- Chapter 6: Until Externally Acted Upon -

I woke the following morning - a Saturday - from a fitful sleep, and to an empty bed. The sheets were wrinkled where James had lain, his pillow still indented. White light, stark with the appearance of opaqueness, spilled from behind the quiet of James's curtains. The edges of shadows faded over the walls, and I knew from their dullness that this morning was cloudy with neither wind nor snow. James must have gone to Headquarters for dueling lessons with Moody or one of the other Aurors. The thought of him dodging curses in somebody's under-used, over-cluttered office made the whiteness of the morning light seem more insistent. More viscous.

Pressing my fingers to my forehead, I sat up and tried to orient myself. I felt dizzy and weak, as though my body had not followed my brain out of slumber. I was filled with a vague sense of having dreamed of something unpleasant, a vague memory of James pushing the blankets back and kissing my shoulder before he took his overcoat and left. The sound of Melinda Dimple choking, the feel of her body lurching against my palm, were still fresh in my mind. I suspected I had dreamed about her.

I fumbled my way into a pair of James's boxer shorts and an old long-sleeved T-shirt of his, then slid off the bed and fumbled my way into the kitchen in similar fashion. James had left his coffee pot out on the countertop, next to the sink, such that our shared house plant seemed to have misted itself on the steam from James's leftover coffee. Blearily I dumped out the dregs and put the pot away. I felt domestic and weirdly, silently misplaced. The necklace James had given me hung warmly about my neck, tickling me. My breasts were two sculpted handfuls that weighed too much for their size; the clear polish on my left toenail had still not cracked. Our house plant was bending toward the window and the window was simply not moving.

I set a pot of water to boil on the stove and began rummaging through the cabinets for some sort of breakfast food. There was a box of white pasta, a bag of walnuts, a half-loaf of bread, and a brick of flour. What James had been doing with a brick of flour was beyond me, as he'd never given any indication of having so much as an inkling of what flour was used for - but I immediately seized upon the idea of baking and began searching for eggs and vegetable oil as well. I would bake myself some bread. Yes. That was exactly what I would do.

I opened the refrigerator and yanked open the vegetable crisper. A bag of something rolled noisily at the bottom of the drawer; upon excavation of this something, I discovered that James had apparently been stockpiling six or seven zucchinis and a bunch of nearly over-ripe bananas.

Why the hell would you put bananas in the refrigerator? I wondered dimly as I slapped the produce onto the counter.

Another few rummages through James's kitchen drawers revealed an impressive set of cooking knives - his mother's, no doubt - and a marvelously useless set of baking pans. With relish I picked out the largest one and rubbed the sides down with flour, and then set myself to the task of dicing no fewer than three zucchinis into obsessively tiny pieces.

An hour later, when my zucchini-banana-bread concoction was safely in the oven, I stood by the kitchen window with a mug of tea and wondered why in hell I'd just wasted the morning dicing zucchini.

x.x.x.x.x.x

My bread turned out surprisingly well, and did me the added favor of filling James's flat with the warm, sweet scent of cinnamon, sugar, and banana. I felt a rush of pride when I took the loaf out of the oven. I had baked bread and I would give the thickest slice to the man I was sleeping with when he came home from work. I would cook and clean for him, and then I would let him bury himself in my feminine softness. I would do this until I grew old and demented, and then, when my time on Earth was over, I'd ask to die and join my husband in Heaven. I would be a good wife and I would sob and choke against a young girl's palm when my husband left me.

I cut myself a slice of bread, buttered it, and sat down at the table with the pile of notes I'd taken the previous night. The bread melted fragrantly in my mouth. I knew right then and there that the day I became a domestic housewife would have to be the day I killed myself.

The obituary notes lay sullenly in front of me, seeming to frown at me in their sparseness. I had barely managed a page on Mathilda Hyppolete. I had less than half a page on Reg Kilkirk. And on Dionysus Dimple - all I had was a mean, stringy three lines. I saw my future laid out before me: Interview after interview, each a pointless and one-sided conversation, each for the purpose of writing intelligently about people whose life stories I had absolutely no business writing. I'd take a page of worthless notes for each person, come home, and fabricate a story; then I'd cook dinner, fuck my husband, and sleep. And the next day I would do it all again.

And for what? I thought. For nothing but the privilege of glossing over the brutal deaths of people I'll never meet.

The pressure rose in my chest then, overflowed and constricted my throat. I laid my head in my arms and wept.

x.x.x.x.x.x

A heavy snow began falling as I cleaned up the mess I'd made in the kitchen. The paleness and quiet of the morning seemed to accentuate the wet splatters of egg and bread batter on the countertop, seemed to soften the fabric of James's clothing on my skin. I brewed myself another cup of tea and took my notes back into James's bedroom, where I pulled the curtains and sat down at his desk, spreading the curled parchment flat in front of me. I felt a bit as if I were invading his privacy; he hadn't put away his letters or tax returns, and his favorite falcon-feather quill was lying out in full view, right on top of a note he'd written to himself on Moody's dueling lessons.

Feeling slightly guilty, I helped myself to a quill - a smaller one I didn't think he used very often - and an ink bottle. With an unsteady hand I began writing, dropping flecks of ink over the parchment and smearing them as my hand moved jerkily from line to line.

Mathilda T. Hyppolete

Born August 12, 1943

Deceased February 23, 1979

Known by her contemporaries for her outstanding talent for Charm-breaking, Mathilda T. Hyppolete will be remembered by many for her cool-headedness and ability to perform under fire. But not only was Ms. Hyppolete competent in her field; she was also kind-hearted and unassuming, always prepared to lend a hand and never gossiping about her neighbors. This upstanding woman has enriched and indeed streamlined the lives of many around her, and though she led a quiet and discreet life, she will be remembered most fondly by all who have known her.

Reginald Kilkirk

Born April 30, 1915

Deceased February 5, 1979

The humble owner of a single family-owned wood shop, Reginald Kilkirk was the wizard who created many of the special woodworked items we've come to love and appreciate: The vaulted cabinets with their hidden safes, the rain-repelling roof shingles, and those famous wooden wand cases that open only for the wand owner - these are but a mere few of the inventions Mr. Kilkirk has graced us with, though perhaps his most admirable achievement was the house he built as a wedding gift to his wife, Laura, who is now deceased. It is with great sadness that we bid this talented and generous man farewell. Best wishes to his son, Michael. May he live in peace and good health.

I hesitated for a long time after I finished Kilkirk's obituary, my hand hovering uncertainly over the parchment. Ink began to drip from the nib as I stared emptily at the words I'd so hastily scribbled. Snow was accumulating on the windowsill, sliding down the windowpanes; all the world seemed to have gone silent with me.

Numbly, I dipped the quill again and wrote the first thing that came to mind:

Dionysus Bacchus Dimple

Born October 16, 1901

Deceased February 8, 1979

A spirited and warm-hearted man, Dionysus Bacchus Dimple died of natural causes. He is missed dearly by his children, grandchildren, and wife Melinda. Rest in peace, Dionysus; may you be loved as much in memory as you were in life.

I blew on the ink once after I finished, then sat back. How a propos of me to write three lines of nothing for the obituary that haunted me most.

I went back out into the kitchen, washed my dishes, and stared out at the snow for a while. It was accumulating prettily in the street, drifting over the rows of trees parked cars with a soft whiteness that soothed my guilt. I would need to make a trip to the post office soon.

As I pulled on my jeans and overcoat, a sudden thought struck me: Why do I not have an owl to carry my mail? I wasn't rich, but buying an owl was certainly within my means - and it would most definitely be less expensive in the long run than paying the post office every three days to owl my mail to The Daily Prophet for me. How frivolous would it be, I thought guiltily, if I just went to Diagon Alley today and had a look at the owls for sale?

In that moment, the thought of bringing home a large bird of prey became absurdly appealing. Like a woman obsessed with the idea of trapping a man into giving her a baby, I was now viscerally enamored with the idea of adopting an owl, naming it, talking to it, and throwing open the windows at night to let it hunt down its food. I couldn't figure out why I'd wasted so much money all these years on the post office. Why rent an owl when I could have one of my own?

I knew I probably wouldn't even have thought to look at the owls today if I hadn't just spent the morning depressively writing obituaries, but the damage was already done. I counted my money, decided I had enough to spare, and set out for Diagon Alley.

x.x.x.x.x.x

Diagon Alley was covered in a charming layer of snow when I arrived, and now the sun was emerging, beginning to burn its way out from behind the thick cotton-gray clouds. A heartening number of people were wandering the alley in groups of twos and threes, kicking up snow as they went; some had brought children, and others, their elderly parents. Icicles dripped steadily from the roofs of many of the shops, glinting cheerily in the half-sun. Already the morning's snowfall was beginning to melt into the gutters and storm drains, and for a second I thought I could smell the first hint of spring in the air. The freshness of it seemed to collide with my image of an owl cage clasped firmly in my hands, and a feeling of doubt began to creep over me. Was I really just being frivolous, buying things simply to distract myself from a bad mood? Wasn't this sort of similar to having a child just to distract yourself from a bad marriage - oughtn't I content myself with taking a walk and getting some fresh air when I was getting too emotional over my job?

I gazed around the alley, at the book shops, at the pubs and apothecaries, the jewelry and clothing boutiques; but before I could begin to hate myself for my (newfound?) tendency towards mindless consumption, a male voice interrupted me. I nearly jumped.

"Evans!" Sirius Black said jovially, striding up to me with noticeable swagger. He was carrying what looked like a large butterbeer in one hand and a canvas bag stuffed with groceries in the other; as he sidled up beside me he kicked a good lot of snow over my shoes. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were talking to dead people today."

I shivered and blinked once to clear my head. "Nope," I said, putting on a cheerful voice. "I'm ahead of schedule. No more dead people on today's list."

"Nice." Sirius took a swig of butterbeer, then offered me the bottle. "Want some?"

"I think I'm all right for now. Thanks, though."

"No? Fine, your loss," Sirius said cheerfully. "So since you're free, do you want to join James and me later today for some motorbike action?" He waggled his eyebrow suggestively at me.

I laughed more loudly than I'd intended. "'Motorbike action'? So that's what you call it, eh?"

"James doesn't think you'll find it at all sexy, and he made the mistake of betting me on that. So I think you need to come over and give in to the need to swoon at the sight of a very, very sexy motorbike."

"I think I might save that for later," I said. That James and Sirius had time to go off gallivanting on Sirius's half-renovated motorbike made me slightly jealous. "I'm probably going to head back to the mailroom first thing tomorrow to give Hestia a hand."

"No, Evans. Really." Sirius grinned roguishly.

"No, really, I mean it." I blushed a little and looked down at my shoes. "James will tell you, I'm in this completely off-the-wall sleep pattern. I think I just need to not be awake until five in the morning tonight."

"Oh, bollocks. I keep betting that git that he can't possibly be as good in bed as he says he is."

I blinked - then burst out laughing. "You are such a pig. You seriously bet him money on that?"

"You'd understand if you were me," Sirius said, smirking as he took another swig of butterbeer. "He deflated his head for you, not the rest of us. So tell me the truth, Evans. Would you defend such insufferable bragging? Would you really?"

"Wow. You're an even bigger prick than I thought," I answered. I smirked right back. "Pay up, Black."

"Seriously? You'd betray me like that? God, Evans. God."

"Yep. Cough it up."

There was a moment's pause in which Sirius merely looked at me with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, his eyes seeming to bore holes straight through mine; but then his expression lightened, his mouth quirking this time into a genuine smile. "That was pretty good, Evans," he nodded, raising his butterbeer. "Sorry. Wingman tendencies. Even though I knew you weren't about to start ragging on him."

"I'm not going to lie, Sirius, sometimes I think you're out of your mind."

He shrugged. "Old habits die hard. Now, are you sure you don't want in on this motorbike tonight? I'm test-flying it. First time out. Virgin flight. Probably the most worthwhile thing you'll see all week."

"I'll think about it," I said coolly.

The corner of Sirius's mouth twitched. "Make it happen, Evans. I'm counting on you."

"Anything for you."

"Now you're getting it."

I rolled my eyes. "You're incorrigible."

"Do you see any trace of shame," Sirius smirked, gesturing toward his legs and torso, "anywhere at all on this getup?"

"Nope. You're incorrigible and you're bloody proud of it."

"Yep. Shame, isn't it?" Sirius stretched contentedly. "But in all seriousness. What are you here for?"

My guilt flooded back instantly. "Oh, right. That. Well," I said, shifting my weight a little, "I just had the insane idea this morning to buy myself an owl to carry my mail. I thought it'd be less expensive than going to the post office every time I needed a stack of obituaries mailed. I was just dawdling indecisively when you showed up."

"Well, you're right about it being cheaper. What's the holdup?"

"An owl just seems like a slightly insane thing to buy on a whim."

Sirius shrugged. "So what? Women buy expensive crap they don't need all the time. At least an owl is useful."

"I know, I just feel stupid."

"You women," Sirius said, shaking his head. "Seriously, if you're going to drop a bucket of money on something, it might as well be an owl. Just go do the damage and stop obsessing over it."

I ruffled my hair uncomfortably. "You think?"

"Bloody fucking yes, Evans. Especially because you're a woman."

x.x.x.x.x.x

That was how I ended up walking into The Magical Menagerie that afternoon without immediately losing my nerve and turning back. Sirius bade me farewell shortly after marching me right up to the shop's doorstep, saying he needed to get home and get back to working up his motorbike for the evening's test flight, and left me stuttering in bewilderment as the smiling shopkeeper opened the door and all but manhandled me into the store.

I gulped when I got inside. The shop suddenly felt much larger than it had looked from the street. There were owls everywhere, tethered to perches along the walls and all over the rafters. Black and spotted tabby cats opened their eyes and gazed impassively at me. Toads croaked from the inside of a large glass aquarium lining a good half of the far wall. A couple of owls which had previously been sleeping woke up, ruffled their wings, stared at me, and hooted. I felt conspicuous and rather absurd standing there like a gawping idiot.

"Are we looking for a companion today?" came a cool, even voice from behind a shelf of pet supplies. The shopkeeper stepped into the aisle, a tawny, olive-skinned man in a heavy coat and hunting boots. He looked to be of Asian descent, with eyes so dark they were almost black; a thick black braid hung from the nape of his neck. He wiped his hands on his coat and pulled the heaviest leather glove I'd ever seen onto his right hand.

"Er," I said, wondering what the hell a man like him was doing selling owls and toads, "I thought I'd just have a look at the owls."

"Ah, yes," the shopkeeper said, his mouth twitching into a small smile. "Our variety of owls are very useful. Are you hoping to purchase a mail courier?"

"Primarily," I said, unable to take my eyes off the glove on his hand. "I'm just - uncertain of how to properly care for an owl. Most of my friends seem to keep theirs in cages or in an owlery when they're not sending them out for mail."

Now the shopkeeper's eyes glinted, and he smiled more broadly. "Oh, so you are not sure you want to keep a bird of prey cooped up all day."

"Well…yes," I said, dropping my gaze to his shoulders. "I'd like to have an owl, as I send a lot of mail, but - "

"You are not sure you want to handle a natural predator," the shopkeeper nodded, still smiling. "You do not have to tell me. It is written all over your face."

There was something about his eyes - dangerous, controlled, but somehow still warm - that unnerved me. I shrank a little before him and nodded, not knowing what to say.

"My name is Temujin," he said. He held out his ungloved hand and smiled graciously. "Please call me by my name. I am pleased to know you."

I took his hand and shook it as firmly as I could, smiling back. "Likewise. My name is Lily."

"Wonderful," Temujin said. He gave a little nod and released my hand. "You are familiar with many wizarding owls, are you not?"

"I am familiar with them."

"Every owl in my shop is hatched from an egg," Temujin said evenly, led me down the aisle to the wall where a half-dozen owls perched, all asleep, and gestured towards the owls with one sweep of his arm. "All of these owls can feel magic. They have subtle powers that allow them to form a bond with their masters. These are not ordinary owls. They are all raised by humans and trained as couriers. Because they grew up with many other owls, they are also less likely to attack other owls."

"I see."

"They are predators just as ordinary owls are. They must not be kept in a cage for more than two or three hours per day. You must let them out every night to hunt, and you must let them fly free for several hours each day. You must not let them out where there are hawks. You must also watch out for eagles."

"Why is that?" I asked timidly.

"Hawks will attack and kill any owls that enter hawk territory. An owl can kill a hawk at night, but when there is sunlight," Temujin said, tapping the corner of his eye with an ungloved finger, "the hawk will be able to see the owl. In this situation the hawk will always win, for he is so much faster and more agile than the owl."

I gazed over the six owls all sleeping before me, processing this. "Which species would you recommend?" I said softly.

"That is for you to decide," Temujin replied. "These are all good owls. You will not be disappointed with any of them."

I remained silent for a few moments, studying the owls. I recognized two Barn Owls and one Screech Owl; I didn't recognize the other breeds. Then a sudden wave of curiosity struck me. "Could I ask you a question?"

"Certainly."

"How did you come to run a pet store?"

Temujin's dark eyes flickered, and then he gave me another one of his cool, even smiles. "I am not originally a pet store owner," he replied. "I grew up in Mongolia. You know where that is?"

"Yes, of course."

"My father and his father were eagle-hunters." Temujin regarded me intently. "Do you understand the art of eagle-hunting?"

"Er - no, I don't think I know anything about it."

Temujin nodded curtly, seeming to scrutinize me. "Do you have time today? I can show you the art if you would like to see."

I looked up in surprise. "Really?"

Temujin put an arm lightly around my shoulder and led me to the back of the shop. "Come with me. I will show you, and then perhaps you will purchase an owl." He smiled slightly at his joke.

Senses heightening, I reached into my pocket for my wand and watched his back as he worked the lock of the narrow wooden door at the rear of the shop. Quietly, I slid my wand up my sleeve; I was half-expecting him to grab me and thrust me into the supply closet and either try to kill or rape me. But curiosity kept me rooted to the spot, wand at the ready, and I watched as he jimmied the lock one last time and then kicked the door open.

There was no supply room. There were no year-old piles of bagged pet food, no empty cages, no dusty shelves or furniture of any kind. There were no walls; there wasn't even a floor - and after a moment's astonished gaping, I realized that there was no ceiling, either.

"Follow me," Temujin ordered. Dumbly, I followed, and he shut the door behind us.

I was standing in a vast green meadow, with mountains on the west and a woodland on the east. The sun hung low on the horizon, almost setting, glittering on the surface of the river that cut through the mountains and crossed the meadow before us. A cool wind blew in from the north, causing an entire flock of starlings to come shrieking out of the grass; in the distance I could make out something that looked like a wolf, prowling through the brush.

"Where is this?" I asked breathlessly.

"Oh, I do not know," Temujin said, giving a slight laugh. "It is not important. I simply built a portal in my shop to a place where I could train my birds."

"So this is where you…do what, exactly?"

Temujin didn't answer; instead, he cupped his hands around his mouth and barked out a harsh call of some kind, then whistled and shouted again, scanning the sky and woodlands. After a few moments the dark silhouette of a large bird of prey rose above the treetops and began soaring toward us. Temujin smiled to himself and lifted his gloved hand. A few seconds later, this large - and very fierce-looking - bird swooped in on us, flapping its wings as it reached out and sank its talons sharply into Temujin's glove. In a second the bird had steadied itself, and now it turned its streamlined head and fixed its piercing amber stare on me. I exhaled.

"This is a red-tailed hawk," Temujin said. He reached into a small pouch at his waist and pulled out a morsel of what looked like raw squirrel meat, then held it at the hawk's feet. Immediately the hawk dropped its stare and began snapping at the meat. "I call him Tsahan-Zam. Tsahan for short. I trapped him five years ago and trained him to hunt with me. He was my hunting partner until three weeks ago, when I released him back into the wild. But he still answers my commands."

"Is this…eagle-hunting?"

"In this country we call it falconry. In Mongolia we train golden eagles to hunt wolves to protect our livestock. But golden eagles are not so common here. I am trying to trap one, but so far, no luck."

"So you trap the birds," I said, watching the hawk in disbelief as it ripped at its meat and gulped it down, "and then you train them to come to you, and then - you make them hunt for you?"

"Basically. We teach the birds that they will be fed if they do what we want them to do. A bird of prey is a mercenary creature. It does not want affection, only food and protection from other predators. It does not love its master."

"I see."

"Come with me," Temujin said, walking towards the woods. The hawk immediately lifted its head and stared off into the distance, seeming to scan the horizon. "Let us see if Tsahan-Zam will hunt for us. He is very active and needs to hunt often."

We rustled through the meadow grasses for several minutes before the hawk suddenly straightened up and froze, its gazed fixed on something I couldn't see. It began to open and close its beak, shifting its talons on Temujin's glove.

"He sees prey," Temujin said. And with that, he threw the hawk from his arm; no sooner had its talons lifted from his arm than the hawk was beating its wings, rising rapidly into the sky. In a moment it had risen to an altitude of what looked like several hundred feet, and began to swoop down over the trees.

And then the hawk screamed - a high-pitched, rasping, terrifying scream that sent a chill into my bones. A few seconds later I saw why it had screamed: A tree branch rustled, and another bird flew up into the sky, flapping madly, not seeming to realize that it had just exposed itself to the very predator it was trying to flee.

Then the hawk swept in from above, talons out - and struck. The other bird cartwheeled at the impact, flapping disjointedly, trying to right itself; then the hawk struck again, this time trapping the bird in its talons and then rising into the sky once more.

A moment later the hawk swooped into the grass before us, flapped once to steady itself, and then - without acknowledging our presence - ripped straight into the bird's neck, tossing feathers aside as it snapped and tore at still breathing flesh. The bird shrieked and fluttered desperately; the hawk merely grasped the bird's beak in one talon, forced its head back down, and continued to eat. When it lifted its head again, its beak was coated with blood.

I swallowed and tried to steady myself. I couldn't remember seeing anything this perfectly brutal in my life.

"You came on a good day," Temujin said. "I wondered if I should show you the peregrine falcon I have recently trapped, but Tsahan-Zam has put on a spectacular show for you."

I felt dizzy. "What sort of bird did he kill?"

Temujin looked thoughtfully at the bloody mess of bones and feathers, then poked it with his gloved finger. The hawk shrieked at him. Unfazed, Temujin turned the dead bird's head over beneath the hawk's talons. Then he made a sucking sound. "Ah, yes. I have been waiting for this kill." He stood up and wiped the blood from his glove. He was clearly satisfied. "Tsahan-Zam has killed the Great Horned Owl that has been bothering him all month. This owl tried to usurp Tsahan's prey and territory and drive him away. They have fought for dominance three or four times already."

"An owl," I repeated. "This hawk has just killed an owl?"

"And all the better for that," Temujin said contentedly. "This is survival. There are many birds of prey in this area. They must compete with one another for food and territory. Owls that are stupid enough to hunt in a hawk's territory by day must die, to ensure that stupid owl chicks are not born."

"So tell me," I said, feeling ill. "Why are you running a pet store, again?"

"I am hoping to found a school of falconry for wizards in a few years," Temujin replied. "Wizards are shamefully stupid about birds of prey. But I cannot teach them without permits and facilities. For those, I need money." Then he smiled ironically. "I see you are not interested in purchasing an owl any longer."

"What? No - well. I'm still not sure, to be honest."

"Think about it. I will still be in my shop when you have made your decision."

"Thank you," I said weakly.

"Come," Temujin said kindly. "Let us go back. You have seen enough."

x.x.x.x.x.x

Needless to say, I didn't purchase an owl. Rather, I walked out of the shop feeling an immense sense of guilt for having gone in at all - but now I also felt sick at heart, as though I'd been awakened to an ugly truth I'd never quite grasped before: The very fact of my existence was brutal. I was born brutally, pushed from my mother's body in an agony of fluid and blood; I lived brutally, each year letting dozens of chickens and cows have their heads sliced off of their bleeding bodies, each day carrying a weapon in my pocket, should I need to commit murder; and I would die brutally, either as someone else's kill, or through some slow and terrible deterioration of my flesh.

James and Sirius were shocked at my appearance in Sirius's back yard that night. The first thing they did, of course, was swear jovially at me for showing up.

"Lily. Woman. Get over here and look at this thing," James yelled, grinning like an idiot. He was waving towards the back yard. "This is better than any bloody dead person. Come."

A beam of blinding white light went up in the yard; then came a loud, whining sputter of an engine, followed by Sirius whooping loudly over the din. Mildly amused, I opened the gate to the yard and climbed over the deep snowbank blocking the rest of the street from Sirius's property. James and Sirius were both standing over the motorbike, Sirius with a screwdriver in one hand and a wrench in the other, and James with his wand alight.

"So you're still messing around with Muggle tools, hm, Sirius," I said, shivering as I came up beside them. "Manly. Points for that."

Sirius gave a self-satisfied smile. "See, Prongs? I told you. It's only been two minutes and she's already swooning."

"What, over your skinny little screwdriver? Please."

"This screwdriver is just a miniature prototype."

"Have you got it to fly yet?" I cut in, tilting my head sweetly. Immediately James and Sirius looked up and smiled.

"We don't know yet," Sirius replied. "But she's revving up to go. You want to be the first one to ride?"

"I think I'll leave that to you," I said, giving James a look. "I want to see you take her up the first time. Then, when I know I won't die in midair, I'll give it a shot."

Sirius rolled up his sleeves and pressed his palms together. "Fair enough." His eyes glinted. "You heard the lady, Prongs. Off with you."

James smirked and stepped behind me, putting his arms firmly around my middle. "No. I have other things to do tonight. Let's see it."

Sirius shrugged and threw a leg over the motorbike. "Your loss, then. Watch this." Then he grasped the handles, grinned with a glimmer of madness in his eyes, and kicked off.

The motorbike took off like a shot, leaving a trail of white-gold sparks behind it; and Sirius whooped and banked sharply, swinging the motorbike into an arc that cut through the frigid night air like a glowing scythe. Suddenly a pair of glimmering, wing-like blades fanned out beneath Sirius's feet, and Sirius accelerated with a sputter and a roar, this time banking and barrel-rolling with hairpin precision, laughing at the top of his lungs.

I felt James's hands find mine, and was taken aback at their greasy, dirty texture. I pulled his hands out in front of me and spread his palms. They were covered with black motor oil.

"James," I said, leaning my head back against his shoulder. "What have you been doing?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a smile form on his lips. "What have I been doing?" he said contentedly. "Putting those ailerons on that bike. Pretty bang-up job for a bloke who can't screw in a light bulb, don't you think?"

I paused for a moment. Then: "You put the ailerons on that thing?"

"Yeah. Just an idea we didn't think would work, but decided to try anyway." James laughed. "I was pretty sure he'd crash straight into someone's roof tonight with those things, but I guess I was wrong."

"Where did you get the idea to do that?"

"Easy," James said. "You ever wonder how birds can bank into a stoop dive and come out of it completely in control? They adjust their feathers."

"So you put metal feathers on this thing."

"In a manner of speaking. They're heavily enchanted. I don't have a fucking clue how to pound feathers out of a scrap of junk metal."

I laughed and leaned into him, letting him tighten his arms around my waist - but silently I was wondering: How does he bloody fucking do it? I imagined him getting down on one knee and putting a diamond ring on my finger - a beautiful diamond, for James would never settle for anything less - and I felt myself withering in the light on his face, in the glimmer of the ring, in the simple, shining confidence that he exuded. James Potter, my innocently, deviously brilliant boyfriend. James Potter, who - for some reason I couldn't comprehend - loved me, unflaggingly and unconditionally.

"I forget," he said, his breath warm in my ear. "Do you get motion sick?"

"Er," I replied uselessly.

"Because I think you should take a ride with Sirius on that thing."

"You don't want to fly it?" I said, feeling light-headed. I couldn't remember being more attracted to James ever in my life.

"Oh, I'll fly it. I'm going to make it do things that defy physics."

Just then Sirius came careening back into the yard, sending up a huge spume of snow as he landed. I had never seen him look this self-satisfied and this utterly reckless. "So," he said, grinning manically, "who wants to go next?"

And so I watched as James and Sirius took the motorbike into the sky, banking, barrel rolling, going into dizzying corkscrew dives that made me fear they'd lose their grip and plunge to their deaths as the motorbike went up in flames - and then I watched as James came back down to earth, stripped down to a bare shirt and jeans, and took his broomstick from the shed behind Sirius's house.

"I need a fair comparison," he said, a dangerous glint in his eye. And with that he kicked off the ground and went speeding into the heavens, a sleek, bullet-like silhouette against the freezing stars; and this time rocketed upwards until I could barely see him, and then - the tiny bullet that was James rolled suddenly and plunged. For several hundred feet he dove; then, at perhaps ten feet above our heads, he suddenly pulled out of the dive, banked, rolled, and somersaulted off the broomstick, landing with a hushed thud in the snow. He was laughing.

"I just completely outflew your bike, Padfoot," he panted. "We're adjusting the ailerons first thing next week. Finer controls. And more speed. You got nothing if you don't have more pickup." And with that he simply lay there, splayed out in the snow, breathing hard, smiling as if he were incapable of any other expression - smiling as if he'd just cheated death.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

A/N: So here we are. This was a weird chapter for me to write - it was a solid reminder to me of just how weird this story is. :] It looked a lot less weird in outline form. It wasn't until I started watching YouTube videos of eagles killing wolves and falcons stoop diving from twelve thousand feet that I realized I might be getting myself in a little more deeply than I'd first suspected. BUT in all seriousness, take a look at this: http : /www . youtube . com / watch ? v = j3mTPEuFcWk. Just take the spaces out of the URL and paste it into your browser. It's ridiculous.

Anyway, yeah, that was my homework for this chapter. No way Harry or James could handle those kinds of insane flight stunts (though I bet James would have loved to push the envelope) - though if I were Lily, I'd still be pretty impressed.

Cheers. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and I hope you've enjoyed this one!