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]

39. the outside

A/N: Thank you guys for your continued readership! A few warnings for this chapter. The usual swearing, and references to underage drinking and drug use, as well as internalised homophobia, heteronormativity, implied/referenced child abuse and domestic violence, self-harm, and bullying. Please look after yourself when reading this chapter.

The chapter title is taken from 'The Outside' by Taylor Swift, an (in my humble opinion) underrated song from her first album.

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February 2nd, 1976

"You didn't follow him?"

"I wasn't invited!"

"What did I ask you to do?"

"This isn't fair. I don't even know why you chose me. What have I ever done to you? It's weird. If – if you want to snog Potter, you should tell him yourself, not get me to stalk him!"

Severus rested the tip of his wand against the stretch of Michael Hoover's throat. Severus glanced down the long, dark dungeon corridor, ascertaining they were alone, before continuing his interrogation.

"Where have you been?" Severus demanded. "I've been looking for you since Saturday."

"Stalker," Hoover said. Severus jerked his wand, and Hoover inhaled sharply. "I'm not scared of you," Hoover insisted, defiance filling his dark eyes. Severus bristled. This was taking far too long, and proving useless. Hoover was a fool. Severus had hoped, perhaps futilely, that this endeavour would prove useful. But it appeared that all Gryffindors lacked a sense of self-preservation.

"How fond are you of your knees?" Severus asked. Hoover blinked.

"What?"

"Tell me something useful, or I'll find out for myself how much you like them," Severus threatened. Hoover's face contorted with loathing. Severus did not care. Some idiot Gryffindor's opinion made no difference to him.

"I don't know, Potter's been busy, alright? Came to training, threw hard. His mate Black keeps yelling at people in the common room for talking too loud or something, I don't know, he's a prick. That's all I know, alright? I didn't go to Evans' party, none of the third-years did except for Lisbete Moult, because Potter took her along." Disgusting. It was just like Potter to date a third-year. He could only date naïve halfwits because anyone with a dash of intelligence could see through him in a moment. What a pathetic little boy.

"Fine," Severus relented, dropping his wand. Hoover exhaled loudly. "But if you are lying to me-"

"Why would I make up something that boring?" Hoover dared. "I don't spend every second of my life thinking about some guy on my quidditch team, alright? I have my own life." Severus pointed his wand at Hoover's knees. Hoover recoiled a little. Power hummed in Severus' fingers.

"I have nothing more to say to you. Tell anyone," Severus added, "and I will ensure you will not get on a broom for the rest of the year." He did not wait for an answer. He had no time to waste on imbeciles like Hoover. He stalked through the dungeons until he reached the staircase that led up to the Entrance Hall.

Why James Potter had been at Lily's birthday party, infuriatingly, remained a mystery. Severus had considered going to investigate the matter himself as he sat on his bed that night, twisting his fists into his robes, chest bubbling with hatred. But he had not. He knew what Potter was like, and Black, and that nothing where they had an audience could do Severus any good. They were nothing but show-offs. The idea of beating them in front of half the school had tempted him, certainly, but he knew it would be a lacklustre victory. It was all but assured that they would be out of their minds with drink; his skin crawled. He refused to allow anyone to think that he could only beat Potter and Black while they were drunk. Besides, as Lily well knew, Severus preferred his social events without a crowd of people too inebriated to keep themselves upright. He had had enough of that. So in the end, he ended up spending the night with the curtains pulled around his bed, trying to read the book Lily gave him as a belated present. He went to sleep at one and woke at quarter to three when Padgett and Maccioni stumbled in, slurring and shouting. They had been invited to Lily's birthday party, and attended, but Severus did not interrogate them. He rarely spoke to Padgett and Maccioni except out of necessity: 'Professor Slughorn wishes to see you'; 'Gamp is looking for you'. They did not spend time with Severus and Avery and Rosier and the others; Padgett headed his own group, more concerned with teenage trivialities than politics. Severus suspected that was what catapulted Padgett's social success; he too could speak the language of petulant drama and quidditch and who had kissed whom. Severus did not need to lower himself to talk to him.

But why had James Potter been at Lily's birthday party? He could not rid himself of the question. Avery had been the one to tell him, gleefully taking the seat opposite at the Slytherin table at lunch on Friday.

"Oi, Snape," he'd grinned, as Rosier sat beside him. "Are you still keen on that mudblood?"

"What mudblood?" Severus had asked him sharply, not looking up. It was a redundant question: he knew, and Avery likely knew that he knew, but all the same, there was a pretence to be maintained.

"Evans," Avery said. Severus sniffed.

"I have never been interested in her; we had the misfortune of living in the same area, and she is meddlesome," Severus told him. Avery nodded.

"Yeah, right, yeah. Well, she's having her party tonight, right? Padgett's going, Maccioni too. And….James Potter."

Severus had kept his face expressionless, though his jaw clenched hard. "No, he's not."

"He is. She asked him during Care of Magical Creatures, I heard them talking about it. Right, Rosier?"

"Yes, I think so."

"I didn't know the mudblood was keen on Potter." Severus had stiffened. Don't call her that, he'd thought. She's better than that, she's better than you are.

"I'm sure Potter invited himself. He believes his presence is the greatest gift one can receive," Severus said. Avery had sniggered.

Severus did not take Care of Magical Creatures, because scuttling around examining the excrement of beasts and dirtying himself held no appeal. Lily signed up for it because McKinnon did, and she thought the animals might be cute. He had attempted to talk her out of it to no avail. He had not had cause to regret this until now. It didn't make sense; he tried to picture it, but he could not imagine her walking over to Potter and his friends, taken in like all the other girls, twirling her hair and asking him to come to her birthday. That wasn't Lily. Severus would not have believed it until the stories began to circulate of Potter leading the singing of some stupid popular song, and attempting to backflip off a table (he had failed, Severus was pleased to hear, and landed himself in the hospital wing, the idiot).

Severus found himself at the doors to the library. He pushed through them and headed for Defence shelves. They had an essay on counter-jinxes due on Wednesday, and he intended to receive top marks on it. Students were only required to use the textbook as a reference, but Severus thought it important to show that he was proficient in researching. He entered the first aisle and narrowed his eyes. At the opposite end, book in hand, stood Lupin in shabby robes. Lupin ran his fingers over the hardcover, then turned and left without so much as looking at Severus. He frowned. What book had it been? Perhaps there were other copies on the shelf.

He strode down the aisle, to where Lupin had been, and looked for any leaning books. There were a few – two in the jinx section and one amongst the history of Latin curses. Severus slipped around the corner, looking down the next row of books, but Lupin was not there. The werewolf section – included in the Defence stacks because of their status as a dark creature – had no visitors. This surprised him. Professor Forcier had advised them to revise dark creatures this week, ahead of their study of boggarts after they finished the current topic. Severus inhaled deeply and returned to the section on counter-jinxes. He selected two and made for the main desk. Few students slunk around the library, given it weas a Monday afternoon and most had lessons, but if Lupin was present, there could be little doubt Potter and Black were too. Instead, Severus planned to take advantage of the empty common room to do his work. Madam Pince glared at him as her enchanted quill wrote the due date on the lending slips, and Severus proceeded out of the library, putting the books into his bookbag and fastening it up. He only looked up when a droplet hit his cheek.

Potter and Black rounded the corner, Potter shaking his hands like the pig he was. Severus scoffed. Of course he would find himself incapable of using a drying spell, or even a towel.

"Potter," he sneered. Potter's face lit up.

"Snivellus!" he beamed, as if this was some warm reunion. Severus reached for his wand, but Potter was quicker. "Silencio." Severus tried to speak, but no sound emerged. He flushed hot with anger. Potter grinned. "Sorry, Sniv. I'm not up for a chat at the minute. Sirius and I have better things to talk about." He ran through his mental list of nonverbal spells. They had not been taught them officially yet, but Severus had attempted some. Unfortunately, he'd mastered none more sophisticated than those from first year. That did include one or two useful jinxes, however.

He focused very hard on Potter, moving his wand. Flipendo, he thought furiously. Potter flinched, but did not fall over. Severus's hands trembled with rage.

"What the fuck was that, Snape?" Potter laughed.

"He tried a nonverbal spell," Black smirked. "Good try, Snivellus. Is there too much grease in your throat to talk? Too much shit, from sticking your head up the arses of Mulciber and the like? I'll fix that. Sternius!" A powerful sneeze wracked Severus' body. Two girls appeared at the end of the corridor, and stopped to watch. Severus' insides turned to fire. If he could get away at the very least, there would be no show for those girls. He swirled his wand, thinking hard. Fumos! Fumos! Smoke sprouted from the end of his wand, but not nearly enough to hide him. It drifted lazily to the ceiling. Black cackled; Potter snorted.

"Flipendo!" Black said, and Severus flew backwards. His back smashed into the hard floor. He involuntarily cried out with pain, but it was silent; impossible to hear. Another sneeze crumpled his body. Potter laughed, and nudged Severus with his toe. Severus flinched away, scrambling up onto his elbows.

"I'm glad you're cool with it, Snape," Potter said pleasantly. "Usually you argue, you know? But I think you're enjoying this as much as we are. It's really nice, for a change. We should do this more often, don't you think?" The girls giggled. Severus worked up the saliva in his mouth and spat. Potter dodged, and the spit landed back on Severus' knee. The girls giggled harder. Potter raised his eyebrows, laughing again. "Alright, Sniv. Maybe do that in your private time, right?" He strode past. Severus struggled to his feet and rounded on Potter, who now stood by the doors to the library, one hand on the knob. "Come on, Sirius!" he called. Severus whipped back to face Black, who fingered his wand.

"Snivellus," he said, stepping forward. Severus held his wand tightly. Black came closer again, looking directly into Severus' eyes. Half of him wanted to run, but he knew he would look a coward. He stood his ground, hating Black and Potter more and more. "I've always sort of pitied you. I mean, you've got this massive conker, right, but the rest of your head is too small for it. I can't imagine – obviously – what it must be like to be the ugliest bloke in our year. I really feel sorry for you." Severus' free hand balled a fist. He could throw a punch. He considered it, pulling his elbow back, but some force seemed to paralyse his left side. Unbidden, the image of a bruise swelling on his mother's cheek appeared, and he could not rid himself of it. "So I thought I'd help," Black continued, though Severus barely listened. He trembled all over, now. "Flagellum Afflictio!"

His wand clattered to the floor. White-hot pain burned a line in his hand; he gasped silently. Black stared at him, lips parted slightly, as if stunned. Then he stormed past, shoving Severus to the ground. His tailbone smacked into the stone floor. Despite the pain, he cast his eyes after Black and Potter. Potter frowned, standing at the door.

"What's that spell?" he asked. Black shook his dark head of hair. Potter did not press him, and they disappeared inside.

Severus knew the spell, but it was not one taught at Hogwarts. He had read about it in an old spellbook of his mother's, one she hid under his bed. Then Mulciber mastered it and laughed about it at one of their meetings in the dungeons. His father used it on him as a child, he'd said, when he misbehaved. The others swapped their stories of nicking brooms and ruining dinners, and lifted their robes to show the scars on the back of their legs, thin white lines. Severus' mother never used it. Now, he thought, if he was to lift the robes of either of the Black brothers, he would find scars identical to the one raising across the back of his hand.

Anger iced his lungs as he rushed past the two giggling girls, making for the stairs. He would be forced to ask – beg – someone to restore his voice, unless he could learn to perform the spell nonverbally in a matter of hours. It was humiliating. He wanted to scream. He wanted to break something. What gave Potter and Black the right? Who had decided that the school was theirs? Why, why did they go after him, and why had Lily wanted them at her birthday party? Did she not care for him at all? God forbid, did she think they were funny? Was she trying to turn herself into one of those giggling idiots?

Why couldn't she understand? How could he make her see what it was like for him? He was certain that if he could find her, she would lift the hex without laughing, but he could not stand to look into her luminous green eyes and see betrayal reflected there. He longed to ask her why she had invited them, but the truth was that he was frightened. He was frightened of what she would say; of what he might find out. His heart ached as he descended the stairs to the dungeons. This felt like another chasm between them. Severus was beginning to wonder how many more bridges they could build.

---

February 4th, 1976

With a rush of wind, all the lamps in the Hogwarts library glowed brighter, compensating for the sun's rapid descent into the mountains. Remus blinked and rubbed his eyes; had he and Peter really been in the library that long? It seemed about fifteen minutes since they'd showered after Herbology and left James and Sirius in favour of coming down to get on top of their work. James proclaimed that he didn't give a shit about their mounting piles of homework, now that he had qualified for the national round of the International Transfiguration Tournament, which he would be competing in on Saturday. It was a very short turn-around time. James and Sirius were supposed to be using the empty dormitory to practise. Remus wondered which of them would be in the Infirmary by the time he and Peter got back. They'd been in and out of there half a dozen times in the past week. Sirius' spells were never as they were meant to be. He tried to light the end of his wand and a mug exploded; he tried to summon a book and pulverised it.

Remus and Peter could've stayed, and tried to help James, but they could both tell that Sirius needed the time to himself. Peter had been half an inch away from having his arms turned into tentacles.

"Sometimes they make me feel about as useful as Filch," Peter grumbled, airing a rare complaint as they walked down to the fourth floor.

"Yeah," Remus said, not knowing what else to say. He understood what Peter meant. It was always Sirius and James, James and Sirius. Lately, Sirius was made of fire, and Remus didn't have charmed gloves. It curdled his stomach. He didn't know what he was meant to do. Sirius wouldn't talk, wouldn't do anything but jinx people and make cutting comments, or get himself drunk or high so he had an excuse to duck out of the conversation. Remus wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shout, 'I'm not an idiot, I've spent my whole life trying to hide things from world, you can't do anything that I haven't tried!' But that Hufflepuff's blooming purple bruise lodged itself in his mind, and he said nothing, because he wasn't a Gryffindor at all but a coward.

"Moony?" Peter looked up from his notes, frowning. "I'm trying to remember who made the Werewolf Register. My writing got all smudged…It says 'Nempt'… 'Scuwandler'?"

"Newt Scamander," Remus corrected, trying not to tense.

"Oh, right. Thanks!" Peter scribbled it down.

"And it was created in 1947."

"I had that," Peter said. Remus nodded vaguely, and began turning the pages in their textbook, not reading any of them. It never felt normal, studying himself as a dark creature…being examined on himself. He pulled the book towards him. 'There is some question as to the degree of influence lycanthropy has on the mind even when a werewolf is in their human form. No studies have been conducted, due to the difficulty in finding werewolves willing to identify themselves as such and participate, but it is commonly theorised that that over time, a werewolf's mind may become more like a wolf's than a wizard's, losing, with each transformation, their sense of human morality, their ability to communicate, and their proficiency in magic.'

"Can I have that one when you're done, please?" Peter asked, peering at the pages.

"Have it," Remus said, handing the book over.

"Thanks." Peter began reading. Remus watched him. A numbness iced his chest. What did Peter think, when he tried to learn those facts by heart to write on their O. ? Did he think, as he memorised them, 'it's all bullshit, they're wrong, it's just what I need to remember?' Or was it more of a, 'well, maybe that's most werewolves, but not Remus.' Or did he look at Remus when Remus looked away, and wonder, 'will that happen? Will he wake up one day and forget that we're his friends and attack? Do I need to make sure my wand's in my pocket whenever we're alone?'

Remus' skin itched. As far as he knew, it wasn't true, but he'd never met another werewolf. They talked of 'ferals' in the paper. The ones who attacked others even when it wasn't a full moon. Who, somehow, were able to pass on the disease, even if they weren't transformed. He didn't know how that was possible.

'Lycanthropy appears to be transmitted from attacker to victim when the attacker's bodily fluids infect an open wound. Typically, it is the werewolf's saliva that enters the victim's body through the wounds caused by a bite. However, it is believed that any bodily fluid, including sweat, could enter a wound of any sort – for instance, a stab wound – and infect the victim.'

It was never clear whether only the saliva of a transformed werewolf was infectious. They did not bother to find out the specifics. The message was clear: do not allow yourself to come into contact with any sort of bodily fluid from any werewolf, ever, or else you risk becoming One of Them.

Remus had never kissed a girl. He had never kissed anyone. He gave his mother a kiss on the cheek, he supposed, tight-lipped. He didn't know if an open-mouthed kiss, his tongue on someone else's, would be enough to do it. It wasn't a wound, but his saliva would still be entering their body. And sex…

He wasn't interested in anyone anyway. Regardless of if he could kiss them – or go further – without risk of infection, it was too dangerous. How could he date someone and spend his life lying to them about every full moon? Eventually they'd find out. How could he marry them and not tell them the truth? How could he love them and keep a secret from them, how could he claim to love them and put them in danger? What if one day he did become more animal than human, and he didn't recognise them anymore? What if they wanted children? He couldn't. He couldn't. He knew the pain too well to ever inflict it on someone he loved. One of his earliest memories was his very first transformation, screaming in the dark, the terror that overtook him. At four years old, he had realised he did not and would never again have control over his life. He would never have normality. He could not do that to a baby. He couldn't have a child that looked like the person he loved most in the world and watch them, too young to understand, too young to speak or even think, turn into a monster, be ripped in half. What if the child was born on a full moon? A four-year-old boy, while unhappy about it, could go twelve, thirteen hours without food; could a baby go that long? What if it was born in the night? Remus' partner would be alone while he transformed, and the child – would it come out as a wolf? Could it transform in the womb? Would the healers snatch it up at once, take it to the Ministry to be killed to put it out of its misery, would they put the pieces together and come after him?

Panic rose inside him, scratching at his throat, and he stood without thinking. Peter looked up at him.

"Remus?" he asked. "Are you okay?" He glanced at their table. "Oh! We can do another subject – um, I really need help with History, I still don't understand-"

"It's okay, Peter," Remus said, or tried to say; the words felt jumbled and awkward on his tongue. "I need to – to go to the bathroom. I'll be back."

"Do you want - ?" Remus could not listen for another moment. He rushed out of the library, ignoring Madam Pince's glare, and hurtled into the nearest boys' bathroom.

To his relief, it was empty. He flung himself into a stall and slammed the door shut. Calm down, he thought. Don't be so… He grunted, hitting his fist against the wall. He buried his head in his hands. You idiot. You idiot. What if someone was in here? He screamed silently. What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you?

'A werewolf's mind may become more like a wolf's than a wizard's –'

"Fuck," he whispered, throwing his arms forward and then back, trying to resist the urge to smash himself against the door. You're behaving like an animal. Like a wolf. Like a monster.

' - losing, with each transformation, their sense of human morality, their ability to communicate, and their proficiency in magic.'

"Stop," he growled to himself. His fingers found his arms and clawed in deep, nails threatening to break the skin. Because this is what humans do, isn't it? This isn't wolfish at all. His eyes burned. Stop being a monster! He dragged his nails along his skin, trying only to focus on the pain. The time stretched on, agonising. He clawed into himself like the beast he was, driven by pure emotion ('losing, with each transformation, their sense of human morality'). He didn't draw blood. He doubled over, stomach cramping. Panic throttled his breathing. Transformation felt imminent. Stop it, he desperately begged himself. Stop!

He couldn't be sure how long he spent with hot tears scorching his cheeks, with his nails scrabbling at his skin, trying to pick himself clean. He sat down hard on the lid of the toilet, trying to breathe again. What the fuck is wrong with you?

Eventually, it passed, though he did nothing to help it. He blinked slowly, the way he did waking up after a long night under the moon's pull. His rolled sleeves hung around his elbows. Raw, red skin flaked on his arms. He choked hoarsely. Good job disproving them, he thought bitterly. No, Ministry, I'm not a monster, I just tear myself up for fun, same as any other wizard. He felt so…powerless. He had no more control over ripping into himself at times like this than he had during the full moon. Was it something to do with his lycanthropy? Was the wolf taking over, poisoning his brain? He had nobody to ask. Madam Pomfrey might know, but what would she do if she found out what he did to himself? Would they think he was a danger to other students? If he was…his vision blurred again. He knew he was selfish. But he couldn't stand it. He couldn't lose Hogwarts. School, his friends, they were all he had. He couldn't go home in sham and explain to his parents that he couldn't control himself any longer. His mother would have to quit her job. He knew she would be frightened. She wouldn't say it, of course, but she would be terrified. He had heard his parents whispering once before, when they thought he was asleep in bed… '"Lyall, what do I do if something happens? I don't have any magic. I can't call the police on my boy…I can't call the Aurors. I don't know how to help him…I can't fight him, if something happens…I'm so afraid, all the time, I'm so worried."'

He couldn't go home and watch her waste away, never knowing if it was safe to turn her back. At least here…someone would call the Aurors. Everyone had magic. Even the first-years, at this point in the school year, could levitate something and drop it on his head. And they would be willing to hate him, to fight. He half-thought that if he turned on his mother, she would freeze. She would let him hurt her.

His own mother was frightened of him.

He was too tired to do anything else to himself. He felt so empty. Humiliation began to burn his cheeks – had anyone come in while he'd been in that state? Had anyone heard him? His wand had clattered to the floor. Wincing at the thought of it being on the bathroom floor – he'd need to polish it – he picked it up.

"Homenum revelio," he whispered. He was alone. Thank God. He left the stall and splashed water on his face, trying to make himself look normal. His arms stung as he pulled his sleeves down, hiding the marks. He thought he rather ought to look into healing spells. Not only for this – generally, they would be useful.

He returned to the library, brushing off Peter's concerns. They did switch to studying History of Magic until it was time for dinner, upon which they packed up and headed to the Great Hall. Sirius and James met them there, freshly showered, Sirius' luxurious locks still damp. He appeared slightly less restless than he'd been during Herbology. At least he hadn't set anything on fire or punched someone there.

"How are you feeling?" asked Peter, plopping down next to James. Remus took his seat by Sirius, opposite Peter. James adjusted his glasses.

"Good," he said. "I reckon it'll be a piece of cake. I mean, I'm representing Hogwarts, and Hogwarts is the best school in Britain, so how is anyone else going to beat me? I think we could send you, Peter, and you'd still beat them."

"Really?!" Peter said excitedly. Sirius rolled his eyes.

"Don't get him too excited, James, we're in a public space," Sirius said. Peter's face fell. Remus rubbed the back of his neck. His sleeve slid down. He hastily tugged at it. "It's bullshit that we can't watch you. I want to see what other shit the home-schooled freaks come up with." The Headmaster passed through the middle of the Hall, between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, heading for the High Table. Remus stared at his empty plate. If I had to leave Hogwarts, that's what I'd become. A home-schooled freak. I wouldn't get my O. , I'd never get a job. In truth, he wouldn't even be home-schooled. His mother couldn't teach him, and unless his father was in the house, he couldn't use magic without the Ministry detecting it. Assuming they didn't snap his wand when he left. His wrists burned.

"Well, if they start doing spells in Gaelic, it'll be interesting," James said. His stomach growled loudly. Remus looked up, snorting half-heartedly. James frowned. "When's the food coming? I'm starving."

No sooner did he say this than Dumbledore waved his hands and announced the beginning of dinner. The house tables filled with food of all sorts, and the four boys filled their plates. Remus piled up bread rolls and vegetables but only picked at it. He felt queasy.

"Where's your detention tonight?" James asked through a mouthful of food. Sirius shrugged.

"Same as yesterday, with Slughorn. My fucking luck to get the Slytherin head." Sirius mutilated a bean furiously.

"At least you're good at Potions," said Remus.

"Oh yeah, that makes it loads better, lots of fun," Sirius snapped. Remus rolled his eyes. Clearly Sirius hadn't shaken off – whatever it was going on with him. Fine, it was his prerogative. But Remus knew from experience, sometimes all you could do was let it run its course. People huddling around Remus, trying to figure out what was going on, that had only ever made it worse.

They finished dinner and the dishes were wiped clear, then replaced by a selection of desserts. James took a jam roly poly and Peter a piece of banoffee pie. Remus just crossed his arms. Sirius picked at some biscuits.

"Lupin! Remus!" Halfway through dessert, he looked up to see Alice Rhysfield standing behind him. He almost jumped.

"Alice," he said.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said quickly. "I've just come in – the decorations for the dance, they only came in tonight. I don't know why, it's annoying. But erm, I just wanted to check that you've been doing your job, getting the boys enthused, because I don't know how well Marcus is doing to be honest – don't tell him that. So – Potter, Black, Pettigrew, are you coming?"

"Yeah," said James easily.

"Do we have to have a date?" Peter asked anxiously. Alice shrugged.

"You don't. That's the other thing – Remus, I think if all of us prefects have a date, it will look good, you know? Like we're having fun. I'm going with Frank – obviously – I think Laura has someone. Again, I don't know about Marcus. But I wanted to see who you were taking? I was going to organise us all a little table, you know."

Remus froze for a moment. A date. For the dance. Why had they decided on this fundraiser? Couldn't they have done anything else? A date. A date. He'd figured he and his friends would go together, but then James would probably take Lisbete, and Peter would try to ask a girl, and Sirius –

Well, he didn't know what Sirius would do. But even if Sirius went alone, he wouldn't seem awkward. Somehow, he never did.

"Erm," he said. "I – I haven't yet." Alice crinkled her nose, shrugging.

"Ah well. Maybe you can ask Lily? I don't know who she's going with yet. Actually, I'll pop over to see her now. But let me know when you find someone, alright? Just so I have an idea. I'll see you at the meeting. See you, boys!" Alice hurried off. Remus stared after her hopelessly. A date.

That panic threatened to overtake him again. How was he supposed to ask someone? Who was he supposed to ask? Girls didn't exactly throw themselves at him. Did Lily already have a partner? He thought he'd heard something like that. He planted his elbows on the table and hid his face in his hands.

"Who're you going to take?" Peter asked.

"Does he look like someone who knows?" Sirius retorted. He nudged Remus. Reluctantly, Remus looked up. Sirius, James, and Peter all peered at him.

"It's all good, don't worry," James told him, grinning. "I'll be your wingman. If it comes to it, you can take one of Lisbete's friends; they won't mind."

"I'm not taking a third-year," Remus whispered hoarsely, mortified.

"Suit yourself," James said, taking another mouthful of jam roly poly.

"You'll find someone," Sirius said, crushing half a shortbread biscuit with a spoon. What this achieved, Remus had no idea.

"Dare you to snort it," James said, swallowing. Sirius raised an eyebrow.

"The biscuit?"

"Yeah."

Sirius appeared to consider this. "Alright." Remus groaned. Peter gave him a glum little smile.

"You'll find someone, Remus," he said. "I know you will. You're all smart and stuff…some girls like that."

"And the werewolf thing," Sirius said off-handedly, crushing the biscuit into a very fine powder. Remus clenched his jaw. "Forbidden romance."

"Oh, excellent," Remus grumbled. "I'm in the same category as a forest."

Why him?

---

February 5th, 1976

Sirius liked girls.

It was that simple.

He liked girls, and their bodies, and their hair, and – all of it. They were the whole package. For Merlin's sake, why wouldn't he like girls? He'd been going on dates since third year, with fucking Mortensen. He'd gone on a date before James had, actually, because he'd been too busy fancying Lily Evans to ask a girl out, or to say yes when she asked him. It was true that Sirius had never had a girlfriend, but neither had Remus, and Peter's one week with Mary Macdonald where they'd awkwardly touched hands a few times barely counted. And ignoring all of that, who exactly had been willing to sleep with a girl on Halloween? Not Peter. Not James. Not Remus. Sirius. And that had only fallen apart because it was Marlene, and they knew each other too much for him to be able to go in and do that and have things back to normal afterwards. Girls wanted relationships, especially if you got a leg over at the very start, and Sirius did not. Lisbete was, above all else, fucking annoying. He didn't want to have to stop in the halls to give some girl a hug and a bit of a snog and ask her how Charms was. He had better things to do. He could be working on the map, or finding new hexes to use, or racing his broom, or finding a new passageway or annoying Filch. He did not need to ask simpering little questions like –

"And you think she's forgiven you?" James' hand cupped Lisbete's pink cheek, and she nodded. Remus and Peter had already taken off, not wanting to lose more points for being late to Defence, but Sirius stuck around just so he had a reason to be late. He felt like it. Maybe they'd take long enough that they were already on the practical part of the lesson by the time he and James arrived.

At this rate, the lesson would be over by the time he and James arrived.

"Well, I think so," Lisbete said. "I said she could work with us in Herbology, if she wanted to, and she said 'alright', but I don't know if that was an 'alright, I will', or more of an 'alright, thank you for giving me the option'. Does that sound silly? I don't want to be overthinking it."

"You're not overthinking it," James assured her. "How did she say it?"

"I must sound stupid, I'm sorry."

"You're not stupid. You want to make things up with her. I would too! How'd she say it?"

"Well…"

Sirius could get a girlfriend, if he wanted to. Easily. There were girls around that liked him. Girls from his year, fourth years, sixth years, big girls, skinny girls, Gryffindors and Slytherins both. He knew about the Slytherin girl – a sixth year called Susan Crabbe – because he'd walked past her and her friends this morning and heard them whispering.

"The one with the long hair – yes, him. Well, you remember Narcissa Black, the really pretty blonde girl who was in seventh year when we were in third year? Yes, her, the one who did the ballet in the air -" Sirius had been behind that, with the help of James and Remus and Peter. They'd levitated Narcissa during dinner and performed a complicated version of the Dancing Feet Spell, making her do ballet twenty feet high in front of the whole school.

It had been glorious.

"- well, that's her cousin, the heir. Isn't he? I mean, they say he runs around with Gryffindors, but I think if he met the right girl…well, it would be a challenge, wouldn't it? You know…I think I could fix him."

Sirius seriously doubted her abilities. He wouldn't go out with her, anyway. The Crabbes weren't a family his parents were overly fond of, but they were in the same circles nonetheless. He couldn't risk making his parents proud of him. His skin crawled at the thought.

But there were other girls. Like Mortensen. She was annoying, apparently a complete twit, but her face was fine, he guessed. Though it had been suggested he'd blown up that bridge. There was a chance his mother would die on the spot if he went out with a muggle-born. That would be the way to do it. But the point was – the main point was – that nobody was going to think he was a homosexual.

Why was he still thinking about it? The incident had been over a week ago. One stupid girl, one comment, one idiotic joke from Remus. He hadn't meant it. He hadn't shown interest in any girl, ever, so who was he to talk? Someone could easily mistake his shyness for him being some sort of queer.

"Oh, but I'll get dirty in Herbology. And I'll miss you."

"We can eat together at dinner, I promise." Sirius glared at James, but he didn't notice. Brilliant. Lisbete and her friends had ended up in some sort of fight over something and every time she came over to sit with James, she ended up talking their ears off, telling them who had said what and looked at who and passed a quill to whoever. Sirius thought about putting his wand to his temple and saying the magic words that would put him out of his misery.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"O-kay. Have a good lesson, Jamie. I'll miss you."

"Yeah, have a good lesson too."

"Bye!"

"Bye!"

"Bye!"

"Bye!"

Finally, Lisbete waved one last time and turned around, scurrying off to her next class. James cleaned his glasses with a fistful of his robes. Sirius looked at him.

"I don't know why anyone bothers getting a girlfriend," he said. James looked up, sliding his glasses back on. He ruffled his hair.

"What d'you mean?" James asked. They started in the opposite direction for their Defence class. The bell had rung ten minutes ago, and the halls were all but empty. Sirius shoved his hand in his pocket, looking for another cigarette; he could probably get away with it now.

"Don't you ever get sick of her?" Sirius asked, exasperated. He mimicked her high-pitched voice. "Oh, but she's so mean to me. What if I get dirty?" James frowned.

"I like her," he said, as if it was that simple. That was what Sirius didn't understand. James also liked Sirius, and Remus, and Peter, and quidditch, for Merlin's sake, but he didn't feel the compulsion to snog them, or deal with them being annoying as shit.

"I didn't pick you for being overly invested in third-year drama," Sirius said. "Don't you have anything better to think about?"

"I don't care about it," James said, wincing as they walked past a class where a professor was yelling. "I care about Lisbete, so I listen to her and pretend to care."

"What do you like about her?" Sirius continued. James opened his mouth, then shut it, and threw his hands into the air.

"I dunno," he said. "She's…nice. She's got nice…skin."

"Skin?" Sirius repeated incredulously. "She's a twit!"

"She's not a twit," James argued. "Fine, what sort of girl do you think I should go out with? What sort of girl would meet your standards?" It wasn't far to their lesson now; Sirius begrudgingly dropped the cigarette in his pocket, lifting his hand to fidget with his earring.

"You should go out with someone who likes quidditch," Sirius said. "Someone who… who's funny, and-" Sirius struggled to think of anything else. What sort of girl should James go out with? Nobody, he thought. He can find a snogging partner who doesn't need anything else, and spend the rest of the time with us. They could return to being able to have private conversations over meals, instead of dealing with Lisbete's incessant questions. "- I don't know, someone your own age, or like a sixth year or a fourth year or something. Maybe she can…bake."

"Bake?" James looked befuddled. Sirius scoffed.

"I don't know! She could make you food."

"Is that all you think girls are good for? Mate, they're not house-elves."

"I don't think that!" Sirius snapped. James didn't react.

"What's your perfect girl then?"

"I don't know," Sirius answered. There was no perfect girl. That was half the reason why he didn't have a girlfriend. "Sort of, big boobs, great snogger, doesn't want to do all the talking."

James was silent as he considered this. Sirius pulled at his lower lip.

"The talking's not that bad," James said, eventually. "It's kind of nice. 'Cause you can talk to them, too. If you take someone to the dance, they'll probably want to talk, you know, not just snog."

"I don't need to talk to them," Sirius said shortly. James shrugged. Something indescribable rose in Sirius' throat, and he couldn't contain it. "Can you even talk to Lisbete, anyway? She's a third-year, she's an idiot. What do you ask her about, how your hair looks and how good your last goal was?" James looked at him, brown eyes round. Sirius could not take it back, so he jutted his chin out, daring James to be offended. James shook his head after a moment.

"Sunset will be-"

"Don't change the topic."

"Sunset will be while Peter's in Ancient Runes," James continued. "Right at the end of the lesson. You don't reckon he'll forget, do you? I want to remind him, but with Moony around, I dunno how to do it subtly. Could you distract him?"

"Fine," Sirius agreed. "I'll regale him with tales of my wonderful childhood." James, again, didn't react. The spell James was talking about was, of course, the spell they performed each day at sunrise and sunset as part of the Animagus ritual. They had to do it until a lightning storm finally arrived – Sirius hoped, at the latest, the rains of spring would bring an end to the ritual and the beginning of a new age for their group. One where they weren't stuck being fucking useless while Remus was ripped apart every month.

They stepped out of the stairwell and started down another corridor. The entrance to the Defence classroom was in sight, but blocked partially by a floating, life-sized picture of the Minister for Magic. Sirius blinked.

"What the fuck?" he asked.

"I…I have no idea," James said. They inched closer. A group of first-years stood nearby, staring at the poster, and the small wizard levitating it.

"Are you serious?" one girl asked bossily.

"Shouldn't you be in class?" James asked all of them. They glared at him. Sirius turned to the levitator – a blond boy in Ravenclaw robes with a haughty expression.

"Do you hate Harold Minchum?" the boy asked, speaking with an accent so pompous that Sirius was immediately reminded of his Aunt Druella.

"Yes?" James said. "Well, he's not doing much, is he?"

"You should hate him!" the boy declared, fluffing his hair. It was perfectly coiffed. What a prat. Sirius thought very little of being told what to do by a kid half his size.

"Right," James said. "Is this a project or something?"

"We're meant to have a theory lesson for Herbology," one of the girls said. "But we can't find our teacher, and Lockhart's going on about this rubbish instead."

"If you can't find the classroom, it means you don't have to go to the lesson," Sirius told them helpfully.

"I'm Gilderoy Lockhart," the blond boy interrupted, thrusting his hand out. "I'm going to be the youngest Minister for Magic. I think Minchum's doing a terrible job and needs someone like me to come in and spice things up."

"What do you know about Minchum?" Sirius asked him. "What are you, nine? How would your policies be any better?"

"I'd make it so that the school has to have a talent competition every year," Lockhart said, without missing a beat.

"You might want to be Headmaster for that one," James advised. "Instead of Minister."

"Yes, but the Minister could make it law, so even when I'm dead – if I don't manage to make the Philosopher's Stone, of course – everyone will have to do it."

"Because everyone knows it's impossible for laws to be overturned, that's why we still hang, draw, and quarter muggles who steal wands," Sirius said. Lockhart glared at him.

"Don't talk about that sort of thing, you'll upset the voters!" Lockhart hissed. Sirius did not have time for this kid and his inflated sense of self-importance. Instinctively, his hand went to his wand, though he did not pull it out.

"Move," Sirius growled. "Move yourself and your stupid fucking poster, alright?"

"Sirius," James said. Sirius looked sidewards at him. James' lips turned upwards in a mischievous smile. "Shouldn't we…help him out? With his dream?" He brushed his fingers through his hair and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and tilted his head towards the poster. Sirius' gaze flickered to it, and James' idea dawned on him.

"I don't need your help," Lockhart told them. His voice grated on Sirius' ears. Sirius looked pointedly at James and rubbed his chin, skimming one finger across the top of his lips. James gave a nod. The two of them looked back at Lockhart, who pointed his chin into the air imperiously. "I can give you an autograph, though. Otherwise, you really need to leave, I'm busy."

James drummed his fingers against his outer thigh, with three fingers, then two, then one –

Sirius and James shouted at once, whipping out their wands. Lockhart shrieked. It took a moment for the rest of the first-years to realise what had happened, but when they did, they burst into laughter. Lockhart shrieked again, and his hands clapped against his bald head.

"What have you done?!" he demanded squeakily. Sirius rubbed his chin again, and perhaps subconsciously, Lockhart mimicked the action. He squealed shrilly. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" The other kids roared with laughter.

"Helped you look a bit more like a Minister for Magic, mate. That's all," James said, patting the boy on the shoulder. His fine-featured face turned bright pink. "Good luck." Sirius bowed dramatically and then shoved the levitating poster over, freeing the corridor. James followed Sirius to the door of their Defence classroom, which opened before they could reach a hand out to touch it. Professor Forcier glowered at them from the doorway.

"You're late," he said impatiently. "Two points from each of you." Then he appeared to notice the group of first years. He left the doorway and walked past Sirius and James, frowning deeply. "Why aren't you in class? Who is your teacher?"

James looked at Sirius and shrugged, heading for the door. Sirius sighed, dreading the thought of sitting quietly through a theoretical lesson (which, given the lack of noise coming from the open door, it seemed to be). He was stopped from entering the chamber of horrors when something caught his sleeve. He still had a hand on his wand and he brandished it as he turned around. It only met the sight of a dark-skinned first-year girl.

"You're Sirius Black, aren't you?" she said. Sirius pulled his sleeve from her grasp. "And that's James Potter?"

"Yeah, I am! James Potter, Gryffindor chaser, Transfiguration champion." James leaned around Sirius, the lesson forgotten, and offered the girl his hand. She shook it, and then looked Sirius up and down. He said nothing, slipping his hands into his pockets along with his wand. He leaned one shoulder against the stone wall.

"What do you want?" he asked. She did not seem perturbed by his directness.

"I'm Gwendolyn Champion," she said. "The Gryffindor prefects are hosting a dance to raise money in a few weeks, aren't they? I was wondering if you had dates. If not, would you like to go with me?" Sirius' eyes flickered to her tie, and he was surprised to find that it was striped with blue and bronze, not red and gold.

"I have a girlfriend, Gwen, bad luck," James said easily. She nodded and turned her attention to Sirius. He flashed a quick glare at James, and then looked back at the first-year. She kept her face impassive, but she pulled at a curly strand of hair, fidgeting with it.

"No," Sirius said flatly. For a moment, disappointment flashed across her face. Her eyes sparkled, but she swallowed and managed to keep from crying. Thank Godric. He could not deal with a crying first-year. But he couldn't take her to the dance either; that would be worse than James and Lisbete. What did he have to talk about with a first-year? There were real girls he could go with, not some fucking eleven-year-old.

"Oh," she said. "Fine, then." She sniffed hard and returned to her friends, who were now being given directions by Professor Forcier. He gestured down the hallway, and then for them to make a right.

"Who are you going to take to the dance, then?" James asked, as he and Sirius entered the classroom. Peter waved at them from the back row, and Remus lifted both his head and his hand in greeting, while the other hand kept taking notes. Lily Evans rolled her eyes at them pointedly.

"Not a fucking first-year, I can promise you that much," Sirius said, following James down an aisle. Peter gestured to the two free seats by him and Remus, as if it wasn't painfully obvious that's where they intended to sit. "What about you? When are you breaking up with Lisbete?"

"I dunno what you're on about, truth be told," James replied. They took their seats. Peter looked at them both.

"Where were you? What did Lisbete want?" he asked eagerly.

"We had to deal with the future Minister for Magic," Sirius told him. Remus furrowed a brow.

"Well, that sounds plenty interesting," he said, returning to his notes. Of course he cared more about schoolwork than listening to what they were up to. Remus could be such a knob. He wondered what he would've made of the kid and his Minchum poster. He'd have something funny and insightful and politically relevant to say. And Sirius was sure Remus would side with him on the matter of Lisbete being a waste of time; he was sure Peter only liked James dating her because it meant he got to interact with a girl outside of the classroom. Remus scratched away at his parchment, and Sirius half-smiled at him.

"Yeah, just about, Moony."

---

February 6th, 1976

The line disappeared from existence, and Peter swore loudly.

"Don't make me do it again," he moaned, glaring at the square of parchment in his hands. The empty piece of parchment glared back. He swore again. This was a nightmare to do on his own – he only had so many hands. He held the parchment in his left, the quill in his right, and the bottle of ink poked out of his satchel, threatening to fall out every time he moved. Holes peppered the parchment because he had no hard surface to lean against save for the cold dungeon walls, which were often uneven. He had never appreciated desks so much in his life.

Peter, naturally, had all the bad luck. When the group shot sparks to decide who would cover which area of the castle, his fell the shortest. That was why he was spending his lunch hour in the darkness under the school. James, of course, got the top floor, Sirius the ground, and Remus the fourth. The dungeons had proved their most difficult area to map, because even they still got lost in the labyrinth. They doubted even the Slytherins knew the full extent of the twisting, turning, endless corridors that snaked into the earth.

Peter was the monkey that had to discover that full extent, and get it onto a bit of parchment, although it clearly did not want to be mapped.

Patricia always had a weird interest in muggles – she'd taken Muggle Studies, for Merlin's sake – and she had been in her seventh year when Peter was all of four. Despite their parents' objections, she'd often read him funny muggle fairy stories, where the magic worked in weird ways, like they had in times of old. Some of them Peter had long forgotten, because once Patricia moved out, his parents returned to the classics of Beedle the Bard, but one of them lodged itself in his mind and came back in vivid colour today. He could not remember the name of the two unfortunate kids, but he definitely remembered the trail of – crumbs? – they'd left to find their way out of the woods. Peter had really considered leaving a trail of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans back to the stairs to the Entrance Hall, because the numbers on the doors of each dungeon were growing larger and larger and he'd taken so many turns that he couldn't completely trust himself to make it back.

But Peter wasn't frightened. Or, he told himself that. Who would be down here at this hour of the day? They'd left the Great Hall while most people still ate lunch, and the weather outside was surprisingly pleasant – no rain. Why would the Slytherins be stalking around the dungeons when there were a hundred better things to do? They wouldn't be here. They couldn't be here. Even if they were, there was no guarantee they'd hex him, if he didn't antagonise them. So long as they didn't recognise him as one of James and Sirius' friends. But would they? People always seemed to forget about Peter.

Maybe now, it would be a blessing in disguise.

If they did recognise him, though, Peter felt pretty certain he'd be on the wrong end of a jinx. It wasn't anybody's fault – just – James went on about the International Transfiguration Tournament as soon as anyone else was around, and Sirius had been in a right foul mood lately, hexing people for the fun of it. And if someone recognised Peter, they'd be sure to recognise that he was never as quick as James and Sirius with his wand, and that he'd be a much easier target but make James and Sirius just as cross. Maybe if James loses the next round, he'll stop gloating about it and people will stop glaring at us in the halls. Guilt surged through Peter at once, and he quickly got rid of that thought. He wanted James to win. Of course he did. Tomorrow, James would leave in the very early morning to face off against other young wizards and witches from across Britain, and there was no doubt that he would come back as the British champion and be heading to the international round. Nobody was better at Transfiguration than James. Nobody had the guts to be. Peter wished he was that good at something – by virtue of winning the school round, James had his name on yet another trophy, in addition to the quidditch team lists, and the Quidditch Cup from third year, where James had scored a bunch of goals and Gryffindor won the year. Sirius' name wasn't on a trophy, but everybody knew him, and even if they hated him, everybody whispered about how good-looking he was. Remus was a prefect, so all the little kids knew who he was, and he'd get his name on some roll. Peter had nothing like that. He was good at school, but not great; he could fly well enough, but he didn't have the hand-eye co-ordination to make the team, and he knew he'd feel worse sitting on the bench as a reserve while James scored than he felt cheering from the stands with his friends. But Peter knew he'd never get picked to represent the school in anything. Sometimes it made him want to cry, or run all the way to the Black Lake and dive in and hide in the seaweed. But that was stupid. Mostly, he was happy for his friends, and he liked that he got to be the one to sit with them, to be included in their jokes. He was one of them, even if nobody else (and often even he) could figure out why. He was special, because they'd chosen him out of everyone in the year to be their friend. They saw something in him.

The black ink trailed in a longer line across the parchment, and followed him around a corner. He had to keep his brain busy to get it to stick; that was the key. As soon as he thought about it as a –

No. He forced his brain away from that topic. What else? There was the dance. The dance all the Gryffindor prefects (Remus protested that) thought was a brilliant idea to raise money for the house charity. Peter wasn't even sure what the house charity was. But tickets were seven sickles each, and all funds would go towards helping – whomever. Dragons? Had there been something about dragons? It would take place at the end of the month, but that hadn't stopped people from partnering up already. It all kind of curdled his stomach. He had no idea who to take, and it seemed like every day, more girls agreed to go with someone else. Peter would have to send home for his dress robes, too, and he didn't even know if they'd still fit (he'd gained another few pounds, and his school robes sat tighter around his stomach). If he found a girl to go with, he'd probably have to pay for her ticket too – James said something about that being good manners – which was alright, but then he'd have three sickles left that week, and that would barely get alcohol and cigarettes for him and her for the party, plus whatever Dale had on offer. And was he meant to get her a gift? He had to ask James. He wished the prefects had never come up with a stupid dance. If he could find someone to go with him, though…

Peter tensed. Down the corridor, a laugh echoed. Who was there? He lifted his quill off the parchment, squinting to see. Torches lined the walls, but they only fended off the darkness in their immediate proximity. Were there Slytherins? Should I turn back? He couldn't hold his wand and his quill at once. His heart pounded. Maybe if he couldn't see them, they couldn't see him…

Another laugh. A girl's. Peter scrunched up his face, as if bracing for impact, but could not help but creep closer. If he could hear what they were saying, maybe he could figure out if they were likely to hex him.

"I'm not negotiating with you," a girl said, her voice somewhat familiar. Who was it? "The price is final. I don't make the decisions."

"That's a rip-off!" said another girl. Peter definitely didn't know her.

"It is what it is. I don't care if you pay or not, if you don't want it, you don't have to have it. But if you want it, I need five sickles."

"That's a sickle each!"

"Yes. Go elsewhere if you don't like it. As I say, I really don't care." So they were arguing – they weren't likely to team up on him. The first voice – the familiar one – she sounded as though she was in charge. Peter had to get her on side if the other looked ready to throw a jinx.

There was a long pause, and then the second girl said, "Five sickles?"

"Yep."

The second girl hesitated again. Peter took a deep breath and moved closer. He could see their outlines in the orange torchlight – to his relief, both were shorter than him, maybe third- or fourth-years. "Fine." The first girl reached into her bookbag and handed over a small tin. The second girl stowed it in the pocket of her robes. "Thanks." She then took off down the corridor, into the darkness. The first girl tucked her hair behind her ears and fastened up her bookbag. She looked in Peter's direction. He froze. She frowned.

"Pettigrew?" Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. The girl walked towards him until he could clearly see her features in the glow of the torches. He knew at once who it was.

"Catherine?" Cathy Roshfinger adjusted the strap of her bookbag over her shoulder, and raised her eyebrows at him. He swallowed.

"Do you want something?" she asked bluntly. "Dale's had to go into Hogsmeade, so I'm taking over for the day. I haven't got everything, but I have most of it. We're out of Dragon Claw until next weekend, but-"

"You're selling?" Peter blurted out, stabbing another hole in his parchment. She frowned. He hesitated. If he looked back on it, Dale had probably started at around the same age, helping out that Fletcher guy who had often bragged about tricking Lucius Malfoy out of a hundred galleons once. But still, Cathy seemed much younger than Dale had – Peter and his friends hadn't been so small when they were thirteen.

"It's a Friday," she said plainly, in that usual monotone she had. "We can't afford to miss out on the business. The seventh years had a project due, they'll be wanting a break after that." Without waiting for him to respond, she left him behind. Peter whirled around and started hurrying after her. He glanced down at the – not map – parchment. The first few corners and corridors he'd taken were gone, thanks to his mistake. Maybe if Catherine knew the way back to the stairs, he could get out of here and make up the work he'd lost. He quickly noted the numbers on the doors they passed, trying to think of them as abstractly as possible. It was much harder than it seemed.

"Is that what it's sort of all about, then?" he asked, following her, trying to distract himself. He rotated the parchment in his hands and kept drawing his lines. "Knowing – erm – what people are up to, when they might want what?"

"A bit," Catherine replied vaguely.

"You're not frightened of getting into trouble?" Peter asked again. He couldn't do anything like that, he was convinced, because he'd never get to sleep at night for fear that someone had crept down to McGonagall's office and was telling her what he'd been up to as he lay in bed. That was the worst part about pulling pranks, he thought: he was always terrified he was going to get caught.

"I'm thirteen," Catherine said, turning around a sharp bend Peter did not remember. "They're not going to send me to Azkaban. Why do you think they get us to do it instead of seventh years? And Dumbledore's soft, everyone knows it. He won't kick us out, he'll only give us a second chance." Honestly, Peter thought that sounded kind of…mean. Manipulative. That was the word.

He didn't say that. Instead: "Is it good money?" She took another corner. He continued scribbling down dungeon numbers. 122…127…How deep under the castle were they? At times, it felt like the floor sloped downwards under his feet. Why did Hogwarts need so many dungeons? Who had they ever imprisoned here?

"It's not Potter money," she said shortly. "It's not Black money. It's enough for me and Dale." Peter frowned.

"What about your sister?" He knew of an older Roshfinger girl who was dating – or had dated – the Gryffindor quidditch captain. And maybe there were other Roshfinger children? He wasn't sure if they were siblings or cousins. Catherine stopped, looking at a doorway, dark hair shielding her face.

"The others do their own things. Keith lives with mum, the prick. Betty lives with the Browns. Mirabelle's married. They want a kid, now her fuckwit husband won't pay for us." Peter sort of remembered the others, now that Cathy named them. Keith was a Slytherin the year above them, Betty was dating John Brown, the captain, and Mirabelle had finished school a couple of years ago. Why don't you all live with your mum? He didn't understand why the four of them at school didn't all live together. The only reason he didn't live with his sister was because she was almost thirty years old, and had her own life entirely. If she had only been seventeen, he couldn't imagine not living with her. He didn't think his parents would allow that. They definitely wouldn't allow her to go off and live with her boyfriend and his family.

"Pettigrew?" Cathy asked, after a long moment of staring at one particular door.

"Yeah?" Peter asked. She turned to him, face blank.

"Are you lost?" she asked him. Shit. Was it that obvious? He swallowed. It had to be obvious, if she could tell.

"Erm," he said. "Yes. Kind of. A bit." She continued staring at the door.

"Do you want to buy anything?" she asked. He grimaced and felt in his pockets. He hadn't planned on buying anything.

"I don't have any money on me," he told her, honestly. She sighed, and kept staring at the door, looking sort of troubled. He didn't know whether he ought to ask her what was wrong. Was that what you were meant to do with girls? Peter didn't know. Whatever rulebook every other guy his age had got on interacting with girls, he'd missed out on. Even first-year girls were scary. The boys just kind of jinxed you and got it done with, but the girls – the girls talked. Soon enough, half the school was convinced you were some kind of dodgy tosser with a wanking problem. Hogwarts was just small enough for gossip to circulate thoroughly within a week, but just big enough that hundreds of people stared at you as you entered the Great Hall, all of them thinking, 'what a dodgy tosser'. It was pretty much extremely terrible.

"You're really lost?" Cathy asked, looking at him. He nodded.

"Erm. Yeah."

"Shit," she said. "Me too." Peter blinked. The Roshfingers never occurred to him as the sort of people to get lost – wherever they went, they seemed to fit perfectly, and whatever they were doing, they always seemed to be perfectly comfortable with. He had never seen Dale look like he felt out-of-place in the five years they'd known each other. He'd looked out-of-place a lot, but he never appeared to feel that way.

How did people not feel that way? Even with his friends, Peter sometimes wondered, what if they all hate me and they want me to leave? What if he was just worthless and annoying and everybody thought that and nobody wanted to include him in the fact that he was a joke?

He wasn't a joke. They liked him.

Sirius could just have a bit of a nasty sense of humour sometimes.

"Left hand up," Catherine told him, raising hers and putting it to the wall. Peter blinked.

"What?"

"It's how you get out of a maze," she explained, sounding a little impatient. "Put your left hand to the wall and keep walking. Eventually, you'll get to the end."

"I can't put my left hand up," he said, ducking his head towards his bit of parchment.

"Fine. Follow me then." He'd half-expected her to ask what he was doing – he didn't know what he would've said, the map was kind of a group thing, not an outsider thing – but for whatever reason, she seemed more interested in her own thoughts than talking to him. He did follow her, and they walked up and down corridors until he started to get out of breath. She paused for him, and he panted, a little bit embarrassed. Well, he wasn't James. He didn't run every morning and evening.

The warning bell rang.

"Oh, shit," Peter groaned. They were meant to meet outside the Great Hall at the warning bell, and he knew Sirius would have something to say if he was late. At least he didn't have a lesson after lunch that he could miss, but the other three would. Oh, damn it, Merlin's beard. People would start streaming down for their Potions lessons soon too – assuming Peter and Cathy hadn't ended up in the deepest, darkest parts of the dungeons were nobody sensible ever came. That would be just his luck.

"Got a date?" Catherine asked flatly. Peter snorted.

"No. Never."

"Come on, then."

The air grew colder as they continued on, and soon the dungeons were not numbered with any number known to English, but with runes. The torches dimmed, and Peter struggled to see Catherine only a few feet ahead. He kept his quill moving across his page. He tried not to think about it. The parchment was now all but covered in lines, twisting and turning – some of the lines overlapped, and he was sure they had gone so deep into the ground that they were now underneath other layers of dungeons. That was weird.

"I wonder what they used all this for," Peter said quietly. To talk in a normal voice just felt wrong; everything here was so untouched, so undisturbed. Catherine shrugged.

"Bit creepy," she said. Peter agreed. He started to feel as if he was in a nightmare; a never-ending maze of dungeons that he could never escape. His stomach clenched. He tried to train his eyes on the parchment and get rid of any thought bouncing around his brain, but he kept seeing weird shapes in the shadows. He really didn't like this. It reminded him of the couple of times he and his friends had snuck into the Forbidden Forest. The first fifteen minutes of walking was fun. Any deeper, and he started to feel sick. The canopy of trees got so dark you could barely see the sun, and he felt as if he would never be able to leave.

They turned, and turned, and turned. Oh Merlin, Peter thought. We're going to die down here. Panic began to scratch at his throat. Was it worth abandoning his efforts with the parchment and pulling out his wand? What could he do? There was that compass spell, but it only pointed north; he didn't know how that would help him at all. Could he amplify his voice and shout? But what if that woke something? He was at the point where he would've been glad even to see that big guy, Mulciber, from Slytherin, just to know that wizards could make it down here. Peter was sure the second bell should've rung by now, but they did not hear it.

They followed one straight, narrow corridor with no doors for a long while. Peter's legs hurt; his lungs burned. He was going to die. He was going to die, and then his mother would have two dead sons, and then –

"Dungeon Twenty," said Catherine. Peter blinked. A narrow corridor, only just big enough to fit him, stretched out to their right. No torches lined it, but at the very far end, there was a door with a torch above it. He squinted to read the sign. 'Dungeon Twenty'.

"We're close!" Peter exclaimed. "We sometimes use Dungeon Ten to leave our cauldrons in to brew between classes!"

"I told you it would work," Catherine said. They edged down the narrow corridor, Peter hunching his shoulders in to fit, and emerged into a familiar hallway. Dungeon Twenty stood opposite them, and to his left stretched out a number of other, lesser-used but still known dungeons – Nineteen, Sixteen, Twelve. Relief flooded him. He made another line on his parchment, hoping against hope he'd done it mostly to scale. They would have to come back to check, but if they at least had an idea of the number of corners – that would make things heaps easier – don't think about it…

He and Catherine followed the larger hallway down until they reached the main thoroughfare, with plenty of torches and pillars carved into the walls. A few Slytherins wandered through, chatting amongst themselves, unconcerned, and the Bloody Baron floated past, sending a shiver down his spine. All the same, Peter could've cried. They walked only a little further and found the stairs to the Entrance Hall.

"I told you," Catherine said again, turning to face him. The ghost of a smirk flitted across her features.

"Holy shit," Peter said, looking at her in wonderment. "You saved us. I thought we were going to die!"

"You did?" she frowned, and he cringed, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. "Well. You're alive. See you around, Pettigrew." She went up the stairs before he could say anything else. Part of him felt embarrassed at needing help from a third-year, but if there was one thing Peter was good at, from spending all that time around James and Remus and Sirius, it was admitting when he needed help; and he had definitely needed help. He walked up the stairs. He wasn't surprised to find that his friends weren't there – he glanced at the small clock on the wall. Their lessons had started ages ago.

There was only one last thing to deal with. He looked down at his square of parchment, checking that the lines were mostly neat and tidy and straight, and that they looked roughly to scale, per his memory. He put his quill away and pulled out his wand. Once they finished a second, they had found a spell that would 'freeze' the ink, stopping their thoughts from impacting it. It was an old spell they'd found in a very obscure book in one of the strangest parts of the library, but it appeared to work.

He tapped the parchment and chanted the old-fashioned words, willing the spell to work. He felt the magic pulse through him. Finally, he finished the chanting. He looked down at the square. The lines upon it solidified, freezing, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

---

February 7th, 1976

"Mum!" James threw his arms around her neck and melted into her. She kissed his cheek and cupped his face with one wrinkled hand, lines crinkling around her eyes.

"Jamie," she breathed. "Oh, James, look at you! I swear you've grown again. Look at you!" She released him and he hugged his father's thin, wiry frame.

"James," Dad said, patting his shoulder. "I'm proud of you, son. Who would've thought we'd be here?"

"I thought so," Mum said, smiling. "If anyone would bring us here, it would be our James." James beamed at his parents, heart soaring. It was bloody brilliant to see them. The three of them outside an abandoned muggle theatre in southern Wales on what had proven to be a grey, foggy day. His parents had been there when he, Professor McGonagall, and Deepnita Varma arrived via portkey, which they had taken from Hogsmeade.

"We flooed to a shop in Cardiff and caught the Knight Bus to here," his mother told him. "We convinced them to prioritise us, given that it was only a short journey. Otherwise we would've been to Kent and back."

"You should've come up to Hogsmeade and taken the portkey with us," James said. "I think we could've fit an extra two people."

"The old bones don't like the portkeys much. If we'd been in any way to travel like that, we would've just apparated," Dad said.

"Bugger," James replied, concealing a frown. He hated it when his parents started talking about being old. It made him feel…well, a bit nervous. They weren't insanely old or anything anyways – his mother only had six years on Mr Pettigrew, and his father wasn't yet seventy. James thought they could have another fifty years in them, easily. James would be a grandfather before anything happened to his parents.

"Language," his father admonished. James only grinned.

Professor McGonagall approached them, Mr and Mrs Varma and Deepnita behind her. Mr and Mrs Varma wore brightly-coloured robes and matching tall hats, which made James feel better about the fact that both his parents wore robes about fifty years out of fashion in Gryffindor colours.

"Pratham, Aarushi," Dad said, offering his hand to shake. Naturally, he knew the Varmas, because somehow James' parents knew everybody. Maybe that was just part of being old. "How good it is to see you."

"Fleamont, Euphemia, it is an honour." Everyone did a lot of hand-shaking. Mr Varma clasped James' hand firmly. "Our Deepnita will do her part in making the school proud, so do not let us down on the other side, alright?"

"I won't," James told him. Dad once more put his hand on James' shoulder.

"James isn't one to lose," he said proudly. Mr Varma inclined his head.

"Good. Nor is Deepnita."

"Nor is Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall put in. Other wizards and witches began entering the decrepit building, and McGonagall glanced their way. "We have five minutes until it begins," she told them.

"Well, we'd best get in, shouldn't we?" said Dad.

The seven of them headed inside. People crowded inside the foyer, chatting away to each other and peering at the stalls set-up, one which sold last-minute tickets and another selling rosettes enchanted to squeak out a specified name. James stowed that idea away for later. His parents and the Varmas quickly purchased some, and then McGonagall ushered them up the stairwell towards the theatre. Two house-elves in royal blue tea towels stood at the doors, checking tickets and letting people in. James and the others were some of the last in. Rows of dark blue seats stretched from the stage and a pit, where a table with three seats had been set up, to the shadowy back, which sat beneath an empty room visible through a sheet of glass. Signs hovered above certain rows; some appeared to be surnames, and others the names of small schools James had never heard of. Hogwarts' very large banner levitated eight feet above the air towards the back, spelling out the school's name in letters bigger than James' head and embellished with the school crest on either side. They made their way up the stairs, stepping through puddles of light cast by floating torches, and shimmied down the aisle into their seats. James sat between his parents, as did Deepnita, and McGonagall took her place between the two families. James craned his neck, getting a good look at it all. In the very back corner, where there was no sign, sat three bored-looking witches with rolls of parchment and very fancy quills. In obvious family groups, small children crawled under chairs; two tossed a small quaffle back and forth; one pelted a stuffed toy dragon onto the stage, and their father shook his head and pointed his wand, summoning the toy back to them.

"How do they decide which of the home-schooled lot get to come?" James asked, watching them. "I mean, at most they'd only have, what, one sibling in the same age group to compete against? How's that fair? I had to beat ten people." McGonagall opened her mouth to explain, but Deepnita leaned forward, past her mother and McGonagall, and answered.

"They do it in geographical areas, set out by the tournament's committee," Deepnita said. "All the homeschoolers in, say, Northumbria or Mercia have their own competition, and the winner comes to the national round." She pointed vaguely to the different groups, and James noticed that some of them had other, smaller words beneath their names. 'LARCOMBE' it said, and beneath that, 'CHAMPION OF WESSEX'. No fewer than five small children ran circles around the chairs, jumping between rows.

"Right," James said. He'd never paid much mind to the homeschoolers around. Most of the prestigious families sent their kids off to Hogwarts, and in James' mind, the homeschoolers had always been a batty lot likely to sell strange amulets near the entrance of Knockturn Alley and make the papers for cross-breeding crups.

A wind rushed through the theatre and the torches extinguished themselves; for a moment, they were cast into darkness. Then flames rose on the stage in a high, dramatic circle, before dwindling to reveal an older, tanned wizard on the stage. The crowd hushed.

"Welcome," said the wizard, in a thick Italian accent, "to the British qualifying round for the International Transfiguration Tournament, in the categories of Junior Beginner and Junior Intermediate. I am Demetrius de Bortoli, and I am here as an impartial judge and a representative of the governing committee of the International Transfiguration Tournament. I am a nine-time World Class champion and have spent over fifteen years on the committee. I am joined in judging today's competition by Mr Orpheus Fawley, the British Minister for International Magical Co-operation, and by Professor Omar Shafiq, a professor of Magical Manipulation at the University of Magical London." Grumbling came from one segment of the audience. James was glad that he at least knew of one of the judges – Shafiq had been at Hogwarts for the first round.

De Bortoli began an explanation of the tournament's history, and then revisited the rules, making it very plain. James' mother quietly passed him a chocolate frog. He bit the head off it and examined the card. Another Dumbledore. But maybe that was a good sign – Dumbledore was pretty good at Transfiguration, James thought. He'd taught it until old Dippet died.

"We will begin with our Junior Beginners," de Bortoli said, and James felt his parents' eyes on him. "If they would please meet in the foyer to be escorted and prepared for their first task." James stood, straightening his school tie and feeling for his wand in his pocket.

"Good luck, my boy," Dad said, squeezing his arm.

"You'll do so well, Jamie, I'm so proud of you. I love you! I believe in you!" His mother stood and embraced him, peppering his face in kisses, and then pressed one of her rosettes as she sat. 'Potter! Potter! Potter!' it squeaked.

"Downstairs, Potter," McGonagall said. James nodded.

"Yeah."

"Remember what we've revised," she said. James nodded again. Excitement crackled in his fingertips. It felt as if he was about to walk onto the pitch for a big match. The Varmas wished him luck as James edged past, and then he was walking down the stairs, out of the theatre, and down to the foyer.

Ten other wizards around his age joined him, looking around and scratching at their sleeves. Some wore traditional robes and chatted to others, apparently recognising each other from events, and three others appeared to be in uniforms like James, with school crests and ties. A witch in white and green robes with a tall, stiff, flat-brimmed hat perched atop her head looked around, and then approached James.

"Hello?" she said, once close enough to make it obvious he was her target. He blinked. She had far and away the thickest Welsh accent he'd ever heard.

"Hi," he said, reaching out his hand. She took it tenderly, shaking. "I'm James Potter. Representing Hogwarts."

"Angharad Prichard," the curly-haired witch said. "From Yr Ysgol Dewiniadd." James had no idea what that meant. A school? It had to be a school of some sort. Then the sickle dropped – that'd be the Welsh one, where they used a bunch of alternate incantations he'd had to memorise. Brilliant. "Have you been here before?" she asked.

"Wales?"

"The tournament," she corrected. James squinted one eye.

"Nah. First time. But not the last," he said.

"We will see."

"Students." James looked to the staircase on the left. De Bortoli stood three steps from the bottom, with one hand on the wooden banister and the other on his wand. "Thank you for coming down so promptly. This will be very similar to the first round you participated in. You should each have your wand. I will lead you to a chamber where you will wait for your school or region to be called. Upon hearing its name, you will come onto the stage, where you will perform spells from the set list, firstly to be measured by precision, and then by efficiency. After you have done this and received your score, you will return to the chamber. When each of you have completed this, we will break for half an hour, and return for competitive matches. This will be followed by lunch, and then the Junior Intermediate competition. Are there any questions?" Nobody raised their hand. James tapped his fingers against his leg. It didn't sound much different from what they'd had to do at school.

De Bortoli gestured for them to follow, and so they traipsed up the flight of stairs. Instead of going through the double doors to enter the theatre, de Bortoli opened a small door for them shortly before it. They found themselves in a small room lit by a slowly-spinning chandelier. A curtained archway stood on the far side.

"That is the entrance to the stage," de Bortoli told them, pointing his wand towards it. "Please be quiet and do not disrupt your fellow competitors. You are permitted to use magic and to practise, but any interference with your fellow competitors, or duelling, will result in immediate disqualification. There are bathrooms down the corridor and to the left. Thank you." With that, de Bortoli left, shutting the door behind him. They all stood around, looking stupidly at the closed door. James was the first to pull his eye away.

"Anybody got anything we can make into a chair?" he asked. Their eyes turned to him. A freckled boy in rough-hewn black robes rubbed his nose.

"We could use our shoes?" he suggested, with a Cornish lilt to his voice. James shrugged.

"Yeah?"

Soon enough, everyone sat in a chair, crossing their legs with their socked foot on top. They exchanged names and the place they were representing; James felt quite proud each time he told someone he was the Hogwarts champion. It wasn't long after that that the first competitor was called up; the freckled boy went onto the stage to represent the school from Cornwall. A dark-haired girl rolled her eyes as everyone wished him luck. James shot off sparks at random as he waited, running over the approved spells in his mind. He had the two-way mirror in his pocket that he could use to talk to Sirius, but he didn't need the rest of the room to hear his conversation.

The freckly boy returned after about twenty minutes, and a thin boy in a tall straw hat took his place on the stage, representing East Anglia. James shook his foot back and forth and made conversation with the blonde girl from Essex, Katy, who went on next. James thought he had a fair idea of the order they were going in. He glanced to the door, but he didn't risk going to the bathroom at this point in time. He could talk to Sirius later.

You'll be fine, he told himself. You're James Potter. You're representing Hogwarts. Most of these people were taught by their mum or their uncle or something. You were taught in a school run by the greatest wizard of the twentieth century.

Katy took longer, and James shook his foot back and forth so much that Angharad asked him to calm down.

"I'm calm," he said, ruffling his hair and leaning back in his chair. "I'm not worried. I know I'm going to win."

"Your humility astonishes me," said Zhang, a boy in red robes. "They're not wrong about Hogwarts students, are they?"

"That we're the best in Britain?" James asked. "No, they're not."

Katy returned, pink-cheeked.

"I forgot to put my shoe back on," she said, pointing to her empty chair. "They must think I'm stupid."

"Shit," said Bernard Quilland, a tall, black boy, getting to his feet. He expertly untransfigured his chair and sat on the floor. Katy sat next to him.

"And next, we have our champion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, run by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore." James was right. It's just like a quidditch match, he thought. The audience is smaller than Gryffindor house. There's nothing to worry about. He got off, untransfigured his chair, and quickly put his shoe back on.

"Good luck," said Angharad.

"Good luck," the others chorused, save for Zhang, who glared at him. James ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath, and walked onto the stage.

For a moment, all he could see was the bright flames of the torches above him; then he steadied himself and looked out into the audiences. Their faces were dark, but he found the Hogwarts banner and the six wizards sitting under it. His mother waved at him, and he caught his father's smile. He could do this. He'd be fine. He was James Fleamont fucking Potter, after all.

De Bortoli outlined the task to him, which James already knew; first, he would have as much time as he liked to demonstrate his expertise in a few set spells, and then he would be given a list of things to transfigure as quickly as possible. He walked over to a small table in the centre of the stage, which held a variety of objects. De Bortoli sat at the judges' panel, between Fawley and Shafiq.

"Potter," said de Bortoli. "Please begin by conjuring a bouquet of flowers." Relief flooded James' body.

"Sure," he said. He moved his wand fluidly, confident in his abilities. "Orchideous." With a burst of pink light, he conjured a perfect bouquet of twelve pink lilies, opening wide. The audience applauded, and his parents cheered. Confidence rushed through James. This was easy. He could do this.

It went quicker than he could have imagined. Soon enough, he finished the first part and started the time trials. He got every spell, though some of them were rougher than they would've been if he had more time. He grimaced at a strangely-patterned teacup. Finally, de Bortoli thanked him and James received his score for the first two sections. His heart beat hard in his throat.
"Twenty-three out of twenty-five points for the first part," de Bortoli announced. James' parents stood up and clapped loudly, and the Varmas all raised their hands above their heads in applause. "Twenty-two out of twenty-five points for the second part." He looked out at the audience, smiling but breathing raggedly, and met Professor McGonagall's eye. She gave one short, approving nod. He longed to ask – am I in front? Nobody yet had said their scores, and James reckoned they weren't going to.

De Bortoli sent him back into the antechamber. He ducked through the curtain. Bernard stood by the entryway.

"How'd you go?" he asked.

"Alright," said James, shrugging. "Only lost a couple of points."

"Two?" Katy asked anxiously. "You only lost two? Oh, damn it."

"About that," James said. Two points and five points weren't really that different. Besides, it'd be good to get the others a bit nervous. Not just for his sake, but for theirs. James found he always did better if the other team was up by a few goals when they called for a break.

"Representing the traditional region of Kent, home to many great wizards and witches over the centuries, known for its Kelpie found in Thanet and purportedly as the birthplace of the first Grim, is Mr Bernard Quilland."

"Good luck," said James, along with the others.

"Fuck," said Bernard, and he hurried out past James.

After him went William Zhang, from Mercia, then Katherine Shaw from Northumbria (who made it clear that she was to go by Kathy, not Katy). Samson Stewart, a broad, tawny-haired bloke with a beater's build, swaggered onto the stage to represent a small Scottish school, and following him was a haughty boy with a snub nose from Sussex. The dark-haired girl turned out to be the Larcombe who was the Champion of Wessex, who took five minutes to go out for her turn after getting into a furious squabble with the freckled boy from the Cornish school. James ducked out to the bathroom then and pulled out the mirror.

"Sirius Black. Sirius Black. Sirius Black," he chanted. Darkness swam into view, then a blur of light, and then a very low angle of Sirius' face.

"What?" Sirius asked. "How are you going? Did you win?"

"I'm doing alright," James told him. "Forty-five points out of fifty."

"That's good. Are the others all idiots?"

"This one bloke's a tosser, but none of them are complete twats."

"I see."

He told Sirius about his spellwork and then returned to the waiting room. Rosalind Larcombe stood in the entryway to the stage, breathless, and Angharad stood up.

"Good luck," James told her. She nodded, said something to herself in Welsh, and passed by Larcombe to go out.

"I'm nervous for the competitive round," Bernard said, fiddling with his wand. "How did you guys go, in the first round?"

"I'm nervous too," Katy moaned, leaning her head against Bernard's shoulder.

"I bet you aren't, Hogwarts," said Zhang, looking right at James. James instantly returned his look with a cocky grin, leaning against the wall.

"I'm never nervous," James boasted. "I haven't any reason to be."

"You overestimate your abilities," said Zhang.

"Nah, I'm just really good," James told him. Larcombe rolled her eyes.

"Hogwarts," she huffed. James shot her a questioning look.

"What's so wrong with Hogwarts?" he asked. Kathy Shaw tapped her foot impatiently.

"Everybody knows you all think you're better than us," she said. "La-di-da, look at us, we have a castle! Aren't we just the most special people in Britain?"

"Special, alright," Stewart snorted.

"Hogwarts is special," James said, undeterred by their numbers against his. "We've got Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore," said the boy from Sussex. "My father's always said he's going to throw his hat in for Minister some day."

"I hope he does," James said shortly. "He'd be a damn sight better than Minchum."

"My mum says all of them are no good," said Katy. "Reckons they're a bunch of loons."

"Damn right they are," said Kathy Shaw. "All up in our business, they are. Bloody fucking Ministry. I say we need a Minister not from Hogwarts for once, that's what I say."

"My dad says that," piped up Bernard. James scratched his head. He'd never thought about that. Hogwarts was just – it was the best school in Britain, so it made sense the Ministers came from there. He'd never really met people that had gone to other schools, or considered what they might think. Did these people even go to Diagon Alley? Or Hogsmeade? Did they not know what Gryffindor and Slytherin were? It was a weird thought.

They fell into pockets of chatter, James standing on his own, until Angharad returned.

"That's that, then," she said, and no sooner did she sit down than de Bortoli arrived to let them out for a break.

Trays of tea and biscuits floated around the foyer, weaving between crowds of families, and James met with his parents, McGonagall, and the Varmas. They all told him how well he'd done, and McGonagall directed him into a corner to go over their strategies for the head-to-head matches.

"Your talent, Mr Potter," McGonagall said plainly, "is that you are willing to take many more risks than many other people. You do not only keep to the spells you are most confident in, nor do you hesitate to involve yourself in the magic. I only ask that you ensure you do not end up stuck with the head of an animal once more."

"No promises," James grinned, and McGonagall frowned. "No, I'll be careful."

He took a couple of biscuits to steel himself and basked in the raving recaps from his parents.

"You're doing very well," Dad assured him. "Only Zhang and Shaw are beating you, but Prichard isn't far behind."

"They're beating me?" James demanded, taken aback.

"Only by a point," Dad said, grasping him by the shoulders. "I believe in you, James. You will win. Play to your strengths." His mother enveloped him in another hug, and then it was time to go. He went back to the waiting room, where de Bortoli stood in his long flowing robes. Katy and Bernard came in last, and de Bortoli shut the door with an offhand flick of his wand.

"Each of you know what to expect," he said, clasping his hands together. "This is your final chance to succeed, for the highest possible score of twenty-seven. I needn't remind you not to kill or seriously injure your opponents; you are only to incapacitate them. There are wards to protect the audience, but nevertheless, please do not aim at them. This," he flicked his wand again, and a sheet of parchment appeared next to the curtained archway, "outlines who you will be competing against. When your names are called, please come onto the stage." He went on a little more, and then they crowded around the sheet. James looked for his name. He was in the second match first, against Katy. Then he faced the boy from East Anglia, Bernard, the freckly one from Cornwall, Shaw, Stewart, Angharad, Larcombe, the Sussex boy, and Zhang.

Right. He could do this. He just had to make sure he wasn't completely fucked by the time he faced Zhang.

Bernard and Stewart went first, and James held the mirror in his pocket, just to know that Sirius was with him, sort of. Only a few minutes passed before James and Katy were called up. They walked out onto the stage, and the set-up was much the same as it had been at Hogwarts; a table in the middle with three items, and shimmering wards blocking them from the pit and the audience. James stood on the far side, while Katy stood with her back to the antechamber.

"Good luck, James!" she called, biting her lip.

"May the best wizard win, Katy," he returned, and she laughed shakily.

"Hope so!"

It was over quickly, and James almost felt guilty; Katy was tied by her ankles and hanging upside down, blood rushing to her face, while all James had wrong with him was an angry teacup hanging off his robes. They awarded James the win and they went back inside.

"Bad luck," he said to Katy quietly, and she shrugged.

"It's alright," she said. "Good job. You did good." She went back over to Bernard, and James sat on the floor with his back to the wall, twirling his wand.

A few more people went, and Zhang and Larcombe came back sweaty, then James was up against the very quiet kid from East Anglia, whose name turned out to be Barnaby Plumstead. He had a quick, jerky way with his wand, making tight little movements and barely whispering his incantations, which proved more of a challenge than James would've liked. Still, James came away victorious, and his confidence began to build. Bernard ran around almost as much as he did, and they had very similar styles of magic. It took James twenty minutes to get a definitive victory. There was more waiting, and then he took out the Cornish school representative after spending six very confused minutes trying to figure out what the hell he was doing. It turned out that his school practised magic quite differently to Hogwarts, hence why he spent so much time chanting long, rhyming lines. James had wondered for a minute whether the other guy had thought he was at a poetry recital. He had a longer break than that, then came up against Katherine Shaw.

She stood across from him, taking the far side of the stage, and fixed her ponytail. James flexed his fingers, preparing. De Bortoli counted down, and then the match begun. Shaw threw a slew of spells at the objects on the table.

"Flintifors!" she shouted, and the can turned into a matchbox. She ran to the table and just beat out James; she struck the match against the side of the box in a muggle way and used it to light the candle. Then she swished and flicked her wand. "Wingardium Leviosa!" She darted the candle higher, at James' eye-level, and began to chase him with it. James swore, summoning the last remaining object, an empty notebook, towards him, and quickly transfiguring it into a watering can. He filled it with another spell and then sent it flying towards Shaw and her candle.

In the end, both he and Shaw were worse for wear; she was soaked to the bone and the edge of his robes were singed. James was only given the win because Shaw put him in more danger – if he hadn't acted quickly enough, he probably would've ended up a bit burnt. She shot him a murderous look and stormed back into the antechamber.

Stewart and Angharad were both very good, and Angharad used all the Welsh spells McGonagall had drilled him on. It was weird; he'd never gone up against someone performing spells in a completely different language before. Latin was the standard at least for Europe, except for really localised spells. James managed to beat them both, but only after a long while, and with some creative thinking. Larcombe moved fast, and he longed to use 'impedimenta' on her, but it wasn't allowed; instead, he turned her shoes into sponges and a flute into a trumpet with legs. The trumpet ran circles around her, hooting obnoxiously, until she surrendered. The boy from Sussex reminded him of the most pompous of the Slytherins, and James could not help but take pleasure in repeatedly throwing him down on his arse. They returned to the antechamber and Sussex complained loudly until Shaw told him to shut up.

Now, James only had to face Zhang, who had defeated everyone else save for Shaw, where it had been very close. James took out the mirror, thumbing the glass, wondering if he had enough time to call Sirius again. Some of the matches took as long as twenty-five minutes, but others were over in less than five.

Just as he resolved to go to the bathroom, Katy and Plumstead came back, and it was his turn against Zhang. The others wished both of them luck, but Zhang said nothing to James.

"The best wizard'll win," James told him, taking the far side. Zhang said nothing. Arsehole. De Bortoli counted down, and James took the measure of the three items they'd been given. A ceramic bowl, a bottle of ink, a round red bauble. He ran through the spells in his head. What could he do? What could he do that Zhang would not think of?

"Begin," said de Bortoli.

James had his wand out at once. Zhang was quick. Quick and precise. It only took him three fast spells to have a ceramic snake slithering towards James, who was still working on the bauble. He scrunched up his face, trying to think – shit, shit, he was going to lose points if Zhang was consistently faster than him – and then used all his might to transfigure the properties of the bauble. It was all he could do to jump out of the way and drop it on the snake's head. The now-lead bauble shattered the snake's ceramic head into a thousand pieces.

At once, James started transfiguring the pieces, but Zhang did too. James joined some together to make a giant fan. He made it flap furiously in Zhang's direction, sending him skidding backwards with each powerful gust of wind. It slowed Zhang down, but soon he had a pair of giant scissors, and they tore James' fan to shreds. James turned the ink in the bottle into a thick, sludgy slime, something he remembered from screwing up a spell once – it wasn't supposed to have that effect, but if you cut off the end bit of the movement and over-emphasised the second syllable, it did.

"Ooooh," the crowd exclaimed, leaning forwards. The slime slowly made its way across the floor to Zhang, who regarded it with disgust.

"Evanesco," he said. "Evanesco. Evanesco." James' sludge quickly disappeared. James furrowed his brows. Arsehole, he thought again. He started to transfigure the shreds of his fan, thinking quickly. Zhang turned his attention to the scissors.

In an instant, the scissors hurtled towards James, and he lost his concentration to spin out of the way. The scissors snapped threateningly and raced towards him; James ducked and thought of a spell.

"Spongify!" he shouted, thrusting his wand towards the silver blades. One turned to sponge, while the other stayed metal. James began the movement to do the spell again. The scissors swooped down, but he would not let Zhang scare him. He can't win, James thought. I'll show that-

The spongy blade hit James in the back of the knees; not hard, but enough to put him on the ground. James swore softly and climbed back onto his feet, arse hurting, and looked for the scissors. But he could not see them. He could hear something, and after a moment, he looked down.

The scissor's blades had been separated, and around him formed a right angle. However, they were no longer metal and sponge; they were glass. James kicked one, hard, and the glass shattered; but Zhang quickly changed track and repaired it. The glass rapidly grew taller, tiny pieces sliding together, coming up to the height of his knees. This is no different to the wall, he thought. No different to Vane. He kicked the glass again, hoping to slow Zhang down.

"Fuck," James hissed. It wasn't ordinary glass; Zhang reinforced it, somehow, making it stronger. James' toes screamed in pain. The glass panes grew taller around him, almost at the height of his chin. He looked down. He just needed to turn the ground to sponge – but then, would he lose points for using the same spell twice in one round? He didn't want to lose marks for being unoriginal.

What if he transformed his shoes into birds? Or, one could be a bird and one a hammer, to break the glass. Or two hammers. He took off his shoes and sprinted through his memory for the spell. I know this, he thought. I should know this.

Clink.

James looked up; above him, the last pane of the glass solidified. Zhang built a glass cage around him, encapsulating him. If they were incapable of fighting for ten seconds, they lost. James glanced at the judges. Fawley put his chin on his closed fist, watching. James had to act.

What was the spell? He knew it. The incantation came to mind. He quickly did the movement, and waited for a result. Nothing. Panic rose in his throat. Shit. Shit. Had he done the movement wrong, or messed up the incantation? He tried again, putting the stress on the first syllable –

"ZHANG WINS!" de Bortoli shouted, getting to his feet. The small family under the 'Zhang' banner cheered. It was all James could do not to swear. De Bortoli confirmed the match had gone to Zhang, and Zhang undid the spell. The glass shattered on the ground around James. He stomped over the glass, confident in his shoes' enchantments, and stormed past Zhang to the antechamber, where he promptly sat in the corner and tugged at the curls of his hair, talking to no-one. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He'd fucked up. He'd lost his shot.

Plumstead went out to face Larcombe, and when they came back, de Bortoli asked them all to go onto the stage. This was it. James opened and closed his hands as he walked out, looking into the crowd of faces. You won all of them except for one, he told himself. You did better than Zhang. You had to have done better than Zhang. The trouble was that points weren't only awarded for victories – they were awarded for the margin of victory, and how well done the spells in each match had been, and so on and so forth. If someone like Shaw had lost more, but had cleaner, more creative spellwork and tight margins, she could rival him. But she won't, James told himself. I'm going to win. I'm going to win. I'm going to win.

De Bortoli, Shafiq, and Fawley climbed onto the stage and made speeches James really didn't give a damn about, actually; he wanted to know who won, not what the spirit of the competition or of Britain was. Finally, the three old men shuffled off to the side and said they'd announce the scores.

"We begin with the representative for Essex, Miss Katherine Dowsett, on fifty-nine points out of a possible seventy-seven." James joined in the clapping for Katy, who looked a bit miserable, but smiled with puffy eyes and waved at her family. With each name called out, James both grew more confident and a little bit sick, not that he would ever admit it. I'll be at least seventh, he thought, as they called out Larcombe's name. I'll be at least sixth. He made eye contact with his mother, and she pressed the rosettes on her chest. Even though he was too far away to hear, he knew they were squeaking, 'Potter! Potter! Potter!' and 'Hogwarts! Hogwarts! Hogwarts!'.

"And we have our final three," said de Bortoli, and James realised his name hadn't been called. It was down to him, Zhang, and Shaw. Shit, he thought. Zhang and Shaw both had more points than him at the break. He carded his fingers through his hair. It'll be you, he told himself. It has to be you. It has to be me.

"We have a tie, for second place," de Bortoli continued. Next to him, Shaw inhaled sharply. James pasted a grin on his face. He needed to look confident. Looking like a nervous wreck would make people think he was a tosser either way. "On seventy-three points each, we have…" He clenched two fists, and kept smiling. Why was de Bortoli taking so long to read the fucking notes? How hard was it? Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up. "Miss Katherine Shaw, the representative for Northumbria, and…" Beside him, Shaw deflated, sighing. Now it was between James and Zhang. Merlin's fucking beard, hurry up, hurry up. "Mr…" Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. "…William Zhang, representative for Mercia."

James leapt into the air. Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy fucking shit – holy fucking shit – holy fuck! It was all he could do not to shout. Beneath the Hogwarts banner, five people jumped to their feet, clapping and cheering so loudly James barely heard the next part.

"Meaning that, with seventy-four points, the representative for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Mr James Potter, is the national champion in the Junior Beginner category of the International Transfiguration Tournament in the year 1976, and will go on to represent Britain in the final round of the tournament in April, in Australia." James jumped again and again, energy burning through him. I did it! I did it! I win! I win! His parents beamed rom ear-to-ear, and Professor McGonagall smiled at him, clapping furiously.

"Mr Potter, if you will come forward to be presented." James stepped forward and over to de Bortoli, Shafiq, and Fawley. Fawley draped a purple sash over him, and Shafiq hung a gleaming gold medal around his neck. Finally, de Bortoli presented him with the shield, which he could take back to Hogwarts for display in the Trophy Room. The year before had the name of someone from Sussex, and the year before that it had gone to one Deepnita Varma, from Hogwarts. James grinned broadly at her, and hefted the shield above his head.

After some closing remarks, they let them go, and James ran down to meet his family in the foyer. His mother and fathered smothered him in a hug, then he managed to give the shield over to McGonagall. Wizards hurried about, setting up tents outside the theatre in which they could have lunch.

"You did very well, Potter. You have proven a credit to the school," Professor McGonagall told him.

"Good job, Potter," said Varma. "Perhaps I'll join you." She had made it to this level twice, but never yet won.

"I can't believe we have to go to Australia," James exclaimed. "That's bloody mental!"

"James," chided his father, at the same time McGonagall said, "Language, Potter."

"I knew you could do it," Mum said, squeezing him again. "I knew you would, Jamie." He smoothed out his rumpled sash and felt the weight of the medal around his neck.

"I have to tell Sirius," he said. McGonagall gave him a curious look, but James turned to his parents. "Do you mind if I go off for a second?"

"Go," Dad said. James grinned and ran for the bathrooms, whipping the mirror out to share the news with his best mate.

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A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you for continuing to read. I'm hoping to have the next one out in 2-3 weeks. Also, has anyone watched volume 2 of Stranger Things 4 yet? I have so many...mixed...feelings.