This entire chapter turned out to be a re-write because the one from 2011 was so spectacularly bad. I'm not even sure of what I read, to be honest. Was it a Lily/James story or a "how to" guide on plot and timing inconsistencies?
Practically speaking, striding purposefully toward a solid brick wall should feel more ominous. It should feel ominous, even when you're no longer nervous of the passageway and no longer run at it full pelt. But in your world, this isn't scary. This is a homecoming.
You feel the thick, warm blanket of radiating magic wash over you as you step through the brickwork onto the other side. Your senses are flooded with the billowing steam of the bright, red engine and the aimless chatter of hundreds of students. Your palms, cool on the sturdy metal of the trolley, anchor you to the surroundings.
Petunia's scathing words from the other side of the passageway are silent, washed away by the overwhelming sense of belonging which flows through you. This is as much of your home as Cokeworth ever has been, and that's not to say you don't like Cokeworth. It's just that in these moments you're reminded that it's not a negative to belong to two worlds at once. It's a gift.
You're feeling a little sad and nostalgic about this being your last time on the scarlet engine. It's taken you away to your alternate reality so many times that it has started to feel like a crutch.
Crutch or not, you're also cutting it fine for timing, so you push the trolley purposefully toward Marlene, who has somehow convinced a much older, very suave looking individual to levitate her trunk onto the train. Not one to miss out on some free labour, you also manage to convince the red-headed Hercules to load your trunk.
"Thanks!" You say brightly from the steps and he gives you a half smile. Why burly men always do those funny half smiles is beyond you. Is it because they think smiling is for the weak?
You notice Marlene kisses him on the lips as she climbs into the train and waves as it starts to pull away from the station.
"Who is that and how old is he?" you enquire as you push through a bunch of younger students. You notice Severus in a compartment to your left, nose buried in a book which could only belong in the restricted section.
He catches your eye briefly and curves his dark features into a frown. Your breath catches slightly in your throat. He might as well have died. You could no longer tell this person apart from the next prospective Death Eater, regardless of whether or not he was once your best friend.
"Fabian," Marlene says, bringing you back to your senses as you move through the train carriages, finally locating an empty compartment.
"Prewett?!" you exclaim, "he's got to be at least thirty!"
Marlene pushes open the compartment door and laughs, shaking her head. "You're such a prude, Lily."
"Tell us something we don't know Marly," says a haughty voice, and you turn to find yourself inches from the smirking, aristocratic face of Sirius Black. You notice Pettigrew trails behind him looking a bit pathetic. Remus leans on the doorway of the next compartment, observing Sirius serenely.
"Where's your shadow, Sirius?" you ask, scowling. "Have you two finally kicked the codependency?"
Sirius' smirk widens, forebodingly.
"Whatever do you mean Evans? Pettigrew is right here," he says, sweepingly gesturing to Peter who does a spontaneous little bow.
You see Remus biting his lip, plainly finding it difficult not to be amused by Sirius' theatrics.
"You know who I mean," you reply, eyes narrowing.
Sirius pretends to consider this with Peter, who scratches his head in a way that you think is supposed to be humorous has the effect of making it appear he's regressing a few thousand years of human evolution.
"Ooooh," says Sirius loudly, in a long and drawn out way. "You're asking about Potter?"
"Figures!" chimes in Peter from behind Sirius. You don't know how one figures this, but you're sure it takes Peter a lot of brain power.
"I'm not quite sure, Evans," Sirius says with fake sincerity, "but I'll let him know you're asking after him. I'm sure he will be thrilled to oblige you with an audience."
You give him the dirtiest look you can muster as he and Peter push themselves into the empty compartment next to Marlene's. She gives you a bemused look. You clutch your pre-prepared, colour coded prefect's duty table to your chest.
"I'll see you when you're done with the meeting," she says, and nods to Remus. Remus nods back politely and then falls into step beside you as you make your way through the carriages.
"How do you stand them, Remus?" you ask, as he laughs softly. "It must be painful having to hang around Sirius all day and have more than one brain cell."
Remus smiles in your peripherals. "Sirius is a loyal friend, Lily," he says in his perpetually calm, even tone. You figure it's something that he has mastered over the years of constantly being surrounded by teenagers who want to maraud.
"He's actually quite intelligent, given how little work he actually does," he continues.
You scoff. "I wonder how many NEWTs that will get him."
Remus just laughs politely again and steals a look at your table. "You know, I'm a big fan of the master table idea."
You give him a smile as you pass through the second carriage. "I knew you would be on the same wavelength as me," you say. Then more quietly, "I was actually hoping you would have been made Head Boy. Do you know who it is?"
Remus' expression changes a little. He looks slightly conflicted. "Well," he says, opening the front carriage door for you, "I guess we are about to find out."
~.~
It's Potter. Potter is Head Boy. Merlin help us all.
Knowing Potter as well as you do, you are genuinely surprised when he doesn't say a word about your colour coded prefect duties table and doesn't make any asinine suggestions at the meeting. He doesn't even call the Slytherin prefects "slithings" or otherwise abuse his authority.
Notwithstanding this remarkable display of maturity, someone needs to alert the Aurors. Clearly, Dumbledore is either under the imperious curse or is suffering some kind of retrograde amnesia from an unknown head injury. You consider the implications of writing to the Ministry of Magic yourself as you sit numbly in the carriage to the castle with Marlene patting your leg sympathetically.
You rant and rave to poor Marlene for two hours straight on the train, and she's still consoling you. That's how you know she's a great friend. No other friend could hear you bad mouth Potter for that long and not reach the end of their tether. Not after already being exposed to six years of it.
Alice, on the other hand, rolls her eyes. "Take it as a blessing," she says, with a knowing look. "Now you two can obsess over each other without having to disturb anyone else."
You almost want to deduct house points for that comment.
You sit glumly through the start of term feast, stabbing the potatoes on your plate absentmindedly with your fork, thinking of Potter's stupid hair. In the time it takes to do the round of introductions with the first years and show the girls to their dormitories, you temporarily forget that you have moved dormitories yourself this year.
Begrudgingly, you drag yourself off to your new lodgings. Potter is already there, bouncing around the shared common area with some kind of nervous energy.
Although it seems impossible, Potter has managed to grow even taller over the summer break. His voice is slightly deeper and smoother than you remember. His rich, inky black hair doesn't look quite as purposefully messy as usual and, as he reaches up with one hand to run his hand through it (a nervous tic you've seen Potter exhibit many times before a Quidditch match), you could swear there's more sinewy muscle in his forearms.
His forearms, for Godric's sakes.
To be perfectly honest, you're momentarily mesmerised by this older, smoother version of Potter. Then he opens his mouth.
"Hello Evans," he says brightly, as if your mere presence shines light into his otherwise mediocre existence.
You frown in his direction and throw your outer robe on the corner of the couch.
"Hello Potter," you reply. It's not incredibly friendly but it's probably better than he usually gets from you. You are making somewhat of an effort to be civil.
He frowns slightly, mimicking your own. "Have I done something to upset you already?" he asks, unusually self aware. "This must be a new record."
"No it's not," you point out, "I usually yell at you on the train and I refrained from doing so this year."
His brows stay furrowed but the edge of his lips quirk slightly in amusement. "Yes, that was an incredible display of restraint," he remarks sarcastically, flopping himself down on a stuffed armchair next to the fire.
You cross the room to sit on the couch opposite him, fiddling with a thread in your skirt absentmindedly. "Don't take offence to this Potter, but how-"
"I have no idea," he says quickly, cutting you off. He actually looks genuinely perplexed. "I mean I'm not complaining because, well, obviously," he says, gesturing towards you, "but I've never followed a school rule in my six years here, let alone enforced one."
You raise an eyebrow appraisingly. "What are you going to do about Sirius Black, then?" you ask.
He looks back at you, a small flicker of panic igniting his features. "I haven't actually told him yet," he admits, "which is harder than it sounds because he was at my house all summer. I had to swear my parents to secrecy."
He looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable admitting this and a small part of you wants to laugh. For all of the years Potter had spent being an absolute nightmare to everyone, this is, in some ways, the perfect punishment.
"Well he's going to find out when you're not sleeping in the Gryffindor dormitory tonight," you respond, pointing out the obvious, "and then what are you going to do? Turn a blind eye to his antics?"
He bites his lower lip which, to your dismay, is inexplicably distracting. For a moment, your brain considers that you wouldn't mind raking your lips over his, which is an alarming idea.
"I thought I might defer that honour to you?" he says, voice pleading softly. "Or Remus," he says quickly, remembering that his other friend is in fact a prefect.
Your frown deepens in response.
"You're not even going to try and reign him in?" you ask, judgment seeping into your tone.
Potter looks slightly offended. "I've been trying to reign him in for six years, Lily!" he exclaims.
You know this is a blatant lie because Potter has been the ringleader of that little gang for as long as it has existed. Although Sirius exudes aristocratic charm with a devil-may-care attitude (a combination which every other witch at Hogwarts seems to find irresistible), he doesn't have the requisite air of authority.
"Spare me," you scoff disbelievingly. "If Sirius bothers me tomorrow, the first thing I'm going to tell him is that you somehow tricked Dumbledore into making you Head Boy and that you're going to be personally responsible for his actions for the rest of this year."
To your surprise, Potter smiles mischievously. He leans back in his arm chair and throws a leg across one of the arm rests. "If you tell him that, don't forget to mention that we share a dormitory, will you?"
You scowl at Potter and flounce off the couch, collecting your robe with a flourish.
"I will not be telling him that, Potter," you reply, venomously.
His hazel eyes dance dangerously from behind the frame of dark lashes as he smiles even more broadly. "That's okay," he says simply, "I'll make sure to tell everyone that we are now spending every night together."