Seven Things
5/7. Classes are never suspended for Valentine's Day.
Generally.
At Hogwarts, it depends.
See, at Lily, Mary, and the Marauders' beloved school, Valentine's Day is also set to be Teachers' Day. This goes so far back that no one now remembers who established this. It's just always been the way it is. On this day (except when it falls on a weekend), all classes before lunch are canceled to make way for a customary morning presentation—a tribute of sorts. There are song numbers, dance numbers, skits, a few parlour games; activities starring and all in honor of the school's hardworking faculty, staff, and personnel. Over the many, many years that Hogwarts has witnessed this within their halls, the students have come to notice that their performance in the tribute determines whether or not the rest of the day will be free. Now, as you know, free days are almost as highly coveted (and as difficult to obtain) as O's in Hogwarts, especially for the stressed, sleep-deprived crammers of the graduating class. This yearly shower of flattery and presents is arguably the easiest price there is to pay for it (for the free days, that is, not the high grades; 'fraid there isn't an easy price for that one). They are wont to give it their all in the presentations, therefore; all of them, first to fourth years, excellence having been proven over time to provide at least another half a day's worth of leniency and good mood for their professors. In the last three years, the tribute unfailingly worked its magic. Lily wonders if it's because they actually do well with it or because the professors now just treat the class suspensions as a tradition in its own right too.
Of course, this tactic doesn't work a hundred per cent. But the seniors are in luck this year, for McGonagall and Vector's classes are scheduled in the morning, and they're the only immune ones, really. Both were cancelled by default for the programme. Slughorn, Flitwick, and Sprout have all announced class suspensions for their respective subjects immediately after James and Sirius (this year's hosts) wrap up the show.
Success. Huzzah.
By lunch break, most of the seniors are back in their dormitories or else in vacant rooms or some other, catching up on homework, on sleep, on revisions; making good use of the free time as they should. As much as some want to escape all the mawkish hubbub inside and seek the aggressively non-festooned interior of Chuckskate's (the only place in town that doesn't celebrate Valentine's Day), no one's allowed to go out yet, as it's still technically school hours, classes cancelled or not. The rest of the school then, it being a free day and Valentine's Day, is buzzing. Nearly everyone is holding bouquets, or chocolates, or chocolate bloody bouquets. Here and there are grand public displays of affection. Banners. Confetti. Wreaths. A group of sophomores have hoarded three long tables in the cafeteria, playing a deafening, endless round of the bottle rhythm game. Some freshmen have occupied the stage overlooking the quadrangle, practicing a play or shooting a music video or something, taking advantage of the lavishly furnished backdrops. There is a rondalla on the bridge, there are people making out in the piano room, half the juniors are loitering in Merlin Hall. The marriage and dedication booths were allowed to operate for the rest of the day, so occasionally there would be people running from or pursuing other people, and over the din the speakers blast ballad after ballad, dedication after dedication. Mush after sap after mush after sap.
It's the first day of school all over again, except more... pink. Madame Puddifoot's threw up all over Hogwarts.
Lily and Mary are in the library, cross-legged on the floor by the classic literature shelf, eating pumpkin pasties and caramel cauldrons as quietly as it requires to keep Madame Pince oblivious to their rule-breaking. Scattered before them are Calc notes and Economics notes and History notes and almost-done analyses of their individual musical assignments. Mary is revising the end-of-the-year production script on her lap. Lily is redoing Vector's practice sets. There are about five other students in the place, but they're all seated round the tables in the left wing.
"Even Madame Pince has flowers," whispers Mary, although not dejectedly, peering through the books at the pacing librarian. "This is insane."
"It wasn't last year," Lily says. She shoves the sweets and empty wrappers beneath the notes, in case Pince walks their way.
Last year she had Terrence Hunter and Mary had Fabian Prewett. Last year they had lilies (Lily) and sunflowers (Mary) and tickets to a concert at the Civic Center; some local band whose name she can't remember now (both of them).
"You know what's weird?" says Mary. She turns to Lily now, relaxing visibly; Madame Pince has taken her seat on the tall stool behind her desk, so they're good. "Everyone has roses," she says, bewildered. "In the cafeteria all of the second years had roses. Every single one of them. There're still people with the ridiculously expensive arrangements—"
"Fenwick," cites Lily. She hasn't seen him yet, but she's sure of it.
"Fenwick," Mary confirms. "I think he bought Selena a car. That, or a bloody house and lot. I saw keys."
"Marlene had tulips," says Lily, remembering seeing Marlene on the bridge. "I think Dorcas had daisies, before she chucked them in the bin."
"Of course Dorcas would chuck hers in the bin," says Mary sardonically.
"Yeah, naturally."
Mary chuckles. "Alice had Baby's-breath too, from Frank," she says. "They were lovely! But she also had a rose, you know, aside from that. And it wasn't from Frank. Everyone's got a rose. I asked Cass where everyone's getting them, and she said someone seems to have put a rose in every locker. Have you checked yours?"
"Nope. You?"
"No, I haven't yet."
"That's cute, at any rate," says Lily. "Bit creepy, but mostly cute... What colour are the roses?"
"Not yellow," says Mary, knowing all too well why Lily's asking. "Actually, it's every colour available in the shop, except yellow. You're out of luck. Whoever's behind it mustn't like you."
Lily pouts. "Rubbish."
"I bet it's the Marauders," says Mary.
Lily frowns at her. "So the Marauders don't like me."
"They like to annoy you, that's for sure," says Mary, not without point. "It has them written all over it, doesn't it?"
"I dunno. It's sweet," Lily points out. She pauses. "Remember when they stole the plywood Filch used to board up the second floor? When the Head Office was under construction?"
"When they used it to ski down the stairs and break James's leg and Sirius's neck? Yeah, I think everyone remembers that."
"Well, that's what I'm saying. That has them written all over it."
Mary laughs. "I guess... Oh my god, remember when Umbridge chased them around the campus?"
Lily tries to stifle her giggles with her knuckles. She doesn't succeed much. "God, if that wasn't the most conflicting moment of my life though."
She hated them then, these four cocky boys who were too smart to get caught, charming enough to get away with it if they did get caught. But that was shallow hate, that was just—great annoyance at best, perhaps, and Umbridge, this Darwin bloody Umbridge was just... something else. Lily despised their racist, sexist, humble brag, bullying, just absolutely horrendous monster of a professor, with every fiber of her being. Everyone did. One afternoon, in his class, Sirius and James started this ear-piercing, disjointed racket; Sirius with an old pair of drumsticks and James with this spare untuned guitar from the music room. No intro, just out of nowhere, this sudden rain of cacophonic beats that made everyone jump. A beat before Darwin turned around in indignation, James and Sirius were able to stop and drop the instruments, so perfectly-timed that only they could have pulled the thing off. "Who was that?" Darwin asked, and no one answered, and it's so stupid that he had to ask anyway, because only the boys were holding instruments at the time. After half an hour of cricking his neck trying to catch them at it and a hundred blatant denials, he finally walked over to the obvious culprits, glared, and glared, and just glared, really, and the boys just looked infuriatingly, innocently back at him. And then James said, when Darwin still wouldn't speak, "What is it, sir?", and Peter was blue in the face with suppressed laughter. "Mr. Lupin," Darwin called, not taking his eyes off James and Sirius, "Who was making all that noise, if you please?" And Remus said, without cracking, "What noise, sir?" And everyone was smirking or else shaking in silent laughter behind their notebooks, behind curtains of untied hair. So Darwin called Fenwick too, to ask, and then Dorcas, and Marlene, and even Lily herself. All of them played along without blinking. "What noise, sir?" they all said, or some other variation of that, and Darwin had no choice but to return to the front and resume the lecture. When James and Sirius went at it again, Darwin, trembling with rage by now, spun in his spot so fast, and he looked so funny that one or two people in the back weren't able to hold their laughter anymore. But Darwin didn't care about that, because at last James and Sirius hadn't stopped playing in time. Darwin screamed, "Aha!", pointing at them, but James and Sirius still weren't stopping, just staring right back at him with unfazed expressions and crooked, half-grins over their openly moving hands. Then Sirius said, still banging the things on his armchair, in his trademark House of Black skin-splitting ice, "God knows it isn't me, Mr. Umbridge," at which James, Remus, Peter, and the whole class exploded with laughter. And then, well, that quite set Darwin Umbridge off. He threw the board eraser at the boys, missed spectacularly, and then chased them out of the classroom and around the campus, yelling profanities and hurling coins and pens and all sorts of trinkets off his pockets. He didn't last the year.
Good, crazy times.
"I still think it's them," says Mary, drawing Lily out of her reverie. "Maybe they're being nice. It's our last year here, so maybe it's, like, special Marauder shenanigans."
"Maybe," says Lily distractedly, still feeling like laughing over the memory.
For the rest of the afternoon, they manage to eliminate a good deal from their outstanding schoolwork. Around four o'clock, when the bell rings, they pack up and head out. It's only the earliest dismissal, the bell for first years, but it's not like anyone would know the difference. Besides, Mary and Lily are hungry, having skipped lunch. All they had all afternoon were those sweets. They need to snag a decent booth at Chuckskate's.
The school has exhausted itself to an extent—the rondalla on the bridge is down to just three members now, the dedications have run out over the intercom, and the first years on the stage are napping. From the bridge, where Lily and Mary pause to survey the day's aftermath, they look like dominoes of sprawled bodies; heads resting on arms or bags or on their friends' abdomens. It's much quieter. The roses are still everywhere, although not one yellow rose is indeed in sight.
"Should we check our lockers?" asks Mary, reading Lily's mind.
"I don't know about you, but I'm too hungry to walk all the way back to the Gryffindor building," says Lily.
"You just won't bother because it's not going to be yellow."
Lily sticks out her tongue at her. "Sue me, Macdonald."
"I would, Evans, but I bet even your lawyer would think you're being petty." But she doesn't break pace, and they continue their trip down to the gates. "You do know the odds of you receiving a dozen yellow roses without actually telling anyone it's what you want—"
"I know, I know," Lily cuts off. "I know it's... specific. But that's how I'll know he's the one! That's the sign."
"I thought I'm the signs type of person between us."
"I'm full of surprises," says Lily. "It's why you like me. I never bore you."
Mary huffs, shaking her head, but she doesn't say no.
Once they step beyond the threshold of the school, James Potter, basically, just appears out of nowhere and blocks their path.
"Whoa," says Mary, backing away one step.
"Potter," says Lily sternly, jabbing a finger at his chest so he would step back. He does. "I thought we both agreed that the teleporting thing was going to be a secret."
Mary rolls her eyes. "Oh god, here we go."
James grins. "Sorry, boss; it's urgent." He holds his hand out, his other securing his backpack on his shoulder. He always slings the thing on just one shoulder. He thinks it makes him look cool. At least he said so, in first year. Now he's graduating and the habit's stuck. "Happy Teachers' Day, ladies," says James, and Lily only now notices the two long stems of flowers stuck between them. One rose, one sunflower.
"Teachers' Day," deadpans Mary, stepping forward. She's eyeing the sunflower.
"Yes, Mary, because we teach them to be upstanding citizens of this town," says Lily, gathering her bearings. The rose is yellow. Bright yellow, bloomed just so, the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.
"Yes," says James, nodding solemnly. "Thank-you. We're nothing without you."
"That, and how to spell commemorate, which you forget all the time," adds Lily.
Mary snorts. James laughs out loud.
"Go on then, I don't have much time," says James, shaking the flowers slightly.
Lily takes them. She hands the sunflower to Mary. "Death Eaters on your tail?" she asks. It's this recently-fabricated inside thing between them, some made-up world of teleport and magic and ridiculous things called Death Eaters. If one lets it be, James Potter's strange, restless brain can be quite contagious.
"Two of them," he confirms, not one to disappoint.
Mary rolls her eyes again, but doesn't comment, accustomed to their weird exchanges. "You're the ones behind the locker roses then?" she inquires instead.
James just winks at her.
"Does this mean we don't have roses in our lockers?" asks Mary.
"Hmm, I wouldn't know for sure, because I don't know anything about any roses in any lockers," says James. "But from what I heard, everyone's supposed to have gotten one."
"What's this then?" asks Mary, of her sunflower and Lily's rose. "Spares?"
"Nah. Those are from the four of us. That, I can say for sure."
Mary smiles. "Thank-you. It's super sweet. You remembered my favourite flower!"
"How'd you know mine?" asks Lily, not remembering having mentioned it.
"Er, assuming much, Evans?" teases James. But his amused, knowing smile crinkles even his eyes, and Lily just knows. "We didn't know. Only the yellow ones were left in the shop," he explains. "They said someone bought all the others. Every single sodding bucket."
"Did they now?" says Lily, an eyebrow raised.
"I wonder who," quips Mary.
James shrugs. "Fret not though, Evans. Your preferences have been noted." He checks his watch. This seems to be a Marauder mannerism. "I gotta go, the lads are waiting for me. You don't happen to be going to Chuckskate's, do you?"
"We're going right now," says Mary.
"Brilliant," says James, but he starts jogging away to the opposite direction. "See you around," he calls over his shoulder.
And then he's off.
Lily and Mary look at each other.
"Thank-you!" Lily says, remembering just in time. She had to raise her voice a little, because James's jogged away a fair bit now.
"Happy Valentine's Day!" he calls back, waving, his grin ear-splitting.
Outside Chuckskate's, by the door, three large woven baskets sit at the foot of the specials board. One of them is empty, another has two yellow roses, and the third is spilling-full of them. On the board, a notice is taped, covering entirely the chalk-scribbled specials. Printed on it, in large, standard serif letters:
We tried our best, but they wouldn't allow it inside, so here you go. Happy Valentine's Day, citizen of this town! Sorry these are all yellow. The shop's run out of other colors, can you believe it? Now take one! You're beautiful, and it's mandatory. —MWPP
Below, way below on the bottom corner, there's another note. Mary and Lily have to stoop down to read it properly. This one's handwritten: Take more than one if you're particularly fond of yellow roses. I'd say take eleven. Eleven sounds just about right.
It's not signed, but both Mary and Lily recognize the owner of the haphazard scrawl.
Mary smirks, straightens up, and pushes the door of Chuckskate's open. "That's how I'll know he's the one," she says, in sing-song, using her sunflower as a makeshift microphone. The familiar, homey warmth of Chuckskate's waft out to them, and Lily's not sure if it's hunger or something else that's making her stomach feel funny. "That's the sign..."
"Shut it, Macdonald," Lily tells her off, biting her lip to stop herself from smiling like an idiot. Mary laughs and disappears into the diner.
Making sure Mary's inside, Lily bends down to tear the bottom part of the note off. She pockets it, and then takes eleven roses from the third basket.
AN: Never ever apologize for long reviews, I reread them a hundred times in a day. I live off them. You're all lovely. Please keep reading and telling me what you think! (Also, Ollie, if you're reading this, this sappy mess is for you. I write because of you, too. I believe in you! Thank you forever and always. I'd send you a dozen yellow roses if I could.)
—Jayne