TW for some misogyny, Selwyn's creepiness, implied/reference self-harm, some mentions of violence, blood-purist ideology and the usual swearing and underage drinking.

January 20th, 1976

Rain splattered the glass windows with subdued enthusiasm. Only a droplet here and there stuck. The sun shook its indecisive head, weaving between the thick clouds, unable to tell that the game was up and night would soon overpower it. Regulus hurried up the stairs to the Owlery. Water slicked the stairs, and if not for the enchantments on his boots, he would've slipped. Inside, the owls stirred, opening their large round eyes and preparing to hunt. A good, strong bird would get the letter delivered by the time Mother woke, and he would only have to deal with one morning of her anguished pleas for him to pay her mind and comfort her, for he was sure she would've penned the letter and sent it already, knowing full well that unless he had skipped his lessons to write to her, there was no way he could've replied by the day's end.

He exhaled his annoyance sharply through his nose. He reached the top floor and the large, open Owlery. A small girl stood at one of the openings, watching a tiny owl fly away with a letter as big as it was in its beak. Likely off to Hogsmeade. Regulus strode over to the cluster of larger owls. They turned their strange round gazes on him. A fine eagle owl flew down from its perch and landed on his outstretched arm.

"Thank you," he murmured, affixing the letter to its leg. "This is for Mrs Black, at twelve Grimmauld Place, Islington, London." The owl gave him a look that resembled understanding, and flew into the dying sun.

From there, Regulus returned to his dormitory and met Gibbon inside.

"It should be fun tonight, don't you think, Regulus?" Gibbon said, grabbing his cloak.

"I suppose," he said. "Mulciber will want to discuss last week, I imagine."

"I think so," Gibbon agreed, bouncing on his toes as they headed up the stairs to their common room. Mulciber wasn't there, but Selwyn was. Regulus stalked over to the corner, keeping his head bent down. Gibbon followed him. Selwyn did too. Regulus turned his back to him, but Selwyn clapped him on the shoulder. It was an unwarranted, overly familiar gesture.

"Excited?" Selwyn asked, smiling. "I've got a hell of a story for you lads. Next time, we should all go at it together. I'm going to suggest it to Mulciber. Why not make a day of it? Why sneak around in secrecy?"

"Well, we don't want to be caught," Gibbon piped up.

"It would be stupid to give ourselves away," Regulus agreed. "That's one of the reasons we need him. We can't do as we please."

"I think we're living in fear," said Selwyn. "We're letting them have the power. Why aren't we taking it back? That's what I want to know. That's where Mulciber needs to come up with answers. Half the time, I think he's just propping himself up. You know? He doesn't have the balls to go through with what we ought to do, so he makes up bullshit reasons why not." Regulus said nothing. They were living in fear, that was the problem. That was why it was vital that they didn't get themselves expelled, and that they trained as hard as they could before they joined forces to make the world a better place. They had to suffer now to gain later.

The tall, ebony grandfather clock in the corner told them it was twenty past. Regulus adjusted the strap of his bookbag.

"We should go," he said. He led the way out of the common room and through the maze of dungeons. Keeping in Professor Slughorn's favour proved to have its advantages; Mulciber had secured them a smaller but much nicer dungeon for this particular meeting. Professor Slughorn greeted them as they entered, dressed in velvet robes and an embroidered brown waistcoat.

"Good to see you, boys," he said, inclining his head. "Black, Selwyn! And – Gibbert, nice that you're here, too."

"Gibbon, sir," Gibbon politely corrected him.

"Good evening, Professor," Regulus murmured, and Selwyn did the same. They filed in and took their seats. Regulus tucked his bag under his chair. Mulciber and Jugson conjured the last of several plush armchairs and nodded their hellos. The fireplace roared, and a dark chandelier cast a pale light over them. Yaxley conjured a low, dark coffee table, and set upon it several copies of the week's Daily Prophets. Crouch and Rowle, the youngest members, were the last through. Professor Slughorn closed the door behind him, beaming.

"I would like to thank Mulciber and Jugson for this charming initiative," Professor Slughorn said. "You make Slytherin proud, with your efforts to mentor the younger students. You're fine young men indeed. Do not hesitate to find me if any trouble should arise – though I'm sure none will, in your capable hands." He laughed. "After all, we have two prefects to hand, eh? Nevertheless. Well, get your textbooks out boys, get cracking! I'll be back at eight-thirty to make sure you're all to bed in time, yes. Best of luck!" Professor Slughorn raised a hand in farewell. Regulus returned it, and they chorused their farewells. He left, and the door clicked as it locked.

"Did you hear that? We must study most diligently," said Yaxley, striding over to an old cupboard. He waved his wand and muttered a spell, and out poured several stout glasses. Regulus lifted his hand and neatly grabbed one. Yaxley guided a decanter onto the low table. At once it felt as though they were in the drawing room at Grimmauld Place, on respectable business with their fathers. They began passing the decanter around, filling their glasses. Mulciber poured for Rowle and Crouch, giving them only a half-measure.

"You think we're children," said Crouch, eyes flashing. Mulciber smiled.

"You are children," he said, sitting down. He raised his glass. "Thank you all for coming. Tonight is a night to celebrate our good work over the past week, and to continue planning for the future. Every one of us has done something, this week, for the effort. Here's to us."

"To us," Regulus murmured. His drink shone amber. It scalded as it went down. Gibbon coughed. Mulciber swallowed his in one and leaned back, lounging like a king. Regulus wondered if Mulciber would have the same quality about him once he left school. He had connections, of course, to others in the Dark Lord's service – his father and elder brother were in his employ, it was said, but still, the Mulcibers were not so important in the real world. It was only that he was the most respectable of those in seventh year inclined to their cause that he had any influence. Come next school year, Regulus supposed Yaxley and Selwyn would be leading, as sons of families from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He eyed Selwyn.

"I'm proud of us," Mulciber said, when the toasting was done. "This is what we need to be doing whenever we can. This is the sort of thing that will make a real difference. We are the movement, at the very grassroots. We're every bit as important as our comrades working in the realms beyond Hogwarts."

Yaxley laughed. "Mulciber, who've you been talking to from Durmstrang?"

"Durmstrang has the right idea," Mulciber countered. "If Hogwarts adopted half their policies, we'd be twice as successful as we are now. But, of course, we're under Dumbledore. And Dippet before him. God forbid we have a good traditional pureblood overseeing our education." Indeed, the last competent Hogwarts Headmaster had been Regulus' own great-great grandfather, Phineas Nigellus Black. He had not managed to rid the school of the scum that had pervaded Hogwarts' halls from the very beginning, but from what Regulus knew, the curriculum had been much more sensible. Muggle nonsense had been kept in that dredge of a class, and the rest of them had been free to pretend that muggles did not exist.

"Maybe Black'll be Headmaster next, get us back on track," Jugson said, pointing at Regulus crudely.

"If that's how I can best serve the cause, than that's what I'll do," Regulus replied. He had never considered teaching, or working at Hogwarts in any capacity – to be honest, he had never much considered any career. If things had settled by the time he left school, he would go on to study further, most likely, perhaps in London but potentially abroad. Once he was satisfied, he would help his father with stewardship of the family funds, attend the social events he was required to be at, and while away his time researching projects of his own interest, overseeing his extended family, and having one of his own. If things had settled by the time he left school, he would have very few obligations for the rest of his life. That was the ideal, of course, but he thought it would be very strange to spend so much time preparing to fight only for it to be solved by the time he was ready. It was the only thing he felt driven to do. He could change the nature of the wizarding world forever. What else was worth doing?

They went round describing what they had done over the past week, with as much detail as possible. Crouch menaced the corridors with hexes Regulus' classes were only now covering. Jugson did a lot of grunting. Yaxley sneered at every opportunity. Selwyn hunted girls in the halls and described their looks of terror with a relish that reminded Regulus of Bellatrix. Wilkes feigned interest in Muggle Studies, convinced a bewildered Hufflepuff to take him along to a lesson, and challenged Professor Clearwater's every word.

"I feel that it's equally important to dismantle the misleading rhetoric that's spread by sympathisers," Wilkes said, in his very quiet, even way. "Students, especially half-blooded students or those in houses that are ridden with mudbloods, are especially susceptible to propaganda. Half of what they're being taught is blatantly untrue and the other half is presented without context to support a biased viewpoint. It needs to be challenged, and it needs to be acceptable to challenge it."

Gibbon successfully reduced a first-year to tears. He had confessed guilt to Regulus that night, after the lights were out, with the curtains drawn around Regulus' bed.

"She doesn't fight for them," he'd murmured. "What does it do for the Dark Lord? She's still at the school. I didn't make a difference, except for making her feel unwelcome. I should've gone after someone else. What did she do to deserve that?"

"She's a mudblood," Regulus had advised him simply. "She stole her magic. She isn't a threat now, but all the mudblood leaders were eleven once. If enough people make her feel unwelcome, perhaps she'll realise she isn't welcome."

"It felt wrong," Gibbon said, lowering his voice. "I should've gone after someone more important. It was a waste of my time. She's eleven. It doesn't feel right. It feels pathetic."

"Take it up with God," Regulus said shortly. "Goodnight, Gibbon."

He'd lain awake for a long while after Gibbon left him. It was true, he reasoned. An eleven-year-old girl could grow into a forty-year-old political radical, demanding that purebloods be forced to intermarry, or that muggles should be permitted to go to Hogwarts. Gibbon was a blithering idiot and a spineless coward. He'd done the right thing. The mudbloods had to get the message; they were not wanted. They could leave and accept their rightful place in the muggle world, ignorant and beneath notice, and live out the rest of their lives without a problem. That was what they had to show them. Being nice to eleven-year-olds would not communicate that.

Snape abused one of the reserve players on the Gryffindor team.

"We've already played Gryffindor," Regulus said to Gibbon. "Couldn't he have taken out one of the Ravenclaws?" Snape's beady eyes fixed on him. Regulus did not care. What good did incapacitating a reserve player of a team they'd already faced do? Snape radiated pride, and for no good reason. It was sheer arrogance.

"Black," Mulciber said warmly, smiling at him. "What did you do?"

He sipped at his drink.

Regulus had found himself out of ideas. He had not dared to admit it to any of his classmates. A week ago, he wrote to Narcissa, asking for her guidance. Bellatrix would insist that he drove someone to the brink of existence, or else that he ought to refuse to take orders from a Mulciber at all. There was also a significant risk that she would laugh at him and report to his parents that he was a snivelling coward. Narcissa wrote him two feet front and back, and not a word of it was cruel to him. She sounded like Mother, but with no underhanded jabs, no pleas for him to come home or to write more often. Narcissa kept her own life to two short, neat paragraphs, and spent the rest of her ink giving him several options of step-by-step plans. He did exactly as she said.

He bent down and pulled two large books from his bag. He set them on the low table. Yaxley arched a pale brow.

"Banned books," Regulus said. Selwyn pulled a face. Wilkes leaned forward, and the shaky yellow candlelight cast his features into sharp contrast. Regulus indicated the first book with one slender finger. "A tome of dark magic. It was written in Hungary. Only ten copies have been translated into English. It has jinxes, hexes, curses, and potions the school would never teach us. And this," he stroked the cover of the other, "is an autobiography by one of Grindelwald's supporters. He was in Grindelwald's inner circle. He is a wizard we should aspire to be like." He had already shown Mulciber, to get his approval.

"And?" Mulciber prompted. Regulus retrieved the pouch from his bag.

"Fifty galleons for our efforts. We are only as good as our equipment." The moneybag joined the books on the table. Selwyn narrowed his eyes. Regulus sat tall and proud. Narcissa had reminded Regulus of what made the Blacks so powerful – they were one of the wealthiest families in England. That was the primary reason winning their allegiance was so important to the Dark Lord. Their coffers ran deep. There was no need for them to get their hands dirty if they did not wish to. They were valuable in ways the others could never dream of being.

"Thank you," said Mulciber. He raised his drink in a silent toast. "I've no doubt that book of magic will come in handy."

"I hope," Regulus said.

"And money will allow us to get more adventurous. Yaxley." The blond looked up. "You've agreed to be our treasurer, haven't you?"

"Certainly," he said. He grabbed the moneybag and slipped it inside his robes.

"And if the rest of you could donate, it would certainly be of use. Your families donate to the Dark Lord, and you donate to us. Together, we further the effort."

Mulciber continued around the circle. The Rosiers had attacked people and vandalised hallways. Rowle destroyed books from the muggle section of the library. Nothing stood out. Yaxley refilled their glasses, and finally, once everyone had spoken, Mulciber handed out copies of the Daily Prophet.

"It's important to keep informed," he told them. "The Dark Lord doesn't send out a weekly round-up. We need to read between the lines. We aren't in direct contact with him now, of course, but we can anticipate what he wants us to be doing by seeing what he is currently instructing his followers to do."

"Shouldn't you know what he's doing?" Goyle grunted. "Doesn't your dad tell you anything?"

"Goyle," Jugson said, "we aren't meant to discuss who works for the Dark Lord. Secrecy."

"Exactly," said Mulciber. "He has no time for idiots with loose tongues."

Regulus and Gibbon shared a copy of the paper. Most of it was exceedingly obvious. Regulus started counting the names of people he knew instead. His father was in a black-and-white photograph of a group of men at a Ministry event, and smiled politely out of the page, occasionally checking his pocket watch. Uncle Cygnus was mentioned in one article, and Narcissa and Lucius posed amongst a large group of young socialites at an auction for St. Mungo's, representing Lucius' grandfather, who had donated several antiques. Narcissa had mentioned it briefly in her letter. In the picture, she and Lucius held hands, and she kept turning her head to look up at him, beaming from ear-to-ear. Lucius looked at her each time she returned her attention to the camera. They looked happier than Regulus had ever seen his parents, or Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella. One day, he supposed, that would have to be him and some girl, representing the Blacks, for Sirius would surely not do it. He would need to write Narcissa for more advice. He hadn't any idea how they managed to look so…enamoured.

"Black!" Gibbon hissed, elbowing him. Regulus shut the paper. Most of the others stood now, talking and laughing. "Yaxley's got wine," Gibbon informed him. "We can have some." Regulus regarded him dubiously. It was a Tuesday evening. But nevertheless, it would be rude not to partake. He set the paper aside and the two of them met Yaxley at the cabinet.

"It's French, of course. Black, here." Yaxley handed him a glass of mauve wine. "Grown by the Delacours."

"Didn't one of them shack up with a veela?" Selwyn grinned lecherously. Yaxley frowned.

"A distant cousin. No more relevant than the Princes are to you," Yaxley said. Snape inhaled sharply. Selwyn scoffed and drained his glass. Yaxley gave Gibbon a glass. Once each member of their little circle had a drink in hand, they toasted.

"Not a fan of the hexes, Black?" Selwyn asked, lips quirking. Regulus clenched his jaw.

"Some of us can only offer our spell-casting abilities," he said evenly. "Some of us have more to offer."

"Some of us have things we can't or are unwilling to offer," Selwyn said. Regulus narrowed his eyes. Yaxley's shoulder brushed Selwyn's.

"Enjoying each other's company?" he smiled thinly.

"Not as much as others'," Selwyn said. "We ought to invite girls. At least for entertainment. We'll consider it come September, won't we?"

"I was under the impression none of them were interested," said Yaxley. Regulus excused himself. Gibbon followed, forever the loyal dog at his heels.

Gibbon muttered something that made him laugh, and he felt a twinge of guilt for that previous assessment.

"But do you really think what we do helps?" Gibbon said, casting a furtive glance around the room.

"Of course," Regulus said, without thinking. It had to. It was about the atmosphere they created; the culture they cultivated. Of course they helped. "Do you doubt it?"

"No," Gibbon said quickly. He pulled at the tight collar of his robes. "No. It's just hard to tell, I guess." He shrugged. "I just like to know we're doing the right thing."

"We are," Regulus said firmly. "You don't have to think about it." With a cold turn in his stomach, he realised he sounded like his mother. It had always been her answer to Sirius' pestering questions. He pursed his lips against the rim of his glass. He wanted to please his mother. He did not want to become her.

It was a thin line to walk.

January 21st, 1976

"All I'm saying is that I think we're underestimating the Cannons," Peter said, buttering his toast. "I've heard they've got a secret coach from Canada helping them in the pre-season."

"That's rubbish, Pete," James said, setting his glass down. He was left with a large white milk moustache. Sirius frowned at him, filled his own glass with milk, and took a big drink. When he finished, the dark stubble shadowing his upper lip had turned as white as Father Christmas'. "The Cannons don't have the money to get in a Canadian coach. Why would they want one from Canada, anyhow? The Japanese had the best coaching of anyone if you ask me, that's who I'd be trying to poach."

"Who did ask you?" Sirius said.

"I saved them from asking," James informed him.

"Because we lack a reason to live if we miss James Potter's off-season quidditch commentary," Remus said, stirring his porridge. He felt better than he had in almost two weeks; finally, his injuries (from the moon and otherwise) were healing enough for him to walk up a flight of stairs without gnashing his teeth. He'd fallen asleep as soon as dinner was finished the night before, and the others had had the sense not to wake him for Astronomy class. He was well aware he would have to make up for the absence, but it was a fair price for making it to seven-thirty in the morning without wanting to tear himself apart or go swimming in pain-relieving potions.

"Pre-season," James corrected, grinning. Remus shrugged. "And yes, you do."

"You should be a commentator when we finish school," Peter suggested. "After you retire from playing, I mean."

"Of course, that's been the plan all along," James assured him.

"And here I was, thinking you'd be living off the profits from all the Witch Weekly After Dark photoshoots," Sirius said.

"Of course not. I'll do those for free. I'm nice, Sirius, I wouldn't let those poor girls go without."

"You're truly God's gift to humanity," Remus said. James winked.

"Yes. And I do do autographs." He wiped off his milk moustache with one finger, turned to Peter, and drew a cross on his forehead. "There you are."

"Bugger off," Peter said, swiping at it.

"Yeah, bugger off, I was matching you," Sirius said crossly, dabbing his upper lip with a napkin.

Above them, the ceiling of the Great Hall showed the clouds parting. A sliver of sun poked through, and with it came a flock of owls, with envelopes clutched in their beaks or scrolls tied to their legs. They swooped down upon the students. A brown owl landed primly at Remus' side. He reached into his pocket, paid it, and took the newspaper.

"I bet there's something in there about the Cannons' new coach," Peter said, leaning across the table. Sirius snorted into his tea. Remus had the distinct impression, given the smell, that it was spiked, though he said nothing.

"I'll keep an eye out," Remus promised. The front page featured a large photograph of Harold Minchum, the Minister for Magic, surrounded by a group of Aurors. 'YEAR OF VICTORY: MINCHUM AND HEAD AUROR SAY 1976 WILL SEE END TO TERROR ATTACKS'. Remus jumped to the quotes.

"What we have now are Aurors who have spent their entire training learning how to deal with these terror attacks. They are entering the field with three years of preparation and specialisation in this area. We cannot imagine that there is a better team of Aurors in the world than what we have here in England," said Head Auror Frank Jordan, who has been working as an Auror for twenty-three years.

"There is no doubt about it, our Aurors are uniquely able to squash these good-for-nothing runamucks," said Minister for Magic Harold Minchum. "I think with the team we have now, 1976 will be our year of victory. I cannot foresee any scenario in which we're dealing with these cowards this time next year. They're a small, unhinged group of radicals, and once they realise that we're ready to deal with them, that we won't back down, they'll be done with. All we've needed this whole time is a strong hand and a forceful approach. I hate to say this, but if Jenkins had taken a firm hand from the start, I don't think it would have ever got this far. But we are where we are and that's why I'm in government."

ON PAGE 12, SEE OUR CONSULTATION WITH A SEER AS TO WHAT THIS YEAR MIGHT LOOK LIKE. FOR MORE ON MINCHUM'S NEW BILL, SEE PAGE 23.

"I don't believe a word he says," James scowled, pressing his head against the table to read as Remus flipped the page. Remus pulled it off and handed it to him. James took it, frowning deeply. "He's a right wanker. I bet with all this, they end up locking up half a dozen innocent people, while two dozen more get murdered."

"Yeah," Peter agreed, nodding furiously.

"We'll be lucky if the numbers are that low," Sirius muttered darkly. "It's only going to get worse. They aren't scared of Minchum. They've got half the donors of the Ministry on their side. The longer it takes the Ministry to act properly, the longer they have to get themselves together, to get recruits. Think about it." Sirius stabbed a sausage. "Once June comes, they'll get all those seventh-year losers from Slytherin added to their ranks. They're building an army."

"What?" Remus looked up from the page, staring at Sirius. Sirius shrugged.

"So you don't think Minchum'll get it under control?" Peter asked anxiously.

"The question is what we do if Voldemort gets an army," James said, rubbing his face and grimacing. As if that was a reasonable question. Remus drummed his fingers against the table. It sounded absurd. In the wizarding world, armies were restricted to goblin rebellions and risings and Grindelwald's takeover (which they really only touched on). The muggles were more familiar with the idea. Remus' grandfather had been killed in a muggle war when his mother had been younger than Remus was now.

"An army?" Peter repeated faintly. Remus turned the pages of the Prophet until he found the quidditch section, which he promptly pulled out and shoved in front of them.

"Cannons," he said. Peter scrambled to grab it. Remus' ears rang softly. Don't think about it. How could he not? He gritted his teeth. More stories; the Wizengamot was sitting; a celebrity had married; an American politician had died. Towards the back, the stories were longer, elaborations on what had been printed in earlier issues. One dove deep into accusations of Goblin misconduct in Spain. He skimmed it.

"Where does it say anything about Canada?" James asked. Sirius knelt on his seat to lean across the table and cluster his head around James' and Peter's.

"You have to read between the lines," Peter said.

"Ah. So we're looking for an implication of a Canadian coach?" Sirius asked.

Remus' face froze.

WEREWOLF-WEARY FAMILIES LEFT UNHEARD, UNCOMPENSATED, AND UNHEALED

By Guest Writer

Werewolves have ravaged innocent families over the past year, with several scarred for life, six turned, and four dead, and the Ministry of Magic has left these families in the lurch with limited support and limited empathy.

It was critical of the Ministry. No wonder it had been relegated to the back. Six turned. He would bet on his life it was an under-estimate. Those six would be the ones who had been left unconscious, who had the scene swarmed by Magical Law Enforcement or Aurors, whose families had taken them to St. Mungo's without a second thought, and who had been forced to register and turn themselves in every month to transform in a cage in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Remus had read about it several times. He himself was not registered, but while he was under seventeen, it was his parents – his father, mostly, they would dismiss his mother is an ignorant muggle – who would face the brunt of the punishment. Once he turned seventeen, he was liable to register himself. If your parents did not register you and you were caught, you would be forced to register and your parents would be fined. If you did not register yourself, you would be registered and given a stint in Azkaban. If you attacked someone, you were put down. Werewolves were only beasts, in the end. It was the only part of the legislation around werewolves that Remus agreed with. If he attacked someone, he thought, he would do the Ministry's job for them.

He read on, throat tight.

Terror attacks are on the rise, despite Minchum's promises, and werewolves are certainly doing their part, with an 18 per cent increase in reported werewolf attacks throughout the United Kingdom in the past year. Victims have been left reeling and in need of support, both financial and psychological, but it seems the Ministry of Magic and St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries are unwilling or unable to repair the damage done by these vicious beasts.

K, who wishes to remain anonymous, had her home invaded late last year by a small pack of werewolves. She and her family made it through without being killed or turned, but her youngest son, not yet old enough to attend Hogwarts, lost his wand arm. She is deeply concerned about her son's future, and how her family can heal.

"We don't even know if he'll be able to be a proper wizard," she confessed, teary-eyed. "Nobody's answered our questions about it. Will his magic work as well if it's coming from his other arm? I can't sleep at night. The littlest noise gets me up. My daughter has nightmares that won't stop. St. Mungo's turned us away. We aren't high priority. The Ministry won't give us any compensation. They never caught the monsters who ruined our lives. We'll never get justice. They won't tell us anything about the investigation, they won't let us access the Registry to see who's on there. I don't know if I walk past them every day. I don't know if I work with the man who destroyed my son. I don't know if I make tea for him."

A representative for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures spoke to us about the Werewolf Registry and the ongoing investigation.

"We aren't permitted to publicly release the names on the Registry. So long as these individuals come to us each full moon to be locked up and co-operate with us, we have to keep their identities private. We've spoken to this family, and I'll say it again: no werewolf registered with the Ministry failed to present for isolation that full moon. We need the public to be aware of rogue packs, who represent the largest threat to the community. These are the ones who have not registered and whose identities are unknown to us. It is frightening that they're out in the community, and that's why we're working to round them up."

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries declined to comment.

Angus Macdougal, an independent werewolf hunter of eleven years, spoke to us about the likelihood of catching rogue werewolves, why attacks haven't always been on the full moons, and what consequences these beasts can expect to face.

Remus did not need a reminder. However, he was curious about what this 'hunter' had to say about the full moons. It was a scenario that clawed at Remus' pulse. How could a werewolf attack when the moon wasn't full? He'd dreamed of it, foolishly, though it wasn't as if he had any control over what he saw in his sleep. It was a nightmare; nails lengthening in the middle of Transfiguration class, bones breaking through his skin; total loss of control. He'd wanted to scream for them to run, all of them to run, but James had tried to pat him and told him it was going to be okay. He was the first to go, in a mangle of hair and glasses and blood, flailing limbs. Remus had to know if it was possible. If it was likely. He glanced at his friends, bickering over quidditch, and wondered if he ought to be in a school at all.

Those were the kind of thoughts that drove him to lock himself in the dormitory bathroom. His stomach went hollow. He forced himself to read the quote.

"They're slippery. Hard to catch most of the month. How can you tell a werewolf when it's playing human dress-up? That's the trick, isn't it? There're a few tell-tale signs. They can't hold a steady job – an employer would notice them being gone every month, wouldn't they? They have scars in funny places. Keep to themselves. Invite a bloke to the pub every night, see if he comes. If he keeps saying no, look up in the sky and think about what it is he might be doing. And most of them – they know deep down what they're doing is wrong. Bitten, not bred, aren't they? Look for the guilt. Look in the whites of their eyes. That's where they keep it.

"They're supposed to only come out on the full moon, but some of them – well, some of them like to act quicker. Don't like sitting around, like. Dunno what it is. A potion, maybe. But it's deliberate, isn't it? No doubt about it."

Remus exhaled loudly.

"Alright?" James asked, glasses askew, grinning.

"Not a fan of the Canada theory?" Sirius smirked. "Don't you agree he's secretly a moose Animagus?" Remus blinked, orientating himself. The Cannons. That was it.

"Animagus?" he asked sceptically. "I doubt a quidditch coach could turn himself into an animal. We would've heard about a quidditch coach registering himself as moose. I also doubt that a moose would somehow be less suspicious coming through the Portkey Exchange than a normal wizard."

"Not all animagi are registered," Sirius shrugged. Annoyance flashed across James' face. And Remus was supposed to be the stickler for the rules.

"So you support the theory?"

"Of course not, Wormy came up with it."

"Oi!" Peter's cheeks glowed red.

Remus' tea was cold. The Registry. Once he signed his name, it would be a cold, dark cell that awaited him each month, not the Shack or the creaking attack at home. He hadn't considered it so concretely before. What would happen while he remained at Hogwarts? Would he have to leave for London every month? He'd turn seventeen next year; he'd have…thirteen or so moons as an adult, legally, while he was still at school. If they allowed him to continue his schooling. He was the first werewolf to study at Hogwarts; it was exceptionally rare for a child to be turned. Mostly, if attacked, they died. Would the Ministry see it as a risk to leave him surrounded by students – by potential victims?

He wouldn't know until he registered.

That was the question, then.

He'd never cared about the Cannons less.

January 22nd, 1976

Sirius was taking advantage of their spare to have a lie-in, and Remus and Peter were furrowed over homework, so James wandered through the corridors alone. His Invisibility Cloak was stuffed in one pocket, just in case, and his wand was in the other. He was mostly concerned with the bit of parchment he had in front of him, though, and how bloody difficult it was to walk and draw at the same time without putting his quill through the scroll. It was a nightmare. Next time, he decided, he was going to get one of them to levitate a desk for him to lean on. James paused. That gave him an idea.

They'd agreed that today he'd try to get a good portion of the ground floor done before Charms. It was the third time they'd attempted mapping the floor. It wasn't any fault of their own that made their hard work useless; it was the fact that as soon as they put it all together and thought of it as a map of Hogwarts, the ink melted away. The castle's enchantments were strong. There had to be some kind of way around it, but they hadn't figured it out yet. In the meantime, it was worth another shot. And he was glad of something else to focus on.

The first round of the International Transfiguration Tournament – the round that would decide if he was to represent Hogwarts – was only two days away. He wasn't nervous, no way, but the anticipation was starting to have a bite. He woke up every morning like he had quidditch practice, and spent his first two hours of the day in the common room, taking advantage of the quiet before everyone was up. By lunch, he barely had enough energy to light the tip of his wand and touch it to the end of a cigarette. But now, he could do Switching Spells in his sleep, and it was no work at all to vanish Peter's shoe and reconjure it – and most of the time, he got the size and colour right. James tucked his quill behind his ear and pulled out his wand. He aimed it at a nearby bench.

"Geminio," he said, and flicked his wand. He ran through the maths in his head, gritted his teeth, focused, felt a tug in his gut, and –

Another bench appeared, identical to the scratches and carved initials on its face. James relaxed. Brilliant. If he could duplicate that, he could duplicate nearly any inanimate object. Now for the next challenge. More maths. He did a quick spell to check the mass of the object and then waved his wand.

"Evanesco." With a great effort, the duplicated bench vanished into non-existence. Good that.

He tucked his wand back into his pocket and crossed his eyes as he drew two straight lines, parallel to each other. He kept his mind elsewhere. What was Peter on about this morning…? I need to check up on Lisbete, tell her all about the trip. And I should go see McGonagall about that wand movement… James scrawled circles and rectangles and lines and tried to keep himself focused on anything else. The moment he thought too hard about what he was doing…well, that was when it tended to go to crap. The castle wasn't a fan of being written down.

James turned down another corridor, trying to keep himself unfocused. The grounds stretched green and surprisingly pleasant beyond a nearby window. Good quidditch conditions. He had training in the evening, so that'd be handy. He squiggled another line across the page. Quidditch tonight, class tomorrow, and the Tournament on Saturday. McGonagall gave him permission to miss quidditch practice to go to the Tournament instead. He'd go to her office after breakfast, to meet her and his competitors. She'd kept mostly tight-lipped about who he would be facing. They wanted to minimise the chance of inter-student interference. Or intimidation. Honestly, though, unless it was Snape, why would he intimidate them? And nobody in their right mind would enter Snape in the competition. If he somehow fluked himself into representing England, he'd end up making the country a laughingstock. After he met the others, they'd be given disused classrooms to practise in until it was time to compete. They went first, then the Junior Intermediates – older sixth and seventh years.

So he had a little over forty-eight hours to prepare. He'd be fine, obviously, but still. He usually couldn't care less about stupid school things, but this wasn't an exam or some dud assignment. The Tournament would be held in the Great Hall for an audience of the staff, some Ministry representatives, and as many students as could be bothered to come along. It was more like a match than an exam. All his mates would be in the crowd, and Lisbete and her friends, and probably a handful of Slytherins. He didn't want to look like a tosser. Lisbete was making a sign for him. If he didn't win by much, it'd be embarrassing for her as well as him. Who wanted a loser boyfriend?

He flexed his fingers until his knuckles cracked and drew another line. The lines were beginning to resemble detailed, patterned tubes. Save for getting into the classrooms to make sure he got the size spot-on, he was nearly finished with the ground floor. All he had left were the classrooms, the staff room, and Filch's office, which he was going to use the Cloak for. He could probably do it now, but he reckoned he was too tense. He'd give it away. The last thing he needed was a detention from Filch on top of the rest of it.

He glanced out the window. The sky was high and clear. A gentle breeze ruffled the grass. It was the nicest day they'd had in ages. Fuck it. He tucked the parchment in his robes and left through the back doors, heading down to the hut on the edge of the forest.

Hagrid opened as soon as he knocked, and a smile split the dark tangles of his beard.

"James Potter," he beamed. "C'mon in. Do yeh wan' tea?"

"That'd be wicked," James said. A roaring fire warmed James to his bones, making him glad he hadn't bothered with a cloak. A kettle squealed on the stove, and Hagrid grabbed a tray of lumpy biscuits and offered him one. "Cheers," James said, taking one. He bit into it. For a moment, he thought his teeth were going to break. His jaw hurt. He managed to work a small mouthful off the edge without actually using his teeth. It tasted of chalk. He should've remembered to be careful with Hagrid's cooking.

"D'yeh like it?" Hagrid asked cheerfully, sitting down. Crusher jumped onto the stout couch and looked up at him. His tail beat the dust out of the cushions. James flopped down and threw an arm around him. Crusher rewarded him with a lick up the chops.

"Fantastic," James said. Crusher sniffed the biscuit, and James held it above his head, out of reach. Hagrid grabbed two chipped cups from the cupboard and made two cups of tea.

"No classes this mornin', then?" Hagrid asked, handing him a cup. James shook his head. He nearly gagged on the tea, which was sweeter than anything he'd eaten from Honeydukes. It was, bluntly, awful. And James was someone who liked his tea on the sweeter side.

"Nah," he said, swallowing the mouthful. Crusher whined. He juggled the biscuit into his mouth, his tea into his free hand, and his other hand scratched behind Crusher's ears. He couldn't talk. He leaned over, nearly dropping the biscuit out of his mouth, and put the tea on the table. He grabbed the biscuit, now slicked with spit, and shuddered at the foul aftertaste. "You've heard of the Transfiguration Tournament, right?"

"'Course I have," Hagrid said. "An' I heard yeh'll be in it, won't yeh?"

"Yeah," James said. He wondered if Hagrid would notice if he fed Crusher the biscuit. "It's on Saturday."

"I know. Did yeh think I wouldn' be comin' to watch? Like a good tournament, meself. Bettin' on yeh." James reckoned Hagrid would bet on anything that moved. He wondered if he and Bagman knew each other. He could see that getting pretty vicious.

"Well, I won't let you down," James smiled easily, moving the biscuit closer to Crusher. Hagrid took a large swig of tea, and James shoved the biscuit into the dog's mouth, who appeared to swallow it whole. He then clapped his hand over his mouth, and mimed chewing. He had to make a convincing go of it.

"Yeh've got a plan, then?" Hagrid asked, leaning forward. James swallowed nothing, ruffled his hair, and grinned.

"'Course," he said. His plan was to get decent at as many spells as possible, and then pull them off as quickly as possible. And…yeah. He'd never been much for strategy, even in quidditch. If you had a good arsenal of tools, you could just grab what you needed when you needed it. "You know me."

"I do," Hagrid agreed, beaming through his whiskers. "I know yeh'll win, James. Yeh've got i' in yeh. Couldn' imagine yeh not winnin'."

"'Cause it's a ridiculous thought," James said, slinging his ankle over his knee, leaning back. "I always win, when I want to."

"Yeh've got a migh'y opinion of yerself, haven' yeh?" Hagrid said, scratching his chin. James shrugged and ruffled his hair again. He tried to look lie he'd never cared less in his life, because, really, it was only a stupid school competition, and it was an easy win. He was expected to win. He had to win.

"Yeah," he said. "Earned it, though." James laughed loudly. Hagrid swigged more tea. James scratched Crusher's back. His smile only faltered for a moment.

January 23rd, 1976

After a long battle, the prefects had finally voted, sixteen to eight, to keep a stout yellow box of teabags on the table in their meeting room. It now laid on its side, tucked behind the ornate floral teapot favoured by the traditionalists – that was, the purists and the Divination-obsessed. Lily moved the teapot out of the way and straightened the box. With a quick spell, the kettle boiled, and she made herself a cup. She leaned against the table while she waited, squeezing her eyes shut. They watered slightly. She wished she knew how to apparate. She wanted to appear in her bed, crawl under the covers, and fall into oblivion. But even when the meeting was finished, she had a pile of homework waiting for her. Practice makes perfect, the teachers harped. Practice makes me want to steal a broom and run off to France. She'd never make it that far on a broom. Heights made her squeamish. Still, France would be nice. One day.

The slam of the door interrupted her brief respite.

"Sorry," said Remus, rubbing the back of his neck. Alice Rhysfield, from her seat at the head of the table, waved her hand airily.

"It's fine, it's only us," she said. "Sit down, Lupin." Lily took her mug of tea and took her place next to Marcus. Remus sat on her other side. Alice frowned. "Get yourself some tea, Lupin," she ordered.

"I'm fine, thank you," he said, politely. Alice shrugged. The Gryffindor prefects had the meeting room to themselves – it was a Friday evening, and nobody else cared to hang around filling out reports on a Friday. They surrounded one end of a knobbly wooden table, and Frank had unrolled a scroll of parchment. He had his fingers around a quill, ready to take the minutes. Behind Alice was an ornate filing cabinet, organised by school year and term, going back to when the seventh years had started at Hogwarts. Aside from that, one shelf held twelve humungous leather-bound books, detailing every school rule and decision made by the Board of Governors, as well as all the stipulations regarding quidditch, extra-curriculars, and trips. Desks equipped with jars of quills and ink in every colour lined the longer walls, save for a space for a table where they kept their tea and biscuits.

"Accio biscuits," Alice said. She caught the blue tin expertly and set it down on the table. Frank lifted the lid off with his free hand and grinned.

"It's nice to see a tin with biscuits in it," he said, taking one. "At home, I go for shortbread and end up with a spool and needle."

"Sounds delicious," said Remus. Frank laughed. They all took a biscuit – Lily dipped hers in her tea – and then Alice cleared her throat. Frank eagerly scrawled a title across the top of the parchment.

"So," she said, clasping her hands together. "Happy team meeting, folks. McLaggen here suggested we should get together, have a bit of a self-examination for the new year."

"It's nearly the end of January," Laura Vickers said mildly, adjusting the orange clip in her hair.

"Are you wearing Hufflepuff colours to a Gryffindor meeting?" Alice asked sharply. Laura shrugged. "Anyways, new year, same old us, until September, at least, then you lot will have new sprogs to contend with and Frank and I will be free as birds. But. Point of the matter is, the sooner we figure out what we'd like to do in these next six months, the sooner we can get on with our Friday nights. So. Any concerns, queries, suggestions?" She rested her hands on the table. Frank scribbled away dutifully. He was a good boyfriend, Lily thought appraisingly. Alice's perfect sidekick.

"Well," Laura started, twirling a lock of black hair around her finger, "the quidditch team is training really hard. I know we don't play until March, but if we can keep up everyone's support, that'd be great," she said. Alice nodded.

"Yes, of course. We all love quidditch." Marcus' expression flickered. Lily furrowed her brows in question, leaning forward to catch his eye. He said nothing, but turned his palm up and laid it on the table. What do you think? "Well, if that's all-?"

"Have you got somewhere to be?" Remus asked. His expression was polite, but Lily's lips twitched.

"As a matter of fact, we do have a date planned," Frank informed them, grinning as he wrote away. "Alice, should I include-?"

"No," she said quickly. "Prefects in five years don't need to read this bit."

"Did you know that they're working on a quill that will be able to transcribe speech on its own?" Marcus said. "They believe it will be available in a year or so for public use."

"Fascinating," Alice said blithely. "But really, is there anything else? All I can think of is that Remus, your friends, Potter and company, have lost us at least five-hundred points this year. Your whole job is to babysit them, alright?" Remus was silent for a long moment.

"James and Sirius aren't easily babysat," he said. No, Lily agreed, but they're fifteen and sixteen years old and still in need of one, so you'll have to do.

"Well, good thing you're up for the challenge, Lupin," Alice said. "McLaggen, Evans, anything to table?"

Marcus thumbed his badge. "I've been thinking," he began, softly, but soon enough he was five minutes in and passionately proclaiming his support for increasing the number of detentions. What a stick-in-the-mud, Lily thought, though she had to admit robbing Potter of a few more Saturdays could only be good for their standing in the House Cup. She hadn't seen Marcus so passionate before, though he kept himself well-restrained. A vein in his neck throbbed as he spoke, and his brown, slender hands kneaded together.

"Okay," Alice interjected. "Thank you, Marcus. We'll put it to a vote. Those in favour?" She didn't raise her hand. Marcus did. Lily chewed her lip, hesitated, and put her hand up too. They were outnumbered anyways, so it made no difference, but she didn't want him to feel like he was on his own. He was a decent sort, just a little…overzealous. Remus raised his eyebrows at her. Lily gave him a cool look. His role – albeit small – in tormenting Sev was still fresh in her mind. You're a crap nanny, Remus, she thought.

"Well. Sorry," Alice said. Frank dutifully noted the results. Marcus and Lily put their hands down. Marcus straightened his tie.

"It's fine. We're a democratic society," he said. Alice shrugged, and turned her brown eyes on Lily.

"Lily?" she said, raising her pale brows. "It's not like you to be quiet."

"I'm tired," Lily said, automatically. A yawn rippled through her, as if to prove her point. It was true. She'd tossed and turned for most of the night, trapped in dreams of dungeons and leaping flames and the illustrations from Daemonologie they'd seen in History of Magic and Mrs Simmons at the end of a long tunnel, clawing at her face, while Jane lurked in the shadows, shaking her head, and turned to Severus. She'd given up on sleep at five in the morning and went down to the common room to struggle over a battered copy of Northanger Abbey.

"You really don't have two bobs' worth to add?" Alice asked sceptically. Lily gathered herself.

"I do," she said. "Hang on." Her brain fuzzed. "Oh. I was thinking about the fundraiser that the Ravenclaws put on – I thought they did a nice thing, you know. And with everything that's been happening-" – the attacks – "I think the house could do with a bit of a collective goal to work towards. And I think…It's easy to feel useless with everything in the news, with people – getting hurt, so if we can do something sort of tangible to help people…I think it'd be an idea." Five pairs of eyes stared at her. She bit her lip and shrugged. "Or not."

"No, I think it's a good idea," Alice said, after a long moment. She grabbed a biscuit. "You just got far more thoughtful than I expect anyone to be during one of these meetings on a Friday night. All I've been thinking about is…" Frank laughed, and she cleared her throat pointedly. "Going to bed." Lily looked between Alice and Frank. Yes, she thought, they'll be going to bed, alright. She vowed to never date another prefect.

"I think it's a good idea, too," said Marcus, smiling warmly at her. "If the Ravenclaws can do it, why can't we? And I agree that we need to come together, somehow."

"I don't think a market would work as well for us," Remus said slowly. "Erm – I expect we'd just get done for reselling Zonko's products. Or Firewhisky." Marcus frowned. Lily pressed her lips into a tight smile, trying not to laugh.

"Or worse," Alice said blithely. "Selling products is off the table, we have too many opportunists."

"We could do a sponsored fly-around," Laura said, dark eyes bright. "You know, our best flyers agree to do, say, a hundred laps of the pitch, and people can put in a couple of knuts to support them!" Remus hid his expression with his hand. Marcus' frown deepened. Frank stuck his bottom lip out thoughtfully.

"Nobody wants to see someone fly around a pitch a hundred times, Laura," Alice said. Remus' hand fell away to reveal a grimace.

"James would like it," he said.

"All the more reason not to do it," Alice said. Lily snorted. "Quidditch, people might be interested in, but we don't have enough players and reserves for an exhibition match, do we?" Laura shook her head.

"We could offer lessons," she suggested. Remus rubbed the back of his neck. Marcus looked at Lily, and she at him. His eyebrows twitched downwards. Hers twitched upwards.

"Let's just throw quidditch off the table," Alice said. "Three people here," she indicated Lily, Marcus, and Remus, "hate quidditch, and Frank and I like watching it but don't play."

"I don't hate quidditch," Lily said, feeling bad for Laura, who folded her arms across her chest. She didn't hate it, she just hated being fifty feet above the ground with only a small bit of wood preventing her from falling to her death and only cared about the house matches insofar as it was an opportunity for Gryffindor to win. The games themselves were dreadfully boring when nobody was near the goal hoops and the snitch was nowhere to be found. She didn't care for twelve hours of it.

"What are your ideas, then?" Laura asked, leaning back. Alice got out of her seat and made for the bookshelf. She skimmed her finger along the volumes of school rules and pulled out the fifth. She slammed it on the desk so hard that they jumped. Frank's inkpot spilled. He swore.

"We should check what we can't do first," Alice said. She wrenched open the book and flipped through the pages. Frank cleaned up the spilled ink and scratched his chin.

"No obstacle courses," he said.

"No," Alice agreed. "Honestly, why did they want to give money to the Bats of all teams?" Lily supposed they meant Gryffindor's infamous last fundraiser, which had been held before she'd started at Hogwarts and had involved pretty much robbing the Slytherins and several duels.

"We won't be donating to a quidditch team this time?" Marcus asked.

"I vote 'no' on donating to a quidditch team," said Lily.

"Here," Alice said, heaving a sigh. She tapped a page of rules with her finger. "So. We are not allowed to offer services that are sexual in nature or involve the grievous bodily harm or death of another student."

"But we can psychologically harm them," Remus said.

"That sounds like a plan," said Lily. "A sickle for us to traumatise an enemy of your choosing."

"Lily, you said this was to make people feel useful because people are being traumatised. We don't need to contribute," Alice said, in her usual matter-of-fact way.

"That's true," Lily said, and she forced a laugh to go with it, but her insides turned to ice. She shrivelled. You don't think that's how the Slytherins – no, not all the Slytherins, but those boys, isn't that how they think about it? Like a game? Alice was right. You should know better. She kept her eyes on the table.

"We are not allowed to sell illicit substances of any kind, including illicit potions. We may not offer to teach dark magic to another or to use dark magic on someone's behalf. We are not allowed to harm or murder beasts or spirits."

"How would we murder a spirit?" Laura asked. Alice shrugged.

"Where there's a will, there's a way, I'm sure. We are not permitted to enslave a being, beast, or spirit as a service, or to sell already-enslaved creatures, beings, or spirits. We cannot destroy property or assist in the destruction of property in order to raise money."

"Only for pleasure," Remus nodded.

"We cannot offer services that will help students break a school rule or any laws as set down by the Ministry of Magic. We cannot sell medicinal potions in larger quantities than what is stipulated in legislature. We cannot offer services as a religious or spiritual healer. We cannot perform amputation, surgery, or use a mind-altering spell or potion on another student even with their consent."

"Does all this really need to be said?" Marcus asked. Lily thumbed the wooden tabletop.

"I suppose the rules exist because somebody, at some point, did do one of those things," she said quietly.

"Anyone stupid enough to ask another student to amputate one of their limbs as part of a fundraising effort is stupid enough to deserve it," Remus said.

Alice went on with the exhaustive list for a good five minutes, and Lily drained her mug of tea and got herself back to normal.

"Did that rule anything out?" Lily asked, after a long silence. "Were we planning on selling slaves or becoming assassins?"

"Well, we're all on the same page, now," Alice said briskly. "Have we any ideas?"

"We could always just man donation buckets," Marcus said. Lily cocked her head to one side, focusing on him. It seemed probable that he was the only one with more than a smidgeon of sensibility and practicality on their prefect team. It was kind of a shame he was doomed to be outnumbered.

"I think you're all underestimating the draw of quidditch," Laura huffed.

"We could host a duelling competition," Remus said. His expression was mild, but there was a glint in his eye that reminded Lily of Potter and Black. They'd rubbed off on him.

"We could do a show," Frank grinned. Alice swatted at him. "You could show off your singing skills, Al, I'm sure-"

"Bastard," Alice said. "You know, I can make this meeting go all night-"

"You'd be as disappointed as I would be."

"I can get by without, because I'm not a boy." Laura's face rumpled in disgust. Remus' eyebrows disappeared into his hair. Marcus' dark skin got a ghoulish green edge to it. Lily cleared her throat.

"I think a song and dance would bring plenty of attention," she said. "What about a boys' choir?"

"No," said Remus, firmly, as Marcus said, "I think that could be a good experience."

"A dance." Alice got a dreamy look on her face. "You know, Hogwarts hasn't had a dance in a good twenty years or so. They used to have them in Hogsmeade – they stopped the year we were finally allowed to go, didn't they, Frank?"

Laura leaned forward. "A dance-dance?" Lily could see it at once; dresses and drinks and spinning around with her friend. In her mind, it was something out of a Jane Austen novel.

"That'd be cool," Lily said. "We could theme it."

"We could decorate the Great Hall," Laura murmured.

"No." Remus looked deathly pale. "I – we'd lose half our potential donors," he said.

"Why?" Alice asked.

"Well, why would any boy go?" he said. Frank laughed. He sat upright, pausing his transcription for a minute.

"Lupin," he said. "Have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"No," Remus said.

"Well, a girl you like." Remus said nothing. Lily arched a curious eyebrow. Had Remus liked a girl before? She'd never heard any rumours about it, even in the days when crushes became known within a day of when they'd started. Maybe Potter, Black, and Peter were better secret-keepers than she'd given them credit for. Though Black had wasted no time in telling her that James had had a crush on her. Again. And again. And again. "Every boy with any brains will be there to try to impress whoever he's keen on. The girls will make it into such an event that the boys will have to go."

"How stereotypical," Alice said dryly. "But I suppose that's the crux of it."

"Some young men just enjoy an evening of traditional fun," Marcus said.

"So we're agreed then?" Alice asked. "A dance? Lily, the fundraiser was your idea, what do you think?"

A dance. It would give them something to look forward to, that much was certain. It was something exciting and without a dark edge, the way their excursion to Auld Kirk Green had been trimmed with the tragedy of the history. There was nothing mournful or frightening about a dance. "I think it's a great idea."

A/N: Thank you guys for your continued support! I love and appreciate every single person who reads this. Y'all make my day. If you ever want to find out more about this fic or ask any questions, head on over to my tumblr, ohmygodshesinsane! Be warned: there's a lot of Taylor Swift on there.