1: Matters

- a fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool -

It was probably not one of his brightest ideas, he reflected as he wedged himself between a frog-eyed old woman and an over-emotional man with a business suit, the proximity suffocating. He glared holes into the seat in front of him, his eyebrows crossed in focus for his determined, angry brooding, despite the distracting jiggle of the bus.

The bloke beside him looked like he was desperately trying to cling on to the remains of a relationship, practically crying into the brick that was his phone. "Laura, you know I didn't mean it! Please, let's not talk about it over the phone, I – no! LAURA!"

Liam felt the need to sigh, but couldn't, for the old lady was staring at him with an overly-eager expression that could be classed as slightly perverted - if he so much as breathed, he knew that she would dive into introductions and conversation he had no current urge to participate in.

It was so not one of his brightest ideas - in fact, it was up there with partnering up with Amy Diggory in Potions, and allowing Potter to drag him up the stairs for an intentional trip down a slide in Second Year.

Still, he blamed Petra.

He was in high spirits when his brother had finally been accepting of him earlier that morning (even if it was delayed by six years or so), granting Liam an hour-long lift to King's Cross - okay, so Petra had said near to nothing for the better half of the journey, the dull, monotonous rumble of gravel meeting the rubber tires the only sound that filled the tense silence. But at least Petra was willing to be silent with him, and that was what had mattered.

After hesitating for the better part of twenty minutes, Liam had decided to speak. "Radio Two?" Liam offered, casually reaching over to tune the stations. Before his fingers even touched the knob, Petra slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch anything," Petra ordered, sending him a disgusted, hostile look. "I don't want you getting my new car dirty, or something."

Liam resisted sighing. He already did so three thousand times yesterday when his parents thought it smart to have a celebratory farewell dinner for him, all four of them on a table, together - they meant well and all; they just couldn't comprehend the fact that they wanted to punch each other every time they were in each other's presence.

But Liam, ignoring the fact, forced himself to continue talking. "I thought Veronica scratched it?" Veronica was the unbearably average, grumpy, bullying cow that Petra, for some otherworldy, incomprehensible reason, was planning to pop the question at. He bought the ring and everything.

And Liam, having little to no patience of bullies, wanted to shake him and shout at him as loud as possible.

"Yeah, well, that's different."

He felt the corner of his eye twitch with annoyance as he looked at Petra with a surreptitious raise of his eyebrows.

Petra grunted, as if it physically pained him to explain. "She's my girlfriend," he said obviously. "You're... you."

"I'm your brother," Liam deadpanned.

Shaking his head, his poofy, dirty blonde perm nearly brushed against Liam's nose, his lips, lined with unhygienic pricks of moustache hair and acne, straightening into a thin line. It was literally as if they were strangers - and Liam felt so goddamn angry all of a sudden at his revelation; now, it wasn't just the fact that he wasn't getting an answer anymore – the avoidance told Liam so much more than that.

That Petra's rage wasn't even good enough for Liam. That Petra only wasn't snapping at him because he wouldn't snap at a common stranger.

A stranger was far too much of a shift for the redhead. Far too much.

He felt angry when he tried to remember them playing football, only to find his previously vivid memories absent, hazy at best. He felt angry when all he was doing was chase and frantically grab hold of the remnants of his shattered relationship with his brother, his supposed confidant he would've confided everything with if things were different. Petra had made Liam feel ungrateful for the life he had, and now he couldn't do it. He just couldn't what if anymore.

Bloody hell, he had to give up on his brother.

How fucking messed up was that?

"How did you get Head Boy, anyway?" Petra sneered haughtily, nose turned up at the busy, Central London traffic, and Liam revelled in the image of him strongly resembling a poodle. "I can't imagine how you could ever be trusted with such a responsibility, even in that school."

"I know people that aren't even worth ten times of you in that school. Just because they can accept things doesn't mean you can freely ridicule them for doing so." He narrowed his eyes at Petra. "Is that it? Are you just jealous?"

Petra stayed silent before replying half-heartedly. "No."

Resigning, Liam tugged on his mop of red hair as he sighed. "Bullshit. For God's sake, Petra, grow a pair," he laughed coldly, insensitively, not really caring anymore about what came out of his uncontrollable mouth. "After all these years, you're jealous of something you scarcely believe in - how does that fucking make sense? Can you explain to me how me being Head Boy links to the suggestion that everyone like me is dumb, freaky and stupid? Has it ever occurred to you that all you're ever talking about is yourself?"

He paused, eyeing the sign that signalled the way to King's cross, and the deliberate opposite turn Petra made. Knitting his eyebrows, he glanced behind them and at a now fuming Petra. "You made the wrong turning, King's Cross was just -"

"I know."

No. Petra couldn't take away his home. "Petra," he warned, his voice quivering with rage. "Turn around -"

"Shut up!" Petra burst, his voice sounding slightly more feminine than usual. "I'm not turning around, you knobhead! Face it - what's the point of going to a magical boarding school? Nothing!" At this point, he was seething, clutching on to the steering wheel with pale, thin hands. "Wake up from this worthless dream, Liam! Stop being this comical act in a freakshow! Do you know how hard it is to be ashamed of what your little brother has grown to be? Not a f-football player, or-or something, instead to be this... weirdo magician thing! Maybe I'd actually consider us to be actually related if you just stopped this nonsence - in fact, you'd do everyone a favour if you did. Mum cries because of you."

Anger made his heart swell painfully, as if he inhaled Petra's fumes of poisonous bitterness. He felt his neck heat up and the unwelcomed warmth spread across his face. "She cries because of you not able to accept -"

"- Everything you do, you disappoint Mum and Dad, did you know that?" That promptly shut him up, Petra's mention of his parents' opinion of him like a cruel pluck of his heartstrings. Petra laughed darkly at his short, enraged breaths, gleeful at the thought that he had Liam wrapped around his finger (of course, this wasn't the case). "You don't actually think they're proud of you, do you?"

"SHUT UP!"

When he looked back as he stared at the back of the seat in front of him, he realised his temper might've made the situation spiral out of control - it quickly progressed to the point when Liam had to grab hold of the steering wheel himself and pull over (in the middle of London, no less), causing Petra to clumsily pull the Emergency Break.

Traffic clogged up behind them, loud protests and horns beeping, and Petra's wailed for his new, now damaged, car, but… Liam couldn't find it within himself to apologise. "Fuck you," he remembered himself spitting at his spluttering, crying brother, getting his trunk and storming off into the alley's shadows to Disapparate to a nearby bus stop he knew.

Of course he felt a strong sort of sorrow when he walked away from his brother. He didn't feel numb like he thought he would when the inevitable happened - instead, it was a mournful resignation, like the feeling people get when they leave a funeral, their backs facing the cemetery; before the death of his brotherhood, Petra had twisted his knife into Liam's already deep wound in that car. It was only about time Liam had thrown the knife away, no matter how memorable and important it may have been. It would've killed him.

"King's Cross," the monotonous call of the driver brought him out of his brooding stupor, his bottle-green eyes lighting up with the fact that his escape was in sight. "Sorry, give us a minute," Liam grunted as he awkwardly manoeuvred around the now snoring old woman, and, after he internally congratulated himself for the success, he speedily walked down the aisle of the bus with added vigour, dragging his simple black suitcase along behind him.

Lifting the suitcase as he stumbled out of the bus, he crossed his eyebrows at the door that barely scraped his arse, looking oddly at the manic bus driver that trilled hysterically at herself and staring at the bright red double-decker that continued down the street.

Polluted, London air greeted him like an old friend, the Autumn breeze caressing his cheeks and brushing through his thick, red locks as he smiled, relieved at the familiarity. He studied his surroundings, comforted at the huge, towering building of the great King's Cross – with the wheels of his suitcase's steady clicks skimming over the concrete tiles, he strolled his way towards the entrance with assured, confident strides.

Wading through the swarmed and busy yet spacious hall of King's Cross, he keenly eyed the tall, brick wall between platforms 9 and 10, feeling the heavy weight of his badge in the pocket of his jeans. Despite it being the last and most stressful year at Hogwarts, he was determined for it to be as easy and relaxed as he could possibly make it.

However, he quickly crossed that idea out.

Directly in view, headed straight for Platform 9 ¾, was none other than Jane Potter.

Her dark, messy strands of unattainable, raven hair was thrown into a lazy, low ponytail, bouncing as she swung her hips confidently; the pencil skirt was surely aiding her confident strides, shaping her previously-stick-like figure into one more womanly – summer had certainly treated Potter kindly, Liam confessed, his eyes inevitably drawn into the shape of her body, and the milky skin of her long, smooth legs.

But then his stomach twisted at the thought of her seeing him, and a scenario played out in his mind – she would spot him in the middle of the crowd, his hair giving it away, and her bright, hazel eyes would widen; she would gather a breath, a breath that would signal for him to cover his ears, and her loud wailing cry, "MY DEAR EVANS!" would echo across the station.

An embarrassing event daunted over him, teasing.

Biting his lip, his emerald eyes searched worriedly for places to cover, glancing at the time – 10:30 – dammit, all the good carriages would've gone, none of his mates would've been early – he could always start his prefect rounds early, prepare for trouble before trouble even came aboard – but that was a bit too organized, even for him – for God's sake, there was nowhere to go – he was right in the open – no, she was turning around – she saw him –

The first thing he noticed was her unsmiling lips, and the darkness of her hazel hues, and the tears that rimmed around them, and at first he was confused, for Jane Potter was never upset and Liam Evans was never at a loss of what to do, but she went through the wall before he could ask what was happening.


The first thing he heard was Marcus McKinnon's low hum blending harmoniously with the songs of voices when Liam slipped into their crammed compartment, seeing him smiling contently as his blue eyes twinkled with a sort of tranquillity Liam didn't see in anyone else. "Yeah, but Pink Floyd – they're great. I only just caught up with them – they've been going for what, ten years?" he asked Dylan rhetorically who sat across from him, plucking the guitar strings distractedly. "Dunno why I never heard of them before the summer." Fidgeting with his suitcase, Liam raised a hand in greeting. "Oi, Liam – what d'you think of Pink Floyd?"

"They're alright," he said nonchalantly, slipping his wand out from his pocket and casting a hovering charm on his suitcase; he teasingly swung it onto the shelf above Giddy, just about scraping the air around her, who dramatically shrieked at the close contact, and he laughed as he continued, "Animals was brilliant."

"I did mention Animals before," Giddy said indignantly, shooting Liam a scathing glare before pointing at Marcus self-righteously. (To be honest, Giddy never said anything about Pink Floyd, being quite uninformed about all that was remotely Muggle. Liam wondered who, with a curious and amused quirk of his eyebrow, she was trying to impress.) "You were just too drunk to listen!"

"Maybe you were too tipsy to mention it?" Marcus suggested, grinning. Dylan strummed his guitar climatically, causing Liam to roll his eyes good-naturedly and Eli Vance, a strong silent type, snorting to hide a laugh.

She raised her eyebrows, scoffing. "Maybe you're a prat?"

"This… is escalating quickly," Eli commented slowly, smirking, olive eyes light with amusement.

"Ooo!" Dylan said, mocking a ghost, and Liam suddenly thought he strongly resembled Shaggy from Scooby Doo. "What're we going to do? Sexual tension for a McKinnon and a Prewett mustn't be good!"

"And it also mustn't be good for a stoner to still smoke a fag in a compartment where teachers can see us," Giddy deadpanned, gesturing at the packets of cigarettes that was hastily thrown in a shopping bag at his feet. Frowning, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Merlin, don't tell me you have your lunch in there, too..."

"Well –"

Giddy made a gagging noise. "Eugh, gross."

"Mate, put that in your trunk so I can't see it," Liam sighed, wincing at the stench of tobacco/weed/any-type-of-drugs that wafted as Dylan whirled around and jammed the packets in the front pocket of his trunk. "Jesus, I'm Head Boy."

"Aw, fuck, yeah!" the smoking guitarist moaned theatrically in remembrance at Liam's stressed phone call – thank God the Meadowes were a half-blood family – slapping his forehead. He was a bit too forgetful for a Ravenclaw. "Seriously, Evans? I thought prefect was enough for you!"

To be honest with himself, Liam wasn't really going to dob his friend in; Dylan had always been a dangerous friend to be around, certainly not a guy you would look up to, but that was who he was. A good bloke with good intentions – just, perhaps, not the best way of going around things, like the time in First Year when he thought it to be a brilliant idea to throw parchment at the back of Seventh Year Slytherin, Lucia Malfoy, for calling Liam a Mudblood, or when he offered his fancy his bed in the first conversation they shared.

He thought common diplomacy would've worked just as well on both occassions.

Despite contrary belief, Liam Evans was actually not a haughty goody-two-shoes. He was more like a stiff blade of grass that was hard to sway.

"Sorry," Liam said in the most unapologetic tone he could manage. (He could still be a cruel Head Boy, or, to be more exact, a cruel friend.) "So, how was everyone's holidays?"

"It was alright," said Eli modestly.

"Perry's turned one," Gwen said. "Anna Weasley is actually a good mum now." (Before the summer, Giddy had her doubts about the Weasley. Liam thought it ridiculous.) "... and my sister is becoming an antisocial brat. It was great!"

"Me and Marcus got shit-faced," Dylan laughed goofily at Marcus's more-than-unimpressed expression on his face; the wizards were both dodgy and prone to danger - they just had different ways of showing it. For instance, Marcus was practically an alcoholic, parading into Hogsmeade for his amounts of Firewhiskey every week or so, but he just never showed off about it. However, Dylan saw it as something to be proud of.

"That was before I went to France with the Potters," Marcus corrected, referring to the annual holiday he went to with his four sisters and his neighbours. Liam felt oddly uncomfortable at the mention of the girl that cried on his way to Platform 9 ¾. "It was alright – not as good as usual, but that was to be expected."

Liam knitted his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Can't really say," said Marcus, wincing at a memory. "It took a lot of shots for Jane to cheer up."

Shots?

"Looks fit now, though," Dylan thought shallowly. Liam didn't even realise he was glaring. "What? Alright, just because you don't think so, doesn't mean –"

"Dylan, shut up," Giddy snapped disdainfully, not ever being a good fan of his. "Do you have no tact?"


Hogwarts's students were a bit more restless than usual, Liam reflected as he stared at the collection of things that was stuffed in his straw-thatched bag labelled 'STUFF – PREFECTS USE ONLY', a bag that he and Rhea craftily concocted in Fifth Year for collecting unauthorised items; so far it was packed, with (thankfully) defused dungbombs, lighters (Dylan's doing), illegal weight-loss and love potions, actual, real-life frogs that were coated in brown paint/mud (harshly imprisoned in a chocolate frog packet) and a few sticks First Years were maturely stabbing each other with.

But, as usual with such things, Liam felt achieved and authoritative – he knew he wasn't the best man for the job, being an unproductive, argumentative, redheaded, Mudblood procrastinator, however much he acted like he was. Despite this, he did give himself enough slack to feel proud, allowing his fingers to fiddle with his bright red badge and his lips to upturn slightly into a smile.

He was the first unproductive, argumentative, redheaded Mudblood procrastinator to be bestowed the title Head Boy, and that was what mattered to him.

With a cautious step over the joint that connected the carriages together, he entered the next hallway – "-you fucking bitch, you're nothing-" – and almost immediately, his wand was drawn, his eyebrows were crossed, the bag was dropped and a spell was cast, the knife clattering on to the floor before the Slytherin joined it, the hard thunk of his body reverberating the floorboards beneath Liam's feet.

Oh, he was furious, no matter whom the victim was – God, if there was one person he would kill – and his emerald eyes darkened as they looked away from an unconscious Narcis Black, instead focusing on a breathless Jane Potter, a marked line clear on her milky throat, and his fists clenched tighter. "What did he do to you?"

Her cheeks flushed. "I could've handled it myself!" she protested.

"Yeah, I saw you handled the situation just fine!" Liam snapped, his wand still trained the Black and glaring venomously at her. "Jesus Christ – did he come up to you?"

"Yes. I mean, no," she stuttered. (Jane Potter never stuttered.) "Listen, there was matters I had to take care of –"

"Matters? What matters?"

"Can you keep your bloody nose out of my business?"

"Business? Potter, he just held a knife at your throat -"

"Jane."

He halted in his raging splutters, taking a deep breath as he looked at her strangely. (A look he unknowingly gave her a lot.) "What?"

"My name is Jane," she said quietly, strictly, her voice a brewing, bubbling potion just expecting the inevitable wrong ingredient. "Stop involving yourself with something you can't understand." With a last tired glare, shook her head, her tumbles of jet-black curls swaying from side to side, before simply walking back the way he came, her shoulder clashing hard into his. She didn't look back when she said, emotionless, "See you in the meeting."


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