Earthquake Drills

I need you to understand

These are the earthquake drills that we ran

Under the freeway overpasses

The tears behind your dark sunglasses

The fears inside your heart as deep as gashes

You walk beside me, not behind me

Feel my unconditional love

–HAIM, "Summer Girl"

1

Lily

This should bring me comfort.

Marlene staring wide-eyed into a compact, interrogating loose, golden coils and maroon-painted lips; Dorcas already neck-deep in a heated argument with Mary over the ethics of house elf labor; the burgeoning crowd of nervous parents fussing over their students, painted over in worry, adjusting robes and taking last-minute pictures, exchanging tearful goodbyes; friends reuniting after long summer separations, screaming for one another across the platform; upperclassmen joining up with housemates, hatching serious plans for the year ahead, flirting with new crushes from afar; first years rushing toward the train with excited, anxious, hopeful eyes, ready for their lives to begin, terrified for their lives to begin—and hanging over it all, the persistent steam of the Hogwarts Express, like a harbinger of new beginnings, of all things good and growing; a brand new year waits for us all at the end of the tracks.

This should bring me comfort.

It's not as though I'm not trying to be comforted—trying to soak in all the buzzing energy around me, the laughter and the smiles and the anticipation. I try desperately to conjure any similar feeling, even just a semblance of one I've felt before myself, six separate times.

But I am not well-versed in wandless magic, in spells of self-empathy. I feel like a projection of myself, a weak one—as if the real, physical me is somewhere far away, unused.

What I'm left with is a faded resemblance of self: pulsing with hurt.

"Oi, Lils! Are we alive?" Marlene is snapping her fingers in front of my face. "What's going on in there?"

"I—"

"Should we be getting on?" Mary asks, glancing her wristwatch. Her sleek black hair is in a long braid down her back. "Are we waiting on Ingrid, Marls?"

Marlene barks a laugh. "Oh, Ingrid's already in there. Didn't love the 'meet on the platform' plan a single jot. Didn't want the car to get taken by Slytherins—or worse, Hufflepuffs."

"Well, you could've said so! Been waiting out here for Merlin knows how long—" Mary pleads, urging us along, toward the train. "Also, please, let's be nice this year about Hufflepuffs, yeah?"

Marlene rolls her eyes with violent force, does not answer.

When we reach our regular car—194, precisely— Ingrid and her brand-new powder-blue hair are already inside, as Marlene promised. I pause in the hall, watch my friends tumble in, hugging, laughing, exclaiming. I watch Marlene kiss Ingrid. I feel like I'm seeing it all from underwater.

"Lils?" It's Dorcas, next to me, not yet gone in.

"I—" I swallow. "Um, I've got to go up to the Prefect car, to get things going."

"You okay?"

I look at her for a long second, cutting my eyes away. "I'll be okay. Once we're at the castle, and settled, I'll feel better."

Dorcas looks unconvinced, but lets it go. "Well—have fun?"

"Hardly think "fun" is in my current realm of possible things to have," I mumble, shooting her a weak smile. "But thanks, Dor—see you soon."

I rush off down the length of the train, toward the Prefect car, realizing I'm probably very late, and the Head Boy is probably thinking I resigned, or passed away. I've no time or capacity to have a guess at who wears the pin identical to mine on their robes. I've always thought perhaps Remus would be a contender, but even the thought of him brings a sharp pain to my chest.

I shake my head, as if the movement will rid me of unhelpful grief (it does not).

When I finally arrive and slide open the door, the car's packed wall-to-wall with Prefects from all four houses chattering so loudly that the sound of me entering is likely not heard at all. I scan the crowd quickly, spotting some familiar faces, before finding the front of the car, and finding the Head Boy.

In retrospect: Perhaps I could have—should have—guessed. If I'd thought about it a bit longer, a bit harder—I might have figured it out.

In retrospect: Figuring it out would have been a healthy thing to do, given the way I could have prepared myself for the face that greets me, for the figure leaning with his arms crossed against the side of the car.

Because really—who else could it have been?

I thank my body that it becomes defensive (internally) rather than offensive (externally). I thank my heart that it beats frantically inside, rather than out loud. But—I can't thank him. Because when he looks up and sees me from across the car, there is nothing in his eyes: No anger, no surprise, no hope, no sadness, no anticipation, no irritation. Nothing.

Just unmoving irises behind round, horn-rimmed glasses.

And I feel as though I've been cracked open again, set inside-out—not a girl, anymore, but a collection of useless pieces.

I swallow. Check myself. Bristle. This is not the time. This is not the place. He is here, and I am here, and there is a carful of Prefects expecting leadership.

I'm next to him in not two steps, confronting empty eyes. I pointedly ignore the crisp lines of his uniform, his shorter autumn hair—did Euphemia cut it? I do not think of any of that. I say, like a line from a play: "Sorry I'm so late."

Don't say: I am currently floating in a sea of despair where time does not exist.

He responds quickly. "S'alright. I arranged first-night patrols, and our next meeting, tomorrow night." He shoves a pile of papers in my direction. "Maybe you want to check it."

I don't want to check it. I want to leave, I want to cry, I want to scream—I want anything that won't involve his blank eyes, this strange, brusque tone.

I clear my throat. "I'm sure it's fine. Thanks—for doing that."

"Wasn't difficult. Shall we get things going?"

Because I am self-destructive, I risk a glance to his face, hoping to find something there—but he's not looking at me. He's pushing up off the side of the car, brushing something off his sleeve.

There are introductions—there is the passing out of initial patrol schedules and manuals for first-timers—there is the reminder of the first real meeting, the location of the Prefect office on the sixth floor—there is a moment for questions— there is the annual begging ("c'mon, what about perks, now?") followed by the annual round of snickers as I point out there's a section in the very back of the manual about the very few privileges afforded to Prefects, and how it's of utmost importance that no Prefect abuse any privilege, for risk of losing them altogether.

It's all over rather quickly, and the crowd of fifth, sixth, and seventh years disperse from the car in all of an instant, headed back to their respective friend groups to gossip, to brag, to rejoice.

When it's just him and I, the real panic sets in.

I hadn't considered the reality: Heads are afforded a bit more privilege than Prefects, given their slightly higher position and responsibility, the main of which involves private quarters, separate from regular house dormitories. A perk most Heads are likely elastic about—and a fact that paralyzes me the second I think of it.

There is a moment where I could say something like I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—but I just say, "If you want me to, I can talk to Dumbledore, I can figure out—"

"Don't be ridiculous," he interrupts, voice low.

A cutting pain that hits straight across my temple: How different this person is from the boy I spent all summer with. Being at least partially responsible for the change myself? Unfathomable. Grating.

I swallow. "Alright. I'll—er, see you later, then." And then I'm gone from the car, speeding down the train corridor.

I can ignore and avoid as much as I want. But his eyes won't soon leave me: Cold, unfeeling—like he saw right through me.

James

I'm not keen on the three furrowed brows that turn toward me when I rejoin our traditional car. "What?"

Three furrowed brows turn away, bristling, when they hear this tone. I slump down next to Remus, tossing my bookbag on the floor, shrugging off heavy robes. On the seat opposite, Peter has me cornered with a particularly anxious set of blue eyes. "Alright, James?"

"Define, 'alright.'"

Remus shoots Peter a look of reproach, obviously having had in mind a different approach to my delicate mood. "Do you...want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly, no."

Sirius is staring me down, too. He's folded into the corner of the car, where the window meets the dividing wall, uniform somehow already in utter disarray. "She's Head, too, then?"

"Yeah."

Remus gives me a wallowing look. "Sorry, James."

I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes. Maybe I'll manage to push them all the way back into my skull, die a slow and painful death—equal only to the year ahead. "Let's just—" I shake out my hands, eager to be distracted from the heaviness. "Let's just talk about something else."

"Oh, well, the trolley's not been by yet," Peter offers, brightly, hopefully. "That's something to look forward to, at least, right?"

I shoot him a rueful half-smile. "Only if you're buying, Wormy."

There may have been a time when just being within in the sturdy walls of Hogwarts was enough to soothe me, make my problems seem small—how could anything be so bad, really, when I got to live at school and learn magic, bunk with my best mates, play Quidditch, sneak through secret passages to Hogsmeade?

The principal, I suppose, fails only once every seven years.

I hardly notice the first few weeks of seventh year pass, slogging through the motions of class and homework and rounds and Quidditch tryouts and practices with unmoving, petrified insides. This is how I have to behave, to save myself: as if I'm trapped at the bottom of a well. Stuck in a wet puddle—perpetually wet socks. No rope, no bucket. Zero light from above.

And because I'm a coward—and embalmed in grief, and can't imagine anything worse than seeing her, making the hurt worse—I evade Lily at all costs, as if my life depends on it (it does).

I arrange patrol schedules carefully, so we're never paired, and manage somehow to avoid sitting near her in any of the five classes we share—Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology. I bunk in the Gryffindor Tower, in my usual bed, with the Marauders—and while I'm not sure that's technically allowed, I find it crucial to self-preservation. To share a space with her, and the memories, and the pain—would be unbearable.

I am not always lucky in my efforts.

After all—despite any resolute ignorance, I am not blind. She is still there—in the Great Hall during meals and free hours, in the library, studying, in the hallways, walking with friends between classes—sometimes, from across a classroom, I indulge myself, dangerously; watch her tuck a strand of crimson behind her ear, adjust the sleeve of her button-down, worry her bottom lip between teeth.

And the observation, inevitably, spurs remembrance: A breathy sigh of appreciation; a small, secret smile; a vision of her swimming toward me, a floating head in green water.

Such moments only flare the intolerable ache behind my ribs—and I berate myself each time, forcing my eyes away, biting down on my tongue, digging my fingers into the seat, as if any of this will—as if any of this could—take away the effect she still has on me, despite her not loving me, despite her leaving me.

I'm in the well, regardless. To glance, to hope, to remember—tiny sentences of death.

The Marauders, in general, tiptoe around The Issue of Lily.

Mainly because, in general, I am increasingly volatile: ornery at the drop of a hat, eager enough to spar over anything worth sparring over—and especially eager to spar over things not worth sparring over. Sirius is usually the receiving end, unfortunately, given his pre-existent disposition toward dispute—a defense-mechanism, courtesy of growing up in the Black lineage—and also because he is not always as inclined to take the same care in dealing with me as Peter and Remus are.

"Listen—you hear about Landes and Evans?"

I nearly break my neck reeling at him. "What?"

He doesn't appear pleased about it, but continues. "Yeah, er, Ian, y'know, Pennington, said he'd heard they were, um—y'know."

"Martin Landes? Ravenclaw?"

Sirius scratches nervously the back of his neck. "That's the one."

"The fuck grounds does Ian Pennington have, saying this to you? Or anyone?" As usual, I'm a short fuse. Already in a rotten mood, why not pile this on?

"I dunno, but he's roommates with Landes, so, I dunno—you'd think he'd know!"

"Well, fuck!"

"Look I'm sorry, Potter, I knew this would put you off, just figured you'd want to hear it from me, and not someone else, yeah?"

"Fucking hell," I'm shaking my head, hands gesturing in incredulity. "You do know I'm on my way to a Prefects meeting, yeah? At which Martin Landes and Lily will be fucking in attendance?"

"Mate, Christ, I'm sorry, I really am, I'm just—"

"Just forget it. I'll see you later."

I swerve away from Sirius, stalking down a third-floor corridor, blood boiling.

Lily

"Oh, and I think it goes without saying that Halloween is going to be a particularly important night of patrolling, so we'll have to go over those schedules closely, next week. Any questions before we're off?" In the back of the room, a hand shoots up. "Yeah, Mitzi?"

"How do I get fifth years to listen to me?"

A wave of muffled laughter from the assemblage. James readjusts his stance, leaning back, arms crossed, against the Head's desk. "How do you mean?"

"I mean they won't listen to me, they keep breaking curfew, and I'm beginning to think the only way to keep track of the misconducts is camping outside the portrait hole, which I don't want to do, I've got schoolwork of my own, y'know."

"Have you tried threatening detention?" I ask from behind the Head's desk, nose-deep in the meeting attendance log. "Fifth years don't react well to detention."

"Well, yes, but—" Mitzi clears her throat. "I think it's because I'm so short."

Another smattering of laughter. Then Katy Walters, to Mitzi's left, speaks up on her fellow Hufflepuff's behalf. "It's true, she's not just saying that, people are rather cruel to her about it."

"Well—" James clears his throat. "If they keep giving you trouble, one of us will help you sort it out with detentions. Fifth years ought to know better." He slants her a half-smile. "I'll use my outside voice, yeah?"

Mitzi nods quickly, blushing, seemingly eased by this.

"Great," James claps his hands together. "Any other questions?" He scans the room. "No? Alright, don't forget to pick up new schedules from the desk, we'll see you lot next week."

The Prefects shuffle out of their seats and filter past the Head's desk, grabbing sheets of parchment from the pile of schedules. I'm so entrenched in beginning to corroborate last week's reports that I barely notice someone's stopped in front of the desk till they've cleared their throat.

I start, look up. Martin Landes, sixth year Ravenclaw Prefect. Corn-haired, freckle-nosed. Lanky fellow. "Martin," I appraise. "Can I help?"

He's beaming at me. "Right on, Evans, wondering if I might have a word?"

"Oh, sure, what's—"

"In private?" He glances meaningfully at James, who's wrapped up in his own reports now, behind the desk.

"Er," I am not particularly interested in talking to Martin Landes, alone, but am also too polite to refuse. "Okay."

Once we're out in the hall, just outside the door, he turns to me. "Fancy a trip to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?"

Nearly swallow my tongue. "I'm—I'm sorry?"

"A trip," Martin says, slowly. "To Hogsmeade? This weekend? With me?"

"Oh, um—" I'm floundering. The possibility of Martin Landes asking me on a date has never once entered my mind—and neither has the possibility of wanting Martin Landes to ask me on a date. He's a fine-looking guy, sure, and I suppose I should be flattered—but I'm not. Not in the least. "I don't think so, Martin, I'm sorry."

"Alright," he shrugs, like it's no skin off his back. "If you change your mind, you know which tower I'm in."

With a flash of a smile, he's gone, then, and I'm left in a bit of a sweat, out of breath. What's this—sixth year Prefects coming on to me? Surely there's a rule against that.

I draw myself up, shake it off. I re-enter the Head's office and find James looking as if he's on his way out, shuffling logs and reports into piles, shoving some into his bag. I return to my seat behind the desk, hesitantly. He doesn't spare me a look.

I should be used to it, by now, weeks into it—but I'm not. It still hurts.

And I've the sudden, irresponsible urge to keep him here. Force him to talk to me—to look at me. He makes to leave, and I call out, "Wait, James—"

He pauses, almost through the door, shifts slightly, turns to look back. "Yeah?"

Would it kill him to give me just a hint of how he's feeling? If he's angry with me, I want him to be angry with me. If he's hurt—I want to see the hurt. If he's glad to be rid of me, glad I made it easy, so be it. I just want to see. I want to know.

But now, turned only halfway toward me, like it's a chore just to acknowledge me—he gives me nothing. His face a clean, empty slate.

"Can we...talk?"

A long, brutal pause. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

Then, quiet—"I'm sorry."

Then he's gone.

James

"James Potter?"

I start from my dramatic self-isolation, perched on the stump of a tree in the east courtyard, chomping on a pear. It's Eliza who said my name—passing through, perhaps, on her way to dinner or the library.

She's looking well. Her auburn hair's a bit shorter than I remember it, falling just above her chin. Her face is still the same, open and bright, teasing eyebrows, dimples that make it hard to hide a smile.

"You alright out here?" She wonders, concern revealing itself in the lines of her forehead. I suppose I look rather depressed and friendless in the lackluster October courtyard, when perhaps I ought to be in the great hall, or Gryffindor common room, among people, participating in some miscellaneous mischief or glee.

"Just looking for a spot of quiet." I try to offer a reassuring smile—one that feels immediately like an unconvincing gesture.

Eliza eyes the pear in my hand. "How's the year, then?"

"Er, fantastic. Yours?"

She shifts the pile of textbooks she holds from one arm to the other. "Oh, um, great. Turns out dropping Arithmancy was the best decision I should've made two years ago."

"No way, dropped? You were so determined to follow through on the entire N.E.W.T!"

"I know, I know, it was the Ravenclaw principle!" She laughs. "But I just couldn't do it, magical maths are just too unreasonably bleak."

I give her a genuine smile now. When we were dating, I always felt like this—secure in her presence, fuzzy in joy. She has that effect. I think it's the dimples. "And how's Lyam these days?"

She blushes a bit. "Oh, all good."

She'd started seeing Lyam Schaefer not three months after I broke things off with her—and I'd been relieved, given the immense guilt I'd experienced upon our separation. "Well, I've nothing but disdain for his performance last Saturday," I chide, shuddering to remember his unprecedented plays on the Quidditch field, some of which ultimately brought the Ravenclaw win over my own long-suffering team. "But I'm glad you're happy. I really am."

"Thanks, James, it means a lot." She tucks a strand of hair back behind an ear shyly. "I—I wish I could see you the same."

I swallow, shake my head, as if to say oh, that's nothing, when really I just don't trust myself to respond without a throat-catching breath. If you only knew how close I was.

Eliza looks at me for a long second. She's got a half-smile, dimples and all. "She's lucky."

I look up, surprised.

"And she'll come around," she says, nodding, as if to affirm her belief. "I know it."

I open my mouth, then close it.

Eliza winks, says, "See you around, yeah?" and then is gone from the courtyard, as if a ghost—and I'm left only with a hollow chest; a dreary October sky; my thankless pear.

Lily

"I heard you're shagging Landes."

I glance up from my Alchemy textbook to give Mary a blistering look. "Pardon me, MacDonald?"

"If there's one thing you should know about me, by now, Lily, it's that I am a devoted pupil of the Hogwarts gossip network." She's perched on her bed, sweeping Marlene's hair into an intricate, four-pronged braid. "So I can only assume you didn't tell us because you were embarrassed about how weird your babies will look."

I snap the Alchemy book shut. "Going to need you to back up a bit. First off, who the hell did you hear that from?"

"Hang on a jot—is it true, Lils?" that's from Dorcas, lying flat on her stomach on the floor, flipping through a sheath of Astronomy charts.

"No, of course it's not true!" I look exasperatedly from Dorcas, to Mary, then to Marlene, then to Ingrid, over on her bed. "Wait—have you all heard this?"

Marlene shrugs meekly. "Maybe, a bit. Something like it."

"And you all seriously thought it was true?" I demand, staggered. "That I wouldn't tell you, if that was actually happening? Better yet—have any of you ever even seen me chatting with this Martin bloke before?"

"Oh, c'mon, none of us actually believed it," Ingrid reassures me, shooting swift, pointed glares toward Mary and Marlene and Dorcas. "I bet he started the rumor himself, he's too bloody self-assured for his own good. The second he's set his sights on you, he thinks you're good as in bed together, yeah?"

From the floor, Dorcas nods vehemently in agreement. "Yeah, he's a pompous prick, real arsehole, and we don't like—"

"Oh, shit, Lils?" Marlene cuts Dorcas off, having glanced over and found me watery-eyed, red-faced. "What's on?"

My friends drop their respective activities to look at me with blatant distress, and it's all too much—the shitty rumor, Martin fucking Landes—and the fact that none of it is even close to the real problem. I dash at my eyes, quickly shoving my book and papers into my bag. "It's nothing, all, just—I've got to go to bed, I'm rotten tired."

I try to flee the room and evade further questions, what with my eyes that won't unwater, tears threatening to spill, but Marlene is up and off the bed, following me out of the dormitory. She corners me in a shaded alcove between the restroom and the stairway. "Hey, hey, what's on, really? Is this about Landes?"

"No, I can't even—" I laugh a little, humorlessly. "I've only talked to the bloke, once, at a Prefect meeting—and well, I turned him down, so I've no clue where people get 'sleeping together' from that."

"Well, people are shit," she shakes her head, tongue tsking. "No respect for privacy, or women—especially women in power!"

I look at her, lower lip wobbling stupidly. "Marls, it's not that I'm really upset about, honest, it's—" my breath catches, betraying the pain under the surface.

Her eyebrows cinch in the middle. "James?"

I nod pathetically.

"Oh, Lils, I'm sorry," she reaches out to give my shoulders an affectionate rub. "I wish you'd—I wish you'd tell me what really happened, I mean, everything that happened. I didn't know—I mean, I didn't realize you were so put off about it."

I wipe my thumbs under my eyes. "I don't know if that will help, I don't want to wallow in it, I just—I didn't think this was going to happen." I shake my head. "I'm so thick, Marls, I just—I just stood there, I couldn't speak, or breathe, and—" Uneven, long breath. "I just let him leave. I didn't stop him, I didn't even try to. And now I'm miserable, and he won't even look at me, and he's never going to talk to me again."

"Evans," Marlene starts, tentatively, her grip on my arm tightening. "Do you...fancy him, fancy him?"

I scowl, miserably. "Is it that obvious?"

She's got a look of such alarm on her face, like I've just told her I've scrapped all prior aspirations to become a late-in-life Quidditch champion. "Oh—you've got it bad. This is bad."

"Marlene, that's not—it's not helpful—I know it's bad!"

"Fuck, I'm sorry—oh, gods, come here, I'm sorry."

It's all I can do, then, to start sobbing—dumbly, unrestrained—into Marlene's shoulder.