A/N: And we're back! It's been exactly a year since I last posted, and what a year it's been. I'm excited to share what I've been working on with you!
My plan is to update weekly-ish for about a month, and then post new chapters every 2-3 weeks or so. I still have about a quarter of the story to write, so I want to give myself time to finish.
There are a few warnings for year 7: the canonical death of a family member (not a parent, but I won't say more!), and there's a scene with racism. Not many warnings this time around... the pandemic has been horrible enough that I didn't want to write about more horrible things!
If you left a review on the previous chapter, I'm working on answering those. In the meantime, enjoy the update!
It was a perfect summer's day in Cokeworth, and the town's main street was humming with activity. Idle conversation filled the air, punctured by the occasional honk of a car horn as a football whizzed past, courtesy of the schoolchildren running about the street. Less idle were the housewives who wore sensible dresses and harried expressions as they flitted from the grocer's to the chemist's, pausing only to exchange brief pleasantries with one another.
One young woman, in particular, marched from shop to shop with a determined expression and a shopping list clenched in her fist. At first glance, she appeared to be a perfectly ordinary seventeen-year-old girl: her dark red hair was cut in a fashionable layered shag, and her yellow dress clung flatteringly to her waist. If any passersby were to glimpse her shopping list, however, they would have been surprised to see words like 'owl' and 'dress robes' written beneath more ordinary items such as 'ham' and 'washing-up liquid'.
Lily Evans had already acquired ham from the butcher's, and washing-up liquid from the recently-opened Tesco, but the last two items on her list — which were the most important of all — had eluded her. No shop sold dress robes in the sleepy, stubbornly Muggle town of Cokeworth. The odds of finding an owl were even worse, let alone one that had been trained to deliver magical correspondence. A desperate bit of foolish hope had led her to the post office, where she'd asked the red-faced, slightly sweaty clerk if they had an owl she could use ( "An owl?!" the clerk had bellowed, growing redder and sweatier by the second. "Have you lost your ruddy mind?").
Maybe I have lost my mind, Lily thought as she entered Cokeworth's least depressing pub for lunch. A part of her still couldn't believe that she was trying so hard to find an owl, especially considering the person she was trying to send a letter to.
She took a seat at her favourite spot, a rickety wooden table by the window, then put away her shopping list and drew another scrap of paper out of her pocket. This bit of paper was textured and slightly yellow; it had been torn from the sort of parchment that wizards wrote on.
Write to me at Hartwood Cottage, read the scrap of parchment. That's our summer home — the owl will know where to go. It was signed 'J. P.'
Lily had written to him. Well, she'd started several letters, all of which had ended up in the bin after only a few sentences. Her first attempts had been altogether too stuffy, as if she was writing to a distant cousin instead of a friend who had saved her life the previous school year. She'd loosened up with subsequent letters, but those hadn't been any better, either; she'd ended up sounding too casual — 'James, what's new?' — and utterly unlike herself.
As Lily ate her lunch, she began to consider that at this rate, finding an owl was the least of her problems. She had no use for an owl if she didn't even have a letter to send. At last, she pulled a diary out of her bag and began to write, trying not to overthink things.
James,
How are you? Having a good summer? I've no idea what you wizarding types do during the holidays, but I imagine it involves keeping your Quiddich skills sharp and taking Portkeys to exotic destinations abroad (tell me the last bit isn't true, or I might die of jealousy).
Here is what Muggles do in the summer: they judge the state of their neighbours' front gardens. That's the favourite pastime of my sister, Petunia, at least. Her other favourite pastime is talking incessantly about the boyfriend she acquired while I was at Hogwarts (can you tell she's driving me mad?).
I'm not sure if the boyfriend is as interested in the affairs of our neighbours as Tuney is, but I suppose I'll find out. Mum's invited him round for dinner, so I'll be meeting him tonight.
Speaking of boyfriends —
Lily paused, her pen hovering over the paper. Her mouth was suddenly dry; she took a sip of water before continuing.
Speaking of boyfriends, have you thought any more about what we talked about at the end of last term? About pretending to date? I'm still game if you are, but we'll need a good cover story. Nobody is going to believe we're together if we don't get our facts straight.
I was thinking that we could tell people we ran into each other in Diagon Alley, went shopping, and shared ice cream at Fortescue's. One thing led to another, and we've been meeting weekly in London since. What do you think?
Lily picked up the diary and reread what she had written. This letter was her best yet: it sounded friendly yet casual, as though she hadn't given much thought at all to the subject. James didn't need to know about the hours she'd spent composing letters in her head while lying in bed, only to forget their contents upon waking the next morning.
I actually will be in London next Monday, she wrote. If you're free, we really could meet in Diagon Alley. That would give us a rock-solid alibi. And you could help me shop — I need to buy some dress robes before my disciplinary hearing.
She frowned. Did James know about her trial? She scratched out the last sentence, thinking it best to explain a bit.
I'm not sure if you've heard, but I got in a bit of trouble last year for Apparating without a license. I'm due in front of the Wizengamot next Tuesday. (By the way, what does one wear to their hearing before the Wizengamot? I'm assuming it's dress robes, but please tell me if I'm wrong!)
If I'm expelled or have my wand snapped, don't worry — we can call off the whole pretend-dating scenario in that case, as I'll no longer be a Hogwarts student. Ha-ha.
Lily cringed. That wasn't as funny as she thought it would be.
Anyway, I'll send this letter as soon as I can find an owl. They're hard to come by in Cokeworth, and I don't fancy asking the Snapes to borrow theirs. Can you imagine?!
Write me back!
Yours truly,
Lily Evans
Her stomach full and her shopping more-or-less complete, Lily strolled home. She turned down the street and a familiar heaviness dampened the air around her, caused not by a change in air pressure but by magic. Earlier that summer, a pair of Ministry employees had set up enough protective enchantments around her house that she doubted even Lord Voldemort could have found her if he'd wanted to. She felt a rush of gratitude towards Caradoc Dearborn, who had sponsored the Muggle-Born Protection Act which now kept her family safe.
The garden gate swung open of its own accord as she approached, another tell-tale sign of the magic that now enveloped her house like a thick, warm blanket.
"I've got the ham!" she called, depositing a bag full of groceries on the kitchen table.
"Wonderful," said her mother, who was stirring a pot of boiled carrots on the hob. "Perfect timing, too, if we chuck it in the oven now it'll be ready just before Vernon arrives…"
"Where's Tuney?" asked Lily, though she already knew the answer. "Shouldn't she be helping?"
"She's getting ready upstairs," replied her mother placidly.
"Why? Surely her boyfriend already knows what she looks like without makeup, she's stayed over at his flat plenty of times…"
"Lily," admonished her mother. She gestured towards the ham. "Be a good girl and get the ham ready, would you? Vernon is important to Petunia, so I expect you to behave tonight. No bickering over dinner."
"But she —"
"You heard your mother."
"But I —"
"No. Bickering."
Two hours later, Lily took a bite of roast ham, her expression sour. Sitting across the table was Petunia, whose eyelids were covered in a bright blue shadow that looked ghastly against her skin, and beside Petunia was Vernon, the boyfriend. He took up nearly an entire side of the table by himself and had been taking up most of the conversation, too.
"…And that's when Robert said to me — Robert, the junior manager, you know — that he'd never seen anybody with such an aptitude for selling drills before," said Vernon proudly between mouthfuls of ham. "He even said — and this is a direct quote — 'Keep it up, Vernon, and you'll be assistant to the junior manager before the year is through.'"
Petunia squeezed his hand, looking thrilled. "Assistant to the junior manager!" she said, looking around the table. "Isn't that wonderful?"
"That's great, dear," said her mum, though her smile looked slightly strained.
"Yeah," said Lily, who was certain her head would explode if she had to listen to another word about drills. "Really great."
"What'll you be doing after this year, Lily?" asked Vernon. Before she could answer, he continued. "If you're looking for a job, I could put in a good word for you. The secretary in Bernard's department is retiring… You'd look good enough behind a desk, and Bernard's been whinging about the lack of eye candy in the office." He chuckled at his own joke.
Lily shot a sharp glance towards Petunia, who had never tolerated sexism, but to her surprise Petunia was laughing a light and airy laugh. A bit of excess blue eyeshadow had fallen onto the skin underneath her eyes.
Well. That was fine. Lily could stand up for herself. Furious, she opened her mouth, but her mum gave her a stern look and she relented. "Thanks for the offer," she managed, and she proceeded to stuff her mouth full of ham so that she wouldn't be tempted to say anything else.
As soon as Vernon had gone, taking Petunia with him, Lily turned to her mother. "I hate him. He's awful."
Her mum looked thoughtful as she washed the dishes. "I'm reserving judgment. He may have just been nervous."
"He was the most self-absorbed — the most sexist…" Lily groped for words. "He thought I'd make a good secretary!"
"He cares a lot about Petunia. And he's got a good job."
"That's another thing," fumed Lily. "Did you see the way she acted around him? She was all… small, and agreeable! Since when does Petunia make herself smaller for anybody?"
"I noticed." Her mother's forehead creased.
"She's not behaving like herself. She's trying to be the perfect housewife because that's what she thinks he wants."
"It's possible," said her mother placidly, passing Lily a plate to dry. "But that's something she'll have to figure out for herself."
"Why? If you just talk some sense into her…"
Her mother shook her head. "With matters of the heart, experience is the best teacher, I'm afraid. You'll find out for yourself, eventually," she added with a wink.
"I am never going to make a fool of myself over a boy."
"Just you wait. One day you'll bring home someone you're giddy over, and I'll remind you of this moment, and you'll say, 'you were right all along, Mum, you always are…'"
Lily pretended to vomit.
His first conscious emotion was relief.
It's over.
His second was dread.
Twenty-nine days until it happens again.
Remus Lupin opened his eyes. He was sprawled on the basement floor; his head nearly touched the cast iron bars that separated his corner of the basement from the rest of it. His cheek pressed uncomfortably against the cold stone floor, as though he'd been lying like that for quite some time. His body ached.
He closed his eyes, hoping to capture at least five more minutes of sleep. But his knee was throbbing rather badly, which was distracting, and after a moment he pushed himself gingerly upright, abandoning the idea of sleep altogether.
On the other side of the iron bars was a tray laden with fluffy eggs and a generous portion of bacon. His father must have left it there before going to work. Remus went straight for the bacon, though self-loathing prevented him from enjoying it fully: his irresistible craving for meat was a side-effect of the wolf being deprived the night before.
Once his stomach was full, he reached outside the cage for his wand, which lay out of the wolf's reach and barely within his own. Wolves couldn't do magic, as far as he knew, but they could put a wand between their slavering jaws and snap it like a bone.
He rose unsteadily, grabbing onto the iron bars for support, and unlocked the cage with his wand. He didn't bring the tray upstairs with him. He should have done — and if he was a better son, he would have done — but he knew his father would retrieve it without complaint after returning home.
Merlin forgive me, thought Remus, wondering if there was a special place in hell for sons who made more work for their overburdened fathers. Forgive me, but I'm tired.
There was a letter waiting for him upstairs. More concerning was the fact that it had been shoved through the letterbox by the Muggle mailman. Remus couldn't remember the last time they'd gotten Muggle post.
It was from Lily. Remus, I hope this finds you well, he read. I know it's a bit sudden, writing to you like this, but I didn't know who else to ask. I need to send a letter to James, but I haven't got an owl. Neither has anyone in my town, it turns out.
I was wondering if you'd do me a favour and send this to him for me? And don't read it, please. Not that it's anything personal, just, you know. I hope I'm not asking too much, but — if anyone values their privacy it's you, isn't it?
Remus peered into the envelope. There was a neatly-folded piece of Muggle paper inside, addressed to one James Potter.
Before he tied Lily's letter to Ceres, the family owl, he penned a letter of his own.
Sirius,
You'll never believe what's happened. Just got a bit of correspondence from Lily Evans, asking me to send a private letter (!) to Prongs (!).
I'm assuming you're still at the Potters', so you'll likely get this letter when Prongs gets his. Read over his shoulder for me, will you? I'm dying to know why Evans is writing to James (romance, perhaps? Blossoming feelings?).
In other news, the full moon last night was uneventful. I'm planning to sleep for twelve hours and then do a light round of bathing, perhaps followed by more sleep. We'll see.
Your furry little problem,
Remus
Sirius' reply came a few days later.
Moony,
Nice thinking, but I'm not actually at the Potters'. You must have been knackered when you wrote to me because, earth to Lupin, you should have peeked at the letter when you had it in your furry mitts. We'll never know what it says now! Opportunity missed! Worse than missed, opportunity squandered!
You get a bit dunderheaded after the full moon, you know. I won't tease you too much, though — you've suffered enough without my rubbing your face in it.
Anyway, I'm staying at my Uncle Alphard's place right now, he's got a flat in London. Nothing fancy, but it is about as far as you can get from Grimmauld Place, thank the Lord. Well, as far as you can get while staying in central London. So not all that far from Number Twelve, actually.
You should visit soon! We could terrorize the Muggle tourists at Westminster and set fire to the funny hats that the guards at the palace wear (I kid, I kid — I've already done the last bit). At the very least, you have to teach me how to use Alphard's electric kettle, because I am utterly at a loss. I need you, Moony!
I am,
Without a doubt,
Your favourite Marauder
(Sirius, of course. If you thought it was Peter, even for an instant…)
Remus had written his reply by that afternoon, but he waited a couple of days to actually send it, in the hopes that Sirius would think that he was having an exciting and jam-packed summer holiday.
Dear Pete — I mean, Sirius —
About the letter slipping through my furry mitts: that was not my finest moment, I'll admit. I must ask you not to mention the incident to Wormtail — he'd never stop taking the mickey if he knew how stupid I'd been.
Terrorizing Muggle tourists and setting fire to bearskin hats does sound like fun. Have you got a date in mind? Just let me know. I'm free for the next twenty-three days or so (but who's counting?).
Write soon.
Remus
He received a letter the following day, which was surprising: he hadn't expected Sirius to respond until the following week, at the earliest. But the handwriting on the envelope was sloppier than Sirius' slanted penmanship, and the return address was Hartwood Cottage, not London.
Moony,
Red alert! We've got a situation. Lily Evans has a disciplinary hearing tomorrow — in front of the full Wizengamot! I'm calling an emergency meeting of the Marauders, so I need you to come to London A.S.A.P. (As Soon As Padfoot picks you up). Lily needs our support!
Sirius should be on his way, so you'd better pack your things.
See you soon!
-James
"For crying out —" grumbled Remus, but the words died in his throat as another owl soared through the window and deposited a tiny scrap of parchment in his hand. The note was barely legible; it looked as though it had been written by someone aboard the Knight Bus who also happened to have a bad tremor.
R,
Got your things packed? I'm flying over Bristol at the moment, should arrive at yours within the hour. Look for the flying motorbike.
-Pads
Remus heard the motorbike before he saw it. There was a rumble like distant thunder which grew louder and louder until it rattled Remus' weary bones. He peered out the window; a motorbike hurtled towards the Lupin residence like a comet, exhaust billowing behind it. With a deafening roar, the motorbike smashed into the forsythia in the front garden, which tore the poor bush in two, and then skidded to a grinding halt. Atop the bike was a lanky, handsome boy of about seventeen, wearing a fitted suit of black leather — Remus was no expert, but it looked like professional Muggle racing gear — and no helmet.
"Oops," said Sirius with a glance at the ruined shrub. He pushed his shaggy, windswept hair out of his face and turned to Remus, his expression radiant. "Moony! Are you happy to see me?"
Yes. Slightly too much, in fact. "Oh, I'm thrilled."
"Knew you would be," said Sirius proudly. He vaulted off the seat and the motorbike wheezed a little: smoke trailed from the gaps in its chrome exterior. "Can't resist the pull of adventure, can you, Moony?"
"That's me all over," said Remus, eying the motorbike with trepidation. "Incidentally, you did bring me a helmet, didn't you?"
"Must have left it at home," said Sirius carelessly. "You don't need one, anyway, your skull is thick enough as is."
"Charming. You always know just what to say to make a bloke feel good about himself."
Sirius grinned. "Stop pouting, Remus. I know you're ecstatic to see me. Give me a smile, a widdle smile for your best mate…"
Remus bared his teeth in an exaggerated grimace, and Sirius barked a laugh.
"That's my Moony!" He swung an arm around Remus' shoulder, giving him a brusque hug. "Got everything you need, then? Ready for Elvendork to take us to London?"
Remus wanted to ask why Apparating wasn't an option, but he already knew the answer: Sirius never missed an opportunity to travel absurd distances on that damn motorbike. Reluctantly, he clambered behind Sirius on the seat as Sirius fiddled with the various knobs and gears. The bike had obviously been magically enlarged, but it still seemed barely big enough for both of them. Remus' legs dangled uncomfortably in the air, and though he sat as far back as he possibly could, his chest was practically flush with Sirius' back.
Godric's teeth, he thought, trying to keep his mind from wandering to places it shouldn't go. There were no seatbelts — not that he'd expected there to be — and nothing to grip to keep himself in the seat.
The realization that hit him was more dizzying than the exhaust that filled his nostrils. He would have to put his arms around Sirius for an extended period of time, or else be thrown off the motorbike.
This was terrible. It was also better than anything he had dreamed, but it was blatantly unsafe and a stupid thing to risk when they could literally just Apparate, and he was going to have to hold Sirius around the middle. Terrible.
"Out of curiosity," said Remus, more to distract himself than anything, "how many riders does Elvendork usually have?"
Sirius patted the handlebars of the motorbike affectionately. "Just me, normally. No worries, though, odds are four to one that you'll be fine…"
"Fantastic," said Remus, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of the engine. The motorbike bucked, rising onto its back tyre; panicked, Remus flung his arms around Sirius' waist.
"That's it," called Sirius. "You've got to hold on tight." He dropped an arm from the handlebars and covered Remus' hands with a broad palm, pressing Remus' hands firmly against his stomach. Beneath the sleek black racing gear, Sirius' abdominal muscles were tense, and his stomach rose and fell with every breath. Sirius' breaths were maddeningly even, slow and deep and purposeful.
Remus, on the other hand, was on the verge of hyperventilating. This was a lot to take in, especially for someone who had spent the last month mostly reading in bed. At least if he died on this motorbike, he'd die with his arms around Sirius' waist. Small mercies.
His train of thought was interrupted when a gust of wind hit his face, sweeping his sandy hair back. Before he could register what was happening, the motorbike blasted into the air. It cleared the rooftop of the Lupin house in one enormous leap and continued upward, accelerating into the sun — it veered sharply to the right at an angle no broomstick was capable of, roaring over the old, rolling mountains beneath them, heading eastward —
A strong gale of wind made the bike pitch like a ship in a storm. Remus' breakfast rose in his throat, and he clenched his hands more tightly around Sirius' abdomen.
The wind carried Sirius' laugh directly into Remus' ear. "Enjoying yourself yet, Moony? Next stop, London!"
James Potter leaned against the display window of Madam Malkin's Robes, humming to himself. He was supposed to meet Lily at half past two, but he had arrived slightly early and was passing the time by composing a theme song for the Marauders.
Half an hour and three verses later, he checked his watch. It was barely noon.
That was fine; it meant more time to work on the theme song. After another hour of whistling, however, his cheeks were sore and he was starting to mix up the twenty-one verses he'd composed so far. Deciding that his creative juices could only be replenished by a bite to eat, he strode towards the Leaky Cauldron.
He'd only gone a few feet when he was stopped by a familiar voice.
"James?"
Lily was standing just past Madam Malkins', dressed in Muggle summer clothes that revealed her arms and most of her legs. Her skin was a few shades less pale than when he'd last seen her, and her hair was pulled away from her face in a ponytail that looked clean and pretty.
James' hands immediately went to his own hair, which was matted with sweat from the summer heat. "Alright, Evans?"
She smiled. Somehow she wasn't sweating at all. "You're early."
"So're you," he countered.
"I'm not, actually," she said, and she showed him a bag she was carrying, which was full of books. "I've been shopping since this morning."
James pulled a book from the bag and examined its spine. "Landmarks in Wizarding Law," he read, and his eyes widened. "You're preparing for your hearing tomorrow?"
"That's the idea." Lily bit her lip. "How much do you know about wizarding law?"
"Not a thing," said James cheerily, putting the book back in the bag. "But I can help you prepare! I was just about to have lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. You should come too and we can, erm, eat and read together. Or something," he added hastily, because Lily was looking at him like he had three heads. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She sounded amazed. "You really want to help me?"
"Sure. What're pretend boyfriends for, anyway?"
That must have been the wrong thing to say; her brow furrowed, and she didn't speak again until they were seated at a corner table in the Leaky Cauldron. "You don't have to help me if you don't want to."
James, who had been humming verses from his theme song, blinked in surprise. "Who said I didn't want to?"
"Nobody," she said, "but if you're only offering because of our plan to fool Severus…"
"That's not it. I'm happy to help. Besides, you can't read all those books by yourself in a day."
"What was that pretend boyfriend comment about, then?"
"That was a joke," said James.
"It didn't sound like a joke. It sounded passive-aggressive."
James had no idea what that meant. "Erm, sorry. What?"
Lily stared at him. "Oh, my God. You're serious."
"No, I'm James," he said with a grin. "What's 'passive-aggressive'?"
"Never mind." Her cheeks were pink. She opened one of the books on wizarding law and set it in front of her face. "I'm feeling a little sensitive, that's all."
"Should I not joke about being your pretend boyfriend?"
"No, that's — that's fine."
"Then what's the problem?"
She turned a few pages in the book, though he was certain she couldn't have read them so quickly. "I don't want you to do anything that you don't want to do. I don't want you to feel obligated to help me just because we're going to pretend to date."
James felt like she was speaking a different language. "I don't feel obligated. I wouldn't offer to help if I didn't want to do it."
She peeked at him from above the book. "Really?"
"Yeah, of course," he said. "What kind of person would go out of their way to do things they didn't actually want to do? They'd make themselves miserable, and that's stupid."
Lily laid the book flat on the table. Her cheeks were still flushed. "Have you always been this straightforward?"
Was that a compliment? "Erm. I think so?"
Lily shook her head. "Remind me to take what you say at face value from now on."
She returned to her book, and this time seemed to actually absorb what was written there. James still wasn't entirely sure what they were talking about, but Lily looked happier than she had before, so he considered that a win.
An hour later, their stomachs were full, and James' head was spinning as he fought to focus on the book he was reading. He was used to dense writing — most of the textbooks at Hogwarts were written hundreds of years ago, after all — but these legal tomes were a different beast entirely. Each page was loaded with terminology he'd never heard before.
"I need to take a break," he announced, closing the book. "Want to go to Madam Malkin's like we'd planned?"
"Oh, yes, thank God," said Lily immediately. She tossed both books into her bag. "I've needed a break for ages but didn't want to say anything. You looked so engrossed in what you were reading…"
James laughed. "'Engrossed'? I was trying not to fall asleep!"
"You're kidding." Lily's eyes sparkled with delight. "You looked so diligent! You were holding your head with both hands and frowning…"
"What, like this?" James pulled a face, and she swatted his arm, laughing.
After they had passed through the brick wall behind the Leaky Cauldron and stepped into Diagon Alley, Lily said hesitantly, "Did you find anything useful in the book you were reading? The Law as Applied to Muggle-borns, wasn't it? I thought that one looked promising."
"Er, it wasn't, really," said James. He'd been halfway through a chapter entitled 'Notable Cases of the 20th Century', which was full of bleak anecdotes in which Muggle-borns were sentenced to life in Azkaban. "It was pretty depressing, to be honest."
Worry lines formed above Lily's delicate brows. "What are the odds I have my wand snapped, d'you think?"
"Zero."
"Don't bullshit me, James."
"I'm not bullshitting you." He took her arm as they crossed the threshold of Madam Malkin's. "You're the brightest witch of our year. Those stuffy old warlocks on the Wizengamot won't dare snap your wand." He gestured expansively at the racks of brightly coloured robes inside the shop. "What kind of dress robes are you looking for?"
Lily wasn't so easily pacified. "What if they do, though?"
"They won't."
"But what if?"
James had never seen Lily Evans act so worried before. She sounded like Peter before a Defence exam. He was never any good at comforting Peter, but maybe things with Lily would be different. "Alright," he said. "Let's say they snap your wand. Then what?"
Lily blinked. "Sorry?"
"What will you do about it? Will you say, 'oh well, it was nice being a witch but I haven't got a wand anymore, so back to the Muggle world I go'? Will you drop out of Hogwarts, get a job as a telly-phone operator? Marry a Muggle man and have six non-magical kids with him?"
"Are you mad? Of course not!"
"I didn't think so," said James. He reached for a set of spangled purple robes and rubbed the silky fabric between his fingers. "What would you do, then?"
"I… I don't know. I'd try to get another wand somewhere and find a way to continue learning magic outside of Hogwarts. I suppose I'd have to do it in secret, or in another country, but…"
"You see?" said James triumphantly. "Even if they snap your wand, you'll figure out a way to carry on. Your life won't be over, and you won't fall to pieces. So there's nothing to worry about."
"If you say so…"
"Besides, you won't have to go it alone. You've got friends who can help. I bet we could make you a new wand."
"We?"
"The Marauders," he said simply.
Lily stared at him for a minute, not comprehending. Then she said, "Oh, my God. Is that the name you've given your little gang, or…?"
It was James' turn to feel defensive. "It's an excellent name!"
"Is it?" The corners of her lips twitched.
Determined to change the subject, James thrust a set of garish yellow robes at her. "You haven't tried anything on yet. What do you think of this one?"
Lily made a face. "Those are horrible."
James grabbed three more sets of robes at random and held them out to her. "What about these?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said, looking them over. "This one's too casual, I think, and that one won't fit me at all. What style does one normally wear before the Wizengamot, anyway?"
James dropped the offending robes on the floor. "No idea."
She rounded on him. "No idea? James Fleamont Potter, you are no help at all!"
"Well, it's not like I've ever been on trial before!"
"Yes, but you're a wizard," she said in the same tone one might use to speak to a child. "You must have some idea about what would be appropriate to wear."
"Er, sorry. I don't know the first thing about witches' robes. Sirius might, though."
"Bully for Sirius."
Her jaw was set. This was not at all how James had imagined their shopping trip going; feeling slightly frantic, he grabbed her hands. "Forget about the robes. Let's get out of here."
"But I need —"
"You need nice clothes for your hearing, but nobody said you had to wear robes. Let's see what they've got in Muggle London, how does that sound?"
She followed him out of Madam Malkins', blinking dazedly as they stepped into the sunlit street. "Are you certain that's a good idea? It'll hardly endear me to the Wizengamot if I show up in Muggle clothes…"
"Yeah, they'll probably say you're refusing to assimilate or something," said James. "But who cares? The deck is stacked against you anyway. Even if you do show up in robes, it's not as if they'll forget you're Muggle-born. You might as well rub their face in it."
She looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite place. "You think I should be purposefully inflammatory? To the people who will be determining my fate in wizarding Britain?"
"It was just a thought," he said quickly. "When you put it like that —"
Lily smiled. "It's brilliant. I love it."
"Er. You do?"
Her green eyes danced with mischief. "I'm not ashamed to be Muggle-born. And you're right — they won't forget about my blood status either way. So I may as well show them that I'm proud of who I am and what I come from."
"That's the spirit." James felt suddenly lightheaded. She liked his plan! He didn't know whether to sigh with relief or dance a jig. "Only I'm not very familiar with Muggle London… have you got any favourite shops we could visit?"
"I have, in fact," said Lily, and she took him by the arm. She turned on her heel, pulling him along, and they vanished in a swirl of colour and rushing wind.