December 17th, 1976

Emmeline Vance is not a perfect person. Emmeline Vance is headstrong and judgmental and can hold a grudge like no other, and Emmeline Vance has always had a mouth that gets her into trouble. Before, she used to talk too much, say whatever crude thing was on her mind at any given moment; she chooses her words more carefully now, selecting the most scathingly articulate phrase she can before she speaks. It's rare these days that she talks at all, but when she does, she likes to think that it makes an impression.

Emmeline Vance is bitter and cold and withdrawn from the world, cocooning herself in the recesses of her spite—and of spite, she has more than enough, more than most consider healthy. Emmeline Vance has a lot to be spiteful for.

Emmeline Vance has a lot to be spiteful for.

Peter is her ally these days—she didn't really expect Margaret McKinnon to hold her interest for long. Besides, Peter knows her, knows her and somehow doesn't hate her, and he isn't to blame, and Emmeline can respect that.

It's December 17th, a Friday, and they're taking the Hogwarts Express back to King's Cross, heading from there to James Potter's manor, and Emmeline doesn't want to go, and Peter knows she doesn't want to go. They're taking the Hogwarts Express back to King's Cross, and Emmeline's snagged the window seat with Peter firmly planted on her other side, and her head rests on his shoulder, and the pads of his fingers trace along the crook of her neck.

"I don't want to go," she whispers, because Peter is her ally and she doesn't have to scathe him when they speak.

"You're going," says Peter, kindly but firmly, and he tilts up her chin so he can meet her eyes. "You're going, and you're talking to Sirius."

She starts to complain, "But I don't want—"

"Talk to Sirius," he implores her, and she settles against him again, rolling her eyes and fighting to forget that he's right.

It's raining against the window—what kind of a joke is that, rain to start off the Christmas holiday? It's raining, and he's right, and she's wrong, but she doesn't let herself know it.

Emmeline Vance can hold a grudge like no other, and the one she's harboring against Sirius Black has been festering for two years.

xx

December 10th, 1976

She's shadowing one of wizarding Britain's junior ambassadors to France, Lord Brinn, a handsome man with round, chocolate eyes and a sternness that doesn't suit his youth, and the first thing he does upon Apparating them both out of the country on Friday night is to whisk her into a café and order two butterbeers.

"We're not in Muggle France?" Lily asks.

Brinn confirms it. Sightseeing around Paris would apparently have to wait.

Then he directs her, "So recap for me everything you've learned about wizarding political relations between Britain and France and the position of each on the war against the Death Eaters."

She knows some—not everything. History of Magic taught her about British and French trading relations of past and present, and her internship has expounded on those lessons with greater and greater detail, and she talks about those till her mouth runs dry, throat raw.

Just when she thinks she's said all there is to know, Brinn jumps straight into another lecture. He's not much for small talk, Lily's starting to realize. "Modern French and British relations have been forming ever since the mid-18th century; while European Muggles were warring over the colonization of America, their wizarding counterparts' disagreement was about the magic employed by Native Americans. It was the first occasion in history that European and American magic ever overlapped, so although many spells, though involving different incantations, essentially accomplished the same feats, other American spells were completely foreign spells, strange spells, a lot of them involving necromancy."

"Raising the dead?" says Lily, enraptured. "But that's not possible—the dead can't be brought back to life successfully, there's never been a documented case—"

"That didn't stop the American tribes from trying," Brinn says, shaking his head, "and the results weren't always pretty. The French appreciated the Americans' studies and wanted to continue them, as well as adopt many of the Americans' other spells and potions for their own use, but the British feared it, citing much of it as Dark Arts and discounting the potentially valuable branches of magic that the Americans were using as well." He takes a swig of butterbeer, rests his elbows on the table. "The result was a war between wizarding France and Britain that resolved little. The French took away from America a number of good spells and potions, but the French wizards' failed attempts to continue to study necromancy led to the accidental creation of Inferi—the only American-based magic that filtered into British society at all.

"Britain and France aren't foes on every front," he says next. "From what you've learned about their economic connections, you already know this. But when it comes to Dark Magic, the French are unlikely to heed any British fears—whenever the British meddle in French borderline Dark affairs, it's almost like by focusing on potential Dark repercussions, we draw attention away from more positive efforts and turn what could have been good magic into bad."

Lily nods, absorbing this. "Like the boy who cried wolf," she murmurs, more to herself than to Brinn. "Now that the Dark magic we're calling out really is something of concern, the French might not believe that it's as serious as we say it is."

"Right," says Brinn. "Our goal over the next two days will be to convince the French ministry that You-Know-Who's intentions are hostile, that this war could become a global terrorism scheme if the Death Eaters aren't stopped early on."

At this point, the lost tourism opportunity doesn't feel to Lily like such a waste of time anymore. Furrowing her brows, she asks him, "And how do we do that?"

He reaches by their feet and resurfaces with his sleek black briefcase. Sliding both their mugs of butterbeer to the side, he pops it open on the tabletop to reveal stacks upon stacks of papers, some of them written in prose, some of them cramming as many statistics onto the page as possible. "Facts, Evans, by showing them the facts."

Lily's supposed to shadow and not speak at the conference, but even so, Brinn's determined that she learn all she can about the issues to be discussed before the sessions begin. She has to hand it to him: he takes her internship more seriously than most in his position probably would. Then again, by educating her, he's taking a small step to educate Britain's youth about the harsh realities of this war—and she begins to realize as she leafs through Brinn's preparations just how little any of her peers know; just how shielded from the cold, hard truth all of Hogwarts's students really are.

The most they hear about at Hogwarts are the deaths and disappearances featured in the Daily Prophet, some of them those of classmates' families, most of them those of total strangers. Most days, Lily skims the front page at breakfast and leaves it at that—each headline is just another casualty in a war apart from her world, one which she doesn't support but which never seems to otherwise interfere with her life. No. The Prophet doesn't report everything, and this is a full-on collision of stats and stories and pictures and pain with three hours of her evening, and if it teaches her anything, it's that this war sure as hell is something to get upset about, something from which no one is going to be sheltered for long, not Hogwarts and not even France.

This conference is their shot. This conference could be their only shot.

By the time Brinn locks up the briefcase, she's rubbed her eyes red in fatigue; the research has sapped her of all the energy she had. "You did good work tonight, Lily," Brinn tells her—he's still straightforward in manner, but it's the first time he's ever used her first name and the first time tonight that he's allowed himself a shadow of a smile.

"Not like it matters how much I know," she mutters, maybe out of modesty, maybe because she doesn't think a soul in the wizarding world cares in the slightest what a silly little girl like her thinks about something as big as war.

"Hey," says Brinn sharply, and she bashfully looks him in the eye. "What you learn from me matters. In a short couple of years, the fate of wizarding Britain is going to be in the hands of you and your peers, and it starts with this internship—it starts with you. Knowledge is power, and your opinion does count, more now than ever."

She says nothing. Brinn prompts, "You-Know-Who isn't just a crackpot on the loose; he has supporters, an army of them, and do you know where they come from?"

"Purebloods," Lily says quietly.

"Not just any purebloods—the old blood families only. It wasn't long ago that blood purity determined one's social class in the wizarding world, but times are changing, and the people who used to rule our world with their family names are getting scared now that they're expected to learn from their education and work to get money and respect. You-Know-Who plays on that, makes them believe that he'll spare them when he's in power, that they'll be back in power by association," he explains.

Again, Lily doesn't answer, so he continues, "The Death Eaters and their supporters are a tiny, tiny minority in Britain, let alone the rest of Europe, and most of them are either washed-up wizards past their prime or their brainwashed children. Our Aurors are doing what they can to fight back, but no one knows enough to make an impact, and Crouch's new policy—kill first and don't ask questions—isn't helping matters. What the war needs, sadly enough, is young blood and a catalyst for political change. Before long, that's where today's students will step in. The more you know before you're thrust into the thick of it, the better."

It's like she and James were talking about last month—this war is going to destroy the lives of innocents for the sake of old blood politics until their generation steps in. Enough is enough, and it's all too overwhelming, but what more is there to do than to do what she can to fight back? Isn't that what Gryffindors are for? "Okay," she says simply, because she can't find any more words to say about it tonight. "Okay."

xx

December 17th, 1976

Helene's Manor has more than enough guest rooms to house all of them, but with his mother's backing, James insists upon assigning roommates every night, for the sake of unity, he tells them. Remus supposes he's right, that they're here to reconnect and it's fitting that all hours be spent with one another to that end—but that doesn't mean he finds rooming with Sirius on the first night any less awkward.

He's lying in one bed, and Sirius is lying in the spare one that Mrs. Potter magicked into the room, and he starts talking. He's not sure whether Sirius is still awake, less sure that he wants him to be. "I'm sorry for not telling you about Belby sooner," he says into the black. Remus is drowning beneath an overlay of Egyptian cotton sheets, a sheet of sweat thickening on his skin by the minute; it's winter, but the Potters keep the manor's bedrooms toasty warm. "I just… I didn't want to be judged, I guess. I didn't have a lot of confidence in my decision when I agreed to it, and the last thing I wanted was any of you trying to talk me out of it or make me doubt myself even more, because that's all that talking to you probably would have accomplished."

He's a little startled when he hears Sirius's sheets rustling, then feels a pressure on the mattress behind him. On second thought, Remus should have known that Sirius hadn't fallen asleep—he hadn't yet started to hear Sirius's usual snores. As it's almost pitch-dark in the room, he can make out nothing more than the blurry outline of his mate's face when he rolls over, peering out from underneath the sheets. "Hi," Remus says, maybe a little stupidly.

"Hi," Sirius says back, but the night and blackness and uncertainty swallow up the word, so that a moment later, Remus isn't sure whether he spoke at all. He lies there, gravity smashing half his face against the pillows so that the top of his cheek is forced halfway into his eye, and he studies Sirius as his figure gets clearer and clearer in Remus's nighttime vision—reclining on the covers, cheek propped up in one hand, inky gaze staring right back.

The dim thought occurs to Remus that this is not normal friendship behavior—that he and Sirius stopped following normal friendship behavior conventions a long, long time ago—but it's late, and he's exhausted (with both the night and this fight), and he casts the thought aside.

The Marauders are far from normal friends, after all.

"I'm sorry, too," says Sirius, and unjustly, overwhelmingly, it comes across to Remus like undue forgiveness. "Hey—tell me about the recipe for Belby's potion."

"You're serious?" whispers Remus with a frown.

Sirius doesn't answer, just crawls underneath the blankets, fumbles blindly for Remus's hand. Finds it, after a few failed tries. Remus gapes. "I'm listening, aren't I?"

He holds on tight to Sirius's hand, swallows with effort, closes and opens his eyes—starts to talk.

This is intimate, Remus realizes, a pit opening up in his stomach. It's intimate, and he's missed having intimacy with Sirius.

xx

December 18th, 1976

Mary talks a lot, and that's why she and Marlene have always gotten along, because Marlene is one for talking, too. Forget that you're a bastard child and that you and your stepfather have been lying all along; forget that you've allowed perhaps the most unhinged person you've ever met to use you as his shag buddy; forget, forget, forget, and bury yourself in idle chatter and hashing out somebody else's problems.

Mary used to be there for that, but then Mary got distant and Lily needed Marlene more, and now she's alone in a foreign bedroom with Mary and can't think of a single thing to say to her except I missed you.

"I missed you."

Well, there goes her discretion.

"I missed you, too," says Mary blearily, rolling over to face Marlene's bed. Her hair is black tonight—it was black earlier, anyway; Marlene can hardly see a thing now—and though she wouldn't on her life admit it, Marlene is glad to see it, so to speak. "I lost you, I lost Reg…"

"I know," says Marlene, trailing off. "I'm really sorry."

"It's all right. Gilderoy and I had a couple of intense heart-to-hearts about you," Mary says, laughing.

"Oh, lord."

Mary assures her, "He's not that bad when you get to know him, I promise." After a pause, she adds, "I may have had, like, a couple weird moments with Patil, too."

"Pol Patil?" says Marlene. "Am I hearing this right?"

Grinning, Mary says, "Yeah, if you can believe that. I dunno, Carol Davies asked me to attempt to work with him in class once, and it didn't go well."

"As expected," mutters Marlene with a smile.

"But forget about me," says Mary—that one comes as a surprise. "Did you see the way Pete and Em were all over each other on the train yesterday? They keep saying they're just friends, but if they try and say that that didn't mean anything…"

And they talk about boys—not Marlene's sex life, not Mary's parents—about boys, and Marlene wonders if Mary's the one who's needed her more all along.

xx

January 15th, 1976

(one year ago)

James Potter is an arrogant fifth year with incoming hormones and a sense of entitlement, and Dana Madley can't seem to stop throwing herself at him.

He catches up with the Marauders after dinner, makes a couple jokes about how the Great Hall is an awfully funny place to find her Prince Charming and does he want to take a little walk with her in the direction of the nearest broom closet? Snickering with Peter and Sirius and avoiding Remus's eyes, James assents, and they flirt and make some small talk as they cavort down the corridors—not like it'll matter once they lock the nearest door behind them, he thinks with a smirk.

"Found one!" says Madley with delight, flinging open the closet door and tugging him by the fingertips inside. She locks them in and says a little Muffliato, and there's a split second in which James should be full to the brim with anticipation of what he knows will come next—but everyone at Hogwarts knows who popularized Muffliato, and now all he can see is Severus Snape's face swimming before his mind's eye in all its pallid-skinned, greasy-haired glory.

When James recoils a little at the thought of dear old Snivellus, Madley, of course, takes his reaction the entirely wrong way. "Is something wrong, Potter?" she asks, insecure but sticky sweet.

"No, forget it," he tells her, locking their fingers together and grinning broadly; she sways in his grip for a moment before tilting up her head and kissing him rapturously, her tongue in his mouth before a second has passed.

It's the first time James has ever kissed a girl, believe it or not, and he can't tell whether Madley's persistent giggle means that his inexperience is showing or that she's simply enjoying herself. Ah, well—not like he wants to ruin this by asking. He's intoxicated, and she's his practice dummy, an overeager map of the female body at his disposal.

He's feeling her up, and he ought to be reveling in this, but Madley made him think about Snivellus, and thinking about Snivellus naturally leads to thinking about Evans.

He never used to give a lot of thought to Lily Evans. Sure, she's hot, but their interactions have always been limited to her hollering at him about bullying Snivellus and, sometimes, her as well. When you set aside all the yelling, she's unremarkable, Evans: smart enough and isolated enough and loyal enough to a loser like Snivellus that she's always passed beneath James's radar—but now he's snogging Dana Madley while he's thinking about goddamn Lily Evans, first time in his life she's ever really crossed his mind as more than a piece of arse or a nuisance, and it's almost enough to make him pull away from Madley again, though not quite.

Maybe he's crazy, maybe it's Madley's tongue talking, but James's next thought is a real keeper: Evans probably can't snog like Madley and definitely wouldn't be as willing to attempt it, but if she ever were to kiss him, it would make a hell of an impact on him. If she ever were to kiss him, it would mean that he'd done more to earn it than shoot her a wink or two in the Great Hall, and it would mean that somebody with standards who mattered to the world believed that he mattered, too.

Maybe it's a glimmer of the person he has the potential to become—but first, James is more concerned with several things that he realizes in quick succession: that he's actually thinking about Evans as he snogs another girl, that the combination of thinking about Evans and snogging a girl is getting him a little overexcited, and that Dana Madley is undoing his robes at lightning speed.

He shoves her away and jumps backward with such force that his head collides with the ceiling. "Look, Madley, you are… really sexy, and I'm so sorry"—James would bet anything that Madley has no idea just how sorry he is to pass up an opportunity like this—"but I have to go. I'll see you around?"

He fumbles to retie his robes and summons all the willpower he has in the world to ignore her coos of, "Oh, baby, it's perfectly normal to be nervous." James is half tempted to give in, he really is, but Madley is only a practice dummy to him, and she's not half as intoxicating now as she was when they first came into this closet—he's starting to think he wants (if you can believe this) more.

Shamelessly, James flees the scene, even though his tie is askew and his hair is even more mussed than when he ruffles it up intentionally, though he ducks into the nearest men's room to collect himself before returning to his dormitory—he does still have some dignity left, after all. Upon his return, his mates greet him with raised eyebrows and expectations alike. "That was your first time, right?" says Sirius.

"What makes you say that?" asks James. He'd managed to suppress most of his panic, but it comes back now as he hastily gives himself a once-over, wondering what unkempt detail of his appearance gave Sirius that impression.

On the contrary, though, Sirius just sighs and says, "I dunno, mate, you just look the same way I felt the first time I shagged McKinnon."

Distantly, it registers that Sirius shouldn't talk about his first time like that, especially since it was with one of his best mates. "What do I look like?"

His grin fading promptly, Sirius pauses, then says, "Like your whole world just got a lot more complicated."

James takes a moment to let this sink in. "It wasn't my first," he says dully after a moment. "I mean, I haven't had my first yet—we didn't do it; I've never… done… it."

"As you shouldn't, considering the laws in our world against underage intercourse," says Remus, not missing a beat.

Sirius teases Remus about his use the word intercourse; James ignores them both. "I think I'm going to ask out Evans," he decides aloud—on the spot, just like that.

"You're kidding. You haven't forgotten that she's Snivellus's best mate, right?" asks Peter, frowning.

Sirius cautions, "You won't have a chance in hell, mate."

Maybe he's bonkers, but he doesn't laugh it off, doesn't even attempt to talk himself out of it. "Yeah, Lily Evans," he echoes belatedly. "I'm going to ask her out, and I'm going to let her reject me."

Everything that will come after the inevitable rejection—that's the part he's looking forward to the most.

xx

December 23rd, 1976

James has the Gryffindor Quidditch team over to practice, and that's how Mary ends up sitting in the snow with Fabian Prewett, talking about the upperclassman power struggles and politics.

"Gid wasn't happy about it, but Sirius and Eddie and, obviously, Meghan were all for it; he was outnumbered. So we've been sneaking Ryan to practice, and Meg's played Keeper and James Seeker ever since," explains Fabian, blasé.

"So the Hufflepuffs don't get wind of the plan?" Mary asks.

He nods, yawning. "To get away, Ryan will make up some shit about needing tutoring in Transfiguration—from what I understand, he could use it, poor bloke—and James smuggles him out with his Invisibility Cloak. Then they'll put up guards around the Pitch so nobody will find out, and I'm sidelined every practice."

"What do you think of it?"

"Of what?"

"You know, like, sitting out this game because of James's plan. It's your last year to play; you can't be happy about it," says Mary, shrugging.

Fabian smirks. "Oh, I don't mind it, really. Gid's a bastard about some things, but as much as he usually doesn't trust me, he feels bad about this—if only because he doesn't like taking unnecessary risks, anyway. I like it, in some ways—Gid lets me help out with coaching, since I've got nothing better to do these days."

Mary can just see it: Fabian reclining in the stands and barking out directions to the disgruntled team. He always has been a smartarse, Fabian, and she bets that his new position on the team suits him perfectly. Honestly, Mary never used to much care for the Prewett twins: their older sister, Molly, seemed all right, but Gideon was too uptight for her, Fabian too full of himself.

These days, Fabian's been growing on her. At least he's up front and knows what he wants.

"Gid doesn't want word getting out, but you lot all would have found out anyway since we're practicing here. Just don't be thick about it," Fabian advises now, his eyes firmly rooted to the practicing team.

"Why don't you stand up to him more?" says Mary quietly. Fabian glances at her with a frown. "Gideon? You don't let anybody mess with you, mostly, but, like, I see the way he treats Meadowes and…"

Fabian chuckles low in his throat. "The thing you have to understand is—that inseparable bond people believe is between all twins? Gid and I never had that. He's always been all caught up in his morals and deciding what's black and what's white, and I'm…" He shakes his head, takes a swig of butterbeer, and says, "I'm just along for the ride, and that's never been good enough for him, you know? I dunno, maybe that makes both of us bastards, but that's the way it is."

"So why Meadowes, then? You can't possibly have thought you could get away with getting involved with her and still stay out of Gideon's politics," Mary prompts.

He tosses his head back and says, "She's smart and capable and has a good head on her shoulders, and she doesn't let the other Slytherins get in her way with their crap about how she ought to join up with the Death Eaters. She breaks the rules on her side; I break mine. If Gid has a problem with that, so be it."

"Bet Gideon wasn't happy when she made Head Girl."

"He wasn't," Fabian confirms. "Gid's problem is that he's so caught up in supporting the right thing that he loses sight of what's right and what's wrong. Dorcas might be a Slytherin, but she's got more balls than he's ever had; he just can't see it."

Because old habits die hard, Mary can't help herself: "Rumor has it that she's going to recommend Benjy Fenwick and Alice Abbott for next year's Heads; you know anything about that?"

Fabian lets out a breath and leans back. "It's hard to say," he answers finally. "She doesn't like to talk about it—says she doesn't want to fuel the fire, you know? But even if she does put in a good word for them, it's hard to say whether it'll have much influence on the decision. Shacklebolt wants Longbottom for Head Boy and either Clearwater or Davies for Head Girl, and he has as much of a say as Dorcas does—and who knows whether it'll matter to Dumbledore, anyway? Shacklebolt as Head Boy wasn't a surprise, but Head Girl was supposed to go to Jones or Macmillan this year; Dorcas getting chosen shocked everybody."

"I remember," Mary mutters, and she does: it was all anybody could talk about on the Hogwarts Express ride to the castle this year. "What do you think?"

"Me?" His eyes light up—it reminds her of the way Sirius looks whenever he's in a mischievous mood. "Maybe I'm nuts, but my money's on Clearwater or Abbott for Head Girl with James as Head Boy."

"James?" Her head whips around to face the Quidditch playing ground, and she pinpoints her gaze on James. "James Potter? Are you serious?"

Fabian shrugs, holding up his hands. "Hey, he's got the charisma, the respect of the student body, the leadership skills… all he'd need would be a sensible Head Girl to keep him in line."

"James Potter, Head Boy. Right," scoffs Mary, shaking her head in combined amusement and disbelief. "As if."

xx

December 11th, 1976

A Memory Potion only takes about a day to make, and Brinn sends her back to her hotel room to brew it, giving her the rest of the day off from the conference. "Don't worry about what you'll miss in the meantime," he instructs her. "You-Know-Who is the last item on the list; if you finish this by morning tomorrow, you'll have it done in plenty of time to catch negotiations about the war."

"After I've taken the potion, how do I control what I learn from it?" asks Lily, scribbling down the last of what she remembers about Memory Potions. She never would have expected her Potions abilities to come in handy at a time like this, but she can't say she's complaining.

"Toss a couple of French-English dictionaries and francophone novels into the cauldron two hours before you drink the potion; that should do it, I reckon," Brinn answers, turning to leave.

"Lord Brinn," she calls after him, and he stops. "Where does the 'lord' in your name come from, anyway?"

Shrugging, he says, "It's a Muggle courtesy title. My father was a British earl." And he departs.

Brewing the potion entails three hours of adding ingredients, two hours of stirring, and a minimum of fifteen hours of simmering before it's ready to be drunk; by the time Lily is halfway through stirring—twice counterclockwise, three times clockwise, pause twelve seconds, repeat—she's thoroughly homesick for Hogwarts. She can hardly believe it, but she misses James, Marlene, everyone from Gryffindor. Like it or not, she doesn't really have a family anymore, not when her cousins can't know about magic and her sister wants nothing to do with witchcraft. That's where her roommates have come in for the last few months, and despite all their troubles and feuds, she appreciates them more and more by the day.

Some days, she still can't quite get her head around the idea that the Gryffindors have become her closest friends. It wasn't all that long ago that Severus was her only mate in the world, that Emmeline was the closest thing she had to an ally in her dormitory, that James Potter was a stranger whose antics she'd laugh off or shout about sometimes and nothing more. James, his mates, the girls—they're Lily's everything now. It scares her a little that she's come to trust them, and sometimes she doubts whether her friendships are real, but there it is.

What happened to them in the last couple of months? Apart from the boys' short-lived falling out after the incident with Severus last year and Emmeline's growing distance from the group, the sixth year Gryffindors always seemed so close-knit, bearers of an impenetrable bond. When she first moved in with Marlene last summer and started getting to know the Gryffindors more intimately, their lives seemed so intertwined, their friendships solid. They were happy together—at least, they made Lily believe they were—and she'd doubted whether she could ever fully break into their circle of trust.

And now… Remus and Sirius aren't on speaking terms; half the time none of the boys are, even. Sirius and Marlene's relationship is ten times more complex and dysfunctional than it ever before appeared; Mary is a wreck instead of the best friend she once was to Marlene; Emmeline and Peter somehow wound up in a messy romantic entanglement; and Alice, the dependable prefect to whom everyone once turned for guidance and unconditional friendship (at least, everyone save for Lily), is more out of the loop than ever in her determination to avoid drama. It's almost as though her intrusion on the eight other Gryffindors' friendship coincided perfectly with its dissolution.

She thinks back to what Marlene told her that first night staying with the McKinnons last summer. We've got secrets, all right? Big ones. Was one of those secrets all along that the group is nowhere near as close as it seems from an outside perspective?

Much as she misses her newfound friends, in a way, Lily's glad to be on her own here in France. It's all so inexplicably personal—the sights of the city, the things she's learned from Brinn in her time here—and she doesn't know if it's something she can share with her Hogwarts world.

She doesn't know if she can go back to those petty misunderstandings after facing this weekend the enormity of the war.

When Brinn checks in on her progress after the conference has convened for the day, much later into the night than she'd expected, it's plain to see that he can tell there's something wrong. "Evans, if the reports you read up on yesterday are still getting you down, I can't tell you sincerely that international politics is a field you should pursue long-term," he says with a sigh after she answers his knock at her door.

"No, it's not that. It's stupid; it's nothing," she replies, because compared to the reasons she's here this weekend, this is true.

He accepts this—Brinn doesn't seem the type to want to get involved in anyone's personal affairs, anyway. "Forget about it, then, and quickly," he advises. "Is the potion nearly complete?"

"It just has to simmer until tomorrow morning."

"Excellent," he declares, nodding in approval. "Its effects will last for about forty-eight hours, allotting you more than enough time in which to fully understand the French spoken at the conference tomorrow."

"Sounds good," says Lily. "Thanks for your help, Lord Brinn."

He nods to her, then proposes, "So what do you say to a bit of sightseeing before you turn in for the night?"

"But you already took me out last night," she says slowly, not understanding.

"Around wizarding France, yes," Brinn acknowledges, "but don't try to tell me that you'd be willing to come to Paris and not even see the Eiffel Tower."

She glances at the black sky out the window of her hotel room, then at her wristwatch—it's nearly midnight. "They take groups up this late at night?"

"Evans, we're wizards."

Laughing a little, Lily says, "I'm not supposed to use magic outside the castle."

"Did I ask you to cast the spells?" counters Brinn, extending his forearm.

She takes it, squeezes hard through a moment of Side-Along-Apparition—and they're at the base of the Eiffel Tower, just like that. "It's huge," is the first thing that comes out of Lily's mouth. "I mean, I know logically that it's supposed to be huge, but it's just… huge."

The Tower looms over them, an imposing structure of winding steel built for the gods, that much more impressive illuminated against the night. As close to it as they are, Lily can't even see the point at the top from here. "So are we just going to Apparate to the top, or…?"

"Half the experience is in the lift up, Evans," says Brinn with a grin more boyish than she'd expect from him. "What do you say?"

"Well, if it reduces the chances we wind up Splinched a few meters below the top floor, I'm not complaining," Lily jokes, running off after him as they dash to the entrance to the elevator.

Though Brinn holds his wand hand steady, it's still a rickety ride up. They stop on the Tower's second floor to change lifts; Lily's tempted to rush to the balcony and stare, but Brinn tells her to wait till they're all the way at the top, and she takes the advice with only a little hesitation. And then she's there, gazing out at the city through crisscrossed wire, at once bite-sized and sprawling beneath her, a sea of monuments and a network of lights.

"It's beautiful," she tells him breathlessly, and she can't see his reaction, but she feels his rumbling laughter suspended on the wintry Parisian air.

Fleetingly—so much so that she hardly recognizes it before it's gone—she wishes that Brinn were gone and James were here instead.

xx

December 24th, 1976

It's Christmas Eve, and that's probably why Marlene caves.

He tells her to meet him in one of the parlors at eleven o'clock that night, or maybe she tells him—does it matter? He shows up, and she shows up, and it's eleven o'clock, and they're standing there, and then he kisses her.

Flashback. It's half past nine, and they're exchanging gifts in the Potters' kitchen—Alice's idea, because kitchens are homey and they're all in dire need of a dose of sentimentality this holiday season. They would have waited until tomorrow for this, but Mary cites some Muggle tradition or other of opening one present each the night before Christmas, and now, here they are.

The trades are obvious: Lily and James, Peter and Emmeline, Remus and Sirius, Mary and Marlene. Alice, the patient odd one out, opens her gift from Remus. And Marlene's walking out and hooking in the earrings Mary got her when she feels a small parcel drop into her robe pocket.

She glances to her right: Sirius. For a split second, everything stops for her. Back in her room, once Mary's asleep, she pulls it out and unwraps it to find there a note and a heart-shaped charm—sterling silver, but hey, the boy's been thrown out of his home with no money; it's not like she could have expected more.

Flash back forward to eleven o'clock, kissing in the parlor. She doesn't push away but doesn't reciprocate, either, and Sirius pulls back and brushes hair away from her face, one arm encircling her waist. "I think we should have a real go at it," he whispers, foreheads touching.

"What?" she mumbles, staying there with him but looking away.

"Being together," he says with a genuine smile. "You and me. No more secrecy, no more sex—unless you want to keep that part. Whatever you want, Marlene."

Her head spins. "And why the hell should I trust you this time?" Marlene demands.

He doesn't answer for a long while, and she's already started to sigh and walk out by the time he presses his lips to her cheek. "Because I think I love you," Sirius says awkwardly—emotions have never been his strongest suit. "I reckon it's up to you to decide whether that's enough. Just think it over," he tells her, and then he's gone and it's down to just Marlene.

xx

December 12th, 1976

"You can't be serious," Lily says, quiet and shell-shocked, in rapid French.

Brinn tells her warily, voice low, "Evans, be careful—"

She disregards him, shock turning to rage by the instant. "You can't possibly be serious! Whatever the hell your differences are with Britain, can't you get over it for the two seconds it would take you to realize that You-Know-Who is a major, international threat to wizardkind?"

There are titters within the French council, their minister saying in exasperated tones, "Again, our Ministry of Magic has judged unanimously that Voldemort is not at this time immediately relevant to the health of the French nation, nor to that of the International Confederation of Wizards—"

"I don't give a damn what your ministry thinks; you have a chance to alter the course of history here, and you're too afraid of getting on You-Know-Who's bad side to do anything about it!" Lily erupts, rising. She'd bet anything that Brinn's regretting letting her take that Memory Potion to improve her French skills for this meeting. "Didn't any of you pay a bit of attention to Gellert Grindelwald's reign of terror in the 1940s? The only reason that he stopped was British involvement—how many more of your country's wizards do you think would be dead by now if it weren't for Dumbledore defeating him? And now you can't even be bothered to give us the same courtesy now that you're out of the line of fire! It's despicable!"

"That's enough, Evans," says Brinn sharply, eyes blazing. "You're only an intern; you have no say here. Sit down," he implores her, and she complies, if only because she doesn't want to hear the objections of the French Ministry.

They leave in a flurry of apologies and formalities, and Brinn rounds on her the minute they Disapparate from the courthouse. "Evans, in all likelihood, you just blew whatever shot we had of French support for this war, dammit!" he hollers, losing his composure for the first time since she's met him.

"Like we ever had a shot with them to begin with; their minds were set from the start," she retorts sullenly.

"If you honestly believe you can go into international relations with an attitude like that—"

"Brinn, much as I hate to be rude, that is exactly why I belong in the profession," says Lily shortly. "If the best anyone has done so far is that complete political bullshit, the sooner I join the Department of International Magical Cooperation, the better."

They're plunging headfirst into a war, and France is willing to watch them fall to the wrong side.

xx

December 25th, 1976

"Can we talk, Lily?"

She glances up, folding her hands in her lap. It's James—of course it's James—jerking his head toward the nearest doorway and watching her with a look of concern. At Lily's nod, he smiles halfheartedly and leads her out of the parlor, walking with her through the winding halls of the manor.

The last time she was here, she felt so misplaced in his home, his presence. Now, James is one of the most comforting things in her life.

"Whatever's wrong, you can just tell me, you know that," he starts uneasily, eyeing her.

She breathes out, glances at the ceiling. "Is it that obvious?"

"Painfully, really, but that could just be because I pay a disproportionate amount of attention to you," James admits, and his smile seems more genuine now when she chances a look at him. "Ever since you got back from France, you've been…"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," she sighs. "It's nothing, it's just—the French Ministry—they're refusing to join forces to stop You-Know-Who."

James breathes out, scratching the back of his neck. "It's not nothing. That's…"

"Yeah." Pause. "Merry Christmas."

They've reached the end of the corridor, a dead end opening into a window that spans ceiling to floor. Without a whit of attention to her dignity, she presses her hands to the glass and stares out at the grounds from which it separates her—hilly and covered in snow, the picture of a winter wonderland. "Well, this is a bit awkward," says James abruptly.

"Why, what for?" asks Lily, glancing back at him.

"I'd had this whole romantic statement planned out that I swore to myself I'd tell you by Christmas, only now the fate of wizarding Britain is apparently looking a lot bleaker, and I feel like the unluckiest bloke in the country to have been stuck with this rubbish timing," he says, sheepish but smiling.

Something stops clicking in Lily's mind, and she echoes, "Romantic statement?"

He shrugs. "It wouldn't matter anyway; I can't think what a word of it was now," James tells her with a little laugh.

And in a minute, Lily won't be able to remember what the hell is happening now, but one of them is walking forward and then James is touching one hesitant hand to her cheek and, god, they're kissing, and then it's over and she's just had her first kiss with, of all people, James Potter.

And Lily can't think, but she seems to be able to move, so she starts smiling, and James starts smiling back, and it really feels wonderful to be an idiot smiling on a picturesque Christmas morning.

xx

December 17th, 1976

Emmeline Vance is not a perfect person. Emmeline Vance can hold a grudge like no other, and she's currently harboring a hell of one against Sirius Black.

After all, so far as she's concerned, he's the one who killed her parents.

xx

END OF PART THREE