Happy Wednesday lovelies!
So far I've been keeping to my planned update schedule this month, so hopefully that continues. This might sound a bit odd, but there are only two more chapters in their sixth year before summer vacation begins...which is insane to me, cause it seemed to go by so fast.
Please leave a review and let me know what you think ;)
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.
The sweet sound of birds singing rang in Draco's ears; otherwise his surroundings held a strange quietness. Draco shoes squeaked as he shifted forward, pushing James's hair off of his forehead before he pressed the back of his hand against it. His fever has broken, Draco sighed in relief, his hand slipping from his brother's forehead.
Draco leaned back in the chair he'd pulled up beside James's bed: he slumped down, interlaced his fingers, dropped his hands into his lap, and stared at the fresh bandages on James's back—he was lying face down.
Draco should be in class, but he couldn't concentrate, and McGonagall was more than understanding. Hermione left the same time he did, but she'd muttered something about fresh air and Hagrid's. (Draco could also bet good money that Hermione would be walking through the Infirmary doors at any moment; prior to McGonagall's lesson she'd been skiving off all day so that she could remain by James's side.)
A low groan came from James, and Draco raised his head to look at the injured wizard. James was peering at Draco through half-lidded eyes.
"What happen?" James got out after a couple tries.
"Snape...well, he used a dark curse on you...and I—either way you're better now," Draco said, wincing at how vague his explanation was.
"How?" James croaked, his tongue swiping across his chapped bottom lip.
"You want some water?" Draco asked, and James shook his head an infinitesimal amount. "Your fever just broke, you need to stay hydrated," Draco said sternly, sounding very much like Dorea in that moment.
James grunted, and nodded his head. Draco leant forward, reached over to James's bedside table where a glass of water with a plain, bendy straw in it awaited—Draco grabbed a hold of it, and murmured a cooling spell that spread from his fingertips into the glass and chilled the water (it had gotten quite tepid in the past hour).
Draco scooted forward in his chair, held the glass out, and guided the straw between James's parted lips. As James slowly drank some water, he became slightly more alert, and Draco knew that meant James would want him to expound on the details.
"You've been out since yesterday—probably cause you're hopped up pain suppressing potions—and Pomfrey administered quite a few blood replenishing potions." Draco wasn't sure how to broach the next topic, so he sucked in a gulp of air and went for it. "She put dittany on the cuts on your back, but she said that because of the dark nature of the spell, they'll be permanent."
James stopped drinking, and jerked his head back, "how...how bad is it?" James winced in acute pain, and clamped his eyes shut. He shouldn't be moving around if he can help it, Draco thought.
Draco's eye flicked to James's back, and was thoroughly relieved to see he hadn't ripped open his wounds—again; last night James had been thrashing in his sleep and almost all of them tore open in the process.
Draco ran his tongue along his molars for a moment, and instead of answering James's question, he stood up.
"What are you...what you doing?"
"One second," Draco said in a calm tone, his fingers moving at lightning speed as he unbuttoned his white button down, and in a smooth motion he loosened his tie and slipped it up and over his head. Without looking Draco tossed it into the chair he'd previously been sitting in.
Draco's bare chest was now exposed, but he was out of James's line of sight, so he knelt on the ground in front of his brother.
James sucked in harshly. "Did Snape…?" James asked as he took in the web of scars; gobsmacked.
Draco snorted, shaking his head, "no. The how and why isn't really important right now. Hermione de-glamoured them yesterday, and...I thought you should see them."
James smiled dreamily, letting his head fall onto his fluffy pillow, and in a gay tone he said, "we match."
"Not exactly," Draco smirked, placing a hand on James's cheek. James looked almost like a child in that moment, pure joy radiating off of him, and the sunlight hit him in a way that made him appear young and innocent. Draco always wanted to remember his brother like this, happy and trying to make Draco feel better even if he was the one chained to a bed due to severe injuries.
"Then...we complete each other," James tried, his brow drawing together just a smidge.
"Yea, I guess we do," Draco laughed lightly, and James's eyes drooped until they were fully closed.
Draco stroked his brother's cheek before he rose from his kneeling position and settled back into his chair.
Hermione showed up five minutes later, but by that time James had drifted back to sleep; she found Draco slumped in his chair, watching James. Silently she climbed into Draco's lap, snuggling into him whilst never once taking her eyes off of the slumbering wizard.
"Did his fever break?" She asked after some time.
"Yupp, he even woke up for a few minutes. He was talking—even cracked a joke or two—and he drank some water," Draco responded quietly, securing his arms around his witch. Neither of them cared if anyone saw them, because all they would see was two siblings worriedly minding their brother and ensuring that his recovery ran smoothly.
"Sirius is taking notes for Transfiguration," Hermione commented after a while.
"I'll have to thank him later," Draco yawned.
Sirius's notes were the best in Transfiguration: the wizard just had an uncanny knack for it, his notes were neat and easy to follow (he broke down all the complexities and made them ridiculously straightforward). Even though he was constantly fooling around in McGonagall's classes, he was her favourite student.
Draco was going to say something else, but then his exhaustion got the better of him, and before he knew it, he too had drifted off.
A couple hours later, Madame Pomfrey didn't have the heart to kick the Potter 'twins' out of the Infirmary; instead, she tucked a cream blanket over them, and let them slumber away.
Monday, April 25th, 1977
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
"Seriously, Mione? Can't a bloke be laid up—injured—in bed for a few days before he has to do Transfiguration essays?" James grumbled.
James was languidly lounging on his stomach, but propped up on his elbows so that he could properly read the latest issue of Seeker Weekly—Sirius snuck it in to him yesterday. Hermione was sat on a stout stool beside his bed, grinning toothily. (She'd practically raced out of her last class for the day—a little over an hour ago—eager to spend as much time with her brother before visiting hours were over.)
"It's been four days, and if you're well enough to complain, you're well enough to do your schoolwork," Hermione teased, jerking her chin towards his bedside table. James followed her line of sight, rolled his eyes, and stuck his tongue out as he made a gagging nose.
"As much as I really don't feel like doing any work, I do appreciate you collecting all my work for me the past few days," James said with a frustrated exhalation of breath.
Hermione's eyes drifted over to James's exposed back, at the messy web of pink, puckered scars that crisscrossed their way all over his skin.
"As much as I would like to take credit...I can't. We were all taking notes for you the first couple days, but then someone took over. Ever since they've been running around collecting all the materials from every single one of your classes," Hermione smiled wryly, winking at her brother as she stood up.
It's said that you can guide a horse to water, but you can't make it drink. Hermione decided to guide her brother to the trough, and hopefully he would drink—soon. All this back and forth was driving her crazy.
"Wait, then who's been taking notes for me?" James queried, twisting his body, and wincing from the effort; the skin may have healed, but his body was still sore and Pomfrey said it would be a few days yet before he would be back to full capacity.
Hermione shrugged, smiling naively as she backed away in the direction of the exit. Mid-step, Hermione bent partially at the middle, and withdrew her wand from the holster around her thigh—she used to only wear it when she was playing Quidditch, or on the rarest of occasions, but these days she never took it off (except to shower and sleep).
Hermione flicked her wand, and with a nifty bit of spellwork, a luscious calla lily appeared on top of the pile of schoolbooks and assignments accrued on James's bedside table.
(If one was only scratching the surface, then one would never have known that James and Kira's night of intimacy had ever bothered Lily Evans: she was the definition of friendly and treated Kira warmly and like nothing ever happened. Not to mention she even spoke to James without a hint of malice or ill will. Glass shards pierced her heart with every interaction, but she was not going to allow it to poison her interactions with her fellow lions.)
"I'll see you tonight, dear brother!" Hermione called over her shoulder, tucking her wand back into her holster; the witch left her brother staring at the lily in utter bewilderment, and with a flurry of thoughts that he did not know how to even begin sorting.
Thursday, April 28th, 1977
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
The air was sweltering, sticky and there was a potent mix of various smells battling for dominance in Riley Paddington's nostrils.
The Hufflepuff had gone for a bit of a stroll after classes when she spotted Professor Sprout struggling in one of the greenhouses; the witch had been moving massive plant pots to and fro. Riley jogged over, and did not hesitate in lending a helping hand.
The pots were exceptionally wide, and of substantial weight since they were filled to the brim with dirt. Riley smiled as she saw the tops of the young plants peeking out amongst the freshly potted earth.
Some time into her task, Riley carefully shifted a pot into place before she straightened out. The witch wiped her brow with the back of her gloved hand, and stood upright with her hands on her hips as she caught her breath.
She was all alone in the Greenhouse as she had shooed Professor Sprout with the promise that she would be just fine, and that the woman deserved a break after a burdensome day—Riley knew that on Thursdays, Sprout's schedule was fully packed from seven o'clock in the morning. (That did not even include all the prep the witch did in the darkness before sunrise.)
For a brief moment, Riley toyed with the idea of levitating the pots into place, but she knew that would go directly against Professor Sprouts deepest convictions: the jolly woman did not believe in using trivial magic on plants unless absolutely necessary (it tampered with their growth she said).
Thereby, Riley continued to move the pots from one end of the greenhouse to their designated positions.
The girl was dressed in weathered, brown leather boots, ripped, faded blue shorts (she'd cut them out of an old pair of jeans) that came about mid thigh, and a crochet, navy blue, halter crop top. Riley's short, messily cropped hair was pulled back into a tiny ponytail with a black hair tie—her hair was barely long enough to be tied back properly, but somehow she'd managed it.
Riley was so occupied with her task, that she didn't notice she wasn't alone. She'd just placed another pot down when strong hands wrapped around her waist, and tugged her back into their lean front.
"Oi!" Riley protested loudly, prepared to struggle, but then she caught a whiff of cinnamon and leather. Riley sank into the body behind her. One of Riley's gloved hands moved to grasp the back of their neck, the other holding fast onto their sinewy forearm.
"Hey, babe," Riley whispered lowly, smiling when she felt feather-light kisses being peppered to the side of her neck—she was about to stop him and tell him that she was sweaty, but then she recalled who she was dealing with.
"You seem like you're having fun," Sirius said, and the corner of his lips turned upwards against her skin
"Are you sure you should be so close to me when anyone could walk past and see us," Riley breathed, closing her eyes and imagining they were somewhere far away; somewhere with wind caressing their faces, and the roar of the ocean surrounding them.
"Everyone's at the feast," Sirius replied, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder.
"We're not," Riley pointed out, and Sirius shrugged.
Riley cleared her throat, "but now that you're here, you can help me move these pots."
Sirius groaned softly, reluctantly removed his arms from around his witch and asked, "what do you want me to do?"
Riley turned around and took him in for the first time since he'd joined her. Sirius was wearing tight black trousers, his black leather boots and a loose, light blue and white striped, button-down shirt—he'd tucked half of the front into his trousers and the top three buttons were undone, exposing a great deal of his chest.
"You really aren't dressed for it, but just follow my lead and you'll be fine," Riley giggled, and Sirius bopped her on the nose in response.
It took all of five seconds before Sirius was whinging, "I knew I dropped Herbology for a reason."
Riley shook her head with fondness, and without a word of complaint set about completing her charge. The pair worked as the sun lowered in the sky, and ended up dancing about the greenhouses whilst grimy and covered in dirt.
Though in their minds they might as well have been dressed in finery, waltzing around an illustrious ballroom; for they were young and in love, and completely lost in a world of their own.
Friday, May 6th, 1977
Muggle London
England
She was gorgeous, magnificent really.
Raven curls that cascaded down her back, a dazzling smile and magical laugh; and on top of it all she was knocking back shots like they were water.
The pub was packed, utterly packed. Not to mention the raucous laughter, and loud chatter that was practically deafening. In spite of that, he'd still heard her speak, and he was enthralled by her.
The only issue was the fact that she was surrounded by males, four of them—five if you counted the short, mousy haired one that left a few minutes ago after calling out, "I'm going to go get the ne—next round!"
Even with the odds all stacked against him, Max chose to try. Simply because he felt like he may regret it for the rest of his days if he didn't. The 'what if' of the whole situation would inevitably haunt him, he just knew it.
One of Max's mates bellowed after him, asking where he was going, but he didn't respond. His focus was solely on the girl in front of him.
Max truthfully didn't recall much of the actual interaction afterwards, but he remembered the scent of chamomile and vanilla, her dark eyelashes fluttering as she blinked multiple times while she listened to him stutter out something that was most assuredly foolish. A strange thing that stuck in his mind was that they were all drinking except a bespectacled boy with rowdy, raven hair.
I wonder if they are related, Max thought as he took in their matching hair and eyes. He could drown in her eyes.
She politely refused him, he knew that much. He suspected it had something to do with the grey eyed bloke next to her, with sharp, angular features and a dark look in his eye.
Max remembered her patting his arm, and smiling gently. Max saw their friend re-appear in his peripherals—arms laden with a multitude of drinks.
He asked who Max was with a confused smile, but then a bloke who was far too pretty for his own good clapped a hand on Max's shoulder and said, "don't mind, Pete. He was just leaving."
I was? Max thought in a hazy fog of inebriation. He may be pissed off his arse, but he hadn't planned on leaving. They seemed like a good time.
"Okay, Padfoot. Leave the lad alone," a sandy haired guy said. He was really tall. Why was he so tall? Come to think of it, they were all really tall. Well, except for the guy still standing there with several drinks in hand, and her.
There was a spot of darkness in Max's memory, and then he was back amongst his mates. They were teasing him, and ruffling his hair, and distinctly came, "we like to drink with Harry! Cos Harry is our mate, and when we drink with Harry, he gets it down in 8…7…6…5…"
Cheers. Loud cheers. Harry was being lifted off the ground by Ben and spun in a merry circle.
Max glanced over his shoulder, and just like that they were gone. All of them with their tallness and good looks. The image of her was imprinted in his mind: it was only the next morning when he was crawling out of bed with a splitting headache that he figured out he didn't even know her name.
"Hold still, Remus," Sirius scolded, gripping Remus's chin so he couldn't jerk out of Sirius's grip—again.
"It tickles," Remus said, scrunching up his nose.
Sirius rolled his eyes, "you are impossible. Hermione, can you take over? I'll remove Draco's whilst we're at it."
"I'd love to!" Hermione sang, prying herself from James's side and skipping over to where the werewolf and animagus were standing.
The woods were eerily quiet, but none of the intoxicated teenagers paid much mind to that. Peter was on the outskirts of the group, stacking twigs, and dead logs in a pile. The others were busily singing an old wizarding folk song whilst dancing about until Sirius announced that he had to undo his handiwork—he'd transfigured their features before they went to the muggle pub as to make themselves look older.
"Are we going to talk about the fact that Hermione got hit on by that drunk bloke?" Sirius asked with a broad grin, hopping over a thick root and coming to a halt right in front of Draco. Not noticing the fact that Draco's jaw was clenched, and there was steel in his eyes as he unblinkingly stared straight ahead.
Draco's possessive side was showing, but the only one aware of it aside from the witch in question was James.
There was a tingling sensation that ran across Draco's face as it returned to its natural state, and his eyes settled on Hermione; she had just finished up with Remus, and had launched herself onto his back. The pair of them were laughing as Remus ran in a small circle, and Hermione threw her arms out to the side and let out a sharp howl.
Draco shook his head, and couldn't help the smirk that found its way onto his face.
The Marauders had decided to go out for a bit of a stress reliever: their exams were coming up in a few weeks, and it almost felt like they were studying for OWLs again despite them not sitting their NEWTs until the following year. Their schoolwork just kept piling up, and the barrage of assignments never ceased. James was the only one who hadn't drank the entire night (he wanted to take things easy even though he was fully recovered), and he'd been running after everyone like a Mother Hen ensuring that they'd stayed hydrated throughout the night.
Minutes later, Hermione had fallen asleep on Remus's back, Peter was sat on the forest floor in a semi-daze, Sirius had shifted into a massive black canine that blended into the night, and James was leaning against Draco.
"I think we should head back to the castle," James suggested, and a sharp bark came from Padfoot. James fixed Sirius with a no-nonsense gaze, and the dog let out a soft bark before he bounded off into the distance.
"SIRIUS!" James shouted. Draco winced at the piercing sound in his ear.
It was too late however, as the dog had disappeared into the thin fog and darkness that blanketed over the forest.
"C'mon, we really should get back," Remus said, gesturing with his chin over his shoulder at Hermione's slumbering form—both of his hands were secured under her thighs keeping her upright.
"Sirius knows his way back, he'll be fine," Peter said, grunting as he stood up, arms high above his head as he stretched.
Draco sighed. There was no way he was leaving Sirius alone. Voldemort had clearly started recruiting amongst the elder years at Hogwarts, and even if he hadn't, being alone in the Forbidden Forest was always a bad idea.
Without a word, Draco rolled his shoulders back, allowed the magic to course through his veins, and a velvety, cool sensation rolled across his skin as he fell onto all fours and transformed into a pure white wolf.
"Wait, Dray. Not you too," James groaned, throwing his hands up into the air.
Paws regarded them all quietly for a moment, before he too took off into the night.
It took the wolf a bit of time, but it wasn't long before Paws trotted into a small clearing and found Padfoot sat in the middle of it—his gaze skyward. The two canines stayed there in the waning moonlight for what could have been hours, but eventually they padded off into the forest. Eventually the trees thinned out, and the castle towered above them in the night.
Both wizards shifted on the outskirts of the forest, and reticently Sirius said, "Snape's one of them now...isn't he?"
"I don't know," Draco answered honestly. He will be in the future, but I don't know if he's been indoctrinated as of yet, Draco added quietly to himself.
Sirius absently rubbed at the scar on his left arm, and Draco's body tensed as he stopped himself from doing the same. Draco may not be able to see it anymore, but sometimes it writhed on his skin; he hadn't told Hermione, but in the past few months his dark mark had started to burn.
As Voldemort grew in strength, the more Draco could sense it: it was a dull, muted feeling; nothing like it had been years ago. Perhaps the glamours were dampening the potency of the mark. I certainly hope so, Draco thought.
Sirius slung an arm over Draco's shoulders, promptly drawing the boy out of his thoughts, "enough talk of greasy prats like Snape, how are you and Marlene?"
Draco peeked at Sirius in his peripherals. There was a curious expression present on his features, and his eyebrows were slightly raised.
Draco smirked, and bowed his head as they commenced the trek back to the castle—they would have to be very quiet when sneaking back as James had the Cloak. Draco cleared his throat, and answered his friend who has been patiently waiting, "we're good. Just friends of course, but we're good. Yesterday we had a friendly spar to prepare for the practical part of our Defense exam."
Sirius quirked a brow, "so, you're trying to tell me that there's no chance of you guys getting back together?"
An image of Hermione slumbering away in his arms flashed into his mind, and instinctively Draco replied, "nope. No chance. We had a lot of…irreconcilable differences."
"That's a shame, mate," Sirius tsked, pulling Draco closer to him in a comforting gesture. Sirius did a half jump to avoid a small pile of rocks.
It wasn't until the wizards reached the Viaduct Courtyard that Sirius whispered, "don't worry, I'm sure we can find you a witch if you want."
Draco chuckled softly, reaching over to ruffle Sirius's hair—which the other wizard scowled at before he smoothed his locks back down. "I think I've had enough of girls to last me a little while," Draco said.
Sirius halted, twisting his body so that both of his hands were on Draco's shoulders, "ah. Then I'm sure we can find you a willing wizard."
Sirius ducked out of the way before Draco could playfully hit him, showcasing all of his pearly whites as he ran backwards; well out of Draco's reach.
Draco quickly picked up his pace and jogged after Sirius. The wizards made haste on their way back up to the Gryffindor Tower with the assistance of their constant conspirator (Peeves), and thankfully they weren't caught by Filch or any of the Prefects on duty.
When they stepped through the portrait hole into the Common Room, they found it was almost empty; James was seated by the fireplace, partially illuminated by the dwindling flames.
"Good, so neither of you is dead, maimed or otherwise incapacitated," James drawled as he turned to face them.
"Have you been waiting up this entire time?" Sirius asked.
"No, I went spreeing in London, snogged a few girls and set a shop on fire before I ended up here," James said sarcastically, pushing himself up into a standing position. Draco ambled over to his brother, and gripped his shoulder tightly. The brothers shared a secret look of understanding; Sirius was fine, he just needed some time to himself.
"Right then, lads. I'm knackered," Sirius declared, arms stretched high above his head as he headed for the staircase that led to the boy's dormitories.
"Night," Draco and James chorused, and Sirius shot them a thumbs up; he tiredly trudged up the stairs.
"Is it okay?" James queried, and Draco rubbed the back of his hand along his jawline with a pensive pucker of his brow.
"I think he'll be fine. He thinks Snape is a death eater."
James grimaced, "he probably is...Sirius didn't say anything about going after him did he?"
"No. It probably helps that Snape and his friends have been lying low since…" Draco trailed off, peeking at his brother.
"Yea, I know," James threw an arm around Draco's shoulders and they made their way over to the stairs, but when they reached the base James came to an abrupt halt. "Regulus has been hanging around Snape a lot more ever since the incident." James sounded detached as he spoke about the attack—as if he hadn't been the injured party.
"That's probably why Sirius's mood has soured a lot over the past few weeks," Draco guessed, and with their left feet the brothers began their ascent.
"Probably," James agreed.
The rest of their trip was done in silence, and the brothers bid each other good night right outside their dorm room. James bobbed one way when they entered the room, and Draco wove the other. When Draco finally fell into his bed—it had been a long night—his thoughts spun round and round, like a carousel that never stopped.
It truly was a burden knowing how the future would play out when you had no power to alter the upcoming course of events.
Draco's dark mark didn't burn that night, but it itched. There were colonies of ants crawling over his skin before they burrowed their way into his arm, squirming and travelling up and down the length of his forearm; at least it wasn't like his flesh was melting off.
Briefly he wondered if it was all in his head, and he was physically manifesting his fears into reality. Though, Draco knew the dark mark was directly connected Voldemort himself, but it was nice to hope that that was not the case.
Snape is in a position similar to the one I was in…yet, we were in vastly different places. I didn't have a choice, and he merely thinks he doesn't have one. Draco slid under his sheets, and hissed at how frigid his bed was. It took him several moments to get comfy, and he settled down with one hand on his chest and the other firmly under his pillow.
Draco's final thought before he drifted off was, Snape may not be a death eater yet, but sooner or later, he will be.