In the morning Niamh had returned, sleeping peacefully with a lock of hair in her mouth, and Julie, looking over the girls' beds, thought they belonged in a nursery rhyme. Five little girls, sleeping in a row—except one of them wasn't sleeping, one of them was leaving on light cat feet, escaping before the rhyme ended, just a flash of pale hair before the door closed.
She left the common room alone.
Quidditch tryouts were no more painful than usual. At least, this year, they were only looking for one player. Their last Keeper, who had also been Captain, had graduated. James got to show off his Nimbus 1000 and his friends got to sit in the stands and wolf-whistle, Peter with a little unnecessary puffing.
It was a lazy day, the sun very brilliant, the sky very blue, the next school week very distant, and the other four girls scattered across Hogwarts.
Marlene was on the Quidditch pitch as well. She had been a Chaser for three years, just the same as Julie. In fact, the two girls spent a great deal of time together, considering they really weren't particularly fond of each other.
Mary was sitting in the library, writing an essay on the giant wars that was only due on Tuesday. She was also eavesdropping, listening to a few seventh years talk about the news. They killed eleven Muggles in Yorkshire, said one. Me cousin's thinking about joining 'em, said another. It's a bad business, all around, said a third. Mary dipped her quill in her inkpot and began to cover her page in neat, glistening letters. It was the bloodiest battle of the 1281 giant wars, she wrote. It had taken her a while to get used to feather pens, and she still didn't know what wizards had against ballpoints, but now the quill was natural to her, an easy extension of her arm, and the words slid out smoothly, almost as fast as she thought of them.
Niamh was in the Owlery, speaking in a low, angry voice to her sister. They weren't identical twins—Siobhan had darker hair, Niamh's eyes were lighter and a little farther apart—but when they stood like this, face to face, their profiles were like mirror images, wide forehead, blue eyes, small chin. Or like an optical illusion—now it's two faces, now it's a candlestick.
"You can't make me do anything I don't want to do!" said Niamh, who would have shouted if her voice hadn't been trembling so much, for fuck's sake, get a hold of yourself Niamh.
"What do you want to do?" asked Siobhan meanly.
Niamh gulped.
Lily was sitting on the side of the lake, tossing pieces of toast in the water. She hadn't spent enough time by herself recently, she thought, and then wondered why on earth she thought that, since she had really done nothing but spend time by herself. She had spent most of the summer walking, going in circles around and around her neighborhood, trying to avoid Petunia and trying to avoid Severus, just in case he might think of coming over to talk to her again. Her own home had become alien to her, and it had been a relief to get back to Hogwarts, to relax into the routine that was strangely normal for her. At last she had something to focus on, her classes, her prefect duties, and then she started to miss the pounding rhythm of her feet, going through and through and through her city. So she had to go outside, just to get away, to let her mind expand again.
Sometimes the giant squid would eat toast, but today it wasn't appearing. She tossed the last piece in her stack, a good throw, far into the middle of the water, and something threw the soggy toast back so that it spun. It landed at her feet with a splat.
"Figures," sighed Lily, not even sure what she meant, just a bit bitter. And then she sat, watching the flickering of the beech tree's leaves above her, listening to the clapping and cheering coming from the small crowd watching the Gryffindor tryouts.
The Gryffindor Quidditch team was widely thought of as the coolest kids in their house, and thought of by themselves as the coolest kids in the school. First, there were the Chasers: James Potter, tall and skinny and not exactly carelessly handsome, but he was the best player the team had had in years, and he certainly had the expected ego; then Marlene McKinnon, beautiful and bouncy and loved by (almost) everyone, with a talent for very close passes; and Julia Fraser, who scared everyone a little bit and no one more than the opposing team—ruthless and perfectly unafraid. Then the Beaters: Will Preston and Brandon Douglas, best friends since first year. Samantha Vickens was the Seeker, the youngest on the team, only a fourth year, and very petite, almost wispy, but sharp-eyed and fast. By the end of the day they had the final member of their team, Kiran Singh. The new Keeper was "fit" in Marlene's words, with his smooth dark skin and big black eyes, but he also made some very good saves—and they only had to try out twenty-seven other applicants.
By three o' clock in the afternoon, Julie no longer wanted to see any of her teammates ever again, but unfortunately that wasn't an option. James gathered them around and gave them their practice schedule.
"Four practices a week?" said Samantha incredulously. "There's no way."
"I know it's going to be a challenge," said James. "But we need to work hard if we want to win the Cup this year. We might have got it last year, but we can't take it for granted this year. We're going to have to make sacrifices."
Unfortunately, thought Julie, as James looked fiercely around at his team, nobody enjoyed making sacrifices for Quidditch quite as much as James Potter did.
So they started to practice for hours at a time, Saturday, Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday, rain or shine. It would have been easier to be annoyed at James, Marlene pointed out, if he didn't work twice as hard as anyone else, but somehow Julie still managed it, spending several weeknights finishing homework late and grumbling about him with Will Preston.
Niamh didn't try to talk to her again. Julie had intended to keep an eye on her, try to figure out what was going on. She was curious, but she was also angrier than she would care to admit about the way Niamh had cut her off last year, and she had a tiny, guilty desire to get Niamh in trouble. But somehow what with all the homework and Quidditch and the tracking mud through the castle after practice in the pouring rain and the resultant fury from Filch, she—well, she didn't forget about Niamh, but she just moved the situation to the side of her mind. It was, after all, a pretty small situation.
Everyone seemed to be getting involved in a lot of small situations, that whole miserable, drizzling September. The most memorable of these, perhaps, involved James and Sirius inflating a Ravenclaw's head to twice its normal size. Unfortunately, Lily Evans witnessed the whole incident, and promptly gave them both detentions, relishing the job a bit more than a prefect really should.
Severus Snape also had a situation. The trouble was, he knew something. This, in itself, was not bad—it really ought to be good. He had spent the better part of these five years feeling as though he was almost always being one-upped by the people he called his friends. First there was Lily, and Lily outshone everyone around her—but she did it so gracefully, she did it so beautifully, that only the very pettiest of souls would not love her for it. And Severus Snape did, in fact, have a petty soul, but not that petty. And then there were his housemates, Mulciber, Avery, Jugson, Bulstrode. And they had interests in common, certainly, (albeit rather dull interests, purifying-the-wizard-race sort of interests) but Severus had never really felt any sort of—closeness, per se, with any of those boys. In fact, he felt himself in some sort of competition with them, a competition that he, Snape, had nearly always lost. He was uglier, poorer, from a worse family, less popular, and generally less comfortable than any of the other boys he spent his time with. The place he outstripped his "friends" was in the classroom—but if there was one thing he had learned, it was that nobody but nobody cared about grades.
And then, in fifth year, a new area of competition opened up, when Caius Mulciber told them, in confidence, that his father was a Death Eater, had been for a good four years already, and that he, Caius, intended to join the Dark Lord as soon as he graduated. So they had something new to talk about, something new to argue—which one of them could be the most useful to Lord Voldemort?
Jugson, who was of a practical bent, pointed out that it would be a very unusual seventeen-year-old who could be useful to anybody at all, least of all one of the most powerful wizards of all time, with dozens of loyal wizards and legions of fearsome Dark creatures at his side. But that didn't stop the ambitious of Slytherin House (and plenty in other Houses as well—but those come later, don't worry) from paying close attention to the war, from muttering to each other, comparing news sources, discussing what the Death Eaters might do next, what they would do in their place, who might be the next victim.
Back to Severus Snape, who had a situation. Because finally, finally, he had something on his supposed friends. He had a piece of information—a useful piece of information. He knew something that he was not supposed to know. This was an opportunity for him, the kind of opportunity that he never received, and he had no space for mistakes. If he was the one to actually lead the Dark Lord into Hogwarts, he would never have to worry about being shown up by anyone else, not for the rest of his life. At least, that was his hope. There were, of course, specific people he was hoping to impress, but his thought process did not go into that much detail—a vague that will show them was enough motivation. He did not think about what he was trying to show, or to whom.
And then, like a fool, he had gone and almost told Mulciber. He had not quite given everything away, had managed to withhold the crucial details—but the cat was out of the bag now, the clock was ticking, and Severus Snape had to make a decision. Was he really prepared to betray the promise he had made to Albus Dumbledore, betray, more importantly, the walls of his own home, Hogwarts, for the sake of potential glory? Could he accept not passing on his secret, knowing that he could have made a name for himself and did not? And how long, how long could he delay making his decision, knowing that Mulciber might find his secret, take his opportunity, remove the self-righteous burden of choice?
He had already figured out the logistics. He could write Lucius Malfoy, who had graduated Hogwarts only a few years ago, and meet him in the village. He would not tell Malfoy how to get through the passage, (Hey, Snivellus, wanna find out what happens in the Shrieking Shack? Just prod the knot, right there, just take a long stick, you can crawl inside, it's easy...) no, certainly not—he would insist upon being brought in front of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself.
It was beautiful, just it ought to be, that Sirius Black's pathetic trick should backfire so catastrophically. Poetic justice. But still, something held Severus back, something kept him from writing his letter, finding a school owl. (Once upon a time he would have borrowed Lily's.) Perhaps it was simply the joy in holding his knowledge over everyone else's head. If he put events in motion, if he carried out his secret threat, he would no longer have this golden power. Nobody cared about Severus Snape, but he could destroy them all. He could, he really could.
On the morning of the first Quidditch match of the season, Marlene and Julie both woke up just before six o' clock in the morning. Julie woke up at that time because that was when she always woke up, even if she had gone to sleep very late the night before. Marlene, however, usually woke up as late as possible. She was suffering from nerves.
She sat up very suddenly and looked at Julie across Lily's bed. She was slightly gray in the face.
"If you need to puke, I suggest the bathroom," said Julie helpfully. Marlene rolled her eyes and immediately clapped her hands to her mouth.
She didn't actually need to throw up. She just needed to sit on her bed for thirty minutes and stare into space, and then she felt as good as new. When Marlene finally went down to the Great Hall, at least an hour after waking up, Julie was already there, sitting with James, Will and Brandon. They were all talking and joking very loudly. James and Julie were more successful at hiding their nerves—Will kept tapping his fingers on the table, Brandon flinched a little bit every time a Gryffindor cheered or a Hufflepuff (the opposing team) booed.
After Samantha stumbled in, bleary-eyed and bedraggled, James started to talk about the match.
"All right, so the main threat from Hufflepuff seems to be their Seeker, this Mona girl—she's a relative unknown, she was sick all last year, but I've heard she's very good—and of course making her Captain after she played just one game last year shows a lot of confidence. I don't think they're a match for us in other respects, though—Belham is rubbish, Fawley is even worse, so that shouldn't be a problem for Kiran—hang on, where's Kiran?"
"Oh God, here we go," muttered Will.
"I'll go look for him," Brandon offered.
"Right," said James, turning to the remainder of the team. "Conditions are pretty good, sun not too bright—bit of a wind, Will, Brandon, you'll want to take that into account—"
"You'd think he hadn't spent the whole month dragging us onto the pitch every fucking day of the week—" Julie muttered to Will, and he laughed. Luckily James didn't overhear.
"Let's get on the pitch," said James finally.
The team stood up and trooped out into the Entrance Hall, to thunderous applause and booing. Just as they reached the doors, Brandon Douglas came running down the staircase, dragging Kiran Singh by the elbow.
"Sorry, sorry—" Kiran began to gasp, but James waved him aside.
"I don't want to hear it right now. Let's go."
They walked into the locker room and pulled on their Quidditch robes without talking, accompanied by the chatter of the students filling the stands. There seemed to be a very large crowd. Marlene was looking gray again.
Before they left the locker room, James looked around at the six teenagers gathered around them. He couldn't think of anything to say, and he led them out.
He ran a hand through his hair (of course) and waved at the crowd as they shouted. A few people wolf-whistled in response—Sirius Black (of course) the loudest.
"And…here comes the Gryffindor team!" shouted the familiar voice, Evelyn Emerson, as usual, commentating, purple megaphone clutched tightly in his small hand. Evelyn was a ferrety little fifth-year Ravenclaw. He had very pale green eyes and the air of one who is permanently surprised when other people are not making fun of him. "Their line-up hasn't changed much this year…We have James Potter as the new Captain, no surprises there, haha, ha, Marlene McKinnon, Julia Fraser, those are the Chasers, Will Preston and Brandon Douglas are still the Beaters, Kiran Singh is the new Keeper, and rounding out the team is Seeker Samantha Vickens. Aaaaand here's the Hufflepuff team—" he broke off for a moment to allow a fresh outbreak of noise from the stands as the seven yellow-robed players walked out—"Mona Prinz is the Captain, she's also the Seeker, then the Chasers are—hang on—Anthony Belham, Lavinia Fawley, and new to the team, Emily Durang, we have Xanthe Paul and Michael Potts as the Beaters and, also new to the team, Flavia Bulstrode, Keeping."
The Hufflepuff team, standing in a row, looked a bit more intimidating than anybody could reasonably expect a Hufflepuff team to look. When Mona Prinz stepped forward to shake James' hand, as directed by Madam Flint, she gave him an easy, confident smile. She had sparkling black eyes and chin-length, curly hair. She was very pretty.
Madam Flint kicked open the crate containing the balls and blew her whistle. The game began.
"Of course, everyone's expecting a Gryffindor victory," Evelyn droned on, "after their amazing season last year, they lost just one game I believe, and—ooh, it's Potter, Potter with the Quaffle, that was quick, haha, and he passes to McKinnon—nice one, and she passes to Fraser, oops, Belham intercepts it, and Fraser, um, intercepts him—"
"Foul!" screamed the yellow-and-black side of the stands.
"I didn't touch him!" called Julie indignantly to Madam Flint, who narrowed her eyes suspiciously and then signed to Emerson.
"Well, that's not a foul, apparently Belham just dropped the Quaffle of his own accord, so now it's Fraser with the Quaffle, and she passes to Potter, and—ooh, Potter scores! Ten-zero Gryffindor!"
The crowd was screaming, and James waved to them again. He was starting to get slightly irritating.
"So now it's Fawley with the Quaffle, and she passes to Belham, and he passes it to…um, to Fraser…wrong team, Tony! It's McKinnon with the Quaffle, and—ouch!"
Xanthe Paul had hit a bludger directly at Marlene, who had to dive wildly to avoid it and dropped the Quaffle. Emily Durang flew underneath and grabbed it, but somehow she fumbled it and then James had it again, and then in a ridiculously short time Gryffindor had scored again.
It was going to be a quick game, Julie decided, and at that moment the crowd gasped—Samantha was hurtling through the air, haring after a streak of gold.
"And the Gryffindor Seeker seems to have spotted something," Emerson was saying, "yes, she's definitely after the Snitch and—ouch!"
James swore, very loudly. Xanthe Paul had hit another Bludger—this one had made contact, with a dull thunk. Madam Flint blew her whistle to signal a timeout, and the team assembled on the ground, gathering around Samantha. Her nose was bleeding a little.
"You all right?" asked James.
"She's clearly not all right," said Julie scathingly.
"Yeah, I'm fine," said Samantha herself.
The Hufflepuff Beater waved at them across the field. Xanthe Paul was a tall, burly black girl with short dreadlocks dyed golden-yellow. She actually looked perfectly nice, and she was probably trying to express some concern for the girl she had hit.
Julie flipped her off.
"C'mon, let's go," said Samantha, sniffing.
James signaled to Madam Flint and the teams took off again.
Julie's prediction that it would be a quick game seemed to be coming true. Within twenty minutes the Gryffindor Chasers had scored nine more goals and Hufflepuff only three.
"It's Potter with the Quaffle again," Evelyn announced, "Potter's heading for the goal, he passes to McKinnon, and she passes back to him—wow, nice one—"
Then Mona Prinz was hurtling past the jumble of Chasers, just a yellow streak heading almost vertically to the ground.
"Hit her, Douglas!" yelled James, but Brandon was at the other end of the pitch. Xanthe, as if responding to his instruction, reached out as far as she could and swung, shooting a Bludger over at James, who wasn't paying any attention.
The whack of the ball hitting him was masked by the roar of the crowd, as Mona, impossibly, evened out of her dive and rocketed across the pitch. Only a few people saw the Gryffindor Captain knocked to the side by a blow to his arm—Mona's hand was in the air, clutching the little golden Snitch, and she was laughing as she flew, only a few feet above the ground.
"And that's the end of the game!" yelled Evelyn. "Wow, what a quick match, I don't think anyone was expecting that—one eighty one ten Hufflepuff!"
The spectators were all shouting, the Hufflepuff team was screaming as they sank to the ground, but the Gryffindor team was quiet. Brandon spat on the ground.
"Well, better luck next time, I suppose," said Marlene finally, as they stood on the grass, a disconsolate little group.
"Yeah."
James came down last, flying clumsily to the ground, and when he stumbled off his broom he was holding his arm in a funny way.
"I think—hospital wing…" he muttered, and then he passed out.
The first thing James saw on awakening was a flash of red hair. "Lily?" he croaked weakly, still half-conscious.
"No, it's me," said a waspish voice with a Scottish accent. "Why the fuck would Lily be here?"
"Never mind," muttered James, now awake enough to blush. He turned his head a little bit, wincing with pain, to see Julie ripping open a Chocolate Frog. There was, in fact, a large pile of all kinds of chocolate on the bedside table, and a fair amount of wrappers on Julie's lap.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, unreasonably irritated.
"Sirius is being yelled at because he hexed Michael Potts," said Julie through a mouthful of chocolate. "Michael was being an arse as usual, and he said something—er, insulting, about you, so. Peter and Remus went to appeal to McGonagall—they left you all the chocolate. Samantha is depressed, so she's taking a long shower…the others still have loads of homework…and Madam March had to go consult with Slughorn about something, so I volunteered to stay with you. I'm supposed to tell you you broke your arm." With a flourishing motion she selected another Frog.
"Right, so was that just because you wanted to get at my candy? Don't you have homework?" demanded James.
Julie shrugged, reaching for a Cauldron Cake. "They're all doing Arithmancy. I got a P on my Arithmancy O.W.L."
James snorted. "What? I didn't realize you were that bad."
"Yeah, neither did my mum," said Julie, rolling her eyes, "so she was brassed off..."
"Isn't your mum a Muggle? You should have just told her a P is really good."
"Like she'd fall for that," scoffed Julie. "I hated Arithmancy anyway—I'll just concentrate on Ancient Runes.."
"Remus takes that," said James. "It looks horrible." He was lying on his back with his eyes tight shut. Madam March had set his arm in a minute and put it in a sling before feeding him a tablespoon of Skele-Grow, but it was still aching dully.
"I like it. My mum's taught me a bunch of languages already, summers—Greek and Latin and French…"
"Wow," said James. "I didn't realize you were such a little genius."
Julie, who didn't appreciate other people's sarcasm, kicked the side of the bed. "Actually, you can learn anything if your mum is scary enough."
James smiled without opening his eyes.
"Actually," Julie said again, "I wanted to ask you something—about my mum."
"Yeah?"
"A few weeks before school started, your dad called her on the phone."
Now James opened his eyes. "My dad did what?"
"He called my mum on the telephone."
"A telephone is—is one of those wonky things you talk through, right?"
Julie regarded him frostily. "One of those wonky things you talk through, yes. I just wondered if, if you knew why, or if your dad had ever mentioned Margaret Fraser, or anything. Or if you had any ideas why your dad might be in touch with Muggles."
James was shaking his head as she spoke. "I have no idea…I don't think he's ever mentioned it. What about your dad—is he a Muggle too?"
"No, wizard. He's been living in New York the last ten years, though, and Margaret isn't really in touch with him. They only talk once or twice a year."
James hesitated for a moment, and then asked, "D'you miss him?"
"My dad?" Julie snorted. "Not a chance. We're well shot of him." She said it very confidently. In her mind, she, Margaret and Amy were a unit, the Frasers, perfectly distinct from Richard King. Her parents' separation had become, for Julie, a collective act, her family splitting cleanly in two—so much so that she had started using Fraser as her last name as soon as she got to Hogwarts, even though her letters still came to Julia King.
They had subsided into a comfortable quiet when Madam March stepped into the hospital wing, closing the doors behind her.
"Good, you're awake," she said to James. She was a thin, beak-nosed woman—not warm by any stretch of the mind, but she gave a strong impression of general competence.
Julie hopped off her chair. "Right, I'm off," she said, to both of them, although James was the only one who responded, waving his good hand as the nurse bent over him, inspecting his sling.
"See you around," he said as she stepped out into the hallway. The stone wall of the corridor was cool as she leaned her forehead against it, and one torch flickered off in the corner of her eye.
She didn't have any answers, and now she would have to talk to her mother.
