Creature Comfort

by ohmygodshesinsane

Look, James is trying not to be an arrogant twat. Lily's been given the role of 'swot', but she has other ideas. Sirius would love to have a normal family, honestly, as would Remus. Severus wants to leave his muggle heritage behind, and Peter is sick of being left out. Growing up is hard at the best of times, and these? These are the worst of times. [1975-1981]

44. gut feelings

A/N: We're back in action! With an extra-long chapter for you all, and some moments I really love.

A fair few warnings for this chapter - underage drinking, smoking, and drug use, substance abuse, implied/referenced underage sex, some imagined violence, emotional child abuse, suicide ideation, body dysmorphia, disordered eating, fatphobia, a fair bit of language, implied/referenced self-harm, and some very anxious/depressive thoughts. I think that's everything, but please do read with care and be aware, it's a bit of a doozy.

On a lighter note, if you feel like reading/writing marauders fics, check out marauderschristmasfest on tumblr! And if you're looking for Jily fics to read, I recommend checking out the Jily Awards on tumblr, as they've just released some of the nominations and the fics are absolutely brilliant!

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February 25th, 1976

"What if it wipes it?" Peter asked, wringing his raw hands. "What if we lose everything?"

"That's why we made duplicates," Sirius said impatiently.

"Oi," James said. "Focus."

The floor of their dormitory, very unusually, was spotless. No sweet wrappers, no clothes, no books, no essay drafts or broken quills or empty inkpots. In their place were no fewer than fifty sheets of parchment, each marked with lines and curves, and, on a handful, careful lettering. James clasped his wand very tightly, grinning despite himself. They were so close. There were complicated spells involved, but with four of them, James felt they could manage it. Besides, they were good at magic, they were better than normal fifth years.

"We know which to do first?" Remus asked, looking up from a page of notes.

"Yes," said James and Sirius together. Peter closed his eyes.

"Mm-hm."

James rolled his wand between his fingers and went over the order. There was no reason for it to not go to plan, so long as they all did their part. They'd worked too hard for it to not go to plan. James had read books. Honestly. He wouldn't go that far for his O. . He'd spent hours making sure the calculations were correct, making sure that he understood the time spells, that he could perform the wand movements and pronounce the incantations correctly (some were quite long).

"What are we waiting for?" Sirius asked, interrupting James' recitations. "We're not scared?"

"Never," James said; that was stupid. Either it'd work, and things would be better, or it wouldn't work, and they'd be no worse off than they were right now. "Pete? Remus?"

"I'm not frightened," Remus said, pointing his wand at the sheets of parchment. "Not of the magic. Only of crushing disappointment."

"Ah, see, I'm well-versed in being a crushing disappointment, both to myself and others. It's not as bad as you think," Sirius said. Remus smiled faintly. Peter gave a tiny shake of his head. A weight sunk in James' chest. They've not got any right to think that of you, he thought. They're the bloody disappointments to society. Sirius shook out his hair, feigning carelessness, but James bristled. Sirius caught his eye and gave a warning: no. Not the time. James squinted his eyes in a quick, tiny expression. They're fucked. Don't think on it.

"I'm not scared," Peter mumbled.

"Speak up, Wormy, or you'll fuck it up," Sirius said.

"I won't fuck it up," Peter said, chin up. James reached over and slapped him on the back.

"You won't," he said. "None of us will." Three pairs of eyes fell on him, expectant. James spun his wand between his fingers.

"If there's nothing else," he said, shrugging, "should we do it?" Excitement crackled in his fingertips, and he saw a glimmer reflected in each of his friends' eyes. They agreed. Each held their wand in their hands, and they began the first of the enchantments. They painstakingly applied layers of spells to the diagrams they'd made, ensuring that the ink was dry, preserving it with the sorts of charms they used on books to ensure the words didn't fade, making it difficult, if not outright impossible, to curse off or make invisible or destroy. Then they reinforced each piece of parchment so it couldn't be torn, ripped, slashed, soaked, burned, or frozen. It was a task in itself keeping track of what they'd already done. James felt himself starting to flag, but they went on for another ten minutes before Peter admitted he needed a break. James retrieved a set of potions they'd got Dale to order in from some bloke who knew the bloke who usually had special parcels for Dale to pick up from Hogsmeade. It wasn't outright illegal, but it was prohibited in exams and had a list of side-effects as long as half the essays they were asked to write.

James and Sirius exchanged a look, uncorked the vials, and downed their portions in one.

At once he felt his heart pump faster. It promised, according to Dale's contact, to keep your magic and your stamina up for the following four-hour period by borrowing from the twenty-four hours after that. Basically, a great stimulant with a hell of a hangover. Exactly what they needed.

"It won't kill me, will it?" Peter asked, going cross-eyed as he worriedly examined his vial.

"I feel very alive," James told him. Sirius carelessly moved his wand, muttering a spell, and the oil lamp by Remus' bed shattered. Peter jumped half a mile into the air. Sirius gazed admiringly at his wand.

"It works," he said. James grinned.

"Brilliant."

"Brilliant," Remus echoed, grouchily pointing at his lamp. "Fix it, won't you, please?"

"Only because you asked nicely," Sirius said. Remus' shoulders lifted with the deep breath he took. Sirius mended the lamp and, trembling, Peter drank the potion. Remus glared at them all, sighed, and emptied his vial.

"Are you afraid of dying?" Sirius asked, elbowing him. "Look at you, having a life."

"Who isn't afraid of dying?" James asked, shooting Sirius a sceptical look. His body hummed with life, like he'd ran three laps of the quidditch pitch. He was ready for anything; he could feel the pulse beating in the whites of his eyes, in the small of his back. He was convinced he could hear distant footsteps on the stairs and the creak of a bed, the wind on the wing of a bird outside their window. "I don't want to die."

Sirius laughed. "You're James Potter. You'll never die."

With some difficulty, they returned to the job they had. Now that the ink and parchment had been enchanted to the best of their ability, they needed to lace the pieces together to create the base of the map. They had the dungeons, the ground floor, and the first, second, and third floor completely done, including the secret passageways they knew of, and what they could figure out of the staff quarters, where the staffroom was and where some of their professors slept. They needed to bind each slip of parchment together to form these pages, and then fix them together so they could meld into one piece of parchment, where, by tapping the parchment, they could move fluidly between floors. They had also mapped Gryffindor Tower pretty easily (though they had to hazard a guess at the exact number of girls' dormitories) and intended to incorporate that, though there was some debate on whether it was better left until they'd finished with the rest of the seventh floor.

"And what about the Slytherin common room?" Peter asked, tracing his wand along the join of two sheets of parchment. "It's part of the dungeons, but we've not got it on here."

"We'll get in there sometime and add it on, the way we're adding bits together now," James said. "We'll get in all the common rooms." It had long been an idea floating across his mind, but he'd never actually been bothered to do it. He thought it would be easy as piss with the cloak – just follow someone in, run around, cause some mayhem, and duck out with the next person who left.

"I'm not going in that common room," Sirius said darkly. "You couldn't pay me."

"No, because you're as wealthy as God, money means nothing to you," Remus said, carefully working on a seam of the map. Sirius made a rude gesture.

"Fuck off, Moony."

All this work made James' mind stray beyond the map to their other project – a project, infuriatingly, on which no more work could be done. Most days the sky was grey and sullen, and often it poured and they trudged up the steps to the Entrance Hall in mud-splattered robes, but the lightning would not come. Without thinking, James would press the tip of his wand against his heart at sunrise and sunset, to the point that he forgot it was abnormal – in the lockers before quidditch practice the other day, he'd done it, and the rest of the team had looked at him like he'd grown an extra head.

"What was that?" Bagman had asked.

"It's a spell to give me a big cock," James replied. The others laughed.

"So the rumours are true," Marlene said, waving her pinkie finger. James swore, slapping his leg.

"I knew Sirius was a pervert," he'd grumbled, and Laura Vickers choked on her water. But nothing else had come of it.

He gritted his teeth and focused back on the map. It was incredibly fucking frustrating that he couldn't do anything to make it storm, but he couldn't, and screwing up this wouldn't change that. After another twenty minutes, finally, the floors of the map appeared to be sewn together. Then came the more complicated magic: switching floors. Remus pulled out the spellbooks they'd checked out, and they went over their parts in the plan before starting. James was best at transfigurative magic (obviously; he was representing the country, after all), and so he was in charge of the calculations. Usually he could do them in his head, but for this he'd bothered to write it all out; it made it easier to catch any mistakes. He created a scale for the map, fixing what they had roughly attempted, checking their sheets of measurements, and then began to bind the floors together, fixing one room over another. Peter sucked in his breath. The stairs that changed, the rooms that moved, the windows that reappeared elsewhere, they were all more difficult. He left them in the places they usually were on first Mondays; there was more to do before they could set them to their proper places. It took an hour, and even with Sirius, Remus, and Peter's help, his hands shook by the end of it. He poured a large glass of water for himself and drained it quickly, before shovelling down a few pumpkin pasties to settle his stomach. They'd missed dinner clear and away by now. Peter scurried out, red-faced, to put a sock over the doorknob to stop Dale from interrupting them (after Dale had revealed he was…seeing girls now, they'd figured they ought to have a code), though they'd told him they'd be busy tonight.

The next part didn't involve James quite as much, thankfully. Copying the spells that had been used on the diary James ordered, Sirius, Peter, and Remus began to imbue the map with a sense of time; a two-week cycle, or three-hundred and thirty-six hours. This was more enchantment work than transfiguration. Now that the groundwork had been laid, James could help them to bind certain doors and windows and stairs and rooms to different places at different times. It was hard, endless work; no hour in the castle looked the same.

"Are we just doing this all night, then?" Peter asked, when his rumbling stomach led him to the clock, which showed it was eight-thirty. "Or will we put in another two or three hours and turn in?"

"I think it'll take longer than three hours," Remus said. Peter looked to James.

"Yeah," he agreed. "We're in for a haul. But we get to sleep in tomorrow, we've got nothing first lesson."

"Nine isn't a sleep-in," Sirius muttered. James pulled a face.

"You waste your mornings," he chided. "By the time you're up, the day's half-over."

Finally, they finished setting the days, and to their astonishment, it seemed to work.

"First Monday, eleven a.m," James said. The map changed, lines shifting and disappearing, until it showed them the way the five floors they had of the castle – plus Gryffindor Tower – would be configured at eleven in the morning on the first week of their cycle.

"Second Thursday, four p.m," Peter said, and it shifted again, staircases drifting across the map until they found their new place, classrooms jumping out of the way to accommodate a newcomer.

"Wow," Remus breathed.

"Fuck," Sirius grinned.

"It's brilliant," James said. The four of them looked at each other, eyes bright, dancing with excitement. Three parts down, two to go.

Peter eagerly pulled out his scroll of parchment that contained all the notes on their daily routines; what time they usually went to breakfast and to dinner, when James had quidditch practice, when Remus tended to go to the library to study.

"And Sirius has very regular toilet habits," Peter announced beaming, to which Sirius shot him the two-finger salute.

"Nothing wrong with healthy bowels," James said, patting him on the back. Sirius glowered.

"Have we got James' wank schedule on there, then?" he asked. Peter pulled at his fingers.

"Well, we've got when James tends to be in the dormitory," he said. "Which I'm guessing…"

"It doesn't matter what we're doing," James said very clearly, "only where we are."

The artwork had been Peter's idea, but Sirius had actually designed it. They tapped through the times on the map methodically and put to work yet another very difficult idea. James had pages of calculations, and Sirius carefully charmed the little symbols to move throughout the areas, while Peter gave instructions based on his notes and Remus ensured the times were correct and plotted out their routes. James' back started to ache from hunching over for so long; his wand grew heavy in his hand. It was nearing eleven by the time they finished with the first four symbols, and then they went back to add in the teachers, when they knew where they'd be; for now, when their location was unknown, they assigned them to sit in their office and wait around.

"I mean, realistically, what else would Quinlan be doing?" James said, glancing at Remus, who was in Quinlan's Arithmancy class.

"He could be at the library," Remus suggested tentatively. Sirius raised an eyebrow. "…trying to see if he could make his penis larger?" James screwed up his face. Sirius recoiled.

"What the fuck, Moony?"

"You looked like you were expecting me to say something funny!" Remus said.

"Yeah, funny, not weird. Why are you thinking about Quinlan's penis?" Remus hesitated, and then threw a pillow at Sirius. It hit him square in the face and fell into his lap. James sniggered, as did Peter. Sirius glowered murderously, and hefted the pillow by the unstuffed corner. Remus pointed his wand. Sirius arched his arm as if he were preparing to throw a quaffle (though his form was a bit poor). With one push, the pillow launched through the air, but instead of hitting Remus, it sailed over to Peter, enveloped his face, and flung him flat on his back.

Sirius burst into laughter, and James couldn't help himself.

"I'm sorry," he said, reaching over and grabbing Peter's hand, pulling him up. "But you did just – wham! Out cold!" Peter sighed.

"It was kind of funny, wasn't it?" he said. Sirius grinned.

"That's why we keep you around, Wormy, you can appreciate good humour. And acknowledge terrible humour." He looked accusingly at Remus, who appeared to be doing an impression of Sir Stuanterum Stoic, a wizard who had tried to marry the muggle Queen Victoria and proved too boring for her.

"Shall we finish this off?" Remus asked, indicating the map. "Or do you want to throw everything away to laugh at how unfunny I am?"

"Hm," said Sirius ponderously.

"C'mon," James said, shaking his head at them both. "We're so close."

After another half an hour, they'd included every member of staff on the map, as well as themselves. It wasn't fool proof, or comprehensive, but it was a good start. If it worked.

"Do we try it now?" Peter asked excitedly, holding his wand close to the parchment. James looked at Sirius.

"We could," he said tentatively. Something flickered in Sirius' eyes, and James instinctively knew what it was. "Or we could go and do the final bit and see what happens then." Peter linked his fingers together. His face shone.

"Now?" he asked. James and Sirius exchanged another glance, and James nodded slowly, a grin spreading across his face.

"Yeah," he said. "Now."

For the final stage, James retrieved his cloak from his trunk. It was getting more and more difficult for them to be completely covered by it. Remus had already hit six foot; James and Sirius were not far behind him. The four of them got beneath the cloak and, as an eight-legged beast, hobbled into the adjacent bathroom to examine themselves in the mirror. They burst into laughter. They appeared to be four sets of legs, haphazardly cut so some stopped mid-thigh and others at the hip.

"What's the plan?" Remus asked, ducking out and appearing completely. James threw the cloak off.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" he said, gesturing to the bit of parchment that contained their handiwork. "We use the map."

They left the dormitory and crept downstairs, though they really hadn't needed to bother; O'Neill, Bagman, and Jenkins were up, whinging about homework, and a handful of fourth-year girls played cards, but there was nobody who'd be inclined to run to a prefect. They shuffled to the door, and Remus swore when Peter trod on his foot. Livia McLaggen looked up in their direction, frowning, but she shrugged and quickly returned to her game. The portrait hole swung open, which fortunately they seemed not to notice, and the four of them climbed through and into the corridor.

"Got a light, Sirius?" James asked, attempting casualness. Sirius grinned wickedly and pulled out his wand.

"Lumos."

Buzzing with excitement, barely able to keep still, James pulled out the parchment they'd been working on and unfolded it. He tapped it with his wand repeatedly, until he got to the hour and day he wanted, and folded and turned it until they had the third floor in front of them. It was beyond surreal to be using it, as it was intended; as a tool. He shivered as footprints belonging to Professor Slughorn walked through the Armoury and turned down the corridor towards the library. Of course, they didn't know for sure if he'd be going that way tonight, but that was usually where he went. James doubted Slughorn would be bothered to mix up his route.

"Holy shit," Peter breathed. "This is crazy."

"It's mad," Remus agreed, trailing his fingers along the edge of the parchment.

"It's brilliant," Sirius said. "Let's go!"

They tiptoed downstairs and emerged near the library on the third floor. It wasn't far to their destination, but all the same they consulted the map, checking that the coast was clear, smiles wide across their faces.

"Well, Professor Sprout must be in bed," Remus said, pointing to her office.

"Binns is in his, too," said Peter. "Flitwick's on the ground floor."

"Slughorn's gone over towards the Charms Corridor," Sirius pointed out, skimming his finger across the map.

"And McGonagall's upstairs, isn't she?" James said, recalling other nights. "So the coast is clear."

In fairness, they could've taken the cloak off, given that nobody stood in their way, but they kept it on all the same until they reached the end of the corridor and James slipped his hand out to try the door. As expected, it swung open, revealing to them the inside of Hogwarts' clock tower. A dozen cogs the size of houses turned slowly, grinding against each other as they kept time, and magically changed the hands in each clock within the school. This was the final part of their map-making; one of the most essential elements.

They closed the door behind them and James stuffed the cloak in his pocket as they hurried towards the cogs. Peter held the map, unfolding it until it was approximately the size of their dormitory. He laid it on the floor directly in front of the cogs, and in the weak starlight that slanted through the glass clockface, the parchment seemed to glow.

The four of them pulled out their wands, and Remus a scroll of notes which he unravelled. James' heart beat fast. Their final challenge was here. The diary James ordered had proven useful; in their dismantling of it, they'd discovered that the time and date changed in sync with a central clock and calendar kept by the creator, and he had enchanted the clock and calendar himself with a series of complex charms linked to the earth and its orbit and the stars and the rest of it. Fortunately, the clock in the tower at Hogwarts had already been enchanted and was used to having other items synchronised with it. Their complication came in that there were possibly hundreds of enchantments laid upon the clock, and they needed to both overcome any protective enchantments upon it as well as ensure their placing of a new enchantment would not disrupt the others. And, of course, they had to ensure their enchantment was strong enough as to last for the rest of their schooldays. No big deal.

"What if we accidentally break the whole clock?" Peter said, squeezing his hands together. Sirius laughed.

"We get a lie-in," he said. James shrugged.

"So long as quidditch practice is still on."

They examined the clock a little further, watching as the cogs turned, and the big hand ticked away the seconds. They pulled their wands out, but the air was thick with hesitation; they all wanted to start, James thought, but nobody wanted to be the first, in case it did get fucked up.

"Alright," James said, raising his wand and pointing it at the clock. "Specialis Revelio."

The others joined him. "Specialis Revelio."

At first, the sensation was overpowering. A hundred incantations ran through James' mind – some he knew, a lot he didn't. It was hard to tell, but he thought the oldest ones were in the style of long chants – the type they did a lot more before the whole Statute of Secrecy came in. James' head roared in pain, and he gritted his teeth, using one hand to steady his glasses as he shook. Finally, it ended, and he exchanged looks with the others. Peter went very pale.

"What the hell was that?" he squeaked, clutching his wand with both hands. Sirius and Remus looked steadier. Sirius looked up into the clock, one eye narrowed.

"I'd say we're fucking around with some very old magic," he said. James stepped over to stand beside him, following his gaze.

"I reckon you're right," he said. They looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes; James caught Sirius' subtle smile.

"Alright," James said, wheeling around to face the other two. "Here's what we're going to do."

In the end, it was only a matter of playing to their strengths and a bit of determination. Well, a lot of determination. Remus identified the spells they needed to mimic, and those that might interfere; Sirius fiddled with the interferers until they were as out of the road as possible, James cast the news spells, gut aching, head pounding with the effort of the magic and the concentration, a sweat breaking on his forehead. Peter wrung his hands when James was finished as he stepped up to reinforce the spells and then test them.

"Just try a Finite?" he asked. James nodded.

"Yeah, that's the idea." He watched the map while Peter slung spells at the clock, but nothing seemed to change it. Sirius and Remus leaned over.

"Is this where we go into specifics?" Remus asked. Sirius' eyes glittered with excitement.

"I think that's a yes!" He shouted the last word, and Peter swore and threw himself at them, barrelling into a hug.

Remus and Peter went through their notes, backtracking, and while James and Sirius were exhausted, they performed the last of the spells, tweaking the places the little footsteps moved to. It only took a bit of fiddling, and then, finally, finally, it seemed to be done. Despite the exhaustion gripping his body, James couldn't help but beam from ear-to-ear, and the others' tired faces reflected much of the same feeling.

"Are you ready?" James asked breathlessly, pointing to the map. For now, their figures were still, but they could hear the gentle tick-tick-tick of the clock, counting the seconds. They stared at a label on the ground floor, watching Filch where he stood in front of the Great Hall. Their wands were tucked away in their pockets, their hands away from the map, save for James, who held it – nothing but the magic itself could change its appearance.

The clock ticked over – five minutes past. The footsteps labelled 'Argus Filch' put one foot in front of the other and up the Marble Staircase. James flipped to the first floor, and lo and behold, 'Argus Filch' was at the top of the stairs and took a left.

"Holy shit!"

"Merlin's fucking cloaca!"

"Wow."

"We did it!"

They crushed together, somehow, and James' veins thrilled like he'd scored the winning goal in quidditch, like when he'd heard his name at the Transfiguration Tournament. His face ended up in Sirius' hair and Remus' shoulder and on top of Peter's head and he shouted things he couldn't remember, clutching the map all the while, alight with happiness. They'd done it. They'd fucking done it.

"I love you lot," he murmured, somewhere amongst it all. He'd never have said it in the light of day, or on an ordinary night, but his heart was swollen and he couldn't hold it in any longer. My brothers, he thought, as they disentangled themselves, hairs ruffled and smiles a little awkward. And as they stumbled back to their dormitory, pouring over the map, grinning, whispering, laughing when they were sure nobody was around, James decided then and there that they were some kind of many-headed, eight-legged beast. It was stupid and sappy and sentimental but he swore, then and there, that they crystallised, that they became some sort of monument to brotherhood, or friendship, or childhood. They were –

"We need a name," he said, as they walked back. "For the map."

"A name?" Remus said incredulously.

"Stephen," Peter suggested. James laughed.

"Stephen," he agreed. "But he needs a proper name too."

"What about 'The Map of Mischief'?" Remus suggested. "Considering that's what you'll be using it for."

"That's formal," Sirius countered. "I vote 'The Murderer's Map'. Because if a murderer got a hold of it, it could be pretty useful. 'Here you are, here's how to get around all the teachers so you can go give someone a bit of a strangle.' Come to think of it, we could use it to get at Snivellus properly."

"We're not murdering anyone!" Peter protested. "I don't want to go to Azkaban! It's so rainy, and it's in the middle of nowhere!"

"That's your complaint about Azkaban?" Remus asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, Moony, it's not as if he has any thoughts for the dementors to feed on," Sirius said.

"Oi!" squeaked Peter.

"Not 'The Murderer's Map'," James said. "It looks a bit like a pirate's map, I reckon. We just need an 'X' to mark the spot."

"The spot of what?" Peter asked. Sirius made a face.

"Treasure, obviously. Keep up, Wormy."

"Oh." They started up a flight of stairs. "If it's a pirate's map, we could call it 'The Mermaid Map' or something. Because, y'know, pirates, merpeople…"

"I like the 'm' sound," James shrugged. "Dunno about 'mermaid' though."

"Murderer," said Sirius.

"Nah. Merr…..mar….murrr…"

The four of them made various sounds as they made for Gryffindor Tower.

"Marine….marrack….murendenlenbensen…."

"Murnt…"

"Marie…maroared…."

"Marauder!" James cried out at the end of the Fat Lady's corridor. The others looked at him. He ran his fingers through his hair. "I had this book as a kid…four pirates went around looting other ships, and then they went onto the land and chased their enemies down, getting rich at every town."

"I'd like to be rich," said Peter. Remus snorted.

"Me too," he said. "Well, is that what we're using this for? Theft, chasing people around, getting rich, terrorising the masses?" There was an element of sarcasm to his voice.

"Yes," said Sirius seriously.

"Alright," James said, grinning. "The Marauder's Map. Also known as Stephen."

"I really do prefer Stephen," Peter said. James laughed and threw one arm around Sirius and the other around Peter, who in turned grabbed Remus and pulled him in. They staggered down to the Fat Lady, grinning all the while. The Marauder's Map. That'd do for now.

---

February 26th, 1976

"Did you hear?"

"How did you find out?"

"I was in the bathroom, actually -"

"- wait, which Rosier?"

"Did you hear about those Slytherin kids?"

"I thought it was just the one?"

"Well, if he was doing it on his own -"

"Did you hear?"

"- I'm only saying, if Professor Flitwick caught me -"

"Merlin, how do you turn up to the Great Hall after that?"

"No! Really? Wow. We weren't like that when we -"

"I thought it would've been the oldest one."

"Did you hear?"

"Poor Professor Flitwick."

"- no, it's the other one that's a bit funny, if you know what I -"

"How do you know that?"

"I'm not surprised, it was only a matter of time…"

"Did you hear?"

"Did you hear?"

The facts – few as they might be – were that, firstly, a hundred emeralds had disappeared from the bottom of the Slytherin hourglass overnight; secondly, none of the prefects knew what had happened, meaning the report had not been filed in their office but by one of the teachers; and thirdly, that of the three Rosier boys Regulus knew to any degree, only the eldest, Evan, had shown his face at breakfast.

The rumours were too numerous to count.

Slytherin, generally, was considered a competitive house. They rivalled Gryffindor, and soundly defeated Ravenclaw and Slytherin in the matter. They cared about winning the House Cup, and didn't take to it with an attitude that creativity and self-expression should not be hindered by the beliefs of an institution (Ravenclaw), that sometimes mistakes were useful, because they taught you an important lesson (Hufflepuff), or that really, school was useless and rebellion was rather more fun than answering questions in History of Magic (Gryffindor). Essentially, there was no wishy-washy line they fed themselves to feel better if they lost. No cushioning: it was simply failure.

One person (allegedly) losing a hundred points in one night was certainly a failure. If it had been Regulus, he would not want to show up for breakfast either, and face the wrath of the prefects and, indeed, the entire house. Mulciber carved his bacon so viciously that his knife might have been cursed. But of course, Regulus would not do such a thing, because he wasn't stupid. He enjoyed having breakfast without Mulciber muttering about how he'd be more intelligent under the Imperius Curse than he was with his own working brain.

Breakfast finished, and he returned to the dormitory with Gibbon to gather his things. They didn't have a lesson until after nine, but they wanted to go to the library first. Regulus would not have called himself a 'morning person', necessarily, but he found it much harder to start school after he had been lounging around for an hour. He packed his bookbag, taking care to ignore the bed across the dormitory from him, where the curtains remained closed. It was curious that the Rosier brothers would both choose to seclude themselves, with the innocent one appearing if not just to clear his name. Regulus would have done it. There was no reason for him to bear the brunt of Sirius' mistakes.

They were on the Grand Staircase, waiting for it to reach their landing, when a tingle ran over Regulus. His bag vibrated against his leg. Frowning, he laid a hand over it. Then it began to wail.

"THIEF!" it cried. "THIEF! THIEF!"

Regulus clutched it tightly, and Gibbon rain to the railing, looking out over the crowds. What in Salazar's name? Somebody had tried to summon his bag. Of course, his bag was enchanted with the finest Anti-Theft and Anti-Tear Charms around, so only powerful dark magic had any chance of taking it from him. He joined Gibbon at the railing, looking for anything odd. Students stepped off into a corridor – two girls leaned close to talk – two floors below, there was a flurry on the staircase as someone moved in the opposite direction to the crowd.

You did not steal from a Black.

"Watch him," Regulus whispered. Gibbon nodded. Regulus started down the stairs and reached the corridor at the bottom, where he broke into a quick stride.

"I can't see him now," Gibbon complained, gesturing at the floor. "I can't see through buildings."

"Yes, but which way did he seem to be going?" Regulus pressed.

"I don't know. Right, maybe?" Regulus turned sharply on his heel. The trouble with Hogwarts became most obvious when you were attempting to pursue someone several floors beneath you, Regulus realised; it was a situation only comparable to the confusion of his very first week. The castle was a maze, and it took a ridiculous amount of time to get anywhere. He realised very quickly, as he waited for the staircase to take down to the third floor, that he had no chance of finding the would-be thief if he didn't know who it was.

He said as much to Gibbon, who hung his shoulders and said, "So, are we just going to go to the library?"

Regulus made a very quick decision.

"I've finished with one of the books I borrowed on Monday," he said. "I may as well return it now, in case I need to borrow another. I'll go get it and meet you there."

The dungeons were quite empty, with most at class, as was the common room. Regulus went down the stone spiral stairs to the fourth landing, where he knocked on the dark wooden door twice. The door was ajar; it swung open at his second touch. The dormitory appeared quite empty. A draught ruffled the curtains closed around one particular bed, which Regulus approached.

"Doesn't your bag have an Anti-Theft Charm?" he asked the curtains. The room itself seemed to sigh. After a moment, the curtains opened.

"They're expensive," Alfreck Rosier mumbled. He sat cross-legged atop his covers, fully dressed, eyes rimmed red. His pudgy cheeks were flushed. Regulus summoned the chair from the dormitory's desk and sat down at the foot of Alfreck's bed, tucking his bookbag underneath. Alfreck blew out a breath and flopped back onto the bed.

"I'm not going to speak with you if you're lying down," Regulus said, almost automatically. It had been a common refrain of his father's regarding Sirius, who preferred to sprawl along a chaise lounge rather than take part in a conversation in a dignified manner. Alfreck sat up.

"Sorry." He picked at his school socks. Regulus waited patiently. Alfreck stuck his thumb down his sock and scratched. "I'm – I'm glad yours is spelled, though. I didn't really want to do anything to it. I only wanted a word." He tugged his sock down to reveal one hairy ankle, which he kept scratching with his long thumbnail. "Father's furious. He went mental. The Headmaster only owled him but he flooed into Hogsmeade this morning and demanded to see us."

Us. Despite the obfuscation, Regulus did not think it difficult to guess who the culprit had been, nor the crime. The Rosier brothers had not shown at breakfast, but they were not the only ones missing, either. Regulus had grown up at his mother's elbow. Often, you learned more about people from the events they were not invited to, or did not attend, than you did when they were present. Everyone could drink champagne, smoke, and gossip. It was more illuminating to figure out why they had chosen not to.

"Are you going to end it?" Regulus asked quietly. He could not imagine that Mr Rosier would have asked anything but that of his son. And if the Rosiers worked as the Blacks did, Regulus knew the job Raimund had been tasked with. He did not envy it. But, he thought, it was much more fitting of a first son than a second. Second sons ought not to be keeping the elder in line. That was not supposed to be the way of things.

(But what did Sirius care for the way of things?)

"You're my friend," Alfreck said, twisting the bedcovers between his fingers.

"Our families are friends," Regulus reminded him carefully. "You're the cousin of my cousins." Alfreck laughed nervously.

"I'd rather be your friend than your family," he admitted. Regulus folded his hands, considering. If his mother found out some other way, not from him…could he plead ignorance? 'Rosier refused to discuss it…The thought crossed my mind, but I didn't want to give you the wrong information…'

It would be lying to his mother. It would be misleading her.

"If nothing's happening right away, there is no point in raising a false alarm," he said finally, the words turning his stomach over. Alfreck made a fist and pressed it against his lips. Don't say anything you can't take back.

"Everyone thinks I'm too young to know what I want," Alfreck murmured, shoulders sagging as though he bore an invisible weight. "They think I'll grow out of it. But…I don't think it's something I need to be sorry for. It's not wrong. It's just not what they want for me."

Regulus carefully scraped beneath his neatly-trimmed nails, excavating dirt that wasn't there. "You know why they don't want that?"

"Yes," Alfreck said swiftly. "I'm not as stupid as – well, as my marks make it look. It's politics. They're not as comfortable, they're not as established, they've less connections." Regulus looked up, genuinely surprised.

"My grandmother was a Crabbe," he said thoughtlessly. The Crabbes, for better or for worse, were twined with the Blacks for the foreseeable future. Unless Alfreck meant to imply…'THEY SAY THE BLACKS RUN CRAZY! THEY SAY THE BLOODLINE'S UNDER ATTACK!' From the pitch, it had been difficult to tell where the sound was coming from, but he had assumed the Gryffindors were leading the charge, Sirius glowing with delight. He'd love the chance to point out their family's flaws, real or imagined, to the world. It had not occurred to Regulus that the words could be the product of someone outside the family. The Blacks were held in high regard. Who else would dare…? Who would think of them in that way? Who outside the family could see the – very infinitesimal, very barely real, very slight – decay? Not decay. Age. Who outside the family could see the – aging?

"She was, wasn't she?" Alfreck said slowly, drawing Regulus back to the matter at hand. "Wasn't it a bit of a scandal?"

It had been, but it was old news: Regulus' mother had turned fifty in December. "They married incredibly young, while they were still at Hogwarts," he said quietly. "They found a loophole in the law that permitted marriage from twelve. Archaic, but my grandmother hoodwinked someone into performing the rite for them." He thumbed a speck on his robes. "An old custom. More binding than something civil or even something religious, bound by magic itself. No divorce, no annulment." Not that the Blacks would do such a thing regardless, but if there were to be a couple in the family that sought such a separation, it would be Grandfather Pollux and Grandmother Irma. He knew no-one more miserable.

Alfreck was silent for a long time. "They must've really loved each other."

"Perhaps." Grandfather Pollux often said he had been love-potioned. Grandmother Irma often said she would've spent her whole life alone rather than force him to love her. The truth lay in the London basement where they'd wed, between them and the person who had married them, whose identity they had protected all these years. Regulus could not understand it. He could not understand Alfreck either, in truth – why fight? Why throw away your values, your family, your pride for love? How could anyone so young know themselves to be in love? For certain? For such a price?

"I feel like they hate me," Alfreck said, looking directly at Regulus. "My father. My brother. And everyone will hate me now, for losing all those points. Slytherin may as well not have won." He swallowed. "I ruined your catch." An inexplicable lump rose in Regulus' throat, and he shook his head sharply.

"No." He was thinking of Sirius for some reason. They had not spoken as Regulus and Alfreck were for a number of years. Since before Hogwarts. If Regulus had an enemy, it was not the muggles, or the Devil, or his elder brother; it was that damned hat. If it had made a different decision… "My brother hates me," Regulus said matter-of-factly. "Families can be fickle, but that's what separates us from Gryffindors. We do what's right. We don't run from our responsibilities to chase after something fleeting. We don't hate our own." The pipes in the walls rushed with water. "Raimund wouldn't hate you. He's one of us."

Alfreck shifted on the bed, pulling himself over to the edge. His legs hung off. "Do you think we have a responsibility to ourselves?" he asked. "To make ourselves happy?" Regulus filled his lungs with air and stood.

"She's not a mudblood," he said hesitantly. "They may not like it, but it isn't obscene. If they have time, if you honour them in everything else, they will have no legitimate reason for complaint."

"You believe that?" Alfreck asked. Regulus folded his hands together firmly.

"What would I gain from lying?" He could not face him. He arranged his things for his next lesson, well aware that Gibbon would be wondering what had happened to him. "For now, you'd best come to the library with me. Slytherin will forgive you sooner if your head is down."

Alfreck rose and gathered his books and stationery.

"Thanks, Regulus," he said, twisting a quill between his fingers. "I know you're a bit quiet and stuff and we don't hang out loads, but you're my mate. Anytime you need me, yeah?"

Regulus settled his bag on his shoulder. "Yeah," he said.

---

February 29th, 1976

"Lily," Alisha begged. "You can't make us. Please. We're teenage girls! It's in our nature!"

"I don't think the girl part matters," Marlene pointed out, sitting atop her swirl of bedcovers. "We're teenagers, that's what it is."

Lily rubbed her forehead. "He nearly suffocated."

"Well, we won't be inviting an eleven-year-old boy into our room, so I don't think we have to worry," Amy scowled. Mary picked at her nails, balancing Berlioz in her lap, who snored as he slept.

"Um," she said, and flushed a little when the eyes of the other girls landed on her. "I'm sorry, I just think I'm a bit confused – how did he end up with all the – um, underwear – piled on top of him? If he was standing in the doorway – well, how were the others getting in and out, if there was such a blockage?"

Lily pinched the bridge of her nose. "Bagman opened the door magically. Oliver called out to him and thought he heard a nose from the bed, so he – and yes, it was a bit nosy – went over to Bagman's bed and peeked through the curtains. The clothes were piled up on there, apparently." Alisha gagged. "Frank said that Bagman said it's been that way since Christmas."

"On his bed?" Alisha managed. "Where the hell has he been sleeping?"

Lily winced. "Erm. We're not a hundred-percent sure…but Frank and Remus have gone to check a classroom on the sixth floor." Marlene guffawed.

"Not Walker's -?"

"I thought she was shagging Stephen Stanton?" Alisha said. Mary dug in, pulling hard, wishing she could disappear from the conversation. Why is anybody shagging anybody? She wished she hadn't asked.

"She is," Amy said. Alisha's eyebrows disappeared into her hair. Marlene laughed again.

"Do they know -?"

"The point is," Lily cut through, and Mary was struck by the urge to hug her, "that Alice is coming around this afternoon to check nobody else's bedroom presents a hazard. And if we've got rubbish everywhere she'll be on at me about it, so I really would prefer if we all do a bit of a tidy-up, please." Marlene laid back on her blankets and sighed at the ceiling.

"I really would prefer not having a prefect in the dormitory," she said. Lily folded her arms across her chest.

"Do you want to go in with the fourth-years? I've heard they're a delight." Marlene sat up immediately.

"Are you mad?"

"Be nice." Lily wagged a finger at her.

"Alright, Mum." Mary's nails began to bleed. She blew on them softly. Lily rubbed her forehead again, and Mary shifted Berlioz off her very gently, setting him down on her pillow. The cat barely woke. Mary slipped off the bed.

"Um," she said, and squirmed again as they looked at her. "Maybe it won't be so bad. Almost-spring cleaning?" Lily smiled at her.

"Almost spring cleaning," she agreed. "Come on. I'm sure we'll all be a sight happier if Alice doesn't kill us in our sleep tonight."

"I might not be," Amy grumbled, regarding the menagerie on her bedside table.

Marlene put a Hobgoblins record on as they worked. Mary was thankful that she didn't have much to do; she made her bed, as she would have done anyways, fluffed her pillows, dusted her bedside table, and rearranged the knick-knacks on her table and dresser. She trimmed the wicks on the pillar candles she had on the windowsill, and re-folded her socks, which had fallen out of their pairs in her daily rummages. She finished while Marlene was still shoving broken things under her bed, and Alisha stood in a knee-high pile of clothes, pulling at her hair miserably. Amy sat on her trunk and lit up a cigarette. Lily scowled.

"Not in here!" she said. "You're not meant to smoke in the Tower anymore."

"It's a bullshit rule," Amy countered. "You can't smoke in the corridors because the teachers get snippy about it, and now we can't smoke in the comfort of our own dorms. Are we meant to walk down seven bloody flights of stairs every time we feel like a fag?" Lily sighed.

"Yes."

"You need to start smoking," Amy said bitterly. "Then you'll be more sympathetic."

"The rule's been in place since the start of the year, you've had plenty of time to quit," Lily said, folding her arms across her chest. "Put it out."

Mary caught Berlioz and idly stroked him, trying to ground herself; it was only at that moment she realised she'd been floating into space at all. It could be difficult to tell. The others moved quickly, loudly, complaining, in a flurry that pressed a tight knot against her chest. She jiggled her foot. What happens if they don't clean up properly and we do lose points? What will Alice say? What if she's cross with me? What if she does take points, and everyone knows it was us, and then the whole house is cross with us? Will they let us sit at the table at dinnertime? Will they say something? Gryffindors were known for both their house rivalry and their dramatic streak; anyone who lost a large number of points without good reason (a good reason apparently being in the name of pulling off something funny, or damaging a Slytherin's ego) would find themselves on the receiving end of many could shoulders.

Oh, Lord, please don't let Alice be angry with us. Please, please, please. Amen.

"Mary," Alisha called, wading through her clothes. "Can you come here?"

Mary set Berlioz down and obliged, crossing her toes as she did. Alisha was very pretty, with a swathe of blonde hair and warm brown eyes, and little brown moles speckled across her skin like kiss-marks. She was thin, too, like all the other girls in the dormitory save for Mary, though with wide hips. She was taller than Mary, but Mary felt like a giant, ambling beast beside her. Alisha's face was narrow where Mary's was round and bloated like a whale's; when Alisha wore low-cut tops, you could see her collarbone. If Mary hadn't lived with her for five years she probably would've struggled to talk to her; pretty girls made Mary nervous. She put it down to insecurity, and it made her feel like the lowest scrap in all of Hogwarts. It's pathetic. Why are you like this? What's wrong with you? Are you mad?

"What's the matter?" she asked, picking at her fingernails. Alisha held up a set of sky-blue robes; not brand-new, but old either, and mostly still in style.

"D'you like these?" she asked, holding them up against herself. Mary nodded uncertainly.

"They're very nice," she said. "I like the big collar."

"Mm," Alisha said, fingering it. "It's cute, isn't it?" She pulled it away from her body. "I was thinking – well, it's cute, but it's getting a little short in the leg for me and I think I want to try something different – I'm not sure if I like the colour on me? But since you've lost all that weight, I was thinking it might fit you now, and I think it would suit you." Alisha sort of pushed it into Mary's frozen arms. "So you can have it. If you don't like it, though, just chuck it in that pile over there, I'm going to donate them next Hogsmeade weekend."

Mary clutched the robes, brain turning slowly. Since you've lost all that weight…Had she? The scales said so, and she'd been trying to – frantically trying to. She'd tried eating only grapefruits for a week, and pineapple for another, though she'd been so tired she had points taken for falling asleep during lessons (which had been utterly mortifying). She only took cold showers and tapped her feet whenever she was stuck waiting – every movement helped to burn something off, she'd read. Nevertheless, despite the dip in the numbers, she seemed to get plumper every time she looked in the mirror. More dishevelled, too.

"Have I lost weight?" she asked, desperately hoping to sound casual. Alisha laughed.

"Merlin, yes. I thought it was something you've been doing on purpose," she said, now examining a yellow scarf. Mary flushed. Does she think I've lost it? Is it obvious? Do they know? Well – what's to know? So what? It didn't matter if they found out, she wasn't doing anything wrong. She was just trying to get healthier. It'd just be embarrassing for them to know she cared so much about it - because only girls who weren't naturally slim had to care about it, Mary believed. She was sure if she'd been born thinner, her weight wouldn't matter to her a bit. "You need to write your mum for new uniforms," Alisha added, tossing the scarf in the 'donate' pile. "You're drowning in them."

"Mm," Mary said. I've lost weight. Alisha's noticed that I've lost weight. I'm 'drowning' in my uniforms. She was seized by the urge to put her school robes on at that very moment. "Thank you very much for the robes."

"Oh, don't worry about it," Alisha said. "And really, now that you're my size, just let me know if you want to borrow anything. Ames and I share clothes all the time. And you won't bring them back smelling like cigarettes."

"Fuck off," Amy said, not turning around from where she was attempting to reattach her hangings (she'd pulled one down in a fit of anger).

"See, you're much nicer," Alisha said cheerfully. Mary nodded thoughtlessly then stopped herself.

"Sorry," she said quickly, not even knowing why she'd done it. "Thank you. Thank you. Um, I'll just -" she jabbed her thumb towards her dresser. Alisha shrugged and Mary scuttled away.

She hung the robes in her side of the wardrobe, pulse fluttering. So something she'd done had worked. The pineapple? The grapefruit? She flattened a hand against her stomach. It still seemed to bulge beneath her, full of food and organs…and fat. Hate slicked her tongue.

"Mary?"

She turned to find Lily behind her, smiling toothily. Mary dropped her hand from her stomach and blinked rapidly, trying to look composed.

"Thanks for cleaning up," Lily said. "At least we'll be on Alice's good side." She grinned. Mary's fingers slid once more to her cuticles, and pulled.

"Yeah," Mary said. Did Lily think she looked thin? Mary glanced down at her clothes. She'd had a lie-in and was still in her nightie, which billowed out and made her look about a thousand stone. You idiot, she thought. You look like someone's fat grandmother. Mary'd barely run a brush through her hair this morning. Lily, on the other hand, looked lovely. It was bitterly unfair that Mary got stuck rooming with the prettiest girls in their year. If she'd gone where she thought she ought to – Hufflepuff – maybe some of them would've been bigger or uglier and made her feel better. But she was stuck as the plainest girl in Gryffindor Tower.

"The robes Alisha gave you look nice," Lily said, gesturing to the wardrobe. Mary nodded but pulled the door of the wardrobe shut, feeling hot for some reason.

"Yeah," she mumbled.

"I wish I had more robes," Lily said. "You know, not school ones. But then, sometimes it's nice to be able to annoy so many people at once." She laughed. "That sounds awful, doesn't it? But anyone who's annoyed be it is the sort of person I really don't feel that sorry for." Mary's hand rubbed her arm, where the curse scars from January criss-crossed her skin. Now she always wore robes outside of her dormitory, even if it meant wearing her uniform, and if she didn't have any she didn't leave. It helped her miss meals, at least.

"Mm," she said, blinking hard.

Lily smiled hesitantly and bit her lip. Mary's guts rolled.

"You have lost a bit of weight lately," Lily said. Mary tensed.

"I guess." She ducked away and scooped up Berlioz, who yielded to her happily. She flipped him onto his back and rocked him gently like a baby. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin. She ran her finger along the soft of his throat. Lily stepped closer and gingerly patted his side.

"He's so cute," Lily cooed. Mary managed a faint smile.

"He's the sweetest," she agreed. Lily sighed softly, and Mary squeezed her eyes shut. Go away, she thought. Drop it. Drop it. Drop it.

"How's it going?"

Mary, in a rare moment, needed to play dumb: "What?"

"The weight loss," Lily said, very casually. "I've seen my sister on diets before, and – well, she gets all funny about things."

Mary shook her head. "It's fine." Lily chewed her lip and looked away, fingers still moving through Berlioz's long fur.

"I just – I know sometimes, when things are stressful…like, O.W.L year, and all the homework we have, or – well, there's been a lot on – sometimes things fall to the wayside. You get so caught up you forget to have lunch, or you're not getting enough sleep and the weight just falls off…" Mary's skin crawled as though she'd had spiders dumped on her. The sudden itchiness made her set Berlioz down and she sat, nails clawing up her sleeves and at the paling lines on her arms. She hugged herself, breathing hard. Go away, she thought again. Please. Please, Lord.

"If you want to talk," Lily said, gnawing her bottom lip, "erm…well, I wouldn't mind a distraction from our Herbology essay." She chuckled hollowly. Mary stared at her knees. There's nothing wrong! She wanted to scream. Can't you just be happy for me?

"Thanks," Mary said, a little coolly. "Um. I need -" to cry. To curl into a ball. What was Lily's problem? Was she jealous? No – she was the same size as Mary was now (was she? It seemed impossible that Mary might be joining her ranks), so there was nothing to worry about. As if anyone could be jealous of Mary. Who'd want to be a frizzy-haired freak with ruined nails who cried at the drop of a hat? With horrible scars all over her arms and the memory of Father Peters burned into her mind?

Tears welled in her eyes. She reached blindly for her bookbag.

"The library," she managed. "Um – for Herbology -" She slung the bag over her shoulder, wiping her eyes furiously and making for the door.

"Mary!" Lily called, as she grabbed the handle. "You're in your nightie!"

Mary stopped dead, looked down, and wanted to die. Now Marlene and Alisha and Amy were watching her – and Marlene seemed about to laugh. She really was going to cry. She felt trapped. The girls seemed ten feet tall. She couldn't traipse back in and admit her mistake, and she couldn't stand to talk about it with Lily anymore. With a stab in her chest, she realised that now Lily would only be more convinced something was wrong. Panic bubbled in her throat. She's going to hate me, she thought wildly. They're all going to hate me. Alisha's going to hate me for stealing her robes and Marlene and Amy are going to laugh at me and Lily isn't going to want me around anymore and the whole house is going to think I'm nothing but pathetic and useless and lazy –

"Can't you just leave well enough alone?" she burst out wetly. "I'm happy! It's none of your business what I do and I've been trying really hard, so just leave it alone!" Lily said nothing for a moment, then took a breath and shot Mary a scathing look.

"Fine," Lily said curtly. "Do what you like, but I'm not stupid. You can't live on grapefruit." Marlene faltered, turning to Lily.

"What are you -?"

Mary slammed the door behind her, tears bubbling over, trembling. What now? Where could she go? She either had to hide in one of the other dormitories – the prospect of having to talk to any other girls was mortifying – or go through the common room, which made her just about want to die. She covered her face with her hands, hunching over. What was wrong with her? Why was Lily behaving that way? Lord help me, she thought desperately. She fumbled her hands together and prayed desperately that Lily would drop it, that she'd forgive her – and for guidance on what to do now. God gave no answer.

"Who slammed -?" Alice Rhysfeld appeared a few steps above the landing. Mary lowered her hands from her face and sniffled, trying to look put together. "Mary?" Mary swallowed.

"It was me," she mumbled. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I just – I'm sorry – I didn't mean -"

Alice sighed. "Don't take it out on the door. Come on." She muttered a spell and conjured a handkerchief, passing it over. Mary's cheeks burned. She dabbed her cheeks, insides writhing in humiliation. Alice was Head Girl, and surpassingly lovely too, round and soft and curvy. "Did you have a row?"

Mary managed to nod, wanting to disappear. Don't go in and make a fuss about it. Please, please.

"You've got your books?" Alice asked, gesturing to the bag. Mary nodded again. "What subject?"

"Um," Mary mumbled. "Herbology."

"Oh! I'm alright at that," Alice said, as if it wasn't well-known she was one of the cleverest girls in her year. "I'm working on an essay for it at the moment too. Do you want to come up? I don't mind giving you a hand. They cover all the O.W.L content on our N.E. too, and I've been meaning to do some revision."

"Oh." Mary's stomach flipped. "I really don't want to in-"

"No," Alice interrupted. "Come on. Unless you're about to go downstairs like that, I think I might be your best bet for someone to revise with." In one swift movement, she grabbed the strap of Mary's bag and pulled it off her, hooking it over her own shoulder. "I'm serious about needing the review."

There didn't seem to be any other option. Mary scratched at her fingers.

"If you're sure," she said hesitantly. "As long as it isn't a bother."

"No bother," Alice said firmly. "Come on, then."

Mary followed her upstairs, picking at her nails all the while.

---

March 2nd, 1976

Sirius woke to James' alarm. Instantly, his day was ruined.

Two and a half hours later, he turned over again his bed, eyes heavy, sheets clinging to him, back aching. It was impossible to get comfortable, and he hadn't managed to get a second of sleep since James smacked the clock on his bedside table. First James had trotted around with the subtlety of a chimaera, humming as he got out his quidditch gear, dove in for a shower, brushed his teeth, pulled on his robes and socks and boots, poured a glass of water, combed his hair and talked to his reflection, before slamming the door on his way down to practice. Sirius didn't know how he ever slept through it. If James were halfway normal – still mental enough to wake up and go to practice that started at five in the morning, but halfway normal – he'd get up with ten minutes to spare and stumble down blindly to the changerooms, where he'd then let Brown rip into him while he dressed and showered. But no. James couldn't waste precious quidditch time, and there was a reason Sirius had never gone out for the team, despite being quite good on his broom.

Anyhow, after that, Peter had started snoring, and then Sirius had got a lump in his sheets that sat right beneath the small of his back and refused to let him sleep. By the time he rolled and tossed and turned and finally, muttering a stream of swears under his breath, got up, straightened out his sheets, and got back into bed, his pillow was warm on both sides, and smelt of fever and warm sick. He wondered if he was sick. At that point, he felt around for his wand on the table next to his bed, lazily pointed it at the toilet door James had left ajar, from which a head-splitting sliver of light fell through. He only hoped the same had happened with the cabinet.

"Accio Pepperup Potion." He held his hand up, ready to catch. It was mostly too dark to see, even when he squinted, but he figured it'd be alright. The Summoning Charm always worked for him. For Merlin's sake, he wasn't some whinging, talentless fourth-year. He was sixteen. The Summoning Charm was basically kid's stuff.

As expected, he caught the vial above his head. He uncorked it with his thumb and moved it down to his mouth to drink. Half-yawning, he tipped.

"Fuck!"

In his surprise, he tossed the vial into the air, and it shattered on the floor, along with the remnants of the potion.

Beams of light swelled behind the red curtains of each bed, and soon enough three faces poked out, looking at him.

"Sirius?" Peter yawned. Dale rubbed his eyes. Remus blinked groggily. His tawny hair was tousled, and the light from his wand made his skin glow, as though illuminated by moonbeams. Sirius' stomach clenched in some sort of anger; it was beyond unfair that Remus would never get to step into the light of a full moon just to feel it on his skin; that Sirius would never get to see him awash in its pale daze, the shadows only carving him into some Grecian statue, some remnant of an empire; a founder of Rome.

Then he felt nauseous.

"Fucked up," he said, voice clipped. "Ill. Dropped the potion."

Dale shut his curtains and thumped back onto the bed. Peter screwed his face up, in what might have been sympathy or fatigue. Sirius didn't want his sympathy. Remus, however, snorted.

"What?" Sirius snapped. Remus' eyes fell on his, and in the cover of night and bone-tiredness, Sirius almost flinched, or tumbled, or threw himself into the other boy's bed. He definitely had some sort of fever; his whole body burned with it.

"Good one," Remus said. Sirius' blood surged.

"D'you need help?" Peter mumbled, eyes closing. Sirius jerked his head.

"I'm fine," he said. Peter shrugged and crawled back into sleep. Remus kept watching.

"What?" Sirius said. Remus smiled.

"I heard your spell," he said. Before Sirius could answer, he too disappeared into his bed.

Heart pumping, Sirius muttered a cleaning spell and tried to vanish the shattered glass; it didn't work. He kicked the floor and settled for mending it, stomping over to the bathroom and shoving it into the cabinet. He pulled out one of the remaining vials and downed it in one gulp, hoping it'd give him another hour of sleep – did they have any Sleeping Draughts? He bent down and rummaged through. They had hair tonics, Pepperup, vodka – he swigged from that – Dale's grinder, a bottle of firewhisky, shampoo, hairspray, conditioner, an old bong, deodorant, a cream that James rubbed into his muscles after gruelling practices – no fucking Sleeping Draught. Sirius took another mouthful of vodka, a bit of firewhisky, and another vial of Pepperup for good luck, and stumbled back into bed.

The concoction did not bring him sleep.

So here he was, at seven, head thumping, the others getting ready around him. He rolled over and buried his face into his pillow. I just won't go today, he thought. Charms, Muggle Studies, Transfiguration… He'd kill himself if he had to drag himself in and take notes. No, he'd tell Remus to tell Flitwick he was ill, and he'd drink a bit to give him enough energy to get down to the Hospital Wing and tell Madam Pomfrey he had insomnia.

"We're going down to breakfast," Peter told him, with a voice like razor blades. Sirius wanted to hit him, but he couldn't be bothered to lift his arm.

"Fuck off," he mumbled.

"James should meet us there?" Peter said, prodding him lightly. Sirius groaned at the contact.

"F'off, Worm."

"We can take your books down and meet you in Charms?" Peter tried again. Every word pulsed through Sirius' brain, like a tight muscle contraction. Pain squeezed his eyeballs. Sirius gave a dry sob and kicked weakly with his legs.

"Fuuuck ooooooofff," he moaned.

Peter didn't say anything else directly to him, and soon enough their footsteps faded and the door opened and shut. Sirius pulled the covers over his head, breathing hard, eyes prickling. He was so, so tired. Keeping his eyes open was agony. He shut them and begged his body for sleep, squishing his nose against his pillow.

Refuge had not arrived by the time James entered. Sirius knew it was him without looking up; he recognised the sound of his footsteps, of his breathing, of his hand clicking as he flexed it. The curtains wrenched open and Sirius was aware of light. He clung to his warm pillow.

"Sirius?" The bed lowered slightly as James sat down. "Mate, what's up?" Sirius managed to shake his head. Even James felt like too much. He just wanted to rest…to slide into darkness…

"Right," James said, as though Sirius has replied. "Are you up for the trip to Pomfrey, or d'you want me to bring her here?" No, Sirius thought. Neither. But that'd bring McGonagall into the dormitory instead. Pomfrey might not approve, but she didn't take points or turn them in for a messy room, or contraband. Part of him wanted Pomfrey to come up. Then you'll be sorry you kept fucking banging on, Peter, he thought. Everyone'll think I'm dying and send cards and the like. Maybe they'll even take me through the school on a stretcher.

But, some strange, disconnected part of his brain said, that would be more work for James. Who'd been up since four-thirty.

Fuck him, he deserves it. He woke me up.

"I'll go," Sirius said into his pillow, regretting it the moment he said it.

He didn't bother to change, or even comb his hair. James half-wrenched him out of bed and he shrugged a silk dressing gown on, pushing his feet into slippers. Standing made him dizzy, and his whole body hurt. He needed bed. He needed to sleep. I'd rather die than go to Pomfrey. The thought flashed through his head, fleeing the moment it came, but all the same it burned into the front of his mind, as though a brand had been held to his forehead.

"Sirius?" James said, concern thick on his face.

"Fucking…" He didn't know what to say. James slung an arm around him and they shuffled to the door. Sirius froze, wanting to stay, wanting to crawl into his bed and disappear. But James pushed him through and shut the door behind. The staircase was empty, thank Merlin, but second-years hung in the common room like flies over a summer luncheon. They talked freely amongst themselves, and one dropped a book. Sirius gnashed his teeth. Go fucking die, he thought, glaring at the second-year. What gives you the right? You – you – but fog shrouded his thoughts, locking his words somewhere unreachable.

He and James hobbled down the corridors like contestants in a three-legged race, though really there was no reason why Sirius couldn't walk. Pain shot like lightning through his forehead, burning so hot he was certain he'd end up with scars. The world spun and his own footsteps were too loud.

"Is it your head that hurts?" James asked, as the doors of the Infirmary came into view. Sirius grunted.

"Head. Neck. Everywhere." He didn't miss James' concerned gaze flickering over him. It chafed. Sirius pulled at the stud in his right lobe, pressing his thumb into the sharp back of the earring. He wondered if it was strong enough to pierce through his skin. Make a hole in his thumb. What was inside there? Would it come out with his nerves strung around it? His veins, still beating with the last of the spurting Black blood?

At this time of the morning, the hospital wing was empty, save for the overnighters and Madam Pomfrey herself, who supervised the late-risers having breakfast. She looked up from helping a kid with a bandaged arm eat with his left hand, and her brows furrowed.

"Potter, Black," she said, standing. She brushed off her apron and came towards them. Lemon sunshine glittered on the tall glass of the windows, and Sirius squinted. "What mischief have you got into now? Have you got a note?"

"We haven't been to lessons yet," James said. "I went to get Sirius up for Charms but he's not feeling well. He had some Pepperup but I don't think it worked."

"Mm, you're not meant to be taking that without coming here," Madam Pomfrey said, but there was no real sternness in her voice. "Come on then, sit down." She gestured to an empty bed and started towards it. James and Sirius followed, and Sirius flopped down, elbows on his knees and hands holding up his head by two hunks of hair. James sat down next to him, but didn't touch him. Sirius didn't think he could stand to be touched. He wanted to break something.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Are you in pain? Where?"

"Head, neck, everywhere," James supplied promptly. Sirius shut his eyes.

"What sort of pain? Sharp, hot, cramping -?"

"All," Sirius muttered. "Stabbing behind my eyes. Ache in my neck. Rioting stomach. Can't sleep. Too hot."

"And when did this start?"

"I woke up when James went to practice. It was there then."

"Four-thirty," James answered, though he made a sound Sirius recognised as hesitancy. "I reckon he's been off for a couple of days, though. At least since Saturday morning." The weekend had passed in a blur. They'd got a bit pissed on the Friday night, playing cards and fucking around with the map, and he couldn't remember Saturday morning. He'd maybe had a row with Peter. Or Dale. Sunday he did remember, but he wished he didn't. From the time he woke his mother's voice was ringing in his head for wasting the previous day, and all he'd been able to do was smoke his way through a pack of cigarettes and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He hadn't had the energy to go for a fly or exploring or to the library for homework or down to the common room for chess. James had brought him up breakfast and the crossword, which barely kept him sane through the day, and a dinner he picked at and washed down with the last of the Firewhisky in his sock drawer. Joey Jenkins was seventeen now and going to do a run to Hogsmeade sometime this week, but it hadn't come yet and Sirius was out. Was he? Or was there still the vodka at the bottom of his trunk? And Monday – what had Monday been – he'd gone to his lessons, he thought. Probably. He couldn't remember not going.

"Saturday?" Madam Pomfrey asked. "Well. Did you have a big night on Friday evening?" James chuckled.

"Maybe a bit."

"And did you continue this?"

"Er." Sirius dug his nails into his face. "We didn't. I don't know if Sirius did. He – he didn't really get out of bed on Sunday. Or Saturday."

"He went to his lessons yesterday?"

"Yeah, but he was a bit…out of it."

Sirius wished he hadn't answered James. All he wanted to do was sleep.

"Mr Black, do you mind if I check a few things?" Sirius grunted. "Lay down, please."

James jumped off the bed and Sirius laid back, body aching as he did so. He couldn't be bothered to make sense of her murmured spells, and he spat into a mixture when he was obliged to and let her check his pulse and his breathing. She returned to them after a few minutes, and Sirius looked at her through narrow eyes.

"It doesn't appear as if there's any true illness," she said. "I suspect it may be a combination of sleep deprivation, a taxing weekend, and perhaps a weighty workload. It's not uncommon in fifth-years, especially as O. approach. Mr Black, might I ask, have you been experiencing any nerves about your examinations or your marks? Have you been studying late into the night, or missing meals?" James snorted and then quickly apologised.

"I don't care what I get," Sirius said sluggishly. Madam Pomfrey clicked her tongue.

"Very well. No need for Draught of Peace, no need for -"

"I'll take some," Sirius said, half-joking. He thought he could do with a clear head. "Or Calming Draught." Madam Pomfrey sighed.

"Mr Black, do you wish me to speak privately?"

"I'm not leaving," James said, as Sirius shook his head. Madam Pomfrey nodded slowly.

"As expected. Well. I must advise that you ought to be careful when consuming certain quantities of potions in addition to alcohol or other substances. It can – and I suspect it is – cause fatigue, headaches, body aches, irritability, nausea, as well as more severe side effects." James made a small noise of protest, but it died on his lips. Sirius managed to raise his eyebrows in acknowledgement. Tests must've shown it.

"Yep," he said. Madam Pomfrey stood.

"I'd like you to return at lunchtime, please, or sooner if you find yourself vomiting, becoming dizzy, fainting, or having cramping chest pains. Otherwise, I'll write you a note and I think you'd best get to Charms. Unfortunately, sometimes the best lessons can be learned simply by sitting through them." She scribbled and signed a slip of parchment she pressed into James' hand, and then Sirius got to his feet and the two boys left the hospital wing in the direction of Professor Flitwick's classroom.

"Sirius," James' voice came, thumping against the edges of his skull.

"Mm." Even to grunt was an effort. The stone floor was beginning to look inviting.

James chuckled awkwardly – which jarred, as things were never awkward between them. "Er," he said, and the word slicked the back of Sirius' neck with sweat. A draught blew down the corridor, but the world seemed muggy and oppressive. He pulled at his tie, trying to overcome it. "You know. It's all fun and shit, but. I dunno. It's not going to be fun if you end up really fucking yourself over." Sirius fingers froze on his throat.

"Well," he managed. "It's a bit late. I've already been fucked over. I doubt I can do more damage than my dear, beloved mama." He snorted. James did not.

"You're not fucked," James said flatly, stopping. Sirius groaned, pushing his sticky hair back from his face.

"Can we get to Charms?" he murmured, shutting his eyes. "My head's killing me." James squinted but obliged, moving forward, an arm reaching for Sirius. He dodged subtly, side-stepping just enough to miss the swish of his outstretched fingers.

"Just don't be a shithead," James said. "It's a waste anyways. Just save it and enjoy it properly, you know?" This time, his hand did reach Sirius, and thumped his back.

"We're two of the richest people in the country," Sirius muttered to himself. "What do we care about waste?"

Charms was painful. Peter kept asking if he felt better and they were thrust into the middle of a theoretical lesson. The work wasn't hard, but Sirius couldn't be bothered to read the pages they were working from nor to write anything on the roll of parchment he shared with Peter. James was fortunate enough to join up with Remus before Sirius could be bothered to open his mouth to ask, and so James didn't even have to contribute (though he did) because Remus had written six of the eight inches required by the time they arrived. Sirius laid his head on the desk and ignored Peter's incessant questioning until the bell chimed and Flitwick dismissed them.

It was a relentless, foul day, thick with warm haze. They went to Muggle Studies, where they were discussing the first muggle world war. Professor Clearwater used a muggle implement he was fond of – with a name Sirius could never recall – to put still photographs of young men in uniforms on the blackboard. Then he pulled down a map and got them to recite the names of muggle leaders, and battles. The only remotely interesting part was when he put up photos of the weapons.

"Rifle," they said together. "Grenade." They faltered.

"Bayonet," Young, from Ravenclaw, volunteered.

"That's right. Take a point," said Professor Clearwater.

"Bayonet," they chanted. "Aeroplane. Tank. Bullet."

Sirius had ended up liking the book they'd studied, even if the shit about animals bewildered him, and what followed on its heels had been interesting enough. There had been a revolution in Russia, where the Tsar and his family had ended up killed and a new government – had it started with a 'B'? – took over. They'd been shown pictures of the family, and Sirius had stared at them. The queen – Tsarina, he thought it had been – had the look of his Aunt Druella, and the little boy had something of Sirius' own father, in the photographs he had been shown. It had refused to leave his mind. Their afterimage burned into his skull as he tried to sleep, and his stomach turned with unease to think of it. But still, he had preferred that to learning about the muggle wars, the big ones. What did he care about some muggles blowing themselves up? What did it have to do with his life, or wizards at all? He would've preferred to keep talking about music or books or even their tellyfonds. The way he saw it, a rifle couldn't well pierce a Shield Charm and a grenade was just a rudimentary version of Bombarda.

They slumped out of Muggle Studies and into yet another class, Transfiguration. He sat at the back and balled his hands into his eyes, considering popping them out. He didn't understand a word McGonagall said and didn't flinch when she took five points for his lack of concentration. Lunch finally came and Sirius left his friends in the Great Hall, stumbling upstairs to bed. His legs burned by the time he reached the dormitory, and he flung himself into the covers, the heartbeat in his head drowning out all else. They torture me, he thought. They're practically begging me to go and off myself. In the fumble he'd lost his wand, and so he could only longingly stare at the cabinet beneath the sink, trying to summon the alcohol within by sheer force of will. Some wizards could do wandless, nonverbal magic – why couldn't he? But somewhere in his efforts he fell into blackness and woke to James above him.

"Care of Magical Creatures," he said. Go die, was the first thought through Sirius' brain. It jolted him, a bolt of fear flaring. He didn't mean that. He didn't. What the fuck was wrong with him? He panicked, throwing off the covers and sitting upright, bringing his hands up where he could examine them. They trembled ever so slightly. What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with my brain?

"Can't," Sirius said, hoping his voice didn't shake to betray him. "Ket won't notice."

James fiddled with a chain around his neck – that stupid one his idiot girlfriend had given him.

"You're right?" he said, not meeting his eyes. "I really can't be bothered to go back to Pomfrey today."

Sirius shook his head. "No Pomfrey," he agreed. James drummed his fingers against his collarbone.

"Alright. Herbology next, set your alarm."

"See you later."

James left, and Sirius rolled over without touching the clock. This time, however, he was not blessed with sleep. He sweat until the sheets were soaked, and a lump the size of Ireland lodged in his windpipe, until he had to prop himself up on his elbows to breathe. He was too tired to get up, but his fingers were restless, and clammily marked his pillow. He staggered up ten minutes before Herbology, and arrived five minutes late, almost walking into James, who had chosen the bench closest to the door and admonished him for laziness. Sirius told him to fuck off. He'd forgot his gloves and spent the hour dead on his feet, resenting every blade of sunlight that penetrated the glass walls and sought to rip out his eyeballs and blind him.

Last for the day – because no way in hell was he getting up in the middle of the night to go to Astronomy – was Defence. When they entered the classrooms the desks were gone, stacked up against the walls, and unlike the rest of the class, Sirius could not conjure up any excitement for a practical lesson. He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes, hoping he could pair up with Peter, lay on the floor, and let the bastard curse him until Forcier called them off.

He felt someone next to him. Recognised the pattern of breathing, and where they heat came from – a tall, thin frame. He opened one eye barely enough to let the light in, and the badge on the other boy's chest confirmed it.

"Moony," he murmured. Remus exhaled a little harder, in a sort of laugh.

"Sirius," he said, amused. Sirius' face contorted. The laughter stung, somehow, but his eyes were too heavy to bother with an interrogation.

"Good afternoon," said Professor Forcier, his deep voice like a blade. "Thank you for being so prompt. As you can see, today's lesson is practical. None of you have had the chance to talk to the Ravenclaws or Slytherins?" There was a general consensus of 'no'. "Good. I find that when people have too much warning, they tend to get in their head about it. I don't want that. I want you fresh and willing." Peter snorted and whispered some little remark to James.

"To begin," Professor Forcier continued, and Sirius leaned his head further back, begging for sleep, "could anyone tell me what their understanding of a boggart is?"

"Fuck." Sirius' eyes flew open. The curse was barely off Remus' lips. They locked eyes. Remus' deep brown reflected the panic in Sirius'. For a moment, the racing of their hearts stretched between them. Remus looked away.

"It's, um, a dark creature that can turn into whatever your worst fear is when you see it," said a Hufflepuff girl.

"Yes, essentially. Have a point. Boggarts are amortal – that is, they weren't born and can't die – dark creatures that, upon being seen by a human, transform into a representation of their worst fears. Boggarts feed on terror. Who can tell me where they might be found?" Sirius knew that Remus knew – his father had faced boggarts, if Sirius remembered correctly, and when they'd covered them in Care of Magical Creatures, his hand had shot into the air most times before Kettleburn finished asking the question. But there was a toe-curling expression on Remus' face that made it clear he would not be answering.

Fear.

"They like dark spaces, don't they?" said Marlene. "Forests, alleyways, that kind of thing. Attics."

"Precisely. A point, Miss McKinnon. Boggarts," Professor Forcier said, wandering to one side of the room, "live in the shadows. Why do you think we are instinctively afraid of the dark? Because of the unknown, yes, but because many a person has been cornered by a boggart, and see their worst fears come, they believe, to light. As you grow older, I imagine you will now be spending much more time in dark, seedy places than you have previously," a few people laughed, "and so it's important to learn how to deal with these creatures, should you come across them. While they do not themselves actively seek to hurt or kill, when people are afraid, they may act in irrational ways that can result in injury or death." He began ticking off his fingers. "People have run off cliffs, shot curses into the night, jumped in front of brooms or trains, climbed to great heights and fallen, attacked those around them, or simply dropped from fright. It's important that we learn to remain calm in the face of a boggart and defeat it without panicking."

Sirius' fingers went to his earring, and twisted. Remus folded his arms across his chest.

"Now, unlike many spells you will come across, this spell does not itself defeat the creature. Instead, it is a tool that we can use to help us defeat it. Can anyone tell me what it is that defeats a boggart?"

"Laughter," James said.

"Hand, next time, Potter. But yes. Laughter defeats a boggart, and laughter and levity is one of our greatest weapons against fear. Now as for the spell, this is the movement," he demonstrated it, "and the incantation is riddikulus. If you could repeat it."

"Riddikulus," said the class. Sirius did not join them, and neither did Remus, who looked as though he was made of wax.

"Good. Now, the key is to not think to hard about what it might be before you go – your nerves will get to you and it'll make it bigger than what it really is. Remember, the boggart cannot harm you; only your fear can. When you see the boggart, I want you to remember that you are safe, you are in control, and it is nothing more than a pesky little creature that wants your attention." He smiled. "Like a younger brother. Or at least, like mine."

Sirius thought of Regulus. His feet tensed.

"Now, it's in here. If you'll please get into an orderly line, and go one at a time. Remember, riddikulus."

"Riddikulus."

"That's right. And if there's any taunting, you'll be sent right out, understand? Good."

The others began to queue, as Forcier levitated a trunk and brought it in front of them. James sent Sirius and Remus a questioning look, but only momentarily; then he was busy shoving to get to the front. Sirius wanted to sink into the wall. He considered just walking out; what would they do? Give him detention? He wasn't afraid of detention.

"Smoke?" he asked Remus, whose whole body seemed primed to explode. He clenched his hands together, knuckles white, and his jaw looked ready to go through his skull. His neck was taut.

"It'll be stranger if we leave," he said stiffly. Sirius shrugged.

"I don't care."

"No," Remus said, eyes flickering across him. "I'll go to the back. Might not get through everyone." Remus slid his hands into his pockets and started, head down. Sirius watched. Remus' boggart was not difficult to guess. A wolf, Sirius thought, maybe the one that bit him. Of everyone there, Remus had the most to be afraid of, and the most logical, rational fear. He couldn't imagine what anyone else there would have to be scared of. James' was probably losing a quidditch match or being thrown off the team or something – not being as good as he thought he was, and being humiliated. Evans' might be James' face, for which over the years she had expressed a particular distaste. What did Peter have to be frightened of? Maybe failing all his O. , Sirius thought. There was a bit of a risk of that. And Dale's would be bad chop.

"Black," Forcier called across the room. Several pairs of eyes fell on him. "Go on, get in line. You're letting all the girls go first."

Sirius bristled. Nevertheless, he strode over to join Remus. "Chivalry," he called back. Forcier raised an eyebrow.

"Mm, or cowardice." Sirius snorted, shrugging the accusation off, but it smarted. Coward.

"You're the one getting children to face it instead of doing it yourself, sir," he said, not directly to him, but loud enough that several others in the line heard. Some of the Hufflepuff girls giggled.

"Pardon?" Forcier called. Sirius conjured a soulless grin and turned away. Forcier ignored him.

"Right, Potter, you first. Try not to scream."

"Oh, I'll do my best, sir." James ruffled his hair, full of easy confidence. Forcier flipped open the lid of the trunk. A dark shape darted upwards, and Sirius' heart leapt into his mouth.

It was him. It was Sirius. Standing in front of James, leaning, unsteady. He saw James flinch. Someone laughed.

"The fuck's wrong with you?" Boggart-Sirius slurred, clearly drunk. "All you – you – you ever fucking do is try to control me. You're not my father. Fucking hell, James, you think you're the still point of the turning world. Do you ever think about leaving well enough alone?" And then Boggart-Sirius had a vial in his hand. It glanced furtively at James and turned its back, swigging. More people giggled. Currents of anxiety ran through Sirius, and he could feel Remus' soft gaze on him, wondering. He had to do something.

"Merlin, Potter, you're that frightened of me?" he shouted, forcing a laugh. Boggart-Sirius slumped onto the floor, propping his head up with one hand, and looked about to cry. Hurry up, James! "Am I that scary even on the ground? I'd better use that next time!" The class laughed harder. James looked back again, an odd look on his face, and then he whirled around.

"Riddikulus!" Boggart-Sirius sprung up and its hair grew longer, as did its lashes. Robes changed to a dress and Boggart-Sirius posed flirtatiously. The class roared with laughter, and Remus covered his mouth with his hand, eyes alight.

"Alright, you're done, Potter," Forcier said, waving him off. James bowed to the class dramatically, his glasses falling off. "You're next, Pettigrew."

"Me?" Peter said, apparently only now realising he had been standing behind James and was second in line. "Oh – shit – sorry, Professor – James!"

Sirius watched curiously as Peter faced the boggart. After a moment, Boggart-Sirius turned to McGonagall, who demanded to know what Peter thought he was doing here, claiming that there had been a mistake, that his wand would have to be snapped and he'd be sent home immediately. Before Peter could respond, the boggart became James, laughing cruelly, and then it was Sirius. Then Remus. Girls like Evans and Marlene, and a pretty sixth-year, and Snape.

"No," Peter said weakly. "No, I got my letter."

"The spell, Mr Pettigrew," Forcier prompted.

"Erm – er – riddikulus!"

The boggart blinked, confused, but simply reverted to McGonagall. Peter moaned.

"Come on, Peter!" James said.

"Er – bugger, bugger – riddikulus!"

It was Remus by the time Peter got it to turn into a copycat of James, cheering and jumping up and down excitedly like a little girl. Peter, pale, joined James.

Sirius and Remus watched the steady flow of students. Dale saw a man Sirius didn't know, shouting obscenities, and turned him into an old man in a bathtub, complete with a shower cap, bubbles, and patterned curtains. Evans saw a wintry street, lined with rundown houses and dirty, overgrown gardens, and dark figures darting across, hiding in thick bushes and flowerbeds. Her voice shook, but it became a pleasant Christmas market in the end. Marlene saw a locked door, and Macdonald a gargantuan woman. The Hufflepuffs saw failed tests and dead parents and their friends laughing at them and one a wizard in a tall, dark hood and robes black as ink – it looked naggingly familiar, like something he'd spotted in the paper. As much as he watched the others, he watched the clock. They had five minutes to go by the time the last of the Hufflepuffs dispersed, and only Remus and Sirius were left. Sirius assumed it would be time for them to pack up. Indeed, the others dispersed, slinging bookbags over their shoulders, hovering by the door. Sirius shrugged and left the queue, slumping towards James and Peter.

"Black," said Forcier. Sirius raised his head. "Come on, then. Everyone else has had a turn. It's part of a lesson." He laughed. "You're usually rearing to go." Sirius stopped. James opened his mouth, beginning to have a go, but Sirius gave a shake of his head and he fell silent.

"Fine," he said. He stormed back, pulling his wand out, and pointed it at the boggart before it had the chance to change from someone's failed Herbology paper. Once his eyes were on it squarely, it began to change. A sickness swirled in his stomach. He was tempted to shout the incantation the moment he saw its form, as soon as Forcier would allow, but then Remus would have to go. Four minutes, twenty-six seconds until the bell rang. If Remus' was something to do with the wolf, with the moon –

He couldn't let the others see it. Remus would be terrified. It could compromise him. People were idiots, and if they put it together, they'd be whinging and kicking and screaming at their parents and Dumbledore until they got what they wanted.

The boggart became Walburga Black.

Four minutes, twenty-two seconds.

She was bigger than him. He had long grown past her, but here she loomed, him barely reaching her shoulder. She towered over him, blocking out the light of the chandelier, shadows flickering across her face, painting her in high contrast. Sirius coiled, heart pounding in his throat. It's not real, he told himself. Just wait it out. For Moony. For now, she was silent. She just stood over him, a look in her eyes Sirius would've known anywhere, at the ends of the earth.

Disappointment.

It was nothing new. He drew himself up, and resolved to look her in the eye. A moment of contact shattered that. He met her grey gaze and felt as though he was melting, as though she could see through him, to the very depths of him. As if she could see every bad thing he'd ever done. My alcoholic wastrel of a son. Merlin, this was what Regulus would see in his wildest dreams, not as his boggart. He laughed mirthlessly. The boggart twitched, confused, but kept its form.

Then she opened her mouth, and words emerged in a hiss.

"Look what you've done to me," she whispered. Sirius froze. It's not real. It's not real. "I must be a terrible mother." It's not real. It's not real. But it had her voice exactly, her essence, and he felt like a child again. She grew taller. "You never think about anyone but yourself, do you, Sirius Black?" Her eyes burned into him. This apparition of her was a humiliation. If she heard about it – well, it wouldn't be anything new. He had been defiling her name since he could talk. But she would cry. He knew, next time he saw her, if she had heard about this, she would be crying, she would fling herself onto the chaise lounge, she would pronounce her devastation. How could he do this to her? How could he show the world in his family in this light?

"How cruel can you be?" asked the boggart-mother, shaking her head, holding a quivering hand to her face. "Don't you know how lucky you are that we don't tell anyone?"

Sirius paled. But they know. They're watching. His eyes moved to the cluster of students standing by the door, paused, brows furrowed, faces bemused.

"Look at me!" she shrieked, and rushed down towards him. Sirius snapped back to attention and inhaled as she stopped her face an inch from his, breathing raggedly. It's not real. If it had been, he would be able to feel her breath.

"Remember the spell, Black," Forcier called, watching with his arms crossed. He would not be allowed to go until he had transformed the boggart into something funny, butt that didn't stop him from laughing. He had time to kill. Sirius reached into the depths of his stomach and procured a snide snort.

"You don't scare me," he told the boggart, but he could not hold his wand steady. The boggart moved back, thinking, recalculating.

"Little boys with hatred in their hearts -"

Sirius laughed again, drowning out the second half of her sentence, though the edges of the room began to blunt. The clock. Only a little longer. His stomach hurt. Nobody said a word. The boggart drew itself back again, and laughed, a cold, high echo of his that turned his heart to ash. When she smirked, there was a wildness in her eyes.

"Your behaviour," she began, almost relishing the words, savouring the moment, excited, "is manipulative, Sirius." It's not real, he told himself, but the protest was weak. It's not real. She raised an eyebrow, smile broadening. Manipulative. He wasn't. Or, not for his own gain. No. Not at all, he wasn't, he wasn't. He just – he only – the words fell apart. Lightning pain speared through his body.

"Fuck off," he murmured. "Fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off." Something snapped within her. She screamed, a blow of fury, and Sirius winced, bringing his hands up to shield himself.

"The spell, Black!" Forcier commanded. "Riddikulus. It shouldn't take you this long." The clock, where was it?

Forty-five seconds.

"Look what you've done to your little brother!" she howled. "His soul eaten away! My son!"

Sirius could not breathe. He was going to die. He gasped furiously, throat closing, tightening. And then she just screamed. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and Sirius tried to look at the clock, fought through blurry eyes until there were thirty seconds left.

"Sir!" James shouted. James. "Get him away from it!"

"He has to -"

James was at Sirius' side in an instant. The boggart began to change rapidly, flickering between Sirius and his mother, but that was worse. Their eyes stayed the same. They looked so much alike. He was his mother. Sirius was his mother. His stomach convulsed. He had his wand – he needed to lift it – he couldn't manage it – his head hurt, he was so tired, he just wanted to die, just let it end, just –

The bell rang.

James grabbed him by the arm, reached to get a fistful of Remus' robes, and pulled them bodily from the classroom even as Forcier shouted after them, taking points. They turned down corridors until they found one that was empty, and James let go, breathing hard.

"That was fucked up," James said, voice thick with anger. "Forcier's fucked in the head."

"He'll be cross," Remus said, hugging himself. "He didn't get the chance to bare my soul to the class."

"What a fucked-up way to do it," James said, carding his fingers through his hair. "I know we need to learn that, but what the fuck?"

"James?" Peter appeared at the end of the corridor, carrying three bookbags – his own as well as Sirius' and Remus'. His face melted into relief when he saw them, and he hurried over.

"Are you alright?" he asked them stupidly, handing over their bags. Sirius couldn't speak. He only looked at James, whose eyes, like this morning, were round with concern.

There was time before dinner, but Sirius couldn't think, couldn't talk, couldn't pull air into his lungs. He hurried from their lesson blindly, until he found a disused classroom, which he threw himself into. The others followed, panting. He didn't bother with warding off the darkness. If there were more boggarts in here, fine. Fuck it. Fuck it. He couldn't hold his wand steady enough to light his cigarette, so Remus did it for him. Sirius sat on the floor, back against the wall, and tilted his head upwards, blowing out smoke. James and Peter tried to talk about anything and everything – quidditch, girls, the news, the next Hogsmeade trip – but their words washed over him. Remus was as silent as he was, sitting next to him, and together they demolished the best part of half a packet before dinner. When they made it to the Great Hall, he didn't eat. He couldn't. He had no alcohol, either, so he angrily downed a cup of pumpkin juice and pushed his plate aside, laying his head on his arms on the table until they left.

He couldn't face Astronomy. He couldn't. Instead, after dinner he climbed into bed without showering and pulled the blankets over himself, burrowing into the mattress. He stared blankly at the curtains, unable to close his eyes for fear of what he might see when he opened them again. They had all seen. They all knew that his greatest fear was a scowling middle-aged witch of no importance telling him off. He looked like an idiot. Shame burned in his chest, hot as firewhisky. Others were afraid of Voldemort, of being murdered, of their family or friends or pets dead, of being crippled permanently, of being attacked, and he fell apart at the sight of his own mother. And they would all think he was evil, now. Who in the right mind hates their mother? How evil do you have to be? Pressure bound his face, crushing him – he gasped for air, an invisible hand choking the life from him. You idiot. Why do you care so much? What does it matter what she says? You're being a child. A petulant, idiot child. He could nearly hear her voice making the words, doing the scolding. A memory flitted through his mind, and it turned him cold. He retched against the back of his hand, fear vibrating within. He was seven years old, and running up the stairs as fast as he could, but she was gaining on him. He had longer legs than he, after all. And he did not know where he would go once he reached the top.

But he had reached the top, he remembered. He had reached the top landing and the door to his bedroom, but he knew she would follow him inside, even if he shut the door. There was a window, but it was a long way down, and he was frightened. In the time he had spent thinking on what to do, she had reached him, coming up the top step. She had been so much taller than him then, and her face swallowed up his sight. He backed up – his back had hit the wall – and she gnashed her teeth. Her hands slammed either side of him, trapping him. Tears stung his eyes and he looked at her stomach because he was terrified of seeing her face aglow with anger, with hatred. She hated him, he was sure of it. But only because he was bad.

"Look at me," she'd snarled. She wasn't always like this. She had been fine earlier, almost happy, until Sirius had said something bad. He couldn't remember what.

Shaking, he raised his eyes.

She screamed.

A guttural, mutilating scream, violent with rage, hit Sirius directly in the face, and the terror hit him so squarely that he screamed too, high-pitched and desperate, bashing himself against the wall, as if he might break it and create an avenue of escape. Her fury rained down on him as she brought her face closer, spittle hitting his face, and he bashed his shoulder into the black wallpaper, clawing desperately, tears boiling over and sprinting down his cheeks.

"Mummy?!"

Sirius barely recognised his brother's voice, but the panicked shriek that followed was unmistakable. Pain blew through Sirius' shoulder and he sobbed desperately, wilting from her scream, heart in his mouth. Help me, he thought. Help me help me help me Father Andi Andi Andi help me help me help me.

"Regulus!"

She stopped screaming at once, but Sirius could not, though his throat was raw and angry. She pushed herself up and ran to Regulus, scooping him into her arms, bent down to his level. Regulus threw his arms around her and cried into her shoulder. Sirius panted, still furled against the wall, legs wobbling.

"My poor baby," she cooed, stroking Regulus' hair, tears running down her cheeks. Sirius' heart plummeted. Her eyes were red, her cheeks blotchy. She had cried. She had cried because of him. He had been so bad that she'd cried. He stopped screaming, now unable to form words, tongue fat. "What has he done to us?" she sobbed. "Shh, shh. My poor baby." She looked up, meeting Sirius eyes', her gaze wounded. He'd hurt her.

"Mummy," he started, holding back sobs, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know that I've been bad, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm -"

"Saying sorry changes nothing," she hissed, letting go of Regulus and standing. The younger boy reached for her hand and she took it firmly, stepping in front of him as though to shield him from his elder brother. "Saying sorry without changing your behaviour is manipulative, Sirius. Look what you've done to your little brother! Look what you've done to me! How cruel can you be? Is that what you are? The kind of wizard who attacks women and children? I never. The House of Black has never produced such a wizard, do you know how shameful it is, the way that you behave?"

"I'm sorry," Sirius blubbered. "I am sorry, Mummy, I am, I didn't mean to, I didn't!"

"It doesn't matter what you meant!" She barked a laugh. "What matters is what you did. You won't take any responsibility! You'd rather blame everyone else around you than admit that you've done something wrong!"

"I know it was wrong," Sirius cried, though he could not remember what it was that he had said, that he had done. "I am sorry, I know it was wrong, I know I'm wrong, I know it was bad, I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm bad, I know!"

"Stop crying! Your chimaera tears don't fool me. You never think about anyone but yourself, do you, Sirius Black? What if someone had flooed while you were carrying on like that? Your Aunt Druella? What would she say, if she knew what you do to us?" She made a noise of disgust. "Don't you know how lucky you are that we don't tell anyone? Can't you see how much I love you? If anyone found out…" And she wiped a finger beneath her eye, sniffling. "They tell me little boys like you, little boys with such hatred in their hearts -"

"I don't hate!" Sirius burst out. "I love you! I love you!"

"Don't talk back!" she demanded, words sharp as curses. And then she fell back, her body changing, heaving and sighing. "Oh, Sirius. I don't know what I've done wrong. I must be a terrible mother. I wish that you could forgive me – I wish you could love me -"

"I do," Sirius said, almost begging. "I love you, I do, I do."

"Little boys with such hatred in their hearts," she rued, circling back, "they say – boys like that end up in Azkaban."

"No!" Sirius cried, cringing once more against the wall, arms up as though he might be attacked. "No, I won't, I won't, I won't -"

"Ravaged by dementors!" she shrieked, half-mad. Regulus paled. "His soul eaten away! Worse than dead! My son! Because of my failure!"

"NO!" Because dementors were the monsters in his wardrobe, beneath his bed, outside his window, looking in, waiting, ready to feast.

Sirius woke, breathing hard, not having realised that he had fallen asleep. He sat up, kicking off the blankets that confined him, heart smashing against his ribs. The dormitory was silent. Panting, his feet touched the ground and he peered through the curtains. The clock was pointed somewhere around two o'clock. They'd not woken him for Astronomy.

He felt lopsided. As though the room was tilted. He staggered into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and then fumbling for the light. It hummed gently with magic, so quiet it could only be heard in the dead of night. Sweat poured down his face. Sirius bent his head over the basin, hands gripping the edges of the sink. The bathroom light cast half his face into shadow in the mirror. Dark spots danced in his eyes and he looked up. He seemed like a sort of ghost. If it weren't for the cool ceramic biting into his palms, he might've thought he was drifting away into nothing. His lungs trembled, and he felt a hard ball of water block his throat. He was so fucking exhausted. He leaned forward until his forehead touched the cold glass, his breath fogging. He wanted to scream. He wanted to smash the mirror into pieces. He wanted to turn the tap in the shower and sit on the floor, letting the cold water wash over him until he broke out of his goddamned head or drowned. He wanted something else to bite him hard enough that he didn't have to think about being a person anymore.

The light changed behind his eyelids.

"Sirius?"

Like something from a dream. He opened his eyes and caught Remus behind him, pallid face illuminated by the harsh light, framed by the darkness of the dormitory beyond and the rectangular doorway. In one movement, half-fumbling, he grabbed Remus by the wrist, pulled him inside, and shut the door. Then came the task of facing him. Sirius clutched the sink still with his left hand, and backed up until the shower curtain tickled his back. Remus stood in front of the toilet, dark circles beneath his eyes, check pyjamas hanging loose on him.

"Sirius," Remus said, a little knot between his eyebrows. Sirius shook his head. Remus gently pulled his wrist from his grasp and rubbed. "Sirius, I – I -"

Sirius' grip on the sink tightened.

"Sirius, I need to piss."

Sirius looked up into his face, and saw the tiny smile upon Remus' lips. His eyes were bleary and blinky, and his hair was rumpled from sleep. His blue veins caught the harsh toilet light and seemed to glow, like his skin was threaded with sunset seawater, deep blue, burnished with the porcelain peach of his skin like a cloudy horizon. A fever rose within Sirius, hot and thick, squeezing the air out of him, setting his skin on fire. Remus inhaled. They stood so close Sirius could almost smell his night-breath. The smile on his lips dissipated.

"I, erm, typically prefer to go about this alone," Remus said, knitting his fingers together. Sirius stood, pushing himself off the sink, an iron rod of energy, of heat, of life pulsing through him. The fog that curled through his brain seemed to spread into the room, and shrouded the world save for Remus' curious, amused, worn face. The light reflected on the tiles behind his head like a crystalline halo. Strands of tawny hair fell onto his face, falling over two thin lines that marked his forehead, barely visible, only seen because Sirius' eyes felt like they had fireworks popping behind the irises, in each stoke of grey that coloured them. Lines. Remus was all lines – across his forehead, the scars that marked his arms, inflicted by both the moon and his own hand. His body was one long, thin line, made with one brushstroke, and his face, too, followed the shape. He could have been drawn by pencil in Sirius' watering, exhausted eyes, where he fell into shades of swirling grey.

Sirius thoughtlessly stepped forward. Remus' throat bobbed. He leaned back, but his feet scarcely moved an inch, and there was room for him to step. But he stayed. Sirius had to tilt his head very slightly to meet his eyes. Life pounded through his body, slamming against his skin, jumping out of his chest, and at the same time he was not quite awake. It felt all a dream, slipping through his fingers like water spilling from cupped hands. He could not think, but he could feel, he could feel, he could feel –

And for the first time in twenty-four hours, he did not feel in pain.

He laughed.

Remus' eyebrows arched.

"Are you high?"

But now Sirius could only smile. An impulse shorted behind his fingernails and suddenly he put his palm against Remus' cheek, feeling the lines of the bones beneath his skin, holding his outline. And creating a line between them, if jagged due to proximity. Was it truly a line if it wasn't straight?

"Sirius," Remus said, expression unrecognisable.

That frightened him. In the dead of night, he could admit to himself that it frightened him.

"Moony," he managed, the place where their skin met sizzling, crackling, as though it were a space of its own and alive, about to decide whether it would kill them both. Sirius' chest tightened, but not with pain. He breathed another ragged laugh, dimly sure that he was losing it, or that this was unreal, that he would turn to the mirror and see nothing but the closed door behind him, that he would wake in a twist of warm, wet sheets. But it did not hurt. He did not hurt. He could not – he could not even fathom what might hurt him. It was locked away, in the world beyond the toilet door, where things mattered.

In the dormitory toilet at three in the morning, nothing mattered but them.

Remus' unreadable eyes.

Sirius had to go.

"Miracle cure," he whispered. Remus' expression softened infinitesimally and then hardened, eyes narrowing, eyebrows lowering, mouth opening, and Sirius could say and do no more. He dropped his hand as though burned and fled, slamming the door behind him, not caring who he woke, and tore through his curtains and into his bed, desperate, mad for sleep, the imprint of Remus seared into his hand.