(Really Long) Note:
Leila Davis, thank you so much for your beautiful review! It was so fun and touching to see your reactions and emotions regarding the story! It's wonderful to hear your perspective! I addressed your inquiry about why Alice isn't really that angry at Dumbledore in this chapter, and I hope the answer is to your satisfaction... continue letting me know if there's a burning question you have!
Une-papillon-de-nuit has sent me a list of potential Alices that might work better in the casting: Mackenzie Foy, Thomasin McKenzie, or a young Kate Moss. I, personally, can see all of these, and think that any of the would work quite a bit better than Anya Taylor-Joy (no offense to anyone who has been finding her perfectly suited to the part)! This is a lot of names to put into the cast every time, so I will just make a list of possible Alices separately. Continue to let me know if there is anyone you would like me to add!
In this chapter, there is a point at which I reveal Remus to be an Animagus. I know he was never an Animagus in the books, and it makes sense that he wouldn't be, since he hates everything about his Wolf-ness. But I believe that transforming into animal form would be a valuable skill that he had, even if he uses it very rarely. Not TOO out of canon, but I felt the need to let you know beforehand that this is not typical of Remus's character from the books / movies.
Likewise, I wanted to let you all know ahead of time that the timeline both in the fourth book and the fourth movie is extremely confusing to try to write off of. I have a couple of calendars that I usually use for reference and all of them say different things... so if you could, kind of, just roll with me on this one, without digging too deep into logistics, that would be much appreciated. For reference: fourth year, Sirius Black and Buckbeak are hiding in a cave near Hogsmeade. Remus is doing much of what he had been doing before Dumbledore offered him the third year DADA position, floating from place to place, relying on only himself.
Thank you, FreyaHawthorne and becky157689 for following and favoriting! Thanks, .d'amite and greenistari for following!
Myharlequinromance321 on AO3 has suggested that Daniel Bruhl could work as a potential Remus, so I am going to add him to the cast! Thank you for your suggestions, and for commenting!
Thank you Kingsman_Merlin and What_Goldfish on AO3 for bookmarking and leaving kudos on the story! Thanks, also, to myharlequinromance321, FEED_ME_MEMES, zozozo, starshineandmoonlight, and aimeesullivannn for leaving kudos!
I've gotten some really wonderful comments from guests, and it makes me so sad not to be able to reply! If you're on and can add your email so that I can respond to you, I would be so happy! (and the site keeps your email anonymous, too, so I don't have your personal information... if that was a concern). Thank you for your encouragement!
WE ARE FINALLY GOING TO SEE SIRIUS BLACK IN THIS CHAPTER! I am SO excited to finally write him! Okay, I'll shut up, now, and actually get to work. :)
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable.
Special Disclaimer: All of Dumbledore's lines in the section in which the Goblet is unveiled, are directly from the films, not of my own creation.
Chapter Eleven Totally Optional Cast (In order of appearance)
Alice: Mackenzie Foy, Kate Moss (young), Thomasin McKenzie, Anya Taylor-Joy
Oliver Phelps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . George Weasley
James Phelps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fred Weasley
Daniel Radcliffe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Harry Potter
Rupert Grint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ronald Weasley
Bonnie Wright . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ginny Weasley
Emma Watson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hermione Granger
Tom Felton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Draco Malfoy
Sir Michael Gambon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dumbledore
Brendan Gleeson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody
Alan Rickman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Severus Snape
Stanislav Yanevski . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Viktor Krum
Clemence Poesy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fleur Delacour
Colin Morgan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Theodore Nott
Robert Pattinson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cedric Diggory
Gary Oldman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sirius Black
David Thewlis / Domhnall Gleeson / Daniel Bruhl . . . . . . . . Remus Lupin
XI | Hogwarts
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
and A Cave Outside of Hogsmeade Village
Autumn 1994
"What's got you so bothered?"
Fred's voice cleaves through the lonely silence that had filled her head, before. She'd been lost in thought, looking out the window but feeling nothing in reaction to the beautiful scenery, after having read a worrying article in the Daily Prophet regarding the events at the World Cup. Fred and George had both been busy buying (and stealing) a number of sweets from the trolley and hadn't noticed her unpleasant trance until after they'd already unpacked much of the candy and started rationing some for eating, and some for examining for inspiration for some trick sweets of their own.
Alice works herself out of her daze at the sound of Fred's voice and shakes her head. "Loads of things, I guess," she says, managing a half-smile before looking back out the window. From overhead where they've stocked their trunks, comes the gentle cooing of the barn owl the Weasleys had bought for her during her and the twins' shopping trip in Diagon Alley a week before. Alice looks up at him—Horatio, they'd decided to name him, after the Shakespeare character—and narrows her eyes as he cocks his head to one side and squawks sympathetically. She and the bird hadn't quite managed to bond all the way yet, but they are still slowly managing.
"Pumpkin Pasties are good for cheering up," suggests George, slightly disheartened by the dismal look on his friend's face. Something stirs in Alice's heart at the twins' hospitality towards her, but she has to shake her head and decline; if she were to eat a single bite of food, she's certain it would come directly back up again.
Alice can sense from any number of compartments away that Harry's scar is hurting badly, even worse than it had been hurting before they'd parted ways on the platform at Kings Cross station. That becomes, quickly, the foundation for a house full of problems, not all of which she can name, but all of which she can feel heavy on her heart.
The ministry has no idea who conjured the dark mark in the sky. If Harry's dream Is to be taken at face value, the Dark Lord has returned, in some sense, but nobody will speak about it, not even Harry.
She thinks about Remus, for leaving, and worries about where he is, and who he might be with—though the possibility that he isn't with anyone at all is the most terrifying, and most likely, of all scenarios.
She thinks about the tremendous, selfless hospitality so many had shown her—so many whose faces she cannot even recall for the thickness of her depression over that past spring and summer, and she thinks about the Weasleys.
She thinks about her parents, her real parents, the glimpse of them she'd caught at the Hallowe'en ball... and then she thinks about the Malfoys, her body going rigid at the thought of Lucius, and then melting at the thought of Fynn and, finally, Draco... Draco, who is somewhere on this very train, who she will be able to see in the flesh, and embrace, and apologize to in full, when they reach the school.
Her thoughts are interrupted by a sudden flicker of white against the green and grey landscape of the highlands alongside the railway. Her eyes focus in on the object, and she identifies it quickly as Harry's owl, Hedwig, a letter clasped in her claws. She knows immediately that the letter must be addressed to Sirius Black. It would be Hermione who finally convinced Harry to send it, but Alice had been on him trying to get him to write to his Godfather for days on end, after his nightmares had intensified, along with the pain in his forehead.
A sudden pang of guilt punctures her chest, so real and poignant that she actually looks down at her shirt, and is surprised when there is nothing there but fabric, and the small shape of her body beneath it. Quickly she turns her eyes back to the window, the cause of her sudden anguish still at the forefront of her mind.
It's been months and months, and she hasn't so much as reached out to Arabella Figg by post.
How could she abandon the woman who raised her, so? Harry has been itching to see Sirius in person ever since he got out of prison, but she has not excuse to be separated from the woman on Privet Drive—who is still, surely, alone, who surely misses her with a desperation that the girl hates herself for not feeling. Or, perhaps, she has felt homesick all this time, and just never had a moment to breathe and recognize the feeling buried so deeply inside her chest.
She could stand up on the seat and get paper and quill from her trunk and pen a letter at this very moment; she could send it out to the woman with Horatio, could let him out the train window then and there. But for the moment, she just wants to cry. A wave of extreme sadness crashes onto her and keeps her down, making it feel as though her ribs are slowly being crushed into her lungs.
She considers leaving the compartment and going in search of a quiet spot, perhaps a loo, where she can sob in private. But she's too distraught to move, so decides to just stay there and be quiet, while Fred and George toss candy at each other, trying in vain to alleviate the sadness permeating the compartment.
A shout of awe rushes over the jumbled crowd of students as the Beauxbatons' pegasus-drawn carriage flies down from the clouds and skims across the water of the lake like a figure skater before landing swiftly on the ground at the lower edge of the grounds. An even greater wave of awed silence falls upon them all when the Durmstrang ship rises dramatically, in sharp contrast to the delicacy of the carriage, from the waters of the Long Lake, beads of water trembling off its mast in great amounts as it bobs up and rights itself steadily.
Everyone crowds around the windows to watch the respective arrivals of the guests, object of much speculation, Fred and George keeping to the front. Nobody notices Albus Dumbledore come around the corner of the hall and start towards the crowd of students, aiming to find Alice and pulls her aside—a feat which proves the opposite of girl has been making an effort to observe quietly, from a point further away from the others. Something about the crowd seems overwhelming and anxiety-inducing to her, but aloneness carries its own weight, so she's decided against going off in search of Draco around the castle—that, she has to put off until later.
"Alice," says Dumbledore, freeing the addressed from the heavy shackles of her thoughts—in the same negative, anxious line that they'd followed on the Hogwarts Expressed earlier that afternoon.
"Headmaster," she says, trying to straighten herself up, but knowing that the wise old wizard can see through her façade of contentment. A part of her is angry at the man beyond belief, blaming her difficulties upon him, seeing how easily her trials may have been avoided if he had only mustered the will to wave his hand in a different direction than he had, in this reality. But another part of her is determined to forgive and forget, another part of her doesn't even want to remember what happened to her, at all—and so she is slightly numb to his presence, and not as angry as she might have been under different circumstances.
"May I speak to you in private for just a moment?" he asks, though they're already separate enough from the otherwise-engaged crowd to be considered in a private setting. She nods her head and they take a number of steps away from the windows. The old wizard bends his face towards the girl's, a twinkle in his eye, and an element of respect that recognizes the part his faults have played in the struggles of her life—something that doesn't have to be acknowledged aloud for her to appreciate it, and absolve the old man of all his charges.
"Is there a problem?" she asks, worriedly, a number of scenarios involving Draco being stolen, killed, or otherwise injured flashing through her mind as though on a projector.
"No, no," says the headmaster, seeming to sense the place to which her mind had so immediately gone. "It's only that, for the sorting, you will require a surname, my dear."
He raises an eyebrow slightly, and she understands what he means. She almost interjects, before he speaks her thoughts aloud for her.
"You will not be required to use the name that correlates to your bloodline, however. You may choose your own—but be cautious in this... a name is very important, especially when one gives it to oneself."
The first last name in the girl's head is Remus's. But she knows this would be entirely inappropriate, and a legitimate impossibility, so she shoves it from her thoughts... though the residual warmth on her cheeks, and the simultaneous threat of tears at the memory of how he'd left the Burrow without saying goodbye, remain blatant on her face.
"I don't know, headmaster," she says, looking down at the floor between his two peculiar blue pointed shoes, making an effort not to cry, and succeeding admirably.
"May I suggest..." says Albus, after momentarily searching the ceiling for inspiration, "Lowell?"
Something about the sudden wink in his eye makes her trust his judgement, and something rings true about the voice, though she doesn't know what. "Yes, headmaster," she says, grateful that a decision had been made for her.
"I will take note of it," says the wizard with a nod, smiling slightly beneath his wiry beard. "Good luck... Ms. Lowell." He winks at her yet again, and then turns away on a quiet heel, seeming to blend directly into the grey of the corridor wall before he's even turned the corner.
Soon afterward, everyone starts to make their way towards the area in front of the great hall, the older students filing through the doors and sitting down at their designated house tables, still bare of the coming feast. Alice, however, is stopped just short of the doors by Professor McGonagall, who waits there for the soon-to-arrive first year students.
"Ms. Lowell," she says with meaning—Alice's eyes widen for a moment before she remembers how quickly news travels when Dumbledore wants it to—and holds out a hand towards the girl, who has been walking alongside Fred and George. "I'm afraid," her Scottish accent says, her eyes friendly but full of a masked regret, similar to Dumbledore's, "you'll have to enter along with the first years, according to tradition. You're welcome to wait here, with me."
Alice nods her head in understanding, something coiling in her stomach which she can't quite place—perhaps it's a bit of shame, standing before the woman, who she knows is aware of the horrors she'd suffered at the hands of Lucius Malfoy. A part of her wishes that nobody knew at all; that she could suffer the memories alone, and not enforce them upon the present by being surrounded by others who knew her secret. But still she musters a smile at the professor, who returns it in such a way that Alice suddenly wonders if it really is such a curse for her suffering to be known by powerful people who care for her.
Fred and George turn to her in unison, walking backwards with the others through the doors and raising their tall heads above the crowd. "Don't worry, Alice!" George calls. "Nobody will mistake you for an actual first year." And Fred continues, with a mischievous but warm grin: "You'd have to be abnormally old, for that to be the case." The twins don identical smiles of encouragement and salute her before turning and joining the other Gryffindors at their table.
Soon, the first years arrive, led by Hagrid, with whom she'd become only vaguely familiar, after encountering him a number of times around the grounds that summer when she'd been at Hogwarts before leaving for the Malfoy Manor. She doesn't recognize any of the newcomers... apart from one young boy who she thinks she vaguely remembers from the ball at the Manor last Hallowe'en... but she believes herself to be merely imagining the connection. The group, on the whole, is a small one—no doubt to do with the scandal involving Sirius Balck's invasion of the castle last year, not to mention the fact that Dumbledore had hired Remus as a professor, something that shocked many in the wizarding community, though Alice would never understand the stigma that came along with his condition.
Were he here, she knows he would argue against her, telling her that she only disagrees with the majority of society because she doesn't fully comprehend the dangers his condition poses. But still, were he with her, she would argue directly back, as she has done before, knowing for sure—or at least believing very strongly—that he is wrong.
After a number of preliminary introductions and instructions, McGonagall opens the doors to the great hall, and all of them walk in two single file lines down the aisle towards the front of the hall. A slight twinge of awkwardness stirs in her chest, knowing that, though she has never been a tall person, she is a head above most of the eleven-year-olds. The other young students are all looking up and around in awe, at the ceiling, the windows, and all the older students looking at them—and at Alice—curiously. But the anxious feeling quickly dissipates. The place is familiar to the girl, but she still gets a sudden stir of excitement and wonder of her own—this is it; what she's been waiting for, for years on end: to be a part of a family, to learn magic, and to be herself, without any rigid confines inhibiting her growth and freedom.
As they near the front of the room, she looks over to the Gryffindor table, and makes eye contact with Fred, George and Harry, who reassure her with raised eyebrows and smiles. But just as soon, another pair of eyes can be felt from her other side... and she turns her head to seek out Draco, finding him in a heartbeat. He's grown, even since she'd glimpsed him ever so briefly at the World Cup, his white hair combed to the side, his face longer and more mature, his eyes cold but desperate, and drilling into hers.
Suddenly, she realizes that she does have cause to be nervous—about what house she will be sorted into. All at once, the stakes become high once again, higher than she'd thought them to be, before. She looks into the boy's eyes hopefully, stubbornly, with her own reassuring gaze. She must get into Slytherin.
Starting with the letter "L," Alice's adopted surname falls in the center of the alphabet, and she is called when roughly half of the regular first years have already been sorted and gone on to their designated house's table. As she walks up to the stool, she feels a dark and insistent pair of eyes on her, and her own gaze darts up, quickly locating the owner of the eyes—Severus Snape, seated at the Staff table. He's looking at her very hard, and she isn't sure what to make of his gaze, or of him, at all. She can remember his brittle mannerisms from the summer before, but also remembers that he had given Lucius a good report on her behavior—he hadn't ratted her out for sleepwalking around the castle, and accidentally leaving Fynn alone one night. Yet, a strong dislike for the Professor is alive and well in the center of her chest, for the way he'd insulted Remus on that same night, in the dim corridor, when he'd nearly discovered the Marauders' Map.
The girl decides to raise her chin up, and looks at the professor confidently, prompting one of his eyebrows to lift slightly in challenge, just a split second before she turns around and sits down with dignity intact upon the stool.
Dizziness drapes itself over her as she looks out at the others, some of them whispering, wondering where she'd come from, knowing that she is clearly not a first year. Her dangling feet suddenly feel as though they are much further the floor than they really are. Again, she locates Draco's eyes in the crowd, and nods minutely to him, barely moving at all, but just enough for him to know that she hasn't given up on him.
McGonagall gently lowers the Sorting Hat onto Alice's head, and a strange, warm purple static fills her mind from ear tear, along with a purring sound.
"Alice Nott, I see. But why have they called you Lowell instead?"
The words are confined only to the walls of her head, and her ears don't hear any actual sound, but it is just as real as though a deep, gravelly voice had been speaking just beside her. It's a wonderful and frightening use of magic, and the girl's eyes widen a bit before she forces herself to focus, looking back at Draco and centering herself in her purpose, again.
She focuses all her energy on making her goal heard, and she thinks with all her might, thinks sharply, as though putting out an SOS message, praying that the hat will be able to hear her, as she can hear it. "Please," she thinks loudly, "put me in Slytherin, please, please, put me in Slytherin..."
"Goodness, girl!" says the hat.
McGonagall as well as many of the students have started to look at her curiously; Alice knows that this sorting Is taking longer than any of the first years' had.
"There's no need to shout, so," the hat continues. "I can hear a thought of average volume perfectly well, thank you very much. I may be ancient, but I'm not deaf."
A dark green ink of apology fills her mind, and she can feel that the hat has sensed it. "Please, put me in Slytherin," she thinks again, almost in a whisper, but without losing any of her previous force, intensifying her gaze upon Draco's eyes, as though if she looks at him hard enough, she might will herself into being sorted where she wishes.
"Hmm," thinks the hat. "Slytherin, eh? It's in your blood, surely, for generations and generations before you... but why?"
"Not for the blood," thinks Alice. "There's someone in Slytherin who needs my protection." And as she thinks the words, an image of Draco, as seen through her eyes at present, fills her head.
"Ah, Mr. Malfoy, I see," muses the hat.
"Yes," says Alice, relieved and firm. "Yes."
"I see," the hat repeats. "Well, I'm truly sorry, my dear, but I believe you, too, are in need of protection—perhaps more so than young Draco. Protection that can only be offered you by a number of individuals in a different house. Please don't hold it against me, my dear. It's my responsibility, nothing more." And then, before she can protest or put a stop to it, the hat proclaims aloud, to the entirety of the great hall, "GRYFFINDOR!"
In a daze, finding it difficult to breathe, she goes to sit down at the Gryffindor table, the cheering of her friends echoing meaninglessly in her ears. The sorting continues in a sped-up manner, the Hat proclaiming different houses left and right, and the respective tables cheering as they receive new first years. But Alice feels as though her world has been poured full of static. Seated with Fred on her one side and Harry on her other, she seeks out Draco's eyes yet again, and finds them, hard and cold, and devastated... but not faithless... not yet. Her gaze relays her sadness and regret, and he nods at her briefly, his mouth twitching and his eyes narrowing, as though in an effort to avoid tears, before looks away. This shouldn't be too bad, she convinces herself, as she looks around at her friends, at Fred and George, at Harry and Ron and Hermione and Ginny. If only Draco can forgive her, and she can forgive herself—not to mention that blasted Hat.
Even when the feast magically appears in front of them, and everyone around her starts to pull onto their personal plates from the heaping platters, nothing is quite the same. It's not until Dumbledore takes the podium, roughly halfway through the feast, and Fred pokes her shoulder gently, gesturing to a plate he's filled for her, that she resurfaces from her maudlin stupor and makes herself take a bite into the roll, looking to the front of the hall.
"Now that we're all settled in and sorted," comes the headmaster's warm, encompassing voice, "I would like to make a special announcement."
A number of heads turn as the sound of the great hall's doors unexpectedly opening echoes through the hall. Filch, without his cat, promptly appears, coming down the aisle in a hurry, bracing his hand against his knee to support it as he runs towards Dumbledore.
"Hogwarts will not only be your home this year," continues Dumbledore, largely ignored, "but home to some very special guests, as well. You see, Hogwarts has been chosen..."
Filch mounts the stage and whispers and laughs spread like wildfire among the students as he whispers something anxiously in Dumbledore's ear, and Dumbledore responds with a series of nods.
"So-" the headmaster continues, once Filch has run back down the aisle and out the doors, "Hogwarts has been chosen to host a legendary event. The Triwizard Tournament."
Some react, and some do not, but those who react far outweigh the oblivious ones. "Wicked," remark Fred and George, in perfect unison.
"Now, for those of you who do not know," Dumbledore says, before Alice has to ask someone to explain, "the Triwizard Tournament brings together three schools for a series of magical contests. From each school, a single student is selected to compete. Now let me be clear—if chosen, you stand alone. And trust me when I say these contests are not for the faint-hearted." A minor feeling of grimness comes over the students, but quickly alleviates itself. "But more of that later. For now, please join me in welcoming the lovely ladies of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, and their headmistress, Madame Maxime."
They enter with a breath of air, clad in velvet-like blue uniforms, dresses that sway, and smart hats that complement their airy, confident manner. As they dance forward, almost like ballerinas for their grace, they sigh to one side and then the other, a little gymnast girl, smaller and younger than the others, with bird-like tufts at the edge of her silver leotard, following the older girls. A very tall woman with an elaborate red brocade for a coat, with what looks like black spiderwebs stitched over the shiny fabric, enters after they've finished their act, and Dumbledore greets her with a kiss on the back of her hand—a rather comedic picture, considering their extreme difference in height.
Some of the Hogwarts girls look rather annoyed, and most of the boys' eyes have grown dramatically in size. Alice is impartial, but does find Ron's reaction amusing, along with Hermione's reaction to Ron's reaction.
"And now," announces Dumbledore, "our friends from the North—please greet the proud sons of Durmstrang, and their high master Igor Karkaroff."
No sooner has he finished, than the doors open once more—this time, with a harsh blast of freezing, icy wind that dampens some of the lights in the Great Hall, and sends a chill of intimidation through everyone. With equal, if not greater, intensity, the group of broad-chested, black-clothed young men enters, their heavy staffs colliding with the stone floors, igniting sparks with their contact and letting out a low chant with each collision—and then, all of a sudden, they all break into a hard sprint towards the front of the hall, doing intense acrobatics. Alice jumps at this—she'll be staying away from these Durmstrang boys as much as she is able.
Much excitement spreads among the other students as Viktor Crum enters, clad in a coat and hat that sets him far above his peers. Ron looks as though he's ready to faint from the overwhelming appearance of a celebrity Quidditch player, and Alice can't help but lean away when he passes by, the set of his shoulders and eyes intimidating, making her draw slightly closer to Fred, on instinct.
A fiery dragon conjured by one of the young men's wands is made to fly around the room, and Dumbledore and Igor Karkaroff greet each other, calling each other by name and embracing. "You alright, Alice?" asks Fred worriedly, his hand holding her upper arm and his eyebrows bent in concern—a strange expression to be seen upon his normally jovial face.
"I'm alright," Alice manages, feeling safer now that the spell of intimidation has passed, nodding at Fred and wishing suddenly that she could hug him and not knowing why.
As the feast resumes, more sound added to the great hall by the two new groups, seated at two extra tables towards the front of the hall, four men clad in black working robes help to bring in and set up the Goblet, which is still hidden from view by a gold and black gilt case, which glitters in the candle- and torch-light.
"May I have your attention," requests Dumbledore, quickly gaining it, the loud, energized chatter dying out quickly, and making way for a silence so complete that one could hear a pin drop. "I'd like to say a few words: Eternal Glory." Ron's eyes suddenly glow with excitement, and a bit of greed, that makes something in Alice's gut pinch tightly. A number of people at the Gryffindor table, and from all the houses, risk a meaningful glance towards Harry Potter, before turning and whispering with their friends. "That is what awaits the student who wins the Triwizard Tournament. But to do that, the student must survive three tasks. Three extremely dangerous tasks."
"Wicked!" say Fred and George, their eyes shining, as well, those timeless smiles of mischief curling at the corners of their mouths.
"For this reason, the Ministry has seen fit to impose a new rule. To explain all this, we have the head of the Department of International Cooperation, Mr. Bartemius Crouch..." Dumbledore begins to gesture towards a black-robed man, but before anything else can pass, thunder suddenly crashes, overhead, blue light flickering through the hall as rain starts to pour down upon the tables, the forcefield of the ceiling unexpectedly giving way.
But just as soon, it is put to a stop, a number of shrieks going up from the tables, until the rain comes to an abrupt end, and the ceiling firms up again. Many eyes follow down to the source of the magic, a large, angry looking man with a bizarre magical eye strapped around his mangy-haired head and a heavy greatcoat fitted with what could easily be hundreds of pockets and gadgets. The screams soon dissipate and reform as whispers and low chatter involving much speculation as to the man's identity. Ron, Hermione and Harry quickly start whispering, and Alice overhears that he is an Auror responsible for many incarcerations to Azkaban, and his name is Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody. One of his legs is made of metal, and after greeting Dumbledore with a rough handshake and a gruff Irish brogue, he takes a hard, distasteful swig of something out of a flask, before sitting down at the staff table.
The excitement dies down, however, when Barteimus Crouch, the man from the Ministry, takes center stage, and the focus turns to him. "After due consideration," he says nervously, his arms held out and his hands fidgeting—clearly hating to be the bearer of bad news to a crowd of riled-up teenagers, "the Ministry has concluded that, for their own safety, no student under the age of seventeen-" already cries of outrage take over the tables "-shall be allowed to put forth their name for the Triwizard Tournament. This decision is final-"
But now the anger has grown to a cacophonous volume, Fred and George contributing a shout of "That's RUBBISH!" to the fray, Mr. Crouch shrinking slightly and stepping back, as though afraid the students might begin to throw food at him-which would not have been all that surprising to Alice, either.
Harry, in startling opposition to the other students, looks extremely relived—and Alice can't blame him. Surely, he would have been expected to try to get in, with his name and reputation, and she can tell he's relieved to be able to avoid this sort of attention.
"SILENCE!" Dumbledore bellows, stepping forward.
The students quickly go quiet.
With a nonverbal charm from Dumbledore's wand, the gold casing melts off of the ancient, large stone Goblet, revealing a spark of blue light that soon morphs into a giant, moving flame, furling and rippling like a piece of fabric. The flame crackles loudly, and its electric water-blue light dampens the warm light from the torches on the walls, slowly casting its spell over all within the room—eyes widening, hearts pounding at the chance of victory. Even Alice can feel an abnormal urge for competition rear up in the pit of her stomach.
"The Goblet of Fire," announces Dumbledore gravely. "Anyone wishing to submit themselves to the Tournament, need only write their name upon a piece of parchment, and throw it into the flame before this hour on Thursday night. Do not do so lightly. If chosen, there's no turning back."
Not even a rustle moves through the students at the dire warning. The flame intensifies, making a sound like a flag in a strong, deep wind.
Dumbledore looks out upon the students, his half-moon spectacles glittering menacingly in the cold, rippling light. "As from this moment, the Triwizard Tournament has begun."
She catches up to Draco outside of the great hall, once the feast has ended. The others, caught up in conversation, proceed upstairs to the Gryffindor common room, but Fred and George linger by the staircase, waiting for her to rejoin them, and giving Draco intermittent glares as she hurries to catch up to and stop him, calling his name.
Theodore Nott stands just beside Draco, and turns swiftly with an imperious expression on his face, upon hearing Draco's name called. "Do you know this girl, Draco?" he says with a sneer, looking down at her from a great height, though he's a year younger than her. She also notices, for the first time, that Draco has grown much taller, and stands almost a full head above her, now.
Alice stops at a safe distance and stares hard at the black-haired boy next to Draco, sizing him up, and concerned by what she sees in his eyes.
"Go on to the common room, Nott," says Draco to the other boy. Alice feels an ice-cold rope loop around her heart and tug drastically, but she keeps her reaction at bay, her face draining slightly of color at worst. "I would prefer to speak to this... oversized first year... in private."
She is so afraid for a moment, so overwhelmed by her own emotions, and by the thoughts that race through her brain as Theodore Nott turns and descends the stairs along with the other Slytherins—that she doesn't even care that Draco had felt it necessary to insult her in order to get his accomplice... her brother... to go away. All in a moment, she decides it is best not to tell Draco that Theodore Nott is her brother by blood. He isn't sure how strong his bond is with the boy, and would die if he knew she was his sister—from what she has experience of the Pureblood Aristocracy, she wants nothing to do with him, or her parents, for that matter.
And yet...
Draco looks at her hard for a moment, before the vile expression melts off of his face.
"I swear," Alice breaths, "I begged to be put in Slytherin. But the bloody hat denied it."
"I believe you," Responds Draco, his features seeming more fine than usual, and prepared to shatter. He truly has grown taller and leaner over the summer—he looks like a young man, now. "The Willoughby boy, the horse keeper, killed himself," says Draco matter-of-factly. "I thought you might want to know. And the maid, Wickham, went to Azkaban shortly after your... departure."
A sudden nervousness takes over the boy, and he leans down slightly towards her. There's a question he's been wanting—needing—to ask. He's had bad, bad thoughts lately, and manages only out of a sheer desperation to step closer to her and look into her eyes promptingly when he asks: "What... did my father... do to you?"
Alice shakes her head suddenly, and gasps a little on instinct, clenching her eyes shut to recalibrate herself.
"How is your brother?" she counters, and there's something deep and challenging in her eyes that keeps Draco from pressing his previous question upon her, further.
"Safe, and alright, as far as I'm concerned," says Draco, drawing himself up again, nearly a head taller than her, indeed. A pompous look appears on his face, his father's look, and Alice knows all at once that she's spoiled her shot at truly empathizing with him—at least for now—by not telling him the truth. But she knows that that will have to wait. "Father has found a new maid, but Fynn doesn't like her—the boring old hag."
Alice knows beyond a doubt, now, that she will also have to wait to tell Draco anything about the reality of her bloodline, and her heritage, and the fact that his companion, the Nott boy whose first name she still doesn't even know, herself, is her brother.
Fred and George wave her over towards them, hurriedly, and she looks over at them, returning their urgent look, signaling for them to wait. But when she turns back to bid Draco goodbye and apologize once more, he has already snuck down the stairs, and she watches as a glimpse of his pale blond hair disappears in the direction of the Slytherin common room.
The following day, the last day of "freedom" (or so Ron calls it) before classes commence, Alice pens a letter to Ms. Figg, and sends it off South to Little Winghing with her owl Horatio, who is much more friendly and happy with her, now that she's finally put him to use, rather than making him sit around in purposeless boredom all day long—a feeling to which she can certainly relate. A feeling of relief replaces the guilt in Alice's chest, glad to have finally written to the woman after such a long hiatus. And Ms. Figg writes back to her promptly, to Alice's further relief, expressing no anger at the girl for the separation. It's clear, from the way Arabella writes, that she doesn't know what happened to Alice in the months they've been apart—and Alice decides that for now, she will keep it that way.
However, her relief can only last so long—classes soon come crashing down upon her. Her schedule—even though it's not nearly as packed as some other people's, not to mention Hermione—is a lot to handle all at once, especially jumping into the curriculum as a sixth year with no foundational practice in the classroom setting. Fred and George take pity on her and help her with whatever they can, and Hermione expresses her sympathy and offers Alice a recipe for a calming potion, which Hermione herself has used in years past to avoid meltdowns over mental overloading.
Atop it all, Fred and George inform her that the overall feeling in the school makes it much more difficult to concentrate than usual: what with the approach of the Tournament, and the stress and excitement of having Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students join them in their classes. Alice overhears Ron remarking to Seamus Finnigan that the presence of the Beauxbatons girls has caused his grade to go down, to which Seamus responds slyly, "Sure, Ron, but at least something else isn't going down anytime soon."
Professor Snape challenges her beyond belief in his potions course, calling on her to answer questions when she hasn't the slightest inkling as to the answers, and they both dislike each other quite strongly, though she understands that respecting him is a necessity for survival—most students disrespect him too much for their own good. Professor Moody, who teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts (which she has on Monday afternoons with Fred and George) is a force to be reckoned with, as is Professor Trelawney, in her own, very different way.
But Alice's studies are accompanied consistently over those first days by the presence of the Goblet of Fire, and the excitement and competition it is already provoking in the students—before the names have even been drawn and the games begun. Fred and George attempt to cheat the age line by using an aging potion, one of many failed stunts by underage students to overcome the system. Alice is keen to watch, but something in her heart tugs uncomfortably whenever she sees the blue flame, rearing up like a bad omen in their midst. Sometimes, the feel of it makes her shiver.
Excitement is running high—almost unbearably so—on that Friday, when all the students congregate in the Great Hall, eager and anxious to learn who the Goblet has chosen to represent each school in the Tournament.
Dumbledore gets them to sit down after a minute of excited conversation, and everyone rushes to sit down at their tables, anxious for the big reveal to get underway. "Now, for the moment you have all been waiting for," announces Dumbledore. "The Champion selection."
The headmaster dramatically dims all of the beacons around the room with merely his hand, and the students have never sat so quietly at their tables, without a feast there to occupy them. Once the beacons have all halved their light, Dumbledore turns his magic upon the Goblet, placing his hands against the side and then stepping back, as though drawing its magical will towards him.
After the length of a heartbeat, the flame flares up red, glinting across the old wizard's spectacles, and a thick piece of folded paper flies from the Goblet into his outstretched hand. His head bends down, the magical light catching his grey-white hair, for a moment, as he reads, an anxious and thrilling silence falling over the tables.
"The Durmstrang Champion is..." he reads, breaking the silence with his grand, warm voice, "Viktor Krum!"
There is much cheering from the Durmstrang's table and from everyone else, too, as Viktor stands, receiving many a friendly punch from his friends, before going up to shake hands with Dumbledore.
As he turns and walks through the doorway into another room reserved for the champions after the ceremony, the Goblet's flame flares red once again, and this time a delicate cornflower-blue paper with gold lining flutters into Dumbledore's hand. "The champion from Beauxbatons is... Fleur Delacour!"
Fleur stands from the Beauxbatons table and walks to shake Dumbledore's hand with a confident smile and posture that Alice wishes she had.
Another red flare, another paper: simple folded parchment, this time. "The Hogwarts champion... Cedric Diggory!" Celebration from the Hogwarts tables bursts out with the force of a victory cannon as the name is called, and Cedric himself, a boy from Hufflepuff with floppy hair and a grinning, ruddy face, goes down the tables, following the other Champions out of the room, giving everyone high-fives and hand shakes on his way.
"Excellent!" exclaims Dumbledore, once he's left, holding his arms out wide. "We now have our three champions! But in the end, only one will go down in history. Only one will hoist this Chalice of Champions-" as Bartemius Crouch carries an object covered in cloth to the front of the room and sets it in the center of the staff table "-this Vessel of Victory... The Triwizard Cup!"
With a magical rush of wind, Dumbledore turns and the cup's veil flies off of it, revealing glowing white-blue glass with intricate and majestic handles of silver.
But just as everyone is cheering and clapping once more, Professor Snape steps down from the staff table, a look of anxiety furrowing his eyebrows as he looks towards the Goblet. And slowly, Professor Dumbledore and everyone else takes notice, too.
A darkness congeals around them all as the Goblet's flame flares up red a fourth time, and yet another scrap of paper is spit up into the air, fluttering down into Dumbledore's startled hand. A hush rolls over them all; this is most certainly not supposed to happen; and Dumbledore looks down at the scrap of simple notebook paper with a dumbfounded and grave expression on his face, his lips moving soundlessly.
"Harry Potter," he says at last, breathlessly, like a question.
The silence grows deeper.
Alice's head turns in shock to Harry, who had been standing up on the other side of the table, leaning against the wall alongside some other friends in his year, but who now sits down, trying to hide among the others, his eyes as wide as saucers, a shadow of terror ghosting across his face.
"Harry Potter!" Dumbledore shouts, causing Alice to jump slightly, all the air suddenly sucked from her lungs, her insides collapsing on themselves like a vacuum.
"Harry, for Goodness sake," Hermione whispers tensely, pushing him towards the front of the room, an expression of fear and frozenness on Harry's face as he walks unsteadily towards Dumbledore, the Goblet, and the doorway behind the staff table.
On his way, left and right, everyone stares at him, some in awe, some in anger. It doesn't take long for some to begin calling out curses, calling him a cheat and worse. Even Ron has immediately lost faith, glaring at his friend's back as he passes beside the staff table and disappears into the doorway where the other Champions had gone. But Alice knows for a fact that Harry hadn't done in on purpose—knows from the set of his shoulders as he'd stood up, and the terrified look in his eyes. She's been his companion for too many years to doubt for even a moment that he is innocent of the badness that surrounding voices rise to accuse him of.
Finally, Dumbledore leaves with a swirl of his robes, following Harry through the doorway almost at a run, and everyone breaks into such outrage that it's impossible for any of the remaining staff—even Professor McGonagall—to get the Great Hall under control.
"He didn't do it," Alice asserts, looking desperately to Fred and George, who remain suspicious. "He didn't do it," she says to Hermione, but even she is on the fence. Ron has already fled from the Hall.
Harry is nowhere to be seen, either in the Gryffindor Common Room, or in his personal dormitory upstairs, that evening. Everyone is whispering and gossiping about him, congregating in the Common room, almost hiding out in wait for him to arrive, so that they can stare him down, or pile accusations on top of his shoulders.
Alice is the one to leave the worrisome crowd, and go in search of the Boy who Lived, wandering through the halls alone, her footsteps echoing off the stone walls and floors, perpetuating her isolation in her trust in him. She doesn't care whatsoever about the numerous papers she has to write tonight and over the weekend, only wanting to make sure that Harry is alright, and bent on finding him and doing so, before she returns to the common room.
The girl has fallen to pacing anxiously in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, when she senses a sudden movement in her peripheral vision, on the opposite wall. She turns towards it with a little startled inhale, and watches in never-ending wonderment at the magic of Hogwarts, as a door slowly reveals itself, wrought iron twisted into beautiful shapes upon a wooden door, which expands and solidifies in the wall until it's as though it had always been there.
The handle is very heavy, and she has to push down hard in order to get the door to open, but she eventually works up the courage to push forward, her bravery met by the harsh whining of hinges, and to step into the strange magical room.
Harry is sitting on a stool by the cold mullioned window, seemingly deaf to the world, until the moment at which Alice closes the door again behind her. Also beside the window sits a desk fitted with parchment and various quills, along with Hedwig. Harry, who has been looking out the window, promptly wipes away the tears he'd been shedding before her entrance: tears of anguish, shame, confusion, and much more, all at the same time.
The boy identifies the intruder by her reflection in the window, and feels his shoulders tense. "I didn't do it," he says lowly, almost growling, his voice threatening as though she might be here to exploit him or reap some piece of drama to take back to the others.
"I know you didn't," says Alice, slightly injured by the tone of voice, but keeping her shoulders held high, her jaw set tightly against her own sensitivity. "Of course, you didn't."
Harry holds his breath for a stretched moment before shaking his head at himself. "Sorry," he manages, his shoulders shaking a bit under the guilt he feels at the tone he'd used a moment before. He tries to brighten his demeanor, turning around on the stool to face his companion, but a guttural mourning-dove sound of sadness still tints his voice. "I suppose we must need each other, if you're here," he says.
"What is this place?"
"The Room of Requirement," explains Harry. "It reveals itself when you're in need of it. But I've never heard of someone joining someone else in the same room—so we must need each other."
Alice thinks about apologizing for disrupting his privacy, but then forces herself to stop apologizing, for once. She looks to the desk, and Hedwig chirps and ruffles her wings. "Who do you think you're meant to write to?" she asks him, putting the puzzle pieces together.
"Sirius," says Harry, and it's clear he's known all along why the paper and quills were present, but had been trying to avoid the task.
"Why don't you want to tell him?" asks Alice, not understanding why Harry would skirt around any opportunity to connect with his recently-discovered Godfather.
"I do," he tries to explain... "But... I don't." He shakes his head at himself, and stands up. "You're right. There's no point in avoiding it."
He looks towards the closest quill, as though willing his hand to pick it up, and after a few moments, he gives in and begins to pen the letter—a short one, to the point, and not too desperate, he hopes. Once he's finished, he ties it tenderly to Hedwig's leg, and sends her off with it. He opens the window to the chill, and Alice looks out of it, Hedwig's wings flapping against the darkening sky, a cold wind blowing off the lake and over the mossy autumn highlands in the dusk.
Most of Sirius Black's time is spent in a state of almost-sleep, receding to the center of his mind and saving himself for a catastrophe he is sure is going to strike, soon. But meanwhile, his body still feels weak and barely-there around him, exhausted and on the edge of wasting away. Surely, he would have hurried up and done so already, if it weren't for Harry Potter. In the center of his mind, in the steady rhythms of his breathing, now, he thinks about his Godson, and an unconscious smile plays across his ghostly mouth.
But tonight is not destined to be another night of loneliness and cold wind. A heartbeat later, Buckbeak shifts and makes a sound that alerts to the hiding wizard to a disturbance at the mouth of their cave, and he surfaces from the depths of his subconscious mind, suddenly on high alert as he takes his wand from his back pocket and braces himself against the cave wall.
At the sight of the lanky grey wolf, Sirius's pupils dilate further. But in the same second, he relaxes, recognizing intelligent thought and emotion in the eyes of the animal, seeing the light white scar across its forehead and snout. "Stand down, Buckbeak," he says to the hippogriff, pocketing his wand, again.
Though he knows in the instant that the wolf houses Remus Lupin, it is hard for the wizard to wrap his head around it: it's always been a hateful thing to Remus, to transform into his Animagus form. In their school days and beyond, Sirius and the other Marauders had tried without end to convince Remus that it was alright, that he simply couldn't help his condition, that being a wolf was about the coolest thing any of them could think of—even cooler than being a dog, Sirius had once forced himself to say. It had taken quite some time, but after a few years of school, Remus had come to rather take refuge in transforming into his Animagus form—at least then, he had control over himself, his thoughts and actions, unlike when he was confined to his werewolf form every month, at the whim of the moon. Still, he'd done it only when necessary, or when persuaded by the others.
"I'm surprised to see you like this, Remus," says Sirius, honestly.
Wolf Remus ducks his head momentarily, and then after another moment, he transforms, morphing quickly into his human form, fully clothed—a skill that only the most practiced of Animagi are entitled to, Sirius and Remus being two of them. Remus the man shivers a bit, as though shaking off the last of his fur, and only then steps toward his friend, shooting a pacifying glance at Buckbeak, in the process.
"I had to see you," Remus says, and holds out a bottomless bag full of clothes, food, and other necessities for Sirius, who takes it enthusiastically.
Sirius rummages through the bag, charmed to hold much more than it should on first glance, and is relieved to see a closets' worth of warm clean clothes, and an almost unending supply of food—real food. With curiosity, he draws up a number of dishes and glasses. "What's this?" he says with a raised eyebrow, though he knows that Remus has been right in inferring that he's been drinking directly from his wand or his hand, and eating off of the ground for the most part, over the past months.
Remus shrugs his shoulders.
"No Playboy?" says Sirius in jest, donning an artificial look of severe disappointment.
"Please, Sirius," says Remus, wrinkling his nose, "the fact that you're more genial as a dog doesn't mean you should live or behave like one."
At this point, Sirius discovers the variety of teabags, and his head rolls back against the wall of the cave as he grins up at the other wizard. "Remus, you're a saint," he says, offering no comment to his friend's previous accusation.
Remus offers Sirius a hand up, and he takes it, clutching his friend into an embrace. Remus has passed the past two weeks in a blur of muggle trains, of different places in the far north whose familiarity was dampened by a darkness in his heart, a darkness that he has felt before, and feels himself slipping into dangerously. But here, with this feeling, this warmth of a long-lost friend, brings him back to himself.
"Where have you been, old friend?" remarks Sirius, drawing back as though about to invite Remus to sit down somewhere, but then stepping to the side, a bit embarrassed by the conditions of his current residence. "How is the outside world?"
Remus goes on to tell Sirius about the past two weeks, during which he'd stayed in a series of rooms: one small garret in Amsterdam that he loves, situated right on the canal, a country house in France, the home of another person with his condition, and then at Arabella Figg's house on Privet Drive, for a brief stay. "How is Arabella?" says Sirius, who hasn't seen the woman since his days in the first Order.
But Remus's response is cut off by the loud flapping of wings at the mouth of the cave, as a sudden flash of white feathers enters the dingy place: Harry Potter's bird, Hedwig, carrying a letter around her ankle. Sirius bends down to accommodate the bird, untying the letter and patting the feathers atop the bird's head before standing up again, and opening the parchment. Hedwig perches down by Buckbeak, and together they make various sounds at each other, seeming to carry on a sort of familiar banter, though Remus Isn't sure whether they can actually understand each other.
There is no need to clarify who the letter had been sent by; both men would know the snow-white bird anywhere. Sirius squints to read through the note, his eyes shining at first—but then slowly, as his eyes near the bottom of the page, and then scan the words a second time, his face falls, his eyes darkening and his forehead creasing.
"What's happened?" says Remus calmly, knowing that expression.
"The Triwizard Tournament," says Sirius darkly as he uses the same paper, and gets a quill of his own to write a brief response, before beckoning Hedwig and sending her back towards the castle.
"That's this year?" asks Remus, having forgotten.
"Harry's name has been drawn," says Sirius, nodding gravely. "And he didn't put it in."
Remus's face pales dramatically. The implications of this event are undeniable. Someone dangerous is tampering in the Tournament, and with Harry—a boy beloved to them both.
Sirius quickly takes off to find a fireplace in Hogsmeade Village, which he can use to contact Harry. "I'll be right back!" he calls to Remus, once he's already left the mouth of the cave.
"Famous last words," responds Remus, and he hears an old mischievous laugh rumble from his old friend's throat just a moment before Sirius transforms, a sound almost like a bark. A tired laugh, but one slowly coming back into its own after a long dormancy—or, more literally, a long imprisonment.
Remus, his knees and head starting to feel their exhaustion more heavily, sits down against the wall of the cave with a long, heavy exhale. Buckbeak eyes him and makes an aggravated sound in his throat, not very happy about Remus being there. "Don't worry, old bloke," says the wizard with a regretful little smile as the light of the cold gibbous moon inches sideways into the cave. "You won't have to get used to me."
Sirius gets back an hour later and, shivering from the cold, he casts a strong and practiced "Focillo," and retains it until the whole cave is substantially warmed. Remus had previously dozed off into sleep, and Sirius tries not to disturb him, but after years of being a loner, Remus is quick to wake at even the slighted disturbance in the air. Sirius sits down next to him with a little apologetic smirk, noticing the deep lines of sleeplessness written on his Friend's forehead: yet another thing these two outcasts share, now, after so many years, after so much change.
"Have you met Harry's new friend?" Sirius says, steering the coming conversation away from too-dire subjects. "Small girl, pretty, frighteningly wise?"
"Of course," says Remus with a faint smile, no longer drowsy, now. "Alice. She's the Notts' daughter.
"Really?" exclaims Sirius, putting on a look of revulsion that squelches out the endearing adjectives he'd used to describe the girl just moments earlier. "In Gryffindor?"
"Dumbledore got her out on the same night she was born. She grew up under Arabella's roof," explains Remus.
"Thank Merlin for that," says Sirius, as though he's just avoided a heart attack. "Well, she didn't seem all that startled or repulsed to see a Wanted Madman in the Common Room fireplace... a welcome change of pace." Sirius smirks a little, a dull twinkle in his eyes gradually shedding off many years of grime.
"I believe you owe that to me," jokes Remus, imperiously. "She knew you were innocent even before Harry."
Suddenly, Remus feels an unwarranted flush rise to his cheeks, thinking about The Girl. He'd repressed thoughts of her ever since he fled the Burrow two weeks before, but now that he thinks about her, a wave of shame comes over him. Shame for the way he'd turned his back and run away like a child instead of facing his responsibility to her emotions—emotions she'd admitted to with such vulnerability, placing such faith in him; emotions which he hopes she is steadily banishing from her heart... for both their sakes.
"There's something you're not telling me," says Sirius, pinpointing the issue with unnerving speed. His mouth twists into a smirk as he commences to pry until Remus finally cracks, and admits what had happened between himself and the girl—all the way from his time at Arabella Figg's house on a mission from Dumbledore to teach the girl magic, to the transition into Hogwarts, the Malfoy Manor, the kiss in his office on the Winter Holiday, and then he happenings of the recent summer at the World Cup and the Burrow.
"To put it lightly," says Sirius, processing the overload of information, "you've given me yet another reason to get my hands around Lucius Maloy's neck. And Dumbledore, the old sod..."
But Sirius shakes away the unpleasantness, deciding to wait until he is alone to really attempt to connect the backstory Remus has just given him, to the fragile features of his Godson's friend's face, which he'd seen through the fireplace of the Common Room earlier. For the moment, he has more pressing things to discuss. There's talking to be done, and mischief to be gotten into (Finally!) in this miserable little cave. Sirius can tell without a doubt that Remus cares about the girl, and Remus, too knows that deep down, he does. But he isn't willing to let himself admit it. For the moment, Sirius is going to allow himself to be a boy again, if just for a brief time, and his mind reorients itself gleefully to what it had been so many years ago, before the betrayal, before his incarceration.
Remus notices The Gleam enter his friend's eye, but can't react quickly enough to fend off the inevitable storm barreling giddily towards him.
"What," says Sirius conspiratorially, "are you afraid you couldn't take on a sixteen-year-old's libido? I think we both know you'd be perfectly capable, my friend."
Remus tries to make himself deaf, but Sirius's words have already succeeded in knocking a brick out of the wall Remus had so carefully built against such thoughts... and the implications of Sirius's words, alone, sends a vile shiver down Remus's spine. He muffles a moan, diligently keeping his eyes from slipping closed in his sudden weakness—were he to close his eyes, then the sudden image (her hair falling over one bare shoulder, her body clinging to his, a jumble of warm, smooth limbs and helpless, beloved sounds...) would be heightened to an unbearable, wicked clarity. And he can't have that. Not now; not ever.
"Sirius," he says, gulping dryly, "please don't-"
"Say!" interrupts Sirius with a flair of drama. "A thought just arrived in my head. How many have you been with? Women, I mean. Since I... well... left?"
Remus shrugs his shoulders again, wishing that Sirius would change the subject, but glad that it has shifted away from Alice in particular. "There was one woman at an inn, once, and then a woman I met in the Netherlands a few years ago. But she grew suspicious and left, thank God."
Sirius looks at Remus expectantly, waiting for him to add to his list... but when he doesn't his eyes widen, and he brings his palm to his forehead in a timeless gesture—one that Remus had been treated to many a time during their school days together; and one he has to admit that he has missed a bit.
"Two!" exclaims Sirius with incredible disappointment. "Two, since school, and only one when you were in school? Remus... And that was PANDORA LOVEGOOD, for Christ's sake! Before she was Lovegood, of course... I can't recall her maiden name, poor thing. But—Remus! I expected you wholeheartedly to carry on my legacy while I was indisposed! All that time I was living vicariously through you, don't you see?! Don't you realize how disappointing this is? I have thirteen whole years of shagging to make up for, now! Don't you see what a disservice you've done me?" He collapses dramatically against the cave wall and smirks sideways at his friend. "But, really, Remus, at least you wank regularly."
"Sirius!" says Remus, nearly sputtering in disbelief. "Stop this! She's a student."
"And?" says Sirius, his undiluted, mischievous smirk twisting his gaunt face, now, a sparkle sneaking into his eyes, but a more genuine and sincere tone taking hold, now. "Moony, I've never seen you head over heels—not really, not truly—until today. What does eighteen years matter in the face of that?"
"Eighteen years..." Remus says, breathing in and out generously before he can faint.
"Remus..." says Sirius, gleefully playing the devil on his friend's shoulder. "She's not YOUR student."
"You sly dog."
"I'm afraid-" Sirius draws himself up with satisfaction "-I must confess to being both of those.
"Sirius, she... knows about me. She's far too smart to care for me, truly. It's just a brief infatuation—you can be sure of that." But there's a twinge of disappointment in every syllable he speaks, and as he says the words, a small rebellious part of himself prays that they are not true.
"Maybe," Sirius starts, stuck on what Remus had said about his wolfishness, keen on twisting anything and everything to his inner jokester's advantage. He grows closer to his friend's face, his eyebrows raising suggestively. "Maybe she likes it."
"Ugh," scowls Remus with more than a little sincerity, turning away. "You're a fowl, dirty-minded creature, Sirius Black, and I'm never going to speak to you again."
"Ha!" laughs Sirius aloud. "Remus, I pray you, listen to yourself! You're in love with the girl!"
A moment of silence passes, in which Sirius looks persuasively at Remus, and Remus fends off the ensuing attack from both his friend and from his own instincts. Buckbeak grumbles disapprovingly.
"Love," says Remus with a quiet scoff, shaking his head. "I'm finished with this conversation, Sirius."
But despite himself, Remus begins to feel the word building upon itself in his chest, slowly spreading its wings—and with each beat of his heart, he hears it echoed: love-love, love-love, love-love...
"I'm torturing you, aren't I?" says Sirius happily.
"Yes," breathes Remus, closing his eyes, already starting to give in.
Sirius's eyes twinkle like stars, now.
This is the most fun he's had in thirteen years.
Spells used in this chapter:
1. "Focillo," a warming charm
That last line hit me hard!
While I see Sirius as a very gentlemanly and dapper father-figure of a person in public, with one of his old school friends, I have no doubt that he would be much more loose with the tongue. Which really only makes me adore the mischief of his character more.
Fun fact: the surname, Lowell, that Dumbledore suggests to Alice, means "Wolf." Dumbledore... such a sly old matchmaker.
Before anyone asks, I would like to clarify that there is not going to be any homosexual activity between Remus and Sirius—not that I'm not for that (on the contrary, I'm writing their characters, in the present, with the thought process that they were probably together in that way at some point at Hogwarts or soon after), but it just won't be a part of this specific story.
I referenced Pandora Lovegood in this chapter. She was Luna's mother, and died experimenting with a spell of her own creation when Luna was nine years old. I thought it would be reasonable for she and Remus to have been in a brief relationship with each other during their Hogwarts days, before Xenophilius came along—they both would likely have been outcasts, and oddities, as far as the other students were concerned.
I think it's worthy to note that in the middle of writing this chapter when Remus and Sirius were just meeting in the cave, Sam Smith's "Scars" came on my playlist unexpectedly, and I had to spend the next half hour bawling my eyes out. I was still writing, mind you, but there were typos galore, and then I had to take another hour to go back and fix it all. The things I do for you guys. (Just kidding... I'm kind of addicted to this story).
If you guys haven't heard Loreena McKennitt's song "The Highwayman," go and listen to it NOW.
Please, please, please let me know what you think about the story! I LIVE on your comments, water, sleep and food... in that order. I would love to hear from you!
Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing!
On_Errand_Bad
12,196 words
Friday, 13 November 2020