TW for implied/referenced child abuse, swearing, referenced death of a young person, referenced mass-killing/murder, implied/referenced SA (not at all explicit), slut-shaming, referenced underage sex, and underage drinking.

Also, the chapter title is taken from Somebody's Watching Me by Rockwell.

December 25th, 1975

The golden glow of a streetlamp illuminated the stained-glass windows of St Paul's. The steeple of the church stretched towards the sky, and in doing so claimed the dubious honour of being the tallest building in the sleepy village. Parishioners shivered and huddled together as they left the mass. The Macdonalds were among them.

Mary's arm intertwined with her mother's. Mary's father had a hand on each of their shoulders, steering them around the corner. Dark clouds blotted out the stars. The bushes rustled as they passed by, and Mary stopped.

"What?" asked Dad, peering into the night. A light breeze blew. The lights in the house behind the bushes were off, and the curtains were closed. Mary shook her head.

"Nothing."

"Don't waste time, then. We all want to get home," he said. Her marched them forwards. Mary kept her eyes on her shoes. Walking home was the worst part. Even with her parents with her, and the whole church spilling out onto the streets, she was jumpy. It just wasn't when you were supposed to be out. When she was little, she'd been scared of ghosts. Once she got to nine, she'd started to think that they weren't definitely real. When she was eleven, she was sent to a school that proved beyond reasonable doubt that they were real, and some of them did hate people.

Hogwarts complicated her life a great deal.

They made it home quickly, and without the interruption of a bloodthirsty poltergeist. Dad stuck his key in the door and pushed it open. Mum switched on the light. Mary bent down to take off her shoes. A soft head butted her hand. Berlioz. Mary beamed, and scratched him under his chin. In turn, the cat nuzzled her.

"Oh, baby," she cooed. "Berly-Werly." Berlioz rubbed his wet nose against her fingers. She sat down on the floor. He climbed into her lap and stood, his two front paws planted on her chest. He looked at her curiously, and then headbutted her chin. She rubbed her hand up and down his spine. "You're a good boy," she told him. "Yes, you are. You're so handsome!"

"Mary," Dad said sharply. Mary looked up.

"It's the middle of the night," Mum said. "Get yourself together and get into bed." Mary pressed her lips together. Berlioz nudged her face. She patted him. Mum scowled. "Mary!"

"That bloody cat," Dad muttered darkly. Mary enveloped Berlioz in a tight hug. He purred. She looked at her parents fiercely, though she could not manage to voice any of her thoughts. Mum scoffed pointedly, and tossed her shoes dangerously close to Mary and Berlioz. Mary flinched.

"Don't complain in the morning, when you're tired," Mum said.

"I won't," Mary said.

"Don't talk like that to your mother," Dad said. Mary looked down.

"I'm sorry," she said, scratching Berlioz. Mum sighed loudly.

"Don't lie, Mary," she said. Mary's parents left the entryway, headed for the kitchen. Mary pressed a kiss to her cat's forehead.

"You are so special to me. You're my precious little boy. I don't know what I'd do without you, my little prince," she told him. He closed his eyes and purred louder. Her heart swelled. He was her light.

Mary manoeuvred around him to take off her shoes and her coat. She scooped him up, and cradled him in one arm while she hung her coat on the rack. Then she took him into the kitchen, bouncing him. Dad poured himself a stout glass of scotch, while Mum fetched a glass of water. She glanced at Mary.

"Want one?"

"Please." Mum studied her for a moment, and then shook her head. Mary frowned.

"Why are you holding that cat like a baby?" Dad asked.

"He likes it."

"Don't be stupid. It's a cat." Mary peered at Berlioz. He settled easily in her grip, grey belly exposed. She petted it with one finger.

Mary's mum handed her a glass of water. She took it carefully, balancing Berlioz.
"You weren't very enthusiastic," said Mum.

"At church? I love church," Mary said.

"You didn't look engaged."
"I was."

"Don't argue!" Mum said. She looked disgusted. "Do they not teach you any manners at that school? I'm glad we're not paying for it. Only for those silly books."

"I'm sorry," Mary said. Dad sipped his drink.
"We can't control how God works in our lives. Only how we respond to it," he said firmly. Mary blinked. "I just hope we did what He wanted." Mary didn't know what he meant. He wrapped an arm around Mum's shoulders.

"May I go to bed now, please?" Mary asked mildly.

"Night," Mum said.

"Night," said Dad.

"Goodnight," said Mary.

She brushed her teeth and washed her face with warm water. Red blotches and dry savannas marked her skin. She spat spearmint into the sink. She thought her plump cheeks made her look like a child. She was going to get fat from all the food she'd demolished over the holidays. The lump of her stomach stood out in her Sunday dress. She pulled her eyes away from the mirror. She couldn't stand her reflection. She changed into a long nightgown and climbed into bed.

Mary pulled the covers up to her chin and was forced to consult her conscience. She'd been jittery all through mass. As a child, while the late night on Christmas Eve and the early mornings on Sundays had been difficult, she'd generally enjoyed going to church. She liked Father Peters, the old, kind, gentle priest who presided over St. Paul's. He gave her biscuits and always asked what Father Christmas brought her, even after she was a teenager. She liked the stained glass windows, and the hymns. She liked hearing about God. Some of the children she'd gone to primary school with stopped going to church as they got older, and whispered that God wasn't real, but Mary believed. She had missed three Sundays in her entire life until she got that letter.

Her first term at Hogwarts had been awful. She'd been riddled with homesickness, and missed church. There weren't any in Hogsmeade; she almost would've gone to an Anglican one, just to hear somebody reading the Bible. Worst of all, she couldn't confess her sins, and God couldn't absolve her. That gave her the unfortunate habit of bursting into tears whenever she did something mildly wrong, and invited both the boisterous Gryffindor boys and the conniving Slytherins to tease her. She hated it. She hadn't wanted to return after Christmas. She'd gone to confession for the first time in months on the very day she arrived home, and cried so hard that Father Peters hugged her when they left the booth, and talked to her parents about her troubled conscience. For the first time in her life, Mary had to lie to a priest. She had to talk around the magical parts of her stories from school, and when Father Peters lamented that her parents hadn't sent her to a Catholic school, she'd had to stay silent. He couldn't believe that the school didn't allow her to go to church on Sundays. She couldn't tell him why.

After five years of it, her resolve had hardened a bit, and she was less likely to burst into tears at every minor transgression. She still cried when she confessed for the first time after the school term. Mass was no longer familiar, and she couldn't follow the hymns the way she used to. It was an ache in her soul. The girls at school didn't understand. Marlene was a pureblood, which meant that the only thought she gave to God was when 'oh my' preceded His name. Lily was barely religious. Sometimes her family went at Easter, but Christmas day was too busy. She might pray in a dire situation, when she had nothing else to hold onto. Neither of them were overly worried about their soul. Mary was terrified of going to Hell.

It was her destiny. She'd lied to a priest multiple times. She practised witchcraft.

Sometimes it kept her up all night.

Tonight was one of those nights.

She lay in the darkness, staring at her ceiling, waiting for sleep. She tried other positions. She rolled onto her right side, and looked at the wall. A shiver ran down her spine. She felt exposed. She rolled onto her left side, and looked out at the rest of her room. Her back was to the window, and something could reach in and grab her at any moment. Under the cover of night, her wardrobe and the old dollies on her shelves looked monstrous. It was too much. She rolled onto her back once more. At school, she'd grown use to the security of four other people sleeping nearby. Now she was alone. If something happened and she shouted, her parents certainly wouldn't get up. They'd probably curse her under their breath for waking them, and pull the covers over their ears so there was no chance of hearing her again. Mary tossed and turned so much that she began to sweat.

The gap between her door and the doorframe widened. She bolted upright. She was going to die. Oh, she was going to die. Soft footsteps plodded across the floor. She couldn't see. She had nothing to defend herself with. She backed up into the corner.

A small, round shape appeared at the edge of her bed. Two yellow-y eyes looked at her.

"Miaow?"

"Berlioz," she whispered. He jumped onto the bed. She silently thanked God. Berlioz climbed into her lap, and began kneading. She shifted into a more comfortable position, and patted him. Mary was glad of the company. "Oh, baby boy, thank you." He made little circles, trying to create a spot for him to lay in. Mary waited patiently, stroking him all the while. After a time, he laid down, finally content. Mary closed her eyes, and dozed to the sound of his purring.

Crack.

She woke with a start. Berlioz's claws dug into her. He struggled to hold on, half-tipped out of her lap. She scooped him up quickly. Her curtains rustled. Her stomach clenched. This was it. She trembled. Hot tears filled her eyes. Something was there. Something was right outside. Mary couldn't breathe. She curled into the wall, holding onto Berlioz for dear life. Tears littered his soft fur. She could hear footsteps outside.

"Where?" a male voice asked. Or, so it sounded. It was very late. She wanted to scream, but she knew her parents wouldn't come. She always cried wolf. It could've been the wind. She silently bawled, pressing her mouth against Berlioz's back so she didn't make a sound. God, Lord, please help me, please save me, Lord, please, please, please, or just save Berlioz, don't let him be hurt, Lord, please, please, please. She waited for her window to smash. Berlioz didn't understand. He ran his rough tongue over her cheek. Please don't let them kill Berlioz, she begged God.

She wept and wept and wept until she had no tears left. Her body was beyond exhaustion. Berlioz squirmed and kneaded her thighs through her bedcovers. It was cold, and she was tired – so tired. She strained to hear more voices. Nothing. Her grip loosened on her cat. An uneasy slumber crept up on her. On the verge of sleep, light flashed across her eyelids. She managed to open them. There was nothing. She was terrified…but so, so tired. Her mind raced until, at last, unconsciousness prevailed.

December 25th, 1975

James woke to an owl from Lisbete Moult. He knew that somewhere in Suffolk, Lisbete would be waking to an owl from him. She struck him as the sort that would want to be his first thought in the morning. He had got up in the middle of the night to send an owl because he thought she would appreciate the timing more than the gift itself.

He patted the owl appreciatively, and grabbed the glass of water from his bedside table in case the bird was thirsty. It looked at the water, then at him, and flew off without a second glance. Huh. James shut his window and went back to bed.

He settled back on his pillows examined the parcel. The first layer was brown paper, which he tore into. Underneath were three gifts, each wrapped in gold paper with flying snitches that zoomed up and down, and adorned with large red bows that curled at their ends. There was also a plain gold card. He set it to one side and opened his presents. The first was a heart-shaped box of assorted pasties from Honeydukes, including many of his favourite flavour, pumpkin. They were enchanted to keep warm. He bit into one. The next gift was a glossy black and yellow hardcover. The Quidditch players stood tall and proud, brooms clasped firmly, and in bold, newspaper type, it proclaimed the title as 'THE WIMBOURNE WASPS: A GUIDE TO THE 1975 SEASON' by 'A. FLINT'. James' face lit up.

"That has to be Alastor Flint," he said, opening the cover to check. Indeed, the former captain of the Wimbourne Wasps was the author. The book had come out all of four days ago. It contained an analysis of each game, player interviews, insights from the current coach, and all sorts of statistics. The book had only come out last week.

The last gift was in a small black box. He lifted the lid and looked inside. For a moment, he thought she had sent her own present back. He looked again, but there was no pendant. He carefully took the gold chain out of the book. It was something that a rockstar might wear, he thought. It didn't fit over his head, so he had to unclasp it to put it on, and then clasp it again. It was fiddly. His fingers were too big for it. Eventually he got it on. He slipped out of bed to admire it in the mirror. He looked very cool.

At last, he read the card. It was sweet. He would've known it was from Lisbete even if she hadn't signed her name in loopy letters, surrounded by hearts. He smiled. It was the sort of card he could never show his mates, but it made him feel all warm. He stood it on his bedside table, and hoped that she liked her presents as much as he liked his.

The house was full with the smell of food. James ducked into the kitchen, and found Mum supervising a vast array of the best-enchanted crockery on the market. Roasting sticks hovered above the fire, rotating to ensure full coverage of the toast slices speared on their ends. A charmed peeler took the skin off an orange, and then Mum waved her wand, and the orange slid onto the juicer. Once contact was made, the juicer sprung into action. Fresh juice poured into a glass bowl. James snuck up behind his mother, until his chin almost at her shoulder. She continued to conduct the kitchen appliances.

"Can I have a glass, Mum?" he asked loudly. She jumped, and two sausages splattered down onto a plate. Suddenly, her wand was at his throat. He put his hands in the air. "I surrender!"

"James Henry Potter!"

"Mum!" She lowered her wand, and put a hand on her chest.

"Are you trying to scare me to death, James?" she asked. He darted in and kissed her on the cheek.

"Merry Christmas, Mum," he said cheerfully. She smiled.

"Put your hands down, James." He did so. She hugged him, and he wrapped his arms around her. "Merry Christmas," she said.

"Merry Christmas," he said again. "Can I have a glass now?"

"Oh," she laughed. She flicked her wand, and summoned a glass. He intercepted.

"Thanks," he said, and raised the empty glass in a toast. Mum toasted with her wand. They shared a look, and grinned. James went to the juicer and poured himself a glass. He touched his tongue to the mandrake leaf in his mouth. It was mostly mush now, and he kept the remnants between his gums and the inside of his cheek. He'd mastered drinking without washing it away. James sipped at the juice. "It's really good," he told her.

"Don't drink it all," she warned.

"I'm not!" He drank some more.

"James!"

"I'm not drinking all of it!"

"I'll turn you orange!"

"Nah, you won't." He finished his glass and set it down on the cupboard. Mum shooed him.

"Out you get! Go shake your presents. No more juice for you," she told him. He pouted comically, and widened his eyes as far as they could go, knowing full well he probably looked more horrifying than cute. She couldn't keep a straight face.

"But Mum," he said, in a deliberately childish moan. "It's Christmas." He poured himself another glass of juice. Mum gaped at him, but her eyes smiled.

"James Potter, you're diabolical!" she laughed. "Get out, out you go, I'll have to juice another orange."

"Love you," he said, swiping past her with a kiss to her temple. She reached out and ruffled his hair. As he left, she resumed her conducting, and the kitchen sprung into life once more.

James wandered into the living room. Their Christmas tree stretched up to the ceiling, its gold star scraping the roof. Red and gold tinsel wrapped around the bushy green branches. A custom bauble for every year of James' life hung from the tree. '1975' was already on there – he'd been allowed to open it when he first got home. It was glittery green, and depicted him in a gold outline, waving his wand and firing a spell. '1960' featured the silver outline of a round baby clapping his hands, and '1966' a boy on a toy broomstick, skimming his feet across the grass. He casually tugged at one of the branches on his way through. His life story bobbled furiously. James grinned.

He knelt under the tree and took a good look at his presents. All were wrapped neatly, with little cards hanging off the exuberant bows, calling his name. The differences came in shape and size. Some were flat, flowy packages that James immediately recognised as every teen boy's least-desired gift: clothes. Two or three were big enough to be new sets of robes, while another was probably a cloak, and more were likely scarves or hats or gloves. Luckily, were plenty of others presents to make up for them. He ticked off his fingers thinking of what he could pass on. Chocolate for Remus, anything tacky with the Wasps on it for Peter, and something cool for Sirius. Don't get James wrong, he was thankful for all the things his parents got him, but there was no point in having it laying around if he wasn't going to use it and knew that someone else would.

"I'm sorry that there aren't as many this year," said his father. James got to his feet. Dad was significantly skinnier than he'd been in November, when James had been home, and there was a lingering red mark on his left cheek. His hair was shot with white. Now more than ever, he looked like James' grandfather rather than his father.

"No, I don't care," James said. "All the presents from my admirers will tide me over." Dad half-smiled.

"Don't tell me that girlfriend of yours spoils you too."

"Not as much as you and Mum."

"Hm," said Dad. He sidled up beside James and squeezed him in a one-armed hug. "Treat her well, won't you? No monkey business. You're too young for that sort of thing."

"Dad," James said.

"Chivalry, James. Honour. Do the right thing."

"Yeah, 'course. I really like her, Dad."

"Hmm." They stood in comfortable silence, gazing at the tree. James thought he missed his parents the most when he was home.

Mum bustled in and called them for a quick breakfast before they got to opening gifts. James helped himself to another glass of orange juice, smiling mischievously at his mother. A model train chugged around the table, tracks weaving between the plates of food. It was painted to look like the Hogwarts Express. In the windows were pictures of James and his mates, as well as photos of his mum and dad when they'd been young, with their school friends. Little puffs of steam followed the train on its journey.

"The photos are cool," James said.

"I think so," agreed Dad.

James demolished more than half of the food put out, and when Mum outlined her plans for lunch, his stomach began to ache.

"I haven't even got onto dinner yet," she said, when James voiced his concerns.

"I'll be too fat to get on my broom when I get back to school," James said. "Brown'll replace me."

"Nobody could ever replace you, dear," Mum assured him.

James' parents moved into the armchairs to open their gifts, while James took his customary spot on the floor. Mum sipped a mug of boiling hot chocolate.

"Where should I start?" James asked, looking up at them.

"I think that one's from Father Christmas," Mum said, smiling enigmatically.

"That old codger. Can't believe he didn't find me 'til I heard about him from the muggle-borns at school." James shook his head in disapproval. "Slack, I say."

"Oh, don't say that about poor old Father Christmas."

"Well, it'll have to be a good gift for me to change my mind about him." James pulled the present into his lap. It had different wrapping paper to the others - muggle paper, plain green with still snowmen. He pulled the paper off, and found a white shoebox underneath. He opened the lid. Inside was a pair of brown leather platform shoes. James picked one up, grinning, and twisted it round to have a look from all angles.

"Father Christmas has style," he exclaimed.

"Father Christmas had some help from a nice young wizard in the shop," Mum said. James shushed her.

"Don't make up lies to discredit Father Christmas' keen fashion sense."

There were quite a lot of gifts. He did, in fact, get two new sets of robes (one of plain yellow, and sleek purple Quidditch robes that he thought would make him look like a younger, sportier Dumbledore). He got fudge of all flavours, two blocks of chocolate (one for Remus), a new woolly Wimbourne Wasps hat (Peter's, because James didn't want to walk around with a giant cartoon of a wasp on his head), a pair of brown leather gloves, a pack of dungbombs, a set of nice quills, a book on how to study for your O. , underwear with quaffles on it, a broom-servicing kit, and new Exploding Snap cards.

Well, those were the normal presents.

"A sneakoscope?" He examined the small object in his palm. "I can't take it to school, I share a dormitory with Sirius Black and Dale Roshfinger. It'll be whistling all the time. And the professors will know when I'm bending the truth, if they hear it going off."

"You could try not lying to your teachers, James," Dad suggested. He shrugged. The odd gifts kept coming: a new set of locks for his trunk; a wand sleeve with a Notice-Me-Not Charm for everyone other than the owner; a moleskin pouch; a vial of the Antidote to Common Poisons; a vial of Calming Draught; and a vial of Wiggenweld. James could only stare.

"What's happened?" he asked. Mum looked at her lap. Dad scratched his chin.

"Nothing yet," he said. James tossed the sneakoscope from hand to hand.

"It's going to get worse before it gets better," he said. It wasn't a question. "Hogwarts is safe, though. We've got Dumbledore. And – I don't know if you know this, but I am a, you know, pureblood." He whispered the last word for dramatic effect. Mum pressed her lips together tightly. "They're only after muggle-borns, aren't they? Which is bloody foul, they're right bastards, but I don't need this defensive stuff. You'd be better off donating it to a shelter or something," James said. His parents didn't pick him up on his swearing. That alone made him run cold. "Right?" he said.

"You're a sweet boy, James," Mum said finally. "Of course you'd want to donate your Christmas presents. Come here." She opened her arms for a hug. James obliged, burying his face in her shoulder.

"It's just in case," Dad said, when James broke the hug. "There's been a lot of talk. We aren't the only ones to have heard noises downstairs."

"Fleamont!" Mum hissed.

"What? Are people being targeted? Is it the Death Eaters? Why would they target us?" James instinctively reached for his wand, but it was upstairs. "What's going on?"

"Nothing! That's enough questions." Mum's tone was unusually firm. "You haven't opened all your presents, there's another."

"But -"

"It's not just a gift for you, you'll see. Open it." Dad flicked his wand, and a package flew in from where it had been tucked out of sight on the bookshelf. He caught it, and handed it to James. It was small, but sturdy. James poked a hole in the wrapping with his finger. It came off easily.

Inside were two mirrors, identical in every way. The frames were plain gold, but polished so that they shone, along with the glass. James cocked his head to one side, examining his reflection.

"I am quite handsome," he told his parents, not taking his eyes off the mirror. "I think I could get stuck here, looking at myself all day."

"You don't know what they are, then?" Dad asked. James shrugged and pretend to apply make-up to his cheeks, patting them lightly with his hands. Then he rubbed a finger around his lips, mimicking lipstick. "Give one of them here," Dad said.

"Only if you do matching make-up with me," James requested, handing it over. Dad said nothing. James looked at himself, and blinked. He'd gotten old. Very old, and very quickly. His snow-dipped hair thinned over his head, and his glasses were a different shape. He closely resembled his father. No – he was his father. James realised what it was.

"This is cool," he said breathlessly. Dad smiled in the reflection.

"We thought you might be able to give a mirror to Sirius," he explained. "You can talk to him while he's at home. See if he's okay."

"You haven't slept well, since you've been home," Mum added quietly. James ran his fingers through his hair.

"It's not because of Sirius," he said, but as the words came out, it occurred to hm that they weren't true. Half of the time, he thought of Sirius. What was he doing? Was his mother speaking to him? Was he miserable? James missed him at meals and in the general scallywagness of the days. Being without Sirius was like being without a leg.

"I know how much you worry. I can see it in your face."

"Nah, Dad, that's not true," James said, turning over the mirror in his hand. "I'm fine." How soon could he give Sirius the other mirror?

"You can't hide it. You don't have to, either," Dad said, squeezing his shoulder. James twisted around and hugged him. When had he got so thin? He could feel his ribs.

"You need to eat more pudding, Dad," James grinned. His father laughed. He kissed his mother on the cheek. "You're the best. I love you."

"I love you too, James," Mum said, cupping his cheek.

"I love you," Dad said. He vanished the wrapping paper with a wave of his wand and a muttered incantation. Their first set of Christmas traditions was over.

James inhaled the crisp morning air. It was refreshing. He felt like he could run ten miles. He swung his leg over his broom and kicked off, soaring into the sky. He got to such a height that he could see Godric's Hollow very well. It was like a model of a Christmas village. Children rode bicycles down the lanes, and beyond the shimmer of wards, a few flew broomsticks around their gardens. A harassed-looking woman in what might've been robes, or a winter coat, chased a small creature past the pub. Was it a dog, or a crup? He couldn't tell from this distance.

He looped through the air, and raced around the perimeter of their property a few times, chilly winds ruffling his hair. He touched down to grab a snitch from the shed, and let it loose. It was an easy catch, glowing golden against a pink-blue morning. He caught it near the window of the guest bedroom assigned for Sirius. It fluttered inside his fist. James raised it triumphantly, beaming at an imaginary crowd. The scene was as clear as day. His supporters roared, shooting sparks into the air; a chant of 'POT-TER, POT-TER, POT-TER!' echoed through the stadium; the French fans gave him dirty looks; a few attractive witches smiled at him; his heart pounded, and the announcer confirmed that England had won the World Cup, 1150-0, and crowned him the greatest player of the last millennia. He swooped back to earth, and his mates ran out onto the field, hugging him tightly. Peter babbled about how well he'd done, and Remus smiled to himself and admitted that he couldn't look away, and Sirius ruffled his hair and told him he was better than proud. His parents came next, Mum nearly in tears, and then Li-

"James! Time for a shower!" Mum called out. She stood by the back door, still in her nightrobe, her hair pulled back in a bun that held her wand. "Aunt Dorea will be here soon."

"Alright!" he yelled back. He landed, stowed his broom, and went for a hot shower. Warm water ran through his hair, chased by his fingers. It scorched his back, and he scrubbed at his skin so hard it turned raw and red. Just how he liked it. Cold showers before Quidditch, hot showers afterwards. A recipe for perfection. Steam tendrils curled around his legs, and Lisbete came into his thoughts. She was a good girlfriend. Not who he'd imagined as his Christmastime girlfriend four months ago, but never mind. She was a good kisser, for someone who hadn't had a boyfriend before. He thought of kissing her under the mistletoe…his hands in her golden hair…

He finished up in the shower and went to get ready. He ran a comb through his hair just so he could tell his mother that he had, though it made no difference to the state of his hair. He pulled on a set of green robes and pinned a dancing reindeer to his collar. The gold chain from Lisbete tucked beneath his robes. He headed downstairs.

Mum changed into cheery plum robes, and smiled at him. Then she frowned, and touched his reindeer.

"James, what is that?" she asked. James grinned.

"Well, Peter was annoying me a bit, so before we got off the train, I tried a new spell…"

"James," she laughed. "You think you're a hoot, don't you?" He gave her a stern look.

"Mum, that's a very rude name for an owl…Now I know why they say old people have no tact."

"Don't call your Mother 'old', James," Dad rebuked, looking over the top of the Christmas edition of the Daily Prophet. Instead of the usual bad news on the cover, a photograph of the Minister for Magic Harold Minchum in front of a Christmas tree took up half of the page. He smiled, and looked absurd. The headline read: 'A MURDER-LESS MERRY CHRISTMAS; MINCHUM'S PROMISE FOR 1976'.

"What's that about?" James asked instead, walking over. Dad adjusted his glasses.

"Ah. Minchum plans to have the Death Eaters and the Voldemort threat eradicated by next Christmas," Dad said. James sat on the arm of the cream armchair, and looked at the paper.

"D'you think that's likely?" James asked.

"I think if Minchum manages it, he'll be Minister for the next twenty years," Dad said.

"Bugger."

"James."

"Mm."

Mum put on a pot of tea. James unwrapped a piece of white eggnog-flavoured fudge. He reckoned it was festive. The tea was just ready when the fireplace roared green.

"Dorea!" Mum said, jumping to her feet. James chewed his mouthful of fudge and set the rest of it aside. An older witch stepped out of the fireplace, and took her tall green hat off. Her blonde hair, which was pulled back, had faded with age, but not so much as to be called grey. Aside from that, she had the typical Black look; sharp features, high cheekbones, and dark eyes. Her black robes trailed across the floor. Dad stood, and embraced her. She patted his back with a dark-gloved hand.

"Oh, Fleamont, it's good to see you," Aunt Dorea gushed, kissing Dad on the cheek.
"Good to see you, Dorea, you're looking well," he said.
"And you, after that nasty fall," she replied. They parted. Mum pulled Aunt Dorea into a hug.
"Thank you for coming. Oh, I hate the thought of you in that house all alone," Mum said.
"Nonsense, I'm used to it," said Aunt Dorea.
"It's not right."
"Oh, Effy, it is alright. Thank you for inviting me here." Aunt Dorea stepped out of Mum's tight grip. James was next. He threw open his arms and pulled her in, kissing her cheek.

"Merry Christmas, Aunty D," he said. She patted him and stepped back, looking him up and down.

"You're taller again," she said. "You've well and truly pipped me."

"It's infuriating, isn't it?" Mum said lovingly. She was the shortest of the four of them, and James had passed her at about thirteen. "I think he'll beat his father at this rate."

"Here's hoping," James said cheerfully. Mum offered tea, which they all took, and then they settled into their chairs once more. James showed off his presents, a little overenthusiastically, the way he'd been every year since Aunt Dorea's son Ichabod had died. She never minded James' theatrical flair. She brought with her two new presents for him, and he made a show of tearing them open, 'ooh'ing and 'aah'ing, and then squeezing her into a tight hug.

"I'm glad you like them," she said, blinking furiously. "Oh, you're a good boy, James."

"I don't know about that," James shrugged, grinning.

"You are," Dad cut in. "You're the best son I could've asked for." The sneakoscope was still in James' pocket, heavy against his leg. Completely still. Ichabod had been Aunt Dorea's only soon. James was an only child. Dad smiled at him. The presents made sense.

"Love you," James said, casual as you like. Aunt Dorea's smile was watery.

December 25th, 1975

Lily was stuffed full. The Christmas lunch put out at the Evanses' could almost claim a rival in the Hogwarts feasts. Mum had woken up before dawn to make a start on it. When Dad woke, they rowed about it, and Lily stood on the stairs pretending not to listen. Her parents hadn't shouted like that in years. Or just not while I've been home, she thought. Mum had spent too much on food and presents. Dad had had no success in finding another job. After a while, Lily went back upstairs, to find Petunia standing outside the door to the guest bedroom, frowning.

"This is what you've missed while you've been busy doing magic tricks," Petunia hissed.

Eventually, Dad went for a walk, and Lily crept downstairs. Mum enlisted her help in the kitchen. Dad came back and hugged them all tightly, and then they opened their presents. Lily got a new notebook from her parents and a bracelet from Petunia. She kissed their cheeks with thanks. Dad turned on the television, and he and Petunia watched while Lily helped Mum.

"This is going to be delicious," said Lily. Mum smiled.

"I hope so," she replied.

It was. Nearly every dish in the house was used. Mum opened an old bottle of wine for herself and Dad and Petunia, while Lily stuck to hot chocolate. The primary topic of conversation was Vernon Dursley, and how he was better than all seven wonders of the world.

"He's fantastic," Petunia said. "Oh, he's so clever. If there's something on the news, he has something to say about it. He's so educated. You should see his parents' house. Five bedrooms, you know. And a study. He has a cabinet full of boxing trophies. He's so strong, my Vernon." Lily sucked on the half-melted marshmallow floating in her drink.

"And did you say he still boxes?" Mum asked. Petunia looked outraged.

"No! No, he's not a schoolboy anymore, Mum. Goodness. He has a job. He earns enough that if we were to get married, I wouldn't need to work at all. He's really a provider." Lily made a face into her mug. Dad coughed loudly.

"My mistake," Mum said. Petunia put her nose in the air. Lily wished Petunia hadn't come home for Christmas. Once she and Vernon got married (because they probably would, unfortunately), they could spend every Christmas with his family for all Lily cared. It'd be no great loss.

They finished lunch and Lily started to clear up the table. Mum took the jugs into the kitchen, and Lily took a platter of food. Petunia sat there pouting.

"It's freezing," Petunia said. "My hands are numb. I don't know how you can possibly manage. It's much warmer in London." She folded her hands in her lap. Lily laughed.

"You're not serious, are you? That's a load of rubbish, Petunia," Lily said. "Pass me that dish." Petunia scoffed. Lily leaned across her and grabbed the dish herself. Petunia sniffed.

"It's not rubbish," Petunia said. "I think I'm getting ill. The air here is so thick."

"It can't be worse than London," Lily countered. "Don't be so precious, come on."

"She is a guest," Mum interjected. Lily rolled her eyes.

"She lived here until recently," she retorted. "I'm only asking her to pass me a dish, not to deep clean the house." Petunia scoffed, and turned it into a delicate cough. Lily gestured at her. "Don't pretend!"

"How dare you?" Petunia demanded. Mum grabbed Petunia's dish and thrust it into Lily's hands.

"Problem solved," Mum said. Lily put a hand on her hip.

"Not the point. She's being lazy."

"I'm not the one trying to get out of my chores," Petunia said. "I pay to live in my own house and I clean up after myself there. You're a freeloader, the least you can do is the dishes!" Lily looked at her incredulously.

"I'm fifteen!" Lily said. Petunia pursed her lips.

"I had a job at your age."

"Did you pay rent?"

"That isn't the point. I had a work ethic."

"Yeah, and I think you'll give it up when you get married, won't you?" Petunia stood. Mum put a hand on her arm.

"Sit down, Pet. Lily – be nice." Lily turned her back on them and stomped into the kitchen, pulling a face. Honestly! It had been one simple request. How had Petunia turned into such an entitled brat when Lily was so normal? If there was a freak in the family, it wasn't Lily. She shoved the dishes under the stream of water coming from the tap, and grabbed a sponge. Mum followed her into the kitchen, bringing in the last platter.

"Why don't you go drop your present around to Severus'?" Mum asked in a low voice. "I'll finish the dishes." Lily squeezed the soapy sponge over the sink.

"I want to do my bit," Lily said. She took one of the plates and began to wash it. Mum picked up a floral tea towel.

"No, Lily, it's Christmas. You ought to go and visit."

"You just want to separate me and Petunia," Lily said, ferociously scrubbing the plate.

"You need to cool off," said Mum. Lily wiped the drizzle of dried sauce away and handed the plate to her mother, who began to dry it. Lily selected a fork from the bench and rinsed it under the tap.

"I'm not the one being rude and lazy," she said.

"You need to give it a rest."

"I haven't done anything wrong," Lily continued, cleaning off the fork. "I shouldn't be the one who has to leave."

"You're the one who has somewhere to go. You were going to visit anyway, weren't you? You know that boy needs some light in his life. He always looks so miserable." Lily passed the fork to her mother, and started on a bowl. She had intended to see Sev. His Christmas was probably much worse than hers, even when she had to deal with Petunia. Lily would've preferred Petunia to Mr and Mrs Snape. Lily had had lunch with them one year, which consisted of a bowl of soup, water for them and beer for Mr Snape, and a couple of flickering candles. Mrs Snape started crying into her napkin halfway through.

"Fine," Lily said. "I'll go when we finish this."

They tackled the dishes fairly quickly, and Lily went upstairs. Severus' present was tucked under her bed. She'd wrapped it the night before. She added another layer of clothes, and then her coat and a hat. She kissed her dad on the cheek and left the house.

Overhead, the deep grey sky sat low, pressing down on the chimneys and the skinny, squashed houses. She hugged herself, and made for Spinner's End. Curtains masked the houses, and the street was bare. Only the pub seemed merry, loud with patrons who had nowhere else to go. A man stood outside, smoking, and waved at her. She forced a smile. His eyes were sunken, and his elephant skin hung off his thin bones. His feet poked out from his oversized trousers, naked against the chill. His coat was too small. After passing him, she frowned. Had he been laid off like her father?

She reached Spinner's End after only a little walk. Washing lines criss-crossed the street. Sad, dark clothes dangled and dripped, briefly given life by gusts of wind. The curtains here were plain and moth-eaten. Mail piled up on a doorstep. A dog's brown head peered over the top of a short grey wall. Its little garden – a dustbowl, accurately - wouldn't fit Lily laying down, and she wasn't a tall girl. It barked and barked. Lily held out her hand, and it growled. She withdrew. The poor thing strained against the chain around its neck. The house's curtains were drawn.

"I'd pat you if you were nicer," Lily told the dog. It bared its teeth at her. She parted with a frown.

Three doors down was Severus' house. It was a narrow dwelling, encroached upon by the relatively nice houses on either side. Here, 'nice' meant 'somewhat cared for', with a clear path to the house and clean windows. Lily knocked on the Snapes' door, and stepped back. The lights were off inside. If it were anybody else, she would've assumed they weren't home. She knew better with the Snapes. There was a broken mug in the cramped front garden, faded cream with writing on it. Brighton, one shard said. On another, there was a drawing of a seagull. She couldn't imagine Sev there, in all that sunshine. He'd never mentioned visiting.

The door opened. Severus stepped out. He was very pale. Robes suited him so well that it took some adjusting to see him in normal clothes. His dark shirt buttoned to his throat. His jacket and trousers appeared too big for him.

"Lily," he said. She pulled him into a hug. He stiffened, returning it awkwardly. She didn't mind. She stepped back, and he looked a little happier. The tiniest smile sat on his lips. Success. "Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, Sev," Lily said, making the effort to beam. She gave him the gift. Severus' face fell. Her spirits dipped.

"It's a book," he said solemnly. The small, rectangular present could be nothing else. She smiled.

"Should I have wrapped it in a fluffy blanket so you didn't know?" she teased. His face hardened. He thrust into her chest. She blinked. "Sev," she said, taken aback.

"I didn't get you anything," he said. Lily's heart plunged. She quickly wrenched it back up. It doesn't matter, she told herself, though her heart tossed itself back into the icy depths. You don't buy gifts with the expectation of exchange. He'd had a present for her every other Christmas. She didn't care what it was – a heartfelt message on a scrap of parchment, a book, a nice new quill, a bag of sweets from the shop down the road, a fistful of weed-flowers he'd found near the river. It was the thought that counted. This year it appeared there had been no thought at all.

"That's okay," she said slowly. "I want you to have this. It's not about receiving." He shook his head, and stepped back.

"I don't want it," he said. She shook her head.

"It doesn't matter, Sev, I won't play martyr or anything. I just want you to have it. It's Christmas," she insisted. She wanted him to take it and thank her and then she could be halfway home before the anger settled in. Something dripped on the roof. Severus stood knee-high in a row of overgrown, thorny bushes. "Sev!" she scolded, grabbing his sleeve. He pulled back sharply. His elbow hit the wall of the house behind him. He gasped.

"Ah," he said through gritted teeth. She tucked the present under her arm and offered her hand to him. He ignored it, but stepped out of the malicious hedges.

"Don't be so proud," she said. A drop of rain splashed across her cheek. He dropped his gaze to the scraggly grey grass.

"I should've got you something," he murmured. Splash. Splash. She glanced at the ash-grey sky. She was going to be soaked by the time she got home.

"It doesn't matter. Get me something later, if you like. I'll take anything," she laughed half-heartedly. He stared at the ground. A droplet landed in his hair.

"It's not that I don't care," he burst out, suddenly, hungrily. She bit her lip. He looked at her with wild eyes. "I didn't have the chance. Nothing here is good enough for you," he vaguely indicated the town, "and I can't get you things in Hogsmeade." She would've accepted that explanation. She didn't agree with it, but for the sake of keeping as dry as possible, she would've taken it. He tugged his collar. He lowered his voice, and Lily strained to hear him. "Mulciber would've known," he whispered.

"What?" she said, before she could think. It took a moment. "What?" she said again. His gaze flicked upwards nervously, and then darted away.

"He would've asked about it," Severus told his shoes. Lily was winded. Her face grew hot.

"You didn't get me a present because of what Mulciber would think," she said. Both of his hands scratched at his collar. The icy rain fell lightly. "I wish you'd said nothing and I could just pretend you'd forgotten."

"I wouldn't forget!" he protested, heat in his words. "I've been thinking of you. I've thought of what I would've got you."

"Yeah, well, be careful," she said, "Mulciber might be able to read minds." Severus opened his mouth, and then shut it. The fire died, and he slunk back against the bushes.

"You hate me," he said, despondent.

"I don't hate you," Lily snapped. His eyes were big dark pools. She sighed. "I don't hate you," she said softly. "I just wish you didn't let them dictate your life. They're awful, Sev. You can do better."

"I don't have a choice."

"You always have a choice," she countered. He looked away. The rain grew steady. A freezing drop snuck down her neck. "Sev, please, just take your present. I need to get going." She held it out to him. He took it gingerly. She gave him a flat smile. "Merry Christmas, Sev."

"Merry Christmas, Lily," he returned, clutching the gift tightly. They hesitated, standing in his front garden as the rain poured. Tiny puddles began to form between tufts of dead grass. He hesitated, and then went inside. Lily was left in the rain. She stared at the closed door, chewing on her lip. She was off-kilter. She felt hollow inside.

Lily tore her eyes away from the Snapes' house, and forced herself to leave. The rusted gate squeaked as she opened and shut it. Water dribbled down the road, encouraged by the slight slope, heading for the park. She looked both ways before deciding to take the shortcut, knowing she ran the risk of mud. Sev hadn't got her a present because of Mulciber. Couldn't he have gone to the shop and found a nice card to write on? Couldn't he have told Mulciber to get lost? Lily doubted the seventh year spent all his Hogsmeade trips babysitting the younger Slytherins. She stopped, struck by the urge to turn back and knock his door down and shout at him. It wouldn't change anything, but it might make her feel better.

She shook the thought out of her head, and kept on to the park. She reached it quickly. It was empty. Water trickled down the old slide, and the roundabout was sopping wet. The grass squelched beneath her feet. Beyond the park, the river was a dull grey-brown, rippling with rain. She and Sev played here all the time as kids. The leaves of their tree, with their initials carved into the trunk, trembled under the thick raindrops. She took a deep breath. It smelt of rain on the pavement, distant smoke, and dirty water. It smelt of home. She was going to be okay. One missed Christmas present didn't erase years of friendship.

She trudged through the grass, passing a row of houses. Their sad brick walls were poorly graffitied with illegible tags and exaggerated penises. A few had scribbled messages – 'Rod woz here' and'Mick rox'. Lily frowned at the next. 'Sue R is a fat slag', it pronounced. She rubbed it with her finger. It didn't budge. She rubbed at it harder. Who took the time out of their day to write something like that? Nobody had written 'Rod can't keep his dick in his pants'. He was more of a slag than Sue.

Crack.

She snapped around. The sodden air hummed. The sound was like nothing she'd heard before. If she didn't know better, she would've said it was magical. But she and the Snapes were the only magic in Cokeworth.

"Sev?" she asked gently. The wind howled. The branches of the tree quivered. The swings squeaked and swayed. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. "Sev?" she said, quieter. Suddenly, the rain bucketed down. It was so heavy that she could barely see. She blinked furiously. Something was happening. She couldn't articulate it, but she knew, in the same way people could tell that someone was following them home, or that they were being watched, or listened to. She reached for her wand. It was locked safely in her trunk. Lily felt naked without it. She would be pushing her luck to beat anyone other than a twelve-year-old in a physical fight. If they had a wand, she could be dead in seconds.

She ran for it.

She splashed through the park, one arm outstretched to keep her balance. She slipped and slid across the soaked ground. Crack. Crack. Crack. A flash of light sparked in the corner of her eye. She looked. She fell hard. Her tailbone slammed into the wet earth. She swore loudly. She had to keep moving. She scrambled to her feet and kept running.

Her street came into sight. She'd never been so glad to see it. She fled the park and only stopped when she was on the pavement, visible out the windows of multiple houses. She leaned against a low brick wall and caught her breath. She was soaked. Her red hair hung in sopping locks, twisted together; her coat and her trousers were sprayed with mud. She stared at the park. She half-expected someone to materialise, chasing after her. Or for the whole thing to blow up. The wind slunk through the grass, and the heavens dumped rain down, but there were no more signs of magic.

Lily crossed her arms and walked towards home. She kept checking over her shoulder. There was nothing there. Someone's radio blared a crackled rendition of 'Deck the Halls'. She rubbed her arms, trying to ward off the cold. She didn't care what Petunia was doing when she got home, so long as she could have a hot shower and climb into bed.

"LILY!"

She spun, searching for the voice. Her heart pounded in her throat. A thousand possibilities raced through her mind. How could they be here, in Cokeworth?

"Lily!" Her eyes landed on Mrs Simmons, Jane's mother. She stood on the front doorstep of her house, putting on her coat. "What're you doing out here?" she shouted over the rain. "You look like you've been in the wars! You'll catch a chill!" Lily sighed with relief. She was safe.

"Sorry, Mrs Simmons!" Lily called back. "I'm heading home now." Mrs Simmons nodded, and her brown bun bobbled, poking out beneath her woolly hat. Perfectly normal.

"Off you go, then. Say 'hello' to your parents for me," Mrs Simmons said. "Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas!" Lily replied. Mrs Simmons did up the last button of her coat. Lily hurried away. She was safe, she reminded herself. It was only Cokeworth. Only ordinary bad things happened here, like Sue getting pregnant and people writing cruel things on the walls about her. All she needed to worry about was Petunia.

The air hummed. Crack.

Lily didn't look back.

December 25th, 1975

Regulus stood in front of a tall mirror, in his mother's dressing room. It was framed by dark oak wood, and the light of the glass grew more vibrant against the black panelling of the room. New dress robes fitted his figure, tightening at his waist and flaring around his feet. The clerk assured them it was the latest fashion. Mother argued for green, but Regulus insisted on black and Mother relented. He compromised on embroidery along the sleeves. Pine thread shaped serpents that snaked around his arms, only truly visible when he stood near to the candelabras.

Mother smoothed down his collar. "You look very handsome, Regulus."

"Thank you," he said.

Tonight, not everyone from the Slug Club would be in attendance. Professor Slughorn wasn't permitted to set up a floo connection with muggle households for the sake of a party, and so the night would be pleasantly free of mudbloods. It further proved that while you could dress up a muggle in robes and give them a wand, they could not entirely join the wizarding world. There would always be something tying them to their origins. It did little good to pretend otherwise.

He checked the clock on the wall. Quarter to six. It had begun at five-thirty, but Mother did not want him to appear desperate. Blacks did not wait for people to invite them places; they had plenty to do, and graced an event with their presence if they were so inclined, and if they could find the time. He would floo at two to six, they agreed. It was still polite, and he would miss nothing of importance. Mother followed his gaze.

"A drink will settle your nerves," she soothed, patting his shoulder. Regulus was not nervous. She snapped her fingers. "Kreacher!" The wizened elf appeared at her knee. Regulus offered him a smile.
"Hello, Kreacher," he said gently.

"Master Regulus," Kreacher said. "What is Mistress wanting? Kreacher is happy to serve."

"Gin and tonic, for Regulus," Mother ordered. Regulus did not like gin. Kreacher nodded and popped away.

"Thank you, Mother," said Regulus. He wondered if Mulciber and Wilkes were already there. Had their parents made them wait? Mulciber would go regardless of what his parents advised. He was eighteen and eager to prove himself a man. Wilkes was punctual. What would they be talking about? What if he arrived when they were in the middle of a conversation, and he had to pick up the drifting pieces of their ideas and put them together? He tapped his foot. Mother frowned, and he stopped at once.

"Kreacher is taking far too long," Mother sniffed. "Perhaps he's getting too old. I could ask after another elf, if you wish."

"No," Regulus said quickly.

"No?"

"It would be a nuisance to train up another," he said. "Kreacher knows how we want things done."

"Yes, well, I suppose…even so."

"Kreacher does well," Regulus asserted. The only house elf he'd ever known was Kreacher. The elf had fetched his toys from when he was old enough to walk. It was stupid to reward loyalty with a dagger to the throat. Yaxley had a new elf, a little female, and she squeaked and whined and trembled at every raised voice. Nothing made Kreacher flinch.

The elf reappeared with Regulus' drink.

"Thank you," Regulus said. "And thank you, Mother."

"It's queer, how you thank the elves," Mother said. "Don't do it in company."

Regulus drained the drink quickly, pouring it down his throat so he didn't have to taste it. Kreacher took the glass away. Mother guided Regulus downstairs, where Father awaited them in the entryway. The main fireplace of the house crackled pleasantly. They stood in silence, watching the rise and fall of the flames. Father looked at his wristwatch.

"Time," he said, eventually. Regulus reached into the pot of floo powder, and took a pinch.

"Do us proud," said Mother. "Do try to be home by midnight, unless you're invited to the Mulcibers'. Don't stay at the castle, or with the Wilkes."

"Yes, Mother," Regulus said, allowing her to kiss his cheek. Father raised a silent hand in farewell. Sirius did not come to say goodbye. Regulus stepped into the fire and threw down the powder. "Professor Slughorn's Office, Hogwarts," he said clearly.

For a moment, jade flames consumed him. The world fell away. He tucked his elbows in and spun through fireplaces. Usually, the incoming floo was closed at Hogwarts. Professor Slughorn received permission to open it for an hour to allow guests. Regulus shut his eyes. Dizziness threatened his sensibility. He peeked occasionally. A man stepped into his fireplace as Regulus passed. At his next look, a couple kissed passionately on the couch. Regulus flung his eyes closed. The time between fireplaces grew longer, and the rooms outside more desolate. An ache gripped his back.

Finally, he spotted Professor Slughorn's office. He lurched out, not wanting to be sucked further north. Word had it that if you missed the last fireplace, the northernmost in Great Britain, you would be trapped at the end of the floo network until someone thought to report you missing. Regulus stumbled across the stone floor. He was thankful that he was alone. A dirty patch of soot littered the area in front of the fireplace.

"Sir?" Regulus froze. A small elf with overlarge eyes and a tea towel draped over its thin, yellow body looked up at him. "Is you attending Professor Slughorn's dinner?"

"Yes," he said.

"Then I is asking please come this way," said the elf. Regulus nodded, and followed the creature into the corridor. Black candles floated above his head, and marked out the path to the party. A few dismal younger students who had been abandoned at school for the holidays huddled at the end of the hallway, singing off-key Christmas carols. Regulus lowered his eyes when he passed them.

The elf snapped its fingers and the door to the dungeon opened. It had been transformed. It was no longer a simple Potions classroom. Golden, glittering, almost transparent curtains swayed, hanging from the ceiling. Bronze braziers burned hot at the gilded edges of the room, disguising the chill of being underground. Tapestries covered the stone walls. It was a decent attempt at making a suitable venue. Regulus thought it would've been more successful in a classroom, or in the Great Hall. He supposed the dredges staying at school would need to eat. It seemed a waste to use such a grand place for so few people, especially when it could have gone to better use.

Regulus recognised several of the attendees. Professor Slughorn himself was planted in the centre of the room, the glowing sun around which the rest of the party would revolve. The Carrows were present – they had been Slytherins when Regulus had started at Hogwarts, and the girl a prefect. There were other former members of Slughorn's select present – Arnold Goldstein, for instance, had been Head Boy in Regulus' second year, stood in the corner, clutching his drink tightly in one hand, and a miserable, sour-faced girl in the other. Conspicuous by her absence was Narcissa, and her fiancé Lucius.

Mulciber and Wilkes stood down the back, by a brazier, goblets in hand. Neither had dates. Regulus approached them.

"Good to see you, Regulus," Mulciber said, shaking his hand.

"Good to see you," Regulus returned.

"Black," said Wilkes. Regulus took his hand and shook it too.

"Wilkes." They adjusted their stances as to include Regulus in their group. Given that it was Christmas day, Professor Slughorn's party was not overly busy. Regulus only recognised a couple of Quidditch papers and some writers from the Daily Prophet. One such writer floated past, and Mulciber sipped his goblet in such a way that invited questions. Regulus said nothing. Wilkes also stayed quiet. Mulciber swallowed his drink.

"We weren't sure that you'd be joining us tonight, Black," Mulciber said. "When you didn't show. I thought it'd might've been too late for a fourth year to stay up. It's understandable, if your mother would want you home…you're only a child for so long." I will be, yes, Regulus thought. But some of us will be children forever.

"I'm here," said Regulus, instead. "I understand my commitments."

"I can think of someone who would appreciate that," Mulciber said. Regulus looked at his feet, and tried to calm the thrill that peaked in his chest.

"Your subtlety astounds me," Wilkes said. Mulciber laughed.

"Do we need to be subtle? We're amongst friends here," he said. An elf appeared and offered them a platter of crumbed cheese balls. Mulciber took one, so Regulus did too. A vaguely familiar woman passed by, followed by a storm of wizards with quills and floating notepads. Was she a Quidditch player? Regulus lost track of them. He enjoyed being a seeker, and hunting for the golden snitch, but his eyes glazed over when it came to watching the plays with the quaffle. When his family went to see matches, he tried to find the snitch himself, rather than worrying about some ball getting thrown through a hoop.

"I'm surprised the reporters are out here tonight," Mulciber said mysteriously. Another elf came by with a tray of drinks. Regulus took one, and sniffed. Alcoholic. He drank and found that it was stronger than he'd expected. The back of his throat burned. Mulciber downed his in one, took another, and finished half of it. Wilkes declined altogether.

"Should they be otherwise occupied?" he asked.

"Yes," said Mulciber. Regulus frowned. He recalled the conversations he'd had on Christmas Eve. While Sirius had done something or rather to infuriate Mother, Regulus had sensibly spent time with cousin Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus. Bellatrix tended towards eccentricity, but Regulus enjoyed Rodophus' company. Bellatrix said they were alike. Regulus had clamped his mouth shut until he shut the door of his room in the early hours of the morning and allowed himself a childish grin. Rodolphus was marked, and he'd been on skirmishes before. He was someone who really contributed to the cause. He didn't just sit around and talk about it, like Lucius Malfoy. He acted. Regulus hoped he could do half as much as Rodolphus.

"Do you expect it to be quickly found out?" Regulus asked anxiously. Bellatrix had said that they weren't courting media attention at the moment. Minchum brought with him a slew of policies that essentially meant anyone who looked at a mudblood wrong could get themselves locked up. It was barbaric. Why should the purebloods have to change the way they behaved to accommodate a criminal minority? Nevertheless, that was the kind of rule they were under, and they weren't great enough in numbers to take the risk yet.

Mulciber's expression flickered. "You know?" he demanded. Regulus considered his response. How much did Wilkes know? His family had not proven their dedication yet. Mulciber's father had proven himself, and if Regulus' mother had not been a mother, or if his father had been a better duellist, they might've volunteered to represent the family too. Bellatrix's involvement proved that the Blacks were of the right mindset. Wilkes was just a wizard with magical parents and some talent.

"We had a family gathering yesterday," Regulus said, glancing at Wilkes.

"They killed them," Mulciber blurted out. Regulus looked sideways at him. His heart pulsed in his throat. Who? But he knew who. Of course he knew who. Bellatrix had not come out and said it. They would play, she said. They would have a little fun.

"This is what we're signing up for, then?" Wilkes asked dryly.

"Are you not capable?" Mulciber pounced. Wilkes raised his thin eyebrows. Regulus folded his arms across his chest, and inched closer to Mulciber.

"I dream of ripping out one man's throat with my teeth," Wilkes said calmly. "There are times when killing is necessary." Regulus glanced over his shoulder, searching for the cheese balls. They'd been reasonably good. He hadn't eaten before he'd come. His stomach felt very light.

"You don't mean Selwyn." Mulciber's expression darkened. It took Regulus a second to follow.

"Why would I mean Selwyn?" Wilkes smiled. "Do you believe there's valid cause for me to wish harm upon him, Mulciber?" Regulus tensed. He knew that tone, he'd learned it from Mother, when she asked Sirius questions. They were the sort of questions that had no right answer. For a moment, he floated away, imagining he was stuck in the family tapestry on the wall at home, whisking himself away to his bedroom.

"Would you, Regulus?" Mulciber cut into his thoughts. Regulus pulled himself back to his body. He knew this answer too. Mother had spoken to him about it before. Bellatrix too. Even if they hadn't, he'd studied of the papers.

"Of course. I would do what the Dark Lord required of me," he said.

"Say he left it to your discretion. Would you?" Mulciber pursued. "Do you want to?"

Regulus frowned. It wasn't about what he wanted, it was about what was right. The extent of Regulus' wishes was that he wanted to do the right thing. He wasn't some snivelling coward like his Gryffindor brother, too lazy and too soft to stand up to the pressure from the mudbloods. The Dark Lord would restore Britain to its former greatness. Regulus was doing his duty as a citizen, as a wizard, by helping.

"I'll do whatever is necessary to make the world a better place."

"So you're playing hero, then?" Regulus stared at Mulciber.

"Yes," he said. "We are the heroes. That's the point. We're saving the world." Mulciber and Wilkes looked at him.

For a brief, wavering moment, Regulus feared he'd said the wrong thing.

Hey guys! Thank you so much for your continued support. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I appreciate any feedback. If you want to talk to me further about this fic (or anything!), you can find me on tumblr at poisonrationalitie. I provide updates on this fic and sometimes talk about the characters, the writing process, et cetera.

In regards to the next chapter, it should be out on either the 22nd of October or the 12th of November. Why the two dates? I have my final exams between those two dates, and I'm unsure how much I'll be able to write in the lead up while I'm studying. If I can complete the chapter while studying (which is my goal), it'll be uploaded on the 22nd. If it gets too hectic, I'll smash it out after my exams finish on the 3rd, and it should be ready by the 12th. After that, I'll have a lot of free time until the end of February, when I will (hopefully) start university. I'm aiming for a chapter a fortnight then.

Happy spooky season, y'all!