November 4th, 1975
"Oh."
Professor Dumbledore's office was filled to the brim; at least a hundred portraits hung on the walls, preening or snoring or having whispered conversations, eyeing her curiously. Numberless clocks' hands whizzed around; bright purple stars hung from a mobile, and sung shrilly. Dorcas sat on a plain wooden chair, between Professor Nicholl and Cynthia Lewis. Professor Flitwick sat on Cynthia's left, rounding out the Ravenclaw foursome. The Headmaster himself sat on the other side of the ornate desk, fingertips pressed together. He cut an imposing figure. A very tall hat of deepest midnight blue stretched skywards, and his beard was so long that he had tucked half of it beneath the table. Golden half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his long, crooked nose, which he adjusted every so often. Dorcas had never been in such close proximity to the man – generally, she supposed, he was too busy running the school and attending to his various other responsibilities to sit down and chat with every single student. Even attempting such a task would be ridiculous. Generally, he only made time for those who had performed exceptionally well, or done something exceptionally bad.
She hadn't been sure which she had done, to begin with. Now she was rather certain.
"Well, I'm glad," Cynthia continued, wiping one stained cheek. "I would've been really upset otherwise." Dorcas bit her tongue. The blonde had never done much to disprove the stereotypes, though she didn't seem especially bothered about them.
"Nobody could blame you for being upset by that," Professor Dumbledore said kindly. Cynthia nodded, and took another tissue, blowing her nose. Of all people, it seemed especially strange to Dorcas that Cynthia should end up here, alongside her, ostensibly as a 'support person'. In truth, Cynthia had cried so much and stalwartly refused to let go of her sleeve, so Professor Flitwick had no choice but to invite her too. Even now, Cynthia still had her hand on Dorcas' arm. Sure, they had most classes together, and had shared a bedroom for years, but Dorcas would never have counted her as anything greater than a 'friendly acquaintance'. She didn't even know if Cynthia was from a magical family. But she couldn't push her away now. Not after Flo.
"And I must say, Miss Lewis, if I may, that you have been a great friend today, both to Miss Diggory and Miss Meadowes. I commend you very highly for your ability to look out for others, even in such a distressing time for yourself," Professor Dumbledore included. Cynthia sniffled.
"I…" she started, and then shook her head, bursting into another round of tears. Professor Flitwick patted her shoulder. Her nails dug into Dorcas' arm. She gritted her teeth. The previous half-hour had been the longest of her life, and she was still no closer to finding out her fate than she had been upon entering. The lump in her throat had swollen and swollen until it had been given no choice but to be swallowed. Perhaps the key to dealing with her anxiety was to just be continually anxious until she was too exhausted to worry anymore.
"Now," Professor Dumbledore said. Dorcas' stomach didn't even roll. How odd. She resolved to lay off caffeine for the rest of the term (or at least until their exams). "Miss Meadowes, are you happy to discuss the events of this afternoon in present company?"
Happy? She barely knew Cynthia, and while Professor Flitwick was perfectly cordial and respectable…she turned her glance to Professor Nicholl. Until today, she hadn't even considered whether the lessons could be considered inappropriate, or worse. Every witch or wizard knew that some parts of magic were heavily restricted and monitored, herself included – that's precisely why there was such a part of the library, and why only certain subjects were taught. But the books on Occlumency were easily accessible, albeit dusty and aged, if you knew where to look, and if she had assumed the reason for it not being regularly taught was on account of its difficulty, in the same way most weren't instructed in the range of healing spells those at St. Mungo's knew inside and out.
Professor Nicholl gave her the tiniest nod. Dorcas swallowed. Please don't get fired.
"Yes, sir," she said. Cynthia beamed at her, hazel eyes glittering with tears.
"Oh, Dorcas," she gushed. Dorcas shifted in her seat, and bared her teeth in an attempt at a smile. Cynthia clutched her arm tightly. I'm sorry.
"Could you tell me firstly what you were doing this afternoon, after classes finished?" Professor Dumbledore asked, leaning forwards slightly. His blue stare raked through her. Dorcas dropped her eyes, and linked her fingers together.
"I had Herbology last," she started. "It was a practical lesson. I went from the greenhouses to the North Tower, to go to the Divination room." She looked at Professor Nicholl, whose lips were pressed together. She nodded again. Dorcas' felt Cynthia's gaze, hot on her cheek. Dorcas steadied herself, and took a breath. "I've been attending private lessons with Professor Nicholl. We discussed the, erm, strategies I've been using to approach my work. And then I did a, sort of, meditating exercise thing," she continued. "And during that – it was going well, and then – it was like a storm came, the whole atmosphere changed, and Professor Nicholl told me to return to my common room. I did as she said."
Professor Dumbledore looked at her. She couldn't hold his gaze. After a moment, he said, "I see." Pause. Cynthia dabbed her eyes. Professor Flitwick checked his pocketwatch. "Now, what can you tell me about Miss Florence Diggory?"
"Oh," Dorcas said, and rattled through her long mental list. What was there to say about Flo? "Erm – well, she's in my year-" Stupid. Everyone here knew that. "She's in…" Ravenclaw, obviously. Dorcas felt her face go hot. She was thankful for her dark complexion – with some girls, you could practically read their minds, the way it all showed on their faces. Open books. Dorcas could think of nothing worse.
Professor Dumbledore smiled, amused. She thought that ballsy of him, considering that the entire school was locked down and most believed a student to have died and that student's best friend was sitting in the chair beside her, barely holding back tears. He was an odd man; wouldn't most have endeavoured to have things sorted out as quickly as possible? And yet he had offered them all tea and sweets as if it were a social call. Aside from his brains and talent, he could've been any old man, bored and eager to keep busy. Rather like her own Grandfather Bones.
"How well do you know Miss Diggory?" he asked. "Would you describe yourself as friends?" Dorcas hesitated.
"No."
"Yes!"
She looked sidewards. Cynthia frowned at her. Professor Flitwick seemed to be enamoured with the floor.
"What do you mean you're not friends?" Cynthia demanded. "You are too."
"Well – I don't know-"
"You are. You say 'hello' to her every time we pass you, and you don't do that for anyone else, not even me if Flo's not with me. And you let her copy your star charts-" Dorcas cringed. In front of the Headmaster? Really? She touched a finger to her prefect badge, and sent a pleading look to Professor Nicholl. The Divination teacher raised her brows teasingly. Cynthia plowed on. "-and in third year, when Glen organised that Secret Santa, and I got Flo, and you begged to swap, and I did, and then you got her that adorable necklace with the little gold chain – that was definitely more than five galleons-"
"I don't know her that well," Dorcas snapped. Sure, okay, they shared a bedroom, and yes, Dorcas had been her Secret Santa – two years ago. That didn't count for anything. And okay, yeah, she said hello, but who didn't say 'hello' to Flo? It was Flo. You didn't just ignore her, especially not if she slept in the bed across from you with the knitted blanket she bought from home. And the star chart thing had only been for one year.
"Do you know the scent of her perfume?" Professor Dumbledore asked. Dorcas bristled.
"Yes. Anyone who knows her would. It's very distinctive," she said shortly.
"And would you please describe it for me?" Dorcas sucked in her breath, and focused on a funny telescope.
"Floral. Like lilies. Fresh. And…a hint of lavender. I don't know if that's part of the perfume, or if it's from the shampoo she uses, but…there's definitely lavender." It wasn't that she particularly cared what Florence smelled like – it was just that the whole roomed reeked of it, of soft flowers, of sunlit gardens and swishing skirts and late summer afternoons when the world glowed golden until after supper.
It really was unpleasant. And maybe if she didn't get her perfume all over everything, none of this would've happened.
(But how could Dorcas blame Florence for what had happened?).
Professor Dumbledore nodded at Professor Flitwick, who returned the gesture.
"Miss Lewis," Professor Flitwick said. "I say, I think we may now be able to visit Miss Diggory." Cynthia blinked.
"We can?"
"I am sure Madam Pomfrey would let us in, so long as we don't cause any disturbance."
"I can be quiet," Cynthia said solemnly. In another situation, Dorcas might have laughed.
"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore. Do summon me if need be," Professor Flitwick said. The older man nodded.
"I will be certain to, Filius. I thank you for your assistance in this matter. And you too, Miss Lewis. Do pass on my best to Miss Diggory, though she may not know it," he said. Cynthia squeezed Dorcas' arm in farewell, and the two exited. Professor Dumbledore waved his wand, and the two chairs vanished. Dorcas wriggled her toes, nerves creeping in once more – for whatever Cynthia was, Dorcas had been fairly certain she wouldn't be expelled with her at her side. But now Cynthia was gone, and had blabbed about the star charts besides. It hadn't been cheating, not really, it had only been for homework – and not even O. homework – oh, Merlin.
"I didn't expect that to happen," Professor Nicholl said, breaking the silence. "If I had suspected, I would've given her better direction."
"You could not have been expected to know," Professor Dumbledore said. "You mustn't blame yourself, Petronilla. I did not foresee it either. You began with the box activity?"
"As directed, yes."
"Hm." He pressed his lips to his steeped fingers. Her arm froze with the absence of Cynthia's hand, oddly enough. She'd grown used to that warmth. Like a pimple that was there for so long that you were sort of disappointed when it popped, because it made your reflection almost unrecognisable.
Professor Dumbledore stared at her. She wondered if he was contemplating how best to tell her she was being expelled. Or losing her prefect position. Or both, but she supposed both was implied in the first option, as one could hardly be a prefect when they'd been expelled. Who would take up the position after her? Surely not Cynthia. Her parents would be so proud. Even Kelsey and Billy had managed to keep themselves from getting kicked out of school, and they could be downright dangerous. Then again, they'd never caused anyone to have a seizure. As far as she knew.
"What did you See?" Professor Dumbledore asked gently. Dorcas started, and shot Professor Nicholl a questioning look. She nodded encouragingly. The Headmaster…knew? There was nothing else for it, then.
"My schedule," she said. "Not the school-issued one, but mine, with all my extra-curriculars noted down. That was all, really…but every detail was there. It was the exact copy of the one in my dormitory. And I could smell the parchment, and…Flo Diggory's perfume."
"You called it distinctive," Professor Dumbledore said. Dorcas folded her arms.
"It is. Our whole dormitory smells like it." Once more, her mind turned to Florence; they hadn't allowed Dorcas to see her, but they had told her what had happened – at least, what had happened on a physical level. She had been with Cynthia, heading down to the bathrooms on the second floor (Cynthia thought she'd left her lipstick there), and had fallen to the ground in the middle of a corridor crowded with younger Ravenclaws, returning from a group study session. Cynthia had thought she'd tripped – although Flo was the epitome of gracefulness, and never tripped, never stumbled – and then the screams had started.
Cynthia said she'd thought it was the Cruciatus Curse.
"You've never studied Legilimency before?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Have you ever been subject to it, that you are aware of?"
"No, sir."
"Are you aware that one's sense of smell is the most closely linked of all the senses with memory?"
Hesitation. "No, sir. Not until just now." It took her a moment – what a strange question – and then she realised. The stone sunk in her stomach. She stayed silent.
"Olfactory memory has been much studied by those interested in the divining and mind arts," he began. "A scent can take you back to a certain place and time, and orient you in that space in a way that solely visual memory cannot. In the Time Division in the Department of Mysteries, they often work with smell. In the pursuit of Occlumencial Skills, smell is usually not introduced until at least thirty-five, due to its powerful magical properties. Even then, only those most confident in their abilities will introduce its use." She flushed hot. She hadn't read about it and decided to try, she wasn't being arrogant or thinking she was capable of something she wasn't.
"It was an accident," she said. "The smell came to me as I Saw my schedule."
"I see," Professor Dumbledore said. There was something in his voice that made her straighten her back, tilt her chin up. He smiled serenely, like a lunatic, she thought, after everything that day. "You must have a strong relationship with Miss Diggory," he said finally.
"No."
"Strong feelings towards her, then. Positive or negative."
"I had no intention of hurting her," Dorcas said. "I don't want to hurt anyone. I've better things to do."
"I can testify to that," Professor Nicholl said. Professor Dumbledore regarded them both, and then leaned back in his chair.
"I shall endeavour to explain to you what happened, though I'll admit, some of it is even beyond my understanding. I theorise – and it is just a theory, although it's based on my knowledge of events such as this – that when you recalled the smell strongly associated with Miss Diggory, your magic, enhanced by the magic inherent in the castle, attempted to forge a link with her. Due to your inexperience in the area, and her unpreparedness for the connection, she reacted poorly to the intrusion, which I can hardly blame her for – it shows her body has a good natural system of defence. I expect she should make a full recovery, although I will be organising for her to consult with a Mind Healer," Professor Dumbledore finished. Dorcas took a few moments to process. Any mention of a mind healer meant that it wasn't all peaches and cream – she wasn't an idiot. They did serious work. Her Aunt Charlotte had wanted to go into Mind Healing but hadn't the grades – she'd gotten an 'EE' in Divination instead of an 'O'. She'd gone to the Healers' Academy and majored in Spell Damage, but still made friends with Mind majors, and she'd often said they were the smartest people she'd ever known. She was the smartest person Dorcas had ever known, so it was a big call.
She wondered if Aunt Charlotte would know the healers working with Flo. Aside from Madam Pomfrey, of course, who was her sister-in-law.
Great Britain wasn't all too great and large when you were a pureblood.
"You must be wondering about why the common rooms were locked down," Professor Dumbledore said. Dorcas blinked.
"Oh, yes," she said, after a few long moments. He seemed unbothered.
"When I realised that the school's magical field might have impacted your abilities, acting as an amplifier, I wanted to ensure there were no other chances for students to be harmed – though I know it was unintentional," he added, and she closed her mouth. "I have also had the staff investigating any changes in the wards, and if any were found, I wished for them to be repaired without endangering students. I think in these times, it also doesn't hurt to practice what may need to be done in an emergency situation," he concluded. Dorcas looked at him. The kids in the common room had been frightened. Because of her, yes, but also because Professor Dumbledore thought it would be fun to have a practice exercise in safety procedures without even alerting the prefects.
"How will we proceed in future, Headmaster?" Professor Nicholl asked.
"I think it of the utmost importance that these lessons continue," he said. "I shall do my best to seek for a place that may be appropriate for them to be conducted in, that pose less risk to the student body. I would ask you to do the same, and please do inform me if you find anywhere suitable." The meeting seemed to be winding down. Dorcas let go of a breath she hadn't known she was holding.
"Am I to remain a prefect, then?" she asked tentatively. Professor Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, and chuckled. Wow, hilarious, isn't it? She thought crossly.
"Unless you wish to tender your resignation," he said. "I see no reason for the position to be taken from you."
"Thank you," she said, fingering her badge. That was one thing, at least. She'd grown fond of being a prefect – Glen was alright, and the Head Boy and Head Girl were nice enough. It felt like a little community.
"Might I just ask you both – if you wouldn't mind – to keep the nature of this a secret. And by that, I mean encourage wild speculation about tonight's happenings, and make up whatever story you wish about why you weren't around. I think it would be – prudent – for this to be kept somewhat quiet. Both this, and the lessons themselves."
"What about Flo?" Dorcas couldn't help but ask. Professor Dumbledore smiled.
"I'm sure she will be well soon enough. You may go and visit her before returning to the common room, if you would like."
"I think she meant to ask, 'wouldn't Miss Diggory be aware of what happened tonight?'," Professor Nicholl said. Dorcas gave her a small look of gratitude.
"She will be aware that she was ill, yes," he said. "However, there are always strange happenings within Hogwarts. She needn't know what the true cause of her seizure was." That's not fair, Dorcas thought. It's her body, it happened to her, everyone will be talking about her, everyone heard Cynthia.
"Miss Meadowes?" She looked up vaguely, pulled out of her thoughts. "You may go. I trust you will find your way back to the dormitory?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you. And thank you, Professor," she added to Professor Nicholl. Both adults inclined their heads. She stood, finding her legs stiff, and awkwardly stumbled out of the room, knees creaking.
November 4th, 1975
Peter laid on the dormitory floor, far more intoxicated than he'd ever been on a Tuesday evening. His gullet was still singed from multiple shots of whiskey, and cream liqueur curdled in his stomach, sweetened by chocolate stolen from the Kitchens and the stash beneath Moony's bed.
"I s'pose it wasn't a dragon," Sirius said from his position on the floor, beside Peter. "I liked that theory, James."
"I thought it was pretty smart," James said, drumming his fingers on the removed cover of a History of Magic textbook.
"I think it's idiotic," Moony cut in, sitting on the chair belonging to the only desk in the room. "I told you I'd see no evidence of a dragon or any other thing when I went downstairs, and I didn't." Moony had been the one to make his way down on the kitchens, as, firstly, he was a prefect and wouldn't be scrutinised too much, and secondly, he wasn't drunk. Oh, and thirdly, they'd all been happy to just steal snacks from the stash beneath his bed, but he'd refused and gone to get them alternatives. So they only took from his stash while he was gone.
"Maybe it was a giant perfume bottle," Dale suggested. Everyone ignored him. Dale never had any good ideas when he smoked, and he was always smoking or just had.
"So you didn't see her?" James asked, turning over the cover in his hands. His voice was unusually tight.
"Forgetting about Lisbete?" Peter teased. James glared at him. Peter raised his hands in the air. "Sorry. I'm wasted."
"You didn't even have that much," Sirius said, patting his stomach. "Be a man, Wormy." Peter clumsily gave him the two-fingered salute. His fingers felt heavy. He would've climbed into bed and gone to sleep, but his bed was so far away. He had to stand up to get there. He thought that might kill him.
"I hardly saw anyone," Moony said. "And even those I did see – I didn't stop to chat."
"She's nice," James said. "What if something's happened?" Sirius groaned.
"Let the Ravenclaws look after her, mate. It wouldn't have been anything. She's a Diggory," Sirius said firmly. James tossed the abused book cover across the room. It hit Dale's bedpost and fell to the ground. Too far away for Peter to grab. Nothing could ever come easy, could it? He felt a bit like a turtle. He wriggled on his back, lifting his les into the air, testing his theory.
"I don't like it," James said. "Not having a fucking clue what's going on."
"You never have a clue what's going on in History of Magic," Remus said dryly. "It doesn't seem to bother you then."
"History of Magic is just for people who weren't raised magical," Sirius decreed. "Anyone born into it has spent their whole lives listening to old people prattle on about it. What does it matter if I know the dates of the Goblin Wars? I know one supposedly had a foot as long as your arm and as thick as your thigh."
"Arm?" James asked. "I heard it was his-"
"It's weird, I reckon," Peter said later. "The whole perfume thing on the radio."
"That was a great clue," said James, who had migrated to the floor, "and everyone ignored it."
"Yes, the hour we spent trying to figure it out was just ignoring it, absolutely correct," Moony chipped in.
"I felt useless. I couldn't do anything. I was stuck in the bloody common room like a twelve-year-old," James moaned. Peter couldn't see him, given the angle, but it was far too much effort to sit up. Puke swirled in his mouth at the very thought. The floor wasn't so bad, though. It was more comfortable than you'd expect.
"What would you wanna do?" Peter asked, looking up at the ceiling.
"What?"
"Well, if you could've…what would you have done?" Smoke swirled from the end of Dale's joint. Sirius nursed an empty flask. Silence stretched on, either for a few moments or a few minutes.
"I don't know. I don't know enough about what happened. I mean, I didn't know if there was some sort of fucking…monster, or if it was – you know, Death Eaters, or – fuck, I don't know. I wish I'd known."
"There's already Death Eaters in the castle," Sirius said sardonically. "Or as good as." Peter fiddled with the hem of his shirt. James inhaled deeply.
"I hate that," James said savagely. "I hate them. They shouldn't be allowed, not here. They strut around like they own the fucking place, like they have more right to be here than anyone else. I don't get it. How can they just be allowed to roam around, doing whatever they please to whoever they want?"
"They still get in trouble though, don't they?" Peter said. James jumped up, wiping his mouth.
"When has that ever stopped anyone? We get detentions all the time, it's never stopped us, has it? If they're in with him, they don't give a shit about what some professor says."
"They're teenagers," Moony said uncertainly. "They're hardly mass murderers." James flattened his lips, rubbing the base of his palm against his shaggy hairline.
"All the mass murderers were teenagers once," he said. Peter pressed his heels together. Yeah…okay, that was true, but when he looked at Mulciber, he saw a prat, not a killer.
"What are you going to do about it, then?" Moony asked. James hesitated, and then locked eyes with Sirius, who seemed to know at once. Peter looked between the two of them. Sometimes they were like that, talking without saying anything, stuff he couldn't hear, couldn't even try to hear.
"If they'd wanted to do anything, tonight would've been the night," Sirius said.
"The common rooms sealed themselves," Remus said, raising his brows.
"How do we know they didn't do that? How do we know they didn't study that down in the dungeons and now know how to replicate it? It's the perfect trap – sealing people in. Nowhere to run."
"It's perfect for a massacre."
"You're crazy," Peter burst out. In spite of his shuddering stomach, he sat up. His head drooped, eyes heavy, but still he sat up. No way. Sure, they were dickheads, but they weren't murderers. They weren't even Death Eaters; not like those people in the papers. They didn't run around in stupid masks, for one.
Sirius and James parried back and forth, both standing, James pacing the room, drumming his fingers on his thighs, running his hands through his hair. Sirius scrounged a cigarette and Dale lit it for him. Peter gingerly scooted himself closer to Remus, and watched as the pair spat insults and spitballed ideas and then, every so often, would stop and look at each other so intensely it made Peter feel embarrassed to be in the same room as them.
"So what?" Remus cut in finally. "You think all the Slytherins – all the people you're suspicious of – should have collars with bells on them or something? So you know where they are at all times? What if you're out of hearing distance?"
"We could magically amplify them," Sirius said quietly. James clapped his hands together.
"Exactly!"
"How would we concentrate in class?" Remus challenged.
"Do you want them to run around killing people, Lupin? Would that be nice?" Sirius said. Remus scoffed.
"Last-name basis? No, I don't, actually." He snuck a glance at Dale, who had miraculously drifted off to sleep. Peter envied him. Remus dropped his voice to a whisper. "They hate half-breeds just as much as they hate muggle-borns. I think you two are getting a little ahead of yourselves."
Peter picked lint off his shirt. Remus had a point. There was no way he'd ever get anything done in class if the Slytherins jingled. The thought of Snivellus with a collar round his neck was nice, though. And if you got lost down in the dungeons, you'd hear them coming, at least.
"He didn't mean it like that, Moony," James said. Sirius snorted.
"Haven't you…?"
"Don't." James' voice crackled. Sirius shut up. Peter decided he wouldn't be keen on running into Sirius in a dark dungeon corridor, either. Well, while they were friends, it was fine, but if not… Maybe the problem was just that a lot of people seemed to get lost in the dungeons. They were basically a gigantic maze. He had to give the Slytherins props there – he couldn't have kept track of it all. Until James had started helping him out in first year, he'd been forever late to class, to the point that Professor McGonagall had threatened to send him home if he wasn't going to bother showing up to Transfiguration (he'd misread his timetable and thought they'd had Flying Lessons, and then gotten so lost on the way to the Training Grounds that he didn't even have the chance to show up and see that none of his classmates were there and that he was in the wrong place).
"Look," James said, turning on his heel and starting around the room again. "I don't know, I don't know, but I know something has to be done."
"This wasn't even the Slytherins – you're giving them too much credit."
"No, but come on, they're clearly an issue."
"Let the prefects deal with it."
"Because authority figures always do what's best," Sirius said sarcastically. They were all so loud. It was almost impossible to find a place in Hogwarts that wasn't loud, though, even at night. Everywhere was always so crowded. It was part and parcel of living in a castle populated with young wizards and witches, he supposed, but that didn't make it any nicer. And he was someone who liked being around people.
"So what, the professors are going to start running around killing muggles too?" Remus asked. "We're prefects for a reason."
"Explain the Slytherin prefects," Sirius challenged. Peter's head swirled with long corridors lined with doors, each one of them the opening to a classroom full of cool, popular older students who would turn and stare at him when the door opened. If he'd just known where James and that were…If they just knew where the Slytherins were…
"Maybe we just need a guide or something," he murmured to himself. "Or at least a proper tour."
"What?" James said. Sirius raised his eyebrows.
"I thought you were with me on this."
"No – Peter, what'd you say?" Three pairs of eyes turned to him. He flushed, though he was already quite red from the whiskey.
"Oh – I dunno – just sort of – I was thinking about when I was younger, and walking around and stuff, and it was…hard."
"Walking around was hard?"
"Sirius, don't be a dick. I meant what you said just now, Peter. About a guide." Peter hesitated. Sirius' cigarette was at its end, and he huffed out smoke. Remus leaned against the wooden foot of James' bed, legs crossed, brows knitted. Two thick, patterned, crimson socks stretched up to meet the legs of his too-short pyjamas, exposing a narrow strip of tangled leg hair in the gap between them. Peter felt every piece of them boring into him.
"Just – it would've been nice to have a guide on how to get around Hogwarts. Or a map of where all the Slytherins are, so we could avoid them. Or something. But-"
"-Hogwarts is unplottable," Remus finished, but he looked thoughtful, not pissed off. "Any mapping spell used only brings up squiggles, if it doesn't burn up your paper. And even without that, everything that moves around the castle – I don't know how you'd accommodate that."
"Actually," James said, scratching his nose. "You can map moving rooms and stuff. I think. They have this brochure at this old castle – it was supposed to belong to one of Hufflepuff's descendants in the twelve-hundreds or whatever – you can go and look around, it's like a museum thing for the Hufflepuff legacy. Anyways – Hufflepuff's grandson or whatever put in a defence system, this whole system of wine barrels and that, and-"
"-it moves around. Bellatrix always said she'd push me in there when I was younger, and then I always told Regulus I'd push him, once she was off at Hogwarts." Sirius stubbed out his cigarette on the rug.
"I've never been," Remus said.
"Me neither," said Peter, putting his hands on the ground and shifting his weight back onto them. His middle was sagging, but sleep didn't seem so necessary, now. He knew James, and he knew what this sort of talk meant. It sparked through him, from the tip of his toes to the end of his nose. Sirius shrugged.
"It's in Wales."
"So," Remus said, looking up at James. "What've you come up with?" James grinned.
"It's genius."
"Really?" Peter asked, sounding actually rather eager, when the circumstances of his liver function were considered.
"We'll give you a prize after you tell us what it is," Sirius said. James clapped his hands together. Dale rolled over, but didn't wake.
"Go on, James," Peter said. James rubbed his hands together, teetered back and forth on his toes, and then nodded.
"A map," he said finally.
"A map?" Sirius repeated.
"A map. If we make it in pieces, and then put it all together – but not on the same piece of parchment – maybe it will work. Or if it's only parts of the castle, not the whole thing. And doesn't show where Hogwarts actually is."
"And how will that stop my extended family from murdering muggle-borns?" Sirius asked, faux-pleasant. James twisted his lips.
"This is the harder part," he said.
"Harder than making a map of an unplottable place?" Remus asked. Peter rubbed his cheek.
"Do you ever think we have too much on our plate at once?" he asked quietly. Sirius flicked a finger up to his lips, in the universal symbol for silence. Peter frowned, but obeyed.
"What is it?" Sirius asked.
"Well," James hesitated, teetering, and then continued. "We follow the Slytherins around for a bit. Figure out where they normally go at what times. And then we charm the map, so that if we know they're normally in the library at eight, and we're using the map at eight, their name or something pops up in the library, so we know that's where they'll probably be. And then if they aren't there – we know something is wrong." Peter blinked a few times. Remus shifted.
"So we put their patterns onto the map?"
"Basically," James confirmed. "We can keep an eye on them that way."
"So not only are we mapping the unplottable school, but we're tailing the Slytherins and tracking their movements without them finding out?" Remus asked.
"Yeah," James said.
"And studying for our O. ?"
"Yeah."
"And trying to-" Peter stopped at James' panicked look. Shit. Right. Remus was right there. "-um, you know, be with girls."
"Yeah," James said, ruffling his hair. They lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Puke stirred in the pits of Peter's stomach. He groaned. It was a good idea – really, it was – but his mind couldn't help but turn to everything else going on. Homework. O.W.L year. The animagus stuff. Weariness settled deep in his bones.
"Shall we?" James asked. Peter looked up. James held up the Cloak, grinning. Remus sighed, and checked his battered wristwatch.
"It's nearly one."
"Yeah," James said. "It's been a big day, everyone will be in bed. Perfect for us."
November 5th, 1975
The Great Hall filled for breakfast almost entirely as usual, in spite of the complete oddity of the night before's eating arrangements. The unusual part came in the presence of students who usually would've opted to sleep in, making the most of luxurious free periods in the morning. Lily, Mary, Marlene, and Alisha all came down to the Gryffindor table, despite none of them having class until after nine. Amy hadn't seemed pleased by the additional company.
"All this tells me is that you are capable of getting up earlier, but just choose not to," Amy grumbled, sliding onto the bench. Marlene took the seat beside her, and Lily followed suit.
"You know I'm capable of getting up early," Marlene said. "I do it for Quidditch practice, don't I?"
"Not without complaining, no."
The air buzzed with chatter, ranging from quiet and frightened to wildly confident and outrageous.
"Honest," Connor O'Neill told a group of second years. "I'm friends with the prefects, aren't I? It was a werewolf. For certain. But now, if you want protection – and a bit of fun – well, I've done my research and put together a little recipe…"
"It wasn't a werewolf," Remus cut in crossly. Peter sat next to him, scribbling something on a bit of parchment, and Potter appeared to be supervising whatever it was. Black had his head down on the desk.
"It's alright, Remus, they won't tell – will you?" Connor grinned. The second years all shook their heads solemnly.
"It wasn't a werewolf," Remus repeated.
"Aw, Remus –"
"Fuck off, O'Neill," Black said, not lifting his head. Connor's eyes widened, and then he gestured to the second years to follow him. They trotted down the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables obediently.
"All right?" Lily asked, looking across the table (well, roughly – Remus was closer to being opposite Marlene than her). Remus smiled at her shabbily, and tilted his head to indicate his friends.
"They didn't sleep a wink," he told her. She frowned, studying the boys. Maybe there was a hint of dark beneath Peter's eyes, but he seemed quite alert – invigorated, almost, as though he'd had three coffees. Only Black showed any real signs of having pulled an all-nighter. Peter and Potter were oddly engrossed in their writing. She grimaced.
"Should I be afraid?" she asked. Remus scratched his ear.
"I've endorsed it," he said. She nodded.
"I'm trusting you," she warned him, waggling a finger. Remus shrugged, and returned to his food. Lily took a piece of toast and buttered it carefully before popping it into her mouth.
All of the staff assembled at the High Table, and by half past seven, the whole school had turned out. Lily squished up next to Marlene and Mary half-sat in her lap, making room for the seventh years, including Kelsey Wood in a vicious debate with John Brown, whose girlfriend Betty Roshfinger clung to his arm awkwardly. It took a moment for the table to adjust to the size of the crowd, and then it elongated. Lily had elbow room once more. It had startled her, the first few times, watching the tables shrink and grow depending on capacity, but now it was old hat – for her, at least. A few first years still marvelled at it.
Remus attempted to engage Amy in conversation about Arithmancy; Potter and Peter worked tirelessly on their paper; Black slept, or appeared to. Alisha chattered away about how disappointed she'd been to miss Astronomy the previous night, given that they had it with the Ravenclaws and Glen Vane was an absolute specimen of a wizard. And then the blonde paused.
"Sorry, Lily," she said. Lily shook her head, more amused than anything.
"It's been years," she said. "Honestly, you don't have to apologise." For whatever reason, she'd never harboured any particularly harsh feelings after the sudden demise of their week-long relationship.
"Speak of the devil," Marlene muttered.
"The devil?" Mary squeaked.
"Isn't that Potter's occupation?" Lily turned her head, and saw that the aforementioned Ravenclaw prefect stood behind them, smiling pleasantly.
"Hi, Glen," Alisha said, twisting a lock of hair round her finger. Lily looked from her to Glen, and grinned.
"You know Alisha, don't you, Glen?" she asked.
"Sure I do," he said. "Hullo." His house tie hung neatly from his collar, and his robes were crisp and wrinkleless. Perfectly straight white teeth glinted, though the light was rather gloomy, what with dark clouds clinging to the castle's turrets. He could've been straight from the pages of Witch Weekly.
"Hello," Alisha said, beaming shakily. Her fork slipped from her fingers and clattered against her plate. Her eyes ballooned.
"Sorry!" Lily said quickly. "I'm so sorry, Alisha, I didn't mean to bump you." Alisha shot her a grateful look.
"That's okay," she said, and picked up her cutlery, eyes focused back on Glen. His limbs stiffened. He resembled one of rare boy dolls she and Petunia had played with when they were younger, a present from their grandparents. Lily tapped her nails aainst the wooden tabletop thoughtfully.
"Could I be perfectly evil and steal you for a moment, Lily?" he asked, voice warm. Alisha's face froze. Lily cursed silently, and then fixed a smile in place, smoothing down her skirt.
"Well, if you insist," she said lightly, standing. Glen laughed, and she followed him away from the Gryffindor table.
He led her to a large, crackling fireplace, only a few metres from the side of the Gryffindor table closest to the wall. Orange flames leapt upwards, half as tall as she was, radiating heat. They both paused, looking at the fire. Lily could never decide if the fires at Hogwarts were started magically or normally. Regardless, they were probably amplified and maintained with magic, but she liked to wonder. The gamekeeper, Hagrid, often carted wood into the hall, which firstly made her suspect he was a squib, because otherwise he'd likely levitate or summon the kindling, and secondly gave her cause to believe that the fires did need fuel to burn, and therefore had to be more than just spellwork. Probably. It was something she never seemed to find the occasion to ask a teacher about, something that disappeared the moment she took her eyes off the flames, but each time she returned to warm herself, the query sprouted again.
"How did Gryffindor fare last night?" Glen asked, breaking into her thoughts. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Well, in terms of morale. Unwell, in terms of responsible decision-making, knowing one's limits, and respecting school rules. I expect Ravenclaw's challenges weren't similar?" Lily smiled. Glen laughed again – a hearty warm chuckle – and adjusted his tie, although it was already perfectly in place.
"No, they weren't," he said tightly. Lily glanced sidewards at him. She could still see his pearly whites, but the corners of his lips turned down, his jaw clenched. Orange shadows danced across his face, illuminating his baby blue eyes, and the dark circles beneath them. She turned her gaze back to the fire.
"The wireless got messed around," she told him quietly. "It started saying something about Flo Diggory." Glen's nose twitched.
"She's in the Hospital Wing," he said, voice barely above a whisper. Her head whipped back around, heart quickening. Part of her had dismissed the radio as some trick by Potter. Something to take everyone's minds off the fact they were sealed in the Common Room and starving to death (or so the second years claimed). It seemed like the sort of thing he'd do. She pressed her lips together. Flo Diggory was lovely, both in looks and actions. Everyone liked Flo. First to seventh years, Gryffindors to Slytherins. The worst that could be said of her was that she was just too nice – she didn't even get the accusations of fakeness like Glen.
It occurred to Lily that if someone wanted to spread panic by injuring a student, there could be no better candidate than Florence Diggory.
"If you need any help – with anything – all of us Gryffindors would be more than happy to lend a hand. We've got a Quidditch Captain with his head screwed on and we could probably leave him in charge. Honestly, in Gryffindor, they listen to the Quidditch Captain more than the Head Girl," Lily said. Glen smiled at her, but it wasn't full of teeth – it was soft and sad and small and matched the crease between his brows.
"Thank you," he said, voice even, but quiet. "Everyone's worried, but Madam Pomfrey says she should make a full recovery – that's what Dorcas Meadowes told us prefects, she was allowed to visit last night with Cynthia Lewis." Lily took a step closer to him.
"But that doesn't mean you can't be worried," she told him. He nodded once. She paused, waiting, but he stayed silent. "Is it just Flo?"
"I think so," he said. "Dorcas Meadowes and Cynthia Lewis went to see the Headmaster yesterday, but I think it was just about Flo.""Okay," Lily said.
They stood together, watching the flames, until benches began scraping, and the first lot of students started to leave for class. Lily looked back over her shoulder, and Marlene happened to look towards her at the same time. She made a kissing face. Lily rolled her eyes. Marlene lifted her hand, and pretended to passionately snog it. Behind her, Peter Pettigrew looked like he'd been electrocuted. Lily made a backwards 'V' with her fingers against the fabric of her robes, subtle enough that only Marlene noticed, and promptly threw her hand against her heart as if she'd been struck by an arrow. Lily turned back to Glen.
"It looks like all the Arithmancy students are leaving," she said softly. Glen stirred, blinking a few times, and then looked out across the Great Hall. Remus and Amy were walking together – though neither seemed to be talking – and a tight bunch of Ravenclaws clustered together as they walked between their table and the Slytherins'.
"It does," he agreed. "I'm sorry, Lily, for dragging you away from breakfast."
"It's okay. If you – if Ravenclaw needs anything, just let me know, okay? I know if it had been one of ours…"
"Thank you. Enjoy your breakfast, then."
"Oh, thanks. Enjoy Arithmancy." She lifted her hand in farewell, and he smiled at her and set off. Only then did she realise he'd been carrying his bookbag with him the whole time – as if he hadn't intended to go sit down and eat. She rubbed her temple, and went back to her friends.
"Did he ask you out?" Marlene asked. Alisha inhaled sharply. Lily widened her eyes at Marlene and gave a little shake of her head.
"No," she said. "No, he just wanted to talk about last night."
November 5th, 1975
"Sirius."
"Marlene."
"Yesterday was odd, don't you think?" She pulled on her dragonhide gloves, flexing her fingers. Rain splattered the glass rooftop of the greenhouse, and the plants drooped in the absence of sunlight. James had wandered off with Lisbete during their spare, and Peter went to the library to beg Ravenclaws to help him with Ancient Runes, and Remus decided to file reports for his prefect shit, and so Sirius had been left with nothing to do but come down to Herbology early. It was disgusting; he was disgusted by himself. Professor Sprout was so surprised by his appearance that she gave him two points for his punctuality. Undoubtedly, his lowest moment.
"Yep," he said. "Exceedingly." He hadn't spoken to Marlene sober since the party – well, since before the party, in truth. It was a surprisingly easy feat to manage, even if it did mean exercising self-control in making sarcastic remarks. The way his week was going, he thought Remus' prefect position could very well be threatened by Saturday – never in all his schooling had Sirius been so popular with teachers, and it wasn't as if he'd started behaving properly, he'd just clammed up whenever Marlene was around to avoid reminding her he existed.
"Flo wasn't in class this morning," Marlene said, putting her books on the bench beside him. Presumptuous.
"No shit," he said, looking to the door. A group of Hufflepuffs entered, whispering in low tones, but there was no sign of his mates. "She was only sick enough to lock down the school for half a day. I, personally, think it's lazy of her not to show up for class today. I can see why she's not in Hufflepuff."
"Oh, don't be an arse, Sirius," Marlene said, but she smiled.
Remus and Peter came in on time, shot him a sidewards glance, and paired up together. James was a few minutes late, hair ruffled to the high heavens, and got paired with Matilda Mortensen, a round-cheeked freckly Hufflepuff who kept sending her friends wide-eyed looks. Dale didn't show at all. Sirius did his best to focus on potting the plants they were assigned and drawing a diagram of each plant's leaves, putting any thought of last Friday out of his mind and into his crawling stomach. Half a dozen times, Marlene paused significantly, and he was sure she was going to say something important – but in the end, she'd only ask him to pass her the watering can or make a joke out of his shiny Opaleye leather gloves. He found himself at the end of the class with no more words uttered about Halloween than there had been prior to Herbology, and resolved to jot Marlene's partnership with him down as just another odd footnote in the tale of the last twenty-four hours.
He left the greenhouse with his friends, volleying questions at James about the reason behind his tardiness. Peter scratched notes furiously into a piece of parchment, occasionally stopping in his tracks to mark out a rock or shrub, and shouted at them for leaving him behind each time. All was well – at least, until Marlene materialised beside Remus, panting.
"Oi, you left your fancy gloves behind," she said, waving the shimmering pair towards him.
"It was intentional," he said shortly. It looked girlish, glittering rainbow even in the grey light from the low, overcast sky. He could picture Narcissa wearing a similar thing to some stupid fancy ball, the type with watery champagne everyone pretended to like and an absurd green decorating scheme, because nobody could ever move on from Hogwarts, apparently.
"Your loss," she said, and tossed them towards him. He made no effort to catch them; Peter snatched them out of the sky for him.
"Thanks," he said to nobody in particular.
"Yeah," she said. "Where are you lot off to?"
"Library," Peter answered for him. "We've got a project."
"You four, working on a project? I'd die of shock. Well, not about you, Remus, but – you know."
"I do know," Remus assured her, grinning wryly.
"Well, we are," Sirius said, increasing his pace. James slowed, as if to deliberately annoy him, though Remus sped up.
"How's your day been, Marlene?" James asked pleasantly.
"Alright, I guess. Herbology makes me want to kill myself a little bit, though. How are we supposed to write an essay about plants?"
Sirius' legs grew heavy, but he didn't cease. From the corner of his eye, he could see Remus smirking at him. He pointedly ignored him.
"Are you in a hurry?" Remus asked innocently. Sirius turned his head just enough to shoot him a glare, and then focused once more on his path. It was just – fuck, he didn't know, but he felt like a fucking coward, not going through with it. Because he wanted to do it, by Hufflepuff's knickers, he wanted to get it over and done with. And it wasn't Marlene – she was fun, she wasn't a total pain in the arse, she was good-looking, and honestly, he wasn't avoiding her because he hated her or anything. She was fine. It just –
It hadn't been right.
"Sirius," Remus repeated. Sirius stopped dead in his tracks.
"What?"
"What happened last Friday?" Sirius scoffed, shook his head, and kept on, striding into the Entrance Hall. They converged with a gaggle of fourth years heading down to Herbology and first years emerging from the dungeons. Students snaked between them, an endless stream, and Sirius ducked around them. He didn't know where his feet were headed, but it sure as hell wasn't to the Gryffindor common room. He was dying for a cigarette.
His sleeve snagged. He spun around. "Fuck off!"
Regulus stood in Remus' place, staring at him. Sirius faltered.
"Thanks," Regulus said coolly.
"No, I-" But Regulus disappeared, swallowed up by hordes of younger students. Sirius spun round, gazing over the top of the crowd, but there was no sign of his brother, nor Remus, nor anyone remotely friendly-looking. But he had wanted to be alone, hadn't he? He slipped a finger into the pocket of his robes, feeling for his pack of cigarettes.
"Fuck."