Earthquake Drills

by ennabellapotter

Sequel to Summer Girl 1977. Summer is over. Lily Evans and James Potter are in their seventh and final year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The world around the castle shifts, unmoored. Love and friendship become urgent, imperative concerns—become, perhaps, the difference between life and death.

14. Chapter 14

apologies for the little hiatus! apologies, also, for the lack of smut :(

I can promise, however, a Very Smutty chapter 15 :)

*immense* gratitude to betas Senem & Katie for digging this chapter up out of the hopeless hole in which it was buried—thank you thank you thank you !

---

14

And here everyone knows you're the way to my heart

—Phoebe Bridgers, "Copycat Killer"

---

James

"—oldest among us, which counts for something, if not everything—"

"—for nothing, you prat, I'm nearly eighteen myself! Besides, I'm—"

"—gods, don't you dare say you're 'the leader of the pack' one more fucking time, Prongs, you saggy, piece of—"

"—going by this dumb arse logic, I'm second oldest, and undoubtedly act as though I am the oldest, in comparison to—"

"—know I really loathe to pull rank, but it's just that it's sort of the truth if you—"

"—do we say to sending in the real dark horse of the group, the sort of late bloomer who's really recently got his act together, like, spell wise, and can actually turn himself into a small and unpretentious creature that's aces at sneaking—"

"For Merlin's sake enough!" Lily scream-whispers, all four preoccupied Marauders-heads whipping toward her. "I am going to murder you all individually if you don't cut. It. Out."

"Careful, Evans," Sirius mutters. "Potter's likely aroused by that."

"I am," I whisper shamefully, and she elbows me clear in the ribs.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she grits through clenched teeth. "Obviously I'm going in, because I'm the one who knew about the room, and I'm the one who Professor Dumbledore basically invited."

"But, really, why don't I just transform and sneak right in?"

"Fat lot of good that'll do us, Pettigrew," Sirius says. "How exactly do you expect to get any information as a rat?"

Peter nods in defeat, "Alright, fair point."

"So I'll be needing that cloak, Pete, thanks ever so." Lily says firmly, holding out her hand.

"But—"

She whirls on me, eyes blazing. I know this look—and I quickly know it's a fight already lost.

Even having arrived on the seventh floor having already decided to send in just one of us at first, the question of who would go had not been previously agreed upon, and quickly became a point of overwhelming contention. Given the Marauder-gridlock into which just a minute's conversation had devolved, I know Lily is right, that it should be her to go in—even if I can't avoid anxiety at the thought of her going in there alone. We've no idea who—or what—is waiting in that enchanted room.

Could be anyone. Anything.

But as clear as night turns to day, I know exactly what sort of words Lily will throw my way should I voice my protective fears for her safety; so I swallow and duck my head in agreement. "Just—you'll be careful?"

She hears my unease, despite any effort to disguise it, and her eyes soften. "Of course."

"And you remember, erm, how to disarm?" Sirius wrings his hands together in a display of his own nervous energy. "If there's anyone bad in there, you ought to just—"

"I'm familiar with expelliarmus, Black, yes. I'll keep it at the ready."

Remus dashes a brief and comforting hand to her shoulder. "You'll do great." And he adds, "Far less a chance of you getting killed in there than any of us," which has Peter shooting over a bug-eyed look. "Blimey, Moons! Who said anything about anyone getting killed?"

Lily slides the cloak from Peter's fingers gone totally slack. "No one's getting killed," she assures with a confident smile. "I'll be in and out in a blink."

My chest contracts with a dizzying amalgam of pride and fear; I try to focus on the pride, not the fear. Sirius salutes her rigidly. "If it's something fun you've got to come back and let us in, alright?"

"If it's fun I'm never sharing," she responds, turning to Remus and asking, "Clear?" Once he's spared a cursory glance at the map and nodded, Lily spins the silvery fabric around her neck and shoulders, the rest of her body promptly disappearing. She stares down at her invisible form for a second, then looks back up at us in plain amazement, and we spare appreciative laughter, remembering clearly our first times wearing the cloak; the strange sensation of finding yourself invisible even though you felt yourself there.

In the wake of this wonder, she's a sober look for us. "You trust me, don't you?"

Sirius, Remus, and Peter nod, and so do I. When she meets my eyes, I try to give as encouraging a smile as I'm able. The four of us watch as she pulls the hood of the cloak over her head and disappears completely. There's only a small instance of Sirius' foot jerking, him saying "Hey, watch it!" and Lily's quiet, laughing, "you're in my sodding way!" before we crane our ears to hear the soft sound of her footsteps retreating down the corridor.

---

Lily

When the door appears—plain and oak—I think, for the first time, how potentially idiotic it is to be wearing the cloak when whoever is inside (barring the possibility there isn't anyone inside, after all) will see the door open and close no matter what.

But I push away the tug of insecurity; I've come this far, and flawed precaution is better than no precaution at all.

I mutter a dampening charm so at least my footsteps and the rustling of my clothes under the cloak will be less easily heard, then take a deep breath, reach out with a cloak-stuffed hand, and open the door.

The room I emerge into looks painfully like the Gryffindor common room stripped of its Gryffindor name; bare store walls and floor, an unremarkable sofa flanked by twin armchairs; bookshelves empty of books or inkwells or any house paraphernalia. The fireplace is just an empty hollow carved into the wall.

The air in the room is very cold. I reach behind me to close the door as gently as I can manage, hoping the dampening charm extends past my body. I stand deathly still just inside the doorway, goosebumps erupting along my skin. There's a strange sensation that the ground under my feet—familiar and foreign all at once—is tilted, slightly, to one side, as though the room was built on a slant.

I allow myself a shuddering exhale and grip my wand so tightly underneath the cloak that my knuckles must go ghostly with the effort. For a moment, I just listen. All I can hear is the rattle of my breath and the muted pound of my pulse, battering on at a petrified clip.

And then, from somewhere in the far corner, near the fireplace, comes a shuffling.

"Well, are you going to reveal yourself, or shall I?"

It's a wonder my heart doesn't explode in terror.

I realize—far in the back of my mind—that for all the buildup and guessing that led me here, I hadn't considered seriously enough that someone else would really be in here, waiting. Never mind that we had all hoped it was true; the reality is painfully different than the hypothetical.

I say absolutely nothing in response.

There's a stifled chuckle from the same corner. "Right on, don't blame you for caution." The voice is low and smooth, like a splash of dark liquor. "In fact, I applaud your tenacity. Despite the fact I've now put a locking spell on that door, and you're not getting out of here till I let you out."

Oh, fucking fuck.

For a millisecond, I berate myself for not letting one of the stupid, brave, bickering Marauders take this foolish mission underhand.

Then I remember who I am, and what I, too, am capable of, and force myself to swallow some measure of the fear. I wait, stock still, for what might happen next.

What happens next is the faint shuffling in the corner becomes footsteps, and a figure emerges from the dim shadows beside the fireless nook.

It's a woman, slim and angular, with a crown of short jet-black hair. She's dressed in tight black pants and fiercely laced boots and a black leather jacket, laid bare at her collarbone to reveal a striking tattoo at her neck. Even from so far, I feel as though her eyes—sharp and caustically blue—can see right through my shield of invisibility; and then, still, right on through me, right to the raw skin of my soul.

The woman pauses at the edge of a sofa, not six feet from where I stand. There is something in her stance that speaks both of relaxation and vigilance, as though she is equally equipped to brew a cuppa as she is to throw herself into a violent duel. I find myself envious of how comfortably she wears each attitude.

"Would it make you feel better that I already know who you are?"

I know I shouldn't be so afraid. If this woman is associated with the Order of the Phoenix, then she is, in fact, on my side. But what side is it that I'm on, really? I'm nothing, when it comes down to it. A student, sure, a half-decent witch, a minor authority among peers. But in the greater scheme? In the nameless war? The convoluted, invisible struggle of arms? Of light and dark? I'm merely hopeful I might help.

A teenager with a wand.

I wish, in a tide of self-consciousness, that one of the boys had talked me into laying down my pride and stepping aside; I wish Sirius had insisted on his coming in, instead, by rattling off some casual and upsetting riff about being doomed no matter what given his premature dismissal from The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black; or that Peter had insisted on transforming so he could sneak in completely unnoticed and just eavesdrop; or that Remus had insisted he had more than enough experience stepping into life-threatening circumstances blindly, what was one more?; or that James had insisted it was he who would go in my stead, despite him knowing I would think he was being stupidly masculine, or stupidly sexist, or stupidly protective, that he couldn't stand the idea of me going in alone.

But then I remember that I've spent enough of my life questioning the claims of those who would see me beaten down, cast aside as weak. What kind of weakness would it betray if I let doubt get the best of me now?

So I swallow the insecurity back once more; harder this time, and for real. You didn't come in here to be a fucking coward, Lily Evans. And so I won't let you be one, after all.

The cloak slides off me like liquid. I watch as the woman's eyebrows quirk, slightly; and then, she smiles. A masked, silted smile. But, still, a smile. "Crikey, really didn't expect an invisibility cloak."

I've barely a chance to inhale before the woman is striding swiftly toward me, reaching down to her side and pulling something from her jacket pocket—

—and then she's got her wand pressed firmly to the place where my collarbone meets my throat. The air rushes from my lungs. Up close, her eyes are the color of the black lake, frozen over.

Paralyzing.

"State your full name."

A sphere of violet light springs vividly from the tip of the woman's wand and hovers beneath my chin. I feel my eyes go wide, heartbeat stuttering madly, but somehow still manage to keep my voice steady.

"Lily Evans."

The light intensifies, and then the orb disperses into violet mist, settling down into my skin and disappears completely. I look up and find the woman's face screwed into a satisfied expression. She removes her wand and steps back. "Smashing."

I feel as though I've been placed outside of my body without permission, and have just now returned to my corporeal form, mind fuzzed through with bewilderment. "I'm sorry, who—"

"Annie Glidden-Howell," she announces boldly, thrusting out a hand.

I stare at the hand like it's a foreign object. I don't take it. "I'm not sure..." I clear my throat, will my voice to sound stronger. "I'm not sure I trust you. You did just—I'm not sure what that was, but it felt...invasive."

The woman—Annie—appraises me for a moment, then retracts her hand and crosses her arms in a tight line over her chest. Her thin lips quirk into an amused half-smile. "Fair enough. Good reflex, in any case, not trusting a total stranger who's just pointed her wand at you."

My own wand, I realize, is still clutched tightly in my fingers. I lower my hand down to my side and roll my shoulders backward, attempting coolness.

"Just a bit of a twist on a Veritas charm. The spell, I mean," Annie clarifies. Veritas...I wrack my brain and alight on an image of sixth-year Charms, learning more nuanced human-contact spells like Veritas: The complicated cousin of Revelio, which is meant only to reveal physical things. Veritas, if I remember correctly, examines a being's core truth—the soul, as it were—to prove it belongs to the physical being it inhabits. What Revelio accomplishes for objects, Veritas does for souls.

"Meant only to make sure you're who you say you are," the witch continues, mouth twitching as though she can see my mind whirling wildly inside of my skull. "And you are." She shrugs. "Had to be certain. Can't have any little snob Polyjuicing their way in here, you see."

This unfurls a whole other chasm of confusion in me, but I don't dare say as much. "Pardon me, but would you care to explain the reason that I'm here?"

"Course," Annie grins, a wide and open thing. She spins on her heel and bends herself onto the arm of the sofa. "Have a seat. I would offer you something to drink, but there's nothing in here. Think the room knew it wouldn't be needed long."

I swallow back my lingering uneasiness and walk toward the armchair, sitting down. Annie regards me head-on. I see now how young she is; couldn't be over thirty. I can see now, too, the sharp tattoo writhing against her neck: A bee, buzzing a loping line from one side of her throat to the other.

"Sorry about all the—precautions, and such," she says, gesturing aimlessly. "Really, I am. I know it's wicked odd. But—you'll understand, I think, the value of discretion, here."

"How did you know I would come? Why did you want me to come?" I burst out with the questions before I can help myself.

Annie nods curtly, seemingly unfazed by my eruption. "Two fair questions. Well. I didn't know, explicitly, that you would come. Albus—sorry, erm, Professor Dumbledore and I did what we could to urge you in this direction, but certainly we knew there was a fair chance the message wouldn't get to you."

I chew at my bottom lip. "So that note was—?"

"Charmed for you to find." She thinks a second. "Or—well, someone close to you, who would surely pass it on."

So that's why Peter found the half-par riddle. "And what if—"

"Someone else found it? They'd just see blank parchment."

"Oh."

"Not extremely high-level magic, mind you," she says, and I think maybe I see a faint sparkle in her eyes. "But effective. Luckily, you were already privy to this lovely enchantment," she gestures slightly to the room around us. "So the rest was just a matter of trust."

The thrum of uncertainty is melting away, just a bit, but a part of me still wants to demand, Why the theatrics? Why didn't Professor Dumbledore just address me directly, when I was in his office? But no matter how little I know about the Headmaster—and how far, far, less I know about this Annie—I know enough about myself to put in a little blind faith of my own.

"And we wanted you here," Annie goes on. "Because you held your own against that Pritchard basket case."

A flash of uncertainty down my neck. "I mean, I didn't even—"

"You held your own," Annie repeats, firmly, eyes steady on mine. "There's no winning here, Evans, just like there was no winning for you, there. And it's not a matter of win or lose, really, it's a matter of—of fighting for some kind of equilibrium." She's silent a second, running a finger along her jacket zipper. "Dumbledore sees that spirit in you. And you seem keen on being recruited."

The fear goes nearly right out of me—because as far as I know, I am keen on being recruited. "Pardon," I say again, evenly, not wanting to appear blindly eager. "But why isn't Professor Dumbledore here, now?"

"He thought it might be good to let me, er, embark on a connection with you." This is the first moment I feel something like insecurity slip into Annie's demeanor. One of her intimidating black boots scuffs against the floor. "It's just—it's all very delicate. As I'm sure you've guessed. And I'm here to ask a lot of you—or recommend a lot of you, rather." Her unease disappears and she grins at me, winking. "You're a bloody impressive witch, Evans. But you're still in school, and you're not of age. We—I thought it best to do a gentle introduction. Certainly things will move rapidly should you decide to...join the cause. But it's a choice, after all, and Al—Dumbledore isn't quick to be presumptuous. Nor am I." She laughs, a quick and jarring sound, like the clang of an echoing bell. "Consider me your resistance ambassador. Alice was desperate to come on for it, really, but she's—well, she's elsewhere. And next to her and Frank, I'm the most recent graduate, Merlin fucking forbid. So—anyway. That's why you're stuck with the likes of me."

My mind whirls through all this new information, and sticks, stubbornly, to the names she's just let out. "Sorry, could you mean Alice Fortescue and Frank Longbottom?"

"Yeah, yeah, you'd know them, I forgot! They were here, what, two years ago? Head Girl and Boy?"

I nod. Alice had always been exceptionally kind to me, and though I spent no large amount of time with Frank, he had always seemed a smart, steady bloke, especially as Head Boy. "So they're—er, involved? In the...?" I realize with a jolt that the name has gone unsaid, and I feel silly for a second, thinking maybe I've misinterpreted everything up until this point.

Annie's eyes flash and she picks up my dropped breath like it's nothing. "The Order, yeah. Hope you're not holding out for me to hire you on for Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, now."

I find a real smile stealing at my lips. I swallow and shake my head. "No, no. I—I am...interested, certainly. Is it—is there anything you can tell me? It's just, I haven't heard much, and I don't know what's real, and what's conjecture, if I'm honest."

"Of course, and that's—it's a bit by design, yeah? Can't have the word spread in any obvious way, get into the wrong ears. I'm afraid I can't give you any real specifics, or at least the ones that you're keen for." She gives me a regretful look. "It's bloody frustrating, but it's part of organizing in the dark. And necessary. Fuck." Something dim moves across her face; a shadow. "We're shit small at the moment, that's one thing I can say. But the minds are strong, even few. And the cause—well, I don't have to tell you." Her voice seems to soften at the edges. "It's right madness to think about something as abstract as—as absurd as—this conflict, I know. I know how easy it is to think of life here as to think of life here as just these castle walls." She shoots a rueful smile. "I remember well."

"You went to Hogwarts?"

"Yeah. You'd've been...oh, I dunno, a second year when I left? I was Hufflepuff." Her shoulders roll back with pride. "Real mouthy Hufflepuff, though, if you're surprised to hear it."

I shake my head, offering an honest smile. "I've no...undeserved opinions about any house."

"Course you don't," she says, eyes glittering. "Anyhow. Life out there might seem distant—or maybe it doesn't. Maybe I'm telling you shit you already know. Regardless, one thing I want to make very clear is that you do have a choice. We'll all have a choice. But if it comes down to mobilizing in the name of something as simple as blood equality, as simple as muggles deserving to live safely...well, it's no use to whine on about small numbers or disruption to regular life. Sometimes the system's what's fucked, and this system is certainly fucked. Again—I don't have to say another word about that to you."

There's a thread of provocation unspooling through my arms and legs, like I'm getting ready to run. Annie stares at me for a moment, then stands up from the arm of the couch, suddenly. I stand, too, automatically, though I'm unsure if it's the right thing to do.

"You seem intelligent," she concludes after a moment. "On your toes. You made it here, so you've got a curiosity. Some kind of hunger." To this I nod in affirmation; again, unsure if this is the right thing to do. I feel motivated, in any case, to let her know just how curious and hungry I am.

"I'll indulge myself by saying I'm a good judge of character. Call it the Hufflepuff instinct." Her rueful smile is back, and she shrugs. "So if I'm right about all this, Firecall me here, will you?" Annie pulls something from her jacket pocket and hands it to me. "That's not my real address, mind you, but you'll reach me." I look down at the small piece of parchment she's handed me and see the wink of silvery ink. "They'll be a very cloak-and-dagger gathering come April, down in Hogsmeade," Annie grins. "If you're inclined, we'd love you there. You'll need some preparation, help from Al—Dumbledore, or maybe me or Alice, so that can all be arranged, if you choose."

I tuck the cardstock into the hem of my skirt. I've a million burning questions, a trillion things to consider. But, above it all, there's a steady sheen of exhilaration. "Thank you," I say quietly. "I'm...still not sure how you found me, but thank you." A thought strikes me suddenly. "Wait—how did you get in here?"

Her smile brightens the icy lakes of her eyes. "We're not all so fortunate to own such lovely cloaks, Head Girl. Some of us have to use good old-fashioned disillusionment charms."

I watch as she points her wand at herself and melts, almost instantly, from my field of view. "Brilliant," I murmur, impressed. I've never seen the charm done to an entire body, and so flawlessly.

"Gets the job done," Annie's voice says. "Alright, I'm off. When you decide—let me know. And remember: It's a choice. Neither is right or wrong, and both are equally hard. But—still a choice."

I nod. "Okay. I'll...I'll let you know when I've made a decision."

"Good on you. Try to stay out of trouble, till April, then."

"I will."

"Oh, and Evans?

"Yes?"

"You can tell that...troupe of lads that follow you around that they're welcome to come along, in three months, should you want them to." There's a pause, and then she adds, "And you'll exercise appropriate caution when divulging what I've said?"

I nod vehemently. "Yes, absolutely, yes. You can trust me."

"Brill. Take care of yourself, now."

I watch, body drained of amazement, as the door to this iteration of the Come and Go Room opens and then closes by an invisible hand.

---

James

Lily thanks me and smiles warmly as I hand her the mug. There's a vibrancy about her, red flush visible where her lavender jumper pulls away from her throat. I hand the other mug down to Remus where he's tucked into the foot of the couch. The remaining mugs I retrieve and deliver to Sirius and Peter, each burrowed into the couch on either side of Lily. Peter is shooting some sort of fabric-warming spell into the plush fabric, and I can tell it starts working when Sirius stretches his long legs straight off the edge, toes curling like a cat. "Dynamite, Wormy, you're a charm," he purrs, stockinged ankles going limp and settling in near Remus' neck.

I slump into the lone armchair with my own mug, eyes catching on the purple remains of day beyond the tall eastern window. It's still snowing; fluffy droves of it fall along the glass at a shadowed slant.

The world seems at a standstill.

Not an hour earlier, Lily had emerged from under the cloak with her face split into a fervent grin, head swiveling among us all, laughing recklessly as she whispered, "Back to the Heads, boys?" And despite our wildly irritable impatience to hear anything of what happened, and despite inundating her with a deluge of questions as we fast-walked to the fourth floor, she insisted on reaching a secluded location before disclosing even a word on the matter.

Only once we were huddled in wait around a blazing fire did she sit herself cross-legged in the middle of the couch and paint us a vivid picture of Annie Glidden-Howell and her killer black getup, her purple-light Veritas, her clarification of the odd note plot, her carefully unspecific overview of the Order of the Phoenix; and how she told Lily it was a choice, a hard choice, but one they were leaving entirely up to her.

Peter was the one to ask her—when it was all relayed—what her first impression was; what she might decide to do, if she had to decide right then. "Well, I think it would be foolish to pass the opportunity up," Lily returned instantly. "And I've a good feeling you all feel the same."

After she was through talking, and had fielded all of Sirius' rapid-fire questions (sure she wasn't Snape in a wig?) and Remus' more insightful inquiries (how the hell did she get past the castle wards?) and grinned through Peter's off-color commentary (I'd have shit myself in your place, honest), we settled, collectively, into a thoughtful silence; in the middle of which I asked—out of desperate need for something to do with my hands—if anyone else was chuffed for a tea.

"So Alice and Frank have joined up, huh?" Remus says now, putting his face into the small cloud rising out of his mug, eyes closed to the sensation.

"I'm not surprised, the longer I think about it," Lily considers. Her legs are tucked up under her body, steam from her own mug curling up in wisps under her chin. "They were both exceedingly studious, so far as Gryffindor's go, I suppose. But wicked sharp, too. Alice had top marks in Defense, I remember it caused an uproar of sorts in their class, with the Ravenclaws."

"And Longbottom took very little Marauder nonsense," I add, remembering numerous fifth year occasions in which our well-laid plans had been entirely boffed—or at least majorly impeded—by the reigning Head Boy. "But in, I dunno, a respectable way. I never felt as bad catching detention from him. He was a ruddy good Chaser, too, cor did he cinch multiple games for us."

"It's all easy for you to say, golden boy," Sirius scoffs, head flopping backward, annoyed, a cache of his wily black hair tumbling over his cheeks. "He was determined to get me positively expelled."

Lily's mouth takes a mischievous shape. "That couldn't have had anything to do with your own determination to rid the Ravenclaw team of sensation from the waist down prior to the Cup game that year, could it?"

Sirius guffaws. "That was a group effort, okay? Don't go slapping all the blame on me."

"Don't be modest, now, Black. You deserve any and all credit." Remus brushes his knuckles against the side of his mug, smile turning lopsided as he catches my eye and laughs a little—and it's a laugh I share, remembering the whole disreputable incident; one that was, indeed, almost exclusively manufactured by Sirius in some half-ditch attempt to catch a game that wasn't ours that year by a landslide.

Peter flashes a beam of his own. "Whole mess was distinctly homoerotic, to boot."

There's hardly a pause for stunned silence before the lot of us dissolve into stupefied laughter, Sirius' eyes gone wide and disbelieving as he whips them at Peter. The blonde returns his shocked gaze, incredulous, hands raised in defense. "What? It bloody well was! Positively every one of them was erect—barring the females, of course, though the effect was possibly similar, just not nearly so—pardon, Lily, honest. I'm not trying to be crude." He throws an apologetic look her way, though she's gone nearly scarlet with laughing, fingers gripped viselike at her mug. "And besides," Peter adds insistently. "I thought—wasn't that the prank? The uncontrolled arousal?"

"It wasn't—I didn't—" Sirius is spluttering, exasperatedly, and it's a rare and wonderful sight. "I didn't know it would be a side effect when I—you know what? You lot can fuck right off."

I shake my head, lungs torn through with amused exertion, smiling at him madly. "In retrospect, it does seem like damning evidence, mate."

"And fuck you, specifically, Potter."

"The match had to be rescheduled, didn't it?" Lily barrels on, delightedly, pushing at Sirius' leg with her foot. "What with—well, obvious discomfort from the team, and then with all the hysteria and just absolute mass distraction, so many innocent eyes corrupted, and all that."

I can't help myself. "Get a real eyeful, Evans?"

She shoots me a kindly middle finger. Remus is still laughing, rubbing his hands all over his face, palms turned against his pinked cheeks in an attempt to quell his vibrating chest. "They all had to spend the night in the Infirmary because of...Jesus, the pain."

Peter nods woefully. "Unbearable cock discomfort."

The statement is so irrationally vulgar coming from Pete's mouth. A fresh wave of hysteria lords over the room. Sirius shakes his head, saying, "Unbearable cock discomfort or not, I didn't deserve expulsion over that, no matter what Longarse said."

"The Ravenclaws would've demanded you expelled, certainly, had they known your involvement," Lily apprises. "Unerringly protective of their libido, that lot."

"Alright," Sirius rolls his eyes. "You dated a Ravenclaw, you know what 'libido' means, the Order wants to recruit you first and foremost, then the rest of us as a literal afterthought, we get it, Evans."

"Oh, sod off," Lily rolls her eyes. "You were invited, isn't that what matters? Can you blame the Headmaster for trusting the one among us with the least amount of detentions served?"

It doesn't pass out of my notice how plainly she ignores the Ravenclaw libido dig. "So you're not denying having served detention, at some point, then?"

"You piss off, too, Potter. You know for a fact that was no thanks to you arseholes."

I grin, keeping it close-lipped. Her misinterpreted participation in a convoluted flooded-second-floor-girl's-loo scenario had resulted in three hours spent in the company of the Marauders, re-stitching protective gloves torn apart by Doxies and Crups in fifth-year Care of Magical Creatures. What I can only assume was a waking nightmare for her I remember as endlessly delightful for the rest of us, me most of all.

"But really—" she continues, something catching at her tone. She pulls her wand from under a leg and casts a tiny puff of re-warming spell into her tea. "You'll all come? In April?"

"Unquestionably," Remus says.

"Yeah," Sirius nods. "No way in hell we're letting you get all the glory,"

Peter is rubbing a hand over his jaw, appearing conflicted. "I agree, but I have to say..." he tugs at the collar of his green turtle-necked jumper. "I'm right collywobbles thinking about what it all means."

An echo of his nerves fizzles in my own stomach. "I do, too, Pete, but we'll be fine," I assure with more confidence than I can reasonably claim. "Hardly think they'll stake all their best hope on hapless grads, anyway. Sounds like they've got a good backbone. I mean, Dumbledore's the strongest wizard of our time."

"He's right," Lily agrees, eyes alighted on me. "And if they've got his support, who knows who else they've got involved? Surely for every maniac who wants the world to implode, there's a handful of others doing everything in their power to make sure that doesn't happen."

A wash of stillness overwhelms as her words settle. The reality is damning, and new. The hypothetical Order, such a fixation in our heads, is real, and is recruiting; is recruiting us. There's little glory in it, all said—it's a call to action.

I raise my head and look at Remus, his hand almost thoughtlessly hooked around Sirius' ankle; at Peter, fingers paused at his jaw, mouth gone slightly slack, staring blankly ahead into the fire; at Sirius, with his gaze fixed distantly on the back of Remus' head; and at Lily, who is looking at me, blinking slowly, eyes gone slightly wide with the prospect of the future, maybe, or of the fight.

I breathe in, then out. I feel—as I can't help but feel—a stab of certain faith.

---

Later that night I lie in bed and watch the heavy shadow of snow on my bedroom window. Something about winter darkness is bruise-like; so blue it is black. January is almost out, and that leaves just four months between Hogwarts and the rest.

The rest.

The bath door opens and Lily slides under the covers, curling to my turned back. Her fingers rest at my hip, forsaking the waist of my flannel pajamas. I cover her hand in mine. Her feet are chilly and sockless.

My eyes feel lethargic, but something sparks into my mind, a question I've been meaning to ask. "Are Ingrid and Marlene on the outs?"

Lily exhales near my neck. She's wearing a shirt so thin I can feel her breasts push into my back. "I think they're growing apart."

Just yesterday I'd seen them walking down a corridor together, heads huddled closely as if for privacy, but angled oddly outward, as though it hurt to be near.

"They've been together a while, since fifth year, and Marlene's never dated anyone else. I think she may be realizing they're not the best fit, long-term." An unconscious—unnecessary—strain of panic unspools in my sternum. And like she can read me for such small panic, Lily smiles against my shoulder and kisses it, softly. "Quit projecting that onto us, Potter. I'm in your bed, am I not?"

I turn from the dark bruise of nighttime snow. In the near-dark, Lily is all curved lines and hair spilling more like ink than fire. "Is Marlene unhappy?"

"Yeah, a little," she answers. "I think she'll feel better once she's honest with herself about why, though." She nestles closer to my chest, her leg slipping between mine. "Why is that in your head?"

"I'm not sure," I admit. "Maybe it's that so many things have happened, lately, that have..." I focus, for a moment, on the breath moving through my lungs. "That have put things into a sharper perspective, shown me what's worth holding onto." She tilts her chin up and finds my eyes through the dim. I have the impulse to clarify: "I count you high among things worth holding onto."

She presses her lips to my jaw. "Where do I rank compared to Sirius?"

"Just a smidge below."

Now she smiles; a dusky watercolor stroke. "You're a real sweetheart, you know that?" She kisses my mouth, tenderly, then lays her head on my chest. I brush my hands down her back, soundly, and decide to be honest. "I'm scared."

"Me too," she whispers. "Just hold me, and we'll sleep."

I kiss her forehead and do just as she asks.

---

Lily

A smattering of seventh year N.E.W.T-level students huddle shoulder-to-shoulder in a careful semi-circle around Professor Sprout as she demonstrates the prying of individual leaves from the formidable Venomous Tentacula. My typical neutral interest in double Herbology—mainly given the Friday-afternoon timing—surged the moment we learned our task involved brewing a Wiggenweld draught, an uncomplicated healing potion relying primarily on the Tentacula's potent leaves.

The act of retrieving said leaves—as we now stand witness—seems a perilous feat of its own.

The second Professor Sprout removes one of the many-leafed limbs with a Severing charm, the disgruntled plant flings a spiky, spore-like ball in her direction. This she dispels with a hasty incendio, sending the terrified huddle of us into a communal release of breath.

"You get a fiddly one, as this one here," the stout witch implores, "you'll want a steady second. Whichever of you's best at reflexive casting. You'll find cauldrons at your tables, now, and I've floated round instructionals. Not a difficult brew for my best and my brightest. Flasks to me by end of the period! "

The throng of us does her bidding less-than-enthusiastically, breaking off into nervous mumbles and exclamations. I hear Rhian July mumble to another Slytherin, "she expect us not to be impaled? I'm not touching that thing. Hope you've good bloody reflexes, Jacoby."

There's a light touch along my fingers, and I find James with his head inclined to our work table. "Ready to sever?" Despite the tremor of fear roiling my stomach, I join him in our corner station. "Not at all, no. I'm not going anywhere near that thing."

I stand well to the side, eyeing the plant in distrust. It's positively gargantuan, each vine-appendage near four-feet long— and in the center of the mass an unsettling, eyeless head, a many-fanged mouth.

James is standing similarly far from the thing, opposite me, hands propped abjectly on his waist. He regards me with a fear-riddled face. "You can't make me go near that."

"Sure I can't make you, but I can implore you to."

"You're mental. I won't do it."

"Oh, have some faith in yourself."

"I have faith in myself, it's just I don't fancy a young death!"

A shrill yelp sounds across the room, followed by a particularly colorful curse. "Mind the shoots and spikes, Rutger!" Professor Sprout squeals, rushing toward the screeching Hufflepuff. "Quite poisonous! Shouldn't need to point that out—but Rutger! Don't go insulting the poor—"

James' eyes go startlingly wide. I clamp my wand tighter in my fingers. "I am endlessly ready to give it what it deserves," I assure. "You've just got to sever the thing and then I'll do the rest, I swear."

He lets out a long and whiny breath. If it weren't for the circumstance and all the unsettlingly fear, I might be elsewise affected by the sound. "Lily," he pleads. "I don't want to die at the hands of a bloody Venomous Tentacula."

"I assure you you will not die," I promise firmly. "And really, haven't you gotten up to more perilous antics, for much longer periods of time?"

His face relaxes only slightly. "I...suppose."

"You're my hero," I tell him, really laying it on, "And I'll be so appreciative."

He heaves a weary, exasperated sigh. "Yeah, yeah, Evans, alright, I'll do it, don't hurt yourself with the flattery." His wand gets tucked between his teeth as he shrugs off his cardigan and tosses it onto a stool near our bench. He regards the plant defiantly as he unbuttons his shirt at the wrists, folds it back, up to his elbows. Despite effort to watch this methodical action indifferently, I feel a flutter of appreciation right down the back of my neck.

James meets my eyes and takes his wand from his mouth. "If this thing kills me, I just want to say that it was such an honor knowing you."

"Feeling's mutual." I grin. "Now go on and get it over with."

He inhales deeply, and nods, once, as if to comfort himself in his own capacities. The thick green vine-arms agitate gently as he rolls his shoulder backward, exhales. Steps slightly closer to the eco-horror, forearm tense. My breath stutters in my throat as I hear his low, sharp diffindo, watch the quick blue zap as it splinters the lowest-hanging vine—and hear, despite all desire not to, the foul and earnest screech of the thing when it protests loss of limb. The petrifying seed-attack comes quickly, but the fire charm is quicker on my tongue; the spore is annihilated in all of an instant, and James ducks clean under the plant as he scrambles for the disassembled vine. His desperate trajectory away from the Tentacula lands him backward, winded, on a stool, face red with exertion. I step toward him, laughing, saying, "See? Easy!"

At the station next to ours, Melly Bakopoulos has no such easy luck; her hair seems snagged quite horribly in one of the vines, and Professor Sprout is on site, disentangling the roots from the poor girl's tresses while flicking her wand almost thoughtlessly at the plant's startled attacks.

James shakes his head, setting the limp vine onto the table. "I did not care for that."

"I know, but look, you did it and you're done, you can just sit there and look pretty!" I set a low fire under the cauldron, retrieving the Wiggenweld instructional and surveying the ingredient list.

James' laugh is breathy and relieved and affecting, again, in a way I strive to ignore, as we're quite in the middle of class; and, further, on account of me being a mature person that can keep her head on straight. "Actually," he says ruefully, "pleasant as that sounds, I'd like to help. One of us definitely needs brewing practice, and it's not you."

I glance up at him as he stands from the stool and shake my head, surprised and impressed—and knowing I should be neither, at this point. "Sometimes it still astonishes me, seeing you genuinely invested in your education."

"At this point, I'm mostly invested in not looking like a right dunce next to my top-of-class girlfriend."

"Next time you're trying to get me naked," I say, handing over the instructional. "Go on and call me your 'top-of-class girlfriend,' again, will you?"

He laughs—and I can't linger on it, not in class. He begins untangling the flat and furry leaves of the Tentacula from its rigid vine, cutting them down into narrow strips. I go and retrieve a potted Moly flower and vial of Screechsnap nectar from the greenhouse stock.

"Are you nervous to talk to Heather and Malby this weekend?" James asks as he chucks the remains of the vine into a detritus bin.

"A bit, yeah."

Dern Heather and Terrence Malby have skived off patrol for two weeks now, and I called a meeting on Sunday afternoon to bring their Prefect status into question. The ditching of multiple shifts wouldn't alone be reason for suspension, though indeed frowned-upon—it's that the blank posts combined resulted in Ravenclaw first-year Jane Avrich being the unlucky victim of a flippant after-hours Bubblegum Hex, and subsequently contracting a brutal case of Sticky Lung because the anti-hex hadn't been applied till hours later, when Filch stumbled upon the poor girl.

"I'm preemptively irritated. I mean, aside from thinking it's an attack on their character as Slytherins, they'll blame it on Jane, I imagine—say it's her fault for being out after hours on her own." James laughs without humor. "And on top of that, it's real shit they insisted I be there."

I pause in plucking white petals of Moly from its thorny black stem. "What?"

James crinkles his brow at me. "Didn't—" and then his eyes go wide, and he turns from me instantly. "Fuck."

"James!" I reach out to grip his arm. "What do you mean, they insisted on you being there?"

"I'm now realizing that...you missed that step in the arrangement, and I definitely shouldn't've said anything." He re-corks the Screechsnap nectar and intensifies the cauldron-fire with his wand hand.

A slow and bubbling anger flares in my cheeks. "James."

He holds my eyes, ducks his forehead, sighs. "After you sent the note, they—they went to McGonagall and, erm, threatened to get Slughorn involved if I wasn't in attendance as well." He takes the stirring spell off the potion, peeking over the edge to find the correct hue, (indigo,) before adding five small strips of Tentacula leaf. "And obviously, I wanted to be there, for you, for moral support, for support, I would've done that either way, but they—"

"Those fucking pricks." The bubble inside of me doubles, triples; then bursts, into a venomous rage.

James turns to me with pleading eyes. "It's—I thought McGonagall told you."

"What, and you think I wouldn't be absolutely raging?"

"No, no, I'd expect you to, I–I don't know why I didn't think about it more critically. I'm sorry."

"I—" I close my eyes, run a hand over the back of my neck. "I'm not quarreling with you. I'm just frustrated with this having happened."

"I know," he says, gently, and his free slides under the table, rests comfortingly on my knee. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. It's shit."

I allow, for one moment, the feeling of his skin on my skin to be a small relief. Then the flare returns. "Did they say why?" My jaw clenches painfully. "I mean, I know why, generally, but did they even try to justify it?"

James stares at me, for a second, then gives in. "McGonagall didn't go into any specifics, exactly, and wasn't pleased all to tell me this, trust me, I know she dislikes them as much as you or I do, but she also is such a stickler for doing things judiciously, and also probably knows that Slughorn's involvement wouldn't bring anything good, he wouldn't easily cave on punishing members of his elite few—" he cuts off, spares a glance. "Er, no offense."

I roll my eyes. "You know I don't care."

"Right. Anyway, no I don't know specifics, but I do know that a meeting alone with you would mean some sort of defeat for them, and that's probably why they wanted to involve me, as a buffer of some sort."

"How do you mean, 'defeat?'"

"Well, what with the two of them and their vile friends living under the ludicrous notion that you're somehow undeserving of the same treatment as them, based on your lineage, which is as drafty and inane an idea as anyone could conjure, but—lucky for them, there's a host of wankers behind them—first and foremost, their families."

I think of how James and Sirius may have grown up to be just like Heather and Malby—might have even been Slytherin, if it wasn't for their character, their friendship, for James' loving parents. I quash the painful idea that it could have turned out any other way.

The brew breathes out a tangerine-colored cloud. "This the right shade?"

"Yeah," James nods. "Anyway—of course they find you threatening. You prove their beliefs wrong every day." His voice has gone low, absorbed in the task of crushing up Moly petals with a small mortar and pestle; a step that the instructional bids its maker to do by hand, not wand. "You're not what they want you to be. They'd expect someone less-than-pureblood to behave meekly, to be embarrassed, or cautious, at the very least. That's what they're scared of—they don't see you behave like that. They watch you be confident, and daring, and smart, and just have to sit there while you learn circles around them."

I watch as he culls another Moly petal into the fine white powder. "And seeing you put in this position of power based on your qualifications rather than bribery or influence, and then excel—blimey, that must really get to them. Because if you can do this, what else can you do? That's such a stitch in their pitiful vision of the world. I imagine the mere thought of being subjected to your punishment for a wrong they committed—well, that would strike such fear that of course they need to bring me in, to demoralize and insult you."

My legs have drifted so close to his that our knees touch. His eyes flick to mine. The fine powder of the petals is almost to "half a finger's length." He brings a knife to cut off the tip of the stem. I put a hand on top of his fingers. "Use the flat side to crush."

He does as I say, and the end of the root disintegrates into fine white powder. He adds a final petal to the mix, saying, "And beyond any of that, beyond their Slytherin-complex, and despising the idea of a Gryffindor telling them what to do, and being sexist, despising the idea of a capable woman telling them what to do—I think that deep down, what they hate you the most for is that despite their projected weaknesses, despite all the things they think you lack, you're more alive than either of them could ever hope to be."

The potion bubbles bright orange now. James shakes the powdery petals into the mix, and with a flare of smoke it bubbles to the brim, then settles. Caught in the corner of my eyes, a steady thrum, like a gathering of thunder. Being seen is a feeling like no other.

"Now..." James presses a finger to his mouth, eyes scanning the instructional. "Flobberworm—" I hand him the bottle of viscous Flobberworm Mucus. His eyes are warm on mine. "Lovely. Thanks."

Something in the curve of his jaw from the side, in the tight knot of concentration between his brow, in the way he pushes absentmindedly at a strand of hair falling into his eyes, sets off in me such a helpless adoration. I alight in it, defenseless; and it burgeons, suddenly, beyond any day to day capacity, unhindered, swelling through my lungs and stomach and throat, through every blooded capillary; buzzing to the very tips of my fingers.

"And now," James continues, oblivious to the flare of my wrenching emotion. "Poor Jane's going to have permanent trouble breathing because those two arseholes couldn't find it in them to do one simple Merlin-forsaken patrol, they just had to duck out early to practice their forbidden curses, or whatever the hell they do with their free time, I mean—I mean what's the bloody point of being an authority figure in this school if you're not going to help other students?"

"James?"

"At the very least it's massively irresponsible to ditch your duties, but to have ditched them to this end? I know they won't, but I wish they would feel just a fraction of how insensitive and careless it was for them to—"

"James."

"Mm?"

"I love you."

It comes out like a breath, just an undercurrent, and I'm so leaned toward him that the steam rising from the brew is the only thing between us when he turns his face, looks at me, hands pausing in the work. And I don't regret saying it, I really don't—but I do regret this reckless timing, because in the next second, his brow creases ever-so-slightly and he whispers, "In, um, Herbology?"

I laugh, I can't help it, it's too absurd; then quickly clamp a hand over the laugh, head wobbling with the effort, and his jaw is twitching, now, at work—is he angry? Stunned? The glass greenhouse feels very confining, all of a sudden, and of course the potion starts spitting angry purple. James swears briefly, scrambles to toss in the final Tentacula leaf so the bubbles die down quick, steam abated. I stand from my stool and peek down into the cauldron.

The potion churns turquoise. "It's perfect."

James isn't looking at the potion. "Lily," he begins, and it sounds like he's aching.

Then the booming voice of Professor Sprout at the front of the greenhouse, calling class to a close. I reach frantically for an empty flask, whisk a measure of draught into it. James stitches our surnames onto a label and pins it to the glass, fingers brushing mine. The Wiggenweld dances like a liquified jewel.

"Really well brewed," I murmur.

He's got I want to kiss you eyes.

Which will have to wait. We collect our things and robes and join the flurry of classmates eager to get on with their Friday evenings. James drops off our draught and Professor Sprout nods in approval. "Best and brightest," she intones, before turning to frown at an unsettling sludge-colored potion being handed her way.

On the back to the castle, I tug his fingers through mine. But that, too, it seems, will have to wait. As we follow the flood through the tall wooden doors, I hear someone call through the chaos, "Lily! Lily!" It's Mary, who is a picture of unease. "Lily, gods, there you are, fucking hell does that class go on!"

"Mare?"

I watch her face tense, twist unnervingly. "It's Ingrid and Marls, they've—"

"—broken up?"

Mary nods miserably, and my heart drops. "I mean, for real, this time?"

She nods again. "And now Marlene's doing that thing where she's convinced the way to maintain sanity is to, you know, get plastered and head straight to the astronomy tower, and you're so much better at dealing with her when she's like this, I just don't know what to—"

"It's okay, it's—I'll come." A choir of panic sings out in my chest. This is Marlene in a bad way, one that truly requires multiple hands on deck. But then I feel fingers tighten on mine and remember James; remember my ill-timed confession. I turn.

"Go. It's okay." I've tossed him into the ocean, and he looks like it—but here he is, saying it's okay, he'll tread water. "Go."

There are dozens of classmates filtering past us, and I've always been determined not to snog him quite so publically, but his small voice and the memory of how he looked after I told him I loved him is too much to bear, so I slip a quiet hand round his neck and pull his mouth to mine. His fingers slide back through my hair in clear relief. It's a tender kiss, soft and ruminating, the kind that generally leads to something deeper, slanted, and aching; but, given the circumstance, I pull away after just a moment.

"Later?" I whisper.

He catches my fingers as they leave his neck, kisses them gently. "Later."

"The hell was that, Evans?" Mary asks as we leave, leaning in against my side.

I exhale heavily. "I accidentally told him I was in love with him during Herbology."

"You fucking what?"

---

James

The first time I flew, I fell in love.

It was a Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1966. I was six, and my cousins were having a pickup scrimmage in our grandparent's backyard. My cousin Margaret, ten years my senior, who played Chaser for the Gryffindor team, and who I thought was unbearably cool, finally gave in to my incessant whining to be included by shoving a broom my way and saying, "Good luck, Jamie."

Somewhere in the jumble of countless false starts and skinning both knees and the perilously wounded pride and the falling off and getting right back on, I took flight.

Was thrown, head-first, into love.

Details would come back to me in retrospect. Mum shrieking in horror as I took off, Dad giving a not-so-subtle thumbs-up, cousin Margaret beaming somewhere in the periphery, the heat of the sun and the cluster of clouds and the paralyzing fear that if I let go for just a second I would fall to the ground and break my entire body.

In the moment, all I knew was that I was in love with the solid wood under my fingers, with the slick bristled end of the broomstick; with the seize in my stomach as I left the ground and the pulse of magic sent me and my body and the broom aloft on a manufactured breeze; with the rising, the gathering speed, the leaning in, the angling away, the cut of euphoria so brutal it stung; with the scream of wind in my ears and the burn of joy in my throat and lungs; with the way my blood brightened, heart flung straight through my ribs; with the knowledge I would never be the same.

I fell in love with flying a second time, in a different way, on a night Friday in January of 1978.

Where my Captaining tactics normally range somewhere between firm and rigorous to affable and encouraging, tonight, I'm landing somewhere entirely outlandish, a hard roll between hysteric and exalted. The temperature can't be more than a hair from freezing, the pitch lights harsh and unforgiving, our winter uniforms small reprieve, if any, from the brutal slash of wind looking to cut any scrap of skin it can find—yet here I am, cold-bitten cheeks, looping fantastical circles around the drill runs, crying out to my team like they're catapulting us straight to the Quidditch World Cup simply by existing here on this pitch, on this night.

"Archer, you bastard, where were these moves two days ago? The finesse, just there, that's what I am keen on seeing, good lad!"

"If I wasn't sure it was Arthur pulling Excalibur for himself, I'd think it was a woman with such fire in her eyes—I lay my entire defense in your worthy hands, Bishop! Hufflepuff Beaters won't know what the hell hit them!"

"To think a scrimmage could tear my heart right out of its cage! Woods, Meadowes, Lawrence, the speed on you! The dexterity! Burns me from the inside-out!"

"Say, at least it's not snowing, like yesterday!"

I appear, no doubt, unhinged. I feel it. Sirius angles swiftly alongside me during runs to ask if I've recently participated in any sort of drug intake, hallucinogenic or otherwise. In lieu of an answer I just laugh, exhilarated, and he squints at me through the cold and the wind before rolling his eyes and flying off, muttering something unintelligible about loose ends making loose returns.

He's right to think me mad. I am actively unraveling. I cave to the ecstasy of flight like never before; let it consume me. There is nothing like this joy; the deft manipulation of air, of the elements, to the smallest, most minute advantage of angle, the most miniscule slope. Carving a meticulous speed from an onslaught of wind; falling fearlessly forward, trusting myself. Trusting the physics of flight. My throat run raw, burning with its own exertion. There is nothing like it.

There is one thing like it.

Post-flight on the frosty ground, tired and cold and hysterical, I join the team, stuffing angry balls into their rightful cases and walking with them as one, a wind-torn, exhausted mob, teenagers determined to achieve something, if only for the momentary blaze; the obliteration of self, for just one wicked taste of victory.

We are emblematic of our generation, I think; teetering on the edge of some great terror—asking, kindly, for one last game, one last flight.

Death preceded by life.

---

Dorcas catches my cold-cramped arm somewhere in the hike from the pitch to the locker rooms. "Hear about Marls and the one with the hair?"

"Yeah." I wince. "Is this expected? I've not been debriefed."

We duck around the corner to the outer-locker room door, shuffle inside with the rest. The immediate heat in the outer lip of the small rooms, with their warm showers and metal lockers, hits like a homecoming. Dorcas tugs off her maroon flying gloves and rubs at her reddened hands. "I didn't expect so much as predict, unfortunately," she admits. "And this has actually happened once before, over summer, but this time feels a bit more...serious."

"It's rotten. I'm sorry for them."

"Yeah. Shitty for them, sure, but also for the rest of us."

"Save me some hot water!" I shout after Sirius, who is somehow half-naked before even entering the male side of the locker rooms.

"Unlikely!" Comes his muffled reply.

Dorcas exhales, tugging at the constraining shield of her pads. "You should know that Marls is about to be massively dependent on Lily." Her blue eyes are dominant in her flushed face, roving me with apprehension. "She's much better at talking her off ledges than Mary, who's—well, not well-equipped. And certainly better than me." She laughs. "I just get angry. Much more used to fleeting attachments, I am. What do I know of love?"

It's like I've taken off into the slanted wind, again, with just the word. "I figured as much. She disappeared with Mary just after Herbology." I discard my own gloves, shaking my hands out, sweaty and freezing at the same time. "I hope you don't think I'm trying to usurp her, from you all. It's—I don't expect her to leave anyone behind, in favor of me. So if I've ever come off that way, I'm sorry."

"Never thought that, myself, that's more Marlene's jab. Which, even then, is ridiculous considering how often she ditches us for—well, ditched, now, I guess." She cards her fingers through short black hair. "Anyway, I really ought to be thanking you, for knocking Evans back a couple notches."

I choke, a bit, on the beginning of a laugh, which I stave off quickly with a hand across my jaw. "Couldn't—don't know at all what you mean."

"Don't be coy, Potter," she responds with an eye-roll. "You should know better than anyone how uptight she can be." She's hauling off her chest-guard, now, with a satisfied oomph. "Marlene always thought a quick solution for that would be a bit of a lay, but even post-Owen Lils was rather keyed up, maybe even more so because of how that turned out. But she's different this year. Well, recently. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it. Honest."

"Not sure how much of that is me, really, but—"

"Take the praise and run, Merlin's sake. Trust me: It's you." She grins, knocking a fist into my shoulder. "Also, have you got a bit mental? What the hell was that practice?"

My own smile is hard to suppress. "Bad?"

"Not bad, no, you—something's definitely going on with you, psychologically."

"You don't know half of it."

"I'm leaving before you explain even a quarter of it. Later, captain." She mock-salutes, then nicks along to the female side of the lockers.

My own shower consists of closing my eyes and letting the hot water scorch over me in droves. I stand like this for several minutes. Think about every rotating planet. Think about gilded spilling light. Think about a well-brewed potion. Think about foolish schoolboy quandaries, spent in this same place, this same body. Think about changes and the cacophony of change.

I shut the warm spray off, stand for a second in the cloud of its steam. Inside of me gone quiet. The water slips down the drain at my feet, bound for deeper wells.

She loves me.

---

At dinner, Marge Prewett drops off a note from Lily.

J,

I'm really sorry, but I don't see myself leaving Marlene tonight. And tomorrow morning's pre-N.E.W.T. practical in Alchemy, so I'll be caught up till afternoon.

I feel really foolish and unhappy with my timing, earlier. I hope you know I'm thinking of you.

L,

L

I stare at the L; at the L. The absence of the rest. My breath pummels through its chambers. Remus ducks around my look. "Everything good?"

"What? Oh, yeah," I say, startled to find myself in the middle of dinner. "Just Lily saying she won't be down."

Sirius and Peter are engaged in a lively recapitulation of all their favorite Harpies matches pre-1970. Peter keeps throwing his fork down in mock-irritation, Sirius exploding in laughter.

"Had a row?" Remus asks.

I shake my head. "The opposite, actually."

"You...agreed?"

I laugh and choke a bit on the laugh, and then have to take a long gulp of water. "It's just that she's...approaching my level of commitment much quicker than I anticipated."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Remus uses his particular tone of gentle prodding, underscored in a care and tenacity that doesn't ever feel condescending, or demanding, as it might tend to in others. "That she's committed to you?"

"Well, yes," I concede. "Yes, absolutely. But it's—in terms of her, I've always been at peace with my own feelings being deeper, and unrequited, to some extent. Like some part of me was planning on loving her alone, my whole life. Now I just—I have to recalibrate, is all."

I look up to find Remus looking back at me in surprise. I blink. "What?"

"It's just—I've haven't ever heard you say that, out loud." A small smile overtakes him. "That you love her."

"Oh, really?" I run a hand along my neck, feel my cheeks heat under his scrutiny. "That's—I'd thought, maybe, at some point, I..."

"The blush on you, Prongs," Remus laughs, reaching out to give my shoulder a solid, affectionate shaking. His eyes crinkle, cheeks pinched with dimples. "I mean, it's not as if I didn't know, it's just I'd never heard you say it."

I chew at my smile and shake my head, then have a sudden idea. "Say, want me to take Peter on some mindless frolic for a few hours here? Free up the dorm?"

Remus goes red immediately at the suggestion. I watch his eyes cut to Sirius, who is decidedly still involved in the mirthful Quidditch-based-exchange, grey eyes vibrant as he gesticulates catching a Quaffle mid-air, then instantly pivots into an imitation of fainting spectators.

His eyes return to me, unsure. "Er, really?"

I needle his ribs with a friendly elbow. "Yes, really." I reach out to take quick advantage of a recently appeared plate of almond-jam tarts. "I'm down a girlfriend. Got nothing else on."

Even the tips of his ears are blushing now. "I mean, I guess we could stand a chat, alone."

"'A chat, alone,' yeah? That's what we're calling it?"

"We're not calling it anything, you prat, mind your business."

"Oh, get off it, Moons." My lips perk into a smile at the unintended implication, adding, "I mean—if that's what you're looking to do."

"Christ, James," he says, throwing me a severe look. "Not everyone goes at it multiple times a day!"

"Multiple—come off it, is that what people think?"

He rolls his eyes. "Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong."

"Well...I suppose...it's not...always...entirely inaccurate."

Remus shakes his head and busies himself with a Cornish pasty. "Bloody hell, mate, you're damned lucky you've your own dorm."

I laugh, leaning forward to ruffle a friendly hand through his hair. "And I thank Merlin every day."

"I can't look you in the eye," he mumbles down into his Cornish pasty.

Still laughing, I seize a shiny apple from a display of fruit and gulp down the rest of my grapefruit fizz. "Oi, Pete, fancy an aimless wander and potential harassing of apparitions?"

Peter and Sirius both snap their necks in my direction, eyes still alight in their reenactments.

"Just," Peter says, "Me?"

"Yeah," I nod, biting into the apple and climbing out of the bench. "I want to hear what I'm missing out on in Magical Creatures."

Sirius is giving me a look. "Gentleman." I nod to him and Remus, winking at the latter for good measure.

---

Saturday morning finds me antsy. I put the nervous energy to work, initially, banging out a rather nasty Divination composition I'd been avoiding, one meant to illustrate my "personal appeal to the future." I appeal to the future for an hour or two, post-breakfast. (Appears bleak.) The instant I'm done, I scrap the rest of my half-made plans to do homework, keyed up in a way that can't be solved with parchment and quills.

I set off to Gryffindor tower, hoping there's Peter and Sirius who are equally as bored. There is, but they aren't; they're in the middle of two cross-bracketed games of Exploding Snap and Wizard's Chess. Post-lunch, I get to commandeer Pete's—losing—spot in the two-person tourney, given his having agreed to study with sixth year Hufflepuff Ava Orpington. This Sirius and I give him approximately six minutes' worth of shit for until he admits if he was "going to fancy a female it would definitely be her," but we should not take that as meaning he "currently, has ever, or will ever, fancy her."

Once he's gone, I bear in on Sirius and climb the ranks quickly, his particular brand of chess-related impatience working, as usual, to my incredible advantage. Mid-afternoon, blue daylight slanting in a massive cut down the middle of the common room, Remus back clambers in and greets us, appearing Alchemy-drained. "How was it?" I ask.

"Ruthless," he answers, pulling at his tie and loosening his collar. "If that's just the practical, dunno how I'm going to survive the actual N.E.W.T."

"You're a survivor, you'll survive."

Remus and I both look to Sirius, the phrase coming out of him so tenderly that it sounds almost like someone else's voice. But it's just him, and he's got a strange light about him, and I feel like an intruder.

"Well," Remus clears his throat and looks back at me. "Lily said to tell you, if you were here like she thought, that she'd be over once she'd changed. I'm going up to do the same."

He pauses, for a second. Sirius stares at him, oddly. "What's this look?"

Remus blanches, shakes his head weirdly, shoves his hands into his pockets. "There's—there's no look." Then he's gone, disappeared up the stairs.

"There was a look," Sirius muses, his eyes on the stairs, on Remus' leaving. He turns back to me. "Wasn't there a look?"

"Definitely a look."

Sirius cracks a scintillating grin. "Raincheck?"

He's not sticking around to ask permission; he's barreling after Remus in nearly an instant and I've hardly the chance to yell after him, "Well, I'd have certainly been checking a mate had you stayed!"

A handful Gryffindor girls stare at me with judgmental eyes from a nearby cluster of armchairs. I wave at them cheerfully and they turn away immediately, dissolving into hushed whispers.

The slant of light coming in from the window shoves three-quarters of the chessboard into shadow now that it's late afternoon. I reset the game with a flick of my wand, watching as the tiny tottering pieces lumber back to their proud opening stances, two neat lines along each side. The possibility of the board is almost soothing, now: A clean slate.

How many times have I sat here, surrounded by friends? I think of the Order meeting in April; how it feels just as far as it feels too close. How many times will I have left?

I hear the girls before I see them. Mary and Lily and Dorcas, cackling in sparkling tones. "...it past that tyrant, no matter how gobby we were—"

"—but that's it, isn't it? It's actually the textbook we wanted, and she couldn't fathom! Criminal, in my opinion."

"And so we'll always be—now, would you look who's over here, sitting alone like a real creep?"

"He's got ears, Mary, honest."

And I feel her before I see her, a hand spanning my back, wrapping around my shoulder. "I have got ears, Mary, honest."

"Right, glad you two have figured out each other's basic anatomy," Mary rolls her eyes, tugging on Dorcas' arm. "Meanwhile, we've got an invalid."

"I'll come by tonight, will you tell her?" Lily asks as they leave, fingers stroking absently at my shoulder. Her hair is pulled halfway up by a tortoiseshell clip. She looks down at me, smiling. "What are you doing sitting here all alone, creep?"

"Contemplating mortality."

"Ah," she nods, eyes landing on the board. "Life is just a series of moves, we're all pawns, something like that?"

"Something like that."

I'm staring at her, and she sees, and she knows. But when she opens her mouth to say something else, another voice interrupts.

"Lils!"

We both turn our heads to find the owner of the shriek: It's Marlene, ambling down into the common room, clad in a startlingly hot pink jumper and not much else barring a pair of sheer black stockings. She stumbles toward us, face lopsided with a grin that feels much too open and glad, considering the heartbreak she's so recently undergone. Lily must sense something amiss; her hand flees my shoulder, and she addresses Marlene carefully. "Marls? Hi, are you—are you alright?"

Mary is tearing back into the common room, endeavoring for a quick-paced walk that draws no more eyes than are already on her rowdy roommate—which is a bit of a wasted effort, given the majority of Gryffindors present are already gawking. "McKinnon, you're not to be down here, remember?" Mary's tone is slated in frustration, though she does her best to keep it under her breath as she sidles up to Marlene. Lily moves to catch Marlene under her arm as the other girl prods a palm on her face, eyes alighting instantly. "Good Gods, I missed you, I really missed you Lils."

"I know, love, I'm sorry, but why don't we—"

"—yeah, let's go upstairs, and we'll all—"

"Oh, please can Potter come? Would you just look at him! He's so—he looks so dumb there, all on his lonesome, oh, come on Lily, let him come, will you? Will you please?"

Lily turns her eyes on me and though she rolls them, exasperated, she says, "If Potter's keen on coming, sure, he's invited."

"Oh, happy day!" Marlene exclaims emotionally, practically keening, tottering forward to grab a right handful of my jumper, pulling a bit forcefully. "It's time to see a lady dorm for the first time in your life!"

Mary is shaking her head and huffing an irritated breath. Lily mouths Sorry, to which I just shrug, rising to join the strange parade as Lily and Mary do their best to persuade a most-definitely sloshed Marlene back up the stairs to their dorm.

Marlene is correct in that I've not seen a female dorm, having only received the ability to climb the girl's stairs without being extricated magically when I donned the title Head Boy. The opposite side of the stairways is exactly the same as the boy's, except that it immediately smells better, some fresh and citrusy aroma permeating the air.

The girls stop off on the sixth landing up, the dormitory door already wide open. Lily spares me a glance and a rueful smile as she steps inside.

The room is arranged, again, in a way that mirrors that of the boy's, save the addition of glittering silvery stars strung all along the ceiling, wispy white curtains pinned around the four posters, a cream-colored rug sprawled in the center of the floor. Dorcas is hunched on a bench at the end of one bed, looking amused as she catches me in the incoming crowd. She sends a three-fingered salute; I raise a hapless hand in greeting.

Marlene frees herself from Mary and Lily, doing a tipsy little spin in the center of the room, a blur of wild pink until she trips on the carpet, stumbling awkwardly to the side. Dorcas bolts upright and grabs about her arms, intoning, "Fucking hell, Marls, careful, honest."

"Dor, my sweet, sweet Dor, you're too worried, everything's fine, it's all fine and we're all happy, aren't you happy?"

Dorcas fixes her friend with a look of such torn grief and exasperation that I feel a sting of sympathy in the middle of my chest. After a second, she just rolls her eyes, setting an arm around Marlene's shoulders, and saying, "Maybe let's...just settle down a bit, love, maybe a nap? You wanna nap?"

"Good Godric, no!" Marlene screeches, ripping her shoulders from the grip and promptly falling in a heap on the floor. Lily and Mary rush over, as if to help her, but she screeches, "I'm fine! I'm fine!"

Clearly aware that she is, in fact, not fine, Lily looks, helplessly, between Mary and Marlene.

From the floor, her legs crisscrossing, tantrum seemingly forgotten, Marlene reaches out and tugs at the hem of Mary's corduroy pants, looking up at her with wide and saddened eyes. "Mare, are you cross with me?"

"No," Mary sighs, voice softening to add, "I'm not cross with you."

"Okay, but you do look grumpy, and quite cross. In fact—" Marlene's brow pinches and she turns her head to Lily, then to Dorcas, all three girls huddled over her in apprehension. "You all look peeved. At me, aren't you? I'm being shit. I'm being a mess, and you're peeved, and you hate me."

"We're not peeved." Mary sits down and pulls Marlene into her arms, from behind. "We don't hate you, either, love, we're just...worried."

Marlene leans back into Mary's body. Lily wraps her arms around her stomach and bites at her lower lip. She turns toward me, then, and walks over, saying in low tones, "Would you—do you reckon Peter's got a stash of refreshments, or such, in their room? She hasn't eaten and she's—I don't want her down to the hall like this."

"Of course, yeah," I nod. "I'll go get something. For the rest of you, too?"

"Erm, maybe for Mary and Dor, but I—" she reaches out for one of my hands and turns it over in her palm. "I'll go with you, later." She looks up at me, something like regret flooding her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," I say gently, because it's true. "I'm happy to help."

"No, I mean—" she brings my fingers up to her mouth and exhales against them. "For yesterday. I—didn't get any sleep."

My throat goes dry. I attempt to swallow through it. "Lils."

In the middle of the room, Marlene has turned toward us and is yelling, "Oh, fuck me, would you just look at them? In fucking love?"

Mary stifles a laugh in her sleeve, though Dorcas does nothing to hide her own.

"Cheers, Marlene," I say, gently, smiling, looking back to Lily, who is gazing up at me with slightly blurred eyes. "Okay, I'll go and be back."

"Thank you," she says, leaning in to give me the second kiss of my life that stands directly in the way of me saying I'm so in love with you.

---

As fate would have it, I run into Peter as I'm descending the stairs into the common room. His eyes light up when he sees me, clearly on his way to the boy's side. "Fancy a round of Gobstones? I'm right knackered—"

"Reckon it's not quite safe to go up there, mate."

"Fucks sake," he groans, grasping at the strap of his bag to heft it higher on his shoulder. "At least I've a warning, though, thanks. Truly you can't imagine how often I've—" he cuts himself off with a bitter laugh. "Couple images I'll have in my mind for eternity, Prongs. I'm serious, it's a bloody crime, what I've seen unwillingly."

"Worms, I'm sorry you've had to carry this burden on your own," I laugh, too, pulling him in with a friendly arm around the shoulders. "Tell me about each and every trauma on our way, will you? We've an errand to the kitchens."

Cheeks brightening to a brash shade of red, Peter relays a particularly harrowing account of a night when he'd been simply attempting to sleep and quickly realized that neither of his two remaining dorm mates had seen fit to cast a silencing spell prior to embarking on quite the opposite of sleep. This I laugh at until my ribs hurt, if only for the absurdity of even Remus neglecting to avoid such embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Pete, it's just—I'm so sorry. It's not funny, but it's—it's a little funny. Did you tell them?"

"Bloody hell I did," Peter responds through gritted teeth. "Made damn well sure that mistake wouldn't be made again. Offered to put up the charm myself!"

Our jaunt lands us in the broad, brightly-lit basement corridor, where Peter reaches up to tickle the pear, and its absurd giggle transforms it, instantly, into a large green door handle. Peter peeks in through the kitchen's entrance and puts in a good word with Millie and Dot, who shuffle out a minute later with several small parcels of food and curtsy uncertainly to me where I stand behind Peter. I lend them the warmest smile of thanks I can manage. "You're a peach, Pettigrew," I say sincerely as we head back up to the tower. "McKinnon will appreciate this mid-bender." We laugh, and he adds, "Anything to assuage the dreaded midnight hangover."

"Not that you've any personal experience."

He shoves me in the side. "Sod off. It's not fair I've such low tolerance, what good's all this fat for if not absorbing sodding Firewhiskey?"

When I drop the parcels off for the girls, Lily keeps the door halfway closed. "I won't be long here, I don't think, meet you in the common room in a bit?"

"Think I'm off to the boys, actually, meet me there?"

"The boys," she echoes teasingly, running a hand down the arm of my bright blue jumper. "Alright. Lovely color on you, by the by."

My stupid heart stutters. "Evans."

"I miss you," she murmurs. I bend down, slightly, just to feel her hand pluck closer to my body. From inside the room, Marlene screams, "Furrrrrck off, Potter! No...none lads allowed, you conceited prune!"

Lily winces. "She doesn't mean that. It's just she found Dor's gin stash while we weren't—and, anyway, she's in the mean stage, now. It's about to get brutal, so food is godsent."

Marlene is yelling, "Oi! What're...what're think you're...urgh, geroff me, Mare, 'm not being rude, it's just he's a four-eyed fucker—"

"Please go, before she attempts a drunken hex and has an aneurysm, instead," Lily pleads, promising, "I'll be over soon."

Peter's already up to the old dorm, and Sirius and Remus are—allegedly—through exchanging looks, so the four of us settle into a long put-off game of Gobstones Elite, a Marauder-invented spin on plain old Gobstones that involves double-speed games, a knut-stacking element that wildly encourages irresponsible betting behavior, and a healthy dose of lewd heckling; ball-related jests seem to just make themselves in the presence of the heavy, colorful game pieces. Halfway through the second round—Remus blowing us all to smithereens, as usual, because Sirius and I are too high-strung for such a concentration-oriented sport, and Peter is far too over-concerned with perfect hits to gain points—a voice sounds from the door.

"How reasonable and unobtrusive you lot are being on a Saturday night."

We all glance up to find Lily leaning, arms-crossed, in the doorway. Sirius says, "We were holding off being obtuse till you got here."

"Obtrusive," Remus corrects gently, smiling, and I catch between them a look so private that I thank myself, retroactively, for encouraging Sirius upstairs earlier. I want them to have that feeling as often as they want, if it's making them stare at each other like that.

"Here to chaperone us to dinner?" Peter asks her, hopeful, checking his watch. "Blimey, it's on quarter after six!"

Sirius taps his wand briefly to the board to freeze it in its current standing and we clear the dorm quickly, wanting to avoid Peter's proclivity for misery when not fed dinner at a sensible hour. Down through the common room and out the portrait hole, Lily cozies along my side and clasps my hand in hers. I exhale. "I'm hoping for crab bisque, doesn't that sound such a spot, tonight?"

"You can be a real ponce sometimes, you know that?" Remus recommends from behind.

"Can take a Potter out of the manor," Sirius intones. "Cannot take the manor out of the Potter."

"Not quite a manor, anymore, mate, you're lucky you'll even have a room come June."

Lily turns her head to look at Sirius. "Staying with the Potters this summer?"

"Well, permanently, more like it," Sirius deadpans—though I can tell there's still fresh pain behind the dryness. He meets my eyes over my shoulder and smiles weakly. Remus knocks his elbow into Sirius' arm and the smile changes into something bright.

"Smashing," Lily grins. "Hope you like bike riding."

"The hell is a bike?"

"For the love of Godric, Pads, did you even take muggle Studies?"

"Quit ribbing on me, Pettigrew, you're not the one who'll have to accompany these lovebirds round the romantic alms of their charming countryside borough!"

Lily turns her eyes on me, green and lush as the meadows of our last summer, and as though the sight renders me quite unable to walk my foot catches on a nick in the stone floor and she snags me, arm round my middle, just before I fall, her surprised laughter caught in the wool of my sweater; and the sound of it and the near-fall and the idea of summers gone and summers to come slams into me, somehow, the memory of yesterday, of the greenhouse, of her eyes through the potion-haze and her saying I love you so breathlessly; like she couldn't stop herself from saying it, like she couldn't wait a single second more. I find myself—in all of an instant—in an identical situation, here, now, pinning her with meaningful eyes, my own hand soft on her supporting arm as I throw over to the others, "We'll be on in half a mo."

"Okay, rude," Sirius chucks after us, though I barely hear him, focused as I am on pulling our bodies over between the arch formed by two stone cloisters, hallway abridged by the dark blue of winter night. This corridor overlooks the southern lawns.

Lily's looking at me in confusion. "What's on?" I take her cheeks between my fingers like she's fragile, and she swallows. "James?"

"It's just," my voice is fraught, low and raspy; it feels like my throat will close around itself if I don't get the words out. "I can't go a second more without you knowing that I love you, too."

"Oh," she says, and in the same breath, "James," again and laughs, a sound that tugs at me, tender. "I know," she breathes, temple stitched, "I know, I'm—" her shuddered exhale hits my lips and she's laughing and smiling and pressing her warm lips to mine, smile unshakeable, my own a mirror of it as she breaks away, her brow threaded together as though in agony, "I'm so sorry I said it in the middle of Herbology, I—I wanted tell you when it felt more, gods, significant, so it wasn't just some blurted out thing, but you—you were saying such sweet words, and I couldn't help it, how could I—" this part of her voice splits, half to the breath that droves from her chest and lands in the cavity between my ribs. "How could I help it?"

"It doesn't matter," I insist, quickly, head shaking back and forth. "It doesn't matter, Lils, it doesn't matter where you told me, you could've told me in the middle of the Merlin forsaken Forbidden Forest and I wouldn't have cared one jot, you don't—" I tremble where my wrists meet her chin; she brings one hand along the small earthquake, thumb brushing over mine. It's simple enough to stun me. "You don't know what it means to me, to hear you say it."

Lily blinks, slowly, the backs of her fingers mapping a course from my cheek to jaw, and she pulls my mouth back down, breaths out. "I love you."

I realize I am drawing some sort of line between James before Lily and James, here. I open my eyes just in time to catch her lip-biting, the three-freckles aside her nose, perfect and true. "Lily, I love you, too." With the same air I tell her again, for good measure, for the part of me that's wanted to tell her for months, for years, for other, already-lived lifetimes. "I love you."

And then we're necking mid-corridor, caught up in the tunnel carved out by two bodies and I wonder, fleetingly, who will be here to hollow us out of the collapse.

---

follow me on tumblr: efkgirldetective