Creature Comfort

by ohmygodshesinsane

Look, James is trying not to be an arrogant twat. Lily's been given the role of 'swot', but she has other ideas. Sirius would love to have a normal family, honestly, as would Remus. Severus wants to leave his muggle heritage behind, and Peter is sick of being left out. Growing up is hard at the best of times, and these? These are the worst of times. [1975-1981]

37. somersaults

A/N: Heyo! Trigger warning for lots of profanity (probably more than usual), some mild magical violence (nobody really gets hurt), underage drinking, smoking, and implied drug use, mentions of death/violence, referenced/implied slut-shaming, and a bit of sensory overload. It's also a very long chapter.

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January 24th, 1976

James woke earlier than usual. When he looked out the window, there was not yet even a smudge of grey along the horizon. A rich, velvet blue sky loomed imperious above the world. The night reduced distant mountain peaks to dark, pointed shadows. The forest clustered in a tangle of gnarled branches. Cool air curled its fingers around his neck. He poured himself a glass of water and sat at the desk between Remus and Sirius' beds. Peter had left a half-written letter to his mother out. James set it to one side. He drained his water. His friends would be asleep for another two hours, at least, and Sirius probably another four. James rubbed his face and adjusted his glasses. There was no way he could get back to sleep. They'd been up til midnight, with Lisbete and Cathy too, playing cards and drinking copious amounts of Firewhisky (well, Lisbete hadn't, but the rest of them made a go of it). At best, he had four hours sleep. But he couldn't do it. He'd tossed and turned, and the sheets stuck to his sweaty skin. It was no good.

He grabbed his wand, the Cloak, and a pack of cigarettes before he crept out of his dormitory. He stopped on the landing, holding a cigarette between his lips, and lit it with the tip of his wand. He tucked his wand into his pocket, took a long drag, and exhaled. It steadied him, a little. He headed down the stairs to the common room, which he expected to be empty. Who else would be up at four in the morning on a Saturday?

Lily Evans.

He stopped dead, two steps from the ground. Lily sat on the plump red sofa closest to the fire with her knees pulled up, in pink-and-white striped pyjamas and a blue bathrobe draped around her. Both her hands wrapped round a mug. Strands of dark red hair escaped her bun and trickled down the back of her neck.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke. She looked up. The dwindling light of the fire caught the green of her eyes.

"Potter?" she frowned. He stepped down the last two stairs and crossed to the sofa. He took another drag and blew the smoke upwards, away from her. She kept frowning.

"Morning," he said. One of her legs fell to the side, foot tucking behind her ankle, making a neat triangle. He rested his free hand on the back of the sofa.

"You're up early," she said.

"So are you." Lily shrugged, and sipped her tea.

"You aren't meant to smoke in here," she informed him softly. It was his turn to shrug.

"Are you going to take points?" he asked. Lily turned her face away from him. It was deathly quiet. The coals in the fireplace whispered a crackle, but aside from that, only his and Lily's breaths filled the silence. He returned his cigarette to his lips, draped the Cloak over the back of the sofa, and sat down next to her.

Her eyes flashed up to meet his.

"Would it stop you?" she asked, finally. He turned his head to exhale, lips twisting in a smile.

"No," he said. She rolled her eyes.

"Well." She drank more of her tea. James dragged again. The common room was very still. He was all the more aware that they were the only living creatures in it. Notices hung primly from a corkboard, chess pieces slumbered where they stood on boards, a textbook lay open on a desk, collecting dust.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, just to say something.

"Something like that," she said. She drew her leg back up away from him, confining herself to her cushion. He waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't. So he plunged in again.

"I'm in a competition tomorrow," he told her. "Well, today, I s'pose. The transfiguration one. I'm going to win. Are you coming?" She regarded him with narrow, catlike eyes.

"Do you really believe you're bound to win? That it's guaranteed?" she asked. "Is it impossible that anyone could ever beat the great James Potter?"

The question disconcerted him. "Of course," he said, and pulled more smoke into his lungs. She swirled her tea and finished the last of it. She set it down on the square side table and stretched her legs out. Pink socks disappeared into the ankles of her pyjama bottoms. She had her shirt buttoned up to the very top, and they looked at him like pink eyes.

"I don't get the smoking thing," she said, after a long moment. "I get drinking. I get drugs. They make you feel different. But by all accounts, a cigarette doesn't get you inebriated. What's the point? Is it just to make you look cool?" Two lines formed between her eyebrows. She looked awfully serious.

So he laughed. "I guess it was at the start," he allowed. "We were the coolest kids in third year."

"I didn't think you were cool," Lily scowled.

"I know. But you and Snape were the only ones." His teeth grazed the filter of his cigarette. "I dunno. It's hard to explain." He tilted his head to one side, looking at her. "Do you want to try?" He was only half-teasing. The idea of Lily Evans smoking a cigarette, in the common room, no less, seemed incredibly weird. Like a manticore doing ballet.

Her eyes shifted to the glowing end of his cigarette.

"Fine," she said. He blinked. She gave him an expectant look. "Go on, then."

"Er, right," he said. He inhaled deeply, took the cigarette between his pointer and middle fingers, and exhaled. He passed it to her. She took it with the same grip he'd used.

"My friends at home all smoke," she told him. "I went back last summer and they were all doing it." She was very matter of fact; almost blasé. He found himself searching for self-righteousness and coming up short.

"And you didn't take it up?" he asked.

"I don't succumb to peer pressure as easily as you do," she told him, smiling.

"Right," he said. She looked back at the cigarette, and then at him. "Just breathe in deep," he said. "You'll probably pull it into the bottom of your throat first. Breathe in deeper again after that. Get it to the bottom of your lungs."

"If you laugh at me, I'll kill you," she warned. Lily put the cigarette between her pink lips, got a look of intense concentration on her face, and breathed in. He watched, transfixed. Her eyes widened for a moment, and then her lips parted, cautiously. A small swirl of grey came out. She gave him a very tremendous look, almost confused, and then a cough wracked her. He snorted into his sleeve. She glared.

"What d'you think?" he asked. She made a face.

"How am I meant to tell from that?" she said. He shrugged, chuckling.

"Do you want one to yourself?" he asked. She tilted her head to one side thoughtfully, chewing her lip.

"No," she said slowly. "But can I have another go?"

"Knock yourself out." She nodded, and brought the cigarette to her lips once more. She inhaled steadily, shut her eyes as she held it, and opened them as she exhaled. It was shaky, but she only coughed once. James' eyes creased. "That was better."

"Still decidedly amateur," Lily said. She passed it back to him. He held it to his lips. He could taste her – well, the tea she'd drunk. Earl Grey. And it was still warm where her mouth had cupped around it. It was like a kiss. He tightened.

"So," he said. "Do you miss them? Your mates from home? Er -" He couldn't remember where it was she lived. Somewhere northern-ish. Her eyebrows briefly darted upwards.

"Cokeworth?" she supplied. He nodded, inhaling. Her gaze dropped. "Yeah. I miss them while I'm gone, but – it's worse when I'm there. I don't know. It sounds stupid." James didn't know that he understood. He was always overjoyed to reunite with his mates at King's Cross when they headed off for school, even if had only been a few days without seeing them.

"It's not stupid," he said, but he supposed he couldn't guarantee that. Still. Lily wasn't stupid, so he didn't see how anything she felt could be. He breathed out smoke. She looked at him, front teeth grazing her lip. He handed it back to her. She put it to her lips immediately and took a deep breath.

"They're all done with school, or nearly," Lily said. "They'll do their O-levels and then that's it for them. They'll do a typing course or go get a job or something, and move on with their lives, and I'll still be here. They'll think I'm a child." Smoke curled as she spoke. She handed it back. "One of them's having a baby, you know. Sue."

"A baby?" James coughed.

"She's not a tart!" Lily burst out, glaring at him. "She's fine, she's nice, her boyfriend – her ex-boyfriend – he's just a – a – fuckhead."

"I didn't say she was a tart!"

"You thought it!"

"I didn't!" Lily grabbed for the cigarette and James held it above his head, out of her reach. He looked at her seriously. "I didn't. I didn't even have time to think anything because you were down my throat so quick."

"Fine." James gave her the cigarette. He waited a moment before asking, "Is she our age?"

Lily looked away. "Yeah. But it's not like that. She's not-"

"- the town broom," James finished for her. "Yeah, alright." He mulled it over. A baby. He couldn't imagine it. For him, babies sounded great, yeah, one day, once he was a famous Quidditch player and married, just before he got too old and too boring. Twenty-five or something. Not now, not soon. But then, he didn't have to worry, really, because – well, firstly, as much as he liked the idea, it was at least another year off – and besides, it never happened at Hogwarts. It just didn't. James didn't know if the place was warded against it, or if they slipped something in their pumpkin juice, or if everyone was just smart enough to be careful, but he couldn't remember it happening ever. Come to think of it, how did muggles stop themselves from having a baby? Could they? He opened his mouth, and at the very last moment, realised what a weird thing it would be to ask her.

"Well," he said, eventually. "For what it's worth, I reckon you're doing alright without a baby."

Lily snorted humourlessly. "Thanks." She flexed her feet out. "I just go back, and I feel like I don't belong. They all think I'm posh, going off to boarding school. That I've got all my lucky stars lined up and I'm just about too good for them. I can't tell them what it's really like."

"The magic?"

"The magic," she agreed. "The wondering if I'm going to find out they've been killed in the daily newspaper, just off-hand." She heaved a shaky laugh. "It doesn't matter now, I guess. I think I blew it with them."

"That must feel like shit."

"Yep."

"Bummer."

"Bummer indeed."

They had the hang of it now, passing the cigarette back and forth, dragging to punctuate sentences. Lily Evans exhaling little clouds of grey smoke, he thought, was something that could only happen at four in the morning. He wondered if he was still in bed, in one of those dreams where you had to wake up four times to really be awake. It just seemed impossible. A hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and nerves. Yes, here in the dark, with Lily's features lit by embers, he could name the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The end of the cigarette flickered as she inhaled, changing shape. She closed her lips for a moment, eyes fluttering shut. She was the picture of peace. Then she exhaled, cool as you like, and he felt about twelve years old again, absolutely enamoured by her. Breathless. The way he'd been for years. Many had thought he and Sirius were the height of cool, but James had always bestowed the title to Lily in his head. She was cool without trying, without ruffling her hair and hexing people and pretending she had all the answers. Effortlessly. He wanted to curl his fingers against her nape. He wanted to cup her cheek. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to snog her. He wanted to climb on top of her and snog her until they both forgotten why they'd woken.

"What?" she said, looking up at him with narrow eyes. She swiped at her cheek. The end of the cigarette glowed orange by her fingers. The whole world was painted in reds and oranges and shadows, in thick oil strokes, except for her eyes. They were the most brilliant shade of green he'd ever seen.

"Blowback," he said suddenly. "Have you heard of it?" She searched his face.

"No," she said. He plucked the cigarette from her fingers, his eyes never leaving hers. He opened his mouth, slightly, and pinched the lit end between his teeth. He sealed it with his lips and darted his eyebrows upwards. Come closer. She did. Her face was closer to his than it had been in the tent-dungeon at Auld Kirk Green. She wrapped her lips around the filter end of the cigarette. She looked back up at him. He blew lightly. Her eyes widened, but she sucked it down. His nose was barely an inch from hers. He could've counted her eyelashes.

He pinched the cigarette between his fingers and opened his mouth, pulling it away from them. Lily breathed a cloud of smoke directly into his face. He inhaled. Her fingers touched his. His stomach tightened. She took the cigarette from his grasp and turned it around. Very carefully, she put the lit end in her mouth. He took the other end in his. Smoke filled his mouth, and he pulled it down into his lungs. He couldn't take his eyes off hers. The look in them was unrecognisable.

She moved back ever so slightly, taking the cigarette from his lips, and then from hers. He held his breath for a moment. Her lips parted. Barely. He exhaled. The smoke hung between them. His heart pounded in his throat. She was so close. He felt dizzy. She didn't blink. It was what he'd dreamed of for all those years. Before he'd given up on her. He wanted desperately to bridge the gap. Somehow, though, it mattered that she was the one to do it. He had to know it was what she wanted. Her gaze darted to his mouth and up again. She took a deep breath. Lily, he thought. Lily, please, I -

"I should go to bed," she blurted out, turning her head, getting to her feet. James jerked awake as if out of a trance.

"What?" he said, straightening up. She grabbed her mug and shoved it into a cluster of others with high water lines. He stood, twisting around as she fled for the stairs. He could barely form words. His pulse raced. Lily stopped at the archway, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She faced him.

"James," she said, voice strained. James. Not Potter. She bit her lip. Silence stretched out between them. He flicked ash onto the side table. Lily looked away, and back to him. "It's late," she said.

"Early," James countered, smiling uneasily. A flash of thunder crossed her face. She opened her mouth, gave the tiniest shake of her head, and shut it again.

"I have to go to bed," she said, hugging herself. "I need to get some sleep. Goodnight." She turned away.

"Lily!" he called, stepping around the couch, towards her. She spun around, eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

"What?" she demanded. James' heart fell into his stomach. He'd pissed her off. He'd taken it too far, somehow.

"Will you come?" he asked raggedly. He didn't know why it mattered so much. He felt like a girl. He never would have dared to ask in the light of day. She stared at him. "To the tournament, tomorrow, today, in the Great Hall, will you come?"

She waited a long moment to answer. "I'll see what Mary wants to do," she said, finally. She hurried up the stairs before he could say another word.

James stared after her. He couldn't follow her. The stairs would slide out beneath him (he knew this from experience). He stubbed the cigarette out in the table and sat back on the sofa. The cushions were still warm. He stretched and laid down, facing the fireplace. He'd fucked up.

Lisbete.

He took his glasses off and set them on the side table. His throat tightened. He hadn't done anything. They hadn't kissed. They'd barely even touched – there had only been the briefest brush of fingers. He hadn't done anything wrong.

But he'd wanted to.

He pointed his wand at the blackened coals and muttered an incantation. The fire lit. He stared at the flames. I haven't done anything, he told himself. But if Lisbete had come downstairs… He felt sick.

Peter woke him. His round, blurry face took up James' entire frame of vision. James lifted his hand and Peter gave him his glasses. He shoved them on and sat up, blinking. Wispy grey light drifted in through the windows, so different from the sharp shadows of night, fuzzing the edges of things. It took him a second to orient himself. Common room; sofa; right, yes. His and Lily's first cigarette wilted on the side table.

"I woke up and you weren't there," Peter panted. He was still in his pyjamas. "I thought you might've been down at breakfast. It opens early today, doesn't it? Because of the Tournament. It's nearly six now -"

"Six?" Despite grabbing an extra two hours of sleep, James felt worse than he had when he'd woken the first time. His back ached. Peter wrung his hands. "Great Hall should open at half-past," James said. "We can shower before we go down."

"We'll wake the others, though," Peter said anxiously. His eyes bulged, and he chewed his lip furiously, nose twitching. He looked how James felt.

"We'll grab our shit and go to one of the communal bathrooms, then." The dormitories had not always had built-in ensuites – James' father had told him many stories of carting his things down several flights of stairs and endless corridors. James silently toasted to whoever had instructed the castle to add a bit – Dumbledore? Legend.

He stumbled up the stairs behind Peter, and they wandered round 'til they found a boys' bathroom equipped with showers. James worked the water deep into his scalp. He could barely think straight. Images of Lily's green eyes glowing in the dark, and Lisbete holding his hand, promising she trusted him, and diagrams from his textbooks of painful transfigurative spells gone wrong swirled through his skull. He turned off the taps and dried himself with a heating charm that left a small red burn mark on his chest. He grimaced. Today of all days, he needed to be in control of his magic.

He and Peter returned their things to their dormitory and reached the Great Hall just as the doors opened. It looked bigger, with so few people inside. John Brown sat at the end of the Gryffindor table, shoving toast in his mouth, and scribbling away furiously. A band of Hufflepuffs with dark under-eyes and green faces picked at the greasiest foods.

"Are you nervous?" Peter asked, stabbing at his egg. James pushed his food around his plate. The thought of eating made him want to gag.

"Nah," he said. "It'll be too easy. I'm just looking forward to the afterparty." Lisbete would be there. She'd be so proud of him. He could already hear her voice. He had to tell her about Lily. Not all of it, mind – but that he'd been alone with her. He couldn't stand himself otherwise. He'd be a right prick to keep it a secret.

Somehow, he polished off his food. Hoover and Gumboil came down and asked him questions about training – they didn't want to interrupt John, who seemed very involved in his writing. Once James told them he wasn't going, they left to eat. More of the Quidditch team arrived – given the nature of Quidditch training hours, they were pretty much all early risers. Peter jabbered on nervously. Finally, the girls came through the large oak doors, still in their pyjamas. Marlene's hair bobbed in a stunted ponytail, Mary walked slowly, pale, and wide-eyed, and Lily – James' stomach flipped. It hadn't been a dream. She looked the same as she had in the middle of the night. It was surreal. There she was, the Lily that had talked to him and blown smoke into his face, walking around normal as ever. She had one arm around Mary and her other hand clutching Mary's wrist. James slumped. It had been real. For a fleeting moment, he had no idea what to say – Merlin, was that how some people felt all the time?

"Morning," he said, when they were close enough for it to be normal. He smiled at Mary. "Good to see you're out." She'd returned from the Infirmary last night, he was pretty sure, but he'd been up in his dorm when she'd got in.

Mary gave him a watery smile. Lily looked at him. There was no recognition in her eyes.

"Morning, Potter, Pettigrew," said Marlene, as she walked past.

"Morning, Peter," said Lily, and the girls continued to the far end of the table. James couldn't help but watch her. But she didn't look at him. She helped Mary sit down and then busied herself with loading food onto their plates. She poured herself a glass of water. He could only see her red bun and the back of her yellow pyjamas.

"Are you alright?" Peter asked, leaning across the table. "Are you sick? We could go to Madam Pomfrey – are you allowed to have anything for nerves?"

"I'm alright," James said. He tore his eyes away from her. "Didn't sleep well."

"We probably should've gone to bed earlier," Peter said, squeezing his hands together.

They hung around, picking at food and talking about nothing, until Sirius and Remus arrived twenty minutes before they booted everyone from the Hall. Sirius took one bite of a piece of toast and laid his head down on the table. Remus didn't bother with pretence; he just poured himself a cup of tea.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Good," James said, willing himself to believe it. "I mean, I've put in the work, I'm good at Transfiguration. There's nothing to worry about." Remus chuckled softly.

"To be so full of confidence," he said. James leaned back, trying for one of his devil-may-care smiles. For once, he wasn't sure if he pulled it off.

The post came in, and Ignotus brought him a message from home. It was much shorter than usual.

'Dearest Jamie,

We wish you the best of luck today. We're so proud of you. Do let us know how you go.

Lots of love,

Mum and Dad'.

He turned it over. The back was blank. There was no parcel with it.

"Alright?" Peter asked. Sirius looked up.

"Yeah, Pete, I'm good. Don't worry." He folded the letter up and tucked it away.

They walked (well, in Sirius' case, shuffled) him to the narrow staircase on the far side of the Transfiguration Courtyard. James couldn't hold still; he twirled his wand between his fingers and shook his leg.

"We'll…see you," Sirius yawned.

"Good luck," Remus said, inclining his head.

"Good luck, James! We'll be there. You'll be able to see us in the crowd." Peter gave him a very over-exaggerated wink and clapped him on the shoulder. The bastard was up to something. James genuinely smiled.

"I'll see you when I win," James said. Then he had nothing to do but go.

He climbed the stairs to the small area outside McGonagall's office. He felt as if he was hungover – but he'd really not had that much to drink. The sleeplessness and the nerves – fucking hell, he was nervous, why did he even care? – proved to be a brutal mix. Just don't think about it. It doesn't matter. You don't want to be some poncy nerd anyway. He tapped his wand against his thigh. James was the last one there – how had that happened? The others had started to form a queue. Vane (ergh, but expected) self-importantly tugged on his tie. Next to him was dotty MacDougal scribbling in a notebook. Cai and Clarke hogged the dark corner, foreheads pressed against one another. James thought of Lily and winced. Padgett leaned against the wall, evidently bored, and Smith was the only Hufflepuff. He looked a bit twitchy. James sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. There was a reason he avoided the other top students in the year. To put it bluntly, they were a gaggle of dorks. Well, save for Clarke, maybe - Cai was batting above his average. James turned his eyes on the other three competitors. They were from the year above them, those that would still be sixteen in April: a tall Slytherin girl who played chaser; Will Corner, who grinned; and Nick Denver, Will's mate who tended to sloppiness when drunk.

"Potter," Corner said warmly, offering his hand. James shook both his and Denver's. Denver shielded his eyes.

"I didn't know you'd been kept down," James said, resting his shoulder against the spare patch of wall by Corner.

"Ha. Means we've got a year's more experience on you," he said. "Prepare to fail."

"We'll see," James shrugged, smiling disarmingly.

The door to McGonagall's office opened. She wore black velvet robes and a tall black hat.

"Come in," she said. She disappeared inside. They shuffled in, fairly orderly. James hung towards the back with Corner and Denver.

"I need to take attendance, please," said McGonagall. She went through the list. They were all present. "Good," she said. She folded the piece of parchment and set it to one side. Wordlessly, she summoned a large scroll, bound with a crimson ribbon. She unrolled it and it levitated in the air as she read from it. James jiggled his foot.

"I thank you all for coming here today. As you are aware, in a few short hours, you will be competing to represent Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in your category – Junior Beginners – in the International Transfiguration Tournament of 1976. If you come out of today victorious, you will be required to compete against witches and wizards from other institutions to represent Great Britain internationally. It is expected that today, and on any occasion you are representing the school and Great Britain, you will behave maturely and appropriately, exemplifying the spirit of the school, and that you will act with integrity, honesty, and good sportsmanship." She paused to give each of them a stern look. James could never be accused of being a bad sport, he thought. And he wasn't one for lying. Integrity. You have to tell Lisbete.

"This morning," McGonagall continued, "you will be given a classroom in which you may practise your magic until we collect you at noon. At that time, we will escort you to the Great Hall, where the first round will begin at twelve-thirty. You are not permitted to allow anyone except for members of staff into your classroom, and you are forbidden to communicate in any way with other students, including your fellow competitors. You will not be permitted to talk from the time you are collected until you are in the Great Hall." The two-way mirror in James' pocket burned as she spoke. He slipped his hand inside, holding it tight. "Firstly, you will be asked to perform spells from the approved spell list – which I believe all of you have a copy of. If you do not, please say now." They stayed silent. James' list was crumpled at the bottom of his bag, but it was there. "Then, there will be a series of time trials, in which you will need to transfigure objects as quickly as possible. Finally, you will compete against one another with the use of only transfigurative spells until your opponent is immobilised, trapped, or forfeits. A panel of judges will award points to those who perform best, and the student with the highest number of points will be chosen to represent the school. You are invited to stay after the conclusion of your rounds to watch the older students compete to represent us in the Junior Intermediates category."

This is it, James thought. At the end of the day, he would either be a Hogwarts champion, or he would be assuring people he'd never given a shit about it at all. And either way, he would be telling Lisbete the truth. His chest felt a bit tight.

"Ken I say somethin'?" MacDougal asked. McGonagall raised her brows but gave a nod. MacDougal folded her arms across her chest. "I think it's ridiculous that we're havin' to compete with each other to be representin' Great Britain. The Irish lot get to compete to be representin' their country, but if I win, I have to be British, not Scottish?"

McGonagall's lips twitched. "That is what the Ministry decided, by a vote."

"But we all know it's rigged," MacDougal continued. "'Course they voted it through, there're more English on there than Scots. Load of rubbish."

"For what it's worth, personally, I'm inclined to agree with you," McGonagall said. MacDougal did not look especially comforted. "However, it is far too late to change things for this year. I hope in future it may." McGonagall looked to the rest of them. "There are no other questions?"

There were not.

McGonagall led them downstairs and across the courtyard. They were assigned classrooms by surname, so James was one of the last to go in.

"I will collect you in a few hours, Potter," McGonagall said. "Use your time wisely."

James cracked a smile. "You know me, Professor. They don't call me 'the King of Wisdom' for nothing." His audience – which was, to be fair, only made up of Smith and Vane, and McGonagall herself – did not laugh. His grin turned to a grimace, and he went inside. McGonagall locked the door behind him. He wondered what would happen if he needed to use the bathroom. There wasn't even a bucket.

He set out his spellbooks, his wand, the mirror, and a brown paper bag of snacks along a row of dusty desks, and emptied out his bag until he found the spell list. They were permitted to use pretty much any spell they'd learned in Transfiguration – plus a few of the basics – though in the Junior Beginner category, non-verbal magic wasn't permitted. Otherwise he really would've had to have put a bit of work in. James figured if they did that, they wouldn't bother letting the fifth years enter at all. For whatever reason, apparently they weren't considered capable of learning a couple of non-verbal spells until N.E.W.T-level. It was a crock of shit.

James grabbed a treacle tart and started practising. He had a fair idea of the main spells he wanted to use, plus a range of counter-spells for whatever might be thrown his way. As he chewed, he considered his competition. None of them seemed especially aggressive – maybe the Slytherin girl from the year above, but the rest were mostly tame. Unless Vane still had a twitch in his wand about the New Year's party.

He was taking a sandwich break when he heard Sirius' voice echoing in the mirror. James swore.

"James James James James James James James," Sirius chanted. James swiped the mirror off the desk and held it up to his face. He was treated to a close up of Sirius' tonsils.

"What?" James asked. Reflexively, he glanced to the door. The classroom was one of the older ones, so it didn't have a window, thank Merlin.

"I'm bored," Sirius said.

"And I'm cheating," James said, without thinking. Sirius choked, and spittle flecked the mirror. Sirius rubbed it off with his sleeve. It smeared across the glass. "In this," James clarified. "I'm not meant to talk to anyone."

"I'm not anyone. I'm me," Sirius said.

"Tell that to the judges, mate."

"I intend on it." Sirius rolled over. He was back in the dorm, in bed. "You think you'd be allowed to use the Cloak?" James snorted.

"No."

"I can bring it down anyways."

"I don't want to get disqualified before I get a go at Vane," James laughed, ruffling his hair. A wicked grin lit up Sirius' face.

"Vane?"

"Vane."

"Excellent."

Sirius left, eventually, muttering something about 'setting up'. James grinned to himself. He could sniff out a party from a mile out. He just had to win. He very much preferred victory parties to consolation parties. He tucked the mirror into his bag, polished off his sandwiches, and began practising once more.

Time sped up in that funny way it always did, in the hours before an exam or a date he was particularly dreading. He went through the spell list, performing every bit of magic he could at least twice. Soon enough, he was exhausted, and there was a knock at the door. He packed his things and opened the door. McGonagall stood outside with the others.

"You have everything with you?" she asked. James nodded. "Good." She locked the door and they moved on, getting Smith and Vane. Then she led them down the corner into the Entrance Hall. The door to the grounds was propped open, revealing a misty, wet day. Filch scowled as he scrubbed mud from the flagstone floor. The doors to the Great Hall were shut.

"You can bow out now, if you want," James whispered, sidling up to Glen Vane amongst the crowd.

"I've hardly forgiven you," Vane said. James smiled, eyes crinkling.

"Ah, but you have a little bit." Vane reddened, but he had no chance to respond. McGonagall cleared her throat. They lapsed into silence at once.

"Once more, I expect you to be on your best behaviour. You will enter the Great Hall, the panel of judges and the tasks will be introduced, and then you will begin. I trust you have all prepared so thoroughly that you do not need luck," Professor McGonagall said. Without further ado, the doors opened, and she led them through.

A cheer went up. The tables and benches had been pushed to the side and transformed into stands. There was a surprising turnout, given that it wasn't sport, and it was a Saturday. All the Gryffindors from his year stood, shouting. Peter held one end of a large banner and Lisbete held the other. 'JAMES POTTER, NO-ONE'S HOTTER'. James snorted. A large scarlet bow stuck to the top of Lisbete's golden hair. Sirius punched the air, a house scarf draped around his neck and his tie tied around his forehead. Remus whistled. Lily didn't have a sign, but she clapped, smiling, arm linked with Mary's. The whole Quidditch team was there, plus a fair smattering of first and second years. Despite only having one broom in the race – James – they outnumbered the other houses by a mile. If there was one thing the Gryffindors were good at, it was house spirit. Yes, the Hufflepuffs cheered for Smith, but their sign was much smaller. One of the Ravenclaws read a book and the Slytherins clapped in such a controlled way you'd think they were being polite. Snape sat in the audience, near the other boys but apart, lip curling. James looked right at him and waved, grinning. Snape stared at him for a long moment, then spat. Foul git.

The judges took up residence at the teachers' table. Dumbledore sat in the middle, of course. To his left, a fair-haired man took notes with a yellow quill, and to his right, an ancient, brown-skinned wizard frowned. A series of small, square tables covered with black tablecloths spotted the main part of the hall; there were ten, one for each of them. A small white card lay on each one. Green-inked cursive spelled out their names on the place-cards.

He had nothing to worry about; the turn-out was much smaller than it was for a quidditch match, and nobody cared about Transfiguration either way. If Professor McGonagall had a problem with how he did, well, it'd be nothing new - when wasn't he in trouble? When wasn't he letting someone down? At least he'd be living up to his name – so long as he did something interesting.

Sirius caught his eye and smiled at him. James adjusted his glasses, shoved his hands in his pockets, leaned against a wall that wasn't there, and shot the crowd his cockiest grin. From there, it became a tumble of adrenalin.

Dumbledore stood and introduced the two wizards with him – the fair-haired man was Henry Abbott, the Deputy Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation (James wondered if he was any sort of relation to Abbott the Slytherin beater), and the very old wizard was Omar Shafiq, who had been a professor of Magical Manipulation at the University of Magical London for over twenty years. James raised his eyebrows; the bloke must've only started his tenure when his grandchildren started having kids.

There was a lengthy list of rules: no killing, no maiming, the usual. James was happy enough to follow them. It wasn't as if Snape was involved. If he – or any of that fuckwit gang – had been facing off against James, he might've bent the maiming rule. Just a little.

With a bit of a rousing speech and a cheer, they were told to sit down. James took his seat between Padgett and Smith's desks. The sky, ever changeable, opened, and rain pitter-pattered against the transparent roof. It never felt normal, looking up, watching the rain come down, and never having it hit your face.

Abbott from the Ministry introduced their first task – all the stuff from the approved spell list. Pretty routine, which suited him, because he seemed to be a routine kind of guy in neat dress robes. He waved his wand, and a silver tray appeared by each of their desks, levitating right at arm height. James frowned. What if Remus had been one of them? It would've made him sick. It wasn't like they'd asked if any of them were werewolves. He glanced at Remus in the stands, but he looked fine.

Abbott cleared his throat.

"You may begin."

His name disappeared from the place-card. In its place, there was the name of the first spell they had to do. Right. It was about what James had expected, but they were definitely starting off easy. James grabbed the armadillo and the pillow that appeared on the tray and put them on his desk.

"Hold on, mate," he murmured, stroking it as he did the maths. "It'll wear off. Tell me what it's like, right? Let me know if it's good or bad. I don't want to use it on Snape if it's a good time." A piece of parchment, a quill, and an inkpot had appeared while he focused on the armadillo. He glimpsed some of the others frantically scratching out the equations. James got too lost when he tried to show his working. They didn't get points for it. Fuck it.

He focused, entirely. And then the pillow and the armadillo seemingly switched sides in a burst of white light. He ran his hands over them, checking. His fingers curled against the softness of the pillow, plush and white. The armadillo had a hard shell and all limbs. Well, the pillow-armadillo – it was very still. He loaded them onto the tray, carefully, heart beating harder than he'd expected. Abbott summoned the tray and another appeared in its place. The writing on the place-card changed again.

Conjuring, now, but an easy one too, one they learned in fourth year before they even properly started the unit. James decided to add a twist, just because he could. He conjured a bouquet of sunflowers, larger and brighter and heavier than the standard, nondescript pink flowers the spell brought. Cai turned around in his seat at the sound of James' incantation and frowned. Macdougal put her armadillo on the tray. It was clear why they'd all been chosen – there were none of the normal mistakes you'd see in a Transfiguration class, with fluffy white armadillos or hard-shelled pillows. James offered up his sunflowers, Abbott collected them, and on it went.

Now they were into fifth year spells, which made up the bulk of what they were required to do. Cai conjured a bouquet twice the size of James', full of blue and purple hydrangeas. James grit his teeth. Clarke swooned. Bastard, James thought. If it was going to turn into a competition of who could show off more, that was fine by him. James was very, very good at showing off.

As they weren't in the time trials yet, and here they didn't lose marks for speed, James let himself labour over the next few spells. His lovebirds turned into beautiful love notes on pink paper in beautiful handwriting, and they smelled of vanilla and warm tea, and rhymed. His owl made a regal, engraved pair of opera glasses. He doubled a quill and counted each ridge of the feather, checking that it was duplicated perfectly. He clenched his stomach, ground his teeth, and vanished an ornate lamp; it was, by far, one of the harder spells they were asked to perform, though not the hardest. James got to his feet for the next spell, one which they had never done in class. It wasn't typically taught until N.E.W.T level.

He inhaled deeply, substituting the numbers in his mind, going over the wand movement. This was the spell he was most likely to screw up. No – he couldn't think like that. He was going to nail it. He pictured the table in the dining room at home. He exhaled, like he did when he was smoking, like he had, eyes locked on Lily Evans, and moved his wrist, clearly pronouncing the incantation. A gorgeous crimson tablecloth, embroidered with tiny golden leaves, shot from the end of his wand and draped itself over his desk. The place-card jumped in the air to avoid being knocked off. When it landed, it turned blank. The first part of this qualifying round was done.

James' muscles relaxed. He sat down and drummed his fingers against his thigh, watching as the others finished up. The sixth-years – Corner, Denver, and the Slytherin girl he'd learned was called Amelia Mulciber – leaned back in their seats, smirking slightly. Of course, they'd been doing vanishing and conjuration for a lot longer than the fifth-years. Prats.

Macdougal finished last. Abbott summoned their tablecloths, and with a flick of his wand, sent them to join the rest of their transfigured objects on shelves erected by the staff table. Abbott gave a bit of a boring speech, thanking them for their efforts and concluding the first task.

James twirled his wand as Abbott returned to the staff table and Shafiq strode down so easily that James wondered if the ornate, carved wooden cane he held was only decorative. Shafiq's head was kind of turtle-shaped, an impression only strengthened by the way he poked it out with his long neck.

James immediately liked him more than Abbott, because he didn't go on so much.

"These are the time trials. As you may be able to predict, you are required to perform this list of spells as quickly as possible, receiving points for your speed. We will also assess the quality of your transfigurations." He indicated Dumbledore and Abbott, who now examined the work they'd done in the first part. "Follow the rules," Shafiq continued. "Be sensible. There's no more to it."

Pretty much.

Their pieces of parchment from the last round floated over to the staff table, and they were given two new pieces, one blank and one with a list. Shafiq brought out a large hourglass, tall enough to reach his waist.

"Begin." He moved his wand and turned it over.

These spells were easier – the timing was the trick. James cursed under his breath as his candle squeaked. His wrist hurt from the constant movement. The world slimmed to just him and the objects in front of him. Like in Quidditch.

The list ended. He was done. He dropped his wand on the table and gasped, throwing his head back, heart pounding. His fingers cramped. Through a squint, he looked at his competitors.

Really?

Holy fuck.

Fuck yeah.

He'd finished first.

He pumped his (left) fist into the air. Sirius whistled from the crowd, and Peter, Remus, and Lisbete stood, clapping and cheering. His head spun with the giddiness of excitement. Shafiq summoned his transfigurations, and they went with a marker of his identity over to the staff table. The others finished up within a minute or two of him, and then they sat, waiting for what came next.

Shafiq returned to the staff table and Dumbledore came over, smiling.

"Each and every one of you have done very well," he said. "Your talent is a credit to the school and to yourselves. I am very proud of you." James grinned. Lisbete, behind Dumbledore in the audience, waved to him. He waved back. "Now, this next and final section – which I suspect our audience has been awaiting most eagerly of all – will be where you have the opportunity to use any spells on the approved list in a creative and competitive environment. I must urge you not to kill or seriously injure your opponents." Amelia Mulciber rolled her eyes.

Dumbledore went over the rules – again – and then they were ushered into the Waiting Chamber while they enchanted the 'arena'. James imagined a gladiator sort of fight. Very cool. He hadn't been in the Waiting Chamber since before his Sorting. The portraits all looked long-faced and waxen.

"D'you get many visitors?" he asked casually. A portrait of a teenage girl in medieval attire and a large hat giggled.

"None as handsome as thee," she said, twirling a lock of her hair around her wand.

"Now that's a shame," James said sympathetically. "Must get pretty boring."

After a while, the door opened, and Professor McGonagall appeared.

"Corner and Denver, if you please," she said. James nodded at each of them, who nodded back, and left. Their numbers dwindled. After what felt like an age and about half a minute, they returned, flushed and messy-haired.

"How was it?" James asked eagerly. McGonagall called up two more people.

"Just you wait," Corner laughed. "I can't wait to go against you, we'll have fun."

"'Course we will," James agreed.

The doors opened and shut, opened and shut, opened and shut. Each time, McGonagall stepped in, with a scroll in her hand. She did not consult it. Finally, his time came.

"Vane and Potter," she said clearly, "you are next. Come in." Vane. The bastard. James glanced sidewards at him, and Vane met his gaze. They trudged into the Hall. It shimmered with magic; wards, James reckoned, probably to protect the crowd. McGonagall muttered a spell and they stepped through the gleam of protective enchantments.

"Stay," she said to James, and lead Vane to the other end of the Hall. Between them was a table covered with a rich blue cloth. On it were three objects: a teapot, a brown clay vase, and piece of parchment. So that was what they'd start with.

McGonagall passed close to him as she left their circle.

"Good luck, Potter," she whispered from the corner of her mouth. James spun around, watching as she stepped out into the rest of the world, wondering if he'd gone mental. Or maybe he was becoming McGonagall's favourite student. Now that'd be pretty cool.

Not that he was a suck-up. Obviously.

Dumbledore went through the rules again – bloody hell, what had happened that they decided it was necessary to go through the rules a billion times? Since when had the school ever cared about students' safety? – and then cleared his throat.

"Now, let match five – between James Potter of Gryffindor and Glen Vane of Ravenclaw – begin!'

What he had over Vane, he figured, was speed. James Potter was known for his impulsivity, his tendency to leap before he looked. Glen Vane was known for being careful, cautious, and prudent, never opening his mouth without having put a great deal of thought into his words.

What a loser.

He summoned the clay vase, just to claim something, and begin adding up. Numbers flew threw his mind. In the blink of an eye and several bends of his wrist, it was made of metal, then he changed its shape – he made a shield, complete with strap, and tethered it to his arm.

By this point, Vane had given the teapot legs and a mouth, and set it on James. James raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. He ought to have enlarged it, at least. It was hardly any threat. James simply undid the transfiguration and turned it back to a teapot. He glanced up to give Glen a smug look.

Bugger.

Vane had turned the piece of parchment hard, and now had it standing up on its side. He expanded it rapidly from one edge of the circle to the other, though it was only about a foot in height. What was he playing at? James pointed at the teapot and used the first spell he thought of. He transfigured the teapot into a tortoise. But not just any tortoise – for a laugh, in third-year, he and his mates had found a variation of the spell they'd had to perform on their final exam.

The tortoise at his feet snapped.

He levitated it and then guided it over towards Vane, intending to land it and then set it after him. Vane, to his surprise, summoned it and tucked it under his arm. Then he kept working on the parchment – the wall, James realised, which was now three feet high. He heaved the shield above him and put his free hand on the top of the wall to haul himself over.

Bang!

The tortoise hit him square in the chest and fell to the ground. You prick, James thought. Who used a tortoise like a bloody missile? He bent down and flipped it over. That was a mistake. When he looked up, the wall was five feet tall – shorter than him, but a bit more of a climb. Enough that he would be hard-pressed to get over with the shield. He had to think –

Brilliant.

He pointed his wand at the floor beneath him, madly calculating, defining a boundary area.

"Spongify!" The ground fell away, turning to bright yellow, bouncy sponge. The crowd gasped. Lisbete squealed. James bent his knees and jumped. Vane's wall shot up to eye-level, and grew with every second. James jumped, building up momentum. It was going to take a fair bit of effort. Then it was above his head. Fuck. He had to go soon, but he couldn't get enough height.

The shield was weighing him down. He threw it off his arm and discarded it. He jumped again, and instantly went higher. James bounced once, twice, three times, propelling himself higher. On the fourth bounce, he leapt into the air, and his fingers caught the edge of the top of Vane's rapidly rising wall. James gritted his teeth and used all his upper body strength to haul himself upwards. It was a very thin wall, and grew taller rapidly. James hoisted one leg over. It was going to be a shit of a drop. It gained another foot. He did the maths. Better now than later. He threw his other leg over and let go.

"SPONGIFY!" He ripped through the movement as fast as he could and shut his eyes. He crumpled on landing. He was winded, but – thank fuck, it had worked. A small patch of about four foot squared had turned soft. He'd rolled to land on his back, which, ouch, fucking winded him, but it had saved his wand. Tears prickled his eyes. He had to get up. His vision blurred.

James clambered to his feet. His glasses lay shattered. Vane's mouth hung open. He thought I was going to get hurt, James realised. If I got badly hurt, he'd automatically lose. James grinned. His heartbeat settled. The crowd roared.

James Potter thrived on a crowd.

"Spongify Maxima." He started bouncing again, jumping as high as he could, tucking his knees up. Vane stared. James built up momentum.

"Come on, Vane," he grinned. "Don't just stand there, mate." James reached his peak and leaned forward. He did a somersault. A girl – Lisbete? – screamed in delight. He did another, and started to laugh. "Come on!" He jumped up higher and did the splits. The next bounce, he posed like a model. The crowd roared with laughter. James leapt into the air again. Vane couldn't take away his jumping platform in case he landed too hard and broke something, and it was incredibly difficult to set a transfigured object on a moving target, particularly one moving vertically. He only had to wait Vane out until he gave up. Too easy.

"FUCK!"

He lost his balance, pulled down by his wand arm. He barely held onto his wand. He landed on his knees in the bouncy, spongey pit, jolting hard as his body bounced against the ground but found it could not go very high. A thick, coarse ribbon wrapped around his wrist. It pulled him forward and he landed flat on his face. Fuck. Fuck. Again, it pulled, and his head dragged onto the solid ground.

"Come on, Potter," Vane said, in a voice harsher than James had ever heard it. He lifted his head, and, vision blurry, saw Vane standing a little ways away, smirking. "Don't just lay there, mate."

James was going to pummel him.

His first priority was not to lose his grip on his wand. He adjusted, holding it tighter. Vane guided the ribbon sharply upwards and towards him, pulling James entirely out of the sponge pit. James used his free hand to push himself back onto his feet. The ribbon tightened around his wrist, shaking his arm back and forth. While-ever Vane controlled his wrist, there was no way he could perform any kind of spell decently. He couldn't do the movements. That sly bastard.

And then Vane began to spin him.

James nearly fell. The ribbon raggedly flew threw the air, swirling in large circles, pulling him along. He stumbled further away from the pit, gripping his wand tightly. Vane shouted something else, and the ground beneath James' feet changed. He glanced down. It was separate from the rest of the floor, a slick hard metal disk that could spin around. The ribbon moved faster, and James started spinning like a top. The crowd became a blur of colours – he couldn't even see where Vane was – his lack of glasses didn't help. Shit. Shit. Shit. He held onto his wand for everything he was worth. He could barely think. The ribbon dug into his wrist. His palms sweat. If he dropped his wand, it was over. He couldn't let that happen. Not on his life would he lose to Vane.

He swung his other hand up, and made out like he was grabbing at the ribbon. Vane pulled tighter. James spun faster. Fuck, he was going to be sick. He crawled his hand up further up, and found the base of his wand. Yes. He grabbed it and wrenched his wand out of his wand hand. James had never done magic with his left hand before, but he was willing to give it a shot. There was a chance.

Vane changed tact. While still spinning him, he guided the ribbon to wrap around James' ankles, wrenching his arm in another direction. James had to think – how to scare him? How to get him to give up? Or disarm him. The ribbon moved quickly, binding his legs, moving closer to his waist.

"Not too tight on the goods, Vane!" James yelled. Vane momentarily faltered, processing, and James took a risk.

He, Sirius, and Peter hadn't immediately decided on becoming animagi to help Remus. Their basic idea – becoming an animal, a bit, somehow – had gone through several iterations before they decided to suck it up, go through the whole Animagus Potion process, and completely transform into an animal. So James, surprisingly for someone his age, had a bit of experience in a category of spells that were on the approved list, but typically weren't used in the Junior Beginners competition at all.

James did the maths as quickly as he could, given he had a raging headache from the spinning and was about to empty his guts up. Then, using a hand he'd never used for magic before, he pointed at his own head. See, you weren't allowed to transfigure an opponent.

You could do whatever you wanted to yourself.

James screamed in agony. He was blinded. His skull changed, moulding to a new shape. He clung to his wand. His eyeballs seemed to pop out of his skull. He screamed for it to stop, to end, fucking hell –

He gasped for air. He could see. James Potter now had the head of a bull.

Vane exclaimed, and in doing so, stopped controlling the ribbon. James threw his head back and forth and tore through the ribbon tied to his wrist with his horns. He snorted and snarled. He could no longer perform any spells at all – he couldn't speak. This would have to work. He tore his legs out of the ribbons and used all his might to run at Vane.

"What?!" Vane panicked, leaping out of the way. James turned sharply and followed him, running as fast as he could. He chased Vane down one side of the circle, until they reached the wall. Vane flattened his back against the wall. James growled. Vane's wide eyes filled with panic. James needed to scare him into getting rid of his wand. He shook his head, trying to figure out how wide his horns were. It was difficult. His vision was no better as a bull than it had been as a wizard. The longer he waited, the more time Vane had to think. Fuck it. It'd probably be fine. He growled again, warning Vane not to move, and thrust forward, impaling his horns on either side of Vane's face. Vane yelled. They were now only a few inches apart. James' long, black nose – snout? – nearly touched Vane's face. Vane stared at him. James couldn't touch him. However –

They were on different ground again. James smiled as best a bull could. It probably looked like baring his teeth, because Vane began to turn his shoulder, shielding himself. James didn't care. He bent his knees – wrenching on his horns, but he had a little give. The wall wasn't very strong.

He jumped.

As he landed, Vane bounced upwards. He shouted, and his hands flew up to protect his face. As he did this, his wrists crossed in front of his head, and the tops of his fists faced the wall. Including the fist (well, there were only two) that held Vane's wand. And the tip of his wand smashed through the brittle wall and lodged itself in a perfect hole. James shook his head – and his horns. The wall crumbled a little more. Vane turned his head, pulling furiously at his wand. However, he was panicked. He pulled too hard. His wand came out of the wall, yes, but he didn't have a good grip on it. Maybe his palms were sweaty from having a giant bull head snarling at him. James wouldn't claim to know what was going on in Vane's head. But the wand slipped from Vane's grasp and flew across the circle until it hit the wards on the other side and dropped to the floor.

"And yes, it appears that Mr Potter has claimed victory!" Dumbledore announced. The crowd went wild. Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey ran into the circle and immediately set to checking on Vane and untransfiguring James' face. McGonagall gave him back his glasses (repaired), but she looked apoplectic with rage. James had one thing he wanted to say, however, before he got into trouble.

"Vane!" he shouted, over his shoulder. Vane held his wand in his hand as Madam Pomfrey checked on him. He stared blankly at James. James grinned. "Good game, mate. But you really didn't have to throw your wand away. I wasn't going to hurt you."

The damage with Vane was already done, he reckoned, even if he'd apologised for the whole party thing. It was worth the laugh.

"Potter," McGonagall said through gritted teeth, shaking with fury, steering him by the shoulders back to the Waiting Chamber, "what were you thinking? We didn't cover human to animal transfiguration once! You could've had yourself stuck that way forever! You transfigured your head, you could've killed yourself, for Merlin's sake! You should never, ever attempt that spell for the first time without careful supervision!"

"I know, Professor. I'm sorry," James said. They stopped outside the doors to the Waiting Chamber. He couldn't help himself: "But I pulled it off alright, didn't I? I won." Professor McGonagall scowled, and tightened her lips into a very thin line. She stared at a fixed point far away from him.

"Yes," she said eventually. "Your survival is incredibly impressive, and I would suspect that that was not your first time casting the spell if I did not know we hadn't practised it." She levied him a frightful glare. James grinned nervously.

"I guess I got lucky?" he shrugged. "Having a brilliant Transfiguration teacher helped, I reckon."

"Get inside."

"Yup." McGonagall opened the door and James slipped in. She shook her head at him, and then called Clarke and Padgett up.

"That was fucking ace," James said to Corner and Denver, hands casually in his pockets, as if nothing had happened. He still ached a bit. "You should've told me."

"We could hear you," Corner snorted.

None of the other matches compared to the sheer insanity and glory of James' match against Vane. You couldn't beat perfection, he thought, as he faced off Macdougal, who had a penchant for turning things into birds. Pulling the somersault move again would make it into too much of a signature, he figured, as he vanished a hopping pot Cai sent his way. He and Corner lost points for tussling, but it didn't matter, because James Potter won every match.

Every single one.

At first, he didn't realise it. Amelia Mulciber conjured a tablecloth and sent it directly for his head. He ducked, but all the same it landed on him, temporarily shrouding him in darkness. He arched his back and stood, throwing it off, and jumped on top of it. She summoned it. He grabbed on, bunching the cloth in his fists. It almost felt like being on a broom – she'd really overpowered her Summoning Charm.

"Fuck!" she swore, as he flew towards her, and jumped out of the way. At the last minute, he let go, slammed into the ground, jumped up on a screaming leg, grabbed the end of the tablecloth as it dove to reach her wand with left hand, and summoned the glass bottle with his wand in his right. The tablecloth's weight fell on her, and James dropped the tablecloth, standing on top of it, holding one end down. She bodily threw it off herself, and that was when he got her; as she stood, she wasn't looking at him, but at the glass bottle. He pinched his wand between two fingers and threw the glass bottle away from him. She followed it, and aimed her wand on it as it smashed. He twirled his wand, twisting it into his grip expertly, and did the maths, putting all his might into the spell.

"Avifors!" The tablecloth, which lay forgotten, turned into a pack of purple birds. He directed them towards her. She spun around, and he focused on one bird in particular, muttering another spell. The bird swooped directly at her wand hand. "Engorgio!" It swelled to twice its usual size, still heading for her hand. She jerked back, beginning to pick off the others, transforming them into sharp, pointed quills. The larger bird did not stop in its swoop. She pushed back her dark hair, aimed at it, and it wrapped its feet around her wand. With one almighty tug, empowered by its enlarged muscles, it pulled the wand out of her hand. James brought the bird to him, took her wand from it, and gave it an affectionate pat. With a wand in both of his hands, he raised them to the drizzling ceiling.

It was a miracle he still had his hearing, after the way the crowd lost their minds.

In a blur, Amelia Mulciber stormed off, and Madam Pomfrey checked him over, and he had to give over Mulciber's wand. In a swirl of colours and shouts, the rest of the group was with him, and Dumbledore, Shafiq, and Abbott gave out their scores. James' heart pounded. It began to dawn on him: I didn't lose a match. I was the first to finish. I could –

"Glen Vane," Dumbledore said. He, Shafiq, and Abbott held up their numbers. Eighteen, sixteen, twenty. "With a total of fifty-four points."

They clapped politely.

"William Corner, with a total of sixty-seven points."

"Amelia Mulciber, with a total of seventy-two points."

"And finally," Dumbledore said, and James was half-drunk and wild and eleven years old again, "we have James Potter, with a total of seventy-five points out of a possible seventy-seven. It is Mr James Potter that will represent the school in the Junior Beginners category in the national round of the International Transfiguration Tournament."

Victory was difficult to describe. In later years, James would never be able to string together a coherent sentence that really, really captured what it was like. Not for how it felt to win this, or to win Quidditch, or to win someone's affections (nor how it felt to win a war). It was beyond any kind of drunkenness or high. He would only ever find two other kinds of moments that rivalled it. But he lived for it. Every second of effort was worth it if he won. Nothing else mattered.

"Jamie!" Lisbete squealed, the next time James had a coherent thought. He'd had his picture taken; he was in the stands now, warm and beaming from ear-to-ear, giddy and dizzy. She ran to him and jumped into his arms. He swung her around and pressed a kiss to her golden hairline. She looked up at him, eyes shining. "You did it! I knew you'd do it. You won!"

"I won," he beamed. Sirius clapped him on the shoulder and he, Remus, and Peter enveloped James in a huddle-hug. Lisbete grabbed him by the hand and pulled him over to where they were sitting. John Brown leaned down from the row above and shook his hand; Marlene gave him a thumbs-up and a broad smile that split her painted face of red and gold; the girls from the Quidditch team swooped in with hugs and the boys nearly pulled his arm off, going on about which bits they'd liked or laughed at; and then came the gaggles of younger kids, asking him if it was hard, how did he do it, exclaiming 'wow!' over and over. One of them asked for his autograph on the inside of their Transfiguration textbook.

"Mind your head doesn't swell up and explode." He looked up, dashing off the 'r' or his surname. Lily had come over. She wore a fitted red jumper and a gold necklace. "Good job."

"Thanks," he said, and offered her the feather of the first-year's quill. "Deflate me." Lily laughed. Sirius leaned over, pinched the quill, and jabbed him hard in the cheek. James thumped him. "Bastard!"

"Arrogant prick!" Sirius returned. "And you know I'm not a bastard, nobody would sleep with my mother if they didn't have to, the old bitch."

"And you are our beloved S-O-B," Remus said dryly, picking at a frayed thread around his cuff.

"You lot are idiots," Lily said sternly. "And don't swear in front of the kids." She turned away, making for Marlene and Mary. The first-year pouted.

"I'm not a kid," he said.

"No," James assured him, "you're a fully-grown goat, you are. Here's your quill, mate."

Peter pulled out a variety of snacks and sweets, and they sat and watched the Junior Intermediates compete – the older sixth- and seventh-years. A great portion of the contestants' spells were non-verbal. If James wanted to be in with a chance next year, he'd have to get pretty bloody good at it, he figured. To nobody's surprise, the same girl as last year won – a Ravenclaw girl with thick dark hair and a serious expression by the name of Deepnita Varma. She'd cast twice as many non-verbal spells as verbal and conjured like mad. McGonagall came into the makeshift stands to get James, and he and Varma posed for photographs for the Daily Prophet.

"Look at us champions," James grinned, shaking Varma's hand. "Go us." She looked him up and down and did not smile. Tough crowd.

The Gryffindors, fortunately, were not.

Remus and Lisbete walked him to the portrait of the Fat Lady. They clambered through the hole and into the middle of a raging party. Sirius stood upon a round table, a brown bottle in one hand and his wand in the other as he levitated Peter higher. Peter stuck up Lisbete's vibrant sign on the wall.

"He's here!" Sirius cried, flinging his wand the other way as he raised his bottle in a toast. Peter went flying, and only Alice Rhysfield's quick spellwork saved him. The house roared with excitement. Sirius waved him over. James clambered onto the table and Ludo Bagman thrust a drink into his hands. Sirius cleared his throat and magically amplified his voice.

"To my best friend, James Potter, Gryffindor and Hogwarts champion!" Bottles and glasses clinked, and Peter scrambled to crank up the music.

James quickly lost track of things. He smoked a cigarette with Remus, and then there were shots, and more beers, and then he smoked something of Dale's, and then he tried Connor O'Neill's newest brew (which he really knew he shouldn't've), and then Ludo showed him what the odds had been on him, and then there was another toast, and a ball-levitating game of some sort. The next thing he knew, he was on his broomstick with Sirius behind him, hands around his waist, and they were in a race. He felt as if he'd just woken up. Amy and Marlene doubled on a broom next to him. They swung over two far – well, one of the brooms did, or both – and then James was on the floor and his head was pounding. Someone had a pain-relieving potion. It helped, a bit. Beer washed away the aftertaste. Vodka? Firewhisky. Another Firewhisky. Alice yelled at someone. There was a bit of a dance floor, and the next time he was completely aware of his surroundings, Lisbete's arms were around his neck and they were jumping up and down.

"I can't hear you!" Lisbete shouted, over the screaming music. James shook his head. He had no idea what he'd been about to say. Her cheeks were flushed, and her golden hair tousled, but her eyes were bright. She'd changed into a flowery dress.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked, as the skirt flared as they spun around. She shook her head.

"Hot! From dancing!" she replied. Some sort of disco song was playing. A Fizzing Whizbees song. Were they associated with the sweets? Were they the same people? He knew the chorus. He and Lisbete threw back their heads and sung.

"And we're drinking out of poisoned cauldrons! Ay! Ay! Ay! I've been drinking from nine to five!" His hands found her waist and feebly lifted her. She giggled, grabbing his shoulders, and they clumsily spun around. "When you're drinking out of poisoned cauldrons, yeah, you aren't worrying about your wife!" Lisbete grabbed his hands and started shaking them around. James realised he didn't have his glasses. They were probably long gone. "You just feel the music, yeah!" The whole common room seemed to scream that last word. "You just feel the beat!" Sirius dropped to his knees, and Marlene, who was dancing very fast with Alisha, accidentally kicked him. Sirius howled and threw his hair back like some kind of rockstar. "Drinking from the poisoned cauldrons, baby! Nothing else makes me happy!"

There were more shots, and Lisbete said something about stopping drinking. Then they were on a sofa. Not one of the good ones. Remus held his head between two pinched fingers. Lisbete was on James' other side.

"Are you going to be sick?" she asked, pushing hair out of his eyes.

"Where's Sirius?" he asked. It didn't come out as well as he meant for it to. He groaned.

"I don't know how he's still alive." The deep, throaty, hoarse voice belonged to Remus. James looked at him; it hurt his head. "I was matching him. From when I got here. But -" Remus doubled in half and puked between his shoes. Lisbete touched James' face and he jerked back.

"I had to tell you something." What? Had he – yes, the competition, it was…yeah, it had happened. What else? His insides squirmed. "Lily."

"Lily?" Lisbete leaned in front of him so he could see her face. Her hair was a shiny yellow curtain.

"'Smornin'. Woke up. Talked. Smoked." That was about it. Lisbete frowned.

"Talked about what?" Babies. That sounded weird.

"I dunno." His eye was itchy. What time was it?

"Well. I'm your girlfriend." She kissed the end of his nose softly, as if to prove a point. "Nothing happened?"

"Nah." Remus stopped retching.

"You didn't kiss her?" He shut his eyes for a long moment. Lily's face glowed against his eyelids. Had she really had a smoke?

"No." Lily didn't want to, and…yeah, Lisbete was. Lisbete was his girlfriend. Yeah.

"Good, then. Thank you for telling me. Jamie, I know I can always trust you, that's why I-"

"Sirius was – Dale – I don't know. Something new," Remus said, regaining the power of speech.

"Right," said James. Who else…? "Pete?"

"Bladdered."

"He's in bed," Lisbete said softly. "Got the best of him."

"Hm," said James. He tilted his head back as far as it could go, looking upwards. The banner of his name stared down at him. That's me, he thought. I'm a winner.

And that was that.

---

January 26th, 1976

"You're okay?" Lily asked, for the thousandth time that morning. She knew it was overbearing. She knew it was annoying. Nevertheless, she couldn't stop.

"Shut up." Marlene pulled her cloak over her head to block out any possible light. She wasn't the only one at the Gryffindor table to do so, though it appeared most had simply skived off breakfast. The man of the hour – the last forty-eight hours– was present, however. James Potter looked and smelt like death. Professor McGonagall had walked by earlier and stopped dead, eyes widening. It was as though he'd marinated in the contents of the dustiest bottles in the seediest pub in Hogsmeade. McGonagall's face spasmed and she seemed about to gag. After a moment's hesitation, she strode away as if she had no notion of what had happened. If she was going to punish the Gryffindors for over-consumption of alcohol, she would end up with ninety percent of those above third year in detention. Lily, usually unempathetic to the plight of the drunkards, agreed that it was enough of a victory to have kept everyone out of the Infirmary (though, really, there were probably some people that ought to be there but couldn't face the journey, or Madam Pomfrey).

"I'm okay," said Mary, pale-faced. "I'm just not hungry." Lily, Mary, Marcus McLaggen, and a very shy fourth-year had been the sum total of the abstainers, save those that had been kicked out of the party by six o'clock each evening (because while it had felt very late, they had all been in bed by ten. That was the trouble with starting at four in the afternoon. And going for two days).

"If you're sure," Lily said, wagging a fork in Mary's face in place of a finger. Marlene let her cloak fall and cupped one hand around her mouth.

"Just eat a grape," she whisper-shouted at Mary. Mary's lips twitched. Lily waved the fork at Marlene.

"I have a weapon," she said. "I could probably stab you."

"I'm not afraid of death," said Marlene. "I looked it in the eye last night and told it to piss off and leave us pissheads alone." Despite this, Marlene appeared to have some sort of self-preservation instinct, because she threw her cloak over her head again. Lily set down the fork.

"I kind of resent being included in that," Lily said, frowning. Mary blinked.

"What?"

"Well, we weren't pissheads," Lily said. A fourth-year boy groaned and shook his head as his friends laughed gleefully. It had been that kind of night. "We've been good the whole weekend. And look at us, consequence-free."

"Mm." Mary swirled her untouched glass of pumpkin juice. Lily continued on her fried eggs. The two nights since Mary had returned had been uneventful – save for James Potter, but of course, James Potter hardly counted, because he was always eventful. But Mary herself seemed okay. As okay as one could be. She still didn't know who had attacked her, she said. She claimed she didn't remember it much at all.

Lily wasn't about to press her on it. She could still feel the weight of DCI Thompson's gaze on her. It had been a month and a day exactly since Mrs Simmons went missing. The latest letter from her mother indicated that there had been no progress on the case. And there wasn't like to be, if Lily's sick, twisting hunch was correct.

Jane and her little brother, Arnie, had been without a mother for over a month. Lily had been one of the last people in the world to see her, and was now off at magic school waving a stick around and eating eggs.

She lost her appetite.

Lily looked at Mary, opened her mouth to ask, once more, if she was okay, and then quickly revised this. "I'm sorry," she said, instead. Mary looked up from a drifting bit of pumpkin pulp. "I know I'm being annoying." More than annoying. If Lily, in the agonising stretch between Christmas and the return to school, had had her own Lily hounding her, she probably would've ended up blowing herself up with accidental magic.

Mary looked up at her with round blue eyes. "It's okay," she said, very quietly. Lily patted her hand.

"It's just that the potions go down easier with a bit of food. You look a bit peaky," Lily said.

"Do I?" Mary brushed her hand across her cheek, as if it was a smear that would wipe off. Lily pushed her plate into the middle of the table with a slight scrape.

"Lily!" Marlene bolted upright. Her cloak fell to the floor. Her eyes were bloodshot. Mary flinched. Lily bit her lip, eyes widening in concern. She'd awoken the Devil herself.

"Marlene?" she asked mildly. Marlene reached across the table and pointed her chest.

"Your birthday," Marlene managed. Oh. Lily had almost forgotten. Sixteen didn't mean much, really – not for her. Seventeen was the big year in the wizarding world, and eighteen served the same purpose in Cokeworth.

"It's not today. It's Monday, only the twenty-sixth," Lily said. She gently pushed Marlene's finger out of her road and lifted a spoonful of porridge.

"I know," Marlene said defensively. "I'm not slow. But – are you -?" Marlene leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Two in one week might just about kill us. Pettigrew will never get it all out of his system in time. He'll end up dead." Lily glanced over at the boys. Pettigrew choked into a napkin. James vaguely patted him on the back. She arched one eyebrow at Marlene.

"Are you trying to tell me what I should do?" Lily asked.

"No," Marlene said. "Well – only – yes. A bit."

"Marls. I have no intention of reprising last night's effort. As much as I love you, I'm happy to celebrate my turning sixteen without holding your hair back." Relief washed over Marlene's face, then the slightest flash of annoyance.

"Hey," Marlene said, running her fingers through her hair. "You're good at it, you know. There's nobody else I'd trust. You have a strong stomach and gentle hands."

"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all day," Lily smiled. It was seven-thirty in the morning.

Remus trudged over, looking very downtrodden.

"Lily," he croaked – really croaked. He was a sickly shade of green. Between that and the pale, silver scars peeking out of his robes, he was almost made of Slytherin colours.

She decided, diplomatically, not to point that out.

"Remus," she said. He nodded slowly, as if he was learning that this was his name for the very first time, and that while surprising, it made sense.

"They've sent me over here. They think you like me the best." They all stared at her openly. Lily smiled sweetly in their direction. Black snorted and Peter coughed. Potter, however, got a thoughtful look on his face. Something tugged in Lily's guts. Lily turned back to Remus.

"That's surprisingly astute of them," Lily said. "But Peter isn't that bad either."

"I'm glad I'm not 'that bad'," Remus said dryly. "They want a favour." Lily pursed her lips.

"Will you do the patrols without me?" she suggested. Remus rubbed his temple.

"No."

"You have to somersault for your supper, then," Marlene cut in. "Like James did." Remus frowned, and the lines in his face deepened. He gestured to himself.

"I have never done a somersault in my life," he told them. Lily laughed.

"Alright. No somersaults. I will have to ask a favour of you, though," she said. "Or, at least one of you. Potter." She considered this. "No, actually, he might muck it up. Never mind. What's your favour?"

Remus sighed, hanging his head. "They – we – were wondering if you had any hangover-curing potions on you. Or if you could brew one." Lily raised her eyebrows.

"What, a Cure for Alements?" That was the actual name. Honestly. The wizard who'd thought it up probably thought he was very clever, and Lily couldn't really deny it. Remus grimaced. "They must think I really like you."

"It's the only thing that's ever made James jealous of me," Remus said. Lily pulled a face. "Not now," he added. "When we were younger."

"Still disgusting," Lily maintained, though she thought of Saturday morning, when it had felt rather more like night. She'd always thought Potter's eyes were brown, plain and simple. But they had the tiniest flecks of green in them, and it made her dizzy. She'd noticed while sucking on the cigarette, pulling smoke into her mouth, and nearly choked. She could still taste the tobacco on her tongue. She'd brushed her teeth three times, but still. She could smell it on her fingers. Her clothes had to reek of it. She didn't dare ask the others if she was imagining things; Marlene would never stop teasing her, and Mary would probably take it up just to fit in, which was the last thing Lily wanted.

Remus scratched the back of his neck, wincing at his feet. Yes, Lily had to answer, like a normal human being. Not get caught up in thoughts of Potter. Ugh.

"How soon do you need it?" she blurted out. Remus blinked.

"Er," he said, twining his fingers together. "Well. I suppose the sooner the better." He shifted his weight. "Don't mind it, Lily…We'll find someone. James has a nose for these things."

"No," she said, surprising herself. "I'll do it. By lunch. It's just that Transfiguration's not conducive for it. You know Professor McGonagall." Remus raised his eyebrows.

"I - erm - thank you," he said. His gaze darted. "Do you need…?"

"No, it's okay. Thanks. Just hold out for a bit," and she grinned, almost laughing, strangely. Remus thanked her twice more and hurried off to his friends. Potter whooped in delight (Black pulled his cloak so tightly around his head it looked as if he might suffocate himself) and shot her a thumbs-up. Peter waved. Lily raised her hand and awkwardly waved back.

God. What had she agreed to?

But no, she thought, as she hurried up to the second floor, it was a good idea. She needed something to focus on. She'd been in bed by ten but up at one, and again at three, and five for good. She kept looking over her shoulder. Lily knew, from her attempt to read the next chapter of her History of Magic textbook in the moonlight and the cold debris of the party, that she was out of luck when it came to schoolwork. Her mind wandered. She needed to do something with her hands.

The Hangover-Curing Potion was not, contrary to belief, really that difficult to brew. All of the ingredients – save for one – were freely available in the students' Potions storeroom. They'd learned all the techniques needed for it in their lessons long ago. The primary obstacle to the hungover witch or wizard brewing it themselves was that it was incredibly, incredibly precise, and incredibly, incredibly finicky. Not more so than the potions they'd learned last year, but to a degree that a pounding headache and a stomach lining of nausea and whisky made it virtually impossible. As far as Lily understood – for she'd never actually been to one of these places – wizarding off-licences sold Hangover-Curing Potions for most common brands of liquor, but no Hogwarts student was up to sneaking down to the only off-licence in Hogsmeade with a raging hangover, and apparently no Hogwarts student ever had the foresight to buy a bottle before a party.

What, Lily wondered, would the student body ever do without kind-hearted Potions students?

She opened the door, Mary and Marlene following her in, and spotted someone in the dim, cool little room. Marcus McLaggen straightened up.

"Lily," he said, surprised. He smiled warmly. "Good morning. And -?" He looked blankly at the others.

"Marlene and Mary." Recognition flickered in his eyes. He finished his signature on the sign-out sheet (they had to note who they were and what they took) with a quick flourish and offered his hand to them, very formally.

"I'm Marcus," he said. "I'm the sixth-year prefect."

"We know who you are," Marlene said shortly, high-fiving his outstretched hand. He blinked. Mary politely shook it, giving him a faint smile.

"Do you need help?" he asked. Lily hesitated; she had a feeling Marcus wouldn't approve very much.

"No, that's okay. We just need to top up Mary's supplies. Thank you." Marcus smiled awkwardly, excused himself, and promised to see them around. Yes, that was rather likely, given they shared a breakfast table.

The other thing that made brewing the Hangover-Curing Potion difficult was the fact that the recipe was patented and only available to be purchased on its own, not as part of a larger potions book. It also had a very nasty curse on it that struck when someone loaned the recipe to another or copied it onto a scrap of paper. Somehow, that was legal, because the magical government was apparently completely mental. Anyways, it meant that the recipe was pretty much an oral tradition. And Lily had never brewed it in her life.

She was smart, wasn't she? Oh, golly gee, I got no sleep last night, why don't I brew something for the very first time during class as a favour partially to two people I don't even like that much when it could get me two weeks' worth of detention? That sounds reasonable. Aren't I a clever clogs?

It was something about James Potter. He made her unsensible.

Prick.

She remembered the ingredients with minimal (but not zero) strain to her hippocampus and slipped the ingredients into her pockets. Lily frowned at the sign-out sheet. It asked for a name, a list of ingredients taken (and their measurements), and the reason why. She couldn't help but glance at Marcus' entry. Of course, his was perfectly appropriate. He was practising a potion for class.

She chewed her lip. The prefects generally looked over the list, and the staff only got involved if something needed to be flagged. She decided she may as well scribble down the truth. Alice was Head Girl; if something came up, maybe Lily could get her to run interference. She was pretty good at running interference for their gangly gang of misbehaving miscreant prefects. Except for Marcus – he hardly deserved to be lumped in with the rest of them.

She wrote down the date, and then the reason – 'Cure for Alements', it was more inconspicuous that way. Then she had to give a name. Who was it that needed these ingredients? Truthfully, it wasn't her. She wasn't hungover.

'James Potter'. With a jolt, she realised she'd never written down his full name before. There'd never been any need for his name. He was the one and only incorrigible 'Potter'.

To be fair, she thought, as they headed to the dormitory for the last ingredient, the potion was also for Peter and Remus and Black – and Marlene, who'd begged for a bit. She could've put their names down instead. But James blazed at the front of her noggin, annoyingly, with that cocky grin and his stupid, stupid somersaults.

Lily grabbed a vial from her trunk, and Marlene painstakingly poured in a few drops of Firewhisky.

"I don't want to look at it," Marlene groaned. "I can smell it. I can feel it. It's in me, Lily. Like a – a parasite." Lily pressed her lips together in a smile. Marlene glowered. "Don't."

"I've grown out of 'I told you so's," Lily informed her. "Thank you for your noble sacrifice to the cause." She corked the vial and tucked it, with the rest, in her pockets. One thing she loved about the wizarding world was the abundance – and size – of pockets on robes. Back home, she was hard-pressed to find a pair of jeans that she could shove ten pence in.

"You've only grown out of saying it," Marlene grumbled. "You still think it." Mary cradled Berlioz, her cat, like a baby.

"Are we going to be late?" she asked anxiously. Lily grimaced at the clock.

They made it to Transfiguration with a minute to spare, but were saved from Professor McGonagall's disapproving look from James Potter. He kept popping up, like a rash. He and Black stood at the front of the classroom, trying to re-enact James' feats, though Black appeared half-dead and there was no sign of Potter attempting to kill himself by trying a completely random bit of human transfiguration. Lily could appreciate that he had enough self-awareness to realise how bull-headed he was, though. Professor McGonagall permitted their little re-enactment until most of the class had arrived James began to turn the floor to sponge.

"Take your seats. Now."

Black promptly returned to his lacklustre, hungover state, though Potter kept a bit more pep. Professor McGonagall made no allowances for the very obvious big night they'd had, and they left with a considerable amount of homework. Lily's stomach felt a bit hollow. She'd misunderstood at least half of what'd been said. Maths just didn't come easily to her.

Professor Binns was droning when they entered the classroom. Here, Lily could get to work. She, Mary, and Marlene claimed seats in the back row, far from where they usually sat. Rosier and Avery sent her filthy looks. Sev frowned. She shrugged at him in return. She only had her little portable cauldron with her – one of the best birthday presents she'd ever got – but it was enough to make the little batch she needed. Her proper cauldron was down in the dungeons with the rest of the year's. She withdrew her potion-making kit from her bookbag and began work. Binns' lectures added very little to the textbook chapters. She'd catch up.

Her efforts went entirely unnoticed by Binns, but the same couldn't be said of the rest of the class. Fifteen minutes in, half of them stared at her. Marlene's cloak hid her from view as she snored, head down on the table, and Mary sunk so low in her seat that her eyes were barely visible above the desk.

Twenty minutes in, a folded piece of parchment landed on her desk. It was unsigned. Lily knew the handwriting as well as she knew her own.

'What are you doing?'

'You've always said this class is rubbish. I thought you'd support me in my potion-making endeavours.' She used the Locomotor Charm to pass the note back. Severus unfolded it and narrowed his eyes. Lily unfolded her little portable wooden spoon and very carefully began to stir.

By the end of their lesson, it only needed to brew. It took an hour. She'd been bang-on with her lunchtime estimate. Her next challenge was not to spill or disturb it on the trip from the History of Magic classroom down to the dungeons. Mary hugged herself tightly, flinching often, and Marlene blocked out all light.

Now, it was Severus Snape that came to her rescue. Without asking, he added his Levitation Charm to hers and matched her stride.

"What are you brewing?" he demanded, beady-eyed. Then he shot Avery and Rosier a nervous look. They started down the stairs ahead of them. Mary dropped back, falling in behind her, and Lily stepped aside to shield her from them very slightly.

There was no point in lying to Sev. She doubted he'd brewed it before, but he was good at potions, he'd figure it out. Where Lily had a knack, he had an instinct.

"Cure for Alements," she said. He opened his mouth, and she cut him off. "For Marlene." A half-truth. Her stomach flipped. God, when had she become so dishonest?

"You're sure you know the recipe for it?" he started. "If it's brewed incorrectly, it can be very unpleasant. You wouldn't want to make a mistake." Lily was tempted to say something just to shut him up – she just wanted to be alone with herself and her potion, not a living, breathing reminder of him in her bedroom, her eyes burning, the police at the door, cold cups of tea –

"Alright," she'd said. "Truce."

"I think so. With the stirring at the end, how firm should I be?"

Sev launched into a lengthy explanation. He always did like to hear himself talk about the things he was good at. She indulged him, for now. He talked until they reached the dungeons. He scuttled off to join a bench with the Slytherins, and as usual when they were permitted to work in groups, she worked with Marlene and Mary.

"You tortured me," Marlene said hoarsely, as they set up their normal cauldrons. "Do you know how many words you forced me to hear out of his mouth?" She affected a northern accent. "'And Lily, you really should be holding your spoon like this if you want to have the biggest blah-blah bling blong…' He's such a twat."

"Play nice," Lily chided. "Or you'll be sorry later. How's your headache? Mary, why don't we start bashing our spoons against our cauldrons as hard as we possibly can?"

"You foul bitch," Marlene said. Lily grinned.

The smaller, portable cauldron slowly bubbled as Lily did most of the legwork for the potion they were supposed to be making. Halfway through the lesson, Professor Slughorn began his ambling circuit to check up on them. Lily covertly moved the portable cauldron behind her and Mary's bookbags as he came round.

"Very good, Miss Evans, Miss Macdougal, Miss – er," he frowned at Marlene, who did not look up. "Well, it's very good, that's precisely the shade of orange we're looking for." He peered more closely to examine it. Lily winced, almost imperceptibly. His gaze flickered. He'd seen it. "And what's this?"

One second. Two second. Think. "A potion," she said. True.

Fortunately, Professor Slughorn tended to think her backchat was charming rather than rude. "Truly? My, I never would've guessed. And tell me what potion it might be?" She guessed from his face that he already knew, and that he wasn't inclined to punish her.

"My friend turns seventeen on the weekend," Lily said, cursing herself for lying, again. If Mary was to be believed, this was definitely some kind of sin at this point. Possibly an addiction. Oh, God, now she was a pathological liar. Next thing, she'd be on the telly rambling about how she was actually the Queen's long-lost niece. Come to think of it, there was a bit of a resemblance between Petunia and Princess Anne.

Not that Lily would ever tell her sister that. Well, now she couldn't, if she was going to be a pathological liar – she could hardly tell her the truth. She'd ruin all her credibility as a liar from the very beginning.

She thought dimly that the lack of sleep was taking its toll on her.

"I see," said Professor Slughorn, looking mildly amused. "Just remember, Miss Evans, that students are not permitted to consume alcohol while at the school, even if they are of age." Lily nodded.

"I know, sir," she said, seriously. "I believe that's why she's intending to sneak off campus for her party." Potter choked loudly. More importantly, Professor Slughorn chortled.

"You know you shouldn't be telling me that," he said, leaning in, lowering his voice. Lily smiled sweetly.

"I could never hide the truth from you, sir."

"Ah, Miss Evans, you may be the only respectable student I've taught," Professor Slughorn laughed. "If only you were in my house – now, I'm sure we could put a word in to Dumbledore-"

"I couldn't," she said. The rest of the class, save for Mary, had focused back on their own workbenches. "I'd get mouldy. It's awfully damp down here. You ought to petition for a better classroom."

"What a hurtful thing to say," Professor Slughorn beamed. "We simply couldn't have it in a tower."

"Because Slytherins are afraid of heights?"

"And you Gryffindors are frightened of the dark." He shook his head, smiling from ear-to-ear. "Well, mind you produce an excellent potion, my dear, or else I'll have to tell the caretaker to block up the exits for your good friend's birthday."

"You can count on me, Professor."

Slughorn moved on to the next group, and Lily breathed a sigh of relief. At the end of the lesson, she won a few points for her potion, and Slughorn winked at her, telling her that her 'other little project' seemed to be coming along just fine. She was actually glad of the assurance. She and the others went up to the Great Hall. When they took their seats, she found that she had a bigger crowd than usual.

"You did it?" Peter asked breathlessly. Lily gestured to the cauldron she'd set up between her plate and the butter dish.

"Did it," she confirmed. Peter goggled.

"Wow. That's so cool. Isn't it hard?" Lily shrugged. Mary sat to her right and Marlene to her left, while the boys took up residence on the opposite side of the table. Potter ran his fingers through his hair and Black rested his head on his folded arms.

"What do we owe you?" Black asked, swiping at the dark circles beneath his eyes. Lily considered this as she unfolded her portable ladle. Really, it had been an excellent birthday present.

"A compliment," she decided, looking over the potion one last time. They made surprised noises. She looked up. "Well, go on then. And make it good. No thank-yous. A compliment." It wasn't that she needed a self-esteem boost. She just wanted to see what they came up with. Test their creativity. Besides, it'd be good for Potter and Black's egos especially if they had to be nice to someone else.

"Lily," Marlene said, throwing an arm around her, getting in first. "I love you, and you are the best person I've ever met – or, tied with Mary." She sent Mary an apologetic smile. "As I said earlier, you are the best hair-holder-backerer in the world. You're so good I had to make up a word for you." Lily snorted and ladled a bit of the potion into Marlene's goblet.

"Mind that I only used Firewhisky in the potion. You can only have one bit of alcohol in there and I didn't know what else you had." Marlene downed the goblet in one.

"That's fine," Remus said quickly, readying his goblet. Black pushed him aside and slammed his goblet onto the table, right in front of Lily. She gave him an expectant look.

"Yes?"

"You," Black began tremendously, "are – you – best at Potions. In our year. Fuck Snape." Lily raised an eyebrow.

"You could try to compliment me without insulting one of my best friends," she said. Black glowered.

"That wasn't clearly stated."

"Well, I'm stating it now. Try again." Black threw Potter a furious look, though Lily hadn't a clue why...

"You're the best female prefect," Black said this time. Lily rolled her eyes.

"You can do better than that. You don't have to say I'm the best at something. The more qualifiers you put on it, actually, the worse it sounds." Black cursed.

"You're very good at Charms and Potions," Black said. Lily doled out his portion of potion.

"You are an excellent person to patrol with," Remus said. She poured into his goblet.

"You're really nice," said Peter.

"Thank you," Lily replied, ladling again. He drank it quickly.

Then she was left with Potter, who leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, smiling crookedly, stupid hazel eyes crinkled.

"Evans," he greeted. Lily leaned back, folding her arms across her chest, chewing her lip as she waited. He pouted. "Evans?"

"Potter," she managed. Looking at him burned her skin. She looked down the table for his girlfriend. Lisbete Moult. Guilt singed her. They hadn't done anything; God, Lily didn't even like Potter as a person. It wasn't like that. It was pure insanity brought on by sleep deprivation and the strangeness of that liminal time of the night when it collapsed into morning.

Potter followed her gaze. She flushed, entirely expecting him to say something like: "Jealous, Evans?" Or at least to smirk. But instead, he looked away from Lisbete like he'd been burned.

…Weird.

Potter just looked at her.

"What?" she said, pulling the cauldron towards her (and away from him). "No compliment, no potion."

"Give me a second," he said. "I need to think about it. I have a bit of a repertoire to go through, you know. But I reckon you've heard it all before." If Lily had a penny for every half-witted compliment he'd sent her way over the years, she'd be able to buy off the Queen.

"Fine. You've paid your tax." She shoved the ladle into the cauldron with unnecessary force, pointedly not looking at him. Black lifted his head.

"Hang on," he said. "Why's James getting a free pass? He should have to pay twice over, for all the trouble he's given you."

Lily thought about hexing him.

"Fine," she said. "Potter, just spit something out."

"But you never liked my old compliments," he protested. Lily clenched her teeth so hard they nearly broke.

"Just say something!"

It was Potter's turn to play blasé. She hated him for it. He leaned back, arms folded, smirking softly.

"I like your hair," he said. Wordlessly, Lily dumped the last of the Hangover-Curing Potion in his goblet. "Thank you," Potter said, perfectly measuredly, and he took a very delicate sip. Lily began ferociously packing up her portable potions set.

"I, for one, feel way better. Cheers a million, Lils," Marlene said cheerfully, throwing her cloak down her back where it belonged. Lily violently folded up the ladle. "You know what party I'm looking forward to?" Lily's eyes shut. If she brings up my birthday, I am going to jam this stick so far up her – "This dance do you lot are putting on as a fundraiser." Lily's eyes flew open, and she heaved a sigh of relief.

"The what?" James asked, bemused. Remus grimaced.

"There hasn't been a chance to mention it," he said quickly. "Erm – us prefects were thinking of putting on a – a party sort of thing. As a fundraiser for a cause. Instead of stalls, like the Ravenclaws did."

"Good," Black said. "Those stalls were awful."

"A party?" James repeated.

"More of a dance," Lily muttered, shutting the lid on her potions set and latching it. She glanced up. "It's going to be a dance." She wanted Austen, not quidditch victory.

"And we take people?" Peter asked. His excitement surprised her.

"Well, that's the idea," she said. "But it's going to be a professor-approved affair, probably professor-monitored, okay? Not like this weekend. No Hangover-Curing Potions necessary."

"Ah, Evans," Potter tutted. "Hangover-Curing Potions are always necessary." She scoffed.

"Then you should learn to make them beforehand, shouldn't you?"

"But we can take people? Anyone?" Peter asked.

"You're pathetic," Black said. "You can't take Professor Abbott." Peter reddened. Lily and Marlene exchanged a look.

"I wasn't going to!" Peter squeaked, and he and Black delved into a ferocious bickering match. Potter mussed his hair.

"A dance," he said. "How many compliments do I need to give you for you to have a potion ready by the time I come to?"

"Oh, that depends," Lily said sweetly. "What kind of poison would you prefer?"

Yes, something about James Potter made her absolutely unsensible.

---

January 27th, 1976

Dorcas ripped her dirty gloves off, cast a quick charm to rinse them, dried them with another, and pushed them into her bag as she sped from the grounds to the top of the North Tower. Her dark hair frizzed around her face, protesting against the humidity of the greenhouse in which she had had her Herbology lesson. She rubbed her palm across her forehead. The sweat drove her mad. She couldn't explain it. It burned like fire and itched like nettles and made her want to tear her face off.

It worsened as she climbed the endless stairs to the Divination classroom. She was out of breath by the time she reached the trapdoor, and she mustered all her effort to cast a cooling charm. Then Dorcas knocked.

"Come in!"

She pulled the string and climbed up the ladder through the hole in the floor to the Divination classroom. Professor Nicholl conducted a swirl of teacups with her wand, returning them to their cabinet. With a flick of her wand, the doors to the cabinet closed and locked.

"Good afternoon, Dorcas, thank you for being so prompt," Professor Nicholl said, tucking a brown curl behind her ear. "I'm so sorry about last week, truly – lympilumpius, my ankles were the size of kneazles. But I'm feeling better now, that Pomfrey is a lifesaver, so we can get down to business, can't we?" Dorcas nodded quickly. For once, she had good news. Or, she was mostly certain it would be good news. Ever since the strangeness at Auld Kirk Green, she had found it easier to lose herself in her head. She wasn't just picturing things, she was there. She would've laid every knut she had on it.

"Yes," Dorcas said. They sat, as usual, on opposite sides of Professor Nicholl's desk, which today was covered by a tasselled purple tablecloth. Professor Nicholl brewed a pot of tea, telling Dorcas about the lesson she had just finished with her seventh-years. Finally, they each had a mug, and Professor Nicholl paused.

"You told me," she said, slowly, "after class, the other day, that something had happened." Dorcas stared into the flat brown sea in her cup. It reflected her dark gaze. It reminded her of scrying, somehow.

"Something did happen," Dorcas said, meeting Professor Nicholl's eyes, which felt strange. To look into someone's eyes, to see the depths of their pupils and the waves in their irises, seemed intrusive. It said, 'look at me, let me see you, let me perceive you, let me drill down into the base of your soul.' At the Ravenclaw study sessions, in the common room, they sometimes went on about Care of Magical Creatures; Dorcas didn't take the class but listened all the same. Some beasts saw eye contact as a sign of hostility. It was to possess someone's whole line-of-sight, and to expect that from them. It was brother wands, meeting each other, and locking on.

She hated it. She looked away.

"It was at the excursion," she said, focusing on the large, dyed purple quill on its stand. And then the words burst forth like a dam. She managed to skirt around the matter of Florence – it was hardly a thing to discuss with a teacher, even Professor Nicholl, and besides…she was well aware that it was odd. Kissing boys was apparently usual business for adolescent girls, but kissing one another wasn't spoken about. Dorcas hardly intended on asking why. It only ever brought trouble. She described, at length, the vision she'd had; how it had come to her all at once, like a flood, and some gate she'd never known was there swung open and revealed another world.

"Truly?" Professor Nicholl said. Her face, as always, was unreadable, but there was something else there; Dorcas wished she knew what it was. Professor Nicholl tapped her fingernails against the desk. "You know what this means?" she murmured. "Dorcas, do you know what you've done?"

Her stomach tightened. That was a bad phrase – something her parents said when they were furious. "What have I done?" she asked, faintly. Professor Nicholl exhaled a breathy laugh.

"Dorcas – you're Seeing. Have you tried – since – the box, try the box, try the box!" The intensity in her voice dug through Dorcas' skin. How could she explain – she obviously hadn't explained properly – it hadn't been conscious. It had been terrifying. It had been beyond her will – she had not so much Seen so much as been Seen, and pulled at, and consumed. "Dorcas, you can do it, come on." She shut her eyes shakily and did as she was told.

At first, it was normal, what she always saw when she closed her eyes, when she blinked. She did her exercises, breathing deeper, tugging on that strange muscle that nobody could place, but that seemed to ground magic, somehow. She inhaled sharply. There was a current, one she'd never yet been aware of. It thrummed inside her. A second heartbeat. She focused, moving towards it somehow. The world grew darker. Different – deeper. And she reached for it.

She'd been thrust into a flowing stream – a river. She wasn't afraid, but overwhelmed. Voices, feelings, colours swirled, stone steps, a grey sky, wet grass, dirt, turning pages, scratching quills. From a distance, Dorcas heard herself groan. She somersaulted, head spinning, above it all and yet in every moment, in every twitch. The box. She needed to focus on the box. She needed to anchor herself, somehow. What could she make sense of? What was there?

Florence Diggory's floral perfume.

No! She wrenched herself away from it. Not Florence – not Florence – not again. A flick of inky hair, long nails, her bed – her lips – her eyes – no. No. No! Dorcas stumbled. She clawed for ground, for anything that wasn't Florence. No – she realised her mistake. She didn't need to claim ground. She needed to do something else entirely. She needed to pull back. She withdrew, like lifting her head from a basin full of water, and felt the droplets run down her face. She needed to block the sound out. She'd never been any good at that. She got overstimulated easily. But she couldn't hurt Florence. Not again. With that thought driving her, she looked up, and into complete darkness. And then – unsteadily – a flickering white light. And something brown. Unostentatious. Brown. Wooden. Hard to the touch. Square – no. Rectangular.

A box. A chest.

She could smell it.

The world gave out.

She came-to face-down on the desk, trembling furiously. Professor Nicholl's face hovered an inch from hers.

"Dorcas," she said, eyes wide. Pain shot through her skull. She croaked, and Professor Nicholl moved back just before she was sick on herself. She choked out bile, throat burning. Professor Nicholl vanished it with a flick of her wand. "Dorcas," she repeated. Tears filled her eyes.

"I Saw," she managed, her voice weak, barely above a whisper. "I Saw." Professor Nicholl pressed her lips to her steepled hands. Like she was in prayer. Sobs – pain, exhaustion – wracked Dorcas' soul. But it didn't matter. Nothing else matter.

She'd Seen. And that was what was needed. Not her. Only her Sight.

---

A/N: Hey y'all! I hope you enjoyed :)! Sorry it's so long - but I wanted all this to be together (and I ended up cutting another section because it would've been ridiculoooously long in that case) and there was just so much in it. The next chapter should be more measured. As always, feel free to come talk to me abt it on tumblr - my username is ohmygodshesinsane. I also post lots about the writing process on there.