A/N: TW for ED thoughts, mentions of abuse, and some general depression/hopelessness in this chapter. I know this update is a day late! Sorry y'all. Hope it's okay :)
November 29th, 1975
It was pretty cool to get a section of the Hospital Wing set aside just for them. It was a shame he was too drugged up on painkilling potions to enjoy it. He was lucid enough to enjoy it the next morning when they were escorted out by Frank Longbottom and Alice Rhysfield, however. He strutted (as best he could with a bung foot) down the aisle, between the two rows of occupied beds. A couple of girls smiled at him. Marlene flipped him off. He looked for both Lisbete and Lily, but neither were present. Probably a good sign.
Peter got off with a fortnight of detention after James covered for him, promising McGonagall and Dumbledore over and over again that it had been his idea, not Peter's, and that Peter hadn't even wanted to, and they'd all but forced him into it. Peter trembled and the rims of his eyes went red and they were satisfied with that, that and a letter home, of course. Sirius got a two-day suspension, followed by a month's detention, but with no letter home. They considered his family situation and thought it would do more harm than good. He was, however, also banned from the next Hogsmeade trip, and had to write an apology for Sybil Gamp. Professor McGonagall wisely decided she would 'proofread' the apology note. James took the brunt of the punishment. Three days' suspension, at home, and a full month of a detention (including Saturday detentions), and he wasn't even allowed to miss it for Quidditch training. Instead, Livia McLaggen would fill in for him, and it would be up to John Brown to decide whether or not he was fit enough to play the match against the Hufflepuffs. Peter lost thirty points, and James and Sirius fifty each.
Three days' suspension wasn't so bad. Basically a long weekend. It was preferable to stifling in the heat of the wrath of their housemates, not to mention Professor McGonagall. He'd shrivelled up under her eye. He figured that the Quidditch Captain badge was going to stay far, far away from him. He dreaded having to face Brown. At least Livia would ensure his absence didn't completely derail the team. Apparently, nobody had recognised her voice, or they'd decided that her part was too minimal as to warrant being hauled in.
The Headmaster offered him a sweet.
"Thank you, Professor," James said, and took one. He popped it into his mouth. It had a real lemon zest about it. Professor McGonagall's nostrils flared.
James' eyes darted to the fireplace. The flames turned bright green. He sucked harder on the lemon sweet. A dark figure spun into the fire, and then stepped out. His mother was followed quickly by his father.
"Jamie," said Euphemia.
"Mum," he croaked. She ran to him, and pulled him into a tight hug. He stood, and pressed his face into her shoulder. She smelled like dust and old lady and maybe jam. Fleamont joined the hug. They enveloped James in warmth. He reached his arm out and around his dad, wincing at the movement.
"Jamie," his mother said, pulling back. She cupped his cheeks in her hands. "Are you okay? Is this from the incident?" Her finger brushed against his temple. He flinched.
"Madam Pomfrey has attended to him," Professor McGonagall said. Euphemia didn't look at her. She ran her fingers behind James' ears and tilted his chin upwards.
"I'm alright, Mum," he said, injecting pep into his voice. She sniffled, and kissed him on the forehead.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure you are," she said. The worry didn't leave her eyes.
"Thank you for arriving on such short notice," Professor Dumbledore said warmly. He waved his wand and conjured two chairs. The paisley pattern on the cushions reminded him of home.
"Oh, not at all," Fleamont said. "Good to see you again, Albus. Minerva." Fleamont eagerly shook hands with Dumbledore, and then shook McGonagall's, though his smile wasn't so wide.
"Good to see you, good to see you," Euphemia said warmly, kissing Dumbledore on both cheeks and pulling McGonagall into a stiffly-returned hug. Dumbledore gestured to the seats, and James' parents sat down. James relaxed. He got to go home. Even if it was technically a punishment, he hadn't been at home in autumn since he was ten. He loved Hogwarts, adored it, but it didn't compare to his mum's pumpkin pie and the lawn littered in golden brown leaves and sleeping in his own bed, naked and eagle-spread.
The conversation was long, though not by necessity. They spoke more about his dad's business and Dumbledore's recent travels and the fate of Wendy Macmillan and her children. A house elf bought along James' trunk after forty minutes, accompanied by two small vials and a sheet of instructions from Madam Pomfrey on caring for his injuries while he was away. That was the cue to leave. Another agonising ten minutes was spent saying goodbye (James' farewell to Professor McGonagall stopped just short of grovelling), and then Euphemia helped him into the floo. His hips were still ginger. Madam Pomfrey had been overrun by injured students overnight.
He stumbled out of the fireplace into the formal living room. Even aching and covered in soot, he beamed. It looked much the same as it had in September. It was home to the paisley-patterned lounges, and the more formal photographs. His eight-year-old self flashed him a gap-toothed smile from an otherwise sombre family portrait. It had been that portrait that got him allowed to come in here in the first place, for reasons aside from travelling. He'd had the run of the house except for his father's laboratory and this. He'd sat for hours to get the portrait done, and then they'd hung it in a room where he couldn't even look at himself. He'd been relentless in his campaign, knocking on their door, climbing into their laps, alternately crying and shouting and begging and insisting that he was eight now, nearly a grown-up, and it made no sense that his portrait-self could be in there but he couldn't.
Finally being allowed in had been a bit of a let-down. Now, he left quickly, bursting into the entryway. Across was the door to the parlour, his mother's favourite room, and to his left, door half-hidden by the stairs, was the kitchen. The dining room and guest bathroom, both never used, tucked in the back corner of the house behind the parlour.
Shit! His trunk. He'd nearly forgotten. He turned round and hurried back into the living room. His father staggered out, straining under the weight of his trunk. James ran to take it from him.
"Thanks, Dad. Sorry. Didn't think," James said. Fleamont clung tighter to the handle.
"You're not well," he insisted. "James, let me. The best thing you can do is rest." James persisted, pulling at it.
"C'mon, Dad, I'm meant to be in trouble. I can carry my own trunk."
"You are in trouble, but there's no good rousing until you're better. That's what your mother thinks, at least."
"Don't you agree? Don't you want me, your beloved favourite son, to get better?"
"Ah, buggery, take it, James." His dad let go. James grinned cheekily, and took the full weight. He grunted. Actually heavy. He couldn't let his dad win now, though. He grimaced.
The flames crackled, and his mother stepped out, carrying the supplies from the Infirmary. Her pleasant, polite smile snapped into a frown.
"James! What are you doing? That's far too heavy for you, you're ill. Here, we can charm it, just give me a moment, my wand is in here somewhere!" She set the potions down and rummaged through her handbag.
"Bloody hell, Mum, I can manage. I can levitate it, if you want," he added. She pulled her wand out of her handbag triumphantly. Then she turned it on him, giving her an approximation of a stern look. She was still smiling. It didn't compare to McGonagall's at all.
"I'd rather you not get the Ministry involved too, Jamie," she said. Lisbete used the same nickname. He chuckled. Weird.
They got his things upstairs, and his mother read off the instructions and dosed him with a potion. Each of his parents pressed a kiss to his forehead (his dad only ever did this in private, thank Godric, Helga, and Merlin) and left. James was left in a dwindling twilight, tucked into his childhood bed in warm flannel pyjamas. He hugged his pillow. Quidditch players zoomed through his posters, pulling outrageous stunts. His legs grew heavy. Ignotus pranced on his perch. When had he come home? He'd ask later. The mattress moulded around his healing ribs. Only the softest sunlight trickled through his plaid curtains. A glass of warm milk called to him from one of his side tables. Delectable. But…so far away. He was paralysed. In the best way. Like he could stay there forever. He pulled his pillow closer. It smelt like nothing. His face managed to form the tiniest frown. It should've been strawberry-scented.
Lisbete was nice to hug. She fitted against him snugly, her head on his chest, her golden hair tickling his chin, her fingers just meeting in the middle of his back. He wanted her to bring him sweets and stroke his hair and cuddle him. His limbs tingled. Were they painful, or was it in his head? They were numb. Floaty. He moaned into his bed. Sleep came for him.
He woke of his own accord, and the light had changed. Ignotus was gone. The glass of milk was not. He rolled over. He sleepily crawled his hand over to the bedside table, and wrapped his fingers around the glass. Still warm, thanks to his mother's charms. Sitting up took more effort. His legs were lighter, but his ribs kept on twinging. He pressed the rim to his lips. Gulped it down in two swallows. Set it down. Home. He really was home. He grabbed the pillows he'd shoved aside and stuffed them under his back to keep him propped up.
James' eyes raked his room. No sign of his wand, which he'd had in his pocket. His robes were folded neatly on his dresser. They bulged in a strange place. His lips grew a smile. Sod suspension. They had what they needed to help Remus. If it meant expulsion, he didn't care.
A knock arrived at his door twenty minutes later. Good. Walking to his stack of magazines, picking one, and walking all the way back to bed seemed too great a task at this very minute. He was definitely ill.
"Come in!" he called. The door opened. Euphemia carried a tray of tea.
"Jamie," she said, shutting the door behind her. She sat on his bed, back against his knees. Warmth bloomed at the contact. "I'm glad you're awake. Madam Pomfrey says it's the last big sleep you'll need, the worst of it should be over."
"I feel like an invalid," James said. He rubbed his eyes. She plucked his glasses off the table and handed them to him. He shoved them up his nose. Better. Euphemia set the tray on his lap. She picked up the rose teacup from the left. He took the one on the right. It was a novelty cup, emblazoned with a snitch. From the Quidditch World Cup last year. He sipped. English Breakfast. His favourite.
She reached out and touched one of his curls. "Oh, Jamie. You'll be okay. You're my strong boy."
"Mum," he protested weakly. She kissed his temple. He scrunched his nose. She pulled back, gaze dropping to her lap, and sighed.
"Your father and I do want to speak with you," she said, twisting her fingers together. His stomach dropped. Shifting light caught new lines in her face, or old ones deepened. She looked old. Really old. James nodded.
"I figured," he said. It had to happen sometime. It'd be okay – the worst part of any telling-off was their disappointment, and if he explained it well enough (leaving out the sketchy details), maybe they wouldn't even be disappointed. Then they could return to normal. Normal-ish. The more tea he drank, the more his head cleared. Questions came into sharp focus, many of them intended for his father – what really happened to him? Had somebody been downstairs? Was he one-hundred percent better? And newer questions, too, bubbling forth since they'd spoken to Dumbledore – what did they mean, about a roster? Why had his mother visited Wendy Macmillan? James had met the Macmillans in passing before, at bigger bashes or Quidditch games, but he'd never counted her as one of his mother's friends. What would they have to talk about?
He turned hollow. Dipshit. Wendy Macmillan couldn't talk anymore.
He was devoutly thankful he hadn't said anything out loud.
"We can do it up here, if you'd feel more comfortable," Euphemia said gently. He refocused. "Or we can have the conversation in your father's study, or at dinner. We just think it's best if it's some time tonight. If you're not feeling up to it, though," she added, looking him up and down, "we can save it for morning. Our greatest priority is making sure you're okay." He took another mouthful of tea.
"Thanks, Mum," he said. His cup was empty. He returned it to the gold tray. "I don't mind if we do it here. I'm feeling a bit rubbish, but I'm alright to talk. Can you bring my magazines over here afterwards?" he asked hopefully. She shook her head, laughing affectionately.
"Yes, James. After. I'll go get your father, now. Don't you run away."
"Mum! Don't foil my plans."
"That's breaking parole, Mr. Potter, don't even think about it," she grinned mischievously. He poked his tongue out. She pulled a face, and left with the empty teacups.
His father knocked. Funny how he could tell the difference, but he just could, the same way he could tell which of his dormmates just rolled over. This knock was a formality, unlike James' mother's. The door opened, and both of his parents peeked through the gap, smiling nervously. He returned it. He sat up properly. His mother took her seat on his bed and his father summoned James' desk chair from across the room and sat down, facing them both. They made a little triangle.
"James," Fleamont started, running his fingers through his grey hair. His reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. "James." He took a breath. James stayed silent. "Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall – you heard what they spoke with us about this morning, but we also received an owl last night. This letter, erm, alleged that yourself and Sirius were involved in pulling a stunt that resulted in the destruction of several windows, handmade, dating back to the eleventh century. And obstructing a corridor with rubble. And injuring – today, they said twenty-nine students required an overnight stay in the Hospital Wing. This is in addition to enchanting food to harass your peers, supplying alcohol to underage students – scotch, really, James? – and breaking into Professor McGonagall's office." It was an exhaustive list. Quietly, James was impressed that they'd managed to break that many school rules without trying.
"Alright," James said. His mother patted his knee. His father swallowed.
"Also, that you and Sirius intimidated and forced Peter into helping you," Fleamont added, frowning. "Erm – could you tell us your version of events, James?"
"I can tell you that we didn't intimidate Peter," James confessed. "He gets really frightened of getting into trouble, and he's got a pretty good record, so we just decided to fib a bit. Sorry, I know I shouldn't lie to teachers, but – Pete was really upset, you know. And he's one of my best mates." He looked at his parents defiantly, daring them to say he'd done wrong. His father scratched the back of his neck. His mother pursed her lips.
"That's very noble, Jamie," said his mother. "Just so long as you understand that while it's not affecting Peter's record, it is affecting yours. And we really do want Peter to succeed, he's been such a good friend to you, but we want you to succeed as well. Suspensions just don't look very good, James."
"And, it is wrong to lie to your professors," his father added.
"Yes, that too," said Euphemia.
"Yeah, I know," James said. He didn't regret it. He'd be fine after school, regardless of how many suspensions he'd had – they didn't give a damn about that when they recruited for Quidditch. The worst of it would be when they did a deep dive on him as the English captain just prior to the world cup and it came up, and it'd be fixed with a charming interview and a winning smile. He was set.
"But the rest of it is true, James?" Fleamont prodded gently. James shrugged.
"Yeah, more or less."
"James," his father said. His mother sighed. James adjusted a pillow. "James, I'm sure you have a good explanation for this. We'd like to hear it, please." No disappointment yet; that was a good sign, James thought cheerfully. And if he gave them an explanation, they'd owe him one in return. Well, not really, but if he said that and pressed the matter, he'd get one.
He considered his possible explanations. He didn't enjoy outright lying to his parents, but he hadn't let on about Remus' furry little problem – at his request – and didn't intend on doing so now. All the best lies, however, had a great deal of truth to them.
"You know Remus is unwell," he started. His parents both nodded gravely.
"Poor dear," Euphemia said. "I can't imagine what it must be like for the Lupins. If it were you…oh, Jamie. I don't know what I'd do with myself." His gut twinged with guilt.
"Yeah. Well, the other night – he had a bit of a flare-up, I guess. Had to stay in the Hospital Wing overnight. I mean, it happens, but with exams coming up and everything…We thought he could use a bit of cheering up. He'd probably kill us if we did something celebrating him, though, so we thought, who does he really admire? Who do we all admire? Professor McGonagall, of course. And it became a bit bigger than just for him, I guess." His father nodded, adjusting his glasses. James ploughed on. "Everyone's feeling a bit rubbish about the exams. We thought it could put a smile on everyone's face, maybe. So we did it in honour of McGonagall – without her knowledge, obviously – but that was why there was scotch. And haggis. And black pudding. We didn't mean to destroy anything. I swear I wasn't trying to get up to no good." Maybe stealing his Head of House's private correspondence could be considered 'no good', but it was in service of a good cause. And honestly, they didn't even steal anything. Just made copies. The worse they'd done was invade her privacy, and since when was that illegal?
"Well, I'm glad you weren't trying to destroy anything. I thought that was uncharacteristic," said Euphemia. His father touched his gelled hair.
"So it was all a misguided attempt to cheer Remus up?" Fleamont asked.
"Yeah," James said. His father searched his face. James gave a small smile.
"Well, I can't punish that," he sighed. "I support what the school has done, of course, in suspending you and giving you detention. You do need to make recompense for destroying the corridor. I think," he said, glancing at his wife, who nodded, "that we will make a donation, taken out of your trust, to the school so that they can rebuild. So you will lose that."
"That's fair enough," James said. His vault was enormous – it honestly didn't worry him too much. It was good that something would be going to the school. He had fucked it up more than a little. His mother leaned over and brushed some of his hair out of his face, and then pulled him into a hug. He hugged her back. His ribs hurt.
"One last thing," his father said, when they broke apart. "Why did you break into Professor McGonagall's office?" Fleamont fixed him with an odd look. His mother frowned seriously. James shrugged.
"Accident. We misaimed and hit the door with a spell, and it opened a bit. Went in to close it and saw her biscuit tin." He scratched the back of his neck, making a show of embarrassment. "Couldn't help it. I feel really awful. I know it was wrong. I really – I really like her, she looks out for us, you know." That was true. He wished they could've asked, but he knew she would've only looked at them sternly and kept a close eye on them afterwards. It would've helped Remus none.
"James," Fleamont said. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You need to write an apology letter to her. Or apologise in person."
"Yes, that would be best," said Euphemia.
"I will," James vowed, and meant it.
November 29th, 1975
The howler arrived at dinner.
The table was strangely empty without James and Sirius. The former was at home, presumably being afforded every comfort and not a bad word, and the latter had been let out late from his in-school suspension and took a seat at the very end of the table, glaring at his dinner. Peter and Remus sat with the girls.
"I don't believe for a second that you pair weren't involved," Lily told them. Her lips twitched out of their firm line and her eyes sparkled.
"I can't believe you'd have so little faith in me," Remus said, shaking his head. Lily scoffed, smiling.
"If you hadn't blown up the corridor – or set that bloody jinx on Sybil Gamp – it might have almost been funny," Lily said. "The owl choir was inspired, to be honest. Don't tell Potter that," she added quickly.
"It wasn't us who set the jinx on Gamp," Peter protested. "That was Sirius." Peter didn't know why he'd done it. They could've been out of there and got off scot-free. He was pleased Sirius had spent all day in the temporary office McGonagall was using. Served him right.
"Who's surprised? Not me," Marlene said. Remus raised his eyebrows. Lily sighed.
"Come on, Marls," Lily said. Marlene pulled an indignant face.
"What? We're fine, it's fine. All water under the bridge," Marlene said. Lily blew air against her lips. Peter ate. Porridge was notably absent from the menu.
Most students had left the Hospital Wing, none of their injuries too serious. James had been closest to the fountain when it exploded and took the worst of it. Peter's left arm had been in a bad way, but Madam Pomfrey healed it completely when he returned from the Headmaster's office. That trip had been worse for his health than any fractured bones or bruising. He'd thought he'd be expelled. They called him in to ask questions after James and Sirius, but before James was sent home. Peter nearly puked.
Professor Dumbledore was very kind. He'd gently explained that James and Sirius had told him everything. Peter blanched and wondered if he could run. It took all of his self-control to keep his lips clamped together to stop the tears. Here was one of the greatest wizards of the century, having to waste his time on Peter Pettigrew. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Professor Dumbledore continued, smiling encouragingly, and Peter's eyes widened. He could've kissed the hems of James and Sirius' robes, worshipped the ground they walked on. They covered for him. No suspension. He didn't have to face his parents until Christmas.
His parents still got a letter.
Owls weren't common at dinner; most flew overnight and arrived at breakfast. Peter lived in Hampshire, which meant that his letters took a while to get home; letters from home took a while to get to Hogwarts. He wasn't concerned when an owl flew into the Great Hall. It was a bit odd, sure, but who knew what it was for? Even when it descended towards the Gryffindor table, he shrugged it off. Even when he saw the red of the envelope. The bird was unfamiliar. He kept digging into his mountain of mashed potatoes. Only when it bypassed several students did he begin to worry. Only when he could make out the tag around the owl's leg marking it as a post office bird.
It skidded to a halt just before it crashed into his mashed potato. A small mercy. He trembled.
"Bad luck," Marlene said, frowning. Lily snorted.
"I knew you had something to do with it," she said. "Sorry, Peter." The bird stretched out its leg, yellow eyes flashing. Peter gulped. Remus sighed.
"Go on, then," Remus said. Heads starting turning. James' girlfriend whispered to Cathy. A group of sixth years stared. He longed to bury his head in his hands. The owl shook its leg. Peter winced. It flapped its wings furiously and let out a squawk. The red envelope trembled. Peter did too.
"Peter," Lily said sternly. He flicked his eyes up to her. Her gaze wandered across his face and then she sighed. She reached out, untied the letter from the owl, and gave it to him. Steam began pouring out. "You have to open it." The owl hooted indignantly and took to the sky, not waiting for an answer. Peter watched it, fingers shaking. The steam started to whistle.
"Fucking hell, Peter," Remus said quietly. Lily looked surprised. Marlene rolled her eyes.
"Open it already!" Marlene said. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, and fumbled his fingertips over the seal. Could he toss water on it? What if he puked? If the writing became unreadable, then it couldn't howl, could it? It wouldn't know what to say. Maybe it would just scream. Would that be worse? Everyone would think his parents had just decided to send a scream. It could be funny, though. Made into something he could joke about, as opposed to everyone hearing exactly what they thought. He slunk down into his seat. One more tug and the letter would open. The whistling heightened its pitch. He opened one eye. Clouds of steam chugged into the air. He could've died on the spot.
He looked away, and jerked his hand upwards. The opening shriek deafened him temporarily, and he missed the first few phrases. Hopefully, so did the rest of the Great Hall. His eyes brimmed with tears. He frantically fought them.
"WE DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU'D BE GETTING YOURSELF INVOLVED IN THIS RUBBISH!" That was Dad. "GRYFFINDORS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE BRAVE! EVEN IN SLYTHERIN, WE WOULDN'T STAND FOR THIS NONSENSE! IF ALL YOUR FRIENDS WENT AND STUCK THEIR WANDS UP THEIR NOSES, WOULD YOU? PATRICIA WOULD NEVER BE THIS FOOLISH! THIS IS GOING TO MAKE IT TEN TIMES HARDER FOR YOU TO FIND A JOB, AND YOU CAN KISS GOODBYE TO ANY HOPE OF STUDYING ON THE CONTINENT! YOU'D BEST GET OUTSTANDINGS IN EVERY SUBJECT, OR ELSE YOU'LL BE STUCK CLEANING DIAGON ALLEY!" Peter shrivelled. Ten 'Outstandings' were well beyond his reach. Five would be a significant feat.
His mother took over. "PETER, PLEASE, THINK BEFORE YOU ACT! AND IF SOMEONE TRIES TO MAKE YOU DO SOMETHING YOU DON'T WANT TO DO, SAY 'NO', LOUD AND FIRM, AND TELL ONE OF YOUR PROFESSORS IMMEDIATELY!" Oh, no. No, no, no. He sunk down so far that his eyes were barely above the table. Laughter rung through the Hall.
"ENID, WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? THE BEST WAY TO GET THEM TO STOP IS TO TEACH THEM A LESSON!" His father bellowed. Peter's face burst into flame. He crumpled.
"I'M SORRY," said his mother.
Peter's head swirled. Every second felt like an hour, but it all moved incredibly fast. The ensuing argument rolled against his eardrums. Remus' hand grazed his shoulder. Lily's red hair glimmered in his vision, her hands under his armpits, pulling him upright. Laughter. So much laughter. Why me, he thought desperately. Sirius didn't have to face his parents at all, and James would be doted on for the weekend. Why couldn't he be them? Sure, Sirius' parents sucked, but from the sounds of it, they weren't even going to be informed about the incident. Sirius was lucky. Peter would've taken a couple of insults and purist parents if it meant avoiding this.
The letter dissolved into ash. Lily held him up, whispering at his left side, and Remus was at his right. Peter wondered how she'd got around the table so quickly. Lily bought a glass of water to his lips. He shook his head. Across the table, Marlene hid her face with her hands, shoulders shaking.
"Come on, Peter," Lily said softly. She held his arm firm. Remus took his other. They tugged him to his feet. He stumbled, and they frogmarched him out of the hall. Sirius didn't even look up. People kept giggling. Why did his parents have to argue? Couldn't they have redone it, when they realised that? They could have read the transcript and seen the problem. Did they just not care? Were they too busy? Did they have a letter to send to Patricia, too? That made sense, actually. They would've gone to the post office to get an owl that would cope with an international flight. He groaned miserably.
They pushed his shoulders down. He sat, and found a bench beneath him. They did too. Lily rubbed circles into his back. Remus let go. Fat tears teetered on the verge of spilling. Why? Why? He'd be lucky to get ten O. at all. It didn't come naturally like it did Patricia. They should've realised that when he wasn't made prefect. If it weren't for Dale, he'd be the dumbest in the dormitory.
"Hey, hey," Lily said softly. "Peter?" He groaned again. "Oh, Peter, I'm sorry. Honestly, howlers are ridiculous. I don't see why they can't go to the dormitory instead. That way it'd be a bit more private."
"They argued," Peter managed. Lily kept patting his back, like he was a baby. He supposed he was. Just a big crybaby. The tears splashed onto his cheeks. He wiped his forearm across his face furiously. Stupid.
"It'll be okay," Lily told him. "It will be. I promise." Peter leaned into her. She hugged him. She smelled nice. The tears bubbled over again, and he pawed at his face.
"Chin up, Wormy," Remus said, elbowing him.
"Yeah," Lily said. "Chin up, Wormy."
November 30th, 1975
Professor McGonagall had not been thrilled when Remus showed up. To say the least. She opened the door and stared at him from her desk. Her eye twitched.
"Mr. Lupin," she said, strained. "What brings you here?" Sirius looked up from his work. His dark hair kept its soft waves, stopping at his chin. It was the only part of him looking as usual. He was in uniform, robes and all, and it was oddly neat. His tie was not only tied but tied properly. His eyes glimmered when they met Remus'. Remus didn't allow himself a smile. He quickly returned his gaze to Professor McGonagall's.
"Sirius was going to help me with Potions today," he said. Professor McGonagall's eyebrows flung towards her hairline.
"Was he now?" she asked. Remus kept his back straight, drawn to full height.
"Yes," he said. It was true. Sirius, when he put his bloody mind to it, was nearly as good as Lily and Snape at the subject. If it hadn't been such a typically Slytherin subject, Remus suspected he would've taken great joy in having another thing to rival Snivellus in. Instead, he pretended he was shit at the subject and that the subject was of no merit anyways. Fucking purebloods and their fucking pride.
He could've gone to Lily when Sirius was suspended, but he looked so miserable at breakfast that it would've been a cruel injustice not to try.
"Mr. Black is not permitted to leave until lunch," Professor McGonagall said. Remus nodded.
"I understand. I'm happy to sit in here." He shifted his bookbag around to the front. "We can work on the theory." Professor McGonagall looked between them. Remus' face stayed completely neutral.
"Fine," she said, voice clipped. She conjured another chair. It was wooden and rather fragile. She glared at him, as if daring him to protest.
"Thank you," Remus said politely, and took the seat by Sirius. There was very little desk space between the three of them. Nevertheless, he got out his supplies and shoved them haphazardly onto the small space he claimed. Professor McGonagall eyed him.
"I was hoping we could start on ingredients that assist in improving focus and intelligence," Remus whispered, barely looking at Sirius. Professor McGonagall exhaled noisily.
"I need to leave for a moment," she announced. "If either of you do anything to disturb this space in any way, the consequences will be more severe than you can possibly imagine. Mr. Lupin, I am relying on you to have enough sense to keep Mr. Black in line. Do not disappoint me." Remus nodded. She looked very pained. She silently pointed her wand at a few objects, and then left them.
Remus turned to face Sirius.
"Thank you for helping me with this," Remus said evenly. Sirius' solemn look broke into a laugh. He said nothing, just smiled at him. Remus smiled. Sirius' blue eyes, like twin stars, bore into him, shining. Remus broke away first.
"Intellect-stimulating ingredients," Sirius said then, reaching across the table to grab Remus' textbook. Remus glanced at Sirius' work. Star charts. Not any he recognised. They hadn't been assigned star charts for Astronomy homework. Sirius grabbed them and stuffed them into his bag. Then he flipped open the Potions textbook, centring it between them.
"Should I copy them down?" Remus asked. Sirius' shoulder brushed his. A lump swelled in his throat. Remus swallowed.
"Nah," Sirius said. "Do that later. It's the tedious bit."
"Okay."
Sirius picked up the textbook and ran his finger along the page. "Oh, this is easy. I can just quiz you on them," he said dismissively. Remus shifted, annoyance flushing hot at the back of his neck. What was it? Fucking purebloods, that's right. He thought it was a sentiment Lily could share. Remus inhaled sharply. He remembered Sirius at breakfast, all downcast, hunched.
"Okay," Remus said. Sirius leaned back in his chair, and the front legs lifted off the ground. He didn't appear to notice.
"Good. You should get this one quickly. Which ingredient has a putrid scent and has a primary purpose of breaking down anxiety, nerves, and unhelpful thoughts?" Sirius arched an eyebrow, fixing those blue stars on him. They chilled him. It was like ice water had been poured down his shirt. He took a moment.
"Bile," he said confidently. Hesitated. "Armadillo bile?" The grin ate Sirius' face.
"Correct," he said.
They continued through a few more. Remus got two right, three wrong. Sirius' face twitched downwards when he answered incorrectly, almost wounded. Remus regarded this sharply. It pressed against a little knot somewhere deep inside and he kept it safe for use as fuel that night. Professor McGonagall entered as Remus answered, "Purple."
She appraised the room, and then scanned their set-up. "You cannot work quietly?" she asked. Remus looked to Sirius, who averted his eyes. Remus swallowed.
"We thought that quizzing me might be of benefit," Remus said. "And discussion usually helps me remember." That was blatantly untrue. Remus learned best by reading, writing, and re-wording; Sirius was the one who excelled after conversation. He had a nagging feeling that Sirius would get more out of this 'study session' than he would.
"I see," Professor McGonagall said. She rubbed her temple with two fingers. She grimaced. "If – if that is what works best," she said, her voice like a razor, "then I will take you into the classroom next door. I will lock you in there until lunch. If there is a seat out of place when I return you, Mr. Black, will be sent home, and you, Mr. Lupin, will find yourself the focus of a recommendation that you lose your badge. Do you understand?" They both nodded quickly. "I have work to do," she said.
They followed her to the classroom next door, taking all their things with them.
"Mr. Lupin, I am trusting you as a prefect. Act as a prefect, not as a friend," she advised curtly.
"Yes, Professor," he said quietly. She locked them in and left.
Remus half-expected Sirius to get to his feet, whip out his wand, and begin causing as much chaos as possible while ranting about the injustice of it all and pining over James. He didn't. He stayed in the seat he'd taken, not getting out his books, not moving. Remus sat down next to him. The classroom wasn't one he'd been in before; the desks were dustless, probably courtesy of Filch, but they were also absent of the scribblings and scratchings that the caretaker had long stopped bothering with. There were no initials, no penises, no broomsticks. Nothing but rows of unused desks and him and Sirius' arm touching his and Sirius, silent.
"Do you not think it's monumentally fucked up that they won't send me home when I'm suspended because they have 'concerns for my safety', and then send me home anyways over Christmas and Easter and for the summer?" Sirius asked, his voice edged with bitterness. Remus looked at him. His hair fell in such a way that it hid his face entirely; in black robes, black hair falling around him, he was more silhouette than boy.
Remus faltered. In second year, they'd made a pact to stay over Christmas. Remus, James, and Peter sought permission from their parents before signing up and received it. Sirius did not ask. They added their names to Professor McGonagall's roll of parchment. The Hogwarts Express pulled out of Hogsmeade station without them, and they sprawled across the common room, playing gobstones and cards and wondering if they could convince (or swindle) an older student to give them some liquor on Christmas day. At eight o'clock, an hour after the train would've arrived in London, Professor McGonagall entered the common room and informed Sirius he was to report to the Headmaster's office immediately. She escorted him. Orion and Walburga Black had left Regulus under Kreacher's care and apparated into Hogsmeade before storming up to the school gates. It didn't matter that Sirius wanted to stay. They took him home. When he returned after the holidays, he slept only on his left side for a month and stopped accompanying James in his morning jogs or flying practice for a similar period of time.
But the Headmaster moved mountains for him. Moved a giant, violent tree into the middle of a school and visited him to deliver his letter in person and made him a prefect, for crying out loud. How could he make such a great effort for a half-breed like Remus and do nothing for Sirius of a noble and whatever house and a former headmaster for an ancestor? There had to be a reason. Maybe he thought the Blacks would resist any interference and withdraw Sirius from school, isolating him completely. Maybe he thought the Blacks had enough influence to close the school entirely. Maybe there was a plan, but it was taking longer than it should've to implement. There had to be something. Remus couldn't believe that the Headmaster would just leave Sirius to languish in that prison of a place.
If there was a plan, why was it so shit as to take five fucking years to implement? It wasn't as if this was new. Sirius had not arrived in first year as a happy, healthy kid. Neither of them had. But only Remus had received help.
"They only fucking care when it's convenient for them. If they don't bring my parents now, they don't have to see them. If they send me home for the holidays, they don't have to see them. They can't stand to see my parents for half an hour but I have to fucking live with them! I have to fucking take it!" His voice cracked. He didn't stand but smacked his head against the desk.
"There has to be a reason," Remus said, very quietly. Sirius sniffed.
"There is. They're fucking cowards is the reason." Sirius looked up. His hair revealed his face. His face was drained of any colour, white as snow. The colour smudged around his eyes instead, a palette off purples and greens and reds, smeared and swirling in a chunder of tears and sleeplessness. Sirius clawed at the taut skin pulled over his cheekbones, long nails leaving crescent moons in their wake. "They care more about you and you could kill someone."
Remus flinched. "So could you." It took every ounce of him not to shout, not to run, and he did not have a great many ounces in him. Sirius sniffed, and laughed hollowly.
"Oh, yes, that's right, I'm a Black, so I must perform dark magic and be out to scour the world of mudbloods."
"Oh, yes, that's right, I'm a werewolf, so I must be out for human flesh, because I'm not human, as my good friend here just so kindly reminded me," Remus spat back, with equal venom. For the first time since they'd entered the room, Sirius' eyes met his. Piercing. He'd never taken so much notice of the colour in them before. Blue, a pale blue, but so pale as to almost be grey. It would depend on the light.
"Sorry," Sirius said. He looked like shit.
"It's fine," Remus said. "I know. I don't know why me. Nobody would chose me over you." Sirius didn't argue. It vaguely stung.
"I fucking hate it," Sirius said, his voice thick. He looked away again. Remus was almost glad to be rid of that gaze. Almost. "It's hell. I can't go back. I see fucking – fucking James' Christmases, and Peter's, even yours – and I think of mine and it's fucking hell. Why me? Why am I the one who gets that? Why not James, or Peter, or Marlene, or – or–" He pulled his hands down his face. "Why me?"
Remus was struck by the sudden urge to put his hand on Sirius'. Like something a girl would do. Or James – no, actually, James would wrap his whole arm around you. Remus did neither of those things. He shifted his body weight. He brushed Sirius' arm.
"I ask myself the same thing. Every day."
December 2nd, 1975
She fled Florence and Cynthia in the bathroom. It was wrong. They were consoling a first year – a Hufflepuff first year, mind – who had blown up her cauldron. She was terribly upset. All the waterworks. She'd also had the misfortune of choosing to mope in the bathroom that belonged to Moaning Myrtle. They had stood outside the door for half an hour, talking to her, not leaving even as their bags grew heavy, as Myrtle screamed and howled and mocked the little girl for her insignificant problems as opposed to being dead and leaked water all over the floor.
Dorcas stood next to Flo, repeating vaguely encouraging phrases. She had work to do. A not-insignificant amount. Exams loomed. She needed to make flashcards, to copy out passages, to make herself quizzes and answer them and check the answers, to write a practice essay. The girl kept crying. She said something else supposed to be supportive. She cried harder. Moaning Myrtle shrieked. Cynthia knocked on the door, and Florence whispered soothing sayings. Dorcas had work to do. She was cold and tired and there was so much work to do and this girl would not. Stop. Crying. A scream rose in her throat. She cracked her knuckles.
"Maybe we could escort her back to her common room," Dorcas whispered. Cynthia's mouth dropped open, scandalised. Florence frowned, pouting a little.
"We have to help her, Dorcas," Florence said gently.
"Yeah, she's really upset! And that's not okay!" Cynthia added. Dorcas bit her lip.
"It's just – we need to go over the properties of vanishing spells," Dorcas said. The girl in the cubicle inhaled sharply, and then let out a long, warbling cry. Moaning Myrtle shrieked with glee, circling over them.
"OOH, WELL SOMEBODY'S GOT THEIR KNICKERS IN A KNOT!" Myrtle cackled. "YOU THINK YOUR LIFE'S MISERABLE? YOURS?"
"Come on, Myrtle," Cynthia said, shaking her blonde head. "Be nice."
"NICE? NOBODY WAS EVER NICE TO ME! BUT NO, I'M THE CRUEL ONE, CRUEL, BAD, STUPID MYRTLE!" A pipe burst overhead. Cynthia screamed. Dorcas ducked her head, but it did nothing to protect from the spray of water. Dorcas smacked her hand against her forehead.
"I can't do this," she murmured. Florence put her hands on her hips.
"Come on, girls, it's just Myrtle. We're really truly sorry, Myrtle, we didn't mean to cause any offence."
Dorcas adjusted her satchel, blinking furiously. The spray was endless. It pinpricked her shirt, patterning it with tiny dark polka-dots. Cynthia flipped the hood of her robes up, and tugged at it furiously, trying to cover her hair. This left her uniform exposed. Bang. One of the drain covers flew into the air, and with it came a verifiable waterspout.
"What's going on?!" The little girl inside the cubicle demanded frantically. Florence took a deep breath.
"Well, we just have someone with some hurt feelings," Florence said patiently. Dorcas stared at her. Florence gave her a small smile. It flickered in her stomach, and died.
"I have to study," Dorcas said, shaking her head. Florence's smile dropped.
"Dorcas, Dorcas, we can, just after -"
"No," Dorcas said. She surprised herself with her forcefulness. Florence's face changed. Pain gripped Dorcas' chest. She turned and ran out of the bathroom, only taking care not to slip. Florence called after her. She did not turn around.
Dorcas was drenched. She cast multiple drying charms on her satchel, hopefully saving her parchment and textbooks, but her clothes were soaked through, her shoes full of water, and her hair unsalvageable. Hair charms were an absolute weakness of hers, and so her hair curled and frizzed and she could only wish it would disappear. She ran up the first staircase, water seeping beneath her toenails, dripping down her back. Part of her wished they hadn't evened out the heating charms. The stone floors leeched the heat out of the world. A portrait shouted at her to clean up, and another howled for Filch. She rubbed her eyes and took off up the next set of stairs, clinging to the railing as her feet slipped and slid beneath her. The last thing she needed was detention.
Warily, she stepped inside the library. A low rumble of whispers reached her ears, starkly at odds with Madam Pince's policies of just last week. The librarian was at her desk, scowling and shooting the loudest students fearsome glare. Yet, she seemed to have resigned herself to the fact that a little whispering was inevitable with a full library. And it did appear that half the school had crammed themselves in. Flo and Cynthia were notable exceptions, as opposed to the rule-makers, for once. Dorcas' usual spot was claimed by a band of giggling Gryffindor girls. Her eyes roamed, desperately searching. Individual desks were pulled up next to larger tables and the seats claimed by study groups and webs of friends too tangled and large to fit neatly. Her throat closed up. The only spare seats were next to people, dividing different groups. Every single one. She balled her hands. Her socks squelched. Anyone she sat down next to would take one look at her and laugh, or ask if she'd heard of a towel. She'd caught a glimpse of herself as she left the bathroom, and she looked like a toddler's approximation of a drowned rat.
In the crowd, she spotted Mary Macdonald.
Mary. Mary would be too shy to make a rude comment, even if one crossed her mind. Dorcas dipped her knees in desperation. She ought to have known better. Flo would've fond them a table laden with sycophants and nobody would say anything uncomplimentary, because. Well. It was Flo. She had diplomatic immunity from the whole world, just on account of her charm. While ever Dorcas stayed under her wing, she was sae. Now she had stepped out, and was caught in this mess.
She had no choice but Mary. Mary, however, was sitting by Lily Evans. She was Gryffindor's (poor) answer to Flo. On principle, Gryffindors were bad news, the pretty ones more so. Mary alone defied that. But there was no other choice. Dorcas had to take her chances with Lily Evans.
She shook out her damp hair, fixed a painful smile on her face, and headed for Mary. She tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, skirting around the fringes of larger groups and their sprawl of bags and books and gum wrappers that she was sure Madam Pince would have their heads for. Mary briefly caught her eye, and then furrowed her head deeper into her book. Dorcas stopped, hesitating. Mary didn't look back up. Lily did look her way. Lily smiled. Dorcas stayed frozen. Lily whispered to Mary. Oh, no. No, thank you. Maybe she could leave and study in the Ravenclaw common room. Or in her dormitory. Or back home. Lily scooted her seat back. No, no, no. Mary kept not looking. Dorcas stiffly turned, and forced her legs to carry her towards the door.
A hand touched her shoulder. She flinched.
"Dorcas," Lily said warmly. Very, very slowly, Dorcas turned back around. Lily's dark red hair was tied up in a sensible ponytail, and her prefect badge was pinned to her chest. In meetings, she never hesitated to volunteer an idea, or volunteer for a patrol. She spoke to everyone, even the Slytherins, who tended to edge away from her or be downright rude. Sometimes it seemed like she never shut up. Dorcas avoided her for fear of getting stuck making small talk and sounding stupid. Or getting lectured.
"Hi," Dorcas choked out.
"Hi," Lily said. "You do Divination with Mary, don't you? She's trying to remember all the different tarot cards meaning, and I must say, I'm pretty rubbish at it. Not really my thing. If you have a moment, could we bother you terribly and get you to help? Just for a bit. You don't have to if you don't want to, of course, but even if you could just sit with us and give Mary a hand if she asks a question?" It took Dorcas a moment to process it all. It was a lot of words at once. Sit with them. Help Mary. Or do her own work. She blinked owlishly.
"Er," she said. "Okay."
"Great, thank you, you're a lifesaver," Lily said, and hooked her arm around Dorcas'. Dorcas froze. Lily kept walking, and Dorcas stumbled along, feeling incredibly peculiar.
Lily sat her down in the seat next to Mary, and then took the one on Mary's other side. Mary kept her nose in her book, though her face was far too close to the text to be reading anything. Lily patted her on the shoulder. She glanced upwards, blue eyes wide. Lily nudged her. Mary looked back at Dorcas, and shook her head. Dorcas shifted uncomfortably.
"I can go," she said. Mary's head whipped around.
"Um," Mary said. "Um, um. Um. Could you? Help. Please. With – with the tarot. Please. If that's okay." She really needed to get her work on vanishing spells done. They were one of her weakest areas. Mary looked at her desperately. Florence had rubbed off on her.
"Okay," Dorcas said. Relief flooded Mary's face. Lily beamed, and then loudly took her quill and began scratching something down, murmuring quite audibly about the properties of armadillo bile.
Mary looked at her hopelessly. Dorcas swallowed. If they went through all the Minor Arcana too, it could take hours. Rivulets of water ran down her spine.
"I'll do this for half an hour," Dorcas said. "And then I need to do my own study. Okay?" Mary nodded. How she'd ever become a Gryffindor was beyond her. "Do you know the Major Arcana yet?" Mary's eyes dropped. Dorcas pinched the bridge of her nose. "Okay. We'll start with that. Just shuffle the deck and pull the top card."
Mary did as she was told, at least. Dorcas watched her slender fingers shuffle, blue veins pulsing. Exam-time wasn't a good look on her; she'd turned oddly hollow. She wasn't the only one in the year who lost their appetite around assessment periods – Cynthia had too, claiming she was too nervous to keep anything down. Florence put a lot of odd, specially-made juices in front of her instead. Dorcas couldn't stand the taste. Mary pulled the top card, put it face down, and looked at Dorcas.
"Flip it over," Dorcas said. Mary swallowed and then did so.
"The Fool," Mary said, very, very quietly. Indeed, it depicted a wizard standing at a cliff's edge, staff thrown carelessly over his shoulder, not looking where he was going. He held a white rose in his other hand.
"Explain it to me. What it means." Mary's gazed flickered.
"Um. The Fool is about beginnings," Mary said. "And, um, innocence. He's – he's setting out on his journey. Um, sometimes it's considered – sort of, um, to do with childishness. But the Fool is playful, and, sort of, willing to take new opportunities." Mary lapsed into silence, staring at the card.
"Pretty much," Dorcas said. "It's also important to consider the other parts of the card. The card is numbered zero, and it can go at the start or the end of the Major Arcana. The element of the card is air. Air is usually associated with knowledge, but then there's also the term, 'airhead'. It's social and yet very mental, internal. The card is ruled by the planet Uranus. And what does Uranus rule?" she prompted. Mary looked struck.
"Um," she said. "Uranus is – Uranus rules…um, change. It's a bit odd, sort of. The zodiac sign it's associated with is…Aquarius?"
"Yep," Dorcas said. She gestured to the card. "Say this is a real reading. What does it mean?"
Mary paled. "A reading?"
"For yourself. Try."
"Oh. Um." Mary stared at the Fool. The Fool did not look back at her, too caught up in his own merriment. "I would say…that. That I should expect – change. The beginning of something new. Something I'll…have to think about? But it also to do with other people." Her voice quavered. Dorcas grimaced.
"I suppose it's open for interpretation," she said begrudgingly.
"I hate change," Mary said.
"Really?" Dorcas said dryly. Mary nodded.
"I mean…outside change. I like things to be. Predictable."
"Okay." Perhaps she could tell Mary to copy the descriptions from the textbook. Then she could get a start on her own work.
"Is that dumb?" Mary asked, her tone spiking high. Lily looked up. Thank Merlin. Lily rested a hand on Mary's arm.
"It isn't dumb, Mary, not one bit," Lily promised. It was the sort of thing Flo would say. Dorcas pulled her Transfiguration textbook out.
"Are you going to do your own work now?" Mary asked, sickly pale. Dorcas paused.
"Er -" Yes, she had every intention of doing so. Mary got the idea now of how to revise the cards. And just…Dorcas thought it was dumb, to be afraid of change. She hated it too, but it was stupid to admit. It was illogical. You couldn't control it, so there was no use in fighting it. As much as she wanted to.
Lily didn't try to come up with a compromise for them both. Lily said nothing at all. She kept her hand on Mary's shoulder and rifled through her book with her other, fingers ink-stained.
"Shuffle again," Dorcas said shortly. Mary gave her the tiniest thankful smile, and picked up the deck of cards. Dorcas sighed.
Flo was a bad influence.
December 5th, 1975
Mary rocked back and forth in her Mary Jane's, wondering how many calories the movement burned. Marlene chewed her thumbnail, leaning against the stone wall, and scrunched her nose up.
"I want to forgive him," Marlene said, scratching her nose. "Honestly. I mean, I do. Forgive him. In hindsight, did I want to give my virginity to Sirius Black? No. No way. Not in a million years. I just felt...he saw me in my bra, the bastard. I should've stuck with a hex. But it's fine."
"Yeah," Mary agreed. Marlene sighed dramatically.
"Yeah. Right. Anyways, did you listen to QuidHeads last night?"
"QuidHeads?" In SlimWitch Monthly, you could apparently burn a hundred and fifty calories in an hour just standing around. They'd been waiting for ten minutes now. She frowned. Maths. So for one minute it'd be…one hundred and fifty divided by sixty. Oh, no. Couldn't it be easy? Well, if it was a hundred calories per hour…That was fifty for a half hour, and then – at least ten calories for ten minutes. So she'd burned ten calories. That was probably highballing it. She wondered why Hogwarts didn't have a mathematics class. Not that she particularly wanted one, but everything she'd learned in junior school was terrifically rusty, five years on without a spot of revision.
"Mm, you know. Anyway, they had Gwen Morgan and Dai Llewellyn on, reflecting on the season and everything, and they were talking about Ethan Parkin's performance. God, he's hot. Did you know he's only twenty-seven? And he's been playing first string for five years already. He has a kid! Morgan said apparently the little one's adorable. Why are all the good guys old with kids? We're left with the Sirius Blacks of the world. It's a fucking travesty, Mare." Marlene shook her head as if she could think of nothing worse. Mary wiggled her toes.
"It sounds awful," Mary said sympathetically. If she didn't hate heights so much, she would've taken up Quidditch. The players were always in good nick, though she couldn't see how sitting on a broom for a few hours did anything. Maybe it was the idle calories. Maybe it was just walking to and from the Training Grounds all the time. Maybe she ought to watch Marlene practise.
"It's alright, though," Marlene continued. "Do you think it's immoral for a professor to date a student? A former student, not one currently in school. If they're both consenting adults and all." Mary looked between her friend and the office door up the corridor and back again.
"Um," she said thoughtfully.
"Probably a bit," Marlene rued. Mary's stomach growled. She was starting to feel rather light-headed. There was a potion for that. The Hospital Wing was a bit of a walk, but it would burn more calories. They could go after they were done here. She wondered if being sick changed the way your body lost fat. If she wasn't such a baby, she would've written in to SlimWitch and asked. That was terrifying, though. Even if she signed it anonymously, other students could still make fun of the letter if it was exceptionally daft, which it probably would be, and even if they didn't know who the author was, she would, and it'd hurt every bit as much.
The door opened. Marlene jumped. Mary's eyes widened. Marlene threw herself against the wall and immediately assumed a casual position. Mary mimicked her. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Professor Clearwater. He held a letter aloft, and beamed from ear to ear.
"Girls!" he said. Marlene tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Professor," she said. "What are you so happy about?" Professor Clearwater ran his fingers through his air, and wiggled the letter.
"I'm an uncle!" he said excitedly. Marlene stepped towards him. Mary scrambled to follow.
"Congrats!" Marlene said. He nodded, dazed.
"My eldest brother's first child. A little girl," he added. "Penelope Helena. Clearwater, that is. Bloody hell," he said. Marlene laughed.
"Welcome to the 'niece-having club'. My brother had a kid back in April, a little girl," Marlene said. Mary stood very awkwardly, still rocking back and forth. Her carves weren't burning as she wanted them to. She wondered if there was any point to it. All it did was make her look dim. She wished she had a skipping rope. Jumping up and down would certainly do the trick, but she could hardly do that here without looking as if she'd entirely lost her marbles.
"Ah, congratulations," Professor Clearwater said. "I'm very excited to join. I have to go ask the Headmaster if I can be excused from dinner this evening."
"Oh, well, we'll let you go, then," Marlene said sportingly. She fiddled with the belt loops of her jeans, tilting her head down and then looking up from under her brown fringe at him. Professor Clearwater adjusted his tie, smile splitting his face.
"Thank you, girls! Have a good weekend, the both of you – and Marlene, remember, please have a paragraph on the differences between the muggle prime minister and the Minister for Magic by Tuesday!"
"Will do, sir," Marlene nodded. Mary waved goodbye. Professor Clearwater hurried down the hall, briefcase swinging from side to side. Marlene sighed, and rumpled her hair. Mary bounced her leg.
"I even do my homework for his class," she said hopelessly. "Why am I only interested in people who want nothing to do with me?" Mary shrugged.
"I don't know," she mumbled. Marlene looked her up and down.
"Do you need to pee?" she asked. Mary shook her head. "Alright. Well, if you've got so much energy, you can come fly with me."
"No," Mary blurted out. Marlene laughed.
"Worth a shot. Come on, Mary." Mary followed. She always did.