XI. Elegie
Here are the known facts of Margaret Fraser's life.
Born in Edinburgh, January second, 1933. Sister, Brigid, and brother, James: ten years older. James deceased, 1945. Parents deceased. Not sure when.
Married to Richard King, 1959. Separated, 1966. Would have preferred to separate sooner.
Two children.
Julia Martha King.
Amanda Elizabeth King.
She never knew that Julia introduced herself as a Fraser. If she had, she would have been flattered, and she would have put a stop to it.
It was Julie who brought the body inside. For a moment she hesitated to levitate it, not wanting to attract any attention. Then she realized that surely someone from the Ministry would come anyway—someone had been murdered, oh my God—
She did the spell. Nobody came.
And it was Julie who called 999, although she wasn't sure that was the right thing to do—it wasn't as if she had been trained for this. The last time Beauly's one ambulance had been called out was in August, when a tourist fell in Loch Ness.
It was Julia, again, who told the two paramedics (uncomfortable, perhaps slightly relieved that there was no one they needed to save) that her mother had gone to bed with a migraine and that she had headaches pretty often, she thought. And when one of the men suggested an aneurysm, Julie said, with a delicate choke, that she didn't think further examinations were necessary, as she and her sister would like to privately grieve, and a quick funeral would really be easiest, you know?
(Surely, when a sixteen-year-old uses two Confundus Charms in a row, right in front of two Muggles, someone ought to find out, and get her in trouble. And still, nobody came.)
It was Amy who cried. Julie was pale and composed, and Amy cried enough for both of them. If, that is, one can cry enough—for such a thing, who knows?
It was Julie who called Aunt Brigid; sitting on the kitchen table with her legs swinging, she listened to her aunt begin to weep. Once again she found herself watching her reflection as the sky grew dark. It was a little vague—the room was dim, the window clouded—and she could pretend she was looking at her mother. Auburn hair (a little darker than Julie's), elegant face (not so skinny), arched eyebrows and thin lips.
But that came later. Before all that, Julie got out a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands, and sat by the body. You think of snow as silent, but it isn't always; it hissed as it came down, a scratchy, achingly indifferent sound that made her think of other planets, moons where other kinds of snow fell and no life existed to see it.
And something deep and high inside of her broke. There is no other way to describe it. Something shattered into tiny shards, and the shards melted away, and whatever it used to be, it was gone.
Aunt Brigid arrived six hours later, in her familiar Chevrolet with the chipped blue paint. She started sniffing before she even got out of the car, and bestowed tearful hugs on each of her nieces. Brigid was as tall as her little sister, with matching blue eyes, but her hair was darker and her face was wider and softer.
It was nearly nine o'clock, and the girls had not eaten dinner, so she got out a frying pan and made them bacon and eggs. In the morning, she called the funeral home and the Presbyterian church, and in the afternoon, she went to meet the reverend.
"I don't want you to worry," she told the girls as she left. "I can take care of everything." Amy smiled weakly and Julie tolerated her.
Only ten minutes after she drove away, a visitor appeared.
He was a tall, blond man with light gray eyes. He looked to be in his mid-40s and he wore a plain dark suit. His hair was carefully waved, his black shoes shone, and his tie was elegant and boring; he could have been a second-rate fifties film star.
Despite the wand in his pocket, the stranger opened the door with a key.
Julie was directly inside, holding her own wand behind her back. Her face was blank.
"What are you doing here?" she said, with a lazy kind of spite.
"You could have called me," said her father.
He spoke with an American accent.
She turned away, tacitly inviting him in, and put her wand in her pocket. "I didn't think you would care."
He was speechless, and she had nothing else to say.
Amy came downstairs. "Dad!" she said, surprised, and then he—Richard—held out his arms and she jumped into them.
Julie went upstairs. Later, she listened to his and Aunt Brigid's voices in the living room. She was certain they were talking about her, but she didn't care enough to move closer, to eavesdrop, or farther, to escape.
The funeral was held two days later, and it was a graveside service. Aunt Brigid and Richard organized it, and Brigid gave the eulogy. It was short; she talked about their childhood in Edinburgh, their older brother, Jamie, their parents, and then, briefly, Margaret's feelings about her children. "Motherhood was the most beautiful part of my sister's life," she said, fiddling with her pearl necklace. The gathering was small—Margaret had no other family, and not many of their neighbors came—but Brigid was still a nervous speaker.
The most beautiful? Julie wondered vaguely. She remembered her parents fighting about who would change Amy's nappies once or twice; she remembered Margaret grabbing her hair and scrubbing her face so hard that her head wobbled around on her neck. She could not imagine her mother saying or even thinking something so saccharine.
Reverend Finlay led the short service. "A reading from the Book of Isaiah," he said in his thin, reedy voice.
Julie let her attention waver in and out. Odd details caught her eye—that necklace that Brigid would not stop twisting, the way the dull white sun caught on her father's hair, another man's glasses, the inscription on a nearby headstone.
Her knees were bending, about to give out.
"...On this mountain he will destroy
the shroud that enfolds all peoples,
the sheet that covers all nations;
he will swallow up death forever..."
Amy was crying again, on the other side of the grave. The deep, even rectangle divided the ragged group of parishioners, so that they could look across it and try to decide whether their neighbor's face was blank with shock, grief, or boredom.
The casket was lowered, and the Reverend said a final prayer. There weren't many strangers in the crowd: a fat, dark-haired woman, who might have come from Edinburgh, a stooped man with a heavily lined face and his son, a blond boy who caught Julie's eye and smiled uncertainly. The man with the glasses caught Julie's eye again, and she blinked. He was tall and thin, with messy black hair and a long dark overcoat. She couldn't believe she hadn't recognized him before.
"Julie?" said a tentative voice. She turned.
It was Ian Forester. He was holding a wide, flat paper bag, obviously a record.
"I'm...so sorry for your loss," he started awkwardly. She nodded. "I, er, I got you Leave Home...the record store only stocked it a few days ago...anyway, hope you like it."
Julie, obviously, didn't keep up with the music magazines she and Ian both loved while at Hogwarts, and she had no idea what Leave Home was. She accepted the paper bag, however, and didn't look inside, just nodded again.
"Anyway, I don't suppose you'll be coming to ours for Hogmanay again?"
Julie kept her face impassive, but inwardly she winced. The Foresters always had a huge party for New Year's, and last year she and Ian had had sex for the first time in an upstairs bedroom, both of them slightly too drunk to really enjoy the experience.
"No, I don't think so," she said, a condescending edge to her voice. "I'm hoping to stay with a friend for the rest of the hols."
"Oh—of course—"
"Excuse me, I have to talk to..." she murmured, brushing past.
She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck, and it was extremely irritating.
It was a small gathering, but everyone seemed to think they had something to say to her. Lovely woman...so sorry...greatly missed...sorry...sorry...
The soft words and the gray and green colors of the churchyard blended together, and dreamlike she moved around the grave. Again her eyes were drawn to it, the flat square angles contrasting with the grass, the weathered, rounded stones nearby. Not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but 'tis enough, 'twill serve...
(Nobody would mail books to her at Hogwarts, ever again.)
Her voice was flat as well, a sharp, real sound that cut through the fog of her thoughts. "Mr. Potter."
The man turned around, slowly, unsurprised. "Ah. Julia..."
He had his son's nose. Or rather James had his father's nose. They were the same height as well, the same hair, even the same glasses, and his long-fingered hands, wrapped around a furled umbrella, were familiar from endless Chaser drills. But Alexander Potter had light freckles on his cheekbones, and blue-green eyes.
"I'm sorry," he started.
Julie actually rolled her eyes, and he stopped, and waited for her to speak.
"You work for the Ministry, don't you, Mr. Potter?"
"I—yes, I do."
She fixed her pale eyes on him. Dressed all in black, her hair scraped back, she seemed much older than sixteen, and she had the wild, haggard look of an insomniac.
"The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, correct?"
She knew all this; she knew he was the head of the department; he showed up in the newspaper often enough.
"Yes. Julia, I wanted to—"
"Will there be an investigation?"
"—if—what?"
Julie's flat stare got flatter. "An investigation," she said, making a small gesture towards the grave, "Homicide. Your department."
"Oh," he said softly, and then again, "Oh. Miss Fraser...the Ministry doesn't...have the resources, at this time, to conduct investigations into ordinary Muggle killings, where it's felt...it's felt the motive is clear. I'm sorry."
"No," she said so forcefully that he blinked, and tried to explain more, but "—no, the motive wasn't clear, and there was nothing ordinary about it. They knew her, one of the men called it a reunion—she knew the woman's name—she died for a reason and I watched it so don't fucking tell me that you don't have the fucking resources because you don't fucking care."
Rather than answer immediately, Mr. Potter took off his glasses. He blew on them, misting the lenses, and then he got a snow-white handkerchief out of his pocket, and wiped them. When he had hooked the glasses on his ears and settled them onto his nose, he looked up again, and Julie saw with shock that his eyes were wet.
"Julie," he said, "I am so sorry—no, don't stop me, I am so sorry that you had to experience that. Your mother didn't intend that—she never intended for you to get mixed up in this. But what you just told me—" He stepped closer, and lowered his voice even further. "—it is essential that you keep that to yourself. I can't stress this enough, and I can't tell you more, and I'm sorry, but it is very much in your interest for there to be no investigation."
"You've got to be joking," she said, shaking her head.
"No," he said, actually catching her shoulder, "Julie, you have to trust me. Meg loved you—she loved you more than anyone—and she didn't tell you anything. You can't possibly think she wanted some—some Ministry hacks going through her private business?"
For the first time in the last four days, Julie thought she might cry. Mr. Potter took a step back, dropping his hand, but he kept eye contact.
"And why, exactly, do you think you know so much?" she said angrily. "You haven't told me when you made Margaret's acquaintance."
"Oh, she—she—I met Richard, when he worked for Wizarding Wireless Network."
Richard himself had just come up behind Julie, so it was an easy thing to say.
"Mr. Potter," he said, putting his hand protectively on his daughter's shoulder. She calmly stepped to the side, and he put his hands in his pockets.
"Hello, Mr. Fraser," said Mr. Potter politely. Everyone there was perfectly aware that he had gotten the last name wrong, but nobody was about to point it out. Richard pinched his lips, as if he had heard that one before.
"Julie," he said, "Mrs. MacLachlan has invited us to her house for tea. Do you want to come? Amy and Brigid are coming."
"No, thanks," said Julie, "I'll take the bus home."
"Julia. She's a nice lady..."
"Well, I'm not," said Julie. "I'll take the bus home. I have another question for you, Mr. Potter."
"Fire away," he said.
"The Death Eaters. Why didn't they kill me and Amy?"
Richard made a small noise in his throat.
"That one is easy. They didn't know you existed..."
The last few of the neighbours were dropping flowers into the grave—chrysanthemums, lilies, and an old man with two red poppies.
"You're going to miss the bus, Jules," Richard said tiredly.
"You don't even know the bus schedule," she said. "because you don't live here. Daddy."
But she nodded to James' father and left.
"If I were a Death Eater," she heard Mr. Potter say, "I would stay far away from that girl."
Richard made another small, noncommittal noise.
She turned back at the cemetery gate. Mr. Potter had produced a spray of lilacs, and he walked to Margaret's grave, said something to Richard, who was still at his side, and dropped them. The pale, luminous flowers, floating into the earth, were the last thing Julie saw before her eyes blurred and she walked away.
The house was so empty, so quiet and still, that she felt like a thief as she came in. She went up to Margaret's bedroom and she stepped through the doorway and stared at the room around her, paralyzed by the enormity of the task ahead of her. The bed was clumsily made, clean white sheets and blankets pulled up to the headboard.
There was a book lying on top of it, the book Margaret had been reading all week, thin, bound in green. Julie opened it to the bookmark.
...Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolv'd to earth again...
She flipped through the pages and closed it again. Then she turned to the bedside table. She pulled the drawer all the way out (thief) and set in on the bed. Pens, pencils, and hairpins covered the bottom, but there was a stack of papers on top, and she lifted them out. On the top there was an envelope with Julia written on it in her mother's hand.
She slipped out the paper inside and smoothed it out.
My dearest, she read.
Sweetheart.
If this letter should find you, or you find this letter, then I am no longer there to keep you away from it. I would like to say that I have done everything I could to keep you and Amanda safe, but—honestly—I haven't. This is my last chance to protect you.
Julie, I know you, I know how you feel. I've addressed this letter to you and not to Amy because she, I am sure, has no plans for any investigation. Don't try to solve any mysteries. Do not act on all your impulses. Don't look for answers, don't look for reasons. The less you know about my life the safer you will be.
I have fixed the mistakes I made. Don't make them again.
Margaret.
The last words she had heard in her mother's voice: Do as I say.
Julie carefully refolded the letter. She slid it into the envelope and set it on the corner of the bed.
And then she began her investigation.
Margaret's room was almost embarrassingly empty. Besides the bed and bedside table, there was a basket chair in the corner and nothing else. No rug on the hardwood floor, only a plain white curtain on the window.
The rest of the papers Julie had pulled out of that one drawer were unhelpful; birthday and Christmas cards, from Aunt Brigid and a few of the neighbors. Mrs. MacLachlan, who was nosy, according to Margaret, and Mrs. Forester, whom Margaret had once called "the bitch across the street." She had gone to university, but no university friends had written her.
All she was left with was the closet. The sliding door stuck and squeaked as she shouldered it aside. She pushed through the coats and dresses and lifted each stack of neatly folded shirts and trousers, even making sure nothing was hidden under the brassieres. There was a pair of red patent leather heels that she had never seen her mother wear, and she examined them and then set them aside, thinking she might as well get something out of the whole enterprise. Then she got entirely distracted, and pulled out a silver cocktail dress and two blouses before she went back to her real search.
On the highest shelf, there were two hatboxes. Julie might have been kept from them once, simply because they were hard to see, but she was taller now than her mother had been, and, not even standing on her tiptoes, she lifted them down.
The first was half-full with photographs. On top there was one of Jamie and Brigid, he with his arm around his sister and she clutching a wrinkled baby—Margaret. She turned it over. In an unfamiliar, spidery hand, someone—perhaps her grandmother, who had died long before Julie was born—had written, James, Brigid, and Maisie, 1931.
There was another, smaller picture of Jamie, in his RAF uniform. He looked very much like Margaret, the same sharp nose and sparkling eyes.
The next picture she picked up was in color, and it was moving. A wizard's photograph. It was of Richard and Margaret, in a garden somewhere. They were standing under a trellis, laughing and holding on to each other, and yellow flowers were blooming all around them. Late afternoon light shone on their hair. They both looked incredibly young.
There was nothing written on the back.
The rest of the pictures were mostly of Julie and Amy, and they were all Muggle photos. Still and a little blurry, they made a sharp contrast to that one, vibrant, moving picture—like seeing a living thing and then seeing the same creature encased in amber. There were a few of Margaret too, and she usually looked as if she didn't want her picture taken. Richard must have taken them all; the most recent were dated 1966, when he had left.
He had caught Margaret unaware just once; there was one photo of her looking out the kitchen window, with her elbows on the sink, and somehow he had been lucky enough (he certainly wasn't particularly skilled) to get just the right angle. The sun was setting and it lit up her hair—loose around her shoulders, not pulled back as it usually was—colouring it fiery orange. There was a funny expression on her face. She almost looked sweet.
Julie took that picture and put the rest back, and opened the second hatbox.
This one was full of papers. There was Margaret's passport—her name still listed as Margaret Fraser King—and a photocopy of her driving license. Amy's birth certificate listed all familiar information: Raigmore Hospital, 3:23 p.m. on October 4th.
Underneath there was another birth certificate, but this one had City of New York written across the top. She read it through, and then read it again.
Mount Sinai Hospital. Margaret Fraser King. Richard Andrew King. 1960.
It was her own birth certificate.
"What the fuck..." she muttered.
The empty room did not respond.
Everyone makes their own birth into a story; but it seems common sense that we should know how it happened—we were, after all, unquestionably there. Julie turned the paper over in her hands, trying to convince herself that it was fake. Her story was a very simple one: born in Inverness, Scotland, in 1960, in the same hospital that her sister would come out of four years later, to a loving mother and a not-particularly-loving father...
"I'm an American citizen," Julie whispered with horror.
Carefully, as if she were handling something explosive, she put the certificate on the stack of things she was taking. Another lie, and she couldn't understand the necessity...she knew that Margaret had gone to New York with Richard just after they married, for a vacation, but her mother had always told her that they returned once she became pregnant.
Apparently not.
And the hatbox wasn't empty yet; there was one more unpleasant surprise for Julie, under the marriage certificate, other papers from Richard's job with the radio, divorce papers. A shape that she almost recognized but no, not even Margaret—
A gun, a small, ugly black handgun lying in the bottom of the box. She picked it up gingerly—she didn't know anything about guns, couldn't even tell if it was loaded or not—set it aside and then put the hatboxes away.
She had a dress, two blouses, a pair of shoes, one photograph, her birth certificate, and a handgun. She had learned pretty much nothing, but with good timing, because the door was opening downstairs and the remnants of her family were coming inside, talking with loud, empty voices, and now her father was calling her name.
She stowed her mother's things in her own bedroom, and then she went downstairs.
Richard was in the kitchen, getting an ice cube for his whiskey. Julie was well aware that he wasn't going to offer her a drink, so she took a swig straight from the bottle when his back was turned. Amy sniffed in a way that clearly said she could be a tattletale, if she wanted to, but she was choosing to be the better person in the room.
"Aunt Brigid is having a lie-down," said Richard, pulling out a chair. Julie just stared at him. It made him nervous, which made her a little bit happier.
"So, um," he started, "I wanted to talk to you girls."
He was looking at Julie as if expecting a response, and she looked back at him unblinkingly. Finally Amy broke the silence.
"What is it, Dad?"
"I think you should finish the school year in America," he said abruptly.
There was a pause while Amy digested that.
"No," Julie said.
Her father ignored her.
"Actually," said Amy slowly, "I don't really want to do that. I'd rather stay at Hogwarts until the end of this year, and then start somewhere else for third year. I don't...I mean, I'd like to move. But I want to see my friends and finish exams."
Richard sighed. "Right. That makes sense...I'll talk to your aunt. Julie—"
"You're joking, right? I'm staying here."
"Julie," he said, making an effort to sound sympathetic, "I'm sorry. I don't think it's safe for you to stay here. The political situation is only getting worse; you're a half-blood, you'll be targeted. I know you feel—loyal, I guess, to your mom, but she's gone and I have to take care of you now."
"Oh, now you want to take care of me?" She drew herself up, letting out a tiny bit of sixteen years of accumulated anger. It was like twisting the lid of a soda bottle, letting out the fizz a few bubbles at a time. "I'll be an adult in four months, Richard, it's a little late to play the concerned parent now—you can't fucking abandon your family and then order me to move to Kansas or wherever you want—who's going to target me? I'm not afraid of Mulciber or Avery or Snape or their dolled-up, racist parents. I don't give a shit, and I can take. Care. Of myself."
"My god," said Richard, bitterly, softly, "Margaret really did a job on you, didn't she..."
Julie stared at him, dead-eyed. "I'm staying with a friend until the start of term," she said calmly. "I won't need a ride to the train station."
"What friend?" asked Amy. Because Amanda King was actually a nice person—she tried, anyway—she didn't follow this up with "you don't have any friends." But it was on the tip of her tongue. And Julie, who could tell, silently stood up and left the room.
There were three phone numbers in the back of her fifth-year Transfiguration book. She couldn't stay with Niamh, because that would mean staying with Siobhan, who hated her, and she had barely spoken to Mary in the last six months. That left one option.
"Hello?" said an unfamiliar voice, a woman's voice. "Evans residence."
"I'm calling for Lily," Julie replied.
"And who is this?" the voice enquired. There was an indistinct squabble in the background, and then someone said very loudly give me the phone Petunia! Then there was a grunt and a squeak. Julie got the impression that Petunia had been kicked in the shins.
"Hi," said Lily breathlessly, "it's Lily."
"This is Julie."
There was a pause, a moment of surprise. "Oh. Oh, hi!" Lily repeated. "Um, how are you?"
"Not great," said Julie. She got to the point. "Sorry to ask, but I need a place to stay for the next week..."
"Oh," said Lily yet again—this was a very surprising phone call for her. "Did something happen?"
"You could say that," said Julie curtly. "My mother's dead."
Silence. Long, yawning silence, while Lily ran through a litany of phrases, all very familiar to her, all very useless.
"Of course you can stay," she said finally. "Let me talk to my dad, and I'll call you back."
Julie ended up getting a ride to the train station from Isla Forester, Ian's older sister. This could have been uncomfortable, but it wasn't; Isla, who had been a few years ahead in primary school, had all of her brother's friendliness without his high expectations.
"So, you and Ian are completely over, right?" she said as they pulled into the parking lot. Isla had a habit of chewing gum, and she cracked a bubble as she backed her car up.
"Yeah."
"Right," said Isla, "so...I know he's a git sometimes, but just—don't be too hard on him. He's a bit naive."
"Yeah..." Julie said slowly.
Isla laughed. "Just let him down easy. I'm not sayin' you should take him back or anything. Anyway. This is your last year of school, yeah?"
"Next year."
"Right." Isla cracked her gum again. "So are you gonna come back next summer, or is this it for you?"
Julie hesitated. "Oh—I hadn't really thought about it."
"'S fine," said Isla. "My cousin's coming from Glasgow for the summer, though, and she plays electric bass, so we were thinking of starting a band—I could teach you to play the drums."
"Oh," said Julie again. "...that would be nice."
She felt as if she were dreaming. She had felt that way since she had seen that green light, the arc of Margaret's body against the dull ground. She could barely remember how she had started this conversation, but she thought she would remember that precise shade of green for all of her life.
Isla got Julie's luggage out of the boot of the car. "Remind me what this is for?" she asked, holding up the owl cage. Julie had sent Ariel ahead to Lily's, figuring that he would cause trouble on the train, but she wasn't prepared for the question.
"It's, er, a birdcage."
"Yeah, I see that. Why do you have a bird cage?"
"Biology project," Julie snapped. "We have to keep a canary."
"Right," said Isla slowly, "so where's the canary?"
"It died," Julie answered. "Thank you so much for the ride."
She took the cage out of Isla's hands, grabbed her trunk, and made her way inside the train station.
Lily's house was shabby and comfortable, with matching furniture in the sitting room and family photos hung on the papered walls. Lily showed Julie the air mattress on her bedroom floor and introduced her to Mr. Evans and Petunia, both of whom couldn't seem to help glancing at Julie out of the corners of their eyes. She wondered if she was the first witch or wizard they had met besides Lily, and then she remembered that Snape was from Cokeworth as well—a good reason, in her opinion, to be wary of anyone magical.
Julie remembered perfectly well when Mrs. Evans had died, in the fall of last year, some sort of accident—or maybe a quick illness? In a way, it made it easier to be there. Lily let her keep to herself, and she spent most of the days wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the wide windowsill of Lily's bedroom, reading very slowly. She only read her schoolbooks, and she got ahead in most of her classes.
Mr. Evans was very quiet, and kind. Part of his nervousness around Julie, not that she realized it, came from what Lily had told him about why she was there. There was no way around it, and for the first time, Lily sat down and actually told him that non-magical people were being killed. He had nothing but good intentions toward Julie, and yet—she carried a whiff of danger with her. She was a messenger, a portent. The first sign of chaos in his ordinary, slow-moving life. Words like Death Eater, Voldemort, until now, just so many nonsense words, were becoming threats. To his daughter, to himself. To the refugee in his house, with the thin face and the pale eyes, who didn't seem to eat or sleep—are you surprised that he didn't know what to say to her?
Petunia spoke to her once. She came into Lily's room, looking for her sister, and instead found Julie, sitting on the floor with her star charts spread out around her. Cautiously she stepped across the carpet and peeked over Julie's shoulder.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Mapping the stars," Julie answered, unself-consciously grand. "This is the last Mars transit in 1905—here's Mars, here's the earth, Deimos and Phobos—those are the moons." She tapped each dot on her chart with a quill as she mentioned them.
Fascinated despite herself, Petunia crouched down and put a finger on Phobos. "What's the point?"
Julie snorted. "God, I don't know. It's homework."
"Huh," said Petunia, tracing an orbit.
The door opened, and Lily came in. "What's going on?" she said, raising her eyebrows.
Petunia stood up so fast she nearly lost her balance. "Dad wants you to help with dinner," she said tightly.
"Right."
Lily waited for her sister to leave, and then she closed the door behind her, shooting Julie an annoyed glance. And that was the last conversation Julie had with Petunia.
Lily needed new potion supplies, and more importantly, she needed to get away from her sister before she slowly lost her mind, so she took Julie to London. It wasn't a very cheerful trip; some of the shops on Diagon Alley were boarded up, and others had posters in the windows with black and white pictures, WANTED written below the faces. Julie kept drifting to a stop in front of the posters, examining them, and Lily had to nudge her along. When somebody called her name, Lily jumped, and her knuckles tightened around her wand.
"Lily! It's me!"
"Me" was a woman with dark blond hair and a round face, running across the street without looking both ways. Lily relaxed her shoulders and smiled.
"Hi, Alice," she said, opening her arms for an enormous bear hug.
Julie looked at her reflection in the nearest shop window. She looked good, she thought, all things considered. Her hair was a little tangled, but that was normal.
"You remember Alice Montague, right?" said Lily. "She graduated in our fourth year?"
"Of course," Julie said politely.
"How's the training?" Lily asked.
"I'm done," said Alice, with a wide smile. "Started my real job two months ago. I'm an Auror now."
"Oh my god! Congratulations!"
There was a small hole in Julie's sweater, and she wondered if she could fit her pinky finger through it.
"It's hard but I love it..."
She could. Next she tried her ring finger.
"We're in kind of a rush, Al—talk to you later?" Julie looked up, ready to go.
"Sure. You have to write more," said Alice with a slightly sly smile. "I don't even know how you worked out your boy trouble from last year."
"Ah—I have a boyfriend," said Lily, and then when Alice's eyes widened, "not—no." She was throwing Julie sidelong glances, trying to keep her out of the conversation.
"All right, well, you write me," said Alice firmly.
"I will," said Lily, "promise."
Alice gave her another hug before she left.
"Funny to think of Alice Montague actually making it through the Auror program," said Julie.
"Why funny? She's smart," Lily replied absentmindedly, still watching the honey blond head move away.
Julie shrugged. "She's got a reputation." she said flatly.
This was true. Alice, at Hogwarts, had been a combination of charming, trouble-making, and incredibly clumsy. High points in her school career included a post-Quidditch, firewhiskey-induced striptease, a completely accidental fall down three flights of stairs, and a twentieth-century Hogwarts record for number of detentions (overturned two years later by Sirius Black, and six months after that by James Potter, but impressive nonetheless.)
Lily just laughed. "You've got a reputation too," she pointed out. "So's Marlene. I don't know about me—"
"You?" Julie snorted. "You're perfect. Everyone likes you."
"Well, that's my reputation," said Lily, with just a touch of gloom.
And so Julie went on, putting one foot in front of the other—neither difficult nor enjoyable, like breathing. She kept living. She didn't try to placate or repress her grief, or her frustration, or her burning, boiling fury—she just let them move inside of her, like snakes, coiling their way through a glass terrarium. Red, green, golden snakes, listless and inert behind her glass face. Ready to strike whenever they fancied.
They took the Underground to King's Cross Station, and one at a time they walked through the barrier to Platform Nine and Three Quarters. It was mid-morning on a cold January day, and the sun glittered through the glass ceiling.