Mercy
"Have you been talking to Regulus?" Sirius asks me, one winter day, lying flat out on the grass, bundled up in his winter gear.
"Me?" I ask, surprised.
"Yes, you, Mercy, he says he actually wants to stay at school for Christmas, and I asked him why, and he said that I shouldn't question his decisions."
"And?"
"It sounded like something you'd say."
"I did tell him something like that," I admit. "When he asked me why I'm nice to Slytherins."
"I knew it," Sirius says, triumphant, sitting up and looking at James, who rolls his eyes. We're sitting in the snow with Remus and Peter and Frank Longbottom, having just engaged in an intense snowball fight.
"Yes, well, anyone could've said it," James protests.
"Not with that tone of self righteousness. Impressionable little Reg could only have picked that up from feisty Mercy here."
I ball up a palm of snow and throw it at Sirius, who splutters as it hits his face and scrambles to gather up his own snowball.
Third year has been filled with pranks, on the Slytherins, on the Gryffindors, on me, on Sirius, on James, even on Severus, who does not appreciate them. I swear James has allied himself with Peeves the poltergeist, and that he's some sort of ninja, sneaking around the school without being noticed.
Regulus has begun to join Carter and I, on Sundays at ten, which is mostly when, instead of doing homework, we just talk. Or make jokes and terrible puns. Or we complain. Sirius has kept the entirety of Gryffindor tower awake with his guitar, even though I've bought him headphones for them. He likes making a lot of noise, and I'm surprised that McGonagall hasn't come up to yell at him yet.
I've joined the Quidditch team, along with James, who is Chaser like me. The other Chaser for Gryffindor is Frank, who James has become quite good friends with.
Carter is, unfortunately, also the Chaser for Slytherin, and whenever Gryffindor plays Slytherin, it's virtually impossible to get the Quaffle away from him. Sometimes James steals the Beater's bat right out of out Beaters' hands so that he can take a swing at Carter, or send a Bludger at him, which I'm pretty sure is illegal, but no one has complained bout so far.
It's turned into a sort of warm winter, and playing a match against Slytherin ends in a triumphant Gryffindor win, in which James literally throws Thomas Flanagan's bat straight at Carter's head and Carter nearly falls off his broom. Carter's too dazed to make the penalty shot, and it starts raining a sludgy sort of rain filled with watery snow, so he misses the shot, and our Seeker catches the Snitch while we are in a thirty point lead.
I've landed on the pitch and Carter has as well, and after the normal shaking hands, where the Slytherin Captain nearly rips my hand off of my wrist, Carter starts to laugh, completely soaked and shivering, then grips me in a tight hug, screaming something I can't hear at the top of his lungs.
"We lost," he explains later on, "but I don't think I've ever felt so alive in my life. You're just a very huggable entity, you know?"
Christmas swings around, and James and Peter had gone home for Christmas with their families because their parents have threatened to owl Dumbledore if they don't go, and all of my roommates have gone too. Sirius and Remus and I sit in the deserted common room when Sirius tells me, voice hushed, leaning forward, to Remus' protests:
"Remus is a werewolf."
"Sirius!" Remus cries, horrified, looking at me, then at Sirius.
"I knew it!" I say. "I knew it, Remus, and you kept telling me, 'no, my mum's very ill', I knew it, I told you I knew you were lying!"
"Well, I couldn't just tell you, could I?" Remus protests, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
"You let Sirius and James and Peter know!" I protest.
"They figured it out on their own!"
"So did I! But no, I was wrong, and-" I imitate Remus' voice, "Mercy would you please stop being so ridiculous?"
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry I wouldn't admit to it, then!"
"I'm not mad," I say, surprising him by leaning forward and hugging him tightly. "We love you, Remus, and 'we' includes me."
Sirius starts to sing "Sappy" by Nirvana, and Remus laughs and wraps his arms around me, pausing to give Sirius the stink eye.
We eat dinner at the one table, with all of the teachers, Lily, Carter, Severus, and Regulus. Regulus sits between Carter and I, not wanting to sit near Sirius but also not wanting to sit near the teachers. Lily has no issues, sitting beside McGonagall and Severus. McGonagall keeps rolling her eyes, as Sirius launches mashed potatoes at Remus and then at me.
"I wasn't aware that you could eat so many pasties in one go," Regulus says, later on in the meal, looking at me in amusement. I look at him straight on and push another pasty right into my mouth. He laughs and then covers his mouth when he laughs too hard and nearly chokes.
I chew hard and then swallow, dodging Sirius' peas as they fly through the air. Lily expertly spells away all the mess, used to cleaning up after the messes the Marauders make, and Severus just rolls his eyes.
"Lucky you do Quidditch," Regulus tells me, "or you'd be as fat as Slughorn."
"Right," I nod, "because it's possible for me to be as fat as him."
"It is!"
"Ask the blind man, he saw it all," I say, and Regulus grimaces and looks up at the ceiling. "Don't pretend, Reg, you love me."
"I'm not pretending, I'm reminding myself that reality exists."
"Don't get too cocky, second year," I say, tapping his head with two fingers. "We all know who'd win in a fight."
"You mean me?"
"Oh, get out," I say, pushing him lightly, and he grins.
"Don't pretend, you know you love me," he repeats after me.
"Enough flirting, you two," Sirius calls down the table. "I think I've lost my appetite."
"You're just jealous," I shoot back. "Your game's not as good as your little brother's."
"Or maybe I'm not trying with you," he retorts.
"Ouch," Regulus winces on my behalf. "Quick, rush her to the burn unit!"
"Oh, shut up you two," I say. "I'm glad you two don't hang out together more or I may kill myself."
"Or they might accidentally kill you first," Remus says, cleaning mashed potato off of his robes. He leans into my shoulder to get away from Sirius who has conjured up a thick black marker out of nowhere. "Don't let him draw on me, Mercy- I swear, Sirius Black don't you touch me!"
McGonagall manages to stop Sirius, and we walk out of the Great Hall but don't walk to our common rooms because I want to talk to Carter and Lily is still talking to Severus.
"Exciting, huh?" Carter asks me. "Christmas Eve at Hogwarts. To be honest. I've loved Christmas at Hogwarts my entire life."
"I went home first year, but last year was pretty cool."
"Get any good presents?"
"Only the book you got me, and the journal from my aunt."
"I got a broomstick," he says. "It's the one I used to sweep you sorry sods off the pitch last year."
"We're going to win this year!" I protest. "Save your smug comments until June, when we've won the house cup."
"Don't get to full of yourself, Gryffindor, there's still most of the year left to go." He grins to show he's joking, and the two of us laugh.
"I got you something, from Hogsmeade," I say.
"You have?"
"Well, yeah, I got something for everyone. It's up in my room. Do you want me to get it now or wait for tomorrow?"
"I think I can wait," he grins. "Coincidentally, I got something for you as well, and it's down in my room."
"Angel of mercy, how did you find me? How did you pick me up again?" Sirius appears at my shoulder, singing OneRepublic in his now-lower voice. He's gone from a soprano to tenor in a few months, which is sort of annoying because it's prompted him to sing even more, experimenting with his voice and that blasted electric guitar. "You ready to head back up?"
"I guess," I say, looking from Carter to Regulus, then at Severus who's standing a little ways off from the rest of us. "'Night, you guys."
Carter waves goodbye, Severus doesn't say anything, and Regulus gives us a huge grin before Sirius, Remus, Lily and I all head up to the Gryffindor tower. Sirius retrieves his electric guitar and we sit on the floor in the common room with the fire roaring.
"I've gotten quite good, you know, Mercy don't look at me like that. You- " he points at me, "-are going to sing."
"I don't want to."
"Oh, come on, James isn't here. None of us are going to judge you. You sing fine. We can hear you in the shower."
"I don't sing in the shower," I protest.
"Yes, you do. Lily told me. Didn't you?"
"Lily!" I say, horrified when Lily just ducks her head and grins. "Base treachery!"
"It is not," she insists.
"Have yourself a merry little Christmas," Sirius sings, waiting for me. "Come on, Mercy. We'll all sing with together."
"Let your heart be light," they all sing, and with them all chorusing together, I have no problem joining in. At some point Lily and Remus drop out and I find myself singing with Sirius alone, ears turning bright red.
We end with Sirius breaking out into laughter at his own voice crack, leaning over his guitar to rest his forehead against mine.
"Repeat after me!" he yells. "I'M GOOD AT SINGING!"
"Sirius-"
"I'M GOOD AT SINGING!" he interrupts, so I repeat after him.
"I'M GOOD AT SINGING!"
"There we go!" he says, amping up the volume on his guitar. "Another song!"
We retire sometime much later, voices hoarse with laughter and singing and a few rounds of exploding snap, and I swear up and down Sirius was cheating. and I don't even remember feeling lonely in the empty dorm room, in fact I feel more happy than I have in a while.
Katica
I have History of Magic with the Ravenclaws, and I meet the despicable Penelope Clearwater. I know I shouldn't be so harsh on people, but there's something about her that just gets at me, maybe it's her flouncing or her irritating know it all voice. I had not expected to hate a Ravenclaw. I actually had not expected to hate anyone at all, but as soon as I see Clearwater, I know that she's the one I'll probably "accidentally" kill. I go through the entire class not even perturbed with the fact that our teacher is a ghost, but more disturbed by the girl.
She's one of those people you hate for absolutely no reason and spend time staring at so you can find the reason. She's one of those people that you hate but no one else knows why, and when they do something wrong, you emerge triumphant, saying I knew it. I told you. I told you there was something wrong with her.
All grudges aside, history of magic is extremely boring and I pretty much fall asleep, rousing myself to take notes and hoping that I can ask Percy or Oliver for the notes, because I've missed probably half of the lesson.
I eat lunch with the Slytherins, hastily shoveling food into my mouth before hurrying out into the hall, where I meet Oliver and Percy. Oliver begins to talk about Quidditch, and here he is where he, too, meets Clearwater, as she walks past us.
And hates her, mainly because when we passed her, she had no qualms about eavesdropping and cutting into our conversation to tell us that Quidditch is stupid. She flounces past us and involuntarily Oliver and I both cringe. Percy sort of idly looks at her, not realizing that she's there object of our dislike and thinking that she's just another student.
We've all sort of joined up in the library, whether or not we asked each other to come. Mac, Lachlan, Percy, Oliver and I all sit around a table in the library, and I'm pleasantly surprised to see that they seem to be getting along pretty well.
"You have that much homework already?" Percy asks Lachlan, watching him scribble things down in his notebook.
"No," Mac answers before Lachlan can, "he's just weird and likes to write when he doesn't have to."
"So you're a writer?" I ask, and Lachlan nods, after glaring at Mac. "That sounds fun. My mother used to be an investigative journalist. Not a big famous one, she worked sort of under the radar."
"But that's so cool," Lachlan insists, eyebrows lifted in excitement. "How long did she do it for? Did she ever tell you anything about it?"
"Two years, as soon as she got out of school. When Voldemort fell and the Potters died, she quit and got married. She doesn't talk about it much, you know. She was friends with the Potters and their death sort of shook her up. She got sick and everything. Not that I blame Voldemort for everything, but he did basically destroy her life."
Everyone, including Mac and Lachlan flinch at the word Voldemort, but I ignore them. Fear in a name only increases the fear of the thing itself, my mother has told me multiple times, and Carter - my dad - has told me that Dumbledore himself had told her that.
"You say his name?" Mac asks, tilting her head curiously, a smile appearing at the corners of her perfect, small mouth. "I like it."
"Fear in a name only increases the fear of the thing itself," I say, my mother's words rising to my lips as easily as if they were my own words.
"Sometimes the things you say are really smart," she says, then looks over at Lachlan. "A fresh change from hanging out with this loser all the time."
Lachlan uses his wand to flick a tiny ball of paper at her, and sooner or later I've been caught in the crossfire of tiny paper balls rocketing back and forth between Mac and Lachlan, a battle that demands laughter from us, but we keep the noise to a wary minimum, intimidated by the librarian.
I look from John Lachlan to Helen Flint, two beautiful people, if I'm being honest, and feel sort of intimidated by them. Then Lachlan directs a spell at his notebook and with the crinkling and shuffling of paper, the pages pull out of the binding and form a miniature Quidditch field.
Oliver leaps into eager action, and suddenly I'm part of Lachlan and Mac's excitement, I'm actually part of something that seems to be perfect, playing around with people who consider you a friend when you were afraid that no one in your house would be your friend.
Percy doesn't play- I don't think he knows how, or if he does he doesn't let on. Lachlan and I play against Mac and Oliver, who sit on the other side of the table, playing two on two Quidditch, which is basically everyone plays all the positions, including the keeper. I act more functionally as a Chaser, and Oliver plays as mostly keeper, although, he keeps flitting out his little paper figure to hurl Bludgers at me with startling, sniper like accuracy. If Oliver ever becomes Beater, the world needs to look out.
We eventually get so loud that we're thrown out of the library, and with a wave of his wand Lachlan returns the pages of his notebook back into book form. We file out of the library, Percy following behind with his nose in the air and his books gathered tight to his chest, saying I told you so, rolling his eyes but smiling with the rest of us anyway.
Mac and Lachlan depart for double Potions, or something detestable of that sort, and Oliver, Percy and I all head for Transfiguration with McGonagall, Oliver chattering on about Quidditch, Percy only half listening and halfheartedly replying to his rhetorical questions.
We get into the room early, and sit as far in the back as we can, because that's the sort of thing you do as eleven year olds. At least, that's what Oliver and I want to do, but Percy sort of wants to sit in the very front, but sits with us eventually.
McGonagall comes in exactly on time, gaze sweeping over us, stern. She looks at Percy, then at me, then Oliver, lips tightening with some imperceptible emotion, and I don't know whether it's a negative or positive one.
"I tell this to all of my first years. Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."
She looks satisfied with the hush that has fallen over us. "Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, who knows what it is?"
Percy raises his hand.
"Of course," Oliver mutters. He reaches down and pulls my mother's journal from my bag and props it up against the edge of the table so that it's partially hidden from view. Shifting the book so that it's on his left leg and I can see better, he flicks through to the pages with the pictures.
I try to pay attention to both the lesson and the journal, only hoping that Percy's notes will be better than mine are, and Oliver doesn't even try to write anything down. Oliver points at one of the drawings near the back of the book, impressed.
"Your dad?" he asks, but I shake my head. It is a good drawing, and the boy looks remarkably like me, but he's not Carter. I don't know who he is, but it's just his profile etched lightly onto the old paper, and I contribute the similarities to the vagueness of the whole picture.
Percy officially becomes our primary note taker, I become the peacekeeper, and Oliver becomes the delinquent. I mean, Oliver's not dumb, he's just uninterested in anything that's not Quidditch.
"Hey, Kat, do you think Snape could be blackmailed with those pictures?" he whispers to me, looking at that one moving picture with the laughing Snape.
"For Merlin's sake, Oliver," Percy snaps, as loudly as he dares from the back of the class, "shut up already. Some people are actually trying to learn."
"I bet you don't actually have to learn anything. You know it all already, don't you?" Oliver argues. "Anyway, what do you think about the pictures?"
"He'd probably just force us to give them to him and then burn them," I point out. "He obviously wouldn't let us keep them."
"That's true," Oliver sighs. "Say, do you think you could start your own journal for your kids to read when they're in school? I know what I'd write if I had one."
"You mean you just want an excuse to write in a journal because you don't think it's tough enough," I tease.
"You're a good friend," he says, grinning. "Trust me, your journal will be much better with me writing in it."
"I don't know about that," I say dubiously. "It'll be all about Quidditch, wouldn't it?"
"Sometimes I don't talk about Quidditch," he protests. "What's wrong about talking about it, anyway? You'll have some of my brilliant stuff documented for future generations."
I roll my eyes and he laughs. "You know it's true, Kat, in a few years I'll be famous and people will pay you loads for your journals just because I wrote in them."
"And I'll become Minister of Magic and people will pay more because I wrote in it," Percy says dryly, having picked up on our conversation. "But we all have our dreams, don't we?"
"So this journaling thing is definite?" I ask.
"Sure, I have a spare notebook somewhere in my trunk," Percy shrugs, as the class winds down and we pack up to go. "If you want. But it'll be all under your name, Katica, I'm not risking people knowing it's mine and then looking through it to find my weaknesses when I'm Minister. Or knowing Oliver wrote in it and finding his weaknesses for when he plays for Puddlemere United."
"Don't make fun of that," Oliver protests, "that's legitimately one of my real goals!"
"I'm not making fun of you," Percy says, lying straight through his teeth, as McGonagall calls for grouping up. The three of us proceed to try and transfigure a book into a butterfly, which Percy does with varying degrees of success and Oliver does with various degrees of failure.
When I try my wand just sparks rebelliously and I put it down in annoyance, hold my hands over the book, and say the incantation.
The book rattles ominously and suddenly leaps into the air, using its covers as wings and flapping frantically above is, shredding pages like snow into our heads.
"Not exactly a butterfly," Oliver comments, "but not bad, really."
"Are you not going to question the fact that she didn't use a wand?" Percy asks.
"No, because she knows what she's doing."
"Actually, I don't," I admit, "but thanks for the vote of confidence anyway. How do we get this thing down before it snows on the entire class?"
The harder we try to catch it, the faster it flaps, until there's a thin layer of shredded paper over the entire room. McGonagall eventually spells it down, after Oliver leaps dangerously off of a chair and lands on top of me, which makes my elbow go straight up into his face and the two of us have to be sent to the hospital wing because Oliver has a bloody nose and there's a bruise on my cheek.
"Mr. Weasley, I trust you can escort them down to the hospital wing and prevent them from injuring themselves further?" McGonagall asks Percy dryly. "Take your stuff, class is almost over, anyway. You have seven inches of parchment on Gamp's Law due next class."
"Yes, Professor," Percy says, and we exit the classroom, Oliver holding his robes up to his nose and McGonagall rolling her eyes.
"I would heal you myself, but I don't want to risk incurring the wrath of Madam Pomfrey," she mutters.
"You two are such doofuses," Percy tells us, as we walk down to the hospital wing. As expected, Madam Pomfrey fixes up in instants, clucking her tongue disapprovingly.
There are two more people sitting there contritely, at the end of one of the cots, looking more injured than we are, dressed in green jerseys and holding broomsticks. Oliver stares at them for longer than necessary, and I can tell he wants to ask them stuff about Quidditch.
One of the guys, with sandy, curly hair, lifts his dark, exquisitely shaped eyebrow at us. "Got into a fight on the first day of class?" he asks me, looking contemptuously at Percy and Oliver, in their red lined robes.
"N-no," I say hesitantly, looking at Percy, who has distaste written all over his freckled face. "He just tripped."
The boy drops a wink with his blackened eye, blue ringed with vapid purples and black. "That's what we all say, dear. Don't be ashamed. We destroy them on the pitch, but that's no excuse to go easy on them in the halls."
"Excuse me," Oliver protests, "Charlie Weasley is one of the best Quidditch players this school has had, and you're telling me Slytherin is better than we are?"
"Wait till you've hit the field," the boy says archly, "and then we'll see who's talking."
"Alright, alright," Pomfrey says, "enough banter. I'm done with you two," she tells us, "get out of here."
Oliver, Percy and I leave the hospital wing fuming, Oliver more than the rest of us, muttering things that I'd rather not hear, under his breath.
At eight that day, I trudge my way to Snape's office, where I sit doing lines under the uncomfortable glare of Snape in the taut silence. Once finished, he let's me go, and I stand up to go, but he stops me.
"As your head of house, it is my duty to inform you that your excessive lack of control over your wandless magic has been noticed by both me and Dumbledore, and if it gets any worse than it is now, I'm afraid you'll have to take extra lessons."
"What?" I ask, aghast. "Extra lessons?"
"No doubt you'd much more prefer to spend your time with your... friends," he says, sneering slightly, "but I can assure you, if your issues begin to physically harm other students you will be asked to seriously attempt to control it."
"But I can't help it, sir. I've always been like this."
"Yes, Natsworthy, and now that you're out of an environment filled with fully trained witches and wizards, such as your parents, and in an environment filled with inexperienced children, you have to stop being so careless. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"And if you explode my glass one more time, you will have detention again."
"Sorry, sir."
"Get out of here, Natsworthy."
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