A/N: I finished the semester! So hopefully chapters will come quicker for the next month-ish, because I'm also doing Camp NaNoWriMo, and hopefully that will bring 40,000 words (~4 chapters ish) to this fic. Hopefully, Christmas will be in July.
Content Warning for: Death Eater rhetoric, underage drinking, implied child/spousal abuse, and alcohol abuse
December 11th, 1975
This was actually some scary shit.
He wasn't meant to think that. It was for a good cause, and it was cool, and fun, and brave, and badass, and there wasn't meant to be a moment's hesitation. He had to be committed to the cause. He was. He really was, honestly, a hundred percent. He wanted to help. But, fuck's sakes, he didn't think it was that unreasonable to ask the question. Trying to perform a famously complicated ritual to transform themselves entirely and become illegal animagi all to help an XXXXX beast warranted some questioning.
Like, how was he supposed to sleep? What if he swallowed it in his sleep? Or if it came out with the toothpaste slush when he rinsed his mouth and dived down the drain? If he spat it out, could he shove it back in, or did that ruin it? Wouldn't it have been easier to let one of them try it first, and then the others could do it after they'd seen it in action? It'd take longer, but he figured it'd be safer for the two of them that went later.
Sirius couldn't stand. It was ten to one in the afternoon. He was shitting himself too, surely, Peter thought. Why else would he be sloshed? And he was the one who was making the fucking potion. He sat on the floor, leaning against the empty bookcase. His long hair escaped his bun. He reeked of Firewhisky, though hadn't bought any for him and James. Peter could've done with liquid courage, but of course Sirius wouldn't share.
James ran his fingers through his hair, frowning at the parchment he read. Peter hoisted himself on the desk, and picked at the balls of fluff on his school jumper. He swung his feet back and forth. James scratched his nose.
"I hope I become something cool," Sirius mumbled, head lolling to one side. "Fucking…dragon or wolf or some shit." Peter hit his heels against the desk.
"Wouldn't the werewolf get…defensive? If there's another wolf around. Because one will want to be the alpha," Peter said. James waved a hand.
"Doesn't matter. I'll be the alpha."
"Hell you will," Sirius managed, a flash in his bleary eyes. James paused, and looked at Sirius over his glasses.
"I will be. You and Moony can both defer to me. And Pete."
"Wait, they're deferring to me?" Peter asked, stopping his legs.
"Nah," James and Sirius said in unison. Nah. Peter slammed his heel against the desk. It throbbed. He groaned and grabbed his ankle, frowning. Sirius snorted. Peter flipped him off, scowling. James helped Sirius to his feet, and sat him down beside Peter. Sirius threw his arm around Peter's neck.
"Forgive me," Sirius said, in his poshest voice possible. Peter shrugged him off. Sirius clung on. James grinned, glasses lopsided. Peter reflected the smile.
"We have to get down to business," James said firmly. "No more delays. For Remus, you know."
"For Moony," Sirius agreed, raising his hand as if to toast. Peter patted his sore foot tenderly. James swiped the leather pouch into his hand and then dangled it from his fingers. He beamed from ear to ear. Like it was a trophy, not the first step of a process that could leave them stuck as part-birds forever.
"For Moony," James echoed, quieter. He pulled the drawstrings of the pouch. It fell open. James stuck two fingers in, and retrieved three mandrake leaves. Peter gulped. They weren't the mint leaves from his mum's garden that he'd imagined. Each leaf was the width of his tongue, at least. Not really slip-under-the-tongue size, as James had suggested they would be.
"Those?" he said. "One of those? For a month? Everyone will think we've lost it and forgotten to chew with our mouths closed."
"Or that we've taken up chewing tobacco," James corrected. Sirius scrunched his nose.
"That's not what it looks like," Sirius said. James held up a hand.
"Come on, it's fine, it won't be that bad. Squish it up against the inside of your cheek. Think about it – think about those transformations, every month. You've seen all the scars and shit. This is nothing. Remus would do it, if it meant he didn't have to be a werewolf," James said, straightening up.
"He doesn't like transforming, so I dunno why he'd want to be any sort of animal when he could just be a normal person," Peter said. Wasn't that the whole point? Transforming sucked? And now they were going to subject themselves to it. Great idea. At this point, they should've just gone out and got themselves bitten. Honestly. It'd be less bloody work. But he supposed he didn't fancy becoming a monster.
"Pete," James said. He set the pouch down, and rested his hand on Peter's shoulder. Peter looked at him. He was so sure it'd be right. His eyes crinkled, and he smiled with all his teeth. His unruly curls fell around his face, a lock grasping at his glasses. "Mate. It'll be alright. We've all agreed on this. You're just feeling scared -"
"I'm not scared," Peter said, shrugging his hands off. He wasn't a kid. He didn't need to get a whole talk. If James could do it, he could do it. Yeah. Definitely. There wasn't a doubt in James' mind, and when had James' plans not worked out? Everyone loved him, except the people that didn't matter, those gits like Snape. Even McGonagall always forgave him.
And it was part of being a good friend. Guilt stirred in his stomach. Would Remus do it for him? He would, wouldn't he? James would, without question. Would Sirius? Sirius liked Remus more than him, but if James did it, Sirius would too. And Remus would follow them. It was what friends did.
"I knew you wouldn't be," James said easily. Peter hopped off the desk. "Sirius?"
"A second," Sirius said, rubbing his head. He slid off. He was gone, completely. Peter frowned. At this rate, he'd be puking before dinner, and the leaf would come out with breakfast and the liquor. Peter glanced at James. James kept smiling. Did he even care? If Peter had shown up unable to stand, Sirius would've made fun of him endlessly, and James would say to knock it off but not really do anything.
"C'mon," James said, and put his hand on Sirius' waist. Peter snorted.
"Should I tell Lisbete?" Peter joked. James' smile flickered. Peter's heart sank. Not funny.
"Ah, maybe not," James said. Sirius swayed. Peter's face burned. He scuffed the toe of his shoe on the stone floor. Stupid. Fucksakes. James swished his hand, and then stopped. He threw his head back and laughed. He hit his hand against his thigh. Sirius groggily turned his head. Peter gazed at James.
"Right," James said. "So. We have to keep these in our mouths for one month. We can't swallow it. Can't spit it out. If it's out of your mouth for more than five seconds, we're fucked. Have to start over – because we're all doing this together. Nobody left behind. Got it?" Peter nodded, but James looked at Sirius. Sirius blew hair out of his face.
"Got it," Sirius said. James ran his fingers through his hair.
"We can come up with excuses for it – I dunno, whatever you need to – but let everyone else know so we can all be in on it, right? Consistency is key. It's like – like a big prank," James said. He nodded so hard that his glasses slipped off. He grabbed them and jammed them back on.
"Remus will be pissed," Sirius sung, knees wobbling. James sighed.
"I know. I know. I feel shit about it. Trust me. But we have to do what we have to do."
"Unless it just makes him hate us, and when we transform, he eats us or some shit," Sirius said helpfully. Peter fidgeted. What if they transformed into something small? A werewolf could chomp them in a gulp if they were a worm or something. Oh, no, Merlin, it'd be just his luck to turn into a worm. Then he'd never get Sirius to stop calling him 'Wormy'. Fucking fantastic.
"He's not going to eat us," James said sharply. Sirius flinched. "He's Remus, for Merlin's sake. He's not a monster. Even if he hates us, he's not going to eat us. Fuck." He took a breath. "Finally, we can't tell anyone what's going on. Either they'll think it's really cool and try to copy us and tell everyone, or they'll go running to McGonagall and we really will get kicked out." Peter eyed Sirius. It'd be just like him to go boasting about it. Of the four of them, Peter was the best secret keeper – that wasn't arrogance, it was true. He didn't go around talking about it, and even when asked, he could lie best. James felt too guilty about lying, Remus got skittish, and Sirius talked even himself in circles until he started contradicting himself.
"I won't tell," Peter vowed.
"I won't," Sirius said, louder.
"I won't," James agreed. "Right. Are we ready?"
"Yep," Peter said quickly, faster than Sirius.
"Yes," Sirius said. James grabbed the pouch and pulled out a leaf. He took another for Sirius. The pouch came to Peter. Peter looked down. They'd ordered two dozen leaves. Eight attempts. He took one. He steeled his stomach. Veins roughened the surface. He was going to have that in his mouth for the next month. Christmas dinner would be ruined. How could he enjoy pudding with a giant leaf rubbing all over it?
Maybe he'd lose some weight, at least.
Fuck.
"On three, boys," James said. Peter turned the leaf over. "One. Two -"
"On three, or after three? In on three, or on 'go'?" Peter blurted out. Sirius rolled his eyes. Peter pulled a face.
"On three," James said. "What time is it?" Peter looked at his blank wrist. Sirius fumbled in his robes and retrieved a battered pocket watch. Sirius narrowed his eyes. James leaned over. "Quarter past one. So on January eleventh, quarter past one, we have to be together. To take them out." A full month. It loomed. James wiped his hand on Sirius' robes. "One. Two. Three."
Peter smacked himself in the mouth. "Eugh." The leaf was in. He probed it with his tongue. It tasted like cabbage. It fit awkwardly, sticking to the roof of his mouth, sliding between his teeth. He guessed that chewing it up wasn't advised.
Sirius gagged, but kept it in. James grimaced.
"Right, then," he said, voice muffled. The leaf was rather obvious as he spoke. Giant. Peter gulped. Then he fell into a coughing fit. The leaf lodged in his throat, and he thumped himself furiously on the chest. Shit, shit, shit. It leapt back into his mouth. He gasped, rubbing his throat. A minute in, and he and Sirius had both nearly spat it out.
Merlin's beard.
"Come on," James garbled out. "It's a leaf. One month. Like our biggest challenge yet. A bit of fun." Fun that we can't call it quits on. Peter smiled back, nevertheless, leaf tickling the back of his clenched teeth.
"For Moony," Sirius said. He made a fist, and pressed it against his forehead. James patted him on the back, and guided him into a chair.
"Mate," James said, getting on his knees, one hand on each of Sirius' shoulders. Like Peter's dad did when he was little, and had been crying over falling off his toy broomstick or blowing a toy up with his accidental magic. "Do you want us to grab you a hangover potion or something? We'll tell Slughorn you had a migraine." Sirius covered his eyes.
"Yes. Thank you," Sirius slurred.
"D'you want to stay here, or should we take you back to the dormitory?"
"Here," Sirius said, sliding down the seat. James got to his feet.
"Right. I'll be back," James said. He strode towards the door. Peter froze, and then took after him, catching the door as it swung shut and hurtling out of the hidden little office they'd taken control of.
"James!" Peter called, the name awkward around his leafy tongue. James stopped and turned. He raised an eyebrow.
"Pete?" he said. Peter caught up to him. "I thought you were going to stay with Sirius." Peter sighed.
"Yeah, that's the thing." The leaf gave them both an awful lisp. Peter rolled it around his mouth, trying to shove it into the corner.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. He's pissed, James, pissed as a mute. I – it's the middle of the day. Isn't that weird?" It was weird. Peter knew it was weird. Normal people didn't turn up absolutely fucked to class, or anything important. Buzzed, sure. Stoned? Maybe, if it was History of Magic or something. But generally you had to be able to stand and hold a conversation if the professor started interrogating you. He searched James' face.
James toyed with his hair. "It's fine, mate. I know you're worried. But he'll be right. We just need to look out for him." Peter stared. James started walking again and Peter scurried to stay at his side, shaking his head.
"Fine? If he touches his wand, he'll blow us all up!"
"You don't know what's going on!" James retorted. Peter stalled. James rubbed his face. "Sorry, mate, I didn't -"
"Tell me, then! I can handle it. Maybe I can help." Why did he have to be in the dark? If there was some method to Sirius' sloshed-ness, wasn't it better for him to know? As much as Sirius could be an arse, they were still best mates. Peter opened and closed his hands.
"You're right. I should've told you. Look, it's not my place to tell you everything, but – he's not sleeping well. All the shit from his mum, it's keeping him up. Waking him up."
"So he's getting drunk to knock himself out?" Peter attempted, laughing. James frowned, and then chuckled.
"I guess that works. Nah, he's just not up for being sober. He's not looking forward to going home," James shrugged. "I said he could stay with me, but his parents won't let him."
"That sucks," Peter said. He wouldn't want to be locked up with Mr. and Mrs. Black either. He'd only met them at the train station – Sirius didn't have friends over, ever – but they gave him the creeps. His mum had locked her hand on his shoulder and steered him away. The Blacks were no good, she said. His father agreed emphatically. The Blacks took everything too far.
As much as Sirius would hate to know it, Peter sort of thought Sirius was the same. Not in the politics or anything. But definitely the dramatics. Peter had nightmares sometimes too, and he didn't get blind, did he?
"It does suck," James agreed. They turned up a staircase.
"So long as he doesn't wreck this," Peter said. No way was he doing this again. "That's not fair to Moony." James tilted his chin to the sky. Peter patted his shoulder.
"Yeah."
December 12th, 1975
"I'm sick," James told her, tongue awkward around the words. Lisbete frowned. The two of them were nestled on a bench tucked in an alcove on the ground floor. He'd cast a warming charm, and brought along sandwiches from the Great Hall so they could have lunch alone. Lisbete wanted quality time. James wanted to figure out how to swallow a mouthful without the mandrake leaf going down the hatch too.
"I can take you to the Hospital Wing, then," she offered. James shook his head. He hadn't actually thought of that, but Madam Pomfrey of all people would recognise and investigate if something seemed off. He'd need to be careful playing Quidditch. Another thing to add to the long list of considerations for the next month - or, well, the next twenty-nine days, now.
Lisbete scooted closer, cupping his cheek in her hand. Her palms were soft. He swished his spit around and gnashed his jaw, trying to move the leaf from out of his cheek to behind his teeth. Lisbete wrinkled her nose.
"I think it might be a good idea to go to the Hospital Wing, Jamie," she said, blue eyes full of concern. James shook his head, knocking her hand away. She sniffles. He cringed.
"S'rry," he mumbled, again repositioning the leaf. She folded her hands in her lap. Oh, Godric. He knew that look. He wrapped his arm around her, and stroked her hair with his other hand. She leaned into his chest.
"Have I done something wrong?" she asked, voice shaky and wet. James shook his head.
"Nuh. Never." He coughed, just because of his definitely stuffed-up sinuses. Lisbete kissed the front of his robes. Warmth spread through his chest.
"I always worry that I've done something wrong," she said. He shook his head again. "I'm scared people will get angry with me. Like Daddy, whenever I'm hanging out with Cathy, he's not happy when he hears about it, and that's like...all the time. So he's always upset with me. And I just - I don't want to do anything to upset you, Jamie. Not ever."
James blinked. That was...nice. He didn't want to upset her either. It seemed like a lot of pressure, though. He got into arguments even with his best mates, and he knew them way better than he did Lisbete. And they were less sensitive. Typically. He didn't know if he could fairly make the same promise.
"Thanks," he said instead, squeezing her tight. She beamed, and kissed him on the cheek. He swished his spit and the leaf to the other side. He wrapped his arm around her, and she snuggled into him.
"Do you think we'll be together forever?" Lisbete asked lightly, dragging her heels across the floor. James froze. She asked it as easily as she might've asked what he fancied to eat. James coughed, and clapped his hand over his mouth. He liked Lisbete. He really did.
But forever?
"Erm, I don' see any reason why we'd break up," James said. Lisbete's face flickered, and so he pressed a closed kiss to her hair. She giggled.
"So you can kiss me?" she asked.
"No' on the mouth." She rolled her eyes.
"Please? I don't mind if I get sick. Really."
It was going to be a long month.
December 13th, 1975
They weren't as subtle as they liked to think they were. Leaving a few minutes apart did very little to change anything. Instead, it just let everyone else know that they did know it was meant to be a secret, and that the school didn't approve. They'd be better off pretending it was a tutoring group. But who would listen to him? He was only a fifth year. He didn't know anything – oh, except how to make new spells that they liked to borrow.
Avery sat on the armrest, a copy of 'Hogwarts: A History' open on his lap. Because that was believable. Severus found that he lost a little more respect for the seventh years with every meeting. Why not leave it all up to Crouch? The boy would be so excited that he'd actually try, which was bound to be an improvement. No wonder the Dark Lord made such slow progress, if he was accepting people like Goyle. Mulciber was better, but this piss-poor attempt at secrecy was his brainchild.
Seven thirty-five. Avery slammed the book shut. It fell to the floor. Severus' gaze flicked down to the fallen tome, and back to Avery. Avery curled a fist.
"Come on," he said gruffly, dropping to his feet. Severus smoothed down his robes and stood. Younger played Gobstones by the fire. Older girls scribbled on pieces of parchment, writing letters or working on essays. Nobody looked up. Even if they did, it would be because it was downright odd that they were the fifth pair to leave in twenty-five minutes. He huffed.
"Snape," Avery insisted, grabbing his sleeve. Severus wrenched his arm away, glaring. Avery threw his hands out. "Come on."
Jugson opened the door before Severus even finished tapping out the password. An idea stolen from the Hufflepuffs. It left a bad taste in his mouth. Wordlessly, Jugson stepped aside. Avery entered first. Severus followed. Evidently, they were one of the last pairs to arrive. The typical stools used in Potions classes had been transfigured into comfortable armchairs, though the graffiti remained (Goyle lounged in a chair that said, now in spiky embroidery instead of scratched ink, 'Gumboil woz here'). Charming. Yaxley poured them each a glass of red wine.
"Cheers," Avery said. Severus bowed his head in thanks.
"You're welcome," Yaxley said. He held the bottle by its neck and returned to a sour-faced Selwyn, who held a cigarette in one hand and his wand in the other. He produced a small flame at the tip of his wand, and as he brought his cigarette to it, an icy draught blew through the dungeon.
"Fuck," Selwyn scowled.
Severus followed Avery to all three Rosiers and Crouch, whose growth spurt had not yet kicked in. They launched into a discussion of Quidditch, never mind that the next game wasn't until February. And that none of them were on the team. Apparently, it was still important that they all agreed on just how terrible Ravenclaw's seeker was, and the exact number of points they would win by.
Severus was almost glad when Mulciber shot sparks into the air.
"Oi!" Jugson shouted, showing off the booming voice that won him the prefect position. The chatter died immediately. Mulciber and Jugson exchanged a look.
"I thought this evening ought to be more social," Mulciber announced cheerily. "Given that we'll all be on holidays soon enough. Happy Christmas!" He waved his wand, and decorations bloomed. Holly burst from the walls, and a table appeared, laden with eggnog and pudding and scones and all sorts of biscuits. Tinsel lined the workbenches, which had been pushed up against the wall. Carols cranked out from a gramophone set on the dusty teacher's desk..
How merry. Hurrah.
Mulciber seemed pleased with himself, at least. And when snowflakes began spinning from the ceiling, Crouch looked up and exclaimed, beaming from ear-to-ear.
Well, at least the Dark Lord has the next generation in his thrall.
"I thought we should have a little conversation before we start enjoying ourselves too much, however," Mulciber said. "It's important, now more than ever, to remember why we're doing this. It's more than a club. This is a lifestyle. These are our after-school plans - all of us here are forswearing our other ambitions, our own wants and needs, to better society. We are making sacrifices to purify this world and to protect our magic." He held the room in the palm of his hand. Severus narrowed his eyes. It all sounded very noble when it was put like that. Gryffindorish, even. Crouch licked his lips.
Mulciber continued on smugly. Setting one's ambitions aside wasn't in the nature of a Slytherin – but if it was in the pursuit of power, then perhaps it neutralised. Severus suspected that Mulciber's greatest ambition was only to be powerful – really, what was he sacrificing for the cause? Severus was jeopardising his closest friendship for the sake of making the world a better place. He was isolating himself from his family (though, in truth, Tobias was no great loss). Mulciber got everything he wanted. Severus was giving everything he had for what the world needed.
"I want to testify to what I've seen," Mulciber said. "I want you all to know why I'm doing this. Why I think it's so important. Why I would give my life for the cause." Severus doubted Mulciber would let himself be slaughtered on the altar of the Dark Lord's regime. No, Mulciber would turn his coat in a second. He sipped at the wine. Very sweet. He wondered who had sold it to a student. Then again, some well-meaning mother had probably donated it. Anything for the cause. Drunken teenagers would surely change the world.
"I want to," Jugson echoed, sharing another look with Mulciber. It was choreographed. "I want to share my story, too. My reason to fight. You're right, Mulciber, we have to remember why we're doing this."
"Thank you, Jugson," Mulciber replied. How many times had they rehearsed? Not enough to make it convincingly casual. Mulciber steepled his fingers. Severus gulped down more wine.
"My great-great grandfather, Marcus Mulciber, had a large country estate," Mulciber began. "Not only did he make use of the grounds for his leisure, but he also kept several exotic magical plants. Curiosities, if you will. Some of them were one of less than ten in the entire world. He was a keen herbologist. One day, a muggle passed by, riding from a nearby town. He spotted the plants, and made to climb over the wall." Yaxley shook his head, swirling his wine. Selwyn scoffed. "My family, of course, had heavy wards over their property - as we have every right to! Can you imagine, if you weren't even allowed to ward your own home?" Grumbles rose throughout the room. Severus' house was protected by a faulty lock and nothing else. And the greatest danger to himself and his mother had a key.
"The wards worked," Mulciber continued. "Of course. The thief promptly spouted tentacles - and his testicles exploded." Crouch snorted into his glass, red-faced. Goyle groaned and rubbed his crotch. Mulciber smiled a politician's smile. "All should've been well. Alas. The next day, the Ministry comes along, banging at the door. It's a Statute of Secrecy violation, apparently! As well as harming a muggle with magic!" His voice was thick with contempt. "And my great-great-grandfather was taken into the Ministry like a common criminal! Because he had dared to defend his property against a thief! Where is the justice in that?" he demanded. Evan Rosier's face turned stormy.
The door creaked. Severus spun around, whipping his wand out, along with every other soul in the room. But it was only Regulus Black and Gibbon, late. Gibbon shut the door behind them. Black looked sulky for a moment, and then his whole body stiffened. His face fell flat.
Mulciber cleared his throat. All eyes returned to him.
"They fined him," Mulciber said, gripping his glass tightly, eyes downcast. "But it wasn't a fine of ten galleons. Or a hundred. Or even a thousand, or ten thousand! The fact that he was a victim of a crime by a muggle meant that he lost everything! The Mulciber fortune - gone. We lost the estate. If we hadn't been able to sell those exotic plants - if the thief had succeeded - we would have been destitute! On the streets! As it was, we had to retreat to a townhouse in London, leased to us by our good friends, the Black family." He gestured to Black. Black's lips stiffly flicked upwards. Severus balled his hands into his cloak. How was it fair? Muggles were permitted to be criminals and a witch or wizard could lose everything because they had the nerve to defend themselves. No wonder his mother never hexed his father. In all likelihood she'd be thrown into Azkaban, and he'd be left with Tobias, trapped in that stinking pit of a house.
"My family still suffers because of that one muggle man," Mulciber said. "The Mulciber estate now belongs to his descendants. The descendants of a thief. Of someone who did wrong by my family. We have - pleaded - with the Ministry for its return, but they do not listen. Now, don't get me wrong - there are some very good people in the Ministry, of course, people who are sympathetic. But it only takes a few rotten apples, hidden in there, in departments like, say, Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, to make things difficult. Muggle sympathisers destroy the hard work of fair, honest wizards and witches. They are dismantling the noble institution of the Ministry of Magic from the inside out. And that, that is why this is important to me. That is why I want to fight for the Dark Lord."
His voice rang out. Silence. And then the applause began, bursting from hands, filling up the dungeon to every corner, with cheers of, "hear, hear!" Severus' palms stung.
Mulciber was a good speaker. That didn't mean all of them were.
Jugson mumbled something about his father being done for muggle-baiting. Black got up and talked about not being able to practise Quidditch every day over the summer just because he lived near muggles (which lead to a lot of head-shaking and insistence that that was what put Slytherin at a disadvantage), and added something vague about muggle sympathisers 'tearing families in two'. It didn't take a Ravenclaw to figure out who he was referring to. Selwyn told a crude story about a muggle girl's proclivities and how that impacted 'a friend of a friend'. Crouch managed to stop giggling in time to go up, and suddenly went somber as he described his father hexing him after he called someone a mudblood at a Ministry event. How was that fair, he asked, when he'd just been calling her what she was?
Severus declined to share his testimony. Lucius Malfoy had covered for him years ago, and he wasn't about to stand up and contradict the long-held belief that Severus was a pure-blood for the sake of helping Mulciber. Nobody else went up. Jugson slipped between groups, asking if they'd like to share, surely they'd like to, really, they could have another cup of wine for courage if they got up. The three Rosiers declined, as did Yaxley. Gibbon practically hid behind Black. Jugson glowered as he trudged back up to Mulciber.
"We'd best begin the festivities!" Mulciber announced.
The festivities really didn't require Severus to be there. He refilled his cup of wine just once, and spent most of the time loitering on the outskirts of conversations. Most of those who hadn't shared their story were forthcoming with it after Yaxley plied them with alcohol, and Mulciber then ascertained it got repeated to each group. He and Yaxley approached Severus.
"And how are you finding tonight?" Mulciber asked, sitting down beside him. "Wasn't it just excellent that Yaxley was able to bring along some wine?" Yaxley smiled, and raised the bottle.
"Excellent, yes," Severus said stiffly.
"Would you like some more?" Yaxley asked.
"No, thank you."
"It's complimentary," Yaxley said.
"There isn't any point in making you pay for it," Mulciber agreed. "We're all brothers here, or we will be out on the field. We can't let little matters of money stand between us." Severus glanced down at his robes. They weren't new, but they were clean and starched.
"I'm fine, thank you," Severus said. Yaxley nodded, looked to Mulciber, and left them. Great.
Mulciber shifted, leaning back, all very calculatedly casual. He smiled at Severus. Severus did not return it. Mulciber clasped his hands together.
"You're dedicated to this cause, aren't you, Snape?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I'm glad to hear it," Mulciber said. Severus stayed silent. Mulciber raised his eyebrows, and clicked his tongue. Severus kept looking at him. Mulciber sighed. "It's important to me that we make sure this is working for all of us. I don't want anyone here being dragged along." He looked expectant. The silence dragged out.
"Good," Severus said, finally. Mulciber bit his lip.
"What can I do for you, Snape? I want your opinion. Honestly, I value it." Severus shot him a withering look. "I do. I still use that Muffliato spell. You have talent. Talent the Dark Lord needs. What do you want to see done?"
Talent. As if that mattered. What good was his talent when Tobias Snape stumbled through the door with a beer-sodden mind? He hated that too, being called Snape. He was never allowed to forget the terror that had fathered him. If he had been a girl, he could've married out of it, but there was no changing your name as a man, especially as a wizard. It was a smaller world than the muggle one. Anywhere you went in wizarding Britain, you could be sure people had attended Hogwarts - and they would know someone who knew someone who knew you as a child, and they would ask, didn't you go by Snape? He would always be Snape. It was a small mercy that he could leave Spinner's End behind while he was at school.
"I think it should be illegal to marry a muggle," Severus said finally. Mulciber blinked.
"Well, yes. Obviously, that's one of our priorities."
"It isn't fair to anyone. It dilutes the bloodline. And I pity the poor wizard or witch who is cursed with a muggle parent. Half the time, the magical parent is likely forced into it. You heard what Selwyn said," Severus continued. He didn't believe a word that left Selwyn's mouth.
"Quite right," Mulciber agreed. "Good." He made an excuse and slipped away after he got part of what he wanted. Severus was left to nurse his empty cup and his swirling thoughts.
December 13th, 1975
It was a Ravenclaw party, and so it wouldn't be too bad, Florence assured her. Dorcas let Florence and Cynthia make most of the decisions about what she was going to wear, only veto-ing articles of clothing as opposed to suggesting them. They put her in indigo robes and bell-bottoms and Florence insisted she wear her hair out, as wild and woolly as it was.
"Look up," Cynthia said, stepping in front. Dorcas tilted her whole face up, but Cynthia grabbed her chin and forced it down. "Just your eyes." Dorcas complied. Cynthia whisked mascara across her lashes. "There." Cynthia ducked back out of the way. Dorcas' eyes were framed by blue. She could overlook that. Her hair was the worry. She probed one of her curls, and grimaced. She thought she looked wild. Her mother always said that big hair like hers would scare people off. Brushing it only made matters worse. Sleekeazy's was one of the only things that tamed it, but Florence had hid it under her bed.
"Your hair looks great," Florence said, brushing eyeshadow under her brow. "Trust me, Dor." Dorcas frowned at Flo's reflection. Flo ran a brush through her hair. Cynthia turned her face to one side, rubbing a spot on her cheek. Dorcas blinked, and a clump of mascara stuck her upper lashes to her lower ones. She opened her eye again with some effort. It stung. She slipped out of the bathroom. Kenna Macdougal wrangled her cat in one hand and a pair of bright green tights in the other. Dorcas stepped around her and slipped on her trainers. She took a deep breath. She had to go. There were no assignments to be done, and even Dorcas acknowledged that the end-of-term homework was just to fill time. And it'd only be Ravenclaws. And whatever plus-ones they've dragged along. She gritted her teeth.
After an age, Florence and Cynthia finished in front of the mirror. Flo looked gorgeous, of course. A real model. Or a princess. Their eyes met and Florence smiled wider. Somehow, her teeth were whiter than clouds, and perfectly even. Dark lashes only made her eyes brighter. Then, most curiously, she reached over and squeezed Dorcas' hand. Dorcas sucked in her breath. Flo's hands were incredibly soft. Her nails were gently shaped and painted sky blue. Dorcas' brain only began working when Flo let go. Working might have been an overstatement; all she could think was, she touched me.
Cynthia dove into her trunk and emerged with an Elfwine Kiss for each of them. Dorcas didn't really drink; there was never any need to. Nevertheless, she accepted the bottle. It was sweet. She wondered who the target audience was, if not young teenage girls. She couldn't imagine her mother drinking it. And definitely not her father.
Only when they'd all finished their drinks did they go. It was supposed to be held at a secret location, found only through solving clues, but they stumbled onto the first clue as soon as they left the dormitory. Cynthia rolled her eyes. Florence just smiled. Ten minutes later, they each gave their name to William Corner, a tall, skinny, dark-haired sixth year who stood at the door.
"Good to see you, Florence," he said, wrapping her in a hug. "Cynthia, how are you?"
"Good, thanks," Cynthia said cheerily, taking the next hug. Dorcas stiffened. William released Cynthia and then opened his arms. Dorcas stalled. William hesitated, and then stepped towards her and hugged her. Her arms hung limply by her sides. She raised them, and patted his back. His breath was hot on her neck, and he squashed her hair.
"Dorcas," he said politely, pulling back. She nodded.
"Hi."
He didn't say anything to the other girls, but he let them all in. Dorcas cringed as she stepped through the doorway. Why had he hugged her? She barely knew him. She brushed off her robes.
Florence looped her arm through Dorcas', and Cynthia did the same to Flo. They were locked together, a trio. Florence led, naturally, and led them to a group of boys. Dorcas wouldn't have picked them as Flo's first conversation for the night. Glen Vane was noticeably absent, as were the other prefects. This group was made up of Varma and Stebbins, and three older boys generally sidelined to the smaller tables, far from the crackle of the fire. Lovegood was about her height, with unkempt blond hair that grazed his elbows. Gamp was short and broad, and grinned as he pushed his round glasses back over his stubby nose. Quirrell was the tallest of them, and was awfully pale. His bony hands wrung the loose fabric of his purple robes.
"Hi," Flo beamed. Quirrell giggled suddenly, a strangled and strange sound. Varma smoothed his thick dark hair back. Stebbins' hands dove into his robes. Cynthia wrinkled her nose. He triumphantly withdrew a funny box. A camera, Dorcas realised.
"So that was the bulge in his robes," Cynthia giggled softly. Florence chuckled. Stebbins turned puce, and went redder again when Varma elbowed him.
"My neck hurt from carrying it everywhere, so I figured out a bunch of charms to make it lighter and strapped it to my stomach," Stebbins explained brightly.
"Oh, how clever of you," Florence said, her tone as sweet as honey. Her arm was warm in the crook of Dorcas' elbow.
"Could I – could I take a photo?" Stebbins asked. Florence slipped her hand away from Cynthia's side and patted him on the shoulder. He sucked in his breath. Dorcas shifted. It had taken time, but she'd learned to match up those sorts of reactions with what they usually meant. If someone sucked in their breath when Dorcas was talking, they were shocked, or offended. If it happened when Florence was talking, though, or when she did something, it meant that they were over the moon. And possibly intending to ask her out.
"Of course you can," Florence told him. She squeezed Dorcas in close and threw her other arm around Cynthia's neck. Dorcas bared her teeth in a smile. Stebbins fumbled with some buttons. It flashed white. Dorcas blinked furiously, the light burning out her eyes. Stebbins beamed from ear-to-ear.
"It prints! Just wait on, it'll print!" he assured them. Varma rolled his eyes. Gamp rubbed his nose. Flo's hand was still on Dorcas' hip, cupping it firmly. Her stomach fluttered, though she pushed it down immediately. Stebbins pawed at the camera until it ejected a small white square. A polaroid picture.
"Is it still?" Dorcas asked suddenly. Stebbins blinked.
"Er, yeah. I'm rubbish at Potions and it's really expensive to buy. Not much of a market for converting muggle film," he said. He bit his lip. "Sorry."
"We don't mind," Flo said easily. "You're a gem, Adj." His eyes brightened. Dorcas had forgotten that Flo had kissed him; it all fell back into place. Did it make them exes? From the sounds of it, they hadn't really dated. It was odd.
"We were discussing velociraptorianists," Lovegood declared, out of the blue. His robes were ochre, patterned loudly with green swirls and stripes.
"Oh?" Flo said, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear. Lovegood's eyes bulged.
"The muggles do not know what they have found," he continued. "They do not appreciate it."
"That's un-unfair," Quirrell interjected, hands writhing together. "They d-don't-"
"-Appreciate it," Lovegood insisted, stepping in front of Quirrell. "They do not mean to obscure, but they do, Quirinus."
"It sounds fascinating, truly," Flo said, slipping between them. Her hand fell from Dorcas' hip. It felt colder, now. "I think, as Ravenclaws, we can really appreciate different perspectives. After all, if nobody asked questions, where would we be, as a society?" she laughed, and Stebbins joined in. Varma and Gamp followed.
"Y-y-yes," Quirrell agreed. Lovegood stepped back.
"Whatever would we do without a fifth year to mediate our discussion?" he asked, exhaling noisily. Flo kept smiling.
"I haven't the faintest idea, Xenophilius, but I'm sure that a mind like yours would work something out," Flo said. Lovegood stared at her. Then his head snapped around. His eyes bore into Dorcas'. She lifted her chin.
"You," he said. Dorcas stayed silent. He looked wildly between her and Florence. "I see." He snatched up Dorcas' hand. Dorcas pulled back.
"Is everything alright?" Flo asked loudly. Stebbins shook the polaroid high above his head.
"I'll go get drinks for everyone," Cynthia said quickly, and with a toss of her hair, she was gone.
"The perfume," Lovegood continued. Dorcas froze. It felt like someone had cracked an egg on her head. Nobody had, of course. "November fourth."
"What?" Flo said. Dorcas' heart leapt into her throat. Lovegood grabbed her arm with both hands and dug his nails in.
"Oi!" Varma shouted. Lovegood tugged and dragged her. She stumbled, following after him.
"Dorcas!" Flo called. Lovegood quickened his pace. Dorcas did the same. He pulled her off into a dark corner of the room, and threw her towards the wall. She fell back into him. A hole in her sleeve now exposed her wrist. It stung.
"Xeno!" Gamp yelled, jogging towards them. Other groups looked up. Lovegood raised his hand. "Meadowes – Dorcas – are you alright?" Gamp asked, slowing as he met them. "Xeno, what the fuck?"
Lovegood stared at her, and stood so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. He knew. Oh, Merlin, he knew. How much did he know?
"I'm okay," she told Gamp. His eyes darted downwards. She looked at the hole in her robes too. "I can mend them. It's an easy charm."
"Leave us," Lovegood ordered. Gamp folded his arms.
"What the hell's going on? Xeno, I trust you, but you can't just do that."
"It's fine," Dorcas said. "I'm fine."
Gamp stood his ground, arms crossed. Dorcas waited. Lovegood pursed his lips. Eventually, Gamp sighed.
"Fine," he said. "I'll go comfort Flo." Dorcas' blood turned hot at that. Gamp stormed off.
Lovegood drew his wand, and for a moment, Dorcas balked. He did not point it at her. He waved it slowly through the air, and muttered an unfamiliar incantation. Dorcas sniffed hesitantly. The air smelled the same. A low, soft buzzing hummed against her eardrums. As if the rest of the world had quieted.
"We can speak freely now," Lovegood told her, tucking his wand into an embroidered pocket of his robes.
"What spell is that?" she asked. Lovegood frowned.
"Wilkes informed me of it. We can hear the rest of the world, if we need, but they cannot hear us," he said. Dorcas glanced at the other partygoers.
"Is it an adaptation of the Notice-Me-Not Charm?" she asked. "Or was it developed from the Silencing Charm? If it were the latter, I would think-"
"I don't know," Lovegood growled. Dorcas set it aside, though not without making a mental note of it.
"What do you know about November fourth?" she asked, instead. His left eye twitched.
"You're learning Legilimency. Occlumency."
"What do you know about November fourth?" she repeated.
"Are you a spy for the Ministry?" he demanded. She stopped.
"What?"
"I believe that in the Department of Mysteries, in their Time department, they have devised methods to bend and change time. Older people may return to certain times and take occupancy of the body they were in at that time. They come to change the future," Lovegood said. Dorcas' brain could hardly keep up with it. Time travel? That was absurd. There were rumours of it, yes, but there were rumours too that there really was a Fountain of Fair Fortune.
"I'm not a spy," Dorcas said. He grabbed her by the shoulders. She gritted her teeth. She was getting sick of the touching. "Let go." He did.
"A spy would deny it," Lovegood said. "You haven't asked me any follow-up questions. You are a Ravenclaw, you are supposed to be curious, and yet your first instinct is to deny it. That's guilt. But I won't tell your secret." Dorcas pressed her fingers into her temples.
"What do you know about November fourth?" she asked again. Lovegood fixed his gaze on hers. His eyes were startlingly clear.
"Does she know about the mind link?" Lovegood asked.
"Mind link?"
"You're fixated on her," he said. "For it to be one-way…very rare. Your feelings must be incredibly strong."
"Feelings?" Dorcas demanded. There were no feelings. At the time, she and Flo hadn't even been friends. Florence had been a fixture on the outer orbit of Dorcas' life. No different to breakfast, or the blue velvet curtains that hung around their beds.
"Can you double her?" Lovegood asked. "Have you? Did you start with the box? They started me with the box. I didn't have a good link, unfortunately, and so-"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Dorcas shouted. The buzz roared in her ears. You do. The box. He knows about the box. Lovegood moved back, flat against the wall. She pulled at her hair. It hurt. She pulled harder, digging her fingers around her thick curls.
"Does she lend you her perfume?" Lovegood asked, softer. Dorcas looked up at him. She shook her head. "You smell like her," Lovegood said.
"What do you mean?" she asked, making a concentrated effort to stay calm.
"You smell like her," he said. "It can happen. It's not completely transformative. You don't take on one another's appearances. It's the little things. She must be the dominant personality. You stand straighter. You walk in the same cadence." Dorcas barely knew Lovegood. He was a seventh year and studiously avoided by everyone, barring the likes of Flo, who made an effort to be kind to people like that, and the other oddballs, like Quirrell. How did he know so much? How did he know so much about her? What did he know about her and Flo?
"How long did it take you to get the box?" she asked, finally. He pressed his lips together.
"Fifty-nine weeks." If she followed his timeline, she'd be lucky to have it by October next year. That hardly seemed helpful. She and Lovegood faced each other. His pale brows knitted together. "Is it in your blood?" Dorcas hesitated.
"I don't know," she said. "I'm adopted."
"Oh." Lovegood cocked his head to one side. Dorcas shrugged, focusing on the laces of her shoes. "The Ministry recruited you without knowing your heritage?"
"I'm not a spy!" She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Just tell me what you know. About November fourth."
A long moment stretched between them. Dorcas almost left. She would have, if not for the spell he'd cast. She didn't know how it worked, or how to undo it. She didn't want to be stuck only able to hear him. And for Flo and Cynthia to not be able to hear her.
"During your practises, you must have thought too much of Florence. There's something in you that amplifies it – talent, soul, blood, a spirit, or multiple spirits. Have you worked with the heliopaths?" His eyes glittered.
"No," she said shortly.
"Hm." He narrowed his eyes. "You called out to her. On the radios."
"What?" She had no memory of that. Had she even listened to the radio that afternoon? There'd been so much going on.
"Through the halls. Your mind defaulted to her, and tried to invade. Of course, there wasn't eye contact, and you were distanced, and – I suspect your skills are not yet honed. It didn't work." She fingered the new hole in her robes.
"I've only been practising since the start of term," Dorcas said. Lovegood's eyebrows met his hairline.
"And you forged a mind link with her that quickly?" he asked. She hesitated.
"It wasn't intentional."
He shook his head. "It's no surprise the Ministry used you."
"I'm not a spy," she told him. If she had been a spy, wouldn't her skills be honed? Lovegood pushed back his hair. Her mind whirled. How did he know it had been her? How did he know what had happened? She steeled her core. "Are you going to explain anything, or are you just telling me that you know?"
Lovegood laced his fingers together. "Do I need to explain?"
Time stretched out and out and out in the distance between them, and Dorcas studied him; but as usual, he was a blank page. People always were. She got the easy things, the raised eyebrows or pursed lips and what they meant, but his face was arranged strangely and she couldn't grasp it.
"Be careful," Lovegood said, after an age. "Tell Florence about the mind link." Dorcas opened her mouth, but his wand was in hand and he undid the charm. Conversations floated back to her ears. Lovegood swished his robes and sped away. Dorcas shut her mouth, staring at the patch of empty wall he'd left behind.
Arms flung around her neck. Dorcas flinched. Florence pulled her into a tight hug, pressing her face into her shoulder. Dorcas slowly put her hands on Flo's back, returning the gesture. Florence was warm and small in her arms. Her hair smelt of that thick floral perfume. Dorcas breathed it in.
"Are you okay?" Flo asked, pulling back. Dorcas dropped her arms at once.
"Here," Cynthia said, and pressed a glass bottle into her hand. Without thinking, Dorcas lifted it to her lips and gulped.
"I'm so sorry," Florence said, fingers brushing Dorcas' cheek. "He doesn't mean anything by it, he's just – offbeat."
"No, he's weird," Cynthia said. Florence looked at her. "Not that that makes a person less worthy of anything," Cynthia added.
"I'm okay," Dorcas told them, gripping the bottle tighter. Florence's hands trailed down to her shoulders. Dorcas bit her lip, hard. Mind link? Lovegood's voice rung through her head. 'You smell like her.'
"Apparently Padgett's coming," Cynthia informed her, smiling as she swayed to the music. "And somebody said Potter and Black will be here later. You know, apparently Black thinks I have a nice bum. It was on that list they made."
"I thought it was supposed to be a Ravenclaw party?" Dorcas asked, slightly strangled. Had Lovegood told that whole group about the Legilimency? Did Varma know? Stebbins? Her heart fluttered in her throat. 'Does she know about the mind link?' Dorcas never meant to invade her mind. Or to make any sort of link. They hadn't even been friends. Roommates, sure, but not friends. What if that's the only reason we're friends? Did she feel some kind of subconscious attraction to me? Did I make it happen? Dorcas hadn't wanted to be friends with her in a long time. Not since third year, when the dreams of Flo had been so frequent that Dorcas couldn't look at her without burning bright red.
But even after Dorcas distanced herself, the dreams had never entirely stopped.
"You feel warm," Florence said, touching her forehead. "Come on, we'll go to the bathrooms. Get you cooled down. Cyn, do you want to go keep Branton occupied? I imagine Padgett will go straight to him, and I want to make sure he feels welcome. We'll meet you." Cynthia stilled.
"You don't want me to come with?" Cynthia asked. Florence shook her head.
"It's really nice of you to offer. As I said, I don't want Padgett feeling left out," Florence said. Cynthia teetered, just for a moment, mouth open. Then she shut it and smiled.
"Of course," she said. She drank deeply from her bottle. Florence grabbed Dorcas' elbow and steered her outside, back past Will Corner, who winked at them. Dorcas glared. Torches lined the walls, burning brightly. So it wasn't curfew, yet.
"Are you sure Lovegood wasn't being a creep?" Flo asked. Her luxurious dark hair spilled over her shoulders, which were covered by a sheer, star-spangled material. Beneath the flimsy fabric, her pale skin glowed like moonlight. The dagged sleeves of her silver robes solidified around her biceps, and trailed along the floor when she let her arms fall by her side. Her robes pulled tight across her chest, tapering at her waist, and then flowed freely to the floor like the skirt of a gown. Nobody could deny her beauty that night. Least of all Dorcas. She felt kind of dizzy.
"I'm sure," Dorcas managed. Florence looped her arm through Dorcas'. Portraits whispered in their frames, preparing for bed. Dorcas and Florence rounded a corner and came to a small bathroom, tucked away in this odd part of the castle. They slipped inside. The candles in the chandelier flickered weakly. There were only three stalls and three sinks. A wad of green gum was stuck to the mirror, and chocolate frog wrappers littered the floor. It smelt of dust and wet air.
Flo lifted her arms, attempting to save her sleeves from the sheen of filth coating the tiles. Her wrists crossed above her head. She laughed, and spun around. The skirt of her robes flared out. Dorcas stumbled back, watching. Transfixed. Florence's rosy lips framed a smile. She squinted her eyes shut, caught in a moment of bliss. Dorcas couldn't breathe. She was so beautiful. Dorcas' fingers clutched the stall door. She steadied herself. Florence picked up speed and started spinning faster. She giggled. She became a silvery blur, rippling like the moon's reflection on the Black Lake, like liquid starlight. Florence was all that was. All that might ever be. Dorcas wanted her like she had never wanted anything. She had never known that anyone could ever want anything so much.
"Flo." Her mouth formed the words without her brain's contribution. Florence stopped. It was almost sad to see her bird wings lower.
"Dorcas?" Florence asked, stepping towards her. Dorcas shook her head, mute. Florence took another step. Her floral perfume overpowered everything else. And then their hands touched. Florence wrapped a hand around her index finger and squeezed it gently.
"Flo," Dorcas said, strangled. Florence lifted her hand. Traced her finger along Dorcas' cheek. Her heart slammed. She thought her legs might give out. Florence moved closer. Her cascades of dark hair brushed Dorcas' shoulders.
"You look so pretty," Flo whispered, beaming. Her stomach dropped out. Flo closed her eyes. Moved closer than Dorcas knew possible. Their lips touched.
There was nothing in the world but Florence Diggory. Flo and her hands around Dorcas' fingers, Flo and her lips, Flo and Flo and Flo, all the way down, in her stomach and her toes and her wrists and shooting through her body with every quick pulse of her blood. There was only Flo, soft and then more persistent, and Dorcas matching her pace.
Flo pulled away. Dorcas opened her eyes. Flo's hair was tousled, and her face bright pink. Dorcas could only stare for a few long moments, taking it all in. Her lips tingled. She couldn't think.
"Flo," she breathed, and smiled.
Florence smiled back.