anyway.
There were a fair few others that Imogen was wary of, ones that had greeted her in the hallways with curt nods before the end of fifth year, but now were game enough to hiss half-breed or mudblood behind her back.
Snape took no part in the murmurings, instead staring moodily at his hands. His greasy hair and too-small robes made him stick out like a sore thumb in amongst the finery of the Pureblood families, but there was no denying he'd been able to climb the discriminative ladder into abstract respect. Didn't seem to make him any happier, though.
Imogen turned her thoughts and her gaze away from the Slytherin table just as Professor Cumberstone stood from his place at the teachers' table.
A collective gasp went up from the female population (and a few from the male) of Hogwarts, as possibly the best-looking man Imogen had ever seen (and she hung out with the Marauders on a regular basis) gave a small grin and a shy wave at the rapidly-increasing-in-volume applause.
"Merlin's tits," she sighed, ignoring the odd looks the others gave her, "I want his address so I can send his parents flowers."
Professor Cumberstone was tall, not overly muscular but with the strong shoulders and narrow hips of a swimmer. He was lean, with a sharp jawline and aristocratic features, and curly dark hair that flopped in the perfect way over one of his eyes. The colour of which, she couldn't see, but she was damned glad she'd taken Muggle Studies that year, and knew she'd probably find out later.
He wore Muggle clothing, instead of the robes and hat that teachers usually favoured, with dark dress pants and a crisp white shirt tucked in, showing off his svelte figure. To make matters worse, the shirt was slightly unbuttoned at the neck, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong forearms. He looked adorably embarrassed, scratching the tip of his nose with one, long finger and staring at the ground.
"Immy," Lily mouthed at her from down the table, widening her eyes. "He's beautiful!"
"I know," Imogen mouthed back, and ignored James' huff of irritation from behind her.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Hm, thank you." he began, his voice tinged with amusement. "Settle down now, please. Yes, thank you, all. Before you all return to your dormitories, I would like to address more… serious matters."
A hush fell over the Great Hall. No-one had been blind to the dark goings-on that plagued Muggle villages and towns, festering within the deepest corners of Pureblood families. Imogen had kept well-informed by her mum, who liked to read both the Muggle newspaper and the Daily Prophet, and was obviously wary of the suspicious and downright horrific activities taken on by Purebloods, particularly those of Slytherin heritage.
She shared a glance with Sirius, whose expression had become dark and brooding. He never reacted well to reminders of his family's crimes.
"As you all know, the idea of Pureblood supremacy has become increasingly popular, particularly amongst those of that heritage." Dumbledore's eyes strayed towards the Slytherin table, where Lucius Malfoy stared back at him.
Imogen couldn't see much of his expression, but his ramrod posture and nose in the air ensure her it was a smug one.
"In the words of the great Mark Twain, 'if you should ever find yourself on the side of the majority, step back, and reconsider'. Students, teachers, friends; I warn you – the establishment is not always right. Social norms are not always virtues. Question things; and before you think outside the box, know every inch of the box, and then construct your own exit."
"Did the Headmaster just tell us, basically, to stick it to the man?" Gus whispered, and Imogen shushed him.
Dumbledore's words struck a chord within her. They resounded in her heart and head, filled her with a sense of longing, a tingling excitement- and most of all, purpose.
Both of Imogen's parents were avid supporters of equality – they'd even met campaigning for civil rights in the fifties, when they were just seventeen – and had always encouraged her and her sister to fight against all forms of discrimination and injustices in society.
Construct your own exit.
She'd always dreamed of becoming a great fighter for civil rights, someone like Germaine Greer or Rosa Parks, a speaker like MLK Junior, someone who could bring thousands to their feet with the force of their passions. She knew, of course, that probably wouldn't happen.
She was a sixteen-year-old girl who, although was good in a pickle, didn't have the gift of leadership that James or Remus or even Sirius was gifted with. People didn't respect her like they respected Lily or fear her like they did Marlene McKinnon.
She was that short friend of the Marauders, the half-blood.
Imogen grit her teeth at that last thought. Who bloody cared if she was half-blood? Who bloody gave a flying fuck about blood status? She certainly didn't, and it wasn't fair. All that discrimination was just not fair. It made her blood boil.
She wanted to fight. Against the Death Eaters, and their crazy dictator of a leader. She wanted to do everything in her power to stop them. In that moment, she would have given her life. She wasn't sure if it was the sense of glory brought to her by Dumbledore's inspiring words, or the swelling of Gryffindor pride in her chest, but she was sure: she would die for the cause, if she had to. The friction between what was and what should be revved her up, drove her gaze forward and her spine straight.
And, right there and then, her eyes met Sirius' across the table.
He looked exactly as she did: frustrated, angry, helpless.
She knew, right then, that he was thinking the same things she was.
"That is all." Dumbledore finished, before clasping his hands together again. "Off to bed now, lickety split."
As they stood, Sirius' eyes were still on hers. The molten grey of them seemed to pulsate with intensity, turning to mercury right in front of her. He knew what she was thinking.
Imogen swallowed, and looked away, breaking whatever weird connection was going on. This wasn't her and Sirius' area, not at all – they were of a somewhat shallow friendship, never going deeper.
It was all teasing and jokes, outside their letters. Neither of them was entirely comfortable with anything other than that, and it was fine.
And that was how it was going to stay.