A/N: TW for underage sexualish stuff (NOT explicit, pretty much just referenced, and 100% consensual), smoking, drug references, self-harm referenced/implied, and a suicide joke.


7th December, 1975

Two weeks until Christmas break. Regulus Black wasn't the only person counting down, though truthfully, the last fortnight of term wasn't that bad. Exams had finished on Friday, and the professors always reintroduced what they taught in the last two weeks when they all came back in January (even though they'd assured the fourth years that this was not the case in O.W.L year, and that they needed to pay attention now). The Hogsmeade trip was next weekend, and he'd get Mother and Father presents in the morning and spend the afternoon in the warmth of the Three Broomsticks. Mulciber had already asked if he'd be going, and told him there'd be a seat at his table set aside for Regulus. It was more brotherly than anything Sirius had done in years. He'd be there too, trying to convince a seventh year to buy him a pint. Regulus would need to convince no-one. Mulciber would offer, as the host, and Regulus would say, 'please'. The benefits of polite company.

His only complaint of the day was that he'd been up at five o'clock in the morning; well and truly dark in winter. He and his teammates shivered through practice. He'd been lucky; Vanity shouted herself blue at Talkalot before turning on the beaters, and Regulus had done little but tricks on his broom, just enough to keep him warm. Talkalot blathered on about the cold and Vanity nearly smacked her in the face with a quaffle from two feet away.

He took a long, piping hot shower in the changing rooms, and dressed quickly and warmly in his enchanted robes and gloves and cloak. Mother had sent him the new dragonhide gloves just last week. They were from Romania, and lined with brown jarvey down. Padgett shoved on a ridiculous hat, both too tall to be practical and long enough that it covered his ears. He said it was warm. They walked back to the castle together and then Padgett took his leave – he was meeting Dorothea Wilkes for breakfast at the Ravenclaw table.

"I see," said Regulus. Padgett smiled.

"Wish me luck, Black."

"Luck." Padgett bowed his head and headed for the Great Hall, along with most of the castle. Regulus' stomach was comfortably full from the night before. More than anything, he was tired. For once, the dormitory would be empty, and he could snatch a nap in peace.

He hurried down the stone steps as quickly as his lead legs would allow. Once, finding the right stretch of wall to whisper the password to had been a challenge. He'd likely spent hours, in total, watching the older students to see exactly where they went. Now it was second nature. He would've known it in the dark.

"Excellent loquaciousness," Regulus said clearly. A moment later, he stepped into his common room. The leather couches were gloriously empty, and the tables waited patiently to be used. A school of fish swum past the far floor-to-ceiling window at the back of the room. The fire roared heartily. It wasn't home, but it was rather close.

He headed downstairs, knowing already which pair of pyjamas he wanted to wear – the very soft ones from his last visit to Paris, with Mother and Aunt Druella and Narcissa. They were simple, black, elegant, and he saved them as a reward after particularly hard times. They'd been worn more in the last week and a half than in the month preceeding it. After he changed into his pyjamas, he would wash his face, and run a comb through his hair. He'd select a book to read, not a textbook but a novel, and he'd read a chapter until his eyes grew heavy. Then, he would put it down on his bedside table, slipping a tasselled bookmark between the pages. He'd lay down his head on his silky green pillow, pull up his heat-charmed covers, shut his eyes, and drift off into a pleasant sleep, dreamless and vaguely warm.

He couldn't wait.

In his haste, he didn't pause outside the dormitory door. Nor did he knock. He twisted the doorknob and flung it open with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. He closed it, gentler, and turned around. He undid his top button before he saw them.

Before they saw him.

Regulus froze. She screamed, and flung herself off the bed. How daft can you be? Certainly, lying prone on the floor instead of the bed did little to cover her state of undress – which wasn't all that bad, her bra and knickers were still on. Alfreck hiked up the covers so quickly that Regulus saw nothing, thank Merlin, Salazar, and any other being with any power over anything, but he suspected that Alfreck was rather less clothed than Crabbe.

"What the fuck, Black?" Alfreck shouted, cheeks burning a Gryffindor scarlet. "Haven't you heard of knocking?"

"Have you not heard of curtains?" Regulus fired back, gesturing to the drawn-back hangings around his bed. Alfreck flushed even deeper, which Regulus hadn't thought possible.

"You still should've knocked," Alfreck said. Deborah got to her feet and turned her back, dressing quickly. Regulus glared at her, and then back at Alfreck. He breathed in deeply, and let out a long sigh. Crabbe. Not anyone respectable. Crabbe. Merlin's beard. Alfreck's was still uncovered. Between that and the sight of Crabbe, he'd never get to sleep. How could he, with those foul images burned into his brain? Fuck. He folded his arms across his chest.

"This is ridiculous," Regulus said. "Can't you keep your hands to yourself? Philandering isn't a respected trait at twenty-four, let alone fourteen. You're an idiot."

"I'm not an idiot," Alfreck said stubbornly. "Think about it. I've got a girlfriend, a proper one, and we do more than just snog, and I'm only a fourth year. There are seventh years who haven't held a girl's hand – do you think Jugson's ever taken a bird to Hogsmeade?" He straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest. Regulus stared at him. His fingers itched for his wand. Unfortunately, it was still in his trunk.

"You are an idiot. Crabbe's no improvement to your social standing – better off to wait for someone decent than leap into bed with the first dim-witted pureblood girl who'll have you. And besides," he added, frowning at Crabbe, who was now brushing her hair, "if you really do care about her, you'll know that the moment people see her leave here, they'll call her a whore." One of his mother's favourite activities at galas was to point out the teenaged girls she thought most likely to sleep around, and then to explain how poorly it would reflect on their family and how riddled with disease they'd be by thirty. She couldn't be the only one.

"I'm not a whore!" Crabbe said, turning to face him. Her cheeks too glowed bright pink, and the beginnings of a bruise welled just above her collarbone. She clapped her free hand over it. "I love Alfreck and Alfreck loves me. You should be at breakfast." Regulus stepped forward.

"Don't tell me where I ought to be, this is my dormitory, you daft cow," Regulus scoffed. He was cold and tired and just wanted a fucking nap. Alfreck and his cock were interrupting.

"Oi," Alfreck said. Regulus rounded on him, gaze sharp.

"Think about it. If you're slow enough to fancy yourself star-crossed lovers, maybe think about protecting her. And yourself, by the way, wouldn't it be the scandal if a Rosier boy got a Crabbe girl pregnant before they've even started their O.W.L year? Get out, I want to sleep," he added to Crabbe. She glared at him, her big, bovine eyes welling with tears, and stomped as she left. "Good riddance," Regulus said.

"You can't talk to her like that," Alfreck said hotly. He grabbed his trousers from the floor and pulled them under the blankets. Then he shuffled about awkwardly. Regulus pressed the knot between his eyebrows.

"And you can't get out of bed. Learn to close the curtains. And I mean it, Alfreck. You'll only get yourselves into trouble, both of you. What if she does get pregnant? What will you do? Without your O. you'll be left doing the work of squibs and mudbloods, and you're the second son. You won't get enough to support yourself." That was the thing about being a second son. You had to be entirely without a mark against your name, you had to work twice as hard as your elder brother, and for half the recognition and fortune. Sirius was a blood traitor and a boor but unless Mother and Father disowned him, he'd get the Gringotts vaults and Regulus would get only the personal belongings of his parents that they decided to pass down to him.

"I'm not going to get her pregnant," Alfreck mumbled into his bedcovers. "We didn't even – we weren't – it wasn't that."

"Good," Regulus said firmly. He had nothing more to say. He stormed over to his part of the dormitory and retrieved his comb and face-washer before ducking into the bathroom. He cupped water in his hands and poured it over himself. It dripped off the edge of his nose and chin. Droplets clung to his eyelashes. Outsiders said the Black boys strongly resembled each other, but Regulus disagreed. Sirius' jaw was broader, his cheeks fuller, and his eyes less hooded. Over the years, he'd also developed a healthy tan, something that Regulus lacked. Apparently, his brother could have nearly his pick of girls if he so desired. Yet, he had never had a girlfriend. At least, not one that went beyond a hug and a week. It was still more experience than Regulus had.

He had always assumed his parents would make the introduction for him, when the time came; maybe a year or two after Sirius settled down (or, if Sirius looked to be straying into Uncle Alphard's perpetual bachelorhood, when Regulus was no older than twenty-six but no younger than twenty-one). The older he was, the more likely it was that she'd be younger – if he married at twenty-six, she could very well be twenty, and in that case, she wouldn't have started at Hogwarts yet. He'd noticed girls, of course – he shared a changing room with some of them, and the girls who played Quidditch were in very good condition. But it was beyond the pale to imagine bringing one of them back to the dormitory and getting his pants off.

He patted his cheeks with the cloth. He wasn't a prude, and he wasn't saving himself for marriage – that was the Bible's recommendation, yes, but even the women of old houses didn't fret over it too much, so long as they were discrete, which Alfreck and Crabbe were not being. Fourteen was young, wasn't it? Yes; they couldn't get married for another two or three years even if their parents consented. They were in the wrong, not him. He wiped water over his neck.

The vision came to his mind unbidden; himself in his bed, a faceless girl in her underwear above him. He wouldn't know what to do with his hands; what were you supposed to do with your hands? Sirius would know, he thought. Anything wicked or unseemly, his brother was all over like dragon pox. He splashed cold water onto his face, bringing himself back to reality. He needed to sleep. He was no closer to unconsciousness when he stood in front of the mirror wondering if he ought to be trying to, as Selwyn put it, 'fingerfuck' a girl.

The comb scraped his scalp, pressing in against his skull. He tore through his shiny dark hair. Strands stuck to the comb's teeth. He fled the bathroom and threw himself into bed, pulling the curtains closed. He was plunged into darkness. It bothered him none. He set the comb down on the bedside table and resolved that there wasn't time for quiet reading. He changed quickly – well, as quickly as possible in the dark, and then slid under the covers. His feet were made of ice.

He didn't need a girlfriend. Alfreck was wrong. It didn't elevate him but made him look base, primal, thinking with his prick instead of his brain. And Crabbe was a fool to let him. Growing up, he'd looked up to Bellatrix and Narcissa more than Sirius, and he knew full well that they weren't prim little twits who couldn't say 'no'. Crabbe had neither looks nor a powerful family; the least she could have was the ability to not be a pushover. Or else the hat should've sorted her into Hufflepuff to prepare for her future as a menial labourer or a housewife without an elf.

He glared in Alfreck's general direction, and then rested his head back against the pillow. He shut his eyes. There was no rush. No haste. No need to make haste. When he came of age, he'd have his pick, just like Sirius. And of better girls than Sirius could dream of. It was fine. It was fine. It was normal not to be interested in girls yet. He curled his hands by his sides and tried to relax his mind.

He had nothing to worry about.


8th December 1975

How the fuck James got up at five thirty in the morning, like clockwork, Sirius would never understand. He trusted nature to an extent; that extent being that when the sun was down, you ought to be either partying or in bed. Five in the morning was time for bed, regardless of how you'd spent the previous twelve hours. James did star jumps, thudding against the floor. Sirius buried himself deeper into the safety of his bed. Sleep was safe; there were nightmares, sure, routine and recurring, but if something hurt you in reality while you were asleep, you wouldn't know about it. James destroyed the sanctity of sleep.

James huffed and puffed loudly. Sirius squeezed his eyes open and shut, and then pushed himself off the bed, squinting through the dark. He stumbled through the red hangings and onto the shared floor of the dormitory. James did a push-up. James' bed alone was open for business. Sensibly, the rest of them had their curtains drawn.

"I'm evicting you," Sirius mumbled, bleary-eyed. James jumped to his feet. He wiped his brow.

"No you aren't, fuck off," he chirped cheerily. Sirius shoved him. James shoved him back.

"Exercise downstairs," Sirius ordered, pointing towards the door. He dragged himself back into bed before James could say another word.

Someone shook him awake. Sirius plummeted back into consciousness, and groaned. The light behind his eyelids changed. Daylight hammered through his thin skin. Sirius groaned again, and shook his head.

"There's an owl for you," Remus said. Sirius' heart leapt and he was across the room before he could even process existing that morning. The packet was in his hands and the owl spread across the sky by the time the fatigue hit him. He slumped against the windowsill. Remus folded his arms across his chest. His hair was a soft golden brown, brighter than the murky sleeveless sweaters he favoured on weekends. He smiled.

"Don't tell Dale you're ordering off someone else," Remus warned, smiling and tugging at a stray woollen strand. Black didn't suit him. The school robes suited few, with their cut and colour, but more than anyone else he could think of, Remus was suited for tighter sleeves that didn't shroud his hands, and every shade of brown or maroon or even orange but not one veering into navy or black. Narcissa would say brown complimented his colouring better. Sirius' abomination of a mother would snark that the black made him look even more dead, which was what a half-breed really ought to be. His stomach swayed. Hateful bitch.

"I might tell him," Sirius shrugged, heading for his trunk. "He might make his prices more competitive." Remus scoffed.

"He's dirt cheap already and supporting himself and Cathy with the few sickles he gets selling spliff. Don't short-change him."

"You sound like James," Sirius said, tucking the envelope in the crease of his folded grey robes. "What do you care about the Roshfingers?"

"I care about decency," Remus corrected.

"It was a joke," Sirius said firmly, shutting the lid of his trunk. His bed taunted him, the divot left by his body marked clearly. It was probably still warm. A noise of wanting vibrated in his throat.

"You sound like a whining dog," Remus said, rubbing his eyebrow with his long middle finger. Sirius lolled his head back.

"It is Monday." He screwed up his face. "Transfiguration?"

"Correct," Remus said. Sirius scooped his hair off his shoulder and pushed off the wall. He flung himself onto his plush mattress and into velveteen covers. Remus laughed. "No. You're coming."

"Why didn't James come get me?" Sirius mumbled into his pillows.

"He was busy. I volunteered to drag your sorry arse down anyways. Get up." Sirius rolled onto his back, and pouted up at Remus. Remus frowned. Two lines deepened between his brows.

"Or we can be sick," Sirius suggested. "Or late." Remus looked away, towards the window.

"Haven't we pissed her off enough lately?"

"Come on," Sirius insisted. "You know you want to. It's irresistible." Remus looked back at him. His eyes mirrored his hair, if his hair had been distilled into a thick, churning potion, a potion of gold and brown and the rich minerals found on country estates. Sirius and his brother had briefly taken painting lessons with Aunt Lycoris, back when he'd been nine or so. Regulus took to it like a snitch to the sky. Sirius preferred throwing different colours across the canvas to painting anything. Everything he mixed turned brown. It was hideous, according to his mother. He disagreed. He always had liked brown.

"We don't have to go now," Remus relented, as he always did. He perched on the edge of the bed, but between Sirius and the pillows. He wondered if it was an intentional blockade. Rude. Remus sighed. Sirius gazed up at the crimson canopy above. He was glad he liked red. It would be a shitty existence to be sorted into a house whose colour you loathed. He, for one, hated yellow. It was too bright and optimistic and yet mellow all at once. Wishy-washy but also personally insulting. He would've drowned himself in the Black Lake before sleeping in the Hufflepuff dormitories for seven years.

Remus breathed croakily, every exhale a wheeze. He didn't take questions about it. Sirius wasn't stupid. The transformations probably fucked his lungs, as they fucked his hips and his legs and his mind. Smoking worsened it, of course. Sirius itched for a cigarette. With a hefty sigh and a great deal of effort, he reached over to the side table on the other side of his bed and stretched for his packet of fags. He took two. He grabbed his wand and lit them both. He stuck one between his lips and held the other out, between his index and middle fingers. Remus raised his eyebrows.

"We don't get to try your new shit?" Remus asked, taking the cigarette. Sirius winked. Remus rolled his eyes, and put the cigarette to his lips.

"It's for a special purpose," Sirius told him, breathing out smoke. "Special occasion. You'll see."

"Oh, will I? Joy." Remus pulled one orange-socked foot up onto the bed. His second toe stuck out a hole in the end. He rested his chin on his knee. Sirius took a long drag and exhaled a fluffy grey cloud. His eyes didn't leave Remus. His chest tightened.

"Do you think I'm a fool for not sleeping with Marlene?" Sirius asked suddenly, the words tumbling out of him. Remus didn't turn around. Sirius looked away from him and back to the roof. He took another long drag.

"No," Remus said finally. Quietly. "I don't think James and Lisbete are…heading there, yet. You've got time. If you want to be the first." Sirius considered this. Did he want to be the first? He could beat James in nearly anything if he tried hard enough, except perhaps the 'loving family' category, but fuck that. He imagined James returning to the dormitory, red-cheeked and messy-haired (not that that was unusual), boasting of his manhood. It'd give them another thing to rib him about, but aside from that, he could hardly muster a fuck to give. It wasn't about James. He'd like to beat Snivellus, he supposed, but that was hardly a challenge. Sirius could've been kissed by Dementors and he'd still beat Snape to losing his virginity. Hell, he was sure people would throw themselves at the Dementors if sleeping with that grease-slicked anus was the alternatie.

"I don't know," Sirius admitted. Remus remained quiet. Sirius tried to focus on blowing circles. He poked and prodded his tongue against the smoke filling up his mouth. He shaped his lips. None of it worked. His throat burned pleasantly. His heart beat a little faster. "Fuck it," he said. Remus turned now.

"You struggle with that way more than you have any right to," Remus said. Sirius flipped him off.

"It's harder than it looks," he protested. Remus inhaled deeply, and blew three perfect rings. Then he smirked. Remus had no right to smirk; it made him feel like he'd been stung by a billywig. Stupid. "Don't give me that sour look," Remus warned. "It doesn't suit you. Not jealousy." He paused, sucking on his cigarette contemplatively. "As James would say, 'green isn't your colour'." Sirius barked a laugh.

"And James would be right, much to my mother's disappointment," Sirius said. Remus elbowed him – and it actually hurt, given that he was all bones and skin stretched over a skeleton.

"So stop it, then. Buck up and learn how to do it, or give up."

"'Buck up?'" Sirius repeated incredulously, laughing. Remus pressed his lips together, shaking his head. "Are you a fucking cowboy?"

"I can't even ride a horse. I'm not posh," Remus said, pulling on his cigarette. Sirius laughed, and then frowned, looking at him quizzically.

"Really?" he asked. It had been one of the few lessons pre-Hogwarts that Sirius had ever enjoyed. They'd visit his Prewett cousins, his Aunt Lucretia and Uncle Ignatius' family out in the country, and he'd be helped into a saddle on this chestnut gelding that never went as quickly as he would've liked. It was different to riding a broom, but had that same rush when you finally got into a gallop, holding the reins, laughing, hair blowing wildly in the wind, whipping his face. Sirius had been better on a horse where Regulus was better on a broomstick. In high summer when he'd been seven or eight, he'd beaten Regulus in every race and his mother had pinched his cheeks and kissed his forehead and gushed, and his father helped him off the horse and pulled him into the tightest hug he'd ever known. It glowed warm in his chest even now.

"Really." It made sense, when he thought about it, that Remus had not ridden a horse before. Sirius could just imagine him on a little Welsh pony, though, face stolen from the singular family photo from when he was small that Remus kept on his bedside table. His face had not been so shadowy then, but still far more tired than a boy that young should've been. "When would I have had the chance? I had school five days a week, and both my parents worked from the time I was in infants'."

"An infant?" Sirius asked, cocking his head to one side. Remus chuckled.

"Infants' school. The one you go to before junior."

"I don't understand muggles," Sirius sighed. "I wish I did. School sounds like more fun than being stuck with Regulus all the time, counting down until I was eleven."

"It does miss the basics of horse-riding, however," Remus said. "Well, unless you're wealthy, presumably. I'm sure the Queen's children were riding horses from the time they could walk." Sirius shook his head, mystified. What would that have been like, he thought, a school of five-year-old wizards? How would they have decided who got to attend? Ninety-eight percent of the population or something similar, according to the Ministry, showed signs of magical ability by age ten. Only fifty percent had by five. Would it have just been for everyone, magic and squib alike, so long as they had magical parents? That was hardly fair for muggle-borns, though. It'd never work. Some muggle things ought to stay muggle.

Remus' cigarette flickered and died. He let go of one last blow of smoke, and ashed it in the glass tray on Sirius' bedside.

"Even your ashtray is posh," Remus teased. Sirius coughed out a laugh.

"Fuck off," he said. Remus rolled up one sleeve and scratched at his arm. Sirius jerked upright. His dirty nails dug against scabby red lines. They were more even, straighter than the ones Remus usually received as a result of the transformations – they were spaced too neatly. They lined the soft white flesh on the inside of wrist.

"What?" Remus said. His sleeve dropped. Sirius drew his eyes up, and met Remus' hard gaze. Sirius teetered.

"Nothing," he said. Remus stood, rubbing his face. Sirius scooted over and butted out his cigarette.

"We're going to be late," Remus said, hooking his satchel over his shoulder.

"We're not late if we just don't show up," Sirius said helpfully. Remus gripped his now-covered wrist with his other hand. His knuckles were white.

"Please," Remus said, low and throaty. Please come? Please keep it a secret?

"Okay," Sirius said to both, neither. He pushed himself out of bed. "I need to get dressed." Remus nodded.

"Thanks."


8th December 1975

Hogwarts was prettier than Cokeworth. Or, the Scottish Highlands were prettier than an industrial town made of brown miner's cottages and a brown river and coal mines. She looked over her shoulder, checking that she wasn't being followed, and stepped over the out-of-bounds line. Her prefect badge beamed proudly from its spot on her chest. She clenched her wand in her hand. Moss and a dusting of snow blanketed the forest floor. Purple heather peeked through the frost. She moved her wand out ahead of her, lighting up the dark path ahead.

In her defence, this wasn't just out of curiosity, or the boredom bought on by end-of-term. That had ended when she was trying to get a photograph of the snow over Hagrid's garden and saw the large man's shoulders shaking through the window. She'd tucked her hair behind her ear, tucked the borrowed camera into her bag, and rounded the cabin to knock on his door.

The house shook with a sound like an elephant's trumpeting, and a few moments later, the door opened. Hagrid's nose was bright red, rubbed raw at the sides, and droplets clung to his bushy beard.

"Lily Evans?" he'd choked out. She put her hands on her hips.

"Hagrid."

It only took a cup of tea to get him to an intelligible point. She jumped to her feet after wrangling out an explanation, thumb around her bag strap.

"Yeh can'," he insisted. "Yeh'll be gettin' inter trouble, yeh will." She'd only sighed, and looked at him.

"I won't get into any trouble, Hagrid. I'll be off now, anyways."

"Righ'," he said miserably, and her heart twitched and quivered. She had the urge to bundle him up into a big hug, never mind that he was well over twice her size. Instead, she gave him the softest smile she could afford.

"It'll be okay. I promise it will be. These things always work out. I'll come visit soon," she said. He nodded, dabbing at his eyes with a plaid-patterned handkerchief.

"Yeh're a good egg."

"Maybe. I've never fancied becoming an omelette, though," she frowned, tilting her head to the side in serious consideration. He gurgled a wet laugh. She patted his hand. "It'll all work out." She left the hut solemnly. As soon as the door shut, she took a few steps into the bushes nearby, dumped her bag, and headed for the Forbidden Forest. She'd never said she wouldn't go, only that she wouldn't get into trouble, and that she'd visit soon. She intended for both of those things to be true.

Lily's experience with the Forest was admittedly limited. Her experience with any large swathe of nature, honestly. She grew up darting around the corners of crumbling terraced houses and spotting shapes in the endless plumes of low smoke and clinging smog. If grass was what you wanted, you pilgrimaged to the small park by the river, marked with a large tree, a swingset, and a see-saw. There was certainly more than one tree here. They stretched to the sky, their leaves crafting a dark canopy, devouring the faint winter light.

It would make sense to bring someone else along. But who? Sev wouldn't want to break the rules just for Hagrid, Mary would be too frightened, and Marlene would consider it a wonderful adventure and end up wandering off. There wasn't time, besides. The sun hugged the hills and would soon disappear.

She took a tentative step inside, and another, and another. She paused, and twisted around. Darkness wrapped around the trees standing on either side of the gap she'd entered through. Already, it was as though she was deep in the Forest. Lily twisted her wand between her fingers. To mark, or not to mark? Only the rumour of tree-spirits gave her any pause. If it weren't for the Whomping Willow, she would've dismissed it out of hand, but… She didn't need to add 'being chased by angry trees' to her mission. She aimed her wand lower.

"Colovaria," she said, curling her wrist. The patch of undergrowth snapped into bright pink. Unmissable. She quickly lit her wand again, and turned back to face the depths of the Forest. Hagrid had last seen it by a cairn in a clearing only a few minutes in, before the world rushed around him in a dizzy spell. She squared her shoulders and headed in.

Night fell quickly. The world was eerily silent, save for her own footsteps. She colour-changed bushes and stones every so often, and hoped that her charms would last until she was back at Hagrid's. The trees exhaled croakily. Cool fingers brushed her cheeks, her neck, tugged at her hand. Her leather shoes grew slick with slush, part-snow and part-mud. A branch scraped her hair. It snagged. She jerked away, and it ripped. She stumbled. Her toes hit a branch. She swore. Tripped. Her hands stung. She pushed herself onto her knees and took the measure of her palms. Angry and red, marked by a thousand cuts. Her hands trembled. Her knees protested their contact with the ground. Pain sunk into her kneecaps. Her wand lay on the ground a foot away. Lily clenched her jaw. She scooped it up in one shooting moment and jumped to her feet just as quickly. Everything throbbed. A knot of auburn hair dangled from the offending branch. She glared at it.

The undergrowth thickened. With each step, she snapped branches. Nature reclaimed her from the knee down. She squeezed her thighs together, and cursed the uniform skirt. Usually, Lily was a great skirt supporter, but they could be so damn impractical. Her eyes darted from ground to treetop and swooped back. A shudder ran through her. She ought to have got Marlene. But that would've taken longer than this was going to. Hagrid could get too caught up in the emotions of it all; and she felt for him, she did, it hurt her heart, but not enough to send her into an absolute tizz.

Finally, the trees lessened. Wandlight spilled over the cairn, which stood taller than she did. Now she could really begin her search. She paused at that thought, and then laughed. It echoed, bouncing off the ring of dark trees around her. She felt rather like Nancy Drew, except that she was neither rich nor American. And of course, Nancy Drew wasn't a witch. And Lily didn't have half of her detective skills.

Okay. Nancy Drew fantasies aside. She directed her light to the ground, and began scanning. Pernickety, wasn't it? But there was a gleeful rush about it, if she was honest. It felt very childhood-book-series. The next thing she knew, one of the trees would be magical in the muggle way, and would take her off to faraway lands. Stupid. Fun, too. Anyways. Her eyes raked through the snowy undergrowth, hunting for divots, or tracks, or something unusual. She paced the perimeter, shivering with every strong gust of wind.

Bingo.

Lily kept her hand very still, and crept towards the marks in the snow. To her relief, the track was fairly level. If necessary, she'd stick her hand in a hole in the ground in the dark, but if there was no need, she wasn't about to do it for fun. The tips of her ears froze with the next howl of air. Branches blotted out the last grips of light. The sooner this was done, the better. For her and for them. God only knew that a winter night in the Forbidden Forest would bury and kill anything it could.

She crossed the tree line. Darkness enveloped everything further than arm's length. Lily swallowed. If she went much further, it'd be a nightmare getting out. She was lucky her efforts so far had been unimpeded. Her skin prickled. It was quieter here. She looked over her shoulder. Nobody there. It was just the night making her jumpy. She glued her eyes to the ground, ignoring the screams of her instincts to look up, or run. She was too far in now to turn back.

The earth sloped downwards. The tracks changed, and her heart briefly blocked her windpipe. Her feet slid. She threw her arms out and barely kept hold of her wand. Eyes raked the back of her neck, in the space between her nape and her collar, between her goosebumps and the swish of auburn hair. She stepped forward cautiously. She felt for secure ground before transferring her weight. Please let this be the right way, she thought. Don't lead me into a den of snakes.

Her feet found stable, flat ground. Lily planted herself, and spun around. A green glow clung to the trees, wrapping them in a glittering, unnatural haze. Its reflection settled eerily on the snow. The Forest hummed with life – or life-like death. There was nowhere in Cokeworth like this. In Cokeworth, dangers were borne of drunk men and dark mines. Man-made.

She wondered anyone else had ever stood in the same spot. If the trees had ever been looked at from this very angle. It could be pretty, she thought. Pretty if she weren't alone, and freezing, and watched, undoubtedly watched, though she had no idea where those eyes might have been located. Branches sighed, leaning into one another. The air buzzed. A shudder shook her hollow. She pressed her lips together.

Lily knew very little about animal tracking, but she thought the imprints looked fresher here, maybe. She was close. She could feel it. She scanned the trees once more, looking for light. None. She wasn't sure what direction Hogwarts was in anymore. That would come later.

She crouched low, moving slower, and relied more on her ears than her sense of sight. It started as a rustle, one that might've belonged to the Forest, if it weren't so consistent. Ting! Ting! Ting! Claws hitting metal. What the hell had it found? What could be out here? She rounded a corner, keeping low. Movement. She gasped. A hole in the earth, about as big as both her hands side-by-side, and eagle-spread.

Snow cushioned her knees. She shivered. Woollen stockings did little for protection against the elements. There was probably a charm for it, though. She peered into the hole. A dark shape moved beneath. It was the right size. She screwed up her face. Just do it. She plunged her hand into the depths. She hit something when the ground reached her bicep. Something furry. She grabbed what she could and tucked her wand behind her ear. Then she thrust her other arm in. She wrapped her hands around the stomach, and lifted.

The niffler squirmed furiously, sniffing. She pulled it close to her chest, holding tight. She took her wand with her free hand, and shone it down the hole. She nearly jumped out of her skin.

The earth shifted and moved like a living, breathing beast. At the bottom of the pit, something glowed, shimmering like the scales of a snake. A very glittery snake. Sick rose in her. Her hairs stood in end. Get out! Get out! Get out! She stood. Her head spun. The air crackled. The trees shone so brightly that her wandlight was useless. It might've been daytime. She could see for several yards. It was like a giant spotlight pointed at her. The niffler stilled. Sweat slicked her palms. Slush soaked her uniform.

Run! Run! Get out!

She shook her head. It had to be imagined. She was scared, and alone, and so her mind was playing tricks. She needed to go steady. She had to be rational. She lifted her foot. Made to take a step. Her legs trembled. Her fingers shook around the little creature.

"What the fuck," she whispered.

Crack.

She ran. Her lungs screamed. She might've screamed. She flung herself through branches and brambles. Her feet slipped on snow and ice and she tripped over rising rocks. Her knees and palms stung. She snatched her wand up, grabbed the niffler by the scruff of its neck, and kept going. Crack. Crack. Crack. She tumbled into the clearing. She threw her head back, covering her eyes. Blinding white light burst from the cairn. Like some portal. She was so cold.

Crack.

Run!

She kept going, sliding in her sodden school shoes. Numbness ate her feet. She clenched her wand. The Forest brightened. She made out the colour-changed boulders and bushes easily. Gazes pierced her skin. She was going to be sick. She couldn't breathe. Her voice left her. She shrieked silently.

Snow smacked her face. She threw herself upwards. Tears froze on her cheeks. She scrambled, trying to get to her feet.

The world was dark again.

Hogwarts stood tall against the horizon, every one of its hundreds of windows lit with normal, ordinary, candlelight. Hagrid's Hut stood within reasonable distance. Smoke puffed out the chimney.

She got to her feet, clutching the niffler close and wand out. The Forest stared at her. Black as night. Forgotten. Dead. Silent.

As if she'd never entered.


9th December, 1975

Quidditch fixed everything. Or, exercise did. Or, just getting out of your head and into your body did. Or, having time to think about shit. Or, all of the above. But mainly Quidditch. Quidditch, James believed, healed all wounds. He knew they said time did, but in this case, he wasn't so sure. And so, he went with Quidditch.

He made sure to get to training early, wrapped in the warmest cloak he owned. A rapidly-thickening layer of snow covered the ground, and he cast two warming charms on his boots as he made his way to the changing rooms. As expected, James was the first to arrive. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted from foot-to-foot, waiting for John to come to unlock the door. He kept his wand lit. The Forest leered at him, all tall dark shadows beneath the low grey-black sky. He'd had a few escapades into the Forbidden Forest, as any self-respecting Hogwarts troublemaker had, but they'd been through the day. It was a nice place to drink, or smoke, or to carve your initials into the trees or to climb branches or walk along a log or to chase each other with a worm on the end of a stick. Honestly? It gave him the creeps a bit at night.

John arrived ten minutes after him, and rolled his eyes.

"Potter, you consistently make sure I don't get a bloody minute to myself to sort shit out," he grumbled. James grinned. John fumbled with his wand, rapping it against the door, and muttered a password. James followed him inside. Torches on the walls flickered to life, washing the room in yellow light. They changed quickly, and then John pulled out a scroll of parchment. James opened the storage cupboard at random and grabbed one of the practice snitches – no flesh memory, so useful for practice and little else. He let it flutter against his fingers.

"What's the name of that chaser move? When you stand on your broom and jump towards the goalposts?" John asked. James squeezed the snitch. Its wings beat fast in response.

"Chelmondiston Charge," James supplied cheerfully. "D'you actually want us to use it?" he added. John, while encouraging the team to be aggressive, was (unusually for a Gryffindor) not fond of using any really risky moves. He called them showy. James swore that if he were made captain, they could all do the moves they'd wanted to try for years. Hell, he'd even run special training sessions for it. Imagine how satisfying it'd be to pull off a Sabryn Steal to score the winning goal? The Slytherins would riot.

"Wait for my speech," John said gruffly. James beamed.

"I can't wait!" he enthused. John snorted.

James let the snitch rise to the ceiling of the changing tent, and then jumped on the bench, reaching for it. It wove around his hands and sped towards John. James scrambled across the wooden platform. John looked up.

"Potter, we have a reserve seeker," John said.

"Yeah, I like Billy," James said. John sighed.

"So you're planning to take both of my positions?" John asked. James cocked his head to one side, dark curls flopping over with him. The snitch's thin wings beat against the fabric of the tent. "I know you want to be captain, Potter." James shrugged.

"Isn't that every Quidditch player's dream?" he asked.

John looked at him, setting his scroll and quill aside. Serious, then. James jumped off the bench and sat on the end, facing John, who was on another.

"I think about it. I get a bit of a say. They won't choose anyone under fifth year. They don't like to choose fifth years generally, with O. . So – Bagman, Vickers, Brown, McKinnon, you."

"Yeah," James said, looping a tendril of hair around his finger. "Look, mate, I know I've fucked it. McGonagall told me I was on my last chance, pretty much, and then I went and got sent home. I know." He felt sick to his stomach. He'd pissed that one away. Fuck being a prefect, or Head Boy or anything like that – he'd never wanted that. But Quidditch captain – well, it looked good on a paper resume for a team, and he'd rather fancied strutting around the school in his robes with his broomstick. Smashing the Slytherins.

But you know what? He'd fucked it over to get the shit together for Remus. He could live with that.

"I won't nominate Bagman," John said flatly. "He forgets training more than he remembers it. He'd do the schedule to suit him, not to ensure the team's success." Ludo was cool. Bought bottles for them all the time. James could begrudgingly admit, though, that Ludo would rather sneak into the Hufflepuff's victory party than make sure the Gryffindors were the hosts by working their asses off.

"We all like Laura," James said. A popular prefect in their house was one who could chill on the letter of the law.

"She's got her prefect duties already. She's taking nine N.E. ."

"Shit," James whistled low.

"That's what she wants. To do well in school, go to university. This isn't her priority." James leaned back, brow furrowing. John rubbed his forehead.

"One of us, then," James said, referring to his fellow fifth years.

"Brown's too abrasive. McKinnon doesn't know the game like you," John said flatly. James' palm slipped off, and a splinter stabbed him. He swore.

"I'm out, mate," James said, shaking his head. As if McGonagall would let him, after he'd blown up a fountain, robbed her office, and injured several kids. "Trust me, I'm bummed about it too."

John studied him. James raised his eyebrows, giving him a befuddled smile. John scratched his chin.

"You should still get your shit together," John told him. "You're good enough that people want to give you second chances."

The door flapped open, and Kelsey and Laura ducked through. Laura held a mug of something steaming. Kelsey's arm was around her.

"Good morrow," Kelsey said, rubbing her eyes. James got to his feet, swatting at the snitch again. His snatched breakfast didn't sit right.

The others trickled in, Marlene arriving right on five and Ludo five minutes late. John sent the rest of them off for warm-ups and kept those two in the tent.

"I'm glad I'm not them," Livia McLaggen said, swinging her arms around in an approximation of a stretch.

"Bagman would be late to his own trial," said Kelsey, shaking her head. James glanced over his shoulder, hopping from foot-to-foot in the snow. Then it hit him. Merlin's sakes. He'd been early for a reason, and promptly forgotten about it. If he were made captain, he'd not be better than Marlene or Amy by much.

"Hang on," he told the others. Kelsey rolled her eyes. James jogged back towards the tent, just as the trio emerged.

"John, mate, can I talk to you?" James asked. John raised his hand.

"We've already talked. We can chat after, Potter," John said, stepping past. James caught his shoulder.

"No, it's about an idea for training today. I was thinking, maybe Marlene and I could run through some drills together?" Marlene snorted, and sped towards the rest of the team. James threw his hands in the air.

"What are you playing at?" John asked. James opened his mouth. John shook his head.

They got on their brooms and listened to John's speech. Their next match wasn't until the start of March; but given the Christmas holidays, they needed to start thinking about it now. They'd be up against Hufflepuff. Hard workers, yes, but not the cleverest. They typically won by running their opponents into the ground – games against Hufflepuff often went on for twice as long as any other school match. Gryffindor needed to up their stamina. Their second tactic would be to mix in a few new plays. They needed to be unpredictable.

James perked up. His eyes shone at the thought of pulling off something like the Chelmondiston Charge. That was the sort of brilliance that alit the school with gossip. People would talk about it for weeks. He could feel the burn of the liquor on his throat from the afterparty that would ensue. Peter would jump up and down and Sirius would go on and on about what duffers the Hufflepuffs were and how stupid they'd looked when he did it, and Remus would grin and roll him a joint and Lisbete would throw her arms around his neck and kiss him.

"No, Potter," John said shortly. James raised his arms in surrender. Livia and Billy laughed. "I want moves we haven't used before, but not anything that's going to get us thrown out of the game. I want to save reserves for when we need them – and yes, you lot, there's a good chance you'll be playing. If there's a lull, I want fresh blood in there. We're better at short spurts and we have to use that."

Amy and Ludo were sent to practice their communication – they were to be as confusing as possible while reserving energy. Ludo had a tendency to shout before he made a hit, and Amy moved silently. She seemed more interested in practising Transylvanian Tackles in her attempts to teach Ludo a system of hand signals. John ordered James, Laura, and Kelsey to practice Body Blows, in various combinations. Laura and Kelsey flew to the middle of the pitch, but James waited until the Marlene and the reserves had been instructed, and then approached John.

"I could do a Dionysus Dive," James told him. "I know I can. I had a couple of goes over the summer."

"With your friends," John said shortly. "On a home pitch. Body Blows. Hop to."

"I need to practice my aim, but I can do it," James insisted. "And Marlene should know how to defend against it."

"The Hufflepuffs won't pull anything that risky. Don't argue."

"Come on, mate."

"Body Blows."

James did as he was told, with only a little grumbling – most of which was solved with a few broom collisions. Kelsey and Laura managed to wind him at one point. He spun away, clinging to the quaffle, doubled over and gasping. On his next turn, he thumped Laura so hard she nearly fell off her broom. Cold morning air gripped his nose, icing it bright red. They zoomed over a white pitch. Freezing fingers tousled his hair. He turned sharply, and tossed the quaffle to Kelsey. Kelsey ducked beneath him and took her new place. He went to Laura's side. Her dark hair bobbled in a ponytail.

"You nearly killed me, Potter," Laura said, elbowing him. James elbowed her back.

"That's what you get for being a prefect," James teased. She rolled her eyes.

"Would you rather it be a club of Marcus McLaggens?" she asked.

Movement caught James' eye. Kelsey hurtled to their left, ball tucked under her arm. James accelerated towards her. Fuck, he thought. No time for distraction. His heart raced. She grew larger as he approached. She narrowed her eyes. The air was empty beside him. Kelsey flew harder, soaring upwards. He tugged his broom towards him. It slammed against his chest. He zipped up vertically. His arse slid across the broom, gravity grasping at him. He tensed his stomach and clenched his thighs. Kelsey was ahead – he was facing the wrong way now. He had to change course. He pulled his broom again. It went horizontal. Kelsey was in sight. One problem. He was upside down. He leaned forwards, willing the broom to go faster. Laura shouted to him, fumbling to turn around. His head spun.

She was way too close to the goals. He had to go faster again. His arms burned. There wasn't time to swing round. He lifted himself up, hugging the broomstick, trying to lean forwards – which was also upwards. The broom trembled hard. Come on! He scrabbled madly at the handle. Liquid weight flooded his legs. Upside-down, everything was impossibly fast. He could just see Kelsey. He shouted with effort as he directed the broom upwards. He was going to ram her from underneath. Laura whipped through the air, to her back. Kelsey adjusted her grip on the quaffle. Preparing to throw.

He did it before he could think. He used the last of his strength to twist his broom. He rocketed around, as if he might sit properly on his broom again. He let go. The momentum threw him five foot in the air. He stretched his arms out. Grabbed the tail of Kelsey's broom.

"What the fuck?!" she shouted. Her broom tilted. James gripped the straw for dear life. Laura howled. James turned his head.

He came to in a chaser sandwich in the snow.

John shouted a lot. Kelsey glared at him. Not only was it too risky, John said, but it was also a foul.

"Well, then Marlene can just make sure their penalty doesn't go in the hoops," James shrugged. John shouted more.

The three of them trudged up to the Hospital Wing, escorted by Alastor Gumboil and Marlene. So, ultimately, everything worked out in James' favour. He let Alastor handle the girls and wrapped his good arm around Marlene, hobbling pitifully. She shot him an unimpressed look.

"I wanna talk to you," James croaked. Marlene rolled her eyes.

"No, I'm not angry that you think my arse is only third-best in the year," Marlene said, kicking the snow. James laughed. He stopped abruptly. His ribs hurt.

"I know you made it up," he said. Marlene kept mum. "It's all good, Marls, nobody cares anymore."

"When should I expect the hair dye in my shampoo?" she asked. James shook his head, and winced. Ow. Merlin.

"I'm hurt. Do you really think we'd be that unoriginal?" Marlene jumped up the next step and he lost his balance. He grabbed her shirt. They swayed together. She steadied him, and scowled. "Nah. Look, Marlene, I don't care. So long as people are talking about me," he grinned.

"Godric's beard. This is why Lily doesn't like you," Marlene said. James flung his hand against his heart, which, ouch, fuck, also hurt. His theatrics were ruined!

"She loves me, I know she does," James insisted. "Anyways. She's not the point."

"For once."

"Anyways. No, I want to make sure you and Sirius aren't having problems." Marlene sped up, dragging him ahead of Alastor's sour four-legged trio. "No, not like – I'm not trying to get you to hook up. I don't care who you sleep with, honestly, I'm judgement-free, unless it's like, a prefect or something, in which case, traitor."

"Says the Lily-lover."

"I have a girlfriend. She doesn't even have red hair, so – yeah."

"Right."

"No, just – it's getting better, but you two have been off since Halloween. And you girls don't sit with us properly anymore, and it's breaking my heart." He gave her his best pout.

"Is this why you smashed yourself up?" Marlene asked. "To talk to me?"

"No. But, I mean, it's a positive!"

"I hate you, Potter!" Kelsey called from behind. James flipped her a clumsy finger.

"My fans," he sighed. "They always turn on me."

"You fucker," Marlene said, laughter in her voice, though she turned her head and refused to look at him. Progress. He limped alongside her, and she slowed down.

"I just want to know – are you pissed at him because he didn't want to do it? Or did he say something? Look, if he said something, did something, I'll talk for him, he likes a laugh, but that's too -"

"He didn't do anything," Marlene cut in, looking at him. She clenched her teeth. James gave her his full attention. Frizzes of hair escaped from its band, the way they tended to when it was damp. She exhaled noisily, and her nostrils flared.

"Good," James said firmly, but not loudly. Marlene hesitated. In doing so, she paused. Four feet scrambled on the floor behind as Kelsey, Alastor, and Laura tried to keep up. Only two more sets of stairs to go.

"I just – fuck, I don't know. He made me feel like an idiot," she shrugged, starting up again. James did his best not to lag behind. Marlene swept her hair back into its do, frowning. "I mean, I was – I wanted to, I guess, at the time. And then we – we were, almost, and the he ditched. And I just felt like – dumb. Like maybe I wanted it more, and then that's – I don't know."

"I know what you mean," James said. He didn't, not really, but he figured it was the right thing to say. He always followed through on what he said, and nobody had ever stood him up or backed out or whatever.

"Yeah," Marlene said, voice hardening. "So I guess I just – every time I see him, I think of it, you know? And then I cringe, and. Yeah." James nodded thoughtfully. They turned up the final flight of stairs. Then it was just a hobble through the Hospital Wing to get to Madam Pomfrey.

"D'you think," James started, after a bit of leaning on her as the bones in his feet really started to feel more than a teeny bit hurt, "that it'll get worse the more you avoid it?" Marlene blew air out her nose.

"D'you think your foot will get worse the more you don't walk on it?" she asked, shrugging him off. He clung to her robes. She pulled a face. "I dunno."

"Look, I'll make it easy next time. I'll make a massive dick out of myself – not that I don't already have one – and you can all laugh at me and then it'll be back to normal," James said. "We need you around again, Peter's started staring too much." Marlene snorted.

"You're always a massive dick, Potter. I think you're compensating," she said. The door to the Infirmary was in sight.

"So you're in?" James asked, tenderly crossing his fingers.

"Fine. Only if it stops you from being an idiot during training. I don't want to lose to Hufflepuff. I'd have to kill myself."

"We won't."


10th December, 1975

Divination students had been spared an exam – Professor Nicholl was of the mind that they were a poor way to measure subjects that weren't strictly book-learning. Some had rejoiced. Not Dorcas. Her stomach cramped something wicked. Flo offered to take her to the Hospital Wing. She managed to shake her head, and scurried off to class. Her limp hands struggled on the ladder.

Mary Macdonald offered her a weak smile from a far, secluded corner of the room. Dorcas barely returned it, hefting the corners of her lips upwards with great difficulty. Nevertheless, she retreated to the back table. She slunk into the seat, ducking her head, and avoided meeting her professor's eyes. Her toes curled in her shoes. Mary dropped her eyes. She picked at the tablecloth with her long fingernails. The sleeves of her jumper hung loosely around her hands.

The trapdoor shut firmly. Dorcas' spirits plummeted even further. Professor Nicholl grinned, and strode to the centre of the room, her arms out.

"Good afternoon, my diviners," she said loudly. Her eyes roamed the room. Dorcas slid further down in her seat, heart pounding. I'm going to have to go over to her desk. And predict things. And tell her what I've predicted. And then she'll judge me on it, and mark it, and then my parents will see the marks, and – her knees hit the underside of the table. Mary jolted. Professor Nicholl paused. Dorcas wished she was on the moon.

"What was that?" demanded Avery, loudly.

"Students," Professor Nicholl said. Attention turned back her way. "I'm glad to see that all of you made it today." Avery made a face. Dorcas inhaled sharply. Mary bunched the tablecloth in her pale hands. "I'm excited – no, truly, I am – to go through this consultation process with you. Usually, I find this to be the best way to assess the scope of your understanding and your progress, but this year we only get one opportunity to do this, because of your O. . This means, for those of you who won't share this journey with me into your N.E. , this will be the last consultation we ever have. Isn't that sad?" Dorcas had every intention of continuing her studies, but it was weird to think about. Their small class would turn tiny.

"No," Avery whispered to Rosier. The two Slytherin boys also sat at the back. Dorcas supposed they were the kind to see Divination as a bludge subject. Rosier at least turned his work in on time, but Avery was a weasel who took advantage of Professor Nicholl's willingness to let late submissions slide. Dorcas couldn't fathom how he did it. The mere idea of turning something in after the deadline, of having a special exception made for her, made her want to be sick.

"I'm going to call you up in reverse alphabetical order by first name," Professor Nicholl continued, smiling pleasantly. Dorcas' breakfast flipped. "You don't need to bring anything with you. The rest of you may revise or talk – quietly. I don't want any interruptions – that isn't fair on me or your fellow students. Now – Warren, you're up first." Avery grunted and got to his feet. Turquoise curtains cordoned off Professor Nicholl's desk, and presumably the chair and materials for their consultation. Dorcas' heart spasmed as Avery passed. Reverse alphabetical gave her time, but not a great deal. Her heart raged against her windpipe.

Avery disappeared behind the curtain, Professor Nicholl ducking after him. Chatter burbled forth from the tables around the room, quiet but constant like a babbling brook. Dorcas reached into her satchel and retrieved her tarot cards and her scroll of notes. Mary did the same. Dorcas met her gaze for a second. Mary's eyes widened, and she ducked her head into her textbook. Dorcas swallowed.

The curtains rustled, and Avery was out. He grimaced.

"Sael?" Professor Nicholl called. The Hufflepuff smiled nervously at her friends, set her jaw, and slipped through the curtain. Dorcas gritted her teeth. She had to focus. She knew the Major Arcana like the back of her hand. She just had to go over the readings of the various combinations of suits and numbers and accompanying symbols. She looked intently at the tiny words inked beneath the heading of 'Cups'.

'Ace of Cups: New love. Creativity. Compassion. Joy. Rev: internal, repression. Five streams = senses.'

Mary's blonde curls drifted into her vision. Dorcas looked up sharply. Mary pulled at a lock of hair, frowning down at her book. Dorcas curled the tops of her fingers, crunching her knuckles. Merlin, why had she chosen to sit with somebody? She could've stolen a table for herself and looked studious all the while. Florence's voice swam into her conscience, as softly firm as ever. Mary and Lily gave her somewhere to sit. Breath heaved her chest.

"Mary," she said quietly. Mary blinked, and stared. Dorcas pinched the bridge of her nose. Florence Diggory had done a number on her. "Are you alright?" she forced out. Mary's throat bobbled. She inclined her head the slightest bit, and then did so quicker and quicker. She squeaked out something that might have been an affirmative. Duty done, then. Dorcas returned her attention to her notes.

Mary didn't do the same. Her gaze consistently quivered on the top of Dorcas' hair. Florence didn't simply whisper through the stall door and then leave. She stayed in the loos until the accosted soul could leave with her. Things had been significantly easier for Dorcas at the beginning of the year, before – everything, with Flo, and Flo and Cynthia's subsequent decision to adopt her. She'd had enough of being adopted in her life. Once was enough. Twice was getting on her nerves. In September, Dorcas would've changed tables if Mary was being too distracting. Hell, she'd done it before.

Why, Flo?

"Did you not prepare enough?" Dorcas asked. Mary blinked furiously, pale eyebrows pulling together.

"I tried," she said. Dorcas thought that was the problem with Gryffindors. They tried a lot, but they never quite pulled it off. She sniffed.

"If you tried enough, then there's no need to be nervous," Dorcas said. That was along the lines of something Flo would say, wasn't it?

"I don't know if I tried enough," Mary said quietly.

"Then you probably didn't," Dorcas said. Mary bit her lip, gaze falling. Oh, Merlin, God, she'd screwed up. People didn't do that when they were feeling comforted. Why was it so difficult? Just say nice things, she told herself. Just be nice. But then again, being nice tended to lead to hours of standing around talking about feelings and wasting time. She didn't have any time she could afford to waste. "No, sorry. Erm. Do flash cards work for you?"

Mary stared, eyes watering.

"Do you have any flash cards?" Dorcas prompted again. Mary shook her head. "What have you been studying with?" Mary tugged at the tablecloth.

"My textbook," she mumbled. Dorcas waited. Mary picked at the cloth's gold-threaded embroidery. Dorcas raised her eyebrows.

"You've just been reading it?"

"Sometimes I copied a passage," Mary told the table. "Lily gave me a few quizzes." Copying. A quiz. If a fellow Ravenclaw had admitted that, Dorcas wouldn't've been the first to hex them and ask if they'd completely drifted off into space. If they didn't care, fine, that was one thing, but for that to be your best? Dorcas looked her up and down. Mary evaded her eye. Okay, don't be sharp. What would Flo do? Say something sappy about how marks didn't define somebody. It would calm her, sure, but would that even help? Dorcas' mind was in a constant anxious frenzy, and she still managed good scores. It was motivating. At least, when it wasn't terrifying. She searched Mary's face for clues, and scrunched her nose. Nothing. What would Flo do? At this point, she figured she ought to have the phrase embossed on her books.

The curtains moved. Sael Greengrass emerged. Mary paled. Dorcas needed to return to her own study. She had to get the Mary bit over. If it were anyone else, she'd declare the case closed. But there was something about Mary. Maybe it was the perpetual nervousness. Dorcas recognised the tremble in her fingers and her voice and the ever-shifting gaze. It made Mary the exact sort Flo liked to save. She tensed.

"Do you want me to leave you alone? Or is there some way I can help you?" Dorcas asked. Mary looked her in the eyes. Lantern-light shadows swam in the layer of wet over her irises. She was pretty, Dorcas realised. Not like Florence, not gorgeous, and all washed out where Florence was striking, but pretty. Dorcas wondered if she had a boyfriend. Maybe that twitchy friend of James Potter's?

"You don't have to help me," Mary said. Dorcas folded her arms, and rubbed her thumb against the crease of her elbow.

"I can't focus with you worrying two feet away from me," she explained, purposefully softening her voice. Was it harsh? She grimaced. "Just tell me what you want."

Mary shifted. "I…I don't know what, um. Um. How in-depth we're meant to be. For the, the readings. Sorry." Dorcas waited for her to continue. Mary's slim throat bobbled. She stayed quiet. Dorcas silently counted to ten. Nothing.

"What do you want me to do?" she rephrased. Mary went back to gazing at the tablecloth. Dorcas thought of her eyes once more. That pale blue, like bad watercolour. Four parts water and one part pigment. Mary pressed her lips together. They promptly turned white, the colour of her torn nails.

"Maybe…maybe a reading. So. Um. I get the idea. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Dorcas, I am really sorry." Dorcas dismissed her with a wave of the hand. Each moment that Mary spent apologising was a moment less that they had to study.

She swept up her tarot cards and shuffled them quickly. She spread them across the table, took a deep breath, and let her fingers do the work. It was all instinct. It had to be. Without looking at the three she'd drawn, she returned the rest to a neat stack and set them aside. She then pulled the remaining trio closer to her.

"First of all, you have to look at the general make-up of the reading," Dorcas told her. "This is Major Arcana and Cups. Which suggests?" Mary took a shaky breath.

"Um," she started. "Major Arcana means… it's something big. Um, important, maybe. Something you need to pay attention to. And Cups…" she searched the air. Dorcas frowned. "They're, um, emotional."

"Astronomy link?" Dorcas prompted.

"Water signs," Mary said quicker. Dorcas nodded. "But I'm a Capricorn."

"Really?" Dorcas asked. Realistic? Practical? Disciplined? Not Mary.

She might've picked Pisces or Cancer, but not Capricorn.

"Yes," Mary said, gripping her wrists tightly.

Dorcas turned her attention back to the cards. "To begin, we have the Knight of Cups, reversed. If you just list the textbook meanings, you should pass." She gazed at Mary. Mary rested her hand on the textbook. Dorcas arched an eyebrow.

"Um. Being – being controlled, by your emotions. Being overly emotional, or jealous."

"Yes." Very textbook. Raimund Rosier said something to Paul Smith, and Paul headed down for his consultation while Raimund returned to his seat. Dorcas went through the names. Mary would be next. They needed to hurry. She hoped Paul would do the typical Hufflepuff thing and overdo it. "If you want to do well, you need to interpret the design and use your own intuition. How well do you want to do?"

"Um," Mary said, voice high. "Well, um -"

"Well? Design, and your feelings about it, then," Dorcas commanded. Mary nodded, and leaned over. Her face was only a couple of inches from Dorcas'. She had little red dots of pubescent pimples spreading across her temple, where her hair fell. Her skin was nearly translucent. Starkly different to Dorcas' own. The sight of the blue veins pulsing in the girl's neck was a little unnerving.

"Um. There's a river. But because it's upside down, it looks maybe like it's flowing onto the card, rather than off the card. So it could be, an overflow of emotion? A lot of emotional input." Huh. "And the cup looks like an hourglass? So it could be – wanting to turn back time. Or running out of time?" Mary managed a flickering smile. Dorcas scratched her nose.

"Mm. And the next?"

"Nine of Cups," Mary said, voice steadying, creeping towards being discernible without concentrating. "Reversed, again. That's – not good, is it?"

"It's neither good nor bad. It is what it is."

"Oh. Right. It's about, um, material things. Wanting things, and not getting them. Wanting a lot of things. Maybe gluttony?" Her knuckles went white around the textbook, but she didn't open it. Something banged. Dorcas tensed. She looked round. Elle Lawrence, apologetic – with those funny eyebrows and downturned lips, that was it. A book on the ground. She returned to Mary. Mary's shoulders curled. "Um," she said. "I don't like his smile. He looks mean. And the, the cups, they could be pillars now – holding the – is it a curtain? – up. So maybe, um, the things you buy, propping you up."

The curtains rustled. Dorcas flinched again. Smith didn't appear. "Last one."

"The Moon," Mary said. "Upright. It relates to fear, and anxiety." She bit her lip. "None of this is very positive. Did you pull this for me, or for you?" For you. Potentially unhelpful. No time to go into it. She shrugged, glancing at the consultation station. "Um. There's the scorpion coming out of the water. Maybe that's a Scorpio? I don't know any Scorpios. Oh, I guess Sirius Black's a Scorpio, but I, um, don't really hang out with him or anything."

"Good choice." Dorcas hardly knew him, but he loved attention, trouble, and apparently ignoring several girls with feelings for him, according to the bathroom stall reports.

"Oh. Um. It can be about dreams too. Or deception. There's a lot of different ones. The face to me always looks – frustrated, or sad. So I think of it as a sad card, I guess."

The curtains moved. Dorcas looked around. Smith did come out, this time. Professor Nicholl's sleeve drifted in the gap. Smith walked towards them, smiling uneasily. Dorcas scooted her chair away. He tapped Mary on the shoulder. She flinched, even though she'd seen it coming.

"You're up," he said. "Good luck." He left them. Mary balled her fists. Her neck strained. Her cheeks blotched.

"Don't cry," Dorcas told her. "You'll definitely fail if you do that."

"Oh," Mary said. She stood, and rubbed her fists on her jumper. That was it, then. Mary would be no help to Dorcas' studying, so they wouldn't have to talk when she came back. That was a relief. Kind of.

"Good luck," she blurted out. Mary jolted. Smith said it so easily. How? A wave crashed over her. She was certain she'd said the wrong thing. Mary looked at her, and nodded.

"Thank you," she said, retreating back to that small mouse voice. "For helping." Dorcas looked back at her. Her eyes were wide, and pretty even in that. Odd. They shared that look, and it stretched out longer than it had any right to, with a professor waiting, with study to be done. Mary blinked, breaking it, and scurried down the stairs.

Dorcas looked back at her notes.

Ace of Cups. Right.


A/N: Sorry about the wait! I fully intended to get this up quicker, but Year 12 is kicking my ass. Hope the longer chapter makes up for it. 3